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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               Vol. XL.      February, 1852.      No. 2.


                                Contents

                   Fiction, Literature and Articles

          Philadelphia Navy-Yard
          The Physiology of Dandyism
          The Death of the Stag
          “Graham” to Jeremy Short
          A Life of Vicissitudes (continued)
          Mozart’s Don Giovanni
          Anna Temple
          Nature and Art
          The Lost Deed (continued)
          Letty Rawdon
          Père-la-Chaise
          First Ambition
          Charlotte Corday
          Review of New Books
          Graham’s Small-Talk

                           Poetry and Music

          Granny and I
          Sonnet. To Julia
          Flowers and Life
          A Filial Tribute
          Madeline
          Moorish Memories
          Autumn Rain
          To Mary on Earth
          To Adhemar
          Ernestina
          Ode on Idleness
          Rain and Sunlight in October
          Fragment from an Unpublished Poem
          Snow
          Joy and Sorrow
          Stanzas
          The Spirit of Beauty
          The Star of Destiny
          Rail-Road Song
          Love’s Messenger

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: J. Hayter, W.H. Mote
 SWEET SIXTEEN.
Graham’s Magazine 1852]

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: =IFE AT THE SEA-SIDE.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

         Vol. XL.     PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1852.     No. 2.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        PHILADELPHIA NAVY-YARD.


[Illustration: Philadelphia Navy-Yard.]

Our engraving presents a view of the Navy-Yard, taken from a point of
view below the city of Philadelphia. From this yard have come some of
the best sailing and steam-vessels that have ever been built for Uncle
Sam. The largest vessel that ever floated upon our waters, “The
Pennsylvania,” was built here. She is useless, and is most scandalously
given over—we believe, as a sort of “receiving ship,” and is rotting
ingloriously. She should have been sent to the “World’s Fair” by
Congress, filled with American products, and the Arts of Peace. But
Congress was _busy_—talking about the “dissolution of the
Union”—_Pshaw!_—and had no time for _national_ business.

We have no inclination to talk much about Navy-yards since we read the
following. We give you _the picture_, reader—but give us a cheaper
postage upon Newspapers and Books, and fewer Soldiers and Naval
Commanders.

“Victor Hugo estimates the annual cost of maintaining the standing
armies of Europe at five hundred millions of dollars. This outlay would,
in a very few years, pay off every national debt of Europe. In a few
years more it would, if wisely expended, so equalize the population of
the globe, by a great system of emigration, that every man might have a
fair opportunity to earn a competence by his labor. Mr. Upham, in his
‘Manual of Peace,’ thus classifies the causes of the wars of Europe
since the age of Constantine the Great—that is, since the Christian
religion became the prevailing one: wars of ambition, forty-four; of
plunder, twenty-two; of retaliation, twenty-four; of honor, eight; of
disputed territory, six; of disputed titles to crowns, _forty-one_; of
alliances, thirty; of jealousy, twenty-three; of commerce, _five_; civil
wars, fifty-five; of religion, twenty-eight: total, two hundred and
eighty-six. The national debt of England, caused by wars alone, is equal
to about one-ninth of the whole property of the United Kingdom. The cost
of maintaining the war establishments of Europe and the United States is
fifty-four per cent. of the whole revenue of the nations. Of the revenue
of the Austrian government, thirty-three per cent. is expended in
maintaining the army and navy; France, thirty-eight per cent.; Russia,
forty-four per cent.; Great Britain, seventy-four per cent.; _the United
States, eighty per cent_.” Uncle Sam should take a fresh look at his
figures.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             GRANNY AND I.


                            BY ELIZA SPROAT.


[Illustration: an old woman sitting on a stool by a spinning wheel and
speaking to a lad eating an apple and sitting with a cat]

    Days agone, days agone!
    When my life was all at dawn,
    Ye are sweet to muse upon
      ’Mid the world’s sad dinning.
    I an aproned urchin trim,
    And, within the cottage dim,
    Crooning quaint an ancient hymn,
      Granny at her spinning.

    Spinning at her cottage-door,
    Where upon the sanded floor,
    Through the leaves, the light ran o’er,
      All the summer weather.
    Granny’s cheek was old and lean;
    Mine was round and hard, I ween;
    Very quaint it must have been
      To see them close together.

    Very old was granny’s hair,
    Short and white, and none to spare;
    Very old the lips so dear
      That dropped my nightly blessing;
    Very old the shrunken eyes,
    Through her specs of goggle size,
    Looking down their kind replies
      On my rude caressing.

    I could spell my primer o’er;
    Granny knew but little more—
    Bible readings all her lore,
      Spinning all her glory.
    Yet—how was it? now and then,
    Something past the thoughts of men
    Opened heaven to my ken
      Through her teachings hoary.

    Tones that age could ne’er destroy,
    Struck her little wondering boy
    With a majesty of joy;
      And at times has striven
    Something grand within her eyes,
    As from out the cloud-heaped skies
    Some strong angel vainly tries
      To call to us from heaven.

    Days agone! days agone!
    When the world was all at dawn,
    And the heaven round it drawn,
      Smiled so near above us;
    Then the sun shone real gold,
    Then the flowers true stories told,
    Then the stars were angels bold
      Reaching down to love us.

    Then a marvel, now a flower,
    Seen in any common bower,
    Fed with common earth and shower,
      Common sunlight under.
    Then an angel, now a star,
    Small and bleak and very far;
    Nothing left for folly’s mar,
      Naught for happy wonder.

    I have learned to smile at youth;
    I have learned to question truth;
    I can hear my brother’s truth
      With a sage misgiving.
    I have grown too wise to see
    False delights in things that be;
    Far too wise for childhood’s glee—
      Nay—is learning living?

    Days agone, days agone!
    Bitter-sweet to muse upon,
    Counting up the lost and won
      In the coals at even.
    Never more—never more!
    Comes the witless bliss of yore;
    Baby faith and baby lore—
      God! is knowledge heaven?

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           SONNET. TO JULIA,


               ON HER OWN EYES, AND HER SISTER LESBIA’S.


                             BY G. McC. M.


    Night’s star-gemmed coronal is not more bright
      Than are those flashing, joy-lit eyes of thine;
    Me thinks I should not need the day-orb’s light,
      When on my path such lovely planets shine.
    Like veins of gold that sparkle in the mine,
      Their glittering radiance dazzles the beholder;
      And yet to me thy brilliant eyes seem colder
    Than Arctic ice or snows. Far more benign
    And beauteous are the windows of her soul
    Whom I have loved—the long desired goal
    Of my most cherished hopes. The paly moon
      Sheds not a softer light on copse and stream
    Than on my heart her lucid orbs. The moon
      Of Summer is not warmer than her blue eye’s beam.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           FLOWERS AND LIFE.


                            BY MARY HOWITT.


[Illustration: figure of a man and woman standing on a pedestle and
framed by flowers]

    The autumn sun is shining,
      Gray mists are on the hill;
    A russet tint is on the leaves,
      But flowers are blowing still!

    Still bright, in wood and meadow;
      On moorlands dry and brown;
    By little streams; by rivers broad;
      On every breezy down.

    The little flowers are smiling,
      With chilly dew-drops wet,
    Are saying with a spirit-voice—
      “We have not vanished yet!

    “No, though the spring be over;
      Though summer’s strength be gone;
    Though autumn’s wealth be garnered,
      And winter cometh on;

    “Still we have not departed.
      We linger to the last.
    And even on early winter’s brow
      A cheerful ray will cast!”

    Go forth, then, youths and maidens,
      Be joyful whilst ye may;
    Go forth, then, child and mother,
      And toiling men grown gray.

    Go forth, though ye be humble,
      And wan with toil and care;
    There are no fields so barren
      But some sweet flower is there!

    Flowers spring up by the highway
      Which busy feet have trod;
    They rise up in the dreariest wood;
      They gem the dullest sod.

    They need no learned gardeners
      To nurture them with care;
    They only need the dews of earth,
      The sunshine and the air.

    And for earth’s lowly children;
      For loving hearts and good,
    They spring up all around us,
      They will not be subdued.

    Thank God! when forth from Eden
      The weeping pair was driven,
    That unto earth, though cursed with thorns,
      The little flowers were given!

    That Eve, when looking downward,
      To face her God afraid,
    Beheld the scented violet,
      The primrose in the shade!

    Thank God, that with the thistle
      That sprang up in his toil,
    The weary worker, Adam,
      Saw roses gem the soil!

    And still for anxious workers;
      For hearts with anguish full,
    Life, even on its dreariest paths,
      Has flowers for them to cull!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      THE PHYSIOLOGY OF DANDYISM.


                         BY THOMPSON WESTCOTT.


[Illustration: as gentleman dressed in tophat and coat with other men
and boys looking at him]

Like auriferous deposits in common quartz, the readers of Graham, the
precious ore amidst duller literary encompassment, brighten the
continent from Canada even to California. A few rich veins are to be
found in large cities, but the valuable aggregate is scattered through
the more rural portion of the country, where the free air whistles by,
uncontaminated by the smoke of thousands of chimneys, and where night
reigns in sable supremacy, and is not turned into decrepit day by
blazing gas and brilliant illuminations. The great mass of Grahamites
are, therefore, but slightly versed in the etiquette of towns, and know
little of city follies and city pride.

In farm-houses midst pleasant valleys, in log-cabins which dot clearings
midst western prairies, even in the unsubstantial tents of seekers in El
Dorado, they turn to its pages for amusement, moral cultivation and
instruction. These demands have been often attended to, though perhaps a
trifle too gravely. The time has at length come, when the growing public
taste bids us prepare to have a little fun. Human folly is the best and
most natural subject for human ridicule. To laugh with the manes of the
Jolly old Grecian philosopher, is more agreeable than to snivel with the
lugubrious ghost of his weeping rival. We therefore must needs have a
hearty guffaw together, and as the most appropriate subject for mirth,
suppose we select that incarnation of vapid creation, but that idol of
self-esteem—a City Dandy.

The assertion made by the ancient sage Socrates, that “a dandy is like a
jackass, because he wears his Sunday-coat every day,” would scarcely fit
a modern exquisite, whose diurnal attire varies with each revolution of
the sun. The apothegm of Plato, that “a monkey owes his distinction to
his tail and a fop to his tailor,” is not thoroughly apt, because the
human ape owes something (generally a considerable sum) to his hatter
and boot-maker. The well-known assertion of Virgil, “_in squirtibus
nihil sed aquæ lactissimus_”—in squirts you will find nothing but milk
and water—has about it the usual license taken by poets, inasmuch as if
we examine _our_ squirts, they will be pronounced empty. Bacon’s
celebrated maxim in his Novum Organum, that “what are considered petty
matters are often of importance, but there is no importance in a _petit
maître_,” will probably be acquiesced in by common people, though those
implicated by the serious pun may think it uncommonly impudent. Newton’s
position taken in the _Principia_, that “in apples and men there is much
specific gravity, but mushrooms and dandies are of trifling lightness,”
may be disputed by the latter, who with some show might liken their
weight to that of “some pumpkins.” Euclid’s celebrated rule, “a plane
superficies is every where flat, _e.g._ a dandy who is plainly
superficial is a flat every where,” has long been a fixture in
geometrical lore, which may be doubted, though dangerous to dissent
from. We, therefore, seek in vain in the lessons of ancient science and
wisdom for competent authority to settle the question—“What is a
dandy?” _Hamlet_, who being the “glass of fashion and the mould of
form,” was of course a fop, did on one occasion confess that himself and
some other leaders of the ton at that time, yclept _Horatio_ and
_Marcellus_, were “fools of nature,” and horribly shook their
dispositions “with thoughts beyond the reaches of their souls.” His
candid admission that exquisites are natural fools—“rather weak in the
upper story,” and unable to stand the overpowering weight of grave
thought—has long been admired as a fine picture of the mental condition
of the dandies when something was “rotten in the state of Denmark.” But
even this idea of the immortal bard will scarcely assimilate to a proper
notion of our modern bucks, because the foppery natural to a Hamlet
would not be similar to that of a large City.

[Illustration: Ladies and gents looking at two dandies]

We therefore rummage the books with little success in search for
authorities upon this subject. We are constrained to a belief that
Linnæus has not classified the _genera_ or Buffon discriminated the
species. If exquisites, by reason of their sappiness, are vegetable, the
Swedish naturalist has passed over the variety—if they are animals, the
Frenchman has not given them a proper place among the _mammalia_. The
history, habits and peculiarities of these mandrakes, these “forked
radishes,” these nondescripts, who afflict the south side of Chestnut
street, Philadelphia, or the west side of Broadway, New York, has not
yet been written, but the subject has latterly assumed an importance
which can be no longer disregarded. If the comic dissector, with scalpel
in hand, were to desire the fop for a subject, he would have to wait
until he was defunct, but the dandy never dies; he is a living example
of the verity of the adage, true whenever made—“the fools are not all
dead yet”—and it is therefore impossible to imagine the time when there
will not be a dandy. We cannot consequently dissect. We may apply the
stethoscope to the chest of the exquisite; we may feel his weak pulse,
or examine his silly tongue. So may we make our diagnosis, and though we
cannot “minister to a mind diseased,” we may, at least, “hold the mirror
up to nature,” for the benefit of all gazers. Therefore, in pursuance of
the task, come we to our first great inquiry:


                         HOW ARE DANDIES MADE?

This is a grave question, for fops are like veal pies—in the opinion of
the waggish Weller—the crust may be rather respectable, but the making
up of the interior is “werry duberous.” Exquisites at this present
writing, are a conglomeration of lanky legs, hairy heads and creamy
countenances. Such are their natural peculiarities. But it is evident
that in considering this subject, the great topic of inquiry is, What is
a dandy sartorially? Here description will proclaim him to be a being
stuck into tight trowsers, ditto coat and vest, ditto boots, not so much
ditto overcoat, and crowned with a cylindrical structure of felt, which
is called a hat. Mentally the subject of dandyism offers little field
for remark, because the weakness which distinguishes the unfortunate
class of our fellow citizens now under consideration, is caused by
natural imbecility and want of common sense.

It is a topic of inquiry worthy of the most acute philosophical research
whether buckishness is a natural or acquired folly. Some who have argued
upon the matter have taken the ground, that all such vanities are the
consequence of the great fall, and that as the expulsion from Eden was
followed by the assumption of apparel, good Mother Eve was tempted and
overcome by the fascinations of dress. For support of this view of the
subject it may be urged, that with the fall came dress, with dress came
fashion, and with fashion came the Dandy. Others suggest that such an
argument as this, going back beyond the flood, is far-fetched, and they
profess to be able to assign a much better cause for dandyism. According
to these philosophers every fop has “a soft place in his head,” which
has been very beautifully described by the poet as

        “The greenest spot
         In Memory’s waste.”

They affirm that this weak portion of a skull otherwise thick, is the
chosen place of the “organ of dandyism,” and controls the habits of its
possessors. If this were so, we might pardon a failing which cannot be
remedied, but, with Combe in our hands, we in vain run over the head to
find this organ, which is certainly not a hand-organ. None of the
phrenological authorities—it is a striking fact—give the locality of
this bump.

No; “the milk of human kindness” which was “poured into Gall,” forbade
him from making known the situation of the protuberance, and Fowler
unfairly dodges the question.

Nothing is to be made out of this inquiry, and after considering the
matter with great gravity, we are driven to the conclusion that Dandyism
is like a bad cold, caught nobody knows how, or when, or where, or why.
Some may be afflicted because they have the pores of vanity open—others
who sit in the draught of affectation, may suddenly be seized by a
fashionable influenza—going suddenly from the warm room of common sense
into the cold air of ostentation, may give the “_grippe_” to some—but
with many it is chronic, having been acquired in childhood when their
dear mammas tricked them out in fantastic velvets and fine caps, with
feathers, making them juvenile dandies among the little boys of their
neighborhood.

But all this may be tiresome to the reader who desires to plunge at once
in the middle of the subject. We must really get on with this important
theme, and responding categorically to the inquiry, “how dandies are
made?” respond: by eight honest mechanics, to wit, the tailor, hatter,
boot-maker, linen-draper, haberdasher, glover, hosier and jeweler. Take
away the articles fabricated by these men, what is he but a helpless
mortal, a mere man and terribly unfashionable? We might once have added
to the list of dandy manufacturers the barber—but our modern exquisites
have so little to do with that artist that the claims of Figaro to the
distinction would be strongly controverted.

An inspection of a buck in this month of February, anno domini eighteen
hundred and fifty-two, will convey to the mind of the spectator ideas of
a pair of very thin legs, surmounted by a very short specimen of an
overcoat, with monstrous buttons and wide sleeves—a cravat with a bow
about six inches wide and three inches broad, with fringes at the
ends—a standing shirt collar, running up to a very sharp
point—something like a face, covered with hair over what, in
Christians, are the chin, cheek and upper-lip—and a hat thereon. Simile
fails in ability to convey any adequate notion of this figure. Two
pipes, bowl downward and stems upward, might give an idea of the lower
extremity of the dandy. We will carry out the nicotian metaphor by
placing on the upper portions of the stems a paper of “Mrs. Miller’s
best”—the short-cut, oozing from the top of the torn paper, will do
very well for the hair on the face—a tobacco-box placed on the whole,
will give some idea of a figure, which, if greatly magnified, would in
the outline much resemble a modern fop.

The clothing of an exquisite is a work of time and science. We can
imagine how much of the labor is done. But there are two subjects, in
the making of a fop, that have long been considered puzzles. One of
these questions is—how does he manage to tie those huge bows in his
cravat, which stand out just below his chin, giving him thereabout the
appearance of a cherubim, all head and wings? What a work of fixing must
there be before he gets the knot exactly right! What gazing into the
mirror—what pulling of ends—what twisting of folds—what tying and
untying! Every thing must be just so. There must be no wrinkles—all
must be smooth and “ship-shape,” or the dandy so remiss upon this
subject would be avoided forever by his associates. It has been asserted
that a smart exquisite is able to tie his cravat in half an hour, but
the general average of time is believed to be an hour and a half. There
is a melancholy instance on record, of a fop who once took three hours
to fix the bow of his cravat. The sad occurrence took place on what
should have been his wedding-day. He commenced the work at seven o’clock
in the morning and had “a nice knot” at ten. Unfortunately, the hour of
the wedding was fixed at nine. The anxious intended wailed impatiently
at the altar for her expected lord, for half an hour, and then
concluding that he meant to insult her, went away in a huff, so that the
unfortunate dandy, by being too particular as to tying a nice knot, lost
the opportunity of fastening a nicer knot, and worse still, a bride
“worth a hundred thousand.”

This inquiry into the time occupied at the cravat, though very
interesting, must yield in importance to another, to wit:—How do
dandies get into their boots?

In former years this puzzling topic could not have arisen. Loose
trowsers gave plenty of room to boots which were wide in the legs. There
was no difficulty in getting heels into them, and though there might
have been some screwing and stamping, it was certain that eventually the
articles would be drawn on the feet. Then, too, the tightness was only
in the foot part of the boot. It required considerable muscular exertion
to coax the five toes into the close prison designed for them, but by
pulling one moment, working the foot the next, and then screwing the
face into ugly contortions, considerable progress was usually effected.
The power of the human countenance over upper leather is one of those
extraordinary psychological facts which dabblers in animal magnetism
have failed in accounting for satisfactorily. Yet that it does exist, is
vouched for by all experience. Tight boots have always been susceptible
to this influence. History herself cannot point to an instance where a
new leathern foot-envelope was drawn on the walker with a countenance
“calm as a summer’s morning.” It is notorious that no boot of character
ever yielded until it saw, from the knitting of the eyebrows, the
puckering of lips, and the distortion of muscles, that the putter-on was
in absolute earnest. And how stubbornly the leather yields when it comes
under the influence—how it relaxes with stiff dissatisfaction, and at
last creeps over the part assigned, with an air of unwrinkled disgust.
The philosophy of this subject is strange, and should be investigated by
some modern Mesmer of sole and upper leather.

But really this is a digression, which the importance of the correlative
subject has drawn us into. “Let us return to our—mutton.” (We might
have said our _veal_, were it not that the idea of dandies’ legs and
calves are incongruous and unnatural.) It is an inflexible rule in the
making up of an exquisite, that there shall be no calves to his legs.
The mere osteological peculiarities of that part of the frame are to be
preserved, and the epidermis must clasp the attenuated limb, without
embracing a superfluity of muscle similar to that which we see in the
lower limbs of the statues of Hercules. Hence it follows that the heel
of a true dandy is expected to protrude an inch at least beyond what,
under happier circumstances, would be the calf of his leg. There is
really no difference between the formation of the lower pedalities of a
pure dandy, and those of a pure Ethiopian. In this anatomical fact lies
the great difficulty in the way of modern “squirts.” The heel
unfortunately requires a greater opening at the top of the boot than can
be filled up by the upper part of the leg when the article is upon the
foot. This is a very distressing difficulty. The pantaloons are expected
to hug the leg as tightly as possible, so that the thinness of the
“trotters” may be revealed in all their natural beauty. But an obstacle
exists in the shape of an inch or two of superfluous leather at the top
of the boot, which will have a tendency to give the limb an appearance
of greater circumference than nature or fashion permits. This trouble is
really of disgusting importance. How do the dandies manage, then, to
produce those thin legs, the slightness of which is so strikingly
graceful? The world has long wondered over this subject, and it was not
until lately that a true philosopher revealed the mystery. He asserts
that after fops get into boots and unmentionables, they turn up the
latter until they get a fair purchase on the leather inconveniencies.
Then, with broad bandages they swathe their legs and the upper part of
their boots quite carefully, until the superfluous leather is bound
tightly down, and there is a comparatively smooth surface all the way
down the limb. After having got his trowsers pulled down, the fop is
ready for a promenade upon Chestnut street, or a conquest in a
drawing-room. In the former exercise he gets along as well as can be
expected, being very careful in his mincing steps lest an unlucky rip
should damage the integrity of his apparel. In the latter situation he
is often put to great inconvenience. When sitting down, the
unwhisperables are, by the disposition of his body, drawn a considerable
distance above the ankle. To get them down again is a matter which no
thorough dandy can accomplish. If he were to bend to do it, the
consequence would be disastrous. He therefore takes his leave of the
ladies with pantaloons half-way up to the knee, and, stopping in the
entry, exclaims—“Wait-ah! wait-ah! hea-ah, fell-ah, assist me! Come
hea-ah and pull down my pants! Really, ah, they-ah have risen until they
are quite uncomfortable.”

Thus much for the present division of our task, from which we draw the
deduction that every exquisite has his troubles like plainer people. One
day he may be in agonies because his cravat is not decently tied. On
another he may be in torture because, notwithstanding all his efforts,
his legs seem thick. These and other ills are occasional misfortunes. It
is not considered by him that although these griefs come once in a
while, he is at all times in manners a puppy, and in mental strength
only a ninny.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           A FILIAL TRIBUTE.


                         BY CORNELIA B. BROWNE.


    We thank thee, Father, for thy kindly teaching;
      It makes our “desert blossom as the rose,”
    When a fond parent, exile over-reaching,
      His arm of counsel round as gently throws.

    Daily we’ll ponder, as a sacred pleasure,
      These calm outpourings of a tender love:
    Nightly our prayer shall be, this precious treasure
      So to receive, as to be thine above.

    Thou heedest, then, that three swift lustres, wending
      O’er Time’s winged course, have made me soberer now;
    That maidenhood with infancy is blending,
      To cast a shade of thought upon my brow?

    As the meek virgin merges in the woman,
      Aid me to drink of waters more divine;
    To purify the needful, earnest, human,
      And lay soul-offerings on a holy shrine.

    Upon this day, that sealed her blissful union,
      Our mother bids us offer thanks to thee:
    Permitted foretaste of that high communion,
      Where all earth’s exiles are supremely free.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE STAG.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE DEATH OF THE STAG;


                     OR THE TALBOTS IN TEVIOTDALE.


                           BY FRANK FORESTER.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

                 The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
                 Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill,
                 And deep his midnight lair had made
                 In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade;
                 But when the sun his beacon red
                 Had kindled on Benvoirlich’s head,
                 The blood-hound’s deep resounding bay
                 Came swelling up the rocky way.
                                      Lady of the Lake.

“Tayho! Tayho!”[1]

And straightway to the cry responded the long-drawn, mellow notes of the
huge French-horns which were in those days used by every yeoman pricker,
as the peculiar and time-honored instrument of the stag-hunt, the _mots_
of which were as familiar to every hunter’s ear, as so many spoken words
of his vernacular.

It was the gray dawn of a lovely summer morning in the latter part of
July, and although the moor-cocks were crowing sharp and shrill from
every rocky knoll or purple eminence of the wild moors, now waving far
and wide with the redolent luxuriance of their amethyst garniture, for
the heather was in its full flush of bloom, although the thrush and
black-bird were caroling in emulous joy, at the very top of their
voices, from every brake and thicket which feathered the wild banks of
the hill-burns, the sun had not lifted a portion of his disc above the
huge, round-topped fells which formed the horizon to the north and
westward of my scene. That scene was the slope of a long hill—

                                “A gentle hill,
        Green and of mild declivity—the last,
        As ’twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
        Save that there was no sea to lave its base
        But a most living landscape and the wave
        Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
        Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
        Arising from such rustic roofs.”

The hills above and somewhat farther off to the southward and eastward,
are clothed and crowned with oak woods of magnificence and size so
unusual, and kept with such marked evidences of care and culture that no
one could doubt, even if it were not proved by the gray turrets of an
old baronial manor and the spire of a tall clock-house shooting up high
over the tops of the forest giants, that they were the appendages and
ornaments of some one of those ancient homes of England, which, full of
the elegancies and graces of the present, remind us so pleasantly of the
ruder, though not less homely, hospitalities of the past.

The immediate summit of the slope I have mentioned is bare, yet
conspicuous for a single tree, the only one of its kind existing for
many miles in that district—a single white pine, tall enough for the
mast of some huge admiral, and as such visible, it is said, from points
in the four northern provinces of England, and the two southernmost of
Scotland—whence it is known far and wide, in many a border lay and
legend, as the one-tree hill on Reedswood.[2] Below the bare brow of
this inland promontory, for such indeed it is, which is covered with
beautiful, short, mossy grass, as firm and soft as the greensward of a
modern race-course, and used as one vast pasture of two hundred acres,
lies a vast tract of coppice, principally of oak and birch, but
interspersed with expanses of waving heather, where the soil is too
shallow to support a larger growth, and dotted here and there with bold,
gray crags which have cropped out above the surface, and amongst these,
few and far between, some glorious old, gnarled hawthorns, which may
well have furnished May-wreaths to the yellow-haired daughters of the
Saxon before the mailed-foot of the imperious Norman had dinted the
green turf of England. This coppice overspread the whole declivity and
base of the hill, until it melted into the broad, rich meadows, which,
with a few scattered woods of small size, and here and there a patch of
yellow wheat, or a fragrant bean-field, filled all the bottom of the
great strath or valley, down to the banks of a large stream, beyond
which the land rose steeply, first in rough moorland pastures, divided
by dry stone walls, then in round heathery swells, then in great,
broad-backed purple fells, and beyond all, faintly traceable in the blue
haze of distance, in the vast ridges of the Cheviots and the hills of
Tevydale. Along the base of the hill-side, parting it from the meadows,
ran a tall, oak park-paling, made of rudely split planks, not any where
less than five feet in height, through which access was given to the
valley by heavy gates of the same material, from two or three winding
wood-roads into the shadowy lanes of the lovely lower country.

Such was the scene, o’er which there arose before the sun, startling the
hill echoes far and near, and silencing the grouse-cocks on the moors,
and the song-birds in the brake and thicket by their tumultuous din, the
shouts and fanfares that told the hunt was up.

“Tayho! Tayho!”

Tarà-tarà-tara-tantara-râ-taratantara-tantara-rà-rà-râh. Which being
interpreted into verbal dog-talk is conceived to say—“Gone-away!
gone-away! gone-away! away! away! away!” and is immediately understood
as such not by the well-mounted sportsmen only, but by what Scott calls,
himself no unskilled woodsman, “the dauntless trackers of the deer,” who
rush full-mouthed to the cheery clangor, filling all earth and ether
with the musical discords of their sweet chidings.

The spot whence the first loud, manly shout “Tayho” resounded, was
almost within the shadow of the one tree, where, as from a station
commanding the whole view of the covert, which a powerful pack of the
famous Talbot blood-hounds, numbering not less than forty couple, were
in the act of drawing, a gay group was collected, gallantly appareled,
gallantly mounted, and all intent, like the noble steeds they bestrode,
eyes, ears and souls erect on the gallant sport of the day.

Those were the days of broad-leaved hats and floating plumes, of velvet
justaucorps, rich on the seams with embroideries of gold and silver, of
the martial jack-boot and the knightly spur on the heel, and the
knightly sword on the thigh, and thus were our bold foresters accoutred
for such a chase as is never heard tell of in these times of racing
hounds and flying thoroughbreds, when the life of a fox is counted by
the minutes he can live with a breast-high scent before the flyers, and
the value of a hunter by the seconds he can go in the first flight with
a dozen horseman’s stone upon its back.

Things then were otherwise, the fox was unkenneled, or the stag
unharbored at daybreak, and killed if the scent lay well, sooner or
later, before sunset—runs were reckoned by hours, hounds picked for
their staunchness not their fleetness, horses bought not for their speed
but for their stoutness, and the longest, steadiest last rider, not the
most daring or the foremost won the palm of the chase, were it brush or
antler, when the game fox was run into, or the gallant stag turned to
bay.

The gentlemen, who were gathered on the broad, bare brow of the one-tree
hill, were in all, twelve or thirteen in number, all at first sight men
of gentle blood and generous education, although as there ever is, ever
must be in every company, whether of men or of inferior animals, there
was one to whom every eye, even of the unknown stranger or the ignorant
peasant, would have naturally turned as evidently and undoubtedly the
superior of the party, both in birth and breeding; he mingled
nevertheless with the rest on the most perfect terms not of equality
only, but of intimate familiar intercourse and friendship. No terms of
ceremonial, no titles of rank or territorial influence, but simple
Christian names passed between those gay and joyous youths; nor was
there any thing in the habit of the wearers, or the mounting of the
riders, to indicate the slightest difference in their positions of
social well-being and well-doing. One youth, however, who answered to
the name of Gerald, and sometimes to the patrimonial Howard, was so far
the handsomer both in form and feature, the statelier in stature, the
gracefuller in gesture, the manlier in bearing, the firmer and easier of
seat and hand on his hunter, that any one would have been prompt to say
almost at a glance, there is the man of all this gentle and generous
group, whom, if war wakes its clangor in the land, if external perils
threaten its coasts, or internal troubles shake its state, foreign war
or domestic strife will alike find the foremost, whether in his seat
with the senate, or in his saddle on the field, wielding with equal
force and skill the stateman’s, scholar’s, soldier’s eye, tongue,
sword—all honored him, indeed, and he deserved that all should honor
him.

I have omitted, not forgotten or neglected, to mention as first and
fairest of that fair company, a bevy of half a dozen fair and graceful
girls—not like the gentlemen, all of one caste, but as was evident, not
so much from the difference of their grace and beauty—though in these
also there was a difference—as from the relative difference of position
which they maintained, four remaining somewhat in the rear of the other
two, and not mingling unless first addressed in the conversation, and
from some distinction in the costliness and material of their attire.

A mounted chamberlain, with four or five grooms, who stood still farther
aloof, in the rear of the ladies in waiting, and two or three glittering
pages standing a-foot among the latter, in full tide of gallantry and
flirtation, their coursers held by the grooms in attendance, made up the
party. From which must always be excepted the huntsman, the verdurer,
and eight or ten yeomen prickers, in laced green jerkins, with round
velvet caps, like those worn by the whippers-in of the present day, and
huge French-horns over their left shoulders, who were seen from time to
time appearing, disappearing, and reappearing in the glades and dingles
of the hill-side covert, and heard now rating the untimely and
fallacious challenge of some wayward and willful puppy, now cheering the
earnest and trusty whimper of some redoubted veteran of the pack, as he
half-opened on a scent of yester-even.

The hounds had been in the coppice above an hour, and two-thirds of its
length had already been drawn blank—the gentlemen were beginning to
exchange anxious and wistful glances, and two or three had already
consulted more than once or twice their ponderous, old-fashioned
repeaters—and now the elder, shorter and fairer of the two damsels,
giving the whip lightly to her chestnut palfry, cantered up to the side
of Gerald Howard, followed by her companion, whose dark redundance of
half-disheveled nut-brown tresses fell down from beneath a velvet cap,
with a long drooping plume, on each side of a face of the most exquisite
oval, with a high brow, long, jet-black eyelashes, showing in cold
relief against her pure, colorless cheeks, for her eyes were downcast,
and an expression of the highest intellect, which is ever found in woman
mingled with all a woman’s tenderness and softness. She was something
above the middle height, with a figure of rare slenderness and symmetry,
exquisitely rounded, and sat her horse at once most femininely and most
firmly, without the least indication of manliness in her seat or
demeanor, yet with a certain of-at-homeness in her position and posture,
that showed she could ride as well, perhaps as boldly, as the best man
among them.

“Ah! Gerald, Gerald,” said the elder girl, laughingly, as she tapped him
on the arm with the silver-butt of her riding-whip, “is this your faith
to fair ladies, and especially to this fairest Kate, that you deluded us
from our soft beds at this untimely hour, with promise to unharbor us a
stag of ten within so many minutes, all for the pleasure of our eyes,
and the delectation of our hearts, and here have we been sitting on this
lone hill-side two hours and upward, to the great craving of our
appetites and the faintness of our hearts, yearning—as the queen’s good
Puritans would have it—after creature comforts—out on you! out on you,
for a false knight, as I believe not, for my part, that there is one
horn or hoof from the east to the west on the hill-side—no, not from
the ‘throstle’s nest’ to the ‘thorny brae.’”

“Ah! sister mine, art so incredulous—but I will wager you or ere the
Talbots reach that great gray stone, with the birch boughs waving over
it like the plumes, as our bright Kate would say, of a dead warrior’s
helmet over his cold brow, we _will_ have a stag a-foot—ay, and a stag
of ten.” And instantly raising his voice to a quicker and clearer
note—“See now!” he cried, “see now!” as a superb, dark-colored animal,
not lower than a yearling colt at the forehand, leaped with a bound as
agile as if he was aided by wings, on the cope-stone of the dry stone
wall which bounded the hither side of the hill coppice, with vast,
branching antlers tossed as if in defiance, and a swan-like neck swollen
with pride and anger. He stood there an instant, self-poised,
self-balanced, “like the herald Mercury new lighted on a heaven-kissing
hill”—uttered a hoarse, belling cry, peculiar to the animal in his
season, and then sailing forth in a long, easy curve, alighted on the
springy turf, whose enameled surface he scarce dinted, and then swept up
the gentle slope almost toward the admiring group on the brow, but in a
diagonally curved line that would carry him in the long run to the
south-west of them, at the distance of perhaps a hundred yards.

“Tayho! Tayho!” burst in a clear and cheery shout from the excited lips
of Gerald Howard.

And instantly from every part of the hill-side from east to west, from
the throstle’s nest to the “thorny brae,” from ten well-blown
French-horns burst the wild call
Tarà-tarà—tara-tantara-ra—tara-tantara-tantara—ra—ra—rah—“Gone
away—gone away—gone away—away—away!” and the fierce rally of the
mighty Talbots broke into tongue at once through the whole breadth and
length of the oak coppice, as they came pouring up the hills, making the
heather bend and the coppice crash before them like those famed Spartan
hounds of Hercules and Cadmus,

        “When in the woods of Crete they bayed the bear—
         So flewed, so randed, and their heads were hung
         With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
         Crook-kneed and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls;
         Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells
         Each under each”

As fifty separate spots they leaped the wall nearly abreast, but four
were it may be a spear’s length the leaders, and they laying their head
right at the noble quarry, which was still full in view, came straining
up the hill, making all ring around them with their deep-mouthed
thunder. The rest topped the wall one by one, in view too, and on a
breast-high scent at once came streaming up the rich grass slope on
converging lines, so that as they passed the attentive group to the
westward within a hundred yards, the pack had got all together within,
perhaps, another hundred yards of his haunches, running so that a large
carpet might have covered the whole forty couple, and raving with such a
din of harmonious discords, such shrill and savage trebles of the fierce
fleet bitch hounds, such a deep diapason of the old veteran dogs, such
sweet and attuned chidings of the whole, that not an ear but must have
listened with delight, not a heart but must have bounded with rapture at
the exulting sounds.

And ever and anon there rang up from the wildwood, the deep, mellow
blasts of the French-horns, blent with the jangled cries of the Talbots
into a strange and indescribable clangor and crepitation, at once most
peculiar and most entrancing.

At the same moment the sun burst into full view above the eastern hills,
and pouring down a great flood of golden lustre over the whole glowing
scene, kindled up every thing into light and life—tinging with ruddy
light the dappled sides of the noble beast as he swept by them now
within fifty yards—for he had circled round them wantoning and bounding
to and fro, perfectly unconcerned by the nearer presence of his
pursuers, and seemingly desirous to display the miracles of his speed
and beauty to the fair eyes that admired him—enlivening the dappled
hides of the many-colored glossy pack—burnishing the sleek and satin
coats of the noble coursers, till they glowed with almost metallic
splendor—flashing upon the rich laces, the bright buckles, and the
polished sword-hilts of the hunters, and gilding the bridle-bits and
brazen horns of the verdurers and yeomen prickers, until the whole
hill-side was glittering with a thousand gay hues and salient lights,
filling the mind with memories of faëry land and magic marvels.

Hitherto the little group on the brow of the one-tree hill had stood
motionless, while the gay, animated scene revolved around them, a
glittering circle wheeling around the stationary centre; but now, when
the servants of the chase, huntsman and verdurer, prickers, all streamed
up the long hill at their best pace, all wheeled around the tree and its
gay company, swelling the din with the flare and braying of their horns,
the gallant stag appeared to comprehend that a fresh band of enemies
were added to his first pursuers—for he half turned his head to gaze on
them, half paused for a moment to snuff the air, with nostrils
pridefully dilated, and flanks heaving, not with weariness as yet, but
with contempt and scorn, then with a toss of his antlers, and a loud
snort of indignation, set his head fair to the north-west, full for the
hills of Scotland, and went away at long sweeping bounds that seemed to
divide the green slope by leaps of eight yards each, soared back again
over the rough stone wall, and went crashing through the thickets
straight for the tall oak palings and the river, as if he were bound for
some distant well-known point, on a right line as the crow flies it.

And now for the gentlemen the chase was begun, and Gerald Howard led it,
like their leader as he was in all things, and the rest followed him
like men as they were, and brave ones—but to the ladies it was ended so
soon as they had breathed their palfries down the slope to the stone
wall and the wood-side at an easy canter; and they returned to the
hill-top, where they found viands and refreshments spread on the grass;
and long they lingered there watching the hunt recede, and the sounds of
the chase die away in the far distance. But it was long ere the sights
and sounds were lost all and wholly to their eyes and ears—for the
quarry still drove on, as straight as the crow flies, due northward—due
northward the chase followed.

They saw the gallant stag swoop over the oak-pales as if they were no
obstacle—they saw the yelping pack crash and climb after him; then they
saw Gerald Howard on his tall coal-black barb soar over it
unhindered—but all the rest turned right and left to gate or gap, or
ere they might follow him. The valley was crossed as by a whirlwind—the
river swam by hart, hound, and hunters, unhesitating and unheeding—and
far beyond up the green moorland pastures, over the stone walls, now
disappearing over the hill-tops into the misty hollows, now glinting up
again into light over some yet more distant stretch of purple heath, and
still the chiding of the hounds, and still the wild bursts of the
French-horns fell faintly on the ears, as the wind freshened from the
westward—but at length sound and sight failed them, and when silence
had sunk still and solitude reigned almost perfect over the late peopled
slope of thorny brae and the one-tree hill, the gay bevy of dames and
damsels returned homeward, something the more serious if not the sadder
for the parting, to await the gathering of their partners to the gay
evening meal.

Long they awaited—late it grew—the evening meal was over—the close of
night had come—the lights in bower and hall were kindled—the gates
were locked and barred—long ere the first of the belated foresters,
returned soiled and splashed, way-worn and weary, with the jaded and
harassed hounds, and horses almost dead from the exertion and exhaustion
of the day. At midnight, of the field all the men save one were
collected, though two or three came in on foot, and yet more on borrowed
horses—their own good steeds left in the morass or on the moorland, to
feed the kites and the hill-foxes—of the pack all save two mustered at
the kennel-gates in such plight as the toil they had borne permitted.

The man missing was Sir Gerald Howard, the master of the pack, the two
hounds were its two leaders, Hercules and Hard-heart, of whom no rider
had ever yet seen the speed slacken or the heart fail.

The old verdurer, who gave out the last, reported Gerald Howard going
well, when he saw him last, with the stag and two Talbots of all in full
view—and this many miles into Scotland within the pleasant vale of
Teviotdale, with the great Scottish hills grim and gray, towering up
before him, and the night closing fast on those dim solitudes.

It was late on the next day when Sir Gerald Howard was seen riding up
the road on the same steed he had backed so gallantly, still weary and
worn, though recruited—with the huge antlers at his saddle-bow, but no
brave Talbots at his heel.

He had ridden far into the darkness, still guided by the baying of the
staunch hounds; and when he could see to ride no longer, had obtained
timely succor and refreshment from a stout borderer of Teviot-side. At
daylight remounted a fresh horse, a garron of the country, to renew the
chase; but it was now soon ended. Scarce had he gone a mile on the
straight line they had run throughout ere he found Hard-heart stiff and
cold on the mountain heather, and not a hundred yards yet onward, ere
the great stag lay before him, not a hair of his hide injured, and
Hercules beside him, with his head upon his haunches, where he had
breathed his last, powerless to blood the brave quarry he had so nobly
conquered.

Sixty miles had they run on that summer’s day from point, they had died
together, and in their graves they were not confounded, for a double
tomb was scooped in the corrie or hollow of the mountain-side, wherein
they were found, and above it was piled a rough, gray column, whereon
may be seen rudely sculptured this true epitaph,

        Hercules killed Hart O’Grease,
        And Hart O’Grease killed Hercules.

For, reader mine, this is a real and true tale, and I, who tell it you,
have sat upon the stone, and tempered my cup of Ferintosh from the
little rill beside it, with the wild peak of the Maiden’s Pass before
me, the dark Cheviots at my right, the blue heights of the Great Moor
looming away almost immeasurably to the westward, and no companions near
me save the red grouse of the heather, and the curlew of the morass,
nothing to while away the time that my weary setters slept in the
noonday sun, save this old-time tradition.

-----

[1] “Tayho!” is the technical hunting halloa when a stag has broken
cover, as is “Talliho!” the corresponding cry for the fox. Both words
are corruptions from the French “_Taillis Hors!_” “Out of the thicket,”
French being used to a very late day as the especial language of the
chase.

[2] In Northumberland a few miles from the Scottish border.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       “GRAHAM” TO JEREMY SHORT.


[Illustration: WINTER.]

                “When icicles hang by the wall,
                  And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
                And Tom bears logs into the hall,
                  And milk comes frozen home in pail;
                When blood is nipt—”


Winter is here—Jeremy! Desolate winter! and the white fields are
shivering in the sunlight—the old woods are solemn and sad—the voices
of the air are hushed, and a quiet, save the moan of the wind, tells us
that nature is passing through the dark valley, typical of death. We
know that she will burst the stern fetters, and rising from her sleep,
shall laugh again with infant glee in all her brooks; and spreading her
motherly arms over the earth, will shower with parental liberality her
treasures into our laps once more. Yet still we feel her silence—we are
sad because of her desolation.

Winter is here—Jeremy! The long nights have come—the long, dark winter
nights; and we draw the heavy curtains, and sit down in our warm
parlors, carelessly to ponder and to dream. The light has gone out of
the starry skies which bended over us in youth, and the dun clouds surge
up from the horizon, and grow heavier and blacker as we muse—the
Present is dreary! We turn back with memory, and over all the Past we
wander. We remember the snug cottage nestled in the hills—the crackling
faggots on the old hearth-stone—they have their young vivacity now, and
the whole picture of our youthful home in this beautiful cloud-land
rises gradually and expands before us. Faces all rosy with the light of
the Immortals appear and vanish—bright wings of angels flash and fade
to the view—and as the scene swells to our mental vision, the old
familiar tones of the old familiar lips ring out their silver syllables
again. We listen to the joyous laugh, as to the gushing of music, and
almost feel the presence of soft hands in ours. The glad, beaming face
of the young creature we first worshiped, with all the innocence of
love’s first delusion, sparkles with the radiant beauty of those happy
hours. The mother in that quiet chamber, with the dim lamp and the snowy
curtains gleaming out from the corner, where we knelt at her side and
uttered the evening prayer, lifts her white hands to our brow again, and
says, “God bless and keep thee, my boy!” God help us now—how have we
wandered since our souls felt that earnest benediction!

Winter is here! and the long, stormy nights have come, Jeremy—the
nights of dread and desolation to the poor. The roar of the tempest has
the voice of a demon out there! Do the moan and the howl, which sound so
fearfully now, stir in the heart a thought of the perishing ones, who,
in the midst of this splendid city, sit shivering, ragged, and starved?
The pale brow and the hollow eye of the consumptive mother, sitting
desolate amid her famishing ones, grow paler and sadder as the storm
rolls on! Does her low wail of agony reach the ears of angels to-night?
If not—God help her!

Scores of Christian churches stand grandly out in the storm, and bravely
defy the tempest. They are tenantless, now, of the rosy lips and bright
eyes which have looked appealingly to Heaven, and muttered prayers for
the poor. Are willing hands employed to-night in confirmation of the
Sunday’s sincerity? Or do cards, the piano, or the dance, lend a sorry
confirmation of the utter hollowness of words? Is all the wealth and
splendor of Gothic steeples and stained-glass—the majestic column—the
lordly porch, and the sweeping aisle, but the magnificence of
delusion?—mere monuments of the wickedness of man endeavoring to cheat
the Creator with tinsel—with show, not worth—with words, not deeds!
God help the homeless, Jeremy, where this is true! And help the
disciple, too, who prays, but never _thinks_! God bless the humble
Christian, who _labors_ and cares for THE POOR!

        “Poor naked wretches, whereso’er you are,
         That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
         How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
         Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
         From seasons such as these?”

                                                             G. R. G.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.


                        BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.


                      (_Continued from page 11._)


                              FIRST LOVE.

The poor little girl by my side made no struggle to quit me, no effort
to return to her mother, but ran along holding my hand, with perfect
docility and confidence, weeping bitterly, it is true, and never
uttering a word. It was a strange situation for a boy of twelve years of
age, and yet I felt a certain sort of pride in it—in the trust which
was reposed in me—in the right, and, as I fancied, the power of
protecting. I would have fought for that little girl to the death, if
any one had attempted to molest her; and although I had never at that
time heard of paladins and knights-errant, I was quite as valiant in my
own opinion as any one of them ever was. I was not very hard-hearted at
that time—youth seldom is—and I felt greatly moved by the poor child’s
grief.

After we had gone about a mile, at a very quick pace, I began to slacken
my speed, and to try and comfort my little companion. At first she
appeared inconsolable, but by trying hard, I at length made some
impression—won her mind away from the terrors and sorrows of her
situation, and got her to speak a word or two in reply to my question.
She told me that her name was Mariette, and that she had walked some way
that day—that her mother had rushed into the room where she was
playing, all covered with blood, as I had seen her just before—had
caught her up in her arms, and rushed out of a château where they lived,
by a back way, plunging at once into the wood. They had then walked a
long distance, she said, her mother sometimes carrying her, sometimes
letting her run by her side; and I could perceive that, delicately
nurtured and unaccustomed to hard exercise, the poor little thing was
already considerably tired. I was a strong, big boy, and so without more
ado, I took her up in my arms and carried her. After some way, I put her
down again, and she walked on refreshed, and then I carried her again,
and then we sat down upon a bank and rested; and I got her water from
the stream in the hollow of my hand, and tried to amuse her by telling
her stories. But I never was a good story-teller in all my life, and I
did not succeed very well. All this occupied time, however, and when we
arrived within half a mile of the town, light was fading fast. This
alarmed me; not that I had any fear of darkness, but it was good
Jeanette’s custom, in the gray of the evening to walk out through our
little garden in the tower, down the stair-case, the door of which lay
on the left-hand side, and lock the door below. I did not like to go in
by the great gates of the town, both because the distance was greater,
and because I thought some questions might be asked about Mariette; and
I resolved, at all events, to attempt our private entrance before I
yielded to necessity. I encouraged my little companion to hurry her
steps, by pointing out the town rising before us, and telling her that
if she made haste, she would in a few minutes be with Father Bonneville,
and he would be so good and kind to her she could not think. I told her,
also, of good Jeanette, and what a nice creature she was, and I
succeeded in engaging her attention and leading her on much faster than
before. We soon reached the foot of the hill, climbed the steep little
path which led to the door at the foot of the tower, and with great joy
and some surprise I found it open.

“Now come in, Mariette,” I said, “and don’t be afraid of the dark; for
this stair-case leads to our garden, and the garden to the house.”

She said she was not at all afraid of the dark; that her papa often made
her walk with him in the dark; and she followed me quite readily,
holding tight by my hand, however.

In the garden above we found good old Jeanette, with her snow-white cap,
and her mittens. I found that she had become anxious at my long absence,
and had abstained from locking the door lest I should determine to come
in that way. Her surprise to see my little companion, and the state of
grotesque agitation and bustle into which the sight threw her, I shall
never forget. My explanations soon banished surprise by other emotions.
I told all I knew of poor Mariette’s story as simply as I could, and the
good creature’s heart was instantly touched; the tears gathered in her
eyes, and taking the poor little girl in her arms, she said, “Come with
me, my child—come with me. Here we will make you a home where you will
be as happy as the day is long.”

“I can’t be happy without papa and mamma,” replied Mariette, bursting
into tears again, and Jeanette, weeping for company, carried her off
into the house, while I ran down the stairs to lock the door of the
tower. When I entered the house again, I found that Father Bonneville
was out visiting some sick people, and had been absent for several
hours. Mariette wanted no kind of tendence, however, that was not given
to her by good Jeanette. She put her pretty little feet in warm water;
she gave her a cup of the thin chocolate which usually formed the good
priest’s supper, and she endeavored, with far greater skill than mine,
to wile away her thoughts from all that was painful in memory, or her
new situation. Mariette soon began to prattle to her, and leaning her
head upon her shoulder, said she loved her very much; but then, after a
few minutes, the bright young eyes closed, the little head leaned
heavier, and Jeanette, moving her gently, carried her away to my small
room, and placed her gently in my bed, “to sleep it out,” as she said.

About half an hour after, good Father Bonneville returned, and his face
showed evident traces of sorrow and perplexity. But still my story was
to be told, and it seemed to perplex him still more.

“Do you know her name?” he asked.

“Mariette, Father,” I replied.

“But what more, besides Mariette?” he asked; and as I could give him no
information, he made me describe, as accurately as I could, the
appearance of the lady I had seen. I spoke of her bright and beautiful
eyes, and I described her as very pale; but the good priest inquired
whether she was tall.

“Oh yes,” I replied; “a good deal taller than Jeanette.”

The good priest smiled; for Jeanette was a good deal below the height of
the Medicean Venus, and she is no giantess.

“It must be Madame de Salins,” he murmured, after a moment’s
consideration. “Holy father, have mercy upon us! Killed Monsieur de
Salins, have they, before his poor wife’s eyes? A better young man did
not exist, nor one who has done more good, both by his acts and his
example.”

“Wouldn’t you know Mariette, if you saw her, Father?” I asked; and
Jeanette coming in from the room where the child was at the moment, led
the good Father away to see her. When he came back, he said no more for
some time, but sat thinking, with his head bent forward, and his eyes
half closed. Then he called Jeanette, and somewhat to my surprise, gave
very strict orders for concealing the fact of the little girl’s
residence in our house. My little room was to be assigned to her; a
large, wide, rather cheerful, long uninhabited room, up stairs, was to
receive a table, and a few chairs from somewhere else, and to be made a
sort of play-room for her, and I and Jeanette were to do the very best
we could to make the little prisoner happy, while her existence was to
be kept secret from every one but our three selves. At the same time he
laid the strongest injunctions upon me to abstain from even hinting to
any one the adventure I had met with in the wood, and never to call the
child Mariette de Salins, but merely Mariette, or Mariette Brun.

And now began a new sort of existence for me. Mariette became, as it
were, my property—at least I looked upon her almost as such. I had
carried her in the forest. I had led her along by the hand. I had
brought her there. She was my little foundling, and my feelings toward
her were as strange as ever came into the breast of a boy of thirteen.
There was something parental about them. I could almost have brought
myself to believe that I was her father; and yet I looked upon her very
much in the light of a toy, as grown-up parents will sometimes do in
regard to their children. I was with Mariette the greater part of every
day, playing with her, amusing her, devising all sorts of games to
entertain her. She soon became very fond of me, and quite familiar;
would sit by the hour with her arms round my neck, and would tell me
little anecdotes of her own home. A pleasant home it seemed to have been
till the last fearful events occurred, full of harmony, and peace, and
domestic joy. Continually she seemed to forget the present, in pictures
of brighter hours gone by, but from time to time—especially at first—a
torrent of painful memories would seem to burst upon her, and the end of
the little tale would be drowned in tears.

Two months passed over in this manner, and little Mariette seemed quite
reconciled to her situation. With the elasticity of childish hope, she
had recovered all her spirits, and no two young, happy, innocent things
were ever gayer than we were. Her state of imprisonment, too, was
somewhat relaxed; for, in our own town at least, a lull had come upon
the political storm, which, as every one knows, came up sobbing, as it
were, in fits and starts, like a south-westerly gale, till the full
hurricane blew and swept every thing before it. After some hesitation,
Father Bonneville permitted her to go out with me into the garden, and
there to play amongst the shrubs, now, alas! destitute of flowers, for
an hour or two before she went to bed. In the town she was never seen,
and with a sort of prescience, which was, perhaps, not extraordinary,
the good Father explained to me that it would be wiser to use, as little
as possible, the way out of the town by the garden and the tower. He
treated me with a degree of confidence and reliance on my intelligence
and discretion, which made me very proud. The agitated and terrible
state of the country, he said, and the anarchical tendencies which were
visible throughout society in France, had induced a number of the most
wealthy and influential people to seek a refuge in other lands. Those
who had got possession of power, he continued, were naturally anxious to
put a stop to this emigration, and a system of espionage, which was
well-nigh intolerable, had been established to check it. The advantage
we possessed of being able to go in and out of the town when we pleaded,
without passing the gales, might be lost to us by the imprudent use of
it; and although two or three other citizens, whose houses abutted upon
towers of the old wall, had the same facilities, he knew them to be
prudent and well-disposed men, who were not likely to call attention to
themselves by any incautious act.

Although the door below was unlocked and locked every morning and
evening, it may well be supposed that I adhered strictly to the good
Father’s directions, and always when I wanted to get out of the city
took the way round by the gates. This was not very often, indeed, for I
had now an object of interest and entertainment at home, which I had
never had before, and Mariette was all the world to me for the time.
Good Father Bonneville in speaking of her to me used to call her with a
quiet smile “Tu fille”—thy daughter—and pleasant was it for me to hear
him so name her. Certain it is, what between one thing and another—the
little vanity I had in her—the selfish feeling of property, so strong
in all children—the pleasant occupation which she gave to my thoughts,
and her own winning and endearing ways, (for she was full of every sort
of wild, engaging grace,) together with her real sweetness of
disposition, which had something more beautiful and charming in it than
I can describe—certain it is, I say—I learned before a month was over
to love nothing on all the earth like her. Nay more, amongst all the
passions and objects and pursuits of life I can recall nothing so
strong, so fervent, so deep, as that pure, calm, boyish love for little
Mariette de Salins. I could dwell upon it, even now, for ever, and from
my heart and soul I believed she returned that affection as warmly. Two
months and a fortnight had passed by: heavier clouds than ever were
beginning to gather on the political horizon: menaces of foreign
invasion to put down the disorderly spirit which had manifested itself
in the land, roused the indignation both of those whose passions refused
correction, and those who loved the independence of their country. The
very threat swept away one of the few safeguards of society which
remained in France. There was a great body of the people who disliked
the thought of anarchy; but a short period of anarchy seemed to them
preferable to the indefinite domination of foreign soldiers in the land,
and multitudes of these better men were now driven to act with or submit
to the anarchists.

I could see that Father Bonneville was very much alarmed, and in much
agitation and distress of mind. I twice saw him count over the money
which I had brought him from Madame de Salins, and looking up in my
face, he said, with a thoughtful air:

“I suppose I ought to send her away—the time is past—but I know not
really what to do—where could I put her in England?—who could I send
with her?—how could I let her mother know where she is to be found?
This is a small sum, too, to support her for any time in England. A
hundred and forty-seven louis! England is a dear country—a very dear
country, as I know. Every thing is thrice the price that it is here.”

Youth always argues from its wishes. They form the goal to which,
whatever turns the course may take, the race is always directed in the
end. Father Bonneville’s words were very painful to me, and I ventured
to strive to persuade him that it would be better to wait a little: that
Mariette was well where she was: that something might have occurred to
delay Madame de Salins.

The good Father shook his head, with a sigh, and he then took a little
drawer out of a cabinet, and counted some forty or fifty gold pieces
that were within. I could see, however, that there were, at least, three
little rolls of thin white paper diapered by the milling of the coin
within, and I knew by their similarity and size with the one which I had
myself received, that each must contain somewhere about a hundred louis.
To me this was Peru; but Father Bonneville, who knew better, sighed over
it, and put it back again.

One very stormy night the wind blew in sharp, fierce gusts against the
front windows, and the rain pattered hard. The streets were almost
deserted, and utterly unlighted, as they were in those times, they
offered no pleasant promenade on such a night as that. Suddenly the bell
rang, as I was sitting by Father Bonneville reading, when Mariette was
sound asleep up stairs, and Jeanette was working away in her kitchen.

“Who can that be?” said Father Bonneville, turning a little pale. “Stay,
Jeanette, stay for a moment;” and he put away one or two things that
were lying about, and locked the door of the little cabinet.

Now, it might seem a cruelty to keep any one waiting at the door even
for a minute or two in the pitiless pelting of the shower; but I forgot
to mention in describing the house, that it, and a neighboring house,
which bent away from the main into a side street, formed a very obtuse
angle, and that between the two there was a little arched entrance
overshadowing a flight of steps which led to the good Father’s door.
Thus, any visitor was as much sheltered from the rain on the outside, as
if he had been in the house itself.

Jeanette had, at length, permission to go to the door, and to tell the
truth, both Father Bonneville and I peeped out to see who was the
applicant who made so late a call.

“I wish to see Father Bonneville,” said a woman’s voice, marvelously
sweet and pleasant.

“Is your business very pressing, madam?” asked Jeanette, adding, “it is
late, and just the good Father’s time for going to bed.”

“Life and death!” said the visitor. “I _must_ see him, and see him
alone.”

“Well, madam, come in,” was the reply, and at the same moment Father
Bonneville said in a low tone, but it seemed to me with a happy air,
“Leave me, François. Go to bed, my son.”

I obeyed at once, and in moving across the passage to the kitchen for a
light, I crossed the visitor, nearly touching her. All I could see,
however, was that she was tall, dignified in carriage, dressed in deep
black, and wrapped up in a large mantle with a veil over her head.

I felt sure that it was Mariette’s mother, and hurrying away to my new
room, which was over the little archway sheltering the entrance, I shut
the door and gave myself up to a fit of despair. I fancied that she had
come to take my little pet away, to separate her from me forever, to
deprive me of my property, and I cannot describe in any degree what I
felt. The anguish of that moment was as great almost as I ever
experienced in life. All I did within the next ten minutes I cannot
tell, but one thing I know I did, which was to sit down and cry like a
great baby. I would have given worlds to have known what was passing;
but I did not listen though I might have done so easily from the top of
my little stairs. But good Father Bonneville had so early, so well, and
so strongly impressed upon my mind the duty of avoiding any meanness,
that eaves-dropping seemed to me in those days almost as great a crime
as murder. Indeed it was in somewhat of that shape that the good Father
placed it before my eyes. “What right,” he said, “has one man to rob
another of his secrets any more than of his money? They are both his
property, and if they are not given they are stolen.”

I was not very long kept in suspense, however, for by the time I had got
my little coat off, and was still sitting on the edge of the bed crying,
I heard the lady quit the good Father’s little study, and his voice
speaking as he escorted her toward the door. I knew that Mariette could
not have been awakened, dressed, and carried off in a quarter of an
hour, and I went to bed and slept with a heart relieved. It was only a
respite, however. Four days after that good Father Bonneville took an
opportunity when Mariette and I were at play of telling her that she was
that night to go away with her mamma, and take a long journey. He
advised her therefore not to tire herself, but to keep as quiet as
possible till the evening came, even if she could not lie down and take
a little rest during the day.

The poor child’s agitation was extreme. The idea of seeing her mother
evidently gave her great delight, but the thought of going away from a
house where she had been made so happy, and from a companion who loved
her so much, seemed not exactly to qualify her joy, but to tear her
between two emotions. Her face was, for an instant, all smiles and
radiant with satisfaction. The next instant, however, she burst into
tears, and snatching Father Bonneville’s hand she kissed it once or
twice. Then pointing to me, she said, “Cannot I take him with me?”

The good priest shook his head, and soon after left us to pass the time
till the hour of separation came as best we might. I do not think he
knew, and indeed it would be difficult to make any one comprehend, who
has left the period of early youth far behind him, what were the
feelings of Mariette and myself. I am very much inclined to believe from
my own remembrances, that the pangs of childhood are much more severe
than most grown persons will admit.

Day wore away; night came. Little Mariette was dressed and prepared, and
about nine o’clock the bell rang. In a moment after the poor child was
in her mother’s arms, and weeping with joy and agitation. Madame de
Salins hardly sat down, however, and there was a look of hurry and
anxiety as well as of grief in her face which told how much she had
suffered, and how much she expected still to encounter.

“I am somewhat late,” she said, speaking to Father Bonneville; “for
there were two men walking up and down before the house in which I have
been concealed, and I dared hardly venture out. Let us lose no time,
good Father. Who will show us the way?”

“Louis, my son, get the lantern,” said the good Father; and turning to
Madame de Salins he added, “He will show you the way.”

