Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed
Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net
from page images generously made available by Google Books





                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                 Vol. XL.      March, 1852.      No. 3.


                                Contents

                   Fiction, Literature and Articles

          Granny’s Fairy Story
          Spectral Illusions
          Campaigning Stories (continued)
          Law and Lawyers
          A Life of Vicissitudes (continued)
          Milton
          The Miser and His Daughter
          The Lost Deed (continued)
          Beauty’s Retreat
          Death
          The Philadelphia Art-Union
          Review of New Books
          Graham’s Small-Talk

                           Poetry and Music

          Belle’s Eyes
          The Page
          Lines Written on St. Valentine’s Day
          “What do the Birds say?”
          Leora
          Dei Gratia, Rex
          Our Childhood
          I’ll Blame Thee Not
          Elpholen. A Fragment
          A Charm
          Life’s Voyage
          Bless The Homestead Law
          The Deserted
          The Babes of Exile
          Write Thou Upon Life’s Page
          Lines on a Vase of Flowers
          To a Friend in the Spirit Land
          Oh Share My Cottage
          Stars of the Summer Night

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: A DACOTAH INDIAN COURTING.
Drawn by S. Eastman U.S.A. and Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by
  F. Humphry.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Boston Harbor.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

           Vol. XL.     PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1852.     No. 3.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: An old woman leaning forward speaks to a child. “Once
upon a time.”]




                         GRANNY’S FAIRY STORY.


                         (FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS.)


There was a young woman so kind and sweet-tempered that every person
loved her. Among the rest, there was an old witch who lived near where
she dwelt, and with whom she was a great favorite. One day this old
witch told her she had a nice present to give her. “See,” she said,
“here is a barley-corn, which, however, is by no means of the same sort
as those which grow in the farmer’s field, or those we give to the
fowls. Now you must plant this in a flower-pot, and then take care and
see what happens.”

“Thank you a thousand times,” said the young woman. And, thereupon, she
went straight home, and planted the barley-corn the witch had given her
in a flower-pot. Immediately there grew out of it a large, handsome
flower, but its leaves were all shut close as if they were buds.

“That is a most beautiful flower!” said the woman, while she bent down
to kiss its red and yellow leaves; but scarcely had her lips pressed the
flower, than it gave forth a loud sound and opened its cup. And now the
woman was able to see that it was a regular tulip, and in the midst of
the cup, down at the bottom, there sat a small and most lovely little
maiden; her height was about one inch, and on that account the woman
named her Ellise.

She made the little thing a cradle out of a walnut-shell, gave her a
blue violet-leaf for a mattress, and a rose-leaf for a coverlet. In this
cradle Ellise slept at night time, and during the day she played upon
the table. The woman had set a plate filled with water upon the table,
which she surrounded with flowers, and the flower-stalks all rested on
the edge of the water; on the water floated a large tulip-leaf, and upon
the tulip-leaf sat the little Ellise, and sailed from one side of the
plate to the other; and for this she used two white horse-hairs for
oars. The whole effect was very charming, and Ellise could sing too, but
with such a delicate little voice as we have never heard here.

One night as she lay in her bed, an ugly toad hopped into her through
the broken window pane. It was a large and very hideous toad; and it
sprang at once upon the table, where Ellise lay asleep under the
rose-leaf.

“That would be, now, a nice little wife for my son,” said the toad, and
seized, as she said it, the walnut-shell in her mouth, and hopped with
it out through the window into the garden again.

Through the garden flowed a broad stream, but its banks were marshy, and
among the marshes lived the toad and her son. Ha! how hideous the son
was too; exactly like his mother he was, and all that he could say, when
he saw the sweet little maiden in the walnut-shell, was “Koax! koax!
breckke ke!”

“Don’t talk so loud,” said the old one to him, “else you’ll awake her,
and then she might easily run away from us, for she is lighter than
swans’-down. We will set her upon a large plant in the stream; that will
be a whole island for her, and then she cannot run away from us; while
we, down in the mud, will build the house for you two to live in.”

In the stream there were many large plants, which all seemed as if they
floated on the water; the most distant one was, at the same time, the
largest, and thither swam the old toad and set down the walnut-shell,
with the little maiden upon it.

Early on the following morning the little Ellise awoke, and when she
looked about her and saw where she was, that her new dwelling-place was
surrounded on all sides by water, and that there remained no possible
way for her to reach land again, she began to weep most bitterly.

Meanwhile the old toad sat in the mud and adorned the building with
reeds and yellow flowers, that it might be quite grand for her future
daughter-in-law, and then, in company with her hideous son, swam to the
little leaf-island where Ellise lay.

She now wanted to fetch her pretty little bed, that it might at once be
placed in the new chamber, before Ellise herself was brought there. The
old toad bent herself courteously before her in the water, while she
presented her son in these words—“You see here my son, who is to be
your husband, and you two shall live together charmingly down in the
mud.”

“Koax! koax! breckke-ke!” was all that the bridegroom could find to say.

And, therewith, they both seized upon the beautiful little bed, and swam
away with it; while Ellise sat alone upon the leaf and cried very much,
for she did not like at all to live with the frightful toad, much less
have her odious son for her husband. Now the little fishes which swam
about under the water, had seen the toad, and heard, moreover, perfectly
well all that she said; they, therefore, raised their heads above water,
that they might have a look at the beautiful little creature. No sooner
had they seen her than they were, one and all, quite moved by her
beauty; and it seemed to them very hard that such a sweet maiden should
become the prey of an ugly toad. They assembled themselves, therefore,
round about the green stalk from which grew the leaf whereon Ellise sat,
and gnawed it with their teeth until it came in two, and then away
floated Ellise and the leaf far, far away, where the toad could come no
more.

And so sailed the little maiden by towns and villages, and when the
birds upon the trees beheld her, they sang out—“Oh, what a lovely young
girl.” But away, away floated the leaf always further and further.
Ellise made quite a foreign journey upon it.

For some time a small white butterfly had hovered over her, and at last
he sat himself down on her leaf, because he was very much pleased with
Ellise, and she, too, was very glad of the visit, for now the toad could
not come near her, and the country through which she traveled was so
beautiful. The sun shone so bright upon the water that it glittered like
gold. And now the idea occurred to her to loosen her girdle, bind one
end of it to the butterfly, the other on to the leaf; she did this and
then she flew on much faster, and saw much more of the world than she
would have done.

But, at last, there came by a cock-chafer, who seized her with his long
claws round her slender waist, and flew away with her to a tree, while
on swam the leaf, and the butterfly was obliged to follow, for he could
not come loose, so fast and firm had Ellise bound him.

Ah! how terrified was poor Ellise when the cock-chafer carried her off
to the tree. But her sorrow over the little butterfly was quite as
great, for she knew he must certainly perish, unless by some good
accident he should chance to free himself from the green leaf. But all
this made no impression upon the cock-chafer, who set her upon a large
leaf, gave her some honey to eat, and told her she was very charming,
although not a bit like a chafer. And now appeared all the other
cock-chafers who dwelt upon this tree, who waited upon Ellise, and
examined her from top to toe; while the young lady-chafers turned up
their feelers and said, “She has only two legs! how very wretched that
looks!” and added they, “she has no feelers whatever, and is as thin in
the body as a human being! Ah! it’s really hideous!” and all the young
lady-cock-chafers cried out, “Ah! it’s perfectly hideous!” And yet
Ellise was so charming! and so felt the cock-chafer; but at last,
because all the lady-chafers thought her ugly he began to think so too,
and resolved he would have nothing more to do with her; “she might go,”
he said, “wherever she liked;” and with these words he flew with her to
the ground, and set her upon a daisy. And now the poor little thing wept
bitterly, to find herself so hideous that not even a cock-chafer would
have any thing to do with her. But, notwithstanding this decisive
opinion of the young lady-cock-chafers, Ellise was the loveliest, most
elegant little creature in the world, as delicate and beautiful as a
young rose-leaf.

The whole summer through the poor little maiden lived alone in the great
forest; and she wove herself a bed out of fine grass, and hung it up to
rock beneath a creeper, that it might not be blown away by the wind and
rain; she plucked herself sweets out of the flowers, for food, and drank
of the fresh dew, that fell every morning upon the grass. And so the
summer and the autumn passed away. All the birds which had sung so
sweetly to Ellise, left her and went away, the trees lost all their
green, the flowers withered, and the great creeper which, until now, had
been her shelter, shriveled away to a bare yellow stalk. The poor little
thing shivered with cold, for her clothes were now worn out, and her
form was so tender and delicate that she certainly would perish with
cold. It began also to snow, and every flake which touched her, was to
her what a great heapfull would be to us, for her whole body was only
one inch long.

Close beside the forest in which Ellise lay, there was a corn-field, but
the corn had long since been reaped, and now, only the dry stubble rose
above the earth; yet, for Ellise was this a great forest, and hither she
came. So she reached the house of a field-mouse, which was formed of a
little hole under the stubble. Here dwelt the field-mouse warm and
comfortable, with her store-room full of food for the winter, and near
at hand a pretty kitchen and eating-room. Poor Ellise stepped up to the
door and begged for a little grain of barley, for she had tasted nothing
for the whole day.

“You poor little wretch!” said the field-mouse, who was very
kind-hearted, “come in to my warm room and eat something.” And when now
she was much pleased with Ellise, she added, “you may if you like, spend
the winter here with me; but you must keep my house clean and neat, and
tell me stories, for I am very fond of hearing stories.”

Ellise did as the field-mouse wished, and, as a reward for her trouble,
was made comfortable with her.

“Now we shall have a visit,” said the field-mouse to her one day. “My
neighbor is accustomed to pay me a visit every week. He is much richer
than I am, for he has several beautiful rooms, and wears the most costly
velvet coat. Now if you could only have him for your husband, you would
be nicely provided for, but he does not see very sharply, that’s one
thing. Only you must tell him all the best stories you can think of.”

But Ellise would hear nothing of it, for she could not endure the
neighbor, for he was nothing more nor less than a mole. He came, as was
expected, to pay his respects to the field-mouse, and wore his handsome
velvet coat as usual. The field-mouse said he was very rich, and very
well informed, and that his house was twenty times larger than hers.
Well informed he might be, but he could not endure the sunshine or the
flowers, and spoke contemptuously of both one and the other, although he
had never seen either. Ellise was obliged to sing before him, and she
sang the two songs—“Chafers fly! the sun is shining!” and “The priest
goes to the field!” Then the mole became very much in love with her
because of her beautiful voice, but he took good care not to show it,
for he was a cautious, sensible fellow.

Very lately he had made a long passage from his dwelling to that of his
neighbor, and he gave permission to Ellise and the field-mouse to go in
it as often as they pleased; yet he begged of them not to be startled at
the dead bird which lay at the entrance. It was certainly a bird lately
dead, for all the feathers were still upon him, it seemed to have been
frozen exactly there where the mole had made the entrance of his
passage.

Mr. Neighbor now took a piece of tinder in his mouth, and stepped on
before the ladies, that he might lighten the way for them, and as he
came to the place where the dead bird lay, he struck with his snout on
the ground, so that the earth rolled away, and a large opening appeared
through which the daylight shone in. And now, Ellise could see the dead
bird quite well—it was a swallow. The pretty wings were pressed against
the body, and the feet and head covered over by the feathers. “The poor
bird has died of cold,” said Ellise, and it grieved her very much for
the dear little animal, for she was very fond of birds, for they sang to
her all through the summer. But the mole kicked him with his foot and
said, “The fine fellow has done with his twittering now! It must indeed
be dreadful to be born a bird! Heaven be praised that none of my
children have turned out birds! Stupid things! they have nothing in the
wide world but their quivit, and when the winter comes, die they must!”

“Yes,” returned the field-mouse, “you, a thoughtful and reflecting man,
may well say that! What indeed has a bird beyond its twitter when the
winter comes? he must perforce hunger and freeze!”

Ellise was silent; but when the others had turned their backs upon the
bird, she raised up its feathers gently, and kissed its closed eyes.

“Perhaps it was you,” she said softly, “who sang me such beautiful
songs! How often you have made me happy and merry, you dear bird!”

And now the mole stopped up the opening again through which the daylight
fell, and then accompanied the young ladies home. But Ellise could not
sleep the whole night long. She got up, therefore, wove a covering of
hay, carried it away to the dead bird, and covered him with it on all
sides, in order that he might rest warmer upon the cold ground.
“Farewell, you sweet, pretty little bird!” said she. “Farewell! and let
me thank you a thousand times for your friendly song this summer, when
the trees were all green, and the sun shone down so warm upon us all!”
And therewith she laid her little head on the bird’s breast, but started
back, for it seemed to her as if something moved within. It was the
bird’s heart; he was not dead, but benumbed, and now he came again to
life as the warmth penetrated to him.

In the autumn, the swallows fly away to warmer countries; and when a
weak one is among them, and the cold freezes him, he falls upon the
ground, and lies there as if dead, until the cold snow covers him.

Ellise was frightened at first, when the bird raised itself, for to her
he was a great big giant, but she soon collected herself again, pressed
the hay covering close round the exhausted little animal, and then went
to fetch the curled mint-leaves which served for her own covering, that
she might lay it over his head.

The following night she slipped away to the bird again, whom she found
now quite revived, but yet so very weak, that he could only open his
eyes now and then, to look at Ellise, who lighted up his face with a
little piece of tinder.

“I thank you a thousand times, you lovely little child,” said the sick
swallow, “I am now so thoroughly warmed through, that I shall soon gain
my strength again, and shall be able to fly out in the warm sunshine.”

“Oh! it is a great deal too cold out there,” returned Ellise, “it snows
and freezes so hard! only just stay now in your warm bed, and I will
take such care of you!”

She brought the bird some water to drink out of a leaf, and then he
related to her how he had so hurt his wing against a thorny bush that he
could not fly away to the warm countries with his comrades, and at last
had fallen exhausted to the ground, where all consciousness left him.

The little swallow remained here the whole winter, and Ellise attended
to him, and became every day more and more fond of him; yet she said
nothing at all about it to the mole or the field-mouse, for she knew
well enough already that neither of them could bear the poor bird.

As soon, however, as the summer came, and the warm sunbeams penetrated
the earth, the swallow said good-bye to Ellise, who had now opened the
hole in the ground, through which the mole let the light fall in. The
sun shone so kindly, that the swallow turned and asked Ellise, his dear
little nurse, whether she would not fly away with him. She could sit
very nicely upon the swallow’s back, and then they would go away
together to the green forest. But Ellise thought it would grieve the
good field-mouse if she went away secretly, and therefore she was
obliged to refuse the bird’s kind offer.

“Then, once more farewell, you kind, good maiden,” said the swallow, and
therewith he flew out into the sunshine. Ellise looked sorrowfully after
him, and the tears rushed into her eyes, for she was very fond of the
good bird.

“Quivit! quivit!” sang the swallow, and away he flew to the forest.

And now Ellise was very mournful, for she hardly ever left her dark
hole. The corn grew up far above her head, and formed quite a thick wood
round the house of the field-mouse.

“Now you can spend the summer in working at your wedding-clothes,” said
the field-mouse, for the neighbor, the wearisome mole, had at last
really proposed for Ellise. “I will give you every thing you want, that
you may have all things comfortable about you, when you are the mole’s
wife.”

And now Ellise was obliged to sit all day long busy at her clothes, and
the field-mouse took four clever spiders into her service, and kept them
weaving day and night. Every evening came the mole to pay his visit, and
every evening he expressed his wish that the summer would soon come to
an end, and the heat cease, for then, when the winter was here, his
wedding should take place. But Ellise was not at all happy to hear this,
for she could hardly bear even to look upon the ugly mole, for all his
expensive velvet coat. Every evening and every morning she went out at
the door, and when the wind blew the ears of corn apart, and she could
look upon the blue heaven, she saw it was so beautiful out in the open
air, that she wished she could only see the dear swallow once more; but
the swallow never came; he preferred rejoicing himself in the warm
sunbeams in the green woods.

By the time autumn came, Ellise had prepared all her wedding-garments.

“In four weeks your wedding will take place,” said the field-mouse to
her; but Ellise wept, and said she did not want to have the stupid mole
for a husband.

“Fiddle-de-dee,” answered the field-mouse—“Come, don’t be obstinate, or
I shall be obliged to bite you with my sharp teeth. Isn’t he a good
husband that you’re going to have? Why, even the queen hasn’t such a
fine velvet coat to show as he has! His kitchen and his cellar are
well-stocked, and you ought rather to thank Providence for providing so
well for you!”

So the wedding was to be! Already was the mole come to fetch away
Ellise, who, from henceforth, was to live always with him. Deep under
the earth, where no sunbeam could ever come! The little maiden was very
unhappy, that she must take her farewell of the friendly sun, which at
all events she saw at the door of the field-mouse’s house.

“Farewell, thou beloved sun!” said she, and raised her hands toward
heaven, while she advanced a few steps from the door; for already was
the corn again reaped, and she stood once more among the stubble in the
field. “Adieu, adieu!” she repeated, and threw her arms round a flower
that stood near her, “Greet the little swallow for me, when you see him
again,” added she.

“Quivit! quivit!” echoed near her in the same moment, and, as Ellise
raised her eyes, she saw her well-known little swallow fly past. As soon
as the swallow perceived Ellise, he too, became quite joyful, and
hastened at once to his kind nurse; and she told him how unwilling she
was to have the ugly mole for her husband, and that she must go down
deep into the earth, where neither sun nor moon could ever look upon
her, and with these words she burst into tears.

“See now,” said the swallow, “the cold winter is coming again, and I am
flying away to the warm countries, will you come and travel with me? I
will carry you gladly on my back. You need only to bind yourself fast
with your girdle, so we can fly away far from the disagreeable mole, and
his dark house, far over mountains and valleys, to the beautiful
countries, where the sun shines much warmer than it does here; where
there is summer always, and always beautiful flowers blooming. Come, be
comforted, and fly away with me, dear, kind Ellise, who saved my life
when I lay frozen in the earth.”

“Yes, I will go with you,” cried Ellise joyfully. She mounted on the
back of the swallow, set her feet upon his out-spread wings, bound
herself with her girdle to a strong feather, and flew off with the
swallow through the air, over woods and lakes, valleys and mountains.
Very often Ellise suffered from the cold when they went over icy
glaciers and snowy rocks; but then she concealed herself under the wings
and among the feathers of the bird, and merely put out her head to gaze
and wonder at all the glorious things around her.

At last, too, they came into the warm countries. The sun shines there
clearer than with us; the heavens were a great deal higher, and on the
walls and in the hedges grew the most beautiful blue and green grapes.
In the woods hung ripe citrons and oranges, and the air was full of the
scent of thyme and myrtle, while beautiful children ran in the roads
playing with the gayest colored butterflies. But farther and farther
flew the swallow, and below them it became more and more beautiful. By
the side of a lake, beneath graceful acacias, there rose an ancient
marble palace, the vines clung around the pillars, while above them, on
their summits, hung many a swallow’s nest. Into one of these nests the
bird carried Ellise.

“Here is my house,” said he, “but look you for one of the loveliest
flowers, which grow down there, for your home, and I will carry you
there, and you shall have every thing you can possibly want.”

“That would be glorious indeed!” said Ellise, and she clapped her hands
together for very joy.

Upon the earth there lay a large white marble pillar, which had been
thrown down, and was broken into three pieces, but between its ruins
there grew the very fairest flowers, all white, the loveliest you would
ever wish to see.

The swallow flew with Ellise to one of these flowers, and set her down
upon a broad leaf; but how astonished was Ellise when she saw that a wee
little man sat in this flower, who was as fine and transparent as glass.
He wore a graceful little crown upon his head, and had beautiful wings
on his shoulders; and withal he was not a bit bigger than Ellise
herself. He was the angel of this flower. In every flower dwell a pair
of such like little men and women, but this was the king of all the
flower angels.

“Heavens! how handsome this king is,” whispered Ellise into the ear of
the swallow. The little prince was somewhat startled by the arrival of
the large bird; but when he saw Ellise, he became instantly in love with
her; for she was the most charming little maiden that he had ever seen.
So he took off his golden crown, set it upon Ellise, and asked what was
her name, and whether she would be his wife; if so, she should be queen
over all the other flowers—ah! this was a very different husband to the
son of the hideous toad, and the heavy, stupid mole, with his velvet
coat! So Ellise said yes, to the beautiful prince; and now, from all the
other flowers, appeared either a gentleman or a lady, all wonderfully
elegant and beautiful, to bring presents to Ellise. The best presents
offered to her was a pair of exquisite white wings, which were
immediately fastened on her; and now she could fly from flower to
flower.

And now the joy was universal. The little swallow sat above in his nest,
and sang as well as he possibly could, though at the same time he was
sorely grieved, for he was so fond of Ellise that he wanted never to
part from her again.

“You shall not be called _Ellise_ any more,” said the flower-angel, “for
it is not at all a pretty name, and you are so pretty! But from this
moment you shall be called Maja.”

“Farewell! Farewell!” cried the little swallow, and away he flew again,
out of the warm land, far, far away, to the little Denmark, where he had
his summer nest over the window of the good man, who knows how to tell
stories, that he might sing his Quivit! Quivit! before him. And it is
from him, the little swallow, that Granny learnt all this wonderful
history.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             BELLE’S EYES.


    Those eyes, they are so bright and blue,
    They seem as if just bathed in dew,
    And if they but reflect aright,
    Thy heart must joyous be and bright,
    Where cherished images must dwell,
    Oh! number mine with thine, _ma Belle_.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              “THE PAGE.”


[Illustration: figure of a man sitting on a rock near the base of a tree
and looking upward]

    Come listen, ladies! listen, knights!
      Ye men of arms and glory!
    Ye who have done right noble deeds,
      Aye love the poet’s story.
    As minstrels love the warriors bold,
      And joyfully sing their fame,
    O’er warriors’ hearts the poet’s tale
      Shall peaceful triumphs claim.

    From distant lands Arion came,
      From wandering far and long,
    With gifts and gold—for princely hearts
      Denied no gift to song.
    The song that cheered the saddest wo,
      The tale that sings of youth,
    Flowing sweetly, flowing on,
      Through labyrinths of truth.

    Rich tributes had been poured on him,
      Arion far renowned,
    And fair and gentle loved the rule,
      Of one by nature crowned.
    But what can gifts and what can gold,
      Or Fame’s loud peal avail,
    Wandering from his childhood’s home,
      His own Corinthian vale?

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 LINES


                    WRITTEN ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.


                          BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.


    Fair lady, on this day of love,
    My spirit, like a timid dove,
    Exulting flies to thee for rest,
    And nestles on thy gentle breast.
    Thou seemest of my life a part,
    A haunting presence in my heart,
    A glory in my day-dreams bright,
    An angel in my dreams at night,
    Like yon pure bow of airy birth
    A vision more of heaven than earth.
    Soft, lovely, beautiful, divine—
    But wilt thou be my Valentine?

    I’ve looked into thy deep eyes oft,
    Where heaven seemed sleeping blue and soft.
    I’ve gazed on all thy beauty long,
    I’ve heard thy witching voice of song,
    I’ve listened when thy deep words came
    As if thy lips were touched with flame,
    I’ve marked thee smile, I’ve marked thee weep.
    I’ve blest thee in the hour of sleep,
    I’ve felt thy heart beat wild to hear
    Love’s cadence stealing on thine ear,
    And I have been supremely blest
    When thou wast folded to my breast,
    And thy dear lips were pressed to mine—
    But wilt thou be my Valentine?

    Dove of my spirit! gentle dove,
    That bring’st the olive-bough of love
    To me when waters vast and dark
    Are tossing wild beneath my bark,
    Sweet queller of my bosom’s strife,
    Blest haunter of each thought of life.
    Dear brightner of my soul’s eclipse,
    Sultana of my longing lips,
    Queen-fairy of my fairy dreams,
    Young Naiad of my soul’s deep streams,
    Bright rainbow of life’s stormy day,
    Lone palm-tree of my desert way,
    Soft dew-drop of my heart’s one flower,
    Young song-bird of my spirit’s bower,
    My star when all beside is dim,
    My morning prayer, my evening hymn,
    My hope, my bliss, my life, my love,
    My all of earth, my heaven above,
    On lightning pinions wild and free,
    My panting spirit flies to thee,
    And worships at thy burning shrine—
    But wilt thou be my Valentine?

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        “What do the Birds say?”


[Illustration: figure of a woman sitting on vines with birds perched
above her]

    Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
    The linnet, and thrush say, “I love, and I love!”
    In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;
    What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.
    But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather,
    And singing and loving, all come back together.
    But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
    The green-fields below him, the blue sky above,
    That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he,
    “I love my love, and my love loves me!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 LEORA.


                           A BALLAD OF SPAIN.


    At her lattice sits Leora,
      In the long and mellow June,
    What time when whitely westward
      Shines the round and pendent moon.

    Sits she silent, sits she sadly,
      With her head upon her hand,
    Looking outward where the Ebro
      Throws its ripples on the sand.

    Never lighter blew the breezes
      In the vales of Aragon,
    Never smiled Hesperia’s heavens
      With more lovely glories on.

    Such an evening ’tis as gladdens
      Cavaliers of sunny Spain—
    Such an evening ’tis when maidens
      Recount their loves again.

    Now more restless grows Leora,
      Fair Leora, gentle maid,
    With sweet eyes so dark and fervent,
      And each tress of nightly shade.

    Heaves her bosom fast and wildly
      Like a billow snowed with foam,
    For there’s something boding tells her
      That Almagro will not come.

    Clouds are passing swiftly o’er her,
      On her heart their shadows rest,
    And the tear-drops from their fountains
      Fall embittered to her breast.

    Listens now she to the gallop
      Of a steed adown the vale;
    Now with hope her face is radiant,
      Now with fear her cheek is pale.

    But no lover rideth swiftly,
      Swiftly to the trysting bower,
    And Leora still is waiting
      Through the long and dreary hour.

    And the tears cease not to gather,
      And the tears cease not to flow,
    And she feels like one abandoned
      On the haunted paths of wo.

    Where a mountain streamlet gurgles,
      From that watcher leagues away—
    Where the hours amid the valleys
      Listen to the waters’ play—

    Faithless Almagro is breathing
      Vows of deeply passioned love,
    To a maiden on his bosom
      In the sweetness of a dove.

    And he tells her how he never
      To another gave his heart,
    Till her innocence is fallen
      In the meshes of his art.

    Till another than the midnight
      Throws a darkness o’er her soul,
    Leaving there a troubled fountain,
      Leaving there a broken bowl.

    Softly sigh the sleeping branches
      On the bosom of the breeze,
    Sweetly stars are gazing downward
      To earth’s blue, unclouded seas:

    And in fragrance dream the blossoms
      Pure and taintless as before—
    But heart-flowers have been gathered
      That shall blossom nevermore.

    Lowly westward walketh Dian,
      On her watches with the night,
    And the hours far have stolen
      To the gateways of the light.

    But, ah! wo is thee, Leora,
      Though hopeless, hoping on,
    Till Aurora up the Orient,
      Rosy-fingered, leads the dawn.

    But less wo is thee, Leora,
      By thy lattice weary worn—
    More’s the wo for thee, Estella,
      When thou wakest at the morn.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          SPECTRAL ILLUSIONS.


                        BY THOMAS MILNER, M. A.


A series of curious and interesting phenomena, involving the apparent
elevation and approach of distant objects, the production of aerial
images of terrestrial forms, of double images, their inversion, and
distortion into an endless variety of grotesque shapes, together with
the deceptive aspect given to the desert-landscape, are comprehended in
the class of optical illusions. Different varieties of this singular
visual effect constitute the _mirage_ of the French, the _fata morgana_
of the Italians, the _looming_ of our seamen, and the _glamur_ of the
Highlanders. It is not peculiar to any particular country, though more
common in some than others, and most frequently observed near the margin
of lakes and rivers, by the sea-shore, in mountain districts and on
level plains. These phantoms are perfectly explicable upon optical
principles, and though influenced by local combinations, they are mainly
referable to one common cause, the refractive and reflective properties
of the atmosphere, and inequalities of refraction arising from the
intermixture of strata of air of different temperatures and densities.
But such appearances in former times were really converted by the
imagination of the vulgar into supernatural realities; and hence many of
the goblin stories with which the world has been rife, not yet banished
from the discipline to which childhood is subject,—

        “As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles
          Placed far amid the melancholy main,
        (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
          Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
        To stand, embodied, to our senses plain)
          Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
        The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,
          A vast assembly moving to and fro,
    Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.”

Pliny mentions the Scythian regions within Mount Imaus, and Pomponius
Mela those of Mauritania, behind Mount Atlas, as peculiarly subject to
these spectral appearances. Diodorus Siculus likewise refers to the
regions of Africa, situated in the neighborhood of Cyrene, as another
chosen site:—“Even,” says he, “in the severest weather, there are
sometimes seen in the air certain condensed exhalations that represent
the figures of all kinds of animals; occasionally they seem to be
motionless, and in perfect quietude; and occasionally to be flying;
while immediately afterward they themselves appear to be the pursuers,
and to make other objects fly before them.” Milton might have had this
passage in his eye when he penned the allusion to the same
apparitions:—

    “As when, to warn proud cities, war appears
    Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush
    To battle in the clouds; before each van
    Prick forth the airy knights, and couch their spears,
    Till thickest legions close, with feats of arms
    From either side of heaven the welkin rings.”

[Illustration: The Mirage of the Desert.]

The mirage is the most familiar form of optical illusion. M. Monge, one
of the French savans, who accompanied Buonaparte in his expedition to
Egypt, witnessed a remarkable example. In the desert between Alexandria
and Cairo, in all directions green islands appeared, surrounded by
extensive lakes of pure, transparent water. Nothing could be conceived
more lovely or picturesque than the landscape. In the tranquil surface
of the lakes, the trees and houses with which the islands were covered
were strongly reflected with vivid and varied hues, and the party
hastened forward to enjoy the refreshments apparently proffered them.
But when they arrived, the lake on whose bosom they floated, the trees
among whose foliage they arose, and the people who stood on the shore
inviting their approach, had all vanished; and nothing remained but the
uniform and irksome desert of sand and sky, with a few naked huts and
ragged Arabs. But for being undeceived by an actual progress to the
spot, one and all would have remained firm in the conviction that these
visionary trees and lakes had a real existence in the desert. M. Monge
attributed the liquid expanse, tantalizing the eye with an unfaithful
representation of what was earnestly desired, to an inverted image of
the cerulean sky, intermixed with the ground scenery. This kind of
mirage is known in Persia and Arabia by the name of _Serab_ or
miraculous water, and in the western deserts of India by that of
_Tehittram_, a picture. It occurs as a common emblem of disappointment
in the poetry of the orientals.

[Illustration: Atmospheric Illusion.]

In the Philosophical Transactions for the year 1798, an account is given
by W. Latham, Esq., F.R.S., of an instance of lateral refraction
observed by him, by which the coast of Picardy, with its more prominent
objects, was brought apparently close to that of Hastings. On July the
26th, about five in the afternoon, while sitting in his dining-room,
near the sea-shore, attention was excited by a crowd of people running
down to the beach. Upon inquiring the reason, it appeared that the coast
of France was plainly to be distinguished with the naked eye. Upon
proceeding to the shore, he found, that without the assistance of a
telescope, he could distinctly see the cliffs across the Channel, which,
at the nearest points, are from forty to fifty miles distant, and are
not to be discovered, from that low situation, by the aid of the best
glasses. They appeared to be only a few miles off, and seemed to extend
for some leagues along the coast. At first the sailors and fishermen
could not be persuaded of the reality of the appearance, but they soon
became thoroughly convinced, by the cliffs gradually appearing more
elevated, and seeming to approach nearer, that they were able to point
out the different places they had been accustomed to visit, such as the
Bay, the Old Head, and the Windmill at Boulogne, St. Vallery, and
several other spots. Their remark was that these places appeared as near
as if they were sailing at a small distance into the harbor. The
apparition of the opposite cliffs varied in distinctness and apparent
contiguity for nearly an hour, but it was never out of sight, and upon
leaving the beach for a hill of some considerable height, Mr. Latham
could at once see Dungeness and Dover cliffs on each side, and before
him the French coast from Calais to near Dieppe. By the telescope the
French fishing-boats were clearly seen at anchor, and the different
colors of the land on the heights, with the buildings, were perfectly
discernible. The spectacle continued in the highest splendor until past
eight o’clock, though a black cloud obscured the face of the sun for
some time, when it gradually faded away. This was the first time within
the memory of the oldest inhabitants, that they had ever caught sight of
the opposite shore. The day had been extremely hot, and not a breath of
wind had stirred since the morning, when the small pennons at the
mast-heads of the fishing-boats in the harbor had been at all points of
the compass. Professor Vince witnessed a similar apparent approximation
of the coast of France to that of Ramsgate, for at the very edge of the
water he discerned the Calais cliffs a very considerable height above
the horizon, whereas they are frequently not to be seen in clear weather
from the high lands above the town. A much greater breadth of coast also
appeared than is usually observed under the most favorable
circumstances. The ordinary refractive power of the atmosphere is thus
liable to be strikingly altered by a change of temperature and humidity,
so that a hill which at one time appears low, may at another be seen
towering aloft; and a city in a neighboring valley, may from a certain
station be entirely invisible, or it may show the tops of its buildings,
just as if its foundations had been raised, according to the condition
of the aerial medium between it and the spectator.

[Illustration: Fata Morgana at Reggio.]

Of all instances of spectral illusion, the _fata morgana_, familiar to
the inhabitants of Sicily, is the most curious and striking. It occurs
off the Pharo of Messina, in the strait which separates Sicily from
Calabria, and had been variously described by different observers,
owing, doubtless, to the different conditions of the atmosphere at the
respective times of observation. The spectacle consists in the images of
men, cattle, houses, rocks, and trees, pictured upon the surface of the
water, and in the air immediately over the water, as if called into
existence by an enchanter’s wand, the same object having frequently two
images, one in the natural and the other in an inverted position. A
combination of circumstances must concur to produce this novel panorama.
The spectator, standing with his back to the east on an elevated place,
commands a view of the strait. No wind must be abroad to ruffle the
surface of the sea; and the waters must be pressed up by currents, which
is occasionally the case, to a considerable height, in the middle of the
strait, so that they may present a slight convex surface. When these
conditions are fulfilled, and the sun has risen over the Calabrian
heights so as to make an angle of 45° with the horizon, the various
objects on the shore at Reggio, opposite to Messina, are transferred to
the middle of the strait, forming an immovable landscape of rocks,
trees, and houses, and a movable one of men, horses, and cattle, upon
the surface of the water. If the atmosphere, at the same time, is highly
charged with vapor, the phenomena apparent on the water will also be
visible in the air, occupying a space which extends from the surface to
the height of about twenty-five feet. Two kinds of morgana may therefore
be discriminated; the first, at the surface of the sea, or the marine
morgana; the second, in the air, or the aerial. The term applied to this
strange exhibition of uncertain derivation, but supposed by some to
refer to the vulgar presumption of the spectacle being produced by a
fairy or magician. The populace are said to hail the vision with great
exultation, calling every one abroad to partake of the sight, with the
cry of “Morgana, morgana!”

Father Angelucci, an eye-witness, describes the scene in the following
terms:—“On the 15th of August, 1643, as I stood at my window, I was
surprised with a most wonderful, delectable vision. The sea that washes
the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like
a chain of dark mountains; while the waters near our Calabrian coast
grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared as one clear polished
mirror, reclining against the aforesaid ridge. On this glass was
depicted, in _chiaro scuro_, a string of several thousands of pilasters,
all equal in altitude, distance, and degree of light and shade. In a
moment they lost half their height, and bent into arcades, like Roman
aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed on the top, and above it rose
castles innumerable, all perfectly alike. These soon split into towers,
which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last
ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees, even and similar. This was
the Fata Morgana, which, for twenty-six years, I had thought a mere
fable.”

Brydone, writing from Messina, evidently in a dubious vein, states:—“Do
you know, the most extraordinary phenomenon in the world is often
observed near to this place? I laughed at it at first, as you will do,
but I am now convinced of its reality, and am persuaded, too, that if
ever it had been thoroughly examined by a philosophical eye, the natural
cause must long ago have been assigned. It has often been remarked, both
by the ancients and moderns, that in the heat of summer, after the sea
and air have been much agitated by winds, and a perfect calm succeeds,
there appears, about the time of dawn, in that part of the heavens over
the straits, a great variety of singular forms, some at rest, and some
moving about with great velocity. These forms, in proportion as the
light increases, seem to become more aerial, till at last some time
before sunrise they entirely disappear. The Sicilians represent this as
the most beautiful sight in nature. Leanti, one of their latest and best
writers, came here on purpose to see it. He says the heavens appeared
crowded with a variety of objects: he mentions palaces, woods, gardens,
etc., besides the figures of men and other animals, that appear in
motion amongst them. No doubt the imagination must be greatly aiding in
forming this aerial creation; but as so many of their authors, both
ancient and modern, agree in the fact, and give an account of it from
their own observation, there certainly must be some foundation for the
story. There is one Giardini, a Jesuit, who has lately written a
treatise upon this phenomenon, but I have not been able to find it. The
celebrated Messinese Gallo has likewise published something on this
singular subject. The common people, according to custom, give the whole
merit to the devil; and, indeed, it is by much the shortest and easiest
way of accounting for it. Those who pretend to be philosophers, and
refuse him this honor, are greatly puzzled what to make of it. They
think it may be owing to some uncommon refraction or reflection of the
rays, from the water of the straits, which, as it is at that time
carried about in a variety of eddies and vortices, must consequently,
say they, make a variety of appearances on any medium where it is
reflected. This, I think, is nonsense, or at least very near it. I
suspect it is something of the nature of our aurora borealis, and, like
many of the great phenomena of nature, depends upon electrical cause;
which, in future ages, I have little doubt, will be found to be as
powerful an agent in regulating the universe as gravity is in this age,
or as the subtle fluid was in the last. The electrical fluid in this
country of volcanoes, is probably produced in a much greater quantity
than in any other. The air, strongly impregnated with this matter, and
confined betwixt two ridges of mountains—at the same time exceedingly
agitated from below by the violence of the current, and the impetuous
whirling of the waters—may it not be supposed to produce a variety of
appearances? And may not the lively Sicilian imaginations, animated by a
belief in demons, and all the wild offspring of superstition, give these
appearances as great a variety of forms? Remember, I do not say it is
so; and hope yet to have it in my power to give you a better account of
this matter.”

Ingenious as Brydone was, he here indulges a most unfortunate
speculation, which, had he enjoyed the good fortune of personally
observing the phenomenon, most likely, he would not have proposed. It is
to be accounted for upon optical principles, which M. Biot, in his
_Astronomie Physique_, thus applies, from Minasi’s dissertation upon the
subject:—“When the rising sun shines from that point whence its
incident ray forms an angle of forty-five degrees, on the sea of Reggio,
and the bright surface of the water in the bay is not disturbed either
by wind or current—when the tide is at its height, and the waters are
pressed up by the currents to a great elevation in the middle of the
channel; the spectator being placed on an eminence, with his back to the
sun, and his face to the sea, the mountains of Messina rising like a
wall behind it, and forming the back-ground of the picture—on a sudden
there appear in the water, as in a catoptric theatre, various multiplied
objects—numberless series of pilasters, arches, castles,
well-delineated regular columns, lofty towers, superb palaces, with
balconies and windows, extended alleys of trees, delightful plains, with
herds and flocks, armies of men on foot, on horseback, and many other
things, in their natural colors and proper actions, passing rapidly in
succession along the surface of the sea, during the whole of the short
period of time while the above-mentioned causes remain. The objects are
proved, by accurate observations of the coast of Reggio, to be derived
from objects on shore. If, in addition to the circumstances already
described, the atmosphere be highly impregnated with vapor and dense
exhalations, not previously dispersed by the action of the wind and
waves, or rarified by the sun, it then happens that, in this vapor, as
in a curtain extended along the channel to the height of above forty
palms, and nearly down to the sea, the observer will behold the scene of
the same objects not only reflected on the surface of the sea, but
likewise in the air, though not so distinctly or well-defined. Lastly,
if the air be slightly hazy and opaque, and at the same time dewy, and
adapted to form the iris, then the above-mentioned objects will appear
only at the surface of the sea, as in the first case, but all vividly
colored or fringed with red, green, blue, or other prismatic colors.”

Aerial images of terrestrial objects are frequently produced as the
simple effect of reflection. Dr. Buchan mentions the following
occurrence:—“Walking on the cliff about a mile to the east of Brighton,
on the morning of the 18th of November, 1804, while watching the rising
of the sun, I turned my eyes directly to the sea, just as the solar disc
emerged from the surface of the water, and saw the face of the cliff on
which I was standing represented precisely opposite to me, at some
distance from the ocean. Calling the attention of my companion to this
appearance, we soon also discovered our own figures standing on the
summit of the opposite apparent cliff, as well as the representation of
a windmill near at hand. The reflected images were most distinct
precisely opposite to where we stood; and the false cliff seemed to fade
away, and to draw near to the real one, in proportion as it receded
toward the west. This phenomenon lasted about ten minutes, till the sun
had risen nearly his own diameter above the sea. The whole then seemed
to be elevated into the air, and successively disappeared. The surface
of the sea was covered with a dense fog of many yards in height, and
which gradually receded before the rays of the sun.” In December, 1826,
a similar circumstance excited some consternation among the parishioners
of Miqué, in the neighborhood of Poitiers, in France. They were engaged
in the exercises of the jubilee which preceded the festival of
Christmas, and about three thousand persons from the surrounding
parishes were assembled. At five o’clock in the evening, when one of the
clergy was addressing the multitude, and reminding them of the cross
which appeared in the sky to Constantine and his army, suddenly a
similar cross appeared in the heavens, just before the porch of the
church, about two hundred feet above the horizon, and a hundred and
forty feet in length, of a bright silver color tinged with red, and
perfectly well-defined. Such was the effect of this vision, that the
people immediately threw themselves upon their knees, and united
together in one of their canticles. The fact was, that a large wooden
cross, twenty-five feet high, had been erected beside the church as a
part of the ceremony, the figure of which was formed in the air, and
reflected back to the eyes of the spectators, retaining exactly the same
shape and proportions, but changed in position and dilated in size. Its
red tinge was also the color of the object of which it was the reflected
image. When the rays of the sun were withdrawn the figure vanished.

[Illustration: Spectre of the Brocken.]

The peasantry in the neighborhood of the Harz Mountains formerly stood
in no little awe of the gigantic spectre of the Brocken—the figure of a
man observed to walk the clouds over the ridge at sunrise. This
apparition has long been resolved into an exaggerated reflection, which
makes the traveler’s shadow, pictured upon the clouds, appear a colossal
figure of immense dimensions. A French savan, attended by a friend, went
to watch this spectral shape, but for many mornings they traversed an
opposite ridge in vain. At length, however, it was discovered, having
also a companion, and both figures were found imitating all the motions
of the philosopher and his friend. The ancient classical fable of Niobe
on Mount Sipylus belongs to the same category of atmospheric deceptions;
and the tales, common in mountainous countries, of troops of horse and
armies marching and counter-marching in the air, have been only the
reflection of horses pasturing upon an opposite height, or of the forms
of travelers pursuing their journey. On the 19th of August, 1820, Mr.
Menzies, a surgeon of Glasgow, and Mr. Macgregor began to ascend the
mountain of Ben Lomond, about five o’clock in the afternoon. They had
not proceeded far before they were overtaken by a smart shower; but as
it appeared only to be partial, they continued their journey, and by the
time they were half way up, the cloud passed away, and most delightful
weather succeeded. Thin, transparent vapors, which appeared to have
risen from Loch Lomond beneath, were occasionally seen floating before a
gentle and refreshing breeze; in other respects, as far as the eye could
trace, the sky was clear, and the atmosphere serene. They reached the
summit about half-past seven o’clock, in time to see the sun sinking
beneath the western hills. Its parting beams had gilded the
mountain-tops with a warm glowing color; and the surface of the lake,
gently rippling with the breeze, was tinged with a yellow lustre. While
admiring the adjacent mountains, hills, and valleys, and the expanse of
water beneath, interspersed with numerous wooded islands, the attention
of one of the party was attracted by a cloud in the east, partly of a
dark red color, apparently at the distance of two miles and a half, in
which he distinctly observed two gigantic figures, standing, as it were,
on a majestic pedestal. He immediately pointed out the phenomenon to his
companion; and they distinctly perceived one of the gigantic figures, in
imitation, strike the other on the shoulder, and point toward them. They
then made their obeisance to the airy phantoms, which was instantly
returned. They waved their hats and umbrellas, and the shadowy figures
did the same. Like other travelers, they had carried with them a bottle
of usquebaugh, and amused themselves in drinking to the figures, which
was of course duly returned. In short, every movement which they made,
they could observe distinctly repeated by the figures in the cloud. The
appearance continued about a quarter of an hour. A gentle breeze from
the north carried the cloud slowly away; the figures became less and
less distinct, and at last vanished. North of the village of Comrie, in
Perthshire, there is a bold hill called Dunmore, with a pillar of
seventy or eighty feet in height built on its summit in memory of the
late Lord Melville. At about eight o’clock of the evening of the 21st of
August, of the year 1845, a perfect image of this well-known hill and
obelisk, as exact as the shadow usually represents the substance, was
distinctly observed projecting on the northern sky, at least two miles
beyond the original, which, owing to an intervening eminence, was not
itself at all in view from the station where the aerial picture was
observed. The figure continued visible for about ten minutes after it
was first seen, and was minutely examined by three individuals. One of
these fancied that there was a projection at the base of the monument,
as represented in the air, which was not in the original; but, upon
examining the latter the next morning, the image was found to have been
more faithful than his memory; for there stood the prototype of the
projection, in the shape of a clump of trees, at the base of the real
obelisk.

[Illustration: men on a dock looking at ships on the ocean which have a
duplicate image of themselves suspended in the air above them]

In northern latitudes the effects of atmospheric reflection and
refraction are very familiar to the natives. By the term of
_uphillanger_ the Icelanders denote the elevation of distant objects,
which is regarded as a presage of fine weather. Not only is there an
increase in the vertical dimensions of the objects affected, so that low
coasts frequently assume a bold and precipitous outline, the objects
sunk below the horizon are brought into view, with their natural
position changed and distorted. In 1818, Captain Scoresby relates that,
when in the polar sea, his ship had been separated for some time from
that of his father, which he had been looking out for with great
anxiety. At length, one evening, to his astonishment, he beheld the
vessel suspended in the air in an inverted position, with the most
distinct and perfect representation. Sailing in the direction of this
visionary appearance, he met with the real ship by this indication. It
was found that the vessel had been thirty miles distant, and seventeen
beyond the horizon, when her spectrum was thus elevated into the air by
this extraordinary refraction. Sometimes two images of a vessel are
seen, the one erect and the other inverted, with their topmasts or their
hulls meeting, according as the inverted image is above or below the
other. Dr. Wollaston has shown that the production of these images is
owing to the refraction of the rays through media of different
densities. Looking along a red-hot poker at a distant object, two images
of it were seen, one erect and the other inverted, arising from the
change produced by the heat in the density of the air. A singular
instance of lateral mirage was noticed upon the Lake of Geneva by MM.
Jurine and Soret, in the year 1818. A bark near Bellerire was seen
approaching to the city by the left bank of the lake; and at the same
time an image of the sails was observed above the water, which, instead
of following the direction of the bark, separated from it, and appeared
approaching by the _right_ bank—the image moving from east to west, and
the bark from north to south. When the image separated from the vessel,
it was of the same dimensions as the bark; but it diminished as it
receded from it, so as to be reduced to one-half when the appearance
ceased. This was a striking example of refraction, operating in a
lateral as well as a vertical direction.

_Ignis Fatuus._ This wandering meteor known to the vulgar as the
Will-o’-the-Wisp, has given rise to considerable speculation and
controversy. Burying-grounds, fields of battle, low meadows, valleys,
and marshes, are its ordinary haunts. By some eminent naturalists,
particularly Willoughby and Ray, it has been maintained to be only the
shining of a great number of the male glow-worms in England, and the
pyraustæ in Italy, flying together—an opinion to which Mr. Kirby, the
entomologist, inclines. The luminosities observed in several cases may
have been due to this cause, but the true meteor of the marshes cannot
thus be explained. The following instance is abridged from the
Entomological Magazine:—“Two travelers proceeding across the moors
between Hexham and Alston, were startled, about ten o’clock at night, by
the sudden appearance of a light close to the road-side, about the size
of the hand, and of a well-defined oval form. The place was very wet,
and the peat-moss had been dug out, leaving what are locally termed
‘peat-pots,’ which soon fill with water, nourishing a number of
confervæ, and the various species of sphagnum, which are converted into
peat. During the process of decomposition these places give out large
quantities of gas. The light was about three feet from the ground,
hovering over the peat-pots, and it moved nearly parallel with the road
for about fifty yards, when it vanished, probably from the failure of
the gas. The manner in which it disappeared was similar to that of a
candle being blown out.” We have the best account of it from Mr.
Blesson, who examined it abroad with great care and diligence.

[Illustration: Ignis Fatuus.]

“The first time,” he states, “I saw the ignis fatuus was in a valley in
the forest of Gorbitz, in the New Mark. This valley cuts deeply in
compact loam, and is marshy on its lower part. The water of the marsh is
ferruginous, and covered with an iridescent crust. During the day
bubbles of air were seen rising from it, and in the night blue flames
were observed shooting from and playing over its surface. As I suspected
that there was some connection between these flames and the bubbles of
air, I marked during the day-time the place where the latter rose up
most abundantly, and repaired thither during the night; to my great joy
I actually observed bluish-purple flames, and did not hesitate to
approach them. On reaching the spot they retired, and I pursued them in
vain; all attempts to examine them closely were ineffectual. Some days
of very rainy weather prevented further investigation, but afforded
leisure for reflecting on their nature. I conjectured that the motion of
the air, on my approaching the spot, forced forward the burning gas, and
remarked that the flame burned darker when it was blown aside; hence I
concluded that a continuous thin stream of inflammable air was formed by
these bubbles, which, once inflamed, continued to burn, but which, owing
to the paleness of the light of the flame, could not be observed during
the day.”

The ignis fatuus of the church-yard and the battle-field arise from the
phosphuretted hydrogen emitted by animal matter in a state of
putrefaction, which always inflames upon contact with the oxygen of the
atmosphere; and the flickering meteor of the marsh may be referred to
the carburetted hydrogen, formed by the decomposition of vegetable
matter in stagnant water, ignited by a discharge of the electric fluid.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          CAMPAIGNING STORIES.


                     NO. II.—THE CAPTIVE RIVALS.[1]


                 BY THE AUTHOR OF “TALBOT AND VERNON.”


                (_Concluded from page 212, Vol. XXXIX._)


                               PART III.

                                     I have not seen
                   So likely an embassador of love.
                               _Merchant of Venice._

                It gives me wonder, great is my content,
                To see you here before me.
                                              _Othello._

The sun had not yet climbed the hills on the east of the valley, when
Harding set forth on his uncertain mission; and not one of the indolent
people of the country was any where to be seen. The houses were all
closed—no smoke issued from their rude chimneys—no sound or motion
broke the stillness. Apart from its solitude, however, it was a
beautiful scene. The haziness of the evening before was now gone—the
valley was refreshed by the dew of the night; and the reviving influence
of the cool morning seemed to have had its effect upon the inanimate as
well as the animate. The slope of the hills on the north, where the
first rays of the sun rested for hours before they touched the southern
plateau, was dotted here and there by straggling goats, browsing
listlessly upon the scanty vegetation; while lower down the valley and
along the banks of the little river, numbers of cattle were either
standing patiently around the inclosures or wandering slowly away toward
the hills. The river, silvered by the morning light, wound thread-like
down the valley toward the west, and was visible even to the turn of the
mountain miles away, where it enters the labyrinth of ridges in the
neighborhood of Parras. There were no waving fields of grain; but the
hedges were all green and fresh; verdure was springing even at that
season, where the ground had been cleared of its products; and the
evergreen trees, and groves of oranges which dotted the land imparted an
aspect of fertile beauty. The shadows of the rugged hills were traceable
along the ground, so clearly that the line of separation could be
followed through the fields—one-half in sunlight, half in shade—the
former gradually encroaching on the latter. There were no birds to cheer
the solitude with matin songs; but so peaceful was the scene that even
their presence might have seemed unwelcome.

Harding gazed about him as he crossed the bridge as if in search of the
road. There were two paths; one leading along the front of several
_ranchos_, and apparently taking him directly to the point he wished to
reach. The other led away to the left, sweeping round the fields and
avoiding the houses, with the danger of meeting their inmates. It was
the latter that the count directed him to take; but for some reason best
known to himself he followed the first, without heeding De Marsiac’s
hail, and soon found himself riding slowly between two straggling rows
of neat cottages. There was no one astir, however, and he had ridden
nearly the whole length of the avenue without seeing any signs of
life—when, judging himself to be out of view of _Embocadura_, he turned
his horse in among the elms, and sprang to the ground.

Throwing his bridle-rein over a limb, he first carefully examined his
pistols, and then loosening his sword in the scabbard, stepped out from
the cover and approached the nearest cottage. It was not until he had
knocked several times that any answer was returned. Then, however, the
door was suddenly swung open, and he was confronted by one of those
specimens of Mexican youth, whose faces combine in so remarkable a
degree, great beauty with an expression of wicked cunning. He was a
boy—perhaps eighteen years of age, with a slender figure, but evidently
very active, and unless an exception to his race, capable of enduring
great fatigue and privation. His eyes were dark as night, small, and
keen; his nose thin and straight, his lips rather pinched, but red and
clearly cut. The rest of his features were appropriate to these, and his
complexion was rather lighter than the general hue of his people. He
held a _lareat_ coiled in his hand, and his goat-skin shoes were armed
at the heel with enormous spurs.

“_Buenas dias, Señor_,” said he, in a clear, sharp voice, stepping back
at the same time, in mute invitation to Harding to enter.

The latter returned the salutation and asked—

“On whose lands are these _ranchos_?”

“On those of La Señora Eltorena,” answered the boy, promptly.

“How far is it to Anelo?” he inquired.

“Twelve leagues, sir.”

Harding reflected for a moment, and then beckoned the boy aside. The
latter gazed at him inquiringly; but drawing the door to, followed him
to the place where his horse was standing.

“You see that horse?” said he.

“I do,” answered the boy “and a very fine one he is, too.”

“Could you ride him to Anelo and back,[2] to-day?”

“How much money could I get to do it?” asked the youth, eyeing the
officer as if to measure his liberality.

“Twenty dollars,” Harding answered; “or, if you do not find me on your
return, you may keep the horse.”

“Agreed,” said the boy, promptly. “I’ll set out now.”

Harding took a blank leaf from his pocket-book and wrote a note to the
commandant of a detachment of Texan rangers, whom he knew to be then
foraging at Anelo, and handed it to the boy.

“You must be back before midnight,” said he; “and you may ask for me at
the _hacienda_. My name is Harding.”

“And mine is Eltorena,” said the youth. “I am six months older than
Margarita, and entitled to the name by the same right.”

His eyes glistened as he spoke with an expression so devilish, that
Harding was half inclined to take back the note and discharge him. But
while reflecting upon the words of the boy, the latter, as if divining
his half formed intention, suddenly put spurs to his horse’s flanks and
bounded away. Harding watched him until he had crossed the river, and
avoiding _La Embocadura_ by a wide circuit, was fast disappearing among
the groves to the east.

Concluding that if he had made a mistake it was now too late to amend
it, he turned on his heel, and was about to pursue his way toward
_Piedritas_ on foot, when his attention was arrested by a voice
pronouncing his name.

“Señor Harding, let me speak with you for a moment.”

He turned, and beheld a female in the very bloom of mature
womanhood—tall, elegantly formed, and possessing a countenance of
singular force and beauty. She was standing near the door at which he
had knocked, and he had no difficulty in determining from the
resemblance that she was the mother of his messenger. He advanced with
the ordinary salutation, and followed her within the house.

“I am perfectly well acquainted,” she commenced abruptly, without
offering him a seat, “with the object of your visit to the _hacienda_.
You are here to wed the daughter of the woman who calls herself the
Señora Eltorena—”

“Calls herself!” repeated Harding.

“And you are doubtless like other men,” she continued, without noticing
the exclamation, “more attracted by the property than the bride. Now, I
wish to warn you that this estate, with all that the late Colonel
Eltorena owned, belongs to his son—and mine—the youth whom you have
just sent away; and that I hold General Santa Anna’s pledge to see him
righted as soon as the army marches this way. So, if you marry her, it
is with your eyes open.”

“You are mistaken, madam,” said Harding, after a pause given to
surprise; “I am here on no such errand: I am, on the contrary,” he
added, with a smile, “only a humble ambassador, suing for the lady’s
hand in the name of another, more potent individual.”

“In the name of the murdering thief, De Marsiac?” she exclaimed.

“Even so,” Harding replied, “the very same, without mistake.”

“You are a strange ambassador,” she said, with a laugh. “But,” she
continued, resuming her somewhat wild manner, “I warn him through you,
as I have done to his face, that the man who marries that woman’s
daughter, must take her portionless!”

“In that case,” said Harding, with another smile, “I doubt whether the
count will care to take her at all. But enlighten me about your son’s
title—it may be important to my principal.”

Her story was not an uncommon one, though it took a long time in
telling; for she dwelt with painful emphasis upon some parts, and talked
so incoherently upon others, that Harding was confirmed in his suspicion
that her mind was, upon that subject at least, quite unsettled. She had
been induced by the late Colonel Eltorena to go to his house, as his
wife, under a promise that the actual ceremony should be performed by
the first priest who came from Monclova or Saltillo. It was a remote
district in which they lived, and they might have to wait for months
before the expected visit would be made; and knowing this, and at the
earnest solicitation of her lover, she consented to an arrangement,
which was not so uncommon as it should have been. Wherever the common
law prevails as it does in the United States, this would have been a
legal marriage; and she solemnly protested that she so considered it
upon the representation of the colonel himself. Two or three priests had
passed that way within a few months; but upon various pretexts the
ceremony was postponed.

At last, after about six months, the Colonel went to the city of Mexico
on a visit, and returned with a wife! “The woman,” said the narrator,
“who now calls herself La Señora Eltorena!” _She_, the deceived and
betrayed, was generously offered an asylum in the _rancho_, where she
had lived ever since; and six months after her ejectment from the
_hacienda_ by “the proud English woman,” her son was born. For eighteen
years she had been suing for her rights; but superior influence with the
corrupt judges of that unhappy land had foiled all her efforts; and in
the meantime, she had lived in plain view of the _hacienda_, determined
never to lose sight of her object, until she saw her son in possession.
She had never been inside of its walls: “but,” said she, “I _will_ be
there—and soon! May God give me revenge upon the sorceress, who stole
away my rights!”

“It is a very hard case,” said Harding, when she had finished, “but I
fear like many other wrongs, it has no remedy.”

“There is one remedy,” said she, significantly, “when all others fail.”
And drawing aside the end of her _mantilla_, she disclosed the hilt of a
long, keen dagger. She drew it forth, ran her finger along its edge,
smiled faintly, and replaced it in its sheath.

“Well, well,” said Harding, turning away, “I am warned at all events,
and will take care that the count is enlightened, also. I must speed
upon my mission. Good morning.”

She made no reply, and he passed out, taking his way toward the
_hacienda_, which lay in view, about a mile distant. Turning to the
right, he soon reached the bank of the river, and followed its rapid but
even current, which ran sparkling beneath the court-yard wall. It was
yet quite early; and as he reached the front of the mansion, his fear,
that as yet no one would be astir, was confirmed. Returning again to the
margin of the stream, he commenced pacing up and down the sward under a
row of elms, with the intention of awaiting the rising of the family. He
had made but two or three turns, however, and had halted, gazing about
upon the still morning scene, when he thought he observed something like
drapery pass across the arches in the wall, through which the river
entered the inclosure. He advanced somewhat closer, and could distinctly
see a pair of small feet tripping across the river on a footway made by
placing large stones a step apart from bank to bank. He could not doubt
that it was Margarita; but without going again to the front of the
house, he knew of no means of ingress.

Casting his glance up and down the stream, to his delight, he discovered
a small boat moored to the bank, and slowly swinging in the current. A
moment sufficed to untie the rope which bound it, and in another, he was
seated on its light planks, rapidly floating toward the arched passage.
The waters, raised by the rains of the preceding day, left but scanty
room beneath the masonry; but lying down in the bottom of the boat, and
guiding her with his hands, he soon had the satisfaction to emerge
within the inclosure. On rising again, he found himself between an
extensive garden on one side and the offices of the mansion on the
other. The former seemed to be a neglected wilderness of trees, and
flowering plants and vines, but on reaching the footway over which the
feet had passed, he discovered an opening to the labyrinth, in a broad,
graveled walk, which wound away between rows of shrubbery, sparkling in
the morning sunlight, and lost itself in the distance.

Turning the boat broadside against the stones, to prevent its floating
away, he sprang to the bank and walked rapidly down the avenue. He
discovered neither form nor sign of life for several minutes; but as he
turned from the main walk into a smaller, which led away to the left, he
saw directly before him, walking slowly toward the place where he stood,
a young girl whose exquisite beauty well justified his eagerness. She
was slightly above the medium height, slender, but well-proportioned,
with a carriage erect and graceful. Her rich, brown hair was braided in
masses over a forehead of the purest white, and drawn back loosely so as
almost to hang upon her round, snowy neck. Her eyes were of the same
color with her hair—a rich, dark brown; and their expression, though
somewhat pensive, was yet sparkling and clear. A nose of the true
Grecian model, a round, though not full chin, a small mouth with thin,
curling lips, and cheeks now tinged by exercise in the cool morning air,
completed a face which might well have attracted a man of less taste
than the Count De Marsiac. To complete the picture, she had small,
beautiful feet, such as a sultana might have envied; and her perfect,
white hands, which now lay folded together in front, might have been a
model for a sculptor. She wore a thin morning dress of the purest white,
and as she walked slowly and unconsciously, it waved like gossamer about
her person—revealing, perhaps, too much of its contour to please our
northern prejudices, but still adding to its exquisite attraction.

Harding’s circumstances were so peculiar, that he was embarrassed for a
moment, and could not determine how to meet her. She had not yet seen
him, and acting upon the impulse of perplexity, he stepped within the
cover of the shrubbery, and allowed her to pass without speaking. She
went but a few steps, however, before he called—

“Margarita!”

She started at his voice, but turned and at once advanced to meet him.
Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, too, as she did so, and the hand she
extended to him trembled from emotion. Harding could not know her
feelings, and he had reason to doubt her truth; but, though he could not
tell what it was, there was something in her look and manner as she met
him which made him forget all suspicion. He took her hand in one of his,
and placing the other about her waist, drew her to him, and—the love of
a former time was renewed!

“We meet once more,” he whispered; it was all he could say.

“I feared we were parted forever,” she said, disengaging herself from
his embrace, but still leaning on his arm.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” continued Harding.

“I am not sure but I ought to have done so,” she replied, with a smile
which revealed how little she meant what she said. “But how is it that
you are here?”

“I had forgotten,” answered he; “I am here as an envoy from another, to
ask your hand in marriage!”

“You!” she exclaimed, drawing away from him. “From whom?”

“From his highness,” answered Harding, laughingly detaining her, “Eugene
Raoul, Count De Marsiac!”

She gazed at him in surprise for a few moments; and then, catching the
light of his smile, folded her hands upon his shoulder, looked archly
into his eyes and said—

“If the envoy does not deem my hand a prize high enough to justify his
preferring a claim on his own behalf. I must even listen to the
overtures of his sovereign.”

“Then I must deliver my credentials,” said Harding, and drawing her to
him, he kissed her upon both cheeks. “And now,” he continued, taking her
hand, “my mission is ended; and in my own proper character I claim this
hand as my own. Is it mine?”

“Forever,” she answered, and he was about to resume his “credentials,”
when a rustling among the bushes attracted his attention; and before
Margarita could disengage herself, Lieutenant Grant confronted them, and
leveled a pistol at Harding’s breast!

“Traitor!” he shouted furiously; “you shall pay for this with your
life!”

Margarita screamed loudly, and threw herself in front of her lover; but
before Grant was aware of his intention, Harding drew his sword, and
passing around her, threw himself upon him. He knocked the pistol into
the air just as it exploded; and the next instant Grant was stretched
upon the sward, bleeding profusely from a wound in the head given by the
back of Harding’s sword! The latter drew the remaining pistol from the
sash of the fallen lieutenant, and kneeling beside him raised him from
the ground on his arm.

