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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
              Vol. XVIII.      February, 1841.      No. 2.


                                Contents

                   Fiction, Literature and Articles

          The Blind Girl of Pompeii
          The Reefer of ’76 (continued)
          My Grandmother’s Tankard
          The Rescued Knight
          The Silver Digger
          The Syrian Letters (continued)
          The Saccharineous Philosophy
          The Confessions of a Miser
          Sports and Pastimes. Shooting
          Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music and Fashion

          The Dream of the Delaware
          Little Children
          Skating
          The Soul’s Destiny
          Winter
          The Fairy’s Home
          Not Lost, But Gone Before
          Not for Me! Not for Me!
          Fashions for February, 1841

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: _J. Sartain sc._

The Blind Girl of Pompeii

_Eng^{d} for Graham’s Magazine from the Original Picture by Leutze in the
  possession of J. Sill Esq. Phil^{a.}_]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

               Vol. XVIII.     FEBRUARY, 1841.     No. 2.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       THE BLIND GIRL OF POMPEII.


Who that has read the “Last Days of Pompeii” can forget Nydia, the blind
flower-girl? So sweet, and pure, and gentle, and devoted in her
unrequited love, she steals insensibly upon the heart, and wins a place
therein, which even the brilliant Ione fails to obtain! Poor, artless
innocent, her life, alas! was one of disappointment from its birth.

We cannot better portray the character of this guileless being than by
copying the exquisite description of Bulwer. The scene opens with a
company of gay, young Pompeiians—among whom is Glaucus, the hero of the
story—taking a morning stroll through the town. We let the story speak
for itself.

“Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an
open space where three streets met; and just where the porticoes of a
light and graceful temple threw their shade, there stood a young girl,
with a flower-basket on her right arm, and a small three-stringed
instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she
was modulating a wild and half-barbaric air. At every pause in the music
she gracefully waved her flower basket round, inviting the loiterers to
buy; and many a sesterce was showered into the basket, either in
compliment to the music, or in compassion to the songstress—for she was
blind.

“‘It is my poor Thessalian,’ said Glaucus, stopping; ‘I have not seen
her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! her voice is sweet; let us
listen.’

         THE BLIND FLOWER GIRL’S SONG.

    Buy my Flowers—O buy—I pray,
      The Blind Girl comes from afar:
    If the Earth be as fair as I hear them say,
      These Flowers her children are!
    Do they her beauty keep?
      They are fresh from her lap, I know;
    For I caught them fast asleep
      In her arms an hour ago,
        With the air which is her breath—
        Her soft and delicate breath—
          Over them murmuring low!—

    On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet,
    And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet,
    For she weeps,—that gentle mother weeps
    (As morn and night her watch she keeps,
    With a yearning heart and a passionate care,)
    To see the young things grow so fair;
      She weeps—for love she weeps—
      And the dews are the tears she weeps
        From the well of a mother’s love!

    Ye have a world of light,
      Where love in the lov’d rejoices;
    But the Blind Girl’s home is the House of Night,
      And its Beings are empty voices.

        As one in the Realm below,
        I stand by the streams of wo;
        I hear the vain shadows glide,
        I feel their soft breath at my side,
          And I thirst the lov’d forms to see,
        And I stretch my fond arms around,
        And I catch but a shapeless sound,
          For the Living are Ghosts to me.

            Come buy—come buy!—
        Hark! how the sweet things sigh
        (For they have a voice like ours,)
        “The breath of the Blind Girl closes
        The leaves of the saddening roses—
        We are tender, we sons of Light,
        We shrink from this child of Night;
        From the grasp of the Blind Girl free us,
        We yearn for the eyes that see us—
        We are for Night too gay,
        In our eyes we behold the day—
            O buy—O buy the Flowers!”

“‘I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,’ said Glaucus, pressing
through the crowd, and dropping a handful of small coins into the
basket; ‘your voice is more charming than ever.’

“The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian’s voice—then
as suddenly paused, while the blood rushed violently over neck, cheek,
and temples.

“‘So you are returned!’ said she in a low voice; and then repeated, half
to herself, ‘Glaucus is returned!’

“‘Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden
wants your care as before, you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow. And
mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of
the pretty Nydia.’

“Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing the
violets he had selected in his breast, turned gayly and carelessly from
the crowd.

“‘So, she is a sort of client of yours, this child?’ said Clodius.

“‘Ay—does she not sing prettily? She interests me, the poor
slave!—besides, she is from the land of the Gods’ hill—Olympus frowned
upon her cradle—she is of Thessaly.’”

How exquisitely is the love of Nydia told in her joy at the return of
Glaucus! Only a master-hand could have described it in that blush, and
start, and the glad exclamation, “Glaucus is returned!”

The revellers meanwhile pass on their way, and it is not till the
following morning that the flower-girl appears again upon the scene. But
though she comes even while the Athenian is musing on his mistress Ione,
there is a beauty around Nydia’s every movement which makes us hail her
with delight. It is her appearance at this visit which the artist has
transferred to the canvass. Lo! are not the limner and the author
equally inimitable?

“Longer, perhaps, had been the enamored soliloquy of Glaucus, but at
that moment a shadow darkened the threshold of the chamber, and a young
female, still half a child in years, broke upon his solitude. She was
dressed simply in a white tunic, which reached from the neck to the
ankles; under her arm she bore a basket of flowers, and in the other
hand she held a bronze water vase; her features were more formed than
exactly became her years, yet they were soft and feminine in their
outline, and without being beautiful in themselves they were almost made
so by their beauty of expression; there was something ineffably gentle,
and you would say patient, in her aspect—a look of resigned sorrow, of
tranquil endurance, had banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from
her lips; something timid and cautious in her step—something wandering
in her eyes, led you to suspect the affliction which she had suffered
from her birth—she was blind; but in the orbs themselves there was no
visible defect, their melancholy and subdued light was clear, cloudless,
and serene. ‘They tell me that Glaucus is here,’ said she; ‘may I come
in?’

“‘Ah, my Nydia,’ said the Greek, ‘is that you? I knew you would not
neglect my invitation.’

“‘Glaucus did but justice to himself,’ answered Nydia, with a blush,
‘for he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.’

“‘Who could be otherwise?’ said Glaucus, tenderly, and in the voice of a
compassionate brother.

“Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without replying to his
remark. ‘You have but lately returned? This is the sixth sun that hath
shone upon me at Pompeii. And you are well? Ah, I need not ask—for who
that sees the earth which they tell me is so beautiful can be ill?’

“‘I am well—and you, Nydia?—how you have grown! next year you will be
thinking of what answer we shall make your lovers.’

“A second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this time she
frowned as she blushed. ‘I have brought you some flowers,’ said she,
without replying to a remark she seemed to resent, and feeling about the
room till she found the table that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket
upon it: ‘they are poor, but they are fresh gathered.’

“‘They might come from Flora herself,’ said he, kindly; ‘and I renew
again my vow to the Graces that I will wear no other garlands while thy
hands can weave me such as these.’

“‘And how find you the flowers in your viridarium? are they thriving?’

“‘Wonderfully so—the Lares themselves must have tended them.’

“‘Ah, now you give me pleasure; for I came, as often as I could steal
the leisure, to water and tend them in your absence.’

“‘How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia?’ said the Greek. ‘Glaucus little
dreamed that he left one memory so watchful over his favorites at
Pompeii.’

“The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved beneath her
tunic. She turned around in embarrassment. ‘The sun is hot for the poor
flowers,’ said she, ‘to-day, and they will miss me, for I have been ill
lately, and it is nine days since I visited them.’

“‘Ill, Nydia! yet your cheek has more color than it had last year.’

“‘I am often ailing,’ said the blind girl, touchingly, ‘and as I grow up
I grieve more that I am blind. But now to the flowers!’ So saying, she
made a slight reverence with her head, and passing into the viridarium,
busied herself with watering the flowers.

“‘Poor Nydia,’ thought Glaucus, gazing on her, ‘thine is a hard doom.
Thou seest not the earth—nor the sun—nor the ocean—nor the
stars—above all, thou canst not behold Ione.’

Nydia, too, is a slave, and to a coarse inn-keeper, who would make a
profit by her beauty and her singing. How her heart breaks daily at the
brutal treatment of her master, and the still more cruel language of his
patrons! But at length Glaucus purchases her, and she is comparatively
happy. And through all her melancholy history how does her hopeless love
shine out, beautifying and making more sweet than ever, her guileless
character! It is a long and mournful tale. Glaucus at length succeeds in
winning Ione; they escape fortunately from the destruction of Pompeii;
but Nydia, uncomplaining, yet broken-hearted, disappears mysteriously
from the deck of their vessel at night. Need we tell her probable fate?

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE REEFER OF ’76.


              BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”


                             FORT MOULTRIE.

How often has the story of the heart been told! The history of the love
of one bosom is that of the millions who have alternated between hope
and fear since first the human heart began to throb. The gradual
awakening of our affection; the first consciousness we have of our own
feelings; the tumultuous emotions of doubt and certainty we experience,
and the wild rapture of the moment, when, for the first time, we learn
that our love is requited, have all been told by pens more graphic than
mine, and in language as nervous as that of Fielding, or as moving as
that of Richardson.

The daily companionship into which I was now thrown with Beatrice was,
of all things, the most dangerous to my peace. From the first moment
when I beheld her she had occupied a place in my thoughts; and the
footing of acquaintanceship, not to say intimacy, on which we now lived,
was little calculated to banish her from my mind. Oh! how I loved to
linger by her side during the moonlight evenings of that balmy latitude,
talking of a thousand things which, at other times, would have been void
of interest, or gazing silently upon the peaceful scene around, with a
hush upon our hearts it seemed almost sacrilege to break. And at such
times how the merest trifle would afford us food for conversation, or
how eloquent would be the quiet of that holy silence! Yes! the ripple of
a wave, or the glimmer of the spray, or the twinkling of a star, or the
voice of the night-wind sighing low, or the deep, mysterious language of
the unquiet ocean, had, at such moments, a beauty in them, stirring
every chord in our hearts, and filling us, as it were, with sympathy not
only for each other, but for every thing in Nature. And when we would
part for the night, I would pace for hours, my solitary watch, thinking
of Beatrice, with all the rapt devotion of a first, pure love.

But this could not last. The dream was pleasant, yet it might not lead
me to dishonor. Beatrice was under my protection, and was it right to
avail myself of that advantage to win her heart, when I knew from the
difference of our stations in life, that it was madness to think that
she could ever be mine. What? the heiress of one of the richest Jamaica
residents, the grand-daughter of a baron, and the near connexion of some
of the wealthiest tory families of the south, to be wooed as an equal by
one who not only had no fortune but his sword, but was the advocate, in
the eyes of her advisers, of a rebellious cause! Nor did the service I
had rendered her lessen the difficulty of my position.

These feelings, however, had rendered me more guarded, perhaps more
cold, in the presence of Beatrice, for a day or two preceding our
arrival in port. I felt my case hopeless: and I wished, by gradually
avoiding the danger, to lessen the agony of the final separation.
Besides, I knew nothing as yet of the sentiments of Beatrice toward
myself. I was a novice in love; and the silent abstraction of her
manner, together with the gradually increasing avoidance of my presence,
filled me with uneasiness, despite the conviction of the hopelessness of
my suit. But what was it to me, I would say, even if Beatrice loved me
not? Was it not better that it should be so? Alas! reason and love are
two very different things, and though I was better satisfied with myself
when we made the lights of Charleston harbor, yet the almost total
separation which had thus for nearly two days existed between Beatrice
and myself, left my heart tormented with all a lover’s fears.

It was the last evening we would spend together, perhaps for years. The
wind had died away, and we slowly floated upward with the tide, the
shores of James Island hanging like a dark cloud on the larboard beam,
and the lights of the distant city, glimmering along the horizon
inboard; while no sound broke the stillness of the hour, except the
occasional wash of a ripple, or the song of some negro fishermen
floating across the water. As I stood by the starboard railing, gazing
on this scenery, I could not help contrasting my present situation with
what it had been but a few short weeks before, when I left the harbor of
New York. So intensely was I wrapt in these thoughts, that I did not
notice the appearance of Beatrice on deck, until the question of the
helmsman, dissolving my reverie, caused me to look around me. For a
moment I hesitated whether I should join her or not. My feelings at
length, however, prevailed; and crossing the deck, I soon stood at her
side. She did not appear to notice my presence, but with her elbow
resting on the railing, and her head buried in her hand, was pensively
looking down upon the tide.

“Miss Derwent!” said I, with a voice that I was conscious trembled,
though I scarce knew why it did.

“Mr. Parker!” she ejaculated in a tone of surprise, her eyes sparkling,
as starting suddenly around she blushed over neck and brow, and then as
suddenly dropped her eyes to the deck, and began playing with her fan.
For a moment we were both mutually embarrassed. A woman is, at such
times, the first to speak.

“Shall we be able to land to-night?” said Beatrice.

“Not unless a breeze springs up—”

“Oh! then I hope we shall not have one,” ejaculated the guileless girl;
but instantly becoming aware of the interpretation which might be put
upon her remark, she blushed again, and cast her eyes anew upon the
deck. A strange, joyous hope shot through my bosom; but I made a strong
effort and checked my feelings. Another silence ensued, which every
moment became more oppressive.

“You join, I presume, your cousin’s family on landing,” said I at
length, “I will, as soon as we come to anchor, send a messenger ashore,
apprising him of your presence on board.”

“How shall I ever thank you sufficiently,” said Beatrice, raising her
dark eyes frankly to mine, “for your kindness? Never—never,” she
continued more warmly, “shall I forget it.”

My soul thrilled to its deepest fibre at the words, and more than all,
at the tone of the speaker; and it was with some difficulty that I could
answer calmly,—

“The consciousness of having ever merited Miss Derwent’s thanks, is a
sufficient reward for all I have done. That she will not wholly forget
me is more than I could ask; but believe me, Beatrice,” said I, unable
to restrain my feelings, and venturing, for the first time, to call her
by that name, “though we shall soon part forever, never, never can I
forget these few happy days.”

“Why—do you leave Charleston instantly?” said she, with emotion, “shall
I not see you again after my landing?”

I know not how it is, but there are moments when our best resolutions
vanish as though they had never been made; and now, as I looked upon the
earnest countenance of Beatrice, and felt the full meaning of the words
so innocently said, a wild hope once more shot across my bosom, and I
said softly,—

“Why, Beatrice, would it be aught to you whether we ever met again?”

She lifted her eyes up to mine, and gazed for an instant almost
reproachfully upon me, but she did not answer. There was something,
however, in the look encouraging me to go on. I took her hand: she did
not withdraw it: and, in a few hurried, but burning words, I poured
forth my love.

“Say, Beatrice?” I said, “can you, do you love me?”

She raised her dark eyes in answer up to mine, with an expression I
shall never forget, and murmured, half inaudibly,—

“You know—you know I do,” and then overcome by the consciousness of all
she had done, she burst into tears.

Can words describe my feelings? Oh! if I had the eloquence of a Rosseau
I could not portray the emotions of that moment. They were wild; they
were almost uncontrollable. The tone, the words, everything convinced me
that I was beloved; and all my well-formed resolutions were dissipated
in a moment. Had we been alone I would have caught Beatrice to my bosom;
but as it was, I could only press her hand in silence. I needed not to
be assured, in more direct terms, of her affection. Henceforth she was
to me my all. She was the star of my destiny!

The first dawn of morning beheld us abreast of the town, and at an early
hour the equipage of Mr. Rochester, the relative of Beatrice, and whose
guest she was now to be, was in waiting on the quay for my beautiful
charge.

“You will come to-night, will you not?” said she, as I pressed her hand,
on conducting her to the carriage.

I bowed affirmatively, the door was closed, and the sumptuous equipage,
with its servants in livery, moved rapidly away.

It was now that I had parted with Beatrice, that the conviction of the
almost utter hopelessness of my suit forced itself upon my mind. Mr.
Rochester was the nearest male relative of Beatrice, being her maternal
uncle. Her parents were both deceased, and the uncle, whose death I have
related, together with the Carolinian nabob, were, by her father’s will,
her guardians. Mr. Rochester was, therefore, her natural protector. Her
fortune, though large, was fettered with a condition that she should not
marry without her guardian’s consent, and I soon learned that a union
had long been projected between her and the eldest son of her surviving
guardian. How little hope I had before, the reader knows, but that
little was now fearfully diminished. It is true Beatrice had owned that
she loved me, but how could I ask her to sacrifice the comforts as well
as the elegancies of life, to share her lot with a poor unfriended
midshipman? I could not endure the thought. What! should I take
advantage of the gratitude of a pure young being—a being, too, who had
always been nourished in the lap of luxury—to subject her to privation,
and perhaps to beggary? No, rather would I have lived wholly absent from
her presence. I could almost have consented to lose her love, sooner
than be the instrument of inflicting on her miseries so crushing. My
only hope was in winning a name that would yet entitle me to ask her
hand as an equal: my only fear was, lest the length of time I should be
absent from her side, would gradually lose me her affection. Such is the
jealous fear of a lover’s heart.

Meanwhile, however, the whole city resounded with the din of war. A
despatch from the Secretary of Slate, to Gov. Eden, of Maryland, had
been intercepted by Com. Barron, of the Virginia service, in the
Chesapeake. From this missive, intelligence was gleaned that the capital
of South Carolina was to be attacked; and on my arrival I found every
exertion being made to place it in a posture of defence. I instantly
volunteered, and the duties thus assumed, engrossing a large part of my
time, left me little leisure, even for my suit. Still, however, I
occasionally saw Beatrice, though the cold hauteur with which my visits
were received by her uncle’s family, much diminished their frequency.

As the time rolled on, however, and the British fleet did not make its
appearance, there were not wanting many who believed that the
contemplated attack had been given up. But I was not of the number. So
firm, indeed, was my conviction of the truth of the intelligence that I
ran out to sea every day or two, in a smart-sailing pilot-boat, in
order, if possible, to gain the first positive knowledge of the approach
of our foes.

“A sail,” shouted our look-out one day, after we had been standing off
and on for several hours, “a sail, broad on the weather-beam!”

Every eye was instantly turned toward the quarter indicated; spy-glasses
were brought into requisition; and in a few minutes we made out
distinctly nearly a dozen sail, on the larboard tack, looming up on the
northern sea-board. We counted no less than six men-of-war, besides
several transports. Every thing was instantly wet down to the trucks,
and heading at once for Charleston harbor, we soon bore the alarming
intelligence to the inhabitants of the town.

That night all was terror and bustle in the tumultuous capital. The
peaceful citizens, unused to bloodshed, gazed upon the approaching
conflict with mingled resolution and terror, now determining to die
rather than to be conquered, and now trembling for the safety of their
wives and little ones. Crowds swarmed the wharves, and even put out into
the bay to catch a sight of the approaching squadron. At length it
appeared off the bar, and we soon saw by their buoying out the channel,
that an immediate attack was to take place by sea,—while expresses
brought us hasty intelligence of the progress made by the royal troops
in landing on Long Island. But want of water among our foes, and the
indecision of their General, protracted the attack for more than three
weeks, a delay which we eagerly improved.

At length, on the morning of the 28th of June, it became evident that
our assailants were preparing to commence the attack. Eager to begin my
career of fame, I sought a post under Col. Moultrie, satisfied that the
fort on Sullivan’s Island would have to maintain the brunt of the
conflict.

Never shall I forget the sight which presented itself to me on reaching
our position. The fort we were expected to maintain, was a low building
of palmetto logs, situated on a tongue of the island, and protected in
the rear from the royalist troops, on Long Island, by a narrow channel,
usually fordable, but now, owing to the late prevalence of easterly
winds, providentially filled to a depth of some fathoms. In front of us
lay the mouth of the harbor, commanded on the opposite shore, at the
distance of about thirty-five hundred yards, by another fort in our
possession, where Col. Gadsen, with a respectable body of troops was
posted. To the right opened the bay, sweeping almost a quarter of the
compass around the horizon, toward the north,—and on its extreme verge,
to the north west, rose up Haddrell’s point, where General Lee, our
commander-in-chief, had taken up a position. About half way around, and
due west from us, lay the city, at the distance of nearly four miles,
the view being partly intercepted by the low, marshy island, called
Shute’s Folly, between us and the town.

“We have but twenty-eight pounds of powder, Mr. Parker, a fact I should
not like generally known,” said Col. Moultrie to me, “but as you have
been in action before—more than I can say of a dozen of my men—I know
you may be trusted with the information.”

“Never doubt the brave continentals here, colonel,” I replied, “they are
only four hundred, but we shall teach yon braggarts a lesson, before
to-day is over, which they shall not soon forget.”

“Bravo, my gallant young friend! With my twenty-six eighteen and twenty
four pounders, plenty of powder, and a few hundred fire-eaters like
yourself I would blow the whole fleet out of water. But after all,” said
he with good-humored raillery, “though you’ll not glory in rescuing Miss
Derwent to-day, you’ll fight not a whit the worse for knowing that she
is in Charleston, eh! But, come, don’t blush—you must be my aid—I
shall want you, depend upon it, before the day is over. If those
red-coats here, behind us, attempt to take us in the rear, we shall have
hot work,—for by my hopes of eternal salvation, I’ll drive them back,
man and officer, in spite of Gen. Lee’s fears that I cannot. But ha!
there comes the first bomb.”

Looking upward as he spoke, I beheld a large, dark body flying through
the air; and in the next instant, amidst a cheer from our men, it
splashed into the morass behind us, simmered, and went out.

“Well sent, old Thunderer,” ejaculated the imperturbable colonel, “but,
faith, many another good bomb will you throw away on the swamps and
palmetto logs you sneer at. Open upon them, my brave fellows, as they
come around, and teach them what Carolinians can do. Remember, you fight
to-day for your wives, your children, and your liberties. The
Continental Congress forever against the minions of a tyrannical court.”

The battle was now begun. One by one the British men-of-war, coming
gallantly into their respective stations, and dropping their anchors
with masterly coolness, opened their batteries upon us, firing with a
rapidity and precision that displayed their skill. The odds against
which we had to contend were indeed formidable. Directly in front of us,
with springs on their cables, and supported by two frigates, were
anchored a couple of two-deckers; while the three other men-of-war were
working up to starboard, and endeavoring to get a position between us
and the town, so as to cut off our communications with Haddrell’s Point.

“Keep it up—run her out again,” shouted the captain of a gun beside me,
who was firing deliberately, but with murderous precision, every shot of
his piece telling on the hull of one of the British cruizers, “huzza for
Carolina!”

“Here comes the broadside of Sir Peter’s two-decker,” shouted another
one, “make way for the British iron among the palmetto logs. Ha! old
yellow breeches how d’ye like that?” he continued as the shot from his
piece, struck the quarter of the flag-ship, knocking the splinters high
into the air, and cutting transversely through and through her crowded
decks.

Meanwhile the three men-of-war attempting to cut off our communications,
had got entangled among the shoals to our right, and now lay utterly
helpless, engaged in attempting to get afloat, and unable to fire a gun.
Directly two of them ran afoul, carrying away the bowsprit of the
smaller one.

“Huzza!” shouted the old bruiser again, squinting a moment in that
direction, “they’re smashing each other to pieces there without our
help, and so here goes at smashing their messmates in front here—what
the devil,” he continued, turning smartly around to cuff a powder boy,
“what are you gaping up stream for, when you should be waiting on
me?—take that you varmint, and see if you can do as neat a thing as
this when you’re old enough to point a gun. By the Lord Harry I’ve cut
away that fore-top-mast as clean as a whistle.”

Meantime the conflict waxed hotter and hotter, and through the long
summer afternoon, except during an interval when we slackened it for
want of powder, our brave fellows, with the coolness of veterans, and
the enthusiasm of youth, kept up their fire. A patriotic ardor burned
along our lines, which only became more resistless, as the wounded were
carried past in the arms of their comrades. The contest was at its
height when General Lee arrived from the mainland to offer to remove us
if we wished to abandon our perilous position.

“Abandon our position, General!” said Colonel Moultrie, “will your
excellency but visit the guns, and ask the men whether they will give up
the fort? No, we will die or conquer here.”

The eye of the Commander-in-Chief flashed proudly at this reply, and
stepping out upon the plain, he approached a party who were firing with
terrible precision upon the British fleet. This fearless exposure of his
person called forth a cheer from the men; but without giving him time to
remain long in so dangerous a position, Colonel Moultrie exclaimed,

“My brave fellows, the general has come off to offer to remove you to
the main if you are tired of your post. Shall it be?”

There was a universal negative, every man declaring he would sooner die
at his gun. It was a noble sight. Their eyes flashing; their chests
dilated; their brawny arms bared and covered with smoke, they stood
there, determined, to a man, to save their native soil at every cost,
from invasion. At this moment a group appeared, carrying a poor fellow,
whom it could be seen at a glance was mortally wounded. His lips were
blue; his countenance ghastly; and his dim eye rolled uneasily about. He
breathed heavily. But as he approached us, the shouts of his fellow
soldiers falling on his ear, aroused his dying faculties, and lifting
himself heavily up, his eye, after wandering inquiringly about, caught
the sight of his general.

“God bless you! my poor fellow,” said Lee, compassionately, “you are, I
fear, seriously hurt.”

The dying man looked at him as if not comprehending his remark, and then
fixing his eye upon his general, said faintly,

“Did not some one talk of abandoning the fort?”

“Yes,” answered Lee, “I offered to remove you or let you fight it
out—but I see you brave fellows would rather die than retreat.”

“Die!” said the wounded man, raising himself half upright, with sudden
strength, while his eye gleamed with a brighter lustre than even in
health. “I thank my God that I am dying, if we can only beat the British
back. Die! I have no family, and my life is well given for the freedom
of my country. No, my men, never retreat,” he continued, turning to his
fellow soldiers, and waving his arm around his head, “huzza for
li—i—ber—ty—huz—za—a—a,” and as the word died away, quivering in
his throat, he fell back, a twitch passed over his face, and he was
dead.

Need I detail the rest of that bloody day? For nine hours, without
intermission, the cannonade was continued with a rapidity on the part of
our foes, and a murderous precision on that of ourselves, such as I have
never since seen equalled. Night did not terminate the conflict. The
long afternoon wore away; the sun went down; the twilight came and
vanished; darkness reigned over the distant shores around us, yet the
flash of the guns, and the roar of the explosions did not cease. As the
evening grew more obscure the whole horizon became illuminated by the
fire of our batteries, and the long, meteor-like tracks of the shells
through the sky. The crash of spars; the shouts of the men; and the
thunder of the cannonade formed meanwhile a discord as terrible as it
was exciting; while the lights flashing along the bay, and twinkling
from our encampment at Haddrell’s Point, made the scene even
picturesque.