These words first seemed to call the attention of the lady to myself,
and advancing toward me she embraced me tenderly and with many thanks
for the charge I had taken of her little girl in a moment of danger and
of horror. I felt gratified, but I do not know that I altogether forgave
her for coming to carry off my little companion, and I was also
struggling with all my might not to show myself so unmanly as to shed
tears; so that I replied somewhat ungracefully I am afraid. I went away
for the lantern, however and by the direction of good Father Bonneville,
lighted Madame de Salins and Mariette through the garden, and down the
stair-case in the tower. I then proceeded to open the door for them,
almost hoping that the key might be rusted in the lock so as to prevent
their going. It turned easily enough, however, and when I opened the
door I was startled at seeing the figure of a man standing at the top of
the little path which led down to the foot of the hill. Madame de
Salins, however, accosted him at once by his name, and he told her that
Peter and Jerome were waiting down below. The parting moment was now
evidently come, and it seemed as bitter to poor little Mariette as
myself. She threw her arms around me. She held me tight. She kissed me
again and again, and her tears wetted my cheek. At length, however, she
was drawn away from me, and her mother holding her hand led her down the
hill while the man followed. I looked after them for a moment or two,
till they were nearly lost in the darkness. Then locked the door, and
turned sadly toward the house.


                              THE FLIGHT.

Oh, how dull and tedious was the passing of the next month to me. There
was a vacancy in all my thoughts which I cannot describe, a want of
object and of interest, which nothing seemed to supply. But the dullness
of the calm was soon to be succeeded by the agitation of the storm. The
populace, particularly of the suburb, was becoming more fierce and
unruly every hour. If at any previous period there had been such a thing
as tyranny in France—of which I knew, and had felt nothing—it must
have been the tyranny of one, far removed from the humble or even the
middle stations of life, and much less terrible than the tyranny of
many, which now came to the door of every house in the land. There was a
butcher living in the lower part of the town, the terror of his
neighbors, and an object of abhorrence to all good men. Fierce,
licentious, and unprincipled, his courage—the only good quality he
possessed—was the courage of a tiger. On more than one occasion in
former years good Father Bonneville had had to reprove him, and it would
seem he had not forgotten it.

One day, about a month after Mariette had left us, I had walked out into
the town during Father Bonneville’s absence from home, and was crossing
the square in front of the great church. On one side of the square was
the best inn in the place, and upon the steps of that inn were standing
several officers of a dragoon regiment which had lately been quartered
in the town. In the midst of the square, I saw a great crowd of people
moving to and fro, and apparently busy and agitated. There were muskets
amongst the crowd; for in those days the more ragged and
poverty-stricken a man was, the more certain was he of having some
weapon of offense in his hand; and amongst the rest, with a red
night-cap on his head, and his shirt sleeves tucked up to the elbow, I
could perceive the great stalwort figure of the butcher I have
mentioned. I saw also, however, other garments than those of the mere
populace. There was the black gown of a priest in the middle of the
crowd, and as I approached with a faint and fearful heart, I not only
saw that the mob were dragging along a priest by the arms, but also that
he was good Father Bonneville. I heard shouts too of “up with him! Hang
him up, hang him up! To the spout with him, to the spout!”

The officers I have mentioned were standing quietly looking on, laughing
and talking with two or three of the more respectable citizens. But at
the first impulse I ran toward them, caught the hand of one of the young
soldiers, who seemed to bear a high rank amongst the others, and whose
face was a kindly one, and with eager and terrified tones exclaimed—

“Oh, save him, sir, save him. They are going to kill the best man in all
the town.”

“Who are they going to hang, boy?” asked one of the citizens in a tone
of assumed indifference; for few persons ventured in those days to show
any sympathy with the victims of popular fury.

“Father Bonneville,” I answered, “Oh it is Father Bonneville—Save him,
save him—pray make haste!”

“He is, indeed, one of the best men in the world,” said the gentleman,
with a look of deep distress.

The young officer, however, without more ado, ran down the steps and
plunged into the crowd. One or two of his companions followed, I saw a
sudden pause in the mob, and heard a great outcry of voices; some
apparently in persuasion, others in mere brute clamor. A moment after,
however, while the parties seemed still disputing, a squadron of
dragoons came into the square, and their appearance, though they took no
part in what was going on, seemed to have a great effect upon the mob. A
number of the ragged ruffians dropped off every moment, some walking
away down the street, singing ribald songs, some coming up to the
soldiers, and speaking a word or two to them as if to show that they
were not afraid, but walking away in the end. At length, however, I had
the satisfaction to see the young officer emerge from the little crowd
that remained, holding Father Bonneville by the arm, while another of
the dragoon officers walked on the good priest’s other side. The only
one who followed them was the butcher, and he continued pursuing them
with execration and abuse till they reached the steps of the inn, in
which they lodged the good Father for the time. The young officer made
no reply to all the ribald language with which he was assailed, except
on the inn steps, where he turned, and said in a calm tone—

“It may be all very true, but proceed according to law. If he has
refused to take the oath required, he can and will be punished for it,
but you are not to be the judge, and shall not break the law while I am
in command of this town.”

Thus saying, without waiting for any answer, he walked into the inn, and
I ran after Father Bonneville. The good old man was somewhat out of
breath with the rough handling he had received, but I could not perceive
any traces of fear or great agitation either in his face or manner. As
soon as the young officer and I entered the back-room in which he had
taken refuge, he held out his hand kindly to me, but addressed his first
words to the other.

“I have to thank you much, my son,” he said. “I do believe if you had
been two minutes later those poor misguided people would have hanged
me.”

“I do believe they would,” replied the officer, with a smile; “but you
have to thank this good lad for my coming as soon as I did. I did not
perceive what they were about till he told me.”

“Thank you, Louis, thank you,” said Father Bonneville. “I have had a
narrow escape, my son. Although, God knows, I have never done these
people any harm, and have tried to do them good, yet they seemed
resolved to have my blood. Do you think it will be safe for me to go
now, sir? I have some sick people to attend upon.”

The young officer besought him however to stay till the town was more
completely quieted, and advised him even then to betake himself to his
own house, and remain concealed and quiet for a day or two.

I knew quite well that Father Bonneville would not follow this counsel
implicitly, and he did not. He got safely home two or three hours after,
and remained within till nightfall; but then he went out to visit the
sick persons he had named, and on the following morning was pursuing his
usual avocations as if nothing had happened. It was not long, however,
before he became convinced that such conduct could only lead to
martyrdom, without being of the slightest benefit to his flock. Death
would have been nothing in his eyes, if by it he could purchase good to
others, but that was not a period at which such sacrifices would be at
all available.

One day while he was out, a Sister of Charity came to the house, and
talked long and earnestly with good Jeanette in the kitchen. I was not
present at their conference, but when the Sister went away again I saw
that the old housekeeper was in a state of the utmost consternation and
grief. The expression of these passions took a curious form with her. It
seemed as if she could not be still for one moment. She bustled about
the kitchen, as if it were too small for her energies, took down and put
up again every pot, kettle, saucepan, and spit, at least a dozen times,
gazed into the frying-pan with an objectless look, and seemed only
anxious to spend the superfluous activity of her body upon something,
while her mind was equally busy with something else. When Father
Bonneville returned, however, she had a long conference with him, and he
seemed very thoughtful and anxious. At night the Sister of Charity again
returned, and this time she bore a letter with her. I only know what
took place between her and the good Father by the result; for as soon as
she was gone, he called me into his study, where Jeanette had been all
the time, and I at once saw that my good old friend and instructor had
made up his mind to some great and important step.

“My dear Louis,” he said, with a calm but very grave face, “we have
heard very evil news. A persecution is raging against the ministers of
religion, which must soon reach me if I remain here. They have already
commenced in a town not very far distant, a practice of tying priests
and nuns together, and drowning them in the river, adding, by the term
they apply to these massacres, impiety to murder. This good creature and
Sister Clara, who has just been here, both urge me strongly to fly. I
should have hesitated to take such a step, but I find that it is
necessary that you should be removed to another country as soon as
possible. I have no one to send with you, and I trust I am not biased
from my duty by any mere fears for my own life when I determine to
accompany you myself. I shall still be fulfilling at least one of the
tasks which I have undertaken to perform, and I sincerely believe it is
the one in which the remains of my life can be most serviceable.”

He then went on to explain to me that he had determined to pass the next
day in the town, and to make his escape at night. Disguise, he added
with a sigh, would be necessary. But good Jeanette undertook to procure
what was fitting for the occasion, and good Father Bonneville retired to
rest that night grave and sad, but, apparently, in no degree agitated.
On the following day, a few minutes before noon, a great mob passed up
the street, carrying a bloody human head upon a pole. They stopped
opposite to the good priest’s house, shouting for him to show himself,
and with a quiet and undismayed air he walked to an upper window, and
looked out. He was instantly assailed with a torrent of abuse, and I do
not feel at all sure that the mob would not have sacked the house and
put him to death, if it had not been so near the tiger’s feeding-time.
All the lower classes dined at twelve, and Father Bonneville retiring
from the window as soon as he had shown himself, the crowd marched on
again down the street with their bloody ensign at their head.

Nothing that I remember worthy of notice occurred during the rest of the
day, though Jeanette was in a good deal of bustle, and went in and out
more than once. Several persons came to see Father Bonneville, and
talked with him for some time; but the day passed heavily with me,
although I will acknowledge that I felt a good deal of that eager and
pleasant expectation with which youth always looks forward to change.

At length night fell; the outer door of the house was carefully locked;
Father Bonneville retired to his own sleeping-room; I assisted Jeanette
to bring down a pair of somewhat heavy saddle-bags, the one marked with
black paint L. L., the other J. C. Shortly after I heard a step upon the
stairs, and a gentleman entered the room, whom I did not at first
recognize—and could hardly, for some time, persuade myself that it was
Father Bonneville. Soutane and bands, and small black cap, and
cocked-hat were all gone, and he appeared in a straight-cut black coat,
with a small sword by his side. His thin, white hair, powdered and tied
behind, and a round hat, with a broad band and buckle, on his head. The
effect of this change in costume was to make him look very much smaller
than before. He had seemed a somewhat portly man in his robes, but now
he looked exceedingly lank and spare, and even his height seemed
diminished. He looked strange and ill at ease, but showed no indecision,
now that his mind was made up.

“I thought of burning my papers,” he said, speaking to Jeanette, “but I
don’t know, ma bonne, that they contain any thing unworthy of a good
Christian or a good citizen. I shall therefore leave them as they are,
to be examined by those who may take the trouble. You understand all,
Jeanette, that I have said, and what you are to do, and where I am to
hear from you.”

Jeanette comprehended every thing; but the feelings of the good
creature’s heart were at this time surging up against her understanding
with greater and greater force every minute. At length, when all was
ready for our departure, she fell upon her knees at good Father
Bonneville’s feet, weeping and kissing his hand, and begging his
blessing. The old man put his hand upon her head, and with an air of
solemn affection, called down the blessing of God upon her. Then
embracing her kindly, he said, “You have striven, I know, Jeanette, to
be as good a servant to God as to a mere mortal master. He deserves more
and better service than any of us can give, but he is contented with
less than any of us require, if it be rendered with a whole heart.
Farewell, my Jeanette—farewell for the present! We shall meet again
soon—I trust—I believe.”

The good Father took one of the saddle-bags, and I took the other;
Jeanette loading me, moreover, with a large paper parcel of which she
bade me take great care, hinting at the same time that it contained
sustenance for the good Father and myself which might be very needful to
us on our first night’s journey. She followed us in tears through the
garden in the tower, and down the stairs to the foot. There she hugged
and kissed me heartily, but she had no power to speak, and by this time,
all the pleasant fancies in regard to setting out to see new scenes, and
to find new enjoyments, which I had entertained for a moment or two, had
passed away, and nothing remained but sorrow and regret. We made our
way, not without difficulty, down the little path to the valley; for the
night was as black as crime, and then walked on along the road by the
stream, which, however, we were obliged to quit soon, in order to avoid
a party of men who had a sort of guard-house where the two roads met.
This was easily done, however. The river was not very full; for the air
was frosty, but dry, and neither snow nor rain had fallen for two or
three days. Some large stones served us as well as a bridge, and
crossing the meadows on the other side, we reached the high road from
the town toward Paris without going through the suburbs. About a quarter
of a mile farther upon this road, we found an elderly man standing with
two horses; and although I could hardly see his face, I recognized in
him an uncle of good Jeanette, who was accustomed every fortnight to
bring poultry to the house, and who, to say the truth, looked a good
deal younger than his niece. Few words passed between him and us; the
saddle-bags were arranged on the horses’ backs nearly in silence. Father
Bonneville mounted one, and the good farmer helped me to mount the
other. I had never been upon a horse’s back in my life before, and the
animal upon which I was perched, though somewhat less than that which
carried Father Bonneville, seemed to me a perfect elephant. I was
awkward enough, and uncomfortable enough, no doubt, at first, but I soon
got accustomed to my position, and took rather a pleasure in the ride
than not, till we had gone some eight or nine miles, when I began to
feel the usual inconveniences to which young horsemen are subject.

A good deal of apprehension was entertained both by my reverend
companion and myself, lest our flight should be discovered, and
immediate pursuit take place. But we found afterward that such fears
were quite vain, the minds of the people of the town, especially of the
anarchists, were turned by various events in a direction quite different
from Father Bonneville. They had their mayor to guillotine, and two or
three of the principal inhabitants to throw into prison, which occupied
them satisfactorily for several days. Father Bonneville’s absence was
never noticed by any but his own immediate parishioners, who wisely
forbore to talk about it till Jeanette, with a bold policy which did her
credit, judging that our escape had been safely effected, went up to the
municipality, and begged to know what she was to do, as her master had
gone away several days before, and had not returned.

In the meanwhile we rode on through that live-long night, neither
directing our course straight toward Paris, nor to the sea-side. When
morning dawned I was terribly tired and sleepy, and saw all sorts of
unreal things in the twilight—the mere effect, I suppose, of
exhaustion. Father Bonneville had talked to me from time to time, giving
me directions for my general conduct and demeanor toward himself. I
found that it was his intention to assume the name of Charlier, and that
I was to pass for his nephew, still retaining the name of Lacy, deprived
of its aristocratic prefix of dé. The name, however, soon got corrupted
by the people of the inns as we went along, and I passed as young
citoyen Lassi throughout the whole of the rest of our long journey.

At daylight, after the first night’s march, we halted on a piece of
uncultivated ground at the side of a wood, and suffering our horses to
crop the grass, of which they stood in some need, we seated ourselves on
a dry bank under the trees, and made free with the food which good
Jeanette had provided for us. After I had satisfied my keen appetite,
and drunk some wine out of a flask, I fell into a sound sleep before I
was at all aware what was coming upon me, nor did I wake till Father
Bonneville shook me gently by the arm, at about one o’clock in the day.

We then resumed our journey, having to take the first very dangerous
step after quitting the town, in entering the busy haunts of men, and
exposing ourselves to the eyes and inquiries of strangers.

A tall church-tower was soon seen rising before us, at a considerable
distance, and Father Bonneville took the opportunity of a peasant woman,
passing us on the road, to ascertain the name of the town to which the
church belonged. This gave him the key to his topography, which he had
lost during the night, and as the town was still full fifteen miles
distant, he determined to stop at any village he found a few miles ere
we reached it, in order to avoid the stricter examination which was
likely to be enforced in a city. Upon calculating as nearly as our
knowledge of the country enabled us to do, we found that we had made
five-and-thirty miles during the night, and ten or twelve miles more
would put what might be considered a sufficient distance for the time
between ourselves and our enemies. We jogged on quietly then,
encountering a good number of the peasantry who were returning from
market or fair. For a part of the way we rode by the side of an old man
who was journeying in the same direction with ourselves. He had a
shrewd, thoughtful, but quiet eye, and a bland, easy smile, which
perhaps might have made a man well versed in the world doubt his perfect
sincerity, notwithstanding his tall, broad forehead, and a certain
dignity of air that did not bespeak low cunning. He addressed good
Father Bonneville at once as “Monsieur L’abbé,” but looked at him
several times before he said more.

At first my old companion did not seem to notice the epithet he bestowed
upon him, but after a few more words had passed, he inquired somewhat
abruptly, “What made you call me ‘Abbé,’ citizen?”

“Your dress,” replied the countryman, “your manner, and your look. The
aristocrat is proud, because he has always commanded, and thinks he has
a right to command. The peasant is vain, because God has implanted in
every French breast the notion that each man is equal to his neighbor,
whether he be a fool or a wise man, a scholar or a dunce, a brave man or
a poltroon, a good man or a knave. But the teacher of religion has a
different look. He has been accustomed to guide and to exhort, and he
knows that it is not only his right but his duty so to do. There is,
therefore, in him a look of confidence and authority, very different
from the haughtiness of the one or the vanity of the other I have
mentioned.”

“You must have thought and studied more than might have been expected,”
said Father Bonneville, examining him closely.

“There is no reason why any man should not study, and still less why he
should not think,” replied the other. “I have done both, I acknowledge.
There are more sins committed in France every day than that.”

“And pray where do you live?” asked Father Bonneville.

“Come and see,” replied the stranger. “Your horses seem tired, and I
have still some nine miles to go, but we can ride slowly, and at this
next turn we shall quit the high road, which will be a convenience.”

Father Bonneville agreed to the proposal, and we rode on by the side of
our inviter in desultory conversation, pointed occasionally by
references to passing political events, but generally referring to
subjects altogether indifferent. I was dreadfully tired, I confess,
before we got to the end of our long, slow journey. At length after two
hours’ quiet ride, the stranger said, “We are coming to my home, where
you will be very welcome, and it is as well for you to stay there
to-night; for there is a grand fête of Liberty going on in most of the
villages round, and that lady, like most other pagan deities, is very
fond of human sacrifices. Now it does not much matter whether one is
crushed under the wheels of Juggernaut, or burned by Druids in a basket
of wicker-work, or made to pass through the fire like the children of
those obedient and docile Israelites of old, or have one’s head chopped
off on a little platform in a public square, before the image of a
monstrous woman, in a red night-cap, and with a spear in her hand. It
does not much matter, I say; but all are disagreeable, and all are to be
avoided by every reasonable means. You will therefore be better in my
home there, than in any inn in the neighborhood.”

“Where?” asked Father Bonneville, gazing on before him, in expectation
of seeing a farmer’s house.

“There,” replied the stranger, pointing to a magnificent château upon a
rising ground near. “You marvel, I see, and I can guess your
inquiry—how I have contrived to keep possession of my own, when the
universal war-cry through all France is, ‘War to the Castle, Peace to
the Cottage.’ I have not time for long explanation; but sufficient may
be told briefly. You see this coat of coarse gray cloth. It is the sign,
the key, of my whole life. I too was bred an ecclesiastic. The death of
three elder brothers put me in possession of that thing upon the hill. I
have unfrocked myself, but I retain my early habits, and respect my
voluntary vows. I remain in two or three little chambers, while very
often boors revel in the halls of my ancestors. But they have a shrewd
notion that if I were gone they would not have the means of revelry to
as great an extent as at present—that if my property was confiscated,
it would fall into the hands of worse men than myself; and so long as I,
the master of it, act but as the steward of it, they are well contented
to leave me alone in my office without bringing my head to the
guillotine, which would be of no use at all to any one, and without
seizing upon my lands, it would be a great embarrassment to themselves.
Moreover, I have once or twice threatened to resign all my possessions
into the hands of the Commune, and the very lowest of the people have
been those to beseech me the most earnestly to refrain, knowing very
well that they get a better part of the spoil now than they otherwise
would. Thus I have got a certain command over them, and I do what I like
without fear of any buzzing rumors, or public denunciations. The man who
denounced me would very soon find his way to the lantern, and as it is
unpleasant to occupy in darkness the place of a light, with a rope round
one’s neck, people abstain. There are a hundred people in yonder town
who could hang me to-morrow; but my death would be sure to hang a
hundred of themselves, and therefore I have the majority on my side. But
come, let us go in through the gates.”

We entered the château, leaving our horses in the care of a laboring man
in the court, who seemed not a bit less respectful to the master of the
house than the servant of any old noble in the ancient days. This was in
itself an anomaly in those times; for the vain desire of equality had
completely perverted men’s judgments, and they sought not alone to sweep
away the differences created by a long established social system, but
even those fundamental differences produced by the will of God. I
believe, in those days—amongst a great mass of the people at least—as
much jealous hatred was felt toward superior intellect as toward
superior wealth or superior station.

On passing the doors of the building we found some ten or twelve men
seated in the eating-room drinking and talking. The master of the house
passed through, nodded to them, called them citizens, and said, “Make
good cheer of it. There is more where that comes from.”

A cheerful, good-humored laugh was the reply, and he walked on up the
stairs, leading us to a little suite of apartments which he reserved for
himself, and where his privacy was respected even by the rude men who
surrounded him. There he left us, and went out to procure some
refreshment for us, part of which he brought in himself. The rest, with
a considerable quantity of plate, which he seemed to think in perfect
security, notwithstanding open doors and strange visitors, was brought
in by a servant of the old school, but not in livery. When the man was
gone we ate and drank and refreshed ourselves, and a conversation, not
only of interest but of importance, occurred between our entertainer and
Father Bonneville. The former seemed to comprehend our situation, or at
least as much of it as was necessary, without any explanation; and he
gave a great deal of very good and minute advice as to our conduct while
traveling through France. He advised the good Father, strongly, to put
on a brown coat, saying that the reputation of an abbé was worse than
that of a priest. He advised him also to give up the plan of traveling
on horseback, and betake himself to a _chaise de poste_.

“I don’t ask where you are going, or what you intend to do, but by
coming with post-horses, and lodging at the post-house, wherever they
entertain there, you gain favor with one class of the community whose
assistance is of great importance to travelers.”

Father Bonneville ventured to tell him that there were difficulties in
the way of posting, as we were not furnished with those papers which
were sometimes inquired for at post-houses.

“Oh, I will manage that very soon for you,” said our host. “The mayor
shall furnish you with the necessary passports.”

“But he knows nothing of us,” replied Father Bonneville.

“He knows me,” replied the other, with a significant nod of his head,
“he wont refuse me. It is rather a painful state of things when each
man’s life is in another man’s power. There are plenty to misuse the
advantage, and I have never seen why I should not employ it to better
purposes. The mayor will probably be guillotined in six months. He
calculates it will be longer, but I think he makes a mistake. However,
he knows I could have him guillotined in six days, and is therefore very
compliable.”

“And pray,” said Father Bonneville, with a somewhat rueful smile, “how
long do you contemplate keeping your own head where it is?”

“It is hardly worth consideration,” replied the other; “for I say of my
head, as a friend of mine said of his house which was likely to fall
about his ears, ‘It will last my time.’ In truth it is of very little
use to any but myself, or I dare say they would have taken it long ago.
The same worthlessness may or may not protect it for a month, a year, or
even till these evil times pass away; for you are not to suppose, my
good friend, that this state will last for ever. It is a mere irruption
of human vanity. We Frenchmen are the vainest people upon earth, the
whole nation is vain, and every individual is vain. This vanity makes
each man unwilling to see any other a bit higher, richer, or in any
respect better off than himself; but there are certain fundamental laws
of order which man may overturn for a time, but which always resume
their power. The wise rule in the end. Industry and talent raise
themselves in spite of resistance, forethought and care produce wealth,
and if you were to take every acre of land throughout France, and every
louis d’or, and divide them equally amongst the whole people, so that
there should not be the difference of a sous, before fifty years had
passed you would find the differences all restored, some men rich, other
men poor, some men ruling, other men obeying, some enjoying, others
laboring. Nay more, my belief is, that within the same time, you would
find rank, titles and distinctions restored also.”

Father Bonneville shook his head.

“I am very sure of it,” replied the other, in answer to the doubtful
shake. “There are many countries in which a pure democracy might
exist—perhaps in England—but certainly not in France. Our very blood
is feudal and chivalrous. History, which is the memory of nations, is
filled with nothing but feudal and chivalrous facts. We are too light,
too vain, too volatile to do without distinction for any length of time,
and we have not a sufficient spirit of organization in our character to
do without a king in some shape or other. I think it must be an absolute
shape; but take my word for it, France will never be forty years at any
one time without counts, barons and marquises, dukes, peers, stars and
ribbons. You might as well attempt to make us Quakers as real
republicans. A lion may perhaps be taught to dance like a monkey for an
hour or two, but take my word for it, in the end he will eat his
dancing-master; and you might as well attempt to change a lion’s nature
as a Frenchman’s. However, you shall have the passports to-morrow, or I
do not know the mayor. He is a very excellent person, but has an
over-strong regard for the integrity of his neck.”

“I wish I possessed your secret of living so much at ease amidst such
scenes, and exercising so much influence over such men,” said Father
Bonneville.

“Mystery, mystery!” said our host with a smile. “That is the whole
secret. No one knows what I am going to do next. No one knows why I am
going to do it. Whenever there is any great question agitated in regard
to which I am forced to take a part, I give a full and complete
explanation of my views, in terms which not a man who hears me can
comprehend. I use the language of the times, the cant words and pet
phrases of the multitude, and generally I go one little step before any
of the movements I see coming; for where millions of people are running
a race, as we are in France, the man who stops even to buckle his shoe
is certain to be knocked down and trampled to death. But now I will show
you your sleeping place. You will find the beds good. May you never have
worse.”

Our host was as good as his word in all respects. Before we woke in the
morning the passports had been procured, containing a very tolerable
description of Father Bonneville under the name of Citoyen Jerome
Charlier, and of myself under that of Louis Lassi. Our horses were sold
to no great disadvantage by the intervention of our entertainer, a
little post-chaise bought from the post-master himself, at about five
louis more than it was worth, and at about eleven o’clock in the day we
set out on the direct road for Paris, in a manner which suited me much
better, I confess, than that which we had previously pursued. I have
little doubt that the good Father, too, who had not ridden for twenty
years, was in the same predicament. I will only dwell upon our farther
journey toward the capital so far as to state that it passed easily, and
without interruption, which we attributed to the fact of having cut
across the country, in such a direction as to be now traveling upon a
line of high road totally different from that which led from Paris to
the place of our previous residence.


                              THE CAPITAL.

My remembrance of the journey to Paris, and the conversations which took
place upon the road, is more perfect than of any other of the events
which took place at that time. But it is, perhaps, in some degree a
factitious memory; for I have talked about it so frequently since, that
I hardly know which are the facts supplied by my own mind, which those
related to me by others. I recollect clearly and distinctly, however,
our entrance into Paris on a dark and stormy night, our detention at the
gates, and the examination of the carriage by lantern-light. I shall
not, I think, ever forget the impression produced upon my mind by the
long, tortuous streets of that great capital, with the dim lanterns
swinging on chains stretched across from house to house, the enormously
tall buildings on every side, and the multitude of people who thronged
the streets even at that hour, and in that weather. I thought the
journey through Paris would never have come to an end, but at length the
_chaise de poste_ drove into the court of a second-rate inn, in the Rue
des Victoires, not far from the hospital of the Quinze-vingts. Our
arrival created no sensation. No active porters, no ready waiters were
there to welcome or assist. The house rose dark and gloomy, on the four
sides of the court-yard, up to an amazing height in the sky, leaving us,
like Truth, in the bottom of a well, and as good Father Bonneville knew
not much more of the ways of Paris than I did myself, I do not know what
would have become of us if it had not been necessary to pay the
postillion. It was too dark in the court to see the money, and as he did
not choose to take it upon trust, he said he would go and fetch the
concierge and his lantern. Accordingly, he dug out of a den, at the side
of the port-cochere, a very curious, antiquated specimen of humanity,
with a broad belt over his shoulder, very much like one of those in
which the beadles of old French churches used to stick their useless
swords. He held the lantern while the money was counted out, and then
was kind enough, though somewhat slowly, to lead us up a very dark and
narrow stair-case to the first floor of the house, where the hotel in
reality began. I never discovered what was done with the ground floor;
for there were no shops in it, and it seemed to be left entirely to take
care of itself. The mistress of the house—she had a husband, but poor
little thing, he never presumed to interfere in any thing—was an
enormously tall, and tolerably portly woman, apparently of five or six
and thirty years of age, very fresh, good-looking and good-humored. She
was a Fleming by birth, and bore evident traces of her origin in her
fair hair, blue eyes, and brilliant complexion. She was enchanted to see
us, she assured us, would provide for our accommodation as no other
people had ever been provided for before, ordered some supper for us
immediately, and in the meanwhile, took us to see our rooms, which were
a story higher. There was a great, large, gloomy chamber, tesselated
with brick well waxed, a bed in an alcove, two small closets on each
side of the alcove, and a fire-place big enough to burn a forest. This
was for Father Bonneville. My own room was about the size of the alcove
and its two closets, and close by the side of the good Father’s chamber.
To my young eyes it looked more snug and comfortable than his. But we
were each contented it would seem. The bags were brought up, the
post-chaise put in the remise, and my little store of clothing being
placed in my room, I washed away the dust of travel, brushed the young,
unfrosted hair which then curled so thickly over my head, and feeling
somewhat solitary in the great world around me, found my way to the
chamber of my good preceptor, who was sitting with his feet, one upon
each andiron, contemplating with deep interest, as it seemed to me, the
blazing logs as they fizzed and crackled on the hearth. Poor man, his
thoughts, I fancy, were very far away, and he took no notice of me for a
minute or two, while I meditated on the intense smell of roasting coffee
and veal ragout which seemed to form the atmosphere of the house.

Father Bonneville had just wakened from his reverie, and was speaking a
word or two as the commencement of a conversation, when a waiter came in
to announce that our supper was ready, with as discreet and deferential
an air as if we had been two aristocrats living under the ancien regime.

“Go down with him, Louis,” said Father Bonneville, “and I will join you
directly.”

I followed the waiter down the stairs which I was now happy to find
lighted by a single lamp, and entered the _salle à manger_. How can I
describe the dinginess of that strange room? It was long and not very
large, with a good-sized table down the middle, and a fire-place with a
broad mantlepiece in one corner. Three windows, which were supposed to
give it light in the day time, but which, as they looked into the narrow
court, never caught one genuine, unadulterated ray of the sun, now
looked as black as ink upon the wall, although, sooth to say, that wall
itself was of a hue little less sombre. Who was the inventor of painting
panneling in oil, I really do not know, but I cannot imagine that any
hand but his own could have so decorated that wall, or that a brush of
any kind could ever have touched it afterward. I believe that there were
nymphs dancing, represented on the spaces between the windows, but they
certainly looked like Hottentots dancing in the dark. The furniture of
the room was very scanty, consisting of nothing but the long
dining-table, and chairs enough to fit it, but over the end of the table
nearest the fire-place, was spread a beautifully white damask cloth, on
which appeared two candlesticks, two napkins, a number of knives and
forks and plates, and no less than eight dishes, from which exhaled a
very savory odor, I mechanically walked up toward the fire, when
suddenly, to my horror and consternation, a voice addressed me from the
mantlepiece, exclaiming, “Petit coquin, petit coquin!” and the next
instant there was a whirr, and I felt something brush my cheek and fall
upon my shoulder. On examination, it proved to be a bird of a kind which
I had never seen before, and which, in this individual instance, I
probably should not have recognized, if I had seen a thousand of its
species. It was a cockatoo, which had thought fit to moult in the midst
of the winter, and had done it so completely, that though warmly enough
robed in a covering of fine down, not a feather was to be seen upon its
body, except the pen feathers of the wings, those of the tail, and a
long yellow crest on the head. I call it yellow, because that is the
color it ought to have been, but, to say sooth, its fondness for the
chimney-corner had so completely smoked my new friend, that the general
hue of its whole body was a dull but most decided gray.

It seemed an amiable and affectionate bird, however, although with its
yellowish crest, and unfeathered form, it looked very much like one of
those meagre dowagers whom we see at parties with dresses a great deal
too much cut down for the satisfaction of the beholders. It continued
repeating in a playful and endearing tone, “petit coquin, petit coquin!”
as if it imagined the epithet to imply the greatest tenderness. While
the words were yet in its beak, however, and before any regular
conversation had begun between us, the party was augmented by another
gentleman carrying in his hand a round hat with three broad bands, which
was generally one of the signs or symbols of a man well provided in
official situations.

He was a stout and self-important, but evidently a very keen personage.
He was one of those for whom trifles have much importance, not from any
peculiar capacity for dealing in details, but because a natural tendency
of the mind of man to attach a certain degree of magnitude to all he
observes himself had not been properly corrected in his youth. The bird
was still rhyming, “petit coquin, petit coquin,” and advancing at once
toward me with an air of jovial frankness, he caught me by the arm,
saying, “Ah, little rogue, the bird knows you, it seems. Now, you are
some young aristocrat, I will warrant.”

Now it so happened, that I made the exact answer which was required
under the circumstances. Let it be understood that I had received no
instructions whatever; that Father Bonneville had never even touched
upon the subject of politics in his own house; that while deploring
excesses, and excited and alarmed by the crimes, which he saw going on
every day around him, he had never even hinted an opinion upon any of
the great questions which agitated the public mind at the time. But in
my walks through the town and the country, I had been so much
accustomed, for the last twelve months or more, to hear the name of
aristocrat applied to any one who wore a better coat than his neighbor,
that I gradually learned to look upon that term as implying the basest,
meanest, and most pitiful of all things. My cheek flushed, my brow
contracted with an expression of anger which could not be assumed, and I
replied, sharply, “No, citizen, no! Neither I, or any one I know, are
aristocrats. You insult us by calling us so.”

My passion was ridiculous enough; for I had not the slightest idea in
the world what the word aristocrat meant. Nevertheless, it had its
effect, although that might have been lost for want of witnesses, had
not Madame Michaud entered the room at the moment, to see that
everything was properly provided for her honored guests.

“There, Monsieur Le Commissaire,” she said, “I think you have got your
answer. You do not expect to find aristocrats in my house, I suppose.”

“I have found one,” answered the commissary, nodding his head; “and he
will find soon that he is discovered. Shake hands, citizen, if you are
really and truly a lover of your country and the rights of man. But
mind, you don’t presume to touch my hand if you are only shamming a love
of freedom.”

I placed my hand in his boldly, and shook it warmly; for I had as little
idea of that in which true freedom consists as most of his patient
followers in the political career, who, with very rare exceptions, were
devout worshipers of words, with a very indefinite notion, indeed, of
things.

He was satisfied, it seemed, and sat down to take a cup of coffee and
drink a glass of liqueur with Madame Michaud—without paying for them.
Indeed, he seemed upon very amicable terms with the lady, and I strongly
suspect that it was good policy in all hostesses of Paris, not to refuse
any thing that commissaries of police might think fit to demand.

Shortly after, Father Bonneville made his appearance, and although he
answered all civil interrogatories, he played his part so discreetly,
that no suspicion seemed to be aroused.

The commissary quitted the room in jovial good-humor, and the rest of
the evening passed without any thing remarkable.

About this time, the images which memory presents in her long
looking-glass, are somewhat vague, and ill-defined—perhaps I have not
had the opportunity of refreshing my remembrance as to the minute
details, and many a scene stands out in strong relief from a picture
generally dark and obscure. Only one of those scenes will I notice here,
before I go on to matters more immediately affecting myself.

There was what is called a _table d’hôte_ at the inn where we stayed—a
great accommodation to travelers—which is now very common, though in
the time I speak of, it was more customary to lodge in what is called an
_hôtel garni_, and to obtain one’s food from without. One day, I know
not whether it was the second or third after our arrival, we were seated
at the dinner-table in the hall, when the same commissary of police I
have mentioned, entered the room, and slowly looked round the guests. I
could see many a changing countenance at the table—some rosy faces
which became white, and warm, glowing lips, which partook of on ashy
paleness. The commissioner, however, fixed his eyes upon one particular
gentleman, a man, perhaps, of fifty-seven or fifty-eight years of age,
who had been one of the lightest and gayest of the guests. He saw the
peculiar look of the officer, and probably understood its meaning
completely; but he staid to finish quietly the joke which hung upon his
lips, and then asked with the laugh still ringing around him—

“Mister commissary, is your business with me?”

The commissary slowly nodded his head, and our friend who was sitting
next to Father Bonneville on the right, instantly rose, saying with a
jocund smile—“I anticipated great things from the second course, but I
must resign it, and do so with the self denial of a hermit. Ladies and
gentlemen, there are three things greatly to be desired in life: a
pleasant hopeful youth; a warm and genial middle life; and a short,
unclouded, old age. The two first I have obtained, by the mercy of
God—or of the Gods—or of any God that you like, Monsieur
Commissaire—the third is very likely to be granted to me likewise. I
will therefore only drink one more glass to the good health of all here
present, before I drink another draught little less acceptable, and
infinitely more tranquilizing.”

Thus saying, he raised a glass of wine already filled, toward his lips,
bowed gracefully round the table, drank the wine, and walked out of the
room with the commissary of police.

The next day, at noon, we heard he had just been guillotined.


                       OLD ACQUAINTANCES RENEWED.

Why we lingered in Paris I never knew, or have forgotten. It is very
probable, there were difficulties in the way to the frontier, which good
Father Bonneville feared to encounter—or, perhaps, he was sensible of
the approach of severe illness, and feared to undertake the journey in
such a state of health. The fatigues of our flight had been too much for
the old man, and although he never appeared upon the way half as tired
as I was, yet, after our labors were over, while I rallied and became as
brisk and active as ever in four-and-twenty hours, he remained languid
and feeble, and unwilling to stir out of his room. He would not confine
me, however, to the hotel, but suffered me to visit various parts of
Paris, where objects worthy of attention were to be seen. I thus
acquired a tolerable knowledge of the principal leading thoroughfares of
the town, and could find my way from one part of the city to another,
with perfect ease.

For some time, I shut my eyes to the fact that my old friend and
protector was really ill; but when we had been in Paris about a
fortnight, the change which had taken place in his appearance, his pale
and haggard face, and the thinness of his always delicate and beautiful
hands, awoke me to a sense of his real state.

“I fear you are not well, my Father,” I said, as I sat by his side,
while he leaned back in his great chair, with his feet to the fire.

Father Bonneville shook his head mournfully, and I urged him to let me
go for a physician.

“I believe you must, Louis,” he answered; “for I do feel very ill, and I
would fain recover strength enough at all events, to place you, my son,
in safety before I die.”

“There is a physician lives close by,” I said, “I can run for him in a
minute.”

“No, no,” cried the good priest, “that will not do. There was a
physician here in Paris, whom I knew in days of old—a good and a
sincere man, who would not betray us, but on the contrary, would give us
aid and advice in other matters, besides those of mere health. Do you
know the Place Du Petit Chatelet, Louis?”

I replied, that I knew it well, and Father Bonneville wrote down the
name of a physician, and the number of his house, saying in the
desponding tone of sickness—

“Very likely he may be dead, and then I know not what we shall do.”

Without any loss of time, I sallied out into the streets of Paris, in
search of Dr. L——. It was a fine, clear, cold afternoon, with the snow
lying piled up at the sides of the streets, the fountains all frozen,
and the chains of the street-lamps covered with glittering frost. The
wind was keen and cutting, and few people, especially of the lower
orders, were in the street; for though _sans culottism_ may be a very
good thing, it is by no means warm, and the worthy rulers of the
destinies of France at that moment, had not great-coats enough amongst
them to render them indifferent to a north-east wind. I could thus
pursue my way rapidly, uninterrupted by the crowds which usually
thronged the streets of the French capital, and though doubtless I did
not take all the shortest ways, I soon reached the place I was seeking.
The houses were tall, dirty, well-smoked, and ever open doors round the
whole place, gave entrance to innumerable stair-cases which led up to
the dwellings of low advocates, notaries public, physicians, artists,
poor men of letters, and all that class who scrape a precarious
existence from the faults, the follies, the misfortunes, the miseries of
others. But now I had a very puzzling calculation to make. Father
Bonneville had written down, after the name of Dr. L——, number five,
Place du Petit Chatelet, but not a house was to be seen which had a
number on it, and I was obliged to guess at which corner the numeration
commenced. I was evidently wrong in my first essay, for no Doctor L——
could I find in the house which I fixed upon; and short and snappish
were the answers I got at the various doors where I applied.

That could not be number five, and so I turned to the other side of the
square, and began in the opposite direction. As I was counting the
houses from the corner, I saw a little girl coming from a street nearly
in face of me, with a basket in her hand, and poorly dressed. She turned
suddenly into one of the door-ways, and I sprang after her, running as
fast as possible and nearly overturning an old woman, who was roasting
chestnuts in a tin kettle—for which I had my benediction. Little cared
I, however; for my heart beat wildly, and the only thing I feared at
that moment, was, that I should lose sight of that little girl with the
basket; for I had taken it into my head at once that she was Mariette de
Salins. She had gone up the stairs, however, when I reached the door,
and without pausing for an instant I ran up after her, just in time to
see her enter an apartment on the second floor, the door of which was
closing as I approached. I knocked sharply, without a moment’s
consideration, when an elderly man, with thin and powdered white hair,
and a pleasant, though grave expression of countenance, presented
himself, asking who I wanted.

A moment’s consideration had shown me that it might be dangerous to
mention the name of Mariette; nor must it be supposed that such
discretion was at all marvelous in a boy of my age at that time; for
those were days of constant peril, when every act was to be thought of,
every word weighed, and the habit of caution and reserve was inculcated
as a duty upon even mere children. On the spur of the occasion, then, I
replied that I was seeking Dr. L——, still keeping my eyes fixed upon a
door which stood ajar heading into a room beyond.

“My name is Doctor L——,” replied the old man. “What is it you want
with me, my son? And why are you looking so earnestly in there?”

“I want you to come and see a gentleman who is sick,” I replied, “in the
Hotel de Clermont, close by the Quinze-vingts.”

“Is he very ill?” asked the doctor. “What is his name?”

But before I could answer either of his questions the inner door I have
mentioned was drawn back, the beautiful little face peeped out, and in a
moment after Mariette was in my arms.

“I thought it was you, dear Mariette,” I cried, kissing her tenderly,
while she seemed never tired of hugging me. “Where is your mother? How
is she?”

“Hush, hush!” said the old doctor, closing the outer door; “no questions
or answers of any kind here, except medical ones. Mariette knows well
that she must be silent, and answer no inquiries—and so,” he continued,
after having thus stopped all explanations between us, “I suppose I am
to conclude, my son, that this story of the sick man is a fiction, and
that your object was to catch your little playfellow here.”

“No indeed,” I replied, with some indignation, “I have not been taught
to speak falsehoods, sir. The gentleman I mentioned, does wish to see
you, and is very ill. His name you will know when you see him; for you
have met before—not that I mean to say I did not want to see Mariette,
and indeed you must let her tell me where I can find her; for it is a
long, long time since I have seen her.”

“That cannot be,” said the doctor, gravely; “she must learn to keep
counsel—are you of the same town, then?”

“Oh, she lived with me for a long time,” I replied; “and the gentleman
whom I want you to come and see is the same who was so kind to her
there.”

“I should like to see him very much,” said Mariette, looking down.

“Well, well, I will go to him,” said the doctor, gravely, “and if it be
proper that you two children should meet again, I will bring it about.
Now you, Mariette, go in and empty your basket as usual. You, my son, go
back to your friend, and say I will be with him in an hour.”

Thus saying, he led me gently by the arm to the door and put me out, and
I hastened back with all my intelligence to Father Bonneville, asking
him if it were not strange that I should find Mariette just at the house
of Doctor L——.

“Perhaps not,” replied the good priest, with a faint smile. “The doctor
is a native of our own province, and known to many of the good and the
wise there.”

He said no more upon the subject, and made no inquiries, but remained
somewhat listlessly in his chair gazing into the fire, till at length
came a gentle knock at the door, and the physician entered, dressed with
somewhat more care than he had been an hour before, with a
three-cornered hat on his head, and a gold-headed cane in his hand. He
approached Father Bonneville with an unconscious air, and without the
slightest sign of recognition, till the old priest held out his hand to
him, saying—“Ah, my friend, do you not remember me? You have not
changed so much as I have, it would seem.”

Doctor L—— started back; for the sweet, silvery tones of the voice
seemed to wake up memory, and he exclaimed—“Is it possible? my good
friend, Bonneville!—Nay, nay. You are too much changed for time to have
done it all. You must be really ill. Leave us, my young friend, I doubt
not we shall soon set all this to rights.”

I retreated into my little room where it was cold enough, for there was
no fire-place, and waited there shivering very tolerably for nearly an
hour, while Dr. L—— and the good priest remained in consultation. At
the end of that time Dr. L—— came and called me back, and when I
re-entered Father Bonneville’s room, held me by the arm at a little
distance from him, gazing very earnestly in my face, and seeming to
scrutinize every line.

“Yes,” he said at length, turning to my old friend; “yes, he is very
like him—Poor boy, what a fate!—Well, my young friend,” he said,
suddenly changing the subject. “We must get good Citizen Charlier here,
to his bed as soon as possible. He will be well soon, and would have
been well by this time if he had sent for me before. But we must try and
make up for lost time. I will not send him to the apothecary’s,” he
said, “for drugs, for we are never sure of them at those places—one man
acknowledged the other day that during twenty years he had never sold
one genuine ounce of rhubarb. I have two other visits to pay; but let
him come to my house in an hour and a half, and I will send what will do
you good. Perhaps I may see you again to-night.”

“Shall I find Mariette with you?” I asked, looking up in the doctor’s
face.

The good man shook his head, and then turning to Father Bonneville, said
with a smile—“I think these two children are in love with each other;
but little Mariette is so discreet that she would not even tell me who
he was or who you were. She has had bitter lessons of caution for one so
young—perhaps you may sometimes see her at my house, my son; but you
must imitate her discretion, and neither ask any questions, nor answer
them if put to you by strangers.”

“Oh, Louis is growing very discreet,” said Father Bonneville; “for we
have had warnings enough since we have been in this house to prevent us
from taking the bridle off our tongues for a moment—fare you well, my
good friend, I shall be glad to see you again to-night if you can
contrive to come; but yet I do not think it is needful for my health
that you should take such trouble.”

“We will see, we will see,” replied the doctor, and shaking him by the
hand he left the room.

The good Father, then, with my assistance, undressed and went to bed,
where, to say sooth, he would have been much better three or four days
before; and at the appointed hour I went for the medicines which had
been promised, but saw no one except an old female servant, who gave me
two bottles addressed to Citizen Charlier.

As I returned, I met a furious mob coming up the streets with a bloody
head upon a pike, and perhaps I was in some peril, though I was not
aware of it at the time. My dress, though very plain, was neat and
whole, and I was seized as I attempted to pass through the mob, by a
gaunt, fierce-looking man, with hardly one untattered piece of clothing
on his back. He called me a cursed little aristocrat, and made the man
who bore the head upon the pike, lower the bloody witness of their
inhuman deeds to make me kiss it. They brought it to the level of my
head, and thrust its dark, contorted features into my face. But I
stoutly refused to kiss it, saying I was not an aristocrat; and why
should I kiss a head that they told me had belonged to one.

“If you can make me out an aristocrat,” I exclaimed, “I will kiss it.”

“What have you got here in your hand?” cried the sans-culotte, snatching
the bottles from me.

“Only medicines for a sick man,” I replied.

He tore off the paper, however, opened one of the bottles and put it to
his mouth, then spat upon the ground with a blasphemous oath,
exclaiming—“He is only a garçon apothecaire. Let him pass, let him
pass! He will kill as many sacre aristocrats with his cursed drugs as we
can with the guillotine. Let the imp pass. His is a trade that should be
encouraged.”

Thus saying, he marched on, and his fierce and malignant companions
followed. I cannot say that I was in reality at all frightened. Every
thing had passed so quickly that I had not had time to become alarmed;
but I felt bewildered, and paused for a moment to gather my senses
together after the mob had passed into the Place du Petit Chatelet which
was close at hand. I was still standing there when I heard a voice
saying, “Louis, Louis.”

I looked round, but could see nobody, and the only place from which the
sound could proceed, appeared to be one of those open doors so common in
Paris at the time, with a dark passage beyond it.

“Louis, Louis,” said the voice again; “come in here, I want to speak to
you.”

It was not the tongue of Mariette certainly; for her sweet, child-like
tones I should have known any where; and I hesitated whether I should go
in or not. I resolved not to seem cowardly, however, and walked into the
passage. I could then see faintly, a tall, and as it appeared to me,
graceful figure move on before me, and I followed into a little room
quite at the back of the house, to which the light was admitted from a
little court behind. There the figure turned as I entered, and I beheld
Madame de Salins.

The room itself presented a painful picture of poverty. It could not
have been above ten feet square, and in one corner, without curtains, or
any shelter from the wind, was the bed of Madame de Salins herself, and
close by it a little bed for her daughter. The latter, indeed, was
fenced round with a shawl hung upon two chairs, which only left one in
the room vacant. A table, a broken looking-glass, a few cups and
glasses, with a coffee-pot standing by the fire, seemed to form all the
other furniture of the chamber. I had very little time to look round me;
for Madame de Salins at once began to inquire after the health of Father
Bonneville.

“I saw you from a front window,” she said, as soon as I had answered her
first questions, “and feared that those men would maltreat you; for they
have the hearts of tigers, and spare no one.”

A sudden fear seized me, lest Mariette should be even then coming from
the house of good Doctor L——, and encounter the ruffians whom I had
just escaped.

“Is Mariette at the Place du Chatelet?” I asked, eagerly. “Let me go and
see that no harm happens to her.”

“No, no,” replied Madame de Salins. “She is here with the old lady in
the front room, who lets us sometimes sit with her, as a relief from
this dark, dismal hole. You are a good, brave boy, however, Louis, and
for every kind and generous act you do, depend upon it you will have
your reward. Mariette, thank God, is quite safe, and she has learnt
whenever she sees a crowd to avoid it. But tell me more about Father
Bonneville. Does Doctor L—— think he is in danger?”

I was not able to give her any satisfactory answer, for I really did not
know what was the physician’s opinion of my good preceptor’s case.

“Tell him,” said Madame de Salins, “that I will come to see him if I can
do so secretly; but I am under surveillance, and all my movements, I
fear, will be watched till some new change takes place in this
ever-shifting government. I have several things to say to him, and could
wish to see him much.”

She spoke in an anxious and thoughtful tone, and doubtless had many
matters of deep and painful importance pressing upon her mind at the
moment. Boy-like, however, my attention was directed principally to the
more obvious inconveniencies which she suffered, and I said, “I am
afraid you must be very badly off here, madame.”

The lady smiled. “Badly enough, my dear boy,” she replied. “But yet we
might be very much worse—nay, we have been much worse in mind, if not
in body. But I will not keep you now. Tell Monsieur de Bonneville what I
have said, and add that if he has any thing to reply, he can communicate
it to me through Doctor L——.”

When I reached the inn, my first task was to give good Father Bonneville
the medicine prescribed for him, and then to tell him of my interview
with Madame de Salins. He seemed greatly interested, and repeated once
or twice, “Poor thing! poor thing! I hope she will be successful; but I
can’t help her—I can do nothing to help her. I know too little to give
her advice, and have no power to give her assistance.”

I did not press the subject upon him, nor make any inquiries, but sat
for a long time by his bed-side reading to him both in Latin and in
French. English was by this time quite forbidden between us, and we had
no English books.

In the evening, toward nine o’clock, Doctor L—— came again, and felt
his patient’s pulse with a cheerful air.

“The good woman of the house,” he said, “waylaid me on the stairs, to
ask if you were likely to die, my good friend, and to suggest that in
that case it would be as well to send you to the hospital. I have spared
you that journey, however, by assuring her that in a week or ten days
you will be well enough to go to the opera, if by that time they have
left any singers with their heads on. They guillotined poor Benoit this
morning. I ventured to suggest that they would not get such another
tenor in a hurry; and so they made him sing before they put him into the
cart, to try, I suppose, how they liked it. Whether he sang too well or
too ill to please them, I don’t know, but they drove him off to the
guillotine, while I was seeing another prisoner.”

Father Bonneville gave a shudder; but sickness is always more or less
selfish, and though naturally one of the most unselfish men in the
world, his thoughts speedily reverted to himself. “I trust,” he said,
“that there will be no necessity for sending me to the hospital. Did you
quite satisfy the good woman?”

“Quite,” replied Doctor L——. “I told her that I would be answerable
for your not giving occasion to a funeral from her house, which is what
all these good aubergiste fear. I told her, moreover, that when your
daughter and your granddaughter arrived from the country, you would very
speedily rally.”

“My daughter,” said Father Bonneville, with a faint smile. “I have no
daughter but spiritual daughters, my friend.”

“Perhaps we may find you one for the occasion,” said Doctor L——,
laughing. “But I will tell you more about it to-morrow; for although you
must be, of course, consulted whether you will have a child or not, yet
in this case, out of the ordinary course of nature, the child must first
be asked whether she likes to be born. In short, I have a scheme in my
head, my good friend; but it requires maturing, and the pivot upon which
it all turns is your rapid recovery. So take care of yourself; cast care
from your mind for the present, and you will speedily be both well and
strong again.”

Thus saying, he left him, and for two or three days no event of any
importance occurred, except the gradual improvement of Father
Bonneville, under the kind and zealous treatment of the good physician.


                          A PERIOD OF CHANGES.

At the period I speak of there were changes in Paris every day. True,
one horror was only succeeded by another, and one fierce tyranny but
made place for a tyranny more fierce and barbarous. The condemnation of
the king, and his death, which followed shortly after, occupied for a
time all thoughts, and filled many a bosom which had previously felt the
strongest, nay, even the wildest aspirations for liberty, with gloom,
and doubt, and dread. The moment, however, the head of the good king
fell upon the scaffold the death-struggle began between the Mountain and
the Gironde, and in the many heaves and throes of the contending
factions, many persons found opportunity to escape from perils which had
previously surrounded them. Although a mere boy at the time, I was quite
familiar with the daily history of these events; for they were in every
body’s mouth, and I might even greatly swell this little memoir, by
narrating minutely the various scenes, some terrible, some ludicrous,
which I myself beheld. The most terrible was the death of the king, of
which, jammed in by the multitude, without a possibility of escape, I
was myself present, and within a few yards of the instrument of death.
But it is my object to pass as lightly as possible over these young
recollections, though many of them were too deeply graven on memory ever
to be effaced. I shall never forget, as long as I live, the face of a
tall, gaunt man, who was close to me at the moment when the king
attempted to speak to the people, and the drums were ordered to beat, to
drown the voice of the royal martyr. Rage and indignation and shame were
written in every line, and I heard him mutter between his teeth, “Oh,
were there but an hundred men in Paris true to France and to
themselves!”

My own belief is, that a very few acting at that moment in concert, and
fearless of their own safety, might not only have saved the effusion of
the king’s blood, but might have given a different direction to the
revolution, and saved the lives of thousands. However that might be, I
went away from the scene with horror, and shut myself up for the rest of
the day with good Father Bonneville, who was now able to rise. The
physician saw him twice during the day, and once I was sent out of the
room for a short time. Doctor L—— spoke jokingly more than once in my
presence, of the good priest’s daughter and granddaughter, and though I
did not see the point of the jest, I imagined it was one way he had of
amusing himself.

Father Bonneville, however, seemed to me to humor him strangely,
answering him in the same strain, and inquiring when he thought his
daughter would arrive.

“I really cannot tell,” replied the physician. “But, of course, you will
have a letter from her before she comes.”

Three days afterward a letter was brought from the post-office, and
Father Bonneville examined the seal with a smile. It had not been
considered inviolable, that was clear; for either at the post-office or
in the hotel, they had thought fit to open the letter without even
taking the decent precaution of resealing it again. The contents of the
epistle I saw, and they certainly puzzled me a good deal when first
Father Bonneville gave the paper into my hand.

The letter began, “My dear Father,” and went on in the usual strain of a
child writing to a parent, telling him how much grieved she was to hear
that he had been sick in Paris, expressing fears that he had
over-fatigued himself in seeking for news of her dear husband, and
informing him that she would soon be in Paris herself, with her little
girl, to pursue the inquiry. The letter throughout was filled with a
great number of the cant expressions of republicanism, then common, and
it ended with declaring that if the writer’s dear husband was dead, she
could console herself with the thought that he had died in defense of
his country, though she could not bear the idea that he might be
lingering ill of his wounds without any affectionate hands to tend him.
The letter was addressed to “Citizen Jerome Charlier,” was dated from a
provincial town in Poitou, and was signed “Clarisse Bonfin.”

Father Bonneville smiled as he marked the expression of my face in
reading the letter; and when I had done, he asked me if I knew who these
relations of his were. I replied in the negative, and he answered,
nodding his head, “Some whom you know very well; but you must remember,
Louis, you are only to know them as my daughter and granddaughter, and
as your own aunt and cousin. Call the lady ‘Aunt Clarisse,’ or ‘Aunt
Bonfin,’ and the little girl, ‘Mariette Bonfin.’”

The last words threw a ray of light upon the whole affair—and I was
delighted. There is nothing, I believe, that children love so much as a
little mystery, especially boys of thirteen or fourteen; but I had the
additional satisfaction of having to play a part in the drama—a task
always charming to a child brought up in France. I acted my character
rather well, I flatter myself; and when Father Bonneville, well knowing
that the letter had been read before it reached him, sent me to talk to
our good hostess about rooms for our expected relations, I gave the
buxom dame quite enough of Aunt Bonfin and Cousin Mariette, and
described them both so accurately, that she could have no doubt of my
personal acquaintance with these supposed connections. She thought it
best, however, to deal with Citizen Charlier himself in regard to the
apartments to be engaged, and visited him in his room for that purpose.

The old gentleman was very taciturn, and seemed to think it a part of
his character to drive a hard bargain.

“His daughter,” he said, “was not rich: she had a great deal of
hard-work and traveling before her to find out what had become of her
husband, who had been wounded if not killed at Jenappes, and she could
not afford to throw her money away in inns.” There was a good deal of
skirmishing on these points, and a good deal of laughter and jest upon
the part of our hostess, who seemed as well contented, and as
comfortable as if there were no such thing as a guillotine in the world,
though her table d’hôte rather suffered from time to time, in
consequence of her guests being deprived of the organs of mastication
amongst others. The whole, however, was settled at length, and two days
afterward, I was informed that Madame Bonfin had arrived with her
daughter in a little post-chaise.

The good priest was not yet well enough to quit his room, but I ran down
the dingy stair-case into the court-yard, and as I expected, found
Madame de Salins and Mariette just getting out of a dirty little
vehicle, with a wooden apron, which bore the name of a cabriolet. Madame
de Salins embraced me kindly, and I did not forget to call her Aunt
Clarisse, while Mariette literally sprang into my arms, and I thought
would have smothered me with caresses. If there had been any doubts
previously in the minds of the people of the inn, they were all
dissipated by the tenderness of this meeting, and Madame de Salins and
her daughter followed me up stairs to the room of good Father
Bonneville. One of the waiters accompanied us, but there the meeting was
conducted as naturally as it had been below, and the words, “my
daughter” and “my father,” passed habitually between the good priest and
the high-born lady without any pause or hesitation.

Her own apartments were next shown to Madame de Salins, and her baggage
was brought up from below, when I remarked that every thing had been
carefully marked with the initials C. B., to signify Clarisse Bonfin.

Oh what actors every body in Paris became at that period! Some were so
by nature; for very nearly one half of the world is always acting a
part. Others did it because it was the tone of the day; and these formed
the heroic or tragic band, who did every thing with Roman dignity and
firmness, and carried the farce of representation into the very last act
of the tragedy. Others were driven to act parts which did not belong to
them, by the perils or necessities of their situation; and amongst
these, was Madame de Salins, who, dressed somewhat in the _mode
paysanne_, was out frequently, went boldly to police offices, and to
military authorities, inquiring diligently after her husband, John
Bonfin, and demanded intelligence regarding the state and condition of a
man who had never existed. A change in the direction of civic affairs,
and the decapitation of two or three gentlemen, who had watched her
diligently while in her lodging near the Place du Petit Chatelet, had
now set her comparatively free, and she used her powers of persuasion,
and her liberty, so well, that she obtained letters of recommendation to
the medical officers of the armies of Dumouriez and Kellerman, with a
satisfactory pass for herself, and her father, with two children. Upon
what pretence she made her traveling party so large, I do not know; but
she certainly carried her point. She was out more than once at night,
too, and I remarked that Mariette was now sent daily to the house of
Doctor L——, to bring the bottles of medicine which were still required
by Father Bonneville—a task, which I always previously fulfilled.

As the distance was considerable, and the way somewhat intricate, I was
permitted to accompany and guide my little companion, as far as the
street leading into the Place du Chatelet, but was directed to go no
farther, and wait there for her return. I had learned by this time to
ask no questions, but I could not help thinking that Mariette often
stayed a long time.

I do not know that I was of a very observing disposition, or inclined to
be particularly censorious, but one thing I remarked which surprised me
a good deal, and I recollect, quite well, that it gave me uncomfortable
feelings. In my first interview with Madame de Salins, she had appeared
overwhelmed with grief and terror, her clothes stained with her
husband’s blood, and a look of wild, almost frantic horror in her face,
which was never to be forgotten. Now, however, she had not only
completely recovered her composure, but was generally cheerful, and
sometimes even gay. Clouds of anxiety, indeed, would occasionally float
over her beautiful brow, and she would fall into deep fits of thought;
but it often seemed to me very strange that she should have so soon and
so completely forgotten the husband, for whom she had seemed to mourn so
sincerely. Indeed, there is nothing which so shocks—I might say, so
terrifies, the earnest heart of youth, as to perceive how transient are
those feelings of which to them life is made up, in the bosoms of
persons older, of more experience, and more world-hardened than
themselves. I loved Mariette, however, and Mariette loved me, and that
was a feeling which I then fondly fancied could never decay or alter.

At length, one day, Father Bonneville declared himself strong enough to
go out, and as there was a slight lull at the time in the political
storm, we went to see—that is he and I—some places of public interest.
I recollect an elderly gentleman coming up and joining in conversation
with us, in a very mild and placable tone. The good Father was very much
upon his guard, however, and in answer to some questions, said he had
been very ill since he had come to Paris, and had enjoyed no opportunity
of seeing the sights of the capital till the time of his stay was nearly
expired. Whether the old gentleman considered us as very stupid or not I
do not know, but he soon left us, and we found afterward that he was one
of those worthy public denunciators, who at that time brought so many
heads under the axe of the guillotine. He lived to a good old age, and I
saw him afterward in London, playing at cards with great devotion, and
furnished with a handsome diamond snuff-box.

This little incident, which I have only mentioned as characteristic of
the times, had no result that I know of upon our fate. Three days
afterward, the two post-chaises were got in order, horses were brought
from the post-house, and to my infinite satisfaction we all rolled away
together out of that grim city of Paris, which will ever remain
associated in my mind with memories of blood and crime. It was a fine
day—one of those days in February which come as if to bid us prepare
for summer, long ere summer is near, and which I think are more
beautiful and striking in France, than in any other country I know. The
sunshine lay softly upon the face of the country, and on the top of a
tall, bare tree, near the post-house, where we first stopped to change
horses, a thrush was pouring forth its evening song, and making the air
thrill with melody. I got out of our own little post-chaise to call
Mariette’s attention to the bird, but when I looked into their
cabriolet, to my surprise I saw that Madame de Salins was weeping
bitterly. The post-master approached and looked in likewise; but she had
great presence of mind, and instantly beckoning the man up, she asked
him some questions regarding the movements of the armies, and whether he
could give her any news of Citizen Bonfin, who commanded a company in
Davoust’s volunteers. The man, who seemed to compassionate her greatly,
replied that he could not, and asked if she had any apprehensions
regarding him. She answered that the last she had heard of her husband,
was, that he had been very severely wounded, but that careful nursing
might yet save his life. The good post-master was not a Parisian, nor a
litterateur, and so without affecting atheism, he prayed God to bless
her endeavors, and we rolled on upon our way.

