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diff --git a/old/65180-0.txt b/old/65180-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 21f14ed..0000000 --- a/old/65180-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5316 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 3, -September 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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 3, September 1841 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: April 27, 2021 [eBook #65180] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -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) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XIX, NO. -3, SEPTEMBER 1841 *** - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XIX. September, 1841. No. 3. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - The Fireside - Shakspeare - The Reefer of ’76 - Flirtation - The Saxon’s Bridal - Misfortunes of a Timid Gentleman - Never Bet Your Head - Lame For Life, or Leslie Pierpoint - Leaves from a Lawyer’s Port-Folio - Cottage Piety - Sports and Pastimes.—The Fowling-Piece - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music and Fashion - - Fragment: Written on the First Coming of Spring - The Wildwood Home - Reproof of a Bird - Oh! A Merry Life Does a Hunter Lead - The Widow’s Wealth - Death - Why Should I Love Thee? - A Belle at a Ball - To Helen - The First Kiss of Love. - My Bonnie Blue-Eyed Lassie, O! - Latest Fashions, September, 1841 - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: W. Drummond., Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie. - -_The Cottage Fire-Side._ - -Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.] - - - - -[Illustration: Eng.^d by H. S. Sadd N.Y. - -_Cottage Piety._ - -Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from a Picture by E. Prentice.] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XIX. PHILADELPHIA: SEPTEMBER, 1841. No. 3. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FIRESIDE. - - - It’s rare to see the morning bleeze - Like a bon-fire frae the sea— - It’s fair to see the burnie kiss - The lip o’ the flowery lea— - An’ fine it is on green hill-side, - Where hums the bonny bee— - But rarer, fairer, finer far - Is the _Ingle-Side_ for me. - - Glens may be gilt wi’ gowans rare, - The birds may fill the tree, - An’ haughs hae a’ the scented ware - That simmer growth can gie— - But the canty hearth where cronies meet, - An’ the darling o’ our e’e— - That makes to us a warl complete— - O the _Ingle-Side_ for me! - _Old Song._ - -Who does not remember this glorious old song, with its simple melody, -and well-managed accompaniments that seem to chime in with every word -uttered by the singer, not only upholding him in his sentiment, and -illustrating his positions by all kinds of impressive flourishes, but -absolutely chuckling and caracoling over the unanswerable nature of the -argument? If ever accompaniment expressed a positive certainty that the -words of a song were the truest words in the world, it is this very -accompaniment. It takes it for granted that nobody will dispute its -opinion. It is as dogmatic as Aristotle, or Bob Hobbes, but yet, unlike -them in some respects, it seems always to know pretty well what it is -talking about. The truth is, that there are few persons who can remain -altogether unconvinced by its illustrations, or at least who can remain -unpersuaded by its ingenious manner of setting them forth. We say _its_ -illustrations, for any one with half an eye can perceive that the “music -is married to the immortal verse,” and that the twain are one. We speak -of them conjointly when we maintain the force of the song’s -illustrations. What indeed can be more forcibly “put,” as the lawyers -say, (and sometimes the rhetoricians,) than the points of its thesis? -What can be more slyly seducing—what can be more apt to take a body -unawares than allusions to “canty hearths where cronies meet, an’ the -darlins o’ our e’e?” To be sure, the case might have been better made -out if the “morning bleeze” had been kept out of sight, or slurred over -as a thing of no moment. Neither was it judicious to dwell upon the -“flowery lea,” or the “bonny bee,” or the little “birds in the tree,” -and that sort of thing. The song might have taken a hint, too, from our -engraving, and said a word about a girl with blue eyes (we presume they -are blue,) and auburn hair, (we _know_ it is auburn,) and another little -girl and a little boy, both with clean faces, and a dog looking wise at -one side of the ingle, with a tabby cat at the other, watching chesnuts -in the act of being roasted, and congratulating herself that no fabulous -monkey is present to make use of her fair hand as a cat’s paw. All this -the song might have forcibly introduced—but we presume it did its best, -and we are obliged to it. - -Still, we are not convinced. We were never convinced of anything in our -lives, and never intend to be convinced, for excellent reasons. It is -said there were once seven wise men—a matter which may be very well -doubted. But, admitting this point, it was of course one of the seven -who first promulgated the fact that every question has two sides. Late -discoveries have assured us that it would be no question at all if it -had not. Some questions, indeed, are trigonal, or quadrigonal, or -pentagonal, or sexagonal, or septagonal, or octagonal, or nonagonal. -Some even are polygonal, while others have an infinity of sides like the -mathematical circle, and thus there is found to be no end to them at -all, as is the case with the ordinary circle which every body -understands. These latter are questions about Tariffs, and Boundary -Lines, and National Banks, questions of privilege and drivel-ege, and -Congressional questions of order and disorder, with other matters of -that kind. Most queries, however, appear at first glance to have no more -than two sides; and it is only when we get hard and fast in the middle -of an argument respecting them, so that it is as wrong to go back as it -is preposterous to go forward, that we perceive each of the two sides -which had appeared to a cursory view so staid and so definite, branching -off, like gamblers at _Vingt Un_, into an infinitesimal series of little -divisions, each as distinct and each as perverse as the original ones. -For this reason and others (reasons _are_ as plenty as blackberries, -John Falstaff to the contrary notwithstanding) for this reason and a -thousand others, we keep clear of all argumentative discourses, as it is -impossible to say when or where they may end. By keeping clear of them, -we mean to say that we never indulge in them ourselves. Yet we like them -very well in other people. Nothing amuses us more, for instance, than a -young man who fancies himself a genius in the logical line, and who will -take it upon himself, at a moment’s warning, to demonstrate that two and -three blue beans do not make five. We could listen to him by the hour; -and when at length he comes to find out that the blue-bean question, -pretty much like all other questions, is one of the polygonal species -with infinitesimal sides, we hardly know a more interesting object than -he becomes, especially if you have not been so impolite as to interrupt -him, and he has had all the discourse to himself. - -Our retiring habits, in this particular, being thus understood, it will -be seen at once that we have no design of arguing the point with the Old -Song which we have quoted at the head of this paper. We cannot undertake -to support the pretensions of the “flowery lea” against those of the -“chimney corner.” In the case of hill-side versus ingle-side we beg -leave to keep aloof. We do not say with the blue-bean gentlemen that -there is much to be said on _both_ sides of the question; for the truth -is we perceive at a glance that the subject has a wonderful variety of -aspects, each highly important and interesting, and upon every one of -which we could preach a very excellent sermon if occasion required. At a -first view there is only the ordinary double-sided question, whether the -ingle-side be preferable to the hill-side, or the hill-side to the -ingle. But then we have at once in continuation, the concomitant -sub-queries whether the hill-side be a hill-side of donkey-thistle or of -purple heather—whether there be sheep on it or snakes—whether it be -winter or summer—whether it be a rainy day or a sun-shiny one—whether -the ingle be smoky or not smoky—whether, in the latter case, we choose -to be cured like bacon or be left uncured—whether wood or coal be -burnt, and whether, if coal, you have any tendency to what Dr. -Blunderbuzzard calls pulmonary phthisis. - -Now each of these sub-queries involves a point of especial importance, -and each of these points must be definitely settled, before we begin to -make up our minds on the main one, and the worst of it is that each of -these points, too, may be subdivided into I cannot tell how many others, -all equally momentous, if not more so, and every one of them to be fully -discussed and permanently decided upon, before we can do anything at all -towards drawing a judicious conclusion. So that in the end we lose both -our way, and our labor, and are forced, in respect to the matter of this -song, to fall back upon one of those very rare questions which have -really but two sides, and base our final decision upon that. This -question is simply whether the lady who sings the song, be pretty or -ugly. The only difficulty about this mode of forming an opinion is that -the opinion itself is apt to have something of a variable character—but -then it would be no fashionable opinion if it had not. - -At present we decide against the lea and give judgment for “The -Fireside.” - - * * * * * - - - - - FRAGMENT: WRITTEN ON THE FIRST COMING OF SPRING. - - - BY PARK BENJAMIN. - - - At length has come the Spring! welcome to me - Art thou, oh! wind, that journeyest to the sea!— - The south-west wind, whose warm, health-bringing plume, - Wafts odor from a wilderness of bloom; - From groves that bend with blossoms, from broad plains - Clothed in rich garments of a thousand stains— - Blue, crimson, gold, green, azure, purple flowers, - Given in profusion by the beauteous showers. - I have heard stories of thy place of birth,— - Oh! wind, that sheddest beauty on the earth!— - Which make me sad, to think my life must glide - Slowly and coldly by the Atlantic’s side. - Thine are the “happy valleys” of our land, - Shut in by mountains, and the South-sea strand; - They never feel the tyranny of frost; - Nor hail, nor snow is on their green laps tost; - For nursed by thee successive verdures spring, - And melts the sceptre of the Winter-king! - - * * * * * - - - - - SHAKSPEARE. - - -BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC. - - -In the Edinburgh Review for July, 1840, there is an article entitled -“Recent Shakspearian Literature,” very interesting to the students of -the poet. It purports to be a review of about fourteen works from -_Tieck’s Dramaturgische Blätter_, published in Breslau, 1826, to _De -Quincey’s Life of Shakspeare_, in the Encyclopædia Britannica, 1840. - -As is generally the case with similar papers in this class of the -quarterlies, the article is less a _review_ of the works enumerated in -the rubric than a pouring forth of the opulence of the reviewer’s own -mind, on the occasion of a brief allusion to the productions criticized. -The author of it, in his estimate of Shakspeare, approaches nearer the -views which posterity will probably entertain of the poet, than those -which have till now characterized even the most rapturous of his -admirers. The mightiest bard, not only of modern times, but by far the -mightiest bard that has appeared among uninspired mortals, here begins -to assume a yet higher apotheosised splendor; and, if not to rank among -the constellations and the gods, like the half fabulous immortalities of -the ancient world, at least to take his place in the history of mankind, -as the mind which has reached the point farthest removed from brute -matter. - -I hope the article will be widely reprinted in our own country. Its -tendency is most beneficial. We are, from necessity, in the present -point of our developement, a hard working, practical, matter-of-fact -people—full—too full of mere worldly occupation and excitement. -Subjects in no way connected with the higher exercise of the intellect -absorb the public mind. Commercial and political questions unavoidably -monopolize the national sympathies. We are compelled at present to -strain every nerve to _make money_, that the ravages of the monetary -tempest which has swept like a tornado or an earthquake, or an oriental -plague over our land, may be repaired. There is danger in this state of -things that we entirely forego the contemplation of those subjects, -which, however without temporal pecuniary profit, repay the laborer with -moral purity and elevation, which soften the asperity of the passions, -infuse gentleness and liberality into opinion, strengthen the spiritual -part of our nature, and ennoble and dignify life—at the same time that -they cheer, guide, protect and sweeten it. - -There is no repose, no patient leisure and calm tranquillity in our -young and rapidly growing country. There is the same difference, I mean -in respect to literary and scientific pursuits, between us and some of -the European communities, Germany for instance, that there was between -the Israelites travelling through the desert and the same people when -gathered around the temple in the holy city. I believe we, too, are -undergoing a kind of forty years’ penance, in order to shake off such of -the habits and opinions of our European ancestors as are wrong—six -thousand years of bloody prejudices and political errors. There will -come a day of prosperity, when institutions shall be no longer doubtful, -national character no longer unsettled, when we shall have a fixed -standard of political morals far different from any that has hitherto -prevailed in the world; and when the human mind, under these more -favorable circumstances, will develop itself in a new manner. - -But this depends upon ourselves. Nations, like individuals, are free -agents. We can go upwards or downwards; we can hail our Messiah or we -can reject him; and in order that we may mount not sink in the scale of -moral being, it is desirable that we should not permit ourselves to be -bound down too closely and too continually to the local and temporary -but exciting exigencies of the present hour, that pecuniary and -political subjects should not engross too much of our attention, lest we -become altogether “of the earth, earthy.” Music, poetry, painting, -sculpture, eloquence and science, the fine performances of a Forrest or -a Kean, have a tendency to mingle with our daily and (when too -exclusively persisted in) narrowing and degrading occupations; something -that turns the spirit another way, and fills, refreshes and -intellectualizes the character. Such articles as that alluded to on the -wonderful and still scarcely appreciated excellences of Shakspeare, will -be as softening and reviving in their effects upon thousands of minds, -parched and hot under the influence of merely mechanical employments, or -interested and selfish impressions, as a plentiful summer shower is to -nature, when burnt and withered with a long drought. - -The reading of this article has turned me again for a few evenings to my -most favorite author, and raised many new ideas in my mind, which is -always the case when I open those fascinating pages. I propose to -furnish, in several papers, some of the thoughts which crowd upon me -while reading him. I cannot bear to read him alone. It is like listening -to an oration from the fiery lips of Cicero in an empty hall, or hearing -Channing address deserted aisles. I want a circle to share those streams -of light; I want to feel that the music-waves roll to the hearts of -others beside myself. It almost seems selfish to brood over delights so -ethereal, to gaze on vistas so resplendent, to enter a temple so -gorgeous and so vast without some one at my side to call on in the -moment of rapture. - -There is, moreover, in the article of the Edinburgh Review, the -following extraordinary annunciation. - -“But the work which we should have most pleasure in believing to -represent the state of German opinions, is Dr. Ulrici’s ‘Essay on -Shakspeare’s Dramatic Art, and his relation to Calderon and Goethe.’ -This book seems to us to be not only one of the most solidly -philosophical pieces of criticism which have issued from the Teutonic -school, but on its own absolute merits, an unusually valuable -contribution to the literature of Shakspeare’s works. The theory upon -which the treatise rests is assuredly partial and imperfect; and also, -so far as it goes beyond opinions already received, palpably unsound; -but the aspect in which it presents the poet of all nations is one which -has been too often overlooked among ourselves, and grossly misunderstood -by some of the most celebrated of Ulrici’s countrymen. The general -discussions, which make up a considerable part of the volume, we must be -allowed to waive. We cannot, especially in the way of commentary on a -German text-book, attempt to investigate either the essence of the drama -in general, or the essential differences between the views of life -suggested respectively by Christianity and Grecian Paganism. The -religious test thus indicated is that to which the critic subjects both -Shakspeare and the poets with whom he compares him. ‘_Shakspeare’s -peculiar character_,’ says he, ‘_consists in the greater purity and -clearness, decision and completeness, with which the Christian view of -life is represented in his dramas. It consists especially in this, that -every where the two great elements of human life, and of the history of -the world, the divine guidance and the freedom of man, stand out in -their legitimate authority, in organic connexion and reciprocal action, -and thus in the whole fulness of their truth and reality._’ He insists, -emphatically, that he recognizes in Shakspeare’s dramas, not indeed -formally taught, either theologically or ethically, but embodied in the -genuine form of poetical representation, the doctrines of the universal -sinfulness of man, and of divine grace in his salvation; doctrines -which, as he truly adds, are altogether left out of sight in Goethe’s -view of life, and by Calderon either misunderstood or unpoetically used. -All this must be to many of us not a little startling; _but there lies -at the bottom of it a mighty truth_, not merely important in itself, but -bearing a _close relation to the great dramatist’s cast of thought_; a -truth which, in one sense or other, _does_ furnish _the clue to some of -the most perplexing riddles in the poet’s works_. In following out his -own system, Ulrici, as was to have been expected from its one-sidedness, -has been led to many conclusions which cannot possibly be admitted; but -_fewer of these are to be attributed to the essential parts of his -theory_, than to the peculiar way in which he has worked it out. In -several instances he has literally resolved the leading idea, in which -he represents the unity of each drama to consist, in a substantive -enunciation of a moral precept, an error against which he himself -protests. He has erred still further in acknowledging, as he seems to do -almost invariably, the principle of what has been called poetical -justice—a principle not involved in his own system upon any right -interpretation of it, and assuredly quite alien to the far-reaching -speculations of Shakspeare. But a man who thinks of poetry as Ulrici -thinks, can never write of it altogether unworthily: one who is willing -to consider Shakspeare as coming up to so lofty a standard, cannot fail -to entertain that reverence for genius, and truth, and goodness, which -is the source of all pleasure as well as soundness in criticism; and the -admirable analysis of the poet’s works which constitute the latter half -of the volume, shows the writer to be fully qualified for expounding -such a creed.” - -Startling, indeed! but, if true, this is one of the most singular -discoveries ever made in literature. We have been accustomed to hear -Shakspeare praised for everything but Christianity, or, indeed, any -sense of religion. He has been sometimes represented even as a kind of -_neutral principle_, from whom flow all opinions, all creeds, all -virtues, all crimes, with a facility equally indifferent to the source -which sends them forth. He has been attacked sometimes as a bigot, and -sometimes as an infidel; sometimes as a whig, sometimes as a democrat; -but no one before, that I am aware of, ever undertook to show him forth -as a great prophet of Christianity. - -I have not seen the work of Dr. Ulrici, nor are the following papers -devoted exclusively to a consideration of our author in this point of -view, but, in several parts of them, I have so considered him. They are -not written systematically. They were commenced with the intention of -saying all I had to say in a single article, but the subject is so -large, and grew so under my hand, that I was obliged to let my -observations run into several papers, and I soon found myself, moreover, -compelled not only to confine my attention principally to one tragedy, -but to leave many considerations respecting that tragedy untouched. - -I wish to repeat that I am by no means _thoroughly_ acquainted with -Shakspeare, and do not dream of offering any more than the mere -momentary impressions which the perusal of such parts of him as I happen -to read make upon me. After the great students of his works, the -laborious and learned critics of different nations who have devoted -years to the understanding of him, it would be presuming to attempt to -throw light on him. I have only endeavored to express what I feel and -see and think while reading him, and to venture here and there an -examination of him upon the idea suggested by Dr. Ulrici, as it may -strike a reader like myself, unacquainted with other arguments -concerning it than those probabilities existing in the plays. The theory -of Ulrici is so beautiful and so consonant to the lofty rank which our -poet occupies, that one cannot help wishing, and scarcely believing, -that it may be true. It has the force and convincingness which -characterize the solution of an enigma. And, in this view, it possesses -something of the solemnity of the creation itself. The creation is an -enigma of which Christianity is the solution. Without that, all is -vague, contradictory, dark; an existing impossibility—powerless -omnipotence—fiendish generosity and love—the omnipresence of a -Divinity everywhere absent—a mockery—a paradox. Christianity makes all -clear and simple. It scarcely requires _proof_ more than the solution of -any other enigma. When the Divine secret is revealed, it is -self-evident. - -With all reverence be it advanced, the suggestion of this theory, in -reference to the works of Shakspeare, has something of the same fitness. -The _creation_ of the poet was, before, in many places, dark and -inexplicable; but the light shed upon him by the word Christianity makes -many things clear and intelligible. It raises him to something of the -magnitude of a prophet, and the most stupendous fabric of profane -literature acquires a more solemn grandeur by this connection with the -sacred work of God. - -During Shakspeare’s life, he was, it is well known, celebrated beyond -his expectations, and many of those acquainted with him and his -productions thought quite beyond his merits. He was one of the -fashionable poets of England; his verses were familiar to the lips of -kings and queens, and himself, besides having acquired a pecuniary -independence by his pen, received the highest honors, as he thought, -which could be bestowed on him. He was, in short, a successful writer, -and he passed away from the earth with the agreeable consciousness of -having procured for himself a niche in the temple of Fame. - -It is pretty certain, however that no person on the globe, at the period -of his life, had any _just_ appreciation of him. Notwithstanding the -triumphant success of his career, and the high honor and opulence he -attained, his real character, as such a mighty patriarch of literature, -was not dreamed of either by himself or any of his contemporaries. As a -mind impregnated with a fire nearly beyond the mortal sphere—as one -whose birth was an event in which mankind were personally -interested—who was to give a name to his age—who, at that point of his -posthumous celebrity where other great men begin to recede into the -shadows of the past, was to start up anew, in more living distinctness -and intellectual splendor—was to pass in this apotheoside grandeur over -the usually impenetrable barriers of nations and languages, and to -become (like some of the universal and ever-enduring elements of -nature—like light, fire or air) a constant pleasure and nutriment to -the human mind—as this extraordinary, and, I may say, _mysterious_ -being—no one knew him. His _full_ brightness was veiled not only from -his contemporary friends and admirers, but, as is now universally -acknowledged, from many of his most distinguished subsequent editors and -commentators. The rapturous eulogies, the commendatory verses, the -folios on folios written upon him—extravagant as they are—fall short -of his _true_ value. Even Johnson, Warburton, Theobald, Pope, and the -rest of his commentators of the same rank, appear to have meted out to -him less than the deserved measure of praise. It appears that the -_comparative_ smallness of their minds (I mean comparative with -Shakspeare’s) did not permit them to comprehend the complete dimensions -of the subject they had undertaken. They have all too much the air of -critics, instead of humble followers and pupils. They assume a -familiarity with him which their relative nature did not warrant. There -is a greater difference between him and any one who has lived with him -or subsequent to him, considered as two _minds_, than is always -understood by those who even confine themselves to panegyric. - -My idea of this wonderful prophet of poetry is that his intellectual -dimensions are too great for any _one man_ who ever lived to explore -them by himself. He could but discover a portion of the vastness of his -intelligence and contemplate one or two aspects of it. No one age could -completely seize all the meaning that lies in him. It has required two -centuries to place within the reach even of superior and well cultivated -minds a just idea of him. He died in 1616, and he is beginning to be -understood in 1840. Although aided by the accumulated Shakspearian lore -of the two preceding centuries—although the most learned and greatest -geniuses of the two ages have contributed the beams of their science and -literature to shed light on him—although innumerable theatres in so -many lands have given his plays to the world—still even yet, greatly as -he is admired and studied, he is not fully appreciated. There are -thousands and millions who often read his works with delight yet without -understanding half their profound depth and celestial beauty—and even -they who have studied him the most—who have fitted themselves for that -study by their previous pursuits—who have written books upon classes of -his characters, do not yet completely comprehend him. To-morrow, -perhaps, the wisest among them will take up one of his plays and -discover some resplendent meaning—some new beam reflected from the -human heart, never known to them before. For myself I frankly confess I -have never understood him. Every day I make new discoveries, and have no -doubt I shall continue to do so as long as I live. - -The advance of Shakspeare upon the world has been as broad, deep and -steady as the on-flow of civilization itself. So much has been said and -written of him that, it may be, some will turn from the title of these -papers as from a thing of which there has been enough. They will mutter -with Hamlet, “Something too much of this.” But I may assure them that -the mere idea that they know enough of Shakspeare—that they have seen -him enough and that his praise has got to be only a fashion, is -sufficient to prove that they know nothing of him. - -The true pupil kindles at the sound of his name—at the rustle of his -robe, at the sight of his foot-mark. Whoever comes with a new idea -concerning him or to speak in his praise is welcome; and so convinced is -he that a part of him as yet is _terra incognita_ that he is always on -the watch for some discovery in him. - -To my eye, Shakspeare is a world. I do not understand by this a mere -phrase expressive of the variety and beauty of the plays, but I mean -those works are morally invested with attributes resembling the physical -globe. This planet is given by Providence as the abode of man’s body. A -vast extent of variegated surface, when he first began to move upon it, -he knew nothing about it. The dawn of it upon the human mind was that of -a bright scene—a circle of land—a verdant plain. The more it was -studied the more it grew in variety and size. It was found divided into -wonderful compartments and the first dazzled wanderers beheld with joy -and wonder the huge-rolling sea arrest their steps on one side, the -ice-topped mountains towering above them on the other,—broad and -winding rivers—silver lakes—fathomless caverns—and awful, sombre -forests. Each age since, the adventurous step of man has wandered -farther and farther, has climbed the mountain—crossed the -sea—circumnavigated the globe—and found out what it is—how it hangs -in the air—how it revolves around the sun and many of the secrets of -its bosom. Each age since, man has occupied himself studying its nature -and forming theories concerning it. - -To me, Shakspeare—although they who have not closely and habitually -studied him, may smile at such a hyperbolical comparison—yet to me, -Shakspeare lies like this solid and wonderful globe we inhabit. He is a -second nature—a new creation—a more amazing production of the -inscrutable Deity who formed the shoreless sea—and built the cloud -cleaving Alps and Andes. He is a significant illustration of the degree -of intellectual perfection to which the human mind—so destined—so -worthy to be immortal—may reach even in this sublunary sphere. - -The theory of Ulrici accords exactly with my impressions of Shakspeare. -Such an event as his coming—such superhuman powers of mind—such a -mixture of all that is grand, terrible and profound with all that is -tender—sweet, and aerial—in one brain, seems fit to be linked with a -great purpose. The idea of an ever superintending Providence being in my -mind, I cannot join those philosophers who find in our poet merely a -colossal diamond or a chance giant—as if the same hazard which gives to -the farmer an overgrown cucumber or pumpkin had dropped the rare soul of -this first of human geniuses among men. To me—I repeat, he resembles -the globe. I see in him always, as when I travel over any country, sweet -and striking scenes. I enter him as I do a landscape or an island; -looking around, above, and beneath me, and sure to find wonders and -beauties. Here, the bending rose—there—the silver brook—yonder the -swelling hill—and again the shadowy forest. I stop sometimes to examine -the hues of a violet half withdrawn from sight by the road-side—and -then I am struck at the majestic grandeur of the oak at whose root it -grows. Suddenly a storm which awes and startles my soul sweeps over -me—and then the broad sunshine breaks upon the glittering face of -nature. These are in the _foreground_ of Shakspeare, but this is not -_Shakspeare_. He has far remote wonders and beauties. If I choose to -_travel_ into him, I shall come upon things new and strange. He has -foreign countries and distant wonders like Rome or Jerusalem. There are -even in him tracts yet untravelled, and secrets—like the Pyramids and -hieroglyphics of Egypt, like the Polar seas and the central wastes of -Africa—which future time will perhaps unravel, but which we do not yet -understand. - -The meaning of _Othello_ has always been locked from me. I have not yet -been a reader of commentators and, perhaps, some of the crowd of -distinguished writers who, ever since his death, have been endeavoring -to throw light on him, may have accounted for the till now inexplicable -mystery of it. But I could never conceive it. Why a perfectly noble -mind, should be so cruelly tortured without guilt on its own part; why a -scene of innocent happiness should be thus wantonly destroyed was always -an unanswerable question I asked myself on seeing or reading this, one -of the greatest of his five great tragedies. The reader will find the -mystery solved, by an extract, in the course of these papers. - -_Hamlet_ is yet full of unexplained mystery. Why he does not kill the -bloody usurper? Why he ill treats Ophelia? Was he mad? etc. etc. etc., -are long standing themes of debate. - -In the _Tempest_, Act I. Scene 2, when Prospero is telling his history -to Miranda, there is one of these little enigmas which lie in our poet -like the veil sometimes thrown over the intentions of nature, known only -to those who study her habitually. - - Prospero. Thy false uncle— - _Dost thou attend me?