Long was the conflict, and desperately did our enemies struggle to
maintain their posts. Even when the cable of the flag-ship had been cut
away, and swinging around with her stern toward us, every shot from our
battery was enabled to traverse the whole length of her decks, amid
terrific slaughter, she did not display a sign of fear, but doggedly
maintained her position, keeping up a straggling fire upon us, for some
time, from such of her guns as could be brought to bear. At length,
however, a new cable was rigged upon her, and swinging around broadside
on, she resumed her fire. But it was in vain. Had they fought till
doomsday they could not have overcome the indomitable courage of men
warring for their lives and liberties; and finding that our fire only
grew more deadly at every discharge, Sir Peter Parker at length made the
signal to retire. One of the frigates farther in the bay had grounded,
however, so firmly on the shoals that she could not be got off; and when
she was abandoned and fired next morning, our brave fellows, despite the
flames wreathing already around her, boarded her, and fired at the
retreating squadron until it was out of range. They had not finally
deserted her more than a quarter of an hour before she blew up with a
stunning shock.

The rejoicing among the inhabitants after this signal victory were long
and joyous. We were thanked; feted; and became _lions_ at once. The tory
families, among which was that of Mr. Rochester, maintained, however, a
sullen silence. The suspicion which such conduct created made it
scarcely advisable that I should become a constant visitor at his
mansion, even if the cold civility of his family had not, as I have
stated before, furnished other obstacles to my seeing Beatrice. Mr.
Rochester, it is true, had thanked me for the services I had rendered
his ward, but he had done so in a manner frigid and reserved to the last
degree, closing his expression of gratitude with an offer of pecuniary
recompense, which not only made the blood tingle in my veins, but
detracted from the value of what little he had said.

A fortnight had now elapsed since I had seen Beatrice, and I was still
delayed at Charleston, waiting for a passage to the north, and arranging
the proceeds of our prize, when I received an invitation to a ball at
the house of one of the leaders of ton, who affecting a neutrality in
politics, issued cards indiscriminately to both parties. Feeling a
presentiment that Beatrice would be there, and doubtless unaccompanied
by her uncle or cousin, I determined to go, and seek an opportunity to
bid her farewell, unobserved, before my departure.

The rooms were crowded to excess. All that taste could suggest, or
wealth afford, had been called into requisition to increase the splendor
of the _fete_. Rich chandeliers; sumptuous ottomans; flowers of every
hue; and an array of loveliness such as I have rarely seen equalled,
made the lofty apartments almost a fairy palace. But amid that throng of
beauty there was but one form which attracted my eye. It was that of
Beatrice. She was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and I felt a pang
of almost jealousy, when I saw her, as I thought, smiling as gaily as
the most thoughtless beauty present. But as I drew nearer I noticed
that, amid all her affected gaiety, a sadness would momentarily steal
over her fine countenance, like a cloud flitting over a sunny summer
landscape. As I edged toward her through the crowd, her eye caught mine,
and in an instant lighted up with a joyousness that was no longer
assumed. I felt repaid, amply repaid by that one glance, for all the
doubts I had suffered during the past fortnight; but the formalities of
etiquette prevented me from doing aught except to return an answering
glance, and solicit the hand of Beatrice.

“Oh! why have you been absent so long?” said the dear girl, after the
dance had been concluded, and we had sauntered together, as if
involuntarily, into a conservatory behind the ball room, “every one is
talking of your conduct at the fort—do you know I too am a rebel—and
_do_ you then sail for the north?”

“Yes, dearest,” I replied, “and I have sought you to-night to bid you
adieu for months—it may be for years. God only knows, Beatrice,” and I
pressed her hand against my heart, “when we shall meet again. Perhaps
you may not even hear from me; the war will doubtless cut off the
communications; and sweet one, say will you still love me, though others
may be willing to say that I have forgotten you?”

“Oh! how can you ask me? But you—will—write—won’t you?” and she
lifted those deep, dark, liquid eyes to mine, gazing confidingly upon
me, until my soul swam in ecstacy. My best answer was a renewed pressure
of that small, fair hand.

“And Beatrice,” said I, venturing upon a topic, to which I had never yet
alluded, “if they seek to wed you to another will you—you still be mine
only?”

“How can you ask so cruel a question?” was the answer, in a tone so low
and sweet, yet half reproachful, that no ear but that of a lover could
have heard it. “Oh! you know better—you know,” she added, with energy,
“that they have already planned a marriage between me and my cousin; but
never, never can I consent to wed where my heart goes not with my hand.
And now you know all,” she said tearfully, “and though they may forbid
me to think of you, yet I can never forget the past. No, believe me,
Beatrice Derwent where once she has plighted her faith, will never
afterward betray it,” and overcome by her emotions, the fair girl leaned
upon my shoulder and wept long and freely.

But I will not protract the scene. Anew we exchanged our protestations
of love, and after waiting until Beatrice had grown composed we returned
to the ball room. Under the plea of illness I saw her soon depart, nor
was I long in following. No one, however, had noticed our absence. Her
haughty uncle, in his luxurious library, little suspected the scene that
had that night occurred. But his conduct, I felt, had exonerated me from
every obligation to him, and I determined to win his ward, if fortune
favored me, in despite of his opposition. My honor was no longer
concerned against me: I felt free to act as I chose.

The British fleet meanwhile, having been seen no more upon the coast,
the communication with the north, by sea, became easy again. New York,
however, was in the possession of the enemy, and a squadron was daily
expected at the mouth of Delaware Bay. To neither of these ports,
consequently, could I obtain a passage. Nor indeed did I wish it. There
was no possibility that the Fire-Fly would enter, either, to re-victual,
and as I was anxious to join her, it was useless to waste time in a port
where she could not enter. Newport held out the only chance to me for
rejoining my vessel. It was but a day’s travel from thence to Boston,
and at one or the other of these places I felt confident the Fire-Fly
would appear before winter.

The very day, however, after seeing Beatrice, I obtained a passage in a
brig, which had been bound to another port, but whose destination the
owners had changed to Newport, almost on the eve of sailing. I instantly
made arrangements for embarking in her, having already disposed of our
prize, and invested the money in a manner which I knew would allow it to
be distributed among the crew of the Fire-Fly at the earliest
opportunity. My parting with Col. Moultrie was like parting from a
father. He gave me his blessing; I carried my kit on board; and before
forty-eight hours I was once more at sea.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       THE DREAM OF THE DELAWARE.


                    “Sleep hath its own world,
            And a wide realm of wild reality,
            And dreams in their development have breath,
            And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy.”

    On Alligewi’s[1] mountain height
      An Indian hunter lay reclining,
    Gazing upon the sunset light
      In all its loveliest grace declining.
    Onward the chase he had since dawn
    Pursued, with swift-winged step, o’er lawn,
    And pine-clad steep, and winding dell,
      And deep ravine, and covert nook
    Wherein the red-deer loves to dwell,
      And silent cove, and brawling brook;
    Yet not till twilight’s mists descending,
      Had dimmed the wooded vales below,
    Did he, his homeward pathway wending,
      Droop ’neath his spoil, with footsteps slow.
    Then, as he breathless paused, and faint,
      The shout of joy that pealed on high
      As broke that landscape on his eye,
    Imaginings alone can paint.

    Down on the granite brow, his prey,
    In all its antlered glory lay.
    His plumage flowed above the spoil—
      His quiver, and the slackened bow,
    Companions of his ceaseless toil,
      Lay careless at its side below.

    Oh! who might gaze, and not grow brighter,
      More pure, more holy, and serene;
    Who might not feel existence lighter
      Beneath the power of such a scene?
    Marking the blush of light ascending
      From where the sun had set afar,
    Tinting each fleecy cloud, and blending
      With the pale azure; while each star
    Came smiling forth ’mid roseate hue,
      And deepened into brighter lustre
    As Night, with shadowy fingers threw
      Her dusky mantle round each cluster.
    Purple, and floods of gold, were streaming
      Around the sunset’s crimson way,
    And all the impassioned west was gleaming
      With the rich flush of dying day.
    Far, far below the wandering sight,
    Seen through the gath’ring gloom of night,
    A mighty river rushing on,
    Seemed dwindled to a fairy’s zone.
    No bark upon its wave was seen,
      Or if ’twas there, it glided by
    As viewless forms, that once have been,
      Will flit, half-seen, before the eye.

    Long gazed the hunter on that sight,
    ’Till twilight darkened into night,
    Dim and more dim the landscape grew,
    And duskier was the empyrean blue;
    Glittered a thousand stars on high,
    And wailed the night-wind sadly by;
    And slowly fading, one by one,
      Cliff, cloud, ravine, and mountain pass
    Grew darker still, and yet more dun,
      ’Till deep’ning to a shadowy mass,
    They seemed to mingle, earth and sky,
    In one wild, weird-like canopy.

    Yet lo! that hunter starts, and one
    Whom it were heaven to gaze upon,
    A beauteous girl,—as ’twere a fawn,
      So playful, wild, and gentle too,—
    Came bounding o’er the shadowy lawn,
      With step as light, and love as true.
    It was Echucha! she, his bride,
    Dearer than all of earth beside,—
    For she had left her sire’s far home,
    The woodland depths with him to roam
    Who was that sire’s embittered foe!
      And there, in loveliness alone,
      With him her opening beauty shone.
    But even while he gazed, that form,
    As fades the lightning in the storm,
      Passed quickly from his sight.
    He looked again, no one was there,
    No voice was on the stilly air,
    No step upon the greensward fair,
      But all around was night.

    She past, but thro’ that hunter’s mind,
      What wild’ring memories are rushing,
    As harps, beneath a summer wind,
      With wild, mysterious lays are gushing.

    Fast came rememb’rance of that eve,
      Whose first wild throb of earthly bliss
    Was but to gaze, and to receive
      The boon of hope so vast as this—
    To clasp that being as his own,
      To win her from her native bowers;
    And form a spirit-land, alone
      With her amid perennial flowers.
    And as he thought, that dark, deep eye,
      Seemed hovering as ’twas wont to bless,
    When the soft hand would on him lie,
      And sooth his soul to happiness.

    Like the far-off stream, in its murmurings low,
      Like the first warm breath of spring,
    Like the Wickolis in its plaintive flow,
      Or the ring-dove’s fluttering wing,
    Came swelling along the balmy air,
    As if a spirit itself was there,
    So sweet, so soft, so rich a strain,
    It might not bless the ear again,
    Now breathed afar, now swelling near,
    It gushed on the enraptured ear;—
    And hark! was it her well-known tone?
    No—naught is heard but the voice alone.

    “Warrior of the Lenape race,
      Thou of the oak that cannot bend,
    Of noble brow and stately grace,
      And agile step, of the Tamenend,
          Arise—come thou with me!

    Echucha waits in silent glade,
      Her eyes the eagle’s gaze assume,
    As daylight’s golden glories fade,
      To catch afar her hunter’s plume,—
          But naught, naught can she see.

    Her hair is decked with ocean shell,
      The vermeil bright is on her brow,
    The peag zone enclasps her well,
      Her heart is sad beneath it now,
          She weeps, and weeps for thee.

    With early dawn thou hiedst away,
      In reckless sports the hours to while,
    Oh! sweet as flowers, in moonlit ray,
      Shall be thy look, thy voice, thy smile,
          When again she looks on thee!
          Oh! come, come then with me.”

    Scarce ceased the strain, when silence deep,
    As broods o’er an unbroken sleep,
    Seemed hovering round; then slowly came
      A glow athwart the darkling night,
    Bursting at length to mid-day flame,
      And bathing hill and vale in light.
    While suddenly a form flits by
    With step as fleet, as through the sky
    The morning songster skims along
    Preceded by his matchless song.
    So glided she; yet not unseen
    Her graceful gait, her brow serene,
    Her finely modelled limbs so round,
    Her raven tresses all unbound,
    That flashing out, and hidden now,
      Waved darkly on each snowy shoulder,—
    As springing from the mountain’s brow,
    Eager and wild that one to know,
      The hunter hurried to behold her.

    On, on the beauteous phantom glides
      Beneath the sombre, giant pines
    That stud the steep and rugged sides
      Of pendant cliffs, and deep ravines;
    Down many a wild descent and dell
      O’ergrown with twisted lichens rude;
    Yet where she passed a halo fell
    To guide the footsteps that pursued,—
      Like that fell wonder of the sky
    That flashes o’er the starry space,
      And leaves its glitt’ring wake on high,
    For man portentous truths to trace.
    And onward, onward still that light
    Was all which beamed upon the sight.
    Of figure he could naught descry,
    Invisible it seemed to fly;
    Alluring on with magic art
    That half disclosing, hid in part.

    Bright, beautiful, resistless Fate!
      Oh! what is like thy magic will,
    Which men in blind obedience wait,
      Yet deem themselves unfettered still!
    By thee impelled that hunter sped
    Through shadowy wood, o’er flowery bed;
    When angels else, beneath his eye,
    Had passed unseen, unnoticed by.

    The Indian brave! that stoic wild,
    Philosophy’s untutored child,
    A being, such as wisdom’s torch
    Enkindled ’neath the attic porch,
      Where the Phoenician stern and eld,
    His wise man[2] to the world revealing,
      Divined not western wildness held
    Untutored ones less swayed by feeling;
    Whose firm endurance fire nor stake
    Nor torture’s fiercest pangs might shake.
      Yes! matter, mind, the eternal whole,
    In apprehension revelling free,
      Evolved that fearlessness of soul
    Which Greece[3] saw but in theory.

    Still on that beauteous phantom fled,
    And still behind the hunter sped.
    Nor turned she ’till where many a rock
    Lay rent as by an earthquake’s shock,
    And through the midst a stream its way
    Held on ’mid showers of falling spray,
    Marking by one long line of foam
    Its passage from its mountain home.

    But now, amid the light mist glancing
      Like elf or water-nymph, the maid
    With ravishment of form entrancing
      The spell-bound gazer, stood displayed.
    So looked that Grecian maiden’s face,
      So every grace and movement shone,
    When ’neath the sculptor’s wild embrace,
      Life, love, and rapture flushed from stone.
    She paused, as if her path to trace
      Through the thick mist that boiled on high,
    Then turning full her unseen face,
      There, there, the same, that lustrous eye,
    So fawn-like in its glance and hue
      As when he first had met its ray,
    Echucha’s self, revealed to view—
      She smiled, and shadowy sank away.

    Again ’twas dawn: that hunter’s gaze
      Was wand’ring o’er a wide expanse
    Of inland lake, half hid in haze
      That waved beneath the morning’s glance.
    The circling wood, so still and deep
    Its sombre hush, seemed yet asleep;
    Save when at intervals from tree
    A lone bird woke its minstrelsy,
    Or flitting off from spray to spray
    ’Mid glittering dew pursued its way.
    When lo! upon the list’ning ear
      The rustling of a distant tread,
    That pausing oft drew ever near
      A causeless apprehension spread.
    And from a nook, a snow-white Hind
    Came bounding—beauteous of its kind!—
    Seeking the silver pebbled strand
      Within the tide her feet to lave,
    E’re noonday’s sun should wave his wand
      Of fire across the burnished wave.

    Never hath mortal eye e’er seen
      Such fair proportion blent with grace;
    A creature with so sweet a mien
      Might only find its flitting place
    In that bright land far, far away
    Where Indian hunters, legends say,
      Pursue the all-enduring chase.
    The beautifully tapered head,
      The slender ear, the eye so bright,
    The curving neck, the agile tread,
      The strength, the eloquence, the flight
    Of limbs tenuitively small,
      Seemed imaged forth, a thing of light
    Springing at Nature’s magic call.

    The sparkling surge broke at her feet,
      Rippling upon the pebbly brink,
    As gracefully its waters sweet
      She curved her glossy neck to drink.
    Yet scarce she tasted, ere she gazed
    Wildly around like one amazed,
    With head erect, and eye of fear,
    And trembling, quick-extended ear.

    Still as the serpent’s hushed advance,
    The hunter, with unmoving glance,
    Wound on to where a beech-tree lay
      Half buried in the snowy sand:
    He crouches ’neath its sapless spray
      To nerve his never-failing hand.
    A whiz—a start—her rolling eye
    Hath caught the danger lurking nigh.
    She flies, but only for a space;
    Then turns with sad reproachful face;
    Then rallying forth her wonted strength,
      She backward threw her matchless head,
    Flung on the wind her tap’ring length,
      And onward swift and swifter sped,—
    O’er sward, and plain, and snowy strand,
    By mossy rocks, through forests grand,
    Which there for centuries had stood
    Rustling in their wild solitude.

    On, on, in that unwearied chase
      With tireless speed imbued,
    Went sweeping with an eldrich pace
      Pursuing and pursued!
    ’Till, as the sinking orb of day,
    Glowed brighter with each dying ray,
    The fleetness of that form was lost,
    Dark drops of blood her pathway crost,
    And faint and fainter drooped that head,—
      She falters—sinks—one effort more—
    ’Tis vain—her noontide strength has fled—
      She falls upon the shore.

    One eager bound—the Hunter’s knife
    Sank deep to end her struggling life;
    Yet, e’en as flashed the murd’rous blade,
      There came a shrill and plaintive cry:
    The Hind was not—a beauteous maid
      Lay gasping with upbraiding eye.
    The glossy head and neck were gone,
      The snowy furs that clasped her round;
    And in their place the peag zone,
    And raven hair that all unbound
    Upon her heaving bosom lies
      And mingles with the rushing gore,
    The sandaled foot, the fawn-like eyes;
      All, all are there—he needs no more—
    “Echucha—ha!” The dream hath passed;
    Cold clammy drops were thick and fast
      Upon the awakened warrior’s brow,
    And the wild eye that flashed around
    To penetrate the dark profound,
      Seemed fired with Frenzy’s glow.
    Yet all was still, while far above,
    Nestling in calm and holy love,
    The watchful stars intensely bright
    Gleamed meekly through the moonless night.

    The Hunter gazed,—and from his brow
    Passed slowly off that fevered glow,
    For what the troubled soul can bless
    Like such a scene of loveliness?
    He raised his quiver from his side,
      And downward with his antlered prey,
    To meet his lone Ojibway bride,
      He gaily took his joyous way.
                                  A. F. H.

-----

[1] The Alleghany.

[2] Zeno imagined his wise man, not only free from all sense of
pleasure, but void of all passions, and emotions capable of being happy
in the midst of torture.

[3] The stoics were philosophers, rather in words than in deeds.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       MY GRANDMOTHER’S TANKARD.


                            BY JESSE E. DOW.


My grandmother was one of the old school. She was a fine, portly built
old lady, with a smart laced cap. She hated snuff and spectacles, and
never lost her scissors, because she always kept them fastened to her
side by a silver chain. As for scandal she never indulged in its use,
believing, as she said, that truth was stranger than fiction and twice
as cutting.

My grandmother had a penchant for old times and old things, she
delighted to dwell upon the history of the past, and once a year on the
day of thanksgiving and prayer, she appeared in all the glories of a
departed age. Her head bore an enormous cushion—her waist was doubly
fortified with a stomacher of whale-bone and brocade. Her skirt spread
out its ample folds of brocade and embroidery below, flanked by two
enormous pockets. Her well-turned ankles were covered with blue worsted
stockings, with scarlet clocks, and her underpinning was completed by a
pair of high quartered russet shoes mounted upon a couple of extravagant
red heels. When the hour for service drew near, she added a high bonnet
of antique form, made of black satin, and a long red cloak of narrow
dimensions. Thus clothed, as she ascended the long slope that led to the
old Presbyterian meeting house, she appeared like a British grenadier
with his arms shot off, going to the pay office for his pension.

Her memory improved by age, for she doubtless recollected some things
which never happened, and her powers of description were equal to those
of Sir Walter Scott’s old crone, whose wild legends awoke the master’s
mind to a sense of its own high powers.

My grandmother came through the revolution a buxom dame, and her legends
of cow boys and tories, of white washed chimnies and tar and
featherings, of battles by sea, and of “skrimmages,” as she termed them,
by land, would have filled a volume as large as Fox’s book of the
Martyrs, and made in the language of the day a far more _readable work_.

I was her pet—her auditor: I knew when to smile, and when to look
grave—when to approach her, and when to retire from her presence; her
pocket was my paradise, and her old cup-board my seventh heaven.

Many a red streaked apple and twisted doughnut have I munched from the
former,—and many a Pisgah glimpse have I had of the bright pewter and
brighter silver that garnished the latter. Among the old lady’s silver
was a venerable massive tankard that had come down from the early
settlers of Quinapiack, and she prized it far above many weightier and
more useful vessels. This relic always attracted my notice—a coat of
arms was pictured upon one side of it, and underneath it the family name
in old English letters, stood out like letters upon an iron sign. It was
of London manufacture, and must have been in use long before the
Pilgrims sailed for Plymouth. It had, doubtless, been drained by
cavaliers and roundheads in the sea girt isle,

    “Ere the May flower lay
     In the stormy bay,
     And rocked by a barren shore.”

The history of this venerable relic was my grandmother’s hobby, and as
she is no longer with us to relate the story herself, I will hand it
down in print, that posterity, if so disposed, may know something also
of


                       MY GRANDMOTHER’S TANKARD.

In the year 1636, a company of fighting men from the Massachusetts
colony, pursued a party of Pequots to the borders of a swamp in the
present county of Fairfield, in Connecticut, and destroyed them by fire.

The soldiers on their return to the colony spoke in rapture of a goodly
land through which they passed in the south country, bordering upon a
river and bay, called by the Indians Quinapiack, and by the Dutch the
Vale of the Red Rocks.

In the year 1637, the New Haven company, beaten out by the toils and
privations of a long and boisterous voyage across the Atlantic, landed
at the mouth of the Charles River, and continued for a season inactive
in the pleasant tabernacles of the early pilgrims. Hearing of the fair
and goodly land beyond the Connectiquet, or Long River, and disliking
the sterile shores of Massachusetts bay, the newly arrived company sent
spies into the land to view the second Canaan, and bring them a true
report.

In 1638, having received a favorable account from the pioneers, the
company embarked, and sailed for that fair land, and at the close of the
tenth day the Red Rocks appeared frowning grimly against the western
horizon, and the Quinapiack spread out its silver bosom to receive them.
The vessel that brought the colony, landed them on the eastern shore of
a little creek now filled up and called the meadows, about twenty rods
from the corner of College and George streets, in New Haven, and
directly opposite to the famous old oak, under whose broad branches Mr.
Davenport preached his first sermon to the settlers, “Upon the
Temptations of the Wilderness.” Time, that rude old gentleman, has
wrought many changes in the harbor of Quinapiack since the days of the
pilgrims; and a regiment of purple cabbages are now growing where the
adventurers’ bark rested her wave-worn keel.

In 1638, having laid out a city of nine squares, the company met in
Newman’s barn, and formed their constitution. At this meeting it was
ordered that the laws of Moses should govern the colony until the elders
had time to make better ones.

Theophilus Eaton, Esq. was chosen the first governor: and the whole
power of the people was vested in the governor, Mr. Davenport, the
minister, his deacon, and the seven pillars of the church of Quinapiack.
Here was church and state with a vengeance, and the pilgrims who sought
freedom to worship God found freedom to worship him as they pleased,
provided they worshipped him _as Mr. Davenport_ directed.

The seven pillars of the church were wealthy laymen, and were its
principal support; among the number I find the names of those staunch
old colonists, Matthew Gilbert and John Panderson.

Governor Eaton was an eminent merchant in London, and when he arrived at
Quinapiack, his ledger was transformed into a book of records for the
colony. It is now to be seen with his accounts in one end of it, and the
records in the other. The principal settlers of New Haven were rich
London merchants. They brought with them great wealth, and calculated in
the new world to engage in commerce, free from the trammels that clogged
them in England. They could not be contented with the old colony
location. They now found a beautiful harbor—a fine country—and a broad
river: but no trade. Where all were sellers there could be no buyers.
They had stores but no customers: ships but no Wapping: and they soon
began to sigh for merry England, and the wharves of crowded marts. In
three years after landing at New Haven, a large number of these settlers
determined to return to their native land.

Accordingly a vessel was purchased in Rhode Island, a crazy old tub of a
thing that bade fair to sail as fast broadside on as any way, whose
sails were rotten with age, and whose timbers were pierced by the worms
of years. Having brought the vessel round to New Haven, the colonists,
under the direction of the old ship master Lamberton, repaired and
fitted her for sea.

The day before Captain Lamberton intended to sail, Eugene Foster, the
son of a wealthy merchant in London, and Grace Gilman, the daughter of
one of the wealthy worthies of Quinapiack, wandered out of the
settlement and ascended the East Rock.

Grace Gilman was the niece of my great, great grandmother. Possessing a
brilliant mind, a lovely countenance, and a form of perfect symmetry,
she occupied no small share of every single gentleman’s mind asleep or
awake, in the colony. Her dark hair hung in ringlets about a neck of
alabaster, and sheltered with smaller curls a cheek where the lily and
the rose held sweet communion together.

Foster had followed the object of his love to her western home, and
having gained Elder Gilman’s consent to his union with the flower of
Quinapiack, he was now ready to return in the vessel to his native land,
for the purpose of preparing for a speedy settlement in the colony.

Eugene Foster was a noble, spirited youth, of high literary attainments.
Besides his frequent excursions with the scouts, had made him an
experienced woodman and hunter. His countenance was pleasant; his eye
possessed the fire of genius; and his form was tall and commanding.

It was a glorious morning in autumn. The whole space around the
settlement was one vast forest, and the frost had tipped the leaves of
the trees with russet crimson and gold. The bare sumac lifted its red
core on high, and the crab apple hung its bright fruit over every crag.
The maple shook its blood-colored leaves around, and the chesnut and
walnut came pattering down from their lofty heights, like hail from a
summer cloud. The heath hens sate drumming the morning away upon the
mouldering trunks, whose tops had waved above the giants of the forest
in former ages. The grey squirrel sprang from limb to limb. The flying
squirrel sailed from tree to tree in his downward flight; and the
growling wild cat glided swiftly down the vistas of the wood with her
shrieking prey.

The blue jay piped all hands from the deep woods—and the hawk, as he
sailed over the partridge’s brood, shrieked the wild death cry of the
air. A haze rested upon the distant heights, and a cloud of mellow light
rolled over the little settlement, and faded into silver upon the broad
sound that stretched out before it.

