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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. XX, No. 1, January 1842 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George Rex Graham - -Release Date: February 18, 2022 [eBook #67434] - -Language: English - -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 - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XX, -NO. 1, JANUARY 1842 *** - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XX. January, 1842 No. 1. - - - Contents - - =Fiction, Literature and Articles= - - The Shepherd’s Love - Highland Beauty - Lines - The Snow-Storm - Dreams of the Land and Sea - The False Ladye - Harry Cavendish - Cousin Agatha - An Appendix of Autographs - The Two Dukes - Shakspeare - The Daughters of Dr. Byles - Review of New Books. - - =Poetry, Music and Fashion= - - Sonnet - The Goblet of Life - To a Land Bird at Sea - Apostrophe - Agathè.—A Necromaunt - The Queen of May - Sonnet - Sonnets - A Song - To Helen in Heaven - Dorchester - The Zephyr - The Eyes of Night - Thy Name Was Once a Magic Spell - Fashion Plate - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S - - LADY’S AND GENTLEMAN’S - - MAGAZINE. - - EMBELLISHED WITH - - THE FINEST MEZZOTINTO AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, - - ELEGANT EMBOSSED WORK, - - FASHIONS AND MUSIC. - - VOLUME XX. - - PHILADELPHIA: - GEORGE R. GRAHAM. - 1842. - - * * * * * - - INDEX - - TO THE - - TWENTIETH VOLUME. - - FROM JANUARY TO JUNE, 1842, INCLUSIVE. - -Autographs, an appendix of, by Edgar A. Poe, 44 -Affair at Tattletown, the, by Epes Sargeant, 221 - -Blue Velvet Mantilla, the, by Mrs. A. M. F. Annan, 102 -Brainard, a few words about, by Edgar A. Poe, 119 -Bachelor’s Experiment, the, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury, 226 -Bride, the, (_illustrated_,) by J. H. Dana, 253 - -Cousin Agatha, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury, 38 -Centre Harbor, (_illustrated_,) 256 -Chevalier Gluck, the, (from the German,) by W. W. Story, 270 - -Dreams of the Land and Sea, by Dr. Reynell Coates, 17, 88, 163, - 210 -Daughters of Dr. Byles, by Miss Leslie, 61, 114 -Dickens, original letter from 83 -Duello, the, by H. W. Herbert, 85 -Doom of the Traitress, the, by H. W. Herbert, 150 -Dash at a Convoy, 178 -Duel, the, by E. S. Gould, 233 - -Exile of Connecticut, by Dr. Reynell Coates, 17 -Escape, the, 74 -Edith Pemberton, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury, 277 -Euroclydon, by Charles Lanman, 287 -Expedition, the, 288 -Ellen Neville, 307 -False Ladye, the, by H. W. Herbert, 27 -First Step, the, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury, 154 - -German Writers, by H. W. Longfellow, 134 - -Highland Beauty, (_illustrated_,) by Oliver Oldfellow, 6 -Harry Cavendish, by the Author of “Cruising in the Last 31, 74, 178, - War,” the “Reefer of ’76,” &c. &c., 237, 288, 307 -Harper’s Ferry, (_illustrated_,) 73 -Heinrich Heine, by H. W. Longfellow, 134 - -Imagination, by Park Benjamin, 174 - -Kissing, the Science of, (_illustrated_,) by Jeremy 302 - Short, Esq., - -Lady’s Choice, the, by Emma C. Embury, 96 -Lady and the Page, the, by Mary Spencer Pease, 167 -Lowell’s Poems, 195 -Life in Death, by Edgar A. Poe, 200 -Love and Pique, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury, 334 - -May Evelyn, by Frances S. Osgood, 145 -Miner’s Fate, the, 202 -Music, Thoughts on, by Henry Cood Watson, 285 - -Norton, Mrs., by Park Benjamin, 91 -Night Scene at Sea, by Dr. Reynell Coates, 210 - -Powhatan, the Crowning of, (_illustrated_,) 133 -Pirate, the, 237 -Procrastination, by Mrs. M. H. Parsons, 260 - -Review of New Books, 69, 124, 186, - 248, 298, 354 -Red Death, the Mask of the, by Edgar A. Poe, 257 -Russian Revenge, by Esther Wetherald, 322 - -Shepherd’s Love, the, (_illustrated_,) by J. H. Dana, 1 -Snow-Storm, the, by Jeremy Short, Esq. 10 -Shakspeare, by Theodore S. Fay, 58 -Sunday at Sea, by Dr. Reynell Coates, 88 -St. Agnes’ Eve, by Jeremy Short, Esq. 218 - -Two Dukes, by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, 50, 78, 149, - 242, 341 -Take me Home, by Dr. Reynell Coates, 163 -Thompson, Miss, by Mrs. A. F. S. Annan, 313 - -Wreck, the, 31 -Wife, the, (_illustrated_,) by Agnes Piersol, 193 -West Point, Recollections of, by Miss Leslie, 205, 290 -Wilkie, the late Sir David, by L. F. Tasistro, 275 -Wire Suspension Bridge, the, (_illustrated_,) 301 -Ware’s Poems, Mrs., by Park Benjamin, 330 - - =POETRY.= - -Apostrophe, by Albert Pike, 12 -Agathè, by L. F. Tasistro, 13, 111, 160, - 213 -Amie, to, by L. J. Cist, 276 -Antique Vase, to an, by N. C. Brooks, 284 -Alice, by R. W. Griswold, 340 -Absent Wife, the, by Robert Morris, 353 - -Bonnie Steed, my, (_illustrated_,) 82 -Birth of Freedom, by W. Wallace, 204 - -Dorchester, by W. Gilmore Simms, 49 -Dream of the Dead, a, by G. Hill, 121 -Departed, to one, by Edgar A. Poe, 137 - -Eyes of Night, the, by Mary Spencer, 65 -Elegy on the fate of Jane M’Crea, by T. G. Spear, 236 - -Freshet, the, by Alfred B. Street, 138 -Fanny, an Epistle to, by Park Benjamin, 149 -Fancies about a Rosebud, by James Russell Lowell, 173 -Fragment, by Albert Pike, 209 -Florence, to, by Park Benjamin, 241 -Farewell, by James Russell Lowell, 305 - -Goblet of Life, the, by H. W. Longfellow, 5 - -Helen in Heaven, to, by Alex. A. Irvine, 43 -Hawking, Return from, (_illustrated_,) 245 -Heavenly Vision, the, by T. H. Chivers, M. D. 329 - -Isa in Heaven, to, by T. H. Chivers, M. D. 144 - -Lines, by Mrs. Amelia B. Welby, 9 -Land Bird at Sea, to a, by L. H. Sigourney, 9 -L’Envoy to E——, by G. Hill, 295 - -May, the Queen of, by G. P. Morris, 16 -Marches for the Dead, by W. Wallace, 139 -Michael Angelo, by W. W. Story, 241 -My Bark is out upon the Sea, by George P. Morris, 274 -Mystery, 287 - -Old Man returned Home, the, by G. G. Foster, 225 -Old World, the, by George Lunt, 284 -Olden Deities, 321 - -Perditi, by Wm. Wallace, 265, 326 -Pewee, the, by Dill A. Smith, 306 -Rosaline, by James Russell Lowell, 89 -Raffaello, by W. W. Story, 241 -Return Home, the, by Geo. P. Morris, 312 - -Sonnet, by Thomas Noon Talfourd, 5 -Sonnet, by Edmund J. Porter, 26 -Sonnets, by Park Benjamin, 30 -Song, a, by James Russell Lowell, 37 -Song of Nydia, by G. G. Foster, 84 -Sonnet, by James Russell Lowell, 90 -Sonnet, by B. H. Benjamin, 118 -Stranger’s Funeral, the, by N. C. Brooks, 153 -Spirit, to a, by James Aldrich, 217 -Stanzas, by Mrs. R. S. Nichols, 225 -Sweethearts and Wives, by Pliny Earle, M. D. 232 -Sonnets, by W. W. Story, 241 -Spring’s Advent, by Park Benjamin, 259 -Song, by Alex. A. Irvine, 353 - -Veiled Altar, the, by Mrs. R. S. Nichols, 95 -Venus and the Modern Belle, by Frances S. Osgood, 274 - -Western Hospitality, by Geo. P. Morris, 166 - -Young Widow, the, (_illustrated_,) by Alex. A. Irvine, 137 - -Zephyr, the, by Miss Juliet H. Lewis, 56 - - =STEEL ENGRAVINGS.= - - MEZZOTINT AND LINE. - -The Shepherd’s Love. -Highland Beauty. -Lace Work, with colored Birds. -Fashions, three figures, colored. -My Bonnie Steed. -Harper’s Ferry. -Fashions, three figures, colored. -The Young Widow. -The Crowning of Powhatan. -Fashions, four figures, colored. -Return from Hawking. -The Wife. -Lace Pattern, with Embossed View. -The Bride. -Centre Harbor. -Fashions, colored, with a Lace pattern border. -The Proffered Kiss. -The Wire Suspension Bridge. -Fashions, four figures. - - =MUSIC.= - -Thy name was once a magic spell, 66 -The Dream is past, 122 -A lady heard a minstrel sing, 184 -There’s no land like Scotland, 246 -The Orphan Ballad Singers, 296 - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: lace work with colored birds in center] - - - - -[Illustration: _Painted by Alex^{r}. Johnston. Engraved by J. Sartain._ -_The Shepherd’s Love_] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XX. PHILADELPHIA: JANUARY, 1842. No. 1. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SHEPHERD’S LOVE. - - - BY J. H. DANA. - - - CHAPTER I. - -It was a golden morning in early summer, and a thousand birds were -warbling on the landscape, while the balmy wind murmured low and musical -among the leaves, when a young girl, attired in a rustic dress, might -have been seen tripping over the lea. Her golden tresses, as she walked, -floated on the wind, and the exercise had called even a richer carnation -than usual to her cheek. Her form was one of rare beauty, and her gait -was grace itself. As she glided on, more like a sylph than a mortal -being, she carolled one of her country’s simple lays; and what with her -liquid tones, her sweet countenance, and her bewitching motion, she -formed a picture of loveliness such only as a poet could have imagined. - -At length she approached a ruined wall, half hidden by one or two -overshadowing trees. The enclosure partially concealed from view the -figure of a young shepherd, who, leaning on his hand, gazed admiringly -on her approaching figure. Unconscious, however, of the vicinity of an -observer, the maiden tripped on, until she had almost reached the -enclosure, when the shepherd’s dog suddenly sprung from his master’s -side, and barking violently, would have leaped on the intruder, had not -the youth checked him. The maiden started and turned pale; but when she -perceived the shepherd her cheeks flushed with crimson, and she stood -before the youth in a beautiful embarrassment. - -“Down, down, Wallace, mon,” said the young shepherd, “ken ye not Jeanie -yet—the flower o’ Ettrick? Ah! Jeanie, Jeanie,” he added—and his tone -and manner at once betrayed the footing on which he stood with the -maiden—“little did ye ken, when ye were tripping sae gaily o’er the -lea, with a heart as light as a lavrock and a song as sweet as the -waving of the broom at noonday, that one who lo’es ye sae dearly, was -lookin’ at ye frae behind this tree.” - -The maiden blushed again, and stealing a timid glance at her lover, her -eyes sought the ground. The shepherd took her hand, which was not -withdrawn from his grasp, and said, - -“Ye ken weel, Jeanie dear, what ye were singing,” and his voice assumed -a sudden seriousness as he spoke, which caused the maiden again to look -up, although the allusion he made to the subject of her song, had dyed -her cheeks with new blushes, “and I hae come hither this morning, for I -ken ye passed here—to see ye if only for a moment. Ye ken, Jeanie, that -we were to hae been one next Michaelmas, and that I was to get the -Ellsey farm—a canny croft it is, dearie, and happy, happy would we hae -been there”—the maiden looked inquiringly in his face at these words, -and her lover continued mournfully—“ye guess the worst, I see, by that -look. In one word, a richer man has outbid me, and so, for the third -time, hae I been disappointed.” And as he said these words with a husky -voice, betokening the depth of his emotion, the speaker paused, and drew -the back of his hand across his eyes. His affianced bride showed the -true delicacy of her mind in this juncture. Instead of saying aught to -comfort him, she drew closer to his side, and laying her hand on his -arm, gazed up into his face with a look so full of sympathy and love, -that its mute, yet all-powerful eloquence, went to the shepherd’s heart. -He drew her tenderly to his bosom, kissed her unresisting brow, and -gazed for some moments in silent rapture on her face. At length he -spoke. - -“Jeanie,” he said, and his voice grew low and tremulous as he spoke, -“can ye hear bad news? I canna bide here longer,” he added, after a -pause, and with an obvious effort. The maiden started; but having -introduced the subject, her lover proceeded firmly—“I canna bide here, -year after year, as I hae done for the last twelvemonth, and be put off, -month by month, wi’ promises that are never to be fulfilled. I will go -away and seek my fortune in other lands. They say money is to be had -amaist for the asking in the Indies, and ye ken we may never marry while -I remain as now, with na roof to lay my ain head under, to say naething -of yours, Jeanie, which I hold dearer than ten thousand thousand sic as -mine. So I hae engaged to go out to the Indies, and the ship sails -to-morrow. Do not greet, my flower o’ the brae,” said he, as the maiden -burst into tears, “for ye ken it is only sufferin’ a lighter evil to put -off a greater one. If I stay here we maun make up our minds never to be -one, for not a farm is to be had for a puir man like me, from Ettrick to -Inverness. In two years, at maist, I will return,” and his voice -brightened with hope, as he proceeded, “and then, Jeanie dear, naething -shall keep us asunder, and you shall be the richest, and I hope the -happiest bride in all the border.” - -The manly pathos of his words, his visible attempt to stifle his -feelings, and the grief she felt at the contemplated absence of her -lover, all conjoined to heighten the emotion of the maiden, and flinging -herself on her lover’s bosom, she wept long and uncontrollably. Her -companion gazed on in silence, with an almost bursting heart; but he -knew that he could not recede from his promise, and that the hour of -anguish must be endured sooner or later. Then why not now? At length the -sobs of Jeanie grew less violent and frequent—the first burst of her -emotion was passing away. Gently then did her lover soothe her feelings, -pointing out to her the advantages to result from his determination, and -cheering her with the assurance, that in two years, at farthest, he -would return. - -“I hae no fears, Jeanie, that ye will not prove true to me, and for the -rest we are in God’s gude hands. Our lives are as safe in his protection -awa on the seas as by our ain ingle-side. And now farewell, for the -present, dearie—I maun do many things before we sail to-morrow. God -bless you!” and with these words, dashing a tear from his eye, he tore -himself from the maiden, and walked rapidly across the lea, as if to -dissipate his emotion by the swiftness of his pace. When he reached the -brow of the hill, however, he turned to take a last look at the spot -where he had parted with Jeanie. She was still standing where he left -her, looking after his receding form. He waved his hand, gazed a moment -on her, and then whistled to his dog, and dashed over the brow of the -hill. - -Poor Jeanie had watched him with tearful eyes until he paused at the top -of the hill, and her heart beat quick when she saw him turn for a last -look. She made an effort to wave her hand in reply; and when she saw him -disappear beyond the hill, sank against the wall. Directly a flood of -tears came to her relief. It was hours before she was sufficiently -composed to return home. - -All through that day, and until late at night, Jeanie comforted herself -with the hope of again beholding her lover; but he came not. Long after -nightfall, a ragged urchin from the village put into her hands a letter. -She broke it open tremblingly, for she knew the hand-writing at a -glance. It was from her lover. It was kindly written, and the hand had -been tremulous that penned it; but it told her that he had felt himself -unequal to another parting scene. Before she received this—it -continued—he would be far on his way to the place of embarkation. It -contained many a sweet message that filled the heart of Jeanie with -sunshine, even while the tears fell thick and fast on the paper. It bid -her remember him to her only surviving parent, and then it contained a -few more words of hope, and ended with “God bless you!—think often in -your prayers of Willie.” - -That night Jeanie’s pillow was wet with tears, but, even amid her sobs, -her prayers might have been heard ascending for her absent lover. - - - CHAPTER II. - -The family of Jeanie was poor but virtuous, like thousands of others -scattered all over the hills and vales of Scotland. Her father had once -seen better days, having been indeed a farmer in a small way; but his -crops failing, and his stock dying by disease, he had been reduced at -length to extreme poverty. Yet he bore his misfortunes without repining. -He had still his daughter to comfort him, and though he lived in a -mud-built cottage, he was happy—happy at least, so far as one in his -dependent condition could be; for his principal support was derived from -the labor of his daughter, added to what little he managed to earn by -doing small jobs occasionally for his neighbors. Yet he was universally -respected. If you could have seen him on a sunny Sabbath morning, -leaning on his daughter’s arm, walking to the humble village kirk: if -you could have beheld the respect with which his juniors lifted their -bonnets to him, while his own gray locks waved on the wind as he -returned their salutations, you would have felt that even utter poverty, -if respectable, and cheered by a daughter’s love, was not without its -joy. - -The love betwixt Jeanie and the young shepherd was not one of a day. It -had already been of years standing, and dated far back, almost into the -childhood of each. By sunny braes, in green meadows, alongside of -whimplin brooks, they had been used to meet, seemingly by chance, until -such meetings grew necessary to their very existence, and their -love—pure and holy as that between the angelic choristers—became -intermixed with all their thoughts and feelings, and colored all their -views of life. And all this time Jeanie was growing more beautiful -daily, until she became the flower of the valley. Her voice was like -that of the cushat in its sweetest cadence—her eye was as blue and -sunny as the summer ether—and the smiles that wreathed her mouth came -and went like the northern lights on a clear December eve. Thus -beautiful, she had not been without many suitors; but to all she turned -a deaf ear. Many of them were far above her station in life, but this -altered not her determination. Nor did her father, though perhaps, like -many of his neighbors, he attached more importance to such offers than -Jeanie, attempt to influence her. He only stipulated that her lover -should obtain a farm before his marriage. We have seen how his repeated -failures in this, and his hopelessness of attaining his object, unless -at a very distant period, had at length driven him to seek his fortune -elsewhere. - -We are telling no romantic tale, but one of real life; and in real life -years often seem as hours, and hours as years. We shall make no excuse, -therefore, for passing over an interval of more than two years. - -It was the gloamin hour when Jeanie and her father sat at their humble -threshold. The face of the maiden was sad almost to tears; while that of -the father wore a sad and anxious expression. They had been convening, -and now the old man resumed their discourse. - -“Indeed, Jeanie,” he said, “God knows I would na urge ye do that which -is wrong; but we hae suffered and suffered much sin’ Willie left us. Twa -years and a half, amaist a third, hae past sin’ that day. Do not greet, -my dochter, an’ your auld father may na speak that which is heavy on his -mind,” and he ceased, and folded the now weeping girl tenderly to his -bosom. - -“No, no, father, go on,” sobbed Jeanie, endeavoring to compose herself, -an effort in which she finally succeeded. Her father resumed. - -“I am growing auld, Jeanie, aulder and aulder every day; my shadow -already fills up half my grave—and the time canna be far awa, when I -shall be called to leave you alone in the warld.” - -“Oh! say not so,” sobbed Jeanie, “you will yet live many a year.” - -“Na, na,” he answered, shaking his head, “though it pains my heart to -say so, yet it is best you should know the truth. It will na be long -before the snows shall lie aboon me. But I see it makes you greet. I -will pass on, Jeanie, to what lies heavy on my heart, and that is, when -I am awa, there will be no one to protect you. Could I hae seen ye -comfortably settled, wi’ some one to shield ye from the cauld world, I -could hae gone to my grave in peace. But it maun na be, it maun na be.” - -Poor Jeanie had listened to her father’s words with emotions we will not -attempt to pourtray. Long after every one else had given over her lover -for lost—and besides a rumor, now of two years standing, that he had -been drowned at sea, there was the fact of his not returning at the -appointed time, to silence all skepticism—she had clung to the hope of -his being alive, even when her reason forbid the expression of that -hope. She had long read her father’s thoughts, nor could she indeed -blame them. Their poverty was daily growing more extreme, so that while -her parent’s health was declining, he was compelled to deny himself even -the few comforts which he had hitherto possessed. These things cut -Jeanie to the heart, and yet she saw no remedy for them, except in what -seemed to her more terrible than death. Her affection for her lover was -only strengthened and purified by his loss. Try as she would, she could -not tear his image from her heart. Loving him thus, living or dead, how -could she wed another?—how could she take on herself vows her heart -refused to fulfil? Day after day, week after week, and month after -month, had this struggle been going on in her bosom, betwixt duty to her -father and love for him to whom she had plighted her virgin vows. This -evening her parent had spoken to her, mildly but seriously on the death -of her lover, and Jeanie’s heart was more than ever melted by the -self-devotedness with which her gray-haired father had alluded to her -want of protection in case of his death, not even saying a word of the -want of the common comforts of life which his growing infirmities -rendered more necessary than ever, but of which her conduct—oh! how -selfish in that moment it seemed to her—deprived him. It was some -moments before Jeanie could speak, during which time she lay weeping on -her parent’s bosom. At length she murmured, - -“Do wi’ me as ye wish, father, I maun resist no longer, sin’ it were -wicked. But oh! gie me a little while to prepare, for the heart is -rebellious and hard to overcome. I know you do it all for the best—but -I maun hae some delay to tear the last thoughts o’ Willie, thoughts -which soon wi’ be sinfu’, from my heart”—and overcome by the intensity -of her emotions she burst into a new flood of tears. Her father pressed -her to his bosom, and murmured, - -“Oh! Jeanie, Jeanie, could ye know how this pains my auld heart! But the -thought that when I die ye will be left unprotected in the world, is -sair within me. Time ye shall hae, darlint—perhaps,” he added after a -moment’s pause, “it were better to gie up the scheme altogether. Aye! -Jeanie, I will na cross your wishes even in this; but trust in a gude -God to protect you when I am gone. Say no more, say no more about it, -dear one; but do just as ye will.” - -“No, father,” said Jeanie, looking firmly up, while the tears shone -through her long eye-lashes like dew on the morning grass, “no, I will -be selfish no longer. Your wish shall be fulfilled. Do not oppose me, -for indeed, indeed, I act now as I feel right. Gie me only the little -delay for which I ask, and then I will do as you say, and—and”—and her -voice trembled as she spoke—“then you will no longer be without those -little comforts, dear father, which not even all my love has been able -to procure for you. Now kiss me, for I maun go in to be by myself for -awhile.” - -“God bless you, my dochter, and may _he_ ever hae you in his keeping,” -murmured that gray-haired sire, laying his hands on his child’s -head—his dim eyes suffusing with tears as he spoke, “God bless ye -forever and ever!” - -When that father and daughter rejoined each other, an hour later in the -evening, a holy calm pervaded the countenance of each; and the looks -which they gave each other were full of confidence, gratitude and -overflowing affection. And when the daughter drew forth the old worn -Bible, and read a chapter in her silvery voice, while the father -followed in a prayer that was at times choked by his emotion, there was -not, in all broad Scotland, a sweeter or more soul-subduing sight than -that lowly cot presented. - - - CHAPTER III. - -Although Jeanie was a girl of strong mind, the sacrifice which she -contemplated was not to be effected without many inward struggles. But -having made up her mind to what she considered her duty, she allowed no -personal feelings to swerve her from the strict line she had laid down -for herself wherein to walk. Daily did she seek in prayer for aid; and -never did she allow her parent to hear a murmur from her lips. Yet, let -her strive as she would, the memory of her lover would constantly recur -to her mind. At the gloamin hour, in the still watches of the night—by -the ingle-side, abroad in the fields, or in the kirk of God—on Sabbath -or week day—when listening to her aged sire’s voice, or sitting all -alone in her little chamber, the image of him she had loved would rise -up before her, diffusing a gentle melancholy over her heart, and -seeming, for the moment, to raise an impassable barrier betwixt her and -the fulfilment of her new vows—for those vows had already been taken, -and the evening which was to make her another’s, was only postponed -until the intended bridegroom—a staid farmer of the border—could make -the necessary preparations in his homestead, necessary to fit it for a -new mistress, and she the sweetest flower of the district. - -We are telling no romantic tale, drawn from the extravagant fancy of a -novelist, but a sober reality. There are hundreds, all over this broad -realm, who are even now sacrificing themselves like Jeanie. Aye! in many -a lowly cottage, unrecked of and uncared for by the world, wither away -in secret sorrow, beings who, had their lot been cast in happier places, -would have been the brightest and most joyous of creatures. How many has -want driven, unwilling brides, to the nuptial altar! Who can tell the -sacrifice woman will not make to affection, although that sacrifice may -tear her heart’s fibres asunder? And thus Jeanie acted. Although she -received the attentions of her future husband with a smile, there was a -strange unnatural meaning in its cold moonlight expression. Even while -he talked to her, her thoughts would wander away, and she would only be -awakened from her reverie by some sudden ejaculation of his at -perceiving her want of attention. He knew her history, but he had been -one of her earliest lovers, and he flattered himself that she had long -since forgotten the absent; and, although at times her demeanor would, -for a moment, make him suspect the truth, yet a conviction so little in -unison with his wishes, led him instantly to discard it. And Jeanie, -meanwhile, continued struggling with her old attachment, until her -health began to give way beneath the conflict. She scarcely seemed to -decline—at least to eyes that saw her daily—but yet her neighbors -marked the change. In the beautiful words of the ballad, - - “her cheek it grew pale, - And she drooped like a lily broke down by the hail.” - -The morning of her wedding-day saw her as beautiful as ever, but with -how touching, how sweet an expression of countenance! As she proceeded -to the kirk, her exquisite loveliness attracted every eye, and her air -of chastened sadness drew tears from more than one spectator acquainted -with her history. The bridegroom stood smiling to receive his lovely -prize, the minister had already begun the service, and Jeanie’s heart -beat faster and faster as the moment approached which was forever after -to make all thoughts of Willie sinful, when suddenly the rattling of -rapid wheels was heard without, and instantaneously a chaise stopped at -the kirk door, and a tall form leaping from the vehicle strode rapidly -up the aisle at the very moment that the minister asked the solemn -question, if any one knew aught why the ceremony should not be finished. - -“Ay,” answered the voice of the intruder, and, as he spoke, he threw off -the military cloak he wore and disclosed to the astonished eyes of the -spectators the features—scarred and sun burnt, but still the -features—of the absent shepherd, “Ay! I stand here, by God’s good aid, -to claim the maiden by right of a prior betrothal. I am William -Sandford.” - -Had a thunderbolt fallen from heaven, or a spirit risen from the dead, -the audience would not have been more astonished than by this -_dénouement_. All eagerly crowded around the intruder, gazing on his -face, as the Jews of old looked on the risen Lazarus. Doubt, wonder, -conviction, enthusiasm followed each other in quick succession through -the minds of the spectators. But the long absent lover, pushing aside -the friends who thronged around him, strode up to Jeanie’s side, and, -clasping her in his arms, asked, in a voice no longer firm, but husky -with emotion, - -“Oh! Jeanie, Jeanie, hae ye too forgotten me?” - -The bride had fainted on his bosom; but a score of eager tongues -answered for her, and in hurried words told him the truth. - -What have we more to say? Nothing—except that the returned lover took -the place of the bridegroom, who was fain to resign his claim, and that -the minister united the now re-animated Jeanie and her long-remembered -lover, while the congregation looked on with tears of joy. - -The returned Shepherd—for we shall still call him so—at length found -time to tell his tale. He had been shipwrecked as rumoured, but, instead -of being drowned, had escaped and reached India. There he entered the -service and was sent into the interior, where he rose rapidly in rank, -but was unavoidably detained beyond the appointed two years, while the -communications with Calcutta being difficult and uncertain, the letters -written home apprizing Jeanie of these facts had miscarried. At length, -he had succeeded in resigning his commission, full of honors and wealth. -He hastened to Scotland. He reached Jeanie’s home, learned that she was -even then becoming the bride of another, hurried wildly to the church, -and—our readers know the rest. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET.[1] - - - BY THOMAS NOON TALFOURD. - - - How often have I fixed a stranger’s gaze - On yonder turrets clad in light as fair - As this soft sunset lends—pleas’d to drink air - Of learning that from calm of ancient days - Breathes ’round them ever:—now to me they wear - The tinge of dearer thought; the radiant haze - That crowns them thickens as, with fonder care, - And by its flickering sparkles, sense conveys - Of youth’s first triumphs:—for amid their seats - One little student’s heart impatient beats - With blood of mine. O God, vouchsafe him power - When I am dust to stand on this sweet place - And, through the vista of long years, embrace - Without a blush this first Etonian hour! - ------ - -[1] It is with high gratification that we present our readers, this -month, with this elegant _original_ poem from the pen of Sergeant Noon -Talfourd, of England, the author of “Ion,” and, perhaps, the first -living poet of his age. In the letter accompanying the verses he speaks -of them as “my last effusion on an occasion very dear to me—composed in -view of Eton college after leaving my eldest son there for the first -time.” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE GOBLET OF LIFE. - - - BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. - - - Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim;— - And though my eyes with tears are dim, - I see its sparkling bubbles swim, - And chaunt this melancholy hymn, - With solemn voice and slow. - No purple flowers—no garlands green - Conceal the goblet’s shade or sheen, - Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, - Like gleams of sunshine, flash between - The leaves of mistletoe. - - This goblet, wrought with curious art, - Is filled with waters that upstart, - When the deep fountains of the heart, - By strong convulsion rent apart, - Are running all to waste; - And, as it mantling passes round, - With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, - Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned, - Are in its waters steeped and drowned, - And give a bitter taste. - - Above the humbler plants it towers, - The fennel, with its yellow flowers; - And in an earlier age than ours - Was gifted with the wondrous powers - Lost vision to restore: - It gave new strength and fearless mood, - And gladiators fierce and rude - Mingled it in their daily food; - And he who battled and subdued - A wreath of fennel wore. - - Then in Life’s goblet freely press - The leaves that give it bitterness, - Nor prize the colored waters less, - For in thy darkness and distress - New light and strength they give. - For he who has not learned to know - How false its sparkling bubbles show, - How bitter are the drops of woe - With which its brim may overflow, - He has not learned to live! - - The prayer of Ajax was for light! - Through all the dark and desperate fight, - The blackness of that noon-day night, - He asked but the return of sight - To know his foeman’s face. - Let our unceasing, earnest prayer - Be, too, for light:—and strength to bear - Our portion of the weight of care, - That crushes into dumb despair - One half the human race. - - O suffering, sad humanity! - O ye afflicted ones, who lie - Steeped to the lips in misery, - Longing, and yet afraid to die, - Ye have been sorely tried! - I pledge you in your cup of grief - Where floats the fennel’s bitter leaf! - The battle of our life is brief,— - The alarm,—the struggle,—the relief,— - Then sleep we side by side. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: E. T. Parris. Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie. - -_Highland Beauty._ - -_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_] - - - - - HIGHLAND BEAUTY. - - - A STORY IN CAMP. - - - BY OLIVER OLDFELLOW. - - -“The fact is, Jeremy, I never liked the idea of writing love stories in -the presence of a pretty girl, as there is always something contagious -in love,—and do what I might—I have been a hard student that way—some -how or other I was always apt to leave off writing, and go to the -business of love-making in downright earnest,—studying from nature, you -see. It somehow puts a fellow’s hand out for writing, and inclines him -more to the use of his tongue, except when, by way of variation, he -cooly slips his arm around the dear, blushing, unwilling creature, and -drawing her gently to his bosom, as a mother would her child, smothers -the ‘bliss of talking,’ as Miss Landon called it, by a cousinly -introduction of lips. But,—by the prettiest houri that ever made -Mussulman’s heaven!—how do you think the thing is to be managed with -_two_ of the prettiest Scotch lassies that ever inspired the song of a -Burns, or the valor of a Wallace, looking you right in the eye, and one -of them with the most inviting lips, too, that ever set lover’s heart on -fire, and each with a pair of eyes that would send the blood tingling -through the veins of the veriest woman hater that ever breathed.” - -“None of your nonsense, Oliver, but for once give over the lore of -talking of yourself, and let us have the story within three pages, if -you expect to be out before Christmas with the Magazine! There are a -host of better looking fellows than yourself have had their eyes upon -the girls, and—to tell you the honest truth,—the game is above your -reach.” - -“By my faith in woman! Jeremy, you are as sharp this morning as a -nor’-wester—I expect you have had your _comb cut_ with one of them. -Talking of cutting combs, reminds me of a story. When I was in the -army!—” - -“Ha! ha! ha! When you were in the army! By George! I like that part of -the story amazingly—if the rest is only as good I may feel inclined to -allow you half a page more!” - -“Come, Jerry, none of that; I’ve known fellows talk about the army who -never even heard a gun, and chaps spin out most eternal sea-yarns, that -never smelt salt water, as any old tar would tell you before he had -listened five minutes to the story; but I am none of your green-horns—I -know what I am about when I mention war or beauty,—having seen some -service in my day. I therefore commence properly—as every story should -have a beginning, even if it has no end.” - -“When I was in the army, you see, I became acquainted with a very -sentimental fellow, about your size,—though he _had_ rather a better -looking whisker for a soldier,—who was always full of romance, and all -that sort of thing,—and I _do_ believe the chap had an idea or two of -the right kind in his head, but they were so mixed up with the wrong -kind, that, like the funds of a good many bankers now-a-days, they were -not always ‘available.’ He had got it into his cranium, and there it -would stick, that he had a little better blood in him than any body -else, so that he was confoundedly careful not to have any of it spilt, -and nothing but the daughter of a lord came any way near the mark to -which he aspired. He used to tell a good many stories about himself, and -he would tell them pretty well too, but they somehow or other had a -smack of the marvellous. His stories about the doings among the -gentry—the fellow, you see, had been educated by a lord, or something -of that sort, and had seen a little of high life above stairs as well as -below—took amazingly in the camp, especially his sentimental ones, for -he had the knack of making a fool of himself—” - -“But, for goodness sake, Oliver! the story!—the story!” - -“The fact is, Jerry, I am pretty much in the predicament of the -knife-grinder!—Story of my own—I have none to tell. But here is one -of——confound the fellow’s name,—no matter.” - - * * * * * - -“Emily Melville—the only daughter of the proud Lord Melville, who was -well known in the time of the wars—as the representative of the long -line of illustrious Scottish nobles of that name, was the pride of the -Lowland nobility, and the belle of every assembly. She was as fair as a -white fawn, and scarcely less wild. Her mother being dead, few -restraints were placed upon the young beauty by the old house-keeper, -who, in the main, filled the place. Emily, therefore, held in proud -disdain the restraints which would have been imposed by the prudes of -her sex, and thought that the great art of living was to be happy. -Laughter was always on her lips, and sunlight forever on her brow. She -was beautiful, and you knew it, yet you could not tell the secret of it, -nor, for their restlessness and brilliancy, whether her eyes were blue -or gray, yet you knew that they were pretty, and felt that they were -bright. Her voice was like the warble of a bird in spring, its notes -were so full of joyousness; and her motion was like that of a fairy, so -light and graceful, that, had you seen her tripping over the smoothly -shaved lawn in front of the mansion—her auburn hair drooping in long -ringlets over her snowy and finely rounded shoulders—and heard her gay -glad voice, swelling out in song and happiness, you would have fancied -her an angel from the upper sphere.” - -“I doubt that last part, my good fellow”—interrupted a bluff old -soldier—“until I had tried an arm around her, to see if she wasn’t -flesh and blood, I wouldn’t a’ trusted fancy.” - -“An interruption, gentlemen. You see if the story is told right, a man -must _feel_ what he says, and you’ll find out before it’s done, that -I”— - -“What, young man! You didn’t begin to make love to _her_ did you?” - -“Gentlemen, I must persist”— - -“Well, was _she_ in love—tell us that.” - -“Love!—She laughed at it—and said, ‘she loved nothing but her pet -fawn—her canary—the flowers, both wild and tame—the blue sky—the -sunshine—the heather—the forest—the mountains—and it might be—she -did not know—she _might_ love her cousin Harry Hardwick, if he was as -pleasant as he was when her playmate a few years ago—but he was now at -his father’s castle on the mountain, and perhaps had grown coarse, -boorish, or ill-mannered. She did not know therefore whether she should -love him or not—rather thought she should not—but then she had her -father, and enough around her to love and cherish, and why should she -trouble herself about the matter.’ - -“You will not wonder, gentlemen, that such a creature should inspire me -with love—a deep, devoted, heart-absorbing, deathless passion. I loved -her as man never loved woman before. Every pulsation, every energy of my -being seemed for her”— - -“Of course, _you’d_ love her!—never heard you tell of a pretty girl -that you didn’t love—but give us the pith and marrow of the matter; did -she return the compliment?” - -“All in good time!—You see the thing might have been very handsomely -managed, if it had not been for one or two impediments”— - -“What in the plague does the fellow mean by _impediment_?” - -“Hush, can’t you! He means he didn’t get her, of course.” - -“Well, you see, gentlemen, there was a shocking looking young fellow of -a lord, who lived upon the next estate, who got it into his head that he -must take a hand in the game. To give him his due, he was accomplished, -witty, had a title, and a splendid whisker, and from beginning to call -every few days to inquire after Lord Melville’s health—the old chap had -the best health in the world—about three times a-week, he soon managed -to call the other four days on his own account, so that I found the -prize in a fair way to be snatched from my grasp, and I resolved to -bring matters to a close pretty soon. So one morning, when Lord Melville -was out looking into parliamentary matters, inquiring into the affairs -of the nations, or his own, I thought I would open the question -genteely. Emily had sung for me most sweetly, without any apology or -affectation, and we were now sitting chatting very pleasantly together. -How easy, then, to turn the conversation in the proper channel. To -discourse of green fields—of murmuring brooks—of the delights of -solitude with one of congenial tastes—of the birds, the fawn, and the -attachment they showed their mistress. Then, of course, she would wonder -whether they really loved her, whether they knew what love was, or only -felt joy at her presence, because they knew her as their feeder. Then I -would say, of _course_ they loved her, how could they do -otherwise,—were not all things that approached her _fated_ to love her. -Then she blushes, gets up, and goes to the window opening on the -garden—to look at the flowers maybe—I must see them too, of course, -for they are _her_ flowers. I always loved flowers, and particularly -love these. Things, gentlemen, were thus progressing pretty smoothly, -you will see, considering that the lady was the daughter of a lord, and -of course heiress to his whole estate, when lo!—my unlucky genius as -usual—the housekeeper must poke in her head, and ask if ‘anybody -called.’ No! certainly not! What young lady ever called a housekeeper at -such a time! Pshaw! The thing was shocking to think of! How stupid in -her! The old thing had an eye in her head like a hawk, however, and saw -pretty clearly how matters stood, and whether she thought that there was -no chance for me in that quarter, or had some private preference of her -own, she maintained her ground until I deemed it prudent to withdraw. - -“Days passed away, and no opportunity was afforded me of renewing my -suit. Whether the old housekeeper took the matter in hand or not, of -course I cannot say; but when days began to grow into weeks, I began to -feel the wretchedness of first love. Who has not felt its fears, its -doubts, the torture, whether you are beloved by the object of your -affection, and the uncertainty, even in your own mind, whether you are -worthy of that love?—who has not felt the dread of rivalry, the fears -of the effects of a moment’s absence, and the thousand untold pangs, -which none but a lover’s imagination can inflict—and he a lover for the -first time? It is strange, gentlemen, that I should, after this sweet -interview, which seemed destined to be the last that I should have with -the most angelic of beings, place myself upon the rack, and delight in -the torture, with the devotion to wretchedness of a heart inspired with -‘the gentle madness,’ for the first time, of passionate, deathless -love—” - -“Hold up, comrade! and do give us the pith of the matter, without all -this flummery. I’ve known chaps talk all day in that strain, who never -had any story to tell, but would go on yarning it until roll-call, just -to hear themselves talk. Now, if you got the gal, say so—if you didn’t, -tell us why—and none of your rigmarole.” - -“Of course, gentlemen, I did not get her, and that is the reason I am -here to tell the story. Misfortunes, you know, travel close upon each -other’s heels, and sure enough, in the midst of my misery, the carriage -of Lord Hardwick was announced, and who should it contain but Emily’s -cousin ‘Harry,’—her old playmate, and his sister. I heard the -announcement, but I heard no more, until an hour or two afterwards, -when, out of sheer melancholy, I had taken to the garden for -contemplation and meditation, I _accidentally_ overheard Harry -Hardwick’s declaration and his acceptance, and, after half an hour of -silence, a laugh by both parties at my expense. - -“I had enough of the soldier’s blood in me, gentlemen, even then, to -_take no notice_ of this downright incivility and want of breeding, -though I do not of course suppose that the parties dreamed that they had -a listener, so I cast her off as unworthy of my love; and thus ended my -first love.” - -“Very sensibly done, too, my boy! I applaud your spirit. It was worthy -of a soldier.” - -“But, gentlemen, this was but the opening of difficulties, for I was no -sooner out of this scrape than my sensitive heart must betray me into -another. How all the dreams of even Emily’s beauty melted away as the -mist from the hills—perhaps assisted by the knowledge she was the prize -of another—when next morning my eyes beheld Arabella Hardwick. She was -leaning over the back of the sofa, at the very window from which the day -before I had praised the flowers with Emily. Passing beautiful was she -as she stood in her virgin loveliness before me, with her highland-cap -and its white plume over curls of jet, that seemed in mere wantonness to -fall from beneath, over her fine neck and swelling bosom, whose -treasures were scarcely concealed by the highland-mantle which so well -became her. Her brow was slightly shaded with curls, while from beneath, -her eyes, darker than heaven’s own blue, seemed to be melting before -your gaze. Her smile was sweetness itself, and came from lips of which -heaven and earth seemed to dispute ownership. Emily was seated at her -side, in the act of fixing a hawk’s feather in a highland-cap for her -own fair brow, yet in her eye mischief and cunning strove for mastery, -and her whole face was so full of meaning that I knew that I must have -been the subject of previous conversation, and I felt my face crimson -before the highland beauties. I verily believe that I made an -impression, gentlemen, which, had it been properly followed up, might -have been the making of me; I have always fancied somehow or other that -the highland beauty was rather smitten with me, for there was such a -coaxing expression in her whole face, and particularly in her -lips—which seemed to be begging a kiss—that I do believe that if it -had not been for the presence of my old flame, ‘my first love,’ -gentlemen, I should have carried the fortress by storm! but you see, as -it was, I stood blushing and looking simple until, for very amusement -sake, both commenced laughing, and Emily broke the ice by asking me if I -had lost my tongue. - -“‘On this hint I spoke.’—It is not necessary, gentlemen, to repeat all -the fine things I said—for fine things in a sentimental way, are not -relished in camp—but suffice it to say that the ground was so well -marked out in my first interview, that I deemed it expedient to pop the -question, ‘striking while the iron’s hot,’ you know—somewhat musty, but -very expressive—yet you will scarcely believe me, gentlemen—she -rejected me _flat_—‘_because I had no whiskers_.’” - -“You don’t say that was the _main_ objection?” - -“I say that was the only objection, and to prove its validity, she -married five months after, Lord Gordon, Emily’s former suitor—whose -only advantage was a fine pair of whiskers—with the addition of an -estate and a title.” - -“But perhaps the latter had some weight.” - -“None, I assure you, as I pressed the matter, and she averred, that love -in a cottage with a whisker, was in every way more congenial to her -taste, than the finest mansion in the land without that appendage. So -you see I took to cultivating whiskers with great assiduity; but for a -long time, the rascals defied all attempts to train them; the shoots -were tolerably advanced in less than six months; but they were too -late—for the lady was married.” - -“Well, you are a cool sort of a fellow to talk of transferring your love -from one high-born lady to another, with the same ease as a soldier does -a feather from his cap. I suppose you finally courted the old -housekeeper out of sheer revenge.” - -“None of that, I assure you, for she revenged my want of attention that -way, by giving Lord Melville a history of the whole matter—with -trimmings.—So the old codger said I was as crazy as a bed-bug, and -clapped me in the army, as a kind of lunatic asylum to recover my wits. -So that’s the _end of the story_.” - - * * * * * - -“There, Jerry, put that in your pipe, or your Magazine, just as you -like, for no story do I write for a fellow who comes to me with a piece -of tape to measure the length, as if a man spun like a spider, and if it -don’t fill your three pages—add a paragraph about the children.—What -do ye say?” - -“It’s rather so-soish at best, Oliver!—But what regiment did you say -you were in?” - -“Regiment—did I say anything about regiment? You must be mistaken, -Jerry! these confounded soldier terms are all mouldering in my brain, -these peaceable times.” - -“Well, where was the army encamped?” - -“At a—a place with a confounded French name—I never had any command of -the cursed language, and was glad enough when we got out of the place, -never to bother my brain with its name.” - -“Well, the war!—In what war was it?