We went on for two or three hours after dark, and lodged as we found it
expedient, at a post-house some little distance from Clermont. There,
however, our landlord, the post-master, proposed a change in our
arrangements, which was a very agreeable one to me. He laughed at four
persons of one family traveling in two post-chaises, assured us that it
would be much more convenient for us to go in a larger vehicle, having
one to dispose of which would exactly suit us, and that we should save a
good deal of money by the number of post-horses. His arguments seemed
quite conclusive both to Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins,
although he demanded two hundred livres, and our two carriages, for the
one he intended to supply, which was not worth two hundred livres in
itself. I was surprised at their acquiescence; for I did not believe
they had much money to spare; but I rather imagine that they were afraid
to oppose any thing he thought fit to suggest, and that if he had known
their exact situation, he might have taxed them still more largely. By
one contrivance or another, however, the papers of the family had been
put into such good order, that no suspicion seems to have been excited
any where. Perhaps, indeed, we were too insignificant to attract much
attention, and at the end of a four days’ journey, we found ourselves
rapidly approaching the frontiers of France, somewhat to the right of
our then victorious army. This was, perhaps, the most dangerous point of
our whole expedition, and at a spot where two hours more would have
placed us in security beyond the limits of France, we paused for the
night, in order to consider carefully the next step, lest we should lose
the fruit of all our exertions at the very moment that it seemed within
our grasp.


                           A BOY’S MANŒUVRE.

It was decided to drive right toward the frontier, beyond which the
advance of the French army has already been considerable. All the
country, almost to the banks of the Rhine was virtually in the hands of
France; but no general system of administration had been thought of. The
people were foreign, monarchical and anti-Gallican, and were ready
enough to give every assistance to fugitives from a system which they
hated and condemned.

This decision was taken, like all desperate ones, upon the calculation,
right or wrong, of the chances. I was in the room when all points were
discussed between Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins. Mariette lay
sleeping in a corner of her mother’s bed, looking like a cherub; but I,
more anxious perhaps, and more alive to the real perils of our situation
than any one of my age could have been, not disciplined by the scenes
which I had gone through during the last two months, was still up, and
listening eagerly for every word. The order was given for the
post-horses to be put to, the next morning, and as was necessary, the
route was stated.

The post-master showed some little hesitation, saying that the road we
proposed to go was directly that to the head-quarters of the army, and
that we were none of us military people.

“But I am the wife of a soldier,” replied Madame de Salins, at once, and
with a tone of dignity, “and these letters are for the surgeons-general
of that army, to whom I must deliver them.”

She laid her hand upon the packet of letters which she possessed, as she
spoke, and the post-master replied in a more deferential tone—“Very
well, citoyenne, I dare say it is all right, and I can send you to the
frontier; but whether you can get horses beyond or not, I can’t tell.
Mind, I am not responsible beyond the frontier.”

The next morning at the hour appointed the horses were put to the
carriage. They were three in number—we had previously had four—and
they were harnessed, as was very common then in France, and is now,
abreast. The postillion, instead of getting into his great jack-boots,
as I had always previously seen, got upon the front seat of the
carriage, gathered up the reins, and with the crack of a long whip set
out toward the frontier. He was a sullen-looking, dull, uncommunicative
person of that peculiar race found in the neighborhood of Liege, and
called Walloons; and I, who was sitting with my shoulder close to his,
though with my back toward him, and with nothing to intercept our
communication—for the carriage was open in front—endeavored in vain to
make him speak a word or two, addressing him frequently but obtaining no
reply.

At first I supposed that he could speak no French, and at last gave up
the undertaking. But I soon found that he could speak French enough when
it suited his purpose.

We drove along for about seven miles without meeting a single human
being, and seeing very few cultivated fields; for as frontier districts
generally are, the land was left nearly untended, nobody caring much to
plant harvests that they were never sure of reaping.

We at length came to a rude stone pillar, upon as bleak and desolate a
spot as I ever remember to have seen. The ground was elevated, but
sloped gently down to the neighboring country both before and behind us.
At least three miles of desolate marsh, which retained its moisture,
heaven knows how, swept around us on every side, and the only object
which denoted human habitation was the outline of a village, with some
trees, seen at the distance of some four or five miles on the plain
which lay a little below us in advance. When we reached the rude sort of
obelisk I have mentioned, the driver drew in his reins, and the horses
stopped to breathe, as I supposed, after climbing the hill: but the next
moment the man got down from the front seat, and approaching the side at
which Father Bonneville sat, demanded his drink-money.

“I will give it you when we reach the next post-house,” said Father
Bonneville.

“This is the only post-house I shall take you to,” replied the man
sullenly, but in very good French, “I am not bound to go an inch beyond
the line.”

The good priest remonstrated mildly, but the postillion answered with
great insolence, threatening to take out the horses and leave us there.

Father Bonneville answered without the slightest heat, that he must do
so if he pleased; that we were at his mercy; but that he was bound, if
possible to take us to the next post-house.

Seeing that this menace had produced no effect upon the quiet and gentle
spirit of the good old man, the postillion now determined to try another
manœuvre, and grumbled forth that he knew very well we were aristocrats,
seeking to fly from the country, and that therefore, like a good
citizen, he should turn his horses round, drive us back, and denounce us
at the municipality.

I had listened anxiously to the conversation, with a heart beating with
the fear of being stopped, and indignation at the man’s conduct. At
length a sudden thought struck me—what suggested it I do not know—nor
how it arose, nor whether indeed thought had any thing to do with it,
though I have called it a thought. It was more an impulse—an
instinct—a sudden determination taken without reason, which made me
clamber with the activity of a monkey over the back of the seat on which
I was sitting, and snatch up the reins and the whip which the postillion
had laid down upon the foot-board. I was determined to be out of France
at all events, whoever staid behind; and I cut the horses on either
flank without waiting to give notice or ask permission. I had once or
twice driven a cart, loaded with flour, from the mill by the banks of
the stream, up to Father Bonneville’s house and back again. I had not
the slightest fear in the world; Father Bonneville cried, “Stop, stop!”
but I drove on.

Madame de Salins gave a timid cry of surprise and fear, but I drove on.
The postillion ran shouting and blaspheming after the carriage and tried
to catch the reins; but I gave him a tremendous cut over the face with
the whip, and drove on.

I know not what possessed me; but I seemed as if I was suddenly set
free—free from the oppressive shackles of everlasting fear, and
forethought and anxiety. The frontier of France was behind me. I was in
a land where there were no guillotines—no spies, as I thought—no
denouncers—no sans-culottes with bloody heads upon their pikes. I was
free—to act, and to think, and to speak, and to come, and to go, as I
liked. The cold, leaden, heavy spell of terror which had hung upon me
was broke the moment I passed that frontier line, and the first use I
made of my disenchantment was to drive the horses down that hill like a
madman. Father Bonneville held tight on by the side of the carriage.
Madame de Salins caught up Mariette, and clasped her tightly in her
arms; but still I drove on without trepidation or pause; not that I
disregarded the commands of my good preceptor: not that I was insensible
to the alarm of Madame de Salins; but a spirit was upon me that I could
not resist. I had no fear, and therefore I saw not why they should have
any. The course I was pursuing seemed to my young notions to offer the
only chance of safety, and therefore I thought they ought to rejoice as
well as myself; and on I went, making the dry dust of a March day fly up
into clouds along our course, and leaving the unhappy postillion,
cursing and swearing, far, far behind us.

Happily for me, the horses were docile, and had been long accustomed to
run between the two post-houses. If they had had a will of their own,
and that will had been contrary to mine, I am very much afraid the
majority of heads and legs would have carried the question; but they
comprehended the object of which I aimed, and though unaccustomed to the
hand that drove them, yielded readily to its direction—which was
lucky—for about half-way down the hill there was an enormous stone in
the middle of the road, which would have inevitably sent us rolling down
into the middle of the valley if either of the off wheels had come in
contact with it. The third horse puzzled me a little; but it did not
matter. They had but one way to go, and we got to the bottom of the hill
without accident.

“Stop them, stop them, Louis,” cried Father Bonneville, when all danger
was in reality passed.

“I cannot just yet, Father,” I replied, tugging a little at the reins,
“but they will go slower in a moment themselves;” and for nearly a mile
we went on at a full gallop. Then the good beasts fell easily into a
canter, with the exception of one, who shook his head and tugged at the
rein when I attempted to bring him in, but soon yielded to the influence
of example, and was reduced to a trot as speedily as the other two.

When our pace was brought to a speed of about eight miles an hour, I
looked round joyously into the carriage, saying—“We have left that
rogue far behind.”

“Louis, Louis, you should not have done this!” exclaimed Father
Bonneville, shaking his head.

But Madame do Salins put her hand on his arm, saying, “He has saved us,
Father. Do not—do not check such decision and presence of mind.
Remember he is to be a man, and such qualities will be needful to him.”

I was very proud of her praise: got the horses easily into a quiet,
ordinary pace, and drove directly into the village which we had seen
from above, and where, as I had expected, the post-house was to be
found.

The horses stopped of their own accord at the door, and we soon had two
or three people round us. Thanks to Father Bonneville’s peculiar skill
in acquiring languages, the people who seemed good and kindly disposed,
were soon made acquainted with as much of our story as was necessary to
tell. They entered into our cause warmly; but the post-master—or rather
the post-mistress’s son—a little in awe of the French army, some thirty
or forty miles distant, strongly advised that we should proceed without
delay, lest our French postillion should come up, and embarrass the
authorities by demanding our apprehension.

The advice was very palatable to us all; the French horses were
unharnessed in a few minutes; four fresh ones—somewhat fat and slow,
indeed—were attached to the carriage; and Father Bonneville
conscientiously deposited with the post-master the “_pour boire_,” or
drink-money, for our abandoned postillion, with a couple of livres
additional for the long walk he had to take.

It mattered little now whether we went fast or slow; for we were in a
hospitable country, and amongst friendly people, and ere nightfall we
were many miles beyond pursuit.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               MADELINE.


                       A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK.[3]


                       BY MRS. MARY O. HORSFORD.


    Where the waters of the Mohawk
      Through a quiet valley glide,
    From the brown church to her dwelling
      She that morning passed a bride;
    In the mild light of October
      Beautiful the forest stood,
    As the Temple on Mount Zion
      When God filled its solitude.

    Very quietly the red leaves
      On the languid zephyr’s breath,
    Fluttered to the mossy hillocks
      Where their sisters slept in death:
    And the white mist of the autumn
      Hung o’er mountain-top and dale,
    Soft and filmy as the foldings
      Of the passing bridal veil.

    From the field of Saratoga,
      At the last night’s eventide,
    Rode the groom—a gallant soldier
      Flushed with victory and pride;
    Seeking as a priceless guerdon
      From the dark-eyed Madeline
    Leave to lead her to the altar
      When the morrow’s sun should shine.

    All the children of the village,
      Decked with garlands white and red,
    All the young men and the maidens
      Had been up to see her wed;
    And the aged people, seated
      In the doorways, ’neath the vine,
    Thought of their own youth, and blessed her
      As she left the house divine.

    Pale she was, but very lovely,
      With a brow so calm and fair,
    When she passed the benediction
      Seemed still falling on the air.
    Strangers whispered they had never
      Seen who could with her compare,
    And the maidens looked with envy
      On her wealth of raven hair.

    In the glen beside the river,
      In the shadow of the wood,
    With wide open doors for welcome,
      Gambrel-roofed the cottage stood,
    Where the festal board was waiting,
      For the bridal guests prepared,
    Laden with a feast, the humblest
      In the little village shared.

    Every hour was winged with gladness,
      Whilst the sun went down the west,
    Till the chiming of the church bell
      Told to all the hour for rest:
    Then the merry guests departed—
      Some a camp’s rude couch to bide;
    Some to bright homes—each invoking
      Blessings on the gentle bride.

    Tranquilly the morning sunbeam
      Over field and hamlet stole,
    Wove a glory round each red leaf,
      And effaced the frost-king’s scroll.
    Eyes responded to its greeting
      As a lake’s still waters shine,
    Young hearts bounded—and a gay group
      Sought the home of Madeline.

    Bird-like voices ’neath the casement
      Chanted through the fragrant air
    A sweet orison for wakening—
      Half thanksgiving and half prayer.
    But no white hand raised the curtain
      From the vine-clad panes before;
    No light form with buoyant footstep
      Hastened to fling wide the door.

    All was silent in the dwelling—
      All so silent a chill fear
    Of some unseen ill crept slowly
      Through the gay group waiting near.
    Moments seemed as hours in passing,
      Till the mild-eyed man drew nigh,
    Who had blessed the blushing orphan
      Ere the yester sun was high.

    He, with glance of dark foreboding,
      Passed the threshold of the door;
    Paused not where a crimson torrent
      Curdled on the oaken floor:
    But sought out the bridal-chamber—
      God in Heaven! could it be
    Madeline who knelt before him
      In that trance of agony?

    Cold, inanimate beside her,
      By the ruthless Cow-boys slain
    In the night-time whilst defenseless,
      He—the brave—she loved was lain.

    O’er her snowy dress were scattered
      Stains of deep and fearful dye,
    And the soul’s glance beamed no longer
      From her tearless, vacant eye.
    Round her slight form hung the tresses
      Braided oft with pride and care,
    Silvered by that night of madness
      With its anguish and despair.

    She lived on to see the roses
      Of another summer wane,
    But the light of reason never
      Shone in her sweet eyes again.
    Once, where blue and sparkling waters
      Through a verdant forest run,
    And the green boughs kiss the current,
      Wandered I at set of sun.

    Twilight, as a silver shadow,
      O’er the softened landscape lay,
    When amid a rambling village
      Paused I in my wandering way:
    Plain and gray the church before me
      In the quiet grave-yard stood,
    And the woodman’s axe resounded
      Faintly from the neighboring wood.

    Through the low, half-open wicket,
      Slightly worn, a pathway led—
    Silently I paced its windings,
      Till I stood among the dead.
    Passing by the grave memorials
      Of departed worth and fame,
    Long I paused before a record
      That no pomp of words could claim.

    Simple was the slab, and lowly,
      Shaded by a jessamine,
    And the single name recorded,
      Plainly writ, was “Madeline.”
    But beneath it, through the clusters
      Of the jessamine, I read
    “Spes,” engraved in bolder letters—
      This was all the marble said.

-----

[3] A detail of the incident related in the poem may be found among the
records of the Revolutionary War.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           MOORISH MEMORIES.


(SUGGESTED BY A TILE FROM THE ALHAMBRA—THE GIFT OF THOMAS H. HYATT, ESQ.,
              LATE CONSUL-GENERAL TO THE BARBARY STATES.)


                        BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.


    An hour of precious romance I owe, my friend, to thee,
    And on the wings of Fancy my spirit crossed the sea;
    The same transporting magic did to thy gift belong
    That sparkled in Aladdin’s Lamp, old theme of Eastern song!
    An Andalusian summer clad earth in brightest guise—
    Gave dark green to the foliage, deep azure to the skies,
    And sternly mountain-barriers up reared their crests of snow,
    While palace-spire and minaret flashed at their feet below.

    Approached by winding avenues, Grenada lay in sight—
    Gay pleasure-grounds and gardens basked in the dazzling light;
    To groves of palm and cypress flocked birds of plumage rare,
    And happy genii were afloat upon enchanted air.
    Throned on a height, commanding the Darro’s vale of flowers,
    I saw the red Alhambra’s tall battlements and towers;
    Oh! would that mine were language to paint its pictured walls,
    Its colonnades and court-yards, its galleries and halls.

    Methought the dreams of childhood were realized at last,
    And magic hands uplifted a pall that hid the past,
    While looking on its panels with colored stones inlaid,
    And alabaster vases on which the sunbeam played.
    In gem-embroidered kaftan, and grave with cares of state,
    Dispensing equal justice, a king was at the gate—
    The hajib[4] was in waiting to hear his high command,
    And in the foreground gathered proud nobles of the land.

    Luxurious rooms I entered through quaintly carven doors,
    And trod on fretted pavements and tessellated floors;
    And in secluded chambers, for beauty’s use designed,
    On gorgeous silken cushions voluptuous forms reclined.
    To win their smiles full often had gallant cavaliers
    Met with a shock, like thunder, at the Tournament of Spears,
    And all had won the homage by Love and Valor paid,
    When, under moon-lit balconies awoke the serenade.

    Xarifa, rose of sunset—Zoroyda, star of dawn!
    Ye never can be numbered with things of beauty gone:
    Poetical embalmment bestows a glorious light,
    That frights away the minions of darkness, dust and blight.
    Umbrageous courts I traversed, where lime and orange grew,
    And fig and date their shadows on beds of roses threw,
    Then bathed in perfumed waters, and listened to the sound
    Of singing founts diffusing a grateful coolness round.

    While silvery Xenil wandered through blooming bower and plain,
    Back came once more the splendor of Moorish rule in Spain;
    I heard the stormy clarion, the atabal’s deep roll,
    And felt the joy of battle awake within my soul.
    Elvira’s gates unfolded, and, grim with many a scar,
    A host of Moorish horsemen rode fiercely forth to war;
    The standard of the Prophet above them was unrolled,
    And dallied with the lifting wind its green and golden fold.

    Gemmed saddle-cloth and armor were blinding to the gaze,
    And burnished lance and scimetar flashed back the sunbeam’s blaze,
    While prancing in the van, as if their nostrils scented gore,
    The milk-white steeds of Yemen, king, sheick and emir bore.
    When fled that martial pageant, like vapor on the gale,
    Woke on the banks of Darro a startling voice of wail,
    And tones so full of sweetness and wild, despairing wo,
    Were never heard by listening ear from mortal lips to flow.

      LAMENT FOR GRENADA.

    Alas for thee, Grenada!
      Thy Crescent waned away
    When traitors leagued to shatter
      Thy mace of royal sway.
    Unworthy of the mother
      That warmed them into life,
    They heard the Gothic trumpet,
      And armed not for the strife.
    Look round! an earthly paradise
      Is changed into a tomb,
    A blight is on thy loveliness,
      And mildew on thy bloom;
    Where streamed the Moorish pennon
      Triumphantly of old,
    Decay and mournful silence
      Divided empire hold.

    Alas for thee, Grenada!
      Thy chiefs are shadows now,
    And ashes have been sprinkled
      Upon thy crownless brow:
    Thy glory is departed,
      Thy day of pomp is o’er,
    And “Allah illah Allah!”
      Is a battle-cry no more.
    Castilian valor vainly
      To cloud thy glory strove
    Ere Treachery within thy walls
      His cunning web-work wove;
    By bloody parricidal hands
      Inflicted was the blow
    That brought thee, gem of cities!
      In all thy grandeur low.

-----

[4] Prime Minister.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         MOZART’S DON GIOVANNI.


                           BY JOHN S. DWIGHT.


This masterpiece of Mozart must always stand as the highest type of
musical drama. Yet most persons who go to this famous opera for the
first time, and look over the libretto, are disappointed in a worse
sense than the travelers who complain of the first unimposing view of
Niagara. It seems to them a waste of so much fine music, to couple it
with the mere story of a desperate rake, (a young cavalier _estremamente
licenzioso_, as he is set down in the list of characters,) who, after
running a most extravagant career, is brought to judgment in a marvelous
way; namely, by his inviting in jest the statue of an old man whom he
had murdered, the father of the noble lady he had sought to ruin, to sup
with him; and by being surprised in the midst of his feast by the statue
in good earnest, with the whole _posse comitatûs_ of the nether world
rising to claim him! We are at a loss at first to account for the charm
of so vulgar and grotesque a tissue of absurdities. Yet there is a
meaning in it that concerns us all.

Don Juan is one of the permanent, traditional types of character; and
Mozart’s music sympathetically, instinctively, rather than with any
conscious philosophical purpose, brings out the essence of it. The gay
gallant, magnetic disturber of every woman’s peace that comes within his
sphere, is not intended for that vulgar sensualist, that swaggering
street-rake, which caricatures the part in most performances we may have
seen. The true conception of Mozart’s Don Juan is that of a gentleman,
to say the least, and more than that, a man of genius; a being,
naturally full of glorious passion, large sympathies, and irrepressible
energies; noble in mind, in person, and in fortune; a large, imposing,
generous, fascinating creature. Dramatically he is made a little more
than human, yet in a purely human direction. He is such as we all are,
“only more so,” to borrow an expressive vulgarism. Remarkably is he such
as Mozart himself was. He is a sort of ideal impersonation of two
qualities, or springs of character, raised as it were to the highest
power, projected into supernatural dimensions—which is only the poet’s
and musician’s way of truly recognizing the element of infinity in every
passion of the human soul, since not one ever finds its perfect
satisfaction. Mozart in his own life knew them too well, these two
springs or sources of excitement! They are: (1.) the genial temperament,
the exquisite zest of pleasure, the sensibility to every charm and
harmony of sense, amounting to enthusiasm, and content with nothing
short of ecstasy; that appetite for outward beauty, which lends such a
voluptuous, Titian coloring to his music. And (2.) as the crowning
enthusiasm of the young, fresh soul, as the highest mortal foretaste of
celestial bliss, the sentiment of sexual love—that sentiment which is
the key-note of every opera. In Mozart, music appears as the peculiar
native language of these passions, these experiences. His music is all
fond sensibility, pure tranquillity of rapture, and most luxurious
harmony of soul and sense; and therefore in him we have the finest
development of the dramatic element in music. The two together make the
genuine Giovanni creed—the creed of Mozart and of Music—the natural
creed and religion of joy. This free and perfect luxury of passion and
fruition, Mozart imagines raised (as we have said) to the highest power,
in the hero of the old tradition. His Don Juan is a grand believer in
the passions and in pleasure; he is the splendid champion and Titan of
that side of the problem of life, a superb vindicator of the senses. He
stands before us in the glorious recklessness of self-assertion and
protests against the soul-and-passion-starving conventionality, the
one-sided, frigid spiritualism of an artificial, priest-ridden,
Mammon-worshiping society; opposing to those meshes of restraint his own
intense consciousness of _being_, (with a blind instinct that it is
good, divine at bottom, and only needing to appear in its own natural
language of a Mozart’s music to prove this;) strong in the faith,
against the world, that Joy, Joy is the true condition and true sign of
life; but blindly seeking to realize this in the ecstatic lawlessness of
love, which necessarily involves sooner or later a proportional reaction
of the outraged Law and Wisdom of the Universe.

Excessive love of pleasure, helped by a rare magnetism of character, and
provoked by the suppressive moralism of the times, have engendered in
him a reckless, roving, insatiable appetite, which each intrigue excites
and disappoints, until the very passion in which so many souls are first
taught the feeling of the Infinite, becomes a fiend in his breast and
drives him to a devilish love of power that exults over woman’s ruin, or
rather, that does not mind how many hearts and homes fall victims to his
unqualified assertion of the everywhere rejected and _snubbed_ faith in
Passion. The buoyant impulse, generous and good in the first instance,
goes on thus undoubtingly, defying bounds, till it becomes pure
willfulness, and the first flush of youth and nobleness is hardening to
Satanic features. The beauty and the loveliness of woman have lost to
him now all their sacredness; they are mere fuel to the boundless
ambition of a passion which knows no delight beyond the brief excitement
of intrigue and sensual indulgence. He becomes the impersonation and
supernatural genius of one of the holiest springs of human sentiment
_perverted_, because _denied_; and he roams the earth a beautiful,
terrible, resistless, fallen angel, and victim after victim are quaffed
up by his hot breath of all-devouring passion. And so he perseveres
until Hell claims its own in the awful consummation of the supper scene.
Art could not choose a theme more fraught with meaning and with
interest. It is still the old theme and under-current of Opera: the Body
and the Soul;[5] the Liberty of passion, unmeet for its own guidance, in
conflict with the Law, intensely narrowed down by social custom from
God’s great law of universal harmony.

The character of Don Juan, thus conceived, this splendid embodiment of
the free, perfect, unmisgiving luxury of sense and passion, would be no
character at all, but only an absurdity, an impossibility in the spoken
drama. There is no prose about it; nothing literal and sober; take away
the exaltation, the rhythmical nature of it, and it falls entirely to
the ground. Only Music could conceive and treat it; Music, which is the
language of the ideal, innermost, _potential_ life, and not of the
actual life. But music equally does justice to both sides of the fact.
In this triumphant career of passion, inasmuch as it is among men and
laws and sympathies and social customs, a fearful retribution is
foreshadowed. But not in _him_, not in this Titan of the senses, this
projected imagination of unlimited enjoyment and communion. It is
through the music that the shuddering presentiment continually creeps.
Through music, which in acknowledging the error, in laying bare the
fatal discord, at the same time symbolizes its resolution. Through
music, in whose vocabulary sin and suffering and punishment are never
final; in whose vivid coloring the great doom itself is but a vista into
endless depths of harmony and peace and unexclusive bliss beyond.

The splendid sinner’s end is rather melodramatic in the opera; and yet
there is a poetic and a moral truth in it; and the spectre of the
_Commendatore_ is a creation fully up to Shakspeare. No man ever
literally came to that; but many have come to dread it. Beings, as we
are, so full of energies and of exhaustless passional promptings to all
sorts of union and acquaintance with the rest of being; urged, just in
proportion to the quantity of life in us, to seek most intimate
relationship all round, materially and spiritually, we dread the mad
excess of our own pent up forces. Surrounded by set formulas; denied
free channels corresponding to our innate tendencies and callings;
plagued by traditions, and chafed by some social discipline, in which
the soul sees nothing it can understand, except it be the holy principle
of Order in the abstract, do we not often start to see what radicalism
lurks in every genuine spring of life or passion, in everything
spontaneous and lovable? Who, more than the pleasure-loving,
sympathy-seeking, generous, child-like, glorious, imaginative,
sensitive, ecstatic, sad Mozart, would be apt to shudder in dreams, in
the night solitudes of his over-worked, and feverish and wakeful brain,
before the colossal shadow of what possibly _he_ might become through
excess of the very qualities that made him diviner than common mortals?
This allegory can certainly be traced through “Don Giovanni.” The old
governor or commander, whom he kills, personates the Law. The cold,
relentless marble statue, that stalks with thundering foot-fall into the
middle of his solitary orgies alter him, is the stern embodiment of
custom and convention, which he defies to the end, and boldly grasps the
proffered stony hand, from an impulse stronger than his terrors.

It is an old Middle-Age Catholic story. Under many forms it had been
dramatized and poetized as a warning to sinners, before Da Ponte[6]
found it so much to the purpose of Mozart, when he wanted to do his best
in an opera composed expressly for his dear and own peculiar public at
Prague. Coarse as the story seems, perhaps the conflict between good and
evil in the human soul was never represented in a better type. It was
for Mozart’s music to show that. That in adopting it for music he had
any metaphysical idea at all about it, there is no need of supposing.
His instinct found in it fine sphere for all his many moods of passion
and of music. Here he could display all his universality of musical
culture, and his Shaksperian universality of mind. Genius _does_ its
work first; the theory of it is what an appreciating, philosophical
observer must detect in it when done. “They builded better than they
knew.” Love, if it was the ruling sentiment of Mozart’s nature, was for
that very reason his chief danger. If it was almost his religion and
taught his soul its own infinite capacity, so also seemed the danger
therefrom infinite, raising presentiments and visions of some
supernatural abyss of ruin, yawning to receive the gay superstructure of
man’s volatile enjoyments here in time. Life, power, love, pleasure,
crime, futurity and judgment—and a faith left beyond _that!_—what
dream more natural, what circle of keys more obvious to modulation, to a
soul, whose strings are all attuned to love and melody, whose genius is
a powerful demon waiting on its will, and whose present destiny is cast
here in a world so false and out of tune that, to so strong a nature,
there seems no alternative besides wild excess upon the one hand, or a
barren sublimity of self-denial on the other.

In this old legend the worldly and the supernatural pass most naturally
into one another. Don Juan, gifted with all the physical and
intellectual attributes of power, urged by aspirations blind but
uncontainable, full of the feeling of _life_, and resolved to LIVE, if
possible, so fully as to fill all with himself and never own a limit,
(and this is only a perversion of the true desire to live in harmony
_with_ all,) finds the tempting shadow of this satisfaction in the love
of woman, and the poor bird flutters charmed and trembling toward his
fascinating glance. Imagine now the elegant, full-blooded, rich,
accomplished and seductive gallant on his restless rout of pleasures and
intrigues. At his side his faithful knave, droll Leporello,
expostulating with his master very piously sometimes, yet bound to him
by potent magnetism, both of metal and of character (for passion like
Giovanni’s _will_ be served.) Leporello is the foil and shadow to his
master, and adds to the zest of his life-long intoxication by the
blending of the comic with this exquisite wild fever of the blood.
Throughout the whole he plays the part of contrast and brings all back
to reality and earth again, lest the history should take too serious
possession of us. He is the make-weight of common sense tossed into the
lighter scale. He justifies its original title of “Don Giovanni, _un
drama giocoso_;” for this opera is tragedy and comedy and what you
please, the same heterogeneous yet harmonious compound that life itself
is. He on the one side gives a dash of charlatanry to Don Juan, just as
on the other side he borders on the supernatural. Mark the poetic
balance and completeness here: this passion-life of Don Juan has its
outward and its inward comment: on the one side Leporello, on the other
the supernatural statue and the bodily influx of hell. On the one side
it is comic, grotesque and absurd; on the other, it is fearful. Seen in
one light he is a charlatan, a splendid joke; seen in the other, he is
an unfolding demon and a type of doom; while in his life he is but the
free development of human passion in human circumstances. Man always
walks between these two mirrors! One shows his shadow, as of destiny,
projected, ever-widening, into the Infinite, where it grows vague and
fearful. The other takes him in the act, and literally pins down all his
high strivings and pretensions to such mere matter of fact, that he
becomes ridiculous.

                 *        *        *        *        *

We come now to the Opera itself, which we can only examine very briefly
and unequally, touching here and there. Were we to set about it
thoroughly, our article would soon overflow all magazine bounds, since
there is not a scene, an air, a bit of recitative, from the beginning to
the end, that would not challenge our most critical appreciation.

And first the Overture, composed, they say, in the single night before
the first public performance of the opera in Prague; his wife keeping
him awake to his work by punch and anecdotes and fairy tales, that made
him laugh till the tears ran down his cheeks; and only ready for the
orchestra (which had not its equal in all Europe) to play at sight
without rehearsal. He may have _written_ it that night, that is to say,
have copied it out of his head. It was his habit of composition; his
musical conceptions shaped themselves whole in his brain, and were
carried about there for days until the convenient time to put them upon
paper; and it is not possible that his brain that time could have been
without an overture, since there the opera existed as a perfect whole,
and in that glowing and creative mood, the instrumental theme and
preface to the same must have floated before him as naturally as the
anticipation of his audience. Moreover, the first movement of it, the
Andante, is essentially the same music with the grand and awful finale
of the opera, and is properly put first in the overture (whose office it
is to prepare the hearer’s mind) as the grand end and moral of the
piece. Accordingly it opens with three stern, startling crashes on the
chord of D minor, the sub-bass dividing the measure into equal halves,
but the upper parts syncopated; then a pause, and then the same repeated
in the Dommant—like the announcement of a power not to be trifled with.
Then a series of wild modulations, full of terror, enhanced by the
unearthly brass and low reed tones, surging through chromatic intervals,
which make the blood creep, and presently overtopped by a pleading
melody of the first violins, while a low, feeble whimper of the second
violins is heard all the time like the moaning of the wind about an old
house. Then alternate sharp calls and low, tremulous pauses; the ground
quakes; the din becomes more fearful; the melody begins to traverse up
and down all kinds of scales, through intervals continually shifting,
and expressive of all manner of uncertainty, like the quick and
fruitless runs in all directions of a beast surrounded by the hunters.
It is like the breaking up of the familiar foundations of things, that
unsettling of the musical Scale!—All this is brief, for it is but a
synopsis and foreshadowing of the last scene in the opera. The string
instruments then dash off, in the major of the key, into a wild,
reckless kind of Allegro, than which there could not be a better musical
correspondence of the general subject, that is, of the restless,
mischievous career of one outraging all the social instincts and defying
all pursuit. This spends itself at leisure, softening at the close
toward the genial F natural, the key of nature and the senses, where the
overture is merged into the dramatic introduction.

The curtain rises. Scene, a garden in Spain. Time, just before daybreak.
Leporello, cloaked, with a lantern, paces watchfully to and fro before a
noble villa, and sings with heavy bass of his drudgeries and dangers in
the service of his graceless master; kindling half seriously at the
thought how fine a thing it would be to play the gallant and the
gentleman himself. The light and exquisite accompaniment of the
instruments meanwhile is like the softness of a summer night, and seems
to count the moments of pleasure. The dreams of the valet are soon
disturbed. Don Juan, his face hid by his mantle, rushes from the house,
struggling from the grasp of Donna Anna, who, pale and disheveled,
clings to him convulsively, and seeks to detain and to discover the
bold, mysterious man, who has dared thus to invade her privacy and her
honor. Her hurried and accusing melody, in these snatches of recitative,
is full of a dignity and a pure and lofty fire that characterize alike
her person and the whole music of her port. With drawn sword in one
hand, and a torch in the other, her old father, the Commendatore
(commander of a religious order) rushes out and challenges the bravo,
who deals him a death-thrust. The startlingly vivid orchestral picture,
which accompanies and as it were guides these sword thrusts, is followed
by a slow, mournful trio of bass voices, in which are gloomily
contrasted the scornful triumph of Don Juan, the dying wail and warning
of the old man, and the comic terror of Leporello. Nothing could be more
thrillingly impressive; that music could mean nothing else but death
stalking suddenly into the very midst of life! Then comes the passionate
outpouring of the daughter’s grief, and that inimitable scene of the
most musical as well as most dramatic dialogue in the whole range of the
lyric drama. It is the perfection of recitative. What exquisite
tenderness and sincerity of sorrow in that violin figure which
accompanies her inquiry for her father, (_padre mio_,) when she first
recovers from her swoon! How sweet and comforting that fall of the
seventh, where Ottavio tells her: _Hai sposo e padre in me_ (Thou hast
husband and father in me!) And how fiery and grand the passage where she
inspires the tame lover with that sublimely solemn oath of revenge, and
the hot, scouring blast of their swift and wonderful duett which follows
it. In all this there is no delicate touch of feeling, no spiritual
token of great passion and great purpose, possible to voice or
instruments, omitted; no note omissible or of slight significance. Here
is an opening of most pregnant import. One scene of moderate length has
impressed us, as by the power of fate, to the seeing through of the
profoundest drama of life. Here we have witnessed, as it were, the first
reaction of the eternal Law, the first hint of destiny in this splendid
libertine’s thus far irresistible career. Already is this almost
superhuman pleasure-hunt of genius past its climax, and the dread note
of retribution is already sounded.

The next scene introduces us to one of the personified reproaches of Don
Juan’s better nature. As the Don and his man are plotting new
adventures, a lady passes, in hat and feathers, with excited air, and,
as they retreat into the shade to note her, she pours out her most
musical complaint against the traitor who has played falsely with her
heart. The introductory symphony or ritornel, in E flat major, by its
bold and animated strain indicates the high-spirited and passionate
nature now before us, whose song of ever constant though wronged love,
to words that would fain threaten terrible revenge, commences the
Terzetto, mainly solo, to which the mocking by-play of the Don and
Leporello, accompanied by a mocking figure of the instruments, supplies
the other two parts. As he steps up to offer consolation to the lady, he
recognizes his own simple, loving, poor deserted mistress, Donna Elvira,
and while the same mocking instrumental figure leaves the song hanging
in the air, as it were, without any cadence or any close, he slips away
and leaves the task of explanation to the disconcerted servant. There is
an ardent, passionate yearning in this as in all of Elvira’s melodies,
which climb high and are perhaps the most difficult in the opera. The
character is seldom conceived truly by the actress. Interpreted by its
music, its intention is distinct enough. Elvira is no half-crazed,
foolish thing; but one of the highest moral elements in the _personnel_
of the opera; next in dignity, at least, to Donna Anna. However she may
appear in the libretto and in the common usage of the stage, Mozart in
his music makes her the soul of ardent and devoted love and constancy,
still fondly hoping in the deeper, better self of the man who has
trifled with her; like a sweet, genuine ray of sun shine, always
indicating to Don Juan a chance of escape from the dark labyrinthine
fatality of crime in which he goes on involving himself; always offering
him true love for false.

Let her not listen then (like the silly girl we commonly see upon the
stage, half-magnetized out of a weak sorrow into a weaker involuntary
yielding to the ludicrous) to the exquisitely comic appeal of Leporello,
when the vain-glorious fellow unrolls his tremendous list of his
master’s conquests among the fair sex, enumerating the countries, ranks,
styles of beauty, etc. The melody of this “Catalogue Song” is altogether
surpassing. It is the perfection of _buffo_, as we have before had the
perfection of serious recitative. After naming the numbers for Italy,
Germany, etc., when it comes to the climax (Elvira’s own land): _Ma in
Espagna mille e trè_, [But in Spain one thousand and three,] it is
ludicrously grave; the orchestra meanwhile has chopped the measure into
short units, alternate instruments just touching different points of
height and depth, till they seem at last to count it all up on the
fingers, first downward in the tripping _pizzicato_ scale of the
violins, then upward in gruff confirmation in the basses. In the slow
time, where it comes to the specification of the different qualities of
beauty, the _grande maëstosa_, the _piccina_, etc., the melody is one of
the most beautiful and pathetic that could be imagined. One wonders how
Mozart could have expended such a wealth of melody upon so light a
theme; it seems as lavish a disproportion of means to end, as when we
read of travelers roasting their eggs in the cinders of Vesuvius. But
such was the musical fullness and integrity of Mozart; the genial vein,
once opened, _would_ run only pure gold; and his melodies and harmonies
are not merely proportioned to the specialities of the subject, but are
at every moment moulded in the style and spirit of the whole work.
Besides, the comedy consists here in the contrast of a pathetic melody
with a grotesque thought. Moreover the whole thing is truer in the fact,
that not only Leporello’s, but Don Juan’s own melodies, as indeed the
very nature of music, seem mournfully to rebuke the desperado. In the
most comic and most bacchanalian strains, the music saddens with a
certain vague presentiment of the fearful _dénouement_ of the drama.

The Don’s next adventure is the meeting of a gay group of peasants at a
wedding festival, where he attempts to seduce away the pretty bride,
Zerlina, whose naïve and delicious songs, right out of a simple, good,
loving heart, a little coquettish withal, are among the purest gems of
the piece, and have mingled their melody with the civilized world’s
conceptions of truth and nature and the charm of innocence. Those of our
readers who have enjoyed with us the privilege of hearing and seeing a
worthy, indeed a perfect personation of Zerlina, by that refined and
charming artist, Signora Bosio, will need no words to give them a just
conception of the character, and of its music, which is as individual as
that of Anna or Elvira. Suffice it to say, that the simplicity, the
tenderness and the coquetry of this pretty peasant, have the natural
refinement of a superior nature. Mozart must have been in love with the
part. The rustic chorus opening this scene, in which the bridal pair
lead off, is one of perfect simplicity, (Allegro, 6—8 time,) and yet
inimitable beauty. The Duett, _La ci darem la mano_, in which Don Juan
overcomes the hesitation of the dazzled, spell-bound girl, breathes the
undoubted warmth of passion; few simple souls could be proof against
such an eloquent confession. Indeed the _sincerity_ of all this music is
a great part of its charm; it has never the slightest symptom of any
striving for effect, and yet it is consummate art; it flows directly out
of the characters and situations and the dramatic tendency of the whole.
The poor girl is rescued this time by the entrance of an experienced
guardian angel, who sees through the case at once. It is Donna Elvira,
who, just as she is tripping away with the fascinator to the gay,
consenting tune of _Andiam_, (let us go,) snatches the bird from his
hands. Her song of warning to the simple one, _Ah! fuggi ’l traditor_,
is a strangely elaborate Handelian aria, so different in style from the
rest of the opera that it is never performed. As if all things conspired
to confound the traitor, Donna Anna and her lover also enter, (Zerlina
having withdrawn,) and here ensues that wonderful Quartette, _Non ti
fidar_, in which each voice-part is a character, a melody of a distinct
genius, and all wrought into a perfect unity. Elvira warns Anna and
Ottavio against confiding in this generous-looking Don, whose aid they
have unwittingly bespoken in their search for the murderer of the first
scene (namely himself;) Don Juan declares that she is crazy, and not to
be minded; the others are divided between pity for her and respect for
such a gentleman; and all these strands are twisted into one of the
finest concerted pieces in all opera. It is one of those peculiar
triumphs of opera which make it so much more dramatic than the spoken
drama; for here you have four characters expressing themselves at once,
with entire unity of effect, yet with the distinctest individuality. The
music makes you instantly clairvoyant to the whole of them; you do not
have to wait for one after the other to speak; there is a sort of
song-transparency of all at once; the common chord of all their
individualities is struck. Especially is this achieved in the concerted
pieces, the quartettes, trios, and so forth, of Mozart, which are beyond
comparison with most of those in the Italian opera of the day, since the
harmony in them is not the mere coloring of one thought, but the
interweaving of so many distinct individualities.

Zerlina is saved, but by arrangement with her protectors agrees to go up
to the Don’s palace, whither Leporello has conducted the whole wedding
party, and even coaxed along the jealous bridegroom. A scene ensues
between Donna Anna and her lover. The orchestra, in a few startling and
almost discordant shrieks, indicates the intense excitement of her mind,
for, as Don Juan took his leave, she recognized the look and voice of
one whom she had too much cause to remember; and in impassioned bursts
of hurried recitative, alternating with the said spasmodic bits of
instrumentation, she exclaims, _Quegli è il carnefice del mio padre_,
(this man is my father’s murderer,) and in the same grandly lyric style,
rising higher and higher, she tells Ottavio the story of her outrage.
Having reached the climax, this magnificent recitative becomes melody,
and completes itself in the sublime Aria, _Or tu sai_, “Now thou knowest
who attempted my honor,” etc. There can be nothing greater, more
Minerva-like in dignity and high expression of the soul of justice
outraged, and at the same time full of all feminine tenderness and
beauty, in the whole range of opera or drama. And it is Music, it is
Mozart that has done it all. We have here the character of Donna Anna in
its most sublime expression; a character that transcends mere personal
relations, that bears a certain mystical relationship with the higher
power beginning to be felt in the development of this human history. In
this song she rises, as it were, to the dignity of an impersonation of
the moral principle in the play, and this high sentiment of hers is like
a foretaste of the coming fate and supernatural grandeur, which are to
form the never to be forgotten finale of the piece. Elvira is entirely
in the sphere of the personal; she _loves_ Don Juan to the last, and
like the simple good humanity that still appeals to him though still
rejected. But Anna is superhuman and divine; she reveals the
interworking of the Infinite in all these finite human affairs; to
Heaven, rather than to Ottavio, is her appeal; and from beyond this life
she looks to see the vindicator of her cause appear. The loftiness of
the music just considered, and the stately trumpet-tones of the
orchestra, which always herald the entrance of Donna Anna and her party,
connect her unmistakably with the marvelous elements of the drama; she
is Feeling prophesying Justice; she is Faith in the form of woman; and
the singer who could perfectly present Donna Anna would be worthy to
sing Handel’s song, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”

From one extreme we pass to its opposite. In strongest possible contrast
with the high moral passion of this last, is what now follows. We have a
song embodying the very frenzied acme of Don Juan’s zest of sensual
pleasure. He directs Leporello about the feast, and trolls off, like one
possessed, his famous champagne song, _Finch’an del vino_, whose
rapidity and glorious _abandon_ are too much for almost all the
baritones; those, in whose dragging utterance it does not become
commonplace, are apt to give it with a swaggering glibness, and a
coarseness that has nothing of the fine champagne enthusiasm about it.
In this song and that last of Donna Anna’s the two electric poles, as it
were, of the whole play, have met. And now for the pretty episode of
peasant life again; the inimitably sweet, insinuating, loving song in
which repentant little Zerlina seems to invite chastisement from her
offended, jealous lover, _Batti, batti, O bell’ Masetto_, (beat me, beat
me, dear Masetto!). With what soft tendrils of melody, enhanced by the
delicious instrumentation, she steals around his senses and his heart!
And to what unaffected rapture (to say nothing of a little coquettish
triumph) the strain changes when he forgives her, as she knew he would!
This seems a very simple song, but it is the perfection of art. O that
Mozart could go into ecstasies with his own pet Zerlina, hearing Bosio
sing this!

We have now reached the musical Finale of the first act, though there is
much shifting of scenes and characters before the last grand _ensemble_,
which is the ball in the Don’s palace. But these only suspend, to
wonderfully enhance, the final stroke. We can only enumerate the
delicious series of ever new and characteristic musical ideas
preliminary to the feast: (1.) Masetto urging Zerlina to hide
herself—how full of the bustle of approaching splendors is the music
during this little hurried duett! (2.) The Don’s voice stimulating the
peasants to the coming mirth, with their responsive chorus. (3.) Then
his discovery of the shy bird and half reclaimal of her love, with his
blank surprise (so perfectly depicted in the sudden modulation of the
music) as he leads her off only to meet the watchful bridegroom:
_Masetto si, Masetto_! (during all which the light twittering phrases of
the accompaniment make the whole atmosphere instinct with joys
expected.) (4.) Then, as the instruments suddenly change to a cautious,
half-hushed, tip-toe melody, unflagging in its speed, yet in the minor
mood, (for these have no festivity in their hearts that now come) the
entrance of Donna Elvira, Donna Anna, and Don Ottavio, in black dominos,
and masked to the outward eye, though each betrayed by a distinctive
style of melody. (5.) Then the sounding (from within the house) of that
stately _minuett_, a strain which everybody knows and loves, and still
as fresh as when first written, here introduced as a mere foretaste of
itself, and of the ball, and made the musical ground-work of lordly
courtesy and hospitality to the salutations of Don Juan and Leporello,
who appear above at the window, and invite the maskers in. (6.) The
surpassing Trio, in which the three, lingering on the threshold, invoke
Heaven’s protection to innocence ensnared. Can any other opera show such
an exuberance of musical ideas in the same space? And it is all _en
passant_, all incidental to what follows, to what now bursts instantly
upon the view as the back scene is withdrawn, and you see all the crowd
and splendor of the ball-room, and are transported by the indescribably
rich Finale, that ever climbing, widening _crescendo_ and accumulation
of all musical effects, till the climax is reached in a general storm
and inundation of harmony. The simple, gay, continuous six-eight melody,
to which the whole brilliant spectacle moves at first, is the very soul
of festivity. Suddenly there is a full chord in C from the whole
orchestra, with trumpets, and a stately, march-like strain, preluding
the entrance of the three in masks, with the lordly welcome of the
Amphytrion. He will have no time lost, however, for into this one high
hour he has concentrated all the delights and harmonies of sense—short,
bright and strong be the blood-quickening chorus, _Viva la liberta!_ and
now let the dance go on. And now are crowded into a brief but most
capacious moment, the reintroduction of the Minuett in a bolder key than
before, to whose grave, deliberate measure the more elegant company
begins to move in antique, solemn steps; then presently, commingling
with the Minuett, but not disturbing it, two other tunes, to other
rhythms, namely, a rustic contra-dance, and a most rapid waltz,
inspiring the heels of the peasants; the droll attempts of Leporello to
make Masetto dance, while his master has bespoken the arm and ear of the
pretty bride, to win whom he has planned this whole array; the indignant
observation of this game by Donna Anna, with difficulty moderated until
due time by her companions; the piercing shriek of the music as Don Juan
whirls Zerlina away out of the dance; the cry for aid; the general rush
to the door whence the sounds proceed, and when it is broken in, the
grotesque brief diversion of the Don dragging Leporello by the ear, and
trying to fasten his own crime on him; the incredulous and accusing
phrase, in which the voices of the trio, now unmasked, confront him
successively in _Canon_ style; and the out-bursting of the general
tempest of wrath upon the exposed deceiver, heightened, too, by the
sweeping wind and hissing lightnings of an actual physical storm that is
supposed to be passing without. The strength of the accusing chorus is
splendidly terrific, and like the rush of a whirlwind, where all the
voices in unison swiftly traverse up and down several times the first
five notes of the scale. But he of the dauntless will and the magnetic
eye, with one sword awes back and penetrates the maddened mob, escaping
with a loud laugh of defiance.

Our very slight and hasty sketch has already grown to considerable
length, and yet we have examined only one act of the three, into which
“Don Giovani” is usually divided in the performance. One act was enough
to show (if _that_ were all our object) how this opera wells up as from
an exhaustless fountain of musical ideas, all of which are of the
inspired, enduring quality; we have listened to materials enough already
for some twenty of the fashionable operas of our day. We must glance
more hastily at the remainder.

Act II. opens with one of those half humorous, half serious
conversations between the Don and Leporello, which ever and anon relieve
the story. The servant, stung by the ungrateful and outrageous conduct
of his master in the ball-room explosion, announces his determination to
quit him; but they are too essential to each other, and the Don soon
coaxes, laughs, and bribes him out of that notion. This duett is in real
Italian _parlando_ style, a syllable to every note, quick and brief as
it is comically expressive; for this enemy of woman’s peace has new
business on hand; the unlucky night is not too far gone to try one more
adventure. So here follows the summer warmth and beauty of the serenade
scene under Donna Elvira’s window, who sits above there, pouring out her
nightingale complainings under the stars, in a melody of ravishing
sweetness and tenderness, forming the upper part of a _Terzetto_, in
which the _sotto voce_ dialogue of the Don and his man below grotesquely
blends. He changes garments with Leporello, and lending his own voice,
while Leporello gesticulates, in strains of feigned repentance and
returning love, entices the too easily persuaded lady down into the arms
of his counterfeit, while he takes up his guitar to serenade, not
Elvira, but Elvira’s maid, now that the field is clear, in that most
graceful little serenading air, which seems so easy and so off-hand,
with its light _arpeggio_ accompaniment by violins alone: _Deh vieni
alla finestra_. But the fortunate stars of our all-seducing hero seem
this night to have forsaken him; again his business is balked. Mirth and
melody, fun and sentiment are strangely mingled in this scene, and,
indeed, in this whole act. The serenade gets finished; the tree, as it
were, is climbed; but before the fruit can be gathered, the game is
interrupted by Masetto and the peasants armed, hot from the ball-room
scene, in search of the splendid scoundrel. Masetto gets the worst of
it; and here we have one of the world’s three or four very choicest and
purest gems of melody, Zerlina’s exquisitely tender and comforting song
to her poor, bruised, and beaten bridegroom, _Vedrai carino_; so
beautifully simple, in the homely key of C natural; so innocently
voluptuous; so full of blissful love; so like the balsam (_un certo
balsamo_) of which she hints with fond and arch significance! And as she
makes him place his hand upon her heart at the words, _sentilo battere_,
(feel it beat,) you seem to hear its glad and honest beating in the
music. We cannot forbear inserting here the following interpretation of
this song, which we have read since our analysis of the opera was made.
It is from the pen of an intelligent Russian gentleman, who has written
in French and German an admirable Life of Mozart, with a critical
examination of his works. We translate from the German copy:

“_Vedrai Carino_ is, like so many pieces of our opera, super-dramatic
music. When we hear it, we forget the text, we forget the person. There
is no longer any Zerlina or Masetto. Something infinite, absolute, and
verily divine announces itself to the soul. Is it perhaps nothing but
love, represented under one of the countless modifications by which it
is distinguished in each individual, according to the laws of his
nature, and the peculiar vicissitudes of his fortune? No; the soul feels
rather a direct effluence of the principle itself, from which all youth,
all love, all joy, and every vital reproduction flows. The genius of the
Spring’s metamorphoses, he namely, whom the old theosophists called
Eros, who disembroiled chaos, who fructified germs and married hearts;
this genius speaks to us in this music, as he has so often spoken in the
murmurings of the brook that has escaped its icy prison, in the rustling
of the young leaves, in the melodious songs of the nightingale, in the
balmy odors which pervade the eloquent and inspiring stillness of a May
night. Mozart had listened to and firmly held this ground-accord of this
universal harmony; he arranged it for a soprano voice with orchestral
accompaniment, and made of it the nuptial air of a young bride. Zerlina
sings, surrounded by the shadows of the marriage night, while just about
to cross the threshold, at which virginity pauses with prayer and
trembling, expecting the confirmation of the holy title of wife. In this
place the Aria becomes a genuine _scena_ of love, the source of life and
of eternal rejuvenescence for all nature—of love, the spring-time of
souls, and the most unstinted revelation of the all-goodness of the
Creator. It is a marriage-song for all that loves, conceived in the same
spirit with the ‘Ode to Joy’ by Schiller, allowing for the difference of
tone and style between a Dithyrambic and an Eclogue. The theme, the
image of the purest bliss, betrays none the less that inexplicable and
seldom justified exaltation, which, in the fairest poetic hours of our
existence, leads us to that unknown good whereof all other goods of
earth are only shadows and foretastes. A rhythm without marked accent; a
harmony without dissonances; a modulation which rests in the Tonic, and
forgets itself, as if held fast there by a magic spell; a melody which
cannot separate itself from its ineffaceable _motiv_; this tranquil
rapture, this soft ecstasy, fill out the first half of the air. After
the pause, hosts of nightingales begin to sing in chorus in the
orchestra, while the voice, with exquisite monotony, murmurs, _Sentilo
battere, toccami quà_. Then the same words are again uttered with the
expression of passion; the heart of the young woman beats stronger and
stronger; the sighs of the orchestra are redoubled, and the last vocal
phrase, which bears the impress of chaste devotion, shows us the wife as
she sinks softly upon the bosom of her husband. Mozart seems to have
anticipated the desire of the ear, in that he lets the orchestra repeat
the whole _motiv_ and the enchanting final phrases once again. He knew
that the piece would be found too short, as it actually is the case.”

Good-night, then, to this happy couple, whom we leave, to trace the
sequel of the comic vein just opened in that ‘Sartor’-ian exchange of
personality between the master and the servant; but also at the same to
receive still more distinct and solemn intimations (all the more
significant for this very contrast of the comic) of the supernatural
reaction that is preparing soon to burst upon the head of the
magnificent libertine and outlaw. The Sextette which now follows is
altogether unique and unrivaled among concerted pieces in opera. The
music of this Sextette covers such an ever-shifting variety of action,
and so much of a _scene_, that one may hear it once without thinking of
its wealth and admirable structure as music. Yet for every point in all
this action, and for all shades of relation between the persons, as well
as for each separate personality, there is a correspondence in the
music. The scene has changed to a _bujo loco_, or dark place, (the
libretto says, a porch to Donna Anna’s palace.) First appear the
counterfeit Giovanni and Elvira, who is too happy to walk with him to
the end of the world, if need be; while he, (Leporello,) tired of
imitating his master’s voice, is groping about to find an exit. In an
Andante melody, in the same key, and of a kindred character with that by
which we first knew her (_Ah! chi mi dice mai_,) she utters her fear of
being left alone in this bujo loco. Just as her companion finds the
door, the groping, cautious music brightens into the bold key and
trumpet-style which always heralds Anna and Ottavio, who enter amid
blaze of torches. Sweet is the consoling appeal of the _tenore_ to his
grief-stricken Anna, whose response, less fiery and commanding, but not
less sublimely spiritual than her last great solo, even hints of death
as the only solution of life’s riddle for her. Meanwhile the first two,
who have lurked unnoticed, are just making good their exit, when Zerlina
and Masetto appear, who thinks that now he has the _briccone_ at his
mercy; the bluster of Masetto, the surprise of Anna and Ottavio at the
sight of the supposed Giovanni, the grotesque, crouching plea of the
valet, the intercession of still deceived Elvira for “her husband,” then
their recognition of _her_, then a new brandishing of Masetto’s club,
and then the ass throwing off the lion’s skin, and begging mercy, all
are made thrice expressive by the music, which varies instinctively each
moment, and yet ceases not to weave the unitary complex whole. At last
all the six voices join in a swift and wind-like Allegro, in which
Anna’s voice takes the highest and most florid part, Zerlina’s the
second, Elvira’s the third, and so on, and in which there is now and
then a wild Æolian-harp-like passage of harmony, which seems the
fore-feeling of the higher powers which henceforth are to take part in
the drama.

But first we have the masterpiece and model of all tenor solos. In it
Ottavio commends his _Il mio tesoro_ to the care of these friends, and
in it he proves himself the truest, tenderest, most devoted and most
religious of lovers, if Heaven _has_ reserved it to a stronger force
than his to crush the mighty sinner against whom he has taken such an
oath of vengeance. But the opera could not rob itself of the statue, and
its last scene, and its whole sublimity, to make him a hero, when it was
enough that he should know how to _love_ a Donna Anna.

Passing over a duett between Leporello and Zerlina, rarely sung, in fact
an after-thought of the composer, which he is said to have added to
conciliate the lower taste of a Viennese manager or audience; and
passing over (for we must be brief) a truly transcendent solo for
Elvira: _Mi tradi quell’ alma ingrata_, in whose fluid, ever-modulating
melody her musing, sad soul seems dissolved in reverie, we come to the
marvelous church-yard scene. Here glimmers the white equestrian statue
of the murdered commander in the back-ground; and here the Don and
Leporello seek a rendezvous after their new discomfiture, to re-exchange
hats and mantles, and so forth. Their loud levity is suddenly hushed by
a voice of warning from the statue, accompanied in strange chords by the
unearthly tones of the trombones (which instruments, instead of being
lavished in Verdi fashion, upon all the strong passages, have been
entirely kept back till now for this supernatural “beginning of the
end,”) mingled with the low reed tones. _Di rider finirai_, etc. (“Thou
shalt cease to laugh before dawn!”) A short old choral strain, in which
the voice ends, spectral-like, upon the Dominant of the key (A minor),
struck with the major Third. This is a church cadence; it belongs to
eternity, which knows no Minor, no such type of “earthly un-rest.” It
freezes to the heart of Don Giovanni, who starts dismayed, but only for
a moment; and soon the marble lips break silence once more to rebuke his
mockery. So far it has been introductory recitative; but now the
orchestra is all life and melody again, for the luscious music of the
duett in which Giovanni compels the trembling servant at the sword’s
point to salute the statue and invite him to sup with him. There is no
more exquisite fairy-work in the whole opera than the instrumentation of
this scene. It were hard to tell whether the impression left by it
partakes most of the comic, of the supernaturally terrible, or of the
beautiful. All these elements are grotesquely blended in it, yet without
seeming incongruity. The beauty of the music harmonizes and idealizes
the action; it lends its singular fascination to the marvelous; it makes
the terror doubly real, by expressing the vague charm which every terror
has after all to the soul, glad (even in its terror) of the excitement
of something altogether strange and infinite. Mozart knew better than to
freeze the blood up here entirely, with unearthly tones of horror,
except during those brief utterances of the marble rider; that he
reserved for the end, of which this is but the beginning. He has
lavished all the luxury of melodic invention upon the instrumentation of
this duett; the music in the main still gushes warm and genial and
human, and hence you feel the supernatural all the more inwardly and
powerfully, when shudders of strange awe cross occasionally its placid,
sparkling flow. _O statua gentillissima_—cheerily and bravely the
beautiful strain sets out, in the rich key of E major; but as the knave
shrinks back in terror, crying _padron! mirate!_ etc., the deprecating
expression of his voice dropping through the interval of a Seventh, with
the instruments accompanying in unison, is alike droll and marvelous.
Still the cheerful melody goes on, in spite of ghosts, until the statue
nods acceptance, when the unearthly modulation and _tremolo_ of the
music, falling with sudden emphasis upon Leporello’s _Ah! — —h! che
scena!_ (Ah! what a sight!), gives the whole scene for the time the
superstitious coloring of his soul. But when he comes to tell his master
how the spectre nodded, and when his master repeats the strain and
gesture with him, the fear has become subordinate to the charm of
adventure, and the music takes the gay and reckless tone of Giovanni.
Life shall be all a feast, is _his_ creed, ghosts and miracles to the
contrary; and festally the bright strain dies away, softer and softer,
as they depart, to the tune of _Andiamo via di qua_ (let us quit this
place), to which the servant’s voice chimes in as second very heartily.

Here the curtain usually falls, closing a second Act, although the
composer covers the homeward flight of the pair, fatigued and hungry
with that night’s adventures and discomfitures, and the preparation of
the supper, by a beautiful and elaborate recitative and aria of Donna
Anna, addressed to her devoted Ottavio, whose urgent plea for the
consummation of their union she tenderly puts off, as with a
presentiment that her love is to know no earthly consummation, and that
her life is already too much of the other world. This song: _Non mi
dir_, bloomed one of the heavenliest and purest in the wreath of Jenny
Lind.

Act Third is the grand Finale, with its tremendous music, its
apparition, its supernatural vindication of the Law, and the splendid
sinner’s doom. Remember, day has not dawned yet since that other Finale,
to the First Act; their supper that time was stormily broken off, and
they have had little rest in the mean time. But they have got home at
last, and _Gia la mensa è preparata_: now the supper is prepared; a
smart and animated strain of full orchestra in the bold key of D. The
Don has shut himself in by himself with all the harmonies of sense and
appetite; it is the pure feast of egoism; there are no guests, but his
own appetites and riotous imaginations, for whom all things are
provided; and little thinks he of the guest whom he _has_ invited! Droll
Leporello, now all appetite, is in attendance, devouring furtive morsels
of the rich dishes, and uncorking the champagne, (a situation commonly
too tempting to our buffo, who makes the fun excessively and
disgustingly broad,) and making broad allusions to the _barbaro
appetito_ of his master. There is a band of wind instruments, too, from
whom all the while proceed the most enlivening appeals to composite
enjoyment, in a succession of rare morsels of melody from well-known
operas of the time, for which both master and man show an appreciating
ear. The last of these is the famous _Non piu andrai_, from Mozart’s own
“Nozze di Figaro,” to which Leporello may well exclaim: “That I know too
well.” Through all this the Titian-like, voluptuous quality of Mozart
comes out afresh. It is the music of pure, unalloyed sensuous enjoyment;
not a shadow of aught serious or sentimental comes over its harmony,
until once more his better nature makes one final appeal, entreating him
to repentance, in the person of poor, constant Donna Elvira, who
suddenly rushes in and kneels at his feet. But the Don laughs at her
simple lecture, and preaches up to her his bacchanalian gospel.

