GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                Vol. XX.      January, 1842      No. 1.


                                Contents

                   =Fiction, Literature and Articles=

          The Shepherd’s Love
          Highland Beauty
          Lines
          The Snow-Storm
          Dreams of the Land and Sea
          The False Ladye
          Harry Cavendish
          Cousin Agatha
          An Appendix of Autographs
          The Two Dukes
          Shakspeare
          The Daughters of Dr. Byles
          Review of New Books.

                       =Poetry, Music and Fashion=

          Sonnet
          The Goblet of Life
          To a Land Bird at Sea
          Apostrophe
          Agathè.—A Necromaunt
          The Queen of May
          Sonnet
          Sonnets
          A Song
          To Helen in Heaven
          Dorchester
          The Zephyr
          The Eyes of Night
          Thy Name Was Once a Magic Spell
          Fashion Plate

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                GRAHAM’S

                         LADY’S AND GENTLEMAN’S

                               MAGAZINE.

                            EMBELLISHED WITH

              THE FINEST MEZZOTINTO AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS,

                         ELEGANT EMBOSSED WORK,

                          FASHIONS AND MUSIC.

                               VOLUME XX.

                             PHILADELPHIA:
                           GEORGE R. GRAHAM.
                                 1842.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                                 INDEX

                                 TO THE

                           TWENTIETH VOLUME.

                 FROM JANUARY TO JUNE, 1842, INCLUSIVE.

Autographs, an appendix of, by Edgar A. Poe,                          44
Affair at Tattletown, the, by Epes Sargeant,                         221

Blue Velvet Mantilla, the, by Mrs. A. M. F. Annan,                   102
Brainard, a few words about, by Edgar A. Poe,                        119
Bachelor’s Experiment, the, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury,                  226
Bride, the, (_illustrated_,) by J. H. Dana,                          253

Cousin Agatha, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury,                                38
Centre Harbor, (_illustrated_,)                                      256
Chevalier Gluck, the, (from the German,) by W. W. Story,             270

Dreams of the Land and Sea, by Dr. Reynell Coates,          17, 88, 163,
                                                                     210
Daughters of Dr. Byles, by Miss Leslie,                          61, 114
Dickens, original letter from                                         83
Duello, the, by H. W. Herbert,                                        85
Doom of the Traitress, the, by H. W. Herbert,                        150
Dash at a Convoy,                                                    178
Duel, the, by E. S. Gould,                                           233

Exile of Connecticut, by Dr. Reynell Coates,                          17
Escape, the,                                                          74
Edith Pemberton, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury,                             277
Euroclydon, by Charles Lanman,                                       287
Expedition, the,                                                     288
Ellen Neville,                                                       307
False Ladye, the, by H. W. Herbert,                                   27
First Step, the, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury,                             154

German Writers, by H. W. Longfellow,                                 134

Highland Beauty, (_illustrated_,) by Oliver Oldfellow,                 6
Harry Cavendish, by the Author of “Cruising in the Last     31, 74, 178,
  War,” the “Reefer of ’76,” &c. &c.,                      237, 288, 307
Harper’s Ferry, (_illustrated_,)                                      73
Heinrich Heine, by H. W. Longfellow,                                 134

Imagination, by Park Benjamin,                                       174

Kissing, the Science of, (_illustrated_,) by Jeremy                  302
  Short, Esq.,

Lady’s Choice, the, by Emma C. Embury,                                96
Lady and the Page, the, by Mary Spencer Pease,                       167
Lowell’s Poems,                                                      195
Life in Death, by Edgar A. Poe,                                      200
Love and Pique, by Mrs. Emma C. Embury,                              334

May Evelyn, by Frances S. Osgood,                                    145
Miner’s Fate, the,                                                   202
Music, Thoughts on, by Henry Cood Watson,                            285

Norton, Mrs., by Park Benjamin,                                       91
Night Scene at Sea, by Dr. Reynell Coates,                           210

Powhatan, the Crowning of, (_illustrated_,)                          133
Pirate, the,      237
Procrastination, by Mrs. M. H. Parsons,                              260

Review of New Books,                                       69, 124, 186,
                                                           248, 298, 354
Red Death, the Mask of the, by Edgar A. Poe,                         257
Russian Revenge, by Esther Wetherald,                                322

Shepherd’s Love, the, (_illustrated_,) by J. H. Dana,                  1
Snow-Storm, the, by Jeremy Short, Esq.                                10
Shakspeare, by Theodore S. Fay,                                       58
Sunday at Sea, by Dr. Reynell Coates,                                 88
St. Agnes’ Eve, by Jeremy Short, Esq.                                218

Two Dukes, by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens,                         50, 78, 149,
                                                                242, 341
Take me Home, by Dr. Reynell Coates,                                 163
Thompson, Miss, by Mrs. A. F. S. Annan,                              313

Wreck, the,                                                           31
Wife, the, (_illustrated_,) by Agnes Piersol,                        193
West Point, Recollections of, by Miss Leslie,                   205, 290
Wilkie, the late Sir David, by L. F. Tasistro,                       275
Wire Suspension Bridge, the, (_illustrated_,)                        301
Ware’s Poems, Mrs., by Park Benjamin,                                330

                                =POETRY.=

Apostrophe, by Albert Pike,                                           12
Agathè, by L. F. Tasistro,                                 13, 111, 160,
                                                                     213
Amie, to, by L. J. Cist,                                             276
Antique Vase, to an, by N. C. Brooks,                                284
Alice, by R. W. Griswold,                                            340
Absent Wife, the, by Robert Morris,                                  353

Bonnie Steed, my, (_illustrated_,)                                    82
Birth of Freedom, by W. Wallace,                                     204

Dorchester, by W. Gilmore Simms,                                      49
Dream of the Dead, a, by G. Hill,                                    121
Departed, to one, by Edgar A. Poe,                                   137

Eyes of Night, the, by Mary Spencer,                                  65
Elegy on the fate of Jane M’Crea, by T. G. Spear,                    236

Freshet, the, by Alfred B. Street,                                   138
Fanny, an Epistle to, by Park Benjamin,                              149
Fancies about a Rosebud, by James Russell Lowell,                    173
Fragment, by Albert Pike,                                            209
Florence, to, by Park Benjamin,                                      241
Farewell, by James Russell Lowell,                                   305

Goblet of Life, the, by H. W. Longfellow,                              5

Helen in Heaven, to, by Alex. A. Irvine,                              43
Hawking, Return from, (_illustrated_,)                               245
Heavenly Vision, the, by T. H. Chivers, M. D.                        329

Isa in Heaven, to, by T. H. Chivers, M. D.                           144

Lines, by Mrs. Amelia B. Welby,                                        9
Land Bird at Sea, to a, by L. H. Sigourney,                            9
L’Envoy to E——, by G. Hill,                                          295

May, the Queen of, by G. P. Morris,                                   16
Marches for the Dead, by W. Wallace,                                 139
Michael Angelo, by W. W. Story,                                      241
My Bark is out upon the Sea, by George P. Morris,                    274
Mystery,                                                             287

Old Man returned Home, the, by G. G. Foster,                         225
Old World, the, by George Lunt,                                      284
Olden Deities,                                                       321

Perditi, by Wm. Wallace,                                        265, 326
Pewee, the, by Dill A. Smith,                                        306
Rosaline, by James Russell Lowell,                                    89
Raffaello, by W. W. Story,                                           241
Return Home, the, by Geo. P. Morris,                                 312

Sonnet, by Thomas Noon Talfourd,                                       5
Sonnet, by Edmund J. Porter,                                          26
Sonnets, by Park Benjamin,                                            30
Song, a, by James Russell Lowell,                                     37
Song of Nydia, by G. G. Foster,                                       84
Sonnet, by James Russell Lowell,                                      90
Sonnet, by B. H. Benjamin,                                           118
Stranger’s Funeral, the, by N. C. Brooks,                            153
Spirit, to a, by James Aldrich,                                      217
Stanzas, by Mrs. R. S. Nichols,                                      225
Sweethearts and Wives, by Pliny Earle, M. D.                         232
Sonnets, by W. W. Story,                                             241
Spring’s Advent, by Park Benjamin,                                   259
Song, by Alex. A. Irvine,                                            353

Veiled Altar, the, by Mrs. R. S. Nichols,                             95
Venus and the Modern Belle, by Frances S. Osgood,                    274

Western Hospitality, by Geo. P. Morris,                              166

Young Widow, the, (_illustrated_,) by Alex. A. Irvine,               137

Zephyr, the, by Miss Juliet H. Lewis,                                 56

                           =STEEL ENGRAVINGS.=

                           MEZZOTINT AND LINE.

The Shepherd’s Love.
Highland Beauty.
Lace Work, with colored Birds.
Fashions, three figures, colored.
My Bonnie Steed.
Harper’s Ferry.
Fashions, three figures, colored.
The Young Widow.
The Crowning of Powhatan.
Fashions, four figures, colored.
Return from Hawking.
The Wife.
Lace Pattern, with Embossed View.
The Bride.
Centre Harbor.
Fashions, colored, with a Lace pattern border.
The Proffered Kiss.
The Wire Suspension Bridge.
Fashions, four figures.

                                 =MUSIC.=

Thy name was once a magic spell,                                      66
The Dream is past,                                                   122
A lady heard a minstrel sing,                                        184
There’s no land like Scotland,                                       246
The Orphan Ballad Singers,                                           296

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: lace work with colored birds in center]




[Illustration: _Painted by Alex^{r}. Johnston. Engraved by J. Sartain._
_The Shepherd’s Love_]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

           Vol. XX.    PHILADELPHIA: JANUARY, 1842.    No. 1.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE SHEPHERD’S LOVE.


                             BY J. H. DANA.


                               CHAPTER I.

It was a golden morning in early summer, and a thousand birds were
warbling on the landscape, while the balmy wind murmured low and musical
among the leaves, when a young girl, attired in a rustic dress, might
have been seen tripping over the lea. Her golden tresses, as she walked,
floated on the wind, and the exercise had called even a richer carnation
than usual to her cheek. Her form was one of rare beauty, and her gait
was grace itself. As she glided on, more like a sylph than a mortal
being, she carolled one of her country’s simple lays; and what with her
liquid tones, her sweet countenance, and her bewitching motion, she
formed a picture of loveliness such only as a poet could have imagined.

At length she approached a ruined wall, half hidden by one or two
overshadowing trees. The enclosure partially concealed from view the
figure of a young shepherd, who, leaning on his hand, gazed admiringly
on her approaching figure. Unconscious, however, of the vicinity of an
observer, the maiden tripped on, until she had almost reached the
enclosure, when the shepherd’s dog suddenly sprung from his master’s
side, and barking violently, would have leaped on the intruder, had not
the youth checked him. The maiden started and turned pale; but when she
perceived the shepherd her cheeks flushed with crimson, and she stood
before the youth in a beautiful embarrassment.

“Down, down, Wallace, mon,” said the young shepherd, “ken ye not Jeanie
yet—the flower o’ Ettrick? Ah! Jeanie, Jeanie,” he added—and his tone
and manner at once betrayed the footing on which he stood with the
maiden—“little did ye ken, when ye were tripping sae gaily o’er the
lea, with a heart as light as a lavrock and a song as sweet as the
waving of the broom at noonday, that one who lo’es ye sae dearly, was
lookin’ at ye frae behind this tree.”

The maiden blushed again, and stealing a timid glance at her lover, her
eyes sought the ground. The shepherd took her hand, which was not
withdrawn from his grasp, and said,

“Ye ken weel, Jeanie dear, what ye were singing,” and his voice assumed
a sudden seriousness as he spoke, which caused the maiden again to look
up, although the allusion he made to the subject of her song, had dyed
her cheeks with new blushes, “and I hae come hither this morning, for I
ken ye passed here—to see ye if only for a moment. Ye ken, Jeanie, that
we were to hae been one next Michaelmas, and that I was to get the
Ellsey farm—a canny croft it is, dearie, and happy, happy would we hae
been there”—the maiden looked inquiringly in his face at these words,
and her lover continued mournfully—“ye guess the worst, I see, by that
look. In one word, a richer man has outbid me, and so, for the third
time, hae I been disappointed.” And as he said these words with a husky
voice, betokening the depth of his emotion, the speaker paused, and drew
the back of his hand across his eyes. His affianced bride showed the
true delicacy of her mind in this juncture. Instead of saying aught to
comfort him, she drew closer to his side, and laying her hand on his
arm, gazed up into his face with a look so full of sympathy and love,
that its mute, yet all-powerful eloquence, went to the shepherd’s heart.
He drew her tenderly to his bosom, kissed her unresisting brow, and
gazed for some moments in silent rapture on her face. At length he
spoke.

“Jeanie,” he said, and his voice grew low and tremulous as he spoke,
“can ye hear bad news? I canna bide here longer,” he added, after a
pause, and with an obvious effort. The maiden started; but having
introduced the subject, her lover proceeded firmly—“I canna bide here,
year after year, as I hae done for the last twelvemonth, and be put off,
month by month, wi’ promises that are never to be fulfilled. I will go
away and seek my fortune in other lands. They say money is to be had
amaist for the asking in the Indies, and ye ken we may never marry while
I remain as now, with na roof to lay my ain head under, to say naething
of yours, Jeanie, which I hold dearer than ten thousand thousand sic as
mine. So I hae engaged to go out to the Indies, and the ship sails
to-morrow. Do not greet, my flower o’ the brae,” said he, as the maiden
burst into tears, “for ye ken it is only sufferin’ a lighter evil to put
off a greater one. If I stay here we maun make up our minds never to be
one, for not a farm is to be had for a puir man like me, from Ettrick to
Inverness. In two years, at maist, I will return,” and his voice
brightened with hope, as he proceeded, “and then, Jeanie dear, naething
shall keep us asunder, and you shall be the richest, and I hope the
happiest bride in all the border.”

The manly pathos of his words, his visible attempt to stifle his
feelings, and the grief she felt at the contemplated absence of her
lover, all conjoined to heighten the emotion of the maiden, and flinging
herself on her lover’s bosom, she wept long and uncontrollably. Her
companion gazed on in silence, with an almost bursting heart; but he
knew that he could not recede from his promise, and that the hour of
anguish must be endured sooner or later. Then why not now? At length the
sobs of Jeanie grew less violent and frequent—the first burst of her
emotion was passing away. Gently then did her lover soothe her feelings,
pointing out to her the advantages to result from his determination, and
cheering her with the assurance, that in two years, at farthest, he
would return.

“I hae no fears, Jeanie, that ye will not prove true to me, and for the
rest we are in God’s gude hands. Our lives are as safe in his protection
awa on the seas as by our ain ingle-side. And now farewell, for the
present, dearie—I maun do many things before we sail to-morrow. God
bless you!” and with these words, dashing a tear from his eye, he tore
himself from the maiden, and walked rapidly across the lea, as if to
dissipate his emotion by the swiftness of his pace. When he reached the
brow of the hill, however, he turned to take a last look at the spot
where he had parted with Jeanie. She was still standing where he left
her, looking after his receding form. He waved his hand, gazed a moment
on her, and then whistled to his dog, and dashed over the brow of the
hill.

Poor Jeanie had watched him with tearful eyes until he paused at the top
of the hill, and her heart beat quick when she saw him turn for a last
look. She made an effort to wave her hand in reply; and when she saw him
disappear beyond the hill, sank against the wall. Directly a flood of
tears came to her relief. It was hours before she was sufficiently
composed to return home.

All through that day, and until late at night, Jeanie comforted herself
with the hope of again beholding her lover; but he came not. Long after
nightfall, a ragged urchin from the village put into her hands a letter.
She broke it open tremblingly, for she knew the hand-writing at a
glance. It was from her lover. It was kindly written, and the hand had
been tremulous that penned it; but it told her that he had felt himself
unequal to another parting scene. Before she received this—it
continued—he would be far on his way to the place of embarkation. It
contained many a sweet message that filled the heart of Jeanie with
sunshine, even while the tears fell thick and fast on the paper. It bid
her remember him to her only surviving parent, and then it contained a
few more words of hope, and ended with “God bless you!—think often in
your prayers of Willie.”

That night Jeanie’s pillow was wet with tears, but, even amid her sobs,
her prayers might have been heard ascending for her absent lover.


                              CHAPTER II.

The family of Jeanie was poor but virtuous, like thousands of others
scattered all over the hills and vales of Scotland. Her father had once
seen better days, having been indeed a farmer in a small way; but his
crops failing, and his stock dying by disease, he had been reduced at
length to extreme poverty. Yet he bore his misfortunes without repining.
He had still his daughter to comfort him, and though he lived in a
mud-built cottage, he was happy—happy at least, so far as one in his
dependent condition could be; for his principal support was derived from
the labor of his daughter, added to what little he managed to earn by
doing small jobs occasionally for his neighbors. Yet he was universally
respected. If you could have seen him on a sunny Sabbath morning,
leaning on his daughter’s arm, walking to the humble village kirk: if
you could have beheld the respect with which his juniors lifted their
bonnets to him, while his own gray locks waved on the wind as he
returned their salutations, you would have felt that even utter poverty,
if respectable, and cheered by a daughter’s love, was not without its
joy.

The love betwixt Jeanie and the young shepherd was not one of a day. It
had already been of years standing, and dated far back, almost into the
childhood of each. By sunny braes, in green meadows, alongside of
whimplin brooks, they had been used to meet, seemingly by chance, until
such meetings grew necessary to their very existence, and their
love—pure and holy as that between the angelic choristers—became
intermixed with all their thoughts and feelings, and colored all their
views of life. And all this time Jeanie was growing more beautiful
daily, until she became the flower of the valley. Her voice was like
that of the cushat in its sweetest cadence—her eye was as blue and
sunny as the summer ether—and the smiles that wreathed her mouth came
and went like the northern lights on a clear December eve. Thus
beautiful, she had not been without many suitors; but to all she turned
a deaf ear. Many of them were far above her station in life, but this
altered not her determination. Nor did her father, though perhaps, like
many of his neighbors, he attached more importance to such offers than
Jeanie, attempt to influence her. He only stipulated that her lover
should obtain a farm before his marriage. We have seen how his repeated
failures in this, and his hopelessness of attaining his object, unless
at a very distant period, had at length driven him to seek his fortune
elsewhere.

We are telling no romantic tale, but one of real life; and in real life
years often seem as hours, and hours as years. We shall make no excuse,
therefore, for passing over an interval of more than two years.

It was the gloamin hour when Jeanie and her father sat at their humble
threshold. The face of the maiden was sad almost to tears; while that of
the father wore a sad and anxious expression. They had been convening,
and now the old man resumed their discourse.

“Indeed, Jeanie,” he said, “God knows I would na urge ye do that which
is wrong; but we hae suffered and suffered much sin’ Willie left us. Twa
years and a half, amaist a third, hae past sin’ that day. Do not greet,
my dochter, an’ your auld father may na speak that which is heavy on his
mind,” and he ceased, and folded the now weeping girl tenderly to his
bosom.

“No, no, father, go on,” sobbed Jeanie, endeavoring to compose herself,
an effort in which she finally succeeded. Her father resumed.

“I am growing auld, Jeanie, aulder and aulder every day; my shadow
already fills up half my grave—and the time canna be far awa, when I
shall be called to leave you alone in the warld.”

“Oh! say not so,” sobbed Jeanie, “you will yet live many a year.”

“Na, na,” he answered, shaking his head, “though it pains my heart to
say so, yet it is best you should know the truth. It will na be long
before the snows shall lie aboon me. But I see it makes you greet. I
will pass on, Jeanie, to what lies heavy on my heart, and that is, when
I am awa, there will be no one to protect you. Could I hae seen ye
comfortably settled, wi’ some one to shield ye from the cauld world, I
could hae gone to my grave in peace. But it maun na be, it maun na be.”

Poor Jeanie had listened to her father’s words with emotions we will not
attempt to pourtray. Long after every one else had given over her lover
for lost—and besides a rumor, now of two years standing, that he had
been drowned at sea, there was the fact of his not returning at the
appointed time, to silence all skepticism—she had clung to the hope of
his being alive, even when her reason forbid the expression of that
hope. She had long read her father’s thoughts, nor could she indeed
blame them. Their poverty was daily growing more extreme, so that while
her parent’s health was declining, he was compelled to deny himself even
the few comforts which he had hitherto possessed. These things cut
Jeanie to the heart, and yet she saw no remedy for them, except in what
seemed to her more terrible than death. Her affection for her lover was
only strengthened and purified by his loss. Try as she would, she could
not tear his image from her heart. Loving him thus, living or dead, how
could she wed another?—how could she take on herself vows her heart
refused to fulfil? Day after day, week after week, and month after
month, had this struggle been going on in her bosom, betwixt duty to her
father and love for him to whom she had plighted her virgin vows. This
evening her parent had spoken to her, mildly but seriously on the death
of her lover, and Jeanie’s heart was more than ever melted by the
self-devotedness with which her gray-haired father had alluded to her
want of protection in case of his death, not even saying a word of the
want of the common comforts of life which his growing infirmities
rendered more necessary than ever, but of which her conduct—oh! how
selfish in that moment it seemed to her—deprived him. It was some
moments before Jeanie could speak, during which time she lay weeping on
her parent’s bosom. At length she murmured,

“Do wi’ me as ye wish, father, I maun resist no longer, sin’ it were
wicked. But oh! gie me a little while to prepare, for the heart is
rebellious and hard to overcome. I know you do it all for the best—but
I maun hae some delay to tear the last thoughts o’ Willie, thoughts
which soon wi’ be sinfu’, from my heart”—and overcome by the intensity
of her emotions she burst into a new flood of tears. Her father pressed
her to his bosom, and murmured,

“Oh! Jeanie, Jeanie, could ye know how this pains my auld heart! But the
thought that when I die ye will be left unprotected in the world, is
sair within me. Time ye shall hae, darlint—perhaps,” he added after a
moment’s pause, “it were better to gie up the scheme altogether. Aye!
Jeanie, I will na cross your wishes even in this; but trust in a gude
God to protect you when I am gone. Say no more, say no more about it,
dear one; but do just as ye will.”

“No, father,” said Jeanie, looking firmly up, while the tears shone
through her long eye-lashes like dew on the morning grass, “no, I will
be selfish no longer. Your wish shall be fulfilled. Do not oppose me,
for indeed, indeed, I act now as I feel right. Gie me only the little
delay for which I ask, and then I will do as you say, and—and”—and her
voice trembled as she spoke—“then you will no longer be without those
little comforts, dear father, which not even all my love has been able
to procure for you. Now kiss me, for I maun go in to be by myself for
awhile.”

“God bless you, my dochter, and may _he_ ever hae you in his keeping,”
murmured that gray-haired sire, laying his hands on his child’s
head—his dim eyes suffusing with tears as he spoke, “God bless ye
forever and ever!”

When that father and daughter rejoined each other, an hour later in the
evening, a holy calm pervaded the countenance of each; and the looks
which they gave each other were full of confidence, gratitude and
overflowing affection. And when the daughter drew forth the old worn
Bible, and read a chapter in her silvery voice, while the father
followed in a prayer that was at times choked by his emotion, there was
not, in all broad Scotland, a sweeter or more soul-subduing sight than
that lowly cot presented.


                              CHAPTER III.

Although Jeanie was a girl of strong mind, the sacrifice which she
contemplated was not to be effected without many inward struggles. But
having made up her mind to what she considered her duty, she allowed no
personal feelings to swerve her from the strict line she had laid down
for herself wherein to walk. Daily did she seek in prayer for aid; and
never did she allow her parent to hear a murmur from her lips. Yet, let
her strive as she would, the memory of her lover would constantly recur
to her mind. At the gloamin hour, in the still watches of the night—by
the ingle-side, abroad in the fields, or in the kirk of God—on Sabbath
or week day—when listening to her aged sire’s voice, or sitting all
alone in her little chamber, the image of him she had loved would rise
up before her, diffusing a gentle melancholy over her heart, and
seeming, for the moment, to raise an impassable barrier betwixt her and
the fulfilment of her new vows—for those vows had already been taken,
and the evening which was to make her another’s, was only postponed
until the intended bridegroom—a staid farmer of the border—could make
the necessary preparations in his homestead, necessary to fit it for a
new mistress, and she the sweetest flower of the district.

We are telling no romantic tale, drawn from the extravagant fancy of a
novelist, but a sober reality. There are hundreds, all over this broad
realm, who are even now sacrificing themselves like Jeanie. Aye! in many
a lowly cottage, unrecked of and uncared for by the world, wither away
in secret sorrow, beings who, had their lot been cast in happier places,
would have been the brightest and most joyous of creatures. How many has
want driven, unwilling brides, to the nuptial altar! Who can tell the
sacrifice woman will not make to affection, although that sacrifice may
tear her heart’s fibres asunder? And thus Jeanie acted. Although she
received the attentions of her future husband with a smile, there was a
strange unnatural meaning in its cold moonlight expression. Even while
he talked to her, her thoughts would wander away, and she would only be
awakened from her reverie by some sudden ejaculation of his at
perceiving her want of attention. He knew her history, but he had been
one of her earliest lovers, and he flattered himself that she had long
since forgotten the absent; and, although at times her demeanor would,
for a moment, make him suspect the truth, yet a conviction so little in
unison with his wishes, led him instantly to discard it. And Jeanie,
meanwhile, continued struggling with her old attachment, until her
health began to give way beneath the conflict. She scarcely seemed to
decline—at least to eyes that saw her daily—but yet her neighbors
marked the change. In the beautiful words of the ballad,

                      “her cheek it grew pale,
    And she drooped like a lily broke down by the hail.”

The morning of her wedding-day saw her as beautiful as ever, but with
how touching, how sweet an expression of countenance! As she proceeded
to the kirk, her exquisite loveliness attracted every eye, and her air
of chastened sadness drew tears from more than one spectator acquainted
with her history. The bridegroom stood smiling to receive his lovely
prize, the minister had already begun the service, and Jeanie’s heart
beat faster and faster as the moment approached which was forever after
to make all thoughts of Willie sinful, when suddenly the rattling of
rapid wheels was heard without, and instantaneously a chaise stopped at
the kirk door, and a tall form leaping from the vehicle strode rapidly
up the aisle at the very moment that the minister asked the solemn
question, if any one knew aught why the ceremony should not be finished.

“Ay,” answered the voice of the intruder, and, as he spoke, he threw off
the military cloak he wore and disclosed to the astonished eyes of the
spectators the features—scarred and sun burnt, but still the
features—of the absent shepherd, “Ay! I stand here, by God’s good aid,
to claim the maiden by right of a prior betrothal. I am William
Sandford.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen from heaven, or a spirit risen from the dead,
the audience would not have been more astonished than by this
_dénouement_. All eagerly crowded around the intruder, gazing on his
face, as the Jews of old looked on the risen Lazarus. Doubt, wonder,
conviction, enthusiasm followed each other in quick succession through
the minds of the spectators. But the long absent lover, pushing aside
the friends who thronged around him, strode up to Jeanie’s side, and,
clasping her in his arms, asked, in a voice no longer firm, but husky
with emotion,

“Oh! Jeanie, Jeanie, hae ye too forgotten me?”

The bride had fainted on his bosom; but a score of eager tongues
answered for her, and in hurried words told him the truth.

What have we more to say? Nothing—except that the returned lover took
the place of the bridegroom, who was fain to resign his claim, and that
the minister united the now re-animated Jeanie and her long-remembered
lover, while the congregation looked on with tears of joy.

The returned Shepherd—for we shall still call him so—at length found
time to tell his tale. He had been shipwrecked as rumoured, but, instead
of being drowned, had escaped and reached India. There he entered the
service and was sent into the interior, where he rose rapidly in rank,
but was unavoidably detained beyond the appointed two years, while the
communications with Calcutta being difficult and uncertain, the letters
written home apprizing Jeanie of these facts had miscarried. At length,
he had succeeded in resigning his commission, full of honors and wealth.
He hastened to Scotland. He reached Jeanie’s home, learned that she was
even then becoming the bride of another, hurried wildly to the church,
and—our readers know the rest.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               SONNET.[1]


                        BY THOMAS NOON TALFOURD.


    How often have I fixed a stranger’s gaze
    On yonder turrets clad in light as fair
    As this soft sunset lends—pleas’d to drink air
    Of learning that from calm of ancient days
    Breathes ’round them ever:—now to me they wear
    The tinge of dearer thought; the radiant haze
    That crowns them thickens as, with fonder care,
    And by its flickering sparkles, sense conveys
    Of youth’s first triumphs:—for amid their seats
    One little student’s heart impatient beats
    With blood of mine. O God, vouchsafe him power
    When I am dust to stand on this sweet place
    And, through the vista of long years, embrace
    Without a blush this first Etonian hour!

-----

[1] It is with high gratification that we present our readers, this
month, with this elegant _original_ poem from the pen of Sergeant Noon
Talfourd, of England, the author of “Ion,” and, perhaps, the first
living poet of his age. In the letter accompanying the verses he speaks
of them as “my last effusion on an occasion very dear to me—composed in
view of Eton college after leaving my eldest son there for the first
time.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE GOBLET OF LIFE.


                        BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.


    Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim;—
    And though my eyes with tears are dim,
    I see its sparkling bubbles swim,
    And chaunt this melancholy hymn,
        With solemn voice and slow.
    No purple flowers—no garlands green
    Conceal the goblet’s shade or sheen,
    Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,
    Like gleams of sunshine, flash between
        The leaves of mistletoe.

    This goblet, wrought with curious art,
    Is filled with waters that upstart,
    When the deep fountains of the heart,
    By strong convulsion rent apart,
        Are running all to waste;
    And, as it mantling passes round,
    With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,
    Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned,
    Are in its waters steeped and drowned,
        And give a bitter taste.

    Above the humbler plants it towers,
    The fennel, with its yellow flowers;
    And in an earlier age than ours
    Was gifted with the wondrous powers
        Lost vision to restore:
    It gave new strength and fearless mood,
    And gladiators fierce and rude
    Mingled it in their daily food;
    And he who battled and subdued
        A wreath of fennel wore.

    Then in Life’s goblet freely press
    The leaves that give it bitterness,
    Nor prize the colored waters less,
    For in thy darkness and distress
        New light and strength they give.
    For he who has not learned to know
    How false its sparkling bubbles show,
    How bitter are the drops of woe
    With which its brim may overflow,
        He has not learned to live!

    The prayer of Ajax was for light!
    Through all the dark and desperate fight,
    The blackness of that noon-day night,
    He asked but the return of sight
        To know his foeman’s face.
    Let our unceasing, earnest prayer
    Be, too, for light:—and strength to bear
    Our portion of the weight of care,
    That crushes into dumb despair
        One half the human race.

    O suffering, sad humanity!
    O ye afflicted ones, who lie
    Steeped to the lips in misery,
    Longing, and yet afraid to die,
        Ye have been sorely tried!
    I pledge you in your cup of grief
    Where floats the fennel’s bitter leaf!
    The battle of our life is brief,—
    The alarm,—the struggle,—the relief,—
        Then sleep we side by side.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: E. T. Parris. Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie.

_Highland Beauty._

_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]




                            HIGHLAND BEAUTY.


                            A STORY IN CAMP.


                          BY OLIVER OLDFELLOW.


“The fact is, Jeremy, I never liked the idea of writing love stories in
the presence of a pretty girl, as there is always something contagious
in love,—and do what I might—I have been a hard student that way—some
how or other I was always apt to leave off writing, and go to the
business of love-making in downright earnest,—studying from nature, you
see. It somehow puts a fellow’s hand out for writing, and inclines him
more to the use of his tongue, except when, by way of variation, he
cooly slips his arm around the dear, blushing, unwilling creature, and
drawing her gently to his bosom, as a mother would her child, smothers
the ‘bliss of talking,’ as Miss Landon called it, by a cousinly
introduction of lips. But,—by the prettiest houri that ever made
Mussulman’s heaven!—how do you think the thing is to be managed with
_two_ of the prettiest Scotch lassies that ever inspired the song of a
Burns, or the valor of a Wallace, looking you right in the eye, and one
of them with the most inviting lips, too, that ever set lover’s heart on
fire, and each with a pair of eyes that would send the blood tingling
through the veins of the veriest woman hater that ever breathed.”

“None of your nonsense, Oliver, but for once give over the lore of
talking of yourself, and let us have the story within three pages, if
you expect to be out before Christmas with the Magazine! There are a
host of better looking fellows than yourself have had their eyes upon
the girls, and—to tell you the honest truth,—the game is above your
reach.”

“By my faith in woman! Jeremy, you are as sharp this morning as a
nor’-wester—I expect you have had your _comb cut_ with one of them.
Talking of cutting combs, reminds me of a story. When I was in the
army!—”

“Ha! ha! ha! When you were in the army! By George! I like that part of
the story amazingly—if the rest is only as good I may feel inclined to
allow you half a page more!”

“Come, Jerry, none of that; I’ve known fellows talk about the army who
never even heard a gun, and chaps spin out most eternal sea-yarns, that
never smelt salt water, as any old tar would tell you before he had
listened five minutes to the story; but I am none of your green-horns—I
know what I am about when I mention war or beauty,—having seen some
service in my day. I therefore commence properly—as every story should
have a beginning, even if it has no end.”

“When I was in the army, you see, I became acquainted with a very
sentimental fellow, about your size,—though he _had_ rather a better
looking whisker for a soldier,—who was always full of romance, and all
that sort of thing,—and I _do_ believe the chap had an idea or two of
the right kind in his head, but they were so mixed up with the wrong
kind, that, like the funds of a good many bankers now-a-days, they were
not always ‘available.’ He had got it into his cranium, and there it
would stick, that he had a little better blood in him than any body
else, so that he was confoundedly careful not to have any of it spilt,
and nothing but the daughter of a lord came any way near the mark to
which he aspired. He used to tell a good many stories about himself, and
he would tell them pretty well too, but they somehow or other had a
smack of the marvellous. His stories about the doings among the
gentry—the fellow, you see, had been educated by a lord, or something
of that sort, and had seen a little of high life above stairs as well as
below—took amazingly in the camp, especially his sentimental ones, for
he had the knack of making a fool of himself—”

“But, for goodness sake, Oliver! the story!—the story!”

“The fact is, Jerry, I am pretty much in the predicament of the
knife-grinder!—Story of my own—I have none to tell. But here is one
of——confound the fellow’s name,—no matter.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Emily Melville—the only daughter of the proud Lord Melville, who was
well known in the time of the wars—as the representative of the long
line of illustrious Scottish nobles of that name, was the pride of the
Lowland nobility, and the belle of every assembly. She was as fair as a
white fawn, and scarcely less wild. Her mother being dead, few
restraints were placed upon the young beauty by the old house-keeper,
who, in the main, filled the place. Emily, therefore, held in proud
disdain the restraints which would have been imposed by the prudes of
her sex, and thought that the great art of living was to be happy.
Laughter was always on her lips, and sunlight forever on her brow. She
was beautiful, and you knew it, yet you could not tell the secret of it,
nor, for their restlessness and brilliancy, whether her eyes were blue
or gray, yet you knew that they were pretty, and felt that they were
bright. Her voice was like the warble of a bird in spring, its notes
were so full of joyousness; and her motion was like that of a fairy, so
light and graceful, that, had you seen her tripping over the smoothly
shaved lawn in front of the mansion—her auburn hair drooping in long
ringlets over her snowy and finely rounded shoulders—and heard her gay
glad voice, swelling out in song and happiness, you would have fancied
her an angel from the upper sphere.”

“I doubt that last part, my good fellow”—interrupted a bluff old
soldier—“until I had tried an arm around her, to see if she wasn’t
flesh and blood, I wouldn’t a’ trusted fancy.”

“An interruption, gentlemen. You see if the story is told right, a man
must _feel_ what he says, and you’ll find out before it’s done, that
I”—

“What, young man! You didn’t begin to make love to _her_ did you?”

“Gentlemen, I must persist”—

“Well, was _she_ in love—tell us that.”

“Love!—She laughed at it—and said, ‘she loved nothing but her pet
fawn—her canary—the flowers, both wild and tame—the blue sky—the
sunshine—the heather—the forest—the mountains—and it might be—she
did not know—she _might_ love her cousin Harry Hardwick, if he was as
pleasant as he was when her playmate a few years ago—but he was now at
his father’s castle on the mountain, and perhaps had grown coarse,
boorish, or ill-mannered. She did not know therefore whether she should
love him or not—rather thought she should not—but then she had her
father, and enough around her to love and cherish, and why should she
trouble herself about the matter.’

“You will not wonder, gentlemen, that such a creature should inspire me
with love—a deep, devoted, heart-absorbing, deathless passion. I loved
her as man never loved woman before. Every pulsation, every energy of my
being seemed for her”—

“Of course, _you’d_ love her!—never heard you tell of a pretty girl
that you didn’t love—but give us the pith and marrow of the matter; did
she return the compliment?”

“All in good time!—You see the thing might have been very handsomely
managed, if it had not been for one or two impediments”—

“What in the plague does the fellow mean by _impediment_?”

“Hush, can’t you! He means he didn’t get her, of course.”

“Well, you see, gentlemen, there was a shocking looking young fellow of
a lord, who lived upon the next estate, who got it into his head that he
must take a hand in the game. To give him his due, he was accomplished,
witty, had a title, and a splendid whisker, and from beginning to call
every few days to inquire after Lord Melville’s health—the old chap had
the best health in the world—about three times a-week, he soon managed
to call the other four days on his own account, so that I found the
prize in a fair way to be snatched from my grasp, and I resolved to
bring matters to a close pretty soon. So one morning, when Lord Melville
was out looking into parliamentary matters, inquiring into the affairs
of the nations, or his own, I thought I would open the question
genteely. Emily had sung for me most sweetly, without any apology or
affectation, and we were now sitting chatting very pleasantly together.
How easy, then, to turn the conversation in the proper channel. To
discourse of green fields—of murmuring brooks—of the delights of
solitude with one of congenial tastes—of the birds, the fawn, and the
attachment they showed their mistress. Then, of course, she would wonder
whether they really loved her, whether they knew what love was, or only
felt joy at her presence, because they knew her as their feeder. Then I
would say, of _course_ they loved her, how could they do
otherwise,—were not all things that approached her _fated_ to love her.
Then she blushes, gets up, and goes to the window opening on the
garden—to look at the flowers maybe—I must see them too, of course,
for they are _her_ flowers. I always loved flowers, and particularly
love these. Things, gentlemen, were thus progressing pretty smoothly,
you will see, considering that the lady was the daughter of a lord, and
of course heiress to his whole estate, when lo!—my unlucky genius as
usual—the housekeeper must poke in her head, and ask if ‘anybody
called.’ No! certainly not! What young lady ever called a housekeeper at
such a time! Pshaw! The thing was shocking to think of! How stupid in
her! The old thing had an eye in her head like a hawk, however, and saw
pretty clearly how matters stood, and whether she thought that there was
no chance for me in that quarter, or had some private preference of her
own, she maintained her ground until I deemed it prudent to withdraw.

“Days passed away, and no opportunity was afforded me of renewing my
suit. Whether the old housekeeper took the matter in hand or not, of
course I cannot say; but when days began to grow into weeks, I began to
feel the wretchedness of first love. Who has not felt its fears, its
doubts, the torture, whether you are beloved by the object of your
affection, and the uncertainty, even in your own mind, whether you are
worthy of that love?—who has not felt the dread of rivalry, the fears
of the effects of a moment’s absence, and the thousand untold pangs,
which none but a lover’s imagination can inflict—and he a lover for the
first time? It is strange, gentlemen, that I should, after this sweet
interview, which seemed destined to be the last that I should have with
the most angelic of beings, place myself upon the rack, and delight in
the torture, with the devotion to wretchedness of a heart inspired with
‘the gentle madness,’ for the first time, of passionate, deathless
love—”

“Hold up, comrade! and do give us the pith of the matter, without all
this flummery. I’ve known chaps talk all day in that strain, who never
had any story to tell, but would go on yarning it until roll-call, just
to hear themselves talk. Now, if you got the gal, say so—if you didn’t,
tell us why—and none of your rigmarole.”

“Of course, gentlemen, I did not get her, and that is the reason I am
here to tell the story. Misfortunes, you know, travel close upon each
other’s heels, and sure enough, in the midst of my misery, the carriage
of Lord Hardwick was announced, and who should it contain but Emily’s
cousin ‘Harry,’—her old playmate, and his sister. I heard the
announcement, but I heard no more, until an hour or two afterwards,
when, out of sheer melancholy, I had taken to the garden for
contemplation and meditation, I _accidentally_ overheard Harry
Hardwick’s declaration and his acceptance, and, after half an hour of
silence, a laugh by both parties at my expense.

“I had enough of the soldier’s blood in me, gentlemen, even then, to
_take no notice_ of this downright incivility and want of breeding,
though I do not of course suppose that the parties dreamed that they had
a listener, so I cast her off as unworthy of my love; and thus ended my
first love.”

“Very sensibly done, too, my boy! I applaud your spirit. It was worthy
of a soldier.”

“But, gentlemen, this was but the opening of difficulties, for I was no
sooner out of this scrape than my sensitive heart must betray me into
another. How all the dreams of even Emily’s beauty melted away as the
mist from the hills—perhaps assisted by the knowledge she was the prize
of another—when next morning my eyes beheld Arabella Hardwick. She was
leaning over the back of the sofa, at the very window from which the day
before I had praised the flowers with Emily. Passing beautiful was she
as she stood in her virgin loveliness before me, with her highland-cap
and its white plume over curls of jet, that seemed in mere wantonness to
fall from beneath, over her fine neck and swelling bosom, whose
treasures were scarcely concealed by the highland-mantle which so well
became her. Her brow was slightly shaded with curls, while from beneath,
her eyes, darker than heaven’s own blue, seemed to be melting before
your gaze. Her smile was sweetness itself, and came from lips of which
heaven and earth seemed to dispute ownership. Emily was seated at her
side, in the act of fixing a hawk’s feather in a highland-cap for her
own fair brow, yet in her eye mischief and cunning strove for mastery,
and her whole face was so full of meaning that I knew that I must have
been the subject of previous conversation, and I felt my face crimson
before the highland beauties. I verily believe that I made an
impression, gentlemen, which, had it been properly followed up, might
have been the making of me; I have always fancied somehow or other that
the highland beauty was rather smitten with me, for there was such a
coaxing expression in her whole face, and particularly in her
lips—which seemed to be begging a kiss—that I do believe that if it
had not been for the presence of my old flame, ‘my first love,’
gentlemen, I should have carried the fortress by storm! but you see, as
it was, I stood blushing and looking simple until, for very amusement
sake, both commenced laughing, and Emily broke the ice by asking me if I
had lost my tongue.

