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<title>Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 2, February 1850</title>
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57733 ***</div>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0000' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<hr class='tbk100'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i001.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0001' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>THE VALENTINE.</span><br/><span style='font-size:smaller'>Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker.</span></p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk101'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.9em;font-weight:bold;'>GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'><span class='sc'>Vol. XXXVI.</span> February, 1850. No. 2.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>Table of Contents</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>Fiction, Literature and Articles</p>
<table id='tab1' summary='' class='center'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 25em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 1em;'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#febr'>February</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#pat'>Patrick O’Brien</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#young'>The Young Artist</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#loves'>Love’s Influence</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#two'>The Two Portraits</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#myr'>Myrrah Of Tangiers</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#wilk'>The Wilkinsons</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#fanny'>Fanny Day’s Presentiment</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#gems'>Gems From Moore’s Irish Melodies. No. II.—The Last Rose of Summer</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#rev'>The Revealings of a Heart</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#life'>Life of General Joseph Warren</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#table'>Editor’s Table</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#books'>Review of New Books</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'> </td></tr>
</table>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.1em;font-weight:bold;'>Poetry, Music, and Fashion</p>
<table id='tab2' summary='' class='center'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 25em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 1em;'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#wit'>Wit And Beauty</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#dirge'>A Household Dirge</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#pira'>The Pirate</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#sonn'>Sonnets.—at Twilight</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#song'>Song</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#night'>Night Thoughts</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#mex'>Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#spani'>A Spanish Romance</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#toar'>To A. R.</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#pale'>The Pale Thinker</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#evil'>The Evil Eye</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#fanc'>Fancies About a Portrait</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#dream'>The Dream of Youth</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#follet'>Le Follet</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#wiss'>Wissahikon Waltz</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle1'> </td></tr>
</table>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'><a href='#notes'>Transcriber’s Notes</a> can be found at the end of this eBook.</p>
<hr class='tbk102'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.9em;font-weight:bold;'>GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.</p>
<hr class='tbk103'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'><span class='sc'>Vol.</span> XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, February, 1850. <span class='sc'>No. 2.</span></p>
<hr class='tbk104'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='97' id='Page_97'></span><h1 class='nobreak'><a id='febr'></a>FEBRUARY.</h1></div>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The flowers which cold in prison kept</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Now laugh the frost to scorn.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Richard Edwards.</span> 1523.</p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Among</span> the ancient manuscripts in the British Museum
there is one of Saxon origin, written by Ethelgar,
a writer of some note in the tenth century. Commenting
on the months, he speaks of February, which
he calls <span class='it'>Sprout kele</span>, because colewort, a kind of
cabbage, which was the chief sustenance of the husbandmen
in those days, began to yield wholesome
young sprouts during this month. Some centuries
after, this name was modernized by the Romans, who
offered their expiatory sacrifices at this season of the
year, and called <span class='it'>Februalia</span>. Frequently during this
month the cold is abated for a short time, and fine
days and hasty thaws take the place of rigid frost.
From this peculiarity, this month has often been called
by ancient writers by the expressive name of “<span class='it'>February
fill dike</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clare’s verses are sweetly descriptive of this changing
season —</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The snow has left the cottage top;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The thatch moss grows in brighter green;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And eaves in quick succession drop,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Where pinning icicles have been;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Pitpatting with a pleasant noise,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  In tubs set by the cottage door;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>While ducks and geese, with happy joys,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o’er.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The sun peeps through the window pane;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Which children mark with laughing eye:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And in the wet street steal again,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  To tell each other Spring is nigh:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Then, as young Hope the past recalls,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  In playing groups they often draw,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>To build beside the sunny walls</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Their spring-time huts of sticks and straw.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And oft in pleasure’s dreams they hie</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Round homesteads by the village side,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Scratching the hedgerow mosses by,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Where painted pooty shells abide;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Mistaking oft the ivy spray</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  For leaves that come with budding Spring,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And wondering in their search for play</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Why birds delay to build and sing.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The mavis-thrush with wild delight</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Upon the orchard’s dripping tree,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Mutters, to see the day so bright,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Fragments of young Hope’s poesy:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And dame oft stops her buzzing wheel</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  To hear the robin’s note once more,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Who tootles while he pecks his meal</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  From sweet-briar hips beside the door.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The frost often returns after a few days, and binds
Nature with his iron hand. In Great Britain, where
the Spring is much earlier than with us, February is
remarkable for what is termed the “<span class='it'>runs</span>” of moles.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Count, a French naturalist, records some interesting
notices of the nature of moles, (an animal not
very common in this cold climate,) as well as the
speed at which they travel through their underground
galleries. He observes, “They are very voracious,
and die of hunger if kept without food for twelve
hours. They commence throwing up their hillocks in
the month of February, and making preparations for
their summer campaign, constructing for themselves
<span class='it'>runs</span> in various directions, to enable them to escape in
case of danger; and also as a means of procuring their
food. These runs communicate with one another, and
unite at one point; at this centre the female establishes
her head-quarters, and forms a separate habitation for
her young, taking care that both shall be on a higher
level than the runs, and as nearly as possible even
with the ground, and any moisture that may penetrate
is carried off by the runs. This dormitory, if it may
be so styled, is generally placed at the foot of a wall,
or near a hedge or a tree, where it has less chance of
being broken in. When so placed, no external embankment
gives token of its presence; but when the
soil is light a large heap of earth is generally thrown
over it. Being susceptible of the slightest noise or
vibration of the earth, the mole, in case of surprise, at
once betakes itself to its safety runs.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='98' id='Page_98'></span>
We sometimes, though rarely, find the snow-drops,
“fair maids of February,” as they are called, peeping
through their mantle of snow, and the gentle aconite,
with its</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Green leaf furling round its cup of gold,”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>giving life and animation to the otherwise dank and
desolate border. Leigh Hunt in describing this month
says, “If February were not the precursor of Spring,
it would be the least pleasant month in the whole year,
November not excepted. The thaws coming so suddenly
produce freshets, and a clammy moisture, which
is the most disagreeable of winter sensations.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Various signs of returning Spring—</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>          ——songful Spring—</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Whose looks are melody,</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>occur at different times during this month. The month
of February in England may well be compared to the
month of April in America.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The author of “The Sabbath” thus vividly paints
the sterility of this month, and its effects upon the
“rural populace.”</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>                    All outdoor work</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Now stands; the wagoner, with wish-bound feet,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And wheel-spokes almost filled, his destined stage</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Scarcely can gain. O’er hill, and vale, and wood,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Sweeps the snow-pinioned blast, and all things veils</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In white array, disguising to the view;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Objects well known, now faintly recognized;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>One color clothes the mountain and the plain,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Save where the feathery flakes melt as they fall</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Upon the deep blue stream, or scowling lake,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Or where some beetling rock o’er jutting hangs</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Above the vaulty precipice’s cove.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Formless, the pointed cairn now scarce o’ertops</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The level dreary waste; and coppice woods,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Diminished of their height, like bushes seem.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>With stooping heads, turned from the storm, the flocks</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Onward still urged by man and dog, escape</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The smothering drift; while, skulking at aside,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Is seen the fox, with close down-folded tail,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Watching his time to seize a straggling prey;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Or, from some lofty crag, he ominous howls,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And makes approaching night more dismal fall.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>During this month, the increasing influence of the
sun is scarcely felt, till we approach the end, then
hoping, watch from day to day the lengthened minutes
as they pass, to usher in Spring’s holy charms.</p>
<hr class='tbk105'/>
<div><h1><a id='wit'></a>WIT AND BEAUTY.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY AGNES L. GORDON.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>It</span> chanced upon a pleasant day,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In charming summer weather,</p>
<p class='line0'>That Wit and Beauty sallied forth</p>
<p class='line0'>  To take a stroll together.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And as they idly roamed along,</p>
<p class='line0'>  On various themes conversing,</p>
<p class='line0'>Young Beauty, somewhat vain, began</p>
<p class='line0'>  Her wondrous powers rehearsing.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And much she dwelt upon the charms</p>
<p class='line0'>  Her outward form adorning,</p>
<p class='line0'>And seemed to feel herself supreme,</p>
<p class='line0'>  All other merit scorning.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>This roused the ire of sparkling Wit,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Who keenly thus retorted:</p>
<p class='line0'>“Your claim, though easily advanced,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Requires to be supported.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“Mark yon bright bird that wings his flight</p>
<p class='line0'>   Athwart the sunny skies,</p>
<p class='line0'>Let each on him display our skill,</p>
<p class='line0'>  To catch him as he flies.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“Your chance is first, for well I know,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And own the pleasant duty,</p>
<p class='line0'>That Wit in every age must yield</p>
<p class='line0'>  Due precedence to Beauty!”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Young Beauty smiled, and charmed the bird</p>
<p class='line0'>  With softened strains alluring,</p>
<p class='line0'>And bound him with a silken chain,</p>
<p class='line0'>  More brilliant than enduring.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>She placed the captive in a net,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Entwined of many flowers,</p>
<p class='line0'>And with a merry, mocking smile,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Bade Wit now try his powers.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Then from his feathered quiver Wit</p>
<p class='line0'>  A silver arrow drew,</p>
<p class='line0'>With perfect and unerring aim</p>
<p class='line0'>  He pierced the net-work through.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The bird released, on eager wing</p>
<p class='line0'>  Soared upward to the skies;</p>
<p class='line0'>A second arrow reached his breast —</p>
<p class='line0'>  He fell—no more to rise!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Beauty looked sore dismayed, to see</p>
<p class='line0'>  Her snare thus incomplete.</p>
<p class='line0'>When gallant Wit the trophy raised,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And laid it at her feet.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“Could we but journey hand in hand,”</p>
<p class='line0'>  He said to Beauty, smiling,</p>
<p class='line0'>“No prey could e’er escape my shaft,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Who saw your charms beguiling.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“But since the stern decrees of fate</p>
<p class='line0'>  Our union thus opposes,</p>
<p class='line0'>And you so oft my arrows blunt,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Beneath a weight of roses;</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“Remember, Beauty’s charms will fade,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Despite each fond endeavor,</p>
<p class='line0'>And strong, <span class='it'>well tempered</span> shafts of wit</p>
<p class='line0'>  Her chains will often sever.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk106'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='99' id='Page_99'></span><h1><a id='pat'></a>PATRICK O’BRIEN.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>A TALE OF HUMBLE LIFE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY H. HASTINGS WELD.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> father of Ellen O’Brien was a small farmer,
whose situation when the child began to think at all,
seemed to her the realization of all that is happy, and
all that is cheerful in this world. Children do think
very early; much earlier than their elders suspect.