_ - Miranda. Sir, most heedfully. - Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits, - How to deny them; whom to advance, and whom - To trash for over-topping: new created - The creatures that were mine, _I say_, or chang’d ’em, - Or else new form’d ’em: having both the key - Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ the state - To what tune pleas’d his ear; that now he was - The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk, - And suck’d my verdure out on’t.—_Thou attend’st not._ - Mira. O, good sir, I do. - Pro. _I pray thee, mark me._ - I thus, neglecting worldly ends, all dedicate - To closeness, and the bettering of my mind, - With that, which, but by being so retired, - O’er-priz’d all popular rate, in my false brother - Awak’d an evil nature: and my trust, - Like a good parent, did beget of him - A falsehood, in its contrary as great - As my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit, - A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, - Not only with what my revenue yielded, - But what my power might else exact,—like one, - Who having unto truth, by telling of it, - Made such a sinner of his memory, - To credit his own lie,—he did believe - He was indeed the duke; out of the substitution, - And executing the outward face of royalty, - With all prerogative:—Hence his ambition - Growing—_Dost hear?_ - - -Now, what means the inattention of the young girl? Why does her mind -wander from a history—one would suppose the most interesting revelation -which could be made to her—so that her father cannot, apparently, keep -her attention to the end of it? Thousands of people read and see this -play without knowing that she is under the operation of a -_sleeping-spell_, administered by her father. - -Again, why is Prospero so harsh and coarse to Ariel? The most delicate -creature that ever man had to do with—all gentleness—all submission, -yet hear how the great and good magician uses him. - - Pro. “Thou dost forget,” etc. - Ariel. I do not, sir. - Pro. “Thou liest, malignant thing,” etc. - - -Again of Sycorax— - - Pro. This damn’d witch Sycorax, - For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible - To enter human hearing, from Argier, - Thou know’st was banished; _for one thing she did - They would not take her life_. - - -Now what _was_ that _one thing_? - - * * * * * - - - - - THE WILDWOOD HOME. - - - BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON. - - - Oh! show a place like the wildwood home, - Where the air is fragrant and free, - And the first pure breathings of morning come - In a gush of melody, - As she lifts the soft fringe from her dark blue eye, - With a radiant smile of love, - And the diamonds that over her bosom lie, - Are bright as the gems above. - - Where noon lies down in the breezy shade - Of the glorious forest bowers, - And the beautiful birds from the sunny glade, - Sit nodding amongst the flowers. - While the holy child of the mountain spring, - Steals past with a murmur’d song, - And the wild bee sleeps in the bells that swing - Its garlanded banks along. - - And spotted fawns, where the vines are twin’d, - Are dancing away the hours, - With feet as light as the summer wind - That hardly bends the flowers. - Where day steals away with a young bride’s blush, - To the soft, green couch of night, - And the moon throws o’er with a holy hush, - Her curtains of gossamer light. - - The seraph that hides in the hemlock dell, - Oh! sweetest of birds is she, - Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell - Of melody rich and free. - Where Nature still gambols in maiden pride - By valley and pine-plumed hill, - Hangs glorious wreaths on each mountain side, - And dances in every rill. - - There are glittering mansions with marble walls, - Surmounted by mighty towers, - Where fountains play in the perfumed halls, - Amongst exotic flowers, - They are fitting homes for the haughty minds, - Yet a wildwood home for me, - Where the pure, bright waters, the mountain winds, - And the bounding hearts are free. - - * * * * * - - - - - REPROOF OF A BIRD. - - - BY JOSEPH EVANS SNODGRASS. - - - “Look forth on Nature’s face and see - What smiles play on her blissful cheek! - In voice of love she speaks thro’ me, - When I thy homestead, daily seek! - - “Canst thou be sad while trees and flowers - Wear looks of goodness—while each spear - Of herbage which adorns thy bowers, - Its head so gladsomely, doth rear? - - “Behold those dew-drops on each leaf, - But think not they of sorrow tell; - They’re tears of gladness, not of grief, - That God-ward from each petal swell. - - “O’er fears of hunger brood’st thou? See - How fare we of the wing, and those - Of floral life! Nor yet toil we - Nor spin—and still none hunger knows. - - “Raise, then, thy head! Dream not of woe, - Who human bosoms loves to sway! - Again I bid thee look—for lo! - All else but thee wear smiles to-day!” - - Sweet bird! reprove no more;—thy song - Shames these sad feelings in my breast, - Which it hath cherished far too long, - As if some welcome angel-guest. - - I own, if cherish’d, they too soon, - Like fabled serpent in the breast, - Would venom only leave as boon, - For being by a fool carest! - - Of gladness speak thy notes alone— - Of calmest self-content—and say - Plainly to hearts of sadden’d tone— - _’Tis best to cast sad thoughts away_. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE REEFER OF ’76. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.” - - - SCOURING THE CHANNEL. - -“How is the night overhead?” asked Westbrook, as I came down into the -mess-room, and, pushing the jug toward me, he added, “you see, we’re -going to make a night of it; take a pull at the Jamaica—it’s rare -stuff.” - -“Misty, with a light breeze; we’ll make the land, if we keep on this -course, before morning. We’ve harried the enemy’s shipping enough in the -chops of the channel—I can’t see what the skipper means by running in -so close to the English coast.” - -“Faith! he’s after some harum-scarum prank—blowing a stray merchantman -out of water in sight of land, or throwing a shot into Portsmouth by way -of bravado to the fleet. Well, what need we care? A short life and a -merry one—cut away at the junk, my good fellow; cut deeper—ay! that’s -it, a slice like we lawyers take of our client’s money, the better half -of the whole.” - -“A lawyer!—what do you know of the profession?” said I. - -“I was once a lawyer myself,” said he, as he transferred a huge slice of -the beef into his mouth. - -“A lawyer!—a land shark!—you a lawyer!” were the exclamations of -astonishment which burst from every lip. - -“Ay! am I the first jolly fellow who gave up a bad trade for a good one? -I beg your pardon, Parker—I believe you come from a race of lawyers; -but if so, it is no more than happened to myself. My friends made a land -shark of me, but as nature intended me for something better, the -experiment failed. My first case was enough for me, and I cut the -profession, or, rather, it cut me. The court asked me to repeat an -authority I had quoted, but I was so taken aback by something that had -happened to me just before, and which I’ll tell you by and bye, that, -for the life of me, I couldn’t call to mind a single point decided. I -grew embarrassed, stammered, looked down, came to a dead halt; and at -length, when I heard the spectators tittering around me, I grasped my -hat, shot from the court-house, and have never entered one since without -an anguish shiver. The judge said I was a fool; my client agreed with -him; I never got a cent; everybody laughed at me; and so I kicked Coke -and Plowden into the fire, cursed the law to my heart’s content, and -took to the service in a fortnight, thinking it better to thrive on -biscuit and salt junk, than to work for nothing and starve for my -pains.” - -“Shure, and a dacent gentleman”—said O’Shaughnessy—“would have been -spoilt in making a black-gown of you, Westbrook. But it was a great -mistake, that breaking down in your spache; you should have served them -like my old chum, Terence McBalawhangle, thricked the tutors of -Trinity.” - -“How was that?” asked the mess, in a breath. - -“Fath, pour us out a brimmer, and I’ll tell you the same. A nate, dacent -lad, and a witty, was Terence; and many’s the time he’s made my sides -ache for a week, by raison of laughing at his droll sayings, the sinner. -And I thought I should have died when the tutor tould him to recite the -task from the essay on the human understanding—a crusty, metaphysical -work, bad cess to it. Divil a bit did Terence know of the same—he -hadn’t a turn, he said, for the dry bones of Ezakiel—but he put a good -face on the matter, and ran on, like a petrel over the waves, never -halting even to breathe, until the tutor stopped him, and tould him -there was nothing in the text-book like what he was saying. ‘Shure, and -I know that,’ says Terence, without moving a muscle of his face, ‘but, -you see, I didn’t agree with Mr. Locke, so I thought I’d just give ye my -own sentiments.’” - -“Your friend Terence,” said Westbrook, filling a bumper, after the roars -of laughter which followed this anecdote had subsided, “ought to have -had a New Jersey justice, instead of a fellow of Trinity, to mystify. He -might have succeeded better.” - -“Maybe they’re like old Sir Peter Beverly, of the county of Clare, one -of the quorum, and never right but by mistake. Many’s the poor fellow -he’s had transported becase the man was brought up before dinner, when -the justice was out of humor. Shure and didn’t he send off Teague -O’Daly, the brightest lad at a wake or a fair within thirty miles -around, just for no other raison than becase Teague made love to his -daughter’s maid?—and didn’t he refuse the testimony of Teague’s cousin, -only ten removes off, becase he said the lad was suspected of staling a -watch?—and when they all shwore at his injustice—the gouty -porpoise—he said, with a big oath that made my hair stand on end—I was -younger then ye know—‘Constable, stop that noise; here I’ve had to -commit three fellows without being able to hear a word of their -defence.’” - -“Well, I can’t say I ever saw an Irish justice, O’Shaughnessy, at least -not one like Sir Peter; but the justice court of New Jersey is almost a -match for him.” - -“How’s that?” - -“Why, you see, each township has its justice, and when the county court -is held, all the justices come up to the county town to preside at the -trials. The court-house, however, at Skanamuctum—shove us up the -jug—was always too small, and the bench especially wouldn’t hold a -quarter of the judges, so that the man who got into court first secured -the best seat. Sometimes, however, on a hot day, the old fellows -couldn’t hold out, or else they saw a crony in the crowd whom they -thought likely to treat, so that, one by one, they would drop off the -bench; but as there were always a dozen or two awaiting to get on, the -judges’ seats were never empty. As for knowing anything about the -case—ah! this is prime!—they never pretended to it. Indeed, I’ve often -seen not a single judge on the bench, when the verdict was rendered, who -had been there when the trial began.” - -“That beats you, O’Shaughnessy,” roared a reefer, almost suffocated with -laughter, from the foot of the table. - -“Bravo!” said I; “you made a good escape, Westbrook, when you gave up -pleading before such Shallows—but you haven’t yet told us what happened -to you to embarrass you so at your _début_.” - -“Oh, no! I had forgot. I was just admitted, you must know, and all my -friends advised me to make my maiden speech on one of the cases coming -up at the next Oyer and Terminer. I looked around for some burglar, -horse-thief, or other sort of rascal, for a client, but not a sinner of -a one could I find willing to trust himself in my hands. I began to -despair, thinking I should never have the chance to figure so again, for -the celebrated Judge Traskey himself had come down special, to try a -desperate case of murder, and the whole bar were itching to show off -before him. He was said to be as sharp as a north-easter, and every -other word was either an opinion, a growl, or a witticism. You may judge -my joy, when, on walking down to the court-house, and looking very -imposing in my own opinion, but scarcely daring to hope for such a -God-send as a client, I heard the sheriff tell me that there was a -poverty-struck sheep-stealer in the dock, who was in want of a lawyer, -and would be glad to get a brisk hand for a trifle of a fee. Such a -chance of making a speech wasn’t to be lost, and, thinking all the time -what a sensation I should create, I asked to see the prisoner. As the -sheriff couldn’t bring him out into the bar, I went into the dock. Well, -I heard through the poor rascal’s story—and a long one it was—and I -was just about to leave him, when I found that the sheriff had gone, in -the mean time, to bring in the judge in procession, and, forgetting all -about me, had left me locked in. Here was a scrape with a vengeance. To -wait till the judge entered, and then sneak out of the dock, the -laughing stock of the bar, was not to be thought of. What was to be -done? The railing around the dock was high, and guarded by iron spikes, -but over it was my only outlet, and springing up at once, I began to -clamber out of the hole. At that very instant his honor entered the -court-room, and the first thing that caught his eye was a man leaping -the dock. ‘Sheriff, look to your prisoner,’ said he. ‘May it please your -honor,’ said I, attempting to explain, and essaying to leap down, in -which endeavor the spikes caught in the skirts of my coat, and I hung -fast—‘may it please your honor—’ ‘It doesn’t please me, you rascal,’ -said the judge, waxing angry, ‘to be bearded by a prisoner.’ ‘It’s all a -mistake,’ said I, struggling to get loose, while the perspiration rolled -off me, and I heard the suppressed tittering around. ‘So says every -thief,’ retorted the judge, in a towering passion. ‘But I’m an -attorney!’ I answered. ‘All the worse for you,’ roared his honor. ‘I’m -counsel in the case!’ said I, ‘Then, if you defend yourself, you have a -fool for a client,’ said the judge, beside himself with rage. At this -point the mirth of the spectators could no longer be controlled, but -burst forth in roars of laughter which effectually silenced my further -explanations. At length the mistake was made clear to the bench, and I -was suffered to be taken down. I tried to brave it out, by delivering my -speech afterwards, but an unlucky mention of the word ‘mistake’ set the -bar in a roar, and so completely confounded me that I talked nonsense at -random, until I broke down as I told you, and, since then, I never think -of a law-point without a cold sweat all over.” - -“By the staff of St. Patrick! and you’re right,” said O’Shaughnessy. -“Here’s confusion to lawyers, and a bumper for the girls!” - -“The girls—hurrah!” sang the mess in one voice. “No heel-taps!” and it -was drank enthusiastically. - -“Ah! and Parker has a song on the sweet angels,” said Westbrook; “we’ll -all join in the chorus.” - -“The song—the song!” roared the mess. - -Thus pressed, I had no escape, and taking a pull at the beaker to clear -my throat, I sang the following stanzas: - - THE GIRLS WE LOVE. - - Air—_Nancy Dawson_. - - Our country’s girls have azure eyes, - And tresses like the sunset skies, - And hearts to seek, nor need disguise— - As pure as heav’n above, sir; - With voices like a seraph’s light, - And forms that swim before the sight, - And waists to tempt an anchorite— - They are the girls to love, sir. - - Though France may boast her dark brunette, - And Spain her eyes of flashing jet, - And Greece her tones you ne’er forget— - So like the song of dove, sir— - Columbia’s maids have tones as sweet, - And cheeks where snow and roses meet: - Such lips, and then, egad! such feet! - They are the girls to love, sir. - - Oh! we are reefers bold and gay; - We brave the storm and court the fray, - Yet ne’er forget the girls away, - However far we rove, sir. - I sometimes fancy they’re decoys - To lure us on to fancied joys; - They’ll be our ruin yet, my boys!— - Here’s to the girls we love, sir. - -The deafening chorus of the last three lines of this song, repeated by -the whole mess in full voice, had scarcely died away, when the -quarter-master knocked at the door, and told us that we had given chase -to a strange sail, and that there would soon be hot work on deck. Before -he had well finished the room was empty, and we had all sprung up the -gangway. - -As I stepped upon the deck, I cast my eyes naturally upwards, and, for a -moment, was almost staggered at the press of sail we were carrying. My -astonishment was, however, of short duration, for when I saw on our bow -the distant lights of the English coast, glimmering like stars on the -horizon, I knew at once that we must overtake the chase directly, or -abandon her altogether. We were already in dangerous proximity to the -enemy’s shores, and every minute lessened the distance betwixt them and -the Fire-Fly. Yet the skipper maintained his course. The chase was a -large brig, running in towards the land with every rag of her canvass -strained to the utmost; while we were endeavoring to get to windward of -her, and thus force her out to sea. It soon became evident that we were -succeeding in our aim. Indeed I had rarely seen the little Fire-Fly do -better. Before fifteen minutes, we were well in on the land side of the -chase, and had every apparent chance of capturing her without the firing -of a shot. Hitherto she had been doggedly silent. But finding now that -we had beat her on the tack she had chosen, and seeing no chance of -escape but in going off dead before the wind, and spreading the pyramid -of light sails in which a brig has always the advantage of a schooner, -she put her helm suddenly down, and, throwing out rag after rag, was -soon seen speeding away through the twilight like a frightened bird upon -the wing. At the same instant she began firing from her signal guns, to -warn the coasters, if any there were, in her vicinity. - -“By my faith,” said Westbrook, “she makes noise and flutter enough; one -would think her a wounded gull, screaming as she flew. But her alarm -guns won’t save her. See how our old growler will pick off her fancy -yards—there goes one now!” and, as he spoke, a shot from our long gun -cut away the maintopmast of the brig just by the cap. She fell behind at -once. Another ball or two, sent with unerring aim, was attended with -like success, and before twenty minutes we were ranging alongside of the -chase, with our ports up, our lanterns lighted, the men at the guns, and -everything, in short, prepared to pour in a broadside if the Englishman -did not surrender. We saw her ensign come down as we drew alongside, but -a jack was still left flying at the fore. - -“Have you surrendered?” asked the skipper, leaping into the -main-rigging, as we ranged up by the quarter of the foe. - -There was a dogged silence of a minute, and the skipper was about waving -his hand as a signal to open our fire, when a voice from the -quarter-deck of the brig answered— - -“We’ve hauled down our flag.” - -We took possession of the chase, and found her indeed a prize. She was -deeply laden with silks, but we were most pleased with a booty of specie -to the amount of several hundred thousands of dollars. I never saw a -more cowardly set of men than her crew. They had run below hatches, in -spite of all the master could do, almost as soon as we opened our fire -on them; and when we boarded her, there was no one on deck except her -skipper, a surly, obstinate old Englishman, who was doggedly biting off -a piece of pigtail as long as the tiller by which he stood. He told us -that he had spoken, but the day before, several outward bound vessels, -and that nothing was talked of along shore but the Yankee schooner that -was scouring the channel, a craft that, it was whispered, was sailed on -account of Davy Jones, and which it would be as impossible to escape -from as from a _pampero_ off Buenos Ayres. We could not but smile at -this flattering picture of ourselves and craft. The old skipper told us, -in conclusion, that no less than two men-of-war, besides the usual -channel cruisers, had been despatched in pursuit of us, and he even -hinted, coolly turning his quid, that he had little fear of a long -imprisonment, for we would be sure to be caught before twenty-four hours -should elapse. - -As it would be impossible to carry off the prize, and as the conflict -had doubtless been heard on shore, the skipper determined to end the -adventure as boldly as he had begun it, and, accordingly, he ordered the -brig to be set on fire, when we should have removed whatever of the -cargo was most valuable and portable. It was accordingly done. When we -filled away to leave the chase, the smoke could just be seen, curling in -light wreaths up her hatchways, but she presented no other evidence of -the ruin that was so soon to overtake her. Her forward sails had been -left standing, and her helm lashed down, and she now lay to beautifully, -drifting bodily off to leeward like a line-of-battle ship. The utter -desertion of her decks, her slow, majestic movements as she rose and -fell, the twilight into which she was gradually fading, and the -glittering line of lights behind her, along the hostile coast, -associated inseparably in our minds with ideas of danger to ourselves, -contributed to form a scene as imposing as it was beautiful, and one -that raised a feeling of interest in our bosoms, tinged in no slight -degree with that awe which always accompanies a sensation of peril. -While we gazed breathlessly, however, on the fast receding brig, dark -clouds of smoke began to puff up her hatchways, and rolling heavily to -leeward, settle on the face of the waters. Directly a forked tongue of -flame shot up into the air, licked around her mast, and then went out as -suddenly as it had appeared. Soon, however, darker masses of smoke -rolled, volume on volume, up the hatchways, and directly, like a flash -of lightning, the fire shot clear and high up from the hold, and -catching to the shrouds, stays, and every portion of the hamper, ran -swiftly across the ship, mounted up the rigging, and licking and -wreathing around the spars, soon enveloped the chase in a pyramid of -flame, which eddied in the breeze, and streamed like a signal banner far -away to leeward. How wild and fantastic, like spirits dancing on the -air, were the attitudes and shapes the fire assumed! Now the flames -would blaze steadily up for a minute; now they would blow apart like -whiffs of smoke; and now they would leap bodily away, in huge and riven -masses, into the dense canopy of smoke to leeward. At times they would -wind spirally around the hamper; again they would taper off far up into -the unfathomable night. On every hand the waves had assumed the hue of -fire. The heavens above were lurid. The crackling and hissing of the -flames could be heard even at our distance from the brig. Millions of -sparks, sent up from the blazing ship, whirled off on the wind, and -showered down to leeward. Occasionally a stray spar fell simmering into -the water. At length the brig fell off from her course, and drifting -broadside on before the wind, came down towards us, rolling so -frightfully as to jerk the flames, as it were, bodily out of her. I was -still gazing spell-bound on the magnificent spectacle, when I heard an -exclamation of surprise over my shoulder, and turning quickly around, I -saw the skipper gazing intently over the burning ship, as if he watched -for something hidden behind her. He saw my movement, and asked, - -“Do you not detect a sail to windward, just in the rear of the brig? -Wait till the wind whirls away the fire—there!” - -There was no mistaking it. A large man-of-war, to judge by her size and -rig, partially concealed by the brig, was coming down to us, with -studding-sails all spread, and the English cross flying at her main. - -“We are already under a press of sail—as much as we can conveniently -spread,” said the skipper, as if musingly, looking aloft; “and the -Englishman will have to give the brig somewhat of a berth. Ah! there -comes the enemy—a frigate, as I live!” - -Every one on board had by this time had their attention turned to the -approaching stranger, and now, as she bore away to leave the wreck to -starboard, every eye was fixed on her form. She came gallantly out from -behind her fiery veil, riding gracefully on the long surges, and -seeming, as her white sails reflected back the flames, more like a -spectral than a mortal ship. The momentary admiration with which we -gazed on her, as she emerged into view, soon, however, faded before the -anxious feelings arising out of the extremity of our peril. But there -was nothing to be gained by idle forebodings. The frigate was evidently -gaining on us, and it became necessary to spread every inch of canvass -we had, in order to escape her. Men also were sent aloft, and buckets -whipped up to them, in order that our sails might be kept constantly -wet; the masts were eased, the water started, every useless thing thrown -overboard, and all the exertions which desperate men resort to were -adopted to ensure our escape. After an agitating suspense of five -minutes, we found that we were slowly drawing ahead of the frigate, and -our hopes were still further raised, in a short space afterwards, by the -growing thickness of the fog. - -“We are not caught this time yet,” said I to Westbrook, “and now for _la -belle France_.” - -“Ay! the skipper’s had enough of such hot quarters as these, I fancy; at -least, after such a haul of specie, he’ll not run any more risks if he -can help it. Depend upon it, we shall be making love to the fair -Parisian _grisettes_ before a fortnight rolls overhead.” - -“Not so fast, Mr. Westbrook,” said the old quarter-master, who overheard -us by chance—“do you see that?” and he pointed to a rocket which that -instant shot up from the deck of the frigate, and then arching over in -the sky, broke into a thousand sparkles, which fell shivering to the -water. “If I know anything of such sky-lighters, that bloody Englishman -has a consort somewhere hereabouts—and there he is on our lee-bow, the -varmint.” - -We both turned around hastily as he spoke, and, sure enough, a rocket -was seen streaming, comet-like, through the heavens, apparently sent up -from a ship well on our lee-bow. - -“By the true cross!” sung out O’Shaughnessy, at this instant, “here’s -another fellow wasting his fire-works to windward. Shure, and, as the -thief said to the hangman when he saw the crowd, we’re beset—ohone!” - -I could scarcely contain my laughter, although by this time rockets were -rising into the air on our three sides, with a rapidity which showed -that we had got somewhere into the midst of the channel fleet, and that -the frigate astern was telegraphing to her consorts of our whereabouts. -Our situation was alarming in the extreme. Beset on all sides, we had -scarcely the slightest chance of escape, our only hope, in fact, -consisting in the darkness of the night, and the ignorance of our -position on the part of the men-of-war ahead. For a moment—and it was -the only one of the kind in his life—our skipper seemed to be at fault; -and he stood near the starboard railing, with his teeth firmly clenched -and his brow contracted, gazing vacantly ahead. Suddenly, however, he -turned to the man at the wheel, and ordered him to bear up towards the -sail on our weather bow. He then sent down into his cabin for a -catalogue of the English navy, which we had taken in a prize but a few -days before. - -Meanwhile the frigate astern had vanished in the gathering gloom, while -the man-of-war on our lee-bow was yet unseen. The enemy, however, off -our weather cat-head, began to loom faint and shadowy through the fog, -and just as he became distinctly defined against the horizon, we heard -the roll of the drum beating to quarters, and directly beheld in our foe -a heavy frigate, with her ports open and lighted, and a formidable -battery frowning across the gloom. We had by this time edged away so as -to bring the Englishman a point or two on our lee-bow, and now, running -up the British ensign, we bore boldly towards the foe. Every one saw -that a _ruse_ was intended, though in what manner it was to be executed -we were yet in doubt, and more than one of us trembled for the event. A -few moments of breathless suspense brought us up to the Englishman, and -as we passed on opposite tacks, and looked up at his enormous hull, and -his vast batteries overshadowing us, even the stoutest heart felt a -momentary flutter. The captain of the frigate stood in the mizzen -rigging, looking down on our little craft, while our own skipper, with -hat off, gazed up at his enemy from the quarter-deck larboard gun. It -was luckily too dark to see our uniforms from the frigate’s deck. - -“What craft is that?” thundered the English captain. - -“The Alert, of his Britannic Majesty’s navy—Captain Sasheby,” answered -the skipper. “What frigate have we had the honor of telegraphing?” - -“The Achilles—Captain Norton. Come to under our lee. You were in chase; -at least so we understood the lights. What has become of the enemy?—he -was the same one, we suppose, who fired the vessel whose light we saw up -to windward.” - -“Ay! the scoundrel was the Yankee schooner, whom the admiralty has sent -us down specially to overhaul. We lost her in the fog, but thought she -had gone down towards you.” - -“You’d better keep less away,” said the English captain. “Fill on your -course again. We shall beat up on your late track, lest the Yankee may -have lain to, as the safest way to get off in this fog. If we throw up -three rockets successively, we shall want you to come up towards us. If -we fire two guns, the rascal will be to windward; if one, to leeward.” - -“Ay, ay, sir!—fill away again!” and, with a courteous wave of the hand, -the two captains parted company. - -During the whole of this colloquy, we had lain to at but a short -distance from the quarter of the foe, and, at any moment, if our -disguise had been penetrated, we could have been sunk by a single -broadside. Accustomed though we were to peril, our hearts beat at this -dangerous proximity, and when at length we filled away on our course, -and gradually lost sight of the frigate, the relief we experienced was -indescribable. We kept away, cracking on every thing we could, and for -nearly an hour our cheat remained undiscovered. At the end of that time, -to judge by the rockets on the windward horizon, the three frigates -learned that they had been outwitted. They doubtless gave us chase, but -we were now clear of the fleet, and, moreover, had some leagues start of -them. Before daylight we had made the French coast, and we were safely -moored, before forty-eight hours, in the harbor of Brest. - - * * * * * - - - - - OH! A MERRY LIFE DOES A HUNTER LEAD. - - - BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. - - - Oh! a merry life does a hunter lead! - He wakes with the dawn of day! - He whistles his dog and mounts his steed, - And scuds to the woods away! - The lightsome tramp of the deer he’ll mark, - As they troop in herds along; - And his rifle startles the tuneful lark - As he warbles his morning song! - - Oh! a hunter’s life is the life for me! - That is the life for a man! - Let others sing of the swelling sea; - But match the woods if you can! - Then give me my gun—I’ve an eye to mark - The deer as they bound along! - My steed and my dog, and the cheerful lark - To warble my morning song. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE WIDOW’S WEALTH. - - - BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDMAN. - - -Addressed to my little boy, who, on seeing me weep at pecuniary -misfortunes, brought a silver piece which had been presented to him, and -with tears in his eyes, said—“_Mother, will this do you any good?_” - - Nay, keep thy gift my precious boy! - It but a drop would be - From the wide ocean of the wants - That are oppressing me. - - But blessings on the tender heart - From whence the offering rose— - Which fain would give its ‘little all,’ - To soothe a mother’s woes! - - Ah! when I gaze on _thee_ my child, - I feel that wealth is mine; - For gems of the “first water,” are - Those guileless tears of thine. - - ’Tis thy caress, my blessed one! - The hopes in thee bound up, - That bid my thanks ascend to Heaven - O’er sorrow’s bitter cup. - - And shall thy noble soul expand - To manhood’s ripened years? - And will a mother’s sorrow _then_, - Have power to move thy tears? - - Then come——and whilst I fold thee here, - My widowed heart is blest; - Nor would I for a fortune sell - The “jewel” on my breast. - - * * * * * - - - - - FLIRTATION. - - - BY EMMA C. EMBURY. - - - “Thy words, whate’er their flattering spell, - Could scarce have thus deceived, - But eyes that acted truth so well, - Were sure to be believed. - ’Tis only on thy changeful heart - The blame of falsehood lies. - Love lives in every other part, - But there, alas! he dies.” - - -“My dear Rosa, how could you be so imprudent as to waltz with young -Sabretash last night?