“‘On this hint I spoke.’—It is not necessary, gentlemen, to repeat all
the fine things I said—for fine things in a sentimental way, are not
relished in camp—but suffice it to say that the ground was so well
marked out in my first interview, that I deemed it expedient to pop the
question, ‘striking while the iron’s hot,’ you know—somewhat musty, but
very expressive—yet you will scarcely believe me, gentlemen—she
rejected me _flat_—‘_because I had no whiskers_.’”

“You don’t say that was the _main_ objection?”

“I say that was the only objection, and to prove its validity, she
married five months after, Lord Gordon, Emily’s former suitor—whose
only advantage was a fine pair of whiskers—with the addition of an
estate and a title.”

“But perhaps the latter had some weight.”

“None, I assure you, as I pressed the matter, and she averred, that love
in a cottage with a whisker, was in every way more congenial to her
taste, than the finest mansion in the land without that appendage. So
you see I took to cultivating whiskers with great assiduity; but for a
long time, the rascals defied all attempts to train them; the shoots
were tolerably advanced in less than six months; but they were too
late—for the lady was married.”

“Well, you are a cool sort of a fellow to talk of transferring your love
from one high-born lady to another, with the same ease as a soldier does
a feather from his cap. I suppose you finally courted the old
housekeeper out of sheer revenge.”

“None of that, I assure you, for she revenged my want of attention that
way, by giving Lord Melville a history of the whole matter—with
trimmings.—So the old codger said I was as crazy as a bed-bug, and
clapped me in the army, as a kind of lunatic asylum to recover my wits.
So that’s the _end of the story_.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

“There, Jerry, put that in your pipe, or your Magazine, just as you
like, for no story do I write for a fellow who comes to me with a piece
of tape to measure the length, as if a man spun like a spider, and if it
don’t fill your three pages—add a paragraph about the children.—What
do ye say?”

“It’s rather so-soish at best, Oliver!—But what regiment did you say
you were in?”

“Regiment—did I say anything about regiment? You must be mistaken,
Jerry! these confounded soldier terms are all mouldering in my brain,
these peaceable times.”

“Well, where was the army encamped?”

“At a—a place with a confounded French name—I never had any command of
the cursed language, and was glad enough when we got out of the place,
never to bother my brain with its name.”

“Well, the war!—In what war was it?—Let us have something to go upon.”

“As for dates and names, Jerry, I never for the soul of me, could make
any headway with them. A phrenologist once told me, that for names and
dates I had no development, and whenever I begin to try to think of my
exploits in battle, I think the fellow was right—as I am always out for
the want of names and dates. So I think it best first to tell the
_facts_, and let people fix dates to suit themselves. So, Jerry, hand
over the port—this is confounded dry business.”

“To tell you the truth, Oliver, the whole story has rather a squint, and
I have half a notion that for the most of it, we are indebted to the
good looks of the two bonnie Scotch lassies, and rather a marvellous
imagination.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 LINES.


            WRITTEN ON A PORTRAIT OF WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON.


                        BY MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY.


    Hail pictured image! thine immortal art
    Hath snatch’d a hero from the arms of death,
    In whose broad bosom beat the noblest heart
    That ever drew on earth a balmy breath;
    For while amid the sons of men he trod,
    That true nobility to him was given
    Whose seal is stamp’d by an approving God,
    Whose ever-blooming title comes from heaven.

    The fire of genius glistened in his glance,
    ’Twas written on his calm majestic brow,
    That men might look upon its clear expanse
    And read that God and Nature made him so;
    Yet that pale temple could not always keep
    The soul imprisoned in its earthly bars,
    Born for the skies, his god-like soul doth sweep
    The boundless circle of the radiant stars.

    How soft the placid smiles that seemed to bask
    Round those pale features once the spirit’s shrine
    And hover round those lips that only ask
    A second impress from the hand divine!
    And look upon that brow! a living light
    Plays like a sun-beam o’er his silver hair,
    As if the happy spirit in its flight
    Had left a saint-like glory trembling there.

    Yet tho’ some skilful hand may softly paint
    The noble form and features we adore,
    Such deeds as thine are left, Oh happy Saint!
    Are left alone for Memory to restore.
    And still thy virtues like a soft perfume
    That rises from a bed of fading flowers,
    Immortal as thyself, shall bud and bloom
    Deep in these hearts, these grateful hearts of ours.

    Sons of Columbia! ye whose spirits soar
    Elate with joyous hopes and youthful fires,
    Go, imitate the hero you deplore,
    For this is all that God or man requires.
    Oh! while you bend the pensive brow of grief,
    Muse on the bright examples he has given,
    And strive to follow your ascended chief
    Whose radiant foot-prints lead to fame and heaven.

    Oh guard his grave! it is a solemn trust,
    Nor let a single foeman press the sod
    Beneath whose verdure sleeps the sacred dust
    Once hallowed by the quick’ning breath of God.
    Thus in his lonely grandeur let him lie
    Wrapt in his grave on fair Ohio’s shore,
    His deeds, his virtues, all that could not die,
    Remain with us, and shall for evermore.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         TO A LAND BIRD AT SEA.


                         BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.


    Bird of the land! what dost thou here?
      Lone wanderer o’er a trackless bound,—
    With nought but frowning skies above,
      And cold, unfathom’d seas around;

    Among the shrouds, with heaving breast
      And drooping head, I see thee stand,
    And pleased the coarsest sailor climbs,
      To grasp thee in his roughen’d hand.

    And didst thou follow, league on league,
      Our pointed mast, thine only guide,
    When but a floating speck it seemed
      On the broad bosom of the tide?

    On far Newfoundland’s misty bank,
      Hadst thou a nest, and nurslings fair?
    Or ’mid New England’s forests hoar?
      Speak! speak! what tidings dost thou bear?

    What news from native shore and home,
      Swift courier o’er the threatening tide?—
    Hast thou no folded scroll of love
      Prest closely to thy panting side?

    A bird of genius art thou? say!
      With impulse high thy spirit stirred—
    Some region unexplored to gain,
      And soar above the common herd?

    Burns in thy breast some kindling spark
      Like that which fired the glowing mind
    Of the adventurous Genoese,
      An undiscovered world to find?

    Whate’er thou wert, how sad thy fate
      With wasted strength the goal to spy,
    Cling feebly to the flapping sail,
      And at a stranger’s feet to die.

    Yet, from thy thin and bloodless beak,
      Methinks a warning sigh doth creep—
    To those who leave their sheltering home,
      And lightly dare the dangerous deep.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE SNOW-STORM.


                   A MONOLOGUE BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ.


It is almost twilight. How swiftly have the moments glided by since we
sat ourselves by this window—let us see—some two hours since, and
during all that time not a word have we spoken, although our soul has
been gushing over with its exceeding fulness. It is snowing. Look out
and you will see the downy flakes—there, there, and there—one chasing
another, millions on millions falling without intermission, coming down
noiselessly and mysteriously, as a dream of childhood, on the earth, and
covering field, and forest, and house-top, hill and vale, river, glade,
and meadow, with a robe that is whiter than an angel’s mantle. How
ceaseless the descent! What countless myriads—more countless than even
the stars of heaven—have fallen since we have been watching here! God
only could have ordered the falling of that flake which has just now
sunk to the earth like an infant on its young mother’s milk-white bosom.
Did you not see it? There—follow this one which has just emerged from
the skies—but at what spot even we cannot detect—see its slow, easy,
tremulous motion as it floats downwards; now how rapidly it intermingles
with the others, so that you can scarcely keep it in your eye; and
there! there! it shoots to the ground with a joyous leap—and, even as
we speak, another and another, aye! ten thousand thousand of them have
flitted past, like the gleaming of cherubic wings, such as we used to
see in our childhood’s dreams, glancing to and fro before a throne of
surpassing glory, far, far away, high up in the skies.

It is snowing. Faster, faster, faster come down the feathery flakes. See
how they disport themselves—giddy young creatures as they are—whirling
around; now up, and now down; dancing, leaping, flying; you can almost
hear their sportive laughter as they skim away across the landscape.
Almost, we say, for in truth there is not a sound to be heard in earth,
air, or sky. The ground, all robed in white, is hushed in silence—the
river sweeps its current along no longer with a hoarse chafing sound,
but flows onward with a dull, clogged, almost noiseless motion—not a
bird whistles in the wood, nor a beast lows from the barn-yard—while
the trees, lifting their bleached branches to the skies, shiver in the
keen air, and cower uncomplainingly beneath the falling flakes. But
hark! there is a voice beside us—’tis that of the beloved of our
soul—repeating Thomson’s Winter—Thomson! majestic at all times, but
oh! how much more so when gushing in silver music from the lips of the
white-armed one beside us. Hear her!

    “The keener tempests rise: and fuming dun
    From all the livid east, or piercing north,
    Thick clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb
    A vapory deluge lies, to snow congeal’d.
    Heavy they roll their fleecy world along;
    And the sky saddens with the gather’d storm.
    _Through the hush’d air the whitening shower descends,_
    _At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes_
    _Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day,_
    _With a continual flow._ The cherished fields
    Put on their winter-robe of purest white.
    ’Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts
    Along the mazy current. Low the woods
    Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun
    Faint from the west emits his evening ray
    Earth’s universal face, deep hid, and chill,
    Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
    The works of man. Drooping, the laborer ox
    Stands covered o’er with snow——”

But let us away to the mountains! Far up in a gorge of the Alleghanies
we will stand, with the clouds whirling wildly around and beneath, and
the wind whistling shrilly far down in some ravine, which we may not
see; for all around us is, as it were, a shoreless ocean, buried in a
ghastly mist, from which the tall cliffs jut up like islands—and ever,
ever comes to our ears from this boiling vortex a sound as of many waves
chafing against the shore, like that which the priest of Apollo listened
to as he walked all disconsolate, bereft of his fair-haired daughter,
back from the tents of the stern Hellenes to the towers of Ilium. The
air is full of snow-flakes, driving hither and thither—thick, thick,
thicker they descend—you cannot see a fathom before you. Take care how
you tread, for a false step may plunge you into an abyss a thousand feet
plumb down. Not far from here is the very spot where an unwary
traveller, on a night like this, but a bare twelve-month since, slipped
from the edge of the precipice, and was never heard of again, until the
warm sunny breath of April, melting the snows from beneath the shadows
of the hills, disclosed him lying unburied, with his face turned up, as
if in mockery, to the bright heavens on which his eye might never look
again. In vain had loved ones watched for his coming until their eyes
grew weary, and their hearts turned to fountains of tears within
them—in vain had a wife or mother kindled the cheery fire, or smoothed
for him the bed of down, to welcome him after his absence—for

    “——his sheets are more white,
      And his canopy grander,
    And sounder he sleeps
      Where the hill-foxes wander.”

We are in the mountains, in the midst of a snow-storm, and, as we look
around, we feel that Jehovah, as when Moses heard the noise of a mighty
wind, is passing by. There is a vague emotion of mingled wonder, fear
and awe, overshadowing our soul as we stand here alone in the tempest.
See how the drift is spinning in the whirlwind; and now it streams out
like a pennant on the night. Hark! to the deep organ peal of the
hurricane as it thunders among the peaks high up above us—listen to the
wild shrieks rising, we know not whither, as if the spirits of the
mountain were writhing on beds of torture, as the olden legends say, all
unpardoned by their Creator. And now—louder and wilder than the
rest—sounding upwards from the gulf below, a voice of agony and
might—sublime even in its tribulation, awful in its expression of
gigantic suffering—like that of him whom the seer of the Apocalypse
beheld bound hand and foot and cast into the bottomless pit, despite an
unyielding conflict of twice ten thousand years. Ruin!—ruin!—all is
ruin around us. We see not the burying of hamlets, we hear not the
descent of avalanches, but the sky is lit up with a wan glare, the whole
air is full of mysterious sounds, and we feel, with a strange
all-pervading fear, that destruction will glut herself ere morning. God
help the traveller who is abroad to-night!

And now, with a sheer descent, full fifty fathoms down, let us plunge
like the eagle when he shoots before the burning thunderbolt. We are on
the wide ocean, and what a sight! Sea and air are commingled into one.
You seem buried alive in a whirling tempest of snow-flakes, and though,
as on the mountain, you hear on every side sounds of utter agony, yet,
as there, the keenest eye cannot penetrate the wan, dim prospect around;
but here, unlike on the hills, there is one voice superior to all the
rest—the deep, awful bass of the rolling surges. And then the
hurricane! How it whistles, roars and bellows through the rigging, now
piping shrill and clear, and now groaning awfully as if in its last
extremity. The snow is blocking up the decks, wet, spongy and bitterly
cold. There! how she thumped against that wave, quivering under it in
every timber, while the spray was dimly seen flying wild and high over
the fore-top. “Shall we—oh! shall we live till morning?” asks a weeping
girl. “We know not, sweet one, but we are in the Almighty’s hand, and
his fatherly care will be over us as well here as on the land.” There;
see—“hold on all,” thunders the Stentor voice of the skipper, sounding
now however fainter than the feeblest infant’s cry; and as he speaks,
the craft shivers with a convulsive throe, and a gigantic billow,
seething, hissing, flashing, whirls in over the bow, deluges the deck,
and roars away into the blackness of darkness astern. Was that a cry of
a man overboard? God in his infinite mercy, pardon the poor wretch’s
sins; for, alas! it were madness to attempt his rescue. Already he is
far astern. Another and another wave! Oh! for the light of morning. Yes!
young Jessie, thou would’st give worlds now for the breezes of the
far-off land—the hum of bees, the songs of birds, the scent of flowers
in the summer sunshine—the sight of thy home smiling amidst its
murmuring trees, with the clear brook hard by laughing over the stones,
and the voices of thy young sisters sounding gaily in thy ears. But ere
morning we may all be with our brother who has but just gone from our
midst. _Ora pro nobis!_

We were but dreaming when we thought ourselves among the mountains and
on the sea, and we were awoke by thy soft voice—oh! loved one of our
soul—and looking into thy blue eyes—moist, not with tears, but with
thine all-sensitive soul—we feel a calm come down upon us soothing, how
gently and sweetly, our agitated thoughts. Many and many a tale could we
tell thee of sorrow and peril on the seas, and our heart is even now
full of one which would bring the tears into other eyes than thine—but
no! you tell us we are all too agitated by our dream, and that another
time will do—well, well! Sing us, then, one of thine own sweet
songs—Melanie!—for is not thy voice like the warbler of our woods, he
of the hundred notes, the silvery, the melting, the unrivalled? That was
sweetly done—ever could we sit and listen to thee thus.

      “Thy voice is like a fountain
    Leaping up in sunshine bright,
      And _we_ never weary counting
    Its clear droppings, lone and single,
    Or when in one full gush they mingle,
      Shooting in melodious light!”

That is Lowell’s—a noble soul is his, and all on fire with poetry. We
tender to him, though we have never met in the flesh, our good right
hand, joining his herewith in cordial fellowship, the hearts of both
being in our eyes the while:—we tender him our hand—he far away in his
student’s room at Boston and we here in old Philadelphia—and we tell
sneering worldlings and critics who are born only to be damned, that,
for one so young, Lowell has written grandly; that he is full, even to
overflowing, of purity, enthusiasm, imagination, and love for all God’s
creatures; and being this, why should not we—aye! and all honest men
beside—grasp him cheerily by the hand, and if need be, stand to our
arms in his defence?

But the clock has struck six, and we will walk to the door to see if the
tempest still rages. What a glorious night! The moon is out, sailing
high up in heaven, with a calm mystic majesty that fills the soul with
untold peace. Far away on the horizon floats a misty veil—while here
and there, in the sky, a cloud still lingers, its dark body seeming like
velvet on an azure ground, and its edges turned up with silver. There
are a thousand stars on the frosty snow; for every tiny crystal that
shoots out into the moonshine glistens all diamond-like; and, as you
walk, ten thousand new crystals open to the light, until the whole
landscape seems alive with millions of gems. Hark! how the hard crust
crackles under the tread. If you put your ear to the ground you will
hear a multitude of almost inarticulate sounds as if the sharp
moon-beams were splintering the snow—but it is only the shooting of
myriads of crystals. There have been icicles forming all day from yonder
twig, and now as we shake the tree, you may hear them tinkling, one by
one, to the ground, with a clear silvery tone, like the ringing of a
bell miles off among the hills. Early in the afternoon, the snow melted
on the river, but towards nightfall the stream became clogged, and now
the frost is “breathing a blue film” from shore to shore—and to-morrow
the whole surface will be smooth as glass, and the steel of the skater
will be ringing sharp along the ice. How keen was that gust!—you may
hear its dying cadence moaning away in the distance, like the wail of a
lost child in a forest. Hush! was that a whistle down in the wood?

And now again all is still. Let us pause a moment and look around. The
well-known landmarks of the scene have disappeared, giving place to an
unbroken prospect of the purest white. We seem to have entered into a
new world, and to have lost by the transition all our old and more
selfish feelings, so that now, every emotion of our heart is softened
down to a gentle calm, in unison with the beauty and repose around us.
There is a dreaminess in the landscape, thus half seen by the light of
the moon, giving full play to the imagination. The spirit spurns this
mortal tenement of clay, and soars upwards to a brighter world, holding
fancied communion with the myriads of beatified spirits, which it would
fain believe, hover in the air and whisper unseen into our souls.
Glorious thought, that God hath appointed such guardian watchers over a
lost and sinful race! We would not surrender this belief—wild and
visionary as it may seem to some—for all that sectarians have asserted
or atheists denied. We love, in the still watches of the night, to think
that the “loved and lost” are communing with our hearts—that though
dead they yet live, and watch, as of old, over our erring path—that
they soothe us in sorrow, hover around our beds of sickness, are the
first to bear the parted soul upwards to the gates of Paradise—and that
the angelic sounds we hear upon the midnight air, coming we know not
whither, but seeming to pervade the whole firmament as with a celestial
harmony, are but their songs of praise. Or may not these heavenly
strains be the cadences which faintly float, far down from the
battlements of heaven?

                            “Oft in bands
    While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk,
    With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds
    In full harmonic numbers joined, their songs
    Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven.”

The dream grows dim, the illusion is fading, our rhapsody dies upon our
lips. We hear again thy voice—Hebe of our heart!—and we may not longer
tarry in the night air. And so farewell!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              APOSTROPHE.


                            BY ALBERT PIKE.


      Oh Liberty! thou child of many hopes,
        Nursed in the cradle of the human heart!
      While Europe in her glimmering darkness gropes,
        Do not from us, thy chosen ones, depart!
        Still be to us, as thou hast been, and art,
      The Spirit which we breathe! Oh, teach us still
        Thy arrowy truths unquailingly to dart,
      Until the Tyrant and Oppressor reel,
    And Despotism trembles at thy thunder-peal.

      Methinks thy sun-rise now is lighting up
        The far horizon of yon hemisphere
      With golden lightning. O’er the hoary top
        Of the blue mountain see I not appear
        Thy lovely dawn; while Pain, and crouching Fear,
      And Slavery perish under tottering thrones?
        How long, oh Liberty! until we hear
      Instead of an insulted people’s moans,
    The crushed and writhing tyrants uttering their groans?

      Is not thy Spirit living still in France?
        Will it not waken soon in storm and fire?
      Will Earthquake not ’mid thrones and cities dance,
        And Freedom’s altar be the funeral pyre
        Of Tyranny and all his offspring dire?
      In England, Germany, Italia, Spain,
        And Switzerland thy Spirit doth inspire
      The multitude—and though too long, in vain,
    They struggle in deep gloom, yet Slavery’s night shall wane!

      And shall _we_ sleep while all the earth awakes?
        Shall _we_ turn slaves while on the Alpine cones
      And vine-clad hills of Europe brightly breaks
        The morning light of liberty?—What thrones
        Can equal those which on our fathers’ bones
      The demagogue would build? What chains so gall
        As those the self-made Helot scarcely owns
      Till they eat deeply—till the live pains crawl
    Into his soul who caused _himself_ to fall!

      Men’s freedom may be wrested from their hands,
        And they may mourn; but not like those who throw
      Their heritage away—who clasp the bands
        On their own limbs, and crawl and blindly go
        Like timorous fawns to their own overthrow.
      Shall we thus fall? Is it so difficult
        To think that we are free, yet be not so—
      To shatter down by one brief hour of guilt
    The holy fane of Freedom that our fathers built.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT.


                           IN THREE CHIMERAS.


                     BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.


             Chimera I.

    An anthem of a sister choristry!
    And like a windward murmur of the sea
    O’er silver shells, so solemnly it falls!
    A dying music, shrouded in deep walls,
    That bury its wild breathings! And the moon,
    Of glow-worm hue, like virgin in sad swoon,
    Lies coldly on the bosom of a cloud,
    Until the elf-winds, that are wailing loud,
    Do minister unto her sickly trance,
    Fanning the life into her countenance.
    And there are pale stars sparkling, far and few,
    In the deep chasms of everlasting blue,
    Unmarshall’d and ungather’d, one and one,
    Like outposts of the lunar garrison.

    A train of holy fathers windeth by
    The arches of an aged sanctuary,
    With cowl, and scapular, and rosary,
    On to the sainted oriel, where stood,
    By the rich altar, a fair sisterhood—
    A weeping group of virgins!—one or two
    Bent forward to a bier of solemn hue,
    Whereon a bright and stately coffin lay,
    With its black pall flung over:—Agathè
    Was on the lid—a name. And who? No more!
    ’Twas only Agathè.

                      ’Tis o’er, ’tis o’er—
    Her burial!—and, under the arcades,
    Torch after torch into the moonlight fades,
    And there is heard the music, a brief while,
    Over the roofings of the imaged aisle,
    From the deep organ, panting out its last,
    Like the slow dying of an autumn blast.

    A lonely monk is loitering within
    The dusky area, at the altar seen,
    Like a pale spirit, kneeling in the light
    Of the cold moon, that looketh wan and white
    Through the deviced oriel; and he lays
    His hands upon his bosom, with a gaze
    To the chill earth. He had the youthful look
    Which heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shook
    At every gust of the unholy breeze
    That entered through the time-worn crevices.

    A score of summers only o’er his brow
    Had passed—and it was summer, even now
    The one-and-twentieth—from a birth of tears,
    Over a waste of melancholy years!
    And _that_ brow was as wan as if it were
    Of snowy marble, and the raven hair,
    That would have clustered over, was all shorn,
    And his fine features stricken pale as morn.

    He kiss’d a golden crucifix, that hung
    Around his neck, and, in a transport, flung
    Himself upon the earth, and said, and said
    Wild, raving words, about the blessed dead;
    And then he rose, and in the moon-shade stood,
    Gazing upon its light in solitude,
    And smote his brow, at some idea wild
    That came across; then, weeping like a child,
    He faltered out the name of Agathè,
    And look’d unto the heaven inquiringly,
    And the pure stars.

                   “Oh, shame! that ye are met
    To mock me, like old memories, that yet
    Break in upon the golden dream I knew
    While she—_she_ lived; and I have said adieu
    To that fair one, and to her sister, Peace,
    That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou cease
    To feed upon my quiet, thou Despair,
    That art the mad usurper, and the heir
    Of this heart’s heritage? Go, go—return,
    And bring me back oblivion and an urn!
    And ye, pale stars, may look, and only find
    The wreck of a proud tree, that lets the wind
    Count o’er its blighted boughs: for such was he
    That loved, and loves, the silent Agathè.”
    And he hath left the sanctuary, like one
    That knew not his own purpose—the red sun
    Rose early over incense of bright mist,
    That girded a pure sky of amethyst.

    And who was he? A monk. And those who knew,
    Yclept him Julio; but they were few.
    And others named him as a nameless one,—
    A dark, sad-hearted being, who had none
    But bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness,
    That fed the wildest of all curses—madness!

    But he was, what none knew, of lordly line,
    That fought in the far land of Palestine,
    Where, under banners of the Cross, they fell,
    Smote by the armies of the infidel.
    And Julio was the last; alone, alone,
    A sad, unfriended orphan, that had gone
    Into the world to murmur and to die,
    Like the cold breezes that are passing by!

    And few they were that bade him to their board;
    His fortunes now were over, and the sword
    Of his proud ancestry dishonor’d—left
    To moulder in its sheath—a hated gift!
    Ay! it was so; and Julio would fain
    Have been a warrior; but his very brain
    Grew fever’d at the sickly thought of death.
    And to be stricken with a want of breath!—
    To be the food of worms—inanimate,
    And cold as winter—and as desolate!
    And then to waste away, and be no more
    Than the dark dust!—the thought was like a sore
    That gather’d in his heart; and he would say,
    “A curse be on their laurels,” and decay
    Came over them; the deeds that they had done
    Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon
    Was Julio forgotten, and his line—
    No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!

    Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!
    But loved not death; his purpose was between
    Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there
    Like a wild bird, that floated far and fair
    Betwixt the sun and sea.

                            He went, and came—
    And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same—
    A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night
    Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight
    Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind
    Play with his raven tresses, or would bind
    Grottos of birch, wherein to sit and sing;
    And peasant girls would find him sauntering,
    To gaze upon their features, as they met,
    In laughter, under some green arboret.

    At last he became a monk, and, on his knees,
    Said holy prayers, and with wild penances
    Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim
    That, like a shadow, loiter’d over him,
    Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed
    With none of the mad thoughts that were at first
    The poison of his quiet; but he grew
    To love the world and its wild laughter too,
    As he had known before: and wish’d again
    To join the very mirth he hated then.

    He durst not break the vow—he durst not be
    The one he would—and his heart’s harmony
    Became a tide of sorrow. Even so,
    He felt hope die—in madness and in wo!

    But there came one—and a most lovely one
    As ever to the warm light of the sun
    Threw back her tresses—a fair sister girl,
    With a brow changing between snow and pearl;
    And the blue eyes of sadness, filled with dew
    Of tears—like Heaven’s own melancholy blue—
    So beautiful, so tender; and her form
    Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm:
    Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow—
    Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow
    Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright
    In her own self—a mystery of light!
    With feelings tender as a star’s own hue,
    Pure as the morning star! as true, as true:
    For it will glitter in each early sky,
    And her first love be love that lasteth aye!

    And this was Agathè—young Agathè—
    A motherless, fair girl: and many a day
    She wept for her lost parent. It was sad
    To see her infant sorrow; how she bade
    The flow of her wild spirits fall away
    To grief, like bright clouds in a summer day
    Melting into a shower; and it was sad
    Almost to think she might again be glad—
    Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fall
    Of her bright tears. Yet in her father’s hall
    She had lived almost sorrowless her days;
    But he felt no affection for the gaze
    Of his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled,
    He bade no father’s welcome to the child,
    But even told his wish, and will’d it done,
    For her to be sad-hearted—and a nun!

    And so it was. She took the dreary veil,
    A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew pale
    Upon her cheek; she felt, as summer feels
    The winds of autumn, and the winter chills
    That darken his fair suns—it was away,
    Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathè!

    The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymn
    Sung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim,
    Gray aisle, was heard a solitary tread,
    As of one musing sadly on the dead—
    ’Twas Julio. It was his wont to be
    Often alone within the sanctuary;
    But now, not so—another: it was she!
    Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saint
    Before a crucifix; but sad and faint
    The tone of her devotion, as the trill
    Of a moss-burden’d melancholy rill.
    And Julio stood before her;—’twas as yet
    The hour of the pale twilight—and they met
    Each other’s gaze, till either seem’d the hue
    Of deepest crimson; but the ladye threw
    Her veil above her features, and stole by
    Like a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!

    Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone,
    A dreamer!——“is the sister ladye gone?”
    He started at the silence of the air
    That slumber’d over him—she is not there.

    And either slept not through the live-long night,
    Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright,
    Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose
    In sorrow from the pallet of repose:
    For the dark thought of their sad destiny
    Came o’er them, like a chasm of the deep sea,
    That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve
    They met again, but, silent, took their leave,
    As they did yesterday: another night,
    And neither spoke awhile—a pure delight,
    Had chasten’d love’s first blushes: silently
    Gazed Julio on the gentle Agathè—
    At length, “Fair Nun!” she started, and held fast
    Her bright hand on her lips—“the past, the past,
    And the pale future! there be some that lie
    Under those marble urns—I know not why,
    But I were better in that holy calm,
    Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am.
    The past!—ay! it hath perish’d; never, never,
    Would I recall it to be blest for ever;
    The future it must come—I have a vow”—
    And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow,
    “True, true, I have a vow; is not the moon
    Abroad, fair nun?”—“indeed! so very soon?”
    Said Agathè, and “I must then away.”
    “Stay, love! ’tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!”

    But she was gone:—yet they met many a time
    In the lone chapel, after vesper chime—
    They met in love and fear.

                                One weary day,
    And Julio saw not his loved Agathè;
    She was not in the choir of sisterhood
    That sang the evening anthem; and he stood
    Like one that listen’d breathlessly awhile;
    But stranger voices chanted through the aisle.
    She was not there; and after all were gone,
    He linger’d: the stars came—he linger’d on,
    Like a dark fun’ral image on the tomb
    Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom
    Upon his heart—a solitude—a chill.
    The pale moon rose, and still he linger’d still.
    And the next vesper toll’d; nor yet, nor yet—
    “Can Agathè be faithless and forget?”

    It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,
    “Poor Julio! thy Agathè is dead;”
    And started. He had loiter’d in the train
    That bore her to the grave: he saw her lain
    In the cold earth, and heard a requiem
    Sung over her. To him it was a dream:
    A marble stone stood by the sepulchre;
    He look’d, and saw, and started—she was there!
    And Agathè had died: she that was bright—
    She that was in her beauty! a cold blight
    Fell over the young blossom of her brow,
    And the life’s blood grew chill—she is not now.

    She died like Zephyr falling amid flowers!
    Like to a star within the twilight hours
    Of morning—and she was not! Some have thought
    The Lady Abbess gave her a mad draught
    That stole into her heart, and sadly rent
    The fine chords of that holy instrument,
    Until its music falter’d fast away,
    And she—she died—the lovely Agathè!

    Again, and through the arras of the gloom
    Are the pale breezes moaning: by her tomb
    Bends Julio, like a phantom, and his eye
    Is fallen, as the moon-borne tides, that lie
    At ebb within the sea. Oh! he is wan,
    As winter skies are wan, like ages gone,
    And stars unseen for paleness; it is cast,
    As foliage in the raving of the blast,
    All his fair bloom of thoughts. Is the moon chill,
    That in the dark clouds she is mantled still?
    And over its proud arch hath Heaven flung
    A scarf of darkness. Agathè was young!
    And there should be the virgin silver there,
    The snow-white fringes delicately fair!

    He wields a heavy mattock in his hands,
    And over him a lonely lanthorn stands
    On a near niche, shedding a sickly fall
    Of light upon a marble pedestal,
    Whereon is chisel’d rudely, the essay
    Of untaught tool, “_Hic jacet Agathè_,”
    And Julio hath bent him down in speed,
    like one that doeth an unholy deed.

    There is a flagstone lieth heavily
    Over the ladye’s grave; I wist of three
    That bore it of a blessed verity!
    But he hath lifted it in his pure madness
    As it were lightsome as a summer gladness,
    And from the carved niche hath ta’en the lamp
    And hung it by the marble flagstone damp.

    And he is flinging the dark, chilly mould
    Over the gorgeous pavement: ’tis a cold,
    Sad grave; and there is many a relic there
    Of chalky bones, which, in the wasting air,
    Fell mouldering away: and he would dash
    His mattock through them with a cursed clash
    That made the lone aisle echo. But anon
    He fell upon a skull—a haggard one,
    With its teeth set, and the great orbless eye
    Revolving darkness, like eternity.
    And in his hand he held it till it grew
    To have the fleshy features and the hue
    Of life. He gazed, and gazed, and it became
    Like to his Agathè—all, all the same!
    He drew it nearer,—the cold, bony thing!—
    To kiss the worm-wet lips. “Aye! let me cling—
    Cling to thee now forever!”—but a breath
    Of rank corruption, from its jaws of death,
    Went to his nostrils, and he madly laugh’d,
    And dash’d it over on the altar shaft,
    Which the new-risen moon, in her gray light,
    Had fondly flooded, beautifully bright!

                            Again he went
    To his world work beside the monument.
    “Ha! leave, thou moon! where thy footfall hath been
    In sorrow amid heaven! there is sin
    Under thy shadow, lying like a dew;
    So come thou, from thy awful arch of blue,
    Where thou art ever as a silver throne
    For some pale spectre-king! come thou alone,
    Or bring a solitary orphan star
    Under thy wings! afar, afar, afar,
    To gaze upon this girl of radiancy,
    In her deep slumbers—wake thee, Agathè!”

    And Julio hath stolen the dark chest
    Where the fair nun lay coffin’d, in the rest
    That wakes not up at morning; she is there
    An image of cold calm! One tress of hair
    Lingereth lonely on her snowy brow;
    But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now;
    And their long lashes delicately rest
    On the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west,
    That fall upon a colorless sad cloud.
    Humility lies rudely on the proud,
    But she was never proud; and there she is,
    A yet unwither’d flower the autumn breeze
    Hath blown from its green stem! ’Tis pale, ’Tis pale,
    But still unfaded, like the twilight veil
    That falleth after sunset; like a stream
    That bears the burden of a silver gleam
    Upon its waters; and is even so,—
    Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low!

    Beauty in death! a tenderness upon
    The rude and silent relics, where alone
    Sat the destroyer! Beauty on the dead!
    The look of being where the breath is fled!
    The unwarming sun still joyous in its light!
    A time—a time without a day or night!
    Death cradled upon beauty, like a bee
    Upon a flower, that looketh lovingly!
    Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness,
    Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness!

    And there she is; and Julio bends o’er
    The sleeping girl—a willow on the shore
    Of a Dead Sea! that steepeth its fair bough
    Into the bitter waters,—even now
    Taking a foretaste of the awful trance
    That was to pass on his own countenance!

    Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lips
    Over her brow; the shade of an eclipse
    Is passing to his heart, and to his eye
    That is not tearful; but the light will die
    Leaving it like a moon within a mist,—
    The vision of a spell-bound visionist!

      He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek,
    That left no trace—no flush—no crimson streak
    But was as bloodless as a marble stone,
    Susceptible of silent waste alone.
    And on her brow a crucifix he laid,—
    A jewel’d crucifix, the virgin maid
    Had given him before she died,—the moon
    Shed light upon her visage—clouded soon,
    Then briefly breaking from its airy veil,
    Like warrior lifting up his aventayle.

    But Julio gazed on, and never lifted
    Himself to see the broken clouds, that drifted
    One after one, like infant elves at play,
    Amid the night winds, in their lonely way—
    Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep,
    And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deep
    Over their couches of green moss and flowers,
    And solitary fern, and heather bowers.
    The heavy bell toll’d two, and, as it toll’d,
    Julio started, and the fresh-turn’d mould
    He flung into the empty chasm with speed,
    And o’er it dropt the flagstone.—One could read
    That Agathè lay there; but still the girl
    Lay by him, like a precious and pale pearl,
    That from the deep sea-waters had been rent—
    Like a star fallen from the firmament!

    He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch,
    To westward of the solitary church:
    And he hath clasp’d around the melting waist,
    The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is pressed
    To hers—life warming the cold chill of death!
    And over his pale palsy breathing breath
    His eye is sunk upon her—“Thou must leave
    The worm to waste for love of thee, and grieve
    Without thee, as I may not.—Thou must go,
    My sweet betrothed, with me—but not below,
    Where there is darkness, dream, and solitude,
    But where is light, and life, and one to brood
    Above thee till thou wakest.—Ha? I fear
    Thou wilt not wake for ever, sleeping here,
    Where there are none but winds to visit thee,
    And convent fathers, and a choristry
    Of sisters, saying, ‘Hush!’—But I will sing
    Rare songs to thy pure spirit, wandering
    Down on the dews to heaven: I will tune
    The instrument of the ethereal noon,
    And all the choir of stars, to rise and fall
    In harmony and beauty musical.”

    He is away—and still the sickly lamp
    Is burning next the altar; there’s a damp,
    Thin mould upon the pavement, and, at morn,
    The monks do cross them in their blessed scorn,
    And mutter deep anathemas, because
    Of the unholy sacrilege, that was
    Within the sainted chapel,—for they guess’d,
    By many a vestige sad, how the dark rest
    Of Agathè was broken,—and anon
    They sought for Julio. The summer sun
    Arose and set, with his imperial disc
    Toward the ocean-waters, heaving brisk
    Before the winds,—but Julio came never:
    He that was frantic as a foaming river—
    Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tide
    Of a great tempest, that hath fought and died
    Along the forest ramparts, and doth still
    In its death-struggle desperately reel
    Round with the fallen foliage—he was gone,
    And none knew whither—still were chanted on
    Sad masses, by pale sisters, many a day,
    And holy requiem sung for Agathè!

      (End of the first Chimera.)

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE QUEEN OF MAY.


                          BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.


    Like flights of singing-birds went by
      The rosy hours of girlhood’s day;
            When in my native bowers,
            Of simple buds and flowers,
      They wove a crown and hailed me Queen of May!

    Like airy nymphs the lasses came
      Spring’s offerings at my feet to lay;
            The crystal from the fountains,
            The green boughs from the mountains,
      They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May!

    Around the May-pole on the green,
      A fairy ring, they tript away!—
            All merriment and pleasure,
            To chords of tuneful measure,
      They bounded by the happy Queen of May!

    Though years have past, and time has strewn
      My raven locks with flakes of gray,
            Fond memory brings the hours
            Of birds and blossom-showers,
      When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA.


                         BY DR. REYNELL COATES.


                             INTRODUCTORY.

                  “’Tis all but a dream at the best!”


Dreams of the Land and Sea! Why should I style them dreams? They are
pictures of actual scenes, though some of them relate to events removed
far back in the dimness of years, and the touches of the brush have felt
the mellowing influence of time.

While striving to avoid whatever is irrelevant or out of keeping, I have
not endeavored to confine myself, in these sketches, within the limits
of simple narrative, but have ventured occasionally to mingle facts with
speculations on their causes, or to follow their consequences to
probable results: nor have I totally discarded the imagination—although
the scenes are invariably drawn from nature, and the principal
personages are real characters—the accessory actors only are sometimes
creatures of the brain. In many of the descriptions, the reader will
perceive the evidences of a desire to place in prominent relief the
works of nature and her God, while art, and all its vanities, is made to
play a subordinate part; for nothing can be more impertinently obtrusive
than the pigmy efforts of the ambitious, struggling for distinction by
attempting either to mar or to perfect the plans of the Great Architect
of Creation, or carve _a name_ upon the columns of his temple.

Yet such is the social disposition of man, that no scene, however grand
or beautiful, can awaken pleasurable emotion unless it is linked
directly with humanity. There is deep oppression in the sense of total
loneliness,—and few can bear the burden calmly, even for an hour! A
solitary foot-print in the desert,—a broken oar upon the shelterless
beach,—the tinkling of a cow-bell in the depth of the forest,—the
crowing of the cock heard far off in the valley as we sink exhausted on
the mountain side when the gloom of night settles heavily down upon our
path-way,—who that has been a wanderer has not felt the heart-cheering
effect of accidents like these! They tell us that, though our solitude
be profound, there is sympathy near us, _or there has been recently_.

In deference, then, to this universal feeling, I have selected for these
articles such sketches only as are interwoven with enough of human life
to awaken social interest, even while grappling with the tempest—riding
the ocean wave, or watching the moon-beams as they struggle through the
foliage of scarce trodden forests, and fall half quenched, upon the
withered leaves below.

But why should I style them dreams? There are many valid reasons. To the
writer, the past is all a dream! But of this the world knows nothing,
nor would it care to know. The scenes described are distant, and
distance itself is dreamy! What can be more like the color of a dream
than yon long range of mountains fading into the sky behind its veil of
mist!

Let us ascend this lofty peak! ’Tis sunset! Cast your glance westward,
where

    “——Parting day
    Dies like the Dolphin——.”

The sun slowly retires behind the far off hills. Inch after inch, the
shadows climb the summit where you stand. He is gone!—yet you are not
in darkness! His beams, which reach you not, still gild the motionless
clouds, and these emblems of obscurity reflect on you the memory of his
glory:—and, oh! how exquisitely pencilled in the clear obscure stands
forth yon range, clad with towering trees, where each particular branch,
and almost every leaf, seems separately portrayed against the paling
sky,—_miraculously near_!

This is a vision of the _past_. Its strength is owing to the depth of
shade,—not to the intensity of light:—for, when the sun at noon-day,
poured its full tide of rays upon the scene, the sky was brighter, and
rock and river glinted back the flashing beams until the eye was
pained:—but where were then those lines of beauty? The details were
distinct. Then you might gaze on the forest in its reality, and could
almost penetrate its secret paths, despite their dark green canopy!—but
where were the broad effect, the bold, sweeping outlines that now give
unity and grandeur to the fading scene? The _soul_ of creation is before
you—more palpable than _its mere_ corporeal elements are hid from
sight. It resembles the master-piece of some great artist whose pencil
portrays, in simple light and shade, a noble picture. All there is
_life_! Those countenances!—those various attitudes are _speaking_! The
shrubbery waves in the wind, and over the tremulous waters of that
lovely lake, the very song of yonder mountain maid seems floating _upon
the canvass_. Do you not hear the music? ’Tis but a dream of boyhood!
Approach the painting! There is no _real_ outline there! The brush has
been rudely dashed athwart the piece surcharged with heavy colors.
Masses of many hues roughen the surface, and all is meaningless
confusion.

Stand back a-pace! Again the cottage, lake and mountain start from the
surface, _truer than truth itself_.

Panting with sighs and toil, man reaches by painful steps, the mid-land
height of life, as we have climbed this summit, and when fainting by the
way, it has been _his_ resource, as _ours_, to cast himself upon the
bosom of his “mother,” earth[2]—look back and _dream_! We have no other
mother now! But when you nestled to a parent’s breast, and felt the
present impress of her love, knew you its breadth and depth as this
vision shows it?