But happily for them they are easily contented. They
look at the bright side, and unconscious of the superior
advantages, and the greater comforts of others, have
no temptation to discontented comparisons, and no motive
for uneasy envy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellen’s earliest memory of marked and positive happiness—that
is to say, of an incident which conferred
particular pleasure, was connected with a child—a
<span class='it'>very</span> small child. She remembered how her father
told her to “make a lap, now,” and placed the wee
thing upon the knees which she prepared with much
ado to receive it. She was told that this was her little
brother, her own little brother; and she hugged it in
troubled happiness, almost afraid to touch, lest she
should hurt it. She gazed upon it with that undefined
feeling of mingled awe and pleasure with which little
children regard less children. She looked at its fragile
hands and wondered, if she took them in hers, whether
they would fade or drop to pieces, like the delicate
blossoms which she had often killed with kindness.
And when it cried—oh, but she was astonished! That
such a little thing should be so ungrateful while she
coddled and cared for it, and nursed it ever so tenderly,
was more than she could well endure. She thought it
well deserved, and ought to have a whipping, only that
a whipping might <span class='it'>hurt</span> it—and that she would not consent
to.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was, however, not a great while before a safe
acquaintance grew up between the new comer and
Ellen. He was called Patrick, after his father, and
his father’s father before him. Ellen was three years
his senior. That difference in their ages would have
been a wonder; only that it was explainable. Another
little Patrick, his predecessor, was “called
home,” as his father said, “before he had scarce a taste
of the world at all.” And Ellen, from hearing so often
of the other little Patrick, and from her indistinct memory
of a baby that she saw one day, as if in a dream,
and did not see any more, learned to think of infants
as of little things that would die if they were not carefully
watched. And this Patrick she was resolved
should not slip away for want of attention from his
sister; therefore she nursed him as carefully as if that
had been her sole vocation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The wonder about babies grew less as Ellen grew
older. At first, in her childish little heart, she thought
every little baby must be a little Patrick, and that no
new one could come while there was another about.
But familiarity destroys marvels. She found there
could be little Phelims and Terrences as well as Patricks,
Bridgets and Kathleens as well as Ellens.
Child after child lifted its clamorous voice for food and
nursing in Patrick O’Brien’s cottage, until at last when
he was asked respecting his children, he was fain to
count them upon his fingers. And he always began
with Ellen and his thumb—Paddy came next, and the
formula was—“There’s Ellen, then little Paddy that
was called early, then Paddy that is now—sure Ellen
and Paddy are the thumb and forefinger to us. What
would the mother do without them, at all?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellen grew to a fine, stout girl, with a cheerful open
face when you spoke to her—but there was a shade
of care and thought over it when in repose, which you
may often see in the oldest daughter of a poor man.
She moved and acted as if while the tribe who had
exhausted the family names of the O’Briens were born
children to her mother, she was born before them for
a deputy mother to them all. Legs and arms were all
over the cottage, in all sorts of places where they
shouldn’t be, and she jerked them out of harm’s way,
with a half-petulant dexterity which was pleasant to
observe. Tow-heads and shock-heads popped up
continually, and she pushed them aside with a “there
now, wont you be aisy!” which was musical, with a
<span class='it'>very</span> little discord. And there was an easy and natural
carelessness of authority and half rebellion in obedience,
which was truly puzzling to strangers, but
which gave no discomposure to Ellen or to her mother.
Indeed, Mrs. O’Brien sat, the centre of her
offspring, with the most contented air in the world,
plying her knitting needles with easy assiduity, and
dismissing child after child from her arms, as they severally
grew out of her immediate province and into
Ellen’s. Or she bustled, if there was bustling to do,
with perfect indifference, it might seem, to one who
did not know her, as to whether there were children
in the house or not.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But sometimes her interference became necessary as
a measure of last appeal, and she came down on them
with hearty whacks which were invariably poulticed
with a word or two, half scolding and half good-natured
wit. The children were thus reconciled to the
propriety and necessity of certain summary inflictions,
which at the same time they took care to avoid, when
it could be done without <span class='it'>too</span> much trouble. Often
there were voices heard in a higher key than is considered
proper in a drawing-room, and sometimes
there was a debouchment of children out at the door,
and a consequent squealing of little pigs, and fluttering
of chickens before it; which showed the mother’s activity
at ejection. But no drawing-room ever sheltered
<span class='pageno' title='100' id='Page_100'></span>
more gentle hearts, and no mother of high degree ever
followed a scolding with more patience than Mrs.
O’Brien did. There was no malice in her, and a half-laugh
stood ever in her eye, as she looked out at the
door on the living miscellanies she had put in motion,
and said—“Sure you can’t turn a hand, or step any
place at all, for pigs, chickens and childer!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There is often more room in the heart than in the
house. The O’Briens began to feel themselves crowded—or
rather to feel the inconvenience of too many sitters
for their stools, without knowing precisely—or
rather without permitting themselves to acknowledge
what caused their discomfort. There were too many
mouths for the potatoes, as Patrick senior and his wife
were at last compelled to admit in their matrimonial
committee of ways and means, and the question now
became, how could they diminish the one, or increase
the other. The lesser fry were out of the question.
Nothing could be done in the way of removing them;
nor did the thought occur to father or mother, who
loved the children with true Irish hearts; that the
smaller children were in the way, or that any of the
little ones could possibly be spared, if the lord-lieutenant
himself wanted a baby. So they began canvassing
at the other end of the long list.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There was Ellen,” said the father, doubtfully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ellen! Sure you’ll not be putting her away, and
nobody to mind the childer? What is the wages, I’d
like to know, would make her place good to us?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Ellen, it was decided, was a fixture.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is Paddy,” said the mother with some hesitation.
“Sure he’s a broth of a boy, and it is time he
should do for himself—it is. It’s little in life he’s
good for here, anyway.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The father did not think so. Many were the little
“turns” that Paddy cheerfully undertook, but all of
them could not in conscience be made to appear to
amount to an indispensable service, or any thing
like it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look at him now?” said the mother. And they
looked at Pat, whose all good-natured face, unconscious
that it was the subject of observation, bloomed
like a tall flower amid the lesser O’Briens who clustered
about him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure there’s a tribe of them!” said O’Brien.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But look at Paddy! He’s the moral of yourself
at his age, Patrick; with the same niver-a-thought,
lazy look!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was questionable whether the wife’s affectionate
reminiscence was a compliment or not; and an expression
of sad humor, between a smile and a scowl,
passed over O’Brien’s face, as he regarded his elder
son, the heir to his personal beauties and accomplishments—and
to his cast off clothes. It was of little use
the latter were, for the father usually exacted so much
of them, that when they descended to the son, sad
make shifts were necessary to keep up in them any
show of integrity, however superficial. And the
stitches which were hurriedly taken between whiles,
by his mother, had a comprehensive character which
brought distant parts of the garments into a proximity
very far from their original intention. The difference
in size between father and son permitted a latitude in
this respect, and the gathering together of the fabric
produced an appearance more picturesque than elegant.
As to the extra length of the garments that soon
corrected itself, and Paddy junior’s ankles presented a
ring of ragged fringe; or a couple of well-developed
calves protruded in easy indifference. Indeed he was
a broth of a boy, good natured and “bidable,” as he
was ragged and careless. It was time that his good
properties should be made available—and that some of
the other young ones should have a chance at their
father’s wardrobe.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER II.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>It was a sad thing to part with Paddy. But necessity
knows no law, and he was apprenticed to a farmer
with more land and fewer children than Patrick
O’Brien. And it was no less sore to Paddy to leave
the homestead, than for his brothers and sisters and
father and mother to give up the “moral of his father.”
Those whose hearts are not united by a community in
privation, and whose easy lives present no exigencies
in which they are compelled to feel with and for each
other, can separate without tears, and be re-united
without emotion. But the few miles of distance
which were now to be placed between little Paddy
and the cot where he was born, seemed to him almost
an unbounded desert; and the going away from
home, though for so small a journey, was equivalent to
banishment. He took a sorrowful review of all the
familiar objects which had been his companions from
his birth. There was not a scratch on the cabin walls
that did not seem to him as a brother; not a mud-hole
around the premises that was not as an old familiar
friend. But he manfully tore himself from all; and it
was with no little sensation of independence that he
felt that henceforth he was really to earn his own
living, and to eat bread which should not diminish the
breakfasts of the rest. There were other circumstances
too, as yet undeveloped, which aided him in
becoming reconciled. The inmates of the new home
were not strange to little Paddy, and one of them, in
especial, he had a childish weakness and fondness for.