Here mark a fine point in the action, a fine touch of poetic truth,
worthy of Mozart’s genius. It is _she_, his better nature, as we have
said, his own rejected truer self, who loves him better than he loves
himself; it is she, Elvira, who, as she leaves the stage, is the first
to meet the fearful apparition and by her shriek give warning. That
shriek, thrown into the music, has suddenly changed its smooth,
sparkling surface into fierce boiling eddies, and stirred up the whole
sea of harmony from its profoundest depths. The musicians on the stage
have vanished. No time now for their toy melodies! Every chord now
cleaves the dark veil of the supernatural, like lightnings in the
blackest night; the syncopated rhythm tells of vague and wonderful
forebodings. _Che grido è questo?_ (What noise is this?) And Leporello
is sent out to see. Wilder and heavier grows the music, as he returns
white and speechless, and only able in his half-wittedness of terror to
imitate with his feet the heavy _ta, ta_, the approaching foot-fall of
the man of marble, who has descended from his charger in the grave-yard.
It requires the master’s hardihood to open the door for him, and amid
those solemn and terrific crashes of the orchestra, with which the
overture commenced, the strange guest stalks into the middle of the
scene.

With hard, ponderous, marble tones, like blows, falling whole octaves,
the statue announces himself as good as his word in accepting Giovanni’s
invitation. The amazed unbeliever, trembling and yet summoning up his
whole pride of will, which never yet forsook him, would fain prove as
good as _his_ word, too, and orders Leporello, who has crawled away
under the table, to get ready another supper. But “not on mortal food
feeds” this guest from the other world; “graver concerns” have led him
here; and the instruments are again traversing those _unsettled_ scales,
whose wonderful effect we noticed in the overture. _Parla, parla_: rings
out the rich, fresh baritone of the dauntless Amphytrion, as much as to
say: “talk on, old fellow! I listen; you are a ghost, but I am a
substance; I believe in myself, say what you will.” All very brave! but
listen to the orchestra (as you cannot _help_ listening) if you would
know how nevertheless it goes with him in the inner workings of his
soul, in those mysterious depths of consciousness which hitherto he has
so wilfully refrained from sounding. That heavy, muffled tread of the
sub-bass in triplets, making the ground quake, means more than the
“tertian ague” of poor Leporello there, with head thrust out cautiously
from under the table, and voice, automaton-like, moving in unison with
the _basso profondo_ of the orchestra. A pause is filled with a
monotonous beat of the basses, when the crashing diminished-seventh
chords begin anew, and louder than before, while the spectre again opens
its marble jaws to tender the Don an invitation in its turn, which he,
stout-hearted to the last, in spite of Leporello’s trembling, grotesque
warnings, accepts. The statue asks his hand in pledge; he boldly gives
it, starts as if an infinite pang and sense of death shot from the cold,
stony hand through all the marrow of his bones; with an infinite
audacity of will he refuses to repent; the spectre sinks through the
ground; he is a doomed one; the flames of hell burst in on every side,
with visions of the damned; a chorus of spectres: _vieni!_ (come!) is
heard amid the infernal whirl and tempest of the music; he wrestles with
the demons and drops dead, the whole phantasmagoria vanishing, just as
the other characters of the piece come in search of the reprobate, who
listen to Leporello’a chattering story, dispose of their several
destinies after the approved fashion of dramatic conclusions, and wind
up with chanting a solemn canon over the _Dissoluto punito_, to the
words: “Such is the end of the evil-doer!”

It is usual, however, to terminate the performance with the fall of
Giovanni. The parts which follow, although admirable as music, are
plainly superfluous to the action, as a poetic and artistic whole, and
must have been added by Mozart out of mere conformity to old dramatic
usage, which assembles and disposes of all the surviving characters of a
piece in the last scene.

There is great room for melodramatic nonsense and _diablerie_ in this
judgement scene, in which the theatres have used full license. But if
the orchestra be complete and efficient, there is no possibility of
travestying or perverting the sublime and terrible intention of the
music, which from the moment that the statue enters is enough to freeze
one’s blood, and preoccupies all avenues of sense or consciousness with
supernatural and infinite suggestions. And yet does Music’s sweet and
faithful prophecy of reconciliation, like the “still, small voice” out
of the inmost heart of things, still reach us somehow through it all!

                 *        *        *        *        *

The reader, who has followed us through this review of “Don Giovanni,”
clinging always to the musical thread of interpretation, will find
himself as little able as ourselves to sympathize with the regret, so
frequently expressed, that Mozart should have prostituted his genius in
this composition, by the false marriage of so much divine music with an
unworthy subject. We believe the marriage was a true one. He did not
merely cater to a low, licentious taste, in the selection of this story.
Never was a choice made more heartily. Or, if he did not himself
_choose_ the plot, yet he _fell in_ most heartily, and as it were, by a
providential correspondence with the invention of Da Ponte—as heartily
as he afterward fell in with the terrific images of the old Latin hymn,
when he composed his own “Requiem,” in writing a Requiem to order for
another. In these two works the life and genius of Mozart found their
highest expression. “Don Juan” and the “Requiem,” in all their contrast,
are alike true to the very texture and temper of the man. “Don Juan,”
written in the hey-day of his genial faculties, in his hour and scene of
greatest outward success, in the city of Prague, where he was understood
and loved as nowhere else, surrounded by devoted friends, and with an
orchestra and troup of singers worthy to be his interpreters, represents
his sunny side, his keen sensibility to all refined delights of sense
and soul, and his great faith in joy, in ecstasy, in all material and
sensual harmonies. The “Requiem” bears to “Don Juan,” as a whole, the
same relation that the last scene of that opera bears to the preceding
parts; it expresses the religious awe and mystery of his soul, his
singular presentiment of death, his constant feeling of the Infinite.
The opera, in its last scene, rises to a sphere of music kindred with
the “Requiem;” there vibrated the same deep chords of his nature. It was
the very subject of all others for him to pour the whole warm life-tide
of his soul and music into, and thus lift up and animate a poor old
literal fiction, that somehow strangely kept its hold upon the popular
mind, with all its weight of grotesqueness, extravagance, vulgarity and
tom-foolery, into a vivid drama of the whole impetuous, bewildered,
punished, yet far-hoping and indomitable experiment of human life.

Here are the two elements which seem in contradiction. Here, on the one
side, is this bold, generous passion-life, with its innate gospel of
joy, and transport, and glorious liberty; how well could Mozart
understand it, and how eloquently preach it in that safe, universal
dialect of Music, which utters only the heart-truth, and not the vulgar
perversion of any sentiment! Here, on the other hand, is the stern
Morality of being, frowning in conflict with the blind indulgence of the
first. The first is false by its excess, by losing Order out of sight;
while Order, sacred principle, in its common administration between men,
in its turn is false, through its blind method of suppression and
restraint, blaspheming and ignoring the divine springs of passion, which
it should accept and regulate. The music is the heavenly and prophetic
mediator that resolves the strife.

Hence the music of “Don Giovanni” presents two sides, two parts in
strongest contrast. Love, joy, excitement, freedom, the complete life of
the senses, are the theme of the first part, represented in the keen and
restless alternation of the Don’s intrigues and pleasures—a downright,
unmistrusting, beautiful assertion of the natural man—and you have it
all summed up to one text and climax, in the first Finale, in the brief
champagne sparkle and stormy transport of the little chorus, _Viva la_
Liberta! As the burden of that part is Liberty, so the burden of the
last part, the counter-text and focus, is Order, the violated Law; and
as the central figure here stalks in the supernatural statue, stony and
implacable. It is the whole story of life, the one ever-repeated,
although ever-varied drama of dramas; and it is set forth here, both
sides of it, most earnestly in this sincere and hearty music, which in
its own exhaustless beauty hints the reconciliation of the two
principles, and to the last is true to the divine good of the senses and
the passions, and to the presentiment of a pure and perfect state, when
these shall be, not dreaded, not suppressed, but regulated, harmonized,
made rhythmical and safe, and more than ever lifesome, and spontaneous
by Law as broad and deep and divine us themselves.

Do we defy the moral of the matter, when we feel a certain thrill of
admiration as Don Juan boldly takes the statue’s hand, still strong in
his life-creed, however he may have missed the heavenly method in its
carrying out, and somehow inspired with the conviction that this
judicial consummation is not, after all, the end of it; but that the
soul’s capacity for joy and harmony is of that god-like and _asbestos_
quality that no hells can consume it?

-----

[5] It is a curious fact that the first opera of which we read, and
which was produced at Rome in the year 1600, bore the title of:
_Rappresentazione del Animo e del Corpo_.

[6] “Don Giovanni” was composed in 1787. The Abbé Da Ponte, who wrote
the book, and who enjoyed at Vienna the same distinction with Metastasio
as a writer of musical poetry, died in New York, in December 1838, at
the age of 90 years, in a state of extreme destitution. For thirty years
he had sought a living in that city by teaching the Italian language.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              AUTUMN RAIN.


                         BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.


    How I love the Autumn rain!
    Pattering at my window-pane,
    With a liquid, lulling tone,
    As I sit all day alone—
    Thinking o’er and o’er again
    Only how I love the rain!

    How I love the Autumn rain!
    When it brings a thoughtful train—
    When in meditative mood
    I enjoy my solitude,
    While the full and active brain
    Works as busy as the rain.

    How I love the Autumn rain
    When, without a care or pain,
    I can dream, and dream all day,
    Or with loitering Fancy stray—
    Weaving some capacious strain
    Musical as Autumn rain.

    How I love the Autumn rain!
    When gray twilight comes again:
    When the flickering hearth-flumes dance,
    While the shadows dart askance—
    Seeming goblins to the brain,
    In the dreamy Autumn rain.

    How I love the Autumn rain!
    Pattering at my window-pane,
    When upon my bed reposing—
    Half in waking, half in dozing,
    Then a dulcet music-strain
    Seems the pleasant Autumn rain.

    How I love the Autumn rain!
    Though it come, and come again,
    Never does it weary me
    With its dull monotony;
    Never on my ear in vain
    Falls the pattering Autumn rain.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           TO MARY ON EARTH.


                           BY A. J. REQUIER.


    I’m thinking of thee, Mary,
      And twilight shadows fall
    With mournful stillness o’er the scene
      And deepen on the wall;
    But with the dim, departing light,
      Breaks faintly, from afar,
    Upon the bosom of the night,
      A solitary star!

    I’m thinking of thee, Mary,
      For like that twilight scene,
    The dusk and dew were on my heart,
      To darken what was green;
    The dusk and dew were falling fast
      Upon its faded dreams,
    When, through the gloom, thy young love cast
      The fervor of its beams.

    I’m thinking of thee, Mary,
      For in this lonely hour
    A thought of other times will come,
      Of parted friends will lower;
    And early images arise,
      With freshness flushed in pain,
    Of tender forms and tearful eyes
      I may not see again.

    I’m thinking of thee, Mary,
      For when such moments dwell
    Upon my spirits with the weight
      Of a departing knell,
    A thought of thee breaks through the night
      Of memories that mar,
    With the lone glory of that bright,
      That solitary star!

    Oh, Mary, Mary, Mary dear!
      If in my bosom shine
    One hope, one dream, one single wish,
      That single wish is thine;
    And if to see and feel and hear
      But thee, in heart and brain,
    Be love, I love thee, Mary dear,
      And cannot love again!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              TO ADHEMAR.


                           BY E. ANNA LEWIS.


    ’Tis just one year ago, beloved, to-day,
      Since, my pale hand between thy hands compressed,
      I laid my burning brow upon thy breast,
    And bade the flood-gate of my heart give way—
    Then shut it down upon its streams for aye.
      We sought to speak, yet neither said farewell;
      Fate rung her larum through my spirit’s cell
      Until the chill of death upon me lay.
      I never could relive that hour again:
        Through every artery shot an icy pang,
        As if an adder pierced me with its fang,
      And dashed the roseate fount of life with bane.
      My eyes were open, yet I could not see—
    I breathed, yet I was dead. All things were dead to me.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              ANNA TEMPLE.


                   A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.


                              BY JANE GAY.


                               CHAPTER I.

             Death makes no conquest of this conqueror,
             For now he lives in fame, though not in life.
                                         King Richard III.

The Lord Protector was seated beneath a royal canopy in the lofty
parliament-chamber of England. At his left stood Thurloe, his secretary,
on his right was seated a part of the bold Puritan band who had dared
affix their signatures to the death-warrant of Charles Stuart. There was
Bradshaw, the intrepid judge who wrote his name first on that fatal
paper; there was Ireton—the fiery-hearted Ireton—who had come up in
defense of Protestantism fierce and raging “as a lion from the swelling
of Jordan;” Goffe, and Whalley, and Dixwell, too, were there, whose
ashes repose in our own quiet “City of Elms,” and many others of that
fearless band of regicides that three years after were fleeing from home
and country, to escape the block or gibbet. Ambassadors from every
nation were there—princes and courtiers, officers of the army, judges,
petitioners, all helped to make up the illustrious Protectorate Assembly
of 1655.

Seated side by side, and discoursing in low tones of the projected
treaty, were Sir Matthew Hale and Milton, the world-renowned bard; and
in a listening posture near them, was the accomplished Lambert. No
purple robe or kingly crown distinguished the chief of this august body,
but nature had stamped a seal on him that could not be mistaken, for
Oliver Cromwell bore in the parliament-hall the look and bearing of a
man born to command, while at the same time the most unconquerable
determination and the highest-wrought enthusiasm were traced on every
lineament of his face. But to our story.

A gentleman, in the splendid dress that distinguished the court of Louis
Fourteenth, approached the Lord Protector, and bending low, presented a
paper to his highness. It was Bordeaux, the French ambassador, and the
treaty so long in contemplation between the two nations, was this day to
receive the seal of the Protectorate. The hand of Cromwell was already
on the paper, when some confusion near the door arrested his attention,
and a frown was gathering on his brow, when his piercing eye detected a
youth with foreign air and aspect boldly striving to make his way
through the guards that were stationed near the entrance of the hall.

“Silence, guards!” shouted the deep, nasal voice of the Protectorate,
“stay not the boy; let him approach our presence if he have petition to
offer.”

The guards gave way, and a slender but graceful-looking youth of some
fourteen years came forward, and, knelt at the feet of the sovereign.
Every eye was fastened upon him, and a deep silence came over the throng
as he knelt there with clasped hands, his dark, earnest eyes fixed on
the stern-looking, shaggy-browed Puritan in mute supplication—for no
word fell from the boy’s lips. A heavy mass of raven curls were gathered
back from the snowy forehead of the strange youth, and fell in singular
beauty over his shoulders, and his simple peasant garb, had forced the
idea of some wandering minstrel-boy, but for the deep and earnest
pleading of the eyes, which told of excitement and anguish too deep for
the utterance of the lips.

The silent but impassioned pleading of the poor youth touched the
susceptible heart of Cromwell, and he laid his hand kindly and
caressingly on the locks of the fair stranger, and said, in his gentlest
accents,

“Whence come you, my son, and how can the Protectorate aid you? Be
calm,” added he, noticing a nervous tremor on his countenance, “you have
nothing to fear here—speak your errand plainly.”

“I am come from the valley of Piedmont, my noble lord,” replied the
youth, “and the snow was red with the blood of the poor Vaudois;” and a
cold shudder passed over his pale face.

“Hell and furies!” shouted Cromwell, in momentary wrath; “Are the cursed
heretics on their track again?” Then bursting into tears, he added, in a
subdued tone, “Poor martyred saints of the Most High, ye shall wear a
glorious crown, in spite of your persecutors, and your blood shall not
redden the Alpine snows in vain! If there is might in human arm, your
enemies shall be humbled, and know that the Lord of Hosts will avenge
his elect.”

Then taking up the paper on which the sovereign seal was not yet fixed,
he delivered it to the French ambassador, saying somewhat haughtily,
“Take it back to your monarch, and tell him that Oliver Cromwell, Lord
Protector of England, rejects the treaty, until the King of France, and
his prime minister, shall pledge their assistance in succoring the
persecuted Protestants of Piedmont! Until such pledge shall be given,
our negotiations are ended.”

Bordeaux reddened with resentment as he folded the rejected paper. “The
war is then inevitable,” he muttered. “Shall I say, sire, that you
refuse the treaty?”

“Say I will wage war with all Europe but this persecution of Christians
shall cease!”

“But the King of France can do nothing, my lord,” persisted Bordeaux.
“The Duke of Savoy may make laws for his subjects as independently as
your highness; and no foreign force can be brought to bear upon them in
those mountain wilds.”

Cromwell stamped his foot with impatience. “My word has gone forth, and
‘the ships of England shall sail over the Alps,’ sooner than another
hair of their heads shall perish! Tell _both your masters_ that this is
my decree.”

The Frenchman was indignant at this speech of the Lord Protector, for
although every Frenchman understood that Mazarin, the prime minister,
was the real monarch, they could not endure to have it thus thrown in
their teeth, and he angrily asked permission to retire, which was
readily granted; and the parliament was soon after adjourned.

That same evening young Francois Waldo—for that was the name of the
Vaudois youth—sat in the palace of Whitehall, with the Protector and
his family; and though but a simple peasant-boy, he looked with a calm
indifference upon the courtly splendor that surrounded him; for he had
been bred amid the wild magnificence of the snow-capped Alps, and they
pictured to his youthful imagination the “everlasting hills,” of which
he had early been taught to sing, as he sat with the pious shepherds
tending their flocks in the evening starlight.

It was a sad story he told of his poor, persecuted people, how, in the
very heart of winter, six stout Catholic regiments had broken in upon
their quiet homes, to overpower and destroy; how the innocent children
had been dashed from the icy pinnacles—the fathers and mothers
beheaded—their villages burned to the ground—and those who fled for
safely to the mountain-caverns, were hunted like wild beasts by the
Pope’s minions; and Cromwell—the lion warrior and the dauntless
regicide—the unflinching patriot, and the powerful sovereign, clasped
the poor fugitive to his heart, and loudly bewailed the fate of these
martyred Christians.

“Had you parents, and were they victims of this terrible slaughter?”
weepingly inquired Mary Cromwell, one of the Protector’s daughters.

“Yes, lady—parents; and a sweet little blue-eyed sister, like the
little girl by your side;” and he pointed to a beautiful child that had
been listening with a sorrowful face, and eyes brimfull, to his sad
recital. “We called her our mountain violet; but in one night I was left
alone—for they burned our cottage, and slew both parents and child. I
was away, but came next morning and sat awhile by the mouldering embers
of my home, and then rose up determined to seek the shores of Christian
England, and plead for succor. I hid myself among the rocks and cliffs
by day, and at night wandered, hungry and alone, until I reached the
sea-coast, lest I should fall into the hands of the soldiers, and none
escape to carry aid to my suffering nation.”

“You are a brave, blessed boy, and you shall not go hungry any more,”
said little Anna Temple, forgetting her childish timidity; and going up
close to him, she gazed earnestly and lovingly in his face. “Stay here,
and we will _all_ love you, because you have no sister—wont we, Mary?”
said the child, in the warmth and innocency of her heart.

“Yes, darling,” replied she, “and he shall go to school, if he wishes,
with you and Robert, and Eugene.”

The heart of Francois Waldo was nigh to bursting, as the gentle accents
of the child fell on his ear—so like the tones of his own Christine,
which had so often gladdened him in their happy home—and he bowed his
head and wept for the first time since his bereavement; and every member
of that lordly household wept in sympathy.

Months went by, and the Vaudois youth was still an inmate of the
Protector’s family—a calm, intellectual, devoted student, destined as a
preacher of that faith for which his kindred had suffered martyrdom. He
went not back to his native valley, for here he might better fit himself
for the work of the glorious mission he felt desirous of fulfilling; and
Cromwell had been true to his word—the arm of oppression had been
unnerved, and peace and plenty secured to the faithful survivors.

Anna Temple was the only earthly being that withdrew his thoughts for a
moment from the prosecution of his great and holy purpose; but when her
soft blue eyes pleaded, as they often did, with her lips, for an hour’s
relaxation and amusement in the park or garden, he would sometimes
unbind the mental chain for a little space, and go forth with spirit
unfettered and free. Then he would talk to the fair child of his lost
home—of the icy palaces of the Alps, pure as spirit-haunts—of the
wild-flowers springing from their rocky beds, and of the holy starlight
of the mountains, until the enthusiastic creature would regard Francois
as a being of purer mould, more spiritual and good, than any other
person with whom she held companionship.

And thus years passed; Francois still saw in the beautiful Anna Temple,
or fancied he saw, the image of his lost Christine; and the young girl
read in the large, soul-earnest eyes of the Vaudois student, the first
mysterious leaf of womanhood—and they were both happy.

Meantime a shadow was darkening the sky of England—a storm-cloud,
destined to shake from its foundation her political fabric, and place
another Stuart on the throne. Cromwell, the Protector—the hero of the
seventeenth century, was summoned to repose! Bravely had he borne his
armor on the great battle-ground of life, and his valiant heart had not
fainted in the heat of the conflict. The humble plebian had dared boldly
to take up arms against his country’s foes in defiance of his king; and
subsequently, at the same country’s call, and in defense of her
liberties, with the Book of God in his hand, and a psalm on his lips, to
affix his signature to the death-warrant of the sovereign traitor. Ever,
where duty called, was he found foremost in the ranks of the faithful,
battling for the right; and when in the maturity of manhood the sun of
glory brightened his gray hairs with the splendor of royalty, he turned
coldly away from the crown of a king, preferring the simple title of
Protector of the Commonwealth. His sword was still girded against the
Lord’s enemies, when a voice from above summoned him from earthly glory
to heavenly rest; and on the third of September, one thousand six
hundred and fifty-eight, Oliver Cromwell stood girded for his last
conflict.

Historians have recorded _that_ as a fearful night when the Lord
Protector lay struggling with the final enemy. Wildly wailed the wind
around that earthly palace; but the eye of the dying was on the eternal
mansion, and so amid the fury of the elements, the great spirit of
Cromwell achieved its final victory.

A loud wail burst from the whole army of Puritans, for well they knew
there was none powerful like him to cope with their adversaries. The
master-spirits among their opponents would not reverence his son,
because the father had held them in check; and the inefficient Richard
Cromwell had nothing to claim for himself. He beheld the country rent by
faction, and having no power to quell insubordination, and, moreover,
fearing the result to himself, he quietly resigned his Protectorate, and
all that had been gained to England by Cromwell’s life, was lost in his
death. Whither would now flee the fifty-nine judges who had decreed
Charles Stuart to the scaffold, or where the friends of the Protector
find safety?


                              CHAPTER II.

          When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks;
          When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand.
                                                      _Ibid._

Not far from the shores of a sunny lake in the depths of the American
forest stood the rude log-hut of an emigrant. The site was one of
surpassing loveliness—for nature here, in her unbounded domain, had
done the work of ages, and the majestic oak towered in silent grandeur
beside the graceful elm and the drooping willow, making mockery of art.
Birds of glittering plumage sang all day in this wildwood retreat—for,
save this one log-cottage, for miles and miles around was no human
habitation. The slight clearing, scarcely sufficient for a garden-patch,
sloping down to the water-side, told of no hardy adventurer hunting
fortune in the wilderness of the new world; and it would have puzzled
even a Yankee of this present age to have _guessed_ at the pursuit or
object of the tenants of that forest home, so contradictory seemed they
in outward aspect.

The family consisted of but four members—a tall, noble-looking man, a
little past the meridian of life, with piercing eyes, and dark locks
sprinkled with white, falling rather thinly over his broad forehead. His
dress was of the plainest, coarsest drab cloth; indeed, there was
nothing to distinguish it from that of the negro servant who attended
him, except the natural grace and dignity imparted by the manly form of
the wearer. The other two occupants of this secluded abode were a young
girl, who might have numbered seventeen summers, and an elderly female,
who had once been her nurse, but who was now a sort of housekeeper in
general, inasmuch as there was none other to superintend the domestic
arrangements; but had you taken a peep into the interior of the cottage,
you would have seen no lack of comfort, and even some faint show of
taste, considering the dearth of material. A coarse carpet was thrown
over the rough log-door, and ranged around the sides of the apartment
were rustic seats composed of branches of trees, covered, sofa-like,
with skins of animals, forming comfortable couches for sitting or
reclining. Indian blankets, tastefully embroidered, served as a
partition between this and a small room adjoining, which was fitted up
for the young lady’s boudoir, and which was occupied in common by both
females. Here, on a table of oak, covered with kid-skin, lay a few
books, and a guitar, evidently the relics of other days. A large
sea-shell served for a vase, and stood on the rude table, filled with
wood-flowers, the first gift of summer. Perhaps, too, you might have
noticed some large, massive chests in either apartment, and wondered how
such ponderous articles had found place in so small a habitation; but we
have a key to the mystery, reader, and will give it thee, together with
the secret of this secluded family.

Some eighteen months prior to the time our chapter commences, a
gentlemanly-looking resident of the new Quaker city, calling himself,
John Brown, saw every where posted up, by order of the new king,
directions for the seizure and arrest of all persons known or supposed
to be implicated in the fate of Charles Stuart—with large rewards held
out as an incentive, to those who should successfully aid the king’s
officers in their search.

It was an hour of darkness to many a poor fugitive, for disguises were
no longer to be trusted, and life’s last hope lay in strict concealment
in rocks or forests, or amid the haunts of the savages. Every tie of
kindred was now to be sundered—every communication with the world of
mankind to be cut off, and the wanderer was henceforward to live with
all the golden threads of being rudely snapped by a tyrant. There was no
time to be lost, for “blood for blood” was the royal watchword, and his
legions were on the track.

Brown was fully alive to his danger, but with the cool, undaunted heart
of a man accustomed to war with obstacles, he sat down calmly to
meditate the best course of procedure. To remain a day longer in the
city he knew full well was madness, and every hour was fraught with
danger. Could he leave here in a land of strangers, alone and
unprotected save by one frail woman, the delicate blossom he had
cherished as “Love’s lost token,” and borne over the waters to cheer his
declining age? How could he talk of a separation of years, perhaps
forever, from the gentle creature, whose life was all centered in
his—how could she bear this last stroke also? True, he had
wealth—treasures of gold and silver; wealth would purchase friends, but
dangerous friends, too, he thought, for a lonely orphan girl.

He sat deep in thought for a moment longer, then reached his hand and
touched a silver bell, exclaiming—“It shall be as _she_ wishes. I will
abide _her_ choice at all events!”

The ring was speedily answered by a good-looking man-servant.

“I here, Massa Brown,” said the ebony, making a full display of ivory.

“Is Miss Anna in, Carle?” inquired the master.

“Do no! rudder tink she be, Massa.”

“Go then, and tell her I would see her. Be quick, Carle, and do you wait
until I call, for I shall want you again soon.”

A moment after, a fairy-like creature bounded into the presence of her
father, and winding her arms caressingly around his neck, waited his
pleasure.

“You are ill, dear father,” said she at length, observing his pale
forehead. “I have wasted all the morning on my pet birds, thinking you
were out as usual.”

He kissed her cheek fondly, and replied—

“I did go out, my child, but quickly returned, for there is danger
abroad, and there is no more rest for thy father. ’Tis a mournful
summons for thee, darling, but there is no time to be lost in revealing
the true cause of it. I must flee speedily, or the new king’s officers
will soon bear me back to drop my head at Whitehall. Bear it bravely,
Anna, you are my own daughter, and know well the happy days of the
Protectorate are ended. There is gold, more than sufficient for all thy
wants!”

“But, father, _you_ are _my wealth_; all the treasure of this world to
me! Whither would you flee, and wherefore leave me behind?”

“I know not, daughter—some secret hiding-place where the hand of a
Stuart may not reach me, far from the abodes of civilized life. Every
thing is to be encountered—want in its worst forms, and you, who have
been nurtured in a palace, could poorly cope with cold and hunger! Stay
here, my child, amid ease and plenty, and let thy father go forth to
meet his fate alone.”

“No, father, Anna Temple is not the weak child you suppose, if you can
urge her to forsake her gray-haired parent, because, perchance she must
leave behind the downy pillow on which she was cradled! There is no
privation in going which I cannot readily undergo, and who knows,
father, but we may make us a new home in the wilderness. At all events,
wherever thou goest I will go, and thy lot shall be mine for ever!”

The noble Lord Temple—for the self-styled John Brown was no other than
the friend and ally of Cromwell, clasped his child to his heart, and
said—

“If this be your wish, Anna, I will see what can be effected in a few
brief hours. Carle must be summoned immediately, and you may proceed to
put in as small compass as possible your own treasures and your mother’s
relics, and provide yourself with plain Quaker apparel, for such must be
our disguise. Judy, your old nurse must be let into the secret without
loss of time, and I will inform Carle; the other servants must be kept
in the dark.”

Anna departed with alacrity to obey the directions of her father, for in
her breast the fount of life still sparkled with the delightful romance
of youth; while her sire, who had seen bubble after bubble rise and
break upon its surface, proceeded with emotions entirely different to
unfold to the faithful Carle the plan of procedure.

The trusty negro was directed to go and purchase a number of suits of
Quaker clothing for his master, with the broad-brim hat, to render the
disguise as complete as possible, while he, himself made haste to fill
the large chests they had brought over sea with treasure, and whatever
they would be most likely to need in their unknown resting-place; and in
less than three hours every thing had been prepared for their departure.
John Brown, with his felt-hat and wide lappel made a pattern Quaker, and
Anna looked rogueishly out from beneath her straight bonnet—then arose
the question when, and how they should depart. After some consultation,
it was agreed they should wait until nightfall; when master and the
ladies should set forward on foot, and walk on as fast as possible, and
Carle should put the carriage-horses into an emigrant’s waggon, with
boxes, chests, etc., not forgetting a supply of axes and fire-arms, and
meet them at a spot designated a few miles from the city.

There remained but one more apparent difficulty; the other servants of
the household must be informed of their sudden purpose, as all efforts
to conceal their departure would be ineffectual, and the truth could not
be confided to them with safety. The disguises were again thrown aside,
the servants all summoned, and Lord Temple addressed them, thus—

“I have received an unexpected summons from the new king, and must
depart immediately. I shall take but Carle with the young mistress and
her nurse, and leave the rest of you in charge of the house until our
return; but should any thing occur to prevent my coming back in the
spring, you are one and all entitled to your freedom. Until then you
will be faithful to the interest of your master!”

“Yes, massa. Lord bless good Massa Brown and young missey, too!” chimed
in half-a-dozen voices at once; for the refugee had maintained an
independent household, and lived as became a man of wealth and fashion.
He had left England immediately after the death of Cromwell, foreseeing
the probable issue of the Protectorate; and wishing to spend the residue
of his days in peace, he dropped at once his name and title, and was
known only in the young city as a private gentleman of good fortune.

That night, when all was hushed in the good “City of Brotherly Love,”
Lord Temple, with his daughter and nurse Judy, stole softly from their
new and pleasant home, to seek some sheltering asylum from the merciless
hand of persecution. They walked on in silence until they gained the
outskirts of the city, the young and delicate Anna clinging to both her
father and nurse; for the deep silence of the night filled her heart
with strange fancies.

“Your strength is not sufficient for your purpose, Anna,” said her
father, noticing how nervously she clung to him. “The way will be long
and solitary for a tender child like you! Will not my daughter return
now to a home, that will afford her still a shelter at least?”

“And would not the way seem longer and darker to my father, if his only
child were behind him? Think not because I tremble a little now at first
that my heart is weak and cowardly. I have never before walked in the
street at midnight, you know, and every rustle seems a king’s officer to
me.”

“Bless you, my darling,” exclaimed her father. “The blood of the
Temple’s is in your veins, warm and noble; I cannot bear to see it
chilled by misfortune.”

“I have no regrets for the world we are leaving behind save on your
account, my dearest father; on the contrary, I feel it will be charming
to dwell alone in the great forest of the West, where the fetters of
fashion, pride and ambition will cease to enthral, and we may learn of
the great Creator by the infinity of his works, instead of the multitude
of man’s words.”

Thus did the brave girl attempt to cheer the desponding spirits of her
father as they moved forward amid the darkness of their solitary way.
They directed their course northward, and although they were in the main
road, the “woods of centuries” were all around them, and their giant
shadows seemed like some spectral army gathered in the gloom of night.

The morning dawned on the little band nearly ten miles from the city,
and although they had two or three times paused for a little rest by the
wayside, it found them weak and weary; but the spot where they were to
turn aside and wait for their wagon and refreshments was near, and they
pressed forward. Their stopping-place was a few hundred yards from the
road-side—a beautiful spot, by a spring of fresh water, where hunting
parties often stopped to regale themselves with a dinner of game, or at
least, to quaff a drink of water from the spring. Carle had often been
there, and had described the spot so minutely it could not be mistaken;
and when at length they seated themselves, and Judy took from her pocket
some cakes, which, woman-like, she had been provident enough to bring
along with her, their drooping spirits revived, and they ate the morsel
cheerfully and drank from the spring, for they were faint as well as
weary.

It was a bright morning of early autumn! The breath of summer yet
lingered in the air, though the mists were on the hill-tops, and the
forest was tinged with the faintest hue of red—the first presage of
decay.

“O, father, is it not magnificent!” exclaimed Anna Temple, as she
pointed to the boundless woods rising like an ampitheatre on either
hand! “This is like what I have read of the new world, only more sublime
if possible. Positively there is more of grandeur in this one scene than
in all the courts of royalty in the world. Why, just see—the Eastern
kings have never worn mantles more elegantly tinged with scarlet and
gold, than these old patriarch trees have put on. It really makes our
Quaker garb look sombre, and I expect the very birds will be _theeing_
and _thouing_ us as we pass on through their territory.” And the
happy-hearted creature clapped her hands and laughed until the hills
sent back an echo.

“Hush, hush, daughter; there is the rumbling of wheels near—nearer than
the main road, too, I fear! It may be some party of hunters who have
made this a place of rendezvous; it cannot be that foes are thus early
on the track, I think.”

At the mention of foes the cheek of Anna was pale as clay, and she
nestled close beside her father; but a moment afterward she started to
her feet, and the red blood again mantled her brow as she exclaimed:

“’Tis Carle, I really think—’tis only Carle, father! I know by the snap
of his whip, for no other person ever snapped one like him. Why, Judy,
he thinks it time you are making coffee, and has whipped up!”

It was indeed Carle, who came thus unexpectedly upon them, two hours at
least sooner than looked for by his master, who had recommended him to
stay behind until they had got a fair start, lest some suspicious eye
should detect them, and the whole plan be frustrated.

“He! he! he! You got here fust, anyhow,” said the darkey, as he brought
his horses to a stand beside them; “though I tried hard to catch up and
give young missy a ride. Guess we had better eat breakfast in a hurry
and be off, for some of dem nigger ask a great many question last night
’specting de big boxes we load in. But I guess I set ’em on de wrong
track, any how. He! he! he!”

A flint was produced and fire struck, and shortly after the air was
fragrant with boiling coffee, and a very comfortable breakfast was eaten
on the green grass by the spring side; after which, things were quickly
put in place, and the little company took the seats arranged for them in
the broad, emigrant’s wagon, and sped on as ignorant of their
destination as the ancient patriarch journeying on to the “Land of
Promise.”

For five long, tedious days they went forward as fast as the miserable
state of the roads and the jaded condition of the horses would allow,
stopping occasionally to refresh themselves by some pleasant stream that
crossed their path in the wilderness. They occasionally fell in with
some person who questioned them of their journey, and their reply was
invariably, “Going north to settle;” but one _real Quaker_ was not thus
contented.

“Thee lookest tired friend, wilt thou partake of a brother’s hospitality
on thy way? Nay, no refusal, the young woman looketh sick and needeth a
night’s rest! Rachel will give her nursing right gladly, for no Friends
have crossed our threshold for months.”

It was the third day of their flight, and worn down with fatigue and
loss of rest, they could not resist this pressing appeal of the good
brother, and accordingly the horses were allowed to stop in front of a
large log farm-house on the banks of the Susquehanna.

But the _soi disant_ John Brown had some trouble in sustaining the new
character he had assumed, for he not only made laughable blunders in the
Quaker dialect, but when questioned of the prosperity and welfare of his
brethren in the good city, betrayed an ignorance certainly unwarrantable
in a brother; but his host was a shrewd, sensible man, and soon guessed
more of his guest’s secret than would have rendered his stay comfortable
had he surmised it. But the secret was in safe keeping, and the poor
fugitives were loaded with kindness and sent forward on the morrow with
the nicest provisions of the dairy for their future necessity.

“Beware of New England Friends,” said their hospitable host, with a sly
look, at parting, “or the _good Puritans_ there may send thee back _with
holes in thy tongue_, or _minus ears_.”

The last two days of their journey were beset with difficulties and
dangers. They had forsaken the public way, and their path was literally
in the wilderness, and so thickly strewn with obstacles as to render
every step tedious and toilsome; but death was behind, and the hope of
life before, and so they went forward steadily and patiently.

Near the close of the fifth day they came suddenly into a beautiful
valley, sheltered on all sides by bold hills, and encircling in its
bosom a clear, quiet lake. Not a vestige of human kind was discernible
in this spot, so charming that it seemed fresh from the hand of its
Creator.

“Is not this such a spot as we have been seeking, father?” inquired
Anna, with a pleading look.

“Yes, daughter, if there is peace and safety on earth it must be in this
Eden of the forest. Here we will fix our dwelling-place, in the midst of
this romantic scenery. To-morrow, Carle, we must set to work to prepare
a habitation; you are something of a carpenter I think?”

“O, yes, massa; me learn de trade in good old England, but not wid such
big log as dis.”

We have now traced the flight of the illustrious but unfortunate Judge
Temple from the Quaker city—his first resting-place in the Western
world—to the forest home introduced to our reader at the commencement
of the chapter. More than a year and a half had passed since the
wanderers had sought refuge in the friendly wild, whose shelter had
afforded a safe retreat from friend or foe; for no white face had smiled
or frowned on them in their new habitation. They had lived alone! The
forest and lake supplied them with food, and they had a little garden
which furnished them with vegetables, having brought with them a variety
of seed and utensils for the culture of the soil. They had a few books,
and Anna and her father read together, to while away the long hours of
winter; but in summer they dragged not heavily; for there was life and
beauty around them, and in the warm breast of Anna Temple was a
perpetual fountain of sunlight. To her father she seemed as happy as the
birds that warbled all day in gladness—and she was truly happy—happy
in herself, in her only parent, and in every thing bright and beautiful
around her; still her thoughts in their loneliness often reverted to her
_first home_, and the blessed hours of her childhood.

But not for lost splendor did she dwell thus fondly the memory of the
past, it was for the lost companions of those rainbow-tinted years,
whose fate she might never know. Scattered far and wide over the earth
she knew them to be, but who among them had fallen victims, she vainly
strove to conjecture.

And one among those whose images were linked with her dreams, was the
dark-haired Vaudois student, who had taught her the Alpine shepherd
songs which she still loved to play at nightfall, as she watched the
stars peering out, with their angel-eyes, and she would sometimes weep
as she thought that pale-browed youth might even then be wearing the
golden crown he had so early sought to win.

It surely was a solitary life for an ardent young creature like Anna
Temple to dwell thus apart from the world, shut out from every
association of her earlier and happier years; still she was never for a
moment discontented with her lot. A nest of young birds she fed and
tamed, and every wild-flower of rare beauty was transplanted in her
garden-plot—so her loving heart had food for its impassioned yearnings.
One human creature, too, had found a place in her affections even here
in the wilderness. The summer after their arrival, a party of Indians
from a neighboring tribe had sought, as was their custom, the shores of
this sunny lake to fish. Among them came the chief, with his only
daughter, nearly the same age as Anna.

Weetano was a most superb creature; graceful as a fawn, with eyes clear
and dark as a gazelle’s, and she burst upon them like a glorious
vision—so unlike any thing they had seen, or even fancied. Her father,
the old chief, seemed not at first well pleased to find his summer
retreat invaded by a pale face, but Lord Temple’s courteous address soon
won his favor, and he came with confidence to the cottage, where he was
entertained with so many presents and novelties, that he went and
brought his daughter to see the “white squaw,” as he called Anna, and
hear her sing.

Anna took her guitar and sang with it to the infinite delight of her
visitors, who asked her if the creature were alive, for they had learned
a little English from the fur-traders. She then displayed to the Indian
maiden her treasures, and presented her with a beautiful coral necklace,
that had pleased her fancy better than any thing else. The chief looked
highly gratified to see Anna clasp the trinket round his daughter’s
neck, and he inquired with some pride—“Will the Pale-Lily sail in the
canoe with Red-Bird?” for thus he called his daughter.

Anna was delighted with the novelty of the proposition, and hastened to
accompany her new companion to the lake-side, leaving the old chief with
her father at the cottage. She had never before seen a canoe like
Weetano’s, it was befitting a chief’s daughter, or a princess royal,
with its snowy mat of swan’s-down, and decorated with the quills of the
porcupine and feathers of every hue. The Indian girl seized the paddles,
and jumping into the fairy-looking bark motioned Anna to a seat on the
mat opposite, but with all the romance and enthusiasm of her nature, she
hesitated; for the thing seemed all too frail for the burden of a human
weight on the dark waters.

“Does the white girl fear?” inquired Weetano, in most musical accents.
“Look how Red-Bird can guide a canoe.”

And quick as thought she dipped the oars, and the boat darted away like
a bird on the wing. Round and round she went in swift circles, and a
more picturesque looking creature could not be imagined than the
beautiful forest-girl in the wild costume of her tribe. Her richly
beaded robe, clasped on the right shoulder, fell gracefully over a form
of the most perfect mould, and was confined around the left knee,
leaving the arms and limbs entirely bare; while her long, raven hair
floated wildly over her neck; but encircling her head was a fillet of
beads, into which were woven feathers of the white-hawk—the insignia of
their tribe. Anna gazed with delight and astonishment on the glorious
creature in her fantastic bark skimming the blue lake with a motion as
light and graceful as we image a fairy’s.

The Indian girl soon rowed to the shore again, and Anna now seated
herself on the soft mat beside Weetano with delight, and away they
went—the high-born daughter of Europe and the red forest-maiden in
happy companionship; and though differing widely in outward mien, each
wore the seal of beauty and the air of nobility.

From that day there was an ardent attachment between Anna Temple and the
chief’s daughter. Every day found the little canoe moored at the point
of the lake nearest the cottage, and many a bright summer hour was
passed by them roaming the woods, or sailing the fairy boat, before the
chief and his party were ready to depart. It was with real sorrow that
Anna heard she was to lose her new companion, but Weetano told her they
would come again the next summer, and Pale-Lily should have a canoe like
hers.

Oliwibatuc was the chief of the Mohawks, and his principal village was
about thirty miles from the north shore of the lake. He was a powerful
chieftain, and held a stern body of warriors and braves ready to do his
bidding. His wigwam was hung with the trophies of his own deeds and
daring. He was now going back to sound the war-cry and seek revenge for
the real or fancied injury done his tribe by the French traders on the
Canadian frontier. It was a dark passion and bloody would be its fruits,
but surely one less reprehensible in an unenlightened savage than in
those who wear the garments of Christianity.

The second winter passed more fleetly with our fugitives than the first,
and at the time our chapter commenced they had gathered around them many
conveniences and comforts in their forest home. As the season advanced,
Anna began to watch with impatience for their summer visitors, for she
longed for something to disturb the monotony of her life, and Red-Bird’s
visit would be sure to bring with it new amusements and pleasures.

One morning she descried a speck on the distant water, and exclaimed
with delight—“A canoe, father—it must be a canoe! There is a speck on
the lake; now another, and another—it must be the party of Oliwibatuc
with darling Red-Bird! O, I am so happy! Hasten, and go with me, father,
to the shore to meet and welcome them.”

It was indeed the party of the Mohawk chief, who had come this season to
encamp on the south shore of the lake at a little distance from the
emigrant’s cottage. Their number was much greater than on the summer
preceding, and their dress and appearance far more imposing. Every
warrior wore the tuft of hawk’s-feathers, and a gay wampum-belt, and
Oliwibatuc was borne down almost with his symbolic decorations, among
which the claws of the eagle were most conspicuous. They had come back
from their last campaign victorious, and the savage and Christian victor
must alike wear the regalia in the hour of triumph.

Weetano had been true to her promise, and brought the Pale-Lily a little
canoe, the very counterpart of her own, and after she had gained a
little experience in rowing side by side, they glided over the smooth
waters gathering white lilies in the shallows to wreathe in their hair,
or starting up the wild birds that often lay in multitudes on the bosom
of the lake.

But Anna was not long in discovering that a change was on her young
companion. Weetano was not now the glad, sunny-hearted creature she had
known in the year gone by. Her wild, musical laugh no longer awoke the
mountain echo, and her step had lost its fleetness—for, the delicate
white girl could now outstrip the forest-maiden who so lately
outstripped the deer. She would sometimes sit silent and motionless in
her canoe, gazing down into the deep waters with an intensity that both
surprised and alarmed her companion, and once, when questioned by her,
she replied—“She was listening for whisperings of the Great Spirit.”

“Will the Lily teach Weetano to read the Great Book of the white man?”
inquired the Indian girl one morning, as they were sitting alone in
Anna’s little room. “She has a new brother in her father’s lodge; he is
a Book man, and will not take up the bow and tomahawk! He sings the
songs of the spirit-land, but no war-song; and when Weetano was sick and
dying, he pointed her to the blue home of the weary! Weetano has looked
on the face of her pale brother, and the image of her Brave has faded
from her heart! The Huron’s spirit no longer comes to me in dreams!
Owanaw should take a warrior maiden to his wigwam, and leave the
daughter of the Mohawk to dwell in peace! Teach me the Book then, but
tell it not to Oliwibatuc.”

It has been already stated that the Mohawk chief and his party had
returned from their last campaign victorious. The hair of many a scalp
was braided with serpent-skins around their necks, and twelve young
captives had been brought home to suffer in the presence of the whole
tribe. As they drew near their principal city, the captors sent up a
savage yell, and prolonged it until the hills sent back the sound; but
the aged warriors and the braves who remained at home echoed it not.
Wherefore came they not forth as was their custom, to greet their
triumphant brethren? The silence boded no good, and Oliwibatuc led on
his band with a sullen, down-cast eye. He approached his lodge with the
prisoners and their guard, and entered it in silence; but within, all
was noise and distraction. Hideous outcries, mingled with strange
incantations saluted his ears, and there on a low couch lay the
prostrate form of the chief’s daughter. The low moaning of the poor
maiden was a sad welcome for the old warrior, for Weetano had been the
song-bird of his lodge, and the sunlight of her face had once been the
sunlight of her mother’s. He stood by her couch with stern composure,
and thrice uttered “Weetano,” but the ear of his daughter was dull to
the voice of affection, and the haughty warrior uttered a deep groan,
and bowed his head, for his pride was low.

There was one among the prisoners of Oliwibatuc who looked not unmoved
on the mournful spectacle—one, whose faith taught “Love to enemies,”
and whose mission on earth was that of his Master—_to do good_. It was
a youthful “soldier of the Cross,” that stood a captive in the lodge of
the Mohawk chief. Torture and death he was expecting soon to receive
from the hands of his merciless captors, but the light of his faith was
clear and bright, and his last deed should be one of mercy. He saw that
the disease had formed a crisis, and the poor sufferer seemed rapidly
sinking with exhaustion; but there was still life, and a shadow of hope,
and he approached the stricken chief, and laying his hand gently on his
arm, said—

“The Great Spirit has given the Pale Face the art of healing; if it be
not too late, I will restore thy daughter; but the tumult must first be
hushed!”

There was gratitude in the old chief’s eye: for a tone of sympathy falls
never unheeded, no matter how barren the heart; and with a motion of his
hand the savage din was hushed.

“Yes, save her, and ye shall live, young Pale Face!” murmured the chief.
“She is my only child—the last of the eagle’s nest! Save her, and ye
shall be as Olo, the son of Oliwibatuc, who fell by the great Lakes in
battle!”

The captive knew that a flask of brandy was in possession of one of the
prisoners. The Indians had not then learned its use, though something of
its abuse they had found out in their intercourse with the traders. He
obtained this immediately, and diluting a little with water, put it to
the lips of the poor girl, who lay unconscious of all around her. She
swallowed with great difficulty, and he perceived an unearthly chill in
the perspiration that damped her forehead.

“Blankets and fire, chief,” said the young man, with a trembling voice.
“Soon, or it will be too late! Set these prisoners to work,” added he,
on looking round and perceiving the lodge deserted save by the chief and
his captives. “Hot blankets must be had immediately!” And he set himself
to work, chafing the cold hands of the poor moaning sufferer, with an
activity that manifested the earnestness of his purpose.

Oliwibatuc went to the door of his wigwam, and sent up a cry, that
immediately brought a dozen of his tribe at his feet.

“Fire and hot blankets must be had instantly,” said he, in the tone of
one accustomed to command. “Where is the old woman, Zohah? Summon her
again—the maiden must not die!”

His directions were promptly obeyed. But the red men looked sullen and
displeased to see the young captive employed in the service of their
chief. The old Indian nurse-woman, too, had come again, and seeing the
preparations, she muttered—

“No good! No good! Bad Spirit will not submit, and Good Spirit has
forsaken Weetano! Zohah has used all healing herbs, but—bad, bad.
Zohah’s arts cannot hush the voice from the far south-west! The maiden
has heard the call! She will die!”

“Perhaps, not, mother,” said the young physician, soothingly. “The Great
Spirit can hush the voice. Will you not lend your aid, that the daughter
of your chief may live?”

Thus addressed, old Zohah seemed pleased to follow his directions, and
after the patient had been carefully wrapped in the heated blankets, and
a few more drops of the brandy put into her mouth, they sat down to
watch for its effects, on the unconscious girl. Long, long seemed the
moments of that weary watch, and yet the anxious prisoner could discern
no change. He took her hand in his, and counted the feeble
pulsations—it was still chill and cold, yet his heart encouraged him on
in his ministry of mercy.

“Some herbs, good Zohah. Put some herbs on her feet—the long
dock-leaves will do, if bruised and withered. She must have some more of
the liquid, too,” and for the third time the red beverage was put to her
lips. She now swallowed with less difficulty, and her breath was not so
hurried and faint; still there was no sign of consciousness, and her
attendant relapsed again to his watch, still retaining the wrist of the
sufferer in his hand.

The old chief stood a little apart, gazing with an eagle-eye on every
movement, but not a word had escaped his lips since his first orders had
been obeyed, and he betrayed no sign of weariness, though he had not
been seated since his long march.

An hour afterward, the low moaning had died away, and the voice of the
captive youth whispered in the ears of Oliwibatuc—

“_She sleeps: thy daughter sleeps!_”

“Seven suns have set, and this is the maiden’s first quiet sleep,” said
old Zohah. “The Pale Face brings witch-water.”

“Nay, nay, mother, thy good herbs and gentle nursing have aided the
sufferer; but we must still watch, for on this slumber perhaps, depends
her life.”

The old chief approached his captive, and said in grateful accents—

“Thy life is not sufficient; what boon wilt thou ask at the hand of the
Mohawk?”

“That thou wilt send my fellow-captives back to their country, chief;
and I will still be thy prisoner. They have homes there. I have neither
country nor home. I will stay and watch the recovery of thy daughter,
but let my brethren go without torture.”

It was a great request for an Indian to give up his prisoners, and for a
moment he seemed wavering—then he added—

“It is more than leagues of wampun—but it shall be done. To-morrow,
they shall go, and thou shalt stay in the lodge of Oliwibatuc—not my
prisoner, but my son, instead of Olo.”

All was silence again in that forest wigwam, and the youthful captive
held on his watch. Old Zohah was snoring loudly on one hand, and the old
chief had at last spread his blanket, and laid down to rest after his
weary march. The youth was alone. The deep shadows of the night hung a
solitude over the wilderness, and as he sat there in the rude wigwam of
the savage, his thoughts took backward wing: he was a child again,
climbing the mountain-path with the flocks—gathering wild grapes in the
valleys, and returning to a happy cottage-home at evening. Then a soft
footstep was in his ear, and a gentle tone—_they were his mother’s_! A
little hand was nestled in his, as his sire took the Book of God and
read the words of wisdom from its holy pages; then came back to his
weary heart those home-voices mingling in the evening psalm, and his
face brightened—but memory was soon too faithful to the reality, and a
tear rolled down his cheek.

A new leaf was turned in his life-book! He was a youth in a foreign
land: strange objects were around him—the tones of strangers in his
ears. The cottage of the Alps had been exchanged for a home in a kingly
palace. Men of learning and science had there been his teachers, and his
ardent heart had loved and treasured up the words of wisdom. Gentle
forms had floated around him, and the image of _one_ sweet, youthful
face, was yet a dew-drop on his spirit.

Another leaf—and he was again a wanderer! Another cloud had burst in
storm over his head, and a wide ocean spread its stormy waves betwixt
him and the land of his birth. He had come a fugitive over its waters,
bearing the gospel seed, which he hoped ere long to see springing up in
the boundless field of the west; but a twelvemonth had scarcely passed,
ere a merciless war-party had numbered him with its victims. Persecution
and torture had no power to make his youthful spirit quail, for men of
iron purpose had moulded him for a martyr to his creed, and as he sat
there that night in his lonely watch, he looked upward to his home
above, with a clear unshaken confidence, and forward into the dim,
uncertain future without a fear. He had been the happy instrument of
saving a number of his fellow-beings from torturing death, and on the
morrow they would be restored to home and freedom. He had no home—had
left behind him no kindred, and here, perchance, was the vineyard which
his Master had given him to plant with the “Living Vine.”

Such were the thoughts that rapidly winged their way through the mind of
the young captive as he sat listening to the now low, soft breathing of
the Indian maiden, and his heart was happy in the consciousness of its
right and holy purpose.

There was a low murmur—he turned his head and the dark eye of the
chief’s daughter was fixed upon him with a look of conscious scrutiny,
but in a moment the lids were heavy again with slumber. He went
cautiously to Zohah and awoke her, lest the maiden might fear finding
herself with a stranger. Old Zohah took the cup, and bending over the
couch said—

“Is Weetano thirsty? Here is drink.”

She opened her eyes again, and said—

“Is it you, good Zohah? I dreamed a Pale Face was beside me. Has my
father yet returned?”

“He sleeps weary with the war-chase. He spoke to Weetano, but she
answered not. Will the maiden see her father?”

“No, let him rest until morning. The warrior is aged, and comes to his
lodge weary.”

But the old chief was awake to the first tone of his daughter’s voice,
and he bent over her couch caressingly, saying—

“Red-Bird is better now; she has a new brother, and he has saved her
life! He must slumber now, for the march was long! He shall eat,
hereafter, at the board of Oliwibatuc.”

The captive came forward again, and gave some directions to Zohah for
the remainder of the night, and then gladly lay down as the chief
desired, for the danger was past, and he was sorely fatigued. Sweet were
his first slumbers in the lodge of the Mohawk chief, and his dreams like
the waking vision, were of the Alps; for as the reader has already
imagined, the stranger was no other than Francois Waldo—the Vaudois
peasant-boy.


                              CHAPTER III.

         Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep,
           And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour,
         And sumless riches from affection’s deep,
           To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!
         And to make idols, and to find them clay,
         And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!
                                                        Hemans.

As the summer wore on, the change in Weetano grew more and more apparent
to the watchful eye of Anna Temple, and awoke in her loving heart an
earnest anxiety for her safety. Her strength was no longer sufficient to
urge forward her canoe—and it rested like a bird on the water; and
though she still insisted on the daily ramble in the greenwood, she
followed her companion with faltering footsteps, and each day their
resting-place was some fallen trunk or mossy rock nearer home than on
the day preceding.

It was during these summer rambles that Anna had acceded to the earnest
entreaty of her friend to instruct her in the “Book of the Pale Face;”
and the avidity with which she gathered the words of instruction
betrayed an ardent thirst for wisdom. She was soon able to read with a
little assistance, and Anna presented her with a little Pocket-Bible,
that had been the companion of all her wanderings, with her own name in
gilt on the cover. It was her sole copy of the Scriptures—but the
family Bible lay on the shelf, at their cottage; and she wisely thought
her little volume would be of greater worth to Red-Bird than to
herself—and much cause had she afterward for joy that her gift of love
was thus bestowed.

As the season advanced, Weetano manifested an anxiety with regard to
their return, and evidently dreaded her father’s orders to depart—for
she had learned a little of the tastes and habits of her white friends,
and they seemed more congenial to her now delicate frame than the ruder
customs of her tribe. There seemed, moreover, some secret care weighing
down her spirits; and although she, Indian-like, buried it for a time in
her own bosom, and Anna forbore questioning, it at length found voice in
words. They were sitting by the lake-side one morning, and Anna plucked
a pretty blue flower just opening there, and gave it to Red-Bird.

“’Tis the first herald of autumn,” said Weetano. “The gentian opens for
the corn-dance, and Oliwibatuc will soon go to his tribe. Would that
Red-Bird might stay in the lodge with Pale-Lily until the feast of the
braves is over! She cannot dress the lodge of the chief—Weetano is
weary;” and the Indian girl burst into tears.

“You are sick, darling Red-Bird,” said Anna, taking her hand in a
caressing manner. “Tell me what is the matter, and I will nurse you, for
you are all the sister I have here in this distant home. You are not
afraid to trust _me_, Weetano?”

“No! Weetano love the pale face! Listen, she will whisper all! Next moon
the Mohawk chief will spread the corn-feast, and the Huron warriors will
come with their braves to smoke the pipe with our tribe, and bury the
bloody tomahawk! ’Tis a hundred moons since our fathers took it up, but
the young chief of the Hurons sent presents to the Mohawk’s wigwam, and
comes to seek his daughter; Oliwibatuc has sent back the belt of
friendship, and Weetano must go to the lodge of Owanaw, to make sure the
bonds of the warriors. She had sooner die, for the shadow of her pale
brother will go with her to the land of spirits; but it will not follow
her to a warrior’s wigwam—for he loves not the bow and tomahawk.”

“But your father will not force you to go, Weetano; why do you speak so
mournfully?”

“His word was pledged more than twenty moons ago. A warrior breaks not
his word! Weetano was a gay child then, and loved the feast and the
dance of the braves. But she has learned another life now—her new
brother has awakened it, and she reads it in Pale-Lily’s book; but
Oliwibatuc will shut his ears and be angry, and Weetano must go. She is
the last of his race, and must wed a warrior.”

There was a mournful look of despair depicted on the countenance of the
Indian maiden as she uttered these last words, that went to the heart of
Anna—and she sought to divert her from the unwelcome theme, by telling
her stories of her first home over the blue waters. After exhausting
many a topic, she told her of the beautiful peasant-boy who had been her
companion for years, and the story of his persecuted people, and of his
little sister, whose fate he had so often bewailed in her childish ears.
She then told her she would sing her a song he had learnt her of his own
wild hills; but before she had proceeded far, Weetano stopped her with
an exclamation of delight.

“My pale brother sings the Lily’s song at the silence of nightfall in
the lodge of Oliwibatuc! He, too, came over the great waters, but he
speaks the words of the French.”

A sudden thought flashed through the mind of Anna, flushing her cheek
with crimson at first, and then leaving it paler than before. “Could it
be possible!” she thought; “but no, the idea was preposterous! The
Canadians were all French—many of them would, doubtless, sing the songs
of their own mountain peasantry!” The object of her young imaginings had
probably gone back to his native valley, if, indeed, he had escaped the
hands of the new Stuart: and so the thought was dismissed with a sigh.

Weetano was right in her conjecture that Oliwibatuc would soon return to
his tribe, as his directions next morning proved; but the old chief read
plainly in his daughter’s countenance a reluctance to comply, which he
attributed to the parting from her white friend. “Red-Bird is the
daughter of warriors;” said the old chief, reprovingly! “Doth she carry
a faint heart in her breast?”

“No,” she replied; “but Weetano is weary, and her way is in the mist!
She can no longer lay the couch for the warriors, or spread the cup for
the braves! Let her stay until the feast is over, for she hears the
voice of spirits, and is no longer a mate for the young eagle of the
Hurons!”

There was stern pride in the look of the chief, but he only replied,
“The maiden will go to her lodge with Oliwibatuc! The Pale-Lily will
come thither to the corn-feast with her father!” No other word was
spoken—and the chief, with his party, went his way.

Lord Temple and his daughter were both highly pleased with the Mohawk’s
invitation to be present at the corn-dance, and witness the meeting of
tribes long hostile, at the feast of peace. Oliwibatuc had promised to
send a convoy of braves to conduct them thither, but the anticipated
pleasure could not remove from Anna’s mind the mournful tone of
Red-Bird, and the words still haunted her memory, “Weetano must dwell in
the Huron’s lodge to make sure the bonds of peace. She would sooner
die.” And she wondered much whether the poor girl would really undergo
so great a sacrifice. Could not her pale brother save her? Why had she
not counseled Weetano to make a confident of him?

From thoughts like these she was one day aroused by her father, who
observed, “There is something on the lake that appears like a canoe; but
it cannot be the Mohawks, for it wants nearly two weeks of the time
specified for our visit. They may be stragglers from some other tribe
come to fish in the Mohawks’ waters.”

“But is there no danger, father? In our long security I fancied I had
become a stranger to fear; but I find it revives upon the least
suspicion of evil. I am really less courageous than I imagined!”

“There is no cause for alarm, Anna. We have injured none—have defrauded
none. Moreover, an Indian will not harm a Quaker—and _our garb at least
is true_.”

They watched the boat, and half an hour afterward saw it approaching the
cottage, when they recognized the hawk’s-feathers—the well-known badge
of the Mohawks, and they strove in vain to conjecture the cause of their
sudden appearance. It gained the landing-place, and to their surprise,
there sprang on shore a gentleman, clad in the garb of their own nation.
He paused a moment, as if giving some directions to those he left
behind, and then advanced rapidly toward the abode of the emigrant. Lord
Temple went forth to meet him, and Anna stole a cautious peep at the
stranger whom her father had gone to welcome. There was something
mysteriously familiar in that stranger’s look, as her father’s greeting
fell on his ears, and a faint smile passed over his features; by that
smile he was recognized. She had never seen but one like it—it was the
same; and she sprang out, exclaiming, “Do you not know him, father! We
knew him well in dear old England, and I know him even here! ’Tis
Francois Waldo—my old playmate, and teacher, too;” and the next moment
they were clasped in each other’s arms—and Anna was shedding the
happiest tears that had ever dimmed her eyes, whilst her father looked
on in bewildered amazement, scarcely able to determine whether the scene
was real, or one of the strange phantasms of slumber.

After recovering a little from his astonishment, however, he said,
“Whence come you, my son, and how in the world did you discover our
hiding-place? Strange! that the first white face which has greeted us
since our flight, should be that of a dear old friend! But, tell me—how
came you here among the Quakers, as rigid a Puritan as you were educated
under our good Lord Protector?” And Lord Temple greeted the new comer
with a hearty shake of the hand, accompanied with a significant glance
at his own altered attire!