“Bring some water from the river,” he said to Margarita.

But as he looked up, he perceived that the party had been increased by
one! A tall, handsome woman, of perhaps thirty-six, stood gazing sternly
on the scene, while Margarita shrank back abashed. She had a face once
evidently distinguished for its proud beauty, but now remarkable chiefly
for the masculine strength of its expression. Her eye was of that deep
blue, which oftener indicates coldness than tenderness; and her lips,
now compressed and white, were full of fierce resolution. It was plain
that a sneer was more natural to her than a smile, anger than affection.
Her brow was high but narrow, and her nose a thin aquiline. It was not
at all strange that she had been the dominant spirit in Colonel
Eltorena’s household.

“What is this?” she commenced, in a voice of powerful compass, but no
sweetness. “And who are you, sir, who dare to invade my private garden
to brawl with my guests?”

“You know me full well, madam,” said Harding, irritated by her tone,
“and I intend that you shall know me better. But this is no time to
instruct you. Margarita, will you bring some water from the river?”

Margarita looked doubtfully at her mother; but at a wave of her hand,
ran away toward the river. As she disappeared, her mother advanced
closer to Harding, who was endeavoring to resuscitate Grant, and said—

“You are here, I suppose, sir, for the purpose of attempting to
interfere with my domestic arrangements; but let me assure you that you
shall hang to one of these trees rather than be even admitted within the
house!”

“Your threats are brave enough, at all events,” said Harding, with a
smile. “But do you not think it would better become a woman to assist me
in a duty of humanity?”

“What does she know of humanity?” demanded a sharp female voice, close
to the group; and on turning his head Harding saw the same woman, whose
story of deception and betrayal had so much interested him two hours
before.

“What do _you_ here?” demanded the señora, with one of those scowling
looks for which her face seemed made. “Must I have you, too, thrust from
my gate!”

“_Your_ gate!” hissed the woman, advancing nearer to the object of her
hatred, and flashing insane glances from those wild, haggard eyes.
“_Your_ gate! Impostor, witch, begone! Must _I_ have _you_ thrust from
_my_ gate?”

There is something very appalling in the glance of an eye touched with
insanity; and the Englishwoman shrunk from it, if not in fear, at least
in dread. But, at the same moment, she saw Margarita returning with the
water, and called to her—

“Go back, my daughter, and send some of the men here.”

“To thrust me forth from _your gate_, I suppose,” said the woman,
advancing still closer, and fumbling with her right hand under the end
of her mantilla.

“Yes,” said the señora fiercely; “will you go without violence?”

“No!” the maniac almost screamed. “_No!_” she repeated; and with the
word, she suddenly drew her hand from its concealment, flourishing the
dagger which she had shown Harding, and with a bound like that of a
tiger, sprang upon her enemy and buried the steel in her heart! Harding
dropped Grant, and rushed forward to prevent another blow, but his
interference was too late! The señora screamed wildly, and with a
convulsive gasp fell to the ground, quite dead!

Harding seized the arm of the murderess and easily wrested the dagger
from her hand. Indeed, she made no resistance—the reaction of her
excitement sapped away her strength; and, submitting without a word to
all that Harding did, she seemed intent only upon the now fast
stiffening corpse which lay before her.

“I am sorry for her,” she murmured; “I am sorry for her—but she would
have it, and I cannot bring her to life.”

She burst into tears, and threw herself to the ground—uttering the most
terrible imprecations of God’s vengeance upon herself, mingled with
curses of the late Colonel Eltorena, and incoherent references to his
perfidy. Harding was at a loss how to act—so strangely embarrassing was
the wild scene in which he found himself.

The question was soon decided for him. He heard the approach of several
armed men, walking with quick steps along the path, and, the next
moment, Count De Marsiac suddenly entered the little area.

“Villain!” he exclaimed, striding toward Harding; “you have deceived me,
and shall die the death!”

“Back, sir!” shouted the lieutenant fiercely, presenting the point of
his sword. “If there is a greater villain than yourself here, the devil
must be present in person!”

The count recoiled from the blade, and furiously ordered his men to fire
upon the audacious American; but two of them, who had been busied with
Grant, now sprang upon him from behind, and, after a sharp struggle,
overpowered and bound him.

“I will dispose of you after awhile,” said De Marsiac, when he saw him
_hors du combat_. “Leave him where he is,” he added to his men; and
proceeding to give his orders with clearness and rapidity, the scene was
soon broken up. Grant was restored to consciousness and again made a
prisoner; the body of the señora was removed by the women summoned for
the purpose, the murderess was taken into custody, and the whole party
repaired to the house. Of this, De Marsiac at once took possession as if
he were already its master; Margarita was confined to her own chamber,
and Harding was thrust into a small, dingy room, and left alone, with
those unpleasant companions, his own thoughts.

-----

[1] The following extract from the letter of the author of the Captive
Rivals, will account for the delay in finishing this story in the
December number.—Ed. Graham.

                               _Jacksonville, Ill. Dec. 12th, 1861._

    _G. R. Graham, Esq.,_

    Dear Sir,—I send you, inclosed, the final number of the
    ‘Captive Rivals’—which has been by sickness, and other
    unavoidable causes, unreasonably delayed.

[2] The reader must recollect that the leagues mentioned are Mexican.


                                PART IV.

                 All in the castle were at rest;
                 When sudden on the windows shone
                 A lightning flash, just seen and gone.
                                                Rokeby.

               ’Tis to be wished it had been sooner done;
               But stories somewhat lengthen, when begun.
                                                   Byron.

It wanted yet an hour of noon, when, excepting the occasional clash of
arms in the court-yard, where De Marsiac had quartered his men, all
sounds in the mansion ceased. The room in which Harding found himself
imprisoned, had but one small window, and this was protected by strong,
vertical iron bars, in the fashion of the country. The only door opened
upon a corridor, along the stone pavement of which the prisoner could
distinctly hear the footsteps of a sentinel, approaching and receding,
but never quite going beyond earshot. As if to secure him, beyond the
possibility of escape, another armed man passed, from time to time,
before the window, looking curiously in at each return, and never
disappearing for more than five minutes. Harding, as the reader has
perceived, was a decidedly brave man; but when he reflected upon the
meaning of these precautions, and the character of the man into whose
power he had fallen, he could not avoid some apprehension as to his
fate. Fatigue, however, soon overcame his fears, and the drowsy monotony
of noonday conquered his wakefulness. Seating himself in the deep
window, he leaned his head against the bars and slept.

When he awoke, the sun was declining toward the horizon, and the shadows
of the trees were lengthening along the hills. He aroused himself and
looked about him. His window commanded a view of the garden, in which he
had met Margarita, and a part of the river, along which he had entered.
The waters had subsided since morning, and the arches under the wall
were proportionably more open; but escape in this direction, even had he
been able to break his prison, was cut off by two sentinels who stood
upon the river-bank, and never, for a moment, turned their eyes from his
window.

None but those who are deprived of it, can fully appreciate the blessing
of freedom; but even their hopelessness may be deepened, by the view of
waving fields and clear sunlight, when they feel that it is not for them
that they wave and shine. Harding turned away from the window, sick at
heart, and with rapid and impatient strides paced up and down the narrow
floor. As he passed the door for the fourth or fifth time, he heard
voices without, as if in altercation, and the next moment, a heavy step
coming along the corridor.

“What do you want here?” roughly demanded a voice, which Harding at once
recognized as that of the count.

“I was taking the _Americano_ something to eat,” timidly answered the
smaller of the voices, before in altercation.

“Let him pass,” the count ordered the sentinel; and then added, aloud,
as if on purpose to be heard within, “and tell the _Americano_ that he
had better eat heartily, for it will be his last meal!”

“_Si, señor_,” said the boy, and at the same moment the door was
cautiously opened, so as to preclude all chance of escape, and the
_peon_ entered, bearing a small waiter, on which were placed some
articles of food.

Harding turned away, in no mood for eating—though he had tasted nothing
since morning. He had heard De Marsiac’s threat, and the character of
his enemy left him little reason to doubt that he would put it into
execution. He had hoped that his messenger would return from Anelo in
time to save him; but now all prospect of that seemed cut off; for he
knew that the count was not a man to delay when he had once taken his
resolution. As this thought flashed across his mind, he wheeled suddenly
round, determined to rush forth and try the chances of a fight; but
before he could do so, the door was drawn violently to, and hastily
bolted.

“The _señor_ will eat something?” said the boy, timidly.

“Set it down, then, and begone!” answered the prisoner, pointing to a
wooden bench at the side of the room.

“The count told me to say you had better eat heartily,” said the _peon_,
“as this will be your last meal; and,” he continued, in a lower voice,
pointing to a roll of bread, “you must break this bread, even if you
don’t eat it.”

The gesture and tone attracted Harding’s attention. He approached the
bench and raised the roll, while the boy, repeating his injunction, went
back to the door, and was cautiously let out. The lieutenant waited
until the bolts were drawn again, and then broke the bread. A small slip
of paper fell to the floor; and, on raising it, he found the following
hopeful, though unsatisfactory words:

“_Will you pay me the twenty dollars, or shall I keep the horse?_”

“It would be cheaper,” muttered Harding, perversely, “to let him keep
the horse, if he has ridden him thirty leagues already. But,” he added,
a suspicion flashing across his mind, “that is impossible! I ought to
have known the young scoundrel would betray me—and this is only a cruel
_ruse_ of De Marsiac!”

He turned the paper over as he spoke, and his eye caught these words
written on the reverse:

“_I will be with you by 9 o’clock—McCulloch._”

“I did the boy injustice,” was his first thought; “he shall have both
the money and the horse.” And seating himself on the bench, he followed
the count’s well-meant advice, and was soon refreshed by a hearty meal.

It is wonderful how much the state of the stomach has to do with the
moods of the mind. Indeed, the two organs seem to be inter-reactive; and
I believe some physiologists now contend, with great plausibility, too,
that the brain is really the digestive organ. If this theory be true,
mental distress must be only another name for _dispepsia_; and—though I
have seen men who ate like anacondas, when under great affliction—I am
strongly inclined to endorse the speculation. At all events, Harding was
“a case, or subject, in point;” for, but a few minutes before, when he
was apprehending many certain and uncertain evils, from the resentment
of the count, he had not the least desire for refreshment; but, on the
first glimpse of hope, he had an appetite like a soldier escaped from a
beleaguered city. And, no sooner was the inner man replenished, than—on
the aforesaid principle of inter-reaction—his spirits rose almost to
the point of absolute content. Most axioms are tautological; but none is
more so than that which asserts that “man is a _strange animal_.” The
word “strange” might be advantageously and conveniently left out.

So thoroughly had the important act of receiving his rations
reinvigorated the captive, both corporeally and mentally, that, when he
resumed his walk up and down the floor, he dismissed all anxiety about
his own fate, and began to speculate in reference to the condition of
his fellow-prisoner, Grant. From regret that he had been compelled to
strike him, his mind wandered to a more pleasing subject of
contemplation—he began to long for some information about Margarita;
how she was treated by the ruffian count, and, more particularly—for
love is always egotistical—how she viewed _his_ captivity; and finally,
whether she had not forgotten her grief for her murdered mother, in
devising means of giving him his liberty. These, or such as these, are
often very pleasant fancies—the misfortune is, that, in most cases,
they are _only_ fancies, and are occasionally rather rudely dispelled.

So it was, at all events, with Harding; for, just as he had reached that
supreme apex of egotism, to which lovers so easily attain—where one’s
mistress is not supposed to know that there is any thing, or anybody
else in the world, about which, or whom, she _can_ think—when he was
recalled to more substantial realities, by hearing the count, in loud,
stern tones, giving a rapid and ominous command.

“Close the gates and bar them—muster the company, with loaded muskets,
and bring out the prisoners!” Such was the significant order of a man
who was never known to stop at half-measures!

“McCulloch will be too late, at last!” exclaimed Harding, halting
suddenly, and dashing his hand violently against the wall. The dinner
had lost its virtues, for his heart sank even below its former point of
depression. And, in truth, his apprehension was far from groundless. De
Marsiac was incensed beyond bearing, by the consciousness that Harding
had overreached him. His suspicions were first aroused by observing him
take a road to _Piedritas_, different to the one he had pointed out. He
had watched him until he halted among the elms, and had seen him
dispatch the messenger for assistance. He was ignorant, however, of his
point of destination—supposing that the nearest American force was at
Monclova, about sixty leagues[3] distant. This supposition would give
him at least forty-eight hours, in which to prepare for the reception,
should soldiers be sent, or, at least, to retreat into the mountains.
The interview between Margarita and Harding, had also been watched by
some one of the household; and when the count came in great haste after
his prisoner, this unwelcome news had met him at the threshold. A man of
his violent temper could not have brooked this under any circumstances,
least of all, when he possessed, as did the count, ample and ready means
of vengeance.

While the unfortunate prisoner was running these comfortless
circumstances over in his mind, the door was suddenly thrown open, and
several men rushed upon him and threw him to the floor. Almost before he
was aware of their object, his arms were drawn forcibly back and
pinioned behind him. They then lifted him to his feet, and
unceremoniously marched him out upon the corridor. Here he found Grant,
securely pinioned like himself, and held by two _rancheros_, one on each
arm.

“This is a pretty predicament you have brought us into,” said the
younger, sullenly; “We’re to be shot, I suppose.”

“Very probably,” answered Harding, scarcely able to resist, even in that
serious moment, an inclination to smile at Grant’s disconsolate look.
“But how came you here?”

“I escaped from _Embocadura_ about the same time with you, and was in
the garden to learn your treachery and—”

“And to get that blow on the head,” interrupted Harding, feeling again
an impulse to jest.

“I’ll settle that score with you hereafter,” said Grant, his eyes
flashing fire.

“By ‘hereafter,’ I suppose, you mean in the next world,” said Harding,
with a bitter smile. “But, seriously, Grant, this is no time for the
indulgence of such feelings; we have probably not long to live, and
ought to be thinking of more important matters. I am heartily sorry for
the blow, as well as for my insincerity—will you forgive it?”

“With all my heart,” answered the other warmly; and each made a gesture,
as if to join hands; but the cords bound them too closely.

“We can do but one thing, Grant,” said Harding, with feeling, “and that
is, die like Christian men—and brave men,” he added, after a pause;
“for these cursed _rancheros_ ought not to see any weakness in
Americans.”

“They shall see none in me,” said Grant, firmly, “though I do think it
hard to be sacrificed in this way!”

“One of the chances of war, Grant—only one of the chances of war,” said
Harding, sturdily; and, at the same moment the count, for whom the men
seemed to have been waiting, appeared on the corridor and waved his
hand. The files turned away with their prisoners, and marching around
the building, soon gained the bank of the river. Here they halted again,
awaiting the approach of the count, who, like most men when assuming a
fearful responsibility, seemed to act with much less than his usual
prompt rapidity. The sun had already set, and there was only left the
short twilight of that latitude before the falling of night, which must
suspend the bloody act, perhaps forever.

But a few minutes were lost, however, when De Marsiac came hastily round
the building, accompanied by ten of his _rancheros_ with trailed arms.
At a gesture from him the prisoners’ guards resumed their march, and
crossing the river on the stepping-stones, before mentioned, soon gained
the little open space where Harding had met Margarita. Selecting two
trees which stood near each other, the count ordered his captives to be
lashed securely to them; and then drawing his men some five paces off,
gave the preliminary commands to a cold-blooded murder.

“Keep a strong heart, Grant,” said Harding, endeavoring to sustain his
younger comrade in the awful hour. “Don’t let your courage fail now—it
is too late!”

“This is a mere assassination,” said Grant, grinding his teeth.

“And will be speedily avenged,” added Harding, “more speedily than the
vindictive scoundrel now thinks!”

De Marsiac caught these words, and paused. For a moment he seemed to
hesitate whether to proceed. But his nature was too obstinate to admit
more than a passing thought of change in his purpose; and without
further noting the words of Harding, he resumed his attitude of command.
While he seemed to hesitate, his men had brought their guns to the
ground—and they were now to be brought up again by the successive
movements of the manual. The delay arising from this cause, probably
saved the lives of both the prisoners.

A quick, light footstep was heard rapidly approaching along the main
walk, and a moment afterward, Margarita, accompanied by one of her
women, rushed into the area and threw herself, without hesitation,
between the prisoners and their executioners.

“Count!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing fire, and her voice attesting
the extremity of her emotion, “is this the way you keep your promises
with one to whose hand you aspire! Down with your arms, miscreants, and
begone! _I_ am mistress here!”

A slight sneer curled the haughty lip of the count; but, considering his
vengeance snatched from him for the present, he gave his men the order
to ground their arms, but to stand firm. Assuming, then, the most
insinuating address in his power—and he was far from ungraceful—he
approached the incensed girl, and drew her aside.

“Margarita,” said he, taking her hand, “you must pardon an act which is
prompted only by love for yourself; and you must not judge too harshly
of one who feels that the dearest price of earth has been unfairly
snatched from his grasp. Both these men have been instrumental in
blasting my hopes of obtaining this hand; I feel that while they live, I
can never rebuild the vision I have indulged—perhaps their death may
not assist me—but,” and he raised himself suddenly to his full height,
and spoke in a deep, determined tone, the meaning of which she knew too
well, “I shall at least be avenged!”

“What do you mean?” she asked, trembling.

“I mean,” he replied, calmly, “that since my hopes are wrecked at any
rate, their death will give me revenge, without harm to my
interests—_they must die!_”

“And dare you think that I would marry one whose hands were bloody with
such a deed?” she asked, proudly.

“Listen to me,” said he, laying his hand on her arm; “my hands are not
_now_ bloody—yet you reject me. If I spare these men, you will reject
me still—and I shall lose my revenge, and not gain your love.”

“Perhaps—” she commenced, but paused.

“If you will be mine,” he interrupted, perceiving that the moment had
arrived, “both these men shall be sent back, unharmed, to the American
army—and I shall be not only the happiest of men, for the requital of
my love, but will also be saved, what I feel would be a great crime!”

“If you know it to be a great crime, why commit it?” she asked.

“Ah, Margarita! you little understand man’s feelings. But come,” he
added, suddenly, “time presses—I cannot wait. You reject me—they must
die!”

He turned away as he spoke, as if to resume his commands; but Margarita
called him back.

“If I consent,” she commenced, with hesitation, “when will you demand
the fulfillment of my promise?”

“_To-night_,” he replied; “so soon as Father Aneres can be brought from
_La Embocadura_!”

“Why such haste?” she demanded. “Will not to-morrow be quite soon
enough? Remember, my mother was only buried to-day!”

“A few hours can make no difference in that matter,” he replied, “but
_might_ in another view. I must have your hand _to-night_, or these men
must die _now_.”

It was a terrible alternative. But Margarita had seen Harding’s
messenger, and knew that McCulloch, with his Rangers, might be expected
within three hours. The only question was, whether she could find
excuses enough to delay the ceremony for that length of time. Could she
do so, she was safe; but—and it was a terrible thought—should De
Marsiac use his power to hasten it, she was lost! But, running over in
her mind all the plausible reasons she might give for an hour’s delay,
and especially reflecting upon the consequences of a refusal, she at
length determined to consent.

“I can do no more,” she said.

“Then I understand you to consent?” he asked.

“I do,” she replied, “on the condition that you send these unfortunate
men to their army immediately.”

“As soon as you are mine, they shall set out,” said the count; and
Margarita was obliged to be satisfied with his pledge. He at once
ordered the prisoners unbound, and taken back to their temporary
prisons; and walking beside his intended bride, he followed the little
procession to the house, and at once gave orders to summon the priest.

The presence of a clerical functionary, in the house of such a man as De
Marsiac, was not so remarkable as at first view it would seem; for,
independent of the almost complete degradation of that order in that
part of Mexico, there was another reason for the opportune appearance of
one of its members. The count, anticipating the possibility of gaining
some advantage in the events about to happen, had manifested one of the
most valuable characteristics of a great general—preparing himself to
make the utmost of whatever success might be given him. He had summoned
Father Aneres to Embocadura, for the very purpose for which he now
called him to Piedritas.

The _padre_ exhibited the three peculiarities of the priesthood in that
country, excepting, indeed, well-shaped hands and feet, they were the
only remarkable points about him: he possessed a rotund corporation, a
full nether lip, and a small, twinkling, black eye. He was above the
ordinary level referred to, however, for the grossness of his aspect was
rather that of easy self-indulgence, than of positive sensuality.
Indolence filled up the space in him, which, in his brethren, it usually
shared with a cruel and rapacious depravity.

He entered the _hacienda_ within an hour after the dispatch of De
Marsiac’s messenger—a promptitude for which he received from none
there, excepting the count, any of the good wishes usually bestowed upon
such occasions on men of his profession. To Margarita, especially, his
coming was unwelcome in a very high degree; for, though but an hour
remained before the period fixed for McCulloch’s arrival with his
Rangers, this was space enough for one so determined as the count, and
far too much for her to dispose of in specious delays.

This was soon manifested, indeed, by the unannounced entrance of De
Marsiac, who demanded that the ceremony should proceed forthwith. She
informed him that she had but now commenced her preparations; and rashly
said, that she would be quite ready at the end of an hour.

“See that you are so, then,” said he, peremptorily; “for I will not be
cajoled into another minute’s delay. I shall be here again precisely at
nine o’clock; and if you are not ready then, I shall shoot the
prisoners, and compel you to redeem your pledge afterward.”

She was about to make an angry reply; but, reflecting that he was fully
capable, if incensed more than he seemed already, of dragging her at
once to the altar, she suppressed her indignation, and replied as calmly
as possible—

“Do you not think, count,” said she, “that such language is unbecoming
at such a time—and to me?”

“If,” said he, softening at once, approaching her and taking her hand,
“if you treated me with the confidence which I feel I deserve, no one
could be more gentle and affectionate than I would be. But you leave no
room for gentleness. Even now, you are endeavoring to gain time in order
that you may be rescued by American soldiers. But—be at once
undeceived—these soldiers cannot arrive here sooner than the day after
to-morrow, and then they will find the place vacant.”

Margarita’s heart sank within her, though she had seen Harding’s
messenger, and trusted his report. She knew not to what expedient one so
adroit as her persecutor might resort, to delay the march of the
rangers, or lead them astray; and her imagination at once conjured up
twenty plans by which he might secure his object. She made no reply,
however, other than to assert that he was mistaken in her motives, and
request that he would leave her to her preparations.

“Very well,” said he, “I will return at nine o’clock.”

As soon as his step ceased to be heard, Margarita summoned the two
confidential women who were most about her person, and a council was
held upon the ways or means of escaping or gaining time. But, fertile as
is woman’s wit, no feasible plan was suggested. Escape from the house
was impossible, for the count had every avenue guarded; the priest was
inaccessible, for he was completely under De Marsiac’s influence; even
her own men could not be depended upon, for the few who were in the
_hacienda_ were overawed by the _rancheros_ of her persecutor. The only
alternative was to stand obstinately silent at the altar; and yet by
this course, she inevitably sacrificed two lives—one of them dearer to
her than her own. Her position was terribly embarrassing; for, if she
should refuse to consent until her lover was murdered, she could not
even then be sure that the count would not force her to yield afterward;
making thus a bloody, and unavailing sacrifice.

In the midst of their deliberations—if a hopeless search after
desperate expedients could be so called—a light knock was heard at the
door, and on being opened, it admitted Harding’s trusty messenger,
Margarita’s half-brother. He paused at the threshold and gazed about
him. It was the first time he had ever been admitted into the private
apartments of a place which he had been taught to consider his own, and
the gleam of his dark eye would have betrayed his thoughts to any one
less preoccupied than Margarita. The expression soon faded away,
however, and without salutation he advanced to Margarita, and abruptly
asked—

“Are you about to marry Count De Marsiac, willingly?”

“Why do you ask?” Margarita inquired.

“I wish to prevent it,” he replied calmly.

“How can you do so?”

“By gaining time, till the _Texanos_ come,” he answered.

“If you can do this,” said Margarita, eagerly, “your reward shall even
exceed your own expectations.”

“My reward does not depend upon you,” he coldly replied. “It is quite as
much to my interest to prevent the marriage, as it can be to yours.”

“How can that be?” interposed one of the women.

“That will be explained hereafter,” the young man replied. “If you will
follow my directions the marriage shall be prevented.”

“What do you wish me to do?” asked Margarita.

“Only to delay your preparations as long as you can, and if the Texans
do not arrive before the hour—”

“Nine o’clock is the time,” interrupted Margarita, “and it wants but
half an hour of it, now.”

“I know,” said the other, “but linger as long as possible. Do not tempt
the count to any violence; when you can delay no longer, go to the
altar, and you will understand what I mean.”

There was no alternative but to trust him; and Margarita did so the more
willingly, because he dictated the only course she could see open to
her—procrastination, in the hope of relief. His motives were plain
enough, though she could not fathom them. He claimed the _hacienda_ as
his own, but he knew that if it once fell into the hands of a man, whose
grasp was as tenacious as that of the count, his title would have but
small chance of successful assertion, and he was therefore interested in
preventing his union with Margarita.

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the mean time, the good Padre Aneres was seated in one of the
southern wings of the _hacienda_, recruiting his energies, after an
exhausting journey of two miles from _Embocadura_. The robes and
appointments of his clerical office were arranged with a neatness which
scarcely distinguished his personal appearance; for he was about to
celebrate a sacrament, which he viewed as hardly less important than the
last unction administered to the dying—to which, indeed, it furnished
no indistinct parallel. Preparatory, however, to the performance of the
ceremony, he was fortifying himself with a liberal supply of delicate
viands—that to which he applied himself most frequently being a large
silver bowl of red Parras wine.

He had been thus agreeably occupied for half an hour or more after his
arrival, and having recovered his breath, began to feel comfortable
again, when a hasty but timid knock was heard at the door. The worthy
_padre_ pushed the bowl of wine a little farther from him, hastily
swallowed the morsel in his mouth, and having settled himself in an
attitude of meditation, gave a gentle invitation to enter. The door was
pushed timidly open, and the young messenger presented himself, in most
singular plight. His clothes were studiously disarranged; his hair was
disheveled, and covered with dust and ashes, while his eyes gave signs
of recent violent weeping.

“_Oh, padre!_” he exclaimed, in evident distress, throwing himself at
the good Father’s feet. “_Peccavi! Peccavi!_ I have sinned! I have
sinned! O, Father! Hear me, and forgive.”

The worthy priest was startled at this exhibition of grief, so much more
intense than he was accustomed to see; for the penitent beat his breast,
and humbled himself upon his knees in the most abandoned manner.

“Calm yourself, my son,” said the pastor, “and remember that mercy may
be extended to the guiltiest of mortals.”

“_Confiteor! Confiteor!_” rapidly continued the sinner. “Oh, _padre_!
Pity and forgive! _Peccavi! Peccavi! O, Miseracordia!_”

“Entrust your sin to the Representative of Heaven,” gently urged the
Father, “and never despair of God’s mercy.”

“Not here! O, not here!” exclaimed the youth, springing to his feet and
rushing to the door. “There are spies here—ears listening for the
confession, which must be given to you alone.”

“Who dares to penetrate the secrets of the Confessional?” demanded the
_padre_, his little black eyes twinkling with indignation.

“The count and his spies,” answered the youth. “We must leave the
house—we must go forth into the night, for my soul is burthened with
sin, and the load must be lifted. Come!” He seized the confessor by the
robe and dragged him toward the door, sobbing “_Peccavi! Peccavi!_” all
the time.

“But, my son,” hesitated the priest, “the count is—”

“Come—come—come!” repeated the penitent, impatiently; a part of his
grief giving way before his haste to be absolved. “We can return before
you will be wanted. I cannot endure to wait! O, pity and forgive!”

The good Father, like most indolent men, was very slow of decision at
all times; and now he was carried away by the torrent of grief, and the
impatience for absolution, which seemed to flow from the consciousness
of some great crime. Half inclined to refuse, and yet too undecided to
act with promptness, he suffered himself to be dragged from the room,
and through the door into the open air. Here they were brought to a
sudden halt: a _ranchero_ stepped before them, and presented his musket.
But such an indignity at once restored the Father to his dignity.

“Who dares to obstruct a son of the church in the discharge of his duty
to Heaven?” he indignantly demanded. “Out of the way, false man of
blood; and let the confessor and his penitent pass out from among the
oppressors of God’s people!”

This vigorous speech was not particularly appropriate to the occasion,
nor was it thoroughly understood by him to whom it was addressed.
Neither was it such as was likely to move one of De Marsiac’s ordinary
followers; for the _rancheros_ generally stood more in awe of their
leader’s displeasure, than of the wrath of Heaven; and it is probable
that but few of the desperadoes would have hesitated to bayonet the
Pope, himself, had the count so commanded. But this sentinel seemed to
be of a more reverential nature; for no sooner did he recognize the
priest and his companion, than he raised the point of his bayonet,
shouldered his musket, and allowed them to pass.

This disobedience of his captain’s orders—remarkable for its want of
precedent among De Marsiac’s banditti; was not the only singular
circumstance about the accommodating sentinel, as the reader will soon
observe. The young penitent disappeared among the shades of night with
his confessor, whom he hurried on faster, probably, than he had ever
walked before. He directed his course to a little group of _ranchos_,
which stood directly south of the _hacienda_. Having entered one of
these, and remained five minutes—it seemed that his sin was not long in
the confessing or absolution, notwithstanding his overwhelming
distress—for at the end of that time he issued forth _alone_, with a
well-pleased smile upon his lip, and elasticity restored to his bearing.
From the door of the _rancho_ he took his way north-ward again; verging
obliquely to the right, however, until he reached the bank of the river,
nearly a quarter of a mile east of the _hacienda_. At this point, a
grove of small trees sheltered the bank, and through them passed the
road up the valley to Anelo. The youth paused as he gained the shadows,
and gave a low, clear whistle. It was answered from the river-bank; and
in a moment afterward, a man emerged from the covert, and approached the
messenger.

A whispered consultation ensued between the pair, but of brief duration;
for Eltorena seemed in haste.

“Keep due south,” said he, as he prepared to return, “until you reach
Martiniez’ avenue—then turn west, until you are opposite the south
entrance, and approach cautiously.”

With those words he turned away; and retracing his steps with great
rapidity, soon came in view of the sentinel, who had permitted him to
pass.

“_Quien va la?_” hailed the latter, presenting his musket. But Eltorena
only answered by a low whistle, and boldly advanced. As he approached,
the sentinel again shouldered his piece, and a consultation ensued
between _them_, also—the youth pointing out the direction which he had
indicated to his confederate at the river, and then passing into the
mansion. The sentinel resumed his pace up and down his post—pausing
from time to time with his ear bent toward the east, as if waiting for
some expected sound. But every thing was as still as a summer night in
the north; and though the moon was now rising over the eastern hills,
there was not a moving thing perceptible to the eye.

                 *        *        *        *        *

While these things were going on without, the hour appointed for the
ceremony of marriage was fast approaching; and one of the parties, at
least, was filled with anxious fears. Margarita had delayed her
preparations as much as possible; but the assistance of her women, with
which it would have been more politic to have dispensed, had, even
against her will, so expedited them, that she was fully ready at the
time. Nor, had it been otherwise, was the count disposed to permit any
further procrastination; for, punctually to the minute, he knocked at
her door, and, without waiting a summons to enter, threw it open and
stepped across the threshold.

“I am glad to see you ready,” said he, throwing as much kindness into
his manner as his consciousness of wrong permitted. “Come, the chapel is
prepared, and the _padre_ awaits us.”

“Count,” said the intended bride, trembling with apprehension, but
anxious to make another effort for delay, “cannot this ceremony be as
well performed to-morrow? I do not like this indecent haste.”

“It must be performed to-night—_now_,” he replied calmly. “If you
refuse, you know the alternative. I will not be trifled with.”

“I am not trifling with you, indeed,” said she hurriedly. “But
reflect—my mother is scarcely cold in her grave!”

“The better reason why you should observe her wishes,” De Marsiac
replied. “I have considered all that, and find no reason to change my
mind. If you intend to redeem your pledge at all, it is as well to-night
as to-morrow. If you are willing to sacrifice your friends, _los
Americanos_, your refusal to-night will only give me my revenge sooner!”

His course of argument was too direct and forcible to be oppugned;
Margarita rose as its meaning reached her, and signified her willingness
to go at once to the altar. The count turned to one of his followers and
said—

“Go to Father Aneres, and tell him that we will be ready by the time he
can reach the altar.”

The man approached the door of the room where we have seen the good
_padre_ recruiting his exhausted strength. He was met at the door by
young Eltorena, dressed in a white cassock, and holding a censer in his
hand, as if in attendance upon the priest.

“The good Father,” said the young man, “is in his closet, but will meet
them in the chapel in five minutes.”

The man returned to his master, and the procession at once marched
toward the chapel. A room fitted up for this purpose is to be found in
almost all the larger _haciendas_ of that part of Mexico—its size and
splendor depending upon the wealth and piety of the proprietor. That at
_Piedritas_ had been somewhat neglected of late, but was still a
respectable chapel. It was separated from the priest’s room—where
Eltorena had sought the _padre_—by two partitions, between which was
the private closet; and leading out of this was a door which opened
behind the altar. It was through this door that Father Aneres was to
enter for the performance of the momentous ceremony. But the reader
already knows that the good Father was not within, and therefore could
not come forth.

The procession entered the chapel in the following order. The count,
holding the unwilling hand of his trembling bride, was succeeded by the
two women, accompanied by his trusty lieutenant, who was to “give the
bride away.” Then came three files of _rancheros_ with trailed arms—a
desecration which the good Father, timid as he was, would not have
permitted. Behind these, each between two soldiers, who jealously
watched them, came Harding and Grant—borne in the procession, like the
prisoners of ancient Rome, to grace the triumph of the conqueror! Then
followed the remainder of the count’s band of free-companions,
numbering, in all, about twenty. All the domestics of the family crowded
in after, and the door was taken in charge by the trusty sentinel who
had disobeyed his orders!

The count dragged his bride to the chancel-rail, and, leaving her there
for a few moments supported by her women, took upon himself the duties
of master of the ceremonies. He placed his two prisoners directly behind
the bride, well guarded however, so that they would have the
satisfaction of seeing without the power of interfering. Behind them he
ranged his followers in a compact mass, and directing the _peons_ to
seat themselves in the rear, he ordered the sentinel to close the door,
but not to leave it. Returning then to the chancel-railing, he resumed
his place beside Margarita, and took her cold and trembling hand in his.

Although these dispositions consumed full ten minutes, when he returned
to his place, the priest still delayed his coming. The count, however,
fiery and impetuous as he was, waited patiently for a period quite as
long; when, finding that the door still remained closed, he began to
knit his brows and mutter angry threats. These signs encouraged
Margarita, for they indicated delay, if not deliverance; and she had
even the audacity to smile in De Marsiac’s face.

“Antonio,” said the latter furiously, “go to Father Aneres and tell him
that we are waiting for him—_impatiently_!”

The man addressed sprang to the door and attempted to open it, but it
did not yield to his efforts.

“It is fastened on the outside,” he said. But, at the same moment, the
door behind the altar was heard to swing upon its hinges, and a slow,
heavy step was placed upon the short stairway which led up to the
platform.

“The old dotard is coming at last,” muttered the count, not observing
the ominous report of his messenger. He laid aside his gold-laced cap,
which hitherto he had kept upon his head, and resuming Margarita’s hand,
placed himself before the railing and looked up.

It was not the priest who stood at the altar! A tall, heavily-armed
man—evidently an American—rose suddenly from his cover, and, leveling
a pistol at De Maniac’s breast, gave his war-cry of “_Texano! Texano!_”
At the same moment the closed door was thrown open, and a band of near
twenty men filed speedily in and brought their carbines to bear upon the
_rancheros_—while a detachment, equally strong, rushed in from the
priest’s room, and marched past their leader—who was none other than
McCulloch of the Texan Rangers! A glance passed between Harding and
Grant—each understood the thought of the other—and, as if by
pre-concert, they broke away from their guards, sprang upon the count,
and, before his men could interfere, dragged him, a prisoner in his
turn, within the chancel! Scarcely giving him time to speak, two of the
rangers hurried him away through the priest’s room, and delivered him in
charge to the guard stationed at the door.

“Lay down your arms!” shouted McCulloch, through the din which now
arose—chiefly from the domestics—“and every man’s life shall be
spared. But the _ranchero_ that holds his arms one minute, shall hang to
the first tree that’s tall enough to stretch him.”

The word “_Texano_” had already half accomplished the conquest; the
captivity of their leader weakened their resolution, and this threat,
which every Texan was, in the estimation of a Mexican, fully capable of
executing, completed the discomfiture. Each _ranchero_ threw down his
arms with an alacrity which seemed to indicate that they were growing
hot in his hands, and the two detachments of rangers marched in and made
them all prisoners, without the least resistance.

“There’s one good job well done, boys,” said McCulloch, “and all the
better done because we have spilt no blood.”

Turning then to Harding, who was supporting Margarita upon his arm,
while Grant stood moodily aside, he said—cordially receiving the hand
extended to him—

“We were very nearly too late, at last—though, thank God! not quite. I
had information from your messenger, since we entered the _hacienda_,
that the bandit, De Marsiac, designed to take your lives, even after he
had obtained the hand which was to be their ransom.”

“I doubt not,” said Harding, frankly; “if my friend Grant and I see
to-morrow morning, we shall owe the sight to your promptness in
attending my call. You must be satisfied with our gratitude until the
chances of war shall enable us to discharge the obligation in kind.”

“If the only mode of payment,” said the captain with a smile, “is
rescuing me from a scrape like this, I hope you may never have a
creditor more pressing than I.”

“I do not know,” said the ranger lieutenant, Gillespie, coming forward
with the open manner of the soldier; “I think, if the prize, at the
outcome, were as great as it seems to be in this instance, Captain
McCulloch would have no special objection to dangers quite as imminent.”

He looked at Margarita as he spoke—for she still hung upon Harding’s
arm. The captain laughed at what he considered a compliment both to
himself and the lady; a round of introductions ensued, and
congratulations, with jests and pleasant laughs—during which the
prisoners were marched off and confined, and the _hacienda_ reassumed
its aspect of dreamy quiet.

“Gentlemen,” said Margarita, when a pause at last broke the round of
felicitations, “you have ridden far and hard, and must be both fatigued
and hungry. Will you not partake of some refreshment?”

“With the utmost pleasure,” answered McCulloch; “but I must first see my
men quartered.”

“I have already given orders for their accommodation,” said Margarita.
“Since I may soon be under their escort, it becomes me to consult their
comfort.”

“Under their escort!” exclaimed Harding.

“Yes,” she replied. “Since my mother’s death this is no longer a fit
residence for me. I have many relatives in Saltillo, and it is thither
that I wish to go. When you return to the United States,” she added, in
French, observing Harding’s doubtful look, “I shall be your
companion—if you desire it.”

He could only reply by another look, of a different meaning, when
McCulloch asked—

“What will become of the _hacienda_ in your absence? I have seen too
much of the steward system in this country, not to regret the absence of
the proprietor from every fine estate.”

“I shall give it to one,” she replied, “who, though he already claims it
unjustly, has, by his services this night entitled himself to even a
greater reward. I mean the young man who led you hither.”

“And his mother,” suggested one of the women, who did not quite relish
the generous proposition.

“She is a confirmed maniac,” said Margarita with a shudder, “and this is
only a stronger reason why I should do as I say. She will be a burthen
upon her son, and it is but just that he should have the means of
supporting her.” This closed the discussion, and the party adjourned to
supper.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On the following day the prisoners were mustered by the order of
McCulloch—as they supposed, for the purpose of being treated as _their_
countrymen had so often treated _his_; that is, being hung like
traitors, or shot by platoons—but really for the purpose of being
released. De Marsiac, however, as a man who might do the Americans some
injury, was retained a prisoner of war. All the rest, much to their
surprise, were dismissed with an _admonition_ not to be found again in
arms. The captain judged, very correctly, that taking their _parol_
would be an unmeaning ceremony.

About an hour afterward, the cavalcade set out for Saltillo, by way of
Anelo and Capellania—a long route which McCulloch’s orders compelled
them to take. Margarita, with a generosity which my readers may be
disposed to call romantic, but which was, after all, scarcely more than
justice—had conveyed the _Hacienda de los Piedritas_ to her
half-brother, who had so richly deserved his reward. The sacrifice was
small, too, for she had, still remaining, possessions ample even for
that country of overgrown individual fortunes.

Three days brought them to the handsome city of Saltillo, where
Margarita found a refuge among her many relatives. De Marsiac was
reported at headquarters and sent to the rear; while Harding and
Grant—wiser if not better men—rejoined their companies, and resumed
their duties. The events of their captivity seemed to have cured the
latter of the pleasant malady which had afflicted him; and the pair
became, in a short time, as inseparable as ever. They visited Margarita
together, and though the younger winced a little, when by any chance the
subject of his hallucination was referred to, on the whole he bore his
disappointment with a good grace.

The battle of Buena Vista closed the campaign in that part of the
country; and shortly afterward the regiment to which they were attached
was discharged. Before their return home, however, the ancient rivals
returned to Saltillo—where, in the handsome cathedral, Harding and
Margarita were united in marriage. And, a pleasant memento of rather
uncertain times, the officiating priest was the worthy Father Aneres,
who had figured in the history of Harding and Grant while they were
“_Captive Rivals_!”

-----

[3] Mexican leagues—about one hundred and forty miles.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            DEI GRATIA, REX.


                           BY W. E. GILMORE.


    King “by the grace of God!” where is the token
      By which we know thy right it is to reign!
    Jehovah’s will, of old, in words was spoken,
      Who heard His voice thy sovereignty proclaim?

    No! thou art king, _not_ by “the grace of God,”
      But usurpation only—guiltless he
    That doth resist thy claims, and, though in blood
      Poured out like water, rids the earth of thee!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             OUR CHILDHOOD


                              BY JANE GAY.


    How brightly did the summer’s sun
      Wake up the dewy morn,
    And chase the misty shadows from
      The cot where we were born;
    It stood amid the peaceful hills
      Where worldlings never rove,
    The violet-spotted earth around—
      The glorious sky above.

    Two tall elms were its sentinels,
      With arms uplifted high;
    And these were all we needed, save
      The watchers of the sky;
    And while amid the thick, green leaves
      The moonbeams dallied bright,
    The stars looked down on us at play,
      Oft on the summer night.

    O, every month of childhood’s years,
      How well do I remember,
    With all their smiles and fleeting tears,
      From New Year’s till December;
    No care or burden had we then—
      No life-lines on the brow;
    We knew it not—I wonder if
      We’re any wiser now.

    Were we not with ye, brothers, when
      With spade or hoe ye sped
    To dig the homely artichoke
      From out its winter bed?
    Or when, with boyhood’s free, glad shout,
      Ye ran with pole and hook,
    To draw the golden-spotted trout
      From out the alder-brook?

    Ay, ay! and I must tell it, too,
      Ye’d _sometimes_ play the churls;
    And cry, when we would run away—
      “_Mother, call back the girls_!”
    And then came tasks of knitting-work
      For us, and dreaded patch,
    With sullen faces, till we thought
      To try a knitting match.

    The summer days were ne’er too long
      For busy life like ours;
    For every hill had berries then,
      And every meadow, flowers.
    And joyfully, when school was done,
      We’d stay to glean our store;
    For though we loved the school-book well,
      We loved the free hills more.

    And very pleasant ’mid those hills
      September’s sun did shine,
    As we went forth to gather grapes
      From many a loaded vine;
    And while October’s gorgeous hues
      Of red and gold were seen;
    We searched for chestnuts in the wood,
      Or pulled the winter-green.

    And when November’s winds came chill
      With icy sleet and rain,
    We knew the old brown barns were filled
      With stores of golden grain;
    And what cared we how bleak or cold
      The wintry storms might rise—
    Our dreams were of Thanksgiving-days,
      And all their wealth of pies.

    Though ye have left the homestead now
      Grave men to walk among,
    Yet while our sire and grandsire live—
      Brothers, ye still are young!
    Nor, sisters, is it time for us
      Life’s lantern dark to trim,
    Our own dear mother has not yet
      Sung her half-century hymn!

    And while our childhood’s guardians live
      To bless the passing years,
    ’Twere more than vain in sad regrets
      To waste Life’s precious tears;
    Yet if our summer sky is fair,
      And green our summer bowers,
    We know that many walk the earth
      With sadder hearts than ours.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          I’LL BLAME THEE NOT.


                            BY J. A. TINNON.


    I’ll blame thee not—for I can love,
      Another eye as bright as thine,
    A form as fair, and ne’er regret,
      This worship at a faithless shrine.
    I’ll blame thee not—love fond and true
      May still be won in beauty’s bowers,
    Though I may never dare again,
      To wear a wreath of fading flowers.

    I’ll blame thee not—for thoughts of love
      And thee no more my bosom fill;
    And of that dream there lingers scarce
      One trace of its deep burning thrill.
    I’ll blame thee not—I smile to see
      The golden vision pass away,
    When its bright tints a mask have been
      To hide a heart of common clay.

    I’ll blame thee not—for I, perchance,
      May learn the trick of gladness well,
    And none shall mark upon my brow
      A trace of joy or pain to tell.
    I’ll blame thee not—for I will care
      No more to bind a restive heart,
    Though every joy my life can know
      Should with its passion-dream depart.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            LAW AND LAWYERS.


                             BY JOHN NEAL.


             “Once more into the breach, dear friends:
             Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the bends!”


With all my heart, Graham! But inasmuch as the lecture you want a copy
of has never been reduced to writing, though portions have appeared from
time to time in the newspapers of the day; and I have no notes worth
referring to, I dare not pretend to give you the language I employ; for,
between ourselves, that depends upon the weather and the House, to say
nothing of my temper at the time. For example; if I see before me a
goodly proportion of what are called the _learned_, or the _educated_, I
never mince matters—I never talk as if butter wouldn’t melt in my
mouth, but go to work with my sleeves rolled up, as if I heard a trumpet
in the hollow sky. In other cases, where the great majority of my
hearers happen to be neither learned nor educated—though there may be a
sprinkling of both—I am apt, I acknowledge, to wander off into familiar
every-day illustrations—perhaps into down-right story-telling, or what
my brethren of the bar would be likely to denominate _unprofessional_
rigmarole. But the substance of my preaching for many years upon this
subject, and the “thing signified,” and the general arrangement, under
all sorts of provocation, I think I may venture to promise you.

Bear in mind, I pray you, that phantoms under one aspect, may be more
terrible than giants, cased in proof, under another. Every great
mischief, being once enthroned or established, is a host of itself.

In the open field, lawyers are not easily vanquished—out-manœuvered or
overborne. Walled about, as with a triple wall of fire—or
_brass_?—high up and afar off, their intrenchments are only to be
carried by storm. They must be grappled with, face to face. No quarter
must be granted—for no quarter do they give—no mercy do they show,
after their banners are afield. “Up, guards! and at ’em!” said
Wellington, at the battle of Waterloo; and so say I! whenever I see my
brethren of the bar rallying for a charge.

They will bear with me, I hope—as I have borne with them for
twenty-five years; for, while I complain of their unreasonable
ascendency throughout our land, of their imperious, overbearing,
unquestioned domination, I acknowledge that, constituted as we are—We,
the People—we cannot do without them—and the more’s the pity. Law we
must have, and with it, as if by spontaneous generation—lawyers, till
Man himself undergoes a transformation, and his very nature is changed.
Both are necessary evils—much like war, pestilence, and famine, or
lunatic-asylums, poor-houses, and penitentiaries; or apothecaries’
shops, with their adulterous abominations; and every other substitute
for, and abridgment of, human liberty, human happiness, the laws of
health, or the instinct of self-reliance. If men will not do as they
would be done by; if they will not be “temperate in all things”—then
they deserve to be drugged, and blistered, and bled here by the doctors,
and there by the lawyers, till they have come to their senses, or can no
longer be dealt with profitably by either; for, although every man,
according to the worthy Joe Miller, may be his own washerwoman—at least
in Ireland—it is very clear that in this country, he might as well
undertake to be his own jailer, as his own lawyer.

I would go further; for, like the illustrious Hungarian, I desire to
conciliate and satisfy, not the few but the many; not only my brethren
of the bar, but everybody else worth satisfying; I would even admit—and
how could I well go further, and “hope to be forgiven?”—that, in view
of Man’s nature, as developed by our social institutions, Law and
Lawyers both, may be, and sometimes are, under special circumstances,
not only a necessary evil, but a very good thing. _There!_ I have said
it—and let them make the most of it. I mean to admit all I can—and
much good may it do them! But then, I would ask, if we may not have too
much, even of a good thing?

I hold that we may; and I appeal for proof to the countless volumes of
law which cannot be understood by any but lawyers; nor by any two of
them alike, till every other word, perhaps, in a long paragraph has been
settled by adjudication—two or three different ways—after solemn
argument.

I appeal to what is called the administration of justice, by jury-trial,
in our courts of law, where twelve ignorant, unreasoning men, got
together, nobody knows how—hit or miss—are held to be better
qualified—being bound by their oaths to think alike in most cases, and
to return a unanimous verdict, whether or no—than Lord Chancellor Bacon
himself, or Chief Justice Marshall would be, to settle any and every
question, however new, and however abstruse and complicated, upon every
possible subject that may happen to be brought before them for the first
time in all their lives! And this, without any previous knowledge on
their parts, or any other preparation by the lawyers who are to
enlighten them, than may have been made the night before, by “reading
up,” or “stuffing” for the occasion.

I appeal, moreover, to the testimony of the sufferers
themselves—_parties_, they are technically called—who, after being
scorched, and sifted, and harassed, and pillaged, under one pretence or
another, year after year, and within an inch of their lives; or driven
well-nigh distracted by the vicissitudes and anxieties incident to every
well-managed law-suit, where “good pickings” are to be had, or by that
hope-deferred “which maketh the heart sick,” begin to get their eyes
opened, and to see for themselves, and are sometime ready to acknowledge
for the help of others, who are elbowing their way up—or down?—to
_see_ the elephant, that when they pass over the threshold of those
gambling-houses, that are established by law, under the name of Courts
of Justice, and put up their stakes, they will find three times out of
four—perhaps nineteen times out of twenty—that when the raffle comes
off at last—with the jury-box—it is to decide, not which of the two
parties litigant—plaintiffs or defendants—but what third party—the
lawyers—shall sweep the board.

And I might appeal to the swarming thousands of our younger professional
brethren, who, ashamed to beg, afraid to steal, and too lazy to work,
instead of following the business of their fathers, taking their places,
and maintaining themselves honestly, give way to a foolish mother, or
sister, or to some greater simpleton still more to be pitied, or to a
most unhealthy ambition—that of being an _Esquire_, and a pauper, with
very white hands, who, having studied law, will have to be provided for
at last by marriage, or office; and with that view have literally taken
possession of our high places, our kneading-troughs and our
bed-chambers—after the fashion of their predecessors in Egypt.

Nay, more—I am ready to acknowledge, and I do for myself, my executors,
administrators and assigns—or publishers—hereby acknowledge, and I
hope with no unbecoming nor uncourteous qualification, that, taken
together, as a power, body, or estate, the Lawyers of our land are to
the full as honest—and as trustworthy—by _nature_—as any other power,
body or estate among us, of equal numbers, wealth, dignity, or
intelligence; notwithstanding the opinion so generally entertained, and
so often expressed, to their disadvantage, in the plays and farces, or
newspapers and story-books of the day, (not always, nor altogether
synonymous, I hope;) but no honester, and no more trustworthy; for,
although I believe—and I mean just what I say—that no _great
advocate_, in the popular sense of the words, can be an honest man,
however conscientious he may be out of court, or in other business; and
however anxious he and others may be to distinguish between the Advocate
and the Man—as if a lawyer were allowed two consciences to practice
with, and two courts—one above and the other below—to practice in; yet
I believe that a great Lawyer, or Jurist, like Sir Matthew Hale, or
Chief Justice Marshall, or Chancellor Kent, or any one of a score that
might be named, or Judge Parsons, being translated to the bench, from
the corrupting influences and stifling atmosphere below, may be a very
honest man; just as I believe—and I don’t care who knows it—that
silver spoons and watches left within striking distance of an attorney
at law—I am only supposing a case—may be safe, “notwithstanding and
nevertheless.”

By _nature_, I say, and not by education, habit, or association at the
bar. Away from the bar, I acknowledge the integrity of my brethren as
equal to that of any other class whatever. And this being admitted—what
more would they have? Would they claim to be honester and more
trustworthy than any other class, either by education or nature?

But observe; though ready to acknowledge their honesty, by _nature_, as
men; or rather, while I acknowledge that they are, to the full, as
honest as other men are by _nature_—but no honester; and as trustworthy
in all other relations, apart from law—as good but no better, I
maintain that they are constantly exposed to such disqualifying
temptations, and to such disastrous influences peculiar to their
profession; that they have established a code of morals for themselves,
as lawyers, which would not be allowed to them as citizens; and which,
if openly avowed and persisted in, by brethren out of the profession,
would be sure to send them to the penitentiary; that they have
altogether too much power in this country—a power out of all proportion
to their numbers, their talents, their intelligence, their virtues, and
their usefulness; and that, instead of being chosen for lawgivers
throughout our land, in a proportion varying from three-fifths to nearly
seven-eighths, in all our legislative bodies, they are the very last
persons among us to be intrusted with the business of
legislation—having a direct personal interest in multiplying our
laws—in altering them—and in making them unintelligible to all the
rest of the world.

Not satisfied with their pay, as legislators, for making the law,
varying from two to ten dollars a-day—with washing and mending, where
washing and mending are possible—they require, as lawyers, from
twenty-five to one hundred dollars a-day for telling, or rather for
guessing what it means.

And what is the result? Just this. That a privileged body, anointed for
office and power, who, but for the blindness and prodigal infatuation of
the People, would often be the nobodies of every productive or efficient
class, are enabled to fare sumptuously every day, wear purple and fine
linen—at the expense of others—all their lives long; and to carry off
all the honors from every other class of the community. Think of this, I
pray you; and bear with me, while I proceed with my demonstration.

That they have learned to reverence themselves, and all that belongs to
them, I do not deny; but then, if it is only themselves, and not the
image of God—if it is only what belongs to themselves and to their
estate, or craft, as lawyers, and not as Men, they so reverence—in what
particular do they differ from other self-idolators?

Are We, the People, to be concluded by their very pretensions? Are We to
be estopped by the very deportment we complain of? Because they are
exacting and supercilious, and self-satisfied, and arrogant, and
overbearing, are we to be patient and submissive? Are we to be told, if
not in language, at least by the bearing and behavior of these gentry,
that, inasmuch as all men may be supposed to be best acquainted with
themselves, therefore Lawyers are to be taken by others at their own
valuation?

Let it be remembered that they who properly reverence themselves, always
reverence others. But who ever heard of a Lawyer with any
reverence—worth mentioning—for anybody out of the profession? This, to
be sure, is very common with ignorant and presumptuous men. It is the
natural growth of a narrow-minded, short-sighted, selfish bigotry. A
mountebank or a rope-dancer will betray the same ridiculous
self-complacency, if hard pushed. Were you to speak of a great
man—Kossuth, for example—in the presence of a fiddler, who had never
heard of him before, he would probably crook his right elbow, and cant
his head to the left, as if preparing to draw the long bow, or go
through some of the motions common to all the great men he had ever been
acquainted with, or heard of, or acknowledged, before he questioned you
further.

It would never enter his head that a truly great man could be any thing
but a fiddler; a Paganini dethroned perhaps—like Peter the Great in a
dockyard—or that “any gentleman as was a gentleman,” could ever so far
forget himself in _his_ company, as to call a man great who was no
fiddler.

“What do they say of me in England?” said the corpulent, half-naked
savage that Mungo Park saw stuffing for a cross-examination under a
bamboo tree in Africa.

Just so is it with our brethren of the bar. Law being the “perfection of
Reason,” and her seat “the bosom of God,” they, of course, are the
expounders or interpreters of both; a priesthood from the beginning,
therefore, with the privilege and power of indefinite
self-multiplication. The sum and substance of all they know, and all
they care for under Heaven, if they are greatly distinguished, being
Law, what else could be expected of them? If they are great lawyers they
are never any thing else—they are never statesmen, they are never
orators—they are never writers. Carefully speaking, Daniel Webster is
not a great lawyer—nor is Henry Clay—nor was Lord Brougham; but they
were advocates, and orators and statesmen. Sir James Scarlett and Denham
were great lawyers, before whose technical superiority and sharp
practice Lord Brougham quailed and shriveled in the Court of King’s
Bench. But when they encountered each other in the House of
Commons—what a figure the two lawyers cut, to be sure, in the presence
of the thunderer! They were phantoms, and he the Olympian Jove. William
Pinkney was a great lawyer; but for that very reason he was out of place
in the Senate chamber, and made no figure there.

But even for this they have a justification—or a plea in bar. The law
is a “jealous mistress,” we are told, and will endure no rival; a
monarch “who bears no brother near the throne.” And well do they act
upon this belief; and well do they teach it by precept and by practice;
for few indeed are they, even among the foremost, who have gathered up,
in the course of a long life, any considerable amount of miscellaneous
knowledge, notwithstanding the reputation they sometimes acquire, in a
single day, by their insolent questioning of learned, shy and modest
professional men, or experts, after they have once got them caged and
cornered, and tied up hand and foot in a witness-box, and allowed to
speak only when they are spoken to; there to be badgered for the
amusement of people outside, more ignorant, if possible, than the
learned counsel themselves; but incapable of seeing through the
counterfeit, which, while it makes them laugh, makes the “judicious
grieve;” and mistaking for cleverness and smartness the blundering
audacity of an ignorant and garrulous, though privileged pretender, who
does not know that it often requires about as much knowledge of a
subject to propound a safe and proper question, as to answer it: nor
that the veriest blockhead may ask twenty questions in a breath, which
no mortal man could ever answer, and would not even try to answer,
unless he were a still greater blockhead.

And now, having swept the stage fore and aft, and secured, as I trust, a
patient hearing from the profession, let us go to work in earnest.

I maintain that among the popular delusions of the day, there is no one
more dangerous nor alarming than that which leads our People to believe
that they constitute a republic and that they govern themselves, merely
because they are allowed to choose their own masters; _provided_ they
choose them out of a particular class—that of the lawyers.

At the opening of every great political campaign, we hear a great deal
about the privileged classes; the ruffled-shirt and silk-stocking
gentry: and sometimes men prattle about the aristocracy of talent, or
the aristocracy of wealth—but who ever heard any complaints of our
legal aristocracy—an oligarchy rather—for they make all the laws, they
expound all the laws, and they hold all the offices worth having—in
perpetuity.

And whose fault is it? If the People are such asses, why should they not
be saddled and bridled, and ridden in perpetuity? It is their nature.
They are prone to class-worship, and to family-worship—to
self-depreciation, and to a most incapacitating jealousy of one another.
Even in the day of the elder Adams, it was found that the office of a
justice of the peace, like that of a legislator, was well-nigh
hereditary in New England. Having anointed the father, how could they
help anointing the son?—or the daughter’s husband, if the father had no
son?

And now, let us look at the consequences. From Aristotle down to the
last elementary writer on Government, it has been every where, and at
all times, acknowledged, that every possible kind of sway upon earth,
between Despotism and Anarchy, may be resolved into three elements of
power, differently combined, or combined in different proportions. These
elements are: 1. The Legislative, or law-making power; 2. The Judicial,
or law-expounding power; and 3. The Executive, or law-enforcing power.

Taken together we have what is called the Sovereign Power. The power of
making laws, of saying what they mean, and of carrying them into
execution being all that is ever needed for government.

And this, the Sovereign Power, may be concentrated in one person, whence
we have the Czar, the Sultan, or the Autocrat; or it may be confined to
a few—as in Sparta, or Genoa, or Venice, or Poland—constituting either
an Aristocracy or an Oligarchy; or it may be distributed among the
people equally, as at Rome or Athens at particular periods of their
history, when they were a tumultuous unmanageable Democracy: or
unequally, as in England, or in these United States, thereby
constituting a Limited Monarchy, or a Representative Republic,
pretending to a balance, by the help of a King or President, a House of
Lords, or a Senate, and a House of Commons or a House of
Representatives, and a Judiciary, more or less dependent upon the
Executive.

Of all these different systems the worst by far is an Oligarchy—or the
government of a privileged few—no matter whether elective and shifting,
or permanent, provided that, as a body or estate, they are allowed by
common consent to make the laws—to expound the laws—and to carry the
laws into execution, by holding all the offices worth having, from that
of the monarch or president, down to that of a clerk or
sergeant-at-arms.

True it is, that by no human contrivance can the three elements of power
above mentioned, be kept entirely separate—for they will run into each
other—as where the Supreme Executive is allowed a veto, or required to
sanction a law: and where the Senate, as a branch of the Supreme
Legislative power, intermeddles with the appointing power of the
Executive under the name of confirmation; and where the Supreme
Judiciary, after being appointed by the Executive and confirmed by the
Senate, are made dependent upon that other branch of the Supreme
Legislative power for the payment of their salaries—the House
originating all money bills and voting supplies—turn about, in their
capacity of Supreme Judges, and are allowed to unsettle, if they please,
by their interpretation, whatever the Supreme Legislative power may
choose to enact for law.

But although these three elements can never be wholly separated—it does
not follow that men, who desire to be well-governed, should not try to
separate them and to keep them separated as far as they can. Still less,
that because they cannot be wholly separated, they shall therefore be
encouraged to run together and to crystalize into a mischief that may
never be resolved again but by the process of decomposition.

And now, I contend that, in effect, We, the People of these United
States, are governed by an Oligarchy; and that, by being allowed to
choose our own masters—provided we choose them, or at least, a large
majority of them, out of a particular class—we are blinded to the
inevitable consequences: till we mistake words for things, and shadows
for substances: and that our mistake is all the more dangerous and
alarming that we cannot be persuaded to treat the matter seriously.

I contend, moreover, that, inasmuch as the Lawyers of our land make all
the laws; and as Judges expound all the laws, and as office-holders
carry all the laws into execution, therefore they constitute of
themselves the Sovereign Power.

Are the facts questioned? In the Massachusetts legislature, we have had
two hundred and sixty lawyers out of three hundred and fifty members;
and in congress we had not long ago, the same number, two hundred and
sixty lawyers out of two hundred and ninety-seven members—the balance
being made up in this way. Manufacturers and farmers, fifteen:
Merchants, one: Unknown, (being mechanics or preachers, or something of
the sort,) twenty-one. Perhaps there may be some error here, as I find
the only note I have upon the subject so blurred, that I am not sure of
the figures; but the fact on which I rely is too notorious to be
questioned. Every body knows that lawyers constitute a large majority in
all our legislative bodies, and have done so for the last fifty years;
and that they make about all the speeches that are made there, or
supposed to be made there, and afterward reported by themselves for the
newspapers. Can it be doubted therefore, that they as a body do in fact
and in truth constitute our supreme legislative power—thereby absorbing
to themselves just one third part, and by far the most important part of
our whole sovereignty as a people.

As little can it be seriously questioned that, inasmuch as all our
judges, from the highest to the lowest are lawyers; or ought to be, as
they are always ready enough to acknowledge—they constitute the supreme
judiciary; another third part of our whole sovereignty as a people.

And now let us see how the account stands with the Executive Power. Are
not our presidents, and have they not been from the first—with only
three exceptions out of twelve—lawyers? And our vice presidents; and
all our secretaries of state; and most of our secretaries of war, and of
the navy; and about all our foreign ministers; our chief clerks, our
post-master generals; our collectors; our land agents; and even a large
proportion of our foreign consuls—have they not always been, and are
they not always with an ever increasing ratio—Lawyers? And if so, what
becomes of the other third part of our whole sovereignty as a
people—the Executive Power? It is in the hands of the lawyers; and as
three thirds make a whole—out of the courts of law, I mean—does it not
follow that the whole sovereign power of this mighty people—of this
great commonwealth of republics—this last refuge of the nations is in
the hands of our lawyers, hardly a fraction of the whole?

Oh! but we have nothing to fear. Lawyers are always at loggerheads. They
are incapable of working together, even for mischief. Granted—and
there, let me tell you is our only safety, and our only hope. But,
suppose they should wake up to a knowledge of their own strength—and of
our weakness—who shall say that they must always be incapable of
conspiring together? And if they did—when should we begin to perceive
our danger? Would they be likely to tell us before-hand? Or would they
go on, year after year, quietly absorbing office, power, and
prerogative, as all such bodies do; until they had become too strong for
the great unreasoning multitude. With public opinion—with long
established usage in their favor—with a sort of hallucination, hard to
be accounted for in a jealous people; acquainted with history, what have
they to fear? Neither overthrow nor disaster—till the people come to
their senses and wake up, and harness themselves; and then, they are put
upon trial, as with the voice of many thunders; and instantly and
forever dethroned, as by an earthquake.

