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diff --git a/old/63706-0.txt b/old/63706-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4fa0b5e..0000000 --- a/old/63706-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6460 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 4, April -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. 4, April 1841 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: November 10, 2020 [EBook #63706] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, APRIL 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. April, 1841. No. 4. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - The Lady Isabel (continued) - Our Bill - Unequally Yoked - Self-Devotion - The Defaulter - The Murders in the Rue Morgue - The Reefer of ’76 (continued) - The Outlaw Lover - The Confessions of a Miser (continued) - Sports and Pastimes - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music and Fashion - - The Brilliant Nor-West - A Slighted Woman - A Picture - A Winter Scene - Comparisons - An April Day - Old Memories - Chimes of Antwerp - A Winter Scene - Oh! Gentle Love - Fashions for April 1841 - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: _Engraved by J. Sartain_ -_He Comes_ - -_Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from the Original Picture by Leutze in the - Possession of John W. Field Esq.^r_] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XVIII. APRIL, 1841. No. 4. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LADY ISABEL. - - - (Continued from page 99.) - - - Chapter IV. - - _The Disappearance._ - -There is nothing so dreadful as the heart’s first disappointment. To -love vainly—oh! what is more agonising. We feel as if every one had -turned against us; as if there was nothing left to live for in this -world; as if the springs of life, and the joy of existence had departed -forever from us. The loss of a friend may be compensated for, and the -ruin of our fortunes can be borne without despair; but the hopelessness -of a first love can never be ameliorated by aught on earth. Go where we -will, the blight of the heart will continue with us. _We can never -forget._ Hope will have dried up within us. We feel, like a stranger in -a strange land, as an outcast on the world, beholding feelings in which -we can take no part around us, and reminded daily of our misery by the -happiness of others. Alas! for the one disappointed in a first love. - -That night Isabel saw no more of her cousin. But when the whole of the -next day passed, and she still did not meet him, she began to be -alarmed. She feared to ask for him. Her father had been absent all day, -and it was not until night that he returned. When he did, he brought the -intelligence, that, in compliance with an old promise, he had that -morning visited the earl of ——, an influential courtier of the -neighboring county, in order to procure for Lorraine a commission. The -page had, the preceding evening, begged to be allowed to join the army -so eagerly, that having nothing particularly to do, and noticing and -applauding his young cousin’s anxiety to assume arms, he had ridden over -with him to —— castle, and after obtaining the appointment for him, -had left him there, at his urgent request, with his new colonel. - -“And I rejoice too at his determination,” continued Lord Deraine, -“although it was somewhat of a sudden. I began almost to think that the -lad was growing too effeminate, with his lute, and other lady pastimes, -and forgetting the name that he bore. But I ween had you beheld his eye -glisten to-day, when he was first addressed by his military title, you -would have said that he was every inch a Lorraine. And God forfend that -it should ever come to disgrace! My mother was a daughter of that -house,” continued the aged nobleman, “and I feel a strange interest in -the boy’s success. Had you seen him to-day you would have said he was a -true descendant of the iron-hearted warrior who led that charge at -Agincourt, which decided the fortune of the day. Were I as I once was, I -would e’en go one campaign with him to learn how they fight in these -degenerate days, and show them the manner in which we cavaliers of -Prince Rupert used to charge the canting round-heads.” - -“But pa,” said Isabel, scarcely venturing to speak, “did he leave no -word—no message?” - -“Oh! I had almost forgot. He sent a note to you—here it is—about some -hawk, or lute, or his greyhound perhaps—did he bid you farewell, by the -bye?” - -Isabel felt her heart beat faster at the enquiry of her parent, but -giving an evasive answer to his question, she took the note, and left -the apartment. Little did Lord Deraine suspect the agony which had -driven his young kinsman from his halls, or dream of the tears that -Isabel shed that night over her ill-fated cousin’s epistle. It ran thus: - - Dearest Isabel:—I know not whether to write to you; and yet why - should I not? Are we not cousins—brought up under the same - roof—taught to love each other from childhood—bound to one - another by a thousand ties? Yet we cannot meet again as we have - met! Oh! little did I think twenty-four hours ago that such - agony as I now suffer would so soon be my lot. But I will not - blame you. You never said you loved me—you never smiled on me - except as a cousin. It is only I who am wrong. Could I ever - think that you, the pure, the beautiful, the courted, would look - on a poor page with love? Yet I did: I nursed the delusion long: - and now—oh! God—the dream is forever broken. - - Forgive me, dear Isabel—for I will yet once more call you by - that name—forgive me, for I scarce know what I write. I leave - you for years, perhaps forever. I go to seek a name of which you - will not be ashamed, or to die. God bless you, again and again, - and again dearest Isabel! May you be happy. Once more God bless - you! - -The tears of the maiden fell thick and fast as she perused this -passionate epistle, and she sighed, - -“Poor, poor Lorraine—would we had never met, or that you had never -loved.” - -The absence of the page was felt throughout the castle, for all had -loved the generous and high-souled boy. For many a long day the old -servitors loved to recall his boyish deeds, and augur a glorious career -for the young soldier. And often, as Isabel sat in her splendid chamber, -while twilight deepened through the gorgeously curtained windows, her -thoughts would wander away after her absent cousin, and taking the -melancholy hue of the hour, she would indulge in mournful memories of -the past, and sigh that she could make no return to Lorraine except what -was all too cold for him,—her friendship. Even De Courtenay, could he -have read her thoughts at such moments, would have pardoned her that -involuntary pang. - - - Chapter V. - - _The Young Soldier._ - -It was the eve of a battle. Far along the sides of the hill stretched -the camp of the allies, the long lines of white tents gleaming in the -starlight, and the death-like silence of the sleeping army filling the -mind with an awe, second only to that inspired by the holy silence of -the calm and peaceful stars above. Below was a wide extensive valley, -through which wound a narrow river, while here and there along the plain -were scattered rich farms, and solemn woodlands. On the opposite range -of uplands, the camp of the enemy might be detected by the long-line of -watch-fires glittering on the horizon. Occasionally the neigh of a -steed, or the “all’s well!” of the sentinel, floated past on the night -air. All else was still. A profound calm reigned where to-morrow would -be heard the shouts of thousands, the booming of artillery, and the -clash of meeting squadrons. - -It was yet long before day when Lorraine sprang from his couch, and -hastily attiring himself, prepared to join his troop, at the expected -summons. It was to him a day of the most intense interest, for not only -was he then for the first time to behold the conflict of man with man, -but he was to begin that career of arms which he had determined should -give him renown or death. - -“Yes!” he exclaimed energetically, “though Isabel may never love me, she -shall hear my name in every mouth, or else be told by some pitying -tongue that I have died in the heart of battle. I feel that within me -which will make or mar me. To-day shall lay the first stone in my -advancement, and men will talk no longer of the idle page, when they -hear of the deeds of the warrior.” - -With such emotions stirring in his bosom, Lorraine joined his corps on -the morning of that eventful day; nor did he, for a moment, through the -long hours of that celebrated battle, forget his vow. Wherever the -danger was the most imminent, there the gallant young soldier was to be -found. When the battle was at its fiercest, Lorraine seemed only more -calm and collected; until even hoary veterans were astonished at the -fearless composure of the young officer. Already had he performed deeds -of daring, which had been alone enough to make him the wonder of his -corps, when he was ordered to charge, with his body of dragoons, on a -battalion of the enemy who were about making a movement on the left of -the allies. - -Flushed with the confidence thus displayed in his coolness and valor, -Lorraine dashed off to take up his position so as to be able to check -the enemy’s advance at the most favorable moment. Rapid as was his -movement, however, he had been anticipated by the foe, and before he -could reach the threatened position, the detachment of infantry -defending the farm-house had been driven in, half their number made -prisoners, and the rest compelled to fall back in disorder. When -Lorraine approached their post, they were retreating up the hill -immediately in the rear of the farm-house, while a strong body of the -enemy’s infantry was pressing upon them in the rear. A thick wood, -running at right angles with the road taken by the retreating corps, -effectually hid Lorraine’s dragoons from sight, until the very moment -when the enemy’s flank was exposed to his charge. Perceiving his -advantage, the young soldier waved his sword, and turning to his troops, -shouted, - -“Charge!” and in an instant, like a whirl-wind they burst upon the -astonished enemy. The shock was irresistible. Taken completely by -surprise, and already disordered by the pursuit, the foe scarcely stood -their ground a moment, but broke in all directions. A scene of wild -consternation ensued. Through and through the tumultuous crowd of -fugitives, dashed the troopers of Lorraine, hewing and treading down -their antagonists at every step. Amid this wild uproar, the young -officer might be detected by his snowy plume and white charger; and -wherever they were seen, there the battle was sure to rage the thickest. -But though broken in nearly every direction, there was still a fragment -of the enemy’s corps, which, rallying around its leader, endeavored for -a while to maintain its ground, and even succeeded in repelling the -attack made upon it by a portion of the late fugitives, who, rallying at -the first appearance of succor, under charge of their commander, -attempted to cut off the retreat of the enemy. At this moment Lorraine -perceived their peril. Quick as lightning he dashed to their aid, -followed by a portion of his gallant band; and arrived at the very -moment when his brother officer, having been struck from his horse, lay -at the mercy of the enemy’s uplifted sword. It was but the work of a -moment to strike up the weapon of the assailant, and with another blow -to sever the arm of the French officer. Lorraine’s troopers at the same -instant, rushing like a thunder-bolt upon the enemy, scattered them down -the hill, and before the young officer could stoop to raise his fellow -soldier, the enemy had vanished from around them. - -“To whom am I indebted for this timely aid?” said the wounded man, -endeavoring to rise. - -“To a friend—Henry De Lorraine. As I have just joined the army even my -brother officers are unknown to me.” - -“But you will not be long unknown to them, for a more gallant charge I -never saw made, and even a De Courtenay may consider it an honor to be -the friend of a Lorraine.” - -The young officer felt his heart beat as it had not beat yet through all -that day’s conflict. The lover of his cousin was before him. With that -name rushed a thousand memories upon his mind, and for an instant he -stood silent and spell-bound before De Courtenay. But recalling, with an -effort, his wandering thoughts, he bowed to the speaker’s compliment, -and assisting the wounded officer from the field, recalled his troops, -and prepared to maintain the position he had so gallantly recovered. - - - Chapter VI. - - _Fame: The new friend._ - -The whole camp was ringing with the deeds of Lorraine. The days of -Roland were revived. Old and young, officers and soldiery conversed only -of the youthful hero who had already won for himself the title of “the -bravest of the brave.” Not only in his first battle, but in every -successive engagement, Lorraine had achieved wonders. He had already -been promoted through several grades; general officers and titled -princes courted his society; and, as if by an enchanter’s wand, in less -than a year from the opening of his career as a soldier, the name of the -unknown page was ringing in every capital of Europe. Oh! how delicious -was it for him to know that Isabel heard of his deeds, and that though -she might not love, she could not pity him. No, he had saved himself -from that. His vow had been fulfilled. He had become renowned. - -A strange friendship had sprung up between Lorraine and him whom he had -rescued. The grateful De Courtenay had sought the intimacy of his -preserver in such a way as could not be refused, and though it was, at -first, agony for Lorraine to be the confidant of his rival, yet he could -not avoid it without insulting his new friend, or exposing his own -hopeless love. But the former course he scorned: and to the latter -alternative he could not listen. He was forced, therefore, to endure in -silence that, which, like the vulture of Prometheus, was eating out his -vitals. Daily did De Courtenay pour into his ear his tale of love, -thinking that as the relative of Isabel, Lorraine would sympathise with -his long continued separation, and join in the praises of his mistress; -but little did the generous young nobleman know of the agony he was thus -inflicting upon his new friend. - -Meantime the war continued. Siege after siege, and battle after battle -marked the conquering career of the allies, and in every brilliant -action the deeds of the young hero shone forth with unabated lustre. In -the hottest of the conflict, heading the assault or leading a charge, -Lorraine was ever to be found, seeming to bear a charmed life. - -Yet the cheek of the young hero grew thinner daily, and amid all his -splendid and rapidly increasing renown, it was plain that his unquiet -spirit was tossing to and fro within him, and wearing out his very -existence. His brow grew darker as if with long years of care; his eye -burned with a deep, restless, almost wild brilliancy; and his port -became prouder and prouder, for he grew more lofty as the struggle with -himself became fiercer. Yes! the contest was still waged against his -unhappy love,—how hopelessly, let others in the same situation tell. - -His was not the love of days, or weeks, or months, but of years: his was -not an evanescent feeling of admiration, but the deep, fathomless -passion of one whose whole soul was consumed by his love. How could he -conquer such an emotion? No, he might fly from Isabel, but could he fly -from himself? His love had become a part of his being: it was his -sustenance, his life. - -It was after a hard contested battle, in which his corps had -distinguished itself unusually, and he had turned the tide of war on one -wing by his own valor and influence, that his sovereign filled up the -measure of his renown, by reviving in his person, an honor long disused, -and creating him a knight banneret upon the field of conflict. - -“Rise, Sir Henry Lorraine,” said the monarch, as, surrounded by a -brilliant cortège, he waved his hand for the kneeling knight to arise, -“you have this day won a name far more imperishable than the title I -have bestowed upon you. Were a tithe of the gentlemen of my realm like -you, England would have a Bayard or a Roland for every knight’s fee.” - -Such a compliment, from the lips of a phlegmatic sovereign, placed the -finishing stone on the renown of Lorraine. He was henceforth without a -rival. Courted by the titled; adored by his fellow soldiers; and smiled -on by the young and beautiful; what farther had this world to bestow -upon him? Alas! all these brought him no happiness. To Lorraine they -were but empty shadows, for they could not give him the love of his -cousin. - -“Ah! how will Isabel rejoice to hear of this,” said De Courtenay, the -day after the young hero’s knighthood, “you and she were playmates in -childhood, you know, and it will please her all the more that I too love -you. I wonder why she says nothing of you in her letters, but then—.” -De Courtenay paused. Even the happy lover felt that it would not do to -say how wholly a mistress forgets in her missives all but the object of -her adoration. - -Lorraine could not reply. His brow throbbed to bursting, and he turned -away. Yet he did not betray himself. Never had De Courtenay suspected -that his friend loved Isabel; and Lorraine vowed in his inmost heart -that he never should. - -And thus time rolled on, and day by day, and week by week, and month by -month, the renown of the young soldier increased, while the blight at -his heart grew more venomous and deadly. _He loved in vain._ Often in -the still watches of the night, when the camp lay buried in silence -around him, and the holy stars looked down like guardian angels on the -world below, he would stand for hours, gazing on the hushed landscape -around, and wandering, in thought, back to the time when he stood at the -side of Isabel, and together they gazed up upon the starry sky, or -listened to the low whisper of the night-wind across the firmament, -while their hearts held high communion, as if linked in with each other -by some mysterious sympathy. Alas! those days were gone forever. Alone -Lorraine gazed up at the sky, while Isabel perhaps thought of him no -more. - - - Chapter VII. - - _He Comes._ - -“Your cousin, young Harry, now Sir Henry Lorraine, knight banneret, is -coming to visit us, Isabel,” said Lord Deraine, one morning, as he -entered the breakfast room, holding an open letter in his hand, “he has -come over with despatches, and says that he shall have a few days of -leisure. Here is his letter. It came by a special courier, to whom I -gave a reply, inviting Lorraine down here at once. So you may expect the -gallant boy to-morrow.” - -“But pa, how know you he will come?” said Isabel, with ill-concealed -agitation, for she had not yet forgotten their last parting. - -“Come! why where else would he go, but to those who love him like we do? -Ah! I wonder if glory has changed him. By the honor of my house but it -will make me young again to see the gallant lad, who has made the name -of a Lorraine to ring like a watch word through Europe.” - -Isabel knew not scarcely how she felt. She dreaded, and yet wished to -meet her cousin. Long did she think over it that night, and wonder if he -had conquered his ill-fated passion. And when at length she fell asleep, -it was after many a prayerful hope that Lorraine might have learned to -look upon her only as a cousin, and have sought among fairer and loftier -ones, to whom he might fearlessly aspire, a being more worthy of his -fortunes. - -Why had Lorraine, after tearing himself away from Isabel, determined to -re-visit her? Alas! who can tell the workings of that master passion -LOVE? How often do we resolve to see the face of some dear one no more, -and how often do we return again and again to her presence, hoping even -against hope, until we feel that the cup of bliss is too surely dashed -from our lips forever. - -It was a glorious afternoon when he arrived at the gates of the park, -and at every step seeing something to remind him of the past, he -gradually fell into a reverie, from which he was only aroused by coming -in front of the hall, and finding himself welcomed by the noisy -tenantry, as well as by a score of old familiar faces in the shape of -trusty servitors. Their homely but joyous greetings went to Lorraine’s -heart, and almost drew tears from his eyes, when he reflected how -differently he had passed that threshold the last time. His uncle met -him at the hall door, and falling into his arms, blessed him: while -Isabel frankly extending her hand, greeted him as she would have done in -their old and happy hours. - -The dinner passed off, Isabel withdrew, and Lorraine was alone with his -uncle. - -“How you have altered, Henry,” said the old earl, “you left us a boy, -and now your brow is that of a warrior. Ah! I always knew you would -prove an honor to your house. Another glass of the Burgundy. But now we -are alone, let us hear of your battles and sieges.” - -It was almost evening when they rose from the table, and Lorraine -signified his wish to seek the open air. His uncle pleaded his gout, and -the young knight stepped out upon the lawn. - -Soon, however, as if led by a mysterious influence, he sought the old -terrace, where he had sat at Isabel’s feet the last day he had spent at -the hall. His cousin was there. For a moment both were embarrassed. A -woman on such occasions, is always the first to speak; and Isabel broke -the spell by an allusion to their early days. Long then they conversed; -for both their hearts were full. But neither spoke of love. - -It was a golden evening, the very counterpart to the one he had last -spent there, and when, for a few minutes both paused, it is not -improbable that each reverted to that memorable occasion, and for awhile -they gazed without speaking on the landscape. And mournful were -Lorraine’s thoughts as he gazed. What was honor, or rank, or wealth to -him, since they brought him not Isabel? But was her love then hopelessly -lost to him? Alas! had not De Courtenay assured him of her continued -affection; and would it not be even dishonorable to win that affection -if he could? Yet might there not be hope? Such feelings, whirling -through his mind, almost determined Lorraine, in the excitement of the -moment, to fling himself at Isabel’s feet. Suddenly, however, two -horsemen appeared in the distance, winding up the avenue of the park. -Isabel and himself started simultaneously, and looked at each other. -Could it be that both divined in the foremost of the riders the same -individual? - -A moment passed, when their ears were aroused by the rapid clattering of -approaching hoofs, and looking down they beheld a couple of horsemen -spring from their steeds. The eye of one of the riders happened to fall -upon them, and he turned hastily in their direction. Surely it was -not—yes! it was—De Courtenay. He dashed up the terrace with eager -haste, and Isabel, forgetting, in her glad surprise, everything except -that the lover she had not seen for years stood before her, rushed -forward to meet him. - -“Edward—Edward!” was all the agitated girl could utter, as she stooped -to her half kneeling lover. - -“Isabel—dearest Isabel, we meet at last,” passionately exclaimed De -Courtenay, as he looked up, and clasped her in his arms. - -Oh! who can tell the agony of Lorraine during that moment? Was it for -this he had toiled; was it for this he had struggled; was it for this he -had breasted the fierce assault? It was the last drop in his cup of -bitterness. His heart was wrung with unutterable woe. He spoke no word, -he breathed no sigh; but he gazed a moment sadly on the spectacle, and -then noiselessly entered the apartment behind. When the lovers looked -around he was gone. - -That night a solitary traveller might be seen on the high road to -London. He had just parted with another, who had pursued him hotly for -several miles, and finally overtaken him. The two were Lorraine and De -Courtenay. The latter, learning every thing from Isabel for the first -time, had set out and overtaken his preserver, with the generous design -to relinquish his mistress to the young knight. But Lorraine would not -listen to him. - -“No, no, you tempt me over much,” sadly said Lorraine, “for can you give -me the love of Isabel? God bless you both. As for me, glory henceforth -is my only mistress. Farewell!” and pressing his friend’s hand, he -plunged his rowels into the flanks of his steed, and dashed on. - -De Courtenay had followed Lorraine to England unexpectedly within -twenty-four hours of the young knight’s departure, and, having hastily -transacted his business in London, had hurried down to Deraine hall, and -met Lorraine as we have described. - -None of his house ever saw Lorraine again. He appeared in a few days in -the camp, but within a week fell in an assault, the only man who had -succeeded in mounting the breach. There he fought unsupported for -several minutes, but finally sank pierced with a hundred wounds. - -And long did Isabel and De Courtenay weep for the ill-fated page. And -when the war was over, and they were married, often would they sit on -that old terrace, and feel a melancholy pleasure in talking of Lorraine. -Need we wonder that their eldest boy bore the name of Isabel’s -unfortunate cousin? * * * - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BRILLIANT NOR-WEST. - - - BY J. K. MITCHELL. - - - Let Araby boast of her soft spicy gale, - And Persia her breeze from the rose-scented vale; - Let orange-trees scatter in wildness their balm, - Where sweet summer islands lie fragrant and calm! - Give me the cold blast of my country again, - Careering o’er snow-cover’d mountain and plain, - And coming, though scentless, yet pure, to my breast, - With vigor and health from the cloudless Nor-West. - - I languish where suns in the tropic sky glow, - And gem-studded waters on golden sands flow, - Where shrubs blossom-laden, bright birds, and sweet trees, - With odors and music encumber the breeze; - I languish to catch but a breathing of thee, - To hear thy wild winter-notes brilliant and free, - To feel thy cool touch on my heart-strings opprest, - And gather a tone from the bracing Nor-West. - - Mists melt at thy coming, clouds flee from thy wrath, - The marsh and its vapors are seal’d on thy path, - For spotless and pure as the snow-covered North, - Their cold icy cradle, thy tempests come forth. - Thy blue robe is borrowed from clearest of skies, - Thy sandals were made where the driven snow lies, - And stars, seldom seen in this low world, are blest - To shine in thy coronet—brilliant Nor-West. - - Health bounds to thy pathway, joy shouts in thy course, - The virtues of manhood thy breathings enforce; - The pure, and the fair, and the brave, and the free, - Are purer, and fairer, and braver, for thee; - As flames sweeping wildly o’er mountain and heath, - But burn the more fiercely the colder thy breath, - So glow, but more brightly for thee, in the breast, - The virtues of freedom—soul-stirring Nor-West. - - Forever, forever, be thine, purest wind, - The lakes and the streams of my country to bind; - And oh, though afar I am fated to roam, - Still kindle the hearths, and the hearts of my home! - While blows from the Polar skies holy and pure, - Thy trumpet of freedom, the land shall endure, - As snow in thy pathway, and stars on thy crest, - Unsullied and beautiful—glorious Nor-West. - - Philadelphia, March, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - OUR BILL. - - - BY MRS. LAMBERT. - - - “I am gone sir, and anon - I’ll be with you again.” - _Tempest._ - -Some years since I chanced to stop, during one of my summer rambles, in -a pretty village, picturesquely situated in the county of F——d. I -arrived about sun-set, and the quiet loveliness which appeared every -where around, won me to the spot. A row of neat white houses, with -pretty gardens in front, arose on each side of the way, for the distance -of nearly half a mile. At this point the road branched off in different -directions, and exactly on the centre of division stood the village -church; a plain, unpretending edifice, whose slender spire rose high -above the full tops of venerable elms and dark pendant willows that -surrounded its peaceful walls. - -A row of fine trees planted regularly at the road side, gave the -appearance of an avenue to the village street, which viewed from its -entrance, has an uncommonly pleasing effect, the eye ranging through the -grass-bounded road, and the umbrageous arch which overshadows it, till -the consecrated building terminates the vista. - -The country immediately adjoining the village is divided into numerous -enclosures, bearing marks of good cultivation; while pretty farm-houses -are scattered in every direction, with woods, streams, rocks and groves, -beautifying the landscape. A chain of hills, which might without the -charge of an extraordinary degree of presumption, aspire to the name of -mountains, bounds the view on the south-east—their undulating outline -beautifully marked against the clear horizon. Through an opening of the -range, a glimpse is caught of the deep blue waters of the sound—a sail -just distinguished—diminished by distance to a mere speck, gives -frequent interest, and adds to the magic of the scene. - -Pleasing, however, as was the village, and abounding in objects most -inviting to a lover of simple life, I determined not to make it my place -of abode. Enquiring my way to a farm-house, of which I had some previous -knowledge, I directed my steps thither. It was situated about a mile -from the village, at the foot of a gentle slope, and adjoining a grove -vocal in spring-time with the notes of almost innumerable birds. - -The master of it was a plain farmer, but one of Heaven’s nobility, an -honest man. He lived like one of the Patriarchs of old, surrounded by -his descendants to the third generation. His still athletic form was -unbent by age, although his venerable locks were whitened by the snows -of seventy winters. - -I was received with all the kindness I could wish. Every thing was done -to make me comfortable, and cause me, as the phrase goes, to feel at -home, and I did so. - -The farm-house was a large, old building, abounding in long, low rooms, -the ceilings of which were crossed by heavy beams, a century ago -considered no defect in architectural embellishment—narrow windows, -glazed with exceedingly small panes, carefully leaded—a fire-place -built across one corner of the room, over the mantel-piece of which -appeared a wooden clock, flanked on each side by a china figure, -intending to represent, as I supposed, Flora and Pomona. - -The former of these heathen beauties balanced her well-filled basket -with sufficient gravity on a head none of the smallest—but her -companion from the carelessness with which she held her cornucopia, -suffered its treasures to escape with an indifference truly wonderful. A -pair of pink-colored candles, rising from sockets garnished with -curiously cut paper, finished the decorations of the fire-place. - -My hostess was a little, fat, short, good-humored woman, and with her -youngest daughter, the only one remaining unmarried, and a -daughter-in-law, whose husband was absent in a distant part of the -country, constituted those members of the family, with whom I had most -frequent and social communication. There were, also, two or three large -dogs, of prepossessing physiognomy, and urbane gentlemanly manners, with -whom I soon found a sort of companionship. - -But of all the oddities, animate or inanimate, with which I became -acquainted during my visit to Redbury, I saw none that interested me -more than an urchin who officiated in the family as a sort of boy of all -work. - -Short, stout, broad-shouldered as an infant Hercules, with a round, -good-humored face, laughing grey eyes, and elf-locks tanned to a dead -flaxey whiteness, by continual exposure to the sun and wind—“Our Bill,” -for so he was constantly and familiarly denominated, was to be found -every where, and equal to every imposed duty. He chopped wood, made the -fires, fetched water, brought the cows, and helped the maids to milk -them; went of all the errands, and did _all the chores_. When the farmer -came in wearied from the field, “Our Bill” ran to the cellar and drew -for his refreshment a mug of hard cider. If an extra hand was wanted in -hay-time or harvest, it was only to send to the house for “Our Bill.” If -a neighbor was at a loss for a messenger in any emergency—the first -thought was to request of neighbor Dawkins the loan of “Bill.” In short, -he was in demand for every thing, and I began to consider him -ubiquitous. - -The readiness with which he complied with every requisition, his -unvarying good-humor and promptness to oblige, soon drew my attention -and gained my approbation. - -The first marked kindness which I received from him I well remember. I -was sitting in the apartment allotted to my use, and taking my -breakfast. The morning was dark, and it rained violently. I looked -toward the windows with a sort of hopelessness of feeling, for I -expected that letters were lying in the post-office in the village, from -my friends in the city, and I knew not how to procure them. To be sure I -might send “Our Bill,” but I had not the heart to do so. - -While meditating thus, a gentle tap came to my door. I opened it, and -who should appear but “Our Bill.” His garments were soaked and dripping -with rain, which fell in rapid and discolored drops from numerous ragged -points and edges. He held his tattered, crownless hat in one hand, while -he extended to me in the other no less than three letters—three letters -from dear friends in town—how dear, let friendship in absence -determine. - -I looked up at the windows involuntarily, as I broke the seal of one -missive. - -“Why William, (I never could bear to call him Bill,) you have been to -the post-office—and through all the storm—I hope you did not go -entirely on my account?” - -“Yes, but I did though.” - -“Why, my lad, I never would have sent you through such a tempest of wind -and rain.” - -“I know that. But I heard you say last night that you thought there were -letters for you in the village, so I determined you should have ’em.” - -“You are a kind boy, Will. Are you not cold? You had better go quickly -and change your clothes.” - -“Change my clothes, oh no—I don’t mind a wet jacket. I’ll make a fire -up for you though, if you please,” and he looked at my vacant hearth. - -“Do so,” said I, and while he was engaged I perused my letters. Their -contents were satisfactory and pleasing, and I sat ruminating on the -past, with no painful anticipations about the future, while the boy went -on with his self-imposed employment. - -“There,” exclaimed he, as a cheerful crackling flame blazed up the -chimney, “I think you’ll do, now.” - -“So do I, Willy, and here is something for your pains.” I handed him a -small silver piece. He took it with a rustic bow, and looked at it with -delight. His face, cheerful before, now grew bright with pleasure. Down -he sat, _sans cérémonie_, upon the hearth, and diving his hand into some -unimaginable recess about his person, brought to light a dingy-looking -rag, which he untied. In it I beheld a few pieces of copper coin. He -added to them the silver which I had given him, retied his little bag, -thanked me again, and was about to leave the room. My voice arrested -him. - -“Why, Willy, you are quite rich; what are you going to do with so much -money?” - -The boy actually blushed and hung his head. - -“I know,” he replied. - -“I suppose you do,” said I, “my man, and may I not know too?” He was -silent. “It will go to buy tops and marbles, I suppose,” I added. - -“No it won’t,” he answered, with quickness. - -“Perhaps you are saving it till you get enough to purchase a new hat, or -a pair of shoes. If so, I think, you are doing very right.” - -No answer, and at this moment Mrs. Dawkins calling him, he left the -room. - -This economy was a trait I little suspected in my young acquaintance. -Most boys of his age expend the few pence which they casually acquire, -in the purchase of apples, or nuts, or gingerbread, but I never saw “Our -Bill” indulge in any luxuries of this sort. I, therefore, could only -return to my first supposition, that he was hoarding up the means of -buying a Sunday jacket, trowsers, shoes or hat. The chief things that I -disapproved of, about the boy, were the indifference which he evinced as -to his appearance, and his love of mischief. It is true he had not much -time to devote to personal neatness; yet numerous as were his -avocations, there was not a solitary scheme of mischief carried into -effect within a mile of the village, in which Bill did not bear a part. -If mammy Jennings’s orchard was to be thinned of its superfluous number -of golden pippins—or cross-grained old Squire Grummand’s fine walnut -tree laid under contribution—or the Deacon’s melon-patch to be -_examined_ by moonlight, I am sorry to say that “Our Bill” was sure to -be an assistant, if not officiating as president of the board of -directors. In short, he was a mischievous, but good-natured and obliging -boy, that might by a little care exercised by some kind-hearted -individual, be rendered a good and useful member of the community. But -if neglected and suffered to grow up in idleness, or desultory -employment, which is next akin to it, he stood a fair chance of falling -into a career of dissipation, profligacy and vice. - -I took an early opportunity of enquiring more particularly about this -boy of Mrs. Dawkins: who gave me the following account. His parents, who -were natives of the village, and poor, had married early in life. They -were industrious—the man particularly so—and they were virtuous and -honest. For some time after their marriage the world went hardly with -them. An increase of family brought an increase of cares and want, with -no additional means wherewith to answer them. James Lee (that was his -name) became dejected—and Nancy unfortunately lost not her cheerfulness -only, but her good temper: and although James worked hard from day to -day, and gave her every penny of his earnings, to lay up or expend in -supplying the wants of the family, as she chose; yet she was still -peevish and dissatisfied. Harassed by his wife’s growing ill-temper, and -threatened by all the evils attendant upon increasing poverty, James -began to seek in company at the village tavern a temporary relief from -care. This only made matters worse; Nancy instead of striving to make -his home pleasant, and soothing his uneasiness, by bidding him hope for -the best, always met him with tears and upbraidings. - -Thus matters went on for some time, when one day as Mrs. Lee was about -heating her oven for a baking of bread, she found that there was no oven -wood cut. Her husband always prepared the wood for her in the nicest -manner; but he had somehow or other forgotten to do so at this time. -Instead of going quietly out to him where he sat at work in the little -shop, opposite their house, (he was a shoemaker by trade) she began by -angrily accusing him of negligence, and want of consideration for her -comfort—with sundry reflections on the manner in which he had too -frequently passed his hours of late, to the great detriment of both -purse and credit. He heard all she had to say with exemplary patience; -and when she had finished arose from his bench, and walked to the door. - -“Are you going to get the oven-wood?” she asked. - -“Yes, Anne,” he replied meekly, and walked away. - -Mrs. Lee returned to her kitchen, and remained waiting for the wood till -a good hour had elapsed. Out of all patience, she at last sent her -daughter, a fine, stout lass, of ten years, to hurry her father, bidding -her tell him her bread would be entirely ruined by waiting so long. - -The girl went, but searched for her father in vain, returning to the -house only to give an account of her ill success. The displeasure of her -mother was again excited, and she sallied forth herself, fully -determined on giving James a piece of her mind. But James was no where -to be seen. The wood lay uncut. His shop was still open—the tools which -he had been recently employing, lay on a bench beside that on which he -had been sitting. In short, every thing remained just as he had left it -one short hour before; but from that time to this, a period of seven -years, James Lee has never been heard of. - -“This is a surprising story,” said I, when the good dame had concluded, -“what do people suppose became of Lee?” - -“There’s no telling,” answered Mrs. Dawkins, “some say one thing and -some another. Whether he left the country—or whether he made away with -himself, there’s nobody knows—for my own part I think he was harassed -out of his life by the odd temper of his good woman—but there’s no -knowing—well, this here boy, that you’ve been asking about is her son. -She has but two children left—Nancy, who is about seventeen, and ‘Our -Bill.’ My husband took the boy, to keep him out of evil courses, and if -he behaves himself, Mr. Dawkins will do well by him.” - -“That is certainly very kind of your husband, and I hope the lad will -reward him by industry and good conduct.” - -“I hope so, too,” replied my hostess, “but Bill is rather too much -inclined to mischief—yet he is a good boy, too, in many respects, and -is very fond of his mother, whom he goes to see regularly.” - -“What are her means of support?” I asked. - -“Well—she has to work hard enough since the loss of her husband; and -many a time I have seen her standing in the doorway, looking over at the -little shop in which he used to sit at work, with her eyes brimful of -tears. Ah, I guess it goes to her heart to think how roughly she used to -speak to poor James. She takes in spinning and plain work, and sometimes -goes out a nursing; and her daughter does a little at millinery, for she -has a pretty taste about such matters; and so they make out a living.” - -“Is the daughter industrious?” I asked. - -“As industrious a girl as you would wish to see, and as handsome. She -has a lover too; indeed a couple of them; but there her mother and she -are at odds; for the one that Nancy likes is not favored by Mrs. Lee.” - -“That is unfortunate; and what kind of a person is the young man -preferred by Nancy?” - -“Why, he is a likely lad—the blacksmith of our village. He has not much -before hand to be sure, but is honest, good, and true.” - -“And the other?” - -“Oh, he is better off—quite rich. Keeps a store in the village, and -makes a great dash. But for my own part I think Nancy’s choice is the -best; for Josiah Goodwin is steady as a clock, while folks do say, that -young Sturges, the shop-keeper, likes a small spree now and then.” - -“If that is the case,” said I, “it is to be hoped that Nancy will remain -firm in her determination to have nothing to do with him.” - -“She has a sad time of it at any rate,” replied my informant. “Her -mother keeps her close at home, and has ordered her never to see or -speak to young Goodwin; who is so troubled about it, that he has closed -his shop and left the village.” - -“Really,” said I, “I am sorry for this poor girl, and I should like to -pay a visit to Mrs. Lee.” - -“That you may do this evening, if you please,” said Mrs. Dawkins, “my -daughter is going to her house to carry some work.” - -The circumstances of Mrs. Lee’s case as respected her husband, greatly -interested me; my curiosity was awakened, and I agreed to accompany -Lizzy Dawkins. At the hour appointed we set out together. After a -pleasant walk through winding roads, and shady lanes, we arrived at the -cottage of Mrs. Lee. - -It was an humble abode, unmarked by any exterior improvement. One large -sycamore grew in front, and threw a portion of its branches across the -moss-grown roof. A rustic bench was placed at the foot of the tree. This -had been done by James, in the earlier days of wedded love. - -The door of the house stood partly open, and Lizzy, taking the privilege -of an old acquaintance, entered without knocking. I followed. We walked -into the kitchen, which large, clean and comfortable, served as a -reception room. I must acknowledge that my first glance was directed -toward the oven. - -Nancy greeted us with a kindly welcome; but the first object that drew -my attention was “Our Bill,” standing by the side of his mother, and -emptying the contents of his dingy-looking purse into her lap. In seeing -us enter he started, and looked as much confused as if he had been -caught in some act of delinquency. A look from me gave him courage. I -saw at once for what purpose the money had been saved, and from that -moment determined that while I lived Bill should never want a friend. - -After Lizzy had delivered the work which she had brought for her -neighbor, the conversation fell upon different matters. Nancy, however, -bore but a small part therein; she seemed absent and sad. A young female -friend of hers came in, and she made an effort to appear more cheerful. - -It was now the season when whortleberries were in their prime; and Bill -was exceedingly anxious that a party should be formed for gathering them -in the neighboring wood. Nancy’s young friend joined warmly in the -project. Lizzy Dawkins was pleased with the arrangement. I agreed to -make one of the number. Nancy evinced small interest in the matter, -though she agreed to go with us if her mother was willing: and as the -good dame was relieved from her apprehensions on the score of Goodwin, -since she had learned that he had left the village, she gave her assent. -The following day was fixed upon for our little excursion; and as the -weather proved fine, we accordingly went. - -The wood was not far distant from the house of Mrs. Lee. It was wild, -shady, and beautiful: the resort of the squirrel and the rabbit—gay -with innumerable wild-flowers, and vocal with the sweet music of its -feathered denizens. Numerous openings amid the thickets disclosed -irregular knolls, covered with the shrubby bushes which now hung full of -the purple berry of which we came in search, and whose abundance in many -past years had given to this rural spot the name of Whortleberry, or in -village nomenclature, Huckle-berry wood. We soon met with two or three -other parties on the same errand with ourselves: some acquaintances of -Lizzy and Nancy were among them: we united our forces, filled our -baskets with berries, and chatted and laughed the hours away. - -It was about noon, when, tired and rather hungry, we concluded to seek -for a shady spot where we might rest, and partake of the refreshment -with which we had taken the precaution to provide ourselves. Bill, who -had acted the part of master of the ceremonies during the whole of the -day, now preceded us, boasting aloud of his superior skill in -discovering a cool and pleasant spot for the purpose we desired. After a -few turns among the bushes and underwood, we suddenly emerged upon the -borders of a broad and rapid brook, which was murmuring its way most -delightfully among the reeds and wild-flowers that graced its margin. -And here we were at a stand. To arrive at the spot designated by our -young conductor, and represented by him as the best in the wood, it was -necessary that we should cross the stream; but how to do so was the -question. Bill suggested the placing a few large stones in the bed of -the river, by means of which we might easily step across. This was -accordingly done; and Bill, taking his sister by the hand, preceded the -rest of the party, who paused while they marked the progress of the -adventurers across their unsteady footway. As soon as they touched the -opposite margin, a loud shout from Bill electrified us. “A rattle-snake! -a rattle-snake! run—run for your lives!” and forgetful of the courage -which I had hitherto seen him assume on almost every occasion, Bill -dragged his terrified sister up the rough bank, and disappeared with her -in the thick groves beyond. - -The cry had affrighted all. Each one ran in a different direction from -his fellow, and each thought the rattle-snake close at his heels. The -panic could scarcely have been greater had a boa-constrictor appeared -wreathing its voluminous folds among the branches of the beech, walnut, -and oak, that rustled above our heads. It was sorrowful to see the -labors of the morning scattered in a moment, for many of the well-filled -baskets, overturned by their respective owners in the precipitation of -their flight, poured their purple treasure among moss, lichens, and -fern-blossoms. - -Meanwhile, I looked in vain for the reptile which had caused this alarm, -and finding myself left entirely alone, I concluded to follow the -footsteps of the valorous William and his gentle sister. Crossing the -stream, and clambering the bank on the opposite side, I found myself in -a charming grove of tall young trees of rapid growth. - -All was still, save the whistle of the robin, or the solitary call of -the cat-bird. I wandered along, almost forgetful of the cause which -brought me hither, when at the entrance of a thicket of young hazels, -seated at the end of a fallen tree, and leisurely employed in stripping -the bark from a sapling branch, which he seemed desirous of forming into -something resembling a walking stick, I discovered “Our Bill.” - -Surprised at the quiet in which I beheld him, contrasted as it was with -his late trepidation and alarm, I immediately accosted him with -enquiries after his sister. - -“She isn’t far, I guess.” - -“Do you know where she is?” - -“Yes.” - -“I wish to see her.” - -“Well—stop a bit.” - -“I want to know if she is not hurt?” - -“Hurt?—what should hurt her?” - -“The snake, perhaps.” - -The boy grinned archly. - -“Bill,” said I, “what has become of that snake, think you?” - -“I’m sure I don’t know.” - -“Do you think there really was any there?” - -“I’m sartain I cannot tell.” - -“Well,” said I, advancing, “I shall continue my search till I find -Nancy.” - -The boy started up, and putting his fingers to his mouth, blew a shrill -whistle. I looked at him, in order to discover, if I could, the end and -aim of this new fantasy. A rustle among the bushes at a little distance -was heard. I turned my eyes in the direction of the sound. There was -Nancy, and by her side, one of his arms encircling her waist, stood as -fine and good-looking a country youth as one would wish to see. - -They were about parting,—a few more last words—a kiss and then -farewell. Nancy came tripping toward the spot where she had left her -brother, but on seeing me stopped and looked confused. I hastened to -re-assure her; and quickly retracing our steps to the brook-side as a -sort of rendezvous, we soon were joined by our companions. So much for -the strategy of “Our Bill.” - -Gathering up our fruit as well as we were able, we pursued our way -through the mazes of “Huckle-berry” wood. Bill who had been for some -time in advance of our party, now came running toward us announcing our -near approach to the house of Betty Nares the fortune-teller. “The -fortune-teller—the fortune-teller” was echoed from lip to lip. And, -“who will have their fortune told?” was asked of each, by the other. - -And now we came in sight of Betty’s dwelling. A lowly roof it literally -was; for a person would scarcely be able to stand upright except in the -midst of the only apartment which it contained, so lowly and sloping was -the roof,—so covered with moss and lichens, that it resembled a green -hillock surrounded by trees. The interior was such as might have been -expected from its outward appearance. An earthen floor; a stool with -three legs; an empty barrel, the elastic end of which answered the -purposes of a table; a glazed earthen pipkin; a bowl or two; a wooden -platter and spoon, completed the number and variety of Betty’s furniture -and culinary utensils. A bundle of something indescribable—rolled up in -one corner, was supposed to be the couch on which this modern sybil -reposed her wearied limbs. A heap of stones formed the fire-place—and -an aperture in the roof answered the purpose of a chimney in so far as a -portion of the smoke occasionally made its escape thereat. - -We found the mistress of this inviting retreat seated beside a few dying -embers, over which she extended her withered hand, seeking to animate -their torpidity by artificial heat. On seeing us she rose, and presented -to our view a veritable hag-like face and form. Her garments were -tattered, her shoes decayed, and her grey locks imperfectly covered by a -dilapidated bonnet. She saluted us in a shrill voice, and, in no very -gentle terms, demanded to know our business. - -As this was a question we were not altogether prepared to answer, each -looked at his neighbor, desirous that he or she should expound. Betty, -finding us silent, and growing rather impatient, commenced an -objurgation in a high key, accompanied by a few ominous flourishes with -a stunted broom which she snatched from a corner near her fire-place. At -this moment Bill stepped up to her, and in a low voice made some -communication which had the effect of mollifying her at once. - -“Do you wish to have your fortunes told, gentlemen and ladies?” said -she, addressing us with an attempt at looking gracious. One of the -village girls presented her a small piece of money, while Betty, from -some private nook, brought out a terribly soiled pack of cards, the -corners worn by constant attrition, and the edges blackened by frequent -devotion to the service of the curious in the prescient art. - -It was amusing to see the interest displayed. The cards were cut and -divided. Attention became fixed. The fair enquirer into the mysteries of -the future, placed before this modern oracle, looked pale and red by -turns. And now we were informed of a strange man who would soon arrive -and bring good news to a certain family not many miles off. And of a -dark-haired woman who was a friend, and of a light-haired woman who was -an enemy, to the young enquirer. How a journey would be made to a -distant land, and how somebody of fair complexion and immense wealth was -to come over the water and offer himself a candidate for her fair hand. -There were letters to be expected without number, and presents to be -sent without name. At each separate piece of intelligence sly looks were -exchanged among the circle; meaning smiles, and conscious glances. “How -wonderfully true!” “Surprising!” “How she could have known such or such -a circumstance, it was hard to tell, but so it was. She seemed to know -every thing.” - -Nancy Lee could not be prevailed upon to enquire into the circumstances -of her future lot, and by such neglect considerably displeased Betty; -and to pacify her, Bill invited her to his mother’s house the following -evening. To which arrangement she at last graciously consented. - -We all returned home cheerful and happy; well pleased with our day’s -excursion. - -The following evening I walked out to see Mrs. Lee, curious I must own, -to learn the proceedings of Betty Nares in persuading Nancy to have her -fortune told. - -I found Mrs. Lee as usual in her neat kitchen. She was sitting quietly -there, for the business of the day was finished, and that of the -evening, which consisted generally of knitting or spinning, was not yet -begun. Nancy was sitting on a low stool by the side of her mother, and I -thought she looked as if she had been weeping. The milk pans had been -placed away, filled with their simple treasure. The chairs stood aside, -the hearth was swept up, and all things looked the very abode of quiet. - -The last beams of the setting sun shone through the open door, and threw -a soft purple tint across the humble apartment, which was reflected by a -row of brightly burnished tin pans—proofs of the industry and neatness -of Nancy—which decorated the opposite wall—and—just as the last tints -faded away, a cricket from some crevice in the rural hearth-stone -commenced tuning his “tiny reed.”—It was the hour of peace. - -Mrs. Lee began to wonder why her son had not returned. He had been -absent she said, for two hours in “Huckle-berry” wood. She wished with -all her heart that the season of gathering berries was over. She dreaded -every day when farmer Dawkins would get out of patience with his idling, -and send him home. - -While she was speaking the window became darkened by some opaque body, -and on looking up we recognised the head of Betty Nares. Directly the -fortune-teller entered, and took a seat near the fire-place. - -And now Bill came in. “Well,” he exclaimed on seeing Betty, “I’m glad -you are here. Now mother do just let her tell Nancy’s fortune. She told -a power of things to Lucy Harroby and Kitty Dixon, and all of ’em came -true—now do, mother.” - -“Don’t be a simpleton, Bill. I have no faith in such stuff.” - -I looked at Nancy—she smiled faintly but said nothing. - -“You don’t believe me,” said the sybil—“you won’t believe me I suppose, -if I tell you that you yourself are soon to be married?” I must confess -that I thought this a bold and daring assertion of Betty, and calculated -to strike at the root of all her hopes of success: as Mrs. Lee was known -to be scrupulously correct and reserved in her deportment, most -particularly since the mysterious departure of her husband. As I -expected, Betty received a look of disdain. - -“You need not look so scornful, Mrs. Lee,” said Betty, “what I tell you -is true, and you can’t get aside of it. And I’ll tell you more. The man -you want your daughter to marry, is going to meet with a great deal of -trouble in his worldly matters,—and the one you don’t wish her to have -is likely to be a rich man—and more—the day you give your consent that -Nancy shall marry Goodwin, a stranger from across the water will come -here, and give her a dowry that shall set them both well a going in the -world.” - -Mrs. Lee in great displeasure asked Betty if she really supposed “that -she had lost her senses, that she should for one minute be induced to -credit such idle trash.” Betty however, kept her ground, and repeated -her opinions with a tenacity that surprised me. Bill still continued to -entreat. Nancy hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. Mrs. Lee -scolded, and Betty solemnly shaking her head, declared she “had her -knowledge from one who would not lie.” - -Feeling my presence, in the existing circumstances, rather an -incumbrance, I rose to take leave. This I did, just as Bill was blowing -a coal in order to light a candle, and Betty was beginning to shuffle -her cards. - -Some particular business of my own, prevented me for a few days from -inquiring into the civil and domestic relations of the House of Lee. I -saw however, that my friend Bill was still in action. Indeed he seemed -more busy than ever. How the boy sustained such a constant course of -riding and running, of chopping and lugging, of cattle-driving and -hog-feeding, with numerous other et ceteras, all generally -terminating—of late—in an excursion to “Huckle-berry” wood, I could -scarcely imagine. - -Wishing one morning to speak to my hostess, I went to the kitchen; -secure of finding her there,—that being the seat of empire, with a good -New-England house-wife. For once, however, I was disappointed; but there -sat Bill. Returned from some nameless excursion, he was eating a late -breakfast. It was rather picturesque. His naked feet, stained by the -soil through which he had lately plodded, were raised upon the cross -piece of his chair—his knees appearing through two very unnecessary -apertures in his nether garment—his ragged hat lying on the floor at -his feet, and two large house-dogs seated on the ground—one on each -side, watching with eager interest each morsel that he conveyed to his -lips. - -I have said that I was somewhat anxious on the score of Bill’s health; -but when I saw the devotion with which he applied himself to his hashed -pork and potatoes, and the complacency with which from time to time he -eyed a smoking dish of pumpkin-pudding which stood close at his elbow, -waiting his acceptance, I comforted myself with the belief that the -means and appliances with which he strengthened his inward man, would -abundantly enable him to sustain the labors which heaven had allotted to -his share. - -We had long been the best of friends, and perfectly understood each -other. He looked up at me with his laughing grey eyes. - -“Our Nance is going to be married.” - -“You don’t say so—Bill, are you in earnest?” - -Bill nodded, for by this time his mouth was again full, and he could not -speak. He took a draught of cider from the great brown jug on the table. -“Yes, it’s true enough.” - -“And to whom is she to be married?” - -“Siah Goodwin.” - -“Bless me, what could have brought about such a change?” - -“Anan?” - -“How has it all happened, Bill?” - -“Why Betty Nares told Mother it _was to be_; so how could she hinder -it?” - -“Ah, very true. Well, when is the wedding to take place?” - -“To-morrow evening—won’t you come?” - -“Certainly.” - -“Do,—we shall have a main sight of pumpkin pies; mother says it will be -like a training day.” - -Was it possible that the artful and ignorant Betty had succeeded in -imposing upon the plain good sense of Mrs. Lee? I was sure there must be -more in it than at first sight appeared. However, I determined to be at -the wedding. On enquiry, I found that the Dawkinses were invited, and -also that they were as much surprised at the turn affairs had taken as -myself. - -The next evening we all repaired to the house of Mrs. Lee. On entering -her little parlor, we found a few of the neighbors assembled. Nancy sat -near a window, and beside her one whom I supposed to be the bridegroom. -I thought that I recognised in him the same young man whom I had seen -with her in Huckle-berry wood. My doubts, if I had any remaining, would -soon have been dissipated by her brother, who walking up to me, and -looking expressively in my face, and putting two of his fingers to his -mouth, produced in a subdued tone a sound resembling the hissing of a -snake. The whole truth flashed upon me at once. - -The exterior of Bill himself was greatly improved, dressed as he was for -the occasion, in a good suit of home-spun cloth, his feet covered with a -decent pair of leather shoes, and his flaxen hair combed smoothly over -his forehead, cut short and even all round, with the exception of two -pendant locks, left as a partial covering to his ears. - -Every thing was now in readiness, and we waited only for the clergyman -who had been sent for to perform the marriage ceremony. - -A knock came to the door. Bill flew to open it.—“Here he is.” “That’s -he”—was whispered around—“No, not yet.”— - -A fidgetty restlessness took possession of the party. Steps were heard -outside. The door again opened, and Bill appeared preceding a stranger. -He was dressed like a plain countryman, of good-looking face and -appearance, and he bore in his arms a rather unusual burthen, supposing -him to be a traveller. He advanced into the middle of the room. Mrs. Lee -rose from her seat and stared at him wildly. The stranger extended his -hand to her smiling. “Nancy,” said he, “_I’ve brought in the -oven-wood_.” - -The poor woman gave one shriek and fell on the floor. Down went the wood -on the hearth, and the stranger flew to her assistance. Slowly she -regained her senses, and when she did so, she threw herself in the arms -of the new comer and wept aloud. We all crowded around, eager for an -explanation. It was soon given. James Lee, distressed by poverty, and -worn by the fretful temper of his wife, had, on the memorable morning of -his disappearance—on the impulse of the moment, resolved to quit his -home and seek his fortune in a foreign clime. For this act, his only -apology was the bitterness of despair. He sought the nearest port, and -embarked as a common sailor on board a vessel about sailing to the -West-Indies. Changing his name that he might not be traced, he made -himself useful, and became a favorite with his captain: was generally -esteemed, and by degrees enabled to traffic a little on his own account. -He had made many voyages and been unusually successful. He had acquired -a snug competence with which he now returned, for the purpose of -enjoying it in the bosom of his family. As he approached his home, the -recollection of the manner in which he had left it suddenly occurred to -him, and when Bill opened the door, the thought struck him that he would -go to the wood-pile, fill his arms with wood, and thus bring to his -wife’s mind, for the joke’s sake, the remembrance of their parting -scene, seven years before. - -When he had concluded, and we had offered our congratulations on this -happy event, a shrill voice was heard to exclaim, - -“Didn’t I tell you so—didn’t I say you were going to be married, Miss -Lee—hasn’t everything I said come to pass—didn’t I tell you?”— - -“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Lee, smiling, “you told me, as you tell others of -things to happen which you take good care to find out before-hand.” -Betty looked rather blank when she found that no credit was allowed her -for her skill in prescience, more especially as “Our Bill” in the pride -and fullness of his heart unfolded the secret of his numerous -expeditions to the wood. Here at Goodwin’s farm which was in the -immediate neighborhood, Lee had remained for a few days till the -harmless plot which he laid in conjunction with the young man was ripe -for development, and his wife had given her consent to his daughter’s -marriage with “Siah.” It is scarcely necessary to say that Bill had met -and recognised his father—been made privy to his and Goodwin’s scheme, -and in short, been active agent in the whole affair. - -Several years have passed since that period. William Lee has grown to -man’s estate. He is married and has a snug little home of his own. He is -a carpenter by trade, and fills a respectable station in the community -of which he is a member. - -For my own part, I love to think over the past, for many a pleasing idea -is connected with the reminiscences of “Huckle-berry” wood, and “Our -Bill.” - - * * * * * - - - - - A SLIGHTED WOMAN. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “HOWARD PINCKNEY.” - - - And Helen, not neglectful she - Of her proud sex’s dignity, - If, in the mazes of the dance, - Perchance she met her loved of all, - You’d think that nothing met her glance - Between her and the wall, - Her eye around is thrown so free, - Her laugh rings out so merrily: - How soon a slighted woman learns - To hide that pang, however deep, - Though in her tortured heart it burns, - Her bosom-thoughts seem all asleep: - You’d think that peace was resting there, - With her light shawl upon her breast, - That exercise and healthy air, - And day-dreams that be wondrous fair, - With hopes that sweetest fruitage bear - Had caused the slight unrest: - Know you that her young heart bleeds— - That in this laughing mood. - The Pelican of Passion feeds - Her ever hungry brood— - The two extremes approach we know - And therefore often laughs our woe; - Hers tells, that laugh which rung so loud, - Of withered hopes within their shroud. - - * * * * * - - - - - UNEQUALLY YOKED. - - - BY REV. J. KENNADAY. - - -“Why don’t you hurry, woman? Sure it is no wonder that the child sleeps -in your arms. And yourself will be asleep next, if you walk at this -creeping rate.” - -“Be patient, William. You know that the mountain is steep; the child is -heavy; and it’s but little strength I have, any way.” - -This was part of a dialogue I chanced to hear, while passing the -parties, who were clambering up one of the most rugged roads in the -Catskill mountains; a road so steep indeed, that my horse puffed at -every step, and the saddle creaked beneath me as I grasped the pummel. - -The man was some twelve or fifteen feet in advance of the woman, and at -the sound of my horse’s feet, paused till I passed, when he turned the -hasty glance of his eye from me, in a heavy frown upon her whom he -upbraided. A light breath of wind touching the hood, together with the -effort of the woman to step aside from the road till I passed, laid open -the face of the sleeping child, and gave evidence, in the fullness of -its face, of the weight of its frame, and of health, derived almost at -the expense of the one upon whose bosom it reposed. - -Possessing an enormous and hardy frame, the man trode the mountain path -almost with the step of an elephant, and appeared to require nothing but -a palanquin upon his huge shoulders to enable him to carry both the -mother and the babe. The woman was of small and delicate form. Her face -was round and very fair, over which was cast the mildness of a bright -but modest eye. Although her age was about thirty, she appeared at least -fifteen years younger than her husband. - -A bend in the road, and the rapid walk of my horse, soon led me so far -in advance, that I ceased farther to hear a dialogue which, as far as it -was heard, intimated the unfeeling character of the one, and satisfied -me that the other had ample opportunity to manifest her piety in the -perfect working of her patience. - -In the progress of another mile of the ascending road, I came to a pass, -where, in a close of about half an acre of level land, there stood a -little hut, immediately on the side of the road. The building was formed -of large unhewn logs, interlaid with clay. The door, swinging upon -hinges made of the soles of worn-out shoes, being partially open, -disclosed the scanty and mutilated furniture within. There was only one -window, consisting of a slender sash, designed for four small panes of -glass, but in which only two remained. - -Notwithstanding the poverty indicated in the appearance of every thing -presented to my view, there was a general neatness with which I was -forcibly struck. A thrifty honey-suckle climbed up the little hut, and -the garden was much enlivened by a variety of lovely flowers. I know not -how correct the criterion may be found by others, but my observations -have long since confirmed me in the accuracy of the inference that, -however humble or elegant a country dwelling-house may be, wherever -there is a choice collection of flowers in the garden, there is usually -taste and cleanliness within the dwelling. The approach of a little boy -and girl to the door of this humble hut, with coarse but well mended -apparel, and the sedate and polite manner in which they expressed their -obeisance as I passed, satisfied me that the mistress of this cot -possessed feelings worthy of a better home. The manners of the children -were the more perceptible, as they could not have been acquired at -school, in as much as in this section of the mountains, schools are -seldom heard of. I knew of but one school-house within a distance of -three miles from these children, and that was open only during three -months of the year, and when those who attended must wade through -highland snows. - -Another mile brought me to my place of destination, the glass-works, -consisting of a low, spacious, sombre frame building, standing in a -field, every where studded with the most formidable stumps of the -hemlock, a tree the most common in these mountains, and the most -majestic in its growth. With a trunk measuring from five to eight feet -in diameter, and rising more than a hundred feet high, this tree seems -the fitting plumage of the mountain it adorns. Scattered at various -distances from the glass factory were a few buildings, which, from their -dilapidated appearance, evidenced that their inmates would never suffer -persecution for belonging to a suspected aristocracy. Perhaps, however, -I ought to except one building which stood in palace-like contrast with -the rest, and adjoined the “factory-store.” This was the mansion of my -friend, Dr. ——, physician, agent of the glass-works, justice of the -peace, keeper of the store, and frequently member of the Legislature. - -Here, with as much authority as is sometimes possessed by a continental -prince, the Doctor resided, enjoying the character of a “people’s-man.” -Strange as it might appear, yet it is certain that the glass-blowers and -wood choppers seldom remove from under his “agency,” without having a -balance against them on the Doctor’s book, either for rent, medical -attendance, justice, groceries or gin. He, it is true, got rich, yet no -one ventured to question his integrity, or to doubt his protection of -the poor. - -It was not until the following day that I was able to gratify my -curiosity by going into the factory. The blower, at the furnace nearest -to which I stood, soon gave his instrument to another, and kindly -tendered his services to accompany me through the works, and to give me -the information respecting the process of glass-blowing, of which I was -in quest. We had passed only one or two men before I perceived, at one -of the furnaces, the man whom I passed in ascending the mountain. - -“Who is that man?” said I, to my guide. - -“That is Bill Hunter,” said he, “and a great bear he is.” - -“Then you know him well?” - -“I’ faith I do,” said the man, whose broad dialect had shown before this -that he was an Englishman. “I have known him this many a year. A fine -woman is she, his wife, but a dog’s life it is, she has with him.” - -“He drinks, I suspect.” - -“Yes, he does; but he’s a bad man when sober; and it was a dark day for -her when she left her father’s house for such a dolt as Hunter.” - -“Then you know something of their history, I presume. Did you know her -father?” - -“What, John Shaw of Spittlefields! indeed I knew him well, and it’s all -good I know of him. Sure, a better man there never lived.” - -“My curiosity is quite awake my friend,” said I, “and you will greatly -gratify me by giving me a little of their history.” - -“Oh! but it is a sorry history for her, poor woman,” said he. “Do you -see, then, her father was a wealthy manufacturer, and much thought on. -When Margaret was about fourteen years of age, he took this same Hunter -into his factory and store to be a kind of porter or runner. For the -purpose of aiding in family errands, he boarded in Mr. Shaw’s house. At -the end of a year, the father discovered that Margaret treated Hunter’s -addresses with favor, and in disgust and chagrin dismissed him from his -employ; not because he was poor, but that he was so _ould_. We, who knew -him, thought it was strange that the poor wench could think any thing of -such a surly, selfish fellow. But then he was good-looking, and as -slender as ye. It was not long before the whole town was in a stir, when -it was said that Shaw’s Margaret had gone to the States with Hunter. -Sure enough, it was true; for it was found out that under pretended -names they had sailed from Liverpool for Philadelphia. The vessel, -however, went into Wilmington, in the state of Delaware, where they were -married and went into the country, and found employment in a factory. He -was ever a low fellow and a fool, was Mr. Shaw, for admitting him under -his roof. About three years since, he came to this place poor enough. -For Margaret’s sake, poor girl, whom I knew when the whole town was -proud of her, I gave him an insight into this business. He scratches a -scanty living, having five children, and lives in the hut that you -passed down the mountain a piece. He is but a brute to her, who shares a -hard life on it, poor thing; and must ever repent leaving a father’s -house for one so unworthy of her.” - -With this simple narrative I was much interested, and not the less so -because it was to me an additional evidence of what I had often thought -to be the case, that in the humbler walks of life, and in some of the -scenes, of poverty and suffering, there are those often who spend years -of pain in weeping over the inadvertence of the hour in which their -affections were misplaced. - - March, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - A PICTURE. - - - BY MRS. M. S. B. DANA. - - - And strangers gazed and wondered at the sight. - Round that lone being glowed a hallowed light; - Upon her pale, thin face a heaven-born smile - Played like a sunbeam on some lonely isle. - Yet plaintive were her tones in speech or song, - Like the low moaning winds the trees among, - And you could see her tender heart was riven, - And all the love she had, she gave to Heaven, - Oft, when the god of day had sunk to rest, - And sunlight lingered in the rosy west, - Still would she wander forth, with noiseless tread, - And, by a secret influence spirit-led, - Seek the same spot to which her steps would stray - With those she loved—but now, oh! where are they? - - March, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - SELF-DEVOTION. - - - A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. - - - BY MRS. E. C. EMBURY. - - - “Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise, - And what they do or suffer men record; - But the long sacrifice of woman’s days - Passes without a thought—without a word; - And many a holy struggle for the sake - Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfilled— - For which the anxious mind must watch and wake, - And the strong feelings of the heart be stilled,— - Goes by unheeded as the summer wind, - And leaves no memory and no trace behind!” - _Mrs. Norton._ - -“Do you believe, cousin Grace, that the world is as disinterested as it -was in the days of the ‘_preux chevaliers, sans peur et sans -reproche_?’” - -“I do, Frank; and even though you quote the great Edmund Burke, you will -not convince me that the days of chivalry are gone! The days of -knight-errantry are passed away, and well is it for society that they -are so, but there is as much of the true chivalric spirit now existing -as was to be found in the time of Richard of the Lion Heart.” - -“Do you really believe this, Grace?” - -“Let me retaliate by another question, cousin Frank; do you believe that -all the knights and squires of olden time were inspired purely by a -noble desire to win fame and redress wrongs? Did not avarice, ambition, -selfish gratification, and love of wild excitement mingle their elements -then, even as they do now, in the mass of human feeling?” - -“Undoubtedly the grosser passions were often commingled with the better -qualities of man’s nature; selfishness existed, but was not then so -widely diffused.” - -“There we differ, Frank; the selfishness of modern times certainly shows -itself in less fearful shapes.” - -“Because society has been compelled to make laws to protect itself -against those who would sacrifice all things to their own will; ‘might -no longer makes right,’ and therefore the selfishness of human nature is -shown less in high-handed spoliations than in secret machinations.” - -“Well, Frank, that there is enough, aye, and to spare of selfishness on -earth I do not mean to dispute; but I still adhere to my first assertion -that there is no lack of the true chivalric spirit.” - -“And pray how does it exhibit its qualities in this very dull and -prosaic world?” - -“Disinterestedness, self-devotion, purity of intention, integrity of -principle, delicacy of sentiment, a high-toned sense of honor, and -indomitable courage—these are the essential qualities of a chivalric -character; and surely, Frank, there is no want of arenas in which to -exercise these virtues.” - -“You will find few knights ready to enter the lists if such are the -requisites, cousin Grace.” - -“I hope you are mistaken in your estimate of men, Frank; I have a better -opinion of your sex than to adopt your ideas. But if it be as you say, -if selfishness be so active a principle among _men_, then have the -virtues taken up their abode in the hearts of _women_.” - -“Do they possess the chivalric spirit, Grace?