—Let us have something to go upon.” - -“As for dates and names, Jerry, I never for the soul of me, could make -any headway with them. A phrenologist once told me, that for names and -dates I had no development, and whenever I begin to try to think of my -exploits in battle, I think the fellow was right—as I am always out for -the want of names and dates. So I think it best first to tell the -_facts_, and let people fix dates to suit themselves. So, Jerry, hand -over the port—this is confounded dry business.” - -“To tell you the truth, Oliver, the whole story has rather a squint, and -I have half a notion that for the most of it, we are indebted to the -good looks of the two bonnie Scotch lassies, and rather a marvellous -imagination.” - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES. - - - WRITTEN ON A PORTRAIT OF WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON. - - - BY MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY. - - - Hail pictured image! thine immortal art - Hath snatch’d a hero from the arms of death, - In whose broad bosom beat the noblest heart - That ever drew on earth a balmy breath; - For while amid the sons of men he trod, - That true nobility to him was given - Whose seal is stamp’d by an approving God, - Whose ever-blooming title comes from heaven. - - The fire of genius glistened in his glance, - ’Twas written on his calm majestic brow, - That men might look upon its clear expanse - And read that God and Nature made him so; - Yet that pale temple could not always keep - The soul imprisoned in its earthly bars, - Born for the skies, his god-like soul doth sweep - The boundless circle of the radiant stars. - - How soft the placid smiles that seemed to bask - Round those pale features once the spirit’s shrine - And hover round those lips that only ask - A second impress from the hand divine! - And look upon that brow! a living light - Plays like a sun-beam o’er his silver hair, - As if the happy spirit in its flight - Had left a saint-like glory trembling there. - - Yet tho’ some skilful hand may softly paint - The noble form and features we adore, - Such deeds as thine are left, Oh happy Saint! - Are left alone for Memory to restore. - And still thy virtues like a soft perfume - That rises from a bed of fading flowers, - Immortal as thyself, shall bud and bloom - Deep in these hearts, these grateful hearts of ours. - - Sons of Columbia! ye whose spirits soar - Elate with joyous hopes and youthful fires, - Go, imitate the hero you deplore, - For this is all that God or man requires. - Oh! while you bend the pensive brow of grief, - Muse on the bright examples he has given, - And strive to follow your ascended chief - Whose radiant foot-prints lead to fame and heaven. - - Oh guard his grave! it is a solemn trust, - Nor let a single foeman press the sod - Beneath whose verdure sleeps the sacred dust - Once hallowed by the quick’ning breath of God. - Thus in his lonely grandeur let him lie - Wrapt in his grave on fair Ohio’s shore, - His deeds, his virtues, all that could not die, - Remain with us, and shall for evermore. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO A LAND BIRD AT SEA. - - - BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. - - - Bird of the land! what dost thou here? - Lone wanderer o’er a trackless bound,— - With nought but frowning skies above, - And cold, unfathom’d seas around; - - Among the shrouds, with heaving breast - And drooping head, I see thee stand, - And pleased the coarsest sailor climbs, - To grasp thee in his roughen’d hand. - - And didst thou follow, league on league, - Our pointed mast, thine only guide, - When but a floating speck it seemed - On the broad bosom of the tide? - - On far Newfoundland’s misty bank, - Hadst thou a nest, and nurslings fair? - Or ’mid New England’s forests hoar? - Speak! speak! what tidings dost thou bear? - - What news from native shore and home, - Swift courier o’er the threatening tide?— - Hast thou no folded scroll of love - Prest closely to thy panting side? - - A bird of genius art thou? say! - With impulse high thy spirit stirred— - Some region unexplored to gain, - And soar above the common herd? - - Burns in thy breast some kindling spark - Like that which fired the glowing mind - Of the adventurous Genoese, - An undiscovered world to find? - - Whate’er thou wert, how sad thy fate - With wasted strength the goal to spy, - Cling feebly to the flapping sail, - And at a stranger’s feet to die. - - Yet, from thy thin and bloodless beak, - Methinks a warning sigh doth creep— - To those who leave their sheltering home, - And lightly dare the dangerous deep. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SNOW-STORM. - - - A MONOLOGUE BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ. - - -It is almost twilight. How swiftly have the moments glided by since we -sat ourselves by this window—let us see—some two hours since, and -during all that time not a word have we spoken, although our soul has -been gushing over with its exceeding fulness. It is snowing. Look out -and you will see the downy flakes—there, there, and there—one chasing -another, millions on millions falling without intermission, coming down -noiselessly and mysteriously, as a dream of childhood, on the earth, and -covering field, and forest, and house-top, hill and vale, river, glade, -and meadow, with a robe that is whiter than an angel’s mantle. How -ceaseless the descent! What countless myriads—more countless than even -the stars of heaven—have fallen since we have been watching here! God -only could have ordered the falling of that flake which has just now -sunk to the earth like an infant on its young mother’s milk-white bosom. -Did you not see it? There—follow this one which has just emerged from -the skies—but at what spot even we cannot detect—see its slow, easy, -tremulous motion as it floats downwards; now how rapidly it intermingles -with the others, so that you can scarcely keep it in your eye; and -there! there! it shoots to the ground with a joyous leap—and, even as -we speak, another and another, aye! ten thousand thousand of them have -flitted past, like the gleaming of cherubic wings, such as we used to -see in our childhood’s dreams, glancing to and fro before a throne of -surpassing glory, far, far away, high up in the skies. - -It is snowing. Faster, faster, faster come down the feathery flakes. See -how they disport themselves—giddy young creatures as they are—whirling -around; now up, and now down; dancing, leaping, flying; you can almost -hear their sportive laughter as they skim away across the landscape. -Almost, we say, for in truth there is not a sound to be heard in earth, -air, or sky. The ground, all robed in white, is hushed in silence—the -river sweeps its current along no longer with a hoarse chafing sound, -but flows onward with a dull, clogged, almost noiseless motion—not a -bird whistles in the wood, nor a beast lows from the barn-yard—while -the trees, lifting their bleached branches to the skies, shiver in the -keen air, and cower uncomplainingly beneath the falling flakes. But -hark! there is a voice beside us—’tis that of the beloved of our -soul—repeating Thomson’s Winter—Thomson! majestic at all times, but -oh! how much more so when gushing in silver music from the lips of the -white-armed one beside us. Hear her! - - “The keener tempests rise: and fuming dun - From all the livid east, or piercing north, - Thick clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb - A vapory deluge lies, to snow congeal’d. - Heavy they roll their fleecy world along; - And the sky saddens with the gather’d storm. - _Through the hush’d air the whitening shower descends,_ - _At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes_ - _Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day,_ - _With a continual flow._ The cherished fields - Put on their winter-robe of purest white. - ’Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts - Along the mazy current. Low the woods - Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun - Faint from the west emits his evening ray - Earth’s universal face, deep hid, and chill, - Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide - The works of man. Drooping, the laborer ox - Stands covered o’er with snow——” - -But let us away to the mountains! Far up in a gorge of the Alleghanies -we will stand, with the clouds whirling wildly around and beneath, and -the wind whistling shrilly far down in some ravine, which we may not -see; for all around us is, as it were, a shoreless ocean, buried in a -ghastly mist, from which the tall cliffs jut up like islands—and ever, -ever comes to our ears from this boiling vortex a sound as of many waves -chafing against the shore, like that which the priest of Apollo listened -to as he walked all disconsolate, bereft of his fair-haired daughter, -back from the tents of the stern Hellenes to the towers of Ilium. The -air is full of snow-flakes, driving hither and thither—thick, thick, -thicker they descend—you cannot see a fathom before you. Take care how -you tread, for a false step may plunge you into an abyss a thousand feet -plumb down. Not far from here is the very spot where an unwary -traveller, on a night like this, but a bare twelve-month since, slipped -from the edge of the precipice, and was never heard of again, until the -warm sunny breath of April, melting the snows from beneath the shadows -of the hills, disclosed him lying unburied, with his face turned up, as -if in mockery, to the bright heavens on which his eye might never look -again. In vain had loved ones watched for his coming until their eyes -grew weary, and their hearts turned to fountains of tears within -them—in vain had a wife or mother kindled the cheery fire, or smoothed -for him the bed of down, to welcome him after his absence—for - - “——his sheets are more white, - And his canopy grander, - And sounder he sleeps - Where the hill-foxes wander.” - -We are in the mountains, in the midst of a snow-storm, and, as we look -around, we feel that Jehovah, as when Moses heard the noise of a mighty -wind, is passing by. There is a vague emotion of mingled wonder, fear -and awe, overshadowing our soul as we stand here alone in the tempest. -See how the drift is spinning in the whirlwind; and now it streams out -like a pennant on the night. Hark! to the deep organ peal of the -hurricane as it thunders among the peaks high up above us—listen to the -wild shrieks rising, we know not whither, as if the spirits of the -mountain were writhing on beds of torture, as the olden legends say, all -unpardoned by their Creator. And now—louder and wilder than the -rest—sounding upwards from the gulf below, a voice of agony and -might—sublime even in its tribulation, awful in its expression of -gigantic suffering—like that of him whom the seer of the Apocalypse -beheld bound hand and foot and cast into the bottomless pit, despite an -unyielding conflict of twice ten thousand years. Ruin!—ruin!—all is -ruin around us. We see not the burying of hamlets, we hear not the -descent of avalanches, but the sky is lit up with a wan glare, the whole -air is full of mysterious sounds, and we feel, with a strange -all-pervading fear, that destruction will glut herself ere morning. God -help the traveller who is abroad to-night! - -And now, with a sheer descent, full fifty fathoms down, let us plunge -like the eagle when he shoots before the burning thunderbolt. We are on -the wide ocean, and what a sight! Sea and air are commingled into one. -You seem buried alive in a whirling tempest of snow-flakes, and though, -as on the mountain, you hear on every side sounds of utter agony, yet, -as there, the keenest eye cannot penetrate the wan, dim prospect around; -but here, unlike on the hills, there is one voice superior to all the -rest—the deep, awful bass of the rolling surges. And then the -hurricane! How it whistles, roars and bellows through the rigging, now -piping shrill and clear, and now groaning awfully as if in its last -extremity. The snow is blocking up the decks, wet, spongy and bitterly -cold. There! how she thumped against that wave, quivering under it in -every timber, while the spray was dimly seen flying wild and high over -the fore-top. “Shall we—oh! shall we live till morning?” asks a weeping -girl. “We know not, sweet one, but we are in the Almighty’s hand, and -his fatherly care will be over us as well here as on the land.” There; -see—“hold on all,” thunders the Stentor voice of the skipper, sounding -now however fainter than the feeblest infant’s cry; and as he speaks, -the craft shivers with a convulsive throe, and a gigantic billow, -seething, hissing, flashing, whirls in over the bow, deluges the deck, -and roars away into the blackness of darkness astern. Was that a cry of -a man overboard? God in his infinite mercy, pardon the poor wretch’s -sins; for, alas! it were madness to attempt his rescue. Already he is -far astern. Another and another wave! Oh! for the light of morning. Yes! -young Jessie, thou would’st give worlds now for the breezes of the -far-off land—the hum of bees, the songs of birds, the scent of flowers -in the summer sunshine—the sight of thy home smiling amidst its -murmuring trees, with the clear brook hard by laughing over the stones, -and the voices of thy young sisters sounding gaily in thy ears. But ere -morning we may all be with our brother who has but just gone from our -midst. _Ora pro nobis!_ - -We were but dreaming when we thought ourselves among the mountains and -on the sea, and we were awoke by thy soft voice—oh! loved one of our -soul—and looking into thy blue eyes—moist, not with tears, but with -thine all-sensitive soul—we feel a calm come down upon us soothing, how -gently and sweetly, our agitated thoughts. Many and many a tale could we -tell thee of sorrow and peril on the seas, and our heart is even now -full of one which would bring the tears into other eyes than thine—but -no! you tell us we are all too agitated by our dream, and that another -time will do—well, well! Sing us, then, one of thine own sweet -songs—Melanie!—for is not thy voice like the warbler of our woods, he -of the hundred notes, the silvery, the melting, the unrivalled? That was -sweetly done—ever could we sit and listen to thee thus. - - “Thy voice is like a fountain - Leaping up in sunshine bright, - And _we_ never weary counting - Its clear droppings, lone and single, - Or when in one full gush they mingle, - Shooting in melodious light!” - -That is Lowell’s—a noble soul is his, and all on fire with poetry. We -tender to him, though we have never met in the flesh, our good right -hand, joining his herewith in cordial fellowship, the hearts of both -being in our eyes the while:—we tender him our hand—he far away in his -student’s room at Boston and we here in old Philadelphia—and we tell -sneering worldlings and critics who are born only to be damned, that, -for one so young, Lowell has written grandly; that he is full, even to -overflowing, of purity, enthusiasm, imagination, and love for all God’s -creatures; and being this, why should not we—aye! and all honest men -beside—grasp him cheerily by the hand, and if need be, stand to our -arms in his defence? - -But the clock has struck six, and we will walk to the door to see if the -tempest still rages. What a glorious night! The moon is out, sailing -high up in heaven, with a calm mystic majesty that fills the soul with -untold peace. Far away on the horizon floats a misty veil—while here -and there, in the sky, a cloud still lingers, its dark body seeming like -velvet on an azure ground, and its edges turned up with silver. There -are a thousand stars on the frosty snow; for every tiny crystal that -shoots out into the moonshine glistens all diamond-like; and, as you -walk, ten thousand new crystals open to the light, until the whole -landscape seems alive with millions of gems. Hark! how the hard crust -crackles under the tread. If you put your ear to the ground you will -hear a multitude of almost inarticulate sounds as if the sharp -moon-beams were splintering the snow—but it is only the shooting of -myriads of crystals. There have been icicles forming all day from yonder -twig, and now as we shake the tree, you may hear them tinkling, one by -one, to the ground, with a clear silvery tone, like the ringing of a -bell miles off among the hills. Early in the afternoon, the snow melted -on the river, but towards nightfall the stream became clogged, and now -the frost is “breathing a blue film” from shore to shore—and to-morrow -the whole surface will be smooth as glass, and the steel of the skater -will be ringing sharp along the ice. How keen was that gust!—you may -hear its dying cadence moaning away in the distance, like the wail of a -lost child in a forest. Hush! was that a whistle down in the wood? - -And now again all is still. Let us pause a moment and look around. The -well-known landmarks of the scene have disappeared, giving place to an -unbroken prospect of the purest white. We seem to have entered into a -new world, and to have lost by the transition all our old and more -selfish feelings, so that now, every emotion of our heart is softened -down to a gentle calm, in unison with the beauty and repose around us. -There is a dreaminess in the landscape, thus half seen by the light of -the moon, giving full play to the imagination. The spirit spurns this -mortal tenement of clay, and soars upwards to a brighter world, holding -fancied communion with the myriads of beatified spirits, which it would -fain believe, hover in the air and whisper unseen into our souls. -Glorious thought, that God hath appointed such guardian watchers over a -lost and sinful race! We would not surrender this belief—wild and -visionary as it may seem to some—for all that sectarians have asserted -or atheists denied. We love, in the still watches of the night, to think -that the “loved and lost” are communing with our hearts—that though -dead they yet live, and watch, as of old, over our erring path—that -they soothe us in sorrow, hover around our beds of sickness, are the -first to bear the parted soul upwards to the gates of Paradise—and that -the angelic sounds we hear upon the midnight air, coming we know not -whither, but seeming to pervade the whole firmament as with a celestial -harmony, are but their songs of praise. Or may not these heavenly -strains be the cadences which faintly float, far down from the -battlements of heaven? - - “Oft in bands - While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, - With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds - In full harmonic numbers joined, their songs - Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven.” - -The dream grows dim, the illusion is fading, our rhapsody dies upon our -lips. We hear again thy voice—Hebe of our heart!—and we may not longer -tarry in the night air. And so farewell! - - * * * * * - - - - - APOSTROPHE. - - - BY ALBERT PIKE. - - - Oh Liberty! thou child of many hopes, - Nursed in the cradle of the human heart! - While Europe in her glimmering darkness gropes, - Do not from us, thy chosen ones, depart! - Still be to us, as thou hast been, and art, - The Spirit which we breathe! Oh, teach us still - Thy arrowy truths unquailingly to dart, - Until the Tyrant and Oppressor reel, - And Despotism trembles at thy thunder-peal. - - Methinks thy sun-rise now is lighting up - The far horizon of yon hemisphere - With golden lightning. O’er the hoary top - Of the blue mountain see I not appear - Thy lovely dawn; while Pain, and crouching Fear, - And Slavery perish under tottering thrones? - How long, oh Liberty! until we hear - Instead of an insulted people’s moans, - The crushed and writhing tyrants uttering their groans? - - Is not thy Spirit living still in France? - Will it not waken soon in storm and fire? - Will Earthquake not ’mid thrones and cities dance, - And Freedom’s altar be the funeral pyre - Of Tyranny and all his offspring dire? - In England, Germany, Italia, Spain, - And Switzerland thy Spirit doth inspire - The multitude—and though too long, in vain, - They struggle in deep gloom, yet Slavery’s night shall wane! - - And shall _we_ sleep while all the earth awakes? - Shall _we_ turn slaves while on the Alpine cones - And vine-clad hills of Europe brightly breaks - The morning light of liberty?—What thrones - Can equal those which on our fathers’ bones - The demagogue would build? What chains so gall - As those the self-made Helot scarcely owns - Till they eat deeply—till the live pains crawl - Into his soul who caused _himself_ to fall! - - Men’s freedom may be wrested from their hands, - And they may mourn; but not like those who throw - Their heritage away—who clasp the bands - On their own limbs, and crawl and blindly go - Like timorous fawns to their own overthrow. - Shall we thus fall? Is it so difficult - To think that we are free, yet be not so— - To shatter down by one brief hour of guilt - The holy fane of Freedom that our fathers built. - - * * * * * - - - - - AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT. - - - IN THREE CHIMERAS. - - - BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO. - - - Chimera I. - - An anthem of a sister choristry! - And like a windward murmur of the sea - O’er silver shells, so solemnly it falls! - A dying music, shrouded in deep walls, - That bury its wild breathings! And the moon, - Of glow-worm hue, like virgin in sad swoon, - Lies coldly on the bosom of a cloud, - Until the elf-winds, that are wailing loud, - Do minister unto her sickly trance, - Fanning the life into her countenance. - And there are pale stars sparkling, far and few, - In the deep chasms of everlasting blue, - Unmarshall’d and ungather’d, one and one, - Like outposts of the lunar garrison. - - A train of holy fathers windeth by - The arches of an aged sanctuary, - With cowl, and scapular, and rosary, - On to the sainted oriel, where stood, - By the rich altar, a fair sisterhood— - A weeping group of virgins!—one or two - Bent forward to a bier of solemn hue, - Whereon a bright and stately coffin lay, - With its black pall flung over:—Agathè - Was on the lid—a name. And who? No more! - ’Twas only Agathè. - - ’Tis o’er, ’tis o’er— - Her burial!—and, under the arcades, - Torch after torch into the moonlight fades, - And there is heard the music, a brief while, - Over the roofings of the imaged aisle, - From the deep organ, panting out its last, - Like the slow dying of an autumn blast. - - A lonely monk is loitering within - The dusky area, at the altar seen, - Like a pale spirit, kneeling in the light - Of the cold moon, that looketh wan and white - Through the deviced oriel; and he lays - His hands upon his bosom, with a gaze - To the chill earth. He had the youthful look - Which heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shook - At every gust of the unholy breeze - That entered through the time-worn crevices. - - A score of summers only o’er his brow - Had passed—and it was summer, even now - The one-and-twentieth—from a birth of tears, - Over a waste of melancholy years! - And _that_ brow was as wan as if it were - Of snowy marble, and the raven hair, - That would have clustered over, was all shorn, - And his fine features stricken pale as morn. - - He kiss’d a golden crucifix, that hung - Around his neck, and, in a transport, flung - Himself upon the earth, and said, and said - Wild, raving words, about the blessed dead; - And then he rose, and in the moon-shade stood, - Gazing upon its light in solitude, - And smote his brow, at some idea wild - That came across; then, weeping like a child, - He faltered out the name of Agathè, - And look’d unto the heaven inquiringly, - And the pure stars. - - “Oh, shame! that ye are met - To mock me, like old memories, that yet - Break in upon the golden dream I knew - While she—_she_ lived; and I have said adieu - To that fair one, and to her sister, Peace, - That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou cease - To feed upon my quiet, thou Despair, - That art the mad usurper, and the heir - Of this heart’s heritage? Go, go—return, - And bring me back oblivion and an urn! - And ye, pale stars, may look, and only find - The wreck of a proud tree, that lets the wind - Count o’er its blighted boughs: for such was he - That loved, and loves, the silent Agathè.” - And he hath left the sanctuary, like one - That knew not his own purpose—the red sun - Rose early over incense of bright mist, - That girded a pure sky of amethyst. - - And who was he? A monk. And those who knew, - Yclept him Julio; but they were few. - And others named him as a nameless one,— - A dark, sad-hearted being, who had none - But bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness, - That fed the wildest of all curses—madness! - - But he was, what none knew, of lordly line, - That fought in the far land of Palestine, - Where, under banners of the Cross, they fell, - Smote by the armies of the infidel. - And Julio was the last; alone, alone, - A sad, unfriended orphan, that had gone - Into the world to murmur and to die, - Like the cold breezes that are passing by! - - And few they were that bade him to their board; - His fortunes now were over, and the sword - Of his proud ancestry dishonor’d—left - To moulder in its sheath—a hated gift! - Ay! it was so; and Julio would fain - Have been a warrior; but his very brain - Grew fever’d at the sickly thought of death. - And to be stricken with a want of breath!— - To be the food of worms—inanimate, - And cold as winter—and as desolate! - And then to waste away, and be no more - Than the dark dust!—the thought was like a sore - That gather’d in his heart; and he would say, - “A curse be on their laurels,” and decay - Came over them; the deeds that they had done - Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon - Was Julio forgotten, and his line— - No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine! - - Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene! - But loved not death; his purpose was between - Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there - Like a wild bird, that floated far and fair - Betwixt the sun and sea. - - He went, and came— - And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same— - A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night - Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight - Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind - Play with his raven tresses, or would bind - Grottos of birch, wherein to sit and sing; - And peasant girls would find him sauntering, - To gaze upon their features, as they met, - In laughter, under some green arboret. - - At last he became a monk, and, on his knees, - Said holy prayers, and with wild penances - Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim - That, like a shadow, loiter’d over him, - Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed - With none of the mad thoughts that were at first - The poison of his quiet; but he grew - To love the world and its wild laughter too, - As he had known before: and wish’d again - To join the very mirth he hated then. - - He durst not break the vow—he durst not be - The one he would—and his heart’s harmony - Became a tide of sorrow. Even so, - He felt hope die—in madness and in wo! - - But there came one—and a most lovely one - As ever to the warm light of the sun - Threw back her tresses—a fair sister girl, - With a brow changing between snow and pearl; - And the blue eyes of sadness, filled with dew - Of tears—like Heaven’s own melancholy blue— - So beautiful, so tender; and her form - Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm: - Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow— - Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow - Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright - In her own self—a mystery of light! - With feelings tender as a star’s own hue, - Pure as the morning star! as true, as true: - For it will glitter in each early sky, - And her first love be love that lasteth aye! - - And this was Agathè—young Agathè— - A motherless, fair girl: and many a day - She wept for her lost parent. It was sad - To see her infant sorrow; how she bade - The flow of her wild spirits fall away - To grief, like bright clouds in a summer day - Melting into a shower; and it was sad - Almost to think she might again be glad— - Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fall - Of her bright tears. Yet in her father’s hall - She had lived almost sorrowless her days; - But he felt no affection for the gaze - Of his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled, - He bade no father’s welcome to the child, - But even told his wish, and will’d it done, - For her to be sad-hearted—and a nun! - - And so it was. She took the dreary veil, - A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew pale - Upon her cheek; she felt, as summer feels - The winds of autumn, and the winter chills - That darken his fair suns—it was away, - Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathè! - - The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymn - Sung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim, - Gray aisle, was heard a solitary tread, - As of one musing sadly on the dead— - ’Twas Julio. It was his wont to be - Often alone within the sanctuary; - But now, not so—another: it was she! - Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saint - Before a crucifix; but sad and faint - The tone of her devotion, as the trill - Of a moss-burden’d melancholy rill. - And Julio stood before her;—’twas as yet - The hour of the pale twilight—and they met - Each other’s gaze, till either seem’d the hue - Of deepest crimson; but the ladye threw - Her veil above her features, and stole by - Like a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh! - - Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone, - A dreamer!——“is the sister ladye gone?” - He started at the silence of the air - That slumber’d over him—she is not there. - - And either slept not through the live-long night, - Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright, - Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose - In sorrow from the pallet of repose: - For the dark thought of their sad destiny - Came o’er them, like a chasm of the deep sea, - That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve - They met again, but, silent, took their leave, - As they did yesterday: another night, - And neither spoke awhile—a pure delight, - Had chasten’d love’s first blushes: silently - Gazed Julio on the gentle Agathè— - At length, “Fair Nun!” she started, and held fast - Her bright hand on her lips—“the past, the past, - And the pale future! there be some that lie - Under those marble urns—I know not why, - But I were better in that holy calm, - Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am. - The past!—ay! it hath perish’d; never, never, - Would I recall it to be blest for ever; - The future it must come—I have a vow”— - And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow, - “True, true, I have a vow; is not the moon - Abroad, fair nun?”—“indeed! so very soon?” - Said Agathè, and “I must then away.” - “Stay, love! ’tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!” - - But she was gone:—yet they met many a time - In the lone chapel, after vesper chime— - They met in love and fear. - - One weary day, - And Julio saw not his loved Agathè; - She was not in the choir of sisterhood - That sang the evening anthem; and he stood - Like one that listen’d breathlessly awhile; - But stranger voices chanted through the aisle. - She was not there; and after all were gone, - He linger’d: the stars came—he linger’d on, - Like a dark fun’ral image on the tomb - Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom - Upon his heart—a solitude—a chill. - The pale moon rose, and still he linger’d still. - And the next vesper toll’d; nor yet, nor yet— - “Can Agathè be faithless and forget?” - - It was the third sad eve, he heard it said, - “Poor Julio! thy Agathè is dead;” - And started. He had loiter’d in the train - That bore her to the grave: he saw her lain - In the cold earth, and heard a requiem - Sung over her. To him it was a dream: - A marble stone stood by the sepulchre; - He look’d, and saw, and started—she was there! - And Agathè had died: she that was bright— - She that was in her beauty! a cold blight - Fell over the young blossom of her brow, - And the life’s blood grew chill—she is not now. - - She died like Zephyr falling amid flowers! - Like to a star within the twilight hours - Of morning—and she was not! Some have thought - The Lady Abbess gave her a mad draught - That stole into her heart, and sadly rent - The fine chords of that holy instrument, - Until its music falter’d fast away, - And she—she died—the lovely Agathè! - - Again, and through the arras of the gloom - Are the pale breezes moaning: by her tomb - Bends Julio, like a phantom, and his eye - Is fallen, as the moon-borne tides, that lie - At ebb within the sea. Oh! he is wan, - As winter skies are wan, like ages gone, - And stars unseen for paleness; it is cast, - As foliage in the raving of the blast, - All his fair bloom of thoughts. Is the moon chill, - That in the dark clouds she is mantled still? - And over its proud arch hath Heaven flung - A scarf of darkness. Agathè was young! - And there should be the virgin silver there, - The snow-white fringes delicately fair! - - He wields a heavy mattock in his hands, - And over him a lonely lanthorn stands - On a near niche, shedding a sickly fall - Of light upon a marble pedestal, - Whereon is chisel’d rudely, the essay - Of untaught tool, “_Hic jacet Agathè_,” - And Julio hath bent him down in speed, - like one that doeth an unholy deed. - - There is a flagstone lieth heavily - Over the ladye’s grave; I wist of three - That bore it of a blessed verity! - But he hath lifted it in his pure madness - As it were lightsome as a summer gladness, - And from the carved niche hath ta’en the lamp - And hung it by the marble flagstone damp. - - And he is flinging the dark, chilly mould - Over the gorgeous pavement: ’tis a cold, - Sad grave; and there is many a relic there - Of chalky bones, which, in the wasting air, - Fell mouldering away: and he would dash - His mattock through them with a cursed clash - That made the lone aisle echo. But anon - He fell upon a skull—a haggard one, - With its teeth set, and the great orbless eye - Revolving darkness, like eternity. - And in his hand he held it till it grew - To have the fleshy features and the hue - Of life. He gazed, and gazed, and it became - Like to his Agathè—all, all the same! - He drew it nearer,—the cold, bony thing!— - To kiss the worm-wet lips. “Aye! let me cling— - Cling to thee now forever!”—but a breath - Of rank corruption, from its jaws of death, - Went to his nostrils, and he madly laugh’d, - And dash’d it over on the altar shaft, - Which the new-risen moon, in her gray light, - Had fondly flooded, beautifully bright! - - Again he went - To his world work beside the monument. - “Ha! leave, thou moon! where thy footfall hath been - In sorrow amid heaven! there is sin - Under thy shadow, lying like a dew; - So come thou, from thy awful arch of blue, - Where thou art ever as a silver throne - For some pale spectre-king! come thou alone, - Or bring a solitary orphan star - Under thy wings! afar, afar, afar, - To gaze upon this girl of radiancy, - In her deep slumbers—wake thee, Agathè!” - - And Julio hath stolen the dark chest - Where the fair nun lay coffin’d, in the rest - That wakes not up at morning; she is there - An image of cold calm! One tress of hair - Lingereth lonely on her snowy brow; - But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now; - And their long lashes delicately rest - On the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west, - That fall upon a colorless sad cloud. - Humility lies rudely on the proud, - But she was never proud; and there she is, - A yet unwither’d flower the autumn breeze - Hath blown from its green stem! ’Tis pale, ’Tis pale, - But still unfaded, like the twilight veil - That falleth after sunset; like a stream - That bears the burden of a silver gleam - Upon its waters; and is even so,— - Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low! - - Beauty in death! a tenderness upon - The rude and silent relics, where alone - Sat the destroyer! Beauty on the dead! - The look of being where the breath is fled! - The unwarming sun still joyous in its light! - A time—a time without a day or night! - Death cradled upon beauty, like a bee - Upon a flower, that looketh lovingly! - Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness, - Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness! - - And there she is; and Julio bends o’er - The sleeping girl—a willow on the shore - Of a Dead Sea! that steepeth its fair bough - Into the bitter waters,—even now - Taking a foretaste of the awful trance - That was to pass on his own countenance! - - Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lips - Over her brow; the shade of an eclipse - Is passing to his heart, and to his eye - That is not tearful; but the light will die - Leaving it like a moon within a mist,— - The vision of a spell-bound visionist! - - He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek, - That left no trace—no flush—no crimson streak - But was as bloodless as a marble stone, - Susceptible of silent waste alone. - And on her brow a crucifix he laid,— - A jewel’d crucifix, the virgin maid - Had given him before she died,—the moon - Shed light upon her visage—clouded soon, - Then briefly breaking from its airy veil, - Like warrior lifting up his aventayle. - - But Julio gazed on, and never lifted - Himself to see the broken clouds, that drifted - One after one, like infant elves at play, - Amid the night winds, in their lonely way— - Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep, - And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deep - Over their couches of green moss and flowers, - And solitary fern, and heather bowers. - The heavy bell toll’d two, and, as it toll’d, - Julio started, and the fresh-turn’d mould - He flung into the empty chasm with speed, - And o’er it dropt the flagstone.—One could read - That Agathè lay there; but still the girl - Lay by him, like a precious and pale pearl, - That from the deep sea-waters had been rent— - Like a star fallen from the firmament! - - He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch, - To westward of the solitary church: - And he hath clasp’d around the melting waist, - The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is pressed - To hers—life warming the cold chill of death! - And over his pale palsy breathing breath - His eye is sunk upon her—“Thou must leave - The worm to waste for love of thee, and grieve - Without thee, as I may not.—Thou must go, - My sweet betrothed, with me—but not below, - Where there is darkness, dream, and solitude, - But where is light, and life, and one to brood - Above thee till thou wakest.—Ha? I fear - Thou wilt not wake for ever, sleeping here, - Where there are none but winds to visit thee, - And convent fathers, and a choristry - Of sisters, saying, ‘Hush!’—But I will sing - Rare songs to thy pure spirit, wandering - Down on the dews to heaven: I will tune - The instrument of the ethereal noon, - And all the choir of stars, to rise and fall - In harmony and beauty musical.” - - He is away—and still the sickly lamp - Is burning next the altar; there’s a damp, - Thin mould upon the pavement, and, at morn, - The monks do cross them in their blessed scorn, - And mutter deep anathemas, because - Of the unholy sacrilege, that was - Within the sainted chapel,—for they guess’d, - By many a vestige sad, how the dark rest - Of Agathè was broken,—and anon - They sought for Julio. The summer sun - Arose and set, with his imperial disc - Toward the ocean-waters, heaving brisk - Before the winds,—but Julio came never: - He that was frantic as a foaming river— - Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tide - Of a great tempest, that hath fought and died - Along the forest ramparts, and doth still - In its death-struggle desperately reel - Round with the fallen foliage—he was gone, - And none knew whither—still were chanted on - Sad masses, by pale sisters, many a day, - And holy requiem sung for Agathè! - - (End of the first Chimera.) - - * * * * * - - - - - THE QUEEN OF MAY. - - - BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. - - - Like flights of singing-birds went by - The rosy hours of girlhood’s day; - When in my native bowers, - Of simple buds and flowers, - They wove a crown and hailed me Queen of May! - - Like airy nymphs the lasses came - Spring’s offerings at my feet to lay; - The crystal from the fountains, - The green boughs from the mountains, - They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May! - - Around the May-pole on the green, - A fairy ring, they tript away!— - All merriment and pleasure, - To chords of tuneful measure, - They bounded by the happy Queen of May! - - Though years have past, and time has strewn - My raven locks with flakes of gray, - Fond memory brings the hours - Of birds and blossom-showers, - When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May! - - * * * * * - - - - - DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA. - - - BY DR. REYNELL COATES. - - - INTRODUCTORY. - - “’Tis all but a dream at the best!” - - -Dreams of the Land and Sea! Why should I style them dreams? They are -pictures of actual scenes, though some of them relate to events removed -far back in the dimness of years, and the touches of the brush have felt -the mellowing influence of time. - -While striving to avoid whatever is irrelevant or out of keeping, I have -not endeavored to confine myself, in these sketches, within the limits -of simple narrative, but have ventured occasionally to mingle facts with -speculations on their causes, or to follow their consequences to -probable results: nor have I totally discarded the imagination—although -the scenes are invariably drawn from nature, and the principal -personages are real characters—the accessory actors only are sometimes -creatures of the brain. In many of the descriptions, the reader will -perceive the evidences of a desire to place in prominent relief the -works of nature and her God, while art, and all its vanities, is made to -play a subordinate part; for nothing can be more impertinently obtrusive -than the pigmy efforts of the ambitious, struggling for distinction by -attempting either to mar or to perfect the plans of the Great Architect -of Creation, or carve _a name_ upon the columns of his temple. - -Yet such is the social disposition of man, that no scene, however grand -or beautiful, can awaken pleasurable emotion unless it is linked -directly with humanity. There is deep oppression in the sense of total -loneliness,—and few can bear the burden calmly, even for an hour! A -solitary foot-print in the desert,—a broken oar upon the shelterless -beach,—the tinkling of a cow-bell in the depth of the forest,—the -crowing of the cock heard far off in the valley as we sink exhausted on -the mountain side when the gloom of night settles heavily down upon our -path-way,—who that has been a wanderer has not felt the heart-cheering -effect of accidents like these! They tell us that, though our solitude -be profound, there is sympathy near us, _or there has been recently_. - -In deference, then, to this universal feeling, I have selected for these -articles such sketches only as are interwoven with enough of human life -to awaken social interest, even while grappling with the tempest—riding -the ocean wave, or watching the moon-beams as they struggle through the -foliage of scarce trodden forests, and fall half quenched, upon the -withered leaves below. - -But why should I style them dreams? There are many valid reasons. To the -writer, the past is all a dream! But of this the world knows nothing, -nor would it care to know. The scenes described are distant, and -distance itself is dreamy! What can be more like the color of a dream -than yon long range of mountains fading into the sky behind its veil of -mist! - -Let us ascend this lofty peak! ’Tis sunset! Cast your glance westward, -where - - “——Parting day - Dies like the Dolphin——.” - -The sun slowly retires behind the far off hills. Inch after inch, the -shadows climb the summit where you stand. He is gone!—yet you are not -in darkness! His beams, which reach you not, still gild the motionless -clouds, and these emblems of obscurity reflect on you the memory of his -glory:—and, oh! how exquisitely pencilled in the clear obscure stands -forth yon range, clad with towering trees, where each particular branch, -and almost every leaf, seems separately portrayed against the paling -sky,—_miraculously near_! - -This is a vision of the _past_. Its strength is owing to the depth of -shade,—not to the intensity of light:—for, when the sun at noon-day, -poured its full tide of rays upon the scene, the sky was brighter, and -rock and river glinted back the flashing beams until the eye was -pained:—but where were then those lines of beauty? The details were -distinct. Then you might gaze on the forest in its reality, and could -almost penetrate its secret paths, despite their dark green canopy!—but -where were the broad effect, the bold, sweeping outlines that now give -unity and grandeur to the fading scene? The _soul_ of creation is before -you—more palpable than _its mere_ corporeal elements are hid from -sight. It resembles the master-piece of some great artist whose pencil -portrays, in simple light and shade, a noble picture. All there is -_life_! Those countenances!—those various attitudes are _speaking_! The -shrubbery waves in the wind, and over the tremulous waters of that -lovely lake, the very song of yonder mountain maid seems floating _upon -the canvass_. Do you not hear the music? ’Tis but a dream of boyhood! -Approach the painting! There is no _real_ outline there! The brush has -been rudely dashed athwart the piece surcharged with heavy colors. -Masses of many hues roughen the surface, and all is meaningless -confusion. - -Stand back a-pace! Again the cottage, lake and mountain start from the -surface, _truer than truth itself_. - -Panting with sighs and toil, man reaches by painful steps, the mid-land -height of life, as we have climbed this summit, and when fainting by the -way, it has been _his_ resource, as _ours_, to cast himself upon the -bosom of his “mother,” earth[2]—look back and _dream_! We have no other -mother now! But when you nestled to a parent’s breast, and felt the -present impress of her love, knew you its breadth and depth as this -vision shows it? - -Memory is like the painter or the sun-set—its images appear more real -than the substantial things they picture, and glow the richer as the -gloom of oblivion gathers around them. - -Turn your eyes eastward! Night sits upon the landscape. No ray of the -past illuminates it. The very elevation on which you stand increases the -darkness with its shadow, while it widens your distance from every -object vaguely and fearfully looming through the evening mist. - -This is a vision of the _future_. That height of land which seems to -reach the clouds, upon whose dusky flank the overawed imagination -figures cave and precipice, torrent and cataract, is but a gentle slope, -with just enough of rudeness to render still more beautiful by contrast, -the village spire, the moss-roofed mill, the waving grain that crowns -its very top. Such it is seen by day. - -Thus, when, in middle life, man peers into the future, what frightful -shadows haunt him. Coming events magnified to giants by the obscurity -around, stalk menacingly forward. Danger threatens him at every step, -and there is naught beyond but that black back-ground—_Death_! The -heavens shed no light upon the future. He is descending the hill of -life, and their glories are fading behind him. He strives to borrow from -the past a gleam to guide him onward, but in vain! Too often his own -ambition has prompted him to choose the lofty path that now condemns him -to redoubled darkness. Yet, although these spectres of the gloom are -most frequently mere creatures of the brain, which day-light would -dispel, they govern his career and cover him with dread. The _dream_ is -_truth_ to him—and it is only _truth itself_ that he esteems a _dream_! -Why can he not wait for sun-rise! Then should he see even the grave -overhung with the verdure of spring, and death arrayed in all the glory -of a morn of promise! - -There is reality in dreams!—Come, then, and let us dream together!—our -visions may be dark sometimes, but we will not forget that the sun will -rise on the morrow. - ------ - -[2] When the celebrated Indian Chief, Tecumseh entered a Council Chamber -of the whites, where the officers, already seated, thoughtlessly allowed -him to remain standing, his countenance in gathering gloom, betrayed the -consciousness of the slight, which _savage_ courtesy would not have -suffered to occur. The look aroused attention, and a chair was handed -him—but his proud lip curled. He threw himself upon the ground, -exclaiming—“Tecumseh will repose on the bosom of his mother!” - - - A SERMON BY A MARMOT—OR THE EXILE OF CONNECTICUT. - - “But come thy ways!—we’ll go along together; - And ere we have thy youthful wages spent, - We’ll light upon some settled, low content.” - _As You Like It._ - -Every subject of observation presents itself under a variety of aspects, -regulated, not only by the situation of the observer, but by his moral -peculiarities also. The little animal whose name dignifies the caption -of this article, though it may be better known to many of my readers by -the title of ground-hog, or wood-chuck, is usually regarded as a terror, -or a pest, to the farmer. Contributing in no appreciable degree to the -comfort or advantage of man, and seemingly created solely for the -purpose of digging unsightly holes in the ground, eating corn, and -diffusing an odour by no means agreeable; it is commonly hated or -despised, according to the profession of those who honor it with notice. -But nothing that springs from creative wisdom is a proper subject for -contempt, and good may be derived, in many instances, from the most -unpromising sources, by those who devote themselves to the study of -nature. Among the tribes of animals that seem to have least connection -with man and his interests, there are many whose habits may teach us -more effective lessons than we often derive from the homilies of more -pretending instructors. - -The individual wood-chuck, here introduced to the reader, was more -fortunate than most of his species, for he had succeeded in winning the -affections of a worthy agriculturalist, in whose family he was regularly -domiciliated during the months of his activity, (for the Marmot is a -hybernating animal,) and he reciprocated the attachment of his human -protectors with a gratitude apparently as warm as that of any other -quadruped familiar of the kitchen. - -The late distinguished philanthropist, Mr. Anthony Benezette, extended -his benevolence to every thing possessing life that came within the -sphere of his influence, and he regularly fed the rats in his cellar, -until he attracted a colony of these predatory vermin, by no means -agreeable to the taste or interest of his next-door neighbor. When the -latter at last endeavored to eradicate the nuisance by regularly -shooting every adventurous member of the murine fraternity that ventured -upon his premises, Mr. B., with tears in his eyes, protested against -this murderous proceeding. “Don’t shoot the poor innocent creatures!” he -said. “If thou wilt only feed them regularly every day, as I do, they’ll -never do thee any harm.” Whether a similar policy had been the origin of -the kindness shown our little friend, the Marmot, I know not, but he had -the felicity to be born in a land where corn is cheap, and society -difficult of access, and he probably owed his protection to a masculine -edition of the feeling that so frequently promotes the happiness of a -poodle or a parrot. - -His guardian moved in a humble sphere, and most travellers might have -passed the brute and his human associates alike unnoticed: but I propose -to employ him as a hook, on which to hang the observations and -reflections of a day in the woods, and a night in the log-cabin. It is a -slender theme at best, and if discretion be the test of wisdom, I know -not but our Marmot displays as high a grade of intellectual endowment as -any of the other actors in the tale. - -One of these was an eastern merchant, who had purchased some thousands -of acres of land—wild, lonely, and far removed from practicable roads -or navigable streams.