It is not our intention to say that Paddy and little
Norah knew any thing about what boarding-school
misses call undying affection; for such nonsense was
beyond their years, and schools were above their opportunities.
But leave we Paddy to establish himself
in his new home, while we return to the O’Briens.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sorrow a bit of difference they soon found, did
Paddy’s absence make in the consumption of food.
The potatoes were as extensively devoured as ever,
and little Paddy’s hand-turns were much missed. His
bright face gone left a blank which nothing seemed to
fill; though Mrs. O’Brien, blessings on her, as far as
enumeration went, soon made up the same tale that
there was before Paddy’s extradition. There was a
half thought in the father’s mind of christening the new
comer Paddy also, since the removal of his favorite
boy was like death to him; and he really began to feel
as if names would run short if the wearers were not
duplicated. This notion, however, was over-ruled by
the bright face of Pat himself, who came at the first
opportunity to bid the new brother good-morning.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='101' id='Page_101'></span>
“Which of the childer is that wid you, Paddy?”
said his mother, who had removed with her knitting
to the bed in the dark corner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure it’s none of our childer at all,” said Paddy,
while Norah blushed for the first time in her life, and
both had the first glimpse of a new revelation. “It’s
only the master’s Norah. I thought may be, the walk
would be lonely.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. O’Brien looked on the consequences of her
own fear of loneliness—consequences which had multiplied
around her, till an hour’s solitude, asleep or
awake, had become one of the never-to-return joys
which the song sings of. She had a prophetic dream
of a similar destiny for Paddy and Norah, but said nothing
to put precocious notions into children’s heads.
Ellen did not half like her brother’s bringing a stranger
home with him—and she would have let Norah perceive
her displeasure, but her heart was too kind to do
any body a willing disservice. Norah was soon put at
ease—almost. But the double visit was not repeated
till long afterward. Meanwhile Norah and Paddy
were “set to thinking.” That visit, made in the innocence
of their hearts robbed those hearts of a portion
of that innocence. Before, they had been as a new
brother and sister—now as they grew in years constraint
increased between them. At last, resolved upon
what he called a better understanding, Paddy forced
Norah to confess in words what he might easily have
taken for granted. And they pledged themselves,
young as they were, to a life of privation, and the same
chance of more mouths than food, which had been
Paddy’s own idea of a household ever since he could
remember—his experience in the new home excepted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paddy went home one evening without Norah, fully
resolved to divulge what he had determined on, in set
words—a labor he might have saved himself, for it
was all guessed long before. His time was out now
in a few months, and he had resolved, as soon as one
bondage was concluded to enter into another. In the
years that he had been away, he had visited home too
often to be surprised at the changes which had taken
place. Ellen looked old—she seemed the mother of
her brothers and sisters, for care fast brings the marks
of years. And the mother, tall, gaunt and thin, looked
as if she might have been the grand-parent of the
children around her. Patrick senior was better saved,
but time showed its marks on him too; and those not
light ones. He was more peevish than formerly; he
retained the same black pipe longer in service, and
kept it, too, in use more constantly, for there was
scarce an hour of the day when its fragrance was not
issuing. And as strong tobacco is too apt to require
strong accompaniments, we are compelled to acknowledge
that Patrick O’Brien was contracting a taste for
less harmless potations than buttermilk.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Poor and content is rich. Poor and discontented is
poor indeed. Ellen felt the infection of unhappiness,
and the very children seemed to have grown miserable.
Squalor and negligence had marked the whole
household, and Paddy had learned to make his visits
unpleasant performances of duty, instead of the hilarious
occasions that they once were. It was no wonder
that he preferred a quiet evening in his second home,
where he could sit and watch Norah’s busy fingers,
rather than a visit to his own father’s house; for there
cracked and dissonant voices jarred harshly, children
cried, and the welcome which he once met had
changed to the utterance of mutual complaints, and
perhaps to unsuspended jarrings among those whom
he loved.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There seemed a spell on the place. Ellen said—“Sure
there’s no luck here any more.” And a neighbor,
who had a son over sea, put a new thought in her
head. Ellen was often desired to act as amanuensis
to answer his letters. If her epistles were not clerkly
they were written as dictated, and it may be shrewdly
suspected that the person to whom they were written
liked them none the less, that he detected the handwriting,
though they were signed, “your affectionate
mother.” Such a paradise as American letters revealed
to her, could not fail to make her own discomforts
worse by contrast. But the paradise was to her
for a long time a thing unhoped for, unthought of. At
last a new resolution occurred to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, mother,” she said one day, “we’d better be
in Ameriky.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The mother smiled at the impossibility. But Ellen
had set her heart on it. She was the prop of the
house—the only one in it, indeed, who had any
strength or determination left. Need we say she carried
her point? She reasoned father and mother into
the desirableness of the change, and they could but
acknowledge that any thing would be preferable to
their present situation. The correspondence to which
she had access furnished her with arguments, and the
will once found for the enterprise, the way presented
no longer insuperable obstacles. All had been discussed,
and the journey was fully determined upon,
when Paddy reached the cottage with his plans in his
head—selfish plans, Ellen afterward said they were.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure,” cried she as he entered, “here’s Patrick,
too, will go with us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To be sure I will—where?” answered Paddy, delighted
once more to find his home cheerful.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To Ameriky, Patrick,” said his father, taking the
pipe from his mouth to watch his son’s face. The son
looked sad, astonished, and bewildered. It was all
new to him, and he could make no reply, save to repeat —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A-mer-iky!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To be sure,” said Ellen. “What’ll we wait here
for, doing no good at all? There’s Phelim may be
president, and Mike a djuke, and Terrence a parliament
man, and Bridget may marry a lord, and—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And Ellen?” inquired Patrick, with a quizzical
look, which contrasted curiously with his wo-begone
expression.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure the best of the land will be hers,” said her
mother. “Hasn’t she been the born slave of the
whole of ye’s? She didn’t go away from her mother’s
side, not she, for betther board and keeping!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mother!” expostulated Paddy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“More she didn’t,” continued the mother, vexed at
her son’s cool reception of their good news as she
deemed it. “She didn’t find new young mates, and
forget the mother that bore her!”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='102' id='Page_102'></span>
“Mother!” said Patrick, “ye <span class='it'>sent</span> me away, ye
know ye did. Sure I’d not gone to the Queen’s palace
asself, but ye <span class='it'>sent</span> me away, so you did.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thrue for you, Patrick!” said Ellen, breaking in to
keep the peace. “Thrue for you; and more be token
of that we’ll welcome you back again. Your service
is up, come Easter, and then we’ll all cross the wide
sea together!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Poor Patrick! All the various modes in which he
had conned over his intended communication were put
to flight in a moment. This was no time to speak of
any such proposals—for with half an eye to such a
contingency, Patrick knew his mother had spoken.
Never had the way back seemed so long to Patrick as
it did that night. He had committed himself by no engagement
to go with his family to the new land over
sea; but he saw that they all chose to take his going
for granted. The children supposed it of course,
thinking of nothing else; and the elders deemed it the
best way to admit no question. Norah listened in
vain that night for Paddy’s cheerful whistle as he
neared the house. She wondered, and fell asleep. But
there was no sleep for Patrick.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah was too diffident to ask Patrick how he sped
the next day—but didn’t she burn to know! At
length, and with a very sad face, he told her all except
his mother’s covert and undeserved reproaches. Norah
listened with a tear in her eye, for she could not dissemble.
She did not interrupt him, and when he
ceased, she said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure you’ll go with them, Patrick, dear!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure I’ll do no such thing, Norah, darling!” And
he hugged her to his heart with a suddenness which
she could not foresee, and an energy she could not
resist, had she wished it.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER III.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>Norah was satisfied. There is no denying that.
But how was Paddy to satisfy his father and mother
and Ellen? How was he to explain to the little
O’Briens that they were going to America and brother
Patrick was to remain behind? Never was a worse
day’s work done for Norah’s father than Patrick’s that
day, we are very sure. Never was a poor fellow so
dissatisfied with himself. A few days before, all
seemed to promise to falsify the adage that the course
of true love never did run smooth. And now never
was stream so ruffled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’Tis but a word and all’s over,” he said to himself,
as he turned his head homeward the next evening,
prepared to face the worst. But his fears whispered
that there would be more than one word or two, and
those high ones; and by the time he had reached his
father’s door, all his courage was gone again. When
he entered he found the good wife there who had the
son over sea. She was fully installed as one of the
council, since she also had resolved upon crossing the
water. All the various items and charges of the voyage
were calculated, and Paddy was counted as one of the
party—not without lamentations, which he arrived in
season to hear, that he had grown too tall to be counted
as one of the “childher.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was a desperate case, and there was nothing for it
but desperate courage. “Mother,” said Patrick, “and
father, and Ellen, and you childher, you’ve pushed the
thing so far that you drive me to tell you all, once and
forever, that I cannot go!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Patrick senior let his pipe fall with astonishment.
The mother turned pale with sorrow and displeasure.
Ellen arose, and going to Patrick’s side—he had not
taken a seat—drew him out of doors. They walked a
few steps from the house in silence, and reaching a tree
paused there. Patrick folded his arms, and leaning
against it, bowed his head and stood in troubled silence.
Ellen placed her hands upon his, and never a
word was spoken till, when she felt her brother’s hot
tears fall upon her hand, she cried:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure, Paddy, you are not going to leave us now!”