—courage and all?” - -“You need not laugh, I can prove what I say.” - -“No, no, Grace, I am willing to allow your sex all superiority in -goodness and purity of feeling, but the virtues of women are of a -passive nature,—they have fortitude to suffer, patience to endure, but -rarely energy to act. Men _make_ sacrifices—women _suffer_ them.” - -“How little you know of the sex when you make such an assertion, Frank. -A woman’s sacrifices are of daily and hourly occurrence; she lives but -to minister to others, and to forget herself. If her courage is of a -more passive nature it is because her sphere of action is very properly -limited. She is not called to stem the tide of battle, or to face death -in warrior’s array; but is it nothing to look calmly upon the king of -terrors in the chamber of pestilence—to wait for his fatal blow, with -placid fortitude, when assailed by sudden peril—to gaze, unmoved, upon -the weltering wave—or to perish with unquailing courage amid flames and -tortures? Yet all this has been done by women. Awaken but a woman’s -feelings, arouse the hidden strength of her affections, and earth holds -not a peril which she will not brave.” - -“You are eloquent, cousin Grace, but you scarcely make out your own -case; according to your own evidence woman must have a personal motive -for action; her strength of character must be called forth by some -individual affection, or to use a less gentle term, by some selfish -impulse.” - -“According to your way of viewing character, then, Frank, the noblest -impulses of our nature arise from selfishness.” - -“I should like to hear you draw a parallel between the sexes, cousin -Grace; you seem to be so impartial—to concede so much goodness to -_man’s_ fallen nature, while you exalt so highly the weaker sex, that I -am a little curious to know how you would distinguish them.” - -“You would probably only dispute my positions, and make a jest of my -distinctions, Frank.” - -“I will promise to do neither, Grace.” - -“Well, then listen to the opinions of one who is content with the -dispensations of Providence, and who believes that the finger of God -himself has marked out the line which separates the impulses, the -habits, the character of the two sexes:—Man has _vigor_—woman -_refinement_: man has the _reasoning_ faculty best developed—woman the -_perceptive_: man has the power of _abstraction_—woman _rarely_ -possesses it: man is the creature of _calculation_—woman of _impulse_: -man is capable of deep research, he proceeds slowly and cautiously, -measuring every distance, and counting every step of his progress—woman -bounds along with rapid foot, observing the most prominent objects in -her path, and from them forms conclusions often erroneous, but always -ingenious. The intellectual faculty in man is usually concentrated—in -woman it is diffused: men of genius commonly devote themselves to some -one favorite pursuit—women of genius are remarkable for their -versatility. Man has the more correct _judgment_—woman the more correct -_feelings_. He has a _knowledge_ of right which he often forgets—she a -_consciousness_ of it which never forsakes her, even in the midst of -crime: man possesses the stronger _passions_—woman the stronger -_affections_: man has _boldness_—woman _fortitude_: man can perform -heroic deeds—woman can endure the extreme of suffering: man has the -more _physical_ daring—woman the more _moral_ courage: man controls -others by the _force_ of his character—woman influences by the -_gentleness_ of hers. In a word, my dear Frank, the relative position of -the sexes is fixed beyond all change; their respective duties are well -defined. Man has been given the weapons of moral and mental _warfare_, -that he may go out into the world, and do battle with and for his -fellows—while on woman is bestowed that skill in moral and mental -_culture_ which enables her to improve the field of duty at home.” - -“Very clearly defined, cousin Grace; so then you do not agree in opinion -with those who are for enlarging the boundaries of woman’s domain, and -would fain make her a gladiator in the arena, instead of a spectator in -the amphitheatre of action.” - -“That women have some wrongs to be redressed is an undoubted fact, but I -am no friend to this new warfare for the ‘_rights of women_;’ let the -sex only do their duty at home to parents, brothers, husbands, or -friends, and they will have little cause to repine that the forum, the -pulpit, or the poll is closed against them. But I have not forgotten -your innuendoes respecting the selfishness of women, Frank, and I should -like to tell you a story which will convince you of how much -self-devotion a woman may be capable, even when the strongest passions -of her nature are to be subdued. - -“Fanny Wilbank was one of those patient, long suffering creatures, who -seem sent into the world to fulfil the command, ‘_Bear ye one another’s -burdens_,’ for from her very childhood she had borne the burdens of the -whole family. Her father, one of those good-hearted, thoughtless -prodigals, who, in their readiness to help other people, are apt to -forget their own interests, had been all his life unfortunate. Nothing -seemed to succeed in his hands—the most promising business was sure to -fail if he undertook it, and as his family increased his means -diminished, until they were reduced to the utmost straits to preserve -that respectability of station in which they were born and bred. Fanny -was the eldest of the family, and of course upon her devolved the duty -of assisting her sickly mother in the care of the children, and the -management of their household. Here was a wide field for the exercise of -self-denial and patience. A weary lot is that of hopeless poverty, when -it relies on charity alone for food and warmth and raiment; but wearier -still is the lot of those, who, amid privation and want, still struggle -to keep themselves from the deep abyss of beggary, and strive with -decent pride still to retain their foothold in a world which too often -confounds misfortune with disgrace. It was amid cares, and troubles, and -anxieties of every kind that Fanny Wilbank grew up to womanhood. To say -that she was beautiful would convey but little idea of the gentleness, -the delicacy, the loveliness of her countenance. I might describe her -soft black eyes, her full bright lips, the jetty blackness of her -luxuriant tresses, the grace of her slender form, and the elastic spring -of her bounding step, but it would need the painter’s art to image the -tender sweetness of her expression. Her face was such as one might fancy -for a Madonna—pale, pensive and full of high-souled thought; but Fanny -knew little of her beauty and cared less. Had she possessed the talisman -of wealth she might have been the artist’s model and the poet’s theme; -but the spell of beauty alone is powerless to unlock the treasures of -earth, and Fanny was too poor to behold her own charms in the magic -mirror of flattery. Indeed she never seemed to think of herself; she -managed for every body, ministered to the comfort of every body, and -took her share of enjoyment in beholding the gratification of others. -But it must not be supposed that her beauty and goodness were unknown -and unappreciated. Several unexceptionable offers of marriage were made -to her—offers, which if accepted, would have placed her far beyond the -reach of want and labor—but Fanny was not to be influenced by sordid -motives in so momentous a matter, and resisting all the temptations of a -life of ease, still preserved her quiet cheerfulness to illumine the -home of her childhood. - -“Her hour of severer trial, however, came at last. Among the few -companions of her childhood was a youth of humble fortunes but of noble -character, whose name I shall conceal under that of William Grey. Their -regard for each other had grown up so gradually in their hearts, -probably neither was aware of its strength, until the time when William -was to go out into the world and strive amid his fellows to earn his -bread by the sweat of his brow. The grief which each felt at this -separation, revealed the nature of their feelings, and Fanny wondered at -herself when she found how closely her love for a stranger had entwined -itself with the affections which she had hitherto devoted to the claims -of kindred. But they plighted faith to each other, and looking forward -to a future of mutual love and quiet happiness, William obeyed the call -of duty, while the gentle Fanny continued to pursue her routine of heavy -cares with a cheerful and hopeful spirit. - -“After an absence of two years, William full of eager anticipation -returned to claim the fulfilment of her pledge, and to bear her to a -humble home in another part of the country. Fanny’s heart misgave her -sadly, when she looked on her pale mother and thought of the burden -which would fall upon her when she was gone. She half repented of her -promise to William, dearly as she loved him, for she had so long been -accustomed to think of the comfort of others, in preference to her own, -that self gratification seemed to her almost a sin. But her scruples -were soon put to rest, for her parents, unwilling to make any sacrifices -on their part for their self-denying child, positively refused to listen -to her lover’s suit. Nay, they even accused Fanny of selfishness, and -made out a charge of black ingratitude against her, for wishing to leave -them. With the usual impatience of man’s temper, William was deeply -incensed at such treatment, and endeavored to persuade Fanny to a -clandestine marriage. Her answer to his proposal was one which might be -remembered with profit by those who rush heedlessly to the altar, even -when their path lies over the crushed hearts of those who watched their -helpless infancy. - -“‘How could I hope to perform my duties to you, William,’ said she, ‘if -I came to you with the curse of a broken commandment clinging to me? -Think you a disobedient child could prove a good wife? No, dearly as you -now love me, you would be the first to doubt me, were I to give you such -a proof of my selfish disregard to the ties of blood. We are both young -yet, let us then wait until the future shall bring us better prospects.’ - -“‘God knows, Fanny, I would serve for you even as Jacob did for Rachel, -could I but hope to see you my own, but I know not how time is to remove -the obstacles which divide us,’ was his reply. - -“‘Oh, Mary will soon be old enough to fill my place, and then I can be -spared from home,’ said she. - -“‘Alas if I am to wait till your place can be supplied by another, I -shall but live on hope to die in despair,’ said William despondingly; -‘no one can ever be the same, thoughtful, patient, affectionate, -ministering angel that you have been to all around you.’ And thus they -again parted, but which think you suffered most keenly from this -disappointment? Was it he whose love was but the episode in the striving -tale of life—who listened to the voice of affection, but as soft music -played between the acts of the great tragi-comedy of existence? No! the -shaft of pain sunk deepest in the heart of her who remained in the -seclusion of home, shut up within the narrow circle of duties which -daily, hourly reminded her of the almost hopeless nature of her -feelings. - -“Time sped on and brought its usual changes. The boys grew old enough to -be provided with situations beyond the parental roof, and Fanny began to -look forward once more to a union with her lover. But in the midst of -her brightening hopes, her mother died, leaving to Fanny as her last -bequest, the charge of watching over the youth of her only sister. This -sacred duty was one which Fanny might easily have fulfilled without the -sacrifice of a single desire of her own heart, had not Mary’s failing -health rendered it a task of unceasing anxiety. An accident received in -infancy had slowly and insidiously undermined the once vigorous -constitution of the child, and soon after the mother was laid within the -tomb, an incurable disease of the spine confined Mary entirely to her -bed. It was then, with a heart bleeding over the severed ties of -kindred, that Fanny first taught herself to reflect upon the necessity -of a final sacrifice of her hopes of happiness. Her father was fast -sinking under the infirmities of age, and Mary was now helplessly -dependent on her for every comfort; how then could she indulge the vain -dream of being able to study her own welfare. There was a bitter -struggle in the heart of the poor girl ere she could bring herself to -write a letter of renunciation to William. But she swerved not her duty, -however severe might be its requisitions, and while the tears fell like -rain over the thoughts of her blighted hopes, not one drop was allowed -to blister the page which bore him her final farewell. But Fanny was -sadly mistaken when she fancied that the severest part of the conflict -was past. The letter only served to bring William in person to combat -the resolution she had formed, and she was now to endure the redoubled -anguish of beholding her lover’s sorrow. But in vain he sought to alter -her decision. She knew that instead of being a help-meet, she could now -be only a hindrance to one who was obliged to labor for his daily bread, -and her unselfish love taught her that it was for her - - ‘Alone to suffer and alone to strive.’ - -“‘My fate is fixed, William,’ said the hopeless girl; ‘I cannot perform -the duties of a poor man’s wife, without neglecting my afflicted sister; -her sufferings would mar your daily comfort, and her necessities demand -my undivided attention. God knows how tenderly I have loved you, and how -gratefully I feel your faithfulness, in thus abiding constant through -years of absence and disappointment, but that must be at an end now, -William;—our long engagement must be forgotten,—you are free—and may -heaven grant you a happier destiny than to be linked with one who seems -born only for sorrow.’ - -“Poor Fanny! how bitterly she wept as she uttered these words of -self-immolation! But she knew she was right, and even William, when the -first burst of grief had subsided, and he was able to reflect calmly -upon all the circumstances, acknowledged within himself, that Fanny had -judged wisely for both. He could appreciate the honest pride which -forbade her to fill a husband’s home with her own helpless relatives, -and he could well understand the disinterested affection which taught -her to make her own heart the victim rather than heap heavier burdens -upon one with whom the world had already dealt hardly. Again they -parted, but no hope of reunion now cheered their last -farewell;—henceforth they were to meet as friends, but never more to -exchange the sweet tones of lovers’ vows. How much less heroism is -required to perform noble deeds in the sight, and beneath the applause -of thousands, than thus to sacrifice love, and hope, and happiness, in -silence and secrecy on the altar of duty! Yet the warrior receives his -meed of glory, while the woman who calmly surrenders the ‘life of life’ -without the stimulus of fame or the hope of guerdon;—she who patiently -lives on, ‘in helpless, hopeless, brokenness of heart,’ ministering -meekly to others, while a wasting grief is eating into her very -soul—goes down to the grave unnoticed and unknown—perhaps regarded as -a cold and eccentric being by those who cannot fathom the pure depths of -such a mind. - -Fanny’s cheek grew pale and hollow, but she gave no other evidence of -secret sorrow, for she well knew that Mary’s keen eye would watch for -traces of her heart’s struggle, and she would not pain her suffering -sister by a knowledge of the bitter price at which her comfort had been -purchased. At length she heard of William’s marriage, and this severed -the last frail link that bound their hearts together. From that time his -name was never mentioned, and resolutely forbidding her thoughts to -dwell upon the past, Fanny Wilbank compelled herself to cheerfulness. -But a shadow had gone over her bright face, and her voice learned a new -tone of melancholy pathos—_she spoke like one who often weeps_. - -“The death of her father soon after left her alone with her helpless -sister, and having a small apartment, Fanny now commenced the task of -obtaining a livelihood for both by the labors of her needle. The -constant attention which Mary required, rendered this very difficult, -for many an hour which should have been employed in earning their daily -bread, was spent in soothing the pangs of the afflicted invalid. It was -at that period that I first met with this heroine of humble life, for -what I have hitherto been telling you I learned long afterward. My -mother had occasion to employ a sempstress, and Fanny Wilbank having -been recommended to her, I was sent to make some enquiry of her previous -to giving her the work. I was a giddy school-girl at the time, but I -shall never forget the impression made upon me by the neatness of the -apartment, the snowy whiteness of the bed-linen, and above all, by the -extreme beauty of both the females. Mary’s disease did not in the least -impair the bloom of her lovely countenance, and as she sat propped up in -bed by pillows, she looked in far better health than her pale sister. -But I soon found that her face was the only part of her frame which had -escaped the distorting touch of pain, for her body was shrunken to the -size of that of a child, and her limbs were sadly mis-shapen. My -business with them was soon settled, but the interest which they had -awakened in my bosom did not so quickly subside. My mother became one of -their warmest patrons, and having heard their history from one of their -early friends, I need scarcely add that we felt increased respect and -regard for the self-devoted Fanny Wilbank.” - -“And did she meet with no reward for all her virtues, cousin Grace?” - -“Alas! Frank, it is only in novels I fear, that we find virtue always -rewarded and vice signally punished. Such things are rarely recompensed -on earth, it is only in Heaven that we are told ‘all tears shall be -wiped away.’ But I have not yet finished my story. Medical skill was -procured for Mary, which, though it could not cure a disease ingrafted -in her whole system, yet afforded some alleviation of her severest -sufferings. Constant employment was also secured to Fanny, so that as -far as pecuniary matters went, their condition was much improved; but no -human hand could bring back health to the one, or restore the blighted -blossoms of hope in the bosom of the other. - -“Some few years later I married, and accompanied my husband to Europe, -and my parents having about the same time removed to the south, I lost -sight of Fanny Wilbank. When, however, after some years absence I -returned to my native city, one of my first wishes was to learn -something of her present condition. But the friends who had promised to -employ her, had neglected to do so until it was too late; all trace of -her had vanished, and I was left to conjecture her fate. I was one day -passing a handsome house in —— street, when I heard a voice from an -upper window exclaim ‘Mrs. ——! I am sure it is Mrs. ——!’ I looked up -in surprise and beheld Fanny Wilbank. The next moment the hall door -opened, and Fanny hurrying down the steps, grasped my hand with the -warmth of earnest affection. I followed her into a neatly furnished -room, and mechanically seating myself, wondered what it all meant. Fanny -divined my thoughts, for she smiled, blushed, and seemed about to tell -me some news, when a little chubby boy, of some three summers, twaddled -into the room and saluted her by the appellation of ‘mother.’ This -solved the whole mystery. - -“‘Come into the next room, where you will find Mary,’ said Fanny, ‘and I -will tell you all about it. For you really did not know that I was -married?’ - -“‘No indeed,’ was my reply, ‘pray how long have you been a wife?’ - -“‘Almost a year.’ - -“‘Almost a year?’ I exclaimed in stupid wonder! ‘and that child?’ - -“‘Is my husband’s youngest boy.’ - -“‘Then you married to take care of another’s children.’ - -“‘Yes, I could not refuse him,—fortune had prospered him, so that he -could afford to take care of poor Mary, and I consented, though I was -almost ashamed to become a bride at my age.’ - -“‘At your age! why you look younger and prettier than ever, Fanny, in -that tasteful little cap.’ - -“‘Do not laugh at me, dear Mrs. ——, I know it was foolish to marry for -love at forty-five, but William was so lonely, and his poor children -were so desolate.’ - -“‘Then it was William Grey you married?’ - -“‘To be sure;—_did you think it could be any one else?_’ - -“‘Ah!’ said Mary smiling, ‘William would not have won her even now, if -it had not been for his motherless children. Fanny has been so long -accustomed to sacrifice her own inclinations, that she cannot be -persuaded to any self-indulgence unless some duty be closely connected -with it.’ - -“Fanny Wilbank still lives; the beauty of her noble countenance has -faded beneath the touch of time, and many a thread of silver is mingled -with her dark locks, yet is she the centre of a circle of loving and -beloved friends, still the same, patient, tender, self-forgetting being, -that she was in the day of her early adversity.” - -“So she was at last rewarded, cousin Grace, notwithstanding your -assertion to the contrary.” - -“And do you deem her after fortunes a fitting recompense for the trials -of her youth, Frank? The bloom of youth, the freshness of feeling, the -glow of hope, the buoyancy of health,—all things that give a charm to -life, faded one by one from her view, even as the stars vanish in the -slowly-gathering tempest cloud,—patience, long suffering, meekness, and -resignation had taken the place of bright anticipation in her bereaved -heart,—time had laid his cold touch upon her fair brow, aye, and upon -her warm heart too, and then, at the last she was _rewarded_—how?—why -forsooth, by wedding the object of her early love, after her life had -‘fallen into the sear and yellow leaf,’—and thus obtaining the enviable -privilege of educating the children of her predecessor.” - -“What became of poor Mary, cousin?” - -“Do you not remember, Frank, the sick lady on whose bed you loved to -clamber, when you were a merry little urchin, who used to cover your -balls so neatly, and paint so many pretty devices for your kites?” - -“To be sure I do;—I remember too how bitterly I cried when they told me -she was dead, and I saw them bring in the small coffin for her shrunken -form. You don’t mean to say that was Mary Wilbank?” - -“It was, cousin Frank, and in the story of Fanny Wilbank, I have been -relating to you the early life of one whom you have ever loved with -filial tenderness—I mean your excellent step-mother.” - -“She is the only mother I have ever known, cousin Grace, and you can -tell me nothing good of her which I cannot readily believe; so if you -take her for an example, I have no more to say against the existence of -disinterestedness in this selfish world. It is only a pity there are so -few like her.” - - * * * * * - - - - - A WINTER SCENE. - - - BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDMAN. - - - Unclouded the sun from his glittering throne - Looked radiantly down where the tempest had gone! - For in darkness it came with the tokens of wrath, - But fled at the dawn on its ice-covered path. - And straight in the sunbeams the forest displayed - A host in the armor of battle arrayed; - There the “helmet of brass,” and the shield glistened clear, - And the bright flashing steel of the sword and the spear. - The garden, where Flora in summer is green, - At the glance of the sun was all dazzling with sheen; - And never a princess outvied, with her gems, - The jewels that hung there on numberless stems! - The lawn trees which stand in the glory alone, - Each sparkled with diamonds, like kings, on a throne, - And ne’er when o’erspread with their green foliage shade, - Were they in such beauty or splendor arrayed! - - And silver and gold, as in Solomon’s reign, - Were plenty as stones by the wayside again, - And bright did the spire and the roof with them glow, - While diadems shone on the tall mountain brow. - I gazed on the scene with unearthly delight, - And thought, while its radiance enraptured my sight. - Of that city, which one did in visions behold, - Whose gates were of pearl, and its streets paved with gold. - Again I looked forth, while the sunlight yet shone, - But the scene of enchantment I sought for was gone! - The sun, which had gilded each shrub with its ray, - Was melting the landscape of glory away! - Thus my hopes have dissolved, which once glistened so bright - In the sun of youth’s morn, to my fanciful sight; - Their brilliancy passed off in tears,—oh! how soon! - As the sleet-jewels melt in the sunbeams of noon. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DEFAULTER. - - - BY JOHN T. MAULL. - - - Ou trouverez vous un homme sans défauts? - _Télémaque._ - -In the beautiful season of youth, when life is just budding forth in all -the dewy freshness of ardent hope; when the heart is buoyant, and the -energies alive, and panting after objects around which to shed the -virtuous influence of their association, oh! then it is that we feel, -like the harp that is delicately attuned, the full force of every -impression:—of what moment, therefore, are those early connections and -restraints which are voluntarily assumed to fit us for our companionship -with the world, or in other words to form the character by which we are -to be known and appreciated among our fellow men; but that character -when formed, like the vestal fire of the ancients, demands the constant -vigilance of our noblest faculties to keep alive and perpetuate. - -George Morris was in his twenty-fourth year, when partly by the -intercession of rich relatives, and in a great measure by the possession -of personal endowments of no ordinary kind, he was called upon to assume -an office of public trust. I knew him well. Gay without frivolity—proud -in the consciousness of correct principle, and gifted with enviable -powers of pleasing, his career, indeed, seemed to offer the rich -rewards, if not of honorable fame, at least of high respectability. He -loved, and after a short courtship, was wedded. Never were two hearts -more willingly allied. The whole ardor of his soul was devoted to the -fair being whom he had chosen for his own, and in the retirement of his -home did he acknowledge his earthly happiness. Did reflection dwell on -the noise and bustle of the world without, it was only to assure him of -the comforts of his peaceful fire-side. Thus did time glide on with -silken wing, dispensing the calm and rational pleasures of domestic -life, which Morris of all others was so formed to appreciate. He began -his career, which it was foretold would be so honorable to him, in the -capacity of one of the chief officers of an institution of public -monetary trust. Here, with principles of integrity, deep rooted as the -rock, he persevered in industrious habits, and by continued vigilance -deservedly won the esteem of the community. His probity had been tested, -and the man of business implicitly confided in him. Society courted him. -Living in a populous city, as years progressed, he occupied an advanced -position among his fellow men—honorable alike to himself and to a -growing family: no cares had with him an abiding place, for his -children, whom he dearly loved, were gladdening the father’s heart, and -yielding him bright hopes for the future. All was happiness—all love -and tranquillity. Who then would venture to disturb this domestic Eden? -What baneful influence could bring desolation here? Who could wring the -tear of anguish from that young and doating mother—or the helping cry -from that unprotected child—who convert, as with magic wand, the happy -homestead into the refuge of want and affliction? The husband! the -father himself! Mystery of mysteries! yet did Morris work to himself -this very ruin. Lured by the expensive fashions of the day, the splendid -equipage, and the gay coterie of wealth, and desirous to equal, if not -eclipse the brilliance which he saw in the circles wherein he was called -to move, he had given the rein to his appetite and ambition, until he -was forced to do an act—an act from which he once would have shrunk -aghast, with horror and dismay. He defrauded, and was detected—he fled: -but could he avoid himself? Could he escape the guilty conscience—the -bitter remorse? It was in vain. Go where he would, fancy would revert to -that blighted, ruined home; and the thought of that one withering -act—it was insupportable—it was madness. His reputation was -irrecoverably gone, and he roamed abroad far from his native land—a -wandering outcast. Of what avail were now to him the common blessings of -nature? the light to him was as the darkness—the very air was heavy, -and laden as with the vapors of a dungeon—the world itself was one vast -prison-house. Did he sleep—frightful phantoms would haunt his couch, -and drive away repose; supplicating hands of beggared orphans and -stricken widows would rise in airy forms, while strange, unearthly -voices would cry aloud, and pierce the air in wail and lamentation, then -die away as if in mock and derision. - -Afar from country, relatives and friends, lived the Defaulter. Bitter -was the cup which that man drained to the very dregs. Providence had set -its sure seal of condemnation on his destiny, and although the laws of -man were impotent, the great law of the Omniscient failed not. There was -no retreat from that _presence_, which hath so solemnly declared “thou -shalt not steal.” - -At length news was brought to him from afar—it told him that the wife -of his bosom was dead—his children dependant upon the charity of -strangers. It was upon the receipt of this intelligence that I met -Morris, who was dwelling in a retired part of one of the chief cities -upon the Continent. I dared not think upon what might be the probable -result of my interview. Conflicting emotions were agitating my breast, -but I had fully resolved on the meeting, and on my arrival accordingly, -sought out his residence. It was about eight o’clock, of a summer’s -night, that, in an abstracted mood, I sauntered leisurely toward the -house. Having presented myself, I was admitted to a small chamber, -neatly furnished, where I found him alone. I knew not how to begin, how -to address myself to my early friend—so altered. He was lying on a -couch, evidently in the last stage of a fever. You felt at once he was a -dying man. His presence bewildered me; the hollow and glassy eye riveted -my gaze, until recollecting myself, in a subdued tone I spoke of the -country I had left—my object in travelling—my desire to obtain tidings -of himself; and then ventured to recall his memory to the many happy -days we had spent in each other’s society. - -“Gone, gone!” said he, groaning aloud, and seeming to awaken from a -listless reverie. In a moment he continued. “Will not one human creature -compassionate George Morris?—a stranger in a strange land! My Julia—my -wife—the mother of my little ones, they tell me is dead; and I, who -loved her so, poor thing, they say was her destroyer. Oh, God! have -mercy on thy creature, I feel thy indignation, and am smitten in the -dust. Come death, come the grave—welcome your embraces! But I -cannot—cannot endure the iron that is now thrusting itself in my soul.” - -There is something grand and terrible in the moral subjugation of man. - -“L——,” he faintly articulated, after a pause, during which he -wept—yes, wept for the first and _last_ time, “I feel that I am -dying—thank God! for his mercy; forgive, my friend, the weakness of -these tears—they are of contrition—of—of penitence.” - -Exhausted by this effort, he sank into my arms. - -“L——,” continued he, reviving, and raising his voice—“do you not see -her—there L——, there she is, she’s beckoning to me—she looks the -same as on that bridal night—she smiles, too, upon me—and look, L——, -look, she forgives me—I come! we were sundered once, but now they -cannot disunite us.” - -A struggle ensued, but it was short; a moment more, and he was _dead_. - -The flickering flame of the taper had gone out; the moonlight rested -upon the pale features of the corpse; and the soul of the Defaulter had -sped to its eternal reckoning. - - March, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - COMPARISONS. - - - BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. - - - A leaf upon the stream, - When the brook is rushing by - In its glorious summer dream,— - Such am I.— - - A feather in the air, - When the autumn breeze is high, - Driven here and driven there,— - Such am I.— - - A wild flower in the glade, - Where the quiet Zephyrs sigh, - Most happy in the shade.— - Such am I.— - - As the aspen among trees, - Where the sleeping waters lie, - Stirred by every passing breeze,— - Such am I.— - - But the leaf will find a shore, - The feather cease to fly, - And both be seen no more,— - So will I.— - - The flower soon will fade, - And the aspen’s leaves be dry, - Both forgotten in the glade,— - So am I.— - - March, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - -It is not improbable that a few farther steps in phrenological science -will lead to a belief in the existence, if not to the actual discovery -and location of an organ of _analysis_. If this power (which may be -described, although not defined, as the capacity for resolving thought -into its elements) be not, in fact, an essential portion of what late -philosophers term ideality, then there are indeed many, good reasons for -supposing it a primitive faculty. That it may be a constituent of -ideality is here suggested in opposition to the vulgar dictum (founded, -however, upon the assumptions of grave authority,) that the calculating -and discriminating powers (causality and comparison) are at variance -with the imaginative—that the three, in short, can hardly coexist. But, -although thus opposed to received opinion, the idea will not appear -ill-founded when we observe that the processes of invention or creation -are strictly akin with the processes of resolution—the former being -nearly, if not absolutely, the latter conversed. - -It cannot be doubted that the mental features discoursed of as the -analytical are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We -appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other -things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately -possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults -in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his -muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which -_disentangles_. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial -occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of -conundrums, of hieroglyphics—exhibiting in his solutions of each and -all a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension -preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence -of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition. - -The faculty in question is possibly much invigorated by mathematical -study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and -merely on account of its retrogade operations, has been called, as if -_par excellence_, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to -analyse. A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at the -other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental -character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, -but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very -much at random—I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the -higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more -usefully taxed by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the -elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have -different and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, that -which is only complex is mistaken (a not unusual error) for that which -is profound. The _attention_ is here called powerfully into play. If it -flag for an instant, an oversight is committed, resulting in injury or -defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the -chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten -it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who -conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and -have but little variation, the probabilities of inadvertence are -diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively unemployed, -what advantages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior -acumen. To be less abstract. Let us suppose a game of draughts, where -the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight -is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided -(the players being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the -result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary -resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, -identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a -glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by -which he may seduce into miscalculation or hurry into error. - -Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what are termed the -calculating powers; and men of the highest order of intellect have been -known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing -chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature so -greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best chess-player in -Christendom _may_ be little more than the best player of chess—but -proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more -important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say -proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a -comprehension of all the sources (whatever be their character) from -which legitimate advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold -but multiform, and lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether -inaccessible to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to -remember distinctly; and so far the concentrative chess-player will do -very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the -mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and generally -comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to proceed by “the -book,” are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing. -But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule where the skill of -the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of observations and -inferences. So perhaps do his companions; and the difference in the -extent of the information obtained lies not so much in the falsity of -the inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary -knowledge is that of _what_ to observe. Our player confines himself not -at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions -from things external to the game. He examines the countenance of his -partner, comparing it carefully with that of each of his opponents. He -considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting -trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by -their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play -progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the -expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph or of chagrin. From the -manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it -can make another in the suit. He recognises what is played through feint -by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or -inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the -accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the -counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; -embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford to his -apparently intuitive perception indications of the true state of -affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full -possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his -cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the -party had turned outward the faces of their own. - -The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for -while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often -utterly incapable of analysis. I have spoken of this latter faculty as -that of resolving thought into its elements, and it is only necessary to -glance upon this idea to perceive the necessity of the distinction just -mentioned. The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is -usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe -erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive -faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect bordered -otherwise upon idiocy as to have attracted general observation among -writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there -exists a difference far greater indeed than that between the fancy and -the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be -found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the _truly_ -imaginative never otherwise than profoundly analytic. - -The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the -light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced. - -Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I -there contracted an intimacy with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This -young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an illustrious family, -but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty -that the quondam energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he -ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of -his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors there still remained in his -possession a small remnant of his patrimony; and upon the income arising -from this he managed, by means of a vigorous economy, to procure the -necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its superfluities. -Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily -obtained. - -Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, where -the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very -remarkable volume brought us into closer communion. We saw each other -again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history -which he detailed to me with all the candor which a Frenchman indulges -only when self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent -of his reading—and above all I felt my soul enkindled within me by the -wild fervor, and what I could only term the vivid freshness, of his -imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the -society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this -feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we -should live together during my stay in the city; and, as my worldly -circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was -permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a style -which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a -time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted through superstitions -into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired -and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain. - -Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we -should have been regarded as madmen—although, perhaps, as madmen of a -harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visiters -whomsoever. Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully -kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many years -since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within -ourselves alone. - -It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to -be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this _bizarrerie_, -as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild -whims with an utter _abandon_. The sable divinity would not herself -dwell with us always, but we could counterfeit her presence. At the -first dawn of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old -building, lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw -out only the ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we -then busied our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, until -warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied -forth into the streets, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or -roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights -and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement -which quiet observation would afford. - -At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his -rich ideality I had been prepared to expect) a peculiar analytic ability -in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its exercise, if -not exactly in its display; and did not hesitate to confess the pleasure -thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most -men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont -to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his -intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was frigid and -abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a -rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded petulantly but -for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the enunciation. -Observing him in these moods I often dwelt meditatively upon the old -philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a -double Dupin—the creative and the resolvent. - -Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing -any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the -Frenchman was but the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased -intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in -question an example will best convey the idea. - -We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the vicinity of -the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither -of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once -Dupin broke forth with these words— - -“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for the -_Théâtre des Variétés_.” - -“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not at first -observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary -manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In an -instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was -profound. - -“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do not -hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How -was it possible you should know I was thinking of ——?” Here I paused, -to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought. - -——“of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking to -yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.” - -This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections. -Chantilly was a quondam cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming -stage-mad, had attempted the role of Xerxes, in Crebillon’s tragedy so -called, and been notoriously pasquinaded for his pains. - -“Tell me, for God’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method there -be—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In -fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express. - -“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to the -conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for -Xerxes _et id genus omne_.” - -“The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.” - -“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street—it may have -been fifteen minutes ago.” - -I now remembered that in fact a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a -large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we -passed from the Rue C—— into the thoroughfare where we now stood; but -what this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand. - -There was not a particle of _charlatânerie_ about Dupin. “I will -explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will -first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I -spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. -The larger links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichol, -Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer.” - -There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, -amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions -of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of -interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the -apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the -starting-point and the goal. What then, must have been my amazement when -I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could -not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued— - -“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before -leaving the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As we -crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his -head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving-stones -collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped -upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle, -appeared vexed or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the -pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to -what you did—but observation has become with me of late a species of -necessity. - -“You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing with a petulant expression -at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you were still -thinking of the stones) until we reached the little alley called -Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the -overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, -and, perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured to -yourself the word ‘stereotomic.’ You continued the same inaudible -murmur, with a knit brow, as is the custom of a man tasking his memory, -until I considered that you sought the Greek derivation of the word -‘stereotomy.’ I knew that you could not find this without being brought -to think of atomics, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and as, when -we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how -singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble -Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt -that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in -Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; -and I now was assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in -that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday’s -‘_Musée_,’ the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the -cobbler’s change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a very -peculiar Latin line upon whose meaning we have often conversed. I mean -the line - - _Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum._ - -I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written -Urion; and from certain pungencies connected with this explanation I was -aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore, -that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. -That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which -passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. So -far, you had been stooping in your gait—but now I saw you draw yourself -up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the -diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your -meditations to remark that as in fact he _was_ a very little -fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the _Théâtre des -Variétés_.” - -Not long after this we were looking over an evening edition of “Le -Tribunal,” when the following paragraphs arrested our attention. - - “Extraordinary Murders.—This morning, about three o’clock, the - inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by - a succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the - fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the - sole occupancy of one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter, - Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by - a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, - the gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of - the neighbors entered, accompanied by two _gendarmes_. By this - time the cries had ceased; but as the party rushed up the first - flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention - were distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part of - the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, - also, had ceased, and every thing remained perfectly quiet. The - party spread themselves, and hurried from room to room. Upon - arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door - of which, being found locked, with the key inside, was forced - open) a spectacle presented itself which struck every one - present not less with horror than with astonishment. - - The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken - and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead; - and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the - middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with - blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of - grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been - pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four - Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, - three smaller of _metal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing - nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a _bureau_, - which stood in one corner, were open, and had been, apparently, - rifled, although many articles still remained in them. A small - iron safe was discovered under the _bed_ (not under the - bedstead.) It was open, with the key still in the door. It had - no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little - consequence. - - Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but, an unusual - quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was - made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the - daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been - thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance. - The body was quite warm. Upon examining it many excoriations - were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which - it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many - severe scratches, and upon the throat dark bruises, and deep - indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been - throttled to death. - - After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house, - without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small - paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of - the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an - attempt to raise her, the head fell off, and rolled to some - distance. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully - mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely to retain any - semblance of humanity. - - To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the - slightest clew.” - -The next day’s paper had these additional particulars. - - “_The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue._ Many individuals have been - examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful - affair.” [The word ‘_affaire_’ has not yet, in France, that - levity of import which it conveys with us,] “but nothing - whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give below - all the material testimony elicited.” - - _Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both - the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that - period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms—very - affectionate toward each other. They were excellent pay. Could - not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed - that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have - money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called - for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no - servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part - of the building except in the fourth story. - - _Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the - habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame - L’Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood, - and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had - occupied the house in which the corpses were found for more than - six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let - the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property - of Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the - premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to - let any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the - daughter some five or six times during the six years. The two - lived an exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have money. - Had heard it said among the neighbors that Madame L. told - fortunes—did not believe it. Had never seen any person enter - the door except the old lady and her daughter, a porter once or - twice, and a physician some eight or ten times. - - Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. - No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known - whether there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her - daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened. - Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the - large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house—not - very old. - - _Isidore Musèt_, gendarme, deposes that he was called to the - house about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty - or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain - admittance. Forced it open, at length with a bayonet—not with a - crowbar. Had but little difficulty in getting it open, on - account of its being a double or folding gate, and bolted - neither at bottom nor top. The shrieks were continued until the - gate was forced—and then suddenly ceased. They seemed to be - screams of some person (or persons) in great agony—were loud - and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up - stairs. Upon reaching the first landing heard two voices in loud - and angry contention—the one a gruff voice, the other much - shriller—a very strange voice. Could distinguish some words of - the former, which was that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it - was not a woman’s voice. Could distinguish the words ‘_sacré_’ - and ‘_diable_.’ The shrill voice was that of a foreigner. Could - not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman. - Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to - be Spanish. The state of the room and of the bodies was - described by this witness as we described them yesterday. - - _Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes - that he was one of the party who first entered the house. - Corroborates the testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they - forced an entrance, they reclosed the door to keep out the - crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness - of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of - an Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure - that it was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not - acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the - words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was - an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with - both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of - either of the deceased. - - —— _Odenheimer_, restaurateur. This witness volunteered his - testimony. Not speaking French was examined through an - interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at - the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several - minutes—probably ten. They were long and loud—very awful and - distressing. Was one of those who entered the building. - Corroborated the previous evidence in every respect but one. Was - sure that the shrill voice was that of a man—of a Frenchman. - Could not distinguish the words uttered. They were loud and - quick—unequal—sometimes quick, sometimes deliberate—spoken - apparently in fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not - so much shrill as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The - gruff voice said repeatedly ‘_sacré_,’ ‘_diable_,’ and once - ‘_mon dieu_.’ - - _Jules Mignaud_, Banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue - Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some - property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the - spring of the year —— (eight years previously.) Made frequent - deposites in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third - day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of - 4000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home - with the money. - - _Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the - day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to - her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the - door being opened Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his - hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the - other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the - street at the time. It is a bye street—very lonely. - - _William Bird_, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who - entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two - years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the - voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. - Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard - distinctly ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_mon dieu_.’ There was a sound at the - moment as if of several persons struggling—a scraping and - scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud—louder than the - gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman. - Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s - voice. Does not understand German. - - Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that - the door of the chamber in which was found the body of - Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached - it. Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any - kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows both - of the back and front room were down and firmly fastened from - within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked. - The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked - with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the - house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage, was - open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, - boxes, and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. - There was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not - carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys. - The house was a four story one, with garrets, (_mansardes_). A - trap door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not - appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between - the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of - the room door was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made - it as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was - opened with difficulty. - - _Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue - Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered - the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was - apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices - in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could - not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an - Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English - language, but judges by the intonation. - - _Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the - first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The - gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several - words. The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make - out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. - Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general - testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of - Russia. - - Several witnesses recalled, here testified that the chimneys of - all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the - passage of a human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical - sweeping-brushes, such as are employed by those who clean - chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in - the house. There is no back passage by which any one could have - descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of - Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that - it could not be got down until four or five of the party united - their strength. - - _Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the - bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking - of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. - The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. - The fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would - sufficiently account for these appearances. The throat was - greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the - chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently - the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, - and the eye-balls protruded. The tongue had been partially - bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of - the stomach, produced apparently by the pressure of a knee. In - the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been - throttled to death by some person or persons unknown. The corpse - of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right - leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much - splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body - dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say - how the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a - broad bar of iron, a chair, any large heavy and obtuse weapon, - would have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a - very powerful man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with - any weapon. The head of the deceased, when seen by witness, was - entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly - shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very - sharp instrument—probably with a razor. - - _Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view - the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions, of M. - Dumas. - - Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several - other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so - perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in - Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police - are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence in affairs of this - nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.” - -The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement -still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the premises in question -had been carefully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses -instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned that -Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned—although nothing -appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed. - -Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair—at -least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments whatever. It -was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he -asked me my opinion respecting it. - -I could merely agree with all Paris in considering it an insoluble -mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the -murderer. - -“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of an -examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are -cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond -the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but not -unfrequently these are so illy adapted to the objects proposed, as to -put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his -_robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre la musique_. The results attained -by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are -brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are -unavailing their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser, -and a persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred -continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his -vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or -two points with unusual clearness, but in so doing he necessarily lost -sight of the matter, as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too -profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact as regards the more -important knowledge I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The -depth lies in the valleys where we seek her and not upon the mountain -tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are -well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a -star by glances—to view it in a side-long way by turning toward it the -exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions -of light than the interior) is to behold the star distinctly—is to have -the best appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in -proportion as we turn our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of -rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former -there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue -profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought—and it is possible to make -even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too -sustained, too concentrated, and too direct. - -“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for -ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will -afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term, so applied, but said -nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am -not ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I -know G——, the _Préfet de Police_, and shall have no difficulty in -obtaining the necessary permission.” - -This permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue -Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene -between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the -afternoon when we reached it, for this quarter is at a great distance -from that in which we resided. The house we readily found; for there -were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with an -objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was an -ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a -glazed watch-box, with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a _loge -de concierge_. Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an -alley, and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the -building—Dupin, meanwhile, examining the whole neighborhood, as well as -the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I could see no -possible object. - -Retracing our steps we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang, -and having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge. -We went up stairs—into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle -L’Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The -disorders of the room had as usual been suffered to exist. I saw nothing -beyond what had been stated in the “Tribunal.” Dupin scrutinized every -thing, not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the -other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout. -Our examination occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On -our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of one -of the daily papers. - -I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that—_Je les -menagais_:—for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his -humor now to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder, -until after we had taken a bottle of wine together about noon the next -day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing _peculiar_ -at the scene of the atrocity. - -There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word “peculiar,” -which caused me to shudder, without knowing why. - -“No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said, “nothing more, at least, than we both -saw stated in the paper.” - -“Le Tribunal,” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the unusual -horror of the thing. But we will not revert to the idle opinions of this -print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for -the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of -solution—I mean for the _outré_ character of its features. The police -are confounded by the seeming absence of motive—not for the murder -itself—but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled by the -seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, -with the facts that no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated -Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without -the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the -corpse thrust with the head downward up the chimney; the frightful -mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations, with those -just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to -paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen, -of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common -error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these -deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if -at all, in its search after the true. In investigations such as we are -now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as -‘what has occurred which has never occurred before.’ In fact, the -facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of -this mystery, is in exact ratio with its apparent insolubility in the -eyes of the police.” - -I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. He continued. - -“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our -apartment—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the -perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure -implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes -committed it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in -this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the -entire riddle. I look for the man here—in this room—every moment. It -is true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will. -Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; -and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use.” - -I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I -heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy. I have -already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was -addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that -intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great -distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall. - -“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party upon the -stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully proved by -the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the question whether -the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter, and afterward have -committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of method; -for the strength of Madame L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to -the task of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was -found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely -preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed -by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard -in contention. Let me now advert—not to the whole testimony respecting -these voices—but to what was peculiar in that testimony. Did you -observe anything peculiar about it?” - -I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff -voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard -to the shrill, or as one individual termed it, the harsh voice. - -“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the -peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive. -Re-employing my own words, I may say that you have pointed out no -prominence above the plane of the ordinary, by which reason may feel her -way. Yet there _was_ something to be pointed out. The witnesses, as you -remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in -regard to the shrill voice the peculiarity is—not that they -disagreed—but that, while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a -Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of -it as that _of a foreigner_. Each is sure that it was not the voice of -one of his own countrymen. Each likens it—not to the voice of an -individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant—but the -converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘might -have distinguished some words _had he been acquainted with the -Spanish_.’ The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman; -but we find it stated that ‘_not understanding French this witness was -examined through an interpreter_.’ The Englishman thinks it the voice of -a German, and ‘_does not understand German_.’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’ -that it is that of an Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’ -altogether, ‘_as he has no knowledge of the English_.’ The Italian -believes it the voice of a Russian, but ‘_has never conversed with a -native of Russia_.’ A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the -first, and is positive that the voice is that of an Italian; but, _not -being cognizant of that tongue_, is like the Spaniard, ‘convinced by the -intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual must that voice have really -been, about which such testimony as this _could_ have been elicited!—in -whose _tones_, even, denizens of the five great divisions of Europe -could recognise nothing familiar! You will say that it might have been -the voice of an Asiatic—of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans -abound in Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will just now -merely call your attention to three points which have relation to this -topic. The voice is termed by one witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It -is represented by two others to have been ‘quick and _unequal_.’ No -words—no sounds resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as -distinguishable. - -“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made, so far, -upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that -legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony—the -portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are in themselves -sufficient to engender a suspicion which should bias, or give direction -to all farther progress in the investigation of the mystery. I said -‘legitimate deductions;’ but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I -designed to imply that the deductions were the _sole_ proper ones, and -that the suspicion arose _inevitably_ from them as the single result. -What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish -you to bear in mind that with myself it was sufficiently forcible to -give a definite form—a certain tendency—to my inquiries in the -chamber. - -“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to that chamber. What shall -we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is -not too much to say that we neither of us believe in præternatural -events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by -spirits. The doers of the dark deed were material, and escaped -materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning -upon the point, and that mode _must_ lead us to a definite decision. Let -us examine, each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that -the assassins were in the room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, -or at least in the room adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. -It is then only from these two apartments that we have to seek for -issues. The police have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the -masonry of the walls, in every direction. No _secret_ issues could have -escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting to their eyes, I examined -with my own. There were, then, _no_ secret issues. Both doors leading -from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys -inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, although of ordinary width -for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout -their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress by -means already stated being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. -Through those of the front room no one could have escaped without notice -from the crowd in the street. The murderers _must_ have passed, then, -through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so -unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to -reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us -to prove that these ‘impossibilities’ are not such. - -“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by -furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower portion of the other is -hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust -close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within. -It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A -large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very -stout nail was found fitted therein nearly to the head. Upon examining -the other window a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and a -vigorous attempt to raise this sash failed also. The police were now -entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And, -_therefore_, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the -nails and open the windows. - -“My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the -reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that all apparent -impossibilities _must_ be proved to be not such in reality. - -“I proceeded to think thus—_a posteriori_. The murderers _did_ escape -from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have -re-fastened the sashes from the inside as they were found -fastened,—(the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, -to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter). Yet the sashes _were_ -fastened. They _must_, then, have the power of fastening themselves. -There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed -casement, withdrew the nail with some difficulty, and attempted to raise -the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed -spring must, I now knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea -convinced me that my premises, at least, were correct, however -mysterious still appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A -careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, -and, satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash. - -“I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing -out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would -have caught—but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion -was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The -assassins _must_ have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then, -the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there _must_ -be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes -of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked -over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand -down behind the board I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which -was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now -looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted -in the same manner—driven in nearly up to the head. - -“You will say that I was puzzled; but if you think so you must have -misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I -had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had never for an instant been -lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the -secret to its ultimate result—and that result was _the nail_. It had, I -say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window; -but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to -be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this point, -terminated the clew. ‘There _must_ be something wrong,’ I said, ‘about -the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about the eighth of an inch -of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the -gimlet-hole, where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one -(for its edges were incrusted with rust) and had apparently been -accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded in -the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now -carefully replaced this head portion in the indentation whence I had -taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete. I gently -raised the sash for a few inches; the head went up with it, remaining -firm in its bed, I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole -nail was again perfect. - -“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassins had escaped -through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord -upon their exit (or perhaps purposely closed by them) it had become -fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring which -had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail—farther inquiry -being thus considered unnecessary. - -“The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I had -been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet -and a half from the casement in question there ran a lightning-rod. From -this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window -itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the -shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by -Parisian carpenters _ferrades_—a kind rarely employed at the present -day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bourdeaux. -They are in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door) -except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis—thus -affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these -shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from -the rear of the house, they were both about half open—that is to say -they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the -police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if -so, in looking at these _ferrades_ in the line of their breadth, (as -they must have done) they did not perceive this great breadth itself, -or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, -having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in -this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory -examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to -the window at the head of the bed would, if swung fully back to the -wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident -that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an -entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. -By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the -shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp -upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing -his feet firmly against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might -have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the window -open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room. - -“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a _very_ -unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and -so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing -might possibly have been accomplished:—but, secondly and _chiefly_, I -wish to impress upon your understanding the _very extraordinary_—the -almost præternatural character of that agility which could have -accomplished it. - -“You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to make -out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full -estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the -practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object -is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in -juxtaposition, that _very unusual_ activity of which I have just spoken, -with that _very peculiar_ shrill (or harsh) and _unequal_ voice, about -whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose -utterance no syllabification could be detected.” - -At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of -Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of -comprehension, without power to comprehend—as men, at times, find -themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without being able, in the -end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse. - -“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from the mode -of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that -both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now -revert in fancy to the interior of the room. Let us survey the -appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been -rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them. -The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a very silly one—and -no more. How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were -not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and -her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life—saw no company—seldom -went out—had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found -were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these -ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best—why did -he not take all? In a word why did he abandon four thousand francs in -gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold _was_ -abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the -banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, -to discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of _motive_ engendered -in the brains of the police, by that portion of the evidence which -speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten -times as remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder -committed within three days upon the party receiving it,) happen to each -and all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even a -momentary notice. Coincidences in general are great stumbling-blocks in -the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know -nothing, and care less, of the theory of probabilities—that theory to -which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the -most glorious of illustration. In the present instance, had the gold -been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed -something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of -this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if -we are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine -the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold -and his motive together. - -“Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your -attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling -absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this—let us -glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by -manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordinary -assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they -thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up -the chimney, you will admit that there was something _excessively -outré_—something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of -human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men. -Think, too, what must have been the degree of that strength which could -have thrust the body _up_ such an aperture so forcibly that the united -vigor of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it _down_! -Turn now to other indications of the employment of a vigor most -marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses, very thick tresses—of -gray human hair. These had been _torn out by the roots_. You are aware -of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty -or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as -myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of -the flesh of the scalp—sure token of the prodigious power which had -been exerted in uprooting perhaps a million of hairs at a time. The -throat of the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely -severed from the body. The instrument was a mere razor. Here again we -have evidence of that vastness of strength upon which I would fix your -attention. I wish you also to look, and to look steadily, at the -_brutal_ ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body of Madame -L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor, -Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by some -obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen are very correct. The -obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which -the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This -idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same -reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by the -affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed -against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all. - -“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected -upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine -the ideas of a strength superhuman, an agility astounding, a ferocity -brutal, a butchery without motive, a _grotesquerie_ in horror absolutely -alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of -many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible -syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I -made upon your fancy?” - -I shuddered as Dupin asked me the question. “A madman,” I said, “has -done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring _Maison -de Santé_.” - -“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But the -voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to -tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some -nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always -the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not -such hair as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from -among the tresses remaining upon the head of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me -what you can make of it.” - -“Good God,” I said, completely unnerved, “this hair is most -unusual—this is no _human_ hair.” - -“I have not asserted that it was,” said he, “but before we decide upon -this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch which I have here -traced upon this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has been -described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises, and deep -indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle -L’Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as ‘a series -of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.’ - -“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon -the table before us, “you will perceive that this drawing gives the idea -of a firm and fixed hold. There is no _slipping_ apparent. Each finger -has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful grasp -by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt now to place all your -fingers, at one and the same time, in the impressions as you see them.” - -I made the attempt in vain. - -“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said. “The -paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is -cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is -about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the -experiment again.” - -I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. “This,” -I said, “is the mark of no human hand.” - -“Assuredly it is not,” replied Dupin; “read now this passage from -Cuvier.” - -It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the -large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic -stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and -the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known -to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once. - -“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of reading, -“is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no animal but an -Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have impressed the -indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of yellow hair is -identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot -possibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides, -there were two voices heard in contention, and one of them was -unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman.” - -“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost -unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression, ‘_mon -Dieu!_’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by -one of the witnesses (Montani, the confectioner,) as an expression of -remonstrance or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have -mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was -cognizant of the murder. It is possible—indeed it is far more than -probable—that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody -transactions which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from -him. He may have traced it to this chamber; but, under the agitating -circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it. It is -still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have no right to -call them more than guesses—since the shades of reflection upon which -they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my -own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible -to the understanding of another than myself. We will call them guesses -then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question be indeed, -as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement, which I -left last night, upon our return home, at the office of ‘Le Monde,’ (a -paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought for by sailors,) -will bring him to our residence.” - -He handed me a paper, and I read thus:— - - Caught—_In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the — - inst._, (the morning of the murder,) _a very large, - tawny-colored Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner, - (who is ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese - vessel,) may have the animal again, upon identifying it - satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its - capture and keeping. Call at No. —, Rue ——, Faubourg St. - Germain—au troisième._ - -“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to be a -sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?” - -“I do _not_ know it,” said Dupin. “I am not _sure_ of it. Here, however, -is a small piece of ribbon, which has evidently, from its form, and from -its greasy appearance, been used in tying the hair in one of those long -_queues_ of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which -few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked -the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have -belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my -induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to -a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in stating what I did in -the advertisement. If I am in error he will merely suppose that I have -been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble -to inquire. But if I am right—a great point is gained. Cognizant of the -murder, although not guilty, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate about -replying to the advertisement—about demanding the Ourang-Outang. He -will reason thus:—‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of -great value—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself—why should -I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is within my -grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the -scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast -should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have failed to -procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal, it would -be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate me in -guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, _I am known_. The -advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to -what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property -of so great a value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the -animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to attract -attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the -advertisement—get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this -matter has blown over.’” - -At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs. - -“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither show them nor -use them until at a signal from myself.” - -The front door of the house had been left open, and the visiter had -entered without ringing or rapping, and advanced several steps upon the -staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him -descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard -him coming up. He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up -quickly, and rapped at the door of our chamber. - -“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone. - -The visiter entered. He was a sailor, evidently—a tall, stout, and -muscular-looking man, with a certain dare-devil expression of -countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt, -was more than half hidden by a world of whisker and _mustachio_. He had -with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He -bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in French accents, which, -although somewhat Neufchatel-ish, were still sufficiently indicative of -a Parisian origin. - -“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin, “I suppose you have called about the -Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of him; a -remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you -suppose him to be?” - -The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some -intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone,— - -“I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five years -old. Have you got him here?” - -“Oh no—we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery -stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of -course you are prepared to identify the property?” - -“To be sure I am, sir.” - -“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin. - -“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir,” -said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for -the finding of the animal—that is to say, any reward in reason.” - -“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me -think!—what reward ought I to have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward -shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your power about -that affair of the murder in the Rue Morgue.” - -Dupin said these last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just -as quietly, too, he walked towards the door, locked it, and put the key -in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, -without the least flurry, upon the table. - -The sailor’s face flushed up with an ungovernable tide of crimson. He -started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the next moment he fell -back into his seat trembling convulsively, and with the countenance of -death itself. He spoke not a single word. I pitied him from the bottom -of my heart. - -“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming yourself -unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge -you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we intend you no -injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the atrocities in -the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some -measure implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know -that I have had means of information about this matter—means of which -you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus. You have done -nothing which you could have avoided—nothing certainly which renders -you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have -robbed with impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason -for concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle of -honor to confess all that you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, -charged with that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.” - -The sailor had recovered his presence of mind in a great measure, while -Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing was all -gone. - -“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, “I _will_ tell you all -that I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to believe one -half that I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I _am_ -innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.” - -I do not propose to follow the man in the circumstantial narrative which -he now detailed. What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately -made a voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed -one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of -pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the Ourang-Outang. This -companion dying, the animal fell into his own exclusive possession. -After great trouble, occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his -captive during the home voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it -safely at his own residence in Paris, where, not to attract towards -himself the unpleasant curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully -secluded, until such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, -received from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell -it. - -Returning home from some sailors’ frolic on the night, or rather in the -morning of the murder, he found his prisoner occupying his own bed-room, -into which he had broken from a closet adjoining, where he had been, as -it was thought, securely confined. The beast, razor in hand, and fully -lathered, was sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation -of shaving, in which he had no doubt previously watched his master -through the key-hole of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so -dangerous a weapon in the possession of an animal so ferocious, and so -well able to use it, the man, for some moments, was at a loss what to -do. He had been accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its -fiercest moods, by the use of a strong wagoner’s whip, and to this he -now resorted. Upon sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through -the door of the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window, -unfortunately open, into the street. - -The Frenchman followed in despair—the ape, razor still in hand, -occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at his pursuer, until -the latter had nearly come up with him. He then again made off. In this -manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly -quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. In passing down an -alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was -arrested by a light (the only one apparent except those of the -town-lamps) gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s -chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, he -perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility, -grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and, -by its means swung himself directly upon the head-board of the bed. The -whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by -the Ourang-Outang as he entered the room. - -The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He had -strong hopes of now recapturing the ape, as it could scarcely escape -from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, where it -might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much -cause for anxiety as to what the brute might do in the house. This -latter reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A -lightning rod is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor; -but, when he had arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his -left, his career was stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to -reach over so as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At -this glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now -it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had -startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye -and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had apparently been -occupied in arranging some papers in the iron chest already mentioned, -which had been wheeled into the middle of the room. It was open, and its -contents lay beside it on the floor. Their backs must have been towards -the window; and, by the time elapsing between the screams and the -ingress of the ape, it seems probable that he was not immediately -perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter they would naturally have -attributed to the wind. - -As the sailor looked in, the gigantic beast had seized Madame L’Espanaye -by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing it,) and was -flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the motions of a -barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. The -screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was torn -from her head) had the effect of changing the probably pacific purposes -of the Ourang-Outang into those of ungovernable wrath. With one -determined sweep of his muscular arm he nearly severed her head from her -body. The sight of blood inflamed his anger into phrenzy. Gnashing his -teeth, and flashing fire from his eyes, he flew upon the body of the -girl, and imbedded his fearful talons in her throat, retaining his grasp -until she expired. His wandering and wild glances fell at this moment -upon the head of the bed, over which those of his master, glazed in -horror, were just discernible. The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore -still in mind the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into dread. -Conscious of having deserved punishment, he seemed desirous to conceal -his bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an apparent agony of -nervous agitation, throwing down and breaking the furniture as he moved, -and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, he seized first -the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the chimney, as it was -found; then that of the old lady, with which he rushed to the window, -precipitating it immediately therefrom. - -As the ape approached him with his mutilated burden, the sailor shrunk -aghast to the rod, and rather gliding than clambering down it, hurried -at once home—dreading the consequences of the butchery, and gladly -abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the -Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the -Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the -fiendish jabberings of the brute. - -I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped -from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door. He -must have closed the window as he passed through it. He was subsequently -caught by the owner himself, who obtained for him a very large sum at -the _Jardin des Plantes_. Le Bon was instantly released upon our -narration of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the -_bureau_ of the _Préfet de police_. This functionary, however well -disposed to my friend, could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the -turn which affairs had taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or -two, in regard to the propriety of every person minding his own -business. - -“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. -“Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with -having defeated him in his own castle. In truth, he is too cunning to be -acute. There is no _stamen_ in his wisdom. It is all head and no -body—like the pictures of the goddess Laverna—or at least all head and -shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good fellow, after all. I like -him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has attained -that reputation for ingenuity which he possesses. I mean the way he has -‘_de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas_.’” - - Philadelphia, March, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - AN APRIL DAY. - - - The spring has come, the low south wind - Is breathing sweet,— - The showers are patt’ring in the wood, - Like fairy feet. - - Hark! in yon silent grove a bird - Pours out its lay,— - Such strains, I ween, have not been heard - For many a day. - - The feath’ry clouds scud o’er the sky, - The sun between,— - A thousand rain-drops glisten bright, - Upon the green. - - And such is life—an April morn, - A changing sky,— - To mingled joy and grief we’re born, - And born to die. - A. A. I. - - Philadelphia, March, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO THE ÆOLIAN HARP. - - - Say magic strain—from whence thy wild note straying? - Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee? - Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing, - Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly? - - Or, art thou from the star-gem’d vault of Heav’n, - Perchance the music of some distant sphere, - That faintly echoes on the gales of even, - To claim from earth—grief’s solitary tear? - - Art thou the revelling of some fairy sprite, - Tripping the dewy world fantastically, - To keep its tryst beneath the clear moonlight, - Awak’ning tones of deepest minstrelsy? - - Or, art thou, breathing from a holier clime, - A voice, that calleth tremulously low; - To lure the enraptured soul to things divine, - Far from deluding joys it meets below? - - Thou com’st with inspiration ’mid thy sighing, - A melody, unearthly and unknown; - A mingled strain, that on the night-breeze dying, - Wakens the heart-strings to thy thrilling tone. - - Recalling wanderings of the spirit-past, - The wayward visions of our fleeting youth; - The ling’ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last, - Untouch’d by Time’s realities of truth. - - Again we roam where forest-shadows blending, - Ring with the gladness of our playful hours, - Along the murm’ring stream once more we’re wending, - Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers— - - Or, oft renew the link that death hath broken, - The cherish’d dead—again recall to view; - Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken, - That erst from sorrow’s fount deep anguish drew. - - And fairest visions float through Fancy’s fane, - Caught from the soul’s illuminated shrine; - Elysian forms, that purer realms retain, - Thoughts of the blest, ethereal, and divine. - - Earth too is mingling with her mortal hours, - The touching softness of her gentle things; - And Love—deep-gushing Love—with winged powers, - Chimes with the ecstacy each wild note brings. - - Hast thou not sounds to rouse the soul to madness, - To flattering joys—emotions long enshrined; - Deep silent melodies of youthful gladness, - That spring unbidden to the raptur’d mind? - - This, then thou art—the power of plaintive measure, - To call forth passion by the wind-swept wire; - To mingle Hope, with memory’s sad pleasure, - This is thy power—Oh! sweet Æolian lyre. - A. F. H. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE REEFER OF ’76. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.” - - - THE MESS-ROOM. - -It is scarcely necessary to detail the occurrences of that celebrated -cruize. Success appeared to follow us wherever we went. After our escape -from the man-of-war,—which we subsequently learned to be the Solebay, -mounting twenty-eight guns—we ran farther eastward, and soon fell in -with several prizes. One morning, however, our look-out detected a -strange frigate hovering upon the sea-board, nor was it long before we -discovered her to be an enemy. We made her out, by the aid of our -glasses, to be a light frigate, pierced for sixteen guns on a side. -Every rag that would draw was instantly set. With equal alacrity the -stranger followed our example, and a running fight was commenced, which -lasted nearly the whole day; for our daring leader, finding that we -could easily outsail the enemy, kept just out of range of her guns, so -that, although she maintained a constant fire, every shot fell short. -Toward night-fall, however, we gave full rein to our gallant craft, and, -to the astonishment and chagrin of the Englishman, left him hull down in -a few hours. - -After hauling aboard our tacks, we ran up toward Canseau, and for some -time inflicted serious damage upon the enemy’s fishermen, around the -coast of Nova Scotia. Having finally captured no less than sixteen sail, -some of them very valuable, we left the scene of our late exploits, and -swept down the coast toward Montauk. - -It was a cloudless afternoon when we made Block Island, and, as the sun -set behind its solitary outline, tinting the sky with a thousand varied -dyes, and prolonging the shadow of the coast along the deep, we beheld a -small schooner, close-hauled, opening around the northern extremity of -the island. In less than a half hour she was close to windward of us. As -it was the first friendly craft we had seen for weeks, we were all -naturally anxious to learn the state of affairs on land. Paul Jones -himself leaped into the rigging and hailed, - -“Ahoy! what craft is that?” - -“The Mary Ann of Newport,” answered a nasal voice from the low deck of -the stranger, “what vessel air you?” - -“The Providence continental sloop—come to under our lee and send a boat -aboard.” - -“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the same voice, but in an altered tone, and with -the ready alacrity of a true seaman, “round her to, boys; but may be,” -continued he, again addressing us, “you hain’t heerd the news yet. I -calculate it’ll make the British think we Yankees ain’t to be made -slaves of arter all—_independence is declared_.” - -“What!