—He had purchased it in utter ignorance of its -resources, and was then upon his way to give it an inspection. - -The next was the narrator—recently appointed to a chair in a Collegiate -Institution, almost embosomed in the wilderness. He had accepted the -station in a moment of depression, all uninformed of the condition of -the country where _it flourished_, and had just arrived to _blush_ -beneath the honors of the professional gown in halls that rejoiced in a -faculty—_lucus a non lucendo_!—of three persons, and wanted but a -library, an apparatus, influence, and a class, to render it an honor to -the state that chartered it! - -The third was a thriving specimen of the sturdy woodsman and -pains-taking farmer of the border—the intermediate step between the -adventurous pioneer and the established settler. He had emigrated from -the beautiful valley of the Connecticut—a valley where nature has done -so much and man so little! to seek a more promising asylum west of the -Alleghany Mountains, and he carried all his fortune with him. A young -and lovely wife followed his footsteps from town to town—from -wilderness to wilderness.—An axe was on his shoulder, two hundred -dollars in his pocket, and he possessed much of that shrewdness which -ordinarily passes current for talent. - -He was moderate in his desires, _and only took up three hundred acres to -begin with_; choosing a location where a rude and cellarless hut of logs -graced one angle of the plot of ground,—its site selected because a -spring and streamlet there supplied the most important necessary of -life—good water. - -Four acres of unfenced clearing marked the progress of his less -prosperous predecessor in taming the primeval forest. Alas! The want of -capital!—Two years of bootless labor on the part of that predecessor, -left the ground encumbered still with girdled timber. The long and naked -limbs of many a stately tree—all sapless now—stood pale and inflexible -in the summer gale—a monument of desolation. Some rough, irregular -furrows,—ploughed with borrowed oxen, and ornamented with the vine of -an occasional refuse potato creeping through the starting briars and -brush-wood,—alone gave evidence of human industry; for the wilderness -was rapidly reclaiming its own. - -There was a half-burnt brand on the deserted hearth within the hovel; -but the blasts that entered freely through the intervals between the -logs,—from which, mass by mass, the clay was falling;—had scattered -the ashes widely over the room. A rusty tin basin on the floor, and a -broken axe-helve lying athwart the doorless lintel, completed the -household inventory. The ground had reverted to the noble and wealthy -company from whom it was originally purchased—their funds enriched by -the payment of the first instalment, and the value of the _improvements_ -added to their property.—But where is the former owner? Probably -renewing the same improvident game in the wilds of Michigan or -Wisconsin. - -Such was the home to which our adventurous representative of the land of -steady habits had introduced his amiable and delicate wife, four years -before the time of our journey. - -The station enjoyed many advantages. Civilization was slowly tending -thitherward, and every year enhanced the nominal, if not the real value -of the land. Moreover, there were many neighbors to break the tedium of -life in the wilds. Nine miles to the westward—that being the direction -of the older settlements,—there lived a veteran of two wars, whose -pension made him rich in a country where a dollar is a rarity, and trade -is carried on exclusively by barter. He was the most important man -within the circuit of twenty miles; for he owned the only forge. Not -even the influence of Squire Tomkins, whose aristocratical residence, -five miles deeper in the forest, was furnished with the luxury of -weather-boarding, and flanked by a regular barn and stables, could -outweigh, _in public opinion_, the claims of one whose labors -contributed so essentially to the every-day comfort of life, if not to -its preservation, in the rude contest between the settler and nature. -Public opinion did I say?—Why! besides these three high personages and -their families, a migratory trapper and bee-hunter on the one hand, and -a half-cast Indian basket-maker on the other, _there was no public_; yet -here was found not only public opinion, but party feeling also—politics -and sectarianism!—And where did ever society exist without them? But it -is time to commence our journey. - -One morning, during the autumn of 1828, I strolled into the principal -store of the beautiful little village of ——, in Western Pennsylvania, -to exchange the latest paper from the American Athens, for another daily -sheet from the Commercial Emporium. An old friend, Mr. W——, of -Philadelphia, entered at about the same time, with a map of the -surrounding counties, to enquire the road to certain tracts of land but -recently conveyed to him. A tall man, who had seen some forty summers, -but whose keen dark eye, such as you can only find in the wilderness, -seemed to have gathered a smouldering fire, beneath the shadow of the -forest leaves, which few would wish to wake, stept forward to give the -required information. Rude shoes, unstockinged feet, coarse woolen -pantaloons, and a hunting shirt, composed his whole attire:—A rifle, -with a richly chased silver breeching, swinging athwart his back, raised -him above the ordinary hunter in the curious scale of conventional rank -that men acknowledge in obedience to their nature, even in the heart of -unfrequented woods; but the cart-whip in his right hand, and a basket of -eggs hanging upon the left arm seemed irrelevant to his other -accoutrements. A finely chiselled nose, verging on the Roman character, -and a strong habitual compression of the jaws, marked great decision, -firmness, and desperate daring—while his manly tread, in which the foot -seemed to cling for a moment to the surface and as instantly rose upon -the toe with a slow, but elastic and graceful motion, seemed better -fitted to follow the mountain-side, or the torrent’s track, than the -dull routine of the furrow. His traits and carriage, thus mingled and -contrasted, would have proved a puzzle to the keenest judges of human -nature,—the bar-keeper of a hotel, or the agent of a rail-road—but his -origin was still distinctly marked, notwithstanding his change of -residence and habits, in the somewhat sharpened expression of the face, -the narrowness of the external angle of the eye, the covert curl of the -lip, and the faintest perceptible elevation of the corresponding corner -of the mouth. He was the Connecticut farmer of our story, on whose -original stock of character four years of close communion with bears and -deer, had engrafted _a twig_ of that which graces the western hunter. - -A few adroitly managed questions placed him immediately in possession of -the residence, the destination, views and purposes of my friend, the -merchant; and, in terms of courtesy, conveyed in phrase more polished -than one would anticipate from his attire, he tendered his services as a -guide, and the best his house afforded by the way, as host,—extending -the invitation most politely to myself. - -Having long been anxious to observe what charm in domestic life upon the -borders, could so fascinate mankind as to impel such crowds of restless -adventurers annually to plunge into the gloomy forest, there to remain -socially buried for years, until the growth of settled population again -environs them; I immediately ordered horse, and mounting with my -Athenian friend, followed, or accompanied the light wagon of the -settler, as the road or path permitted. - -We had made but ten miles of progress, when the farms by the way-side -began to appear few and far between. Around us, gathered, deep and more -deeply still, the shadows of tall trees, which interlocked their arms -above us, until mysterious twilight was substituted for the bright -sunshine that made its existence known at intervals through openings in -the foliage. These were met with only where some giant of the wilderness -had laid him down in his last repose, when the slowly gnawing tooth of -time had sapped his moss-grown trunk. Occasionally, the wagon jolted -heavily over fallen trees, where the lightning had riven or the gale -uprooted them. It seemed a sacrilege to disturb the dread repose of -nature with our idle voices; and for miles we rode in total -silence.—How startling, then, and how incongruous to our ears was the -lively voice of our guide, exclaiming, as we passed _a blaze_, “we shall -soon be _home_ now!” Home! and here!—I gazed around on every hand. Over -the tops of the low shrubbery the eye was carried along interminable -aisles of stately trees! Interminable arches rested on their summits! An -awful unity of gloom engulphed us! - - “High mountains are with me a feeling,” - -And no man has rioted more wildly in scenes of solitude and desolation. -My shoulder is familiar with the rifle, my feet with cliff and -precipice, and my arms with the torrent and breaker.—Nay! more than -this! I have stood alone in cities! The limitless current of life has -whirled and eddied by, and I have felt no fellowship!—have felt the -sternest check of all that linked me with my kind, and buried myself in -egoism! “There runs not a drop of the blood of Logan in the veins of any -living creature.” - -But never yet came over me the thought of _home_ with such a thrilling -shudder as when the word was spoken in those close and soul-oppressing -woods! There was no resonance from the leafy ground—no echo from those -long drawn gothic passages! The sound fell flat upon the ear, and its -very cheerfulness of tone, deadened by the dark and inelastic leaves, -resembled the convulsive laugh of terror or of pain! - -Man is moulded for the contest. There is rapture in the strife, be it -with physical or moral evils—a glory in the conquest, that repays the -suffering! If vanquished,—he may fly and bide his time! If crushed,—he -falls back upon his self-esteem, enfolds his robe around him, and dies, -like Cæsar—bravely! Abroad—in calm or storm, in sun-shine or in -tempest—man feels himself the ruler, and his pride supports him in the -worst of woes; but _at home_—he is dependent! There woman rules the -emotions!—Who ever knew a joy beside a gloomy hearth! Or when the -wearing cares of life, or the oppression of habitual solitude has -furrowed the fore-head, and fixed the features of the wife, what husband -ever smiled again as once he smiled! - -But away! Our path is onward!—soon we passed along the margin of a -precipitate descent, and the day burst in upon us, presenting a -momentary view of a long range of hills, over which the fire had swept -in the preceding year. Brown furze and blackened masses of charcoal -covered the slope for miles, with here and there a waving line of -foliage climbing the ascent, wherever some highland rivulet had checked -the progress of the flames, and preserved the grass. I had thought that -Nature furnished no more spectral object than a girdled tree in a barren -clearing; but the tall gnarled trunks, with charred and stunted limbs, -that sentineled that ruined hill-side were more spectral still! - -Descending the hill, the forest again closed around us: but presently we -entered the track of a tornado—a wind-fall. It had traversed a forest -of pines—and, for about two hundred yards in width, had made a passage -through the woods, as straight and regular as art could have rendered -it. On either hand—far as the eye could reach—arose the unbroken wall -of verdure, a hundred feet in height, while in the midst, the vision -stretched away over an almost level carpet of scrub-oak and -whortleberries, forming a vista of unparalleled beauty; one which would -have graced the palace-grounds of an emperor. Not a stump, a root, or -tree was visible in all the range of sight. “God made this clearing,” I -remarked. The charm of silence was broken by the comment, and the -conversation immediately became general. - -We had ridden about three miles farther, when the road, if road it could -be called, forked suddenly; and, turning to the left, we found ourselves -in front of the cottage of our host. It deserved this title richly; for -never, in my many journeys beyond the margin of a regular American -forest, have I seen more neatness and propriety, than was here displayed -in all the accidents of a residence of logs. True! there were none of -those vines and graceful shrubs that beautify the grounds around a -thrifty cottage in New England; but, even here, a garden was attempted. -The building, two stories in height, stood near the summit of an -acclivity which formed a sort of irregular lawn, and was actually shaded -by two stately trees!—the only instance of such preservation I have -witnessed in the wilds of Pennsylvania. - -On the right, at a decent distance from the house, were a stable with a -loft, and several stacks of hay; and on the left, a natural meadow, of -some ten or fifteen acres, had been cleared of brush and sedge, and -furnished ample pasturage for four handsome cows. This, with twelve -acres of upland, formed the extent of the clearing. Several sugar maples -were scattered about the lawn, and a few young fruit trees ornamented -the arable land behind the house. - -Here, then, was comfort—almost the aristocracy of the woods! We drove -rapidly to the door, but the sound of wheels had already drawn the -family without the house. The wife, a pale and delicate woman, about -twenty-eight or thirty years of age, held in one hand, a bare-foot boy -of three; while a little girl, still younger, folded herself in the -skirt of her mother’s woollen frock—her snow-white head, and light-blue -eye peeping out fearfully from her concealment, as we dismounted. A -stout lad, employed by the farmer, took charge of our horses, and we -were presented to our hostess. - -“We have but poor accommodations to offer the gentlemen, John! but they -are welcome to what we have, such as they are. You are the first -strangers from the old settlements I have seen since we came to this -clearing! Were you ever in Connecticut?” Anxiety and hope were most -plainly depicted in the care-worn face of the speaker. I could not bear -to reply in the negative, and evaded the question by noticing the -children as we entered the house. Here, my companion was surprised at -the progress that had been made in four short years by the labor of a -settler of such slender means. Six decent chairs and a cherry-wood table -ornamented the apartment—a well-made dough-trough, with a wide and -smoothly planed top, served the purpose of a side-board—a large -cup-board, with curious, home-made wooden locks and hinges, occupied one -corner, and a rude settee contained, beneath the seat, a tool-chest and -a receptacle for table-linen. The ample fire-place, with its wooden -chimney, was festooned with strings of venison, hung up to smoke in -pieces, and the roughly plastered wall was ornamented with two rude -engravings, in _domestic_ frames—Adam and Eve driven from Paradise, and -the victory of Lake Erie. To these was added a printed copy of the -Declaration of Independence. A Bible stood open upon the table when we -entered, and a prayer-book, Young’s Night Thoughts, The Lady of the -Lake, and a few torn old numbers of a monthly magazine, adorned a shelf -above the fire. We missed the usual utensils of the cuisine, but these -we afterwards discovered in a more fitting place. The universal ticking -of the wooden clock was heard; but whence it came, we knew not, until -the hour for retiring. It stood upon the stairway. - -Hanging his rifle and powder-flask on the wooden hooks, depending, -according to custom, from a beam, our host remarked that we were dusty -with travel. - -“Tin is scarce with us here, gentlemen! and crockery is brittle,” said -he; “so if you wish to wash your hands and faces, and will pardon our -wild ways, follow me to the cellar, and you shall be accommodated!” - -Taking a coarse but clean towel from the chest in the settee, he opened -a door beneath the stairs, and descended; leading the way on this -singular excursion. A cellar is a luxury in the simple cabin; but here -we were provided with an apartment more complete, in its conveniencies, -than those of older countries, the floor being well levelled, and the -walls faced with stones of ample size. The settler had formed, in one -corner, a large cavity about three feet deep. This was lined with -mortar, and paved with smooth, round pebbles from the brook. A tunnel, -with a wooden trunk and sliding flood-gate, about four inches square, -led from the bottom of this basin, through the foundations of the wall, -to the bed of a rivulet at some distance on the lawn. The greater part -of the waters of a spring, which rose very near the house and fed this -runnel, being diverted from their original course, were conveyed through -hollow logs, cleaned out and smoothed by burning, through the wall of -the cellar, about four feet above the floor, and fell in a beautiful -cascade into the basin below. But our host was far too fertile in -resources to permit the whole of the current to take this direction. A -well made milk-trough, constructed of timbers, some of which betrayed -more intimate acquaintance with the axe than the plane, occupied nearly -the whole remaining portion of that side of the cellar which -corresponded with the earthen basin. It was supplied with water by means -of a small canal composed of pieces of bark suspended from the beams -above, and capable of being projected into the cascade, so as to receive -any desirable portion of the falling fluid. Another tunnel, -communicating with the first, carried off the surplus. As we viewed -these curious results of Yankee ingenuity and perseverance, several fine -speckled trout were seen disporting among pans or crocks of the richest -milk and cream, into which, we were informed, they sometimes leaped, to -the no small discomforture of the tidy house-wife, when in their -hide-and-whoop gambols, their daring over-acted their discretion. Here, -then, we found, combined by the most simple means, the luxury of the -washing-room, the drain, the bath, and the milk-house. Nor was this all! -The waters of a spring, when flowing _pleno rivo_, never freeze. They -carry with them, for a time, the heat which is the expression of the -mean temperature of the earth, and share it with surrounding objects. -The very stream, that thus contributed to his domestic comforts, and, as -we afterwards discovered, rendered, in its excess, services equally -important to his cattle in the farm-yard, preserved his stock of -necessaries from the effects of frost, and contributed to lessen the -exertions required to procure fuel for the long and dreary winter. These -arrangements rendered our host still more an object of curiosity and -interest—for seldom had we seen such striking evidences of -philosophical deduction in house-hold affairs:—and we could not avoid -the hope, that the permanent enjoyment and gradual increase of the -comforts created by his genius, might be his ultimate reward. But, alas! -the prevalent disposition of his tribe, when once removed from home, -is—roving! Never contented with the _status quo_—or satisfied with -possession; they leave the enjoyment of ease for the hope of wealth, and -are ever ready to sacrifice reality _for a dream_. Yet, it was not for -_us_ to censure our host severely, should he ultimately pursue the -course so admirably described in one short technicality of the American -woods-man—“_Flitting!_” Had we not both been _flitting_ ourselves!—the -one for honor, and the other for gold! My gown and my friend’s land were -of _equal value_, and both had been purchased at the expense of solid -sacrifices; but little does it concern us now, that the progress of -population has thrown the former over shoulders well clad in -broad-cloth, bought with the surplus of a decent salary, or that the -other is studded with profitable farms! In many parts of America, twelve -years form an age in human affairs, and, in western Pennsylvania, _we -are of the last_! - -Our ablutions completed, we returned to the sitting-room. The tea-table -was spread with a tidy cloth, and a smoking pot of Liverpool ware made -its appearance, replete with a beverage, _by the name of tea_; though, -by the test of the olfactories, it might have been supposed some -compound discovered among the ruins of the last Piquot village, in the -days when the venerable Mr. Hooker first raised the standard of his -faith among the ancestors of her whose hand distilled it.—Peace be with -the spirit of the good old man! Long since our journey, I have gazed, as -a stranger on his venerable tomb-stone in the central church-yard of -Hartford, and felt at the moment,—it may be with some bitterness—that -the descendants of his flock had lost but little in frankness and -hospitality, by being transplanted to the Wilds of the west! But -_revennons ou nos moutons_.[3] - -The table was soon amply furnished with preserves, in nameless variety, -formed from the wild fruits of the neighbouring woods, by the aid of -maple sugar. The unvarying hard-crusted pie, sweet, well-baked -corn-bread, and the constant attendant of the lighter meals in New -England, the fried potato, completed the repast. We were seated, -and—after a well-spoken grace—a service which the really respectable -exile of Connecticut rarely neglects in any of the changing scenes of -life—we did it ample justice. - -Economy of light is a matter of serious importance in the log-cabin; and -after tea, we gathered round the blazing hearth, (for the autumnal -nights were beginning to be cool,) adding, occasionally, a pine knot -from a group collected in the corner of the fire-place, by way of -illuminating an idea or a face, whenever the subject-matter of the -discourse became peculiarly interesting. - -Quick and puzzling were the questions with which our hostess plied us, -on all things relating to the “old settlements,” as she already styled -the sea-board;—for the language and habits of the “far west,” are still -strangely preserved in these mid-land wildernesses, over which the -genius of civilization has bounded, to wave his omnipotent wand over the -regions of the setting sun, like the last of the mammoths when he -disappeared from the banded hunters of the olden time. - -For a while, something like the liveliness of earlier days, stole over -the features of the querist, which were fast settling into the habitual -gloom, that gives character to the physiognomy of the recluse and the -blind. But whatever direction might be given to the discourse, in a few -moments it was sure to centre in Connecticut; until, evasion proving -impracticable, we were compelled, reluctantly, to confess that our -travels had never extended northward or eastward of the Housatonic—the -American Tweed.—A deep sigh succeeded this announcement, and our -hostess drew back her chair within the shadow of—what shall I call -it?—_jams_, properly so styled, the fire-place had none! Its sides were -formed of short, projecting logs, about three feet in length, piled, one -above another, interlocking, by deep notches, with those which formed -the walls of the building, at one end, and at the other, secured by -short cross-sections of a smaller tree, similarly notched, set -thwartwise between their projecting extremities, and bolted with strong -wooden pips. This structure supported the ample chimney, which was -constructed in like manner, and shared with it the usual protection -against fire, a thick internal coat of clay, admixed with a very little -lime. These chimney sides formed deep recesses on either hand, in one of -which, the cup-board was accommodated, while the other was graced by the -dining-table. - -Near to one of these shaded recesses, our hostess drew her chair, and -left the conversation, for a long time, to her husband. - -He inquired, with an interest, seemingly as intense as a statesman, into -the politics of the East, with the tenor of which he had contrived to -keep pace astonishingly, when his isolated position is considered. I was -curious to know how he managed to obtain such accurate information as to -men and measures at the seat of government, in the midst of so many -obstacles and such untiring agricultural efforts as his rapid -improvements must have demanded. His reply furnished a melancholy proof -of the natural disputatiousness of our species, while it illustrated the -pertinacity with which a mind, once awakened to party feelings, will -cling to its old friendships and antipathies when all interests in the -result have ceased. - -“Why,” said he, “for a while it was easy enough; for the Post rides -through here once a week, and leaves a New York paper to Squire -Tomkins—so the winter I first came to these clearings, I used to walk -over to read the paper every other Saturday afternoon, except when the -snow was too deep, and came back on Sunday after dinner—so I learned -what was going on pretty well. And sometimes one or other of the old -blacksmith’s boys—that’s his grand-children!—for his two sons have -gone off to Illinois—would come over of odd Saturdays, a -horse-back—for the old soldier kept a horse—he’s been many years in -these parts, and has cleared and sold three farms, before he fixed where -he is—and he’d take up Mary behind him, and ride over to the -squire’s—for one of us had to stay and tend the cow and feed the pigs; -so we could not both go together—and bring her back again the next -day.—And a great treat it was to Mary!—for sometimes she would see -something in the paper about Connecticut.—She used to teach school in -Connecticut for a while.—Poor Mary! she had a better education than I -had—though mine wasn’t a bad one, for a common school, the way the -world goes; and I used to be able _to say my say_ with any body; but -somehow these woods are so lonely, that I’m out of practice. - -“Poor Mary! her heart’s in Connecticut still, though she never tells me -so,—_but she looks it sometimes_—except may-be about Thanks-giving -day,—and then she can’t help _saying it_ too! I’m sometimes a’most -sorry she ever married such a wild and wandering fellow as me.” - -“Why, John!”—in a tone of the tenderest expostulation, sounded from the -corner. Almost unconsciously, I threw a pine knot on the fire, and the -sudden flame lighted up a countenance, which would have reassured the -most desponding husband. All traces of the inanity of solitude were -gone; and over the cloud of sorrow, in which early recollections had -veiled the features,—even while the tears of memory were starting from -the eye,—the moon-beam of unalterable love poured its silvery light, -and the pride of the wife spoke plainly in the curve of a lip already -raised and trembling with affectionate reproach. The moisture lingered -threateningly upon the lids, but did not fall!—It paused a moment, as -in doubt, what emotion called it there, and then retreated to its -source. - -The husband’s face was wreathed in smiles; his voice became firmer; his -language lost its parenthetic confusion on the instant, and he resumed -his discourse. - -“Well! well! It’s all my fault, if fault there be. _She_ never had a -fault! and she’s a blessing that would pay for twenty thousand faults of -mine! There, Mary! Put the little ones to bed in the loft, and hear them -say their prayers.” He dismissed them with a parting kiss, and when his -wife retired—continued his narrative. - -“The squire and I were friends, all through the winter and spring. He -and his two sons, with the blacksmith’s boys, and three men from the -furnace ten miles down the stream, assisted me to build my house; and I -borrowed a horse from the smith and a wagon in town, to bring my lime -for the plastering; so, when my new house was finished, we turned the -old one, that I told you of as we came along, into a right good stable. -I had laid up a full supply of provisions in the old house, the fall -before,—bought me a plough and some tools,—felled a good deal of -valuable pine timber, and put the four acres of clearing into winter -grain. With the first spring-floods, I floated the pines, by the help of -the squire’s oxen, and carried enough down to the saw-mill, (it’s only -twelve miles,) to bring me a good round sum; and then I had money enough -to pay my first instalment, buy me another cow and a pair of oxen, and -pay my way till harvest, without draining all the savings I brought out -with me. In the winter, I had also got three acres girdled, and the -meadow half cleared; for it wanted but little attention; so, as my -potatoes turned out uncommon well, and every thing prospered—I bought -me a horse and wagon in the fall, and saved just enough to pay the -second instalment;—trusting to Providence _and the stores_ for the -little we should want to buy next season. - -“But this is not what I was talking of—I had like to have forgot the -squire!—We got along very well till June or July—when we were mowing -the meadow.—Yes! it was in July.—And the squire was a churchman and a -democrat, but I was a federalist and a congregationalist—I did not much -mind his jokes about the pilgrim fathers, though he said the Piquots -were better men than those that planted the state; and laughed at them -for hanging the Quakers in Boston. For the squire was a well read man -before he came to the west—and he hated Connecticut, because he came -from Lancaster county, and his father was killed in a quarrel with the -settlers in Wyoming, long after the troubles were over. But when he said -that Jefferson was a better man than General Washington, I could not -stand it, and we quarrelled. I said what no Christian should say, and -what I wont repeat;—so the squire and I have never spoken since, except -when poor Mary was taken down! and then I had to speak; for there was no -other woman within ten miles, and no doctor but a quack, within -twenty-five. But Mrs. Tomkins is a nurse and a doctor both—God bless -her! - -“I’m getting to be very comfortable now, for I’ve got every thing around -me that a man can desire in the woods, except money; and I’ve little use -for that except to pay the last instalment; but I can’t bear to keep -that woman so lonely and sad for want of company! The old soldier’s -daughter comes over to see us once a month; but that is little for one -who used to have a dozen young friends always around her in Connecticut, -even if she was poor. To tell the truth, though the woods are full of -venison and wild turkies, and quails and squirrels to be had for the -shooting, and though Tom can catch a mess of trout in the milk trough at -any time,—for he lets his line run into the tunnel and there seems to -be no end to them—yet I can’t help thinking that if I had laid out my -three hundred dollars of hers and my savings in old Connecticut—if I -had worked half as hard there as I have done here, and she had gone on -teaching school, we should both have been happier and richer than we are -now. So I think I shall soon pull up stakes, sell out, and go to the -prairies, where God makes the clearings, as you said, on the road—and -it’s real hard work for a man, I can tell you!” - -This last remark threw me into a revery of no pleasing nature; and I, in -turn, retreated into the shade, as the light of the pine-knot subsided -and the wife reëntered. I was dreaming of the future, when, the buoyancy -of early manhood being over, stubborn habit would _compel_ our really -worthy host after all rational motive for change should have -flown!—“Thou art one of a genus,” I mentally ejaculated. “The mark of -the wanderer is on thy brow— - - “For thus I read thy destiny, - And cannot be mistaken.” - -There was much conversation afterwards; and at intervals I gleaned the -strong points of his history, and that of her whose fate he now -controlled. But I was busy with my dream! Peering into the far off -future, I saw him in the last of his _flittings_!—deserted by those who -should be the props of his age, but whose youthful fire would not permit -them to remain inactive in the wilderness, after pictures of eastern -wealth and luxury, clad in all the glorious hues of memory, had been -rendered familiar as nursery tales by their suicidal parents. I saw him -in the evening of his days—and where?—seated by his feeble and -exhausted, though still affectionate partner, at the door of an -ill-provided cabin, far in the north-west—Far beyond the present range -of the pioneer! The gloom of night was slowly dropping its curtain -around them, though the phosphorescent snow gave dim illumination to the -broad and trackless expanse of the prairie—trackless then, even by the -exterminated Buffalo. _There_ were none even of the few conveniences of -his present wood-land home; for the genius and the skill which had once -enabled him to bend the stubborn gifts of nature to his will, were -chilled by the frosts of age. - -I could even hear the voices of future years stealing on the autumnal -night breeze, as it moaned through the rough and ill-joined casement -where we sat. - -“Why, John, this is Thanks-giving night! Where can our oldest boy be -wandering now? He was just thirty yesterday, and we have not heard from -him these six years!—Not since you made your last flitting, John! He -was always a good boy, and I’m sure he has written to us! John! you may -depend upon it, there must be a letter in the office at St. Louis—St. -Louis, was it? or was it Chicago? My memory begins to fail me so! He -sent us fifty dollars the last time, when we lived in Wisconsin, away -down in the States. It must have been in Chicago; for it was there he -wrote before!” - -“Ah! Mary! Mary! boys forget their mothers and their fathers too, when -they are old and feeble! He is getting rich somewhere far over yonder, -and little he thinks of us! But there’s little Mary, where can she be? -Her husband was just gone to New Orleans with a load of furs when the -hunters went down to the bluffs in the fall, and they sent our letter -after them—but may-be she never got it!” - -“Yes, it’s Thanks-giving night, Mary! and if I had loved the graves of -my parents as I ought, we should not be here, where our children that -are away will never find our own. Well, well! I’m too old to hunt, and -if the trapping turns out no better than it did last year, we’ll have -our next Thanks-giving, Mary, where there will be no end to it! and sure -you have earned the _right_ to be at rest, by your faithfulness, however -it may go with me!” - -While this picture was floating through my mind, I had learned from -occasional sentences, that our host was the son of parents of -respectability; but his father had foolishly left the agricultural life, -which he understood and was pursuing prosperously, for cities and -merchandize, for which he had no talent. He died a bankrupt, leaving one -son at the age of eight years and a daughter of eighteen. The latter had -been affianced, during her father’s prosperity, to the son of a man of -wealth; but that wealth had been the result of the closest selfishness -in early life. As usual, the native vulgarity of feeling and -heartlessness of character which had caused his unwonted and undeserved -pecuniary success, remained unchanged in the days of his spurious social -elevation. He forbade the further visits of his son the moment the -disaster of the parent of his intended wife was known. He forbade it -suddenly and without a warning. The consequences were such as are almost -too frequent to attract attention. A lovely woman pined a few years over -the ill-requited needle, and died “in a decline.” - -“A young man about town” looked sad for a few months, and then married -an heiress to extend the curse of hereditary meanness. - -In the little village where our host was reared, by a near relative in -the original occupation of his father, he formed his attachment to his -present companion: She was then a teacher, starving upon the _liberal_ -salary that rewards the principal of a female common school in “the -State where education is universal.” To marry at home would have -required sacrifices of conventional rank on the part of his intended, to -which his pride would not suffer him to reduce her; for how could he ask -her to share the fortunes of a laborer in the field? To wait until their -united efforts would enable them to secure a farm, was more than his -impatience could endure. In evil hour a bright dream of the west had -thrown him into the wilderness, and rendered him dependent upon the -accidents of sun and rain for protection against the tender mercies of a -Land Company—which calculated upon the profits of indiscretion and -extended credit willingly, while accepting actual payment with regret. -His energies might probably bear him through his trials, could he be -contented to avoid expansion until the flood-tide of civilization might -have time to reach his retreat, but already he was restless, and his -eyes were directed to the fatal west—and it appeared painfully probable -that a few short years would find him again dependent on his axe, or a -prey to larger speculations in a deeper wilderness. - -We soon retired to our comfortable cat-tail beds, by the light of a -domestic candle, regretting that our kind entertainers refused us the -extempore lodging on the floor to which, in true woodland courtesy, they -condemned themselves. - -It was long before sleep relieved the unpleasant thoughts awakened by -the conversation of the evening. My mind wandered over many a tale of -the woods, in which blighted hopes and ruined prospects constituted the -prominent features. True, I had seen much of happiness in similar -situations,—for Providence has constructed some one of the human family -peculiarly fitted to occupy each niche in the great temple of -society,—but how frequently the abuse of the inestimable privilege of -_free will_ renders it a curse instead of a blessing. I sometimes think -that the exceptions constitute the rule, and that a small minority only -ever accomplish the destiny for which they were created. Jarring, -confusion, and disorder mark every page of nature,—every paragraph of -history! Here was a man of spirit, enterprise, energy, and talent, who -had fled from the only field where happiness was proffered at a slight -expense of pride, to waste his powers upon a wilderness for the benefit, -in all probability, of certain merchants and capitalists in Holland. He -dragged down with him an amiable being who was fitted by her moral -excellencies, and even by her education, humble as it may have been, for -a far wider sphere of usefulness; and why? Because he could not bear to -ask a fond and loving woman to descend to a station which she would have -gloried to share with him! - -How little men know of the true character of the self-sacrificing sex, -until the frosts of old age begin to crown their venerable fronts, and -they find their knowledge useless! - -It is said that there is but one step from the sublime to the -ridiculous; but, although legend upon legend crowded on my memory, the -pathetic had still the ascendancy, and I entertained my companion with -stories, not all of which were colored in rain-bow hues, until the -moon-light deserted the casement, and the fatigue of nearly forty miles -of travel enabled us to sink into repose. As one of these recollections -is pertinent to the occasion, and illustrative of life in the woods, it -may not be amiss to offer it to the reader. It furnishes an instance of -indiscretion which, could the effect have been foreseen, would be -esteemed an act of cruelty worthy of the worst days of the inquisition. -And yet it was perpetrated by a female—by one who should have known the -peculiarities of her sex! - -“Our highly intelligent friend, Mc——,” said I, “has resided for some -years in the town of ——, and has become familiar with the independent -life of a western village. She owns a considerable tract of wild land on -the New York border, and, as her husband’s eccentricities (for he is an -American Old Mortality) are equal with his fame and classical -acquirements, she thought it best to proceed by herself, on horse-back, -to visit the property and examine its resources. After journeying for -several days by every stages and frequented routes, she took an -appropriate path and plunged into the forest.” - -After much difficulty and fatigue, she arrived at the cabin of a -squatter, which she knew to have been _located_ for many years on or -near her line. The visit of the owner was not unsafe, for the man was a -bee-hunter, trapper, and timber thief of the most gentle manners, and -utterly despised all efforts at clearing beyond the acre. His pigs—his -only stock—ran wild in the woods, and he cared nothing for real estate -so long as there were trees left for a deer-cover, timber to be stolen, -bees to be limed, and a bounty for wolves. He looked upon a new -settlement as only another market and prowling ground, incommoding him -in nothing, and likely to increase the dainties of his larder by an -occasional chicken and eggs. He lived for the _present_—dreamed neither -of the _past_ nor the _future_—and nothing but habitual laziness -prevented him from being perpetually peripatetic. He was absent from -home when Mrs. —— arrived, and she was received with back-woods -hospitality by his wife;—for even this creature, whose only beverage -was “Le vin ordinaire de ce pays ci—un liqueur abominable qu’on appelle -_Ouiskey_!” actually had a wife, and an affectionate one, who had -resided on or near the spot since the days of Jefferson! After a -comfortable night of repose upon a bundle of dried leaves, in her riding -suit, Mrs. —— arose, and made preparations _for viewing the property_. -No lady neglects the toilet, even in the most distressing circumstances. -I have several times heard death preferred to the loss of a fine head of -hair, in the wards of a hospital, and it is not to be supposed that Mrs. -R. was unprovided with a looking-glass. She proceeded to withdraw the -several appurtenances of the dressing-room from her well-stored -portmanteau, narrowly and wonderingly watched by her kind hostess. But -the instant the mirror appeared, the lonely denizen of the wilds -exclaimed, with startling energy— - -“Oh! dear Mrs. R.! That’s a looking-glass! Do let me look in it! I have -not seen my face plainly for thirty years! I go down to the spring -sometimes and try to see myself; but the water is so rough that it don’t -look at all like me! Do let me look at it! Do now!” - -The glass was handed to the delighted woman. She cast but one glance -upon it. The mirror fell in fragments on the floor, the unfortunate -creature fainted and fell back on the rude bench behind her, and Mrs. R. -visited her ample domain, that day, with a head half combed. - -The very early breakfast the next morning was a cheerful one. When it -was completed, we rode over by the squire’s, with our host for a guide, -and after proceeding about three miles into the woods, tied our horses -at the termination of all signs of road, and advanced on foot. We soon -separated, the merchant and the farmer to estimate the chances of -water-power, iron beds, timber, and lime-quarries, and I, with my host’s -rifle, a paper of pins, a botanical box, and a pocket insect net, to my -favorite pursuits. We agreed to rendezvous at the place of parting when -the hour of three arrived; and, being all familiar with the art of -navigating the forest, there was no danger of a failure in meeting the -engagement. When we returned from our excursions, and I observed the -disappointed look of my Athenian friend, I felt myself the richer, -notwithstanding he styled himself possessor of five thousand acres, and -I bore upon my shield the footless birds of a younger son; for my hat -was serried with glittering insects, impaled upon its crown and sides; -my box was stored with rarities, and, on a hickory pole across my -shoulder, hung a great horned owl, a hawk, twelve headless black -squirrels, and a Canada porcupine! - -We stopped at the squire’s for a dinner; and, strange to say, succeeded -in inducing our host to bear us company, despite his political -aversions; so that we have reason to believe that our visit was -successful in settling a feud which had seriously curtailed the comforts -of both parties for nearly three long years. As we were rambling over -the ground, while our meal was in preparation, our attention was called -to a tamed marmot or ground hog, that had been a favorite of the family -during several years. He had just commenced burrowing a residence for -his long months of hybernation—for the coolness of the nights -forewarned him that the period of activity was nearly over. By the -orchard fence, upon a little mound commanding a broad view of the -squire’s improvements, he sat upright on the grass, by the side of the -yellow circle of dust which his labors already rendered sufficiently -conspicuous. The sun obliquely shed a milder and more contemplative -light over a scene softened by the autumnal haze. The foliage wore the -serious depth of green which precedes the change of the leaf, and, on -the higher ground, small patches of yellow, red and brown began to vary -the uniformity of the forest. He sat with his fore-paws gently crossed -upon his bosom, like an old man reposing at evening by the door of his -cottage, calmly and peacefully reflecting that the labors of life were -drawing to a close. The autumn wind soughed by, with a premonitory moan, -and our philosophic friend threw up one ear to drink the ominous sound, -shook his head, as it died away, with an obvious shudder, as though some -chilly dream of winter disturbed his repose, and turning slowly round, -commenced digging deliberately at his burrow. In a few minutes he -reappeared and seemed again buried in contemplating the beauty of the -scenery. Ere long another and a stronger blast swept through the trees, -with a more threatening voice—bearing upon its wings a few withered -leaves. - -One of these fell close to the person of the marmot. The intimation was -not to be mistaken. He gently descended to the horizontal attitude, -crawled towards the unwelcome courier of decay, applied his nose to it -for a moment, then, wheeling rapidly round, plunged suddenly into his -hole and sent the dirt flying into the air by the rapid action of his -fore-paws. I turned to the Exile of Connecticut, who had also watched -this interesting scene, and remarked: “You propose to go to the -prairies! It is summer with you yet, but I see that the leaves are -beginning to turn: there are a few grey hairs gathering about your brow. -Is it not time to choose your last resting place? to dig your last -burrow?” - -He felt the force of the query, and remained in thought for several -minutes. - -“If it were not for the next instalment, I think I should stay where I -am till the neighborhood could grow up around us, and Mary could go to -church and little John to school. But—I don’t know!—I think I shall -have to sell out and _flit_ in the spring, if I could find a purchaser! -I’m young yet; and that little beast did not throw the dirt so high in -the spring.” - -Poor fellow! I hear that the ground reverted to the company two years -afterwards; but whether he sold out and _flitted_ with a full purse, or -started on foot with his Mary and the children, and an axe on his -shoulder, I have never heard. - ------ - -[3] It were ungrateful in the writer, not to acknowledge the marked -courtesy and kindness received from several friends during a short -residence at Hartford, and if tempted to speak a little severely of the -manners of the place, there is much more pleasure in the thought, that a -town, honored by the residence of Mrs. Sigourney, Mr. Wordsworth, the -liberal patron of the _fine arts_, and the model of _fine feeling_, and -Rev. Mr. Gualladet, the devoted philanthropist, can endure some censure -upon its general hospitality. On a more suitable occasion, I should be -most happy to extend this list, partly, because it would be no more than -just to do so, - - “And partly that bright names will hallow song!” - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET. - - - Still he is absent though the buds of Spring - Bursting, have flung their freshness o’er the earth, - And all its brightest flowers have waked to birth - The perfume in their petals slumbering;— - The bright green leaves of Summer’s garnishing - Have blanched away;—the wild bird’s song of mirth - Is hushed into an echo, and his wing - Chill’d by the breath the north wind scatters forth:— - And yet the loved one is not with us, yet - He lingers in some foreign beauty’s bower, - While we the lonely, we in vain regret - The distant rapture of the greeting hour, - Till hope seems, poised upon its wavering wings, - Departing like the fair earth’s loveliest things. - E. J. P. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FALSE LADYE. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” ETC. - - -There were merriment and music in the Chateau des Tournelles—at that -time the abode of France’s Royalty!