“I came hither, my lord, with your friends, the Mohawks, among whom I
have been for nearly a year captive. I have had suspicions that their
new pale face friends might possibly be yourselves, since Weetano showed
me the volume which she said the White Lily had given her—for on the
cover was the name of Anna Temple. Still, with all my inquiries, I could
ascertain nothing with certainty, for the old chief said you were ‘Blue
Jackets!’ meaning Quakers; and that ‘on the head of his new brother,
John Brown, had fallen much snow.’ I remembered you with raven locks,
and thought not of the changes a few years will sometimes occasion. But
tell me a little of your wanderings, for time urges me back. Let me
first, however, state the immediate cause of this visit. Weetano is ill,
and she has entreated her father to send for Anna to his lodge, that she
may hear her talk again before she goes to be the companion of spirits.
The old chief is sorely afflicted, for she is his only child, and he was
soon to have sealed with her hand an alliance with his warlike
neighbors, the Hurons. The young brave to whom she is betrothed will
soon be there; but, if I can read the Indian girl aright, she shrinks
from the coming of Owanaw, though in my hearing she has never spoken of
him. However, she has nothing to fear, for she will soon change her
dwelling for a long resting-place. Consumption is upon her. Will you
return with me, Anna? Can you undergo the privations of an Indian wigwam
for a few days?”

“O, gladly! gladly! May I not go, father, to nurse poor Weetano a
little, or will you feel too lonely in my absence?”

“I certainly should prefer to have Francois remain with us,” replied
Lord Temple, “but Oliwibatuc has been a faithful friend; if his daughter
is sick, you shall go if he desires it; I believe I can entrust you a
few days with your old companion. But how is the journey to be
performed, my child? You surely cannot walk from the opposite
lake-shore?”

“Oliwibatuc ordered his trusty warriors to bear her as they bore
Red-Bird on her return,” replied Francois. “I will see that she is not
overwearied, and secure from accident. Her carriage shall be made firm,
and I will be _her footman_—she shall be _the Lady Anna_ again!”

Her father proposed sending one of the old carriage-horses round by
Carle, but the young people would not listen to the plan, for it would
delay their journey at least a whole day; and so Nurse Judy was ordered
to put up some medicine for Red-Bird, with a few articles of necessary
clothing for Anna—and in a little time they were crossing the blue
water, Anna in a canoe with her father, who crossed the lake with them,
and Francois, with the dusky Mohawks, among whom he was a great
favorite, for many a deed of kindness and charity had this young
captive-minister done for their tribe.

The close of the second day found them approaching the Mohawk village,
and the journey had been performed with the greatest ease by
Anna—indeed, two pleasanter days she had not passed since the green
lawns of England had been exchanged for the western forest. Waldo had
been accompanied by eight young warriors, who, according to the fashion
of their nation, had constructed a light carriage of green boughs and
branches interwoven, which was alternately carried forward by four of
their number, without the least inconvenience or fatigue. Borne along
thus by her fantastic guides, she felt not the least emotion of fear. By
her side was one who watched her with the most unwearied care—who
plucked for her every flower in the wild pathway, and brought her water
from each cool spring. It was the living form of one whose image had
often been with her in dreams, when the spirit’s messengers link again
the parted in sweet companionship. They recounted to each other the
story of their wanderings, and each felt that time and absence and
sorrow had but strengthened the ties of youthful affection; and the dark
eye of Francois had not been so lit up with sunshine since the days long
gone by, when his simple mountain reed awoke a hundred echoes in the ear
of the happy peasant-boy of the Alps!

Anna, too, was happy. O, how happy! as she read in the earnest gaze ever
fixed upon her that it was her presence that had imparted unwonted color
to the pale cheek, and additional lustre to the dark eye—but mournful
memories would come flashing over her mind, and the low, confiding tones
of Red-Bird would sound again in her ears—“Weetano has looked on the
face of her pale brother, and the image of her brave has faded from her
heart”—and for the first time she felt in her spirit a rising of
selfishness. Poor Anna—there was a bitter struggle, but brief; and her
better nature was triumphant! No wonder, she thought, the forest-maiden
should love the fair-browed captive who had come to her father’s wigwam
and saved her life! No wonder her ardent, grateful heart should treasure
up the rich, low tones of her preserver, and turn with sickening disgust
from the stranger Huron! And, then she thought of Weetano, sick and
wasting away perhaps with an untold sorrow, and she wished in her heart
the love of her red friend had been requited, even though the bright
spark she had so long nursed in her own breast had gone out in another’s
joy. The daughter of the Indian chief was a fit mate for the gifted or
noble of any nation—one such had already shone with peerless lustre at
a royal court, and Weetano was as rich in beauty and intellect as the
far-famed daughter of Powhatten!

Such were the thoughts that rapidly coursed through Anna’s brain, and
when her companion announced to her that they were already in view of
the village, and that Weetano was coming forth to meet them, her heart
leaped only with gladness—not a trace of its tumultuous workings
remained! She soon descried her friend, supported by the old chief,
followed by a long train of warriors. She had been borne forth on a
couch to the outskirts of the village to await the Pale-Lily, and now,
weak and feeble as she was, at her earnest entreaty, had been permitted
to walk forward a few steps to meet and welcome her.

As they drew near Oliwibatuc stepped forward and courteously presented a
belt of wampum; and Anna, seeing her friend for the moment unsupported,
sprang forward, and clasping her in her arms, exclaimed—

“You, darling sick, Red-Bird! I have come to nurse you in your own
home.”

“Pale-Lily has come in time,” she calmly replied. “The summer is over,
and the song of Red-Bird will cease with the early frost. But you are
weary now—come to the feast of Oliwibatuc.”

The couch of Weetano was now brought forward, and she was laid gently
thereon, and supported by her father on one side, and on the other by
Francois and Anna, followed by those of her tribe who had come forth to
welcome the “Lily of the Pale face,” she was borne back to her father’s
wigwam. Here a feast had been spread in honor of the expected guest, of
every variety which river and forest afforded, and a soft, downy mat was
spread for her and Weetano beside the old chief, who seemed pleased to
see Anna smiling familiarly on the dusky warriors whom she recognized as
Oliwibatuc’s companions of the past summer.

The meal was taken in silence, and at its close Red-Bird took Anna by
the hand and led her to a soft couch of furs, tastefully spread over
with embroidered blankets, side by side with her own.

“The way was long for the weak Lily,” she said in pleasant accents, “she
must rest; Weetano will watch her first slumber—it will be secure in
the lodge of the Mohawk chief. She will not fear,” added she, in an
inquiring manner; and placing her hand at the same time in hers, Anna
was struck with its mortal coldness.

“Why, you are cold, Weetano,” said she, pressing the hand
affectionately, “it is _you_ who most need rest, and I came to watch
beside you—not _you_ with _me_.”

“Only to-night, white maiden; Red-Bird has spread your couch with her
own hands to-day, and when she has seen you sleep she will lie down on
her couch beside you happy, though her heart is frozen, and its streams
are fast wasting. Slumber will revive the weary Lily, and Weetano will
sing her a song of the Great Spirit. She has learned it of her white
brother.”

Thus prevailed on, Anna Temple lay down on the downy bed her friend had
spread for her, but she felt no disposition to sleep, for too many
thoughts came crowding thickly on her mind, and when, to her surprise,
the child of the dusky Mohawk half sung, half chanted the “Cradle Hymn
of the Shepherds,” in a voice wildly musical, it brought back with
overpowering force the hours of her childhood and the dimly remembered
tones of her mother’s voice, for that hymn had often been her lullaby.
She buried her face in the blankets, but in spite of her utmost efforts
her sobs reached the sharp ear of her companion, who paused quickly in
her hymn.

“Does the song of Red-Bird make the tired Lily weep? She meant it not
so—but the wounded bird has ever a mournful strain. She will sing no
more!”

“Nay, nay, dear Weetano, it is not that; but long years ago my mother
used to sing me that hymn, and it seemed so very strange that its echo
should come back to me far away in these dim old woods. Francois Waldo
must have heard it, too, among the Alpine hills.”

At the mention of that name Weetano started slightly, and looking
earnestly at Anna, said—“I remember those words—the Frenchman spoke
them—they mean my pale brother. You knew him, then, over the great
waters?”

“Yes, Weetano. I knew him there. His enemies burnt his home and murdered
his parents—then he fled to my country for shelter. Did I not tell you
once of the peasant-boy and his poor little sister Christine? He used to
be my tutor there, in my first home—that is all, Weetano.”

“Nay, maiden, doth thy heart whisper truly? Listen! When he read the
name on the beautiful book which the Lily gave to Red-Bird, his brow
grew whiter, and his eyelids quivered like the poplar before the storm.
’Tis not every breath that moves my brother!”

The shrewd girl’s artifice revealed a truth which the lips denied, and
the heart would fain have concealed; but those few words had called it
forth, and it was written on every lineament of her face too plainly for
an eye less penetrating than an Indian’s to have mistaken its import.
Weetano smiled meaningly on her confused and trembling companion, and
continued—

“Why would you hang mist before the eyes of Red-Bird? Did she not trust
the white maiden, and does she suppose the daughter of the Mohawk cannot
hold her tongue?”

“Nay, nay; you wrong me, Weetano. ’Tis but now I learned that my old
companion dwelt in the Mohawk’s lodge. Had not my sister already told me
before, ‘that she had looked on the face of her white brother and a new
life had been awakened in her heart.’ Should the Lily pluck the sweet
morsel from the taste of Red-Bird? No, she is not so selfish—she would
sooner feed her with her own heart’s food.”

“But the food is poison for Weetano, she will not eat it,” persisted
she, somewhat mournfully. “My brother loves the fair maiden of his own
land—why should he not! Oliwibatuc, too, would have given his daughter
to a dog sooner than to an idle ‘book man.’ When he brought the hatchet
and bow of my dead brother and gave them to his captive, he turned away
from them and spoke the words of peace, and the warrior sighed—‘Who
will hang the trophies of Olo in his father’s wigwam? By his true spirit
Weetano shall wed a brave, and he shall be the chief of the Mohawks
instead of Olo!’ He has spoken, but the Great Spirit loves Weetano, and
will not give her to the Huron, for he will soon lay her beside the
still waters to slumber, and the Lily shall bloom for my new brother.
Nay, do not weep so—the eye of Weetano can now see the path plainly,
and the way looks pleasant, but she was sorry to leave her new brother
alone, for though he toils hard to do the Mohawks good they are not his
own people, and I know he must sometimes be very sad and lonely. It was
for this I plead for him to bring you hither; I knew you were his
spirit-mate, and longed to see you both happy.”

Anna Temple gazed long and earnestly on the beautiful face that bent
over her couch, but was unable to trace thereon a shadow of emotion; its
expression was calm and unvarying, and though the clear, dark eyes
sparkled brightly, the light they shed was as the brightness of a silver
fountain that reflects the moonbeams from its surface soft and almost
holy. Her own heart beat wildly, and when she attempted to speak, her
voice was choked and broken with sobs.

“O, Weetano, do not speak so low and mournfully,” she at length uttered.
“You will still live and be happy, you are so good and true! Nurse Judy
has sent some medicine, and I know well how to administer it; then I
have something else to offer beside; so bend down your ear close to me,
Weetano, and I will whisper it.”

Weetano did as she was desired, and whatever the words of her companion
might have been, they had no effect on the Indian girl, for when she
raised her head the same serene smile rested on her features.

“The heart of Red-Bird would be weak, indeed, to listen to the words,”
she replied. “The white maiden has not read it rightly, for its pride is
as stern as the rock of her mountains, that may be broken but cannot be
bowed. It fears not the blast! Weetano’s heart is like it—it will bide
its lot.”

“And its lot may yet be happy—yea, I am persuaded it will be, only do
not indulge in dark fancies, Weetano.”

“Weetano has no dark fancies now! Sunshine has broken through the dim
future since the words of the Lily’s book fell on her ears. The shadowy
land has no fears now, and beautiful images beckon me there in slumber!
Weetano will come again with messages of good to the Lily and her pale
brother, for they taught her the way.”

The next morning Anna awoke early, and refreshed, although her slumber
had not been unbroken; for whenever she stirred the dark eyes of Weetano
were fixed upon her with the same placid smile that had greeted her
coming, and sorely, bitterly did her heart ache for the poor creature
who regarded her with an affection so earnest and grateful. She feigned
sleep at length, fearing her friend would become exhausted with care for
her, but when the low, soft breathing of Weetano assured her she had
relapsed from her watching, she turned away from her and wet her couch
with tears. When she awoke in the morning, Weetano still slept, and she
arose noiselessly, lest she might disturb her; but when some time passed
and she still betrayed no signs of waking, Anna seated herself beside
her couch, murmuring softly, “This sleep will do her good—she looks so
happy now.” Her dark, glossy locks had fallen over her forehead, and she
stroked them gently back, smiling on the beautiful picture before her,
for though the cheek of Weetano had lost its roundness, the outline was
still perfect, and still she was marvelously beautiful.

An hour or more passed on, and Anna had not left the side of the
sleeping maiden. Over her features brooded the same tranquil repose, so
hushed indeed, that she would often bend down her ear to catch the low
breathing, and satisfy her mind that there was nothing unnatural in a
repose so profound. Without she heard the murmur of voices, and cautious
footsteps, for only a hanging of skins separated them from the large,
open space where the feast had been spread the evening previous, and
where breakfast was now preparing. At length an old Indian woman peeped
cautiously from behind the curtain, and seeing Anna already dressed, she
came forward with a look of surprise that her companion was yet
sleeping.

“What!” said she, “is not the daughter of the chief risen? ’Tis her
custom to rise with the dawn; she must be weary with the labor of
yesterday. Oliwibatuc gave orders not to disturb you, thinking the white
maiden would need rest; but Red-Bird has slept long now, we will break
her slumber. Weetano, Weetano!” said the Indian woman, “the sun is high
in the east, ’tis time the Lily should eat something, Oliwibatuc has
called for his daughter.”

A smothered murmur escaped from her lips, like one half aroused to
consciousness, and the eyelids unclosed for a moment, but were soon
heavy with sleep again.

“Wake up, wake up, Weetano,” continued she, “the morning is fair, and
the air as fragrant as the month of flowers. The chief will take you
forth to sail on the river—wake up maiden.”

Weetano breathed a low sigh, and there was a struggle, like one who
strives to burst a charm. The effort seemed ineffectual, but she spoke
faintly, “Weetano is weary, Zohah—leave her to rest a little.”

“Yes, let her rest,” whispered Anna, “she will gain strength, and I will
watch beside her until she awakens.”

“The maiden sleeps strangely,” muttered the old woman, as she retreated
behind the curtain, leaving Anna to resume her watch.

Another hour passed by, and she ventured to lift the hand that had
fallen over the blankets of her couch—it was soft and warm as a
slumbering infant’s. She pressed it in her own, whispering, “Weetano,
Weetano!” and a happy smile passed over the features of her companion,
and the pressure of her hand was gently returned. “She must have watched
longer than I supposed,” thought Anna, “and is exhausted with the
effort; it would be wrong to disturb her.”

She arose and lifted the curtain, for it was growing late, and she began
to feel faint and weary herself; no one was to be seen, and she went
forward to the open air. Oliwibatuc was sitting on the ground, at a
little distance from the lodge, with a number of his warriors in an idle
manner, but when he saw Anna standing in the door of the wigwam, he came
forward with a smile on his dark, grim features, and said—“The Lily has
slumbered long; was she wearied with her journey through the woods?”

“No, chief, very little,” she replied. “’Tis Red-Bird who is fatigued,
and she still slumbers; I have watched her for hours, but her sleep was
so quiet I would not waken her.”

“Why, what aileth the maiden,” he exclaimed; “she was never last to
leave her couch, but her song has been sad of late, and her feet have
trod lightly in the wood-paths. She hath leaned on the strong for
support. I will rouse her myself, while Zohah helps you to break the
long fast of the morning.”

Anna partook lightly of some refreshments from the hand of Zohah, while
the chief went to Red-Bird; but he soon returned with a satisfied air,
saying, “She sleeps well; I will let her rest until we go forth with the
canoe on the river.”

The sun was high in the heaven and the daughter of the chief had not
awakened! Hour after hour had Anna Temple lingered by the low bed-side,
while her repose seemed only deepening, and an indefinite fear crept
over her—a mysterious sense of evil, and she felt sad and lonely. Near
the curtain sat the old chief, for he, too, seemed ill at ease, and Anna
put aside the skin hanging, and said—

“Shall not we rouse her now, chief; she must require nourishment, and
this long sleep alarms me!”

“Say you so, maiden; the slumber must then be broken, for I, too, have
fears! Wake up, Red-Bird!” said he, advancing toward her, “’tis noonday,
you must not sleep;” and he shook her gently by the shoulder.

She partially opened her eyes, murmuring as before—“Weetano is
weary—let her rest.”

“Take some food, first, Weetano,” said Anna, imploringly; “don’t go to
sleep again for I am very lonely.”

The sound of her voice seemed to reanimate her for a moment, and looking
round, she said, “Where is my brother?”

“Gone,” said the chief, “to his daily toil, (for every day he visited
the sick of the tribe,) but he will be here soon to go forth with us on
the river. Rouse up then.” But the head of Weetano was drooping again
like a sleeping flower.

“Drop the curtain, and let in more air and light,” said Anna in a
beseeching tone, “she is faint and languid; something must be done to
revive her. _What can we do!_”

“Send for the ‘medicine man,’” said old Zohah; “he will arouse her if
any one can.”

“Yes, send for Francois Waldo quickly,” exclaimed Anna Temple; “his
voice may have power to break this dreadful slumber.”

Oliwibatuc made a motion with his hand for some one to depart, but his
eyes were fixed earnestly on the prostrate form of his daughter. “Raise
her up, Zohah,” said he to the old woman, who was wetting her lips with
some beverage, “perhaps she will drink.”

They pillowed her up on her couch, and Anna knelt there beside her,
taking her hand in her own and supporting her head on her shoulder,
while she vainly endeavored to render her conscious by numerous
questions. The messenger soon returned, accompanied by the young
missionary, who had hastened at the first mention of Weetano’s illness.

“What has been the matter with Red-Bird?” asked he in a whisper, at the
same time regarding her closely. “She sleeps quietly now.”

“She has slept thus all day, and will not waken,” replied Anna, bursting
into tears. “O, Francois, can you not arouse her?”

“_Thus_, did you say—has she slept peacefully all day? ’Tis strange,”
added he, taking her hand, “her pulse beats well, and her breathing is
regular: has she spoken?”

“Two or three times,” replied Zohah. “Once she inquired for you. Let her
know you have come.”

“Weetano, Weetano!” said he, bending his lips close to her ear, “speak
to your brother, Weetano—he has come back from his toil. Will not his
sister welcome him?”

Those tones fell not unheeded; there was another struggle as if to burst
the leaden chain, and an expression of happiness spread like sunlight
over her features. Her dark eyes were again unsealed, and a momentary
brightness fell from beneath the long lashes, as she said faintly,
“Weetano heard her brother’s voice in her dream, but she cannot awaken
to its music—her slumber is not over;” and her voice died away in a
murmur, like the lingering pulsations of a harp, and her head hung
heavily.

All through the long afternoon did they labor to break that strange
lethargy, but no care or remedy proved successful, and her breath grew
shorter and fainter until evening, when she revived a little, and looked
consciously on all around. The old chief was near, gazing mournfully on
his drooping child, and beside her were Francois Waldo and Anna Temple,
upon whom she still leaned for support. She bestowed on each a look of
the most earnest affection, then said, in clear, unbroken accents—

“The Lily will brighten my brother’s pathway, but Oliwibatuc will be
alone! You will not forsake my father,” continued she, fixing her dark
eye on the pale youth before her, inquiringly.

“Never, Weetano, I promise in the sight of heaven, while I live he shall
find in me a son to lean upon; he has been as a father to his captive—I
will never desert him.”

“I believe you,” she said, pressing his hand to her lips—“Your words
are true.” Then placing the hand of Anna Temple in that of her white
brother, with a quiet smile she closed her eyes again for their last
slumber.

All night the spirit of Weetano clung to its earthly tenement, and the
morning found it still hovering around its beautiful abode, as if
unwilling to forsake its companionship. The lodge was filled with the
sorrowing faces of those who had gathered to obtain a last look of the
daughter of their chief, who lay there in their midst like a breathing
statue—but while the dew still lingered on the flower, the lips of the
sleeper parted gently, her eyelids quivered—a momentary shudder passed
over her frame, and the strife was over.

Captive Red-Bird had at last burst her prison bars, and unfolded her
wings in the sunnier bowers of the spirit-land. One by one those who had
gathered near to witness the last moments of the chief’s daughter went
forth, that Oliwibatuc might stand alone in the presence of his dead.
Francois and Anna withdrew to a little distance from the couch of the
dear departed, and gazed with tearful faces on the old warrior, who
stood with a mournful face gazing on the last of his household! He
stooped at length, and took the hand, scarcely yet cold, in his own,
and, pronounced in an unbroken tone an Indian farewell:

“The Great Spirit help thee on thy journey, my daughter—the way is long
and fearful! Thou art a tender bird to try the unseen path alone, but
let not thy wing falter in the misty valley, for the blue hills are
shining brightly beyond! Pass onward—thy mother hath spread her couch
there; thou art the last bird of our nest, and she waiteth for thee!
Tell her—her warrior hath dwelt alone in his wigwam since we laid her
by the quiet river! Tell her—that thou alone hast been the sunbeam of
his lodge, and hast spread the couch of the weary! O, Weetano! thy
father is lonely now—why didst thou go before him to the dwelling-place
of the happy? The hunter will come to his wigwam weary at evening, but
the torch will not be lighted, for Weetano will not be there! His cup
will be empty, and his board desolate! No song shall lull him to
slumber, for Red-Bird has gone to her mother!”

The old chief’s voice faltered here, for the first time; and he bowed
his head. They saw him brush a tear from his eye—then another rolled
down his dusky face, and Anna would have rushed to his side to pour
forth her sympathy, had not Francois withheld her—he knew, better than
her, the customs of the people among whom he dwelt, that they share with
none their woes, but bear their burden alone. The momentary struggle was
past, and Oliwibatuc spoke again, calmly, but with lower, sadder tone.

“Weetano, thou hast led us in all thy beauty! Thou hast gathered up the
flowers of a few summers—but the great snows have not fallen on thee! I
will lay thee gently by thy mother, and the braves shall rear the green
mound, where I will sit with my bow at evening, gazing on the bright
hills of the far south-west. Farewell! Weetano, I go to make thy grave
by the river-side!”

He drew himself up to his full height, and passed slowly out of his
wigwam, and Anna now went forward, and stood sobbing by the couch where
darling Red-Bird lay as in a peaceful slumber. How short to her the
period since she first beheld her a creature radiant with health and
beauty—the fleetest fawn of the wilderness—the gayest bird on the
wing! But how soon had all this glory and beauty departed. Weetano had
lived, loved, suffered, and died. Thus had she fulfilled her woman’s
lot; early indeed—but fully and truly. There remained but to lay her in
her last resting-place, according to the custom of her nation, without
coffin or shroud—but what matter? Beside her grave the clear tones of
the young Vaudois preacher pronounced—“_The dead shall be raised_,” and
as his voice went up in prayer, there, in the mighty forest, the red
warriors looked at him in wondering silence, and the captive “Book Man”
was a mystery.


                              CHAPTER IV.

                   “We lift our trusting eyes
                     From the hills our fathers trod;
                   To the sunshine of the skies.
                     To the sabbath of our God.”


Ten years after the events noticed in our last chapter, a pleasant
village was rapidly springing upon the sunny lake-side, so long tenanted
only by the lonely refugees. The broad old forest had been rudely cut
away by the axe of the settler, and cottage-homes were reared thickly
side by side. The emigrant’s hut had been transformed into an elegant
mansion, whilst the green lawn in front, sloping down to the water, and
planted with shrubbery and vines—was the play-ground of happy children.
At a little distance, among the trees, a pretty church raised its
slender spire toward heaven, and behind it, several mounds of fresh
earth told plainly there was no retreat from death. But who was the
dark-haired pastor that had first awakened the voice of prayer in that
remote settlement? The imagination of the reader will furnish a ready
reply.

Oliwibatuc had gone to his rest! Faithfully, had his devoted young
captive labored to sow with good seed the hearts of his red brethren,
and in some instances, the scalping-knife and tomahawk had been buried
by the living warrior; but after the death of the old chief, he had
taken up his abode with Lord Temple, having been married to Anna soon
after the death of Red-Bird. Long and happily did they dwell together,
wondering much that an over-ruling providence should have watched over
the divided current of their lives, and united them so mysteriously in a
far, foreign land. Lord Temple lived until his head was white with
four-score years; but until death retained his Quaker dress and
appellation.

That village is now a beautiful and flourishing town in the heart of the
old empire State. The lone canoe of the Indian long since disappeared
from the blue lake, but hundreds of snowy sails now whiten its waters.
Few of the busy multitude that now throng these streets, could point the
curious traveler to the spot on which stood the humble cottage of the
first settler—many would not even remember his name; but go to the
ancient records, and there you will find that as early as 1660, a
wealthy Quaker, calling himself John Brown, made purchase of a large
territory of the Mohawk chief, and settled upon it with his own
family—that he afterward built a church of the _Presbyterian order_,
and endowed it with a fund, for its after-support, and left at his death
many rich legacies. It is also added, that much mystery shrouded the
aforesaid Brown, and by some he was supposed to have been an associate
of Oliver Cromwell.

An elegant edifice stands now on the site of the little church of the
first settler; but the burying-yard behind it remains unchanged, and
there on a broad slab may still be traced, a long obituary of John
Brown, the earliest settler, and by his side sleeps the first pastor of
that ancient church, of whom it is recorded, that he labored for a
number of years as a faithful missionary among the Mohawks, by whom he
was taken captive; and, afterward, for nearly forty years, as the
minister of the first church of Christ in the wilderness. By his side,
sleeps Anna, his wife—and children, and children’s children are around
in long ranks, with the slumber of years upon them.

Reader! My story is brought to a close. It but feebly illustrates the
chance and change of life—but if it serve to awaken a more earnest
interest in those who have gone before us, its author will not have
spent those few pleasant hours amid the records of the past in vain.
Life is not all with us! Those who trod the paths we are now treading,
knew as much of its joys and sorrows—perchance even more than
ourselves, and would we search more deeply the annals of our
forefathers, our toil would often be rewarded with histories as full of
vicissitude and adventure, as that of the illustrious Judge Temple, or
the Vaudois peasant-boy of the Alps!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               ERNESTINA.


                        (OR THE GILIA TRICOLOR.)


                        BY ERNESTINE FITZGERALD.


    Thus have ye named this modest flower,
      Bright Gilia—of colors three:
    What hath God given as its dower?
      In what doth it resemble me?
    Tiny, it hath persistent power—
      It heedeth storm nor frost, ye see.

    If therefore ye have named it thus,
      More fitting fond ye will not find:
    “But Ernestina makes more fuss,
      At wintry frost and chilling wind,
    Than hosts on hosts, robust like us!”
      Persistence, love, is in the mind.

    The little blossoms of her soul
      Come forth at every sun-ray’s will:
    Glance at the seed-calls! every stroll
      Of warmth from heaven doth some one fill:
    Let cloud and tempest o’er her roll,
      The flowret and the fruit come still.

    Well has love named the humble flower,
      Meek Gilia, of colors three;
    Well have ye placed it in your bower,
      To emblem there, Humility;
    Thus may it gain a higher power
      Than it may ever claim from me.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            ODE ON IDLENESS.


                             BY T. YARDLEY.


      With walking wearied, sat I, at the time
        When, pausing far above the world, the sun
      Seems musing whether he shall higher climb
        The pathway up to heaven; or the one
      Retrace till eve, which was at morn begun;
        Or drive his cloud-clad coursers from the shade
      Where lie the lightnings when the storm is done,
        And where the rainbows by the saints are made,
    O’er many a western wild and island everglade.

      ’Twas one of those sweet noons the restless soul
        Most loves to dream of. Just enough of breeze
      To chase the overheated air and roll
        Away in music. Silent symphonies,
      Among the olden avenues of trees,
        The spirit gathered, weaving into wings,
      To waft it up through space-encircling seas,
        Whose waves are inspiration, and where rings
    The octave of the spheres, with quiv’ring echoings.

      My ever eager eyes, with quenchless thirst,
        Drank in the glory of the scene. Before,
      Commingling mountains, indistinct at first
        And far, sublimely rose: each range would o’er
      The rearward, slow-ascending summits soar,
        Like some vast army on the Appenines,
      With all the bright artillery of war,
        Banners of painted clouds, with proud designs,
    Helmets and jeweled shields along the glitt’ring lines.

      Below me slept a valley, with its fields
        O’erflowing with the ripe and yellow corn:
      And harvesters, whose distance-mellowed peals
        Of laughter touched the ear, as echoes borne
      At vesper hour from some far Alpine horn,
        Reclined, at length, beside a narrow stream
      That lingered lullingly beneath its worn,
        Wild-blossomed banks awhile, and then would gleam
    Away and windingly, like music in a dream.

      Slow sloping shores, o’er-velveted with green—
        Old oaks, which, sighing softly, seemed aware
      That summer is not always, as between
        Their branches breathed the wing-unweary air—
      Blue skies that bent above, serenely fair—
        And tinklings faint of distant bells among
      The snowy sheep and herds of kine, that where
        The grass was deepest browsed—gave to the young,
    Reposing there, an Eden-hour, and brightly hung,

      Round age’s mem’ries, as at eventide,
        By lighted lamps, glow carved transparencies.
      I felt the perfume-freighted zephyrs glide
        On tiptoe by me from the midst of these:
      And as they whispered lowly, by degrees
        My brain grew dizzy with felicity;
      And fancy, with the warm realities,
        Mingled such floating, fairy imagery,
    That all was isles of Greece and air of Italy.

      There seemed low music swelling from afar.
        Which, as it nearer came, grew lovelier;
      And then smooth, iv’ry voices, such as are
        Heard only from some heavenly messenger,
      With harp-like pinions, warning ere we err
        In words that die not, and through after time,
      When evil tempts us, draw us nearer her.
        And as in thought I saw the Past, sublime,
    With many a sunny sky and calm Arcadian clime,

      The cooling rippling of the stream of song
        More deeply in its tone went sweeping by;
      For other rills, its winding way along,
        Had mingled with its waters leapingly.
      And skimming swift the waves with ear and eye,
        I found the fountains whence the river came—
      A group of singing sylphs—and standing by
        The one that _looked_ the queen, though robed the same,
    And languishingly lovely—Idleness her name.

      Her dark, luxuriant hair fell loosely o’er
        A neck that said a thousand things unthinking,
      And soft as if ’twere only fashioned for
        A pillow to support a loved head sinking
      Beneath the draught, deliriously drinking,
        Of her resistless beauty; and her eyes
      Were open volumes, which, like planets blinking,
        Seemed saying, “Read us, all around us lies
    The starry Infinite—the realm of Mysteries.”

      Her thoughts environed me, for with a smile
        And gesture of her hand, the group arose;
      And pausing as they neared me, for awhile,
        Drew round, encircling, in converging rows,
      Enshrouding me in incense. A repose
        Crept through my senses, such as sweetly stole
      Over the Lotus-eaters—such as throws
        Its dreamy spells around the bounding soul,
    Like silken lassos, where the waves of Lethé roll.

      And I was borne aloft through azure air,
        Her warm, white arms around me, and her cheek
      Close pressed to mine; her cooling, curling hair
        Bathing my temples, as in Easter week,
      In Rome’s cathedrals, ere the Fathers speak,
        They lave in holy-water. Unopposed,
      My burning, lightning-learning lips would seek
        With hers communion; and though undisclosed
    The secrets whispered, yet our hearts full well supposed.

      We floated on, with wings extended wide,
        To that fair region, where the thoughts of men,
      The holiest they breathe, like angels glide,
        Gathering the purely beautiful, and then
      Returning laden to the earth again—
        Imagination’s realm—the vast Unknown,
      Full of as glorious images as when
        The first Thought-angel gazed within, alone,
    And will be while the world has evil to atone.

      I touched Futurity’s thrice veiled domain.
        And felt the moments of swift coming years
      Fall sparklingly around me, like the rain
        From over-heavy clouds of unwept tears,
      Dropping through sunlight; while my eager ears
        Caught from far sounding avenues, a name
      Like mine, breathed in the tones affection hears
        Swelling so sweetly on the earth the same,
    Though lowly laid in flowers, the lips from whence they came.

      My brain reeled with repletion, and no more,
        Through such celestial scenes, and thus to be
      Clothed with mortality, could I explore.
        Fading, still fading slowly, I could see
      The rolling prairie-land of Poesy,
        Blooming with stars, and eastwardly a light,
      Like the full moon rising gloriously,
        Which streamed o’er it from Heaven—then our flight,
    Unwilled, was earthward, with the soul’s archangel, Night.

      Full many a shadow o’er the sun and me,
        Subduing both a time, has passed since then;
      And darker, colder ones in store may be
        Unopened, with the woes awaiting men:
      But still, in rose-wreathed summer, sometimes, when
        The hour is noontide, and the noontide fair,
      Sweet Idleness bends over me again
        And whispers of Elysium—while Care
    Flaps her broad, vulture wings and melts away in air.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     RAIN AND SUNLIGHT IN OCTOBER.


                           BY EMILY HERRMANN.


    The grape-leaf’s edge is crisping
      Beside our window-pane;
    Small chirping things are shrinking
      From cold October rain.

    I hear the pattering of its feet
      All round about our home—
    Among the loosely garnered shocks,
      Along the runnel’s foam.

    There sings no bird among our trees—
      Whose robes are waxing thin—
    And yellow leaves, on withered grass,
      Dim graves are sinking in.

    Chilling is touch of Autumn rain,
      Darkly the gray cloud lowers,
    Shutting the sunlight from our paths
      Among the drooping flowers.

    Yet gently, as to our weary brows
      Come folding wings of sleep,
    It moves along the furrowed fields
      Where summer dust lies deep.

    Bravely ’twill nurse the infant grain
      That in its cradle lies,
    And nerve it to struggle with the storm
      Before old Winter’s eyes.

    And now how quietly all about
      October sunlight falls;
    Tracking, with stars, the evening rain,
      Sparkling on dead leaves’ palls.

    Moving, in shocks of garnered maize,
      Is many a fluttering wing;
    And the wheat smiles to gentle light
      As if ’twere a living thing.

    In showers, their crimson garments fall
      From off majestic forms,
    Whose hearts, in the living sap kept warm,
      Are fearless of wildest storms.

    Round us the forest, in mellow haze,
      Shuts a still glory in;
    Under its shadow the cattle graze—
      Soon to it we shall win!

    Shaking their nuts from laden limbs,
      Sharing the squirrel’s mite,
    Gaily we’ll gather on tufted moss
      In the yellow Autumn light.

    By freshening green on the fading grass
      Life in its depth has stirred,
    We are not alone among changing leaves,
      For, hark! there’s a singing bird!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                   FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.


                          BY JAMES M’CARROLL.


    When, in his strength, the monarch of the air
      Soars proudly through the azure fields of heaven,
    His pinions burning in the noontide glare,
      Or flashing in the deep red dyes of even,
    He sees the earth receding from his eye,
      And looking round him, in his chainless glee,
    Utters a loud, a long, wild, piercing cry—
      And that’s the joyous shout of Liberty.

    But when he leaves those vast ethereal plains,
      And falls into the fowler’s hidden snare,
    Beneath the icy pressure of his chains,
      How soon his sounding wing hangs listless there;—
    And oft, as o’er their galling links he broods,
      Dreaming of the bright hours when he was free,
    He looks up through those shining solitudes,
      And shrieks—the bitter shriek of Slavery.

    If thus ’tis, from the eagle to the dove,
      Say, how can we upon our fetters smile,
    Save those that, woven by the hand of Love,
      Are round us flung with many a tender wile?
    So pure a shrine of Freedom is the soul,
      That could our chains lose all their weight and chill,
    And, ’twined with light, extend from pole to pole,
      We’d sigh and feel that we were captives still.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            NATURE AND ART.


                           BY SAMUEL MARTIN.


When we see an insect in the fields pumping a sweet fluid from the
nectaries of flowers, and carrying it home and storing it in convenient
receptacles, which it carefully covers so as to exclude the dust and
hinder evaporation, we are filled with devout astonishment; and as we
write hymns about the “Little Busy Bee,” in her industry and foresight,
and curious contrivances, we recognize an all-pervading Mind and an
all-controlling Hand. And in this we are right. But here is another
animal, still more resourceful and provident. The bee collects the honey
from such flowers as happen to contain it, and which yield it almost
ready-made; but she takes no trouble to secure a succession of those
flowers or to increase their productiveness. This other creature is at
infinite pains to propagate and improve his favorite mellifluent herbs.
From the sweet juices of flowers the bee can only elaborate a single
fluid, while her rival from the same syrup can obtain a multitude of
dainties; and, according to the taste of the consumer, he offers it in
the guise of nectar or ambrosia, in crystals of topaz or in pyramids of
snow. And when the manufacture is complete, the bee knows only one mode
of stowage; this other creature packs it, as the case may require, in
bags or baskets, in boxes or barrels, all his own workmanship, and all
cleverly made. What, then, is the reason that when we look at a
honeycomb we are apt to be reminded of the wisdom and goodness of God;
but looking at the same thing magnified—surveying a hundred hogsheads
of sugar piled up in a West Indian warehouse—we have no devout
associations with the ingenuity and industry which placed them there?
Why are chords of pious feeling struck by the proceedings of an insect,
and no emotion roused by the on-goings of our fellow-men?

We examine two paper-mills. The one is situated in a gooseberry-bush,
and the owner is a wasp. The other covers some acres of land, and
belongs to a kind-hearted and popular legislator. But after exploring
the latter with all its water-wheels and steam-engines, and with all the
beautiful expedients for converting rags into pulp, and then weaving and
sizing, and cutting and drying, and folding and packing, we go away
admiring nothing except human skill; whereas, the moment Madam Vespa
fetches a bundle of vegetable fibres and moistens them with her saliva,
and then spreads them out in a patch of whitey-brown, we lift our hands
in amazement, and go home to write another “Bridgewater Treatise,” or to
add a new meditation to Sturm. That a wasp should make paper at all is
very wonderful; but if the rude fabric which she compiles from raspings
of wood is wonderful, how much more admirable is that texture which, as
it flows from between these flying cylinders for furlongs together,
becomes a fit repository for the story of the universe, and can receive
on its delicate and evenly expanse, not only the musings of genius but
the pictures of Prophecy and the lessons of Inspiration!

However, it is said, the cases are quite distinct. Man has reason to
guide him; the lower animal proceeds by instinct. In surveying human
handiwork, we admire the resources of reason; in looking at bird
architecture or insect manufactures, we are in more direct contact with
the Infinite Mind. Their Maker is their teacher, but man is his own
instructor; and, therefore, we see the wisdom and goodness of God in the
operations of the lower animals more clearly than in our own.

Without arguing the identity of reason and instinct, it will be admitted
that the lower animals frequently perform actions which imply a
reasoning process. Reverting to our insect illustrations, Huber and
others have mentioned cases which make it hard to deny judgment and
reflection to the wasp; and the reader who is himself “judicious” will
not refuse a tiny measure of his own endowments to the bee. On a bright
day, four or five summers since, we were gazing at a clump of fuchsias
planted out on a lawn, not far from London. As every one knows, the
flower of the fuchsia is a graceful pendent, something like a funnel or
red coral suspended with the opening downward; and in the varieties
planted on this lawn the tube of the funnel was long and slender. In the
case of every expanded flower, we noticed that there was a small hole
near the apex, just as if some one had pierced it with a pin. It was not
long till we detected the authors of these perforations. The border was
all alive with bees, and we soon noticed that in dealing with the
fuchsias they extracted the honey through these artificial apertures.
They had found the tube of the blossom so long that their haustella
could not reach the honey at its farther end; and so, by this
engineering stratagem, they got at it sideways. Surely this was
sensible. When a mason releases a sweep stuck fast in a chimney by
digging a hole in the gable, or when a chancellor of the exchequer gains
a revenue by indirect taxation, he merely carries out the principle. And
what makes the manœuvre more striking, is the fact that the problem was
new. The fuchsias had come from Mexico and Chili not many years ago;
whereas the bees were derived from a long line of English ancestors, and
could not have learned the art of tapping from their American congeners.
In cases such as these, and hundreds which might be quoted, no one feels
his admiration of the all-pervading Wisdom lessen as instinct approaches
reason, or actually merges in it. In the case of the inferior animals no
one feels—The more of reason, the less of God. And, because man is all
reason together, why should it be thought that in human inventions and
operations there is nothing divine? How is it that in the dyke-building
of that beaver, or the nest building of that bird, so many mark the
varied evolutions of the Supreme Intelligence; but, when they come to
the operations of the artisan or the architect, they are conscious of an
abrupt transition, and, feeling the groundless holy, they exclaim,

        “God made the country, but man made the town?”

One would think that the right way to regard human handiwork is with the
feelings which an accomplished naturalist expresses:—“A reference to
the Deity, even through works of human invention, must lead to increased
brotherly love among mankind. When we see a mechanic working at his
trade, and observe the dexterity which he displays, together with the
ingenious adaptation of his tools to their various uses, and then
consider the original source of all this, do we not see a being at work,
employing for his own purposes an intelligence derived from the
Almighty?—and will not such a consideration serve to raise him in our
opinion, rather than induce us to look down slightingly upon him for
being employed in a mechanical trade? For my own part, when I watch a
mechanic at his work I find it very agreeable, and, I believe, a very
useful kind of mental employment, to think of him as I would of an
insect building its habitation, and in both see the workings of the
Deity.”[7]

And yet it must be admitted that few have the feelings which Mr.
Drummond describes. They cannot see as much of God in the manipulations
of the mechanic as in the operations of the bird or the beaver; nor can
a life-boat send their thoughts upward so readily as the shell of a
nautilus or the float of a raft-building spider.

The difference is mainly moral. Man is sinful. Many of his works are
constructed with sinful motives, and are destined for evil purposes. And
the artificer is often a wicked man. We know this, and when we look on
man’s works we cannot help remembering this. It is a pure pleasure to
watch a hive of bees, but it is not so pleasant to survey a sugar
plantation in Brazil, there is a painful thought in knowing how much of
their produce will be manufactured into intoxicating liquors. It is
pleasant to observe the paper-making of a hymenopterous insect; for it
does not swear nor use bad language at its work, and, when finished, its
tissues will not be blotted by effusions of impiety and vice; but of
this you can seldom be assured in the more splendid manufactures of us
lords of the creation. But if this element were guaranteed—if the will
of God were done among ourselves even as it is done among the high
artificers of heaven and among the humble laborers in earth’s deep
places—our feelings should be wholly revolutionized. If of every
stately fabric we knew, as we know regarding St. Paul’s, that no profane
word had been uttered all the time of its construction; if of every
factory we could hope, as of the mills at Lowell, that it is meant to be
the reward of good conduct and the gymnasium of intelligence and virtue;
if of every fine painting or statue we might believe that, like Michael
Angelo’s works, it was commenced in prayer; this suffusion of the moral
over the mechanical would sanctify the Arts, and in Devotion’s breast it
would kindle the conviction, at once joyful and true, “My Father made
them all.”

Still, however, in man’s works, we are bound to distinguish these two
things—the mechanical and the moral. When God made man at first, he
made him both upright and intelligent; he endowed him with both goodness
and genius. In his fall he has lost a large amount of both attributes;
but whatever measure of either he retains is still divine. Any dim
instincts of devotion, as well as every benevolent affection which
lingers in man’s nature are relics of his first estate; and so is any
portion of intellectual power which he still possesses. Too often they
exist asunder. In our self-entailed economy of defect and disorder, too
often are the genius and the goodness divided. Too many of our good men
want cleverness, and too many clever men are bad. But, whether
consecrated or misdirected, it must not be forgotten that talent,
genius, dexterity, are gifts of God, and that all their products, so far
as these are innocent or useful, are results of an original inspiration.

It is true that his Creator has not made each individual man an
instinctive constructor of railways and palaces, as he has made each
beaver a constitutional dyke-builder and each mole a constitutional
tunnel-borer. But he has endowed the human race with faculties and
tendencies, which, under favoring circumstances, shall eventually
develop in railways and palaces as surely as beaver mind has all along
developed in dykes, and mole mind worked in tunnels. And just as in
carrying out His own great scheme with our species, the Most High has
conveyed great moral truths through all sorts of messengers—through a
Balaam and a Caiaphas as well as a Daniel and a John;—so, in carrying
out His merciful plan, and gradually augmenting our sum of material
comfort, the Father of earth’s families has conveyed His gifts through
very various channels, sometimes sending into our world a great
discovery through a scoffing philosopher, and sometimes through a
Christian sage. Be the craftsman what he may; when once we have
separated the moral from the mechanical—the sin which is man’s from the
skill which is Jehovah’s—in every exquisite product, and more
especially in every contribution to human comfort, we ought to recognize
as their ultimate origin the wisdom and goodness of God. The arts
themselves are His gift; the abuse alone is human. And just as an
enlightened Christian looks forth on the landscape, and in its fair
features as well as its countless inhabitants beholds mementoes of his
Master; so, surveying a beautiful city, its museums and its monuments,
its statues and fountains, or sauntering through a gallery of art or
useful inventions—in all the symmetry of proportion and splendor of
coloring, in every ingenious device and every powerful engine, he may
read manifestations of that mind which is “wonderful in counsel and
excellent in working;” and, so far as skill and adaptation and elegance
are involved, piety will hail the Great Architect himself as the Maker
of the Town.

Reason may be regarded as the Instinct of the human race. Like instinct,
commonly so called, it has an irresistible tendency toward certain
results; and when circumstances favor, these results evolve. But reason
is a slow and experimental instinct. It is long before it attains to any
optimism. The inferior races are only repeating masterpieces which their
ancestor produced in the year of the world One. Man is constantly
improving on his models, and there are many inventions on which he has
only hit in this 59th century of his existence. Nevertheless, as the oak
is in the acorn, so these inventions have from the first been in the
instinct of humanity. That is, if you say that its nest was in the mind
of the bird, or its cocoon in the mind of the silk-worm as it came from
the hand of its Maker, and if you consequently deem it true and devout
to recognize in these humble fabrics a trace of the wisdom which moulds
the universe; so we say that the Barberini Vase and the Britannia Bridge
existed in the mind of our species when first ushered into this earthly
abode, and now in the providential progress of events these germs have
developed in structures of beauty or grandeur, whilst admiring the human
workmanship, it is right and it is comely to adore the original
Authorship.

His are the minerals and the metals, the timbers and the vegetable
tissues, from which our houses and our ships, our clothing and our
furniture, are fabricated. Of these, the variety is amazing, and it
plainly indicates that, in the arrangements of this planet, the Creator
contemplated not only the necessities but the enjoyments of his
intelligent creatures. For instance, there might have been only one or
two metals; and the eagerness with which tribes confined to copper, or
to gold and silver, grasp at an axe or a butcher’s whittle, shows how
rich are the tribes possessing iron. But even that master-metal, with
all his capabilities, and aided by his three predecessors, cannot answer
every purpose. The chemist requires a crucible which will stand a
powerful heat, and which, withal, does not yield to the corroding action
of air or water. Gold would answer the latter, and iron the former
purpose, well; but every one knows how readily iron rusts and how easily
gold melts. But there is another metal—platinum—on which air and water
have not the slightest action, and which stands unscathed in the eye of
a furnace where iron would run down like wax, and gold would burn like
paper. In the same way there are many ends for which none of these
metals are available, but which are excellently answered by tin, and
lead, and zinc, and rhodium, and mercury. Or will the reader bestow a
passing thought on his apparel? His forefathers found one garment
sufficient, and for mere protection from the weather a suit of cat-skin
or sheep-skin might still suffice. But, oh reader! what a romance is
your toilette! and should all the rest of you be prose, what a poem you
become when you put on your attire! That snowy lawn once blossomed on
the banks of the Don or the Dnieper, and before it shone in a London
drawing-room, that broad-cloth comforted its rightful owner amidst the
snows of the Cheviots. Did these boots really speak for themselves, you
would find that the upper leathers belonged to a goat, and the soles to
a horse or a cow. And could such metamorphic retributions happen now as
in the days of Ovid, the best way to punish the pride of an exquisite
would be to let every creature come and recover his own. A worm would
get his satin cravat, and a pearl oyster his studs; and if no fabulous
beaver laid claim to his hat, the rats of Paris or the kittens of
Worcester would assuredly run off with his gloves. But viewed in a
graver and truer light, it is marvellous from how many sources we derive
the several ingredients in the simplest clothing, many of them essential
to health, and most of them conducive to our well-being; so that we need
not go to the crowded mart or the groaning wharf in order to convince
ourselves of earth’s opulent resources. Few will read these pages who
have not the evidence at home. Open that cupboard, unlock that wardrobe,
look round the chamber where you are seated, and think a little of all
the kingdoms of Nature and all the regions of the globe from which their
contents have been collected, and say if the Framer of this world is not
a bountiful Provider. “O Lord, how manifold are thy works! The earth is
full of thy riches; so is this great and wide sea.”

The Supreme Governor has so ordered it, that the progress of the
arts—that is, of human comfort and accommodation—shall be nearly in
proportion to human industry, sobriety, and peacefulness. The last
thirty years have been fraught with inventions, chiefly because they
have been years of peace. In England, however, the reign of Charles II.
was tolerably tranquil; but, except for the accident of Newton and the
Royal Society, its peace was the parent of few discoveries, for it was a
peace which had converted the noise of the warrior, not into the quiet
of the artisan, but into the din of the drunken debauchee. Such honor
does the Most High put upon peaceful activity and sober perseverance,
that wherever these exist economic comfort is sure to follow. Thus,
without uncommon intellectuality, and with a false religion, the Chinese
anticipated many of the arts of modern Europe. Whilst Christendom, so
called, was divided betwixt lazy monks and a brutal soldiery—whilst
mediæval churchmen were droning masses, and feudal barons amused
themselves in knocking out each other’s brains—the Chinese, neither
fierce nor indolent, were spinning silk and manufacturing porcelain,
compiling almanacs, and sinking Artesian wells. And long before any
Friar Schwartz, or Gutenberg, or Flavio di Gioia, had revealed them to
the Western World, the pacific and painstaking Chinese were favored with
prelibations of our vaunted discoveries—gunpowder, book-printing, and
the mariner’s compass.

We have compared our world to a well-furnished dwelling, in which,
however, many of the treasures are locked up, and it is left to patience
and ingenuity to open the several doors. Caoutchouc and gutta percha
have always been elastic and extensible; but it is only of late that
their properties have been ascertained and turned to profitable account.
The cinchonas had grown for five thousand years in Peru before the
Jesuit missionaries discovered the tonic influence which the bark exerts
on the human system. Steam was always capable of condensation, so as to
leave in its place a vacuum; but it is only a century and a half since
it struck the Marquis of Worcester to employ this circumstance as a
motive power. And ever since our earthly ball was fashioned, electricity
has been able to sweep round it at the rate of ten times each second,
though it is only within the last few years that Professor Wheatstone
thought of sending tidings on its wings. And doubtless the cabinets
still unlocked contain secrets as wonderful and as profitable as these;
whilst the language of Providence is, “Be diligent, and be at peace
among yourselves, and the doors which have defied the spell of the
sorcerer and the battle-axe of the warrior will open to the prayer of
harmonious industry.”

So thoroughly provided with all needful commodities is the great house
of the world, that, in order to obtain whatever we desiderate, seldom is
aught else requisite than a distinct realization of our want and a
determined effort to supply it. In working mines, one of the
difficulties with which the excavator has to contend is the influx of
water. The effort to remedy this evil gave birth to the steam-engine;
and, with the relief afforded by the steam-pump, many mines are easily
and profitably wrought which otherwise must have long since become mere
water-holes. But a worse enemy than water encounters the collier, in the
shape of fire-damp, or inflammable gas. Formerly, in quarrying his
subterranean gallery, the axe of the unsuspecting pitman would pierce a
magazine of this combustible air, and unlike water, there being nothing
to bewray its presence, it filled the galleries with its invisible
serpent-coils; and it was not till a candle approached that it revealed
itself in a shattering explosion, and a wretched multitude lay burning
and bleeding along its track—a fearful hecatomb to this fiery dragon.
What was to be done? Were the blast furnaces of Wales and Wolverhampton
to be extinguished, and were household fires to go out? Or, for the sake
of a blazing ingle and good cutlery, were brave men still to be
sacrificed to this Moloch of the mine? The question was put to Science,
and Science set to work to solve it. Many good expedients were
suggested, but the most ingenious was in practice the simplest and
safest. It was ascertained that a red heat, if unaccompanied by flame,
will not ignite the fire-damp; and it was also known, that the most
powerful flame will not pass through wire-gauze, if the openings are
sufficiently small. A lamp or a candle might, therefore, be put into a
lantern of this gauze, and then plunged into an atmosphere of
inflammable air; and whilst the flame inside the lantern gave light
enough to guide the laborer, none of that flame could come through to
act as a match of mischief. And now, like a diver in his pneumatic
helmet, the miner, with his “Davy,” can traverse in security, the depths
of an inflammable ocean.

So plentiful is the provision for our wants, that little more is needed
than a distinct statement in order to secure a supply. During his long
contest with England, and when both the ocean and the sugar-growing
islands were in the power of his enemy, Napoleon said to his _savans_,
“Make sugar for the French out of something which grows in France.” And,
like Archimedes with the tyrant’s crown, they set to work on the
problem. They knew that sugar is not confined to the Indian cane. They
knew that it can be obtained from many things—from maple, and parsnips,
and rags; but the difficulty was to obtain it in sufficient quantities,
and by an inexpensive process. However, knowing the compartment in which
the treasure was concealed, they soon found the key; and it was not long
till beet-root sugar was manufactured in thousands of tons, nearly as
good, though not nearly so cheap, as the produce of England’s colonies.
A few years ago the British Foreign Office had a dispute with the
Neapolitan Government. The best sulphur is found in Sicily, and from
that island Great Britain imports for its own manufactures about 20,000
tons a year. On the occasion referred to, the Neapolitan Government was
about to complete an arrangement which would have enormously enhanced
the price of this important commodity. Some wished that England should
make it a _casus belli_, and send her ships of war to fetch away the
brimstone by force. But the chemists of England took the quarrel into
their own hands; and, had not the King of Naples yielded, doubtless we
should now have been supplied with sulphur from sources at command but
yet undeveloped.

A modification of the same problem is constantly occurring to practical
science, and its almost uniform solution shows that our world has been
arranged with a benevolent eye to the growing comfort of the greater
number. Science is perpetually importuned to cheapen commodities; and by
substituting a simple method for an intricate process, or by making a
common material fulfill the part of a rare one, it is every year giving
presents to the poor. Few substances are more essential to our daily
comfort than soda. It is a large constituent of glass and soap, and many
other useful articles. The cleanliness of a nation depends on the
cheapness of soda; and if soda is cheap, you can substitute plate-glass
for crown in your windows, and you can adorn your apartments with glazed
pictures and mirrors. So that from the bleacher who spends
thousands-a-year on the carbonate, to the apprentice who in the dog-days
lays out a penny on ginger-beer or soda-water, all are interested in the
cheapness of soda. But this alkali used to be dear. Small quantities
were found native, and larger supplies were obtained from the burning of
sea-weed. Still the cost was considerable. However, it was well known
that a vast magazine of the precious article surrounds us on every side.
The sea is water changed to brine by a salt of soda. If only a plan
could be contrived for separating this soda from the hydro-chloric acid,
which makes it common salt, there is at our doors a depot large enough
to form a Mont Blanc of pure soda. That plan was discovered; and now a
laundress buys a pound of soda (the carbonate) for three half-pence, and
the baker of unfermented bread can procure the more costly bicarbonate
for sixpence.

Lately, if not still, in the shops of provincial apothecaries, no
article was in such demand as one styled in the Pharmacopœia, muriate of
magnesia. This popular medicine was first obtained by evaporation from
certain mineral waters, and as the supply was limited the price was
high. But few ingredients could be cheaper than the earth and the acid
from which it is combined. The earth forms whole mountains, and the acid
is that cheap one set free when the soda is separated from common salt.
Accordingly, chemists went to work, and in their laboratories did what
the mineral spring had been doing since the Deluge, and by a simple
process they manufactured the muriate of magnesia. A few years ago,
looking at the remarkable rocks of magnesian limestone which defend the
Durham coast, near Shields, our companion remarked, “Many a hundred tons
of these rocks have we converted into Epsom salts!”

“Waste not, want not.” An adage which received a touching sanction when,
after a miraculous feast, and when He could have converted the whole
region into bread, the Saviour said, “Gather up the fragments, that
nothing be lost.” And in the progress of discovery, God is constantly
teaching us not to waste anything, for this is a world of which nothing
need be lost. At the woollen factories of Rheims there used to
accumulate a refuse, which “it cost something to throw away.” This was
the soap-water containing the fatty matters washed from the woollen
stuffs, along with some soda and other ingredients. With its offensive
scum this soap-water was a nuisance, and required to be put out of the
way with all convenient speed. But now, from one portion of it gas is
manufactured, sufficient to supply all the works, and the remainder
yields a useful soap.[8] In the same way, when Lord Kaims found himself
proprietor of an extensive peat-moss in the neighborhood of Stirling,
with characteristic energy he commenced its improvement. On digging
through the moss, he came to a rich alluvial soil; so that to his
sanguine imagination, fifteen hundred acres, at whose barrenness his
neighbors laughed, were a splendid estate, covered over meanwhile by a
carpet seven feet thick. To lift this carpet was the puzzle: for every
acre of it weighed some hundred tons. But “the mother of invention” is
the near kinswoman of most Highland lairds, and “necessity” suggested a
plan to Lord Kaims: a plan which must have approved itself to the mind
of a judge, for, by a sort of retributive process, it forced the element
which had done the damage to undo it again. By a hydraulic contrivance,
a powerful current of water was made to traverse the moss and carry off
the loosened fragments, till they reached the river Forth, and were
finally floated into the German Ocean. And now “a waste,” which last
century was the haunt of the curlew, is covered with heavy crops, and
yields its proprietor a revenue of two or three thousand pounds a year.
But had Lord Kaims foreseen Mr. Reece’s researches into the composition
and capabilities of “bog-earth,” he would, perhaps, have hesitated
before he consigned such a treasure to the deep. At this moment we are
writing by the light of a candle which last year was a peat! And,
however opinion may differ as to the probable expense of the process,
there can be no doubt that peat yields in large quantities the ammonia
which is so largely used by farmers; the acetic and pyroligneous acids,
extensively employed by calico-printers, hatters, etc.; and, along with
naptha, a fatty substance capable of being converted into beautiful
candles; so that Mr. Owen’s benevolent calculation will, doubtless,
sooner or later be fulfilled, and “Irish moss” become a cure for Irish
misery.[9] It is pleasant to know that on every side we are surrounded
with mines of unexamined wealth. Some of the old workings may be
exhausted; but if we be only devout and diligent new veins will open.
Forty years ago, so much oil was required for lighting the streets of
cities as well as for private dwellings, that fears began to be
entertained lest the great oil-flask of the Northern Ocean might run
dry, and the whale family be extirpated. That fear was superseded when,
in 1812, gas illumination was introduced.

“The best of things is water.” So sang a very ancient Greek; and of all
the fragments preserved in Aristotle’s “Rhetoric,” hydropathy and
teetotalism have assigned the palm to this old water-poem. Not so our
ship-owners. To them the sorest of problems and the saddest of expenses
is water. Soup can be inspissated into osmazome, and meat can be
squeezed into pemican; but water is not compressible, and it is rather
provoking to see the space available for stowage occupied by tanks and
barrels of this cheap element. Many expedients have been suggested, and
some have partially succeeded. But since we began to write this paper,
our attention has been called to a beautiful contrivance which promises
to conquer every difficulty. By means of Mr. Grant’s Distilling
Galley,[10] the brine may be pumped up from the ocean, and, after
cooking the mess of the largest ship’s company, it may be collected in
the form of the purest fresh water, to the extent of some hundred
gallons each day. Nor is it only a vast saving of room which is effected
by this beautiful expedient. It is a saving of time. Frequently ships
are compelled to leave the straight route, and sometimes lose a favoring
wind, in quest of water. But a ship provided with this apparatus is as
independent as if she were sailing over a fresh water lake; and, instead
of putting into port, she has only to resort to the never-failing pump.
And we may add that it is not only space and time which are saved, but
the health of the crew and the passengers. With every precaution
cistern-water is apt to spoil, and in the Indian Seas and other regions
the water obtained on shore is apt to occasion disease. But the produce
of this engine is always as pure as the rain which falls from the
clouds.

When Pythagoras demonstrated the geometrical proposition, that in a
rectangular triangle the sum of the two lateral squares is equal to the
square of the hypotenuse, he is said to have offered the sacrifice of a
hundred oxen. In modern art we fear that there are many discoveries for
which the thank-offering has not yet been rendered.

Both the reader and the writer are deeply indebted to that gracious
Providence which has cast our lot in the most favored of all times.
Chiefly through the progress of the Arts, the average of existence has
been lengthened many years, and into these years it is possible to
concentrate an amount of literary acquisition, and moral achievement,
and intellectual enjoyment, for which Methuselah himself had not
leisure. For lives thus lengthened let us show our gratitude by living
to good purpose; and, remembering that railways and telegraphs and
steam-printed books are the good gifts of God, let the age which enjoys
them be also the age of holiest obedience and largest benevolence.

-----

[7] Drummond’s Letters.

[8] Knapp’s “Chemical Technology,” p. 179.

[9] See Professor Brande’s “Lecture,” Jan 31, 1851.

[10] The invention of Mr. Grant, of the Victualling Department, Somerset
House.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 SNOW.


                           BY J. P. ADDISON.


    Falling, falling,
    The snow is falling;
      Floating, falling,
    To the earth tending
    With motion unending;
      Floating, falling.

    Veiled are the mountains,
      Dim is the plain;
    Who looketh afar,
      He looketh in vain;
    Wrapped in the shower,
    Dark pines tower,
      Shadow-like near,
    Arms outspread,
    As over the dead,
      Solemn and drear.

    Snow-birds cheerily
      Chirp as they fly;
    Ravens drearily
      Answer on high:
    Else, in the distance,
    One who listens,
      Naught may hear,
    Voice nor sound,
    In the country round,
      Far or near.

    Roof of the cottage
      And vine at the door,
    Chimney and lattice
      Are rounded o’er;
    The black tree
    Is fair to see
      In its net of snow,
    And the apple-bough
    Bends nearer now
      To the casement low.

    The paths lie buried,
      The storm covers all,
    The high-road wide
      And the house-path small;
    Hid is the stain
    Of wind and rain
      On the fences nigh,
    And afar, each row
    With the feathery snow
      Is rounded high.

    Muffled and heavily
      Moveth the wain,
    Wearily waiteth
      And moveth again;
    How for his hearth-fire
    Sigheth the farmer
      Here in the storm;
    There, the fire verily
    Crackleth merrily
      Thinks he, and warm.