And she fell upon his neck and clung to him with the
evidences of earnest and frantic affection.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Indeed, indeed, Ellen darling, it is you that leave
me. It is you that go away from the land where God
has been good to us, to seek a new home and new
friends over sea. I cannot go there with you, Ellen;
indeed I can’t.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what will this land be to you, Paddy dear,
but a land of strangers—no mother, no father, no sister
nor brother in it? Where’ll be the hearth side that
you’ll find a home at? Come, brother, with the rest
of us, where father will lift up his head again and mother
be happy!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Amen to their happiness, Ellen, and yours too. Go
your ways without me. Sure I’ve given my word on
it, and must tarry to take care of my <span class='it'>own home</span>, sister
dear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it <span class='it'>that</span> you mean!” cried Ellen, starting back
indignant. “And shall we plough the seas while you
cling to <span class='it'>her</span> apron-string! Will you be as easy in your
undutiful bed, while the mother that bore you is tossed
on the ocean, and the sister that toiled for you is down,
down in the deep sea, maybe? Oh, Patrick! by
the days of your wee, wee childhood, come along
with us now. Is it thus, selfish as you are, that
you lose all natural affection? Didn’t the clargy tell
us, only Sunday was a week, to honor father and mother?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thrue for you, Ellen. But who would be our
father and mother, if our father had not left his father
and mother to clave to his wife? Oh, go along with
you, Ellen, to break my heart so, and my word of
words given to Norah that I will stay with her and
cherish her—for better for worse!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellen said no more. Patrick did not re-enter the
house, but proceeded homeward—to the place which
was now doubly home to him, since the home of his
childhood was about to be broken up. But the efforts
of his mother to change his determination did not
cease, and many a half-altercation he had with his
family in his now frequent visits. Still, though strongly
tempted to yield, he never would give full consent, and
the sight of Norah reassured him in his resistance.
The few weeks that remained between the fixing upon
the purpose of emigration and the day of departure,
were a long, long time to Patrick, and a season of sad
trouble; and he could not speak with freedom to any
of his distress. Norah was high-spirited, and the bare
<span class='pageno' title='103' id='Page_103'></span>
suspicion of the manner in which her name was bandied,
and her love for Patrick all but cursed at the
house of his father, would have led her to forbid Patrick
ever to speak on the subject to her again. With
slow reluctance the family gave way to Patrick’s resolute
determination, and ceasing unkind reproaches,
loaded him with tenderness, that much more affected
his determined spirit. The day of parting came at
last, and Norah herself proposed that she should accompany
her betrothed to take leave of his kindred. It
was a dangerous thing for him to suffer, Patrick knew;
but how could he avoid it? And what would he have
thought of her, too, had she not proposed it?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Unmixed and bitter was the grief with which Patrick’s
kindred took leave of him to commence their
long journey. They sorrowed as persons who should
see his face no more; and without extravagance or hyperbole,
the passion of grief which they felt and exhibited
may be termed heart-rending. Scarce a word
did they give to Norah. The mother looked on her
almost with aversion, and the father scarce heeded her
presence at all. Ellen only said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cherish him, Norah—love <span class='it'>him</span>, for you see what
he foregoes for you. God forgive him if he is wrong,
and me if he is <span class='it'>right</span>.”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>They were gone. Norah thought it was but natural,
at first, that Patrick should be sad, for the interview
which she had witnessed made her unhappy too. But
she was not well pleased that his gloom continued.
Weeks and months passed, and still Patrick had not
resumed his former light-heartedness. Nor did there
appear any indication of its return to him. The wedding
day, to which he once looked forward with continual
expectation, and of which, at one time, he daily
spoke, he now seemed to dread and scarcely mentioned.
And when he did speak of it, it was with a
forced appearance of interest. Norah was offended at
his coldness, and as he did not press, as formerly, a
positive and early date, you may be sure that she did
not increase in impatience for the nuptials to which
Patrick appeared to be growing daily more indifferent.
He thought her ungrateful that she did not duly estimate
the sacrifice he had made for her; and she considered
him weak-minded that he had over-estimated
his affection for her, and undervalued his own kin, and
was now repenting. Patrick was indeed more miserable
than he had ever been in his life before. Not a
word had he heard from his connections in many long
months; and what Ellen said to him under the tree
before his father’s door, now haunted him—“Shall we
plough the seas while you cling to <span class='it'>her</span> apron-strings?
Will you be easy in your bed, when the mother that
loves you is tossed on the sea, and the sister that toiled
for you is drowned?” By day these words haunted
him, and by night his mother and sister rose out of the
sea to come to his bedside. And truly, when he waked
in a cold perspiration of terror from these visions, it
was hard to persuade him that they were not true; and
that the sea had not verily given up its dead to reproach
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Norah, dear,” he said at length one evening,
as they sat alone, “my heart is broke, so it is.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She answered with a look in which deep sorrow
mingled with all her old affection. Nor did she resist,
when he drew her to his side, and placed her head
against his bosom. He felt that he could not say what
he must when her eyes met his. So she nestled lovingly
to him while he sat long in silence. She guessed,
but would not ask, what he wished to say, and at
length he continued:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Every morning when I wake it is to hear what
<span class='it'>they</span> said to me, when I wouldn’t go with them. And
every night when I lie down, sure the clatter of that
leave-taking drives sleep away. And when the eyes
shut for very weariness, and I have cried myself into
a troubled slumber, it is no rest. Sometimes my mother
comes to me, Norah, and sometimes my sister. I
know that they come from the deep, deep sea, for they
are all dripping wet. Never a word do they say with
their mouths, but their eyes, Norah. God save us,
what was that?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah had caught his contagious horror, and clung
closer to him, as they both shivered with terror. It
was many minutes before Patrick could resume his
narrative, but after a trembling pause he proceeded:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They come to me, Norah, and I <span class='it'>know</span> it’s them.
When I wake, don’t I feel the cold water of the sea
chilling my temples? The saints save us, Norah, from
such visiters to our bridal bed! You think me changed
and that my heart is turned, and my manner is unkind—but,
Norah dear, what will I do, what <span class='it'>can</span> I
do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s all your sick fancy, Patrick—and maybe your
conscience is not easy,” said Norah, shaking off the
spectral influence of Paddy’s dreams. “It’s all your
own notion, Paddy dear. Your mother and all of
them are well and happy—barring that they feel the
loss of you as much as you do their absence. And I
know their consciences are not easy, Patrick, for the
hard words they said to you must leave a deep wound
in their own hearts. You must go to them, Patrick.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What, Norah, and leave you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And why not? Sure, Paddy dear, you’re not
worth a body’s having now, and that’s the truth. You
are not the same lad that you were at all, and what
will I do with such a man? It’s a long lane that has
no turn, and all will come right by and by.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Norah!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wouldn’t <span class='it'>you</span> go with me too?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure I thought you’d be asking that, Patrick.
Ellen said you were selfish—and wasn’t it the truth
she said! Will you change the load from your heart
to mine? Haven’t I a father and mother, and sisters
too? Will I give them up and go away, because you
can’t give yours up? It isn’t reason, Patrick.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In vain did our hero strive to alter Norah’s determination.
Her arguments were unanswerable, and he
was fain to submit. After many days’ irresolution he
resolved, but still not without doubts and misgivings,
to follow his parents to America. The resolution was
taken, the spectral appearances which had annoyed
him ceased. He was half-tempted to retreat from his
<span class='pageno' title='104' id='Page_104'></span>
purpose, but Norah gave him no encouragement, and
his nocturnal visiters threatened to renew their visits;
so that he was fain to adhere to his resolve, and take
a steerage passage to the great entre-pot of the New
World—New York.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Great was his amazement upon arriving there to
find that it was a place so large, and one of many large
places; and that to inquire for his family there was of
as little utility as it would be to ask for his master’s
dog in Dublin. It was a sad trial to Patrick that he
had come to a strange land, he verily believed, to no
purpose. But it was necessary for him to do, or starve,
and finding employment he worked, with a heavy heart
it is true, but not without hope. Chance—or we should
better say Providence—directed him to a priest, to
whom he related his difficult position and almost extinguished
hopes. The kind father was struck with
his tale, and, after a moment’s pondering referred to
his record of priestly acts, and sure enough, there he
found the name of Ellen O’Brien—O’Brien no longer!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mighty easy it was then, for her to come over,”
shouted Pat, forgetting his Reverence. Fine talk hers
to me about selfishness, and drowning, and all that.
Very pleasant it was, no doubt of it, to write and read
them long letters. But it has given me the first trace
of them anyhow, and that’s something.</p>
<p class='pindent'>With this clue the persevering young Irishman was
not long in tracing the party to their late stopping-place—<span class='it'>late</span>,
for they were there no longer. He followed
to Albany, and there again lost the scent; for a
party of poor emigrants are not so easily followed.
Again he heard of them in Buffalo; away, it seemed to
him, at the verge of the world; and again he pursued.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure he would find them now,” he said, “if it was
only to have a fly at that traitor, Ellen—God bless
her!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In Buffalo he was once more disappointed, for from
Buffalo they had flitted also. “It’s the Wandering
Jew Ellen has married, no doubt,” he said, “to lead
me this dance, and she to rate <span class='it'>me</span> so. Wait till I find
them once more.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Time would be unprofitably spent in tracing all poor
Patrick’s journeyings, including many an excursion
from the main routes. Wherever the sinews of his
countrymen were busy upon public works and other
enterprises, in which the labor of the sturdy Hibernian
is found so valuable, there Patrick wandered—and
patient perseverance at last was rewarded. He had
traced out an impromptu village on a rail-road truck,
where the delvers had put up cabins which they would
sorrow to leave. As he looked curiously through the
little settlement, he was startled to hear his own name
shouted, and in a moment more one of his many brothers
had him by the neck, with a hug as stifling as if
he had taken lessons in the new country of one of
those undisputed natives—the black bear.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Patrick had much ado to stop his brother’s clamor,
that he might surprise the others. And he was astonished
moreover to find little Phelim, for he it was,
with a Sunday face on in the middle of the week.