—Music and merriment, even from the -break of day! That was a singular age—an age of great transitions. The -splendid spirit-stirring soul of chivalry was alive yet among the -nations—_yet_! although fast declining, and destined soon to meet its -death blow in the spear thrust that hurled the noble Henry, last victim -of its wondrous system, at once from saddle and from throne!—In every -art, in every usage, new science had effected even then mighty changes; -yet it was the old world still! Gunpowder, and the use of musquetry and -ordnance, had introduced new topics; yet still knights spurred their -barbed chargers to the shock, still rode in complete steel—and tilts -and tournaments still mustered all the knightly and the noble; and -banquets at high noon, and balls in the broad day-light, assembled to -the board or to the dance, the young, the beautiful, and happy. - -There were merriment and music in the court—the hall—the -stair-case—the saloons of state! All that France held of beautiful, and -bright, and brave, and wise, and noble, were gathered to the presence of -their King.—And there were many there, well known and honored in those -olden days; well known and honored ever after!—The first, in person as -in place, was the great King!—the proud and chivalrous and -princely!—becoming his high station at all times and in every -place—wearing his state right gracefully and freely—the second -Henry!—and at his side young Francis, the King-Dauphin; with her, the -cynosure of every heart, the star of that fair company—Scotland’s -unrivalled Mary hanging upon his manly arm, and gazing up with those -soft, dove-like eyes, fraught with unutterable soul, into her husband’s -face—into her husband’s spirit.—Brissac was there, and Joyeuse, and -Nevers; and Jarnac, the renowned for skill in fence, and Vielleville; -and the Cardinal Lorraine, and all the glorious Guises,—and -Montmorenci, soon to be famous as the slayer of his King, and every peer -of France, and every peerless lady. - -Loud pealed the exulting symphonies; loud sang the chosen -minstrelsy—and as the gorgeous sun-beams rushed in a flood of tinted -lustre through the rich many-colored panes of the tall windows, glancing -on soft voluptuous forms and eyes that might out-dazzle their own -radiance, arrayed in all the pomp and pride of that magnificent and -stately period—a more resplendent scene could scarcely be imagined. -That was a day of rich and graceful costumes, when men and warriors -thought it no shame to be adorned in silks and velvets, with chains of -goldsmith’s work about their necks, and jewels in their ears, and on -their hatbands, buttons, and buckles, and sword-hilts; and if such were -the sumptuous attire of the sterner and more solid sex, what must have -been the ornature of the court ladies, under the gentle sway of such a -being as Diane de Poitiers, the lovely mistress of the monarch, and -arbitress of the soft follies of the Court? - -The palace halls were decked with every fanciful variety, some in the -pomp of blazoned tapestries with banners rustling from the cornices -above the jocund dancers, some filled with fresh green branches, wrought -into silver arbors, sweet garlands perfuming the air, and the light half -excluded or tempered into a mild and emerald radiance by the dense -foliage of the rare exotics. Pages and ushers tripped it to and fro, -clad in the royal liveries, embroidered with the cognizance of Henry, -the fuigist salamander, bearing the choicest wines, the rarest cates, in -every interval of the resounding dance.—It would be tedious to dwell -longer on the scene; to multiply more instances of the strange mixture, -which might be witnessed everywhere, of artificial luxury with -semibarbarous rudeness—to specify the graces of the company, the beauty -of the demoiselles and dames, the stately bearing of the warrior nobles, -as they swept back and forth in the quaint mazes of some antiquated -measure, were a task to be undertaken only by some old chronicler, with -style as curious and as quaint as the manners he portrays in living -colors.—Enough for us to catch a fleeting glimpse of the grand -pageantry! to sketch with a dashy pencil the groups which he would -designate with absolute and accurate minuteness! - -But there was one among that gay assemblage, who must not be passed over -with so slight a regard, since she attracted on that festive day, as -much of wondering admiration for her unequalled beauties as she excited -grief, and sympathy, and fear, in after days, for her sad fortunes,—but -there was now no cloud upon her radiant beauty, no dimness prophetic of -approaching tears in her large laughing eyes, no touch of melancholy -thought upon one glorious feature—Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the heiress -of a ducal fortune, the heiress of charms so surpassing, that rank and -fortune were forgotten by all who gazed upon her pure high brow, her -dazzling glances, her seductive smile, the perfect symmetry of her whole -shape and person! Her hair, of the darkest auburn shade, fell in a -thousand ringlets, glittering out like threads of virgin gold when a -stray sunbeam touched them, fell down her snowy neck over the shapely -shoulders and so much of a soft heaving bosom—veined by unnumbered -azure channels, wherein the pure blood coursed so joyously—as was -displayed by the falling laces which decked her velvet boddice—her -eyes, so quick and dazzling was their light, almost defied description, -possessing at one time the depth and brilliance of the black, melting -into the softer languor of the blue—yet they were of the latter hue, -and suited truly to the whole style and character of her voluptuous -beauty. Her form, as has been noticed, was symmetry itself; and every -movement, every step, was fraught with natural and unstudied grace.—In -sooth, she seemed almost too beautiful for mere mortality—and so -thought many an one who gazed upon her, half drunk with that divine -delirium which steeps the souls of men who dwell too steadfastly upon -such wondrous charms, as she bounded through the labyrinth of the dance, -lighter and springier than the world-famed gazelle, or rested from the -exciting toil in panting abandonment upon some cushioned settle! and -many inquired of themselves, could it be possible that an exterior so -divine should be the tenement of a harsh worldly spirit—that a demeanor -and an air so frank, so cordial, and so warm, should be but the -deceptive veil that hid a selfish, cold, bad heart. Aye! many asked -themselves that question on that day, but not one answered his own -question candidly or truly—no! not one man!—for in her presence he had -been more or less than mortal, who could pronounce his sentence unmoved -by the attractions of her outward seeming. - -For Marguerite de Vaudreuil had been but three short months before -affianced as the bride of the young Baron de La-Hirè—the bravest and -best of Henry’s youthful nobles. It had been a love treaty—no matter of -shrewd bartering of hearts—no cold and worldly convenance—but the -outpouring, as it seemed, of two young spirits, each warm and worthy of -the other!—and men had envied him, and ladies had held her more -fortunate in her high conquest, than in her rank, her riches, or her -beauties; and the world had forgotten to calumniate, or to sneer, in -admiration of the young glorious pair, that seemed so fitly mated. Three -little months had passed—three more, and they had been made one!—but, -in the interval, Charles de La-Hirè, obedient to his King’s behest, had -buckled on his sword, and led the followers of his house to the Italian -wars. With him, scarcely less brave, and, as some thought, yet handsomer -than he, forth rode upon his first campaign, Armand de Laguy, his own -orphaned cousin, bred like a brother on his father’s hearth; and, as -Charles well believed, a brother in affection. Three little months had -passed, and in a temporary truce, Armand de Laguy had returned alone, -leading the relics of his cousin’s force, and laden with the doleful -tidings of that cousin’s fall upon the field of honor. None else had -seen him die, none else had pierced so deeply into the hostile ranks; -but Armand had rushed madly on to save his noble kinsman, and failing in -the desperate attempt, had borne off his reward in many a perilous -wound. Another month, and it was whispered far and near, that Marguerite -had dried her tears already; and that Armand de Laguy had, by his -cousin’s death, succeeded, not to lands and to lordships only, but to -the winning of that dead cousin’s bride.—It had been whispered far and -near—and now the whisper was proved true. For, on this festive day, -young Armand, still pale from the effects of his exhausting wounds, and -languid from loss of the blood, appeared in public for the first time, -not in the sable weeds of decent and accustomed wo, but in the gayest -garb of a successful bridegroom—his pourpoint of rose-colored velvet -strewn thickly with seed pearl and broideries of silver, his hose of -rich white silk, all slashed and lined with cloth of silver, his injured -arm suspended in a rare scarf of the lady’s colors, and, above all, the -air of quiet confident success with which he offered, and that lovely -girl received, his intimate attentions, showed that for once, at least, -the tongue of rumor had told truth. - -Therefore men gazed in wonder—and marvelled as they gazed, and half -condemned!—yet they who had been loudest in their censure when the -first whisper reached their ears of so disloyal love, of so bold-fronted -an inconstancy, now found themselves devising many an excuse within -their secret hearts for this sad lapse of one so exquisitely fair. Henry -himself had frowned, when Armand de Laguy led forth the fair betrothed, -radiant in festive garb and decked with joyous smiles—but the stern -brow of the offended prince had smoothed itself into a softer aspect, -and the rebuff which he had determined—but a second’s space before—to -give to the untimely lovers, was frittered down into a jest before it -left the lips of the repentant speaker. - -The day was well-nigh spent—the evening banquet had been spread, and -had been honored, duly—and now the lamps were lit in hall, and -corridor, and bower; and merrier waxed the mirth, and faster wheeled the -dance. The company were scattered to and fro, some wandering in the -royal gardens, which overspread at that day, most of the Isle de Paris; -some played with cards or dice; some drank and revelled in the halls; -some danced unwearied in the grand saloons; some whispered love in -ladies’ ears in dark sequestered bowers—and of these last were -Marguerite and Armand—a long alcove of thick green boughs, with orange -trees between, flowering in marble vases, and myrtles, and a thousand -odorous trees mingling their perfumed shadows, led to a lonely -bower—and there alone in the dim star-light—alone indeed! for they -might now be deemed as one, sat the two lovers. One fair hand of the -frail lady was clasped in the bold suitor’s right—while his left arm, -unconscious of its wound, was twined about her slender waist; her head -reclined upon his shoulder, with all its rich redundancy of ringlets -floating about his neck and bosom, and her eyes, languid and suffused, -fondly turned up to meet his passionate glances. “And can it be”—he -said, in the thick broken tones that tell of vehement passion—“And can -it be that you indeed love Armand?—I fear, I fear, sweet beauty, that -I, like Charles, should be forgotten, were I, like Charles, removed—for -him thou didst love dearly—while on me never didst thou waste thought -or word.” - -“Him—never, Armand, never!—by the bright stars above us—by the great -gods that hear us—I never—never _did_ love Charles de La-Hirè—never -did love man, save thee, my noble Armand.—False girlish vanity and -pique led me to toy with him at first; now to my sorrow I confess -it—and when thou didst look coldly upon me, and seem’dst to woo dark -Adeline de Courcy, a woman’s vengeance stirred up my very soul, and -therefore to punish thee, whom only did I love, I well nigh yielded up -myself to torture by wedding one whom I esteemed indeed and honored—but -never thought of for one moment with affection—wilt thou believe me, -Armand?” - -“Sweet Angel, Marguerite!” and he clasped her to his hot heaving breast, -and her white arms were flung about his neck, and their lips met in a -long fiery kiss. - -Just in that point of time—in that soft melting moment—a heavy hand -was laid quietly on Armand’s shoulder—he started, as the fiend sprang -up, revealed before the temper of Ithuriel’s angel weapon—he started -like a guilty thing from that forbidden kiss. - -A tall form stood beside him, shrouded from head to heel in a dark -riding cloak of the Italian fashion; but there was no hat on the stately -head, nor any covering to the cold stern impassive features. The high -broad forehead as pale as sculptured marble, with the dark chestnut -curls falling off parted evenly upon the crown—the full, fixed, steady -eye, which he could no more meet than he could gaze unscathed on the -meridian sun, the noble features, sharpened by want and suffering and -wo—were all! all those of his good cousin. - -For a moment’s space the three stood there in silence!—Charles de -La-Hirè reaping rich vengeance from the unconquerable consternation of -the traitor! Armand de Laguy bent almost to the earth with shame and -conscious terror! and Marguerite half dead with fear, and scarcely -certain if indeed he who stood before her were the man in his living -presence, whom she had vowed to love for ever; or if it were but the -visioned form of an indignant friend returned from the dark grave to -thunderstrike the false disturbers of his eternal rest. - -“I am in time”—he said at length, in accents slow and unfaltering, as -his whole air was cold and tranquil—“in time to break off this -monstrous union!—Thy perjuries have been in vain, weak man; thy lies -are open to the day.—He whom thou didst betray to the Italian’s -dungeon—to the Italian’s dagger—as thou didst then believe and -hope—stands bodily before thee.” - -A long heart-piercing shriek burst from the lips of Marguerite, as the -dread import of his speech fell on her sharpened ears—the man whom she -_had_ loved—_first_ loved!—for all her previous words were false and -fickle—stood at her side in all his power and glory—and she affianced -to a liar, a base traitor—a foul murderer in his heart!—a scorn and -by-word to her own sex—an object of contempt and hatred to every noble -spirit! - -But at that instant Armand de Laguy’s pride awoke—for he _was_ proud, -and brave, and daring!—and he gave back the lie, and hurled defiance in -his accuser’s teeth. - -“Death to thy soul!” he cried—“’tis thou that lieth!—Charles!—did I -not see thee stretched on the bloody plain? did I not sink beside thee, -hewed down and trampled under foot, in striving to preserve thee?—and -when my vassals found me, wert thou not beside me—with thy face -scarred, indeed, and mangled beyond recognition, but with the surcoat -and the arms upon the lifeless corpse, and the sword in the cold -hand?—’Tis thou that liest, man!—’tis thou that, for some base end, -didst conceal thy life; and now wouldst charge thy felonies on me—but -’twill not do—fair cousin.—The King shall judge between us!—Come -lady”—and he would have taken her by the hand, but she sprang back as -though a viper would have stung her. - -“Back traitor!—” she exclaimed, in tones of the deepest loathing.—“I -hate thee, spit on thee! defy thee!—Base have I been myself, and frail, -and fickle—but, as I live, Charles de La-Hirè—but as I live _now_, and -_will_ die right shortly—I knew not of this villany! I did believe thee -dead, as that false murtherer swore—and—God be good to me!—I did -betray thee dead; and now have lost thee living! But for thee, Armand de -Laguy, dog! traitor! villain! knave!—dare not to look upon me any more; -dare not address me with one accent of thy serpent tongue! for -Marguerite de Vaudreuil, fallen although she be, and lost for ever, is -not so all abandoned as, knowing thee for what thou art, to bear with -thee one second longer—no! not though that second could redeem all the -past—and wipe out all the sin!—” - -“Fine words! Fine words, fair mistress!—but on with me thou shalt!” and -he stretched out his arm to seize her, when, with a perfect majesty, -Charles de La-Hirè stepped in and grasped him by the wrist, and held him -for a moment there, gazing into his eye as though he would have read his -soul; then threw him off with force, that made him stagger back ten -paces before he could regain his footing!—then! then! with all the fury -of the fiend depicted on his working lineaments, Armand unsheathed his -rapier and made a full lunge, bounding forwards as he did so, right at -his cousin’s heart! but he was foiled again, for with a single, and, as -it seemed, slight motion of the sheathed broadsword, which he held under -his cloak, Charles de La-Hirè struck up the weapon, and sent it whirling -through the air to twenty paces distance. - -Just then there came a shout “the King! the King!”—and, with the words, -a glare of many torches, and, with his courtiers and his guard about -him, the Monarch stood forth in offended majesty. - -“Ha!—what means this insolent broil?—What men be these who dare draw -swords within the palace precincts?” - -“_My_ sword is sheathed, sire,” answered De La-Hirè, kneeling before the -King and laying the good weapon at his feet—“nor has been ever drawn, -save at your highness’ bidding, against your highness’ foes!—But I -beseech you, sire, as you love honesty and honor, and hate deceit and -treason, grant me your royal license to prove Armand de Laguy, recreant, -base, and traitorous, a liar and a felon, and a murtherer, hand to hand, -in the presence of the ladies of your court, according to the law of -arms and honor!” - -“Something of this we have heard already”—replied the King, “Baron de -La-Hirè!—But say out now, of what accuse you Armand de Laguy?—shew but -good cause, and thy request is granted; for I have not forgot your good -deeds in my cause against our rebel Savoyards and our Italian foemen—of -what accuse you Armand de Laguy?” - -“That he betrayed me wounded into the hands of the Duke of Parma! that -he dealt with Italian bravoes to compass my assassination! that by foul -lies and treacherous devices, he has trained from me my affianced bride: -and last, not least, deprived her of fair name and honor.—This will I -prove upon his body, so help me God and my good sword.” - -“Stand forth and answer to his charge De Laguy—speak out! what sayest -thou?” - -“I say,” answered Armand boldly—“I say that he lies!—that he did feign -his own death for some evil ends!—and did deceive me, who would have -died to succor him!—That I, believing him dead, have won from him the -love of this fair lady, I admit.—But I assert that I did win it fairly, -and of good right!—And for the rest, I say he lies doubly, when he -asserts that she has lost fair name, or honor—this is _my_ answer, -sire; and I beseech you grant _his_ prayer, and let us prove our words, -as gentlemen of France and soldiers, forthwith, by singular battle!” - -“Amen!” replied the King—“the third day hence at noon, in the tilt -yard, before our court, we do adjudge the combat—and this fair lady be -the prize of the victor!—” - -“No! sire,” interposed Charles de La-Hirè, again kneeling—but before he -had the time to add a second word, Marguerite de Vaudreuil, who had -stood all the while with her hands clasped and her eyes rivetted upon -the ground, sprung forth with a great cry— - -“No! no! for God-sake! no! no! sire—great King—good gentleman—brave -knight! doom me not to a fate so dreadful.—Charles de La-Hirè is all -that man can be, of good, or great, or noble! but I betrayed him, whom I -deemed dead; and he can never trust me living!—Moreover, if he would -take me to his arms, base as I am and most false hearted, he should -not—for God forbid that _my_ dishonor should blight _his_ noble -fame.—As for the slave De Laguy—the traitor and low liar, doom me, -great monarch, to the convent or the block—but curse me not with such -contamination!—For, by the heavens I swear! and by the God that rules -them! that I will die by my own hand, before I wed that serpent!” - -“Be it so, fair one,” answered the King very coldly—“be it so! we -permit thy choice—a convent or the victor’s bridal bed shall be thy -doom, at thine own option!—Meanwhile your swords, sirs; until the hour -of battle ye are both under our arrest. Jarnac be thou Godfather to -Charles de La-Hirè!—Nevers, do thou like office for de Laguy.” - -“By God! not I, sire;” answered the proud duke. “I hold this man’s -offence so rank, his guilt so palpable, that, on my conscience! I think -your royal hangman were his best Godfather!” - -“Nevertheless, De Nevers—it shall be, as I say!—this bold protest of -thine is all sufficient for thine honor—and it is but a form!—no -words, duke! it must be as I have said!—Joyeuse, escort this lady to -thy duchess—pray her accept of her as the King’s guest, until this -matter be decided. The third day hence at noon, on foot, with sword and -dagger—with no arms of defence or vantage—the principals to fight -alone, until one die or yield—and so God shield the right!” - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNETS. - - - BY PARK BENJAMIN. - - - EVENING. - - In robes of crimson glory sinks the Day; - The Earth in slumber closes her great eye - Like to a dying god’s; from hills, that lie - Like altars kindled by the sunset ray, - The smoke in graceful volumes soars away; - From every wood a chorus soundeth nigh; - Those veils of day, the shadows, floating high - Around the tree-tops, fall upon the gay - And gem-like flowers that bloom beneath; the West - Its burnished gold throws back in softened lines - Upon the East, and, as it sweetly shines - On lapsing river and reposing dell, - Tinges with rosy light the hovering breast - Of the small, tremulous lark—boon Nature’s evening bell. - - - HEREAFTER. - - Oh, man is higher than his dwelling-place; - Upward he looks, and his soul’s wings unfold, - And, when like minutes sixty years have rolled, - He rises, kindling, into boundless space. - Then backward to the Earth, his native place, - The ashes of his feathers lightly fall, - And his free soul, unveiled, disrobed of all - That cumbered it, begins its heavenly race, - Pure as a tone and brilliant as a star. - Even through the shadows on life’s desert lawn - Hills of the future world he sees afar - In morning rays that beam not here below. - Thus doth the dweller in the realm of snow - Through his long night perceive the distant dawn. - - * * * * * - - - - - HARRY CAVENDISH. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. - ETC. - - - “And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy - Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be - Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy - I wantoned with thy breakers.” - Childe Harold. - - - INTRODUCTORY. - -I was sitting the other afternoon before my library fire, listening to -the fitful breeze without that swayed the trees to and fro before the -house and moaned down in the neighbouring woods, when I suddenly -recollected that the last sheets of “The Reefer” had gone to press a -fortnight before, and that, consequently, my career of authorship was -closed. The idea, I confess, gave me pleasure, for I am by nature an -indolent man, and would at any time rather dream by a cheery fire, with -my slippered feet reposing on my tiger-skin rug, than tie myself down to -a writing-table, even though it be to record my own or my friends’ -adventures, and “go about the world from hand to hand.” I am not -ambitious. I prefer ease to reputation, quiet to turmoil, the epicurean -to all other philosophy. To read my favorite authors; to indulge in -reveries at the twilight hour; to gaze on fine pictures, choice statues, -and tasteful rooms; to listen to the melting airs of Burns, or the -glorious hallelujahs of Handel; to sport on my own grounds on a clear, -bracing morning; to gallop over the wild hills and through the romantic -valleys which surround my residence;—these are the enjoyments in which -I delight, and which I prefer to all the reputation either the pen or -the sword can give. Others may choose a more bustling life; but I have -had my share of that! Give me a quiet, happy home, for there only is -true happiness to be found. - -Musing thus, I was unconscious of the entrance of an intruder, until I -heard a slight cough beside me, and looking up, I saw my faithful -servant John standing over my chair. He laid on my lap, at the instant, -a copy of Graham’s Magazine for December. As John did so, he heaved a -sigh, and then, as if something was on his mind, busied himself in -arranging various articles in the room. I knew by these tokens that he -was desirous of attracting my attention. The woe-begone expression which -he wore during all this time, amused me, for I fancied I could guess -what was passing through his mind. As I quietly cut the pages of the -book, I indulged him by opening the conversation. - -“Well, John,” I said, “it is finished. ‘The Reefer’ has followed my own -adventures, and you will have no more trouble in acting as proof-reader -for me. Our days,” and here, at the use of the plural, the old fellow -grinned from ear to ear, “our days of authorship are over. I think we -had better retire while our laurels are green. Are you not glad?” - -“Glad! What for Massa Danforth think that? No, no,” and he shook his -grey head mournfully, “John _not_ glad.” - -“And why not, John? We shall have more time to ourselves. I’m afraid,” I -said, looking towards the window, and endeavoring to peer through the -twilight without, “I am afraid our planting is sadly behind hand—the -clump of trees out yonder wants thinning—and then the water-fall is -getting out of order—and Mrs. Danforth has been pleading for an -addition to her garden—all this requires overseeing—and besides these, -there are a thousand other things which will require our attention.” - -I could see that the old fellow had, with difficulty, restrained himself -until I had finished; for he kept moving his body unceasingly, and once -or twice had opened his mouth to speak. He now broke out— - -“Nebber do, Massa Danforth, nebber do to give up authorship, take old -John word for dat. You now great man—talk of in all de papers—it Massa -Danforth here and Massa Danforth dare—ebbery few month you get extra -puff in de prospective of de Magazine—and think you discontinue if you -give ober writing? Gor amighty nebber! Ebbery body can do -planting,—dere Massa Jones, Massa Tyson, Massa Smit, and de oder -blockheads in de county—but you be only one hereabout been to sea, or -can drive a pen ober paper like a four-in-hand, polishing skrimanges for -a hundred thousand readers—for dat many Massa Graham say thumb his book -ebbery month. It plain text, plain sermon. Who so big as Massa Danforth -de author?—who so little, beg pardon for say it, as Massa Danforth de -farmer? De public like our sleepy boy Joe in de kitchen, he nebber know -any one alive, unless dey keep bawling, bawling in his ear all de time.” - -“But what am I to do?” said I, smiling at his earnestness, and peculiar -style of illustration. “Even if I wished to continue an author, I could -not. My own adventures are published; so are those of the Reefer,—if I -go on, I must—to say nothing of the trouble—draw on my fancy, and -that, you know, wouldn’t do. I always bear in mind what honest Sancho -Panza says—‘Let every one take heed how they talk or write of people, -and not set down at random the first thing that comes into their -imagination.’” - -“Massa Sanka Pancer had better keep his advice to himself, dat my -mind—I nebber saw him here, or read his name in de papers, and he -derefore no great shakes—but I no see dat dere be an accessory for any -fiction about it. Ah! I hab him—I hab him. I think of a new feature.” - -“A new feature! Well—let’s hear it.” - -“But first, dere be accessory for a story. Once Massa know I be a poor -scoundrel in newspaper office—hard life dat, where kicks plenty and -dinners scarce—and ebbery now and den when editor pushed to de wall for -cash, he say in his paper dat de next day he come out wid a new feature. -Well, ebbery body, besure, be on tip-toe. Office run down next mornin -for paper. Massa editor fill his pockets for once anyhow—no trouble, -little cost, all wit do it. How? He put in new head to his paper, and -call dat ‘new feature.’ Now, suppose Massa Danforth get a new head to -‘Cruising in de Last War,’ and so be author, and dat widout trouble, for -anoder year. Ah! ha! dat grand stroke.” - -I laughed heartily at the proposal, but replied— - -“That would never do, John—but I must tell Graham of your idea.” - -“Eh! what?—put old John in print. Gor amighty dat make him grand as de -minister—not dat he care much for it—he not vain—but, but, what Massa -gwine to say?” - -“You’ll know in good time—but at present see who knocks at the library -door.” - -“Package forgot at post-office,” said John, returning from his errand, -and giving me a huge bundle of manuscript. - -“Ah! what have we here? A letter from Graham, I declare. What says -he?—‘a valuable private history of the revolutionary times,’—‘only -wants a little pruning’—‘thrilling adventures’—‘a run unsurpassed for -years’—‘unequalled’—‘edit it as a great favor’—and so forth. Well, -let us see what it is.” - -“Eh! yes—see what he is. Massa Graham one _obi_ man, he know de -quandary we in, and send dis to settle de argument. No escape now, Massa -Danforth—it little trouble—thank God! you be great man still—and de -people still say as we drive out togedder, ‘dare go de celebrated Massa -Danforth, and his man John!’” - -And now, reader, having acquainted you with the manner in which the -following history came into my hands, and given you a hint as to the -reasons which have induced me to appear again in print, I will take -leave of you without further parley, and let the autobiographer speak -for himself. - - - THE WRECK. - -The parting word had been said, the last look had been taken, and my -traps had all been snugly stowed away in the narrow room which, for some -years, was to be my home. I stood by the starboard railing gazing back -on the dear city I was leaving, and, despite the stoicism I had affected -when bidding farewell to my friends, I could not now prevent a starting -tear. Nor did my mess-mates seem in a more sportive mood; for they could -be seen, some in the rigging and some leaning over the ship’s side, -looking back on the well known landmarks of the town with a seriousness -in the aspect which betokened the thoughts passing through the heart. -Yes! we were about leaving the scenes of our boyhood, to enter on a new -and untried life—and who knew if any of us would ever return again to -our homes? The chances of war are at all times dreadful, but in our case -they were terribly increased by the flag under which we sailed. Who -could tell whether the officers of the revolted colonies might not be -considered as traitors as well as rebels? Who knew but that the very -first enemy we should meet would either sink us or hang us at the yard -arm? And yet, firm in the righteousness of our cause, and confiding in -the God of battles, there was not one of our number who, having put his -hand to the plough, wished to turn back. Sink or swim—live or die—we -were resigned to either destiny. - -Evening was closing fast around the scene, and, even as I gazed, the -town melted into gloom, Copp’s Hill alone standing up in solemn majesty -over the shadowy city. The distant hum of the town died fainter and -fainter on the darkness, the evening breeze came up fresher across the -waters, the song of the fisherman and the dip of passing oars ceased, -and, one by one, the white sails of the ships around us faded away, at -first seeming like faint clouds, but finally losing themselves -altogether in the darkness. All around was still. The low monotonous -ground swell heaving under our counter, and rippling faintly as it went, -alone broke the witching silence. Not a breath of air was stirring. The -boatswain’s whistle was hushed, the whisper had died away, no footfall -rose upon the stillness, but over shore and sea, earth and sky, man and -inanimate creation, the same deep silence hung. - -Gradually, however, the scene changed. Lights began to flash along the -town and from the ships in port, and, in a few moments, the harbor was -alive with a long line of effulgence. A half subdued halo now hung over -the city. The effect produced was like that of magic. Here a ship lay -almost buried in gloom—there one was thrown out in bold relief by the -lights—now a tall warehouse rose shadowy into the sky, and now one -might be seen almost as distinctly as at noon day. The lights streaming -from the cabin windows and dancing along the bay, the swell tinged on -its crest with silver, but dark as night below, and the far off sails -gleaming like shadowy spectres, through the uncertain light, added -double effect to the picture. And when the stars came out, one by one, -blinking high up in the firmament, and the wind began to sigh across the -bay and wail sadly through our rigging, the weird-like character of the -prospect grew beyond description. Hour after hour passed away and we -still continued gazing on the scene as if under the influence of some -magician’s spell; but, at length, exhausted nature gave way, and one -after another went below, leaving only those on deck whose duty required -their presence. For myself, though I sought my hammock, a succession of -wild indistinct dreams haunted me throughout the livelong night. - -A pleasant breeze was singing through the rigging as I mounted the -gangway at dawn, and the tide having already made, I knew no time would -be lost in getting under weigh. Directly the captain made his -appearance, and, after a few whispered words, the pilot issued his -orders. In an instant all was bustle. The boatswain’s whistle, calling -all hands to their duty, was heard shrieking through the ship, and then -came the quick hurried tread of many feet, as the men swarmed to their -stations. The anchor was soon hove short; the sails were loosed; the -topsails, top-gallant sails and royals were sheeted home and -hoisted,—the head yards were braced aback and the after yards filled -away; a sheer was made with the helm; the anchor was tripped; the gib -was hoisted; and as she paid beautifully off, the foretop sail was -filled merrily away, and the spanker hauled out. Then the yards were -trimmed, the anchor catted, and with a light breeze urging us on, we -stood gallantly down the bay. As we increased our distance from the -town, the wind gradually freshened. One after another of the green -islands around us faded astern; the heights of Nahant opened ahead, -glanced by and frowned in our wake; and before the sun had been many -hours on his course, we were rolling our yard arms in a stiff breeze, -leagues to sea. Before sun-down the distant coast had vanished from -sight. - -My mess mates had already gathered around the table in the long narrow -room which was appropriated to the midshipmen, when I dove down the -hatchway after the watch had been set. They were as jovial a set as I -had ever seen, and, although our acquaintance was but of twenty-four -hours standing, we all felt perfectly at home with each other; and as -the salt beef was pushed from hand to hand, and the jug passed merrily -around, the mutual laugh and jest bore token of our “right good -fellowship.” - -“A pretty craft, my lads,” said a tall fine-looking fellow, obviously -the senior of the group, and whom I had been introduced to as a Mr. -O’Hara; “a pretty craft and a bold captain we have, or I’m no judge. -I’ve been at sea before, but never in as gallant a ship as this. Here’s -success to The Arrow—no heel-taps.” - -The toast was drunk with a huzza, and O’Hara continued the conversation, -as if, under the circumstances, he felt that he was the only proper -person to play the host. - -“You’re most of you green-horns, my boys—excuse the word, but ‘tell the -truth,’ you know—and will not be good for much if this swell continues. -One or two of you are getting pale already, and, if I’m not mistaken, -Cavendish and I are the only two of the set that have smelt salt water -before. Now, take a word of advice. Cut into the beef like the deuce, -never mind if it does make you worse, cut away still, and bye and bye, -when you get all your long shore swash out of you, you’ll find that you -feel better than ever. We’re for a long voyage, and many a hard rub -you’ll get before it’s over, but never flinch from duty or danger—even -if Davy Jones himself stares you in the face. Kick care to the wall, and -be merry while you may. But always have an eye to what is due to your -superiors. The captain’s a gentleman. God bless him! The first -lieutenant, I’ve a notion, is a sour sinner—never let him catch you -tripping,—but you needn’t mind him further, for he looks as if he ought -to be tarred and feathered as the Boston boys served the exciseman. And -now, lads, here’s to a prosperous voyage, and let’s turn in, one and -all, for I’ve got the morning watch, and I’ve a notion this breeze will -have settled down into a regular hurricane, and be blowing great guns -and marlin-spikes before then.” - -The air of easy good-humor with which O’Hara spoke, attracted me to him -at once. He was evidently my senior, and had seen some service; but it -was equally as evident that he affected no superiority which was not his -of right. I determined to know him better. - -It was still dark when I was aroused from sleep by the calling of the -watch, and, hastily springing up, I soon stood upon the deck. The first -glance around me proved that O’Hara’s anticipations were fulfilled, for -the tempest was thundering through the rigging with an almost stunning -voice, driving the fine spray wildly along, and blowing with an -intensity that threatened to sweep one overboard. The men, bent before -the blast, and wrapped in their thick overcoats, stood like statues half -seen through the mist. The night was bitterly cold—the fine spray cut -to the marrow. As far as the eye could see, on every hand around us, the -sea, flattened until it was nearly as level as a table, was a mass of -driving foam. The binnacle lamp burned faint and dim, with a sickly -halo, through the fog. Above, however, all was clear, except a few white -fleecy clouds, driven wildly across the frosty stars that twinkled in -the heavens. As I ran my eye along the tall taper masts, now bending -like rushes in the hurricane, I saw that nearly all the canvass had been -taken in, and that we were scudding before the tempest with nothing -spread but a close-reefed maintopsail, a reefed fore-course, and the -foretopmast staysail,—and even these, as they strained in the gale, -threatened momently to blow out into ribbons before the resistless fury -of the wind. Under this comparative press of canvass, The Arrow was -skimming along, seeming to outvie even the spray in velocity. And well -was it that she sped onward with such hot haste!—for, on looking -astern, I saw the billows howling after us, urging on their white crests -in fearful proximity, and threatening at every surge to roll in over our -taffrail. Wilder and wilder, more and even more fiercely they raced each -other in the pursuit, like a pack of famished wolves pitching and -yelling after their prey. - -“Keep her so,” said the first lieutenant, as he left the deck in charge -of his successor, “for you see it is neck and neck with those yelling -monsters astern. If the sails are blown from the bolt ropes they must -go—but as the canvass is new I think they will stand.” - -“Ship ahoy!” shouted a look-out at this moment, startling us as though a -thunderbolt had fallen at our feet, “a sail athwart hawse.” - -“Where, where?” exclaimed both the officers incredulously. - -“Close under our fore-foot—a brig, sir.” - -“My God, we shall run her down,” was the exclamation of the second -lieutenant. - -All eyes were instantly turned in the direction of the approaching -danger, and there, sure enough, directly athwart our hawse, a small -trim-looking brig was seen lying-to—the wild hurricane of flying spray, -which covered the surface of the deck in places with an almost -impervious fog, having hitherto concealed her from our sight. It was -evident that the inmates of the brig had but just discovered us, for her -helm was rapidly shifted and a few hurried orders, whose import we could -not make out, were given on board of her. All, indeed, seemed confusion -on the decks of the unhappy craft. Her crew were hurrying to and fro; -the officer of the vessel was shouting in his hoarsest tone; two or -three forms, as if those of passengers, rushed up the companion way; and -to crown all, the sheets were let fly, and with a wild lurch she rolled -over, and lay the next moment wallowing in the sea broadside on. I could -almost have jumped on her decks. All this had passed with the rapidity -of thought. Never shall I forget the shriek of horror which burst -simultaneously from both vessels at this fearful crisis. Already were we -close on to the brig, driving with the speed of a sea-gull with the -gale, and we knew that before another moment should elapse, aye! almost -before another breath could be drawn, the collision must lake place. But -the lightning is not quicker than was the officer of the deck. - -“Port—a-port—ha-a-rd, _hard_,” he thundered, grinding the words -between his teeth in his excitement, and waving his hands to larboard, -and the helmsman, taking his cue more from the gesture than from the -words—for in the uproar of the tempest he could not hear a dozen yards -to windward—whirled around the wheel, and our gallant craft, obedient -to the impulse like a steed beneath the spur, swept around to starboard. -For a second the ill-fated brig could be seen dancing under our stem, -and then, rolling heavily around, she seemed as if she would escape, -though narrowly, from her frightful position. A cry of joy was already -rising to my lips; but, at that instant, I heard a crash, followed by a -dull grinding noise, and simultaneously I beheld the brig come into -collision with us just abaft the cathead, and, while all our timbers -quivered with the shock, she whirled away astern, rolling and rubbing -frightfully, and half buried in the brine. A shriek rent the air, on the -instant, whose thrilling tones haunted me for days and nights, and seems -even now to ring in my ears. - -“God of my fathers!” I exclaimed, “every soul will be lost!” - -“Heave her to,” thundered the officer of the deck. “For life or death, -my lads! Up with the foresail—down with your helm—brace up the after -yards—set the mizzen stay sail there.” - -It is a libel on sailors to say they never feel. No men are more ready -to aid the unfortunate. On the present occasion the crew seemed inspired -with an energy equal to that of their officer, and springing to their -duty performed the rapid orders of the lieutenant in an almost -incredible space of time. Happily a momentary lull aided the manœuvre, -and our proud craft obeying her helm came gallantly to. - -“Meet her there, quarter-master,” continued the officer of the deck; -“set the main stay-sail—brace up the fore-yards—merrily, -merrily—there she has it—” and, as these concluding words left his -mouth, the manœuvre was finished, and we rode against the wind, rising -and falling on the swell, and flinging the spray to our fore-yard arm as -we thumped against the seas. - -My first thought was of the brig. As soon, therefore, as our craft had -been hove-to, I cast a hurried glance over the starboard bow to search -for the unfortunate vessel. I detected her at once lying a short -distance on our weather bow,—and it was evident that the injury she had -sustained was of the most serious character, for even through the mist -we fancied we could see that she was settling deeper in the water. Her -officers were endeavoring to heave her to again; while rising over their -orders, and swelling above all the uproar of the hurricane, we could -hear the despairing wail of her passengers. At length she lay-to a few -fathoms on our starboard bow, drifting, however, at every surge bodily -to leeward. Confusion still reigned on her decks. We could see that the -crew were at the pumps; but they appeared to work moodily and with -little heart; and we caught now and then the sound of voices as if of -the officers in expostulation with the men. A group of female figures -also was discernible on the quarter-deck, and a manly form was visible -in the midst, as if exhorting them to courage. At the sight a thrill of -anguish ran through our breasts. We would have laid down our lives to -save them from what appeared to be their inevitable doom, and yet what -could we do in the face of such a tempest, and when any attempt to -rescue them would only entail ruin on the adventurers, without aiding -those we would preserve? As I thought of the impossibility of rendering -succor to those shrinking females, as I dwelt on the lingering agonies -they would have to endure, as I pictured to myself the brig sinking -before our eyes, and we all powerless to prevent it, a thrill of horror -shivered through every nerve of my system, my blood ran cold, my brain -reeled around, and I could with difficulty prevent myself from falling, -so great was my emotion. But rallying my spirits, I tried to persuade -myself it was all a dream. I strained my eyes through the mist to see -whether I might not be mistaken—to discover if possible some hope for -the forlorn beings on board the brig. But, alas! it was in vain. There -were the white dresses blowing about in the gale as the two females -knelt on the deck and clung to the knees of their protector—there was -the crew mustered at the pumps, while jets of brine were pouring from -the scuppers—and there were the crushed and splintered bulwarks -betokening that the efforts of the men were dictated by no idle fears. I -groaned again in agony. Had it been my own fate to perish thus, I could -have borne my doom without a murmur; but to see fellow creatures -perishing before my sight, without my having the power to succor them, -was more than I could endure. I closed my eyes on the dreadful scene. -Nor were my emotions confined to myself. Not a heart of our vast crew -that did not beat with sympathy for our unhappy victims. Old and young, -officers and men, hardy veterans and eager volunteers, all alike owned -the impulses of humanity, and stood gazing, silent, spell-bound and -horror-struck, on the ill-fated brig and her despairing passengers. At -this instant a gray-haired man, whom we knew at once to be her skipper, -sprung into the main-rigging of the wreck, and placing his hands to his -mouth, while his long silvery locks blew out dishevelled on the gale, -shouted, - -“We—are—sink-ing!” and, as he ceased, a shiver ran through our crew. - -“God help us,” said the captain, for that officer had now reached the -deck, “we can do nothing for them. And to see them sink before our eyes! -But yet I will not despair,” and raising his voice, he shouted, “can’t -you hold on until morning, or until the gale subsides a little?” - -The skipper of the brig saw by our captain’s gestures, that he had -hailed, but the old man could not hear the words in the uproar of the -gale, and he shook his head despondingly. - -“We are sinking!” he shouted again; “there is a foot of water in the -hold, and the sea is pouring in like a cataract. We have been stove.” - -Never shall I forget that moment, for, to our excited imaginations, it -seemed as if the brig was visibly going down as the skipper ceased -speaking. His words sounded in our ears like the knell of hope. A pause -of several seconds ensued—a deep, solemn, awe-inspiring pause—during -which every eye was fixed on the battered vessel. Each man held his -breath, and looked in the direction of the brig, as she rose and fell on -the surges, fearful lest the next billow would submerge her forever. We -all saw that it was useless to attempt holding any communication with -her, for no human voice, even though speaking in a voice of thunder, -could be heard against the gale. The two vessels were, moreover, rapidly -increasing the space betwixt them,—and, although objects on the deck of -the brig had been at first clearly perceptible in the starlight, they -had gradually grown dimmer as she receded from us until now, they could -scarcely be seen. There was no alternative, therefore, but to abandon -her to her fate. The skipper of the brig seemed to have become sensible -of this, for, after having remained in the main rigging watching us for -several moments longer, he finally descended to the deck, waving his -hand mournfully in adieu. - -Meantime the aspect of the heavens had materially changed. When I first -came on deck, the stars, I have said, were out bright on high, with only -a few scud clouds now and then chasing each other over the firmament. -Even then, however, I had noticed a small black cloud extending across -the western horizon, and giving an ominous aspect to the whole of that -quarter of the sky. But during the last half hour my attention had been -so engrossed by the events I have just related that I lost all -consciousness of this circumstance. Now, however, the increasing -darkness recalled it to my mind. I looked up. Already dark and ragged -clouds, precursors of the vast body of vapors following behind, were -dimming the stars overhead, now wrapping the decks in almost total -darkness, and now flitting by and leaving us once more in a dim and -shadowy light, through which the men loomed out like gigantic spectres. -The wind had perceptibly decreased, while the sea had risen in -proportion. The spray no longer flew by in showers, but the white caps -of the billows, as they rolled up in the uncertain light, had a -ghastliness that thrilled the heart with a strange emotion, almost -amounting to superstitious dread. The ship strained and creaked as she -rose heavily on the billows, or sunk wallowing far down in the abyss; -while ever and anon the sea would strike on her bows like a -forge-hammer, breaking in showers of spray high over the forecastle, and -often sending its foam as far back as the main hatchway. - -The huge mass of vapors meanwhile had attained the zenith, and was -rolling darkly onward towards the opposite horizon. Directly the wind -died nearly altogether away, while a total darkness shrouded us in its -folds. Even then, however, a few stars could be seen low in the eastern -seaboard, twinkling sharp and serene, just under the edge of that -ominous cloud, but casting only a faint and dreamy radiance around them, -and in vain attempting to penetrate the gloom higher up in the sky. The -brig was last seen to the north-west, where the darkness had become most -intense. She was still doubtless in that quarter, but no trace of her -could be discerned. - -“It’s as black up yonder as the eye of death,” said the captain, “and I -can see nothing there but a dense, impenetrable shadow—your sight is -better, Mr. Duval,” he continued, addressing the first lieutenant, “can -you make out any thing?” The officer shook his head. “Well, we will -hail, at any rate. I would not have run afoul of them for my -commission!” - -The hail rung out startlingly on the night, and every ear listened for -the response. No answer came. - -“Again!” said the captain. - -“A-ho-o-y!