    Gained that warm hearth-side,
      Glad by the fire
    ’Mid his dear loved ones
      Sitteth the sire.
    “Ah the fire verily
    Crackleth merrily,
      Children mine,”
    In the answering gleam
    Glad faces beam,
      The white walls shine.

    Still it is falling,
    The snow is falling,
      Floating, falling;
    To the earth tending
    With motion unending,
      Floating, falling.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE LOST DEED.


                         A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM.


                            BY E. D. ELIOT.


                      (_Continued from page 29._)

One day after one of the youth’s little visits to the terrace, Captain
and Mrs. Stimpson were sitting at the door enjoying the afternoon breeze
which came fresh from the ocean, and watching the craft in the harbor,
when Judith came skipping up to the door, with a great red rose in her
hand. Her father accosted her:

“Judy, my gal, where have you been? Sir’s flower! Come, light old
daddy’s pipe for him, and tell what that youngster has been talking
about so long at the gate.”

“Oh, I will, sir,” (jumping on her father’s knee, and putting the rose
in his button-hole,) “if you will please call me Judith, and not keep
calling yourself old daddy. You are not old, I am sure. He always says
pa, or my father, and it sounds so much prettier—don’t it, ma?”

“He! who’s he?” chuckled the delighted father, winking to his wife.

“Why, didn’t you say George Fayerweather, sir?” asked Judith, stroking
his chin. “He often asks me why I don’t call you two, pa and ma. Now,
wont you promise not to laugh at me if I call you so sometimes?”

“You may call me what you please, if you don’t call me too late to
dinner,” said her father. “But you don’t tell your old dad—father, I
mean—what you’ve been talking about.”

“Why, he says,” she replied in a tremulous voice, her rosy lip
quivering, “he’s going to sea soon, to be gone a year; and he says”—her
eyes brightening—“that he means to bring you home the handsomest pipe
he can find up the Straits.”

“I thank the lad, I thank him,” said the captain, with his usual
sonorous h-m-gh; “that youngster’s a smart chap.” Turning to his
wife—“Mind what I say, he’ll turn out something remarkable.”

“And he is going to bring you, mother, a beautiful tortoise shell
snuff-box.”

“And what is he going to bring you, my darling?” said her father.

“I told him I would not have any thing.”

“And what did he say to you, dear?” asked her mother.

“Here comes old Mary to call us to tea,” said Judith, glad to dispose of
the interrogatory in so propitious a manner.

Could you have seen Captain Stimpson at his well-furnished board, you
would have been at no loss to account for his rotundity. Judith
presided, with her father and mother on the side at her left hand, old
grandsir Stimpson, in his arm-chair, at her right, and Mr. Solomon
Tarbox, the foreman of the rope-walk, on the fourth side, opposite to
her. A small, japanned tea-tray was placed before her, upon which were
ranged the tea-cups of burnt china, about the size of egg-shells, with
saucers to match, a silver sugar-dish and cream-pitcher, but little
larger than those which would grace a child’s baby-house at the present
day, and two shining black tea-pots, each holding about a pint, one
filled with the best bohea and the other with boiling water.

A pewter tankard, filled with small-beer of Mrs. Stimpson’s own brewing,
was placed at her husband’s right hand; it being a beverage of which he
was fond, not being able to bring himself to like the new-fangled
wishy-washy stuff called tea. Before grandsir was placed a small mug of
peppermint-tea, which the old gentleman thought more healthful. A
lobster in his scarlet suit occupied the centre of the table; flanked on
one side by a parallelogram of smoked salmon, six inches by seven; on
the other by a dish of cold baked beans. A plate of white bread and
another of brown, half an oblate spheroid of butter, and a truncated
cone of Dutch cheese found a place on the table; and to crown all, a
dish of miracles, a kind of cake much in vogue in those days, and not
differing materially from the crullers of New York, being the same,
under a different name, with the Massachusetts dough-nuts of more modern
date, excepting that the dough was formed into grotesque figures,
displaying the fancy of the compounder to great advantage. In this
article Judith particularly excelled, few possessing either her taste or
fancy.

The old grandsir, in his white linen cap, pushed a little back from his
furrowed brow, with clasped hands, and in a tremulous voice, asked a
blessing; to which his son responded with an audible amen, followed by
his usual h-m-gh. Judith commenced the operation of pouring out the tea,
first ascertaining that her grandfather’s peppermint was to his taste,
and being commended by him for having his little slip of salt fish
broiled to a nicety; for notwithstanding the usual abundance of his
son’s table, the good man always chose to have something prepared
exclusively for himself. Judith handed the tea with a natural grace,
equaling any elegance acquired at a modern boarding-school.

Her father, after seeing that all were well supplied with the good
things on his table, took up his pewter tankard, and with a respectful
nod to the old gentleman said, “Father, my sarvice to you; Miss
Stimpson, my sarvice; sarvice, sarvice,” nodding to Judith and Mr.
Tarbox; then applying the vessel to his lips, he took a long and
apparently a very refreshing draught. Judith, though a beauty and a
heroine, despised not the vulgar enjoyments of eating and drinking, but
valued them as social pleasures.

After ample justice being done to the meal by all parties, Captain
Stimpson and Mr. Tarbox went off to the rope-walk. Grandsir, removing
his chair to a window, where the afternoon breeze blew in refreshingly,
and placing his Bible, his favorite companion, on his knees, was soon in
a gentle slumber; his head thrown back on his comfortable chair, and his
hands folded on the pages of the sacred volume before him, opened at his
favorite last of Revelations. Mrs. Stimpson, taking up her
knitting-work, sat herself down by the side of the table, to superintend
the clearing away of the tea-things. She followed Judith with her fond
eyes, as the little maiden tripped lightly about in her neat, speckled
apron, putting every thing in its place in the most housewifely manner,
and directing old Mary in an affectionate and cheerful tone of voice.

She put away the tea-things in their accustomed places, in the little
buffet with glass-doors, at the corner of the room, in which three
mandarins of china were conspicuous, one on the middle projection of
each shelf: then seating herself down at the window, she began to ply
her needle in the embroidering of various figures in fine cat-gut to
imitate lace; a kind of ladies’ work as much in vogue in those days as
the worsted and crochet-work has been in our day.

Captain Stimpson soon joined them with his pipe, but their conversation
was interrupted by a gentle rap at the tea-room door, and on the
captain’s opening it, George Fayerweather appeared, with a lame excuse
for so soon repeating his visit. He was cordially received by the
captain, who invited him to sit down, which he immediately did, in such
a manner as to occupy the whole width of a window in the front parlor,
to which the family now all adjourned; grandsir rousing and going with
them, as he loved to doze by the sound of his children’s voices. The
evening being fairly set in, a light was brought by old Mary; but being
placed in a little cupboard, the door of which was nearly closed, the
rest of the room was left in obscurity.

The little party remained for some time almost in silence; the coolness
of the hour, after the heat of the day, bringing to each a sense of
tranquil enjoyment, which none felt disposed to interrupt by
conversation. It is in such moments, that throwing off the cares of
life, and forgetting its sorrows and disappointments, in the presence of
those best loved, one feels possessed of a treasure of happiness—though
the hoard maybe small—which wholly fills the mind and satisfies the
wishes. “The heart” does not “distrustful ask if this be joy,” secure in
the sober certainty. These are the moments, which, in their flight, mark
their traces most deeply in the memory, over which we brood as a miser
over his gold, and which, when past never to return, leave the heart
most desolate.

The beauty of the evening drew many from their dwellings to enjoy it in
the open air, and others whom thrift or need forbade to suspend longer
their occupations, resumed them with fresh vigor—a murmur of voices,
mingled with other sounds of busy life, softened and blended by
distance, found its way into the open windows of the apartment.

At intervals, a faint and distant strain of music was heard, at first
scarcely perceptible, and which each one might have attributed to
imagination as it occasioned no remark; but on the breeze freshening the
sounds drew nearer, and at length a strange and beautiful melody was
poured forth, melancholy though delicious, which drew an exclamation of
surprise and delight from the whole party.

“Oh, what is it!” exclaimed Judith; “what can it be, and where does it
come from?” as a sensation almost amounting to superstition stole over
her.

“It sounds,” said the father, “almost like the music which I’ve heard
many a time, when I was before the mast, from some of the big churches
in foreign parts, as it came over the water, whilst I kept watch on deck
of a moonlight night, when the vessel was near port.”

Here the old gentleman arousing, cried out, “I’ve been asleep, I
declare—what a beautiful dream I’ve had. I dreamed I was in the New
Jerusalem, and was walking by the side of the river, where was the Tree
of Life, with twelve manner of fruits hanging from its branches. I heard
the angels with their golden harps—though somehow I couldn’t see
them—why, there it is again!”

Here a swell of wild harmony filled the room, prolonged and varied for a
moment, and dying away in a low wail. Judith felt her eyes fill with
tears as the strain ceased, and looking in the direction where George
was sitting, exclaimed, “Oh, it comes from that window! I know it does!
I thought so all the time.”

George now spoke—“Well, come let us see if we can find it.”

On her approach, as he sought her hand to draw her to the window, she
drew back, saying she must get the light; on bringing which, a long,
slender box of polished wood was discovered, filling the space in the
window, which was opened just wide enough to admit it. The sounds were
now found to proceed from strings stretched across its upper surface,
(which was carved and gilded,) and fastened at each end by pegs of ivory
and brass. The delighted girl asked in wonder—

“What is it? Where did it come from? Whose is it?”

The latter of which interrogatories George answered by pointing to her
name carved at full length at one end, his own initials, in very small
characters, appearing beneath.

“It is an Eolian harp,” he said, “it is played upon by the winds, and is
a little conjuror—if you should happen to have an acquaintance at
sea”—here he looked full in her blushing face with an expression of
much feeling, his voice slightly trembling—“and should care to know any
thing how he fared, put the harp in the window, and the winds will waft
the intelligence across the ocean, and as the strains are in harmony or
in discord you may judge of his welfare.”

She replied—“Oh, how much I thank you for it. But I am sure I should
not forget you without it—oh, I am sure I should not,” she added, in a
lower tone.

He then seized her scissors, which hung at her side by its silver chain,
and looking into her face for permission, separated a silken ringlet
from her head, and, folding it carefully, placed it in his bosom, then,
the evening being somewhat advanced, he took his leave.

When the point of George’s going to sea was first settled, his mother’s
lamentations were loud and deep; but at length, when the voyage was
engaged, and the time drew near for his departure, as was usual with her
when an evil was unavoidable, she bore it as well as any one could, and
busied herself with alacrity in his equipments. She made great
complaints that he could be allowed but one sea-chest; in which,
however, she managed to find room for two plum-puddings, half a dozen
minced pies, and a roast-turkey, that he might at least keep
Thanksgiving, which was near at hand, if not Christmas, on board the
vessel.

On the day before he was to sail, a new idea seemed to strike her. She
called Mrs. Wendell, who was present and assisting, as usual, when any
thing extraordinary was going on in her aunt’s family; and they both
went again to the chest. It had been packed and repacked six times
already; but with Amy’s assistance, a closely-folded pile of sea-clothes
was once more taken out, and by still closer packing, and a different
arrangement, room was made for an oblong pasteboard box. She then went
to the high chest of drawers of black mahogany, which stood in frowning
majesty in her chamber, and was taking out an article laid with great
care in one of the drawers, when her husband, who had thought all was
finished, entered to see what more she had found to do.

“High! high! what are you doing with my best cravat with the Brussels
lace?” he cried.

“La, Mr. Fayerweather, my dear, you know you never wear it only on great
occasions—such as a wedding or so; and there is nobody to be married
now, before George comes home. I am going to let him have it, for
there’s no time to send to Boston for any; and if any thing should
happen, you shall have my best set of lace, which is handsomer than
this.”

“I don’t know that; but what upon earth can George do with a Brussels’
laced cravat at sea?”

“Oh, my dear, when he’s in London, you know, he may be invited to dine
with the king; and I should want to have him dressed suitably.”

“To dine with the king!” cried Mr. Fayerweather, shouting with laughter;
“what could have put such an idea into your head?”

Madam was quite offended, and said with great dignity, “Phillis Wheatly
drank tea with the queen and I am sure, I do not see why our son may not
be invited to dine with the king.”

“Oh, well, my dear, I ask your pardon; let George have the cravat, by
all means; and you had better let him have my blue-satin waistcoat,
laced with silver, to wear also, when he dines with his majesty,” said
Mr. Fayerweather, turning away to hide a good-natured smile.

“Why, I was thinking of that, but we can’t find room for it in the
chest; and I suppose he may find one ready made in London.”

This weighty affair settled, and the chest packed again for the seventh
and last time, it was locked to go on board the vessel.

The morning came, the wind was fair, and the young sailor took his way
to the wharf. “Good-bye, Cousin Amie!” he cried, to Mrs. Wendell, who
was waiting at her door to shake hands with him; “when I go up the
Straits, I’ll get you the handsomest brocade that was ever seen in
Salem.”

In a few weeks after George’s departure, which time passed gloomily away
with his family, Madam Brinley, a sister of Mrs. Fayerweather, came to
Salem, and moved into the large house, opposite the Fayerweather
mansion, which was a joyful event to Madam. The two sisters bore a
strong resemblance to each other in features, with some shades of
difference in character. Madam Brinley was a few years the elder; her
nose might have been a little more pointed, and, perhaps, her temper
rather sharper; then she was more worldly, and took more state upon
herself. She was a widow of about ten years standing, with a handsome
estate. Having lost several children in infancy, she had remaining only
two daughters. Molly, the then fashionable cognomen for Mary, was then
just fifteen, and Lizzy, two years younger. The three families residing
so near together, made the winter a more pleasant one to the little
neighborhood—George’s absence furnishing a subject of joyful
anticipation in his return.

Early the next spring an important personage made his appearance in
Paved Street—no less than a son to Mr. Wendell. He was, as is generally
the case with the first, the wonder of the age. Madam Fayerweather
declared, “He was the beautifullest baby that ever was seen.” Madam
Brinley said, “It was certainly a remarkably fine infant;” while Mr.
Fayerweather declared it was the exact counterpart of all the babies he
ever saw. I am sorry to say that Mr. Wendell did not comport himself
with all the dignity to be expected from his new character; for he only
laughed as if he would kill himself, whenever his son was presented to
him; but could not be prevailed upon by any means, to take it into his
arms, for fear of its falling to pieces; to the great scandal of the
little wizened old woman from Marblehead, in whose lap it usually lay,
its long robes touching the floor; she averred, “It was a sin and a
shame that its sir wouldn’t take to it more, when it was as much like
him as two peas in a pod—it was the most knowinist and the most
remarkablest baby ever she seed in her baarn days.”

When the young gentleman was in its fourth week, his mother, according
to custom, received visitors in her chamber. In these visits, scarcely
less state was observed than in those to the bride; but matrons and
elderly ladies were alone privileged to make them. If any young damsel
had the hardihood to make her appearance within the sacred precincts,
though under shelter of her mother’s wing, she was immediately
pronounced as cut out for an old maid—and the oracle seldom failed of
fulfillment.

The first day on which Mrs. Wendell sat up for company, when she was
just attired in a handsome undress, made expressly for the occasion, and
was seated in state in her easy chair, while nurse was preparing the
baby to display him to the best advantage, Scipio thrust in his black
head at the door with a “He! ho! he! Missy Amy, Scip’ got suthen for de
picaninny.” Here Madam Fayerweather’s voice was heard reproving him for
going before her, when the door was thrown open, and in she came with
Scipio after her, bearing a beautiful wicker cradle, lined with white
satin. Madam unfolded the cradle-quilt with great pomp and circumstance;
and now the grand secret came out—Amy’s wondering eyes beheld the great
work—the very work! which had employed all her aunt’s moments of
leisure for upward of three years.

It was composed of pieces of silk of every pattern that had been worn in
the family for two generations, and cut into every form which Madam’s
imagination could devise, or her scissors shape. There were squares,
triangles, and hexagons; there were stripes perpendicular, horizontal,
and diagonal, with stars, double and single; of brocade, watered tabby,
paduasoy, damask, satin, and velvet; in short, it was a very grand
affair. After having sufficiently enjoyed her niece’s surprise and
pleasure, the happy and triumphant aunt took her grand-nephew from his
nurse, and laid him on his new couch, then placed the quilt over him,
turned down at the head, to display the lining of pink sarsnet; and
being quite satisfied with the additional splendor which the _tout
ensemble_ gave to the apartment, she took the baby up again, (he was
fortunately a very quiet one,) and put him into the lap of his nurse,
until visitors should be heard coming, when he was to be reinstated in
all the magnificence of his luxurious cradle. He was christened the next
Sunday at church. Mr. Fayerweather having consented to stand as one of
the godfathers, Madam, feeling some qualms of conscience, sent to Boston
privately for a very rich lace, to replace the one which she had
abstracted for George.

The succeeding summer they received two letters from George; both
written in high spirits, and discovering a degree of intelligence and
good sense which highly gratified his father. That same season, John,
the younger son, entered college. Being of bright parts and fond of
study, he bade fair to realize all the expectations his father had
formed for his brother.

Dark November came again, with its naked trees and sad-colored skies.
This gloomy month, in which the inhabitants of _old_ England are said to
be most prone to hang themselves, the Puritan fathers of New England,
with greater wisdom, enlivened by the only festival they ever
instituted—Thanksgiving. On this occasion, after offering up solemn
thanks in public to the bountiful Hand, “who had crowned the year with
his goodness,” with all the scattered branches of their families
gathered under the patriarchal roof, they indulged in
Thanksgiving-dinner—the only approach they ever made to
merry-making—an abundant feast of every good thing the seasons had
afforded; imparting to the poor a liberal portion. It is to be
regretted, that abuses, in time, crept in, in the train of this—it
might otherwise be truly called—sacred festival—that cruel sports
became connected with its celebration, which have since continued almost
to form a part of it. It is like associating the bloody rites of
paganism with our most pure and holy worship.

On the Thanksgiving of this year, a family-party was collected at Mr.
Fayerweather’s, with the addition of the Episcopal clergyman, Mr.
McGregor, the family physician, Dr. Holly, and one or two other friends.
In the evening, the accustomed game of Blind Man’s Buff was called for,
in which no one was privileged to refuse joining. George’s absence was
now loudly lamented, but he was not expected until Christmas. Much
merriment and noise, however, succeeded. The good clergyman, an Oxford
scholar, and a deep and sound divine, who always went into company ready
prepared with a particular subject to debate upon, with all his weapons
sharpened for the contest; and who had at length succeeded in engaging
Mr. Wendell in a grave discussion on some knotty point in divinity, was
obliged to break off, just as he had established the premises to an
important conclusion. He joined in the “mad game” with a very bad grace,
but by degrees, warming with the sport, he enjoyed it the most of the
party, and shouted the loudest when Mr. Fayerweather, on being caught by
Lizzy Brinley, left his wig in her hand, and escaped with his bare poll.

Dr. Holly, who loved sport better than his life, on being caught and
blindfolded, managed, by a little cheating, to catch Madam Fayerweather,
to her unfeigned astonishment. At this juncture, Flora tripped lightly
into the room, and whispered to her master, who immediately followed her
out, when Vi’let, in a flaming red gown, popped in her head for a moment
with a most remarkable expression of countenance. As she closed the door
softly, she gave a significant nod to the company, to let them know she
was in possession of a great secret.

Mr. Fayerweather a moment after returned, bringing in with him a tall
stranger, and made signs to the company to take no notice of the
interruption. All passed so silently that Madam did not perceive either
the going out or the returning, but continued to sail round the room in
her green damask, without being able to catch any one. At length her
husband thrust the tall stranger in her way, whom she caught amidst
shouts of laughter, succeeded by deep silence, while she was naming him.
All eyes were fixed on the stranger with different expressions, which we
will not attempt to describe.

Madam cried out, “Well, I’ve caught somebody at last!—who upon earth is
it! John, it’s you, I know; you are standing on something to deceive me,
you saucy boy.”

Here she felt the clustering curls of the stranger’s head—John’s hair
was straight, and all the other masculine heads in company wore
peruques—when reminiscences of earlier days seemed suddenly to strike
her, and she threw off her blinder, bringing with it fly-cap and
lappets, and exclaiming with a shriek—“Can it be George!”

George, indeed, it was; standing six feet one inch in his shoes. We
would describe, if we could, what is indescribable, but which may easily
be imagined—the exclamations—the shakes of the hand—the
congratulations which followed. After the parents of the newly arrived
son had sufficiently admired him, and had expended their stock of
wondering expressions at his growth, the rest of the party took their
turn, inwardly deciding in their own minds that he was the finest
looking fellow they had ever seen. He was, in truth, a noble specimen of
manhood; but his curling hair, the overflowing and almost child-like
good-humor—the fun, which shone in his full blue eye, and extended his
somewhat large mouth and full lips, displaying his brilliantly white
teeth, seemed to bespeak him still the boy, despite his giant frame, and
the brown tinge which darkened his cheek. The salutations over, the
company very considerately took their leave, excepting George’s
relatives, who lingered a few moments after the rest to welcome him home
again, and to bid him more affectionate adieus.

During breakfast, next morning, the young mariner related his
adventures, and the wonders he had beheld in foreign parts; from the
first whale he saw, which awoke out of a comfortable afternoon’s nap,
just after they had passed “the Banks,” and which, lazily yawning,
opened its huge jaws and then closed them again, spouting water as high
as the top-gallant mast, to Stromboli, spouting fire for the express
entertainment of sailors on a dark night, as they neared the coast of
Sicily. Not omitting the Tower of London, where he had held his head in
the lion’s mouth for full five minutes.

“You naughty, wicked boy!” exclaimed his mother, almost breathless with
terror; “I really believe I should have been tempted to box your ears.
Did you ever hear any thing like it, Amy?” The latter during the recital
having quietly slipped in, and taken her seat at the table. “Mr. Wendell
being obliged to go away by daylight, and the baby not having yet
awakened.”

George made no reply, but continued his narrative, eating lump after
lump of sugar out of the basin, and escaping the rap over the knuckles,
which he would once have had. Then the Cross of St. Paul’s—on the right
arm of which he had stood upon one leg, whilst Dick did the same on the
left, shaking hands together over the top.

John, who had been listening in silent wonder and delight, at this
climax clapped his brother on the shoulder in an ecstasy.

“It is a pity you hadn’t both broken your necks,” exclaimed Mrs.
Wendell, in indignation. “What upon earth did you play such pranks for?”

Mr. Fayerweather wore his comical look.

“Why, now, cousin—when I’ve brought you home such a beautiful gown—a
rich yellow calamanco, the brightest there was in the shop. Dick went
with me on purpose to help me choose it.”

“Where’s the brocade you promised me, you scapegrace?”

“Why, I’m sorry, but I forgot all about it until I came back to London;
but I thought being an old married woman now, a nice calamanco would do
as well.”

This turn in the conversation changed the current of his mother’s
thoughts, and she wished to see the rarities he had brought home. In her
impatience, before her husband had half-finished his second cup of
coffee, she ordered—I am wrong. The perogative of ordering the servants
in this family, Vi’let allowed to none but herself—she desired Scipio
to bring in the ponderous sea-chest, the weight of which was a
sufficient excuse for the appearance of the other three, each bearing a
corner. Aunt Vi’let indulgently making allowances for the curiosity of
Flora and Peter, and telling them, patronizingly, “to bear a hand.”
Madam and her niece, full of eager expectation, seated themselves on the
floor beside the chest, both ready to dive into its deepest recesses,
the moment it should be opened.

The first thing which presented itself to view, was a red worsted cap
with a famous red tassel. This George threw to Scipio, telling him, it
was for him. It was received with a grin from ear to ear.

“Tank you, massa, now Scip got suthen to put on his head nex ’lection.
Primus shan’t be king no longer. Scip king heself! He! he! he!”

The others withdrew, they having too much of the pride of the family to
be willing to have it supposed they were expecting there was any thing
for them. Scipio not being able to restrain his impatience to try on his
new finery, pulled it on as he went into the kitchen, exclaiming—

“It fits dizackly!” and in his exultation at the favor shown himself,
losing his awe of Vi’let, appealed to her, without her usual title of
respect, “if it wasn’t mighty becoming?”

At which, with some indignation, she told him—“He looked like a black
monkey with that red cap on his head, and that great thing jigging up
and down behind,” betraying some of the infirmity of human nature, at
the preference shown her rival.

Mrs. Wendell now pounced upon a package of some size, and opening it,
cried—

“Oh, here’s my yellow calamanco; well, it’s really a beauty! Nobody
could tell it from a rich satin! I’ll have it made up for
Christmas—it’s full handsome enough, aunt, isn’t it? I’m sure, I am
much obliged to you, George.”

“Stop, cousin,” said he, taking it from her, “upon second thoughts, I
cannot let you have that—I remember now, I bought it for Aunt Vi’let.”

Aunt Vi’let was called in, the others following in her wake, and the
present unfolded before her admiring eyes. Her usually grim features
were softened into benignity at the sight.

“That aint for me, Misser George! Well, it is a parfec’ speck, I
’clare!”

She could say no more. Her vocabulary, rich in epithets of vituperation
only, was soon exhausted, when drawn upon for expressions of
satisfaction. Her pleasure was shown in silence. A gay Madras
handkerchief for the head was given to Flora, who received it with a
modest curtsey, and displaying a row of ivory, and a dimple which many a
fairer belle might have envied. On Peter’s looking rather solemn at
thinking himself forgotten, his young master told him that his present
had not come up from the vessel yet, he had brought him a fine parrot,
which could talk nearly as well as himself; at which Peter’s joy knew no
bounds. He capered about the room, regardless where he was, and in whose
presence, until brought to his senses by a smart rap upon the head by
Vi’let, with—

“Please to walk off into the kitchen, sir, till you can larn to ’have
yeself.” Off went Peter, Vi’let and Flora following, each with her
present tucked under her arm.

George now brought from under a pile of other things a large roll,
carefully wrapped in several covers. He put it into Mrs. Wendell’s hand.

“There, cousin, I’ve brought you something, but I’m afraid you will not
like it so well as the yellow calamanco.”

Mrs. Wendell took the roll, and with her aunt’s assistance removed
wrapper after wrapper. When the last was off, the wrong side of some
fabric appeared, presenting a brown surface, without lustre, on which
were seen rows of floss silk of various gay colors, lying without any
apparent order. The right side drew an exclamation of admiration from
both aunt and niece, for never had eyes in Salem, beheld a brocade so
magnificent. The figure was a gigantic crimson peony, and a bunch of
cherries alternately, each with its appropriate green leaves; on a
ground of lustrous chocolate colored satin, firm and thick as leather.

“Oh, George!” his cousin exclaimed, “how could you have brought such a
silk for me! I had no idea you were in earnest—how much it must have
cost! (looking at her uncle.) I really cannot take it.”

“Oh! if you do not like it, you can let Mr. Wendell have it for a _robe
de chambre_.”

“Take it, Amy,” interrupted his father. “I am glad he has shown so good
a taste.”

“Yes,” added her aunt, “he has only done just what we could have wished;
remember you are our only daughter, and Mr. Wendell is like another son
to us.”

Amy did not attempt to reply, but laid the rich present aside,
carefully. A black case of dog-fish skin of peculiar form was now
brought forth. Mr. Fayerweather seized upon this, and undoing the little
hooks which served as fastenings, opened it, and displayed a gold watch
with its chain and seals, all richly chased, luxuriously reposing on
crimson velvet.

“You gave Haliburton my letter then,” he said, as he took the measure of
old Time from its bed, and examined the whole carefully. Then appearing
to be satisfied with the workmanship, he wound up the watch, and
fastening its large golden hook into the binding of madam’s apron, it
hung at her side, on its chain, loaded with rich seals, and ticked away
merrily, as if wonderfully refreshed by its long nap, and in liable to
show off with its new mistress.

She, finding the costly present really for herself, expressed her
gratification, though with glistening eyes, in the quiet way which best
pleased her husband. George then rapped his brother over the head with a
silver-mounted flute. His father finding that all had had their
presents, then asked him if he brought nothing for _him_.

“I have something here, sir, which Mr. Haliburton said, he thought would
be valuable to you.”

All looked in eager expectation, when George diving with his hand down
to the very bottom of the chest, and bringing up something, which in its
egress turned topsy turvy check-shirts, trowsers, pea-jackets, etc.,
etc. It was a stout oaken staff, which he put into his father’s hand.
The latter bore quietly the merriment which succeeded; though madam
could not forbear expressing some indignation, at what she took almost
as an insult from their old friend to her husband, who, moving the huge
baton slowly through his fingers, appeared to be examining closely the
grain of the wood for some time in silence.

“Haliburton judged right,” at length he said; “there are few things I
should have valued so much. This staff came from Narley Wood, the old
family estate in Leicestershire, and was cut from an oak planted by my
great grandfather’s own hand. (He pointed to some letters rudely cut in
the wood.) Wendell shall have my gold-headed cane. I shall never carry
any but this in future.”

Mrs. Wendell was beginning to speak, when a violent uproar was heard
from the precincts of the kitchen, in which the yelping of a dog and the
screams of a cat predominated. It drew near, and the door burst open
suddenly, when in rushed a large black and white dog, yelling fearfully,
as if in the extremity of pain and terror, with old tabby on his back,
her tail erect, and looking like the cylindrical brush used in these
latter days to clear stove-pipes, her talons apparently dug deep into
his skin; while Vi’let followed, belaboring him with a broom-handle.
Leaping over the chest, he made his way to George, on whose knees he
laid his head, whining piteously.

“Why, Jaco! how did you find your way here? I left you in the
vessel—poor fellow,” said George. The dog was released from his feline
foe by Vi’let, when she found to whom he belonged. He then leaped upon
his master, with strenuous endeavors to lick his face, and made other
extravagant demonstrations of joy at finding him.

George then mentioned that he had bought him in Italy, of a person who
kept him to show off in the celebrated Grotto del cane.

“I had no great curiosity to see the poor devil die and come to life
again, so I tried to beg him off. His master only laughed, and was
forcing him into the cave by blows, when he seemed to have understood
what I said, for he made out to clear himself, and came and fawned on
me. After this, I could not help taking him under my protection, so I
persuaded the rascal to sell him to me.”

“It would have been more like you to have knocked the fellow down, and
taken the dog away in spite of him,” said his father. “I am glad you
have learned a little prudence. What did you call him? Jaco.”

“That’s the name the sailors called him; it is a corruption they made of
his Italian name, Cicco, meaning blind—he’s blind of one eye. He’s a
good fellow, though no great beauty.”

“Poor fellow!” said madam, patting him, “he must be hungry. John, my
dear—do ask Vi’let to give him something to eat.”

John immediately disappeared, and soon returned bringing in nearly half
the contents of Vi’let’s larder, when all gathered round to see Jaco
eat; Mrs. Wendell for the time forgetting the baby at home. Poor Jaco,
forgetting his first rough reception, thought he was in Elysium, having
doubtless heard of such a blissful region in the classic land of his
nativity, and in his poor silly brain, not conceiving it could be
appropriated to one species only of created beings, and that, the
remorseless tyrant of all the others. He stuffed till he could scarcely
see out of his remaining eye; then laying himself down at his master’s
feet, “the sober certainty of waking bliss” was soon lost in a
comfortable nap.

After a short time, George went out to see some of his numerous friends.
He made a call at his Aunt Brinley’s, and laughed and jested with his
cousins; he then shaped his course to Neptune street, where he made so
long a stay that dinner had been ready to put on the table some time
before he came home. Whom he could have gone to see it is not easy to
conjecture; not his friend Dick, for the latter had called twice to see
him during his absence. Where-ever he might have been, he came home in
high good-humor.

Seeing his brother, who was watching for him at the gate, he stooped and
took him, passive and unresisting, on his arm, as a nurse would a child
of a year old, and carried him into the house. Peter was bringing in
dinner as he opened the door, and his mother had already taken her seat
at table. He then went up to his father, who had not yet risen from his
seat by the fire, slipped softly behind him, and seizing the chair on
which Mr. Fayerweather was sitting, by the two arms, he said, “By your
leave, sir,” and holding the chair out at arm’s length, he described
with it a semi-circle, himself the centre, which brought his father
directly before the smoking sirloin. He then stood at his own place at
table while Mr. Fayerweather asked the blessing. The remainder of the
day George passed by the fireside, making his mother laugh and scold
alternately, as he related the pranks of Dick and himself on board the
vessel, as well as on shore.

This winter George remained at home, and managed to pass away the time
in making the model of a fine ship he had seen at Deptford; a little
mathematics with John during the college vacation, but more skating; and
occasionally a sleigh-ride with his aunt and cousins, with whom he was a
great favorite. Molly had arrived at an age to be admitted to the
assemblies, and was the acknowledged belle of the season; she, moreover,
had made a decided impression on Sir Harland Hartley, a young baronet
who had arrived in Boston with some dispatches the previous year, and
was visiting Salem.

The next spring young Fayerweather and his friend Seaward again set
sail. With intervals of a month or two between, they made several
succeeding voyages together; during one of which, their vessel was
captured by a French privateer, part of the crew taken out, and a French
captain and crew, nearly double their own remaining number, put on
board. This event gave the two young men the glorious occasion they had
long desired, for displaying their courage and prowess, which until then
had been wasted or thrown away in feats of strength or hardihood to
excite the wonder of the bystanders. With their little band they rose
upon their captors, and succeeded in retaking their vessel, which they
carried in triumph to its destined British port. Their promotion
followed of course, and each returned home master of a fine merchantman.

George’s engagement with Judith Stimpson took place soon after,
naturally occasioning some dissatisfaction to his family on account of
her plebeian origin; this, however, soon wore off, or was conquered by
the sweetness of the fair young girl, who soon gained so entirely upon
Madam Fayerweather’s affections, that she declared, “She could not have
loved Judith better if she had been the daughter of King George
himself;” which was saying much, for madam prided herself on her
loyalty.

Sir Harland Hartley was now the declared suitor of Molly Brinley, and
great preparations were making for the wedding. The baronet, being
anxious to return to Quebec as soon as possible, in order to present his
bride to some of his near connections, who were soon to embark for
England, could not remain in Salem long enough for the three weeks’
sitting up for company. In this dilemma Madam Brinley concluded, after
several long and deep consultations with her sister and niece, to make a
great wedding, to be followed by a ball and supper, and to invite all
the Salem world, with the court which was then sitting, and the _élite_
of Boston.

The preparations for this grand event occupied the heads and hands of
all the female part of the three families for ten days. Aunt Vi’let
being great in the roasting line, was a very important personage, and
the whole direction of this department was given to her, she felt her
consequence accordingly.

Molly Brinley was glad to choose a bridemaid in Judith, whose beauty
would contribute to the _éclat_ of her wedding; feeling too secure in
her own charms and in Sir Harland’s devotion to her to fear a rival, and
Captain and Mrs. Stimpson were among the earliest bidden. What was the
trepidation of the latter on her own account in preparing for her first
appearance in the _beau monde_. The captain, determined to spare no
expense for his wife and daughter on so proud an occasion, took a
journey to Boston to make the necessary purchases; his taste, in dress
being unquestioned. The whole family were up by daybreak to set him off;
the expedition requiring the whole of a long day at that time, though
now the distance is traversed by the rail-cars in half an hour.

After ransacking every shop in Boston, he bought for his wife a
grass-green damask for a sack, with a bright-pink lustring for a
petticoat; these being the colors in which she had captivated him, at
the never-to-be-forgotten ordination of Parson Slocum. It may be well to
inform the reader that the sack was a dress, open before, discovering
half the petticoat, which was usually of the same material. For Judith
he chose better; a delicate buff-colored satin. This was so much admired
that Madam Brinley sent for some of the same piece for Lizzy, who was
her sister’s other bridemaid. For himself, the captain bought a full
suit of mulberry color, with a blue-satin waistcoat, magnificently
flowered with red, green and purple; and a new wig, with a bag, lately
come into fashion, he had always worn a tie.

On the day of the wedding it was thought expedient to try on their new
habiliments to see if they fitted, and how they all looked together.
Mrs. Stimpson, after surveying herself in the glass before and behind
and on each side, pleased and slightly agitated at the unwonted elegance
of her appearance, threw herself into a chair and heaving a deep sigh,
to throw off her embarrassment, said to her husband—

“Oh dear! Mr. Stimpson, we must think over a little what we shall have
to do. I suppose, when we go into the room, Judith must be on your right
hand, and I on your left—no, I must be on your right hand and Judith on
your left—”

“I think, Miss Stimpson,” said the captain, consequentially, “it will be
more becoming for me to go in first, and for you and Judith to take hold
of hands and follow me.”

“Why, no, Mr. Stimpson; that doesn’t seem to me to be the right way—it
wasn’t so at Nanny Dennis’s wedding, if I remember me rightly.”

“But, ma,” interrupted their daughter gently, “I do not think this will
be exactly like Mrs. Brayton’s wedding.”

“No more it wont,” replied her father, “and we must go and take pattern
by the others; I was always a good hand at taking a hint, and I don’t
doubt we shall appear as well as any on ’em.”

Here Mrs. Stimpson broke in with—“Oh, Judith, do think me on’t to make
a courtesy when I go in; like as not I shall forget it in my hurry. I
remember we all courtesied round at Nanny Dennis’s, we had each of us a
white rosy in our hands, and it was the beautifullest sight! But,
where’s my fan? Do run and get it Judith.”

Judith tripped out of the room to get the fan, and as she closed the
door, grandsir, who was not as usual dozing, but was listening to their
conversation, and in fact, taking considerable interest in it, spoke
out—

“I am sorry, my children, to see you are so much overtaken with the
pomps and vanities of this world; more it seems to me than that young
child, that we might expect it of. You should strive to have the
ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, and remember that pride comes
before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

“So it does, grandsir,” answered his daughter-in-law meekly, after a
moment of silence; “and I wont wear this elegant dress, but will put on
my brown paduasoy; that was always thought good enough for me.” Showing
that she had the requisite ornament, and that the Scripture he quoted
was not applicable to her.

“No, no child,” he replied quickly; “that would be disrespectful to your
husband. I suppose you will be expected to have some worthy adornments,
and I must say you become the dress.”

“That she does,” added his son, forgetting the old gentleman’s exordium
in his conclusion, “and I don’t believe there will be a more personable
woman there than Captain Robert Stimpson’s wife.”

“Oh, Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife, with recovered spirits, “do remember
to shut up Trip; if you don’t he’ll follow us to the wedding; and if I
was to see him in that room I do believe I should be mortified to
pieces.”

The evening at length arrived, and the company assembled in Madam
Brinley’s parlor, which was used on this occasion for the
reception-room. This was a fine room in the fashion of the day, and so
lofty that a reasonably tall man might walk across it with his hat on,
without fear of having it knocked off by the large beam which crossed
the centre of the ceiling. A rich Turkey carpet, betokening very high
style in those days of sanded floors, formed the centre-piece of the
room. High-backed leather-seated chairs, thickly studded with brass
nails, stood stiffly against the walls. The fireplace, ornamented with
Dutch tiles, was furnished with andirons of polished steel; and the
shovel and tongs of the same metal, seemed, as the merry blaze danced on
their bright surfaces, to cast significant glances at each other across
the hearth. A large mantel-glass surmounted the fireplace, on each side
of which hung in rich black and gold frames, the respective arms of the
Brinley and Borland families, the lady of the house belonging to the
latter. A large pier-glass hung between the two front windows, in which
each lady might survey her goodly person, and compare it with that of
her neighbor; beneath this was a slab of gray marble, with highly
ornamented iron supporters fastened into the wall. A tall, oaken desk
and book-case stood in one corner of the room, opposite to which, a
round snap-table of black mahogany, with claw feet, displayed its disc
turned down, of so remarkable a polish, that little Trip—who,
notwithstanding all his master’s care in shutting him up at home, had
managed to escape from his confinement, and had followed his mistress
into the room unperceived—on seeing his image so truly reflected, ran
up to it with great glee, sniffing and wagging his tail, delighted at
having found, as he supposed, a comrade of his own species to bear him
out in his audacity. Mrs. Stimpson turned all manner of colors, and cast
many imploring looks at her husband, who pretended to be wholly absorbed
in the contemplation of a fire-screen which stood near. On a servant’s
attempting to drive Trip out, he set up a shrill bark, and ran on his
little bow-legs, with his feet turned out, to his mistress for
protection; jumped into her lap—on her very pink lustring
petticoat—and, putting his black paws on her shoulders, began whining
and licking her face with great affection. On seeing which, John
Fayerweather took his little four-footed acquaintance in his arms, and
put him in a place of safety; while Captain Stimpson electrified the
company by a more than usually sonorous h-m-gh.

Madam Brinley in crimson velvet, and looking finely, occupied a large
arm-chair, curiously carved, on one side the fireplace. Madam
Fayerweather, in a beautiful white-grounded brocade, and looking as if
she was wishing every body joy, was on her right. Next to her sat Mrs.
Wendell, plainly, though handsomely dressed. She could boast of but
little beauty, excepting a pair of fine eyes, beaming with intellect and
benevolence; her wit and fine sense, however, rendered her the centre of
attraction at every party.

Mrs. Stimpson had the honor of sitting next Madam Brinley on the left,
her husband as near her as possible, as if for mutual protection. The
other guests stationed themselves with great exactness, according to
their rank and affinity to the hostess.

The bridal party entered. The bride, a sparkling brunette, with an
exquisite figure, was arrayed in a sack of white brocade, embroidered
with large silver-flowers; a necklace of oriental pearl encircled her
throat, and pendants of the same hung from her ears. Her hair combed
back from her beautiful forehead, was turned over a cushion on the top
of her head, where it was confined by a diamond bodkin, falling from the
back of her head in glossy ringlets, whose jetty hue contrasted finely
with her white neck. Altogether she was as fair a bride as one would
wish to see.

The bridegroom, a handsome man of two and thirty, appeared to be fully
sensible of his importance, at the same time to be sufficiently enamored
of his bride, and to applaud himself on the taste he had displayed in
his choice. The fair bridemaids “looked sweetly” in their buff-colored
satins, with aprons of Brussels’ lace, and triple ruffle cuffs of the
same. The groomsmen were Mr. Lindsey, a gay young Englishman, and George
Fayerweather. The latter, from his stature and noble proportions, was
the most conspicuous figure in the assemblage; towering over every other
by at least three inches. He was in a coat of light-blue, with
under-garments of white silk. His countenance was an expansion of all
the good-humor and happiness of his mother’s, with a dash of fun and
frolic, under which might be detected traces of thought and deep
feeling. John, “a pale, intellectual-looking student,” was too reserved
and diffident to become an actor in the scene, but sat retired, and
observed every thing going on in quiet enjoyment, admiring Judith nearly
as much as his brother.

The solemn ceremony, which was very impressively performed by Mr.
McGregor, being over and the cake cut and distributed, arrangements were
made by the master-of-ceremonies, Mr. Wendell, for the ball. The door
being thrown open, the company were ushered into the dancing-room,
brilliantly lighted up for the occasion. After a short pause, Mr.
Wendell called upon the governor to lead out the bride for the opening
minuet, which was danced in a very gubernatorial and bridal manner. The
bridegroom and Madam Brinley followed, and then Judge Wentworth of
Boston and Madam Fayerweather, who was still celebrated for her minuet.
Her husband never danced, and Mr. Wendell then called out Captain
Fayerweather and Miss Stimpson, though scarcely expecting that Judith
would be prevailed upon to dance.

To his surprise, after a little hesitation, with a smile and a blush,
she rose, and as her partner led her to the head of the room, an
involuntary murmur of admiration ran round the assembly—for never had a
pair appeared of more singular beauty. They stood side by side, while
the accustomed prelude was played, the blue and white of his habit,
contrasting beautifully with the color of hers, as did his stately
figure with hers of bird-like lightness; she extended her dress to its
greatest width in her delicate fingers; she cast a timid glance around
the room, he one of manly greeting, her little foot slid to the right,
and she made a low and graceful courtsey, while his tall figure was
bending to the floor in perfect time to the measure, in this salute to
the company. Then rising slowly, they stood for a moment with one foot
in advance, awaiting the proper signal from the music, when they turned,
and he, with sparkling eyes, and she, with the delicate bloom on her
cheek heightened to a rose, made a like lowly reverence to each other.
Then, as the pair became animated with the music, and they floated round
the room, now advancing now receding, in their magic evolutions crossing
and re-crossing, their graceful forms rising and falling in measured
waves to the time—all their attitudes, and all their motions of
elegance and delicacy combined; they might have seemed some fair beings
of another sphere, weaving a mystic spell to drive afar all sorrow. This
was the old-fashioned minuet. How has its place been supplied in the
ball-room, by the waltz and its varieties, the mazurka, the polka, etc.

What were Judith’s father and mother doing all the while? Entirely
forgetting the rest of the company, and following their daughter with
their eyes, Captain Stimpson, with his lips firmly compressed, moved his
head from side to side in time to the music, or rather with involuntary
imitation of Judith’s motions.

“Did you ever! Mr. Stimpson,” said his wife, in an irrepressible
ecstasy, as Judith slowly glided through a peculiarly beautiful part of
the figure.

“I sartainly never did,” said the captain, drawing in a very long
breath.

“But, after all,” rejoined Mrs. Stimpson, “she has the same solemn eyes
of my poor, dear mother; and it seems to me more so than ever to-night.”

“Look like her grandmother!” said her husband, with strong emphasis;
“she looks more like a bird of paradise, such as I’ve seen in Ingee.
That yaller satin becomes her most remarkably; she sartainly is the
comeliest person that ever I clapped my eyes on.”

Here Madam Fayerweather joined them, and laying her hand impressively on
the arm of Mrs. Stimpson, interrupted them as she pointed to Judith,
“She’s the prettiest, the dearest creature that ever was seen, and as
good as she is pretty;” and as the object of her encomiums came up to
them with glowing cheeks, the minuet being finished, Madam could not
refrain from kissing her, saying, “My dear, you did dance charmingly.”

George would willingly have made one of the group, but was called away
reluctantly by his co-adjutor, the young Englishman, who asked him with
more freedom than George approved of, “What he would take for his
bargain?” then surveying his noble figure with internal admiration, he
added, after a short pause, “Fayerweather, you are a lucky dog.”
Afterward, in the course of the evening, he managed to pay Judith so
much attention as to distress the modest girl not a little, and to give
some pain to George, whose office as groomsman, did not allow him to be
exclusively devoted to her. Mr. Lindsey manœuvered to be beforehand with
every one else in inviting her to be his partner in the country dances,
and her refusal necessarily obliging her to sit still, he took his seat
by her, and persisted in keeping it until supper was announced, when he
took her hand, which she had no pretence for refusing, and led her in
triumph to the supper-table.

Mr. Fayerweather, who had intended to perform this office himself, in
order to do particular honor to his son’s choice, felt no slight
displeasure at such presumption, with a strong disposition to make known
to Mr. Lindsey, that “he considered him an impertinent coxcomb.” He
refrained, however, and advancing toward Judith’s father and mother, he
begged to have the honor of leading _Madam_ Stimpson to the
supper-table. Madam Stimpson bridled up and looked at her husband; the
dignified frown on whose brow was contradicted by the complacent smile
which, in spite of his endeavor, lurked about his mouth; then making her
courtsey—and a very good one it was—she gave her hand to Mr.
Fayerweather; and the three proceeded in state to the supper-room—the
captain marching with head erect on the other side of his wife. It was a
proud evening for Captain Bob Stimpson.

On the whole, the wedding went off with great _éclat_. The happy pair
set off the next day for Boston, to embark for Quebec. On the following
week, Captain Fayerweather was to set sail on a two years’ voyage—on
his return from which he was to claim his bride.

On the day previous to George’s departure, he gave his father a cabinet
of ebony, curiously inlaid, and of costly and peculiar workmanship,
which a French prisoner, whose release he had been instrumental in
procuring in one of the British ports, had prevailed upon him to accept
as a token of gratitude for the service.

“Thank you, my son,” said Mr. Fayerweather, not a little gratified;
“that will be just the thing for my valuable papers, the little trunk I
keep them in is too crowded.”

“I wish you would let me have that, sir, to take with me; I always took
a fancy to it,” rejoined his son.

“You shall have it, and Judith shall have a jewel-box well filled on her
wedding-day, too.” So saying, Mr. Fayerweather ran down stairs to the
counting-room and quickly returned with the little trunk in his hand to
his own chamber, where he and his son had been communing. He sat down
panting, and remained a minute or two without speaking, with his hand on
his side.

“What’s the matter, sir, that you are so out of breath?” his son
anxiously inquired; “why didn’t you let me go for you? I didn’t know
what you left the room for.”

“Oh, it’s nothing but a slight palpitation of the heart, to which I have
been subject a little of late—it will soon go off.”

It did not go off, however, and the attack continued longer than usual;
but Mr. Fayerweather without heeding it, or suffering any indications of
it to appear before his son, proceeded to remove the papers into their
new place of deposit—and George took the little trunk into his own
possession. The day after Mr. Fayerweather felt more unwell than he was
willing to make known, wishing to spare his family any additional weight
upon their spirits, at the time of his son’s departure. After this his
attacks became more frequent and of longer duration, rendering it
impossible to conceal them any longer from Madam, who, in alarm, sent
immediately for Dr. Holly. The latter, upon inquiring into the symptoms,
and examining the pulse of his patient, looked grave. His prescriptions
were successful, however, and Mr. Fayerweather in a few weeks appeared
to be restored to his usual health.

But to return to George; his usual gay spirits deserted him as he was
taking his leave of Judith, and a depression wholly unknown to him
before seized him, as the boat which was to bear him to the vessel
appeared merrily dancing over the waves to the wharf, opposite the
window near which they were standing.

“Farewell, Judith!” said he, then adding playfully, but with a voice not
wholly free from a slight tremor, “when I return, do not let me find you
the bride of some dashing Englishman.”

“Oh, George! how can you say so?” she replied, the tears gushing into
her eyes; “how can you think I could ever be the bride of any man but
you; but if there is any truth in dreams, the one I had last night,
tells me I shall never be a bride.”

“Oh, psha upon dreams!” he said, running off to hide the tears which, in
spite of his manliness, were now streaming down his own cheeks. She saw
him spring into the boat, which she kept in sight until it reached the
vessel. Then going up to her own room, with a spy-glass she watched the
vessel as it gradually receded from view, until its tallest mast sunk
beneath the waves. She yielded to a burst of anguish, which she in vain
attempted to control, and sat for some moments sobbing, then her tears
ceased to flow, and her countenance resumed its wonted serenity; she
then went below, superintended old Mary, and prepared her grandfather’s
supper with more than usual care, her generous nature not suffering her
own private feelings to interfere with the comfort or happiness of
others.

                                           [_Conclusion in our next._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            JOY AND SORROW.


                            BY RICHARD COE.


    “I am happy, O, how happy!”
        Said a little child, one day,
        At his play,
    With his ball of twine and kite,
    That to his supreme delight,
        To the skies
        Did arise,
    Far from human sight.
    Came a sudden gust and squall,
    Gone was kite and twine and all;
        Tears were in his eyes!

    “I am happy, O, how happy!”
        Said a maiden young and fair;
        On the air,
    Scarce the words had fallen, when,
    Lo! her lover, down the glen,
        Now she sees,
        On his knees,
    Like to other men,
    Vowing love to fairer maid;
    Words she overheard he said
        That her soul did freeze!

    “I am happy, O, how happy!”
        Said a gay and laughing bride;
        By her side
    Stood the husband of her choice,
    Who did in his strength rejoice:
    Months have fled;
        O’er the dead
    Now she lifts her wailing voice!
    From her lonely pillow now
    Who may lift her pallid brow?
        Who may raise her head?

    “I am happy, O, how happy!”
        Said a mother fair and mild;
        On her child
    Gazing with her love-lit eyes—
    The sweet cherub from the skies,
        That in love,
        Like a dove,
    Strayed from Paradise:
    Lo! the angel Death, one day,
    Took her darling one away,
        Beckoning her above!

    “I am happy, O, how happy!”
        Said a Christian on his bed,
        With his head
    Turned toward the setting sun:
    “Soon my labor will be done,
        Then will I,
        With a sigh,
    To the mighty One,
    Who is e’er the Christian’s friend
    All my anxious cares commend,
        And will calmly die!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                STANZAS.


                           BY R. PENN SMITH.


    The tears of morn that steep the rose
      A zephyr soon may kiss away;
    Sporting ’midst odor to unclose
      The virgin bud to foliage gay.

    But then at eve the fragrant flower,
      Oppressed with dews, will droop—decay;
    For zephyr hath no longer power
      To kiss the dews of night away.

    Our childhood’s tears like dew-drops flow;
      A mother’s kiss soon dries the tear;
    But tears the aged shed in wo,
      Are only dried up on the bier.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             LETTY RAWDON.


                      AN EPISODE IN AMERICAN LIFE.


                          BY THOS. R. NEWBOLD.


The ever-changing hues of the kaleidoscope, and the varying tints of our
autumnal forests do not present more changeful or varied scenes than are
to be found in real life in this country. The decay of one family, the
rise of another, depending as they do on the pecuniary fortunes of their
possessors, render American society a scene of constant excitement, and
he who is at the top of the social ladder to-day, falls to-morrow with
the fall of stocks to the bottom. The little tale which follows is but a
type of what is daily occurring around us, and is presented as a general
outline, which all may fill up at their leisure to suit their pleasure.

Letitia, or as she was usually called in her girlhood, Letty Rawdon, was
the only daughter of old Elias Rawdon, a thrifty and prosperous tailor
in the pleasant village of Middlebury. The old man had married rather
late in life, after he had in his own phrase “got a little something
snug about him.” She followed the usual course of village girls, and at
the dame’s school had learned those difficult arts of reading, writing,
and ciphering. In her young days, the road to learning was not the plank
or rail-road track on which our young people now travel so readily. The
A, B, C, required some study to ponder out, and in 179—, the portals to
learning were not thrown so wide open as they are in the year of grace
1852. Be that as it may, Letty, however, mastered them. From her
earliest years she had been an ambitious child, never content unless she
was among the foremost; as eager for superiority over her little
schoolmates in play as in study, as if she had been born to rule them.
She was not what would be termed a handsome child, but her features were
delicate, and her full hazel eye looked out from its long lashes with a
glance that showed full well the determined soul within. She was her
father’s darling, who denied her nothing, whence she soon obtained a
complete ascendancy in the dwelling of the old tailor.

When Letty was about thirteen years of age, a fashionable
boarding-school was opened in the village, and the old man yielded at
once to her wishes to become a day-scholar at it. Here her ambition
carried her rapidly onward, and if Letty, when she entered it, was
comparatively a raw, ignorant country-girl, no one who saw her at the
termination of her course of studies there, could have recognized in the
graceful, intelligent, and accomplished girl before him, the little
awkward being, who, four years before had there commenced her career.
The principal of the school, an elegant and accomplished lady, was early
attracted to her by her aptitude for learning, and her desire to acquire
it, and Letty was soon a favorite pupil. Nor whilst cultivating her mind
did she neglect her person. The elegant manners of her preceptress made
a most decided impression on her; gradually she found her own forming on
the model before her, and in process of time, though she made no
pretensions to great beauty, it would have been difficult to have found
a more attractive person than Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter.

The young men of the village and neighborhood were the first to make
this discovery, and at all the general merry-makings which occurred,
Letty Rawdon was, beyond all rivalry, the village belle. We say general
merry-makings, for our village, like all others large and small, had its
aristocracy, and in the eyes of the “upper circle,” we mean the female
part of it, of its fifteen hundred inhabitants, she was only “that
conceited, forward thing, the daughter of old Rawdon, the tailor.” Mrs.
Baxter, the wife of the leading lawyer of the place, in an interview
with Mrs. Danforth, the wife of the physician, had settled—“that,
although they supposed in their small place they must know the tailor’s
daughter when they met her in the street, or at church, or other public
place, still she was not to be on any account admitted into their set.”
How often has many a lovely girl been thus tabooed, not that she would
not confer honor on them, but she might mayhap be in the way of an
advantageous settlement of some marriageable daughters, perchance less
attractive than herself.

Letty soon found that there was a determination in the female magnates
of the village to crush her rising into any importance among them. But
the spirit of the girl rose with the occasion. In a short time it became
generally known that she was to be kept at a distance by the village
fashionables. What cared she? Her father had accumulated a snug little
competency, and few girls in the neighborhood would be as well dowered
as Letty. On this she was allowed to draw as she pleased. New and tasty
furniture adorned the best “sitting-room,” and Letty’s brilliant
performance on by far the best piano in the village, caused many a hasty
step to loiter on its way, as it passed the tailor’s door. Nor were the
listeners confined to the outside of the house, for within were
frequently found all the “most desirable” young men, who showed a
decided preference for Letty’s fine music and lively conversation, to
the more dignified, but less agreeable assemblages of the exclusives of
the place. Nor abroad did she attract less admiration than at home, and
envy itself was at length compelled to confess that Letty Rawdon was by
far the best dressed and most stylish girl in the village.

As a natural consequence, suitors followed. Phil Dubbs, the only child
of the wealthiest farmer in the neighborhood; young Harry Edmonds, just
called to the bar, and for whom his friends already predicted a
brilliant career; Edward Simpson, the junior partner of the principal
mercantile firm in the place, were prominent among these. Each wooed in
his peculiar way. Dubbs had enjoyed no advantages of education beyond
what the village grammar-school afforded; but then he was an
accomplished graduate in all rural sports. No young man in the country
had as good a horse, or rode him as well; he had the best pointers, and
was the best shot to be found in 20 miles round, and was in all such
accomplishments perfect. To him Letty was under obligations for
finishing completely one part of her education; for he broke a favorite
colt for her especial use, and under his skillful tuition she became a
fearless and accomplished horse-woman. Edmonds quoted Byron and Moore to
her constantly, when he had better have been employed over Coke and
Starkie; and spoiled as much paper in perpetrating bad verses to her, as
would have sufficed for his pleas and declarations during a year’s
practice; and Simpson never returned from “the city,” whither he went to
make the purchases of goods for his firm, without a selection of the
choicest articles for Letty’s especial use, accompanied with directions
as to the latest style of making them up.

Thus strengthened and fortified, Letty saw her foes gradually yielding
before her. One by one they surrendered at discretion, until Mrs.
Baxter, herself, at last sought the acquaintance, and at twenty years of
age, Letty Rawdon, the tailor’s daughter, stood the supreme arbitress of
_ton_ in her native village. Although she was grateful to her allies for
the assistance they had afforded her, she was by no means disposed to
bestow herself in return on any of them. She was not one of those whose
hearts are easily won. She was prodigal of her smiles; she was ready to
do a kind act, or say a kind word, but the surrender of her heart and
hand was another matter. She was ambitious of social distinction. She
had achieved the highest place at home, and she panted for triumphs yet
to come on a wider and loftier stage. Since she had left school her time
had not been misspent. She continued to cultivate, under the tuition of
her former master, her very decided musical talents; her mind was
strengthened and enlarged by a course of judicious reading, for which
Harry Edmonds supplied her with the material; and the foreign languages
she had acquired were not forgotten. She felt herself far superior to
all her companions, and that her genius was hidden in the comparatively
obscure place in which her lot was cast.

There are few women who do not at some period or other, or in some form
or other, meet their fate in the shape of a man. Happy, they, who are
exempt from this general calamity of the sex; for calamity in too many
cases we believe it to be. For our part, we plead guilty to a sneaking
liking to single women, yclept by vulgar minds, old maids. Under this
denomination, we do not, however, include that numerous bond of “single
sisters,” hovering between the ages of 35 and 45, to whom a
superannuated bachelor, or an interesting widower, especially if he be a
parson with a half a dozen responsibilities, is a god-send. Oh, no! we
mean none of these, but one of these dignified ladies, of nameless age
and easy fortune, of whom all of us count one or more among our
acquaintance. Where are such complete establishments to be found as
among these? Go to visit them, and your ears are not deafened by a
practicing miss of 14, thumping an unfortunate piano, until if it had
any powers of speech it would certainly cry out “pianissimo;” or by one
of those lively squalls from the upper regions, which resembles nothing
earthly but the serenade of an amatory cat at midnight. From these, and
such like annoyances you are exempt, and then if you enjoy the privilege
of an intimacy which admits you to the tea-table—where else is such
superb Imperial or glorious Souchong to be found? Piping hot, it is
poured into a cup of such clean and delicate texture, that the fragrance
of the grateful shrub is heightened thereby. The water with which it has
been compounded has certainly boiled. Just the right quantity has been
admixed. It does not require to be ruined, by having a supply of tepid
water added to it after it has been poured in to your cup; nor does it
come on table a tasteless slops, at which even a four-footed animal,
unmentionable to ears polite, would utter a grunt of dissent if
presented to it. No. Commend me to one of those tea-tables. The muffins
also, are so hot, so “just done;” or the toast without being burned to a
cinder, or hardened to a board, is crisp and delightful as the most
fastidious could require. The cream, too—please do not mention it—the
same milk-man may serve her next door neighbor, but in her mansion no
skim-milk is mixed therewith, to eke out to a large family the amount
required in the compound used therein, and which is called by courtesy,
tea. And then the sugar, sparkling as so many diamonds in the antique
silver bowl in which it rests; no “broken-topped” or “crushed,” but
“Stewart’s” or “Lovering’s extra loaf” is alone used here. It sometimes
happens that a “_petit souper_” is substituted for the tea-table. The
oysters, Morris river coves, when they can be had, certainly: the
terrapins, none but the genuine Egg-harbors ever enter her doors, and
the inimitable John Irwin has exhausted on them all the resources of his
skill. All the appliances of her table are in keeping, and as you admire
the dignified courtesy with which she attends to the wants of each
guest, or leads the conversation into channels she thinks most
acceptable to those around her, the mind involuntarily recurs to the
days of hoops and hair-powder, trains and high-heeled shoes.

In those days, rail-roads were a thing which had entered into the
imagination of no man as a mode of travel, and he who should have spoken
of an iron horse rushing on his course, and drawing hundreds of human
beings after him at a speed of 30 miles an hour, would have been
considered quite as great a believer in the marvelous, as those now are,
who have faith in Paine’s light. Even post-coaches were a novelty off of
the great thoroughfares, and the public conveyance usual to such small
places as Middlebury, was the old long-bodied stage, with its three or
four seats behind the driver’s, and stowing away some ten or twelve
passengers. Blessings on those old carriages, we say. It is true, their
pace rarely got up to five miles an hour, and that at every five miles
or so they stopped “to water,” at an expense of some fifteen minutes of
time; but what of that? Minutes seem to be more valuable to travelers
now, than hours were then. But what mixed feelings did not these produce
in our bosom, when seated in the old stage on our route out of town for
the holydays, between impatience to arrive at our journey’s end, and the
airy fabrics we erected, of what we should do when we reached there.
There was the best and kindest of grandmothers as impatiently waiting
for the arrival which was to enable her to spoil “the boys” with
indulgences, as we were to be spoiled. There was the well-remembered
pony, a little less anxious we opine to be dashed around the country,
than we were to dash him. Then, there was the mill-dam, where the
many-colored sun-fish awaited our hook and worms, and the bathing-place
below the dam, where we could venture to try our newly-acquired skill
across “the hole” without danger; and the store, where gingerbread and
candy, and pipes for soap-suds bubbles were bought, with those “odd
quarters” which grandma so freely bestowed. Who can ever forget these
early days? And the deeper he sinks into the sere and yellow leaf, the
brighter do they rise up. They constitute the small portion of our lives
upon which we can look back with perfect complacency; for the light
shadows which once partially clouded them have long since faded away and
been forgotten, and nought but the memory of the bright joyous sunshine
remains.