Memory is like the painter or the sun-set—its images appear more real
than the substantial things they picture, and glow the richer as the
gloom of oblivion gathers around them.

Turn your eyes eastward! Night sits upon the landscape. No ray of the
past illuminates it. The very elevation on which you stand increases the
darkness with its shadow, while it widens your distance from every
object vaguely and fearfully looming through the evening mist.

This is a vision of the _future_. That height of land which seems to
reach the clouds, upon whose dusky flank the overawed imagination
figures cave and precipice, torrent and cataract, is but a gentle slope,
with just enough of rudeness to render still more beautiful by contrast,
the village spire, the moss-roofed mill, the waving grain that crowns
its very top. Such it is seen by day.

Thus, when, in middle life, man peers into the future, what frightful
shadows haunt him. Coming events magnified to giants by the obscurity
around, stalk menacingly forward. Danger threatens him at every step,
and there is naught beyond but that black back-ground—_Death_! The
heavens shed no light upon the future. He is descending the hill of
life, and their glories are fading behind him. He strives to borrow from
the past a gleam to guide him onward, but in vain! Too often his own
ambition has prompted him to choose the lofty path that now condemns him
to redoubled darkness. Yet, although these spectres of the gloom are
most frequently mere creatures of the brain, which day-light would
dispel, they govern his career and cover him with dread. The _dream_ is
_truth_ to him—and it is only _truth itself_ that he esteems a _dream_!
Why can he not wait for sun-rise! Then should he see even the grave
overhung with the verdure of spring, and death arrayed in all the glory
of a morn of promise!

There is reality in dreams!—Come, then, and let us dream together!—our
visions may be dark sometimes, but we will not forget that the sun will
rise on the morrow.

-----

[2] When the celebrated Indian Chief, Tecumseh entered a Council Chamber
of the whites, where the officers, already seated, thoughtlessly allowed
him to remain standing, his countenance in gathering gloom, betrayed the
consciousness of the slight, which _savage_ courtesy would not have
suffered to occur. The look aroused attention, and a chair was handed
him—but his proud lip curled. He threw himself upon the ground,
exclaiming—“Tecumseh will repose on the bosom of his mother!”


           A SERMON BY A MARMOT—OR THE EXILE OF CONNECTICUT.

              “But come thy ways!—we’ll go along together;
              And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
              We’ll light upon some settled, low content.”
                                         _As You Like It._

Every subject of observation presents itself under a variety of aspects,
regulated, not only by the situation of the observer, but by his moral
peculiarities also. The little animal whose name dignifies the caption
of this article, though it may be better known to many of my readers by
the title of ground-hog, or wood-chuck, is usually regarded as a terror,
or a pest, to the farmer. Contributing in no appreciable degree to the
comfort or advantage of man, and seemingly created solely for the
purpose of digging unsightly holes in the ground, eating corn, and
diffusing an odour by no means agreeable; it is commonly hated or
despised, according to the profession of those who honor it with notice.
But nothing that springs from creative wisdom is a proper subject for
contempt, and good may be derived, in many instances, from the most
unpromising sources, by those who devote themselves to the study of
nature. Among the tribes of animals that seem to have least connection
with man and his interests, there are many whose habits may teach us
more effective lessons than we often derive from the homilies of more
pretending instructors.

The individual wood-chuck, here introduced to the reader, was more
fortunate than most of his species, for he had succeeded in winning the
affections of a worthy agriculturalist, in whose family he was regularly
domiciliated during the months of his activity, (for the Marmot is a
hybernating animal,) and he reciprocated the attachment of his human
protectors with a gratitude apparently as warm as that of any other
quadruped familiar of the kitchen.

The late distinguished philanthropist, Mr. Anthony Benezette, extended
his benevolence to every thing possessing life that came within the
sphere of his influence, and he regularly fed the rats in his cellar,
until he attracted a colony of these predatory vermin, by no means
agreeable to the taste or interest of his next-door neighbor. When the
latter at last endeavored to eradicate the nuisance by regularly
shooting every adventurous member of the murine fraternity that ventured
upon his premises, Mr. B., with tears in his eyes, protested against
this murderous proceeding. “Don’t shoot the poor innocent creatures!” he
said. “If thou wilt only feed them regularly every day, as I do, they’ll
never do thee any harm.” Whether a similar policy had been the origin of
the kindness shown our little friend, the Marmot, I know not, but he had
the felicity to be born in a land where corn is cheap, and society
difficult of access, and he probably owed his protection to a masculine
edition of the feeling that so frequently promotes the happiness of a
poodle or a parrot.

His guardian moved in a humble sphere, and most travellers might have
passed the brute and his human associates alike unnoticed: but I propose
to employ him as a hook, on which to hang the observations and
reflections of a day in the woods, and a night in the log-cabin. It is a
slender theme at best, and if discretion be the test of wisdom, I know
not but our Marmot displays as high a grade of intellectual endowment as
any of the other actors in the tale.

One of these was an eastern merchant, who had purchased some thousands
of acres of land—wild, lonely, and far removed from practicable roads
or navigable streams.—He had purchased it in utter ignorance of its
resources, and was then upon his way to give it an inspection.

The next was the narrator—recently appointed to a chair in a Collegiate
Institution, almost embosomed in the wilderness. He had accepted the
station in a moment of depression, all uninformed of the condition of
the country where _it flourished_, and had just arrived to _blush_
beneath the honors of the professional gown in halls that rejoiced in a
faculty—_lucus a non lucendo_!—of three persons, and wanted but a
library, an apparatus, influence, and a class, to render it an honor to
the state that chartered it!

The third was a thriving specimen of the sturdy woodsman and
pains-taking farmer of the border—the intermediate step between the
adventurous pioneer and the established settler. He had emigrated from
the beautiful valley of the Connecticut—a valley where nature has done
so much and man so little! to seek a more promising asylum west of the
Alleghany Mountains, and he carried all his fortune with him. A young
and lovely wife followed his footsteps from town to town—from
wilderness to wilderness.—An axe was on his shoulder, two hundred
dollars in his pocket, and he possessed much of that shrewdness which
ordinarily passes current for talent.

He was moderate in his desires, _and only took up three hundred acres to
begin with_; choosing a location where a rude and cellarless hut of logs
graced one angle of the plot of ground,—its site selected because a
spring and streamlet there supplied the most important necessary of
life—good water.

Four acres of unfenced clearing marked the progress of his less
prosperous predecessor in taming the primeval forest. Alas! The want of
capital!—Two years of bootless labor on the part of that predecessor,
left the ground encumbered still with girdled timber. The long and naked
limbs of many a stately tree—all sapless now—stood pale and inflexible
in the summer gale—a monument of desolation. Some rough, irregular
furrows,—ploughed with borrowed oxen, and ornamented with the vine of
an occasional refuse potato creeping through the starting briars and
brush-wood,—alone gave evidence of human industry; for the wilderness
was rapidly reclaiming its own.

There was a half-burnt brand on the deserted hearth within the hovel;
but the blasts that entered freely through the intervals between the
logs,—from which, mass by mass, the clay was falling;—had scattered
the ashes widely over the room. A rusty tin basin on the floor, and a
broken axe-helve lying athwart the doorless lintel, completed the
household inventory. The ground had reverted to the noble and wealthy
company from whom it was originally purchased—their funds enriched by
the payment of the first instalment, and the value of the _improvements_
added to their property.—But where is the former owner? Probably
renewing the same improvident game in the wilds of Michigan or
Wisconsin.

Such was the home to which our adventurous representative of the land of
steady habits had introduced his amiable and delicate wife, four years
before the time of our journey.

The station enjoyed many advantages. Civilization was slowly tending
thitherward, and every year enhanced the nominal, if not the real value
of the land. Moreover, there were many neighbors to break the tedium of
life in the wilds. Nine miles to the westward—that being the direction
of the older settlements,—there lived a veteran of two wars, whose
pension made him rich in a country where a dollar is a rarity, and trade
is carried on exclusively by barter. He was the most important man
within the circuit of twenty miles; for he owned the only forge. Not
even the influence of Squire Tomkins, whose aristocratical residence,
five miles deeper in the forest, was furnished with the luxury of
weather-boarding, and flanked by a regular barn and stables, could
outweigh, _in public opinion_, the claims of one whose labors
contributed so essentially to the every-day comfort of life, if not to
its preservation, in the rude contest between the settler and nature.
Public opinion did I say?—Why! besides these three high personages and
their families, a migratory trapper and bee-hunter on the one hand, and
a half-cast Indian basket-maker on the other, _there was no public_; yet
here was found not only public opinion, but party feeling also—politics
and sectarianism!—And where did ever society exist without them? But it
is time to commence our journey.

One morning, during the autumn of 1828, I strolled into the principal
store of the beautiful little village of ——, in Western Pennsylvania,
to exchange the latest paper from the American Athens, for another daily
sheet from the Commercial Emporium. An old friend, Mr. W——, of
Philadelphia, entered at about the same time, with a map of the
surrounding counties, to enquire the road to certain tracts of land but
recently conveyed to him. A tall man, who had seen some forty summers,
but whose keen dark eye, such as you can only find in the wilderness,
seemed to have gathered a smouldering fire, beneath the shadow of the
forest leaves, which few would wish to wake, stept forward to give the
required information. Rude shoes, unstockinged feet, coarse woolen
pantaloons, and a hunting shirt, composed his whole attire:—A rifle,
with a richly chased silver breeching, swinging athwart his back, raised
him above the ordinary hunter in the curious scale of conventional rank
that men acknowledge in obedience to their nature, even in the heart of
unfrequented woods; but the cart-whip in his right hand, and a basket of
eggs hanging upon the left arm seemed irrelevant to his other
accoutrements. A finely chiselled nose, verging on the Roman character,
and a strong habitual compression of the jaws, marked great decision,
firmness, and desperate daring—while his manly tread, in which the foot
seemed to cling for a moment to the surface and as instantly rose upon
the toe with a slow, but elastic and graceful motion, seemed better
fitted to follow the mountain-side, or the torrent’s track, than the
dull routine of the furrow. His traits and carriage, thus mingled and
contrasted, would have proved a puzzle to the keenest judges of human
nature,—the bar-keeper of a hotel, or the agent of a rail-road—but his
origin was still distinctly marked, notwithstanding his change of
residence and habits, in the somewhat sharpened expression of the face,
the narrowness of the external angle of the eye, the covert curl of the
lip, and the faintest perceptible elevation of the corresponding corner
of the mouth. He was the Connecticut farmer of our story, on whose
original stock of character four years of close communion with bears and
deer, had engrafted _a twig_ of that which graces the western hunter.

A few adroitly managed questions placed him immediately in possession of
the residence, the destination, views and purposes of my friend, the
merchant; and, in terms of courtesy, conveyed in phrase more polished
than one would anticipate from his attire, he tendered his services as a
guide, and the best his house afforded by the way, as host,—extending
the invitation most politely to myself.

Having long been anxious to observe what charm in domestic life upon the
borders, could so fascinate mankind as to impel such crowds of restless
adventurers annually to plunge into the gloomy forest, there to remain
socially buried for years, until the growth of settled population again
environs them; I immediately ordered horse, and mounting with my
Athenian friend, followed, or accompanied the light wagon of the
settler, as the road or path permitted.

We had made but ten miles of progress, when the farms by the way-side
began to appear few and far between. Around us, gathered, deep and more
deeply still, the shadows of tall trees, which interlocked their arms
above us, until mysterious twilight was substituted for the bright
sunshine that made its existence known at intervals through openings in
the foliage. These were met with only where some giant of the wilderness
had laid him down in his last repose, when the slowly gnawing tooth of
time had sapped his moss-grown trunk. Occasionally, the wagon jolted
heavily over fallen trees, where the lightning had riven or the gale
uprooted them. It seemed a sacrilege to disturb the dread repose of
nature with our idle voices; and for miles we rode in total
silence.—How startling, then, and how incongruous to our ears was the
lively voice of our guide, exclaiming, as we passed _a blaze_, “we shall
soon be _home_ now!” Home! and here!—I gazed around on every hand. Over
the tops of the low shrubbery the eye was carried along interminable
aisles of stately trees! Interminable arches rested on their summits! An
awful unity of gloom engulphed us!

    “High mountains are with me a feeling,”

And no man has rioted more wildly in scenes of solitude and desolation.
My shoulder is familiar with the rifle, my feet with cliff and
precipice, and my arms with the torrent and breaker.—Nay! more than
this! I have stood alone in cities! The limitless current of life has
whirled and eddied by, and I have felt no fellowship!—have felt the
sternest check of all that linked me with my kind, and buried myself in
egoism! “There runs not a drop of the blood of Logan in the veins of any
living creature.”

But never yet came over me the thought of _home_ with such a thrilling
shudder as when the word was spoken in those close and soul-oppressing
woods! There was no resonance from the leafy ground—no echo from those
long drawn gothic passages! The sound fell flat upon the ear, and its
very cheerfulness of tone, deadened by the dark and inelastic leaves,
resembled the convulsive laugh of terror or of pain!

Man is moulded for the contest. There is rapture in the strife, be it
with physical or moral evils—a glory in the conquest, that repays the
suffering! If vanquished,—he may fly and bide his time! If crushed,—he
falls back upon his self-esteem, enfolds his robe around him, and dies,
like Cæsar—bravely! Abroad—in calm or storm, in sun-shine or in
tempest—man feels himself the ruler, and his pride supports him in the
worst of woes; but _at home_—he is dependent! There woman rules the
emotions!—Who ever knew a joy beside a gloomy hearth! Or when the
wearing cares of life, or the oppression of habitual solitude has
furrowed the fore-head, and fixed the features of the wife, what husband
ever smiled again as once he smiled!

But away! Our path is onward!—soon we passed along the margin of a
precipitate descent, and the day burst in upon us, presenting a
momentary view of a long range of hills, over which the fire had swept
in the preceding year. Brown furze and blackened masses of charcoal
covered the slope for miles, with here and there a waving line of
foliage climbing the ascent, wherever some highland rivulet had checked
the progress of the flames, and preserved the grass. I had thought that
Nature furnished no more spectral object than a girdled tree in a barren
clearing; but the tall gnarled trunks, with charred and stunted limbs,
that sentineled that ruined hill-side were more spectral still!

Descending the hill, the forest again closed around us: but presently we
entered the track of a tornado—a wind-fall. It had traversed a forest
of pines—and, for about two hundred yards in width, had made a passage
through the woods, as straight and regular as art could have rendered
it. On either hand—far as the eye could reach—arose the unbroken wall
of verdure, a hundred feet in height, while in the midst, the vision
stretched away over an almost level carpet of scrub-oak and
whortleberries, forming a vista of unparalleled beauty; one which would
have graced the palace-grounds of an emperor. Not a stump, a root, or
tree was visible in all the range of sight. “God made this clearing,” I
remarked. The charm of silence was broken by the comment, and the
conversation immediately became general.

We had ridden about three miles farther, when the road, if road it could
be called, forked suddenly; and, turning to the left, we found ourselves
in front of the cottage of our host. It deserved this title richly; for
never, in my many journeys beyond the margin of a regular American
forest, have I seen more neatness and propriety, than was here displayed
in all the accidents of a residence of logs. True! there were none of
those vines and graceful shrubs that beautify the grounds around a
thrifty cottage in New England; but, even here, a garden was attempted.
The building, two stories in height, stood near the summit of an
acclivity which formed a sort of irregular lawn, and was actually shaded
by two stately trees!—the only instance of such preservation I have
witnessed in the wilds of Pennsylvania.

On the right, at a decent distance from the house, were a stable with a
loft, and several stacks of hay; and on the left, a natural meadow, of
some ten or fifteen acres, had been cleared of brush and sedge, and
furnished ample pasturage for four handsome cows. This, with twelve
acres of upland, formed the extent of the clearing. Several sugar maples
were scattered about the lawn, and a few young fruit trees ornamented
the arable land behind the house.

Here, then, was comfort—almost the aristocracy of the woods! We drove
rapidly to the door, but the sound of wheels had already drawn the
family without the house. The wife, a pale and delicate woman, about
twenty-eight or thirty years of age, held in one hand, a bare-foot boy
of three; while a little girl, still younger, folded herself in the
skirt of her mother’s woollen frock—her snow-white head, and light-blue
eye peeping out fearfully from her concealment, as we dismounted. A
stout lad, employed by the farmer, took charge of our horses, and we
were presented to our hostess.

“We have but poor accommodations to offer the gentlemen, John! but they
are welcome to what we have, such as they are. You are the first
strangers from the old settlements I have seen since we came to this
clearing! Were you ever in Connecticut?” Anxiety and hope were most
plainly depicted in the care-worn face of the speaker. I could not bear
to reply in the negative, and evaded the question by noticing the
children as we entered the house. Here, my companion was surprised at
the progress that had been made in four short years by the labor of a
settler of such slender means. Six decent chairs and a cherry-wood table
ornamented the apartment—a well-made dough-trough, with a wide and
smoothly planed top, served the purpose of a side-board—a large
cup-board, with curious, home-made wooden locks and hinges, occupied one
corner, and a rude settee contained, beneath the seat, a tool-chest and
a receptacle for table-linen. The ample fire-place, with its wooden
chimney, was festooned with strings of venison, hung up to smoke in
pieces, and the roughly plastered wall was ornamented with two rude
engravings, in _domestic_ frames—Adam and Eve driven from Paradise, and
the victory of Lake Erie. To these was added a printed copy of the
Declaration of Independence. A Bible stood open upon the table when we
entered, and a prayer-book, Young’s Night Thoughts, The Lady of the
Lake, and a few torn old numbers of a monthly magazine, adorned a shelf
above the fire. We missed the usual utensils of the cuisine, but these
we afterwards discovered in a more fitting place. The universal ticking
of the wooden clock was heard; but whence it came, we knew not, until
the hour for retiring. It stood upon the stairway.

Hanging his rifle and powder-flask on the wooden hooks, depending,
according to custom, from a beam, our host remarked that we were dusty
with travel.

“Tin is scarce with us here, gentlemen! and crockery is brittle,” said
he; “so if you wish to wash your hands and faces, and will pardon our
wild ways, follow me to the cellar, and you shall be accommodated!”

Taking a coarse but clean towel from the chest in the settee, he opened
a door beneath the stairs, and descended; leading the way on this
singular excursion. A cellar is a luxury in the simple cabin; but here
we were provided with an apartment more complete, in its conveniencies,
than those of older countries, the floor being well levelled, and the
walls faced with stones of ample size. The settler had formed, in one
corner, a large cavity about three feet deep. This was lined with
mortar, and paved with smooth, round pebbles from the brook. A tunnel,
with a wooden trunk and sliding flood-gate, about four inches square,
led from the bottom of this basin, through the foundations of the wall,
to the bed of a rivulet at some distance on the lawn. The greater part
of the waters of a spring, which rose very near the house and fed this
runnel, being diverted from their original course, were conveyed through
hollow logs, cleaned out and smoothed by burning, through the wall of
the cellar, about four feet above the floor, and fell in a beautiful
cascade into the basin below. But our host was far too fertile in
resources to permit the whole of the current to take this direction. A
well made milk-trough, constructed of timbers, some of which betrayed
more intimate acquaintance with the axe than the plane, occupied nearly
the whole remaining portion of that side of the cellar which
corresponded with the earthen basin. It was supplied with water by means
of a small canal composed of pieces of bark suspended from the beams
above, and capable of being projected into the cascade, so as to receive
any desirable portion of the falling fluid. Another tunnel,
communicating with the first, carried off the surplus. As we viewed
these curious results of Yankee ingenuity and perseverance, several fine
speckled trout were seen disporting among pans or crocks of the richest
milk and cream, into which, we were informed, they sometimes leaped, to
the no small discomforture of the tidy house-wife, when in their
hide-and-whoop gambols, their daring over-acted their discretion. Here,
then, we found, combined by the most simple means, the luxury of the
washing-room, the drain, the bath, and the milk-house. Nor was this all!
The waters of a spring, when flowing _pleno rivo_, never freeze. They
carry with them, for a time, the heat which is the expression of the
mean temperature of the earth, and share it with surrounding objects.
The very stream, that thus contributed to his domestic comforts, and, as
we afterwards discovered, rendered, in its excess, services equally
important to his cattle in the farm-yard, preserved his stock of
necessaries from the effects of frost, and contributed to lessen the
exertions required to procure fuel for the long and dreary winter. These
arrangements rendered our host still more an object of curiosity and
interest—for seldom had we seen such striking evidences of
philosophical deduction in house-hold affairs:—and we could not avoid
the hope, that the permanent enjoyment and gradual increase of the
comforts created by his genius, might be his ultimate reward. But, alas!
the prevalent disposition of his tribe, when once removed from home,
is—roving! Never contented with the _status quo_—or satisfied with
possession; they leave the enjoyment of ease for the hope of wealth, and
are ever ready to sacrifice reality _for a dream_. Yet, it was not for
_us_ to censure our host severely, should he ultimately pursue the
course so admirably described in one short technicality of the American
woods-man—“_Flitting!_” Had we not both been _flitting_ ourselves!—the
one for honor, and the other for gold! My gown and my friend’s land were
of _equal value_, and both had been purchased at the expense of solid
sacrifices; but little does it concern us now, that the progress of
population has thrown the former over shoulders well clad in
broad-cloth, bought with the surplus of a decent salary, or that the
other is studded with profitable farms! In many parts of America, twelve
years form an age in human affairs, and, in western Pennsylvania, _we
are of the last_!

Our ablutions completed, we returned to the sitting-room. The tea-table
was spread with a tidy cloth, and a smoking pot of Liverpool ware made
its appearance, replete with a beverage, _by the name of tea_; though,
by the test of the olfactories, it might have been supposed some
compound discovered among the ruins of the last Piquot village, in the
days when the venerable Mr. Hooker first raised the standard of his
faith among the ancestors of her whose hand distilled it.—Peace be with
the spirit of the good old man! Long since our journey, I have gazed, as
a stranger on his venerable tomb-stone in the central church-yard of
Hartford, and felt at the moment,—it may be with some bitterness—that
the descendants of his flock had lost but little in frankness and
hospitality, by being transplanted to the Wilds of the west! But
_revennons ou nos moutons_.[3]

The table was soon amply furnished with preserves, in nameless variety,
formed from the wild fruits of the neighbouring woods, by the aid of
maple sugar. The unvarying hard-crusted pie, sweet, well-baked
corn-bread, and the constant attendant of the lighter meals in New
England, the fried potato, completed the repast. We were seated,
and—after a well-spoken grace—a service which the really respectable
exile of Connecticut rarely neglects in any of the changing scenes of
life—we did it ample justice.

Economy of light is a matter of serious importance in the log-cabin; and
after tea, we gathered round the blazing hearth, (for the autumnal
nights were beginning to be cool,) adding, occasionally, a pine knot
from a group collected in the corner of the fire-place, by way of
illuminating an idea or a face, whenever the subject-matter of the
discourse became peculiarly interesting.

Quick and puzzling were the questions with which our hostess plied us,
on all things relating to the “old settlements,” as she already styled
the sea-board;—for the language and habits of the “far west,” are still
strangely preserved in these mid-land wildernesses, over which the
genius of civilization has bounded, to wave his omnipotent wand over the
regions of the setting sun, like the last of the mammoths when he
disappeared from the banded hunters of the olden time.

For a while, something like the liveliness of earlier days, stole over
the features of the querist, which were fast settling into the habitual
gloom, that gives character to the physiognomy of the recluse and the
blind. But whatever direction might be given to the discourse, in a few
moments it was sure to centre in Connecticut; until, evasion proving
impracticable, we were compelled, reluctantly, to confess that our
travels had never extended northward or eastward of the Housatonic—the
American Tweed.—A deep sigh succeeded this announcement, and our
hostess drew back her chair within the shadow of—what shall I call
it?—_jams_, properly so styled, the fire-place had none! Its sides were
formed of short, projecting logs, about three feet in length, piled, one
above another, interlocking, by deep notches, with those which formed
the walls of the building, at one end, and at the other, secured by
short cross-sections of a smaller tree, similarly notched, set
thwartwise between their projecting extremities, and bolted with strong
wooden pips. This structure supported the ample chimney, which was
constructed in like manner, and shared with it the usual protection
against fire, a thick internal coat of clay, admixed with a very little
lime. These chimney sides formed deep recesses on either hand, in one of
which, the cup-board was accommodated, while the other was graced by the
dining-table.

Near to one of these shaded recesses, our hostess drew her chair, and
left the conversation, for a long time, to her husband.

He inquired, with an interest, seemingly as intense as a statesman, into
the politics of the East, with the tenor of which he had contrived to
keep pace astonishingly, when his isolated position is considered. I was
curious to know how he managed to obtain such accurate information as to
men and measures at the seat of government, in the midst of so many
obstacles and such untiring agricultural efforts as his rapid
improvements must have demanded. His reply furnished a melancholy proof
of the natural disputatiousness of our species, while it illustrated the
pertinacity with which a mind, once awakened to party feelings, will
cling to its old friendships and antipathies when all interests in the
result have ceased.

“Why,” said he, “for a while it was easy enough; for the Post rides
through here once a week, and leaves a New York paper to Squire
Tomkins—so the winter I first came to these clearings, I used to walk
over to read the paper every other Saturday afternoon, except when the
snow was too deep, and came back on Sunday after dinner—so I learned
what was going on pretty well. And sometimes one or other of the old
blacksmith’s boys—that’s his grand-children!—for his two sons have
gone off to Illinois—would come over of odd Saturdays, a
horse-back—for the old soldier kept a horse—he’s been many years in
these parts, and has cleared and sold three farms, before he fixed where
he is—and he’d take up Mary behind him, and ride over to the
squire’s—for one of us had to stay and tend the cow and feed the pigs;
so we could not both go together—and bring her back again the next
day.—And a great treat it was to Mary!—for sometimes she would see
something in the paper about Connecticut.—She used to teach school in
Connecticut for a while.—Poor Mary! she had a better education than I
had—though mine wasn’t a bad one, for a common school, the way the
world goes; and I used to be able _to say my say_ with any body; but
somehow these woods are so lonely, that I’m out of practice.

“Poor Mary! her heart’s in Connecticut still, though she never tells me
so,—_but she looks it sometimes_—except may-be about Thanks-giving
day,—and then she can’t help _saying it_ too! I’m sometimes a’most
sorry she ever married such a wild and wandering fellow as me.”

“Why, John!”—in a tone of the tenderest expostulation, sounded from the
corner. Almost unconsciously, I threw a pine knot on the fire, and the
sudden flame lighted up a countenance, which would have reassured the
most desponding husband. All traces of the inanity of solitude were
gone; and over the cloud of sorrow, in which early recollections had
veiled the features,—even while the tears of memory were starting from
the eye,—the moon-beam of unalterable love poured its silvery light,
and the pride of the wife spoke plainly in the curve of a lip already
raised and trembling with affectionate reproach. The moisture lingered
threateningly upon the lids, but did not fall!—It paused a moment, as
in doubt, what emotion called it there, and then retreated to its
source.

The husband’s face was wreathed in smiles; his voice became firmer; his
language lost its parenthetic confusion on the instant, and he resumed
his discourse.

“Well! well! It’s all my fault, if fault there be. _She_ never had a
fault! and she’s a blessing that would pay for twenty thousand faults of
mine! There, Mary! Put the little ones to bed in the loft, and hear them
say their prayers.” He dismissed them with a parting kiss, and when his
wife retired—continued his narrative.

“The squire and I were friends, all through the winter and spring. He
and his two sons, with the blacksmith’s boys, and three men from the
furnace ten miles down the stream, assisted me to build my house; and I
borrowed a horse from the smith and a wagon in town, to bring my lime
for the plastering; so, when my new house was finished, we turned the
old one, that I told you of as we came along, into a right good stable.
I had laid up a full supply of provisions in the old house, the fall
before,—bought me a plough and some tools,—felled a good deal of
valuable pine timber, and put the four acres of clearing into winter
grain. With the first spring-floods, I floated the pines, by the help of
the squire’s oxen, and carried enough down to the saw-mill, (it’s only
twelve miles,) to bring me a good round sum; and then I had money enough
to pay my first instalment, buy me another cow and a pair of oxen, and
pay my way till harvest, without draining all the savings I brought out
with me. In the winter, I had also got three acres girdled, and the
meadow half cleared; for it wanted but little attention; so, as my
potatoes turned out uncommon well, and every thing prospered—I bought
me a horse and wagon in the fall, and saved just enough to pay the
second instalment;—trusting to Providence _and the stores_ for the
little we should want to buy next season.

“But this is not what I was talking of—I had like to have forgot the
squire!—We got along very well till June or July—when we were mowing
the meadow.—Yes! it was in July.—And the squire was a churchman and a
democrat, but I was a federalist and a congregationalist—I did not much
mind his jokes about the pilgrim fathers, though he said the Piquots
were better men than those that planted the state; and laughed at them
for hanging the Quakers in Boston. For the squire was a well read man
before he came to the west—and he hated Connecticut, because he came
from Lancaster county, and his father was killed in a quarrel with the
settlers in Wyoming, long after the troubles were over. But when he said
that Jefferson was a better man than General Washington, I could not
stand it, and we quarrelled. I said what no Christian should say, and
what I wont repeat;—so the squire and I have never spoken since, except
when poor Mary was taken down! and then I had to speak; for there was no
other woman within ten miles, and no doctor but a quack, within
twenty-five. But Mrs. Tomkins is a nurse and a doctor both—God bless
her!

“I’m getting to be very comfortable now, for I’ve got every thing around
me that a man can desire in the woods, except money; and I’ve little use
for that except to pay the last instalment; but I can’t bear to keep
that woman so lonely and sad for want of company! The old soldier’s
daughter comes over to see us once a month; but that is little for one
who used to have a dozen young friends always around her in Connecticut,
even if she was poor. To tell the truth, though the woods are full of
venison and wild turkies, and quails and squirrels to be had for the
shooting, and though Tom can catch a mess of trout in the milk trough at
any time,—for he lets his line run into the tunnel and there seems to
be no end to them—yet I can’t help thinking that if I had laid out my
three hundred dollars of hers and my savings in old Connecticut—if I
had worked half as hard there as I have done here, and she had gone on
teaching school, we should both have been happier and richer than we are
now. So I think I shall soon pull up stakes, sell out, and go to the
prairies, where God makes the clearings, as you said, on the road—and
it’s real hard work for a man, I can tell you!”

This last remark threw me into a revery of no pleasing nature; and I, in
turn, retreated into the shade, as the light of the pine-knot subsided
and the wife reëntered. I was dreaming of the future, when, the buoyancy
of early manhood being over, stubborn habit would _compel_ our really
worthy host after all rational motive for change should have
flown!—“Thou art one of a genus,” I mentally ejaculated. “The mark of
the wanderer is on thy brow—

    “For thus I read thy destiny,
    And cannot be mistaken.”

There was much conversation afterwards; and at intervals I gleaned the
strong points of his history, and that of her whose fate he now
controlled. But I was busy with my dream! Peering into the far off
future, I saw him in the last of his _flittings_!—deserted by those who
should be the props of his age, but whose youthful fire would not permit
them to remain inactive in the wilderness, after pictures of eastern
wealth and luxury, clad in all the glorious hues of memory, had been
rendered familiar as nursery tales by their suicidal parents. I saw him
in the evening of his days—and where?—seated by his feeble and
exhausted, though still affectionate partner, at the door of an
ill-provided cabin, far in the north-west—Far beyond the present range
of the pioneer! The gloom of night was slowly dropping its curtain
around them, though the phosphorescent snow gave dim illumination to the
broad and trackless expanse of the prairie—trackless then, even by the
exterminated Buffalo. _There_ were none even of the few conveniences of
his present wood-land home; for the genius and the skill which had once
enabled him to bend the stubborn gifts of nature to his will, were
chilled by the frosts of age.

I could even hear the voices of future years stealing on the autumnal
night breeze, as it moaned through the rough and ill-joined casement
where we sat.

“Why, John, this is Thanks-giving night! Where can our oldest boy be
wandering now? He was just thirty yesterday, and we have not heard from
him these six years!—Not since you made your last flitting, John! He
was always a good boy, and I’m sure he has written to us! John! you may
depend upon it, there must be a letter in the office at St. Louis—St.
Louis, was it? or was it Chicago? My memory begins to fail me so! He
sent us fifty dollars the last time, when we lived in Wisconsin, away
down in the States. It must have been in Chicago; for it was there he
wrote before!”

“Ah! Mary! Mary! boys forget their mothers and their fathers too, when
they are old and feeble! He is getting rich somewhere far over yonder,
and little he thinks of us! But there’s little Mary, where can she be?
Her husband was just gone to New Orleans with a load of furs when the
hunters went down to the bluffs in the fall, and they sent our letter
after them—but may-be she never got it!”

“Yes, it’s Thanks-giving night, Mary! and if I had loved the graves of
my parents as I ought, we should not be here, where our children that
are away will never find our own. Well, well! I’m too old to hunt, and
if the trapping turns out no better than it did last year, we’ll have
our next Thanks-giving, Mary, where there will be no end to it! and sure
you have earned the _right_ to be at rest, by your faithfulness, however
it may go with me!”

While this picture was floating through my mind, I had learned from
occasional sentences, that our host was the son of parents of
respectability; but his father had foolishly left the agricultural life,
which he understood and was pursuing prosperously, for cities and
merchandize, for which he had no talent. He died a bankrupt, leaving one
son at the age of eight years and a daughter of eighteen. The latter had
been affianced, during her father’s prosperity, to the son of a man of
wealth; but that wealth had been the result of the closest selfishness
in early life. As usual, the native vulgarity of feeling and
heartlessness of character which had caused his unwonted and undeserved
pecuniary success, remained unchanged in the days of his spurious social
elevation. He forbade the further visits of his son the moment the
disaster of the parent of his intended wife was known. He forbade it
suddenly and without a warning. The consequences were such as are almost
too frequent to attract attention. A lovely woman pined a few years over
the ill-requited needle, and died “in a decline.”

“A young man about town” looked sad for a few months, and then married
an heiress to extend the curse of hereditary meanness.

In the little village where our host was reared, by a near relative in
the original occupation of his father, he formed his attachment to his
present companion: She was then a teacher, starving upon the _liberal_
salary that rewards the principal of a female common school in “the
State where education is universal.” To marry at home would have
required sacrifices of conventional rank on the part of his intended, to
which his pride would not suffer him to reduce her; for how could he ask
her to share the fortunes of a laborer in the field? To wait until their
united efforts would enable them to secure a farm, was more than his
impatience could endure. In evil hour a bright dream of the west had
thrown him into the wilderness, and rendered him dependent upon the
accidents of sun and rain for protection against the tender mercies of a
Land Company—which calculated upon the profits of indiscretion and
extended credit willingly, while accepting actual payment with regret.
His energies might probably bear him through his trials, could he be
contented to avoid expansion until the flood-tide of civilization might
have time to reach his retreat, but already he was restless, and his
eyes were directed to the fatal west—and it appeared painfully probable
that a few short years would find him again dependent on his axe, or a
prey to larger speculations in a deeper wilderness.

We soon retired to our comfortable cat-tail beds, by the light of a
domestic candle, regretting that our kind entertainers refused us the
extempore lodging on the floor to which, in true woodland courtesy, they
condemned themselves.

It was long before sleep relieved the unpleasant thoughts awakened by
the conversation of the evening. My mind wandered over many a tale of
the woods, in which blighted hopes and ruined prospects constituted the
prominent features. True, I had seen much of happiness in similar
situations,—for Providence has constructed some one of the human family
peculiarly fitted to occupy each niche in the great temple of
society,—but how frequently the abuse of the inestimable privilege of
_free will_ renders it a curse instead of a blessing. I sometimes think
that the exceptions constitute the rule, and that a small minority only
ever accomplish the destiny for which they were created. Jarring,
confusion, and disorder mark every page of nature,—every paragraph of
history! Here was a man of spirit, enterprise, energy, and talent, who
had fled from the only field where happiness was proffered at a slight
expense of pride, to waste his powers upon a wilderness for the benefit,
in all probability, of certain merchants and capitalists in Holland. He
dragged down with him an amiable being who was fitted by her moral
excellencies, and even by her education, humble as it may have been, for
a far wider sphere of usefulness; and why? Because he could not bear to
ask a fond and loving woman to descend to a station which she would have
gloried to share with him!

How little men know of the true character of the self-sacrificing sex,
until the frosts of old age begin to crown their venerable fronts, and
they find their knowledge useless!

It is said that there is but one step from the sublime to the
ridiculous; but, although legend upon legend crowded on my memory, the
pathetic had still the ascendancy, and I entertained my companion with
stories, not all of which were colored in rain-bow hues, until the
moon-light deserted the casement, and the fatigue of nearly forty miles
of travel enabled us to sink into repose. As one of these recollections
is pertinent to the occasion, and illustrative of life in the woods, it
may not be amiss to offer it to the reader. It furnishes an instance of
indiscretion which, could the effect have been foreseen, would be
esteemed an act of cruelty worthy of the worst days of the inquisition.
And yet it was perpetrated by a female—by one who should have known the
peculiarities of her sex!

“Our highly intelligent friend, Mc——,” said I, “has resided for some
years in the town of ——, and has become familiar with the independent
life of a western village. She owns a considerable tract of wild land on
the New York border, and, as her husband’s eccentricities (for he is an
American Old Mortality) are equal with his fame and classical
acquirements, she thought it best to proceed by herself, on horse-back,
to visit the property and examine its resources. After journeying for
several days by every stages and frequented routes, she took an
appropriate path and plunged into the forest.”

After much difficulty and fatigue, she arrived at the cabin of a
squatter, which she knew to have been _located_ for many years on or
near her line. The visit of the owner was not unsafe, for the man was a
bee-hunter, trapper, and timber thief of the most gentle manners, and
utterly despised all efforts at clearing beyond the acre. His pigs—his
only stock—ran wild in the woods, and he cared nothing for real estate
so long as there were trees left for a deer-cover, timber to be stolen,
bees to be limed, and a bounty for wolves. He looked upon a new
settlement as only another market and prowling ground, incommoding him
in nothing, and likely to increase the dainties of his larder by an
occasional chicken and eggs. He lived for the _present_—dreamed neither
of the _past_ nor the _future_—and nothing but habitual laziness
prevented him from being perpetually peripatetic. He was absent from
home when Mrs. —— arrived, and she was received with back-woods
hospitality by his wife;—for even this creature, whose only beverage
was “Le vin ordinaire de ce pays ci—un liqueur abominable qu’on appelle
_Ouiskey_!” actually had a wife, and an affectionate one, who had
resided on or near the spot since the days of Jefferson! After a
comfortable night of repose upon a bundle of dried leaves, in her riding
suit, Mrs. —— arose, and made preparations _for viewing the property_.
No lady neglects the toilet, even in the most distressing circumstances.
I have several times heard death preferred to the loss of a fine head of
hair, in the wards of a hospital, and it is not to be supposed that Mrs.
R. was unprovided with a looking-glass. She proceeded to withdraw the
several appurtenances of the dressing-room from her well-stored
portmanteau, narrowly and wonderingly watched by her kind hostess. But
the instant the mirror appeared, the lonely denizen of the wilds
exclaimed, with startling energy—

“Oh! dear Mrs. R.! That’s a looking-glass! Do let me look in it! I have
not seen my face plainly for thirty years! I go down to the spring
sometimes and try to see myself; but the water is so rough that it don’t
look at all like me! Do let me look at it! Do now!”

The glass was handed to the delighted woman. She cast but one glance
upon it. The mirror fell in fragments on the floor, the unfortunate
creature fainted and fell back on the rude bench behind her, and Mrs. R.
visited her ample domain, that day, with a head half combed.

The very early breakfast the next morning was a cheerful one. When it
was completed, we rode over by the squire’s, with our host for a guide,
and after proceeding about three miles into the woods, tied our horses
at the termination of all signs of road, and advanced on foot. We soon
separated, the merchant and the farmer to estimate the chances of
water-power, iron beds, timber, and lime-quarries, and I, with my host’s
rifle, a paper of pins, a botanical box, and a pocket insect net, to my
favorite pursuits. We agreed to rendezvous at the place of parting when
the hour of three arrived; and, being all familiar with the art of
navigating the forest, there was no danger of a failure in meeting the
engagement. When we returned from our excursions, and I observed the
disappointed look of my Athenian friend, I felt myself the richer,
notwithstanding he styled himself possessor of five thousand acres, and
I bore upon my shield the footless birds of a younger son; for my hat
was serried with glittering insects, impaled upon its crown and sides;
my box was stored with rarities, and, on a hickory pole across my
shoulder, hung a great horned owl, a hawk, twelve headless black
squirrels, and a Canada porcupine!

We stopped at the squire’s for a dinner; and, strange to say, succeeded
in inducing our host to bear us company, despite his political
aversions; so that we have reason to believe that our visit was
successful in settling a feud which had seriously curtailed the comforts
of both parties for nearly three long years. As we were rambling over
the ground, while our meal was in preparation, our attention was called
to a tamed marmot or ground hog, that had been a favorite of the family
during several years. He had just commenced burrowing a residence for
his long months of hybernation—for the coolness of the nights
forewarned him that the period of activity was nearly over. By the
orchard fence, upon a little mound commanding a broad view of the
squire’s improvements, he sat upright on the grass, by the side of the
yellow circle of dust which his labors already rendered sufficiently
conspicuous. The sun obliquely shed a milder and more contemplative
light over a scene softened by the autumnal haze. The foliage wore the
serious depth of green which precedes the change of the leaf, and, on
the higher ground, small patches of yellow, red and brown began to vary
the uniformity of the forest. He sat with his fore-paws gently crossed
upon his bosom, like an old man reposing at evening by the door of his
cottage, calmly and peacefully reflecting that the labors of life were
drawing to a close. The autumn wind soughed by, with a premonitory moan,
and our philosophic friend threw up one ear to drink the ominous sound,
shook his head, as it died away, with an obvious shudder, as though some
chilly dream of winter disturbed his repose, and turning slowly round,
commenced digging deliberately at his burrow. In a few minutes he
reappeared and seemed again buried in contemplating the beauty of the
scenery. Ere long another and a stronger blast swept through the trees,
with a more threatening voice—bearing upon its wings a few withered
leaves.