—Hil-lo-o-o-o!” - -A second of breathless suspense followed, and then another, when we were -about giving up all hope; but at that instant a faint cry,—it might -have been a wail or it might not, God knows!—came floating across the -waste of waters. It fell on our listening ears like a lamentation for -the dead. - -“Heaven preserve us!” solemnly said the captain, “I’m afraid all is over -with them.” - -“Amen!” ejaculated the lieutenant, and for an instant there was a -breathless silence, as if each was too awe-struck to speak. Suddenly the -huge sails flapped against the mast, bellied out again, and then whipped -backward with a noise like thunder. The effect was electric. The captain -started and spoke. - -“The wind is shifting,” he ejaculated, holding up his hand, after having -first wet it slightly; “ha! the breeze is coming from the north. It will -strike by the mainmast. Let her stretch away at first, but we’ll -heave-to as soon as possible. I wouldn’t for the world desert this -neighborhood: God grant we may find some vestige of the brig when -morning dawns!” - -The hurried orders of the officer of the deck to prepare for the coming -hurricane had scarcely been given and executed, before it seemed to us -as if we could see, even amid the blackness of darkness to the north, -the whirling motion of gigantic clouds, and, almost simultaneously, with -a roar as of ten thousand batteries, this new tempest was upon us. Its -first fury was beyond description—surpassing imagination—defying -belief. It howled, shrieked, and bellowed through the rigging in such -awful and varied tones, that the oldest hearts were chilled with fear. -It was as if the last convulsive throe of a world was at hand. It was as -if the whole fury of the elements had been collected for one last -effort—as if tortured nature, made frantic by agony, had broke loose -from her tormentors—as if the mighty deep itself, in horror-struck -penitence, was thundering its awful “_de profundis_” on the eve of final -dissolution. I could scarcely breathe, much less stand. I could only -grasp a rope, fling myself almost prostrate, and await either the -subsidence of the storm, or the foundering of our ship,—for, during -several minutes, it appeared to me as if every second was to be our -last. Torrents of water, meanwhile, swept in sheets from the crests of -the billows, were whirling like smoke-wreathes along the decks,—while -the ravening surges, faintly seen like shadows through the gloom, chased -each other in wild and rapid succession along our sides. All was -darkness, doubt and terror. - -But happily the duration of the squall was proportioned to its -intensity, and, in less than five minutes, the hurricane began to -decrease in violence. After the lapse of a short period more the gale -rapidly subsided, although its power was still considerable. Before half -an hour, however, we were lying-to as near to our old position as we -could attain,—having suffered no loss except that of our maintopsail, -which was blown from the bolt ropes in the first moment of the squall, -but with a noise which was lost in the louder uproar of the wind. - -“They have never survived this,” said the captain in a melancholy tone, -when we were once more snugly hove-to: “how many souls are in eternity -the All-Seeing Eye only knows! Keep her here,” he added after a pause, -turning to descend to his cabin, and addressing the officer of the deck, -“and with the first streak of light, if the gale shall have abated, as I -suspect it will, cruize up to our old position, maintaining a sharp -look-out in every direction. But I shall be on deck myself by that -time,” and with the words, taking a last but fruitless look towards the -west, he went below. In half an hour the crowded decks were deserted by -all except the silent watch; and no sound broke the whistle of the -winds, except the tread of the men, or the cry of “all’s well” passing -from look-out to look-out along the decks. - -With the first appearance of morning I was on deck. The gale had nearly -gone down; the clouds had broken away; and the stars were out again, -clear and bright, in the firmament. Yet the waves still rolled mountain -high around us, now heaving their snowy crests above us in the sky, and -now rolling their dark bosoms far away under our stern. Morning slowly -dawned. Gradually, one by one, the stars paled on high, and a faint -shadowy streak of light began to spread along the eastern seaboard. Over -the boundless expanse of waters around us no living object met the eye, -so that, in that dim mysterious light, the sense of loneliness was -overpowering. But I had no thought then for aught except the ill-fated -brig. I felt an unaccountable interest in her. It seemed as if some -unknown sympathy existed betwixt me and those on board of her, as if my -destiny in some mysterious manner was connected with theirs. I could not -rest on deck, but ascending to the cross-trees I took my station there, -and gazed out anxiously over the waste of waters. Our ship had, by this -time, been put about, and we were now, as near as I could judge, in the -vicinity of the spot where the collision occurred. The moment came which -was either to realize or confirm my fears. A strange emotion took -possession of me. My heart beat nervously, my breath came heavily, I -trembled in every fibre of my system. I strained my eyes in every -direction around, and, once or twice, as a billow rolled its white crest -upwards, I fancied I saw a sail,—but, alas! my agitation had deceived -me, and all was a blank watery waste around. For more than an hour we -cruized to and fro, but in vain. As time passed and hope died away, the -officers and men, one by one, left the rigging, until finally even the -captain gave up the search, and issued a reluctant order to put the ship -away on her course. At that instant I saw, far down on the seaboard, -what seemed to me a tiny sail; but as we sank in the trough of the sea -the object faded from my sight. With eager eyes, I watched for it as we -rose on the swell, and—God of my fathers!—it was the long looked for -boat. - -“A sail!” I shouted almost in a phrenzy—“they are in sight!” - -“Where away?” demanded the officer of the deck, while every eye swept -the horizon in eager curiosity. - -“On the lee-beam!” - -“What do you make it out?” - -“A ship’s launch—crowded with human beings!” - -“God be praised!—it is the brig’s crew,” ejaculated the captain. “Up -with your helm, quarter-master—around with her all—there she dances,” -and as he spoke the gallant ship wheeled around and in a few minutes the -brig’s launch was rocking under our bows. - -The discipline of a man-of-war could scarcely suppress the loudest -demonstrations of emotion on the part of the crew, when the freight of -that tempest-tost launch reached our decks. The sailors of the brig were -instantly seized by our tars, and borne forward in triumph,—while our -superior grasped the hand of the rescued skipper with visible emotion. -But when the two females, with their protector, an elderly, gentlemanly -looking man, were safely landed on the quarter-deck, every eye was at -once attracted to the interesting group. Both the females were young and -beautiful, but one was surpassingly lovely. As I gazed on her, it seemed -as if some long forgotten dream had come back to me; but in vain were my -attempts to give it reality. At this instant their protector spoke in -reply to a question from the captain. - -“It is indeed a miracle that we are saved. The brig went down in that -fearful squall, and though we had taken to the launch, as a last hope, -we did not believe we should live a minute in such a hurricane. But an -Omnipotent Power preserved us for some wise ends. All night long we were -tossed at the mercy of the waves. We saw you long before you saw us, and -thought that you had given up the search, when suddenly your head was -brought around in our direction—and here we stand on your decks. To -whom are we indebted for our discovery? We owe him our eternal -gratitude.” - -All eyes were instantly turned towards me, and the captain taking me by -the hand, said, - -“Mr. Cavendish has that enviable honor,” at the same time presenting me. - -“Cavendish!” exclaimed a silvery female voice in delighted surprise. - -At the mention of that name I looked up with eager curiosity, and saw -the eyes of the lovely speaker fixed upon me, as if in recognition. She -crimsoned to the brow at my eager glance, and as she did so, the crowd -of dim recollections in my mind assumed a definite shape, and I -recognized in that sweet smile, in that delicately tinted cheek, in -those now tearful eyes, in that lustrous brow, the features of my old -playmate Annette! - -“Cavendish—what, little Henry Cavendish?” exclaimed the gentleman, -eagerly seizing my hand, “yes! it is even so, although the years that -have passed since you used to visit Pomfret Hall have almost eradicated -your features from my memory. God bless you, my gallant young friend! We -owe you our lives—our all.” - -The scene that ensued I will not attempt to describe. Suffice it to say -I retired that night with a whirl of strange emotions at my heart. Was -it Love? - - * * * * * - - - - - A SONG. - - - BY J. R. LOWELL. - - - Violet! sweet violet! - Thine eyes are full of tears; - Are they wet - Even yet - With the thought of other years, - Or with gladness are they full, - For the night so beautiful, - And longing for those far-off spheres? - - Loved one of my youth thou wast, - Of my merry youth, - And I see, - Tearfully, - All the fair and sunny past, - All its openness and truth, - Ever fresh and green in thee - As the moss is in the sea. - - Thy little heart, that hath with love - Grown colored like the sky above, - On which thou lookest ever, - Can it know - All the woe - Of hope for what returneth never, - All the sorrow and the longing - To these hearts of ours belonging? - - Out on it! no foolish pining - For the sky - Dims thine eye, - Or for the stars so calmly shining; - Like thee let this soul of mine - Take hue from that wherefor I long, - Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, - Not satisfied with hoping—but divine. - - Violet! dear violet! - Thy blue eyes are only wet - With joy and love of him who sent thee, - And for the fulfilling sense - Of that glad obedience - Which made thee all which Nature meant thee! - - * * * * * - - - - - COUSIN AGATHA. - - - BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. - - - “O what a goodly outside falsehood hath.”—Shakspeare. - -“I have been thinking, Henry, that I should like to invite cousin Agatha -to spend the winter with us: what do you say to my plan?” - -“Really, Alice, I can say nothing about it, since I know nothing of the -lady.” - -“Oh, I had forgotten that you had never seen her; she is only distantly -related to us, but being left an orphan at an early age, she became an -inmate of our family and continued to reside with us until she married. -Agatha is several years my senior, and entered society while I was yet -in the school-room; she married rather in opposition to the wishes of my -parents, as they approved neither of the profession nor the character of -her husband, who was an officer in the army, and known to be a man of -dissolute habits. Poor thing! she has fully paid the penalty of her -folly during seven years of poverty and discomfort. Her husband has been -sent from one frontier station to another, until the health of both was -destroyed, and at the time of his death they were both at Sackett’s -Harbor.” - -“Then she is a widow?” - -“Yes, her vile husband died about a year since, and cousin Agatha is -released from bondage, but reduced to actual penury. I received a letter -from her yesterday, the first she has written since my marriage, and she -alludes most touchingly to her desolate condition as contrasted with my -happiness.” - -“And that letter, I suppose, induced you to think of inviting her to -spend the winter with us?” - -“It did, Harry; for I felt as if it was almost selfish in me to be so -happy when my early friend was pining in loneliness and poverty.” - -“I love the kindliness of feeling which prompts you to such acts, dear -Alice, but, to confess the truth, I would rather relieve your cousin’s -distresses in any other way.” - -“But there is no other way of doing so, Henry—she would not accept -pecuniary aid from us: why do you object to her visit?” - -“Because we are so happy that I dread any interruption to the calm -current of our life.” - -“Thank you, dear Harry, I cannot find it in my heart to scold you for -your selfishness,” said the young wife, as she laid her hand on her -husband’s arm; “but really,” she continued, “Cousin Agatha would be the -last person in the world to disturb our tranquillity. She is full of -gentleness and sentiment; a creature of warm and affectionate impulses, -and she would delight in adding to our enjoyments. You know my health -will confine me to the house this winter, and you may find the long -evenings hang heavy upon your hands.” - -“Not in your society, Alice.” - -“I am glad you think so, Harry; but when I am languid and dispirited -from indisposition, you would find cousin Agatha a charming companion; -besides, she would relieve me from some of the cares of house-keeping.” - -“Well, my dear, you offer so many good reasons in favor of her coming, -that I can find no argument against it, but I have a sort of a -presentiment that she will not be agreeable.” - -“Oh, Harry, how can you think so? if you could see her you would change -your opinions very soon, for her picturesque appearance would charm your -artistical taste.” - -“Is she very beautiful?” - -“No, but she is just the person to please a painter, for there is so -beautiful a combination of light and shade in her face. She has those -grey eyes which, when fringed with long, dark lashes, are so full of -varied expression, and her hair, black as the raven’s wing, falls in -heavy natural ringlets that put to shame the skill of a _coiffeur_.” - -“May she not be altered since you saw her, Alice?” - -“True, I had forgotten that more than five years have passed since we -last met; but, even if her person has changed, her heart, I am sure, has -not, and when you know her you will thank me for my pertinacity in thus -wringing your reluctant consent to her visit.” - -“If you think it will add to your enjoyments, Alice, invite her by all -means.” - -Alice Wentworth had been a wife scarcely two years, and her married life -had been a scene of uninterrupted happiness. Nothing would have induced -her to risk the disturbance of her tranquillity, but remembering the -companion of her early years as one who had been the confidant of all -her childish joys and sorrows, she looked upon her presence as the -completion of her plans of enjoyment. Her husband’s scruples she -naturally attributed to unfounded prejudice which an acquaintance with -her cousin could not fail to overcome, and, therefore, following the -dictates of kindly feeling, she determined to cheer the bereaved widow -by an affectionate letter of invitation. - -Some three weeks after she had despatched her missive, at an early hour, -on a cold autumnal morning, a carriage drove up to the door, and a loud -ring announced the expected guest. Alice had not yet finished her -morning toilet, and Mr. Wentworth hastened down to receive the lady; but -scarcely had he got through the awkwardness of a self-introduction when -his wife entered, full of impatience to embrace her early friend. During -the mutual raptures of their meeting, he had leisure to scrutinize the -new inmate of his family, and certainly his impressions were any thing -but favorable. Cousin Agatha had taken a violent cold, her countenance -was disfigured by a swollen cheek, and her eyes were bleared and -inflamed by a severe attack of influenza, while the effect of steamboat -slumbers and a steamboat toilet did not tend to the improvement of her -appearance. Indeed Harry Wentworth could scarcely refrain from laughter -when he contrasted his wife’s enthusiastic description with the reality -before him. But Alice, with ready hospitality, conducted her cousin to -her apartment, and to that room the wearied traveller, overcome with -illness and fatigue, was confined during the several succeeding days. - -“When will your friend be presentable, Alice?” asked Mr. Wentworth one -evening as he threw himself upon a sofa, after tea, “since she has been -here you have not sat with me a half hour, for your whole time seems -devoted to nursing.” - -“I hope she will be well enough to meet you at dinner to-morrow, Harry; -the swelling has left her face and she begins to look like herself. What -amuses you so much?” she asked, as her husband burst into a loud laugh. - -“I was thinking of the force of contrast, Alice; you are an excellent -painter, dear, but you draw your tints too exclusively from fancy; who -could have recognized your _picturesque beauty_ with soft _grey eyes_ -and _raven curls_ in the dowdyish looking woman with red nose and redder -eyes whom I welcomed as cousin Agatha?” - -“For shame, Harry, you ought not to judge of her by her appearance at -that time.” - -“Perhaps not; but first impressions are the most durable, and I shall -never see any beauty in your cousin, for even if she should hereafter -appear to advantage when dressed for display, I shall never forget how -she looked in her travelling dishabille; one thing you may be sure of, -Alley, you will never have cause to be jealous of your _picturesque_ -cousin.” - -“I don’t mean to be jealous of any one, Harry, but I shall be much -mistaken if you do not learn to admire cousin Agatha.” - -“Then you may prepare yourself for a disappointment, Alice; I do not -think I should feel perfectly satisfied with any one who had thus broken -in upon our tranquil happiness, and even if I were disposed to like your -cousin elsewhere she would not please me in our quiet home. Besides, I -was disappointed in my idea of her personal beauty, and her manners -appeared to me abrupt and inelegant.” - -“Harry, you never were more mistaken in your life.” - -“Well, well—it will be difficult to convince me of my error.” A slight -rustle at the door was heard as Mr. Wentworth finished his ungallant -speech, and the next moment cousin Agatha entered. - -“I thought I would endeavor to make my way to the drawing-room instead -of depriving you any longer of the society of your husband, dear Alice,” -said she as she languidly sank into the softly-cushioned chair which Mr. -Wentworth drew forward for her accommodation. Of course the usual -congratulations followed, and as the invalid dropped the heavy shawl -from her shoulders, Alice glanced towards her husband in the hope that -he would not fail to observe the symmetry of her petite figure. He was -too great an admirer of beauty to fail in such notice, yet still he -could see little to claim admiration in her face. Her complexion was not -clear; her mouth, though well formed and adorned with superb teeth, was -large, and her eyes were dim from recent illness, while her curls were -hidden beneath one of those fairy fabrics of gossamer and ribbon which -often display the taste of the wearer at the expense of a crowning -beauty. But, ere the evening had expired, Mr. Wentworth was forced to -acknowledge that he had formed too hasty an opinion of her manners, for, -whatever _brusquerie_ he might have observed on the morning of her -arrival, he was certainly struck now by the easy elegance and graceful -dignity of her deportment. - -From this time cousin Agatha laid aside the character of an invalid, -and, quietly taking her place at the table and fireside, seemed to have -no other wish than to make herself useful. Devoted in her attentions to -Alice, she took little notice of Mr. Wentworth except to receive his -courteous civility with profound gratitude. He was nothing more to her -than the husband of her friend, and while she exhibited the deepest -interest in the development of Alice’s mind and feelings, she seemed -scarcely to observe the fine taste, the elegant scholarship, and the -nobleness of sentiment which characterized Mr. Wentworth. Alice suffered -no small degree of mortification from this evident coldness between -those whom she was so anxious to behold friends. She could not bear to -find Agatha so totally blind to the perfections of her beloved Henry, -and she was almost as much annoyed at her husband’s indifference to the -graces of her cousin. - -“You are pained because I do not sufficiently admire your husband, -Alice,” said Agatha, one day, when they were alone, “but surely you -would not have me estimate him as highly as you do?” - -“I would not have you love him quite as well, but I would have you -appreciate his exalted qualities.” - -“My dear coz,” said Agatha, with a slightly sarcastic smile, “do not, I -pray you, make it one of the conditions of our friendship that I should -see through your eyes. Mr. Wentworth is a fine scholar, a tolerable -amateur painter, and a most ardent lover of his pretty wife; is that not -sufficient praise?” - -Alice felt uncomfortable, though she could scarcely tell why, at this -and similar remarks from cousin Agatha. She had been accustomed to -consider her husband a being of superior worth and endowments, but there -was something in her cousin’s manner of uttering commendation of him, -which seemed to imply contempt even while it expressed praise. In the -innocence of her heart, Alice several times repeated cousin Agatha’s -sayings to her husband, and they were not without their effect upon him. -The self-love which exists, more or less, in every heart, was by no -means a negative quantity in the character of Mr. Wentworth. He knew his -wife overrated his talents, but he loved her the better for her -affectionate flattery, and cousin Agatha’s apparent ignorance of his -character mortified and vexed him. He began to think that his prejudices -had prevented him from showing himself in a proper light, and his -wounded vanity led him to redouble his attentions to his guest. -Heretofore he had never thought of her except when in her company; but -now, the certainty that she was as yet blind to his merits, made her an -object of interest. He was not a very vain man, but his wife’s idolatry -had gratified even while he was fully aware of its extravagance, and he -was proportionably annoyed by the perfect coldness with which cousin -Agatha regarded him. She seemed to think him a very good sort of a man, -but not at all superior to the common herd, and he was determined to -convince her of her mistake. Agatha had succeeded in her first -design:—she had aroused him from the torpor of indifference. - -Cousin Agatha was a most invaluable assistant to a young housekeeper, -for she had a quick hand, a ready invention, and exquisite taste, so -that whether a pudding was to be concocted, a dress trimmed, or a party -given, she was equally useful. Alice had learned the duties of -housekeeping theoretically and was now only beginning to put them in -practice, as every young wife must do, for whatever she may know in the -home of her childhood, she still finds much to be learned in organizing -and arranging a new household. Cousin Agatha, on the contrary, had been -trained from her childhood to _do_ all these things, for the dependent -orphan had early learned to earn her bread by her own usefulness. In the -course of her married life she had been compelled to practice the -thousand expedients which pride and poverty teach to a quick-witted -woman, and it is not surprising, therefore, that her skill should far -surpass that of the gentle and self-distrusting Alice. Doubting her own -knowledge only because Agatha was near to advise, the young wife applied -to her on all occasions, until at length the regulation of domestic -affairs was entirely in her hands, and Alice was left only to assist in -the execution of Agatha’s plans. Cousin Agatha was always busied in some -pretty feminine employment. She had very beautiful hands, and her long -taper fingers were always engaged in some delicate needle-work or an -elegant piece of tapestry. Did it ever occur to you, my fair reader, -that a pretty hand never appears to such advantage as when busied with -the needle? The piano extends the fingers until the hand sometimes -resembles a bird’s claw;—the pencil or the pen contracts it until half -its beauty is concealed; but needle-work, with the various turnings and -windings necessary to its accomplishment, displays both hands in -perfectly natural positions and in every variety of grace. This fact was -not unknown to cousin Agatha; she had no accomplishments, but she was -rarely seen without the tiniest of gold thimbles upon her slender -finger. - -Slowly and by scarcely perceptible degrees, Agatha seemed to learn the -full value of the prize which her friend had drawn in the lottery of -life. His fine talents seemed to dawn upon her with daily increasing -vividness, his amateur sketches became more and more characterized by -genius, his musical taste developed itself surprisingly, and, ere many -weeks had elapsed, Alice had the satisfaction of repeating to her -husband many a heart-warm compliment breathed into the ear of the happy -wife by cousin Agatha in her hours of confidential communing with her -friend. Nor was Mr. Wentworth slower in discovering the latent charms of -his guest. Restored to her former health, and associating as the guest -of Mrs. Wentworth, in a pleasant circle of society, cousin Agatha threw -aside the weeds of widowhood, and appeared in all the attractive -coquetry of tasteful and becoming dress. Her luxuriant tresses were once -more allowed to shadow her low feminine brow, and fall upon her graceful -neck, or, if bound up in conformity with fashion, the very restraint was -studiously arranged in such a manner as to display their rich -redundancy. Her grey eyes sometimes seemed actually flashing with light, -and again were filled with the soft liquid lustre of intense -sensibility; and then her smile, displaying her brilliant teeth and -lighting up her whole face, had the effect of a sudden sunbeam upon a -darkened landscape. The charm of Agatha’s face was its vivid and varied -expression; the grace of her person was the effect of long and carefully -studied art. Not a look, not a gesture, not even a movement of her -fringed eyelids, but was the result of frequent practice. There was a -perfection of grace in her attitudes that seemed like Nature’s self. Her -head always assumed a pretty position, her curls always seemed to drop -in their proper place, her drapery always fell in becoming folds, and no -one observed that she was particular in avoiding cross lights, -especially careful not to face a broad glare of sunshine, and remarkably -fond of placing herself at the arm of a sofa, so as to obtain a fine -back ground for the exhibition of her attitudes. Harry Wentworth -wondered how he could ever have thought her ugly. And then her -manners:—what could be more gentle, more feminine, more fascinating -than the tenderness of her tones and the sweetness of her deportment? -She seemed to look upon gentlemen as if she felt all a woman’s -helplessness, and was willing to consider man as a “_chevalier sans peur -et sans reproche_,” born to be her natural protector. There was -something so pleading in the soft eyes which she lifted to the face of -the sterner sex, that few could resist their charm, and actually Harry -Wentworth was not one of those few. - -Long before the time fixed for the termination of Agatha’s visit, Alice -had urged her to prolong her stay, and, when Mr. Wentworth added his -earnest entreaties, she was induced to promise that she would set no -other limit to its duration than such as circumstances might create. But -as week after week fleeted by, Alice began to doubt whether she had -acted wisely in making this request. She was ashamed to acknowledge even -to herself the feeling, but, somehow or other, she was not quite as -happy as she had been before cousin Agatha’s coming. She attributed it -to the nervous irritability from which she was now suffering, and -endeavored to think that when she should once more recover her health, -she would find her former enjoyment in Agatha’s society. But Agatha -sometimes made such singular remarks;—they were uttered with the utmost -simplicity and _naïveté_, her smile was full of sweetness, her tones -like the summer breeze when she spoke, and yet the import of her words -was excessively cutting and sarcastic. There was often an implied -censure in her manner of replying to Alice—not in the words themselves, -but rather in their application, which the young wife, sick and -dispirited, felt perhaps too keenly. Alice was uncomfortable and yet she -scarcely could tell why. A shadow was resting upon her path, and she -felt, although she saw it not, that there was a cloud in her sunny sky. -The idea that she was no longer absolutely essential to her husband’s -comfort sometimes crossed her mind. During the many hours which she was -obliged to spend in her own apartment, she found that Henry was fully -occupied with his game of chess, or his favorite book in company with -cousin Agatha, and though it seemed only a realization of her own -wishes, yet she was not prepared to find herself so entirely thrown into -the back-ground of the family picture. - -At length Alice became a mother, and in the new emotions awakened in her -bosom, she forgot her vague feelings of discomfort. Mr. Wentworth was -too proud and happy to think of anything but his boy, and when Alice -beheld him bending over their cradled treasure with a feeling almost of -awe as well as love, she wondered how she could ever have felt unhappy -for a moment. Cousin Agatha seemed to share in all their joy, and in the -presence of the father she fondled and caressed the child as gracefully -as possible. - -“Do you not think, Alice,” said she one day, as she sat with the babe -lying on her lap, while Wentworth bent fondly over it, “do you not think -your sweet little Harry resembles poor Charles Wilson?” - -“No, indeed I do not,” exclaimed Alice, quickly, while the blood mounted -to her pallid cheek and brow. - -“Well, I certainly see a strong likeness; there is the same peculiar -dimple in the chin, which neither you nor Mr. Wentworth have, and even -the color of his eyes reminds me of Charles,” said cousin Agatha. - -“His eyes are like his father’s,” said Alice, “and nothing is more -common than to see in the face of a child a dimple which entirely -disappears in later life.” - -“Well, Alice, dear, I did not mean to awaken any painful reminiscence by -my remark; I did not know you were so sensitive on the subject.” These -words were uttered in the blandest tones, and the sweet smile which -accompanied them was as beautiful as a sunbeam on a troubled sea; but -Alice felt both pained and vexed. Agatha had recurred to the only -unpleasant recollections of her whole life, and she could not determine -whether it had been done by design, or was merely the result of -thoughtlessness. The remark had not been without its effect upon Mr. -Wentworth. He saw with surprise the evident vexation of his wife at the -mention of Charles Wilson’s name, and while he feared to ask an -explanation from her in her present feeble state of health, he -determined to satisfy his curiosity by appealing to cousin Agatha. - -“Did you never hear of Charles Wilson?” exclaimed Agatha, in great -apparent surprise, when, a few hours afterwards, he asked the question. - -“Never until I heard you mention him,” was the reply. - -“Then I ought not to tell you anything about him, because I cannot -betray the confidence of a friend.” - -“But as a friend I entreat you to tell me.” - -“It is impossible, Mr. Wentworth:—what Alice has thought best to -conceal I certainly will not disclose: strange that she should not have -told you; there certainly ought to be the most perfect confidence -between husband and wife.” - -“Agatha, you have excited such a painful interest in the secret, -whatever it is, that I must know it.” - -“You will not betray me to Alice if I tell you?” - -“Certainly not, if secrecy be the only condition on which I can learn -the truth.” - -“And you promise not to think harshly of poor Alice?” - -“It would be strange if I should think other than well of one whose -purity of heart is so well known to me.” - -“Well, then,” replied the insidious woman, with a slight, a very slight -sneer on her lip, “since you have such undoubting faith in your wife -there can be no harm in telling you. But really we are making a great -affair of a very trifling occurrence. Charles Wilson was a clerk to -Alice’s father, and while she was yet at school, he made love to her in -the hope of enticing her into a clandestine marriage. Alice was only -about fifteen, and like all girls of her age was delighted with a first -lover. He lived in the house with, us, and of course enjoyed many -opportunities of meeting her, so that before we knew anything about it, -an elopement was actually planned. I happened to discover it, and as my -duty required, I made it known to her parents. The consequence was that -Wilson was dismissed and Alice sent to boarding-school; I dare say she -has thanked me for it since, though then she could not forgive me. You -look pained, Mr. Wentworth. I hope my foolish frankness has not made you -unhappy. I really thought it such a childish affair that I felt no -hesitation in alluding to it to-day, supposing that Alice had lost all -sensitiveness about it, and I was never more surprised than by her -evident agitation. However, I confess I was wrong; I ought to have known -that an early disappointment is not easily forgotten even in the midst -of happiness.” - -“How long since this happened?” asked Mr. Wentworth. - -“Just before I was married—I suppose about eight years ago; I wonder -Alice did not tell you the whole story, but she is such a timid creature -that I suppose she could not summon courage enough to be perfectly frank -with you.” - -Wentworth made no reply, but the poisoned arrow had reached its mark. -His confidence in his wife was shaken; he had not been the first love of -her young heart,—she had loved and been beloved,—she had plighted her -faith even in her girlhood, and the creature whom he believed to be as -pure in heart as an infant, had narrowly escaped the degradation of a -clandestine marriage with an inferior. He was shocked and almost -disgusted; he felt heartsick, and even the sight of his child, connected -as it now was with the similitude of the early lover, was painful to -him. He recalled a thousand trifling circumstances which would pass by -unheeded but for cousin Agatha’s kind attempts to explain Alice’s -meaning, and all now corroborated his suspicions of his wife’s perfect -sincerity. The more he discussed the matter with Agatha, the more -dissatisfied did he become with Alice; and in proportion as she fell in -his estimation the frank and noble character of Agatha arose. There was -a high-toned sentiment about her, a sense of honor and an intensity of -feeling which added new charms to her expressive countenance and -graceful manners. Wentworth was not _in love_ with Agatha, but he was a -little _out of love_ with his wife, and the constant presence of such a -fascinating woman, at such a moment, was certainly somewhat dangerous. -More than once he caught himself regretting that Alice was not more like -her cousin, and long before Alice was well enough to leave her -apartment, he had become quite reconciled to her absence from the -drawing-room. Alice felt his increasing neglect, but she dared not allow -herself to attribute it to its true cause. Cousin Agatha was so kind, so -attentive to her, and studied so much the comfort of Mr. Wentworth, that -she almost hated herself for the growing dislike which she was conscious -of feeling towards her. - -One day, about two months after the birth of her babe, Alice, who had -been suffering from a slow fever, felt so much better that she -determined to surprise her husband by joining him at dinner. Wrapping a -shawl about her, she slowly proceeded down stairs, and finding the -drawing-room door partly open, entered so silently as not to disturb the -occupants of the apartment. Mr. Wentworth was lying on a sofa, while -cousin Agatha sat on a low ottoman beside him, with one hand threading -the mazes of his bright hair, while the other was clasped in his. The -face of Agatha was hidden from her, but the wretched wife beheld the -eyes of her husband upturned towards it with the most vivid expression -of fondness and passion. Her very soul grew sick as she gazed; she -turned to glide from the room and fell senseless on the threshold. Weeks -had elapsed ere she recovered her consciousness. The sudden shock which -her weakened nerves had sustained, produced inflammation of the brain, -and for many an anxious day her husband watched beside her sick bed, -dreading lest every hour should be her last. She lay in a state of -stupor, and her first signs of returning consciousness was the shiver -that ran through her frame when the voice of cousin Agatha struck upon -her ear. - -Mr. Wentworth was conscience-stricken when, aroused by the sound of her -fall, he had beheld Alice lying lifeless on the floor. He uttered not a -word of enquiry, but he readily divined the cause of her condition, and, -as he bore her to her apartment, he almost hated himself for the brief -delirium in which his senses had been plunged. He could not be said to -love Agatha, but her fascinations had not been without their effect upon -his ardent nature. He did not attempt to analyse his feelings, but -yielding to the spell which enthralled him, abandoned himself to the -enjoyment of her blandishments. Hour after hour had he spent in -listening to the false sentiment which fell from her lips in the most -honied accents,—evening after evening had he consumed in attending her -to parties of pleasure,—day after day had been bestowed on the -completion of her portrait, while Alice was left to the solitude of her -sick room. But now, when he beheld her stricken down at his very feet, -the scales seemed to fall from his eyes, and his infidelity of heart -appeared to him in all its true wickedness. The toils which the -insidious Agatha had woven about him were broken as if by magic, and his -wife, his long-suffering, wronged Alice was dearer to him than all the -world beside. He watched by her with all the kindness of early -affection, and well did he understand her abhorrent shudder at the -presence of Agatha. His devoted attention and the _adieus_ of cousin -Agatha, who now found it necessary to terminate her visit, had no small -share in restoring Alice to convalescence. - -Alice was slowly regaining health and strength; the faint tint of the -wild-rose was once more visible on her thin cheek, and her feeble step -had again borne her to the room so fraught with painful remembrances. -But far different were the feelings with which she now revisited that -neglected apartment. Cousin Agatha was gone,—she was once more alone -with her husband, and with true womanly affection she willingly forgot -his past errors in his present tenderness. But there were some things -yet to be explained before perfect confidence could exist between them. -The serpent had been driven from their Paradise, but its trail had been -left on many a flower;—the shadow of distrust still lay dark upon the -pleasant paths of domestic peace, and yet both shrunk from uttering the -mystic word which might chase its gloom forever. But the moment of -explanation came. A letter from cousin Agatha was placed in the hands of -Alice, and repressing the shudder with which she looked upon it, she -proceeded to peruse it; but scarcely had she read three lines, when, -with an exclamation of surprise, she handed it to her husband, and -telling him it interested him no less than herself, begged him to read -it aloud. It was as follows: - - “My sweet Cousin, - - “I write to repeat my thanks for the exceeding kindness and - hospitality which I received while an inmate of your family. I - feel especially bound to do this, because, as I am on the point - of embarking for France, I may be unable for several years to - offer my acknowledgments in person. You are doubtless surprised, - but you will perhaps be still more so when I tell you that I am - going to join _my husband_. Our marriage took place more than a - year since, but we thought it prudent to conceal it both on - account of my then recent widowhood, and because my husband was - not then of age. His guardian was opposed to his union with your - penniless cousin, and he was sent off on a European tour to - avoid me; but we were secretly married before his departure, and - as he has now attained his majority, he has written to me to - meet him in Paris, where I hope to find that domestic felicity - which I failed to derive from my former unhappy connection. By - the way, my dear Alice, I fancied, when I was at your house, - that there was some little coldness existing between you and - your husband. I sincerely hope that I was mistaken, and that it - was my love for you which rendered me too observant of the - little differences which frequently occur in married life. I - think Mr. Wentworth was piqued about your early engagement with - Charles Wilson; you had better explain the matter to him and he - will probably find as little cause for his jealousy as, I assure - you, there was for yours. Don’t pout, dear Alice, you certainly - _were_ a little jealous of me, but I only flirted harmlessly - with your husband _pour passer le temps_; and perhaps a little - out of revenge. I wanted to try whether a ‘_little dowdyish - red-nosed woman_’ could have any attractions for him.” - -“By Jupiter! she must have been listening at the door when I was -discussing the subject of her ill-looks just after her arrival,” -exclaimed Mr. Wentworth. - -“Yes, and mortified vanity will account for her well-practised -seductions, Harry,” said Alice; “but let us hear the end of this -precious epistle.” Mr. Wentworth resumed: - - “I hope he has fallen into his old habits again and is as fond - and lover-like as I found him on my arrival. One piece of advice - I must give you, my sweet Alice; do not trust him too much with - those who have greater powers of fascination than his little - wife, for believe me, he possesses a very susceptible nature. Do - not be such a good spouse as to show him my letter. Remember I - write to you with my usual impudent frankness. Kiss little Harry - for me and remember me most kindly to your amiable husband. - - “Ever your devoted friend and cousin, - “Agatha.” - - “P.S. Can I send you any _nicknackery_ from Paris? I shall be - delighted to be of service to you.” - -“Well, that is as characteristic a letter as I ever read,” exclaimed -Wentworth as he flung it on the table; “how adroitly she mingles her -poison with her sweetmeats; and how well she has managed to affix a -sting at the last: I wonder whom she has duped into a marriage.” - -“Some foolish boy, doubtless, for she speaks of him as being just of -age, while she will never again see her thirtieth summer,” said Alice; -“but what does she mean Harry about my early engagement with Charles -Wilson? He was a clerk to my father.” - -“She told me a long story Alice about a proposed elopement between you -and this said Charles Wilson which had been prevented by her -interference.” - -“Good Heavens! Harry how she must have misrepresented the affair. Wilson -was in papa’s employ and probably fancied it would be a good speculation -if he could marry his employer’s daughter. He became exceedingly -troublesome to me by his civilities, and finally made love to me in -plain terms, when I communicated the whole affair to cousin Agatha, and -begged her to tell papa of it, because I was such a child that I was -ashamed to tell him myself. She did so, and Wilson was dismissed; but I -was then only a school girl.” - -“You seemed so agitated when she recurred to the subject that I readily -believed her story.” - -“I was vexed, Harry, because she insinuated that there was a likeness -between our dear boy and that vulgar fellow.” - -“How I have been deceived by a fiend in the form of an angel,” exclaimed -Wentworth; “we should have been saved much suffering if she had never -entered our doors.” - -“Indeed we should, Harry, and I shall never cease to reproach myself for -my folly in introducing such a serpent into our Elysium.” - -“Your motives were kind and good, Alice; and though it has been to you a -severe lesson in the deceitfulness of the world, and to me a still more -painful one in the deceitfulness of my own heart, yet, I trust, that to -both of us it may not be without its salutary influences.” - - * * * * * - - - - - TO HELEN IN HEAVEN. - - - I think of thee by night, love, - In visions of the skies, - When glories meet the sight, love, - That dazzle mortal eyes— - I think a waving cloud, love, - A golden cloud I see, - A half transparent shroud, love, - That moveth like to thee! - - I hear a voice of singing, - A sound of rushing wings, - A joyous anthem ringing - As if from silver strings, - A chorus loudly swelling, - A low sweet voice alone— - And I know thou hast thy dwelling - Beneath the eternal throne. - A. A. J. - - * * * * * - - - - - AN APPENDIX OF AUTOGRAPHS. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - -In our November and December numbers we gave _fac-simile_ signatures of -no less than _one hundred and nine_ of the most distinguished American -_literati_. Our design was to furnish the readers of the Magazine with a -_complete_ series of Autographs, embracing a specimen of the MS. of -_each of the most noted among our living male and female writers_. For -obvious reasons, we made no attempt at classification or -arrangement—either in reference to reputation or our own private -opinion of merit. Our second article will be found to contain as many of -the _Dii majorum gentium_ as our first; and this, our third and last, as -many as either—although fewer names, upon the whole, than the preceding -papers. The impossibility of procuring the signatures now given, at a -period sufficiently early for the immense edition of December, has -obliged us to introduce this Appendix. - -It is with great pleasure that we have found our anticipations -fulfilled, in respect to the _popularity_ of these chapters—our -individual claim to merit is so trivial that we may be permitted to say -so much—but we confess it was with no less surprise than pleasure that -we observed so little discrepancy of opinion manifested in relation to -the hasty critical, or rather gossiping observations which accompanied -the signatures. Where the subject was so wide and so necessarily -_personal_—where the claims of more than one hundred _literati_, -summarily disposed of, were turned over for re-adjudication to a press -so intricately bound up in their interest as is ours—it is really -surprising how little of dissent was mingled with so much of general -comment. The fact, however, speaks loudly to one point:—to the _unity -of truth_. It assures us that the differences which exist among us, are -differences not of real, but of affected opinion, and that the voice of -him who maintains fearlessly what he believes honestly, is pretty sure -to find an echo (if the speaker be not mad) in the vast heart of the -world at large. - -[Illustration: signature of Chas. Sprague] - -The “Writings of Charles Sprague” were first collected and published -about nine months ago, by Mr. Charles S. Francis, of New-York. At the -time of the issue of the book, we expressed our opinion frankly, in -respect to the general merits of the author—an opinion with which one -or two members of the Boston press did not see fit to agree—but which, -as yet, we have found no reason for modifying. What we say now is, in -spirit, merely a repetition of what we said then. Mr. Sprague is an -accomplished _belles-lettres_ scholar, so far as the usual ideas of -scholarship extend. He is a very correct rhetorician of the old school. -His versification has not been equalled by that of any American—has -been surpassed by no one, living or dead. In this regard there are to be -found finer passages in his poems than any elsewhere. These are his -chief merits. In the _essentials_ of poetry he is excelled by twenty of -our countrymen whom we could name. Except in a very few instances he -gives no evidence of the loftier ideality. His “Winged Worshippers” and -“Lines on the Death of M. S. C.” are _beautiful_ poems—but he has -written nothing else which should be called so. His “Shakspeare Ode,” -upon which his high reputation mainly depended, is quite a _second-hand_ -affair—with no merit whatever beyond that of a polished and vigorous -versification. Its imitation of “Collins’ Ode to the Passions” is -obvious. Its allegorical conduct is mawkish, _passé_, and absurd. The -poem, upon the whole, is just such a one as would have obtained its -author an Etonian prize some forty or fifty years ago. It is an -exquisite specimen of mannerism without meaning and without merit—of an -artificial, but most inartistical style of composition, of which -conventionality is the soul,—taste, nature and reason the antipodes. A -man may be a clever financier without being a genius. - -It requires but little effort to see in Mr. Sprague’s MS. all the -idiosyncrasy of his intellect. Here are distinctness, precision, and -vigor—but vigor employed upon _grace_ rather than upon its legitimate -functions. The signature fully indicates the general hand—in which the -spirit of elegant imitation and conservatism may be seen reflected as in -a mirror. - -[Illustration: signature of Cornelius Mathews] - -Mr. Cornelius Mathews is one of the editors of “Arcturus,” a monthly -journal which has attained much reputation during the brief period of -its existence. He is the author of “Puffer Hopkins,” a clever satirical -tale somewhat given to excess in caricature, and also of the -well-written retrospective criticisms which appear in his Magazine. He -is better known, however, by “The Motley Book,” published some years -ago—a work which we had no opportunity of reading. He is a gentleman of -taste and judgment, unquestionably. - -His MS. is much to our liking—bold, distinct and picturesque—such a -hand as no one destitute of talent indites. The signature conveys the -hand. - -[Illustration: signature of CharlesHoffman] - -Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman is the author of “A Winter in the West,” -“Greyslaer,” and other productions of merit. At one time he edited, with -much ability, the “American Monthly Magazine” in conjunction with Mr. -Benjamin, and, subsequently, with Dr. Bird. He is a gentleman of talent. - -His chirography is not unlike that of Mr. Matthews. It has the same -boldness, strength, and picturesqueness, but is more diffuse, more -ornamented and less legible. Our _fac-simile_ is from a somewhat hurried -signature, which fails in giving a correct idea of the general hand. - -[Illustration: signature of Horace Greely] - -Mr. Horace Greely, present editor of “The Tribune,” and formerly of the -“New-Yorker,” has for many years been remarked as one of the most able -and honest of American editors. He has written much and invariably well. -His political knowledge is equal to that of any of his -contemporaries—his general information extensive. As a _belles-lettres_ -critic he is entitled to high respect. - -His MS. is a remarkable one—having about it a peculiarity which we know -not how better to designate than as a _converse_ of the picturesque. His -characters are scratchy and irregular, ending with an _abrupt taper_—if -we may be allowed this contradiction in terms, where we have the -_fac-simile_ to prove that there is no contradiction in fact. All abrupt -MSS., save this, have square or _concise_ terminations of the letters. -The whole chirography puts us in mind of a _jig_. We can fancy the -writer jerking up his hand from the paper at the end of each word, and, -indeed, of each letter. What mental idiosyncrasy lies _perdu_ beneath -all this, is more than we can say, but we will venture to assert that -Mr. Greely (whom we do not know personally) is, _personally_, a very -remarkable man. - -[Illustration: signature of Prosper M. Wetmore] - -The name of Mr. Prosper M. Wetmore is familiar to all readers of -American light literature. He has written a great deal, at various -periods, both in prose and poetry, (but principally in the latter) for -our Papers, Magazines and Annuals. Of late days we have seen but little, -comparatively speaking, from his pen. - -His MS. is not unlike that of Fitz-Greene Halleck, but is by no means so -good. Its clerky flourishes indicate a love of the beautiful with an -undue straining for effect—qualities which are distinctly traceable in -his poetic efforts. As many as five or six words are occasionally run -together; and no man who writes thus will be noted for _finish_ of -style. Mr. Wetmore is sometimes very slovenly in his best compositions. - -[Illustration: signature of Henry W.] - -Professor Ware, of Harvard, has written some very excellent poetry, but -is chiefly known by his “Life of the Saviour,” “Hints on Extemporaneous -Preaching,” and other religious works. - -His MS. is fully shown in the signature. It evinces the direct, -unpretending strength and simplicity which characterize the man, not -less than his general compositions. - -[Illustration: signature of William B O. Peabody] - -The name of William B. O. Peabody, like that of Mr. Wetmore, is known -chiefly to the readers of our light literature, and much more familiarly -to Northern than to Southern readers. He is a resident of Springfield, -Mass. His occasional poems have been much admired. - -His chirography is what would be called beautiful by the ladies -universally, and, perhaps, by a large majority of the bolder sex. -Individually, we think it a miserable one—too careful, undecided, -tapering, and effeminate. It is not unlike Mr. Paulding’s, but is more -regular and more legible, with less force. We hold it as undeniable that -no man of _genius_ ever wrote such a hand. - -[Illustration: signature of Epes Sargent] - -Epes Sargent, Esq., has acquired high reputation as the author of -“Velasco,” a tragedy full of beauty as a poem, but not adapted—perhaps -not intended—for representation. He has written, besides, many very -excellent poems—“The Missing Ship,” for example, published in the -“Knickerbocker”—the “Night Storm at Sea”—and, especially, a fine -production entitled “Shells and Sea-Weeds.” One or two Theatrical -Addresses from his pen are very creditable _in their way_—but the way -itself is, as we have before said, execrable. As an editor, Mr. Sargent -has also distinguished himself. He is a gentleman of taste and high -talent. - -His MS. is too much in the usual clerk style to be either vigorous, -graceful, or easily read. It resembles Mr. Wetmore’s but has somewhat -more force. The signature is better than the general hand, but conveys -its idea very well. - -[Illustration: signature of W. Allston] - -The name of Washington Allston, the poet and painter, is one that has -been long before the public. Of his paintings we have here nothing to -say—except briefly, that the most noted of them are not to our taste. -His poems are not all of a high order of merit; and, in truth, the -faults of his pencil and of his pen are identical. Yet every reader will -remember his “Spanish Maid” with pleasure, and the “Address to Great -Britain,” first published in Coleridge’s “Sybilline Leaves,” and -attributed to an English author, is a production of which Mr. Allston -may be proud. - -His MS. notwithstanding an exceedingly simple and even boyish air, is -one which we particularly admire. It is forcible, picturesque and -legible, without ornament of any description. Each letter is formed with -a thorough distinctness and individuality. Such a MS. indicates caution -and precision, most unquestionably—but we say of it as we say of Mr. -Peabody’s, (a very different MS.) that no man of original genius ever -did or could habitually indite it under any circumstances whatever. The -signature conveys the general hand with accuracy. - -[Illustration: signature of Alfred B Street] - -Mr. Alfred B. Street has been long before the public as a poet. At as -early an age as fifteen, some of his pieces were published by Mr. Bryant -in the “Evening Post”—among these was one of much merit, entitled a -“Winter Scene.” In the “New-York Book” and in the collections of -American poetry by Messieurs Keese and Bryant, will be found many -excellent specimens of his maturer powers. “The Willewemoc,” “The Forest -Tree,” “The Indian’s Vigil,” “The Lost Hunter” and “White Lake” we -prefer to any of his other productions which have met our eye. Mr. -Street has fine taste, and a keen sense of the beautiful. He writes -carefully, elaborately, and correctly. He has made Mr. Bryant his model, -and in all Mr. Bryant’s good points would be nearly his equal, were it -not for the sad and too perceptible stain of the imitation. That he has -imitated at all—or rather that, in mature age, he has persevered in his -imitations—is sufficient warrantry for placing him among the men of -talent rather than among the men of genius. - -His MS. is full corroboration of this warrantry. It is a very pretty -chirography, graceful, legible and neat. By most persons it would be -called beautiful. The fact is, it is without fault—but its merits, like -those of his poems, are chiefly negative. - -[Illustration: signature of R Penn Smith] - -Mr. Richard Penn Smith, although, perhaps, better known in Philadelphia -than elsewhere, has acquired much literary reputation. His chief works -are “The Forsaken,” a novel; a pseudo-auto-biography called “Colonel -Crocket’s Tour in Texas;” the tragedy of “Caius Marius,” and two -domestic dramas entitled “The Disowned,” and “The Deformed.” He has also -published two volumes of miscellanies under the title of “The Actress of -Padua and other Tales,” besides occasional poetry. We are not -sufficiently cognizant of any of these works to speak with decision -respecting their merits. In a biography of Mr. Smith, however, very well -written by his friend Mr. McMichael of this city, we are informed of -“The Forsaken,” that “a large edition of it was speedily exhausted”—of -“The Actress of Padua,” that it “had an extensive sale and was much -commended”—of the “Tour in Texas,” that “few books attained an equal -popularity”—of “Caius Marius,” that “it has great capabilities for an -acting play,”—of “The Disowned” and “The Deformed,” that they “were -performed at the London theatres, where they both made a favorable -impression”—and of his poetry in general, “that it will be found -superior to the average quality of that commodity.” “It is by his -dramatic efforts,” says the biographer, “that his merits as a poet must -be determined, and judged by these he will be assigned a place in the -foremost rank of American writers.” We have only to add that we have the -highest respect for the judgment of Mr. McMichael. - -Mr. Smith’s MS. is clear, graceful and legible, and would generally be -called a fine hand, but is somewhat too clerky for our taste. - -[Illustration: signature of O. W. Holmes] - -Dr. Oliver Wendel Holmes, of Boston, late Professor of Anatomy and -Physiology at Dartmouth College, has written many productions of merit, -and has been pronounced, by a very high authority, the best of the -humorous poets of the day. - -His chirography is remarkably fine, and a quick fancy might easily -detect, in its graceful yet picturesque quaintness, an analogy with the -vivid drollery of his style. The signature is a fair specimen of the -general MS. - -[Illustration: signature of G. W. Doane] - -Bishop Doane, of New Jersey, is somewhat more extensively known in his -clerical than in a literary capacity, but has accomplished much more -than sufficient in the world of books to entitle him to a place among -the most noted of our living men of letters. The compositions by which -he is best known were published, we believe, during his professorship of -Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in Washington College, Hartford. - -His MS. has some resemblance to that of Mr. Greely of “The Tribune.” The -signature is far bolder and altogether better than the general hand. - -[Illustration: signature of Albert Pike] - -We believe that Mr. Albert Pike has never published his poems in book -form; nor has he written anything since 1834. His “Hymns to the Gods,” -and “Ode to the Mocking Bird,” being printed in Blackwood, are the chief -basis of his reputation. His lines “To Spring” are, however, much better -in every respect, and a little poem from his pen, entitled “Ariel,” and -originally published in the “Boston Pearl,” is one of the finest of -American compositions. Mr. Pike has unquestionably merit, and that of a -high order. His ideality is rich and well-disciplined. He is the most -_classic_ of our poets in the best sense of the term, and of course his -classicism is very different from that of Mr. Sprague—to whom, -nevertheless, he bears much resemblance in other respects. Upon the -whole, there are few of our native writers to whom we consider him -inferior. - -His MS. shows clearly the spirit of his intellect. We observe in it a -keen sense not only of the beautiful and graceful but of the -picturesque—neatness, precision and general finish, verging upon -effeminacy. In force it is deficient. The signature fails to convey the -entire MS. which depends upon masses for its peculiar character. - -[Illustration: signature of James McHenry] - -Dr. James McHenry, of Philadelphia, is well known to the literary world -as the writer of numerous articles in our Reviews and lighter journals, -but, more especially, as the author of “The Antediluvians,” an epic poem -which has been the victim of a most shameful cabal in this country, and -the subject of a very disgraceful pasquinade on the part of Professor -Wilson. Whatever may be the demerits, in some regard, of this poem, -there can be no question of the utter want of fairness and even of -common decency which distinguished the Phillipic in question. The writer -of a _just_ review of the “Antediluvians”—the only tolerable American -epic—would render an important service to the literature o his country. - -Dr. McHenry’s MS. is distinct, bold and simple, without ornament or -superfluity. The signature well conveys the idea of the general hand. - -[Illustration: signature of R. S Nichols] - -Mrs. R. S. Nichols has acquired much reputation of late years, by -frequent and excellent contributions to the Magazines and Annuals. Many -of her compositions will be found in our pages. - -Her MS. is fair, neat and legible, but formed somewhat too much upon the -ordinary boarding-school model to afford any indication of character. -The signature is a good specimen of the hand. - -[Illustration: signature of Rich^{d} A Locke] - -Mr. Richard Adams Locke is one among the few men of _unquestionable -genius_ whom the country possesses. Of the “Moon Hoax” it is -supererogatory to say one word—not to know _that_ argues one’s self -unknown. Its rich imagination will long dwell in the memory of every one -who read it, and surely if - - the worth of any thing - Is just so much as it will bring— - -if, in short, we are to judge of the value of a literary composition in -any degree by its _effect_—then was the “Hoax” most precious. - -But Mr. Locke is also a poet of high order. We have seen—nay more—we -have heard him read—verses of his own which would make the fortune of -two-thirds of our poetasters; and he is yet so modest as never to have -published a volume of poems. As an editor—as a political writer—as a -writer in general—we think that he has scarcely a superior in America. -There is no man among us to whose sleeve we would rather pin—not our -_faith_ (of that we say nothing)—but our _judgment_. - -His MS. is clear, bold and forcible—somewhat modified, no doubt, by the -circumstances of his editorial position—but still sufficiently -indicative of his fine intellect. - -[Illustration: signature of RW Emerson.] - -Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson belongs to a class of gentlemen with whom we -have no patience whatever—the mystics for mysticism’s sake. Quintilian -mentions a pedant who taught obscurity, and who once said to a pupil -“this is excellent, for I do not understand it myself.” How the good man -would have chuckled over Mr. E! His present _rôle_ seems to be the -out-Carlyling Carlyle. _Lycophron Tenebrosus_ is a fool to him. The best -answer to his twaddle is _cui bono?_—a very little Latin phrase very -generally mistranslated and misunderstood—_cui bono?_—to whom is it a -benefit? If not to Mr. Emerson individually, then surely to no man -living. - -His love of the obscure does not prevent him, nevertheless, from the -composition of occasional poems in which beauty is apparent _by -flashes_. Several of his effusions appeared in the “Western -Messenger”—more in the “Dial,” of which he is the soul—or the sun—or -the shadow. We remember the “Sphynx,” the “Problem,” the “Snow Storm,” -and some fine old-fashioned verses entitled “Oh fair and stately maid -whose eye.” - -His MS. is bad, sprawling, illegible and irregular—although -sufficiently bold. This latter trait may be, and no doubt is, only a -portion of his general affectation. - -[Illustration: signature of G C Verplanck] - -The name of Gulian C. Verplanck has long been familiar to all American -readers, and it is scarcely necessary to say more than that we coincide -in the general view of his merits. His orations, reviews, and other -compositions all evince the cultivated belles-lettres scholar, and man -of intellect and taste. To high genius he has about the same claim as -Mr. Sprague, whom in many respects he closely resembles. - -His chirography is unusually rambling and school-boyish—but has vigor -and precision. It has no doubt been greatly modified by adventitious -circumstances, so that it would be impossible to predicate anything -respecting it. - - * * * * * - - - - - “DORCHESTER.” - - - BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “ATALANTIS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” ETC. - - - [“Dorchester” was a beautiful little country town on the banks - of the river Keawah, now Ashley, about twenty miles from the - city of Charleston, in South Carolina. It was chiefly settled by - New Englanders. For a time it flourished and became a market - town of some importance. The planters of the neighborhood were - generally persons of substance, who lived in considerable state, - and exercised the virtues of hospitality in an eminent degree; - but with the war of the Revolution, in which it suffered - greatly, it began to decline, and its only remains now are the - ruins of its church and the open walls of the old British fort. - From a memorandum which I made during a visit to the spot in - 1833, I take the following:—“The fort made of tapis—works - still in considerable preservation—the wood-work alone - decayed—the magazine in ruins—and the area overgrown with plum - trees. The church still standing—the steeple shattered by - lightning, and the wooden interior torn out—the roof beginning - to decay at the ends of the rafters. It will probably fall in - before very long.” This prediction was not permitted to be - verified. The fabric, I learn, has since been utterly destroyed - by an incendiary. Dorchester was distinguished by several - actions of partisan warfare during the Revolution It was, by - turns, a military depot of the Carolinians and the British. - These particulars will explain the little poem which follows.] - - Not with irreverential thought and feeling I resign - The tree that was a chronicle in other days than mine; - Its mossy branches crown’d the grove, when, hastily array’d, - Came down the gallant partisan to battle in the shade; - It saw his fearless eye grow dark, it heard his trumpet cry, - When, at its roots, the combat o’er, he laid him down to die; - The warm blood gushing from his heart hath stain’d the sod below— - That tree shall be my chronicle, for it hath seen it flow! - - Sweet glide thy waters, Ashley, and pleasant on thy banks - The mossy oak and mossy pine stand forth in solemn ranks; - They crown thee in a fitting guise, since, with a gentle play, - Through bending groves and circling dells thou tak’st thy lonely way: - Thine is the Summer’s loveliness—thy Winter too hath charms, - Thus sheltered in thy mazy course beneath their Druid arms; - And thine the recollection old, which honors thy decline, - When happy thousands saw thee rove, and Dorchester was thine. - - But Dorchester is thine no more, its gallant pulse is still, - The wild cat prowls among its graves and screams the whippoorwill, - A mournful spell is on its homes, where solitude, supreme, - Still, coaching in her tangled woods, dreams one unbroken dream: - The cotter seeks a foreign home,—the cottage roof is down, - The ivy clambers all uncheck’d above the steeple’s crown; - And doubly gray, with grief and years, the old church tott’ring - stands, - Ah! how unlike that holy home not built with human hands! - - These ruins have their story, and, with a reverent fear, - I glide beneath the broken arch and through the passage drear; - The hillock at my feet grows warm—beneath it beats a heart - Whose pulses wake to utterance, whose accents make me start; - That heart hath beat in battle, when the thunder-cloud was high, - And death, in every form of fate, careering through the sky; - Beside it now, another heart, in peace but lately known, - Beats with a kindred pulse, but hath a story of its own. - - Ah! sad the fate of maiden whose lover falls in fight, - Condemned to bear, in widowhood, the lonely length of light;— - The days that come without a sun, the nights that bring no sleep; - The long, long watch, the weariness, the same, sad toil—to weep! - Methinks, the call is happiness, when sudden sounds the strain - That summons back the exiled heart of love to heaven again;— - No trumpet-tone of battle, but a soft note sweetly clear, - Like that which even now is heard when doves are wooing near. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE TWO DUKES. - - - BY ANN S. STEPHENS. - - -One church and three dwelling houses, occupied by bishops, had already -been torn down to supply material for the magnificent palace which the -Duke of Somerset was erecting for himself in the Strand,—a sacrilege -which the populace were beginning to feel and resent, in a manner which -threatened some disturbance to the public peace. A rumor went abroad -that the Duke’s workmen had received his commands to repair to -Westminster on a certain day, in order to pull down the Church of St. -Margaret’s, and add its materials to those already so boldly wrested -from their sacred purposes. - -The gray of a summer’s morning was yet hanging over the city, when a -large number of workmen, each wearing the Lord Protector’s badge, -gathered in detached parties about the Abbey. These men had been -employed in the destruction of St. Mary’s Church but a few days before, -and their coarse vestments were torn and covered with the lime and dust -which they had brought from the ruin, a mark of their late sacrilegious -employment, which brought upon them many a bitter taunt and frowning -look from the wayfarers, even before they entered the parish of -Westminster. So great was the manifestation of public resentment, that -each band of workmen, as it went along, drew close together, and -exhibited the pickaxes, crowbars, and other heavy tools of iron with -which they were armed, like soldiers compelled on an irksome duty, but -resolute to perform it. These men gathered slowly around the Abbey, and -waited for a larger body of working-men, who were expected to leave -their employment in the Strand and come to their assistance in a force -and number that might awe the people into quiet submission to the -injustice of their lord. - -The morning wore on, but they still lingered about the church, trifling -with their heavy tools and talking together with some degree of anxiety, -for the expected aid had not yet arrived, and each instant the streets -and angles about the Abbey became more and more thronged with sullen and -discontented men, all with lowering brows and flashing eyes, bent -menacingly upon them. - -Still the crowd increased. Men hurried to and fro eagerly and with -cloudy looks. The workmen gradually gathered in a close phalanx about -the little church, whispered anxiously together, and brandished their -tools with a faint show of defiance, yet seemed afraid or reluctant to -level them against the sacred pile which stood among that mass of eager -human beings in the cool morning light, quiet and tranquil as the spirit -of holiness that brooded over its altar. - -Though the persons gathered about St. Margaret’s were considerable in -numbers, they were not yet condensed into a form that could justly be -termed a mob. The streets were alive, but not yet blocked up with -people. Men, and even women, might pass to and fro on ordinary business -without much fear of injury or interruption, but with a certainty of -being jostled and pushed about by the scattered stream of human life -that flowed toward the cathedral. - -While the neighborhood of St. Margaret’s was in this unusual state, two -females, followed by more than an equal number of serving-men, each with -the Lord Protector’s badge upon his sleeve, came suddenly round a -corner, and, before they seemed aware of it, were encompassed by the -crowd, through which it seemed each instant more difficult to make a -free passage. The two females were muffled in their mantles, with the -hoods drawn so closely that it was difficult to distinguish their -features, or gather an idea of their station, save by a certain air of -dignity and refinement which hung about the shorter of the two, and -which no vestments could entirely conceal. Both this lady and her -companion seemed bewildered and terrified by the rush of human beings -with which they had become so strangely mingled. At first they attempted -to retrace their steps, but the street through which they had come was -now blocked up by a company of more than two hundred working-men, who -were coming up from their employment on the Strand, to assist in the -destruction of St. Margaret’s. When thus convinced that all hopes of -retreat were cut off, the female who had seemed most anxious to escape -the crowd, put forth a white and trembling hand from beneath her mantle -and drew the hood still more closely over her face, while the other in -her fright allowed the drapery to fall back from her head and exposed -the features of an elderly woman slightly wrinkled, and at the moment -pale as a corpse with apprehension. Her sharp black eyes were keen with -terror, and her wrinkled hands shook in a way that rendered the effort -to draw her hood forward one of considerable difficulty. The servitors -who followed these bewildered persons were but little annoyed by the -position which seemed so painful to them, but one, a tall insolent man, -held up his arm that all might see the Lord Protector’s badge, and -ordered those immediately around him to make way for a noble lady of the -Duke’s household to pass. He spoke loud and arrogantly, but the muffled -female grasped his arm, and while her words came gaspingly from excess -of fear, muttered— - -“Dost thou not see how these men lower and frown upon us already? -Hearest thou not my noble father’s name bandied from lip to lip, and -each time with a curse coupled with it? Take down thy arm, good -Richard—muffle the sleeve within thy cloak and let us struggle forward -as we are best able.” - -The serving-man hastened to obey this direction, and wrapped his arm in -the short cloak which had been allowed to float back from his shoulder. -This act was performed the more promptly as a score of burning eyes had -flashed back a stern admonition of danger when challenged by the -Somerset badge thus ostentatiously uplifted in their midst. Even as it -was, the man’s temerity might have been followed by violent -consequences, but that a deeper and more general object of resentment -presented itself in the body of workmen that had made its way up from -the Strand through the cross street which our little party had left but -a moment before, and now flung itself impetuously into the excited -crowd. The moment these men were seen pushing their way towards their -brethren gathered about St. Margaret’s, shouting defiance and pushing -the citizens about with their heavy iron-tools, the spirit of discord -broke loose like a wild beast from his cage. A hoarse shout thundered -through the air. The hitherto stern and silent multitude swayed round -and plunged forward, a mass of enraged, reckless, human life, eager to -trample down the body of men who came among them armed to do sacrilege -on the holy temple of their worship. When the first fierce cry of their -onset swept over the females whose movements we have recorded, the one -whose features were yet concealed grasped her companion’s arm, and, -shrieking with affright, sprang wildly on one side, forcing a passage to -the steps of a dwelling-house, where she sunk at the foot of a granite -pillar, panting like a wounded fawn beneath the drapery which still -concealed her person. Her attendants strove to follow her but were swept -away by the rushing multitude, and, spite of their struggles, forced -into the _mêlée_ raging between the citizens and the Somerset workmen. -These men fought their way valiantly. Keeping in a compact body they -resolutely cleared a path through the unarmed mob with their heavy -crowbars and pickaxes, which proved most effective weapons of defence. -The people goaded to fury by opposition rushed madly upon them, strove -to wrest away their weapons by brute force, and when that failed tore up -the pavement and hurled the massive stones furiously into their midst. -Many were wounded, more than one dropped down dead, crushed beneath the -deadly missiles which filled the air. The sweet breath of morning was -made terrible by the groans and cries and harsh sounds of hot-blooded -men, goaded to fury and fierce with a thirst for strife, which -threatened to deluge the torn pavements with blood and carnage. - -The band of workmen which had already reached St. Margaret’s at first -essayed to aid their companions but it was impossible even to penetrate -the mob of citizens which separated the two parties, and they returned -to their station before the church, which the mob, in its blind -eagerness to attack the larger and more obnoxious party, had left almost -entirely at their mercy. Still their numbers were small, and the enraged -people so near at hand that but the lifting of an implement of -destruction would have placed them in imminent peril. So they remained -inactive, contenting themselves with a hope that Somerset, the Lord -Protector, would hear of the riot and come to his people’s rescue. Still -the fight raged on, the workmen were driven back, step by step, to a -cross street whence they had emerged, and which their numbers choked up, -forming a solid front, narrow and compact, which the assailants found -impossible to break and difficult to contend against, as few had the -hardihood to come within the sweep of those heavy iron bars which were -never wielded but they crushed some human being to the earth. While the -workmen maintained this position the assailants were compelled to abate -the fury of their attack. The scene of strife too had been considerably -removed from the first place of encounter. - -The young female, who is the especial object of our interest, crouched -at the base of the granite pillar where she had sought refuge, -shuddering and sick with fear, amid this tumult of strife and terrible -passions raging about her. She heard the shrieks and howling cries of -the multitude as they struggled together, heard them tear up the -pavement with curses, and felt the air tortured into unnatural currents -as the heavy stones whirled fiercely over her head. Still she neither -shrieked nor moved a limb, but clung with a shuddering clasp to the -pillar, helpless and almost stupefied with terror. While the fight raged -fiercest about her she remained unnoticed, for even there, amid that -throng of men tugging at each other’s throats and wrangling like wild -animals together, females were to be seen fighting and eager for -strife—the most relentless among the throng. In this terrible mingling -of sexes and strife of angry passions, a helpless and prostrate female, -shrinking from a scene too horrible even for her imagination, might well -have been overlooked. All were too fiercely occupied to offer her -protection or insult. But as the scene of strife became more distant the -dense crowd around her was scattered, and more than one of the rude -persons who hang about the skirts of a riotous mob from idle curiosity -or in hopes of plunder, observed the deathly stillness of her position. -There was a delicacy in the small white hand and rounded arm which clung -to the pillar, exposed by the falling drapery and flung out in beautiful -relief upon the stone as if a limb of exquisite sculpture had been -chiselled there. But the persons who gazed were too rude for thoughts of -beauty though so strangely betrayed. A cluster of brilliants that blazed -on one of the fingers, and the rich drapery that lay in a picturesque -heap over her whole person, conveyed hopes of rich plunder, and many a -covetous eye twinkled with expectation that when the crowd were drawn to -a distance she might be left helpless and exposed to their rapacity. At -last an artisan or mechanic of the lowest order ascended the steps where -she had sought refuge, and, apparently heedless of her presence, sat -down on the opposite side of the pillar, so near that his dusty leathern -jerkin almost touched the arm still wound immovably around it. He now -uncovered his head and wiped the perspiration from a low and -disagreeable forehead with the sleeve of his jerkin, pushed back a mass -of coarse hair that had fallen over his eyes, and was about replacing -his cap, when a flash of sunshine fell upon the cluster of brilliants -which gemmed one of the fingers just in a range with his eye. A look of -coarse delight came to his repulsive features, a cunning avaricious joy -disagreeable beyond description. He cast an eager look upon the throng, -which was still great, and toyed with his cap, waving it up and down -with both hands carelessly as if to cool his face when any person seemed -especially regarding him. At last, when the general attention was drawn -another way by a party of horsemen coming at a hard gallop down the -street, he, as if by accident, held his cap so as to conceal his face -from the multitude, and drew back slowly till the pillar half concealed -him, then, softly removing the hand from its clasp on the stone, he drew -the ring away quick as lightning, and grasping it in his rough palm -allowed the little hand to fall down cold and lifeless upon the step. - -“Plunder from the dead is free to the first comer,” he muttered, -replacing his cap, “a woman completely killed or in a swoon is the same -thing, and one or the other state belongs to this dainty lady, I take -it.” - -As he muttered these words, the plunderer sauntered with a heavy idle -swagger down the steps, and would have mingled with the crowd, but at -that moment an elderly man, evidently the servitor of some noble family, -paused by the steps, glanced at the recumbent figure, and hastily -inquired who the person was, and why no assistance had been rendered. -The artisan, to whom he addressed himself as the nearest person, was -suddenly taken with a decided and absorbing interest in the struggle -that still raged farther down the street, and, when the question had -been thrice repeated, only withdrew his attention long enough to declare -that he was quite ignorant regarding the lady so strangely situated, -and, in truth, had observed her for the first time when pointed out by -the worshipful questioner. - -The new comer ran hastily up the steps, flung back the mantle which had -fallen over her face, and revealed the features of a young girl, pale as -death, and lying cold and lifeless close to the pillar. A flood of rich -chestnut-brown hair had broken loose, and the string of rough emeralds -that had confined it lay broken and scattered among the folds of her -dress. The man seemed to recognize those sweet features, for he turned -pale, and an exclamation, almost of terror, broke from his lips. “She is -dead!” he cried in a voice of keen emotion—“her hands are cold as ice. -What shall I say to my poor lord—who will dare tell him?” - -“Then she has taken leave within a short space of time,” muttered the -artisan, who stood with his back toward the pillar, gazing intently afar -off, as if he had some heavy stake which the contest would decide. “I -can swear that her hand trembled as I pulled off the ring.” - -“For the love of heaven, is there no one here who will call assistance!” -exclaimed the new comer, kneeling down and raising the senseless lady -with his arm. - -“Can I do anything?” inquired the artisan, gruffly, as if aroused to a -consciousness that the fainting lady required some attention. - -“Thank you, good friend, yes—run, I beseech you for the nearest leech, -or rather look out my Lord Dudley, who has just ridden by; say to him -that a lady whose welfare is dear to him, has swooned in the street, and -is in danger from the mob. Go, good man, go at once, or I fear me our -blithesome lady will never smile again!” - -“Nay,” said the artisan, who had fixed a greedy eye on the emeralds -scattered over the lady’s dress. “As I may not know the Lord Dudley when -he is found, had you not better leave the poor lady to me while you seek -him out yourself; the more especially as you may see that her mouth is -red again, and there is a tear breaking through the thick eye-lashes -that were so black and still when you first uncovered her face. The air -has done her good. Leave her to me, and by the time you come back with -the gentleman you wot of she will be well again. Truly, my jerkin is -none of the cleanest,” he added in reply to a glance which the other had -cast on his mean raiment, “nor my face much to your liking, I see; but I -shall not run off with your dainty trouble there, not being fool enough -to cumber myself with anything of womankind, be she gentle or simple, so -you can trust me.” - -There was something in the artisan’s manner more than in his -appearance—and that was suspicions enough, that rendered the person he -addressed reluctant to trust a being so helpless to his charge. He -hesitated and was deliberating how to act, when the multitude came -rushing back to their old station near the church, shouting fiercely and -uttering terrible imprecations on the Duke of Somerset, who had sent a -large body of armed men up the Thames, who had landed at the foot of -Westminster Bridge, resolute to support his artisans in the destruction -of St. Margaret’s. It was the first charge of this party, as it joined -the body of workmen, which still defended the passage up St. Margaret’s -street, that sent the crowd rushing back upon the church. The small band -of horsemen which had just passed, wheeled suddenly round and came back -almost by compulsion, for their way was entirely blocked up by the -populace, and behind were the Somerset men, urged to fierce resentment, -and goading them on to madness. - -The leader of this equestrian band—for it evidently belonged to neither -of the contending parties—was a young and remarkably handsome man, who -seemed entangled with the crowd by accident, and only desirous of -continuing his morning ride in tranquillity. The magnificent trappings -of his black charger—the jewelled buckle which fastened the plumes on -his cap, leaving a fine open forehead and a mass of light curling hair -exposed to view. The short cloak of dark green velvet bordered with -gold—the slashed and pointed doublet and hose underneath, betrayed him -as one of the brightest and most noble ornaments of the young King -Edward’s court, and were all in striking contrast with the rude mob from -which he was deliberately striving to extricate himself. He was followed -by a number of retainers well mounted, and all wearing his family badge; -yet it was not till they were forced to retrace their way and made some -slight commotion in the crowd in wheeling their horses, that the -tumultuous populace seemed to recognize them. But when the leader was -known, those men not actively engaged in the fight, pressed back to give -him way, and greeted him with uncovered heads—a few flung their caps in -the air, calling out for those in advance to make room for the Lord -Dudley; others took up the cry, and then went up a loud eager shout of - -“A Warwick! a Warwick! room, room for a Warwick!” Thus sounding a -defiance to the Somerset battle-cry, that rang so fiercely up from the -distance. - -This recognition by the mob seemed to annoy the object of their clamor -beyond measure. He lifted his hand with an imperative motion, in a vain -effort to silence their noisy greeting; but when he saw that this was -mistaken for encouragement, and that his family name rang louder and -with more joyous acclamation above all the tumult, he bent his noble -head to the multitude with forced resignation, and strove more -resolutely to retreat from a scene, which from many causes, filled him -with anxiety and regret. More than once his high spirit was so chafed by -the notice which he had unwillingly obtained, that nothing but -compassion for the multitude seemed to prevent him giving a free rein to -the noble beast which shook his head, champed angrily his tightened bit, -and curveted with impatience among the mass of human beings that -scarcely gave his hoofs free play upon the pavement. - -The two men whom we left near the young female, who was just returning -to animation, were interrupted in their discussion by these two sources -of renewed commotion which we have just related, and when the cry of “a -Warwick, a Warwick,” swept by, the last comer, who was still supporting -the lady, started to his feet, placed a hand over his eyes to shade them -from the sun, and looked earnestly over the sea of human heads rising -and falling and flowing by, like the motion of a forest when the wind -sweeps over it. All at once he uttered an exclamation of pleasure, and -rushing down the steps, forced his way to the young horseman who was now -almost opposite the place he had occupied. Pushing eagerly through the -crowd which surrounded the struggling charger, he seized him by the bit, -as the only means of attracting the rider’s attention in a scene where -his voice was exerted in vain; but so great was the tumult that even -this method proved ineffectual, and it was not till he had flung the -beast almost upon his haunches that he was recognized by the anxious -nobleman. The young man bent his head, for the eager face of his -retainer startled him, though the words he would have uttered were swept -away by the thousand fierce sounds that filled the air. At last, by the -aid of gesture and such broken words as reached his master’s ear, the -man made himself understood. The horseman started upright in his -stirrups, cast a keen look toward the spot pointed out by his attendant, -and, heedless of all former caution, plunged his spurs into the restless -charger, which reared and plunged with a violence that sent the people -back upon each other, and cleared a space of some yards about him. -Regardless of consequences, the nobleman scarcely gave his horse time to -recover himself, but urged him through the frightened crowd with an -impetuosity that sent a shower of sparks about his hoofs when they -struck upon the lower-most of the stone flags where the lady had taken -shelter. - -The young man sprang from his saddle, and pushing aside the artisan who -still hung about her, took the now partially recovered lady in his arms, -and in a voice of hurried and anxious affection inquired it she were -hurt, and multiplied questions one upon another, mingling them with -broken expressions of tenderness, which she could only answer by sobs -and the profuse tears that rushed over her burning cheeks. She seemed -entirely overcome with joy at his presence, and the intense shame -arising from her extraordinary situation. All his questions only served -to make her weep the more bitterly; but she clung nervously to his hand, -trembling between the pleasure of his protection and the fear that he -might condemn her, and besought him, in broken tones, to take her home, -to forgive her, but, above all things, to help her away from the mob of -coarse rough faces that were gazing upon her humiliation. - -“Nay, compose yourself,” said Dudley, in those low and persuasive tones -best calculated to allay her nervous excitement, “are you not safe with -me? you are too feeble to move yet. In a little time I trust that we may -pass in safety, but—” - -“Forgive me, my lord,” interrupted the man who had informed his master -of the lady’s plight. “If her ladyship can find strength to walk, had we -not better remove her at once to a place of safety? It is yet possible -to make our way round the corner, and so into the Park.” - -The Lord Dudley looked upon the crowd and shook his head. - -“See, my lord,” said the man still more earnestly, “the people are -becoming more turbulent than ever—in less than five minutes the space -between this and the church will be crowded full again.” - -“I fear she is too weak for the attempt,” replied Dudley, looking down -with tender anxiety into the sweet troubled face lifted with an -expression of timid confidence to his. - -“Oh, no, I am quite strong now; I can walk very well if you are with -me,” said the young girl; but her pale and trembling lips belied the -words as she turned her back to the people and strove with unsteady -hands to gather the scattered masses of her hair beneath the hood, which -scarcely served to conceal its rich beauty, dishevelled and loose as it -was. “See, I am quite ready,” she added, wrapping the mantle about her, -and gathering courage beneath the concealment of its folds, and clinging -to the young nobleman’s arm she stood terrified, it is true, but willing -to submit herself to his guidance. - -“My poor bird, how it pants and trembles beneath my arm,” murmured -Dudley. And amid all the annoyance of his position, his heart thrilled -with a sense of the protection which it gave to the object of his love; -but the feeling gave way to one of keen anxiety; for the populace were -by this time assailed so fiercely by the Somerset men that it was giving -way before them, and rapidly condensing itself around the Abbey, which -threatened soon to become the scene of contention. - -“What can be done? which way shall we go?” said Dudley, appealing to his -attendant. - -The man looked around and gravely shook his head. “I see no plan of -escape unless we struggle through the crowd,” he replied despondingly, -“and yet there is but your lordship and my humble self to protect the -Lady Jane, and the press threatens to be great.” - -The artisan who had made a show of holding Dudley’s horse, while he -concealed the ring and as many of the jewels which had dropped from the -lady’s hair as he could purloin during the short time that she had been -left alone with him, in the sleeve of his jerkin—now slipped the bridle -over his arm, and came up the steps so far as its length would permit. - -“If I might advise, fair sir,” he said, doffing his cap, and concealing -a large emerald that had before escaped him, with his foot, as he spoke. -“If I might make bold to give an opinion, three stout men are enough to -cover the retreat of one woman any day. Your gallant self and my -worshipful friend here, to say nothing of the man before you, who lacks -not both tough bone and sinew in a fair fight, and the noble horse, -which I take it, is worth at least two men, having a fine knack, as I -but now witnessed, of scattering a crowd with his hoofs. Well now, fair -sir, supposing you mount this noble nag and push a way through the -crowd, while my worshipful friend and humble self follow at his heels -with the lady between us. Oh, this does not jump with the lady’s humor, -I see,” continued the man without breaking the thread of his speech, as -the Lady Jane drew closer to her companion and murmured in an affrighted -voice, “no, no Dudley—keep you with me or I shall die with terror -else.” - -Dudley answered by a gentle pressure of the arm clinging to his, and the -man went on, as we have said, regardless of the interruption. - -“Well, if she does not fancy the cut of my face, perhaps the black -charger there will have better taste. Shall I mount and clear a path for -you? It is not often that I sit on a crimson saddle with housings of -velvet and gold—but there is an old saying or a new one, it matters not -which, that if you ‘put a beggar on horseback he will ride’—I must not -say exactly where in the presence of this lady, but to such a journey a -passage through this crowd of hooting scoundrels would be child’s -play—shall I mount, fair sir? you see the fight is getting nearer and -there will be hot work anon.” - -As the man finished speaking, he dropped his sheepskin cap quite by -accident, and displayed considerable awkwardness in picking it up again. -For a person rather shabbily dressed he certainly was somewhat -fastidious in replacing it jauntily on one side of his head; but in the -process a large emerald was sent, with a dexterous movement of the -fingers, flashing down the sleeve of his jerkin, which probably had some -connection with this elaborate display of taste. - -At any other time Dudley would have rebuked the fellow’s boldness, but -he was too anxious for thoughts of station or dignity, and turning from -the rude speaker to his attendant, he demanded earnestly if his plan -were practicable. Before the person addressed could reply, an immense -paving stone was hurled by his temple, and, tearing off the artisan’s -cap in its progress, was dashed to pieces against the granite pillar -which had so long sheltered the Lady Jane Saymore. A shriek burst from -her pale lips, and every face in that little group turned white as -death. After a moment the artisan took up his cap, and thrusting his -hand through a hole cut in it by the stone, tried to convince himself -and those about him, by a broad laugh, that he was a man of decided -courage and not to be daunted by trifles that could drive the blood from -a nobleman’s cheek; but his voice died in the miserable attempt, and he -slunk down to the horse’s head again, for the moment subdued into -silence. - -“For the love of heaven, let us be gone,” said Lord Dudley, terrified by -the danger which threatened the object of his love. “Mount, fellow; and -if you clear a way for this lady, you shall have gold”— - -Before he could finish the sentence, the artisan sprang to a seat on the -gorgeous saddle, and striking his mutilated cap down upon his head with -one hand, drew up the bridle, and shouting, “Make room for the noble -Dudley—a Warwick, a Warwick,” plunged into the crowd. - -Dudley threw his arm firmly round the Lady Jane, and directing his -attendant to keep close on the other side, followed his strange -conductor, who proved an excellent guide; for in his appeal now to the -people in behalf of their favorite noble, now to the Somerset men as one -of their number, he succeeded in forcing a passage for the party till -they had almost reached the front of St. Margaret’s; but here their -position became more dangerous than ever, for a detachment of the -Somerset men, after a desperate struggle to force a passage through the -body of people, had found the way across a corner of the park and along -Prince’s street, almost within a stone’s throw of the church, before -their movement was discovered by those resolute on its defence. It was -in vain the artisan pleaded for a passage now, his voice was overwhelmed -by the roar. He was raised considerably above the