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[Illustration: THE VALENTINE.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker.]

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
              VOL. XXXVI.      February, 1850.      No. 2.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          February
          Patrick O’Brien
          The Young Artist
          Love’s Influence
          The Two Portraits
          Myrrah Of Tangiers
          The Wilkinsons
          Fanny Day’s Presentiment
          Gems From Moore’s Irish Melodies. No. II.—The Last
            Rose of Summer
          The Revealings of a Heart
          Life of General Joseph Warren
          Editor’s Table
          Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          Wit And Beauty
          A Household Dirge
          The Pirate
          Sonnets.—at Twilight
          Song
          Night Thoughts
          Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico
          A Spanish Romance
          To A. R.
          The Pale Thinker
          The Evil Eye
          Fancies About a Portrait
          The Dream of Youth
          Le Follet
          Wissahikon Waltz

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

        VOL. XXXVI.     PHILADELPHIA, February, 1850.     NO. 2.

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                               FEBRUARY.


                 The flowers which cold in prison kept
                 Now laugh the frost to scorn.
                                RICHARD EDWARDS. 1523.

AMONG the ancient manuscripts in the British Museum there is one of
Saxon origin, written by Ethelgar, a writer of some note in the tenth
century. Commenting on the months, he speaks of February, which he calls
_Sprout kele_, because colewort, a kind of cabbage, which was the chief
sustenance of the husbandmen in those days, began to yield wholesome
young sprouts during this month. Some centuries after, this name was
modernized by the Romans, who offered their expiatory sacrifices at this
season of the year, and called _Februalia_. Frequently during this month
the cold is abated for a short time, and fine days and hasty thaws take
the place of rigid frost. From this peculiarity, this month has often
been called by ancient writers by the expressive name of “_February fill
dike_.”

Clare’s verses are sweetly descriptive of this changing season—

        The snow has left the cottage top;
          The thatch moss grows in brighter green;
        And eaves in quick succession drop,
          Where pinning icicles have been;
        Pitpatting with a pleasant noise,
          In tubs set by the cottage door;
        While ducks and geese, with happy joys,
          Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o’er.

        The sun peeps through the window pane;
          Which children mark with laughing eye:
        And in the wet street steal again,
          To tell each other Spring is nigh:
        Then, as young Hope the past recalls,
          In playing groups they often draw,
        To build beside the sunny walls
          Their spring-time huts of sticks and straw.

        And oft in pleasure’s dreams they hie
          Round homesteads by the village side,
        Scratching the hedgerow mosses by,
          Where painted pooty shells abide;
        Mistaking oft the ivy spray
          For leaves that come with budding Spring,
        And wondering in their search for play
          Why birds delay to build and sing.

        The mavis-thrush with wild delight
          Upon the orchard’s dripping tree,
        Mutters, to see the day so bright,
          Fragments of young Hope’s poesy:
        And dame oft stops her buzzing wheel
          To hear the robin’s note once more,
        Who tootles while he pecks his meal
          From sweet-briar hips beside the door.

The frost often returns after a few days, and binds Nature with his iron
hand. In Great Britain, where the Spring is much earlier than with us,
February is remarkable for what is termed the “_runs_” of moles.

Le Count, a French naturalist, records some interesting notices of the
nature of moles, (an animal not very common in this cold climate,) as
well as the speed at which they travel through their underground
galleries. He observes, “They are very voracious, and die of hunger if
kept without food for twelve hours. They commence throwing up their
hillocks in the month of February, and making preparations for their
summer campaign, constructing for themselves _runs_ in various
directions, to enable them to escape in case of danger; and also as a
means of procuring their food. These runs communicate with one another,
and unite at one point; at this centre the female establishes her
head-quarters, and forms a separate habitation for her young, taking
care that both shall be on a higher level than the runs, and as nearly
as possible even with the ground, and any moisture that may penetrate is
carried off by the runs. This dormitory, if it may be so styled, is
generally placed at the foot of a wall, or near a hedge or a tree, where
it has less chance of being broken in. When so placed, no external
embankment gives token of its presence; but when the soil is light a
large heap of earth is generally thrown over it. Being susceptible of
the slightest noise or vibration of the earth, the mole, in case of
surprise, at once betakes itself to its safety runs.”

We sometimes, though rarely, find the snow-drops, “fair maids of
February,” as they are called, peeping through their mantle of snow, and
the gentle aconite, with its

        “Green leaf furling round its cup of gold,”

giving life and animation to the otherwise dank and desolate border.
Leigh Hunt in describing this month says, “If February were not the
precursor of Spring, it would be the least pleasant month in the whole
year, November not excepted. The thaws coming so suddenly produce
freshets, and a clammy moisture, which is the most disagreeable of
winter sensations.

        Various signs of returning Spring—
                  ——songful Spring—
        Whose looks are melody,

occur at different times during this month. The month of February in
England may well be compared to the month of April in America.”

The author of “The Sabbath” thus vividly paints the sterility of this
month, and its effects upon the “rural populace.”

                            All outdoor work
        Now stands; the wagoner, with wish-bound feet,
        And wheel-spokes almost filled, his destined stage
        Scarcely can gain. O’er hill, and vale, and wood,
        Sweeps the snow-pinioned blast, and all things veils
        In white array, disguising to the view;
        Objects well known, now faintly recognized;
        One color clothes the mountain and the plain,
        Save where the feathery flakes melt as they fall
        Upon the deep blue stream, or scowling lake,
        Or where some beetling rock o’er jutting hangs
        Above the vaulty precipice’s cove.
        Formless, the pointed cairn now scarce o’ertops
        The level dreary waste; and coppice woods,
        Diminished of their height, like bushes seem.
        With stooping heads, turned from the storm, the flocks
        Onward still urged by man and dog, escape
        The smothering drift; while, skulking at aside,
        Is seen the fox, with close down-folded tail,
        Watching his time to seize a straggling prey;
        Or, from some lofty crag, he ominous howls,
        And makes approaching night more dismal fall.

During this month, the increasing influence of the sun is scarcely felt,
till we approach the end, then hoping, watch from day to day the
lengthened minutes as they pass, to usher in Spring’s holy charms.

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                            WIT AND BEAUTY.


                          BY AGNES L. GORDON.


    IT chanced upon a pleasant day,
      In charming summer weather,
    That Wit and Beauty sallied forth
      To take a stroll together.

    And as they idly roamed along,
      On various themes conversing,
    Young Beauty, somewhat vain, began
      Her wondrous powers rehearsing.

    And much she dwelt upon the charms
      Her outward form adorning,
    And seemed to feel herself supreme,
      All other merit scorning.

    This roused the ire of sparkling Wit,
      Who keenly thus retorted:
    “Your claim, though easily advanced,
      Requires to be supported.

    “Mark yon bright bird that wings his flight
       Athwart the sunny skies,
    Let each on him display our skill,
      To catch him as he flies.

    “Your chance is first, for well I know,
      And own the pleasant duty,
    That Wit in every age must yield
      Due precedence to Beauty!”

    Young Beauty smiled, and charmed the bird
      With softened strains alluring,
    And bound him with a silken chain,
      More brilliant than enduring.

    She placed the captive in a net,
      Entwined of many flowers,
    And with a merry, mocking smile,
      Bade Wit now try his powers.

    Then from his feathered quiver Wit
      A silver arrow drew,
    With perfect and unerring aim
      He pierced the net-work through.

    The bird released, on eager wing
      Soared upward to the skies;
    A second arrow reached his breast—
      He fell—no more to rise!

    Beauty looked sore dismayed, to see
      Her snare thus incomplete.
    When gallant Wit the trophy raised,
      And laid it at her feet.

    “Could we but journey hand in hand,”
      He said to Beauty, smiling,
    “No prey could e’er escape my shaft,
      Who saw your charms beguiling.

    “But since the stern decrees of fate
      Our union thus opposes,
    And you so oft my arrows blunt,
      Beneath a weight of roses;

    “Remember, Beauty’s charms will fade,
      Despite each fond endeavor,
    And strong, _well tempered_ shafts of wit
      Her chains will often sever.”

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                            PATRICK O’BRIEN.


                         A TALE OF HUMBLE LIFE.


                          BY H. HASTINGS WELD.


THE father of Ellen O’Brien was a small farmer, whose situation when the
child began to think at all, seemed to her the realization of all that
is happy, and all that is cheerful in this world. Children do think very
early; much earlier than their elders suspect. But happily for them they
are easily contented. They look at the bright side, and unconscious of
the superior advantages, and the greater comforts of others, have no
temptation to discontented comparisons, and no motive for uneasy envy.

Ellen’s earliest memory of marked and positive happiness—that is to
say, of an incident which conferred particular pleasure, was connected
with a child—a _very_ small child. She remembered how her father told
her to “make a lap, now,” and placed the wee thing upon the knees which
she prepared with much ado to receive it. She was told that this was her
little brother, her own little brother; and she hugged it in troubled
happiness, almost afraid to touch, lest she should hurt it. She gazed
upon it with that undefined feeling of mingled awe and pleasure with
which little children regard less children. She looked at its fragile
hands and wondered, if she took them in hers, whether they would fade or
drop to pieces, like the delicate blossoms which she had often killed
with kindness. And when it cried—oh, but she was astonished! That such
a little thing should be so ungrateful while she coddled and cared for
it, and nursed it ever so tenderly, was more than she could well endure.
She thought it well deserved, and ought to have a whipping, only that a
whipping might _hurt_ it—and that she would not consent to.

It was, however, not a great while before a safe acquaintance grew up
between the new comer and Ellen. He was called Patrick, after his
father, and his father’s father before him. Ellen was three years his
senior. That difference in their ages would have been a wonder; only
that it was explainable. Another little Patrick, his predecessor, was
“called home,” as his father said, “before he had scarce a taste of the
world at all.” And Ellen, from hearing so often of the other little
Patrick, and from her indistinct memory of a baby that she saw one day,
as if in a dream, and did not see any more, learned to think of infants
as of little things that would die if they were not carefully watched.
And this Patrick she was resolved should not slip away for want of
attention from his sister; therefore she nursed him as carefully as if
that had been her sole vocation.

The wonder about babies grew less as Ellen grew older. At first, in her
childish little heart, she thought every little baby must be a little
Patrick, and that no new one could come while there was another about.
But familiarity destroys marvels. She found there could be little
Phelims and Terrences as well as Patricks, Bridgets and Kathleens as
well as Ellens. Child after child lifted its clamorous voice for food
and nursing in Patrick O’Brien’s cottage, until at last when he was
asked respecting his children, he was fain to count them upon his
fingers. And he always began with Ellen and his thumb—Paddy came next,
and the formula was—“There’s Ellen, then little Paddy that was called
early, then Paddy that is now—sure Ellen and Paddy are the thumb and
forefinger to us. What would the mother do without them, at all?”

Ellen grew to a fine, stout girl, with a cheerful open face when you
spoke to her—but there was a shade of care and thought over it when in
repose, which you may often see in the oldest daughter of a poor man.
She moved and acted as if while the tribe who had exhausted the family
names of the O’Briens were born children to her mother, she was born
before them for a deputy mother to them all. Legs and arms were all over
the cottage, in all sorts of places where they shouldn’t be, and she
jerked them out of harm’s way, with a half-petulant dexterity which was
pleasant to observe. Tow-heads and shock-heads popped up continually,
and she pushed them aside with a “there now, wont you be aisy!” which
was musical, with a _very_ little discord. And there was an easy and
natural carelessness of authority and half rebellion in obedience, which
was truly puzzling to strangers, but which gave no discomposure to Ellen
or to her mother. Indeed, Mrs. O’Brien sat, the centre of her offspring,
with the most contented air in the world, plying her knitting needles
with easy assiduity, and dismissing child after child from her arms, as
they severally grew out of her immediate province and into Ellen’s. Or
she bustled, if there was bustling to do, with perfect indifference, it
might seem, to one who did not know her, as to whether there were
children in the house or not.

But sometimes her interference became necessary as a measure of last
appeal, and she came down on them with hearty whacks which were
invariably poulticed with a word or two, half scolding and half
good-natured wit. The children were thus reconciled to the propriety and
necessity of certain summary inflictions, which at the same time they
took care to avoid, when it could be done without _too_ much trouble.
Often there were voices heard in a higher key than is considered proper
in a drawing-room, and sometimes there was a debouchment of children out
at the door, and a consequent squealing of little pigs, and fluttering
of chickens before it; which showed the mother’s activity at ejection.
But no drawing-room ever sheltered more gentle hearts, and no mother of
high degree ever followed a scolding with more patience than Mrs.
O’Brien did. There was no malice in her, and a half-laugh stood ever in
her eye, as she looked out at the door on the living miscellanies she
had put in motion, and said—“Sure you can’t turn a hand, or step any
place at all, for pigs, chickens and childer!”

There is often more room in the heart than in the house. The O’Briens
began to feel themselves crowded—or rather to feel the inconvenience of
too many sitters for their stools, without knowing precisely—or rather
without permitting themselves to acknowledge what caused their
discomfort. There were too many mouths for the potatoes, as Patrick
senior and his wife were at last compelled to admit in their matrimonial
committee of ways and means, and the question now became, how could they
diminish the one, or increase the other. The lesser fry were out of the
question. Nothing could be done in the way of removing them; nor did the
thought occur to father or mother, who loved the children with true
Irish hearts; that the smaller children were in the way, or that any of
the little ones could possibly be spared, if the lord-lieutenant himself
wanted a baby. So they began canvassing at the other end of the long
list.

“There was Ellen,” said the father, doubtfully.

“Ellen! Sure you’ll not be putting her away, and nobody to mind the
childer? What is the wages, I’d like to know, would make her place good
to us?”

And Ellen, it was decided, was a fixture.

“There is Paddy,” said the mother with some hesitation. “Sure he’s a
broth of a boy, and it is time he should do for himself—it is. It’s
little in life he’s good for here, anyway.”

The father did not think so. Many were the little “turns” that Paddy
cheerfully undertook, but all of them could not in conscience be made to
appear to amount to an indispensable service, or any thing like it.

“Look at him now?” said the mother. And they looked at Pat, whose all
good-natured face, unconscious that it was the subject of observation,
bloomed like a tall flower amid the lesser O’Briens who clustered about
him.

“Sure there’s a tribe of them!” said O’Brien.

“But look at Paddy! He’s the moral of yourself at his age, Patrick; with
the same niver-a-thought, lazy look!”

It was questionable whether the wife’s affectionate reminiscence was a
compliment or not; and an expression of sad humor, between a smile and a
scowl, passed over O’Brien’s face, as he regarded his elder son, the
heir to his personal beauties and accomplishments—and to his cast off
clothes. It was of little use the latter were, for the father usually
exacted so much of them, that when they descended to the son, sad make
shifts were necessary to keep up in them any show of integrity, however
superficial. And the stitches which were hurriedly taken between whiles,
by his mother, had a comprehensive character which brought distant parts
of the garments into a proximity very far from their original intention.
The difference in size between father and son permitted a latitude in
this respect, and the gathering together of the fabric produced an
appearance more picturesque than elegant. As to the extra length of the
garments that soon corrected itself, and Paddy junior’s ankles presented
a ring of ragged fringe; or a couple of well-developed calves protruded
in easy indifference. Indeed he was a broth of a boy, good natured and
“bidable,” as he was ragged and careless. It was time that his good
properties should be made available—and that some of the other young
ones should have a chance at their father’s wardrobe.


                              CHAPTER II.

It was a sad thing to part with Paddy. But necessity knows no law, and
he was apprenticed to a farmer with more land and fewer children than
Patrick O’Brien. And it was no less sore to Paddy to leave the
homestead, than for his brothers and sisters and father and mother to
give up the “moral of his father.” Those whose hearts are not united by
a community in privation, and whose easy lives present no exigencies in
which they are compelled to feel with and for each other, can separate
without tears, and be re-united without emotion. But the few miles of
distance which were now to be placed between little Paddy and the cot
where he was born, seemed to him almost an unbounded desert; and the
going away from home, though for so small a journey, was equivalent to
banishment. He took a sorrowful review of all the familiar objects which
had been his companions from his birth. There was not a scratch on the
cabin walls that did not seem to him as a brother; not a mud-hole around
the premises that was not as an old familiar friend. But he manfully
tore himself from all; and it was with no little sensation of
independence that he felt that henceforth he was really to earn his own
living, and to eat bread which should not diminish the breakfasts of the
rest. There were other circumstances too, as yet undeveloped, which
aided him in becoming reconciled. The inmates of the new home were not
strange to little Paddy, and one of them, in especial, he had a childish
weakness and fondness for. It is not our intention to say that Paddy and
little Norah knew any thing about what boarding-school misses call
undying affection; for such nonsense was beyond their years, and schools
were above their opportunities. But leave we Paddy to establish himself
in his new home, while we return to the O’Briens.

Sorrow a bit of difference they soon found, did Paddy’s absence make in
the consumption of food. The potatoes were as extensively devoured as
ever, and little Paddy’s hand-turns were much missed. His bright face
gone left a blank which nothing seemed to fill; though Mrs. O’Brien,
blessings on her, as far as enumeration went, soon made up the same tale
that there was before Paddy’s extradition. There was a half thought in
the father’s mind of christening the new comer Paddy also, since the
removal of his favorite boy was like death to him; and he really began
to feel as if names would run short if the wearers were not duplicated.
This notion, however, was over-ruled by the bright face of Pat himself,
who came at the first opportunity to bid the new brother good-morning.

“Which of the childer is that wid you, Paddy?” said his mother, who had
removed with her knitting to the bed in the dark corner.

“Sure it’s none of our childer at all,” said Paddy, while Norah blushed
for the first time in her life, and both had the first glimpse of a new
revelation. “It’s only the master’s Norah. I thought may be, the walk
would be lonely.”

Mrs. O’Brien looked on the consequences of her own fear of
loneliness—consequences which had multiplied around her, till an hour’s
solitude, asleep or awake, had become one of the never-to-return joys
which the song sings of. She had a prophetic dream of a similar destiny
for Paddy and Norah, but said nothing to put precocious notions into
children’s heads. Ellen did not half like her brother’s bringing a
stranger home with him—and she would have let Norah perceive her
displeasure, but her heart was too kind to do any body a willing
disservice. Norah was soon put at ease—almost. But the double visit was
not repeated till long afterward. Meanwhile Norah and Paddy were “set to
thinking.” That visit, made in the innocence of their hearts robbed
those hearts of a portion of that innocence. Before, they had been as a
new brother and sister—now as they grew in years constraint increased
between them. At last, resolved upon what he called a better
understanding, Paddy forced Norah to confess in words what he might
easily have taken for granted. And they pledged themselves, young as
they were, to a life of privation, and the same chance of more mouths
than food, which had been Paddy’s own idea of a household ever since he
could remember—his experience in the new home excepted.

Paddy went home one evening without Norah, fully resolved to divulge
what he had determined on, in set words—a labor he might have saved
himself, for it was all guessed long before. His time was out now in a
few months, and he had resolved, as soon as one bondage was concluded to
enter into another. In the years that he had been away, he had visited
home too often to be surprised at the changes which had taken place.
Ellen looked old—she seemed the mother of her brothers and sisters, for
care fast brings the marks of years. And the mother, tall, gaunt and
thin, looked as if she might have been the grand-parent of the children
around her. Patrick senior was better saved, but time showed its marks
on him too; and those not light ones. He was more peevish than formerly;
he retained the same black pipe longer in service, and kept it, too, in
use more constantly, for there was scarce an hour of the day when its
fragrance was not issuing. And as strong tobacco is too apt to require
strong accompaniments, we are compelled to acknowledge that Patrick
O’Brien was contracting a taste for less harmless potations than
buttermilk.

Poor and content is rich. Poor and discontented is poor indeed. Ellen
felt the infection of unhappiness, and the very children seemed to have
grown miserable. Squalor and negligence had marked the whole household,
and Paddy had learned to make his visits unpleasant performances of
duty, instead of the hilarious occasions that they once were. It was no
wonder that he preferred a quiet evening in his second home, where he
could sit and watch Norah’s busy fingers, rather than a visit to his own
father’s house; for there cracked and dissonant voices jarred harshly,
children cried, and the welcome which he once met had changed to the
utterance of mutual complaints, and perhaps to unsuspended jarrings
among those whom he loved.

There seemed a spell on the place. Ellen said—“Sure there’s no luck
here any more.” And a neighbor, who had a son over sea, put a new
thought in her head. Ellen was often desired to act as amanuensis to
answer his letters. If her epistles were not clerkly they were written
as dictated, and it may be shrewdly suspected that the person to whom
they were written liked them none the less, that he detected the
handwriting, though they were signed, “your affectionate mother.” Such a
paradise as American letters revealed to her, could not fail to make her
own discomforts worse by contrast. But the paradise was to her for a
long time a thing unhoped for, unthought of. At last a new resolution
occurred to her.

“Sure, mother,” she said one day, “we’d better be in Ameriky.”

The mother smiled at the impossibility. But Ellen had set her heart on
it. She was the prop of the house—the only one in it, indeed, who had
any strength or determination left. Need we say she carried her point?
She reasoned father and mother into the desirableness of the change, and
they could but acknowledge that any thing would be preferable to their
present situation. The correspondence to which she had access furnished
her with arguments, and the will once found for the enterprise, the way
presented no longer insuperable obstacles. All had been discussed, and
the journey was fully determined upon, when Paddy reached the cottage
with his plans in his head—selfish plans, Ellen afterward said they
were.

“Sure,” cried she as he entered, “here’s Patrick, too, will go with us.”

“To be sure I will—where?” answered Paddy, delighted once more to find
his home cheerful.

“To Ameriky, Patrick,” said his father, taking the pipe from his mouth
to watch his son’s face. The son looked sad, astonished, and bewildered.
It was all new to him, and he could make no reply, save to repeat—

“A-mer-iky!”

“To be sure,” said Ellen. “What’ll we wait here for, doing no good at
all? There’s Phelim may be president, and Mike a djuke, and Terrence a
parliament man, and Bridget may marry a lord, and—”

“And Ellen?” inquired Patrick, with a quizzical look, which contrasted
curiously with his wo-begone expression.

“Sure the best of the land will be hers,” said her mother. “Hasn’t she
been the born slave of the whole of ye’s? She didn’t go away from her
mother’s side, not she, for betther board and keeping!”

“Mother!” expostulated Paddy.

“More she didn’t,” continued the mother, vexed at her son’s cool
reception of their good news as she deemed it. “She didn’t find new
young mates, and forget the mother that bore her!”

“Mother!” said Patrick, “ye _sent_ me away, ye know ye did. Sure I’d not
gone to the Queen’s palace asself, but ye _sent_ me away, so you did.”

“Thrue for you, Patrick!” said Ellen, breaking in to keep the peace.
“Thrue for you; and more be token of that we’ll welcome you back again.
Your service is up, come Easter, and then we’ll all cross the wide sea
together!”

Poor Patrick! All the various modes in which he had conned over his
intended communication were put to flight in a moment. This was no time
to speak of any such proposals—for with half an eye to such a
contingency, Patrick knew his mother had spoken. Never had the way back
seemed so long to Patrick as it did that night. He had committed himself
by no engagement to go with his family to the new land over sea; but he
saw that they all chose to take his going for granted. The children
supposed it of course, thinking of nothing else; and the elders deemed
it the best way to admit no question. Norah listened in vain that night
for Paddy’s cheerful whistle as he neared the house. She wondered, and
fell asleep. But there was no sleep for Patrick.

Norah was too diffident to ask Patrick how he sped the next day—but
didn’t she burn to know! At length, and with a very sad face, he told
her all except his mother’s covert and undeserved reproaches. Norah
listened with a tear in her eye, for she could not dissemble. She did
not interrupt him, and when he ceased, she said:

“Sure you’ll go with them, Patrick, dear!”

“Sure I’ll do no such thing, Norah, darling!” And he hugged her to his
heart with a suddenness which she could not foresee, and an energy she
could not resist, had she wished it.


                              CHAPTER III.

Norah was satisfied. There is no denying that. But how was Paddy to
satisfy his father and mother and Ellen? How was he to explain to the
little O’Briens that they were going to America and brother Patrick was
to remain behind? Never was a worse day’s work done for Norah’s father
than Patrick’s that day, we are very sure. Never was a poor fellow so
dissatisfied with himself. A few days before, all seemed to promise to
falsify the adage that the course of true love never did run smooth. And
now never was stream so ruffled.

“’Tis but a word and all’s over,” he said to himself, as he turned his
head homeward the next evening, prepared to face the worst. But his
fears whispered that there would be more than one word or two, and those
high ones; and by the time he had reached his father’s door, all his
courage was gone again. When he entered he found the good wife there who
had the son over sea. She was fully installed as one of the council,
since she also had resolved upon crossing the water. All the various
items and charges of the voyage were calculated, and Paddy was counted
as one of the party—not without lamentations, which he arrived in
season to hear, that he had grown too tall to be counted as one of the
“childher.”

It was a desperate case, and there was nothing for it but desperate
courage. “Mother,” said Patrick, “and father, and Ellen, and you
childher, you’ve pushed the thing so far that you drive me to tell you
all, once and forever, that I cannot go!”

Patrick senior let his pipe fall with astonishment. The mother turned
pale with sorrow and displeasure. Ellen arose, and going to Patrick’s
side—he had not taken a seat—drew him out of doors. They walked a few
steps from the house in silence, and reaching a tree paused there.
Patrick folded his arms, and leaning against it, bowed his head and
stood in troubled silence. Ellen placed her hands upon his, and never a
word was spoken till, when she felt her brother’s hot tears fall upon
her hand, she cried:

“Sure, Paddy, you are not going to leave us now!” And she fell upon his
neck and clung to him with the evidences of earnest and frantic
affection.

“Indeed, indeed, Ellen darling, it is you that leave me. It is you that
go away from the land where God has been good to us, to seek a new home
and new friends over sea. I cannot go there with you, Ellen; indeed I
can’t.”

“And what will this land be to you, Paddy dear, but a land of
strangers—no mother, no father, no sister nor brother in it? Where’ll
be the hearth side that you’ll find a home at? Come, brother, with the
rest of us, where father will lift up his head again and mother be
happy!”

“Amen to their happiness, Ellen, and yours too. Go your ways without me.
Sure I’ve given my word on it, and must tarry to take care of my _own
home_, sister dear.”

“Is it _that_ you mean!” cried Ellen, starting back indignant. “And
shall we plough the seas while you cling to _her_ apron-string! Will you
be as easy in your undutiful bed, while the mother that bore you is
tossed on the ocean, and the sister that toiled for you is down, down in
the deep sea, maybe? Oh, Patrick! by the days of your wee, wee
childhood, come along with us now. Is it thus, selfish as you are, that
you lose all natural affection? Didn’t the clargy tell us, only Sunday
was a week, to honor father and mother?”

“Thrue for you, Ellen. But who would be our father and mother, if our
father had not left his father and mother to clave to his wife? Oh, go
along with you, Ellen, to break my heart so, and my word of words given
to Norah that I will stay with her and cherish her—for better for
worse!”

Ellen said no more. Patrick did not re-enter the house, but proceeded
homeward—to the place which was now doubly home to him, since the home
of his childhood was about to be broken up. But the efforts of his
mother to change his determination did not cease, and many a
half-altercation he had with his family in his now frequent visits.
Still, though strongly tempted to yield, he never would give full
consent, and the sight of Norah reassured him in his resistance. The few
weeks that remained between the fixing upon the purpose of emigration
and the day of departure, were a long, long time to Patrick, and a
season of sad trouble; and he could not speak with freedom to any of his
distress. Norah was high-spirited, and the bare suspicion of the manner
in which her name was bandied, and her love for Patrick all but cursed
at the house of his father, would have led her to forbid Patrick ever to
speak on the subject to her again. With slow reluctance the family gave
way to Patrick’s resolute determination, and ceasing unkind reproaches,
loaded him with tenderness, that much more affected his determined
spirit. The day of parting came at last, and Norah herself proposed that
she should accompany her betrothed to take leave of his kindred. It was
a dangerous thing for him to suffer, Patrick knew; but how could he
avoid it? And what would he have thought of her, too, had she not
proposed it?

Unmixed and bitter was the grief with which Patrick’s kindred took leave
of him to commence their long journey. They sorrowed as persons who
should see his face no more; and without extravagance or hyperbole, the
passion of grief which they felt and exhibited may be termed
heart-rending. Scarce a word did they give to Norah. The mother looked
on her almost with aversion, and the father scarce heeded her presence
at all. Ellen only said:

“Cherish him, Norah—love _him_, for you see what he foregoes for you.
God forgive him if he is wrong, and me if he is _right_.”


                              CHAPTER IV.

They were gone. Norah thought it was but natural, at first, that Patrick
should be sad, for the interview which she had witnessed made her
unhappy too. But she was not well pleased that his gloom continued.
Weeks and months passed, and still Patrick had not resumed his former
light-heartedness. Nor did there appear any indication of its return to
him. The wedding day, to which he once looked forward with continual
expectation, and of which, at one time, he daily spoke, he now seemed to
dread and scarcely mentioned. And when he did speak of it, it was with a
forced appearance of interest. Norah was offended at his coldness, and
as he did not press, as formerly, a positive and early date, you may be
sure that she did not increase in impatience for the nuptials to which
Patrick appeared to be growing daily more indifferent. He thought her
ungrateful that she did not duly estimate the sacrifice he had made for
her; and she considered him weak-minded that he had over-estimated his
affection for her, and undervalued his own kin, and was now repenting.
Patrick was indeed more miserable than he had ever been in his life
before. Not a word had he heard from his connections in many long
months; and what Ellen said to him under the tree before his father’s
door, now haunted him—“Shall we plough the seas while you cling to
_her_ apron-strings? Will you be easy in your bed, when the mother that
loves you is tossed on the sea, and the sister that toiled for you is
drowned?” By day these words haunted him, and by night his mother and
sister rose out of the sea to come to his bedside. And truly, when he
waked in a cold perspiration of terror from these visions, it was hard
to persuade him that they were not true; and that the sea had not verily
given up its dead to reproach him.

“Norah, dear,” he said at length one evening, as they sat alone, “my
heart is broke, so it is.”

She answered with a look in which deep sorrow mingled with all her old
affection. Nor did she resist, when he drew her to his side, and placed
her head against his bosom. He felt that he could not say what he must
when her eyes met his. So she nestled lovingly to him while he sat long
in silence. She guessed, but would not ask, what he wished to say, and
at length he continued:

“Every morning when I wake it is to hear what _they_ said to me, when I
wouldn’t go with them. And every night when I lie down, sure the clatter
of that leave-taking drives sleep away. And when the eyes shut for very
weariness, and I have cried myself into a troubled slumber, it is no
rest. Sometimes my mother comes to me, Norah, and sometimes my sister. I
know that they come from the deep, deep sea, for they are all dripping
wet. Never a word do they say with their mouths, but their eyes, Norah.
God save us, what was that?”

Norah had caught his contagious horror, and clung closer to him, as they
both shivered with terror. It was many minutes before Patrick could
resume his narrative, but after a trembling pause he proceeded:

“They come to me, Norah, and I _know_ it’s them. When I wake, don’t I
feel the cold water of the sea chilling my temples? The saints save us,
Norah, from such visiters to our bridal bed! You think me changed and
that my heart is turned, and my manner is unkind—but, Norah dear, what
will I do, what _can_ I do?”

“It’s all your sick fancy, Patrick—and maybe your conscience is not
easy,” said Norah, shaking off the spectral influence of Paddy’s dreams.
“It’s all your own notion, Paddy dear. Your mother and all of them are
well and happy—barring that they feel the loss of you as much as you do
their absence. And I know their consciences are not easy, Patrick, for
the hard words they said to you must leave a deep wound in their own
hearts. You must go to them, Patrick.”

“What, Norah, and leave you!”

“And why not? Sure, Paddy dear, you’re not worth a body’s having now,
and that’s the truth. You are not the same lad that you were at all, and
what will I do with such a man? It’s a long lane that has no turn, and
all will come right by and by.”

“Norah!”

“Well!”

“Wouldn’t _you_ go with me too?”

“Sure I thought you’d be asking that, Patrick. Ellen said you were
selfish—and wasn’t it the truth she said! Will you change the load from
your heart to mine? Haven’t I a father and mother, and sisters too? Will
I give them up and go away, because you can’t give yours up? It isn’t
reason, Patrick.”

In vain did our hero strive to alter Norah’s determination. Her
arguments were unanswerable, and he was fain to submit. After many days’
irresolution he resolved, but still not without doubts and misgivings,
to follow his parents to America. The resolution was taken, the spectral
appearances which had annoyed him ceased. He was half-tempted to retreat
from his purpose, but Norah gave him no encouragement, and his nocturnal
visiters threatened to renew their visits; so that he was fain to adhere
to his resolve, and take a steerage passage to the great entre-pot of
the New World—New York.

Great was his amazement upon arriving there to find that it was a place
so large, and one of many large places; and that to inquire for his
family there was of as little utility as it would be to ask for his
master’s dog in Dublin. It was a sad trial to Patrick that he had come
to a strange land, he verily believed, to no purpose. But it was
necessary for him to do, or starve, and finding employment he worked,
with a heavy heart it is true, but not without hope. Chance—or we
should better say Providence—directed him to a priest, to whom he
related his difficult position and almost extinguished hopes. The kind
father was struck with his tale, and, after a moment’s pondering
referred to his record of priestly acts, and sure enough, there he found
the name of Ellen O’Brien—O’Brien no longer!

“Mighty easy it was then, for her to come over,” shouted Pat, forgetting
his Reverence. Fine talk hers to me about selfishness, and drowning, and
all that. Very pleasant it was, no doubt of it, to write and read them
long letters. But it has given me the first trace of them anyhow, and
that’s something.

With this clue the persevering young Irishman was not long in tracing
the party to their late stopping-place—_late_, for they were there no
longer. He followed to Albany, and there again lost the scent; for a
party of poor emigrants are not so easily followed. Again he heard of
them in Buffalo; away, it seemed to him, at the verge of the world; and
again he pursued.

“Sure he would find them now,” he said, “if it was only to have a fly at
that traitor, Ellen—God bless her!”

In Buffalo he was once more disappointed, for from Buffalo they had
flitted also. “It’s the Wandering Jew Ellen has married, no doubt,” he
said, “to lead me this dance, and she to rate _me_ so. Wait till I find
them once more.”

Time would be unprofitably spent in tracing all poor Patrick’s
journeyings, including many an excursion from the main routes. Wherever
the sinews of his countrymen were busy upon public works and other
enterprises, in which the labor of the sturdy Hibernian is found so
valuable, there Patrick wandered—and patient perseverance at last was
rewarded. He had traced out an impromptu village on a rail-road truck,
where the delvers had put up cabins which they would sorrow to leave. As
he looked curiously through the little settlement, he was startled to
hear his own name shouted, and in a moment more one of his many brothers
had him by the neck, with a hug as stifling as if he had taken lessons
in the new country of one of those undisputed natives—the black bear.

Patrick had much ado to stop his brother’s clamor, that he might
surprise the others. And he was astonished moreover to find little
Phelim, for he it was, with a Sunday face on in the middle of the week.
This mystery was solved when they reached the cabin; for there was a
gathering in honor of the first Patrick of the new generation, who had
that day, during the priest’s visit in his round on the works, been
first empowered to answer to his name like a Christian.

“It’s this _you_ were up to, is it?” shouted Patrick, bursting upon
them. “I thought it wasn’t entirely to make Phelim a president, and
Michael a djuke, that you come over!”

Tears, shouts of laughter, frolic, pathos, poetry, and prose most
unadorned, made up the delightful melange at that unexpected meeting.


                               CHAPTER V.

Patrick found that his family had indeed made a happy change. There was
no gainsaying that. And he himself experienced no difficulty in
procuring employment; but he was far from being so well content as the
others. He wrote to Norah upon his arrival at New York, and again when
he had found his father and mother; and he wanted sadly to invite her to
join him in America. But for the same reason that he did not return to
Ireland, he dared not ask her to come over; for if he could not leave
his friends how could she hers? He would have gone “home,” as he
persisted in calling it, but, strange to say, Ellen was not in the least
humbled in her exactions by the fact of her own marriage. She loved Pat
better than any body in this world, her own husband and her own child
not excepted, and it was with a feeling of wrong that she heard or
thought of his loving any one else, or being beloved by any.

Sad news began now to come from the old country. The O’Brien’s had no
letters; but others had, and the newspapers were full of the dreadful
destitution and the deaths from starvation in Ireland. Now poor Patrick
was worse afflicted than he had been by separation from his parents.
Tidings came of starvation and death in houses the inhabitants of which
he knew were wealthier far than Norah’s father; and he feared and
dreaded that _she_ might even want for a bit of bread, while he rolled
in plenty. Had he pursued his own inclination he would have posted
back—but Ellen said—“Don’t think of such a thing! Is it mad you are?
When there’s people dying there of the hunger will you go snatch the
bread from their mouths? Or will you go ‘home,’ as you call it, and feed
the three kingdoms from your own pocket?” Patrick was hurt—and he
thought of the two Norah was far the better comforter.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Deep indeed was the distress that rested upon unhappy Ireland. And
Patrick’s fears for his friends at home were but too well founded.
Sickness and famine invaded the district in which Patrick was born; and
though his old master at first was bountiful to those around him, stern
necessity at last brought its admonition that he must hold his hand.
There is distress that opens the heart; but when it comes to dividing
your living with your neighbor, to become at last fellow in his need,
the instinct of self-preservation chills charity. Nevertheless, the good
farmer gave—and gave a day too long; for the time came when he could
count his own scanty provision in food and in purse. Impoverished, he
learned at last to suffer and to sicken. He buried his wife out of his
sight, and his children sunk one after another into the grave. He denied
himself bread to feed his famishing family—almost rejoicing, while the
dead lay unburied in his house, that with the release of child after
child, the need of food and the wail of hunger diminished. And now at
last Norah and himself only remained of all that happy household; and
they had but to prepare their last food and die. The immense demand
which had been made upon the charitable had proved too great for the
supply; and men had ceased at last to think it a strange thing that
people died of hunger.

Often did Norah think in her distress of him who was now far away. And
heartily she rejoiced for his sake, that he had not remained to add
another claimant on the public charity, to the thousands who pleaded
unavailingly for it. But it was sad to think that he must one day hear
that her he loved had sunk into the grave, the last of her house, for to
death she firmly looked as the only hope of release from suffering.

A footstep broke the silence; but it hardly disturbed her revery. It was
the kind ecclesiastic who had been present at the death of her mother
and her brothers—who had seen her sister’s eyes closed, and to whom she
herself looked, at no distant day for the last offices of the church.
His frequent visits had become part of her daily experience, but she saw
now that his face wore something more than the usual calm expression.
She looked up inquiringly, and he placed in her hands a letter,
addressed to his care for her.

She knew the handwriting, and could scarce command firmness to break the
many seals and wafers with which over caution had secured the letter. It
was from Patrick, and enclosed more money than she had before seen for
many weeks. “Now, God be praised,” she cried, “my father shall find
comfort again!”

“He has found it, daughter!” said the priest in a solemn voice from the
bedside. Norah hurried there, to receive, in the last faint smile, a
father’s inaudible blessing.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Need we say that the good priest gave Norah sound advice: to wit, that
the money which she had received were better expended in finding her way
to Patrick, than in protracting a weary existence in the place now so
sad to her. Ellen’s welcome was not the least hearty which Norah
received; and all agree that there was a Providence in the events which
guided Patrick before her to America. Norah is cherished as one of the
“childher,” and Mrs. O’Brien insists that her mistake at the bedside
years before, was only a bit of prophecy, for her heart always yearned
to Norah as one of her own. All are well pleased; and though a shade of
sorrow for her kindred is habitual to the countenance of Mrs. Norah
O’Brien, it adds to the sweetness of its expression, and is a better
look, in its resignation, than one of discontent or of vacuity.

As to the young cousins in the neighborhood, we leave their statistics
to the next census. They have proved jewels of comfort to Grandfather
Patrick, who, though quite infirm, is still useful to “mind the
childer;” while Mrs. O’Brien, the grandmother, labors like Sisyphus to
keep little feet in hose, with no hope that her work will ever cease
while her breath lasts, or her fingers can ply a needle.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           A HOUSEHOLD DIRGE.


                           BY R. H. STODDARD.


    I’VE lost my little May at last;
      She perished in the Spring,
    When earliest flowers began to bud,
      And earliest birds to sing;
    I laid her in a country grave,
      A rural, soft retreat,
    A marble tablet o’er her head
      And violets at her feet!

    I would that she were back again,
      In all her childish bloom;
    My joy and hope have followed her,
      My heart is in her tomb;
    I know that she is gone away,
      I know that she is fled,
    I miss her everywhere, and yet
      I cannot make her dead!

    I wake the children up at dawn,
      And say a simple prayer,
    And draw them round the morning meal,
      But one is wanting there;
    I see a little chair apart,
      A little pin-a-fore,
    And Memory fills the vacancy,
      As Time will—nevermore!

    I sit within my room, and write
      The lone and weary hours,
    And miss the little maid again
      Among the window flowers;
    And miss her with her toys beside
      My desk in silent play,
    And then I turn and look for her,
      But she has flown away!

    I drop my idle pen and hark,
      And catch the faintest sound;
    She must be playing hide-and-seek
      In shady nooks around;
    She’ll come and climb my chair again.
      And peep my shoulder o’er,
    I hear a stifled laugh—but no,
      She cometh nevermore!

    I waited only yester night,
      The evening service read,
    And lingered for my idol’s kiss,
      Before she went to bed,
    Forgetting she had gone before,
      In slumbers soft and sweet,
    A monument above her head,
      And violets at her feet!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE YOUNG ARTIST:


                   OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.


                            BY T. S. ARTHUR


                       (_Continued from page 8._)


                              CHAPTER IV.

CLARA, as has been seen, fell into a thoughtful, sober state of mind,
after the interview with her husband, in which she mentioned the fact of
having five thousand dollars in stocks. Something in the manner of
Alfred troubled her slightly. When he came home in the evening she
experienced, in meeting him, the smallest degree of embarrassment; yet
sufficient for him to perceive. Like an inflamed eye to which even the
light is painful, his morbid feelings were susceptible of the most
delicate impressions. A mutual reserve, unpleasant to both, was the
consequence. Ellison imagined that his wife had, on reflection, become
satisfied of his baseness in seeking to obtain her hand in marriage
because of her possession of property, and the change in his manner
which this feeling produced, naturally effected a change in her. From
that time their intercourse became embarrassed, and both were unhappy.