One of these fell close to the person of the marmot. The intimation was
not to be mistaken. He gently descended to the horizontal attitude,
crawled towards the unwelcome courier of decay, applied his nose to it
for a moment, then, wheeling rapidly round, plunged suddenly into his
hole and sent the dirt flying into the air by the rapid action of his
fore-paws. I turned to the Exile of Connecticut, who had also watched
this interesting scene, and remarked: “You propose to go to the
prairies! It is summer with you yet, but I see that the leaves are
beginning to turn: there are a few grey hairs gathering about your brow.
Is it not time to choose your last resting place? to dig your last
burrow?”

He felt the force of the query, and remained in thought for several
minutes.

“If it were not for the next instalment, I think I should stay where I
am till the neighborhood could grow up around us, and Mary could go to
church and little John to school. But—I don’t know!—I think I shall
have to sell out and _flit_ in the spring, if I could find a purchaser!
I’m young yet; and that little beast did not throw the dirt so high in
the spring.”

Poor fellow! I hear that the ground reverted to the company two years
afterwards; but whether he sold out and _flitted_ with a full purse, or
started on foot with his Mary and the children, and an axe on his
shoulder, I have never heard.

-----

[3] It were ungrateful in the writer, not to acknowledge the marked
courtesy and kindness received from several friends during a short
residence at Hartford, and if tempted to speak a little severely of the
manners of the place, there is much more pleasure in the thought, that a
town, honored by the residence of Mrs. Sigourney, Mr. Wordsworth, the
liberal patron of the _fine arts_, and the model of _fine feeling_, and
Rev. Mr. Gualladet, the devoted philanthropist, can endure some censure
upon its general hospitality. On a more suitable occasion, I should be
most happy to extend this list, partly, because it would be no more than
just to do so,

    “And partly that bright names will hallow song!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                SONNET.


    Still he is absent though the buds of Spring
      Bursting, have flung their freshness o’er the earth,
      And all its brightest flowers have waked to birth
    The perfume in their petals slumbering;—
    The bright green leaves of Summer’s garnishing
      Have blanched away;—the wild bird’s song of mirth
    Is hushed into an echo, and his wing
      Chill’d by the breath the north wind scatters forth:—
    And yet the loved one is not with us, yet
      He lingers in some foreign beauty’s bower,
    While we the lonely, we in vain regret
      The distant rapture of the greeting hour,
    Till hope seems, poised upon its wavering wings,
    Departing like the fair earth’s loveliest things.
    E. J. P.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE FALSE LADYE.


           BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” ETC.


There were merriment and music in the Chateau des Tournelles—at that
time the abode of France’s Royalty!—Music and merriment, even from the
break of day! That was a singular age—an age of great transitions. The
splendid spirit-stirring soul of chivalry was alive yet among the
nations—_yet_! although fast declining, and destined soon to meet its
death blow in the spear thrust that hurled the noble Henry, last victim
of its wondrous system, at once from saddle and from throne!—In every
art, in every usage, new science had effected even then mighty changes;
yet it was the old world still! Gunpowder, and the use of musquetry and
ordnance, had introduced new topics; yet still knights spurred their
barbed chargers to the shock, still rode in complete steel—and tilts
and tournaments still mustered all the knightly and the noble; and
banquets at high noon, and balls in the broad day-light, assembled to
the board or to the dance, the young, the beautiful, and happy.

There were merriment and music in the court—the hall—the
stair-case—the saloons of state! All that France held of beautiful, and
bright, and brave, and wise, and noble, were gathered to the presence of
their King.—And there were many there, well known and honored in those
olden days; well known and honored ever after!—The first, in person as
in place, was the great King!—the proud and chivalrous and
princely!—becoming his high station at all times and in every
place—wearing his state right gracefully and freely—the second
Henry!—and at his side young Francis, the King-Dauphin; with her, the
cynosure of every heart, the star of that fair company—Scotland’s
unrivalled Mary hanging upon his manly arm, and gazing up with those
soft, dove-like eyes, fraught with unutterable soul, into her husband’s
face—into her husband’s spirit.—Brissac was there, and Joyeuse, and
Nevers; and Jarnac, the renowned for skill in fence, and Vielleville;
and the Cardinal Lorraine, and all the glorious Guises,—and
Montmorenci, soon to be famous as the slayer of his King, and every peer
of France, and every peerless lady.

Loud pealed the exulting symphonies; loud sang the chosen
minstrelsy—and as the gorgeous sun-beams rushed in a flood of tinted
lustre through the rich many-colored panes of the tall windows, glancing
on soft voluptuous forms and eyes that might out-dazzle their own
radiance, arrayed in all the pomp and pride of that magnificent and
stately period—a more resplendent scene could scarcely be imagined.
That was a day of rich and graceful costumes, when men and warriors
thought it no shame to be adorned in silks and velvets, with chains of
goldsmith’s work about their necks, and jewels in their ears, and on
their hatbands, buttons, and buckles, and sword-hilts; and if such were
the sumptuous attire of the sterner and more solid sex, what must have
been the ornature of the court ladies, under the gentle sway of such a
being as Diane de Poitiers, the lovely mistress of the monarch, and
arbitress of the soft follies of the Court?

The palace halls were decked with every fanciful variety, some in the
pomp of blazoned tapestries with banners rustling from the cornices
above the jocund dancers, some filled with fresh green branches, wrought
into silver arbors, sweet garlands perfuming the air, and the light half
excluded or tempered into a mild and emerald radiance by the dense
foliage of the rare exotics. Pages and ushers tripped it to and fro,
clad in the royal liveries, embroidered with the cognizance of Henry,
the fuigist salamander, bearing the choicest wines, the rarest cates, in
every interval of the resounding dance.—It would be tedious to dwell
longer on the scene; to multiply more instances of the strange mixture,
which might be witnessed everywhere, of artificial luxury with
semibarbarous rudeness—to specify the graces of the company, the beauty
of the demoiselles and dames, the stately bearing of the warrior nobles,
as they swept back and forth in the quaint mazes of some antiquated
measure, were a task to be undertaken only by some old chronicler, with
style as curious and as quaint as the manners he portrays in living
colors.—Enough for us to catch a fleeting glimpse of the grand
pageantry! to sketch with a dashy pencil the groups which he would
designate with absolute and accurate minuteness!

But there was one among that gay assemblage, who must not be passed over
with so slight a regard, since she attracted on that festive day, as
much of wondering admiration for her unequalled beauties as she excited
grief, and sympathy, and fear, in after days, for her sad fortunes,—but
there was now no cloud upon her radiant beauty, no dimness prophetic of
approaching tears in her large laughing eyes, no touch of melancholy
thought upon one glorious feature—Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the heiress
of a ducal fortune, the heiress of charms so surpassing, that rank and
fortune were forgotten by all who gazed upon her pure high brow, her
dazzling glances, her seductive smile, the perfect symmetry of her whole
shape and person! Her hair, of the darkest auburn shade, fell in a
thousand ringlets, glittering out like threads of virgin gold when a
stray sunbeam touched them, fell down her snowy neck over the shapely
shoulders and so much of a soft heaving bosom—veined by unnumbered
azure channels, wherein the pure blood coursed so joyously—as was
displayed by the falling laces which decked her velvet boddice—her
eyes, so quick and dazzling was their light, almost defied description,
possessing at one time the depth and brilliance of the black, melting
into the softer languor of the blue—yet they were of the latter hue,
and suited truly to the whole style and character of her voluptuous
beauty. Her form, as has been noticed, was symmetry itself; and every
movement, every step, was fraught with natural and unstudied grace.—In
sooth, she seemed almost too beautiful for mere mortality—and so
thought many an one who gazed upon her, half drunk with that divine
delirium which steeps the souls of men who dwell too steadfastly upon
such wondrous charms, as she bounded through the labyrinth of the dance,
lighter and springier than the world-famed gazelle, or rested from the
exciting toil in panting abandonment upon some cushioned settle! and
many inquired of themselves, could it be possible that an exterior so
divine should be the tenement of a harsh worldly spirit—that a demeanor
and an air so frank, so cordial, and so warm, should be but the
deceptive veil that hid a selfish, cold, bad heart. Aye! many asked
themselves that question on that day, but not one answered his own
question candidly or truly—no! not one man!—for in her presence he had
been more or less than mortal, who could pronounce his sentence unmoved
by the attractions of her outward seeming.

For Marguerite de Vaudreuil had been but three short months before
affianced as the bride of the young Baron de La-Hirè—the bravest and
best of Henry’s youthful nobles. It had been a love treaty—no matter of
shrewd bartering of hearts—no cold and worldly convenance—but the
outpouring, as it seemed, of two young spirits, each warm and worthy of
the other!—and men had envied him, and ladies had held her more
fortunate in her high conquest, than in her rank, her riches, or her
beauties; and the world had forgotten to calumniate, or to sneer, in
admiration of the young glorious pair, that seemed so fitly mated. Three
little months had passed—three more, and they had been made one!—but,
in the interval, Charles de La-Hirè, obedient to his King’s behest, had
buckled on his sword, and led the followers of his house to the Italian
wars. With him, scarcely less brave, and, as some thought, yet handsomer
than he, forth rode upon his first campaign, Armand de Laguy, his own
orphaned cousin, bred like a brother on his father’s hearth; and, as
Charles well believed, a brother in affection. Three little months had
passed, and in a temporary truce, Armand de Laguy had returned alone,
leading the relics of his cousin’s force, and laden with the doleful
tidings of that cousin’s fall upon the field of honor. None else had
seen him die, none else had pierced so deeply into the hostile ranks;
but Armand had rushed madly on to save his noble kinsman, and failing in
the desperate attempt, had borne off his reward in many a perilous
wound. Another month, and it was whispered far and near, that Marguerite
had dried her tears already; and that Armand de Laguy had, by his
cousin’s death, succeeded, not to lands and to lordships only, but to
the winning of that dead cousin’s bride.—It had been whispered far and
near—and now the whisper was proved true. For, on this festive day,
young Armand, still pale from the effects of his exhausting wounds, and
languid from loss of the blood, appeared in public for the first time,
not in the sable weeds of decent and accustomed wo, but in the gayest
garb of a successful bridegroom—his pourpoint of rose-colored velvet
strewn thickly with seed pearl and broideries of silver, his hose of
rich white silk, all slashed and lined with cloth of silver, his injured
arm suspended in a rare scarf of the lady’s colors, and, above all, the
air of quiet confident success with which he offered, and that lovely
girl received, his intimate attentions, showed that for once, at least,
the tongue of rumor had told truth.

Therefore men gazed in wonder—and marvelled as they gazed, and half
condemned!—yet they who had been loudest in their censure when the
first whisper reached their ears of so disloyal love, of so bold-fronted
an inconstancy, now found themselves devising many an excuse within
their secret hearts for this sad lapse of one so exquisitely fair. Henry
himself had frowned, when Armand de Laguy led forth the fair betrothed,
radiant in festive garb and decked with joyous smiles—but the stern
brow of the offended prince had smoothed itself into a softer aspect,
and the rebuff which he had determined—but a second’s space before—to
give to the untimely lovers, was frittered down into a jest before it
left the lips of the repentant speaker.

The day was well-nigh spent—the evening banquet had been spread, and
had been honored, duly—and now the lamps were lit in hall, and
corridor, and bower; and merrier waxed the mirth, and faster wheeled the
dance. The company were scattered to and fro, some wandering in the
royal gardens, which overspread at that day, most of the Isle de Paris;
some played with cards or dice; some drank and revelled in the halls;
some danced unwearied in the grand saloons; some whispered love in
ladies’ ears in dark sequestered bowers—and of these last were
Marguerite and Armand—a long alcove of thick green boughs, with orange
trees between, flowering in marble vases, and myrtles, and a thousand
odorous trees mingling their perfumed shadows, led to a lonely
bower—and there alone in the dim star-light—alone indeed! for they
might now be deemed as one, sat the two lovers. One fair hand of the
frail lady was clasped in the bold suitor’s right—while his left arm,
unconscious of its wound, was twined about her slender waist; her head
reclined upon his shoulder, with all its rich redundancy of ringlets
floating about his neck and bosom, and her eyes, languid and suffused,
fondly turned up to meet his passionate glances. “And can it be”—he
said, in the thick broken tones that tell of vehement passion—“And can
it be that you indeed love Armand?—I fear, I fear, sweet beauty, that
I, like Charles, should be forgotten, were I, like Charles, removed—for
him thou didst love dearly—while on me never didst thou waste thought
or word.”

“Him—never, Armand, never!—by the bright stars above us—by the great
gods that hear us—I never—never _did_ love Charles de La-Hirè—never
did love man, save thee, my noble Armand.—False girlish vanity and
pique led me to toy with him at first; now to my sorrow I confess
it—and when thou didst look coldly upon me, and seem’dst to woo dark
Adeline de Courcy, a woman’s vengeance stirred up my very soul, and
therefore to punish thee, whom only did I love, I well nigh yielded up
myself to torture by wedding one whom I esteemed indeed and honored—but
never thought of for one moment with affection—wilt thou believe me,
Armand?”

“Sweet Angel, Marguerite!” and he clasped her to his hot heaving breast,
and her white arms were flung about his neck, and their lips met in a
long fiery kiss.

Just in that point of time—in that soft melting moment—a heavy hand
was laid quietly on Armand’s shoulder—he started, as the fiend sprang
up, revealed before the temper of Ithuriel’s angel weapon—he started
like a guilty thing from that forbidden kiss.

A tall form stood beside him, shrouded from head to heel in a dark
riding cloak of the Italian fashion; but there was no hat on the stately
head, nor any covering to the cold stern impassive features. The high
broad forehead as pale as sculptured marble, with the dark chestnut
curls falling off parted evenly upon the crown—the full, fixed, steady
eye, which he could no more meet than he could gaze unscathed on the
meridian sun, the noble features, sharpened by want and suffering and
wo—were all! all those of his good cousin.

For a moment’s space the three stood there in silence!—Charles de
La-Hirè reaping rich vengeance from the unconquerable consternation of
the traitor! Armand de Laguy bent almost to the earth with shame and
conscious terror! and Marguerite half dead with fear, and scarcely
certain if indeed he who stood before her were the man in his living
presence, whom she had vowed to love for ever; or if it were but the
visioned form of an indignant friend returned from the dark grave to
thunderstrike the false disturbers of his eternal rest.

“I am in time”—he said at length, in accents slow and unfaltering, as
his whole air was cold and tranquil—“in time to break off this
monstrous union!—Thy perjuries have been in vain, weak man; thy lies
are open to the day.—He whom thou didst betray to the Italian’s
dungeon—to the Italian’s dagger—as thou didst then believe and
hope—stands bodily before thee.”

A long heart-piercing shriek burst from the lips of Marguerite, as the
dread import of his speech fell on her sharpened ears—the man whom she
_had_ loved—_first_ loved!—for all her previous words were false and
fickle—stood at her side in all his power and glory—and she affianced
to a liar, a base traitor—a foul murderer in his heart!—a scorn and
by-word to her own sex—an object of contempt and hatred to every noble
spirit!

But at that instant Armand de Laguy’s pride awoke—for he _was_ proud,
and brave, and daring!—and he gave back the lie, and hurled defiance in
his accuser’s teeth.

“Death to thy soul!” he cried—“’tis thou that lieth!—Charles!—did I
not see thee stretched on the bloody plain? did I not sink beside thee,
hewed down and trampled under foot, in striving to preserve thee?—and
when my vassals found me, wert thou not beside me—with thy face
scarred, indeed, and mangled beyond recognition, but with the surcoat
and the arms upon the lifeless corpse, and the sword in the cold
hand?—’Tis thou that liest, man!—’tis thou that, for some base end,
didst conceal thy life; and now wouldst charge thy felonies on me—but
’twill not do—fair cousin.—The King shall judge between us!—Come
lady”—and he would have taken her by the hand, but she sprang back as
though a viper would have stung her.

“Back traitor!—” she exclaimed, in tones of the deepest loathing.—“I
hate thee, spit on thee! defy thee!—Base have I been myself, and frail,
and fickle—but, as I live, Charles de La-Hirè—but as I live _now_, and
_will_ die right shortly—I knew not of this villany! I did believe thee
dead, as that false murtherer swore—and—God be good to me!—I did
betray thee dead; and now have lost thee living! But for thee, Armand de
Laguy, dog! traitor! villain! knave!—dare not to look upon me any more;
dare not address me with one accent of thy serpent tongue! for
Marguerite de Vaudreuil, fallen although she be, and lost for ever, is
not so all abandoned as, knowing thee for what thou art, to bear with
thee one second longer—no! not though that second could redeem all the
past—and wipe out all the sin!—”

“Fine words! Fine words, fair mistress!—but on with me thou shalt!” and
he stretched out his arm to seize her, when, with a perfect majesty,
Charles de La-Hirè stepped in and grasped him by the wrist, and held him
for a moment there, gazing into his eye as though he would have read his
soul; then threw him off with force, that made him stagger back ten
paces before he could regain his footing!—then! then! with all the fury
of the fiend depicted on his working lineaments, Armand unsheathed his
rapier and made a full lunge, bounding forwards as he did so, right at
his cousin’s heart! but he was foiled again, for with a single, and, as
it seemed, slight motion of the sheathed broadsword, which he held under
his cloak, Charles de La-Hirè struck up the weapon, and sent it whirling
through the air to twenty paces distance.

Just then there came a shout “the King! the King!”—and, with the words,
a glare of many torches, and, with his courtiers and his guard about
him, the Monarch stood forth in offended majesty.

“Ha!—what means this insolent broil?—What men be these who dare draw
swords within the palace precincts?”

“_My_ sword is sheathed, sire,” answered De La-Hirè, kneeling before the
King and laying the good weapon at his feet—“nor has been ever drawn,
save at your highness’ bidding, against your highness’ foes!—But I
beseech you, sire, as you love honesty and honor, and hate deceit and
treason, grant me your royal license to prove Armand de Laguy, recreant,
base, and traitorous, a liar and a felon, and a murtherer, hand to hand,
in the presence of the ladies of your court, according to the law of
arms and honor!”

“Something of this we have heard already”—replied the King, “Baron de
La-Hirè!—But say out now, of what accuse you Armand de Laguy?—shew but
good cause, and thy request is granted; for I have not forgot your good
deeds in my cause against our rebel Savoyards and our Italian foemen—of
what accuse you Armand de Laguy?”

“That he betrayed me wounded into the hands of the Duke of Parma! that
he dealt with Italian bravoes to compass my assassination! that by foul
lies and treacherous devices, he has trained from me my affianced bride:
and last, not least, deprived her of fair name and honor.—This will I
prove upon his body, so help me God and my good sword.”

“Stand forth and answer to his charge De Laguy—speak out! what sayest
thou?”

“I say,” answered Armand boldly—“I say that he lies!—that he did feign
his own death for some evil ends!—and did deceive me, who would have
died to succor him!—That I, believing him dead, have won from him the
love of this fair lady, I admit.—But I assert that I did win it fairly,
and of good right!—And for the rest, I say he lies doubly, when he
asserts that she has lost fair name, or honor—this is _my_ answer,
sire; and I beseech you grant _his_ prayer, and let us prove our words,
as gentlemen of France and soldiers, forthwith, by singular battle!”

“Amen!” replied the King—“the third day hence at noon, in the tilt
yard, before our court, we do adjudge the combat—and this fair lady be
the prize of the victor!—”

“No! sire,” interposed Charles de La-Hirè, again kneeling—but before he
had the time to add a second word, Marguerite de Vaudreuil, who had
stood all the while with her hands clasped and her eyes rivetted upon
the ground, sprung forth with a great cry—

“No! no! for God-sake! no! no! sire—great King—good gentleman—brave
knight! doom me not to a fate so dreadful.—Charles de La-Hirè is all
that man can be, of good, or great, or noble! but I betrayed him, whom I
deemed dead; and he can never trust me living!—Moreover, if he would
take me to his arms, base as I am and most false hearted, he should
not—for God forbid that _my_ dishonor should blight _his_ noble
fame.—As for the slave De Laguy—the traitor and low liar, doom me,
great monarch, to the convent or the block—but curse me not with such
contamination!—For, by the heavens I swear! and by the God that rules
them! that I will die by my own hand, before I wed that serpent!”

“Be it so, fair one,” answered the King very coldly—“be it so! we
permit thy choice—a convent or the victor’s bridal bed shall be thy
doom, at thine own option!—Meanwhile your swords, sirs; until the hour
of battle ye are both under our arrest. Jarnac be thou Godfather to
Charles de La-Hirè!—Nevers, do thou like office for de Laguy.”

“By God! not I, sire;” answered the proud duke. “I hold this man’s
offence so rank, his guilt so palpable, that, on my conscience! I think
your royal hangman were his best Godfather!”

“Nevertheless, De Nevers—it shall be, as I say!—this bold protest of
thine is all sufficient for thine honor—and it is but a form!—no
words, duke! it must be as I have said!—Joyeuse, escort this lady to
thy duchess—pray her accept of her as the King’s guest, until this
matter be decided. The third day hence at noon, on foot, with sword and
dagger—with no arms of defence or vantage—the principals to fight
alone, until one die or yield—and so God shield the right!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                SONNETS.


                           BY PARK BENJAMIN.


                   EVENING.

    In robes of crimson glory sinks the Day;
        The Earth in slumber closes her great eye
        Like to a dying god’s; from hills, that lie
    Like altars kindled by the sunset ray,
    The smoke in graceful volumes soars away;
        From every wood a chorus soundeth nigh;
        Those veils of day, the shadows, floating high
    Around the tree-tops, fall upon the gay
    And gem-like flowers that bloom beneath; the West
        Its burnished gold throws back in softened lines
        Upon the East, and, as it sweetly shines
        On lapsing river and reposing dell,
    Tinges with rosy light the hovering breast
      Of the small, tremulous lark—boon Nature’s evening bell.


                   HEREAFTER.

    Oh, man is higher than his dwelling-place;
        Upward he looks, and his soul’s wings unfold,
        And, when like minutes sixty years have rolled,
    He rises, kindling, into boundless space.
    Then backward to the Earth, his native place,
        The ashes of his feathers lightly fall,
        And his free soul, unveiled, disrobed of all
    That cumbered it, begins its heavenly race,
    Pure as a tone and brilliant as a star.
        Even through the shadows on life’s desert lawn
    Hills of the future world he sees afar
    In morning rays that beam not here below.
    Thus doth the dweller in the realm of snow
        Through his long night perceive the distant dawn.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            HARRY CAVENDISH.


 BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.
                                  ETC.


              “And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy
              Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
              Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
              I wantoned with thy breakers.”
                                           Childe Harold.


                             INTRODUCTORY.

I was sitting the other afternoon before my library fire, listening to
the fitful breeze without that swayed the trees to and fro before the
house and moaned down in the neighbouring woods, when I suddenly
recollected that the last sheets of “The Reefer” had gone to press a
fortnight before, and that, consequently, my career of authorship was
closed. The idea, I confess, gave me pleasure, for I am by nature an
indolent man, and would at any time rather dream by a cheery fire, with
my slippered feet reposing on my tiger-skin rug, than tie myself down to
a writing-table, even though it be to record my own or my friends’
adventures, and “go about the world from hand to hand.” I am not
ambitious. I prefer ease to reputation, quiet to turmoil, the epicurean
to all other philosophy. To read my favorite authors; to indulge in
reveries at the twilight hour; to gaze on fine pictures, choice statues,
and tasteful rooms; to listen to the melting airs of Burns, or the
glorious hallelujahs of Handel; to sport on my own grounds on a clear,
bracing morning; to gallop over the wild hills and through the romantic
valleys which surround my residence;—these are the enjoyments in which
I delight, and which I prefer to all the reputation either the pen or
the sword can give. Others may choose a more bustling life; but I have
had my share of that! Give me a quiet, happy home, for there only is
true happiness to be found.

Musing thus, I was unconscious of the entrance of an intruder, until I
heard a slight cough beside me, and looking up, I saw my faithful
servant John standing over my chair. He laid on my lap, at the instant,
a copy of Graham’s Magazine for December. As John did so, he heaved a
sigh, and then, as if something was on his mind, busied himself in
arranging various articles in the room. I knew by these tokens that he
was desirous of attracting my attention. The woe-begone expression which
he wore during all this time, amused me, for I fancied I could guess
what was passing through his mind. As I quietly cut the pages of the
book, I indulged him by opening the conversation.

“Well, John,” I said, “it is finished. ‘The Reefer’ has followed my own
adventures, and you will have no more trouble in acting as proof-reader
for me. Our days,” and here, at the use of the plural, the old fellow
grinned from ear to ear, “our days of authorship are over. I think we
had better retire while our laurels are green. Are you not glad?”

“Glad! What for Massa Danforth think that? No, no,” and he shook his
grey head mournfully, “John _not_ glad.”

“And why not, John? We shall have more time to ourselves. I’m afraid,” I
said, looking towards the window, and endeavoring to peer through the
twilight without, “I am afraid our planting is sadly behind hand—the
clump of trees out yonder wants thinning—and then the water-fall is
getting out of order—and Mrs. Danforth has been pleading for an
addition to her garden—all this requires overseeing—and besides these,
there are a thousand other things which will require our attention.”

I could see that the old fellow had, with difficulty, restrained himself
until I had finished; for he kept moving his body unceasingly, and once
or twice had opened his mouth to speak. He now broke out—

“Nebber do, Massa Danforth, nebber do to give up authorship, take old
John word for dat. You now great man—talk of in all de papers—it Massa
Danforth here and Massa Danforth dare—ebbery few month you get extra
puff in de prospective of de Magazine—and think you discontinue if you
give ober writing? Gor amighty nebber! Ebbery body can do
planting,—dere Massa Jones, Massa Tyson, Massa Smit, and de oder
blockheads in de county—but you be only one hereabout been to sea, or
can drive a pen ober paper like a four-in-hand, polishing skrimanges for
a hundred thousand readers—for dat many Massa Graham say thumb his book
ebbery month. It plain text, plain sermon. Who so big as Massa Danforth
de author?—who so little, beg pardon for say it, as Massa Danforth de
farmer? De public like our sleepy boy Joe in de kitchen, he nebber know
any one alive, unless dey keep bawling, bawling in his ear all de time.”

“But what am I to do?” said I, smiling at his earnestness, and peculiar
style of illustration. “Even if I wished to continue an author, I could
not. My own adventures are published; so are those of the Reefer,—if I
go on, I must—to say nothing of the trouble—draw on my fancy, and
that, you know, wouldn’t do. I always bear in mind what honest Sancho
Panza says—‘Let every one take heed how they talk or write of people,
and not set down at random the first thing that comes into their
imagination.’”

“Massa Sanka Pancer had better keep his advice to himself, dat my
mind—I nebber saw him here, or read his name in de papers, and he
derefore no great shakes—but I no see dat dere be an accessory for any
fiction about it. Ah! I hab him—I hab him. I think of a new feature.”

“A new feature! Well—let’s hear it.”

“But first, dere be accessory for a story. Once Massa know I be a poor
scoundrel in newspaper office—hard life dat, where kicks plenty and
dinners scarce—and ebbery now and den when editor pushed to de wall for
cash, he say in his paper dat de next day he come out wid a new feature.
Well, ebbery body, besure, be on tip-toe. Office run down next mornin
for paper. Massa editor fill his pockets for once anyhow—no trouble,
little cost, all wit do it. How? He put in new head to his paper, and
call dat ‘new feature.’ Now, suppose Massa Danforth get a new head to
‘Cruising in de Last War,’ and so be author, and dat widout trouble, for
anoder year. Ah! ha! dat grand stroke.”

I laughed heartily at the proposal, but replied—

“That would never do, John—but I must tell Graham of your idea.”

“Eh! what?—put old John in print. Gor amighty dat make him grand as de
minister—not dat he care much for it—he not vain—but, but, what Massa
gwine to say?”

“You’ll know in good time—but at present see who knocks at the library
door.”

“Package forgot at post-office,” said John, returning from his errand,
and giving me a huge bundle of manuscript.

“Ah! what have we here? A letter from Graham, I declare. What says
he?—‘a valuable private history of the revolutionary times,’—‘only
wants a little pruning’—‘thrilling adventures’—‘a run unsurpassed for
years’—‘unequalled’—‘edit it as a great favor’—and so forth. Well,
let us see what it is.”

“Eh! yes—see what he is. Massa Graham one _obi_ man, he know de
quandary we in, and send dis to settle de argument. No escape now, Massa
Danforth—it little trouble—thank God! you be great man still—and de
people still say as we drive out togedder, ‘dare go de celebrated Massa
Danforth, and his man John!’”

And now, reader, having acquainted you with the manner in which the
following history came into my hands, and given you a hint as to the
reasons which have induced me to appear again in print, I will take
leave of you without further parley, and let the autobiographer speak
for himself.


                               THE WRECK.

The parting word had been said, the last look had been taken, and my
traps had all been snugly stowed away in the narrow room which, for some
years, was to be my home. I stood by the starboard railing gazing back
on the dear city I was leaving, and, despite the stoicism I had affected
when bidding farewell to my friends, I could not now prevent a starting
tear. Nor did my mess-mates seem in a more sportive mood; for they could
be seen, some in the rigging and some leaning over the ship’s side,
looking back on the well known landmarks of the town with a seriousness
in the aspect which betokened the thoughts passing through the heart.
Yes! we were about leaving the scenes of our boyhood, to enter on a new
and untried life—and who knew if any of us would ever return again to
our homes? The chances of war are at all times dreadful, but in our case
they were terribly increased by the flag under which we sailed. Who
could tell whether the officers of the revolted colonies might not be
considered as traitors as well as rebels? Who knew but that the very
first enemy we should meet would either sink us or hang us at the yard
arm? And yet, firm in the righteousness of our cause, and confiding in
the God of battles, there was not one of our number who, having put his
hand to the plough, wished to turn back. Sink or swim—live or die—we
were resigned to either destiny.

Evening was closing fast around the scene, and, even as I gazed, the
town melted into gloom, Copp’s Hill alone standing up in solemn majesty
over the shadowy city. The distant hum of the town died fainter and
fainter on the darkness, the evening breeze came up fresher across the
waters, the song of the fisherman and the dip of passing oars ceased,
and, one by one, the white sails of the ships around us faded away, at
first seeming like faint clouds, but finally losing themselves
altogether in the darkness. All around was still. The low monotonous
ground swell heaving under our counter, and rippling faintly as it went,
alone broke the witching silence. Not a breath of air was stirring. The
boatswain’s whistle was hushed, the whisper had died away, no footfall
rose upon the stillness, but over shore and sea, earth and sky, man and
inanimate creation, the same deep silence hung.

Gradually, however, the scene changed. Lights began to flash along the
town and from the ships in port, and, in a few moments, the harbor was
alive with a long line of effulgence. A half subdued halo now hung over
the city. The effect produced was like that of magic. Here a ship lay
almost buried in gloom—there one was thrown out in bold relief by the
lights—now a tall warehouse rose shadowy into the sky, and now one
might be seen almost as distinctly as at noon day. The lights streaming
from the cabin windows and dancing along the bay, the swell tinged on
its crest with silver, but dark as night below, and the far off sails
gleaming like shadowy spectres, through the uncertain light, added
double effect to the picture. And when the stars came out, one by one,
blinking high up in the firmament, and the wind began to sigh across the
bay and wail sadly through our rigging, the weird-like character of the
prospect grew beyond description. Hour after hour passed away and we
still continued gazing on the scene as if under the influence of some
magician’s spell; but, at length, exhausted nature gave way, and one
after another went below, leaving only those on deck whose duty required
their presence. For myself, though I sought my hammock, a succession of
wild indistinct dreams haunted me throughout the livelong night.

A pleasant breeze was singing through the rigging as I mounted the
gangway at dawn, and the tide having already made, I knew no time would
be lost in getting under weigh. Directly the captain made his
appearance, and, after a few whispered words, the pilot issued his
orders. In an instant all was bustle. The boatswain’s whistle, calling
all hands to their duty, was heard shrieking through the ship, and then
came the quick hurried tread of many feet, as the men swarmed to their
stations. The anchor was soon hove short; the sails were loosed; the
topsails, top-gallant sails and royals were sheeted home and
hoisted,—the head yards were braced aback and the after yards filled
away; a sheer was made with the helm; the anchor was tripped; the gib
was hoisted; and as she paid beautifully off, the foretop sail was
filled merrily away, and the spanker hauled out. Then the yards were
trimmed, the anchor catted, and with a light breeze urging us on, we
stood gallantly down the bay. As we increased our distance from the
town, the wind gradually freshened. One after another of the green
islands around us faded astern; the heights of Nahant opened ahead,
glanced by and frowned in our wake; and before the sun had been many
hours on his course, we were rolling our yard arms in a stiff breeze,
leagues to sea. Before sun-down the distant coast had vanished from
sight.

My mess mates had already gathered around the table in the long narrow
room which was appropriated to the midshipmen, when I dove down the
hatchway after the watch had been set. They were as jovial a set as I
had ever seen, and, although our acquaintance was but of twenty-four
hours standing, we all felt perfectly at home with each other; and as
the salt beef was pushed from hand to hand, and the jug passed merrily
around, the mutual laugh and jest bore token of our “right good
fellowship.”

“A pretty craft, my lads,” said a tall fine-looking fellow, obviously
the senior of the group, and whom I had been introduced to as a Mr.
O’Hara; “a pretty craft and a bold captain we have, or I’m no judge.
I’ve been at sea before, but never in as gallant a ship as this. Here’s
success to The Arrow—no heel-taps.”

The toast was drunk with a huzza, and O’Hara continued the conversation,
as if, under the circumstances, he felt that he was the only proper
person to play the host.

“You’re most of you green-horns, my boys—excuse the word, but ‘tell the
truth,’ you know—and will not be good for much if this swell continues.
One or two of you are getting pale already, and, if I’m not mistaken,
Cavendish and I are the only two of the set that have smelt salt water
before. Now, take a word of advice. Cut into the beef like the deuce,
never mind if it does make you worse, cut away still, and bye and bye,
when you get all your long shore swash out of you, you’ll find that you
feel better than ever. We’re for a long voyage, and many a hard rub
you’ll get before it’s over, but never flinch from duty or danger—even
if Davy Jones himself stares you in the face. Kick care to the wall, and
be merry while you may. But always have an eye to what is due to your
superiors. The captain’s a gentleman. God bless him! The first
lieutenant, I’ve a notion, is a sour sinner—never let him catch you
tripping,—but you needn’t mind him further, for he looks as if he ought
to be tarred and feathered as the Boston boys served the exciseman. And
now, lads, here’s to a prosperous voyage, and let’s turn in, one and
all, for I’ve got the morning watch, and I’ve a notion this breeze will
have settled down into a regular hurricane, and be blowing great guns
and marlin-spikes before then.”

The air of easy good-humor with which O’Hara spoke, attracted me to him
at once. He was evidently my senior, and had seen some service; but it
was equally as evident that he affected no superiority which was not his
of right. I determined to know him better.

It was still dark when I was aroused from sleep by the calling of the
watch, and, hastily springing up, I soon stood upon the deck. The first
glance around me proved that O’Hara’s anticipations were fulfilled, for
the tempest was thundering through the rigging with an almost stunning
voice, driving the fine spray wildly along, and blowing with an
intensity that threatened to sweep one overboard. The men, bent before
the blast, and wrapped in their thick overcoats, stood like statues half
seen through the mist. The night was bitterly cold—the fine spray cut
to the marrow. As far as the eye could see, on every hand around us, the
sea, flattened until it was nearly as level as a table, was a mass of
driving foam. The binnacle lamp burned faint and dim, with a sickly
halo, through the fog. Above, however, all was clear, except a few white
fleecy clouds, driven wildly across the frosty stars that twinkled in
the heavens. As I ran my eye along the tall taper masts, now bending
like rushes in the hurricane, I saw that nearly all the canvass had been
taken in, and that we were scudding before the tempest with nothing
spread but a close-reefed maintopsail, a reefed fore-course, and the
foretopmast staysail,—and even these, as they strained in the gale,
threatened momently to blow out into ribbons before the resistless fury
of the wind. Under this comparative press of canvass, The Arrow was
skimming along, seeming to outvie even the spray in velocity. And well
was it that she sped onward with such hot haste!—for, on looking
astern, I saw the billows howling after us, urging on their white crests
in fearful proximity, and threatening at every surge to roll in over our
taffrail. Wilder and wilder, more and even more fiercely they raced each
other in the pursuit, like a pack of famished wolves pitching and
yelling after their prey.

“Keep her so,” said the first lieutenant, as he left the deck in charge
of his successor, “for you see it is neck and neck with those yelling
monsters astern. If the sails are blown from the bolt ropes they must
go—but as the canvass is new I think they will stand.”

“Ship ahoy!” shouted a look-out at this moment, startling us as though a
thunderbolt had fallen at our feet, “a sail athwart hawse.”

“Where, where?” exclaimed both the officers incredulously.

“Close under our fore-foot—a brig, sir.”

“My God, we shall run her down,” was the exclamation of the second
lieutenant.

All eyes were instantly turned in the direction of the approaching
danger, and there, sure enough, directly athwart our hawse, a small
trim-looking brig was seen lying-to—the wild hurricane of flying spray,
which covered the surface of the deck in places with an almost
impervious fog, having hitherto concealed her from our sight. It was
evident that the inmates of the brig had but just discovered us, for her
helm was rapidly shifted and a few hurried orders, whose import we could
not make out, were given on board of her. All, indeed, seemed confusion
on the decks of the unhappy craft. Her crew were hurrying to and fro;
the officer of the vessel was shouting in his hoarsest tone; two or
three forms, as if those of passengers, rushed up the companion way; and
to crown all, the sheets were let fly, and with a wild lurch she rolled
over, and lay the next moment wallowing in the sea broadside on. I could
almost have jumped on her decks. All this had passed with the rapidity
of thought. Never shall I forget the shriek of horror which burst
simultaneously from both vessels at this fearful crisis. Already were we
close on to the brig, driving with the speed of a sea-gull with the
gale, and we knew that before another moment should elapse, aye! almost
before another breath could be drawn, the collision must lake place. But
the lightning is not quicker than was the officer of the deck.

“Port—a-port—ha-a-rd, _hard_,” he thundered, grinding the words
between his teeth in his excitement, and waving his hands to larboard,
and the helmsman, taking his cue more from the gesture than from the
words—for in the uproar of the tempest he could not hear a dozen yards
to windward—whirled around the wheel, and our gallant craft, obedient
to the impulse like a steed beneath the spur, swept around to starboard.
For a second the ill-fated brig could be seen dancing under our stem,
and then, rolling heavily around, she seemed as if she would escape,
though narrowly, from her frightful position. A cry of joy was already
rising to my lips; but, at that instant, I heard a crash, followed by a
dull grinding noise, and simultaneously I beheld the brig come into
collision with us just abaft the cathead, and, while all our timbers
quivered with the shock, she whirled away astern, rolling and rubbing
frightfully, and half buried in the brine. A shriek rent the air, on the
instant, whose thrilling tones haunted me for days and nights, and seems
even now to ring in my ears.

“God of my fathers!” I exclaimed, “every soul will be lost!”

“Heave her to,” thundered the officer of the deck. “For life or death,
my lads! Up with the foresail—down with your helm—brace up the after
yards—set the mizzen stay sail there.”

It is a libel on sailors to say they never feel. No men are more ready
to aid the unfortunate. On the present occasion the crew seemed inspired
with an energy equal to that of their officer, and springing to their
duty performed the rapid orders of the lieutenant in an almost
incredible space of time. Happily a momentary lull aided the manœuvre,
and our proud craft obeying her helm came gallantly to.

“Meet her there, quarter-master,” continued the officer of the deck;
“set the main stay-sail—brace up the fore-yards—merrily,
merrily—there she has it—” and, as these concluding words left his
mouth, the manœuvre was finished, and we rode against the wind, rising
and falling on the swell, and flinging the spray to our fore-yard arm as
we thumped against the seas.

My first thought was of the brig. As soon, therefore, as our craft had
been hove-to, I cast a hurried glance over the starboard bow to search
for the unfortunate vessel. I detected her at once lying a short
distance on our weather bow,—and it was evident that the injury she had
sustained was of the most serious character, for even through the mist
we fancied we could see that she was settling deeper in the water. Her
officers were endeavoring to heave her to again; while rising over their
orders, and swelling above all the uproar of the hurricane, we could
hear the despairing wail of her passengers. At length she lay-to a few
fathoms on our starboard bow, drifting, however, at every surge bodily
to leeward. Confusion still reigned on her decks. We could see that the
crew were at the pumps; but they appeared to work moodily and with
little heart; and we caught now and then the sound of voices as if of
the officers in expostulation with the men. A group of female figures
also was discernible on the quarter-deck, and a manly form was visible
in the midst, as if exhorting them to courage. At the sight a thrill of
anguish ran through our breasts. We would have laid down our lives to
save them from what appeared to be their inevitable doom, and yet what
could we do in the face of such a tempest, and when any attempt to
rescue them would only entail ruin on the adventurers, without aiding
those we would preserve? As I thought of the impossibility of rendering
succor to those shrinking females, as I dwelt on the lingering agonies
they would have to endure, as I pictured to myself the brig sinking
before our eyes, and we all powerless to prevent it, a thrill of horror
shivered through every nerve of my system, my blood ran cold, my brain
reeled around, and I could with difficulty prevent myself from falling,
so great was my emotion. But rallying my spirits, I tried to persuade
myself it was all a dream. I strained my eyes through the mist to see
whether I might not be mistaken—to discover if possible some hope for
the forlorn beings on board the brig. But, alas! it was in vain. There
were the white dresses blowing about in the gale as the two females
knelt on the deck and clung to the knees of their protector—there was
the crew mustered at the pumps, while jets of brine were pouring from
the scuppers—and there were the crushed and splintered bulwarks
betokening that the efforts of the men were dictated by no idle fears. I
groaned again in agony. Had it been my own fate to perish thus, I could
have borne my doom without a murmur; but to see fellow creatures
perishing before my sight, without my having the power to succor them,
was more than I could endure. I closed my eyes on the dreadful scene.
Nor were my emotions confined to myself. Not a heart of our vast crew
that did not beat with sympathy for our unhappy victims. Old and young,
officers and men, hardy veterans and eager volunteers, all alike owned
the impulses of humanity, and stood gazing, silent, spell-bound and
horror-struck, on the ill-fated brig and her despairing passengers. At
this instant a gray-haired man, whom we knew at once to be her skipper,
sprung into the main-rigging of the wreck, and placing his hands to his
mouth, while his long silvery locks blew out dishevelled on the gale,
shouted,

“We—are—sink-ing!” and, as he ceased, a shiver ran through our crew.