It was nearly noon when the lovers—whose conversation on such an
occasion I must leave the reader to imagine—turned from the enchanting
prospect, which at this day exceeds any thing in America—to return to
the settlement. Two Indians, of the Narragansett tribe, now bounded from
the thicket, and before Foster could bring his musketoon to its
rest—for he always went armed—they levelled him to the earth. A green
withe was speedily twined around his arms, and he was apparently as
powerless as a child. Grace sprang to a little path that led to the
parapet of the bluff and screamed for help; that scream was her
salvation, for the Indian who was binding Foster’s hands, left the withe
loose, and sprang toward her. In a moment the rude hand of the red-man
rested heavily upon her shoulder, and his grim look sent the blood
tingling from her cheeks. Another withe was speedily passed around her
arms, and then the two Narragansetts seated themselves to make a hurdle
to bear the pale faced maiden away. As they were busily engaged Grace
heard a whisper behind her. She turned her head half round—Foster, by
great exertions, had got loose from his withe, and was crawling slowly
toward his musketoon.

The Narragansetts, suspecting nothing, were sitting behind a little
clump of sassafras, and nothing but their brawny chests could be seen
through a small bend in the trunks of the trees that composed the
thicket.

Stealthily crept the experienced Foster to the tree where his musketoon
rested. Not a crackling twig, nor rustling leaf, gave the slightest
evidence of his movements. The Indians spoke in their own wild gutterals
of the beauty of the pale-faced squaw, and chuckled with delight at the
speedy prospect of roasting the young long knife by Philip’s council
fire.

The musketoon was just as he had left it: not a grain of powder had left
the pan,—the match burned brightly at the butt, and every thing seemed
to be as effective as possible. Foster seized it and motioned to Grace
to stoop her head, so as to give him a chance to bring the red men in a
range through the opening in the thicket.

Grace bent her head to the ground, while her heart beat with fearful
anticipation. The young pilgrim aimed his deadly weapon, as a fine
opportunity presented itself. The two savages were sitting cross-legged,
side by side, and their brawny breasts were seen, one bending slightly
before the other. Foster aimed so as to give each a fair proportion of
slugs—for he had a charge for a panther in his barrel—and fired. A
loud report rang down the aisles of the forest, and rattled in echoes
over the settlement, while the two Indians bounded up with a fearful
yell, and fell dead upon the half-made hurdle. Foster sprang to the side
of Grace, and casting loose the withe that confined her swollen arms,
bore her over the bodies of the Narragansetts, whose horrid scowls never
were forgotten by the affrighted maid.

A war-whoop now rang in the usual pathway to the settlement, and Foster
saw that he must take a shorter cut or die. Grace had fainted, and every
thing depended upon his manliness and strength. He therefore approached
the brink of the precipice. A wild grape vine, that had grown there
since the morning of time, for aught he knew, extended far up the
perpendicular rock, from a crag below. He bound the fair girl to his
breast with his neckcloth and shot-belt, and grasping the stem of the
vine, descended. As he slipped down, the vine began to yield, and just
as his foot touched the narrow crag, the whole vine, with a mass of
loose earth and stones, gave way with a tremendous crash, and hung, from
the crevice where he stood, like a feather quivering beneath his feet.
Foster was for a moment dizzy, but he cast his eyes upward, and beheld
the eyes of an Indian glaring upon him from the top of the rock. He was
nerved in a moment: and seeing a ledge a foot and a half broad, beyond a
fissure, about eight feet over, and very deep, he determined to spring
for it. Grace Gilman, however, was a dead weight to the young man, and
he feared the result. The ledge seemed to run at an angle of forty-five
degrees along the front of the rock, to a side hill, formed by fallen
rocks and earth. A wild vine hung down over the fissure, covered with
tempting fruit. He reached out his hand and grasped the main stem as it
waved in the breeze,—it was strong, and its roots seemed firmly
imbedded in a crevice above him. Commending himself to that Creator
whose tireless eye takes in at a glance his creatures, he made his leap!
The damp wind from the fissure rushed by his ears; the vine cracked and
rustled above him; rich clusters of luscious fruit came tumbling upon
his head; and the birds of night came shrieking out from their dark
shelters in the fissure as he swung past. Foster, however, did not
waver, his foot struck the ledge and he leaned forward; the vine flew
back like a pendulum as he let it go, and he slid down the smooth ridge
of the ledge in safety. In a short time he brought up against a heap of
earth that had fallen from the mountain top, and springing up, bounded
like the chamois hunter from crag to crag, until he stood upon the broad
bottom, without a bruise or a scratch upon himself or his fair charge.
In twenty minutes the young pilgrim entered the settlement by the forest
way, with the almost lifeless form of his beloved buckled to his breast,
while savage yells of disappointment came down from the summit of the
East Rock, and caused the young mothers of Quinapiack to press their
startled babes closer to their trembling hearts.

None had dared to follow the adventurous pilgrim’s course down the
mountain’s perpendicular side: and the ledges that jut out like faint
shadows from the bluff, are called Foster’s Stepping Stone by those who
know the incident to this day.

The report of the musketoon was heard in the settlement. The soldiers of
the colony stood to their arms, and when Foster had made his report,
several strong parties went out upon a scout; but it was of no use;
drops of blood only were discovered sprinkled upon the sassafras-leaves,
and a heavy trail leading toward the Long River. The fighting men of
Quinapiack, after a weary march, gave up the pursuit of the
Narragansetts, and returned leisurely to the settlement. Night now
settled like a raven upon the land—the drums beat to prayers—one by
one the lights went out in the cottages of the pilgrims; and as the
watch-fire sent forth its ruddy blaze from the common—now the college
green—the colony slumbered in sweet forgetfulness, or wandered in
visions amid the scenes of their childhood by the broad Shannon or the
silver Ayr.

Who can tell the strange thoughts that agitated the sleepers’ souls? The
old men, had they no pleasures of memory? The young men and the maidens,
had they no dreams of joy—no bright pictures of trysting trees and
lovely glens where the white lady moved in her noiseless path, or the
fairies danced on the moonlight sward? Had the politician no dream of
departed power? No sigh for his rapid fall? Had the soldier no dream of
glory—no sound of stirring bugles melting upon his ear? Had the
minister of God no dream of greatness—when before the kings and princes
of the world he stood? and like Nathan of old said in Christ-like
majesty to the offending monarch—

                          “Thou art the man.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was sunrise at Quinapiack, and the seven pillars were no longer seven
sleepers. Eugene Foster stood beside Grace Gilman, while the old elder
wrestled valiantly in prayer. When the morning service was ended, and a
substantial breakfast had been stowed away with no infant’s hand, Foster
imprinted a kiss upon the cheek of the bashful puritan.

“Farewell, Grace,” said he, “we are ready to sail. In a few months more
the smoke shall curl from my cottage chimney, and the good people of the
colony shall wait at the council board for good man Foster.”

“Eugene,” said Grace, with eyes suffused with tears, “your time will
pass pleasantly in England; but, oh! how long will the period of your
absence seem in this lone outpost of civilization. Do not, then, tarry
in the land of your fathers beyond the time necessary for accomplishing
your business. There are many Graces in England, but there are but few
Fosters here.”

“Grace,” said Foster blushing, “there is no Grace in England like the
Grace of Quinapiack, and he who would leave the blooming rose of the
wilderness, for the sick lily of the hot-house, deserves not to enjoy
the fresh blessings of Providence. The wind that blows back to the
western continent shall fill my sails, and I will claim my bride.”

The old puritan now gave the young man his blessing. Foster drew from
his cloak fold this silver tankard,—marked, as you now see it,—[so
said my grandmother, as she held the antique vessel up to the light,]
and presented it to Grace as an earnest of his love. The elder, after
seeing that it was pure silver, exclaimed against the gew-gaws, and the
drinking measures of a carnal world, and left the room. Two hearty
kisses were now heard, even by the domestics in the Gilman family. The
elder entered the breakfast room in haste; Eugene bounded out of the
door—Grace glided like a fairy up stairs, and the old tankard rested
upon the table.

After placing on board of the return ship the massive plate, and other
valuables of the discontented merchants, those whose hearts failed them,
embarked amid the tears and prayers of Davenport and his faithful
associates. The sails were spread to the breeze—the old ship bowed her
head to the foam, and dashed out of the harbor in gallant style. Grace
watched the vessel as she departed, and when the evening came, she wept
in her silent chamber, for her heart was sad.

It was a sad day for the remaining colonists when the ship dipped her
topsails in the southern waves. A feeling of loneliness, such as the
traveller feels when lost in a boundless wood, seized upon them, and the
staunchest wept for their native land, and the air was damp with tears.
The next morning the settlement became more cheerful, for what can raise
the drooping soul like the still glories of a New England autumn
morning? The ship would, in all probability, return in a few months with
necessary stores for the colonists, and then, should the company grow
weary of the new country, they could return to their native land with
their wives, and recount to kind friends the perils of an ocean voyage,
and of a solitary home in a savage land.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Six long and melancholy months rolled away, and no tidings of the
pilgrims’ ship had reached the ears of the anxious settlers of
Quinapiack. A vessel had arrived at Plymouth after a short passage, but
nothing had been heard of Lamberton’s bark when she sailed. A terrible
mystery hung over the ill-filled and crazy ship. Autumn now came in its
beauty, and still no tidings came to cheer the sinking soul, and gladden
the heavy heart. Grace Gilman now began to pine, like the fair flower,
whose root the worm of destruction has struck, and whose brightness
slowly fades away. At length the good people of Quinapiack could stand
this state of suspense no longer, and the Rev. Mr. Davenport, and his
little flock, besought the Lord with sighs and tears, and heartfelt
prayers to shew them the fate of their friends by a visible sign from
heaven.

Four successive Sabbaths the worthy minister strove for a revelation of
the mystery, and on the afternoon of the last day, when silence brooded
over the settlement; when even the barn-fowl grew silent upon his roost,
and the well-trained dog lay watching by the old family clock, for
sunset, and the hour of play, the cry came up from the water side,—“A
sail! a sail!”—and the drums beat with a double note, and the gravest
leaped for joy. The cry operated like an electric shock upon the whole
mass of the people. The old and the young, the sick and the well, went
out upon the shore to view the approaching stranger, and the seaman
stood by the landing place ready to make her fast. Grace Gilman was in
the centre of the throng, and the worthy minister, Davenport, waited
silently by her side.

There is no moment so full of interest to us as that when a vessel from
our native land approaches us upon a distant shore. How many anxious
hearts are waiting to rise or fall, as good or bad tidings salute their
ears. How many watch the faces that throng the deck, and turn from
countenance to countenance with eager look, until their eyes rest upon
some familiar face, and their anxiety is satisfied.

There are cold hearts also in such a crowd,—worldly men, who come to
gather news. What care they for affection’s warm greeting, or the throb
of sympathy? What know they of a sister’s love; aye! or of that deeper
love which only exists in the breast of woman! which carried her to
Pilate’s hall, to Calvary’s scene of blood, and to Joseph’s tomb? The
price of cotton, of tobacco, bread-stuffs, rise of fancy stocks,
election of a favorite candidate, or the death of a rich relative, are
sweeter than angel whispers to their ears, and _a rise of two pence on
corn_ is enough to fill a whole exchange with raptures.

There were but few such worldlings on the landing place of Quinapiack on
the Sabbath eve when the gallant vessel of the pilgrims approached the
shore. Silence reigned upon the landing, and a dreadful stillness hung
over the approaching ship. Gallantly she entered the harbor, and the
boldest on shore trembled for her temerity in carrying such a press of
canvass. Not a sail had she handed—not a man was aloft. Her course
varied not—neither did the water ripple before her bows. All was now
anxiety. A hail went forth from the land,—a moment of breathless
curiosity passed, but no answer came. Another hail was treated with the
same neglect. At length Mr. Davenport hailed the stranger. As the words
slowly burst from the brazen trumpet, a bright ray of sunlight gleamed
full upon the vessel. Her top-masts now faded into air—then the sails
and rigging down to her courses—her ensign next rolled away upon the
breeze, and when the East Rock sent back the last echo of the trumpet,
the pilgrims’ ship had vanished away. A similar ship, though of much
smaller dimensions, now appeared upon a heavy cloud that hung over Long
Island, and faded away with the brightness of the day.

“It is the promised sign,” said Mr. Davenport.

“Our friends are lost at sea,” cried the multitude.

“Eugene is drowned!” screamed Grace Gilman, and the crowd dispersed to
weep alone.

As the throng moved away from the water side, a maniac girl who had been
gathering wild flowers upon the East Rock, came running in from the
forest way, chaunting the following words to a plaintive air:—

    She leaves the port with swelling sails,
      And gaudy streamer flaunting free,
    She woos the gentle western gales,
      And takes her pathway o’er the sea.
    The vales go down where roses bloom—
      The hill tops follow green and fair;
    The lofty beacon sinks in gloom,
      And purpled mountains hang in air.

    Along she speeds with snowy wings,
      Around her breaks the foaming deep;
    The tempest thro’ her rigging sings,
      And weary eyes their vigils keep.
    Loud thunders rattle on the ear;
      Saint Elmo’s fire her yard-arms grace,
    The boldest bosom sinks in fear,
      While death stands watching face to face.

    Months roll, and anxious friends await
      Some tidings of the home-bound bark,
    But ah! above her hapless fate
      Mysterious shadows slumber dark.
    No tidings come from Albion’s shore
      To wild New England’s rocky lee;
    Hope sickens, dies, and all is o’er,
      The pilgrim’s bark is lost at sea.

    But see around yon woody isle
      A gallant vessel sweeps in pride,
    Her presence bids the mourners smile,
      And hope reviving marks the tide.
    But ah! her topsails fade away,
      Her gaudy streamer floats no more,
    A shadow flits across the bay,
      The pilgrim’s dying hope is o’er.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Upon a couch, in a little parlor in Quinapiack, surrounded by a number
of the worthy settlers of both sexes, rested, at the close of that
Sabbath day, Grace Gilman. Her cup of sorrow was full, and she prayed
for the approach of the angel of death. Beside her stood the silver
tankard, and her dim eye endeavored in vain to read the inscription.
“Aunt Tabitha,” said the sufferer to my great great grandmother, “read
the inscription for me.” The good aunt bent over the vessel, and read
aloud:—

    “Sir JOHN FOSTER, OF LONDON,
    _MASTER OF THE ROLLS_.”

And underneath, in small capitals, she read:—

    “Eugene Foster, to Grace Gilman, as an earnest of his love.

        “_An empty cup to hold our tears,_
        _A flowing bowl to drown our fears,_
        _In life or death, this cup shall be_
        _A poor remembrancer of me._”

“Brother,” said Mr. Davenport, as he slowly entered the room, “why
weepest thou? Daughter of the church, why sittest thou in sadness?
Children of God, why shed these useless tears? Arise, and let us bless
the Lord, for he is good, and his mercy endureth forever.”

The broken-hearted girl folded her hands. The aged father bent over her
pillow. The friends leaned upon their staves, and the minister poured
forth his soul in unstudied prayer.

A sweet strain of thrilling music now broke upon the ear,—a sound of
gentle voices echoed in the hall,—a rustling of wings was heard
overhead,—a faint whisper of “Eugene! Eugene! I—come—” died away on
the sufferer’s pillow: and when the prayer was ended, the little company
found themselves alone, watchers with the dead.

Grace Gilman had breathed her last, and the betrothed of the pilgrim
joined her lover in heaven.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The poor girl was buried agreeably to her wishes, upon the mountain
side. The tankard became the property of her aunt Tabitha, and finally
came to a rest in my grandmother’s cupboard. And now when the Sabbath
evening commences, the rustic swain, as he passes the foot of the
mountain, fancies that he sees a white figure beckoning to him from the
cliff, and hears, amid the sighing of the woods, a low, but fearfully
distinct whisper, saying—“Eugene! Eugene! I come!” And oft since,
through the dim twilight of a summer’s Sabbath evening, has been seen
the spirit-ship of the long-lost Pilgrims, ploughing her unruffled
course through the calm waters of Quinapiack, and, when hailed,
instantly disappearing.

    Washington, January, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE RESCUED KNIGHT.


                        A TALE OF THE CRUSADES.

It was starlight on Galilee. The placid lake lay at the feet, slumbering
as calmly as an infant, with the wooded shores, and the tall cliffs
around, reflected darkly in its surface. Scarcely a breath disturbed the
quiet air. Occasionally a ripple would break on the shore with a low,
measured harmony, and anon a tiny wave would glisten in the starlight,
as a slight breeze ruffled the surface of the lake. The song of the
fisherman was hushed; the voice of the vine-dresser had ceased on the
shore; the cry of the eagle had died away amongst his far-off hills, and
the silence of midnight, deep, hushed, and awe-inspiring, hung over
Galilee.

A thousand years before, and what scenes had that sea beheld! There, had
lived Peter and his brethren; there, had our Saviour taught; upon those
shores had his miracles been wrought; and on the broad bosom of
Gennesserat he had walked a God. What holy memories were linked in with
that little sea! How calm and changeless seemed its quiet depths! A
thousand years had passed since then, and the apostles and their
children had mouldered into dust, yet the stars still looked down on
that placid lake unchanged, shining the same as they had done for fifty
centuries before.

On the shore of the lake, embowered in the thick woods, stood a large
old, rambling fortified building, bearing traces of the Roman
architecture, upon which had been engrafted a Saracenic style. It
enclosed a garden, upon one side of which was a range of low buildings,
dark, massy, frowning, and partly in ruins, but which bore every
evidence of being still almost impregnable.

Within this range of buildings, in a dark and noisome cell, reclined,
upon a scanty bed of straw, a Christian knight. His face was pale and
attenuated, but it had lost, amid all his sufferings, none of his high
resolve. It was now the seventh day since he had lain in that loathsome
dungeon, and the morrow’s sun was to see him die a martyr, for not
abjuring his religion.

“Yes!” he muttered to himself, “the agony will soon be over: it is but
an hour at the most, and shall a Christian knight fear fire or torture?
No: come when it may, death should ever be welcome to a de Guiscan; and
how much more welcome when it brings the glories of martyrdom. But yet
it is a fearful trial. I could fall in battle, for there a thousand eyes
behold us, but to die alone, unheard of, with only foes around, and
where none shall ever hear of my fate.—Oh! that indeed is bitter. Yet I
fear not even it. Thank God!” he said, fervently kissing a cross he drew
from his bosom, “there is a strength given to us in the hour of need,
which bears us up against every danger.”

The speaker suddenly started, ceased, and looked around. The bolt of his
door was being withdrawn from the outside. Could it be that his jailor
was about to visit him at this hour? Slowly the massy door swung on its
hinges, and a burst of light, streaming into the cell, for a moment
dazzled the eyes of the captive; but when he grew accustomed gradually
to the glare, he started, with even greater surprise, to behold, not his
jailor, but a maiden, richly attired in the Oriental dress. For an
instant the young knight looked amazed, as if he beheld a being of
another world.

“Christian!” said the apparition, using the mongrel tongue, then adopted
by both Saracens and Franks in their communications, but speaking in a
low, sweet voice, which, melting from the maiden’s tongue, made every
word seem musical, “do you die to-morrow?”

“If God wills it,” said the young knight firmly, “but what mean
you?—why are you here?”

“I am here to save you,” said the maiden, fixing her eye upon his, “that
is,” and she paused and blushed in embarrassment, “if you will comply
with my conditions.”

The young knight, who had eagerly started forward at the first part of
her sentence, now recoiled, and with a firm voice, though one gentler
than he would have used to aught less fair, exclaimed,—

“And have you too been sent to tempt me? But go to those from whom you
came, and tell them that Brian de Guiscan, will meet the stake
rejoicing, sooner than purchase life by abjuring his God—”

“You wrong—you wrong me,” hastily interposed the maiden, “I come not to
ask you to desert your God, but to tell you that I also would be a
Christian. Listen,—for my story must be short—my nurse was a Christian
captive, and from her I learned to love your Saviour. I have long sought
to learn more of your religion, and I am come now,” and again she
blushed in embarrassment, “to free you, sir knight, if you will conduct
me to your own land. I am the daughter of the Emir; I have stolen his
signet, and thus obtained the keys to your cell—”

“It is enough, fair princess, my more than deliverer,” said the knight
eagerly, “gladly will I sell my life in your defence.”

“Hist!” said the maiden in a whisper, placing her finger on her lips,
“if we speak above a murmur we shall, perhaps be overhead—follow me,”
and turning around, she passed swiftly through the door, and
extinguishing her light, looked around to see if she was followed, and
flitted into a dark alley of overhanging trees.

Who can describe the emotions of de Guiscan’s bosom, as he traversed the
garden after his guide? His release had been so sudden that it seemed
like a dream, and he placed his hand upon his brow as if to assure
himself of the reality of the passing scene. Nor were the sensations,
which he experienced, less mixed than tumultuous. But over every other
feeling, one was predominant—the determination to perish rather than to
be re-taken, or, least of all, to suffer a hair of his fair rescuer’s
head to be injured.

Their noiseless, but rapid flight toward the lower end of the garden,
and thence through a postern gate into the fields beyond, was soon
completed,—and it was only when, arriving at a clump of palms, beneath
which three steeds, and a male attendant, could be seen, as if awaiting
them, that the maid broke silence.

“Mount, Christian,” she said in her sweet voice, now trembling with
excitement; and then turning toward her father’s towers, she looked
mournfully at them a moment, and de Guiscan saw, by the starlight, that
she wept.

In a few minutes, however, they were mounted; and so complete had been
the maiden’s preparations, that de Guiscan’s own horse, lance, and
buckler, had been provided for him. But on whom would suspicion be less
likely to rest than on the Emir’s daughter?

They galloped long and swiftly through that night, and just as morning
began to break across the hills of Syria, they turned aside into a thick
grove, and, dismounting, sought rest. The attendant tied the foaming
steeds a short distance apart, and, for the first time, the princess and
de Guiscan were alone since his escape.

“Fair princess,” said the young knight, “how shall I ever show my
gratitude to you? By what name may I call my deliverer?”

“Zelma!” said the maiden modestly, dropping her eyes before those of the
knight, and speaking with a certain tremulousness of tone that was more
eloquent than words.

“Zelma!” said de Guiscan astonished, “and do I indeed behold the
far-famed daughter of the Emir, Abel-dek, she for whom the Saracenic
chivalry have broken so many lances? Thou art indeed beautiful, far more
beautiful than I had dreamed. The blessed saints may be praised, that
thou wishest to be a Christian.”

“Such is my wish,” said the maiden meekly, as if desiring to change the
conversation from her late act, “and I pray that, as soon as may be, we
may reach some Christian outpost, where you will place me in charge of
one of those holy women, of whom I have heard my nurse so often speak;
and after that, the only favor I ask of you, sir knight, is, that,
should you ever meet my father, Abel-dek, in battle, you will avoid him,
for his daughter’s sake.”

“It is granted, sweet Zelma,” said de Guiscan enthusiastically. But the
attendant now returning, their conversation was closed for the present.

Why was it that de Guiscan, instead of retiring to rest, when, having
formed a rude couch for Zelma, he persuaded her to take a short repose,
kept guard for hours, busy with his own thoughts, but without uttering a
word? Was it solely gratitude to the fair Saracen which forbid him to
trust her safety even for a moment to her attendant, or had another and
deeper feeling, arising partly from gratitude, and partly from a
tenderer source, taken possession of his soul? Certain it is, that
though the young knight had gazed on the bright eyes of his own Gascony,
and seen even the fair-haired maidens of England, yet never had he
experienced toward any of them, such feelings as that which he now
experienced toward Zelma. Hour after hour passed away, and still he
stood watching over her slumbers.

It was late in the afternoon when the little party again set forth on
their flight. De Guiscan, when the road permitted it, was ever at the
bridle reins of Zelma, and though his keen eye often swept anxiously
around the landscape, their conversation soon grew deeply interesting,
if we may judge by the stolen glances and heightened color of Zelma, and
the eager attention with which the young knight listened to the few
words which dropped from her lips. How had their demeanor changed since
the night before! Then the princess was all energy, now she was the
startled girl again. Then de Guiscan followed powerless as she led, now
he it was upon whom the little party leaned for guidance.

“Pursuit, the saints be praised, must long since have ceased,” said de
Guiscan, “for yonder is the last hill hiding us from the Christian camp.
When we gain that we shall be able to see, though still distant, the
tents of my race.”

The eyes of the maiden sparkled, and giving the reins to their steeds,
they soon gained the ascent. The scene that burst upon them was so grand
and imposing that, involuntarily, for a moment, they drew in and paused.

Before them stretched out an extensive plain, bounded on three sides by
chains of hills, while on the fourth, and western border, glistened far
away the waters of the Mediterranean. Rich fields of waving green;
sparkling rivers, now lost and now emerging to sight; rolling uplands,
crowned with cedar forests; and, dimly seen in the distance, a long line
of glittering light, reflected from the armor of the Crusaders, and
telling where lay the Christian camp, opened out before the eyes of the
fugitives.

“The camp—the camp,” said de Guiscan joyously, pointing to the far-off
line of tents.

The maiden turned her eyes to behold the glittering sight, gazed at it a
moment in silence, and then casting a look backward, in the direction of
her father’s house, she heaved a deep sigh, and said calmly:

“Had we not better proceed?”

“By my halidome, yes!” said de Guiscan with sudden energy, “see yon
troop of Saracens pricking up the mountain side in our rear—here—in a
line with that cedar—”

“I see them,” said Zelma, breathlessly, “they are part of the Emir’s
guard—they are in pursuit.”

“On—on,” was the only answer of the young knight, as he struck the
Arabian on which the maiden rode, and plunged his spurs deep into his
horse’s flanks.

They had not been in motion long before they beheld their pursuers,
approaching, better mounted than themselves, sweeping over the brow of
the hill above, in a close, dense column.

“Swifter—swifter, dear lady,” said the knight, looking back.

“Oh! we are beset,” suddenly said Zelma, in a voice trembling with
agitation, “see—a troop of our pursuers are winding up the path below.”

The knight’s eyes following the guidance of the maiden’s trembling
finger, beheld, a mile beneath him, a large company of infidel horse,
closing up the egress of the fugitives. He paused an instant, almost
bewildered. But not a second was to be lost.

“Where does this horse path lead?” he said, turning to the attendant,
and pointing to a narrow way, winding amongst precipitous rocks, toward
the left.

“It joins the greater road, some distance below.”