A few days after Clara had informed her husband of the fact that she
possessed five thousand dollars in stocks, she brought him the
certificates which she held, and placing them in his hands, said,

“You must take care of these now.”

“What are they?” he asked, affecting an ignorance that did not exist,
for the instant his eyes rested on the papers he understood what they
were.

“Certificates of the stock about which I told you.”

Ellison handed them back quickly, and with a manner that could not but
wound the feelings of his wife, saying at the same time,

“Oh, no, no! I don’t want them. Draw the interest yourself as you have
been doing.”

“I have no further need of the money,” replied Clara, in a voice that
had acquired a sudden huskiness. “Our interests are one you know,
Alfred, and you take care of these matters now.”

But, the young man, acting under a perverse and blind impulse,
positively refused to keep the certificates.

“I’d rather you would draw the money as you have been doing,” said he,
his voice much softened and his manner changed. “It may be weakness in
me, but I feel sensitive on this subject.”

Ellison’s evil genius seemed to have him in possession.

“On what subject?” inquired Clara, in a tone of surprise.

“On the subject of your property,” replied Ellison, with a want of
delicacy the very opposite of his real character.

If a cold hand had been laid upon the bosom of Clara, she could not have
experienced a more sudden chill. She made no reply. Ellison perceived,
in an instant, the extent of his error. Like a man struggling in the
mire, every moment seemed but to plunge him deeper. A more painful
reserve followed this brief but unhappy interview. Deeply did the young
man regret not having taken the certificates when they were handed to
him. That was his only right course. But they were presented
unexpectedly, and the first suggestion which came was that the act was
more compulsory than voluntary on the part of his wife.

The subject was not alluded to again, but it was scarcely for a moment
out of the thoughts of either Clara or her husband. When the half-yearly
interest became due, which was in the course of a week, Clara drew the
money. It amounted to the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars.

“You will not refuse this, I hope?” said she smiling, as she handed him
what she had received. “It is the half-yearly interest on our stock.”

Alfred was a little wiser by experience.

“I have no particular use for it just now,” was his reply. “Suppose you
keep it and pay our board every week as long as it lasts. Twenty-four
dollars will be due to-morrow.”

“Very well, just as you like, Alfred. If you should want any of it, you
must help yourself. You will find it in my drawer.”

“I’ll call on you if I should get out of pocket,” was replied to this in
a playful tone of voice.

Both felt relieved. But it grew out of the fact that Ellison had been
able to disguise his real feelings, and this was but a false security.
There was a certainty, however, about the means of paying the weekly
charge for boarding, that was a great relief to the mind of Ellison, and
which enabled him the better to hide his real feelings from his wife.
Happily for him, the four pictures which had been talked about were
ordered. He completed them in about five weeks, and received two hundred
dollars, the price agreed upon. One hundred of this sum he paid to the
friend who had loaned him the money to lift the obligation that was felt
to be so oppressive. Fifty of what remained he placed in the hands of
Clara, playfully saying to her as he did so, that she must be his
banker. The remark was timely and well expressed, and it had its effect
both upon his own mind and that of his wife. But the source of trouble
lay too deep to be easily removed.

Seek to disguise it as he would, Ellison could not hide from himself the
fact, that he had suffered a great disappointment. Often and often,
would come back upon him his old dream of the sunny clime of art and
music, and he would feel the old, irrepressible longing to visit the
shores of Italy. At last, it was some months after his marriage, he said
to Clara, something favoring the remark—

“I don’t think I shall ever be happy until I have seen the galleries of
Rome and Florence.”

Clara looked surprised at this remark, it was so unexpected, for no
intimation of such a feeling had ever been breathed ere this by her
husband.

“Why do you wish to go there?” she naturally inquired.

“To took upon the glorious old masters,” replied Ellison. “I will never
be any thing in my art until I have studied them.”

“You think too meanly of your present attainments,” said Clara. “N——
has been to Italy, but with all his study of the old masters he has not
half the ability as an artist that you possess.”

“It isn’t in him, Clara,” replied Ellison with some warmth. “He might
study in the galleries of Florence forever, and not make a painter.”

“There are many specimens and copies of the old masters in our city,”
remarked Clara, “could you not find aid from studying them?”

“No, no—or at least but little,” said Ellison coldly. He had hoped that
his wife would feel favorable, at least, to a visit to Italy, even
though it might not at the time be practicable. But her evident
opposition to the thing chilled his over-sensitive feelings.

“Ah me!” sighed the young artist to himself, when alone, “I am free in
nothing!”

Other thoughts were coming into utterance, but he checked and drove them
back. As for Clara, she was utterly unconscious of what was in the mind
of her husband. Could she have understood his real feelings, she would
have sacrificed even her natural prudence and forethought, and
cheerfully proposed to sell the stock they possessed in order that they
might visit Italy and spend a year or two in that classic region. But a
reserve had already been created, and Ellison, in particular, kept
secret more than half of what was passing in his mind, while he imagined
his wife to have thoughts and feelings to which she was a total
stranger. He said no more about Italy, for it was plain to him that she
would oppose the measure if suggested; and, as she had brought him a few
thousands, she of course had a right to object.

Fortunately for the young artist, the four pictures which he had painted
gave excellent satisfaction. In fact, they were his best works. The
mind, when smarting under pain, often acts with a higher vigor, while
the perceptions acquire a new intensity; and this was the real secret of
his better success. The pictures pleased so well that they brought him
other sitters, and he was able, some time before Clara’s instalment of
interest was exhausted, to place more money in her hands. The fact of
doing this was always a relief to his mind. It was a kind of tacit
declaration of independence. From that time both his work and his
ability increased, and he was able to make enough to meet, with the aid
of his wife’s income, the various expenses to which he was subjected,
and to pay off the few obligations that were held against him. But he
was not happy. No man can be who forfeits, by any act that affects the
whole of his after life, his self-respect; and this Ellison had done. In
spite of his better judgment, he would permit himself to see in Clara’s
words, looks and conduct, a rebuke of the mercenary spirit that first
led him to seek her favor. Nothing of this was in her heart. But guilt
makes the mind suspicious.


                               CHAPTER V.

The young artist worked on with untiring assiduity—he was toiling for
independence. Never, since his marriage, had he breathed the air with
the freedom of former times. The reaction of his often strange
manner—his days of reserve—had been felt by his wife, and the effect
upon her was plainly to be seen. With a perverseness of judgment, hardly
surprising under the circumstances, he attributed the change in Clara to
her suspicions as to the purity of his motives in seeking an alliance.
In the meantime, he had become more intimately acquainted with her
relatives, none of whom he liked very well. Her oldest brother
interfered a good deal in the suit which he was engaged in defending on
behalf of his wife; and by much that he said, left the impression that
he did not think Ellison’s judgment sound enough in business matters to
advise a proper course of action.

This fretted the sensitive and rather irritable young man, and, in a
moment when less guarded than usual, he told him that he felt himself
fully competent to manage his own affairs, and hoped that he would not,
in future, have quite so much to say about things that did not concern
him. The brother was passionate, and stung Ellison to the quick by a
retort in which he plainly enough gave it as his opinion that before
five years had gone by, his sister’s property would all be blown to the
winds through his mismanagement. This was little less than breaking
Ellison on the wheel. He turned quickly from his cool, sneering
opponent, and never spoke to him afterward. Piqued, however, by the
taunt, he proposed to Clara that they should visit the West, and remain
there for as long a time as it was necessary to personally look after
their interests. He could paint there as well as at the East; and might
possibly do better for a time. To this Clara’s only objection was the
necessity that it would involve for disposing of some of their stock, in
order to meet the expense of removal, and the sustaining of themselves,
if Alfred should not readily obtain employment as an artist, thus
lessening the amount of their certain income.

“But see how much is at stake,” replied Alfred. “All may be lost for
lack of a small sacrifice.”

“True,” said Clara, in instant acquiescence. “You are right.”

But when the proposed movement of Ellison and his wife became known, her
relatives had a good deal to say about it. George Deville, the oldest
brother, whose feelings now led him to oppose any thing that he thought
originated with Alfred, pronounced it as preposterous.

“Why don’t Ellison go himself?” said he. “What does he expect to gain by
dragging Clara out there?”

“You surely are not going off to Ohio on such an expedition,” was his
language to his sister.

“Yes,” she replied to him, mildly, “I am going.”

“What folly!” he exclaimed.

“George,” said Clara, in a firm, dignified manner, “I must beg of you
not to interfere in any way between my husband and myself. In his
judgment I am now to confide, and I do it fully. We think it best to go
and see personally after our own interests.”

“But Clara—”

“Pardon me, George,” interrupted the sister, “but I must insist on your
changing the subject.”

Deville became angry at this, and as he turned to go away, said
something about her being beggared by her “husband’s fooleries,” in less
than five years.

It so happened that Ellison entered at this moment, and heard the
insulting remark. It was with an effort that he kept himself from
flinging the brother, in a burst of unrestrained passion, from the room.
But he controlled himself, and recognised him only by an angry and
defiant scowl. As Deville left the room, Clara burst into tears, and
placing her hands over her face, stood weeping and sobbing violently.
Alfred’s mind was almost mad with excitement. He did not speak to his
wife at first, but commenced walking hurriedly about the room, sometimes
throwing his arms over his head, and sometimes clasping his hands
tightly across his forehead. But, in a little while, his thoughts went
out of himself toward Clara, and he felt how deeply pained she must be
by what had just occurred. This softened him. Approaching where she
still stood weeping, he took her hand and said,

“We would have been happier, had you been penniless like myself.”

The tears of Clara ceased flowing almost instantly. In a few moments she
raised her head, and looking seriously at her husband, asked,

“Why do you say that, Alfred?”

“No such outrage as the present could, in that case, ever have
occurred.”

“If George thinks proper to interfere in a matter that does not in the
least concern him, we need be none the less happy in consequence. I feel
his words as an insult.”

“And so they are. But they do not smart on my feelings the less
severely. Lose your property! He shall know better than that, ere five
years have passed.”

“Don’t let it excite you so much, Alfred. His opinion need not disturb
us.”

“It has disturbed you, even to tears.”

“It would not have done so, had not you happened to hear what he said.
This was what hurt me. But as we have provoked no such interference as
that which my brother has been pleased to make; and, as we are free to
do what we think right, and competent to manage our own affairs, I do
not see that we need feel very unhappy at what has occurred.”

“If you have any doubts touching the propriety of doing what I
suggested, let us remain where we are,” said Ellison.

“I have no doubts on the subject,” was Clara’s quick reply. “I think
that where so much property is in danger, that we ought to take all
proper steps to protect our interests; and it is impossible for us to do
this so well at a distance as we could if on the spot where the contest
is going on. When you first proposed it, I did not see the matter so
clearly as I do now.”

Preparations for a temporary removal to the West were immediately
commenced; and in the course of a few weeks they were ready for their
departure. There was not a single one of Clara’s relatives who did not
disapprove the act, nor who did not exhibit his or her disapproval in
the plainest manner. This, to Alfred, was exceedingly annoying, in fact,
coming as it did on his already morbid and sensitive feelings, actually
painful.

“They shall see,” he said to himself, bitterly, “whether I squander her
property! If I don’t double it in five years, I’m sadly mistaken.”

This was uttered without there being any clearly defined purpose in the
young man’s mind; but it was in itself almost the creation of a purpose.
From that moment he became possessed with the idea of so using his
wife’s property as to make it largely reproductive. He studied over it
every day, and remained awake, with no other thought in his mind, long
after he had laid his head upon his pillow at night.

With five hundred dollars in cash, obtained through the sale of five
shares of stock, Ellison and his wife started for the West on the errand
that we have mentioned. Clara looked for an early return, but Alfred
left his native city with the belief that he would never go back there
to reside; or if so, not for many years. Plans and purposes were dimly
shadowing themselves forth in his mind, as yet too indistinct to assume
definite forms, yet absorbing most of his thoughts. For the time all
dreams of Italy faded, and in vague schemes of money-making, he forgot
the glories of his art.

The place of their destination was a growing town, numbering about six
thousand inhabitants. Near this lay the five hundred acres of land in
dispute. On arriving, they took lodgings at a hotel, and, in due time,
sent for the agent who had charge of the property. He informed them as
to the state of affairs, and assured them that all was going on as
safely as possible. The case had been called at the last term of court,
but was put off for some reason, and would not be tried for three months
to come, when they hoped to get a decision. If favorable or adverse, an
appeal would be made, and a year might probably elapse before a final
settlement of the questioned rights could be obtained.

Ellison hinted at their purpose in visiting the West. The agent said, in
reply, that their presence would not in the least affect the case. It
would be as safely managed if they were in Europe.

“That is all easily enough said,” remarked Alfred, after he was alone
with his wife; “but I am disposed to think differently. Every man ought
to understand his own business, and watch its progress.”

In this view Clara fully acquiesced; and they made their arrangements to
reside in the West for at least some months to come. In the course of a
week or two Ellison announced himself as an artist from the East, whose
intention it was to pass a short time in D——. He arranged a studio,
and made all needful preparation for sitters; but, during the first two
months of his residence there, not an individual came forward to be
painted. Expenses were going on at the rate of about fifteen dollars a
week, with a good prospect of their being increased ere long. This was
rather discouraging, and it may be supposed that the young artist was in
no way comfortable under the circumstances. By this time he had become
so well acquainted with the state of the case pending, as to be pretty
well satisfied that his presence would be of no great utility in
securing a favorable termination of the affair. If he had come to the
West alone, a week’s personal examination of the position of things
would have enabled him to see their entire bearing, and to understand
that his presence was in no way necessary.

This conviction, to which the mind of Ellison came reluctantly, did not
by any means help him to a better state of feeling. He had closed his
studio at the East, just as he was beginning to get sitters enough to
secure a pretty fair income, and was in a strange place, where people
were yet too busy in subduing nature’s ruder features to think much of
the arts. He was the only painter in town; yet he did not receive an
order. Occasionally one and another called at his rooms, looked at his
pictures, asked his prices, and talked about having some portraits
taken. But it never went beyond this.

[Illustration]

Steadily the sum of money they had brought with them diminished, and
nothing came in to supply the waste. To go back again was, to one of
Ellison’s temperament, next to impossible; and even if he returned, he
felt now no certainty of being able to do so well as when he left. His
unhappiness, which he could not conceal, troubled Clara, who understood
its ground. He was talking, one day, in a desponding mood, of his
doubtful prospects, when Clara said to him,

“There is no need, Alfred, of your feeling so troubled. We have enough
to live on, certain, for the next four or five years, even if you do not
paint a portrait; to say nothing of the property in dispute, which will,
without doubt, come, with a clear title, into our possession before a
very long time.”

“All very true,” replied Alfred. “But that consideration doesn’t help me
any. I cannot see your property wasting away without feeling unhappy. It
is for me to increase it; whereas, now, I am the cause of its
diminution.”

“Alfred, why will you talk thus?” said Clara, in a distressed tone of
voice. “Why will you always talk of my property? When I gave you myself,
did not all I possessed become as much yours as mine?”

Alfred sat silent.

“We need not remain here,” resumed Clara, “any longer than it will be
useful.”

“I cannot go back to Philadelphia,” said Alfred, quickly. “At least not
until the business upon which we came has reached a favorable
termination.”

Clara did not ask why he said this; for she comprehended clearly his
feelings.

“We needn’t return there,” she replied. She said this, notwithstanding
her own desire to go back was very strong. “In Cincinnati, artists are
encouraged. We can go there.”

“Yes, or to one of the cities lower down the river. Any thing rather
than return to the East with your property lessened a single dollar.”

“It is wrong for you to feel so, Alfred—very wrong,” said Clara. “We
ought always to let a conviction of having acted from right motives
sustain us in every position in life. Here, and only here, is the true
mental balance.”

Alas for Ellison! the lack of this very conviction was at the groundwork
of his inquietude. The property that now caused him so much trouble was
the first thing that drew him toward his wife; and all the alloy that
had mixed itself with his happiness came from this source. Had she not
been the possessor of a dollar, and had he been drawn toward her for her
virtues alone, their minds would have flowed together as one, and, in
the most perfect union, they would have met and overcome whatever
difficulties presented themselves. But all was embarrassment now,
rendered more oppressive through the morbid pride of the young man, who
felt every moment as if a window were about to open in his breast, so
that his wife could see the baseness of which he had been guilty. This
very effort at concealment but awakened a suspicion of what was there.

The conversation continued, Alfred getting in no better state of mind,
until Clara became so hurt, or rather distressed, by many things said by
her husband, that she could not control her feelings and gave vent to
them in tears. Thus, as week after week went by, the causes of
unhappiness rather increased than diminished.


                              CHAPTER VI.

Ellison had been in D—— three months, and was about leaving for
Cincinnati, when his lawyer called on him, and stated that he was
authorized by the opposing counsel to say, that the plaintiffs in the
case were willing to withdraw their suit if one hundred acres of the
land in question were relinquished.

“At the same time,” remarked the lawyer, in giving this information, “it
is but right for me to state my belief that the offer comes as the
result of a conviction that the claim urged for the ownership of the
property has no chance of a favorable termination.”

“Yet the suit may be continued for two or three years,” said Ellison.

“Yes, and they can put you to a great deal of trouble and expense.”

“And there is at least a doubt resting on the issue.”

“There is upon all legal issues.”

“Then I think we had better accept the compromise.”

“You must decide that for yourself,” said the lawyer.

“How long will the question be open?”

“For some days, I presume.”

“Very well. I will see you about it to-morrow, or at latest on the day
after.”

Clara, on being informed of the new aspect the case had assumed, fully
agreed with her husband that the offer of a settlement had better be met
affirmatively; and this being done, the suit was withdrawn, and they
were left in the peaceable possession of some four hundred acres of
excellent land. The costs were nearly two hundred dollars. This made it
necessary to part with more of their stock, which was effected through
their agent at the East. Five more shares were sold.

The termination of this suit wrought an entire change in the views and
purposes of Ellison. A residence in the West of three months had brought
him in contact with people of various characters and pursuits, all
eagerly bent on money-making. Towns were springing up as if by magic,
and men not worth a dollar to-day were counting their thousands
to-morrow. The spirit of enterprise was all around him; and it was
hardly possible for him to remain unaffected by what was in the very
atmosphere that he was breathing.

“Let me congratulate you on the happy termination of your suit,” said an
individual with whom Ellison had some acquaintance, a day or two after
all was settled. “You have now as handsome a tract of land as there is
in the state; and if you manage it aright, will make out of it an
independent fortune.”

This language sounded very pleasant in the ears of Ellison.

“You know the tract?” said he.

“Oh yes! Like a book. I’ve traveled over every foot of it. There is a
hundred thousand dollars worth of timber on it.”

“Not so much as that.”

“There is, every dollar of it. Not as fire-wood, of course.”

“In lumber, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

The man’s name was Claxton. He had come to D——, about a year
previously, with some six thousand dollars in cash, and as full of
enterprize and money-loving ambition as a man could well be. The town
was growing fast, and the supply of lumber, which a saw-mill of very
limited capacity was turning out, so poorly met the demand, that prices
ranged exceedingly high. A large landholder, whose interests were
seriously affected by this high rate of lumber, made Claxton believe
that he had only to erect a steam saw-mill, capable of turning out, per
day, a certain number of feet of boards and scantling, and his fortune
was made. Without stopping to investigate the matter beyond a certain
point, and taking nearly all the statements made by the individual we
have named for granted, Claxton ordered a steam-engine from Pittsburg,
rented a lot of ground on the bank of the river, and forthwith commenced
the erection of his mill. As soon as the citizens of D—— understood
what he was about, there were enough of them to pronounce his scheme a
foolish one, in which he would inevitably lose his money. But he had
made all the calculations—had anticipated, like a wise man, all the
difficulties; and knew, or thought he knew, exactly what he was about.
It was nearly a year before he had his mill ready. By this time he was
not only out of funds, but out of confidence in his scheme for making a
fortune. In attempting to put his mill in operation, some of the
machinery gave way, and the same result happened at the next trial. Thus
expense was added to expense, and delay to delay. In the mean time, the
owner of the other mill had been spurred on by the approaching
competition, to increase its capacity, and was turning out lumber so
fast as to cause a reduction in the price.

So soon as Claxton became aware of the fact that Ellison’s suit had come
to a favorable termination, he conceived the idea of getting off upon
the young artist his bad bargain with as little loss to himself as
possible, and he had this purpose in his mind when he congratulated him
so warmly on his release from the perplexity and uncertainty of the law.

“Trees standing in the forest, and lumber piled up ready for use in
building,” said Ellison, in reply to Claxton’s suggestion, “are very
different things.”

“Any man knows that. But, in the conversion of the trees into lumber,
lies the means of wealth. There is not an acre of your land that will
not yield sufficient lumber to bring three hundred dollars in the
market.”

“Are you certain of that?” inquired Ellison.

“I know it. The tract is very heavily timbered.”

“Three hundred dollars to the acre,” said Ellison, musing; “four hundred
acres—three times four are twelve. That would make the lumber on the
whole four hundred acres worth over a hundred thousand dollars!”

“I know it would. And you may rest assured that the estimate is not
high. I only wish I had your chances for a splendid fortune.”

“How is this lumber to be made available?” asked Ellison.

“Cut and manufacture it yourself. You’ll find that a vast deal more
profitable than painting pictures. You can see that this is one of the
best situated towns in the West. The supply of lumber has always been
inadequate for building purposes, and, in consequence, its prosperity
has been retarded. Reduce the price by a full supply, and houses will go
up as by magic, and the value of property rise in all directions. At
present, you could not get over fifteen dollars an acre for your land if
you were to throw it into market. But go to work and clear it gradually,
sawing up the timber into building materials, and, in ten years, such
will be the prosperity of the place, growing out of the very fact of a
full supply of cheap lumber, that every acre will command fifty
dollars.”

The mind of the young man caught eagerly at this suggestion. He held
long interviews with Claxton, who made estimates of various kinds for
him, and gave him mathematics for every thing. They rode out to the land
together, and there it was demonstrated, to a certainty, that at least
seven hundred dollars worth of timber, instead of three hundred, could
be obtained from every acre. Ellison saw himself worth his hundred
thousand dollars, and as happy as such a realization of his hopes could
make him. He went with Claxton to his mill, where the operation of every
thing was fully explained to his most perfect satisfaction. Even in this
enterprise a fortune was to be made, notwithstanding Claxton had no land
of his own heavily timbered, and would have to pay at least two dollars
for every log brought to his mill, which stood on the river bank. This
site had been chosen because of the facilities it afforded for getting
the raw material which could be floated down from above.

Of all this the young man talked constantly to his wife, and with a
degree of confidence and enthusiasm that half won her cooler and less
sanguine mind over to his views. She did not, however, like Claxton. Her
woman’s true instinct perceived the quality of his mind; and she
therefore had little confidence in him. In suggesting this, her
husband’s reply was,

“I don’t take any thing on his recommendation. I look at facts and
figures, and they cannot lie.”

There was something unanswerable in this; yet it did not satisfy the
mind of Clara.

When Ellison talked to others of what was in his mind, some listened to
what he said in silence; some shrugged their shoulders, and some said it
wouldn’t do. He had been forewarned of this skepticism by Claxton, and
was therefore prepared for it. He well understood that the people lacked
true, far-seeing enterprise; were, in fact, half asleep! All objections,
therefore, that were urged, rebounded from his mind without producing
any rational impression.

He had already picked out a spot for the location of his mill, and was
obtaining estimates for its construction, when Claxton called on him one
day, with a letter in his hand, which he said he had just received from
Cincinnati. It was from a brother who was engaged in the river trading
business, and who owned three large steamboats. He had already made a
fortune. But ill health had come upon him, and he found it necessary to
retire in part from the active duties which had absorbed his attention
for years. To his brother he offered most tempting inducements to give
up his saw-mill scheme, unite with him, and take the active control of
every thing. “If,” said the letter, “you have any difficulty in finding
a person in your stupid place with enterprise enough to take your mill
off of your hands, I know a man here who will relieve you; but he will
want time on nearly the whole amount of the purchase. He is perfectly
safe, however, possessing a large amount of property.”

Of course, Mr. Claxton, having taken a particular fancy to Ellison, and
being anxious to put him fairly in the road to fortune, offered him the
mill at cost; and Ellison, without asking the advice of any one—being
fully impressed with the belief that he knew his own business, and had
sense enough to understand a plain proposition when presented,
immediately closed with the offer. The price asked was exactly cost, and
to determine what this was, the bills for every thing were exhibited and
taken as the basis of valuation. According to these the mill had cost
six thousand dollars. And for this sum, Claxton generously consented to
sell the entire concern, with all prospective benefits, to his young
friend. The amount of cash to be paid down was three thousand dollars,
and for the balance, notes of six, nine, and twelve months were to be
given, secured by mortgage on the four hundred acres of land.

When matters assumed this aspect, Clara, who, strangely enough to the
mind of Alfred, appeared to like Claxton less and less every day,
suggested many doubts, and proposed that the matter should be submitted
to three old residents of the place, and their advice taken as
conclusive. But Alfred objected to this. They were plodders, he said, in
an old beaten track, where, like horses in a mill, they had gone round
and round until they were blind. They would, of course, suggest a
thousand doubts and difficulties, all of which he had already solved.
There was no aspect of the case in which he had not viewed it, and he
understood all the bearings better than any one else.

“He is a poor sort of a man who cannot lay his course in life, and steer
safely by force of his own intelligence,” said the young man, proudly.

Clara, however, was not satisfied; but having had some experience in
regard to her husband’s sensitiveness when any question touching their
property came up, she was afraid to say a great deal in opposition to a
purpose that was so fully formed as to admit of no check without painful
disturbance. So she permitted him to take his own way, neither approving
nor objecting.

Alfred understood, however, from his wife’s manner, that she had little
confidence in the new business upon which he was about entering.

“Happily, I will disappoint her fears,” was his consoling and
strengthening reflection. “When her little property has swelled in value
to fifty or sixty thousand dollars, how different will be her feelings!
She will then understand the character of her husband better—will know
that he is no common man.”

With a presentiment of coming trouble, Clara saw their stock sold, and
three thousand dollars paid over to Claxton; but she appeared to
acquiesce in the transaction so entirely, that Alfred was deceived as to
her real feelings.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE PRIZE SECURED.
 Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              THE PIRATE.


                           BY HENRY B. HIRST.


    TWELVE hours along the glowing strand
      The sunlight, like a flame, hath lain;
    The surf is swelling on the sand,
            And day is on the wane;
    And, like a shadow on the shore,
      The pallid plover winnows by,
      And, like a ghost’s, the heron’s cry
    Rises above the breakers’ roar.
            And eddies down the sky.

    Who saw her gliding from the stocks
      Would know my gallant brigantine?
    The granite teeth of rugged rocks
            Have torn my ocean queen:
    A royal ransom under deck,
      The slave of every wave, she lies
      Never, ah, nevermore to rise,
    A helpless hulk—a crumbling wreck—
            Before my dying eyes.

    Alone! alone! alas! alone!
      Not one of those who swayed the wave
    Survives, to hear my dying moan,
            Or give his chief a grave.
    No, no, not one; alone I tread
      These desolate, desert sands—alone,
      Where, in the moon, as they were thrown,
    My merry men lie, cold and dead
            And motionless as stone.

    Night after night, along the sea,
      In maiden modesty of mien,
    Glides, gazing mournfully on me,
            My gentle Geraldine.
    Her glances pierce my penitent heart,
      As like a statued saint she stands—
      A seraph from those unknown lands
    To which my soul must soon depart,
            Freed from its fleshy bands.

    Sweet Geraldine! her beauty fell
      On sense and soul, like light from heaven;
    My heart looked up, like Dives from hell,
            And prayed to be forgiven;
    Love swam within her lustrous eyes,
      Played in her shadowy hair.
      Moved in her more than queenly air,
    And floated on her silver sighs—
            To drown me with despair.

    O, woful day! O, woful hour!
      That told me that my hopes were vain;
    I felt, that second, centuries
            Of agonizing pain!
    Hope, tremulous with feverous fears,
      Unclasped her wings, and fled;
      I stood, like one whose dearest dead
    Lies on the trestles—steeped in tears—
            Heaven’s judgment on my head.

    Why did she hate me! Wherefore blight
      My penitent heart with piercing scorn?
    My better angel took her flight
            Despairing and forlorn:
    The Fiend, who stood exulting by,
      Reclaimed his trembling slave;
      God saw, but would not stoop to save
    The struggling wretch who dared defy
            His laws, on land and wave.

    O, Geraldine, I see thee fly,
      Despairing, from my accursed hands:
    “Better my bones should bleach,” thy cry,
            “On savagest of strands
    Than that my fatal charms should cause
      My never—never-dying shame;
      Better, O, villain, virtuous fame
    With death, than life, when human laws,
            And God’s, accuse my name!”

    I see again thy mute, white face,
      Thy pallid cheeks and bloodless lips,
    Thine eyes, that shone like stars in space,
            Rayless with shame’s eclipse—
    As flying, ghost-like, through the night,
      Fearing death less than me,
      Thy heart went out beneath the sea:
    An angel soul that night took flight,
            A martyr ceased to be!

    I walked in blood, I swam in wine,
      Until my desperate, daring crew
    Trembled at guilt so great as mine:
            The unbelieving Jew
    Who smote his God was white as snow
      To that which I became;
      So black was I, so steeped in shame,
    The very fiends, who writhed below,
            Howled when they heard my name.

    Nature gave way: when I awoke
      The sky was black, the sea was white;
    Day, that long since had dimly broke,
            Was little more than night;
    And madly struggling with the waves
      Careered my gallant craft;
      My crew were pale, I only laughed,
    And coarsely cursed the drunken knaves
            Who, full of wine, still quaffed.

    Night came; my men lay sunk in sleep;
      I only trod the silent deck:
    God’s anger walked the boisterous deep,
            But little did I reck;
    When in the storm, before my eyes,
      My memory’s virgin queen,
      The dead, the sainted Geraldine,
    Stood calmly pointing to the skies,
            Madonna-like in mien.

    I waved her from me, and she waned;
      I saw not, know not, how, or where;
    A single pitying look she deigned,
            Then, vanished into air.
    Then came a sudden shock and crash:
      In frantic haste I clasped
      A fragment of a shattered mast;
    I saw the boiling breakers flash,
            And sense and memory passed.

    When I revived, the noon-day sun
      Lay swooning on the sultry sand:
    I was the only human one
            That ever touched the strand.
    The very birds that sported round
      Screamed when they neared the shore;
      The trackless sands were gray and hoar;
    Nor shrub, nor grass relieved the ground,
            Which nothing living bore.

    We were alone—I and my soul—
      A timid, trembling, guilty pair,
    Already near our earthly goal,
            And livid with despair:
    Six weary days, six sleepless nights,
      We walked the painful Past:
      Our crimes, like ghosts, arose and cast
    Their glances on us: ah, what sights
            And scenes were in that Past!

    But when the moon lies on the sea,
      The seraph soul of Geraldine
    Night after night comes down to me,
            Walking its waves of green.
    Hunger and thirst like phantoms seem
      Before her pitying eyes,
      As pointing always to the skies,
    She wanes and vanishes like a dream—
            She and her pitying eyes.

    I feel that I shall die to-night;
      Death seems already at my heart;
    My soul has plumed its wings for flight,
            And struggles to depart.
    I only wait for Geraldine
      To take me by the hand
      And lead me to that blesséd band,
    Whose forms in visions I have seen,
            Walking the Better Land.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         SONNETS.—AT TWILIGHT.


                         BY CHARLES R. CLARKE.


                           I.

    THE day-god lingers in the waking west,
      And as I gaze upon his burning brow
    My truant, willful thoughts abide no rest,
      But wander forth in search of those who now,
    Like me, engage perchance an idle hour
      In still more idle speculation, whence,
    (E’en as the case may be,) yon orb of power
      Steals, begs, or borrows his magnificence:—
    And as he slowly wades beyond our sight,
      Methinks I hear him likened to a king,
    On rosy couch retiring for the night,
      Till morning stars, mild chanticleers, shall sing:
    O cruel thought! to bid him sleep in state
    While half the world still for their coffee wait.


                          II.

    Yet these are pointless thoughts, the hour, the place,
      Command my muse to plume her wayward wing
    For some bold flight—o’er realms that bear no trace
      Of other footsteps—be it mine to sing
    Of that more blissful twilight of _the soul_—
      Which poets say, steals over it in dreams,
    When Want and Care resign their base control,
      And tired Sense reclines ’neath Fancy’s beams.
    O! years agone I loved a maiden fair,
      My hopes were high and my joys Elysian:
    Oft as I gazed upon her beauty rare,
      Low my Fancy whispered _’tis a vision_!
    And now I turn and wish that o’er my soul
    Such fair and pleasant twilights oftener stole.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Painted by Bonington             Engraved by F. Humphrys

THE LAY OF LOVE.
 Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           LOVE’S INFLUENCE.


                             BY ENNA DUVAL.


    Thus not all love, nor every mode of love is beautiful or worthy
    of commendation, but that alone which excites us to love
    worthily. If any one seeks the friendship of another, believing
    him to be virtuous, for the sake of becoming better through such
    intercourse and affection, and is deceived, his friend turning
    out to be worthless, and far from the possession of virtue; yet
    it is honorable to have been so deceived. For such an one seems
    to have submitted to a kind of servitude because he would endure
    any thing for the sake of becoming more virtuous and wise: a
    disposition of mind eminently beautiful. So much, although
    unpremeditated, is what I have to deliver on the subject of
    Love, O Phædrus.    _Shelley’s Translation of the Symposium of
    Plato._

IN looking back upon my school-girl friendships, I always select Meta
Hallowell as the most interesting, and the most satisfactory to dwell
upon. The influences of friendship, love, society and time, have made
the most beautiful developments in her character. She was a merry,
light-hearted creature; but was more remarkable at school for an
affectionate disposition, and a refined and delicate taste, than for any
quick perception of intellect, or even proper application. She was a
butterfly, flying from one thing to another in her studies, just as the
interest of the moment led her; acting as if all the duties of life were
merely for amusement. I used to look at her and wonder silently how she
would ever be able to endure any trouble that might come upon her in the
future; she seemed so volatile, so delicate, so totally unfitted to come
in contact with the thousand and one struggles and trials that spring up
in every one’s life-path. “Surely,” I would say to myself, “trouble
would overwhelm such a frail spirit, or harden it, and deprive it of its
refined beauty.” But I have always been the very worst person in the
world to judge of character; and I never could prophesy in that knowing
manner, that so many wise ones do, on the effects that certain
influences or circumstances would produce on different natures. Nor has
experience done me any good. I am no better judge now, and although
events have taken place in my own life and in my own circle that would
have enlightened most persons, I am no brighter, no quicker; and I make
just as many blunders as I did when I played with dreamy philosophy and
the study of character at seventeen.

But I commenced with Meta Hallowell not with myself. Meta was beautiful
in person as well as in spirit. She had a graceful, willowy figure,
delicately developed; a sparkling, yes, a brilliant face, with eyes that
were flashing or melting, just as she felt gay or sentimental; and a
finely-shaped mouth, whose lips trembled with every shade of feeling,
and around it hung the expression of intuitive refinement and delicacy
that always hovers around the mouth if there be any refinement in a
person’s nature. Then her laugh was the most musical thing in the world,
and her voice the sweetest of all voices. This sounds enthusiastic, but
Meta Hallowell was and is a subject worthy of enthusiasm. She has never
worn out; she is better, lovelier and purer than when I first loved her
in my school-days.

We left school at the same time, but our positions were very different
in the world. She belonged to a gay family, and was immediately plunged
into the whirl of fashionable life, while I led a very quiet, sober
existence, which was well suited to my shy nature, but formed a strong
contrast to pretty Meta’s sphere of action. One might have supposed our
intercourse would have been broken off; on the contrary, we remained as
intimate, as when we studied the same lessons, and sat at the same desk.
True, a great deal of the visiting had to depend upon Meta, as home
duties necessarily kept me from her; and she seldom passed a day without
peeping in upon my “little nest,” as she called our cozy library; and
once in a while she would enliven an evening by drinking tea with us;
thus she kept me “booked up” in all the gossip and doings of the
fashionable world.

She had no parents; her sister, two years her senior, and a widowed
aunt, were her only near relatives. Meta and her sister were in
comfortable circumstances—they had a nice little fortune apiece, which,
of course, the world magnified. Their aunt had, however, quite a large
life income, which, united with their own, made a very handsome
appearance. Mrs. Hunsdon, the aunt, was a silly _one-ideaed_ woman. To
be fashionable, was the sole aim of her existence. She had no children,
and turned all her attention to the establishment in life of her nieces.
She had not cleverness, nor independence enough to be a leader in the
gay world, but was always found fastened on to some _distingué_ person,
whose shadow she made herself—going and coming, living and breathing as
near like her model as possible; poor soul! how much labor she endured
for her position in society. Her eldest niece was her exact counterpart;
and at the time of Meta’s _entrée_, Miss Hallowell had secured an
excellent offer from a most unexceptionable person, according to their
ideas of such things; and the preparations for the approaching wedding
were carried on in a grand manner. The whole town rang with Miss
Hallowell’s magnificent wardrobe; the beautiful gifts presented by her
husband elect; and I heard no less than a dozen different accounts of
what was to be her wedding-dress; each account professing to come from
Miss W., the fashionable dress-maker and _modiste_ of the day.

One morning Meta came dancing into the library where I had snugly seated
myself for a quiet hour’s study, after having settled for the day, the
affairs of my little domestic kingdom.

“Ah; this is a treat,” she exclaimed, “here is true comfort;” and taking
possession of her favorite lounge, she gave me a half-laughing,
half-serious account of the bustle and preparatory arrangements for the
approaching wedding. “How stupid is all this ceremony, Enna, dear,” she
continued, “aunt fusses about, and Therese looks as grand as a queen.
Then Mr. Folwell is so wearying; how Tettie can fancy him is a wonder to
me. I have never heard him call her ‘dear Therese’ yet; it is always
‘Miss Hallowell’—such dignity chills me. When I marry, there shall be
no grandeur about the affair. I want quiet, home love. My husband shall
call me ‘Meta, darling,’ varying it once in a while with ‘angel bird,’
and all sorts of sweet expletives; he shall love me dearly, put me in a
nice little home like this—just such a library; here he shall study and
write, and I’ll sit beside him, sew and sing, and look at him, and bless
heaven for making me so happy.”

“Why, Meta, your aunt and sister would lift their hands in horror,” I
said, laughingly. “But where are you going to find such a nice
lover—will Mr. Lawson be all this?”

A look of vexation overspread Meta’s pretty face as she replied, “Oh no,
not Mr. Lawson. I know aunt would be delighted with him, but he is
almost as stupid as the rest of them.”

“Mr. Lawson stupid!” I exclaimed. “Meta, where is your taste? He is
quiet and calm, I admit, but not stupid. You naughty girl, not to love
him; he is just the husband for you, madcap. To be sure he might not
indulge in so many affectionate expletives, as you say your husband
must, but he would watch over your happiness tenderly.”

“Better marry him yourself, Enna, since you think him so agreeable,”
said Meta, a little quickly; then springing toward me, she threw her
arms around me exclaiming, “I have just such a lover as I have pictured,
pet one; and I depend on your assistance in my love affair.”

Now, young as I was, I was a perfect model of propriety—the idea of
being an assistant in a “love affair,” frightened me out of my wits; for
I was in truth, a “born old maid,” as my old nurse, Katy, used to call
me.

“Me assist you?” I asked. “How can that be possible; I—who never go out
any where, never see any one?”

“For that very reason,” replied Meta, laughing heartily at my fright and
astonishment, “you are just the very one; and that is why I have
selected you. This paragon lover of mine dislikes ceremony as much as I
do. He is perfectly unexceptionable; when I tell you his name, you will
admit that he is. If he had addressed Tettie, I know she would have had
him—that is, if the rich Mr. Folwell had not come in the way; but,
thank Heaven, he did not want Tettie!”

“Then why do you need any assistance, Meta?” I asked, in a perplexed
tone.

“Because we wish to have our courtship perfectly unsuspected,” she
answered. “Charles Morris—there, you see I have made no bad
selection—Charles is a little embarrassed just now; some unfortunate
speculations and business matters entangle him. Our engagement may last
a year, and I never could endure hearing Aunt Margaret announce with
such self-complacency, that her niece, Miss Meta Hallowell, was engaged,
actually engaged, here, at the commencement of her first season. If we
were to be married now, within a month or so, I would endeavor to bear
it, but to bear it at every dinner-party, every morning visit, and every
_soirée_, would surely kill me, and put an end to all Charles’s
prospects of future happiness. Our plan is this, to keep perfectly quiet
until his affairs are _en traine_, then announce our intention of
marriage to Tettie and Aunt Margaret, just immediately before the
ceremony, and thus avoid all talk and interference. But poor Charles
says he cannot exist without seeing me once in a while as a lover, so
with your permission we will chance to meet here now and then. I know he
has a calling acquaintance with you—there lies his card uppermost on
your card-basket.”

“Yes,” I replied. “He called yesterday. I did not know his call was
intended to prepare the way for such a momentous affair as this.”

“But you will help me, Enna, pet, will you not?” said Meta, coaxingly.
“There is no impropriety in it, prude”—and I consented. It was wrong, I
know; mysteries and concealments rarely turn out well, and are always
injudicious; but I was very young, entirely my own mistress, for my dear
old father and Aunt Mary fancied I had the judgment of a woman of forty;
and, moreover, I could not refuse any thing to dear Meta. I had not
liked Mr. Morris heretofore; true, he was, as Meta had said, “perfectly
unexceptionable,” being a young merchant of good standing in society,
and having the reputation of some wealth. I knew very well that there
was no fear of Mrs. Hunsdon objecting to him; but to me he had always
seemed too bland, too artificial; he never, by any chance forgot
himself; then I had heard a gossiping story about him, although I did
not respect the source from whence it had proceeded, still it had
prejudiced me against him. I had been told by a scandal-loving
connection of ours, that Mr. Morris, a year before, had addressed a Miss
Wilson, and would have eloped with her had not her friends interposed.
This Miss Wilson was an ugly, red-haired heiress, with little brains,
excessive vulgarity, but an immense estate. She was entirely out of the
set of his associates, and if he had addressed her, it had been from
mercenary motives. But now that I heard Meta’s account of her engagement
with him, I dismissed Kate Holton’s story from my mind as a contemptible
gossiping falsehood, which I should have been ashamed of listening to,
and endeavored to find him as agreeable and good as dear Meta said he
was.