“God help us,” said the captain, for that officer had now reached the
deck, “we can do nothing for them. And to see them sink before our eyes!
But yet I will not despair,” and raising his voice, he shouted, “can’t
you hold on until morning, or until the gale subsides a little?”

The skipper of the brig saw by our captain’s gestures, that he had
hailed, but the old man could not hear the words in the uproar of the
gale, and he shook his head despondingly.

“We are sinking!” he shouted again; “there is a foot of water in the
hold, and the sea is pouring in like a cataract. We have been stove.”

Never shall I forget that moment, for, to our excited imaginations, it
seemed as if the brig was visibly going down as the skipper ceased
speaking. His words sounded in our ears like the knell of hope. A pause
of several seconds ensued—a deep, solemn, awe-inspiring pause—during
which every eye was fixed on the battered vessel. Each man held his
breath, and looked in the direction of the brig, as she rose and fell on
the surges, fearful lest the next billow would submerge her forever. We
all saw that it was useless to attempt holding any communication with
her, for no human voice, even though speaking in a voice of thunder,
could be heard against the gale. The two vessels were, moreover, rapidly
increasing the space betwixt them,—and, although objects on the deck of
the brig had been at first clearly perceptible in the starlight, they
had gradually grown dimmer as she receded from us until now, they could
scarcely be seen. There was no alternative, therefore, but to abandon
her to her fate. The skipper of the brig seemed to have become sensible
of this, for, after having remained in the main rigging watching us for
several moments longer, he finally descended to the deck, waving his
hand mournfully in adieu.

Meantime the aspect of the heavens had materially changed. When I first
came on deck, the stars, I have said, were out bright on high, with only
a few scud clouds now and then chasing each other over the firmament.
Even then, however, I had noticed a small black cloud extending across
the western horizon, and giving an ominous aspect to the whole of that
quarter of the sky. But during the last half hour my attention had been
so engrossed by the events I have just related that I lost all
consciousness of this circumstance. Now, however, the increasing
darkness recalled it to my mind. I looked up. Already dark and ragged
clouds, precursors of the vast body of vapors following behind, were
dimming the stars overhead, now wrapping the decks in almost total
darkness, and now flitting by and leaving us once more in a dim and
shadowy light, through which the men loomed out like gigantic spectres.
The wind had perceptibly decreased, while the sea had risen in
proportion. The spray no longer flew by in showers, but the white caps
of the billows, as they rolled up in the uncertain light, had a
ghastliness that thrilled the heart with a strange emotion, almost
amounting to superstitious dread. The ship strained and creaked as she
rose heavily on the billows, or sunk wallowing far down in the abyss;
while ever and anon the sea would strike on her bows like a
forge-hammer, breaking in showers of spray high over the forecastle, and
often sending its foam as far back as the main hatchway.

The huge mass of vapors meanwhile had attained the zenith, and was
rolling darkly onward towards the opposite horizon. Directly the wind
died nearly altogether away, while a total darkness shrouded us in its
folds. Even then, however, a few stars could be seen low in the eastern
seaboard, twinkling sharp and serene, just under the edge of that
ominous cloud, but casting only a faint and dreamy radiance around them,
and in vain attempting to penetrate the gloom higher up in the sky. The
brig was last seen to the north-west, where the darkness had become most
intense. She was still doubtless in that quarter, but no trace of her
could be discerned.

“It’s as black up yonder as the eye of death,” said the captain, “and I
can see nothing there but a dense, impenetrable shadow—your sight is
better, Mr. Duval,” he continued, addressing the first lieutenant, “can
you make out any thing?” The officer shook his head. “Well, we will
hail, at any rate. I would not have run afoul of them for my
commission!”

The hail rung out startlingly on the night, and every ear listened for
the response. No answer came.

“Again!” said the captain.

“A-ho-o-y!—Hil-lo-o-o-o!”

A second of breathless suspense followed, and then another, when we were
about giving up all hope; but at that instant a faint cry,—it might
have been a wail or it might not, God knows!—came floating across the
waste of waters. It fell on our listening ears like a lamentation for
the dead.

“Heaven preserve us!” solemnly said the captain, “I’m afraid all is over
with them.”

“Amen!” ejaculated the lieutenant, and for an instant there was a
breathless silence, as if each was too awe-struck to speak. Suddenly the
huge sails flapped against the mast, bellied out again, and then whipped
backward with a noise like thunder. The effect was electric. The captain
started and spoke.

“The wind is shifting,” he ejaculated, holding up his hand, after having
first wet it slightly; “ha! the breeze is coming from the north. It will
strike by the mainmast. Let her stretch away at first, but we’ll
heave-to as soon as possible. I wouldn’t for the world desert this
neighborhood: God grant we may find some vestige of the brig when
morning dawns!”

The hurried orders of the officer of the deck to prepare for the coming
hurricane had scarcely been given and executed, before it seemed to us
as if we could see, even amid the blackness of darkness to the north,
the whirling motion of gigantic clouds, and, almost simultaneously, with
a roar as of ten thousand batteries, this new tempest was upon us. Its
first fury was beyond description—surpassing imagination—defying
belief. It howled, shrieked, and bellowed through the rigging in such
awful and varied tones, that the oldest hearts were chilled with fear.
It was as if the last convulsive throe of a world was at hand. It was as
if the whole fury of the elements had been collected for one last
effort—as if tortured nature, made frantic by agony, had broke loose
from her tormentors—as if the mighty deep itself, in horror-struck
penitence, was thundering its awful “_de profundis_” on the eve of final
dissolution. I could scarcely breathe, much less stand. I could only
grasp a rope, fling myself almost prostrate, and await either the
subsidence of the storm, or the foundering of our ship,—for, during
several minutes, it appeared to me as if every second was to be our
last. Torrents of water, meanwhile, swept in sheets from the crests of
the billows, were whirling like smoke-wreathes along the decks,—while
the ravening surges, faintly seen like shadows through the gloom, chased
each other in wild and rapid succession along our sides. All was
darkness, doubt and terror.

But happily the duration of the squall was proportioned to its
intensity, and, in less than five minutes, the hurricane began to
decrease in violence. After the lapse of a short period more the gale
rapidly subsided, although its power was still considerable. Before half
an hour, however, we were lying-to as near to our old position as we
could attain,—having suffered no loss except that of our maintopsail,
which was blown from the bolt ropes in the first moment of the squall,
but with a noise which was lost in the louder uproar of the wind.

“They have never survived this,” said the captain in a melancholy tone,
when we were once more snugly hove-to: “how many souls are in eternity
the All-Seeing Eye only knows! Keep her here,” he added after a pause,
turning to descend to his cabin, and addressing the officer of the deck,
“and with the first streak of light, if the gale shall have abated, as I
suspect it will, cruize up to our old position, maintaining a sharp
look-out in every direction. But I shall be on deck myself by that
time,” and with the words, taking a last but fruitless look towards the
west, he went below. In half an hour the crowded decks were deserted by
all except the silent watch; and no sound broke the whistle of the
winds, except the tread of the men, or the cry of “all’s well” passing
from look-out to look-out along the decks.

With the first appearance of morning I was on deck. The gale had nearly
gone down; the clouds had broken away; and the stars were out again,
clear and bright, in the firmament. Yet the waves still rolled mountain
high around us, now heaving their snowy crests above us in the sky, and
now rolling their dark bosoms far away under our stern. Morning slowly
dawned. Gradually, one by one, the stars paled on high, and a faint
shadowy streak of light began to spread along the eastern seaboard. Over
the boundless expanse of waters around us no living object met the eye,
so that, in that dim mysterious light, the sense of loneliness was
overpowering. But I had no thought then for aught except the ill-fated
brig. I felt an unaccountable interest in her. It seemed as if some
unknown sympathy existed betwixt me and those on board of her, as if my
destiny in some mysterious manner was connected with theirs. I could not
rest on deck, but ascending to the cross-trees I took my station there,
and gazed out anxiously over the waste of waters. Our ship had, by this
time, been put about, and we were now, as near as I could judge, in the
vicinity of the spot where the collision occurred. The moment came which
was either to realize or confirm my fears. A strange emotion took
possession of me. My heart beat nervously, my breath came heavily, I
trembled in every fibre of my system. I strained my eyes in every
direction around, and, once or twice, as a billow rolled its white crest
upwards, I fancied I saw a sail,—but, alas! my agitation had deceived
me, and all was a blank watery waste around. For more than an hour we
cruized to and fro, but in vain. As time passed and hope died away, the
officers and men, one by one, left the rigging, until finally even the
captain gave up the search, and issued a reluctant order to put the ship
away on her course. At that instant I saw, far down on the seaboard,
what seemed to me a tiny sail; but as we sank in the trough of the sea
the object faded from my sight. With eager eyes, I watched for it as we
rose on the swell, and—God of my fathers!—it was the long looked for
boat.

“A sail!” I shouted almost in a phrenzy—“they are in sight!”

“Where away?” demanded the officer of the deck, while every eye swept
the horizon in eager curiosity.

“On the lee-beam!”

“What do you make it out?”

“A ship’s launch—crowded with human beings!”

“God be praised!—it is the brig’s crew,” ejaculated the captain. “Up
with your helm, quarter-master—around with her all—there she dances,”
and as he spoke the gallant ship wheeled around and in a few minutes the
brig’s launch was rocking under our bows.

The discipline of a man-of-war could scarcely suppress the loudest
demonstrations of emotion on the part of the crew, when the freight of
that tempest-tost launch reached our decks. The sailors of the brig were
instantly seized by our tars, and borne forward in triumph,—while our
superior grasped the hand of the rescued skipper with visible emotion.
But when the two females, with their protector, an elderly, gentlemanly
looking man, were safely landed on the quarter-deck, every eye was at
once attracted to the interesting group. Both the females were young and
beautiful, but one was surpassingly lovely. As I gazed on her, it seemed
as if some long forgotten dream had come back to me; but in vain were my
attempts to give it reality. At this instant their protector spoke in
reply to a question from the captain.

“It is indeed a miracle that we are saved. The brig went down in that
fearful squall, and though we had taken to the launch, as a last hope,
we did not believe we should live a minute in such a hurricane. But an
Omnipotent Power preserved us for some wise ends. All night long we were
tossed at the mercy of the waves. We saw you long before you saw us, and
thought that you had given up the search, when suddenly your head was
brought around in our direction—and here we stand on your decks. To
whom are we indebted for our discovery? We owe him our eternal
gratitude.”

All eyes were instantly turned towards me, and the captain taking me by
the hand, said,

“Mr. Cavendish has that enviable honor,” at the same time presenting me.

“Cavendish!” exclaimed a silvery female voice in delighted surprise.

At the mention of that name I looked up with eager curiosity, and saw
the eyes of the lovely speaker fixed upon me, as if in recognition. She
crimsoned to the brow at my eager glance, and as she did so, the crowd
of dim recollections in my mind assumed a definite shape, and I
recognized in that sweet smile, in that delicately tinted cheek, in
those now tearful eyes, in that lustrous brow, the features of my old
playmate Annette!

“Cavendish—what, little Henry Cavendish?” exclaimed the gentleman,
eagerly seizing my hand, “yes! it is even so, although the years that
have passed since you used to visit Pomfret Hall have almost eradicated
your features from my memory. God bless you, my gallant young friend! We
owe you our lives—our all.”

The scene that ensued I will not attempt to describe. Suffice it to say
I retired that night with a whirl of strange emotions at my heart. Was
it Love?

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                A SONG.


                            BY J. R. LOWELL.


      Violet! sweet violet!
      Thine eyes are full of tears;
            Are they wet
            Even yet
    With the thought of other years,
    Or with gladness are they full,
    For the night so beautiful,
    And longing for those far-off spheres?

      Loved one of my youth thou wast,
      Of my merry youth,
            And I see,
            Tearfully,
    All the fair and sunny past,
    All its openness and truth,
    Ever fresh and green in thee
    As the moss is in the sea.

      Thy little heart, that hath with love
      Grown colored like the sky above,
      On which thou lookest ever,
            Can it know
            All the woe
    Of hope for what returneth never,
    All the sorrow and the longing
    To these hearts of ours belonging?

      Out on it! no foolish pining
            For the sky
            Dims thine eye,
    Or for the stars so calmly shining;
    Like thee let this soul of mine
    Take hue from that wherefor I long,
    Self-stayed and high, serene and strong,
    Not satisfied with hoping—but divine.

      Violet! dear violet!
      Thy blue eyes are only wet
    With joy and love of him who sent thee,
    And for the fulfilling sense
    Of that glad obedience
    Which made thee all which Nature meant thee!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             COUSIN AGATHA.


                        BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.


         “O what a goodly outside falsehood hath.”—Shakspeare.

“I have been thinking, Henry, that I should like to invite cousin Agatha
to spend the winter with us: what do you say to my plan?”

“Really, Alice, I can say nothing about it, since I know nothing of the
lady.”

“Oh, I had forgotten that you had never seen her; she is only distantly
related to us, but being left an orphan at an early age, she became an
inmate of our family and continued to reside with us until she married.
Agatha is several years my senior, and entered society while I was yet
in the school-room; she married rather in opposition to the wishes of my
parents, as they approved neither of the profession nor the character of
her husband, who was an officer in the army, and known to be a man of
dissolute habits. Poor thing! she has fully paid the penalty of her
folly during seven years of poverty and discomfort. Her husband has been
sent from one frontier station to another, until the health of both was
destroyed, and at the time of his death they were both at Sackett’s
Harbor.”

“Then she is a widow?”

“Yes, her vile husband died about a year since, and cousin Agatha is
released from bondage, but reduced to actual penury. I received a letter
from her yesterday, the first she has written since my marriage, and she
alludes most touchingly to her desolate condition as contrasted with my
happiness.”

“And that letter, I suppose, induced you to think of inviting her to
spend the winter with us?”

“It did, Harry; for I felt as if it was almost selfish in me to be so
happy when my early friend was pining in loneliness and poverty.”

“I love the kindliness of feeling which prompts you to such acts, dear
Alice, but, to confess the truth, I would rather relieve your cousin’s
distresses in any other way.”

“But there is no other way of doing so, Henry—she would not accept
pecuniary aid from us: why do you object to her visit?”

“Because we are so happy that I dread any interruption to the calm
current of our life.”

“Thank you, dear Harry, I cannot find it in my heart to scold you for
your selfishness,” said the young wife, as she laid her hand on her
husband’s arm; “but really,” she continued, “Cousin Agatha would be the
last person in the world to disturb our tranquillity. She is full of
gentleness and sentiment; a creature of warm and affectionate impulses,
and she would delight in adding to our enjoyments. You know my health
will confine me to the house this winter, and you may find the long
evenings hang heavy upon your hands.”

“Not in your society, Alice.”

“I am glad you think so, Harry; but when I am languid and dispirited
from indisposition, you would find cousin Agatha a charming companion;
besides, she would relieve me from some of the cares of house-keeping.”

“Well, my dear, you offer so many good reasons in favor of her coming,
that I can find no argument against it, but I have a sort of a
presentiment that she will not be agreeable.”

“Oh, Harry, how can you think so? if you could see her you would change
your opinions very soon, for her picturesque appearance would charm your
artistical taste.”

“Is she very beautiful?”

“No, but she is just the person to please a painter, for there is so
beautiful a combination of light and shade in her face. She has those
grey eyes which, when fringed with long, dark lashes, are so full of
varied expression, and her hair, black as the raven’s wing, falls in
heavy natural ringlets that put to shame the skill of a _coiffeur_.”

“May she not be altered since you saw her, Alice?”

“True, I had forgotten that more than five years have passed since we
last met; but, even if her person has changed, her heart, I am sure, has
not, and when you know her you will thank me for my pertinacity in thus
wringing your reluctant consent to her visit.”

“If you think it will add to your enjoyments, Alice, invite her by all
means.”

Alice Wentworth had been a wife scarcely two years, and her married life
had been a scene of uninterrupted happiness. Nothing would have induced
her to risk the disturbance of her tranquillity, but remembering the
companion of her early years as one who had been the confidant of all
her childish joys and sorrows, she looked upon her presence as the
completion of her plans of enjoyment. Her husband’s scruples she
naturally attributed to unfounded prejudice which an acquaintance with
her cousin could not fail to overcome, and, therefore, following the
dictates of kindly feeling, she determined to cheer the bereaved widow
by an affectionate letter of invitation.

Some three weeks after she had despatched her missive, at an early hour,
on a cold autumnal morning, a carriage drove up to the door, and a loud
ring announced the expected guest. Alice had not yet finished her
morning toilet, and Mr. Wentworth hastened down to receive the lady; but
scarcely had he got through the awkwardness of a self-introduction when
his wife entered, full of impatience to embrace her early friend. During
the mutual raptures of their meeting, he had leisure to scrutinize the
new inmate of his family, and certainly his impressions were any thing
but favorable. Cousin Agatha had taken a violent cold, her countenance
was disfigured by a swollen cheek, and her eyes were bleared and
inflamed by a severe attack of influenza, while the effect of steamboat
slumbers and a steamboat toilet did not tend to the improvement of her
appearance. Indeed Harry Wentworth could scarcely refrain from laughter
when he contrasted his wife’s enthusiastic description with the reality
before him. But Alice, with ready hospitality, conducted her cousin to
her apartment, and to that room the wearied traveller, overcome with
illness and fatigue, was confined during the several succeeding days.

“When will your friend be presentable, Alice?” asked Mr. Wentworth one
evening as he threw himself upon a sofa, after tea, “since she has been
here you have not sat with me a half hour, for your whole time seems
devoted to nursing.”

“I hope she will be well enough to meet you at dinner to-morrow, Harry;
the swelling has left her face and she begins to look like herself. What
amuses you so much?” she asked, as her husband burst into a loud laugh.

“I was thinking of the force of contrast, Alice; you are an excellent
painter, dear, but you draw your tints too exclusively from fancy; who
could have recognized your _picturesque beauty_ with soft _grey eyes_
and _raven curls_ in the dowdyish looking woman with red nose and redder
eyes whom I welcomed as cousin Agatha?”

“For shame, Harry, you ought not to judge of her by her appearance at
that time.”

“Perhaps not; but first impressions are the most durable, and I shall
never see any beauty in your cousin, for even if she should hereafter
appear to advantage when dressed for display, I shall never forget how
she looked in her travelling dishabille; one thing you may be sure of,
Alley, you will never have cause to be jealous of your _picturesque_
cousin.”

“I don’t mean to be jealous of any one, Harry, but I shall be much
mistaken if you do not learn to admire cousin Agatha.”

“Then you may prepare yourself for a disappointment, Alice; I do not
think I should feel perfectly satisfied with any one who had thus broken
in upon our tranquil happiness, and even if I were disposed to like your
cousin elsewhere she would not please me in our quiet home. Besides, I
was disappointed in my idea of her personal beauty, and her manners
appeared to me abrupt and inelegant.”

“Harry, you never were more mistaken in your life.”

“Well, well—it will be difficult to convince me of my error.” A slight
rustle at the door was heard as Mr. Wentworth finished his ungallant
speech, and the next moment cousin Agatha entered.

“I thought I would endeavor to make my way to the drawing-room instead
of depriving you any longer of the society of your husband, dear Alice,”
said she as she languidly sank into the softly-cushioned chair which Mr.
Wentworth drew forward for her accommodation. Of course the usual
congratulations followed, and as the invalid dropped the heavy shawl
from her shoulders, Alice glanced towards her husband in the hope that
he would not fail to observe the symmetry of her petite figure. He was
too great an admirer of beauty to fail in such notice, yet still he
could see little to claim admiration in her face. Her complexion was not
clear; her mouth, though well formed and adorned with superb teeth, was
large, and her eyes were dim from recent illness, while her curls were
hidden beneath one of those fairy fabrics of gossamer and ribbon which
often display the taste of the wearer at the expense of a crowning
beauty. But, ere the evening had expired, Mr. Wentworth was forced to
acknowledge that he had formed too hasty an opinion of her manners, for,
whatever _brusquerie_ he might have observed on the morning of her
arrival, he was certainly struck now by the easy elegance and graceful
dignity of her deportment.

From this time cousin Agatha laid aside the character of an invalid,
and, quietly taking her place at the table and fireside, seemed to have
no other wish than to make herself useful. Devoted in her attentions to
Alice, she took little notice of Mr. Wentworth except to receive his
courteous civility with profound gratitude. He was nothing more to her
than the husband of her friend, and while she exhibited the deepest
interest in the development of Alice’s mind and feelings, she seemed
scarcely to observe the fine taste, the elegant scholarship, and the
nobleness of sentiment which characterized Mr. Wentworth. Alice suffered
no small degree of mortification from this evident coldness between
those whom she was so anxious to behold friends. She could not bear to
find Agatha so totally blind to the perfections of her beloved Henry,
and she was almost as much annoyed at her husband’s indifference to the
graces of her cousin.

“You are pained because I do not sufficiently admire your husband,
Alice,” said Agatha, one day, when they were alone, “but surely you
would not have me estimate him as highly as you do?”

“I would not have you love him quite as well, but I would have you
appreciate his exalted qualities.”

“My dear coz,” said Agatha, with a slightly sarcastic smile, “do not, I
pray you, make it one of the conditions of our friendship that I should
see through your eyes. Mr. Wentworth is a fine scholar, a tolerable
amateur painter, and a most ardent lover of his pretty wife; is that not
sufficient praise?”

Alice felt uncomfortable, though she could scarcely tell why, at this
and similar remarks from cousin Agatha. She had been accustomed to
consider her husband a being of superior worth and endowments, but there
was something in her cousin’s manner of uttering commendation of him,
which seemed to imply contempt even while it expressed praise. In the
innocence of her heart, Alice several times repeated cousin Agatha’s
sayings to her husband, and they were not without their effect upon him.
The self-love which exists, more or less, in every heart, was by no
means a negative quantity in the character of Mr. Wentworth. He knew his
wife overrated his talents, but he loved her the better for her
affectionate flattery, and cousin Agatha’s apparent ignorance of his
character mortified and vexed him. He began to think that his prejudices
had prevented him from showing himself in a proper light, and his
wounded vanity led him to redouble his attentions to his guest.
Heretofore he had never thought of her except when in her company; but
now, the certainty that she was as yet blind to his merits, made her an
object of interest. He was not a very vain man, but his wife’s idolatry
had gratified even while he was fully aware of its extravagance, and he
was proportionably annoyed by the perfect coldness with which cousin
Agatha regarded him. She seemed to think him a very good sort of a man,
but not at all superior to the common herd, and he was determined to
convince her of her mistake. Agatha had succeeded in her first
design:—she had aroused him from the torpor of indifference.

Cousin Agatha was a most invaluable assistant to a young housekeeper,
for she had a quick hand, a ready invention, and exquisite taste, so
that whether a pudding was to be concocted, a dress trimmed, or a party
given, she was equally useful. Alice had learned the duties of
housekeeping theoretically and was now only beginning to put them in
practice, as every young wife must do, for whatever she may know in the
home of her childhood, she still finds much to be learned in organizing
and arranging a new household. Cousin Agatha, on the contrary, had been
trained from her childhood to _do_ all these things, for the dependent
orphan had early learned to earn her bread by her own usefulness. In the
course of her married life she had been compelled to practice the
thousand expedients which pride and poverty teach to a quick-witted
woman, and it is not surprising, therefore, that her skill should far
surpass that of the gentle and self-distrusting Alice. Doubting her own
knowledge only because Agatha was near to advise, the young wife applied
to her on all occasions, until at length the regulation of domestic
affairs was entirely in her hands, and Alice was left only to assist in
the execution of Agatha’s plans. Cousin Agatha was always busied in some
pretty feminine employment. She had very beautiful hands, and her long
taper fingers were always engaged in some delicate needle-work or an
elegant piece of tapestry. Did it ever occur to you, my fair reader,
that a pretty hand never appears to such advantage as when busied with
the needle? The piano extends the fingers until the hand sometimes
resembles a bird’s claw;—the pencil or the pen contracts it until half
its beauty is concealed; but needle-work, with the various turnings and
windings necessary to its accomplishment, displays both hands in
perfectly natural positions and in every variety of grace. This fact was
not unknown to cousin Agatha; she had no accomplishments, but she was
rarely seen without the tiniest of gold thimbles upon her slender
finger.

Slowly and by scarcely perceptible degrees, Agatha seemed to learn the
full value of the prize which her friend had drawn in the lottery of
life. His fine talents seemed to dawn upon her with daily increasing
vividness, his amateur sketches became more and more characterized by
genius, his musical taste developed itself surprisingly, and, ere many
weeks had elapsed, Alice had the satisfaction of repeating to her
husband many a heart-warm compliment breathed into the ear of the happy
wife by cousin Agatha in her hours of confidential communing with her
friend. Nor was Mr. Wentworth slower in discovering the latent charms of
his guest. Restored to her former health, and associating as the guest
of Mrs. Wentworth, in a pleasant circle of society, cousin Agatha threw
aside the weeds of widowhood, and appeared in all the attractive
coquetry of tasteful and becoming dress. Her luxuriant tresses were once
more allowed to shadow her low feminine brow, and fall upon her graceful
neck, or, if bound up in conformity with fashion, the very restraint was
studiously arranged in such a manner as to display their rich
redundancy. Her grey eyes sometimes seemed actually flashing with light,
and again were filled with the soft liquid lustre of intense
sensibility; and then her smile, displaying her brilliant teeth and
lighting up her whole face, had the effect of a sudden sunbeam upon a
darkened landscape. The charm of Agatha’s face was its vivid and varied
expression; the grace of her person was the effect of long and carefully
studied art. Not a look, not a gesture, not even a movement of her
fringed eyelids, but was the result of frequent practice. There was a
perfection of grace in her attitudes that seemed like Nature’s self. Her
head always assumed a pretty position, her curls always seemed to drop
in their proper place, her drapery always fell in becoming folds, and no
one observed that she was particular in avoiding cross lights,
especially careful not to face a broad glare of sunshine, and remarkably
fond of placing herself at the arm of a sofa, so as to obtain a fine
back ground for the exhibition of her attitudes. Harry Wentworth
wondered how he could ever have thought her ugly. And then her
manners:—what could be more gentle, more feminine, more fascinating
than the tenderness of her tones and the sweetness of her deportment?
She seemed to look upon gentlemen as if she felt all a woman’s
helplessness, and was willing to consider man as a “_chevalier sans peur
et sans reproche_,” born to be her natural protector. There was
something so pleading in the soft eyes which she lifted to the face of
the sterner sex, that few could resist their charm, and actually Harry
Wentworth was not one of those few.

Long before the time fixed for the termination of Agatha’s visit, Alice
had urged her to prolong her stay, and, when Mr. Wentworth added his
earnest entreaties, she was induced to promise that she would set no
other limit to its duration than such as circumstances might create. But
as week after week fleeted by, Alice began to doubt whether she had
acted wisely in making this request. She was ashamed to acknowledge even
to herself the feeling, but, somehow or other, she was not quite as
happy as she had been before cousin Agatha’s coming. She attributed it
to the nervous irritability from which she was now suffering, and
endeavored to think that when she should once more recover her health,
she would find her former enjoyment in Agatha’s society. But Agatha
sometimes made such singular remarks;—they were uttered with the utmost
simplicity and _naïveté_, her smile was full of sweetness, her tones
like the summer breeze when she spoke, and yet the import of her words
was excessively cutting and sarcastic. There was often an implied
censure in her manner of replying to Alice—not in the words themselves,
but rather in their application, which the young wife, sick and
dispirited, felt perhaps too keenly. Alice was uncomfortable and yet she
scarcely could tell why. A shadow was resting upon her path, and she
felt, although she saw it not, that there was a cloud in her sunny sky.
The idea that she was no longer absolutely essential to her husband’s
comfort sometimes crossed her mind. During the many hours which she was
obliged to spend in her own apartment, she found that Henry was fully
occupied with his game of chess, or his favorite book in company with
cousin Agatha, and though it seemed only a realization of her own
wishes, yet she was not prepared to find herself so entirely thrown into
the back-ground of the family picture.

At length Alice became a mother, and in the new emotions awakened in her
bosom, she forgot her vague feelings of discomfort. Mr. Wentworth was
too proud and happy to think of anything but his boy, and when Alice
beheld him bending over their cradled treasure with a feeling almost of
awe as well as love, she wondered how she could ever have felt unhappy
for a moment. Cousin Agatha seemed to share in all their joy, and in the
presence of the father she fondled and caressed the child as gracefully
as possible.

“Do you not think, Alice,” said she one day, as she sat with the babe
lying on her lap, while Wentworth bent fondly over it, “do you not think
your sweet little Harry resembles poor Charles Wilson?”

“No, indeed I do not,” exclaimed Alice, quickly, while the blood mounted
to her pallid cheek and brow.

“Well, I certainly see a strong likeness; there is the same peculiar
dimple in the chin, which neither you nor Mr. Wentworth have, and even
the color of his eyes reminds me of Charles,” said cousin Agatha.

“His eyes are like his father’s,” said Alice, “and nothing is more
common than to see in the face of a child a dimple which entirely
disappears in later life.”

“Well, Alice, dear, I did not mean to awaken any painful reminiscence by
my remark; I did not know you were so sensitive on the subject.” These
words were uttered in the blandest tones, and the sweet smile which
accompanied them was as beautiful as a sunbeam on a troubled sea; but
Alice felt both pained and vexed. Agatha had recurred to the only
unpleasant recollections of her whole life, and she could not determine
whether it had been done by design, or was merely the result of
thoughtlessness. The remark had not been without its effect upon Mr.
Wentworth. He saw with surprise the evident vexation of his wife at the
mention of Charles Wilson’s name, and while he feared to ask an
explanation from her in her present feeble state of health, he
determined to satisfy his curiosity by appealing to cousin Agatha.

“Did you never hear of Charles Wilson?” exclaimed Agatha, in great
apparent surprise, when, a few hours afterwards, he asked the question.

“Never until I heard you mention him,” was the reply.

“Then I ought not to tell you anything about him, because I cannot
betray the confidence of a friend.”

“But as a friend I entreat you to tell me.”

“It is impossible, Mr. Wentworth:—what Alice has thought best to
conceal I certainly will not disclose: strange that she should not have
told you; there certainly ought to be the most perfect confidence
between husband and wife.”

“Agatha, you have excited such a painful interest in the secret,
whatever it is, that I must know it.”

“You will not betray me to Alice if I tell you?”

“Certainly not, if secrecy be the only condition on which I can learn
the truth.”

“And you promise not to think harshly of poor Alice?”

“It would be strange if I should think other than well of one whose
purity of heart is so well known to me.”

“Well, then,” replied the insidious woman, with a slight, a very slight
sneer on her lip, “since you have such undoubting faith in your wife
there can be no harm in telling you. But really we are making a great
affair of a very trifling occurrence. Charles Wilson was a clerk to
Alice’s father, and while she was yet at school, he made love to her in
the hope of enticing her into a clandestine marriage. Alice was only
about fifteen, and like all girls of her age was delighted with a first
lover. He lived in the house with, us, and of course enjoyed many
opportunities of meeting her, so that before we knew anything about it,
an elopement was actually planned. I happened to discover it, and as my
duty required, I made it known to her parents. The consequence was that
Wilson was dismissed and Alice sent to boarding-school; I dare say she
has thanked me for it since, though then she could not forgive me. You
look pained, Mr. Wentworth. I hope my foolish frankness has not made you
unhappy. I really thought it such a childish affair that I felt no
hesitation in alluding to it to-day, supposing that Alice had lost all
sensitiveness about it, and I was never more surprised than by her
evident agitation. However, I confess I was wrong; I ought to have known
that an early disappointment is not easily forgotten even in the midst
of happiness.”

“How long since this happened?” asked Mr. Wentworth.

“Just before I was married—I suppose about eight years ago; I wonder
Alice did not tell you the whole story, but she is such a timid creature
that I suppose she could not summon courage enough to be perfectly frank
with you.”

Wentworth made no reply, but the poisoned arrow had reached its mark.
His confidence in his wife was shaken; he had not been the first love of
her young heart,—she had loved and been beloved,—she had plighted her
faith even in her girlhood, and the creature whom he believed to be as
pure in heart as an infant, had narrowly escaped the degradation of a
clandestine marriage with an inferior. He was shocked and almost
disgusted; he felt heartsick, and even the sight of his child, connected
as it now was with the similitude of the early lover, was painful to
him. He recalled a thousand trifling circumstances which would pass by
unheeded but for cousin Agatha’s kind attempts to explain Alice’s
meaning, and all now corroborated his suspicions of his wife’s perfect
sincerity. The more he discussed the matter with Agatha, the more
dissatisfied did he become with Alice; and in proportion as she fell in
his estimation the frank and noble character of Agatha arose. There was
a high-toned sentiment about her, a sense of honor and an intensity of
feeling which added new charms to her expressive countenance and
graceful manners. Wentworth was not _in love_ with Agatha, but he was a
little _out of love_ with his wife, and the constant presence of such a
fascinating woman, at such a moment, was certainly somewhat dangerous.
More than once he caught himself regretting that Alice was not more like
her cousin, and long before Alice was well enough to leave her
apartment, he had become quite reconciled to her absence from the
drawing-room. Alice felt his increasing neglect, but she dared not allow
herself to attribute it to its true cause. Cousin Agatha was so kind, so
attentive to her, and studied so much the comfort of Mr. Wentworth, that
she almost hated herself for the growing dislike which she was conscious
of feeling towards her.

One day, about two months after the birth of her babe, Alice, who had
been suffering from a slow fever, felt so much better that she
determined to surprise her husband by joining him at dinner. Wrapping a
shawl about her, she slowly proceeded down stairs, and finding the
drawing-room door partly open, entered so silently as not to disturb the
occupants of the apartment. Mr. Wentworth was lying on a sofa, while
cousin Agatha sat on a low ottoman beside him, with one hand threading
the mazes of his bright hair, while the other was clasped in his. The
face of Agatha was hidden from her, but the wretched wife beheld the
eyes of her husband upturned towards it with the most vivid expression
of fondness and passion. Her very soul grew sick as she gazed; she
turned to glide from the room and fell senseless on the threshold. Weeks
had elapsed ere she recovered her consciousness. The sudden shock which
her weakened nerves had sustained, produced inflammation of the brain,
and for many an anxious day her husband watched beside her sick bed,
dreading lest every hour should be her last. She lay in a state of
stupor, and her first signs of returning consciousness was the shiver
that ran through her frame when the voice of cousin Agatha struck upon
her ear.

Mr. Wentworth was conscience-stricken when, aroused by the sound of her
fall, he had beheld Alice lying lifeless on the floor. He uttered not a
word of enquiry, but he readily divined the cause of her condition, and,
as he bore her to her apartment, he almost hated himself for the brief
delirium in which his senses had been plunged. He could not be said to
love Agatha, but her fascinations had not been without their effect upon
his ardent nature. He did not attempt to analyse his feelings, but
yielding to the spell which enthralled him, abandoned himself to the
enjoyment of her blandishments. Hour after hour had he spent in
listening to the false sentiment which fell from her lips in the most
honied accents,—evening after evening had he consumed in attending her
to parties of pleasure,—day after day had been bestowed on the
completion of her portrait, while Alice was left to the solitude of her
sick room. But now, when he beheld her stricken down at his very feet,
the scales seemed to fall from his eyes, and his infidelity of heart
appeared to him in all its true wickedness. The toils which the
insidious Agatha had woven about him were broken as if by magic, and his
wife, his long-suffering, wronged Alice was dearer to him than all the
world beside. He watched by her with all the kindness of early
affection, and well did he understand her abhorrent shudder at the
presence of Agatha. His devoted attention and the _adieus_ of cousin
Agatha, who now found it necessary to terminate her visit, had no small
share in restoring Alice to convalescence.

Alice was slowly regaining health and strength; the faint tint of the
wild-rose was once more visible on her thin cheek, and her feeble step
had again borne her to the room so fraught with painful remembrances.
But far different were the feelings with which she now revisited that
neglected apartment. Cousin Agatha was gone,—she was once more alone
with her husband, and with true womanly affection she willingly forgot
his past errors in his present tenderness. But there were some things
yet to be explained before perfect confidence could exist between them.
The serpent had been driven from their Paradise, but its trail had been
left on many a flower;—the shadow of distrust still lay dark upon the
pleasant paths of domestic peace, and yet both shrunk from uttering the
mystic word which might chase its gloom forever. But the moment of
explanation came. A letter from cousin Agatha was placed in the hands of
Alice, and repressing the shudder with which she looked upon it, she
proceeded to peruse it; but scarcely had she read three lines, when,
with an exclamation of surprise, she handed it to her husband, and
telling him it interested him no less than herself, begged him to read
it aloud. It was as follows:

    “My sweet Cousin,

    “I write to repeat my thanks for the exceeding kindness and
    hospitality which I received while an inmate of your family. I
    feel especially bound to do this, because, as I am on the point
    of embarking for France, I may be unable for several years to
    offer my acknowledgments in person. You are doubtless surprised,
    but you will perhaps be still more so when I tell you that I am
    going to join _my husband_. Our marriage took place more than a
    year since, but we thought it prudent to conceal it both on
    account of my then recent widowhood, and because my husband was
    not then of age. His guardian was opposed to his union with your
    penniless cousin, and he was sent off on a European tour to
    avoid me; but we were secretly married before his departure, and
    as he has now attained his majority, he has written to me to
    meet him in Paris, where I hope to find that domestic felicity
    which I failed to derive from my former unhappy connection. By
    the way, my dear Alice, I fancied, when I was at your house,
    that there was some little coldness existing between you and
    your husband. I sincerely hope that I was mistaken, and that it
    was my love for you which rendered me too observant of the
    little differences which frequently occur in married life. I
    think Mr. Wentworth was piqued about your early engagement with
    Charles Wilson; you had better explain the matter to him and he
    will probably find as little cause for his jealousy as, I assure
    you, there was for yours. Don’t pout, dear Alice, you certainly
    _were_ a little jealous of me, but I only flirted harmlessly
    with your husband _pour passer le temps_; and perhaps a little
    out of revenge. I wanted to try whether a ‘_little dowdyish
    red-nosed woman_’ could have any attractions for him.”

“By Jupiter! she must have been listening at the door when I was
discussing the subject of her ill-looks just after her arrival,”
exclaimed Mr. Wentworth.

“Yes, and mortified vanity will account for her well-practised
seductions, Harry,” said Alice; “but let us hear the end of this
precious epistle.” Mr. Wentworth resumed:

    “I hope he has fallen into his old habits again and is as fond
    and lover-like as I found him on my arrival. One piece of advice
    I must give you, my sweet Alice; do not trust him too much with
    those who have greater powers of fascination than his little
    wife, for believe me, he possesses a very susceptible nature. Do
    not be such a good spouse as to show him my letter. Remember I
    write to you with my usual impudent frankness. Kiss little Harry
    for me and remember me most kindly to your amiable husband.

                               “Ever your devoted friend and cousin,
                                                       “Agatha.”

    “P.S. Can I send you any _nicknackery_ from Paris? I shall be
    delighted to be of service to you.”

“Well, that is as characteristic a letter as I ever read,” exclaimed
Wentworth as he flung it on the table; “how adroitly she mingles her
poison with her sweetmeats; and how well she has managed to affix a
sting at the last: I wonder whom she has duped into a marriage.”

“Some foolish boy, doubtless, for she speaks of him as being just of
age, while she will never again see her thirtieth summer,” said Alice;
“but what does she mean Harry about my early engagement with Charles
Wilson? He was a clerk to my father.”

“She told me a long story Alice about a proposed elopement between you
and this said Charles Wilson which had been prevented by her
interference.”

“Good Heavens! Harry how she must have misrepresented the affair. Wilson
was in papa’s employ and probably fancied it would be a good speculation
if he could marry his employer’s daughter. He became exceedingly
troublesome to me by his civilities, and finally made love to me in
plain terms, when I communicated the whole affair to cousin Agatha, and
begged her to tell papa of it, because I was such a child that I was
ashamed to tell him myself. She did so, and Wilson was dismissed; but I
was then only a school girl.”

“You seemed so agitated when she recurred to the subject that I readily
believed her story.”

“I was vexed, Harry, because she insinuated that there was a likeness
between our dear boy and that vulgar fellow.”

“How I have been deceived by a fiend in the form of an angel,” exclaimed
Wentworth; “we should have been saved much suffering if she had never
entered our doors.”

“Indeed we should, Harry, and I shall never cease to reproach myself for
my folly in introducing such a serpent into our Elysium.”

“Your motives were kind and good, Alice; and though it has been to you a
severe lesson in the deceitfulness of the world, and to me a still more
painful one in the deceitfulness of my own heart, yet, I trust, that to
both of us it may not be without its salutary influences.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          TO HELEN IN HEAVEN.


    I think of thee by night, love,
      In visions of the skies,
    When glories meet the sight, love,
      That dazzle mortal eyes—
    I think a waving cloud, love,
      A golden cloud I see,
    A half transparent shroud, love,
      That moveth like to thee!

    I hear a voice of singing,
      A sound of rushing wings,
    A joyous anthem ringing
      As if from silver strings,
    A chorus loudly swelling,
      A low sweet voice alone—
    And I know thou hast thy dwelling
      Beneath the eternal throne.
                        A. A. J.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       AN APPENDIX OF AUTOGRAPHS.


                            BY EDGAR A. POE.


In our November and December numbers we gave _fac-simile_ signatures of
no less than _one hundred and nine_ of the most distinguished American
_literati_. Our design was to furnish the readers of the Magazine with a
_complete_ series of Autographs, embracing a specimen of the MS. of
_each of the most noted among our living male and female writers_. For
obvious reasons, we made no attempt at classification or
arrangement—either in reference to reputation or our own private
opinion of merit. Our second article will be found to contain as many of
the _Dii majorum gentium_ as our first; and this, our third and last, as
many as either—although fewer names, upon the whole, than the preceding
papers. The impossibility of procuring the signatures now given, at a
period sufficiently early for the immense edition of December, has
obliged us to introduce this Appendix.