This mystery was solved when they reached the
cabin; for there was a gathering in honor of the first
Patrick of the new generation, who had that day, during
the priest’s visit in his round on the works, been
first empowered to answer to his name like a Christian.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s this <span class='it'>you</span> were up to, is it?” shouted Patrick,
bursting upon them. “I thought it wasn’t entirely to
make Phelim a president, and Michael a djuke, that
you come over!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Tears, shouts of laughter, frolic, pathos, poetry, and
prose most unadorned, made up the delightful melange
at that unexpected meeting.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER V.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>Patrick found that his family had indeed made a
happy change. There was no gainsaying that. And
he himself experienced no difficulty in procuring employment;
but he was far from being so well content
as the others. He wrote to Norah upon his arrival at
New York, and again when he had found his father
and mother; and he wanted sadly to invite her to join
him in America. But for the same reason that he did
not return to Ireland, he dared not ask her to come
over; for if he could not leave his friends how could
she hers? He would have gone “home,” as he persisted
in calling it, but, strange to say, Ellen was not
in the least humbled in her exactions by the fact of
her own marriage. She loved Pat better than any
body in this world, her own husband and her own
child not excepted, and it was with a feeling of wrong
that she heard or thought of his loving any one else,
or being beloved by any.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sad news began now to come from the old country.
The O’Brien’s had no letters; but others had, and the
newspapers were full of the dreadful destitution and
the deaths from starvation in Ireland. Now poor
Patrick was worse afflicted than he had been by separation
from his parents. Tidings came of starvation and
death in houses the inhabitants of which he knew were
wealthier far than Norah’s father; and he feared and
dreaded that <span class='it'>she</span> might even want for a bit of bread,
while he rolled in plenty. Had he pursued his own
inclination he would have posted back—but Ellen
said—“Don’t think of such a thing! Is it mad you
are? When there’s people dying there of the hunger
will you go snatch the bread from their mouths? Or
will you go ‘home,’ as you call it, and feed the three
kingdoms from your own pocket?” Patrick was
hurt—and he thought of the two Norah was far the
better comforter.</p>
<hr class='tbk107'/>
<p class='pindent'>Deep indeed was the distress that rested upon unhappy
Ireland. And Patrick’s fears for his friends at
home were but too well founded. Sickness and famine
invaded the district in which Patrick was born; and
though his old master at first was bountiful to those
around him, stern necessity at last brought its admonition
that he must hold his hand. There is distress
that opens the heart; but when it comes to dividing
your living with your neighbor, to become at last fellow
in his need, the instinct of self-preservation chills
charity. Nevertheless, the good farmer gave—and
gave a day too long; for the time came when he could
count his own scanty provision in food and in purse.
Impoverished, he learned at last to suffer and to sicken.
He buried his wife out of his sight, and his children
<span class='pageno' title='105' id='Page_105'></span>
sunk one after another into the grave. He denied
himself bread to feed his famishing family—almost rejoicing,
while the dead lay unburied in his house, that
with the release of child after child, the need of food
and the wail of hunger diminished. And now at last
Norah and himself only remained of all that happy
household; and they had but to prepare their last food
and die. The immense demand which had been made
upon the charitable had proved too great for the supply;
and men had ceased at last to think it a strange
thing that people died of hunger.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Often did Norah think in her distress of him who
was now far away. And heartily she rejoiced for his
sake, that he had not remained to add another claimant
on the public charity, to the thousands who pleaded
unavailingly for it. But it was sad to think that he
must one day hear that her he loved had sunk into the
grave, the last of her house, for to death she firmly
looked as the only hope of release from suffering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A footstep broke the silence; but it hardly disturbed
her revery. It was the kind ecclesiastic who had
been present at the death of her mother and her brothers—who
had seen her sister’s eyes closed, and to
whom she herself looked, at no distant day for the last
offices of the church. His frequent visits had become
part of her daily experience, but she saw now that his
face wore something more than the usual calm expression.
She looked up inquiringly, and he placed in
her hands a letter, addressed to his care for her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She knew the handwriting, and could scarce command
firmness to break the many seals and wafers
with which over caution had secured the letter. It
was from Patrick, and enclosed more money than she
had before seen for many weeks. “Now, God be
praised,” she cried, “my father shall find comfort
again!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He has found it, daughter!” said the priest in a
solemn voice from the bedside. Norah hurried there,
to receive, in the last faint smile, a father’s inaudible
blessing.</p>
<hr class='tbk108'/>
<p class='pindent'>Need we say that the good priest gave Norah sound
advice: to wit, that the money which she had received
were better expended in finding her way to
Patrick, than in protracting a weary existence in the
place now so sad to her. Ellen’s welcome was not
the least hearty which Norah received; and all agree
that there was a Providence in the events which
guided Patrick before her to America. Norah is
cherished as one of the “childher,” and Mrs. O’Brien
insists that her mistake at the bedside years before,
was only a bit of prophecy, for her heart always
yearned to Norah as one of her own. All are well
pleased; and though a shade of sorrow for her kindred
is habitual to the countenance of Mrs. Norah O’Brien,
it adds to the sweetness of its expression, and is a
better look, in its resignation, than one of discontent or
of vacuity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As to the young cousins in the neighborhood, we
leave their statistics to the next census. They have
proved jewels of comfort to Grandfather Patrick, who,
though quite infirm, is still useful to “mind the childer;”
while Mrs. O’Brien, the grandmother, labors
like Sisyphus to keep little feet in hose, with no hope
that her work will ever cease while her breath lasts,
or her fingers can ply a needle.</p>
<hr class='tbk109'/>
<div><h1><a id='dirge'></a>A HOUSEHOLD DIRGE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY R. H. STODDARD.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>I’ve</span> lost my little May at last;</p>
<p class='line0'>  She perished in the Spring,</p>
<p class='line0'>When earliest flowers began to bud,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And earliest birds to sing;</p>
<p class='line0'>I laid her in a country grave,</p>
<p class='line0'>  A rural, soft retreat,</p>
<p class='line0'>A marble tablet o’er her head</p>
<p class='line0'>  And violets at her feet!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I would that she were back again,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In all her childish bloom;</p>
<p class='line0'>My joy and hope have followed her,</p>
<p class='line0'>  My heart is in her tomb;</p>
<p class='line0'>I know that she is gone away,</p>
<p class='line0'>  I know that she is fled,</p>
<p class='line0'>I miss her everywhere, and yet</p>
<p class='line0'>  I cannot make her dead!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I wake the children up at dawn,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And say a simple prayer,</p>
<p class='line0'>And draw them round the morning meal,</p>
<p class='line0'>  But one is wanting there;</p>
<p class='line0'>I see a little chair apart,</p>
<p class='line0'>  A little pin-a-fore,</p>
<p class='line0'>And Memory fills the vacancy,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As Time will—nevermore!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I sit within my room, and write</p>
<p class='line0'>  The lone and weary hours,</p>
<p class='line0'>And miss the little maid again</p>
<p class='line0'>  Among the window flowers;</p>
<p class='line0'>And miss her with her toys beside</p>
<p class='line0'>  My desk in silent play,</p>
<p class='line0'>And then I turn and look for her,</p>
<p class='line0'>  But she has flown away!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I drop my idle pen and hark,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And catch the faintest sound;</p>
<p class='line0'>She must be playing hide-and-seek</p>
<p class='line0'>  In shady nooks around;</p>
<p class='line0'>She’ll come and climb my chair again.</p>
<p class='line0'>  And peep my shoulder o’er,</p>
<p class='line0'>I hear a stifled laugh—but no,</p>
<p class='line0'>  She cometh nevermore!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I waited only yester night,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The evening service read,</p>
<p class='line0'>And lingered for my idol’s kiss,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Before she went to bed,</p>
<p class='line0'>Forgetting she had gone before,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In slumbers soft and sweet,</p>
<p class='line0'>A monument above her head,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And violets at her feet!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk110'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='106' id='Page_106'></span><h1><a id='young'></a>THE YOUNG ARTIST:</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY T. S. ARTHUR</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'>(<span class='it'>Continued from page 8.</span>)</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Clara</span>, as has been seen, fell into a thoughtful, sober
state of mind, after the interview with her husband, in
which she mentioned the fact of having five thousand
dollars in stocks. Something in the manner of Alfred
troubled her slightly. When he came home in the
evening she experienced, in meeting him, the smallest
degree of embarrassment; yet sufficient for him to
perceive. Like an inflamed eye to which even the
light is painful, his morbid feelings were susceptible of
the most delicate impressions. A mutual reserve, unpleasant
to both, was the consequence. Ellison imagined
that his wife had, on reflection, become satisfied
of his baseness in seeking to obtain her hand in marriage
because of her possession of property, and the
change in his manner which this feeling produced,
naturally effected a change in her. From that time
their intercourse became embarrassed, and both were
unhappy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A few days after Clara had informed her husband of
the fact that she possessed five thousand dollars in
stocks, she brought him the certificates which she
held, and placing them in his hands, said,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must take care of these now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What are they?” he asked, affecting an ignorance
that did not exist, for the instant his eyes rested on the
papers he understood what they were.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Certificates of the stock about which I told you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellison handed them back quickly, and with a manner
that could not but wound the feelings of his wife,
saying at the same time,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no, no! I don’t want them. Draw the interest
yourself as you have been doing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have no further need of the money,” replied
Clara, in a voice that had acquired a sudden huskiness.