During the ensuing winter, Meta and Mr. Morris met repeatedly at our
house. We rarely received company in the evenings, therefore, they were
always sure of being undisturbed. It was my father’s custom to retire
early, and my good Aunt Mary is by nature unsuspicious and innocent as a
child. She and I would sit in the library, sewing and knitting,
listening to Meta’s merry talk; then, after Mr. Morris would join the
circle, I generally proposed music, which made an excuse for Meta and
her lover to go into the drawing-room, which opened on my library. Meta
was a good musician, she played very finely, and had a beautiful voice.
I used to declare the music sounded better from the library; so by this
little piece of management on my part, the lovers were left together.
After a few pieces, the music ceased, and for an hour or more their low,
murmuring conversation would come soothingly on my ear like the sound of
sweet melody. I used to smile as I would look around me. We would have
made a pretty picture if that sweet music of loving voices could have
been made visible on the canvas. I was the only observing, conscious one
of the circle, for dear Aunt Mary was as unconscious as Zoe and Flirt,
the little hound and pet kitten that napped comfortably on either side
of the library fire. My aunt in her large easy-chair and reading-stand
before her, while her knitting-needles fairly flew, would be completely
absorbed in some work of fiction, her greatest delight, never dreaming
that a real love-story was progressing under her eyes. She has always
been an inveterate novel reader, this same Aunt Mary; but I must say for
her, that this taste, so pernicious to many, preventing them from
performing their daily duties with interest, making real life tame for
them, has had no bad effect upon her—a more industrious, excellent
woman never breathed; and it has often amused me that, although she
dotes upon love-stories on paper, and can follow patiently and
unwearyingly the written account of the most intricate romance, love in
real life possesses but little interest for her. She breathes a
different atmosphere while reading—seems in another state of existence,
which completely vanishes so soon as the book is laid aside; and she
takes up life and life’s duties in the most matter-of-fact,
conscientious manner imaginable. I often wonder what she does with all
the love stories she reads, for she never makes use of them in every day
affairs; and even when a real little bit of romance which has taken
place in actual life is pointed out to her, she is entirely wanting in
sympathetic appreciation, regarding it as quite absurd.

The winter passed quickly on. The only event of moment that occurred was
Meta’s rejection of Mr. Lawson. How Mrs. Hunsdon stormed, and the
haughty Mrs. Folwell lectured, and I could not help regretting it
myself—Mr. Lawson was so gentlemanly, so good. I knew it would have
been far better for Meta to have loved him; his influence over her
impressible nature would have been so beneficial; and when by chance
once or twice I met him in company with Meta, and noticed his serious,
grieved countenance, my conscience felt smitten, and in sadness I would
compare him with Charles Morris, the comparison being any thing but
flattering to the latter.

The spring opened upon my pair of lovers, who were still as adoring as
ever. One thing I do remember as strange, and at the time it annoyed me,
although I felt at the time as we do in dreams, not able to express or
even realize the actual annoyance. Although Mr. Morris knew, could not
help knowing, that I was fully aware of his engagement with Meta, he
never once spoke openly about it to me, never hinted at it; and two or
three times, when other unavoidable engagements prevented Meta from
joining him at the appointed time, and on his coming in the evening, I
would hand him Meta’s note of excuse, containing a love _poulet_ for
him, he would read it without remark, and, to my surprise, stay the
accustomed time, entertaining Aunt Mary and myself as if he had come for
that purpose. That clever authoress, Mrs. Grey, makes one of her
heroines express an opinion, that certainly does apply to such men us
Charles Morris. She says, “I have the highest opinion of men’s honor
amongst themselves, but you may depend upon it, there is very little in
the case where we women, with our interests and affections are
concerned.”

The traveling season came on; and Mr. Morris promised to meet Meta at
the fashionable watering-place she was going to with her aunt and Mrs.
Folwell; but the season passed without his doing so—business, he said,
had prevented him; and when Meta returned in the fall, she looked pale,
dispirited and unhappy.

“I could not hear from Charles,” she said, “without exciting suspicion.
Had you been in town, Enna, he would have written through you; but as it
was, I had to pass the weary season without any intelligence from him.
Nine unhappy weeks have they been, and truly, I think, even the horror I
used to have of Aunt Margaret’s fuss and bustle over my engagement, has
almost vanished. I think I could bear with it better than this misery of
silence and separation.”

They met again—but after the interview Meta seemed still tearful and
nervous. It was evident she wearied of the concealment, but her lover
did not.

“I have acted very foolishly,” she said to me one evening, when, instead
of meeting Mr. Morris at our house, he had sent her a note of apology
filled with excuses for his unavoidable business engagements, “I entered
into this secret engagement so thoughtlessly—and Heaven only knows when
or where it is to end.”

We were alone. Aunt Mary, not being very well, had retired immediately
after tea. Meta threw herself on the lounge, and drawing me to her,
rested her head on my shoulder, and sobbed like a child. I caressed her
silently, and my tears mingled with hers. Frank and open, Meta could not
have a thought or shade of feeling without disclosing it to me. Her
concealment of her engagement from her family, had arisen from delicacy,
shyness, and the strong dash of romance in her character; then the
artificial natures of her aunt and sister prevented all confidence with
them, but with those she loved and depended on, she was as confiding and
candid as an innocent child.

“Charles says I have grown suspicious and fretful,” she at last said, as
her sobs became more quieted. “I know I am altered; our separation in
the summer was so very painful to me as to make me restless in temper. I
confess I am tired of concealment, and when I told him so, the other
evening, I was mortified by the cold manner with which he received it.
He said it had been my own proposition, that some time would necessarily
elapse before we could be married, and that the same objections existed
as at first to an open announcement of our engagement. I felt wounded to
the quick, and when I passionately accused him of no longer loving me,
he very coolly left me to become more reasonable, as he said, and came
here into the library and talked to you and your aunt. I have not seen
him since; no engagement should have kept him from me; he knows how
wretchedly I must feel, even though I may be unreasonable, and cherish
groundless suspicions; and yet his note this evening is so calm and
unmoved.”

I soothed and encouraged her in the best way I could, but I thought
within myself it was a cloudy affair. Again and again they met, but
their meetings failed to produce happiness for Meta. He was cold—she
suspicious.

“He never alludes to a past misunderstanding,” she said, one evening to
me after he had left, for he no longer staid the whole evening as
formerly, nor did he come so often. “When he knows we have parted
miserably, and we meet again, instead of soothing and assuring me, he
commences talking on some indifferent subject, as if nothing had
occurred. If he has changed, why not candidly avow it? So I told him
this evening, and he told me my absurd jealousy made me both selfish and
unkind. Oh, Enna! I am miserable, this state of affairs cannot last much
longer, it will kill me. Do tell me, Enna, am I unjust in my
accusations—is not Charles altered?”

I scarcely knew what to say, and by soothings and caressings evaded a
direct answer. Altered he surely was; he no longer showed any particular
desire to meet her; sometimes a week and more would pass without his
coming; while poor Meta rarely omitted an evening. Every night her pale,
sad face rested on my shoulder, starting nervously at every noise, and
then, when the carriage would come for her at ten o’clock, she would
kiss me good-night with trembling lips, and disappointment in her heart;
and for an hour after, I would rest my head on my pillow, her glazed and
heavy eyes and wretched countenance would come up before me like a
spectre.

A few mornings after this last conversation I received a visit from the
Mrs. Holton who had first told me of the gossip about Mr. Morris and
Miss Wilson. She had been absent from town several months, and came in
upon us unexpectedly, just as we were arising from a late breakfast. I
had not even read the morning paper, which I had in my hand as she
entered.

“Ah! I suppose, then, you have heard the news,” she said.

“Why we rarely hear news, Kate, excepting from you,” replied Aunt Mary.

Mrs. Holton laughed, but was evidently too much interested in her new
piece of gossip to notice Aunt Mary’s sarcasm. She turned to me with a
malicious expression of countenance, and said, “Notwithstanding it
interests you so particularly, Enna, you bear it very properly, I must
confess.”

I stared, as I well might, for I could not understand a word of what she
was saying.

“What is it you mean, Catharine?” said my aunt, a little decidedly. Mrs.
Holton stood a little in awe of Aunt Mary, and said quickly, “Oh, I mean
nothing, to be sure; I did not believe the report about Enna when I
heard of it this morning, notwithstanding even Mrs. Wilson herself told
me Betty had been outrageously jealous of her.”

“Mrs. Wilson!—Betty!—jealous of Enna!—what are you talking about,
Catharine Holton?” exclaimed Aunt Mary, really angry, “truly that unruly
member of yours does make you take strange liberties.”

“I only say what every one else says,” said Mrs. Holton, in a piqued
tone, “that Mr. Morris’s attentions to Enna, have been the means of his
obtaining a rich wife. That newspaper will tell you, if you choose to
look at it, that yesterday he eloped with Betty Wilson. The whole affair
has been managed admirably; her mother never dreamed of such a thing
until the bird had flown. I went to see Mrs. Wilson this morning, as
soon as I read it in the paper, and she was raving away at a terrible
rate. She says she knew Betty was terribly jealous of you, Enna, all
last winter; but she thought it had all blown over, as Betty had not
mentioned his name for a long while.”

I have no doubt Kate Holton felt more gratification in giving this
account of Mr. Morris’s and Miss Wilson’s marriage, than she had ever
experienced before, for my terror and wretchedness were expressed on my
face, although I listened with a forced calmness to all her gossiping
details of the affair. Up to this day I am sure she thinks I was jilted
by Mr. Morris, but at the time I could say nothing, so anxious was I for
poor Meta. I knew that the elopement would be a town talk, for during
the last few months Miss Wilson had made herself very prominent.
Although not belonging to that charmed circle yclept _par excellence_,
“society,” she had made herself a subject of conversation with them, by
her splendid equipage, her rich and noisy costume, and lavish
expenditure of the immense income left to her, untrammeled, by her
father, two years before. Young, aristocratic beaux, with little money,
had saucily pitied the “poor thing’s isolated position,” and more than
one had declared his generous, self-sacrificing intention of “taking the
girl, and showing her how to spend her money,” but here Charles Morris
had quietly stepped in and carried her off! I may as well mention here,
the part of Mrs. Holton’s recital, which I subsequently learned, was
true.

Mr. Morris had, before meeting with Meta, addressed Miss Wilson. This
occurred soon after the death of her father. The mother, a sensible,
shrewd old woman, had influenced Miss Betty to refuse the aristocratic
lover. Then he met with Meta, with whose family he had always been on
intimate terms. At first I believe he was sincere, or at least as
sincere as his selfish nature would permit him to be; but during the
previous summer he had discovered that the silly heiress was dying of
disappointed vanity and jealousy, fancying from his frequent visits to
our house, that he had transferred his affections to me. By some chance
they met; he found her ready to throw herself and her half million into
his arms, almost without the asking, which temptation he could not, of
course, withstand. This was the cause of his coldness and indifference
to poor Meta, for I suppose he did not wish to give her up entirely
until certain of the heiress.

Although I listened to Mrs. Holton’s conversation in dignified silence,
the agony I endured was almost unbearable. I could almost have put her
out of the house, so anxious was I to go to Meta—and heartily did I
rejoice when this gossiping woman rose to go. As the door closed on her,
Aunt Mary exclaimed, “Why, Enna, one might believe Kate Holton’s story
about Mr. Morris’s jilting you was true, you look so wretchedly.”

“Do I?” asked I, with an hysteric laugh and sob mingled, and for a few
moments my weeping was so violent that my poor aunt really believed it,
and turning it over in her mind, innocent soul! she wondered she had not
divined it before. At last, under promise of secrecy, I told her the
whole affair, for I knew she would fret unceasingly.

“Poor Meta! foolish girl!” said Aunt Mary, as I concluded. “She ought to
consider herself well off for being rid of him; he’s a good for nothing
fellow, and she never would have been happy if she had married him.”

Just as she was taking this matter-of-fact view of the subject, the
library-door opened, and in rushed Meta, looking wild and startled. Aunt
Mary left us.

“Tell me, Enna,” she said, clinging to me, “have you heard any thing? I
know you have, darling, for you will not look at me. Tell me all you
have heard, for indeed it will be better for me. I cannot suffer more
than I have these six months past;” and she sunk on the floor before me,
overwhelmed with her anguish. She had heard the news from some morning
visiters, and had escaped from home quietly, to come to me for comfort.
The only consolation I could give, was sympathy. The whole day passed
sadly enough, and I felt almost hopeless for her future, when suddenly a
ray of light beamed upon me, as I heard her exclaim, “Well, thank
Heaven! no one knows my miserable folly but you, Enna. I shall not be
mortified and wounded by the insolent pity of society.” I saw that her
pride was roused, and there is every hope for both man and woman so long
as that remains. I took advantage of this, and lost no time in rousing
her self-esteem. What an altered creature she seemed, pacing up and down
my library a half hour afterward. I thought all the time of Queen
Elizabeth’s reception of Leicester, in Kenilworth, after she had learned
his perfidy to her and his poor wife, “Sweet Amy Robsart.” Meta queened
it nobly over herself; and after the first struggle had passed, and the
excitement of wounded pride even had passed, purer and better influences
came to her aid and strengthened her. I had trembled, as I have said,
for the effect of any great trouble or disappointment on Meta’s
character, fearing the meet injurious consequences; this proved how I
little I knew. The influence of trouble was beneficial to her, it served
to quicken and strengthen her intellect; shook off the dreamy
sentimentality that had hung like a mist over her fine mind, and she
took a better, clearer view of life’s pursuits and duties.

A few years after this affair Meta married well and happily. Her husband
is a distinguished man, and my friend leads the gay life of a woman of
real society not in a little provincial circle, like that in which she
had been brought up, and which had disgusted and wearied her by its
silly, trifling vanities and nothings, but in stirring scenes of life,
interesting herself in the grand and noble pursuits of her husband, who
is a statesman and a scholar; receiving and entertaining the crowds of
people who are attracted around her by her husband’s talents and her own
brilliant, bewitching manners.

Our intimacy still continues; and whenever I read one of her sparkling
letters, or pay her a visit, and see how healthily and heartily she
enjoys life, I can scarcely conceive that she was ever the love-sick,
romantic Meta Hallowell of former days; and I see with delight that she
is now under the influence of the most beautiful, the most holy of all
feelings—true, spiritual love; and that she retains only a smiling,
pitying recollection of that season of her past life, when she had for
awhile lingered in the depths of mortality, held down by the enervating
influence of that hollow mockery—love for an unworthy object.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 SONG.


        FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ.


    WOULD thou wert mine own wife,
      I’d fold thee in these arms,
    And shield thee on this faithful breast
      Secure from all alarms.
    Thou shouldst be with me ever,
      And in gladness or in gloom,
    Thy presence like a sunbeam
      Should life’s every hour illume.

    The heaviest toil of life, love,
      The weary weight of care,
    Cheered by thy smile serene and true,
      Most gladly I would bear,
    And though forced by sterner duties
      From thy gentle side to roam,
    I would know an angel blessed me
      From the fireside of my home.

    Would thou wert mine own wife
      Then cherished in this breast,
    Thou’dst dwell in tender joyousness
      A dove within her nest.
    Thus, hand in hand together,
      We would tread the path of life,
    While flowers of joy should greet thy steps—
     Oh! would thou wert my wife.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE TWO PORTRAITS.


                            BY HELEN IRVING.


                               CHAPTER I.

                             “—his spirit wholly turned
           To stern ambition’s dream, to that fierce strife
           Which leads to life’s high places, and recked not
           What lovely flowers might perish in his path.”
                                                    L. E. L.

                 “Life, with all its hues and changes,
                   To thy heart doth lie,
                 Like those dreamy Alpine ranges
                   In the southern sky;
                 Where in haze the clefts are hidden,
                   Which the heart should fear,
                 And the crags that fall unbidden
                   Startle not the ear!”
                                        BAYARD TAYLOR.

LEANING against the wall in the atelier of a young artist, stood a
picture to which the finishing touches had that day been given. It was a
face of singular loveliness, and seemed to be that of a young girl in
the bloom of early womanhood, if the word bloom could be used in
connection with a face so spiritual in its character. From the pale and
rounded forehead, in whose transparent temples the delicate tracery of
veins was distinctly seen, the hair flowed back in dark waves, closely
confined at the back, with the exception of one or two long ringlets,
which had escaped and lay upon the white neck. The eyes were of softest
hazel, and into their far depths of sadness, calm, and heavenly thought,
it seemed impossible to look. The delicate Grecian nose corresponded
with the spiritual brow and eye, and it was only in the full, warm
mouth, that the secret of an impassioned nature was revealed.

Gazing upon the picture with drooping eyelids and folded hands, sat a
woman far past her early prime, wearing an ordinary dress of deepest
mourning. There was something in the outline of her face, and in the
beauty of her dark-hazel eye, which would have suggested to an observer
the truth that she stood in the relation of mother to the fair original
of the portrait before her, and the mourning garb might have aroused a
suspicion of what was also true, that Death had claimed this treasure of
her heart.

“And you will not sell me this picture?” she said in a broken voice,
apparently resuming a conversation with the artist, who sat before his
easel, at the farthest end of the room.

“No, madam, it is quite impossible,” was the coldly civil reply, as he
touched and re-touched the work before him.

“But I have said that I would pay you all, and more than you usually
demand for such a work, and—and—she was my child.”

“Let us once for all, madam, understand each other,” said the artist,
laying down his brush and looking her full in the face—“it is true that
I have taken and still do take likenesses for the paltry sum of fifty
dollars, for I am young, with my fame yet to earn, and fame alone in our
profession wins money. But this is no common picture—I had conceived
the thought to execute a work on which I would lay out all my power, on
which I would set the full seal of my genius, when I met your daughter.
Her face attracted me; it was beautiful, it was singular in its
character, it was what I wanted—at my request she sat to me, and for
those sittings I paid her, as you well know, a liberal price. I have
spent weeks over this picture, I have expended upon it all my energies,
and for a purpose. You may not be aware that the artists’ exhibition
takes place soon—my picture will be there—it must command attention; I
shall be known and my fame will be established! Part with it now! No,
not for ten times its value would I sacrifice all the hopes that hang
upon that work.”

The woman had held her breath to listen to his words, and as his voice
ceased, the long-suppressed emotion burst forth, and she passionately
cried—

“Do not, do not refuse me—think of your own heart, should all that it
worshiped on earth be torn from it: think of your own mother, and for
the love of her and heaven, hear me! What is the fame you tell of? Will
it not come for other things than this—will it be sweet if you trample
over one bruised heart to reach it—will praise be precious, bought at
the price of a mother’s agonized tears? Oh, pity my wretchedness, and
heaven will smile upon you—all the fame you covet will one day be
yours!”

As she finished, the artist quietly resumed his brush, saying in his
calm voice—

“My time is greatly occupied this morning, Mrs. Revere, and you will
excuse me, if I decline all further conversation on a subject,
concerning which I have already given you my intentions. I am momently
expecting a sitter, and must beg your pardon for requesting you to allow
me to attend to my preparations for her reception, undisturbed.”

A convulsive cry escaped from the woman’s lips as he turned away, and
gathering her coarse veil about the face which was now deathly pale, she
turned to leave the room. The cold heartlessness of those words had
frozen the last channel of Hope, and daring not a glance at the face of
her child, she feebly passed over the broad staircase, and into the
noise and bustle of the crowded street.

She had been gone but a few moments, and the artist had had just time to
brush with careless elegance the magnificent hair from his white
forehead, and to fling a drapery over the portrait of Elise Revere, when
steps were heard approaching, and with eye all light and lip all smiles,
he hastened to the door to welcome his young sitter.

“Good morning Emil—Miss Hastings; I have been impatiently looking for
you,” and with deferential tenderness he ushered her into the studio,
and offered the luxurious chair which seemed to be her accustomed seat.
His voice was deep and musical, and his eyes eloquent of admiration, as
he stood conversing while she laid aside her hat and shawl, and drew off
her delicate gloves.

Well might Edgar Loring gaze admiringly upon her, for she was “beautiful
exceedingly,” and yet a greater contrast could not perhaps have been
found, than she presented to the picture we have just noticed.

She was scarcely seventeen, of a petite figure, and her face, in the
softness and delicacy of its outline, seemed almost childish. Golden
curls clustered around her pure, sweet brow, lay against the sunny bloom
of her cheek, and fell in a bright shower over her dimpled and snowy
shoulders. Her eyes had that summer’s day radiance given only to eyes of
blue—her soft lips were of the richest red, and seemed moulded to
thoughts of lovingness, and gentleness, and happiness. It was a face
into which you could not look without the conviction that it had never
known aught but sunshine and love—that the dark truths of the world
were to its owner, but unreal visions of a far-off future. No deep tide
of feeling, no storm of strong passions had left its impress there; yet
the face so exquisite in its infantile loveliness, was not without its
signs of latent power. There was often a deepening of the light within
those soft eyes, an earnest compressing of the full lips, that were a
prophecy of a higher type of beauty for her maturer womanhood.

And Edgar Loring loved sweet Emily Hastings, although he had not yet
told her of it save by looks and tones perhaps as unmistakable as words.
He loved her fondly, almost passionately, _next to himself and fame_.
Intensely selfish and insatiably ambitious, he was ignorant of his
incapacity for a great and generous love. Possessed of a good education,
and a fine share of talent if not genius, he had come to the city, with
no friends but these and his remarkably handsome person, filled with the
determination of making to himself a name. Accident had brought him into
contact with a few influential persons, and he soon became known among a
certain clique as a young man whom it were well worth while to
patronize.

He had been in the city a little more than two years, and had painted
several portraits in good families, when he met with Emily Hastings, the
daughter of one of his patrons. Her beauty delighted his artistic eye,
her winning gentleness captivated his heart, her position in society was
a mark for his ambition. Well assured of his growing love for her, he
was also far from insensible to the advantages which a union with her
would confer. Mr. Hastings, although a man of wealth and high-standing,
was free from the weak prejudices of many of his class, and Edgar knew
that were his daughter’s heart bestowed upon a man of education and
character, he would not be looked upon as unworthy, even though
penniless. Could he win Emily’s love, he felt that her father’s approval
was sure, and in all his thoughts of the future, he pictured himself a
distinguished artist, and the husband of Emily Hastings.

But fame seemed to him yet afar off; to hear himself spoken of as “a
young artist who was remarkably successful in likenesses”—“a young man
of considerable promise,” was galling to his vanity, and he resolved to
execute some work that should claim attention. While he was thinking of
this, unable to fix upon any subject, he met, as we already know, Elise
Revere. That face of such strange beauty, line by line his skillful
pencil could copy; he could catch as he gazed upon them living before
him, the spiritual brow, and the eye’s deep poetic thought—all that
only a master-hand could _create_ upon canvas. The sittings were long
and many, but the artist was enchanted with his success—his ambitious
dreams grew brighter, and he almost felt the laurel on his brow. Days
and nights were occupied with thoughts of this new work, and the cold
selfishness of his ambition cannot be better shown than by the fact,
that when the illness and death of poor Elise reached his ears, the
involuntary first thought was, “My picture was in time!”

And this was the being—his selfish nature unrevealed in his
good-natured face and cordial manner, who sought to win the young,
child-like heart of Emily. Few could have resisted the fascination of
his presence—the mien deferential, tender—so eloquent of admiration,
and finally of love. Emily did not at least; she thought him good, noble
and gifted, and then he was so handsome, and beauty is a powerful
pleader to the heart of seventeen. She soon learned to love the books
and music he had praised, to look for his smile amid the crowd, and be
sad if she met it not—to treasure the flowers he had given and the
words he had whispered over them, and at last to be pensive or gay,
happy or sorrowful, in harmony with the music of those sweet chimes that
usher in the morning of a first love.

The sittings for Emily’s portrait had been a happy period to both the
artist and his beautiful subject—hours of pleasant interchange of
thought and feeling, memorable steps in the rosy pathway they were now
treading—and this day in especial had been so delightful, with its
thousand nothings of conversation, to which time and circumstance give
such a value, that an unconcealed shadow of regret fell upon each face,
as Miss Hastings’ servant announced that the carriage waited.

“I believe,” said Emily, as she tied the little white chip hat under her
dainty chin, “that you told papa yesterday there would be but one more
sitting before the picture was finished.”

“Only one more,” replied Edgar, in a tone which sent a richer bloom into
Emily’s cheek, and as fearful of betrayal she turned away her head, her
wandering eyes fell upon the portrait of Elise Revere, from which the
carelessly fastened covering had fallen.

“Oh, how beautiful, how adorably beautiful!” she exclaimed, pressing
eagerly forward, “and is it yours, Edgar?”

He looked into her glowing face, and his heart swelled proudly as he
answered:

“Yes, I have just finished it for the coming exhibition; it has occupied
me for some time, and no one has yet seen it, but I intended showing it
to _you_; do you like it?”

“Like it? I could look forever into those wonderful eyes, and upon that
calm, noble forehead. Is it a portrait?”

“_No!_” came from the artist’s false lips, “it is an ideal work.”

How unworthy was he of the look of proud delight, of reverent worship
written on the pure, girlish face upturned to his! How unworthy was he
of the tears that quivered on the long, golden lashes—the tremulous
tones of that low voice! Yet with a quickened pulse, he received the
incense of her enthusiasm, for it was a delicious foretaste of the
homage yet to be paid his name—a drop from the full beaker of fame for
which he thirsted.

“I could almost envy you,” said Emily, “the visions of loveliness that
must have come to you ere you could have called into being so glorious a
creation.”

“It was from the recollection of much, very much of beauty that I
wrought the work,” answered Edgar. “I called into it the choicest
elements of grace I had ever known. Do you not recognize the mouth?” he
added, turning to Emily with a peculiar smile.

Unconscious as she was of her own charms, it was impossible not to
recognize in the form and expression of those full, sweet lips, a
likeness to her own. False Edgar! it seemed to Emily a most delicate
tribute of admiring love, and it filled her heart with a strange
delight, to know that she was remembered amid his visions of beauty,
that she realized even in part his dreams of the ideal. She did not
answer, it was not a time for words. The consciousness of Edgar’s
interest in her, now more fully revealed than ever, came fraught with
still thought to her spirit.

And Edgar was silent, feeling for the first time sure that the
affections of the young being beside him were his own; for it was but a
part of the selfishness of his nature to refrain from declaring his
passion in direct terms, until he could read in the face of the
guileless Emily that it were a welcome avowal. For a few moments they
stood gazing on the portrait, then Emily lifted her happy eyes for one
moment to his face, and with a slight inclination of her head, passed
from the room.

Gladsome morning and tempestuous night are not in greater contrast than
were the light foot-fall and joyous spirit of Emily, to the lingering
step and heavy heart of her who had so short a time preceded her. Both
had come from the contemplation of the same picture—and to one its
memory was as a talisman of love and happiness, and to the other of
anguish and despair.


                              CHAPTER II.

                “Dead—dead thou wert!—cold lay that form
                  In rarest beauty moulded,
                And meekly o’er thy still, white breast
                  The snowy hands were folded.
                Pale wert thou as the lily buds
                  Twined ’mid thy raven tresses,
                And cold thy lip, and still thy heart
                  To all my wild caresses!”
                                       —GRACE GREENWOOD.

                  “Another hand is beckoning on
                    Another call is given,
                  And glows once more with angel steps
                    The path which reaches Heaven.”
                                            —WHITTIER.

The beautiful residence of Mr. Hastings was situated in the suburbs of
the city, so that Emily, although familiar with all the gayeties and
fashionable delights of life in town, was constantly surrounded with all
the sweet influences of Nature. The rippling of streams and the rustling
of forest leaves were the music of home voices, and winding paths
through green fields and woods, up sunny hill-sides and over mossy
rocks, were dearer than the gay promenade in the city, or even the
aristocratic drive with her father’s noble grays.

The day following that of her interview with Edgar, was bright with a
warm May sunshine, and beautiful in all the just unfolded loveliness of
spring. The breeze came whispering at her open window with an eloquence
not to be resisted, and with a brain full of busy fancies, and a heart
laden with sweet thoughts, she sauntered out into the delicious air.
With a light quick step she walked along the graveled street, past
cultivated grounds and noble dwellings, until she reached the green turf
and wooded slopes beyond. And here where the fresh, glad life of Nature
seemed kindred with her own, she loitered leisurely along grass-bordered
lanes, and beneath grand old trees, dreaming of Edgar, of his genius and
of his goodness, and of his love for her.

On her route, where a river curved around the foot of a gently sloping
hill, in the shadow of old forest trees was made a rural cemetery—so
beautiful with its quiet paths, and its cool shades, that the living
loved to wander there; they who came not to watch beside the dead, as
well as they who tended the flowers upon the graves of those they had
lost.

Through a low ivy-covered gateway of stone, Emily entered the quiet
place. There were no massive railings and lofty monuments, no superb
carvings and costly devices, but love had made very beautiful this last
resting-place of the dead—sweet flowers were blooming every where, and
murmuring streams were guided along by the well-trodden paths. Here and
there arose a simple shaft or a light column, and the graves of a
household enclosed by a green hedge, or surrounded by shadowing trees.

As Emily passed through the familiar walks, she came suddenly upon a
grave in a remote corner of the cemetery, beside which sat a solitary
mourner. The spot was unenclosed, save by a few dark pines, and the
outline of the grave upon the grassy turf distinctly visible. A small
while slab lay upon the centre of the green mound, and at its head grew
a rose-tree of wonderful beauty, bending till its weight of pure, white
buds and blossoms, touched the long bright grass upon the grave.

Its simple loveliness touched the heart of Emily, and drawing near, she
stooped down and read upon the pure marble—“_Dear Elise_.” Her young
eyes filled with tears, and with an irresistible impulse she turned her
face, full of tenderest sympathy toward her who sat beside the grave,
and murmured,

“Was it your Elise?”

The woman, who had been unheeding until now, looked up at the sound of
that earnest voice, and meeting a glance of such sorrowing gentleness,
answered softly—

“Yes, my only, only child!”

There was something in the eye now first raised to hers, that eye sunken
but still wonderfully beautiful—a half-remembered expression, that
riveted Emily’s gaze, and invested with a deep interest the stranger
before her. Laying her hand gently upon that of the woman, she said
softly—

“Is it long since you laid her here?”

“Only a few weeks,” was the reply; “there were buds on the rose-tree
when I brought it here.”

“And was it hers?” asked Emily, stooping down to inhale the rich
fragrance of the beautiful flower.

“Yes, and it was the dearest treasure she possessed. Oh! how often have
I watched her as she sat beside it at the window, with her proud head
bending over her work, its blossoms not more delicate and pure than the
brow against which they bloomed. Oh, my Elise, how beautiful she was! I
used to think that in all the wide world, there was not, there could
never be a face so surpassingly lovely. I only cared to live that I
might look upon her beauty: I worshiped, I adored my child, and God has
taken her from me!”

She paused, but encouraged by the earnest, attentive face of Emily,
continued:

“I am of Italy, and my Elise inherited the dark eyes and impassioned
nature of the land of her birth. When my child was but two years old, I
left my native shores, and with my only relative, my father, followed my
young American husband to his own land. And here, before many years, he
died and left me, with a charge to watch over unceasingly, our
marvelously beautiful child, who, with her father’s fair, transparent
complexion and regular features, had also inherited his delicate
constitution.

“We were poor, and I labored hard, but I cared not, so that Elise were
happy—so that I could but find her the books she loved, and save her
slight hands from menial labor. No day was so dark, or so full of care,
that I did not find time to braid her magnificent hair around her noble
head, and it was joy enough to look once into her soft eyes, and see her
faint smile at my fond pride.

“Elise was not like me—she had a soul filled with thoughts of beauty
and of poetry, and she talked of things in which I could not sympathize;
the world seemed to her full of voices, and heaven held more for her
than for me. I felt that I could not understand my child—hers was a
purer and a greater nature than mine, and I looked upon her with a
reverent worship. I felt that God and the angels were near to her, and
that her wonderful beauty was, I knew not how, connected with the spirit
within.”

“And was there never a portrait of your gifted, beautiful child?”
interrupted Emily, in a quivering tone.

The question seemed to stir a deep fount of feeling—the stranger’s face
flushed, and passionate tears gushed from her eyes.

“Ah, yes! but I may not have it—I may not see it long,” she cried. “Oh,
my child, I must leave you forever!”

Emily was startled by this emotion, but in a few moments the mother
became calm and continued:

“Not many weeks before Elise’s illness, as we were walking in the city,
an artist observed my child, and followed her to our humble home. He
praised her loveliness to me, in words which I cannot now remember,
though I well recollect their import. He said her beauty was
remarkable—was rare. In all his life he had never seen a face to
compare with it, never an eye so glorious, so full of soul; he said such
beauty should not be lost to the world, and he begged that I would let
her sit to him, offering at the same time a liberal compensation.

“My heart was filled with a proud joy, but I let Elise decide for
herself, and alter many urgent entreaties, she at length consented. Ah,
I was very, very happy! I felt that her beauty was not to wither in
unappreciation—the world would know of her loveliness—through the
artist they might hear of her, and who could tell the happy days in
store for my child. And I joyed also to know that now in the bright
mornings she would be walking through the gay streets of the city, in
the glad, fresh air, instead of bending wearily over her needle-work in
our small dark room.

“For several mornings I accompanied Elise to the studio of the artist,
though I could ill afford the time, but at length I found it utterly
impossible, for our daily bread was to be earned, and Elise went alone.
I sometimes fancied that when she returned at noon, she looked weary
from her long walk, but she never complained, and I only thought her
more beautiful than ever. One day she returned, and flinging into my lap
her little green purse, heavy with silver, she said languidly—

“‘The picture does not need me any more, and I am very glad, for my head
aches sadly—they say the portrait is very like me, mother.’

“I resolved to go with her to see it on the following day, but—oh,
Father in Heaven! when the time came that I looked upon it first, my
child lay here. I cannot tell you how she faded in my arms day by
day—but, when I had seen her own rose-tree planted over the place of
her rest, and had wept upon the green sod till the fountain of tears
seemed dry, slowly and wearily I sought the studio of the painter,
longing, yet almost fearing, to look upon her image there. Oh, what a
vision met my gaze! I had thought to see her semblance—to trace a
likeness to my loved Elise in the artist’s work; but there, full of life
and beauty as though she had never left me, she stood before me. I wept
over that picture tears more passionate than I had shed beside her
grave, and I begged and received permission to visit it every day.

“A few nights after, on returning to my home, I found that my aged
father, who had long been yearning to return to the land of his youth,
had been making some arrangements with friends who were in a few months
to sail for Italy, feeling that I would not refuse to go with him, now
that my only tie to America, to _life_, save him, was severed. A week
before I would have said yes—would have left the dear grave of my
buried Elise, and gone with my father to die in the land of our birth;
but now I seemed held by a living tie—I felt as if my child were with
me here, and I must take her, or my heart would break. I told my father
and his friends this; we were all poor, but they loved me, and by the
sale of many little articles—some _how dear_, God only knows, we raised
money enough to buy the picture, at the price which I had often heard
from Elise the artist demanded for a portrait.

“I could not have believed my stricken heart capable of the joy that
throbbed through all its pulses, as I entered the painter’s room with my
treasure-laden purse in my hand. I know my voice faltered—but oh,
Heaven! how it died within me when I heard a firm denial of my request!
Tears and pleadings—all a mother’s agony availed not; for some purpose
of his own, some artists’ exhibition—what, I could not wholly
comprehend—he would have the picture for his own—he would not yield it
up, but coldly and calmly persisted in his refusal. Day after day I have
been to him, but in vain. The time of our departure is drawing near, and
I know that duty to my father demands that I leave him not to go down
the way of life alone. I must go—I must leave my child, that blessed,
pictured face forever!”

The woman’s frame trembled violently, and passionately exclaiming—“Oh,
Loring, Edgar Loring!” she laid her face upon the grave and wept
convulsively.

Emily had been listening, her upturned eyes wet with tears, and when the
last, wild exclamation of the stranger reached her ear, she started
quickly, a deadly faintness came over her heart, a paleness to her
cheek, and she too drooped her young head, bowed with a sudden
wretchedness, upon the grave before her. Swiftly thought after thought,
memory after memory crowded upon her brain, all forcing with an anguish
unalterable, the fearful dread that Edgar was cold and selfish—Edgar
was untrue. That picture of Elise, with the deep eyes so like the
mother’s beside her—yes, she had seen it, and Edgar had told her it was
an ideal work—and oh, mockery! that _her_ loveliness was remembered in
the vision. And she felt that a fearful moment in her life was now come:
it was only necessary to prove the identity of the picture she had seen
with that of the stranger’s child, to convict Edgar of the basest
falsehood; and he who could deceive a heart young and trusting as hers,
of what was he not capable!

Then awoke the latent power, the unrevealed energy of her spirit, and
with an intense effort she calmed the tumultuous heavings of her heart,
and strove to bring back her own quiet smile to those quivering lips.
For some moments neither spoke, and when Emily lifted her head from the
sod where the mother still lay, her face was calm, save a bright, uneasy
flush upon her cheek. Lightly she touched the prostrate form before her,
and said gently—

“I know this artist, and it may be that I can do something for you;
describe to me this picture—I think that I have seen it.”

Then minutely, Mrs. Revere (for my readers must know it was she,)
described the face of her Elise—and the faint ray of hope died out in
the breast of Emily. Calmly she gathered from the mother all needful
information—her name and residence and time of sailing, then giving her
own address, and uttering words of hope and consolation, arose and left
the spot.

There was no joy in the sunshine, no music in the song of birds, as she
wended her way homeward over the very ground where a few hours before
she had passed lightly, restless for very happiness. Reaching her home
she slowly ascended to her own room, and closing the door, flung herself
upon a couch and buried her face in its crimson cushions. Not till then
did she know how great had been the strength exerted to keep down her
rising tears, to command her trembling voice, to hide from other eyes
her bitter sorrow. Long and passionately she wept now, but it was a
weeping over the awakening from a dream. Edgar was cold-hearted—Edgar
was false! That which she had thought to be the beautiful struggle of
genius toward perfection, was but a selfish ambition. And _she_ had been
trifled with—duped—and as the humiliating thought rushed upon her, she
lifted her sweet head, and the proud flush crimsoned cheek, neck and
brow.

Emily’s love for Edgar was but in its early bloom—scarcely known even
to herself; yet her pure, true soul would have risen above even a
stronger, deeper, more engrossing passion. She had not loved the being
now revealed to her, but “a creature of her dreams,” invested with all
the beauty and nobleness which he seemed to possess; and it was with her
young faith in human goodness still unshaken, that she mourned over the
vanishing of this first, and dearest vision of her womanhood.

Emily did not meet the family at tea that evening, she “had a headache,
and required rest”—but at night when her beloved mother came fondly to
inquire if she were ill, she flung herself into her arms and told her
all: all Edgar’s flattery and half-revealed love, all his falsehood, all
the sad story of the childless mother, and besought her advice and aid
in the course upon which she was now resolved.

Happy for that young heart that it could breathe out its first sorrow
against a mother’s fond cheek—that the pillow of that stricken head was
a mother’s loving bosom.


                              CHAPTER III.

                 “The lips that breathe the burning vow
                   By falsehood base unstained must be;
                 The heart to which mine own shall bow,
                   Must worship Honor more than me!”
                                          —MRS. OSGOOD.

The next morning found Emily and her father in the atelier of Edgar
Loring. The artist was not in, but the boy in attendance, to whom they
were well known, brought forward at Emily’s request the portrait she had
so much admired a few days previous. It was fortunate that Edgar was not
present, for Emily, unpracticed at concealment, found it impossible not
to betray emotion when the picture first met her eye, bringing up at the
same moment the joy and the falsehood of the hour when she saw it first.
But speedily she regained her composure, and the artist soon entered the
room. He looked proud and pleased to see them there, and prouder yet,
when he saw how they were engaged.

“You will pardon the liberty we have taken in examining your very
beautiful picture in your absence,” said Mr. Hastings, “but my Emily has
a very earnest desire to possess it, and now that I have seen it, I
should be only too happy to gratify her; is it for sale?”

Edgar’s vanity was flattered, his hopes encouraged, his love
strengthened by this mark of preference, and; after a short silence,
during which countless thoughts; hurried through his brain, he replied—

“I painted this picture for the coming artists’ exhibition, and I had
formed no design as to its subsequent disposal, but I cannot decline the
honor which you and Miss Emily would do me in becoming its purchasers. I
would wish, however, previously to giving it up, that it might be
exhibited according to my intention—the rooms open on Monday next.”

Mr. Hastings hesitated; the Italian vessel was to sail in a little more
than two weeks—they must have the picture at that time if ever, and he
said:

“I am aware that this is a painting of a high order, and I am willing to
pay you whatever you demand, but I wish immediately to become its
possessor. It can be placed in the exhibition room for ten days, but at
the expiration of that time I must be allowed to take it, if at all.”

Edgar reflected a few moments, well aware that in the elegant saloons of
Mr. Hastings, his picture would be seen by quite as many critical and
appreciative eyes as in a crowded exhibition-room, and moreover, that
the fact of that gentleman being the owner, was a recommendation of the
greatest value.

The arrangement was at length completed, and Emily and her father
departed, leaving Edgar flushed and excited with what seemed his
wonderful success. He had fancied to be sure, that Emily appeared a
little cold and reserved, but he attributed it only to the timidity of
her conscious love in the presence of her father, and proud and joyous
in the near approach of the triumph-hour of his fame and love, he passed
the day in new visions of glory for the future.

That night, in his restless sleep, he dreamed that Elise Revere kneeled
before him, with her pale face upturned to his, pleading him to have
pity on her lone and sorrowing mother—her cold hands clasped his own
beseechingly, and trembling he awoke. The full moonlight flooded the
room, and lay brightest on a table by his couch, where bloomed in a vase
rare flowers—the gift of Emily Hastings on the last morning of her
sitting. He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressing the flowers to
his lips, crushed down the remorseful feeling which had almost struggled
into life, and rejoiced, as he had more than once done of late, that the
ocean would soon lie between him and the wearisome old woman who had so
long annoyed him.