It is with great pleasure that we have found our anticipations
fulfilled, in respect to the _popularity_ of these chapters—our
individual claim to merit is so trivial that we may be permitted to say
so much—but we confess it was with no less surprise than pleasure that
we observed so little discrepancy of opinion manifested in relation to
the hasty critical, or rather gossiping observations which accompanied
the signatures. Where the subject was so wide and so necessarily
_personal_—where the claims of more than one hundred _literati_,
summarily disposed of, were turned over for re-adjudication to a press
so intricately bound up in their interest as is ours—it is really
surprising how little of dissent was mingled with so much of general
comment. The fact, however, speaks loudly to one point:—to the _unity
of truth_. It assures us that the differences which exist among us, are
differences not of real, but of affected opinion, and that the voice of
him who maintains fearlessly what he believes honestly, is pretty sure
to find an echo (if the speaker be not mad) in the vast heart of the
world at large.

[Illustration: signature of Chas. Sprague]

The “Writings of Charles Sprague” were first collected and published
about nine months ago, by Mr. Charles S. Francis, of New-York. At the
time of the issue of the book, we expressed our opinion frankly, in
respect to the general merits of the author—an opinion with which one
or two members of the Boston press did not see fit to agree—but which,
as yet, we have found no reason for modifying. What we say now is, in
spirit, merely a repetition of what we said then. Mr. Sprague is an
accomplished _belles-lettres_ scholar, so far as the usual ideas of
scholarship extend. He is a very correct rhetorician of the old school.
His versification has not been equalled by that of any American—has
been surpassed by no one, living or dead. In this regard there are to be
found finer passages in his poems than any elsewhere. These are his
chief merits. In the _essentials_ of poetry he is excelled by twenty of
our countrymen whom we could name. Except in a very few instances he
gives no evidence of the loftier ideality. His “Winged Worshippers” and
“Lines on the Death of M. S. C.” are _beautiful_ poems—but he has
written nothing else which should be called so. His “Shakspeare Ode,”
upon which his high reputation mainly depended, is quite a _second-hand_
affair—with no merit whatever beyond that of a polished and vigorous
versification. Its imitation of “Collins’ Ode to the Passions” is
obvious. Its allegorical conduct is mawkish, _passé_, and absurd. The
poem, upon the whole, is just such a one as would have obtained its
author an Etonian prize some forty or fifty years ago. It is an
exquisite specimen of mannerism without meaning and without merit—of an
artificial, but most inartistical style of composition, of which
conventionality is the soul,—taste, nature and reason the antipodes. A
man may be a clever financier without being a genius.

It requires but little effort to see in Mr. Sprague’s MS. all the
idiosyncrasy of his intellect. Here are distinctness, precision, and
vigor—but vigor employed upon _grace_ rather than upon its legitimate
functions. The signature fully indicates the general hand—in which the
spirit of elegant imitation and conservatism may be seen reflected as in
a mirror.

[Illustration: signature of Cornelius Mathews]

Mr. Cornelius Mathews is one of the editors of “Arcturus,” a monthly
journal which has attained much reputation during the brief period of
its existence. He is the author of “Puffer Hopkins,” a clever satirical
tale somewhat given to excess in caricature, and also of the
well-written retrospective criticisms which appear in his Magazine. He
is better known, however, by “The Motley Book,” published some years
ago—a work which we had no opportunity of reading. He is a gentleman of
taste and judgment, unquestionably.

His MS. is much to our liking—bold, distinct and picturesque—such a
hand as no one destitute of talent indites. The signature conveys the
hand.

[Illustration: signature of CharlesHoffman]

Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman is the author of “A Winter in the West,”
“Greyslaer,” and other productions of merit. At one time he edited, with
much ability, the “American Monthly Magazine” in conjunction with Mr.
Benjamin, and, subsequently, with Dr. Bird. He is a gentleman of talent.

His chirography is not unlike that of Mr. Matthews. It has the same
boldness, strength, and picturesqueness, but is more diffuse, more
ornamented and less legible. Our _fac-simile_ is from a somewhat hurried
signature, which fails in giving a correct idea of the general hand.

[Illustration: signature of Horace Greely]

Mr. Horace Greely, present editor of “The Tribune,” and formerly of the
“New-Yorker,” has for many years been remarked as one of the most able
and honest of American editors. He has written much and invariably well.
His political knowledge is equal to that of any of his
contemporaries—his general information extensive. As a _belles-lettres_
critic he is entitled to high respect.

His MS. is a remarkable one—having about it a peculiarity which we know
not how better to designate than as a _converse_ of the picturesque. His
characters are scratchy and irregular, ending with an _abrupt taper_—if
we may be allowed this contradiction in terms, where we have the
_fac-simile_ to prove that there is no contradiction in fact. All abrupt
MSS., save this, have square or _concise_ terminations of the letters.
The whole chirography puts us in mind of a _jig_. We can fancy the
writer jerking up his hand from the paper at the end of each word, and,
indeed, of each letter. What mental idiosyncrasy lies _perdu_ beneath
all this, is more than we can say, but we will venture to assert that
Mr. Greely (whom we do not know personally) is, _personally_, a very
remarkable man.

[Illustration: signature of Prosper M. Wetmore]

The name of Mr. Prosper M. Wetmore is familiar to all readers of
American light literature. He has written a great deal, at various
periods, both in prose and poetry, (but principally in the latter) for
our Papers, Magazines and Annuals. Of late days we have seen but little,
comparatively speaking, from his pen.

His MS. is not unlike that of Fitz-Greene Halleck, but is by no means so
good. Its clerky flourishes indicate a love of the beautiful with an
undue straining for effect—qualities which are distinctly traceable in
his poetic efforts. As many as five or six words are occasionally run
together; and no man who writes thus will be noted for _finish_ of
style. Mr. Wetmore is sometimes very slovenly in his best compositions.

[Illustration: signature of Henry W.]

Professor Ware, of Harvard, has written some very excellent poetry, but
is chiefly known by his “Life of the Saviour,” “Hints on Extemporaneous
Preaching,” and other religious works.

His MS. is fully shown in the signature. It evinces the direct,
unpretending strength and simplicity which characterize the man, not
less than his general compositions.

[Illustration: signature of William B O. Peabody]

The name of William B. O. Peabody, like that of Mr. Wetmore, is known
chiefly to the readers of our light literature, and much more familiarly
to Northern than to Southern readers. He is a resident of Springfield,
Mass. His occasional poems have been much admired.

His chirography is what would be called beautiful by the ladies
universally, and, perhaps, by a large majority of the bolder sex.
Individually, we think it a miserable one—too careful, undecided,
tapering, and effeminate. It is not unlike Mr. Paulding’s, but is more
regular and more legible, with less force. We hold it as undeniable that
no man of _genius_ ever wrote such a hand.

[Illustration: signature of Epes Sargent]

Epes Sargent, Esq., has acquired high reputation as the author of
“Velasco,” a tragedy full of beauty as a poem, but not adapted—perhaps
not intended—for representation. He has written, besides, many very
excellent poems—“The Missing Ship,” for example, published in the
“Knickerbocker”—the “Night Storm at Sea”—and, especially, a fine
production entitled “Shells and Sea-Weeds.” One or two Theatrical
Addresses from his pen are very creditable _in their way_—but the way
itself is, as we have before said, execrable. As an editor, Mr. Sargent
has also distinguished himself. He is a gentleman of taste and high
talent.

His MS. is too much in the usual clerk style to be either vigorous,
graceful, or easily read. It resembles Mr. Wetmore’s but has somewhat
more force. The signature is better than the general hand, but conveys
its idea very well.

[Illustration: signature of W. Allston]

The name of Washington Allston, the poet and painter, is one that has
been long before the public. Of his paintings we have here nothing to
say—except briefly, that the most noted of them are not to our taste.
His poems are not all of a high order of merit; and, in truth, the
faults of his pencil and of his pen are identical. Yet every reader will
remember his “Spanish Maid” with pleasure, and the “Address to Great
Britain,” first published in Coleridge’s “Sybilline Leaves,” and
attributed to an English author, is a production of which Mr. Allston
may be proud.

His MS. notwithstanding an exceedingly simple and even boyish air, is
one which we particularly admire. It is forcible, picturesque and
legible, without ornament of any description. Each letter is formed with
a thorough distinctness and individuality. Such a MS. indicates caution
and precision, most unquestionably—but we say of it as we say of Mr.
Peabody’s, (a very different MS.) that no man of original genius ever
did or could habitually indite it under any circumstances whatever. The
signature conveys the general hand with accuracy.

[Illustration: signature of Alfred B Street]

Mr. Alfred B. Street has been long before the public as a poet. At as
early an age as fifteen, some of his pieces were published by Mr. Bryant
in the “Evening Post”—among these was one of much merit, entitled a
“Winter Scene.” In the “New-York Book” and in the collections of
American poetry by Messieurs Keese and Bryant, will be found many
excellent specimens of his maturer powers. “The Willewemoc,” “The Forest
Tree,” “The Indian’s Vigil,” “The Lost Hunter” and “White Lake” we
prefer to any of his other productions which have met our eye. Mr.
Street has fine taste, and a keen sense of the beautiful. He writes
carefully, elaborately, and correctly. He has made Mr. Bryant his model,
and in all Mr. Bryant’s good points would be nearly his equal, were it
not for the sad and too perceptible stain of the imitation. That he has
imitated at all—or rather that, in mature age, he has persevered in his
imitations—is sufficient warrantry for placing him among the men of
talent rather than among the men of genius.

His MS. is full corroboration of this warrantry. It is a very pretty
chirography, graceful, legible and neat. By most persons it would be
called beautiful. The fact is, it is without fault—but its merits, like
those of his poems, are chiefly negative.

[Illustration: signature of R Penn Smith]

Mr. Richard Penn Smith, although, perhaps, better known in Philadelphia
than elsewhere, has acquired much literary reputation. His chief works
are “The Forsaken,” a novel; a pseudo-auto-biography called “Colonel
Crocket’s Tour in Texas;” the tragedy of “Caius Marius,” and two
domestic dramas entitled “The Disowned,” and “The Deformed.” He has also
published two volumes of miscellanies under the title of “The Actress of
Padua and other Tales,” besides occasional poetry. We are not
sufficiently cognizant of any of these works to speak with decision
respecting their merits. In a biography of Mr. Smith, however, very well
written by his friend Mr. McMichael of this city, we are informed of
“The Forsaken,” that “a large edition of it was speedily exhausted”—of
“The Actress of Padua,” that it “had an extensive sale and was much
commended”—of the “Tour in Texas,” that “few books attained an equal
popularity”—of “Caius Marius,” that “it has great capabilities for an
acting play,”—of “The Disowned” and “The Deformed,” that they “were
performed at the London theatres, where they both made a favorable
impression”—and of his poetry in general, “that it will be found
superior to the average quality of that commodity.” “It is by his
dramatic efforts,” says the biographer, “that his merits as a poet must
be determined, and judged by these he will be assigned a place in the
foremost rank of American writers.” We have only to add that we have the
highest respect for the judgment of Mr. McMichael.

Mr. Smith’s MS. is clear, graceful and legible, and would generally be
called a fine hand, but is somewhat too clerky for our taste.

[Illustration: signature of O. W. Holmes]

Dr. Oliver Wendel Holmes, of Boston, late Professor of Anatomy and
Physiology at Dartmouth College, has written many productions of merit,
and has been pronounced, by a very high authority, the best of the
humorous poets of the day.

His chirography is remarkably fine, and a quick fancy might easily
detect, in its graceful yet picturesque quaintness, an analogy with the
vivid drollery of his style. The signature is a fair specimen of the
general MS.

[Illustration: signature of G. W. Doane]

Bishop Doane, of New Jersey, is somewhat more extensively known in his
clerical than in a literary capacity, but has accomplished much more
than sufficient in the world of books to entitle him to a place among
the most noted of our living men of letters. The compositions by which
he is best known were published, we believe, during his professorship of
Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in Washington College, Hartford.

His MS. has some resemblance to that of Mr. Greely of “The Tribune.” The
signature is far bolder and altogether better than the general hand.

[Illustration: signature of Albert Pike]

We believe that Mr. Albert Pike has never published his poems in book
form; nor has he written anything since 1834. His “Hymns to the Gods,”
and “Ode to the Mocking Bird,” being printed in Blackwood, are the chief
basis of his reputation. His lines “To Spring” are, however, much better
in every respect, and a little poem from his pen, entitled “Ariel,” and
originally published in the “Boston Pearl,” is one of the finest of
American compositions. Mr. Pike has unquestionably merit, and that of a
high order. His ideality is rich and well-disciplined. He is the most
_classic_ of our poets in the best sense of the term, and of course his
classicism is very different from that of Mr. Sprague—to whom,
nevertheless, he bears much resemblance in other respects. Upon the
whole, there are few of our native writers to whom we consider him
inferior.

His MS. shows clearly the spirit of his intellect. We observe in it a
keen sense not only of the beautiful and graceful but of the
picturesque—neatness, precision and general finish, verging upon
effeminacy. In force it is deficient. The signature fails to convey the
entire MS. which depends upon masses for its peculiar character.

[Illustration: signature of James McHenry]

Dr. James McHenry, of Philadelphia, is well known to the literary world
as the writer of numerous articles in our Reviews and lighter journals,
but, more especially, as the author of “The Antediluvians,” an epic poem
which has been the victim of a most shameful cabal in this country, and
the subject of a very disgraceful pasquinade on the part of Professor
Wilson. Whatever may be the demerits, in some regard, of this poem,
there can be no question of the utter want of fairness and even of
common decency which distinguished the Phillipic in question. The writer
of a _just_ review of the “Antediluvians”—the only tolerable American
epic—would render an important service to the literature o his country.

Dr. McHenry’s MS. is distinct, bold and simple, without ornament or
superfluity. The signature well conveys the idea of the general hand.

[Illustration: signature of R. S Nichols]

Mrs. R. S. Nichols has acquired much reputation of late years, by
frequent and excellent contributions to the Magazines and Annuals. Many
of her compositions will be found in our pages.

Her MS. is fair, neat and legible, but formed somewhat too much upon the
ordinary boarding-school model to afford any indication of character.
The signature is a good specimen of the hand.

[Illustration: signature of Rich^{d} A Locke]

Mr. Richard Adams Locke is one among the few men of _unquestionable
genius_ whom the country possesses. Of the “Moon Hoax” it is
supererogatory to say one word—not to know _that_ argues one’s self
unknown. Its rich imagination will long dwell in the memory of every one
who read it, and surely if

                the worth of any thing
    Is just so much as it will bring—

if, in short, we are to judge of the value of a literary composition in
any degree by its _effect_—then was the “Hoax” most precious.

But Mr. Locke is also a poet of high order. We have seen—nay more—we
have heard him read—verses of his own which would make the fortune of
two-thirds of our poetasters; and he is yet so modest as never to have
published a volume of poems. As an editor—as a political writer—as a
writer in general—we think that he has scarcely a superior in America.
There is no man among us to whose sleeve we would rather pin—not our
_faith_ (of that we say nothing)—but our _judgment_.

His MS. is clear, bold and forcible—somewhat modified, no doubt, by the
circumstances of his editorial position—but still sufficiently
indicative of his fine intellect.

[Illustration: signature of RW Emerson.]

Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson belongs to a class of gentlemen with whom we
have no patience whatever—the mystics for mysticism’s sake. Quintilian
mentions a pedant who taught obscurity, and who once said to a pupil
“this is excellent, for I do not understand it myself.” How the good man
would have chuckled over Mr. E! His present _rôle_ seems to be the
out-Carlyling Carlyle. _Lycophron Tenebrosus_ is a fool to him. The best
answer to his twaddle is _cui bono?_—a very little Latin phrase very
generally mistranslated and misunderstood—_cui bono?_—to whom is it a
benefit? If not to Mr. Emerson individually, then surely to no man
living.

His love of the obscure does not prevent him, nevertheless, from the
composition of occasional poems in which beauty is apparent _by
flashes_. Several of his effusions appeared in the “Western
Messenger”—more in the “Dial,” of which he is the soul—or the sun—or
the shadow. We remember the “Sphynx,” the “Problem,” the “Snow Storm,”
and some fine old-fashioned verses entitled “Oh fair and stately maid
whose eye.”

His MS. is bad, sprawling, illegible and irregular—although
sufficiently bold. This latter trait may be, and no doubt is, only a
portion of his general affectation.

[Illustration: signature of G C Verplanck]

The name of Gulian C. Verplanck has long been familiar to all American
readers, and it is scarcely necessary to say more than that we coincide
in the general view of his merits. His orations, reviews, and other
compositions all evince the cultivated belles-lettres scholar, and man
of intellect and taste. To high genius he has about the same claim as
Mr. Sprague, whom in many respects he closely resembles.

His chirography is unusually rambling and school-boyish—but has vigor
and precision. It has no doubt been greatly modified by adventitious
circumstances, so that it would be impossible to predicate anything
respecting it.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             “DORCHESTER.”


    BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “ATALANTIS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” ETC.


    [“Dorchester” was a beautiful little country town on the banks
    of the river Keawah, now Ashley, about twenty miles from the
    city of Charleston, in South Carolina. It was chiefly settled by
    New Englanders. For a time it flourished and became a market
    town of some importance. The planters of the neighborhood were
    generally persons of substance, who lived in considerable state,
    and exercised the virtues of hospitality in an eminent degree;
    but with the war of the Revolution, in which it suffered
    greatly, it began to decline, and its only remains now are the
    ruins of its church and the open walls of the old British fort.
    From a memorandum which I made during a visit to the spot in
    1833, I take the following:—“The fort made of tapis—works
    still in considerable preservation—the wood-work alone
    decayed—the magazine in ruins—and the area overgrown with plum
    trees. The church still standing—the steeple shattered by
    lightning, and the wooden interior torn out—the roof beginning
    to decay at the ends of the rafters. It will probably fall in
    before very long.” This prediction was not permitted to be
    verified. The fabric, I learn, has since been utterly destroyed
    by an incendiary. Dorchester was distinguished by several
    actions of partisan warfare during the Revolution It was, by
    turns, a military depot of the Carolinians and the British.
    These particulars will explain the little poem which follows.]

    Not with irreverential thought and feeling I resign
    The tree that was a chronicle in other days than mine;
    Its mossy branches crown’d the grove, when, hastily array’d,
    Came down the gallant partisan to battle in the shade;
    It saw his fearless eye grow dark, it heard his trumpet cry,
    When, at its roots, the combat o’er, he laid him down to die;
    The warm blood gushing from his heart hath stain’d the sod below—
    That tree shall be my chronicle, for it hath seen it flow!

    Sweet glide thy waters, Ashley, and pleasant on thy banks
    The mossy oak and mossy pine stand forth in solemn ranks;
    They crown thee in a fitting guise, since, with a gentle play,
    Through bending groves and circling dells thou tak’st thy lonely way:
    Thine is the Summer’s loveliness—thy Winter too hath charms,
    Thus sheltered in thy mazy course beneath their Druid arms;
    And thine the recollection old, which honors thy decline,
    When happy thousands saw thee rove, and Dorchester was thine.

    But Dorchester is thine no more, its gallant pulse is still,
    The wild cat prowls among its graves and screams the whippoorwill,
    A mournful spell is on its homes, where solitude, supreme,
    Still, coaching in her tangled woods, dreams one unbroken dream:
    The cotter seeks a foreign home,—the cottage roof is down,
    The ivy clambers all uncheck’d above the steeple’s crown;
    And doubly gray, with grief and years, the old church tott’ring
      stands,
    Ah! how unlike that holy home not built with human hands!

    These ruins have their story, and, with a reverent fear,
    I glide beneath the broken arch and through the passage drear;
    The hillock at my feet grows warm—beneath it beats a heart
    Whose pulses wake to utterance, whose accents make me start;
    That heart hath beat in battle, when the thunder-cloud was high,
    And death, in every form of fate, careering through the sky;
    Beside it now, another heart, in peace but lately known,
    Beats with a kindred pulse, but hath a story of its own.

    Ah! sad the fate of maiden whose lover falls in fight,
    Condemned to bear, in widowhood, the lonely length of light;—
    The days that come without a sun, the nights that bring no sleep;
    The long, long watch, the weariness, the same, sad toil—to weep!
    Methinks, the call is happiness, when sudden sounds the strain
    That summons back the exiled heart of love to heaven again;—
    No trumpet-tone of battle, but a soft note sweetly clear,
    Like that which even now is heard when doves are wooing near.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE TWO DUKES.


                          BY ANN S. STEPHENS.


One church and three dwelling houses, occupied by bishops, had already
been torn down to supply material for the magnificent palace which the
Duke of Somerset was erecting for himself in the Strand,—a sacrilege
which the populace were beginning to feel and resent, in a manner which
threatened some disturbance to the public peace. A rumor went abroad
that the Duke’s workmen had received his commands to repair to
Westminster on a certain day, in order to pull down the Church of St.
Margaret’s, and add its materials to those already so boldly wrested
from their sacred purposes.

The gray of a summer’s morning was yet hanging over the city, when a
large number of workmen, each wearing the Lord Protector’s badge,
gathered in detached parties about the Abbey. These men had been
employed in the destruction of St. Mary’s Church but a few days before,
and their coarse vestments were torn and covered with the lime and dust
which they had brought from the ruin, a mark of their late sacrilegious
employment, which brought upon them many a bitter taunt and frowning
look from the wayfarers, even before they entered the parish of
Westminster. So great was the manifestation of public resentment, that
each band of workmen, as it went along, drew close together, and
exhibited the pickaxes, crowbars, and other heavy tools of iron with
which they were armed, like soldiers compelled on an irksome duty, but
resolute to perform it. These men gathered slowly around the Abbey, and
waited for a larger body of working-men, who were expected to leave
their employment in the Strand and come to their assistance in a force
and number that might awe the people into quiet submission to the
injustice of their lord.

The morning wore on, but they still lingered about the church, trifling
with their heavy tools and talking together with some degree of anxiety,
for the expected aid had not yet arrived, and each instant the streets
and angles about the Abbey became more and more thronged with sullen and
discontented men, all with lowering brows and flashing eyes, bent
menacingly upon them.

Still the crowd increased. Men hurried to and fro eagerly and with
cloudy looks. The workmen gradually gathered in a close phalanx about
the little church, whispered anxiously together, and brandished their
tools with a faint show of defiance, yet seemed afraid or reluctant to
level them against the sacred pile which stood among that mass of eager
human beings in the cool morning light, quiet and tranquil as the spirit
of holiness that brooded over its altar.

Though the persons gathered about St. Margaret’s were considerable in
numbers, they were not yet condensed into a form that could justly be
termed a mob. The streets were alive, but not yet blocked up with
people. Men, and even women, might pass to and fro on ordinary business
without much fear of injury or interruption, but with a certainty of
being jostled and pushed about by the scattered stream of human life
that flowed toward the cathedral.

While the neighborhood of St. Margaret’s was in this unusual state, two
females, followed by more than an equal number of serving-men, each with
the Lord Protector’s badge upon his sleeve, came suddenly round a
corner, and, before they seemed aware of it, were encompassed by the
crowd, through which it seemed each instant more difficult to make a
free passage. The two females were muffled in their mantles, with the
hoods drawn so closely that it was difficult to distinguish their
features, or gather an idea of their station, save by a certain air of
dignity and refinement which hung about the shorter of the two, and
which no vestments could entirely conceal. Both this lady and her
companion seemed bewildered and terrified by the rush of human beings
with which they had become so strangely mingled. At first they attempted
to retrace their steps, but the street through which they had come was
now blocked up by a company of more than two hundred working-men, who
were coming up from their employment on the Strand, to assist in the
destruction of St. Margaret’s. When thus convinced that all hopes of
retreat were cut off, the female who had seemed most anxious to escape
the crowd, put forth a white and trembling hand from beneath her mantle
and drew the hood still more closely over her face, while the other in
her fright allowed the drapery to fall back from her head and exposed
the features of an elderly woman slightly wrinkled, and at the moment
pale as a corpse with apprehension. Her sharp black eyes were keen with
terror, and her wrinkled hands shook in a way that rendered the effort
to draw her hood forward one of considerable difficulty. The servitors
who followed these bewildered persons were but little annoyed by the
position which seemed so painful to them, but one, a tall insolent man,
held up his arm that all might see the Lord Protector’s badge, and
ordered those immediately around him to make way for a noble lady of the
Duke’s household to pass. He spoke loud and arrogantly, but the muffled
female grasped his arm, and while her words came gaspingly from excess
of fear, muttered—

“Dost thou not see how these men lower and frown upon us already?
Hearest thou not my noble father’s name bandied from lip to lip, and
each time with a curse coupled with it? Take down thy arm, good
Richard—muffle the sleeve within thy cloak and let us struggle forward
as we are best able.”

The serving-man hastened to obey this direction, and wrapped his arm in
the short cloak which had been allowed to float back from his shoulder.
This act was performed the more promptly as a score of burning eyes had
flashed back a stern admonition of danger when challenged by the
Somerset badge thus ostentatiously uplifted in their midst. Even as it
was, the man’s temerity might have been followed by violent
consequences, but that a deeper and more general object of resentment
presented itself in the body of workmen that had made its way up from
the Strand through the cross street which our little party had left but
a moment before, and now flung itself impetuously into the excited
crowd. The moment these men were seen pushing their way towards their
brethren gathered about St. Margaret’s, shouting defiance and pushing
the citizens about with their heavy iron-tools, the spirit of discord
broke loose like a wild beast from his cage. A hoarse shout thundered
through the air. The hitherto stern and silent multitude swayed round
and plunged forward, a mass of enraged, reckless, human life, eager to
trample down the body of men who came among them armed to do sacrilege
on the holy temple of their worship. When the first fierce cry of their
onset swept over the females whose movements we have recorded, the one
whose features were yet concealed grasped her companion’s arm, and,
shrieking with affright, sprang wildly on one side, forcing a passage to
the steps of a dwelling-house, where she sunk at the foot of a granite
pillar, panting like a wounded fawn beneath the drapery which still
concealed her person. Her attendants strove to follow her but were swept
away by the rushing multitude, and, spite of their struggles, forced
into the _mêlée_ raging between the citizens and the Somerset workmen.
These men fought their way valiantly. Keeping in a compact body they
resolutely cleared a path through the unarmed mob with their heavy
crowbars and pickaxes, which proved most effective weapons of defence.
The people goaded to fury by opposition rushed madly upon them, strove
to wrest away their weapons by brute force, and when that failed tore up
the pavement and hurled the massive stones furiously into their midst.
Many were wounded, more than one dropped down dead, crushed beneath the
deadly missiles which filled the air. The sweet breath of morning was
made terrible by the groans and cries and harsh sounds of hot-blooded
men, goaded to fury and fierce with a thirst for strife, which
threatened to deluge the torn pavements with blood and carnage.

The band of workmen which had already reached St. Margaret’s at first
essayed to aid their companions but it was impossible even to penetrate
the mob of citizens which separated the two parties, and they returned
to their station before the church, which the mob, in its blind
eagerness to attack the larger and more obnoxious party, had left almost
entirely at their mercy. Still their numbers were small, and the enraged
people so near at hand that but the lifting of an implement of
destruction would have placed them in imminent peril. So they remained
inactive, contenting themselves with a hope that Somerset, the Lord
Protector, would hear of the riot and come to his people’s rescue. Still
the fight raged on, the workmen were driven back, step by step, to a
cross street whence they had emerged, and which their numbers choked up,
forming a solid front, narrow and compact, which the assailants found
impossible to break and difficult to contend against, as few had the
hardihood to come within the sweep of those heavy iron bars which were
never wielded but they crushed some human being to the earth. While the
workmen maintained this position the assailants were compelled to abate
the fury of their attack. The scene of strife too had been considerably
removed from the first place of encounter.

The young female, who is the especial object of our interest, crouched
at the base of the granite pillar where she had sought refuge,
shuddering and sick with fear, amid this tumult of strife and terrible
passions raging about her. She heard the shrieks and howling cries of
the multitude as they struggled together, heard them tear up the
pavement with curses, and felt the air tortured into unnatural currents
as the heavy stones whirled fiercely over her head. Still she neither
shrieked nor moved a limb, but clung with a shuddering clasp to the
pillar, helpless and almost stupefied with terror. While the fight raged
fiercest about her she remained unnoticed, for even there, amid that
throng of men tugging at each other’s throats and wrangling like wild
animals together, females were to be seen fighting and eager for
strife—the most relentless among the throng. In this terrible mingling
of sexes and strife of angry passions, a helpless and prostrate female,
shrinking from a scene too horrible even for her imagination, might well
have been overlooked. All were too fiercely occupied to offer her
protection or insult. But as the scene of strife became more distant the
dense crowd around her was scattered, and more than one of the rude
persons who hang about the skirts of a riotous mob from idle curiosity
or in hopes of plunder, observed the deathly stillness of her position.
There was a delicacy in the small white hand and rounded arm which clung
to the pillar, exposed by the falling drapery and flung out in beautiful
relief upon the stone as if a limb of exquisite sculpture had been
chiselled there. But the persons who gazed were too rude for thoughts of
beauty though so strangely betrayed. A cluster of brilliants that blazed
on one of the fingers, and the rich drapery that lay in a picturesque
heap over her whole person, conveyed hopes of rich plunder, and many a
covetous eye twinkled with expectation that when the crowd were drawn to
a distance she might be left helpless and exposed to their rapacity. At
last an artisan or mechanic of the lowest order ascended the steps where
she had sought refuge, and, apparently heedless of her presence, sat
down on the opposite side of the pillar, so near that his dusty leathern
jerkin almost touched the arm still wound immovably around it. He now
uncovered his head and wiped the perspiration from a low and
disagreeable forehead with the sleeve of his jerkin, pushed back a mass
of coarse hair that had fallen over his eyes, and was about replacing
his cap, when a flash of sunshine fell upon the cluster of brilliants
which gemmed one of the fingers just in a range with his eye. A look of
coarse delight came to his repulsive features, a cunning avaricious joy
disagreeable beyond description. He cast an eager look upon the throng,
which was still great, and toyed with his cap, waving it up and down
with both hands carelessly as if to cool his face when any person seemed
especially regarding him. At last, when the general attention was drawn
another way by a party of horsemen coming at a hard gallop down the
street, he, as if by accident, held his cap so as to conceal his face
from the multitude, and drew back slowly till the pillar half concealed
him, then, softly removing the hand from its clasp on the stone, he drew
the ring away quick as lightning, and grasping it in his rough palm
allowed the little hand to fall down cold and lifeless upon the step.

“Plunder from the dead is free to the first comer,” he muttered,
replacing his cap, “a woman completely killed or in a swoon is the same
thing, and one or the other state belongs to this dainty lady, I take
it.”

As he muttered these words, the plunderer sauntered with a heavy idle
swagger down the steps, and would have mingled with the crowd, but at
that moment an elderly man, evidently the servitor of some noble family,
paused by the steps, glanced at the recumbent figure, and hastily
inquired who the person was, and why no assistance had been rendered.
The artisan, to whom he addressed himself as the nearest person, was
suddenly taken with a decided and absorbing interest in the struggle
that still raged farther down the street, and, when the question had
been thrice repeated, only withdrew his attention long enough to declare
that he was quite ignorant regarding the lady so strangely situated,
and, in truth, had observed her for the first time when pointed out by
the worshipful questioner.

The new comer ran hastily up the steps, flung back the mantle which had
fallen over her face, and revealed the features of a young girl, pale as
death, and lying cold and lifeless close to the pillar. A flood of rich
chestnut-brown hair had broken loose, and the string of rough emeralds
that had confined it lay broken and scattered among the folds of her
dress. The man seemed to recognize those sweet features, for he turned
pale, and an exclamation, almost of terror, broke from his lips. “She is
dead!” he cried in a voice of keen emotion—“her hands are cold as ice.
What shall I say to my poor lord—who will dare tell him?”

“Then she has taken leave within a short space of time,” muttered the
artisan, who stood with his back toward the pillar, gazing intently afar
off, as if he had some heavy stake which the contest would decide. “I
can swear that her hand trembled as I pulled off the ring.”

“For the love of heaven, is there no one here who will call assistance!”
exclaimed the new comer, kneeling down and raising the senseless lady
with his arm.

“Can I do anything?” inquired the artisan, gruffly, as if aroused to a
consciousness that the fainting lady required some attention.

“Thank you, good friend, yes—run, I beseech you for the nearest leech,
or rather look out my Lord Dudley, who has just ridden by; say to him
that a lady whose welfare is dear to him, has swooned in the street, and
is in danger from the mob. Go, good man, go at once, or I fear me our
blithesome lady will never smile again!”

“Nay,” said the artisan, who had fixed a greedy eye on the emeralds
scattered over the lady’s dress. “As I may not know the Lord Dudley when
he is found, had you not better leave the poor lady to me while you seek
him out yourself; the more especially as you may see that her mouth is
red again, and there is a tear breaking through the thick eye-lashes
that were so black and still when you first uncovered her face. The air
has done her good. Leave her to me, and by the time you come back with
the gentleman you wot of she will be well again. Truly, my jerkin is
none of the cleanest,” he added in reply to a glance which the other had
cast on his mean raiment, “nor my face much to your liking, I see; but I
shall not run off with your dainty trouble there, not being fool enough
to cumber myself with anything of womankind, be she gentle or simple, so
you can trust me.”

There was something in the artisan’s manner more than in his
appearance—and that was suspicions enough, that rendered the person he
addressed reluctant to trust a being so helpless to his charge. He
hesitated and was deliberating how to act, when the multitude came
rushing back to their old station near the church, shouting fiercely and
uttering terrible imprecations on the Duke of Somerset, who had sent a
large body of armed men up the Thames, who had landed at the foot of
Westminster Bridge, resolute to support his artisans in the destruction
of St. Margaret’s. It was the first charge of this party, as it joined
the body of workmen, which still defended the passage up St. Margaret’s
street, that sent the crowd rushing back upon the church. The small band
of horsemen which had just passed, wheeled suddenly round and came back
almost by compulsion, for their way was entirely blocked up by the
populace, and behind were the Somerset men, urged to fierce resentment,
and goading them on to madness.

The leader of this equestrian band—for it evidently belonged to neither
of the contending parties—was a young and remarkably handsome man, who
seemed entangled with the crowd by accident, and only desirous of
continuing his morning ride in tranquillity. The magnificent trappings
of his black charger—the jewelled buckle which fastened the plumes on
his cap, leaving a fine open forehead and a mass of light curling hair
exposed to view. The short cloak of dark green velvet bordered with
gold—the slashed and pointed doublet and hose underneath, betrayed him
as one of the brightest and most noble ornaments of the young King
Edward’s court, and were all in striking contrast with the rude mob from
which he was deliberately striving to extricate himself. He was followed
by a number of retainers well mounted, and all wearing his family badge;
yet it was not till they were forced to retrace their way and made some
slight commotion in the crowd in wheeling their horses, that the
tumultuous populace seemed to recognize them. But when the leader was
known, those men not actively engaged in the fight, pressed back to give
him way, and greeted him with uncovered heads—a few flung their caps in
the air, calling out for those in advance to make room for the Lord
Dudley; others took up the cry, and then went up a loud eager shout of

“A Warwick! a Warwick! room, room for a Warwick!” Thus sounding a
defiance to the Somerset battle-cry, that rang so fiercely up from the
distance.

This recognition by the mob seemed to annoy the object of their clamor
beyond measure. He lifted his hand with an imperative motion, in a vain
effort to silence their noisy greeting; but when he saw that this was
mistaken for encouragement, and that his family name rang louder and
with more joyous acclamation above all the tumult, he bent his noble
head to the multitude with forced resignation, and strove more
resolutely to retreat from a scene, which from many causes, filled him
with anxiety and regret. More than once his high spirit was so chafed by
the notice which he had unwillingly obtained, that nothing but
compassion for the multitude seemed to prevent him giving a free rein to
the noble beast which shook his head, champed angrily his tightened bit,
and curveted with impatience among the mass of human beings that
scarcely gave his hoofs free play upon the pavement.

The two men whom we left near the young female, who was just returning
to animation, were interrupted in their discussion by these two sources
of renewed commotion which we have just related, and when the cry of “a
Warwick, a Warwick,” swept by, the last comer, who was still supporting
the lady, started to his feet, placed a hand over his eyes to shade them
from the sun, and looked earnestly over the sea of human heads rising
and falling and flowing by, like the motion of a forest when the wind
sweeps over it. All at once he uttered an exclamation of pleasure, and
rushing down the steps, forced his way to the young horseman who was now
almost opposite the place he had occupied. Pushing eagerly through the
crowd which surrounded the struggling charger, he seized him by the bit,
as the only means of attracting the rider’s attention in a scene where
his voice was exerted in vain; but so great was the tumult that even
this method proved ineffectual, and it was not till he had flung the
beast almost upon his haunches that he was recognized by the anxious
nobleman. The young man bent his head, for the eager face of his
retainer startled him, though the words he would have uttered were swept
away by the thousand fierce sounds that filled the air. At last, by the
aid of gesture and such broken words as reached his master’s ear, the
man made himself understood. The horseman started upright in his
stirrups, cast a keen look toward the spot pointed out by his attendant,
and, heedless of all former caution, plunged his spurs into the restless
charger, which reared and plunged with a violence that sent the people
back upon each other, and cleared a space of some yards about him.
Regardless of consequences, the nobleman scarcely gave his horse time to
recover himself, but urged him through the frightened crowd with an
impetuosity that sent a shower of sparks about his hoofs when they
struck upon the lower-most of the stone flags where the lady had taken
shelter.

The young man sprang from his saddle, and pushing aside the artisan who
still hung about her, took the now partially recovered lady in his arms,
and in a voice of hurried and anxious affection inquired it she were
hurt, and multiplied questions one upon another, mingling them with
broken expressions of tenderness, which she could only answer by sobs
and the profuse tears that rushed over her burning cheeks. She seemed
entirely overcome with joy at his presence, and the intense shame
arising from her extraordinary situation. All his questions only served
to make her weep the more bitterly; but she clung nervously to his hand,
trembling between the pleasure of his protection and the fear that he
might condemn her, and besought him, in broken tones, to take her home,
to forgive her, but, above all things, to help her away from the mob of
coarse rough faces that were gazing upon her humiliation.

“Nay, compose yourself,” said Dudley, in those low and persuasive tones
best calculated to allay her nervous excitement, “are you not safe with
me? you are too feeble to move yet. In a little time I trust that we may
pass in safety, but—”

“Forgive me, my lord,” interrupted the man who had informed his master
of the lady’s plight. “If her ladyship can find strength to walk, had we
not better remove her at once to a place of safety? It is yet possible
to make our way round the corner, and so into the Park.”

The Lord Dudley looked upon the crowd and shook his head.

“See, my lord,” said the man still more earnestly, “the people are
becoming more turbulent than ever—in less than five minutes the space
between this and the church will be crowded full again.”

“I fear she is too weak for the attempt,” replied Dudley, looking down
with tender anxiety into the sweet troubled face lifted with an
expression of timid confidence to his.

“Oh, no, I am quite strong now; I can walk very well if you are with
me,” said the young girl; but her pale and trembling lips belied the
words as she turned her back to the people and strove with unsteady
hands to gather the scattered masses of her hair beneath the hood, which
scarcely served to conceal its rich beauty, dishevelled and loose as it
was. “See, I am quite ready,” she added, wrapping the mantle about her,
and gathering courage beneath the concealment of its folds, and clinging
to the young nobleman’s arm she stood terrified, it is true, but willing
to submit herself to his guidance.

“My poor bird, how it pants and trembles beneath my arm,” murmured
Dudley. And amid all the annoyance of his position, his heart thrilled
with a sense of the protection which it gave to the object of his love;
but the feeling gave way to one of keen anxiety; for the populace were
by this time assailed so fiercely by the Somerset men that it was giving
way before them, and rapidly condensing itself around the Abbey, which
threatened soon to become the scene of contention.

“What can be done? which way shall we go?” said Dudley, appealing to his
attendant.

The man looked around and gravely shook his head. “I see no plan of
escape unless we struggle through the crowd,” he replied despondingly,
“and yet there is but your lordship and my humble self to protect the
Lady Jane, and the press threatens to be great.”

The artisan who had made a show of holding Dudley’s horse, while he
concealed the ring and as many of the jewels which had dropped from the
lady’s hair as he could purloin during the short time that she had been
left alone with him, in the sleeve of his jerkin—now slipped the bridle
over his arm, and came up the steps so far as its length would permit.

“If I might advise, fair sir,” he said, doffing his cap, and concealing
a large emerald that had before escaped him, with his foot, as he spoke.
“If I might make bold to give an opinion, three stout men are enough to
cover the retreat of one woman any day. Your gallant self and my
worshipful friend here, to say nothing of the man before you, who lacks
not both tough bone and sinew in a fair fight, and the noble horse,
which I take it, is worth at least two men, having a fine knack, as I
but now witnessed, of scattering a crowd with his hoofs. Well now, fair
sir, supposing you mount this noble nag and push a way through the
crowd, while my worshipful friend and humble self follow at his heels
with the lady between us. Oh, this does not jump with the lady’s humor,
I see,” continued the man without breaking the thread of his speech, as
the Lady Jane drew closer to her companion and murmured in an affrighted
voice, “no, no Dudley—keep you with me or I shall die with terror
else.”

Dudley answered by a gentle pressure of the arm clinging to his, and the
man went on, as we have said, regardless of the interruption.

“Well, if she does not fancy the cut of my face, perhaps the black
charger there will have better taste. Shall I mount and clear a path for
you? It is not often that I sit on a crimson saddle with housings of
velvet and gold—but there is an old saying or a new one, it matters not
which, that if you ‘put a beggar on horseback he will ride’—I must not
say exactly where in the presence of this lady, but to such a journey a
passage through this crowd of hooting scoundrels would be child’s
play—shall I mount, fair sir? you see the fight is getting nearer and
there will be hot work anon.”

As the man finished speaking, he dropped his sheepskin cap quite by
accident, and displayed considerable awkwardness in picking it up again.
For a person rather shabbily dressed he certainly was somewhat
fastidious in replacing it jauntily on one side of his head; but in the
process a large emerald was sent, with a dexterous movement of the
fingers, flashing down the sleeve of his jerkin, which probably had some
connection with this elaborate display of taste.