“Then, in God’s name let us enter it, trusting to heaven for escape. If
it comes to the worst I can defend it against all comers, provided there
is any part of it too narrow for two to attack me abreast.”

“There are many such spots!”

“Then the saints be praised. In, in, dear lady—in all.”

Their pace was now equally rapid until they reached a narrow gorge,
overhung by high and inaccessible rocks, and opening behind into a wide
highway, bordering upon a plain below.

“Here will I take my position, and await their attack,” said de Guiscan.
“How far is the nearest Christian outpost?”

“A league beneath.”

“Hie, then, away to it, and tell them de Guiscan escaped from a Saracen
prison, awaits succor in this pass. We cannot all go, else we may be
overtaken. Besides, you may be intercepted below. If you live to reach
the crusaders, I will make you rich for life. By sundown I may expect
succor if you succeed. Till then I can hold this post.”

The man made an Oriental obeisance, and vanished, like lightning, down
the acclivity.

“Here they come,” said de Guiscan, “they have found us out, and are
swooping like falcons from the heights.”

The maiden looked, and beheld the troop of Saracens defiling down the
mountain, one by one; the narrowness of the path forbidding even two to
ride abreast.

“Allah il Allah!” shouted the foremost infidel, perceiving the knight,
and galloping furiously upon him as he spoke.

Not a word was returned from the crusader. He stood like a statue of
steel, awaiting the onset of the fiery Saracen. As the infidel swept on
his career, he gradually increased his distance from his friends, until
a considerable space intervened between him and the troop of Moslems.
This was the moment for which the young knight had so anxiously waited.

“Allah il Allah!” shouted the infidel, waving his scimitar around his
head, as he came sweeping down upon the motionless crusader.

“A de Guiscan! a de Guiscan!” thundered the knight, raising the war-cry
of his fathers, as he couched his lance, and shot like an arrow from the
pass. There was a tramp—a wild shout—a fleeting as of a meteor—and
then the two combatants met in mid-career. Too late the infidel beheld
his error, and sought to evade that earthquake charge. It was in vain.
Horse and rider went down before the lance of the crusader, and the last
life-blood of the Saracen had ebbed forth before de Guiscan had even
regained his position.

The savage cry of revenge which the companions of the fallen man set up,
would have apalled any heart but that of de Guiscan. But he knew no
fear. The presence of Zelma, too, gave new strength to his arm, and new
energy to his soul. For more than an hour, aided by his strong position,
he kept the whole Saracen force at bay. Every man who attacked him went
down before his lance, or fell beneath his sword. At length, as sunset
approached, the Saracens hemming him in closer and closer, succeeded in
driving him back behind a projecting rock, which, though it protected
his person, prevented him from doing any injury to his assailants, who,
meanwhile, were endeavoring, by climbing up the face of the rock, to
attack him from overhead. He found that it was impossible to hold out
many moments longer. He turned to look at the maiden: she was firm and
resolved, though pale.

“We will die together,” said she, drawing closer to his side, as if
there was greater protection there than where she had been standing.

“Yes! dear Zelma, for that is, I fear me, all that is left for us to
do.”

“Hark!” suddenly said the maiden, “hear you not the clattering of
horses’ feet—here—in the rear?”

“Can it be your attendant returned?”

“Yes—yes! it is—praised be the Christian’s God.”

“I vow a gold candlestick to the Holy shrine at Jerusalem!”

On, like a whirlwind, came the host of the Christians, over the plain
beneath, and through the broad highway, until, perceiving their rescued
countryman still alive with his charge, they raised such a cry of
rejoicing that it struck terror into every Moslem’s heart. In a few
moments all danger to the fugitives was over.

The infidels, now in turn retreating, were pursued and cut off almost to
a man, by a detachment of the Christian force; while another party of
the succorers bore the rescued fugitives in triumph to the Christian
outpost.

In the parlor of the —— convent, at Jerusalem, a few months later De
Guiscan awaited the appearance of Zelma. Since the day when they had
together reached the Christian outpost, he had not beheld that beautiful
Saracen, for she had seized the first opportunity to place herself under
the instruction of the holy abbess of the —— convent at Jerusalem.
During that separation, however, de Guiscan had thought long and
ardently of his rescuer. In the bivouac; amid the noise of a camp; in
the whirl of battle; surrounded by the beautiful and gay; wherever, in
short, he went, the young knight had carried with him the memory of the
fair being who, at the peril of her life, had saved him from the stake.
Their hurried conversation in the palm grove was constantly recurring to
his memory. Oh! how he wished that he might once more behold Zelma, if
only to thank her anew for his life. But constantly occupied in the
field, he had not been at leisure to visit Jerusalem, until a summons
come from France, informing him of his father’s death, and the necessity
that he should immediately proceed homeward, to preserve the succession
to his barony. He determined to see Zelma once more, if only to bid her
farewell forever.

As he was swayed thus by his emotions, he heard a light step, and
looking up, he beheld the Saracen princess.

“Zelma!” he ejaculated.

“De Guiscan!” said the maiden, eagerly advancing, but checking herself
as instantly, she stood, in beautiful embarrassment, before the knight.

Both felt the difficulty of their relative positions, and both would
have spoken, but could not. At length de Guiscan said,—

“Lady! I have come to thank you again for my life, before I leave this
land forever.”

“Leave Jerusalem—Palestine forever!” ejaculated Zelma.

A bright, but long-forbidden hope lighted up the countenance of the
young knight, and perceiving the renewed embarrassment with which the
speaker paused, he said:

“_Dear_ lady! I am going to my own sunny land far away; but I cannot
depart without telling you how deeply I love you, and that I have
thought of you, only of your sex, ever since we parted. Oh! if not
presumptious, might I hope?”

The still more embarrassed maiden blushed, but she did not withdraw the
hand which the young knight had grasped. He raised and kissed it. The
next moment the trembling, but glad girl, fell weeping on his bosom.
She, too, had thought only of him.

The proudest family in the south of France, to this day, trace their
origin to the union of Zelma and de Guiscan.    *   *   *

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            LITTLE CHILDREN.


                        BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.


    I love those little happy things, they seem to me but given,
    To mirror on this lower earth, the far-off smiling heaven,
    Their blue eyes shining ever bright like violets steep’d in dew.
    Their looks of angel innocence—who’d not believe them true?

    The echo of the merry laugh, so full of heartfelt glee,
    The very revelry of joy, untameable, and free;
    The little feet that almost seem to scorn our mother earth,
    But ever, ever lisping on in frolic, and in mirth.

    Oh! how we look on them, and think of all our childhood’s hours,
    When we were sunny-hearted too, and wander’d among flowers,
    When like to theirs, our floating locks, were left to woo the breeze,
    Oh! Time, in all thy calendar, thou’st no such times as these.

    I do forget how many years have sadly passed me by,
    Since my young sun of rising morn, shone gayly in the sky;
    When I behold these happy things in all their joyous play,
    Pouring the sunshine of their hearts, upon my cloudy way.

    Would I could watch their gentle growth, and guard them from the
      blight,
    That ever tracks the steps of Time, like darken’d clouds of night,
    Would I could see their laughing eyes still innocently wear
    The looks of guileless purity, unmixed with woe, or care.

    Dear little children, ye have been to me, a source of joy,
    The sweet drop in the bitter cup of life’s too sad alloy,
    In ye, mine early days return, the rainbow days of youth,
    Of single-hearted blessedness, of tenderness, and truth.

    Philadelphia, January, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE SILVER DIGGER.


                          BY J. TOPHAM EVANS.


“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Piet Albrecht, “and so old Chriss Mienckel is
going to be married at last, and to pretty Barbara Mullerhorn, the
violet of the forest! Your gold and silver are the best suitors after
all! Give me a purse of yellow pieces before all the rifles of the
mountain. What sayest thou, comrade,” continued he, clapping upon the
back a young man, who sat next to him, “dost thou not think that old
Mullerhorn, the gold-lover, would have fancied thee much better, if thou
hadst carried more metal in thy pouch than upon thy shoulder?”

“I pray thee, Piet,” responded the young man, “keep thy scurvy jests to
thyself. My soul is far too heavy for mirth.”

“Holy Saint Nicholas!” said Piet, “he thinks of little Barbara! Well,
courage, comrade, and drink somewhat of this flask. Right Schiedam, and
full old, I warrant thee. What, not a drop? Well, here’s to thee, then.”

“Aye,” said a tall, dark visaged man, attired in a hunter’s garb, “aye!
these love sick spirits are hardly worth the trouble of enlivening. Once
was Adolf the gayest hunter in the hills; but of late, his courage is as
dull as a hare’s, and all for a green girl, whose old schelm of a father
loves his own broad pieces too well, to bestow her upon a ranger of the
free woods.”

“Peace, Franz Rudenfranck,” said the youth; “I will hear such words, not
even from thee. If old Mullerhorn continues to refuse me, I will leave
these, my native mountains, and wander in some far distant land,
hopeless and broken hearted.”

“Pshaw,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “thou art far too young for despair as
yet. Throw thine ill-humor to the fiend, whence it came. There are other
lasses as fair as Barbara Mullerhorn, and, by my faith, not so difficult
to obtain. Therefore, fill comrades, let us pass a health to the
recovery of Adolf’s heart, and a more favorable issue to his passion.”

And the cup went gaily round, amid the shouts of the revellers.

Adolf Westerbok had been the gayest huntsman of the F——g district, and
the truest and merriest lad in the mountain, until an accidental meeting
with Barbara Mullerhorn at a dance, had entirely changed the current of
his feelings. It is an old story, and a much hackneyed one, that of
love. Let us spare the description. Suffice it to say that Adolf and
Barbara met often, and that a mutual affection subsisted between them.

Adolf proposed himself to old Mullerhorn, and demanded Barbara in
marriage. But old Philip Mullerhorn, a rude, churlish, and avaricious
farmer, scornfully rejected the proffer of Adolf, and forbade him any
farther interview with Barbara, alleging, as the grounds of his
disinclination, the poverty of the hunter. Barbara was no less afflicted
than Adolf. Still, meetings between them were contrived. At last, on the
very evening, upon which the conversation, narrated above, took place,
Barbara informed her distracted lover, that her father had announced to
her his intention of bestowing her in marriage upon Chriss Mienckel, an
elderly widower, whose share of this world’s goods was ample enough to
attract the covetous regards of old Philip Mullerhorn.

Burning with rage, and filled with tumultuous thoughts, Adolf quitted
Barbara, after bestowing upon her a long embrace, and repaired to the
inn of the hamlet, in hopes of finding Franz Rudenfranck, a huntsman,
who had professed a singular attachment for him, and who had signalised
this attachment by many personal proofs of friendship.

The news of old Mienckel’s success had reached the hamlet before him,
and he had not been seated many minutes, before Piet Albrecht, the
professed joker of the village, began to rally him upon the subject.
Piet had already irritated Adolf in no small measure; but the lover had
thus far concealed his feelings.

“Ha! ha!” exclaimed Piet, gaily, “to think that the old, shrivelled
widower of threescore should outcharm the youth of twenty! If I had been
Adolf Westerbok, I don’t think that Chriss would have carried matters
so, and I should have worn the wedding ribbon in spite of his ducats.
But there’s no accounting for tastes, eh? What say you, comrades?”

The hunters laughed; and Adolf, annoyed at length beyond endurance,
rejoined in somewhat of a surly tone; to which Piet answered more
jestingly than before.

“Silence, fool!” said Rudenfranck, now interfering, “thou hast neither
wit nor manners, and I should but serve thee rightly, did I lay my
ramrod soundly over thy shoulders.”

Piet shrank back abashed, for there was that expression upon the brow of
Rudenfranck that few cared to see, and fewer to withstand. The hunters
were silent for a moment, but one of them, at last, answered
Rudenfranck.

“That would I fain see, Franz Rudenfranck. Keep thy ramrod for thy
hound; for, by the holy apostles, if thou layest the weight of thy
finger upon Piet, I will try whether my bullet or thy skin proves the
harder, albeit some say no lead can harm thee.”

“Peace, Hans Veltenmayer,” rejoined Rudenfranck. “If thou wert wise,
which any fool may plainly perceive thou art not, thou wouldest chain
that unruly tongue within thine ugly mouth, or keep those threats for
thy wife, who, if some say aright, would receive them so kindly, as to
repay thee, not in words, but in heavier coin. Tush man, never lift thy
rifle at me.”

He turned sharply upon the hunter, who had seized his rifle and was
levelling it toward him; wrested it from his hand, and by a slight
motion, cast him rudely upon the ground. Veltenmayer rose, and slunk
among his laughing companions, muttering.

“Come, Adolf,” said Rudenfranck, “I know what thou wouldst have. Leave
we this merry company, and go thou with me to my hut.”

They left the inn, and plunged deep into the forest.


                              Chapter II.

The F——g district, as it is called, where the scene of this legend is
laid, is one of the highest points in the great range of the Alleghany
mountains. High, broken peaks, capped with towering pines, rise upon
every side in billowy confusion; while the loftier and more regular
chains of mountains stretch far away in every direction, fading and
sinking upon the eye, until from a rich, dark green, they seem to meet
and unite with the azure of the sky. Rough, rocky precipices; a red and
stony soil, where the green mosses crawl and intertwist, in confused,
yet beautiful arrangement, over the sward; thick low underwood, and
forests almost impenetrable from their density; deep ravines, and craggy
watercourses, some entirely destitute of water, and others, gushing
precipitately along, flushed by unfailing springs, are the
characteristics of this mountain district. The rude log cabins of the
few inhabitants of this country, lie distant and scantily scattered
through the almost pathless woods, and the entire appearance of the
scenery has a sublime, though a savage and uncultivated air. The
original settlers of this tract were Germans and Swiss, whose
descendants, even at the present day, are almost the sole tenantry of
these hills. Their nature seems congenial to the surrounding mountains;
and the national exercise of the rifle, the merry dance and song, and
those yet more venerable Dionysia, the apple-butter boilings, quilting
parties, and log liftings, still constitute the favorite amusements of
this primitive people. Even their religion, a strange compound of German
mysticism, engrafted upon a plentiful stock of superstition, seems
peculiarly appropriate to their mode of living, and their wild country.
Nay, the very dress of a century back, still holds its fashion among
these hills; and the peasant or hunter, loosely attired in his homespun
suit of brown or blue adorned with fringe, or decked out with large,
antique, silver or pewter buttons, occasionally garnished with the
effigies of some popular saint; his large, broad brimmed wool hat,
flapped over his face; his leather leggings; and dark, curly beard,
presents a lively image of his fathers, the original settlers of the
district. Add to this, the bright, keen wood-knife, sheathed in its
leather case, and stuck in a broad girdle, with the powder horn and
pouch; and the unfailing rifle strapped across the shoulder, and you
have a perfect description of the general appearance of that people, who
inhabit the F——g settlement, and the back-woods of Pennsylvania, at
the present day.

Rudenfranck and his companion strode onward through the woods for some
time without speaking. The elder hunter eyeing his friend keenly, at
last broke the unsocial silence.

“I need not ask of thee, Adolf, why thy brow is clouded, and thine eye
so heavy. I, myself, although thou mayest smile at such confession from
me, have suffered long, and deeply, from a like cause. But my tale shall
not now interrupt thy grief, and I have often thought that the very
leaves of the forest would find tongues to repeat a story, which might
move nature herself. I would afford thee aid; not gall thy wounds by the
recital of my own. Speak; is it not thus? Thou hast met Barbara
Mullerhorn, even after her churlish father had forbidden thy suit. I
know too well, Adolf, that the more we are opposed the brighter burns
our love. But in pursuing thus thy suit, thou hast not done wisely. Yet
I may still aid thee, and I will do so.”

“Alas, good Franz,” replied the youth, “this complaint is far beyond thy
remedy. Gold alone can sway the determination of Philip Mullerhorn, and
well dost thou know that Chriss Mienckel is the richest man in the
settlement. How then canst thou, a poor hunter like myself, afford that
aid, which wealth alone can give? No! no! I  see nought save
disappointment—save despair!”

“Thou knowest but little of me, Adolf,” said Rudenfranck, solemnly, “but
thou art destined to learn more. See, the moon is already rising through
the pines, and on this evening, the annual recurrence of which, is
fraught with dread and woe to me; and each succeeding anniversary of
which, brings me nearer to my stern destiny, shalt thou learn of me a
secret, which, if thou hast the fearlessness of soul to fathom, all may
be well, at least with thee. But thou canst only learn it of me.”

“Rudenfranck,” said Adolf, “the hunters speak much evil of thee, and
strange tales are current concerning thee in the settlement. Unholy
things, it is said, flit round thy hut in the hushed hour of midnight.
Unholy sounds are heard resounding through the deep glen where thou
abidest. Old men speak warily of thee, and cross themselves as thou
passest by, and the village maidens shrink from thy hand in the dance.
These may be idle tales; but, Rudenfranck, thy words to-night are
suspicious. Nevertheless, be thou wizard or enchanter; be thy knowledge
that of the good saints, or of a darker world, to thee and to that
knowledge I commit myself. Thou hast proved thy friendship, and, for
weal or woe, I will trust thee.”

“Men speak not all aright,” rejoined the hunter, while a dark shadow
obscured his visage, and his words fell as though he spake them
unwillingly, “nor say they altogether wrong.” The young huntsman looked
at Rudenfranck for a moment; then, grasping his hand, he cried—

“Then thou canst aid me, Rudenfranck?”

“That will I, as I have the power,” said the hunter; “but we are at the
hut. Thy hand upon it, that what I shall tell thee will find a grave in
thy breast. Else I will not, I cannot assist thee.”

“My hand upon it,” replied Adolf.

“Enter then,” said the hunter, “let fear be a stranger to thy breast,
and all shall yet be well.”

As they entered the cottage, a shadowy form flitted past the door, and
the wind sighed mournfully through the forest.


                              Chapter III.

The hut of Rudenfranck differed but little in appearance from the
ordinary dwellings of the settlers of the district. Large pine logs,
piled rudely together, and cemented with mud, in order to exclude the
wind from the chinks, composed the cabin. Two or three common chairs, a
pine table, and a camp bed, with a few culinary utensils, constituted
the entire furniture of the hunter’s hut. A torch of resinous wood,
which flared from an iron bracket, gave light to the room, and a large
fire soon occupied the wide hearth. A few articles of sylvan warfare
hung round the cabin; and on a shelf, some pewter mugs and earthen
dishes, a pair of stag’s antlers, and two or three old folios, their
ponderous covers clasped together with silver clenches, lay exposed. A
large, rawboned dog, rough of coat, and muscular of form, whose fine
muzzle and bright eye, spoke of rare blood, was extended before the
hearth. Roused by the noise made by Rudenfranck and his companion in
entering, he sprang up, erected his bristles, and uttered a low growl.

“Down, Fritz, be quiet,” said Rudenfranck, as the dog, recognising his
master, fawned upon him; “welcome to my poor hut, Adolf. I can give thee
no better cheer than our coarse mountain fare will afford, although I
may assist thee in some other important matters. Come, draw thy chair to
the fire, man. The wind is somewhat sharp to-night, and I will endeavor
to make out some refreshment for thee.”

He retired for a moment, and entered again, bearing a noble supply of
fat venison, which he immediately set about preparing for their supper.
The rich steam of the savory steaks soon attracted the attention of
Fritz, who, stretched out before the fire with lion-like gravity,
inhaled their genial flavor with manifest symptoms of approbation.
Rudenfranck’s preparations were soon completed, and, producing a curious
green flask, and two tall silver cups from a recess, he invited Adolf,
by precept and example, to partake of the viands set before him.

But the spirit of Adolf was too heavy for feasting, and the morsel lay
untasted on the trencher before him. Rudenfranck himself, although he
pressed Adolf to eat, neglected his meal, and the table was speedily
cleared, Fritz being accommodated with the relics of the repast.

“Taste this wine,” said Rudenfranck, “although myself no great lover of
the grape, I am somewhat curious in my choice of wines, and may indulge
my little vanity so far as to quaff the juice I drink, out of a more
costly metal than falls to the lot of most gay hunters.”

“Truly, Rudenfranck,” replied Adolf, “thy promised plans for the relief
of my unfortunate condition seem to have escaped thy memory. For rather
would I hearken to them, than drink thy wine, even from a silver cup.”

“Not so, Adolf,” said the hunter, “I will now fulfil my promise to thee.
But first, the secret of my power to aid thee, and the means by which
this assistance may be rendered, must be explained to thee. Listen,
then, and regard not my countenance but my words.”

“You have heard the elders of the hamlet speak of Count Theodore
Falkenhelm, a renowned noble of Alsace, in Germany. This Falkenhelm was
known to have sailed from Germany, with many other settlers for America.
Few knew his reasons for quitting his native country, for he was a dark,
unsocial man, and some have said that he had dealings with the Spirit of
Evil. He had not been resident here for a long time, before it was
observed that he became averse to society, cautious of remark, and
jealous of scrutiny. The spot in which he had fixed his abode, was
visited by few footsteps, for his mood was fierce, and his society, at
times, was dangerous. It was concluded that he was insane. But it was
not so. Mark me.

“A youth, some five years after the count had taken his dwelling in
these mountains, arrived here from Germany. He had not long ranged these
woods, before the fame of the count inspired him with a boyish curiosity
to see and to know him. An opportunity was soon afforded; for returning
one evening, wearied with the chase, a thunder storm and night overtook
him near the cottage of the count. He demanded hospitality, and was
admitted, though reluctantly. What he saw that night, when all was
hushed in the death of sleep, he never told to mortal; but he raved
wildly of fiends and phantoms, and died, soon after, a maniac.

“Shortly after this event, the count disappeared, nor has since been
heard of here. But many succeeding years brought news of a dismal
tragedy in Germany, and from the account of him who brought the report,
it was supposed by those who remembered the count, that he was the
principal actor in the scene of blood.

“The hut which the recluse had deserted, was the source of continual
dread to the superstitious peasants, whose fears had magnified the
ruinous cabin into a palace, where the revels of the great fiend were
held. But one, whose heart was bolder, and who had lately arrived in the
settlement, took possession of the hut, repaired it, and there fixed his
abode. That man, Adolf Westerbok, stands before you.

“I have not always been what I now appear. I was well born, although
poor, and had served in my country’s battles, not without reputation. I
loved the daughter of a baron, of high family and large estates, whose
castle, on the Aar, stood near the dwelling of my father. Thy tale of
love is mine, thus far. Although loved in return, and loving—O! spirit
of my injured Thekla!—deeper, far deeper than mortal, whose blood
burned not like mine, could love; she was torn from me—me, who would
have died for her; whose only aim in life was to approve myself worthy
of her—and whose love was mine alone—torn from me, and dragged, an
unwilling, wretched sacrifice, to the castle of a rich nobleman of our
country. Here, her tears and visible decay, instead of moving compassion
in the heart of her husband, rendered him jealous and morose. On one
occasion, he struck her to the earth in furious rage—struck her, do you
mark me?—aye, inflicted a blow on that fair breast which I would have
braved hell to defend! It caused her death, for she was pregnant—she
died that day. I—yon insulted heaven knows how deeply!—I avenged her,
and the steel which struck the life blow to his heart, never has been,
and never shall be cleansed. Look at it—I keep it as a memorial of most
holy revenge!”

Rudenfranck drew from his vest a broad, sharp dagger, and threw it on
the table before Adolf, who saw with horror that the blade and hilt were
encrusted with the stains of long-spilled blood.

“I was forced to quit Germany, and wandered through Spain an aimless,
hopeless man. Here I became acquainted with Count Falkenhelm. He was in
danger from the Inquisition, and I aided his escape from their toils. A
hater of mankind, naught, save the knowledge of how bitter an enmity
Falkenhelm bore to it, prompted me to rescue him from the snare. A
murder was committed in Alsace. Letters came to me from Falkenhelm,
desiring me to hasten to him, and ere he met the inevitable doom of his
crime, to receive a last legacy which he wished to bequeath me.

“I hastened to him, and on the night ere he was executed, he imparted to
me this secret: that, deep within these forests, the mighty treasures of
a long buried sage and necromancer, whose power could control the
elements, and the spirits of fire, lay hidden. These were the treasures
of Bructorix, borne from Germany by magic spells. They were guarded by
potent spirits of hell. To me did he commit this knowledge, together
with those books, at which you have often wondered, and this spell,
which commands the world of demons.”

As he spoke, he again went to the recess, drew forth a small gold box,
and opening it with reverence, displayed a fair linen cloth, folded in
such a manner as to present five angles, at equal distances, in the
centre of which was fixed an opal, of immense value, upon which certain
mysterious letters were engraved. The letters which formed the spell,
glistened and flashed as though with internal fires, as the light fell
upon the polished jewel.

“This,” said Rudenfranck, closing the box, “is the magic pentagon, the
key to the treasures of King Bructorix.”

“Heavens!” cried Adolf, “you received, then, this most fatal gift?”

“I did; and took upon myself an awful penalty. I said, ‘Ambition! thou
shalt be my God, for love is lost to me!’ I came on to this country
immediately after the execution of the count, and have discovered the
treasure. Reasons, unimportant for you to know, have detained me here
some years, disguised as the hunter Rudenfranck. This is the point,
then. You cannot obtain Barbara Mullerhorn without gold; nor dare I, if
I could, bestow this treasure upon you. You must follow my example, and
call upon the spirit of Bructorix yourself. I will instruct you in the
manner, but you must undertake the adventure.”

“And the penalty you spoke of,” said Adolf, trembling, as the hot eyes
of Rudenfranck glared upon him.

“I cannot tell you. The spirit proposes different sacrifices. Mine is—”

A loud gust of wind interrupted the speaker, and Adolf shuddered, as he
fancied he could distinguish the flapping of pinions through the blast.

“Ha!” said Rudenfranck, breathing hard, and speaking low,—“I had
forgot!—I had forgot!”

“Is this thy plan?” said Adolf, “I fear me it is unhallowed. I will
begone and pray to be delivered from the evil one. Rudenfranck, I will
not accept of such assistance.”

“Thy life upon it,” said the hunter, “if thou betrayest me.”

“I have given my hand to secresy, and yet—”

“Choose well and warily, Adolf.”

“That will I, Rudenfranck. There can be no sin, I trust, in hearing so
unholy a tale. Is this the only plan—?”

“It is the only one. But, away, if thou canst not accept this aid. I can
give thee no other.”

“Then,” said Adolf, as he turned slowly to leave the hut, “I am ruined
and desperate!”