“Our interests are one you know, Alfred, and you take
care of these matters now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But, the young man, acting under a perverse and
blind impulse, positively refused to keep the certificates.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’d rather you would draw the money as you
have been doing,” said he, his voice much softened
and his manner changed. “It may be weakness in
me, but I feel sensitive on this subject.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellison’s evil genius seemed to have him in possession.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On what subject?” inquired Clara, in a tone of
surprise.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On the subject of your property,” replied Ellison,
with a want of delicacy the very opposite of his real
character.</p>
<p class='pindent'>If a cold hand had been laid upon the bosom of Clara,
she could not have experienced a more sudden chill.
She made no reply. Ellison perceived, in an instant,
the extent of his error. Like a man struggling in the
mire, every moment seemed but to plunge him
deeper. A more painful reserve followed this brief
but unhappy interview. Deeply did the young man
regret not having taken the certificates when they were
handed to him. That was his only right course. But
they were presented unexpectedly, and the first suggestion
which came was that the act was more compulsory
than voluntary on the part of his wife.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The subject was not alluded to again, but it was
scarcely for a moment out of the thoughts of either
Clara or her husband. When the half-yearly interest
became due, which was in the course of a week, Clara
drew the money. It amounted to the sum of one hundred
and fifty dollars.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will not refuse this, I hope?” said she smiling,
as she handed him what she had received. “It is the
half-yearly interest on our stock.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Alfred was a little wiser by experience.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have no particular use for it just now,” was his
reply. “Suppose you keep it and pay our board every
week as long as it lasts. Twenty-four dollars will be
due to-morrow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very well, just as you like, Alfred. If you should
want any of it, you must help yourself. You will find
it in my drawer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll call on you if I should get out of pocket,” was
replied to this in a playful tone of voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Both felt relieved. But it grew out of the fact that
Ellison had been able to disguise his real feelings, and
this was but a false security. There was a certainty,
however, about the means of paying the weekly charge
for boarding, that was a great relief to the mind of Ellison,
and which enabled him the better to hide his real
feelings from his wife. Happily for him, the four pictures
which had been talked about were ordered. He
completed them in about five weeks, and received two
hundred dollars, the price agreed upon. One hundred
of this sum he paid to the friend who had loaned him
the money to lift the obligation that was felt to be so
oppressive. Fifty of what remained he placed in the
hands of Clara, playfully saying to her as he did so,
that she must be his banker. The remark was timely
and well expressed, and it had its effect both upon his
own mind and that of his wife. But the source of
trouble lay too deep to be easily removed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Seek to disguise it as he would, Ellison could not
hide from himself the fact, that he had suffered a great
disappointment. Often and often, would come back
upon him his old dream of the sunny clime of art and
<span class='pageno' title='107' id='Page_107'></span>
music, and he would feel the old, irrepressible longing
to visit the shores of Italy. At last, it was some
months after his marriage, he said to Clara, something
favoring the remark —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think I shall ever be happy until I have
seen the galleries of Rome and Florence.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clara looked surprised at this remark, it was so unexpected,
for no intimation of such a feeling had ever
been breathed ere this by her husband.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why do you wish to go there?” she naturally inquired.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To took upon the glorious old masters,” replied
Ellison. “I will never be any thing in my art until I
have studied them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You think too meanly of your present attainments,”
said Clara. “N—— has been to Italy, but with all his
study of the old masters he has not half the ability as
an artist that you possess.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It isn’t in him, Clara,” replied Ellison with some
warmth. “He might study in the galleries of Florence
forever, and not make a painter.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There are many specimens and copies of the old
masters in our city,” remarked Clara, “could you not
find aid from studying them?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, no—or at least but little,” said Ellison coldly.
He had hoped that his wife would feel favorable, at
least, to a visit to Italy, even though it might not at the
time be practicable. But her evident opposition to the
thing chilled his over-sensitive feelings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah me!” sighed the young artist to himself, when
alone, “I am free in nothing!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Other thoughts were coming into utterance, but he
checked and drove them back. As for Clara, she was
utterly unconscious of what was in the mind of her
husband. Could she have understood his real feelings,
she would have sacrificed even her natural prudence
and forethought, and cheerfully proposed to sell the
stock they possessed in order that they might visit
Italy and spend a year or two in that classic region.
But a reserve had already been created, and Ellison, in
particular, kept secret more than half of what was
passing in his mind, while he imagined his wife to
have thoughts and feelings to which she was a total
stranger. He said no more about Italy, for it was
plain to him that she would oppose the measure if suggested;
and, as she had brought him a few thousands,
she of course had a right to object.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortunately for the young artist, the four pictures
which he had painted gave excellent satisfaction. In
fact, they were his best works. The mind, when
smarting under pain, often acts with a higher vigor,
while the perceptions acquire a new intensity; and this
was the real secret of his better success. The pictures
pleased so well that they brought him other sitters, and
he was able, some time before Clara’s instalment of
interest was exhausted, to place more money in her
hands. The fact of doing this was always a relief to
his mind. It was a kind of tacit declaration of independence.
From that time both his work and his
ability increased, and he was able to make enough to
meet, with the aid of his wife’s income, the various
expenses to which he was subjected, and to pay off the
few obligations that were held against him. But he
was not happy. No man can be who forfeits, by any
act that affects the whole of his after life, his self-respect;
and this Ellison had done. In spite of his better
judgment, he would permit himself to see in Clara’s
words, looks and conduct, a rebuke of the mercenary
spirit that first led him to seek her favor. Nothing of
this was in her heart. But guilt makes the mind suspicious.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER V.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>The young artist worked on with untiring assiduity—he
was toiling for independence. Never, since his
marriage, had he breathed the air with the freedom of
former times. The reaction of his often strange manner—his
days of reserve—had been felt by his wife,
and the effect upon her was plainly to be seen. With
a perverseness of judgment, hardly surprising under
the circumstances, he attributed the change in Clara
to her suspicions as to the purity of his motives in
seeking an alliance. In the meantime, he had become
more intimately acquainted with her relatives, none of
whom he liked very well. Her oldest brother interfered
a good deal in the suit which he was engaged in
defending on behalf of his wife; and by much that he
said, left the impression that he did not think Ellison’s
judgment sound enough in business matters to advise
a proper course of action.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This fretted the sensitive and rather irritable young
man, and, in a moment when less guarded than usual,
he told him that he felt himself fully competent to
manage his own affairs, and hoped that he would not,
in future, have quite so much to say about things that
did not concern him. The brother was passionate,
and stung Ellison to the quick by a retort in which he
plainly enough gave it as his opinion that before five
years had gone by, his sister’s property would all be
blown to the winds through his mismanagement. This
was little less than breaking Ellison on the wheel. He
turned quickly from his cool, sneering opponent, and
never spoke to him afterward. Piqued, however, by
the taunt, he proposed to Clara that they should visit
the West, and remain there for as long a time as it was
necessary to personally look after their interests. He
could paint there as well as at the East; and might
possibly do better for a time. To this Clara’s only
objection was the necessity that it would involve for
disposing of some of their stock, in order to meet the
expense of removal, and the sustaining of themselves,
if Alfred should not readily obtain employment as an
artist, thus lessening the amount of their certain income.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But see how much is at stake,” replied Alfred.
“All may be lost for lack of a small sacrifice.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“True,” said Clara, in instant acquiescence. “You
are right.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But when the proposed movement of Ellison and his
wife became known, her relatives had a good deal to
say about it. George Deville, the oldest brother, whose
feelings now led him to oppose any thing that he thought
originated with Alfred, pronounced it as preposterous.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why don’t Ellison go himself?” said he. “What
does he expect to gain by dragging Clara out there?”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='108' id='Page_108'></span>
“You surely are not going off to Ohio on such an
expedition,” was his language to his sister.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” she replied to him, mildly, “I am going.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What folly!” he exclaimed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“George,” said Clara, in a firm, dignified manner,
“I must beg of you not to interfere in any way between
my husband and myself. In his judgment I am
now to confide, and I do it fully. We think it best to
go and see personally after our own interests.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But Clara—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pardon me, George,” interrupted the sister, “but I
must insist on your changing the subject.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Deville became angry at this, and as he turned to go
away, said something about her being beggared by
her “husband’s fooleries,” in less than five years.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It so happened that Ellison entered at this moment,
and heard the insulting remark. It was with an effort
that he kept himself from flinging the brother, in a burst
of unrestrained passion, from the room. But he controlled
himself, and recognised him only by an angry
and defiant scowl. As Deville left the room, Clara
burst into tears, and placing her hands over her face,
stood weeping and sobbing violently. Alfred’s mind
was almost mad with excitement. He did not speak
to his wife at first, but commenced walking hurriedly
about the room, sometimes throwing his arms over his
head, and sometimes clasping his hands tightly across
his forehead. But, in a little while, his thoughts went
out of himself toward Clara, and he felt how deeply
pained she must be by what had just occurred. This
softened him. Approaching where she still stood
weeping, he took her hand and said,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We would have been happier, had you been penniless
like myself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The tears of Clara ceased flowing almost instantly.