At any other time Dudley would have rebuked the fellow’s boldness, but
he was too anxious for thoughts of station or dignity, and turning from
the rude speaker to his attendant, he demanded earnestly if his plan
were practicable. Before the person addressed could reply, an immense
paving stone was hurled by his temple, and, tearing off the artisan’s
cap in its progress, was dashed to pieces against the granite pillar
which had so long sheltered the Lady Jane Saymore. A shriek burst from
her pale lips, and every face in that little group turned white as
death. After a moment the artisan took up his cap, and thrusting his
hand through a hole cut in it by the stone, tried to convince himself
and those about him, by a broad laugh, that he was a man of decided
courage and not to be daunted by trifles that could drive the blood from
a nobleman’s cheek; but his voice died in the miserable attempt, and he
slunk down to the horse’s head again, for the moment subdued into
silence.

“For the love of heaven, let us be gone,” said Lord Dudley, terrified by
the danger which threatened the object of his love. “Mount, fellow; and
if you clear a way for this lady, you shall have gold”—

Before he could finish the sentence, the artisan sprang to a seat on the
gorgeous saddle, and striking his mutilated cap down upon his head with
one hand, drew up the bridle, and shouting, “Make room for the noble
Dudley—a Warwick, a Warwick,” plunged into the crowd.

Dudley threw his arm firmly round the Lady Jane, and directing his
attendant to keep close on the other side, followed his strange
conductor, who proved an excellent guide; for in his appeal now to the
people in behalf of their favorite noble, now to the Somerset men as one
of their number, he succeeded in forcing a passage for the party till
they had almost reached the front of St. Margaret’s; but here their
position became more dangerous than ever, for a detachment of the
Somerset men, after a desperate struggle to force a passage through the
body of people, had found the way across a corner of the park and along
Prince’s street, almost within a stone’s throw of the church, before
their movement was discovered by those resolute on its defence. It was
in vain the artisan pleaded for a passage now, his voice was overwhelmed
by the roar. He was raised considerably above the crowd, and was among
the first to discover this new difficulty. He arose in the saddle, cast
a crest-fallen look over the sea of human heads that surrounded him,
then bending backwards, he addressed the young lord and his companion in
a voice that was less steady than he would gladly have rendered it—

“To the church, my lord—to the church at once! The street is choked, as
far as I can see—is choked up with Somerset men; but they are mistaken
if they hope to reach St. Margaret’s; here are stout angry fellows
enough to keep them at bay till Michaelmas. Seek shelter for the lady,
fair Sir, before they all see as much as I do, for there will be bloody
work there, or I am no reader of men’s faces.”

There was no time for parley or delay, the pale craven face of the
artisan bore witness to the truth of what he said. Lord Dudley clasped
his companion more firmly, and forced his way with almost supernatural
strength toward the church. The artisan would gladly have sought the
shelter which he had so wisely recommended to his noble companion; but
the horse had become restive under a strange guidance, and before his
head could be turned toward St. Margaret’s, the mob had discovered the
Somerset workmen, and closed round him with a violence that rendered a
change of direction impossible. It was in vain that he waved his cap,
shouted Lord Dudley’s name, and craved a free passage. His voice was
overwhelmed in the roar and rush of a conflict more dreadful than had
been witnessed that day. The people saw the spoilers almost upon their
consecrated ground, and they fought like lions to protect the sacred
rest of their dead and the altar of their worship. It was a just cause,
but the strife a terrible one indeed. So great was the press, that our
artisan found the motion of his horse cramped and almost prevented. His
limbs were crushed against the noble animal till the pain became almost
insupportable. He would gladly have dismounted and have taken his chance
with the throng, but so dense was the sea of human beings crowding upon
him, that there was not an inch of space through which he might hope to
reach the ground. So horse and rider were violently borne forward at the
mercy of the crowd, and exposed to the shower of missiles that now
darkened the air.

Meantime Dudley and his companions had reached the door of St.
Margaret’s; but it was closed, and a company of armed men stood
resolutely before it. The little band of workmen, which had kept its
station there till within the last hour, had at length deserted their
post, terrified by this guard of armed men added to the mob which they
had so long braved. Despairing of escape they had clambered, each as he
best might, up the gothic windows and rough stone work of the little
church, and were now crouching in groups on the roof, and striving to
conceal themselves behind the small turrets or steeples that surmounted
its four corners, afraid of being detected by the populace, who were
each moment becoming more and more exasperated by their brethren.

“In the name of heaven, good friends, allow me to find shelter for this
lady within the church,” exclaimed Lord Dudley, as pale and fearfully
agitated he turned in despair from the bolted door which he had reached
in spite of the pikes presented by the self-constituted guard, “I am a
friend to the people, and this lady”—

“Is his sister,” interrupted the attendant hastily, well knowing that
her true title would harden the men’s hearts against her, though she was
almost lifeless, and only kept from sinking at their feet by the strong
arm of her noble protector.

“But, even our church may soon be no place of safety,” said one of the
men, “a few minutes and this building where our parents
worshipped—where our children were baptised—may be a heap of ruins
like those of St. Mary. Our holy altar stones may be made into door
steps for the Duke of Somerset’s fine palace—yes, our chancels sacked
to yield stones to flag his wine-cellars, while the bones and sacred
dust of our fathers are cast into the street, and scattered to the four
winds of heaven.”

Dudley felt the gentle being, who clung to him for safety, tremble and
shrink, as if this angry speech had been levelled at her alone.

“I know that the people have suffered some wrong,” he said, in a mild
but unsteady voice, for he was painfully agitated, both by his late
struggle with the crowd, and the torture which the man’s impetuous
speech was inflicting on his gentle charge. “But let me beseech you,
unclose the door, my—my poor sister is well nigh sinking to the earth
with fatigue and terror.”

Still the men remained obstinate, not only refusing to open the door,
but guarding it with a close row of levelled pikes. The sound of fierce
strife, which now arose with appalling violence, within a few roods of
the church, seemed to fill them with cold and stubborn bitterness. At
last, when a loud and terrible cry swept over them—a cry of triumph
from the Somerset men, mingled with a yell of defiance from the mob, in
which Somerset, the Lord Protector’s name, was winged by shouts and
curses through the dense air, the man who had spoken before turned
almost menacingly on the young nobleman.

“Did I not tell you,” he exclaimed, “this is no place for a lady? If we
cannot guard our dead, how can your charge be safe? Hear that shout—the
Duke of Somerset is himself coming up from the river to reinforce his
band of pillagers. A curse light upon his sacrilegious head for this
day’s work—a curse on him and his!”

“Oh no, no; do not curse him!” exclaimed the Lady Jane, starting from
Dudley’s arm, and flinging the hood back from her pale face with a wild
impulse—“he does not know—he has not thought how dreadful all this is:
you do not dream how kind he is. In pity—for sweet mercy’s sake, do not
curse my father!”

“Her father,” exclaimed the men almost simultaneously, and with menacing
looks; “her father!”

Lord Dudley drew the young girl back to his side, pulled the mantle
almost roughly over her face, and turned sternly upon the men.

“Behold,” he said, with a flashing eye, “behold the effect of your cruel
delay; my poor sister is driven stark mad at last.”

The speech, and the pale steadfast features of the young man, had the
desired effect. The guard did not open the door, it is true, but their
manner was more subdued, and they consulted in a low voice together.

“And if we unlock the church, what warrant have we that you are not a
partisan of the Duke’s?” said the leader, glancing suspiciously at the
young nobleman’s rich vestments; “you may be of his household, nay, his
son, for aught we know.”

“You have the word of a Warwick, and this proof that the pledge is not
given without right,” said the young man, flinging aside his velvet
cloak, and displaying the family crest, set in brilliants, on his
sword-hilt. “Now, sirs, let me pass! I have no share in this broil, and
would gladly have escaped from it unknown.”

“Pass in, and heaven’s blessing go with you!” said the man, almost
angrily striking up the line of weapons which his band still kept
levelled.

He unlocked the heavy door, and while the dense mob shouted around him,
eager to know why he acted thus for a stranger, he stood, with uncovered
head, till the young nobleman had entered the church; then, he closed
the door again with a half repeated blessing upon the lips that had been
almost blistered with imprecations a few moments before. The solemn
stillness and cool atmosphere, which pervaded that little church, fell
like a breath from heaven on the three persons who entered it, weary and
faint from the turmoil that raged without.

The blended hues of purple and gold and crimson, shed from the stained
and diamond-shaped glass that filled the gothic windows, flooded the
building with a dim mellow light, and slept, in a rich haze, among the
funereal urns of snowy marble placed in the various niches, once
occupied by images of Catholic worship. A shadowy light, such as beams
from a mild sunset, lay upon the altar-stone, which gleamed out white
and pure above the purple velvet that carpeted its steps. A baptismal
fount of marble stood on the right hand filled with clear water; but in
that rich light it seemed almost brimming with wine. Two censers of
massive silver stood above the altar, but only as remnants of a
discarded faith, for no incense had been kindled in their hearts since
the divorce of the late Henry and Catherine of Arragon.

The whole church was pervaded with a beautiful quiet, such as might
reign in the shadowy dwellings of paradise. Dudley yielded to its
influence, and drew a deep breath, half in awe, half in thankfulness, as
he gently placed the Lady Jane upon one of the steps of the altar, and
sprinkled her pale face with the water which he dipped with his hand
from the baptismal fount. He took off the mantle which she still
unconsciously held tightly about her person, and gathering up the rich
tresses of her hair as they fell upon the marble, made an awkward
attempt to bind them round her head. The poor lady was conscious of his
kindness, but so exhausted that she had no power to thank him. The very
effort to unclose her eyes was an exertion too much for her languid
state, and the soft light which fell over her like a rich sunset seemed
lending beauty to a marble statue, so pale and deathlike were her
features. When Dudley inquired with anxious tenderness after her
welfare, from time to time, she answered him with a faint clasp of the
hand which he took in his, and grateful tears gushed in bright drops
through her closed lashes, and fell, one after another, like jewels upon
the purple velvet beneath her cheek. At last she opened her eyes, a
sweet and tender expression of pleasure came to her face, and one of the
familiar smiles which Dudley loved so well sprang like sunlight to her
reddening lips. She was yet bewildered and dreamy, but tranquillized by
the one dear presence, and the holy quiet which brooded over the place
of her rest. For a time she was unconscious of the tumult which still
raged without, for the sounds came but faintly to that holy place, and
seemed more like the heaving beat of a far off ocean than a strife of
angry men, heated and drunken with bad passions.

All at once a shout so long, loud and fierce, that it filled that
tranquil building like the howl of a demon, fell upon her ear. She
started up with a full consciousness of all that had happened to her
during the morning, and again sinking upon the steps of the altar buried
her face between her hands, and held her breath with a feeling of terror
such as she had never known before.

At that moment Dudley’s attendant, who had remained near the church
door, came hurriedly toward his master with information that the Duke of
Somerset had joined his men in person, and was now within a few paces of
the church.

                           (To be continued.)

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              THE ZEPHYR.


                          BY JULIET H. LEWIS.


    I sat by the casement; before me there
    Lay a treasured thing, a long tress of hair,
    And it moved my heart with a touching power—
    ’Twas the cherished gift of a parting hour.
    The sun-shine lay ’mid its nut-brown fold
    With a loving smile, as it did of old.
    When the curl waved free in its careless grace,
    Like a cloud in the sky, o’er the smiling face
    Of the gentle girl that I loved so well—
    A dimming tear on the bright lock fell
    As thoughts of the loved one far away,
    And the teeming past, on my sad heart lay.

    A Zephyr, that all this time had play’d,
    Like a laughing child, ’mid the rose tree’s shade,
    Flew up, like a bird, to the casement there,
    And bore off in triumph the lock of hair.
    ’Twas a cruel theft! and harsh words of blame,
    Like a mountain stream, from my full heart came,
    For the reckless deeds of the careless thing,
    Ever hovering near on mischievous wing.
    But the day before, he had entered my bower,
    And scattered the leaves of its loveliest flower,
    And bore off a letter that lay unread,
    ’Neath the scented buds, on a mossy bed,
    To the brook hard by, who, with dimpled cheek
    And a smothered laugh at the Zephyr’s freak,
    Received the gift, and bounded on
    As wild, and free, as a forest fawn,
    To its hiding spots ’neath the greenwood shade,
    Glancing back, through the leaves, where the young wind play’d.
    “Now! Spirit of Air,” I cried, “gay breeze—
    Are all thine acts as unkind as these?
    Thy wings are unfettered—thy path is free—
    Yet mine is the power to follow thee.”
    Then thought sprang up on her weariless wing,
    And tracked the wind, in imagining.
    He stole the white plume from the thistle’s crest,
    Which was light as down on the swan’s pure breast,
    And with waving wing bore the prize away
    To a happy group ’mid the flowers at play,
    And fanning the cheek of each laughing boy,
    With his cooling wing, waved the downy toy
    Their bright heads above, and the careless band,
    With eager eye, and with outstretched hand,
    Ran away, in chase of the silvery thing
    That the Zephyr bore on exulting wing.
    Now slowly it floated their hands beneath—
    Now upward it sprang on a stronger breath—
    Now wafted afar—’twas a merry race
    The Zephyr to lead, and the children in chase!
    He left them behind, but bore along
    Their glee-toned voices, in joyous song,
    And each lone mother looked up and smiled,
    As she caught the tones of her darling child,
    And paused awhile from her toil, to bless
    The heart, o’erflowing with happiness.

      Then he went his way and on manhood’s brow
    His cooling fingers are busy now,
    He parts the dark hair from its resting place,
    And prints a kiss on the anxious face,
    And woos him to leave the dust and glare
    Of the crowded town, for a spot more fair,
    Where trees in blossom, and birds on wing,
    Lead the rapt heart from each worldly thing.
    But man heeds not, for his rest is sold,
    And his heart bows down to the god of gold;
    For the tempting Zephyr he “cares not a groat,”
    He is eagerly reaching a “ten pound note,”
    That ragged, and soiled on the counter doth lay,
    But the Zephyr indignantly bears it away.
    He toss’d it, he pull’d it, he twirled it around,
    Now high in the air, and now low on the ground,
    He moaned in derision, he whistled with glee,
    Ah! never was Zephyr as merry as he,
    Till at length, in his frolic, he entered a shed
    Where a widow was praying for daily bread,
    In the voice of faith, low, subdued and mild,
    She prayed for food for her starving child:
    Then the wind bowed down with its burden there,
    And Heaven thus answered the widow’s prayer.
    Then he entered the halls, where many a scene
    Of joyous pleasure, and mirth had been—
    He softly sighed o’er the festal board,
    Where the jest had passed, and the red wine poured,
    He swept the harp with his quivering wing,
    And woke the tones of each mournful string,
    While his murmuring voice, with its gentle chime,
    Seemed singing a song of the olden time,
    Or breathing a dirge o’er the gay hearts fled
    To their silent homes ’mid the lowly dead.
    He sighed through the banners that hung on high—
    (Dimmed was their gorgeous blazonry,)
    But they waved aloft, as they waved of old,
    When the shout and song shook each heavy fold,
    While the dust fell down in a darkening cloud—
    And the moth was rocked in her silken shroud—
    And the bat sprang forth from his loathsome nest,
    ’Mid the pennons there, an unseemly guest!

      Then he went to the violet’s lonely bowers,
    And gathered their breath, though he left the flowers,
    And hastened on with the rich perfume
    And a gladsome song, to the invalid’s room.
    He hushed his voice as he entered there,
    For holy and sad rose the sound of prayer,
    With his wealth from the woods he wafted on,
    And rushing memories of bright things gone
    To the dying bore, while a low-breathed sigh,
    Told of the Zephyr’s sympathy.
    One tender act that he did that day,
    Was a moment to pause where a stranger lay,
    In an unknown land, with no loved one near
    To breathe a sigh o’er his lowly bier,
    Or moisten his grave with the tear-drops shed
    From the mourning heart, o’er the loved and the dead.
    Then mounting upward, on breezy wing,
    To the white haw tree richly blossoming,
    And, gathering its sweets with a gentle wave,
    He spread them like snow o’er the stranger’s grave.
    Green leaf, and bud, and starry flower,
    Filled the rich air, like a lovely shower
    Of bright things, sent from a fairy land,
    And lay on the grave as though some kind hand
    Had scattered, that silent heart above,
    The sweets that in life it had learned to love.

      But ’twere _vain_ to tell of his wanderings free
    O’er leafy land, and o’er foaming sea—
    How he swept round the palace, and played through the cot—
    Passed “the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;”
    How he wafted the purple of lordly pride,
    And fluttered the rags of the beggar aside,
    How he made of a spray-capped wave his steed,
    And rode o’er the ocean with Jehu speed,
    (’Till his charger tossed its snowy mane,
    And sank to its native depths again,)
    How he hastened the ship on her homeward way,
    And scattered her track with the ocean’s spray.
    ’Twere vain to number the acts like these,
    That were done that day, by the joyous Breeze—
    While I could but mark that, what first seemed rude,
    Was gentle, and tender, and kind, and good.
    I followed him far on his wayward track,
    And when, from wandering, I turned me back,
    He whispered at parting, these words, methought,
    To my hasty heart,—“_Judge not!_ judge not!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              SHAKSPEARE.


BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.


It is the fashion to consider Macbeth a spotless and noble soul,
ensnared by the toils of the fiends, and pulled down from heaven to hell
by the chance meeting of the weird sisters on the heath. There is a
serious objection to this view. It makes machines of men. It takes from
us the most obvious and sublime attribute of an immortal being, viz:
free agency. If a high-minded and God-revering mortal is unprotected
against the attacks of supernatural beings—if foul witches may watch
for him in unguarded moments, and weave around his enchanted feet the
fatal snares of crime and death, then are we truly a wretched race. But
this is not Shakspeare’s creed. This is not the character of the
tragedy. Macbeth was a villain. He had deliberately adopted vice as his
god long before the fiends were permitted to patter with him. They come
as a _consequence_ not as a _cause_ of wickedness. The withered and wild
sisters on the blasted heath were conjured up by his own cherished
weaknesses and _secret_ deeds.[4] They were the haggard and hellish
impersonations of his own hidden thoughts and passions. He was not the
pure, generous, heaven-adoring person he is represented. The germs of
his guilt he had received into his heart by himself years before, and
they lay shooting there in silence, only waiting the quickening beam of
opportunity—waiting the first, feeblest temptation to start forth in
all their force. He was one of those fair-_seeming_ men who pass for
honest and noble. The world contains now, as then, many such. Many a man
with an uplifted brow and a clear name, waits only _occasion_ to prove
himself a scoundrel. It is such specious hypocrites that gather around
them (as the smell of carrion does the hawk and vulture) the plotting
witches who watch for power over the children of men. They had never
tempted the pure good old King Duncan. He might have passed the blasted
heath every day of his life, and these hags would never have dreamed of
appearing to him. His soul was not prepared for their wiles. But that of
Macbeth—as well as that of his stern wife—was corrupted by the whole
tenor of their previous life.

Had there been left no evidence of this, I should still have asserted
it. The innocent—the pure in heart—they who daily commune with their
Maker—who acknowledge their weakness and danger when left to
themselves—and implore humbly at his feet his all-sufficient aid—never
fall victims to the accursed fiends, whether they appear in the
deformity of Paddock and Graymalkin, or disguised under the fair
temptations of life.

But Shakspeare has left proof enough in his tragedy. He meant to show,
not (as is frequently asserted) the downfall of noble grandeur and
unsuspecting innocence, but the destruction of a fair-showing,
unsuspected villain—the wreck of a ship whose outward semblance was
tall and imposing, but which was unseaworthy and destined to go down
before the first gale.

In the first place, why does not _Banquo_ suffer from the fiends? He is
with Macbeth when they appear. He even boldly addresses them, and at
once—with the frank fearlessness of a noble and virtuous mind,
conscious of its honesty, commands them, if they can read the future, to
speak to _him_ also.

    “Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear your favors, nor
    your hate.”

Here is at once a man not to be tampered with. They promise _him_ also
as well as Macbeth a dazzling future good—a posterity of kings—but it
in no way changes his plans of life, or raises the least idea in his
mind of crime or intrigue. Even when, according to the prediction of the
witches, Macbeth instantly receives intelligence, of his being thane of
Cawdor, Banquo’s _clear-seeing sense of right_, his innocence of nature
takes the true and virtuous view of the affair, looks, at a glance,
through all the complicated web of the sisters’ plots, and keeps himself
unsoiled, unendangered by them.

       _Banquo._   “But ’tis strange;
    And often-times, to win us to _our harm_,
    The instruments of darkness tell us truths;
    Win us with honest trifles, to betray us
    In deepest consequence.”

And while he is making this just reflection, the obvious impulse of a
mind not warped from the erectness of a moral and religious integrity
and reverence, Macbeth soliloquizes with a kind of inexpressible
anticipatory triumph.

      “Two truths are told
    As happy prologues to the swelling act
    Of the imperial theme.”

And he then goes on, like a ready made, long-matured rascal as he
is—like one whose mind had no habit of virtuous or religious
contemplation, but which has always had a familiarity with evil and a
tendency downward:

    ——“Why do I _yield_ to that suggestion
    Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,” etc.

The very moment his attention is directed to the subject of his becoming
_king_, he conceives the idea of murdering the actual occupant of the
throne, notwithstanding the fact that there are two sons living.

An innocent man, were he told he would become king of England, would not
instantly set about murdering the queen. He would (supposing him to have
faith in the prediction) say to himself, as indeed Macbeth does at one
time:

    “If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me, without
    my stir.”

The very first page of the tragedy marks Macbeth for a villain even
before he has made his appearance.

    1. _Witch._ When shall we three meet again
       In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

    2. _Witch._ When the hurly-burly’s done,
       When the battle’s lost and won;

    3. _Witch._ That will be ere set of sun.

    1. _Witch._ Where the place?

    2. _Witch._ Upon the heath.

    3. _Witch._ _Then to meet with Macbeth._

Why have these fiendish women selected the gallant soldier as their
victim? What gathers them about the “battle” that is raging near? _What_
but the _scent_ of _a sinful heart_?

But there are other proofs of an extrinsic nature, which settle the
previous character of Lady Macbeth at the same time, and shows how ripe
they both were for the fiends.

If a man’s true nature may be supposed to be known to any one it _is to
his wife_. He may put on a smooth face before his best friend; he may
write or speak virtuous sentiments to the public; he may give charitable
donations, and follow the career of a flaming patriot or a meek saint,
but the lady upon whom he has conferred with his name, the right of
being with him continually, will be pretty able to tell how matters
really are. I do not say that, because a wife abuses her husband and
calls him names, he must necessarily be a rascal; but, as a general
rule, the partner of his woes and joys has better opportunities of
_knowing the man_ than almost any one else—at least, if she be a person
of Lady Macbeth’s discrimination. Well then, see what his _lady_ says of
him, to herself, on receiving his letter recounting the prediction of
the weird sisters.

      “Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be
    What thou art promis’d:—yet I do fear thy nature;
    It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness,
    To catch the nearest way.”

That she should suppose him _too full of the milk of human kindness_ to
do cruel actions is a skilful stroke in the delineation both of his
nature and hers. However well she knew him, as he had been till then, an
unprincipled man—even _she_ had never fathomed those depths of
character, (for good or for evil common to all men, and equally
unfathomed probably by himself,) which the subsequent events disclosed.
Shakspeare somewhere else says, “It is not a year or so that shows us a
man”—and it is an important truth, that we are not thoroughly known by
our best friends, and do not know ourselves till late in life. This same
person, so full of the milk of human kindness that she feared his
“softer nature” could never be brought to the necessary resolution, no
sooner finds himself once fairly compromised than his atrocities throw
the cruelties of ordinary oppressors quite into the shade.

                  “Thou would’st be great;
    Art not without ambition; but without
    The illness should attend it. What thou would’st highly
    Thou would’st holily; would’st not play false,
    And yet _would’st wrongly win_,” etc. etc.

This passage has been often misunderstood. “Without the _illness_” that
should attend ambition—“what thou would’st highly thou would’st
holily,” does not mean, thou art without the _vices_ which should attend
ambition, and, what thou would’st highly—thou would’st in a _holy
spirit_. It means, he is without the _courage_ to bear the risk and
odium necessary to the successful carrying out of ambitious plans,
although he is willing enough to be _guilty_ if he may not _appear_ to
be so. “What he would highly,” he would also with an _appearance of
holiness_. He loves the _mask_ of virtue, but he loves also the sweets
of sin. He has thus far enjoyed the good opinion of the _world_. He
cannot bear to throw aside the wreath which he has worn and which
flatters his weakness and vanity. It is the _world_ which alone he
thinks of. This is his only god. Of the Supreme Being, there is not a
word; but of his inclination to assume the moral responsibility there is
a distinct acknowledgment:

            “Would’st not play false
    And yet _would’st wrongly win_. ‘Thou’d’st have, great Glamis,’
    That which cries, ‘_Thus thou must do if thou have it!_’
    And that which thou dost _rather fear to do_,
    Than _wishest should be undone_.”

Here we have Macbeth’s character. Here we have the secret of his
goodness. It is _fear_ and _love of the world_.

Shakspeare meant to draw a very—very common character, only he has made
it colossal. How many men in the common life of this day are
irreproachable from the same considerations—fear and love of the world,
joined to a certain dislike of the trouble, exertion and risk of wrong.
(“If we should fail!”) That these are the moving springs of this
seemingly noble and generous but really remorseless and impious
character we see again from a remark of his own. After contemplating the
murder for some time, he concludes to abandon the plan. Why? Because he
will not incur the moral guilt? Because he has thoughts of his God,
whose eye is on him, and who cannot but punish a crime? Because the
commandment has been written, “Thou shalt do no murder?” Because the
Deity himself has decreed “blood for blood?”

No. For reasons much more suited to his irreligious, infidel, worldly
mind:

      “We will proceed no further in this business!
    He hath _honored_ me of late; and I have bought
    _Golden opinions_ from all _sorts of people_,
    Which should be worn now in their newest gloss,
    Not cast aside so soon.”

These are his reasons for not wishing to proceed. Not a thought of his
Maker—not an allusion to a future world. He expressly says, in another
passage, if he could but be secure against detection _in this world_, he
does not feel any apprehension respecting the other. He’ll “_jump the
world to come_.”

No man, not corrupt by long previous backslidings either of thought or
deed, would act as Macbeth acts. He grasps at the first idea of murder
with the true zest of an assassin. All his struggles are only those of
fear. The _first_ time he meets the king, his generous, grateful, and
gracious master, he seems already to have arranged the murder in his
mind, and his hypocrisy and cruelty do not waver an instant. He
discovers the self-possession and plausible villany of a practised
criminal, and this too before he sees his wife upon the subject. It
almost seems as if they had spoken on this point before. When Duncan
heaps him with thanks and rewards, he answers:

       _Mac._ “The service and the loyalty I owe,
    In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part
    Is to receive our duties: and our duties
    Are, to your throne and state, children and servants;
    Which do but what they should, by doing every thing
    Safe toward your love and honor.”

When the King says, as if in dark conformity to the witches’ prediction:

                  “from hence to Inverness,
    And bind us further to you,”

Macbeth, like a hungry leopard trembling with joy at seeing his victim
take refuge in his very den, says, with an affectation of grateful
submission:

       _Mac._ “The rest is labor which is not used for you:
    I’ll be myself the harbinger, and _make joyful_
    _The hearing of my_ wife with your approach.”

And then _already_, to himself:

       _Mac._ “The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step
    On which I must fall _down, or else overleap_;
    For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires!
    Let not light see my black and deep desires,
    The eye wink at the hand, _yet let that be_
    Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.”

His famous soliloquy, “Out, out, brief candle,” is in itself a superb
piece of earthly philosophy, but it becomes resplendently significant
when regarded as the _creed of infidelity_ which has brought him where
he is; for he is an atheist, and _therefore_ he is a _murderer_.

    “Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
    And _then is heard no more_: it is a tale
    Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
    _Signifying nothing_.”

These are not the thoughts of the gentle, happy-hearted Shakspeare.
These are the blasphemous outbreakings of a blood-drenched, disbelieving
soul, vainly striving to make head against God’s vengeance by denying
his existence. No. Life’s _not_ a walking shadow. It is more than a poor
player—than a tale signifying nothing. It signifies much not to be
known by the “ignorant present,” as they find, unhappy lost ones, who
mistake such wicked blasphemies for truth.

The pertinacity with which his selfish soul is wedded to the world is
again betrayed in one of his last soliloquies, where, in running a kind
of balance in his accounts between the gains and losses of his murderous
ambition, he complains:

    “And that which should accompany old age,
    As _honor, love, obedience, troops of friends_,
    I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
    Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
    Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.”

Always the world bounds his hopes and his fears.

The original viciousness of his nature is also betrayed by the readiness
with which, once embarked in the career of crime, he plunges in
headlong. The very morning of the murder of the king, he stabs in their
sleep the two grooms of the chamber, then Banquo and Fleance (which
latter escapes by chance.) He rushes on from murder to murder with the
rabid fury of a hound maddened with the taste of blood. He adopts the
direst principles of action,

       _Mac._ “From this moment
    The very firstlings of my heart shall be
    The firstlings of my hand.”

Surprises the castle of Macduff, and massacres his wife, his babes,

    “And all the unfortunate souls
    That trace him in his line.”

That Shakspeare meant to draw, in this remarkable portraiture, a worldly
character unsupported by _religion_, is evident from the _tone of piety_
which runs through the other characters. The gentlewoman’s “Heaven knows
what she has known,” and her “pray God it be well.” The doctor’s “God,
God forgive us all!” Macduff’s

            “Did Heaven look on
    And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,
    They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am,
    Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
    Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now.”

This is the oft repeated apprehension of a pious heart which fears still
its own weakness, and finds, in the inscrutable and most awful
visitatings of God a merited blow—a chastener of its still corrupt
desires—a lesson to unlink it yet more from its grasp on mortality.

Immediately again Macduff prays to heaven—and in the same page Malcolm
says:

                “Macbeth
    Is ripe for shaking, and the _powers above_
    Put on their instruments.”

Another instance of the pure christian piety with which the poet invests
his good characters, and of which he deprives his bad ones, telling
strongly for Dr. Ulrici’s theory, occurs in the third scene of the
fourth act, where Malcolm, the heir to the throne, in order to try
Macduff, represents himself as being full of vices. Macduff replies,

                “Thy Royal Father
    Was a most _sainted King_; the Queen, that bore thee,—
    _Oftener upon her knees than on her feet_.”

In his answer, Malcolm uses the expression, full of pious reverence:

          “But _God above_
    Deal between thee and me,” &c.

And still another, the morning after the murder, when Macduff says:

    “In the _great hand of God I stand_,” &c.

-----

[4] _Vide a future_ ¶.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      THE DAUGHTERS OF DR. BYLES.


                          A SKETCH OF REALITY.


                            BY MISS LESLIE.


On my first visit to Boston, about nine years since, I was offered, by a
lady of that kind and hospitable city, (the paradise of strangers,) an
introduction to the two daughters of the celebrated Mather Byles: and I
gladly availed myself of this opportunity of becoming acquainted with
these singular women, whom, I had been told, were classed among the
curiosities of the place.

Their father, a native Bostonian, (born in 1706, during the reign of
Queen Anne,) was connected with the family of Cotton Mather. His
education was completed in England, where he studied theology at
Cambridge, and was afterwards ordained a minister of the gospel
according to the Episcopal faith. On his return to Boston, Mather Byles
was inducted into the first pastor-ship of Hollis street church, then a
newly-erected edifice, constructed entirely of wood, as were most
American churches of that period. He became proprietor of a house and a
small piece of ground near the junction of Tremont and Nassau streets.
In this house all his children were born, and here the two that survived
were still living. His wife was a daughter of Governor Taylor.

The position of Dr. Byles as a clergyman, his literary acquirements, his
shrewd sense, and his ready wit, caused him to be highly popular at
home, and brought him into personal acquaintance or epistolary
correspondence with many of the principal men of his time, on both sides
of the Atlantic. He frequently exchanged letters with Pope and with Dr.
Watts: and among the visiters at his “modest mansion” might be
enumerated some of the most distinguished persons of his native
province—while strangers of note eagerly sought his acquaintance.

All went smoothly with Dr. Byles till America became impatient of her
dependence on the crown of Britain; and, unfortunately for him, his
sympathies were on the side of the mother country. He could not be
persuaded that her children of the new world had sufficient cause for
abrogating the authority of the nation from whence they had sprung; and
he considered their alleged grievances as mere pretexts for throwing off
a chain which, in his opinion, had pressed but lightly on them; and
that, in short, as Falstaff said of the Percy and Mortimer
insurrection,—“Rebellion lay in their way, and they found it.” His
congregation had warmly and almost unanimously espoused the popular
cause, and, consequently, were much irritated at the ultra royalist
feelings and opinions of their pastor, whose difficulties with his flock
seeming daily to increase, Dr. Byles eventually thought it best to
resign his situation as minister of Hollis street church.

The war broke out; the battle of Bunker Hill was fought, and Boston was
subsequently occupied by the British army, and besieged by the
Americans, who established themselves in hostile array upon the heights
that commanded the town,—and, with a view of dislodging the enemy, they
vigilantly exerted themselves in stopping all supplies of fuel and
provisions. After holding out against the patriots during a leaguer of
more than eight months, the British finally withdrew their forces, and
embarked them to carry the war into another section of the country. Now,
that something like order was again restored in the town of Boston and
its vicinity, it was thought time to punish those who had rendered
themselves obnoxious by aiding and abetting the cause of the enemy. Some
of the most noted royalists were expelled from the province and took
refuge in Nova Scotia, others went into voluntary exile and repaired to
England, where they preferred a claim of indemnification for the losses
they had sustained by adhering to the cause of monarchy. Among others,
Dr. Mather Byles was denounced at a town-meeting, for his unconcealed
toryism: for having persisted in praying for the king; and for
interchanging visits with the British officers, most of whom were
received familiarly at his house. Upon these charges he was tried before
a special court, and at first sentenced to have his property
confiscated, and himself and family transported to England. But the
board of war, out of respect to his private character, commuted his
punishment to a short imprisonment in his own house, under the guard of
sentinels, and allowed him to retain his possessions.

The rebellion eventuated in a successful revolution; and honor, fame,
and the gratitude of their country rewarded those who had assisted in
the glorious contest for independence; while all who had held back, and
all who had sided with the enemy, were contumeliously cast into the
shade, regarded with contempt by their former associates, or compelled
to wear out their lives in exile from the land of their birth. Most of
the connections of the Byles family quitted the States. But the doctor
remained, and finding that he could not regain his former place among
his townsmen, he lived in retirement during the residue of his life, and
died at his own house in Boston, in 1788, in the 82d year of his age. He
was interred beneath the pavement of the chancel in Trinity church,
having worshipped there with his family after quitting that of Hollis
street.

In the old family house his two surviving daughters had ever since
continued to reside, steadily refusing to sell either the building or
the lot of ground attached to it, though liberal offers for its purchase
had repeatedly been made to them. So deep-rooted was their attachment to
this spot, where they had been born, and where they had always lived,
that they considered it impossible for them to exist in any other place,
continually asserting that a removal from it would certainly kill them.
They had a trifling source of income which brought them two hundred
dollars annually, and they contrived to save nearly the whole of this
little sum. Also, they possessed a tolerable quantity of old-fashioned
plate, which they had put away in a chest up stairs, never to be used or
sold while they lived. In the mean time their wants were chiefly
supplied, (and, indeed, many little luxuries were furnished them,) by
the benevolence of certain ladies of Boston, who, in the goodness of
their hearts, overlooked the anomaly of two women who had the means of a
comfortable independence within their reach, submitting to receive
assistance from eleemosynary bounty rather than relinquish the
indulgence of what, in those matter-of-fact times, would, by most
persons, be regarded as a mere morbid fancy. But on this point of
feeling they believed their happiness to depend; and their tolerant
benefactresses kindly enabled them to be happy in their own way.

The Miss Byleses kept no domestic; but a man came every morning to
attend to the wood and water part of their _ménage_, and to go their
errands—and a woman was employed every week to do up the Saturday work.
A newspaper was sent to them gratuitously—books were lent to them, for
the youngest was something of a reader, and also wrote verses; and they
frequently received little presents of cakes, sweetmeats, and other
delicacies. They rarely went out, except to Trinity church. Then they
put on their everlasting suits of the same Sunday clothes: their faces
being, on these occasions, shaded with deep black veils suspended from
their bonnets, not so much for concealment as for gentility.

The lady who volunteered to introduce me to the daughters of Dr. Byles,
was, as I afterwards understood, one of those who assisted in affording
them some of the comforts which they denied to themselves. We set out on
our visit on one of the loveliest mornings of a Boston summer, the
warmth of the season being delightfully tempered by a cool breeze from
the sea. After passing the beautiful Common, (why has it not a better
name?) my companion pointed out to me, at what seemed the termination of
the long vista of Tremont street, an old black-looking frame-house,
which, at the distance from whence I saw it, seemed to block up the way
by standing directly across it. It was the ancient residence of Mather
Byles, and the present dwelling of his aged daughters; one of whom was
in her eighty-first and the other in her seventy-ninth year. This part
of Tremont street, which is on the south-eastern declivity of a hill,
carried us far from all vicinity to the aristocratic section of Boston.

At length we arrived at the domain of the two antique maidens. It was
surrounded by a board fence, which had once been a very close one, but
time and those universal depredators, “the boys,” had made numerous
cracks and chinks in it. The house (which stood with the gable end to
the street) looked as if it had never been painted in its life. Its
exposure to the sun and rain, to the heats of a hundred summers and the
snows of a hundred winters, had darkened its whole outside nearly to the
blackness of iron. Also, it had, even in its best days, been evidently
one of the plainest and most unbeautified structures in the town of
Boston, where many of the old frame-houses can boast of a redolence of
quaint ornament about the doors, and windows, and porches, and
balconies. Still, there was something not unpleasant in its aspect, or
rather in its situation. It stood at the upper end of a green lot, whose
long thick grass was enamelled with field flowers. It was shaded with
noble horse-chestnut trees relieved against the clear blue sky, and
whose close and graceful clusters of long jagged leaves, fanned by the
light summer breeze, threw their chequered and quivering shadows on the
grass beneath, and on the mossy roof of the venerable mansion.

We entered the enclosure by a board gate, whose only fastening was a
wooden latch with a leather string; like that which secured the wicket
of Little Red Ridinghood’s grand-mother. There was a glimpse of female
figures hastily flitting away from a front window. We approached the
house by a narrow pathway, worn by frequent feet, in the grass, and a
few paces brought us to the front door with its decayed and tottering
wooden steps. My companion knocked, and the door was immediately opened
by a rather broad-framed and very smiling old lady, habited in a black
worsted petticoat and a white short-gown, into the neck of which was
tucked a book-muslin kerchief. Her silver hair was smoothly arranged
over a wrinkled but well-formed forehead, beneath which twinkled two
small blue eyes. Her head was covered with a close full-bordered white
linen cap, that looked equally convenient for night or for day. She
welcomed us with much apparent pleasure, and my companion introduced her
to me as Miss Mary Byles. She was the eldest of the two sisters.

Miss Mary ushered us into the parlor, which was without a carpet, and
its scanty furniture seemed at least a century old. Beneath a
surprisingly high mantel-piece was a very low fire-place, from whence
the andirons having been removed for the summer, its only accoutrement
was a marvellous thick cast-iron back-plate, of a pattern antique even
to rudeness. There were a few straight tall-backed chairs, some with
bottoms of flag-rush, and others with bottoms of listing; and there was
one _fauteuil_, to be described hereafter. My attention was attracted by
the oldest-looking table I had ever seen, and of so dark a hue that it
was difficult to tell whether it was mahogany or walnut. When opened out
it must have been circular; but, now that the leaves were let down, it
exhibited a top so strangely narrow (not more than half a foot in width)
that it was impossible to divine the object in making it so; unless,
indeed, it was the fashionable table of the time. And fashion, at all
periods, has been considered reason sufficient for anything, however
inconvenient, ugly or absurd. To support the narrow top and the wide
leaves, this table seemed to be endowed with a hundred legs and a
proportionate number of bars crossing among them, in every direction,
all being of very elaborate turned work. I opine that this must have
been a great table in its day.

My companion inquired after the health of Miss Catherine Byles, the
youngest of the ladies. Miss Mary replied that sister Catherine was
quite unwell, having passed a bad night with the rheumatism. Regret was
expressed at our losing the pleasure of seeing her. But Miss Mary
politely assured us that her sister would exert herself to appear,
rather than forego an opportunity of paying her respects to the ladies;
and we as politely hoped that, on our account, she would not put herself
to the smallest inconvenience. While compliments were thus flying, the
door of the next room opened, and Miss Catherine Byles made her
entrance, in a manner which showed us that she went much by
gracefulness.

Miss Catherine was unlike her elder sister, both in figure and face; her
features being much sharper, (in fact, excessively sharp,) and her whole
person extremely thin. She also was arrayed in a black bombasin
petticoat, a short-gown, and a close lined cap, with a deep border that
seemed almost to bury her narrow visage. She greeted us with much
cordiality, and complained of her rheumatism with a smiling countenance.

My eyes were soon rivetted on a fine portrait of Dr. Mather Byles, from
the wonderful pencil of Copley—wonderful in its excellence at a period
when the divine art was scarcely known in the provinces, and when a good
picture rarely found its way to our side of the ocean. And yet, under
these disadvantages, and before he sought improvement in the schools of
Europe, did Copley achieve those extraordinary fac-similes of the human
face, that might justly entitle him to the appellation of the Reynolds
of America, and are scarcely excelled by those of his cotemporary, the
Reynolds of England.

The moment I looked at this picture I knew that it _must_ be a likeness;
for I saw in its lineaments the whole character of Dr. Byles,
particularly the covert humor of the eye. The face was pale, the
features well-formed, and the aspect pleasantly acute. He was
represented in his ecclesiastical habiliments, with a curled and
powdered wig. On his finger was a signet-ring containing a very fine red
cornelian. While I was contemplating the admirably-depicted countenance,
his daughters were both very voluble in directing my attention to the
cornelian ring, which they evidently considered the best part of the
picture; declaring it to be an exact likeness of that very ring, and
just as natural as life.