—the Congress declared itself independent of Great Britain?” -asked Paul Jones, quickly. - -“Yes! by —,” but the half muttered oath of the seaman died away in a -prolonged whistle, as he remembered how unbecoming an oath would be from -a deacon of the church. For an instant there was a profound silence, -while we gazed into each other’s faces, with mingled wonder, delight, -and pride. The news was not wholly unhoped for, though we had scarcely -ventured to expect it. A topman was the first to speak. Forgetting every -thing in his enthusiasm, he shouted, - -“Three cheers, my boys, for freedom,—huzza!” - -And, suiting the action to the word, he broke into a thundering shout, -which, taken up by our own crew, was answered back by that of the -schooner, until the very heavens seemed to echo the sound. It was a -stirring moment. A universal transport appeared to have seized upon our -gallant fellows; they threw up their hats, they shook each other’s -hands, they laughed, they swore, and the more volatile even danced; -while Paul Jones himself, with a flushed cheek and kindling eye, timed -the huzzas of his patriotic crew. - -Before twenty-four hours we were at anchor in Newport, and almost the -first craft that I beheld in the harbor, was the saucy little Fire-Fly. -The welcome I received from my shipmates I will not attempt to describe. -Over our cold junk and Jamaica, I listened to the narrative of their -adventures since our parting, and rehearsed in return my own. My arrival -was opportune, for the schooner expected to sail in less than a week, -and had I been delayed many days longer, I might have found it -impossible to have rejoined her during the war. The little time that we -remained in port after my arrival, was spent in a constant round of -amusements, such only as a set of gay reckless reefers know how to -indulge in. Many a gay song was trolled, and many a mirthful tale -related by lips that have long since been stilled in death. - -But what of Beatrice? Had she forgotten me? No—the dear creature had -availed herself of one of the rare opportunities which then presented -themselves occasionally of communicating with the north, to answer a -long epistle I had transmitted to her, by a chance vessel, we met a few -days after leaving Charleston. Oh! with what simple, yet nervous -eloquence did she assure me of her unabated love, and how sweetly did -she chide me for the doubts I had—sinner that I was—whispered -respecting it. I kissed the dear missive again and again; I read it over -and over a thousand times; I treasured it the more because I knew not -when the chances of war would suffer me to hear from her again. I feared -not now the influence of her uncle: I felt in my inmost soul that -Beatrice was too pure, too self-devoted in her love ever to sacrifice it -for lucre. And as I felt this it flashed across me that perhaps she -might have heard of my being lost overboard from the merchantman; and -who knew but that even now she might be mourning me as dead? Happily a -brig was now in port about to sail for Charleston. I seized the -opportunity, and wrote to inform Beatrice of my safety. - -In a few days our outfit was completed, and bidding adieu to my friends -on board the Providence, we set sail from Newport. The day was bright -and glorious, and the sunbeams danced merrily upon the waves. A light -breeze murmured through the rigging; the gay song of the sailors from -the merchantmen in port floated softly past; and the scream of the -sea-birds broke shrilly over us, high in the clear blue sky. - -As the day advanced, however, a thin, gauze-like vapor gradually spread -over the horizon, deepening before four bells in the afternoon watch to -an impervious canopy of black, which stretching from pole to pole, -obscured the whole firmament, and threw a premature and sickly gloom -over the deep beneath. The wind, too, began to rise, blowing in -irregular puffs, and whitening the surface of the sea in patches over -the whole of its wide extent; while occasionally a low, half-smothered -murmur, as if arising out of the very heart of the ocean, betokened that -the elements of the storm were at work far down in their wild recesses. -As the day advanced the sky became even more ominous, until long before -night-fall its weird-like grandeur excelled any thing I had ever beheld. -By this time, too, the wind had increased almost into a hurricane, and -with every thing trimmed down, we were cleaving through the fast -whitening billows with an exhilarating velocity that only a sailor can -appreciate. The rain meanwhile was falling fast. As night came on the -watch was set, and most of us went below, so that all off duty were soon -congregated in our mess-room. - -“A wild night,” said the last comer, as he shook the wet from his shaggy -jacket, “and I see you’re determined to make the most of it, my -boys—push us the Jamaica, Parker, and don’t forget the junk in passing. -Here’s to the thirteen united colonies, hurrah!” - -“Hurrah! hurrah! hip—hip—hurrah!” rung around the crowded room, as we -drank off our bumpers. - -“Can’t you give us a toast, O’Shaughnessy?” sung out Westbrook. - -“Shure and what shall it be?” said he, with humorous simplicity. A -general roar of laughter followed. - -“Any thing, my hearty,” said Westbrook, cramming a piece of junk into -his mouth as he spoke. - -“Arrah thin, and ye’ll not refuse to dhrink the memory of our gallant -comrade,” said he, looking hard at me, “present this blessed minit, who -fought, bled, and died at Fort Moultrie—Misther Parker, I mane, boys.” - -The explosions of laughter which followed this speech, like successive -peals of thunder, were enough to lift the deck of the schooner off -bodily from overhead. But the most laughable part of all was the -amazement of poor O’Shaughnessy, who, unable to understand this new -burst of merriment, looked from one to another, in humorous perplexity. -As soon, however, as the company could compose itself, the toast was -drunk amid a whirlwind of huzzas. I rose to return thanks. - -“Hear him—hear him,” roared a dozen voices. I began. - -“Honored as I am, gentlemen, by this token of—of,” but here I was -interrupted by the entrance of the purser, who, poking his head through -the narrow doorway, said, - -“Gentlemen, the captain must be informed of this riot if it continues.” - -The purser was a stiff, starch, precise old scoundrel, with a squint in -his eye, a nasal twang, and an itching after money beyond even that of -Shylock. To make a dollar he would descend to the meanest shifts. But -this would not have irritated the mess so much, even though he had at -one time or another fleeced every member of it, had it not been his -constant practice to inform on such of the tricks inseparable to a set -of youngsters as came under his notice. He was, in short, a skulking -spy. Added to this he was continually affecting a strictness of morals -which was more than suspected to be hypocritical. - -“And who made you keeper of the skipper’s conscience?—eh! old -plunderer,” said Westbrook, as he shied a biscuit at the purser’s head. - -“Really, gentlemen, really—I—I must—” - -“Come in, or you’ll catch cold in the draught,” sung out our reckless -comrade, “your teeth chatter so now you can’t talk. Haul him in there, -O’Shaughnessy.” - -Quick as the word the unlucky interloper was dragged in, the door shut, -and he stood turning from one to another of our group in speechless -amazement. We were all ready for any mischief. The rattling of the -cordage overhead, the thunder of the surge, and the deafening whistle of -the hurricane we knew would drown all the uproar we might occasion, and -afford us impunity for any offence. Besides it was no part of his duty -to be intruding on our mess, and threatening us with punishment. We had -a long account to settle with our extortioner. - -“Hope you find yourself at home—take a sociable glass, that’s a good -fellow—glad to see you amongst us,” sung out as many voices as biscuit -after biscuit was sent at the purser’s head, while Westbrook mixing a -stiff tumbler of salt and water proffered it to our victim to drink. - -“Spu—spu—gentlemen, spu, I promise you—the utmost penalty of—of the -regulations—you shall be mast-headed—disrated—you shall, so help me -God.” - -“A penalty! a penalty! the worthy man is profane: how shall we punish -such immorality?” - -“Cob him,” said one. - -“Keel-haul him,” said another. - -“Make him receipt for his bill,” roared a third. - -“Give him the salt and water,” chimed in Westbrook, and the salt and -water it was agreed should be the penalty. Three stout reefers held the -loathing victim fast, while Westbrook proceeded to administer the -draught. - -“Gentlemen—I—I—protest—a—gainst—you shall suffer for this—you -shall—” - -“Aisy, you spalpeen you, aisy,” said O’Shaughnessy, giving the purser a -shake. - -“Mr. Westbrook, I warn you—I warn you,” said the purser raising his -voice. - -But our comrade was not to be intimidated. Taking the glass in one hand, -he placed himself at a proper distance in front of the struggling man, -and gravely commenced haranguing him on the enormity of his offence. - -“It pains me, indeed, Mr. Sower,” and here Westbrook laid his hand upon -his heart, “to hear a man of your character use such language as you -have been convicted of, especially in the presence of these misguided -young reprobates,” here there was a general laugh, “example, example, my -dear sir, is every thing. But the deed is done: the penalty alone -remains to be paid. With a heart torn with the most poignant anguish I -proceed to execute your sentence.” - -“Mr. Westbrook, again I warn you—spe—e—u—uh.” - -But in vain the purser kicked, and struggled, and spluttered. The mess -was too much for him. One seized him by the nose, a second forced open -his mouth, and Westbrook, with inimitable gravity, apologising for, and -bemoaning his melancholy duty,—as he called it—in the same breath, -poured the nauseating draught down the victim’s throat, amid roars of -laughter. - -“D——n, I’ll make you pay for this—I will—I will,” roared the purser, -almost choked with rage. - -“Open the door and let him run,” laughed Westbrook. - -The mandate was obeyed, and with one bound the purser sprang out of the -mess-room, while his merry persecutors, holding their sides, laughed -until the tears ran out of their eyes. - -“A song—give us a song, Westbrook!” shouted the one at the foot of the -table, as soon as the merriment, ceasing for a while, but renewed again -and again, had finally died away. - -“What shall it be?” said our jovial messmate, “ah! our own mess-room -song, Parker hasn’t heard it yet—shove us the jug, for I’m confoundedly -dry.” - -Having taken a long draught, Westbrook hemmed twice, and sang in a fine -manly tenor, the following stanzas: - - “Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life! - With his junk and Jamaica by him, - He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife. - He seeks but the foe to defy him; - He fights for his honor and country’s laws, - He fights for the mother that bore him,— - And the hireling slave of a tyrant’s cause - Will quail, like a coward, before him. - - “The deep may unfetter its surges dread, - The heavens their thunders awaken, - The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,— - He smiles at all danger unshaken; - With an unblenched eye, and a daring form - He fearlessly gazes before him, - Though he fall in battle, or sink in the storm, - His country, he knows, will weep o’er him. - - “In her sun-lit vallies are daughters fair - To greet us from battle returning, - With their song and smile to banish each care - By the hearth-fire cheerily burning. - Oh! who would not fight for beings like these, - For mothers, for grandsires hoary? - Like a besom we’ll sweep the foe from the seas, - Or die, in the strife, full of glory.” - -“Bravo! three times three!” and the triple sound rolled stunningly from -our throats. - -“Hark! wasn’t that the boatswain’s whistle?” said I, and for a moment we -paused in our applause to listen. But the tumult of the storm drowned -everything in its fierce uproar. - -“Again, boys—hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” and the cheers were renewed with -redoubled vigor. - -“Gentlemen, all hands on deck,” said the quarter-master, opening the -door at this moment. - -“Ay! ay! sir,” was the simultaneous response of every member of the -mess, and in less than a minute our late noisy apartment was as quiet as -the tomb, and we had each taken his post on deck. Such is discipline. - -The spectacle that met our vision as we reached the deck, drove at once, -all the excitement of our potations off; and we were as calm and -collected in a second after leaving the gang-way, as if we had kept -above during the whole evening. Never can I forget that moment. The rain -was pouring down in torrents, not perpendicularly, however, but -slant-wise, as it was driven before the hurricane. Now it beat fiercely -into our faces, and now was whirled hither and thither in wild -commotion. Around, all was dark as pitch. We could not see a dozen -fathoms in any direction, except where the white crests of the surges -flashed through the gloom. These could, however, be detected close under -our lee glancing through the darkness, while the dull continued roar in -that quarter, betokened our immediate vicinity to breakers. They were in -fact, close aboard. Had they not been detected the instant they were, we -should have run on to them the next minute, and perished to a soul. -Happily we had just room to wear. This had been done before we were -summoned on deck. We had now close-hauled every thing, and were -endeavoring, as our only hope, to claw off the shore. - -The next fifteen minutes were spent in that agonising suspense, for more -terrible than death itself, which men experience when the king of terror -smiles grimly in their faces, and yet witholds the blow. As we gazed -out, through the driving rain, upon the dimly seen breakers on our -starboard beam, and heard their wild monotonous roar as of hounds -yelling for their prey, a sense of inexpressible awe stole upon our -minds, which, though totally devoid of fear, was yet appalling. Who knew -but that, before another hour, aye! before a quarter of that time, our -mangled bodies might be floating at the mercy of the surge? Every moment -deepened our anxiety, for though our little craft breasted the waves -with gallant determination, sending the spray as high as her mast head -at every plunge, yet there was no perceptible increase in our distance -from the shore. Fierce, and fiercer, meanwhile, grew the tempest. The -surge roared under our lee; the wind howled by like the wailings of the -damned; and the occasional lightnings, which now began to illuminate the -scene, lit up the whole firmament a moment with their ghastly glare, and -then left it shrouded in darkness deeper than that of the day of doom. -At intervals the thunder bellowed overhead or went crackling in -prolonged echoes down the sky. The schooner groaned and quivered in -every timber. Now we rose to the heavens; now wallowed in the abyss. The -men, grasping each a rope, looked ominously at the scene around, or cast -hurried glances aloft as if fearful that our masts would not stand the -strain. - -“Hark!” said Westbrook, who stood beside me, “was not that a gun?—there -again?” - -As he spoke the sullen roar of a cannon boomed across the deep, and for -several successive minutes, in the intervals of the thunder, followed -the same awful sound. We looked at each other. - -“They are signals of distress,” I ejaculated, “God have mercy on the -sufferers! for man can afford them no help.” - -I had scarcely ceased speaking when a succession of rapid, vivid flashes -of lightning, illumined the stormy prospect for several minutes, as with -the light of day; and for the first time we caught a glimpse of the -rocky coast, on our lee, against which the surge was breaking in a -hurricane of foam. But fearful as was the spectacle of our own danger, -it was surpassed by the sight which met our eager gaze. About a cable’s -length ahead, and a few points on our lee bow, was a tall and gallant -bark, dismantled and broached to, upon a reef of jagged rocks, now -buried in foam. Her weather quarter lay high upon the ledge, and was -crowded with unfortunate human beings, men, women and children, over -whom the surges broke momentarily in cataracts. I hear now their wild -despairing cries, although years have passed since then. I see their -outstretched hands as they call on heaven for mercy. I feel again the -cold chill, freezing up my very blood, which then rushed across my -heart, as I thought of their inevitable doom, and knew not but that in a -few moments I should share its bitterness with them. I was startled by a -deep voice at my side. It was that of an old warrant officer. The tears -were streaming down his weather-beaten cheeks, and his tones were husky -and full of emotion as he said, - -“It’s a sad spectacle that for a father, Mr. Parker.” - -“It is, Hawser—but why do you shed tears?—cheer up, man—it’s not all -over with us yet,” said I. - -“Ah! sir, it’s not fear that makes me so, but I was thinking what my -little ones, and their poor mother would do for bread to eat, should I -be taken away from them. You are not a father, Mr. Parker.” - -“God forgive me, Hawser, for my suspicion. I honor your emotions,” said -I, pressing his horny hand, and turning away to conceal my own feelings. -But as I did so, I felt something hot fall upon my finger. It was the -old man’s tear. - -“We must give her another reef, I fear,” said the captain, as he saw how -fearfully the vessel strained, “no, no,” he added, as he glanced again -at the rocky coast, “it will never do. Keep her to it,” he thundered, -raising his voice, “keep her to it, quarter-master.” - -“Ay, ay, sir.” - -We were now almost abreast of the ill-fated wreck. Driving rapidly -along, the dark waters sinking in foam beneath our lee as we breasted -the opposing surge, our fate promised soon to be the same with that of -the wretches on the reef. The crisis was at hand. We were in dangerous -proximity to the dismantled ship; and the least falling off would roll -us in upon her. It was even doubtful whether we could weather the reef, -should we still hold our own. At this moment a ray of hope appeared. We -perceived that the shore shelved in just beyond the wreck, and that, if -we could escape the ledge, our safety would be ensured. The captain took -in at a glance this new situation of affairs, which, by holding out -hope, redoubled every motive to action. - -“How bears she?” he anxiously inquired. - -The man answered promptly. - -“Hard up—press her down more,” he shouted, and then muttered, between -his teeth “or we are lost.” - -“She is almost shaking.” - -“How does she bear?” - -“A point more in the wind’s eye.” - -“Harder yet, harder.” - -“Ay, ay, sir.” - -“How now?” - -“Another point, sir.” - -The crisis had now come. Bending almost to the horizon, under the -enormous press of her canvass, the schooner groaned and struggled -against the seas, and for one moment of intense agony, during which we -held our breaths painfully, and even forgot the cries of the sufferers -upon our lee, we thought that all was over; but, although the schooner -staggered under the successive shocks, she did not yield, and as the -last billow sank away, whitening beneath her lee, and we rose gallantly -upon its crest, the rocky reef shot away astern, and we were safe. As -the wreck vanished in the gloom behind, the cries of her despairing -passengers came mingled with the roar of the tempest, in awful -distinctness, to our ears. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE OUTLAW LOVER. - - - BY J. H. DANA. - - - Chapter I. - - _Com._ And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady? - _Comus._ - -It was a summer afternoon, and the sunlight, glimmering through the -branches of the old oak trees, fell with a rich glow upon the green -sward beneath, lighting up the dark vistas of the forest, and disclosing -long avenues of stately trees, through which the deer trotted in the -distance, presenting altogether a picture of woodland scenery such as -the eye rarely beholds, when two females might have been seen sauntering -idly along, listening to the gay echoes of their own voices as they -conversed in those light-hearted tones, which only youth and innocence -employ. The foremost of the two, by the stateliness of her mien, and the -richness of her dress, appeared to be of higher rank than her companion; -and as she turned occasionally to converse with her attendant, she -disclosed one of the most beautiful countenances that poet ever dreamed -of, or painter pictured. A noble contour; a snowy forehead; a finely -chiselled mouth; and a pair of dark lustrous eyes that shone like a -cloudless night into the gazer’s soul, made up a face of surpassing -loveliness. And as she conversed, each successive thought would flash up -into her countenance, making it, as it were, the mirror of the pure soul -beneath, and giving it an expression, such as the pen would find it -impossible to describe. - -“Ruth! Ruth!” said this fair vision, suddenly pausing, “hear you -nothing—surely that was the cry of dogs—can we have wandered so far -from the lodge?” - -The color faded from the attendant’s cheek as her mistress ceased -speaking, and the deep bay of approaching hounds floated down the -avenues of the forest. - -“Let us fly—fly, dear lady,” said the terrified girl, “or the stag will -be upon us.” - -The words had scarcely left her mouth before a crashing was heard in a -neighboring thicket, and before the females could move more than a few -steps from their position, a huge antlered stag, dripping with blood and -foam, burst out of the copse, and made toward them. The attendant -shrieked, and clasping her mistress’ robe, stood unable to move. Had the -maiden been equally paralysed, their destruction would have been -unavoidable. But in that moment of peril, though the cheek of the lady -Margaret became a trifle paler than usual, her presence of mind did not -desert her. Seizing her attendant’s arm energetically, she dragged her -toward a huge oak behind them, whose giant trunk would afford a -momentary barrier against the infuriated animal. Had the lady Margaret -been alone and unencumbered, she would have succeeded in her endeavor, -but her nearly senseless companion so retarded her progress that the -stag had almost overtaken them while yet several paces from the tree. -Another instant and their fate would be sealed. But at that crisis she -heard a whizzing by her ear, and an arrow, sped by an unseen hand, -pierced the heart of the stag, who leaping madly forward with a last -effort, fell dead at her feet. At the same moment a light and active -form, arrayed in a dress of Lincoln green, sprang out from a neighboring -copse, and lifting his cap to the ladies, begged to enquire after their -affright, in a tone so courtly for one of his apparent station, that -Margaret involuntarily looked closer at the stranger. - -He was apparently about twenty-five years of age, with an open and -generous countenance, enlivened by one of those merry blue eyes which -were characteristic in those days, of the pure Saxon blood of their -possessor. A jaunty cap, with a long white feather drooping over it, was -set upon the stranger’s head; while a green coat, made somewhat after -the fashion of a hunting frock of the present day, and crossed by a wide -belt from which depended a bugle, set off his graceful form. Altogether -the intruder was as gallant a looking forester as ever trod the -greensward. - -“The hounds are in full cry,” continued the stranger, without shrinking -at the scrutiny of the lady, “and will soon be upon us. Will you suffer -me to be your protector from this scene?” - -The lady Margaret bowed, and pointing to her attendant, who had now -fainted, thanked their preserver for his offer, and signified her -willingness to accept it. The youth made no answer, but seizing the -prostrate maiden in his arms, he pointed to the copse from which he had -emerged, and hastily followed Margaret into it. The branches, where they -passed in their retreat, had scarcely ceased vibrating, when the hounds -dashed into the space they had left, and in a moment after a gay train -of hunters followed with horn and halloo. - -Meantime the young stranger, bearing the form of Ruth in his arms, -hastily traversed the forest, by paths that others could scarcely have -detected, until he reached the margin of an open glade, at whose -extremity stood a low-roofed lodge, such as was then used for the -residence of a keeper of the forest. Here the stranger hesitated a -moment, but finally perceiving that no one was in sight, he pressed -across the glade, and only paused when he had deposited his now reviving -burden on a cot in the lodge. The next moment he turned to depart. - -“May—may we know to whom we are indebted for this timely aid?” faltered -the lady Margaret, crimsoning as she spoke, with an agitation of manner -unusual to the high-bred heiress. - -The youth hesitated a moment, looked wistfully at the maiden, and seemed -on the point of answering, when footsteps were heard approaching. -Hastily bowing to Margaret, he ejaculated, - -“We may meet again, farewell!” and vanished from the portal. His form -disappeared in the forest as the keeper entered and saluted the lady -Margaret and his daughter. - - - Chapter II. - - _Cel._ Soft! comes he not here? - _As You Like It._ - -The Earl of Mountfort’s only daughter, the lady Margaret, was at once an -heiress and a beauty. Early deprived of a mother’s care; buried in the -seclusion of her father’s various castles; and knowing nothing of the -great world without, she had attained the age of eighteen, without -suffering any diminution of that enthusiasm which is so beautiful in -early youth, but which a few year’s collision with mankind wears off. - -From her earliest childhood Ruth Herewood, the forester’s daughter, had -been her bosom companion; for in that day, when young females of noble -rank could rarely associate together, their handmaidens were often their -sole confidants. Ruth, moreover, was a foster sister to the lady -Margaret, and the tie, therefore, which bound them together was one not -lightly thought of, nor easily severed. It was no unusual thing for the -young heiress, at least once a year, to spend a fortnight or even more -at the lodge of Mr. Herewood, who held the office of a keeper in one of -the king’s forests. At such times she was unattended, except by a few -faithful servants. It was during one of these visits that her life had -been preserved in the manner we have related. With these explanations -let us return to our story. - -A significant sign from her mistress put Ruth upon her guard, and as the -stranger had disappeared before her father’s entrance, Mr. Herewood -remained in ignorance of the danger from which the females had escaped. -The motives which prompted Margaret to this concealment we shall not -attempt to divine. Perhaps it was only a passing whim; but if so it was -changed into a settled resolution, when, on the following morning Ruth’s -father acquainted them with the fact that a stag had been found shot in -the forest by the royal hunting party, and that so daring a breach of -the forest laws would assuredly be punished with the utmost penalty that -rigorous code afforded. Alarmed and perplexed, Margaret determined to -conceal all knowledge of the stranger, lest, by her means, he might be -detected; for she feared that her rescuer was one of those outlaws who -were known to infest the forest, and that though he might find immunity -for that particular offence, he could not escape being convicted of -others as heinous. - -Yet Margaret could not forget her preserver. In her waking or sleeping -dreams his manly form was ever before her, looking as it did when he -sprang from the copse to her rescue; and as often as the vision recurred -to her memory she owned to herself that she had never seen anyone of -such rare manly beauty. She strolled oftener than ever into the forest, -and Ruth noticed—for are not all women quick to notice such -things?—that whenever her theme of conversation was their unknown -preserver, her mistress listened to her with more than common interest. - -Several days had now elapsed since their escape from the stag, when, one -afternoon, Margaret and Ruth, found themselves in that portion of the -forest where their fright had occurred. As it was some distance from the -lodge, they felt fatigued by their walk, and sitting down on a shady -knoll, naturally fell into a conversation on the stranger who had so -opportunely come to their aid. But a few minutes had thus passed when a -light step was heard approaching, and as the females hastily arose, the -stranger stood before them. - -“Be not alarmed, fair lady,” said he, lifting his cap, and addressing -Margaret, “I said when we parted the other day that we might meet again. -I redeem my word. But if my presence affrights you I retire.” - -The maiden blushed deeply at this address, so unlike that of one in the -speaker’s sphere of life. Her bosom was agitated, meanwhile, with -contending emotions, which produced a momentary embarrassment and -confusion in her countenance, only serving to heighten her beauty in the -stranger’s eyes. At length she spoke. - -“But, sir stranger, do you not run a risk by this? Believe me I would -not have you come to ill, but I know that danger besets your footsteps. -Then,” she added, more earnestly than the next moment she thought -maidenly, “fly from the forest.” - -The stranger smiled as he answered. - -“You think that the outlaw’s life is hazardous; but I have only to sound -this,” and he lightly touched his bugle, “and a score of stout arms are -around me.” - -There was something so fascinating in the stranger’s manner that, -despite her better judgment, Margaret felt chained to the spot. Nor did -Ruth show any greater disposition to depart. Before five minutes had -elapsed, Margaret found herself conversing with the gallant outlaw as -freely as if she had known him for months. If, for a moment, she would -think such conduct improper, the next reflection would be had he not -saved her life? Besides was not Ruth at hand? Is it a wonder, therefore, -that the grateful girl suffered the stranger to linger by her side for -nearly an hour, or that after they had parted, she thought of him -oftener than she would have been willing a week before to admit she -could ever think of any one except her father? Is it a wonder that she -often strolled into the forest with Ruth, and that she never returned -without having seen the outlaw? In a word is it any wonder that she -loved? - - - Chapter III. - - Never met, or never parted, - They had ne’er been broken-hearted. - _Burns._ - -There is nothing in this care-worn world so sweet and innocent as a -young girl’s first love. Then—when the heart is fresh, when every -thought is pure, when the poetry of life has not yet been crushed out of -the soul, when as we are nearer to our childhood we are nearer to -heaven—then it is that we love with an intensity such as we never love -with again. And thus Margaret loved. She knew it not until it was -impossible for her to drive away her passion. It had crept on her, -slowly but surely, and oh! how sweetly, until it became a part of her -being, and the day in which she did not see her lover, passed tediously -and mournfully to her. - -Yet though loving as few love, even in the fervor of a first passion, -Margaret was still ignorant of her lover’s name. Often would she be -tortured by fears lest he might have already forfeited his life in the -career of an outlaw, but as often would she quiet her alarm by -reflecting how impossible that a mere freebooter should be so courteous -and even refined. In all this there was a mystery which did but feed the -love of her highly imaginative mind, and though, day after day, would -she resolve to question her lover so closely respecting himself that he -could not evade her inquiries, yet, day after day, would she be diverted -from, and forget it. - -Nearly three weeks had now elapsed, and the period limited for her stay -at the lodge had passed, when a messenger arrived from her father, to -conduct her to one of his castles in the vicinity of London. Who can -tell her feelings at receiving this summons?—a summons which would tear -her from her lover, perhaps forever. But it opened to her more fully -than ever the state of her heart, convinced her of her imprudence in -suffering herself to love an unknown stranger, and determined her to -learn that very day from her lover’s lips his name and station in life. -Ah! pitiable indeed were her feelings as she reflected on her folly. But -a flood of tears afforded her partial relief, and calling for Ruth to -accompany her she set forth into the forest. - -What a glorious old place was that royal hunting ground. For miles -before you stretched a succession of hills and dales, covered with -venerable and gigantic trees, or spreading out into rich meadows; while -herds of deer might be seen trotting far off through the vistas of the -forest, and here and there a cottage peeping out from beneath the -verdant foliage. In some places the dark overshadowing trees completely -obscured the light of day, and in others, the sunbeams struggling -between the leaves gilded the greensward beneath. Such was the scene -through which Margaret took her way, until she reached the open glade, -where, of late, she had met her lover. Scarcely had she emerged from the -surrounding woods before he sprang to her side, and in a moment she was -in his arms. - -“We meet again, dearest,” said he, kissing the fair cheek that blushed -crimson at his caress. - -“And I fear, for the last time,” said Margaret, “my father has sent for -me, and to-morrow I leave this place. Oh! when,” and she looked into his -eyes with all a woman’s tenderness, “shall we meet again?” - -“Going!—and so soon!” muttered her lover, abstractedly, “why dearest, -why did you not tell me of this before?” - -“It was but this morning that I heard of it. Alas! that we should part -so soon.” - -“But how know you, sweet one, that we must part?” said her lover half -smilingly. It recalled to Margaret’s mind her determination to learn her -lover’s history. - -“Why,” said she, “are you not a mere,” and her voice faltered, “a mere -soldier of fortune, perhaps—,” and again she faltered and looked down, -“an outlaw? Can you follow me? Oh! would you could,” and the unhappy -maiden burst into tears. - -“And why not, dear Margaret? Have not good men and true, at times, been -driven to the greenwood for a temporary livelihood. Know you not how the -good Earl of Huntingdon long kept wassail under the trees of old -Sherwood with his ‘merrie men?’” - -“Oh! then say you are like him—say you are not an outlaw! Did you but -know how my heart reproves me for all this—how I weep to think that my -father will never forgive me—and how my only consolation is in your -love—did you know all this, you would keep me in suspense no longer!” - -Her lover was deeply moved by her passionate entreaties, and pressing -her to his bosom, kissed the tears from her cheek, and soothed her -agitation by those words of kind endearment which are so eloquent when -coming from one we love. He seemed too about to speak; but if so, he was -prevented by a sudden baying of hounds, mingled with loud and -approaching shouts, and directly a couple of dogs, followed by three -keepers dashed out of the neighboring copse. Margaret, terrified and -agitated, hastily followed whither her lover pointed, and retreated into -the shadow of a cluster of oaks, followed by Ruth. She had scarcely done -so unperceived, when the keepers rushed upon her lover, shouting, - -“Down with him—the outlaw—down with him.” - -Frightened almost out of consciousness, she could only see that her -lover attempted what resistance he could, and that after a short but -fierce contest he was overpowered, almost unarmed as he was, and borne -to the ground. With all a woman’s devotion she rushed forward to his -protection. But she had scarcely made a step, before she staggered and -fainted. Ruth, too, was so alarmed as to be of little service; yet -while, with trembling hands, she assisted to recover her mistress, so -fearful was she of being discovered, that she would scarcely suffer -herself to breathe. - -“Oh! Ruth,” were the first audible words of her mistress “what have they -done with him? Are they gone? Why did you not try to save him?” - -“Alas! dear lady, it would have been in vain,” said Ruth, mingling her -tears with those of her mistress, “what could I, or both of us have -done, for one who had broken the forest laws?” - - - Chapter IV. - - I’ll call thee, Hamlet. - _Shakspeare._ - -Hurried away early on the ensuing morning, Margaret had no opportunity -of learning the fate of her lover. She only knew that all delusion was -at an end, and that—alas! for her future happiness—she had bestowed -her affections on an outlaw, one who might soon suffer the penalty of -his transgressions. - -On her arrival at Mountfort castle, she learned that her father had -determined to celebrate the approaching anniversary of her birth, by a -tournament to be given to all comers at his castle. The preparation for -this festivity, though it partially diverted her mind, could not drive -away her melancholy. Often would she steal away with Ruth, to find a -mournful pleasure in conversing of the happy days they had spent at her -father’s lodge. Such conversations would generally end in a flood of -tears, in which the tender-hearted hand-maiden would share. Yet never, -not even for one moment, did Margaret suffer herself to dream of again -meeting her lover, for well she knew that such a thing would call down -upon her the eternal displeasure of her parent. Let it be recollected -that in that age the distinctions of rank were almost as impassable as -the grave. Nevertheless, the worm had fastened itself upon her heart, -and like thousands before and since, the heiress found how fearful it -was to love without hope. - -Meantime the preparations for the tournament proceeded, and on the -morning of the expected day, crowds thronged to the plain in front of -the castle, on which the lists had been erected. The unrivalled beauty -of the heiress in whose honor the festivities were to be given, had -drawn together the chivalry of the realm, and a series of courses was -expected to be run such as had not been heard of for years. But -especially every tongue was loud in the praise of the young Earl of -Hastings, who, had just returned from the Holy land, where he had been -since boyhood, with the reputation of the best lance of the army. There -were many, however, of the competitors who sneered at his pretensions, -and promised themselves to unhorse him at the first shock. - -“Margaret,” said her father, on the morning of the tournament, “you will -see lord Hastings in the lists to-day, and I wish you to mark him well, -for having heard of you by report, he has solicited your hand. Such an -alliance would raise higher than ever our noble house. I did not -hesitate. But now never blush, sweet one,—you maidens are ever -thus,—what! in tears. Go to your bower, child, and get ready for the -pageant. Many a proud dame will envy your lot to-day.” - -Little did the inflexible, though affectionate father know of the agony -he was inflicting on that young heart. Margaret saw that her doom was -sealed, and she knew her parent too well even to expostulate, She went -to her chamber, but it was to weep. All hope was over. She had nourished -the romantic idea of continuing faithful to her unhappy lover by -refusing every alliance, never dreaming that her father would interfere. -Short-sighted girl! Already had he chosen for her, and she knew that the -decrees of fate were less inflexible than her parent. - -At length, however, she aroused herself and proceeded to the lists, in -all the pomp of the heiress of her father’s vast possessions. How few -knew the heavy heart which throbbed in agony beneath that jewelled -boddice. The lists were gorgeously fitted up. A gallery in their centre, -opposite to where the shock of the combatants would take place was -appropriated to Margaret, who was to preside as queen of the -festivities. Around were her father’s countless guests, numbering half -the nobility of the realm, their wives and daughters flashing with -jewels, and all envying the fortunate being, who, at that moment, would -willingly have exchanged her rank and splendor for the peasant’s garb, -if it came attended by happiness. - -The tournament began. Several courses had been run with various success, -when a herald rode into the lists and proclaimed that three courses yet -remained, all of which Sir Robert De Laney, a renowned knight, would -engage in with any three combatants, until overpowered or victorious. -Several knights instantly presented themselves. The lot fell upon three, -the Earl of Warren, Sir Edward Sidney, and lord Hastings. At once the -challenger presented himself for the first antagonist. But the skill of -his opponent was in vain. Lord Warren was hurled bleeding to the ground. - -The Earl of Hastings now rode into the lists, and at his appearance a -buzz of admiration ran around the spectators. His mien, his -horsemanship, his comparative youth, and the renown he had brought with -him from the east, enlisted the popular wish in his favor. Nor did he -disappoint it. At the first shock he splintered his lance against his -antagonist’s front, while De Laney’s shaft just grazed by him. The older -knight reeled in the saddle, and scarcely saved himself from falling. A -shout of general applause rewarded the young Earl’s skill. - -But there yet remained an equally renowned competitor with whom to -contend. By the laws of the tournament, Sir Edward Sidney had a right to -contest with the conqueror for the honors of the day, a privilege of -which he instantly signified his intention of availing himself. With -equal readiness the young Earl prepared for the contest. The combatants -took their places, and after a breathless hush of an instant the signal -was given, and they vanished from their stations. The shock of their -meeting was like that of an earthquake. The knight directing his lance -full at his adversary’s breast, aimed to bear him by main force to the -ground, but at the very instant of meeting, the young Earl bent in the -saddle to evade the blow, and altering the direction of his own lance as -he did so, he bore it full upon the breast of his antagonist, striking -him with such force as to hurl him from the saddle like a stone from a -sling. The discomfited knight fell heavily to the earth, and was borne -off by his squires; while the victor swept onward amid the acclamations -of the spectators. The heralds now proclaimed lord Hastings the -conqueror of the day, and led him toward the lady Margaret to receive -the prize. - -Who can tell her feelings as she beheld the gallant train approaching? -She saw before her, her destined lover, and however she might have -admired his gallant exploits had her heart been disengaged, could -she—loving another as she did—look upon him with aught but aversion? -But though her emotion nearly overpowered her, she composed herself -sufficiently to go through with her approaching duty. As the victor -knelt at her feet, what sudden feeling was it which shot through her -bosom? Why did her cheek crimson, her breath come quick, her heart -flutter wildly? And why, as the helmet was removed from lord Hastings, -did she drop the crown with which she was to reward him, and with a half -suppressed scream, faint away? Why! but that in the victor of the -tourney she recognised her own outlaw lover. - -The joy of the reviving maiden when she found her preserver bending over -her, and conjuring her to speak to him once more and forgive his -stratagem, we shall not attempt to describe. Suffice it to say that the -day of the tourney which opened as the darkest, set as the brightest, in -her life. - -The young Earl happening to see his mistress accidentally had imbibed -the romantic idea of wooing her as an unknown and untitled stranger. For -this purpose he had secretly followed her down to the lodge, and attired -in an outlaw’s dress, had hovered around her path, waiting for a fitting -opportunity to introduce himself. The manner in which he was at length -favored by circumstances, as well as his subsequent success in his suit, -the reader has seen. But his pretended character was not without its -evils. He was seen, suspected, and captured by the forest keepers in the -way we have described. He only escaped by revealing his rank. After his -recovery from the wound he had received on that occasion, he had arrived -at lord Mountfort’s castle, determining to contest the prize in the -approaching tourney, and then reveal himself to his mistress. - -It was but a few weeks after the fête, when the young Earl of Hastings -led to the altar the fair daughter of the house of Mountfort, who never -forgot, in her titled husband, the unknown OUTLAW LOVER. - - * * * * * - - - - - OLD MEMORIES. - - - BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING. - - - How swiftly do old memories float about our riper hours! - They’re like the fragrant breath that fills the vase of perish’d - flowers; - They bear an unextinguish’d ray, a light that never dies, - A borrow’d radiance gilding earth with lustre from the skies. - - The joys that gather round us now, with all their rainbow beams, - Are bright, but evanescent, as the shadows in our dreams; - They pass before us like the leaves swept by the autumn’s blast, - Alas! too fragile for the earth—too beautiful to last. - - We see the human flowers cut down, the kindred ones of home, - Whose garden was the loving heart, where storm clouds seldom come, - Making within that temple fair, a wilderness of woes, - A desert drear of that which once could “blossom as the Rose.” - - We see the clasping chains unloose, and sever link by link, - Till hope turns shudderingly away, from sorrow’s fearful brink, - The band of sweet relationship, of close unwoven ties, - Is broken here—to reunite forever in the skies. - - But memory with her guardian care, hath linger’d o’er each scene, - To paint them on the heart again when long years intervene. - When life’s bright summer days have gone, and all their beauty fled, - It brings us back the halcyon hours, that perish’d with the dead. - - Oh! soft as music’s dying fall, from some loved voice’s tone, - Thine influence, mild and gentle power, across my mind is thrown; - Upon the harp strings of my heart, thine angel spirits play, - While fond old memories light its gloom, with many a moonlit ray. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER. - - - BY J. ROSS BROWNE. - - - (Continued from Page 104.) - - - Part III. - -“That man,” says Theophrastus, “is justly called a lover of filthy -lucre, to whom the relish and value of a gain are enhanced by the -baseness of the means that have been employed in its acquisition.” I had -failed in my designs; but my brutal triumph over the cause of this -failure was almost equal in effect to success. I did not relent; I felt -no remorse; I would have acted the same part again: parental affection -was irrevocably dead. I enjoyed a kind of secret satisfaction at the -awful result of my violence. A long and lingering illness, augmented by -the horrors of our parting interview, had brought Valeria to the verge -of the grave. She had given birth to a son. Poverty had sternly asserted -its supremacy over the happiness of the young couple. Though since the -rupture between us had taken place, I had never visited or enquired -about her, there were many interlopers sufficiently officious to convey -to me news of her approaching dissolution. These hints I would have -disregarded, but for the sinister reports which from this time forth -were so liberally circulated to my disadvantage. A note hastily placed -in my hands one evening by a muffled figure, in whom, notwithstanding -the attempted disguise, I fancied I recognised the manly form and -contour of Da Vinci, confirmed me in my determination to witness the -results of my violence. It was traced in a tremulous hand, and read as -follows:— - - “Father!—for Christian meekness and humanity, still compel me - to call you by the endearing name—will you not soften your - heart toward one, who, by all the laws of nature and of man, - should be its solace and its idol; and whose last wish is that - death should separate us in amity and mutual affection? Will you - not, now at least, when she, who was once the delight of your - old age, and the comforter of your bereaved heart, is on the bed - of death,—will you not hearken to her dying wish, and grant the - boon she so eagerly desires? O, have some mercy, my father—my - benefactor! Hasten to the death-bed of your wretched—wretched - daughter! May God forgive you, is the prayer of your erring - - “Valeria.” - -Two motives induced me to comply with the request contained in this -note. First, I was anxious to avoid the contumely of those who watched -my actions; and secondly, I felt a fiendish desire to behold the -consummation of my revenge. Throwing a hasty disguise over my person I -sallied out, and rapidly pushed my way through the thoroughfares of -Venice, to a remote part of the city called _Francesco della Vigna_. -Here, in an obscure lane, and surrounded by filth and poverty, I traced -my way to the wretched tenement of Da Vinci and Valeria. A kind of -involuntary sickness came over me as I ascended the stairs leading to -the miserable loft in which they lodged. It proceeded not from remorse; -it was not prompted by humanity; it was instinct conquering nature. With -some hesitation I entered the apartment of the dying woman. A spectacle, -which to any one but myself, would have appeared heart-rending, caused -me to shudder for the immensity of my guilt. - -The haggard and wasted form of Valeria was stretched on the bare floor. -Her half-famished infant lay upon her breast. She breathed with -difficulty. Her eyes were sunken, her complexion pallid and unearthly. -Her features betrayed evidences of the most intense agony, both mental -and physical. - -But the most shocking part of the scene was the ghastly semblance of Da -Vinci, as he sat by the bed-side of his dying wife. His hands were -crossed—his knees drawn together; his elbows rested on a broken table; -his hair fell in long and matted locks from his head; his skin was ashy -and squalid; and in place of the manly beauty which every lineament of -his countenance had once betrayed, his features were now haggard and -care-worn, and his once mellow and intellectual eye, was fixed with an -unmeaning stare on the wretch before him. Three days had scarcely -elapsed since I had recognised him in the strength and beauty of -manhood, but, oh, how changed! how fallen! how wretched! - -On drawing near this afflicted group, I was startled and alarmed at the -change that came over the countenance of Da Vinci. At first the bereaved -man fixed upon me a stupid and sullen gaze; but on recognising the -author of his misery, his eyes flashed with maniacal ferocity; his lips -became pale and compressed; the large veins on his temples swelled, and -throbbed violently; and he exhibited the most alarming symptoms of -madness. I endeavored to draw back; but I was too late. His deadly -purpose was fixed. With a wild, shrieking laugh he sprang upon me. In an -instant his nails were buried in my neck. I struggled with desperate -energy. Incontinence and debauchery had sapped my vital principle, and -age had laid his searing hand on my frame; but I contended for life, and -I was powerful. On the other hand, Da Vinci, nerved by the delirium -which had taken possession of him, was irresistible. - -“Fiend!” he shouted—“die!—die!—die!” - -“You will murder me!” I groaned, already suffocating under his vice-like -grasp, “have mercy, for God’s sake!” - -“You showed _her_ none!” he answered hoarsely. - -“I repent—I shall make amends.” - -“Too late—she is dying.” - -“Oh, God, stop!—you strangle me! I am not fit to die.” - -“So much the better. Die—villain, die!” and with a desperate exertion -he bore me to the floor. I essayed in vain to release myself from his -deadly grasp. A moment more, and death would have rescued me; but the -Almighty ordained that I should live to reap the fruits of my crimes. -Involuntarily, as the agonies of dissolution came upon me, my hand -sought one of those small daggers, with which an Italian is never -unprovided. I drew it from my bosom. I raised it to strike. Da Vinci saw -his danger; but he was too late. With irresistible strength I plunged it -in his side. He uttered no groan; he rolled from my person a dead man. I -stooped over the bleeding corpse in mute horror. The eyes were fixed -upon me with a glassy gaze. It was a fearful spectacle—one which was -well calculated to strike awe into the bosom of a murderer. - -I turned a searching eye toward the prostrate form of my daughter. It -was inanimate. No sign of life or recognition illumined her ghastly -countenance. She had evidently swooned. As if in mockery of the dreadful -tragedy which had just transpired, the infant boy slumbered peacefully -by her side. The reproach was more than I could bear. Guilt—guilt was -whispered in my ear by a thousand voices. I rushed from the -blood-stained spot. I hurried to my desolate home. Here new miseries -awaited me, I bolted the doors; but they afforded me no security. I -drank deeply—but inebriation came not. I endeavored to sleep; but my -horrors were increased. This fearful state drove me to desperation. I -tried to pray: the Almighty heard me not. My heart was too black—too -guilty. Night had come. My sufferings were too intense for human -endurance. The lonely and ruinous garret in which I lay, augmented the -dreadful vividness with which I created the most revolting phantasmas in -every recess and corner; and the hollow moaning of the wind against the -roof filled my soul with ominous and harrowing sensations. A strange—an -indefinable desire to return to the scene of death, took possession of -my mind. It became too absorbing—too interminable to be resisted. The -moon had by this time ascended her throne in all her queenliness and -majesty. I rushed rapidly through the empty streets to the quay for the -night-gondoliers; and aided by the moonlight, soon succeeded in reaching -_San Francesco della Vigna_. Hastily dismissing the gondolier, I won my -way to the abode of the dead. An ominous silence reigned around it. I -shuddered—I turned pale; but I did not hesitate. Up the tottering -stairs I rushed; the door of the death-room was open; and my eyes at -once fell upon a picture which is indelibly engraved on my memory. - -Valeria had, on recovering her senses, crept to the body of her husband. -She held the slumbering babe in one arm, while with the other she raised -the head of the dead man and reclined it on her bosom. She knew he was -dead—that he would never wake again; she saw the life-blood oozing from -his heart; but her devotion was superior to the evidence of her senses; -her constancy to the sword of death. She chafed his temples; she fondly -smoothed his hair; she kissed again and again his icy lips; and she -fervently prayed for the salvation of the dead. A pale, unearthly glow -was thrown over the group by occasional glances of the moon-beams; and -everything conspired to strike me with awe and remorse. But I was not -susceptible of the better feelings of humanity. I possessed no refined -sensibility. Whatever I felt was common to the lowest of God’s creation. - -“Why,” I cried in a hollow voice, “why must this be? Why must my peace -be blasted by such scenes as these? I murdered him—is it not enough -that he should die? I seek nothing from him after death. Why—why do you -persecute me, Omnipotent God!” - -“See!” shrieked a piercing voice, “see what you have done!” - -For a moment I could not answer. The anguish of the accuser deprived me -of speech. But at length I stammered out, - -“I did but defend my life.” - -“You drove him mad.” - -“He ruined, deceived, beggared me.” - -“It is a calumny!” said Valeria, with flashing eyes, seeming for an -instant to forget her grief in indignation at the charge, “he honored -you!” - -“I forgive him.” - -“He is dead.” - -I was silent. The last words were said in a voice of such exquisite -anguish that they went to my heart—stony as it was. If ever a pang of -remorse vibrated in my soul it was then. Valeria regarded me with an -expression more of sorrow than of anger. She clasped the infant to her -arms as if it were now her only solace; and burst into a flood of tears. - -“Father,” she murmured, when her agitation had in some measure subsided; -“the hand of death is upon me. God in his infinite goodness has given -you the means of atonement for your crimes. A few hours and I shall be -no more. Take my child—you are rich—rich in worldly things—take him, -and have him brought up as he should be. I rely on you—I beseech you—I -command you! You cannot be so utterly callous to humanity, as to refuse; -let him not die in this miserable place. O, be kind to him—be more -merciful to him than you were to my poor, dead husband!” - -Exhausted and heart-broken, the young mother sank upon the corpse of the -murdered man. Her eyes grew dim; her breathing became short and violent; -her hands and lips seemed bloodless; and after a few spasms she lay -still. I approached her. I placed my hand upon her heart. Already her -skin was cold and clammy. The sufferer was dead! - -A chill crept over me as I stooped to examine the corpse. It seemed as -if the ghastly expression of the countenance was but the effect of some -horrible incubus—so vivid—so real—so revolting was it to the -observer. Fearfully did the presentiment of future retribution come upon -me at that moment. I was no longer the proud politician, concerting -magnificent schemes; I had nothing left of the bold and desperate -gambler; the greatness of purpose and energy of execution which had -hitherto marked my career, were at an end. I was now, what my crimes had -made me—an abject, guilty wretch. I shuddered to think of my awful -destination; I felt how terrible would be the punishment I so richly -merited; but remorse—penitence—sorrow—entered not my obdurate heart. - -Necessity compelled me to comply with the dying request of Valeria. I -was aware that my conduct had excited much suspicion. It therefore -became my policy to avoid public attention; and I took the earliest -opportunity to have the unfortunate objects of my malevolence interred, -and the infant orphan confided to the care of a nurse. No suspicion was -excited at first; but strange things soon began to be whispered by the -individuals who occupied the lower part of the tenement in which the -tragedy had been enacted. The storm gradually gathered its forces for a -general explosion. Rumors, so liberally circulated at my expense, -reached the ears of the official authorities under the Doge. Manini was -not predisposed to turn a deaf ear to anything pertaining to my -downfall. His suspicions relative to my integrity had long been -confirmed. Enemies and interlopers were not wanted to construe every -thing into its most criminal aspect. The result was such as might be -expected. I was arrested by the city functionaries, on a charge of -murder. Universal horror was expressed when my crimes were made known. -It was evident that I had nothing to expect from public sympathy.—How -many are there who profess benevolence and charity, ever ready to -persecute the unfortunate with the most unmitigated severity! I -experienced the full effects of this human failing. My trial was long -and doubtful. Everything in the shape of evidence, however trivial or -absurd, was adduced in order to convict me. But nothing of a positive -nature could be brought up against me. It was true I had treated my -daughter with severity and inhumanity; but I could not be found guilty -on so general a charge. It was also true that a noise had been heard in -the apartment of Da Vinci a few hours before his corpse had been -discovered by the lower tenants of the house; but I was not seen. The -whole affair then though well understood, was in the eye of the law, -uncertain and inconclusive. Public opinion in a case like mine was not -regarded as having any weight. I was dismissed. My persecutions, -however, did not end so soon. A few devoted minions of the Doge, glad to -have an opportunity of satisfying their resentment for my former conduct -toward them, followed me unceasingly, and spared no pains to ensure my -self-conviction. - -But I baffled them. My life, however, became one of extreme misery and -watchfulness. I feared to sleep lest I should be robbed or assassinated. -I dreaded a sight of the human countenance; for in every man I fancied I -recognised an enemy. Neither could I hide myself in solitude—my guilt -was too fearful—too relentless. I dared not walk in the public -thoroughfares; for the utmost detestation was pictured in every face; -and my ears were assailed with reproaches and contumely. I could not -roam the most obscure parts of the city, without being dogged and -persecuted by the blood-hounds of Manini. It was a miserable situation. -Health—comfort—happiness, were gone forever. Not even the common -enjoyments of life fell to my lot. I could not sleep—I knew no pleasure -in drink—I was too decrepid and impotent to enjoy artificial -stimulants: what then must have been the depth of my misery? It was too -great to be borne. I resolved to leave the theatre of my misfortunes; -and to bury myself in the busy haunts of the great English metropolis. -In the costume and character of a Jew, I embarked for the city of my -destination. Arrived there, I set up a small establishment as a usurer. -My thirst for accumulation was not satisfied by my crimes; nor did my -honesty profit by inaction. The great object was, however, in some -measure effected. I enjoyed as the guilty may enjoy the security of my -secluded situation. I passed many years in a state of negative -happiness. My internal miseries lost none of their poignancy; but they -caused me no physical inconvenience. I was free from immediate -conviction; and had every prospect of continuing unmolested. Time -soothed my terrors, though I still looked forward with fear and anxiety -to the day, when something worse might turn up, than mere imaginary -fears. - - * * * * * - -Age and imbecility have come upon me. I have spun out nearly the remains -of my guilty existence, in security and prosperity. I have acquired -riches; but have never enjoyed them. I have sinned and suffered; but my -crimes are not atoned for. A day will come when the fearful debt must be -paid. I await it with calmness. I repent of nothing that I have done. I -ask forgiveness neither of God nor of man. Let the full measure of His -retribution be my eternal ruin. I am content to die as I have -lived—fearless—guilty—unrelenting. - - * * * * * - -Here ends the Autobiography of this false and evil man. It is a -highly-colored, but we trust, not an extravagant picture of the effects -of avarice. The moral remains to be told. If, in the sequel or fourth -part, we can show that sooner or later retribution will fall upon the -guilty; we may say of our hero what Scott quotes of Charles the -Twelfth:— - - “He left the name at which the world grew pale, - To point a moral, and adorn a tale.” - - * * * * * - - - - - CHIMES OF ANTWERP. - - - One, two, and three, with measured stroke and numbers on they go, - For Ghentish Charles ’twas thus they woke, for blood-stained Alva so, - And still from out their airy cage of wreathed and trelliced stone, - They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown. - - They float above the Plâce de Mer, and o’er thy roofs and towers, - Fair Antwerp, with thy solemn air and antique Flemish bowers; - And sweet and stately is the sound, and melancholy too, - As it should be where Memory the fabler dwells with you. - - One, two, and three, with measured strokes and numbers they awake! - ’Twas thus on Rubens’ ear at eve their sounds were wont to break; - And still o’er his best monument, with monumental tone, - They tell us of our pilgrimage another hour has flown. - J. H. - - * * * * * - - - - - A WINTER SCENE. - - - BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON. - - - Oh how magnificent. How beautiful - The old grey wood appears. Each sturdy tree - Crown’d with a glorious diamond diadem - Of wreathen plumes and garlands. Every bush - And slender sapling, bending with the weight - Of its bright ornaments, seems to the view - Like youthful genius shrinking and o’erwhelm’d - With the chill weight of the cold world’s applause. - The sun is rising now, and every spray, - And feathery evergreen, grows radiant - With more than earthly glory. One might deem - Each twig a chain of gold profusely set - With ruby, emerald, and amethyst, - Sapphire and living diamond, splendid all - And dazzling past description. Yet there lives - No balm, no melody of loving birds - Amongst the icy branches; grandeur reigns - And frigid beauty, without life or joy. - No gentle breezes woo the branches now, - To bend and kiss their sweetly sighing lips, - And fling a cloud of incense, and bright flow’rs - Upon their lingering pinions. No young fruits - Lie in their curtain’d cradles, rocking soft - To the glad lullaby which smiling Hope - Sings round the fragrant clusters. No young birds - Lie chirping in their nests amongst green leaves. - No passing streamlet lingers in the bow’rs, - Forgetting, for a while, its morning hymn, - To touch the rich lip of the fragile flower - That lives upon its love one summer day, - Then lays the dying head so gently down - Upon its bosom, while the trembling depth - Reflects with sympathy the blighted gem, - And murmurs promise of another life, - And blest re-union at return of spring. - No young fawns gambol through the silent wood, - In the delight of life’s first consciousness - Of freedom, strength, and beauty. No fair child - Crushes the sweet buds with its little feet, - While bounding after the bright butterfly - Which floats upon its rich, brocaded wing - In graceful carelessness from bloom to bloom. - No merry laughter, no light-hearted lay, - No lover’s whisper floats among the bowers; - But all is icy beauty, cold and still, - Radiant and passionless, and void of bliss; - A glory that will quickly melt away - And leave no trace behind. - And such I deem - Is life within a nunnery; pure and bright - With heaven’s reflected glory; but all cold - And destitute of the fond sympathies - That are at once the bliss, the ornament, - And agony of life. - - Liberty, Pa. March, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - OH! GENTLE LOVE. - - - SUNG BY - MR. WILSON, - IN AUBER’S OPERA OF LESTOQ, - ARRANGED BY - T. COOKE. - Geo. W. Hewitt & Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia. - -[Illustration: musical score] - - Oh gentle love, thy spirit o’er us beaming, - -[Illustration: musical score] - - Doth thro’ the soul its tenderness diffuse, - E’en as the glow, from morning’s sun light streaming, - Smiles o’er the earth, and tempereth its hues - Oh! gentle love, thy spirit o’er us beaming, - -[Illustration: musical score] - - Doth thro’ the soul its tenderness diffuse, - A magic all have felt and feel, how e’er they struggle to conceal - A magic all have felt and feel, how e’er they struggle to conceal, - Or as the dew upon the flowrets sleeping, - Over the leaves a distillation rains, - Which tho’ the day dissolve its pearly weeping, - Still in their heart reviving them remains. - - * * * * * - - - - - SPORTS AND PASTIMES. - - - PARTRIDGE SHOOTING. - - Concluded. - -Unless there be continual rain, or it be the depth of winter, birds will -visit their basking place some time in the course of the day, whether -the sun shine or not. The basking place is generally, but not -invariably, on the sunny side of the hedge. Birds may be most easily -approached in fine weather. All kinds of birds lie better in small -enclosures than in large ones, that is, when the cover in each is alike. -It need scarcely be added, that the more bushy the brambles, or the -higher the grass the more closely will lie the game. - -A person who knows how to walk up to a bird will obtain more shots than -one who does not, especially in windy weather. Birds will not only allow -the shooter to approach nearer to them when he faces the wind, but they -present on rising, a fairer mark. - -When the legs of a bird fired at fall, it is almost a certain proof that -it is struck in a vital part. A bird so struck should be narrowly -watched, when, in most instances, it will be seen, after flying about a -hundred yards if a grouse, or fifty yards if a partridge, to tower or -spire in the air, and fall down dead. When only one leg falls, the bird -should be watched, but in the latter case, it generally happens that the -leg or thigh only has been struck. Any bird that flinches, on being -fired at, or whose feathers are in the least disordered, should be -marked down, and followed. Grouse more frequently fly away wounded than -partridges. Grouse are often recovered several hundred yards from the -gun. - -Until November or December, young grouse, black-game, partridges, and -pheasants, may be distinguished from old ones by the lower beak not -being strong enough to bear the weight of their bodies. The lower beak -of an old partridge is strong enough to sustain the weight of a brace of -birds; but a young bird cannot be raised by the lower beak without the -lower beak bending under the weight. - -The number of birds in a covey varies much, perhaps the average may be -from ten to fifteen. In some years, when the coveys are larger after a -fine hatching season, it is not uncommon to see upward of twenty birds -in a covey; and sometimes after a wet season, ten birds may be deemed a -fair covey. Birds are most numerous after a dry summer. When there are -thunder-storms about midsummer, great numbers of young birds are -drowned. The young birds have many enemies besides the elements, such as -cats, young dogs, hawks, foxes, and vermin of different descriptions. -When the eggs are taken, or the young birds destroyed soon after leaving -the shell, there will be a second hatch. Sportsmen often meet with -second hatches in September, when the old birds rise screaming, and -generally alight within fifty yards, as if to induce the young birds to -follow. In that case the fair sportsman will not fire at the old birds, -but will call in his dogs and leave the ground. At such times he should -look well after the young dogs, as, when they see the birds running, -they are apt to snatch up such of them as cannot get out of the way. The -very young birds are called cheepers, from their uttering a scream as -they rise. Full grown birds never scream as they rise, except when the -young ones are helpless, nor do young birds after they are large enough -for the table. - -There are shooters who acquire an unsportsman-like habit of firing at a -covey immediately as it rises, before the birds are fairly on the wing, -and, thus without aiming at any individual bird, bring down two or -three. And sometimes they will make a foul shot by flanking a covey; the -birds being on the wing, come upon them suddenly, and make a -simultaneous wheel; they take them on the turn, when, for a moment—and -but for a moment—half the covey are in a line, and floor them rank and -file. These are tricks allied to poaching, and almost as reprehensible -as shooting at birds on the ground, which is nothing less than high -treason. - -The cock partridge is distinguished from the hen by the brown feathers -which form a crescent, or horse-shoe, as it is sometimes called, on the -breast. - -The pointer is decidedly the best dog for partridge shooting. - -The dog should fall when the gun is fired, and remain down until he is -told to seek, when he should point the dead bird. A pointer that drops -to shot, becomes an excellent retriever. - -The dog should be taught to obey the eye and the hand, rather than the -voice. A dog that will do so is invaluable, in open grounds, when birds -are wild. - -Whenever speaking to a dog, whether encouragingly or reprovingly, the -sportsman should endeavor to look what he means, and the dog will -understand him. The dog will understand the look, if he does not the -words. The sportsman should never, with a smile on his countenance, -punish a dog; nor commend him when he has done well, but with an -apparent hearty good will: the dog will then take an interest in obeying -him. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _“Night and Morning.” A Novel. By the author of Pelham, Rienzi, - Eugene Aram, &c. 2 vols. Re-published by Harper & Brothers, New - York._ - -The Right Hon. Charles Leopold Beaufort, of Beaufort Court, England, a -proud and misanthropical old bachelor, with a rental of twenty thousand -pounds, has two nephews, Philip and Robert Beaufort. The former, who is -the elder of the two, and heir-apparent to the uncle’s estate, is -thoughtless and generous, with unsteady principles. The latter is a -crafty man-of-the-world, whose only honesty consists in appearing -honest—a scrupulous decorist. Philip, in love with Catharine Morton, -the daughter of a tradesman, and in fear of his aristocratic uncle’s -displeasure, is married clandestinely, in a remote village of Wales, by -a quondam college friend, to whom he had presented a living—the Rev. -Caleb Price. The better to keep the secret, a very old Welshman, certain -soon to die, and William Smith, Philip’s servant, are the sole witnesses -of the ceremony. This performed, Smith is hired to bury himself in -Australia until called for, while the deaf man dies as expected. Some -time having elapsed, Philip, dreading accident to the register, writes -to Caleb for an attested copy of the record. Caleb is too ill to make -it, but employs a neighboring curate, Morgan Jones, to make and attest -it, and despatches it, just before dying, to Philip, who, fearing his -wife’s impatience of the concealment required, deposites the document, -without her knowledge, in a secret drawer of a bureau. The register -itself is afterwards accidentally destroyed. Catharine has soon two -children—first Philip, the hero of the novel, and then Sydney. For -their sakes she bravely endures the stigma upon her character. She -continues to live openly with her husband as his mistress, bearing her -maiden name of Morton; and the uncle, whose nerves would have been -shocked at a mis-alliance, and who would have disinherited its -perpetrator, winks at what he considers the venial vice. The old -gentleman lives on for sixteen years, and yet no disclosure is made. At -last he dies, bequeathing his property to his eldest nephew, as was -anticipated. The latter prepares forthwith to own Catharine as his wife; -relates to his brother the facts of the clandestine marriage; speaks of -the secreted document, without designating the place of deposit; is -disbelieved by that person entirely; mounts his horse to make -arrangements for a second wedding, and for proving the first; is thrown, -breaks his neck, and expires without uttering a word. Catharine, -ignorant of the secret drawer (although aware that a record had been -secreted), failing to find William Smith, and trusting her cause to an -unskilful lawyer, is unable to prove her marriage, but in the effort to -do so makes an enemy of Robert Beaufort, who takes possession of the -estate as heir at law. Thus the strict precautions taken by the father -to preserve his secret during the uncle’s life, frustrate the wife in -her attempts to develop it after his death, and the sons are still -considered illegitimate. This is the pivot of the story. Its incidents -are made up of the struggles of the young men with their fate, but -chiefly of the endeavors of the elder, Philip, to demonstrate the -marriage and redeem the good name of his mother. This he finally -accomplishes, (after her death, and after a host of vicissitudes -experienced in his own person) by the accidental return of William -Smith, and by the discovery of an additional witness in Morgan Jones, -who made the extract from the register, and to whom the rightful heir is -guided by this long-sought document itself, obtained from the hands of -Robert Beaufort, (who had found it in the bureau,) through the -instrumentality of one Fanny, the heroine, and in the end the wife of -the hero. - -We do not give this as the plot of “Night and Morning,” but as the -ground-work of the plot; which latter, woven from the incidents above -mentioned, is in itself exceedingly complex. The ground-work, as will be -seen, is of no very original character—it is even absurdly -common-place. We are not asserting too much when we say that every -second novel since the flood has turned upon some series of hopeless -efforts, either to establish legitimacy, or to prove a will, or to get -possession of a great sum of money most unjustly withheld, or to find -out a ragamuffin of a father, who had been much better left unfound. -But, saying nothing of the basis upon which this story has been erected, -the story itself is, in many respects, worthy its contriver. - -The word “plot,” as commonly accepted, conveys but an indefinite -meaning. Most persons think of it as of simple _complexity_; and into -this error even so fine a critic as Augustus William Schlegel has -obviously fallen, when he confounds its idea with that of the mere -_intrigue_ in which the Spanish dramas of Cervantes and Calderon abound. -But the greatest involution of incident will not result in plot; which, -properly defined, is _that in which no part can be displaced without -ruin to the whole_. It may be described as a building so dependently -constructed, that to change the position of a single brick is to -overthrow the entire fabric. In this definition and description, we of -course refer only to that infinite perfection which the true artist -bears ever in mind—that unattainable goal to which his eyes are always -directed, but of the possibility of attaining which he still endeavors, -if wise, to cheat himself into the belief. The reading world, however, -is satisfied with a less rigid construction of the term. It is content -to think that plot a good one, in which none of the _leading_ incidents -can be _removed_ without _detriment_ to the mass. Here indeed is a -material difference; and in this view of the case the plot of “Night and -Morning” is decidedly excellent. Speaking comparatively, and in regard -to stories similarly composed, it is one of the best. This the author -has evidently designed to make it. For this purpose he has taxed his -powers to the utmost. Every page bears marks of excessive elaboration, -all tending to one point—a perfect adaptation of the very numerous -atoms of a very unusually involute story. The better to attain his -object he has resorted to the expedient of writing his book backwards. -This is a simple thing in itself, but may not be generally understood. -An example will best convey the idea. Drawing near the _dénouement_ of -his tale, our novelist had proceeded so far as to render it necessary -that means should be devised for the discovery of the missing marriage -record. This record is in the old bureau—this bureau is at Fernside, -originally the seat of Philip’s father, but now in possession of one -Lord Lilburne, a member of Robert Beaufort’s family. Two things now -strike the writer—first, that the retrieval of the hero’s fortune -should be brought about by no less a personage than the heroine—by some -lady who should in the end be his bride—and, secondly, that this lady -must procure access to Fernside. Up to this period in the narrative, it -had been the design to make Camilla Beaufort, Philip’s cousin, the -heroine; but in such case, the cousin and Lord Lilburne being friends, -the document must have been obtained by fair means; whereas foul means -are the most dramatic. There would have been no _difficulties_ to -overcome in introducing Camilla into the house in question. She would -have merely rung the bell and walked in. Moreover, in getting the paper, -she would have had no chance of getting up a scene. This lady is -therefore dropped as the heroine; Mr. Bulwer retraces his steps, creates -Fanny, brings Philip to love her, and employs Lilburne, (a courtly -villain, invented for all the _high_ dirty work, as De Burgh Smith for -all the _low_ dirty work of the story,) employs Lilburne to abduct her -to Fernside, where the capture of the document is at length (more -dramatically than naturally) contrived. In short, these latter incidents -were emendations, and their really episodical character is easily traced -by the critic. What appears first in the published book, was last in the -original MS. Many of the most striking portions of the novel were -_interleaved_ in the same manner—thus giving to after-thought that air -of premeditation which is so pleasing. Effect seems to follow cause in -the most natural and in the most provident manner, but, in the true -construction, the cause (and here we commit no bull) is absolutely -brought about by the effect. The many brief, and seemingly insulated -chapters met with in the course of the narrative, are the interposed -after-thoughts in question. - -So careful has been our author in this working-up of his story—in this -nice dovetailing of its constituent parts—that it is difficult to -detect a blemish in any portion. What he has intended to do he has done -well; and his main intention, as we have before hinted, was _perfection -of plot_. A few defects, indeed, we note; and note them chiefly to show -the skill with which that narrative is wrought, where such blemishes are -the sole ones. - -In the first place, there are some descriptive passages such as the love -adventures of Caleb Price, the account of Gawtrey’s early life, prefaced -by that of his grandfather, and the dinner-scene at Love’s, which -scarcely come within the category of matters tending to develop the main -events. These things, in short, might have been omitted with advantage -(because without detriment) to the whole. - -At page 254, vol. 2, we perceive the first indications of slovenliness, -(arising no doubt from the writer’s anxiety to conclude his task) in an -incident utterly without aim, and composed at random. We mean the -relapse of Philip into a second illness when nursed by Fanny through the -first, at the house of old Gawtrey. - -At page 21, vol. 1, we are told that Caleb Price, having received from -his friend Beaufort a certain letter (whose contents would have been -important in the subsequent attempts to establish Catharine’s claim) -held it over the flame of the candle, and that “as the paper dropped on -the carpetless floor, Mr. Jones prudently set thereon the broad sole of -his boot, and the maid servant brushed it into the grate.” - -“Ah, trample it out; hurry it among the ashes. The last as the rest,” -said Caleb, hoarsely. “Friendship, fortune, hope, love, life—a little -flame—and then—and then—” - -“_Don’t be uneasy—it’s quite out_,” said Mr. Jones. - -Now this is related with much emphasis; and, upon reading it, we -resolved to hold in memory that this important paper, although torn, was -still unburned, and that its fragments had been thrown