In a few moments she raised her head, and looking
seriously at her husband, asked,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why do you say that, Alfred?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No such outrage as the present could, in that case,
ever have occurred.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If George thinks proper to interfere in a matter that
does not in the least concern him, we need be none
the less happy in consequence. I feel his words as an
insult.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And so they are. But they do not smart on my
feelings the less severely. Lose your property! He
shall know better than that, ere five years have
passed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t let it excite you so much, Alfred. His
opinion need not disturb us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It has disturbed you, even to tears.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It would not have done so, had not you happened
to hear what he said. This was what hurt me. But
as we have provoked no such interference as that
which my brother has been pleased to make; and, as
we are free to do what we think right, and competent
to manage our own affairs, I do not see that we need
feel very unhappy at what has occurred.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you have any doubts touching the propriety of
doing what I suggested, let us remain where we are,”
said Ellison.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have no doubts on the subject,” was Clara’s quick
reply. “I think that where so much property is in
danger, that we ought to take all proper steps to protect
our interests; and it is impossible for us to do this
so well at a distance as we could if on the spot where
the contest is going on. When you first proposed it, I
did not see the matter so clearly as I do now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Preparations for a temporary removal to the West
were immediately commenced; and in the course of a
few weeks they were ready for their departure. There
was not a single one of Clara’s relatives who did not
disapprove the act, nor who did not exhibit his or her
disapproval in the plainest manner. This, to Alfred,
was exceedingly annoying, in fact, coming as it did on
his already morbid and sensitive feelings, actually
painful.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They shall see,” he said to himself, bitterly,
“whether I squander her property! If I don’t double
it in five years, I’m sadly mistaken.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was uttered without there being any clearly defined
purpose in the young man’s mind; but it was in
itself almost the creation of a purpose. From that moment
he became possessed with the idea of so using
his wife’s property as to make it largely reproductive.
He studied over it every day, and remained awake,
with no other thought in his mind, long after he had
laid his head upon his pillow at night.</p>
<p class='pindent'>With five hundred dollars in cash, obtained through
the sale of five shares of stock, Ellison and his wife
started for the West on the errand that we have mentioned.
Clara looked for an early return, but Alfred
left his native city with the belief that he would never
go back there to reside; or if so, not for many years.
Plans and purposes were dimly shadowing themselves
forth in his mind, as yet too indistinct to assume definite
forms, yet absorbing most of his thoughts. For the
time all dreams of Italy faded, and in vague schemes
of money-making, he forgot the glories of his art.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The place of their destination was a growing town,
numbering about six thousand inhabitants. Near this
lay the five hundred acres of land in dispute. On arriving,
they took lodgings at a hotel, and, in due time,
sent for the agent who had charge of the property.
He informed them as to the state of affairs, and assured
them that all was going on as safely as possible. The
case had been called at the last term of court, but was
put off for some reason, and would not be tried for
three months to come, when they hoped to get a decision.
If favorable or adverse, an appeal would be
made, and a year might probably elapse before a final
settlement of the questioned rights could be obtained.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellison hinted at their purpose in visiting the West.
The agent said, in reply, that their presence would not
in the least affect the case. It would be as safely
managed if they were in Europe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is all easily enough said,” remarked Alfred,
after he was alone with his wife; “but I am disposed
to think differently. Every man ought to understand
his own business, and watch its progress.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In this view Clara fully acquiesced; and they made
their arrangements to reside in the West for at least
some months to come. In the course of a week or
two Ellison announced himself as an artist from the
East, whose intention it was to pass a short time in
D——. He arranged a studio, and made all needful
<span class='pageno' title='109' id='Page_109'></span>
preparation for sitters; but, during the first two months
of his residence there, not an individual came forward
to be painted. Expenses were going on at the rate of
about fifteen dollars a week, with a good prospect of
their being increased ere long. This was rather discouraging,
and it may be supposed that the young
artist was in no way comfortable under the circumstances.
By this time he had become so well acquainted
with the state of the case pending, as to be
pretty well satisfied that his presence would be of no
great utility in securing a favorable termination of the
affair. If he had come to the West alone, a week’s
personal examination of the position of things would
have enabled him to see their entire bearing, and to
understand that his presence was in no way necessary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This conviction, to which the mind of Ellison came
reluctantly, did not by any means help him to a better
state of feeling. He had closed his studio at the East,
just as he was beginning to get sitters enough to secure
a pretty fair income, and was in a strange place, where
people were yet too busy in subduing nature’s ruder
features to think much of the arts. He was the only
painter in town; yet he did not receive an order. Occasionally
one and another called at his rooms, looked
at his pictures, asked his prices, and talked about
having some portraits taken. But it never went beyond
this.</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i032.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0002' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Steadily the sum of money they had brought with
them diminished, and nothing came in to supply the
waste. To go back again was, to one of Ellison’s temperament,
next to impossible; and even if he returned,
he felt now no certainty of being able to do so well as
when he left. His unhappiness, which he could not
conceal, troubled Clara, who understood its ground.
He was talking, one day, in a desponding mood, of his
doubtful prospects, when Clara said to him,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is no need, Alfred, of your feeling so troubled.
We have enough to live on, certain, for the
next four or five years, even if you do not paint a portrait;
to say nothing of the property in dispute, which
will, without doubt, come, with a clear title, into our
possession before a very long time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All very true,” replied Alfred. “But that consideration
doesn’t help me any. I cannot see your
property wasting away without feeling unhappy. It is
for me to increase it; whereas, now, I am the cause of
its diminution.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alfred, why will you talk thus?” said Clara, in a
distressed tone of voice. “Why will you always talk
of my property? When I gave you myself, did not all
I possessed become as much yours as mine?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Alfred sat silent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We need not remain here,” resumed Clara, “any
longer than it will be useful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot go back to Philadelphia,” said Alfred,
quickly. “At least not until the business upon which
we came has reached a favorable termination.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clara did not ask why he said this; for she comprehended
clearly his feelings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We needn’t return there,” she replied. She said
this, notwithstanding her own desire to go back was
very strong. “In Cincinnati, artists are encouraged.
We can go there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='110' id='Page_110'></span>
“Yes, or to one of the cities lower down the river.
Any thing rather than return to the East with your
property lessened a single dollar.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is wrong for you to feel so, Alfred—very wrong,”
said Clara. “We ought always to let a conviction of
having acted from right motives sustain us in every
position in life. Here, and only here, is the true
mental balance.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Alas for Ellison! the lack of this very conviction
was at the groundwork of his inquietude. The property
that now caused him so much trouble was the
first thing that drew him toward his wife; and all the
alloy that had mixed itself with his happiness came
from this source. Had she not been the possessor of
a dollar, and had he been drawn toward her for her
virtues alone, their minds would have flowed together
as one, and, in the most perfect union, they would have
met and overcome whatever difficulties presented
themselves. But all was embarrassment now, rendered
more oppressive through the morbid pride of the
young man, who felt every moment as if a window
were about to open in his breast, so that his wife could
see the baseness of which he had been guilty. This
very effort at concealment but awakened a suspicion
of what was there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The conversation continued, Alfred getting in no
better state of mind, until Clara became so hurt, or
rather distressed, by many things said by her husband,
that she could not control her feelings and gave vent
to them in tears. Thus, as week after week went by,
the causes of unhappiness rather increased than diminished.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VI.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>Ellison had been in D—— three months, and was
about leaving for Cincinnati, when his lawyer called
on him, and stated that he was authorized by the opposing
counsel to say, that the plaintiffs in the case
were willing to withdraw their suit if one hundred
acres of the land in question were relinquished.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At the same time,” remarked the lawyer, in giving
this information, “it is but right for me to state my
belief that the offer comes as the result of a conviction
that the claim urged for the ownership of the property
has no chance of a favorable termination.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yet the suit may be continued for two or three
years,” said Ellison.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, and they can put you to a great deal of trouble
and expense.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And there is at least a doubt resting on the issue.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is upon all legal issues.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then I think we had better accept the compromise.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must decide that for yourself,” said the
lawyer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How long will the question be open?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For some days, I presume.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very well. I will see you about it to-morrow, or
at latest on the day after.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clara, on being informed of the new aspect the case
had assumed, fully agreed with her husband that the
offer of a settlement had better be met affirmatively;
and this being done, the suit was withdrawn, and they
were left in the peaceable possession of some four
hundred acres of excellent land. The costs were
nearly two hundred dollars. This made it necessary
to part with more of their stock, which was effected
through their agent at the East. Five more shares
were sold.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The termination of this suit wrought an entire change
in the views and purposes of Ellison. A residence in
the West of three months had brought him in contact
with people of various characters and pursuits, all
eagerly bent on money-making. Towns were springing
up as if by magic, and men not worth a dollar to-day
were counting their thousands to-morrow. The
spirit of enterprise was all around him; and it was
hardly possible for him to remain unaffected by what
was in the very atmosphere that he was breathing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let me congratulate you on the happy termination
of your suit,” said an individual with whom Ellison
had some acquaintance, a day or two after all was
settled. “You have now as handsome a tract of land
as there is in the state; and if you manage it aright,
will make out of it an independent fortune.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This language sounded very pleasant in the ears of
Ellison.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You know the tract?” said he.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh yes! Like a book. I’ve traveled over every
foot of it. There is a hundred thousand dollars worth
of timber on it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not so much as that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is, every dollar of it. Not as fire-wood,
of course.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In lumber, you mean.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Exactly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The man’s name was Claxton. He had come to
D——, about a year previously, with some six thousand
dollars in cash, and as full of enterprize and
money-loving ambition as a man could well be. The
town was growing fast, and the supply of lumber, which
a saw-mill of very limited capacity was turning out, so
poorly met the demand, that prices ranged exceedingly
high. A large landholder, whose interests were
seriously affected by this high rate of lumber, made
Claxton believe that he had only to erect a steam saw-mill,
capable of turning out, per day, a certain number of
feet of boards and scantling, and his fortune was made.