But you do not see the danger. Granted. And this very thing is what I
complain of. Did you see the danger there would be some hope of you; and
it would soon pass away forever.

But suppose we take another case for illustration. Suppose that
three-fifths of all our law-makers were soldiers instead of lawyers.
Suppose that all our judges from the highest to the lowest were
soldiers; and that all our presidents, and secretaries, and foreign
ministers, and collectors, and consuls—with here and there an
exception—were all soldiers; most of them experienced
soldiers—veterans; and the others, conscripts or new levies—what would
be the consequences, think you? How long should we be at peace with the
rest of the world? How long would Cuba, Mexico, or the rest of North and
South America be unattempted? Would not our whole sea-coast, and all our
lakes and rivers, and all our frontiers be fortified and garrisoned?
Would there not be great armies constantly marching and counter-marching
through our midst? Would not our very dwelling-houses and churches be
wanted for barracks—and if wanted, would they not be taken by little
and little?

Would not all our young men be mustering for the battle-field? Would not
foolish mothers, and sisters, and sweet-hearts, be urging them to try
for a shoulder-knot or a feather, as the only thing on earth to be cared
for by a young man of spirit and enterprise?

Look at Russia. The military have dominion there—and all the rest of
the world are slaves. The greatest men we have, not bearing a military
title, would be overlooked by the emperor, while any thing in the shape
of a general, though he never “set a squadron in the field,” and was
never heard of beyond the neighborhood of a militia muster, would be
fastened on horseback, and have thousands and tens of thousands, from
the harnessed legions of the north, passed in review before him. What
wonder that in such a country, the very nurses of the bed-chamber; yea,
the very bishops of the land have military titles, and are regularly
passed up through successive grades, from that of a platoon officer to
that of a colonel, and perhaps to that of a field-marshall, by the
emperor himself.

Yet soldiers are at least as trustworthy, are they not—as lawyers?

Take another case. It will not be denied, that physicians on the whole,
are about as intelligent and trustworthy as lawyers. Now, let us suppose
that, instead of being as in the Massachusetts legislature, eighteen to
two hundred and sixty—in a body of two hundred and ninety-seven; they
should happen to be two hundred and sixty physicians, to eighteen
lawyers, and that in our other legislative bodies they should constitute
a majority of the members: that all our presidents, and secretaries, and
foreign ministers, and chief clerks, and post-masters, and collectors,
and consuls, were physicians; or as many as are now lawyers: and that
all the laws were made subject to the decision of a bench of doctors,
eminent for the knowledge of medicine, and for nothing else—what, think
you, would be the situation of our people under such an administration?
Would any mortal man dare to refuse any pill the president might offer?
Would not our dwellings and churches be converted—not into barracks,
but hospitals? Would not millions be lavished upon theories, and
experiments, and preparations for pestilence? Would not the whole
country be divided into contagionists, and non-contagionists—parties
for, and parties against the yellow fever and the cholera? Would not
platforms be established, and pledges required, and offices filled—here
by the believers in allopathy, and there by the disciples of homeopathy?
To-day, by the rain-water, screw-auger, and vegetable doctors; and
to-morrow, by the unbelievers in lobelia, bella-donna, and pulverized
charcoal, or infinitesimal silex? In a word, if the government were
allowed to have its own way—and after they were established as the
lawyers are now, how could you help it?—would not the president, and
all his secretaries be obliged to prescribe for the sovereign people—or
suffering people—gratuitously; and would not the whole country be
drugged, and physicked, and bled and blistered—samewhat as they are
now—and would not all our finest young men be rushing into the
apothecary shops, and lying-in hospitals, and clinical establishments
for diplomas—to qualify them for the business of legislation, and for
holding office?

And again. Suppose we had as many preachers of the Gospel for
lawgivers—for presidents, secretaries, ministers, etc., and for
judges—what would be our situation? However they might differ among
themselves upon the minor points of their faith and practice, would they
not combine together? And would it not be their duty to combine, for the
establishment of whatever opinion they might all, or a great majority of
them, have agreed to uphold, as vital to Christianity? And how could we
help ourselves? And what would become of our ambitious young men, or
still more ambitious daughters? And what—I beseech you to think of
this—what would become of the right we now claim of judging for
ourselves upon all subjects, that in any way belong to our everlasting
welfare? Yet these men are honest, and taken together, are they not as
trustworthy and conscientious under all circumstances, think you, as our
present masters, the lawyers? And if so, would they—or would the
physicians, or the soldiers be a whit more dangerous? Answer these
questions for yourselves.

But I have not finished. I hold that the professional training of a
lawyer disqualifies him for the very business, which might be entrusted
with comparative safety to the soldier, the physician, or the preacher.

And wherefore? Because it substitutes a new law for the law of God. He
that by his professional adroitness can secure the escape of the
bloodiest and most atrocious criminal from justice, in spite of the
clearest proof, obtains a reputation, and with it correspondent
advantages in wealth, influence, and power, which under no other
circumstances could he obtain. It is the worst cases, whether criminal
or civil—cases which he gains in defiance of law, and against
evidence—which give a lawyer reputation. To win a cause which every
body says he ought to win, _that_ never gives a man reputation, and is
therefore committed to the nobodies below him. But, if there be a case
beyond the reach of hope or palliation; clear and conclusive against the
party, so that our very blood thrills when he is mentioned, and no human
being supposes he can get clear; still if he does get clear—no matter
how—by browbeating or bothering witnesses; by bamboozling the jury, and
misrepresenting the evidence under the direction of the court; or by
down-right bullying; the advocate is complimented by his brethren of the
bar, and even by the bench; for his learned, ingenious, and eloquent,
and faithful vindication of his client; and he goes forth, carrying with
him these trophies,—and others, it may be—dabbled and stained with
blood, like the murderer’s knife, with “the gray hair stickin’ to the
haft,” only to be retained in advance by every desperate ruffian, and
every abandoned wretch, who may happen to hear of the result, and to
have the where-withal to secure his timely co-operation.

Just observe how this affair is managed. If a father should give aid and
comfort to a child, after she had been guilty of murder; if a husband
should open his doors to a wife, or a daughter to her father, at dead of
night; or furnish a horse, or money, or a mouthful of bread, or a cup of
cold water, or the means of escape to a beloved brother, hunted for his
life, with the avenger of blood at his heels, time was, when they were
all accessories after the fact, and were treated as murderers or
principals, whatever might be the offense, and put to death accordingly;
and even yet, although that most barbarous law has undergone a few
changes, so that in some portions of our country, they who stand in the
relation of husband and wife, or parent and child, may help one another
when fleeing for their lives; yet no other man, woman, or child can do
it, in the whole community, but at the risk of death or imprisonment for
life—_except he be a lawyer_, and the prisoner’s counsel. And then he
may, and he not only may, but he is expected and required to do so: in
other words, to aid and comfort, counsel and help the prisoner, heedless
of all consequences, here and hereafter. And for this, he may receive
the very gold which has been wrenched from the grasp of the murdered
man; or the bank bills that are glued together by his heart’s blood; and
nobody shall dare to question his integrity, or to have any secret
misgivings about his honesty or conscientiousness—if it can be helped.

Let me not be misunderstood. I do not deny that the worst of criminals
are to be tried fairly. I acknowledge, moreover, that they cannot be
tried fairly with men of the law against them, unless they have lawyers
to help them: and that it is as much a part of the law that they shall
be tried in a certain way, and proved guilty in a certain way, for the
satisfaction of the world, as that they shall be punished at all; and
that, if it were enough to be satisfied of another’s guilt as a
murderer, to justify us in putting him to death, without going through
the regular forms of law, then might we run him up at the next yard-arm,
or tree branch, or lamp-post; on happening to see the bloody act
perpetrated with our own eyes.

But how should we know even in such a case, that “the man was not beside
himself;” or that the homicide was not justifiable, or at least
excusable? He may have acknowledged his guilt. And what if he has? He
may have been mistaken; for such things have happened, and murders which
never took place—though intended—have been acknowledged, and the
missing parties have re-appeared after a long while, and explained the
mystery. Or he may have been deranged; or being accused, and as it were
enmeshed by a web of circumstances, he may have been led away like the
son, who charged himself and his aged father, in Vermont, with the
murder of a poor helpless creature, who was afterward found alive, by
the instinct of self-preservation; hoping to lengthen, if not to save
his life, at least until his innocence might be made to appear; and
believing his father guilty.

To prove all these things there must be a trial, and a public trial;
otherwise, whatever may be the result, he will not be _proved_ guilty,
according to the law and the evidence; nor could he be justly condemned;
and there would be no safety for others.

No matter how clear his guilt may be; nor how bad his character may be;
the greater his guilt in the judgment of those who decide against him
before trial, and without evidence upon oath, or sifting, or
cross-examination—the more precious to him and to all, is the privilege
of being put to death according to law. The fewer his rights, the more
sacred they are. The more decided and overwhelming the evidence against
him, the more necessary it is to wall him round about, as with a sword
that turneth every way, against the influence of public opinion. It was
in this way that the elder Adams reasoned, when he undertook the defense
of the British officer, charged with the murder of Boston citizens, at
the outbreak of the revolutionary war—and triumphed.

And how shall this be done without the help of a Lawyer? Law, living a
science, complicated, and full of mystery and fear, how is the poor
criminal to prepare himself? How is he to defend his few remaining
rights? And how is he to bear up against the ponderous and crushing
weight of public opinion? He cannot. The thing is impossible. He must
have help; and that help must be a lawyer; and that lawyer must be not
only faithful to him, but unable to take advantage of, or to betray him,
if he would; otherwise the culprit will never trust him, and his life
will be at the mercy of the prosecutor, generally chosen for his
knowledge of the law, and for his adroitness in making “the worse appear
the better reason.”

Well, then, a lawyer must be allowed to the greatest criminal—and the
greater criminal he is, the more lawyers he ought to be allowed—if able
to pay for them! or if the court, in consideration of his deplorable and
hopeless guilt, or the atrocious character of the charge against him, be
willing to assign them.

And now—being assigned, or otherwise engaged, what shall the _honest_
lawyer do? He must be faithful to his client, happen what may—but is he
required to lie for him? to foreswear himself? As “the indiscriminate
defender of right and wrong,” to borrow the words of Jeremy Bentham,
“seeking truth in the competition of opposite analogies,” according to
Blackstone, shall he undertake to get the fellow clear—to bring him
off—against law, and against evidence? If such be the meaning of that
faithfulness to his client, what becomes of his faithfulness to God?—to
his fellow man—to himself? And yet, where is the great Advocate who
does not glory in doing just this? and who has not gained his whole
reputation by just such cases, and no others?

There stands the murderer, with garments rolled in blood. There stands
his counsel, giving him aid and comfort, under the sanction of law, with
his right hand lifted to Heaven, and swearing to a belief in the utter
groundlessness of the charge, and calling upon Jehovah himself to
witness for him, that he speaks the truth! Such things have happened,
and are happening every day; and these honest lawyers are still suffered
to go at large, unrebuked and unappalled: nay, worse—for by these very
practices they get famous and grow rich and secure the patronage—that’s
the very word—the _patronage_ of all the inexorable and shameless
villains and cut-throats in the community.

But if the lawyer may not do these things _honestly_, what may he do for
the help of his client?

He may lay his hand reverently upon the statute book. He may show that
the law does not reach the case charged upon the prisoner at the bar,
and that he must therefore go free—though his right hand be dripping
and his garments be stiffened with blood.

He may show that the only witness against him is unworthy of belief, on
account of self-contradictions, or utter worthlessness; or that he has
become disqualified, by the commission of some offense that
incapacitates him for life; and, by producing the record of his
conviction, he may oblige the court to let the prisoner go free. All
this he may do, and still be an honest man.

Yet more. Having satisfied himself of the innocence of the accused; or
of the probability that the witnesses are mistaken, or dishonest, or
that they have conspired together to destroy a fellow creature, doomed
to death by public opinion without proof; he may put forth all his
strength, and appear in “panoply complete,” heedless of all
consequences, to save him—provided only that he sticks to the truth,
and is honest in what he says or does. I care not how eloquent he may
be, nor how able or ingenious—the more eloquent and able and ingenious
the better, and I shall reverence him all the more as an Advocate and as
a Man.

But I do insist upon it, that he shall not be allowed to forget every
thing else—and every other obligation—and every other law, whether
divine or human, for the sake of his client; and that if he does, he
shall be held answerable for the consequences, and be punished, as he
deserves, with a burst of indignation—a general outcry of shame on thee
for a traitor!—a traitor to thyself, to thy Maker, and to thy brethren
at large, under pretence of being faithful to a murderer whom it would
be death, perhaps, for his own mother to help or comfort in any way.

I would even allow him to urge upon the jury, not only in such a case,
but in every case where the punishment might be death, to bear in mind,
that no matter how perfectly satisfied they may be of the prisoner’s
guilt; still, if he has not been _proved_ _guilty_, by unquestionable
evidence, or by unimpeachable witnesses, according to law, they are
bound by their oaths to return a verdict of _not guilty_; and if they do
not, they themselves are guilty of murder.

Otherwise they would sanction the most dangerous of Lynch-laws; those
which are executed under the forms of justice, and in mockery of all
human right.

If _satisfied_ of the prisoner’s guilt, they must have seen the murder
perpetrated with their own eyes; and they must have known that there was
no excuse for it, and no palliation: and in that case, instead of
relying upon questionable testimony from others, it would be their duty
to leave the jury-box and go into the witness-box, and allow others to
judge of the truth of their story, and of the soundness of their
conclusions.

And I would allow the accused the benefit of every flaw on the statute,
of every error in the forms of procedure, and of every _reasonable_
doubt. I would even suffer him to array as many young and pretty women
as he could entrap into the witness-box fronting the jury—although,
perhaps, I might object to their appearing in tears or in mourning, like
the Ionians and Greeks and Irish, lest, peradventure, the tables should
be turned, as where an Irish barrister, pleading the cause of a little
orphan, with the mother and all the rest of the family standing about
with handkerchiefs to their eyes, held up the boy in tears. The jury,
overcome with sympathy and compassion, were about rendering a verdict at
once, and were only delayed by a question from the opposite counsel—“My
little fellow,” said he, “what makes you cry?”—“_He pinched me!_” was
the answer, and a verdict was rendered accordingly—as the Irish only
are allowed to do it—by _acclamation_.

And I should not stop here. I would go further. For the purpose of
fixing forever and ever the responsibility of a decision upon each of
the twelve jurymen—I would have them polled, and questioned separately,
and man by man (if permitted by the law,) and not lump their verdict, as
they generally do, hit or miss: and I would call upon each to remember
that if he erred in pronouncing the judgment of death—of death here,
and it might be of death hereafter, he alone would be accountable—for
he, alone, might interpose if he would, and arrest that judgment of
death, and send the prisoner back to his family—a living man: and I
would so picture his own death-bed to every man of that jury, if I had
the power, that he should hear himself shrieking for mercy, and see and
feel and acknowledge by his looks, that if he betrayed the awful trust,
or trifled with it, by deference to others, he himself would be a
man-slayer, and utterly without excuse here and hereafter, in this world
or the next.

All this I would do, or try to do: for all this might be done by the
_honest_ lawyer without a violation of God’s law. But, as I have said
before, I would not have him “play falsely,” nor yet “foully win.” I
would not have him brow-beat nor entrap honest witnesses. I would not
have him guilty of misrepresenting the evidence nor the law “with
submission to the court.” I would not have the opposite counsel
insulted, nor the bench quarreled with—if it could be helped—

    “——For even in the tranquilest climes
    Light breezes _will_ ruffle the flowers sometimes.”

Nor everlasting speeches made, with continual asseverations and solemn
appeals to the by-standers and the public; as if the question of life
and death were a game of chess for the amusement not only of those who
are engaged in it, but for all who may happen to be near and looking on
at the time.

And I would have the dignity of the profession upheld by courtesy and
gravity and self-possession—by varied learning—by the utmost
forbearance—by very short speeches—by the greatest regard for truth,
and by unquestionable conscientiousness under all circumstances.

Were this done, the Bar would be sifted and purged and purified to some
purpose. Nineteen twentieths of the rabble rout who mistake themselves,
and are mistaken by others for lawyers, would vanish from the face of
the earth—and the profession would then be not only respectable, but
worth following; though, in my judgment, lawyers would still be the last
among us to be intrusted with a disproportionate share of Legislative or
Executive power; though, from the nature of things they would be likely
to monopolize the whole Judiciary power.

That our leading Advocates will not relish this doctrine, I know. In
theory, they may approve—but in practice, when they and their interest,
and their professional pride are once engaged, they will never yield.
Always taking it for granted that their client tells the truth—in
proportion to the fee; and always determined to prevail, if they can,
right or wrong, their reformation will depend, not upon themselves, but
upon others—upon the People at large; for whenever the People say that
a professional acquaintance with law shall be a disqualification for the
business of law-making, and no great recommendation for office, then
will the lawyers of our country begin to mind their own business, and
cease to be mere politicians, clamoring, open-mouthed, for office all
their lives long.

And here, lest I may forget them in the proper place, allow me to
illustrate the disposition of the People to see fair play, by two or
three—Joe Millers, which I never lose an opportunity of telling under
this head. They show that my brethren of the bar sometimes get their
“come ups” where they least expect it—and very much to the satisfaction
of the multitude.

It is told of Jere. Mason, and of some forty others at home and abroad,
that on being assigned for counsel to a sad wretch whose case he found
to be hopeless, he went to his cell, and after hearing his story, became
satisfied that the poor fellow would swing for it, if tried; and so,
seeing a sort of window open, high up and far above the prisoner’s reach
if unhelped, he suggested to him that there was a beautiful prospect to
be seen from that window—perhaps “the high-road to England,” which the
amiable Dr. Johnson said was the finest prospect a Scotchman ever
sees—and then, seeing the prisoner’s eyes begin to sparkle, he offered
himself as a sort of ladder or look out, and standing with his back to
the wall, and letting the man climb over him, he never looked up till it
was too late, and the man had disappeared—whereupon he returned to the
court-room, and on being questioned, acknowledged that he had given the
fellow the best advice he could—which advice must be a secret from
everybody, since it was the privilege, not of the counsel, but of the
client.

All this, you see, was according to law, if not in fact, at least in
principle. A Lawyer might do this—and escape scot-free, as if it were
only a good joke: while a brother of the prisoner, or a father, might
have been sent to the scaffold.

Another, for the truth of which I _believe_ I may vouch, because I had
it, I think, from the lawyer himself, may serve to show that such
faithfulness to clients may sometimes meet with an appropriate reward. A
member of the Down East bar was called upon to save a man charged with
passing a large amount of counterfeit money. After a long and severely
contested trial, our “learned, eloquent, and ingenious” brother got him
clear—chiefly by dint of protestation, coupled with a personal
knowledge of the jury. On being discharged, the accused tipped him a
wink in passing out, and our learned brother followed him to the lobby.
There they stopped—the liberated man overwhelmed with thankfulness, and
speechless with emotion; being a father, perhaps, with a large family,
or a man of hitherto irreproachable character, who never knew how much
he was to be pitied till he heard the speech of his lawyer. Unable to
speak—he seized his hand—slipped something into it—and turned away,
with a word or two, almost inaudible, about the inadequacy of the
acknowledgment, and disappeared forever. Whereupon, our eloquent, able,
and most ingenious friend, who was a little shy of opening the parcel in
the presence of a bystander, withdrew to another part of the house, and
ascertained—perfectly to his own satisfaction, he would have you
believe—that he had been paid in the same sort of money which he had
been laboring all day to show that the accused never had any thing to do
with. And now, on the whole—was not this a capital joke?—a just
retribution, and exceedingly well calculated to make a lawyer insist
upon being paid before-hand, whatever might be the “contingent fee”
afterward.

Once more—for I do not like being misrepresented in the newspapers upon
this particular point—being sensitive perhaps about Joe Miller; and,
for that reason, always acknowledging my indebtedness to him and to his
fellow-laborers, the newspaper people, who never tell a story without
spoiling it, or making it look strange: there is a story told in
England, upon which a play has been founded, to this effect. A lawyer
was called to see a man charged with sheep-stealing. After a brief
consultation, he saw clearly that, upon the evidence before him, there
was no possibility of escape. And then, too—probably—the wretch was
very poor, being only a sheep-stealer, and not a murderer, nor forger,
nor house-breaker, nor highwayman, and of course, would have to be
satisfied with poor counsel. Whereupon the learned gentleman thought
proper to ask him if he had ever been deranged.

“_Deranged?_”

“Flighty—you understand?”

“Oh—yes—to be sure: all my family on my father’s side have been very
_flighty_—very.”

“That’ll do, my friend; that’s enough. You are charged with stealing
sheep—you know.”

The fellow began to roll his eyes and look savage.

“When you are called upon to plead—you know what that is?”

“To be sure I do.”

“Well, then, just plead to the indictment by saying _baa-aa_!”

So said—so done. The prisoner was arraigned. The indictment was read
over to him very slowly as he sat with his head on one side, looking as
sheepish as possible. And when they had got through, and he was called
upon to say _guilty_ or _not guilty_, he answered, by saying _baa-aa_!

The court being rather astonished, interfered, and told him what he was
required to do; but still he answered nothing but _baa_! Read over the
indictment again, said the judge, and read it very slowly. The clerk
obeyed, and when he had got through, and was again required to say
_guilty_ or _not guilty_, he answered, as before, nothing but
_baa-aa-aa_!

A jury was then impanneled to see if he stood mute “by the visitation of
God.” After looking at his tongue—and his eyes—and feeling his pulse,
they returned a verdict in the affirmative. The man was forthwith
discharged; and the lawyer followed him out, and touching him on the
elbow, held out his hand—_baa-aa-aa!—baa-aa-aa!_ said the
sheep-stealer—and vanished.

But enough on this point. If I were to write a book, I should not be
able to do more than I have done already, so far as the legal and
professional doings of my beloved brethren are concerned.

It remains now, that I should say something very briefly, of the
disastrous consequences flowing from their political power.

In the first place, it lures all our young men—the silliest as well as
the cleverest—who desire to live without work, and to be provided for
at the public charge, to betake themselves to the law. It is not only
the high-road—but the only high-road to political power. No other
profession has a chance with that of the law; and everybody knows it and
feels it when broad awake and thinking, instead of dozing. Hence the
profession is over-crowded, over-burthened—overwhelmed—and literally
dwarfed into comparative nothingness, apart from political power; having
not a tittle of the social power it would be fairly entitled to if it
were not so adulterated and diluted.

In the second place, we have that national reproach—the instability of
our legislation—the perpetual change, that no sober-minded business-man
is ever able to foresee or provide against.

And this I aver to be the natural, the inevitable consequence of having
for our legislators, men who have a direct personal interest in
multiplying or changing our laws, and in making them unintelligible to
others.

Let us take one of our young attorneys, and follow him up, year by year,
and step by step, to the Halls of Congress, and see how he gets there,
and what he is bound to do—for he can do nothing else—after he gets
there.

In the first place, it should be borne in mind, that the lawyers we send
to our legislative bodies, are not often the able, nor even the ablest
of their class—I speak of them as lawyers only, and not as Orators, or
Statesmen, or Scholars. They cannot afford to serve the people for the
day wages that your stripling, or blockhead of an attorney, who lives
only from hand to mouth, would snap at. He who can have a hundred
dollars for a speech, will never make speeches at two or three dollars
a-day, in our State Legislatures, nor be satisfied with eight dollars
a-day in Congress.

And these youngsters of the bar, these third and fourth-rate lawyers,
who are held to be good enough for legislators, because they cannot
support themselves by their profession, how are they trained for that
business?

You first hear of them in bar-rooms and bowling-alleys; then at
ward-caucuses; and then at all sorts of gatherings where they may be
allowed to try themselves and their hearers; and then at conventions or
town-meetings: and then, after being defeated half a dozen times,
perhaps, till it is acknowledged that if they are not elected, they are
ruined forever, they get pushed, head-foremost, into the State
Legislature.

And once there, what shall they do?—how shall they manage to become
notorious—or distinguished? They must contrive to be talked about in
the newspapers; to be heartily abused by somebody, that they may
heartily be praised by somebody else belonging to another perish. Their
names at least will be mentioned, and grow more and more familiar every
day to the public ear, until they become a sort of household words; or
it may be a rallying cry, by the simple force of repetition, like
proverbs, or slang-phrases. “Why do you take every opportunity of
calling yourself an _honest_ man?” said a neighbor to another of
doubtful reputation. “Why, bless your simple heart,” was the reply,
“don’t you see that I am laying a foundation for what is called public
opinion; and that after a few years, when my character is fairly
established, the origin of the belief will be forgotten.” So with your
newspaper characters. Idols of the day—at the end of a few months, at
most, they are dust and ashes; and the people begin to wonder at
themselves that they should ever have been made such fools of.

But how shall they manage to be talked about in the newspapers, and most
gloriously abused? There is only one way. They must make speeches—if
they cannot make speeches, they may as well give up the ghost, and be
gathered to their fathers; for most assuredly, (whatever may be their
worth, or strength, or talents, in every other way,) if they cannot make
speeches, not a man of them will ever be remembered—long enough to be
forgotten. And they must make long speeches—the longer the better; and
frequent speeches—the more frequent the better; and be their own
correspondents and report themselves for the newspapers, with tart
replies and eloquent outbreaks, and happy illustrations, never uttered,
nor dreamt of till the unpremeditated battle was over, like some that
were made by Demosthenes himself, years after the occasion had passed
by, and there was nobody alive to contradict him; or like the celebrated
oration of Cicero against Cataline.

But they cannot make speeches about nothing at all—at least such is my
present opinion—it may be qualified hereafter, and I am well aware that
common experience would appear to be against me, and that much may be
said upon both sides, as well as upon neither side, in such a question.
They must have something to work with—and to talk about: something,
too, which is likely to make a noise out of doors; to set people
together by the ears; to astonish them, and to give them a good excuse
for fretting, and scolding, and worrying. In other words, they must
introduce a new law—the more absurd the better—or attack an old law,
the older the better; and seek to modify it, or to change or repeal it.

And what is the result? Just this; that every Legislative Hall in the
land, from the least to the greatest, from the lowest to the highest,
becomes a debating-school; and the business of the whole Country is
postponed, month after month, and year after year, to the very last days
of the session, and then hurried through—just a little too late,
wherever the national honor is deeply concerned, as in the case of
French spoliations, and other honest debts owed by the Government to the
People—with a precipitation so hazardous and shameful, that much of the
little time left in future sessions must be employed in correcting the
blunders of the past: and all for what?—merely that the Lawyers may be
heard month after month, and have long speeches that were never
delivered, or when delivered, not heard, reported piecemeal, and
paragraph by paragraph, in perhaps two or three thousand
newspapers—that are forgotten before the next sun goes down, and
literally “perish in the using.”

Nor does the mischief stop here. The whole business of the country is
hung up—and sessions protracted for months—and millions upon millions
wasted year after year, of the people’s money, upon what, after all, are
nothing more—and there could not well be any thing less—than
electioneering speeches.

And then just look at the character of our legislation. Was there ever
any thing to be compared with it, for instability, for uncertainty, for
inadequacy, for superabundance, and for what my Lord Coke would call a
“tending to infiniteness!” I acknowledge, with pride, that our Revised
Statutes, all circumstances taken into consideration, are often quite
remarkable for the common sense of their language, and for
clearness—wherever common sense and clearness were possible under the
established rules of interpretation. But generally speaking, what is it?
“Unstable as water—thou shall not excel!” is written upon the great
body of our statute law, year after year, and generation after
generation.

And what are the consequences? Nations are “perplexed by fear of
change.” Better stick to a bad law, than keep changing a good. The clock
that stands still (to borrow a happy illustration) is sure to be right
twice every twenty-four hours; while that which is always going, may
always be wrong.

Let us apply this. We are now waiting and hoping for a change of the
tariff: and the more general and confident the expectation of a change
among business-men, whatever that change may be—up or down—higher or
lower—the more certainly will it put a stop, or greatly embarrass for a
time, the whole business of the country. And why? If it be generally
believed that the tariff is to be lowered, the dealers everywhere begin
to run off their stocks, to offer longer credits and better terms; and
however unwilling, shrewd cautious men may be about over-purchasing with
such a prospect before them, there will be found others, commercial
gamblers, or trading adventurers, who always profit by such occasions to
go ahead of their fellows; for what they gain is their own, and what
they lose, is their creditors’. And universal overtrading is the
consequence here—and stoppages there—till the mischief corrects itself
or dies out. Business no longer flows in its accustomed channels. It has
fallen into the hands of comparative stock-jobbers and lottery-dealers:
and a general bankruptcy often follows.

But suppose the tariff about to be raised—and the belief to be
universal. The ultimate consequences are the same, so far as the regular
business of the country is concerned. Manufacturers and jobbers hold
back; they refuse to sell on six months—they shorten the period of
credit—and require acceptances in town—as being, on the whole, better
than to demand higher rates in advance of old customers. Purchasers may
be eager—but what can they do. They are obliged to wait—and live on
from hand to mouth—till the question has been settled. And so with
every other great leading law, affecting any great commercial, farming,
or manufacturing interest of the country. The legislation of a land is a
type of itself. How can our other great institutions be safe and lasting
if our legislation be unstable?

That our legislation is unstable and changing and fluctuating, who will
deny? What great system of national policy have we ever pursued steadily
beyond the terms of two or three of our political chief-magistrates—a
paragraph at most, in the long History of the World?

And how should it be otherwise? Lawyers with us are Conveyancers and
Notaries and Special-Pleaders: and Conveyancers and Notaries and
Special-Pleaders over sea are always, and in our country, almost always
paid by the page; and a certain number of words, you know, constitute a
page at law. Again—so sure is it that a lawyer shall not only be heard,
but paid for his “much speaking,” that I do believe people are often
better satisfied to lose a case with a long speech, than to gain it by a
short one. This may appear somewhat startling; but let us see if, on the
whole, it be not substantially true and no paradox.

A man goes to consult a lawyer—you see how careful I am to distinguish
between the two—and states his case. The lawyer hears him patiently
through—having already touched the fee—and tells him, without opening
a book, or lifting his spectacles, or moving from his chair, that the
question lies in a nut-shell; and that if his view of the law should be
sustained by the court, of which he cannot be sure, it may be settled
easily and at once. Well—the case in due time goes up. The jury are
empanneled; a great speech is brewing on the opposite side; you can hear
the whiz of preparation in the very breathing of the Adversary; but up
rises our friend—by the supposition a very clear-headed, able and
honest lawyer—and so states the principle of law upon which he depends,
that the court rules in his favor, no speeches are made, and the jury
are discharged. And now comes the tug of war. The client begs a moment
of the lawyer’s time, and asks what’s to pay: “Fifty dollars.” “_Fifty
dollars!_—why, sir—pulling out his watch—you were not more than—”
The lawyer bows, and on turning away with a stately air, as of one who
truly respects himself, and will not suffer the dignity of the
profession to be trifled with nor tarnished, is stopped by—“I beg your
pardon, squire—there’s the money. Good morning.” And off goes the
client, who has gained the cause, to complain of the lawyer for
extravagance or extortion; saying that “the case was plain as a
pike-staff—any body might have managed it—could have done it himself
and without help—nothing but a word or two for the court—never opened
his mouth to the jury—and then, whew! what do you think he had the
conscience to charge? why, _fifty dollars!_—would you believe it! Very
well—much good may the fifty dollars do him; it is the last he’ll ever
see of my money, I promise you.”

And now let me suppose that, instead of going to the last mentioned,
_honest_ lawyer, he had gone to some other. He is heard, to be sure, but
with visible impatience: he is continually interrupted and questioned
and cross-questioned, by the half hour. The learned gentleman has a very
large snuff-box on the table before him—two or three very large
portfolios, and at least a wheelbarrow load of papers tied with red
tape. He takes off his spectacles and snuffs, and wipes them with his
glove and snuffs, and replaces them and snuffs; now he lifts them and
looks under them, and now he lowers them and looks over them steadfast
and solemn, though troubled and perplexed, with his mouth screwed up,
and making faces at his client all the time: he shakes his head and
jumps up, and takes a pinch, and then shakes his head and sits down, and
takes another pinch: with a huge pile of authorities before him, and
ever so many lying open, and having secured a retainer, at last he tells
his client to call on the morrow at 11¼ o’clock _precisely_. The client,
awe-struck at the vastness of that legal erudition he has been favored
with a few glimpses of, steals away on tip-toe, rubbing his hands with
delight and astonishment, and talking to himself perhaps all the way
down stairs and into the street. After three or four consultations the
case comes on for trial. The Adversary goes at the jury head-first, with
a speech varying from two hours to two days. Of course, it will require
from two hours to two days to answer it—and every thing must be
answered, you know, whether it has to do with the question or not—as in
the passage between Tristram Bulges and John Randolph, about the
buzzard, or bald-eagle, I forget which; for after all, there is no great
difference between them, as I have heretofore found to my cost; or as in
that between Webster and Hayne about poor Banquo’s ghost, in the Senate
chamber. And now, having insulted the witnesses, and the court, and the
opposite counsel, and tired the jury by an everlasting speech, when they
were already more than half asleep; or by arguing questions of law and
fact wholly supposititious, for the benefit of his younger brethren and
the by-standers—the case goes to the jury, under the charge of the
court perhaps, and is lost. But who cares?—not the client; for when
told that he has a hundred dollars to pay, instead of fifty as before,
he calls it dog-cheap, and insists upon paying more, and why? Because
_that_ lawyer had made the case his own—and he goes about saying,
“Didn’t he give it to ’em!—bench, bar and jury!—didn’t he acknowledge
they were all a set of nincompoops!—and didn’t he lather my adversary
and my adversary’s counsel, and all his witnesses, little and big, and
especially the women and children, beautifully!—handsomely!—and isn’t
he the man, therefore, not only for my money, but for the money of all
my acquaintances who may ever want a zealous and _faithful_ lawyer to
manage their business for them!”

This, though sufficiently absurd, I acknowledge, is nevertheless true:
and happens continually at the bar. I do not say that in terms a client
would prefer a long speech to a verdict; I only say that such is the
fact, although he may not always know it himself, in many a troublesome
case. And so with litigants generally; having once entered the “sacred
precincts” of a law-temple, and breathed the fiery atmosphere, and had
their names called over in a crowded court-room, and thereby having
become famous in their own little neighborhoods, and in the judgment of
their friends and witnesses, people of large experience and authority,
how are they ever afterward to forego the pleasure? If they win the
first throw, of course they can afford to throw again: if they lose,
they must throw again, the blockheads! to get back what they have lost,
when, like other gamblers, they promise to stop.

Can it be wondered after all this, that words are multiplied in our
laws, from sheer habit, as well as from a sort of professional pride,
until a mere English reader, however familiar with the spoken language
and with the best writers of the language, both at home and abroad, such
as Bacon and Bolingbroke and Hooker and Swift, or Edwards, or Channing,
or the writers of the Federalist, or Franklin, and half a hundred more I
might mention, would be unable to make head or tail of one paragraph in
three; and few men of business would be willing to hazard any
considerable investment upon his own understanding or interpretation of
any passage in any new law.

Talk of the dead languages! The deadest of all the languages I know, or
ever heard of, is the language of the law! Ask our friend, the learned
blacksmith, and I will abide by the answer. Nobody, not trained to the
business of interpretation—as a dragoman—or lawyer, would ever think
of trying to understand a new law without help. And even with help—it
is a plague and a mystery till the true meaning has been
settled—_settled!_—by adjudication: that is, by others in authority,
the priesthood and the patriarchs, who, under the name of judges, are
paid for all the thinking, as lawyers are paid for all the talking to no
purpose, permitted at law: for, be it known to all whom it may concern,
that is, to all the non-lawyers of our land, that no private
interpretation _of law_ is of any authority _at law_: nor is the right
of private judgment recognized or allowed or tolerated or endured in
courts of justice! You must believe at your peril. You must teach as you
are taught; and grow to the opinions or moulds about you as a cucumber
grows to a bottle; for such is the law, and with most of the profession,
all the law, to say nothing of the Gospel; for that, perhaps, would be
out of place here.

And now, inasmuch as almost every word of importance in our language has
more than one meaning, it follows, that in proportion as you multiply
words in a law, or in a legal instrument, you multiply the meanings, and
the chances of mistake, and of course, I may as well say it, of
litigation: and the mere habit of multiplying words as conveyancers and
special-pleaders and speech-makers, being not only a professional habit,
as every body knows, but characteristic of the profession, it may be,
and often is, continued from habit, long and long after it may cease to
appear advantageous or profitable; as in the business of legislation, or
in dealing with a jury, where the lawyer is not paid by the page, but by
the day or the trick. And why? Perhaps my friend Joe may be permitted to
answer. A tailor, while cutting a coat for himself, was seen to slip a
fragment of the cloth into his cabbage-drawer. Amazed at such a
procedure, a new apprentice took the liberty of asking why he did it.
“_To keep my hand in_,” was the answer.

Just so is it with the lawyer. He would use more words than are either
necessary or safe, merely to keep his hand in, if for no other reason.
Just compare a contract entered into between shipping-merchants for the
sale of a cargo, or between other men of business, railroad contractors,
or stock-dealers, involving the outlay of millions, perhaps, with a deed
of trust drawn by a thoroughbred conveyancer, or with articles of
co-partnership by any thing alive in the shape of an attorney-at-law, if
you wish to see the difference between the language of lawyers, and men
of business and common sense.

By this, I would not be understood to say that some lawyers are never
needed for putting the language and meaning of parties into shape; nor
that “I. O. U.” would be a model for a charter-party, or a church
settlement; for I acknowledge that the chief business of the world
cannot be carried on _safely_ without lawyers. I only say, that we have
too many of them; and that they are encouraged to intermeddle more than
is good for themselves, or us, with every sort of business and branch of
the _Lex mercatoria_, and the _Lex non scripta_.

Another reason why the people are not allowed to have the laws of their
own Country in their own language, but in that of the learned few—like
the Bible for the Roman Catholics—notwithstanding the ridiculous parade
of publishing all the laws in thousands of our newspapers in a year—a
better hoax, and a better joke by far than the celebrated bequest of a
guinea, toward paying off the national debt of our mother country—that
mother of Nations, so cleverly represented by Victoria, just now—is,
that we may _not_ be able to judge for ourselves; and that no _law_
shall be of any private interpretation; for if it did, the people would
soon be independent of most lawyers; and then, what would become of the
superannuated, and the helpless, the fledglings, and the understrappers?
They would have to rely for support in their old age upon the
interpretation of themselves, and of their own cramped penmanship,
instead of the legislative enactments.

But, say certain of my brethren, the law, after all, is a great science,
and the profession worthy of profound respect. It is over-crowded to be
sure; and some, it must be acknowledged, do not succeed at the bar, and
after trying it for a while are obliged to leave it, or starve.
Granted—but what does that prove? Can those who do not succeed be
greater blockheads, or greater knaves than many others that do? And may
it not be just possible, if they, who do not succeed in the profession
are otherwise distinguished, that they had too much self-respect, or
conscientiousness, or what may be called _honesty_? Thus much by way of
a protestanda—or the “exclusion of a conclusion,” according to my Lord
Coke.

And now, with all seriousness, what more shall be said? I have shown:
1.—That my brethren of the bar enjoy a very dangerous and altogether
very disproportionate power as the law-makers, the law interpreters, and
the law enforcers. 2.—That however honest they may be _by nature_; and
however honest in all the other relations of life; and that they are so,
I acknowledge with pleasure; yet, as Lawyers, they have a code of morals
peculiar to themselves, making it their duty to league with knaves, and
cheats, and murderers, and house-breakers, and to furnish them with aid
and comfort, _for pay_; in other words, for _a share in their profits_,
and this _duty_ is of such a nature as to lead them continually astray,
to blind their reasoning powers, to darken their consciences, until they
are incapable of distinguishing between truth and falsehood, or right
and wrong in the defense of their clients; and that under pretense of
being _faithful_ to them, they become after a while too unfaithful to
everybody else, even to themselves, and to their Maker; and that
_therefore_ they are not trustworthy as legislators. 3.—That in
consequence of their position as the holders of political power, too
large a portion of our young men—our intellectual strength and hope, is
diverted into that particular profession, to the injury of every other,
and especially to the business, and laboring, or productive professions.
4.—That another evil is our superabundant legislation—the instability
of that legislation—the prodigious cost of so many debating societies
maintained at the public charge, under pretence of law-making all over
the land; whereby the public business of the whole country is delayed,
month after month, and year after year; and sometimes never done—or if
done at all, is done at last in such a hurry, and after such a slovenly
fashion, that when the law-makers are called together again, a large
portion of the little time they are enabled to set apart from
electioneering, is spent in patching up and explaining the laws of a
previous session; here, by taking a piece off the bottom and sewing it
on the top, as the Irishman lengthens his blanket; and there, by taking
out a piece of the same, to patch a hole with: and that _therefore_,
notwithstanding a multitude of glorious exceptions to be found, year
after year, in the senate chambers and representative chambers of our
country, Lawyers are never to _be trusted in the making of laws_; and
that, if it were not for the simple fact that, as judges, they are the
only authorized expounders of the law, they ought not to be trusted even
with the wording of a statute.

And now, what more? We are all ambitious—lawyers above all the rest of
the world in this country. Not one but labors—if we may believe his
mother and sister, or his betrothed—not one “but labors with the
nightmare meanings of Ambition’s breast”—not one who does not feel—

                        “How hard it is to climb
    The steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar!”

and therefore it is, that the whole country is groaning under their
oppression—over-burthened with law—and taxed, and trapped, and
crushed, and trampled on by lawyers.

But, if instead of this unhealthy ambition—this boyish uneasiness and
appetite for notoriety, which three times out of four will be satisfied
with the title of esquire, there should arise the unconquerable spirit
of one created for dominion, with the holy instincts of a reformer, and
anxious from the first hour of his revealed strength, to be the friend
of the Fatherless and the Widow, of the Wronged and the Suffering—the
champion of the poor and the helpless—the refuge of the hunted and
betrayed upon earth—let him devote himself to the study and practice of
the law, and of nothing but the law, in its vast and magnificent
comprehensiveness; let him consecrate himself with prayer, and praise,
and thanksgiving and sacrifice—let him go up to the temple with
humility and reverence, and godly fear; and let him take possession “of
the purple robe and diadem of gold,” as of right, and though his life
may be a continual warfare, and he may die in the harness at last, and
upon the battle-field, as Pinkney and Emmett, and others have died
before him—for

    “He, who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
    The loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow,
    Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
    Contending tempests on his naked head.”

Yet will he die the death of the righteous, and never be forgotten: and
whole communities will pass by his grave, generation after generation,
saying to one another as if speaking of a personal friend, “that
although he was a great man, and a great lawyer, and perhaps a
statesman, he was a good neighbor, and a good citizen, a good husband
and a good father; and _therefore_ a good Christian, doing justly,
walking humbly, and loving mercy to the last.”

And would not such a death, my dear G——, be worth living for? And such
a reputation worth dying for?

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         ELPHOLEN. A FRAGMENT.


                         BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.


    Where many cedars shade Igondo’s shelf,
      Like towering Dukes of Edom crowned with plumes;
    Where seven rivers to an awful gulf
      Fall, with much foam, from Himalaya’s flooms;
      And where, from Baal-Phaxi’s caverned rooms,
    Through ice-arched galleries pours tumultuous Ulf,
    Are built across a swarthy savage glen,
    The gates which bar the land of Elpholen.

    Above all mountains, clouds, and smoking isles,
      From one huge base three stately hills arise;
    A wall extends from them a thousand miles,
      Steep and unbroken, builded to the skies,
      _Higher than even the gray-winged condor flies_;
    And compasseth, with rocks and snowy piles
    A table land, both wide and wonderful,
    And only by that gated pass accessible—

    Crossing a frightful plain which the sun scorches,
      Which plain is full of chasms and trap-dykes,
    Scoriæ, cinders, and dry river gorges,
      With timber petrified, basaltic spikes,
    And lava-ponds, with hard, black, stony surges
    We reached the shaded pass below the peaks,
    And paused to hear the roar of plunging Ulf,
    And the seven rivers, far within the gulf.

    Up that defile, with fear and silent wonder,
      We rode; _our horses seemed but two small mice_.
    The rivers in the gulf gave forth _large_ thunder,
      And rocks, above the clouds, fell, bounding thrice,
    With uproar, from the grim cliffs, cracked asunder.
    Aloft, like Anakim, with helms of ice
    The mountains raised their huge Plutonic shoulders,
    Clothed in Titanic mail of ore and boulders.

    Three Prophets of grand stature and bald brows
      Sat by the gates. _They were much older than_
    _The river Nile._ One of deep eyes arose
      And said: “Speak unto us what manner of man
    Thou art, O, hero; if of some fierce clan
    Hyperborean, or of pagan Huns?”
    He of the icebergs spoke with rhetoric fit
    In words and figures following, to wit;
           .     .     .     .     .     .
    The Prophet said, “Here shalt thou rest this night
      While the sun sleeps in hollow Erebus;
    And as the hours pass on in silent flight
      All known philosophy will we discuss.
    But thou, O wizard Etheuòlymus,
    To Himmalaya’s broken pinnacle
    Fly with this young esquire, that he may see
    All kingdoms on the continent that be.”

    Then, with the wizard in a flying mist,
      I rose along the sides of that steep cone:
    ’Twas like an iron trunk of girdle vast;
      The moon’s full globe upon all cities shone;
    _Tyre_, by the waters; glimmering Ascalon;
    The City of the Magians, girt with fire;
    And in the East we saw those mountain ranges
    Which separate the Nile from sacred Ganges.

    Alas! all earthly things have been revised
      Even Learning’s careful patron and Protector,
    The Inquisition, is disorganized.
      The world is round, and has a Radius Vector;
    There’s not a ghost on duty, nor a spectre;
    Sinbad is dead, and almost any loafer
    Can go, in steamers, round Cape Horn to Ophir.

    Then, on the blackness of the Night’s deep chasm,
      The anchored earth lay, floating, like a floor:—
    Beneath, the shadow and the veiled phantasm
      Their local habitation had of yore;
    But each veiled shadow, and each dreadful phasm
      Rose with the night, above the western shore—
    When, through the void, all flame and ruddy gold
    The Day-god’s cavalcade, descending, rolled.

    Without the continent, old Ocean’s torrent
      Extended to the earth’s remotest verge:
    Both jovial Tritons, and the Powers abhorrent,
      Were seized of provinces upon the surge;
    And from Arcturus to the Southern gorge
    Black tempests bearing old Eolus’ warrant
    Patrolled the seas in search of ships or steamers
    Breaking the closes of the ocean emirs.

    Through the dense night, archangels of strong wing,
      From heaven roving, saw the earth’s vast plane—
    The kingdoms of the Pole, all glimmering—
      The twisted rivers, and the enfolding main—
      The shining gulfs which dent the Indian chain,
    And smiled to see the hollow planets swing
    Above that dim abyss within whose core
    Were hooked the world’s deep sunken anchors four.

    Large breakers tumbling on the Arabian shoals,
      With wooded regions by the Caucasian gaps—
    The town of Ebony, the land of Gholes,
      (Which are omitted in the modern maps)—
      All these I saw; and hills with misty caps,
    Where dwell the Glactophagi—blameless souls:
    The wizard spoke—I was with awe oppressed:
    _The words like ghosts rose from his sounding chest_—

    “These mountains I have watched a thousand years;
      And I _have writ one thousand solemn books:_
    _Who reads them shall be wise!_ Hell’s fiercest Peers
      Have oft essayed to burst these bolted rocks;
      And, under Baal-Phaxi’s deepest blocks,
    Mines they have digged, and loaded, and exploded.
    Yea, Mogophur, the Lord of Babylon,
    Came with his captains and a countless rabble on—

    “Of spearmen, chariots, and Tartarian riders,
      _Whose faces were the likeness of a flame_,
    And elephants crept through the pass like spiders,
      And the whole College of Magicians came,
      Who caused sharp earthquakes and much whizzing flame
    By means of diagrams, and long dividers,
    And thus exclaimed each iron-harnessed savage,
    ‘The unseen land of Elpholen we’ll ravage.’

    “I did but ope one solemn book, and say:
      ‘O, ye Hydraulic Goblins of the mountains,
    At once your tunnels, pumps, and flooms let play;
      And loose old Himmalah’s rock-bound fountains.’
    Then rivers of cold foam and spouting spray,
    And cataracts which broke the cliffs away,
      Burst from the mountains’ inner reservoirs.
    ’Twas very good to see those watery Druids
    Destroy that haughty host, with roaring fluids!”
           .     .     .     .     .     .
    _But now, those noisy trumpeters, the Hours,_
      _Blew the reveillé through the camps of morn:_
      _Now storm-girt Taurus raised his icy horn,_
    _Like blazing silver_, o’er the mists and showers;
    And sunlight struck the unclouded mountain towers,
      Which ranged the circuit of that snowy wall:
    We then rode down a chasm from the gates,
    And entered Elpholen’s enchanted states.

    To a wild amphitheatre we rode,
      Begirt with precipices. From an astounding
    Cavern in the mountain-side, there flowed
      A river deep and broad; but the surrounding
      Dark hollows echoed not a single sounding;
    For silently it moved—_we only heard_
    _At times the plunging of some dull cascade_
    _Far up the tunnel, like a cannonade._

    Full many other rivers cross those lands,
      Some, from the eternal snows come pouring;
    Some, roll around the chasms, in foaming bends;
      Some, through the hills, a ragged highway boring,
      Rush to the valleys, with an angry roaring,
    And hurry onward to the ocean sands;
    But many a cataract and runlet trickles
    Down from the glaciers, making huge icicles.

    _We moved along by wooded peaks and crags,_
      _Carvéd with images and hieroglyphs,_
    _Ruffling their scales and quills like golden flags,_
      _And, pawing their odd cubs, the hippogriffs_
      _Rolled in their nests, upon the shady cliffs;_
    _And in the glens, both bears and royal stags,_
    _With lazy lions, goats, and yawning leopards_
    _Like cattle lay, and children were their shepherds._

    Along through ancient forests, vast, and slumbrous,
      Roes, of the mountain, grazed beside the springs,
    And often rose some bird of plumage cumbrous
      Unto the branches, folding his wide wings.
      There, too, were tombs of certain wizard-kings—
    Antediluvians of visage sombrous—
    _And holy men, before their moss-grown crypts,_
    _Studied in awful Syriac manuscripts._

    Beyond, there dwelleth an immortal folk,
      About a stream, which to a lake enlarges:
    Pine hills curve greenly round, and groves of oak,
      Sometimes they rested on the river marges,
      Sometimes they plowed the lake in hollow barges,
    And sometimes, on the altars made _sweet_ smoke,
    Some painted pictures in their pleasant tents,
    And many played on all stringed instruments.

    But some rode up unto the gorgeous clouds
      _Around the necks of monstrous eagles clinging._
    The people which do there have their abodes
      Welcoméd them with flags, and wild bell-ringing;
      With musical cannon from th’ embrasures flinging
    Puffs of white vapor, bombs, and rattling grape:—
    The Goblin-populace of Cloud-land we
    Could well behold:—Ah, they a brisk folk be!

    And caravans continually crossed the plains.
      Camels and elephants innumerable—
    With carriages, and pigmy oxen trains,
      And scampering knights, in armor of black shell,
      Lords, bearded patriarchs, and gay rabble,
    And baggage-wagons full of chattering dames,
    And mounted archers, shooting slender arrows,
    Wound slowly round the curving river narrows.

    But some came down the rivers on broad rafts;
      _With shells, and bells, and crooked bugles, waking_
    _Numberless echoes on the rocks_. The shafts
      Of the forests stood, like champions unquaking,
      Though many clamors, the old silence breaking,
    Startled the musing Hermits. Now arose
    The stars, and moon, and all the hosts of night:
    We stood above a plain upon a height.

    Three noble rivers, in the moonlight shining,
      Sparkled from three defiles in East, and West,
    And North—in silence to a blue gulf winding,
      Which, by the distant mountains, lay at rest;
      And there a city with a massive crest
    Of turrets, overlooked that rock-bound sheet.
      The rivers round it, in broad girdles pressed;
    Bridges there were, and groves, and gardens meet;
    And in the bay lay moored an idle fleet.

    Unto that city did all people flow:
      In the deep plain we saw their circular camps,
    Like islands of an archipelago;
      And as we looked, _a belt of fiery lamps_
    _Was wound around the crowning citadel;_
    Whereat each watching pilgrim said: “Full well
    I know, that now within yon distant dell
    The Lord of blessed Elpholen doth dwell.

    “To him we will present our offering
      Of fruits, and herds, and many precious ores,
    Which rivers from the mountain-summits bring:—
      Upon the gulf’s cool strand, and shady shores
      Our ancient games we will perform long hours:
    Then we will go again to our dear tribes,
    And to our cattle in the pleasant meadows,
    And dappled deer browsing in mountain shadows.”

    That night we camped upon the sandy margent
      Of an unknown sea; and when, behind sharp peaks,
    The moon retired in her skiff of argent,
      Then certain meteors filled the sky with streaks,
    And diving, from the zenith-ridge divergent,
      Through the purple heavens fell in flakes,
    Which, as they struck the water, lost their light,
    And grew a portion of its night.

    Meanwhile we saw a corps of sentry ghosts,
      Standing erect the farthest Eastern shore on,
    And many thousand stars, above those coasts,
      _Flashed like the Arabic of a fiery Koran;_
    Then those great captains of the heavenly hosts,
      Orion, Sirius, and Aldebóran,
    On the dark field of Heaven took their stations;
    And calmly wheeled the close-ranked constellations.

    No outposts of the Morn marked the approach
      Of the Hœlios’ chariot; no gleams, or tinges
    Upon the tent of Darkness dared encroach;
      But sudden brilliance pierced its dusky fringes;
      Wide swung the Morning’s gates upon their hinges;
    Those burning horses, and that flaming coach
      Sprang out upon the ocean, through the gateway:
    Night struck her tattered tent, and vanished straightway.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.


                        BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.


    [Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
    George Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the
    District Court of the United States for the District of
    Massachusetts.]

                      (_Continued from page 147._)


                             A YOUNG DREAM.

Memory is certainly a very strange gift, or quality of the mind—or
whatever else it may be rightly termed; for I am no philosopher, and but
little acquainted with the technology of metaphysics. It seems often a
capricious faculty, selecting its own objects, and amusing itself with
them to the rejection of others. But I am not quite sure that this
imputation upon memory is justified. I must admit that with myself, as I
suppose is the case with others, when I try to recall the past, the lady
often proves restive with me, and without any apparent cause, recalls
all the particulars of certain scenes, and omits other passages of life
close by them. Nor is this to be attributed always to the particular
interest of the scenes she recalls; for some of them are quite
unimportant, light, and even ludicrous, while things affecting one’s
whole destiny, if not utterly forgotten, are brought back but
indistinctly. I suspect, however, that the fact is, memory is like a
sentinel who will not let any one enter the treasury she guards without
the countersign, even though it be the master of the treasure himself.

The objects and events that we remember best are, in fact, those for
which we have learned the countersign by heart, and the moment that any
accidental circumstance furnishes us with the pass-word, apparently
forgotten, the door is thrown open, and we behold them again, somewhat
dusty perhaps, but plain and distinct. Acts never die. They at least are
immortal; and I do not think they ever die to memory either. They sleep
within, and it only requires to have the key to waken them. The time
will come when all shall be awakened: when every door of the heart shall
be thrown open, and when the spirits of man’s deeds and thoughts will
stand revealed to his own eyes at least—perhaps to be his bright
companions in everlasting joy—perhaps his tormentors in the hell which
he has dug for himself.

Often, often, as I look back in life, I see a cloud hanging over a
particular spot in the prospect, which for days, sometimes for years,
will hide all beyond. Then suddenly the lightest trifle—a casual
word—a peculiar odor—the carol of a bird—the notes of some old
melody, will, as with a charm, dispel that cloud—sometimes dissolving
it in rain-drops—sometimes absorbing it in sunshine—and all that it
concealed will burst upon the sight in horror or in loveliness. Even
while I have been writing these few pages many things have thus been
brought back to remembrance by the connection of one event with another,
which seemed to have altogether passed away from memory when first I sat
down to write. Now what is the next thing I remember; for the rest of
our journey, after we left Juliers, has passed away from me?

I find myself on looking back, in a small, neat house, with a garden,
and a little fountain in the garden, upon a sandy soil, and with a
forest of long needle-leaved fir-trees stretching out to the westward.
To the east there is a city of no very great extent, but still a
capital, with a range of high hills running in a wavy line behind, and
here and there an old ruined castle upon the lower points.

Before the city lies a wide plain, rich and smiling, full of corn-fields
and vineyards, with here and there a curious-looking spire or a couple
of dome-topped towers marking the place of a village or small town, and
beyond the plain, glistening in a long, long wavy line of silver, glides
a broad river—the mighty Rhine.

Oh! what sweet sunny lapses come cheering and softening the rapid course
of life’s troubled stream. There are several of those green spots of
memory, as the poet calls it—these oases in the midst of the desert,
even within my own remembrance. But on few, if any of them can my heart
rest with as much pleasure as on the months we passed in that little
cottage. There were no events—there was no excitement—for me and
Mariette, at least. I remember wandering with her about that sunny
garden, playing with her in the cool, airy pleasure-house which stood in
one corner, helping her to gather flowers to deck her mother’s table,
wandering with her through the forest beneath the green shade, with the
dry, brown filaments of the fir crackling under our young feet. Here and
there we would come to a place where oaks and beeches mingled with the
pine and a thick growth of underwood narrowed our path; but as
compensation, we were there sure to find a rich treasure of
wild-flowers, more beautiful in our eyes than all the garden bestowed.
Very often, too, in the clear May evenings we would sit under the little
shabby porch of the house—Mariette upon my knee, with her arms clasped
round my neck—and as the sky grew gray, and the stars began to peer and
glimmer up above, would listen to the notes of the nightingale as he
prolonged his song after all the forest choir had fallen into silence;
and when some of those peculiar notes were coming which we love the best
to hear, and Mariette knew that the delicious cadence was nigh at hand,
she would raise her beautiful liquid eyes to my face, and whisper “hark”
and gaze at me still as if to share my enjoyment, and to make me share
hers.

Oh! how that child twined herself round my boy’s heart. Dear, dear, dear
Mariette. In all that I have seen in life, and strange and varied has
that life been, I have never seen any thing that I loved as much as you.
The first freshness of my thoughts—the first—the tenderest—the purest
of my affections, were all yours!

But I took other tasks in hand. Good Father Bonneville resumed his
lessons to me; but they were not very burdensome, and I began to teach
Mariette. How this came about I must explain. Madame de Salins, who had
borne up so well in times of danger and active exertion, became languid,
inactive, sorrowful in the time of repose. She was evidently exceedingly
anxious about something—often in tears—and often returned from the
neighboring city where she went almost every day to seek for letters,
with a look of gloom and disappointment. She began to teach Mariette
something herself, however; for from various circumstances the dear
child’s instruction had been neglected. It was always a task to her,
however, and her mind seemed wandering away to other things, till at
length good Father Bonneville suggested that I would teach Mariette, and
Mariette was delighted, and I rejoiced; and Madame de Salins, too, was
very well satisfied at heart, I believe. Every thing was speedily
arranged, but Mariette and I set to work formally and in good order. The
books, and the slate, and the pen and ink were produced at a fixed hour,
and if it were fine weather, we sat in the little shabby porch—if it
were raining, in the little room that looked upon it. Dear, stupid
little thing! What a world of trouble she gave me. She did not half know
her letters when I began to teach her, and was continually mistaking the
P’s and B’s, and Q’s and D’s. R and S, too, were sad stumbling-blocks,
and the putting letters together into syllables, together with pricking
the page with a pin occupied a long time. Then she was so volatile too.
When I was pouring forth my young philosophy upon her, and laboring hard
to teach her the sounds produced by different combinations of letters,
she would start up and dart out into the garden in chase of a butterfly,
or tempted by a flower. Then, when she came back and was scolded, how
she would coax and wheedle her soft young tutor, and kiss his cheek and
pat his hair, and one way or another contrive to get the words “good
Mariette” written at the end of every lesson to show her mother. I have
got the book still, all full of pin holes, and strange figures scribbled
on it with a pen; but not one lesson in it has not “good Mariette”
written at the end, though Heaven knows she was often naughty enough to
merit another comment. But I was a true lover even then, and perhaps
loved the dear child’s faults.

Moreover, at the end of that book of little reading lessons there is a
page which I have kissed a thousand times since. It represents—and not
very badly—Mariette as she appeared then with a little spaniel dog
looking up in her face. Oh! how well I recollect when it was drawn. I
could always handle my pencil well, though I don’t know when I learnt to
draw; but as we were coming near the end of the book, I promised
Mariette if she would be a very good girl indeed, and get through the
remaining lessons in a week, that I would draw her picture at the end
with an imaginary dog which she was always to have at some indefinite
period in the future; for she was exceedingly fond of dogs, and I
believe the highest ambition of her heart at that moment was to have a
spaniel of her own. Before Saturday night fell, the lessons were all
done, and I was immediately reminded of my promise. We sat in the porch,
with the western sky just growing purple, and I made her get up and
stand at a little distance, and sketched her lightly with a pen and ink,
and then at her feet, I drew from memory the best dog I could
manufacture, with its ears falling back, and its face turned up toward
her. How delighted she was when she saw it, and how she clapped her
little hands! It was all charming, but the spaniel above all, and I
doubt not she was convinced that she should soon have a dog exactly like
that. She ran with it, first to Father Bonneville, who was in the next
room, and then to her mother, who was very sad that evening; but she
kissed her child, and looked at the drawing, and dropped some tears upon
it—the traces are there still.

Then Mariette came back to me, and thanked and embraced me, and declared
that I was the dearest, best boy that ever lived, and that when she was
old enough, she would draw me at the end of one of my books, with a
great big dog as big as a horse.

This is all very trifling perhaps, and not much worthy of record, but in
those trifling times, and those trifling things lie the brightest and
the sweetest memories of my life. It was all so pure, so artless, so
innocent. We were there in that little garden, as in a Paradise, and the
atmosphere of all our thoughts was the air of Eden.

Such things never last very long. I reached my thirteenth birth-day
there, and it was kept with kindly cheerfulness by Father Bonneville and
Madame de Salins. Mariette I remember wove me a wreath of flowers, and
put it on my head after dinner; but that was her last happy day for a
long while. The next day Madame de Salins walked to the city as usual,
and Father Bonneville went with her. They were long in returning; but
when they did come back there was a sparkling light in the eyes of
Madame de Salins which I little fancied augured so much wo to me.

“Come, Louis, come,” said Father Bonneville. “Madame de Salins has heard
good news at length. She must set out this very evening for England. The
carriage and horses will be here in an hour, and we must all help her to
get ready.”

“And Mariette?” I asked, with an indescribable feeling of alarm. “Does
she stay here?”

“No, my son, no,” replied Father Bonneville, almost impatiently. “She
goes with her mother of course.”

Grown people forget the feelings of childhood, especially old people,
and appreciate too little either the pangs or joys of youth. Blessed is
the man who bestows a happy childhood upon any one. We cannot shelter
mature life from its pangs and sorrows, but we can insure, if we like,
that the brightest portion of the allotted space—the portion where the
heart is pure, and the thoughts unsullied—shall be exempt in those we
love from the pangs, and cares, and sorrows which, so insignificant in
our eyes, are full of bitter significance to a child.

Father Bonneville did not know how terribly his intelligence depressed
my heart. He rejoiced in Madame de Salins’ brightening prospects,
although they deprived him of society that cheered and comforted. I was
more selfish; I thought only that I was again to lose Mariette, and I
grieved from my very heart. I would not disgrace the first manhood of my
teens by bursting into tears, though the inclination to do so was very
strong, and I assisted in the preparations as much as I could. But oh
how I wished that some accident might happen to the horses before they
reached our door, or that the carriage might break down—that any thing
might happen which would give me one—but one day more. It was not to
be, however: the ugly brutes, and the little less ugly driver, appeared
not more than half an hour behind their time, the baggage was put up,
and Madame de Salins proceeded to the door of the house. She embraced
Father Bonneville tenderly, and then me, and taking a little gold chain
which she had in her hand, and spreading it out with her fingers, she
placed it round my neck, and I saw a small ring hanging to it, which I
found afterward contained her own hair and Mariette’s.