The old stage which plied between Middlebury and the city of
Quakerdelphia, one day landed as a passenger at the former place a young
man of some thirty years of age. Whether business or pleasure attracted
him thither is of no consequence to this story, although from the
character of the man it was more probably the former. At the age of
sixteen John Smithson found himself an apprentice in a dry-goods store
of Quakerdelphia. He had come thither with a sound constitution, a good,
solid English education, such as was then less frequently obtained in
country schools than now is; great industry and indomitable
perseverance. These last traits had early attracted the attention of his
acquaintance, and his success in whatever he should undertake predicted.
He soon attracted the attention and confidence of his employers, and the
respective grades of apprentice, clerk, and junior partner were attained
by him. In the mercantile world he had for some time been noted for his
intimate acquaintance with and complete knowledge of business, and for
the integrity, straightforwardness and manliness of his character, and
no one was surprised when the senior member of the firm retired a year
before, that it took the title of Jones, Smithson & Co. John Smithson
had achieved mercantile distinction. Wealth had commenced flowing in
upon him in a continuous and unbroken stream, and a few years would in
all probability see him among the richest merchants of his adopted city.
But social distinctions were wanting to him. In his younger days he had
been too busy to think of matrimony, or indeed, of female society at
all. He was too much engaged in achieving the position he now occupied
to care much for aught else, and his intercourse with men had rubbed off
the awkward angles of the raw country lad. Still the want of refined
female society had necessarily left him without that polish which can be
derived from it alone. He occupied then no social position. His home
connection was respectable, and his growing wealth would enable him to
take a place among the magnates about him; all his future, then,
depended on his choice of a wife; for he began about this time to be
cognizant of the fact that it was high time for him to marry.

He was fully impressed with this idea when he first met Letty Rawdon,
nor did subsequent interviews with her serve to weaken the impression.
Indeed, he began to be fully convinced of the necessity of the fact, and
after paying some four or five visits to Middlebury, determined to
inquire of Letty what was her opinion on the subject. On being
interrogated by him, therefore, on this point, she still further
strengthened his determination by agreeing fully with him thereon. Here
was one point gained. Still another step, however, was to be taken. He
again had recourse to his adviser, and she, on being interrogated
whether it would be best for her to drop the name of Rawdon and take
that of Smithson, determined it also affirmatively, to the entire
satisfaction of the querist.

Letty, clear-sighted woman that she was, saw at an early period of her
acquaintance the influence she was gradually acquiring over John
Smithson. It is true he was not very handsome, but he had a manly,
intelligent face and a good figure. If he did not understand all the
mazes of a cotillion—waltzing was then unknown here, and the polka
would have horrified our reputable predecessors—he had not entirely
forgotten all the figures of the country-dance or the reel which he had
learned when a boy. He rode well, too, and often accompanied the young
lady in her gallops about the country. It is true he was more conversant
with the qualities of Yorkshire woolens or India piece-goods, than with
most of those lighter accomplishments by which alone many conceited
addle-pates think that women are to be caught. But he was by no means
uninformed. His reading had not been very extensive, but as far as it
went it had been good—history, biography, travels comprised the chief
of it—Shakspeare had, however, attracted him to his magic page, and
many an idle hour which had been spent by many of his brother clerks in
the theatre, the oyster-cellar or the billiard-room, had been passed by
him in the manner above described. He was a close observer also of men
and things, and Letty soon began to find his society much more to her
taste than that of any unmarried man with whom she had ever associated.

She then asked herself the state of her own heart. Ambitious though she
was, she was too true and honest a woman to give her hand without her
heart; and after a brief, but careful consultation with herself, decided
that she could in all honesty take him “for better, for worse, for
richer, for poorer.” In a worldly point of view it was the chance of a
lifetime. The rich and rising merchant of the great city proposing to
make her, the daughter of a village tailor, the future partner of his
greatness. Letty was not insensible to this—we will not say she was
grateful for it; she had too just an appreciation of her own merits to
be so; but she was not blind to its advantages in a worldly point of
view. Had it occurred some two years sooner, all the aristocracy of
Middlebury would have cried out “shame;” but now it was received as a
thing of course, and Smithson was warmly congratulated on his admirable
taste.

It was decided by Letty, and confirmed by Smithson, that in order to
secure high social position, a good start was necessary. There must be
no false step, no blunder at the outset. How many apparently promising
fortunes has this one false step marred. He accordingly took a good
house in the most desirable part of Hazelnut street, the very centre and
focus of fashion in Quakerdelphia. To furnish the house was in those
days the business of the wife, and Letty determined to disburse the, for
his situation, very considerable dower her father could give her, in
fitting up her new mansion, leaving it to her future lord and master to
furnish the sinews of war for carrying on the ensuing campaigns.
Accompanied by her former preceptress, the assistance of whose taste she
had evoked, Letty proceeded on her first visit to “the city.” We shall
not stop to describe her first sensations on entering so large a place.
Reading and descriptions had given her a pretty correct idea of what a
city was, and she did not, like another country-girl we have heard of,
complain “that she could not see the town for the houses.” Let not this
be considered an exaggeration, for the reverse of the case occurred in
our own presence a very few years since. We were at a country-house a
few miles from the city, when a friend of its owner arrived there,
accompanied by one of her children, a lovely little girl of some five
years of age. From some cause or other she had never since she could
remember been in the country before, and delighted with all she saw—the
trees, the green fields, the flowers, she hurried with a smiling face to
her mother, exclaiming—“Oh, mamma, is this indeed the real country?”

After a day or so devoted to sight-seeing, the serious business which
brought her there was entered upon by Letty. Cabinet-makers were
visited, upholsterers consulted, and trades-people of various kinds
looked in upon, until finally, like a genuine woman, she stopped buying,
simply because her money was all gone. Articles of _vertu_ were not so
common in those days as now, but yet our friend contrived to mingle a
good deal of the ornamental with all of the useful in her purchases, and
when, some time after, a carriage whirled to the door of a capacious
Hazelnut street mansion, and a lady and gentleman descended therefrom,
few ladies of Quakerdelphia entered a more elegant and luxurious home
than did Mrs. John Smithson when she passed its portals.


                              CHAPTER II.

Acquaintances Letty had none in the great city. Mrs. Jones, the lady of
her husband’s partner, of course called upon her and gave her a party,
to which her acquaintance generally were invited. Now, though Mrs. Jones
and her friends belonged most strictly to the class called respectable
and genteel, yet they were not fashionable. Letty appeared to comprehend
this as it were by intuition. Nature had certainly intended her to be
somebody—she accordingly took her line of conduct at once, and she
determined that though circumstances required that with Mrs. Jones an
air of cordiality and sociability must be preserved, yet this was not so
necessary with that lady’s friends. Letty never cut any body directly.
Her innate sense of propriety and natural good-breeding revolted from a
course to which none but people of vulgar minds and shallow parts ever
resort. She possessed, however, a tact which enabled her to drop an
acquaintance without the slightest seemingness of rudeness or
ill-manners. She knew how first to smile most cordially when she met the
“droppee,” to wonder—

It was so long since they had met; she supposed, however, it must be her
fault, but she had been so busy she had not been able to pay half her
visits; to press the hand slightly, and with a smile an angel might
almost envy, to say, “Good-bye, I will endeavor soon—”

And then glide gently away before the sentence was filled up. And this
was the last of it. On the next meeting a sweet smile, a courteous bow,
but no time to speak; and so the season passed; no visit exchanged, each
eradicated the other’s name from her “list”—the object was effected not
only without offense, but with such ease and grace, that the dropped was
afterward heard to say:

“I think Mrs. A. a most lovely woman, and regret I was compelled by
circumstances I could not help to stop visiting her, and so she has
given me up.” Mrs. C. is not the only deluded mortal in this world.

Mrs. Smithson, we have seen, had determined that Mrs. Jones’s “set” were
not to become her “set.” She was willing to bide her time. She was aware
that great events are usually the creatures of slow growth. They may at
the last grow with rapidity, but the seed which produces them has been
for a long time germinating. She believed that a cultivated mind and
accomplished person joined to a determined will, can achieve anything it
pleases in the social as in other worlds, and she was determined to
prove the truth of her convictions in her own case, and so she went on
improving her mind, perfecting her accomplishments and biding her time.

Mr. Smithson, like all other reputable gentlemen, had, on becoming a
married man, taken a pew in church. It was in a fashionable church,
which then meant an Episcopal church, for fashion in those days was
pretty much monopolized in Quakerdelphia by Episcopalians and a few
degenerate descendants of the co-religionists of Penn, who had departed
wofully in dress and manners from the primitive simplicity of “Friends.”
Now-a-days things are somewhat altered, as one may perceive at a glance
on entering some of the Presbyterian churches in the fashionable part of
the city—the display of velvets, brocades and furs, the oceans of
feathers and parterres of flowers show that their owners have entered on
the race, and that it is almost a dead heat. Nor has the innovation
ceased here. The full, rich, deep swell of the organ has been
substituted for the bass-viol, and (rise not at the mention of it,
shades of Knox and Calvin,) it is rumored that your descendants are
about to worship in a Gothic temple, with its windows of stained-glass
through which the “dim religious light” is to penetrate, and dim enough
it is during our short winter afternoons. Whether the resemblance to the
“Mass-houses” which were torn down in the sixteenth century is to be
carried out fully in the interior as well as exterior, we have not
learned, nor whether it is only to be confined to “sedilia,” “screen,”
“south-porch,” “octagonal font at the door,” or whether any or none of
these remains of Medievalism are to have a place within. The
“Ecclesiologist” no doubt can enlighten our readers, and to that we
refer them.

Mr. Smithson, as we said, took a pew in a fashionable church, and in a
desirable position. Thither, accompanied by his fashionable-looking
wife, who, in her turn, was accompanied by her richly-bound prayer-book,
he resorted on Sunday mornings. The attention of the devotees around was
at once attracted by her, and stray glances would slip from the leaf of
the prayer-book to the “new person” near by. “_N’importe_,” Letty might
say, as did a celebrated English dandy when an hundred opera-glasses
were leveled at him, “Let them look and die.” With her attire no fault
could be found. The material was of the richest and most costly kind,
the colors most harmoniously combined; the fit perfect, showing her
willowy and graceful figure to the utmost advantage, and the furs
genuine martin.

“Who is she?” was the whispered colloquy, as the parties proceeded down
the aisle, with a glance over the shoulder.

“Don’t you know—her name is Smithson. A rich Shamble street merchant.
Live in Hazelnut street, in old Corkscrew’s house—said to be splendidly
furnished.”

“Yes; but who is she? Where does she come from?”

“Don’t know exactly; but believe from New York, or Baltimore, or
Richmond, or somewhere.”

“Very definite—and the last location very likely.”

“But what do you think of her? Very lady-looking—don’t you think so?
And how beautifully she dresses. Her muff and tippet are certainly
martin—and what a love of a hat. Martine tells me she paid $25 for it.”

Here the ladies having reached the door, the edifying commentary on the
sermon just delivered ceased, and the parties separating, pursued their
several ways. The first speaker, or querist, was Mrs. Rodgers, one of
the most decided leaders of the _ton_ in Quakerdelphia, whose father
having retired from trade as a hardware merchant when she was a very
little girl, felt her superiority to those of her acquaintances who were
still engaged in trade. Her husband was in the same position as herself,
and their united fortunes enabled him to provide his friends with the
finest clarets, the oldest Madeiras, the fattest venison, and one of the
greatest bores at the head of his own table who ever spoiled good wine
by prosing over it. His lady gave no balls nor grand routes; she was too
exclusive for that; but admittance to her “Evenings” was eagerly sought
after by all who aspired to be of the _ton_. The other lady, Mrs.
Cackle, a widow, was one of those gossips who are everywhere found. Her
pretensions to fashion were only pretensions, and she held her own in
the gay world simply by making herself useful as the purveyor of all the
fashionable scandal of the day to her fashionable acquaintance. Mrs.
Rodgers and others of her set, would have as soon thought of doing
without their cards or their carriages as without “Cackle,” as she was
familiarly called; and hence she was at home in all the “best houses” of
Quakerdelphia.

The pew which the Smithsons occupied, was adjoining that of Mrs.
Rodgers. It was the family-pew of a certain Mrs. Edmonson, who, after a
long career in the gay world, had recently, alarmed by conscience or
gray hairs, abandoned cards for prayer-meetings, and despairing of
“grace” under what she was pleased to term “the didactic essays and
moral teachings” of Dr. Silky, her pastor, had abandoned them for the
preachings of the Rev. Mr. Thunder, a celebrated revivalist. Here a new
scene was opened for her. Possibly her jaded feelings may have required
some new and varied stimulant. We do not say so positively. We merely
repeat what “Cackle” said.

“Poor, dear soul! she was so worn-out with whist and piquett, that any
change was for the better.”

Be this as it may, she certainly entered upon her new course of life
with much zeal. She faithfully attended not only the three regular
Sunday services, but all the occasional week-day lectures and familiar
meetings for prayer and religious conversation. These latter were always
preceded by tea at the house of some of the sisters of the Rev. Mr.
Thunder’s flock. Projects for converting the world were then new, and
the recent convert entered upon them with all the zeal which had
formerly animated her when arranging the details of a ball or of a party
for the theatre. The dwellers in Africa and the isles of the Pacific,
occupied much of their attention; but they did not seem to know that
within a few squares of where they were engaged alternately in sipping
tea or expounding prophecy, dwelt a population, perhaps more degraded
and more requiring enlightenment, than those over whose darkness they
mourned. The inhabitant of Africa thought nothing of a Saviour of whom
he had never heard. The denizen of St. Anne’s street uttered his name
only to blaspheme. Which of these, according to the doctrine as laid
down by the Apostle to the Gentiles, most required the humanizing
influences of the missionary of the cross, we leave to each to determine
for himself.

One thing is certain. Had Mrs. Edmonson not been thus called off, Mrs.
Smithson could not have obtained the pew which she now occupied. A
gradual acquaintance was beginning to spring up between her and Mrs.
Rodgers, arising from the principle of contiguity. Commend us to that
principle. It has settled the fate of many a son and daughter of Eve. It
commenced we know not how. It was probably from some one of those
thousand and one little offices which neighborhood induces. A shawl may
have become entangled in something requiring the friendly offices of a
neighbor to unloose; or the warmth of the weather may have created an
uncomfortable feeling, which the opportune loan of a fan may have
relieved. How the acquaintanceship in question was first brought about
we have forgotten—if we ever knew. It is of no consequence to us. Every
one knows the progress of these things. At first it is a distant bow, as
much as to say, “I should like to know you, but don’t care to advance.”
Then came a casual and passing remark, as they emerged from the pew to
the aisle. Then the walk down the aisle, side by side, until reaching
the door, when each assumed her husband’s arm, and the respective
couples mingled in the crowd; and finally the continued walk together to
the parting-place, whence each pursues the path to their own residence.
These things have often occurred before; they were enacted by Mesdames
Rogers and Smithson then, and will occur again. Their husbands followed
slowly in the rear, discussing the state of the weather, the prospects
of business, the likelihood of speedy news from Europe, there not having
been an arrival for upward of a month, with other topics of a kindred
nature. Mrs. Rodgers, a well-educated lady of considerable
conversational powers, found the mind of her new acquaintance as
agreeable as her person, and before they separated,

“Hoped she might be permitted to improve the acquaintance thus
opportunely begun, by calling on Mrs. Smithson.”

Letty graciously gave the required permission, expressing all that
courtesy demanded on the occasion, but carefully abstaining from
appearing overwhelmed with the compliment, as many a weaker minded and
less skillful tactician would have done. She knew that her cue was to
meet advances half-way, but not to pass the line one hair’s breadth, if
she wished any new acquaintance to be made to feel, than in seeking her,
the obligation was mutual.

On the next day but one Mrs. Rodgers was ushered into Letty’s
drawing-room. That lady did not detain her long before she made her
appearance, but still dallied sufficiently to allow the other to take in
at a rapid glance the completeness of her establishment. Her experience,
however, was for once at fault, for she determined hastily that the
woman who could arrange her rooms with such taste, must have been
surrounded by like refinements and elegancies all her life. Her
reception of Letty, therefore, when she arrived, was most cordial and
impressive. The season was far advanced. Her last “Evening” was on that
of the succeeding day, “and it was to secure Mrs. Smithson’s appearance
as well as further to cultivate so pleasant an acquaintance thus
agreeably begun, that she had called this morning, etc.”

Mrs. Smithson, on her part, would be very happy to make one at this
exclusive assemblage, and a very unfashionably long visit for a morning
call followed. Mrs. Rodgers was anxious to find out all about Letty, who
she was, where she came from, etc.; but was foiled in all her skillful
questions, by answers equally skillful. When at length she took her
leave, she could not help pondering on this to herself. She admitted her
curiosity about it, but wound up by saying to herself, be she who she
may, she is certainly a most agreeable personage, and I think I have
made a most decided hit in introducing her into our set.

As for Letty, she was all exultation on the departure of her visitor.
She saw herself achieving at once the distinctions she panted after. Not
only were the doors of the drawing-room of dame Fashion opened to her,
but as she passed through them with firm step and head erect amid the
ill-concealed envy of the crowd which filled them, she saw the curtains
of the boudoir drawn aside at her approach, and she was admitted into
the inmost presence-chamber of the goddess. Not so fast, Letty. You
certainly have mounted the first rung of the ladder; and my readers and
myself know you now too well to fear for a moment that you will go
backward; but there is many a step yet to climb before you reach that
giddy height on which you aspire to stand.

The next evening soon came, and after almost all the guests had
assembled, Mr. and Mrs. Smithson arrived. She was arrayed in a dress of
the richest kind, and with her usual faultless taste. Her ornaments were
few, but elegant; the best of them being that bright, fresh face and
elastic form, which the dissipation of city life had not yet impaired.
She had a severe and scathing ordeal to pass. It was felt by several,
with the keen intuition which women alone have, that she might prove a
formidable rival. Mrs. Rodgers’ reception and treatment of her were most
kind. She introduced several most desirable acquaintances to her, and
the gentlemen in especial were delighted with her. Letty’s earliest
allies, it may be remembered, were of the male sex; but the gallant
Colonel Lumley, and that exquisite of exquisites, Mr. Tom Harrowby, were
of a different stamp from Phil Dubbs and even Harry Edmonds, though the
latter, in after days, achieved renown both at the bar and in the
senate-chamber. The evening passed but too delightfully and too rapidly
for Letty. She felt that she was at last among kindred minds, and on
arriving at home, when she reviewed what had transpired as she was
preparing for her night’s repose, she was satisfied that her debut had
been eminently successful, and that she had made a decided hit. With
visions of much future greatness before her, she fell asleep.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: PÈRE-LA-CHAISE.
Engraved by J. A. Rolph.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            PÈRE-LA-CHAISE.


                       [WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]


The practice of interment in churches and church-yards prevailed in
Paris till near the end of the eighteenth century. In 1790 the National
Assembly passed a law commanding all towns and villages to discontinue
the use of their old burial-places, and form others at a distance from
their habitations. An imperial decree was issued in 1804, ordering high
ground to be chosen for cemeteries, and every corpse to be interred at a
depth of at least six feet. Another decree, of 1811, ordained a company
of undertakers, to whom the whole business of interment was to be
consigned, who arranged funerals in six classes, and established a
tariff of expense for the service rendered. The cemeteries of Paris are
four in number. Père-la-chaise, Montmartre, Vaugirard, and
Mont-Parnasse.

Père-la-chaise, the subject of the beautiful engraving in our present
number—engraved for us by J. A. Rolph, of New York—occupies a tract of
high and sloping ground to the north-east of Paris. It derives its name
from the confessor of Louis XIV., who occupied a splendid mansion on its
site—a country-house of the Jesuits for more than one hundred and fifty
years. This beautiful burial-ground was consecrated in 1804, and on the
21st of May of that year the first burial took place within its walls.
In the _fosses communes_ the poor are gratuitously interred in coffins
placed side by side, without ornament or mark of any kind. Temporary
graves, to be held for six years, may be procured for fifty francs, and
may afterward be retained on five years’ lease by the regular payment of
the same sum. If afterward purchased, a deduction of the first payment
of fifty francs is made. The ground is purchased in perpetuity at a rate
of one hundred and twenty francs per square metre, where vaults may be
sunk or monuments erected at the pleasure of the owner. Many of the most
celebrated personages of France here repose in the dreamless sleep, amid
garlands and flowers. Baron Cuvier, Casimir Périer and Benjamin
Constant. Marshals Ney, Suchet, Massena, Lefèvre—Volney rests here,
with Talma, Mademoiselle Raucourt, Macdonald, Beaumarchais, and many
whose names are imperishable in history.

The picturesque monument of Gothic architecture, to the right on
entering, contains the ashes of Abelard and Heloisa—this sepulchre was
constructed from the ruins of the celebrated Abbey of Paracleet.

We rejoice that, in our own country, a wise foresight has already
disposed our citizens to set apart at a distance from the busy mart and
the thriving town, secluded and beautiful places for the quiet
resting-place of the beloved dead. From this pious feeling has sprung
our own Laurel-Hill—Mount Auburn, near Boston—Greenwood, near New
York, and scores of other places appropriately named and selected in the
vicinage of cities and towns of our country—where the monumental pile
and the humble tomb bear silent company. The roses embowering these make
the whole air fragrant, but, dying in autumn return again with the
spring, mute yet eloquent preachers of a Final Resurrection.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.


                            BY A. M. PARIS.


  In the balmy breath of the early spring,
  In the warbling notes that her songsters sing,
  In her bursting buds, and her fragrant flowers,
  In her azure skies and her golden hours,
  In the leafy woods and the meadows green,
  Are thy powers displayed, and thy breathings seen.
    Thou art found in the ocean’s wide expanse,
  When the gentle waves in the sunbeams dance,
  Or propelled by the storm’s resistless might,
  Rise foaming up to their giddy height;
  When the first faint blush of the glowing morn,
  Lights the dewy pearl on the flower and thorn,
  And the sunbeams kiss the awakening flower,
  And the zephyr stirs the enchanted bower;
  Or the silvery clouds of the sunset lie
  On the radiant breast of the evening sky,
  And the gentle gales through the forests play,
  And the requiem sing of departing day,
  On the craggy steeps of the rock-based hills;
  By the flowery banks of the purling rills;
  From the darkling climes of the gelid north,
  Where the bright Aurora flashes forth,
  And the iceberg gleams in the moon’s soft light,
  Through the lengthened hours of the polar night;
  To the sunny south, where the palm-trees spread
  Their feathery boughs o’er the sheltered head;
  And a thousand flowers of brilliant hue,
  Are forever expanding to the view;
  And a thousand birds of plumage bright,
  Rejoice in the groves of a land of light;
  O’er the gladsome earth, in the stars of night,
  Thou art seen, if the heart be attuned aright.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          FIRST AMBITION.[11]


                             BY IK. MARVEL.


I believe that sooner or later, there come to every man, dreams of
ambition. They may be covered with the sloth of habit, or with a
pretence of humility; they may come only in dim, shadowy visions, that
feed the eye, like the glories of an ocean sun-rise; but you may be sure
that they will come: even before one is aware, the bold, adventurous
goddess, whose name is ambition, and whose dower is Fame, will be toying
with the feeble heart. And she pushes her ventures with a bold hand: she
makes timidity strong, and weakness valiant.

The way of a man’s heart will be foreshadowed by what goodness lies in
him—coming from above, and from around;—but a way foreshadowed, is not
a way made. And the making of a man’s way comes only from that
quickening of resolve, which we call Ambition. It is the spur that makes
man struggle with Destiny: it is Heaven’s own incentive, to make Purpose
great, and Achievement greater.

It would be strange if you, in that cloister-life of a college, did not
sometimes feel a dawning of new resolves. They grapple you, indeed,
oftener than you dare to speak of. Here, you dream first of that very
sweet, but very shadowy success, called reputation.

You think of the delight and astonishment, it would give your mother and
father, and most of all, little Nelly, if you were winning such honors,
as now escape you. You measure your capacities by those about you, and
watch their habit of study; you gaze for a half hour together, upon some
successful man, who has won his prizes; and wonder by what secret action
he has done it. And when, in time, you come to be a competitor yourself,
your anxiety is immense.

You spend hours upon hours at your theme. You write and re-write; and
when it is at length complete, and out of your hands, you are harassed
by a thousand doubts. At times, as you recal your hours of toil, you
question if so much has been spent upon any other; you feel almost
certain of success. You repeat to yourself, some passages of special
eloquence, at night. You fancy the admiration of the Professors at
meeting with such wonderful performance. You have a slight fear that its
superior goodness may awaken the suspicion that some one out of the
college—some superior man, may have written it. But this fear dies
away.

The eventful day is a great one in your calendar; you hardly sleep the
night previous. You tremble as the chapel-bell is rung; you profess to
be very indifferent, as the reading, and the prayer close; you even
stoop to take up your hat—as if you had entirely overlooked the fact,
that the old president was in the desk, for the express purpose of
declaring the successful names. You listen dreamily to his tremulous,
yet fearfully distinct enunciation. Your head swims strangely.

They all pass out with a harsh murmur, along the aisles, and through the
door-ways. It would be well if there were no disappointments in life
more terrible than this. It is consoling to express very depreciating
opinions of the Faculty in general;—and very contemptuous ones of that
particular officer who decided upon the merit of the prize themes. An
evening or two at Dalton’s room go still further toward healing the
disappointment; and—if it must be said—toward moderating the heat of
your ambition.

You grow up however, unfortunately, as the college years fly by, into a
very exaggerated sense of your own capacities. Even the good, old,
white-haired squire, for whom you had once entertained so much respect,
seems to your crazy, classic fancy, a very hum-drum sort of personage.
Frank, although as noble a fellow as ever sat a horse, is yet—you
cannot help thinking—very ignorant of Euripides; even the English
master at Dr. Bidlow’s school, you feel sure would balk at a dozen
problems you could give him.

You get an exalted idea of that uncertain quality, which turns the heads
of a vast many of your fellows, called—Genius. An odd notion seems to
be inherent in the atmosphere of those college chambers, that there is a
certain faculty of mind—first developed as would seem in
colleges—which accomplishes whatever it chooses, without any special
painstaking. For a time, you fall yourself into this very unfortunate
hallucination; you cultivate it, after the usual college fashion, by
drinking a vast deal of strong coffee, and whiskey-toddy—by writing a
little poor verse, in the Byronic temper, and by studying very late at
night, with closed blinds.

It costs you, however, more anxiety and hypocrisy than you could
possibly have believed.

——You will learn, Clarence, when the Autumn has rounded your hopeful
Summer, if not before, that there is no Genius in life, like the Genius
of energy and industry. You will learn, that all the traditions so
current among very young men, that certain great characters have wrought
their greatness by an inspiration, as it were, grow out of a sad
mistake.

And you will further find, when you come to measure yourself with men,
that there are no rivals so formidable, as those earnest, determined
minds, which reckon the value of every hour, and which achieve eminence
by persistent application.

Literary ambition may inflame you at certain periods; and a thought of
some great names will flash like a spark into the mine of your purposes;
you dream till midnight over books; you set up shadows, and chase them
down—other shadows, and they fly. Dreaming will never catch them.
Nothing makes the “scent lie well,” in the hunt after distinction, but
labor.

And it is a glorious thing, when once you are weary of the dissipation,
and the ennui of your own aimless thought, to take up some glowing page
of an earnest thinker, and read—deep and long, until you feel the metal
of his thought tinkling on your brain, and striking out from your flinty
lethargy, flashes of ideas, that give the mind light and heat. And away
you go, in the chase of what the soul within is creating on the instant,
and you wonder at the fecundity of what seemed so barren, and at the
ripeness of what seems so crude. The glow of toil wakes you to the
consciousness of your real capacities: you feel sure that they have
taken a new step toward final development. In such mood it is, that one
feels grateful to the musty tomes, which at other hours, stand like
curiosity-making mummies, with no warmth, and no vitality. Now they grow
into the affections like new-found friends; and gain a hold upon the
heart, and light a fire in the brain, that the years and the mould
cannot cover, nor quench.

-----

[11] From Dream Life, just published by Charles Scribner, New York.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE STAR OF DESTINY.


                            BY ANNE G. HALE.


    [It is related of Signora Angelica Kauffman, the celebrated
    Italian, that when a youthful maiden, she was one evening by the
    bank of her native stream, a short distance from Mount Rosa,
    near the entrance of a forest, when, charmed with the beauty of
    the sunset, she fell into a reverie, during which a vision
    passed before her, which led her to form the resolution—which
    she patiently kept—of being a painter. She afterward obtained
    the prize from the Royal Academy at London, England, for her
    painting of the Weeping Magdalen. _See Graham’s Magazine, Vol.
    XXX._]

    May, with thousand buds of beauty
      Gemmeth o’er the valley’s breast,
    Once again with chainless freedom
      Are the Alpine streamlets blest;
    Down the ancient, snow-clad mountains,
      In their joy they leap and spring,
    All entrancing with the music
      Of the merry lay they sing.

    And the haughty, towering glaciers
      Gazing down so stern and wild,
    Yield them to the spring-time influence,
      And diffuse a radiance mild—
    For the glowing sunset lingers
      On those crystal turrets high,
    Long beyond the sun’s departure
      From the clear and cloudless sky.

    Downward are the rays reflected
      To each ancient forest-tree,
    Standing in its solemn grandeur,
      Monarch of a century;
    Birds their evening hymns are singing,
      And the peasant homeward hies—
    ’Tis the welcome hour of vespers
      And from every heart they rise.

    All, save one—her soul enraptured
      With the splendor of the scene,
    Listlessly reclines she—dreaming—
      On the streamlet’s bank of green;
    Thoughts of power her spirit burden
      Clamorous for a garb of words,
    But they strive in vain for freedom,
      Speech no worthy aid affords.

    Longing for the tongue of Poet,
      For his language bold and grand—
    Or for that high power majestic,
      With which oft a master-hand
    On the vague and empty canvas,
      Into being life-like calls
    Images first etched by Fancy,
      On the mind’s eternal walls.

    Dreaming on of Fame and Beauty,
      Gazing still upon the sky,
    Twilight gathers over nature,
      Darkness draws unheeded nigh.
    There before her, in the forest,
      Stand the oaks in majesty—
    Yet before her they are changing
      To a statued gallery!

    And beneath each marble statue,
      There are carved upon the base,
    Names that Art hath made immortal,
      Names the laurel deigned to grace!
    But upon one gray pedestal,
      Standing statueless—alone—
    She deciphers with emotion
      One familiar name—_her own!_

    Filled with solemn awe she lifteth
      To the heavens her tearful eyes,
    And above that lone pedestal
      Sees a glorious star arise!
    For herself prepared and ready,
      (She can read the mystery,)
    ’Tis a niche in Fame’s high temple,
      ’Tis her star of destiny.

    Years rolled on—that youthful vision
      Haunted still the maiden’s brain,
    Oft her fainting heart beguiling
      Of its toil, and care, and pain;
    Onward, upward still she passed,
      By Ambition daily fed,
    Till that star e’en as a halo
      Threw its lustre round her head.

    But have none, save that fair maiden,
      ’Neath Italia’s sunset sky,
    Had pre-knowledge of the future—
      Known their coming destiny?
    Yea—for all—or soon or later—
      Are Life’s mysteries unsealed—
    If its oracle, the prescience,
      Oft hath Heaven in love revealed.

    Not at even, seen but dimly,
      Doth the glorious scene appear,
    But at noonday, in Faith’s sunlight,
      Shines in truthful radiance clear;
    Not a marble statue raised
      By the flattering hand of Fame—
    But a cross—the Cross most holy.
      Lifted up in Jesus’ name!

    Low upon its base, engraven
      —Man—as if upon the stone
    Constant tears had wrought the title,
      Sadly, secretly—alone;
    Upward o’er the cross appearing,
      Brighter than the orbs on high,
    One fair star full often blesses,
      The upraised—the prayerful eye.

    Let us from the heavenly vision
      Comfort under trial gain;
    Though upon our drooping shoulders
      We the heavy Cross sustain,
    Still the Star of Bethlehem shineth,
      With its clear, consoling light,
    And by its all-powerful glory,
      Day shall take the place of night!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            RAIL-ROAD SONG.


                        BY T. H. CHIVERS, M. D.


  All aboard? Yes! Tingle, tingle,
  Goes the bell, as we all mingle—
  No one sitting solely single—
  As the fireman builds his fire,
  And the steam gets higher, higher—
  Thus fulfilling his desire—
  Which forever he keeps feeding
  With the pine-knots he is needing,
  As he on his way goes speeding—
  And the Iron Horse goes rushing,
  With his fiery face all flushing—
  Every thing before him crushing—
  While the smoke goes upward curling,
  Spark-bespangled in unfurling,
  And the iron-wheels go whirling,
  Like two mighty mill-stones grinding,
  When no miller is them minding—
  All the eye with grit-dust blinding—
  And the cars begin to rattle,
  And the springs go tittle-tattle—
  Driving off the grazing cattle—
  As if Death were fiends pursuing
  To their uttermost undoing—
  With a clitta, clatta, clatter,
  Like the devil beating batter
  Down below in iron platter,
  As if something was the matter;
  Then it changes to a clanking,
  And a clinking, and a clanking,
  And a clanking, and a clinking—
  Then returns to clatta, clatter,
  Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter—
  And the song that I now offer
  For Apollo’s Golden Coffer—
  With the friendship that I proffer—
  Is for Riding on a Rail.

  Thus, from station on to station,
  Right along through each plantation,
  This great Iron Horse goes rushing,
  With his fiery face all flushing—
  Every thing before him crushing—
  Sometimes faster, sometimes slower,
  Sometimes higher, sometimes lower—
  As if Time, the great world-mover,
  Had come down for his last reaping
  Of the harvest ripe, in keeping,
  Of the nations waiting, weeping—
  While the engine, overteeming,
  Spits his vengeance out in steaming
  With excruciating screaming—
  While the wheels are whirling under,
  Like the chariot-wheels of thunder,
  When the lightning rends asunder
  All the clouds that steam from Ocean,
  When he pays the Moon devotion—
  With a grinding rhythmic motion—
  Till the frightened sheep are scattered,
  Like the clouds by lightning tattered,
  And the gates of day are battered
  With the clitta, clatta, clatter—
  Still repeating clatta, clatter,
  Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,
  As if something was the matter—
  While the woodlands all are ringing,
  And the birds forget their singing.
  And away to heaven go winging
  Of their flight to hear the clatter,
  Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,
  Which continues so, till coming
  To a straight line, when the humming
  Is so mixed up with the strumming,
  That the cars begin to rattle,
  And the springs go tittle-tattle—
  Frightening off the grazing cattle—
  Like Hell’s thunder-river roaring,
  Over Death’s dark mountain pouring
  Into space, forever boring
  Through th’ abysmal depths, with clatter
  Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,
  And a clinking, and a clanking,
  And a clanking, and a clinking—
  Then returns to clatta, clatter,
  Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter,
  Like the devil beating batter
  Down below in iron platter—
  Which subsides into a clunky,
  And a clinky, and a clanky,
  And a clinky, clanky, clanky,
  And a clanky, clinky, clanky;
  And the song that I now offer
  For Apollo’s Golden Coffer—
  With the friendship that I proffer—
  Is for Riding on a Rail.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           CHARLOTTE CORDAY.


                           BY JULIA KAVANAGH.


Amongst the women of the French Revolution, there is one who stands
essentially apart: a solitary episode of the eventful story. She appears
for a moment, performs a deed—heroic as to the intention, criminal as
to the means—and disappears for ever; lost in the shadow of time—an
unfathomed mystery.

And it is, perhaps, this very mystery that has invested with so much
interest the name of one known by a single deed; which, though intended
by her to deliver her country, changed little in its destinies. To
admire her entirely is impossible; to condemn her is equally difficult.
No one can read her history without feeling that, to judge her
absolutely, lies not in the province of man. Beautiful, pure, gentle,
and a murderess, she attracts and repels us in almost equal degrees;
like all those beings whose nature is inexplicable and strange,
according to the ordinary standard of humanity. Although it is generally
acknowledged that site did not exercise over contemporary events that
repressing power for which she sacrificed her life, it is felt,
nevertheless, that no history of the times in which she lived, is
complete without her name; and to her brief and tragic history an
eloquent modern historian[12] has devoted some of his most impressive
pages.

The 31st of May was the signal of the fall and dispersion of the
Girondists. Some, like Barbaroux, Buzot, Louvet, and their friends,
retired to the provinces, which they endeavored to rouse for one last
struggle. Others, like Madame Roland and the twenty-two, prepared
themselves in their silent prison solitude for death and the scaffold.
The name of the Girondists now became a sound as proscribed as that of
Royalist had been during their brief sway. No voice gifted with power
was raised throughout the republic in favor of the men by whom, in the
midst of such enthusiastic acclamations, that republic had been founded.
France was rapidly sinking into that state of silent apathy which
foreboded the Reign of Terror: discouraged by their experience of the
past, men lost their faith in humanity, and selfishly despaired of the
future. A maiden’s heroic spirit alone conceived the daring project of
saving those who had so long and so nobly striven for freedom; or, if
this might not be, of avenging their fall, and striking terror into the
hearts of their foes, by a deed of solemn immolation, worthy of the
stern sacrifices of paganism, offered of yore on the blood-stained
shrines of the goddess Nemesis.

The maiden was Marie-Anne Charlotte, of Corday and of Armont, one of the
last descendants of a noble, though impoverished Norman family, which
counted amongst its near relatives, Fontenelle, the wit and philosopher
of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and amongst its ancestors,
the father of the great tragic poet of France, Pierre Corneille.

Her father, Jacques of Corday and of Armont, was a younger son of this
noble line. He was, however, poorer than many of the peasants amongst
whom he lived, cultivating with his own hands, his narrow inheritance.
He married in early life a lady of gentle blood, but as poor as himself.
They had five children and a noble name to support, in a vain show of
dignity, on their insufficient income. It thus happened that Charlotte,
their fourth child and second daughter, was born in a thatched dwelling,
in the village of Saint-Saturnin des Lignerets; and that in the register
of the parish church where she was baptized, on the 28th of July, 1768,
the day after her birth, she is described as “born in lawful wedlock of
Jacques Francois of Corday, esquire, sieur of Armont, and of the noble
dame Marie Charlotte-Jacqueline, of Gauthier des Authieux, his wife.” It
was under these difficult circumstances, which embittered his temper,
and often caused him to inveigh in energetic terms against the injustice
of the law of primogeniture, that M. d’Armont reared his family. As soon
as they were of age, his sons entered the army; one of his daughters
died young; and he became a widower when the other two were emerging
from childhood into youth. They remained for some time with their
father, but at length entered the Abbaye aux Dames, in the neighboring
town of Caen.

The greatest portion of the youth of Charlotte Corday—to give her the
name by which she is generally known—was spent in the calm obscurity of
her convent solitude. Many high visions, many burning dreams and lofty
aspirations, already haunted her imaginative and enthusiastic mind, as
she slowly paced the silent cloisters, or rested, lost in thought,
beneath the shadow of the ancient elms. It is said that, like Madame
Roland, she contemplated secluding herself for ever from the world in
her monastic retreat; but, affected by the scepticism of the age, which
penetrated even beyond convent walls, she gave up this project. From
these early religions feelings, Charlotte derived, however, the calm
devotedness which characterized her brief career: for though
self-sacrifice may not be the exclusive attribute of Christianity, it
cannot be denied that the deep humility by which it is accompanied—a
feeling almost unknown to the ancients—is in itself the very spirit of
Christ. The peaceful and solemn shadow of the old cloister favored the
mild seriousness of Charlotte’s character. Within the precincts of her
sacred retreat she grew up in grave and serene loveliness, a being fit
for the gentlest duties of woman’s household life, or for one of those
austere and fearless deeds which lead to the scaffold and give martyrdom
in a holy cause.

The scepticism that prevailed for the last few years preceding the
Revolution, was not the sensual atheism which had disgraced the
eighteenth century so long. The faith in a first and eternal cause, in
the sacredness of human rights and the holiness of duty, was firmly held
by many noble spirits, who hailed with enthusiasm the first dawn of
democracy. This faith was blended in the soul of Charlotte Corday, with
a passionate admiration of antiquity. All the austerity and republican
enthusiasm of her illustrious ancestor, Pierre Corneille, seemed to have
come down to his young descendant. Even Rousseau and Raynal, the
apostles of democracy, had no pages that could absorb her so deeply as
those of ancient history, with its stirring deeds and immortal
recollections. Often, like Manon Philipon, in the recess of her father’s
workshop, might Charlotte Corday be seen in her convent cell,
thoughtfully bending over an open volume of Plutarch; that powerful and
eloquent historian of all heroic sacrifices.

When the Abbaye aux Dames was closed, in consequence of the Revolution,
Charlotte was in her twentieth year, in the prime of life and of her
wonderful beauty; and never, perhaps, did a vision of more dazzling
loveliness step forth from beneath the dark convent portal into the
light of the free and open world. She was rather tall, but admirably
proportioned, with a figure full of native grace and dignity; her hands,
arms, and shoulders, were models of pure sculptural beauty. An
expression of singular gentleness and serenity characterized her fair,
oval countenance and regular features. Her open forehead, dark and
well-arched eyebrows, and eyes of a gray so deep that it was often
mistaken for blue, added to her naturally grave and meditative
appearance; her nose was straight and well formed, her mouth serious but
exquisitely beautiful. Like most of the women of the Norman race, she
had a complexion of transparent purity; enhanced by the rich brown hair
which fell in thick curls around her neck, according to the fashion of
the period. A simple severity characterized her dress of sombre hue, and
the low and becoming lace cap which she habitually wore is still known
by her name in France. Her whole aspect was fraught with so much modest
grace and dignity, that, notwithstanding her youth, the first feeling
she invariably inspired was one of respect; blended with involuntary
admiration, for a being of such pure and touching loveliness.

On leaving the convent in which she had been educated, Charlotte Corday
went to reside with her aunt, Madame Coutellier de Bretteville Gouville;
an old royalist lady, who inhabited an ancient-looking house in one of
the principal streets of Caen. There the young girl, who had inherited a
little property, spent several years, chiefly engaged in watching the
progress of the Revolution. The feelings of her father were similarly
engrossed: he wrote several pamphlets in favor of the revolutionary
principles; and one in which he attacked the right of primogeniture. His
republican tendencies confirmed Charlotte in her opinions; but of the
deep, overpowering strength which those opinions acquired in her soul,
during the long hours she daily devoted to meditation, no one ever knew,
until a stern and fearful deed—more stern and fearful in one so
gentle—had revealed it to all France. A silent reserve characterized
this epoch of Charlotte Corday’s life: her enthusiasm was not external,
but inward: she listened to the discussions which were carried on around
her without taking a part in them herself. She seemed to feel
instinctively that great thoughts are always better nursed in the
heart’s solitude: that they can only lose their native depth and
intensity by being revealed too freely before the indifferent gaze of
the world. Those with whom she then occasionally conversed, took little
heed of the substance of her discourse, and could remember nothing of it
when she afterward became celebrated; but all recollected well her
voice, and spoke with strange enthusiasm of its pure, silvery sound.
Like Madame Roland, whom she resembled in so many respects, Charlotte
possessed this rare and great attraction; and there was something so
touching in her youthful and almost childlike utterance of heroic
thoughts, that it affected even to tears those who heard her on her
trial, calmly defending herself from the infamous accusations of her
judges, and glorying with the same low, sweet tones, in the deadly deed
which had brought her before them.

The fall of the Girondists, on the 31st of May, first suggested to
Charlotte Corday the possibility of giving an active shape to her
hitherto passive feelings. She watched with intense, though still
silent, interest the progress of events, concealing her secret
indignation and thoughts of vengeance under her habitually calm aspect.
Those feelings were heightened in her soul by the presence of the
fugitive Girondists, who had found a refuge in Caen, and were urging the
Normans to raise an army to march on Paris. She found a pretence to call
upon Barbaroux, then with his friends at the Intendance. She came twice,
accompanied by an old servant, and protected by her own modest dignity.
Pethion saw her in the hall, where she was waiting for the handsome
Girondist, and observed, with a smile—

“So, the beautiful aristocrat is come to see republicans.”

“Citizen Pethion,” she replied, “you now judge me without knowing me,
but a time will come what you shall learn who I am.”

With Barbaroux, Charlotte chiefly conversed of the imprisoned
Girondists; of Madame Roland and Marat. The name of this man had long
haunted her with a mingled feeling of dread and horror. To Marat she
ascribed the proscription of the Girondists, the woes of the republic,
and on him she resolved to avenge her ill-fated country. Charlotte was
not aware that Marat was but the tool of Dunton and Robespierre. “If
such actions could be counseled,” afterward said Barbaroux, “it is not
Marat whom we would have advised her to strike.”

Whilst this deadly thought was daily strengthening itself in Charlotte’s
mind, she received several offers of marriage. She declined them, on the
plea of wishing to remain free: but strange indeed must have seemed to
her, at that moment, those proposals of earthly love. One of those whom
her beauty had enamored, M. de Franquelin, a young volunteer in the
cause of the Girondists, died of grief on learning her fate. His last
request was, that her portrait and a few letters he had formerly
received from her, might be buried with him in his grave.

For several days after her last interview with Barbaroux, Charlotte
brooded silently over her great thought, often meditating on the history
of Judith. Her aunt subsequently remembered that, on entering her room
one morning, she found an old Bible open on her bed: the verse in which
it is recorded that “the Lord had gifted Judith with a special beauty
and fairness,” for the deliverance of Israel, was underlined with a
pencil.

On another occasion Madame de Bretteville found her niece weeping alone;
she inquired into the cause of her tears.

“They flow,” replied Charlotte, “for the misfortunes of my country.”

Heroic and devoted as she was, she then also wept, perchance, over her
own youth and beauty, so soon to be sacrificed for ever. No personal
considerations altered her resolve; she procured a passport, provided
herself with money, and paid a farewell visit to her father, to inform
him that, considering the unsettled condition of France, she thought it
best to retire to England. He approved of her intention, and bade her
adieu. On returning to Caen, Charlotte told the same tale to Madame de
Bretteville, left a secret provision for an old nurse, and distributed
the little property she possessed amongst her friends.

It was on the morning of the 9th of July, 1793, that she left the house
of her aunt, without trusting herself with a last farewell. Her most
earnest wish was, when her deed should have been accomplished, to
perish, wholly unknown, by the hands of an infuriated multitude. The
woman who could contemplate such a fate, and calmly devote herself to
it, without one selfish thought of future renown, had indeed the heroic
soul of a martyr.

Her journey to Paris was marked by no other event than the unwelcome
attentions of some Jacobins with whom she traveled. One of them, struck
by her modest and gentle beauty, made her a very serious proposal of
marriage: she playfully evaded his request, but promised that he should
learn who and what she was at some future period. On entering Paris, she
proceeded immediately to the Hotel de la Providence, Rue des Vieux
Augustins, not far from Marat’s dwelling. Here she rested for two days,
before calling on her intended victim. Nothing can mark more forcibly
the singular calmness of her mind: she felt no hurry to accomplish the
deed for which she had journeyed so far, and over which she had
meditated so deeply: her soul remained serene and undaunted to the last.
The room which she occupied, and which has been often pointed out to
inquiring strangers, was a dark and wretched attic, into which light
scarcely ever penetrated. There she read again the volume of Plutarch
she had brought with her—unwilling to part from her favorite author
even in her last hours—and probably composed that energetic address to
the people, which was found upon her after her apprehension. One of the
first acts of Charlotte was to call on the Girondist, Duperret, for whom
she was provided with a letter from Barbaroux, relative to the supposed
business she had in Paris: her real motive was to learn how she could
see Marat. She had first intended to strike him in the Champ de Mars, on
the 14th of July, the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille, when a
great and imposing ceremony was to take place. The festival being
delayed, she resolved to seek him in the convention, and immolate him on
the very summit of the mountain; but Marat was too ill to attend the
meetings of the National Assembly: this Charlotte learned from Duperret.
She resolved, nevertheless, to go to the convention, in order to fortify
herself in her resolve. Mingling with the horde of Jacobins who crowded
the galleries, she watched with deep attention the scene below. Saint
Just was then urging the convention to proscribe Lanjuinais, the heroic
defender of the Girondists. A young foreigner, a friend of Lanjuinais,
and who stood at a short distance from Charlotte, noticed the expression
of stern indignation which gathered over her features; until, like one
over-powered by her feelings, and apprehensive of displaying them too
openly, she abruptly left the place. Struck with her whole appearance,
he followed her out; a sudden shower of rain, which compelled them to
seek shelter under the same archway, afforded him an opportunity of
entering into conversation with her. When she learned that he was a
friend of Lanjuinais she waived her reserve, and questioned him with
much interest concerning Madame Roland and the Girondists. She also
asked him about Marat, with whom she said she had some business.

“Marat is ill; it would be better for you to apply to the public
accuser, Fouquier Tinville,” said the stranger.

“I do not want him now, but I may have to deal with him yet,” she
significantly replied.

Perceiving that the rain did not cease, she requested her companion to
procure her a conveyance. He complied, and before parting from her,
begged to be favored with her name. She refused, adding, however, “You
will know it before long.” With Italian courtesy, he kissed her hand as
he assisted her into the fiacre. She smiled, and bade him farewell.

Charlotte perceived that to call on Marat was the only means by which
she might accomplish her purpose. She did so on the morning of the 13th
of July, having first purchased a knife in the Palais Royal, and written
him a note, in which she requested an interview. She was refused
admittance. She then wrote him a second note, more pressing than the
first, and in which she represented herself as persecuted for the cause
of freedom. Without waiting to see what effect this note might produce,
she called again at half-past seven the same evening.

Marat then resided in the Rue des Cordeliers, in a gloomy-looking house,
which has since been demolished. His constant fears of assassination
were shared by those around him; the porter, seeing a strange woman pass
by his lodge without pausing to make any inquiry, ran out and called her
back. She did not heed his remonstrance, but swiftly ascended the old
stone stair-case, until she had reached the door of Marat’s apartment.
It was cautiously opened by Albertine, a woman with whom Marat
cohabited, and who passed for his wife. Recognizing the same young and
handsome girl who had already called on her husband, and animated,
perhaps, by a feeling of jealous mistrust, Albertine refused to admit
her: Charlotte insisted with great earnestness. The sound of their
altercation reached Marat; he immediately ordered his wife to admit the
stranger, whom he recognized as the author of the two letters he had
received in the course of the day. Albertine obeyed reluctantly; she
allowed Charlotte to enter; and, after crossing with her an antechamber,
where she had been occupied with a man named Laurent Basse, in folding
some numbers of the “Ami du People,” she ushered her through two other
rooms, until they came to a narrow closet, where Marat was then in a
bath. He gave a look at Charlotte, and ordered his wife to leave them
alone: she complied, but allowed the door of the closet to remain half
open, and kept within call.

According to his usual custom, Marat wore a soiled handkerchief bound
round his head, increasing his natural hideousness. A coarse covering
was thrown across his bath; a board, likewise placed transversely,
supported his papers. Laying down his pen, he asked Charlotte the
purport of her visit. The closet was so narrow that she touched the bath
near which she stood. She gazed on him with ill-disguised horror and
disgust, but answered as composedly as she could, that she had come from
Caen, in order to give him correct intelligence concerning the
proceedings of the Girondists there. He listened, questioned her
eagerly, wrote down the name of the Girondists, then added with a smile
of triumph—

“Before a week, they shall have perished on the guillotine.”

“These words,” afterward said Charlotte, “sealed his fate.” Drawing from
beneath the handkerchief which covered her bosom, the knife she had kept
there all along, she plunged it to the hilt in Marat’s heart. He gave
one loud expiring cry for help, and sank back dead in the bath. By an
instinctive impulse, Charlotte had instantly drawn out the knife from
the breast of her victim, but she did not strike again; casting it down
at his feet, she left the closet and sat down in a neighboring room,
thoughtfully passing her hand across her brow: her task was done.

The wife of Marat had rushed to his aid, on hearing his cry for help.
Laurent Basse, seeing that all was over, turned round toward Charlotte,
and with a blow of a chair felled her to the floor, whilst the
infuriated Albertine trampled her under her feet. The tumult aroused the
other tenants of the house; the alarm spread, and a crowd gathered in
the apartment, who learned with stupor that Marat, the Friend of the
People, had been murdered. Deeper still was their wonder when they gazed
on the murderess. She stood there before them with still disordered
garments, and her disheveled hair, loosely bound by a broad green
ribbon, falling around her; but so calm, so serenely lovely, that those
who most abhorred her crime gazed on her with involuntary admiration.

“Was she then so beautiful?” was the question addressed many years
afterward, to on old man, one of the few remaining witnesses of this
scene.

“Beautiful!” he echoed enthusiastically, adding with the eternal regrets
of old age: “Ay, there are none such now!”

The commissary of police began his interrogatory in the saloon of
Marat’s apartment. She told him her name, how long she had been in
Paris, confessed her crime, and recognized the knife with which it had
been perpetrated. The sheath was found in her pocket, with a thimble,
some thread, money, and her watch.

“What was your motive in assassinating Marat?” asked the commissary.

“To prevent a civil war,” she answered.

“Who are your accomplices?”

“I have none.”

She was ordered to be transferred to the Abbaye, the nearest prison. An
immense and infuriated crowd had gathered around the door of Marat’s
house; one of the witnesses perceived that she would have liked to be
delivered to this maddened multitude, and thus perish at once. She was
not saved from their hands without difficulty; her courage failed her at
the sight of the peril she ran, and she fainted away on being conveyed
to the fiacre. On reaching the Abbaye, she was questioned until midnight
by Chabot and Drouet, two Jacobin members of the convention. She
answered their interrogatories with singular firmness; observing, in
conclusion: “I have done my task, let others do theirs.” Chabot
threatened her with the scaffold; she answered with a smile of disdain.
Her behavior until the 17th, the day of her trial, was marked by the
same firmness. She wrote to Barbaroux a charming letter, full of
graceful wit and heroic feeling. Her playfulness never degenerated into
levity: like that of the illustrious Thomas Moore, it was the serenity
of a mind whom death had no power to daunt. Speaking of her action, she
observes—

“I considered that so many brave men need not come to Paris for the head
of one man. He deserved not so much honor: the hand of a woman was
enough. . . . I have never hated but one being, and him with what
intensity I have sufficiently shown, but there are a thousand whom I
love still more than I hated him. . . . I confess that I employed a
perfidious artifice in order that he might receive me. In leaving Caen,
I thought to sacrifice him on the pinnacle of ‘the mountain,’ but he no
longer went to it. In Paris, they cannot understand how a useless woman,
whose longest life could have been of no good, could sacrifice herself
to save her country. . . . May peace be as soon established as I desire!
A great criminal has been laid low. . . . the happiness of my country
makes mine. A lively imagination and a feeling heart promise but a
stormy life; I beseech those who might regret me to consider this: they
will then rejoice at my fate.”

A tenderer tone marks the brief letter she addressed to her father on
the eve of her trial and death:

“Forgive me, my dear father,” she observed, “for having disposed of my
existence without your permission. I have avenged many innocent victims.
I have warded away many disasters. The people, undeceived, will one day
rejoice at being delivered from a tyrant. If I endeavored to persuade
you that I was going to England, it was because I hoped to remain
unknown: I recognized that this was impossible. I hope you will not be
subjected to annoyance: you have at least defenders at Caen; I have
chosen Gustave Doulcet de Pontecoulant for mine: it is a mere matter of
form. Such a deed allows of no defense. Farewell, my dear father. I
beseech of you to forget me; or, rather, to rejoice at my fate. I die
for a good cause. I embrace my sister, whom I love with my whole heart.
Do not forget the line of Corneille:

    ‘Le crime faite la honte, et non pas l’échafaud.’

To-morrow, at eight, I am to be tried.”

On the morning of the 17th, she was led before her judges. She was
dressed with care, and had never looked more lovely. Her bearing was so
imposing and dignified, that the spectators and the judges seemed to
stand arraigned before her. She interrupted the first witness, by
declaring that it was she who had killed Marat.

“Who inspired you with so much hatred against him?” asked the president.

“I needed not the hatred of others, I had enough of my own,” she
energetically replied. “Besides, we do not execute well that which we
have not ourselves conceived.”

“What, then, did you hate in Marat?”

“His crimes.”

“Do you think that you have assassinated all the Marats?”

“No; but now that he is dead, the rest may fear.”

She answered other questions with equal firmness and laconism. Her
project, she declared, had been formed since the 31st of May. “She had
killed one man to save a hundred thousand. She was a republican long
before the Revolution, and had never failed in energy.”

“What do you understand by energy?” asked the president.

“That feeling,” she replied, “which induces us to cast aside selfish
considerations, and sacrifice ourselves for our country.”

Fouquier Tinville here observed, alluding to the sure blow she had
given, that she must be well practiced in crime.

“The monster takes me for an assassin!” she exclaimed, in a tone
thrilling with indignation.

This closed the debates, and her defender rose. It was not Doulcet de
Pontecoulant—who had not received her letter—but Chauveau de la Garde,
chosen by the president. Charlotte gave him an anxious look, as though
she feared he might seek to save her at the expense of honor. He spoke,
and she perceived that her apprehensions were unfounded. Without
excusing her crime or attributing it to insanity, he pleaded for the
fervor of her conviction; which he had the courage to call sublime. The
appeal proved unavailing. Charlotte Corday was condemned. Without
deigning to answer the president, who asked her if she had aught to
object to the penalty of death being carried out against her, she rose,
and walking up to her defender, thanked him gracefully.

“These gentlemen,” said she, pointing to the judges, “have just informed
me that the whole of my property is confiscated. I owe something in the
prison: as a proof of my friendship and esteem, I request you to pay
this little debt.”

On returning to the conciergerie, she found an artist, named Hauer,
waiting for her, to finish her portrait, which he had begun at the
tribunal. They conversed freely together, until the executioner,
carrying the red chemise destined for assassins, and the scissors with
which he was to cut her hair off, made his appearance.

“What, so soon?” exclaimed Charlotte Corday, slightly turning pale; but
rallying her courage, she resumed her composure, and presented a lock of
her hair to M. Hauer, as the only reward in her power to offer. A priest
came to offer her his ministry. She thanked him and the persons by whom
he had been sent, but declined his spiritual aid. The executioner cut
her hair, bound her hands, and threw the red chemise over her. M. Hauer
was struck with the almost unearthly loveliness which the crimson hue of
this garment imparted to the ill-fated maiden. “This toilet of death,
though performed by rude hands, leads to immortality,” said Charlotte,
with a smile.

A heavy storm broke forth as the car of the condemned left the
conciergerie for the Place de la Revolution. An immense crowd lined
every street through which Charlotte Corday passed. Hootings and
execrations at first rose on her path; but as her pure and serene beauty
dawned on the multitude, as the exquisite loveliness of her countenance,
and the sculptural beauty of her figure became more fully revealed, pity
and admiration superseded every other feeling. Her bearing was so
admirably calm and dignified, as to rouse sympathy in the breasts of
those who detested not only her crime, but the cause for which it had
been committed. Many men of every party took off their hats and bowed as
the cart passed before them. Amongst those who waited its approach, was
a young German, named Adam Luz, who stood at the entrance of the Rue
Sainte Honore, and followed Charlotte to the scaffold. He gazed on the
lovely and heroic maiden with all the enthusiasm of his imaginative
race. A love, unexampled perhaps in the history of the human heart, took
possession of his soul. Not one wandering look of “those beautiful eyes,
which revealed a soul as intrepid as it was tender,” escaped him. Every
earthly grace so soon to perish in death, every trace of the lofty and
immortal spirit, filled him with bitter and intoxicating emotions
unknown till then. “To die for her; to be struck by the same hand; to
feel in death the same cold axe which had severed the angelic head of
Charlotte; to be united to her in heroism, freedom, love, and death, was
now the only hope and desire of his heart.”

Unconscious of the passionate love she had awakened, Charlotte now stood
near the guillotine. She turned pale on first beholding it, but soon
resumed her serenity. A deep blush suffused her face when the
executioner removed the handkerchief that covered her neck and
shoulders, but she calmly laid her head upon the block. The executioner
touched a spring, and the axe came down. One of Samson’s assistants
immediately stepped forward, and holding up the lifeless head to the
gaze of the crowd, struck it on either cheek. The brutal act only
excited a feeling of horror; and it is said that—as though even in
death her indignant spirit protested against this outrage—an angry and
crimson flush passed over the features of Charlotte Corday.

A few days after her execution, Adam Luz published a pamphlet, in which
he enthusiastically praised her deed, and proposed that a statue with
the inscription, “Greater than Brutus,” should be erected to her memory
on the spot where she had perished. He was arrested and thrown into
prison. On entering the Abbaye, he passionately exclaimed, “I am going
to die for her!” His wish was fulfilled ere long.

Strange, feverish times were those which could rouse a gentle and lovely
maiden to avenge freedom by such a deadly deed; which could waken in a
human heart a love whose thoughts were not of life or earthly bliss, but
of the grave and the scaffold. Let the times, then, explain those
natures, where so much evil and heroism are blended, that man cannot
mark the limits between both. Whatever judgment may be passed upon her,
the character of Charlotte Corday was certainly not cast in an ordinary
mould. It is a striking and noble trait, that to the last she did not
repent: never was error more sincere. If she could have repented, she
would never have become guilty.

Her deed created an extraordinary impression throughout France. On
hearing of it, a beautiful royalist lady fell down on her knees, and
invoked “Saint Charlotte Corday.” The republican Madame Roland calls her
a heroine worthy of a better age. The poet, Andre Chenier—who, before a
year had elapsed, followed her on the scaffold—sang her heroism in a
soul-stirring strain.

The political influence of that deed may be estimated by the exclamation
of Vergniaud: “She kills us, but she teaches us how to die!” It was so.
The assassination of Marat exasperated all his fanatic partisans against
the Girondists. Almost divine honors were paid to his memory; forms of
prayer were addressed to him; altars were erected to his honor, and
numberless victims sent to the scaffold as a peace-offering to his
manes. On the wreck of his popularity rose the far more dangerous power
of Robespierre; a new impulse was given to the Reign of Terror. Such was
the “peace” which the erring and heroic Charlotte Corday won for France.

-----

[12] Lamartine.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE DYING ROSE.


                          BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.