“Aye, go,” said Rudenfranck bitterly, looking after the retreating form
of Adolf, with a fiendish sneer, “go, fool! Thus is it ever with that
microcosm of folly, man. Aye, I can plainly see that the treasure of
King Bructorix will soon acquire a new guardian. Another victim, and I
leave these fatal shores, and forever.”


                              Chapter IV.

As Adolf returned homeward, many and various were the contending
reflections which embittered his mind. At one time he thought of the
misery which he must endure in beholding the object of his dearest
affections, united to Mienckel, her profound aversion; now, vague dreams
of the wealth and happiness which the possession of the hidden treasure
would confer upon him, flitted across his mind; but a chill damp struck
through his soul as he remembered the intimated penalty; and wild
imaginations of spectral forms, demoniac faces, and the awful legendary
tales, so current among the peasantry, filled his breast with horror. He
reached his cottage, and threw himself upon his humble couch, agonised
by conflicting emotions. No sleep visited his pillow, and early the next
morning he arose and went forth, hoping to subdue the fever of his blood
by exercise in the cold air. He wandered about for some time, listless
in which direction he took his way, until he found himself near the farm
house of old Mullerhorn.

It was a jolly day at the house of that ancient. Turkeys, geese, pigs,
and the promiscuous tenantry of the barn yard, bled beneath the knives
of the rosy Dutch damsels. The smoke curled in copious volumes from the
ample chimneys, and the hissing of culinary utensils, employed at the
genial occupation of preparing divers dainties, together with the savory
odors from the purlieus of the kitchen, gave indisputable tokens that
something highly important was taking place in the house. Adolf viewed
this busy scene with melancholy feelings enough, for he well presaged
what it meaned. He paused, and leaned sadly on his rifle; but his heart
felt still heavier, when, from a window of the farm house a fair white
hand was extended, waving a handkerchief toward him. A tear stole down
his cheek, as he acknowledged the signal, and, raising his rifle, was
about to depart, when a slight tap on the shoulder arrested him, and a
plump little maiden, whose rosy cheeks, and smiling face, were the very
emblems of good humor, in fact, a perfect Dutch Hebe, accosted him.

“Why, how now, master Adolf? Have you not a word for an old
acquaintance?”

“Ah, Agatha, is it thou? How dost thou, my good lass?”

“Better, Adolf, than either yourself or Barbara, if there is any
judgment in your looks. Why, you look as if you had seen a spectre, and
if you will keep company with that black-looking wretch, that Franz
Rudenfranck, I wouldn’t insure that you will not see one, some of these
dark nights. Bless me, how you change color. Are you sick?”

“No, no, Agatha. Not so sick in body as in heart. How fares Barbara?”

“Why, indeed, Dolf, for I will call you Dolf again, and it’s a shame for
father Philip to make us all call you master Adolf; master indeed! she
has done nothing but cry all night. But she is to be married to old
Chriss this morning—the odious fool! I’m sure she hates him—and I’ve a
thousand things to do; so good bye to you Dolf.”

The lively little girl ran off, and Adolf again was about to pursue his
path, when old Mullerhorn, accompanied by the intended bridegroom, and
some of his neighbors, arrived at the farm.

“What, Adolf,” said the old man, while a cynical smile played over his
thin features, “Adolf here. Thou hast been a stranger of late, lad. But,
come, wilt thou not in with us and witness this merry marriage? In
faith, it will gladden my little Barbara to see thee there. Come, thou
must aid in this gay ceremony.”

Adolf was, for a moment, undecided what answer to make old Mullerhorn;
but curbing his indignation, and repressing an angry reply—he thought
it most prudent to accept the invitation.

“I thank you, neighbor Philip,” said he, “and willingly will go with
you.”

“Why, that is well spoken, boy,” replied the old man, unusually elated
by the occasion. “I always liked thee, Adolf; but no ducats, lad, no
ducats.”

“They are not so very difficult to procure,” whispered a voice in
Adolf’s ear; he turned, and beheld Rudenfranck.

“Well, in, Adolf; and eh? Franz Rudenfranck too? But, in—in with ye
both,” said old Mullerhorn, and the party entered the farm-house.

The room into which they were ushered, was an ample, commodious
apartment, constructed in the true Dutch fashion, with a polished oak
floor, and noble rafters of the same wood. It was hung around with some
few gay colored prints, illustrating Scripture subjects, and some bright
tin sconces; and the furniture was substantial, although homely. A large
mahogany press, whose bright surface and polished brass knobs, might
have compared in brilliancy with the mirror, stood in one corner; an old
fashioned Indian chest, ponderous and highly japanned, ornamented the
opposite niche. Some heavy chairs with long, high backs, and formal arms
and legs; the never failing spinning wheel and Dutch clock; and a pair
of tall, ill-shaped, brass fire-dogs, completed the garniture of the
apartment. The walls were decorated with festoons of evergreen,
tastefully arranged by the fair hands of Barbara herself. Two
ill-looking, dingy paintings, also occupied a couple of recesses; and a
neatly polished cherry table, near a window, displayed an inviting array
of apple brandy, cherry wine, cider, and such refreshments as were
indigenous to the country. The good dame, after welcoming kindly her
guests, bustled off to resume the superintendence of the kitchen; and
the unfortunate Barbara herself, arrayed in bridal trim, and looking
through her tears, as lovely as the violet, freshly bathed in dew,
remained, seated in one of the large chairs, and vainly endeavoring to
conceal her emotion. As Adolf entered, her heart palpitated violently,
and she could with difficulty so far command herself, as to bid him
welcome. Nor did the sight of Barbara in such distress, fail equally to
afflict her lover; a grief which Rudenfranck artfully increased, by
hinting strongly to Adolf, the possibility of changing the entire face
of the scene.

The magistrate having arrived, and matters being so arranged as to bring
the affiance to a conclusion, Rudenfranck took the opportunity to lead
Adolf apart from the rest.

“Thou thrice sodden ass,” said he, “can’st thou call thyself a lover,
and yet allow so much innocence and beauty to be sacrificed to age and
avarice? Say thou the word; promise to obey me, and thou shalt yet
possess her. See, they are about to sign. Hesitate a moment longer—and
look, Barbara implores thee—she is lost. Farewell.”

“Stay,” rejoined Adolf, hurriedly, “this must not—shall not be.
Rudenfranck, I promise.”

“Then, demand of old Mullerhorn that the ceremony be delayed, and leave
the rest to me.”

“Father Philip,” said Adolf, addressing Mullerhorn, who was just about
to affix his name to the deed, “you are aware how long and how truly I
have loved Barbara. To see her thus sacrificed, is more than I can bear,
and I entreat you to consider farther upon this matter, and to defer
this marriage.”

The guests looked utterly confounded. Chriss Mienckel opened wide his
large, gray eyes, and stared upon the bold hunter in profound amazement.
Barbara turned red and pale by turns; and old Mullerhorn crimsoned with
rage.

“Have I not told ye, Adolf Westerbok, that I would never bestow Barbara
upon a beggarly hunter? What devil then, prompts thee to interrupt a
match which thou hast no power to prevent?”

“Dearest father,” said Barbara, clasping the hard hand of the old man,
“hearken to Adolf.”

“Away, idle girl! Adolf, tempt me not to do thee an injury.”

“Nay,” said the hunter, “is it even so? Well, then; gold for gold—ducat
for ducat—nay, double each ducat that old Mienckel can bestow, will I
lay before you, Philip Mullerhorn.”

“Thy morning draught has been somewhat of the strongest, Adolf. Where
should’st thou have met with these sums?” Chriss Mienckel chuckled
portentously, and thrusting each hand into his capacious pockets, a
melodious harmony of jingling coins soon resounded from their precincts.

“Look in thy pouch,” whispered Rudenfranck. Adolf did so, and drew forth
two purses, richly furnished with gold. Astonishment fairly stupified
the guests; and the covetous eyes of old Mullerhorn glistened at the
sight of money. But the recollection of Mienckel’s broad lands and fair
cattle crossed his mind.

“Gold for gold,” said he, musingly. “Well, well, it may be so; and
Adolf, when thou canst certify me concerning these riches, thou shalt,
perhaps, find me not altogether opposed to thee. This ceremony, for the
present, with the consent of Mienckel, shall be postponed.”

Mienckel nodded his assent; for he was a man of but few words. But
Adolf, holding the hand of Barbara, demanded an immediate trial.

“Be it so, then,” replied Mullerhorn. “My neighbor’s property is well
known. Let it be thy task to prove thy fortune equal to his.”

“Yes,” said Mienckel, “house and farm—cattle and gear—broad
lands—rich farming ground—bright ducats——”

“To balance which, I throw, as earnest, these purses,” said Adolf.
“Rudenfranck, can’st thou not aid me now?” whispered he, turning to the
hunter.

“Not now,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “you have the last of my gold.
To-night——”

“To-night!” said Adolf, impatiently, “an age! Father Philip, I pledge
myself that on the morrow I will prove myself worthy your regard in
purse as well as in love.”

“Agreed,” said Mullerhorn, “until to-morrow let the espousal be
deferred. If thou can’st then satisfy my doubts, Barbara shall be thine.
If not, this marriage shall no longer be prevented.”

“Thanks, father, and farewell. Come thou with me, Rudenfranck. Ere
to-morrow night, sweet Barbara, all shall be accomplished.”

Rudenfranck and Adolf left the house, and walked through the forest in
the direction of the hut of Rudenfranck. Few words were exchanged
between them, until, being arrived at the hut, they closed the door
carefully, and Adolf broke silence.

“Now, Rudenfranck,” said he, “I must know the means by which this
treasure may be discovered. Speak then, and quickly. I promise obedience
in all matters, faithfully and truly.”

“Then,” replied Rudenfranck, “it is thus. Meet me to-night, as the moon
casts a straight shadow over the range of the Wolf Hills. You know the
dark cavern by the run, where, it is said, that old Schwearenheim was
carried off bodily, by the Evil One——”

“It is a fearful place, and a fearful hour,” said Adolf.

“Fool, thou hast gone too far to recede. Only hint at doing so, and, by
all the fiends of hell, I withdraw every hope of my assistance from
thee. Wilt thou excite the expectations of Barbara, only to dash them
again to the earth? Wilt thou thus vacillate, until it becomes too late
to save her from Mienckel? If thou dost so, thou art the veriest
driveller that wears man’s attire. Mark me, and answer not. Meet me
there, at the cave, when the midnight hour arrives; and hark thee, thou
must procure a wafer of the consecrated host. Bring thy rifle with thee,
and leave the rest to my care.”

“Be it so,” said Adolf, “it is too late to recede.”

“See that thou fail not,” said Rudenfranck, “and now promise to
Mullerhorn what thou wilt. Keep thou but faith with me, and thou shalt
enjoy all that thou hast ever hoped for. Be not seen with me to-day. Go
to the village. Look cheerily; procure that which I have directed thee,
and fail not at midnight.”


                               Chapter V.

The shades of evening were gradually enveloping the country in darkness,
as Adolf and Barbara sat together, in the mansion of the Mullerhorns.
They spoke of love and happier times, and the bright eyes of the maiden
beamed joyously upon the countenance of the youth. Adolf had learned the
art of dissimulation in a brief space of time. Alas! it is but the first
step in evil that alarms, and he, that has abandoned the paths of
virtue, but for a moment, finds it far more difficult to retrace his
steps, than to continue in the ways of error. To the enquiries of
Barbara, concerning the wealth which he had so lately acquired, he
replied, that the death of a relation, whose property was ample, had
enabled him to compete, in point of riches, even with Christopher
Mienckel. Barbara fully believed him; for true love is ever ready of
faith; and fondly pictured to herself many a scene of happiness and of
domestic felicity. Thus the evening wore on; and the hunter was startled
to hear the hour of ten strike from the clock, as he arose to quit the
society of Barbara, and to join the companion of his unhallowed
undertaking.

“Whither away to-night, and so early, Adolf?” asked Barbara, as the
hunter made ready to depart.

“I have shot a buck in the forest, and must seek aid to bring him in,”
replied Adolf.

“It is full late to seek your game in the broad forest to-night, Adolf,”
said Piet Albrecht, who had been solacing himself with a dish of
discourse with Agatha, in the kitchen, and now came to bid Barbara good
night. “Yet, if you would wish my help, to show you that I have
forgotten our difference, I don’t care if I go with you.”

“I thank thee, Piet,” replied the young man, “but the game lies far off,
and Franz Rudenfranck has promised to go with me.”

“Where have you left it?” asked Barbara.

“Deep in the forest; near the Wolf Hills. At the cave of Schwearenheim.”

“I know not,” said Piet, shuddering, “what could tempt me to go there,
so near midnight. It will be nearly that, Adolf, when you reach there,
and the cave is, the saints be good to us, an unholy spot.”

“Pshaw, Piet, this is mere superstition,” said the hunter; but his cheek
glowed, and his flesh trembled. “Why should the cave be a more unholy
spot than any other part of the forest?”

“You know as well as I do, Adolf, that few of the hunters have the
courage to pass there after dark. My father has told me awful things of
the place, and one of them happened to himself.”

“What was that, pray, Piet?” said Agatha, “did he tumble into the run,
and fancy that the water was Schiedam?”

“Nothing of the sort, Mistress Agatha,” responded Piet. “You must know
that my father was a woodsman, as bold as any man among the hills. He
happened to be late out one evening, after game; and had chased a large
mountain cat to the run, where the cat climbed up an old hollow tree. My
father followed him closely, and mounted after him; but his hold gave
way, as he was looking down the hollow, and he slipped clear through the
hole, good forty feet down the inside of the tree. Well, he thought that
his hour was come, and that he should starve to death there; for the
inside of the tree was so smooth that he could get no hold for either
hand or foot; and so he had lost all hope of ever escaping, when he saw
something black come sliding down the tree. He recommended himself to
God, and when the thing, whatever it was, came within reach, he seized
hold of it, and it climbed up again, dragging my father after it. It had
no sooner reached the top of the tree; but a loud clap of thunder was
heard, and the thing sailed away in a flame of fire, far away over the
tree tops. My father clung fast to the trunk of the tree, and slid down
the outside, after he had clambered out of the hollow; then thanking
Providence for his deliverance, he went home as fast as his legs could
carry him.”

“A wonderful tale, indeed, Piet,” said Agatha, laughing.

“Wonderful enough,” said Piet.

“Well, Piet,” said Adolf, “was this truth?”

“Truth!” replied Piet, “I should like to have heard any man tell my
father that it was otherwise.”

“Do not go to-night, dearest Adolf,” said Barbara, turning pale.

“This is mere folly, sweet Barbara. If I failed to bring home my buck,
all the hunters would cry shame upon me.”

The clock struck the half hour, and Adolf, snatching up his rifle, bade
Barbara good night, and leaving the house, struck into the path which
led to the Wolf Hills.

“Aye, aye,” said Piet, looking after him, “he doesn’t believe in any
such matters; but I fear it is no good that he is bent upon. So much
gold, too, and so lately. But it’s no affair of mine. Did you mark the
wildness of his eye, though, Agatha?”


                              Chapter VI.

The moon shone brightly and calmly over the still woods, and the gentle
breath of the night wind sighed mournfully over the ear, as it kissed
the forest branches, and swept through the tops of the pines. The murmur
of the stream, as it flowed smoothly onward between the high mountain
passes, added to the soft influence of the scene. All nature was lulled
into repose. A small charcoal fire, burning on a rocky ledge, beneath a
tall cliff, disclosed the mouth of a dark cavern, at the entrance of
which sat Rudenfranck, the hunter, wrapped in a cloak, to protect his
person from the heavy damps of the night. He rose from his seat, and
moved restlessly about, making some arrangements in the mouth of the
cavern, and occasionally casting an anxious glance over the surrounding
hills, as if impatiently expecting his victim.

“I think that he will hardly fail me,” muttered he. “No, he has too much
at stake to abandon this enterprise. How still the night is! Strange,
that he comes not, and yet the hour approaches rapidly. All is
prosperous thus far. O, star of my destiny, triumph in this hour, which
is doomed to complete the anxious toil of years! Rejoice in the
anticipated majesty of high dominion! But why do I feel so sad? What
small voice is that, which whispers me to desist from my undertaking?
Repentance—repentance! My spirit is too dark, and I could not, if I
would, repent. How quickly my heart beats as the time speeds on! Yet one
more victim! Why, I shall be a king? that word is too weak, to express
the glorious extent of wisdom and power which I shall enjoy. But
happiness—no, no!—that feeling I shall never more experience! These
thoughts—the recollection of past crime. Why should I think of crime,
who am beyond the hope of salvation? Ha! he comes! ’Twas but the plash
of an otter. No! he is here!”

“Rudenfranck, is it thou?” said Adolf, “lend me thy hand. So. I have met
with strange warnings in my path toward thee. I fear to go on. Can
nothing be devised save this dread trial?”

“I have already told thee, nothing. Come up. The air is damp, and my
fire burns brightly. Have you procured that which I desired of thee?”

“I have it; but, Rudenfranck, sacrilege was the price of it.”

“Never regard the price, so as thou hast it. This is right,” said the
hunter, as he received the consecrated wafer. “Help me to build this
pile, which must be raised before we commence our solemn work.”

Adolf assisted Rudenfranck to build a small pile of stones, upon which
were deposited the box containing the pentagon, the consecrated wafer,
and a small cruse, in which was a dark red liquid. Rudenfranck also
placed a brazier on the pile, into which he deposited some slips of
parchment, inscribed with talismanic characters. As they finished their
task, the moon cast a straight and gigantic shadow across the Wolf
Hills, and the pines seemed to dilate, in the white glare, to an
unearthly size.

“It is the hour,” said Rudenfranck. “Be firm. Shrink not; and expect the
full reward of thy bravery. Help me to don these vestments.” He threw
across his shoulders a furred robe, which he bound tightly round his
body with a broad, red girdle. He then placed on his head a conical cap,
and taking in his hand a sword, inscribed with characters, and without a
guard, he described on the earth, the form of a pentagon, the centre of
the figure being occupied by the altar stones, at the side of which
Rudenfranck placed his companion.

“Lay thine hand on the altar,” said Rudenfranck, “and pour from this
cruse into the brazier, the liquid which it contains. Stay not to look
around thee, but feed the fire steadily, while I perform our magic
ceremonies.”

Rudenfranck lit a fire in the brazier as he spoke, and drawing a dagger
from his girdle, plunged it violently into his arm. The blood flowed
freely. He allowed it to run upon the five angles, reciting in a strange
language, mysterious charms. He then placed the linen pentagon in front
of his breast, and commanded Adolf to feed the flame as he had
instructed him. Adolf poured the liquid from the cruse into the burning
brazier; and Rudenfranck, gradually raising his voice, until from a
measured chaunt, he broke into furious vehemence, suddenly pronounced
the charm of the opal. The moon, which had till now shone brightly,
changed its color to a deep red; thunder rolled, and the forked
lightning flashed frequently and fearfully. The stars shot wildly across
the face of heaven. The wind whistled and groaned through the trees. The
earth quaked; and the whole frame of nature seemed to shudder at the
incantation. A furious crash resounded through the cavern; brilliant
lights danced through the gloom; the magic words engraved on the opal
gave out a dense and aromatic smoke, and the entire body of rock,
seeming to split asunder, with a tremendous crash, disclosed a
magnificent brazen gate, ornamented with characters similar to those on
the opal, at the sides of which two gigantic skeletons, crowned with
diadems, and bearing strange weapons in their bony grasp, stood, the
grisly warders of the charmed treasure.

Rudenfranck paused from his incantations, and, turning to Adolf, said in
a hoarse whisper,

“This is the portal which encloses the treasures of Bructorix; but the
phantom of the sage must now be invoked. Take thou this holy wafer, and
affix it to yon brazen gate. Do this speedily, and fear not.”

Adolf, highly excited and bewildered by the scene, obeyed without
hesitation. Once, as he was about to affix the consecrated element to
the gate, he fancied that some invisible arm endeavored to restrain his
hand; but he performed the commands of Rudenfranck, and returned to the
altar.

“Now,” said Rudenfranck, “but one more thing remains for thee to
perform. Raise thy rifle; take good aim, and shoot at the wafer of the
host. Shoot bravely!”

The wretched and abandoned Adolf followed the instructions of
Rudenfranck. He raised his rifle, took deliberate aim at the holy
emblem, and fired. A demoniac shout rang through the cave. The angles of
the pentagon shot forth vivid lightnings. The skeleton guardians of the
gate threw down their weapons, while red light flamed from their eyeless
skulls. The massive leaves of the gate flew wide open, and displayed an
immense vault, filled with huge vases of gold and jewels, which shone
with ineffable brilliance. The arched and fretted roof was sustained by
bronze pillars, representing strange and hideous animals, contorted into
the most grotesque attitudes. Thousands of gnomes, swarmed through the
vault, of misshapen forms, whose fierce and raging eyes dwelt upon the
hunters, with anger and contempt. Thrice did Rudenfranck, bowing himself
to the earth, call upon the name of Bructorix. Thrice hollow thunder
pealed throughout the cavern, and, at the third appeal, a gigantic
figure rose slowly through the earth, and stood before them. The figure
was enveloped in an imperial robe of purple, embroidered with jewels,
precious beyond description. A girdle of living fire encircled his
waist, and a crown of various and brilliant gems bound his white and
flowing locks. In his hand he carried an ivory sceptre. His countenance,
scathed by flames, looked like that of some ghastly denizen of the tomb,
newly raised to-day; and its expression was lofty, haughty and
commanding.

“Who calls upon the name of Bructorix?” asked the spectre, in a
sepulchral voice.

“The seeker of his power, mighty spirit,” answered Rudenfranck. “I bring
to thee the promised victim, and expect the reward of my services. Once
more prolong the date of my life, and execute those promises made me;
when by mighty spells, I had raised thee from the abode of the dead, in
Germany. That term expired, I bring unto thee another soul, or else
resign my own.”

“Would this youth enjoy my treasures,” asked the phantom, “and knows he
the nature of the obligation I demand of him?”

“He asks wealth of thee, and, in return, will accede to thy demands.”

“Let him sign the deed, which gives over to my master his soul and body,
and his wishes shall be gratified.”

Rudenfranck drew from his breast a parchment scroll, and the infatuated
Adolf, with his own blood, subscribed to his eternal ruin.

“Take of my treasures,” said the sceptre, “what thou would’st have, and
use it as thou wilt. In exchange for the gift of thy soul, contained in
this writing, thou shalt have full access to my treasure. But, mark me.
Seven years are granted unto thee, at the close of which time, thou must
return, and pay thy homage to the lord of these realms.”

“And myself?” asked Rudenfranck, “shall I not reap the harvest for which
I have labored? Recollect thy promises made me in Germany.”

“They are thine,” said the spirit. “This sceptre controls the fiercest
demons. Take it. Return to thy native land, and revel in the possession
of all earthly wisdom, riches, and power. But when thy date of life has
again expired, seek not to renew it. It is enough. Dismiss me.”

“Depart to thy place, accursed spirit,” said the hunter. The spirit of
Bructorix descended, and the phantoms hastened to pile the vases of gold
and jewels outside of the brazen gate, until the first grey light of the
dawn began to glimmer through the clouds. Instantly, the gorgeous scene
disappeared, and the cavern resumed its original appearance. Adolf and
Rudenfranck, loading themselves with gold, carefully filled up the mouth
of the cavern with rocks and brushwood, and returned warily, homeward.


                              Chapter VII.

The guests of the preceding day were assembled in the farm house of
Philip Mullerhorn, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Adolf. Old Mullerhorn
went frequently to the door, and looked out, with anxiety, down the road
which Adolf usually took when he visited the farm.

“I fear all is not right with him,” said he. “Adolf is late in coming
this morning. He should have been here a full hour before this.”

“Peradventure,” snuffled Chriss, “the young man has fled, doubting
whether he could make good his boasts of yesterday.”

“Not so fast, my good friend,” said the voice of Adolf himself, who then
entered, bearing in his hand a valise, evidently containing articles of
weight. “We shall soon prove whose boasts shall be first accomplished.”
As he spoke, he threw the valise upon the table, before Mullerhorn, “I
am come,” said he, “Father Philip, to receive my bride.”

“Heavens!” said Barbara, earnestly regarding the countenance of Adolf,
“what has thus blanched thy brow, and changed thy visage? Thy cheek is
ghastly, and thy look unearthly! Why glares thine eye so wildly? What
hast thou done? The light of thine eye is not from heaven! Holy Virgin!
the cave! the cave!” cried she, fainting.

“Adolf, what ails thee?” asked Mullerhorn. “Thy brow is indeed pale, and
thine eye fierce and blood-shot. Thou comest from no holy work this
morning. Hadst thou the whole treasure of earth, no daughter of mine,
Adolf Westerbok, should’st thou wed, until the secret of thy conduct is
explained.”

“It is nothing,” said Adolf, stammering as he spoke, “a weariness—a
sickness—it will soon be over.”

“I fear the mark on thy brow is of no earthly malady. Remain here no
longer. Depart from us, for thy society is not for that of Christian
men.”

“I come to claim my bride!” cried Adolf, hoarsely, “and to pay the
dower. No man shall prevent me from this. Why gaze ye thus on me? Stand
back; the man who interferes in this shall rue his intrusion. Barbara,
dear Barbara, you cannot, do not thus repulse me?”

“Adolf,” said Barbara, gaining courage, and her voice before faltering,
becoming firm and steady, “depart from me. All is now explained. Thy
anxiety of last evening; thy expedition to the cave of Schwearenheim;
all is explained. Barbara Mullerhorn may have loved thee, and she did
so; but she will never consent to be the bride of a forsaken wretch like
thee.”

A sudden exclamation from Piet Albrecht attracted the attention of all
present, and aroused Adolf from the stupor into which the words of
Barbara had thrown him. The room was filled with a rich, purple light,
in which the figure of Rudenfranck, arrayed in his magical vestures, and
holding the ivory sceptre of Bructorix, appeared to the terrified
spectators. Well might they be terrified; for upon the brow of the
hunter a brilliant star gleamed brightly with a sulphurous light, and
his tall figure seemed to dilate to superhuman size.

“Why dost thou stare at me?” sneered Rudenfranck to Adolf, who gazed
upon him with a bewildered look; “why dost thou stare at me? Produce thy
treasure and claim thy bride.”

“No! no bride of hell!” shouted Mullerhorn. “I doubted this yesterday.
Away from us, Adolf Westerbok; and thou, mysterious being, whether thou
be phantom or devil, in the name of God I defy thee.”