The days passed away, and Edgar did not see Emily—she had gone into the
country with a sick friend. Meanwhile her own portrait was sent home, a
beautiful and truthful likeness, and that of Elise Revere in the
exhibition room, had attracted crowds of admirers, and the young
artist’s praises had been spoken by many lips. During this time also,
Emily had more than once seen Mrs. Revere, whose joy and gratitude could
hardly find expression. She had insisted that the sum raised by herself
and her few Italian friends, should still be devoted to the dear purpose
to which it was first appropriated, and Emily felt that it was best to
allow their hearts this consolation.

The morning of Monday had come, and with it came also the beautiful
portrait of Elise. A simple frame had been prepared for it, and for one
brief hour, Emily saw it side by side with her own sweet picture. Sad,
sad tears she wept over it, for that stranger face had grown very dear,
and it was with a mournful regret that she looked her last into those
deep, dark eyes, whose beauty had been to her thrice blessed. Many
emotions were weighing at her heart, for she felt how far better would
it have been that her young head had been laid beneath the green sod
that covered Elise Revere, than that her fond, trusting heart should
have been buried in the cold selfishness of Edgar Loring’s soul.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The good ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the
wharf—passengers were hurrying on board, captain and mate were
vociferating orders, flags were flying, waters glancing—all wore the
bright and joyous air that attends a vessel outward bound, on a glorious
summer’s day. A carriage drawn by a fine pair of grays came dashing down
to the pier—Mr. Hastings and Emily alighted, and were followed from the
box by a servant, who took the safely-cased portrait in his arms, and
accompanied them on board ship.

Ah! even Edgar’s heart would have been touched by the tears which gushed
from the happy eyes of that mother—by the voice choked with sobs, which
murmured thanks and prayers for blessing. They parted, Emily and Mrs.
Revere, like the friends of years, and not as acquaintances of a few
short weeks, and over the hand fondly clasping her own, Emily promised
to care for the white rose-buds, blossoming in the early summer over the
lone grave of Elise, and sometimes to see the sunset light falling rosy
and warm upon the pale marble that bore her name.

Mr. Hastings, who was well known, received from the gallant captain a
promise to take special charge of the Italian and her aged parent, and
to care for the much valued picture. Again thanks and farewells, and the
father and daughter entered their carriage and drove away.

When Emily reached home, she found an elegant note from Edgar Loring,
requesting permission to call upon her that evening. Ah! a few short
weeks ago, how her heart would have fluttered at those words! Now, going
up to her room she seated herself at her beautiful escritoir, and penned
the following words—

    “MR. LORING—I have this moment come in, and found your note
    awaiting me. A previous engagement will prevent my receiving the
    honor of a call from you this evening. Enclosed you will find a
    check for $200, which my father requests me to forward to you in
    payment for _the portrait of Elise Revere_.

                                                  EMILY HASTINGS.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

In ten days from that time Edgar Loring had left the city—he had gone
to seek his fortunes in the far South.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: VIEW OF BURLINGTON VERMONT.
 FROM AN ORIGINAL DRAWING]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         MYRRAH OF TANGIERS.[1]


                               A TRAGEDY.


                            BY CAROLINE C——.


                  A luxury of summer green
                    Is on the southern plain,
                  And water-flags, with dewy screen,
                    Protect the ripening grain.
                  Upon the sky is not a cloud
                    To mar the golden glow,
                  Only the palm-tree is allowed
                    To fling its shade below.

                  And silvery, ’mid its fertile banks,
                    The winding river glides,
                  And every ray in heaven makes
                    Its mirror of its tides.
                  And yet it is a place of scath—
                    A place of sacrifice;
                  Heavy with woman’s parting breath,
                    Weary with mourner’s cries.

                  Proud, beautiful, one boweth down
                    Beneath a deep despair;
                  Youth lingers on her lovely cheek—
                    It _only_ lingers there.
                  She will command herself, and brave
                    The doom by fate assigned;
                  In natures high as hers, the heart
                    Is mastered by the mind.
                                              L. E. L.


                               CHAPTER I.

“IT is near sunrise, father,” said a gay young voice, and a fair hand
tapped lightly on the door of the apartment where the old man slept.

Her call was answered in a moment by the venerable Jew, who came forth,
prepared for the customary morning walk to the holy synagogue.

“Thou lookest not well, my father! thy face is pale. I fear these early
walks are too much for thee.”

“Nay, child, our duty should never fatigue or weary us in its
performance—it is time for us to depart when that happens. But, in
truth, I had a heavy night, dreaming of thy dead mother. It was sad to
waken and find, as, alas! so many other mornings I have, that she cannot
return again.”

“We shall meet her hereafter,” said Myrrah, striving to speak
cheerfully; “you should think of that this beautiful morning. The very
air seems full of hope. Even I, who have proved such a dull companion
these many days, feel as though there were new life in me to-day—as
though some joyful thing were about to happen.”

“Were thy dreams of Othniel, then, my child?”

A deep blush was the only answer returned to the gently uttered
question—for Myrrah turned all her attention just then to busily
assisting the old man down the steep stairway, and the moment after they
entered, arm in arm, the quiet street; then, as if fearing a recurrence
to the subject of her dream and presentiment, the daughter hurriedly
again expressed her fears lest the morning exercise should prove too
much for his feeble health. But again the old man replied slowly and
decisively,

“For many years I have stood, morning and evening, to worship in our
synagogue, to ask the blessing of God, and to pray His coming; this day,
and every day while life and strength are spared me, must I also go,
Myrrah; perchance this very morning may at last be vouchsafed as a
promise of His approach, for whose appearance we have waited so long.”

And the old man, Raguel, with his beautiful daughter, moved onward in
the path leading to the place of worship.

But more heavily than he was wont the father leaned upon the arm of his
child. At last they reached the synagogue, and stood, as was their
custom, under the pleasant shade-trees to rest, and to compose their
minds for a moment before entering the sacred place.

Their prayers were made. From the “chambers of the east” came forth only
the rising sun—the Messiah, the Counsellor, the Mighty King, the Prince
of Peace, for whose presence and aid they so longed, came not; neither
was there a sign given of his approach. Again were the hearts of
youthful worshipers drawn to adoration of things earthly, as the lovely
Myrrah stood once more with them to pray; again were the sighs of Jewish
girls breathed almost audibly, as they gazed upon her, and caught their
own lover’s eyes turned in watchful admiration to the place where she
knelt; for well did they know that none among them could compare with
the daughter and sole heiress of the wealthy and excellent Raguel.

With a leisure step the two set out on their return home through the
rapidly-filling street. It was a sweet morning. A light breeze swept
from the sea over the old town, wafting onward the fragrance of the
blossoming trees and plants, which _filled_ the air with their rich
perfume. The sun rose in splendor, and the brightness which, as the
smile of heaven spread over the earth, increased the light-heartedness
of the young Jewess, as she moved on so soberly, so cheerfully, and with
so much dignity of manner, with her father.

It was a pleasant home to which they were returning. A home of peace,
and joy, and love, and Myrrah was its bright and never-failing star.
Light-hearted as a bird—cheerful, unwavering in her affection and
reverence for the aged father, she was, indeed, a model daughter and
maiden for all Tangiers.

The morning repast, prepared by the old servant who had lived since
Myrrah’s birth in her father’s employ, being made, the two at once
repaired to the small but beautiful garden, which bore no little
resemblance, on a small scale, to the Paradise Eden one is wont to
conceive of. A stranger, passing through the small, mean street in which
Raguel lived, would never have imagined, as he cast his eye carelessly
on the unpromising, dismally high and dark-looking house, which stood
close upon the side-walk, of the taste and elegance which reigned within
those walls. Costly adornments filled the beautifully-finished rooms,
which were befitting a palace; and the caskets of the Jewess held many a
gem which a queen had not disdained to wear. But it was in the little
garden, in the pleasant shade of whose trees the devoted pair invariably
spent their mornings when the weather proved fine, that the most perfect
arrangement of taste in the laying out of the limited grounds, in the
disposal of the shrubs, and trees, and flowering plants, that the
guiding hand of a woman essentially refined, was to be seen.

Ensconced in the luxurious chair, which Myrrah wheeled into the silent
place, consecrated to the voices of singing-birds, and the fragrance of
beauteous flowers, and the sweet sounds of his dear child’s voice, the
hours passed swiftly on in blissful tranquillity to the old man. It was
in such hours that Myrrah sat at her father’s feet, and read aloud in
tones so musical and entrancing, the records their fathers of the old
time had left, of God’s dealings with his loved people; of the marvelous
creation—of the faithful and beloved Abraham, of Joseph, and of
Jacob—of Daniel, and David, and Absalom—of the long line of kings and
princes—of holy women, of prophets, and priests, and all their wondrous
deeds, wrought through the power which God gave to them—of the first
and momentous transgressions of the tempted, tempting Eve—of the too
easily beguiled Adam—of the blessed hope which from the day of their
fall from the height of excellence and purity, had been kindled, and had
lived within the hearts of all the faithful until that day when they
still looked with fond and hopeful and anxious eyes for His coming who
would bruise the serpent’s head.

And when the old man grew sad, as the blessed promises were reiterated
in his ears, whose fulfillment he had so long looked and sighed for, the
reader’s melodious voice would grow fainter and fainter, the holy book
be closed again, and with still softer tones, accompanied by her harp,
she would sing of the great coming salvation—of the rescue which was
surely drawing nigh, till the color would deepen on his aged, furrowed
cheek, his eye grow bright again, and the trembling hand would be laid
in blessing on his darling’s head.

On this morning, as Myrrah’s hand unclasped the precious books, they
opened at the pages on which were recorded the beautiful and touching
story of Ruth’s devotion to the mother of her dead husband. As with
tremulous voice she read of the sudden and awful bereavement of the
young, loving wife in the strange country, another listener approached,
and stood, until the story was concluded, in the shade of the great
trees. The new comer was also young, and his features bore witness that
he was a descendant of the ancient Jews. But there was a gallant
boldness, not often perceivable in that down-trodden people, in the
frank, manly expression of countenance, in his garb, and the manner in
which it was worn, in the very attitude he had chosen.

With a look of deepest love, his eyes fixed on the unconscious reader,
his ear drunk in the sweet sounds of her voice, eagerly as the parched
traveler in the desert bends to the cooling fountains; but he did not
listen to the words she uttered; it was as though an angel were singing
to him, and in the delight with which he heard her voice, he lost the
burden of the song she sung.

“Thus hast thou been to me always, my beloved, blessed child,” said
Raguel, fondly, as Myrrah read the brave, heroic choice of Ruth; “since
thy mother’s death thou hast been my chief blessing in this strange
land.”

“But thou, dear father, thou art mine own; thou hast been to me all the
joy, the _best_ joy I have ever known. It is no deed of charity to keep
always with thee, for I should die to leave thee—there is nothing I
should care to live for, wert thou gone.”

“Nay, child, say not that. I know that many a time thou hast refused to
join thy young friends in their merry-making, solely that thou mightest
be with me, thy stupid, dull old father. But this cannot be always,
Myrrah, for I am old, and my Master will call me hence while thou art
yet young.”

“Father! father!” Myrrah exclaimed, “do not speak so! God will not take
thee from me. He _will not_ leave me alone!”

“Not _alone_, Myrrah, darling, I trust Thou hast not surely forgotten
Othniel? I would that he were here to day with us. He wanders long.”

“He will come soon, I know. I would he were here now—he is so skillful,
and might easily restore thy health, dear father.”

“It is not in him, nor in any human physician to do that; but I long to
see him; then I should be at rest, for thou, my child, wouldst have a
comforter, and a steady friend if—”

“Say it not, oh Father! what is even he to me when compared with
_thee_!”

“Thy blessing, father—_my_ father!” exclaimed the youth, coming out
swiftly from the shade, his countenance and his voice betraying the
strong agitation of his spirit. “I have come home for thy blessing!” and
the young man knelt down at the old Jew’s feet.

“My Othniel!” cried Myrrah, in joyous astonishment, her tears suddenly
giving way to the brightest of smiles.

“My son! my son, thou hast come at last! ten thousand blessings be upon
thy head.”

-----

[1] Founded on fact.


                              CHAPTER II.

Darkness and silence crept through the prison-house of Tangiers.
Darkness, which spread terror through the heart of many a poor, helpless
criminal; silence, that fell with heavy, crushing weight on the convicts
who knew that when on the morrow that stillness was broken, and the city
should be roused again, they would be led forth to die the felon’s
shameful death, in presence of the jeering multitude.

In a cell separate from the rest, slept one who had on the morning of
that day awakened in freedom, the joy and comfort of her old father’s
home. Rude hands had forced her to this dreary place, and left her as a
criminal, secured by bolts and bars. And she _slept_. Yes, though she
knew the rigor with which punishment was visited on the transgressor,
guilty of the sin laid to her charge. Yes, though her old father were
alone in their beautiful home; yes, though the damp, cold stones were
all the couch spread beneath her dainty form!

Look upon the youthful captive as she slumbers so peacefully. There are
traces of tears upon her cheeks, though her lip wears a gay smile. Then
she _had_ wept before she slept? Ay, for thoughts of the sorrow and fear
which she knew harassed the beloved ones at home, troubled her; but now
she smiled, for the good spirits reigning in dream-land, had assured her
of a future full of bliss. How beautiful is Myrrah in her sleep. The
large and languid eyes which fascinated the gazer as they turned upon
him, are hid, and you will not therefore be dazzled as you look on the
clear and beautiful olive complexion, the sweetness of expression, and
the regularity of the features; the delicate bloom of the round cheek;
the heavy mass of black and shining hair; the slight, girlish form,
these, and the unmistakable evidences of youth, would increase the
interest of a stranger, and make us, who have aforetime made her
acquaintance, gaze with an increase of sorrow on the young creature who
is accused of a crime punishable with death.

The malice of a bitter enemy had brought the Jewess to that doleful
situation. Orien Fez, the rich son of a rich Mahommedan, had persecuted
her with the most unwelcome attentions, despite the contempt in which
her people were held by his own. He would fain make her his wife, for
his love was so strong as to overcome all prejudice, and in a land far
distant from their own, he would have joyed to convince her happiness
would await them. In that blessed clime her God should be the only
object of his worship; he would suffer himself to be despised of all
men, if she would in return only bless him with the assurance of her
love.

But Myrrah heard all the youth’s protestations with an uninterested ear.
There was no love in her heart for the descendant of a race which ever
delighted in oppressing the descendants of Abraham. And for Orien, the
Moor, her heart had no predilection. He was a handsome youth, to be
sure, and the son of a man who stood high among his people; and it was a
mystery to himself, how _he_ should love so passionately the daughter of
the Jew. And it seemed no less strange and unnatural to the young girl,
when she remembered the great and never-disguised contempt and aversion
with which her people were regarded by the followers of Mahomet.

Orien could boast of but little acquaintance with Myrrah; his love had
not been aroused by her virtues, or a knowledge of her surpassing
excellence of heart and disposition; her exceeding beauty was the great
attraction, which he could not withstand.

Many times chance had thrown the girl for a moment in his way, and the
Moor had never failed to take the advantage of such moments to whisper
words of ardent love, to which any reply was very seldom deigned. This
silence and affectation of scorn, as he thought it, but increased the
passion of the lover—his nature delighted in overcoming obstacles, and
his determination was only strengthened by the cold reserve and dignity
of Myrrah.

One night, as she was passing along the street in that quiet quarter of
the city where her people lived, Orien, who had wandered there in the
hope of catching but a glimpse of her face or person, appeared suddenly
by her side.

“I have something to say to thee,” he exclaimed, abruptly; “thou knowest
my name.”

“Yes, thou art son of the great Mazarin Fez—what dost _thou_ here
to-night?”

“To tell thee this. For a twelvemonth thou hast been more than sunlight
to me. I have lived in shade and gloom, only when thou chanced to be
near me. Listen now; I pray thee haste not so quickly. I am willing,
ready, even this very night, if thou will it, to renounce my people, my
station, my God, for thee! The shame and dishonor that is heaped upon
the Jew, I am ready, glad to take upon myself if thou—”

“Nay, stop,” said Myrrah, indignantly pausing, and looking her suitor in
the face, “there is _no_ stain upon my people for thee to take upon
thyself. The shame and the dishonor which crushes them belong to _thy_
people who impose it. There is no love in the hearts of the daughters of
Judah for the oppressors of their fathers.”

“Forgive me,” was the humble answer, “teach me words that I may plead my
love without offending thee; be mine, Myrrah, and we will hasten to seek
out a home where the cruel injustice of my fathers cannot visit yours.
Be _my wife_, I will prove thy willing, humble slave forever!”

“Thou art speaking madly, Orien Fez. I tell thee I have fear of thee!
Are thy people wont to become the slaves of mine? I love thee not.”

“Yes, I will bear even this, any thing from thee, if thou wilt only love
me. I will deck thee with jewels that shall make thee look a queen;
there shall be none preferred before thee. Would it not be joy to dwell
where man has no power to crush, where thy place might be among the most
honored of the earth? Oh, there are lands fairer than ours, more
beautiful, more blessed, where the flowers of love wave forever in
eternal sunshine of bliss—wilt thou not seek that land with me?”

“I have heard thee out, and thou talkest but foolishness! I doubt thy
truth. And even were I well assured of that, dost thou think there are
not ties binding me here dearer than thou canst even conceive, with all
thy professions of love? Go, thou hast madly deceived thyself; mayest
thou have a speedy awakening, Orien Fez, for I will not listen again to
such words as thou hast uttered to-night.”

They had reached her home, and Myrrah had disappeared within the heavy
doors, which opened as by magic at her approach, ere her last words were
fully uttered.

Stung with madness at this peremptory dismissal of his suit, and the
scornful tone the Jewess had used to him who had so humbled himself
before her, Orien turned in a rage away from the house, and slowly
retraced his steps. There was something frightful in the calmness of his
mien, and in the glittering of his bright eyes; he knew then that the
daughter of that most despised of all people, would never give him a
hearing again; that she despised his offer, even his, the proud and
wealthy and powerful Orien. Ha! she should at least be brought to her
senses—he would assure her whose were the words she had so lightly set
at naught. So, to his rest he went, to dream of the sweet voice which
haunted him incessantly, to think upon her marvelous beauty, which to
his eye never seemed even so perfect, as when she turned toward him, and
so proudly and indignantly repelled the pleadings of his love.

To the embraces of affection which more than satisfied her brave heart,
Myrrah went from the presence of Orien Fez. But she did not make known
to the beloved ones awaiting her there, the persecuting attentions of
the Moor; she was confident in her own power to repel his advances, and
dreaded awaking anxious thoughts for her in her old father. And Othniel,
she knew his fiery spirit, how his indignation would kindle into a rash
flame against the man who, belonging to the host of oppressors, should
dare sue for the love of his beloved; therefore she spoke not to _him_
of the Moor.

A happy group was that gathered under old Raguel’s roof. The father, who
cherished with unmeasured affection the only child which the dreadful
pestilence had spared to him; Othniel, the traveler, the betrothed of
the maiden, who was to the old man’s heart already a cherished son. He
had come back from a long wandering in the East, to claim of the father
his child, for early in their youth the two had vowed to love one
another; and as time passed on, it saw them cherishing no regret for
their childish vows. As he approached the years of manhood, a desire to
see the wonders of the East had seized upon Othniel, and for a few years
he had traveled through all the Holy Land, in Egypt, and over the
deserts, until at last wearied and longing for the embrace and the
presence of those left behind, he had hastened to the dearly remembered
old town on the shore of the blue sea. Since his return, his home had
been made with Raguel and Myrrah; and the day was speedily approaching
when the children of the old man’s heart were to be made one. But the
sunshine of that home had been wanting without the cheerful voice, the
songs, the smiles of Myrrah—her presence was the crowning joy that gave
to all the others worth.

And, lo! that hope of the old man’s heart, that blessing of young
Othniel sleeps this night in a prison, and armed men are keeping guard
about her cell! Look, _now_ within the maiden’s home.

The gray-haired father, whose face bears heavy marks of age and
sickness, lies smitten with sore anguish upon his couch; his heavy moans
are sad to hear, for no light sorrow had brought tears to his eyes, or
wrung from him words of complaint. Pacing to and fro through the
beautiful chamber is the despairing lover of the maiden. He, too, has
wept, but his tears are wiped away now, and anger and hopeless grief are
written on his countenance. It would seem that Othniel’s rich and
striking apparel had been assumed in mockery of his own agony—but it
was not so. Hope and joy were never before so bright in his heart, as on
that morning, when he donned the embroidered robes, and arrayed himself
for the bridal. Yes, for the bridal! Myrrah and Othniel were on that day
to have been made one.

See, now, as he moves so madly through the room, his garments have
become entangled in the chords of Myrrah’s harp; hear the soft, sighing
sound that escapes from the instrument, as in a moment, calmed and
subdued, the youth bends down to disengage his robe; that breath of
music causes the father’s tears to flow afresh, and Othniel, again
unmanned, flings himself upon the door, and gives way to the
uncontrollable grief.

In another chamber is prepared the wedding-feast; a rich banquet, “fit
for the gods,” served up in costliest style, awaiting the bidden guests,
and the happy bride and bridegroom.

Above, in her own apartment, where Myrrah arrayed herself on that morn
so full of hope, is a profusion of the choice and rich appareling with
which the daughters of wealth are wont to array themselves. Jewels, and
beautiful array, the proudest might covet, left in wild confusion, show
that the mistress of all that splendor had gone forth in haste, alas!
not to the altar, as she had dreamed! for the bridal train had proceeded
but a little way toward the synagogue, where the priest awaited them,
when Myrrah was suddenly arrested in the name of the public authorities,
on charge of having proved traitor to a solemn oath which she had taken,
and the dismayed party, instead of proceeding to the place of worship,
was hurried, with little ceremony, before the cadi.

One was there in presence of the man of power, only too ready with his
false accusation. Orien Fez, discovering that there was in the person of
a preferred lover, an impassable barrier to the accomplishment of his
hopes, had conceived in his base heart a fiendish plan by which he might
avenge himself, and this was its first betrayal. That very morning the
charge had been made, to which he had solemnly sworn, to this effect,
that Myrrah, daughter of the Jew Raguel, had to him, and in hearing of
his witnesses, declared her firm and unalterable belief in
Mahommedanism—had, with her own lips, declared faith in the abominable
creed, “there is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet.” That since
that time she had proved false to her vow, having returned to the
worship of the God of the Jews—a transgression which the laws of the
land held to be punishable with death.

On being asked if she had any reply to make to this statement, the
astonished prisoner, striving to quiet her indignation, simply stated
that the accusation was altogether false—that she had _never_, on any
occasion, professed faith, either by thought, or word, or deed, in other
religion than that which her people had unwaveringly held for so many
years; further words than this statement prudence prevented her
speaking.

There was a vast difference in the social position of the accuser and
accused, which augured not well for the state of feeling with which this
cause would be judged. Orien Fez was a representative of the higher
class of Moors, and, as has been stated, wealthy and influential. The
prisoner was the daughter of a despised race—rich, also, it is true;
but even the wealth of her parent increased the professed contempt and
enmity with which he was regarded by the oppressors—for riches
possessed by any of his scorned and hated brethren was invariably
attributed to other than honest means of acquirement.

An unprejudiced eye had seen, in the appearance of Orien, the craft and
subtlety of the Evil One; had seen in that glittering eye, and the
triumphant smile, other cause for the accusation which he had made, than
merely an honest desire that the honor of his religion and its
professors should be kept bright. In the young Jewess, on the contrary,
was a look of conscious innocence, a brave indignation, which of
themselves had proved her guiltless of the sin attributed to her. But
the cadi was not prepared to find blamelessness in a Jew, when a Moor
was the accuser, though his shrewdness had more than half penetrated to
the truth of the matter already, therefore he said,

“This case demands the most serious attention; it is no light thing to
condemn one to death, but neither must the guilty go free. The matter
shall be referred to the pasha—we will care for thy daughter, Jew; she
shall be safely kept for trial on another day. When thou art notified,
accuser, Orien Fez, and ye, his witnesses, appear without delay before
the pasha, on pain of severe and rigorous punishment.”

It was thus that Myrrah was imprisoned—thus that the diabolical Moor
sought his revenge.


                              CHAPTER III.

The following week—and, oh, how lonely and drearily it had passed to
parent, child, and lover; they brought the accused before the pasha for
trial. It was a public trial, and a multitude had come together to
witness the proceedings—for the accusation of Orien Fez, his high
position among the people of Tangiers on the one hand, and the beauty of
the young prisoner, the affecting circumstances attending her arrest, on
the other, were sufficient causes to attract more than usual attention.

Arrayed still in the bridal garments, the dazzling jewels and splendid
apparel, Myrrah stood before the pasha, facing the bold, and villainous,
and unrelenting accuser.

Old Raguel and Othniel were also there. Since her first examination
before the cadi, Myrrah had not been permitted an interview with them;
and the sight of the poor old man, who seemed to her to have grown ten
years older in those few days, and the pale and haggard countenance of
the loved Othniel, quite overwhelmed the young girl; for a moment her
head was bent, and her slight form strove in the tempest of grief—but
strength came to her again, and she stood up once more calm and
self-possessed, to be tried for life!

Again was the false charge preferred—again the answer of the captive
was demanded.

“What sayest thou to this charge, maiden?”

“That it is false—that I am not guilty,” was the firm reply.

“What! dost thou deny having ever professed thy faith in our great
Prophet? Wherefore, then should these witnesses declare against
thee—are they thine enemies?”

“I know naught save this—they are _false_ witnesses. Until the day when
the accusation was first made, I had never seen them—I know them not.
Orien Fez I _have_ seen before; and I believe that enmity, which has
nothing to do with my religion or thine, has made him bring this false
charge against me.”

“Thou standest alone, woman, and mere assertions cannot avail. These
witnesses are truthful believers—but thou, we know not what thou art.”

“She is a woman who, during the fifteen years I have ministered in the
synagogue of Tangiers, has remained constant in the worship of the God
of her fathers,” hurriedly exclaimed the venerable priest, almost
weeping, who had come to listen with all a father’s affection and fear,
while the daughter of his heart was on trial.

“I am a true woman,” added the sweet voice of Myrrah. “From whence shall
I bring evidence to satisfy you that I lie not? Are not the words of my
people always set at naught? You will not believe me, yet have I ever
remained faithful to my God—none other have I ever professed to serve.”

“Thou knowest the punishment awarded to those guilty of sin such as this
of which thou art accused—it is death, death of torture—to be burned
at the stake, and the body to be scattered to the winds of heaven.
Confess now—it is not too late; mercy may yet extend a pardoning hand;
profess anew thy faith in Mahomet; _repeat_ thy belief, ‘There is no God
but God, and Mahomet is his prophet!’”

There was a moment’s pause, a silence like that in the halls of death,
then Myrrah said slowly,

“Thou dost urge me to speak that which my lips have never yet
spoken—that which they dare not speak; wouldst thou have me declare my
faith, that thy prophet is a _false_ prophet? Wouldst thou have me say,
that to the God of Abraham _alone_ I bend my knee and my heart?”

A murmur of surprise and indignation went up from the Moors who were
gathered there, while the voice of many a Jew was heard in earnest
declaration, “Pasha, she is innocent—she is innocent.”

Raguel looked with mournful approval on his child as she spoke so
undauntedly; but boldly as her avowal was made, Myrrah dared not look
upon the father, nor on that other, dearer to her than life—Othniel.

The pasha was silent, he dreaded the utterance of the awful sentence.
Few who had witnessed his mode of conducting criminal cases, had
suspected there was a particle of feeling in the bloody-minded man; but
now he paused, and looked with sorrowful interest on the prisoner, and
his voice trembled, when at last he said,

“Death, then, can alone await thee! Consider this. Thou art young, and I
need not say thou art very beautiful. Thy marriage garments are
comely—the robes of life befit thee well. Canst thou falter in the
choice between life and awful death, joy and the lonely grave?”

“My child! my child!” cried Raguel, “God is merciful! He will forgive
thee! Do not choose death—can I live without thee? Myrrah! Myrrah,
_live_!”

A deathly paleness overspread the face of the poor, tempted young
creature; she wept. But ere long the weakness passed again. Looking
mildly upon her accusers and the judges, she said, solemnly,

“Ye _know_ that life is very sweet to me, for I am young—that it is
very fair to me, ye know, for there are some ties binding me to the dear
world, very hard to break. I have said that the charge spoken against me
is untrue; and the God of heaven knows that I have spoken honestly to
you. It is He who hath given me strength in this hour to declare that
death, even the horrible death you have said awaits me, is to be chosen
rather than life and recreancy to my religion—it is He who will support
me in the fiery trial.”

“My daughter,” exclaimed Raguel, “oh, take back those words! God surely
will forgive thee. I cannot lose thee! Wilt thou not choose as they
desire, then thou art still mine own? Thou hast not thought, Myrrah,
thou canst not guess the death of torture that awaits thee.”

“I know it all, dear father. But God will give me strength. The sin and
the shame of this deed rests not on us. No! thy long life of integrity
and steadfastness to the faith of our fathers shall not be shamed by me.
Thou couldst not desire it, my father!”

“Oh, Myrrah, for _my_ sake, then!” cried Othniel, for the first time
speaking, as he approached hurriedly and threw himself at her feet.
“Retract that determination while the pasha will permit thee. Wilt thou
leave me to die of grief; or more awful fate, to live alone without thee
in this dark world? Take back thy word. I entreat thee, believe in their
prophet, and live!”

There were no tearless eyes in that people gathered in the pasha’s
presence; in breathless interest turned they all to the young girl,
hoping to see her stern determination giving way to these appeals.
Myrrah turned her gaze from him, the passionate appealing of Othniel’s
dark eyes was more than she could bear, but her will bore her up
gloriously, though the voice, which shook as the aspen, told how poor
human nature suffered in that conflict between the pleadings of love and
the stern sense of duty.

“Othniel, it is between my God and thee I am called to determine. Thou
canst not secure to me life and thyself even one day, but _He_ can give
me, when one short pang is passed, an eternity of bliss; and _thou_
mayest share it, my father! Othniel, would ye have me choose for
time—for earth?”

There came no answer to the noble girl’s appeal. None dared to offer one
persuading word when this solemn reply of the Jewess was made.

“Hast thou chosen, maiden?” said the pasha at length, in a voice that
was scarcely audible.

“I have,” was the reply; “thy people are not my people, I dare not
confess thy God, and in so doing forsake and deny mine own.”

When this answer was given, the pasha, by a violent exertion mastered
his emotion, and arose, saying,

“Let the prisoner be conveyed to the dungeon; on the morrow, at sunset,
she must pay the death-penalty. Her own words have sealed her fate. Thus
perish the enemies and mockers of our holy religion; thus shall the
heathen learn that there is no God but God, and that Mahomet is his
prophet!”

These words were pronounced in a loud, stern voice; but the heart of the
man of power failed within him, as he looked on the beautiful victim of
the rigid laws of his country; and therefore it was that he caused to be
made known to the father and the betrothed that the prison door would be
open to them (contrary to the usual custom) all the following day.


                              CHAPTER IV.

And how were passed the flying hours of that last day, granted to the
young and the beloved, on earth? In desperate and wild, but vain
appeals, to her love of life—in still more mournful entreaties by her
devotion to them who were the joy of her existence, that she would
suffer them to bear her confession of penitence and faith to the pasha.

It was pitiful to see the gray-haired father at one moment pleading her
by every consideration, to take the words of the Mussulman upon her
lips, even if her heart rebelled, and the next, when her gentle, but
firmly expressed determination was reiterated, thanking God that He gave
to her strength to remain firm in the face of every temptation. It was
pitiful to see the hopeless, almost sullen agony of the younger man, as
he sat beside the condemned all these wretched hours, clasping her hands
within his own, and folding her so often to his bosom in a wordless
embrace.

Such tears were shed within that dismal cell as have no other source but
broken hearts; such sighs were breathed as only the autumn breeze gives
utterance to when the joy and the glory of earth is departing; such
prayers ascended, as the heart of man can alone conceive when every
earthly hope has failed, when the terrors of death, and the more
terrible agonies of life surround the helpless soul!

Once, when a chance word had called to mind the now almost forgotten,
but despised and hated Orien Fez, Myrrah was on the point of revealing
to Othniel the only cause she could conceive of his malice against her.
But the reflection that such knowledge would only spur her beloved on to
the committal of deeds which would end fatally to him, while it could
not possibly avail even if made known to the prejudiced mind of the
pasha, in securing her pardon and liberation—made her hesitate, and
finally resolve in carrying that slight clue to the cause of her arrest,
into the silence and oblivion of the grave.

Only once did she take the name of the accuser on her lips, and then it
was to implore Othniel to forgive him his part in their calamity, and to
leave him to the mercy of God.

And the fiery youth promised it—revenge and hate—all the evil passions
which have to do with life, died that day within him—the future time,
after that woful night on which he thought with agony, heaven with
Myrrah was all he dared to hope or think of—it was a thought of
blessedness—a dream, a hope which the merciful spirit of God breathed
into his soul when it laid in the dust of despair.

The hours of daylight waned, night was fast approaching—then came forth
from the prison cell Othniel, and on his arm was leaning the stricken
father, Raguel. The old man’s eyes had looked their last upon the fair
young idol which he worshiped with a reverence approaching that which he
held for his Maker.

He wept not as the guard turned the key behind him on the iron door,
which would open again ere long that _she_ might be led forth to—death.
He made no resistance as they went with him to his deserted dwelling. A
sense of the awful bereavement seemed to have passed away—he even
smiled as they led him through the cheerful rooms of the home that was
always made blessed by her presence—and said how pleasant it was to be
in one’s home again, away from the dark and frightful prison. There was
a bird of splendid plumage caged in the old man’s parlor, (every portion
of which bore evidence of a woman’s frequent presence and exquisite
taste,) it was the young girl’s pet—the gift of Othniel in days long
since gone by. The noise of the intruders on the silence of the house,
startled the little warbler, and he poured forth the most delicious
flood of melody; the sound aroused the old man, with an exclamation of
delight he threw himself upon the couch near by, and listened in rapt
astonishment and joy to the exquisite songster.

Filled with gloomy foreboding as he noticed this sudden and total change
in the old Jew, Othniel left him in the care of gentle friends, and
hastened away in the direction of the prison once more.

The sun was setting as he neared the great walls, and the youth saw a
procession moving from the gates, and a band of soldiers was guarding
the death-doomed prisoner! The crowd gathered and increased with every
step of the slowly moving procession—in solemn silence Jew and
Mahommedan strode together, for the moment forgetful of all save the
mournful cause which brought them there.

A moment Othniel moved on hastily, he would rejoin Myrrah, would be with
her to the last—then a remembrance of his own weakness, and of the
effect his sorrow might produce upon her, stayed him—and apart from the
crowd he walked or crept, slowly and heavily, for the burden of his
unutterable sorrow was too great to bear.

Afar in the distance, beyond the confines of the town, the funeral pile
was to be made—the sacrifice pure and innocent as was ever brought to
the altar, was to be offered up.

Alone, deprived of her comforting words, and removed from the
restraining presence of the old man, Othniel thought on all that she had
been to him in the happy past, of all that she might have been in that
future to which they were wont to look with so much hope. He called to
mind her beauty, her youth, and her innocence; the love which she
cherished for all that was good, and pure, and true; for her aged
father, and for his unworthy self.

And as he thought, darker and darker grew the cloud that swept over his
mind; the lightning of hope one second blazed athwart it, but was close
followed by the heavy pealing thunder of despair. His step grew feeble
and slow. The crowd was fast passing by him, soon they were all gone,
and the youth still tried to totter on, as a feeble little child—for
what? to look once more, but once on her beloved face—but not to
witness her agony, he could not endure that. Faintness crept over his
limbs—his eyes became dim—slower and slower was his step, but still he
strove desperately to move on in that direction in which the multitude
had gone.

At last he was forced to pause—his strength had all deserted him. There
were trees growing by the wayside, and a little spring wound through the
pleasant grove. Othniel reached the shade, and half-fainting, flung
himself upon the ground. He bathed his burning brow in the cool stream,
he drank of the reviving waters, but though by degrees strength came
again to his limbs, there was a faintness in his heart that would not
pass.

Soon impelled irresistibly to the road-side again, Othniel looked toward
the north—there whither the crowd had gone. Great Heaven! the black,
hateful smoke already was staining the pure air! and a murmur that arose
from the great mass of people, a faint sound of wo, was wafted to his
ear on the soft breath of evening. Inspired with new life and strength,
he moved again swiftly on. He must see indeed if it were indeed a
reality that they would sacrifice his bride, his worshiped Myrrah, to
that hellish lie the Moor had conceived. The weakness of limb was gone
with that thought. Forward he rushed as borne on the eagle’s wings,
until he stood with the great multitude.

For a moment his heart failed him, and Othniel stood gazing on the armed
guard who were ranged about the prisoner, on the blazing faggots, on the
weeping men and women—on the pallid and sorrowful countenance of the
pasha, on the motionless Orien Fez where he proudly stood with his
powerful relatives, and on her, his beloved, adored Myrrah, who stood so
calm, so brave before the kindled fire, that was kindled to consume
_her_. Looking upon her as she stood thus, alone and unsupported, save
by the inward sustaining consciousness of right and innocence, his
resolve to only look and then depart, was broken; he lost all
self-control, and with the force of a whirlwind rushed through the
dense, astonished mass, that gave way right and left before him; past
the ranks of vigilant soldiery with maniac speed, until in the centre of
the awfully charmed circle, he flung himself before the pale, loving,
and forgiving idol, about to be crushed and destroyed by the hand of
power.

In those past moments, so fraught with horror to all about her, Othniel
had been in all her thoughts—but she had hoped to never see his face on
earth again—she had hoped that his dear voice might not come, drowning
the voice of the angel God had sent to comfort and to strengthen her.

“Othniel!”

“Myrrah!”

None strove to separate them, as they stood clasped thus in a last, fond
embrace. Only one whispered word of deathless love was
interchanged—only one silent prayer that moment heard in Heaven for
each other’s peace, and their arms unclasped; they stood pale and
trembling, gazing on one another, and then Othniel was gone.

A deep-drawn sigh escaped the awe-struck crowd as that last evidence of
human love had passed, and the poor girl lifted her eyes to heaven,
knowing that consolation and strength could alone come from thence.

The sun had quite sunk, and the long twilight began.

There was not a fragment of cloud in all the clear, calm sky—there was
a stillness, holy, soul-elevating on the earth—and the brightness of
the Father’s glory seemed alone waiting the frail child of earth, as she
stood there to offer life and all its blessedness and joy, to a higher
love, a loftier and purer faith.

They bound her to the stake; the flames—the hot and angry flames
pressed closely on her lovely form, which _he_ had but now clasped to
his breaking heart. And when the stars came out in heaven, and a
horrible loneliness crept over that deserted place—where a dense black
cloud ascended, and the flames had died away, there was another saint in
heaven worthy to rest in Abraham’s bosom!

                 *        *        *        *        *

There was silence that night in Myrrah’s earthly home—an old man slept
upon the couch her fairy form had ofttimes pressed—slept, but he
dreamed not. His eyes were closed—she was not there to watch his quiet
slumber—there was a sign of such deep peace laid upon his brow as
Myrrah never saw there; Raguel’s heart had ceased its pulsations—the
father was sleeping the eternal sleep!

The calmness and the smiles which the amazed friends beheld in him as he
came from that last parting with his child, were but the presage of the
everlasting calmness, the unfading smile, for the old man’s spirit had
sought the distant land ere another morning dawned—called home by the
merciful and loving Father of the Gentile and the Jew.

                 *        *        *        *        *

And Othniel again became a wanderer. Not a murderer, for Myrrah’s
parting counsel and entreaty had saved him from blood-guiltiness—and
the life of Orien Fez was never required at _his_ hands. But Othniel
died young, when his heart had learned to say, “God is merciful—His
will is best,” and the sands of the desert were his resting-place.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            NIGHT THOUGHTS.


                               BY GIFTIE.


          DARKNESS is on the wave,
            The night wind hummeth low,
        And through the soft bright air the gleams
            Of moonlight come and go,
              And all is hushed to rest
              Upon Sleep’s quiet breast,
    All save the human heart, that sighing waketh still—
              The heart, that never sleeping—
              Its lonely vigil keeping—
    Findeth still naught on earth its depths to fill.

          Thou art like Sleep, oh, Night!
            Thou hast a thrilling power,
        To awe, e’en with thy loveliest things,
            The heart in this still hour.
              Thou bringest up the past—
              All bright things we have lost—
    The dead whom we have loved look on us from the skies,
              Yet naught of fear or wo,
              That cloud man’s life below,
    Is in the gaze of their calm spiritual eyes.

          Ay—faces of the dead
            Look downward from the sky.
        They wear the same loved look and mien
            They wore in days gone by,
              Yet something dimly there.
              Though cheek and brow be fair,
    Says chillingly that human love hath passed away.
              They care for us no more—
              Those dwellers on the shore
    Where night is lost in heaven’s effulgent day.

          Still—all is still around;
            I hear the sound of streams,
        That through the long grass singing flow
            Beneath the starlight beams
              Thus let my soul repose,
              Serene ’mid earthly woes,
    Till death shall come and bid its longings cease,
              Till I quench this weary thirst,
              Where immortal fountains burst,
    And heavenly voices welcome me to peace.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                   BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO.


                    BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.


[Illustration: PALO ALTO.]

    THE army lay in quiet rest: for many a weary league
    Had we marched in battle order, combating with fatigue;
    But when Point Isabel arose between us and the sun,
    And the evening gun exploded, we felt our toil was done,
    And we laid us down in silence, and we slept without alarm,
    Each soldier resting on the ground, with his head across his arm.

    But when the gray of morning made twilight in the east,
    Like shadows, from the prairie arose both man and beast;
    And the soldiers stretched their arms, and the steeds with neigh and
      stamp,
    With the rattling rolling reveillé put motion in the camp;
    And the sunrise-gun boomed loudly, when, as its sound declined,
    A dull, funereal response rolled heavily down the wind.

    The soldiers paused and listened, each with questions in his eyes,
    As round and red the tropic sun walked, Mars-like, up the skies;—
    It was no echo; never yet made echo sound like that,
    For echo lives in the mountain glen, and not on the prairie flat:
    We clasped our muskets closer as we hurried to parade,
    Our beating hearts replying to the distant cannonade.