—Colonel Middleton looked excessively annoyed:” -said Mrs. Crafts to her beautiful daughter, as they sat together over -their late breakfast. - -“I acknowledge the imprudence of the act, mamma; but, really, I could -not help it. I am heartily wearied of this perpetual restraint,” was the -reply. - -“I thought you were too well practised in flirtation, Rosa, to find any -character too difficult for you to play.” - -“Oh, it is easy enough to suit the taste of everybody, but terribly -fatiguing to be obliged to play propriety and prudery so long. However, -seven thousand a year is worth some trouble.” - -“So, then, you count the lover as nothing?” - -“I beg your pardon, mamma; the Colonel is handsome and gentlemanly—_un -peu passé_, it is true, but still a very good-looking appendage to a -fine house and a rich equipage.” - -“Well, make the most of your time, Rosa; I told you I could only afford -three winters in town, and this is the last, you know.” - -“Don’t be alarmed, mamma; I will never return to our dull country -village again. I will marry anybody before I will bury myself for life -in a stupid country place, and I think Colonel Middleton is rapidly -approaching _Proposition Point_.” - -“He may steer another course, if you are not more cautious than you were -last evening. I saw him in close conversation with your cousin Grace -while you were dancing.” - -“And so you want to make me jealous of poor cousin Grace! Ha, ha, ha! -that would be too ridiculous—a little pale-faced thing, too timid to -speak above her breath, and with manners as unformed as a school-girl’s! -No, no, mamma, the Colonel is welcome to talk to her as much as he -likes; I am not afraid.” - -“But you know his taste for poetry and painting—suppose he should -discover her talents for both?” - -“Never fear, mamma; she is too bashful to develop the few attractions -which she possesses. He dotes on music and beauty and graceful manners; -is rather particular in his ideas of elegance in dress, and has many of -those _finikin_ fancies which cousin Grace could never satisfy. Indeed I -mean to make use of her to forward my own views.” - -“Well, well, Rosa, I dare say you can manage your own affairs; but, at -the same time, I would advise you to avoid Captain Sabretash.” - -“I suppose you think he has never forgiven me for my share in the affair -of his sister; but I can assure you he has quite forgotten it. He is one -of those butterflies of fashion who have no sting.” - -“You are mistaken, Rosa; he has as much skill as yourself in acting a -part, and I tell you that he never has and never will forgive you.” - -“Why, then, does he haunt me so perpetually in society? Why does he seek -to be my partner in the dance, and my companion on all occasions?” - -“I cannot answer that question, Rosa; but I have watched him very -closely, and I believe he means you no good.” - -“I am not afraid of him, mamma; he is a charming beau, and his gay wit -is a great relief to me after listening to the grave and somewhat heavy -wisdom of the gallant Colonel.” - -Possessed of great beauty, a fine figure, a graceful address, and a host -of superficial accomplishments, Rosa Crafts had always managed to be the -belle of every circle in which she mingled. How this _éclat_ was -obtained may be readily divined, for where there is no real dignity of -character, no sincerity of heart, no firmness of principle, all tastes -may be studied and adopted. But Rosa’s love of admiration had carried -her beyond the limits of prudence. She pleased so _generally_ that she -never became attractive _individually_, and she had attained her -twenty-fifth year without receiving any eligible offer of marriage. The -straitened circumstances in which her widowed mother had been left, -rendered a wealthy alliance necessary to the support of the style of -living which Rosa had insisted upon adopting, and Mrs. Crafts began to -lose patience when she found her money diminishing, her debts -increasing, and her daughter verging towards an _uncertain age_, without -any prospect of bringing their schemes to a successful issue. It was -just at this juncture that Colonel Middleton came within the sphere of -her attractions, and was marked as a victim destined to fulfil her -matrimonial speculations. The Colonel was a man whom almost any woman -might have admired, even if he had not possessed the talisman of wealth. -In his youth he had been eminently handsome, and time had dealt -leniently with him, for the weight of forty years had fallen so lightly -upon him that it would have puzzled the wisest physiognomist to count -their number on his brow. His cheek wore the rich bloom of health, his -well-formed mouth still displayed the glittering pearls which had been a -distinguishing beauty in his boyhood, the thick wavy masses of his dark -hair fell on temples but faintly tracked by the “foot of the crow,” and -his tall figure still retained its symmetry, notwithstanding a slight -tendency to _embonpoint_. He could scarcely be ignorant of his personal -advantages, but he was by no means a vain man. In his youth, he had been -mortified by the belief that his handsome face was more valued than his -gifted mind; and the consciousness that, whatever might be his physical -merits, his intellectual gifts were of far more value, tended to make -him but little sensible to the impulses of vanity. But though possessing -so many spells to awaken love, and endowed with a heart singularly alive -to affection, he had been destined to disappointment. His fastidious -taste had never been fully satisfied, and he had reached his thirtieth -year before he found a woman who could excite a deep interest in his -heart. While in Europe, he met with an English gentleman who was -travelling with his invalid daughter, and the beauty, the delicacy of -feeling, and the gentle reserve of Laura Pendleton’s character, soon won -his warmest regard. Her melancholy, the consequence, as it seemed, of -fragile health, was so touching, her style of beauty was so ethereal, -her manners were so full of timid gentleness, that he became deeply -attached to her. Knowing the prejudices of her father, he did not -venture _first_ to avow his love to the shrinking girl, but taking -advantage of her absence, he made known his wishes to Mr. Pendleton, and -begged his acquiescence in his suit. He received a most flattering reply -from the gratified father, and only wanted to be assured by Laura -herself of his felicity, when she was suddenly taken seriously ill. He -was of course denied all access to her, but her father treated him as -her accepted lover, and even went so far as to decide that the marriage -should take place immediately upon her recovery. When Colonel Middleton -was admitted to the presence of Laura, she was still confined to her -apartment, and never, from the time of his proposal to the hour when -they stood before the altar to be wedded, did he see his affianced bride -except in the company of her father or mother. He did not then know that -there was a design in this vexatious restraint. Laura’s timidity and -melancholy had evidently increased, but the sudden threatening of death -at the moment of betrothment might easily account for this, and in the -mean time she received her lover with her usual quiet kindness, -passively suffering all his fondness, and offering no opposition when -her father urged a speedy union. They were married at the house of the -British Consul, and while her parents returned to their native land, the -Colonel and his bride continued their sojourn in sunny Italy. It was not -until months afterwards that he learned the whole truth. She had loved -another—she had plighted her faith—but the authority of her parents -had compelled her to break her troth, and the offer of Colonel Middleton -had been made at the moment when the certainty of entire separation from -the object of her affection had made her utterly regardless of her -future fate. She neither accepted nor rejected him; her father managed -the whole matter, and she had culpably sacrificed the peace of both by -thus weakly yielding to despair. Some months after her marriage, the -news of her lover’s death threw her into a paroxysm of grief and -self-reproach, and taught the husband that he had won the hand only, -while the heart was still another’s. Her feelings were too pure, and her -mind too deeply imbued with truth, to be satisfied with the deception -which her silence had practised upon her husband; and as her inert and -timid temper had been the cause of her error, she determined to devote -her life to its expiation. But she mistook penance for expiation. -Instead of resolutely stifling her regrets for the past, and applying -herself to the fulfilment of her duties—instead of remembering that -duty to her husband required the oblivion of former affections—she -vainly fancied that by giving herself up to sorrow, she should make a -proper atonement for her fault; and she therefore sought not to check -the ravages which grief was making in her health. For seven long years -did the Colonel watch over the failing strength and minister to the -daily comforts of her whose heart was buried in the grave of another. -She esteemed him, she was grateful to him, she loved him with sisterly -affection; but she remembered the thrill which a dearer voice had once -sent to her heart, and because her husband could awaken none of those -fervent feelings of youthful passion, she rejected the peace which might -yet have grown up in the calm atmosphere of domestic life, and cherished -her unhappiness like a bosom friend. She died at length in her husband’s -arms, lamenting, when too late, the weakness and morbid sensibility -which had led her to waste her life in pining after unsubstantial bliss, -when true contentment might have been the daily companion of her -existence. - -It was after this sad termination of his first attachment that Colonel -Middleton met with the beautiful Rosa Crafts. Younger in feelings than -in years, he had never drank from the pure fount of reciprocal -affection; he had been loved where he could offer no return; he had -loved where no answering fondness became his reward; and though past the -age of romance, he yet thirsted for the sweet waters of mutual -tenderness. But with all his genius, his tact and his experience, he was -a mere tyro in his knowledge of woman. No man has ever deeply understood -the peculiarities of woman’s nature until the intimate communion of -wedded life has given him an insight into its mysteries; no man has ever -been qualified to portray the many-colored varieties of female -character, unless an intelligent and amiable wife has been the mirror -that reflected, or, at least, the telescope which brought near to his -view the minute traits which alone can give _truthfulness_ to the -picture. The beauty of the stately Rosa had fascinated Colonel -Middleton, and having ascertained, to his satisfaction, that no one -occupied a prior place in her affections, he never thought of the -possibility that she was incapable of loving; it never occurred to him -that the temple might be unoccupied only because the portals were too -narrow to admit an object of worship. - -Aided by her mother, whose skill in reading character was very great, -Rosa adapted herself with inimitable skill to the fancies of the rich -Colonel Middleton. The little personal vanity which had lurked -unsuspected in his bosom, was fanned into a gentle flame by her adroit -flatteries, and could not fail to throw additional light upon the lovely -woman who seemed to forget the homage due to her own charms in her -admiration of her new friend. Though timid almost to nervousness when on -horseback, she was ready every morning for a ride with him; though far -too indolent to love walking, she never declined a ramble with the -enthusiastic lover of nature; though delighting in gorgeous colors and -an _outré_ style of dress, she affected almost quaker-like simplicity as -soon as she learned his taste in this respect; passionately fond of -waltzing, she became a perfect prude after she heard his opinion of it; -and even her habits of coquetry, which had become almost a second nature -to her, were exchanged for gentle reserve and modest self-possession -when his eye was upon her. But the master-stroke of policy was that -which induced him to believe her endowed with intellectual gifts. - -Cousin Grace, of whom Rosa had spoken so contemptuously, was the orphan -daughter of Mrs. Crafts’ only sister, and for several years she had been -the inmate of her aunt’s family. A small income, which she derived from -her patrimony, rendered her independent, and she resided with her aunt -simply because she could claim no other eligible home. But her early -education had made her very unlike her present companions. Truth and -piety were the leading traits of her character; industry, contentment -and kindliness were the daily practice of her life. Without making any -ostentatious display of her religion, she made it the rule of her -conduct, and therefore it was that, though she occasionally mingled in -the gay scenes in which Rosa delighted, she never allowed herself to -become involved in any of the schemes of her beautiful cousin. Her -kindness of heart led her to feel sincerely attached to Rosa, in spite -of her faults, and her humility prevented her from dreaming of -rivalship, although, if seen any where else than at the side of so -brilliant a beauty, Grace might have charmed by the placid and -child-like sweetness of her countenance. Her retiring manners and timid -reserve in society prevented many from learning the full value of her -mental gifts, but to the few who knew her intimately, she appeared a -creature of rare endowments. Grace had not been blind to the arts which -were practised to attract Colonel Middleton, but, looking upon him as -fully qualified, both by age and experience, to take care of himself, -she felt some little amusement at the manœuvres of her aunt and cousin, -until a knowledge of his past history, together with the discovery of -his high-toned feelings, excited a deeper interest in his welfare. -Henceforth she watched the plans of her cousin with something like -regret; but regret unmingled with any selfish feeling, for Grace, with -all her gentleness, had a proper sense of the dignity of her sex, and -did not think that _marriage_ was absolutely essential to a woman’s -respectability. The affair was still in suspense when Grace received a -summons to attend a sick friend in her native village, and departed for -an absence of some weeks, while Rosa remained to complete the conquest -of the amiable Colonel. - -One morning, on entering the parlor at his accustomed hour for their -ride, Colonel Middleton found neither Mrs. nor Miss Crafts visible, and -throwing himself on a sofa, he awaited their appearance. As he took his -seat, he observed a book peeping from under one of the cushions. It was -most _judiciously_ placed, for had it been lying on a table, he never -would have thought of opening a volume whose form and binding bore such -a marvellous resemblance to an _album_. But the slight mystery connected -with it—the fact of its being _half hidden_—excited his curiosity, and -he busied himself in inspecting its varied pages. He found it to contain -some very beautiful pencil drawings, a few exquisitely colored miniature -likenesses, and various short poems. There was no name in the -volume—nothing by which he could identify the owner—but he soon found -that the drawings were all by one person, and he began to suspect that -so delicate a pencil had been held only by a _poet’s_ hand. He -remembered some expressions which had fallen from the lips of the lovely -Rosa only on the previous day; he took from his pocket-book a little -note, beautifully written on rose-tinted paper, which he had received -from her a short time before; he compared it with the poems; the round, -clear Italian characters were the same in both, and, with a thrill of -delight, the Colonel at once admitted the belief that the beautiful -object of his regard was as gifted as she was lovely. Forgetting the -prolonged delay of her appearance—a delay designed to afford him ample -opportunity of satisfying his curiosity—his eyes wandered eagerly over -the volume. He was still more charmed, however, when, on one of the last -pages in the book, he met with a pencil sketch of himself. There was no -mistaking the likeness; it was a most spirited head, and the features -were his own. For a moment the Colonel was elated to almost boyish glee, -and could scarcely refrain from pressing to his lips this precious proof -of Rosa’s feelings. - -At that critical moment, Mrs. Crafts and her daughter entered the room. -A slight blush—a modest dropping of her fringed eyelids, betrayed the -surprise of the _artless_ Rosa as she observed the Colonel’s occupation. - -“Pray, who is the author of these beautiful sketches?” he asked, as soon -as he had paid his respects to the ladies. - -A look of maternal pride on the one side, and of girlish diffidence on -the other, was exchanged between mother and daughter, but no reply was -made. - -“Are the poems by the same hand as the drawings?” said he, still -retaining his hold of the volume, which Rosa gently strove to take from -him. - -A timid “yes” was uttered by the beautiful girl, while her mother, -pretending to hear a summons from an _invisible_ servant, _judiciously_ -left the room. Colonel Middleton drew Rosa to a seat beside him, and, as -he clasped her hand in his, exclaimed— - -“Dear, dear Rosa, do you mean to monopolize all the choicest gifts of -Heaven? Look here,” pointing, as he spoke, to his own portrait in the -volume, “and tell me if I may dare to hope that your own heart was the -mirror which reflected these features?” - -Rosa uttered a faint cry, and, overpowered with shame, hid her face on -the arm of the sofa, while her white neck was suffused with a deep red -hue that might easily have been mistaken for a blush. The Colonel was -overpowered; his foible was a desire to be the first and only object of -affection to a woman’s heart, and he could not doubt that he had now -attained his hopes. A passionate expression of his feelings and a -proffer of his heart and hand were the only evidences of gratitude which -he could bestow on the gentle girl. What a fine piece of acting was -Rosa’s gradual return to self-possession! The blushing timidity with -which she listened to his passionate tenderness, her delicate dread lest -his discovery of her _secretly cherished_ attachment should be the -motive of his present offer, and, finally, the modest yet fervent -abandonment of feeling with which she allowed her head to rest on his -shoulder, while his arm encircled her slender form and his lip imprinted -a lover’s kiss on her fair brow, would have made the fortune of a -theatrical _débutante_. It was all settled; the album decided the -affair, and Rosa Crafts was certainly destined to become Mrs. Colonel -Middleton. - -But, once sure of her lover, Rosa had no desire to become a wife sooner -than prudence required. She could not give up old habits without an -effort, and she determined to enjoy her liberty as long as possible, by -deferring the period of her marriage. Colonel Middleton busied himself -in refitting his beautiful villa on the banks of the Hudson, and during -his temporary absences, Rosa obtained many a moment of freedom from -restraint. Fortune seemed to favor the wishes of the heartless woman of -the world, for ere the time fixed for their marriage had arrived, -Colonel Middleton was ordered to take command of his regiment in -Florida. He was too good a soldier to hesitate, whatever might have been -his disappointment, and the day which should have witnessed his union -with his beautiful bride, dawned upon him amid the everglades of that -wild and perilous district. Rosa felt his absence as a positive relief. -Nothing was easier than to write tender and beautiful letters to her -distant lover—nothing more pleasant than to return to society as an -affianced bride, certain of a future establishment, and privileged to -seek present enjoyment. - -“How can you be so attentive to that consummate flirt?” asked a friend, -as Captain Sabretash returned from leading Miss Crafts to her carriage -after a gay party. - -“I have good reason for my conduct, Harry,” was the reply; “she has not -a more devoted attendant in society than myself.” - -“I know it, and therefore it is that I am surprised at your -inconsistency.” - -“Inconsistency, Harry! You don’t know me, or you would not think me -inconsistent. Can nothing but admiration and love render one watchful? I -tell you that never had that woman a lover half so devoted and so -observant as myself; but it is with the keen eye of hatred that I watch -her every movement; it is the spirit of vengeance which actuates my -every attention.” - -“It is a queer way of showing hatred. Do you mean to continue such -devotion after her marriage with Colonel Middleton?” - -“That marriage will never take place, Harry. Think you the noble-minded -Colonel would wed her if he knew all that I could tell him? I will not -oppose idle words to a lover’s passion, but I will bring him proof such -as he cannot doubt of her unworthiness, and thus will I fulfil my -revenge.” - -Among the admirers whom Rosa drew around her during the Colonel’s -absence, was one who excited her peculiar interest. The Baron de -Stutenhoff was a Russian, with clear blue eyes, a profusion of long -light hair, and also _presumed_ to be in possession of a _mouth_, -although his bushy fox-colored mustachios and untrimmed beard rendered -the fact somewhat difficult of proof to those who had never seen the -gentleman expand his jaws at a supper-table. He was no impostor—no -Spanish barber, no French cook, no Italian mountebank disguised _en -marquis_. The Baron de Stutenhoff was actually a Baron, privileged to -wear the crosses and ribbons of several orders at his buttonhole, and -bearing on his cheek a broad and not very seemly scar of a sabre-cut -received in honorable combat. He had been captivated with the charms of -the beautiful coquette, and she was by no means displeased with the -opportunity of flirting with so distinguished a man. He became her -constant attendant in society; his habits and tastes assimilated to her -own far better than did those of the sensitive and gifted Colonel -Middleton, and when he talked, in bad French, of his fine estates, of -the rich pomp of Russian life, of the droskas, with their silver bells -and lining of costly furs, Rosa could not help wishing that she had not -been quite so precipitate in her acceptance of the Colonel’s proposal. -Nothing would have suited her vain humor so well as becoming the wonder -of some foreign capital—_la belle Americaine_ of some distant land, -where Americans were looked upon as savages. She fancied she could -behold her resplendent beauty clad in the picturesque attire of a -foreign clime, and winning the admiration of kings and princes in the -semi-barbaric court of Russia. Her vanity led her into the same -labyrinth where she had so often bewildered others, and, without -confiding her feelings to her more prudent mother, she determined to -mould circumstances to suit her new views of ambition. The Baron de -Stutenhoff was a vain man, and of course easily led away by flattery. -His title was derived from his long service in the Russian army, since, -by a custom of that country, every freeman who has been in active -military service during a certain term of years, receives the title of -Baron _by courtesy_, whatever be his birth. His villages, of which he -boasted so largely, consisted of a few miserable huts, occupied by some -twenty or thirty serfs, which had been his patrimony, but which had long -since gone out of his possession to pay gambling debts. He was a weak -and ignorant man, passionately addicted to play, and, since he had been -among the untitled Americans, he had learned to look upon himself as so -great a man, that he doubted whether he should honor Miss Crafts with -the offer of his hand, or wait for some more distinguished woman to -throw herself at his feet. But Rosa was an overmatch for him in -acuteness. She managed to give him an idea that she was very wealthy, -and then, after bringing him as near to an absolute proposal as suited -her views, she determined to take her own time to make a decision. But -she was doomed to have her plans developed rather prematurely. - -Some one (could it be Captain Sabretash?) informed Colonel Middleton of -all that had passed since his departure, and the consequence was that -the gallant soldier obtained leave of absence, and unexpectedly -returned, having met on the road a most tender and devoted letter from -his “ladye love.” On the evening of his arrival in New York, there was a -splendid fancy ball, and, without informing any one but Captain -Sabretash of his return, the Colonel determined to judge for himself of -Rosa’s conduct. Accompanied by the Captain, he entered the ball-room -early in the evening, and, by dint of a bribe, obtained the privilege of -occupying a nook in the orchestra, from whence he could see without -being seen. Almost the first person that met his eyes was his delicate -and modest Rosa, whirling through the giddy waltz in the arms of the -tall Russian. His auburn beard mingled with her dark tresses, as her -head almost rested on his breast, and his eyes were bent with a most -insulting expression upon the graceful form which reclined in his -embrace. Rosa little dreamed of the fierce glance which watched her -every movement as she practised her fascinating arts upon the delighted -Baron. She little knew that the quick ear of another had caught the -offensive and libertine words to which she had listened in silence, and -excused as “only the freedom of foreign manners”—as if true _gentlemen_ -of _every_ land did not always respect the _modesty_ of women. She -little suspected that he whom she believed to be exposed to the bullet -of the lurking Indian was suffering a wound scarcely less severe in the -crowded and glittering ball-room. - -It was at this moment, when the proud and sensitive Colonel Middleton -was fully convinced of her levity of conduct, that Captain Sabretash -determined to make known to him her utter heartlessness. - -“I have _that_ to tell to which you must listen now, Colonel Middleton,” -said he, when the betrayed lover would fain have deferred his -communication; “now, while your eye is darting fire upon the false woman -who has made you the tool of her mercenary schemes. Listen to me now, -ere the voice of the syren charm you into forgetfulness of what you -behold. Five years ago I had a sister—my only one—a gentle, loving -creature, with little beauty, but a heart filled with every good -feeling. She was wooed by one whom I esteemed and approved; she loved -him, and they were betrothed to each other. But Adeline went into the -country on account of my mother’s ill health, and during her absence, -her lover fell into the way of Rosa Crafts. They met at a fashionable -watering-place, and, though struck with her beauty, he remained proof -against all her ordinary fascinations, until her pride became piqued, -and she determined to make him sensible of her attractions. Some fool -among her danglers offered a wager that she would not succeed; she -accepted the wager, and though she knew of his engagement to another, -she deliberately set herself to the task of robbing his affianced bride -of his affections. When did an unprincipled woman ever will any thing -which she did not accomplish if she scrupled not the means? She -succeeded. Adeline was neglected, and, for a time, forgotten. She pined -in solitude for the accustomed tenderness which had become the nutriment -of life to her young heart, but she received it not. At length came a -letter; her lover, overcome with shame and remorse, but led away by his -fatal passion, wrote her a wild, incoherent letter, full of penitence -and sorrow, but still designed as a renunciation of his plighted faith. -He broke his engagement with Adeline, and then offered his hand to his -new mistress. Need I say that Rosa Crafts rejected his love and won her -wager? I was absent at the time, and when I returned Adeline was dying -of consumption. I watched beside her till I saw her laid within the -tomb, and then I sought for vengeance on her perjured lover. He refused -to fight me. I disgraced him in the public street by personal -chastisement, and then he was obliged to meet me. We fought with pistols -at twelve paces—I shot him through the body.” - -Captain Sabretash paused, overcome by his emotion. “Five years have -passed since then,” he resumed, “and I have haunted the steps of that -woman in hopes of yet seeing her humbled to the dust. Talk of _harmless -flirtation_! My buried sister, my murdered friend, my own blood-stained -hand, can bear witness to the innocence of what the world calls -_harmless_ flirtation!” - -Colonel Middleton listened in silence. He felt that the Captain had -uttered nothing but truth; yet when he thought of her intellectual -gifts, her exquisite beauty, her inimitable grace, his heart sunk within -him, for how could falsehood dwell with so much perfection? - -“Ask Grace Leydon!” continued Captain Sabretash; “ask Grace Leydon if I -have told you a word more than the simple, unvarnished truth.” - -“How may I believe the one when thus compelled to doubt the other?” -asked the Colonel. - -“Doubt Grace Leydon!” exclaimed his companion, “why you might as well -doubt the existence of the sun in heaven. She is all truth—all purity. -Surely you must have seen enough of her vestal-like life to know that if -ever there was a true-hearted woman upon earth, it is she. If Rosa -Crafts had but half the mental graces and moral virtues of her cousin -Grace, she would be an angel.” - -Colonel Middleton _did_ ask Grace Leydon; but not till long afterwards. -His decision of character forbade him to grieve over an unworthy object, -and the moment Rosa ceased to be the noble-minded being he had imagined -her, he ceased to cherish his affection for her. An interview, -characterized on his part by grave earnestness and sad remonstrance, and -on hers by flippancy and heartlessness, terminated all intercourse -between the beautiful Rosa and her high-minded lover. In less than three -weeks after the rupture between them, Baron de Stutenhoff had the -satisfaction of leading to the altar the “belle of the season;” but long -ere the honey-moon was over, he learned, to his great chagrin, that the -anticipated riches of his bride were to be found somewhere in the -vicinity of his own large estates in dream-land. A quarrel was the -immediate result of the discovery, and while the noble Baron betook him -to the life of a “Chevalier d’Industrie,” travelling from city to city, -the brilliant Rosa was compelled to return to her mother’s dull country -residence in the character of a deserted wife. - -Colonel Middleton _did_ ask Grace Leydon; after he had learned that she -was the _true_ author and owner of the gifted volume which Rosa had -falsely claimed, after he had awakened from his dream of beauty to a -sense of purity and sincerity, after he had learned the value of a -truthful spirit and a loving heart, he asked Grace Leydon to share his -future lot in life, and she became his wife—his happy and noble-minded -wife—carrying into the home of her husband the talents and the virtues -which had been the solace and resources of her hours of loneliness. - - * * * * * - - - - - DEATH. - - - BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING. - - - Death came to a beautiful boy at play, - As he sat ’mong the summer flowers, - But they seem’d to wither and die away - In their very sunniest hours. - - “I have come,” in a hollow voice, said Death, - “To play on the grass with thee;” - But the boy look’d frighten’d, and held his breath, - In the midst of his childish glee. - - “Away, away from my flowers,” he said, - “For I know, and love thee not”— - Death look’d at the boy, and shook his head: - Then slowly he left the spot. - - He met a maiden in girlhood’s bloom, - And the rose on her cheek was bright, - And she shuddered, as tho’ a ghost from the tomb - Had risen before her sight. - - She stood by the brink of a fountain clear— - In its waters her beauty view’d, - When Death, with his haggard face, drew near, - And before the maiden stood. - - “Fair damsel,” he said, with a courtly pride, - “To thee I this goblet quaff,” - But she turned with a buoyant step aside, - And fled with a ringing laugh. - - He journey’d on, where an old man sat - On the trunk of a worn-out tree— - A poor old man—for his held-out hat - Was a symbol of beggary. - - Death drew quite near, till the old man’s eyes - Were raised to his wrinkled face; - With a frighten’d look of wild surprise, - He rose from his resting-place. - - “I come to succor,” Death mildly said, - But the old man would depart— - Again he look’d, and shook his head, - For he knew full well his mart. - - “They all of them, shuddering, turn away— - The boy in his childish glee, - The maiden young, and the old man gray: - Yet they all shall come to me.” - - And he gather’d them all, for the boy was weak— - The old man yielded his breath— - And the rose grew pale on the maiden’s cheek, - As she sank in the arms of Death. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SAXON’S BRIDAL. - - -BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC. - - -There are times in England, when the merry month of May is not, as it -would now appear, merely a poet’s fiction; when the air is indeed mild -and balmy, and the more conspicuously so, that it succeeds the furious -gusts and driving hail-storms of the boisterous March, the fickle -sunshine and capricious rains of April. One of these singular epochs in -the history of weather it was, in which events occurred which remained -unforgotten for many a day in the green wilds of Charnwood Forest. It -was upon a soft, sweet morning, toward the latter end of the month, and -surely nothing more delicious could have been conceived by the fancy of -the poet. The low west wind was fanning itself among the tender leaves -of the new-budded trees, and stealing over the deep meadows, all -redolent with dewy wild flowers, waving them with a gentle motion, and -borrowing a thousand perfumes from their bosoms; the hedgerows were as -white with the dense blossoms of the hawthorn, as though they had been -powdered over by an untimely snow-storm, while everywhere along the -wooded banks, the saffron primrose and its sweet sister of the spring, -the violet, were sunning their unnumbered blossoms in the calm warmth of -the vernal sunshine. The heavens, of a pure transparent blue, were -laughing with a genial lustre, not flooded by the dazzling glare of -midsummer, but pouring over all beneath their influence a lovely, gentle -light, in perfect keeping with the style of the young scenery, and all -the air was literally vocal with the notes of innumerable birds, from -the proud lark, “rejoicing at heaven’s gate,” to the thrush and -blackbird, trilling their full, rich chants from every dingle, and the -poor linnet, piping on the spray. Nothing—no, nothing—can be imagined -that so delights the fancy with sweet visions, that so enthrals the -senses, shedding its influences even upon the secret heart, as a soft -old-fashioned May morning. Apart from the mere beauties of the scenery, -from the mere enjoyment of the bright skies, the dewy perfumes that -float on every breeze, the mild, unscorching warmth—apart from all -these, there is something of a deeper and a higher nature in the -thoughts called forth by the spirit of the time—a looking forward of -the soul to fairer things to come, an excitement of a quiet hope within, -not very definite perhaps, nor easily explained, but one which almost -every man has felt, and contrasted with the languid and pallid satiety -produced by the full heat of summer, and yet more with the sober and -reflective sadness that steals upon the mind as we survey the russet -hues and the sere leaves of autumn. It is as if the newness, the fresh -youth of the season, gave birth to a corresponding youth of the soul. -Such are the sentiments which many men feel now-a-days, besides the -painter and the poet and the soul-rapt enthusiast of nature; but those -were iron days of which we write, and men spared little time to thought -from action or from strife, nor often paused to note their own -sensations, much less to ponder on their origin or to investigate their -causes. The morning was such as we have described—the scene a spot of -singular beauty within the precincts of the then royal forest of -Charnwood, in Leicestershire. A deep, but narrow stream, wound in a -hundred graceful turns through the rich meadow-land that formed the -bottom of a small sloping vale, which had been partially reclaimed, even -at that day, from the waste, though many a willow bush fringing its -margin, and many a waving ash, fluttering its delicate tresses in the -air, betrayed the woodland origin of the soft meadow. A narrow road -swept down the hill, with a course little less serpentine than that of -the river below, and crossed it by a small one-arched stone bridge, -overshadowed by a gigantic oak tree, and scaled the opposite acclivity -in two or three sharp sandy zigzags. Both the hill sides were clothed -with forest, but still the nature of the soil or some accidental causes -had rendered the wood as different as possible, for on the further side -of the stream, the ground was everywhere visible covered by a short -mossy turf, softer and more elastic to the foot than the most exquisite -carpet that ever issued from the looms of Persia, and overshadowed by -huge and scattered oaks, growing so far apart that the eye could range -far between their shadowy vistas; while on the nearer slope—the -foreground, as it might be called, of the picture—all was a dense and -confused mass of tangled shrubbery and verdure. Thickets of old gnarled -thorn-bushes, completely overrun and matted with woodbines; coppices of -young ash, with hazel interspersed, and eglantine and dog-roses thick -set between; clumps of the prickly gorse and plume-like broom, all -starry with their golden flowrets, and fern so wildly luxuriant that in -many places it would have concealed the head of the tallest man, covered -the ground for many a mile through which the narrow road meandered. -There was one object more in view—one which spoke of man even in that -solitude, and man in his better aspect—it was the slated roof and -belfry, all overgrown with moss and stonecrop, of a small wayside -chapel, in the old Saxon architecture, peering out from the shadows of -the tall oaks which overhung it in the far distance. It was, as we have -said, very small, in the old Saxon architecture, consisting, in fact, -merely of a vaulted roof supported upon four squat massy columns, whence -sprung the four groined ribs which met in the centre of the arch. Three -sides alone of this primitive place of worship, which would have -contained with difficulty forty persons, were walled in, the front -presenting one wide open arch, richly and quaintly sculptured with the -indented wolf’s teeth of the first Saxon style. Small as it was, -however, the little chapel had its high altar, with the crucifix and -candle, its reading desk of old black oak, its font and pix and -chalices, and all the adjuncts of the Roman ritual. A little way to the -left might be discovered the low thatched eaves of a rustic cottage, -framed of the unbarked stems of forest trees, the abode, probably, of -the officiating priest, and close beside the walls of the little church -a consecrated well, protected from the sun by a stone vault, of -architecture corresponding to the chapel. - -Upon the nearer slope, not far from the road-side, but entirely -concealed from passers by the nature of the ground and the dense -thickets, there were collected, at an early hour of the morning, five -men with as many horses, who seemed to be awaiting, in a sort of ambush, -some persons whom they would attack at unawares. The leader of the -party, as he might be considered, as much from his appearance as from -the deference shown to him by the others, was a tall, active, powerful -man, of thirty-eight or forty years, with a bold and expressive -countenance—expressive, however, of no good quality, unless it were the -fiery, reckless daring which blazed from his broad dark eye, and that -was almost obscured by the cloud of insufferable pride which lowered -upon his frowning brow, and by the deep scar-like lines of lust and -cruelty and scorn which ploughed his weather-beaten features. His dress -was a complete suit of linked chain-mail, hauberk and sleeves and hose, -with shoes of plaited steel and gauntlets wrought in scale, covering his -person from his neck downward in impenetrable armor. He had large gilded -spurs buckled upon his heels, and a long two-edged dagger, with a rich -hilt and scabbard, in his belt; but neither sword nor lance, nor any -other weapon of offence except a huge steel mace, heavy enough to fell -an ox at a single blow, which he grasped in his right hand, while from -his left hung the bridle of a tall coal-black Norman charger, which was -cropping the grass quietly beside him. His head was covered by a conical -steel cap, with neither crest nor plume nor visor, and mail hood falling -down from it to protect the neck and shoulders of the wearer. The other -four were men-at-arms, clad all in suits of armor, but less completely -than their lord; thus they had steel shirts only, with stout buff -breeches and heavy boots to guard their lower limbs, and iron scull caps -only, without the hood, upon their heads, and leather gauntlets upon -their hands; but, as if to make up for this deficiency, they were -positively loaded with offensive weapons—they had the long two-handed -sword of the period belted across their persons, three or four knives -and daggers of various size and strength at their girdles, great -battle-axes in their hands, and maces hanging at their saddle-bows. They -had been tarrying there already several hours, their leader raising his -eyes occasionally to mark the progress of the sun as he climbed up the -azure vault, and muttering a brief and bitter curse as hour passed after -hour, and those came not whom he expected. - -“Danian,” he said at length, turning to the principal of his followers, -who stood nearer to his person and a little way apart from the -others—“Danian, art sure this was the place and day? How the dog Saxons -tarry—can they have learnt our purpose?” - -“Surely not—surely not, fair sir,” returned the squire, “seeing that I -have mentioned it to no one, not even to Raoul, or Americ, or Guy, who -know no more than their own battle-axes the object of their ambush. And -it was pitch dark when we left the castle, and not a soul has seen us -here; so it is quite impossible they should suspect—and hark! there -goes the bell; and see, sir, see—there they come trooping through the -oak trees down the hill!” - -And indeed, as he spoke, the single bell of the small chapel began to -chime with the merry notes that proclaim a bridal, and a gay train of -harmless, happy villagers might be seen, as they flocked along, -following the footsteps of the gray-headed Saxon monk, who, in his frock -and cowl, with corded waist and sandalled feet, led the procession. Six -young girls followed close behind him, dressed in blue skirts and russet -jerkins, but crowned with garlands of white May flowers, and May wreaths -wound like scarfs across their swelling bosoms, and hawthorn branches in -their hands, singing the bridal carol in the old Saxon tongue, in honor -of the pride of the village, the young and lovely Marian. She was indeed -the very personification of all the poet’s dreams of youthful beauty; -tall and slender in her figure, yet exquisitely, voluptuously rounded in -every perfect outline, with a waist of a span’s circumference, wide -sloping shoulders, and a bust that, for its matchless swell, as it -struggled and throbbed with a thousand soft emotions, threatening to -burst from the confinement of her tight-fitting jacket, would have put -to shame the bosom of the Medicean Venus. Her complexion, wherever the -sun had not too warmly kissed her beauties, was pure as the driven snow, -while her large, bright blue eyes, red laughing lip, and the luxuriant -flood of sunny golden hair, which streamed down in wild, artless -ringlets to her waist, made her a creature for a prince’s, or more, a -poet’s adoration. But neither prince nor poet was the god of that fair -girl’s idolatry; but one of her own class, a Saxon youth, a -peasant—nay, a serf—from his very cradle upward the born thrall of -Hugh de Mortemar, lord of the castle and the hamlet at its foot, named, -from its situation in the depths of Charnwood, Ashby in the Forest. But -there was now no graven collar about the sturdy neck of the young Saxon, -telling of a suffering servitude; no dark shade of gloom in his full -glancing eye; no sullen doggedness upon his lip, for he was that day, -that glad day, a freeman—a slave no longer—but free, free, by the gift -of his noble master—free as the wild bird that sung so loudly in the -forest—free as the liberal air that bore the carol to his ears. His -frock of forest green and buskins of the untanned deer-hide set off his -muscular, symmetrical proportions, and his close-curled short auburn -hair showed a well turned and shapely head. Behind this gay and happy -pair came several maids and young men, two and two, and after these an -old gray-headed man, the father of the bride, and leaning on his arm an -aged matron, the widowed mother of the enfranchised bridegroom. - -Merrily rung the gay, glad bells, and blithely swelled up the bridal -chorus as they collected on the little green before the ancient arch, -and slowly filed into the precincts of the forest shrine; but very -speedily their merriment was changed into dismay and terror and despair, -for scarcely had they passed into the sacred building, before the -knight, with his dark followers, leaped into their saddles, and -thundering down the hill at a tremendous gallop, surrounded the chapel -before the inmates had even time to think of any danger. It was a -strange, wild contrast, the venerable priest within pronouncing even -then the nuptial blessing, and proclaiming over the bright young pair -the union made by God, which thenceforth no man should dissever—the -tearful happiness of the blushing bride, the serious gladness of the -stalwart husband, the kneeling peasantry, the wreaths of innocent -flowers; and at the gate the stern, dark men-at-arms, with their scarred -savage features, and their gold-gleaming harness and raised weapons. A -loud shriek burst from the lips of the sweet girl, as, lifting her eyes -to the sudden clang and clatter that harbingered those dread intruders, -she saw and recognized upon the instant the fiercest of the Norman -tyrants—dreaded by all his neighbors far and near, but most by the most -virtuous and young and lovely—the bold, bad Baron of Maltravers. He -bounded to the earth as he reached the door, and three of his followers -leaped from their horses likewise, one sitting motionless in his -war-saddle, and holding the four chargers. “Hold, priest!” he shouted, -as he entered, “forbear this mummery; and thou, dog Saxon, think not -that charms like these are destined to be clasped in rapture by any arms -of thy low slavish race!” and with these words he strode up to the -altar, seemingly fearless of the least resistance, while his men kept -the door with brandished weapons. Mute terror seized on all, paralyzed -utterly by the dread interruption—on all but the bold priest and the -stout bridegroom. - -“Nay, rather forbear thou, Alberic de Maltravers! These two are one -forever—wo be to those who part them!” - -“Tush, priest—tush, fool!” sneered the fierce Baron, as he seized him -by the arm, and swinging him back rudely, advanced upon the terrified -and weeping girl, who was now clinging to the very rails of the high -altar, trusting, poor wretch, that some respect for that sanctity of -place which in old times had awed even heathens, might now prevail with -one whom no respect for anything divine or human had ever yet deterred -from doing his unholy will. - -“Ha! dog!” cried he, in fiercer tones, that filled the chapel as it were -a trumpet, seeing the Saxon bridegroom lift up a heavy quarter-staff -which lay beside him, and step in quietly but very resolutely in defence -of his lovely wife—“Ha! dog and slave, dare you resist a Norman and a -noble?—back, serf, or die the death!” and he raised his huge mace to -strike him. - -“No serf, sir, nor slave either,” returned the Saxon, firmly, “but a -freeman, by my good master’s gift, and a landholder.” - -“Well, master freeman and landholder,” replied the other, with a bitter -sneer, “if such names please you better, stand back—for Marian lies on -no bed but mine this night—stand back, before worse come of it!” - -“I will die rather”—was the answer—“Then die! fool! die!” shouted the -furious Norman, and with the words he struck full at the bare brow of -the dauntless Saxon with his tremendous mace—it fell, and with dint -that would have crushed the strongest helmet into a thousand -splinters—it fell, but by a dexterous sleight the yeoman swung his -quarter-staff across the blow, and parried its direction, although the -tough ash pole burst into fifty shivers—it fell upon the carved rails -of the altar and smashed them into atoms; but while the knight who had -been somewhat staggered by the impetus of his own misdirected blow, was -striving to recover himself, the young man sprang upon him, and -grappling him by the throat, gained a short-lived advantage. Short-lived -it was indeed, and perilous to him that gained—for although there were -men enough in the chapel, all armed with quarter-staves, and one or two -with the genuine brown bill, to have overpowered the four Normans, -despite their war array—yet so completely were they overcome by -consternation, that not one moved a step to aid him; the priest, who had -alone showed any spark of courage, being impeded by the shrieking women, -who, clinging to the hem of his vestments, implored him for the love of -God to save them. - -In an instant that fierce grapple was at an end, for in the twinkling of -an eye, two of the men-at-arms had rushed upon him and dragged him off -their lord. - -“Now by the splendor of God’s brow,” shouted the enraged knight, “thou -art a sweet dog thus to brave thy masters. Nay! harm him not. -Raoul,”—he went on—“harm not the poor dog,”—as his follower had -raised his battle axe to brain him,—“harm him not, else we should raise -the ire of that fool, Mortemar! Drag him out—tie him to the nearest -tree, and this good priest beside him—before his eyes we will console -this fair one.” And with these words he seized the trembling girl, -forcing her from the altar, and encircling her slender waist in the foul -clasp of his licentious arms. “And ye,” he went on, lashing himself into -fury as he continued,—“and ye churl Saxons, hence!—hence dogs and -harlots to your kennels!” - -No further words were needed, for his orders were obeyed by his own men -with the speed of light, and the Saxons overjoyed to escape on any -terms, rushed in a confused mass out of the desecrated shrine, and fled -in all directions, fearful of further outrage.—Meanwhile, despite the -struggles of the youth, and the excommunicating anathemas which the -priest showered upon their heads, the men-at-arms bound them securely to -the oak trees, and then mounting their horses, sat laughing at their -impotent resistance, while with a refinement of brutality worthy of -actual fiends, Alberic de Maltravers bore the sweet wife clasped to his -iron breast, up to the very face of her outraged, helpless husband, and -tearing open all her jerkin, displayed to the broad light the whole of -her white, panting bosom, and poured from his foul, fiery lips a flood -of lustful kisses on her mouth, neck, and bosom, under the very eyes of -his tortured victim. To what new outrage he might have next proceeded, -must remain ever doubtful, for at this very instant the long and mellow -blast of a clearly winded bugle came swelling through the forest -succeeded by the bay of several bloodhounds, and the loud, ringing -gallop of many fast approaching. - -“Ha!” shouted he, “ten thousand curses on him; here comes de Mortemar. -Quick—quick—away! Here, Raoul, take the girl, buckle her tight to your -back with the sword-belt, and give me your two-handed blade; I lost my -mace in the chapel!—That’s right! quick! man—that’s right—now, then, -be off—ride for your life—straight to the castle; we will stop all -pursuit. Fare thee well, sweet one, for a while—we will conclude -hereafter what we have now commenced so fairly!” - -And as he spoke, he also mounted his strong charger, and while the man, -Raoul, dashed his spurs rowel-deep into his horse’s flanks, and went off -at a thundering gallop, the other four followed him at a slower pace, -leaving the Saxons in redoubled anguish—redoubled by the near hope of -rescue. - -But for once villany was not permitted to escape due retribution, for -ere the men-at-arms, who led the flight, had crossed the little bridge, -a gallant train came up at a light canter from the wood, twenty or -thirty archers, all with their long bows bent, and their arrows notched -and ready, with twice as many foresters on foot, with hounds of every -kind, in slips and leashes, and at their head a man of as noble presence -as ever graced a court or reined a charger. He was clad in a plain -hunting frock of forest green, with a black velvet bonnet and a heron’s -plume, and wore no other weapon but a light hunting sword—but close -behind him rode two pages, bearing his knightly lance with its long -pennon, his blazoned shield, and his two-handed broadsword. It was that -brave and noble Norman, Sir Hugh de Mortemar. His quick eye in an -instant took in the whole of the confused scene before him, and -understood it on the instant. - -“Alberic de Maltravers!” he cried, in a voice clear and loud as the call -of a silver trumpet, “before God he shall rue it,” and with the words he -snatched his lance from the page, and dashing spurs into his splendid -Spanish charger, thundered his orders out with the rapid rush of a -winter’s torrent. “Bend your bows, archers,—draw home your arrows to -the head! stand, thou foul ravisher, dishonored Norman, false gentleman, -and recreant knight! Stand on the instant, or we shoot! Cut loose the -yeoman from the tree, ye varlets, and the good priest. Randal, cast -loose the bloodhounds down to the bridge across yon knoll, and lay them -on the track of that flying scoundrel. Ha! they will meet us.” - -And so in truth they did, for seeing that he could not escape the deadly -archery, Alberic de Maltravers wheeled short on his pursuers, and -shouted his war-cry—“Saint Paul for Alberic!—false knight and liar in -your throat. Saint Paul! Saint Paul! charge home,”—and with the words -the steel-clad men-at-arms drove on, expecting by the weight of their -harness to ride down and scatter the light archery like chaff. Unarmed -although he was, De Mortemar paused not—not for a moment!—but galloped -in his green doublet as gallantly upon his foe as though he had been -sheathed in steel. He had but one advantage—but one hope!—to bear his -iron-clad opponent down at the lance point, without closing—on! they -came, on!—Maltravers swinging his two-handed sword aloft, and trusting -in his mail to turn the lance’s point—de Mortemar with his long spear -in rest—“Saint Paul! Saint Paul!”—they met! the dust surged up in a -dense cloud! the very earth appeared to shake beneath their feet!—but -not a moment was the conflict doubtful.—Deep! deep! through his linked -mail, and through his leathern jerkin, and through his writhing flesh, -the grinded spear head shove into his bosom, and came out at his back, -the ash staff breaking in the wound. Down he went, horse and man!—and -down, at one close volley of the grey goose shafts, down went his three -companions!—one shot clear through the brain by an unerring shaft—the -others stunned and bruised, their horses both slain under them. “Secure -them,” shouted Hugh, “bind them both hand and foot, and follow,”—and he -paused not to look upon his slain assailant, but galloped down the hill, -followed by half his train, the bloodhounds giving tongue fiercely, and -already gaining on the fugitive. It was a fearful race, but quickly -over!—for though the man-at-arms spurred desperately on, his heavy -Norman horse, oppressed, moreover, by his double load, had not a chance -in competing with the proud Andalusian of de Mortemar. Desperately he -spurred on—but now the savage hounds were up with him—they rushed full -at the horse’s throat and bore him to the earth—another moment, Raoul -was a bound captive, and Marian, rescued by her liege lord, and wrapt in -his own mantle, was clasped in the fond arms of her husband! - -“How now, good priest,” exclaimed sir Hugh, “are these two now fast -wedded?” - -“As fast, fair sire, as the holy rites may wed them.” - -“Then ring me, thou knave, Ringan, a death peal! Thou, Gilbert, and -thou, Launcelot, make me three halters, quick—nay! four—the dead -knight shall swing, as his villainy well merits, beside the living -knaves!—Sing me a death chant, priest, for these are judged to death, -unhouselled and unshriven!” - -Not a word did the ruffians answer, they knew that prayer was useless, -and with dark frowning brows, and dauntless bearing, they met their -fate, impenitent and fearless. For Marian begged their lives in vain. De -Mortemar was pitiless in his just wrath! And the spurs were hacked from -the heels of the dead knight, and the base halter twisted round his cold -neck, and his dishonored corpse hung up upon the very tree to which he -had bade bind the Saxon bridegroom. And the death peals were sung, and -the death hymn was chanted; and ere the sounds of either had died away -in the forest echoes, the three marauders writhed out their villain -souls in the mild air, and swung three grim and ghastly monuments of a -foul crime and fearful retribution—and this dread rite consummated the -Saxon’s bridal! - - * * * * * - - - - - WHY SHOULD I LOVE THEE? - - - BY JOHN S. DU SOLLE. - - - Why should I love thee? Thou so altered! - So cold! so passionless! The hand - Which erst so much at parting faltered— - The cheek which blushed at meeting—and - The eyes whose eloquent depths of jet, - So much of silence could redeem— - They haunt me with their sweetness yet, - But, oh! how changed they seem! - - Why should I love thee, thou false-hearted? - Thou smil’st, but smil’st no more for me! - The bloom hath not thy lip departed, - Thy voice hath still its witchery. - But looks and words, though they bewitch me, - Can paint no love, where love is not; - Thy very kindnesses but teach me - How much I am forgot! - - Why should I love thee? Why repine? - Thy lip some other fond lip presses; - Thine arm some other’s arms entwine; - Thy cheek some other cheek caresses; - And though to part with thee be sadness, - Oh! God! how difficult to bear, - To hope to win thee now were madness! - To love thee were despair! - - * * * * * - - - - - A BELLE AT A BALL. - - - BY F. W. THOMAS, AUTHOR OF “HOWARD PINCKNEY,” ETC. - - - Miss Merry vale is dressed with taste— - With taste she always dresses— - A zone is round her virgin waist, - And flowers in her tresses; - That full-blown fellow, in her curl, - Bobs with an everlasting twirl, - As, with an air like Juno’s, she - Nods to the goodly companie. - Prouder it looks than when on high - It flouted at a flaming sky; - For now, no more on thorny stem, - It graces beauty’s diadem. - - Her neck is bare—her shoulders too, - And with the cold they had been blue, - But for the flakes of mealy hue— - The powder of the pearl— - Which, like the frost on frozen shore, - Or web of gossamer, was o’er - The fascinating girl. - Deepest the drift in hollow places. - Thus maids forsaken by the graces, - And thin with hope deferred— - (I only speak from what I’ve heard; - - So little of the sex I’ve seen, - I hold each one a fairy _quean_—) - Appear in such a garb of flour, - And talk with such continuous power, - And try to look so dapper, - That one might think the miller’s maid - Had come, most naturally arrayed, - And bore away the clapper. - - That powder is a great transgression - Against the rosy cheek; - It buries up the whole expression; - It makes the eye look weak, - Unnatural the tress; - And throws upon the brow a blight, - As though it had grown gray with fright - At single blessedness. - Pray who would such a woman toast? - Unless he meant to drink to one - Long, long since with the buried gone, - And now an awful ghost? - Which, like all ghosts that earthward rove, - Must horrify the hues of love. - - * * * * * - - - - - MISFORTUNES OF A TIMID GENTLEMAN. - - - BY J. ROSS BROWNE. - - - Book I. - -No excuse is necessary for giving my autobiography to the public. It is -true I am but a timid gentleman—a quiet, inoffensive sort of person, -too diffident of my own powers to be celebrated, and too much averse to -the bustle of the world to figure as a politician or public character of -any sort; yet I cannot help thinking there are some passages in my life -which will be read with profit. - -I attained my eighteenth year without more reverses of fortune than -usually attend a youth of romantic aspirations and of a poetic and -visionary turn of mind. I was a curious mixture of boldness and -timidity. My parents formerly lived in a very mountainous part of the -country; and while most of my days were spent in daring exploits amidst -crags and precipices, at night I trembled to meet, in the social circle -of neighbors, a bright eye or a dimpled cheek. The extreme bashfulness -with which I approached the other sex of my own age subjected me to a -good deal of ridicule, and finally caused me, in self-defence, to -ascribe my repugnance to their society to what was anything but the true -cause—an intuitive hatred of womankind. And truly my conduct supported -the assertion. Never was there a greater mope or a more decided -book-worm. I pretended society had no charms for me. I affected to look -with indifference on the most fascinating beauty. I shunned all -intercourse with the daughters of the neighboring gentry. All this -arose, in fact, from my excessive timidity. I never could look upon a -young female, however common-place her attractions, without the utmost -agitation. When I attempted to speak, I invariably blushed, and my heart -beat violently. Thus unfortunately organized, I reached, as I observed -before, my eighteenth year. Until this time I had kept almost entirely -aloof from female society, and, as a matter of course, my heart was -still my own. - -For several years past I had lived in town. City life had no charms for -me, but circumstances compelled me to make a virtue of necessity; and in -studiously avoiding contact with the beautiful and accomplished beings -who beset me on all sides, I found my leisure hours very well occupied. -My parents urged upon me the necessity of mingling more in society. They -assured me my awkwardness would soon give way to ease and grace if I did -so, and spared no pains to show me how much depended on polished manners -and a graceful demeanor. I had two sisters, accomplished and elegant. -Every opportunity afforded by their extensive acquaintance and -flattering popularity was at my disposal; but I could not overcome that -diffidence which nature had implanted in me, and in spite of the -solicitations of my family, I remained what I had always been—a timid, -visionary youth. - -Before the summer of my eighteenth year had passed away, I accidentally -acquired the friendship of a middle aged gentleman, who had passed most -of his life in the boudoir and drawing-room. Mr. Desmond was a -warm-hearted, agreeable sort of person, deeply versed in books, but too -good-natured to be pedantic, and too diffident to pique himself on the -extent of his knowledge, which, in reality, was what prompted me to -cultivate his acquaintance. At first our conversation was purely -literary. I was charmed with the wonderful taste he displayed in -criticising the literature of the day; but I soon found that his -discrimination was not confined to topics of this nature. He discoursed -fluently on scientific subjects, while with equal ease he could touch -upon the tritest gossip afloat. Insensibly I found myself, a few -evenings after our first meeting, listening with great delight to an -exordium on the sex. I had never found any one whose sentiments -respecting matters of this kind were so judicious and so happy. I felt -the full force of every word he advanced in favor of cultivating the -society of the amiable—the beautiful. My feelings, naturally ardent, -were wrought to the highest pitch of excitement, and I fervently hoped -my unfortunate temperament would not forever exclude me from the charms -he so eloquently eulogised. Mr. Desmond, unlike the generality of my -acquaintances, did not ridicule me. Indeed he kindly remarked, instead -of regarding my excessive bashfulness as anything to my discredit, that -he looked upon it as an evidence of a good heart and an amiable -disposition, and trusted I would never stifle the best traits which -nature had given me—a modest mien and a feeling mind. I felt -exceedingly grateful for the interest he seemed to take in my welfare, -and for the charitable opinion he expressed of my failings. At the same -time he earnestly advised me to avoid as much as possible being too -sensitive, and assured me that by pondering less, and mingling more in -society, I would be not only happier, but better adapted to meet the -cares of the world. Deeply impressed with the truth of this remark, I -resolved to follow his advice, whatever might be the sacrifice on my -part. An opportunity soon occurred. Like an unskilled skater beginning -his career, I conceived it extremely fortunate that my _début_ was to be -gradual. I was invited by Mr. Desmond to spend an evening with a few of -his female acquaintances. I had heard him speak of the two Miss -Melvilles as very amiable girls—angelic beings—modest, witty and -intelligent; but I confess these exordiums, however warm and sincere -from the mouth of Mr. Desmond, did not prepossess me in favor of the -young ladies so enthusiastically described. There was something, -however, in one of the names that struck my fancy. Virginia—a soft, -pretty name, full of love and euphony—Virginia Melville! I really -thought it extremely beautiful. And Emily, too—an exquisite name, but -not so charming as Virginia. Virginia Melville, I fancied, could not but -be pretty—interesting, at least. With a fluttering heart, I followed my -friend into the drawing-room of Mrs. Melville’s residence, where I was -introduced to the young sisters. My bashfulness was entirely overcome by -the admiration which their charms and conversation excited. My most -extravagant anticipations relative to the beauty of Virginia Melville -were fully realized. I had never seen, had never conceived, a being so -perfect—so angelic. She had not reached her sixteenth year, and nothing -save her intelligent mind and fine intellectual eye bespoke a more -matured age. Her figure was slight—almost ethereal—yet sufficiently -developed to convey the idea of a budding rose. It left an impression on -the mind of the beholder, that, while nothing could then add to its -captivating gracefulness—nothing make it more perfect—time, by its -mellowing influence, would increase the softness of the contour, and -render that which seemed unrivalled still more exquisitely, -transcendently beautiful. Timidly I raised my eyes to a countenance -which I shall never forget. It was characterized by all the graces of -physical and intellectual beauty combined; yet ineffable as the former -were, they were truly eclipsed by the superior brilliancy of the latter. -I had never dreamed of features so faultless, eyes so expressive, lips -so sweet, and complexion so fair and ethereal. A high, pale forehead, a -beautifully formed head, long silken hair of a dark brown, falling -gracefully over a damask cheek and a swan-like neck, and finely -pencilled eyebrows, under which were lashes and eyes of equal -brilliancy, gave the whole countenance that intellectual cast so -supremely, irresistibly fascinating, when combined - - “with all youth’s sweet desires, - Mingling the meek and vestal fires - Of other worlds with all the bliss, - The fond, weak tenderness of this!” - -I felt, deeply, passionately, the full influence of those charms I have -so feebly attempted to describe. I felt, too—and oh! if ever that fair -enchantress to whose power I have bowed—if ever she read these lines, I -trust she will pardon my vanity—I felt that the being before me was -formed for my happiness; that my fate depended on her; that my future -career would be presided over by her image! Of all my fantasies, this -may prove the most visionary; but before I moralize on future events, I -must not omit a description of Emily Melville, the sister of my charmer. - -Though both were extremely beautiful, no just comparison can be made -between the attractions of Emily and Virginia Melville. Emily was nearly -two years older than her sister, and doubtless that short space of time -contributed to effect the difference which, while the family likeness -was preserved, was so obvious in their style of beauty. Her figure was -taller and fuller than her sister’s, and her features were characterized -by an expression of serenity and loveliness truly bewitching. A -superficial observer would pronounce her cold, but what appeared -coldness was really mildness; and mildness was her ruling trait. There -was a languid softness in her eye that contrasted beautifully with the -bright, laughing eye of her sister. Hers was the eye of a -Dudu—Virginia’s that of a Haidee; the one a fawn’s—the other a -gazelle’s. I was not sorry to see that my friend seemed deeply -interested in Miss Emily Melville. It is certainly not strange, if there -is love at first sight, that there is also jealousy. I felt quite happy -when I learned that, though surrounded by admirers, Virginia’s heart was -untouched; and on this frail foundation I was foolish enough to build a -castle. I imagined a thousand extravagant things, fully as romantic as -impracticable. I fancied how happy I would be if I lived near a lonely -little glen, in a charming little cottage, covered with nice little -woodbines; how I would marry this lovely little maiden, and how she -would be all my own, and how I would love her and be with her forever, -and never say an ill-natured word to her; how we would spend our long -summer evenings in rambling about a picturesque little park, which I -intended to adorn with shrubs and deer; and, in short, how very, very -happy we would be! how exceedingly pleasant would be our journey down -the hill of life, and how we would both die together from sheer joy and -old age! Oh, youth! child of fantasy, why lead’st thou into error?