“And see,” cried Mienckel, tearing open the valise, “what is here?”

“Old chips of iron and leather, as I live,” said Albrecht. “It is the
Evil One. Let us fly from here, else we die!”

Adolf gazed wildly at the valise, and with a loud cry of despair, seized
his rifle, and vainly endeavored to destroy himself.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Rudenfranck, “thou hast yet seven years to enjoy thy
gold. These are the treasures for which thou hast forfeited thy soul.
Miserable fool! Did’st thou think it mattered to me whether thy fate was
prosperous or not! Into the snare thou did’st enter of thine own accord,
and thou must pay the penalty. Farewell! My ends are accomplished! For
the prescribed space of my life, wealth, wisdom, and power in the
fullest are mine! That space expired, I will mock at thee in the halls
of the fiend. This sacrifice of thy soul hath ensured my success, and I
thank thee for it. Farewell, Adolf Westerbok. Fool! idiot! driveller!
Thou hast thy hire, and I triumph over the world of spirits.”

As he spoke, he waved his magic sceptre. The cloud enveloped him in its
folds, and he disappeared, with a laugh of malicious scorn.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Barbara Mullerhorn survived the misfortunes which had attended her early
love, and lived to marry a wealthy farmer of the neighborhood, who
proved himself every way worthy of her choice.

Piet and Agatha also entered upon the matrimonial engagement, and their
descendants may still be found among the hills.

                 *        *        *        *        *

For some years after, a wan, gaunt, and ragged wretch might have been
seen toiling and digging incessantly along the range of the Wolf Hills.
The fire of lunacy burned in his eye, he spoke to no one, and never
uttered language, save in his insane self-communings. The neighbors
universally shunned him, and no charitable voice soothed his misery. He
dwelt in the gloomy cave by the run, where the unholy rites of
Rudenfranck had been celebrated. His sole occupation consisted in a
continual search after hidden treasure.

Seven years had elapsed since the occurrences above narrated, were
reported to have taken place, when a hunter, pursuing his game among the
Wolf Hills, accidentally discovered the dead body of a man, shockingly
torn and mangled, at the entrance of the cavern of the recluse. It was
the corpse of Adolf Westerbok, the Silver Digger of the Wolf Hills.


                                 NOTE.

    This legendary tale, we learn, is founded upon a superstitious
    tradition, still current among the backwoodsmen of Pennsylvania.
    The outline of the tale is preserved as far as the nature of the
    legend would permit. The cavern is yet to be seen, where the
    hidden treasures are supposed to have been concealed; and the
    hardy hunter of the mountains still regards it with fear, and
    prefers taking a long circuit through the woods, to passing the
    cavern after nightfall. The whole country, indeed, is full of
    such traditions, which only require the pen of a Scott to be
    perpetuated, alike for the amusement and wonder of posterity.
    Let no man say that America is without legendary lore, let no
    one deny that she affords materials for poetry! Every hill;
    every stream; every valley; every plain has its own wild story
    of border troubles, or Indian traditions. When shall _our_
    minstrel arise to hallow them in undying song?—Eds.

    Mt. Savage, Md. January, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                SKATING.


            “The winter has come, and the skaters are here.”

                            BY GEORGE LUNT.


    The earth is white with gleaming snow,
      The lake one sheet of silver lies,
    Beneath the morning’s ruddy glow,
      The steaming vapors gently rise.

    Keen is the cool and frosty air,
      That waves the pine trees on the hill,
    And voiceless as a whispered prayer,
      Breathes down the valley clear and still.

    Come, ’tis an hour to stir the blood
      To glowing life in every vein!
    Up,—for the sport is keen and good
      Across the bright and icy plain.

    On each impatient foot to-day,
      The ringing steel again we’ll bind,
    And o’er the crystal plain away,
      We’ll leave the world and care behind.

    And, oh! what joy is ours to play,
      In rapid, round, and swift career,
    And snatch beneath the wintry day,
      One moment’s rest, and hasty cheer.

    Then, when the brief, sweet day is done,
      And stars above begin to blink,
    As home the swift lake bears us on,
      Our sweethearts meet us on the brink.

    Then gather’d round the cheerful blaze,
      While gusts without are blowing shrill,
    With laugh, and jest, and merry lays,
      We pass the jocund evening still.

    Around the board our feats all told,
      Comes nature’s welcome hour of rest,
    And slumbers never bought with gold,
      Sit light on each untroubled breast.

    No lagging pulse impedes our sleep,
      No startling dreams our couch annoy,
    But health and peace, in quiet deep,
      Smile hovering round the country boy.

    Then, when the morning bright and clear,
      Springs gayly o’er the glistening hill,
    With hardy sports we hail it near,
      Or hardy labors bless it still.

    Newburyport, Massachusetts, January, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE SYRIAN LETTERS.


 WRITTEN PROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS
 KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.


                                                             Damascus.

  Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting:

Your reply to my last epistle, my dear Cornelius, was the more pleasing,
because so unexpected.

The speed of its transmission shows the great measure of our obligation
to the sagacity and enterprise of Constantine. For who, until our
emperor bent to it the considerations of his active mind, ever knew of
such rapidity of communication?

In the fair lines before me, I again greet the face of a friend, and
hold cheering communion with one divided by long distance. I promised in
my last to give you some description of the curious ceremonies of those
worshippers, and I find you are urgent that I should fulfil it, since I
was so fortunate as to witness some of the hidden mysteries.

You esteem it strange that I, a foreigner, and but a few hours in
Baalbec, should have stood at once upon such good terms with Mobilius,
as to have induced him to conduct me to one of the most secret recesses
of the temple—with all the perils of exposure through my carelessness.
I have nothing to offer in answer to your surmise but conjecture.
Mobilius was certainly upon some familiar footing with the priests, and
perhaps being partly moved by the hope that the imposing magnificence of
the ceremonial would win a convert to his creed, he ventured to
introduce me. If such was his anticipation, how signally in error! how
vain to fancy that the sense can blind the judgment! that the splendor
of the cloud that curtains some yawning chasm in the mountain side, can
be mistaken for the solid pathway.

The sun had long gone down beneath the dizzy peaks of Lebanon, indeed
night had far advanced, when Lactantius, Mobilius, and myself, properly
arrayed in dark vestments, sallied toward the temple of the sun. Hurried
along at a rapid pace, for he feared we had tarried too long, we soon
came in view of the temple’s towering portico, which may still be seen
by the curious stranger, even in the absence of the moon; for
ever-burning lamps, filled, as they say, by never-failing oil, hang
beneath the architrave. Entering at the great door, we were stopped by
the porter, but recognising Mobilius, he permitted us to pass, without
farther scrutiny, though he was evidently displeased; for although I
could not clearly distinguish what he spoke, I heard him mutter angrily
in the Syrian tongue.

We did not cross the grand courts, which, like the portico, were filled
with perpetual lamps, but hastened through low corridors, vaults, and
crooked passages, which might defy the skill of man to retrace, but
Mobilius seemed well accustomed to them, so that I inferred he had acted
as a guide on more than one occasion. After endless windings, we came
into an archway, faintly lighted from without, and proceeding farther,
entered a dark room. Here we were obliged to grope our way, and were
commanded by Mobilius to tread with the utmost caution. We speedily,
however, came to a spot, from which we beheld the great floor of the
temple, through a narrow opening, artfully concealed in one of the
ornaments of the entablature. All was still.

“Earlier than I expected,” whispered Mobilius, “the ceremonies have not
yet begun.”

This leisure enabled me to examine the exquisite architecture of the
edifice.

The temple was the loftiest of all those that surrounded it, and which
had their position and style of architecture in strict reference to
this, as their great centre. The roof was of marble, and I could clearly
distinguish, by the lamps around, the delicacy and lightness of its
mouldings, pannels, and compartments. In the centre was a sun, carved in
the full glory of his rays: marshalled at equal distances, surrounded by
its sculptured edge, and sunk deeply into the marble, like a picture in
its frame, were the heads of Venus, or as this people designate her, the
“Syrian Goddess,” and also of Jupiter and other deities; and if I do not
err, I could discern, constellated like the rest, the heads of
Antoninus, and of other Roman emperors.

The marble walls were carved with niches and tabernacles disposed in two
rows, which were filled with statues, between the floor and the roof,
and supporting the latter, stood pilasters and columns of the same order
as those which sustain the architrave.

Upon the tesselated pavement in the centre of the temple was erected a
gorgeous altar, composed in part of precious metals, and of rare and
various marbles, tastefully inlaid, and yet all designed in conformity
with the strict rules of the architect. The fires upon it threw a
reddened glow upon the walls and pillars, and a representation of the
sun seemingly illumined from within, by a mildly burning light, whether
real or unsubstantial, I cannot say, hovered above the altar, resembling
the undulating brightness which the agitated waters in the vase cast
upon the tapestry, or the flickering pale reflection of the moonbeams on
the ground, as they struggle through the trembling leaves. My thoughts
now reverted to the ceremonies we had come to witness, and some
perplexing fancies, in spite of resolution, stole upon me. First, the
brief acquaintance of Mobilius; the knowledge that Lactantius was a
Christian, and his increased apparent dislike of that form of worship,
since Constantine had threatened to close the temples of his faith; and
Lactantius had expressed a hope it might be so, and the fact that there
was, unquestionably, a connection between Mobilius and some of the
priests. But again I thought could he be so base as to delude and betray
those who had reposed such confidence, and would not his fears prevent,
if he even would, because of the certainty of detection? While these
reflections were flashing through my mind, the soft mingling of many
voices swelling into the full pitch of harmony, and then sinking and
dying as if wafted away upon the wings of the wind, broke the spell, and
aroused my attention. Such clear, rich, enrapturing melody, I never
heard, even surpassing that which floated from the shores of Cyprus; and
a thrill of pain ran through my veins as it suddenly ceased, just as if
you were to dash a harp into pieces in the midst of its sweetest
outpourings.

“What means this?” I whispered, but a low murmur from Mobilius brought
me to instant silence. Directly I heard a silvery ringing voice swell
forth a chaunting note, and all the voices fell in one by one, with
sweet and heavenly accord, until the lofty temple echoed and re-echoed
with the sounds.

The great door then sprang asunder—without the jarring of a hinge—by
some imperceptible agency, revealing in magnificent array, numerous
ranks of priests, clothed in vestments of the costliest dyes, and
walking to the sound of instruments, with measured tread, in glittering
procession. Some bore many of the symbols of their faith—such as the
heifer’s head—the crescent, the golden bull—some ears of corn, others
silver torches, when ascending the altar steps, they lit them at its
fires, which threw into still brighter effulgence, the dazzling
ornaments of the priests, and all the solemn pageants. This was, as
Mobilius whispered, the splendid ceremonial which precedes the great
sacrifice. Now came a bewildering and elaborate observance of the usual
ceremonies, but so numerous and complicated, that it were tedious to
recount them, if I even could.

After a little the music was again heard, both of instruments and
voices, swelling, blending, and pouring forth the same entrancing
harmonies. The priests, in three rows, circling round the altar, sent up
a swelling chaunt, and in a moment, as it were, with the quickness of
lightning, three bright fires sprang from the different portions of the
altar-top, so brilliant, as that for many seconds, I was not able to
discern a vestige of what I had just seen. At this, Mobilius, taking us
by the hand, said, “we must depart,” and led us by a different route
from that through which we entered. At one place, in suddenly opening
the gate, at the end of a long passage, I was startled by a flood of
light, illuminating a colonnade, which seemed to lead into a
subterraneous passage, plainly connected with another temple. We shortly
reached the great door itself, and glided through the portico, seemingly
unobserved, though I doubt not it was guarded by some unseen janitor. We
now emerged into the open air, and hurried rapidly on. Upon turning to
take a parting glance at the temple, my eye was riveted in deep and
reverential admiration. The moon was at a towering height, and shone
down clear and silvery. Not a cloud spotted the heavens, nor the
bright-eyed stars, that like watch-lights, palely burnt around her. No
sound disturbed the silence of the night, except the faintly dying note
of a trumpet, as it softly echoed from some far, far distant battlement,
or the rattling of some chariot wheels in its progress homeward, from
the banquet of the wealthy Heliopolitan, which lingered for a moment on
the ear, then was lost forever.

The lights upon the temple paled away in the eternal brightness of the
queen of night, throwing the portico in bold relief, as if it were
covered with a mantle of snow, and casting its deep recesses into the
shades of midnight. Beside the temple rose a grove, bathed in a silvery
flood of light, and the tall obelisks, which being but faintly visible
among the foliage, stood like spectres, and upon steady contemplation,
appeared to stir from the place of their foundation, such is the power
of fancy.

I turned; my companions were gone. They had passed on unheeded, and I
wandered as I best could toward the mansion of Septimus.

The gorgeous streets of this great city, lined, as they were, with
marble palaces and temples, and thronged but a few hours since with the
gay, the beautiful maiden of Heliopolis, or the busy wayfarer, were now
as silent as the place of tombs. The cold beams of the pale moon shone
still undimmed and uninterrupted, save here and there by a projecting
shade or darkling grove, whose loftiest boughs closely interweaving,
reared a verdant arch, revealing now and then through the thick foliage,
the night’s illumined heaven, and its cold azure depths. So I wandered,
cheered at intervals by the soft murmur of the fountains among the
trees, whose waters sparkled in the moonbeams.

This grove was ornamented with statues, and verily, I believe, of all
the Gods in the Pantheon, among which was Mars, whose highly polished
shield shone like another moon.

Now completely lost, I found myself near one of the city gates, and
hearing an approaching footstep, I recognised a citizen, some gay
Heliopolitan, I supposed, returning from a midnight banquet.

“Can you tell me,” I enquired, “in what direction lies the house of
Septimus?”

“Oh! readily,” he answered, “I will go with you, for it stands nearly in
my path. I perceive, my friend, you are a stranger, and we dare not
break our ancient rule of friendship.” Thanking him for his kindness, we
proceeded forward, and I found him a communicative and entertaining
companion.

“Pray,” said I, “what noble edifice is that immediately before us, now
silvered by the moon?”

“That is the temple of fortune, erected many years ago, after some
signal benefit had fallen on the city, through the beneficence of the
Gods. It is the work of the lamented Epamenides, his first, his last
design,” and he appeared much affected by the reflection. He continued,
“behold the proportions.”

I no longer doubted but that my friend was some young architect,
enthusiastic in his profession, and not being able to understand his
learned phrases, endeavored to divert the conversation.

“In what you say I cordially concur, but what is fame and fortune since
but a few lustres must snatch us from their enjoyment, though they be
the highest and the brightest which the generosity and admiration of our
countrymen can award? Man toils much ere he reaps, so that if the
harvest is not scanty it is ours for the enjoyment of but a brief
space.”

“You do not draw your conclusion,” said he, “after the manner of the
model of all that is great in reason and philosophy. Were the votary to
hold such doctrines as these, he would never reach the fires, however
ardently he might fix his gaze upon them; he would never attain the
consummation of his burning wishes. But he would reason after this
manner—toil would be well were the goal worth the reaching. So mark the
inconsistency.”

Although not convinced, I was compelled, forsaking my former conjecture,
to conclude that the stranger was some eminent philosopher of
Heliopolis, so ingeniously did he argue. Though I thought it could not
be of so severe a school as some sternly avow.

Walking a little, we met a man in the agonies of a strange sickness.
Here I fancied will be afforded an opportunity of testing the truth of
my conjecture—for philosophers, especially those of the present day,
are ever ready to prescribe both for afflictions of body and of mind
precepts which they are most rarely in the habit of practising
themselves. But I was again mistaken, for, taking the sick man by the
hand, he examined his pulse, and closely scrutinised his features, upon
this abstracting a small casket, containing medicines, from his robes,
he administered a portion, and its good effects were wonderful. All
conjecture was now put to flight; for I at once decided that my new
friend was a disciple of Hippocrates.

How fruitless is all surmise, for he afterward informed me he was a
member of the forum, and held an office under the emperor. This brought
me to the widely spreading portal of Septimus—which almost seemed to
welcome me after my absence. I met Lactantius pacing to and fro the hall
with Mobilius, as if theirs had been an intimacy of months. “Ah!” said
the latter, “we were about sallying out for you—but yet knew it would
prove of no avail in such a city as this.”

“Welcome,” exclaimed Lactantius, “I was anxious on your account. How
came you to leave us?”

“I did not leave you—it was you who left me—doubtless in the heat of
controversy upon the Chaldean mysteries.”

“I understand your meaning, Servilius,” said he, smiling, “but how came
you here at all; you are not acquainted with the streets of Baalbec,
especially by moonlight?”

“Through the kindness,” I replied, “of Apicius.”

“You are fortunate,” ejaculated Mobilius, “and should deposite your
offering to-morrow in the temple of fortune, as is the custom here. He
is the first of statesmen and advocates; an accomplished orator, and a
very generous and learned citizen. If he pressed you to visit him at his
palace, you are still more fortunate.”

“And so he did,” I rejoined.

It proved as Mobilius predicted, for I did not meet a kinder or more
noble-hearted friend than this same Heliopolitan.

“As it is late,” observed Lactantius, “we will seek our couches, and
to-morrow,” archly glancing at Mobilius, “we may examine the Egyptian
mysteries.”

But I must draw to a conclusion, least I should sketch this epistle to a
tedious length. I bid you an affectionate

                                                             Farewell.

                             *     *     *

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE SOUL’S DESTINY.


                         BY MRS. M. S. B. DANA.


    And oh! the soul! she saw in visions bright,
    The veil withdrawn which hides the world of light,
    With eye of faith she gazed in tearful joy,
    And they were there! her husband and her boy!
    Sweet hope of Heaven! thou art a healing balm—
    If storms arise thy deep rich holy calm
    Comes with a spirit influence to the breast,
    And to the weary mourner whispers “rest!”
    Rest—for the fondly loved, the early dead!
    Rest—for the longing spirit Heavenward fled!
    Rest—from a tiresome path in weakness trod!
    Rest—in the bosom of the Saviour, God!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     THE SACCHARINEOUS PHILOSOPHY.


“Her ‘prentice han’ she try’d on man, and then she made the _Lasses_ O.”


Gentle reader—art thou fond of molasses? Not only molasses in its
simple state, but in its various compounds? If thou art not I pity thee.
Thy taste relishes not that which would otherwise be a source of
inexpressible pleasure. Eatables may be divided into the two great
classes of the sweet and the sour. From the full enjoyment of at least
one-half then of the good things of life (and that the better half) art
thou deprived. Again I pity thee.

But some may say, that although not lovers of molasses or sugar, (as I
shall consider them the same in this essay,) yet they are really very
fond of many sweet things. They like a portion of the saccharine, though
not fond of the gross and clogged sweetness of molasses. Let such,
however, think not of escaping in this manner. What! like a thing in
part and not in fulness—like the rose-bud and not the open rose—like
an amiable and not a perfectly angelic being—like five dollars and not
five hundred—like middling and not good health—like imperfect and not
perfect happiness—like strawberries and cream, and not sugar or
molasses—I tell thee, man, woman, or child—Caucasian, African, or
Malay, thou art crazy, bewitched, or tasteless.

How shall I describe the delicious sensations which the saccharine
matter imparts to the outward man? Alike in fruit, and flower, and
honey-comb most gratefully apparent. And thou, ice-cream! who has so
often diffused throughout the body of this “me,” a most delicious
coolness, what wouldst thou be without that essence, whose merits I am
exalting? Insipid and unmeaning, like unto a flower without color or
fragrance.

Oh! how well can I remember the time, when, released from school, I
hastened home, and, sitting on the kitchen door-sill, enjoyed my bread
and molasses. I never felt more thankful than when, plate in hand, and a
huge slice of the wheat loaf in reserve, the preparatory pause was made
“according to the good order used among friends.” And then, also the
“switchel,” that nutritious and cooling drink, (molasses and water, with
a _little_ vinegar,) with which our revolutionary fathers quenched their
thirst, when rooting up their ditch on old Bunker. Even the horrid tales
told me in childhood by the pestered servants, of thumbs, and fingers,
and bloody streaks, the evidence of cruel treatment in the Indian isles,
turned not the edge of my keen desire.

But I shall no longer occupy paper with the advocacy of the merely
sensual claims of molasses. It has other and higher demands upon your
notice. The author of this lately perused, with pleasure, that most
important work upon “The Philosophy of Clothes,” by Thomas Carlyle. It
suggested an interesting train of thoughts upon the subject before us.
Molasses, and its kindred sweets are the well fitting garments of the
spirit of love and purity. Here then we have an unfailing index by which
to judge of the characters of our fellow men. Herein is contained the
germ of our new and spiritual philosophy.

Charles Lamb in his “Elia,” quotes and endorses the sentiment of one of
his friends: “that no man be entirely reprobate who is fond of
apple-dumplings.” This I grant to be true. He did not, however, remember
that both the apples and the dumplings contain a portion of saccharine
matter; and this accounts _partly_ for the dislike felt toward them by a
reprobate spirit. And again—who ever heard of eating apple-dumplings
without sugar or molasses? I therefore bring Charles Lamb, who, although
he did not perceive the great _principle_ coiled up in this succulent
eatable, has taken notice of the above interesting _fact_, as a witness
to the truth of my theory.

When do we find that the love of all sweet things most commonly
prevails? In youth undoubtedly. When the mind is pure, free from worldly
guile, innocent, and _lamb_-like. When the fresh and untainted spirit
drinks eagerly and deeply at the fount of truth, and its type or
representative on earth (according to Swedenborg) pure water. Then,
sugar-plumes are a delight—ginger-bread a blessing—molasses candy,
especially when rolled and pulled out into sticks, _bright_ or _dull_
yellow, according to the cleanliness of the maker’s hands, “the staff of
life.”

The child becomes a man. He grows selfish and proud. He loses his relish
for innocent enjoyments, and with it his taste for molasses. The spirit
of love becomes impregnated with impure desires, and his outward man
changes accordingly. The saccharine matter no longer suits him in its
natural state—it must be fermented, and gases added, and gases
deducted, to correspond with the altered soul. What a beautiful emblem
is this change of saccharine substance to the poisonous liquor, of the
transition state of the immortal in man. First the spirit as in
childhood, pure and gentle, like the sweet juice of the grape. Then
youth, with its noble and generous bearing, comparable to the result of
the first fermentation. Manhood comes on, and with it the fermentation
proceeds. Soon the soul is agitated with innumerable gases—and from
their bubblings, and combinations, and effervescence, it comes forth a
new creature. Well satisfied are most if they go no farther than this,
but succeed in calming the troubled elements at this second
fermentation. While some, unable to arrest their progress, plunge into
the third and woful state; from which, if they succeed in coming out,
they appear all soured, and be-vinegared, your universal fault-finders
and found-fault-with. Too many, alas! emerge not even at this third
gate, but dash recklessly into the fourth, the last and worst, and
hope-decaying state—and when dragged through it, are cast out with the
blessed feelings of childhood putrified—the flesh rotted off, and
exposing the then loathsome skeleton of the soul, the never to be
destroyed framework of an eternal nature.

How beautiful also the resemblance in another sense. Wherever you meet
the poison fire, under whatever name it may assume, whether brandy, gin,
whiskey, wine, cider, or beer, as you are confident that the innocent
sugar must have been its basis; so in whatever form you meet vice in the
human heart, you may be also assured, that there was, and perhaps is
yet, in that heart a stronger or weaker basis of God-like love.

Although the good, spiritually, is to be considered the cause of the
liking for the saccharineous, yet they are to some extent mutually
creative. The outward may appeal so strongly as even to produce the
inward. “Hang up a coat in the highway, and will it not soon find a body
to fill it?” Who has not often observed the child when requested by its
parents to swallow the bitter dose of (so called) medicine? What a
struggle between duty and disgust! What measures are then taken by the
wise parent in order that the right may conquer? How is the virtuous
appealed to and strengthened? One single lump of sugar, perhaps not
larger than a hickory nut decides the question. Duty prevails. How shall
we account for such things without adopting a similar doctrine to that
which I have thus partly illustrated?

Reader, thou wilt believe or not, as thou choosest. But before this is
dismissed as unworthy, for thy own sake, examine facts. Find among thy
acquaintances, that man, sullen, and morose, and cruel, who loves
molasses. Understand me—_loves_ molasses—not who sometimes eats it,
but who clings to it with a passionate devotion—who prefers it to the
best pie ever baked, apple, mince, peach, or cranberry,—as I do. If
thou canst find such a being—thou thinkest I’ll recant? Not I. Such a
man is an anomaly, a monster, deserves not to live—and if he knows what
a beautiful theory he is practically marring, and has the least spark of
generosity within him, is willing to die. If he wont die I care
not,—he’s only an exception, and “proves the truth of the general
rule,” as all metaphysicians will tell thee.

If it were needful I could skip from individuals to nations—could prove
the truth of my doctrines by referring to the Irish with their potatoes,
buttermilk, and whiskey—the Hindoo and his rice—the West Indian slave
with his patient endurance, the result of his frequent sucking at the
juicy cane.

But why multiply proof? Why refer to the bee with his industrious
habits, caused by living entirely upon honey—the bear with his good
nature, hugging you, even when in anger, to his bosom, how he also likes
sweet things—the humming-bird, with its love for the sweets of
flowers—the—but why instance more?

Oh! ye wise, give ear while I call your attention to this new
philosophy, which I name saccharine, and not transcendental. Parents,
guardians, physicians, nurses,—“they that have ears to hear let them
hear.”

                                                                Ella.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                WINTER.


                            BY J. W. FORNEY.


                The leaf hath fallen!
    E’en the withered leaf; and from the trees
      Hath faded Nature’s robe of living green;
    While, thro’ their naked boughs the wintry breeze,
      Makes mournful music o’er the vanished scene—
    The funeral requiem of those blushing flowers,
      That bloomed and flaunted in the sunny air,
    When the coy spring-time and her laughing hours,
      The graceful monarchs of the season were.

                The song is hushed!
    And gone those warblers for a softer clime,
      Whose morning welcome, and whose evening hymn
    Made the gay summer but a trysting time,
      And prayerful music poured aloft to Him!

    No more they usher, with their mellow song,
      The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud—
    Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng,
      Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud.

                The brook is frozen!
    The babbling streamlet sparkles now no more
      In the full glory of the sun’s warm beam;
    The ice-king’s sceptre has been wafted o’er,
      And sleep is brooding on the modest stream.
    There are no flowers on its frozen side—
      The sun shines only with a cheerless glance:
    Still is its melody; and the valley’s pride,
      Is calm as Beauty in a pleasing trance.