    Not a word had yet been spoken, though, still, the cumbrous sound
    Came rolling, like a tumbril, over the damp and dewy ground;
    But beetling brows and heaving breasts and half-suspended sighs
    Spoke the anger of the passionate hearts whose lightning lit our eyes;
    Then a murmur rose along our ranks no discipline could drown,
    And the burthen of the chorus was the syllables—“Fort Brown!”

    Just then our gallant general, on his favorite white horse,
    Rode slowly and serenely, like a father, through his force;
    But as the ranks “presented arms,” another murmur ran—
    “God bless old Rough and Ready,” loud and deep, from man to man.
    The brave old heart looked gratified, but his eyes sunk slowly down,
    For he thought of his companions who were battling at Fort Brown.

    But scarcely had they fallen, when the air became so still
    We heard the campanero[2] cry a league off, on the hill.
    The old man’s gray eyes glistened, and his horse reversed his ears,
    And stamped his hoofs, and neighed aloud, as laughing at our fears:
    We stood like statues, listening, when TAYLOR made a sign,
    And WALKER left his Rangers, riding quickly down the line.

    That night the Texan hero was missed by all our men;
    But we smiled, for well we knew that he soon would come again,
    For a braver, or a better, or a more chivalrous knight
    Never put his lance in rest in the days when might was right;
    And he had the fox’s cunning, and the eagle’s restless eye,
    With his courage, to see danger, and that danger to defy.

    Two days passed by, and hour by hour the army moved, with gloom
    On heart and soul, as though each man stood gazing on his tomb;
    But all at once a sudden cry!—our hearts sprung, like a steed
    Who sees the flash and hears the gun, then headlong ploughs the mead—
    Then Walker’s name—another shout!—and each one, with content
    In breast and brain, accoutred, rushed delighted from his tent.

    We all knew what was coming, when at the reveillé,
    We saw the Texan head his men, and heard the laugh of MAY,
    For all had learned the news, and knew, that ere two suns went down
    Our army would be rolling, like a tempest, on Fort Brown;
    And that the foe in thousands were gathering in our way—
    Human panthers, couched in silence, expectant of their prey.

    At last we heard the order, and along the grassy plain
    Our army, like a sparkling snake, uncoiled its glittering train,
    And silently, but earnestly, we marched from dawn till night,
    And then laid down in silence till the breaking of the light:
    No fires disturbed the darkness, no sound betrayed our camp,
    Save, at intervals the countersign, with the sentinel’s measured
      tramp.

    Next morning we pursued our march: it was a sultry day;
    The sunlight flickered like a flame along our sandy way;
    But no one lingered, for we knew our foemen were before,
    And, like blood-hounds howling on the scent, we trailed the distant
      gore;
    For we thought of our associates, and the thought had power to drown
    All human feelings, for we heard the cannon at Fort Brown.

    For twelve miles unmolested had we marched, when brazen noon
    Beheld the enemy deploy along the green lagoon:
    Our hearts beat high, for we were few, and scarcely one before
    Had fleshed his sword in battle, or had heard the cannon’s roar;
    But Lexington and Concord and Bunker-Hill beheld
    Just such recruits victorious in the iron days of old.

    And now the word was passed—to halt, and each, in turn, was seen
    To stoop beside the limpid lake and fill his hot canteen;
    And then the order came to march; and now our foemen lay
    A musket shot before us, a barrier in our way,
    When, like a Paladin of old, BLAKE, brave as brave could be,
    Sprung from the lines, and spurred his steed along the grassy lea.

    We saw him gallop toward the foe, and our passions thrilled us, when
    We viewed him ride along their lines and coolly count their men,
    And turn and gallop backward, and grasp our general’s hand,
    Then silently resume his place, and head his little band:
    We paused, when, rushing, roaring, whirling, whistling, wildly by,
    Came the iron rain of Battle, while his thunder shook the sky.

    Like a cloud the smoke closed round, and like steeds to frenzy lashed
    The black eyes of our batteries their deadly fury flashed:
    We were maniacs; we were furies; we were fiends, not mortal men,
    And each one fought as if his arm contained the strength of ten;
    But the smoke grew denser round us, for, like a funeral pyre,
    The prairie blazed before our eyes—a sea of surging fire.

    It was a fearful sight, but we fought for life and fame,
    And incessantly and dauntlessly we answered flame with flame,
    When, breaking from the enemy’s left, a thousand lancers dashed,
    A human avalanche, on us; but our batteries fiercely flashed,
    And we drove them back like deer; but our brains went round and round,
    When RINGOLD, staggering on his steed, fell, dying, to the ground!

    But RIDGELY took the hero’s place, and, wheeling to the right,
    Plunged with his light artillery in the thickest of the fight;
    And DUNCAN, wheeling to the left, poured in his shot like rain,
    While our never-ceasing muskets, like a hurricane swept the plain.
    One moment, like a herd of wolves, they stood, then broke and fled,
    As our army dashed in swift pursuit o’er the dying and the dead!

    But the sun was setting fast, and darkness slowly fell,
    Like a pall, above the fallen who had fought so long and well;
    And we heard our leader’s summons, and our trumpets, call us back,
    To refreshment and repose in our lonely bivouac;
    And we laid us down in silence, surrounded by the slain,
    And slept the sleep of conquerors on Palo Alto’s plain.

-----

[2] The _Campanero_, a Mexican bird: so called from its cry, which
resembles the clang of a bell.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE WILKINSONS.


                              A TRUE STORY


                         BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.


MORE than fifty years ago, I was wont to sit at the feet of a lady, then
advancing considerably in years, and to listen to her narrative of
Indian wars and French aggressions, until it seemed to me, on closing my
eyes, that I could call before me troops of hostile aborigines dancing,
by the light of a burning dwelling, around prostrate prisoners, and
celebrating their victory with tortures upon the victims of their
vengeance. Or I could discern in the distance the fleets or troops of
the French king, rushing upon some weakly defended colonial settlement,
and sweeping away the inhabitants, as if the full reward of a
Frenchman’s toil was an Englishman’s blood. I cannot say that I had any
very correct view of the geographical limits where such scenes were
enacted; nor am I able now to say that my conceptions of the French or
Indian character were made wholly faultless by the exactness of the
lady’s account. ’Tis marvelous how the minds of some persons become
warped by early prejudices or _fears_, but my instructive female friend,
while she was no exception to the general rule, did not, I imagine,
carry her prejudices much beyond those of persons who would probably
sneer at, if not condemn her, should I tell the tales as she narrated
them to me. But I cannot so tell them. Often indeed have I tried to
recall the story, to give it shape and continuity, but in vain; I can
only recollect some vague fragments of different tales, which she deemed
history, and bring back the impression which her narrative caused upon
my mind. It is certainly a sort of pleasure thus to fish in pools
whither are gathered the currents of other years, and seek to drag to
the shore, for present use, what has so long remained undisturbed
beneath the waters. It is pleasant but profitless, for I cannot succeed;
and even if I could, is it likely that what was so calculated to amuse
me as a child, would be profitable and pleasant with half a century’s
experience on my head since they were made its tenants?

An opportunity occurred last summer to refresh my memory, while I was on
a visit to that part of the country in which I heard the stories. The
good old woman had survived those who started in life with her, had
buried the companions of her children, and witnessed indeed the
sepulture, or mourned the death of most of the children of those who had
been her contemporaries; but she survived, and when I presented myself
before her she was knitting what appeared to be the mate of the same
stocking upon which she was engaged two generations back. Time had done
no more for her locks than he had for mine, and so we met on conditions
as newly equal as were those which distinguished our circumstances fifty
years before. After some conversation, by which I supplied, at her
request, information that served as some required links to the chain of
my own history, I ventured to ask for a repetition of one or two of
those stories which were wont, in olden times, to keep my little feet
from the ice, and my tender hands from the snow-balls.

“Why, don’t you remember them?” said she.

“Not the narrative, but I distinctly recall some incidents, and the
general effect.”

“But you must remember them, for Mr. Wilmer’s daughter has frequently
read to me some of your stories, in which I recognised my own share in
the composition.”

“It may be so. I may have drawn upon memory instead of imagination, and
thus have been retailing your supplies instead of dealing in my own
wares. And to say the truth, Aunt Sarah, I should be very happy now to
owe you credit for a whole story.”

“Alas! I have found so few who would listen to the whole of any story,
that I have forgotten most that I ever knew, and as books have been
greatly multiplied of late, neither I nor those who would have been my
auditors have any thing to regret.”

“Cannot you recall the principal events in the account which you gave me
of the Wilkinson family?”

“If you will have patience with my feeble voice, and assist with your
own recollection my even more feeble memory, I will attempt that story,
especially as certain events have served to keep a portion of it, at
least, fresh in my mind, and especially as the act of narrating it will
call back to my memory the times when I hired you to forbear outdoor
sports, too rude, in the weather too inclement for your tender age. I
have always considered that Providence had much to do with the affairs
of

                        ‘THE WILKINSON FAMILY.’”

The persons concerned in the narrative which I have to repeat, are now
nearly all departed. Some sleep beneath the sod in the rear of the
meeting-house on yonder hill, and some are of the number of those who
wait until the sea shall give up its dead, and like the informant of Job
I may almost say, “that I only have escaped to tell.”

One day the stage which passed between Plymouth and Boston, at stated
periods, and rarely varying in its time of passing any particular point
more than two or three hours, (the whole distance, you know, is now
performed in one hour and a half by rail-road.) One day the stage
stopped at the small house of Mrs. Wendall, near Stony Brook, and a
young, well-dressed lady was seen to alight, with an infant, and enter
the house. A large trunk was deposited, and the stage passed on. It was
soon known throughout the village that a lady with whom Mrs. Wendall had
formed an acquaintance at a boarding-house in Boston, had come to spend
some time with her. Curiosity and courtesy induced several persons to
call on Mrs. W. and her new guest, though little was seen of the latter,
excepting on Sunday, when she was early at meeting, and devout in her
deportment. She was handsome certainly, and much more refined in her
manners than most of our people. She declined entering into much social
intercourse, assigning as a reason that she was in delicate health, and
censure was therefore busy with her name, and the conduct of Mrs. W. for
receiving and entertaining her. But an application having been made,
about this time, to the clergyman to admit her to membership in the
church, certain papers were exhibited _to him_, and his sanction of her
wish, and his introducing her to his family, at once settled the
question of propriety. To a few leading questions, which some of her
more inquisitive female neighbors chose to put, in what they denominated
a spirit of Christian feeling, and which they hoped would be answered
with Christian candor, the lady gave no definite answer, but contented
herself and quieted the guests with the remark, that whatever she had to
say of herself she would make known without interrogation, and whenever
she declined an answer to such questions as had been put, it would be
because such an answer involved the secrets of other persons.

This mode of treating the inquisitive was effective if not satisfactory,
and as Mrs. Bertrand did not thrust herself upon any one, and as both
the clergyman and Mrs. W. were satisfied with the lady, things were
allowed to remain. It was supposed that Mrs. Wendall, in her semi-annual
visits to Boston, received some money for Mrs. Bertrand. And at the
death of Mrs. Wendall, Mrs. B. entered upon the possession of her neat
house, and became the head of a little family, consisting of herself,
her daughter Amelia, and one female in the character of assistant.

The education of Amelia was conducted by her mother—we had then no
school in which _education_ could be acquired—and the home lessons, by
precept and example, which Mrs. B. gave to her daughter were effective
in the formation of one of the most lovely characters that ever blessed
our neighborhood. The melancholy, fixed and sometimes communicative, of
the mother had an effect upon the daughter. Not indeed to infuse into
her moral character any morbid sensibility, but to check the exuberance
of youthful feeling, and to chasten and direct a girlish fancy. There
was religion, too, in all her thoughts—religion lying at the foundation
of her character—religion operating upon all her plans and directing
all their execution. There was no time when she seemed without this
power, no time when she came into its possession. She lived in the
atmosphere of her mother; she was from the cradle a child of prayer, and
she participated in thousands of acts of goodness and plans of
beneficence, of which none but herself and mother knew the source, but
which made the heart of the afflicted beat with joy.

While such goodness blessed the dwelling of Mrs. Bertrand, it was
diffused through the neighborhood.

I dwell on these things because I have always thought that the
loveliness of Mrs. B.’s little family circle, though peculiar,
undoubtedly, was imitable, and that the same education in the parent,
and the same care for the child, would result in similar excellencies.
But somehow, I never could make my views understood—and people around
seemed to be impressed with the idea that what they admired in the
mother and daughter was some special endowment by Providence, not
attainable by any others. It is in this matter pretty much as it was
with the minister’s garden—all admired its beauty, and each was willing
to share in the excellence of its produce, but we had few who were
willing to think that its beauty and usefulness resulted from his
culture, and that with the same care their own weedy patch might have
become rich in beauty and profitable in fruits.

Such, however, was the chastened excellence of Mrs. Bertrand’s
character, such the beauty of her life, I might add, indeed, of her
person, and such the sweetness of disposition and almost angelic temper
and devotion of Amelia, that perhaps it was not strange that many should
regard their domestic and social virtues and their Christian graces as
inimitable. Oh, how often have I sat down in my chamber and resolved,
with God’s blessing, to copy into my heart some of the heavenly lessons
of their lives, and to exhibit in my conduct and conversation something
of the lesser graces of this mother and her daughter. Alas! while I feel
much benefit in myself from the examples and excellence with which I was
occasionally associated, I have little hope that I ever made others
sensible of my efforts.

It is certain that our whole town felt and acknowledged the benefit of
Mrs. Bertrand’s residence among us; and, strange as it may appear, I do
not remember that any envious tongues were employed to diminish the
credit of her efforts, or to lessen her power of usefulness. It was a
beautiful homage to female excellence which our neighborhood paid to the
virtues of mother and daughter, and I have often thought that some
credit was due to us all for thus appreciating what was so truly
beautiful, without allowing the disparity between us and them to excite
envy. Perhaps, however, it was the vast difference between us that
served to keep down jealousy.

During a violent gale that followed the vernal equinox, a vessel coming,
I think, from Havana, and bound for Boston, was wrecked on one of the
outer capes of the bay. She strode at some distance from the shore; and
went to pieces in the gale. It was believed that all on board had
perished as several dead bodies washed ashore. One person, however, was
taken up lashed to a spar; he exhibited some evidence of remaining
vitality, and was put into a vessel to be conveyed to Plymouth, but the
tide and wind favored the landing at this end of the bay, and he was
conveyed to a solitary house on the point of land at the mouth of the
river. There medical men ascertained that an arm was broken, and some
injury sustained in one of the sufferer’s legs. Surgical aid was given,
and careful nursing was required. This was most difficult to
procure—money was to be had, for the pockets of the sufferer were
filled with gold coin, and subsequently portions of the ceiling of the
ship’s cabin which washed ashore, were found to be studded with guineas,
driven into the boards that they might drift ashore. As the suffering
man was found to have similar coin with him, it was supposed that these
waifs were his also.

Mrs. Bertrand was at the time quite too unwell to visit the Nook, as the
place was called, where the sick man lay—so Amelia went with such
appliances for the sick chamber as her mother could send, and afterward
she obtained permission of her mother to remain and assist one of the
other persons of the village to take care of the sick man, that the
family whose rooms he occupied, might not be drawn from their necessary
labor.

The shipwrecked person seemed to be about forty years of age; it was
difficult to judge of his person, but his face and head were attractive.
He was rather patient than resigned; and if he forbore to complain of
his suffering, it was evident that the pride of a man habitually
trusting to himself, rather than the Christian submitting to Providence,
restrained his tongue.

There was nothing in the case of the sufferer to render his situation
particularly perilous, unless a fever should supervene, so said the
doctor, but he also confessed that the symptoms indicated more than
ordinary exhaustion of shipwreck and the consequence of broken limbs, so
he advised a disposition of worldly affairs, as one of the best means of
tranquillizing his system.

In the night, while Amelia relieved the watch of the other person, the
sufferer called her to him, and when she had disposed his limbs in a
favorable position, he remarked that during the whole of her kind
attendance on him he had never seen her face—her voice he had heard, it
seemed familiar to him, and the name by which she was called was one
that he could never forget.

Amelia drew the curtain aside, and the light of the night-lamp gave the
patient a full view of her face. He started:

“And that face, too!—looks and name, too! Do I dream, or is it real?”

“What do you see?” said Amelia with kindness. “You seem astonished at my
name—is it so unusual, or so familiar to you?”

“You surely are not of this place? And the name—”

“I _am_ of this place—though I was not born here—and though _Amelia_
is the name of my mother, I have reason to believe that I was named for
the daughter of one of our excellent neighbors.”

“It is so—yes. I must have been dreaming—perhaps I am feverish. Will
you talk a little, however, and let me hear your voice?”

“If you feel able to hear me _talk_, perhaps you would prefer to hear me
read a short passage in the Bible.”

The patient rather _consented_, than desired it.

There was the next day a much longer conversation between the patient
and his young nurse, in which he took occasion to utter opinions upon
religious matters quite heretical.

“I did not come hither, captain,” said Amelia, “to dispute upon
religious subjects with you. I am no disputant. It is my duty, however,
to say distinctly, lest you should mistake my silence, that in my
opinion you are quite wrong, and that your present situation is such as
to render your irreligious impressions the more fearful to me as they
are the more dangerous to you.”

“Why then will you not discuss the question of the truth of Christianity
with me?”

“Simply because I do not think that I am competent to the task; and—but
no.”

“What do you mean by your unassigned second reason?”

“I mean simply that I do not think you wish to be convinced of the truth
of religion.”

“That is hard—but I do wish to believe it if it is true.”

“Captain Wilkinson, if you really wish to believe in the great truths of
Christianity, I will invite the clergyman to come down hither and
converse with you. Tell me—not now, but tell me after thinking maturely
upon it, say this evening, whether you really desire information.”

At night it was again Amelia’s turn to sit with the patient. He
intimated that he continued of the same opinion.

“Then I will send for the minister.”

“Let me, while you remain, talk with you, we will have the parson
afterward.”

Considerable time was spent by the captain in presenting his views of
theology. They were crude and disjointed. He had been poorly instructed,
and having led a life of great freedom he felt it much easier to deny
the existence of any law, than to reconcile his conduct to the
requirements of what was declared to be a divine law. “Nay,” said he,
“truth, honesty, sincerity, sobriety, and all these virtues, are only
the result of long experience, and men willing to enforce them as a sort
of mercantile convenience have declared them to be a part of the
requirements of a divine power. The very fact that they are found to be
convenient to social and public life, proves that they are mere
deductions from general experience, and not the requirements of God.”

“So then you think that a God who is the father as well as the creator
of mankind, would not make the rules which He gave for man’s government
subservient to man’s happiness?”

“Tell me, Amelia, does your happiness result from your obedience?”

“So far as I am obedient I am happy. It is my mortification to believe
that my obedience is too often in the _act_, rather than in the will. It
is easy for me to obey the command of my mother and to have her
satisfied—but God who sees the heart, undoubtedly judges me closer, and
knowing it, I lack the happiness which perfect obedience would insure.”

“Do you see the relation between the actor of a present life and his
happiness or misery?”

“No, I do not. But I believe that such a relation does exist, and though
I may not be able now to show that relation in others, yet I believe it
becomes manifest at some period; certainly where they are not traceable
in this world they become evident in the next.”

“That next world is a sort of safety-valve to those who argue on
religious topics with men like me. But if you could show me the
relations which exist between your conduct and your present situation,
or the dependence of my situation upon my present conduct, I might
believe that there was some law—and when there is a law there must be a
law-giver.”

“Alas, captain, the discussion of causes and effects will not much
benefit you at the present time, especially with such an one as I for an
expounder. What you need is not argument, but reflection. Be assured of
one thing, religion has had stronger antagonists than you, and they have
been defeated, convinced, converted. But what you need—and captain you
do need _that_—is to cease to argue in your own breast, and against
what I perceive to be your own convictions—confess plainly now that you
have made up your scepticism to meet certain circumstances of your own
life, and that you are not prepared to admit of the connection of
revealed religion and the terrible consequences of a neglect of its
requirements.”

“What circumstance of my life,” said the captain, with much emphasis,
“what circumstance of my life has thus induced me to shut my eyes and
heart against truth?”

“That I do not know. But I believe if you will go over in your own mind
candidly the events of your life, you will confess that, if they have
not brought upon you the present fearful visitations, they have at least
served to make you argue yourself into infidelity.”

“Amelia, what you say may be true—I will think of the matter. It would
be curious if I should be brought back to my early belief by one so
young and delicate as you.”

“My youth and ignorance may be altogether in favor of such a result. You
can have little or no pride in a discussion with me, and thus, instead
of seeking to sustain an argument for the sake of a triumph, you might
be willing to listen to the truths which I utter for the sake of the
truth. But you intimated a disposition to review your life, and see
whether you cannot find some relation between your past conduct and your
present scepticism. And permit me to say that your present situation,
though not dangerous perhaps, is one that ought to suggest to you the
inquiry, whether the foundation on which you have placed your future
condition is safe, and the conversation which we have already had is as
much I am sure as the doctor would permit were he here. Sleep will be
advantageous to your physical powers. I am confident that calm
reflection, and honest retrospection must be profitable to your mind.”

“She talks like a parson,” said the captain, as he settled himself for
sleep or for thought.

More than two hours had elapsed before Amelia could discover that her
patient was asleep, though he was perfectly still. At length the heavy,
regular breathing denoted that he had succeeded in his effort to sleep,
or had failed in his efforts to keep awake.

Before Amelia saw the captain again she had visited her mother and made
her acquainted with the state of the patient’s mind. Mrs. B. could
discover in the remarks of the captain which her daughter repeated to
her, little else than the willingness of a sick or lame man to be
courteous and civil to a voluntary nurse, and she expressed such an
opinion to her daughter.

“I think otherwise, mother,” said Amelia, “not so much from the words of
the captain as from his tone, his earnestness of expression, and his
readiness to return to the conversation whenever other persons leave the
room.”

“I have not so much confidence, Amelia, in the re-adoption of early
religious opinions upon a sick bed; as some persons have. I love the
virtue, the piety which extends along from the nursery to the grave,
blessing and sanctifying the whole existence, and forming a complete
chain of moral life, a religious growth.”

“But, dear mother, if that chain has been ruptured by extraordinary
violence, is it not best to connect the links? There may be less of
continued perfection, but the reproduction of a part is worth the
effort.”

“The captain seems to have made a strong impression upon you, and to
have excited unusual interest for a stranger.”

Amelia did not blush, because she did not understand what would
ordinarily be inferred from such a remark as her mother’s.

“I do not know when I have felt a greater interest for one of whom I
know so little. But undoubtedly a part of the interest is mingled with
curiosity. He is a man of some education, of much travel, and of more
observation than masters of ships generally have. But there seems to be
some event in his past life upon which he is strongly sensitive, and to
which he is constantly referring; especially when a little feverish and
in disturbed sleep.”

“I need not say to you, my child, that you will hear as little of such
involuntary talk as possible, and never repeat a word of it unless it be
to _his_ advantage.”

“I understand, mother. But I have already told the captain that I
thought his scepticism was referable to some past event, and he seemed
to be struck by the remark.”

“You will find that you were correct; and you will discern, moreover,
that while he is sceptical from _past_ occurrences, he postpones
investigating the foundation of his opinions, on account of the
interference which a correction of error would have on some _future_
event. Men deceive themselves, or try to, just as much as they try to
deceive others; and the whole course of the immoral man is one of
deception, self-deception, from which rarely any thing but death arouses
him.”

Amelia received some advice with regard to her conduct, and some
instruction relative to her proposed argument, and then took leave of
her mother to enter upon her turn of duty in the chamber of the captain,
promising to return the next morning.

But the next morning Mrs. Bertrand looked in vain for her daughter, and
more than ever regretted that she herself was unable to share in the
duties which Amelia assumed. It was not until evening that a lad came to
the house, and brought a letter from Amelia, addressed to her mother.
This is a copy of the letter hastily, but I believe faithfully made.

                                                 _Thursday, Noon._

    DEAR MOTHER,—You will wonder at my absence, and still more
    that, not returning in the morning, I did not send word to you;
    before I conclude this hasty note, you will see not only why I
    did not come, but why I now write.

    After some arrangements made for the night, the other attendant
    left me with the patient, who seemed unusually restless, and
    were it not for the large box in which his leg is confined, he
    certainly would have left the bed. I sought to soothe him, and
    it was only when I reopened the conversation of my former visit,
    that he seemed to forget his pain.

    “You remarked,” said he, “that scepticism is often referable to
    some former error of life, and the sceptic is only seeking to
    hide his fears of consequences in another state of existence, by
    creating a belief that there is no other state.”

    “That was the inference, if not the words of my remarks,” said
    I.

    “Well, I have thought much of it since you left me, and I have
    wished for life to repair if possible some injuries which I have
    done to others. The very feverish condition in which I find
    myself, and which I heard the doctor say would be dangerous
    should it come, leads me to fear that I shall not be able to
    accomplish my wish; and struck with the peculiar expression of
    your face, and the coincidence of your name—”

    “That is my mother’s name,” said I.

    “But you were born in this town?”

    I gave no answer.

    “Nevertheless, I will yield to the suggestion which I have felt,
    if you will allow me, and show you that while I have greatly
    erred, and may refer my scepticism to my errors, I yet have
    sought to repair a part of the injuries I did in my youth.”

    “If I heard your statement, should I be at liberty to tell my
    mother, because I do not like to hear anything which I may not
    communicate to her; and, of course, I could not tell, and she
    would not hear what was told to me in strict confidence?”

    The captain reached his uninjured arm over the bed-side, and
    pressed my hand. I understood it to be a commendation of your
    instructions to me, and a consent that I should be at liberty to
    repeat what he said. But, oh, what a fever was scorching his
    skin.

    “I was left with a fortune, a good education, and a knowledge of
    mercantile life. Too young to have the guidance of myself—but I
    escaped what the world calls gross dissipation.

    “At 21 I was married to a poor, friendless girl, whom I had
    _injured_. I was married in the morning at 6 o’clock, and in
    half an hour left the home of my wife, whom I never saw again.

    “I returned from Europe in about a year, having added much to my
    knowledge of the world, and to my means of enjoying it. In New
    York, I met a young lady, whose excellence in every female
    qualification so enraptured me, let me say rather, so awakened
    in me the slumbering affection of my heart, that I became
    attentive, and found that I had been successful in inducing love
    for me in her breast. I will not, for my mind now seems to
    waver, I will not attempt to describe the progress of my
    courtship. But when I returned from another voyage to England, I
    led Amelia to the altar. We were married in Grace Church; and if
    mortal ever felt happy, certainly I did, as I handed my wife
    into the parlor of her distant relative with whom she
    resided—her father and mother having been dead for some years.

    “Some time in the course of that day, for we were married early
    in the morning, letters were received at the house. One was
    addressed to Amelia—of course, with her family name. I remember
    now, as she opened it, she turned the letter over, and pointing
    to the superscription, which was in a bold, masculine hand,
    remarked, that if it was an offer, it came rather late.

    “‘Too late for any thing _now_,’ said her relatives.

    “My own heart seemed to sink within me.

    “Amelia opened the letter. I looked at her as she read it. She
    turned pale, and for a moment I thought she would have fainted;
    but rallying herself, she placed the letter in my hand, with the
    single remark, ‘It is for you to explain this.’

    “The letter was from some one in Albany—it contained only these
    words:

        “‘If the mail is not detained, this will reach you
        before you are married. Ask Captain Wilkinson whether he
        has not already a wife in Vermont.

                                                   ‘A FRIEND.’

    “For one moment I hesitated whether I would not deny the charge
    implied, and take Amelia with me to Europe—her means with my
    wealth would have sustained us. But truth is always ready for
    utterance—and before the lie could be formed, I was ready to
    confess.

    “‘Whatever wrong may have been done,’ said Amelia, ‘all I ask is
    that it may not be increased.’

    “‘The answer to the question in the letter,’ said I ‘is in the
    _affirmative_.’ And before explanation could be given, Amelia
    had been conducted to her chamber, and I took my hat and left
    the house. I have not seen her since, nor have I ever been able
    to ascertain her residence. She is probably dead, as is
    certainly also the unfortunate woman in Vermont, who died soon
    after my exposure. I have been in business, and I have traveled
    much; I have wasted much wealth, and acquired much. I have none
    to share with me my property, and no one to inherit it when I
    depart, which must be soon, as I believe the child born in
    Vermont died soon after its mother’s decease. The deep
    solicitude which you have manifested for my welfare, temporal
    and spiritual, has not been without its effect, and I have
    resolved that, whether I recover or not, you shall inherit the
    remainder of my fortune, either by right or by bequest;
    read—read a little—the Bible, or some from the Prayer Book.”

    I did read, and he seemed calmer for a moment, and then he said,
    “you now see what are the errors—the sins—and the misery of my
    past life; I give up scepticism; I do believe,” and he added,
    “‘help thou mine unbelief.’”

    The face of Captain W. at this moment appeared inflamed and
    swollen, and he became uneasy and quite delirious—and all his
    symptoms were aggravated. Early this morning Dr. F. pronounced
    the new disease to be the small-pox. Of course, I have been
    exposed, and I shall now remain in the house, and while I am
    able, shall attend upon the Captain. Let no one else be exposed
    to the contagion.

    But, dear mother, what is this which I have heard? I know that
    you once resided in New York. I have seen in your desk, whither
    you had sent me, letters addressed to you in a name different
    from that which we both have. I saw also, in the same place, but
    never ventured to mention the discovery to you, a miniature
    which much resembled Capt. Wilkinson. What am I to think? Is
    this your husband—are you the woman whom he deceived—if so,
    who and what am _I_? Certainly I cannot be _his_ child. Let me
    know—let me know all; but whatever else happen, oh, dear, dear
    mother, let me not lose the title of your affectionate
    _daughter_.

                                                           AMELIA.

The next day Amelia received a note from her mother. It was short and
written under great agitation.

    MY DEAR CHILD,—The information which your letter conveyed has
    sent me to my bed. You are exposed to the contagion of the
    small-pox; may God protect you! I cannot doubt that Capt.
    Wilkinson is the person whom you suppose him to be, if so, he is
    indeed your father. Be kindly attentive to him, and pray for

                                        Your affectionate mother,
                                                 AMELIA BERTRAND.

The information which this note conveyed struck Amelia with painful
surprise; if Capt. Wilkinson was, indeed, the man to whom her mother had
been married—and there seemed to be no reason to doubt it—how could he
be _her_ father? The poor girl sat wrapt in doubt and perplexity. If he
was her father, she knew the duty which she owed to him—and she blessed
God that at any risk she had been allowed to minister to his physical
comforts, and, as she had reason to believe, to his spiritual aid; and
she would renew her devotion to him. But what could she say of her
mother’s conduct—her pure-hearted, her saintly mother? Is there shame
on her name, too? Amelia arose up with firmness, and as she passed to
the sick-chamber of her father, she said to herself, “I never knew her
to say or do aught unbecoming a Christian lady; should not nearly twenty
years experience teach me to trust to her purity and truth, rather than
yield to doubt, which unexplained circumstances suggest. I will have
faith in _her_ who has never deceived nor has ever distrusted me.
_Misfortunes_ are around us—but may God shield us from _shame_!”

Captain Wilkinson soon passed through the worst stages of the loathsome
disease, but he was still held to his bed by the broken limbs. One
morning he missed his nurse, and on inquiry, learned that she was
confined to her chamber with evident symptoms of the small-pox. This was
most painful to him, as he felt that she had taken the disease by her
attendance on him. “Am I destined,” said he, “to bring distress into
every family I visit, and repay the hospitality of a stranger with
misery, and perhaps death? If she should ever recover it is likely that
the ravages of the disease will destroy the beauty of a face that made
the loveliness of the mind so captivating. Could I roll back twenty
years of my life, could I forget, or could heaven forgive the follies
which have caused so much misery, surely this young woman would, however
disease may mar her beauty, be to me all that I had desired in the
charms of one I ruined and in the mental excellence of her I shamefully
imposed upon. How like the two Amelias is she—the gentle manners of the
first, the mental excellence of the second. How can I compensate her for
the distress which my advent here has wrought? If my life and hers are
spared that must be my study. Heaven helping me, I here dedicate the
remainder of my existence and my wealth to compensate, as far as both
will go, those who have suffered by me, and when the injured individuals
cannot be found, may my efforts for the good of others be accepted
instead of the direct compensation.”

“That is a Christian resolution,” said the physician, who had entered
the room unnoticed by his patient. “And as I have heard your remarks by
mere accident, will you allow me to express my congratulation at what I
regard a much greater change in your mental than in your physical
condition, though the latter is truly hopeful?”

“Where two such physicians as yourself and my late gentle, meek nurse
are employed, we may hope for every thing of which the patient is
capable; but let me add in truth, doctor, that skillful as you have
shown yourself with my broken and bruised limbs, and my painful disease,
I think Amelia has shown no less skill in dealing with an unbalanced
mind and an untoward will.”

“But, captain, neither of us hope for much success without a blessing.”

“Ah! such an attendant as Amelia was in itself a blessing—she treated
the wounds of my mind like those of my body, with perfect gentleness,
but with the same direct application. But what will her aged mother say
to the terrible consequences of her daughter’s kindness to me?”

“She will answer for herself, captain, as she is with us.”

The doctor then mentioned Mrs. Bertrand’s name, and Captain W.
apologized for his inability to recognize her; his lameness prevented
him from moving, and the room was darkened with reference to the
weakness of the eyesight consequent upon the small-pox.

Mrs. B. seated herself by the bed-side, and the physician withdrew.

“Your daughter, madam, is I am afraid, paying a terrible price for
charity to me.”

“My daughter, sir, has been taught to consider it proper to discharge a
duty and leave the consequences to Heaven. But are you aware, captain,
that my daughter felt it a duty to acquaint me with an interesting
account which you gave her of your own life?”

“I gave her full permission to do so.”

“I have come, having had the small-pox, to assist in the care of my
daughter, and as far as possible, to supply her place by your bedside.”

“I have not deserved this from Heaven or of men. Help me only to
understand and do my duty, and you will complete the work which Amelia
began.”

In some conversation which Mrs. Bertrand had with Captain W. the next
day, she alluded to his resolution to make reparation as far as possible
for any injury he had inflicted on others. “Do you,” said she, “continue
of that resolution?”

“Increasingly so. And if now I could find where I might begin the work,
I would divest myself at once, if necessary, of every dollar I possess
to alleviate the suffering I have caused.”

“Such a sacrifice can scarcely be required, it is certainly not
necessary so far as I understand your situation.”

“What then can I do—when shall I begin the _work_ of repentance?”

“It is undoubtedly begun already in the resolve of restitution. I take
that to be the essence of repentance, or rather the evidence of it.”

“Am I then to recover, as the doctor assures me I shall? Am I to sit
down in the enjoyment of my ample means, and in no way minister to the
comfort of those whom my follies made miserable? My wife and child
dead—and she, who should have been my wife, lost to me—dead perhaps
likewise! I have by various means sought to find Amelia. I even put into
a New York and a Boston paper an advertisement, which if it met her eye,
would have assured her of my repentance; but, alas! I might repent, I
might seek now to marry her, with the same selfish views which I had at
first. I might even for _her_ sake now do what would be called justice
by some, but what act of mine, however just, could compensate for the
horrible outrage which I had committed, the gross insult, public,
palpable, unpardonable, which I had offered to her? Yet I loved her,
love her now, have ever loved her, and though I have sought refuge for
my conscience in the clouds of infidelity, I have never ceased to love
_her_ image in my heart, and that has saved me from the follies and
vices to which my state of mind and my profession exposed me.”

The spring with its chill winds had passed, and summer was warming the
earth. It was then, as it is now, delightful to sit and watch the waving
of the long grass on yonder meadows, as the breeze passed over it, or to
see the shadow of the cloud flit over the waters that are rippled with
the west wind. You who have lived in other states, have undoubtedly
found much that you think far more beautiful than this scene, but for me
who have spent childhood and age on the banks of this river and the
shores of the bay, I know of nothing in nature more lovely. It was just
such a morning as this when the invalids were brought from the house, to
taste the fresh air from the bay and to look abroad upon land and water,
and thank God that they had been spared.

The captain walked with a crutch—his fine manly form would have
attracted attention any where.

Poor Amelia sat in her chair, wrapped about with customary garments for
the sick, and her face, then sadly marked with the remains of the
small-pox, was covered with a green veil.

“I hope you enjoy this scene, captain,” said Amelia.

“All of physical enjoyment which a healthful breeze can impart I
certainly have, but I am incapable of mental ease.”

“Is that a fruit of repentance?”

“If repentance is the recognition of errors, surely that repentance,
even which seems the pardon of heaven, must keep alive the grief for the
offence, though it may rather seem joy for the pardon.

“I may say to you, Amelia, that I have hinted to your mother, that while
I shall retain enough of my wealth to sustain myself and do justice to
others, I desire to make you remuneration for the benefits you have
conferred on me, and the terrible suffering you have endured for me, and
for this I shall not wait my own death, but I desire to place you at
once in possession.”

“I am compensated—but here comes my mother.”

Mrs. Bertrand advanced, her face covered with her veil.

“Captain Wilkinson,” she said, “your partial restoration renders
unnecessary any further attendance on my part. You will probably leave
to-morrow, and as I shall remove Amelia immediately to my own house, I
have thought this a good opportunity to take my leave of you. I know you
feel thankful to Amelia—I believe you are grateful to Heaven. I carry
with me the happy reflection, that you will soon be restored to entire
health, and that your moral condition is by the mercy of God infinitely
improved.”

“Am I not to be allowed to pay my respects to you—not again to say
farewell to my beloved nurse, Amelia?”

“We part now—part forever, sir—part with my prayers for your
good—with my—”

Mrs. Bertrand fainted from excessive agitation, the unbroken arm of
Captain Wilkinson prevented her from falling, and Amelia rose with pain
from the chair to remove the veil from the face of her mother, and admit
the fresh wind from the bay to her face. When she recovered she looked
up into the face of the captain; for a moment he seemed to stagger under
the weight that rested upon him.

“Amelia, what is this—what does this mean? Whom do I hold on my arm?”

“It is your Amelia,” said the girl—“Amelia Benton.”

Mrs. Bertrand was placed in the chair which the captain had occupied,
while he kneeling at her side, and Amelia rested her hand upon her
mother’s knees.

“It is Amelia Benton!” cried the captain—“but who are you?”

“I am her daughter.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand, “not my daughter—not _my_ daughter;
your daughter, sir—the child of Amelia Woodstock!”

I saw this scene. I heard the wild burst of grief, of joy, of passion,
of shame from the captain, and the anguished cry of the young Amelia,
but I cannot describe them. She prevailed, nevertheless; and two months
after that, Amelia Benton was again married to William Wilkinson; but
not until she was satisfied that his “repentance was unto life, not to
be repented of.”

They left us, returning only for an occasional visit. Yet one of their
children, and his daughter, Amelia, are buried in this village. She
lived to do good, and to enjoy the blessings she had assisted to
promote. She died with no wish ungratified, and was buried here; strange
as it may seem to you, buried where the sunny hours of childhood had
been spent, and where she had in that childhood selected a spot in which
she desired to await the call at which her mortality should put on
immortality.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           A SPANISH ROMANCE.


                         BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.


    BRIGHT fell thy smiling ray,
      Rosy Aurora!
    Where Alvarado lay,
      Dreaming of Mora!

    To the tent stole a youth
      Lovely as morning,
    Yet was his mien in sooth
      Full of proud scorning.

    Bright, wavy locks fell o’er
      Eyes wildly beaming,
    Deep the plumed cap he wore
      Shadowed their gleaming.

    To his pale cheek there came
      Hues like the sunset,
    For his light, fragile frame
      Thrilled for the onset.

    Fiercely his sword he drew,
      Bold was his bearing,
    While to the knight he threw
      Words of wild daring.

    Crying—“Thou craven false!”
      Dark the knight lowered—
    “He who in battle halts
      Proves him a coward.”

    Long had he calmly heard—
      Brave Alvarado—
    Deeming each daring word
      Boyish bravado;

    But as that bitter name
      Left the lip curling,
    Flashed his swift sword—a flame
      Through the air whirling.

    Proud as his princely foe,
      Dauntless in danger,
    Springing to meet the blow
      Sprang the bright stranger.

    Home struck the steel—and ah!
      At his feet lying,
    Pale as a waning star—
      _Who_ is it dying?

    Back fall the cap and plume,
      Back the bright tresses—
    No more her rosy bloom
      Meets his caresses.

    Lightly her lovely hair
      Floats o’er his shoulder,
    To his heart’s mad despair
      Soft his arms fold her.

    “Wo worth the day,” he cried,
      “Sweetest Lenora!
    When I left thee, my bride
      For the false Mora.”

    Then in her wistful eyes,
      Blue as yon heaven,
    He saw her soul arise,
      Sighing “Forgiven!”

    But her pale, parted lips
      Silently quiver,
    And in Death’s dark eclipse
      Falls she forever!

    Sad fell thy sunny ray,
      Rosy Aurora,
    Where Alvarado lay
      By his Lenora.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                TO A. R.


      HOW many nights, old friend, in earlier times,
        When we were boys, we sat together nights,
        Poring on books, with ever-new delights,
      Fresh, dewy prose, and sweet and flowery rhymes;
      I looked for you, as sure as evening came—
        I knew your footstep on the stair, I knew
        Your sudden rap, and said it must be you—
      For step and rap were evermore the same.
      We talked of every thing a little while,
        And then I took to writing simple themes,
      And you to reading—and I could but smile
        (Hunting for rhymes, perplexed and lost in dreams,)
      To see you knit your thought-contracted brow,
    And when you caught my eye, I wrote again—as now!
                                            R. H. S.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       FANNY DAY’S PRESENTIMENT.


                            BY MARIE ROSEAU.


(MY dear Rose, you ask me to write something which Mr. Graham will
print, for your sake; because it is the best Magazine extant, and
because you subscribe for it. I will try.)

Do you believe in presentiments?

Two summers ago Fanny Day and myself visited Caroline Alden in her
country home, about one hundred miles from Philadelphia.

The morning previous to that fixed upon for our departure, after vainly
using all the ingenuity and strength of which I was capable, to stow
away in the top of my trunk three dresses, one large shawl, nine bound
books, a portfolio, and the four last numbers of “Graham,” I was forced
to the conclusion that one-half the articles named must be left behind.
Then came the serious business of deciding which of them should be
rejected.