Before I had looked half enough at Copley’s picture, the two old ladies
directed my attention to another portrait which they seemed to prize
still more highly. This, they informed me, was that of their nephew,
“poor boy,” whom they had not seen for forty years. It was painted by
himself.—His name was Mather Brown, and he was the only son of their
deceased elder sister. He had removed to London, where, as they informed
me, he had _taken_ the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York—“and,
therefore,” said one of the aunts—“he is painter to the royal family.”
They both expressed much regret that they had not been able to prevail
on their father, after the revolution, to give up America entirely, and
remove with his family to England. “In that case,” said Miss Mary, “we
should all have been introduced at court; and the king and queen would
have spoken to us; and I dare say would have thanked us kindly for our
loyalty.”

The truth was, as I afterwards found, that a much longer period than
forty years had elapsed since their nephew left America; but they always
continued to give that date to his departure. He had painted himself
with his hair reared up perpendicularly from his forehead, powdered
well, and tied behind,—and, in a wide blue coat with yellow buttons,
and a very stiff hard-plaited shirt-frill with hand-ruffles to match. In
his hand he held an open letter, which, both his aunts informed me,
contained the very words of an epistle sent by one of them to him, and,
therefore, was an exact likeness of that very letter. To gratify them, I
read aloud the pictured missive, thereby proving that it really
contained legible words.

Having looked at the pictures, I was invited by Miss Mary Byles to take
my seat in the large arm-chair, which she assured me was a great
curiosity, being more than a hundred years old, having been sent over
from England by “government,” as a present to their maternal
grandfather, Governor Taylor. The chair was of oak, nearly black with
age, and curiously and elaborately carved. The back was very tall and
straight, and the carving on its top terminated in a crown. This chair
was furnished with an old velvet cushion, which was always (by way of
preservation) kept upside down, the underside being of dark calico. Miss
Mary, however, did me the honor, as a visiter, to turn the right side
up, that I might sit upon velvet; and as soon as I had placed myself on
it, she enquired if I found it an easy seat? On my replying in the
affirmative. “I am surprised at that”—said she, with a smile—“I wonder
how a republican can sit easy under the crown.”—Beginning to understand
my cue, I, of course, was properly diverted with this piece of wit.

Miss Catherine then directed my attention to the antique round table,
and assured me that at this very table Dr. Franklin had drank tea on his
last visit to Boston. Miss Mary then produced, from a closet by the
chimney-side, an ancient machine of timber and iron in the form of a
bellows, which she informed me was two hundred years old. It looked as
if it might have been two thousand, and must have been constructed in
the very infancy of bellows-making, about the time when people first
began to grow tired of blowing their fires with their mouths. It would
have afforded a strange contrast, and a striking illustration of the
march of intellect, if placed by the side of one of those light and
beautiful, painted, gilt and varnished fire-improvers which abound in
certain shops in Washington street. This bellows of other days was so
heavy that it seemed to require a strong man to work it. The handles and
sides were carved all over with remarkably cumbrous devices; and the
nozzle or spout was about the size and shape of a very large parsnep
with the point cut off.

Miss Mary now asked her sister if _she_ had no curiosities to show the
ladies? Miss Catherine modestly replied that she feared she had nothing
the ladies would care to look at. Miss Mary assured us that sister
Catherine had a box of extraordinary things, such as were not to be seen
every day, and that they were universally considered as very great
curiosities. Miss Catherine still seemed meekly inclined to undervalue
them. My companion, who _had_ seen the things repeatedly, begged that
their Philadelphia visiter might be indulged with a view of these
rarities—and, finally, after a little more coquetry, a sort of square
band-box was produced, and Miss Catherine did the honors of her little
museum.

She showed us the envelope of a letter addressed to her father by no
less a person than Alexander Pope, and directed in the poet’s own hand.
The writing was clear and handsome, and had evidently been executed with
a new pen, and with a desire that the superscription should look well.
Next, were exhibited four commissions, each bearing the signature of a
different British sovereign. The names of the royal personages were
placed at the top of the document and not at the bottom. This, the old
ladies told us was to show that royalty ought to go before every thing
else. The first signature was that of Queen Anne, and headed the
appointment of their grandfather to the government of the province of
Massachusetts. I have never in my life seen any autograph so bad as that
of “great Anne whom three realms obeyed”—if this was to be considered a
fair specimen. It looked as if nobody had ever taught her to write, and
had the appearance of being scratched on the paper, not with a _pen_ but
with a _pin_ dipped in ink. I believe it is related of the Emperor
Charlemagne (who pressed the seals of his missives with the hilt of his
dagger) that he effected his signature by plunging his thumb into the
ink, and making with it a large black spot or blot on the parchment. No
doubt, being a man of sense, he took care that his dab or smear should
always be of exactly the same shape and dimension, and so _unique_ in
its look as to preclude the possibility of counterfeits.

The next document shown us by Miss Catherine, was honored with the name
of the First George—that sapient Elector of Hanover, whose powers of
comprehension were so obtuse that he never could be made exactly to
understand by what means he succeeded to the throne of England, and
often said “he was afraid he was keeping some honest man out of his
place.” His majesty’s pen-maker was palpably unworthy of holding that
office, for, in this autograph, both up strokes and down were so thick
that they looked as if done with the feather of the quill instead of its
point.

Afterwards was displayed a commission signed by George the Second. Here
the royal caligraphy seemed on the mend. The signature was well written,
and his majesty’s pen-provider was evidently fit for his station.

Last, was a paper bearing the name of George the Third, written in a
fair and easy hand, but rather inferior to that of his predecessor,
notwithstanding that the second of the Hanoverian monarchs had “never
liked _b_ainting or _b_oetry in all his life, and did not know what good
there was in either.”

It is a most fallacious and illiberal hypothesis that the hand-writing
is characteristic of the mind. And those who profess that theory
frequently employ it as a vehicle for the conveyance of impertinent and
unjust remarks.

We were next shown a small portion of moss gathered from the
time-honored roof of Bradgate Hall, the mansion in which the unfortunate
Lady Jane Grey first saw the light.

These relics of the departed great were followed by the exhibition of
some little articles, only remarkable as specimens of mechanical
ingenuity. Among them was a large deep-red mulberry, looking
surprisingly like a real one.

“And now,” said Miss Catherine, “I will show you the greatest curiosity
of all.” She then took out an inner pasteboard box that had been placed
within the larger one, and setting it on the floor, produced, from a
round hole in the lid, an artificial snake, that looked something like a
very long, very close string of button-molds. By giving it some
mysterious impulse, she set the reptile in motion, and caused it to run
about in the neighborhood of our feet. We thought it best to be a little
startled and a little frightened, and very greatly surprised at the
ingenuity of the thing. After we had sufficiently enjoyed the sight,
Miss Catherine attempted to replace her snake in the box, telling him it
was time to go home. But he seemed rather refractory, and quite
unwilling to re-enter his prison. “What”—said she—chastising him with
two or three smart taps—“won’t you go in.—Are _you_ a rebel too!”—The
serpent stood rebuked; and then obediently hurried back into his hole.
And we laughed as in duty bound—also with some admiration at the old
lady’s slight of hand in managing the reptile.

Miss Catherine, having completed the exhibition of her snake, now
addressed Miss Mary, and proposed that her sister should show us an
extraordinary trick, “which always astonished the ladies.” To this Miss
Mary made some objection, lest we should have her taken up and hanged
for a witch. On our promising not to do so, she took a scrap of white
paper which she tore into four little bits, and then laid them in a row
on the table. Having done this, she left the room, shutting the door
closely after her, so as to convince us, that while remaining outside it
was impossible for her to see or hear anything that was done in her
absence. Miss Catherine now desired me to touch, with my finger, one of
the bits of paper—any one I pleased. I touched the second—and Miss
Mary was then called in by her sister, who said to her, as she
entered,—“Be quick.”—Miss Mary immediately advanced to the table, and
unhesitatingly designated the second paper as that which I touched while
she was out of the room. Being unacquainted with the trick, I was really
surprised; and wondered how she could have guessed so correctly. The
trick was several times repeated, and every time with perfect success.

After I had been thoroughly astonished, and declared my utter inability
to fathom the mystery, the sisters explained to me its very simple
process. The four bits of paper, arranged on the table in a row, denoted
the four first letters of the alphabet.—When I touched the second,
(which signified B,) Miss Catherine directed her sister to it by saying,
as she returned to the room—“Be quick.”—When I touched the
third—D—Miss Mary, on her entrance, was saluted by her sister with the
words—“Do you think you can tell?”—After I had touched the first
paper, A, Miss Mary was asked—“Are you sure you can guess?”—and when I
touched C, Miss Catherine said to Miss Mary, “Come and try once more.”
And thus, by commencing each sentence with the letter that had just been
touched, she unfailingly pointed out to her sister the exact paper. To
succeed in this little trick, there must, of course, be an understanding
between the two persons that exhibit it: and to most of the uninitiated
it appears very surprising. By adopting a similar plan of collusion,
some of the professors of Mesmerism have contrived to obtain from their
magnetized sleepers, replies which, to the audience, seemed truly
astonishing.

We now arose to take our leave; and our attention was then directed to a
square pine table standing by one of the windows, and covered with
particularly uninviting specimens of pincushions, needle-books,
emery-bags, &c. The old ladies informed us that this was a charity
table, which they kept for the benefit of “the poor.” I had thought that
the Miss Byleses were their own poor. However, we gratified them by
adding a trifling sum to their means of doing good: and I became the
proprietor of the ugliest needle-book I had ever seen. But I
magnanimously left the less ugly things to tempt the choice of those
persons who really make an object of their purchases at charity
tables.—“Dear good little me.”

The Miss Byleses were very urgent in inviting me to repeat my visit,
saying, that any time of the day after nine o’clock, they were always
ready to see company, and would be happy to receive me and such friends
as I might wish to bring with me. And they enumerated among their
visiters, from other parts of the Union, some highly eminent personages.

While we were listening to the “more last words” of Miss Catherine, her
sister slipped out into the very short passage that led to the house
door, and then slipped back again. We, at last, paid our parting
compliments, and Miss Mary escorted us to the front door, but seemed to
find it locked, and seemed to find it impossible to unlock. This gave
her occasion to say wittily—“The ladies will have to send home for
their night-caps; as they are likely to be kept here all night.”
Luckily, however, this necessity was obviated, by the key yielding as
soon as it was turned the right way: and finally Miss Mary Byles
curtsied and smiled us out.

                           (To be concluded.)

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE EYES OF NIGHT.


                         BY MISS MARY SPENCER.


    Night has eyes—sparkling eyes!
      Some soft, some bright;
    The flashing fire ne’er dies
      From eyes of night.

    Night has many wooers
      To watch her eyes,
    To love her silent hours
      And mellow skies.

    Night has a witching spell
      To bind the heart;
    Its silent glances quell
      And awe impart.

    A perfumed breath has Night:
      It wafts the sighs
    Of flowers young and bright
      Around the skies.

    Night has a breathing tone
      Like distant swell
    Of softest music, thrown
      From fairy’s knell.

    Oh! how I love the Night!
      Its sparkling eyes—
    Its softened shadowy light—
      Its melodies.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    THY NAME WAS ONCE A MAGIC SPELL.


                                BALLAD.

                         SUNG BY MR. DEMPSTER.

                               WRITTEN BY

                         THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
          _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.


[Illustration: musical score]

    Thy name was once the magic spell
      By which my heart was bound,
    And burning dreams of light and love,
      Were wa-ken’d by that

[Illustration: musical score]

    sound my heart beat quick,
      When stranger tongues with idle praise or blame,
    Awoke its deepest thrill of life,
      To tremble at thy name.

    Long years, long years have pass’d away,
      And alter’d is thy brow,
    And we who met so fondly once,
      Must meet as strangers now;
    The friends of yore come round me still,
      But talk no more of thee;
    ’Tis idle e’en to wish it now—
      For what art thou to me?

    Yet still thy name, thy blessed name,
      My lonely bosom fills,
    Like an echo that hath lost itself,
      Among the distant hills,
    Which still with melancholy note,
      Keeps faintly lingering on,
    When the joyous sound that woke it first,
      Is gone, for ever gone.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


In commencing, with the New Year, a New Volume, we shall be permitted to
say a very few words by way of _exordium_ to our usual chapter of
Reviews, or, as we should prefer calling them, of Critical Notices. Yet
we speak _not_ for the sake of the _exordium_, but because we have
really something to say, and know not when or where better to say it.

That the public attention, in America, has, of late days, been more than
usually directed to the matter of literary criticism, is plainly
apparent. Our periodicals are beginning to acknowledge the importance of
the science (shall we so term it?) and to disdain the flippant _opinion_
which so long has been made its substitute.

Time was when we imported our critical decisions from the mother
country. For many years we enacted a perfect farce of subserviency to
the _dicta_ of Great Britain. At last a revulsion of feeling, with
self-disgust, necessarily ensued. Urged by these, we plunged into the
opposite extreme. In throwing _totally_ off that “authority,” whose
voice had so long been so sacred, we even surpassed, and by much, our
original folly. But the watchword now was, “a national literature!”—as
if any true literature _could be_ “national”—as if the world at large
were not the only proper stage for the literary _histrio_. We became,
suddenly, the merest and maddest _partizans_ in letters. Our papers
spoke of “tariffs” and “protection.” Our Magazines had habitual passages
about that “truly native novelist, Mr. Cooper,” or that “staunch
American genius, Mr. Paulding.” Unmindful of the spirit of the axioms
that “a prophet has _no_ honor in his own land” and that “a hero is
never a hero to his _valet-de-chambre_”—axioms founded in reason and in
truth—our reviews urged the propriety—our booksellers the necessity,
of strictly “American” themes. A foreign subject, at this epoch, was a
weight more than enough to drag down into the very depths of critical
damnation the finest writer owning nativity in the States; while, on the
reverse, we found ourselves daily in the paradoxical dilemma of liking,
or pretending to like, a stupid book the better because (sure enough)
its stupidity was of our own growth, and discussed our own affairs.

It is, in fact, but very lately that this anomalous state of feeling has
shown any signs of subsidence. Still it _is_ subsiding. Our views of
literature in general having expanded, we begin to demand the use—to
inquire into the offices and provinces of criticism—to regard it more
as an art based immoveably in nature, less as a mere system of
fluctuating and conventional dogmas. And, with the prevalence of these
ideas, has arrived a distaste even to the home-dictation of the
bookseller-_coteries_. If our editors are not as yet _all_ independent
of the will of a publisher, a majority of them scruple, at least, _to
confess_ a subservience, and enter into no positive combinations against
the minority who despise and discard it. And this is a _very_ great
improvement of exceedingly late date.

Escaping these quicksands, our criticism is nevertheless in some
danger—some very little danger—of falling into the pit of a most
detestable species of cant—the cant of _generality_. This tendency has
been given it, in the first instance, by the onward and tumultuous
spirit of the age. With the increase of the thinking-material comes the
desire, if not the necessity, of abandoning particulars for masses. Yet
in our individual case, as a nation, we seem merely to have adopted this
bias from the British Quarterly Reviews, upon which our own Quarterlies
have been slavishly and pertinaciously modelled. In the foreign journal,
the review or criticism properly so termed, has gradually yet steadily
degenerated into what we see it at present—that is to say into anything
but criticism. Originally a “review,” was not so called as _lucus a non
lucendo_. Its name conveyed a just idea of its design. It reviewed, or
surveyed the book whose title formed its text, and, giving an analysis
of its contents, passed judgment upon its merits or defects. But,
through the system of anonymous contribution, this natural process lost
ground from day to day. The name of a writer being known only to a few,
it became to him an object not so much to write well, as to write
fluently, at so many guineas per sheet. The analysis of a book is a
matter of time and of mental exertion. For many classes of composition
there is required a deliberate perusal, with notes, and subsequent
generalization. An easy substitute for this labor was found in a digest
or compendium of the work noticed, with copious extracts—or a still
easier, in random comments upon such passages as accidentally met the
eye of the critic, with the passages themselves copied at full length.
The mode of reviewing most in favor, however, because carrying with it
the greatest _semblance_ of care, was that of diffuse essay upon the
subject matter of the publication, the reviewer (?) using the facts
alone which the publication supplied, and using them as material for
some theory, the sole concern, bearing, and intention of which, was mere
difference of opinion with the author. These came at length to be
understood and habitually practised as the customary or conventional
_fashions_ of review; and although the nobler order of intellects did
not fall into the full heresy of these fashions—we may still assert
that even Macaulay’s nearest approach to criticism in its legitimate
sense, is to be found in his article upon Ranke’s “History of the
Popes”—an article in which the whole strength of the reviewer is put
forth _to account_ for a single fact—the progress of Romanism—which
the book under discussion has established.

Now, while we do not mean to deny that a good essay is a good thing, we
yet assert that these papers on general topics have nothing whatever to
do with that _criticism_ which their evil example has nevertheless
infected _in se_. Because these dogmatising pamphlets, which _were once_
“Reviews,” have lapsed from their original faith, it does not follow
that the faith itself is extinct—that “there shall be no more cakes and
ale”—that criticism, in its old acceptation, does not exist. But we
complain of a growing inclination on the part of our lighter journals to
believe, on such grounds, that such is the fact—that because the
British Quarterlies, through supineness, and our own, through a
degrading imitation, have come to merge all varieties of vague
generalization in the one title of “Review,” it therefore results that
criticism, being everything in the universe, is, consequently, nothing
whatever in fact. For to this end, and to none other conceivable, is the
tendency of such propositions, for example, as we find in a late number
of that very clever monthly magazine, Arcturus.

    “But _now_” (the emphasis on the _now_ is our own)—“But _now_,”
    says Mr. Mathews, in the preface to the first volume of his
    journal, “criticism has a wider scope and a universal interest.
    It dismisses errors of grammar, and hands over an imperfect
    rhyme or a false quantity to the proof-reader; it looks _now_ to
    the heart of the subject and the author’s design. It is a test
    of opinion. Its acuteness is not pedantic, but philosophical; it
    unravels the web of the author’s mystery to interpret his
    meaning to others; it detects his sophistry, because sophistry
    is injurious to the heart and life; it promulgates his beauties
    with liberal, generous praise, because this is its true duty as
    the servant of truth. Good criticism may be well asked for,
    since it is the type of the literature of the day. It gives
    method to the universal inquisitiveness on every topic relating
    to life or action. A criticism, _now_, includes every form of
    literature, except perhaps the imaginative and the strictly
    dramatic. It is an essay, a sermon, an oration, a chapter in
    history, a philosophical speculation, a prose-poem, an
    art-novel, a dialogue; it admits of humor, pathos, the personal
    feelings of auto-biography, the broadest views of statesmanship.
    As the ballad and the epic were the productions of the days of
    Homer, the review is the native characteristic growth of the
    nineteenth century.”

We respect the talents of Mr. Mathews, but must dissent from nearly all
that he here says. The species of “review” which he designates as the
“characteristic growth of the nineteenth century” is only the growth of
the last twenty or thirty years _in Great Britain_. The French Reviews,
for example, which are _not_ anonymous, are very different things, and
preserve the _unique_ spirit of true criticism. And what need we say of
the Germans?—what of Winkelmann, of Novalis, of Schelling, of Göethe,
of Augustus William, and of Frederick Schlegel?—that their magnificent
_critiques raisonnées_ differ from those of Kaimes, of Johnson, and of
Blair, in principle not at all, (for the principles of these artists
will not fail until Nature herself expires,) but solely in their more
careful elaboration, their greater thoroughness, their more profound
analysis and application of the principles themselves. That a criticism
“_now_” should be different in spirit, as Mr. Mathews supposes, from a
criticism at any previous period, is to insinuate a charge of
variability in laws that cannot vary—the laws of man’s heart and
intellect—for these are the sole basis upon which the true critical art
is established. And this art “_now_” no more than in the days of the
“Dunciad,” can, without neglect of its duty, “dismiss errors of
grammar,” or “hand over an imperfect rhyme or a false quantity to the
proof-reader.” What is meant by a “test of opinion” in the connexion
here given the words by Mr. M., we do not comprehend as clearly as we
could desire. By this phrase we are as completely enveloped in doubt as
was Mirabeau in the castle of _If_. To our imperfect appreciation it
seems to form a portion of that general vagueness which is the _tone_ of
the whole philosophy at this point:—but all that which our journalist
describes a criticism to be, is all that which we sturdily maintain it
_is not_. Criticism is _not_, we think, an essay, nor a sermon, nor an
oration, nor a chapter in history, nor a philosophical speculation, nor
a prose-poem, nor an art novel, nor a dialogue. In fact, it _can be_
nothing in the world but—a criticism. But if it were all that Arcturus
imagines, it is not very clear why it might not be equally “imaginative”
or “dramatic”—a romance or a melo-drama, or both. That it would be a
farce cannot be doubted.

It is against this frantic spirit of _generalization_ that we protest.
We have a word, “criticism,” whose import is sufficiently distinct,
through long usage, at least; and we have an art of high importance and
clearly-ascertained limit, which this word is quite well enough
understood to represent. Of that conglomerate science to which Mr.
Mathews so eloquently alludes, and of which we are instructed that it is
anything and everything at once—of this science we know nothing, and
really wish to know less; but we object to our contemporary’s
appropriation in its behalf, of a term to which we, in common with a
large majority of mankind, have been accustomed to attach a certain and
very definitive idea. Is there no word but “criticism” which may be made
to serve the purposes of “Arcturus?” Has it any objection to Orphicism,
or Dialism, or Emersonism, or any other pregnant compound indicative of
confusion worse confounded?

Still, we must not pretend a total misapprehension of the idea of Mr.
Mathews, and we should be sorry that he misunderstood _us_. It may be
granted that we differ only in terms—although the difference will yet
be found not unimportant in effect. Following the highest authority, we
would wish, in a word, to limit literary criticism to comment upon
_Art_. A book is written—and it is only _as the book_ that we subject
it to review. With the opinions of the work, considered otherwise than
in their relation to the work itself, the critic has really nothing to
do. It is his part simply to decide upon _the mode_ in which these
opinions are brought to bear. Criticism is thus no “test of opinion.”
For this test, the work, divested of its pretensions as an
_art-product_, is turned over for discussion to the world at large—and
first, to that class which it especially addresses—if a history, to the
historian—if a metaphysical treatise, to the moralist. In this, the
only true and intelligible sense, it will be seen that criticism, the
test or analysis of _Art_, (_not_ of opinion,) is only properly employed
upon productions which have their basis in art itself, and although the
journalist (whose duties and objects are multiform) may turn aside, at
pleasure, from the _mode_ or vehicle of opinion to discussion of the
opinion conveyed—it is still clear that he is “_critical_” only in so
much as he deviates from his true province not at all.

And of the critic himself what shall we say?—for as yet we have spoken
only the _proem_ to the true _epopea_. What _can_ we better say of him
than, with Bulwer, that “he must have courage to blame boldly,
magnanimity to eschew envy, genius to appreciate, learning to compare,
an eye for beauty, an ear for music, and a heart for feeling.” Let us
add, a talent for analysis and a solemn indifference to abuse.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Stanley Thorn. By Henry Cockton, Esq., Author of “Valentine
    Vox, the Ventriloquist,” etc., with Numerous Illustrations,
    designed by Cruikshank, Leech, etc., and engraved by Yeager. Lea
    and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

“Charles O’Malley,” “Harry Lorrequer,” “Valentine Vox,” “Stanley Thorn,”
and some other effusions now “in course of publication,” are novels
depending for effect upon what gave popularity to “Peregrine Pickle”—we
mean _practiced joke_. To men whose animal spirits are high, whatever
may be their mental ability, such works are always acceptable. To the
uneducated, to those who read little, to the obtuse in intellect (and
these three classes constitute the mass) these books are not only
acceptable, but are the only ones which can be called so. We here make
two divisions—that of the men who _can_ think but who dislike thinking;
and that of the men who either have not been presented with the
materials for thought, or who have no brains with which to “work up” the
material. With these classes of people “Stanley Thorn” is a favorite. It
not only demands no reflection, but repels it, or dissipates it—much as
a silver rattle the wrath of a child. It is not in the least degree
_suggestive_. Its readers arise from its perusal with the identical
ideas in possession at sitting down. Yet, _during_ perusal, there has
been a tingling physico-mental exhilaration, somewhat like that induced
by a cold bath, or a flesh-brush, or a gallop on horseback—a very
delightful and very healthful matter in its way. But these things are
not _letters_. “Valentine Vox” and “Charles O’Malley” are no more
“_literature_” than cat-gut is music. The visible and tangible tricks of
a baboon belong not less to the _belles-lettres_ than does “Harry
Lorrequer.” When this gentleman adorns his countenance with lamp-black,
knocks over an apple-woman, or brings about a rent in his pantaloons, we
laugh at him when bound up in a volume, just as we would laugh at his
adventures if happening before our eyes in the street. But mere
incidents, whether serious or comic, whether occurring or
described—_mere incidents_ are not books. Neither are they the basis of
books—of which the idiosyncrasy is _thought_ in contradistinction from
_deed_. A book without action cannot be; but a book is only such, to the
extent of its thought, independently of its deed. Thus of Algebra; which
is, or should be, defined as “a mode of computing with symbols by means
of signs.” With numbers, as Algebra, it has nothing to do; and although
no algebraic computation can proceed without numbers, yet Algebra is
only such to the extent of its analysis, independently of its
Arithmetic.

We do not mean _to find fault_ with the class of performances of which
“Stanley Thorn” is one. Whatever tends to the amusement of man tends to
his benefit. Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the
most philosophical of all writing, (_spoudiotaton kai philosophikotaton
genos_) defending it principally upon that score. He seems to
think,—and many following him, have thought—that the end of all
literature should be instruction—a favorite dogma of the school of
Wordsworth. But it is a truism that the end of our existence is
happiness. If so, the end of every separate aim of our existence—of
every thing connected with our existence, should be still—happiness.
Therefore, the end of instruction should be happiness—and happiness,
what is it but the extent or duration of pleasure?—therefore, the end
of instruction should be pleasure. But the cant of the Lakists would
establish the exact converse, and make the end of all pleasure
instruction. In fact, _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more
importance to his fellow man than he who instructs, since the _dulce_ is
alone the _utile_, and pleasure is the end already attained, which
instruction is merely the means of attaining. It will be said that
Wordsworth, with Aristotle, has reference to instruction with eternity
in view; but either such cannot be the tendency of his argument, or he
is laboring at a sad disadvantage; for his works—or at least those of
his school—are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the
many who stand in need of salvation. Thus the moralist’s parade of
measures would be as completely thrown away as are those of the devil in
“Melmoth,” who plots and counterplots through three octavo volumes for
the entrapment of one or two souls, while any common devil would have
demolished one or two thousand.

When, therefore, we assert that these practical-joke publications are
not “literature,” because not “thoughtful” in any degree, we must not be
understood as objecting to the thing in itself, but to its claim upon
our attention as critic. Dr.—what is his name?—strings together a
number of facts or fancies which, when printed, answer the laudable
purpose of amusing a very large, if not a very respectable number of
people. To this proceeding upon the part of the Doctor—or on the part
of his imitator, Mr. Jeremy Stockton, the author of “Valentine Vox,” we
_can_ have no objection whatever. His _books_ do not please _us_. We
will not read them. Still less shall we speak of them seriously as
_books_. Being in no respect works of art, they neither deserve, nor are
amenable to criticism.

“Stanley Thorn” may be described, in brief, as a collection, rather than
as a series, of practical haps and mishaps, befalling a young man very
badly brought up by his mother. He flogs his father with a codfish, and
does other similar things. We have no fault to find with him whatever
except that, in the end, he _does not_ come to the gallows.

We have no great fault to find with _him_, but with Mr. Bockton, his
father, much. He is a consummate plagiarist; and, in our opinion,
nothing more despicable exists. There is not a _good_ incident in his
book (?) of which we cannot point out the paternity with at least a
sufficient precision. The opening adventures are all _in the style_ of
“Cyril Thornton.” Bob, following Amelia in disguise, is borrowed from
one of the Smollet or Fielding novels—there are many of our readers who
will be able to say _which_. The cab driven over the Crescent
_trottoir_, is from Pierce Egan. The swindling tricks of Colonel
Somebody, at the commencement of the novel, and of Captain Filcher
afterwards, are from “Pickwick Abroad.” The doings at Madame Pompour’s
(or some such name) with the description of Isabelle, are from “Ecarté,
or the Salons of Paris”—a _rich_ book. The Sons-of-Glory scene (or its
_wraith_) we have seen—_somewhere_; while (not to be tedious) the whole
account of Stanley’s election, from his first conception of the design,
through the entire canvass, the purchasing of the “Independents,” the
row at the hustings, the chairing, the feast, and the petition, is so
obviously _stolen_ from “Ten Thousand a-Year” as to be disgusting. Bob
and the “old venerable”—what are they but feeble reflections of young
and old Weller? The _tone_ of the narration throughout is an absurd
_echo_ of Boz. For example—“‘We’ve come agin about them there little
accounts of ourn—question is do you mean to settle ’em or don’t you?’
His colleagues, by whom he was backed, highly approved of this question,
and winked and nodded with the view of intimating to each other that in
their judgment that was the point.” Who so dull as to give Mr. Bogton
any more credit for these things than we give the buffoon for the _rôle_
which he has committed to memory?

That the work will prove amusing to _many_ readers, we do not pretend to
deny. The claims of Mr. Frogton, and not of his narrative, are what we
especially discuss.

The edition before us is clearly printed on good paper. The designs are
by Cruikshank and Leech; and it is observable that those of the latter
are more effective in every respect than those of the former and far
more celebrated artist.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Vicar of Wakefield, A Tale. By Oliver Goldsmith, M. B.
    Illustrated with Numerous Engravings. With an Account of the
    Author’s Life and Writings. By J. Aikin, M. D., Author of Select
    Works of the British Poets. D. Appleton and Co: New York._

This publication is one of a class which it behoves every editor in the
country to encourage, at all times, by every good word in his power—the
class, we mean of well printed and, especially, of well illustrated
works from among the standard fictions of England. We place particular
emphasis upon the mechanical style of these reprints. The criticism
which affects to despise these adventitious aids to the enjoyment of a
work of art is at best but _étourderie_. The illustration, to be sure,
is not always in accordance with our own understanding of the text; and
this fact, although we never hear it urged, is, perhaps, the most
reasonable objection which _can_ be urged against pictorial
embellishment—for the unity of conception _is_ disturbed; but this
disturbance takes place only in very slight measure (provided the work
be worth illustration at all) and its disadvantages are far more than
counterbalanced by the pleasure (to most minds a very acute one) of
comparing our comprehension of the author’s ideas with that of the
artist. If our imagination is feeble, the design will probably be in
advance of our conception, and thus each picture will stimulate,
support, and guide the fancy. If, on the contrary, the thought of the
artist is inferior, there is the stimulus of contrast with the
excitement of triumph. Thus, in the contemplation of a statue, or of an
individual painting of merit, the pleasure derivable from the comments
of a bystander is easily and keenly appreciable, while these comments
interfere, in no perceptible degree, with the force or the unity of our
own comprehension. We never knew a man of genius who did not confess an
interest in even the worst illustrations of a good book—although we
have known many men of genius (who should have known better) make the
confession with reluctance, as if one which implied something of
imbecility or disgrace.

The present edition of one of the most admirable fictions in the
language, is, in every respect, very beautiful. The type and paper are
magnificent. The designs are very nearly what they should be. They are
sketchy, spirited cuts, depending for effect upon the higher merits
rather than upon the minor morals of art—upon skilful grouping of
figures, vivacity, _naïveté_ and originality of fancy, and good drawing
in the mass—rather than upon finish in details, or too cautious
adherence to the text. Some of the scraps at the commencement are too
diminutive to be distinct in the style of workmanship employed, and thus
have a _blurred_ appearance; but this is nearly all the fault we can
find. In general, these apparent trifles are superb; and a great number
of them are of a nature to elicit enthusiastic praise from every true
artist.

The Memoir by Dr. Aikin is highly interesting, and embodies in a
pleasing narrative, (with little intermixture of criticism upon what no
longer requires it,) all that is, or need be known of Oliver Goldsmith.
In the opening page of this Memoir is an error (perhaps typographical)
which, as it _is_ upon the opening page, has an awkward appearance, and
should be corrected. We allude to the word “_protégée_,” which, in the
sense, or rather with the reference intended, should be printed
_protégé_. This is a very usual mistake.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Tales and Souvenirs of a Residence in Europe. By a Lady of
    Virginia. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

Barring some trifling affectation, (apparent, for example, in heading a
plain English chapter with the French _Pensées_,) this volume is very
creditable to Mrs. Rives—for it seems to be well understood that the
fair author, in this case, is the wife of the well-known Senator from
Virginia.

The work is modestly prefaced, and disclaims all pretension. It is a
mere re-gathering of sketches, written originally for the amusement of
friends. A lady-like taste and delicacy (without high merit of any kind)
pervade the whole. The style is somewhat disfigured by pleonasms—or
rather, overburdened with epithets: a common fault with enthusiastic
writers who want experience in the world of letters. For example:

    “There is an _inexpressible_ pleasure in gliding rapidly in a
    _little_ car, over the _neat_ but _narrow turnpike_ roads,
    bordered by _hawthorn_ hedges, looking out upon _bright_ fields,
    clothed with the _richest_ and most _exquisite_ verdure,
    occasionally catching a glimpse of some _sequestered_ cottage,
    with its _miniature gravel_ walks, and _innumerable_ flowers,
    which, at this season, in the _distant_ land of the traveller,
    may have bloomed and passed away, but which here offer their
    _brilliant_ tints, and _rich_ perfume; while on the other hand
    some _proud_ castle rises in _bold_ relief against the _dappled_
    sky.”

Of mere errors of grammar there are more than sufficient; and we are
constrained to say that the very first sentence of the book conveys a
gross instance of faulty construction.

    “The gratification of friends must once more serve as an apology
    for permitting the following souvenirs to see the light.”

Has the gratification of friends ever _before_ served as an apology for
permitting _the following_ souvenirs to see the light?

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Poetical Works of Reginald Heber, Late Bishop of Calcutta.
    Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

It was only a year ago that the poems of Heber were first given to the
public in a collection, from which the present edition is a re-print;
but, individually, the pieces here presented have been long and
favorably known—with the exception of two or three lighter effusions,
now first published.

The qualities of Heber are well understood. His poetry is of a high
order. He is imaginative, glowing, and vigorous, with a skill in the
management of his means unsurpassed by that of any writer of his time,
but without any high degree of originality. Can there be anything in the
nature of a “classical” life at war with novelty _per se_? At all
events, few fine scholars, such as Heber truly was, _are_ original.

The volume before us is _a study_ for the poet in the depth and breadth
of its execution. Few nobler poems were, upon the whole, ever penned
than are “Europe,” “The Passage of the Dead Sea,” and the “Morte
D’Arthur.” The minor pieces generally are _very naïve_ and beautiful.
The Latin “Carmen Seculare” would not have disgraced Horace himself. Its
versification is perfect. A sketch of the author’s life would have well
prefaced the edition, and we are sorry to miss it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Poetical Works of Lord Byron. Complete in one volume. J. B.
    Lippincott and Co: Philadelphia._

This is a duodecimo of six hundred and eight pages, including _all_ the
poetic works of Lord Byron. The type is, of course, small—a fine
nonpareil—but very clear and beautiful; while the paper is of excellent
quality, and the press-work carefully done. There is a good plate
engraved by Pease from Saunders’ painting of the poet at nineteen, and
another (by the same engraver) of a design of Hucknall Church by
Westall. The binding is neat and substantial; and the edition, on the
whole, is one we can recommend. The type is somewhat too diminutive for
weak eyes—but for readers who have no deficiency in this regard—or as
a work of reference—nothing could be better.

As a literary performance it is scarcely necessary to speak of this
compilation. We make objection, however, and pointedly, to the omission
of the biographer’s name. A sketch of the nature here inserted is worth
nothing when anonymous. Nine-tenths of the value attached to a certain
very rambling collection of Lives, depends upon our cognizance of their
having been indited by Plutarch.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Critical and Miscellaneous Essays. By Christopher North,
    (Professor Wilson.) In Three Volumes. Carey and Hart:
    Philadelphia._

This publication is well-timed—if, at least, there be any truth in the
report, that Professor Wilson is about to visit this country. The
reception of the man will thus be made a part of the perusal of his
works. And very glorious works they are. No man of his age has shown
greater versatility of talent, and few, of any age, richer powers of
imagination. His literary influence has far exceeded that of any
Englishman who ever existed. His scholarship, _if not profound_, is
excursive; his criticism, _if not always honest_, is analytical,
enthusiastic, and original in manner. His wit is vigorous, his humor
great, his sarcasm bitter. His high animal spirits give a dashing, free,
hearty and devil-may-care tone to all his compositions—a tone which has
done more towards establishing his literary popularity and _dominion_
than any single quality for which he is remarkable. The faults of
Professor Wilson, as might be supposed from the traits of his merits,
are many and great. He is frequently led into gross injustice through
personal feeling—this is his chief sin. His tone is often _flippant_.
His scholarship is questionable as regards extent and accuracy. His
style is apt to degenerate, or rather _rush_, into a species of
bombastic _periphrasis_ and _apostrophe_, of which our own Mr. John Neal
has given the best American specimens. His analysis, although true in
principle (as is always the case with the idealist) and often profound,
is nevertheless deficient in that calm breadth and massive
deliberateness which are the features of such intellects as that of
Verülam. In short, the _opinions_ of Professor Wilson can never be
safely adopted without examination.

The three beautiful volumes now published, will be followed by another,
embracing the more elaborate criticisms of the author,—the celebrated
critiques upon Homer, &c., which it has not been thought expedient to
include in this collection.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Pocahontas, and Other Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Harper
    and Brothers: New York._

Some years ago we had occasion to speak of “Zinzendorf, and Other
Poems,” by Mrs. Sigourney, and at that period we found, or fancied that
we found many points, in her general manner, which called for critical
animadversion. At _no_ period, however, have we been so rash as to
dispute her claim to high rank among the poets of the land. In the
volume now published by the Messieurs Harper, we are proud to discover
_not one_ of those more important blemishes which were a stain upon her
earlier style. We had accused her of imitation of Mrs. Hemans—but this
imitation is no longer apparent.

The author of “Pocahontas” (an unusually fine poem of which we may take
occasion to speak fully hereafter) has also abandoned a very foolish
mannerism with which she was erewhile infected—the mannerism of heading
her pieces with paragraphs, or quotations, by way of text, from which
the poem itself ensued as a sermon. This was an exceedingly inartistical
practice, and one now well discarded.

The lesser pieces in the volume before us have, for the most part,
already met our eye as fugitive effusions. In general, they deserve all
commendation.

“Pocahontas” is a far finer poem than a late one on the same subject by
Mr. Seba Smith. Mrs. Sigourney, however, has the wrong accentuation of
Powhatan. In the second stanza of the poem, too, “harassed” is in false
quantity. We speak of these trifles merely _en passant_.

Hereafter we may speak in full.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford: Including
    Numerous Letters now first published from the Original
    Manuscripts. In Four Volumes. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

Horace Walpole has been well termed “the prince of epistolary writers,”
and his Letters, which in this edition are given chronologically, form a
very complete and certainly a very _piquant_ commentary on the events of
his age, as well as a record, in great part, of the most important
historical transactions from 1735 to 1797.

Prefixed to the collection are the author’s “Reminiscences of the Courts
of George the First and Second”—Reminiscences which have been styled
“the very perfection of anecdote writing.” There is, also, the “Life,”
by Lord Dover. The volumes are magnificent octavos of nearly 600 pages
each, beautifully printed on excellent paper, and handsomely bound. It
is really superfluous to recommend these books. Every man who pretends
to a library will purchase them _of course_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Early English Church. By_ Edward Churton, M. D., _Rector of
    Crayke, Durham. With a Preface by the_ Rt. Rev. L. Silliman
    Ives, M. D., _Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the
    Diocese of N. Carolina. From the second London edition. D.
    Appleton and Co.: New York._

The title of this volume does not fully explain its character. The aim
of the writer, to use his own words, has been “by searching the earliest
records of English history, to lay before the English reader a faithful
picture of the life and manners of his Christian forefathers.” This
design, as far as we have been able to judge in a very cursory
examination, is well executed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. By_ Daniel De Foe,
    _with a Memoir of the Author, and an Essay on his Writings. With
    Illustrations by_ Grandville. _D. Appleton and Co.: New York._

A magnificent edition—to our taste the _most_ magnificent edition—of
Robinson Crusoe. The designs by Grandville are in a very superb style of
art—bold, striking, and original—the _drawing_ capital.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Somerville Hall, or Hints to those who would make Home Happy.
    By_ Mrs. Ellis, _author of “Women of England,” “Poetry of Life,”
    etc. etc. D. Appleton and Co.: New York._

This interesting volume is one of a series to be entitled “Tales for the
People and their Children.” To this series Miss Martineau and Mary
Howitt will contribute.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Wild Western Scenes. Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4. By_ J. Beauchamp
    Jones. _Philadelphia: Drew and Scammell._

Mr. Jones is a man of talent, and these descriptions of Wild Western
Life evince it. We read each successive number with additional zest.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: a gentleman and 2 ladies in high fashion dress]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have
been corrected as noted below. For the text only version of this eBook,
in the article “An Appendix of Autographs”, the various signatures which
were given in other eBook formats as an illustration, are represented in
the text version as text with variable spacing and punctuation
representing the way in which the particular signature is handwritten.

A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public
domain.

An interesting note on the poem “Agathè.—A Necromaunt, In Three
Chimeras” found in this issue of Graham’s is that it was plagiarized by
Mr. Tasistro. It was previously published as a stand alone publication
in 1831, titled “Death-Wake, or Lunacy, A Necromaunt. In Three
Chimeras.” by Thomas T. Stoddart. Copies of Mr. Stoddart’s poem can be
found online for those interested in comparing the two.

page 64, Miss Mary, having completed ==> Miss Catherine, having completed
page 64, Miss Catherine made some objection ==> Miss Mary made some
  objection

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 1, January 1842_, George R.
Graham, Editor]