“Keep it, Louis, keep it always,” she said. “I do not know when we shall
meet again; but I pray God to bless you, dear boy, and repay you for all
you have done for me and mine.”

It was at that moment that the idea of a long separation seemed to
strike Mariette for the first time. She burst into the most terrible fit
of tears I ever saw, and when I took her in my arms she clung round my
neck so tight that it was hardly possible to remove her. Madame de
Salins wept too, but went slowly into the carriage, and Father
Bonneville unclasping the dear child’s arms carried her away to her
mother’s knee. I could bear no more, and running away to my own little
room, gave way to all I felt; only lifting up my head to take one more
look, when I heard the harsh grating of the carriage-wheels as they
rolled away.


                               A SUMMARY.

I have often thought that it must be a curious, and by no means
unimportant, or useless process, which the Roman Catholic is frequently
called upon to go through, when preparing his mind for confession.

The above sentence may startle any one who reads these pages, and he may
exclaim—

“The Roman Catholic!” Is not the writer—born in a Roman Catholic
country, educated by a Roman Catholic priest, and with the force of his
beautiful example to support all his precepts—is he not himself a Roman
Catholic, or does he mean to say that he has never himself been to
confession?

Never mind. That shall all be explained hereafter.

The process I allude to is that of making, as it were, a summary of all
the acts and events, which have occurred within a certain period of the
past, trying them by the test of reason and of conscience, and
endeavoring to clear away all the mists of passion, prejudice, and error
which crowd round man and obscure his sight in the moment of exertion or
pursuit. Such is not exactly the task I propose to myself just now. All
I propose to myself is to give a very brief and sketch-like view of the
facts which occupied the next two or three years of my life. It will be
faint enough. Rather a collection of reminiscences than of any thing
else—often detached from each other, and never, I fear, very sharply
defined. The truth is, events at that period were so hurried that they
seemed to jostle each other in the memory, and often when I wish to
render my own thoughts clear upon the particular events of the period, I
am obliged to have recourse to the written or printed records of the
events, where they lie chronicled in the regular order of occurrence.

I know that after Mariette’s departure, I was very sad and very
melancholy for several weeks. Father Bonneville with all his kindness
and tenderness, and with much greater consideration for the faults and
weaknesses of others than for his own, did not seem to comprehend my
sensations at all at first, and could not imagine—till he had turned it
in his own mind a great many times, and painted a picture of it, as it
were in imagination, that the society of a little girl of six years old
could have become so nearly a necessity to a boy of thirteen. He became
convinced, however, in the end that I was, what he called “pining after
Mariette.” He strove then to amuse me in various ways—occupied my mind
with fresh studies—procured for me many English books, and directed my
attention to the study of German, which he himself spoke well, and which
I mastered with the ready facility of youth. We all know how children
imbibe a language, rather than learn it, and I had not at that time lost
the blessed faculty of acquisition.

All this had its effect, while I was busying my mind with other
things—for I pursued every object with earnestness, nay with
eagerness—I thought little of my loneliness, but often when my lessons
were done, and I was tired of reading, and indisposed to walk, I would
sit in our little garden, and looking round upon the various objects
about me, would recall the pretty figure of my dear little lost Mariette
dancing in and out amongst the trees and shrubs, and almost fancy I
heard her sweet voice, and the prattle which used so to delight me,
strangely mingled as it was, of the innocent frankness of her nature,
and a certain portion of shy reserve, which had been forced into her
mind by the various painful scenes she had gone through.

One evening as I was thus seated and looking out upon the road, which
ran between our small house and the forest, I saw an old woman coming
down from the high road which led to the town with a slow and weary
pace. I should not have taken much notice of her, perhaps, had not her
dress been very different from that of the peasantry in the
neighborhood. It was a dress which awakened old recollections—that of
the Canton in which I had been brought up, if not born. There was the
white cap, with the long ears flapping down almost to the shoulders, and
the top running up and curling over into a sort of helmet shape—Heaven
only knows how it was constructed; but it was a very complicated piece
of architecture. Then again there was the neat little jacket of dull
colored gingham, and beneath it the short petticoat of bright red cloth,
with the blue stockings, and the red embroidered clocks, and the
high-heeled shoes with the silver buckles in them. She carried a good
sized bundle in her hand, and held her head upright, though she was
evidently tired. But as she came nearer, I saw a round, dry, apple-like
face, with two sparkling black eyes and a nose of extensive proportions.
I was upon my feet in one moment, and the next, good old Jeanette was in
my arms.

I need not say how rejoiced I was to see her, or how rejoiced was also
Father Bonneville, nor need I tell all her simple history since we had
left her in France; nor how we wondered at her achieving so long a
journey in perfect safety. Her account, however, showed how simple the
whole process had been, though I do not mean to say that Jeanette put
her statement altogether in the most simple terms. She was not without
her own little share of vanity, innocent and primeval as it was. She did
not, indeed, strive to enhance the value of her services and affection
toward us, but she seemed to consider that she was magnified in abstract
importance by dangers undergone and privations suffered. She told us how
far she had walked on foot, where she had got a Diligence, where
somebody had given her a ride in a cart, where she had got no supper,
where she had got a good one, where she had been cheated of fifteen sous
at least, and where the landlord and landlady were good honest people,
and had treated her well for a reasonable remuneration. Her great
difficulties had begun in Germany; the language of which land she
understood not at all, but by dint of patient perseverance, and asking
questions in French of every person she met—whether they understood
that language or not—she had made her way at length to the spot which
good Father Bonneville’s last letter had indicated as his place of
residence, not having gone, by the nicest calculation, more than eight
hundred and seventy-four miles out of her way. She looked upon it as a
feat of great importance, and was reasonably proud of it; but she
thought fit to assign her motives for coming at all—although those
motives were not altogether very coherent, nor did the premises
invariably agree with the deductions. Indeed, Father Bonneville was a
little shocked at some of the proceedings of his good housekeeper; for
he had a great objection to using dirty arms against those who even used
dirty arms against him. It seemed that after Jeanette had notified his
absence to the municipality, his books, papers, and furniture had been
seized for the rapacious maw of the public good. An auction had been
held on the premises, and every thing had been sold; but Jeanette boldly
produced a claim upon the effects of the absconding priest for a great
arrear of wages, which she roundly asserted had never been paid. She
brought forward the agreement between Father Bonneville and herself, in
which the amount to be paid monthly was clearly stated, and as the
commune could show no receipts it was obliged to pass the good
housekeeper’s account, and pay her the money out of the funds raised by
the sale. Some laughed, indeed, and said that the good woman had learnt
the first grand art of taking care of herself, while others defended her
on the ground that it was rather laudable than otherwise to pillage an
aristocrat. They cited even the cases of Moses and Pharaoh, where the
plunder of the Egyptians was not only lauded, but commanded. An old
touch of religious fanaticism reigned in that part of the country, and
men, even the most atheistical in profession and in action, which is
still more, could quote Scripture for their purpose when it served their
purpose.

We are told that the devil does the same—and I think it very likely.

The sum thus received from Jeanette—swelled by every item she could
think of, was by no means inconsiderable; but she had not cheated a
fraudulent and oppressive civic government for her own peculiar benefit.
The sum which had been left her by Father Bonneville, and the wages
which had been paid her, sufficed to maintain her for several months in
Angoumois—in her frugal mode of living—and to carry her across the
whole of France, leaving her with some dozen or two of livres at the
time she reached us in Germany. The money which she had obtained from
the commune, all carefully deposited in a canvas bag, she produced and
placed in the hands of Father Bonneville, who, to say sooth, did not
well know what to do in the peculiar circumstances of the case. Jeanette
justified her acts and deeds toward the commune upon the same principle
on which some members of the commune had justified her supposed acts
toward Father Bonneville. She did not know much about spoiling the
Egyptians indeed; but her mind was not sufficiently refined to see the
harm of cheating cheats, or spoiling plunderers of part of their
plunder.

I believe the good Father talked to her seriously on the subject when I
was not present; but what became of the money I do not know. All I can
tell, is, that the good Father never seemed to be actually in want of
money, and that all those romantic distresses which hinge upon the
absence of a crown-piece, were spared us even in our exile.

Time passed. Jeanette was fully established in her old post in the
household, with the addition of another German maid-servant. The one
whom she found with us was strongly imbued with despotic ideas; and was,
for good reasons, unwilling to submit either to the orders of a foreign
superior in her peculiar department, or to the inspection of accounts
and prices which she soon found was to be established. Another German
girl, consequently, was sought for and found, who being younger in age,
unhardened by experience, and of a diffident nature, willingly undertook
to receive a dollar and a half a month, and do the harder work of the
house under the orders of Jeanette, of which she did not understand one
word.

Our peaceful state of existence, however, was not destined to be of very
long duration. The successes of the allies, then combating the
republicans of France, both on the northern and eastern frontier,
insured us, for some time, tranquillity and safety. We heard of the
defeat of the French army at Neerwinden, and the fall of Valenciennes
and Condé, mixed with vague rumors of the defection of Dumouriez, and
the flight of some of the most celebrated generals in the French army.
These latter events gave great joy and satisfaction to Father
Bonneville; for his hopeful mind looked forward to the re-establishment
of law and order in his native country, and to the utter abasement of
the anarchical party in France before the skill of Dumouriez, and the
bayonets of the Austrians joined with those of all the well disposed and
moderate of the land itself.

Many others shared in the same delusions; but the manifestoes of the
Austrians, soon checked all enthusiasm, even on the part of the
emigrants. No pretence was made of coming to support the loyal and
orderly in the re-establishment of a monarchy, and a war of aggression
and dismemberment was gladly commenced against France from the moment
that Dumouriez’s more generous—and I must say, more prudent schemes,
were rendered abortive by circumstances.

Doubtless, this first raised some indignation in the bosom of Father
Bonneville, who was of too true and really loyal a nature to see
unmoved, his native land partitioned by the sword, upon any pretence or
coloring whatever. I do not know why, but these matters did not appear
to me in the same light. I thought the people of France had committed a
great crime, and deserved to be punished, as if they were but one
simple, individual man. I thought that all who were genuine loyalists or
supporters of an orderly and constitutional system were guilty of a
crime little less great than that of the anarchists, in their dastardly
holding back when great questions involving the whole fate of France,
hung upon the simple exertion of a well ordered body of the bourgeoisie;
and I saw not why they should not be punished for their culpable
negligence which was more disastrous in effect than all the virulence of
the terrorists—I saw not why those who committed tremendous crimes
under the name of justice should not be brought under the sword of
justice, and I looked forward, I confess, to a period of retribution
with no little joy and satisfaction. It mattered not to me, in my
ignorance of great affairs whether this was effected by the Austrians,
the Prussians, or any other nation on the face of the earth, but France
deserved punishment, and I hoped she might be punished.

The expectations of retribution were destined to be long unfulfilled.
The manifestoes of the Allies acted with singular power and
significance, producing combinations not at all expected. The royalists,
the constitutionalists, who still remained in France, prepared to resist
operations, the avowed object of which was the dismemberment of France
itself, and not the restoration of a purified monarchy. They were
willing to support even their mortal enemies within the land, in
resisting the newly declared enemies of the whole land, who were
advancing along two frontiers. The republicans were roused to the most
powerful and successful exertions in order to repel a slow and cautious,
but victorious enemy from their frontiers, and even the émigrés, who
were scattered all along the banks of the Rhine, protested loudly
against a scheme, which not only menaced the integrity of France as it
then existed, but threatened to deprive the monarchy of some of its
fairest provinces, if the legitimate line of their sovereigns should
ever be restored.

No contrivance could have been devised so well calculated to reunite the
greatest possible number of Frenchmen in opposition to a
counter-revolution, and to render all others indifferent to the progress
of the allied arms, as the proclamation of the Prince of Coburg. Some
few, indeed, thought with me, but mine were doubtless boyish thoughts:
for I have ever remarked that it is experience, and the hard lessons of
the world, which bring moderation.

Father Bonneville seldom talked upon these subjects with me; for he had
rightly no great opinion of my judgment in matters of which I could have
had but a very vague knowledge, and he little knew how often and how
deeply I thought upon such questions.

The siege and capture of Mayence, however: the inactivity of Custine,
and the retreat of the whole of the French armies within the frontier
line, seemed to insure to us perfect security, for a long time to come,
in our calm and pleasant retreat upon the banks of the Rhine: when
suddenly burst forth that wild and vengeful spirit of reaction which
armed all France, almost as one man, against attacks from without, and
soon retrieved all she had lost under a weak government and
inexperienced commander.

Toward the end of the year, our situation became somewhat perilous.
After a long period of successes, the fruits of which were all lost by
indecision or procrastination, the allied armies found themselves the
assailed rather than the assailers, the conquered rather than the
conquerors; and the fierce spirit of the Frank, the most war-loving, if
not the most warlike, of all the nations of the earth was soon ready to
carry the flaming sword into all the neighboring lands.

I have given this little sketch merely to connect the events together,
without at all wishing to imply that I knew or comprehended all the
facts at the time, or recollect them now, except with the aid of books.
My own memories are very slight and merely personal. I remember
lingering on for some months in that small house by the Rhine. I
recollect the warm, bright summer sinking down into heavy autumn, and
the year withering in the old age of winter. I recollect numerous
reports and rumors, and gossip’s tales, and—falser than all—newspaper
narratives, and printed dispatches, reaching us in our solitude, some of
them exciting my wonder, and some of them my alarm, and then I recollect
various passages of no great importance in a somewhat long journey, till
I find myself in a quaint old town upon the border of Switzerland, near
which the Rhine breaks over high rocks and forms the cascade of
Schaffhausen.

This place is only notable in my memory for the beauty of the
water-fall, which I have since seen surpassed in grandeur, but not in
picturesque effect, and by one little incident which there brightened
many an hour. One day, when we were there, a letter was delivered to
Father Bonneville, in my presence, which he found to contain a small
note addressed to me. It was the first letter I had ever received in my
life, although I was now between fourteen and fifteen years of age, and
the sensations which I experienced when it was placed in my hands, and I
saw my own name on the back, were very strange. Imagination went
whirling here and there, seeking to divine whence it could come. The
mystery of my own strange, isolated existence—which was frequently
present to my thoughts, was the first thing that fancy snatched at; but
I did not remain long in uncertainty. The seal was soon broken, and I
found a few lines in a round, childlike hand, very well written, and
very well expressed, with the name of “Mariette de Salins” at the
bottom.

She told me that she wrote to show me, her dear instructor, how much
progress she had made in her studies; and to tell me that although she
had now a great number of companions, she loved me as well as ever, and
better than them all. She bade me not forget her though she did not
doubt that I had grown a great, tall man, and she was still but a little
girl.

I cannot express how much pleasure this gave me; for I had been
oppressed by the thought that in new scenes and new circumstances, all
memory of her young companion would soon be obliterated in the mind of
my little Mariette. That such had not yet been the case was in itself a
pleasure; but I calculated sagaciously that the very fact of having to
write to me, and to recall our youthful intercourse would renew all her
recollections of the time we had passed together, and give memory, as it
were, a new point to start from.

Our stay in Schaffhausen only continued a few months; for the progress
of events in France, and the revolutionary spirit which began to effect
other countries, left it hardly possible for emigrants to find any
secure spot in Europe, except indeed in England, and thither Father
Bonneville did not seem inclined to go. At Schaffhausen, however, I
pursued my studies very eagerly, and had the opportunity of acquiring
some knowledge of those manly exercises which I had never yet had any
opportunity of practicing. There was a very good riding-school in the
town, to which Father Bonneville sent me every day; and a French exile,
celebrated for his knowledge of the sword exercise, had set up a fencing
school, in which I soon became a favorite pupil. I was now a tall,
powerful lad, and what between the continual exercise of the
riding-school, and the Salle d’Armes, all the powers of a frame,
naturally robust, were speedily developed. Previous to this time, I had
stooped a little from the habit of bending over books and drawings; but
my chest now became expanded, my step firm, and I acquired a sort of
military air, of which, I need hardly say, I was very proud.

Thus passed four months and a few days; but rumors of the intention of
the French to march an army up the Rhine, induced Father Bonneville to
move our quarters, and about a fortnight before my fifteenth birth-day,
we traveled up to Constance, and then across what they call the _Boden
See_—or lake of Constance, to the Vorarlberg.


                     CHANGING SCENES AND THOUGHTS.

We passed some time in Switzerland, wandering from place to place, and
never remaining for above a few months in any. Though not very rich, we
were never in want of money; but it seemed to me that Father Bonneville
protracted his stay occasionally in different towns, waiting the arrival
of letters, and I concluded—having now acquired some knowledge of the
general affairs of life—that these letters contained remittances.
Whence they came, or by whom they were sent, I did not know; for Father
Bonneville transacted all his money affairs himself, but at the age of
sixteen he began to make me a regular allowance, too much for what is
usually called pocket-money, and enough to have maintained me in a
humble mode of life, even if he had not paid the whole expenses of
housekeeping. With this money, at first, I committed, as I suppose all
boys do, a great number of follies and extravagancies. I bought myself a
Swiss rifle, and became a practiced shot, not only in the
target-grounds, but upon the mountains, and Father Bonneville, seeming
now to judge that the education of my mind was nearly completed,
encouraged me to pursue that education of the body in which the good old
man was unable himself to be my instructor. The Swiss hunters, however,
were good enough teachers, and I acquired powers of endurance very
serviceable to me in after life. About this period, however, although I
was full of active energy, and fond of every robust exercise, a new and
softening spirit seemed to come into my heart. Vague dreams of love took
possession of me, and pretty faces and bright eyes produced strange
sensations in my young bosom. I became somewhat sentimental, bought
Rosseau’s _nouvelle Heloise_, and poured over its burning, enthusiastic
pages with infinite delight. The beautiful scenery, which before had
only attracted my attention by the effect of the forms and coloring upon
the eye of one naturally fond of the arts, now seemed invested with new
splendor, and the very air of the mountains fell with a sort of dreamy
light, streaming from my own imaginations. I peopled the glens and dells
with fair forms. I walked over the mountain-tops with beautiful
creations of fancy. My daily thoughts became a sort of romance, and many
a strange scene was enacted before the eyes of imagination in which I
myself always took some part, as the lover, the deliverer, or the hero.

Was my little Mariette forgotten all this time? Oh no! Although I could
not give her features or her look to the pretty girls of the Canton with
whom from time to time I dallied, yet I pleased myself by fancying that
there was some trait of Mariette in each of them, and I do not recollect
fancy ever having presented me with a heroine for my dreams in whose
fair face the beautiful, liquid eyes of Mariette did not shine out upon
me with looks of love.

I do not believe that amongst all the many books which have been written
to corrupt the heart of man—and they are ten times in number, I fear,
those which have been written to improve it—there is one to be found so
dangerous to youth as the works of Rousseau. The vivid richness of his
imagination, the strong enthusiasms of the man, and the indefinite
insinuation of pernicious doctrines can be only safely encountered by
reason in its full vigor, aided by experience. I happily escaped the
contamination, but it was by no powers of my own. Father Bonneville
found Rousseau lying on my table, and when I returned from one of my
long rambles he sat down to discuss with me both the character of the
man, and the tendency of his writings. He showed no heat, no vehement
disapprobation of the subject of my study; but he calmly and quietly,
and with a clearness and force of mind I have seldom seen equaled,
examined the doctrines, dissected the arguments, tore away the
glittering veils with which vice, and selfishness, and vanity are
concealed, and left with too strong a feeling of disgust for the
unprincipled author, for my admiration of his style and powers of
imagination ever to seduce me again. I felt ashamed of what I had done,
and when the good Father closed the book which he had been commenting
upon, I rose, exclaiming, “I will never read any more of his works
again.”

“Not so, Louis,” replied the good Father. “Do not read his works at
present. Pause till you are thirty. Your reason may be active, and I
believe it is; but the mind, like the body, only acquires its full vigor
after a long period of regular exercise and training. You will soon have
to mingle largely with the world, to share in its struggles, to taste
its sorrows, and to encounter its disappointments. You will see much of
man and his actions. Mark them well. Trace them back to their causes.
Follow them out to their consequences. It is a study never begun too
soon, and about five or six-and-twenty, men who wish to found virtue
upon reason, apply the lessons they have thus learned to their own
hearts. If you do this, wisely and systematically, neither the works of
Rousseau, nor of any other man will do you any harm. But here is another
thing I wish to say to you, Louis. The income that is allowed you is
intended to give you some means of practically learning to regulate your
expenditure—to teach you, in fact, the value of money. This is a branch
of study as well as every thing else, and each young man has to master
it. At first, when he possesses money, his natural desire is to spend it
upon something that he fancies will give him pleasure; it matters not
what; and when he has wasted numerous small sums upon trifles which
afford him no real satisfaction, he finds that there is some object far
more desirable, which he has not left himself the means of obtaining.
Then comes regret, and it is very salutary; for when the experiment has
been frequently repeated, reason arrives at a conclusion, applicable,
not only to the mere expenditure of money, but to the use of all man’s
possessions, including the faculties both of mind and body. The
conclusion I mean, is, that small enjoyments often kill great ones.”

That evening’s conversation I shall never forget. It afforded me much
matter for thought at the time, and I have recurred to it frequently
since.

Another little picture stands forth about this time, clear and distinct
upon the canvas of memory, and I strongly suspect that the fact I am
about to mention had a great influence on my after life.

We were then at Zurich, and I had been out on one summer evening for a
long ramble through the hills. When I re-entered the town, it was dark,
and going into the house of which we rented a part, I found a stranger
sitting with Father Bonneville. He was a very remarkable man, and you
could not even look at him for a moment without being struck by his
appearance. His dress was exceedingly plain, consisting of a large,
black, horseman’s coat, with a small cape to it, and a pair of high
riding-boots; and round his neck he had a white cravat of very many
folds, tied in a large bow in front. He was tall and well-proportioned,
and of the middle age; but his head was the finest I think I ever
beheld, and his face a perfect model of manly beauty. I shall never
forget his eye—that eye so soon after to be closed in death. There was
a calm intensity in it—a bright, searching, peculiar lustre which
seemed to shed a light upon whatever it turned to; and when, as I
entered the room, it fixed tranquilly on me, and seemed to read my face
as if it were a book, the color mounted into my cheek I know not why. He
remained for nearly an hour after my arrival, conversing with my good
old friend and myself in a strain of sweet but powerful eloquence, such
as I have never heard equaled. During a part of the time the subject was
religion, and his opinions, though very strong and decided, were
expressed with gentleness and forbearance; for he and Father Bonneville
differed very considerably. The stranger, indeed, seemed to have the
best of the argument, and I think Father Bonneville felt it too; for he
became as warm as his gentle nature would permit. In the end, however,
the stranger rose, and laid his hand kindly in that of the good priest.
“Read, my good friend,” he said. “Read. Such a mind as yours should not
shut out one ray of light which God himself has given to guide us on our
way. We both appeal to the same book as the foundation of our faith, and
no man can study it too much. From the benefit I myself have received
from every word that it contains, I should feel, even were there not a
thousand other motives for such a conclusion, that there is something
wrong in that system of religion which can shut the great store-house of
light and truth against the people for whose benefit it was provided.”

The moment he was gone I exclaimed eagerly, “Who is that?”

“One of the best and greatest men in the world,” replied Father
Bonneville, “That is Lavater.”

I would fain have asked more questions, but good Father Bonneville was
evidently not in a mood for further conversation that night. The visit
of Lavater had pleased him—had interested him; but things had been said
while it lasted which had afforded him matter for deep thought—nay, I
am not sure but I might say, painful thought. I could tell quite well by
his aspect when there was any vehement struggle going on in the good
man’s mind, and from all I saw I thought that such was the case now.

A few days after, he went to call upon Lavater, who was living in the
same town, but he did not take me with him. Lavater came again and again
to see him, and they had long conversations together, at some of which I
was present, at others not; and still there seemed to be a struggle in
Father Bonneville’s mind. He was very grave and silent, though as kind
and as gentle as ever—fell often into deep reveries, and sometimes did
not hear when I spoke to him. At length, one day, when I returned
somewhat earlier than usual from my afternoon rambles, I found him bent
over a table reading attentively, and coming in front of him, I
perceived not only that the tears were in his eyes, but that some of
them had dropped upon the page. He did not at all attempt to conceal his
emotion, but wiped his eyes and spectacles deliberately, and then laying
his hand flat upon the page, he looked into my face, saying, “Louis, you
must read this book; let men say what they will, it was written for
man’s instruction—for his happiness—for his salvation. It contains all
that is necessary for him; and beyond this, there is nothing.”

I looked over his shoulder and found that it was the Bible. “I thought I
had read it long ago,” added Father Bonneville, “but I now find that I
have never read it half enough.”

“I will read it very willingly, Father,” I replied, “but Father Mezieres
to whom you sent me preparatory to my first communion, told me, that if
not an actual sin, it was great presumption in a layman to read any part
of it but the New Testament.”

“Mind not that, my son,” replied Father Bonneville. “It is hard to
struggle with old prejudices; to root out from our minds ideas planted
in our youth, which have grown with our growth and strengthened with our
strength. But in this book there is life, there is light, and God forbid
that any man should be prevented from drinking the waters of life
freely.”

A faint smile came upon his face as he spoke, and after a moment’s
pause, he continued, saying, “Do you know, Louis, I am going to become a
boy again, and recommence my studies from a new point. Some months hence
I will talk with you further, and every day in the mean time I will have
my lesson.”

He had his lesson, as he said, each day; for he would sit for hours
poring over either the pages of the Bible or some book of theology; but
from that day I am quite sure that Father Bonneville was, at heart, a
Protestant.

There is only one other incident worthy of notice which I remember in
connection with the events of which I have just spoken. That was our
separation from good Jeanette, who had hitherto been the companion of
all our travels. For more than a month after our arrival in Zurich I
remarked that she looked anxious and uneasy. She said nothing on the
subject of her own feelings, however, to me, but was less communicative
and more thoughtful than usual, would be in the same room with me for a
long time without speaking one word to him who was I knew the darling of
her heart, and was more than once spoken to without appearing to hear.

At length one day when I entered Father Bonneville’s room I found her
standing before him; and heard her say as I came in, “I must go and see
my lady. I am sure she is ill and wants help. I must go and see her. I
have done nothing but dream of her every night.”

“Well, Jeanette, well,” replied he, “you must have your way; but you
know not what you undertake. At all events you had better stay till some
favorable opportunity can be found for sending you in safety.”

Jeanette only shook her head, however, repeating in a low voice, “I must
go and see my lady.”

She remained with us two days after this interview, and I recollect
quite well her coming into my room one night just as I was going to bed,
and looking at me very earnestly, while I, with sportsman-like care, was
cleaning my rifle ere I lay down.

“Ah, Monsieur Louis,” she said in a somewhat sad tone, “you are growing
a man quite fast, and I dare say, you will soon be a soldier; but do not
get into any of their bad ways here; and never, never forget your
religion. They turn older and wiser heads than yours or mine; but do not
let them turn yours.”

“No fear, I hope, Jeanette,” I answered; “but what do you want, my dear
old dame?”

“Nothing, nothing, but only to see what you are doing,” she replied. “I
see your light burning often late of nights, and I thought you might be
reading bad books that craze many strong brains. Better clean a gun by
far, Louis—only never forget your religion.”

I smiled at her anxious care of one no longer a boy, little thinking
that I was so soon to lose one so closely connected with every memory of
my youth, but when I rose the next morning somewhat later than usual,
Jeanette was gone; and all I could learn from Father Bonneville was that
she had set out upon a long and difficult journey, the thought of which
gave him much uneasiness.


                      THE PLEASURES OF BATTLE.[4]

                 •     •     •     •     •     •     •

I was coming down the hill, and about five miles distant from the town,
but my eyes had been rendered more keen by my hunter’s sports, and I was
quite sure that it was so. The glittering of arms, both upon the heights
above the city, and in the valley on the other side of the river, was
perfectly distinct. Yet so still and silent was every thing, that I
could hardly believe two hostile armies were there in presence of each
other. Not a sound broke the stillness of the mountain air. No trumpet,
no drum was heard at that moment; and my companion, Karl, would not
believe that what I said was true. Soon after, we dipped into one of
those profound wooded ravines which score the side of the mountains, and
the scene was lost to our sight; but as we crossed over one of the
shoulders of the hill again, and were forced to rise a little, in order
to descend still farther, the loud boom of a cannon came echoing through
the gorges, like a short and distant clap of thunder. The moment after,
the full roar of a whole park of artillery was heard, shaking the hills
around; and when we topped the height, we could see a dense cloud of
bluish smoke rolling along to well-defined lines below.

Karl paused abruptly, saying, “We are well here, Louis. Better stay till
it is over. We can help neither party, and shall only get our heads
broke.”

Such reasoning was good enough for him—an orphan and tieless as he
was—a mere child of the mountain; but I thought of good Father
Bonneville, and told him, at once, that I should go on, and why. He
would then fain have gone with me; but I would not suffer him; and
leaving the chamois with him, I hurried as rapidly down as I could,
taking many a bold leap, and many a desperate plunge, while the sound of
cannon and musketry kept ringing in my ears, till I reached a spot where
it was absolutely necessary to pause, and consider what was to be done
next. I had come unexpectedly, not exactly into the midst of the battle
that was going on, but to a point near that at which on the right of the
French line, a strong body of infantry were pushing forward with fixed
bayonets against an earthwork cresting the plateau, well defended by
cannon. The guns were thundering upon the advancing column at the
distance of about three hundred yards upon my left, and the Austrian
infantry were already within a hundred paces of the steep ascent, along
the face of which my path led toward the town. I was myself upon a
pinnacle of the hill, a little above either party, and my only chance of
making my way forward, was by taking a leap of some ten feet down, to a
spot where a _sapin_ started from the bold rock, and thence by a small
circuit, getting into the rear of the Austrian infantry. It was a rash
attempt; for if I missed my footing on the roots of the tree, I was sure
to be dashed to pieces; and I was somewhat incumbered by my rifle. I
took the risk, however, and succeeded; and then hurried forward as fast
as I could go. But now a new danger was before me—to say nothing of the
murderous fire from the French battery—for by the time I had reached
the point from which I could best pass into the suburb, the Austrian
infantry had been repulsed for the moment, and were retreating in great
confusion. I know not how to describe my feelings at that moment—afraid
I certainly was not; but I felt my head turn with the wild bustle and
indistinct activity of the scene. A number of men passed me, running in
utter disarray. An officer galloped after them, shouting and commanding,
for some time, in vain. At length, however, he succeeded in rallying
them, just as I was passing along. The moment they were once more
formed, he turned his eyes to the front, where another regiment, or part
of a regiment, had been already rallied, and seeing me at some forty
yards distance, he spurred on and asked me, in German, whether there was
a way up the steep to the left of the line. Luckily, I spoke the
language fluently, and replied that there was, pointing out to him the
path by which I usually descended. Without paying any further attention
to me, he hurried back to the head of his corps, and I ran on as fast as
possible to get out of the way of the next charge. There was a little
bridge which I had to pass, where not more than four or five men could
go abreast, and over it a small body of Austrians were forcing their
way, at the point of the bayonet, against a somewhat superior party of
the French troops, who, in fact, were willing enough to retreat, seeing
that a considerable impression had been made upon their right, and that
they were likely to be cut off. At the same time, however, they would
not be driven back without resistance, and several men fell. I followed
impulsively the rear of the Austrians, where I observed one or two of
the Swiss hunters appareled very much like myself, who were using their
rifles, with deadly effect, amongst the officers of the Republican army;
nor was it to be wondered at, after all that had happened. I could not,
however, bring myself to give any assistance, and kept my gun under my
arm, with the belt twisted round my wrist.

As soon as the bridge was forced, the Austrians debouched upon the
ground beyond with greater rapidity and precision than the French seemed
to expect; and while their right retreated in tolerable order toward the
heights, their left scattered in confusion, and sought refuge in the
suburbs of the town. I took the same direction, and the first little
street I entered was so crowded with fugitives, comprising a number of
the townspeople, who, looking forth to see the battle, had been taken by
surprise on the sudden rush of the French soldiers in that direction,
that it was impossible to pass; and although I saw a sort of tumult
going on before me, and heard a gun or two fire, I turned away down the
first narrow street, only eager to be with my good preceptor, who lived
in a little street beyond the third turning.

When I entered that street, the sun, a good deal declined, poured
straight down it, and I could see two or three groups of not more than
two or three persons in each, with the dress of the Republican French
soldier conspicuous here and there. I ran on eagerly, and passed three
persons all apparently struggling together. One was a woman, another a
French soldier, and the third, who had his back toward me, so that I
could not see his face, was endeavoring to protect the woman from
violence, and seemed to me, in figure, very like Lavater. I should have
certainly stopped to aid him; but there was another scene going on a
little in advance, which left me no time to think of any thing else; but
the moment I had passed, I heard a shot behind me, and then a deep
groan.

I gave it no thought; for within a stone’s throw I beheld an old man
whose face and figure I knew well, brutally assaulted by one of the
soldiers, and falling on his knees, under a blow from the butt-end of a
musket. The next instant, the soldier—if such a brute deserved the
name—drew back the weapon, and ere I could have reached the spot, the
bayonet would have been through Father Bonneville’s body. I sent a
messenger of swifter pace to stop the deed. In an instant the rifle was
at my shoulder, and before I well knew that I touched the trigger, the
Frenchman sprang more than a foot from the ground, and fell dead with
the ball through his head.

I paused not to think—to ask myself what I had done—to consider what
it is to take a human life, or to fight against one’s countrymen. I only
thought of good, kind, gentle Father Bonneville, and springing forward,
I raised him from the ground. He was bleeding from the blow on the
forehead, but did not seem much hurt, and only bewildered and confused.

“Quick, into the house, good Father,” I cried. “Shut the lower windows
and lock the door.”

“Oh, my son, my son!” he exclaimed, looking at me wildly, “do not mingle
in this strife!”

“Lavater is behind,” I said; “I must hasten to help him. Go in, and I
will join you in an instant.”

“Did you do that?” he inquired, looking at the dead soldier, and then at
the rifle in my hand.

“I did,” I answered, in a firmer tone than might have been expected,
“and he deserved his fate. But go in, dear Father. I will return in a
moment.”

I led him toward the door as I spoke, and saw him enter the house; and
then ran up the street to the spot where I had seen the struggle I have
mentioned. Two dead bodies were lying on the pavement. One was that of a
young woman of the lower class, fallen partly on her side, with a
bayonet-wound in the chest. The other was that of a man dressed in
black, who had fallen forward on his face. I turned him over, and beheld
the features of Lavater; I took his hand, and the touch showed me that
death was there.

I had knelt while doing this, when a sudden sound made me attempt to
rise—but I could not do so; for, while still upon my knee, I was struck
by the feet of two or three men, cast back upon the ground, and trampled
under foot by a number of Austrians in full flight. Every thing became
dark and confused. I saw the long gaiters, and caught a glance of arms
and accoutrements, and felt heavy feet set upon my chest, and on my
head—and then all was night.

Although the weather was hot, and summer at its height, in that high
mountain region the night was almost invariably cool. Probably that
circumstance saved my life; for I must have remained, I know, several
hours on the pavement untended, and perhaps unnoticed by any one. When I
recovered my senses, it was nearly midnight, and then I found several
good souls around me. One woman was bathing my head and chest with cold
water, while a man supported my shoulders upon his knee. The first
objects I saw, however, were three or four persons moving the body of
the woman, near whom I had fallen, to a small hand-bier. The body of
Lavater was already gone.

“Look, look, he opens his eyes!” cried the woman who was tending me so
kindly. “Poor lad! we shall get him round! Where will you be taken to,
young man?”

I named faintly the house where we lodged, and then another woman, who
was standing by, exclaimed, “Heaven! it is young Lassi! Better take him
to the hospital.”

I tried in vain to inquire after Father Bonneville; for a faint,
death-like sensation came over me, and I was obliged to let them do what
they pleased with me. A blanket was soon procured, and placed in it, as
in a hammock, I was carried up into the higher part of the town to the
hospital, and there laid upon a bed, in a ward where some hundreds of
wounded men were already congregated. A surgeon, with his hands bloody,
an apron on, and a saw under his arm, soon came to me, and asked where I
was wounded. I endeavored to answer, but could not make myself
intelligible; and putting down the saw, he ordered me to be stripped,
and examined me all over. Two of my ribs, it seemed had been broken, and
my head terribly beaten about. Indeed, I was one general bruise. But my
limbs were all sound, and in four or five days, although I suffered a
great deal of pain, and the scenes which were going on around me were
not calculated to revive the spirits of any one, I was sufficiently
recovered to make inquiries for Father Bonneville, whenever I saw a new
face, and to send a message for him to the house where we lodged, giving
him notice that I was to be found at the hospital.

Father Bonneville himself did not appear, but our landlord came in his
stead—a good, plain, honest man, of a kindly disposition. He told me,
much to my consternation, that my good friend, as he called him, had
been carried off as a prisoner by the Austrians, after they got
possession of the town; that he was suspected of being one of the French
Revolutionary Agents, and that most likely he would have been hanged at
once, without the testimony of himself, our landlord, who had come
forward to prove that he was a quiet, inoffensive man, who meddled not
with politics in any shape, and would have gladly got out of the town,
after the French occupation, had it been possible. This saved his life
for the time; but the only favor that could be obtained was that the
case should be reserved for further investigation. At the time he was
carried away, Father Bonneville was perfectly ignorant of my fate, the
landlord said, and feared that I had been killed. The good man, however,
promised that he would make every inquiry for my friend, and urged me,
in the meantime, to have myself carried to his house as soon as
possible. For more than a fortnight, during which time I was unable to
quit the hospital, he came every day to see me, but brought no
intelligence of Father Bonneville. At length he had me removed to his
own house, and there he, and his good old wife, attended upon me with
great kindness till I was quite well.

As soon as I could move about, the landlord told me that Monsieur
Charlier, as he called him, had left with him a hundred louis d’ors for
me, in case of my return. “And lucky he did so,” added the old
gentleman, “for the Austrians ransacked every thing in both your rooms,
upon the pretence of searching for papers, and left not a bit of silver
worth a batz that they could lay their hands upon.”

Days passed—weeks, and yet no tidings could be obtained of good Father
Bonneville; and thus was I left, ere I had reached the age of nineteen,
to make a way for myself in life, with a small store of clothing, a few
books, a ride, and one hundred louis.

                                                  [_To be continued._

-----

[4] Part of the manuscript, extending from page 56 to 61 is here
wanting. As far us I can judge, the deficiency refers to a period of
about 5 or 6 months, and I think the pages must have been destroyed by
the writer

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                A CHARM.


                           BY A. J. REQUIER.


    I know not why a touch can thrill
      The soul, till it doth seem
    A single drop would overfill
      Her pleasurable dream.

    I know not, yet such moments are
      Of measureless delight,
    When fancy flashes, as a star
      That falleth through the night!

    A weary night, a solemn night,
      Is Life, so stern and slow,
    And gentle forms like thine, the light
      Which guides us as we go.

    Then, say not, maiden—never say
      Thy heart in like the snow,
    Thine eyes have far too fond a ray,
      That we should deem it so.

    I, too, have sought, with studied art.
      To stay the tides that speak,
    But still, the struggle at my heart
      Was written on my cheek.

    And now, my tuneless measure talks
      One of the lonely lays
    Which haunt my spirit when it walks
      The melancholy ways.

    I sing, and singing dwell on thee—
      The Pilgrim of a Star!
    Who, straining, deems he yet can see
      Some solace, though afar.

    Oh! in such times my harp will break
      Forth in a fleeting tone,
    But, ere its echo dies, I wake,
      To find—I am alone!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             LIFE’S VOYAGE.


                             BY TH. GREGG.


    A gallant bark is wildly tossing
      Upon the briny wave,
    Freighted deep with human treasure—
      With earnest hearts and brave.
    For many a day that bark is rolling
      Over the trackless sea;
    For many a day those hearts are beating—
      Are beating to be free!

    At length the shore is dimly looming
      On the horizon’s verge,
    When that frail vessel boldly plunges
      Unto the boiling surge.
    A moment—and the ship is stranded!—
      A number gain the shore—
    Whilst others ’neath the boiling billows
      Sink down for evermore!

    ’Tis thus Life’s waves are ever bearing
      Our fragile bark along—
    Whether freighted with Sin and Sorrow
      Or joyous Mirth and Song:
    And thus the surges are ever beating
      Against the wreck-strewn strand
    That stays the tide of Life’s rough Ocean
      And bounds the Spirit-Land!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               MILTON.[5]


                           BY B. H. BREWSTER.


We have had lying on our table, for some years, this beautiful edition
of Milton’s Select Prose Works, and we have often, while reading it,
resolved to set about that which we have at last attempted. But we have
been deterred not more by the importance of the subject, than by the
recollection of the great spirits who have already earned rich harvests
of applause in this field. The article by Mr. Macaulay, published in the
Edinburgh Review, would seem to forbid further comment, where the critic
has left his reader in doubt which most to admire, the splendor of his
criticism, or the lofty grandeur of his original. Then, too, Mr. St.
John, the editor of these neat and elegant volumes, has given a
preliminary discourse, which displays a keen and warm admiration for
these writings, expressed, in a fervid strain of noble eloquence, which
inspires that gentle apprehension for the “bright countenance of truth,”
so soothing “in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.”

In a fine London edition of the Prose Works of John Milton, published in
the year 1838, there is a well written review by the editor, Mr. Robert
Fletcher, in which he laments that some effort had not before been made
to “popularize, in a _multum in parvo_ shape, the prose works of our
great poet.” We have here an edition that completes his desires; an
edition in which great judgment has been exercised in selecting, from
various tracts, those portions likely to prove most agreeable to the
public. While they give a proper conception of the opinions of Milton,
they also contain some of the purest specimens of his style. Indeed, we
think that some one of our own publishing houses would find it to their
interest to bring out an edition of this work. The nice taste and the
correct discrimination displayed in this selection would command for it
a ready sale. It would be of great use to many, who know nothing of
these writings, and of service to some, who, while they know of them,
yet neglect and turn away from these rich well-springs of truth.

Like all great messengers, Milton was, while living, persecuted, and
since his death has been the object of malignant hatred, by those whose
place of abiding is fast by the “seat of the scorner.” He whose “words
are oracles for mankind, whose love embraces all countries, and whose
voice sounds through all ages,” has been slighted, misrepresented,
abused, and reviled by those whose greatest glory should have been, that
they were the countrymen of Milton—not Milton the poet—but Milton the
statesman. He who wielded a pen that made Europe quake, and perpetuated
political truths based upon eternal justice—truths that were to warm
and kindle up mankind forever after in the pursuit of right against
might.

Before we approach these fountains of living light, let us turn and see
how it was that he, who had been educated in seclusion, and mingled with
the scholars, the gentle and well-bred in his youth, did desert all, and
peril his life in the wild tumult and hot strife of religious and
political dissension, only that he might bear witness to the light that
was in him.

John Milton was the son of John Milton, a scrivener of good repute, in
the city of London. He was born in the year 1608, and was carefully
educated under the supervision of his father, who was a man of refined
taste. He was destined for the Church, and gave great promise of
eminence; for he was an assiduous and diligent youth, and was noted for
his complete learning and elegant scholarship, at the University of
Cambridge, where he obtained his degrees. But he declined to take
orders, and refused to subscribe to the articles of faith, considering
that so doing was subscribing, slave.

In thus early displaying his independence of opinion in his religious
belief, he did but follow the example set him by his father, while he
obeyed the honest impulse of his nature; for his father had been
disinherited by his grandfather for deserting the Roman Catholic faith.

Shortly after he left the University he retired into the country with
his father, who had then relinquished business with a handsome estate;
and while there he continued his studies, selecting no particular
profession, but devoting himself to the cultivation of all.

It was in these years of sweet scholastic solitude, that he produced his
Mask of Comus, than which there is not a nobler poem in any language.
This brought him great fame among the polite and refined of the day, and
was widely circulated for a while in manuscript; so that when he started
on his travels soon after this, (which was in 1638,) he carried with him
letters commanding, in his behalf, attention from the most eminent men
of the Continent.

He went first to France, and while in Paris was introduced by Lord
Scudamore, the English ambassador, to Hugo Grotius, with whom he had a
very interesting interview. From Paris he went into Italy, and coming to
Florence, in that city he mingled freely with the refined and learned,
and, by the elegant displays of his own accomplishments and learning,
won the admiration and regard of all. The scholars and wits of that
place vied with one another in entertaining him, and celebrated his many
merits in their compositions.

With many of those brilliant spirits of that favored land he formed an
intimacy, which was continued for years after his return home, as we
find by his familiar letters. From Florence he traveled to Rome, and was
there again treated with marked kindness and attention by Lucas
Holstensius, the librarian of the Vatican, the Cardinal Barberino, and
other persons of distinction in that famous city. From Rome he proceeded
to Naples, and there made the friendship of the Marquis of Villa, a man
of “singular merit and virtue,” and who was afterward celebrated by
Milton in a poem, as he had been by Tasso, in his Jerusalem Delivered,
and his Dialogue on Friendship. Happy and fortunate lot! thus to be the
object of regard, and to have his merits recorded, and his virtues
enshrined, for the admiration of posterity, in the works of these great
poetic minds!

He had intended, after having thus visited the finest parts of Italy, to
go over into Sicily, and thence to Greece; but the news from England of
the difficulties between the Parliament and the King changed his mind,
and he determined to return home, to mingle with his countrymen in their
toil for freedom, thinking it unworthy of him to be loitering away his
time in luxurious ease, while his native land was distracted, and his
fellow men at home were battling in fierce strife for liberty.

He returned to Rome, notwithstanding the desire of his friends that he
should remain away; for by the freedom of his speech when there he had
aroused the vindictive feelings of many of his hearers. And to this he
was no doubt provoked by having himself seen the dreadful persecution
undergone in the prison of the Inquisition, by one of the finest
scientific minds the world ever knew—by Galileo—whom he visited when
imprisoned for asserting the motion of the earth, and opposing the old
notions of the Dominicans and Franciscans.

From Rome he went to Florence; and after being there a while he went to
Venice, and from that port he shipped his books and music for England.
He then took his route by Verona and Milan, and along the lake of Leman
to Geneva; and thence he returned through France the same way he came,
and arrived safe in England after an absence of one year and three
months, “having seen more, learned more, and conversed with more famous
men, and made more real improvement than most others in double the
time.”

On his return home, he again devoted himself to the solitude of his
study, and to the teaching of several youths (among whom were his
nephews) who were intrusted to his care; and in his own house he formed
quite an academic institute, where his scholars, like the disciples of
the philosophers of old, gathered around him, and by assiduity added to
their stores of knowledge, while with his advice and counsel they were
purifying and elevating their feelings.

In the year 1641, the nation was in great ferment with the religious
disputes of the day, which were intimately connected with the chief
political questions then agitated. This roused Milton, who was alive to
the close association of the two subjects; and for the furtherance of
his political designs, the support of liberty, he issued a powerful
tract upon Prelatical Episcopacy. This served to work out a good end,
and strengthen the cause of the liberalists. For this, as for other
reasons of a like nature, he was prompted to write several other
polemical tracts, during that year, and then he dropped the subject
forever.

In 1643 he married, being then thirty-five years old. After a month his
wife, by his permission, went to visit her relations; and when sent for
by him—for reasons which are as yet unexplained—she refused to return,
and dismissed his messenger with contempt.

He was deeply wounded by this treatment, and maintained toward her a
dignified and resolute indifference. Mortified, and full of sorrow, he
found relief in the contemplation of his very source of wo; and after
reflection upon it, he projected and published his work upon Divorce,
which is to this day one of the most famous works on the subject ever
printed.

Affairs had now assumed a new aspect, and the Presbyterian party had,
after a great struggle with Royalty, gained the ascendency, and then
ruled supreme in the councils of the nation.

The King and his abettors were fighting in the field for that authority,
they had before vainly endeavored to establish with the arm of civil
power. The Presbyterians were now in their day of prosperity; they had
been oppressed but were now triumphant. Adversity had not been of use to
them. They did not learn charity, or humanity, from her lessons, but now
exercised authority with a lordly air, and wielded the sword of State
with presumptuous arrogance. Among other acts of great inconsistency and
oppression, they established a supervision of the press under the
control of an authorized licenser, and at the same time endeavored to
suppress the freedom of speech. This base desertion of the principles
for which they had contended, this mean exercise of authority in that,
in which they had suffered the most, and against which they had clamored
the loudest, excited Milton to the writing of the Areopagitica. This
pamphlet was written by him upon this shameful abuse. He had before
acted in concert with them, as the movement party of the day; but when
they abandoned and treasonably betrayed the rights of Man, they left him
where he had always been, standing on the rock of truth fast by his
principles.

There is not a nobler vindication of the freedom of speech, and the
liberty of the press, to be found any where, than in this pamphlet.

This book was published in 1644, and in this year he was reconciled to
his wife, who sought him out, and unexpectedly to him fell at his feet,
and with tears besought his love and forgiveness. In this, as in other
instances, have we a strong evidence of the mildness and gentleness of
his feelings; for although his resentment had been aroused by her wicked
abandonment of him, yet when she returned home, repentant and in sorrow,
he joyfully received her, and forgave all. Nay more, when defeat and
route had fallen upon the royal standard, he generously took home her
father, and his whole family—who were attached to the cause of the
monarchy—protected them during the heat of his party triumph, and
finally interested himself to secure their estates from confiscation,
although they had in their days of prosperity prompted his wife to her
disobedience and desertion of her republican husband; thus showing a
high-heartedness which was above malice, and in keeping with and but a
practical domestic application of the pure, upright faith professed by
him, which was stern and unyielding in the pursuits of right, but humane
and gentle in the use of power and advantage.

He was now an eminent man, and his bold pen had won for him a public
fame and name. About this time he was well-nigh being swept into the mid
current of popular politics, and it was contemplated making him the
adjutant general, under Sir William Waller; but this design was
abandoned upon the remodeling of the army, and he was left at his
studies.

The king was imprisoned and tried, and then it was that the true faith
and intentions of many were made clear. The Presbyterian party, who had
professed democratic republicanism, while their hopes of office were
high—like many in our own days, who, when they have attained their
hopes, or been rejected by the people for better men, desert their
cause, abandon their principles, while they hold on to their name, and
fight under their old banners, that they may more surely but more basely
injure truth—being now in the minority and out of power, became noisy
in their lamentations over the king’s fate, and endeavored by every
means to prevent his execution, using all arguments, and stopping at
nothing to undo what they themselves had brought about. For when they
found that there was an unflinching determination of the democracy to
punish this man for his enormities and wicked misgovernment.

“They who”—to use Milton’s language—“had been fiercest against their
prince, under the notion of a tyrant, and no mean incendiaries of the
war against him, when God out of his providence and high disposal hath
delivered him into the hands of their brethren, on a sudden and in a new
garb of allegiance, which their doings have long since concealed, they
plead for him, pity him, extol him, and protest against those who talk
of bringing him to the trial of justice, which is the sword of God,
superior to all mortal things, in whose hand soever, by apparent signs,
his testified will is to put it.”

Upon the happening of this event, Milton published his “Tenure of
Kings,” from which is quoted the above passage, so applicable in its
spirit to our own times, so true of all political trucksters, who shout
loudly for the democracy, while they have hopes of using and abusing it,
but who basely betray its confidence and abandon it, whenever they are
required to put in practice their own professions. This book was
published 1649, and served very much to tranquilize and calm the public
mind upon that which had passed.

After the establishment of the Commonwealth, he was called to the post
of Latin Secretary, by the Council of State, which station he held till
the Restoration. This was an office of great importance, inasmuch as all
the public correspondence with foreign States devolved upon him. While
holding this high and honorable public station, one so congenial with
his feelings, and one for which he was so well fitted, he produced many
state papers of great merit, and which contributed to advance the fame
of the republic abroad.

Upon the execution of Charles Stuart, there was published a book which
was styled “Eikōn Basilikē,” and which was pretended to have been
written by the king, and left by him as a legacy and parting word to the
world. It had a most unprecedented sale, owing to the curiosity excited
by its appearance. As it was a work which was then likely to excite
public sympathy, when public sympathy would be thrown away upon a bad
and unworthy object, while at the same time it would abuse and mislead
the public mind, the Parliament called upon Milton to write an answer to
it, and to furnish an antidote for this lying poison, which it is well
believed was never written by the king, but was manufactured and
industriously circulated by the enemies of the people, and the friends
of arbitrary power, with a hope that by its means they could unsettle
the public mind, weaken the republic, and reëstablish the tyranny.

Milton accordingly wrote his Eikonoklastes; and truly was he an
image-breaker; for with merciless force he entered the temple, and with
his own right arm shattered the idol that they had bid all mankind bow
down before.

Charles the Second, who was then residing upon the Continent, hired
Salmasius, a man of great learning, and the successor of the celebrated
Scaliger, as honorary professor at Leyden, to write a work in defense of
his father and of the monarchy. For this work Charles paid Salmasius one
hundred jacobuses. In the execution of this book, Salmasius filled it
pretty plentifully with insolent abuse of all the public men of the
Commonwealth, and those prominent in the Revolution; both from a natural
inclination, and according to directions. In this he was quite expert;
for though he was a fine scholar and very famed for his learning, yet as
it has been said of him—“This prince of scholars seemed to have erected
his throne upon a heap of stones, that he might have them at hand to
throw at every one’s head who passed by.”

Immediately upon the appearance of this book, the Council of State
unanimously selected Milton to answer it; and he, in obedience to this
call, prepared and published his Defense of the People of England, a
work of great worth and power, and which was written at intervals,
during the moments snatched from his official duties, when he was
weakened and infirm. This book was read everywhere. Europe rang with it,
and wonder at its force filled all minds.

By some it has been said that the Council presented him with £1000 as a
reward, which was no mean sum in those days of specie circulation. But
empty thanks were all that he received. Neither this nor any other of
his writings ever obtained one cent for him from the public purse, as he
asserts in his Second Defense. While Milton was thus receiving
attentions from all quarters, it was much otherwise with his arrogant
opponent; for he suffered not only by the severity of Milton’s reply,
but was slighted and treated ill by Christiana, Queen of Sweden, who had
invited him to her court, among other learned men. Upon the reading of
Milton’s “Defense,” she was so delighted therewith, that her opinion of
Salmasius changed, and she became indifferent to him, which he
perceiving, left her court, and retired to Spa, in Germany, where he
shortly after died of chagrin.

Milton had been for many years suffering from a weakness in his eyes,
arising out of his severe application to his studies. Year after year
his sight became more and more dim, until his physicians warned him that
unless he ceased his continual toil, he would become totally blind. This
for a while he heeded; but the urgent call made upon him in the
production of this answer to Salmasius, led him again to
over-application, and he became wholly blind. Notwithstanding his
blindness, he still continued the discharge of his official duties, and
employed his leisure moments in the production of various other
political tracts, in answer to the many abusive works issued by the
royalists.

On the death of Oliver Cromwell, and the taking place of the
difficulties that followed, he wrote a “Letter to a Statesman,”
[supposed to be General Monk,] in which he gave a brief delineation of a
“free Commonwealth, easy to be put in practice, and without delay.”
Finding affairs were growing worse and worse, the people more and more
unsettled, and that a king was likely to be reëstablished, and the
Commonwealth subverted, he wrote and published his “Ready and Easy Way
to Establish a Free Commonwealth, and the Excellence thereof, Compared
with the Inconveniences and Dangers of admitting Kingship in this
Nation.” This short paper was published in 1659-60, and even after this
he published his “Notes on a late Sermon entitled the Fear of God and
the King, preached at Mercer’s Chapel, on March 25th, 1660, by Dr.
Matthew Griffith,” the very year, and within a month of the Restoration;
so that his voice was the last to bear witness against the overthrow of
liberty and the restoration of tyranny.

Upon the return of Charles, he fled, and lay concealed, during which
time his books, the Eikonoklastes and “Defense of the People of
England,” were burned by the common hangman! An indictment was found
against him, and a warrant for his arrest placed in the hands of the
sergeant-at-arms. The act of indemnity was passed, and he received the
benefit of it, and came forth from his concealment, but was arrested,
and shortly after, by order of the House of Commons, discharged, upon
his paying the fees to the sergeant-at-arms, who had endeavored to exact
them from him, which he resisted, and appealed to the House. And thus,
although a prisoner, he still displayed a determination and resolution
to oppose that oppression in his own person, against which he had so
stoutly battled for the whole people.

He now retired from public life forever; and when an offer was afterward
made to him by the king, to return to his old post of secretary, he
refused it, although pressed by his wife to accept it, and to her
entreaties answered thus: “Thou art in the right; you and other women
would ride in your coach; for me, my aim is to live and die an honest
man.”

This offer has been denied by Doctor Johnson, in his life of Milton, and
that, too, without sufficient foundation, for the contradiction is made
without proof; and when Dr. Newton, in his admirable account of Milton,
published in his splendid edition of the Poetical Works of Milton,
confirms it, and asserts that these very words were from Milton’s wife
only twenty years before the publication of his edition. The Doctor has
in this, as in other instances, displayed a malicious desire to detract
from his merits; his envy no doubt being excited by this unbending
integrity of one, whose political opinions were serious enough in the
Doctor’s eyes to affect even his merits as a poet. For this, as for
other offenses, has he received again and again that censure which he so
richly deserved; but from no one with more force than from Mr. St. John,
in his able Preliminary Discourse to these volumes. We quote a passage.

“Another sore point with Johnson was, that Milton should be said to have
rejected, after the Restoration, the place of Latin Secretary to Charles
the Second. Few men heartily believe in the existence of virtue above
their own reach. He knew what he would have done under similar
circumstances; he knew that had he lived during the period of the
Commonwealth, a similar offer from the Regicides would have met with no
‘sturdy refusal’ from him; he knew it was in his eyes no sin to accept
of a pension from one whom he considered an usurper; how, then, could he
believe, what must have humiliated him in his own esteem, that the old
blind republican, bending beneath the weight of years and indigence,
still cherished heroic virtues in his soul, and spurned the offer of a
tyrant! Oh, but he had filled the same office under Oliver Cromwell!

“Milton regarded ‘Old Noll’ as a greater and better ‘Sylla,’ to whom, in
the motto to his work against the restoration of kingship, he compares
him, and evidently hoped to the last, what was always, perhaps, intended
by the Protector, and understood between them, that as soon as the
troubles of the times should be properly appeased, he would establish
the Republic. In this Milton consented to serve with him, not to serve
him; for Cromwell always professed to be the servant of the people. And
after all, there was some difference between Cromwell and Charles the
Second. With the former the author of Paradise Lost had something in
common; they were both great men, they were both enemies to that remnant
of feudal barbarism, which, supported by prejudice and ignorance, had
for ages exerted so fatal an influence over the destinies of their
country. Minds of such an order—in some things, though not in all,
resembling—might naturally enough coöperate; for they could respect
each other. But with what sense of decorum, or reverence for his own
character, remembering the glorious cause for which he had struggled,
could Milton have reconciled his conscience to taking office under the
returned Stuart, to mingle daily with the crowd of atheists who
blasphemed the Almighty, and with swinish vices debased his Image in the
polluted chambers of Whitehall. The poet regarded them with contemptuous
abhorrence; and, if I am not exceedingly mistaken, described them under
the names of devils, in the court of their patron and inspirer below.
Besides, even had they possessed the few virtues compatible with
servitude, it would have been a matter of constant chagrin, of taunt and
reviling on one side, and silent hatred on the other, to have brought
together republican and slave in the same bureau, and to have compelled
a democratic pen to mould correct phrases for a despicable master. So
far, however, was the biographer from comprehending the character of the
man whose life he undertook to write, that he seems to have thought it
an imputation on him, and a circumstance for which it is necessary to
pity his lot, that the dissolute nobles of the age seldom resorted to
his humble dwelling! The sentiment is worthy of Salmasius. But was there
then living a man who would not have been honored by passing under the
shadow of that roof? by listening to the accents of those inspired lips?
by being greeted and remembered by him whose slightest commendation was
immortality? Elijah, or Elisha, or Moses, or David, or Paul of Tarsus,
would have sat down with Milton and found in him a kindred spirit. But
the slave of Lady Castlemain, or the traitor Monk, or Rochester, or the
husband of Miss Hyde, or that Lord Chesterfield, who saw what Hamilton
describes, and dared not with his sword revenge the insult, might
forsooth have thought it a piece of condescension to be seen in the
Delphic Cavern in England, whence proceeded those sacred verses which in
literature have raised her above all other nations, to the level of
Greece herself!”

Upon his release from arrest he retired to the obscurity and solitude of
his own dwelling, where he passed his time in the composition of his
Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes. During this time
he also produced a History of Britain, with several other prose works.
In 1674 he expired, worn out with illness and a life of toil; he died
without a groan, and so gentle and placid was his departure, that they
who were round him did not perceive it.

Although all of his political writings were called forth by the events
that were passing before him, and were for that reason local in their
immediate application, yet they are so catholic and elemental in their
spirit, that we can hardly believe that they were written in an age when
feudal tenures were not abolished, and before any people had as yet
secured their own freedom.

His Areopagitica was his first political work; and although it was
written for a special purpose, and with a view to a then existing evil,
it is still a pamphlet that might very well be published at this day, as
the declaration of our opinions upon this subject of the liberty of the
press.

The very motto of the book, taken from Euripides, and translated by
himself, indicates the whole spirit and intent of it.

    “This is true liberty when freeborn men,
     Having to advise the public, may speak free,
     Which he who can, and will, deserves high praise,
     Who neither can, or will, may hold his peace;
     What can be juster in a state than this?”

After discussing the real merits of the question then before him, he
departs altogether from that topic; and as he always did, generously
claimed the same right for mankind, that he had sought for Englishmen.
And then it is he utters this fine sentence, which shows a noble
enthusiasm in his cause, and a firm belief in its justice. “Give me the
liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience
above _all liberties_!”

After this work he wrote his “Tenure of Kings.” The design of this
pamphlet has been already explained. We may judge of its liberal
character by these few passages. At first he alludes to the treasonable
desertion of principles by those, who were then turbulent for the king’s
release, and who had mainly helped to provoke and carry on the war.
Afterward he declares this general principle; “No man, who knows aught,
can be so stupid as to deny that all men naturally _were born free_,
being the image and resemblance of God himself.” And after this
proclamation of that essential truth, he proceeds to analyze the history
of society, and shows by reason, scriptural authority, general history,
and the universal opinions of mankind, that all government proceeds from
the people, is created by them for their comfort and good, and is
subject to their control, whether it be patriarchal, despotic, or
aristocratic; and that no king or potentate holds by any other authority
than the consent of the people; which being withdrawn his rule ceases,
and for his crimes his life may be forfeited—declaring that this must
be so, “unless the people must be thought created all for him singly,
which were a kind of treason against the dignity of mankind to affirm.”

And after all this he shows his charity for his fellow men, wherever
they may be, by saying, “Who knows not that there is a mutual bond of
amity and brotherhood between man and man all over the world; neither is
it the English sea that can sever us from that duty and relation.” It is
this sentiment, and such like this, that demands of us our admiration
and regard for this purest of men.

In the same manner does he fight the same fight in his Eikonoklastes,
and “Defense of the English People,” fearlessly breaking new ground in
behalf of the “Rights of Man,” as if he considered it to be his greatest
glory to be the champion of his race, while he was defending his
countrymen.

In the Eikonoklastes, after refuting the many lies uttered by the king’s
lip-workers, he says, “It is my determination that through me the truth
shall be spoken, and not smothered, but sent abroad in her native
confidence of her single self, to earn how she can her entertainment in
the world, and to find out her own readers.” Hearken then again to his
words, which now, near two hundred years after they were published, come
like a solemn and prophetic voice from out the writings of the old,
blind republican.

“Men are born and created with a better title to their freedom, than any
king hath to his crown. And liberty of person and right of
self-preservation is much nearer, and more natural, and more worth to
all men than the property of their goods and wealth.”

This is _our_ truth, the corner-stone of our faith. Here we stand, and
alone of nations have made this our practice, and thereby given a
healthful example to all men. These things he believed, and, for the
first time for ages, did he announce to the world those truths which
were to unsettle tyranny and open the way to universal freedom.

When the king was about to return, he published “The Mode of
Establishing a Free Commonwealth.” This was the last blast blown to
rouse the people from their lethargy. With a prophetic energy did he
predict the ills that would fall upon the nation, should the king again
be established. How sadly have his words been realized in the gilded
misery that now surrounds his country, where starving millions toil like
beasts of the field to fatten a licentious and debased aristocracy!