“Couldn’t I leave one of the dresses?”

No, that was out of the question. If I meant to ramble over rocks and
hills the five (two were already deposited in the lower part of the
trunk,) would be barely sufficient to last me through the visit.

“Suppose you leave some of the books—those two large ones, for
instance?” suggested one of my sisters, called upon to aid me in the
dilemma.

“Oh no, indeed! I could not think of taking fewer books. Those two
volumes of Waldie in particular must go, for Caroline was so anxious to
read ‘Modern Societies’ and ‘Home.’”

“But the others?”

I picked them up one at a time. There were “The Cricket on the Hearth,
&c.;” “Sketches of Married Life;” Mrs. Stowe’s “May Flower,” Willis and
Longfellow, and three of the Abbott series, for Sunday reading. Each
pleaded so eloquently to be taken, that I thought that to leave either
would be an insult to the author, and so, after a little hesitation, I
felt that _all_ of them must go.

“Couldn’t you do without the portfolio and magazines?” was then asked.

“That would be _impossible_!” I exclaimed.

“Then you must take that small portmantua, too.”

“But I hate to take so much baggage with me,” I said.

“Then I can’t think of any other mode of freeing you from the
difficulty.”

In the midst of this dilemma Fanny Day was announced.

“Tell her to come up here,” I said.

“What, in this disordered room?”

I hastily glanced at the books and dresses strewn around me, and then
replied:

“The room don’t look _very_ well, I know; but I can’t leave my packing
just now: besides Fanny may be able to assist me in this difficulty.”

I had expected to find Fanny full of joy and enthusiasm in the near
prospect of our visit, for so she had always been when we talked about
it previously; but she looked sad and dispirited, and it was not until I
had made many repeated and eloquent exclamations upon the subject, that
she would take any interest in my packing. Then she said quietly—

“Never mind, Marie, there is plenty of room in my trunk for more than
half those things.”

I thanked her with delight; yet could not but be surprised that she
should be satisfied with fewer “_positively necessary_” articles than
myself.

“Now, that you have this matter satisfactorily arranged, will you go out
with me?” she asked.

“Where?” I inquired with slight hesitation, for I had already planned
engagements of some sort for every hour in the day.

“Down Chestnut street,” she replied.

“Will you keep me long?” I asked.

“I will tell you all about it when we get into the street,” she
answered.

I hesitated.

“Come, Marie, do go with me; that’s a dear, good girl,” Fanny continued,
looking coaxingly in my face all the time.

I had not the heart to resist her pleading, and very soon we were on our
way to Chestnut street.

“I am going to Mr. Root’s to have my daguerreotype taken,” Fanny said,
when we were about a square from home.

“But you had three taken last week,” I said.

“Yes, but my mother did not like those very well. They were not taken by
Root, and now I am determined to have a good one for her.”

“Had you not better wait till we return?” I asked.

“No; I cannot,” she replied, in a serious tone.

I looked at her inquiringly.

“I know you will laugh at me, Marie, and think me very foolish,” she
said, “but I have a presentiment that I shall never live to return.”

“I have had a dozen such in my life-time,” I answered, “yet they all
proved untrue; and so may yours, Fanny dear.”

“I fear not,” she replied in a sad tone.

Knowing that all reasoning would be ineffectual in my friend’s present
mood, I simply tried to relieve her sadness by talking upon other
subjects on the way.

The likeness was a perfect one. It might have presented a gloomy
countenance, but fortunately, I whispered to her, as she seated
herself—

“Now, Fanny, do let your mother have a pleasant smile, or she will not
like the picture.”

I wish you could see the likeness; the position was so natural and the
work so beautifully executed! But you cannot—Fanny gave it into my
hands to be faithfully delivered to her mother at some future time; and
now—but my story must develop its present hiding-place.

Shall I tell you of our long rail-road journey, and of the dark tunnels
through which we passed, reminding one of the “valley of death,” where,
as I carelessly alluded to this resemblance, Fanny’s hand grasped, mine
with a touch so cold as to send a sympathetic chill of horror through my
veins? Or shall I tell you of the shorter stage-ride, and the close
companionship of its occupants? No, I will not weary you with either of
these in detail; for there was nothing to vary the usual monotony of
such journeys we being allowed the customary number of crying babies,
and troublesome older children, and the same amount of agreeable and
disagreeable strangers.

We found Caroline delighted to see us, (as who would not be,) and I was
pleased to notice that much of Fanny’s sadness had disappeared during
the first evening. The next morning, however, it was again observable in
a listless demeanor, or deep sigh in the midst of a witty remark, or gay
laugh.

“What is the matter with you, Fanny?” Caroline asked, after some very
marked signs of abstractedness on the part of the former.

“Oh, nothing at all!” Fanny answered quickly, and for a while she
endeavored to take more interest in our conversation, but this soon
subsided.

“Fanny, if you can give no better explanation of your conduct this
morning, I must be under the necessity of attributing it to the usual
cause of sighs and absent-mindedness, and believe you to be in love,”
Caroline said.

Fanny colored, and exclaimed—

“Oh, no indeed, I am not!”

“Then don’t look so confused and mortified, my dear; for even if you
were, you need not be ashamed of it,” Caroline answered composedly.

Fanny left the room soon after this, and I produced the daguerreotype
from a corner in my work-box, and showed it to Caroline. She pronounced
it the very best likeness she had ever seen, and laid it on the
sofa-table. Just then a visiter was announced, proving to be Mr. Harry
Lambert, who had spent the previous winter in Philadelphia.

After a mutual recognition, and a few of the common-place inquiries
usually made upon such occasions, had passed, he carelessly opened the
case containing Fanny’s likeness. As the face met his eye, I thought he
changed color, but this may have been mere fancy; for he said, in a
perfectly calm and indifferent tone,

“This face looks familiar to me. I must certainly have met the original
before.”

“Of course you have, it is Fanny Day. You were quite well acquainted
with her in Philadelphia, and I trust you cannot so soon have forgotten
an old friend,” I said; and scarcely was the remark made, when the
object of it entered the room. This time there was no mistaking the glow
upon the gentleman’s face; but Fanny’s cheek was quite colorless as she
returned his greeting.

Unfortunately for me, on this very evening, a young gentleman of
prepossessing appearance, and a stranger to me, called. Unfortunately in
the _dénouement_, I mean. I was very much pleased with him, and thought
him quite like Harry Lambert; although I wondered in what this likeness
consisted, for there were no general points of resemblance either in
person or manners between them. Very soon, however, I found it to
consist in the fact that _they were both lovers_.

It _is_ unpleasant to find one’s self completely thrown upon the
back-ground. I _know_ that I am not naturally envious; but I could not
help feeling akin to chagrin and disappointment upon perceiving the
state of things; yet it was not _envy_. I am sure I did not care one bit
that Fanny and Caroline should each have some one so completely absorbed
in their interests, as to be indifferent to every thing else, for it
made them happy; and I like to see people enjoy themselves. But I _did_
think it looked stupid, or narrow-minded, or something of the sort, of
any persons to be so intent upon _themselves_, as to take no notice of
others, and so I told the ladies after their visiters were gone, I
said—

“Caroline, are the people here in the habit of giving invitations to
tea?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied; “you will be overwhelmed with them, Marie, in a
little time: but why do you ask?”

“Because I shall be very glad, in the words of the song,

                   ‘——if any one invites me out to tea,
        For ’tis very dull to stay at home with no one courting me,’”

I replied, poutingly.

Caroline looked at Fanny, and both laughed.

“Poor Mae,” the former said, in a coaxing tone, putting her arm around
me, “it was _too_ bad of us; but never mind, the next time we will
behave better.”

“I do hope you will,” I answered, “for it is extremely annoying when you
are playing your best pieces, and think you have succeeded in charming
the company, upon taking a sly peep to observe the effect, to find them
coupled off, and each enjoying a quiet _tête-à-tête_; evidently
regarding the music only as a happy means of getting rid of one who
would otherwise be very much in the way.”

“You are not jealous, of course,” said Caroline, with a comic laugh.

“Certainly I am not,” I replied. “I think beaux extremely disagreeable.”

“Messieurs Russell and Lambert particularly so, I presume,” Caroline
remarked.

“Perhaps they may be,” I replied; “but I cannot answer to a certainty,
for my means of ascertaining their endowments were very limited: they
did not either of them direct a half-dozen words to me.”

From this time there was a marked change visible in Fanny. There was no
unusual gayety in her manner, but a habitual look of quiet happiness.
She talked no more of her presentiment, and, though strongly tempted to
do so, I could not bear to annoy her by reminding her of it.

Harry Lambert was our constant visiter. No, not our, for his visits were
evidently only meant for Fanny’s benefit. They walked, and rode, and
played, and sang together; always preferring a duet to a trio, or
quartette.

His appearance in Mr. Alden’s neighborhood was entirely unexpected to
both of us. We did not know where he had settled. During his visit to
Philadelphia he had been very attentive to Fanny; yet we all regarded
this as a mere flirtation, or rather as the attentive kindness of a
friend, who had had no thought of becoming a lover, as he left the city
without having made any profession of attachment to her. This, I
ascertained since, was owing to his having been led to believe, just
before the termination of his visit, that she loved another. Afterward
he learned that these suspicions were unfounded, and deeply regretted
that they had ever existed.

Howard Russell performed the same part toward Caroline that Harry
Lambert did to Fanny, during the remainder of our stay: but after the
few first days had passed, I was not left companionless; for I formed
some pleasant acquaintances there, the thoughts of which will be always
dear to my memory.

Before Fanny returned to Philadelphia, with the full consent of her
parents, she had entered into an engagement with Harry Lambert, and the
daguerreotype was left as her parting gift to him.

Thus ended Fanny Day’s presentiment.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE PALE THINKER.


                               BY “ORAN.”


    I SAW him, at the dawn of day, come forth to greet the sun,
    With salutation not unlike Electra’s orison;
    And, as with sad, though manly voice, he breathed his morning prayer,
    I knew that, like Electra’s self, he felt the weight of care.
    “An idle student,” many said, “who talks to trees and flowers,
    And loiters by the running brook, and wastes away his hours.”
    I saw him in the maple wood, beside that murmuring stream,
    Stoop, gazing downward thoughtfully, as in a pleasant dream;
    And as he gazed thus often spoke—“O stream, away, away,
    To some far-off and unknown sea thou hastenest every day!
    And trees and flowers and stars and clouds are mirrored on thy breast,
    They cheer thee on with greetings kind thou smilest, but dost not
      rest.
    So to its far eternity the longing spirit goes—
    This stream of life—away—away—O God, how fast it flows!”

    I saw him, like a cloistered monk, at night, among his books,
    He read and mused and wrote, with troubled, earnest looks;
    Then late and weary sought his couch—I could not turn away,
    For still with earnest, troubled looks the restless sleeper lay.
    Then Fancy, by some magic art, the sleeper’s brain laid bare,
    O Heaven, it seemed a universe had been concentred there!
    The semblance of all outer things in miniature was there,
    And, working each a wondrous art, all spirits, foul and fair.
    Uncertain forms traversed a plain, far-reaching as the sight,
    Whereon, what seemed a “mount of pain,” uprose in misty light.

    “The flaming forge of life” glowed red, as burning fire could be,
    And restless workmen toiled to forge an immortality.
    Like beating surf on rocky shore, the sea of passion roared,
    Like meteor on a dusky sky Ambition flashed and soared.
    Far out imagination flew, on restless wings of light,
    And myriad strangest forms of thought glimmered in reason’s sight.
    Religion and her goddess train their golden offerings poor,
    The spirit of the wondrous past unfolds her wondrous store.
    And fast and fierce the work goes on, furnace and forge and fire,
    And busy hands, which ply the loom and weave the golden wire.
    In glee the shadowy workmen toil, and this the song they sing—
    “In deepest shade of destiny lies hid what man would know,
    And useful thought comes but by pain, drawn up from down below.
    He surely is a child of heaven who brings new truth to man,
    To whom ’tis given, with vision clear, the inner world to scan,
    ’Tis ours to work behind the veil, thanks to this earnest soul,
    Soon from these varied gems of thought shall rise a beauteous whole,
    Adown the aisles of distant time our thinker’s voice shall sound,
    Inspiring hope and life and joy to souls in darkness bound.
    To write a book inspired of heaven, O, ’tis a glorious task!
    Pale thinker, though thy brain run wild, what higher boon couldst
      ask?”

    And, Genius, by such toil as this thy fairest gifts are bought!
    And he’s a child of pain, though blest, whose life is earnest thought.
    Ye who, with careless eye, peruse the page ye’ve bought for gold,
    Ye little know the cost of that to you so cheaply sold.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                   GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.


                    NO. II.—THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

THE simple, yet exquisitely touching air to which Moore wrote the words
of this song, is now one of the most familiar that we hear. Yet,
familiar as it is, it never falls upon the sense without awakening in
the heart the most tender, and even sad emotions. The song itself is in
fine keeping with the melody.

        ’Tis the last rose of summer,
          Left blooming alone;
        All her lovely companions
          Are faded and gone:
        No flower of her kindred,
          No rose-bud is nigh,
        To reflect back her blushes,
          Or give sigh for sigh.

        I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
          To pine on the stem;
        Since the lovely are sleeping,
          Go, sleep thou with them.
        Thus kindly I scatter
          Thy leaves o’er the bed,
        Where thy mates of the garden
          Lie scentless and dead.

        So, soon may _I_ follow,
          When friendships decay,
        And from Love’s shining circle
          The gems drop away;
        When true hearts lie withered,
          And fond ones are flown,
        Oh! who would inhabit
          This bleak world alone?

Although in private fashionable circles, like the “Meeting of the
Waters,” this song is rarely heard yet now and then the air, or the
words and the air united, break unexpectedly upon us in public, and the
effect is almost electric. Well do we remember, on the first appearance
of Herz, the effect produced on a crowded assembly, combining nearly all
the musical taste and talent of our city, when, after a rapturous
_encore_, he let his fingers fall with the exquisite grace that marked
his playing on the keys of the piano, and “The Last Rose of Summer”
trembled upon the hushed air. Literally, a pin might have been heard
falling upon the floor. There was not a heart there that did not respond
to the melody as an outburst of true emotion. The same effect was
produced, not long since, when this air came thrilling over a large
audience in the Musical Fund Hall, from the violincello of Knoop, and,
soon after, from the warbling throat of Madame Bishop. Not to the
players nor singer was this effect wholly to be ascribed. The power lay
in the melody itself, to which they gave a full expression.

So long as there is an ear that can appreciate nature’s own music, and a
heart to be touched by genuine emotion, “The Last Rose of Summer” will
continue to be a favorite.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE EVIL EYE.


                           BY MARY L. LAWSON.


    PAST from my heart the place and hour
    When first I met and owned thy power—
    To shadow life with vain regret,
    And clouds that darkened when we met—
    But still through changing years I see
    The lengthened gaze then fixed on me,
    As, thrilling with a strange surprise,
    I trembled ’neath those earnest eyes.

    I know not whence their lustre came—
    They quiver with a living flame;
    Their liquid light, like diamonds beam,
    Through ebon lashes darkly gleam,
    Or softly melt with passion’s ray,
    That chase their baleful shades away,
    Or with a hidden power control
    The strongest impulse of the soul.

    Those eyes have bent their glance on mine,
    Each hidden feeling to divine
    ’Mid love’s first dream—and love’s decay—
    Though from their gaze I turned away;
    Read every hope and timid fear,
    And smiled away the doubting tear;
    Knew all I strove not to impart—
    The weakness of my woman’s heart.

    In parting once they met mine own,
    And cold in stern reproach they shone,
    And lost the anguish of the hour
    Beneath their dark and withering power—
    The blighting sting no words can tell—
    That lurked beneath that calm farewell,
    The silent glance that left behind
    The fevered pulse and wasted mind.

    Since then, through thoughts of joy and pain.
    Those haunting eyes their spell retain,
    And silently they’ve watched me weep
    O’er lonely graves where dear ones sleep;
    But in my deepest wo’s increase
    Their beams have never whispered peace,
    Though kindly words were breathed again,
    I sought those speaking eyes in vain.

    When steeped in wo, or wild with mirth,
    The fickle, fleeting joy of earth,
    Bound to the world with reckless thrall,
    Those fated eyes have marked it all,
    And taught the lip with mocking art
    To act the tempter’s wily part,
    The soul with dreams of bliss to fill
    And gently veil the lurking ill.

    Alone!—by life’s rough storms distressed,
    Unprized, uncared for and oppressed,
    Still wert thou near with tender tone,
    That spoke of days forever gone,
    Till softened memory made thee dear,
    And half dispelled each chilling fear—
    But starting from my heart’s warm sighs
    I marked the gleaming of those eyes.

    Some demon power thy soul must bear,
    Though angel guise thy features wear,
    Arrayed in love alluring mien
    To stand my better thoughts between,
    Sin imaged form to tempt away—
    The holier hopes for which I pray—
    A watch above my heart to keep
    Till it has sunk to dreamless sleep.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       THE REVEALINGS OF A HEART.


                           BY D. T. KILBOURN.


                      (_Concluded from page 75._)

AS Arthur approached the city, the sun was sinking behind the snowy
clouds, wreathing its trail of gorgeous light around their fleecy
summits, then stretching along the blue horizon, until its brilliant
folds, resting upon the leafless trees, swept o’er the barren earth,
bathing field, mountain, air, sky and water, in one flood of golden
light. A fitting robe to herald forth the natal dawn of man’s Redeemer.

As Arthur gazed upon the beauteous scene, enhanced by the music of the
merry sleigh-bells as they glided past, and the hurrying to and fro of
gladsome faces, his heart leapt for joy, and he bounded along,
forgetting his fatigue as the sweet face of the little Amy rose before
him, radiant with smiles, at his return. He felt her little arms fondly
clinging about his neck, and her warm caress upon his cheek; and oh, how
distant seemed that pile before him, as his yearning heart leapt to her
embrace.

And then came the time when he would come to take her away. And the past
year, too, rose before him—his struggles mid scorn and reproach, to be
a man, that he might take her to his own home, and be always near her.
What cared he if they did laugh, and call him a poor _alms-house_ boy,
if one day he might always have his loved sister near him? That sister
who looked so much like their dear, dead mother. He wondered if she had
grown—and how she looked; and thus his happy heart glowed with fond
anticipations of the future.

Entering the gate, and passing rapidly round the main building, with a
beating heart, he rapped at the door of that part occupied by the
children.

A stranger ushered him in, but in a few moments Mrs. Williams stood
before him. In his joy he sprung to meet her.

“Why, Arthur, is this you? How you’ve grown! and so altered, I scarcely
know you! But who would have thought of you?”

Without noticing the last part of her speech, he cried, “Where is sister
Amy—can’t I see her?”

“Amy!—why Amy has been dead this long time!”

“Dead! dead!” cried he, grasping her hands, while from his eyes gleamed
a look of intense, imploring agony. “Oh, dear Mrs. Williams, don’t,
don’t say that Amy is dead! She’s not dead! I know she would not die and
leave me alone!”

Trying to release her hands from his tightening grasp, she cried, “Boy,
you don’t know what you’re saying! She is dead, and no fault of mine;
for, after you went away, she grieved so after you, poor thing! I tried
to do every thing I could for her, and told her you would come back. But
nothing would do—she would not eat, and looked so pitiful, that we were
all glad when she died. And you ought to be glad too, for she is much
better off. She was such a poor little delicate creature, she wasn’t fit
to be in this cold world without a mother.”

Arthur slowly relaxed his grasp, as a consciousness of his utter
loneliness came over him. Not a cry escaped his lips—not a sigh. There
he stood—his wild, tearless eyes fixed on vacancy.

“Arthur, don’t take on so, child!” said Mrs. Williams, forcing back her
tears. “She’s better off; come and see the boys”—taking his hand to
lead him away.

Again turning his fearful eyes upon her, he said, “Wont you tell me
where they have put her?”

“Oh, the snow has covered all the graves—you can’t tell hers from any
other.”

“Oh do! Mrs Williams; do, only show me where they have laid her. Lead me
to the spot, and I will never trouble you again!”

Now really affected, Mrs. Williams, after wiping her eyes, took Arthur’s
hand, and led him to the humble resting-place of the poor. Not a stone
marked the spot of their repose.

Long did Arthur gaze with that same look of wild, unutterable agony,
upon the spot which contained all to which his young heart had clung
with such fond adoration; all for which he had borne mockery and insult;
all that to him was fair, or beautiful, or loved on earth.

Turning to Mrs. Williams, in a hollow voice, he asked, “Why has God
taken my sister from me?”

“Because she would be better off, Arthur.”

“Why did he not take me, too? _I_ would be better off in the still
grave.”

“It is wicked to say such things, Arthur.”

“Why wicked?” asked he, with an inquiring look.

“Because, God will be angry with you.”

“He is angry with me already,” murmured he, turning from the spot.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The heavy clock told the hour of midnight; silence hung heavily over the
slumbering earth. In a small room sat Arthur. The look of agony had
settled down into one of calm, hopeless misery. And as he gazed upon the
stars, his guardian angel hovered near—no smile played round its
radiant face, but tear-drops sparkled in its eyes. Around his brow
glowed the beings of intellect; some, in their flight, mounted toward
those shining orbs, while others floated near to earth, as if in search
of something, they knew not what. Love, too, was there, followed by the
bright beings of adoration. To and fro they moved, apparently without an
aim; while the ministers of flesh poured incense on unhallowed altars,
to obscure their vision and lure them to earth.

A hand was laid upon his shoulder—he started.

“Come, Arthur, come to bed. I cannot sleep while you sit here,” was said
by a boy, apparently several years his senior, who had arisen from a bed
in the room. But finding Arthur still immovable, he continued, “Don’t
mind them, Arthur—I would not mind what they say. The whole crew have
about as much sense as their _Poodle_, on which the entire stock of
their susceptibilities seems expended. And to hear the rascally old
fellow threaten to flog you, after making such a fuss to get you back.
But that’s the old woman’s fault, because the poor old gentleman, in his
perturbation at your disappearance, sat down on her ‘sweet Adonis’s
paw!’ Why, Arthur, you would have died laughing, (for I did nearly,) if
you could have heard the fuss that was raised over that miserable little
dog. But we were all glad that you had spunk enough to go to see your
sister.”

“I was not thinking of them,” interrupted Arthur—“I don’t care what
they say or do to me now.”

“Then, Arthur, wont you come and lie down?” laying his arm coaxingly
upon his shoulder.

Arthur suffered himself passively to be led to bed, after which, Dick
continued. “I suppose, when the old woman broke her word with you, after
you had saved the life of her child, she thought _she_ had a particular
license to lie! And the old man, too, when he tells me to say that I am
selling things ‘under cost,’ while he is getting a good profit on them.
So I thought, as _they_ are good _church-going_ people, there could be
no possible harm, in a poor _dog_ like myself, following their example.
And when they asked me where you were gone, I would not say what you had
told me to, for I thought it better you should get the start of them; so
I told them I did not know,” and with this Dick fell asleep, leaving
Arthur to his own melancholy reflections.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Spring again appeared in all her loveliness. The full-orbed moon rode
above on her chariot of clouds, now smiling upon the tranquil earth, now
veiling her face in their misty folds. And as her smiles beamed forth,
they shone through a window upon a bunch of drooping violets.

The little flower-spirit awakened, beheld before it the child of yore;
but oh, how changed! That brow, though still so beautifully fair, had
lost the halo of its purity. The brilliant beings of the mind, pluming
their pinions to the distant spheres, were dragged to earth. Love, too,
with the bright beings that adore, was bound, but a rosy light played
round its fetters, while ministers of flesh were tracing, with barbed
arrows, dark, fearful characters upon the throbbing heart. The angel’s
face was veiled, but sorrowful supplications still went up to heaven.

The boy started from his feverish slumbers, and looked fearfully around.
Awakening his companion, he cried, “Dick! Dick! do wake up! Oh, I have
had such horrible dreams I cannot sleep! Oh, this weight upon my heart
will kill me! I cannot deceive Mr. Buckler any longer—I must go tell
him all, or my heart will break.”

“Go, and be kicked away as a _poor alms-house boy_ for your pains.”

“I cannot help it, Dick. I’d rather be called any thing, bear any thing,
than feel this weight upon my heart. Before this I could feel that my
mother and sister were near me; but now that I am guilty of wrong, they
are gone, and every thing is so awful!”

“Oh, Arthur, you have had the _nightmare_, and are frightened.”

“There was a time, Dick, that I knew not fear. I was a very small boy,
then. But if there were nothing else, Dick, to meet Mr. Buckler and
_feel_ that I have deceived him, when he has reposed so much confidence
in me!”

“Arthur, if you _peach_, you know that I shall be sent away in disgrace,
and it would break my poor father’s heart—that father who was so kind
to you; who took you home and saved you from perishing of cold. ’Twas
but little, ’tis true, that he did, but that little was much to you.”

Arthur groaned. After a few moments, he continued, “Dick, do you never
feel unhappy when you have done wrong?”

“Yes, I used to be as chicken-hearted as you when I first came here; but
now that I see that every one’s for himself, and that a man is respected
for his _cloth_, not his worth, I try to shake off such feelings. But I
cannot always banish them when I think of my father and mother.”

“Let us go to Mr. Buckler, Dick, and tell him all—I know that he will
forgive us.”

“The old flint! I know him too well for that. But, Arthur, if you want
to _peach_, you may.”

“On no, Dick, you know I would not do that; but, if you will only
consent.”

“But what have I done, after all, only taken a little of my own!”

“Your own, Dick—how so?”

“Why, don’t we do as much as the old man; and if right’s right, is it
not as much ours as his?”

“Oh no, Dick—not as long as we gain it for him and not for ourselves.”

“But what have you done, Arthur? Why you only saw me go to the
money-drawer, and said you knew nothing about it. That’s no deception,
Arthur.”

“But it is, Dick.”

“Well, if that will satisfy you, I will promise not to be guilty of the
like again.”

“But will you likewise promise not to go into that company again? I went
with you, because I was so unhappy at home. And you were the son of one
who had been kind to me, and I loved you for it; and after Amy died, I
no longer felt a motive for wishing to become a great or a good man; but
I feel to-night as if I should have been happier if I had never gone
with you.”

Dick was asleep. He knew that Arthur would not expose him. His parent’s
kindness sunk so deeply into his grateful heart, that it seemed to give
their son a talismanic power over the unhappy boy, to govern him at
will.

Again ’twas evening, and the little flower-spirit, cradled in the pearly
folds of a pure snow-drop, looked from its lovely bed. There sat Arthur.
Beside him glimmered the midnight lamp; his dark, full eyes were fixed
intently upon the pages of a book, on which, spread by the ministers of
earth, shone a glittering banquet. The _name_ of Love was there—aye,
and the counterfeit of its bright plumage, too, which threw a hue of
beauty o’er the scene. This, the master of the feast, (to fix its spell
on the unwary reader,) had deified as the radiant vision sent from high
Heaven. And the bright beings of his soul caught greedily the tempting
viands, as the food for which they sighed. But, as the poison mingled
through their veins, their pinions flagged—the Passions threw their
hateful coils around, binding them closer, tighter still to earth. And
yet, upon that _title-page_ there shone the name of one called _great_
on earth.

And the little flower-spirit asked the weeping guardian, why he was
called great! since the sole object for which he had labored, was to
subject the bright beings of the soul to the groveling ones of flesh.

“He is great and god-like in his _powers_,” replied the angel. “This,
men see—and as he garnishes his viands with the counterfeit of love,
their dazzled vision penetrates not the indignity he offers. And, oh,
when a being thus armed with the panoply of the archangel, sent forth
with powers to unseal the book of knowledge to the starving spirits of
the mind, that they, gazing upon its effulgent pages, may drink in the
glory, light and love of Deity! When such a being not only immolates
this power-divine upon earth’s altars, but, seizing thence unhallowed
incense, wafts it forth, a _poison_ to the young, confiding soul—a cry
of agony mounts up to heaven, that echoes through the mazes of
eternity.”

The door opened, and Dick entered. “What, Arthur, you up still! Why do
you shut yourself up in this confined room, poring over books, while
there is so much fun in life! You don’t know how much you’ve lost. There
was a splendid party at Mrs. M.’s this evening, and the ladies were
really quite displeased with me for not bringing you along. Why, Arthur,
you are getting to be quite a _Lion_! To tell the truth, I am jealous of
you; and yet I shall not, after this, dare to show my face any where,
unaccompanied by your beautiful self, for fear of getting no reception
at all. I’m half sorry that I persuaded you to go to Mrs. Bailey’s ball,
since you seem destined to eclipse me every where. Still, I could not
bear to see you sit here moping, night after night, and month after
month, all alone. But, ah, ha! Mr. Arthur! I see your time’s not all
spent in dreaming, either! May I ask, of what fair damsel that is a
memento?” pointing to the snow-drop.

Arthur had raised his eyes from his book, and was listening with pleased
attention to the rattle of his friend; but at the mention of the
snow-drop, the smile fled from his parted lips. Taking the little flower
and gazing upon it, in melancholy accents, he said, “’Twas Amy’s
favorite—and it is so like her sweet self, that I love to have it near
me. The violet, too, I never meet one but I pluck it; to me it is as if
her own blue eyes were mirrored in its little petals.”

“Oh, Arthur, you must not think of her—it always makes you melancholy;
and she has been dead now so long.”

“The thoughts of my mother and sister, Dick, are the only things that
really give me any pleasure; and could I once believe that their sweet
spirits could die, I would, without hesitation, subscribe to the
opinions of Voltaire.”

“Well, Arthur, I don’t trouble myself about any thing of the kind, as
you well know—and you must not. Live and enjoy life while you can, is
my motto. I have promised to take you to Mrs. G.’s, and you must go—so
come, let’s to bed.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Time sped. The sun had sunk to its ocean-bed; the dark clouds, one by
one, rode forth, until their threatening hosts o’erspread the vault of
heaven. And the sullen murmur of the ebon deep, as it heaved to and fro
its struggling waters, all bespoke the coming strife of elements.

Upon the bosom of that troubled deep, there rode a frail, lone vessel,
with white sails furled, like the wild bird of storm. And as the heavy
thunder boomed o’er the mighty sea, and lurid lightnings, darting from
cloud to cloud, lit up the awful scene, there stood upon that vessel’s
deck, a human form. His arms were folded on his breast—his head bared
to the blast that whistled through his massy locks—his dark eyes fixed,
without dismay, upon the forms of wrath, as they contended in their
mortal hate. And as the winds swept by, making the light vessel leap and
plunge upon its foamy bed, while the bursting din and scathing glare,
made the heart of the rude sailor quake with fear; and as the ghastly
hue spread o’er his pallid face, he murmured, “On, on, ye raging
elements! ye ne’er can equal the war within this heart. I love your
horrid music, ’tis soothing to my reeling brain! Once I feared you.
Then, oh then, this heart was like the summer-lake—but that is long,
long past. Oh, visions of happiness, why will ye rise before me, in
mockery of my wo! Then, there was a heart to love me—to counsel me when
I was wrong! but now, a wretch, a lone outcast, and stained with vile
ingratitude—a forger! Accursed beauty! fatal friendship! How have the
powers of Hell been leagued against me since that fatal night, when she,
my mother, died of cold and want! Tell me of a God—there is no God! Yet
why this bitter, burning, deep remorse! If there’s a God—then I’m an
outcast, and have been from my infancy. But oh, what were the pains I
suffered then, of separation, loneliness, contempt, to those which now
devour my heart! And if there is a hell—its pains were bliss to these!”

A week had passed. The same strange being stood at the corner of a dark,
deserted street, in the city of ——. No longer a look of proud despair
flashed from his eyes; but want and suffering sat upon his pale, wan
features. This noble form was bowed, and from his starting eyes there
gleamed, bitter, heart-rending misery.

Two days had he sought employment, and sought in vain. There he stood,
without a home—without food—without shelter. Beg he could not. A step
is heard—a horrid thought darts through his brain; despair nerves him,
and, as the unknown passes, he demands his money. The stranger
resists—with one stroke of his powerful arm, he fells him to the
earth—rifles him of his purse—and fleeing, leaves him for dead.

Reader, now we have witnessed the last step to ruin of the miserable
young man. Why follow him in his downward career? Why enter with him
into the abodes of vice and infamy? Why present the blackened picture to
the mind of innocence? The guilty can imagine it but too well.

                 *        *        *        *        *

For a moment Ellen seemed transfixed to the spot whereon she stood. “I
think it is all over with him,” said the woman, who had followed her to
the bed-side.

Ellen, stooping, took one of the cold hands that lay upon the coverlid,
and pressing her fingers to his pulse, discovered by its faint, slow
movement, that the soul yet lingered this side the portals of eternity.

Kneeling, she breathed one intense, imploring supplication, which,
caught by the listening angels, was on wings of rapture borne to the
throne of Grace.

Rising, she said to the woman, who stood gazing wonderingly upon
her—“Where is the clergyman who belongs to this institution?”

“Oh! madam, he’s gone a traveling after his health!”

“And the physicians?”

“If it’s the doctors you mean, ma’am, _they_ gave him up long ago.”

At this moment Mr. Norton, who had been conversing aside with Mr.
Barker, entered.

“Ellen, my child, you here!” And seeing her gaze intently fixed upon the
corpse-like form before her, he looked inquiringly upon Mr. Barker, who
said,

“Oh, the poor fellow! he’s gone then—I don’t know that I ever pitied
any one so much in my life. He appears to have seen better days.”

“Has he no friends?” asked Ellen.

“We do not know,” was the reply. “He was picked up in the street, almost
frozen to death, about six months ago—and has been, until about three
weeks since, confined in one of the cells. He raves a great deal about
his mother, who, as he seems to suppose, was frozen to death—and a
sister—and appears to be one of those maniacs who fancy all kinds of
demons pursuing them. But, poor fellow! it’s all over with him now.”

“He is not dead,” said Ellen, “his pulse moves!” And as she again
stooped to take his hand his lids raised, and his large ghastly eyes
bent full upon her. Involuntarily laying her hand upon his marble brow,
she said in sweet tones of sympathy, while the tears filled her
eyes—“You are better now.”

Shrinking from her touch, while a lurid glare momentarily fired his
eyes, in a hoarse whisper he said—

“Don’t, don’t come near me! They will drag you down to this horrible
place where they have me. Don’t you see how their eye-balls glare at
you!”

“They can’t hurt us,” said Ellen, in soothing accents—“and we have come
to take you from them!” And calling for some cold water, she seated
herself by his bed, and commenced bathing his temples.

“You are an angel,” murmured the poor maniac, gazing wildly upon her.
“My mother, did she send you to release me? And Amy!”

“They are all happy,” said Ellen, following the poor creature’s
vagaries, “and you shall be happy too! God will send away those demons
from you.”

“Is there a God?” murmured he, a ray of reason for one moment, seeming
to dart across his brain.

“It was he who sent us to you,” answered she.

“Sweet angel! can you give me tears to quench this raging fire?” he
said, laying his hand upon his heart, “naught but tears can do it! They
took them all away when Amy died.” Here nature yielded, and he sank
exhausted.

The purity of Ellen’s heart threw around her every act a halo of beauty;
and Mr. Barker, who had been accustomed to see the fair ones of earth
shrinking with horror and disgust from the poor fettered wretch deprived
of reason, thought, as he gazed on Ellen as she knelt beside the unhappy
sufferer and bathed his temples, that she was indeed an angel! And she
had risen and spoken to him the second time, ere he was conscious of
being addressed.

“Mr. Barker,” she continued, without noticing his embarrassment, “cannot
this poor man be removed to a more comfortable apartment? I am sure that
he is perfectly harmless!” Seeing him hesitate, she continued—“Or, at
least, till he can be removed to the insane hospital.”

“I will consult Dr. L.,” and he turned to retire, when Lucy entered
accompanied by that gentleman.

“Oh, papa, I could not think what had become of you and Ellen—I waited
till my patience was quite exhausted, when meeting Doctor L. I taxed his
gallantry to help me find you.”

“We are very glad, cousin, that you have brought the doctor hither,”
said Ellen, “for Mr. Barker was just going in search of him, to see if
this poor man cannot be removed to a more comfortable apartment in the
main-building.”

“I thought the poor fellow dead. He was sinking very fast two days ago.”

“And have you not seen him since?” asked Ellen in surprise.

“Oh, no! I think the sooner such people die the better. They have no
enjoyment themselves, and are a burden to others. And as to his being
removed to the main-building, a raging maniac—that cannot be thought
of.”

“I do not see,” persisted Ellen, “what objection can possibly be urged
to removing a dying man to a comfortable room, even if he be a raging
maniac.”

“Really! Miss Lincoln,” said Doctor L. with a meaning smile, “you seem
to have taken a very deep interest in the handsome stranger.”

Ellen raised her full eyes upon him, and while a smile of pitying
contempt cradled about her mouth, said calmly—“The suffering, doctor,
always excite the sympathies of the _humane_, and I trust I am of that
class.”

And turning to the unconscious sufferer, she continued bathing his
wrists and temples, as if to hide her emotion, while a tear trembled
upon her downcast lids.

“Let us go from here, Cousin Ellen,” whispered Lucy, “we can do the poor
man no good.”

“Dear Lucy,” said Ellen rising, “I cannot go and leave this poor
creature without a soul near him in his last moments—and this good
woman tells me that he has been pleading for some one to pray for him,
which proves that reason has, at times, resumed her throne. And if uncle
will consent, I will remain here, while Mr. Barker sends for the Rev.
Mr. P., whose ear is ever open to the call of distress.”

“But, Ellen, it is growing late, and you will be subject to remark.”

“Lucy,” she continued, “it is well to regard the world’s opinion when it
combats not with duty, but if the world remark unjustly, when I do my
duty, be it even so. But what say you, uncle, shall I not stay?”

“Ellen, my child,” said Mr. Norton, “I think with Lucy, you had better
not stay.”

“Oh! uncle,” cried Ellen, her eyes filling with tears, “think, for one
moment, if this were your own son. Think if it were Lucy or myself,
dying alone, without one being to pity, or hand a drop of cold water to
soothe the parched lips—and in its last agonies, when the poor soul is
about to take its flight, perhaps to the presence of an offended God,
without one sympathizing soul to breathe a prayer for mercy!” And here,
overcome by her feelings, she bowed her head upon his arm and wept.

“My noble girl!” said Mr. Norton, folding her to his heart, “you shall
not only stay, but Lucy and myself will stay with you.”

At length, raising her head, she said—“This place, uncle, is cold and
damp, and would, I fear, increase your rheumatism—and Cousin Lucy, you
know, dear uncle, is not strong; and I fear his sufferings might affect
her too sensibly. But I am well and healthy, and if you will send nurse
and John to me, I will watch here to-night, if Mr. Barker will permit.”

“You shall send for no one,” said Mr. Barker, much affected. “Mary and
myself will share your labors. You have taught us our duty, Miss
Lincoln.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

As a fragrant honeysuckle raised its tiny head to the soft caress of the
dewy night winds, a rude blast swept it from its trellised home, through
an open window, until caught in the ample folds of a snowy curtain.

The unbidden breeze extinguished a flickering light, rousing the nurse
from her recumbent position beside a couch whereon reposed a pale
unconscious form. Re-lighting the taper, she advanced to close the
window, and hastily throwing aside the curtain, the little floweret
found a resting-place below, upon the bosom of a sweet bouquet formed of
its beauteous sisters. And, as the little flower-spirit gazed upon the
sleeper’s form, the same mysterious atmosphere was there that erst had
hovered round the fairy child, but greatly changed.

No longer basked in golden beams the brilliant beings of the mind, nor
those of flesh wove chains; but with each other waged a mortal strife.
Among the latter might another form be seen, grim, shadowy, and severe.
Within his hand a barbed shaft he bore, and whatsoever it rested on was
rendered powerless. Above, far in the hazy atmosphere, there shone a
radiant light! mysteriously beautiful and fair it seemed; too pure for
earth’s conception—and there was seen an angel form bearing a golden
vessel.

And the little spirit asked the angel guide, who with uplifted pinions,
looks of love, and rapturous adoration, gazed on that glorious
vision—what these things meant.

“Yon radiant vision is the cause of all you see. It is the soul’s true
aliment—the emanations of a dying Saviour’s love, reflected from the
noble hearts of those who have so prayerfully watched around the
sufferer’s couch. This, the bright spirits of the soul perceive, and
strive to free themselves from earth’s dull chains, to plume their
pinions to yon glorious light.

“The grim and shadowy form you see moving amid the ministers of flesh,
is fell Disease, offspring of laws transgressed—the direst fee and
curse of earthly life. Already have the ministers of flesh felt his
barbed shaft—and this it is, that sunk that noble form so low and
powerless.

“That angel bright, bearing a golden vessel, is hither drawn from
Calvary’s mount, by the united efforts, prayers, and tears of those who,
weariless, have at the Throne of Grace implored that soul’s release. He
bears the purifying fount of Love, to wash and cleanse that blackened,
tainted heart from every trace of sin—nearer it must not, _cannot_
come, until _his will_ shall plead.”

The spirit of flowers turned to the sleeper. His large eyes raised—one
deep, imploring gaze—and then his hands were tightly clasped in earnest
supplication! A cry of joy ecstatic burst from the angel-guide, ascended
heavenward, and caused the seraphs round the Lamb’s pure throne to tune
their harps anew!

Heavy, convulsive sobs burst from the bosom of the penitent; and as the
watcher raised his head, the light of heaven played around his
brow—while from his heaving heart was washed away the name, with every
blackened trace of sin! But still, at times, dim shadows flitted past,
shading the lustre of its purity. And the little spirit asked, in much
surprise, why this should be?

“These are _regrets_,” the angel said, “shadowed from wings of _memory_,
as she flits o’er the past. On earth these ne’er can be effaced.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was a beautiful morning in autumn. The mellow, golden light of an
Indian summer shed its soft rays over the pensive earth, as arrayed in
her magnificent robe of a thousand varied hues, she seemed to cling with
fond remembrance to departed joys, while with melancholy repose she
awaited the chilling approach of the stern and rigid form of winter.

Her sweet breath, wafted by gentle zephyrs through an open casement,
filling the apartment, and kissing the pale, sad features of a beautiful
invalid, as wrapped in a morning-dress, resting in a large easy-chair,
his head supported by snowy pillows, he gazed thoughtfully upon the
winding river as it flowed beneath, not a ripple resting upon its placid
surface, save, ever and anon, when some fairy sailboat moved gracefully
along, reflecting the bright sunbeams from its dazzling sails. At last,
raising his eyes to the benevolent countenance of a matron, whose plain,
neat attire, and light cautious movement, bespoke the office of nurse,
he said—

“Is it not time for some of Mr. Norton’s family to be here?”