—why -buoy us with visions which cannot be realized? - -The evening passed away, and I am not quite sure that I was sorry when -the hour of departure had arrived. The strange and overwhelming passion -which had taken possession of my soul filled me with embarrassment, and -aware that I acted ridiculously, it afforded much relief to escape. With -Desmond I was abrupt, or silent and moody. I could not define my -sensations, and chose rather to keep them to myself than to subject -myself to any experimental advice, even from my bosom friend. Taking the -earliest opportunity to get rid of him, I hurried to my room; but I -could not sleep; I could not lie down. I sprang from my bed, and paced -the chamber in a kind of ecstacy, absorbing but indescribable. I rushed -to the window, bathed my brow in the cold moon-beams, and gazed -rapturously on the spangled canopy above me. Everything looked -beautiful. My breast expanded. I inhaled with delight the lucid night -air, and fancied there never was a being so foolish and so happy. What -an hour—what a theme for poetry! I had never written anything in verse, -but what with moonshine and love, I could not fail to succeed. I opened -my desk, carefully locked the door, and examined the room to be certain -that none should witness my indiscretion. I then drew forth the writing -instruments, and prepared to lose not a passing thought. After much -difficulty I indited a line; but not another could I wrest from my -distracted brain. I threw down my pen in despair, pushed my desk away, -and heartily bemoaning my poetic barrenness, retired somewhat calmed to -my bed. A gradual dormancy, entrancing, delightful, stole over my -senses. I thought of Virginia Melville. I recalled every feature of her -beautiful countenance; not a smile, not a word that had charmed me, were -lost. I saw all, heard all again. Then the whole became confused. I -roamed in a garden, where the hyacinth bloomed and the honeysuckle and -woodbine gracefully twined round the oak, and the rose unfolded its -young buds. The place was lonely—far from the haunts of man; yet the -song of the linnet and the thrush enlivened its solitude, and I felt -that I was not alone. And while I roamed in this Elysian garden, I -espied a beautiful rose, a fairy-like rose, young and tender and -blooming. And I approached it and gazed upon it, and methought it moved. -I paused in wonder. I knelt me down on the green sward, and my eyes were -fixed upon the rose. And I fancied it expanded to my view, and wore a -beauteous form. In rapture I feasted on this fairy vision. I was silent. -I felt the inadequacy of language to express my admiration; and I gazed, -and my heart was full. The fairy-rose, with down-cast looks, smiled upon -me. That smile betrayed it; I recognised in the disguise the features of -her I loved. I was wild—enchanted. I snatched a leaf from a weeping -willow, and inscribed thereon a verse. I flung it on the breeze, and it -was borne to the hand of the beauteous vision. And whilst she read I -trembled. A mystic veil now obscured my sight. Full of doubt, I rushed -wildly from the spot. I bitterly deprecated my boldness. I imagined my -love was offended. I strove to banish thought. I was unhappy. I could -think of naught but the vision. Overcome with emotion, I returned to the -garden. I sought the white rose. Again I gazed upon it, and again it -assumed its magic form. The celestial countenance of the beauty was -placid and pensive. I passionately implored forgiveness. A smile, a -bewitching smile, played upon her lips, and her sparkling eyes beamed -with tenderness. I rushed forward to clasp her to my bosom. The vision -was no more—I held but a rose! I looked upon it and sighed. I bore it -away, and cherished it as an emblem of my love. A long time seemed to -elapse. I wore the rose next my heart, and thought of her I adored. -“Oh!” I exclaimed, “why must this be?” I yearn to look once more upon -the object of my thoughts. I can think of naught but her as I roam -through life’s weary desert. Forever I think of her—forever my memory -clings to the past:— - - “I strive to call the vision back; - I strive in vain, but still - The bosom chords so sweetly touched - In plaintive tumult thrill.” - -And I ask myself what is this? and my heart tells me it is love—yea! -the voices of a thousand angels proclaim, It is Love! - -My dream ended. With the imaginary words still ringing in my ears, I -awoke. I scarcely knew whether to think myself the most happy or most -miserable creature on earth. Full of conflicting emotions, I rushed out -into the clear morning air. It was now early spring. The weather was -cool, bracing, delightful. A delicious fragrance was wafted from the -neighboring woods and fields, and I breathed freely, and felt all the -vigor—the majesty of manhood. My heart was full to overflowing. I -fancied the heavens, the rising sunbeams, the bustling pedestrians, all -smiled upon me; and I was enchanted with the beauty of nature, the -benevolence and affection of mankind. I wondered if ever such a thing as -a misanthrope really existed, and my joyous heart and buoyant mind -answered, no! Oh, heaven-born flame!—lit by angels, fanned into -existence by the Divine hand—what art thou— - - “Most sacred fyre, that burliest mightily - In living brests, ykindled first above, - Emongst th’ eternall spheres and lamping sky, - And thence poured into men, which men call Love?” - -In a state of the most delightful beatitude, I rambled about during the -day, my countenance irradiated with smiles, my heart bursting with the -kindest feelings of humanity. Unconsciously I wandered near the dwelling -of her I loved. I watched with eagerness for a glimpse of the fairy -form, the bright vision of my dreams. A graceful figure glided from the -door. That undulating, musical walk, those fairy-like feet, those -sparkling eyes, shining like diamonds beneath a sweeping veil—oh! it -could be no other—it was Virginia Melville! With intense, rapturous -interest, I gazed upon her till she vanished in the distant throng. -Then, indeed, I felt the bitterness of my lot. Days, mayhap weeks, were -to pass before I could again feast my eyes on her charms. If the interim -were to be a blank in my existence, I could bear it; but I felt that it -was to be a desert. And, indeed, a most sterile one it proved. When, -after a lapse of months, I look back upon the time, how slowly, -painfully it wore away, I cannot conceive how I endured all the misery I -suffered. - -Once more I found myself in _her_ presence. Was it a dream? Did I really -behold her again? How very, very beautiful she looked! Her sparkling -eyes were full of mirth and intelligence, her lips were wreathed in the -most fascinating smiles; she seemed the beau-ideal of all that is -graceful, elegant and spiritual, and I felt—I keenly felt—how utterly -unworthy I was of one so purely angelic. - -After the usual compliments of the evening, Mr. Desmond prevailed on -Virginia to try her skill on the piano. With the kindest smile -imaginable, she acceded to the request; and gliding gracefully into the -seat, she swept her fairy fingers over notes which had never been -touched by any more fair or delicate. A light, pretty air was the -subject of her muse. I listened with rapture to the flowing sounds, -persuaded that if I had heard more brilliant musicians perform, I had -never so thoroughly enjoyed the power of music. There was a soul, -combined with a precision of time and facility of execution, in Miss -Melville’s playing, that thrilled upon the finest chords of my heart, -like the evening zephyr on the strings of an Æolian harp. - -That night I wended my way home, so completely enchanted as to act like -one in a delirium. I was overwhelmed with the most delightful -sensations. For hours I could not sleep, and when, at length, an -ecstatic trance stole over my senses, I had dreams so heavenly, so -joyous, so full of love and hope and happiness, that I fancied Paradise -had no joys to equal them—no angels so bright and beautiful as -Virginia. To describe my varied sensations for the next week would -require volumes—volumes which, when written, would breathe nothing but -passion, wild, fervent and confused. - -Accompanied by my friend Desmond, I continued constantly to visit the -Miss Melvilles. In the presence of Virginia I now became silent. I could -not speak. My heart was too full. Words appeared weak and inexpressive; -and, with my eyes forever riveted on those charms that thrilled my soul, -the hours flew past—hours the most delightful that I had ever -spent—hours which will ever remain a bright, sunny spot in my past -career. - -Nothing had yet transpired illustrative of the title I have chosen for -my autobiography. All went on to my satisfaction—though I had not the -slightest cause to imagine that my passion was reciprocated—and I -flattered myself with the belief that for once the course of true love -ran smooth. Vanity of vanities! When has the philosophy of the Bard been -in error? - -If the reader will be kind enough to suppose that a few months have -elapsed since my introduction to the Miss Melvilles, I shall introduce -him to a social group, assembled at Mrs. Melville’s residence one fine -evening in the early part of summer. - -First in order, both by reason of their beauty and accomplishments, were -the fair members of the circle, the two Miss Melvilles, Mrs. Annah, -their amiable and elegant sister, and Miss Azile, an intimate friend. As -a connection existed between the latter young lady and the Miss -Melvilles, which I may find it necessary to revert to on some future -occasion, I shall briefly sketch her portraiture. - -Miss Azile was one of those persons who, once seen, are never forgotten. -Seldom did there exist a being more highly gifted in mind and person. In -her form and features there was symmetry, delicacy, elegance and -expression; in her mind, acuteness, power and refinement. Her eye was -one through which the rays of a lofty soul brilliantly beamed; her teeth -were chiselled Parian, enshrined in ruby; and her dimpled cheek and -glowing complexion were bowers for grace and love. She had a mind -characterized by unusual vigor. Her wit was genuine, and when she -indulged in satire, all felt the keenness of a weapon which, though -mercifully wielded, was, in her hands, sanguinary, irresistible. - -The ungentle portion of the company comprised Mr. Martagon, Mr. Pratt, -Mr. Desmond and myself. As the two former have not been mentioned -before, I shall expend a few lines in their illustration. - -Mr. Martagon was a gentleman who, having, during his days of juvenile -indiscretion, suffered his heart to be torn and pierced by various cruel -young ladies, was somewhat afflicted with the _cacöethes scribendi_—a -disease inseparable, I believe, from blighted affection. In person he -was large, rawboned—perhaps a little unwieldy; but these -characteristics were made up for by a countenance unusually -prepossessing. Mr. Martagon was withal a wag among the ladies, and his -wit was really quite pungent and original. - -Mr. Pratt was of a different cast. Being closely related to the Miss -Melvilles, there was an obvious resemblance, in features and mind, -between him and those young ladies. A handsome person, a countenance -mild but decisive, and a highly intelligent mind, stored with much -useful knowledge, formed some of those recommendations which endeared -him to the one sex and caused him to be admired and esteemed by the -other. - -Having now, assisted by the courtesy of the reader, delineated -imperfectly the chief objects of my little scene, I shall take a short -respite, leaving behind me the assurance that, in my second book, much -rare and amusing matter may be expected. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO HELEN. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - - Helen, thy beauty is to me - Like those Nicéan barks of yore - That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, - The weary, wayworn wanderer bore - To his own native shore. - - On desperate seas long wont to roam, - Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, - Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home - To the glory that was Greece— - To the grandeur that was Rome. - - Lo! in that shadowy window-niche - How statue-like I see thee stand, - The folded scroll within thy hand— - Ah! Psyche, from the regions which - Are Holy-Land! - - * * * * * - - - - - NEVER BET YOUR HEAD. - - - A MORAL TALE. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - -“_Con tal que las costumbres de un autor_,” says Don Tomas De Las -Torres, in the Preface to his Amatory Poems, “_sean puras y castas, -importo muy poco que no sean igualmente severas sus obras_”—meaning, in -plain English, that, provided the morals of an author are pure, -personally, it signifies nothing what are the morals of his books. We -presume that Don Torres is now in Purgatory for so heterodox an -assertion. It would be a clever thing, too, in the way of poetical -justice, to keep him there until his “Amatory Poems” get out of print, -or are laid definitively upon the shelf through lack of readers. Every -fiction _should have_ its moral; and, what is more to the purpose, our -modern critics have discovered that every fiction _has_. These ingenious -fellows demonstrate a hidden meaning in the “Antediluvians,” a parable -in “Powhatan,” new views in “Cock Robin,” and transcendentalism in “Hop -O’ My Thumb.” It has been proved that no man can sit down to write -without a very profound design. Thus to authors in general much trouble -is spared. A novelist, for example, need have no care of his moral. It -is there—that is to say it is somewhere—and the moral and the critics -can take care of themselves. When the proper time arrives, all that the -gentleman intended, and all that he did not intend, will be brought to -light, in the “Dial,” or the “Down-Easter,” together with all that he -ought to have intended, and the rest that he clearly meant to -intend:—so that it will all come very straight in the end. - -There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge brought against me by -certain ignoramuses—that I have never written a moral tale, or, in more -precise words, a tale with a moral. They are not the critics predestined -to bring me out, and _develop_ my morals:—that is the secret. By and -bye the “North American Quarterly Humdrum” will make them ashamed of -their stupidity. In the meantime, by way of staying execution, by way of -mitigating the accusations against me, I offer the sad history -appended—a history about whose obvious moral there can be no question -whatever, since he who runs may read it in the large capitals which form -the title of the tale. I should have credit for this arrangement—a far -wiser one than that of La Fontaine and others, who reserve the -impression to be conveyed until the last moment, and thus sneak it in at -the fag end of their fables. - -_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_ is an excellent injunction—even if the dead -in question be nothing but dead small beer. It is not my design, -therefore, to vituperate my deceased friend, Toby Dammit. He was a sad -dog, it is true, and a dog’s death it was that he died; but he himself -was not to blame for his vices. They grew out of a personal defect in -his mother. She did her best in the way of flogging him while an -infant—for duties to her well-regulated mind were always pleasures, and -babies, like tough steaks, are invariably the better for beating—but, -poor woman! she had the misfortune to be left-handed, and a child -flogged left-handedly had better be left unflogged. The world revolves -from right to left. It will not do to whip a baby from left to right. If -each blow in the proper direction drives an evil propensity out, it -follows that every thump in an opposite one knocks its quota of -wickedness in. I was often present at Toby’s chastisements, and, even by -the way in which he kicked, I could perceive he was getting worse and -worse every day. At last I saw, through the tears in my eyes, that there -was no hope of the villain at all, and one day when he had been cuffed -until he grew so black in the face that one might have mistaken him for -a little African, and no effect had been produced beyond that of making -him wriggle himself into a fit, I could stand it no longer, but went -down upon my knees forthwith, and, uplifting my voice, made prophecy of -his ruin. - -The fact is that his precocity in vice was awful. At five months of age -he used to get into such passions that he was unable to articulate. At -six I caught him gnawing a pack of cards. At seven he was in the -constant habit of catching and kissing the female babies. At eight he -peremptorily refused to put his signature to the Temperance pledge. Thus -he went on increasing in iniquity, month after month, until, at the -close of his first year, he not only insisted upon wearing Melnotte -frocks, but had contracted a propensity for cursing and swearing, and -for backing his assertions by bets. - -Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I had -predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. The fashion had “grown -with his growth and strengthened with his strength,” so that when he -came to be a man he could scarcely utter a sentence without interlarding -it with a proposition to gamble. Not that he actually _laid_ wagers—no. -I will do my friend the justice to say that he would as soon have laid -eggs. With him the thing was a mere formula—nothing more. His -expressions on this head had no meaning attached to them whatever. They -were simple, if not altogether innocent expletives—imaginative phrases -wherewith to round off a sentence. When he said “I’ll bet you so and -so,” nobody ever thought of taking him up; but still I could not help -thinking it my duty to put him down. The habit was an immoral one, and -so I told him. It was a vulgar one—this I begged him to believe. It was -discountenanced by society—here I said nothing but the truth. It was -forbidden by act of Congress—here I had not the slightest intention of -telling a lie. I remonstrated—but to no purpose. I demonstrated—but in -vain. I entreated—he smiled. I implored—he laughed. I preached—he -sneered. I threatened—he swore. I kicked him, and he called for the -police. I pulled his nose, and he bet me that I dared not do it again. - -Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency of -Dammit’s mother had entailed upon her son. He was detestably poor; and -this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive expressions about -betting seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will not be bound to say that I -ever heard him make use of such figures of speech as “I’ll bet you a -dollar.” It was usually “I’ll bet you what you please,” or “I’ll bet you -what you dare,” or “I’ll bet you a trifle,” or else, more significantly -still, “_I’ll bet you my head_.” - -This latter form seemed to please him the best:—perhaps because it -involved less risk; for Dammit had become excessively parsimonious. Had -any one taken him up, his head was small, and thus his loss would be -small too. But these are my own reflections, and I am by no means sure -that I am right in attributing them to him. At all events, the phrase in -question grew daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross impropriety of a -man’s betting his brains like bank-notes:—but this was a point which my -friend’s perversity of disposition would not permit him to comprehend. -In the end, he abandoned all other forms of wager, and gave himself up -to “_I’ll bet you my head_,” with a pertinacity and exclusiveness of -devotion that displeased not less than it surprised me. I am always -displeased by circumstances for which I cannot account. Mysteries force -a man to think, and so injure his health. The truth is, there was -something in _the air_ with which Mr. Dammit was wont to give utterance -to his offensive expression—something in his _manner_ of -enunciation—which at first interested, and afterwards made me very -uneasy—something which, for want of a more definite term at present, I -must be permitted to call _queer_; but which Mr. Coleridge would have -called mystical, Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr. Carlisle twistical, and Mr. -Emerson hyper-fizzitistical. I began not to like it at all. Mr. Dammit’s -soul was in a perilous state. I resolved to bring all my eloquence into -play to save it. I vowed to serve him as Saint Patrick, in the Irish -chronicle, is said to have served the snakes and toads when he “awakened -them to a sense of their situation.” I addressed myself to the task -forthwith. Once more I betook myself to remonstrance. Again I collected -my energies for a final attempt at expostulation. - -When I had made an end of my lecture Mr. Dammit indulged himself in some -very equivocal behavior. For some moments he remained silent, merely -looking me inquisitively in the face. But presently he threw his head to -one side, and elevated his eyebrows to great extent. Then he spread out -the palms of his hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he winked -with the right eye. Then he repeated the operation with his left. Then -he shut them both up very tight, as if he was trying to crack nuts -between the lids. Then he opened them both so very wide that I became -seriously alarmed for the consequences. Then, applying his thumb to his -nose, he thought proper to make an indescribable movement with the rest -of his fingers. Finally, setting his arms a-kimbo, he condescended to -reply. - -I can call to mind only the heads of his discourse. He would be obliged -to me if I would keep my opinions within my own bosom. He wished none of -my advice. He despised all my insinuations. He was old enough to take -care of himself. Did I mean to say anything against his character? Did I -intend to insult him? Did I take him for an idiot? Did I still think him -baby Dammit? Was I a fool?—or was I not? Was I mad?—or was I drunk? -Was my maternal parent aware, in a word, of my absence from the -domiciliary residence? He would put this latter question to me as to a -man of veracity, and he would bind himself to abide by my reply. Once -more he would demand explicitly if my mother knew that I was out. My -confusion, he said, betrayed me, and he would be willing to bet his head -that she did not. - -Mr. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he -left my presence with undignified precipitation. It was well for him -that he did so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my anger had been -aroused. For once I would have taken him up upon his insulting wager. I -would have won his little head. My maternal parent was _very_ well aware -of my temporary absence from home. - -_Khoda shefa midêhed_—Heaven gives relief—as the Musselmen say when -you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance of my duty that I had -been insulted, and I bore the insult like a man. It now seemed to me, -however, that I had done all that could be required of me, in the case -of this miserable individual, and I resolved to trouble him no longer -with my counsel, but to leave him to his conscience and to himself. But -although I forbore to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself -to give up his society altogether. I even went so far as to humor some -of his less reprehensible propensities, and there were times when I -found myself lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard, with -tears in my eyes:—so profoundly did it grieve me to hear his evil talk. - -One fine day, having strolled out together arm in arm, our route led us -in the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we resolved to -cross it. It was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and -the arch-way, having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark. -As we entered the passage, the contrast between the external glare, and -the interior gloom, struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of -the unhappy Dammit, who offered to bet me his head that I was hipped. He -seemed to be in an extravagantly good humor. He was excessively -lively—so much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy -suspicion. It is not impossible that he was affected with the -transcendentals. I am not well enough versed, however, in the diagnosis -of this disease to speak with decision upon the point; and unhappily -there were none of my friends of “The Dial” present. I suggest the idea, -nevertheless, because of a certain austere species of Merry-Andrewism -which seemed to beset my poor friend, and caused him to make quite a -Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing would serve him but wriggling and skipping -about under and over everything that came in his way, now shouting out, -and now lisping out, all manner of odd little and big words, yet -preserving the gravest face in the world all the time. I really could -not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him. At length, having -passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the termination of the -foot-way, when our progress was impeded by a turnstile of some height. -Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around as is usual. But -this turn would not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted upon -leaping the stile, and said he could cut a pigeon-wing over it while in -the air. Now this, conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could -do. The best pigeon-winger over all kinds of style, was my friend Mr. -Carlyle, and as I knew he could not do it, I would not believe it could -be done by Toby Dammit. I therefore told him, in so many words, that he -was a braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this I had reason -to be sorry afterwards—for he straightway _bet me his head_ that he -could. - -I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some -remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a -slight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation “_ahem!_” I -started, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into -a nook of the frame-work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a little -lame old gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more reverend -than his whole appearance; for, he not only had on a full suit of black, -but his shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned neatly down over -a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a girl’s, his -hands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and his two eyes -carefully rolled up into the top of his head. - -Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk -apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought very -odd. Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular a -circumstance, he interrupted me with a second “_ahem!_” - -To this observation of his I was not immediately prepared to reply. The -fact is, remarks of this nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known a -profound Quarterly Review stumped by the word “_Fudge!_” I am not -ashamed to say that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance. - -“Dammit,” said I, “what are you about! don’t you hear?—the gentleman -says ‘_ahem!_’” I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed -him; for, to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man -is puzzled, he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he is pretty -sure to look like a fool. - -“Dammit,” observed I—although this sounded very much like an oath, than -which nothing was farther from my thoughts—“Dammit,” I suggested—“the -gentleman says ‘_ahem!_’” I do not attempt to defend my remark on the -score of profundity; I did not think it profound myself; but I have -noticed that the effect of our speeches is not always proportionate with -their importance in our own eyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and -through with a Paixhan bomb, or knocked him in the head with one of -Doctor McHenry’s epics, he could hardly have been more discomfited than -when I addressed him with those simple words—“Dammit, what are you -about?—don’t you hear?—the gentleman says ‘_ahem!_’” - -“You don’t say so?” gasped he at length, after turning more colors than -a pirate runs up one after the other when chased by a man-of-war. “Are -you quite sure that he said _that_? Well, at all events I am in for it -now, and may as well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, -then—_ahem!