In this book he told the people that “no government was nearer the
precepts of Christ than a free Commonwealth, wherein they who are the
greatest are perpetual servants to the public, and yet are not elevated
above their brethren, live soberly in their families, walk the streets
as other men, may be spoken to freely, familiarly, friendly, without
adoration.” After extolling the excellent beauty of freedom, and
exhorting them to stand by their rights, he thus concludes, with these
passages so full of grand and pathetic eloquence.

“I have no more to say at present; few words will save us, well
considered; few and easy things, now seasonably done. But if the people
be so affected as to prostitute religion and liberty to the vain and
groundless apprehension, that nothing but Kingship can restore trade,
not remembering the frequent plagues and pestilences that then wasted
this city, such as through God’s mercy we never have felt since; and
that trade flourishes nowhere more than in the free Commonwealths of
Italy, Germany, and the Low Countries, before their eyes at this day;
yet if trade be grown so craving and importunate, through the _profuse
living of tradesmen_, that nothing can support it but the luxurious
expenses of a nation upon trifles or superfluities, so as if the people
generally should betake themselves to frugality, it might prove a
dangerous matter, lest tradesmen should mutiny for want of trading; and
that therefore we must forego, and set to sale religion, liberty, honor,
safety, all concernments, divine or human, to keep up trading. What I
have spoken is the language of that which is not called amiss, “The Good
Old Cause;” it seem strange to any, it will not seem more strange, I
hope, than convincing to back-sliders. Thus much I should perhaps have
said, though I was sure I should have spoken only to trees and stones,
and had none to cry to, but with the prophet, ‘O Earth, Earth, Earth!’
to tell the very soil itself what her perverse inhabitants are deaf to;
nay, though what I have spoke should happen, [which Thou suffer not, who
didst create mankind free! nor Thou next who didst redeem us from being
the servants of men!] to be the last words of our expiring liberty.”

The political works of this great man have been diligently suppressed,
and his political fame traduced; while they, who could not deny him
merit, have been busy before the world in lauding him as a poet,
thinking thus to lead men off from a knowledge of that wherein consisted
his true greatness. We question much whether the dullest mind could read
these books now, without being roused and filled with enthusiasm for
this apostle of liberty, and for his cause.

In them he nobly vindicates the people and their rights. “The Good Old
Cause,” as he calls it, warms him up, and he writes with an exulting
energy that would make your blood gush with delight. His opinions were
not the distempered thoughts of a factionist. He never allowed his
feelings to be warped by a selfish regard for party advancement. He knew
no party, but generously devoted his whole soul to the cause of his
country, and in defense of the rights of mankind. In his old age his
greatest glory was, that he had always written and spoken openly in
defense of liberty and against slavery.

The truths which he wrote in his matured years, as applying to the
condition of his unfortunate country, were but repetitions of the faith
of his youth, as he had powerfully expressed it in his Comus.

    “Impostor, do not charge most innocent Nature,
     As if she would her children should be riotous
     With her abundance; she, good cateress,
     Means her provision only to the good,
     That live according to her sober laws,
     And holy dictates of spare temperance:
     If every just man, that now pines with want,
     Had but a moderate and beseeming share
     Of that which lewdly pampered luxury
     Now heaps upon some few with vast excess,
     Nature’s full blessings would be well dispens’d,
     In unsuperfluous even proportion,
     And she no whit encumbered with her store:
     And then the giver would be better thanked,
     His praise due paid; for swinish gluttony
     Ne’er looks to heaven amidst his gorgeous feast
     But with besotted, base ingratitude,
     Crams and blasphemes his feeder.”

Even now, while we conclude these few pages our pen falters, and we feel
disposed to abandon the task. His magnificence overpowers us. How can we
point out the excellence of that which commands the admiration of all
men, and is beyond the loftiest praise of the most eloquent? Again and
again have we turned over the leaves of this work, with the intention of
selecting passages worthy of comment and regard, and so thickly have
they flowed in upon us, that page after page has been exhausted, and we
had not finished. How idle, then, to select from these masterpieces of
eloquence and storehouses of truth! How vain to dwell upon his merits,
when every line of his splendid composition tells of his measureless
learning and infinite purity of thought. His style, at once grand and
simple, is happily suited to convey conviction to the mind, and inspire
the soul with fervid energy.

While his works are filled with noble conceptions, clothed in language
of corresponding state and grandeur, we nowhere find any attempt at fine
rhetoric for mere empty display. The whole subject sweeps on with solemn
magnificence, but with no idle pomp. From the depths of his soul did he
speak, and his words were as fire, scorching to his enemies, and
life-giving and cheering to those who love “truth and wisdom, not
respecting numbers and big names.”

The most inspiring view that can be taken of the soul of these writings
is, that they are, even at this day, far in advance of the social
condition that exists in this land of liberal and enlightened principles
of government. The precepts by which he would wish us to be guided, are
the pure and humane doctrines of the Savior of man. He did not fight
only for the liberties of _Englishmen_, contending for _English_ rights,
citing the charters of _English_ liberty—no, not he—all mankind were
alike to him, and for _man_ alone he spake. No such Hebrew spirit
animated his noble soul.

He proclaimed the rights of man, as man, and asserted his rights,
natural and social, without ever launching out into Utopian speculations
and visionary conceptions, the practical utility of which no one can
affirm, and the application of which would have worked out ills
innumerable, rooting up and overthrowing ten thousand times ten thousand
social rights, that had grown up with the state itself. He asserted
abstractions; but with an intimate knowledge of men and their affairs,
he steadily avoided violating those relative rights, to suddenly
encroach on which would have been even as great a despotism as the
rugged foot of feudal barbarity, with which his country had been
oppressed.

From the generous and life-giving precepts of the Gospel did he draw his
faith. He there learned charity for the misdoings of men, as well as
belief in their power to resist evil and attain truth. He there learned
love for mankind, as he imbibed a stern, unyielding hate for tyranny and
hypocrisy.

No timid navigator, skirting along the shores and headlands, but a bold,
adventurous spirit, he pushed forth upon a wild, tempestuous sea of
troubles, with murky night of ignorance and superstition surrounding
him. The “Telemachus” of Fénelon, might have been the “first dim promise
of a great deliverance, the undeveloped germ of the charter of the
code,” for the whole French people. But in these writings of Milton, we
have a _full_ and manly assertion of those rights and duties which all
men owe one to the other, and all to society, and which are far, far
beyond the simple truths conveyed in that beautiful and easy fiction.

Well might the French monarch have “the Defense” burned by the common
hangman! Well might he for whom “a million peasants starved to build
Versailles,” look down with horror and fear upon that work, for in it
were truths which have roused up men to assert their rights. It was the
vindication of a noble people, who had trampled under their feet the
yoke that oppressed them, and had brought to punishment the tyrant who
reigned over them. These works and the events that produced them have an
interest to us. Englishmen may slight them, but we look on them with
exultation—they are associated with our own history—they are connected
with our own family legends—and as they record the mighty struggle of
the mighty with the powers and principalities of this earth, they should
be reverenced and held sacred by us; they should be our household
companions, as they were of those men whose blood now warms the hearts
of an empire of freemen, who boast their lineage from a prouder source
than kings—the Puritans of New England. The men of that Revolution have
never been fully understood. He who would wish to know the justice of
their cause, let him read Milton, and let him read the real documents of
the times. They have been abused and misrepresented by most historians.
Mr. Bancroft, in his History of his Country, has comprehended these
martyrs in the cause of democratic rights, and dared to tell the truth
concerning them. They and theirs were the settlers of this country. From
them came the mighty forest of sturdy oaks, which in years after were to
breast the storm of royal oppression and wrath, in this their refuge;
and from which tempest we—WE THE PEOPLE, came out gloriously
triumphant!

Think not ill of them. Tread lightly upon their memories as you would
upon their ashes. They who perished upon the scaffold—they who found a
home here—they who died upon the field in England, or worn out with
anxiety and public care, sank to rest forever in their homes—they who,
like Cromwell, fought in the field and ruled in the council—and they
who, like Milton, have proclaimed from the study that “_man is free_,”
have earned names that time will brighten, and have stood by truths that
will secure the affections of a world hereafter.

-----

[5] Select Prose Works of Milton, with a Preliminary Discourse and
Notes. By J. A. St. John. London: J. Hatchard & Son. 2 vols.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       “BLESS THE HOMESTEAD LAW.”


                         BY L. VIRGINIA SMITH.


  It was a summer morning. Soft the flame
  Of the early sunlight up the zenith came,
  Deep tinging with a golden-crimson hue
  The clouds that floated o’er the welkin blue,
  Or veiled the distant mountain. Far, and near,
  From farm to farm the call of chanticleer
  Rang like a clarion, shrilly sweet and long,
  The robin red-breast trilled his matin song,
  Hid in the high old maple, while around
  From far, deep-waving grain-fields gayly sound
  The carols of the bob-o-link. The bee
  Was out among the blossoms, in his glee
  To rouse them from their dreamings. Gracefully
  The west-wind waved the weeping willow-tree
  That drooped above the rivulet, or crept
  Amid the branches of the elm that swept
  A low-browed homestead. Ruby columbine,
  Sweet honey-suckle, and the Indian vine,
  Had veiled the rustic portico, and wild
  Swayed o’er the casement, and the sunlight smiled
  Through the low entrance. ’Twas a winsome place,
  And like the sunny calm of some sweet face,
  You would have thought in gazing on its rest,
  That earth’s frail children _sometimes_ can be blest.
  And yet misfortune found it;—see the group
  Now gathered at the threshold, o’er them droop
  Long, swaying branches, and the loving leaves
  Lay their light fingers o’er the heart that grieves,
  As if to soothe its sorrows. Agony
  Lights up the darkness of the husband’s eye,
  He stands apart, his bearing calm and proud,
  And yet his heart is burning ’neath a cloud
  Of dread and misery. The young wife leans
  By the old elm-tree, ’mid the passing scenes
  Her heart is busy, for beside her stands
  A lovely child, with snowy, dimpled hands
  Clasping her mother’s, while within the shade
  Her baby brother on the greensward played.
    The little maiden mused, a choking swell
  Filled her young bosom, and the large tears fell
  All silently, then her slow-lifting eyes
  (Their blue depths troubled with a strange surprise)
  Sought out her mother’s;—tossing back her hair,
  Her clear voice melted on the morning air;—

  “We leave the homestead!—Say, dear mother, why?
    Do not the birds and blossoms love us here?
  Has any other home a clearer sky,
    With brighter stars upon it? Mother, dear,
  Shall we not sigh _there_ for this old elm shade,
  Where you and I and brother oft have played?

  “We leave the homestead!—Oh! my father, tell,
    Why turn we from the fields, and wood-paths dim,
  Through which we wended as the Sabbath bell
    Called us to worship, with its solemn hymn?
  Shall we not sigh to pray where friends have prayed,
  Or weep our loved ones in the church-yard laid?”

  The haughty bosom of the strong man shook
  With an internal tempest, and he took
  Her tiny hand within his own; his pride
  Was bending, and he earnestly replied:

  “Why do we leave it?—’tis a tale too long,
    And strange to fall upon _thy_ heart, my child;
  ’Twould tell of dark misfortunes, pain, and wrong,
    And wo, that seemed at times to drive me wild,
  To make me doubt the path my fathers trod,
  And that the poor man had indeed a God!

  “But thou, my Ada, true and gentle bride,
    Dost thou remember when thy violet eye
  Looked first upon ‘Glenoran?’ All untried,
    It seemed to thee a Paradise; ah! why
  Am I myself its serpent and its bane,
  To leave on all its bloom a deadly stain?

  “Oh! could I only bear this all alone,
    The grinding poverty—the lurking sneer—
  All the poor debtor’s wretchedness—no moan
    My soul would utter audibly, but here
  My heart of hearts is crushed, my life of life,
  _They_ suffer also, child, and babe, and wife.

  “We leave the homestead;—wanderers we go,
    From friends, from kindred, and our native land—
  My God! if _I_ have merited such wo,
    Have _these_ deserved it at thy mercy’s hand?
  Oh! let thy justice all my actions scan,
  Yet leave one hope—to die an honest man.”

  He drooped his head upon his bosom, bowed
  With misery, and instantly the proud
  Young wife was at his side; soft o’er his brow
  Swept her white fingers, and her voice was low:

  “Thy soul is dark, beloved, it fears for us—
    Ah! only trust in God, as I in thee,
  Lift up thy stately brow; to see thee thus
    Is worse than all life’s agony to me.
  Thou couldst have died for us, beloved, but we,
  E’en when all hope is lost, will live for thee.

  “They cannot separate our souls from thine,
    They cannot part us wheresoe’er we roam,
  Or place aught else within the sacred shrine,
    Where dwell thy wife and children. Loved one, come,
  Give me mine only _home_ within thy heart—
  _I’ll bear it with me_—let us hence depart.”

  It is the summer twilight. Dark the shades
  Are falling through the forest everglades,
  The winds are hushed, the lonely whip-poor-will
  Sings his wild lullaby upon the hill,
  A sighing murmur from the mountain-pines
  Steals up valley, and the love-star shines,
  All brightly in “Glenoran.”
                                Since the morn
  Glad tidings visited those bosoms torn
  With unavailing sorrow, now the “right”
  To have a home was granted, and delight
  Was blended into orisons. That line
  Whose fiat echoes back a law divine,
  Was made a statute, and sweet Ada saw
  Her loved ones singing, “_Bless the Homestead Law!_”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      THE MISER AND HIS DAUGHTER.


                             BY H. DIDIMUS.


This man came to Louisiana many years since, a silver-smith by trade,
poor, and largely in debt. He was born in New York, and in that city
worked industriously at the business to which he had been apprenticed,
until a competency rewarded his labors, and wealth, which he had before
little thought of, was brought near enough to his door to be both seen
and desired. The hammer, the soldering-iron, and the file were now
thrown aside, as instruments of a slow getting; and the head was taxed
with schemes for the acquisition of sudden and great gains. At the close
of two years he was a bankrupt. But he was not a man of half-measures;
true courage he had enough of; and honesty has never been denied him;
so, he called his creditors together, laid before them a statement of
his affairs, surrendered all that he had, gave his notes for eighty
thousand dollars, and departed, with nerves unshaken, and a will
indomitable, in search of a new land and a new fortune.

When the ambition of wealth drew him from his work-shop, he carefully
laid aside the tools of his trade in a stout oaken box, to be kept as
mementoes of former labor; they were now all that remained to him, the
only gift which he had asked, and would receive of creditors who were
disposed to be generous. With them, at thirty-five years of age, he bid
the North good-bye, went on shipboard, entered before the mast, in
payment of a passage to New Orleans, and on his arrival there, at once
hired himself into the service of a silver-smith, who has since ranked
with the wealthiest of its citizens, and who has since met with ruin
more disastrous than that which brought the best of his journeymen to
his door.

John Cornelius, when you first scented the Mississippi marshes, and
stepped from ship to shore with a debt of eighty thousand dollars upon
your back, John Gravier had not wholly parted with that domain, which
now forms the noblest portion of the second municipality. To one with a
soul in his body, bent on money-getting, the track clear, the goal in
view, to be won with effort, eighty thousand dollars of debt is like
weight to the race-horse—it is not best to run too light at the start.
Your eye saw what John Gravier did not. You read the page written by the
hand of God, legibly enough—the Mississippi with all its tributaries,
rolling through lands of an unequalled fertility, and of every variety
of clime, and you had faith. God’s promises are certain. With the return
of spring comes the flower, and with the breath of autumn comes the
fruit; with the twinkling star comes rest, and with the rise of day
comes light and labor; every mountain, every hill and valley, every
plain and running-stream, river and ocean, speak of God’s promises, and
accomplish them. Read, and understand; this it is, which separates the
man gifted from the common herd, who are born to toil for the benefit of
the few.

John Cornelius read God’s promises in the Mississippi, and went heartily
to work. With him, there was no folding of the hands, no waiting on
Providence; for he knew that the fable of Hercules and the wagoner was
as instructive under a Christian, as under a pagan dispensation; so he
girded up his loins, made sharp his sickle, and entered upon the harvest
which was already ripe for the reaper. Economy is the handmaid of
wealth, and penuriousness is economy’s own daughter. John Cornelius took
them both to his bosom, and for ten long years he lived upon one meal a
day, and that a cold one. The larger portion of his monthly wages he
hoarded up, and when the accumulations had become sufficient,
remembering the promises of the Mississippi, he bought a lot of ground
within the precincts of John Gravier’s plantation; hoarded again, put a
small wooden tenement upon the lot, rented, and was a landlord. Thus he
went on, working, hoarding, with economy and penuriousness his whole
household, penuriousness holding the upper hand; adding lot to lot,
tenement to tenement, and lease to lease, until at the close of ten
years, he found that God’s promises written upon the Mississippi, were
fulfilled and fulfilling; and he again laid aside the tools of his trade
in a stout, oaken box, there to rest, as they do rest to this hour. He
was rich; he had kept even pace with New Orleans, in its progress toward
greatness; but, with his wealth had grown up a habit, the habit of
penuriousness, which wealth only strengthened, as a child strengthens
its parent. Habit moulds the soul, and fashions it to its will; habit
makes the writer; habit makes the poet; of habit, are born the soldier,
the statesman, and the scholar; habit created the arts, and all science;
habit gives faith and religion, and fastens every vice upon us; and
habit made John Cornelius a miser.


                              SECTION II.

It was many years subsequent to the period at which Mr. Cornelius found
it for his interest to retire a second time from the work-shop, and to
devote himself exclusively to the management of his increasing
rent-roll, and frequent investments in real property, and when, with the
eighty thousand dollars of debt lifted from his shoulders, he stood
erect, mighty in wealth, that he one day entered my office, and tendered
me a counselor’s fee.

Mr. Cornelius and myself were strangers to each other. I had occupied
chambers in one of his houses for the past five years, but his collector
arranged with me the terms of my lease, and received the quarterly rent;
and as my landlord was faithful to his own interests, and as I was
equally faithful to mine, no incident had transpired, growing out of our
relations, to bring us together.

“I have for some time been a tenant of yours, Mr. Cornelius,” said I,
handing the gentleman a chair; “and I suppose that I may attribute this
visit to a worthy desire on your part to become acquainted with one who,
thus far, has exhibited no sign of an intention to quit.”

“I am too old a man to wish for new acquaintances, Mr. Didimus; and had
you referred my call to a knowledge of your reputation for attention to
business, and a want of your professional services, you would have come
much nearer the truth.”

I thanked him, both for the compliment and his confidence; and requested
a statement of his case.

“Time is money,” said Mr. Cornelius; “and a few words shall not long
detain either of us. In October last, a Mr. Andrews died; my debtor to
the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars. The debt is secured by
mortgage upon his house; but his widow comes in for twice the sum, in
virtue of her paraphernal rights, and as her claim is older than mine,
it will sweep away all, unless I can show that the marriage was void in
law.”

“In what respect, Mr. Cornelius?”

“Andrews had a wife living at the time of his second marriage.”

“Had the second wife any knowledge of the fact before her cohabitation
with the deceased, or at any period thereafter, prior to the springing
of her claim, with the simultaneous mortgage which the law gives to
married women and minors as their best security?”

“Perhaps not.”

“How much does the second wife claim?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“What is the value of the succession?”

“The house may be worth twenty; and the house is all.”

“If you succeed, the widow is a beggar?”

“Yes.”

“Both law and justice are against you, Mr. Cornelius.”

“I am not here to learn what justice is, justice in the abstract, Mr.
Didimus; I might travel far and not find it. Positive justice, the
positive rules of the legislator, the justice of the law is that with
which we have to do. There is no natural right to property. Property is
a creature of the law. With one, it is just that the eldest born should
take all; and with another, it is just that the succession should be
equally divided between sons and daughters. Here, the youngest claims
the largest portion; and there, the female is preferred to the male.
Positive rules, the wisdom of many wise men, of many generations, do,
with every people, both make and unmake the right and the wrong. The law
is justice, and I ask what the law awards me. If the law gives to the
wife a tacit mortgage to secure her paraphernal rights, the law also
gives to me a judgment mortgage to recover my rights of contract. She
must show a valid marriage; I must show registration. We stand upon the
same platform; and if I prevail, it is because the law is with me. No
injustice is done, Mr. Didimus. The widow cannot have what is not here;
thank God, no injustice is done.” And the rich man, as he closed his
defense, stretched out his hands clutchingly toward me, as if to take
possession of the large sum of money which seemed passing beyond his
grasp.

“Supposing all that you have advanced to be true, Mr. Cornelius; yet, as
the widow in the case under consideration, married and cohabited with
her late husband in entire ignorance of the fraud which had been
practiced upon her, the law, both in letter and spirit protects her; and
I must respectfully decline any further action in the matter.”

Mr. Cornelius bid me good morning.


                              SECTION III.

Some few weeks subsequent to the interview just related, a lady habited
in deep mourning called upon me, and put a large bundle of papers into
my hands. It was the widow; and the papers were a statement of her
husband’s succession, much of his correspondence, evidences of her
claim, and the usual copies, which had been served upon her, of a
process which Mr. Cornelius had instituted under the advice of counsel
more pliant, or wiser than myself.

“I know something of this already,” said I, after having hastily glanced
over the contents of the package.

“Indeed, then I am unfortunate, for you are retained upon the other
side,” said the lady.

“I might have been so, but declined; and, believing as I do that you are
in the right, you will permit me to hope that you are not unfortunate.”

“The past is dark enough,” said she, “the future is with God alone.”

“Mr. Andrews had a wife living at the time of your marriage with him.”

“The evidence of that fact is in your possession.”

“You received from your mother’s succession fifty thousand dollars,
which your late husband squandered.”

“He was imprudent.”

“Of your husband’s first marriage you were ignorant, until after his
decease?”

“That knowledge came to me a double sorrow, quick following his death;
to me more terrible than death. Now, alone in the world, with none of my
blood known to me, I come to you as my defender. The law is a stern
master; sometimes blind. If I lose, I lose all, a beggar, with a name
suspected, I can do little else than lie down and die!” and she covered
her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud.

“Mr. Cornelius is honest,” said I.

“Mr. Cornelius knows not my heart.”

“He is rich.”

“I would take nothing from his wealth. True, he is a man of large
property, but my folly has, in part, brought this sorrow upon me; let
the law judge between us, I will be content.”

“Now, madam, you show the right spirit, and my best endeavors shall be
exerted in your behalf,” said I, as the lady rose, and gave me her hand
at parting. “Wait, trust in your counsel; and if you lose, still wait,
still hope; _for every thing is rewarded and avenged in time_.”

My fair client’s heart was too full to speak of gratitude; and I handed
her to the door, and took leave of her in silence.


                              SECTION IV.

I returned to the papers and studied them, far into the night. There was
the evidence of the fifty thousand dollars received; and there, too, was
the evidence of the prior marriage—the first wife living at the time of
the taking of the second. It was a sad tale, the story of that first
wife; a tale of neglect, of desertion, of want and wo; a tale told in
letters written from a far distant land, and blotted with many tears. I
steeled my heart against it. How else could we of “The Profession” live?
As the surgeon, compassionless, cuts with steady nerve through flesh,
and bone, and marrow, and saves the life which pity would have lost; so
we soon learn to close the heart to sorrow; to hear nothing, to see
nothing but the interest of the client; to hope for nothing but his
success—God protect us! Ever dealing with the passions and the vices of
men; their unholy race after mammon; strifes by the way-side; plots and
counter-plots; faith broken; trusts betrayed; snares for the unwary; the
innocent duped; the unfortunate trampled upon; the hoary sinner
honored—God protect us! Great wonder is it, that we do not loathe the
very name of man! Poor woman! If she who assumed your name and state,
and defiled the marriage bed, which with you alone was pure, was guilty,
although ignorant, of a careless haste, the punishment has come, equal
to the fault; and you, too, are avenged—even in time.

I often saw my client, during the period of one year, which elapsed
between my retainer and the trial of the suit which she had engaged me
to defend. She was young—she could not have been more than
twenty—without children, and her beauty grew upon me every day. With a
fine figure—not too light, but rather a little heavy, with the
_embonpoint_ of the widow—with features, which were the handsomer for
being irregular, and eyes which spoke the sex with all its glory and its
weakness. She interested something more than professional pride, or
manly compassion in her favor. Her intellect, too, was brilliant and
cultivated; and her manners most refined: certainly it would have been
pardonable in a bachelor to have made her cause wholly his own. But
there was a mystery woven into the history of her life, which she either
could not, or was not pleased to remove. In one only, of the many papers
and few family letters which she from time to time put into my hands,
did I find any allusion made to her father. She never herself
voluntarily spoke of him; and whenever I questioned her upon the
subject, she was evidently much troubled by my inquiries, and professed
to be utterly ignorant of that side of her house. She had known her
mother only under her maiden name, and had lived with her, in one of our
northern cities in great seclusion, until she met with Mr. Andrews,
married him, and removed to New Orleans. Shortly after her marriage her
mother had died, bequeathing her fifty thousand dollars, the result of
economy and business habits. What folly, what shame, what crime had
given her birth, or had removed as beneath a cloud her father from her
sight, she knew not; but her mother had often told her that she was born
in honest wedlock, and that some day she should claim her own. She knew
not the place of her birth, nor her mother’s relatives, and stood as one
without relationship in the world. How her heart yearned to find in
other veins the blood which flowed in her own! At such times, when my
questions had stirred the fountain of her tears, and the grief of
desolation ran over, she would wring her hands in a passion of sorrow,
and call upon heaven to give her knowledge—to give her father to her
arms.

“Pardon,” she would murmur, “these exhibitions of my weakness; it is
terrible not to know the father that begat you; terrible to hear want,
even to destitution, knocking at your door.”


                               SECTION V.

The day fixed for the trial came. I felt prepared, strong at all points
save one, that of my client’s parentage. There was a suspicion about it
which would not tell well with the jury. As to the law which governed
the case, provided no knowledge of the first marriage were brought home
to my client prior to the springing of her mortgage, I was sure of it;
and I believe that no one of my brethren at the “Bar” would now dispute
the correctness of my opinion. But the fact of knowledge, a jury might
infer from very slight evidence, and my client’s seeming bastardy and
strange ignorance of her father, and of her mother even, beyond the
certainty that she once lived and cared well for her young days, were
better fitted to excite suspicion and clothe her in the garb of an
adventurer, than to secure pity or be urged as arguments of innocence.
This was the assailable point. I had thought much upon it, and had
concluded that it was to be best defended by an open avowal, and a bold
appeal to the more generous sympathies of our nature. Thus armed, I
entered the court-room.

The court was upon the bench, and the opposite party, with his counsel,
was there, ready, expecting the battle, and confident of a success which
was to take from the widow all that she possessed. Mr. Cornelius was
there. Tall and meagre in his person, with cheeks hollowed and hair
whitened, by age and long continued labor and great self-denial, ending
in extreme penuriousness, his eyes alone retained a show of the vigor of
youth. Gray, cold and piercing, they rolled quickly and incessantly from
side to side, as if every where and at all times in search of the yellow
metal upon which his soul fed, and grew smaller and smaller, even to a
pin’s point. His brow was thickly furrowed with the lines of gain; but
it was a noble one, and showed a strong intellect bound in chains of its
own forging—enslaved to Mammon. Yes, John Cornelius cannot say, on that
last day when rich and poor shall stand, equal at the feet and
shoulders, before their common God, that he labored according to his
light. Success in life, success in any department of the business of
life, a success extended over a quarter of a century of years,
presupposes intellect, and a great deal of it. A fortune may be won by
the turn of a card, and a fortune may be lost as well; but that fortune
which is gathered slowly and surely, the result of foresight, of a deep
knowledge of the ways of commerce, its growth, fluctuations and changes,
of its adaptation to the wants of men and the humors of the times; the
result of a providence which sees the coming storm and provides for it,
which sees the prosperous breeze and catches it—such a fortune is the
result of a strong intellect, equally with any greatness whatever. John
Cornelius cannot say that he labored according to his light!

There he sat, and as he clutched, with his long, thin, bony fingers, at
the papers which lay spread out upon the table before him, as if they
were the stout line which was to draw unto him the gold he coveted, I
thought of the story of the Rich Man and the Lamb, told in the olden
writ.

My client was also beside me. Still habited in black—she might well
mourn the wrong she had suffered, if not the man she had loved—the veil
lifted from her face, a little pale with hope and sorrow, and a womanly
modesty possessing in quick turn all her features.

She won the favor of the court; and the jury, as each was sworn and took
his seat within the box, whispered compassion.


                              SECTION VI.

My adversaries saw, clearly enough, the ground upon which I stood, and
the able junior counsel, in opening the case, with great art alluded to
it, and fully shadowed forth the position in the defense which was to be
most strenuously attacked. “The plaintiff’s mortgage was undoubted; I
had myself acknowledged it in the answer on file in the record; neither
was the amount alleged by the defendant to have been received by her
late husband from the succession of her mother to be disputed, the
evidence was conclusive; but the marriage was illegal; that would hardly
be questioned. Was the defendant in good faith at the time of its
celebration? Was she in good faith when her late husband took possession
of her mother’s succession? Was she in such good faith as would secure
to her the rights of a legal marriage? These were the questions to be
answered, and he believed that the evidence which he was about to bring
home to the knowledge of the jury, would answer them most emphatically
in the negative. He then spoke of Andrews’ long residence in New
Orleans; of his many acquaintances there; of his well-known marriage
with the daughter of a French Jew; of his desertion of his wife; of her
return, with her aged father, to France; of the second marriage, hastily
made up; of the plaintiff’s sudden appearance in that city, claiming a
position due alone to honesty, while Andrews spoke of her to his
associates as his concubine; of the hints which she had received of the
imposition she was striving to practice upon others, or which had been
in reality practiced upon herself; and of the deaf ear which she ever
turned to such warnings; of her feigned incredulity; and of the mystery
which hung over and covered, with impenetrable darkness, the history of
her birth. He closed with an appeal to the judgment of the
jury—cautioned them against the blinding influence of the
passions—spoke of the dangerous eloquence of a woman in weeds—besought
them to keep their reason unclouded, and not suffer sympathy to work a
wrong—and asked for justice, sheer justice, the justice of the law,
that right might be vindicated without respect of persons.”

The evidence went far to sustain the labored and wily exposition of the
advocate. The first marriage; the desertion; Andrews’ long residence in
New Orleans; his numerous acquaintances, putting inquiry within the easy
reach of every one; his visit to the North; his early return accompanied
by the defendant, who claimed the privileges and honors of a wife; his
disclaimer of her right to such privileges and honors, repeatedly made
to his associates; the many hints which the defendant had received from
the well disposed and compassionate, as to her true position, early in
her marriage; her confused replies, and faint and soon relinquished
inquiries; her unwillingness to speak of her family, and studied silence
whenever the subject was alluded to; the suspicion which rested upon her
mother’s name, and the existence of the first wife, living even at that
time, in retirement and sorrow in one of the small towns in the north of
France, all was proved by testimony which seemed fair enough.

John Cornelius’ eyes glared gloatingly upon the gold already present to
their sight, and he turned his hands one within the other, in the joy of
the certainty of success.


                              SECTION VII.

I opened the defense. I saw a new countenance upon the twelve faces
before me. There was now no pity, but distrust and a hardening of the
heart, and opinion more than half made up. I walked warily, began afar
off; called them honest—and so indeed they were—acknowledged the first
marriage, acknowledged the first wife living, in sorrow and in want;
acknowledged the plaintiff’s mortgage; claimed nothing from sympathy for
the poor, nothing from sympathy for the wronged widow, nothing from
sympathy for the orphan; alluded to the thick shadows in which time and
circumstances, and a probable wrong, had enveloped the mother’s early
life, and with which they had nothing to do; spoke of that mother’s
purity of conduct during a period of many years, of her industry, of her
accumulation of wealth, of her care for an only child, her daughter and
my client; of the daughter’s peculiar position in society; of her young
ignorance of the world; of her wide separation from Andrews’ place of
residence; of her indiscreet confidence when wooed, pardonable in one
whose own life was to her a mystery; of the hints which she had received
subsequent to her marriage, and of the suspicions which had been
aroused, suspicions well answered and well put to rest by suggestions of
the malice of her husband’s enemies, and by trust in the man she loved,
in the man into whose arms she had surrendered all—a trust most
honorable in a woman. But where was the first wife? Why had she remained
silent? Wronged, deserted, driven out, she must have been ready to give
credence to any report in disparagement of her husband. Under such
circumstances, hints and inuendoes in which the defendant could put no
faith, could not satisfy her that she had been deceived. This was the
position which we occupied; this was our defense. The evidence which I
was about to introduce said all that I said, and into its keeping I
willingly surrendered the property and the good name of the widow and
orphan, whose cause is holy in the sight of God and of men. _Cum
deceptis jura subveniunt._

It was now for me to introduce the evidence on the part of the defense,
and I did so in the order which reason at once suggests as the most
natural and direct. First, of the marriage, which was not denied; then
of the wife’s inheritance, which Andrews had received, and of which the
proof was too full to be questioned; and then, as part of the _res
gestæ_, letters written by Andrews at different periods, and in times of
temporary absence, breathing confidence and love, and twice alluding to
the suspicions which the idle gossip of his enemies had planted in the
breast of his wife, and branding them as the offspring of an unfounded
malice.

As I passed the papers to the clerk, I turned and looked upon Mr.
Cornelius. His hands rested, clenched, upon his knees, but his eyes
still reached for the gold which was fast receding in the distance. My
client had, from the first, put off all womanly fear, and listened to
the argument and watched the testimony with a clear brow, pale from
resolution. Once, when the junior counsel in his opening speech, hinted
at concubinage—a crime too frequent, too much bred into the customs of
the city not to gain an easy credence—the blood mounted, suffused her
temples, bathed her whole face in the ruddy light of a golden sunset,
and then flowed back not to return again. Now, she was cool enough.

I next read letters from the mother, dated both before and after the
daughter’s marriage. They were written with great elegance and
simplicity, and all started from the same point, and all came back to it
again—a mother’s care and unceasing anxiety for her daughter’s physical
health, for her mental improvement, for her moral purity. The court was
touched; a manly sorrow sat, veiled, upon the hard features of the jury;
the miser shook, like an aspen-leaf, through every limb. I paused—and
then took up another, the last, written but a few days prior to the
mother’s death, the last words of that mother to her child, in life. Its
manner, the solemn cadence of the periods, the matter, fell slowly and
heavily upon the ear, like the thick breathings of one with whom the
world has little more to do. The shadow rested upon the hand as it
wrote. It was crowded with the griefs of many years. It spoke darkly of
wrongs received; of a stern resolve; of labors endured, and endured
joyously for the offspring of a love struck-down, and changed to very
hate, even in the first hour of its young life; of one whose name her
daughter’s lips had never syllabled; of one living, prosperous in the
world, the daughter’s father and her husband. Wait, yet a little while,
and she should know the blood which had begotten her, and claim her
own—a rich inheritance equal with the noblest in the land. Alas! that
waiting was to be too long! Death had sealed the mother’s lips, and
there sat the daughter, hunted, hunted like a hare by the hounds of the
law.

My client covered her face with the folds of her robe.

“How does the mother sign herself?” asked the judge.

“Ann Chapman, may it please your honor.”

“Ann Chapman!” exclaimed John Cornelius springing to his feet. “Ann
Chapman! Give me the letter.”

I put it into his hands. His eyes glanced at the date, and then rested,
fixed, upon the signature. The pallor of the dead crept slowly over him;
his arms gave up their strength and fell to his side, the paper dropped
upon the floor. “Here, take it, take it,” he said, in a hollow whisper,
looking straight out upon vacuity; “it is nothing, nothing, nothing.”
Then turning to his counsel, he bid them enter a discontinue, and walked
hurriedly out of court.

“This is a strange ending!” said the judge.

“My client is mad!” said the opposite senior counsel.

“Our client is mad!” echoed his junior, bundling up his papers with a
piece of red tape.

“Mad or sane, gentlemen, it is a fit conclusion to what should never
have been begun,” said I, taking the young widow under my arm and
leading her away, much wondering at the abrupt termination of the suit.

“Do you think Mr. Cornelius has really gone mad?” she asked, looking up
into my face with a tear upon her eyelids. It was one of sorrow, not
joy; God bless her, she had forgotten her good fortune in sympathy for
her oppressor.

“If to have a conscience is to be so,” I answered; and took leave of her
at the door of her residence—at the door of the house we had battled
for—so happy, that she tried and could not say, “I thank you.”


                             SECTION VIII.

I returned to my office in a very good humor with all the world. Upon my
table I found a note from Mr. Cornelius, requesting me to call upon him
at an early hour in the evening. “A compromise—no compromises, Mr.
Cornelius. If you will, begin again; but the widow shall keep all, to
the last farthing.” And I dispatched a reply, saying I would be with him
precisely at eight.

John Cornelius lived in the upper part of the city, in a very large and
costly house, which had been built by a parvenu of sudden wealth. It
covered, with the surrounding grounds, two-thirds of a square, and had
been purchased by Mr. Cornelius at the sale of the parvenu’s succession,
rather on account of the land, than for any profitable use which he
could make of the noble structure to which the land was appurtenant. The
increasing commerce of the city had so surrounded it with warehouses and
presses for cotton, as to render it impossible to find a tenant at even
a three per cent. rent, so he moved into it himself, and, with one
slave, lived there upon fifty cents a day. The spacious and unfurnished
halls, dark, gloomy, venerable with dust, returned a hollow echo to my
tread, as I entered at the appointed hour. I found the miser sitting at
a small table, covered with papers, in the centre of a large room; the
table and two chairs, that which he occupied and one reserved for
myself, were all of furniture that it contained. He looked very pale,
did not rise to receive me, but in silence waived his hand as an
invitation to be seated. I obeyed, and waited for a declaration of the
motives which had induced him to request my presence. But during the
lapse of ten minutes he did not speak, so I drew his note from my pocket
and pushing it toward him across the table, observed that my time was
worth one dollar the minute.

“Your client is my daughter,” said Mr. Cornelius.

“Your daughter! Then you are mad, sure enough!”

Mr. Cornelius gathered up the papers which lay upon the table before him
and put them into my hands. They were, first, a certificate of his
marriage with Ann Chapman, in the city of New York, on the ninth day of
October, eighteen hundred and —; second, articles of separation entered
into, and signed in duplicate, by both parties, just one year
thereafter—being done at New York on the ninth day of October, one
thousand eight hundred and —; and last, several letters received by Mr.
Cornelius from his wife’s relatives at wide intervals, and at periods
long subsequent to their stipulated divorce. The articles contained an
acknowledgment on the part of Mrs. Cornelius of her having received
twenty thousand dollars from her husband in full satisfaction of all
claims upon him for support, and of her right of dower in his estate;
the letters were written in answer to inquiries made by himself as to
his wife’s existence and condition in life, and all, without exception,
expressed an utter inability to give him any information upon the
subject.

“In eighteen hundred and —,” said Mr. Cornelius, “I visited the North,
and there met with and hastily married Ann Chapman, then a young woman
of humble parentage—not otherwise than my own—with much beauty, a
moderate education, and a spirit which was equal to any fortune. My
business called me to England, and upon my return I saw, or fancied that
I saw, some change in her feelings toward me. She was honest, as honest
as the light in which God robes himself; but the great disparity of our
ages made me jealous of her affection; and as she was of a strong
temper, not easily controlled, while I was in some degree unreasonable
and exacting, we soon quarreled, made each other miserable, and, by
mutual consent, separated. When I took leave of her, she put her hand in
mine, and with a calmness which was terrible, called down every
suffering upon her head if, with her assent, I should see her face
again. She would go and hide her sorrow among strangers, and even the
fruit of our short-lived love, which she then carried in her bosom,
should not know me until grief and many years had ripened me for the
grave. I returned to New Orleans; I returned to my labor and my money
getting—and she, alas! she kept her purpose too well! Through many a
long month, and through many a long year, have I repented of that folly,
to find only at this hour the blood which is my own. I have heaped up
gold and houses and lands—sir, my wife and daughter would have made me
a better man.”

And he drew down his long silver locks over his face and covered it with
his hands.

“Are you satisfied as to the identity; have you no doubts, Mr.
Cornelius?”

He took a richly chased miniature from his bosom and bid me look at it.

“It is the mother as she was at twenty; it is the daughter of to-day.”

I started with surprise; it could not have been more like, had the young
widow sat for it.

“The evidence is conclusive, Mr. Cornelius; and I will now take a fee
upon the other side. Let us go at once to her house, and claim not only
that, but its fair occupant also.”

“No, no, we must meet here. These walls know me; I am at home; and I
must receive my daughter in my own house,” said Mr. Cornelius. “You are
her best friend—hereafter you shall be mine; do you then call upon her,
break this matter gently to her, and in the morning you will find me
here, waiting your coming.”

“I will not tell her that I have found her father,” said I, “for that
would be subjecting her nerves to two trials; and it might be that you
would be compelled to go to her in the end, with a physician at your
back. It is better that she should be made to expect one good fortune,
and find another; so, I will tell her that you relented, discontinued
your suit from sheer pity, and wish to make her a present equal in value
to the amount which was involved in the dispute between you, as a small
compensation for the trouble you have given her.”

“As you please,” said Mr. Cornelius, smiling, no doubt at the
improbability of the story.

“Never fear, a woman’s faith is large enough to believe any thing,” said
I, not wishing to be misunderstood; and the miser now rose, and
accompanied me to the door.


                              SECTION IX.

In the morning, the young widow and myself walked slowly along toward
her father’s residence; I, more than half ashamed of the deception I had
put upon her; and she, wondering at the fortune which had poured a
golden shower into her lap, and framing thanks to be heaped upon the
good man, who had threatened poverty only to bestow riches.

At the door she hesitated, and said that I must speak for her.

“Never mind,” said I, “nature will put fit words into your mouth, and
some things are best expressed by silence.”

We entered—the widow hanging upon my arm; her whole weight was upon
it—not very large, indeed—for she was ready to sink down, oppressed
with a load of gratitude. John Cornelius sat where I had found him the
preceding evening, at the little, table covered with papers, in the
centre of the room, and with one vacant chair. Well, thought I, we shall
not want a third. He rose with much coldness in his manner, bowed
formally, took his daughter’s hand, and assisted her to the vacant seat;
he then gave me that which he had himself occupied.

“Madam,” said he, after a short pause, and in a voice which seemed
stoutly braced with resolution, and yet just ready to break down, “I
have requested your presence here, in order that you might read these
papers, for they somewhat concern you;” and taking up the certificate of
marriage, and the articles of separation, he held them out toward her.
She received them, with a word of thanks, thinking no doubt, that they
were titles to the property which I had induced her to believe was to be
bestowed upon her. As she read the articles, her color left her, and a
cold sweat started from her brow and rolled down her face, and wet her
garments. The certificate she carried twice to her eyes, and twice
failed to read, but glared upon it like one who sees a vision in his
sleep: the third time she read it aloud, screaming as if to make certain
with her voice, what her eyes doubted.

“And this,” shouted Cornelius, drawing the picture from his bosom and
holding it up, her other self, before her.

“My God—my father!” she exclaimed, rising slowly, and pulling at her
fingers; then swayed to and fro, uncertain of her step; leaped into the
old man’s arms, fastened about his neck, and slept insensible, upon his
bosom.

John Cornelius sank with his burden upon the floor, and wept, and sobbed
like a child.

A broad, plain, gold ring rolled bounding to my feet. I picked it up.
Within the circle were engraved two letters, “J. C.” It was the bridal
ring, a gift from her mother, as Ægeus gave his sword to Æthra, that the
father might recognize his child, when in the fulfillment of time they
should meet.


                               SECTION X.

Merry days these—happy days these—let us laugh and grow fat, for
to-morrow we die. The miser’s daughter had a hundred suitors, and well
she might; for she was young, and beautiful, and pure. And was she not
heir-apparent of millions? Good Lord! Good Lord! how they did amble, and
trot, and show their paces, and protest, and pray, and besiege—all to
no purpose! And those jurymen, too, who were baulked of their verdict,
did they not open their eyes widely when the story was told them, and
say that they knew it would be so? And the judge, did he not crack his
joke with the junior counsel, and bemoan the young man’s stars which had
so betrayed his interest, and wagged his tongue with some venom in it,
upon the losing side? And the counsel, senior and junior—did they not
assume a show of wisdom, and say that from the beginning they had no
confidence in the cause? A blind business was it with us all, when we
undertook to mete out justice to father and daughter, with a seven-fold
cloud before our eyes; and a blind business the law ever is.

    Quid faciant leges, ubi sola pecunia regnat,
      Aut ubi paupertus vincere nulla potent?
    Ipri, qui cynica traducunt tempora cœna,
      Nonnum quum nummis vendere verba solent.
    Ergo judicium nihil est, nisi publica muces,
      Atque equis, in caussa qui redet, emtor probat.

So sang Petronius, and so sing I.


                              SECTION XI.

The fair widow moved into her father’s house, and carried joy with her,
and smiles, and a new life. The dusty halls and silent chambers were
soon made glad, and gave no echo back to the busy feet which beat their
floors in measured tread to the sound of lutes. Men wondered at the
miser’s transformation, and the jolly sun, driving up the clear, blue,
vaulted roof of the earth, looked in upon curtains, and mirrors, and
rich carpets, and all the bought luxury of great wealth, and danced upon
the draped walls, and laughed, and wondered too. But the change was of
the surface. The miser loved his daughter with his whole soul; he loved
gold with more than his whole soul—gold, his first love—and the
daughter held a divided and an inferior empire in his affections. The
miser loved his daughter as he best might, with his heart of shining
metal, and he would have loved her had she been less than what she was;
less beautiful, less worthy, less full of the love which flowed from her
like a sea, and covered him, and he drank of it, a joy he had never
known. He loved her, as the heir to his vast estates, as himself
renewed, to bear his labor onward, to accumulate through still another
span of life; and he showed her to the world, and took pride in this new
glory, as a new title to his possessions, which was to carry them with
himself, even beyond the grave.

I was often with them; I became almost an inmate of the house,
subsequent to the events which I have just related—the father’s legal
adviser, the daughter’s best friend. Mr. Cornelius did not weary of the
empty bustle and noise of fashion with which his daughter’s youth and
brilliant position at once surrounded her; he seemed pleased with it,
and often spoke of it as the proud homage which intellect, and nice
honor, and high titles, and all the virtues, and all the prejudices of
men, pay to wealth—and so, indeed, it was. With the daughter, these
enjoyments soon palled. She had learned of sorrow from her birth, and
had happily received from her mother a head too strong for turning;
when, therefore, novelty wore away, and satiety began to usurp its
place, she gradually withdrew from the press of company, and gave to her
father those hours which others had before possessed. Although change
had come over every thing else, Mr. Cornelius forbid its entrance into
the one room reserved for himself; the room in which he had received his
daughter, with the little table and the two chairs standing in the
centre, and its naked walls and bare door, which were to him as old
acquaintances, and where, alone, he now felt fully at home. There they
would often sit together in the deep hours of the night, and while she
played with his white locks, and watched the beatings of his heart, to
find it tuned to a music widely different from her own, and listened to
his never-ending promises, and never-ending hopes of a wealth which was
to make his only one, his jewel, a match which princes might envy, she
became painfully conscious of her father’s worldliness and debasing
servitude to the hard earth. She saw that he lay prone, chained, bound
down with clamps of iron, of silver, and of gold, and never raised his
eyes to the upper light, or questioned of the day when he should be
called to give an account of his stewardship. Then she would weep, and
kiss her father, and talk of her mother who had passed away, and of
another life, and hope that they might all meet in that better world;
and the miser would stroke down her glossy hair with his trembling
hands, and press her forehead to his lips, and call her a foolish girl,
who troubled herself about matters with which she had nothing to do; and
bade her go and dream of the glory to which he had raised her, and count
her suitors, and be brave.

“More, more,” was the miser’s unceasing cry; “all, all—I want all,” was
the prayer which he put up, not to the Giver of all Good, but to his own
will, which habit had enslaved, until use made servitude a happiness.
And he worked on, ever gaining, ever adding, abstemious, pinching,
self-denying, liberal only to his daughter, whom he could never see too
richly clad, too sumptuously served—a costly toy to be stared at and
admired. “She is my diamond,” he would say, “which I have chosen to
plant in a rich setting.”


                              SECTION XII.

But the daughter grew, day by day, more thoughtful, denied herself more
frequently to her followers, and was more and more often to be found
sitting with her father, alone, at the little table, winning him from
his labor. Mr. Cornelius was too much engrossed with the world, with
money-getting, to observe the beginning and progress of the change in
his daughter’s manner, amusements, and way of life; and he soon learned
to work on, with his child at his side, half unconscious of her
presence, and yet alive to the pleasurable feeling that there was
something near him which he much loved. I was not so blind. As month
after month rolled away, I saw the shadow of a great melancholy creep
slowly over her face, and deepen, and deepen, until it had imparted that
exquisite softness to her beauty which is the surest symptom of decay.
We see it in the flower; time gives it to all the works of man; and
genius shows it, as the flame trembles, flickers, leaps upward, and goes
out. The heart was sick; the spirit grew toward heaven. I had occasion,
one evening, to be with Mr. Cornelius until a late hour, conversing
about some matters in the courts which he had entrusted to my care; we
had talked much, and the last watch was drawing to a close, when the
door quietly opened, and his daughter entered, holding in one hand a
light stool, and in the other a book. “The gentleman will excuse us for
a moment,” she said, addressing her father; then turning to me, she
received me with her usual cordiality. “I have adopted a practice, of
late, of reading a chapter to my father before retiring,” she continued;
“and you can remain, if you please, and join us in our
devotions—surely, such worship can harm no one.” And sitting down at
her father’s knees, she laid the holy volume in his lap, opened it, and
read; while he bent over her until his silver locks mingled with the
jetty tresses of her hair, and listened to her teaching—it was time,
old, worn-out time, called to eternity by a sweet messenger from God.
“There, that will do, my child; put up the book,” said Mr. Cornelius, as
his daughter’s voice, losing its firmness, grew uncertain, and tears
fell pattering upon the story she repeated: “certainly, certainly, it is
not for me, in my old age, to learn of one so young.” It was a simple
tale, a touching parable, told by Christ; so appropriate as to require
from me no further designation. “Why, what spirit has come over you of
late—always weeping!” said the old man, kissing the moisture from her
eyelids. “What do you want? All that I have is yours. Now go—and see
that you show a merry face in the morning.” The daughter rose, and bid
us good-night.

“Do you not think Anne has lost a little of her color—grown slightly
pale, Mr. Didimus?”

I made known the fears which I had long entertained, and to which each
day added a confirmation.

“My daughter’s sick! sick at heart! Nonsense! What has she to be sick
about? Are not my coffers open to her hand? What power of this earth is
greater than her gold? Sick!—And yet, now I do remember, that for the
past month, or more, no music has come into me, as it was wont, from her
crowded rooms; no sounds of merriment, of joy, of the frivolity of
fools, grating upon the ear of night; no cringing, no bowing low with
doffed hat, and giving of God’s health, as I pass in and out at my own
door. Look to it: you are my daughter’s best friend; question her;
inquire out the secret sorrow which preys upon her mind—surely, money
is a medicine for all the ills of life. She requires a change of place;
these stuffed marts about us breed foul air; let her travel. Or,
perhaps, she has again listened to the idle whispers of love, and
conceals from me her weakness. Tell her, that although I would have her
live with me during the short remainder of my life, yet she shall marry
where she may choose; to give me a long line of heirs, rich, rich,
through two centuries. Sick! why I was never sick!” And the miser bent
over the little table, and returned to his calculations.


                             SECTION XIII.

The miser’s history went on as before—still gaining, still adding;
while the daughter’s bloom passed slowly away. Her limbs lost their
roundness, her face grew sharp and hollow, and grief sat ever upon it,
until her friends had almost forgotten its former mirth and beauty, and
were half persuaded that it had been always so. No questioning of mine
would entice her to an explanation. “It is a matter with which you can
have nothing to do. There is no remedy in your hands. Let me alone; I
wrestle daily with my God.” What could I say? I was silent; for it was
indeed a matter with which I had nothing to do. Preach to the drunkard
over his cups; to the gambler, when he wins; to the man whose garments
are like unto his who came from Edom, red with the blood of men, and
gain a soul for Heaven; but the miser, with one foot on Mammon, the
other on the grave, never yet turned from his first love, or forgot the
gods which his own hands have fashioned. John Cornelius became used to
his daughter’s declining health, and soon ceased to speak of it. Indeed,
engrossed in his labors of accumulation, he began to think she was well
enough, as well as she ever had been, and that the change, if change
there was, was in his own eyes, which had, perhaps, grown somewhat dim
with age. Poor Anne! she nightly sat at her father’s knees, and nightly
read to him, and he nightly praised her beauty, and called her a foolish
girl, and kissed away her tears, and babbled of gold, till her heart
withered within her, and she withdrew to dream of her mother, and a
great joy, and to gather a new courage to begin again her ceaseless
task, ever hoping, ever disappointed. Thus ran a year away.


                              SECTION XIV.

One bright morning in November, here the sweetest month of all the
twelve, Mr. Cornelius called at my office, and informed me that his
daughter had been sick, confined to her bed for the past two days, and
had expressed a wish to see me. He said her indisposition was but
slight, attributed it to some frivolous cause, and expressed a hope that
it would soon pass off. I looked up into his face; he was honest; still
blind to his daughter’s decay; death stood palpably before him, robed in
the freshness of youth. Death! How should he see death? Gold was ever in
his thoughts; gold filled his vision; his taste, his scent were gold;
and gold ran clinking into his ears: death had walked his house a year
unrecognized.

I laid aside my papers, and accompanied Mr. Cornelius home. He passed
into his own room, with the little table and the two chairs; I ascended
to his daughter’s chamber. What a mockery was there of all that this
world loves so much, strives after, and wins, with loss of body and of
soul! Upon a bed, canopied with rich stuffs of woven silk and gold, with
curtains of satin, rose-colored, and tugged with tassels of silver,
spread with the finest linen, and covered with flowers, worked upon a
ground of velvet, lay Anne, the miser’s daughter, pale and emaciated,
and with her eyes, to whatever point they might turn, resting upon some
new evidence of her father’s wealth and worldliness, upon some new
evidence of the cause of all her sorrow. Her physician stood at her
bed-side; as I entered he raised his finger to his lips, and came to me.
“She is passing away,” he whispered. I approached the bed slowly, and on
tiptoe. Anne felt my presence in the air, and turning her face toward
me, held out her hand. I took it in mine. “I have called you,” said she,
in a voice scarcely audible, “to take leave of you. You have been my
good friend since the day that we first met in your office; I a poor
woman, striving for that which I have long since found to be of little
worth; when I am gone, transfer your friendship to my father. Tell him
where I may be found, and bid him there seek for me. Oh, God! how long
have I wrestled with thee, in bitter prayer, for this favor; thou wilt
not, in the end, deny it to me. Farewell! We shall meet again! I go to
my mother. Now bring my father to me, and let us be alone together.”

The physician pressed her hand in silence, turned to the wall, and went
out. I followed, and we both hastened to call Mr. Cornelius. We found
him counting over a bag of silver, which he had just received from a
tenant.

“How is my daughter? Better—well?” he asked, still continuing to count,
and to test the genuineness of the metal by ringing it upon the table.

“Sir—your daughter is dying.”

“Dying!” and the coin rolled merrily upon the floor. “Dying—doctor?
Tut, tut. You jest.”

“Mr. Cornelius, your daughter wishes to speak with you, to give you her
last words in life.”

“_Charlatan_—quack—driveler—you lie!” cried the miser with livid
lips, starting to his feet, and shaking his clenched hands in the
physician’s face. “Die!—my daughter shall not die—she cannot die—the
children of the rich never die—what would you have? Gold!—here is a
bill for fifty thousand—save my daughter—ay, I will make it a hundred
thousand—but save my daughter—poor, poor, poor Anne!” and his head
fell, and rested upon his breast. The old man stood before us
motionless, transfixed with grief.

“Mr. Cornelius.”

“Oh, I am sick with much sorrow! Lend me your arm? Did you not say
something of twenty per cent?”

I led him away to his daughter’s chamber. As we entered, her face was
turned toward us.

“Who said that my daughter was dead?” asked Mr. Cornelius.

Anne feebly smiled.

“We shall all spring upward from the ground, winged; and with a power
which will bear us swiftly to the throne, which endureth forever and
forever.”

I hastened to bear her father to her bed-side. The last breath had
parted from her lips, and as he questioned her, and she returned no
answer; as he called to her, and she called not back again, he fell upon
her, and his moan filled the room.

“Gone! oh my daughter; my jewel of great price—the heir to all my
riches—my second life! Is the breath of man unbought! Can no one bribe
death? Is there joy in the cold grave? O, come to me, my child, and
sleep in my bosom, and fare sumptuously every day.” And he drew much
gold from his pockets, and heaped it upon the bed beside her, and
wondered that she should die.

And the world wondered, also, that she should die. And idle curiosity
poured in to look upon her dust; and was shocked, and shrugged its
shoulders, and exclaimed—“what a pity! In the morning of life—and so
rich!” And again the world forgot her year of mourning, and her gradual
decay, and carried its thoughts back to the hours when that small,
pinched face was radiant with health, and a new-found happiness; and
laughter rang from those thin lips, and merriment sparkled in the closed
eye, and whispered and coined suggestions, and said that “after all she
was not the miser’s daughter, and had died suddenly with the coming of
that certainty.”

Fools and Idiots! Is not the grave open to all? And did she not well to
love her father’s soul better than his wealth? And did she not well to
labor for it, unceasingly; and then, the crowning of that labor, to lie
down and die?


                              SECTION XV.

The daughter of the rich man was carried to her grave upon the shoulders
of the rich, followed by a crowd of worshipers; and as the body was
borne into the Chapel of the Departed, and the procession flowed in, and
filled the aisles, the choristers chanted the _Requiem_ for the dead.

        Dies iræ, dies illa
        Solvet secium in favilla,
        Teste David cum Sybilla.

“My daughter, oh! my daughter; why wouldst thou die?”

        Quantus tremor est futurus,
        Quando Judex est venturus,
        Cuncta stricte discussurus.

“Return, oh! return, return again to me.”

        Tuba mirum spargens sonum
        Per sepulchra regionum,
        Coget omnes ante thronum!

“and thou shalt make me what thou willest.”

        Mors stupebit, et natura,
        Cum resurget creatura,
        Judicanti responsura.

“The shining gold is thine, and houses, and lands, and all the glory of
life.”

        Liber scriptus proferetur,
        In quo totum continetur,
        Unde mundus judicetur.

“My daughter, oh! my daughter, return again to me.”

        Judex ergo cum sedebit
        Quidquid latet apparebit,
        Nil inultum remanebit.

“Thy suitors call thee; the music, the dance, the revelry of joy.”

        Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
        Quem patronum rogaturus,
        Cum vix justus sit securus?

“No voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.”

        Rex tremendæ majestatis,
        Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
        Salva me, fons pietatis.

“Cold, cold, cold in death!”

        Recordare, Jesu pie,
        Quod sum causa tuæ viæ,
        Ne me perdas illa die.

“Strike up—louder—louder yet.”

        Quærens me sedisti lassus,
        Redemisti crucem passus,
        Tantus labor non sit cassus.

“She loved the noise of trumpets, of sounds harmonious, the bustle of
the earth.”

        Juste Judex ultionis,
        Donum fac remissionis,
        Ante diem rationis.

“Louder, louder—no voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.”

        Ingemisco tamquam reus,
        Culpa rubet vultus meus:
        Supplicanti parce, Deus.

“Gone, gone—thus runs the world away!”

        Qui Mariam absolvisti,
        Et latronem exaudisti,
        Mihi quoque spem dedisti.

“Poor, poor, poor Anne!”

        Precos meæ non sunt dignæ,
        Sed tu, bonu, fac benigne,
        Ne perenni cremer igne.

“In the grave is sleep and rest.”

        Inter oves locum præsta,
        Et ab hœdis me sequestra,
        Statuens in parte dextra.

“Cold sleep, cold rest.”

        Confutatis maledictis,
        Flammis acribus addictis,
        Voca me cum benedictis.

“Pass on, sweet spirit, to thy waking; if waking there may be.”

        Oro supplex, et acclinis;
        Cor contritum quasi cinis,
        Gere curam mei finis.

“Our father, which art in heaven.”

        Lacrymosa dies illa
        Qua resurget ex favilla.

“Hallowed be thy name.”

        Judicandus homo reus.
        Huic ergo parce Deus.

                                “Amen.”

We buried Anne, and upon the tablet which marks the place where she is
laid I caused to be cut her last words—“We shall spring upward from the
ground, winged, and with a power which will bear us swiftly to the
throne which endureth forever and forever.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE DESERTED.


                        BY MISS MATTIE GRIFFITH.


  Why didst thou leave me thus? Had memory
  No chain to bind thee to me, lone and wrecked
  In spirit as I am? Was there no spell
  Of power in my deep, yearning love to stir
  The sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keep
  My image trembling there? Is there no charm
  In strong and high devotion such as mine
  To win thee to my side once more? Must I
  Be cast forever off for brighter forms
  And gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still.
  Love will not, cannot perish in my heart—
  ’Twill linger there forever. Even now
  In our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hour
  Of passion’s unforgotten tryst, I hush
  The raging tumult of my soul, and still
  The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride
  Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue
  Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o’er
  The western sky recalls some by-gone joy,
  That we have shared together, and my soul
  Is love’s and memory’s.
                          As here I sit
  In loneliness, the thought comes o’er my heart
  How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft
  The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood
  Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount
  O’erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt
  The spirit of a holy love bedew
  Our hearts’ own budding blossoms. There I drank
  The wild, o’ermastering tide of eloquence
  That flowed from thy o’erwrought and burning soul.
  There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers
  To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now
  Beside me lies a bud, the little bud
  Thou gav’st me in the glad, bright summer-time,
  Telling me ’twas the emblem of a hope
  That soon would burst to glorious life within
  Our spirit’s garden. The poor fragile bud
  Is now all pale and withered, and the hope
  Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast
  Forever forth from thine.
                          They tell me, too,
  My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas!
  There is no more a spirit-fire within
  To light it with the olden glow. Life’s dreams
  And visions all have died within my soul,
  And I am sad and lone and desolate;
  And yet at times, when I behold thee near,
  A something like the dear old feeling stirs
  Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb
  Of withered memories one pale, pale rose,
  To bloom a moment there, and cast around
  Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon
  It vanishes away, as if it were
  A mockery, the spectre of a flower;
  I quell my struggling sighs and wear a smile;
  But, ah! that smile, more eloquent than sighs
  Tells of a broken heart.
                      ’Tis said that thou
  Dost ever shine the gayest ’mid the gay,
  That loudest rings thy laugh in festive halls,
  That in the dance, with lips all wreathed in smiles,
  Thou whisperest love’s delicious flatteries;
  And if my name is spoken, a light sneer
  Is all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I know
  Beneath thy hollow mask of recklessness
  Thy conscious heart still beats as true to me
  As in the happy eves long past. Ah! once,
  In night’s still hour, when I went forth to weep
  Beneath our favorite tree, whose giant arms
  Seemed stretched out to protect the lonely girl,
  I marked a figure stealing thence away,
  And my poor heart beat quick; for oh! I saw,
  Despite the closely-muffled cloak, ’twas thou
  Then, then I knew that thou in secrecy
  Had’st sought that spot, like me, to muse and weep
  O’er blighted memories. Thou art, like me,
  In heart a mourner. In thy solitude,
  When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs
  Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall
  Like burning rain. Oh! ’twas thy hand that dealt
  The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear
  My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel
  That thou, in all thy manhood’s glorious strength
  Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony,
  Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight
  Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams,
  And even with a smile upon thy lip,
  But a keen arrow quivering deep within
  Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may’st wed
  Another; but beside the altar dark
  My mournful form will stand, and when thou see’st
  The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow,
  Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled
  Wildly around thine own.
                      I’m dying now;
  Life’s sands are failing fast, the silver cord
  Is loosed and broken, and the golden bowl
  Is shattered at the fount. My sun has set,
  And dismal clouds hang o’er me; but afar
  I see the glorious realm of Paradise,
  And by its cooling fountains, and beneath
  Its holy shades of palm, my soul will wash
  Away its earthly stains, and learn to dream
  Of heavenly joys. Farewell! despite thy cold
  Desertion, I will leave my angel home,
  Each gentle eve, at our own hour of tryst,
  To hold my vigils o’er thy pilgrimage,
  And with my spirit’s-pinion I will fan
  Thy aching brow, and by a holy spell,
  That I may learn in Heaven, will charm away
  All evil thoughts and passions from thy breast,
  And calm the raging tumult of thy soul.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE LOST DEED.