“I saw the carriage stop, sir, a short time since, below the hill, and
some persons get out. I think the ladies,” she replied. A rap upon the
door, and Mr. Norton entered.

The invalid reached forth his emaciated hand, while a smile of pleasure
lit up his features. Grasping it warmly within his own, Mr. Norton
said—

“I am delighted to see you so much better, Mr. Edridge. Dr. Warner tells
me, if this fine weather continues, we may take you home with
us—although, I don’t know that you will thank me for carrying you away
from this beautiful place, for every time I ascend this hill and breathe
its pure atmosphere, I feel like a young man again. It is, indeed, a
delightful situation, just the place for a hospital.”

Tears filled the dark eyes of the invalid, as returning the pressure of
Mr. Norton, he said—“Kindness such as has been bestowed upon an object
as unworthy as myself, Heaven alone can repay. Could I once have
received but one ray, I should not now have to mourn over misspent time
and degraded talents.”

“Oh, don’t think of the past,” interrupted Mr. Norton, “you have many
long years of usefulness yet before you. You must not be sad. I left
Ellen and Lucy at the foot of the hill to gather flowers, they preferred
ascending on foot—but here they are, and they must cheer you.”

At this moment nurse ushered them in; and as the former approached, an
expression of holy joy irradiated his noble features, as with extended
hand, she said—“Mr. Edridge—well then, Arthur if you will—we are,
indeed, pleased to see you so much better.”

“But he seems to have a slight touch of the _blues_! You must not let
that be, girls,” said Mr. Norton, laughingly.

“Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy, with a merry smile, “if you did not know it
before, you certainly will learn by this,” (presenting him a bouquet of
gay wild flowers,) “that I am an inveterate enemy to every thing of a
sombre hue.”

“And myself, also,” responded Ellen.

“Miss Lincoln,” he continued, with a still deeper tone of sadness, “if
you had the same power to renew the wasted energies of the mind, and
blot out from the pages of memory the dark characters of the past, as
you seem to possess, to lead the rebellious, blackened heart to the
fount of purifying Love, no gleam but that of joy, should ever emanate
from my grateful heart.”

“Don’t say _I_, Mr. Edridge, but the humble, holy man who led you to a
Saviour’s arms.”

“I do not know which had the greater influence, Miss Lincoln—your
sympathy—your earnest pleadings to remain with a poor abandoned wretch
in that loathsome room, to soothe his dying agonies, who conscious, yet
powerless, listened in wonder—your prayerful watchfulness during that
awful night, amid ravings of despair and cries for mercy, intermingled
with the yells of the chained maniacs; or the unwearied kindness and
holy teachings of the Rev. Mr. P. If one led me to this fount, the other
had created in my soul a thirst for its purifying waters. From the
moment you first knelt beside my couch, a new light seemed to dawn upon
my darkened soul, though at first faint and indistinct, and this
morning, as I gaze upon this beautiful landscape, all, all comes up so
vividly before my mental vision, accompanied with the sad picture of my
wasted time and degraded powers, that, although it may give you pain, I
cannot deny myself the pleasure of some slight expression of gratitude,
even though shaded by my own sombre reflections. Oh! could I but regain
my lost health and strength, how would I labor to show forth the love,
mercy, and wisdom of the glorious Being whom I have so blasphemed. Then,
Miss Lincoln, would you see that your sympathies and kindness have not
been thrown away.”

“Resignation to the will of Heaven,” said Ellen, endeavoring to regain
her wonted composure, “has power, if not to obliterate the dark
characters upon the pages of memory, to take from them their
bitterness.”

“That you have yet to teach me, Miss Lincoln,” said he with a melancholy
smile.

“_I_ shall teach, Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy laughingly, (perceiving the
embarrassment of her cousin, and wishing to relieve her from the
conversation,) “that when I present to you a bouquet, you are not to
pull it to pieces.”

Arthur smiled, and commenced re-arranging the scattered flowers. While
the little flower-spirit saw his bright guardian, now radiant with
heavenly smiles, hovering near. In its hand it bore a chalice, from
which it poured sweet odors upon the pure heart of the noble Ellen.

                 *        *        *        *        *

’Twas midnight—every sound was hushed. The earth lay slumbering in her
fleecy robe of white. The diamond-gemmed trees, the tall spires, and the
distant hills, all reflected back the smiles of the queen of night, as
she rode majestically above, presenting a scene of enchanting
loveliness.

In an elegant apartment, reposed a little flower-spirit upon the soft
bosom of the lily of the Nile. The same strange, delicious music filled
the atmosphere, that erst had burst from cherub choir that hovered round
the sleeping babe—save that its strains were louder, more triumphant.

Forth floated the little flower-spirit. There lay upon a couch, round
which gathered weeping friends, a form of manly beauty. The ministers of
earth lay cold and lifeless—their work was done. The bright beings of
Intellect and Adoration rested upon the shadowy pinions of the celestial
guardian—while _Love_ floated in the ethereal beams of other worlds
reflected from the golden wreaths of light, encircling the snowy brows
of a seraph band, upon which the full dark eyes of the dying man were
fixed; while far above, beyond the deep blue vaults, there burst forth
strains of sublime, entrancing melody—as if the revolving spheres had
joined the joyous anthem that echoed round the throne of God—a soul
redeemed.

“Arthur, are you willing to die, are you happy?” whispered a sobbing
voice, while a pearly tear fell upon his brow.

“Oh, joy inconceivable! Happiness that mortals ne’er can know! But
see’st thou that bright seraph? It is Amy—her arms stretched forth to
meet me. And my mother—she is pouring blessings on thy head! Ellen,
sister—friends farewell—we meet again.”

And as they grasped his icy hands, the spirit freed, was borne upon the
rapturous wings of the awaiting angels to the realms of bliss.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Dear Ellen,” said Lucy, as they were seated together one pleasant morn,
“why did you refuse the hand of Dr. Warner? I am sure he is talented,
pious, and every thing one’s heart could wish. Then, you know, he loves
you for your own worth, and not your wealth, for he has enough of that
already.”

“What makes you suppose that I have refused him, coz?” said Ellen, a
bright blush suffusing her cheek.

“Simply, appearances. As you say _such_ secrets should not be revealed,
I do not expect to get much information from yourself,” was Lucy’s
reply. “But, in the first place, there used to be a peculiar looking
bouquet sent here every morning for Miss Lincoln—then papa’s consent
was asked! And lastly, he is among the missing, bouquets and all.”

“Really, Lucy!” said Ellen laughing, “you form very rapid conclusions.”

“But not always unjust ones,” she persisted.

“Well then, Lucy, if you will have it so, suppose I did refuse the hand
of Dr. Warner; it was simply, that I neither wish nor intend to marry.”

“Do not intend to marry, cousin!” said Lucy, laying down her work.

“Why, coz!” said Ellen smiling, “you seem surprised.”

“Cousin Ellen,” continued Lucy, in a more serious tone, “I wish to ask
you another question—will you answer me candidly?”

“Certainly,” said Ellen, “if it be in my power.”

“Then Ellen, did you love the beautiful penitent?”

“Arthur! Lucy. What could have induced you to ask such a question?”

“I have two reasons. The one, because the world says so. The other,
because I was half in love with him myself, before he became so
etherial.”

“The world says so,” responded Ellen.

“Yes, it says that you fell violently in love with his handsome face at
the alms-house; then, afterwards, had him removed to the insane
hospital, where he remained at your expense, (though papa did pay the
bills!) and since his death, that you have formed the resolution to
devote your life to _single_ blessedness.”

Here Ellen burst into a peal of merry laughter “Dr. L. must have
reported that story. Poor fellow! his soul is so given to earth, that he
cannot conceive one idea above it—and it is but natural that he should
form such conclusions. But to be serious, Lucy,” continued she, a sad
smile lighting up her expressive countenance, “I never felt for Arthur
one ray of earthly love! What I did for him at the alms-house, I would
have done as you well know, and would still do, for the most hideous
wretch who possesses an immortal soul. His deep contrition, and early
history, made me feel for him the love of a sister for an erring, but
penitent brother; but, to say that his uncommon beauty, and superior
powers of mind, did not heighten that interest would be false. We are
all formed to love what is beautiful and sublime, and I know of nothing
more beautiful, than beautiful features lit up by purity of heart—or
more God-like and sublime, than great powers of mind rightly directed;
for, even when fallen and degraded from their high estate, we cannot
divest them of interest. And when he came to reside with us, his pious
resignation under suffering, and his deep absorbing love for our blessed
Saviour, made me feel as in the presence of a pure spirit! and as such,
I loved him. And now, every spot that he loved—every flower which he
cherished—the room in which he died—all have to me a holy charm!”

“Is this a new resolution, cousin?” said Lucy, after a pause; “or do you
suppose yourself incapable of feeling any attachment for Dr. Warner?”

“No, Lucy, the resolution was formed long since. And as for my
affections, were I to permit them to rest upon an object as worthy as
he, I doubt not they would cling to it—as the heart must cling to
something.”

“You speak of permission, Cousin Ellen. Do you think we have any power
over our affections?”

“Certainly, Lucy. It is the greatest insult to reason to suppose
otherwise. For why are we punishable for misplaced affections, if we
have no power to govern those affections? As I said before, we are
created to love all that is lovely, pure, and noble; and if the heart
turns to aught else, it arises, not from the laws of the Deity, but from
the transgression of those laws.”

“Then, cousin,” said Lucy, “if the heart is formed to love all that is
good and noble, why do you speak of not permitting your affections to
rest upon a worthy object—since they would naturally cling to it?”

“Dear Lucy,” answered she, her pure countenance radiating with an
expression of heavenly beauty, “there is a higher and holier object of
love than is found on earth, and to which all human affections should be
subservient—the love for a crucified Redeemer! In possessing this, we
love all that his eternal Father has created—all for whom that Saviour
died.”

“Then do you mean to say, Cousin Ellen, that in order to make ourselves
acceptable in the sight of Heaven, we must all devote ourselves to a
life of single-blessedness?”

“Far from it, dear Lucy. Matrimony as instituted by God, and blessed by
the presence of his divine Son, can but be holy, and consequently
acceptable. But since, dear Lucy, we have seen the ‘Revealings of a
Heart,’ I feel that there could be so much misery relieved—so many
hearts gained for Heaven, by a knowledge of _self_, and the perfections
of the Deity—not taught in dry, dogmatical truths, addressed only to
the reason, but in words and acts of sympathy and love, which soothe the
torn and lacerated heart, and bind in sweet captivity the young and
pure. And since, dear cousin, I feel convinced of this truth, I have
resolved to devote the fortune, together with the few talents intrusted
to my care, to the relief of the unfortunate and distressed. And the
reason _I_ do not wish to marry, is, that my duties, my affections,
would claim much of my energies, and where the force is weak, dear coz,
you know that it were better not divided.”

“My dear, my noble cousin,” said Lucy, throwing her arms around her, “I
fear that I shall never understand you. It was Dr. Warner himself who
told me of his rejection. He is so good, so noble, and was so kind to
poor Arthur from the first, that I promised to intercede for him. Then
papa was anxious you should marry him; for he thinks, as he must part
with you some day, that Dr. Warner is the only person he has ever met
worthy of you. And now, dear Ellen, shall I not tell them of your noble
resolution? They must love you for it as I do!”

Ellen was silent.

At length, while a mischievous smile danced through her tears, Lucy
cried—“I wonder if _I_ wouldn’t do for the doctor! and then papa can
retain all his treasures. There he comes! I must run to tell him of this
new plan!” And away she flew to meet her father.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       FANCIES ABOUT A PORTRAIT.


                           BY S. D. ANDERSON.


    O SWEET the dreams that gather now,
      Around me with their magic power,
    The years are falling from my brow,
    And hope, and joyousness, and thou,
      Are back again with childhood’s hour.

    Thou, thou, a bright-eyed laughing girl,
      With voice as sweet as summer glee,
    And hair upon whose clustering curl
      The sunbeams rested gloriously.

    Footsteps, as light as legends tell,
      By moonlight gather on the lawn,
    Scarce shake the dew-drops from the cell
    Of some down-looking lily bell,
      That opens to the ardent dawn.

    A nature mild as summer’s cheek,
      On which the smile of beauty lingers;
    But glowing as some mountain peak,
      That’s tipt with sunlight’s dying fingers.

    And now I look far down the vale,
      Through which our weary steps have come,
    And memory tells me many a tale,
    Of hopes that perished in the gale,
      Since last we looked on home.

    I think of one around whose form
      Thy arms have clung in fond caress,
    Whose bark amid the world’s wild storm
      Was guided by thy tenderness.

    And fancy brings thy home again
      Back as it was in years ago,
    The robin by the window-pane,
    Amid the woodbine pours his strain,
      In murmurs soft and low.

    The meadow, with its singing stream,
      Is stretched before the door,
    And in its crystal depths the bream
      Plays on the pebbled floor.

    I hear the songs of infancy,
      At evening, in that peaceful cot,
    And the young mother in her glee
    Echoes them back in mimicry,
      And cares and fears are all forgot.

    Love’s sunlight pours beneath that roof
      Its beams upon the path of all,
    Threading with golden hopes the woof
      Of life’s bright festival.

    But time goes on, and far away,
      Beneath another sun and sky,
    Two graves are opened, and the day
    Looks down into them mild and gay,
      With scarce a murmur or a sigh.

    And that young mother kneeling there,
      Heart-broken, desolate and lone,
    Hears nothing in that summer air
      But grief would fashion to a moan.

    Her heart is lying ’neath the flower
      She planted on that quiet sod,
    And memory with her magic power
    Goes back, at evening’s holy hour,
      With pilgrim’s staff and rod.

    One morning, when the corn was green,
     And song-birds warbled forth their glee,
    A wan and faded form was seen
      Beneath the church-yard tree.

    A pale moss rose was in her breast,
      Wet with the dew of burning tears;
    And wandering words and looks confessed
    That she, amid her wild unrest,
      Was living o’er the by-gone years.

    And thus with names she loved so well
      Still lingering on her clay-cold lips,
    Speaking affection’s fadeless spell,
      She sunk beneath death’s dark eclipse.

    This is a dream from which I start,
      And wonder if it can be so—
    For there, with ruby lips apart,
    And sunny youthfulness, thou art,
      As in those years long, long ago.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: GEN^{L}. JOSEPH WARREN.
 _Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]




                     LIFE OF GENERAL JOSEPH WARREN.


BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE,” ETC.
                               ETC. ETC.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

THIS illustrious champion of liberty was born in Roxbury, near Boston,
in the year 1741. His father was a respectable farmer, and employed much
of his time in raising fruit. He was the person that produced that
species of apple called the _Warren Russet_. The house in which his
father resided is still standing, near the centre of the village, in a
street which has received his name. One day in autumn, as he was in his
orchard, he saw an apple remaining on the top of a tree, which, by its
uncommon beauty tempted him to climb the tree to pluck it, but as he was
reaching the apple, the branch upon which he stood broke under him, and
precipitated him to the ground a lifeless corpse. His youngest son, the
late Dr. John Warren, of Boston, then four years old, who had been sent
by his mother to the orchard to call him to dinner, met the body borne
by two laborers. By this fatal accident the mother of Warren was left a
widow, with the charge of four boys, of whom the eldest, Joseph, was
then about sixteen years of age. The fidelity with which she executed
this arduous trust, is sufficiently attested by the eminent virtues and
talents of her children. She lived to a very advanced age at the house
in Roxbury, surrounded by the younger members of the family, and reaping
in their affectionate attention, the best reward for her exemplary and
maternal duties. Joseph commenced his education at the grammar-school of
Roxbury, which at that time had great celebrity from the superior
attainments of its teachers. At fourteen he entered college at Harvard,
and passed his examination with such satisfaction to his preceptors,
that drew from them expressions of surprise and admiration. The whole
term of his collegiate life was marked by a generous, independent
deportment, fine manners, with indomitable courage and perseverance.

In 1759, Warren graduated with the highest honors, and on leaving
college, signified his wish to study medicine; this was complied with by
his maternal parent, who placed him under the care of a personal friend
of his father. His professional studies were alike prosecuted with
energy and success.

At the age of twenty-three he established himself at Boston, and
commenced the practice of his profession, which he pursued with
distinguished success.

He had not been in practice more than two years when the town was
threatened with that direful disease, the small-pox, the treatment of
which was but little known at that day—it was considered the most
dreadful scourge of the human race. This disease continued to rage with
the greatest violence, baffling the skill and efforts of many of the
most learned of the faculty.

Our young practitioner soon distinguished himself by his successful
method of treating that disease, and from that moment was exalted to the
highest pinnacle of fame. He stood, week after week, untiringly by the
bed of his patient, using the necessary exertions with his own hands.
These noble and humane traits, apart from his laborious profession,
firmly attached him to the people; he stood high among his older
brethren in the profession, and his courtesy and his humanity won the
way to the hearts of all—and what he once gained he never lost.

A bright and lasting fame in his profession was now before him, whilst
wealth and influence were awaiting his grasp; his exalted talents had
secured the conquest it had always been his aim to achieve. But the
circumstances in which his beloved country was then placed necessarily
directed the attention of Warren from professional pursuits, and
concentrated it upon political affairs.

The same superiority of talents and ardor of temperament, which would
have given him an easy success in any profession, rendered him more than
ordinarily susceptible of the influences which then operated upon the
community, and threw him forward into the front rank of the asserters of
liberal principles. The fact, however, that men, like Warren, of the
finest talents, and in every respect the fairest promise, were among the
first to join in the opposition to the measures of the government, shows
sufficiently how completely the whole mind of the colonies had given
itself up to the cause, and how utterly impossible it was for the
ministry to sustain their pretensions by any power that could be brought
to bear upon the people of America.

In answer to a letter received from his late preceptor, advising him
against any action amounting to rashness, he says, “The calls of my
distracted country are paramount to every interest of my own. I
willingly leave fame and all its glories to aid in bursting the bonds of
tyranny, and giving freedom to a virtuous people.” And in another letter
to a friend, who had remonstrated with him on the same cause, he says,
“It is the united voice of America to preserve their freedom or lose
their lives in defense of it; their resolutions are not the effects of
inconsiderate rashness, but the sound result of sober inquiry and
deliberation. I am convinced that the true spirit of liberty was never
so universally diffused through all ranks and orders of people in any
country on the face of the earth, as it is now through all North
America.”

No sooner were Warren’s intentions made known, than he was appointed
surgeon-general of the army.

At the time of Warren’s appointment, the conclusion of the definitive
treaty of peace, which terminated the French war took place, and from
that period to the battles of Lexington and Bunker’s Hill, eleven years
intervened, which period was filled up by a succession of interesting
events, many of which occurred in the vicinity of Boston.

The Stamp Act; the tumults which followed it; its repeal; the Tea Act;
the troubles which attended its enforcement, and which terminated in the
celebrated Boston _Tea Party_; the military occupation of Boston by the
British army; the hostile encounters that occurred so frequently between
the troops and the citizens, including the fatal events of the 5th
March, 1770; these occurrences, with various others of less importance,
were the preludes to the tragedies of the 19th April and 17th June,
1775. In adverting to one or two of these occasions, it will be seen
that General Warren was the leading spirit of the colony during the
eleven years before mentioned.

Mr. Everett, in his biography of this distinguished officer, says, “The
great authority and influence which Warren exercised over his fellow
citizens, evidently show that he combined in a remarkable degree the
qualities requisite for excellence in civil pursuits, with a strong
taste and aptitude for war. In this particular he stood alone among the
leading patriots of Massachusetts; this, had his valuable life been
prolonged, would have contributed very much to establish and extend his
political influence.

He also possessed, in high perfection, the gift of eloquence, and in
exercising it, he is represented as having exhibited the discretion
which in all respects tempered so honorably the ardor of his character!

His voice was often raised in public, for the purpose of dissuading the
people from tumultuous movements, and exhorting them to seek redress for
their wrongs, as much as possible, according to the forms of law, and
without detriment to the rights of individuals, or a breach of the
public peace. The daily riots, which followed the attempt to enforce the
new revenue laws at Boston, produced, as must have been expected, the
military occupation of the town by British troops.

In the year 1768, two regiments from Halifax, and two from Ireland,
making together nearly four thousand men, were ordered to be stationed
at Boston, under the command of General Gage, an officer who had
honorably distinguished himself in the preceding French war. This gave
great dissatisfaction to the inhabitants, and the general found great
difficulty in erecting barracks for their accommodations, and
consequently hired houses for the greatest part, and the remainder were
quartered in tents upon the common.

This military occupation of Boston led to continual animosity between
the soldiers and the citizens. In these very frequently the latter were
in the wrong, which was certainly the fact on the tragical 5th of March,
1770.

On the evening of that day, while the soldiers were on guard at the
Custom House, King Street, now State Street, a mob of citizens, armed
with every description of weapons, insulted, and finally assaulted them.
The guard exhibited great forbearance, until one of their number had
been actually knocked down by one of the mob, and ill-treated; they then
precipitately fired and killed three persons on the spot, and wounded
two others. So satisfied were the patriots that the citizens were in the
wrong, that John Adams and Josiah Quincy volunteered their services as
counsel for Captain Preston, the commanding officer of the guard who had
been brought to trial for the offence. He was honorably acquitted. This
unhappy affair left in the bosoms of the citizens an impression that
seemed impossible to erase; and they determined to set apart that day
for an annual celebration; and it was accordingly so observed for
several years, until the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence
was finally substituted for it. On the second of these celebrations,
Samuel Adams was invited to deliver the address. He declined the task,
and it was then committed to Dr. Warren, who acquitted himself with
great ability. On another anniversary, three years afterward, he again
delivered another and last address, which, from the mutual exasperation
between the troops and the citizens, was considered rather a critical
duty. The day arrived, however, and the weather remarkably propitious;
the old South Meeting-House was the place appropriated for the delivery
of the oration, and so crowded was the building at an early hour, that
on the arrival of our young orator, there was no way of access but by
the pulpit window, which his friends effected for him by means of a
ladder. The British officers occupied the aisles, and the stairs leading
to the pulpit. Each man felt the palpitation of his own heart, and
watched the pale but determined face of of his neighbor. The speaker
began his oration in a firm tone of voice, and proceeded with great
energy and pathos.

Warren and his friends were prepared to chastise contumely, prevent
disgrace, and avenge an attempt at assassination. The scene was sublime.
A patriot in whom the flush of youth and the grace and dignity of
manhood were combined, stood armed in the holy sanctuary to animate and
encourage the sons of liberty, and to hurl defiance at their oppressors.
The orator commenced with the early history of the country, described
the tenure by which we held our liberties and property; the affection we
had constantly shown the parent country, and boldly told them how, and
by whom these blessings of life had been violated.

There was in this appeal to Britain—in this description of suffering,
agony and horror, a calm and high-souled defiance, which must have
chilled the blood of every sensible foe. Such another hour, perhaps, has
seldom happened in the history of man, and is not surpassed in the
records of nations. An able writer, commenting on the oration, says,
“The thunders of Demosthenes rolled at a distance from Philip and his
host—and Tully poured the fiercest torrent of his invective when
Catiline was far off, and his dagger no longer to be feared; but
Warren’s speech was made to proud oppressors, resting on their arms,
whose errand it was to overawe, and whose business it was to fight. If
the deed of Brutus deserved to be commemorated by history, poetry,
painting and sculpture, should not this instance of patriotism and
bravery be held in lasting remembrance? If he

    ‘That struck the foremost man of all this world,’

was hailed as the first of freemen, what honors are not due to him, who,
undismayed, bearded the British lion, to show the world what his
countrymen dared to do in the cause of liberty? If the statue of Brutus
was placed among those of the gods, who were the preservers of Roman
freedom, should not that of Warren fill a lofty niche in the temple
reared to perpetuate the remembrance of our birth as a nation?”

The late Rev. Dr. Homer, of Newton, Massachusetts, recently deceased,
who was present on this ever memorable occasion, related the following
incident, which we consider worthy a place on these pages. He says,
“while the oration was in progress, a British officer, seated on the
pulpit-stairs, raised himself up and held one of his hands before the
speaker, with several pistol-bullets on the open palm. Warren observed
the action, and without discontinuing his discourse, dropped a white
handkerchief upon the officer’s hand.”

How happy had it been for the country, if this gentle and graceful
admonition could have arrested the march of violence, and averted the
fatal presage afforded by this sinister occurrence of the future fate of
the patriotic speaker—a presage too soon and too exactly realized on
the following 17th of June. The first position of a public character in
which Dr. Warren took a part, were those which grew out of Governor
Gage’s determination to fortify the southern entrance of Boston, by
lines drawn across the isthmus or Neck, which unites it to Roxbury. On
this occasion a convention was held, of delegates from all the towns in
the county of Suffolk, which then comprehended the present county of
Norfolk, for the purpose of endeavoring to prevent this measure from
being carried into effect. Dr. Warren was a delegate to this convention,
and was made chairman of the committee which was appointed to prepare an
address to the governor upon the subject. The governor replied in a
brief and unsatisfactory manner.

The committee rejoined in another address, of greater length, which was
transmitted to the governor, to which he did not think proper to reply.
These papers were written by Warren, and give a very favorable idea of
his literary taste and talent, as well as of his courage and patriotism.
The correspondence was communicated by Dr. Warren, as chairman of the
committee, to the Continental Congress; and that body, in their reply,
notice, in terms of high approbation, the part taken in it by the
committee. The high sense, which was now entertained by his
fellow-citizens, of the value of the services of Warren to the cause of
liberty, was strikingly evinced on this occasion, first by his election
as a delegate from Boston to the Congress, and secondly, by his
designation as President of that body, and chairman of the committee of
public safety. By virtue of these situations, he united in his person
the chief responsibility for the conduct of the whole civil and military
affairs of the new commonwealth, and became a sort of popular dictator.
The Congress was organized at Salem, but shortly after removed to
Concord, and, a few days before the battle of Lexington, adjourned to
meet again at Watertown, on the 10th May, 1775. The Committee of Safety
held its meetings, at this time, in a public house at West Cambridge,
and seems to have been in session every day. It was soon apparent that
the station now occupied by Warren, in the councils of Massachusetts,
would be no sinecure. The events of the 19th of April, including the
battles of Lexington and Concord were of such a character, that no
individual could well occupy a very conspicuous position in the field.
There was no commander-in-chief, and, properly speaking, no regular
engagement or battle. The object of the British was to destroy the
military stores at Concord; that of the Americans, to prevent this, if
possible, and to show that, in this quarter of the country, every inch
of ground would be desperately contested. For the vigor and
determination which marked the conduct of the people on this important
day, it is not too much to say, that the country is mainly indebted to
the vigilance, activity and energy of Warren.

It had been the intention of the British commander to surprise the
Americans, and so severe were the precautions taken for this purpose,
that the officers employed in the expedition were only informed of it on
the preceding day. Information of a meditated attack had been, however,
for some time in possession of the Americans; the first intimation
having been given by a patriotic lady of Boston, the wife of a royalist
officer. A most vigilant observation was, in consequence, maintained
upon the movements of the British; and, in this operation, great
advantage was derived from the services of an association, composed
chiefly of Boston mechanics, which had been formed in the autumn of the
preceding year. The late Col. Paul Revere was an active member of this
society, and was employed by Dr. Warren, on this occasion, as his
principal confidential messenger. Some preparatory movements took place
among the British troops on the 15th of April, which attracted the
attention of Warren. It was known that the principal object of the
contemplated expedition was to seize the stores at Concord. Presuming
that the movement would now be made without delay, the committee of
safety took measures for securing the stores by distributing a part of
them among the neighboring towns. John Hancock and Samuel Adams were
then at the house of the Rev. Mr. Clark, in Lexington, and Colonel
Revere was dispatched as a special messenger to inform them of the
probable designs of General Gage. On his return to Boston, he made an
agreement with his friends in Charlestown, that, if the expedition
proceeded by water, two lights should be displayed on the steeple of the
North Church, if it moved over the neck, through Roxbury, only one. The
British commander finally fixed upon the 19th for the intended attempt;
and, on the evening of the 18th he sent for the officers whom he had
designated for this service, and communicated to them, for the first
time, the nature of the expedition upon which they were to be employed.
So strict had been the secrecy observed by the governor in regard to
this matter. The same discretion had not been maintained in other
quarters, for Lord Percy, who was to command the reserve, on his way
home to his lodgings, heard the expedition talked of, by a group of
citizens, at the corner of one of the streets.

He hastened back to the governor’s headquarters, and informed him that
he had been betrayed. An order was instantly issued to prevent any
American from leaving town, but it came a few minutes too late to
produce effect. Dr. Warren, who had returned in the evening from the
meeting of the Committee of Public Safety, at West Cambridge, was
already informed of the movement of the British army, and had taken the
necessary measures for spreading the intelligence through the country.
At about nine o’clock on the evening of the 18th the British troops
intended for the expedition were embarked, under the command of Colonel
Small, in boats at the bottom of the Common. Dr. Warren inspected the
embarkation in person, and having returned home immediately after, sent
for Colonel Revere, who reached his house about ten o’clock. He had
already dispatched Mr. Dawes overland as a special messenger to
Lexington, and he now requested Colonel Revere to proceed through
Charlestown on the same errand. The colonel made arrangements, in the
first place, for displaying the two lights on the steeple of the North
Church, agreeably to the understanding with his friends in Charlestown,
and then repaired to a wharf, at the north part of the town, where he
kept his boat. He was rowed over by two friends, a little to the
eastward of the British ship of war _Somerset_, which lay at anchor in
this part of the channel, and was landed on the Charlestown side.

He pursued his way through Charlestown and West Cambridge, not without
several perilous encounters with British officers, who were patroling
the neighborhood, and finally arrived safely at Lexington, where he met
the other messenger, Mr. Dawes, whom he had, however, anticipated.

After reposing a short time, they proceeded together to Concord,
alarming the whole country as they went, by literally knocking at the
door of almost every house upon the road. They had of course been in
part anticipated by the signals on the North Church steeple, which had
spread intelligence of the intended movement, with the speed of light,
through all the neighboring towns. By the effect of these well-judged
and well-executed measures, Hancock and Adams were enabled to provide in
season for their personal safety, and the whole population of the towns,
through which the British troops were to pass, were roused and on foot
before they made their appearance. On reaching Lexington Green, they
found a corps of militia under arms and prepared to meet them. At
Concord, they found another; and when, after effecting as far as they
could, the objects of their expedition, they turned their steps
homeward, they were enveloped, as it were, in a cloud of the armed
yeomanry, which thickened around them at every step, and did such
fearful execution in their ranks, that nothing but their timely meeting
with the reinforcements under Lord Percy, at West Cambridge, could have
saved them from entire disorganization and actual surrender. Colonel
Revere, many years afterward, drew up a very curious and interesting
account of his adventures on this expedition, in the form of a letter to
the corresponding secretary of the Massachusetts Historical Society,
which is printed in the Collections of that body, and is now familiar to
the public. Warren who was now in attendance on the Committee of Safety
at West Cambridge, expecting the British troops to pass that way on
their return from Concord, awaited their arrival.

On their approach he armed himself and went out in company with General
Heath to meet them.

On this occasion he displayed his usual fearlessness, by exposing his
person very freely to the fire of the enemy; and a bullet passed so near
his head, as to carry away one of the long, close, horizontal curls,
which, agreeably to the fashion of the day, he wore above his ears.

This accident was regarded by the superstitious as an ill-omen, or a
presage of an early doom that awaited him. But Warren himself, even in a
superstitious age, never yielded to such notions, his frank and generous
spirit would rather sympathize with the gallant Trojan hero, who when he
was advised to await, before he entered upon a battle, till the omens
deduced from the flight of birds should become favorable, exclaimed,
“What care I for the flight of birds, whether they take their course to
the right or to the left? I ask no better omen than to draw my sword in
the cause of my country.”

It is a remarkable fact, on examining the composition of the New England
army of 1775, how many names we find of men, either previously or
subsequently illustrious in the history of the country.

The fact is one among many other proofs, how completely the spirit of
the times had taken possession of the whole mind of the colonies, and
drawn within the sphere of its influence the most eminent professional,
political, and military characters, as well as the mass of the people.
In regard to the character of the troops, it is sufficient to say that
they were the flower and the pride of our hardy yeomanry. They were not
like the rank and file of the regular armies of Europe, the refuse of
society, enlisted in the worst haunts of crowded cities, under the
influence of a large bounty, or perhaps an inspiration of a still
inferior kind. They were, as they are correctly described by our
enemies, “the country people.”

Though generally unaccustomed to regular service, their continual
conflicts with the Indians made them expert in the use of arms. Of the
officers, who commanded in this army, Warren has been rendered, by
subsequent events, by far the most conspicuous. Prescott and Putnam,
both veterans of the former wars, occupied with him at the time, the
highest place in the confidence of the country. But, in addition to
these, there were many others whose names are not much less extensively
known throughout the world than theirs. It will not be irrelevant we
trust, to touch some of the leading characters in connection at that
time, without this, the character of him who figures in this memoir must
be incomplete. To Mr. Everett, the able historian of Warren, we are
indebted for much of the history following.

Prescott, the colonel of one of the Middlesex regiments, was the
officer, who, on the 16th of June, received the orders of the
commander-in-chief to occupy and fortify the heights of Charlestown, and
who commanded in the redoubt on the day of the battle. He was a native
of Pepperell, in the county of Middlesex, where his family, one of the
most distinguished and respected in the State, still reside during a
part of the year. Prescott inherited an ample fortune from his father;
but he seems to have possessed a natural aptitude for military pursuits,
and, at the opening of the war of 1756, he, with so many others of the
noble spirits of New England, joined the expedition against Nova Scotia,
under General Winslow, with a provincial commission. He served with such
distinction, that, after the close of the war, he was urged to accept a
commission in the British line; but he declined the honor, and preferred
returning to the paternal estate. Here he resided, occupied in the
peaceful pursuits of agriculture, and in dispensing a frank and liberal
hospitality to his neighbors, many of whom were his old companions in
arms, until the opening of the Revolution called him, already a veteran,
to the council and the field. During the progress of the battle of
Bunker’s Hill, he was frequently seen on the top of the parapet, attired
in a calico frock, with his bald head uncovered to the sun, observing
the enemy, or encouraging his men to action. Governor Gage, who, at one
of these moments, was reconnoitering the American works through a
telescope, remarked the singular appearance of Prescott, and inquired of
Willard, one of the council, who he was. “My brother-in-law Colonel
Prescott,” was the reply. “Will he fight?” returned the governor. “Ay,”
said Willard, “to the last drop of his blood.”

Putnam, another veteran of the French wars, was not less bold in action,
and equally regardless of unnecessary show and ceremony.

In the war of 1756 he commanded a company of provincial rangers, and, in
this capacity, rendered the most essential services; passing through a
series of adventures, the details of which, though resting on
unquestionable evidence, seem like a wild and extravagant fable. After
the close of the seven years’ war, Putnam returned to the plough, and
was in the act of guiding it, when he heard the news of the battle of
Lexington.

Like Cincinnatus of old, he left it in the furrow, and repaired at once
to Cambridge, though now more than sixty years of age. He was
particularly earnest, in the council of war, in recommending the measure
of fortifying Bunker’s Hill; a part of his regiment was detached for the
service, and he was present and active himself on the field, through the
night of the battle, and during the action.

Whether, as some suppose, he was charged by the Council of War with a
general superintendence of the whole affair; or whether, like Warren, he
appeared upon the field as a volunteer, is not known with certainty; for
the official record of the orders of the day is lost, and the want of it
is not supplied, for this purpose, by any other evidence.

It is certain, however, from all the accounts, that his agency in the
action was great and effectual. It may be here remarked, that the
principal British and American officers were personally known to each
other. They had served together in the French wars, and in some
instances, had contracted a close and intimate friendship.

Not long after the battle of Lexington, there was an interview at
Charlestown, between some of the officers on both sides, to regulate an
exchange of prisoners; and Governor Brooks, who was present, was
accustomed to relate that General Putnam and Major Small, of the British
army, no sooner met, than they ran into each other’s arms.

In this state of the hostile preparations of the two parties, and with
the strong feeling of mutual exasperation, which, notwithstanding
occasional instances of a different character, prevailed generally
between the masses of both, it was apparent, that a trial of strength on
a more extensive scale, and of a much more serious and decisive kind,
than any that had yet occurred, must soon take place.

The Americans had been for some time employed in fortifying the heights
of Charlestown, and in preparing to defend them against the enemy; the
British on their part had commenced preparing for an attack.

At an early hour in the morning, Governor Gage summoned a council of war
at the City Hall. They were all agreed as to the propriety of dislodging
the Americans from their work; but there was some difference of opinion
upon the mode of making the attack. Generals Clinton and Grant were for
landing at Charlestown Neck, and attacking the works in the rear, but
this plan was considered too hazardous.

It would place the British between two armies, one superior in force,
and the other strongly intrenched, by which they might be attacked at
once in front and rear, without the possibility of a retreat.

The plan preferred by the council was to attack the works in front.
Accordingly, at about noon, twenty-eight barges left the end of Long
Wharf, filled with the principal part of the first detachment of the
British troops, which consisted of four battalions of infantry, ten
companies of light infantry, and ten of grenadiers. They had six pieces
of artillery, one of which was placed in each of the six leading boats.

The barges formed in single file, and in two parallel lines.

The day was without a cloud, and the regular movement of this splendid
naval procession, with the glow of the brazen artillery, and the scarlet
dresses and burnished arms of the troops, exhibited to the unaccustomed
eyes of the Americans a brilliant and imposing spectacle. The barges
proceeded in good order, and landed their freight at the south-eastern
point of the peninsula, commonly called Morton’s Point. Immediately
after they had landed, it was discovered that most of the cannon-balls,
which had been brought over, were too large for the pieces, and that it
was necessary to send them back and obtain a fresh supply. A British
writer of that day gives the following ludicrous account of this blunder
of over-sized balls, he says: “This blunder arose from the dotage of an
officer of high rank, who spends all his time with school-masters’
daughters.” It seems that General Cleveland, “who,” as the same author
says, “though no Samson, must have his Delilah,” became very much in
love with the beautiful daughter of Master Lovell, and, in order to gain
favor with the damsel, had given her young brother, a mere boy, an
appointment in the ordnance department, for which he was not qualified.
His inexperience was the cause of the error, for which General Cleveland
was much censured by his commanding officer, as it created some delay
and diminished the British fire during the first two attacks. While the
British commander was preparing to send off his second detachment, the
first remained unmolested at Morton’s Point, and quietly dined from the
contents of their knapsacks. At about two o’clock, the second detachment
followed in barges to join the first at Morton’s Point, soon after a few
companies of grenadiers and light infantry, with a party of mariners,
the whole amounting to about four thousand men, who were commanded by
General Howe. He had under him General Pigot, and Colonels Nesbit,
Abercrombie, and Clark.

Such, then, were the respective forces and positions of the two armies
immediately preceding the battle. General Burgoyne, in a letter written
some days after the battle, has given a spirited sketch of the splendid
panorama, seen by the British officers from the heights at the northern
extremity of Boston. He says, “the spectacle which was exhibited at this
time by the two peninsulas and the surrounding waters, was of a highly
varied and brilliant character; for immediately below flowed the river
Charles,” (not, as now, interrupted by numerous bridges,) “pursuing a
smooth, unbroken way to the ocean. Between this and Charlestown shore,
lay at anchor, the ships of war, the _Somerset_, the _Lively_, and the
_Falcon_; and further on the left, within the bay, the _Glasgow_. Their
black and threatening hulks poured forth at every new discharge, fresh
volumes of smoke, which hung like fleecy clouds upon the air, till
cleared by the northern breezes, when the spectator could perceive on
the opposite side of the river, rising from the shore by a gentle
ascent, the sister hills of Charlestown, clothed in the green luxuriance
of the first flush of vegetation, excepting where their summits were
broken by the low and hasty works of the Americans.” While both the
armies and the assembled multitude were hushed in breathless
expectation, might be seen our gallant fathers, eagerly awaiting the
signal for the action, ready to rush to the rescue of freedom and their
country. Their homely apparel had but little to attract the eye, but
frequently, when some favorite officer made his appearance, a shout of
gratulation passed along the ranks, which showed the zeal that inspired
them for the cause. During this silent suspense, a horseman was seen
advancing at full speed toward the American works. As he crossed the
hill, General Putnam rode forward to meet him, and perceived it was
General Warren.

“General Warren!” exclaimed the veteran, “is it you? I rejoice and
regret to see you. Your life is too precious to be exposed here; but,
since you are arrived, I take your orders.”

“General Putnam, I have none to give. You have made your arrangements,
therefore proceed. I come to aid you as a volunteer. Tell me where I can
be useful.”

“Go, then,” said Putnam, “to the redoubt; you will there be covered.”

“I came not to be covered,” replied Warren, “I came to do my duty; tell
me where I shall be most in danger, and where the action will be
hottest.”

“The redoubt,” said Putnam, “will be the enemy’s object; if that can be
defended, the day is ours.”

General Warren at once hastened to the redoubt, and his approach to the
troops, who recognized him, though he wore no uniform, was welcomed with
loud acclamations. When he reached the redoubt, Colonel Prescott
requested him to give him his orders.

“No, Colonel Prescott,” he replied, “give me yours—give me a musket; I
have come here to take a lesson of a veteran soldier in the art of war.”

These particulars, including the dialogue, are given substantially, as
reported afterward by General Putnam and Colonel Prescott, and may be
depended on as authentic. General Warren was originally opposed to the
plan of fortifying the Heights of Charlestown; but when he found the
Council of War had decided in favor of it, he told them he should aid
them personally in carrying it into effect. Against this he was strongly
urged, but his resolution was immovable. Warren had officiated the
preceding day at Watertown, as President of Congress; that body being in
session there, and had passed the whole night in transacting business.

At daylight he mounted his horse, and rode to headquarters at Cambridge,
where he arrived much indisposed from fatigue; he was urged to take some
repose, which he did; but he had retired to bed but a short time, when
information was received from General Ward that the British were moving.

He rose immediately, said he was quite well, and attended the meeting of
the Committee of Safety as chairman. During this meeting, Elbridge
Gerry, who entertained the same opinion as Warren upon the prudence of
the attempt, earnestly requested him not to expose his person.