crowd, and was among -the first to discover this new difficulty. He arose in the saddle, cast -a crest-fallen look over the sea of human heads that surrounded him, -then bending backwards, he addressed the young lord and his companion in -a voice that was less steady than he would gladly have rendered it— - -“To the church, my lord—to the church at once! The street is choked, as -far as I can see—is choked up with Somerset men; but they are mistaken -if they hope to reach St. Margaret’s; here are stout angry fellows -enough to keep them at bay till Michaelmas. Seek shelter for the lady, -fair Sir, before they all see as much as I do, for there will be bloody -work there, or I am no reader of men’s faces.” - -There was no time for parley or delay, the pale craven face of the -artisan bore witness to the truth of what he said. Lord Dudley clasped -his companion more firmly, and forced his way with almost supernatural -strength toward the church. The artisan would gladly have sought the -shelter which he had so wisely recommended to his noble companion; but -the horse had become restive under a strange guidance, and before his -head could be turned toward St. Margaret’s, the mob had discovered the -Somerset workmen, and closed round him with a violence that rendered a -change of direction impossible. It was in vain that he waved his cap, -shouted Lord Dudley’s name, and craved a free passage. His voice was -overwhelmed in the roar and rush of a conflict more dreadful than had -been witnessed that day. The people saw the spoilers almost upon their -consecrated ground, and they fought like lions to protect the sacred -rest of their dead and the altar of their worship. It was a just cause, -but the strife a terrible one indeed. So great was the press, that our -artisan found the motion of his horse cramped and almost prevented. His -limbs were crushed against the noble animal till the pain became almost -insupportable. He would gladly have dismounted and have taken his chance -with the throng, but so dense was the sea of human beings crowding upon -him, that there was not an inch of space through which he might hope to -reach the ground. So horse and rider were violently borne forward at the -mercy of the crowd, and exposed to the shower of missiles that now -darkened the air. - -Meantime Dudley and his companions had reached the door of St. -Margaret’s; but it was closed, and a company of armed men stood -resolutely before it. The little band of workmen, which had kept its -station there till within the last hour, had at length deserted their -post, terrified by this guard of armed men added to the mob which they -had so long braved. Despairing of escape they had clambered, each as he -best might, up the gothic windows and rough stone work of the little -church, and were now crouching in groups on the roof, and striving to -conceal themselves behind the small turrets or steeples that surmounted -its four corners, afraid of being detected by the populace, who were -each moment becoming more and more exasperated by their brethren. - -“In the name of heaven, good friends, allow me to find shelter for this -lady within the church,” exclaimed Lord Dudley, as pale and fearfully -agitated he turned in despair from the bolted door which he had reached -in spite of the pikes presented by the self-constituted guard, “I am a -friend to the people, and this lady”— - -“Is his sister,” interrupted the attendant hastily, well knowing that -her true title would harden the men’s hearts against her, though she was -almost lifeless, and only kept from sinking at their feet by the strong -arm of her noble protector. - -“But, even our church may soon be no place of safety,” said one of the -men, “a few minutes and this building where our parents -worshipped—where our children were baptised—may be a heap of ruins -like those of St. Mary. Our holy altar stones may be made into door -steps for the Duke of Somerset’s fine palace—yes, our chancels sacked -to yield stones to flag his wine-cellars, while the bones and sacred -dust of our fathers are cast into the street, and scattered to the four -winds of heaven.” - -Dudley felt the gentle being, who clung to him for safety, tremble and -shrink, as if this angry speech had been levelled at her alone. - -“I know that the people have suffered some wrong,” he said, in a mild -but unsteady voice, for he was painfully agitated, both by his late -struggle with the crowd, and the torture which the man’s impetuous -speech was inflicting on his gentle charge. “But let me beseech you, -unclose the door, my—my poor sister is well nigh sinking to the earth -with fatigue and terror.” - -Still the men remained obstinate, not only refusing to open the door, -but guarding it with a close row of levelled pikes. The sound of fierce -strife, which now arose with appalling violence, within a few roods of -the church, seemed to fill them with cold and stubborn bitterness. At -last, when a loud and terrible cry swept over them—a cry of triumph -from the Somerset men, mingled with a yell of defiance from the mob, in -which Somerset, the Lord Protector’s name, was winged by shouts and -curses through the dense air, the man who had spoken before turned -almost menacingly on the young nobleman. - -“Did I not tell you,” he exclaimed, “this is no place for a lady? If we -cannot guard our dead, how can your charge be safe? Hear that shout—the -Duke of Somerset is himself coming up from the river to reinforce his -band of pillagers. A curse light upon his sacrilegious head for this -day’s work—a curse on him and his!” - -“Oh no, no; do not curse him!” exclaimed the Lady Jane, starting from -Dudley’s arm, and flinging the hood back from her pale face with a wild -impulse—“he does not know—he has not thought how dreadful all this is: -you do not dream how kind he is. In pity—for sweet mercy’s sake, do not -curse my father!” - -“Her father,” exclaimed the men almost simultaneously, and with menacing -looks; “her father!” - -Lord Dudley drew the young girl back to his side, pulled the mantle -almost roughly over her face, and turned sternly upon the men. - -“Behold,” he said, with a flashing eye, “behold the effect of your cruel -delay; my poor sister is driven stark mad at last.” - -The speech, and the pale steadfast features of the young man, had the -desired effect. The guard did not open the door, it is true, but their -manner was more subdued, and they consulted in a low voice together. - -“And if we unlock the church, what warrant have we that you are not a -partisan of the Duke’s?” said the leader, glancing suspiciously at the -young nobleman’s rich vestments; “you may be of his household, nay, his -son, for aught we know.” - -“You have the word of a Warwick, and this proof that the pledge is not -given without right,” said the young man, flinging aside his velvet -cloak, and displaying the family crest, set in brilliants, on his -sword-hilt. “Now, sirs, let me pass! I have no share in this broil, and -would gladly have escaped from it unknown.” - -“Pass in, and heaven’s blessing go with you!” said the man, almost -angrily striking up the line of weapons which his band still kept -levelled. - -He unlocked the heavy door, and while the dense mob shouted around him, -eager to know why he acted thus for a stranger, he stood, with uncovered -head, till the young nobleman had entered the church; then, he closed -the door again with a half repeated blessing upon the lips that had been -almost blistered with imprecations a few moments before. The solemn -stillness and cool atmosphere, which pervaded that little church, fell -like a breath from heaven on the three persons who entered it, weary and -faint from the turmoil that raged without. - -The blended hues of purple and gold and crimson, shed from the stained -and diamond-shaped glass that filled the gothic windows, flooded the -building with a dim mellow light, and slept, in a rich haze, among the -funereal urns of snowy marble placed in the various niches, once -occupied by images of Catholic worship. A shadowy light, such as beams -from a mild sunset, lay upon the altar-stone, which gleamed out white -and pure above the purple velvet that carpeted its steps. A baptismal -fount of marble stood on the right hand filled with clear water; but in -that rich light it seemed almost brimming with wine. Two censers of -massive silver stood above the altar, but only as remnants of a -discarded faith, for no incense had been kindled in their hearts since -the divorce of the late Henry and Catherine of Arragon. - -The whole church was pervaded with a beautiful quiet, such as might -reign in the shadowy dwellings of paradise. Dudley yielded to its -influence, and drew a deep breath, half in awe, half in thankfulness, as -he gently placed the Lady Jane upon one of the steps of the altar, and -sprinkled her pale face with the water which he dipped with his hand -from the baptismal fount. He took off the mantle which she still -unconsciously held tightly about her person, and gathering up the rich -tresses of her hair as they fell upon the marble, made an awkward -attempt to bind them round her head. The poor lady was conscious of his -kindness, but so exhausted that she had no power to thank him. The very -effort to unclose her eyes was an exertion too much for her languid -state, and the soft light which fell over her like a rich sunset seemed -lending beauty to a marble statue, so pale and deathlike were her -features. When Dudley inquired with anxious tenderness after her -welfare, from time to time, she answered him with a faint clasp of the -hand which he took in his, and grateful tears gushed in bright drops -through her closed lashes, and fell, one after another, like jewels upon -the purple velvet beneath her cheek. At last she opened her eyes, a -sweet and tender expression of pleasure came to her face, and one of the -familiar smiles which Dudley loved so well sprang like sunlight to her -reddening lips. She was yet bewildered and dreamy, but tranquillized by -the one dear presence, and the holy quiet which brooded over the place -of her rest. For a time she was unconscious of the tumult which still -raged without, for the sounds came but faintly to that holy place, and -seemed more like the heaving beat of a far off ocean than a strife of -angry men, heated and drunken with bad passions. - -All at once a shout so long, loud and fierce, that it filled that -tranquil building like the howl of a demon, fell upon her ear. She -started up with a full consciousness of all that had happened to her -during the morning, and again sinking upon the steps of the altar buried -her face between her hands, and held her breath with a feeling of terror -such as she had never known before. - -At that moment Dudley’s attendant, who had remained near the church -door, came hurriedly toward his master with information that the Duke of -Somerset had joined his men in person, and was now within a few paces of -the church. - - (To be continued.) - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ZEPHYR. - - - BY JULIET H. LEWIS. - - - I sat by the casement; before me there - Lay a treasured thing, a long tress of hair, - And it moved my heart with a touching power— - ’Twas the cherished gift of a parting hour. - The sun-shine lay ’mid its nut-brown fold - With a loving smile, as it did of old. - When the curl waved free in its careless grace, - Like a cloud in the sky, o’er the smiling face - Of the gentle girl that I loved so well— - A dimming tear on the bright lock fell - As thoughts of the loved one far away, - And the teeming past, on my sad heart lay. - - A Zephyr, that all this time had play’d, - Like a laughing child, ’mid the rose tree’s shade, - Flew up, like a bird, to the casement there, - And bore off in triumph the lock of hair. - ’Twas a cruel theft! and harsh words of blame, - Like a mountain stream, from my full heart came, - For the reckless deeds of the careless thing, - Ever hovering near on mischievous wing. - But the day before, he had entered my bower, - And scattered the leaves of its loveliest flower, - And bore off a letter that lay unread, - ’Neath the scented buds, on a mossy bed, - To the brook hard by, who, with dimpled cheek - And a smothered laugh at the Zephyr’s freak, - Received the gift, and bounded on - As wild, and free, as a forest fawn, - To its hiding spots ’neath the greenwood shade, - Glancing back, through the leaves, where the young wind play’d. - “Now! Spirit of Air,” I cried, “gay breeze— - Are all thine acts as unkind as these? - Thy wings are unfettered—thy path is free— - Yet mine is the power to follow thee.” - Then thought sprang up on her weariless wing, - And tracked the wind, in imagining. - He stole the white plume from the thistle’s crest, - Which was light as down on the swan’s pure breast, - And with waving wing bore the prize away - To a happy group ’mid the flowers at play, - And fanning the cheek of each laughing boy, - With his cooling wing, waved the downy toy - Their bright heads above, and the careless band, - With eager eye, and with outstretched hand, - Ran away, in chase of the silvery thing - That the Zephyr bore on exulting wing. - Now slowly it floated their hands beneath— - Now upward it sprang on a stronger breath— - Now wafted afar—’twas a merry race - The Zephyr to lead, and the children in chase! - He left them behind, but bore along - Their glee-toned voices, in joyous song, - And each lone mother looked up and smiled, - As she caught the tones of her darling child, - And paused awhile from her toil, to bless - The heart, o’erflowing with happiness. - - Then he went his way and on manhood’s brow - His cooling fingers are busy now, - He parts the dark hair from its resting place, - And prints a kiss on the anxious face, - And woos him to leave the dust and glare - Of the crowded town, for a spot more fair, - Where trees in blossom, and birds on wing, - Lead the rapt heart from each worldly thing. - But man heeds not, for his rest is sold, - And his heart bows down to the god of gold; - For the tempting Zephyr he “cares not a groat,” - He is eagerly reaching a “ten pound note,” - That ragged, and soiled on the counter doth lay, - But the Zephyr indignantly bears it away. - He toss’d it, he pull’d it, he twirled it around, - Now high in the air, and now low on the ground, - He moaned in derision, he whistled with glee, - Ah! never was Zephyr as merry as he, - Till at length, in his frolic, he entered a shed - Where a widow was praying for daily bread, - In the voice of faith, low, subdued and mild, - She prayed for food for her starving child: - Then the wind bowed down with its burden there, - And Heaven thus answered the widow’s prayer. - Then he entered the halls, where many a scene - Of joyous pleasure, and mirth had been— - He softly sighed o’er the festal board, - Where the jest had passed, and the red wine poured, - He swept the harp with his quivering wing, - And woke the tones of each mournful string, - While his murmuring voice, with its gentle chime, - Seemed singing a song of the olden time, - Or breathing a dirge o’er the gay hearts fled - To their silent homes ’mid the lowly dead. - He sighed through the banners that hung on high— - (Dimmed was their gorgeous blazonry,) - But they waved aloft, as they waved of old, - When the shout and song shook each heavy fold, - While the dust fell down in a darkening cloud— - And the moth was rocked in her silken shroud— - And the bat sprang forth from his loathsome nest, - ’Mid the pennons there, an unseemly guest! - - Then he went to the violet’s lonely bowers, - And gathered their breath, though he left the flowers, - And hastened on with the rich perfume - And a gladsome song, to the invalid’s room. - He hushed his voice as he entered there, - For holy and sad rose the sound of prayer, - With his wealth from the woods he wafted on, - And rushing memories of bright things gone - To the dying bore, while a low-breathed sigh, - Told of the Zephyr’s sympathy. - One tender act that he did that day, - Was a moment to pause where a stranger lay, - In an unknown land, with no loved one near - To breathe a sigh o’er his lowly bier, - Or moisten his grave with the tear-drops shed - From the mourning heart, o’er the loved and the dead. - Then mounting upward, on breezy wing, - To the white haw tree richly blossoming, - And, gathering its sweets with a gentle wave, - He spread them like snow o’er the stranger’s grave. - Green leaf, and bud, and starry flower, - Filled the rich air, like a lovely shower - Of bright things, sent from a fairy land, - And lay on the grave as though some kind hand - Had scattered, that silent heart above, - The sweets that in life it had learned to love. - - But ’twere _vain_ to tell of his wanderings free - O’er leafy land, and o’er foaming sea— - How he swept round the palace, and played through the cot— - Passed “the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;” - How he wafted the purple of lordly pride, - And fluttered the rags of the beggar aside, - How he made of a spray-capped wave his steed, - And rode o’er the ocean with Jehu speed, - (’Till his charger tossed its snowy mane, - And sank to its native depths again,) - How he hastened the ship on her homeward way, - And scattered her track with the ocean’s spray. - ’Twere vain to number the acts like these, - That were done that day, by the joyous Breeze— - While I could but mark that, what first seemed rude, - Was gentle, and tender, and kind, and good. - I followed him far on his wayward track, - And when, from wandering, I turned me back, - He whispered at parting, these words, methought, - To my hasty heart,—“_Judge not!_ judge not!” - - * * * * * - - - - - SHAKSPEARE. - - -BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC. - - -It is the fashion to consider Macbeth a spotless and noble soul, -ensnared by the toils of the fiends, and pulled down from heaven to hell -by the chance meeting of the weird sisters on the heath. There is a -serious objection to this view. It makes machines of men. It takes from -us the most obvious and sublime attribute of an immortal being, viz: -free agency. If a high-minded and God-revering mortal is unprotected -against the attacks of supernatural beings—if foul witches may watch -for him in unguarded moments, and weave around his enchanted feet the -fatal snares of crime and death, then are we truly a wretched race. But -this is not Shakspeare’s creed. This is not the character of the -tragedy. Macbeth was a villain. He had deliberately adopted vice as his -god long before the fiends were permitted to patter with him. They come -as a _consequence_ not as a _cause_ of wickedness. The withered and wild -sisters on the blasted heath were conjured up by his own cherished -weaknesses and _secret_ deeds.[4] They were the haggard and hellish -impersonations of his own hidden thoughts and passions. He was not the -pure, generous, heaven-adoring person he is represented. The germs of -his guilt he had received into his heart by himself years before, and -they lay shooting there in silence, only waiting the quickening beam of -opportunity—waiting the first, feeblest temptation to start forth in -all their force. He was one of those fair-_seeming_ men who pass for -honest and noble. The world contains now, as then, many such. Many a man -with an uplifted brow and a clear name, waits only _occasion_ to prove -himself a scoundrel. It is such specious hypocrites that gather around -them (as the smell of carrion does the hawk and vulture) the plotting -witches who watch for power over the children of men. They had never -tempted the pure good old King Duncan. He might have passed the blasted -heath every day of his life, and these hags would never have dreamed of -appearing to him. His soul was not prepared for their wiles. But that of -Macbeth—as well as that of his stern wife—was corrupted by the whole -tenor of their previous life. - -Had there been left no evidence of this, I should still have asserted -it. The innocent—the pure in heart—they who daily commune with their -Maker—who acknowledge their weakness and danger when left to -themselves—and implore humbly at his feet his all-sufficient aid—never -fall victims to the accursed fiends, whether they appear in the -deformity of Paddock and Graymalkin, or disguised under the fair -temptations of life. - -But Shakspeare has left proof enough in his tragedy. He meant to show, -not (as is frequently asserted) the downfall of noble grandeur and -unsuspecting innocence, but the destruction of a fair-showing, -unsuspected villain—the wreck of a ship whose outward semblance was -tall and imposing, but which was unseaworthy and destined to go down -before the first gale. - -In the first place, why does not _Banquo_ suffer from the fiends? He is -with Macbeth when they appear. He even boldly addresses them, and at -once—with the frank fearlessness of a noble and virtuous mind, -conscious of its honesty, commands them, if they can read the future, to -speak to _him_ also. - - “Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear your favors, nor - your hate.” - -Here is at once a man not to be tampered with. They promise _him_ also -as well as Macbeth a dazzling future good—a posterity of kings—but it -in no way changes his plans of life, or raises the least idea in his -mind of crime or intrigue. Even when, according to the prediction of the -witches, Macbeth instantly receives intelligence, of his being thane of -Cawdor, Banquo’s _clear-seeing sense of right_, his innocence of nature -takes the true and virtuous view of the affair, looks, at a glance, -through all the complicated web of the sisters’ plots, and keeps himself -unsoiled, unendangered by them. - - _Banquo._ “But ’tis strange; - And often-times, to win us to _our harm_, - The instruments of darkness tell us truths; - Win us with honest trifles, to betray us - In deepest consequence.” - -And while he is making this just reflection, the obvious impulse of a -mind not warped from the erectness of a moral and religious integrity -and reverence, Macbeth soliloquizes with a kind of inexpressible -anticipatory triumph. - - “Two truths are told - As happy prologues to the swelling act - Of the imperial theme.” - -And he then goes on, like a ready made, long-matured rascal as he -is—like one whose mind had no habit of virtuous or religious -contemplation, but which has always had a familiarity with evil and a -tendency downward: - - ——“Why do I _yield_ to that suggestion - Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,” etc. - -The very moment his attention is directed to the subject of his becoming -_king_, he conceives the idea of murdering the actual occupant of the -throne, notwithstanding the fact that there are two sons living. - -An innocent man, were he told he would become king of England, would not -instantly set about murdering the queen. He would (supposing him to have -faith in the prediction) say to himself, as indeed Macbeth does at one -time: - - “If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me, without - my stir.” - -The very first page of the tragedy marks Macbeth for a villain even -before he has made his appearance. - - 1. _Witch._ When shall we three meet again - In thunder, lightning, or in rain? - - 2. _Witch._ When the hurly-burly’s done, - When the battle’s lost and won; - - 3. _Witch._ That will be ere set of sun. - - 1. _Witch._ Where the place? - - 2. _Witch._ Upon the heath. - - 3. _Witch._ _Then to meet with Macbeth._ - -Why have these fiendish women selected the gallant soldier as their -victim? What gathers them about the “battle” that is raging near? _What_ -but the _scent_ of _a sinful heart_? - -But there are other proofs of an extrinsic nature, which settle the -previous character of Lady Macbeth at the same time, and shows how ripe -they both were for the fiends. - -If a man’s true nature may be supposed to be known to any one it _is to -his wife_. He may put on a smooth face before his best friend; he may -write or speak virtuous sentiments to the public; he may give charitable -donations, and follow the career of a flaming patriot or a meek saint, -but the lady upon whom he has conferred with his name, the right of -being with him continually, will be pretty able to tell how matters -really are. I do not say that, because a wife abuses her husband and -calls him names, he must necessarily be a rascal; but, as a general -rule, the partner of his woes and joys has better opportunities of -_knowing the man_ than almost any one else—at least, if she be a person -of Lady Macbeth’s discrimination. Well then, see what his _lady_ says of -him, to herself, on receiving his letter recounting the prediction of -the weird sisters. - - “Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be - What thou art promis’d:—yet I do fear thy nature; - It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness, - To catch the nearest way.” - -That she should suppose him _too full of the milk of human kindness_ to -do cruel actions is a skilful stroke in the delineation both of his -nature and hers. However well she knew him, as he had been till then, an -unprincipled man—even _she_ had never fathomed those depths of -character, (for good or for evil common to all men, and equally -unfathomed probably by himself,) which the subsequent events disclosed. -Shakspeare somewhere else says, “It is not a year or so that shows us a -man”—and it is an important truth, that we are not thoroughly known by -our best friends, and do not know ourselves till late in life. This same -person, so full of the milk of human kindness that she feared his -“softer nature” could never be brought to the necessary resolution, no -sooner finds himself once fairly compromised than his atrocities throw -the cruelties of ordinary oppressors quite into the shade. - - “Thou would’st be great; - Art not without ambition; but without - The illness should attend it. What thou would’st highly - Thou would’st holily; would’st not play false, - And yet _would’st wrongly win_,” etc. etc. - -This passage has been often misunderstood. “Without the _illness_” that -should attend ambition—“what thou would’st highly thou would’st -holily,” does not mean, thou art without the _vices_ which should attend -ambition, and, what thou would’st highly—thou would’st in a _holy -spirit_. It means, he is without the _courage_ to bear the risk and -odium necessary to the successful carrying out of ambitious plans, -although he is willing enough to be _guilty_ if he may not _appear_ to -be so. “What he would highly,” he would also with an _appearance of -holiness_. He loves the _mask_ of virtue, but he loves also the sweets -of sin. He has thus far enjoyed the good opinion of the _world_. He -cannot bear to throw aside the wreath which he has worn and which -flatters his weakness and vanity. It is the _world_ which alone he -thinks of. This is his only god. Of the Supreme Being, there is not a -word; but of his inclination to assume the moral responsibility there is -a distinct acknowledgment: - - “Would’st not play false - And yet _would’st wrongly win_. ‘Thou’d’st have, great Glamis,’ - That which cries, ‘_Thus thou must do if thou have it!_’ - And that which thou dost _rather fear to do_, - Than _wishest should be undone_.” - -Here we have Macbeth’s character. Here we have the secret of his -goodness. It is _fear_ and _love of the world_. - -Shakspeare meant to draw a very—very common character, only he has made -it colossal. How many men in the common life of this day are -irreproachable from the same considerations—fear and love of the world, -joined to a certain dislike of the trouble, exertion and risk of wrong. -(“If we should fail!”) That these are the moving springs of this -seemingly noble and generous but really remorseless and impious -character we see again from a remark of his own. After contemplating the -murder for some time, he concludes to abandon the plan. Why? Because he -will not incur the moral guilt? Because he has thoughts of his God, -whose eye is on him, and who cannot but punish a crime? Because the -commandment has been written, “Thou shalt do no murder?” Because the -Deity himself has decreed “blood for blood?” - -No. For reasons much more suited to his irreligious, infidel, worldly -mind: - - “We will proceed no further in this business! - He hath _honored_ me of late; and I have bought - _Golden opinions_ from all _sorts of people_, - Which should be worn now in their newest gloss, - Not cast aside so soon.” - -These are his reasons for not wishing to proceed. Not a thought of his -Maker—not an allusion to a future world. He expressly says, in another -passage, if he could but be secure against detection _in this world_, he -does not feel any apprehension respecting the other. He’ll “_jump the -world to come_.” - -No man, not corrupt by long previous backslidings either of thought or -deed, would act as Macbeth acts. He grasps at the first idea of murder -with the true zest of an assassin. All his struggles are only those of -fear. The _first_ time he meets the king, his generous, grateful, and -gracious master, he seems already to have arranged the murder in his -mind, and his hypocrisy and cruelty do not waver an instant. He -discovers the self-possession and plausible villany of a practised -criminal, and this too before he sees his wife upon the subject. It -almost seems as if they had spoken on this point before. When Duncan -heaps him with thanks and rewards, he answers: - - _Mac._ “The service and the loyalty I owe, - In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part - Is to receive our duties: and our duties - Are, to your throne and state, children and servants; - Which do but what they should, by doing every thing - Safe toward your love and honor.” - -When the King says, as if in dark conformity to the witches’ prediction: - - “from hence to Inverness, - And bind us further to you,” - -Macbeth, like a hungry leopard trembling with joy at seeing his victim -take refuge in his very den, says, with an affectation of grateful -submission: - - _Mac._ “The rest is labor which is not used for you: - I’ll be myself the harbinger, and _make joyful_ - _The hearing of my_ wife with your approach.” - -And then _already_, to himself: - - _Mac._ “The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step - On which I must fall _down, or else overleap_; - For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! - Let not light see my black and deep desires, - The eye wink at the hand, _yet let that be_ - Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.” - -His famous soliloquy, “Out, out, brief candle,” is in itself a superb -piece of earthly philosophy, but it becomes resplendently significant -when regarded as the _creed of infidelity_ which has brought him where -he is; for he is an atheist, and _therefore_ he is a _murderer_. - - “Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player, - That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, - And _then is heard no more_: it is a tale - Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, - _Signifying nothing_.” - -These are not the thoughts of the gentle, happy-hearted Shakspeare. -These are the blasphemous outbreakings of a blood-drenched, disbelieving -soul, vainly striving to make head against God’s vengeance by denying -his existence. No. Life’s _not_ a walking shadow. It is more than a poor -player—than a tale signifying nothing. It signifies much not to be -known by the “ignorant present,” as they find, unhappy lost ones, who -mistake such wicked blasphemies for truth. - -The pertinacity with which his selfish soul is wedded to the world is -again betrayed in one of his last soliloquies, where, in running a kind -of balance in his accounts between the gains and losses of his murderous -ambition, he complains: - - “And that which should accompany old age, - As _honor, love, obedience, troops of friends_, - I must not look to have; but, in their stead, - Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath, - Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.” - -Always the world bounds his hopes and his fears. - -The original viciousness of his nature is also betrayed by the readiness -with which, once embarked in the career of crime, he plunges in -headlong. The very morning of the murder of the king, he stabs in their -sleep the two grooms of the chamber, then Banquo and Fleance (which -latter escapes by chance.) He rushes on from murder to murder with the -rabid fury of a hound maddened with the taste of blood. He adopts the -direst principles of action, - - _Mac._ “From this moment - The very firstlings of my heart shall be - The firstlings of my hand.” - -Surprises the castle of Macduff, and massacres his wife, his babes, - - “And all the unfortunate souls - That trace him in his line.” - -That Shakspeare meant to draw, in this remarkable portraiture, a worldly -character unsupported by _religion_, is evident from the _tone of piety_ -which runs through the other characters. The gentlewoman’s “Heaven knows -what she has known,” and her “pray God it be well.” The doctor’s “God, -God forgive us all!” Macduff’s - - “Did Heaven look on - And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, - They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am, - Not for their own demerits, but for mine, - Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now.” - -This is the oft repeated apprehension of a pious heart which fears still -its own weakness, and finds, in the inscrutable and most awful -visitatings of God a merited blow—a chastener of its still corrupt -desires—a lesson to unlink it yet more from its grasp on mortality. - -Immediately again Macduff prays to heaven—and in the same page Malcolm -says: - - “Macbeth - Is ripe for shaking, and the _powers above_ - Put on their instruments.” - -Another instance of the pure christian piety with which the poet invests -his good characters, and of which he deprives his bad ones, telling -strongly for Dr. Ulrici’s theory, occurs in the third scene of the -fourth act, where Malcolm, the heir to the throne, in order to try -Macduff, represents himself as being full of vices. Macduff replies, - - “Thy Royal Father - Was a most _sainted King_; the Queen, that bore thee,— - _Oftener upon her knees than on her feet_.” - -In his answer, Malcolm uses the expression, full of pious reverence: - - “But _God above_ - Deal between thee and me,” &c. - -And still another, the morning after the murder, when Macduff says: - - “In the _great hand of God I stand_,” &c. - ------ - -[4] _Vide a future_ ¶. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DAUGHTERS OF DR. BYLES. - - - A SKETCH OF REALITY. - - - BY MISS LESLIE. - - -On my first visit to Boston, about nine years since, I was offered, by a -lady of that kind and hospitable city, (the paradise of strangers,) an -introduction to the two daughters of the celebrated Mather Byles: and I -gladly availed myself of this opportunity of becoming acquainted with -these singular women, whom, I had been told, were classed among the -curiosities of the place. - -Their father, a native Bostonian, (born in 1706, during the reign of -Queen Anne,) was connected with the family of Cotton Mather. His -education was completed in England, where he studied theology at -Cambridge, and was afterwards ordained a minister of the gospel -according to the Episcopal faith. On his return to Boston, Mather Byles -was inducted into the first pastor-ship of Hollis street church, then a -newly-erected edifice, constructed entirely of wood, as were most -American churches of that period. He became proprietor of a house and a -small piece of ground near the junction of Tremont and Nassau streets. -In this house all his children were born, and here the two that survived -were still living. His wife was a daughter of Governor Taylor. - -The position of Dr. Byles as a clergyman, his literary acquirements, his -shrewd sense, and his ready wit, caused him to be highly popular at -home, and brought him into personal acquaintance or epistolary -correspondence with many of the principal men of his time, on both sides -of the Atlantic. He frequently exchanged letters with Pope and with Dr. -Watts: and among the visiters at his “modest mansion” might be -enumerated some of the most distinguished persons of his native -province—while strangers of note eagerly sought his acquaintance. - -All went smoothly with Dr. Byles till America became impatient of her -dependence on the crown of Britain; and, unfortunately for him, his -sympathies were on the side of the mother country. He could not be -persuaded that her children of the new world had sufficient cause for -abrogating the authority of the nation from whence they had sprung; and -he considered their alleged grievances as mere pretexts for throwing off -a chain which, in his opinion, had pressed but lightly on them; and -that, in short, as Falstaff said of the Percy and Mortimer -insurrection,—“Rebellion lay in their way, and they found it.” His -congregation had warmly and almost unanimously espoused the popular -cause, and, consequently, were much irritated at the ultra royalist -feelings and opinions of their pastor, whose difficulties with his flock -seeming daily to increase, Dr. Byles eventually thought it best to -resign his situation as minister of Hollis street church. - -The war broke out; the battle of Bunker Hill was fought, and Boston was -subsequently occupied by the British army, and besieged by the -Americans, who established themselves in hostile array upon the heights -that commanded the town,—and, with a view of dislodging the enemy, they -vigilantly exerted themselves in stopping all supplies of fuel and -provisions. After holding out against the patriots during a leaguer of -more than eight months, the British finally withdrew their forces, and -embarked them to carry the war into another section of the country. Now, -that something like order was again restored in the town of Boston and -its vicinity, it was thought time to punish those who had rendered -themselves obnoxious by aiding and abetting the cause of the enemy. Some -of the most noted royalists were expelled from the province and took -refuge in Nova Scotia, others went into voluntary exile and repaired to -England, where they preferred a claim of indemnification for the losses -they had sustained by adhering to the cause of monarchy. Among others, -Dr. Mather Byles was denounced at a town-meeting, for his unconcealed -toryism: for having persisted in praying for the king; and for -interchanging visits with the British officers, most of whom were -received familiarly at his house. Upon these charges he was tried before -a special court, and at first sentenced to have his property -confiscated, and himself and family transported to England. But the -board of war, out of respect to his private character, commuted his -punishment to a short imprisonment in his own house, under the guard of -sentinels, and allowed him to retain his possessions. - -The rebellion eventuated in a successful revolution; and honor, fame, -and the gratitude of their country rewarded those who had assisted in -the glorious contest for independence; while all who had held back, and -all who had sided with the enemy, were contumeliously cast into the -shade, regarded with contempt by their former associates, or compelled -to wear out their lives in exile from the land of their birth. Most of -the connections of the Byles family quitted the States. But the doctor -remained, and finding that he could not regain his former place among -his townsmen, he lived in retirement during the residue of his life, and -died at his own house in Boston, in 1788, in the 82d year of his age. He -was interred beneath the pavement of the chancel in Trinity church, -having worshipped there with his family after quitting that of Hollis -street. - -In the old family house his two surviving daughters had ever since -continued to reside, steadily refusing to sell either the building or -the lot of ground attached to it, though liberal offers for its purchase -had repeatedly been made to them. So deep-rooted was their attachment to -this spot, where they had been born, and where they had always lived, -that they considered it impossible for them to exist in any other place, -continually asserting that a removal from it would certainly kill them. -They had a trifling source of income which brought them two hundred -dollars annually, and they contrived to save nearly the whole of this -little sum. Also, they possessed a tolerable quantity of old-fashioned -plate, which they had put away in a chest up stairs, never to be used or -sold while they lived. In the mean time their wants were chiefly -supplied, (and, indeed, many little luxuries were furnished them,) by -the benevolence of certain ladies of Boston, who, in the goodness of -their hearts, overlooked the anomaly of two women who had the means of a -comfortable independence within their reach, submitting to receive -assistance from eleemosynary bounty rather than relinquish the -indulgence of what, in those matter-of-fact times, would, by most -persons, be regarded as a mere morbid fancy. But on this point of -feeling they believed their happiness to depend; and their tolerant -benefactresses kindly enabled them to be happy in their own way. - -The Miss Byleses kept no domestic; but a man came every morning to -attend to the wood and water part of their _ménage_, and to go their -errands—and a woman was employed every week to do up the Saturday work. -A newspaper was sent to them gratuitously—books were lent to them, for -the youngest was something of a reader, and also wrote verses; and they -frequently received little presents of cakes, sweetmeats, and other -delicacies. They rarely went out, except to Trinity church. Then they -put on their everlasting suits of the same Sunday clothes: their faces -being, on these occasions, shaded with deep black veils suspended from -their bonnets, not so much for concealment as for gentility. - -The lady who volunteered to introduce me to the daughters of Dr. Byles, -was, as I afterwards understood, one of those who assisted in affording -them some of the comforts which they denied to themselves. We set out on -our visit on one of the loveliest mornings of a Boston summer, the -warmth of the season being delightfully tempered by a cool breeze from -the sea. After passing the beautiful Common, (why has it not a better -name?) my companion pointed out to me, at what seemed the termination of -the long vista of Tremont street, an old black-looking frame-house, -which, at the distance from whence I saw it, seemed to block up the way -by standing directly across it. It was the ancient residence of Mather -Byles, and the present dwelling of his aged daughters; one of whom was -in her eighty-first and the other in her seventy-ninth year. This part -of Tremont street, which is on the south-eastern declivity of a hill, -carried us far from all vicinity to the aristocratic section of Boston. - -At length we arrived at the domain of the two antique maidens. It was -surrounded by a board fence, which had once been a very close one, but -time and those universal depredators, “the boys,” had made numerous -cracks and chinks in it. The house (which stood with the gable end to -the street) looked as if it had never been painted in its life. Its -exposure to the sun and rain, to the heats of a hundred summers and the -snows of a hundred winters, had darkened its whole outside nearly to the -blackness of iron. Also, it had, even in its best days, been evidently -one of the plainest and most unbeautified structures in the town of -Boston, where many of the old frame-houses can boast of a redolence of -quaint ornament about the doors, and windows, and porches, and -balconies. Still, there was something not unpleasant in its aspect, or -rather in its situation. It stood at the upper end of a green lot, whose -long thick grass was enamelled with field flowers. It was shaded with -noble horse-chestnut trees relieved against the clear blue sky, and -whose close and graceful clusters of long jagged leaves, fanned by the -light summer breeze, threw their chequered and quivering shadows on the -grass beneath, and on the mossy roof of the venerable mansion. - -We entered the enclosure by a board gate, whose only fastening was a -wooden latch with a leather string; like that which secured the wicket -of Little Red Ridinghood’s grand-mother. There was a glimpse of female -figures hastily flitting away from a front window. We approached the -house by a narrow pathway, worn by frequent feet, in the grass, and a -few paces brought us to the front door with its decayed and tottering -wooden steps. My companion knocked, and the door was immediately opened -by a rather broad-framed and very smiling old lady, habited in a black -worsted petticoat and a white short-gown, into the neck of which was -tucked a book-muslin kerchief. Her silver hair was smoothly arranged -over a wrinkled but well-formed forehead, beneath which twinkled two -small blue eyes. Her head was covered with a close full-bordered white -linen cap, that looked equally convenient for night or for day. She -welcomed us with much apparent pleasure, and my companion introduced her -to me as Miss Mary Byles. She was the eldest of the two sisters. - -Miss Mary ushered us into the parlor, which was without a carpet, and -its scanty furniture seemed at least a century old. Beneath a -surprisingly high mantel-piece was a very low fire-place, from whence -the andirons having been removed for the summer, its only accoutrement -was a marvellous thick cast-iron back-plate, of a pattern antique even -to rudeness. There were a few straight tall-backed chairs, some with -bottoms of flag-rush, and others with bottoms of listing; and there was -one _fauteuil_, to be described hereafter. My attention was attracted by -the oldest-looking table I had ever seen, and of so dark a hue that it -was difficult to tell whether it was mahogany or walnut. When opened out -it must have been circular; but, now that the leaves were let down, it -exhibited a top so strangely narrow (not more than half a foot in width) -that it was impossible to divine the object in making it so; unless, -indeed, it was the fashionable table of the time. And fashion, at all -periods, has been considered reason sufficient for anything, however -inconvenient, ugly or absurd. To support the narrow top and the wide -leaves, this table seemed to be endowed with a hundred legs and a -proportionate number of bars crossing among them, in every direction, -all being of very elaborate turned work. I opine that this must have -been a great table in its day. - -My companion inquired after the health of Miss Catherine Byles, the -youngest of the ladies. Miss Mary replied that sister Catherine was -quite unwell, having passed a bad night with the rheumatism. Regret was -expressed at our losing the pleasure of seeing her. But Miss Mary -politely assured us that her sister would exert herself to appear, -rather than forego an opportunity of paying her respects to the ladies; -and we as politely hoped that, on our account, she would not put herself -to the smallest inconvenience. While compliments were thus flying, the -door of the next room opened, and Miss Catherine Byles made her -entrance, in a manner which showed us that she went much by -gracefulness. - -Miss Catherine was unlike her elder sister, both in figure and face; her -features being much sharper, (in fact, excessively sharp,) and her whole -person extremely thin. She also was arrayed in a black bombasin -petticoat, a short-gown, and a close lined cap, with a deep border that -seemed almost to bury her narrow visage. She greeted us with much -cordiality, and complained of her rheumatism with a smiling countenance. - -My eyes were soon rivetted on a fine portrait of Dr. Mather Byles, from -the wonderful pencil of Copley—wonderful in its excellence at a period -when the divine art was scarcely known in the provinces, and when a good -picture rarely found its way to our side of the ocean. And yet, under -these disadvantages, and before he sought improvement in the schools of -Europe, did Copley achieve those extraordinary fac-similes of the human -face, that might justly entitle him to the appellation of the Reynolds -of America, and are scarcely excelled by those of his cotemporary, the -Reynolds of England. - -The moment I looked at this picture I knew that it _must_ be a likeness; -for I saw in its lineaments the whole character of Dr. Byles, -particularly the covert humor of the eye. The face was pale, the -features well-formed, and the aspect pleasantly acute. He was -represented in his ecclesiastical habiliments, with a curled and -powdered wig. On his finger was a signet-ring containing a very fine red -cornelian. While I was contemplating the admirably-depicted countenance, -his daughters were both very voluble in directing my attention to the -cornelian ring, which they evidently considered the best part of the -picture; declaring it to be an exact likeness of that very ring, and -just as natural as life. - -Before I had looked half enough at Copley’s picture, the two old ladies -directed my attention to another portrait which they seemed to prize -still more highly. This, they informed me, was that of their nephew, -“poor boy,” whom they had not seen for forty years. It was painted by -himself.—His name was Mather Brown, and he was the only son of their -deceased elder sister. He had removed to London, where, as they informed -me, he had _taken_ the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York—“and, -therefore,” said one of the aunts—“he is painter to the royal family.” -They both expressed much regret that they had not been able to prevail -on their father, after the revolution, to give up America entirely, and -remove with his family to England. “In that case,” said Miss Mary, “we -should all have been introduced at court; and the king and queen would -have spoken to us; and I dare say would have thanked us kindly for our -loyalty.” - -The truth was, as I afterwards found, that a much longer period than -forty years had elapsed since their nephew left America; but they always -continued to give that date to his departure. He had painted himself -with his hair reared up perpendicularly from his forehead, powdered -well, and tied behind,—and, in a wide blue coat with yellow buttons, -and a very stiff hard-plaited shirt-frill with hand-ruffles to match. In -his hand he held an open letter, which, both his aunts informed me, -contained the very words of an epistle sent by one of them to him, and, -therefore, was an exact likeness of that very letter. To gratify them, I -read aloud the pictured missive, thereby proving that it really -contained legible words. - -Having looked at the pictures, I was invited by Miss Mary Byles to take -my seat in the large arm-chair, which she assured me was a great -curiosity, being more than a hundred years old, having been sent over -from England by “government,” as a present to their maternal -grandfather, Governor Taylor. The chair was of oak, nearly black with -age, and curiously and elaborately carved. The back was very tall and -straight, and the carving on its top terminated in a crown. This chair -was furnished with an old velvet cushion, which was always (by way of -preservation) kept upside down, the underside being of dark calico. Miss -Mary, however, did me the honor, as a visiter, to turn the right side -up, that I might sit upon velvet; and as soon as I had placed myself on -it, she enquired if I found it an easy seat? On my replying in the -affirmative. “I am surprised at that”—said she, with a smile—“I wonder -how a republican can sit easy under the crown.”