    Lancaster, Pa. January, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER.


                           BY J. ROSS BROWNE.


                                Part I.

    One who dothe hymself professe to be the teller of a hystorye,
    must often be contente to doe that whych in annye other
    character he would be ashamed to owne to. He must unryddle
    thoughts, telle tales, spake of factes done pryrilye and not for
    worldlye showe.

                           _A Legende of the Monasterye of Lylis._

When life ceases to afford us gratification, we not unfrequently take a
strange delight in reviewing and pondering over the misdeeds of the
past, and in anticipating the weird and desolate future. This revelling
in the consequences of our own depravity; this spirit of darkness and
recklessness; this tendency to a defiance of all moral and religious
consolation—when morality and religion no longer dwell within us—may
be termed the wreck of hope, and life, and salvation; for as the
mariner, engulphed by the tempest, faces death in boisterous revelry, so
we seek to riot in our own wickedness, and plunge into perdition,
rejoicing in the sin, and reckless of its consequences.

Even while I write, the recollection of deeds which might well cause the
blood to curdle and the flesh to crawl, thrills me with an awful and
savage delight. The open gates of hell are ready to receive me, but I
rejoice in anticipating the hour of eternal ruin!

I am a native of Italy—a Venitian by birth; a wanderer by choice.
During the political disturbances under the doge, Paolo Reniers, I
obtained an office of considerable value; by which I was enabled to
enjoy a handsome annuity. For some time the French forces, commanded by
Bonaparte, had been endeavoring to take possession of Verona; and had
already made some attempts on Venice; but these eruptions were if any
thing the means of my promotion. Before the downfall of my patron, I
acquired a fortune which placed me on a footing with the patricians of
the day. Had heaven so ordained it, I might then have retired to my
villa, and in peace and seclusion enjoyed the fruits of my industry; but
the seeds of avarice were sown—I was destined to reap their harvest.
The intrigues of political life were not sufficiently disgusting to
deter me from applying for employment under the government, to the
successor of Reniers. That wary craft which had rendered me so
indispensable to this corrupt and imbecile monarch, was not overlooked
by Lugi Manini; for in a country where duplicity is the chief point, in
the education of individuals, to whom the official authority is
entrusted; and where art and cunning are so universal as to render every
man a match for his fellow, superiority of this kind is regarded with
peculiar veneration.

The satellites who swarmed about the court of Manini, were not slow in
betraying their jealousy at the preference with which he regarded me;
but where jealousy exists there is dissention; and even among my enemies
I had my partisans. The rancor of political strife rendered me fierce
and haughty; and few dared to avow their hostility in my presence.
Hardened in dissimulation, I could at once assume the gentlest tones of
friendship, or the most cutting sarcasm, and the coldest frown of
dignity. Increase of influence gradually compelled those who at first
resorted to the basest methods for my overthrow, to relinquish their
attempts, and acquiesce in my measures.

Power, however, was not my chimera. I had contracted an undying thirst
for riches. I longed to regard myself as the master of millions. The
very clink of gold was sweeter to me than the applause of an enraptured
populace. Daily—hourly—my thoughts were concentrated on the darling
object of my ambition. That cold and stern temperament, which, in my
political schemes, had been fostered by every act of diplomacy, and
every duty of my office, rendered me callous to all worldly allurements,
save the desire of personal emolument.

Constantly moving in the gaudy circles of the court, I was at once
disgusted with the prodigal splendor of every thing around me, and
incited to aspire for the most exalted degree of opulence. Those whose
power was greater than mine, I merely looked upon as instruments by
which the great object of my life was to be effected. Even Manini
himself I did not consider in any other light than as one ultimately to
be the means of my success. Deceit in the service of others had made me
too wary a courtier not to cloak my designs in professions of the most
disinterested friendship toward him who was already the tool of my
machinations.

The schemes were too well concerted to fail. A few years of untiring
zeal found the doge still nominally my patron, but in reality my minion.
Wealth had poured in upon me. No longer was the desire of riches a
chimera; no longer had I to live in feverish and dreamy suspense; no
longer was I fortune’s votary.

Though in the prime of life, I too, passionately loved the possession of
my gold, to violate in my enjoyment the strictest rules of economy. I
gambled—but that was my business. I drank—but the excitement was
necessary to sustain my vital principle.

Having adhered to my victim till he was weak and worthless, I abandoned
him for more lucrative game. I sought out the haunts of the young and
inexperienced. I became a kind of polite sharper; for though I generally
gambled for the riches of my victims, I so managed as to secure the
spoils in defiance of ill-fortune.

We all know that the peculiar vices of a man’s character increase in
extent as his evil course of life is persisted in; even when that course
is not more intrinsically depraved by continuance. It was the case with
me. I did not actually rob; I did not murder; I committed no more
heinous crime than that of swindling or gambling; and yet every day I
became a worse and worse black-hearted man.

Before this epoch in my career had drawn to a close, I became acquainted
with the daughter of a Venitian banker. She was not beautiful; she was
not accomplished; she was not amiable—but she was rich. At this time, I
too, was rich. Both fortunes united would make a brilliant coalescence.
I pressed my suit, and succeeded. The foolish girl did not discover till
too late, that I despised herself, though I adored her fortune. My
wealth was now immense; and it might be supposed that I was satisfied;
but my thirst for accumulation was only excited by what I had already
acquired. Had I been possessed of the world’s wealth, I am pursuaded I
would have wept, like Alexander, because there was nothing left to
satisfy my desires.

That fortunate tissue of events which had hitherto marked my career, was
destined to be speedily reversed. In Venice there lived at this time an
individual, who, if he had not my boldness of purpose and capacity for
scheming, was at least my equal in shrewdness and avarice. This person
was called Carlo Dolci—a nomenclature which he boasted as certain
evidence that he was descended from the great painter of that name.
Dolci met me at my accustomed resort—one of those hells with which
Venice then abounded. His appearance was peculiarly forbidding; but I
fancied I had seen too much of the world to be prejudiced by mere
outward show. We were introduced by a mutual friend. I found that my new
acquaintance was a man of some knowledge, and of polished and persuasive
manners. His characteristic trait was extreme cunning; nor did his grey,
twinkling eye and piercing glance contradict what his manners and
language bespoke.

One topic led to another. We spoke of games. Dolci with his infernal
art, flattered me out of all prudence, by declaring he had heard so much
of my skill at play that he was determined to avoid strife in such an
accomplished quarter. Fired with a desire to verify his words, I
immediately challenged him. We began with moderate stakes, and I won. We
doubled, and I still won. We continued to increase the stakes till they
amounted to an immense sum. Both were equally excited; but my good
fortune did not yet leave me. Dolci, I knew, was rich; and I was
determined to fleece him. I doubled the largest stakes we had yet
contended for. Dolci was the winner. Maddened at such an unusual
reverse, I dared him to contend—fortune against fortune! Each now
staked his entire wealth. It was to be riches or poverty to me. The
swollen veins stood out on my forehead. A cold perspiration teemed from
the brow of Carlo Dolci. His teeth were clenched; his hair wild and
matted—his eye unusually haggard. The dice were thrown. I gasped for
breath. A dimness came over my eyes. With a dreadful effort I strained
them to catch a glimpse of my fate. Merciful God! I had lost—I was a
beggar!

With a grim smile, Dolci grasped the stakes. I rushed from the hell, a
frenzied wretch. A mocking laugh was borne after me; and I knew no more.
For several days I was a raving maniac. When I recovered my reason, I
found myself stretched on a pallet in my own house. My wife stood by,
with disgust and hatred pictured in her countenance. Her first words
were those of contumely and reproach. She did not make any allowance for
my situation; she reflected not that it was the province of the female
to forgive error, and to administer consolation. I married her for her
money; that was gone, and I now was to feel all the miseries of my
choice.

The only solace to my afflictions, was a little daughter about eight
years old, but uncommonly mature both mentally and physically. She
attended me with untiring assiduity; she lifted the cup to my lips; she
soothed with her silvery tones the agony of my mind; she sang for me her
plaintive airs; she bathed my burning temples; she prayed for me—she
wept for me—she was every way the beau ideal of innocence and
affection.

“Father,” she would say, “why do you clench your hands—why do you rave
of ruin and beggary? We shall all go to work when you recover; and we
shall earn more money and be very happy.”

Alas poor Valeria! she little knew the loss I had sustained. It was not
the loss of luxury for that I never enjoyed; it was not the loss of
domestic peace—for I was a stranger to it; it was not the loss of
reputation, for I cared nothing about it; but it was the loss of
MONEY—of that which gave the only zest and pleasure to my life.

One mortification was spared us in our beggary. No splendid edifice was
to be abandoned—no luxurious equipage to be sold—no servants to be
dismissed—no fine costumes to be sacrificed—no sensitive feelings to
be wounded by a change from affluence to penury and want; our condition
remained unaltered. While blessed with riches I was too careful of them
to be guilty of extravagance. My avarice, not my prodigality, was my
ruin. I did not gamble for the pleasure of the game, but from sheer
desire to accumulate immense sums of money. I then conducted my affairs
on a grand scale. Wealth poured in on me not by degrees, but in floods.
Now, however, the time arrived when I was doomed to begin a new career
under new auspices. I had no Reniero or Manini to plunder by a few acts
of political sagacity. I had no immense states to retrieve my want of
luck with Carlo Dolci. To toil up the rugged path—to exert my humble
acquirement—to trade—to barter—to beg—were now the only means in my
power to make amends for want of prudence.

Having settled my wife and daughter in a small house, I procured, partly
on credit and partly with what little was left, a meagre stock of
jewelry, with which I sallied out as a travelling pedlar. By adopting
this course of life I sacrificed no fine feelings; I never was proud of
any thing except of my riches. I considered not that because I had
wielded an intriguing pen in the great contest between Bonaparte and
Lugi Manini, my dignity would in any degree be lessened by honest
exertions for the retrieval of my fortune.

The succeeding epoch in my career may be passed over. To detail the
vicissitudes of my wandering life—to dwell upon the manifold reverses
of fortune—to trace succinctly the gradual and disheartening manner in
which I acquired money—and to portray the eagerness—the infantile
delight with which I grasped it and hoarded it to my bosom—would be
alike futile and uninteresting.

In struggling between penury and avarice, the autumn of my life passed
away. The misery of connubial contention, I am persuaded, whitened the
hair of my head, even before my winter had blasted it with its frosts;
but heaven ordained it that my declining age should not be harassed by
the persecutions of her with whom I had never known an hour of true
happiness. She died in a fit of madness—a malady to which her
passionate and ungovernable temper had frequently subjected her. It
would be adding hypocrisy to my manifold sins to say that I regretted
this instance of divine dispensation. I still had a
companion—differently, but no less intimately dependent on me for her
support and protection. This was my daughter, who had attained her
eighteenth year.

Valeria was beautiful—extremely beautiful. I had roamed in the
Florentine and Venitian Vatican; I had studied, if not with the eye of
an artist, at least with the eye of an ardent admirer, the most
exquisite productions of Georgione, Titian, Correggio, and Veronese; I
had dwelt in ecstacy on the master-works of every school from the
Appellean and Protogenean, to the Lombard, the Bolognese, the Carraci,
and the Rasain; but I had never seen any thing either ideal or
substantial, so exquisitely symmetrical—so etherially chiselled in
every feature—so thoroughly the impersonation of angelic beauty and
sweetness, as Valeria. I speak it with a father’s pride; I may be
partial, but I believe I am sincere. The dark, luxuriant hair—the
languishing eye—the finely rounded arm—the faultless figure bespoke
Italian blood; and that too of a gentle quality; for though I claim no
distinction, I am myself of noble descent.

In Valeria, then, I saw my future fortune. I had sufficient to support
life; but I desired wealth. To sell my daughter to the best advantage
was now the sole and engrossing subject of my thoughts. I cared not
whether I gained her an honorable alliance or not; money, not titular
distinction, was the object for which I determined she should be
sacrificed.

There lived in Venice, at this time, a Neapolitan nobleman, of agreeable
and accomplished manners, and fine fortune, named Don Ferdinand Razzina,
upon whom I had long looked as the instrument by which my schemes were
to be consummated. Razzina was young and volatile. His imprudence
rendered him easily subservient to my machinations. By the most
consummate art I managed that he should get a glimpse at Valeria. This
proved sufficient stimulus to an ardent imagination, to fire him with
the most extravagant notions of her beauty. He had barely seen her as a
flitting shadow: that shadow surpassed to him in loveliness the beau
ideal of his airiest dreams. I knew too much of the human heart not to
concert my measures on the fact that mystery is the food of love; and in
a very short time Don Ferdinand was supplicating at my feet for
information concerning the fairy vision he had seen.

“Nothing,” said he, “shall be spared in remuneration for your services.
I love her. I shall never love another. My peace and happiness for ever
more depend on her. If you respect the passions common to humanity; if
you are not devoid of every feeling of sympathy; if you value your own
welfare, and my peace of mind—procure me an interview!”

Schooled in cunning, I treated the matter with indifference; I dwelt on
other themes—but finding Don Ferdinand deaf to aught, save the
engrossing object of his thoughts, I consented to introduce him, on an
enormous advance, to my daughter. He seemed much surprised at this
declaration; for he had fancied—from what cause I know not—that
Valeria was my protege, and the unfortunate pledge of some noble amour.
In a moment the truth of my schemes burst upon him. He was
young—ardent—impetuous—but he neither wanted penetration nor
humanity.

“Wretch!” he cried, with all the indignant fervor of one unaccustomed to
such unnatural cupidity—“you would sell your daughter’s honor!—you
would ruin her for your own emolument!” He paused in agitation for some
moments, during which I maintained a grim and stony smile—then
continued, “but your villainy is nothing to me. I shall not upbraid you
for what turns to my own advantage. Here is the sum. Recollect, however,
_we perfectly understand each other as to the terms_.” I answered merely
by a leering nod of the head. Razzina departed—promising to call on the
ensuing evening.

That short but active interview had laid bare the character of the noble
prodigal. He was evidently gifted with no common intellect. He had seen
little of the world; so that whatever sagacity he had was inherent. Much
good was mixed with the evil which formed his prominent traits. He was
young and passionate; but he had no small share of the milk and honey of
human kindness. His opinions respecting my course I regarded with
contempt. I had studied too deeply the mysteries of human nature to be
baulked in my designs by a beardless and soft-hearted youth. I knew that
the bait was too well administered to be rejected.

Returning to a miserable garret in which I always slept to avoid the
expense of furnishing the lower part of the house, and also to enjoy the
solitude, I flung myself on a pallet, and spread the gold on the floor.

A filthy lamp threw a sickly and flickering light on every thing around.
The wretched place was strewn with rubbish and dirt; here and there lay
a broken stool, or the remains of a chair; in the centre stood a greasy
and ricketty table, and hung up in confusion, on the walls, were
battered tin-cups—a few platters—a spoutless coffee-pot—and sundry
tattered habiliments.

I glanced around me with a smile of sinister meaning. I piled up the
gold—threw it down again—and scattered it about, and grasped it once
more with childish eagerness. Then, as if fearful of detection, I hid
it, fervently praying that the Almighty would watch over, and preserve
it.

It was now necessary that my daughter should become acquainted with part
of my designs; and I summoned her. In a moment she was at my feet.

“Valeria—” and as I addressed her, I endeavored to modulate my voice
into tones as affectionate and as soothing as possible—“Valeria, we are
very poor—God knows we are.”

“Yes; but father why speak of it now? We are as well off as most people,
and I am sure we need no luxuries.”

“My child, you know not our poverty. You see me now a decrepid and
palsied old man. I am unable to make a living; and henceforth on you I
must depend.”

“I shall cheerfully do what I am able, father.”

“I know it my child—I know it; but your utmost exertions cannot save us
from starvation, unless properly directed. Valeria, listen to me. I ask
you as a father will you obey my commands?”

“As long as they are bounded by reason and virtue, I shall. I have
always obeyed you—I am not disobedient, I sincerely believe.”

“Valeria, can you love?”

“I can. I _do_ love.”

“Ha! whom do you love?”

“I love you, my father—and—”

“Speak!”

“I love Marco da Vinci—I never intended to deny it.”

In a frenzy of rage and astonishment, I started to my feet, and stood
for some moments like one transfixed. My lips were white; my mouth
foamed; my cheek was blanched; my eye fiery and distorted; and my whole
frame convulsed with passion.

“God’s curse be on you!” I shrieked, shaking my clenched hand in the
face of the terrified girl—“God’s curse be on you, for the declaration.
_You_ _love Marco da Vinci?_ May a father’s ban fall like the flames of
perdition on you! May the heart that you so foolishly bestowed, be
blighted and withered in its bloom! May the avenging hosts gather round
you at your death-bed; and taunt you, and riot in your agony!”

“Father! Father! O, cease those horrible words! you will drive me mad!”

“No,” I replied, in a stern but more softened tone, “I shall not drive
you mad, Valeria; but I have news that will make you feel as if madness
would be a blessing. _You are sold._ Here is the money”—and I drew
forth the gold I had received from Don Ferdinand. “Yes, to-morrow you
will be the mistress of Don Ferdinand Razzina.”

“Never!—so help me God!” cried Valeria, in a voice so calm and
determined, that I feared for the success of my schemes; “death—aye, a
thousand deaths before dishonor!”

“We shall see,” I replied, with a grim smile.

“_We shall!_” said Valeria, retiring; and in tones so deep and ominous
that I shuddered. She repeated, “_we shall!_”

Hitherto I have devoted my pen almost exclusively to the narrative of my
own confessions. I must now diverge a little to introduce the reader to
a character, of whom nothing has yet been mentioned except his name.

Marco da Vinci was a young painter, of extraordinary talents, and great
mental accomplishments. He was descended from a noble house; and might
have enjoyed the height of affluence had not misfortune set her seal
upon him at an early age. Favored in an unusual degree as to his mental
and physical capacities, he received all the care and cultivation that a
fond father could bestow; and on attaining his eighteenth year few could
boast a more vigorous mind—a more profound education, or a more chaste
and amiable character. Thus far was Marco successful.

Smitten with an undying thirst for distinction, he resolved henceforth
to abandon the quiet enjoyments of leisure and affluence, and dedicated
himself altogether to the nobler calls of ambition. Alas! he knew not
that he had yielded the substantial enjoyments of life for a misnomer—a
chimera!

It was the ardent hope of Da Vinci’s father, that the youth should, at
no remote period, occupy an exalted station in the affairs of the
government; but the rancor and bitterness of political life had no
charms for the young enthusiast. Enraged and disappointed at the
unexpected determination of his son, Don Ignatius da Vinci, abjured him
in the zenith of his passion—disowned him, and left him an outcast and
a beggar.

The ambitious Marco wended his way to Venice, where his talents soon
attracted the attention of a distinguished painter. Under this
individual, Da Vinci studied with all the devotion of an enthusiast, and
an unfeigned lover of the art. A very short time was requisite to make
him a finished painter. That pruning to rule—that softening and
chastening, which can only be attained by painful and almost hopeless
perseverance in most cases, were soon mastered by the ardent disciple.

In the course of time, Marco da Vinci accumulated, by his industry,
sufficient capital to begin business on a small scale. At first he
succeeded beyond his expectations; but soon he found that novelty is the
spice of patronage, and that before him he had every probability of
sinking into oblivion, and of eking out his days in starvation. Too
proud to apply for assistance to those by whom he had been so basely
injured, he determined to submit to his fate with manliness and
fortitude, and to merit, if possible, sufficient patronage to support
him, while he should by an extraordinary effort of his pencil retrieve
his past misfortunes.

A premium had been offered by the Academy of Arts, for the best portrait
of a female that could be placed in the gallery in time for the annual
exhibition. Da Vinci resolved to take his model from nature. The fame of
Valeria’s beauty was proverbial throughout the city; and the candidate
for the palm of excellence, sought out our miserable tenement, and
implored permission to have a sitting. Too proud of the opportunity to
extend her reputation, I consented to the proposition. Fool! fool! that
I was! Why could I not see the danger of placing this young and ardent
soul in such a temptation? Da Vinci was young—handsome—and
intellectual: Valeria was innocent—amiable—and beautiful—could they
but love? Fool, I say, fool that I was!

    Louisville, Kentucky, January, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE FAIRY’S HOME.


    Our home is far ’mid the greenwood trees,
    Where the rose-bloom floats on the burden’d breeze,
    Where the moon’s beams glance on the sleeping tide,
    And the lily grows in its stainless pride.

    There, deep in our flowery homes we dwell,
    In the cavern’d shades of the fairy’s cell,
    Where the sound of the wavelet’s ceaseless song,
    Shall glad the ear of the fairy throng.

    There calm as the blue of the “bending skies,”
    Whose beauty may bless e’en fairy’s eyes;
    We will pass those hours of careless glee,
    Whilst the woods shall ring with our melody.

    Our lamp shall be of the fire-fly’s light
    That shines ’mid the gloom of the darksome night,
    And led by its star-like rays we’ll roam
    ’Mid the scenes that grace our woodland home.

    The notes of the song-bird echo there,
    And are warbled again by our sisters fair;
    And the tones of each pure and gentle thing,
    Are voiced in the strains the fairies sing.

    Away from the cares and toils of life,
    No part have we in its scenes of strife,
    But calm as the sleep of the tideless sea,
    Our rest in our Fairy Home shall be.
                                        S. H.

    Philadelphia, January, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.


                        BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.


    The dead but sleep—they do not die,
      They live in mem’ry’s holy cell—
    The woodland green, the summer sky
      Of them in gentle language tell.

    Each scene that knew them daily speaks
      Of all their love so fond and true,
    And tears that tremble on our cheeks,
      But nerve our sadness to renew.

    The grief that rent our hearts when first
      Death broke our early bond in twain,
    Within our souls, by memory nurst,
      Will oft times freshly burst again.

    Yet why indulge unfading grief,
      For those we loved and now deplore?
    Theirs is a slumber calm and brief—
      They are “not lost, but gone before.”

    January, 1841.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        NOT FOR ME! NOT FOR ME!


                     A popular Air in the Opera of

                            CATHERINE GRAY,

                        _AS SUNG BY MRS. WOOD_.

                   THE MUSIC COMPOSED BY M. W. BALFE.

       Geo. W. Hewitt & Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration: musical score]

    Not for me, not for me,
      Regal halls and courtly life,
    Oh! more

[Illustration: musical score continued]

    blest, my lot would be,
      Far from ev’ry scene of strife,
    From the world from all retiring,
      Gladly would this heart remove,
    One dear boon alone desiring
      Still to be with thee I love:
        Still to be with thee I love.

                  2

    Let me seek that tranquil home,
      Once I knew in happier hours,
    Free to wander, free to roam,
      Thro’ my own lov’d peaceful bow’rs.
    Not for me the world’s false pleasures,
      Not for me where splendour moves,
    More than these my bosom treasures,
      More than these my heart now loves,
        More than these my heart now loves.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          SPORTS AND PASTIMES.
                               SHOOTING.


We open this month with the first of a series of excellent papers on
Shooting, from the pen of the author of the paper on Angling, given in
our last. It contains some valuable hints to young sportsmen, on the art
of Taking Aim.

The pursuit and destruction of wild animals for security, food,
clothing, or pastime, have been among the occupations of men in all
ages, since the primeval _bruere_ overspread the earth,

    And wild in woods the noble savage ran!

Before the more refined arts are introduced into any country, the chase
is a necessity, and the chief business of life. The stronger and more
noxious animals are destroyed for individual safety; the weaker for
food. It is not until civilisation and her handmaid luxury have seated
themselves, that the chase becomes a pastime. Nor does it appear when
the sportsman first sprang into existence. There is no corresponding
word in any ancient language, since that could not be called a sport
which was a necessity. It is probable that in the earliest ages of
society, the dog was the sole agent employed by the hunter. Afterward
various weapons, manual, missile, and projectile—as the club, the dart,
the arrow, were used by the hunter and fowler. Then would follow
springs, traps, nets, and all that class of devices for the capture of
beasts and birds _feræ naturæ_, comprehended in the term toils. As dogs
were employed to hunt quadrupeds, so, in process of time, hawks were
trained to bring down birds for the service of their master. The
arbalest or cross-brow, preceded the matchlock, which, however, could
scarcely be called an implement of the chase, but which, in the order of
succession, brings us down to the rifle, and original fowling-piece with
its long, heavy barrel, and flint and steel lock; and lastly, we arrive
at the double barrels and detant locks of the modern shooter.

[Illustration]


                              TAKING AIM.

When the dog points, or when birds rise near to the shooter, he should
immediately draw back one hammer with the right thumb; experienced
sportsmen disapprove of the practice of cocking both barrels at the same
time. They think that it ought to be a rule never to cock either barrel,
until the game be upon the wing, then that the left barrel should be
cocked and fired, and thereafter taken from the shoulder. The right
barrel should then be cocked and fired if necessary; if not discharged,
it should be put back to the half-cock, and the left re-loaded. He
should never be in haste. It is more prudent to let the bird escape than
to fire hastily. If on open ground, he should not fire until the bird is
more than twenty yards distant. He should be deliberate in bringing up
the piece to his shoulder, and in making it to bear on the object, but
the moment he has brought it to bear, the finger should act in
co-operation with the eye, the eye being kept open the while, so that
the shooter may see whether the bird falls, or feathers fall from it,
for if he does not see it distinctly at the moment of firing, there is
something defective in his system of taking aim.

The shooter, when learning, should never aim directly at the body of a
rabbit on foot, or of a bird on the wing. This precaution is scarcely
necessary when the motion of the object is slow, but by habituating
himself to it on all occasions, he will the sooner become an adept. His
mark should be the head, the legs, or a wing, if within twenty yards.
When farther off, he should make some allowance, according to the
distance and speed of the object moving. His aim should be at the head
of a bird rising or crossing—the legs of a bird flushed on an eminence
and moving downward from him—the wing of a bird flying from him in an
oblique direction. His aim should be at the head of a rabbit, in
whatever way it may be moving. The same rules apply when the object is
more than twenty paces distant from the shooter, making allowance for
the speed. Thus, for a partridge crossing, the allowance of aim before
it with a detonator, at twenty paces, will be one inch—at thirty paces
two inches—at fifty paces five inches—at fifty-five paces seven
inches. Half this allowance will be proper when the bird moves in an
oblique direction. When an object moves directly from the shooter, at
more than twenty paces distance, he should fire a little above it. When
a bird or rabbit approaches the shooter directly, he should not aim at
it until it has passed him, or has turned aside. The moment it has
altered its course the gun should be brought up, and no time should be
lost in firing.