“I am aware of the danger,” replied the young and ardent soldier, “but I
should die with shame, if I were to remain at home in safety, while my
friends and fellow-citizens are shedding their blood, and hazarding
their lives in the cause.”

“Your ardent temper,” replied Gerry, “will carry you forward into the
midst of peril, and you will probably fall.”

“I know that I may fall,” returned Warren; “but where is the American
who does not think it a glory to die in defense of his country?”

After the adjournment of the committee, he mounted his horse, and rode
to Charlestown, where he arrived but a short time before the battle
commenced.

General Pomroy, of Northampton, reached headquarters at this time, as a
volunteer; he had served, with the rank of captain, under Sir William
Johnson, in the war of 1756; and was distinguished in the celebrated
battle with the French and Indians, under Baron Dieskau. When the sound
of the artillery rattled in his ears, he felt it as a summons to action,
and could not resist the temptation to repair to the field. He
accordingly requested General Ward to lend him a horse, and taking a
musket, set off at full speed for Charlestown. On reaching the Neck, and
finding it enfiladed by a hot and heavy fire of round, bar, and
chain-shot from the _Glasgow_, he began to be alarmed, not, as may be
supposed, for his own safety, but for that of General Ward’s horse.
Horses were at this time almost as rare and precious as the nobler
animals that rode them. Too honest to expose his borrowed horse to “the
pelting of the pitiless storm,” and too bold to dream of shrinking from
it himself, the conqueror of Baron Dieskau dismounted, delivered the
horse to a sentry near, shouldered his musket, and marched on foot
across the Neck. On reaching the hill, he took his station near the
redoubt; and he had no sooner been recognised by the soldiers, than his
name rang with repeated shouts along the line. About three o’clock in
the afternoon, every necessary preparation being made, the signal for
action was given by a general discharge of artillery along the whole
British line.

The troops advanced in two divisions, General Howe, in person, led the
right, toward the rail-fence; General Pigot, with the left, aimed
directly at the redoubt. At this time, it appears, the order for the
exchange of balls sent in mistake, had not yet been answered, which
caused a suspension of the fire from the British artillery very soon
after it had commenced. It was, however, renewed with grape-shot. The
little battery, stationed at the opening between the redoubt and
breastwork, in the American lines, replied with great effect. In the
meantime, the American drums beat to arms. General Putnam, who was still
at work on the redoubt, quitted the intrenchment, and led his men into
action. “Powder is scarce,” said the veteran, addressing them in his
usual laconic style; “powder is scarce, and must not be wasted; reserve
your fire till you see the whites of their eyes, then take aim at the
officers.” These laconic remarks were repeated as an order along the
line; but when the British had come within gunshot of the works, a few
sharp-shooters disobeyed the injunction, and fired. “Fire again before
the word is given at your peril,” exclaimed Prescott; “the next man that
disobeys orders shall be instantly shot.” The British were now at only
eight rods distance. “Now, men, now is your time!” said Prescott. “Make
ready! take aim! fire!”

So effectually was this order obeyed, that when the smoke disappeared,
the whole hill-side was covered with the fallen. The British returned
the fire, and attempted to rally and advance, but without success. After
a moment’s irresolution, they turned their backs, and hurried from the
hill.

Such was the futile attempt to storm the works; and had the
reinforcements of artillery and supplies of ammunition, which had been
ordered from Cambridge, arrived, a brilliant success must have followed.
It was at this moment that the mischief resulting from Colonel Gridley’s
ill-judged exhibition of parental partiality, in giving the place of
major in the artillery to his son, in preference to Count Rumford, was
severely felt. This young officer, as his subsequent conduct proved, was
entirely incompetent to the duty assigned him.

Could the long-tried and energetic character of Rumford been employed,
there would have been no want of ammunition; powder and balls enough
would have found their way into their works, and the day might still
have been ours. But America paid the penalty of Colonel Gridley’s
fatherly weakness, as Great Britain did that of General Cleveland’s
superannuated gallantry. The American artillery was badly served through
the whole action. Early in the day the officer, who was stationed with
his company and two field pieces at the opening between the redoubt and
breastwork, drew off his pieces from the post assigned, in order, as he
said, to prepare his ammunition in safety. General Putnam was obliged to
employ Captain Ford to drag the pieces back; by him and Captain Perkins,
they were served the whole day. Major Gridley, who had been ordered with
his battalion from Cambridge to the lines with all speed; had advanced
only a short distance beyond the Neck, and halted, as he said, in order
to wait and cover the retreat, which his inexperience deemed inevitable.

At that moment, Colonel Frye, a veteran of the old French wars, whose
regiment was in the redoubt, perceived Major Gridley with his artillery
in the position described. Frye galloped up to him, and demanded what it
meant.

“We are waiting,” said Gridley, “to cover the retreat.”

“Retreat!” replied the veteran, “who talks of retreating? This day
thirty years ago I was present at the first taking of Louisburg, when
your father, with his own hand, lodged a shell in the citadel. His son
was not born to talk of retreating. Forward to the lines!”

Gridley proceeded a short distance with his artillery, but overcome with
terror, and unequal to such a task, he ordered his men to re-cross the
Neck, and take a position, where they were to fire with their three
pounders upon the _Glasgow_. The order was so absurd that Captain
Trevett refused to obey it, and proceeded at once toward the lines.
Major Gridley was tried for neglect of duty, and dismissed from service.

A few hours had now passed in silence, when General Howe determined upon
a second attack, and, having rallied and re-organized his men, gave the
order to advance. This was complied with, and the artillery pushed
forward to within three hundred yards of the rail-fence, to prepare the
way for the infantry. During these movements, a solemn silence brooded
over the American lines.

The men were ordered not to fire till the enemy were within six rods
distance. While every thing was in agitation, a new spectacle burst upon
the eyes of the assembled multitude, and added another feature more
startling, if possible, than the rest, to the terrible sublimity of the
scene. Clouds of smoke were seen to overspread the air, from which
flashed sheets of fire. It soon became apparent that Charlestown was in
flames. The British General had been annoyed, at his first attack upon
the works, by the fire of a detachment stationed in the town, and had
given orders that it should be burned. For this purpose, combustibles
were hurled into it from Boston, which commenced the conflagration; and
a detachment of marines from the _Somerset_, were directed to land, and
aid in its destruction. The flames spread with devastating rapidity,
till street on street, and house on house, were even with the ground.
The last structure which seemed to strive with holy efforts against the
devouring element, was the large church; sublime indeed was the
spectacle! the crackling flames ascending from the body of the spacious
building, and playing around its lofty spire. Solemn indeed was the
continuous toll of the large bell, as the beams that suspended it were
vibrating, till they fell with one tremendous crash. Scenes like these
in ordinary times, which would have driven the most inanimate soul to
madness, were entirely overlooked by both armies, who coolly prosecuted
their work.

The British troops ascended the hill by slow and regular approaches,
firing without aim, in platoons, with all the precision of a holyday
review.

The Americans, agreeably to their orders, reserved their fire till the
British were within six rods distance. The word was then given, and the
discharge took place with more fatal effect than the former attack.
Hundreds of the British soldiers fell—General Howe remained almost
alone, for he lost almost every officer belonging to his staff. His
aids, Colonels Gordon, Balfour and Addison; the last was a member of the
family of the author of the “Spectator.”

So tremendous was the havoc, that, the second time on this eventful day,
did the British army retreat from the hill. At this period in the
progress of the battle, a little incident occurred, which shows that the
American officers were fighting for their country, not for the sake of
blood and carnage, and that they never forgot that high-souled feeling
for which they were ever distinguished. After the fire from the American
works had taken effect, Major Small, (who has been named before as a
personal friend of Putnam,) like his commander, remained almost alone on
the field.

His companions in arms had been all swept away, and standing thus apart,
he became, from the brilliancy of his uniform, a conspicuous mark for
the Americans within the redoubt. They had already pointed their
unerring rifles at his heart, and the delay of another minute would
probably have stopped its pulses forever.

At this moment Putnam recognized his friend, and perceiving the imminent
danger in which he was placed, sprang upon the parapet, and threw
himself before the levelled rifles.

“Spare that officer, my gallant comrades, he is my friend; do you not
remember our affectionate meeting at the exchange of prisoners?”

This appeal from the favorite old chief was successful, and Small
retired unmolested.

This anecdote, poetical as it appears, is attested by undoubted
authority.

General Howe, undaunted by the second repulse, felt determined to
venture a third attack, but thought best to adopt a more judicious plan
than before. He this time concentrated his whole force upon the redoubt
and breastwork, instead of directing a portion of it against the
rail-fence.

He also directed his men to reserve their fire, and trust wholly to the
bayonet. He had discovered the vulnerable point in the American
defenses, and pushed forward his artillery to the opening between the
redoubt and breastwork, where it turned our works and enfiladed the
whole line. By this time the Americans were nearly reduced to the last
extremity. Their ammunition was exhausted; they had no bayonets; no
reinforcements appeared. Colonel Gardiner, who had been stationed with
his regiment at Charlestown Neck, but had received no orders to march,
reached Bunker’s Hill with three hundred men. He had no sooner reached
the lines, when he received a wound from a musket ball, which afterward
proved fatal. As his men were carrying him from the field, his son, a
youth of nineteen, second lieutenant in Trevett’s artillery company,
which had just come up, met and recognised his father. Distracted at
seeing him in this condition, he offered to aid in conducting him from
the field.

“Think not of me,” replied the gallant patriot, “think not of me—I am
well. Go forward to your duty!”

The son obeyed his orders, and the father retired from the field to die.

The Americans awaited with desperate resolution the onset of the
British, prepared to repel them, as best they could, with the remaining
charges of powder and ball, with the stocks of their muskets, and with
stones.

Having reached the works, the foremost of the British attempted to scale
them. Richardson, a private in the Royal Irish regiment, was the first
to mount the parapet. He was shot down at once. Major Pitcairn followed
him, and as he stepped on the parapet was heard to exclaim, “The day is
ours!” But the words had no sooner escaped his lips, than he was shot
through the body; his son caught him in his arms as he fell, and carried
him from the hill.

He led the detachment which first encountered our troops upon Lexington
Green, on the 19th of April; he had a horse shot under him on that day,
and was left upon the field for dead. General Pigot, who had mounted the
redoubt by means of a tree left standing there, was the first person to
enter the works. He was followed by others. The Americans, however,
still held out, till the principal of their officers were badly wounded.
Perceiving, at length, that further resistance would be a wanton and
useless sacrifice of valuable life, Colonel Prescott ordered a retreat.
The Americans left the hill with very little molestation. General Warren
had come upon the field, as he said to learn the art of war from a
veteran soldier. He had offered to take Colonel Prescott’s orders, and
it was with extreme reluctance that he quitted the redoubt. He was
slowly retreating from it, only a few rods distance, when the British
obtained full possession, which exposed his person to imminent danger.
Major Small, whose life, as has been mentioned in the preceding chapter,
had been saved in a similar emergency, by the interference of General
Putnam, attempted to requite the service by rendering one of a like
character to Warren. He called out to him by name from the redoubt, and
begged him to surrender, at the same time ordering his men around him to
suspend their fire. On hearing the voice of Major Small, Warren turned
his head, but the effort was too late. While his face was directed
toward the works, a ball struck him on the forehead, and inflicted a
wound which was instantly fatal. The magnanimous champion of liberty had
fallen.

The body of General Warren was identified the following day, and the
ball which terminated his life was taken from the body by Mr. Savage, an
officer in the Custom House, and was carried to England. Several years
afterward it was returned to the family, in whose possession it now
remains. The remains of Warren were buried on the spot where he fell,
but the following year they were removed to a tomb in the Tremont
Cemetery, and subsequently deposited in the family vault, under St.
Paul’s church, Boston.

In the official account of the battle of Bunker’s Hill, the character of
Warren is noticed in the most honorable terms.

“Among the dead,” says the account, “was Major General Joseph Warren, a
man whose memory will be endeared to his countrymen, and to the worthy
in every part and age of the world, so long as virtue and valor shall be
esteemed among mankind.”

General Warren left four children, two sons and two daughters. Within a
year after the death of Warren, it was resolved, by the Continental
Congress, that his eldest son should be educated at the public expense;
and two or three years after, it was further resolved, that public
provision should be made for the education of the other children, until
the youngest should be of age. The sons both died in their minority; the
daughters were distinguished for their amiable qualities, and personal
beauty; one of them married the late General Arnold Welles, of Boston,
and died without issue; the other married Richard Newcomb, of
Greenfield, Massachusetts, whose children are the only surviving
descendants of the hero of Bunker’s Hill. In addition to the public
provision made by the Congress for the children of Warren, it was also
resolved by that body that a monument should be erected, at the national
expense, to his memory. This resolution, like similar ones to the other
officers of the Revolution, remains as yet without effect. Such are the
only particulars of interest that are known of the brief and brilliant
career of Joseph Warren. As Mr. Everett remarks:

“To Warren, distinguished as he was among the bravest, wisest and best
of the patriotic band, was assigned, in the inscrutable degrees of
Providence, the crown of early martyrdom. It becomes not human frailty
to murmur at the will of heaven; and however painful may be the first
emotions excited in the mind by the sudden and premature eclipse of so
much talent and virtue, it may perhaps well be doubted, whether by any
course of active service in a civil or military department, General
Warren could have rendered more essential benefit to the country, or to
the cause of liberty throughout the world, than by the single act of
heroic self-devotion which closed his existence. The blood of martyrs
has been in all ages the nourishing rain of religion and liberty. The
friends of liberty from all countries and throughout all time, as they
kneel upon the spot that was moistened by the blood of Warren, will find
their better feelings strengthened by the influence of the place, and
will gather from it a virtue in some degree allied to his own.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE DREAM OF YOUTH.


                           BY WM. P. BRANNAN.


    O GIVE me back my dream of youth,
      When every pulse throbbed wild and gay,
    My heart’s sweet spring-time when life’s flowers
      Bewildering bloomed along my way;
    When all the world was Paradise,
      And Pleasure held a sovereign sway;
    When every change brought new delight,
      And all the blessed year was May.

    O give again those rapturous hours
      When first my soul with beauty thrilled,
    And mad with ecstasy I dared
      To love, nor cared if loving killed
    When every radiant face I saw
      Flashed with enchantment on my brain,
    Till earth seemed changing spheres with heaven;
      O give to me that dream again.

    Those aspirations for a fame
      Immortal through all coming time;
    That faith which soared on angel wings
      From gladsome earth to heights sublime;
    When every air a perfume breathed,
      Melodious with the voice of song,
    That swayed me with resistless power
      And nerved my soul with purpose strong.

    O give me back my boyhood’s dream,
      Those gleams of glory from above,
    That hope which grasped a deathless name,
      And blest me with undying love;
    O let me taste that joy again
      Which riots in my thought to-day—
    That earnest and exulting youth
      When all the blessed year was May.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


[Illustration]
                           FREAKS OF THE PEN.


                      “GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”

MY DEAR JEREMY,—I write you while a hail-storm is rattling at the
window-panes, as if anxious to get in and warm its nose, and while the
fire in my Radiator is roaring as angrily as a young lion, as if anxious
to get out and have a battle with the storm. The clouds without, too,
have a warlike aspect, look blue, and go tumbling about as if they had
taken whisky-toddy not over warm. Nature, after the sulks, is
hysterical. The wind goes moaning and howling around the house, as if
anxious to vent its temper in a blow at somebody. The solitary oysterman
in the street, is raising a cry as dolorous as if he had taken a
breeze—been on a gale—on his own account, was melancholy, and had not
the heart to sing-“away;” yet in fact he keeps singing away, in tones
rather inviting to blue-devils. He does not feel, evidently, as well as
his oysters, though he is their master. The vanity of riches is thus
made apparent,—wealth does not always produce happiness. Patient
industry in the storm is dismal—so another apophthegm is exploded.
Knowledge is not the grand specific either. Their ignorance of the
roasting which awaits them, is bliss. His knowledge of the roasting
which awaits him—if he goes home without market-money—is, perhaps, the
particular misery which weighs upon his soul, and renders his cry so
plaintive.

The philosophers say that contentment is happiness—but who is
contented? The very discoverers of this sovereign balm for restless
spirits, go toiling on over musty tomes in search of something new, and
grow fretful and peevish from indigestion, or irritable from age and
failing eyesight. Nature herself is not always calm and smiling. She has
her storms, her earthquakes, and her eruptions. The earth is not
satisfied with her own dull face, but must borrow her brightness and
beauty from the sun, she gets the dumps, and grows cold, if the loan is
reluctantly given. What, then, can she expect from her children, but a
thirst insatiate for change and glory of some sort? Philosophy is all
very well in its way, and so is the philosopher’s stone—but who is the
happy possessor of either? People talk of the insensibility of the
oyster—perhaps that is the great secret; but try him upon a hot stove,
if you wish to witness the open-mouthed, but mute, appeal of despairing
distress; try him upon your palate afterward, if you wish to paliate
conscience for his sufferings—but do not slander the fine feelings of
so good a fellow for the sake of an apophthegm. He is more worthy of
your regards than many men who put him to the torture on silver dishes.

Happiness, after all, is more active than passive, and depends a good
deal upon the bent which education, our own strong instincts, or the
fashion of the age or the day may inculcate. I’ll warrant me, that the
Crusaders thought it consisted in slicing off the heads of the
Saracens—the good old monks in fasting, prayer, and
hair-garments,—some of the old fathers again, in capon, burgundy, and
beauty. The curate of the English Church, thinks it is the mitre and the
bishop’s holy office—the bishop, in turn, the gold and the influence of
the station, yet he is not wholly satisfied. Some of the Spanish girls
think it consists in a rich old husband, and a handsome young cavalier;
others, who will none of them, turn nuns. John Bull finds his in
roast-beef, trade, and the aristocracy. Brother Jonathan in politics,
progression, gold, and the cuteness of the universal Yankee nation. But
what philosopher, to clinch his theory, will bring you an individual who
has no longings, no aspirings to be, or do, or have something more? Who
does not feel proud to excel in something?—goodness even becomes a
marketable article, for praise. Virtue in rags loves incense. Every man
does, or feels that he does, outdo his fellows in something. The
inflation of a mind conscious of superior powers; the thought of a purse
larger and deeper—of a cheek of purer roundness, whiteness, or bloom—a
voice of richer powers—a name, a position, the huzzas, or the stare of
the multitude—to be a lucky fellow, a great man, these make up the sum
of personal gratification. But who is contented, without taxing the
praise, the envy, the pockets of others? The fashionable woman, who
shines in brighter jewels and more brilliant parties than her opposing
friends—the merchant who chuckles over the feat of driving a sharp
bargain with a brother trader, each has a standard of happiness not set
down in philosophy—self-sufficiency—personal acquisition and
glory—vanity all, Jeremy.

Above the roar of my little fire, I hear, from my den editorial, the
tumult of the great world without, and fancy I can see the struggle
going on through all the avenues of life—from the church where we have
specimen preaching and fashionable morals, down to the poor boot-black,
who polishes your patent boots, and praises his patent blacking. You
will find all things made up to lure and dazzle the unsophisticated. At
every turn you must beware of man-traps and cajolings. In a moment, and
a shape you least anticipate, some brilliant fortune-seducer and
ensnarer, will start up opportunely in your very path; for what your own
brain does not suggest, your passion and self-love urge you to—will
spring, full-armed from the head of some daring genius, who is your dear
friend, and takes you in, for that reason only. The influence of a bad
example in morals or business, a determination not to be outdone or to
be bullied, a suggestion to excel and overtop our fellows, are poisons
very flatteringly administered to our self-esteem, but certain and
deadly, nevertheless. The disease is contagious, and you have been
slightly bitten already; be contented, my dear boy, if you can—but be
modest, be wary, be cool. Instead of trying to practice philosophical
apophthegms in a world made up as ours is, try a little self-denial. Let
the glitter and the huzzas of the supposed great and successful, sweep
by you, but stand firm—it is a luxury worth the testing. You shall look
from the banks of the stream of time, and see the dead of the slain of
this world float by you, and with your staff in hand, shall walk slowly
and surely onward and upward to the source of all inspiration and
happiness. You can have no chance in the bold games played in this
world, without a defilement of the heart—an utter loss of self-respect,
a total disregard or an annihilation of conscience.

Yet your sharp fellows—what a feast of enjoyment have they, in a world
made up expressly to their hands of duller clay? Men who, smiling
kindly, will cheat you before your very eyes, with a consciousness of
self-power, that you cannot, with all your acuteness, tell under which
thimble “the little joker” happens to be. Is there rare enjoyment in
this? There must be, you will think, or why is it so perseveringly
followed in nearly all the dealings of man with man. Your eyes are your
market, my friend—keep them open. I’ll warrant you, that my dismal
friend, who is singing so sadly out in the street over his bivalves,
says in his heart—“the world is mine oyster,” and has as high an
opinion of his own sagacity, as any dealer in broad-cloths or sugars,
and will trick you as nicely with a specimen oyster, as the best of
them. You shall buy them, upon looking at the one he opens for you—but
be not amazed, oh, weak and trusting purchaser, at the shrunken forms of
the shell-fish when thou openest the kettle! Call not hard names after
the departing vendor—it is the way of life—a specimen is the same, all
the world over. The departure from the _principle_ is the exception, not
the rule.

Not to say any thing about copper, a friend of mine was ruined by Patent
Pumps—not dancing shoes, for he was a Quaker—but a very plain
water-pump. He invested his all, as purchaser of the _right_, after
seeing the model, which was very ingeniously devised to supply the
famishing cattle of all the farm-houses in the country, at the shortest
notice, with a steady supply from never-failing wells. There were not
less than thirty thousand farmers anxiously waiting at that instant to
buy the article at twenty dollars each. The inventor was poor, and
needed ready money, or he never would have parted with it for ten times
the sum agreed to be given. The only difficulty, with the new owner, was
to find logs to be bored, and men as borers—it was a bore decidedly,
and nothing but energy and perseverance could have surmounted these
obstacles. But somehow, though the model worked bravely—even the ruin
of its owner, pumping him dry—the water was obstinate in coming above
its level in large bodies, and in consequence, the enterprise was
water-logged. And so failing in the water business, he became a member
of the Sons of Temperance, and took his revenge by putting down that
water, that wouldn’t come up. And this man was an editor, like yourself,
Jeremy, with a great fund of knowledge, and should have known better—at
least so his friends said, and that was all the comfort they gave him.

Tom Brown, too—you remember Tom? had a wisdom above his years, and
rather an ambition to do something extravagant and new. He therefore
became discontented with the slow and sure profits of a regular
business, and embarked his little fortune, great experience, and
goahead-a-tive-ness in a “swift-sure” line. He purchased “_The Patent
Steam Sand Excavator and Elevator_,” designed for the very laudable
purpose of taking superfluous sand from river-beds, and transferring it
to the mortar-beds of the builder. Tom had fortune now by the skirts,
and would not let go. People wondered what Tom and his friends were at,
ploughing up and down the river with their sand-scow, but supposed that
they must have a large contract from government for cleansing the beds
of the rivers—taking the initiative in navigation made easy. From the
quantity of sand carefully piled upon shore, it was manifest that the
business was to be done, and would be, thoroughly. Tom was cautious,
close, smiling, and enjoyed highly all manner of jokes, such as “Capt.
Sandy Tom”—Tom’s hair was red, but he wasn’t to be—and winked
knowingly to the engineer, when he came on board.

“It will never do,” said Tom, “to let the secret out to these fellows,
until we get our contracts with the builders, or we shouldn’t get
half-price. And in order to do that safely, on a large scale, we must
first get out the sand.”

Bright thought, shrewd Tom! The engine, therefore, went on puffing, but
not Tom—he kept quiet, but busy.

“If we can throw dust into their eyes,” said he, “until we get _a pile_,
we can come the bluff game on the river-side, with a hand full of
spades, ha! How do you like that, engineer?”

The engineer thought that Tom _was some_, at a pun.

The enterprise went on, but it came to a head too, as all enterprises
will, somehow; and Tom had spent his availables. But then he had the
sand, heaps—yes, mountains of it.

“It is time now,” said he, “that I made my contracts with these
builders. I’ll offer—let me see—ten thousand loads, at ten per cent.
below the market price; that will bring in the funds, and send out the
Excavator. They’ll snap at that, in no time. Then twenty thousand, at
fifteen per cent. discount—and I’ll contract to supply the market for
three years, at twenty-five per cent. off—and _do it_, too! Talk about
your Liverpool Steamers, and your Girards improving the river fronts,
will you? when you can scoup a fortune out of the dock, while these
merchant princes are asleep.”

Tom made his terms for the ten thousand loads, “to be delivered as
wanted.” He commenced, too, to fulfill his contracts, but the builders
“did not _want_ the article at all.” They had contracted for sand—not
mud and sand together—and _sand_ they insisted on having.

Alas! for the patent Excavator, neither it nor Tom’s genius could
separate the particles. An action was brought against him for
obstructing the river front, as soon as it was found he was not backed
by government, and was backing himself, out of his contracts.

Tom coolly replied, “that he was devilish sorry, the _Patent Steam Sand
Excavator and Elevator_ had not been originally designed to run on land,
as it might be used, now, to shovel it back again; but as for himself,
he had been thrown so high by the Elevator, that it was doubtful if he
would ever come down, in time to attend to it.”

I know another gentleman of the quill—who perpetrated errors of the
press of this sort—who, in addition to instructing mankind, took it
into his head to teach the hens something that nature never knew. An
invention of some gigantic Yankee genius, styled “_The Patent Chicken
Hatcher, and Grand Cluck to the whole Commonwealth_” was irresistible,
and he bought it. It was demonstrated upon paper, that a certain number
of chickens, ate but a given quantity of corn-meal. That any number of
hens laid any number of eggs. That these produced any number of
chickens, which, in a very short period of time, sold for any amount of
money, or produced other eggs, after eating the aforesaid corn-meal. Now
the “Chicken Hatcher,” proposed to improve upon nature by a sort of
double rule of three proposition, and to show the result by logarithms
as a sort of short-hand process, in the arithmetical progression of
profits. “Nature abhors a vacuum,” and she had therefore given up half
the argument to the Hatcher—for the proposition was, to keep the hens
continually at work, producing eggs for the Hatcher; while the Hatcher
was continually working for them, in a sort of compound ratio producing
chickens which should go on laying eggs to produce other chickens, _ad
infinitum_. The thing was as plain as the nose on your face. To reason
about it was to be absurd. To doubt, was to be scorned. Barbecues looked
cheap and plentiful in perspective—roasts abundant, but rather more of
a delicacy, as interfering somewhat more with progressive profits.

The eggs of a whole county were first to be submitted to experiment,
previous to taking the entire Commonwealth under the capacious wing of
the Hatcher. The first process of cubation completed, it was only
necessary to heat the Patent, and the business was done, and so were the
chickens; but instead of producing hens or roosters, it only roasted the
eggs—and very nicely it did it, too, it is said. Nature defied the
power of figures, and gave facts as arguments. The hens of the
neighborhood survived the innovation, and went on in the old way. Our
friend had burned his fingers as well as his eggs, and was sore when the
subject was touched. It was his bull, and he didn’t wish him horned. A
dilemma, neither horn of which he wished to take. He had hatched himself
a life-time remembrancer whenever he heard a cock crow—and he wanted no
crowing. He was no _eg_-otist on this subject; on the whole, he would
rather cry _peccavi_—and shell out—he would stand treats, but no
jokes.

But, my dear Jeremy, do not consider me as sneering at the ambition of
man to outdo his fellows, to surpass all previous knowledge, to wrest
nature from herself to fulfill his purposes—it is of the eternal law of
progress. Man can no more stop, and be contented, than the worlds which
are revolving in space, can rest and shine on. Each age makes a giant’s
stride onward. The past is strewn with theories toppled down, and with
systems exploded. The monuments of philosophy, the labor of ages, are
the marks now for the child’s finger of scorn. The voyage of Columbus is
now the work of a week. Work, did I say?—his toilsome and desolate path
over the waters, is now the holyday ramble of all nations. Thought
itself leaps a continent in a second, and by means of cipher, is
communicated to minds thousands of miles distant, putting the _speed_ of
steam, the glory of an age just gone, to shame; accomplishing its
purpose, even while the sonorous steam-whistle is but giving its note of
departure. The press, in a night, performs the labor of a year, in
multiplying printed thought, and a Commonwealth, a Nation is shaken in
the time requisite, formerly, to ink the rollers for Franklin’s heavy
edition. Who will say that man himself shall not yet be shot into the
air like a rocket, and diverge at pleasure to any point of the compass,
in defiance of the caprice of air-currents? That if he can now snatch
from the sun a likeness of himself in an instant of time, he shall not,
one day, look the sun itself in the face with unblinking eyes, take his
observations from the horn of some remote planet, and return to earth to
record his discoveries. “Philosophy,” you will say. But how much is
philosophy herself learning daily? How much of her previous knowledge is
shown daily to have been worthless? The chemist, the geologist, the
astronomer, torture nature continually for her secrets, but the
provident Mother is chary. It is but by a step at a time that her
children are allowed to enter into her mysteries, lest the full blaze of
her awful truths should suddenly strike them blind.

Shall we be contented, then, and pin our faith to the sleeve of that
philosophy, which sees happiness in the indolence and ignorance of the
savage, who

        “Basks in the glare, and stems the tepid wave,
         And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.”

Or shall we assert the rights of a diviner principle within us,
restless, yearning, unsatisfied, which if it is not allowed to soar up
and grasp after a goodness, like unto God, will attempt to absorb its
energies in the pursuit of evil, wreaking upon humanity around it, the
power of a fiend to make wretched, the cunning of a devil, to seduce and
destroy?

It is reserved for the Millenium, to give us all the knowledge, all the
good, all the perfection we are striving after; until then, who
will—_any, who can_—rest satisfied? When “the lion and the lamb shall
lie down together,” and man shall cease to war upon his brother, the
philosophy of Experiment and of Observation shall be perfect, man shall
cease from struggling, shall be contented and be HAPPY.

                                                             G. R. G.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Poems and Prose Writings. By Richard Henry Dana. New York:
    Baker & Scribner. 2 vols. 12mo._

In reading these elegantly printed volumes one is surprised that a
collection of poems and essays, possessing excellencies so original and
striking as this, should not have been made before. Mr. Dana is,
unquestionably, in his own department, one of the deepest, most original
and most suggestive thinkers that the country has produced, and although
his writings may not be familiar to a large class of readers, his name
is generally known and honored. We think that the present work will
fully sustain his reputation, and that many who have heretofore been
content with acknowledging his fame as a poet and thinker, will now be
glad of an opportunity of testing it, by reading his productions. The
first volume contains his poems and the essays and narratives originally
published under the title of The Idle Man. These are better known than
the reviews and dissertations contained in the second volume, now for
the first time collected. It is curious that compositions of such
excellence and permanent interest should so long have slumbered
undisturbed in old magazines and reviews. They are marked by great force
and fertility of thought, singular felicity in discerning the spirit and
meaning of things, and singular sweetness, richness and harmony of
style. The reviews bear the unmistakable stamp of a poetic mind,
interpreting by the freemasonry of genius the intellectual excellence
and moral beauty of other minds, and flashing light into every corner of
the subject of which it treats. The articles on Allston, Hazlitt’s
Lectures on the English Poets, The Sketch Book, Pollock’s Course of
Time, Henry Martyn, not to mention others, are replete with sound and
searching judgment as well as imaginative beauty.

In a short notice of a work of such literary pretensions as the present,
it is more appropriate to indicate its positive merits than to allude to
its defects. A mind so vital, powerful and individual as Mr. Dana’s can
claim the privilege of being judged by its own laws of thought and
production, and an application to it of external rules, which it does
not profess to regard, would be little better than an impertinence.
Still there are some peculiarities in the volumes which are slightly
unpleasing, not because they are peculiar expressions of the author’s
nature, but because they occasionally manifest an ungenial development
of it. It is said that Mr. Carlyle’s opinion on any social reform can be
accurately calculated from the speeches of the Exeter Hall reformers—he
being sure to contradict them, whatever they may say. Accordingly, he
defends slavery when they denounce it, and is in favor of dealing powder
and shot to Ireland, when they are in ecstasies of philanthropic horror
at its misgovernment. Something of this reactionary disgust we discern
in a few of Mr. Dana’s compositions, and it gives to them as much
willfulness as can possibly have its seat in a mind so gentle and just
as his. His poems often have a roughness which is evidently intentional,
and which indicates not so much a desire to produce new musical tones as
to express contempt for old ones. Some of his speculations on society
and government appear to us not fair expressions of his really large and
solid intellect, but to spring from a morbid dislike, rather than from a
calm objective vision, of the present. With these slight drawbacks, we
hardly know of a recent work which contains so much to nourish the mind,
to develop its finer tastes and affections, and give breadth to its
thinking, than this collection of Mr. Dana’s poems and prose writings.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Agnes Grey, an Autobiography. By the Author of “Jane Eyre,”
    “Shirley,” etc. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson._

This is a charming novel, full of fine character painting, and strongly
marked by that exquisite development and analysis of the female heart,
which distinguishes all the novels of this writer. As an autobiography,
partaking of the nature of _confessions_, it has afforded fine scope for
the display of the peculiar powers of the author. Agnes Grey, the
heroine, herself, is one of the most vigorous and truthful drawings of
character—one of the finest pieces of pen-limning that we have
encountered any where, though not to young readers, perhaps, as
distinctive as that of “Shirley,” as it has less of the really romantic
to give it impressiveness. He gives in this novel a charm to love, in
the vulgar course of this world’s affairs, by laying bare the sentiment
of the heart—the exceeding beauty of pure love unadorned. As Hazlett
says of Shakspeare’s women, “We think as little of her face, as she does
herself, but are let into the secrets of her heart, and are charmed.” It
is not until she has fallen in love, that our hearts open kindly to
receive her, for the full beauty of the woman is then exposed to our
worshiping eyes.

Rosalie Murray is a different character, but drawn with a keen
discrimination, a nice discernment of coquetry, rarely met with. She is
the most finished flirt of all the class—nature, and a heart totally
uneducated, no less than the scheming of an ambitious mother, made her a
very beautiful fiend.

He who quarrels with the loves of Edward Weston and Agnes Grey, must
have read the novel, and studied human nature indifferently. We commend
the work cordially to our readers, admonishing them that they will
complain of its shortness; for we are mistaken if they do not find
themselves, on closing the book, desirous—as we felt—of following the
heroine in the holy duties and daily beauty of her life in her new
sphere.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Poetical and Prose Writings of Charles Sprague. Boston:
    Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._

This edition of Sprague is beautifully printed, is published under the
sanction of the author, and contains a number of poems never before
collected. Although the current style in poetry has changed since
Sprague first won his reputation, and an entirely new class of poets has
caught the public ear, Sprague himself has been excepted from the
neglect which has fallen upon too many of his school. The reason is that
Sprague is really a poet, and the form of composition which a poet
assumes, whether it be that of Pope or Wordsworth, of Young or Browning,
is never of itself sufficient to consign him to oblivion. It is
impossible to read a page of the present volume without being impressed
with the conviction that you are communing with a strong nature, sound
in heart and brain, and piercing through the shows to the realities of
things by a native force and vividness of conception. Sprague appears
here as a satirist and humorist, as a lyrist and as a poet of sentiment.
In all of these he is successful. His curiosity is one of the best
occasional poems over written in the United States. When we consider how
wide a variety of humorous and pathetic pictures are called into being
in the unfolding of one teeming idea, and that amid all the variety, the
impression of unity is never lost, we must admit it to be not only
poetical in passages, but poetical in its whole spirit and execution.
The Odes we do not like so well. They are full of brain, but the feeling
and sentiment do not seem to us sufficiently hearty and impassioned. The
best pieces in the volume are the poems devoted to the affections. These
are expressions of tenderness, love, grief, and hope, coming from the
heart and imagination of a strong man, and their intensity is heightened
by their very reserve. They are arrows sent directly to the reader’s
heart. We never have been able to wear them out by frequent reperusal,
their pathos keeping always its morning freshness and searching
sweetness.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Poems of Alice and Phœbe Carey. Philadelphia: Moss & Brother. 1
    vol. 16mo._

There are few volumes more calculated to relax the rigidity of criticism
than this elegant octo-duodecimo, gilded without and golden within.
Sisters in song as in blood, the authoresses awaken the chivalric rather
than the critical sentiment, although they are abundantly capable of
bearing some of the most tormenting acquirements of the latter. There is
a family likeness in their minds, but in Alice the imaginative element
is predominant, while her sister displays more of the reflective. Both
are poets as distinguished from fluent versifers of accredited
commonplaces, and both manifest originality in their imagery and music,
but the mind of Alice is remarkably sensitive and imaginative, melting
at once into melody the moment her heart is filled with a poetical
object, and absolutely gushing out in song. A fine poetical instinct of
the most subtle and elusive character, seems to dwell at the very
life-spring of her nature, so that poetry seems the necessity of her
being, the inevitable mode in which her nature must be expressed, if
expressed at all. The poem entitled “Pictures of Memory,” is one of the
simplest and subtlest expressions of ethereal sentiment and refined
imagination we ever read: it being an exquisite embodiment of a mood of
mind rarely experienced in its purity by any intellect, and certainly
never pictured forth with more truth to the spirit of the subject. Phœbe
Carey hardly has this instinctive and unconscious certainty in the
action of her mind, but excels in thoughtfulness, tenderness, and fancy,
“leaning her ear” to catch “the still, sad music of humanity,” and
conscious of a moral purpose in her singing. Both deserve a hearty
recognition equally from their countrywomen and countrymen.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Boston Book. Being Specimens of Metropolitan Literature.
    Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo._

This beautiful volume contains prose and poetical pieces from some fifty
writers hailing from Boston, such as Willis, Dana, Hillard, Sumner,
Emerson, Sprague, Choate, Webster, Buckingham, Whittier, Fields, Lowell,
Longfellow, Hawthorne, Holmes, and the like. A number of the articles
are original contributions. Among the best of these are the poems by
Holmes and Parsons. The editor has exhibited great taste in his choice
of matter, both as regards excellence and variety, including, as he has,
in one duodecimo, not only fair specimens of Boston belles-lettres, but
selecting pieces addressed to almost every mood, satirical, humorous,
tender, thoughtful, impassioned, imaginative and didactive, and written
in all varieties of style and manner. We have poets lyrical, and poets
elegaic; poets of the school of Goldsmith and Gray, and poets of the
school of Wordsworth and Coleridge; prose writers with sentences long as
Hooker’s, and prose writers with sentences short as Macaulay’s; and the
general impression left by the book is, that the city it represents is
under the dominion of no clique of writers, but that all kinds find
“ample room and verge enough” for their peculiarities, and follow their
own sweet will without any fear of established canons. In looking
through the volume, one is surprised to find how few of the contributors
are men of letters by profession. There are literary clergymen, poetic
physicians, ethical merchants, and transcendental lawyers in abundance,
with a good representation of men who live on the interest of their
money, and only write from occasional impulse, but no _litterateurs_,
and no hacks.

The book is really creditable to Boston, and its interest is not merely
local. The publishers have issued it in that style of elegance for which
they are widely celebrated.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Pilot; a Tale of the Sea. By the Author of the Spy, etc.
    Revised, Corrected, and Illustrated, with a new Introduction.
    Notes, etc. by the Author. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol.
    12mo._

We are glad to welcome this handsome volume, so soon following the lead
of “The Spy.” A collection of Cooper’s works, in a style worthy of their
merit and their position in American literature, we doubt not will be a
good speculation for author and bookseller. The present volume is one of
the most popular of the series, and will ever keep its position among
standard novels, whatever fate should befall some of the others.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Caravan; A Collection of Popular Tales. Translated from the
    German of Wilhelm Hauff. By G. P. Quackenbos, A. M. Illustrated
    by J. W. Orr. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._

This is a good translation of a good book. The stories are thoroughly
German, though the costume and manners are Asiatic, and from their
supernatural character, take a strong hold upon the feelings through the
imagination. The Spectre Ship is especially powerful.

                 *        *        *        *        *

MUSIC.—We have received from the publisher, Mr. Walker, a new song,
entitled _Saucy Kate_, the words by Henry H. Paul. Esq., which is very
beautiful in all respects, and reflects great credit upon both writer
and publisher. Mr. Walker is making the public indebted to him by almost
daily issuing new and fashionable music, in the most attractive style,
and we are glad to hear is doing a very handsome business. This store is
one of the elegant rooms immediately under Barnum’s Museum, where he
will be glad to see our friends.

                 *        *        *        *        *

LEVY’S _New and Elegant Store_—decidedly the handsomest in
Philadelphia, is daily crowded with beautiful and fashionable ladies,
presenting, during the holydays, a _Levée_ quite attractive and
enticing. The finest silks, the richest laces and shawls, and the most
splendid goods of all kinds fill the shelves and flood the counters of
this establishment, and all the town finds its way there to admire and
purchase. Messrs. Levy and Grugan are gentleman of exquisite taste and
tact, and in the management and general arrangement of their business,
have shown both. Our friends in any part of the country, may rely with
perfect assurance upon their judgment and integrity, to fill any orders
sent them satisfactorily and promptly.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

PARIS Boulevart S^{t}. Martin 61
_Chapeaux M^{me}._ Grafeton, _pl. de la Madeleine, 5—Dentelles de_
  Violard, _r. Choiseul, 2^{bis}_;
_Robes et pardessus de M^{me}._ Bara Bréjard, _r. Laffitte, 5—Plumes de_
  Chagot ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81_;
_Mouchoir de_ L. Chapron & Dubois, _r. de la Paix, 7._
Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           WISSAHIKON WALTZ.


                ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO AND DEDICATED TO

                          MISS ELIZA L. HALL,

                                   BY
                             CHARLES GROBE.

 Published by permission of Mr. E. L. Walker, No. 160 Chestnut Street.

[Illustration: musical score]

[Illustration: continuation of musical score ]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious type-setting and
punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have
been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may
be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for
preparation of the eBook.

page 144, in the _denouément_ ==> in the _dénouement_
page 149, room, pouring over books, ==> room, poring over books,
page 151, joy exstatic burst from ==> joy ecstatic burst from
page 158, not be irrelevent we ==> not be irrelevant we
page 167, mind, interpretating by the ==> mind, interpreting by the

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 2, February 1850]