_” - -At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased—God only knows why. He -left his station in the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a -gracious air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially, looking -all the while straight up in his face with a countenance of the most -unadulterated benignity which it is possible for the mind of man to -imagine. - -“I am quite sure you’ll win it, Dammit,” said he with the frankest of -all smiles, “but we are obliged to have a trial, you know, for the sake -of mere form.” - -“Ahem!” replied my friend, taking off his coat with a deep sigh, tying a -pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountable -alteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes, and bringing down -the corners of his mouth—“ahem!” And “ahem,” said he again, after a -pause; and devil the word more than “ahem!” did I ever know him to say -after that. “Aha!” thought I, without expressing myself aloud—“This is -quite a remarkable silence on the part of my friend, Toby Dammit, and is -no doubt a consequence of his great verbosity upon a previous occasion. -One extreme induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many -unanswerable questions which he propounded to me so fluently on the day -when I gave him my last lecture? At all events he is cured of the -transcendentals.” - -“Ahem!” here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts, -and looking like a very old sheep in a reverie. - -The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the -shade of the bridge—a few paces back from the turnstile. “My good -fellow,” said he, “I make it a point of conscience to allow you this -much run. Wait here till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see -whether you go over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don’t omit -any flourishes of the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say -‘one, two, three, and away.’ Mind you start at the word ‘away.’” Here he -took his position by the stile, paused a moment as if in profound -reflection, then looked down, then _looked up_, and, I thought, smiled -very slightly, then tightened the strings of his apron, then took a long -look at Dammit, then put his fore-finger to the side of his nose, and -finally gave the word as agreed upon— - - _One—two—three—and away!_ - -Punctually, at the word “away,” my poor friend set off in a strong -gallop. The style was not very high, like Mr. Pue’s—nor yet to say very -low like that of Mr. Pue’s reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure -that he would clear it. And then what if he did not?—ah, that was the -question—what if he did not? “What right,” said I, “had the old -gentleman to make any other gentleman jump? The little old -dot-and-carry-one! who is _he_? If he asks me to jump, I won’t do it, -that’s flat, and I don’t care who _the devil he is_.” The bridge, as I -say, was arched and covered in, in a very ridiculous manner, and there -was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all times—an echo which I -never before so particularly observed as when I uttered the four last -words of my remark. - -But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an -instant of time. In less than five seconds from his starting my poor -Toby had taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from -the floor of the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs -as he went up. I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to -admiration just over the top of the stile; and of course I thought it an -unusually singular thing that he did not _continue_ to go over. But the -whole leap was the affair of a moment, as they always say in the crack -historical novels, and before I had a chance to make any profound -reflections, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back on the same -side of the stile from which he had started. In the same instant I saw -the old gentleman limping off at the top of his speed, having caught and -wrapped up in his apron something that fell heavily into it from the -darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all this I was much -astonished; but I had no leisure to think, for Mr. Dammit lay -particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and -that he stood in need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found -that he had received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth -is, he had been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could -not find anywhere—so I determined to take him home, and send for the -homœopathics. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open an -adjacent window of the bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at -once. About five feet just above the top of the turnstile, and crossing -the arch of the foot-path so as to constitute a brace, there extended a -flat and sharp iron bar, lying with its breadth horizontally, and -forming one of a series that served to strengthen the structure -throughout its extent. With the edge of this brace it appeared evident -that the neck of my unfortunate friend had come precisely in contact. - -He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homœopathics did not give -him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he hesitated -to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to -all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked a _bar_ -sinister on his family escutcheon, and for the general expenses of his -funeral, sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The -scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and -sold him for dog’s meat. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. - - - BY G. A. RAYBOLD. - - - The first kiss of love, when the favor is won, - Fills the heart with pure bliss, if ’tis modestly done, - For ’tis like a brief glance from the sun’s clouded eye - Which just touches the earth and flies back to the sky. - - Ah! the bliss of that moment; ’twill ever remain, - While my heart in its depths can feel pleasure or pain; - For that kiss, to my heart was like rain to the flower, - Just ready to die, till refresh’d by a shower. - - The soft touch of _her_ hand, the bright glance of her eye; - The whisper’d word spoken, the half suppress’d sigh, - May be proofs of true love, but the _kiss_ is the token, - And pledge of a faith which may _never_ be broken. - - How fondly does memory dwell on it yet! - The scene and the hour, who can ever forget, - When reclin’d on your bosom, sustained in your arms, - You breathed out the heart long subdued by her charms? - - Her _kiss_ was the answer; so slight yet so sweet, - ’Twas enough; and that moment your bliss was complete; - From the lips to each heart went a holier thrill, - Delighting and binding those hearts closer still. - - That first kiss of love, when no mortal was near, - Was a _sign_ that dispersed the last vestige of fear; - She is mine, she is mine; mine now and forever; - By those holiest ties that death only can sever. - - * * * * * - - - - - LAME FOR LIFE, OR LESLIE PIERPOINT. - - - A TALE, IN TWO PARTS. - - -BY PROFESSOR J. H. INGRAHAM, AUTHOR OF “LAFITTE,” “KYD,” “THE QUADROONE,” - ETC. - - - “Is health returnless? Never more may I - Throw by the staff on which, alas! I lean? - Is the woof woven of my destiny? - Shall I be ne’er again what I have been? - And must the bodily anguish be combined - With the intenseness of the anxious mind?” - F. W. Thomas. - -If the reader will take the trouble to look in the revised edition of -the Philadelphia Directory for the year 1838, he will find recorded the -name of - - “Leslie Pierpoint, Gent. House No. 2-7 South Sixth St.” - -At the period of which we write this was the residence of this -distinguished party to our story, and still would have been but for the -simple incident that has led us to write it. - -It was on a cold, bleak evening, late in the autumn of that year, that -Major Pierpoint (for he had once borne a commission in the National -Guards—so he loved proudly to designate the militia) was seated before -his cheerful grate, with the crimson curtains warmly drawn over the -closed shutters. The room was partly library and partly sitting room. -Rich cases filled with costly volumes adorned two of its sides, while -lounges and one or two luxurious patent easy-chairs occupied the other. -The floor was covered with a thick Wilton carpet that returned no sound -to the foot-fall, and a hearth rug of Turkish fabric lay before the fire -in the rich fleece of which the slippered feet of Mr. Leslie Pierpoint -were half buried. The whole apartment wore an air of comfort and elegant -ease, combined with that cheerful warmth and inviting repose which are -so delightful of a wintery night. There was a large round table near the -centre of the room, strewed with books, magazines, pamphlets, opened -letters, &c., &c. In the midst of it stood a tall bronzed lamp that shed -a soft, clear light over all. The table turned upon a pivot so that Mr. -Pierpoint, without moving from the comfortable arm-chair in which he was -reposing, wrapped in his brilliant Chinese _robe de chambre_ (a present -from his particular friend, Mr. Dunn), could revolve it by the slightest -touch and bring within his reach any book or paper lying on the side -opposite to his chair. Mr. Pierpoint was a wealthy bachelor, and, -therefore, was an epicure in luxuries of this description. Bachelors, -having nothing else to do but to make themselves comfortable, can carry -these little personal conveniences to their perfection. Having said that -Mr. Leslie Pierpoint was a bachelor, it becomes us to explain how he -came to be a bachelor. He possessed a handsome person and an ample -fortune—was not only well born, but a gentleman by education and -cultivated tastes—and even at this period of his life, when forty-one -years had passed over his head, a child might have numbered the gray -hairs mingled with the fine brown locks that shaded his noble forehead. -Why, then, was Leslie Pierpoint a bachelor? Let us go back twenty-years, -and inquire of by-gone days. - -It is the year 1808. One of the most stately mansions in Third street, -then one of the most aristocratic portions of Philadelphia, is -brilliantly lighted. Its gorgeous rooms are thronged by the beauty and -chivalry of the city. We mingle with them also, dazzled by the flash of -jewelled brows, bewildered by the beauty of the wearers, confounded by -the music and moving forms, entranced, intoxicated by the whole scene of -enchantment! Let us retire a little to the silence and shade of this -verandah, where the moon finds its way to the marble floor through -trellised vines, and where the music and the sound of dancers’ feet -reach but faintly the ear. There are others here besides us who have -quitted the gay scene to seek refreshment of spirits in the quiet night -breeze and in the calm light of the moon. Hither approach us, leaning on -each other, arm fondly linked in arm, a noble pair. How stately _his_ -carriage, yet how tenderly he bends till his lips breathe upon the cheek -of the fair creature he whispers to! They pause in the shadow of the -thick vines! Her eyes meet his upturned and swimming with -tenderness,—his arm glides around her waist—she is pressed to his -manly breast, and their lips meet! It is but for an instant—a footstep -is heard! and they move on again arm in arm. His lips bend over her -willing ear as they slowly promenade the verandah. She suddenly starts, -and with her face receding a little from his, says, in an earnest -manner: - -“Indeed, Leslie, you wrong me. Nothing could change my love for you!” - -“But, yet, there are circumstances which _might_ transpire, and which -might lead you to withdraw your affection, dear Clara.” - -“No, no! nothing on earth. I feel I shall love you while I have a heart -to love. Dear, _dearest_ Leslie, how can you doubt me?” - -“I do not doubt you, dear Clara,” he said laughing and lifting her hand -to his lips. “God knows,” he earnestly added, “I should be miserable to -doubt where all my hopes of happiness are centered.” - -“Indeed, you should not—you ought not! What should I gain, Leslie, by -transferring my love to another? Certainly not a nobler person, a finer -face, a better fortune (if I may name this), a kindlier heart, or better -temper. Believe me, dear Leslie, when I say you are the handsomest man I -ever beheld, so that no higher degree of personal beauty could lead me -from you!” - -“You are a silly flatterer, child, and I half believe, fell in love with -me because you thought me the ‘handsomest man you ever beheld!’” - -“Now you are mocking me, Leslie. But I will confess that the first time -I saw you promenading the ball rooms at the —— Assemblies with Miss -P—— on your arm, I was struck with your stately and elegant walk. I -had not seen your face, but followed you with my eye till you turned -and, and—” - -“Met your gaze full fixed upon mine! That was not the first time _you_ -had attracted my attention that evening, Clara. I had observed you on my -first entrance, and my heart from that instant became yours.” - -Leslie Pierpoint pressed her to his heart as he spoke. - -“It shall ever be yours, dearest Leslie,” was the softly whispered -response of the blushing girl; “nothing would turn my love from you.” - -“Thank you for the pledge, dearest—I believe you. Come let us return -into the rooms—our absence will be remarked.” - -After Leslie had plucked a “Forget me not” and placed it in her hair, -the lovers slowly returned from the verandah. - - * * * * * - -A few weeks passed, and Leslie Pierpoint had prevailed on the blushing -Clara to name the day when she would redeem her pledge given in the -verandah, and become wholly and irrevocably his own. It was now at hand, -and Leslie counted the hours which envious Time thrust between him and -his anticipated bliss. Leslie loved the chosen bride of his bosom with -the most impassioned ardor. His whole heart was involved in his -affection, and he had so given himself up to his passion that any -revulsion promised to make him miserable. The beautiful Clara Clayton, -on her part, was deeply enamored of Leslie, but it was rather with his -handsome person than with his mind; for of his fortune she thought -little, being equally wealthy. She was a gay, haughty, spoiled beauty, -with not half heart enough to measure Leslie’s broad love, nor half mind -enough to penetrate the superior powers of his intellect. But if they -married, they were both likely to be happy so long as one retained her -loveliness and the bewitching smile and flashing dark eyes that had -captured Leslie, and the other the elegant form, air and gait which had -first inspired Clara with an interest in him. - -The week preceding his wedding day Leslie was commissioned a Major of -Militia, and the following day he turned out for review with the -battalion to which his regiment was attached. He had purchased a high -spirited horse for this occasion, and had but twice mounted him previous -to his appearance on parade; and though the animal evinced an -indomitable spirit, and had once proven nearly unmanageable, yet these -traits were regarded by the youthful officer rather as recommendations -for the military service for which he destined him than as serious -objections. He was, moreover, a finished horseman and well knew he could -so control the fiery animal’s impatient action as to render it -subservient to a more masterly display of his own horsemanship. - -On the day of parade, therefore, Leslie Pierpoint made his appearance on -the field, the best mounted officer in the battalion. His steed, as he -pranced along, seemed to beat the air rather than the earth, so lightly -he moved over the ground, so daintily he bent his slight yielding -fetlocks to his rider’s weight. - -“Ah, Major, a beautiful creature you have there,” said General ——, -whose aide-de-camp Leslie was that day; “you outshine us all. What an -eye! Will he stand fire?” - -“I have not tried him, General. But a horse of his blood has no fear in -him. He can never be taken by surprise.” - -“Do not trust him! See!” and the General suddenly flashed his sword -before his eyes. - -The animal moved not from the statue-like attitude in which Leslie had -reined him up beside the General. - -“Very well. He may do; but I advise you, Major Leslie, to be upon your -guard during the day, I don’t much like the beast’s eye. It looks -devilish.” - -“I have no fears, General; let him do his worst,” answered Leslie -laughing, and in a moment afterwards he galloped along the line to -execute an order. - -During the parade the beautiful steed behaved admirably, and elicited, -by the grace and swiftness of his movements, the universal admiration of -every eye. At length the firing by platoon commenced. At the first -discharge, he leaped bodily into the air with his rider and lit upon the -ground twenty feet distant; and Leslie’s superior horsemanship only -saved him from being thrown to the earth. He now sat more firmly and -watched him with hand and eye. But the successive discharges of -musketry, even by companies, had no further effect upon the animal, save -that there was a wider dilation of the pupil of the eye and a quick -erect movement of his delicately shaped ears. This favorable change not -only put Leslie off his guard but made him so self confident that he -resolved to ride up to a park of artillery about to be discharged, gaily -betting with General ——, as he triumphantly rode past this officer, -that he would not flinch even at that. - -“_Nous verrons_, Leslie,” said the General smiling. “Do not be too -confident.” - -With the reckless impetuosity of youth, and desirous of defending the -character of his favorite horse from his military friend’s aspersions, -Leslie spurred onward to the point. He drew up in the rear, within a few -paces of the ordnance, and awaited the signal for their discharge. There -were eight pieces of cannon and they were to be fired in rapid -succession. At the first loud, sharp report, the animal sprung, with a -mad leap, directly among the echoing artillery. Maddened by the -reiterated peals, he dashed, with the most terrific bounds, across the -line of fire and within a few feet of the muzzles of the pieces. At the -discharge of the last piece he became so terrified that he threw himself -headlong upon the earth and bit and pawed the ground with fury. Major -Leslie, who had maintained his seat with perfect skill and coolness, -fell beneath him and received his whole weight upon one of his legs and -his left side. Instantly the animal ceased his struggles, and when those -who hastened to Major Leslie’s assistance arrived on the spot, they -discovered that the horse had broken a blood vessel and was fast -bleeding to death. Leslie himself, though silent, was pale from -suffering. - -On extricating him, it was painfully apparent that his leg was not only -broken but that his knee was crushed. He was immediately removed to his -mother’s residence and the most distinguished surgical skill called in -to his relief. But for many days he lay upon a bed of anguish during -which, Clara, joyfully embracing the sweet privileges of a betrothed -bride, watched over him like some angelic messenger of health and peace. -At length he was able to change his recumbent posture for an easy-chair; -but it was many weeks before he left it to attempt to walk about the -chamber. The first time he did so it was with Dr. M—— on one side and -Clara on the other. It was a painful effort, but two or three turns -about the room were accomplished with less difficulty than had been -apprehended. He walked very, very lame it is true, but that was to be -expected. - -“He will soon get to his feet again as well as ever, won’t he, Doctor?” -asked Clara, partly to assure her own anxiety and partly to relieve the -foreboding of poor Leslie, who, by the expression of his face, she saw, -believed he should be lame for life. - -Dr. M—— looked at Leslie, shook his head sadly and said, - -“He will no doubt walk well enough in a few weeks, Miss Clayton. But -then that won’t make much difference,” he added, smiling, “since he has -no more conquests to make. If you should be lame, Major, you must regard -it a fortunate thing to have secured so fair a bride while possessing -all your natural attractions of person.” - -“My God, Doctor! you talk as if you thought there was some possibility -that I might be lame for life. Do tell me if this lameness I now have -proceeds from physical weakness or from imperfection in the limb?” - -“It is cruel to deceive you, my dear Major, though painful to tell the -truth,” answered Dr. M——, after a pause that did honor to his heart; -“your leg was broken in several places, producing an exceedingly -difficult compound fracture. It is improbable though not impossible that -the parts should ever perfectly re-unite. I fear, therefore, you must -bring both religion and philosophy to your aid, and try to endure it -cheerfully. This fair being who has so assiduously nursed by your pillow -will help you to bear it.” - -Leslie did not look up in the Doctor’s face while he spoke. His head had -fallen upon the arm of his chair, and there, with his face buried in his -hands, he lay still several minutes after he had ceased to speak. His -chest heaved with suppressed emotion, some deep o’er-mastering feeling. -At length he groaned heavily and looked up with a faint attempt to -smile. - -“This is a hard lot, Doctor, but I must attempt to bear it as well as I -can. I am not unprepared for this announcement. I have apprehended it -myself from the severe character of the injury I received.” - -“You will not find it difficult, Major Leslie,” said the physician, with -sympathy in his tone, “to endure even lameness. Your mind, by several -weeks’ previous illness, is prepared to submit to still greater -suffering if necessary. In illness we bear things, and take things we -could not do in health. Nature prepares the body and Heaven the mind for -all it meets with on earth. Even death is met quietly and calmly by the -invalid exhausted by a lingering illness. The idea of lameness if -presented to you in full health would have shocked you. I dare say you -would have unhesitatingly said you preferred death to it.” - -“I should have said so and thought so,” answered Leslie, earnestly. - -“But you do not now. On the contrary, you have just expressed a cheerful -submission to your fate. The same spirit will enable you to endure it -with equanimity. Good morning! I will call in and see you once a day -till you can ride out.” - -The kind medical adviser then took his leave, and for a few moments -after his departure the lovers remained silent. At length Leslie looked -up to seek Clara’s face with a smile as if to tell her that he had -schooled his spirit to submission, with a smile as if to assure her that -so long as he was blessed with her love he cared not for any misfortune -that Providence should see fit, in its infinite wisdom, to send. But -Clara saw not the smile nor the beautiful submission expressed on his -pale features. Her face was buried in her hands and turned away from -him, while the heaving of her form and the sobs that broke from her -surcharged heart told how deeply Leslie’s misfortune sunk into it. He -was touched by her violent grief, and would have risen to approach her, -but was unable to move. - -“Clara,” he said, in a low, soothing tone. She made no reply but -continued to be wholly absorbed in her affliction. - -“Dearest Clara,” he again repeated still more tenderly, “come hither, -and do not give way to grief in this manner. I care not for it; so, if -these tears are shed for me, dry them and come sit by me. I assure you, -that I would prefer lameness with your love to fulness and perfection of -limb without it. Come and sit by me and let us converse calmly upon this -subject. It will tranquilize both our minds and give us strength and -patience to bear, as we should do, an ill seemingly so grievous. In the -end it may prove a blessing. _You_ ought not to mourn, for it will -ensure to you, as my wife, all my society. I can name two or three -brides,” he added, playfully, “that would thank Heaven for any accident -that would break their husbands’ legs so that it would confine them at -home with them. Come, Clara, cheer up!” - -To this address from Leslie the lady made no reply save by increased -weeping; and his mother entering the chamber at the moment, she embraced -the opportunity to excuse herself and hurried from the room without -taking her kerchief from her face, or even giving her lover look or -reply. - -“Poor Clara,” he sighed looking after her, “she feels this affliction -most deeply. For myself I could endure it. Books, friends, and, above -all, Clara’s dear society will make the time pass cheerfully. She will -yet be resigned to it. How strong must be that love which shows itself -by such profound and unextinguishable sorrow! Ah, mother! have you seen -the Doctor?” - -“Yes, dear Leslie,” she answered with emotion. - -“And he has told you I shall be lame for life?” - -“Alas, my dear child, alas! may Heaven give you strength and patience to -bear this affliction!” - -“It has, dear mother. I am perfectly resigned,” he answered calmly. - -“God bless you—God be blessed!” and the mother wept in gratitude upon -her son’s neck. - -There was a few moments’ silence which the invalid at length broke. - -“I could bear this affliction, dearest mother, without a murmur if I -stood alone. But, dear Clara! She weeps as if her heart was breaking. I -fear it will be the death of her—she feels so much for me. I wish you -could convince her that I care nothing about it if she will not.” - -Mrs. Pierpoint did not reply but shook her head gravely and sighed very -heavily. - -“What means that sigh, mother?” asked Leslie with surprise and a -misgiving of he knew not what. - -“Nothing, son. But I fear Clara’s tears are devoted rather to the shrine -of her own vanity than shed upon the altar of her love.” - -“How mean you, mother?” demanded Leslie, with heightened color. - -“Clara Clayton, dear boy, loves herself more than she loves any body -else. I have known Clara from a child. I should never have chosen her as -your wife; but you loved her and there was no alternative but -acquiescence. Though I approved not, I spoke not, knowing how vain a -parent’s words are with children in affairs of the heart. Clara is proud -that she has captivated the handsomest young man in the town whom all -the young ladies were sighing for; but she loves you not, Leslie, as a -true woman should love.” - -“My dear mother, how you wrong the angelic girl! Has she not watched -over my sick bed like a sister, yea, like a beloved and loving wife? Has -she not sympathized in all my afflictions? Did she not just now quit the -chamber overcome by the intensity of her grief? You wrong her, dear -mother, indeed you wrong her!” - -“I hope I do. Time will determine, my son.” - -“But why this suspicion? What has Clara done?” - -“Nothing. I judge from my knowledge of her character.” - -“Then you do not know her, and have built your judgment upon a false -foundation. Clara is every thing I wish her to be. Send for her, mother; -I would see her. I will convince you that you are in error respecting -her. But should you be right, _I_ love _her_ and after we are married, -as I mean to be in a few weeks, we shall live very happy together, and -in time I shall teach her to love _me_ better than she loves _herself_.” - -Mrs. Pierpoint made no answer and left the room to seek the fair subject -of their conversation. In a few seconds she returned with a grave look -and said that, leaving word with the footman to say to Mr. Leslie that -she did not feel well, Miss Clayton had ordered the carriage and driven -home. - -“Poor Clara,” said Leslie with sympathy; “she is herself sick and needs -quiet and repose. The painful announcement of this morning has shocked -her nerves. Mother, why do you look so grave and sad—so incredulous?” - -“I hope Miss Clayton had no other motive in so suddenly departing than -indisposition. But, my dear Leslie, I hope she will prove herself all -you hope and desire.” - -“Of that I am sure, dear mother,” he answered warmly. “I only grieve -that you should have conceived a prejudice against one who is so soon to -become my wife and your daughter.” - -“Let us speak no more upon this subject now, Leslie. You need repose.” - -Mrs. Pierpoint then drew the curtains and darkened the room. The invalid -threw himself back in his easy-chair and soon, yielding to the soothing -influence of the soft twilight in his chamber, sunk into a refreshing -sleep. - - * * * * * - -Clara Clayton sprung from the carriage as it drew up at her own door, -and, without entering the parlor, hurriedly ascended to her own chamber. -Closing the door, she turned the key in the lock, and then with a hand -each firmly holding a string of her unloosed hair, and her mantle awry, -she paced the room several minutes with a quick, nervous tread. Her brow -was set and her face much flushed, and the expression it wore was grief -mingled with mortified pride. Yes, Clara Clayton’s pride was humbled. -She had loved Leslie Pierpoint for his personal beauty—the elegance of -his figure, his high-bred air and carriage, his manly tread and -distinguished appearance in the street. These first captivated her -fancy, and when at length chance threw them together, his admiration of -her, combined with the excellent qualities of his head and heart, -inspired her with love—love such as so selfish a person was capable of -feeling. She also felt flattered in the attentions of the handsomest man -of the day; and it was with the triumphant reflection of how envious -some score of her female rivals would feel that she surrendered her -heart (as much as she had, at least,) to the blinded Leslie. So their -ill-fared love went on, he loving her with the devotion of idolatry, she -loving herself with no whit less self-adoration. The handsome Leslie -administered to her vanity! It might all have gone on very well, -however, even to matrimony, as thousands of other similar attachments -have done, _similar_ save that the cases are more frequently reversed, -and the lover is, instead, the one whose vanity is administered to by -the beauty of the lady! But the untoward accident that befel Leslie -removed the veil! and often has he blessed his stars for it. A broken -leg is, doubtless, a much less affair than a broken manly heart! - -Clara Clayton continued to pace her room in vexed and troubled thought. -From what has been said above, the reader will readily divine its -complexion! Suddenly she stopped and clenched her jewelled fingers -together and wrung them with a look of pitiable and painful despair. - -“Oh, God! lame for life! A _cripple_! Miserable! miserable that I am! -How can I love him now? How can I marry a cripple? Walk Chesnut Street -leaning on a lame husband’s arm—or, no—worse still, perhaps, he -leaning on mine! Think of this morning as he walked the room! I never -saw any body go lamer! It is absolutely shocking! Then how can I dance -as he cannot! He will never give nor go to parties! A lame husband! The -idea is absolutely horrid!” - -With this praiseworthy and very sensible utterance of her peculiar -feelings on the subject, Miss Clara Clayton threw her bonnet upon the -bed, her shawl upon the floor and herself into a chair. For a few -seconds she remained silent; at length her thoughts found their proper -language. - -“Yes, it must be! I will address him a note this very morning, stating -plainly my reasons why I wish to withdraw from my engagement with him! -He is too generous to refuse me! He will see at once how it would break -a high-spirited woman full of youth and beauty to be tied down for life -to a sofa and arm-chair—a mere machine to hand him his crutches and -night-cap! He is too generous to wish it! I do wish he had not met with -this awkward accident. I don’t think I could have found a better husband -than poor Leslie! But then it is no use to dwell on this now. I cannot -think of marrying him after what has happened, and he can’t expect—no -one can expect it. I am decided. I will write to him frankly and request -him to release me from my engagement.” - -With this determination, this sweet young lady sat herself down to her -escritoire to write poor Leslie’s sentence of death—death to confidence -in woman! She bent her graceful head over the gilt-edged note paper, and -nibbled her pen several seconds. At length she began to write:— - - “_Thursday morning, 11 o’clock._ - “_No. 2— Chesnut Street._ - - “To Major Leslie Pierpoint:— - “Sir:——” - -Here she paused and blushed with something like shame. - -“No, this is too cold. I will not offend him.” And she then took a fair -sheet and wrote as follows: - - “To Leslie Pierpoint, Esq.:— - “Dear Sir:——” - -This address did not suit her. After a few moments’ deliberation she -laid a fresh sheet before her and thus commenced, in a free, decided -way, as if she had fully determined on the mode in which she should -communicate her resolutions to him:— - - “Dear Leslie: - - “You must have been surprised, doubtless, at my sudden departure - this morning without seeing you. To speak frankly and deal truly - with you, Dr. M——’s shocking communication, being so wholly - unexpected and unprepared for, nearly deprived me of my senses. - You are a witness how I was overwhelmed at the horrid - announcement! Unable to endure the shock, I hastened home - without again seeing you. Since I have been in my own chamber I - have been reflecting upon this fearful destiny in store for you. - Believe me, Leslie, that I would willingly share it with you if - you wished it; but I feel that you are too generous, too noble - to desire to involve in your own misery the happiness of any one - over whose fate previous circumstances may have given you the - right to exercise a certain kind of control! Your own knowledge - of the world, of society, will teach you that your recent - unhappy misfortune has placed our relation to each other in a - new light. My happiness now hangs upon your decision. If you are - _really_ desirous of urging the ultimate issue of our betrothal, - and are willing for your own selfish ends to wreck the happiness - of one so young as I am, I must _submit_; but if, as I feel you - will be, you are, on the other hand, influenced by those high - and generous feelings that distinguish you above all men, and - will freely release me from a union which it will henceforward - be a species of bondage for me to endure, you will relieve my - mind from a painful weight of anxiety and suspense and forever - secure the _friendship_ of - - Yours, sincerely, - Clara Clayton.” - -The young lady read the letter over carefully once, sealed, directed, -and despatched it without giving herself time for thought. The street -door closed upon the footman who bore it. - -“It is gone! Leslie! alas, poor Leslie! alas, that Fortune should have -driven me to this step! But there was no alternative. No time for delay. -If I had still visited him I should have been a hypocrite, and my -prolonged absence would have required an explanation. It was necessary -that I should write as I have. How will Leslie receive it?” - -While she is fancying how the invalid received it, let us, dear reader, -really know how he received it. - -He had slept not quite an hour when his sleep was disturbed by the -ringing of the street-door bell. Opening his eyes he looked round the -chamber and called in a faint gentle voice— - -“Clara!” - -There was no reply and after waiting an instant he roused himself: “Ah, -yes, I had forgotten! She has returned home. Poor girl! I sympathise -with her in her overwhelming sympathy for me. So I am to be lame for -life! ’Tis a sad, a heavy misfortune! Ah, mother, I am glad you have -come in. Please draw aside the curtains and let in the light. It is so -gloomy. I have slept well and feel refreshed. Have you heard from -Clara?” - -“Her footman has just left this note for you, Leslie,” said Mrs. -Pierpoint, putting aside the curtains. - -“Give it me, mother.” - -Leslie hastily broke the seal, opened it, and ere he began to read -pressed his lips to her name at the close. Have the kindness to turn -back and re-read the letter, dear reader, with him, that you may enter -into Leslie’s feelings as he perused it. He read to its close without -betraying the least emotion in his expressive face. But when he had come -to the end he slowly crushed the letter up in his left hand till the -nails of the fingers met through it into the flesh. His teeth became set -and his whole face stern and as rigid as marble. His alarmed mother -caught the fearful expression of his fixed eyes and flew to him. He -waived her away with a quiet movement of the hand. - -“No, no, do not touch me, mother! I am well, very well;” he said -hoarsely. - -“No, dearest child, you are very ill. I will ring for assistance.” - -“No—give me a pen—ink—paper too! I would write.” - -“The Doctors have forbidden it.” - -“But one—one line, dear mother!” - -Mrs. Pierpoint looked at him a moment with hesitation and then silently -obeyed. Not a muscle of Leslie’s face moved, but it was pale, very pale, -as he took the pen in his fingers. His hand was steady while he wrote -the following brief reply:— - - “_Mr. Leslie Pierpoint’s compliments to Miss Clayton—he assures - her it is far, far from his wish, to place an obstacle in the - way of her happiness._ - - “_Thursday morning,_ - - “_No. 27— South Sixth St._” - -He directed and despatched it without a word or look of emotion; and -when the servant had left the room he calmly turned to his surprised -mother, whose looks were fixed upon him full of anxious inquiry, smiled -faintly upon her and said, at the same time offering her Clara’s crushed -letter, - -“Dearest mother, you would ask me what this means? Read this—it will -explain—_it is eloquent!