It is not easy at all times to form a correct idea of the distance of a
bird from the gun. The nature of the situation, and the state of the
weather often deceive the eye. Thus, on a bright day birds appear to be
near, and on a dull day distant. It is much easier to estimate the
distance of a bird in small enclosures, where hedges or trees serve as
guides, than on open ground. The hedges, indeed, tend to deceive the
unpractised eye; the object is supposed to be much farther off, while on
open ground it is supposed to be nearer, than it really is. It is often
very difficult to determine whether a grouse is within range; and
sometimes the mist increases the difficulty, for then the bird is either
scarcely seen, or else magnified, by the sun’s rays gleaming through the
mist, to an unnatural size. In general, grouse are farther off than they
are supposed to be. The shooter, however, has a peculiar sight: every
bird he brings down, in good style, is at sixty yards distance. It is
amusing sometimes to hear persons talk, after they have been _watched_,
of the distances at which they have effected their shots; they ever
think the game so much farther off than it really was. The sportsman who
has not convinced himself by actual measurement, often seems to be
laboring under a species of hallucination when speaking of his
distances, and, if he bets on them, to a certainty loses. Birds killed
at fifteen paces are thought to be at twenty-five, and those at
twenty-five are estimated at thirty-five or forty, and so on to the end
of the story!

When a covey or brood rises, the shooter should fix his eye on one bird,
and shoot at that bird only. He should not be diverted from it by other
birds rising nearer to him while he is bringing up his gun, unless the
bird he first set his eye upon be decidedly out of all reasonable
distance, so as to render the chance of killing exceedingly remote. By
observing this rule, he is not only more certain of bringing down his
game, but he will more frequently kill the old birds—a desideratum, for
two reasons; first, because he will, in all probability, disperse the
covey, which being done, any sportsman may generally, without
difficulty, bag a few brace; and secondly, because the old birds make a
better show in the game-bag.

We think that all shooters, except the veriest bunglers, use a gun
properly as regards throwing the end of it upon the object aimed at, and
drawing the trigger, and that any inaccuracy of aim must be attributed
to the eye not being in the proper place when the aim is taken.

The habit of missing arises not from inability to throw the end of the
gun upon the bird, but from the eye not being directly behind the
breech, which it necessarily must be for good shooting.

If there were a sight at each end of the barrel, it would be requisite,
when taking aim, to keep shifting the gun until both sights were in a
line between the eye and the mark; that, however, with a gun not well
mounted to the eye and shoulder, would be too complex an operation, for
before it could be performed, a swift bird would be out of reach; it
follows, then, that the shooter’s attention should be directed only to
the sight at the top of the barrel; and the breech end should come up
mechanically to the proper level.

When a person is nervous, or afraid of the recoil, he naturally raises
his head, and consequently shoots above the mark; on firing, he
unconsciously throws his head back, and then seeing the bird above the
end of the gun, he fancies he shot under it, when the reverse is the
fact. We may also observe that if the shooter does not keep his head
down to the stock, he will probably draw it aside, so that his aim will
be as if taken from one of the hammers, which would, of course, throw
the charge as much on one side of the mark, as raising the head would
above it.

The main point, then, in taking aim, is _to keep the head down to the
stock, and the eye low behind the breach_. The sportsman who, from habit
or practice, can invariably bring his eye down to the same place, and
keep it steadily there, so that he may always take aim from the same
starting point, will distance all competitors.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _“The Antediluvians, or the World Destroyed.” A narrative poem,
    in ten books. By James McHenry, M. D. Author of the “Pleasures
    of Friendship,” &c. 1 vol. J. B. Lippincott & Co.: Philada._

There are two species of poetry known to mankind; that which the gods
love, and that which men abhor. The poetry of the Dr. belongs to the
latter class, though he seems lamentably ignorant of this, from the long
essay on taste which he has given to the world in the shape of a preface
to the work before us, and in which his own peculiar merits and demerits
are discussed at sufficient length. He tells us that he has long been
tormented with an itching after immortality, and that, being convinced
not only that the writing of a poem was the surest passport to it, but
that the choice of a subject was the greatest difficulty in the way of
such a work, he has spent some years of his life in selecting the
present theme. He has also the modesty to acquaint the public that his
subject is inferior to Milton’s alone, leaving us, by a parity of
reasoning, to conclude that Dr. McHenry is next in glory to the heavenly
bard. We congratulate the Dr. on his finesse. There is nothing like
connecting one’s name with that of a genius, for if the world is not
deceived by it, you persuade yourself, like Major Longbow, by a constant
repetition of your story, of its truth. You become a great man in your
own conceit, fancy that the world does injustice to your talents, and go
down to posterity, if not as the falcon’s mate, at least as

    “A tom-tit twittering on an eagle’s back.”

Having thus associated himself with Milton, the Dr. proceeds to inform
us that, in the Deluge, he at length found a theme “exalted and
extensive enough for the exercise of poetic talents of the highest
order,” leaving us, a second time, to infer, what he is too modest
except to insinuate, that his own genius is unequalled. He then calls
our attention to the plot, asserting that the general “plan and scope”
of a poem are second only to its theme—that is, that diction, style,
and imagination, in short every requisite of a true poet, are but
“flimsy stuff.” The Dr. seems to know his own weak points, and when the
“galled jade winces;” but even his elaborated plot is worse than nine
men out of ten would construct. We have gleaned little from it except a
few facts, which would be strange, were they not ridiculous. There is a
description of a harem in the second book, from which we learn that
velvets, and embroidery were as much in vogue among the antediluvians as
now; an account of a siege in the eighth book, which settles the
disputed question, whether Greek fire, melted lead, and catapults, were
used then or not; and a detail of a battle in the same book, which gives
the divisions and manœuvres of the contending armies, and puts at rest
the assertions of military men, who trace our present tactics back no
farther than the invention of gunpowder. Besides this, there are two
marriages—a rescued maiden—one or more heroes, and as many heroines,
with an innumerable catalogue of minor incidents, in short, the
materials of a half a dozen bad novels, woven into a worse poem.

We are told in the outset that the “versification is not particularly
modelled after that of any preceding author,” and that our classic poets
afford no style “exactly suitable for this work,” and, consequently, we
are but little astonished when we meet with such passages as the
following:

      “Subservient to the foul, malignant fiends,
    The abandoned race of Cain their God forsook,
    And to the infernal agents gave their hearts.
    Oh! preference worse than foolish, choice insane!
    Which drove celestial spirits from their charge
    Of guardianship o’er human feebleness,
    And left the hapless Cainites in the power
    Of hellish tyrants, whom they blindly served,
    Lured by the sensual pleasures amply given
    In transient, poisonous recompense for guilt.”
                                   _Page 14._

Or this:

      “Here reigned the fierce Shalmazar, giant king,
    _Sprung from a mixture of infernal strain_,
    His sire, the power of lewdness, Belial named,
    Who, amorous of an earth-born beauty, won
    Astoreth, princess of Gal-Cainah’s realm,
    To his unhallowed love.”
                                   _Page 16._

What the meaning of the author is in the line above italicised, we
challenge all Christendom to discover. But even no sense at all, is
better than mere verbiage, or coarse or improbable metaphor, as thus:

      “Repose at last, where it is ever found
    By weary mortals, in the peaceful grave,
    _In which his heir, that moralising youth,_
    _The melancholy Lameth, had before_
    _Laid down the o’erpowering burden of his woes._”
                                   _Page 12._

And again:

    “The _harnessed-spirits_ spreading forth their wings.”
                                   _Page 11._

And thus:

    “Then was the hour of vengeance; then the stern
    _Hell-generated_ tyrant felt dismay,
    And in his chariot fled—”
                                 _Page 262._

But we must bring a still heavier charge against the Dr., that of a
total want of originality. The whole plan and conception of the
Antediluvians is copied, but “longo intervallo,” after Paradise Lost.
Had Milton never written poetry, Dr. McHenry would never have published
bombast. Yet the one is only the shadow of the other’s shade. This
imitation is perceptible, not only in various attempts to copy the
versification, but oftentimes in more glaring and less defensible
plagiarisms. Would it, for instance, be believed that the second book of
the Antediluvians begins with a passage so nearly resembling the opening
of the second book in Paradise Lost, as to make, as Dogberry has it,
“flat burglary?” Thus:

    “High on a throne of royal state, which far
    Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
    Or where the gorgeous east, with richest hand,
    Showers on her kings barbaric, pearls and gold,
    Satan exalted sat.”
                       _Paradise Lost, Book II._

    “In royal robes, magnificently bright,
    On his imperial throne of burnished gold,
    And polished ivory, which sparkling shone,
    With gems innumerable, of various hues,
    That shed a blaze of streaming radiance round
    The gorgeous hall, the haughty monarch sat.”
                     _Antediluvians, page 29._

And so on diluting the idea of Milton into a dozen more lines, and
shewing, at once, the grandeur of the model, and the feebleness of the
imitation. Yet Dr. McHenry calls himself a poet, and pretends to the
divine afflatus. But again:

            “Such scenes of cruelty and blood,
    Exhibited before appalled Heaven,
    _To make the angels weep_, to look on earth!”
                        _Antediluvians, page 202._

                “But man, frail man,
    Drest in a little brief authority,
    Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
    As make the angels weep.”
                              _Shakspeare._

We might multiply such instances;—but enough. Has the Dr. forgotten the
celebrated verse of Virgil?

    “Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.”

The Dr. appears fond of the use of epithets, especially such ones as
“infernal, fiendish, hellish,” and other coarse adjectives. We do not
object to the use of the two former, provided they appear sparingly and
in place, but really the work before us is seasoned rather highly with
such epithets for our taste. The Dr. however, appears to be of the
Tompsonian school in literature, and not only spices strongly, but
swashes away right and left at the accredited school. We advise him,
once for all, to give up poetry, which he disgraces, for physic, which
he may adorn. God never intended him for an immortal fame. We are
satisfied that, if he should be arraigned for writing poetry, no sane
jury would ever convict him; and if, as most likely, he should plead
guilty at once, it would be as quickly disallowed, on that rule of law,
which forbids the judges to decide against the plain evidence of their
senses.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _“The Dream, and other Poems.” By the Hon. Mrs. Norton. Carey
    and Hart, Philadelphia: 1841._

Hemans, Baillie, Landon, and loveliest of all, Norton!—what a glorious
constellation for one language. France with her gaiety: Italy with her
splendid genius: even Greece with her passionate enthusiasm, cannot
rival such a galaxy. And this glory too, belongs wholly to the present
century, for though the harp of England has often been struck by female
hands, it has heretofore only given forth a rare and fitful cadence,
instead of the rich, deep, prolonged harmony which now rolls from its
chords.

Mrs. Norton is unquestionably,—since the death of Mrs. Hemans, the
queen of English song. In many respects she resembles that gifted
poetess: in some she is strikingly dissimilar. The same pathos, the same
sweetness, the same fancy characterize both; but in all that
distinguishes the practised author, rather than the poetess, Mrs. Hemans
has the advantage of her successor. Thus, the one is sometimes faulty in
the rhythm: the other never. Mrs. Norton will now and then be betrayed
into a carelessness of diction; Mrs. Hemans was rarely, if ever, guilty
of such solecisms. Such expressions, for instance, as the “harboring”
land, the “guiding” hand, the “pausing” heart, the “haunting” shade, and
others of like character, taken at random from the volume before us,
though not strictly improper, yet, as they are plainly expletive, and
weaken, instead of strengthening a sentence, are never to be found in
the poems of Mrs. Hemans, or of any one “learned in the craft.”

But, if Mrs. Norton is less correct than Mrs. Hemans, she is, on the
other hand, more nervous, more passionate, and at times more lofty. No
one can read “The Dream” without being struck by the truth of the
remark, that Mrs. Norton is the Byron of our female poets. There are
passages in some of her poems of greater power than any passages of like
length in Mrs. Hemans’ writings, though at the same time, there are a
far greater number of inferior lines in the poetry of Mrs. Norton, than
in that of her gifted sister. In short, the one is the more equal, the
other is the more daring. One is the more skilful writer: the other
shows glimpses of a bolder genius. There is less prettiness, and not so
much sameness in Mrs. Norton as in Mrs. Hemans. The former is not yet,
perhaps, the equal of the latter, but she possesses the power to be so,
if her rich fancy and deep feeling, now scarcely known to herself,
should ever be brought so completely under her control as were the
talents of Mrs. Hemans.

If Mrs. Norton had written nothing before, this volume would have
established her claim to be the first of living poetesses; but who that
is familiar with the world of song can forget the many gems—rich, and
beautiful, and rare—with which she has spangled beforetime her starry
crown? The world has taken more care of her glory than she has herself,
and the random pieces she has poured forth so divinely at intervals, and
which hitherto she has made no effort to preserve, have found their way
into the hearts of all who can be touched by the mournful or the
beautiful, until her name is cherished alike in the humble cottage and
the princely hall. And now she has come forth in more stately guise, not
as a new author among strangers, but as one long tried and known, one
endeared to us by old association, one whose melancholy music is, as it
were, a part of our very being.

“The Dream” is the longest poem in the volume before us, but, as it
makes no pretension to be considered a story, and has really no plot, we
shall not judge it by the ordinary rule of criticism. We shall consider
it only as a string of pearls, loosely joined together by the simplest
contrivance, the idea of a dream, narrated by a daughter to her
mother,—and, judging it in this way, we give it unqualified praise.
That its merit is unequal, is, in our eyes, no objection to its
beauty,—for have not all poets skimmed the ground as well as soared to
heaven? Yes! “The Dream” is unequal, but so is Lallah Rookh, so is
Marmion, so are all the tales of Byron, and so—to ascend a step
higher—is Comus, or Hamlet, or even the Iliad.

But Mrs. Norton, like her gifted sister, possesses one quality which
distinguishes her above all other writers, in this or in any tongue—we
mean in giving utterance to, what is emphatically, _the poetry of
woman_. In this they resemble no cotemporary, unless it is Miss Landon.
Women have written poetry before, but if it had been shewn to a
stranger, he could not have told from which sex it sprung. It is not so
with the poetry of these two gifted females. Every line betrays the
woman—each verse breathes the tender, the melting, the peculiar
eloquence of the sex.

Scarcely a page, moreover, occurs in the writings of either, which does
not bear testimony to woman’s suffering and worth. Yes! while it is the
fashion to sneer at the purity of woman’s heart, and while a pack of
literary debauchees are libelling our mothers and our sisters unopposed,
from the ranks of that insulted sex have risen up defenders of its
innocence, to shame the heartless slanderers to silence. Hear in what
eloquent numbers Mrs. Norton vindicates her sex:

    “Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,
      And what they do or suffer men record;
    But the long sacrifice of woman’s days
      Passes without a thought—without a word;
    And many a holy struggle for the sake
      Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill’d—
    _For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,_
      _And the strong feelings of the heart be still’d_,—
    Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,
    And leaves no memory and no trace behind!
    Yet it may be more lofty courage dwells
      In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate,
    Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells,
      Warmed by the fight, or cheer’d through high debate:
    The soldier dies surrounded;—_could he live_
    _Alone to suffer, and alone to strive?_

    Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom
    Shows deeper honor than a common tomb!
    _Who sleep within?_

Aye! who? Not woman, we can answer for it. God bless her who has written
thus. The wretches who would rob the sex of their purity of heart, and
their uncomplaining endurance of suffering, deserve to die, uncheered by
woman’s nurture, unwept by woman’s tenderness. Such beings are not men:
they are scarcely even brutes: they are _aliquid monstri_, monsters in
part. But again:

      “In many a village churchyard’s simple grave,
    Where all unmarked the cypress branches wave;
    In many a vault, where Death could only claim
    The brief inscription of a woman’s name;
    Of different ranks, and different degrees,
    From daily labor to a life of ease,
    (_From the rich wife, who through the weary day_
    _Wept in her jewels_, grief’s unceasing prey,
    To the poor soul who trudg’d o’er marsh and moor,
    And with her baby begg’d from door to door,—)
    Lie hearts which, ere they found that last release,
    Had lost all memory of the blessing, “Peace;”
    Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years,
    None saw but Him who marks the mourner’s tears;
    _The obscurely noble!_ who evaded not
    The woe which he had will’d should be their lot,
    But nerved themselves to bear!”

“The Dream,” as a whole, is the finest piece in the volume before us. It
abounds with glorious passages, of which we can only give two more
examples—the one, impassioned, nervous, and stirring as a trumpet—the
other sweet, and low, and musical as the rustle of an angel’s wing. Few
authors can boast such a varied power.

      “Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death,
    Each varied ill that waits on human breath,
    Rather than bid thee linger out thy life,
    In the long toil of such unnatural strife.
    To wander through the world unreconciled,
    Heart-weary as a spirit-broken child,
    _And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven,_
    _If thou couldst_ DIE—_forgiving and forgiven_,—
    Or with a feverish hope of anguish born,
    (Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn
    Of all the cruel foes that twixt ye stand,
    Holding thy heart-strings with a reckless hand,)
    Steal to his presence, now unseen so long,
    And claim _his_ mercy who hath dealt the wrong!
    Into the aching depths of thy poor heart,
      Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain,
    And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart,
      And burn like fire through thy bewildered brain.
    Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal,
    To teach thy fellow creatures how to feel,—
    Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears,—
    Recall the hopes, the influences of years,—
    Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground,
    Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound,—
    Invoke the Heaven that knows thy sorrow’s truth,
    By all the softening memories of youth—
    By every hope that cheered thine early day—
    By every tear that washes wrath away—
    By every old remembrance long gone by—
    By every pang that makes thee yearn to die;
    And learn at length how deep and stern a blow
    Man’s hand can strike, and yet no pity show!”

What force! what passion! Never has Mrs. Hemans written thus,—few
indeed have done so except Byron.

We must pass “The Dream” with a single other quotation. It is on the
evening hour, and is sweet as a moonlit landscape, or a child’s dream of
heaven.

      “_That_ hour, once sacred to God’s presence, still
    Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill,
    The holiest hour of earth. _Then_ toil doth cease,
    Then from the yoke, the oxen find release—
    Then man rests, pausing from his many cares,
    _And the world teems with children’s sunset prayers!_
    Then innocent things seek out their natural rest,
    The babe sinks slumbering on its mother’s breast,
    The birds beneath their leafy covering creep,
    Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep;
    And angels, floating by on radiant wings,
    Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings,
    Catch the sweet incense as it floats along,
    The infant’s prayer, the mother’s cradle-song,
    And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar,
    As things too sacred for this fallen star.”

There is, in reading these poems, an abiding sense of the desolation
that has fallen on the heart of the writer, a desolation which only adds
to the mournful music of her lyre, like the approach of death, is
fabled, to give music to the swan. We have studiously avoided,
heretofore, touching upon this subject, as we would not, by awakening
pity, blind the judgment of the public, but we cannot avoid the remark,
that every page of this volume bears evidence that the heart of the
authoress, like that of Rachel, will not be comforted. The arrow has
entered deep into her soul. Like Mrs. Hemans, unfortunate in her
domestic life—for the miscreant who would still believe her guilty is
an insult to humanity—she “seeks, as the stricken deer, to weep in
silence and loneliness.” Hers is a hard lot; deserted by the one who has
sworn to love her, and maligned by the unfeeling world, she has not even
the consolation of weeping with her children, and finding some relief in
their caresses for her broken heart. Hear her once more—we have almost
wept as we read—hear her, when gazing in the twilight at the pictures
of her absent children.

    “Where are ye? Are ye playing
      By the stranger’s blazing hearth;
    Forgetting, in your gladness,
      Your old home’s former mirth?
    _Are ye dancing? Are ye singing?_
      _Are ye full of childish glee?_
    _Or do your light hearts sadden_
      _With the memory of me?_
    Round whom, oh! gentle darlings,
      Do your young arms fondly twine,
    Does she press you to _her_ bosom
      Who hath taken you from mine?
    _Oh! boys, the twilight hour_
      _Such a heavy time hath grown_,—
    It recalls with such deep anguish
      All I used to call my own,—
    That the harshest word that ever
      Was spoken to me there,
    Would be trivial—would be _welcome_—
      In this depth of my despair!
    Yet no! Despair shall sink not.
      While life and love remain,—
    Tho’ the weary struggle haunt me,
      And my prayer be made in vain:
    Tho’ at times my spirit fail me
      And the bitter tear-drops fall,
    _Tho’ my lot be hard and lonely,_
      _Yet I hope—I hope thro’ all._”

And then, with what a burst of eloquence, she carries out the idea!

    “By the living smile which greeted
      The lonely one of Nain,
    When her long last watch was over,
      And her hope seemed wild and vain;
    By all the tender mercy
      God hath shown to human grief,
    When fate or man’s perverseness
      Denied and barr’d relief,—
    By the hopeless woe which taught me
      To look to him alone,
    From the vain appeals for justice,
      And wild efforts of my own,—
    By thy light—thou unseen future,
      And thy tears—thou bitter past,
    _I will hope—tho’ all forsake me_,
      _In His mercy to the last!_”
                      Twilight.

But we must close this article. There are many exquisite shorter pieces
in the volume, besides The Dream and Twilight. The Creole Girl; The
Child of Earth; I cannot Love Thee; The Visionary Portrait; The Banner
of the Covenanters; Weep not for him that Dieth; and several of the
Sonnets may be instanced as among the finest. Let us, in conclusion,
commend the poems of Mrs. Norton to our fair countrywomen as those of a
mind of a high order. Less egotism, a more extended scope of feeling,
and greater attention to the rules of her art, will place her foremost
among the female poets of England.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _“Bancroft’s History of the United Slates.” Vol. 3._

The first two volumes of this history have now been some years before
the public, and criticism has long since given them its _fiat_. The
characteristics of Mr. Bancroft are a rigid scrutiny of facts, a general
impartiality, and a style, usually nervous, but sometimes savoring of
transcendental obscurity. The style of the second volume, however, is an
improvement on that of the first, and the volume before us surpasses, in
our opinion, either of the former two. There is a philosophy in Bancroft
which other historians might well emulate. No man has traced so clearly
the causes of the American Revolution. It was the stern, hard,
independence of the Pilgrims, handed down to their posterity, and united
with the gallant and chivalric freedom of the South, which brought about
the greatest revolution of modern times.

The pictures which Mr. Bancroft draws in pursuing the thread of his
narrative, are often highly graphic. The early adventures of Soto and
others; the colony of Raleigh at Roanoke; the landing of the Pilgrims;
the Indian wars of New England, are all described with force if not with
beauty. The gradual dissemination of the Democratic principle is also
faithfully depicted; and it is clearly shown that the Puritans, the
Swedes, and the Quakers, alike formed pure democracies in their
settlements. In short, the history is something more than a mere
chronicle: it is a continuous essay on the philosophy of the American
Revolution.

The third volume brings the subject down to the period of the old French
war, an epoch which may be considered at the threshold of the struggle
for independence. Here, for the present, he drops the curtain. A fitter
point, for such a pause could not have been chosen. Behind, is the long
succession of trials, and dangers, through which the infant colonies had
just passed: before is the wild, shadowy future, soon to become vivid
with its startling panorama. Such a reflection might well fill the mind
of the historian with a kind of solemn awe; and it is while such
feelings overpower his readers, that he introduces Washington, the
future hero of the scene.

The work is beautifully printed, in a style highly creditable to the
American press.

We leave Mr. Bancroft with the hope that his historic labors will be
pursued with redoubled zeal, satisfied that in him America possesses a
philosophic annalist of the highest order.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _“Bryant’s American Poets.” 1 vol. Harper & Brothers._

This work does credit to the editor, although he has admitted some, and
left out others, of our poetical writers, whom we think he ought not so
to have treated. However, a compilation like this can never be made to
suit all. The true question is, who can do better?

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _“Travels to the City of the Caliphs.” By Lieutenant Wellsted. 2
    vols. Lea & Blanchard._

This is a light, entertaining work. The adventures of the hero (Lieut.
Ormsby) are highly pleasing; and he evinces a laudable desire to fall in
love, as well for his own as for the convenience of the reader. On the
whole, the book is well written, and quite amusing.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY, 1841.


                            CARRIAGE DRESS.

Fig. 1.—Robe of one of the new figured silks; the skirt trimmed with
two _bias_ flounces; half-high _corsage_, and bishop’s sleeve. Cambric
_collerette-fichû_, trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Violet satin
_mantelet_, lined with _gros de Naples_, and bordered with a broad band
of violet velvet; it is of the scarf form, but made long and ample, and
with a small pointed hood. Green satin _chapeau_, a round brim,
something deeper than they are in general; the interior is trimmed on
each side with a half wreath of blush-roses; the exterior with bands and
knots of green ribbon, and a white and green shaded _marabout_ plume.


                             EVENING DRESS.

Fig. 2.—Lemon-colored satin robe, trimmed with a deep flounce of
antique point lace, surmounted by roses placed singly at regular
distances above the flounce; low tight _corsage_ and sleeve, both
trimmed with point. Head-dress of hair, disposed in thick masses of
ringlets at the sides, and a low open bow behind; it is decorated with
flowers, and a gold cross, _Châle bournouss_ of white cashmere, lined
with white satin, and bordered with a band of black and plaid velvet.

Fig. 3.—India muslin robe; the skirt is trimmed with a closely plaited
_volan_, which encircles the bottom of the border, mounts in the drapery
style on one side, and is terminated by a _nœud_ of muslin, similarly
finished at the ends; a _chef d’or_ head the _volan_. _Corsage en gerbe_
and short full sleeve, both ornamented with _chefs d’or_. The head dress
gives a front view of the one just described. Opera cloak of brown _rep_
velvet, lined with blue satin: it is made shorter than the dress, of
moderate width, and trimmed with three blue satin _rouleaus_, each
placed at some distance from the other, and a light embroidery
surmounting the upper one. A small hood, and a very deep lappel complete
the ornaments.


                              OPERA DRESS.

Fig. 4.—_Douilette_ of white cashmere, wadded, and lined with pink
_gros de Naples_; the lining quilted in a lozenge pattern; the _corsage_
is made tight to the shape, and half-high. Demi-large sleeve; the front
of the skirt is finished on each side by fancy silk trimming. _Mantelet_
of a large size, and of the same materials, bordered with a rich white
and pink _chenille_ fringe. Black velvet _chapeau à la Louis XIII_,
trimmed with white and pink feathers.

[Illustration: FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY 1841 FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 2, February 1841_, George R.
Graham, Editor]