—Beginning to understand -my cue, I, of course, was properly diverted with this piece of wit. - -Miss Catherine then directed my attention to the antique round table, -and assured me that at this very table Dr. Franklin had drank tea on his -last visit to Boston. Miss Mary then produced, from a closet by the -chimney-side, an ancient machine of timber and iron in the form of a -bellows, which she informed me was two hundred years old. It looked as -if it might have been two thousand, and must have been constructed in -the very infancy of bellows-making, about the time when people first -began to grow tired of blowing their fires with their mouths. It would -have afforded a strange contrast, and a striking illustration of the -march of intellect, if placed by the side of one of those light and -beautiful, painted, gilt and varnished fire-improvers which abound in -certain shops in Washington street. This bellows of other days was so -heavy that it seemed to require a strong man to work it. The handles and -sides were carved all over with remarkably cumbrous devices; and the -nozzle or spout was about the size and shape of a very large parsnep -with the point cut off. - -Miss Mary now asked her sister if _she_ had no curiosities to show the -ladies? Miss Catherine modestly replied that she feared she had nothing -the ladies would care to look at. Miss Mary assured us that sister -Catherine had a box of extraordinary things, such as were not to be seen -every day, and that they were universally considered as very great -curiosities. Miss Catherine still seemed meekly inclined to undervalue -them. My companion, who _had_ seen the things repeatedly, begged that -their Philadelphia visiter might be indulged with a view of these -rarities—and, finally, after a little more coquetry, a sort of square -band-box was produced, and Miss Catherine did the honors of her little -museum. - -She showed us the envelope of a letter addressed to her father by no -less a person than Alexander Pope, and directed in the poet’s own hand. -The writing was clear and handsome, and had evidently been executed with -a new pen, and with a desire that the superscription should look well. -Next, were exhibited four commissions, each bearing the signature of a -different British sovereign. The names of the royal personages were -placed at the top of the document and not at the bottom. This, the old -ladies told us was to show that royalty ought to go before every thing -else. The first signature was that of Queen Anne, and headed the -appointment of their grandfather to the government of the province of -Massachusetts. I have never in my life seen any autograph so bad as that -of “great Anne whom three realms obeyed”—if this was to be considered a -fair specimen. It looked as if nobody had ever taught her to write, and -had the appearance of being scratched on the paper, not with a _pen_ but -with a _pin_ dipped in ink. I believe it is related of the Emperor -Charlemagne (who pressed the seals of his missives with the hilt of his -dagger) that he effected his signature by plunging his thumb into the -ink, and making with it a large black spot or blot on the parchment. No -doubt, being a man of sense, he took care that his dab or smear should -always be of exactly the same shape and dimension, and so _unique_ in -its look as to preclude the possibility of counterfeits. - -The next document shown us by Miss Catherine, was honored with the name -of the First George—that sapient Elector of Hanover, whose powers of -comprehension were so obtuse that he never could be made exactly to -understand by what means he succeeded to the throne of England, and -often said “he was afraid he was keeping some honest man out of his -place.” His majesty’s pen-maker was palpably unworthy of holding that -office, for, in this autograph, both up strokes and down were so thick -that they looked as if done with the feather of the quill instead of its -point. - -Afterwards was displayed a commission signed by George the Second. Here -the royal caligraphy seemed on the mend. The signature was well written, -and his majesty’s pen-provider was evidently fit for his station. - -Last, was a paper bearing the name of George the Third, written in a -fair and easy hand, but rather inferior to that of his predecessor, -notwithstanding that the second of the Hanoverian monarchs had “never -liked _b_ainting or _b_oetry in all his life, and did not know what good -there was in either.” - -It is a most fallacious and illiberal hypothesis that the hand-writing -is characteristic of the mind. And those who profess that theory -frequently employ it as a vehicle for the conveyance of impertinent and -unjust remarks. - -We were next shown a small portion of moss gathered from the -time-honored roof of Bradgate Hall, the mansion in which the unfortunate -Lady Jane Grey first saw the light. - -These relics of the departed great were followed by the exhibition of -some little articles, only remarkable as specimens of mechanical -ingenuity. Among them was a large deep-red mulberry, looking -surprisingly like a real one. - -“And now,” said Miss Catherine, “I will show you the greatest curiosity -of all.” She then took out an inner pasteboard box that had been placed -within the larger one, and setting it on the floor, produced, from a -round hole in the lid, an artificial snake, that looked something like a -very long, very close string of button-molds. By giving it some -mysterious impulse, she set the reptile in motion, and caused it to run -about in the neighborhood of our feet. We thought it best to be a little -startled and a little frightened, and very greatly surprised at the -ingenuity of the thing. After we had sufficiently enjoyed the sight, -Miss Catherine attempted to replace her snake in the box, telling him it -was time to go home. But he seemed rather refractory, and quite -unwilling to re-enter his prison. “What”—said she—chastising him with -two or three smart taps—“won’t you go in.—Are _you_ a rebel too!”—The -serpent stood rebuked; and then obediently hurried back into his hole. -And we laughed as in duty bound—also with some admiration at the old -lady’s slight of hand in managing the reptile. - -Miss Catherine, having completed the exhibition of her snake, now -addressed Miss Mary, and proposed that her sister should show us an -extraordinary trick, “which always astonished the ladies.” To this Miss -Mary made some objection, lest we should have her taken up and hanged -for a witch. On our promising not to do so, she took a scrap of white -paper which she tore into four little bits, and then laid them in a row -on the table. Having done this, she left the room, shutting the door -closely after her, so as to convince us, that while remaining outside it -was impossible for her to see or hear anything that was done in her -absence. Miss Catherine now desired me to touch, with my finger, one of -the bits of paper—any one I pleased. I touched the second—and Miss -Mary was then called in by her sister, who said to her, as she -entered,—“Be quick.”—Miss Mary immediately advanced to the table, and -unhesitatingly designated the second paper as that which I touched while -she was out of the room. Being unacquainted with the trick, I was really -surprised; and wondered how she could have guessed so correctly. The -trick was several times repeated, and every time with perfect success. - -After I had been thoroughly astonished, and declared my utter inability -to fathom the mystery, the sisters explained to me its very simple -process. The four bits of paper, arranged on the table in a row, denoted -the four first letters of the alphabet.—When I touched the second, -(which signified B,) Miss Catherine directed her sister to it by saying, -as she returned to the room—“Be quick.”—When I touched the -third—D—Miss Mary, on her entrance, was saluted by her sister with the -words—“Do you think you can tell?”—After I had touched the first -paper, A, Miss Mary was asked—“Are you sure you can guess?”—and when I -touched C, Miss Catherine said to Miss Mary, “Come and try once more.” -And thus, by commencing each sentence with the letter that had just been -touched, she unfailingly pointed out to her sister the exact paper. To -succeed in this little trick, there must, of course, be an understanding -between the two persons that exhibit it: and to most of the uninitiated -it appears very surprising. By adopting a similar plan of collusion, -some of the professors of Mesmerism have contrived to obtain from their -magnetized sleepers, replies which, to the audience, seemed truly -astonishing. - -We now arose to take our leave; and our attention was then directed to a -square pine table standing by one of the windows, and covered with -particularly uninviting specimens of pincushions, needle-books, -emery-bags, &c. The old ladies informed us that this was a charity -table, which they kept for the benefit of “the poor.” I had thought that -the Miss Byleses were their own poor. However, we gratified them by -adding a trifling sum to their means of doing good: and I became the -proprietor of the ugliest needle-book I had ever seen. But I -magnanimously left the less ugly things to tempt the choice of those -persons who really make an object of their purchases at charity -tables.—“Dear good little me.” - -The Miss Byleses were very urgent in inviting me to repeat my visit, -saying, that any time of the day after nine o’clock, they were always -ready to see company, and would be happy to receive me and such friends -as I might wish to bring with me. And they enumerated among their -visiters, from other parts of the Union, some highly eminent personages. - -While we were listening to the “more last words” of Miss Catherine, her -sister slipped out into the very short passage that led to the house -door, and then slipped back again. We, at last, paid our parting -compliments, and Miss Mary escorted us to the front door, but seemed to -find it locked, and seemed to find it impossible to unlock. This gave -her occasion to say wittily—“The ladies will have to send home for -their night-caps; as they are likely to be kept here all night.” -Luckily, however, this necessity was obviated, by the key yielding as -soon as it was turned the right way: and finally Miss Mary Byles -curtsied and smiled us out. - - (To be concluded.) - - * * * * * - - - - - THE EYES OF NIGHT. - - - BY MISS MARY SPENCER. - - - Night has eyes—sparkling eyes! - Some soft, some bright; - The flashing fire ne’er dies - From eyes of night. - - Night has many wooers - To watch her eyes, - To love her silent hours - And mellow skies. - - Night has a witching spell - To bind the heart; - Its silent glances quell - And awe impart. - - A perfumed breath has Night: - It wafts the sighs - Of flowers young and bright - Around the skies. - - Night has a breathing tone - Like distant swell - Of softest music, thrown - From fairy’s knell. - - Oh! how I love the Night! - Its sparkling eyes— - Its softened shadowy light— - Its melodies. - - * * * * * - - - - - THY NAME WAS ONCE A MAGIC SPELL. - - - BALLAD. - - SUNG BY MR. DEMPSTER. - - WRITTEN BY - - THE HON. MRS. NORTON. - _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_. - - -[Illustration: musical score] - - Thy name was once the magic spell - By which my heart was bound, - And burning dreams of light and love, - Were wa-ken’d by that - -[Illustration: musical score] - - sound my heart beat quick, - When stranger tongues with idle praise or blame, - Awoke its deepest thrill of life, - To tremble at thy name. - - Long years, long years have pass’d away, - And alter’d is thy brow, - And we who met so fondly once, - Must meet as strangers now; - The friends of yore come round me still, - But talk no more of thee; - ’Tis idle e’en to wish it now— - For what art thou to me? - - Yet still thy name, thy blessed name, - My lonely bosom fills, - Like an echo that hath lost itself, - Among the distant hills, - Which still with melancholy note, - Keeps faintly lingering on, - When the joyous sound that woke it first, - Is gone, for ever gone. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - -In commencing, with the New Year, a New Volume, we shall be permitted to -say a very few words by way of _exordium_ to our usual chapter of -Reviews, or, as we should prefer calling them, of Critical Notices. Yet -we speak _not_ for the sake of the _exordium_, but because we have -really something to say, and know not when or where better to say it. - -That the public attention, in America, has, of late days, been more than -usually directed to the matter of literary criticism, is plainly -apparent. Our periodicals are beginning to acknowledge the importance of -the science (shall we so term it?) and to disdain the flippant _opinion_ -which so long has been made its substitute. - -Time was when we imported our critical decisions from the mother -country. For many years we enacted a perfect farce of subserviency to -the _dicta_ of Great Britain. At last a revulsion of feeling, with -self-disgust, necessarily ensued. Urged by these, we plunged into the -opposite extreme. In throwing _totally_ off that “authority,” whose -voice had so long been so sacred, we even surpassed, and by much, our -original folly. But the watchword now was, “a national literature!”—as -if any true literature _could be_ “national”—as if the world at large -were not the only proper stage for the literary _histrio_. We became, -suddenly, the merest and maddest _partizans_ in letters. Our papers -spoke of “tariffs” and “protection.” Our Magazines had habitual passages -about that “truly native novelist, Mr. Cooper,” or that “staunch -American genius, Mr. Paulding.” Unmindful of the spirit of the axioms -that “a prophet has _no_ honor in his own land” and that “a hero is -never a hero to his _valet-de-chambre_”—axioms founded in reason and in -truth—our reviews urged the propriety—our booksellers the necessity, -of strictly “American” themes. A foreign subject, at this epoch, was a -weight more than enough to drag down into the very depths of critical -damnation the finest writer owning nativity in the States; while, on the -reverse, we found ourselves daily in the paradoxical dilemma of liking, -or pretending to like, a stupid book the better because (sure enough) -its stupidity was of our own growth, and discussed our own affairs. - -It is, in fact, but very lately that this anomalous state of feeling has -shown any signs of subsidence. Still it _is_ subsiding. Our views of -literature in general having expanded, we begin to demand the use—to -inquire into the offices and provinces of criticism—to regard it more -as an art based immoveably in nature, less as a mere system of -fluctuating and conventional dogmas. And, with the prevalence of these -ideas, has arrived a distaste even to the home-dictation of the -bookseller-_coteries_. If our editors are not as yet _all_ independent -of the will of a publisher, a majority of them scruple, at least, _to -confess_ a subservience, and enter into no positive combinations against -the minority who despise and discard it. And this is a _very_ great -improvement of exceedingly late date. - -Escaping these quicksands, our criticism is nevertheless in some -danger—some very little danger—of falling into the pit of a most -detestable species of cant—the cant of _generality_. This tendency has -been given it, in the first instance, by the onward and tumultuous -spirit of the age. With the increase of the thinking-material comes the -desire, if not the necessity, of abandoning particulars for masses. Yet -in our individual case, as a nation, we seem merely to have adopted this -bias from the British Quarterly Reviews, upon which our own Quarterlies -have been slavishly and pertinaciously modelled. In the foreign journal, -the review or criticism properly so termed, has gradually yet steadily -degenerated into what we see it at present—that is to say into anything -but criticism. Originally a “review,” was not so called as _lucus a non -lucendo_. Its name conveyed a just idea of its design. It reviewed, or -surveyed the book whose title formed its text, and, giving an analysis -of its contents, passed judgment upon its merits or defects. But, -through the system of anonymous contribution, this natural process lost -ground from day to day. The name of a writer being known only to a few, -it became to him an object not so much to write well, as to write -fluently, at so many guineas per sheet. The analysis of a book is a -matter of time and of mental exertion. For many classes of composition -there is required a deliberate perusal, with notes, and subsequent -generalization. An easy substitute for this labor was found in a digest -or compendium of the work noticed, with copious extracts—or a still -easier, in random comments upon such passages as accidentally met the -eye of the critic, with the passages themselves copied at full length. -The mode of reviewing most in favor, however, because carrying with it -the greatest _semblance_ of care, was that of diffuse essay upon the -subject matter of the publication, the reviewer (?) using the facts -alone which the publication supplied, and using them as material for -some theory, the sole concern, bearing, and intention of which, was mere -difference of opinion with the author. These came at length to be -understood and habitually practised as the customary or conventional -_fashions_ of review; and although the nobler order of intellects did -not fall into the full heresy of these fashions—we may still assert -that even Macaulay’s nearest approach to criticism in its legitimate -sense, is to be found in his article upon Ranke’s “History of the -Popes”—an article in which the whole strength of the reviewer is put -forth _to account_ for a single fact—the progress of Romanism—which -the book under discussion has established. - -Now, while we do not mean to deny that a good essay is a good thing, we -yet assert that these papers on general topics have nothing whatever to -do with that _criticism_ which their evil example has nevertheless -infected _in se_. Because these dogmatising pamphlets, which _were once_ -“Reviews,” have lapsed from their original faith, it does not follow -that the faith itself is extinct—that “there shall be no more cakes and -ale”—that criticism, in its old acceptation, does not exist. But we -complain of a growing inclination on the part of our lighter journals to -believe, on such grounds, that such is the fact—that because the -British Quarterlies, through supineness, and our own, through a -degrading imitation, have come to merge all varieties of vague -generalization in the one title of “Review,” it therefore results that -criticism, being everything in the universe, is, consequently, nothing -whatever in fact. For to this end, and to none other conceivable, is the -tendency of such propositions, for example, as we find in a late number -of that very clever monthly magazine, Arcturus. - - “But _now_” (the emphasis on the _now_ is our own)—“But _now_,” - says Mr. Mathews, in the preface to the first volume of his - journal, “criticism has a wider scope and a universal interest. - It dismisses errors of grammar, and hands over an imperfect - rhyme or a false quantity to the proof-reader; it looks _now_ to - the heart of the subject and the author’s design. It is a test - of opinion. Its acuteness is not pedantic, but philosophical; it - unravels the web of the author’s mystery to interpret his - meaning to others; it detects his sophistry, because sophistry - is injurious to the heart and life; it promulgates his beauties - with liberal, generous praise, because this is its true duty as - the servant of truth. Good criticism may be well asked for, - since it is the type of the literature of the day. It gives - method to the universal inquisitiveness on every topic relating - to life or action. A criticism, _now_, includes every form of - literature, except perhaps the imaginative and the strictly - dramatic. It is an essay, a sermon, an oration, a chapter in - history, a philosophical speculation, a prose-poem, an - art-novel, a dialogue; it admits of humor, pathos, the personal - feelings of auto-biography, the broadest views of statesmanship. - As the ballad and the epic were the productions of the days of - Homer, the review is the native characteristic growth of the - nineteenth century.” - -We respect the talents of Mr. Mathews, but must dissent from nearly all -that he here says. The species of “review” which he designates as the -“characteristic growth of the nineteenth century” is only the growth of -the last twenty or thirty years _in Great Britain_. The French Reviews, -for example, which are _not_ anonymous, are very different things, and -preserve the _unique_ spirit of true criticism. And what need we say of -the Germans?—what of Winkelmann, of Novalis, of Schelling, of Göethe, -of Augustus William, and of Frederick Schlegel?—that their magnificent -_critiques raisonnées_ differ from those of Kaimes, of Johnson, and of -Blair, in principle not at all, (for the principles of these artists -will not fail until Nature herself expires,) but solely in their more -careful elaboration, their greater thoroughness, their more profound -analysis and application of the principles themselves. That a criticism -“_now_” should be different in spirit, as Mr. Mathews supposes, from a -criticism at any previous period, is to insinuate a charge of -variability in laws that cannot vary—the laws of man’s heart and -intellect—for these are the sole basis upon which the true critical art -is established. And this art “_now_” no more than in the days of the -“Dunciad,” can, without neglect of its duty, “dismiss errors of -grammar,” or “hand over an imperfect rhyme or a false quantity to the -proof-reader.” What is meant by a “test of opinion” in the connexion -here given the words by Mr. M., we do not comprehend as clearly as we -could desire. By this phrase we are as completely enveloped in doubt as -was Mirabeau in the castle of _If_. To our imperfect appreciation it -seems to form a portion of that general vagueness which is the _tone_ of -the whole philosophy at this point:—but all that which our journalist -describes a criticism to be, is all that which we sturdily maintain it -_is not_. Criticism is _not_, we think, an essay, nor a sermon, nor an -oration, nor a chapter in history, nor a philosophical speculation, nor -a prose-poem, nor an art novel, nor a dialogue. In fact, it _can be_ -nothing in the world but—a criticism. But if it were all that Arcturus -imagines, it is not very clear why it might not be equally “imaginative” -or “dramatic”—a romance or a melo-drama, or both. That it would be a -farce cannot be doubted. - -It is against this frantic spirit of _generalization_ that we protest. -We have a word, “criticism,” whose import is sufficiently distinct, -through long usage, at least; and we have an art of high importance and -clearly-ascertained limit, which this word is quite well enough -understood to represent. Of that conglomerate science to which Mr. -Mathews so eloquently alludes, and of which we are instructed that it is -anything and everything at once—of this science we know nothing, and -really wish to know less; but we object to our contemporary’s -appropriation in its behalf, of a term to which we, in common with a -large majority of mankind, have been accustomed to attach a certain and -very definitive idea. Is there no word but “criticism” which may be made -to serve the purposes of “Arcturus?” Has it any objection to Orphicism, -or Dialism, or Emersonism, or any other pregnant compound indicative of -confusion worse confounded? - -Still, we must not pretend a total misapprehension of the idea of Mr. -Mathews, and we should be sorry that he misunderstood _us_. It may be -granted that we differ only in terms—although the difference will yet -be found not unimportant in effect. Following the highest authority, we -would wish, in a word, to limit literary criticism to comment upon -_Art_. A book is written—and it is only _as the book_ that we subject -it to review. With the opinions of the work, considered otherwise than -in their relation to the work itself, the critic has really nothing to -do. It is his part simply to decide upon _the mode_ in which these -opinions are brought to bear. Criticism is thus no “test of opinion.” -For this test, the work, divested of its pretensions as an -_art-product_, is turned over for discussion to the world at large—and -first, to that class which it especially addresses—if a history, to the -historian—if a metaphysical treatise, to the moralist. In this, the -only true and intelligible sense, it will be seen that criticism, the -test or analysis of _Art_, (_not_ of opinion,) is only properly employed -upon productions which have their basis in art itself, and although the -journalist (whose duties and objects are multiform) may turn aside, at -pleasure, from the _mode_ or vehicle of opinion to discussion of the -opinion conveyed—it is still clear that he is “_critical_” only in so -much as he deviates from his true province not at all. - -And of the critic himself what shall we say?—for as yet we have spoken -only the _proem_ to the true _epopea_. What _can_ we better say of him -than, with Bulwer, that “he must have courage to blame boldly, -magnanimity to eschew envy, genius to appreciate, learning to compare, -an eye for beauty, an ear for music, and a heart for feeling.” Let us -add, a talent for analysis and a solemn indifference to abuse. - - * * * * * - - _Stanley Thorn. By Henry Cockton, Esq., Author of “Valentine - Vox, the Ventriloquist,” etc., with Numerous Illustrations, - designed by Cruikshank, Leech, etc., and engraved by Yeager. Lea - and Blanchard: Philadelphia._ - -“Charles O’Malley,” “Harry Lorrequer,” “Valentine Vox,” “Stanley Thorn,” -and some other effusions now “in course of publication,” are novels -depending for effect upon what gave popularity to “Peregrine Pickle”—we -mean _practiced joke_. To men whose animal spirits are high, whatever -may be their mental ability, such works are always acceptable. To the -uneducated, to those who read little, to the obtuse in intellect (and -these three classes constitute the mass) these books are not only -acceptable, but are the only ones which can be called so. We here make -two divisions—that of the men who _can_ think but who dislike thinking; -and that of the men who either have not been presented with the -materials for thought, or who have no brains with which to “work up” the -material. With these classes of people “Stanley Thorn” is a favorite. It -not only demands no reflection, but repels it, or dissipates it—much as -a silver rattle the wrath of a child. It is not in the least degree -_suggestive_. Its readers arise from its perusal with the identical -ideas in possession at sitting down. Yet, _during_ perusal, there has -been a tingling physico-mental exhilaration, somewhat like that induced -by a cold bath, or a flesh-brush, or a gallop on horseback—a very -delightful and very healthful matter in its way. But these things are -not _letters_. “Valentine Vox” and “Charles O’Malley” are no more -“_literature_” than cat-gut is music. The visible and tangible tricks of -a baboon belong not less to the _belles-lettres_ than does “Harry -Lorrequer.” When this gentleman adorns his countenance with lamp-black, -knocks over an apple-woman, or brings about a rent in his pantaloons, we -laugh at him when bound up in a volume, just as we would laugh at his -adventures if happening before our eyes in the street. But mere -incidents, whether serious or comic, whether occurring or -described—_mere incidents_ are not books. Neither are they the basis of -books—of which the idiosyncrasy is _thought_ in contradistinction from -_deed_. A book without action cannot be; but a book is only such, to the -extent of its thought, independently of its deed. Thus of Algebra; which -is, or should be, defined as “a mode of computing with symbols by means -of signs.” With numbers, as Algebra, it has nothing to do; and although -no algebraic computation can proceed without numbers, yet Algebra is -only such to the extent of its analysis, independently of its -Arithmetic. - -We do not mean _to find fault_ with the class of performances of which -“Stanley Thorn” is one. Whatever tends to the amusement of man tends to -his benefit. Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the -most philosophical of all writing, (_spoudiotaton kai philosophikotaton -genos_) defending it principally upon that score. He seems to -think,—and many following him, have thought—that the end of all -literature should be instruction—a favorite dogma of the school of -Wordsworth. But it is a truism that the end of our existence is -happiness. If so, the end of every separate aim of our existence—of -every thing connected with our existence, should be still—happiness. -Therefore, the end of instruction should be happiness—and happiness, -what is it but the extent or duration of pleasure?—therefore, the end -of instruction should be pleasure. But the cant of the Lakists would -establish the exact converse, and make the end of all pleasure -instruction. In fact, _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more -importance to his fellow man than he who instructs, since the _dulce_ is -alone the _utile_, and pleasure is the end already attained, which -instruction is merely the means of attaining. It will be said that -Wordsworth, with Aristotle, has reference to instruction with eternity -in view; but either such cannot be the tendency of his argument, or he -is laboring at a sad disadvantage; for his works—or at least those of -his school—are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the -many who stand in need of salvation. Thus the moralist’s parade of -measures would be as completely thrown away as are those of the devil in -“Melmoth,” who plots and counterplots through three octavo volumes for -the entrapment of one or two souls, while any common devil would have -demolished one or two thousand. - -When, therefore, we assert that these practical-joke publications are -not “literature,” because not “thoughtful” in any degree, we must not be -understood as objecting to the thing in itself, but to its claim upon -our attention as critic. Dr.—what is his name?—strings together a -number of facts or fancies which, when printed, answer the laudable -purpose of amusing a very large, if not a very respectable number of -people. To this proceeding upon the part of the Doctor—or on the part -of his imitator, Mr. Jeremy Stockton, the author of “Valentine Vox,” we -_can_ have no objection whatever. His _books_ do not please _us_. We -will not read them. Still less shall we speak of them seriously as -_books_. Being in no respect works of art, they neither deserve, nor are -amenable to criticism. - -“Stanley Thorn” may be described, in brief, as a collection, rather than -as a series, of practical haps and mishaps, befalling a young man very -badly brought up by his mother. He flogs his father with a codfish, and -does other similar things. We have no fault to find with him whatever -except that, in the end, he _does not_ come to the gallows. - -We have no great fault to find with _him_, but with Mr. Bockton, his -father, much. He is a consummate plagiarist; and, in our opinion, -nothing more despicable exists. There is not a _good_ incident in his -book (?) of which we cannot point out the paternity with at least a -sufficient precision. The opening adventures are all _in the style_ of -“Cyril Thornton.” Bob, following Amelia in disguise, is borrowed from -one of the Smollet or Fielding novels—there are many of our readers who -will be able to say _which_. The cab driven over the Crescent -_trottoir_, is from Pierce Egan. The swindling tricks of Colonel -Somebody, at the commencement of the novel, and of Captain Filcher -afterwards, are from “Pickwick Abroad.” The doings at Madame Pompour’s -(or some such name) with the description of Isabelle, are from “Ecarté, -or the Salons of Paris”—a _rich_ book. The Sons-of-Glory scene (or its -_wraith_) we have seen—_somewhere_; while (not to be tedious) the whole -account of Stanley’s election, from his first conception of the design, -through the entire canvass, the purchasing of the “Independents,” the -row at the hustings, the chairing, the feast, and the petition, is so -obviously _stolen_ from “Ten Thousand a-Year” as to be disgusting. Bob -and the “old venerable”—what are they but feeble reflections of young -and old Weller? The _tone_ of the narration throughout is an absurd -_echo_ of Boz. For example—“‘We’ve come agin about them there little -accounts of ourn—question is do you mean to settle ’em or don’t you?’ -His colleagues, by whom he was backed, highly approved of this question, -and winked and nodded with the view of intimating to each other that in -their judgment that was the point.” Who so dull as to give Mr. Bogton -any more credit for these things than we give the buffoon for the _rôle_ -which he has committed to memory? - -That the work will prove amusing to _many_ readers, we do not pretend to -deny. The claims of Mr. Frogton, and not of his narrative, are what we -especially discuss. - -The edition before us is clearly printed on good paper. The designs are -by Cruikshank and Leech; and it is observable that those of the latter -are more effective in every respect than those of the former and far -more celebrated artist. - - * * * * * - - _The Vicar of Wakefield, A Tale. By Oliver Goldsmith, M. B. - Illustrated with Numerous Engravings. With an Account of the - Author’s Life and Writings. By J. Aikin, M. D., Author of Select - Works of the British Poets. D. Appleton and Co: New York._ - -This publication is one of a class which it behoves every editor in the -country to encourage, at all times, by every good word in his power—the -class, we mean of well printed and, especially, of well illustrated -works from among the standard fictions of England. We place particular -emphasis upon the mechanical style of these reprints. The criticism -which affects to despise these adventitious aids to the enjoyment of a -work of art is at best but _étourderie_. The illustration, to be sure, -is not always in accordance with our own understanding of the text; and -this fact, although we never hear it urged, is, perhaps, the most -reasonable objection which _can_ be urged against pictorial -embellishment—for the unity of conception _is_ disturbed; but this -disturbance takes place only in very slight measure (provided the work -be worth illustration at all) and its disadvantages are far more than -counterbalanced by the pleasure (to most minds a very acute one) of -comparing our comprehension of the author’s ideas with that of the -artist. If our imagination is feeble, the design will probably be in -advance of our conception, and thus each picture will stimulate, -support, and guide the fancy. If, on the contrary, the thought of the -artist is inferior, there is the stimulus of contrast with the -excitement of triumph. Thus, in the contemplation of a statue, or of an -individual painting of merit, the pleasure derivable from the comments -of a bystander is easily and keenly appreciable, while these comments -interfere, in no perceptible degree, with the force or the unity of our -own comprehension. We never knew a man of genius who did not confess an -interest in even the worst illustrations of a good book—although we -have known many men of genius (who should have known better) make the -confession with reluctance, as if one which implied something of -imbecility or disgrace. - -The present edition of one of the most admirable fictions in the -language, is, in every respect, very beautiful. The type and paper are -magnificent. The designs are very nearly what they should be. They are -sketchy, spirited cuts, depending for effect upon the higher merits -rather than upon the minor morals of art—upon skilful grouping of -figures, vivacity, _naïveté_ and originality of fancy, and good drawing -in the mass—rather than upon finish in details, or too cautious -adherence to the text. Some of the scraps at the commencement are too -diminutive to be distinct in the style of workmanship employed, and thus -have a _blurred_ appearance; but this is nearly all the fault we can -find. In general, these apparent trifles are superb; and a great number -of them are of a nature to elicit enthusiastic praise from every true -artist. - -The Memoir by Dr. Aikin is highly interesting, and embodies in a -pleasing narrative, (with little intermixture of criticism upon what no -longer requires it,) all that is, or need be known of Oliver Goldsmith. -In the opening page of this Memoir is an error (perhaps typographical) -which, as it _is_ upon the opening page, has an awkward appearance, and -should be corrected. We allude to the word “_protégée_,” which, in the -sense, or rather with the reference intended, should be printed -_protégé_. This is a very usual mistake. - - * * * * * - - _Tales and Souvenirs of a Residence in Europe. By a Lady of - Virginia. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._ - -Barring some trifling affectation, (apparent, for example, in heading a -plain English chapter with the French _Pensées_,) this volume is very -creditable to Mrs. Rives—for it seems to be well understood that the -fair author, in this case, is the wife of the well-known Senator from -Virginia. - -The work is modestly prefaced, and disclaims all pretension. It is a -mere re-gathering of sketches, written originally for the amusement of -friends. A lady-like taste and delicacy (without high merit of any kind) -pervade the whole. The style is somewhat disfigured by pleonasms—or -rather, overburdened with epithets: a common fault with enthusiastic -writers who want experience in the world of letters. For example: - - “There is an _inexpressible_ pleasure in gliding rapidly in a - _little_ car, over the _neat_ but _narrow turnpike_ roads, - bordered by _hawthorn_ hedges, looking out upon _bright_ fields, - clothed with the _richest_ and most _exquisite_ verdure, - occasionally catching a glimpse of some _sequestered_ cottage, - with its _miniature gravel_ walks, and _innumerable_ flowers, - which, at this season, in the _distant_ land of the traveller, - may have bloomed and passed away, but which here offer their - _brilliant_ tints, and _rich_ perfume; while on the other hand - some _proud_ castle rises in _bold_ relief against the _dappled_ - sky.” - -Of mere errors of grammar there are more than sufficient; and we are -constrained to say that the very first sentence of the book conveys a -gross instance of faulty construction. - - “The gratification of friends must once more serve as an apology - for permitting the following souvenirs to see the light.” - -Has the gratification of friends ever _before_ served as an apology for -permitting _the following_ souvenirs to see the light? - - * * * * * - - _The Poetical Works of Reginald Heber, Late Bishop of Calcutta. - Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._ - -It was only a year ago that the poems of Heber were first given to the -public in a collection, from which the present edition is a re-print; -but, individually, the pieces here presented have been long and -favorably known—with the exception of two or three lighter effusions, -now first published. - -The qualities of Heber are well understood. His poetry is of a high -order. He is imaginative, glowing, and vigorous, with a skill in the -management of his means unsurpassed by that of any writer of his time, -but without any high degree of originality. Can there be anything in the -nature of a “classical” life at war with novelty _per se_? At all -events, few fine scholars, such as Heber truly was, _are_ original. - -The volume before us is _a study_ for the poet in the depth and breadth -of its execution. Few nobler poems were, upon the whole, ever penned -than are “Europe,” “The Passage of the Dead Sea,” and the “Morte -D’Arthur.” The minor pieces generally are _very naïve_ and beautiful. -The Latin “Carmen Seculare” would not have disgraced Horace himself. Its -versification is perfect. A sketch of the author’s life would have well -prefaced the edition, and we are sorry to miss it. - - * * * * * - - _The Poetical Works of Lord Byron. Complete in one volume. J. B. - Lippincott and Co: Philadelphia._ - -This is a duodecimo of six hundred and eight pages, including _all_ the -poetic works of Lord Byron. The type is, of course, small—a fine -nonpareil—but very clear and beautiful; while the paper is of excellent -quality, and the press-work carefully done. There is a good plate -engraved by Pease from Saunders’ painting of the poet at nineteen, and -another (by the same engraver) of a design of Hucknall Church by -Westall. The binding is neat and substantial; and the edition, on the -whole, is one we can recommend. The type is somewhat too diminutive for -weak eyes—but for readers who have no deficiency in this regard—or as -a work of reference—nothing could be better. - -As a literary performance it is scarcely necessary to speak of this -compilation. We make objection, however, and pointedly, to the omission -of the biographer’s name. A sketch of the nature here inserted is worth -nothing when anonymous. Nine-tenths of the value attached to a certain -very rambling collection of Lives, depends upon our cognizance of their -having been indited by Plutarch. - - * * * * * - - _Critical and Miscellaneous Essays. By Christopher North, - (Professor Wilson.) In Three Volumes. Carey and Hart: - Philadelphia._ - -This publication is well-timed—if, at least, there be any truth in the -report, that Professor Wilson is about to visit this country. The -reception of the man will thus be made a part of the perusal of his -works. And very glorious works they are. No man of his age has shown -greater versatility of talent, and few, of any age, richer powers of -imagination. His literary influence has far exceeded that of any -Englishman who ever existed. His scholarship, _if not profound_, is -excursive; his criticism, _if not always honest_, is analytical, -enthusiastic, and original in manner. His wit is vigorous, his humor -great, his sarcasm bitter. His high animal spirits give a dashing, free, -hearty and devil-may-care tone to all his compositions—a tone which has -done more towards establishing his literary popularity and _dominion_ -than any single quality for which he is remarkable. The faults of -Professor Wilson, as might be supposed from the traits of his merits, -are many and great. He is frequently led into gross injustice through -personal feeling—this is his chief sin. His tone is often _flippant_. -His scholarship is questionable as regards extent and accuracy. His -style is apt to degenerate, or rather _rush_, into a species of -bombastic _periphrasis_ and _apostrophe_, of which our own Mr. John Neal -has given the best American specimens. His analysis, although true in -principle (as is always the case with the idealist) and often profound, -is nevertheless deficient in that calm breadth and massive -deliberateness which are the features of such intellects as that of -Verülam. In short, the _opinions_ of Professor Wilson can never be -safely adopted without examination. - -The three beautiful volumes now published, will be followed by another, -embracing the more elaborate criticisms of the author,—the celebrated -critiques upon Homer, &c., which it has not been thought expedient to -include in this collection. - - * * * * * - - _Pocahontas, and Other Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Harper - and Brothers: New York._ - -Some years ago we had occasion to speak of “Zinzendorf, and Other -Poems,” by Mrs. Sigourney, and at that period we found, or fancied that -we found many points, in her general manner, which called for critical -animadversion. At _no_ period, however, have we been so rash as to -dispute her claim to high rank among the poets of the land. In the -volume now published by the Messieurs Harper, we are proud to discover -_not one_ of those more important blemishes which were a stain upon her -earlier style. We had accused her of imitation of Mrs. Hemans—but this -imitation is no longer apparent. - -The author of “Pocahontas” (an unusually fine poem of which we may take -occasion to speak fully hereafter) has also abandoned a very foolish -mannerism with which she was erewhile infected—the mannerism of heading -her pieces with paragraphs, or quotations, by way of text, from which -the poem itself ensued as a sermon. This was an exceedingly inartistical -practice, and one now well discarded. - -The lesser pieces in the volume before us have, for the most part, -already met our eye as fugitive effusions. In general, they deserve all -commendation. - -“Pocahontas” is a far finer poem than a late one on the same subject by -Mr. Seba Smith. Mrs. Sigourney, however, has the wrong accentuation of -Powhatan. In the second stanza of the poem, too, “harassed” is in false -quantity. We speak of these trifles merely _en passant_. - -Hereafter we may speak in full. - - * * * * * - - _The Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford: Including - Numerous Letters now first published from the Original - Manuscripts. In Four Volumes. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._ - -Horace Walpole has been well termed “the prince of epistolary writers,” -and his Letters, which in this edition are given chronologically, form a -very complete and certainly a very _piquant_ commentary on the events of -his age, as well as a record, in great part, of the most important -historical transactions from 1735 to 1797. - -Prefixed to the collection are the author’s “Reminiscences of the Courts -of George the First and Second”—Reminiscences which have been styled -“the very perfection of anecdote writing.” There is, also, the “Life,” -by Lord Dover. The volumes are magnificent octavos of nearly 600 pages -each, beautifully printed on excellent paper, and handsomely bound. It -is really superfluous to recommend these books. Every man who pretends -to a library will purchase them _of course_. - - * * * * * - - _The Early English Church. By_ Edward Churton, M. D., _Rector of - Crayke, Durham. With a Preface by the_ Rt. Rev. L. Silliman - Ives, M. D., _Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the - Diocese of N. Carolina. From the second London edition. D. - Appleton and Co.: New York._ - -The title of this volume does not fully explain its character. The aim -of the writer, to use his own words, has been “by searching the earliest -records of English history, to lay before the English reader a faithful -picture of the life and manners of his Christian forefathers.” This -design, as far as we have been able to judge in a very cursory -examination, is well executed. - - * * * * * - - _The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. By_ Daniel De Foe, - _with a Memoir of the Author, and an Essay on his Writings. With - Illustrations by_ Grandville. _D. Appleton and Co.: New York._ - -A magnificent edition—to our taste the _most_ magnificent edition—of -Robinson Crusoe. The designs by Grandville are in a very superb style of -art—bold, striking, and original—the _drawing_ capital. - - * * * * * - - _Somerville Hall, or Hints to those who would make Home Happy. - By_ Mrs. Ellis, _author of “Women of England,” “Poetry of Life,” - etc. etc. D. Appleton and Co.: New York._ - -This interesting volume is one of a series to be entitled “Tales for the -People and their Children.” To this series Miss Martineau and Mary -Howitt will contribute. - - * * * * * - - _Wild Western Scenes. Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4. By_ J. Beauchamp - Jones. _Philadelphia: Drew and Scammell._ - -Mr. Jones is a man of talent, and these descriptions of Wild Western -Life evince it. We read each successive number with additional zest. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: a gentleman and 2 ladies in high fashion dress] - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic -spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and -typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have -been corrected as noted below. For the text only version of this eBook, -in the article “An Appendix of Autographs”, the various signatures which -were given in other eBook formats as an illustration, are represented in -the text version as text with variable spacing and punctuation -representing the way in which the particular signature is handwritten. - -A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public -domain. - -An interesting note on the poem “Agathè.—A Necromaunt, In Three -Chimeras” found in this issue of Graham’s is that it was plagiarized by -Mr. Tasistro. It was previously published as a stand alone publication -in 1831, titled “Death-Wake, or Lunacy, A Necromaunt. In Three -Chimeras.” by Thomas T. Stoddart. Copies of Mr. Stoddart’s poem can be -found online for those interested in comparing the two. - -page 64, Miss Mary, having completed ==> Miss Catherine, having completed -page 64, Miss Catherine made some objection ==> Miss Mary made some - objection - -[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 1, January 1842_, George R. -Graham, Editor] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XX, NO. -1, JANUARY 1842 *** - -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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