_ Read it and be so good as never to mention -the subject of it to me again.” - -Mrs. Pierpoint perused it in silence and with tears of sorrow and -sympathy for him whose manly heart Clara Clayton had crushed as he had -crushed the letter. The mother and the son exchanged glances and the -letter was folded up and laid aside. From that hour Leslie Pierpoint -never breathed the name of Clara, never looked upon a woman but with -secret dislike and contempt. - -From that day also he began to mend. On a temper such as his, treachery, -like Clara Clayton’s, must either be fatally effectual or perfectly -harmless. His haughty and contemptuous spirit did the service of coat -armor in the protection of his heart. It broke not! It remained whole -and manly as ever—but it strengthened itself in its strength against -all future approaches of love. - -Whether the soundness of Leslie’s heart extended itself to his limb or -the energy of his proud spirit exerted a commanding influence over the -physical body cannot be ascertained; but the fact is clear that he began -rapidly to convalesce from the day he so cavalierly gave Clara her -freedom. At the end of three months thereafter, after having gone -through the regular course of, first, two crutches, then a crutch and a -cane, and then a single crutch alone, he made his appearance with Dr. -M—— on one side and his only support on the other an ordinary walking -stick! Every where he received the congratulations of his friends and -rejoiced in them; for he had all along felt a triumphant pride in -getting well—a sort of cherished spirit of revenge, though he confessed -it not to himself, upon Clara—false, heartless Clara. It is true he -walked lame with his cane and the doctor, but every day he grew better, -and at length his physicians, contrary to their previous decision, -pronounced that the bones of the leg were properly reunited and that -strength in the limb was only necessary to restore it to its original -sound condition. Tenderly and most gingerly did Leslie nurse his leg and -humor its kindly temper towards health. Time at length rewarded his -care, and at the end of fourteen months from the time he received -Clara’s letter he walked Chesnut street sound in limb and with “the -lofty carriage, distinguished air and noble step” that had captivated -the fancy and won the shallow heart of Clara Clayton. - -Leslie, however, never again looked kindly upon woman. He believed the -sex to be instinctively false-hearted and selfish; he acknowledged no -love in her but love of herself, and religiously believed that she -married only for self-interest and that she looked upon men only as -instruments for the gratification of her vanity. No, he never trusted -woman from that time up to the period we have introduced him to the -reader seated in his arm-chair in his library with the gentle snows of -forty-one winters upon his head. - -But time aided by circumstances achieves apparent impossibilities. -Leslie Pierpoint possessed a heart that would be a treasure to any -woman; and because one had proved traitorous to its noble confidence, -Love had resolved that it should not always be locked in the ice of -winter—that its summer should come to it again, its seed time and -harvest should return, and fruits and flowers once more bear witness to -the moisture and richness of the long barren soil. - -But this change, its progress and extraordinary results, will form the -theme of a Second Tale. - - * * * * * - - - - - LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO. - - - THE STEP-MOTHER. - - -When I first knew the family of the Wentworths, it was composed of a -husband in the prime of life, a beautiful being his bride, and a sweet -little babe whom they doted on, not only for its beauty, but as the heir -of his father’s large estates. The family was noble, or rather its -ancestors had been so in England, and the estates, now in its -possession, had come down from father to son for several generations, -increasing in value with the prosperity of the country, until they now -afforded almost the revenue of a prince. With the pride of birth, -something of its injustice had attached to the family, for, to maintain -the importance of the name, it had been the custom, ever since the -abolition of primogeniture, to keep the estate entailed on the eldest -son, providing, however, respectable portions for the other children. -The Wentworth lands had thus descended from the present proprietor’s -father, and were intended to go down in the same manner to his eldest -son. I knew little of Mr. Wentworth himself, for he was a proud, -reserved man—but his meek wife had early won on my heart, and from the -hour when I was first called on, as a professional adviser, to give my -opinion respecting some property which she held to her sole and separate -use, under her marriage settlements, up to the latest moment of her -life, my feelings for this singularly amiable woman, were like those of -a parent to a daughter. - -Wentworth Hall, where the family resided, was a large, antique, imposing -structure, situated in the centre of an extensive park, and approached -by a long avenue, terminating at one end in the hall door, and at the -other, at the distance of almost a mile, in a massy gateway, guarded by -a porter’s lodge. The house, when I first knew it, was as lordly a -mansion as one would wish to see. I passed it the other day, and it was -in ruins. No human being has slept within its walls since the -development of the dreadful tragedy I am about to relate. God knows I -shudder at the task! - -I never saw a sweeter child than the young heir of Wentworth: I think -now I see his little hands, his silken hair, or his soft blue eyes, so -like those of his mother. All loved him. How could they help it? for in -everything he resembled her who gave him birth, and she was one who -insensibly won every heart, and deserved to win them too. But in nothing -was this similarity so striking as in the dispositions of the mother and -child. I do not believe either would knowingly have hurt a fly. -Certainly no traces of the proud irascible temper of the father could be -discovered in the son. - -Well has it been said that the good die young. They are exhaled, as it -were, like dew, back to their native sky, just at the very time when we -begin fully to appreciate their worth. The young heir was scarcely three -years old when his mother died. There was grief, and, I believe, -heart-felt grief, up at the old hall for a while,—and then came the -intelligence that Mr. Wentworth had determined to travel, and that, -meanwhile, the young heir was to be left at home with a nurse, and -suitable attendants. - -Two years passed away. At length rumors reached the servants that their -master would soon return, accompanied by a new bride. Before long these -reports were confirmed, and then, after a few days’ delay, the newly -wedded pair dashed up to the hall door behind a chariot and four, -decorated with bride favors. - -The new comer was certainly a magnificent woman, but oh! what a contrast -to the sweet angel who had formerly filled her place. The first wife was -rather _petite_, with soft blue eyes, and an expression of countenance -almost seraphic; her successor was a tall, splendid looking woman, with -dark flashing orbs, and a face whose haughty beauty was the very -impersonation of a Juno. I know not why, but with all her majesty, I -never liked the second Mrs. Wentworth. - -In due time a son was the fruit of this marriage. The babe, like the -mother, was beautiful, and it seemed to me—it may have been only -fancy—that, in the rejoicings at its birth, the elder son, and -undoubted heir, was totally forgotten. - -It soon became evident that the new wife was paramount in her influence -over her husband; but, in one thing she was foiled; she could not -alienate his affections from his elder son. She dared not openly speak -against the young heir, but it was evident that she hated him, because -he would exclude her own child from the estate; and though the fortune -of a younger son of the Wentworths would have been an independence to -any one else, yet this grasping woman coveted all for her own darling. -On this point, however, she knew that her husband would prove -inflexible, and that his family pride would be too strong even for his -wife’s persuasions. She did not, therefore, make the attempt. But in -every possible way, especially when her husband was absent, she -contrived to make the life of her step-son irksome and intolerable. A -thousand petty vexations, such as are easier felt than described, and -which no one knows so well how to inflict as a second wife, soured the -early life of the young heir, and, despite his amiable disposition, made -him the most unhappy of beings. The sum of his misery was filled up, -when, his father having been chosen a member of Congress, left the -family at Wentworth Hall, while he proceeded to Washington. From that -hour, whether at his estate or at the capitol of the nation, Mr. -Wentworth was so occupied by ambition that he found no time to unravel -the domestic transactions of his household; so that, deprived of the -check heretofore existing on her conduct in the presence of her husband, -the new wife commenced a more open and oppressive series of petty -persecutions on the young heir, which effectually broke the spirits of -one so delicately constituted. I never saw a greater change in any one -than took place in Herbert Wentworth between his fifth and eleventh -years. From being used to constant exercise in the open air, he was -restricted to the school-room, the library, and the garden. In a short -time his health gave way, and he became pale, weakly, and melancholy. -And this was the once gay and happy boy, with a heart as light as the -carol of a bird! Oh! could his sainted mother have foreseen, on her -death-bed, the destiny that was to overtake her child, how bitter would -have been her parting hour. - -Meanwhile the younger son—the darling of the mother—was indulged in -every thing. His slightest wish was anticipated. He was taught every -manly accomplishment of the day, and, at twelve, was already nearly as -large as his delicate brother. He was a skilful horseman, and the best -sportsman on the estates. But he was wilful, passionate and imperious. - -So matters went on, until the young heir was nearly eighteen years of -age, when his father took him to Washington with him during the session -of Congress. For the first time emancipated from the thraldom of his -step-mother, Herbert began to be aware of the importance of his -situation, and to become more than ever averse to the tyranny of his -home. He returned to Wentworth Hall an altered being. When his father, -about this time, received an appointment to an embassy to one of the -South American States, he solicited to accompany his parent, but the -request could not be granted, and the young heir was left at home with -Mrs. Wentworth and her son. - -The change in the character of Herbert soon became evident to the -step-mother. But, in nothing was it more perceptible than in the -resistance the young heir made to the restraints attempted to be imposed -on him, but from which his brother was exempt. Privileges which Herbert -felt were his, equally with his brother, or to which he, if either, had -the better right, were no longer surrendered without expostulation, or -in some cases without a struggle. One of the great causes of difference -arose from the determination, expressed by the young heir, to shoot on -the estate—a privilege no rational being would have dreamed he was not -entitled to—but which, his pampered brother, habituated to seeing -himself indulged, and Herbert restrained, in everything, took on himself -one day, in a fit of passion, to dispute. Had Mrs. Wentworth been -present, even she would have seen the folly of her son and would have -checked him; but, unaccustomed to be opposed, the wilful boy, when he -saw his brother with a resolution as unusual as it was irritating, -determined to insist on the right, flew into a rage, and, in a moment of -phrenzy, presented his gun at Herbert. A scuffle ensued, in which the -piece went off, whether accidentally or not was never known, and the -young heir fell to the ground weltering in his blood. His life, for some -time, was despaired of, during which time the brother maintained a -sullen silence—but at length Herbert was declared out of danger, and, -in a few weeks more, was completely restored. During this time the -mother did not hesitate to give that version of the story which would, -by throwing all the blame on Herbert, exculpate her darling, so that, -when the young heir left his sick chamber, he found that, except among a -few who knew his disposition better, he was received as an arrogant, and -quarrelsome young man. - -This incident, however, had exercised a powerful influence on Mrs. -Wentworth. The very fact that Herbert, whom she and her son had so long -ruled with a rod of iron, should attempt to break loose from the -thraldom, inflamed her almost to madness. From envying, she began to -hate the young heir, and that too with a deadliness of which one would -have thought her incapable. And every day, as Herbert broke some new -mesh of the net in which she had involved him, she learned to hate him -more passionately than before. Indeed, to a woman of her disposition, -nothing could be more galling than to see one, over whom she had been -used to tyrannize at her pleasure, asserting his rights, even, in some -cases, in direct contradiction to her commands, as, for instance, when -Herbert refused, as heir to the estate, to allow some wood to be cut -down which she had ordered to be felled and sold. I solemnly believe -that the haughty step-mother never forgave this act—that the -remembrance of it haunted her night and day—and that it filled up the -cup of hatred, which before was well nigh full, and led to the dreadful -catastrophe which ensued. - -I have said the young heir recovered from his wound, but he remained in -an exceedingly delicate state of health, so that the least exposure of -his person was sure to bring on a cold, attended with pains in his side, -at the seat of the wound. However, by clothing carefully according to -the weather, he succeeded, in the course of some six months, in firmly, -as he thought, re-establishing his health, though, it is my firm -conviction, that, from the hour of his wound, his constitution was -effectually undermined. Certain it is, that when Herbert, thinking -himself perfectly restored, ventured one day on a little more exposure -than usual, he was seized with a violent cold, which soon resulted in a -fever of the most desperate character. So fatal were the ravages of the -disease that his life was soon despaired of, and for several days we -hourly expected to hear of his death. - -During this crisis, what were the feelings of the haughty step-mother? -She could not be expected to wish for the recovery of the being whom she -hated with such intensity, and, although she was forced to appear -concerned for him, and the best medical attendance was, by her orders, -procured, yet I have not the least doubt that the one burning wish of -her heart, during all that terrible time, was that the young heir might -never recover. His death, indeed, would be the consummation of all her -hopes. It would, at once, place her darling son in possession of the -vast estates of his father—a position at which she could not look -without a momentary bewilderment. As day after day elapsed, and the -young heir grew weaker and weaker, her hopes rose in proportion, and the -prize on which, at first, she had scarcely ventured to look, she now -regarded as almost in the possession of her child. How her heart -leaped—we will not attempt to disguise it—at the prospect before her. -She would be removed from all fear of the interference of Herbert—she -would be saved from the shame of being thwarted as she had been—she -would no longer have a right to remain at the Hall only as long as her -husband lived; and though, under other circumstances, she felt she might -have continued in it to her dying day, yet she knew that Herbert, after -what had passed, would, on his father’s death, cut off all communication -with her. Besides her pride revolted from accepting a favor at the hands -of the young heir. Her own child too! brought up as he had been, with -habits of such lavish expenditure, how would he ever be able to live on -the fortune, handsome though it was, reserved for the younger son of the -house of Wentworth. He had been used to every indulgence; he had been -taught to regard everybody and everything as subservient to his wishes; -in short, he had been educated as the heir rather than as the younger -son of the family—and now, when the vast estates of his father were -almost within his grasp, when only the life of a sickly boy was in his -way, could his mother be expected to look on the death of the real heir -with any thing but complacency? But she dissembled her feelings: the -world gave her credit for the most poignant anguish of mind during the -vacillations of the disease. - -“And how is the patient to-night, doctor,” said she, following the -physician out of the sick chamber, and affecting to place her -handkerchief to her eyes; “do you not think he is a little, a very -little improved?” - -“I do not wish, unnecessarily, to alarm you,” was the answer; “indeed, -you must have seen the ravages of the disease; but so far from thinking -your son”—oh! how the word grated on her feelings—“any better, I fear -he cannot survive until morning. He is not naturally of a strong -constitution, and this fever would have brought the stoutest man to the -grave. I wonder how young Mr. Wentworth has withstood it so long.” - -“Then you cannot give us any hope. Oh! cannot you let us have some, even -the slightest, expectation of his recovery? Do, dear Doctor, only say a -word like it.” - -The physician shook his head sadly, for he had become attached to his -patient, and knew nothing of the secret of his companion’s heart—and -departed. The unnatural woman turned to her chamber, and, with a joy we -will not attempt to picture, paced up and down the room. At length, she -thought her wishes were about to be fulfilled; her boy, her darling boy, -would inherit the broad lands she saw from her casement; and she!—she -paused, and muttered—“ah! there will be a vast difference betwixt the -mere widow of the proprietor of Wentworth Hall, and the mother of that -personage.” - -In a short time she calmed her transports, and, returning to the -bed-side of the now insensible sufferer, watched there until late at -night, when she retired, with apparent reluctance, leaving orders, -however, to be called should any change be perceptible in the patient. - -She had fallen into an uneasy sleep, in which a thousand wild dreams -flitted through her mind, and the clock had just struck the second hour -after her retirement, when a maid-servant knocked at her chamber door, -and saying, that her young master had suddenly awoke sane, and had -conversed rationally with the nurse, departed. - -“He is going, then,” muttered the unnatural woman, in a delirium of joy; -“they always are so just before death;” and hastily throwing on a loose -dress, she hurried to the room of the sufferer. - -The curtains were closed when she entered, and the nurse held up her -finger, whispering— - -“He has just fallen asleep. Praise to God, the crisis is past, and the -dear youth will recover! His fever has left him—his skin is no longer -hot—he is free from delirium.” - -The words of the faithful old creature almost took away Mrs. Wentworth’s -breath; she felt herself turning pale, and her brain swam around. -Happily, the room was imperfectly lighted, so that the nurse could not -detect the changes in the countenance of her mistress. - -“_And is there any fear of a relapse?_” said Mrs. Wentworth, forcing -herself to assume feelings, outwardly, far different from those really -raging in her bosom. “Is the _dear boy_ safe?” - -“The chances are infinitely in his favor; yet there is a possibility of -a relapse. I pray God no such evil may overtake Master Herbert.” - -Her mistress nodded, and feeling that she could not much longer maintain -her composure, she said that she would return to her room for a moment -to procure her slippers, when she would aid her in watching by the sick -bed, as she was _too overjoyed to sleep_. - -What pen can paint her feelings when she reached her chamber? Here were -all her bright visions dissipated. The prospect before her was darker -than ever. What would become of herself after her husband’s -death?—what, indeed, would that husband say when he returned and heard -Herbert’s version of his brother’s and her conduct? What would become of -her darling son, subject, perhaps, to his father’s displeasure, and, at -most, left with nothing but a younger son’s fortune, with which to -support his expensive habits? She paused in the centre of her room. A -thousand furies seemed agitating her countenance. Pride, fear, hate, all -chased each other, by turns, through her bosom. Suddenly her face -assumed a look of comparative calmness. She walked to a neighboring -closet, took from its wall a small phial, and then, gazing a moment at -her face in the glass, she placed her slippers on her feet, and sought -the room of the invalid. Motioning to the nurse to keep her seat, this -fearful woman crossed to the other side of the bed, and sat down by the -little table on which stood the medicine for the sufferer. The cup -already contained the dose which was to be given him at the expiration -of the hour. She looked at the watch—but a few minutes remained to the -time. She looked around the room—no one was in it but the nurse, who -was concealed by the curtains of the bed. She hastily uncorked the -phial, and, with a trembling hand, let fall a few drops of the liquid it -contained into the cup. The phial was then secreted, and, with a face as -ashy as the dead, she heard, the next instant, the clock strike the -hour. The patient awoke at the noise, and, almost on the instant, the -nurse came around and took the cup in her hand. My pen trembles so I can -scarcely proceed—but I must. Suffice it to say the cup was drained, and -the invalid, as if exhausted, sank back on his pillow. When next the -attendant drew aside the curtain, she gazed on the face of the dead. - -Let me escape from this terrible tragedy. The young heir was buried in -lordly state, and no suspicion ever arose that he died otherwise than by -a sudden relapse. But was Mrs. Wentworth happy? She saw her son the -acknowledged heir of the estate, and for this she had labored her whole -life—but was she happy? I will answer, in the words of Scripture, when -speaking of the wicked—“Terrors take hold on him as waters; the tempest -swalloweth him up in the night. . . . _For God shall cast upon him and -not spare._” - -Time passed. Even Mrs. Wentworth began to find, in the lapse of years, -and in gazing on her son, now near eighteen, some alleviation for her -tortured mind. But God, whose inscrutable Providence had hitherto seemed -to forget the unholy deed we have just narrated, was now preparing for -its author a fearful retribution. - -It was just five years from the day of Herbert’s death, when the doating -mother was standing in the door of her house, surrounded by a party of -visitors of her own age, waiting for the approach of a gay cavalcade of -young people, coming up the avenue. The sky was gloomy and threatened a -storm, and the riders were evidently returning in haste. But the tempest -was quicker than even their fleet steeds, and the group, with young -Wentworth at its head, was yet some distance from the door, when the -storm burst on the riders. Each put spurs to his horse, and the young -heir, as wilful as ever, instead of awaiting his companions, dashed -forward as fast as his steed—the fleetest of them all—could carry him. -He was already several rods in advance of his companions, when the wind, -suddenly bursting out into a hurricane, swept across the avenue, taking -in its course a huge, but somewhat decayed tree, whose trunk, after -swaying forwards a moment, was seen to yield to the gale just as young -Wentworth came underneath it. - -“Look out!” shouted those who saw the danger. - -“Save him!—oh! save him!” shrieked the mother. - -It was too late. Down, with a crash like thunder, came the gigantic -tree, the trunk striking the unhappy youth right on the head, and -bearing him to the earth as if he was a mere twig. There was a wild cry, -and all that remained of the victim was one quivering hand, extended, as -if in supplication, beyond the trunk of the tree. - -The spectators stood aghast, transfixed with speechless horror, at the -fearful sight. A deathlike stillness of a moment, and only of a moment, -followed. It was broken by a long, wild, harrowing shriek of anguish, at -the remembrance of which, even now, my blood runs cold. They all turned -instinctively in the same direction—towards the mother of the -victim—for that shriek could have come from no one else. They saw her -fall like marble to the earth. They sprang to her side. Her eyes were -wide open, glaring fearfully on vacancy—the foam had gathered, thick -and white, on her bloodless lips—her whole frame was quivering in an -agony such as—thank God!—mortal man has rarely seen. There she lay, -struck by the hand of God, writhing in convulsions. Tell me not there is -no retribution! Oh! fearfully was that murdered boy avenged. - -They took her up, bore her into her stately chamber, and despatched -messengers on every hand for medical aid. All that the skill of the -profession could do to restore her was exerted, but for a long time -unsuccessfully. At length, however, Mrs. Wentworth showed signs of -recovery. Slowly, consciousness appeared to return to her; but just when -her attendants were beginning to hope that the danger had passed, she -sprang up in her bed, and, placing her hands before her eyes, shrieked, -“save him—save him—oh, God! have mercy—I am the murderer—he is -innocent,” and with other ejaculations, equally as terrific, she sank -down on the couch, in a paroxysm of madness. _She was a maniac._ It was -not many days before nature gave way beneath the struggle, but, during -the ravings of her phrenzy, she recapitulated the whole of the dreadful -tragedy, and in words too that made her listeners tremble to hear. It -has often occurred to me, that, if the death-bed revelations of but one -year could be made public, they would make us avoid our fellow-men as -beings of a darker world. - -One word and this melancholy leaf is ended. Mr. Wentworth never returned -from his mission, but fell a victim to the climate of South America. His -estate having been entailed to the issue of his own body, of course, -failing such issue, passed in the regular course of succession; and -descending to nearly a score of collateral heirs, who divided the -property betwixt them, was soon broken into fragments. The old Hall was -shunned with superstitious fear, and is now in ruins. So pass away the -things of this world. - - D. - - * * * * * - - - - - MY BONNIE BLUE-EYED LASSIE, O! - - - A SCOTTISH BALLAD. - - - SUNG BY - MR. DEMPSTER. - _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_. - - -[Illustration: musical score] - - I sing the bonnie E’e of her, - My bonnie, bonnie Lassie O! - I - -[Illustration: musical score] - - sing the praise of ane I luve, - My bonnie, bonnie Lassie, O! - I sing of monie a time and aft, - We’ve gane thegither cheerly, O! - And bless the E’e that welcomes me, - My bonnie blue-eyed Lassie, O! - - Her face sae fair, her winning air, - Sure nane is like my lassie, O! - When e’r we meet, she smiles so sweet, - My bonnie blue-eyed lassie, O! - And monie a time at fair or green, - We’ve prattled aft and dearly, O! - I press’d my suit, she pleaded youth, - My bonnie blue-eyed lassie, O! - - Yes, woo I still, yes, woo I will, - My bonnie, bonnie lassie, O! - The world can ne’er ha’e charms for me, - Without my blue-eyed lassie, O! - When last we met, I saw her e’e - Half turn’d aside so winning, O! - I named the kirk, she gied consent, - My ain dear blue-eyed lassie, O! - - * * * * * - - - - - COTTAGE PIETY. - - - BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ. - - - “Early had they learned - To reverence the volume that displays - The mystery, the life which cannot die.” - _Wordsworth._ - -There is no piety like that in our cottages. Go through the land from -one end to the other,—enter, if you will, at every door you pass,—seek -out the dying in lordly hall, and lowly dwelling,—and you will find -that the humble tenants of the humblest roof, are often the most -acceptable in the eyes of their Maker, and that in the words of Holy -Writ, “not many wise, not many noble are called,” but “God hath chosen -the weak things of this world to confound the mighty.” And there is a -philosophy in this. The rich have wherewithal to enjoy themselves in -this life, and what care they for the one to come? but the poor find no -peace from toil on earth, and gladly hail the message which bids them to -a better and a brighter world, where “the weary are at rest.” Then, too, -the Sabbath of the cottager! They who live in cities, or dwell in -stately palaces in the country, have no idea of the soothing calm, of -this day, to the poor man. All through the weary week, in summer or in -winter, amid cold and rain and heat, he is compelled to toil for the -scanty pittance which barely keeps his wife and little ones alive—and -when the Sabbath morning comes, and he sees all so tidy about him, while -the sun smiles pleasantly through the casement, and there is an eloquent -stillness on all without, a feeling of freedom and of untold peace, -comes stealing over his soul, such as those who have never shared his -toils cannot imagine. If he has a heart it is melted into gratitude. If -he is a godly man—and do not these very things purify his heart -insensibly?