                         A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM.


                            BY E. D. ELIOT.


                      (_Concluded from page 195._)

Mr. Fayerweather and Madam were seated at breakfast before a blazing
fire, one very cold morning in January. John had already finished, and
had gone to Mr. Wendell’s office, in which he was studying his
profession. Vi’let following Scipio, who had entered with some warm
toast, came up to the table and said—

“It’s a terrible cold morning, Misser Fayerweather—I ’spect Primus
han’t got no wood—he’d only jist three sticks yesterday; he’s sick with
the rheumatis, too—mayn’t Scip carry him over some?”

This meant not wholly for the benefit of Primus, but also as a wholesome
discipline of Scip himself, whose health Vi’let thought in danger for
want of exercise. Scip glouted at her but did not dare speak.

“Yes, carry him over a good load Scipio, the moment you have swallowed
your breakfast. Such a morning as this without wood.”

Madam added—“And you shall carry him some stores to make him
comfortable. That makes me think of poor Cluff—I am afraid he is out of
every thing by this time—he must have suffered last night. I ought to
have seen to him before—poor creature! how could I have neglected him
so? I might have known it was coming on cold, from its being so warm
yesterday.”

Mr. Fayerweather endeavored to persuade her that Cluff could scarcely
have consumed the provisions she sent him on Christmas, but she
continued to reproach herself until he told her that he was obliged to
go out in the sleigh as soon as breakfast was over, and that he would go
down himself and see that the old man was comfortable and was well taken
care of.

The worthy gentleman finished his meal and the sleigh was ordered out,
but the hard cough of the old horse as the cutting air struck him on
being led out of his warm stable, reached his kind master’s ear and
found its way to his heart.

“Poor old Moses!” he said, “it would be hard to take you out such a day
as this, it might be your death—I’ll walk. I shall be all the better
for it.” So saying, he lost no time in hurrying on his roquelaure, and
set out on a brisk pace, to avoid the expostulations of his wife, who
had gone to look out some flannels to send Primus. As he passed by Mr.
Wendell’s, his niece having seen him from the window, was at the door to
accost him.

“Why, uncle! where are you going this bitter morning? Do come in.”

“Don’t stop me now, child, I’m in haste; perhaps I’ll drop in as I come
back,” he said; then as he shook his finger at little Will, who was
hanging on his mother’s apron, he gave them both a look so brimful of
kindness and affection and something beyond both, as went to her very
heart. That look Amy never forgot.

The cold was intense, but Mr. Fayerweather proceeded on his way. The air
felt like solid ice to his face, where it was not entirely muffled with
the roquelaure, the cape of which was soon thickly frosted with his
breath. Some shivering, blue-nosed school-boys made their manners as
they passed. “Run quick, my boys,” he said, “or old Jack Frost will have
fast hold of you. See that you keep a warm school-room to-day.” A pipkin
of water was thrown after them from a shop door—it was that of Nanny
Boynton’s new residence—it froze as it fell, and rattled like pebbles
on the snowy crust. When he reached the market-place (it was not a
market-day,) one solitary load of wood was on the stand. As Mr.
Fayerweather came up, the patient beasts which drew it, turned up their
broad faces and looked wistfully at him beneath the wreaths of snow
formed by their breath as it issued from their nostrils. The owner was
thrashing himself very energetically with his arms, to induce a
sensation of warmth. Mr. Fayerweather bought the wood and told the man
to carry it up to his house and tell madam he sent him, this being
tantamount with telling him to go and make himself comfortable by a good
fire, with a good luncheon for himself and his cattle. Mr. Fayerweather
then proceeded on his way. Dr. Holly’s thermometer stood at 18 below 0.

The table was laid for dinner when he returned home. His wife met him
with as severe reproaches as she knew how to frame, for walking out on
such a day.

“Don’t scold, my dear,” he replied, good-humoredly, “you are growing a
perfect shrew, I declare. If you take to scolding, I shall certainly
take to drinking. I am going to take some brandy now.” Then he went to
the buffet, and taking from a liquor chest which stood in the lower part
of it, a case-bottle of brandy, that had reposed there undisturbed, time
out of mind, and unstopping it, he continued:

“I found Cluff very comfortable, in no want of any thing. I went to two
or three other places, but hadn’t time to call and see Judith as I
intended—but let us have dinner, for my walk has made me so hungry I
could eat a trooper, horse and all.”

Madam went into the kitchen herself to hasten in dinner. She remained a
moment, to see Vi’let dish up the turkey, and was, with her own hands,
adding more spice to the gravy, when the sound of some heavy body
falling, hurried her back to the parlor, followed by all four servants.
She found her husband extended on the floor. She flew to assist him,
supposing he had been tripped up accidentally by the carpet, but he was
without sense or motion. “Quick, run for the doctor, Scip, he’s faint;”
and madam took the sal volatile from her pocket to apply to his
nostrils. Vi’let looked at him and felt his pulse, then clasping her
hands, exclaimed—

“God Almighty, mistress!” She suddenly checked herself, and told Flora
and Peter to run for Mrs. Wendell and Madam Brinley.

Dr. Holly on his arrival found madam in strong convulsions, requiring
both her sister and niece to hold her, while Mr. Wendell and John,
assisted by Vi’let, were endeavoring to revive Mr. Fayerweather, who was
still on the floor. On examining him attentively, the Doctor shook his
head hopelessly, but made an immediate attempt to take blood from the
arm. It was in vain—Mr. Fayerweather was dead. His death, Dr. Holly
gave it as his opinion, was accelerated by exposure to the cold and the
long walk, the disease being a hardening of vessels about the heart;
adding that if he could have taken the brandy (which stood on the table
in a tumbler, apparently untasted,) it might have saved him. The grief
of the family and friends of the excellent man may be imagined, but
cannot be dwelt upon here.

The funeral was the longest that ever had been known in Salem, for never
was any inhabitant of it more beloved and respected. As soon as madam
was sufficiently composed, after the funeral, the ebony cabinet was
searched and a will was found, dated the day before George’s departure.
It gave the widow the homestead, which had become very valuable,
together with the whole of the property she had brought; after several
bequests, a large one to Mr. and Mrs. Wendell jointly, the remainder of
the property was divided between the two sons. Mr. Wendell was named as
executor. The estate was perfectly clear and unincumbered and little
time was requisite to settle it.

A few weeks subsequent to the funeral of Mr. Fayerweather, the
inhabitants of Salem were called together by an alarm of fire; an
occurrence so very unusual as well as alarming, that it caused a great
stir and commotion in the quiet and orderly town. The fire broke out in
the office of the Register of Deeds, but was soon put out, doing, as was
at first supposed, but little damage. Upon examination, however, it was
discovered that several books of valuable records were destroyed, and
others much injured. Mr. Wendell having ascertained that the one
containing the copy of the Boynton quit-claim of the Fayerweather
property was among the burnt, as well as that of a date many years
prior, thought best to lose no time in having these important documents
newly registered. Accordingly he looked into the cabinet, which had been
put into his possession, for the originals.

Upon a thorough search with John Fayerweather, no trace of these papers
was to be found in the cabinet; nor, to the astonishment and
consternation of both, in any desk, trunk, drawer or closet in the
premises of the deceased. The only conjecture madam or John could form
in regard to the disappearance of these papers was, that either through
accident or mistake, they had been left in their original place of
deposit, and were now in the elder son’s possession in the little trunk.
In the first vessel which sailed for London, therefore, intelligence was
dispatched to Mr. Haliburton of the melancholy death of his old friend,
and of the missing papers, that he might find means to convey notice to
George, sooner than could be done from Salem.

The destruction of the records came to the knowledge of Jemmy Boynton as
soon as to that of Mr. Wendell, and the delay of the latter to have the
deeds recorded anew, did not escape her notice. Jemmy was ever on the
alert to seize upon every circumstance which might possibly involve the
risk or loss of property to others, in the well-grounded hope, which he
rarely failed to realize, of in some way or other turning it to his own
benefit. Accordingly the old fox was not slow to suspect some
substantial reason for such delay or apparent neglect on the part of so
careful a man of business as Mr. Wendell was well-known to be, and he
did not stop till he had found out the true cause. To arrive at
certainty, he thought it would be best to make a visit of condolence to
the widow, judging from her well-known simplicity, she would give him
all the information he desired. And he was not mistaken.

He took care to make his visit at a time when he felt pretty sure Madam
Fayerweather would be alone. It was on a fine morning in June that Jemmy
sallied forth. He had dressed himself in the best his wardrobe afforded;
a suit of fine claret-colored broadcloth, which had been left in pawn to
him years before by a needy French prisoner on his parole, and which had
never been redeemed; a white satin waistcoat, grown somewhat yellow with
age, and white silk hose with gold clocks, fitting tight to his spindle
legs; all belonging to the same pledge. Possibly the finery of the
jaunty Frenchman might have inspired him with some undefined notions of
gallantry; for Jemmy was going to make a call upon a rich widow just six
months in weeds. But if any airy visions fluttered about his heart and
occasioned the smirk upon his withered physiognomy as he bent his way to
her house, they were speedily put to flight on entering the parlor of
madam, who manifested such unqualified discomfiture on seeing him, that
the compliment which he had been framing during his walk, perished
before its birth, and he felt called upon to account for his visit by
the phrase of condolence he had previously conned over with much care.

“Madam, I come to condole with you on your bereavement—’twas a
sorrowful bereavement.”

The tears came into the eyes of the widowed lady, but she felt so much
relieved at finding Jemmy was not come to demand possession of the
estate, as she at first had supposed, but was only making a friendly
call in kindness, that it was not in her nature to take it otherwise
than kindly. Her countenance resumed its usual benevolent expression,
though much saddened of late, as she thanked him and inquired after
“Miss Nancy’s health.”

“Thank ye kindly, madam, Nanny’s but poorly with the rheumatis; she
sends her humble sarvice to you, and hope I see you well.” Then Jemmy
proceeded in his most insinuating manner, to ask if there was nothing
that he or Nanny could do to “sarve” her, and really appeared so
friendly, that madam was taken by surprise, and out the secret came; for
she thought it would be a fine opportunity to ask him for a new
quit-claim of the whole property, which, from the great good-will he
manifested, she could not doubt he would readily give.

His object so fully attained, Jemmy, in his elation became airy, and at
length quite softened to the tender. Placing his brown forepaws upon his
knees, he looked down upon his golden clocks, which he thought had
helped him to win the day, and evading madam’s request, he turned the
subject to her husband’s death.

“Your worthy spouse, madam, died of an arterplax, (apoplexy?) I take
it—a-a-hm—well.” The compliment was now revived. “A fat sorrow is
better than a lean one—he’s left you well to do in the world, and sich
a parsonable woman as you will find enough ready to supply his place.”

The smirk which had been frightened away on his entrance, again returned
to adorn his lanthern jaws, giving Madam Fayerweather, in indignant
amazement, some reason to imagine he contemplated offering himself as a
candidate for the place he alluded to, with small doubts of being a
favored one. She rose, and all the Borland blood mounted to her face.
The bell-rope was jerked with a violence wholly unnecessary, for Scipio
made his appearance before the bell could sound in the kitchen; he and
Vi’let having, on Jemmy’s first entrance, stationed themselves in the
passage between the parlor and kitchen, and had heard through the
keyhole all which had passed. The guest, however, thought good to make a
precipitate retreat without waiting for the ceremony of being shown the
door. As he passed by the side-gate, Vi’let stood ready to salute him
with a ladleful of some liquid, taken from a kettle on the kitchen
hearth, which all the plates and dishes, as they had come from the
table, had passed through to restore them to their native purity,
leaving behind them their impurities floating on the top; and as the
rich compound splashed over the skirts of his coat and his silken hose,
with gold clocks, she cried after him:

“You want to take Misser Fayerweather’s place, do ye! ye old
skinflint—well, see how you like a sup of Vi’let’s broth.”

Stung with his unceremonious dismission; his legs smarting with the
scalding liquor, Vi’let’s insult was more than he could bear. Turning
round in a rage, he called out, doubling up his fist and shaking it at
her—

“Tell your proud jade of a mistress she wont hold her head so high long,
on other people’s ground! And as for you! ye nigger”—he made use of an
epithet which would not appear polite here—“I’ll have you up to the
whipping-post!”

Vi’let answered him with a scornful laugh, as she slammed the gate after
him. Poor madam was overwhelmed with mortification and chagrin at her
own folly, of which she was fully sensible as soon as she had committed
herself.

As Jemmy proceeded home, his keen sense of indignity wore off in the
exulting thought of vengeance in full prospect. He and his precious
sister, however, had one great drawback to their satisfaction; the
necessity of opening their purse-strings sufficiently wide to draw
therefrom a fee large enough to induce any man of the law to undertake
the case against Mr. Wendell, who was regarded throughout the province
as the head of the profession. But a lawyer was at length found at the
distance of twenty miles, who was willing to engage in the cause for a
moderate share of the profits, if successful, and to lose his fee if
not; and the trial was prepared to come on at the annual November court.

It occasioned a great sensation at the bar, from the amount of property
involved, and the respective characters of the plaintiffs and defendant;
the latter being Mr. Wendell, as executor to the deceased. He determined
to plead the cause himself, assisted by a friend as junior counsel. At
the first trial, little difficulty was found in having it postponed a
year, to give time to hear from Captain Fayerweather; much to the
disappointment of the plaintiffs.

The most intense anxiety was now felt by the Fayerweather family, and
all connected with it, to hear from George; but as it was known he was
to embark from Europe on a voyage of discovery in the South sea, small
hopes were entertained of receiving letters from him for many months.

To return to a more pleasing subject—Judith was the darling of all. As
her character became more matured with her person, both increased in
loveliness, and both received a new charm from the cultivation of her
intellect, which proved of no common order. George’s presents to her
were chiefly of books; for though his active life prevented him from
being a great reader himself, the whole atmosphere in which he had been
born and educated, the circle of which he was the pride when at home,
being intelligent, he was anxious that deficiency in this point should
not be found in Judith. No deficiency of any kind, however, was
discovered in her by his family. John regarded her with an affection
scarcely less than George’s; and though the idea of supplanting his
brother, or of Judith’s ever being more to him than a sister, never
crossed his mind, he formed no other attachment.

Captain Stimpson, now grown somewhat stiff in his limbs, gave up his
lookout in the cupola to Judith, and was at some expense to have it
fitted up for her with cushions and curtains, and a spy-glass for her
particular use. Her sleeping apartment opened directly at the foot of
the stairs which led to it; and here with her books and her Eolian harp,
she passed all the time which she felt to be exclusively her own. Her
prospect was that of the harbor, opening into the ocean, under every
aspect a noble one—with Baker’s island, and its light-house in the
distance, on one side, and several hamlets at different distances on the
other; the town, with its then few streets and scattered dwellings, and
the level country beyond. The view offered little of the beautiful, the
romantic or the picturesque; but all that was wanting its fair
beholder’s imagination could supply; and it may be questioned whether a
view of the bay of Naples even, with all its magnificence of scenery,
could give rise to conceptions of more beauty in some minds, than were
formed in Judith’s by the ordinary one of Salem harbor.

Time went on, and it was now near the end of the summer preceding the
November, when the cause was to come on at the Ipswich court. Letters
had twice been received from Captain Fayerweather, but of a date prior
to his leaving Europe, and arrivals were looked for every day, which
were expected to bring answers to the information that had been
dispatched to him of all which had occurred to his family since his
departure. One fine evening, Judith, having finished all her domestic
tasks for the day, below stairs, ascended to her observatory, thinking
she should not be missed; her father having set out on his daily visit
to the rope-walk—_en amateur_, for the captain had retired from
business—her grandfather was quietly reposing in his chair, and her
mother holding sweet communion with her dearly beloved Nanny
Dennis—Mrs. Brayton.

On reaching her airy retreat, the fair maiden took the spy-glass, and
adjusting its tube, strained her vision over the ocean, hoping to espy
the mast of some vessel coming into port. In vain—the curve of the wide
horizon was unbroken even by a speck. A gentle sigh escaped her as she
spoke; “Not yet; well, it must come before long.” She then took her
book, and was soon luxuriating in the fairy-land of poetry. From time to
time her eyes wandered from the page, to cast themselves over the
expanse of waters before her, glowing beneath the sky of twilight, and
scarcely dimpled by a breath of wind, as the tide still advanced to fill
the broad basin, and broke in low ripples on its now brimming edge.

Darkness at length came on, and being no longer able to distinguish its
characters, she laid aside her book, and turned her eyes and thoughts to
the scene without. Insensibly almost to herself, her ideas arranged
themselves in measure, and she repeated in a low whisper:

    “The winds have folded their tired wings
      And sunk in their caves to rest;
    The Evening falls, for Day is gone
      Far down in the purple West.”

She stopped, feeling almost like a culprit detected in some flagrant
misdemeanor; but as new images rose in her mind unbidden, and seemed to
plead for a permanent existence, she continued,

    “And yonder the star of Evening gems
      The brow of the pale young Moon
    That journeys on in sadness and tears,
      To finish her course so soon.”

Gathering courage, she proceeded:

    “She’s gone—and deep the falling shades
      Close over the quiet plain;
    While shore and hamlet, and grove and field,
      Resign them to Night’s calm reign.”

Thinking whether she should ever dare confess her enormity to George,
she went on:

    “The ocean’s dark breast is dimly seen
      By the stars as they glimmer near,
    Where the waves dash low—while a far-off roar
      From the distant beach[6] I hear.

    A spark from yon low isle in the East,
      Now twinkles across the bay!
    And now it steadily flames, to guide
      The mariner on his way.

    Oh, dear to me is thy distant beam!
      Lone dweller of the night waves.”—

“Judy! Judy!” roared her father’s voice, “come down directly!—here’s
letters from Captain Fayerweather.”

She sprang, and was down stairs, almost before the last syllable had
left her father’s lips. He stood with the packet in his hand, which he
told her came by the way of Beverly. On carrying it to the light, it was
discovered to be directed to John Fayerweather. Judith felt something a
little like disappointment, though she had no reason to expect it would
be directed to herself. “But how was she to get her own letter
to-night—if there was one for her.” This, if not on her lips, was in
her thought.

Her father took the packet from her hand; “Here, I’ll take it up in town
myself; I should like to be the one to give it to them, and you shall
have your own letter to-night.” Without waiting for an answer, off he
set, and his sturdy stump—stump—stump, was heard the whole length of
the street, until he turned the corner. Judith almost quarreled with the
feeling of delicacy which had forbade her accompanying him.

The town clock struck ten as Captain Stimpson reached Paved street, and
with a louder and quicker stump—stump—stump, he hastened on. Just
before he reached the Fayerweather mansion, he met Mr. and Mrs. Wendell
coming from thence, and on learning his errand, they turned back with
him. The eagerness with which John seized the packet, and the beating of
the heart which all felt as they gathered round him while he opened it,
may be readily imagined. It contained but two letters, his own and one
to Judith. He handed the latter to her father, who immediately departed
with it.

The first opening of John’s letter proved a bitter disappointment to
all, for the date was only a week subsequent to that of the packet,
which had been last received. In that one George had not written to his
brother, and to supply the omission, he appeared to have seized upon
another opportunity which occurred directly after, by a different route.
This letter was a very long one, and bore marks of the strong affection
which subsisted between the two brothers. One passage in it, however,
had a strong negative bearing upon the lost papers. It ran thus: “My
father’s little trunk, which I took with me, to hold the letters I
expected to receive from home, is still _empty_; not one have I received
since I left Salem.” This, Mr. Wendell said, was _prima facie_ evidence
that the deeds were not in their original place of deposite.

The next morning another thorough search was made, which proved as
fruitless as the preceding ones, leaving Mr. Wendell and John in a state
of perplexity scarcely to be imagined; the former, however, resisting
all internal misgivings as to the final issue of the cause, and
maintaining his conviction that the papers would be found in time to be
produced on the trial. Captain Fayerweather was not expected home until
the next spring. Throughout the whole affair his mother had discovered a
strength of mind scarcely expected from her, and assisted in all the
researches with great energy. A spirit had been roused in her by
Boynton’s insult, as she felt it, which proved a radical cure for all
disorders on her nerves; she never had a fit of hysterics after.

The autumn advanced, but brought no new arrivals. November came, the
court sat at Ipswich, and the cause of Boynton versus Wendell was third
on the list. The anxiety of all concerned may be imagined. It would
scarcely be supposed that at this time an object could exist of
sufficient interest to divert, for a moment, the thoughts of Madam and
John from the issue of this trial, which might, and the probability was
now strong that it would, drive them from the home of their happiest
days, with the loss of an estate, half of which had been twice paid for.
Such an object was, however, found in old Jaco. He had been declining
for some time, and all the care of the family had been directed to
keeping him alive until his master’s return. As the weather grew colder,
Vi’let had been prevailed upon to allow him to stay in the kitchen; and
much softened in her nature by her master’s decease, she made a bed for
him behind the settle, and gave him warm milk several times a day with
her own hand, without once debating the question of his having a soul,
and the sinfulness of making him comfortable, if he had not, as she
might have done years agone.

One afternoon, some days before the cause was to be tried, John received
a hurried note from Mr. Wendell, who was at Ipswich on business; the
note was dated the day before, and expressed some fears, which he had
never allowed to appear before, as to the issue of the trial. “His
hopes,” the note said, “still predominated, but he thought it would be
best for John not to allow his mother to be buoyed up by them, but to
endeavor to prepare her for the worst.” The student, with a heavy heart,
left the office and went home to seek his mother. He felt relieved on
finding she had lain down after dinner, and had at length fallen asleep,
after having passed several wakeful nights. He would not awaken her, but
went out to see old Jaco.

The poor brute lay panting, and was now evidently drawing near his end.
At John’s approach he turned his head toward him, feebly wagged his
tail, and gave a low whine. After a while he rose on his feet, and
staggered to the door, which John opening, the dog made out to reach the
middle of the yard, when he fell and lay gasping. His master bent over
him, and gently patting him, spoke soothingly; at which Jaco opened his
eyes and made a feeble attempt to lick the kind hand which caressed him.
At this instant a light breeze swept by; and as John felt it wave the
hair on his brow and flutter for a moment on his cheek with the feeling
of the balmy spring, it was singularly associated with recollections of
his brother, whose image it brought to his side with all the vividness
of reality. As, like a light breath, it passed to Jaco, the dying animal
started suddenly and rose on his haunches, snuffed eagerly in the air
three times—stopped—then gave one long-protracted howl, when he fell,
quietly stretched himself out to his full length—and poor Jaco lay
stiffening in death. John watched him for a minute or two, when a low
sob might have been heard from him as he turned away, and took his
course through the garden and fields to the water side.

Judith, on this afternoon, felt a weight on her spirits, wholly unknown
to her before. She could not entirely conceal her depression from her
parents, and they were not surprised at it, in the present juncture of
affairs in the Fayerweather family. She, however, could not have given
this as the cause of her depression, had it been inquired of her, for
this day her mind had been less occupied with the trial, and its
probable issue, than it had been for a week previous, and she felt
unable to account for the sadness which oppressed her. Her father, at
length, went out to see if he could not pick up some news, and Judith,
after in vain attempting to rally herself, went up to her little cupola.

She looked from her window, but the aspect of all without seemed in
accordance with her feelings. The sky of one leaden hue, looked as if no
sun had ever enlivened it, and the sea beneath of a darker shade, heaved
and tossed as if sullenly brooding over some storm in recollection. The
wind whistled through the bare branches of the trees before the house,
and drove a few withered leaves to and fro on the terrace, then found
its way within doors, and moaned through the passages. Some groups of
boys, as they went from house to house, to gather a few pence for their
bonfire (it was the fifth of November), at another time, might have
seemed to add some little liveliness to the scene; but to Judith, their
voices as they reached her ear from below, had a melancholy tone, as
they chanted their rhymes, and the tinkling of their little bells
sounded doleful.

She placed her harp in the window; for a minute or two the strings were
silent, and she repeated her accustomed little invocation—

    “Ye winds that were cradled beyond the broad sea,
    Come stoop from your flight with your errand to me;
    And softly the strings of my harp as ye blow,
    Shall whisper your tidings of weal or of wo.”

The wind appeared to answer her summons but fitfully at first, the
strings jarring without music, as it swept over them. The blast
increasing in strength, the tones became for a while loud, harsh, and
discordant; then, as it blew more steadily, they gradually blended into
harmony, and at length, sent to her ear a strain of such deep
melancholy, as struck despair into her heart. Suddenly there was a
crash, succeeded by the _tolling of a distant bell_. So profound was the
illusion of the spell-bound hearer, that she did not perceive the
snapping of a string, which, by the striking of its loose fragment over
the others, produced the sounds so full of wo, to her saddened spirit.
They ceased, and the harp was silent.

Again its tones were heard, faintly, and as from afar; but gradually
drawing nearer, as a gentle gale passed over the chords to the dejected
girl. It fluttered round her, soft as the breath of a summer evening,
kissed her fair brow and delicate cheek, and waved each golden curl
which hung round her white throat, while a solemn strain arose, and
softening by degrees to a melody of more than earthly beauty, as it
seized upon her entranced senses, dispelled every cloud from her
spirits, and poured into her soul peace and joy. Then as the breeze
which bore it appeared to depart, and wing its way back over the ocean,
the tones seemed to syllable the word, farewell, repeated each time with
more sweetness, until the sounds were lost in distance. When Judith
descended, her parents were rejoiced to see the dark shade dispelled
from her brow.

Mr. Wendell sat up late on the preceding night, preparing a defense in a
case, in which all the vigor of a powerful intellect was called forth,
aided by profound legal learning. He retired to rest, weary, but not
dispirited, confident that a few hours repose would fully restore him.
But after sleeping heavily until late the next morning, he awoke, not
refreshed with slumber, as was his wont, but feeling a languor wholly
unknown to him before. He, however, would not succumb to the feeling,
but rose, determined to conquer it; took a walk, and used violent
exercise, which was of benefit, for when he returned he ate his
breakfast with a good appetite, and then sat down to examine his notes.
The seat of his indisposition was now apparent, for on his first attempt
to read, he felt a pressure on his brain, and a confusion of ideas,
which rendered his mind wholly incapable of following any train of
argument, and scarcely able to take in the sense of what he had written.
The only course now remaining to him, he adopted, which was to leave
this case in the hands of the junior counsel, to have it, if possible,
continued over to the Spring term; after doing which, he mounted his
horse and proceeded homeward, leaving word that he would return in time
for the Fayerweather case. For the first time in his life he felt gloomy
and depressed. The exercise of riding was grateful to him, and he felt
refreshed. After riding an hour or two, his spirits rose to their
accustomed buoyancy, though his ideas still remained confused, when he
attempted to pursue a train of thought.

He arrived in Salem about three o’clock in the afternoon—the same
afternoon the poor dog Jaco died. At he was proceeding through the main
street, or reaching the one which turned down to the wharves, his horse
suddenly snorted and became restive. He patted and soothed his old
servant, and then looked round to discover the occasion of so unwonted a
freak, when he saw a powerfully built man in the garb of a seaman, who
appeared to be advancing toward him. He stopped his horse with great
difficulty, and the stranger came within a few yards of him. What was
his surprise and joy on seeing George Fayerweather?

His exclamation was stopped short by the horse giving a plunge, which,
if Mr. Wendell had not sat well in his saddle would have thrown him.
Captain Fayerweather’s countenance discovered marks of alarm and
distress as he drew nearer, and while he spoke to Mr. Wendell, the horse
snorted and again plunged fearfully, and at length reared, and stood
nearly upright; but his master sat firm as if glued to the saddle, while
he listened to George’s hurried account of where the deed was. As
Captain Fayerweather finished, he turned away quickly, and the animal
again put his fore-feet to the ground. As Captain Fayerweather turned
the corner, Mr. Wendell called after him, and then finding all endeavors
to make the horse follow him, vain, he dismounted and gave the bridle
into the hands of a man whom he knew, and who at this juncture came up.
He then turned the corner too, but George was gone. His communication,
however, in spite of the restiveness of the horse, had reached the ears
of Mr. Wendell, and now absorbed all his faculties, as he hastened home
with a rapid pace.

On this afternoon, Mrs. Wendell sat at work in her parlor, her mind full
of the event of the trial, and revolving over many plans for her aunt,
on its now probable issue. She was thinking over her Aunt Brinley’s
proposal, that the three families should make but one, and should occupy
her house, which was sufficiently large; when some one opened the front
door, and came immediately into the room. It was her husband, looking
excessively pale, and his whole appearance betokening hurry and
agitation. Scarcely heeding her, he went to a large closet in the room,
where he kept books and papers, and where her uncle’s ebony cabinet was
placed.

To her questions of surprise and alarm she could only obtain in reply—

“I cannot answer you now, my love, wait.”

He went to the cabinet, and proceeded to take out the three small
drawers of the centre, which he placed on the floor, and then narrowly
examined the vacancy they left. Unable to restrain her curiosity, she
looked over his shoulder. As he knelt, he just made out to discover a
small projection at the back, to which he applied two of his fingers,
and the whole partition slipped down, and discovered a narrow cavity in
the very centre of the cabinet. Two papers appeared, tied together with
red tape; one of which was discolored as if with age. He clapped his
hands with a joy strangely contrasted with his pallid countenance, and
both exclaimed at once—she with a scream—“Here they are! the deeds!
the deeds! found at last!”

Mr. Wendell then mentioned to his wife his meeting with George, who he
supposed had just landed; and might have gone to see Judith before he
went home. Mrs. Wendell expressed her joy at her cousin’s return, and
then again remarked her husband’s paleness, and anxiously inquired the
cause; but he made light of it.

“O, I am well enough,” he said, “but I sat up late last night—and
perhaps,” he said, with a faint smile, “it was the fright my horse gave
me, while George was speaking. He nearly threw me, and prevented my
saying a word until George was gone—but I must return immediately to
Ipswich; these papers must be produced in court to-morrow. I little
thought when I came away, of returning in such triumph; but, good-bye,
my love; I cannot stop a moment;” and off he hurried.

Mrs. Wendell immediately flew into her aunt’s, whom with John she found
in utter ignorance of George’s return. When informed of it, and of the
discovery of the lost papers, her joy almost overcame her. In her
impatience to see him, she thought Judith was almost unkind to detain
him so long.

“She might come with him,” she said, and John started up, and set off to
bring them both. On his way, he met Captain Stimpson, who, he found, had
neither seen nor heard any thing of his brother, though just returned
from home. He, however, was laden with tidings of high import, and was
coming up in town to tell his news.

A vessel had that afternoon put in at Beverly with government
dispatches; and staying only long enough to send them on shore, had set
sail for Quebec. The dispatches were of so much importance, that an
express was immediately sent off with them to Boston, and it was
supposed they were the forerunners of peace. The vessel was expected to
return to Salem in a month. This was the rumor which Captain Stimpson
brought, for it was but a rumor, of which every one down in town was
full; but of which, no one appeared to know either the origin or
grounds. The name of the vessel, or of its master, could not be
ascertained. The worthy relator accompanied John home, and the four
there assembled, concluded with one voice, and almost one feeling of
deep disappointment, that the Captain of the vessel must have been
George, and that being under orders to proceed to Quebec, with the least
possible delay, he would not trust himself to come home, or to see
Judith, for fear of being detained too long. His not explaining himself
to Mr. Wendell was accounted for, Mrs. Wendell said, by the restiveness
of the horse, which probably did not allow him to say more than was
barely sufficient for the finding of the papers.

The next day, the cause at Ipswich was decided at once, by Mr. Wendell’s
producing the deeds. And heavy were the costs which fell upon the
plaintiffs; their counsel retaining no recollection—there being no
witnesses to it—of the agreement to lose his fees, should he fail to
gain the cause; he expressing at the same time a high-minded indignation
at having been taken in to engage in a case, in which so much knavery
was concerned.

“Poor Jaco! I ’clare it makes me sithe to think on him.” And Vi’let
sighed audibly, when Peter removed his mat from the kitchen. Poor Jaco’s
remains were respectably interred in the garden, under his absent
master’s favorite tree, with a stone to mark the spot, setting forth his
useful life and many virtues.

Pleasantly passed the month in Paved street, in anticipation of George’s
return: the smiles returning to his mother’s countenance, which had
seldom visited it since his father’s death. And pleasantly glided by the
hours to Judith; but how—in her eyrie, watching the waves which were
soon to bear her lover to her, and invoking the winds to speed his
course? Not she—she taxed herself with selfishness, in having already
spent so much time, engrossed by her own feelings, and not in
administering to the happiness of others; and she resolutely determined
not to go up into the cupola, take the spy-glass into her hand, nor even
to consult the golden fish, which surmounted the highest peak of Captain
Brayton’s house as a weathercock—which latter she could do by only
looking out of the east-room window—until she had made up for lost
time, and finished several pieces of work she had on hand.

Mr. Solomon Tarbox, seeing there was no hope for him with Judith, had
paid his addresses to Miss Ruthy Philpot, the daughter of a
ship-chandler in the neighborhood, and their nuptials were near at hand.
Judith had set up a patch-work quilt in the summer, as a bridal present.

“And it was high time it was completed,” she said. So every afternoon,
after her household cares for the day were over, she sat herself at her
patch-work in the sitting-room, and with her lively chatter shed the
sunshine of her own happy spirits over her parents and grandfather. At
the end of three weeks the quilt was completed.

“And a beauty it was,” Ruthy said, when Judith surprised her with it,
and taking it from the arms of the boy who brought it, unfolded it
before her admiring eyes. “And the pattern of the quilting, too, in
shells—so much genteeler than herring-bone—it was the handsomest
present she had had yet; but her thanks should be paid when Judith
should be in the same case; which would be before long, no doubt.”

As Judith returned home, how beautiful every thing appeared to her. The
first snow had fallen the night before, and spread over the ground its
pure white mantle, the hue of her own bright spirit; and blithe as a
young snow-bird she flitted along, so lightly, that one had almost
wondered to see the print of her fairy foot. As she looked up into the
clear blue sky, how could she help the dazzling of her eye by the golden
fish, when it was directly before her, and the sun shone full upon it;
and how was it possible for her not to see that it’s head pointed due
east? At the sight, who can tell what sudden thought sent a brighter
flush to her cheeks, already glowing with spirits and exercise, and
quickened her footsteps homeward? On reaching the house, before
disarraying herself of her scarlet cloak, she bounded up to her cupola,
and took the spy-glass into her hand.

The glass was adjusted to her eye, and slowly turned to every point of
the eastern horizon; but the line marking the meeting of the bright blue
heaven and the dark blue sea remained whole and unbroken. But no!—is
not that a speck? It is—and it increases and nears! Her start sent the
glass from her hand; when again adjusted, she could plainly perceive
three masts rising from the waves; and now the swelling sails emerge,
and now the dark hull.

“Judy! do you see that sail?” called Captain Stimpson from below, in the
voice of a speaking-trumpet.

“I do, sir,” answered Judith from aloft. And now the whole ship was
visible, gracefully moving over the waters, and proudly and beautifully
she bore herself. The father and daughter watched her progress from the
first speck they could discern in the bay, until she cast anchor in the
harbor, Mrs. Stimpson having indulgently delayed tea for them, to which
they now sat down; it being so dark they could see no longer. After tea,
Judith sat down to her work, and endeavored to be tranquil. “It was
wholly uncertain,” she said to her father, “whether this were Captain
Fayerweather’s vessel or not;” and she really tried to persuade both him
and herself, that she thought in all probability it was not. Her ears,
however, would perversely listen to every noise from without, which her
imagination mischievously converted into the voices of the busy crew
from the vessel, plainly distinguishing a well-known one among them,
though far out in the harbor. Captain Stimpson was sure it was the
vessel, and that they should see George that evening; and so thought
Mrs. Stimpson. Their daughter very undutifully said, “It was not at all
probable, even if he had come—and she felt almost sure he had not—that
he would be willing to leave his mother so soon, even if she would let
him.”

The evening wore on, and the little group were undisturbed. Judith could
not repress a gentle sigh at thinking how rightly she had judged. Her
father at length started up, and said, “He’d make certain whether the
chap had come or not;” and accordingly put on his galoches, and was
going for his cloak—(his daughter usually brought it for him, but she
did not do it just then)—when footsteps were heard on the terrace.
Judith disappeared from the room. There was a loud knock at the door,
and Captain Stimpson went to it. On his opening it, Mrs. Stimpson heard
his hearty and vociferous, “How are you, my lad?” and hastened to give
her welcome with voice, hand, and tears, to the tall, stout man whom her
husband ushered in. Her joyful greeting was received in silence, and
with no answering marks of recognition.

“This cannot be Captain Fayerweather,” she said, turning to her husband.

“Captain Fayerweather? No, madam, my name is Brown,” said the stranger,
gravely. He seated himself, as invited, and there was a pause which
neither Captain nor Mrs. Stimpson felt able immediately to break. At
length the stranger said, “I am mate of the Dolphin, Captain Richard
Seaward, master; and he desired me to tell you, he would himself have
brought the intelligence I am to give you, but he is sick, and was
obliged to take to his bed as soon as he came ashore.” Mr. Brown stopped
and cleared his voice.

He resumed. “You took me for Captain Fayerweather; what I have to say is
concerning him. Captain Fayerweather took passage from London in the
Dolphin; and he told Captain Seaward that he had just arrived from the
Cape of Good Hope, where he had found letters from home, which rendered
it necessary that he should return with all possible dispatch; and that
finding a vessel at the Cape ready to sail for London, he had left his
own, which had a consort, to the charge of the second officer and an
experienced crew, to proceed into the Pacific, and had taken passage in
the one to London, hoping there to find some opportunity of going to
America. We set sail from London on the third of November—”

Captain Stimpson interrupted him. “On the third of November, did you
say—and with Captain Fayerweather on board? That can’t be true, sir—he
was here on the fifth.”

The stranger answered gravely, “Sir, the business Captain Seaward sent
me upon, is any thing but trifling. The Dolphin certainly sailed from
London the third of November, and with Captain Fayerweather on board;
all the crew will testify to this. But did I understand you rightly to
say, he was here on the fifth? How—at what time? Who saw him—did you?
There must have been some mistake.”

Captain Stimpson, much surprised, replied, “I did not see him myself,
but his cousin, Squire Wendell, did. He met him in the street between
three and four in the afternoon. There could have been no mistake, for
he told the squire something of great importance to his family, that
nobody but himself could have known. The vessel we supposed he came in,
put in at Beverly; she staid only long enough to deliver some dispatches
for government, and sailed directly for Quebec, intending to return here
in a month. We supposed fully that your vessel was the one, and we were
expecting Captain Fayerweather when you came.”

While the captain spoke, Mr. Brown showed marks of astonishment and
agitation. He was silent a few moments, though his lips moved, and he
appeared to be making some calculations. At length he spoke, in a voice
apparently from the depths of his chest, slowly and distinctly, but
turning pale as he proceeded. “On the fifth of November, two days sail
from London, about eight o’clock in the evening, which, allowing for
difference of longitude, corresponds to between three and four here, in
a raging storm, Captain Fayerweather fell from the mast-head into the
sea, and was lost!”

Judith’s shriek was heard from the inner-room, but before her parents
could reach it, she had fallen senseless on the floor. Her father took
her in his arms, while her mother bathed her temples. On reviving, she
held up her clasped hands imploringly to her mother, and asked if she
had heard aright, and if her ears had not deceived her. Poor Mrs.
Stimpson was incapable of answering her, excepting by tears; and her
father could only clasp her more closely. “Oh! he’s gone then;—let me
go, too;” and she struggled to free herself. “But where! where shall I
go?—what shall I do? Why did you bring me to?—it would have been
better for me to have died. I do not wish to live! Why did you not let
me die? I will die!—I will not live!”

Her father now blubbered outright. “And would you leave your poor old
sir, and your ma’am, that have their lives bound up in you, and that
would die, too, without you? Have you no love left for them?”

“I do love you both,” she cried; “but now—oh, George! I wish I was in
the depths of the sea with you.”

“Hush! sinful child,” sternly said her grandfather, who had left his
chair and now stood before her, his trembling, withered hand held up in
reproof; “receive this dispensation of the Lord as a massy; he has taken
from you your idol, that was a robbing him of your heart; turn to him on
your bended knees, and implore His pardon for your sin.”

As she heard him, she appeared by a strong effort only, to suppress a
scream. “Oh! spare me now, grandfather,” she cried; and she threw
herself on the floor, where she lay with her arm over her face, whilst
sobs convulsed her whole frame.

“You are too hard upon her, grandsir,” cried her mother, with some
asperity, and smarting for her child; “you forget she is young flesh and
blood; but you are such a saint, and you live so much for another world,
that you make no allowance for a poor young creature’s feelings in this,
when her heart is almost torn out of her body.”

“Child,” said the old man, trembling, “you ere cutting on me with a
sharp knife! I, a saint! oh, you don’t know nothing of the wickedness of
this old heart; that it was my own sinfulness I was a rebuking, when I
was so harsh with this dear child; for I confess it—and it is with
shame and confusion—that I have thought more of her being among the
grand of the airth, of her riding in her chariot, dressed in vain attire
of silks and satins, and adorned with pairls and jewels of fine goold,
than of the welfare of her immortal soul. And I verily believe,” he
continued, the tears which had long been strangers on his usually placid
face, now running down his furrowed cheek, and his whole countenance
working with distress, “I verily believe for my sin, this has fallen
upon us all; and oh! that this old white head had it all to bear.”

Mrs. Stimpson was entirely subdued by this humble confession of her
father-in-law, whom she had always regarded as so near perfection, and
so much above all human weakness, that her affection for him had been
chilled by a feeling partaking of awe. “Oh, grandsir!” she said, “how
cruel I’ve been to you; but I never knew how tender-hearted you were
before.”

“No, child, you have always been good to me,” returned the old man; “and
better than I desarve; but let us pray that this affliction may be
sanctified to us all, and wean us from the perishing things of this
airth—myself above all, who can’t have much longer to stay; and this
dear child, that she may feel it as a goolden thread a drawing on her
easy like to heaven.” He then knelt down, his son and daughter-in-law by
his side, and offered up an humble and fervent prayer over Judith, who
was lying before them.

Meanwhile the paroxysms of her grief appeared to abate by degrees, and
during her grandfather’s prayer her lips moved as if accompanying him;
her sobs became less frequent, and at length were heard no longer; her
slow and regular breathing showing that she had fallen into a profound
sleep. Her father brought a pillow and tenderly placed it beneath her
head. She slept heavily for more than an hour, when, it being long after
midnight, her parents, fearing she would take cold, removed her into
their own bed—this room being their sleeping apartment in the winter
season. As she moaned on being disturbed, her mother soothed and
caressed her; and then placing herself by the side of her child, she
folded her in her arms, and lulled her to sleep, as if again an infant,
while her father placed himself in the easy-chair, and watched until
sleep overpowered him.

The next morning, as the anxious parents were bending over their
darling, she opened her eyes, and a beautiful smile spread itself over
her features. “Oh! I have seen him to-night,” she said, “and he was
among the blessed; he told me to live for your sake and his mother’s,
and he would watch over me until we met in heaven.” When thoroughly
awakened from her dream, she looked fondly on her father and mother, and
clasping the hands of both, said, “Oh! how wicked and ungrateful I was
to you last night! Can you forgive me? and henceforth I will only live
to please you, and will have no wish but yours.”

“You, dear child, you never did any thing but please us; you never had
any other wish but ours,” both answered with streaming eyes.

Judith then arose and dressed herself; her trembling limbs and pale
countenance sufficiently betraying the shock her frame had received. She
went out of the room and busied herself even more than was her wont in
domestic details, and throughout the day endeavored by redoubled
attention and affection to her grandfather, to make amends to him for
her impatience the night before.

The fine weather of the preceding day had been succeeded in the night by
a driving snow-storm, which had increased to such violence by morning,
as to prevent any communication with the Fayerweather family during the
day. Toward evening the wind shifted to the south, bringing a rain which
lasted till the next day, melting the great quantity of snow which had
fallen, and rendering the streets impassable. Judith’s sense of duty,
aided by active and unremitting occupation, had so far enabled her to
struggle against any further indulgence of her grief. Her parents were
surprised at the composure she maintained, while she sat down this
afternoon, as was frequently her wont, on a low stool by her
grandfather’s side. She had a large basket by her, filled with new cloth
of different kinds, which her mother and she had cut out, and had
already begun to make into various articles, in preparation for her own
housekeeping. She selected a damask table-cloth from the basket, and
turning the hem, began to sew. After taking a few stitches, her wonted
smile flitted over her countenance and raised her drooping eyelids; her
dimples began to play, and her voice broke forth, like the first robin
of the spring, in a lively little Scotch song.

The sound of her own voice in singing restored her to her
recollection—she threw down her work and exclaimed with a scream, “What
am I doing?” then laid her head sobbing on her grandfather’s knee. “Oh,
grandfather! I cannot help it,” she cried.

“Don’t try to help it, dear,” said her mother, her own eyes streaming;
“you have put force enough upon yourself.”

The old man placed his withered hands fondly upon her head, and said—

“Yes, weep, my child, for you may; but not without hope; He that wept at
the tomb of Lazarus sees you, and in his own good time will turn your
weeping into joy.”

The unusual sound of wheels was at this moment heard, and the
Fayerweather chariot drove up to the terrace. Dr. Holly and Mrs. Wendell
alighted, but Judith feeling herself unable to meet them, retreated from
the room before they were ushered in. Mrs. Wendell was so much overcome,
that for a few moments she was unable to speak, and it fell to Dr. Holly
to tell their errand. He made very particular inquiries in regard to
Judith’s health, and how she had sustained the shock of the late
afflictive intelligence, and then proceeded to mention that Madam
Fayerweather was in a very alarming state, having neither changed her
position, eaten or slept, since the evening before the last, and that he
had accompanied Mrs. Wendell to see if Miss Judith could feel herself
equal to returning with them, in the hope that the sight of her might
have a favorable effect on madam, in whom if a change could not speedily
be induced, he felt himself called upon to say, the worst might be
apprehended.

Mrs. Stimpson immediately replied—“She would answer for her daughter,
that she would feel it a solace to her own feelings to see Madam
Fayerweather, even if she could not be instrumental in restoring her.”

Mrs. Wendell then said—“The sight of Judith would, if any thing could.”

Mrs. Stimpson left the room, and in a few minutes returned with her
daughter. At sight of Mrs. Wendell, who fondly kissed her, Judith’s
tears burst forth, but she made no hesitation in accompanying her home.
As the chariot drove through the street the contrast of her present
feelings with those with which she had passed it two days before, struck
her forcibly, but she resolutely turned her thoughts from herself to the
stricken one whom she was going to see. When they arrived at the house,
John came out and assisted them to alight; he pressed Judith’s hand but
could not speak. Dr. Holly was desirous to try his experiment without
delay; they therefore proceeded immediately to the apartment of his
patient.

On seeing Madam Fayerweather Judith’s strength suddenly failed her and
she came near falling; but recollecting how much might depend on her
retaining in some degree her self-possession, she made a strong effort
over herself, and went forward to the easy-chair, where sat the bereaved
mother. The latter was, in truth, not an object to be looked upon
without emotion, even by a stranger.

So rigid and motionless was her countenance, that it appeared as if
changed into stone; her eyes were fixed; and her hair which, before this
last blow, had retained all its gloss and beauty, was turned to an ashen
hue, giving a strange and unearthly appearance to her pallid features.

“Sister,” said Madam Brinley, who sat by her, “here’s your dear child,
Judith—will you not look at her and speak to her?”

Judith, from a sudden impulse, threw herself on her knees before the
bereaved mother, clasped both her hands in her own and bathed them with
her tears, but endeavored in vain to speak. Sobs were heard from all
present. Madam raised her head, and as she did so, her eyes falling upon
Judith, immediately showed a sense of her presence; their fixed and
glassy look was changed to one of intelligence, the muscles around her
mouth then moved, and she appeared as if endeavoring to articulate. At
length she spoke, but in a voice hollow and strange—“We’ve had sad
tidings, my child!”

Her whole countenance now appeared working; the frozen fountain of her
grief was at length softened, and burst forth in a torrent of tears and
sobs and groans.

In the state of exhaustion succeeding this outbreak, she was prevailed
upon to take some food which Judith brought her; after which she fell
asleep and was carried to her bed, from which she did not rise for
several weeks. She had suffered a severe paralytic shock, which affected
her limbs and speech for many months, though she finally recovered.
Judith, in the meanwhile, divided her time between this, her second
mother, and her own family.

                 *        *        *        *        *

What were the sensations of Mr. Wendell on hearing the appalling
tidings, that at the moment in which his senses had figured to him
George Fayerweather face to face, and whose voice he still felt burnt as
it were into his brain—at that very moment, thousands of miles distant,
the spirit of his young friend was in the act of departing in a death so
fearful! Had such an incident been related to Mr. Wendell, from a source
however authentic, he would either have totally disbelieved it, or have
considered it an instance of singular coincidence of an illusion,
occasioned by bodily indisposition, occurring at the same moment with
the death of another at a great distance. But the feeling which even now
raised the hair on his head, which curdled his blood and blanched his
cheek anew at the bare recollection of that meeting, as it recalled
sensations which his mind was too intent upon its important subject to
heed at the time, gave the lie to his reason whenever he attempted so to
argue.

Mr. Wendell, however, never spoke upon the subject himself, and by the
family it was avoided altogether; each one feeling it of too awful and
sacred a nature to admit, not only of discussion, but even of allusion
to it in conversation. But as might be supposed, so remarkable an
occurrence occasioned no little sensation throughout the town and its
neighborhood. It was noted down, with its date, in many a private
memorandum as the extraordinary event of the year in which it happened,
with remarks upon it, either devout or philosophical, or both, according
to the different characters of the minds which severally dictated them.

When all danger for the life of Madam Fayerweather was over, and Judith
ceased to have in her an immediate object of care and anxiety, her own
health, no longer sustained by extraordinary stimulus to exertion, at
length gave tokens of the injury it had itself received. She fell into a
state of languor and debility, which threatened to end in consumption,
had not her strength of mind, aided by a deep sense of religion, enabled
her to exert all her energies to struggle against the foe and finally to
subdue it—her own melancholy. Her religious duties, those which she
owed to her parents and those to society, she had always faithfully
discharged, and now finding them insufficient to engross her mind and
prevent it from preying upon itself, she had recourse to the cultivation
of her taste and the higher powers of her fine intellect. In this she
was assisted by John, already an elegant scholar, and she became a
highly accomplished woman, as well as the most beautiful in the
province.

Time passed on, and in its course saw Mr. Wendell presiding on the bench
as chief-justice, his place as head of the bar filled by John
Fayerweather.

It is not surprising that years of devotion from the latter, combined
with all the affection of his mother for her departed son, now resting
on Judith, should at length have prevailed upon her to be united to them
by stronger ties; after having refused many offers, and among the first,
one from Mr. Lindsey, who had returned to America as soon as the
intelligence of George’s death reached him.

In Judith’s becoming the wife of John, there was no infidelity in either
to the memory of his brother; it was cherished by both during life, and
by each in the heart of the other.

-----

[6] Nahant beach, the roar of which is distinctly heard in Salem on a
still evening.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE BABES OF EXILE.


                          BY EFFIE FITZGERALD.


                  “To roam o’er heaving waters bright,
                    By heaven’s own moonbeam’s made
                  To find our own a path of light,
                    Where all beside is shade.”


    Fond babes of exile we here claim thine eye,
      To cheer thy sadness in this exile drear;
    We raise the veil of memory with a sigh,
      And seek our welcome in a silent tear.

    We fain would come with sunlight on our wings,
      For our sweet embassy is one of love;
    We hurl no stone from out our baby-slings,
      Save that commission come, too, from above.

    Souls sunk in ice-holes, or in gilded shine,
      May call us wild, fantastic, if they will;
    We know our birth-place was another clime—
      We come a different mission to fulfill.

    We dare the smoke-wreath on the crater’s verge;
      We look, undaunted, on the lava-flame;
    From the tornado’s whirl we safe emerge;
      To thee we come, in gentle childhood’s name!

    Enough of tempest—earthquake—has been thine;
      Enough of grief has dimmed thy sky-ward eye;
    We come to pour the fragrant oil and wine;
      We come to bless, and be blest, ere we die.

    Die? No! We take from thee an angel-wing;
      We fly—we mount—away from earth we soar;
    Keep thy gaze upward from the mountain-spring,
      Wrapt in white mist-robes we move on before.

    Or if despair thy strong-heart will assail,
      Beneath the oaks, in the old wind-flower grove,
    We light to kiss thy shadow, lone and pale.
      And bid thee turn thy drooping eye above.

    This our pure mission—babes of memory!
      Give us thy blessing ere these lives depart;
    These shadowy forms, all consecrate to thee—
      That faintly breathe the incense of the heart.

    We heed no danger in a path like this:
      A Faith that with the Good was ne’er at war;
    We know Earth’s sorrows pilot Heaven’s bliss—
      Keep, then, thy gaze upon the cloud and star.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Illman & Sons
BEAUTY’S RETREAT.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           BEAUTY’S RETREAT.


                          A LEGEND OF GRANADA.

                       [WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]


                       BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.


It was the evening of a sultry summer’s day, while the sun was yet
hanging suspended, as it were, in a wreath of lustrous, gauzy vapor
scarce a hand’s-breadth above the horizon. The skies were perfectly
cloudless; and, but for that rich, golden haze which floated in the west
about the sloping day-star, there was not a speck of mist to be seen
over the whole expanse of the firmament, which, glowing, as it was, with
the warm light of that soft southern region, resembled more a vault of
exquisitely shadowed gems than the unfathomable depths of ether. All to
the westward, the horizon was deluged with a flood of golden glory, too
soft to be called intense, yet so vivid that the eye could scarcely
brook it; melting as it streamed upward toward the zenith, by
imperceptible degrees, into the radiance of the living sapphire; and
thence deepening, through the azure tints of the Lapis Lazuli, into the
darkest cærulean blue to the eastward, against which rose distinct,
glittering with the last reflected sunbeams, the distant summits of the
Cordoran mountains. Above these, soaring slowly upward, and momently
gathering fresh brilliancy as the sun faded in the west, the full, round
moon had already risen, with the evening-star at her side, a diamond
spark beside an orient pearl.

Nor was the earth below less gracious than the heaven above it; for the
scene, over which that cloudless sun was setting so serenely, was no
other than the lovely vegas of Granada, watered with its sparkling
rivulets, tributaries to the broad and fair Xenil; waving with its
almost tropical luxuriance of foliage, odorous with the sweets of ten
thousand gardens—verily the paradise of earth surrounding, as with a
girdle of immortal beauty, the loveliest of earthly cities, crowned by
the wonder of wonders, the glorious Alhambra. So much has been already
written in many tongues, both in prose and verse, of the glories of this
inimitable spot—still inimitable, even under the indolent and careless
culture of the Spaniard, yet how unlike to what it was under its Moorish
masters—above all so eloquently has it been described by the graceful
pen of Irving, that all the details of its scenery, nay! of its
architecture and internal decorations, are, it may be presumed, as
familiar to the mind of the reader, as many places which he has actually
seen with his own eyes. To dwell longer, therefore, on the features of
that sweet, mountain-girdled plain on which the sunbeams lingered, as
though they loved it, would be superfluous at least, if not impertinent.
Not so, to depict one who gazed across that plain under that lovely
sunset, soft herself as the genial clime, serenely bright as the calm
eventide—the Lady Ayesha, a princess of the unmixed race, a visitor
from the distant walls of Mequiñez to the kindred royalty, which in the
person of the unfortunate but as yet unconquered Boabdil, still sat
sublime on the fairy towers of the Alhambra.

She sat alone in a small octagonal apartment in the very summit of one
of the loftiest of the palace turrets, overlooking and commanding a view
so extensive, that the eye swam dazzled or ere it reached the hills,
which bounded it on every side. Walled, vaulted, floored with pure
snow-white marble, all wrought and pierced with that exquisite arabesque
tracery, which made the cold, hard stone resemble the finest and most
delicate lace-work; lighted on each of its eight sides by a tall window,
headed by the peculiar horse-shoe arch of Moorish architecture, and
surrounded a little lower down the turret by a balcony, filled as a
hanging garden with every loved and lovely plant and flower, no happier
retreat could be devised for Southern beauty; none half so beautiful,
half so luxurious, is dreamed of in her most voluptuous musings by the
most famed fair one of our utilitarian days and country.

Notwithstanding the extreme height of the tower, which rose full a
hundred feet above the inferior buildings of the royal residence, it yet
possessed its fountain, fed from a reservoir in the roof, itself
supplied by the aid of machinery from the sources of those silver
rivulets of the Xenil and Darro, which might be seen glittering in the
level plain almost a thousand feet below; and the constant merry plash
of its sparkling waters, as they leaped and fell in a shower of diamonds
into their alabaster basin, together with the waving of the broad,
fan-like palm-leaves in light coming air around the open casements, and
the rich clusters of clematis, passion-flower and jessamine which hung
their blossoms around every traceried column, rendered it difficult to
conceive that so great a distance intervened between that bower of
beauty and the solid earth, with all the choicest charms of which it was
environed and invested.

Half-seated, half-reclining on a broad, low step of marble, which ran
all around the apartment, covered with rich cushions and foot-cloths of
brocade, such as would now be cheaply purchased at its weight in gold,
with her shoulders supported by the low parapet of the window
immediately behind her, gazed the Lady Ayesha over the glimmering
landscape, all as she untwined with the rosy, henna-tinted tips of her
small, slender fingers the thick plaits of her luxuriant raven hair. For
in truth, and for once, the epithet _raven_ was not misapplied to those
soft, silky, glistening masses, which were not of the cold and hueless
black, but of that nameless and indescribable hue which is never seen
but in the hair of women of Moorish or Irish blood—and in the latter
probably as originated of the former—black indeed, but black warmed and
glowing with a rich metallic purplish lustre, unlike any thing on earth
but the changeful hues that dance on the dark plumage of several of the
feathered tribes. But though her long, languid eyes of that perfect
almond form, so much prized by the beauty-loving Moors, fringed with
lashes so long and dark as to require no aid of that Arabian dye to set
off the liquid lustre which they curtained, were riveted with a serene
and steady fixedness on a remote spot in the plain, it was by no means
evident that they took note of that on which they lingered; nor did she
even appear conscious of her occupation, as wave after wave of her soft
tresses fell disentwined into her lap. For there was too much of
tranquillity, approaching even to abstraction, in the fixedness of her
eye, in the statue-like immobility of her perfectly regular features,
and in the whole pose of her figure, to accord with any thoughts so
frivolous as those of the mere decoration of the person, how beautiful
soever it might be.

As one gazed on her—had there been any there to gaze—it was impossible
not to perceive that, within that fair form and under those impassive
features, there was—what with Oriental women is not at all times the
case—a sentient and intellectual soul, and that soul at this time
engrossed in some deep and powerful strain of meditative thought.

And oh! how beautiful she was. The perfect oval of her regular face, the
straight, Grecian outline of her chisseled features, the dark clearness
of her pure, transparent complexion, through which, though ordinarily
colorless, every transient motion of the blood mantled in crimson, the
slender, yet exquisitely rounded figure, the soft curves of her plump
and shapely arms, were all as nearly perfect as mortality can approach
to perfection.

The dress, moreover, which she wore—as far removed as possible, by the
way, from the ungraceful and hideous monstrosity which a set of crazy
notoriety-mongers have been striving to introduce among us as the
costume of Oriental ladies—set off her foreign-looking charms by its
own foreign eccentricity, no less than by the barbaric splendor of its
materials.

A low, flat Fezzan cap of rich crimson velvet, superbly embroidered in
gold and pearls, was set lightly, a little on one side, upon her
luxuriant black tresses, and from it depended a long tassel, exquisitely
wrought of grains of native gold and seed-pearls, down to her left
shoulder, contrasting in strong relief the glossy darkness of the hair,
by the brilliancy of its white and gold. Immense pendants of pearl hung
from the roseate tips of each small ear, and a string of the same
inestimable gems, not one of them inferior in size to a large currant,
formed four distinct necklaces upon her chest, beside a fifth and longer
coil, which hung down almost to her waist. A _jellick_, as it was
called, or, as we should term it now, a chemisette of the finest Indian
muslin, wrought as its name indicates at Mosul on the Tigris,
embroidered with threads of gold, alone covered her glowing bosom; but
above it she wore an open, sleeveless Dymar of gorgeous green brocade,
with hanging filigree buttons of gold; and shrouding all her lower
limbs, to the very tips of the small, slippered feet, as she lay
half-crouched on her divan, an under robe or tunic of blush-colored
Persian silk with broad, perpendicular stripes of dead gold, the sleeves
of which, close to the elbow, fell thence downward, open like those of
the modern gown worn by bachelors of arts. No appearance of trowsers, no
marked cutting line, nothing tight or definite or rigid, nothing harsh,
stiff or masculine was to be discovered on the nearest scrutiny. A
superb Cashmere shawl was wound about her waist at the junction of the
under robe and chemisette, and its loose ends blended admirably with the
floating draperies and harmonized with the wavy ease which was the
principal characteristic of the dress, the attitude, the pose, the
woman.

To complete the picture, a Moorish Bernoose, or mantle of scarlet
woolen, almost as fine as gauze, with borders of golden lace, lay heaped
behind her; and nestled in its folds, a filigree jewel-case with boxes
and bottles of perfumes and cosmetics, and half-open drawers of
glittering gems and ornaments befitting her high rank; while on the
parapet, beside her head, stood a huge vase of superb porcelain filled
with the dark, glossy leaves and snow-white blossoms of the gold-eyed
lotus, the perfume of which would have been too strong for endurance but
for the free circulation of the balmy air on every side, and the cool
freshness of the dashing water, which mingled with its overpowering
fragrance and dissipated its intensity.

Such was the Leila Ayesha, the daughter of the Sultan of Mequiñez, the
great Muley Abderahman, the best and bravest of his race; who in this,
almost the last extremity of his kinsman, Boabdil of Granada, had sent
an embassy with compliments and splendid gifts, accompanying and
conveying his fair child, the best loved of all his children, on her
visit to the heroic mother of the last Moorish king of Granada.

By many, however, of those who might be supposed the best informed on
state affairs, both of those at Mequiñez and those at Granada, it was
whispered that, under the cover of a mere complimentary embassy and
friendly visit something of deep policy, and that of the highest import
to both sovereigns, was intended. Indeed it was the general opinion that
the object of the Sultan of Morocco in thus sending his fair
daughter—in whom it was well-known that wise and enlightened prince
placed far more confidence than is usually extended to the sex among the
Moors—was to bring about, should it be pleasing to the beautiful
Ayesha, a union between the two royal houses, in which case he would
himself come to the aid of Granada with such a force of Moslem, backed
by such hordes of the wild Berbers as Ali Ibn Tarih himself never led to
conquest—such, in a word, as should soon compel the proud and
encroaching Ferdinand to look to the safety of his own throne and the
integrity of his own dominions, rather than to the invading of the
dominions of his neighbors.

Be this as it may, it was all a new world to the Leila Ayesha, for the
Moors of Spain during their many centuries of occupation, aggrandisement
and decline, had adopted many ideas, many customs from their Christian
neighbors, at one time their foes, at another in long intervals of
truce, their neighbors and almost their friends.

Nor had the Spaniards failed in the same degree to profit by the
vicinity of the intellectual, polished and industrious Moors, until the
bigotry of these and the fanaticism of those had given way to more
rational and intelligent principles, and the two nations met, whether in
war or peace, on a common ground of mutual self-respect and decorum.

Thus the Moors had not only laid aside long since their fanatical
war-cry of “The Koran or the Sword!” but had adopted many of the usages
of chivalry, no longer holding the Christians as dogs, and slaughtering
them without quarter given or taken, but setting them at honorable
ransom, and even treating them while prisoners on parole as guests on
terms of equality, entertaining them at their boards, and holding sacred
to them all the rights of hospitality.

In no respect, however, had a wider change occurred in the habits of the
nation than in the treatment of their women, who, although not certainly
admitted to the full liberty of Christian ladies, were by no means
immured, as in their native land, in the precincts of the Harem, “to
blush unseen, and waste their sweetness on the desert air,” but were
permitted, still under the guardianship of duennas, and with their
trains of Indian eunuchs, and further protected by their veils from the
contamination of unholy glances, to be present at festivals, at
tournaments, nay! even at banquets, when none but the members of the
family or guests of high consideration were expected to be present.