into a vacant -grate. In fact, it was the design of the novelist to re-produce these -fragments in the _dénouement_—a design which he has forgotten to carry -out. - -We have defined the word “plot,” in a definition of our own to be sure, -but in one which we do not the less consider substantially correct; and -we have said that it has been a main point with Mr. Bulwer in this his -last novel, “Night and Morning,” to work up his plot as near perfection -as possible. We have asserted, too, that his design is well -accomplished; but we do not the less assert that it has been conceived -and executed in error. - -The interest of plot, referring, as it does, to cultivated thought in -the reader, and appealing to considerations analogous with those which -are the essence of sculptural taste, is by no means a popular interest; -although it has the peculiarity of being appreciated in its atoms by -all, while in its totality of beauty it is comprehended but by the few. -The pleasure which the many derive from it is disjointed, ineffective, -and evanescent; and even in the case of the critical reader it is a -pleasure which may be purchased too dearly. A good tale maybe written -without it. Some of the finest fictions in the world have neglected it -altogether. We see nothing of it in Gil Blas, in the Pilgrim’s Progress, -or in Robinson Crusoe. Thus it is not an essential in story-telling at -all; although, well-managed, within proper limits, it is a thing to be -desired. At best it is but a secondary and rigidly artistical merit, for -which no merit of a higher class—no merit founded in nature—should be -sacrificed. But in the book before us _much_ is sacrificed for its sake, -and every thing is rendered subservient to its purposes. So excessive -is, here, the involution of circumstances, that it has been found -impossible to dwell for more than a brief period upon any particular -one. The writer seems in a perpetual flurry to accomplish what, in -autorical parlance, is called “bringing up one’s time.” He flounders in -the vain attempt to keep all his multitudinous incidents at one and the -same moment before the eye. His ability has been sadly taxed in the -effort—but more sadly the time and temper of the reader. No sooner do -we begin to take some slight degree of interest in some -cursorily-sketched event, than we are hurried off to some other, for -which a new feeling is to be built up, only to be tumbled down, -forthwith, as before. And thus, since there is no sufficiently -continuous scene in the whole novel, it results that there is not a -strongly effective one. Time not being given us in which to become -absorbed, we are only permitted to admire, while we are not the less -chilled, tantalised, wearied, and displeased. Nature, with natural -interest, has been given up a bond-maiden to an elaborate, but still to -a misconceived, perverted, and most unsatisfactory Art. - -Very little reflection might have sufficed to convince Mr. Bulwer that -narratives, even one fourth so long as the one now lying upon our table, -are _essentially_ inadapted to that nice and complex adjustment of -incident at which he has made this desperate attempt. In the wire-drawn -romances which have been so long fashionable, (God only knows how or -why) the pleasure we derive (if any) is a composite one, and made up of -the respective sums of the various pleasurable sentiments experienced in -perusal. Without excessive and fatiguing exertion, inconsistent with -legitimate interest, the mind cannot comprehend at one time, and in one -survey, the numerous individual items which go to establish the whole. -Thus the high ideal sense of the _unique_ is sure to be wanting:—for, -however absolute in itself be the unity of the novel, it must inevitably -fail of appreciation. We speak now of that species of unity which is -alone worth the attention of the critic—the unity or totality _of -effect_. - -But we could never bring ourselves to attach any idea of merit to mere -_length_ in the abstract. A long story does not appear to us necessarily -twice as good as one only half so long. The ordinary talk about -“continuous and sustained effort” is pure twaddle and nothing more. -Perseverance is one thing and genius is another—whatever Buffon or -Hogarth may assert to the contrary—and notwithstanding that, in many -passages of the dogmatical literature of old Rome, such phrases as -“_diligentia maxima_,” “_diligentia mirabilis_,” can be construed only -as “great talent” or “wonderful ability.” Now if the author of “Ernest -Maltravers,” implicitly following authority like _les moutons de -Panurge, will_ persist in writing long romances because long romances -have been written before—if, in short, he cannot be satisfied with the -brief tale (a species of composition which admits of the highest -development of artistical power in alliance with the wildest vigor of -imagination)—he must then content himself, perforce, with a more simply -and more rigidly narrative form. - -And here, could he see these comments upon a work which, (estimating it, -as is the wont of all artists of his calibre, by the labor which it has -cost him,) he considers his _chef d’œuvre_, he would assure us, with a -smile, that it is precisely because the book is _not_ narrative, and -_is_ dramatic, that he holds it in so lofty an esteem. Now in regard to -its being dramatic, we should reply that, so far as the radical and -ineradicable _deficiencies_ of the drama go—it is. This continual and -vexatious shifting of scene, with a view of bringing up events to the -time being, originated at a period when books were not; and in fact, had -the drama not preceded books, it might never have succeeded them—we -might, and probably should, never have had a drama at all. By the -frequent “bringing up” of his events the dramatist strove to supply, as -well as he could, the want of the combining, arranging, and especially -of the _commenting_ power, now in possession of the narrative author. No -doubt it was a deep but vague sense of this want which brought into -birth the Greek chorus—a thing altogether apart from the drama -itself—_never_ upon the stage—and representing, or personifying, the -expression of the sympathy of the audience in the matters transacted. - -In brief, while the drama of colloquy, vivacious and breathing of life, -is well adopted into narration, the drama of action and passion will -always prove, when employed beyond due limits, a source of embarrassment -to the narrator, and it can afford him, at best, nothing which he does -not already possess in full force. We have spoken upon this head much at -length; for we remember that, in some preface to one of his previous -novels, (some preface in which he endeavored to pre-reason and pre-coax -us into admiration of what was to follow—a bad practice,) Mr. Bulwer -was at great pains to insist upon the peculiar merits of what he even -then termed the dramatic conduct of his story. The simple truth was -that, then as now, he had merely concentrated into his book all the -_necessary evils_ of the stage. - -Giving up his attention to the one point upon which we have commented, -our novelist has failed to do himself justice in others. The -overstrained effort at perfection of plot has seduced him into absurd -sacrifices of verisimilitude, as regards the connexion of his _dramatis -personæ_ each with each, and each with the main events. However -incidental be the appearance of any personage upon the stage, this -personage is sure to be linked in, will I nill I, with the matters in -hand. Philip, on the stage-coach, for example, converses with but one -individual, William Gawtrey; yet this man’s fate (not subsequently but -previously) is interwoven into that of Philip himself, through the -latter’s relationship to Lilburne. The hero goes to his mother’s grave, -and there comes in contact with this Gawtrey’s father. He meets Fanny, -and Fanny happens to be also involved in his _destiny_ (a pet word, -conveying a pet idea of the author’s) through _her_ relationship to -Lilburne. The witness in the case of his mother’s marriage is missing, -and this individual turns up at last in the brother of that very Charles -De Burgh Smith with whom so perfectly accidental an intimacy has already -been established. The wronged heir proceeds at random to look for a -lawyer, and stumbles at once upon the precise one who had figured before -in the story, and who knows all about previous investigations. Setting -out in search of Liancourt, the first person he sees is that gentleman -himself. Entering a horse-bazaar in a remote portion of the country, the -steed up for sale at the exact moment of his entrance is recognised as -the pet of his better days. Now our quarrel with these coincidences is -not that they sometimes, but that they everlastingly occur, and that -nothing occurs besides. We find no fault with Philip for chancing, at -the identically proper moment, upon the identical men, women, and horses -necessary for his own ends and the ends of the story—but we do think it -excessively hard that he should _never happen upon anything else_. - -In delineation of character, our artist has done little worth notice. -His highest merit in this respect is, with a solitary exception, the -negative one of not having subjected himself to dispraise. Catharine and -Camilla are—pretty well in their way. Philip is very much like all -other heroes—perhaps a little more stiff, a little more obstinate, and -a little more desperately unlucky than the generality of his class. -Sydney is drawn with truth. Plaskwith, Plimmins, and the Mortons, just -sufficiently caricatured, are very good outline copies from the shaded -originals of Dickens. Of Gawtrey—father and son,—of De Burgh Smith, of -Robert Beaufort and of Lilburne, what is it possible to say, except that -they belong to that extensive firm of Gawtrey, Smith, Beaufort, Lilburne -and company, which has figured in every novel since the days of Charles -Grandison, and which is doomed to the same eternal configuration till -romance-writing shall be no more? - -For Fanny the author distinctly avows a partiality; and he does not err -in his preference. We have observed, in some previous review, that -_original_ characters, so called, can only be critically praised as -such, either when presenting qualities known in real life, but never -before depicted (a combination nearly impossible) or when presenting -qualities which, although unknown, or even known to be hypothetical, are -so skilfully adapted to the circumstances around them, that our sense of -fitness is not offended, and we find ourselves seeking a reason why -those things _might not have been_ which we are still satisfied _are -not_. Fanny appertains to this latter class of originality—which in -itself belongs to the loftier regions of _the Ideal_. Her first -movements in the story, before her conception (which we have already -characterized as an after-thought) had assumed distinct shape in the -brain of the author, are altogether ineffective and frivolous. They -consist of the unmeaning affectation and rhodomontade with which it is -customary to invest the lunatic in common-place fiction. But the -subsequent effects of love upon her mental development are finely -imagined and richly painted; and, although reason teaches us their -impossibility, yet it is sufficient for the purposes of the artist that -fancy delights in believing them possible. - -Mr. Bulwer has been often and justly charged with defects of _style_; -but the charges have been sadly deficient in specification, and for the -most part have confounded the idea of mere language with that of style -itself, although the former is no more the latter, than an oak is a -forest, or than a word is a thought. Without pausing to define what a -little reflection will enable any reader to define for himself, we may -say that the chief constituent of a good style (a constituent which, in -the case of Washington Irving, has been mistaken for the thing -constituted) is what artists have agreed to denominate _tone_. The -writer who, varying this as occasion may require, well adapts it to the -fluctuations of his narrative, accomplishes an important object in -style. Mr. Bulwer’s tone is always correct; and so great is the virtue -of this quality that he can scarcely be termed, upon the whole, a bad -stylist. - -His mere English is grossly defective—turgid, involved, and -ungrammatical. There is scarcely a page of “Night and Morning” upon -which a school-boy could not detect at least half a dozen instances of -faulty construction. Sentences such as this are continually -occurring—“And at last silenced, if not convinced, his eyes closed, and -the tears yet wet upon their lashes, fell asleep.” Here, strictly -speaking, it is the eyes which “fell asleep,” and which were “silent if -not convinced.” The pronoun, “he,” is wanting for the verb “fell.” The -whole would read better thus—“And at last, silent, if not convinced, he -closed his eyes, and fell asleep with the tears yet on the lashes.” It -will be seen that, besides other modifications, we have changed “upon” -into “on,” and omitted “wet” as superfluous when applied to tear; who -ever heard of a dry one? The sentence in question, which occurs at page -83, vol. 1, was the first which arrested our attention on opening the -book at random; but its errors are sufficiently illustrative of the -_character_ of those faults of phraseology in which the work abounds, -and which have arisen, not so much through carelessness, as from a -peculiar bias in the mind of the writer, leading him, per force, into -_involution_, whether here in style, or elsewhere in plot. The beauty of -simplicity is not that which can be appreciated by Mr. Bulwer; and -whatever may be the true merits of his intelligence, the merit of -luminous and precise thought is evidently not one of the number. - -At page 194, vol. 1, we have this—“I am not what you seem to -suppose—exactly a swindler, certainly not a robber.” Here, to make -himself intelligible, the speaker should have repeated the words “I am -not,” before “exactly.” As it stands, the sentence does not imply that -“I am not exactly a swindler, &c.” but (if anything) that the person -addressed, imagined me to be certainly not a robber but exactly a -swindler—an implication which it was not intended to convey. Such -awkwardness in a practised writer would be inconceivable, did we not -refer in memory to that moral bias of which we have just spoken. Our -readers will of course examine the English of “Night and Morning” for -themselves. From the evidence of one or two sentences we cannot expect -them to form a judgment in the premises. Dreading indeed the suspicion -of unfairness, we had pencilled item after item for comment—but we have -abandoned the task in despair. It would be an endless labor to proceed -with examples. In fact it is folly to particularize where the blunders -would be the rule, and the grammar the exception. - -Sir Lytton has one desperate mannerism of which we would be glad to see -him well rid—a fashion of beginning short sentences, after very long -ones, with the phrase “So there,” or something equivalent, and this too, -when there is no sequence in the matter to warrant the use of the word -“So.” Thus, at page 136, vol. I,—“So there they sat on the cold stone, -these two orphans;” at page 179,—“So there by the calm banks of the -placid lake, the youngest born of Catharine passed his tranquil -days,”—and just below, on the same page,—“So thus was he severed from -both his protectors, Arthur and Philip;” and at page 241, vol. II,—“So -there sat the old man,” &c. &c.—and in innumerable other instances -throughout the work. - -Among the _niäiseries_ of his style we may mention the coxcombical use -of little French sentences, without the shadow of an excuse for their -employment. At page 22, vol. 2, in the scene at the counterfeiter’s -cellar, what can be more nonsensical than Gawtrey’s “_C’est juste; buvez -donc, cher ami_,”—“_C’est juste; buvez donc, vieux rénard_,”—and “_Ce -n’est pas vrai; buvez donc Monsieur Favart?_” Why should these -platitudes be alone given in French, when it is obvious that the entire -conversation was carried on in that tongue? And, again, when, at page -49, Fanny exclaims—“_Méchant_, every one dies to Fanny!”—why could not -this heroine have as well confined herself to one language? At page 38, -the climax of absurdity, in this respect, is fairly capped; and it is -difficult to keep one’s countenance, when we read of a Parisian cobbler -breathing his last in a garret, and screaming out “_Je m’étouffe_—Air!” - -Whenever a startling incident is recorded, our novelist seems to make it -a point of conscience that somebody should “fall insensible.” Thus at -page 172, vol. 1,—“‘My brother, my brother, they have taken thee from -me,’ cried Philip, and he fell insensible,”—and at page 38, vol. 2, “‘I -was unkind to him at the last,’ and with these words she fell upon the -corpse insensible,” &c. &c. There is a great deal too much of this. An -occasional swoon is a thing of no consequence, but “even Stamboul must -have an end,” and Mr. Bulwer should make an end of his syncopes. - -Again. That gentlemen and ladies, when called upon to give alms, or to -defray some trifling incidental expense, are in the invariable habit of -giving the whole contents of their purses without examination, and, -moreover, of “throwing” the purse into the bargain, is an idea most -erroneously entertained. At page 55, vol. 1, we are told that Philip, -“as he spoke, _slid_ his purse into the woman’s hand.” At page 110, “a -hint for money restored Beaufort to his recollection, and he _flung_ his -purse into the nearest hand outstretched to receive it.” At page 87, -“Lilburne _tossed_ his purse into the hands of his valet, whose face -seems to lose its anxious embarrassment at the touch of the gold.” It is -true that the “anxious embarrassment” of any valet out of a novel, would -have been rather increased than diminished by having a purse of gold -tossed at his head—but what we wish our readers to observe, is that -magnificent contempt of filthy lucre with which the characters of Sir -Edward Lytton Bulwer “fling,” “slide,” “toss,” and tumble whole purses -of money about! - -But the predominant and most important failing of the author of -“Devereux,” in point of style, is an absolute mania for -metaphor—metaphor always running into allegory. Pure allegory is at all -times an abomination—a remnant of antique barbarism—appealing only to -our faculties of comparison, without even a remote interest for our -reason, or for our fancy. Metaphor, its softened image, has indisputable -force when sparingly and skilfully employed. Vigorous writers use it -rarely indeed. Mr. Bulwer is all metaphor or all allegory—mixed -metaphor and unsustained allegory—and nothing if neither. He cannot -express a dozen consecutive sentences in an honest and manly manner. He -is the king-coxcomb of figures-of-speech. His rage for personification -is really ludicrous. The simplest noun becomes animate in his hands. -Never, by any accident, does he write even so ordinary a word as time, -or temper, or talent, without the capital T. Seldom, indeed, is he -content with the dignity and mysticism thus imposed;—for the most part -it is Time, Temper and Talent. Nor does the common-place character of -anything which he wishes to personify exclude it from the prosopopeia. -At page 256, volume 1, we have some profound rigmarole, seriously urged, -about piemen crying “all hot! all hot!” “in the ear of Infant and Ragged -Hunger,” thus written; and, at page 207, there is something positively -transcendental all about LAW—a very little thing in itself, in some -cases—but which Mr. Bulwer, in his book, has thought proper to make -quite as big as we have printed it above. Who cannot fancy him, in the -former instance, saying to himself, as he gnaws the top of his quill, -“that is a fine thought!” and exclaiming in the latter, as he puts his -finger to the side of his nose, “ah, how _very_ fine an idea that is!” - -This absurdity, indeed, is chiefly observable in those philosophical -discussions with which he is in the wicked habit of interspersing his -fictions, and springs only from a rabid anxiety to look wise—to appear -profound—even when wisdom is quite out of place, and profundity the -quintessence of folly. A “still small voice” has whispered in his ear -that, as to the real matter of fact, _he is shallow_—a whisper which he -does not intend to believe, and which, by dint of loud talking in -parables, he hopes to prevent from reaching the ears of the public. Now, -in truth, the public, great-gander as it is, is content to swallow his -romance without much examination, but cannot help turning up its nose at -his logic. - -“The men of sense,” says Helvetius, “those idols of the unthinking, are -very inferior to the men of passions. It is the strong passions which, -rescuing us from Sloth, can alone impart to us that continuous and -earnest attention necessary to great intellectual -efforts”—Understanding the word “efforts” in its legitimate force, and -not confounding it altogether with achievements, we may well apply to -Mr. Bulwer the philosopher’s remark, thence deducing the secret of his -success as a novelist. He is emphatically the man “of passions.” With an -intellect rather well balanced than lofty, he has not full claim to the -title of a man of genius. Urged by the burning desire of doing much, he -has certainly done something. Elaborate even to fault, he will never -write a bad book, and has once or twice been upon the point of -concocting a good one. It is the custom to call him a fine writer, but -in doing so we should judge him less by an artistical standard of -excellence, than by comparison with the drivellers who surround him. To -Scott he is altogether inferior, except in that mock and tawdry -philosophy which the Caledonian had the discretion to avoid, and the -courage to contemn. In pathos, humour, and verisimilitude he is unequal -to Dickens; surpassing him only in general knowledge, and in the -sentiment of Art. Of James he is more than the equal at all points. -While he could never fall as low as D’Israeli has occasionally fallen, -neither himself, nor any of those whom we have mentioned, have ever -risen nearly so high as that very gifted and very extraordinary man. - -In regard to “Night and Morning” we cannot agree with that critical -opinion which considers it the best novel of its author. It is only not -his worst. It is not as good as Eugene Aram, nor as Rienzi—and is not -at all comparable with Ernest Maltravers. Upon the whole it is a good -book. Its merits beyond doubt overbalance its defects, and if we have -not dwelt upon the former with as much unction as upon the latter, it is -because the Bulwerian beauties are precisely of that secondary character -which never fails of the fullest public appreciation. - - * * * * * - - _“Sketches of Conspicuous Living Characters of France.” - Translated by R. M. Walsh. Lea and Blanchard._ - -The public are much indebted to Mr. Walsh for this book, which is one of -unusual interest and value. It is a translation from the French, of -fifteen biographical and critical sketches, written, and originally -published in weekly numbers at Paris, by some one who styles himself -“_un homme de rien_”—the better to conceal the fact, perhaps, that he -is really un _homme de beaucoup_. Whatever, unhappily, may be the case -with ourselves, or in England, it is clear that in the capital of -France, at least,—that hot-bed of journalism, and Paradise of -journalists—nobody has any right to call himself “nobody,” while -wielding so vigorous and vivacious a pen as the author of these -articles. - -We are told in the Preface to the present translation that they met with -the greatest success, upon their first appearance, and were considered -by the Parisians as perfectly authentic in their statement of facts, and -“as impartial in their appreciation of the different personages sketched -as could be desired.” “As impartial, &c.” means, we presume, entirely -so; for in matters of this kind an absolute impartiality, of course, is -all, but still the least “that could be desired.” - -Mr. Walsh farther assures us that Châteaubriand wrote the author a -letter “of a highly complimentary tenor” which was published, but of -which the translator, “unfortunately, does not happen to have a copy in -his possession.” A more unfortunate circumstance is that Mr. W. should -have thought it necessary to bolster a book which needs no bolstering, -by the authority of any name, however great; and the most unfortunate -thing of all, so far as regards the weight of the authority, is that -Châteaubriand himself is belauded _ad nauseam_ in those very pages to -the inditer of which he sent that letter of the “complimentary tenor.” -When any body shall puff _us_, as this Mr. Nobody has bepuffed the -author of _The Martyrs_, we will send them a letter “of a complimentary -tenor” too. We do not mean to decry the general merit of the book, or -the candor of him who composed it. We wish merely to observe that -Châteaubriand, under the circumstances, cannot be received as evidence -of the one, nor his biography as instance of the other. - -These sketches of men now playing important parts in the great drama of -French affairs would be interesting, if only from their subjects. We -have here biographies, (sufficiently full) of Thiers, Châteaubriand, -Laffitte, Guizot, Lamartine, Soult, Berryer, De La Mennais, Hugo, Dupin, -Béranger, Odillon Barrot, Arago, George Sand, and the Duke De Broglie. -We are most pleased with those of Thiers, Hugo, Sand, Arago, and -Béranger. - -Among many good stories of Thiers, this is told. A prize had been -offered by the Academy of Aix for the best eulogium on Vauvenargues. -Thiers, then quite a boy, sent a M. S. It was deemed excellent; but the -author being suspected, and no other candidate deserving the palm, the -committee, rather than award it to a Jacobin, postponed their decision -for a year. At the expiration of this time our youth’s article again -made its appearance, but, meanwhile, a production had arrived from Paris -which was thought far better. The judges were rejoiced. They were no -longer under the cruel necessity of giving the first honor to a -Jacobin—but felt bound to present him with the second. The name of the -Parisian victor was unsealed. It was that of Thiers—Monsieur Tonson -come again. He had been at great pains to mystify the committee; (other -committees of the same kind more frequently reverse affairs and mystify -the public) the M. S. had been copied in a strange hand, and been sent -from Aix to Paris and from Paris to Aix. Thus our little friend obtained -both the main prize and the _accessit_. - -An anecdote somewhat similar is related of Victor Hugo. In 1817, the -Academy offered a premium for the best poem on the advantages of study. -Hugo entered the lists. His piece was considered worthiest, but was -rejected because a falsehood was supposed to be implied in the -concluding lines, which ran thus:— - - Moi qui, toujours fuyant les cités et les cours, - De trois lustres à peine ai vu finir le cours. - -The Academy would not believe that any one under twenty-five years of -age had written so fine a poem, and, supposing a mystification designed, -thought to punish the author by refusing him the prize. Informed of the -facts, Hugo hastened to show the certificate of his birth to the -reporter, M. Raynouard; but it was too late—the premium had been -awarded. - -Of Laffitte many remarkable incidents are narrated evincing the noble -liberality of his disposition. - -In the notice of Berryer it is said that, a letter being addressed by -the Duchess of Berry to the legitimists of Paris, to inform them of her -arrival, it was accompanied by a long note in cypher, the key of which -she had forgotten to give. “The penetrating mind of Berryer,” says our -biographer, “soon discovered it. It was this phrase substituted for the -twenty-four letters of the alphabet—_Le gouvernement provisoire_.” - -All this is very well as an anecdote; but we cannot understand the -extraordinary penetration required in the matter. The phrase “_Le -gouvernement provisoire_” is French, and the note in cypher was -addressed to Frenchmen. The difficulty of decyphering may well be -supposed much greater had the key been in a foreign tongue; yet any one -who will take the trouble may address us a note, in the same manner as -here proposed, and the key-phrase may be either in French, Italian, -Spanish, German, Latin or Greek, (or in any of the dialects of these -languages), and we pledge ourselves for the solution of the riddle. The -experiment may afford our readers some amusement—let them try it. - -But we are rambling from our theme. The genius of Arago is finely -painted, and the character of his quackery put in a true light. The -straight-forward, plainly-written critical comments upon this -philosopher, as well as upon George Sand, and that absurd -antithesis-hunter, Victor Hugo, please us far more than that mere cant -and rhapsody in which the biographer involves himself when speaking of -Châteaubriand and Lamartine. We have observed that all great authors who -fall occasionally into the sins of ranting and raving, meet with critics -who think the only way to elucidate, is to out-rant and out-rave them. A -beautiful confusion of thought of course ensues, which it is truly -refreshing to contemplate. - -The account of George Sand (Madame Dudevant) is full of piquancy and -spirit. The writer, by dint of a little chicanery, obtained access, it -seems, to her boudoir, with an opportunity of sketching her in -dishabille. He found her in a gentleman’s frock coat, smoking a cigar. - -Speaking of the equivocal costume affected by this lady, Mr. Walsh, in a -foot-note, comments upon a nice distinction made once by a soldier on -duty at the Chamber of Deputies. Madame D., habited in male attire, was -making her way into the gallery, when the man, presenting his musket -before her, cried out “_Monsieur_, les _dames_ ne passent pas par ici!” - -But we regret that our space will not allow us to cull even a few of the -good things with which the book abounds. The whole volume is exceedingly -_piquant_, and replete with that racy wit which is so peculiarly French -as to make us believe it a consequence of the _tournure_ of the language -itself. But if a Frenchman is invariably witty, he is not the less -everlastingly bombastic; and these memoirs are decidedly French. What -can we do but smile when we hear any one talk about Châteaubriand’s -_Essay upon English Poetry_, with his _Translation of Milton_! as a task -which he alone was qualified to execute!—or when we read page after -page in which Lamartine is discoursed of as “a noble child, with flaxen -locks,” “disporting upon the banks of the Seine,” “picking up Grecian -lyres dropped by the mild Chenier,” “enriching them with Christian -chords,” and “ravishing the world with new melodies!” What can we do but -laugh outright at such phrases as the “sympathetic swan-like cries,” and -the “singular lyric precocity of the crystal soul”—of such an ass as -the author of Bug-Jargal? - -So far as mere translation goes, the volume now before us is, in some -respects, not very well done. Too little care has been taken in -rendering the French idioms by English equivalents; and, because a -French writer, through the impulses of his vivacity, cannot avoid -telling, in the present tense, a story of the past, it does not follow -that such a misusage of language is consonant with the graver genius of -the Saxon. Mr. Walsh is always too literal, although sufficiently -correct. He should not employ, however, even in translation, such queer -words as “to legitimate,” meaning “to legitimatize,” or “to fulmine,” -meaning “to fulminate.” - -At page 211, the force of the compound “_l’homme-calembourg_” is not -conveyed by the words “_the_ punster,” even when we italicize _the_. -_The walking-pun_, perhaps, is an analogous phrase which might be more -properly employed. - -There is some odd mistake at page 274, where the translator speaks of -measuring the diameter of the earth by measuring its _rays_. We presume -the word in the original is _rayons_; if so we can only translate it by -the Latin _radii_. No doubt a radius, literally, is a ray; but science -has its own terms, and _will_ employ them. We should like to see either -Mr. Walsh or Monsieur Arago (or both together) trying to measure a _ray_ -of the earth. - -The mechanical execution of the book is good, saving a thousand -outrageous typographical blunders, and _that_ lithograph of Thiers. We -have no doubt in the world that this gentleman (who ran away during the -three days and hid himself in the woods of Montmorency), is a somewhat -dirty, insignificant little fellow, and so be it; but we will never be -brought to believe that any individual in Christendom ever did or could -look half as saucy, or as greasy, as does “Monsieur Mirabeau-mouche” in -that picture. - - * * * * * - - _“Heads of the People: or Portraits of the English.” Drawn by - Kenny Meadows. With Original Essays by Distinguished Writers. - Carey & Hart._ - -The design of this book is among the number of those which are -_obviously_ good—and the book itself is, upon the whole, an amusing -one. It might have been better, no doubt. With designs by Cruikshanks, -and letter-press by _the best_ of the English literati, how glorious a -work might have been concocted “upon this hint!” Not that some of the -names here found are _not_ among the best—but we should have had the -_Dii majorum gentium_ exclusively—one paper from each. These papers, -too, should have been written with some uniformity of manner, or of -plan, and have confined themselves to racy and truthful delineation of -that character which is _peculiarly_ British, while the engravings -should have been careful embodiments of the text. As it is, the -publication has something of a hap-hazard, and, if the truth must be -told, of a catchpenny air, which makes very much against it, -notwithstanding the exceeding merit of several of the essays, and of -three or four of the designs. The preface seems to have been written by -some one who had a proper sense of what the volume _should be_, but -affords no indication of what it really _is_. - -There are twenty-six “Heads” in all. Some of them are pure caricatures -without merit—“The Creditor,” for example, and “The Debtor,” -(injudiciously placed as frontispieces), The “Diner-Out,” The -“Sentimental Singer,” “The Man of Many Goes” and “The Printer’s Devil.” -Others are equally caricatures, but of so vivid and truth-preserving an -exaggeration, that we admire without scruple:—we allude to “The Lion of -the Party,” “The Waiter,” “The Linen-Draper’s Assistant” and “The -Stock-Broker.” Some are full of natural truth—for instance “The Young -Lord,” “The Dress-Maker,” “The Young Squire,” “The Basket Woman,” -“Captain Rook” and “Mr. Pigeon.” “The Last Go” is the best thing in the -volume—combining the extreme of the ludicrous with absolute fidelity. -“The Fashionable Authoress,” “The Cockney” and “The Family Governess” -are tame and unmeaning. The rest have no particular merit or demerit. -About the whole there is a great deal of bad drawing, which we know not -whether to attribute to the designer or engraver. - -The same variety of value is observable in the text. In general the -articles are not very creditable; although one or two are of surpassing -excellence. The longest called “Tavern Heads” (illustrated by seven or -eight sketches) is a rambling, disjointed narrative in imitation of -Dickens, and written probably by the author of a clever production -entitled “Pickwick Abroad,” never yet republished, we believe, in this -country. The paper called “Captain Rook and Mr. Pigeon,” and -superscribed with the name of William Thackeray, is one of the finest -specimens of easily-mingled humor and wit we have ever had the pleasure -of perusing. - - * * * * * - - _“The Flying Dutchman.” By the author of Gentleman Jack. 2 vols. - Carey & Hart._ - -The legend of the Flying Dutchman has long since been worn out, and its -attempted resuscitation by this author has, as he should have known, -proved an entire failure. Indeed we have rarely read a less creditable -novel than this. The characters are strange; the incidents unnatural; -and the descriptions of the mighty deep surpassed by nine out of ten of -our ordinary sea-writers. The tyranny which formerly existed, and indeed -still exists in a measure, in the British navy is, however, sketched -with a bold pencil; but with this single redeeming trait, the public, -much less the critics, will scarcely be satisfied. The desertion of -Ramsay on the Island; his miraculous meeting with the very one he wished -to meet, Angela; the whole farcical story, of the deception practised in -the appearance of the Flying Dutchman’s frigate; the singular -preservation of Capt. Livingston from drowning, when cast overboard -unseen at night; and the clap-trap of the trial scene, when the -aforesaid captain and the corporal appear so unexpectedly, furnish a -series of improbabilities only to be endured by a novel-reader of -sufficient voracity to gorge, shark-like, any and everything, no matter -what. - - * * * * * - - _“Patchwork.” By Capt. Basil Hall. 2 vols. Lea & Blanchard._ - -Captain Hall is one of the most agreeable of writers. We like him for -the same reason that we like a good drawing-room conversationist—there -is such a pleasure in listening to his elegant nothings. Not that the -captain is unable to be profound. He has, on the contrary, some -reputation for science. But in his hands even the most trifling personal -adventures become interesting from the very piquancy with which they are -told. - -The present work is made up of a series of desultory sketches of -travels, in every quarter of the globe, and extending through a period -of nearly thirty years. You almost forget yourself as you read, and -fancy that you are listening to an oral narrative from Capt. Hall in -person. In the most charming manner possible you are transported from -the glaciers of the Alps to the waters of the Pacific, and then whisked -back again to old Europe, and hurried to Vesuvius, Malta, and Etna in -pleasing succession. The descriptions of these various places, mingled -with scientific observations, and narratives of personal adventures, -form altogether one of the pleasantest books for after-dinner perusal, -especially on a sunny April day, when, reposed at length upon a sofa, -beside an open casement, with the birds carolling without, and the balmy -spring breathing across us, we forget, for a while, the dull business of -life. - - * * * * * - - _“Georgia Illustrated.” W. & W. C. Richards, Penfield, Ga._ - -This is a praiseworthy work, and reflects high credit on all concerned -in it. The views are selected with taste, and give us a high opinion of -the scenery of Georgia. They are accompanied by a letter-press -description, from the pen of the editor, W. C. Richards. The engravings -are executed in excellent style by Messrs. Rawdon, Wright, Hatch and -Smillie. Such works cannot be too extensively patronised. They encourage -the arts; foster a love for the beautiful; and acquaint the public with -some of the loveliest gems of our native scenery. Was it not a disgrace -to our country that both “Hinton’s Topography” and the still later -“American Scenery,” emanated wholly from England—the capital embarked, -the sketchers and engravers employed, and even the place of publication -being English? - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: FASHIONS FOR APRIL 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. A cover was -created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain. - -[The end of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 4, April 1841_, George -R. Graham, Editor] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 4, -April 1841, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, APRIL 1841 *** - -***** This file should be named 63706-0.txt or 63706-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/7/0/63706/ - -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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