    The Queen of the Flowers sat on her throne,
      But the rosy gems from her crown were falling—
    A paleness was over her beauty thrown,
      For she heard the death-spirit on her calling!
    Lowly she bent her royal head,
      And mourned in tones of plaintive sweetness
    That mortals should call her the fading rose—
      The rose of early, perishing fleetness!

    “Ungrateful man! do I not make
      My span of life, though short, delicious?
    And yield you rich perfumes after death?
      But there is no bound to human wishes
    I see all my sister flow’rets fade,
      In their blighted beauty around me lying;
    Yet only of _me_ ’tis sung, and said—
      Alas! for the rose—so early dying!”

    “Be not displeased with us, loveliest one”—
      Said a fair young maiden standing by her—
    “’Tis not that thy race is so swiftly run,
      But we wish that thy destiny were higher:
    We see all the flowers around us die—
      And deem it their fate; but _thee_, their sovereign,
    We would give a lovelier home on high,
      With sister spirits around thee hov’ring!

    “Then call not that thankless, which is in truth
      The prompting of tender and true affection;
    And pardon the sorrow, with which our youth
      Sees ever in thee but a sad reflection!
    For all the beauty and joy of our life—
      All the loves and the hopes we so fondly cherish,
    We liken to _thee_—and when they fade
      We say—‘Like the Rose, how soon they perish!’”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           LOVE’S MESSENGER.


                            A Favorite Song.


                              COMPOSED BY

                            MATTHIAS KELLER.

                         WORDS FROM THE GERMAN.


     Published by permission of Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street,
      _Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments_.

[Illustration: musical score]

    My love is no writer,
      Nor truly am I,
    Or often a letter should bear her my

[Illustration: musical score]

    sigh;
    A promise most tender I gave to my love.
    I would her remember
    Where e’er I should rove
    I would her remember
    Where e’er I should rove.

           II.

    Could I write her a letter,
      What joy would be mine,
    But, alas! ’tis a pleasure
      That I must resign;
    For love’s messenger only
      A ring I can take,
    And kiss it most fondly
      For her own sweet sake.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _The Golden Legend. By Henry Wordsworth Longfellow. Boston:
    Ticknor, Read & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._

The readers of this charming poem, whatever may be their judgment of its
merits as compared with “The Spanish Student” and “Evangeline,” will be
compelled to acknowledge its originality of plan, and the new impression
it conveys of the author’s genius. Whatever it may be, it is most
assuredly no repetition of any of his former works, for the mark it
leaves upon the imagination is essentially novel. The poem is a
succession of highly colored pictures of life in the middle ages; and
though the fortunes of Prince Henry and Elsie give a certain unity to
the whole, it is a unity that admits of more variety than
“Evangeline”—a variety which, though purchased at some expense of
interest in the story, produces a more pleasing impression in the end.
Though the poem has not the continuous richness and warmth of fancy,
diction, and melody which commonly distinguish Longfellow’s writings, it
is by no means deficient in those qualities, and has scenes and passages
on which his imagination has expended the full pomp of its luxurious
images and subtle melodies. Though filled with vivid pictures of the
middle ages, the poem can hardly be called picturesque, for the
picturesque implies not succession but combination; and “The Golden
Legend” is a succession of pictures, not a combination of many into one.
The picturesque, as defined by Coleridge, is the “union, harmonious
melting-down and fusion of the different in kind and the disparate in
degree” and it is in this meaning of the word that Coleridge denies the
quality to Spenser, thereby much puzzling even Hallam, who could not
conceive why a poem so full of pictures as the Faery Queene, was not in
an eminent degree picturesque.

The volume opens with a scene representing the spire of the Strasburg
Cathedral, and Lucifer with the Powers of the Air, trying to tear down
the cross. This scene has a quaint sublimity which prepares the mind for
the strangeness of the representations of religion which follow; for
Longfellow, in his pictures of Catholicism, presents it, not in its
abstract doctrines, but in its concrete life—presents it as it really
existed in institutions, customs, and men, during the middle ages. This
idea must be perceived at the commencement, or else the reader, judging
not merely as a modern Protestant, but as a modern Catholic, will
condemn the poem at once as irreverently extravagant and bizarre. The
next scene introduces Prince Henry, sitting alone in his castle,
tormented with baffled aspiration and weariness of life—a sort of
Faust, but a Faust of sentiment rather than a Faust of intellect. In a
beautiful soliloquy, the prince mourns over the graves of his departed
hopes, loves, and aspirations, in a style very different from the sharp,
short, electric curses on the deceptions of life, which leap from the
lips of Goethe’s hero. We give a short extract, which is a poem in
itself:

        They come, the shapes of joy and wo,
        The airy crowds of long-ago,
        The dreams and fancies known of yore,
        That have been and shall be no more.
        They change the cloisters of the night
        Into a garden of delight;
        _They make the dark and dreary hours_
        _Open and blossom into flowers!_
        I would not sleep, I love to be
        Again in their fair company;
        But ere my lips can bid them stay,
        They pass and vanish quite away.

Just as the prince, in his hunger for rest, has asserted

        Sweeter the undisturbed and deep
        Tranquillity of endless sleep,

Lucifer appears, in his accustomed dress as a traveling physician, and
accompanied by his usual sign, a flash of lightning. He taunts and
cajoles his victim into drinking what he is pleased to call his water of
life. The immediate effect of this Satanic liquid is like that which the
cordial of the foul hag communicates to the Faust of Goethe:

        It is like a draught of fire!
        Through every vein
        I feel again
        The fever of youth, the soft desire;
        A rapture that is almost pain
        Throbs in my heart and fills my brain!
        O joy! O joy! I feel
        The band of steel
        That so long and heavily has pressed
        Upon my breast
        Uplifted, and the malediction
        Of my affliction
        Is taken from me, and my weary breast
        At length finds rest.

We are next transferred as spectators to the courtyard of the castle,
and a most beautiful scene occurs between Hubert, Prince Henry’s
seneschal, and Walter, the Minnesinger, a capital embodiment of the
knightly poet of the middle ages. The prince, it seems, has relapsed
from the glory of his exaltation, has become more soul-sick than ever,
has fallen under the malediction of the church; and has gone forth into
disgrace and banishment. We give the concluding passage of this scene,
where Walter speaks of the “beings of the wind” that attend the poet,
and, leaning over the parapet of the castle, describes the landscape:

        _Walter._ I would a moment here remain.
        But you, good Hubert, go before,
        Fill me a goblet of May-drink,
        As aromatic as the May
        From which it steals the breath away,
        And which he loved so well of yore;
        It is of him that I would think.
        You shall attend me, when I call,
        In the ancestral banquet-hall.
        Unseen companions, guests of air,
        You cannot wait on, will be there;
        They taste not food, they drink not wine,
        But their soft eyes look into mine,
        And their lips speak to me, and all
        The vast and shadowy banquet-hall
        Is full of looks and words divine!

                  _Leaning over the parapet._

        The day is done; and slowly from the scene
        The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts,
        And puts them back into his golden quiver!
        Below me in the valley, deep and green
        As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts
        We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river
        Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions
        Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent,
        And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent!
        Yes, there it flows, for ever, broad and still,
        As when the vanguard of the Roman legions
        First saw it from the top of yonder hill!
        How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat;
        Vineyard and town, and tower with fluttering flag,
        The consecrated chapel on the crag,
        And the white hamlet gathered round its base,
        Like Mary sitting at her Saviour’s feet,
        And looking up at his beloved face!
        O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more
        Than the impending night darkens the landscape o’er!

The next three scenes are exquisite in conception and execution. Prince
Henry has found refuge

                        In the Odenwald.
        Some of his tenants unappalled
        By fear of death or priestly word—
        _A holy family that make_
        _Each meal a supper of the Lord—_
        Have him beneath their watch and ward.
        For love of him, and Jesus’ sake!

The pictures which follow of Gottlieb, his wife Ursula, and Elsie, his
daughter, the heroine of the poem, are beautiful and touching
representations of the sturdy honesty and sublime simplicity of faith,
which distinguished the religious German peasant-family of the old time.
A legend of the Monk Felix, which Prince Henry reads, while Elsie is
gathering flowers for him and for St. Cecelia, is truly “golden.” We
cannot resist the temptation to quote a portion of it.

        One morning, all alone,
        Out of his convent of gray stone,
        Into the forest older, darker, grayer,
        His lips moving as if in prayer,
        His head sunken upon his breast
        As in a dream of rest,
        Walked the Monk Felix. All about
        The brood, sweet sunshine lay without,
        Filling the summer air;
        And within the woodlands as he trod,
        The twilight was like the Truce of God
        With worldly wo and care;
        Under him lay the golden moss;
        And above him the boughs of hemlock-trees
        Waved, and made the sign of the cross,
        And whispered their Benedicites;
        And from the ground
        Rose an odor sweet and fragrant
        Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant
        Vines that wandered,
        Seeking the sunshine, round and round.

        These he heeded not, but pondered
        On the volume in his hand,
        A volume of Saint Augustine,
        Wherein he read of the unseen,
        Splendors of God’s great town
        In the unknown land,
        And, with his eyes cast down
        In humility, he said:
        “I believe, O God,
        What herein I have read,
        But alas! I do not understand!”

        And lo! he heard
        The sudden singing of a bird,
        A snow-white bird, that from a cloud
        Dropped down,
        And among the branches brown
        Sat singing
        So sweet, and clear, and loud,
        It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing.
        And the Monk Felix closed his book,
        And long, long,
        With rapturous look,
        He listened to the song,
        And hardly breathed or stirred,
        Until he saw, as in a vision,
        The land Elysian,
        And in the heavenly city heard
        Angelic feet
        Fall on the golden flagging of the street.
        And he would fain
        Have caught the wondrous bird,
        But strove in vain;
        For it flew away, away,
        Far over hill and dell,
        And instead of its sweet singing
        He heard the convent bell
        Suddenly in the silence ringing
        For the service of noonday.
        And he retraced
        His pathway homeward sadly and in haste.

When the monk returns to the convent, every thing is changed. He finds
himself a stranger among the brotherhood.

        “Forty years,” said a Friar,
        “Have I been Prior
        Of this convent in the wood;
        But for that space
        Never have I beheld thy face.”

At last the oldest recluse of the cloister recollects his name as that
of a monk, who, a hundred years before, had left the convent, and never
returned.

        And they knew, at last,
        That such had been the power
        Of that celestial, immortal song,
        A hundred years had passed,
        And had not seemed so long
        As a single hour!

Elsie learns that the malady of the prince will never be cured unless by
a miracle, or unless (which some Benedicts would pronounce equally
miraculous) a maiden should offer her life for his, and die in his
stead. She immediately expresses her desire to save the prince at this
sacrifice; and to the exclamation of her mother, that she knows not what
death is, she answers with a burst of religious fervor almost celestial:

        ’Tis the cessation of our breath.
        Silent and motionless we lie;
        And no one knoweth more than this.
        I saw our little Gertrude die;
        She left off breathing, and no more
        I smoothed the pillow beneath her head.
        She was more beautiful than before.
        Like violets faded were her eyes;
        By this we knew that she was dead.
        Through the open window looked the skies
        Into the chamber where she lay,
        And the wind was like the sound of wings,
        As if angels came to bear her away.
        Ah! when I saw and felt these things,
        I found it difficult to stay;
        I longed to die as she had died,
        And go forth with her, side by side.
        The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead,
        And Mary, and our Lord; and I
        Would follow in humility
        The way by them illumined!

Prince Henry, uncertain whether he shall selfishly avail himself of this
sacrifice, goes to take counsel of the priest. Lucifer, however, in the
absence of the regular clergy, has seated himself in the confessional,
and, preaching the gospel of expediency, convinces Henry that he can
accept the maiden’s offer. She is to go with him to Salerno to die; and
before they start she exacts a promise from him that he shall not
endeavor to turn her from her purpose, and does it in words

                      That fall from her lips
        Like roses from the lips of angels; and angels
        Might stoop to pick them up!

A large portion of the rest of the poem is devoted to representations of
the cities, towns, forests through which they pass on their way to
Salerno, the cloisters and convents where they stop, and the
many-colored and multiform life with which they come slightly in contact
or collision. The thread of the story is here spun very fine, and we
almost lose memory of the hero and heroine, while rapt in the gorgeous
pictures of medieval superstition, manners and character, with which the
page is crowded. It is evident that the story itself is too slight for
the bulk of the book, and that the majority of the scenes, vivid and
delightful as they are in themselves, have not that vital connection
with the chief characters and leading event which is demanded in a work
of art. And yet, if the reader sharply scrutinizes the whole impression
which the poem leaves on his imagination, he will, perhaps, discover
that there is a fine thread of union connecting the various parts, and
that the incidents and scenery of the journey have not that merely
mechanical juxtaposition which characterizes the events and scenes
recorded in a tourist’s journal. The prince and Elsie are felt when they
are not seen; and we do not know but that the poem may awake the
admiration of future critics for the singular refinement of the
imaginative power, by which the seemingly heterogeneous parts of the
work are subtly organized into a homogeneous whole, by the connection of
the profound Catholic sentiment of Elsie with the other expressions,
grotesque and besotted, of the operation of the same faith. But such
refinements are foreign to our purpose here. It is sufficient to say
that the prince and Elsie appear at least on the edges of all the
incidents which are so vividly presented. At the conclusion, the prince
repents just as Elsie is on the point of being immolated, and then finds
that his health recovers more rapidly on the prospect that she will live
for him, instead of die for him. They are accordingly married. The
account of the return to the cottage of Gottlieb and the castle of the
prince, is very beautiful. Elsie is, perhaps, Longfellow’s finest
creation, representing a woman so perfectly good, that her principles
have become instincts. The devil that appears in the book, though
sufficiently Satanic to frighten some sensitive readers, is rather a
languid Lucifer, as compared with Milton’s or Goethe’s.

Among the many curiosities of the poem is a play, ingeniously imitated,
in form and spirit, from those monstrosities of the early drama, the
Miracle Plays. The fourth part is devoted to a convent in the Black
Forest, and the soliloquy of Friar Claus, in the wine-cellar—of Friar
Pacificus, transcribing and illuminating MSS.—of the Abbot Ernestus,
pacing among the cloisters—and the convivial scene in the rectory—are
fine descriptions of cloistered life, true both to the ideas and facts
of the time. The passionate confession of the Abbess Irmingard to Elsie,
is in Longfellow’s most powerful style, and has a fire and fierceness of
outright and downright passion, not common to his representations of
emotion. All of these would afford many choice passages for quotation;
we have but room, however, for Friar Cuthbert’s sermon, delivered in
front of the Strasburg Cathedral, on Easter Day. This, with a quaint
audacity of its own, elbows out even its betters in verse and sentiment,
and vehemently claims the right to be cited:

    Friar Cuthbert, _gesticulating and cracking a postilion’s whip_.

        What ho! good people! do you not hear?
        Dashing along at the top of his speed,
        Booted and spurred, on his jaded steed,
        A courier comes with words of cheer.
        Courier! what is the news, I pray?
        “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you? “From court.”
        Then I do not believe it; you say it in sport.

                    _Cracks his whip again._

        Ah, here comes another riding this way;
        We soon shall know what he has to say.
        Courier! what are the tidings to-day?
        “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you? “From town.”
        Then I do not believe it; away with you, clown.

                _Cracks his whip more violently._

        And here comes a third, who is spurring amain;
        What news do you bring, with your loose-hanging rein,
        Your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam?
        “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you! “From Rome.”
        Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed.
        Ride on with the news, at the top of your speed!

              _Great applause among the crowd._

        To come back to my text! When the news was first spread
        That Christ was arisen indeed from the dead,
        Very great was the joy of the angels in heaven;
        And as great the dispute as to who should carry
        The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary,
        Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven.
        Old Father Adam was first to propose,
        As being the author of all our woes;
        But he was refused, for fear, said they,
        He would stop to eat apples on the way!
        Abel came next, but petitioned in vain,
        Because he might meet with his brother Cain!
        Noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness for wine
        Should delay him at every tavern-sign;
        And John the Baptist could not get a vote,
        On account of his old-fashioned, camel’s-hair coat;
        And the Penitent Thief, who died on the cross,
        Was reminded that all his bones were broken!
        Till at last, when each in turn had spoken,
        The company being still at a loss,
        The Angel, who rolled away the stone,
        Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone,
        And filled with glory that gloomy prison,
        And said to the Virgin, “The Lord has arisen!”

We think we have sufficiently quoted from this delightful volume to give
our readers an idea of its poetical merit. But no analysis or quotation
can do justice to the wealth of knowledge it evinces of the middle ages,
and to the various scholarship it displays. Longfellow, with a true
poetic insight and power of assimilation, has given us here the life and
spirit as well as the form of a by-gone age, so that the reader of the
poem can obtain more of the substance of knowledge from its pictured
page than from history itself. The work is not only one of uncommon
poetical excellence, but it is a triumph over difficulties inherent in
the subject, and over the subjective limitations of the author’s own
mind. It is broader if not higher than any thing he has previously
written, promises to be more permanently popular, and has the great
merit of increasing in the reader’s estimation with a second or even a
third perusal.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Miscellanies. By the Rev. James Martineau. Boston: Crosby &
    Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Martineau has long been known to a numerous class of readers in this
country as an eloquent preacher and essayist. The present volume is
composed of philosophical essays, selected from his contributions to the
Westminster and Prospective Reviews, and is edited by the Rev. Thomas S.
King, of Boston, himself one of the most eloquent and accomplished of
New England clergymen. Mr. Martineau’s sermons have been repeatedly
reprinted, but this volume of Miscellanies conveys an impression of the
independence and fertility of his mind and the reach of his
acquisitions, which his sermons, with all their peculiar merit, would
never give. It evinces not only an interest in all the social and
religious problems which puzzle the present age, but a grasp of
scholarship extending far back over the philosophies and literatures of
other times and nations. The bent of his nature, however, is toward
mental hospitality to the radical opinions of the day, and new thoughts,
new hopes, even new paradoxes, are ever welcomed by his heart and
disposition when his cool head doubts, discusses, demurs, and withholds
its assenting judgment. He seems to have more sympathy for reformers
than their productions, as his rich and various culture enables him to
detect one-sidedness or superficiality in many a plan of amelioration,
the spirit of which he approves. Both, however, in politics and religion
he would be classed with the extremely “liberal” party; and though the
conservative elements of his mind are, to a discriminating reader,
visible in almost every page of the present volume, the author appears
all the while desirous to share the glorious unpopularity of a class of
thinkers with whom he but imperfectly sympathizes rather than to
indicate his points of disagreement with their schemes and systems. He
has a deep mental disgust for the moral timidity and intellectual
feebleness which characterize so many of the fashionable and
conventional thinkers on politics and theology, and is perhaps from this
cause too apt to overlook defects in heretical systems in his admiration
of the courage of the heretics. In his own words, “it is a dishonorable
characteristic of the present age, that on its most marked intellectual
tendencies is impressed a character of FEAR. While its great practical
agitations exhibit a progress toward some positive and attainable good,
all its conspicuous movements of thought seem to be retreats from some
apprehended evil. The open plain of meditation, over which, in simpler
times, earnest men might range with devout and unmolested hope, bristles
all over with directions showing which way we are _not_ to go. Turn
where we may we see warnings to beware of some sophist’s pitfall, or
devil’s ditch, or fool’s paradise, or atheist’s desert.”

This “despair of truth,” this intellectual cowardice, is more offensive
to Mr. Martineau than unbelief itself. He describes the class of
thinkers he most dislikes in one sentence of beautiful sharpness.
“Checked and frightened,” he says, “at the entrance of every path on
which they venture, they _spend their strength in standing still_; or
devise ingenious proofs, that, in a world where periodicity is the only
progress, retrogradation is the discreetest method of advance.” His
whole volume is therefore a protest against the practice, common both in
England and the United States, of erecting in the republic of thought a
despotism of dullness and timidity, by which independent investigation
is to be allowed only so far as it results in fortifying accredited
systems, and a bounty is put on that worst form of disbelief, infidelity
to the laws of thought, the monitions of conscience, and the beckonings
of new and inspiring truths. But while he is properly angry at such
noodleism as this, which, if unlashed and unrebuked, would reduce men of
thought into a corporation of intellectual Jerry Sneaks, he does not
appear to us properly to distinguish between that independence which
seeks truth and that independence which is merely a blustering egotism,
and ostentatious exhibition of the commonplaces of error. His
discrimination is not always of that sort which detects through the
verbal disguises of moral energy the unmistakable features of moral
pertness. The charlatans of dignity and convention have provoked a
corresponding clique of charlatans, who revel in the bravadoes of
license and anarchy; and it is no part of a wise man’s duty to allow his
disgust of one form of nonsense to tempt him into championship of
another form, because it happens to be on the opposite extreme.

The defect of Mr. Martineau’s nature appears to be the dominion of the
reflective portion of his nature over all its other powers. He is
emphatically a thinker, but a thinker on subjects so allied to sentiment
and passion, that some action should be combined with it, in order that
the mind shall receive no morbid taint, be not “sicklied o’er” by a
thought that broadens into unpractical comprehension. The fertility of
his mind in thoughts is altogether out of proportion to the vigor of his
nature, and though intellectually brave he is not intellectually robust.
Hence a lack of muscle and nerve in his most beautiful paragraphs; hence
the absence of electric force and condensed energy of expression in his
finest statements; hence a certain sadness and languor in the atmosphere
spread over his writings, the breathing of which does not invigorate the
mind so much as it enlarges its view. He communicates thoughts, but he
does not always communicate the inspiration to think.

Although these drawbacks prevent us from ranking him, as a writer, in
the highest class—for a writer of the highest class impresses his
readers by the force of his character as much as by the affluence of his
conceptions and the beauties of his style—still Mr. Martineau ranks
high among contemporary prose writers for the sweetness, clearness,
pliancy and unity of his style, his happy felicities of imagery, his
unostentatious intellectual honesty, and his command of all the
rhetorical aids of metaphor, sarcasm and figurative illustration. His
style is also strictly vital, the exact expression of his nature as well
as opinions; but its melody is flute-like rather than clarion-like; is
so consistently ornate and so tuned on one key, that commonplaces and
originalities are equally clad in the same superb uniform, and move to
the music of the same slow march; and the sad earnestness and languor,
which we have mentioned as characterizing his will, steal mysteriously
out from his exquisite periods, and pass into the reader’s mind like an
invisible essence. Almost every professor of rhetoric would say that Mr.
Martineau is a better writer than the Bishop of Exeter, a church
dignitary for whom Mr. Martineau’s liberal mind has a natural antipathy.
Mr. Martineau has evidently a larger command of words and images, more
taste, more toleration, more intellectual conscientiousness and
comprehension, a better metaphysician, a more trustworthy thinker, with
less mosaic work in his logic, and less casuistry in his ethics. But
behind all the Bishop of Exeter’s sentences is a great, brawny,
hard-fisted, pugilistic, arrogant _man_, daring, confident, indomitable,
with as much will as reason, and with all his opinions so thoroughly
penetrated with the life-blood of his character that they have all the
force of bigotry and prejudice. He is equally unreasonable and
uncreative as a thinker, but his unreason has a vigor that Mr.
Martineau’s reason lacks. Wielding with his strong arm some piece of
medieval bigotry, he goes crashing on from sentence to sentence, angrily
pummeling and buffeting his opponents—a theological “ugly customer,”
who, when the rush of his coming is heard afar off, makes the
adversaries he is approaching glance instinctively to the
direction—“look out for the engine when the bell rings!” Mr.
Martineau’s large understanding would be benefited by some of the
Bishop’s will; and one is driven to the conclusion, that, a man of
purely independent thought, who abides in conceptions of his own,
entirely apart from authority, must be a genius of the first order to
escape from that weakness of will which distinguishes the most
adventurous of Mr. Martineau’s abstract and uninvigorating speculations.

Indeed, in all declamations about the advantages of strict individualism
in matters of faith and speculation, there is not the right emphasis
laid on the distinction between abstract and concrete ideas. A faith
which rests on some union of authority with reason, which is connected
with institutions, which combines the principle of obedience with that
of liberty, may be narrow but it is sure to be strong, and if not
distinguished by reach of thought will compensate for that deficiency by
force of character. Mr. Martineau’s tendency is to the abstract, the
impalpable, the unrealized in speculation, and spends much of his
strength in supporting himself at the elevation of his thought. But as
his thinking is not on the level of his character, he insensibly exalts
opinion over life, and is more inclined to tolerate the excesses of
unbridled and unreasonable egotism, than the prejudices of pious
humility. As a thinker his mind demands breadth and largeness of view,
and we hardly think he could be satisfied with a saint who was not
something of a philosopher. But while he has a literary advantage over
his adversaries, they have a personal advantage over him. In courage,
even, there can be little doubt that the Bishop of Exeter is his
superior, for all the coarser human elements which enter into courage
Mr. Martineau lacks. Mr. Martineau has the courage to deny in his Review
any proposition which any established church might proclaim; but he
could not have assailed the Archbishop of Canterbury, and bearded Lord
Campbell, like the bishop. The difference in the case is, that the
bishop battled for a positive institution around which for years his
affections and passions had clustered; while Mr. Martineau has no such
inspiration to support the abstract conclusions of his intellect.

The subjects of the essays in this volume are Dr. Priestley, Dr. Arnold,
Church and State, Theodore Parker’s Discourses of Religion, Phases of
Faith, The Church of England, and the Battle of the Churches. Of these
we have been particularly impressed with the analysis of the mental
character of Priestley, the review of Mr. Parker, and the articles
relating to the English Church. The essay on Dr. Arnold has something of
the some merit which distinguishes that on Dr. Priestley; it is acute in
the examination of principles but dull in the perception of character.
Mr. Martineau is always strong in the explication of ideas and the
statement and analysis of systems, but he constantly overlooks men in
his attention to the opinions they champion and represent. The dramatic
element not only does not exist in his mind, but he hardly accepts it as
a possibility of the human intellect; and therefore he always fails in
viewing ideas in connection with the individuality or nationality in
which they have their root, and is accordingly often unintentionally
intolerant to persons from his want of insight into the individual
conditions of their intellectual activity. But we gladly hasten from
these criticisms on his limitations to some examples of his peculiar
merits as a writer. In speaking of Dr. Priestley’s intellectual
processes as a scientific explorer and discoverer, he shrewdly remarks:
“He was the ample collector of materials for discovery rather than the
final discoverer himself; a sign of approaching order rather than the
producer of order himself. We remember an amusing German play, designed
as a satire upon the philosophy of atheism, in which Adam walks across
the stage, going to be created; and, though a paradox, it may be said
that truth, as it passed through Dr. Priestley’s mind, was going to be
created.” In referring to the purely independent action of Dr.
Priestley’s mind in the formation of his opinions, our analyst gives a
fine statement of the real sources of most men’s “positive” knowledge
and doctrines. “It would be difficult,” he says, “to select from the
benefactors of mankind one who was less acted upon by his age; whose
convictions were more independent of sympathy; in the whole circle of
whose opinions you can set down so little to the prejudgments of
education, to the attractions of friendship, to the perverse love of
opposition, to the contagion of prevailing taste, or to any of the
irregular moral causes which, independently of evidence, determine the
course of human belief.” Again, how fine is his statement of the
indestructibility of Christian faith: “Amid the vicissitudes of
intellect, worship retains its stability; and the truth, which, it would
seem, cannot be proved, is unaffected by an infinite series of
refutations. How evident that it has its ultimate seat, not in the
mutable judgments of the understanding, but in the native sentiments of
Conscience and the inexhaustible aspirations of Affection! The Supreme
certainly must needs be too true to be proved: and the highest
perfection can appear doubtful only to sensualism and sin.”

“The Battle of the Churches,” the most exquisite in thought and style of
all the essays in the volume, and well-known to most readers for its
clear statement of the hold which Romanism has upon the affections of
mankind, contains many examples of the fine irony and bland sarcasm
which enter into the more stimulating ingredients of Mr. Martineau’s
softly flowing diction. His statement of Comte’s Law of Progression, as
followed by his view of the complicated theological discussions which
now divide England into furious parties, is most demurely comical. “In
1822,” he commences, “a French philosopher discovered the grand law of
human progression, revealed it to applauding Paris, brought the history
of all civilized nations to pronounce it infallible, and computed from
it the future course of European society. The mind of man, we are
assured by Auguste Comte, passes by invariable necessity through three
stages of development: the state of religion, or fiction; of
metaphysics, or abstract thought; of science, or positive knowledge. No
change in this order, no return upon its steps, is possible; the shadow
cannot retreat upon the dial, or the man return to the nature of the
child. Every one who is not behind the age will tell you, that he has
outlived the theology of his infancy and the philosophy of his youth, to
settle down on a physical belief in the ripeness of his powers. And so,
too, the world, passing from myth to metaphysics, and from metaphysics
to induction, begins with the Bible and ends with the ‘_Cours de
Philosophie Positive_.’ To the schools of the prophets succeeds
‘_L’Ecole Polytechnique_;’ and our intellect, having surmounted the
meridians of God and the Soul, culminates in the apprehension of
material nature. Henceforth the problems so intensely attractive to
speculation, and so variously answered by faith, retire from the field
of thought. They have an interest, as in some sense the autobiography of
an adolescent world: but they were never to return in living action upon
the earth.”

We can only, in conclusion, recommend to our readers an examination of
this volume, and to its editor a continuation of his well-rewarded
labors in Mr. Martineau’s mine.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Women of Early Christianity. A Series of Portraits, with
    appropriate Descriptions, by several American Clergymen. Edited
    by Rev. J. A. Spencer, M. A. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.
    8vo._

This magnificent volume, with its superb illustrations, letter-press and
binding, seems to have been published with a determination to rival
those English houses who supply the American market with splendid
gift-books. It contains seventeen ideal portraits, engraved from
original designs for this work, and conveying all the varieties of
expression which religious emotion communicates to the human
countenance, from the humblest penitence to loftiest rapture. The
notices are by the editor, assisted by Dr. Sprague, Dr. Kip, Dr. Ingen,
Dr. Parks, the Rev. Mr. Osgood, and a few other eminent clergymen. The
volume will be found especially interesting to those who delight in
whatever increases their knowledge of the manners and the character, the
sufferings and the heroic resolution of the early Christians. The lives
of these women is a representation of Christianity as embodied in
feminine character; and the study is curious in its metaphysical as well
as its theological aspect. Among the best of the communicated articles,
is that of St. Agnes, by Mr. Osgood. The conclusion we quote for the
pointedness of its application. “To us,” says Mr. Osgood, “this Roman
girl stands as a sacred ideal of the Christian maiden. Her name we may
not invoke in prayer. Her purity and heroism we may admire and commend
to the honor of the maidens of our time, who are tempted by powers more
insidious than the arts and threats of Sempronius. The world has not
changed its heart so much as its creed and costume. Its corrupt fashions
would tyrannize over our daughters with the pride of the Cæsars, and a
meretricious literature lurks in our journals and romances more
dangerous to maidenly purity than the den of shame which assailed only
to illustrate the virtue of Agnes. True to her soul and to her Saviour,
the Christian maiden wins to her brow a radiance which, instead of being
dimmed by marriage, is rather brightened by the affections of the wife
and the sacrifices of the mother, into the aureola of the saint.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Greenwood Leaves. A Collection of Sketches and Letters. By
    Grace Greenwood. Second Series. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields.
    1 vol. 12mo._

This series of sketches is superior to the first, and indicates plainly,
not only the growth of the author’s mind, but a firmer and more
confident grasp and control of her various resources of intellect,
sentiment and acquisition. It is the production of the same
individuality which gave zest to her first volume, but an individuality
of larger moral and mental stature. The full, easy, almost majestic flow
of emotion and sentiment, which gave vividness to the conceptions and
vigorous movement to the style of her former sketches, is visible here
in a brighter and more powerful form; and, it may be added, that the
faults proceeding from the intensity of her mind, and her custom of
surveying things which properly claim the decision of judgment through
an atmosphere of feeling, are not altogether absent from her present
work. She exaggerates both in her praise and blame; her eulogy being too
generous, her condemnation sometimes too sharp and indiscriminating; and
many of her criticisms are, therefore, but an ingenious and splendid
exhibition of likes and dislikes, rather than a record of intellectual
judgments. She has not yet obtained the faculty of viewing things as
they are in themselves, independent of the feelings they excite in her
own soul. This fault is a source of raciness, and doubtless makes her
books all the more stimulating to a majority of renders; but it would
seem that a mind which gives such unmistakable hints of sharp insight,
penetrating wit, and clear, intuitive reason as Grace Greenwood’s,
should keep the enthusiasm of her nature a little more under control;
and this could be done, we opine, without breaking up into waves and
ripples that superb sweep of her prose style, which is her great charm
as a writer. We may add that the Letters in this volume, especially
those from Washington, have often a delightful combination of
observation, wit and fancy, and in their rambling references to
individuals, almost raise gossip to the dignity of a fine art.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Moby-Dick; or The Whale. By Herman Melville. New York: Harper
    and Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume sparkles with the raciest qualities of the author’s voluble
and brilliant mind, and whatever may be its reception among old salts,
it will be sure of success with the reading public generally. It has
passages of description and narration equal to the best that Melville
has written, and its rhetoric revels and riots in scenes of nautical
adventure with more than usual glee and gusto. The style is dashing,
headlong, strewn with queer and quaint ingenuities moistened with humor,
and is a capital specimen of deliberate and felicitous recklessness, in
which a seeming helter-skelter movement is guided by real judgment. The
whole work beams with the analogies of a bright and teeming fancy—a
faculty that Melville possesses in such degree that it sometimes betrays
his rhetoric into fantastic excesses, and gives a sort of unreality to
his most vivid descriptions. The joyous vigor and elasticity of his
style, however, compensate for all faults, and even his tasteless
passages bear the impress of conscious and unwearied power. His late
books are not only original in the usual sense, but evince originality
of nature, and convey the impression of a new individuality, somewhat
composite, it is true, but still giving to the jaded reader of every-day
publications, that pleasant shock of surprise which comes from a mental
contact with a character at once novel and vigorous.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Land of Bondage; its Ancient Monuments and Present
    Condition: Being a Journal of a Tour in Egypt. By J. M.
    Wainwright, D. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This volume, one of the most sumptuous in external appearance of the
season, beautifully printed and profusely illustrated, has many peculiar
excellencies also as a book of travels. Dr. Wainwright is both an eager
and acute observer, and his volume bears continual evidence of the
patience with which he investigated for himself, his disregard of
discomfort and danger, and his desire to see with his own eyes what any
eyes had seen. The book is full of information, much of which is
valuable, and all of which is entertaining. The illustrations,
twenty-eight in number, are exceedingly well executed, and are important
aids to the author’s descriptions. The volume is one of the most elegant
that ever the Appletons have issued.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Sixteen Months in the Gold Diggings. By Daniel B. Woods. New
    York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this valuable volume is a man of education and
intelligence, who gives us the results of his observations and
experience during sixteen months of practical mining, and who, as having
written the most sensible book on the subject, deserves to have his
facts and opinions carefully studied by every man who meditates a
California journey. The extravagant expectations formed by most
emigrants have been miserably baulked by the stern realities of the
case, and the plain facts given by Mr. Woods will, we hope, induce the
adventurous portion of the public to pause and reflect before they
undertake an enterprise whose common result is four dollars a day, and
broken health, instead of a fortune.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Practical Metal Worker’s Assistant. With Numerous
    Engravings on Wood. Containing the Arts of Working all Metals
    and Alloys, Forging of Iron and Steel, etc. etc. By Oliver
    Byrne. Philadelphia: Henry Carey Baird, Successor to E. L.
    Carey._

This is another of the very valuable series of works upon the Arts of
Mechanics, which Mr. Baird has, with great shrewdness, made his own. The
series embraces the whole, or nearly the whole, of the various
mechanical branches of trade, and cannot fail to reach a wide sale, and
to remain standard authorities upon the subjects of which they severally
treat.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.


Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.


Reader! we have determined to be more familiar with you. We shall talk
right at you, in defiance of any over nice rules. If you like us, we
shall have much to say to you—telling plain truths in our own off-hand
way, and occasionally giving you a punch in the ribs with our
fore-finger, by way of impressment. _Our_ punch, however, is “our own
peculiar”—with but little acid—and may be taken in moderation, without
fear of a headache from its excessive strength. It is new, and though
not as heady as the imported, it costs us no pains of conscience by way
of unpaid duties. Like the old lady’s gingerbread, “it costs nothing to
make, for the molasses is already in the house.” So you may make a meal
on ours, and spices being hot, you will find yourself comfortable
without a bear-skin. Indeed we hope to make “vituals and drink and
pretty good clothes” out of it ourself, and to be vulgar and quote a
proverb, “What is fat for the goose _ought_ to be fat for the gander.”
So you see you are in for a living as long as you read “Graham.” But
whether a person of robust constitution could survive long on the viands
that are served up at some of the other magazine tables, is a question
more in the line of another Graham to answer—who has invented a bran
new way of growing gracefully stout, on the shadow of cabbages, by a
process of “small by degrees and beautifully less.” It is expected that
any fellow who comes to our table shall smoke his cigar, and laugh with
the rest of the company, and not mar the general hilarity by looking
grave (? stupid) and asking when the fun is over—“What is it all
about?”

                 *        *        *        *        *


                            THAT BILL AGAIN!

[Illustration: A man is seated at a table and a woman presents him with
a magazine.]

_Wife._ Now here is my Graham for February, with 112 pages, as the
editor promised, and you have never sent him that $3. Aint you ashamed
of yourself!

_Husband._ Don’t bother me—I am busy.

_Wife._ Well—the money _shall_ go, as I shall put it in a letter—put a
three cent stamp upon it, and post it this very day.

_Cross Husband._ Money is worth 2 per cent. a month—let the fellow
wait!

Reader—that is the very reason we can’t wait. We are poor, and we want
every dollar. We have a fancy for _short_ paper ourself, now. “Cash on
the nail, or no books.” Having $10,000 at sea, that we should like to
see, of last year’s bright prospects, we shall trust no more, and go in
debt no deeper. Wisdom and Poverty are Fellows in our college.

If Magazine publishers could only, like cotton brokers, draw against
shipments, what a delightful business they would have. But who advances
cash upon snowed-up mails? Who has an available credit in bank, or can
go at the market rates upon over-due subscriptions? Not Graham!

You can’t conceive how agreeable it is not to have a discount—to be
able to look a Bank Director in the face without asking him if “they are
doing any thing now”—to feel perfectly indifferent as to whether your
friend has “any thing over”—to know that you have no interest in the
gold that is going to England—to be able to say to a dun, “look you,
fellow! I have no money, and you know it!”

[Illustration: hand with finger pointing] Mail the money at once, _at
our risk_—Don’t wait for

        The Traveling Collector.

_For $10 we send Graham for five years._

                 *        *        *        *        *

A Horrible Deafness.—Godey, in praising the plates of his own number
for January, says, “We have never _heard_ of any other Magazine giving
an original plate.” Well! as we gave _four_ “original engravings” in
January, and three of them from original designs, we have hopes of
working a miracle on Godey. “The eagle suffers little birds to sing.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Refreshing.—The editor of the International Magazine asserts that as
his German articles are _germaine_ to the American spirit—his is the
most _American_ of all the magazines. A nice Irish bull for a doctor of
divinity. “Cousin! let there be less of this, I pray you.”

The editor of the _Boston Farmer_, wearied with the toils of the field,
turns poet, and comes down upon our December number in the following
epigram. It is evident he is no judge of “picture books.”

    Mr. Graham, now don’t you be vexed,
      But own up to the insinuation;
    You’ve given us _six_ pages of text,
      And _fifty_ of mere illustration!

You shall not run the teeth of your poetical harrow over us in that
fashion, Mr. _Farmer_—so here’s at you!

    ’Tis plain you’re no judge of a baby,
      Or ladies that we put much cost on;
    Although we’ve no doubt that you may be
      A very good farmer—_for Boston_.

Dost think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and
ale? Why, look you, sir! We were a farmer’s boy ourself once—but we
mowed, reaped, cradled, ploughed, ditched, and chopped wood—we didn’t
write execrable poetry, upon pretty women and innocent children. How are
crops in State Street?

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Bizarre.”—This is the title of a neat periodical—issued in the style
of Dickens’ Household Words, and it is filled with graceful and
sparkling tributes from the pen of Mr. Church, its editor. We have a
right to speak out in meeting about Church, for he was an associate of
ours in Auld Lang Syne—in a daily paper—and we know him. His modest,
gentlemanly demeanor conceals a world of honest good stuff, of which a
dozen literary reputations could be made, if cut up and divided among
the “distinguished contributors” of some periodicals. The readers of the
Bizarre will soon have occasion to admit this.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Arthur’s Home Gazette.—We call the attention of our readers to the
prospectus of this valuable literary Journal; and we do it with the more
heartiness as we have known its editor intimately for many years, and
have known him as one of the most upright, consistent, laborious,
talented, yet modest of our literary men. Mr. Arthur is an earnest, good
man—practically the moral editor he pretends to be—there is no sham or
flummery in his composition, but truthful and fearless, he conducts his
Journal as much as a matter of conscience, as a matter of dollars. He is
totally free, too, of all small jealousies of other people’s
success—but with a keen eye to life and its surroundings, he attends
rigidly to his own concerns, and labors to embody his observations and
experiences, so as to make men wiser and better.

To his well-known ability as an author, Mr. Arthur unites the rare gift
of a capital writer for a journal, seizing with happy tact upon the
passing occurrences of the hour, and so combining them with his own
manly reflections as to give us just views of life and of its
responsibilities, too, at the same glance. In the management of his
journal Mr. A. has had the sagacity to enlist brains—the best writers
are among his regular contributors, and without any parade or pretence,
he quietly issues his sheet each week, teeming with thought, and
overflowing with the generous sentiments of a thorough Christian
gentleman.

If any of our readers desire to see a copy of the Gazette, he will
furnish it upon application—if they desire to subscribe they can have
this Magazine and that paper for $4. We have spoken frankly of Mr.
Arthur and his paper—we have spoken what we believe.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Plain Talk.—It has become fashionable to tell all manner of fibs to the
country by _prospectus_ and editorial personal horn-blowing. We shall
stop this business right off, as if ’twere a sort of gas burner. Why not
tell the whole truth at once, without attempting to throw dust in
people’s eyes about extra pages when there are none—or new fashions,
which are but copies of old French designs—American literature
contributed by English and Swedish writers, or by Mrs. Hall, an Irish
lady. Jonathan is not as stupid as he looks, and we doubt whether there
is much _made_ in attempting to cheat him. So here’s into the
confessional—Jontey, my boy, the plate called “Sweet Sixteen,” in this
number, was not engraved for Graham—and you will observe he does not
say it was—but it cost us $120 for all that, on account of its beauty.
If you have never seen it, you will like it much—if you have, go one
eye on it from an original point of view, and refresh your
admiration—that’s a good boy! If that engraving don’t suit you, look at
Père-la-Chaise, which we paid Rolph, of New York, $175 for engraving; or
admire Devereux’s fine wood-engravings. Then take up the literary
department and read _that_, and if you haven’t got your “quarter’s
worth,” amuse yourself with reading the advertisements on the cover.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Froth of Small Beer.—One word as to the sly hits at us for engaging
“Mr. James, an English writer.” Well! Mr. James _is_ a writer of
English, and notwithstanding the gnat-like buzzing of small critics who
singe their wings in his light, we think him one of the most agreeable
of all novel writers. He is a gentleman, of modest demeanor, who does
not come to this country to raise a hurrah, or a row, by flattering our
vanity or assailing our foibles. He has settled snugly down on his farm
at Stockbridge, Massachusetts—claims the proper protection of his
property as a resident citizen, by copyrighting his books; and attends
quietly to his own affairs. We paid him $1200 for his novel, and think
it a good one—he is satisfied—we are satisfied—and the readers of
Graham are delighted. So that we hope to survive the small malice of
small men. If Graham lives, he will, before he closes the year 1852,
have the largest list of good paying subscribers that ever blessed a
publisher’s eyes with the sight of dollars, and will show such energy
_in_ “Graham” as will astonish those who imitate, but can never excel,
and whose highest achievement it is, to be looking through a piece of
smoked glass, in the vain hope of seeing an eclipse of Graham’s
Magazine.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Always 112 Pages.—At the risk of being thought a little malicious, as
well as prophetical, we ask of our readers, and of editors with whom we
exchange, to compare the quantity of literary matter in Graham of this
month, with those who endeavor to follow in our footsteps with the
January number, but trip up, or get leg-weary as soon as the number is
published, and the _subscriptions_ are received.

We also ask—and in this we do _not_ think we are impertinent, that our
editorial friends will, in so far as their leisure will permit, look
over Graham before noticing it, even if the notice be delayed a week or
more. We are in no expiring agony or apprehension that we are forgotten
by our exchanges—so we can wait their pleasure about the notice always;
and should prefer a candid expression of sentiment, favorable or
adverse, to any solicited puffery. Indeed, it would be refreshing to be
scored up a little or quizzed once in a while. Only if you have but _a
word_ or _a line_, to say of Graham, don’t bundle him into a bag with
any body! He comes to your table by invitation—so give him his own
plate and knife and fork; and if you treat him to but plain fare, he
will be as jolly as if you champagned him, or killed the fattest
chicken, in your desire to honor his visit with a barbecue.

Our readers, of course, _read_ “Graham”—they can _tell_ their
acquaintances what a happy rascal he is, and how much they miss it by
not having him drop in upon them these long winter evenings. Will you do
this?—each _one_ of you—YOU!

                 *        *        *        *        *

A New Feature.—In addition to, and separate from, the regular review of
new books, we shall introduce a new feature in “Graham”—that of giving
well-chosen chapters of new books—bound volumes which do not readily
find their way into a large circulation—that our readers, far and near,
may be kept _booked_ up in all that appertains to the fresh literature
of the day. In this number, we give a short chapter from Ik Marvel’s new
work—“Dream-Land”—and in subsequent numbers of “Graham,” shall devote
some eight or ten pages to interesting and sparkling chapters or
passages of choice and rare volumes, the proof sheets of which we can
often obtain in advance. The great addition to _the size_ of the
Magazine, readily affords us space for this improvement—and if our
readers receive but half the gratification which we design to impart to
them by this new feature, Graham will be amply rewarded.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Home Journal.—One of the most delightful of all the journals we
have upon our exchange—and they number _over twelve hundred_—is the
Home Journal of New York, Edited by N. Parker Willis and George P.
Morris, two men whose _names_ are household words, and whose fine genius
seems to expand in its sparkling pages. There is no paper in the country
upon which there is such manifest employment of brain-work or
pains-taking labor—of tact or taste. The editorial page alone will
furnish food, at any time, for a day of pleasant reflection—the whole
sheet, indeed, is the siftings of golden sand. It is a sort of
intellectual placer, where Beauty may grow radiant and wise.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Liberal.—Duval, of The Phœnix, Camden, Ala., offers to exchange his
Weekly with the Daily of the Boston Post, provided Green will publish
his prospectus _six times_. If Green declines that offer he don’t
deserve his name. Duval has a fair hit at the catch-penny affairs which
offer to give an exchange and an “engraving,” (? wood-cut) as a premium
to those who publish a two-column prospectus and get up a club.

It is about time the country press took this matter in hand. We send
“Graham” to whom we please, and if noticed—well, if not—weller. We
shall not die out from exhaustion if an editor with whom we exchange
fails to say that Graham _is_, or is not, “himself again”.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Welcome Brother.—We welcome to the corps editorial of the Magazine
fraternity, John Sartain, Esq., who, with all the blushing honors thick
upon him as an artist of the first ability, comes like another Alexander
to conquer in a new field. We have confidence in Mr. Sartain’s tact and
taste, and look for a very fresh, sparkling and original periodical. Mr.
S. is a disciple of the doctrine of progress—“_onward!_” is his
motto—though all the fiends oppose. He is a revolutionizer, and has
commenced _cutting_ the heads off in style. We don’t want to take off
any thing in Sartain, but if he can “keep it up” long, he must get a new
bat-man for his Puck’s port-folio—not even a Puck could _stand_ that.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Wont Do It.—The State Guard of Wetumpka, Ala., “hopes George R. will
forgive it, for lending “Graham” to six young ladies.” The sin is
unpardonable. Look you—Messrs. Hardy and Stephens! what right have you
to be making love to half a dozen pretty girls? Where are their beaux,
that each of them has not a “Graham” of her own? Inquire into this
business, and report at the next meeting. No young lady has a right to
read “Graham” unless her beau pays the damage.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Godey will find it impossible to get the Mote out of his own eye, when
he contrasts “Sweet Sixteen” in this number with his Americanized
Fashion plates, Our own have a beam of pleasure in them, as we gaze upon
its surpassing loveliness. The original _must be_ a beauty. We have
never seen her—indeed, should never have had this copy, were it not for
_a_ heart in the business, loading us to brave all dangers to conquer.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Robert Morris, of the Inquirer, is a friend that never wavers, but in
sunshine or in storm, his benignant countenance and cheering words are
never wanting Morris must have a rich treasury in the memory of good
deeds done—of kindly words spoken in dark hours to the sad and
desolate—a wealth of remembrance of generous hours, worth all the gold
of misers.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Acknowledged.—Godey had the most beautiful cover on his Magazine for
January that we have ever seen. Having beaten him in our Paris Fashion,
we submit and are penitent.

We shall start a bank with Godey on the profits of our January
numbers—notes to be kept at par for thirty days. There is no joke in
this—it is as serious as Sartain’s fun.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Curious, Isn’t?—They intend, in Kentucky, to blacken the _noses_ of all
convicts, so that if they escape, they may be detected. Pike, of the
Flag, suggests that the operation be extended to all delinquent
subscribers to periodicals and newspapers—he _knows_.

Graham lays down and expounds the law as it _ought to be_ applied to
those who _forget_ to pay up _once a year_.

    “Lives there a man with soul so dead
    Who _never_ to himself hath said,”
    _This_ is _the_ paper—and ’tis read—
    I’ll go and pay the printer.
    Then let his face be covered o’er,
    That he may _face it out_—no more,
    But, if he don’t pay up his score,
    Remain an _aquatint_—er.

Graham wrote the above under the inspiration of the discovery that he
has over $10,000 due on his books in little California lumps of $3—and
is poorer than he was last year—which he resists, and don’t intend to
stand.

Graham had occasion last year to say, “take your country papers”—and
good doctrine it is, too; he says, _now_ “GO AND PAY FOR THEM!—TIME’S
UP!”

[Illustration]

Reader—this is a mournful picture—a sad evidence of the depravity of
man. This fellow has read, and has allowed his family to read, his
cousins and his neighbors, too, to ponder over, the lessons of wisdom
imparted by “Graham,” and yet for a year, or two years, or more, has not
paid. We are giving him _the Kentucky benediction_! But he has a chance
yet, you see—he must pay up before the next number is out, or we shall
make him as black as Sambo, and _tell you who he is_!

                 *        *        *        *        *

Harry Hazel, the editor, says, “The sailing qualities of ‘The Yankee
Privateer’ come fully up to our expectations. The breezes of popular
opinion are blowing freshly in her favor, and there in every prospect
that she will walk ‘like a thing of life.’” We thought, from her rig and
stowage, that she was a sort of _clipper_—for she has all the good
things in her. We wish her a fresh breeze and flowing _sale_. Harry
offers to “pay liberally for tough yarns.” Here is a chance for the
writers of some of the Magazine Prospectuses—_All hands ahoy!_

                 *        *        *        *        *

Improving.—Brother Harper promises “_one_ or more original articles,”
and “_copious_ selections,” in the new volume.

“One swallow does not make a summer,” nor will one swallow sustain “an
author and his family.”

_Quære._ Whether “Swallow Barn” contains any allusion to authorial
capacity for gulping—Bird could tell.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Delusion Extraordinary.—To suppose that because a man is poor, he has
unlimited credit at bank, and can pay all manner of absurd bills and
drafts at sight—and gold going out at the rate of a million per
steamer, and the rocks in _California_ not all crushed, either.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Minute.—One of the Magazines, in _numbering_ the illustrations for the
month, treats us to the following:

“No. IX. Pattern for Baby’s Cap, _one_ engraving, with directions for
working it in crotchet.”

            Who has a nice, small mitten
            For a very young kitten?
    Charley! I am afraid of your morals.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Game Won.—Our January number was a “sensation number”—and the
press and the public are in ecstasies with it. “We turn up Jack” with
this number—having but one _point to make_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Awful.—Snooks wants to know whether we have “still eighty thousand!”
No! we have a very noisy _one hundred and ten_—a good many of them
Temperance folk at that—clamorous for “more—still.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Sartin.—A cotemporary says, “With the present number we _commence_
securing the copyright of our Magazine.” Where’s the International
Americanized German Frenchman?

                 *        *        *        *        *

A Proper Present.—The New York Tribune, in noticing appropriate gifts
to those we love, at New Year, says, “A year’s subscription to some good
Periodical is an appropriate and excellent gift.”

If you want to pay a delicate attention to your sweet-heart, send her
“Graham.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Cheap Literature.—A new edition of Cooper’s novels is now in course of
publication in England, _in penny numbers_.

_Husband._ “Economy, my dear, is the source of wealth.”

_Wife._ “I wish, husband, you would go there.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

                      A “SPLENDID EMBELLISHMENT.”

[Illustration: A silouette of a hatless man, standing with his back
toward a mirror, holding a long barreled shotgun over his shoulder
pointing at the mirror which has been shattered.]

_A distressed black-man_, who seeing the portrait of his ladie-love in a
fashionable magazine, is driven to desperation, and blows the brains out
of—_his master’s best mirror!_—exclaiming, “Dat’s Dinah! _Sartin._”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Curious.—John S. Hart, L. L. D., has retired from the editorship of
Sartain’s Magazine, and the series of very funny religious illustrations
is ended. Sartain who is a graver man, now gives us comic cuts which are
sad enough to make a Momus weep.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Mr. James.—Several witty dogs wish to know “whether Mr. James has _the
solitary horseman_ in the novel now running through the pages of
Graham?” No. Any equestrian fond of solitary rides may put the novel in
his pocket without danger of having “the other fellow” with him.

By the way, the American gentleman mentioned in the opening chapters of
Mr. James’ novel, in the January number, as having first stimulated his
ambition to become a literary man, is our own distinguished countryman
Mr. Washington Irving, as will be seen by the following letter from Mr.
James, addressed to us, in answer to an inquiry upon the subject:

                               “_Stockbridge, Mass., 15 Dec., 1851._

    “My Dear Sir—In answer to your note, inquiring, who was the
    American gentleman to whom I alluded in the first part of the
    work publishing in your Magazine, called “A Life of
    Vicissitudes,” I have no reluctance at all to say that I spoke
    of Mr. Washington Irving. My personal regard for that gentleman,
    my esteem for him as a man, and my admiration of him as an
    author are well known, and it must always be a pleasure to me to
    acknowledge that a suggestion from him in early life, led me to
    enter upon a career which has been eminently prosperous to

                                               Yours, faithfully,
                                                     G. P. R. James.

    “_Geo. R. Graham, Esq., Philadelphia._”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Scott’s Weekly Paper.—Scott, the great “Practical Printer” who was bred
in “Alexander’s time,” has, by eating a good deal of it, become a hero
in ours—and survived the decay which usually attaches itself to mortals
who press “the rugged pathway up the steeps of Fame.” He lives on
air—or at least on that _fast_ press which came off with a feed at the
Astor. Hoeing his own row most elegantly, he disdains in ’52 the mean
competition of trade, which leads men to haggle for sixpence profit, but
becomes a prophet himself, and carries out his own predictions.

Scott, last year, having announced a sheet “as big as all out doors”—if
we except one from a Dutch barn in Berks—was accused of endeavoring to
pull down the whole literary temple, like another Sampson—of proceeding
at a gait that would not pay, and of throwing dust in people’s eyes, who
were expected to go it blind. The charge was a plain one—being
delivered by people who use the plain language—the inclined plane—and
Scott, who having lived “in Alexander’s time,” had opportunities to
observe that people who play with “edged tools,” however expert, are apt
to suffer from such familiarity with such hardware—determined, like a
true Caledonian as he is, to make somebody smart for it, and to

        “Meet the devil an’ Dundee.”

So, never minding the expense, but paying his price like a man, he
rushed into the fray, shouting his war cry:

        “Cock up your beaver,
          And cock it fu’ sprush,
        We’ll over the border
          And gie them a brush;
        There’s something there
          We’ll teach better behavior—
        Hey, brave Johnnie lad,
          Cock up your beaver.”

The foe, who in all his life was no “devil,” soon found his head in
chancery, and “suffered some”—as “the Fancy” say—realizing, too, the
proverb, “that listeners hear no good of themselves” in the freedom of
debate of a legal set-to.

Having witnessed the fight, and delivered a few hints in this game of
cross-purposes, we are testimony. In fact, we are rather more driven to
test other people’s money, now, than to handle our own. The battle was
not drawn—but a check for $500 was—to put a check upon future
proceedings out of the pale of equity—and Scott was conqueror!

        “So said—so done—he made no more remark,
              Nor waited for replies;
              But marched off with his prize—
        Leaving the vanquished merchants in the dark.”

Most men would have reposed upon their laurels, and considered the glory
sufficient, but the redoubted cotemporary of Alexander now “carries the
war into Africa,” and in abounding greatness—“very like a whale”—“_a
Leviathan_” great, he comes forth a terror to see.

There is nothing like Scott in the museum—indeed, he is a museum in
himself and a whole circulating-library in the bargain. He counts more
feet of paper than any poet could measure in a month, and threatens to
stop the supply of all small dealers. The rumor that Scott has
_purchased_ a paper-mill, is, we are assured, “an invention of the
enemy”—having been successful in one mill, he turns his thoughts to the
million, and _feels_ a good deal like Park Benjamin, when he exclaims,

        “The whole boundless continent is ours!”

Though nobody ever believed Park, for he was never with Alexander in his
campaigns, when he took the world by arts—not arms. Not “The New
World,” for that was rather heavy. We speak the truth—but speak it in
sadness, Park! for the day of “first-rate notices is over”—unless Scott
chooses to call this “one of ’em”—and this is over.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The “Rival Captives.”—This story—the publication of which we were
obliged to suspend in November, in consequence of the severe illness of
the author—we shall conclude in our next issue; the _last part_ having
reached us too late for this number.

                 *        *        *        *        *

_Freas_, of the Germantown Telegraph, has justified his name, like a
good printer, as he is, and has locked up his notice of our January
number, in the ice, somewhere. His paper of Dec. 24th has never reached
us, breaking our file, and the heart, too, of a very lovely woman.

                 *        *        *        *        *

A loss.—Some of the most beautiful engravings printed up and intended
for forthcoming numbers of Graham’s Magazine, were ruined by the fire at
Hart’s Building. Graham was in the same predicament himself once, but he
rose like a phœnix from the ashes. He has already selected some of his
most beautiful original drawings and engravings, and has artists and
copper-plate printers at work night and day. Graham will be as handsome
as ever when he appears, and will be called “sweet” by whole bevies of
pretty girls. It is a fact worthy of mention, that there is not upon the
whole list of Graham a single ugly woman. There is something in
philosophy about _attraction_ and _repellents_, (or ought to be,) which
our friend Bird, of the North American, could _tell_ all about, but
which we realize in being surrounded by “a _blaze_ of beauty,” which
used to light Godey’s path when he was younger. It is astonishing how
popular Magazine publishers are when they are young! But Godey has been
“_a publisher_ for twenty-two years!” _Shocking!_ Yet there is
consolation in this, too, for some of the Magazines will never be able
to imitate Godey in that “feature”—we’ll bet a “dollar” on’t.

                 *        *        *        *        *

If people will say handsome things of “Graham,” the public must know it.
S. A. Godman, of South Carolina, has the following in his last week’s
paper:

“The Best of the Monthlies.”—We always have had a partiality for
Graham. Years agone, before we ever dreamed of inditing a line for the
printer, many and many are the pleasant hours we have spent, beguiled
from all surrounding things, by the captivating articles with which
Graham, by an art known only to himself, has for years past kept his
Magazine—filled. In the days of our juvenility, too, not a few thoughts
have we spent, wondering what manner of man he was, who could thus
monthly gather together such an amount of valuable and interesting
reading matter—to say nothing of the choice embellishments that
accompanied it. And, in after times, when we had the pleasure of forming
his acquaintance, we found that the pictures of the imagination had
scarcely done justice, fairly drawn as they were, to the original—for,
than George R. Graham, there is not a more whole-souled, liberal,
generous, or enterprising man in the Union. With a kindness that has no
ebb, he is ever ready to appreciate merit in the young, and by his
means, and through his encouragement, have some of the best authors that
America can now boast of been induced to launch their barks—which since
have made such successful voyages—upon the sea of public opinion. His
liberality, too, keeps pace with his kindness—and instead of
endeavoring to underrate the value of brain-labor—he always stretches
his figures to the utmost limits of prudence—and whilst he advises like
a friend, he pays like a prince. Success, then, say we, to Graham, and
his Magazine! They both deserve it! And with a people so prompt to
perceive, and so ready to reward merit, as are the inhabitants of the
Southern States, to be encouraged, it is only necessary to deserve
encouragement.

“Graham’s great rival now is Harper’s Magazine. But the palm by rights,
and all odds, belongs to the former. For whilst his January number now
lying before us, is equal to Harper’s in the amount and quality of its
literary contents, it far exceeds it in beauty of illustration—and in
the fact that its contributors are all honestly paid for their
labors.”—_Illustrated Family Friend, Columbia, S. C._

                 *        *        *        *        *

Graham’s Magazine.—The January number of Graham is incomparably the
most magnificent periodical ever issued from the American press.
_Gazette, Bellefontaine, Ohio._


                                CUT OFF,
                                  AND
                               SHUT OUT.

[Illustration: A silouette of a man wearing a tophat, looking upward
while standing in front of a door, and holding the severed end of a
bell-rope in his hand.]

A young gentleman, who had failed to pay up for Graham, finds on
visiting the lady of his heart, that the bell-rope is cut, and the door
shut in his face. She having been notified that he had received _the
Kentucky benediction_. That is the word, and this the _style, now_.
Godey’s “Americanized Paris Fashions” are no touch to this—not half as
“truthful.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting 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 134, Father Bonneville. Sautane ==> Father Bonneville. Soutane
page 135, man or a paltroon, ==> man or a poltroon,
page 136, was gone we eat and ==> was gone we ate and
page 147, horses were unharnassed ==> horses were unharnessed
page 153, fearful _denouement_ of the ==> fearful _dénouement_ of the
page 153, whose näive and delicious ==> whose naïve and delicious
page 158, they had have little rest ==> they have had little rest
page 171, each others arms—and ==> each other’s arms—and
page 178, deep red dies of even ==> deep red dyes of even
page 189, of earlier day’s seemed ==> of earlier days seemed
page 216, joy of the angel’s ==> joy of the angels
page 219, Mobby-Dick; or The Whale. ==> Moby-Dick; or The Whale.


[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 2, February 1852]