It is not, by the way, a little singular that almost in exact proportion
as the Moors enlarged the liberty of their women, by the example of the
Spaniards, did the Spaniards contract that of their own bright-eyed
ladies, by the example of the Moors; and for many years the rigor of the
Spanish duenna was scarcely inferior to that of the Raid of a Moorish
harem, or the ladies under charge of the one much more obvious to the
gaze of the profane, than the beautiful slaves of the latter.

Did not, therefore, the beautiful Leila Ayesha rejoice and exult in the
comparative freedom which she enjoyed among the liberal Moors of Spain,
which as fitted to enjoy as the favorite child of a wise father,
enlightened far beyond the prejudices of his nation or his time? In his
own younger days he had been a traveler, had visited Venice and even
Madrid, in both of which cities he had been a sojourner in the character
of ambassador, and had thus, like the wily Ulysses, “seen the cities of
many nations and learned their understandings.” Their languages he spoke
fluently: he even read their works, and, although a sincere and faithful
Mussulman, he had learned to prize many of the customs, to appreciate
the principles, and in some instances to adopt in his heart at least the
practices of the Christians.

Too wise openly to offend the prejudices of his people—and nothing
would have done so, more decidedly or more dangerously than any
infringement of the sanctity of the harem—he had not dared, absolute as
he was, to grant to his daughter that full liberty founded upon the
fullness of trust which he had learned to admire in Venice. Still he had
done all that he could do without offending prejudices or awakening
angry opposition. He had made Ayesha, from her earliest years, the
companion of his leisure hours; he had educated her in all that he
himself knew, he had consulted her as a friend, he had confided in her
as a human soul, not treated her as the mere pet and plaything of an
hour.

And now as she grew up from an engaging child to a fair marriageable
maiden, accomplished, intellectual, thoughtful, not an irresponsible
being, but a responsible human creature, with the beauty, the impulsive
nature, the passionate heart of the Moorish girl, but with the reason,
the intellect, the soul of the Spanish lady—Muley Abderrahman, who was
waxing into years, began to doubt whether he had done wisely in training
up the child of Mequiñez, the offspring of the desert, to the arts, the
accomplishments, the hopes, and the aspirations of the free Venetian
_dama_—began to look around him anxiously to see where he might bestow
the hand of her whom he had learned to cherish and esteem even above his
people or his power. He saw none, on that side of the Mediterranean,
with whom she could be other than a slave—the first and mistress of the
slaves, indeed, but still one of them—a beautiful toy to be prized for
beauty, while that beauty should yet endure; if faded, to be cast aside
into the sad solitude of neglect for a newer plaything, perhaps to be
imprisoned—as a discrowned and discontented queen, and therefore
dangerous—in some distant and dim seraglio on the verge of the great
burning desert.

And was this a fate for the bright, the beloved, the beautiful, the sage
Ayesha?

Thence was born the idea of the embassy to Boabdil. He knew the kings of
Granada civilized and cultivated far before those of Tetuan or Tafilet,
or even Mequiñez or Mecca—he knew that they had adopted, in many
respects, the usages of the Christian cavaliers, and not least among
these, their chivalrous courtesy and graceful respect for the fair
sex—he knew them powerful and wealthy, and possessed of a land the
fairest on the face of the earth, the glorious kingdom of Granada. At
this time, although the war had commenced between Ferdinand and the
Moorish princes, which was to terminate at no very distant day in the
total overthrow of the Saracenic empire in Spain, it as yet lagged
indecisively along, with no preponderance of this or the other force;
nor could there be any doubt that a declaration on the part of the
Sultan of Mequiñez, backed by the reinforcement of a Moorish and Berber,
and an active naval warfare along the coasts of Spain, would not only
secure Granada from any risk of dismemberment, but even wrest a
permanent acknowledgment and durable peace from the Christian kings of
the Spanish provinces.

Boabdil was at this time formally unwedded, although, like every other
prince or magnate of his people, he had his wives, his concubines, his
slaves innumerable. He was notoriously a leaner to the soft side of the
heart, a fervent admirer of beauty, and was, moreover, a kind-hearted,
gracious and accomplished prince. That he would be captivated by the
charms of the incomparable Ayesha, even apart from the advantages which
her union would bring to himself and to his people, could not be
doubted; and should such an union be accomplished Muley Abderrahman felt
well assured that he should have obtained for the darling of his heart
all that he desired, freedom of life, a suitable partner, and security
for her enjoyment of all her cherished tastes and respected privileges.

Still Muley Abderrahman, wiser than any Moslem father of that age, wiser
than most Christian parents of any age, was not inclined to set down his
own idea of what should be her good, with his absolute yea! as being her
very good. He had, strange thing for a Moor! an idea that a woman has a
soul—strange and unorthodox thing for a father! an idea that his
daughter had a heart; and that it might not be such a bad thing after
all for her ultimate happiness that her heart should be in some degree
consulted.

She went, therefore, fancy free and untrammeled even by the knowledge of
her father’s wishes, on a visit to her kinsfolk of Granada, entirely
unsuspicious that any secret of state policy was connected with the
visit to that land of romance and glory, of beauty and adventure, which
was to her one long holyday. Of all her train, indeed, there was but one
who was privy to the Sultan’s secret wishes old Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali,
the eldest of the sovereign’s councillors, like some, himself a
traveler, and like himself, imbued with notions far more liberal than
those of his time or country. To him it was entrusted, therefore, while
seemingly inattentive to all that was passing, to observe strictly every
shadow which might indicate whence the wind was about to blow—to take
especial note of Boabdil’s conduct and wishes, and, above all, to omit
no opportunity of discovering how the fair Ayesha might stand affected
toward her royal cousin.

Gaily and happily had passed the days, the weeks, the months—it was
still truce with the Spaniard, and days and nights were consumed in
tilts, in tournaments, in hawking-parties on the beautiful green meadows
of the Vega, beside the bright and brimful streams, adjuncts so
necessary to that royal pastime, that it was known of old as the
“Mystery of Rivers”—hunting-parties in the wild gorges of the Alpuxawa
mountains, banquets at high noon, and festivals beneath the glimmering
twilight, beneath the full-orbed moon, that life was, indeed, one long
and joyous holyday. Boabdil was, in truth, of a man a right fair and
goodly specimen—tall, finely formed, eminently handsome, graceful and
affable in manners, kindly in heart and disposition, not untinctured
with arts and letters, nor deficient in any essential which should
become a gentle cavalier—as a monarch, when surrounded by his court,
and seated in his place of state in the Hall of Lyons, of a truth he was
a right royal king—as a warrior, in the tilt-yard his skill, his
horsemanship, his management of all weapons, were the admiration of all
beholders. In the field his gallantry and valor were incontestable.
What, then, was wanting that Boabdil was not a perfect man, a real
cavalier, a very king? Purpose, energy, will—will that must have its
way, and cannot be denied, much less defeated.

A prince of a quiet realm, in tranquil times he had lived honored and
happy, he had been gathered to his fathers among the tears of his
people, he had lived in the memory of men as a good man, an admirable
king, the father of his people.

Fallen upon evil times, thrust into an eminence for which he not only
was, but felt himself to be unfit, unequally matched against such an
enemy as Ferdinand, the one weak point outweighed all the fine qualities
and noble virtues; and he lived, alas! to be that most miserable, most
abject of all human things, a dethroned, exiled, despised king!

And did Ayesha, from beneath the screen of girlish levity, while
seemingly steeped to the lips in the rapturous enjoyment of the liberty,
the life of the present moment, did Ayesha see and foresee all this? At
least, when Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali wrote to his friend and patron the
Sultan, and that but shortly after their arrival, that Boabdil was so
evidently and obviously enamored of his mother’s lovely guest, that he
would not only too eagerly court the alliance, backed as it was by
advantages so kingly, but that he verily believed he would woo her to
his throne, were she the merest peasant’s child. He wrote nothing of
Ayesha!

Again he wrote that he could not doubt she had perceived her royal
cousin’s love, and that her manner toward him was so frank, so free, so
unrestrainedly joyous and confiding, that he was well assured that all
went well, and that she returned the affection of Boabdil, and rejoiced
in his love.

But Muley Abderrahman, shook his head and knit his brow, as he read the
letter, and muttered through his thick moustache, “Ay! he is a good
man—a good man is the Hadj Abdallah, and a wise one, but he knows
nothing of a woman’s heart—how should he?”

When he sent the next dispatches to his old friend and counsellor, there
was a brief private note attached. “Is the Leila Ayesha,” he asked,
“never grave, never abstracted, never shy, and almost sad—does she
never flee from the gayety of the festival, the tumult of the chase,
into privacy and solitude—does she never fail to hear when addressed,
to see when encountered—does she never weep nor sigh when alone—in a
word, is she in nowise changed from what she was at Mequiñez?”

And the reply came, “Never. Wherefore should she? Is she not the apple
of all eyes, the idol of all hearts? Her laugh is as the music of the
soul, her eye-glance the sunbeam that enkindles every heart. She is the
star of the Alhambra, the loadstone of the king’s soul. Wherefore should
she weep or sigh? I have questioned her handmaids—never! Yes—the Leila
Ayesha is changed. In Mequiñez, she was as a sunbeam thrown on still
waters. Here in Granada, she is the sunbeam thrown on the dancing
fountain, reflecting happy light on all around her. In Mequiñez, she was
as a sweet song-bird, feeding her soul on her own harmonies in silence.
Here in Granada she is as the sweet song-bird, enrapturing all within
her sphere by the blithe outpourings of her joyous melodies. Yes—the
Leila Ayesha is changed. My Lord Boabdil loves the Leila Ayesha; the
Leila Ayesha knows it, and is glad.”

Then Muley Abderrahman shook his head, and pondered for a while, and
muttered—

“She loves him not—She loves him not. The Hadj Abdallah is good and
wise with the wisdom of men—but of the hearts of women, he knows
nothing—how should he? for he never saw a woman.”

And the old king, far distant, saw more of what was passing in the fair
girl’s heart than the wise councillor who was present—but he judged it
best to tarry and abide the event—and he tarried, but not long.

Had he been present on that sultry summer’s evening, and looked upon his
lovely child as she sat gazing out in such serenity of deep abstraction
over the sunny Vega—over the fragrant orange groves and glowing
vineyards, toward the glistening hill-tops of the Spaniards—his
question would have answered itself, and at the first glance he would
have seen that she loved.

The child had discovered that it had a heart—the creature had divined
that it had an immortal soul—the child had become a woman—a very
woman.

    With all a woman’s smiles and tears,
    And fearful hopes and hopeful fears,
    And doubts and prayers for future years.

Leila Ayesha loved—but whom? At least not Boabdil! Happily, not
Boabdil.

Even as she gazed, the orb of the gorgeous sun sank behind the distant
hills, and at once—clear, shrill, and most melodious—up went the voice
of the Muezzins, from every minaret throughout the gorgeous city, “To
prayer, to prayer. There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet.
Faithful, to prayer, to prayer!”

And instant at the cry every sound ceased through the royal
residence—every sound through the splendid city—every sound through
the wide Vega. Every turbaned head was bowed in prayer, and a sabbath
stillness seemed to consecrate the bridal of the earth and sky.

Ayesha rose from her divan, and while her lips murmured the words of
devotion, and her fingers ran rapidly over the beads of her Comboloic or
Moorish rosary, a strange, faltering flush ran over her fair brow. Her
orisons ended, she caught some of the spray of the fountain in the palm
of one of her fairy hands, and scattered it thrice over her long, dark
tresses, on which it glistened in the soft moonbeams; for the moon now
alone occupied the heavens, on the fragrant hills of the black hyacinth.

Again she resumed her attitude on the divan, but not her occupation; for
the mood of her mind was altered, and for a while she hummed the burthen
of an old, melancholy Moorish ballad—an old Moorish love-song, the
words of which corresponded in no small degree to our own, “Oh! willow,
willow”—since the proverb still holds good of burned Morocco or bright
Spain, as of green, merry England—

          “For aught that I did ever hear—
    Did ever read in tale or history,
    The course of true love never did run true.”

Ere long from the city gates far distant was heard the din of martial
music—first, the deep clang of the kettle-drums and atabals alone, and
the clear flourish of the silver trumpets which announced the presence
of the king, and these only at intervals above or between the trampling
of hoofs, the clash of armor, and the cheering of an excited multitude.
Anon nearer and nearer came the sounds, with the clash of cymbals and
the soft symphonies of lutes, and the clear, high notes of flutes and
clarionets among the clangor of the trumpets, and the brazen rattling of
the drums.

Nearer and nearer yet—and it is now at the Alhambra gates.

She started to her feet, and leaned far out of the embrasure commanding
all the city, but her eye marked one object only, the royal train filing
into the palace gates, from the royal sports on the Vega ended—and in
that train, on but one person.

It was no turbaned head or caftaned form on which that ardent eye was
fixed, now kindled into all a Moresca’s ecstacy of passion; it was on a
tall Spanish crest and lofty plume. And, as if by a secret instinct, as
her gaze was bent downward to the horse-shoe arch of the Alhambra gate,
his glance soared upward to the airy turret’s top, and readily detected
what would have escaped a less observant watcher, the dark eyes of his
fair Ayesha gleaming through the palm-leaves and passion-flowers; their
passionate fire half quenched by the tears of tenderness and hope.

His Ayesha—his—the Conde of Alarcos, proudest grandee of Spain—the
favorite child of the Spaniard’s deadliest foe, the Sultan of Morocco.

The Hadj Abdallah Ibn Ali’s next dispatch contained much important
tidings concerning a twenty years’ truce to be concluded between the
King Boabdil, of Granada, and the King Ferdinand, of Spain—and much
graver gossip of the noble Conde of Alarcos, Ferdinand’s ambassador; of
his high feats of arms, and gentle feats of courtesy—of how all the
court admired him, and how the Lady Ayesha shunned him, and how she was
less frequent at the falconry, less frequent at the chase, less frequent
at the festival, less frequent at the royal banquets—and how her
hand-maidens reported that their mistress sighed all the time and often
wept, and sat long hours gazing upon nothing, and played no more upon
her lute, nor sung the songs of Islam—and how she was—he feared—ill
at ease, and pining for her native land.

And when Muley Abderrahman read the letter he shook his head, and
muttered—

“Ay, she loves now, but it is the wrong one—a Nazarene, a dog,” and he
tore his beard and wept. That night a royal courier rode hard from
Mequiñez to Saleè, and the next day a fleet galley scoured the way
across the narrow seas to the fair shores of Granada.

The embassy should return at once to Mequiñez. Now hour of delay—too
late.

The embassy had returned the preceding day, but it was the Spanish
embassy: and it had returned, not to Mequiñez, but to Cordova. And ere
his master’s mandate had stricken terror to the soul of the Hadj
Abdallah, the Spanish bells were chiming for the wedding of a Moorish
maiden, now a Christian bride; and the Leila Ayesha, of Mequiñez, was
the wife of the noble Conde De Alarcos: nor have I ever heard that she
rued either of the changes.

Again Muley Abderrahman tore his beard, and this time from the very
roots. But his wonted philosophy still consoled him, and after a little
while he muttered—

“Allah, assist me, that I thought myself so wise—yet know not the heart
of a woman! How should I?”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      WRITE THOU UPON LIFE’S PAGE.


                           BY GRENVILLE GREY.


    Leave thou some light behind thee,
      Some mark upon thine age;
    Let not a false fate bind thee—
      Write thou upon life’s page,

    Some word of earnest meaning,
      Some thought, or else some deed,
    On which thy brother leaning,
      Unto better may succeed.

    For none may tell what beauty,
      What endless good there lies,
    In some little nameless duty,
      Whose remembrance never dies.

    Leave thou some light behind thee,
      Some token of thy way;
    Let not a false ease bind thee—
      Thou art not wholly clay.

    There is something noble in thee,
      Let it speak and not be mute;
    There is something that should win thee
      From a kindred with the brute.

    Thou art not, oh! my brother,
      Wholly impotent for good;
    Thou may’st win or warn another
      From the wrongs thou hast withstood.

    Leave thou some trace behind thee—
      In life’s warfare, go, engage;
    Let no more a false fate bind thee—
      Write thou upon life’s page.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      LINES ON A VASE OF FLOWERS,


                         (FOUND UPON MY DESK.)


                         BY ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS.


    I came upon these simple flowers
      As something I revere;
    They grew in Love’s enchanted bowers—
      And love hath placed them here.

    I kiss their cheeks of virgin bloom,
      I press their dewy lips,
    While my wrapt soul of their perfume,
      Inebriated sips.

    I look into their violet eyes,
      And feel my heart grow calm,
    And fancy I’m in Paradise,
      Inhaling Eden’s balm.

    There in ecstatic dreams I rove
      Among celestial bowers,
    Weaving a garland for my Love,
      Of beatific flowers.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               DEATH.[7]


BY SAMUEL HENRY DICKSON, M. D.; PROFESSOR IN THE MEDICAL COLLEGE OF SOUTH
                               CAROLINA.


As the word Life is employed in a double sense to denote the actions or
phenomena by which it is developed, and the cause of these phenomena, so
the old English word Death is used familiarly to express two or more
meanings. The first of these is the transition from the living to the
lifeless or inanimate state—the act, that is, of dying; the second, the
condition of an organized body which has ceased to live, while
organization yet remains, and symmetry still displays itself, and the
admirable structure of its parts is not yet destroyed by decomposition,
or resolved into the original and primary elements from which it was
moulded,

    “Before Decay’s effacing fingers
     Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.”

We occasionally speak of “dead matter” in the sense of inorganic; but
this is merely a rhetorical or metaphorical phrase. That which has never
lived cannot properly be said to be dead.

In the following essay, I shall use the word chiefly in the first of the
senses above indicated. It will often be convenient to employ it in the
second also; but in doing so, I will be careful so to designate its
bearing as to avoid any confusion. The context will always prevent any
misunderstanding on this point.

Death may be considered physiologically, pathologically, and
psychologically. We are obliged to regard it and speak of it as the
uniform correlative, and indeed the necessary consequence, or final
result of life; the act of dying as the rounding off, or termination of
the act of living. But it ought to be remarked that this conclusion is
derived, not from any understanding or comprehension of the relevancy of
the asserted connection, nor from any _à priori_ reasoning applicable to
the inquiry, but merely _à posteriori_ as the result of universal
experience. All that has lived has died; and, therefore, all that lives
must die.

The solid rock on which we tread, and with which we rear our palaces and
temples, what is it often when microscopically examined, but a congeries
of the fossil remains of innumerable animal tribes! The soil from which,
by tillage, we derive our vegetable food, is scarcely any thing more
than a mere mixture of the decayed and decaying fragments of former
organic being; the shells and exuviæ, the skeletons and fibres and
exsiccated juices of extinct life.

The earth itself, in its whole habitable surface, is little else than
the mighty sepulchre of the past; and

                              “All that tread
    The globe are but a handful to the tribes
    That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
    Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
    Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
    Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
    Save his own dashings—yet, the dead are there;
    And millions in these solitudes, since first
    The flight of years begun, have laid them down
    In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone.”

Four millions of Egyptians cultivate the valley of the great river on
whose banks, amidst the fertilizing dust of myriads of their
progenitors, there are calculated still to exist, in a state of
preservation, not less than from four hundred to five hundred millions
of mummies. The “City of the Tombs” is far more populous than the
neighboring streets even of crowded Constantinople; and the cemeteries
of London and the catacombs of Paris are filled to overflowing. The
trees which gave shade to our predecessors of a few generations back lie
prostrate; and the dog and horse, the playmate and the servant of our
childhood, are but dust. Death surrounds and sustains us. We derive our
nourishment from the destruction of living organisms, and from this
source alone.

And who is there among us that has reached the middle term of existence,
that may not, in the touching phrase of Carlyle, “measure the various
stages of his life-journey by the white tombs of his beloved ones,
rising in the distance like pale, mournfully receding milestones?”

“When Wilkie was in the Escurial,” says Southey, “looking at Titian’s
famous picture of the Last Supper in the refectory there, an old
Jeronymite monk said to him, ‘I have sat daily in sight of that picture
for now nearly threescore years; during that time my companions have
dropped off one after another—all who were my seniors, all who were my
cotemporaries, and many or most of those who were younger than myself;
more than one generation has passed away, and there the figures in the
picture have remained unchanged. I look at them, till I sometimes think
that _they_ are the realities, and we but shadows.’”

I have stated that there is no reason known to us why Death should
always “round the sum of life.” Up to a certain point of their duration,
varying in each separate set of instances, and in the comparison of
extremes varying prodigiously, the vegetable and animal organisms not
only sustain themselves, but expand and develop themselves, grow and
increase, enjoying a better and better life, advancing and progressive.
Wherefore is it that at this period all progress is completely arrested;
that thenceforward they waste, deteriorate and fail? Why should they
thus decline and decay with unerring uniformity upon their attaining
their highest perfection, their most intense activity? This ultimate law
is equally mysterious and inexorable. It is true the Sacred Writings
tell us of Enoch, “whom God took and he was not;” and of Elijah, who was
transported through the upper air in a chariot of fire; and of
Melchisedek, the most extraordinary personage whose name is recorded,
“without father, without mother, without descent: having neither
beginning of days, nor end of life.” We read the history without
conceiving the faintest hope from these exceptions to the universal
rule. Yet our fancy has always exulted in visionary evasions of it, by
forging for ourselves creations of immortal maturity, youth and beauty,
residing in Elysian fields of unfading spring, amidst the fruition of
perpetual vigor. We would drink, in imagination, of the sparkling
fountain of rejuvenescence; nay, boldly dare the terror of Medea’s
caldron. We echo, in every despairing heart, the ejaculation of the
expiring Wolcott, “Bring back my youth!”

Reflection, however, cannot fail to reconcile us to our ruthless
destiny. There is another law of our being, not less unrelenting, whose
yoke is even harsher and more intolerable, from whose pressure Death
alone can relieve us, and in comparison with which the absolute
certainty of dying becomes a glorious blessing. Of whatever else we may
remain ignorant, each of us, for himself, comes to feel, realize and
know unequivocally that all his capacities, both of action and
enjoyment, are transient and tend to pass away; and when our thirst is
satiated, we turn disgusted from the bitter lees of the once fragrant
and sparkling cup. I am aware of Parnell’s offered analogy—

    “The tree of deepest root is found
     Unwilling most to leave the ground;”

and of Rush’s notion, who imputes to the aged such an augmenting love of
life that he is at a loss to account for it, and suggests, quaintly
enough, that it may depend upon custom, the great moulder of our desires
and propensities; and that the infirm and decrepit “love to live on
because they have acquired a habit of living.” His assumption is wrong
in point of fact. He loses sight of the important principle that Old Age
is a relative term, and that one man may be more superannuated, farther
advanced in natural decay at sixty, than another at one hundred years.
Parr might well rejoice at being alive, and exult in the prospect of
continuing to live, at one hundred and thirty, being capable, as is
affirmed, even of the enjoyment of sexual life at that age; but he who
has had his “three sufficient warnings,” who is deaf, lame and blind;
who, like the monk of the Escurial, has lost all his cotemporaries, and
is condemned to hopeless solitude, and oppressed with the consciousness
of dependence and imbecility, must look on Death not as a curse, but a
refuge. Of one hundred and thirty-three suicides occurring in Geneva
from 1825 to 1834, more than half were above fifty years of age;
thirty-four, from fifty to sixty; nineteen, from sixty to seventy; nine,
from seventy to eighty; three, from eighty to ninety; in all sixty-five.
The mean term of life in that city being about thirty-five to forty,
this bears an immense proportion to the actual population above fifty,
and exhibits forcibly an opposite condition of feeling to that alleged
by Rush, a weariness of living, a desire to die, rather than an anxiety,
or even willingness to live.

I once knew an old man of about one hundred and four who retained many
of his faculties. He could read ordinary print without glasses, walked
firmly, rode well, and could even leap with some agility. When I last
parted with him, I wished him twenty years more; upon which he grasped
my hand closely, and declared he would not let me go until I had
retracted or reversed the prayer.

Strolling with my venerable and esteemed colleague, Prof. Stephen
Elliott, one afternoon, through a field on the banks of the river
Ashley, we came upon a negro basking in the sun, the most
ancient-looking personage I have ever seen. Our attempts, with his aid,
to calculate his age, were of course conjectural; but we were satisfied
that he was far above one hundred. Bald, toothless, nearly blind, bent
almost horizontally, and scarcely capable of locomotion, he was
absolutely alone in the world, living by permission upon a place, from
which the generation to which his master and fellow-servants belonged
had long since disappeared. He expressed many an earnest wish for death,
and declared, emphatically, that he “was afraid God Almighty had
forgotten him.”

We cannot wonder, then, that the ancients should believe, “Whom the gods
love, die young,” and are ready to say with Southey, himself,
subsequently, like poor Swift, a melancholy example of the truth of his
poetical exclamation,

            “They who reach
    Gray hairs die piecemeal.”

Sacred history informs us that, in the infancy of the world, the
physiological tendency to death was far less urgently and early
developed than it is now. When the change took place is not stated; if
it occurred gradually, the downward progress has been long since
arrested. All records make the journey of life from the time of Job and
the early patriarchs, much the same as the pilgrim of to-day is destined
to travel. Threescore and ten was, when Cheops built his pyramid, as it
is now, a long life. Legends, antique and modern, do indeed tell us of
tribes that, like Riley’s Arabs and the serfs of Middle Russia, and the
Ashantees and other Africans, live two or three centuries, but these are
travelers’ stories, unconfirmed. The various statistical tables that
have been in modern times made up from materials more or less authentic,
and the several inquiries into the general subject of longevity, seem to
lead to the gratifying conclusion that there is rather an increase of
the average or mean duration of civilized life. In 1806, Duvillard fixed
the average duration of life in France at twenty-eight years; in 1846,
Bousquet estimates it at thirty-three. Mallet calculated that the
average life of the Genevese had extended ten years in three
generations. In Farr’s fifth report (for 1844), the “probable duration,”
the “expectation of life” in England, is placed above forty; a great
improvement within half a century. It is curious, if it be true, that
the extreme term seems to lessen as the average thus increases. Mallet
is led to this opinion from the fact, among others, that in Geneva,
coincident with the generally favorable change above mentioned, there
has not been a single centenarian within twenty-seven years; such
instances of longevity having been formerly no rarer there than
elsewhere.

Birds and fishes are said to be the longest lived of animals. For the
longevity of the latter, ascertained in fish-ponds, Bacon gives the
whimsical reason that, in the moist element which surrounds them, they
are protected from exsiccation of the vital juices, and thus preserved.
This idea corresponds very well with the stories told of the
uncalculated ages of some of the inhabitants of the bayous of Louisiana,
and of the happy ignorance of that region, where a traveler once found a
withered and antique corpse—so goes the tale—sitting propped in an
arm-chair among his posterity, who could not comprehend why he _slept_
so long and so soundly.

But the Hollanders and Burmese do not live especially long; and the
Arab, always lean and wiry, leads a protracted life amidst his arid
sands. Nor can we thus account for the lengthened age of the crow, the
raven, and the eagle, which are affirmed to hold out for two or three
centuries.

There is the same difference among shrubs and trees, of which some are
annual, some of still more brief existence, and some almost eternal. The
venerable oak bids defiance to the storms of a thousand winters; and the
Indian baobab is set down as a contemporary at least of the Tower of
Babel, having probably braved, like the more transient, though
long-enduring olive, the very waters of the great deluge.

It will be delightful to know—will Science ever discover for us?—what
constitutes the difference thus impressed upon the long and short-lived
races of the organized creation. Why must the fragrant shrub or gorgeous
flower-plant die immediately after performing its function of continuing
the species, and the pretty ephemeron languish into non-existence just
as it flutters through its genial hour of love, and grace, and
enjoyment; while the banyan, and the chestnut, the tortoise, the
vulture, and the carp, formed of the same primary material elements, and
subsisting upon the very same resources of nutrition and supply, outlast
them so indefinitely?

Death from old age, from natural decay—usually spoken of as death
without disease—is most improperly termed by writers an euthanasia.
Alas! how far otherwise is the truth! Old age itself is, with the rarest
exceptions, exceptions which I have never had the good fortune to meet
with anywhere—old age itself is a protracted and terrible disease.

During its whole progress, Death is making gradual encroachments upon
the domain of life. Function after function undergoes impairment, and is
less and less perfectly carried on, while organ after organ suffers
atrophy and other changes, unfitting it for the performance of offices
to which it was originally designed. I will not go over the gloomy
detail of the observed modifications occurring in every part of the
frame, now a noble ruin, majestic even in decay. The lungs admit and
vivify less blood; the heart often diminishes in size and always acts
more slowly, and the arteries frequently ossify; nutrition is impeded
and assimilation deteriorated; senile marasmus follows, “and the seventh
age falls into the lean and slippered pantaloon;” and, last and worst of
all, the brain and indeed the whole nervous tissue shrink in size and
weight, undergoing at the same time more or less change of structure and
composition. As the skull cannot contract on its contents, the shrinking
of the brain occasions a great increase of the fluid within the
subarachnoid space. Communication with the outer world, now about to be
cut off entirely, becomes limited and less intimate. The eyes grow dim;
the ear loses its aptitude for harmony, and soon ceases to appreciate
sound; odors yield no fragrance; flavors affect not the indifferent
palate; and even the touch appreciates only harsh and coarse
impressions. The locomotive power is lost; the capillaries refuse to
circulate the dark, thick blood; the extremities retain no longer their
vital warmth; the breathing slow and oppressed, more and more difficult,
at last terminates forever with a deep expiration. This tedious process
is rarely accomplished in the manner indicated without interruption; it
is usually, nay, as far as my experience has gone, always brought to an
abrupt close by the supervention of some positive malady. In our
climate, this is, in the larger proportion, an affection of the
respiratory apparatus, bronchitis, or pulmonitis. It will, of course,
vary with the original or constitutional predisposition of the
individual, and somewhat in relation to locality and season. Many aged
persons die of apoplexy and its kindred cerebral maladies, not a few of
diarrhœa; a winter epidemic of influenza is apt to be fatal to them in
large numbers everywhere.

When we regard death pathologically, that is, as the result of violence
and destructive disease, it is evident that the phenomena presented will
vary relatively to the contingencies effective in producing it. It is
obviously out of place here to recount them, forming as they do a vast
collection of instructive facts, the basis indeed of an almost separate
science, Morbid Anatomy.

There are many of the phenomena of death, however, that are common to
all forms and modes of death, or are rarely wanting; these are highly
interesting objects of study in themselves, and assume a still greater
importance when we consider them in the light of signs or tokens of the
extinction of life. It seems strange that it has been found difficult to
agree upon any such signs short of molecular change or putrefactive
decomposition, that shall be pronounced absolutely certain, and
calculated entirely to relieve us from the horrible chance of premature
interment of a body yet living. The flaccidity of the cornea is dwelt on
by some; others trust rather to the _rigor mortis_, the rigid stiffness
of the limbs and trunk supervening upon the cold relaxation which
attends generally the last moments. This rigidity is not understood or
explained satisfactorily. It is possible that, as Matteucci has proved,
the changes in all the tissues, chiefly chemical or chemico-vital, are
the source from whence is generated the “nervous force” during life; so,
after death, the similar changes, now purely chemical, may, for a brief
period, continue to generate the same or a similar force, which is
destined to expend itself simply upon the muscular fibres in disposing
them to contract. There is a vague analogy here with the effect of
galvanism upon bodies recently dead, which derives some little force
from the fact that the bodies least disposed to respond to the stimulus
of galvanism are those which form the exceptions to the almost universal
exhibition of rigidity—those, namely, which have been killed by
lightning, and by blows on the pit of the stomach. Some poisons, too,
leave the corpse quite flaccid and flexible.

The researches of Dr. Bennett Dowler, of New Orleans, have presented us
with results profoundly impressive, startling, and instructive. He has,
with almost unequalled zeal, availed himself of opportunities of
performing autopsy at a period following death of unprecedented
promptness, that is, within a few minutes after the last struggle, and
employed them with an intelligent curiosity and to admirable purpose.

I have said that, in physiological death, the natural decay of advancing
age, there is a gradual encroachment of death upon life; so here, in
premature death from violent diseases, the contrasted analogy is offered
of life maintaining its ground far amidst the destructive changes of
death. Thus, in cholera asphyxia, the body, for an indefinite period
after all other signs of life have ceased, is agitated by horrid spasms,
and violently contorted. We learn from Dr. Dowler that it is not only in
these frightful manifestations, and in the cold stiffness of the
familiar _rigor mortis_, that we are to trace this tenacious muscular
contraction as the last vital sign, but that in all, or almost all cases
we shall find it lingering, not in the heart, anciently considered in
its right ventricle the _ultimum moriens_, nor in any other internal
fibres, but in the muscles of the limbs, the biceps most obstinately.
This muscle will contract, even after the arm with the scapula has been
torn from the trunk, upon receiving a sharp blow, so as to raise the
forearm from the table, to a right angle with the upper arm.

We also learn from him the curious fact that the generation of animal
heat, which physiologists have chosen to point out as a function most
purely vital, does not cease upon the supervention of obvious or
apparent death. There is, he tells us, a steady development for some
time of what he terms “post-mortem caloricity,” by which the heat is
carried not only above the natural or normal standard, but to a height
rarely equalled in the most sthenic or inflammatory forms of disease. He
has seen it reach 113° of Fahr., higher than Hunter ever met with it, in
his experiments made for the purpose of exciting it; higher than it has
been noted even in scarlatina, 112°, I think, being the ultimate limit
observed in that disease of pungent external heat; and far beyond the
natural heat of the central parts of the healthy body, which is 97° or
98°. Nor is it near the centre, or at the trunk, that the post-mortem
warmth is greatest, but, for some unknown reason, at the inner part of
the thigh, about the lower margin of its upper third. I scarcely know
any fact in nature more incomprehensible or inexplicable than this. We
were surprised when it was first told us that, in the Asiatic
pestilence, the body of the livid victim was often colder before than
after death; but this, I think, is easily understood. The profluvia of
cholera, and its profound capillary stagnation, concur in carrying off
all the heat generated, and in preventing or impeding the development of
animal heat. No vital actions, no changes necessary to the production of
caloric, can proceed without the minute circulation which has been
checked by the asphyxiated condition of the subject, while the fluids
leave the body through every outlet, and evaporation chills the whole
exposed and relaxed surface. Yet the lingering influence of a scarcely
perceptible vitality prevents the purely chemical changes of
putrefactive decomposition, which commence instantly upon the extinction
of this feeble resistance, and caloric is evolved by the processes of
ordinary delay.

In the admirable liturgy of the churches of England and of Rome, there
is a fervent prayer for protection against “battle, murder, and sudden
death.” From death uncontemplated, unarranged, unprepared for, may
Heaven in mercy deliver us! But if ever ready, as we should be for the
inevitable event, the most kindly mode of infliction must surely be that
which is most prompt and brief. To die unconsciously, as in sleep, or by
apoplexy, or lightning, or overwhelming violence, as in the catastrophe
of the Princeton, this is the true Euthanasia. “Cæsar,” says Suetonius,
“finem vitæ commodissimum, repentinum inopinatumque pretulerat.”
Montaigne, who quotes this, renders it, “La moins préméditée et la plus
courte.” “Mortes repentinæ,” reasons Pliny, “hoc est summa vitæ
felicitas.” “Emori nolo,” exclaims Cicero, “sed me esse mortuum nihil
estimo.”

Sufferers by various modes of execution were often, in the good old
times of our merciless ancestors, denied as long as possible the
privilege of dying, and the Indians of our continent utter a fiendish
howl of disappointment when a victim thus prematurely escapes from their
ingenious malignity. The _coup de grace_ was a boon unspeakably desired
by the poor wretch broken on the wheel, or stretched upon the accursed
cross, and forced to linger on with mangled and bleeding limbs, amidst
all the cruel torments of thirst and fever, through hours and even days
that must have seemed interminable.

The progress of civilization, and a more enlightened humanity have put
an end to all these atrocities, and substituted the gallows, the
garrote, and the guillotine, which inflict deaths so sudden that many
have questioned whether they necessarily imply any consciousness of
physical suffering. These are, however, by no means the most
instantaneous modes of putting an end to life and its manifestations. In
the hanged, as in the drowned, and otherwise suffocated, there is a
period of uncertainty, during which the subject is, as we know,
recoverable; we dare not pronounce him insensible. He who has seen an ox
“pithed” in the slaughter-house, or a game-cock in all the flush and
excitement of battle “gaffed” in the occiput or back of the neck, will
contrast the immediate stiffness and relaxation of the flaccid body with
the prolonged and convulsive struggles of the decapitated bird, with a
sort of curious anxiety to know how long and in what degree sensibility
may linger in the head and in the trunk when severed by the sharp axe.
The history of the guillotine offers many incidents calculated to throw
a doubt on the subject, and the inquiries of Seguret and Sue seem to
prove the existence of post-mortem passion and emotion.

Among the promptest modes of extinguishing life is the electric fluid. A
flash of lightning will destroy the coagulability of the blood, as well
as the contractility of the muscular fibre; the dead body remaining
flexible. A blow on the epigastrium kills instantly with the same
results. Soldiers fall sometimes in battle without a wound; the impulse
of a cannon-ball passing near the pit of the stomach is here supposed to
be the cause of death. The effect in these two last instances is
ascribed by some to “a shock given to the semilunar ganglion, and the
communication of the impression to the heart;” but this is insufficient
to account either for the quickness of the occurrence, or the peculiar
changes impressed upon the solids and fluids. Others are of opinion that
the whole set of respiratory nerves is paralyzed through the violent
shock given to the phrenic, “thus shutting up,” as one writer expresses
it, “the fountain of all the sympathetic actions of the system.” This
hypothesis is liable also to the objections urged above; and we must
acknowledge the suddenness and character of the results described to be
as yet unexplained, and in the present state of our knowledge
inexplicable.

On the field of battle, it has been observed that the countenances of
those killed by gun-shot wounds are usually placid, while those who
perish by the sword, bayonet, pike, or lance, offer visages distorted by
pain, or by emotions of anger or impatience. Poisons differ much among
themselves as to the amount and kind of suffering they occasion. We know
of none which are absolutely free from the risk of inflicting severe
distress. Prussic acid gives perhaps the briefest death which we have
occasion to observe. I have seen it, as Taylor states, kill an animal,
when applied to the tongue or the eye, almost before the hand which
offered it could be removed. Yet in the case of Tawell, tried for the
murder of Sarah Hart, by this means, there was abundant testimony that
many, on taking it, had time to utter a loud and peculiar scream of
anguish: and in a successful attempt at suicide made by a physician of
New York city, we have a history of appalling suffering and violent
convulsion. So I have seen in suicide with opium, which generally gives
an easy and soporose death resembling that of apoplexy, one or two
instances in which there were very great and long-protracted pain and
sickness.

Medical writers have agreed, very generally, that “the death-struggle,”
“the agony of death,” as it has long been termed is not what it appears,
a stage of suffering. I am not satisfied—I say it reluctantly—I am not
satisfied with these consolatory views, so ingeniously and plausibly
advocated by Wilson Philip, and Symonds, Hufeland and Hoffman. I would
they were true! But all the symptoms look like tokens or expressions of
distress; we may hope that they are not always such in reality: but how
can this be proved? Those who, having seemed to die, recovered afterward
and declared that they had undergone no pain, do not convince me of the
fact any more than the somnambulist, who upon awaking, assures me that
he has not dreamed at all, after a whole night of action, and connected
thought and effected purpose. His memory retains no traces of the
questionable past; like that of the epileptic, who forgets the whole
train of events, and is astonished after a horrible fit to find his
tongue bitten, and his face and limbs bruised and swollen.

Nay, some have proceeded to the paradoxical extreme of suggesting that
certain modes of death are attended with pleasurable sensations, as for
instance, hanging; and a late reviewer, who regards this sombre topic
with a most cheerful eye, gives us instances which he considers in
point. I have seen many men hung, forty at least, a strangely large
number. In all, there were evidences of suffering, as far as could be
judged by external appearances. It once happened that a certain set were
slowly executed, owing to a maladroit arrangement of the scaffold upon
which they stood, which gave way only at one end. The struggles of such
as were half supported were dreadful, and those of them who could speak
earnestly begged that their agonies should be put an end to.

In former, nay, even in recent times, we are told that pirates and
robbers have resorted to half-hanging, to extort confession as to hidden
treasure. Is it possible that they can have so much mistaken the means
they employ as thus to use pleasurable appliances for the purposes of
torture?

The mistake of most reasoners on the subject, Winslow and Hufeland more
especially, consists in this, that they fix their attention exclusively
upon the final moments of dissolution. But the act of dying may be in
disease, as we know it to be in many modes of violence, impalement, for
example, or crucifixion, very variously protracted and progressive.
“Insensibly as we enter life,” says Hufeland, “equally insensibly do we
leave it. Man can have no sensation of dying.” Here the insensibility of
_death completed_, that is, of _the dead body_, is strangely predicated
of the moribund while still living. This transitive condition, to use
the graphic language of the Southern writer whom we have already more
than once quoted, is “a terra incognita, where vitality, extinguished in
some tissues, smouldering in others, and disappearing gradually from
all, resembles the region of a volcano, whose eruptions subsiding, leave
the surface covered with cinders and ashes, concealing the rents and
lesions which have on all sides scarred and disfigured the face of
nature.”

Besides this, we have no right to assume, as Hufeland has here done, the
insensibility of the child at birth. It is subject to disease before
birth; as soon as it draws a breath, it utters loud cries and sobs. To
pronounce all its actions “mechanical, instinctive, necessary,
automatic,” in fact, is a very easy solution of the question; but I
think neither rational nor conclusive. If you prick it or burn it, you
regard its cries as proving sensibility to pain; but on the application
of air to its delicate and hitherto protected skin, and the distension
of its hitherto quiet lung, the same cry, you say, is mechanical and
inexpressive. So Leibnitz explained, to his own satisfaction, the
struggles and moans of the lower animals as automatic, being embarrassed
with metaphysical and moral difficulties on the score of their
intelligence and liability to suffering. But no one now espouses his
theory, and we must accept, whether we can explain them or not, the
facts that the lower animals are liable to pain during their entire
existence, and that the heritage of their master is, from and during
birth to the last moment of languishing vitality, a sad legacy of wo and
suffering.

Unhappily we may appeal, in this discussion, directly to the evidence of
our senses, to universal experience and observation. Who can doubt the
tortures inflicted in tetanus? to alleviate which, indeed, I have more
than once been solicited for poison. Does not every one know the
grievous inflictions of cancer, lasting through months and years, and
continuing, as I have myself seen, within a short hour of the absolute
extinction of life, in spite of every effort to relieve it? The most
painful of deaths apparently is that which closes the frightful tragedy
of hydrophobia, and patients, to hurry it, often ask most urgently for
any means of prompt destruction. But these more intense and acute pangs
are not the only form of intolerable agony. Unquenchable thirst, a
dreadfully progressive suffocation, confusion of the senses and of
thought—these are inflictions that nature shudderingly recoils from,
and these, or their manifestations, are scarcely ever wanting on the
death-bed.

If any one should ask why I thus endeavor to prove what it is revolting
to us all to believe or admit, I answer—first, that truth is always
desirable to be known both for its own sake and because it is ever
pregnant with ultimate benefit and utility. More than one moribund has
expressed to me his surprise and horror—shall I say disappointment too?
at finding the dark valley of the shadow of death so rough and gloomy
and full of terrors. Is it not better that we should be as thoroughly
and adequately prepared for the stern reality as may be, and that we
should summon up all the patience and fortitude requisite to bear us
through? When the last moment is actually at hand, we can safely assure
our friends that they will soon reach a state of rest and
unconsciousness, and that meanwhile, as they die more and more, they
will less and less feel the pain of dying. Secondly, by appreciating
properly the nature and amount of the pangs of death, we shall be led to
a due estimate of the demand for their relief or palliation, and of the
obligation incumbent on us to institute every proper effort for that
purpose with zeal and assiduity. He who believes with Hufeland, that the
moribund is insensible, is likely to do little to solace or comfort him.

There are doubtless instances of death entirely easy. “I wish,” said
Doctor Black, “I could hold a pen; I would write how pleasant a thing it
is to die.” Dr. George Fordyce desired his youngest daughter to read to
him. When she had been reading some time, he called to her—“Stop; go
out of the room; I am going to die.” She left him, and an attendant,
entering immediately, found him dead. “Is it possible I am dying?”
exclaimed a lady patient of mine; “I feel as if going into a sweet
sleep.” “I am drowsy, had I better indulge myself?” asked Capt. G. On my
giving him an affirmative answer, he turned, and sank into a slumber
from which he awoke no more. It is indeed pleasant to know that examples
occur of this unconscious and painless dissolution; but I fear they are
comparatively rare exceptions to a natural rule; and I regard it as the
duty of the medical profession to add to the number by the judicious
employment of every means in our power.

And this leads me to a brief consideration of the question so often
pressed upon us in one shape or another by the friends of our patients,
and sometimes by our patients themselves: If the tendency of any
medicinal or palliative agent be to shorten life, while it assuages
pain, has the physician a right to resort to it? Even in the latter
stages of some inflammatory affections, loss of blood, especially if
carried to fainting, will arrest the sharp pangs, but the patient will
probably die somewhat sooner: shall we bleed him? Large doses of opium
will tranquilize him, or render him insensible; but he will probably
sink somewhat earlier into the stupor of death. Shall we administer it,
or shall we let him linger on in pain, merely that he may linger?
Chloroform, ether, and other anæsthetics in full dose inspired render us
insensible to all forms of anguish, and make death as easy, to use the
phrase of Hufeland, as being born! Shall we allow our agonized moribund
to inhale them? Used in less amount, a degree of relief and palliation
is procured, but at the risk of exhausting or prostrating more promptly
the failing energies of the system. Shall we avail ourselves of their
anæsthetic influences, or are they forbidden us, either absolutely or
partially?

These are by some moralists considered very delicate questions in
ethics. Desgenettes has been highly applauded for the reply he made to
Bonaparte’s suggestion, that it would be better for the miserable sick
left by the French army at Jaffa to be drugged with opium: “It is my
business to save life, not to destroy it.” But, in approving the
physician, we must not harshly condemn the commanding officer. When we
reflect on the condition of the men whom the fortune of war compelled
him to abandon, and the certainty of a horrible death to each victim
from wasting disease or Turkish cruelty, a rational philanthropist might
well desire to smooth their passage to the grave.

During the employment of torture for the purposes of tyranny in Church
and State, a physician or surgeon was at hand, whose whole duty it was
to suspend the process whenever it became probable that nature would
yield under its pressure, and the victim would escape through the
opening, glad gates of death. It was then esteemed an act of mercy to
give, or permit to be given by the executioner, a fatal blow, hence
called emphatically and justly the _coup de grace_. In the terrible
history of the invasion of Russia by Napoleon, we shudder to read that,
after their expulsion from Moscow, the French soldiers, in repassing the
fields of battles fought days and even weeks previously, found many of
their comrades, there wounded and left, still dragging out a wretched
and hopeless existence, amidst the corpses of those more fortunately
slain outright, and perishing miserably and slowly of cold and hunger,
and festering and gangrenous wounds. One need not surely offer a single
argument to prove, all must feel and admit that the kindest office of
humanity, under the circumstances, would have been to put an end to this
indescribable mass of protracted wretchedness by the promptest means
that could be used to extinguish so horrible a life.

A common case presents itself from time to time to every practitioner,
in which all hope is avowedly extinct, and yet, in consonance with
uniform custom, stimulants are assiduously prescribed to prolong
existence in the midst of convulsive and delirious throes, not to be
looked on without dismay. In some such contingencies, where the ultimate
result was palpably certain, I have seen them at last abandoned as
useless and worse, in order that nature, irritated and excited, lashed
into factitious and transitory energy, might sink into repose; and have
felt a melancholy satisfaction in witnessing the tranquillity, so soft
and gentle, that soon ensued; the stormy agitation subsiding into a calm
and peaceful decay.

Responsibility of the kind I am contemplating, often indeed more obvious
and definite, presses upon the obstetrician, and is met unreservedly. In
embryulcia, one life is sacrificed in the hope and with the reasonable
prospect of saving another more valued: this is done too sometimes where
there is an alternative presented, the Cæsarian section, which destroys
neither of absolute necessity, but subjects the better life to very
great risk.

Patients themselves frequently prefer the prompter and more lenient
motives of death which our science refuses to inflict. In summing up the
motives of suicide in one hundred and thirty-one cases, whose causes are
supposed to be known, Prevost tells us that thirty-four, more than
one-fourth of the whole number, committed self-murder to rid themselves
of the oppressive burden of physical disease. Winslow gives us an
analysis of thirteen hundred and thirty-three suicides from Pinel,
Esquirol, Burrows, and others. Of these, there were but two hundred and
fifty that did not present obvious appearances of bodily ailment; and
although it is not stated how many of them sought death voluntarily as a
refuge from physical suffering, it would be unreasonable to doubt that
this was the purpose with a very large proportion. I am far from
advocating the propriety of yielding to this desire or gratifying the
propensity; nay, I would, on the other hand, earnestly endeavor to
remove or repress it, as is now the admitted rule.

I hold fully, with Pascal, that, according to the principles of
Christianity, which in this entirely oppose the false notions of
paganism, a man “does not possess power over his own life.” I
acknowledge and maintain that the obligation to perform unceasingly, and
to the last and utmost of our ability, all the duties which appertain to
our condition, renders absolutely incompatible the right supposed by
some to belong to every one to dispose of himself at his own will. But I
would present the question for the serious consideration of the
profession, whether there does not, now and then, though very rarely,
occur an exceptional case, in which they might, upon full and frank
consultation, be justified before God and man in relieving, by the
efficient use of anæsthetics, at whatever risk, the ineffable and
incurable anguish of a fellow-creature laboring under disease of organic
destructiveness, or inevitably mortal; such, for example, as we are
doomed to witness in hydrophobia, and even more clearly in some
instances of cancerous and fungoid degeneration, and in the sphacelation
of organs necessary to life, or parts so connected as to be
indispensable, yet not allowing either of removal or restoration?

I have left myself scarcely time for a few remarks upon death,
psychologically considered. How is the mind affected by the anticipation
and actual approach of death? The answer will obviously depend upon and
be influenced by a great diversity of contingencies, moral and physical.
The love of life is an instinct implanted in us for wise purposes; so is
the fear of pain. Apart from this, I do not believe, as many teach, that
there is any instinctive fear of death. Education, which instills into
us, when young, the fear of spectres; religious doctrines, which awake
in us the terror of “something after death;” conscience, which, when
instructed, “makes cowards of us all;” associations of a revolting
character—

    “The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave—
     The deep, damp vault, the darkness, and the worm;”

these startle and appal us.

    “Man makes a death that nature never made,
     Then on the point of his own fancy falls.
     And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.”

We sympathize duly with every instinct of nature; we all feel the love
of life, and accord readily in the warmest expression of it; but we
recoil from every strong exhibition of the fear of death as unreasonable
and dastardly.

When Claudio reminds his noble sister that “death is a fearful thing,”
she replies well—“and shamed life a hateful!” But when he rejoins—

    “The weariest and most loathed worldly life
     That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
     Can lay on nature, is a paradise
     To what we fear of death;”

we anticipate her in bidding him “Perish! for a faithless coward, and a
beast.”

In the same contemptible and shrinking spirit, Mæcenas, in a passage
from Seneca—

    “Vita, dum superest bene est
     Hunc mihi vel acuta
     Si sedeam cruce, sustine.”

Among hypochondriacs, we often meet with the seemingly paradoxical
combination of an intense dread of death unassociated with any
perceptible attachment to life; a morbid and most pitiable condition,
which urges some to repeated, but ineffectual attempts at suicide. I
know not a state of mind more utterly wretched.

Both these sentiments, whether instinctive or educational, are, we
should observe, very strikingly influenced by circumstances.
Occasionally, they seem to be obliterated, or nearly so; not only in
individuals, but in large masses, nay, in whole communities; as during
great social convulsions; through the reign of a devastating pestilence;
under the shock of repeated disorders of the elements; as in
earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, storms, and inundations; in protracted
sieges, and in shipwrecks. The Reign of Terror produced this state of
feeling in France, and thousands went to the scaffold indifferently, or
with a jest. Boccacio and others have pictured the same state of
undejected despair, if such a phrase be permitted, in which men succumb
to fate, and say, with a sort of cheerful hardihood, “Let us eat and
drink, for to-morrow we die,” losing thus all dread even of the plague.
Pliny the younger, in his flight from Mycena, under the fatal shower of
ashes from Vesuvius, heard, amidst the darkness, the prayers of wretches
“who desired to die, that they might be released from the expectation of
death.” And Byron, in his magnificent description of the shipwreck, in
Don Juan, tells us—

    “Some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
     As eager to anticipate the grave.”

Shakspeare’s Constance, in her grief, draws well the character of death,
as—

                    “Misery’s love,
    The hate and terror of prosperity.”

A woman who has lost her honor; a soldier convicted of poltroonery; a
patriot who sees his country enslaved; a miser robbed; a speculator
bankrupt; a poet unappreciated, or harshly criticized, as in poor
Keats’s case—

    “Strange that the soul, that very fiery particle,
     Should let itself be snuffed out by an article”—

all these seem to loathe life, or, at any rate, lose much of their
fondness for it. It is curious to remark, too, how little, as in the
last-mentioned instance, will suffice to extinguish, abruptly or
gradually, this usually tenacious instinct. A man in York cut his
throat, because, as he left in writing, “he was tired of buttoning and
unbuttoning.” The occurrence of a loathsome but very curable disease in
a patient of mine, just when he was about to be married, induced him to
plunge among the breakers off Sullivan’s Island, on one of the coldest
days of our coldest winter. A Pole in New York wrote some verses just
before the act of self-destruction, implying that he was so weary of
uncertainty as to the truth of the various theories of the present and
future life, that he “had set out on a journey to the other world to
find out what he ought to believe in this.”

We are always interested in observing the conduct of brave men, who
exhibit a strongly-marked love of life, with little or no fear of death.
Danton, Camille Desmoulins, and Herault Sechelles, who commenced their
revolutionary career as reckless as they seemed ferocious, having
attained elevation, acquired wealth, and married beautiful women, became
merciful and prudent. Hunted in their turn by the bloodhounds of the
time, they made the most earnest endeavors to escape, but displayed a
noble courage in meeting their fate when inevitable.

It is a trite but true remark, that men will boldly face one mode of
death, and shrink timidly from another. A soldier, whom discipline will
lead without flinching “up to the imminent deadly breach,” will cower
before a sea-storm. Women, even in the act of suicide, dreading
explosion and blood, prefer poison and drowning. Men very often choose
firearms and cutting instruments, which habit has made familiar.

If the nervous or sensorial system escape lesion during the ravages of
disease, the conduct of the last hour will be apt to be consistent with
the previous character of the individual. Hobbes spoke gravely of death
as “a leap in the dark.” Hume talked lightly of Charon and his
ferry-boat. Voltaire made verses with his usual levity—

    “Adieu, mes amis! adieu, la compagnie!
     Dans deux heures d’ici, mon âme aneantie
     Sera ce que je fus deux heures avant ma vie.”

Keats murmured, poetically, “I feel the flowers growing on my grave.”
Dr. Armstrong died prescribing for a patient; Lord Tenterden, uttering
the words “Gentlemen of the Jury, you will find;” General Lord Hill,
exclaiming “Horrid war!” Dr. Adams, of the Edinburgh High School, “It
grows dark; the boys may dismiss!” The last words of La Place were, “Ce
que nous connaissons est peu de chose; ce que nous ignorons, est
immense!”

The history of suicide, of death in battle, and of executions, is full
of such instances of consistent conduct and character. Madame Roland
desired to have pen and paper accorded to her, at the “Place de la
Guillotine,” that she might, as she phrased it, “set down the thoughts
that were rising in her mind.” Sir Thomas More jested pleasantly as he
mounted the scaffold. Thistlewood, the conspirator, a thoughtful man,
remarked to one of his fellow-sufferers that, “in five minutes more,
they would be in possession of the great secret.” When Madame de
Joulanges and her sisters were executed, they chanted together the Veni
Creator on their way from the prison to the fatal spot. Head after head
fell under the axe, but the celestial strain was prolonged until the
very last voice was hushed in the sudden silence of death.

The delirium of the moribund exhibits itself in diversified and often
contrasted manifestations. Symonds looks upon it as closely analogous to
the condition of the mind in dreaming. A popular and ancient error
deserves mention, only to be corrected; that the mind, at the near
approach of dissolution, becomes unusually clear, vigorous, and active.

    “The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed,
     Lets in new light through chinks which Time has made.”

Excitement of the uncontrolled imagination, as in dreams, and other
modes of delirium, is frequently mistaken for general mental energy;
some suggested association arouses trains of thought that have made deep
traces in the memory; scenes familiar in early childhood are vividly
described, and incidents long past recalled with striking minuteness.
All physicians know the difference familiarly presented in diseases,
some of which specifically occasion despondency and dejection of
spirits, while others render indifferent or even give rise to
exhilaration. The former constitute a class unhappily numerous. Cholera,
which at a distance excites terrors almost insane, is usually attended
with a careless stolidity, when it has laid its icy hand upon its
victim. The cheerful hopefulness of the consumptive patient is
proverbial; and in many instances of yellow fever, we find the moribund
patient confident of recovery. These are the exceptions, however; and we
cannot too often repeat that the religious prejudice which argues
unfavorably of the previous conduct and present character from the
closing scene of an agitating and painful illness, or from the last
words, uttered amidst bodily anguish and intellectual confusion, is
cruel and unreasonable, and ought to be loudly denounced. We can well
enough understand why an English Elizabeth, Virgin Queen, as history
labels her, could not lie still for a moment, agitated as she must have
been by a storm of remorseful recollections, nor restrain her shrieks of
horror long enough even to listen to a prayer. But how often does it
happen that “the wicked has no bands in his death;” and the awful
example of deep despair in the Stainless One, who cried out in his agony
that he was forsaken of God, should serve to deter us from the daily
repeated and shocking rashness of the decisions against which I am now
appealing.

Some minds have seemed firm enough, it is true, to maintain triumphantly
this last terrible struggle, and resist in a measure at least the
depressing influence of disease. Such instances cannot, however, be
numerous; and we should be prepared rather to sympathize with and make
all due allowance for human weakness. I have seen such moments of
yielding as it was deeply painful to witness, at the bedside of many of
the best of men, whose whole lives had been a course of consistent
goodness and piety, when warned of impending death, and called on to
make those preparations which custom has unfortunately led us to look
upon as gloomy landmarks at the entrance of the dark valley.

One of these, from youth to age a most esteemed and valued member of one
of our most fervent religious bodies, with sobs and tears, and loud
wailing, threw the pen and paper from him, exclaiming, over and over
again, “I will not—I cannot—I must not die.” Like the eccentric
Salvini, of whom Spence tells us that he died, crying out in a great
passion, “Je ne veux pas mourir, absolument;” and Lannes, the bravest of
Bonaparte’s marshals, when mortally wounded, struggled angrily and
fearfully, shouting with his last breath, “Save me, Napoleon!”

But I recoil from farther discussion of a topic so full of awe and
solemn interest, and conclude this prosaic “Thanatopsis” with the
Miltonian strain of Bryant, who terminates his noble poem, thus styled,
in language worthy of the best age and brightest laurel of our tongue:—

    “So live, that, when thy summons comes to join
     The innumerable caravan, that moves
     To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
     His chamber in the silent halls of death,
     Thou go not like the quarry slave at night,
     Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
     By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
     Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
     About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”

-----

[7] From Essays on Life, Sleep, Pain, etc., just published by Blanchard
& Lea, Philadelphia.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    TO A FRIEND IN THE SPIRIT LAND.


                     BY L——, OF EASTFORD HERMITAGE.


    Time passes wearily with me
      Since thou hast joined the spirit throng;
    I miss thy laugh that rang with glee—
      The music of thy voice and song;
    And though each day I meet bright eyes,
      That look with tenderness on mine,
    And cheeks that with the coral vies,
      And tones that seem almost divine,
    Still they can wake no gentle chord
      To vibrate deeply in the heart;
    For each bright glance and gentle word,
      Must fail to charm while we’re apart.
    Then speed thee, Time, upon thy way.
      Swift on thy fleeting pinions soar;
    And hasten on that blissful day,
      When we shall meet to part no more.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      THE PHILADELPHIA ART-UNION.


While other Art-Unions throughout the country are falling into
disrepute, that of Philadelphia seems to be rising in favor.

This cannot be owing to the absence of discouragements. Like all similar
institutions, it suffered severely from the pressure of the money-market
during the last six months of the year 1851. It found, in common with
others, that money was not forthcoming for the promotion of art, when it
commanded from one to two per cent. a month on ’change—that men could
not, or would not buy pictures, when they were obliged to strain every
nerve to save themselves from bankruptcy.

Besides the serious loss of revenue arising from this source, the
Philadelphia Art-Union lost by fire its two most valuable steel plates,
just at the moment when it was about to reap from them a golden harvest.
These splendid plates, “Mercy’s Dream,” and “Christiana and her Family,”
which had cost the society several thousand dollars, and which were
unquestionably among the most attractive prints ever issued in this
country, were entirely destroyed in the conflagration of Hart’s
buildings in this city.

It is not, therefore, mere good luck, nor the absence of discouraging
circumstances, that has given the Philadelphia Art-Union its present
condition of success. This success is based on the principles of its
organization, which differ materially from those of other kindred
associations.

In the first place, though located nominally in Philadelphia, and having
its Board of Managers here, it is really an Art-Union for every place
where it finds subscribers. Its prize-holders may select their prizes
from any gallery in the United States, or may order a picture from any
artist of their own selection. This puts it entirely out of the power of
the Board of Managers, even if they had the inclination, to exercise
favoritism toward any particular clique of artists, or to practice any
kind of fraud or trickery either in the purchase or the valuation of
pictures.

Secondly, and for the very reason just assigned, the Philadelphia
Art-Union enjoys in a high degree the confidence of the artists
themselves. They know by experience that its free gallery is the means
of selling a large number of pictures, besides those which are ordered
in consequence of the annual distributions. They know also that in order
to sell their pictures, or to obtain orders for painting, they have not
to cater to the fancies or caprices of a small clique of managers, but
to appeal to the public at large, depending solely upon the general
principles of their art. In other Art-Unions, the managers themselves
select and buy the pictures that are to be distributed as prizes. Hence
they are almost invariably regarded with jealousy by every artist who
does not receive from them an order—that is, by at least nine-tenths of
the whole body. The artist sees, however, that the Philadelphia
Art-Union does not admit of any favoritism of this kind. Its very plan
renders the thing impossible. If any particular artist finds that among
the prize-holders, no order or purchase has come to his studio, he may
see in it evidence perhaps that he has not pleased the public taste, but
no evidence of partiality in the Board of Managers. So far as their
operations are concerned, they give to all competitors “a fair field and
no favor”—and this is all that the artist asks.

That this view of the subject is the true one, and that the artists
themselves so view it, has been conclusively shown by their action on
the occasion of the losses of the institution by the late fire. The
artists of Philadelphia, on hearing of this disaster, called a meeting,
of their own accord, and passed a series of resolutions, approving in
the most unqualified manner both the plan and the management of the
institution, and agreeing severally to paint a picture of the value of
at least fifty dollars, and to present the same to the Art-Union.
Several other gentlemen, amateurs and patrons of art, stimulated by this
generosity, joined them in the enterprise, and already about fifty
valuable prizes have been thus guarantied.

It is obvious that they have entered upon this matter in a generous
spirit, with that animation and hearty good-will which spring naturally
from the circumstances. Every one at all conversant with art or artists,
knows how much the excellence of a picture, its very life and soul—all,
in fact, that distinguishes it as a work of art, or raises it above a
mere piece of mechanism—depends upon the feeling of the artist while
creating it. The noble enthusiasm with which the artists have entered
upon the present arrangement, is the best guaranty that the Art-Union
will have from each painter one of the happiest efforts of his
genius—something done under the direct influence of inspiration.
Indeed, we happen to know that several of our most eminent artists
intend to lay themselves out on this occasion—resolved to show what
artists are, and what they can do, for an institution which commands
their confidence.