—he will call his little ones around him, and, together, -they will lift up their thanksgivings for the blessings of another week. -Oh! how often—in some old country house, far, far away from the crimes -and cares of the town—have we listened to the morning hymn, sweetly -rising on the air, and seeming to go up to heaven all the sweeter for -the songs of birds and the murmurs of the stream, with which it mingled. -Yes! we love - - “The sound of hymns - On some bright Sabbath morning, on the moor - _Where all is still save praise_; and where hard by - The ripe grain shakes its bright beard in the sun; - The fresh green grass, the sun, and sunny brook— - All look as if they knew the day, the hour, - And felt with man the need of joy and thanks.” - -Yonder is a cottage, down in the glen. If you will come and stand with -us beside the casement, you can just see the white walls of that humble -home, smiling through the embowering foliage. There live a daughter and -her parents, and if you would see piety, go into that cottage. Shall I -tell you how their Sunday is spent? It will be a lesson to us all. - -When breakfast is over, the little family, attired in their best, set -forth to church, the daughter walking betwixt her aged parents, and -kindly supporting their steps, while every thing around them soothes -their hearts for the duties of the day. It is a September morning, and -all Nature is filled with harmony. Not a leaf that rustles on the air, -nor a brook that babbles by, nor a bird that whistles in the wood, nor -the voice of a child singing from the overflowing gladness of its heart, -but is sweeter to their ear, and more soothing to their souls, than the -music of a Garcia. And when they reach the old church how every one will -make room for them! And so, after service, will they return home. - -And in the afternoon, they will gather around the little table, beneath -the open casement, through which float gently the hum of bees and the -fragrance of flowers, and there they will sit, listening to the word of -God, as their daughter reads it aloud. There is such a quiet, a soft -dreamy quiet around, that it soothes them insensibly to a holy calm. The -very clock seems to tick less audibly; the cat sits purring in her -lowest tone; the bird, from his cage, looks silently down; the sunbeams -fall hushed on the clean, bright floor; and the rose-leaves by the -window, that now and then float to the ground, strike with a faint low -sound on the earth, like the foot-fall of a fairy at moonlight. - -Every word of that sacred volume the listeners drink in eagerly, for are -they not “athirst for the waters of life?” Aye! they drink it in the -more eagerly because read by her, whose voice, to them, is softer than -that of a cherub. - -And such is Cottage Piety. The proud may sneer at it—the rich may -regard it as a fiction—the dwellers in town may look on it as an -enthusiast’s picture; but the great God who made us all, and who notes -every deed, beholds thousands of such scenes, every Sabbath of the year. - - * * * * * - - - - - Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE. - - -Before making choice of a gun, the sportsman should determine what -weight he can conveniently carry. The heaviest gun, as regards shooting, -will be most effective; but he should recollect, that unless he be a -very robust person, a light gun will on the whole bring him more game, -as a few pounds in the weight makes a deal of difference in the distance -the person can carry it with ease, and few persons can shoot well when -fatigued. - -The most approved guns under the system which prescribes a heavy charge -of powder and a light one of shot, are double-barrels, bearing the -following relative proportions of length to calibre:[1]—fourteen gauge, -thirty-four inches long; seventeen gauge, thirty-two inches long; twenty -gauge, thirty inches long. For the shooter who never uses shot larger -than No. 6 or 7, these are proper proportions; and did the guns weigh -nine or ten pounds each, they would shoot No. 6 or 7 shot well. But when -under seven pounds and a half, which is the heaviest gun we should think -of using in hot weather, or for a long day’s woodcock shooting, they do -not throw small shot as effectively as a short gun throws large shot. - -Barrels twenty-eight inches long, and fourteen, sixteen, or eighteen -gauge, are of convenient size for a gun not exceeding seven pounds and a -half. Those of eighteen gauge shoot shot well; but those of fourteen -throw a cartridge more satisfactorily. Sixteen is a desirable medium. -These barrels are as efficient as long ones for short distances, viz. -under thirty yards; and nine tenths of game brought to the bag is killed -within that distance. And for making long shots, the wire cartridge has -obviated the necessity of using long guns. A short gun, of the same -weight as a long one, is much less tiresome to carry. A pound additional -weight at the breech is not so fatiguing to the arm as half that weight -added to the end of the barrel; it is the top-heavy gun that distresses -the shooter. - -Taking the season throughout, we are convinced that the most effective -gun is a short light one, for which our standard charge is 1-5/8 drachm, -or the tenth part of an ounce of powder, and 2 oz. of No. 2 shot, -containing 220 pellets.[2] But when game is wild, we would charge the -reserve barrel, and on some occasions both barrels, with nearly double -the above quantity of powder, and a No. 5 cartridge for winter partridge -shooting in an open country, or with a No. 4 or 5 cartridge for grouse -shooting. No. 7 is best for snipe shooting. Small shot may be used for -partridge shooting in September, though we do not see any reason for not -adhering to No. 2, except that birds very near the gun are liable to be -more disfigured by it. - -All guns of the same weight require nearly the same weight and -proportions of powder and shot. Unless they are bored with an unusual -degree of relief or friction, a difference in size of the bore, or in -the length of the barrel, renders less variation in charging necessary -than is generally supposed. - -The different proportions of powder and shot must be regulated chiefly -by the weight of the gun and the size of the shot used. The following -may be about the proper proportions for the generality of guns not -exceeding seven pounds and a half.[3] - - _Size_ _Weight_ _Weight_ - _of_ _of_ _of_ - _Shot._ _Shot._ _Powder._ - No. Ounces Drachms. - 2 2 1-5/8 - 3 1¾ 1¾ - 4 1½ 2 - 5 1-3/8 2¼ - 6 1¼ 2½ - 7 1-1/8 2¾[4] - -These proportions cannot be materially deviated from without destroying -the effect. If the powder is decreased, the discharge is weakened; if -the powder is increased, the shot spreads; if the weight of the charge -of shot is decreased, there will not be a sufficient number of pellets -for effective shooting; if the weight of the charge of shot is -increased, the discharge is weakened. - -The usual objection to large shot is, that after it has travelled thirty -yards it becomes dispersed; but let the powder be reduced to 1½ drachm, -and that objection fails. If it is not overcharged with powder, a light -gun will shoot No. 2 shot close enough to bring down game with more -certainty, at thirty or forty yards’ distance, than if charged with -small shot and two or three drachms of powder. - -As few sportsmen ever tried so small a charge of powder as 1½ drachm -with so heavy a charge of shot as 2 oz., or as large size as No. 2, we -invite a trial of the experiment we are about to suggest, with any gun -that may happen to be in their possession, _not weighing more than_ 7½ -lb. With the above proportions of powder and shot—the shot being -oiled—let the shooter fire at forty yards, with good elevation, because -large shot droops more than small, at an unbound book nailed to a wall, -with an open newspaper (double sheet) spread in front of it. And -afterwards let him charge the _same_ gun with No. 6 or 7 shot, and any -variation of the relative proportions of powder and shot that his fancy -may suggest, and fire at a similar target. The newspaper will prove that -the large shot is carried with sufficient closeness; and the book will -show which broadside would have told the best on a grouse. On opening -the book, the large shot will be found to have penetrated farther, and -the leaves will be bulged in beyond it. - ------ - -[1] The size of the bore, gauge, or calibre of a gun—by which is meant -the diameter of the barrel—is distinguished by the number of leaden -balls fitting it which make a pound;—thus, eighteen leaden bullets, -each fitting an 18 gauge barrel, make a pound; sixteen fitting a 16 -gauge, or fourteen fitting a 14 gauge barrel, are also equal to a pound. -The different gauges are also known by the number of thirty-seconds of -an inch the diameter consists of;—thus, the diameter of an 18 gauge -barrel is 20½-32’s of an inch; a 16 gauge 21½-32’s; and a 14 gauge -22-32’s. - -[2] The powder and shot chargers may be regulated by weighing the powder -with a sixpence, and the shot with four half-crowns. The shooter must -not adopt these proportions if smaller shot is used, as they would not -only cause the gun to recoil, but would be dangerous. - -[3] If the gun shoots too close, and does not recoil, the quantity of -powder may be increased. - -If it shoots too close and recoils, the quantity of shot must be -reduced. - -If it spreads shot too much and does not recoil, the quantity of shot -may be increased. - -If it spreads shot too much and recoils, the powder must be reduced. - -[4] When these proportions are used, the gun recoils least with the No. -2 and most with the No. 7 charge. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Joseph Rushbrook, or the Poacher._ By Captain Marryatt, _Author - of Peter Simple_, _Jacob Faithful_, etc. etc. _Two Volumes. - Philadelphia: Carey and Hart._ - -It has been well said that “the success of certain works may be traced -to sympathy between the author’s mediocrity of ideas, and mediocrity of -ideas on the part of the public.” In commenting on this passage, Mrs. -Gore, herself a shrewd philosopher, observes that, whether as regards -men or books, there exists an excellence too excellent for general -favor. To “make a hit”—to captivate the public eye, ear, or -understanding without a certain degree of merit—is impossible; but the -“hardest hit” is seldom made, indeed we may say _never_ made, by the -highest merit. When we wrote the word _seldom_ we were thinking of -Dickens and the “Curiosity Shop,” a work unquestionably of “the highest -merit,” and which at a first glance appears to have made the most -unequivocal of “hits”—but we suddenly remembered that the compositions -called “Harry Lorrequer” and “Charles O’Malley” had borne the palm from -“The Curiosity Shop” in point of what is properly termed _popularity_. - -There can be no question, we think, that the philosophy of all this _is_ -to be found in the apothegm with which we began. Marryatt is a singular -instance of its truth. He has always been a very _popular_ writer in the -most rigorous sense of the word. His books are essentially “mediocre.” -His ideas are the common property of the mob, and have been their common -property time out of mind. We look throughout his writings in vain for -the slightest indication of originality—for the faintest incentive to -thought. His plots, his language, his opinions are neither adapted nor -intended for scrutiny. We must be contented with them as sentiments, -rather than as ideas; and properly to estimate them, even in this view, -we must bring ourselves into a sort of identification with the sentiment -of the mass. Works composed in this spirit are sometimes purposely so -composed by men of superior intelligence, and here we call to mind the -_Chansons_ of Béranger. But usually they are the natural exponent of the -vulgar thought in the person of a vulgar thinker. In either case they -claim for themselves _that_ which, for want of a more definite -expression, has been called by critics _nationality_. Whether this -nationality in letters is a fit object for high-minded ambition, we -cannot here pause to inquire. If it is, then Captain Marryatt occupies a -more desirable position than, in our heart, we are willing to award him. - -“Joseph Rushbrook” is not a book with which the critic should occupy -many paragraphs. It is not very dissimilar to “Poor Jack,” which latter -is, perhaps, the best specimen of its author’s cast of thought, and -_national_ manner, although inferior in interest to “Peter Simple.” - -The plot can only please those who swallow the probabilities of “Sinbad -the Sailor,” or “Jack and the Bean-Stalk”—or we should have said, more -strictly, the incidents; for of plot, properly speaking, there is none -at all. - -Joseph Rushbrook is an English soldier who, having long served his -country and received a wound in the head, is pensioned and discharged. -He becomes a poacher, and educates his son (the hero of the tale and -also named Joseph) to the same profession. A pedler, called Byres, is -about to betray the father, who avenges himself by shooting him. The son -takes the burden of the crime upon himself, and flees the country. A -reward is offered for his apprehension—a reward which one Furness, a -schoolmaster, is very anxious to obtain. This Furness dogs the footsteps -of our hero, much as Fagin, the Jew, dogs those of Oliver Twist, forcing -him to quit place after place, just as he begins to get comfortably -settled. In thus roaming about, little Joseph meets with all kinds of -outrageously improbable adventures; and not only this, but the reader is -bored to death with the outrageously improbable adventures of every one -with whom little Joseph comes in contact. Good fortune absolutely besets -him. Money falls at his feet wherever he goes, and he has only to stoop -and pick it up. At length he arrives at the height of prosperity, and -thinks he is entirely rid of Furness, when Furness re-appears. That -Joseph should, in the end, be brought to trial for the pedler’s murder -is so clearly the author’s design, that he who runs may read it, and we -naturally suppose that his persecutor, Furness, is to be the instrument -of this evil. We suppose also, of course, that in bringing this -misfortune upon our hero, the schoolmaster will involve himself in ruin, -in accordance with the common ideas of poetical justice. But -no;—Furness, being found in the way, is killed off, accidentally, -having lived and plotted to no ostensible purpose, through the better -half of the book. Circumstances that have nothing to do with the story -involve Joseph in his trial. He refuses to divulge the real secret of -the murder, and is sentenced to transportation. The elder Rushbrook, in -the meantime, has avoided suspicion and fallen heir to a great property. -Just as his son is about to be sent across the water, some of Joe’s -friends discover the true state of affairs, and obtain from the father, -who is now conveniently upon his death-bed, a confession of his guilt. -Thus all ends well—if the word _well_ can be applied in any sense to -trash so ineffable—the father dies, the son is released, inherits the -estate, marries his lady-love, and prospers in every possible and -impossible way. - -We have mentioned the imitation of Fagin. A second plagiarism is feebly -attempted in the character of one Nancy, a trull, who is based upon the -Nancy of Oliver Twist—for Marryatt is not often at the trouble of -diversifying his thefts. This Nancy changes her name three or four -times, and so in fact do each and all of the _dramatis personæ_. This -changing of name is one of the bright ideas with which the author of -“Peter Simple” is most pertinaciously afflicted. We would not be bound -to say how many aliases are borne by the hero in this instance—some -dozen perhaps. - -The novels of Marryatt—his later ones at least—are evidently written -to order, for certain considerations, and have to be delivered within -certain periods. He thus finds it his interest to _push on_. Now, for -this mode of progress, _incident_ is the sole thing which answers. One -incident begets another, and so on _ad infinitum_. There is never the -slightest necessity for pausing; especially where no plot is to be cared -for. _Comment_, in the author’s own person, upon what is transacting, is -left entirely out of question. There is thus none of that _binding_ -power perceptible, which often gives a species of unity (the unity of -the writer’s individual thought) to the most random narrations. All -works composed as we have stated Marryatt’s to be composed, will be run -on, _incidentally_, in the manner described; and, notwithstanding that -it would seem at first sight to be otherwise, yet it is true that no -works are so insufferably tedious. These are the novels which we read -with a hurry exactly consonant and proportionate with that in which they -were indited. We seldom leave them unfinished, yet we labor through to -the end, and reach it with unalloyed pleasure. - -The _commenting_ force can never be safely disregarded. It is far better -to have a dearth of incident, with skilful observations upon it, than -the utmost variety of event, without. In some previous review we have -observed (and our observation is borne out by analysis), that it was the -deep sense of the want of this binding and commenting power, in the old -Greek drama, which gave rise to the chorus. The chorus came at length to -supply, in some measure, a deficiency which is inseparable from dramatic -action, and represented the expression of _the public_ interest or -sympathy in the matters transacted. The successful novelist must, in the -same manner, be careful to bring into view his _private_ interest, -sympathy, and opinion, in regard to his own creations. - -We have spoken of “The Poacher” at greater length than we intended; for -it deserves little more than an announcement. It has the merit of a -homely and not unnatural simplicity of style, and is not destitute of -pathos: but this is all. Its English is excessively slovenly. Its events -are monstrously improbable. There is no adaptation of parts about it. -The truth is, it is a pitiable production. There are twenty young men of -our acquaintance who make no pretension to literary ability, yet who -could produce a better book _in a week_. - - * * * * * - - _Life of Petrarch._ By Thomas Campbell, Esq., _Author of The - Pleasures of Hope_, etc. etc. _Complete in one volume. - Philadelphia: Carey and Hart._ - -We are not among those who regard the genius of Petrarch as a subject -for enthusiastic admiration. The characteristics of his poetry are not -traits of the highest, or even of a high order; and in accounting for -his fame, the discriminating critic will look rather to the -circumstances which surrounded the man, than to the literary merits of -the pertinacious sonnetteer. Grace and tenderness we grant him—but -these qualities are surely insufficient to establish his poetical -apotheosis. - -In other respects he is entitled to high consideration. As a patriot, -notwithstanding some accusations which have been rather urged than -established, we can only regard him with approval. In his republican -principles; in his support of Rienzi at the risk of the displeasure of -the Colonna family; in his whole political conduct, in short, he seems -to have been nobly and disinterestedly zealous for the welfare of his -country. But Petrarch is most important when we look upon him as the -bridge by which, over the dark gulf of the middle ages, the knowledge of -the old world made its passage into the new. His influence on what is -termed the revival of letters was, perhaps, greater than that of any man -who ever lived; certainly far greater than that of any of his immediate -contemporaries. His ardent zeal in recovering and transcribing the lost -treasures of antique lore cannot be too highly appreciated. But for him, -many of our most valued classics might have been numbered with Pindar’s -hymns and dithyrambics. He devoted days and nights to this labor of -love; snatching numerous precious books from the very brink of oblivion. -His judgment in these things was strikingly correct, while his -erudition, for the age in which he lived, and for the opportunities he -enjoyed, has always been a subject of surprise. - -Upon the whole, therefore, it is not so very wonderful that Petrarch has -had many biographers. Much, to be sure, of the excessive comment upon -his character may be traced to the generating influence of biography in -itself. One life as surely begets another as a sum at compound interest -doubles itself in a certain space of time. Each personal friend of the -hero is anxious to prove a stricter intimacy with him than that enjoyed -by the personal friend who wrote before. Contemporary contradictions -thus arise, which it is left for posterity to reconcile. In the private -library of the French King, at the Louvre, there exists a _Petrarchian -Library_, consisting of nine hundred volumes illustrative of the life of -the poet. It was collected by Professor Marsand of Padua, and a quarto -catalogue of it was, not many years ago, published at Milan. The _best_ -biography of Petrarch, after the one which now lies before us, is no -doubt that of the Abbé de Sade. This prelate, proud of a descent from -Laura, consumed the greater part of his life in toilsome journeys, -seeking material for a life of her lover. He was unquestionably the most -accomplished foreigner who wrote on the affairs of Italy in the -fourteenth century. His account of Petrarch has been made the chief -basis of Mr. Campbell’s present work. We are sorry to see, moreover, -that the author of “The Pleasures of Hope” has followed his authority -even in the matter of wholesale vituperation of all previous writers -upon the subject. De Sade abuses the whole Italian nation, accusing it, -_en masse_, of gross ignorance in respect to our poet. Mr. Campbell -abuses the whole Italian nation and De Sade. Not only this, but he is at -great pains to be bitter upon Archdeacon Coxe, who had bequeathed to the -Library of the British Museum a MS. Life of Petrarch. Of this MS. Mr. -Colburn, it seems, caused a copy to be taken, and, intending it for -publication, requested Mr. Campbell to act as editor. Mr. C. consented, -“surrounded himself with as many books connected with the subject as he -could obtain, and applied assiduously to the study of Italian -literature, which he had neglected for many years.” - -Having done all this, our editor sat down to his task of arrangement and -revision. But the Coxe-Petrarchan MSS. appear to have defied his powers. -“If any one” says he, “suspects me of dealing unfairly with the -Archdeacon, let him go to the Library of the British Museum and peruse -the work in question—his skepticism will find its reward. He will agree -with me that the Coxeian MS. is placed in a wrong part of the Museum. It -should not be in the library, but among the bottled abortions of -anatomy, or the wooden visages of the South Sea idols.” Mr. Campbell’s -kind offer of permitting any skeptic to satisfy himself by going to the -Museum and “_perusing_” a huge book which he has just declared to be -unfit for perusal, puts us much in mind of the candor of the Munchausens -and Ferdinand Mendez Pintos, who, telling incredible tales of lands at -the South Pole or mountains in the moon, confound all doubters with a -request to proceed and satisfy themselves by personal inspection. - -One thing is certainly _very_ strange:—that Mr. Campbell did not think -of looking at “the Coxe-Petrarchan MS.” in the first place—in the -beginning of things—before “surrounding himself with as many books as -he could obtain,” and especially before “applying himself assiduously to -the study of Italian literature, which he had neglected for many years.” -He would have saved himself much trouble, and the Archdeacon might have -been spared some abuse. - -What particularly surprises us in this volume—a large and handsomely -printed octavo—is _its slovenliness of style_. Such a charge as this -has never before been urged against the author of “Hohenlinden.” In -general he is scrupulously correct. The Archdeacon seems to have -bewildered his brains in unsettling his temper. What are we to make of -such phraseology as this, occurring in the very second sentence of the -work?—“It was known that the Rev. Archdeacon Coxe had bequeathed to the -Library of the British Museum a MS. Life of the Poet which _he_ had -written.” Here “_he_” implies the Poet, but is intended to imply the -Archdeacon. Such misconstructions are abundant. We observe, also, far -more serious defects—defects of _tone_. These sentences, for instance, -are in shockingly bad taste—“The most skilful physicians stood aghast -at this disease, (the plague.) The charlatan rejoiced at it, _unless it -attacked himself_, because it put quackery on a par with skill; and -compassionate women _assisted both physicians and quacks in doing no -good to their patients ... This was a dance of the king of terrors over -the earth, and a very rapid one._” Attempts at humor on such subjects -are always exceedingly _low_. - -Nor can the general handling of the theme of the book be said to be well -done. The biographer has swallowed the philosopher. While we are -sometimes interested in personal details, we more frequently regret the -want of a comprehensive analysis of the poet’s character, and of the age -in which he lived. The book has no doubt filled, in a certain -unsatisfactory manner, a blank in our biographical literature—since the -authorities referred to can scarcely be termed accessible—but, upon the -whole, it is unworthy Thomas Campbell—still less is it worthy Petrarch. -We cannot say with Crébillon— - - —————_un dessein si funeste,_ - _S’il n’est digne d’Atrée, est digne de Thyeste._ - - * * * * * - - _The Idler in France._ By the Countess of Blessington. _Two - Volumes. Philadelphia: Carey and Hart._ - -The Countess of Blessington has never risen in any of her literary -attempts above the merit of an amusing gossiper; and “The Idler in -France” is an excellent gossiping book, and no more. Still, this is -saying a good deal for it as times go. - -The work is made up of adventures, reminiscences, trumpery philosophy, -criticism in a small way, scandal, and heterogeneous chit-chat—the -whole interwoven, in the most random manner conceivable, into an account -of a tour in France made many years ago by her ladyship. “Patch Work” is -a title which would have exactly suited the volumes, and it is a pity -that Captain Hall has anticipated it. - -The anecdotes, _et cetera_, are by no means confined to France, but -often relate to things in general, happening in no particular place. -Throughout, there is much vivacity and no little amusement. Some of the -scandal, if not _nice_, is exceedingly piquant, and many of the humorous -points are really good. - -The Countess tells an old story of the Princesse de Talleyrand, which -will better bear repetition than _some_ of the novelties of the work. -Denon was to dine at Talleyrand’s at a time when the Baron’s work on -Egypt was the common topic in Paris. The Prince wished the Princess to -read a few pages of the book, that she might be able to say some words -of compliment to the author. He consequently ordered his librarian to -send the work to her apartment on the morning of the day of the dinner; -but unfortunately also commanded that a copy of Robinson Crusoe should -be sent to a young _protégée_ of hers who resided in the hotel. Denon’s -work, by mistake, was given to Mademoiselle, and Crusoe to the Princess, -who, at dinner, expressed graciously to the Baron the delight she had -received from his publication, and propounded many anxious inquiries -after the fate of his poor man, Friday! - -Upon such subjects as are embraced in the following passages, the -Countess is particularly at home:— - - “I observe a difference in the usages _de mœurs_ at Paris, and - in those of London, of which an ignorance might lead to give - offence. In England, a lady is expected to bow to a gentleman - before he presumes to do so to her, thus leaving her the choice - of acknowledging his acquaintance, or not; but in France it is - otherwise, for a man takes off his hat to every woman whom he - has ever met in society, although he does not address her, - unless she encourages him to do so. - - “In Paris, if two men are walking or riding together, and one of - them bows to a lady of his acquaintance, the other also takes - off his hat, as a mark of respect to the lady known to his - friend, although he is not acquainted with her. The mode of - salutation is also much more deferential towards women in France - than in England. The hat is held a second longer off the head, - the bow is lower, and the smile of recognition is more - _aimable_, by which I mean, that it is meant to display the - pleasure experienced by the meeting. - - “It is true that the really well bred Englishmen are not to be - surpassed in good manners by those of any other country; but all - are not such; and I have seen instances of men in London - acknowledging the presence of ladies, by merely touching, - instead of taking off, their hats when bowing to them; and - though I accounted for this solecism in good breeding by the - belief that it proceeded from the persons practising it wearing - wigs, I discovered that there was not even so good an excuse as - the fear of deranging them, and that their incivility proceeded - from ignorance or _nonchalance_, while the glum countenance of - him who bowed betrayed rather a regret for the necessity of - touching his beaver, than a pleasure at meeting her for whom the - salute was intended.” - -The French phrases with which the book is interspersed have not been -read, in proof, with sufficient care, and many awkward blunders occur. -At page 100, vol. I, for example, we have “_Le jeu né vaut pas la -chandelle_,” and at page 234, of the same volume, “_Que voulezvous, -sire-chacun a son vingt Mars?_” - - * * * * * - - _The World in a Pocket-Book, or Universal Popular Statistics, - Embracing the Commerce, Agriculture, Revenue, Government, - Manufactures, Population, Army, Navy, Religions, Press, - Geography, History, Remarkable Features and Events, Navigation, - Inventions, Discoveries and Genius of every Nation on the - Globe_, etc. etc. By W. H. Crump. _J. Dobson: Philadelphia._ - -Mr. Crump, the author of this little work, is sufficiently well known to -the reading public; and we need scarcely say that the “World in a -Pocket-Book” is all that it professes to be. Several years have been -occupied in its compilation. It will be found an exceedingly convenient -manual—embracing a wonderful variety of useful and entertaining -matter—the _utile_, nevertheless, prevailing very much, as is right, -over the _dulce_. The title well explains the character of the book. We -have never seen so much really useful information compressed into the -same limits. The public is indebted to Mr. Crump for this little volume, -and we hope he may be repaid for the patient research and labor bestowed -upon it. - - * * * * * - - _Lives of Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy._ By Mrs. - Shelley, Sir D. Brewster, James Montgomery, _and others. Two - volumes: Philadelphia: Lea and Blanchard._ - -The lives embraced in these volumes are those of Dante, Petrarch, -Boccaccio, Lorenzo de Medici, Bojardo, Berni, Ariosto, Machiavelli, -Galileo, Guicciardini, Vittoria Colonna, Guarini, Tasso, Chiabrera, -Tassoni, Marini, Filicaja, Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, Monti, and Ugo -Foscolo. We have no clue to the names of the respective writers—but the -biographies are, without exception, well written—although at times -their brevity is annoying. As a whole, the work is not only interesting, -but of value. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: LATEST FASHIONS, SEPTEMBER, 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. - -[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 3, September 1841_, George R. -Graham, Editor] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XIX, NO. 3, -SEPTEMBER 1841 *** - -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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