Mr. Rothermel has signified his intention to paint a picture worth $500;
Mr. Paul Weber a landscape worth $500; Mr. A. Woodside a picture worth
$500; Mr. Scheussele a Scriptural subject worth $250; Mr. Sully a
picture worth $100; Mr. Joshua Shaw a landscape worth $75; and several
others have promised pictures at prices varying from $50 (the minimum)
to $75, $100, $150, etc. The names of the other artists and amateurs who
have offered original pictures of this description, are Rembrandt Peale,
James Hamilton, Isaac L. Williams, Wm. A. K. Martin, Wm. F. Jones, Wm.
E. Winner, Leo. Elliot, F. de Bourg Richards, George C. White, John
Wiser, J. K. Trego, George W. Holmes, Geo. W. Conarroe, John Sartain,
Alex. Lawrie, Jr., Samuel Sartain, G. R. Bonfield, S. B. Waugh, W. T.
Richards, Aaron Stein, R. A Clarke, W. Sanford Mason, J. R. Lambdin, G.
C. Lambdin, J. Wilson, May Stevenson, I. W. Moore, T. H. Glessing, W. H.
Wilcox, Thomas A. Andrews, George F. Meeser, James S. Earle, Edward F.
Dennison, George W. Dewey, James L. Claghorn. Others will, no doubt, be
added to the list.

About fifty splendid original works of art, ranging in value from $50 to
$500 each, have thus been placed absolutely at the disposal of the Board
of Managers, and have been by them specifically pledged to the
subscribers at the next distribution.

Besides this, Mr. Rothermel has just finished for the Art-Union a great
historical painting of Patrick Henry making his celebrated revolutionary
speech before the Virginia House of Burgesses. This picture is
undoubtedly Mr. Rothermel’s master-piece. He has thrown into it all the
fire of his genius, all the ardor of his patriotism, all the
accumulations of his knowledge and skill as one of the practiced and
leading historical painters of the day.

The historical scene which Mr. Rothermel has commemorated in this
painting is the passage of Patrick Henry’s resolutions on the Stamp Act
in the House of Burgesses, in the year 1765. The passage of these
resolutions was the first bold note of defiance that was uttered on this
side of the Atlantic. The manner in which they were carried through the
House is thus described by his biographer:

“It was, indeed, the measure which raised him [Mr. Henry] to the zenith
of his glory. He had never before had a subject which entirely matched
his genius, and was capable of drawing out all the powers of his mind.
It was remarked of him, throughout his life, that his talents never
failed to rise with the occasion, and in proportion with the resistance
which he had to encounter. The nicety of the vote, on the last
resolution, proves that this was not a time to hold in reserve any part
of his forces. It was, indeed, an Alpine passage, under circumstances
even more unpropitious than those of Hannibal; for he had not only to
fight, hand to hand, the powerful party who were already in possession
of the heights, but at the same instant to cheer and animate the timid
band of followers, that were trembling, and fainting, and drawing back
below him. It was an occasion that called upon him to put forth all his
strength; and he did put it forth, in such a manner as man never did
before. The cords of argument with which his adversaries frequently
flattered themselves that they had bound him fast, became packthreads in
his hands. He burst them with as much ease as the unshorn Samson did the
bands of the Philistines. He seized the pillars of the temple, shook
them terribly, and seemed to threaten his opponents with ruin. It was an
incessant storm of lightning and thunder, which struck them aghast. The
faint-hearted gathered courage from his countenance, and cowards became
heroes while they gazed upon his exploits. It was in the midst of this
magnificent debate, while he was descanting on the tyranny of the
obnoxious act, that he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, and with the
look of a god, ‘Cæsar had his Brutus—Charles the First his
Cromwell—and George the Third—’ ‘Treason!’ cried the Speaker.
‘Treason! treason!’ echoed from every part of the house. It was one of
those trying moments which is decisive of character. Henry faltered not
for an instant; but rising to a loftier attitude, and fixing on the
Speaker an eye of the most determined fire, he finished his sentence
with the firmest emphasis—‘_may profit by their example_. If _this_ be
treason—make the most of it!’”

The exact moment of time which Mr. Rothermel has seized for his
painting, is when the last words which we have quoted, (“_If this be
treason—make the most of it!_”) are dying away upon the ear. The
impassioned orator stands erect and self-possessed, his open hand aloft,
as though a thunder-bolt had just passed from his fingers, and his eye
were quietly awaiting the issue, in the conscious strength of a Jupiter
Tonans.

Foremost in the foregoing is Richard Henry Lee. Lee sees, by a sort of
prophetic intuition, the full import of this inspired oratory. His very
face, under the magic of Mr. Rothermel’s genius, is a long perspective
of war, desolation, heroic deeds, and the thick-coming glories of
ultimate civic and religious liberty.

Peyton Randolph, also in the foreground, is a most striking figure. So
is Pendleton, so is Wythe, so is Speaker Robinson. Indeed, every inch of
canvas tells its story. The spectator, who knew nothing of the scene or
of its actors, would instantly and involuntarily become conscious that
he was present at some great world-renowned action.

But in dwelling upon this fascinating topic, we have been unconsciously
carried away from our main point. This great painting, which was
executed by Mr. Rothermel for the Art-Union, at the price of one
thousand dollars, but which, by its extraordinary excellence, has
already acquired a market value far beyond that sum, _is to be drawn for
among the other prizes at the next annual distribution_.

Every subscriber, moreover, secures for himself a copy of the engraving
of this great picture, which the Managers have contracted for in a style
of surpassing beauty. The picture itself, and the engraving of it, will
form an era in the history of American art, as the subject itself did in
the history of American Independence.

Besides this, all the money obtained from the subscribers, after paying
for the engraving and other incidental expenses, is to be distributed,
as heretofore, in money-prizes for the purchase of other works of art,
at the option of the prize-holders.

Of the general beneficial influence of Art-Unions, at least of those
conducted on the plan of that in Philadelphia, we have not the shadow of
a doubt. We are happy, however, to quote a couple of passages quite in
point. The first is from the _North British Review_.

“We believe that by a judicious distribution of engravings more may be
done for the culture of the public taste than by any other means
whatsoever. One thoroughly good engraving, fairly established and
domiciled in a house, will do more for the inmates in this respect, than
a hundred visits to a hundred galleries of pictures. It is a teacher of
form, a lecturer on the beautiful, a continually present artistic
influence. Nor do we see any reason why the same system should not be
extended to casts, which might be taken either after the antique, or
some thoroughly good modern sculptor, such as Thorwarldsen. If such a
system were carried out, matters might soon be brought to a state in
which there should scarcely be any family which did not possess within
its own walls the means of forming a taste, and that a genuine and a
high one, both in painting and sculpture.”

The second passage is still more to the point. It is from our
contemporary, the _Saturday Courier_.

“This Institution, [The Philadelphia Art-Union,] by its Free Gallery,
and by its being a centre of action for artists and amateurs, is
continually operating in a silent but most perceptible manner upon
public taste. Every visit to the Free Gallery, every picture sold from
its walls, every picture which it is the means of calling into
existence, every print which it sends abroad into the community, is so
much done toward the promotion of a popular taste for what is refined
and elegant, and a consequent _dis_taste for what is coarse, illiberal,
and depraved. Every man in the community has on interest—not merely a
moral, but a pecuniary interest—in the promotion of a popular taste for
the Fine Arts. It is a part of the moral education of society, which,
like all other good popular education, adds at once to the value and the
safety of every man’s property.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Lectures on the History of France. By the Right Honorable Sir
    James Stephen, K. C. B., LL. D.; Professor of Modern History in
    the University of Cambridge. New York: Harper & Brother. 1 vol.
    8vo._

Sir James Stephen is the writer of a number of essays in the Edinburgh
Review, which, at the time they appeared, were mistaken by some readers
as the productions of Macaulay. There were no real grounds for such a
supposition, as Stephen’s mind has hardly a single quality in common
with Macaulay’s, and the resemblance of his style to that of the
historian of the Revolution is of a very superficial kind. Stephen, like
Macaulay, is a writer of clear, clean, short, compact sentences, and
deals largely in historical allusions, parallels and generalizations,
but his diction has none of Macaulay’s rapid movement, and his knowledge
betrays little of Macaulay’s “joyous memory.” Stephen’s mind is large
and rich in acquired information, but it is deficient in passion, and
its ordinary movement is languid, without any of Macaulay’s intellectual
fierceness, eagerness and swift sweep of illustration and
generalization, and without any of Macaulay’s bitterness, partizanship
and scorn of amiable emotions. Stephen, indeed, if he be a mimic, mimics
Mackintosh rather than Macaulay, and in charity, in intellectual
conscientiousness, in courtesy to opponents, in all the benignities and
amenities of scholarship, and also in a certain faint hold upon large
acquisitions, he sometimes resembles without at all equaling him. The
reader is continually impressed with his honesty and benevolence, with
his continual clearness and occasional reach of view, and with his
graceful mastery of the resources of expression; but to continuous vigor
and vividness of conception and language he has no claim.

The present volume, a large octavo of some seven hundred pages, is
evidently the work of much thought, research and time, though the author
regrets that he was compelled to prepare his lectures without adequate
preparation. They were delivered at the University of Cambridge, Stephen
occupying in that institution the professorship of history. He
succeeded, we believe, William Smythe, a dry, hard and pedantic, though
well read professor, whose lectures on history and on the French
Revolution are the most uninteresting of useful books. Stephen is almost
his equal in historical knowledge, and his superior in the graces of
style and in the power of making his knowledge attractive. His work,
indeed, though it can hardly give him the reputation of a great
historian, is altogether the best view of French history in the English
language, and is an invaluable guide to all who wish to gain a thorough
acquaintance with France in her historical development. It gives the
causes of the decline and fall of the various dynasties of her
government, the character of her feudal system, the steps by which her
government became an absolute monarchy, and the differences between the
absolute monarchy of Henry IV. and Louis XIV. The lectures on the
anti-feudal influence of the municipalities, of the Eastern Crusades, of
the Albigensian Crusades—the masterly view of the position occupied by
the Parliaments, the Privileged Orders and the States General, in
relation to the Monarchy of France—and the expositions of the sources
and management of the revenues of the nation, are all eminently lucid
and valuable, and without any of the ostentatious brilliancy and
paradoxical generalization which are apt to characterize the French
historical school, are really modest contributions to the philosophy of
history.

Sir James Stephen, in the course of his narration and dissertations,
furnishes us with some elaborate delineations of character. That of
Cardinal Richelieu is especially good. After saying of him that he was
not so much minister as dictator, not so much the agent as the
depositary of the royal power, he adds that, “a king in all things but
the name, he reigned with that exemption from hereditary and domestic
influences which has so often imparted to the Papal monarchs a kind of
preterhuman energy, and has so often taught the world to deprecate the
celibacy of the throne.” His character, as a despotic innovator, is also
finely sketched. “Richelieu was the heir of the designs of Henry IV. and
ancestor to those of Louis XIV. But they courted, and were sustained by,
the applause and the attachment of their subjects. He passed his life in
one unintermitted struggle with each, in turn, of the powerful bodies
over which he ruled. By a long series of well-directed blows, he crushed
forever the political and military strength of the Huguenots. By his
strong hand the sovereign courts were confined to their judicial duties,
and their claims to participate in the government of the state were
scattered to the winds. Trampling under foot all rules of judicial
procedure and the clearest principles of justice, he brought to the
scaffold one after another of the proudest nobles of France, by
sentences dictated by himself to extraordinary judges of his own
selection; thus teaching the doctrine of social equality by lessons too
impressive to be misinterpreted or forgotten by any later generation.
Both the privileges, in exchange for which the greater fiefs had
exchanged their independence, and the franchises, the conquest of which
the cities, in earlier times, had successfully contended, were alike
swept away by this remorseless innovator. He exiled the mother,
oppressed the wife, degraded the brother, banished the confessor, and
put to death the kinsmen and favorites of the king, and compelled the
king himself to be the instrument of these domestic severities. Though
surrounded by enemies and by rivals, his power ended only with his life.
Though beset by assassins, he died in the ordinary course of nature.
Though he had waded to dominion through slaughter, cruelty and wrong, he
passed to his great account amid the applause of the people and the
benedictions of the church; and, as far as any human eye could see, in
hope, in tranquillity and in peace. What, then, is the reason why so
tumultuous a career reached at length so serene a close? The reason is,
that amid all his conflicts Richelieu wisely and successfully maintained
three powerful alliances. He cultivated the attachment of men of
letters, the favor of the commons, and the sympathy of all French
idolaters of the national glory.”

In some admirable lectures on the Power of the Pen in France, Stephen
gives fine portraits of Rabelais, Montaigne, Calvin and Pascal. One
remark about Calvin struck us as especially felicitous. Speaking of him
as writing his great work in Geneva, he says—“The beautiful lake of
that city, and the mountains which encircle it, lay before his eyes as
he wrote; but they are said to have suggested to his fancy no images,
and to have drawn from his pen not so much as one transient allusion.
With his mental vision ever directed to that melancholy view of the
state and prospects of our race which he had discovered in the Book of
Life, it would, indeed, have been incongruous to have turned aside to
depict any of those glorious aspects of the creative benignity which
were spread around him in the Book of Nature.”

The most valuable chapters in the volume are perhaps those which relate
to the character and government of Louis XIV. The absolute monarchy
established by him is thoroughly analyzed. Among many curious
illustrations of that tyranny and perfidy which this great master of
king-craft systematized into a science, Stephen translates from his
“Memoires Historiques” a series of maxims, addressed to the Dauphin, for
his guidance whenever he should be called upon to wear the crown of
France. Louis’s celebrated aphorism, “I am the state,” is in these
precious morsels of absolutism expanded into a rule of conduct. We quote
a few of them, as, to republican ears, they may have the effect of
witticisms:

“It is the will of Heaven, who has given kings to man, that they should
be revered as his vice-regents, he having reserved to himself alone the
right to scrutinize their conduct.”

“It is the will of God that every subject should yield to his sovereign
on implicit obedience.”

“The worst calamity which can befall any one of our rank is to be
reduced to that subjection, in which the monarch is obliged to receive
the law from his people.”

“It is the essential vice of the English monarchy that the king can make
no extraordinary levies of men or money without the consent of the
Parliament, nor convene the Parliament without impairing his own
authority.”

“All property within our realm belongs to us in virtue of the same
title. The funds actually deposited in our treasury, the funds in the
hands of the revenue officers, _and the funds which we allow our people
to employ in their various occupations_, are all _equally_ subject to
our control.”

“Be assured that kings are absolute lords, who may fitly and freely
dispose of all property in the possession either of churchmen or of
laymen, though they are bound always to employ it as faithful stewards.”

“Since the lives of his subjects belong to the prince, he is obliged to
be solicitous for the preservation of them.”

“The first basis of all other reforms was the rendering my own will
properly absolute.”

Some of his remarks on treaties, from the same volume, convey a fair
impression of the king’s good faith to his allies. All mankind knows
that he was in conduct a measureless liar and trickster, and that no
treaty could hold him; but it is not perhaps generally known that he
generalized perfidy into a principle, and had no conception that in so
doing he was violating any moral or religious duty. He thus solemnly
instructs the dauphin—

“In dispensing with the exact observance of treaties, we do not violate
them; for the language of such instruments is not to be understood
literally. We must employ in our treaties a conventional phraseology,
just as we use complimentary expressions in society. They are
indispensable in our intercourse with one another, but they always mean
much less than they say. The more unusual, circumspect and reiterated
were the clauses by which the Spaniards excluded me from assisting
Portugal, the more evident it is that the Spaniards did not believe that
I should really withhold such assistance.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Podesta’s Daughter, and other Miscellaneous Poems. By
    George H. Boker. Author of “Calaynos,” “Anne Boleyn,” “The
    Betrothal,” etc. Philadelphia: A. Hart._

Mr. Boker is ever a welcome visitant among the regions of literature.
The present volume is understood to be composed of those lighter efforts
of his muse which have engaged his attention at intervals between the
composition of his larger works, “Calaynos,” “Anne Boleyn” and “The
Betrothal.” Some of these minor poems have already seen the light, under
the auspices of our leading magazines; but by far the greater part of
the book is fresh, and all of it bears evidence of that genuine
inspiration, and that high finish, without which the author never
appears before the reading public.

“The Podesta’s Daughter” is an Italian tale or legend, thrown into that
dramatic form for which Mr. Boker has shown such a remarkable gift. The
story is very briefly this. A lowly maiden is loved and wooed by one far
above her in life, a son of the neighboring duke. The father and brother
of the maid, believing the high-born youth to be merely selfish and
insidious in his offers of love and marriage, seek to rescue her from
what appears to them a fatal snare, and persuade her to reject his
addresses and even pretend to be affianced to another, a country hind in
her own walk in life. The young and uncalculating noble, stung to the
quick by her apparent preference of a rival so utterly unworthy of him
and of her, suddenly abandoned his home and castle, and engaged during
all the prime and meridian of his days in distant foreign wars. In the
evening of life he returns, alone and almost a stranger, to the scenes
of his youth. On approaching his castle, he falls in with an old man,
the “Podesta,” by whom he is not recognized. In the dialogue between
them, the Podesta, being questioned by the apparent stranger, tells the
story of himself and family, and especially of his “daughter,” by whose
untimely grave they are standing. She died of a broken heart, after the
abrupt departure of the young duke, years ago. It is the old story. True
love, not left to its native instincts, but thwarted and driven devious
by the manœuvres of the suspicious. Though Italian in manners, and
dramatic in form, it is a true story of the heart. It is told with
infinite skill, and must win for its author a bright addition to the
chaplet which already surrounds his brow.

The first scene in the “Podesta’s Daughter,” is a good instance of the
quiet ease with which Mr. Boker makes an actor bring out the points of a
story, so that the reader is at once posted up to the very moment of
action.

    SCENE—_Before and within the gate of an Italian Churchyard.
    Enter (as if from the wars,)_ Duke Odo, Vincenzo, _and a train
    of men-at-arms_.

             _Duke Odo (dismounting.)_
        Hark you, Vincenzo; here will I dismount.
        Lead on Falcone to the castle. See
        He lack no provender or barley-straw
        To ease his battered sides. Poor war-worn horse!
        When last we galloped past this church-yard gate,
        He was a colt, gamesome and hot of blood,
        Bearing against the bit until my arm
        Ached with his humors. Mark the old jade now—
        He knows we talk about him—a mere boy
        Might ride him bare-back. Give my people note
        Of my approach, and tell them, for yourself,
        I will not look too strictly at my house:
        An absent lord trains careless servitors.
        I wish no bonfires lighted on the hills,
        No peaceful cannon roused to mimic wrath;
        Say, I have seen cities burn, and shouting ranks
        Of solid steel-clad footmen melt away
        Before a hundred pieces. Say I come for rest,
        Not jollity; and all I seek
        Is a calm welcome in their lighted eyes,
        And quiet murmurs that appear to come
        More from the heart than lips.

The manner in which the intimacy began between the young count and the
Podesta’s daughter, Giulia, is described in a passage remarkable equally
for its simplicity and its beauty. It is a good specimen also of the
author’s power of nicely discriminating character.

  Count Odo—mark the contrast—so we called,
  Through ancient courtesy, the old duke’s son—
  Came from the Roman breed of Italy.
  A hundred Cæsars poured their royal blood
  Through his full veins. He was both flint and fire;
  Haughty and headlong, shy, imperious,
  Tender, disdainful, tearful, full of frowns—
  Cold as the ice on Ætna’s wintry brow,
  And hotter than its flame. All these by turns.
  A mystery to his tutors and to me—
  Yet some have said his father fathomed him—
  A mystery to my daughter, but a charm
  Deeper than magic. Him my daughter loved.
          .     .     .     .     .     .
  My functions drew me to the castle oft,
  Thither sometimes my daughter went with me;
  And I have noticed how young Odo’s eyes
  Would light her up the stairway, lead her on
  From room to room, through hall and corridor,
  Showing her wonders, which were stale to him,
  With a new strangeness: for familiar things,
  Beneath her eyes, grew glorified to him,
  And woke a strain of boyish eloquence,
  Dressed with high thoughts and fluent images,
  That sometimes made him wonder at himself,
  Who had been blind so long to every charm
  Which her admiring fancy gave his home.
  Oft I have caught them standing rapt before
  Some barbarous portrait, grim with early art—
  A Gorgon, to a nicely balanced eye,
  That scarcely hinted at humanity;
  Yet they would crown it with the port of Jove,
  Make every wrinkle a heroic scar,
  And light that garbage of forgotten times
  With such a legendary halo, as would add
  Another lustre to the Golden Book.
  At first the children pleased me; many a laugh,
  That reddened them, I owed their young romance.
  But the time sped, and Giulia ripened too,
  Yet would not deem herself the less a child:
  And when I clad me for the castle, she
  Would deck herself in the most childish gear,
  And lay her hand in mine, and tranquilly
  Look for the kindness in my eyes. She called
  Odo her playfellow—“The little boy who showed
  The pictures and the blazoned hooks,
  The glittering armor and the oaken screen,
  Grotesque with wry-faced purgatorial shapes
  Twisted through all its leaves and knotted vines;
  And the grand, solemn window, rich with forms
  Of showy saints in holyday array
  Of green, gold, red, orange and violet,
  With the pale Christ who towered above them all
  Dropping a ruby splendor from his side.”
  She told how “Odo—silly child! would try
  To catch the window’s glare upon her neck,
  Or her round arms,” and how “the flatterer vowed
  The gleam upon her temple seemed to pale
  Beside the native color of her cheek.”
  Prattle like this enticed me to her wish,
  Though cooler reason shook his threatening hand,
  And counseled flat denial.


But by far the finest poem in this collection is the “Ivory Carver.” In
the prologue to this poem,

    Three Spirits, more than angels, met
    By an Arabian well-side, set
    Far in the wilderness, a place
    Hallowed by legendary grace.

By this retired fountain the spirits enter into a discussion concerning
the condition and prospects of their protégé man. Two of them are
evidently croakers. To them the world seems, as to any moral progress,
stationary, if not actually retrograding. They are almost indignant that
the Lord does not consign the planet with its inhabitants at once to
perdition. But the third spirit, a superior intelligence,

    One, chief among the spirits three,
    Grander than either, more sedate,
    Wore yet a look of hope elate,
    With higher knowledge, larger trust
    In the long future; _and the rust_
    _Of week-day toil with earthly things_
    _Stained and yet glorified his wings_.

This superior angel maintains that man, though not capable of
instantaneous acts or intuitive perceptions, equal to those of the
higher orders of beings, is yet not the mere hopeless castaway the two
other spirits would make him. Give him but time, and with pain and toil
he will work out results worthy even of an angel’s regard. An angel, by
direct intuition, may see at once in a shapeless lump of matter all the
forms of beauty of which it is capable. Yet man, in process of time,
slowly but surely, can bring forth those same wonderful forms. The
illustration of this point in the celestial argument leads to the main
story.

              I, in thought,
    Have seen the capability
    Which lies within yon ivory:
    This rough, black husk, charred by long age,
    Unmarked by man since, in his rage,
    A warring mammoth shed it: Lo!
    Whiter than heaven-sifted snow
    Enclosed within its ugly mask
    Lies a world’s wonder: and the task
    Of slow development shall be
    Man’s labor and man’s glory. See!
    His foot-tip touched it; the rude bone
    Glowed through translucent, widely shone
    A morning lustre on the palm
    Which arched above it.

The angel then summons an attendant, and bids him bear this shapeless
tusk to some mortal capable of bringing from it by slow pain and toil
the glorious beauty which had shone forth instantaneously at the angelic
touch.

                             Spirit, bear
    This ivory to the soul that dare
    Work out, through joy, and care, and pain,
    The thought which lies within the grain,
    Hid like a dim and clouded sun.

The prologue, which thus introduces us to the studio of the “Ivory
Carver,” may be deemed by some far-fetched and metaphysical. To us it
seems a most beautiful preparation for what follows. It attunes the mind
to a just appreciation of that self-sacrificing devotion with which the
artist, year by year, in silence, in want, toils away to work out of the
solid ivory the divine thought which haunts him. The moral of the
prologue, as we understand it, is to connect the inspirations of genius
with their true source. It prepares us to look at the toiling “ivory
carver,” not as he appeared to his family and neighbors, a madman or a
fool, but as he might have appeared to some celestial visitant, who knew
the secrets of his heaven-touched soul.

  Silently sat the artist alone,
  Carving a Christ from the ivory bone.
  Little by little, with toil and pain,
  He won his way through the sightless grain,
  That held and yet hid the thing he sought,
  Till the work stood up, a growing thought.
  And all around him, unseen yet felt,
  A mystic presence forever dwelt,
  A formless spirit of subtle flame,
  The light of whose being went and came
  As the artist paused from work, or bent
  His whole heart to it with firm intent.
          .     .     .     .     .     .
  Husband, why sit you ever alone,
  Carving your Christ from the ivory bone?
  O, carve, I pray you, some fairy ships,
  Or rings for the weaning infant’s lips,
  Or toys for yon princely boy who stands
  Knee-deep in the bloom of his father’s lands.
  And waits for his idle thoughts to come;
  Or carve the sword hilt, or merry drum,
  Or the flaring edge of a curious can,
  Fit for the lips of a bearded man:
  With vines and grapes in a cunning wreath,
  Where the peering satyrs wink beneath,
  And catch around quaintly knotted stems
  At flying nymphs by their garment hems.
          .     .     .     .     .     .
  O carve you something of solid worth—
  Leave heaven to heaven, come, earth to earth.
  Carve that thy hearth-stone may glimmer bright,
  And thy children laugh in dancing light.

  Steadily answered the carver’s lips,
  As he brushed from his brow the ivory chips;
  While the presence grew with the rising sound,
  Spurning in grandeur the hollow ground,
  As if the breath on the carver’s tongue
  Were fumes from some precious censer swung,
  That lifted the spirit’s winged soul
  To the heights where crystal planets roll
  Their choral anthems, and heaven’s wide arch
  Is thrilled with the music of their march;
  And the faithless shades flew backward, dim
  From the wondrous light that lived in him—
  Thus spake the carver—his words were few,
  Simple and meek, but he felt them true—
  “I labor by day, I labor by night,
  The Master ordered, the work is right:
  Pray that He strengthen my feeble good;
  For much must be conquered, much withstood.”
  The artist labored, the labor sped,
  _But a corpse lay in his bridal bed_.


But we must have done with quotations. Indeed, our limits warn us that
we must abruptly close the volume. We have read every poem in it with
the most lively pleasure. It has been in the belief that we could not
otherwise minister so well to the gratification of our readers that we
have quoted so freely and said so little. We will only add in
conclusion, that every fresh production of Mr. Boker’s that we see
furnishes additional evidence of his true calling as a poet. Should he
never write another line, he has already, in the brief space of three
years, done enough to make his name classical.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Margaret: A Tale of the Real and the Ideal, Blight and Bloom.
    By the author of “Philo,” etc. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 2
    vols. 12mo._

This is a revised edition of a book which attracted, at the time it
originally appeared, a great deal of attention from an intelligent but
limited class of readers. We trust that it will have a more extended
circulation now that it is in the hands of an enterprising publishing
house, and is issued in a readable shape. It is the first and best of
Mr. Judd’s works, and though it exhibits the ingrained defects of the
author’s genius, it has freshness, originality and raciness enough to
more than compensate for its occasional provoking defiance of taste and
obedience to whim. The sketches of character are bold, true, powerful
and life-like; the descriptions of New England scenery eminently vivid
and clear; and an exquisite sense of moral beauty is accompanied by a
sense no less genial and subtle for the humorous in life, character and
manners. It is perhaps as thoroughly American as any romance in our
literature.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Nicaragua; Its People, Scenery, Monuments, and the proposed
    Interoceanic Canal. With Numerous Original Maps and
    Illustrations. By E. G. Squier, late Chargé D’Affaires of the
    United States to the Republics of Central America. New York: D.
    Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 8vo._

This is perhaps the most valuable book of travels which any American has
contributed to literature since Stephens relinquished his pen; and, if
we may believe Mr. Squier, his subject-matter is of the greatest
importance to every patriot. According to him, the future eminence of
our country depends on the policy which the United States now adopts in
regard to the affairs of Central America; and his visions of the
material prosperity which will result from the bold, firm and
intelligent action of our government in the matter, are gorgeous as Sir
Epicure Mammon’s. And it must be admitted that he sustains his positions
by facts and arguments which every American should be familiar with, and
which cannot be obtained any where in a more compact form than in Mr.
Squier’s own work, which contains a complete geographical and
topographical account of Nicaragua, and of the other States of Central
America, with observations on their climate, agriculture and mineral
productions and general resources; a narrative of his own residence in
Nicaragua, giving the results of his personal explorations of its
aboriginal monuments, and his observations on its scenery and people;
notes on the aborigines of the country, with such full information
regarding “their geographical distributions and relations, languages,
institutions, customs and religion, as shall serve to define their
ethnical position in respect to the other semi-civilized aboriginal
nations of this continent;” an outline of the political history of
Central America since it threw off the dominion of Spain, and above all,
a very elaborate view of the geography and topography of Nicaragua, as
connected with the proposed interoceanic canal. Mr. Squier writes on all
these subjects from personal knowledge and investigation, and with the
freshness and power of a man who has got all his information at first
hand. The work is profusely illustrated with appropriate engravings from
drawings made on the spot, and is also well supplied with accurate maps.
Bating some redundancies of style proceeding from a mania for fine
writing, these volumes are, from their intrinsic and permanent value,
worthy of more general attention than almost any work of the season.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Wesley and Methodism. By Isaac Taylor. New York: Harper &
    Brothers. 1 vol. 12 mo._

The author of this valuable and thoughtful volume is extensively known
both in England and the United States as a philosophic writer on the
great themes and great exponents of Christian faith. As in a former
volume he considered Jesuitism in Loyola, its founder, so in this he
views Methodism in Wesley. His penetrative and meditative mind, equally
acute and sympathetic, readily discovers the connection between opinions
and character, principles and persons; and by viewing sects and systems
psychologically and historically in the characters and lives of their
founders, he gives the interest of biography to the discussion of the
most metaphysical questions of theology. His present work is eminently
original and suggestive, evincing on every page the movement of a deep
and earnest nature, and an intellect at once critical and
interpretative. His own religious nature is too profound to allow his
indulgence in any of those phrases of sarcasm, contempt, or pity, which
it used to be fashionable to speak of Methodism and Methodists; but
though he considers the religious movement which he analyses and
represents as a genuine development of the principal elements of
Christianity, and as second only to the Reformation in importance among
the providential modes of vitalizing and diffusing the faith, he is
still calm, reasonable and austerely just in his judgments. His
criticism of the prominent Methodists is an example. He sees clearly
that they were not great men mentally. “Let it be confessed,” he says,
“that this company does not include one mind of that amplitude and
grandeur, the contemplation of which, as a natural object—a sample of
humanity—excites a pleasurable awe, and swells the bosom with a vague
ambition, or with a noble emulation. Not one of the founders of
Methodism can claim to stand on any such high level; nor was one of them
gifted with the philosophic faculty—the abstractive and analytic power.
More than one was a shrewd and exact logician, but none a master of the
higher reason. Not one was erudite in more than an ordinary degree; not
one was an accomplished scholar; yet while several were fairly learned,
few were illiterate, and none showed themselves to be imbued with the
fanaticism of ignorance.” In his sketches of Charles Wesley, Whitfield,
Fletcher, Coke, and Lady Huntingdon, we have the truth given of those
remarkable persons, unmixed with the exaggeration either of admiration
or contempt. The volume as a whole, is the most comprehensive and
accurate work on Methodism which we have ever seen.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Young Americans Abroad; or Vacation in Europe. Travels in
    England, France, Holland, Belgium, Prussia, and Switzerland.
    With Illustrations. Boston: Gould & Lincoln. 1 vol. 16mo._

This volume is a truly original book of travels, not so much because it
describes new scenes, but because it describes them from a different
point of view. It consists of letters written by three boys, whose
respective ages are twelve, fourteen and sixteen, traveling in Europe
under the care of their instructor, the Rev. Dr. Choules. Quick to see
and eager to enjoy, fresh in mind and heart, these boys seem to write
because they have much to say, and because their heads are so full of
enchanting objects that a discharge of ink is absolutely necessary to
preserve them from mental apoplexy. And we must admit that they have
made a book which in interest, raciness and in the power of
communicating their own delight to the reader, fairly excels many a
volume of more pretension. The presiding spirit of the whole
correspondence is, of course, the kindly and accomplished editor, a
person who combines in an extraordinary degree, the joyous and elastic
soul of youth with the large knowledge and experience of manhood. His
own letters in the volume are very characteristic epistles, and add much
to its value.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Adrian; or the Clouds of the Mind. By G. P. R. James and
    Mansell B. Field. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12 mo._

The authors of this American romance have produced a literary
curiosity—a volume, every page of which is the product of two minds,
without any apparent jarring of style or sentiment. In the conduct of
the story, it is true, a little uncertainty is visible, but that appears
to arise as much from the nature of the plot as from the presence of two
hands in moving it forward. It is well written, has some capital
descriptions of scenery and some very exciting incidents, and, in idea
and sentiment, is a combination of English and American modes of thought
and feeling. The scene in the Medical College is the most powerful in
the volume.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Thomas Chalmers, D. D., LL.
    D. By his Son-in-Law, the Rev. William Hanna, LL. D. New York:
    Harper & Brothers. Vol. 3._

The present volume does not, as was contemplated, bring this interesting
biography to a close. The Doctor is left at the end of it, full of
energy and combativeness, instead of reposing in his coffin. The volume
is full of attractive matter, being devoted to that portion of Chalmers’
life, between 1824 and 1835, when some of his most important works were
written, and when his communications with men eminent in politics and
letters were most frequent. Brougham, Peel, Melbourne, Mackintosh,
Irving, Coleridge, and many other celebrities, appear in these pages.
Among the letters in the volume, we should select those to his daughter
as the most pleasing.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Home and Social Philosophy. From Household Words. Edited by
    Charles Dickens, First Series. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol.
    16mo._

The indefatigable publisher whose name is on this title-page, commences
with this delightful collection of essays, a new “Semi-Monthly Library,
for Travelers and the Fireside.” The present volume contains some two
hundred And fifty well printed pages, and is placed at the low price of
twenty-five cents. It is to be followed by a series of works, combining
entertainment with usefulness, and intended in the end, to form one of
the cheapest and most elegant “libraries” that an intelligent reading
public could desire.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Essays on Life, Sleep, Pain, etc. By Samuel Henry Dickson, M.
    D., Philadelphia: Blanchard & Lea. 1 vol. 12mo._

These essays, a specimen of which we furnish our readers in the present
number, are the production of a mind singularly acute and tenacious, and
are marked as the productions of a scholar and a profound thinker.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _United States Monthly Law Magazine and Examiner. New York: John
    Livingston, 157 Broadway._

We have received this creditable periodical, and examined it with great
interest. We are happy to say that it is still conducted with ability
and learning. The editor deserves high praise for his industry and
liberality. He provides the profession with well selected cases from the
English law journals and reports, as well as from our own
adjudicatories. We are well pleased to see the manly independence with
which he adopts and advocates the reform of law and equity so urgently
called for in this country and England. The periodical prospers—and it
merits prosperity.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Historical Society.—We have received a copy of the address
delivered before the Historical Society of this State, at Chester, in
November last, and have barely room to say that it is marked by the fine
finish and lucid reasoning which distinguish all the efforts of Mr.
Armstrong, whether as a writer or speaker. We shall refer to it again.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.


Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.


Eminent Young Men.—We purpose, occasionally, to give to our readers, in
our own off-hand way, sketches of such of the young men of our
acquaintance as have risen to position and distinction by the force of
their own indomitable purpose and efforts. These papers will be plain,
unpretending, and without any effort at literary display—but if such
examples as have passed under our own observation, fairly _put_, shall
awaken even one young man among our readers from inglorious sloth, to
energetic endeavors to accomplish something for himself and his
generation, we shall think our time has been most profitably spent.

America has but one recognizable stamp of nobility. No line of descent
in the blood of kings, can ennoble here. The stagnant pool which has
lost its vitality for ages in the veins of a scurvy nobility, reflects
no honor—enriches no name. That which makes Manhood Great—is
_Energy_—_Will_—nobly directed—that quality which Kossuth proclaims
to be the conqueror of impossibilities. It is this quality, largely
possessed by the Anglo-Saxon, and the free field open for its exercise
in America, that have made her what she is—

    “The day-star among the nations.”

It is the noble hopes and manly aspirations in the breast of her
sons—the far-reaching, the attainable grasp of future fortune, the
birth-right of the humblest—the unconquerable purpose to do, to
achieve, to conquer, that exalt us to “giants in these days.” We have
the highest manifestation of manhood, in a fair field, with _all_ the
favor that God grants to mortals to carve out their own destinies. He
who sinks here, goes down with supineness, slothfulness, idleness, and
their attendant vices clinging to his neck with more than mill-stone
weight. With high health and a perfect use of his faculties, no man
_here_ has a right to be ignoble. “The longer I live,” says Goethe, “the
more certain I am that the great difference between men, the great and
significant, is energy—invincible determination—an honest purpose once
fixed and then, victory. That quality will do anything that can by done
in the world; and no talents, no circumstances, no opportunity will make
a man without it.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Benjamin H. Brewster, Esq., an eminent young lawyer of Philadelphia, the
author of the very excellent paper on Milton, in this number, will be
the subject of our first sketch, in the next issue; and we shall take
the privilege of an intimate acquaintanceship, and a friendship endured
by a thousand ties, to use a free pencil _upon him_, and if Mr. Brewster
does not like it, he has his action for such damages as the liberal jury
who read “Graham” may think he deserves.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Cost of Glory.—We have received from a Naval Officer a tart assault
upon Upham’s figures in relation to the expenses of the Army and Navy of
the United States, which we shall publish and reply to. He makes the
cost “_about_ twenty-five per cent. of the whole revenue.” We shall see!
The article is by some very _young_ Middy, who thinks that “navy blue”
means getting tipsy on shore, and that _figures_ are symbolical _only_
of important gentlemen, buttoned up to the throat, who walk the
Quarter-Deck of Uncle Sam’s 74’s.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Reader—“Graham” makes his best bow to you in this number, and stands,
cap in hand, waiting a friendly return to his salutation. He has
prepared himself with some care for this call, and if you do not like
his rig, don’t turn up your nose disdainfully, but suggest any proper
alteration in his costume, and when he comes again you may like him
better. The critics! Well! who cares for the critics? Not Graham! He is
a critic himself, and can carve you a poet to a nicety—slicing off his
wings with one sweep of his steel. But Graham is tender to poets—for
they are a good-hearted race, albeit a little irritable—apt to be dealt
unjustly with, too, considering that each one is imbued with more than a
Shaksperian genius, and people wont believe it. It is enough to make
anybody mad—and a mad poet is of all enraged animals the most
vehemently disposed to slaughter somebody. So, having disposed in brief
of critics and poets, and of lawyers and briefs in the body of the work,
we feel heavenly-minded toward the rest of creation—and in this mood we
turn to “_the gentlemen of the press_.”

If our exchanges believe _all_ that is told them by some of the Magazine
publishers, they will soon begin to fancy that “the moon _is_ a green
cheese,” and will wake up some fine night finding themselves cutting
slices for an imaginary breakfast.

One chap has the audacity to set himself up as the _sole_ patron of
American arts and letters, and has spent _unheard_ of amounts on artists
and writers. We fear to inquire into this business _too_ closely, lest
it should turn out like the charity of the lady who was “collecting for
a poor woman.” It _was_ charity—for it “began at home,” and _ended
there_!

Now “Graham” you may rely upon—there is a certain don’t care for
anybody air about _him_ that you can understand. If any fellow wishes to
blow up his Magazine, Graham asks him—nay, commands him to “blaze
away”—if he don’t like the painted fashions, which cost $945, lo!
Graham goes to the enormous expense of $2 and gives him his “own
peculiar” in wood—Bloomer and all, fresh from the newspapers, and not
credited to Paris either—if the small-talk don’t suit—Graham suggests
something else, and invites him to read some of the other Magazines,
where the editor “talks big,” and swells in imaginary dignity until a
turkey is rather cast into the shade by overblown dignity—if he don’t
like the stories he may read the essays—if neither, the poetry is
before him—and if literature has no charms for him, he may admire Art
in the engravings: “if none of these things move him,” let him admire
Nature by looking at himself in a mirror, and imagine his ears
wonderfully grown, and his voice a lion’s. Graham is as easily pleased
as a young girl at her first ball, and thinks the world is moving round
to the timing of music—and though he is as poor as Job’s—ah! that
reminds us of _the turkeys_ we sent to editors.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Turkey Ovation.—Never, we suppose, since the day the Romans overran
the world, has there been such terrible bloodshed and sanguinary goings
on, as was consequent upon Graham’s royal edict about Turkey. The
crimson dye was streaming about all the editorial sanctums on Christmas
Eve. Graham had issued orders to bring up the culprits for execution,
and at about ten o’clock, at _a given_ signal, twelve hundred of the
inhabitants of Turkeydom were marched out, and had their throats cut
without mercy. The bloody-minded issuer of this sanguinary decree still
lives and glories in the deed; and strange to say—his men back him up
with fixed bayonets. If these things are allowed to proceed, people will
not be able to sleep quietly in their beds, but a terror will go forth
over the land, and neighbors will have to keep watch and ward over each
other—turkeys will be, _nowhere_—editors will grow fat, on the fat of
the land, and will soon have the hardihood to ask their subscribers to
pay for the papers they read, with the same promptitude with which they
expect them delivered.

This sort of thing will go on. A revolution in newspaper presses will be
the consequence, and quiet, sedate people, who read over the paper, and
complain of the type—of the quality of the paper—of the long
editorials—of the short editorials—of the light reading—of the heavy
reading—of the political matter—of the want of political news and
facts—of the poetry—of the advertisements—of the mails—of the
carrier—of the publisher, the editor, and the “devil”—will be shocked
at having a _bill_ to pay. Turkey must be paid for, as well as
slaughtered. There is no community of goods in Turkey. Every landholder
expects the pay for corn that feeds and fattens turkey—and subscribers
must expect to—“PAY UP.” Graham will get the blame—but the revolution
_will_ go on! People who grumble—and, some of them—swear! about their
papers, must _pay for the luxury_. No man has a right to _be
stupid_—nor can expect editors to eat turkeys and publish newspapers on
air.

“Mr. ——, do _you_ know that your subscription is _overdue_ to The
——?”

“No?”

“We thought so. Well, take Graham’s advice, and take $2, ‘pay up,’ and
take a receipt at once. You have no idea how it will clear your
conscience, and your eye-sight, too, as to the _merits_ of the paper.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Snow-Balling in the South.—Our Southern friends seem to have been taken
by surprise by Jack Frost, and to have had some difficulty in
acknowledging his acquaintance. At New Orleans we see, that Sambo was
out early in the morning, and came rushing back to his master
exclaiming—“_Oh, Monsieur! regardez donc! la cour est pleine de sucre
blanc!_” “Oh, sir, look: the yard is full of _white sugar_!” “The oldest
inhabitants,” says the Delta, “stared with amazement. It snowed all
night, and in the morning the earth was entirely invisible; a white
carpet, to the depth of eight inches, covered its entire surface. Our
population were all agog, and snow-balls flew as thick and as fast as
bullets at Buena Vista. The hats of peaceable citizens were knocked into
corners; eyes and mouths were filled with conglomerated masses of snow,
and ears were stopped.” In Florida, according to the News, “There was no
record nor tradition of such an event in the history of East Florida.
Some of the oldest inhabitants recollect, on one or two occasions,
having seen a slight sprinkle of snow, but not enough to whiten the
ground, and it passed off like a dream. But on this occasion we had an
opportunity of enjoying the delightful amusement of “snow-balling;” and
ladies, as fair as the snow itself, joined heartily in an amusement, the
opportunity for which presents itself only once in a century.” Mrs.
Neal, in her very sprightly and delightful letters from Charleston, S.
C., gives an animated picture of the scene in Palmettodom: “Even in
Philadelphia, where snow is by no means an every day affair, you cannot
credit the excitement it gave rise to. The children, many of whom had
never seen ‘the white rain,’ clapped their hands as the roofs and the
ground were covered with the pure mantle—and when evening came, and the
strange visitor seemed to like its Southern quarters, and resolved to
settle for the night, men and boys went forth to the novel enjoyment of
snow-balling, and some even attempted a sleigh-ride. Grave, grown up men
were startled into an involuntary participation of the sport, and I was
told, and it is _too good a story not to be true_, that one gentleman
was seen indulging in the unusual pastime accompanied by a negro
carrying his ‘spare balls’—all ready moulded in a box! Snow-balling
under circumstances of ‘elegant leisure.’

“The next morning’s sun seemed to have little effect upon it, the cold
still continuing intense; and about the middle of the day a party, a
regular duel it seemed, ascended to the top of the Charleston hotel and
the Hague street stores, pelting each other with great vigor, the plazza
upon which we stood affording a fine view of the sport. The children
were for the first time indulged with snow-building, and many a youthful
Powers made his first effort at sculpture on the frozen countenance of a
‘snow-man.’ It was more curious still that they considered it in the
light of a confection, and ate it with salt, as they would a hard boiled
egg, esteeming it much nicer than any candy. ‘It was fun to them—but
death to the servants’—to borrow from the fable of the boys and the
frogs. The poor negroes, wilted and shriveled up into ‘dumb
waiters’—burning over the fire, with a deprecating glance at the snow
covered ground that was really piteous, but every consideration was paid
to them, and as little out-door work as possible assigned.”

We cannot refrain from adding the following delicious little bit of
character-painting, from the same pen, though not _germaine_ to the
theme: “If there is one thing that distinguishes the Southern negro
above all others, it is _deliberation_. We had a fair example of this
the morning of our arrival. There was not a soul on the wharf to take
the rope of the steamer which some thoughtful person had thrown on shore
without looking to see what was to be done with it. There were the
passengers with eager, expectant faces, grouped upon the deck, baggage
already looked over, and piled up for the carriages—every thing ready
to land, and we just so far from the shore that a plank could not be
thrown across. Presently a negro appeared on the next wharf, walking
toward us with the utmost calmness. In vain were the calls of the
Northern gentlemen in tartan shawls, or the impatient gestures of one of
the officers of the boat. A New York wharf lounger would have had the
rope secured in the time this venerable Ned took to put one foot before
the other. And when he finally arrived amid the cheers of the
passengers, who by this time thought it as well to laugh as fret, one of
them called out as he bent over to the rope thrown once more—‘Uncle—I
say—hadn’t you better _wipe_ it first?’—a finale which could not have
been more deliberate than his previous movements.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Small.—There _is_ something smaller in the world than Graham’s
small-talk, and that is, a soul in a pill-box. We know several that are
just in that way imprisoned—and they belong to fellows who are afraid
to notice a rival publication, for _fear_ people will believe them.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Cable, the editor of the Ohio Picayune, is a man to hold on. Here is
what he says—

“We would not do without this Magazine for treble its price; and as we
consider ourself as having some taste in this matter, we warmly
recommend Graham to the lovers of chaste and classical literature.”

Our friend of the Picayune will be glad to know that there are 30,000
people of his mind, who cling to Graham always. Then, there is a
“floating population” of 20,000 more, who don’t know their own minds,
but shift about to all points of the compass and come back again to
Graham, grumbling at others, when the fault is their own for having left
Graham at all. These wanderers are coming in, in flocks, for ’52, but we
don’t _count_ on them, any more than upon a roost of wild pigeons—they
will go to Godey—to Harper, to somebody in a year or two, and then come
back again mad at every body. These folks are _nobodies_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The very beautiful poem, “Bless the Homestead Law,” from the pen of our
correspondent, L. Virginia Smith, adds another laurel to the wreath
which clusters already around the young brow of that child of genius.
_Memphis_ may well be proud of her, as the _Inquirer_ of that city _is_.
The editor says of this poem, which was written for him—

“We have the satisfaction of presenting to-day one of the most eloquent
appeals in behalf of the _Homestead Exemption Law_, which it has been
our fortune to meet with. It is from the pen of the gifted one our city
is proud to call its own poetess. We commend this appeal to the _hearts_
of the members of the Legislature, upon whose votes hangs the fate of
this most just and beneficent measure.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

A Leap Year Love Letter.—We have received a very delightful leap year
love letter from a _very_ beautiful young lady living in Maine—we wont
tell in what post-town—but we know she is beautiful from the very
elegant epistle she writes, and that she is a lady of discernment from
the very handsome things she says of “Graham”—and that she is _smart_
from the very way she edges in her proposal to be our second in case we
are married already.

We are happy to say that we are a Benedict, and as Kossuth has prudently
introduced no Turkish notions into his addresses to the ladies, we have
great doubts about indulging in any dreams as to “pluralities.” But
still, we may safely say, as we do “by permission,” that the young lady
who sends “Graham” the largest club for 1852, shall receive the favor of
our most distinguished consideration.

“Graham” may now be considered in the market for “proposals,” and if all
the handsome things the press say of him are read and pondered over—as
they ought to be—he will receive a perfect shower of adoration in the
agreeable form of attached and worshiping subscribers. “Graham” holds
the King of _clubs_ and Knave of _hearts_, now—so every young lady
knows the lead.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Advertising.—Business is business and must be _pressed_ home. Now we
have a business secret for your ear, reader! one which we charge you
nothing for; but which comes charged with weighty and important meaning.
_Do you ever advertise?_ No! Why there is nothing like advertising to
make a fortune! Nearly all the men about here, who never advertised,
have _taken in_ their signs, shut up shop, been taken in themselves and
have gone to California—the dupes of the very advertising in the
newspapers, which they scorned while fortune was all around them. You
must take hold of this lever that moves the business world. Advertise in
_your local papers_—if your business is local—let your neighbors know
that you have something to _sell_—that you wish to _buy_ something—or,
that you are ready to _trade_. Wake up! and wake up your neighbors! We
should never be able to publish Graham with 112 pages per month, if we
did not let the world _know_ that we are wide awake, and ready to supply
any quantity of numbers for 1852, _having stereotyped the book
purposely_. Now, drowsy head! do _you_ suppose that if you are a
storekeeper you would not sell more goods by advertising? Or if a
mechanic, that it will do you any harm to be known far and near as an
active, enterprising business man ready for customers? Or, if a farmer,
with a lot of _extra_ corn or potatoes to sell, that you could not
_make_ a market? Do you suppose, that you can put your hands into your
pockets and whistle a fortune into them, too? If you do, advertise
_that_, and be immortal.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Our Stories.—We have adopted the plan of giving our readers one long
story complete, in each number—say from twelve to twenty pages. In the
January number we gave “The Rich Man’s Whims,” which was universally
praised by the press and by the readers of this Magazine. “Anna Temple,”
which appeared in the February number, we think, was a better story, and
so say many critics competent to judge. “The Democrat,” at Ballston, N.
Y., says, in noticing the last number—“Graham now contains, and will
continue to contain, during this year, more reading matter monthly than
any similar work published in the country. The story, “Anna Temple,” in
the February number, is one of the finest tales we have ever read, and
is alone worth more than the year’s subscription to the Magazine.” And
this is but one, of scores of such notices.

In the present number our readers will find a _gem_ called “The Miser
and His Daughter,” written by a gentleman of New Orleans—the author of
the story of “The Little Family,” which appeared in the November number
of “Graham”—a tale which was more widely read and praised than any
article in the last volume. We have received the first part of an
article by this writer, which we shall give in future numbers, and we do
not hesitate to say, for the benefit of those who worship British
ability _only_, that no article _equal_ to it has appeared in Blackwood
or Frazer for years. It is called “The First Age.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Caution.—“My goodness,” says a cautious and gouty old gentleman, who is
one of Graham’s friends, “aint you afraid to talk at your subscribers
and exchanges the way you do?” _No!_ not a bit of it—Graham will tell
“the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” to every body
who reads his editorial chit-chat. If people don’t like it, they need
not read it. In 112 pages there is room and verge enough to dodge around
sharp corners and escape the dilemma of reading the few pages in which
Graham, kicking off his boots, goes at people with his slippers on.
Every body, in 1852, will get _more_ than a full return for what is paid
for the book, without counting “The Small-Talk”—and if any editor don’t
like it, let him let it alone. “The whole boundless continent is _not_
ours,” but the small-talk _is_—and being monarch sole and absolute in
these dominions, we shall submit to no impertinence, but _will_ have our
own will and way—and the way is straight and plain. We do not expect to
get a decent notice from the Saturday Evening Post, for all this—and we
don’t care if we don’t—nor if we do.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Graham on Dreams.—Did you ever dream you were rich? Is it not
delightful!—while it lasts. A prize in the lottery—dreaming of numbers
innumerable, is one of the tricks of Morpheus—and of people wide awake,
too, sometimes. Then the visions of defunct grand-uncles, beyond the
seas, who hearing of our great worth and deservings, die on purpose to
make us happy, and bequeath vast estates and lots of three per cents. in
the _funds_. It is glorious! And then, too, ponderous mails coming to
you, in which each subscriber, who is in debt, sends you the money—and
dozens—dozens?—hats full, of letters inclosing the long delayed $3,
come like blessings in troops—the notes all new, too, and 6’s instead
of 3’s sent by the overjoyed subscriber—not in a mistake either—for he
_says_ “the work is worth double the money, and being an honest man, I
intend to pay the fair value.” Ah! this is grand! We like to do business
with people who know something.

“_John_, John!—Call Mr. Graham, and tell him the printer wants
copy—_and paper too_!” Pshaw!

Look here! We hate to be deceived. Somebody make our “dream come true.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Fine Ink.—We take pleasure in calling the attention of printers to the
very superior quality of the ink used in the printing of our wood-cut
forms. It is from the establishment of Messrs. Romig, Lay & Co., 51
South Fourth street, Philadelphia. They are prepared to furnish
different qualities at various prices to the trade. Letters addressed to
them will be promptly attended to.

The Dollar Newspaper, which is edited by a Sailor, who has been to
Egypt—you see—and a long Lane—who has denied the proverb, and done us
a good “turn,” has sent us a spanking club by Hudley, its ever attentive
and active clerk. The Dollar is a great paper—worth any day more than
its silver namesake—which _goes_ now at about 102½—but where it goes
_to_, puzzles the bankers. The Newspaper has the advantage in this, for
nobody knows where it _don’t_ go. In all of the 17,000 post-towns in
which Graham is loved and cherished, we find our young and vigorous
brother. Graham and the lively Dollar, are the pride of good printers
and pretty girls. Intellect, and Beauty, and Dollars and Graham’s!—what
a consummation!

The truth is, Graham’s modesty is sorely tried just now, when a shout is
going up from every town and hamlet of the country on his behalf; and
were it not that the subscriptions usually keep pace with the praise, he
would not be able to exist at all.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Saucy and True.—We shall exchange next year with no fellow who notices
“Graham” in the same line with another work and says, he “_don’t know
which is the best_.” If a man has not courage enough to say that Graham
is the worst, or the best, or the equal of any other magazine, as the
_fact_ may be, we don’t want his company. So boys, if you like the
conditions, observe them. We _ask_ no man to publish our prospectus—but
we do ask that “Graham” shall not be bundled in with any body who
happens to be traveling the same road at the same time—as there are a
good many shabby looking fellows about whose room is better than their
company—at any rate their room shan’t be ours—that’s plump.

                 *        *        *        *        *

_The Saturday Courier_ has been—or is, at this writing—publishing a
most powerful story called _Marcus Warland_, from the pen of its old and
valued correspondent, Caroline Lee Hentz. The stories purchased and
selected by Mr. McMakin evince a fine taste and just discrimination, and
we often wonder where he lays his hands upon them. The secret is partly
disclosed by an announcement in his paper that “Mrs. Hentz refused the
sum of $400 offered her by a New York bookseller,” for the story of
Marcus Warland. The new volume of the Courier commences in March; and
looking over the storehouse of good things McMakin has, for his readers,
we say they are to be envied for ’52.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Winchester (Tenn.) Independent of the 16th January, comes to us with its
head all topsy turvy, as if the editor had been on a batter. _Wigg’s_ is
the publisher, and of course has a right to ship his scalp
occasionally—but we don’t believe that the name of his town is spelt as
follows:

[Illustration: image of the word “Winchester” with the “inc” group of
letters flipped backwards and upside down]

though an _independent_ fellow, in this free country, may take a spell
in that way, if he likes.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Essex Freeman is a good paper, but has in its advertising columns
some “shocking bad” wood-cuts. The editor says “American wood-engravings
are apt to be bad,” but admits an exception in favor of Devereux’s fine
pictures in our February number. Porter and Streeter are funny dogs, but
can’t _take_ a joke. Wonder what _ails_ Porter!

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Central New Yorker, came to us with a new year’s address with the
“pictur” of the _editor_ at the head. He is a _rising_ man—but he had
better let the girls alone. The following appears in the _address_:

       THE BLOOMER COSTUME.

    Bloomer Costumes rule the day,
      Ladies wear the new apparel,
    Corsets now are thrown away,
      Hour-glass changes to a barrel.

    Ladies now may street yarn spin,
      As they have to take less stitches,
    Now they put their fair forms in
      Sack coats and big Turkey breeches.

We hope Mr. Editor Rising has no allusion, in this, to Graham’s
Christmas Turkeys—that would be a breach of decorum.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Knickerbocker.—Our _old_ friend Clark, the very prince of genial
natures and royal good fellows, disdains to talk any longer, solely, to
the dull and heavy folks of “Upper Tendom;” so, showing no quarters, he
comes down to “a quarter,” and pitches his tent in the field of the
many—throwing his banner to the gale, without getting upon one himself.
If Clark does not print and _sell_ 50,000 copies “the fools are _not_
all dead,” but maintain a very decided majority among the “peoples.” If
any body wishes “Old Knick” and young Graham together, they can
accomplish their benevolent desire by sending us $5. “The Old Gentleman”
and the Young ’un are celebrities of “this enlightened nineteenth
century,” and cannot be _had_ for less.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“The Old Colony Memorial,” published at Plymouth, Mass., says Graham for
February, was “the best looking number of this popular monthly we have
ever seen. Of the literary contents we can speak highly.” Its editor,
who does not like fun of any kind, has the following satisfactory

Conundrum.—Why is Church-membership like Charity? Guess once all round.
Answer next week.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Our friend of “the olden time,” Samuel C. Atkinson, is making a capital
paper of The Burlington N. J. Gazette, and shows that years do not
impair his energy, nor extinguish his genial appreciation of all things
beautiful and true.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Exploded Proverb.—“Figures cannot lie,” says the proverb. Graham
says—it depends upon _who makes ’em_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Plain Preaching.—We have upon our books a list of names, the owners of
which are ALL well to do, and the most of whom go to church every Sunday
and say their prayers—as Christians ought to do—and yet these same men
will pass our office day after day, and never think of stopping to pay
up, and if called upon, think it a hard case; haint got the change
handy; aint used to being dunned.—_Plaindealer, Roslyn, N. Y._

Why, Mr. Plaindealer, the sooner you get rid of these chaps the
better—they _intend_ to cheat you anyhow—even if it be but out of the
interest of your money, and your peace of mind—which last is worth more
than dollars.

If publishers would only form a “Mutual Protection Society,” and
_placard_ all such fellows as a warning, we should _all_ do better. We
have about fifty that we intend to _cut_—giving them the Kentucky
benediction. A fellow, who will neither notice your letter nor your
bill, is a rogue in grain—rely upon it. It is a good rule to go by.

[Illustration: TIPSY MYNHEER.]

        “Moon, ’tis a very queer figure you cut;
         One eye is staring while t’other is shut.
         Tipsy, I see; and you’re greatly to blame;
         Old as you are ’tis a terrible shame.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Southern Literary Papers.—Godman writes us that his new Southern
Literary Journal, “The Family Friend,” is “going off like hot cakes.” We
are heartily glad of this for two reasons; First, because we like Godman
for his energy of character and his splendid genius, which blazes out in
every line he writes, pure as a vestal lamp amid the surrounding
debasement of the minds of many writers of romance. Secondly, because
the South _ought_ to maintain one or _more_ first rate literary papers,
and the North should help her do it with cordial good-will. She has been
liberal, to us of the North, in her support, for years of _our_ literary
magazines and gazettes—let us _now_ return the compliment with
earnestness and kindliness.

Some of Godman’s best articles have enriched and will continue to enrich
_our_ pages, and as he has started manfully, in competition with
Northern periodicals, Graham says—to his friends—_Stand by your
banner,_ _boys!_—let there be a brotherhood in letters at least, and
let us leave the quarreling to ambitious politicians. So, Godman! Graham
wishes you “God speed,” and 100,000 subscribers! Any fellow who cannot
respond to the sentiment—whether he lives north or south of the
Potomac—had better button his soul in his vest pocket carefully, or he
will not be able to find it, when it is called for.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: An Experienced Shot.—You’re a pretty dog!—now aint
you? See what you’ve gun-un done?]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Mr. Thos. Bristow, the Writing-Master, has finished and intends to
present a very fine _fac simile_ letter of Washington’s Farewell Address
to the United States Government. The whole design and execution is such
as to reflect the highest credit upon Mr. Bristow as a teacher of “the
Chirographic art.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Fashions.—“_Three full-length Figures._”]

Determined not to be outdone in generosity, and to meet the views of the
critics fully, we _present_ “the latest styles” as reported by Mrs.
Bloomer “expressly” for her own paper—and give you Dodworth’s “dancing
style” as we find them reported in “The Clerk’s Journal.”

Our Paris Fashions cost us $945 per month, for designing, engraving,
printing and coloring the edition of Graham’s Magazine, and many sage
and sapient critics said they liked “the wood-cut style.” Well, now you
have got them—how do you like them? They cost the almost unmentionable
sum of $2, but are as good as the biggest. It may be as well to mention,
by way of _description_, that the Bloomer is going to church—as soon as
she can get off from this dancing-party.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: a vine covered cottage with song title and composer in
fancy script]



                         “Oh Share My Cottage.”


                       COMPOSED BY R. C. SHRIVAL.


Published by permission of F. D. BENTEEN & Co., No. 181 Baltimore Street,
                               Baltimore.


[Illustration: Musical Score]

    Oh, share my cottage, gentle maid,
      It only waits for thee,
    To

[Illustration: Musical Score]

    give a sweetness to its shade,
      And happiness, happiness to me,
    Here from the splendid gay parade,
      Of noise and folly free,
    No sorrows can my peace invade,
      If only blest with thee.
        Then share my cottage, gentle maid,
          It only waits for thee,
        To give a sweetness to its shade,
          And happiness, happiness to me.

             SECOND VERSE.

    The hawthorn with the woodbine ’twin’d
      Presents their sweets to thee,
    And every balmy breath of wind
      Is filled with harmony:
    A truly fond and faithful heart
      Is all I offer thee,
    And must I from your face depart,
      A prey to misery.
        Then share my cottage, gentle maid,
          It only waits for thee,
        To add fresh sweetness to its shade,
          And happiness to me.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: a man beside a tree trunk of large girth beneath a night
sky with stars and full moon. Song title, poet and composer names in
fancy script]




                      “STARS OF THE SUMMER NIGHT.”


                          WORDS BY LONGFELLOW,
                          MUSIC BY H. KLEBER.

     Published by permission of LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street,
                             Philadelphia,
      _Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments_.

[Illustration: Musical Score]

    Stars of the summer night,
      Far, far in your azure

[Illustration: Musical Score]

    deeps;
      Hide, hide your golden light,
    She sleeps, my lady sleeps.

    Moon of the summer night,
      Far, down yon western steeps,
    Sink, sink in silver light,
      She sleeps, my lady sleeps, my lady sleeps.

             SECOND VERSE.

    Wind of the summer night,
      Where yonder woodbine creeps,
    Fold, fold thy pinions light,
      She sleeps, my lady sleeps.

    Dreams of the summer night,
      Tell her, her lover keeps watch,
    While in slumbers bright
      She sleeps, my lady sleeps.

                 *        *        *        *        *

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. Brief descriptions of illustrations without
caption have been provided in the plain text version of this ebook.

page 232, hearts the poets tale ==> hearts the poet’s tale
page 239, there were the mole ==> there where the mole
page 250, If your are willing to ==> If you are willing to
page 273, Valenciennes and Condè ==> Valenciennes and Condé
page 273, defection of Dumuoriez ==> defection of Dumouriez
page 273, skill of Dumuoriez ==> skill of Dumouriez
page 273, Dumuoriez’s more generous ==> Dumouriez’s more generous
page 282, wrote his Eikonoklases ==> wrote his Eikonoklastes
page 282, books, the Eikonoklases ==> books, the Eikonoklastes
page 285, his Eikonoklases, and ==> his Eikonoklastes, and
page 286, “Telemachus” of Fenelon ==> “Telemachus” of Fénelon
page 311, Arabian die to set ==> Arabian dye to set
page 312, the invading the ==> the invading of the
page 312, on that side the ==> on that side of the
page 317, the lines were beauty ==> the lines where beauty
page 332, The crimson die was ==> The crimson dye was


[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 3, March 1852]