Without stopping to investigate the matter beyond a
certain point, and taking nearly all the statements
made by the individual we have named for granted,
Claxton ordered a steam-engine from Pittsburg, rented
a lot of ground on the bank of the river, and forthwith
commenced the erection of his mill. As soon as the
citizens of D—— understood what he was about, there
were enough of them to pronounce his scheme a foolish
one, in which he would inevitably lose his money.
But he had made all the calculations—had anticipated,
like a wise man, all the difficulties; and knew, or
thought he knew, exactly what he was about. It was
nearly a year before he had his mill ready. By this
time he was not only out of funds, but out of confidence
in his scheme for making a fortune. In attempting to
put his mill in operation, some of the machinery gave
way, and the same result happened at the next trial.
Thus expense was added to expense, and delay to delay.
<span class='pageno' title='111' id='Page_111'></span>
In the mean time, the owner of the other mill had been
spurred on by the approaching competition, to increase
its capacity, and was turning out lumber so fast as to
cause a reduction in the price.</p>
<p class='pindent'>So soon as Claxton became aware of the fact that
Ellison’s suit had come to a favorable termination, he
conceived the idea of getting off upon the young artist
his bad bargain with as little loss to himself as possible,
and he had this purpose in his mind when he congratulated
him so warmly on his release from the perplexity
and uncertainty of the law.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Trees standing in the forest, and lumber piled up
ready for use in building,” said Ellison, in reply to
Claxton’s suggestion, “are very different things.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Any man knows that. But, in the conversion of
the trees into lumber, lies the means of wealth. There
is not an acre of your land that will not yield sufficient
lumber to bring three hundred dollars in the
market.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you certain of that?” inquired Ellison.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know it. The tract is very heavily timbered.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Three hundred dollars to the acre,” said Ellison,
musing; “four hundred acres—three times four are
twelve. That would make the lumber on the whole
four hundred acres worth over a hundred thousand
dollars!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know it would. And you may rest assured that
the estimate is not high. I only wish I had your
chances for a splendid fortune.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How is this lumber to be made available?” asked
Ellison.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cut and manufacture it yourself. You’ll find that
a vast deal more profitable than painting pictures. You
can see that this is one of the best situated towns in
the West. The supply of lumber has always been inadequate
for building purposes, and, in consequence, its
prosperity has been retarded. Reduce the price by a
full supply, and houses will go up as by magic, and the
value of property rise in all directions. At present,
you could not get over fifteen dollars an acre for your
land if you were to throw it into market. But go to
work and clear it gradually, sawing up the timber into
building materials, and, in ten years, such will be the
prosperity of the place, growing out of the very fact of
a full supply of cheap lumber, that every acre will command
fifty dollars.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The mind of the young man caught eagerly at this
suggestion. He held long interviews with Claxton, who
made estimates of various kinds for him, and gave him
mathematics for every thing. They rode out to the
land together, and there it was demonstrated, to a
certainty, that at least seven hundred dollars worth of
timber, instead of three hundred, could be obtained from
every acre. Ellison saw himself worth his hundred
thousand dollars, and as happy as such a realization of
his hopes could make him. He went with Claxton to
his mill, where the operation of every thing was fully
explained to his most perfect satisfaction. Even in
this enterprise a fortune was to be made, notwithstanding
Claxton had no land of his own heavily timbered,
and would have to pay at least two dollars for every
log brought to his mill, which stood on the river bank.
This site had been chosen because of the facilities it
afforded for getting the raw material which could be
floated down from above.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Of all this the young man talked constantly to his
wife, and with a degree of confidence and enthusiasm
that half won her cooler and less sanguine mind over
to his views. She did not, however, like Claxton.
Her woman’s true instinct perceived the quality of his
mind; and she therefore had little confidence in him.
In suggesting this, her husband’s reply was,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t take any thing on his recommendation. I
look at facts and figures, and they cannot lie.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was something unanswerable in this; yet it
did not satisfy the mind of Clara.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Ellison talked to others of what was in his
mind, some listened to what he said in silence; some
shrugged their shoulders, and some said it wouldn’t
do. He had been forewarned of this skepticism by
Claxton, and was therefore prepared for it. He well
understood that the people lacked true, far-seeing
enterprise; were, in fact, half asleep! All objections,
therefore, that were urged, rebounded from his mind
without producing any rational impression.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had already picked out a spot for the location of
his mill, and was obtaining estimates for its construction,
when Claxton called on him one day, with a
letter in his hand, which he said he had just received
from Cincinnati. It was from a brother who was engaged
in the river trading business, and who owned
three large steamboats. He had already made a fortune.
But ill health had come upon him, and he found
it necessary to retire in part from the active duties
which had absorbed his attention for years. To his
brother he offered most tempting inducements to give
up his saw-mill scheme, unite with him, and take the
active control of every thing. “If,” said the letter,
“you have any difficulty in finding a person in your
stupid place with enterprise enough to take your mill
off of your hands, I know a man here who will relieve
you; but he will want time on nearly the whole amount
of the purchase. He is perfectly safe, however, possessing
a large amount of property.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Of course, Mr. Claxton, having taken a particular
fancy to Ellison, and being anxious to put him fairly in
the road to fortune, offered him the mill at cost; and
Ellison, without asking the advice of any one—being
fully impressed with the belief that he knew his own
business, and had sense enough to understand a plain
proposition when presented, immediately closed with
the offer. The price asked was exactly cost, and to
determine what this was, the bills for every thing
were exhibited and taken as the basis of valuation.
According to these the mill had cost six thousand
dollars. And for this sum, Claxton generously consented
to sell the entire concern, with all prospective
benefits, to his young friend. The amount of cash to
be paid down was three thousand dollars, and for
the balance, notes of six, nine, and twelve months
were to be given, secured by mortgage on the four
hundred acres of land.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When matters assumed this aspect, Clara, who,
strangely enough to the mind of Alfred, appeared to
like Claxton less and less every day, suggested many
doubts, and proposed that the matter should be submitted
<span class='pageno' title='112' id='Page_112'></span>
to three old residents of the place, and their
advice taken as conclusive. But Alfred objected to
this. They were plodders, he said, in an old beaten
track, where, like horses in a mill, they had gone
round and round until they were blind. They
would, of course, suggest a thousand doubts and difficulties,
all of which he had already solved. There was
no aspect of the case in which he had not viewed it,
and he understood all the bearings better than any
one else.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is a poor sort of a man who cannot lay his
course in life, and steer safely by force of his own intelligence,”
said the young man, proudly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Clara, however, was not satisfied; but having had
some experience in regard to her husband’s sensitiveness
when any question touching their property came
up, she was afraid to say a great deal in opposition to a
purpose that was so fully formed as to admit of no
check without painful disturbance. So she permitted
him to take his own way, neither approving nor
objecting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Alfred understood, however, from his wife’s manner,
that she had little confidence in the new business upon
which he was about entering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Happily, I will disappoint her fears,” was his
consoling and strengthening reflection. “When her
little property has swelled in value to fifty or sixty
thousand dollars, how different will be her feelings!
She will then understand the character of her husband
better—will know that he is no common man.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>With a presentiment of coming trouble, Clara saw
their stock sold, and three thousand dollars paid over
to Claxton; but she appeared to acquiesce in the
transaction so entirely, that Alfred was deceived as to
her real feelings.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.5em;'>[<span class='it'>To be continued.</span></p>
<hr class='tbk111'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i040.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0003' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>THE PRIZE SECURED.</span><br/> Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine</p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk112'/>
<div><h1><a id='pira'></a>THE PIRATE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY HENRY B. HIRST.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Twelve</span> hours along the glowing strand</p>
<p class='line0'>  The sunlight, like a flame, hath lain;</p>
<p class='line0'>The surf is swelling on the sand,</p>
<p class='line0'>        And day is on the wane;</p>
<p class='line0'>And, like a shadow on the shore,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The pallid plover winnows by,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And, like a ghost’s, the heron’s cry</p>
<p class='line0'>Rises above the breakers’ roar.</p>
<p class='line0'>        And eddies down the sky.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Who saw her gliding from the stocks</p>
<p class='line0'>  Would know my gallant brigantine?</p>
<p class='line0'>The granite teeth of rugged rocks</p>
<p class='line0'>        Have torn my ocean queen:</p>
<p class='line0'>A royal ransom under deck,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The slave of every wave, she lies</p>
<p class='line0'>  Never, ah, nevermore to rise,</p>
<p class='line0'>A helpless hulk—a crumbling wreck —</p>
<p class='line0'>        Before my dying eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Alone! alone! alas! alone!</p>
<p class='line0'>  Not one of those who swayed the wave</p>
<p class='line0'>Survives, to hear my dying moan,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Or give his chief a grave.</p>
<p class='line0'>No, no, not one; alone I tread</p>
<p class='line0'>  These desolate, desert sands—alone,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Where, in the moon, as they were thrown,</p>
<p class='line0'>My merry men lie, cold and dead</p>
<p class='line0'>        And motionless as stone.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Night after night, along the sea,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In maiden modesty of mien,</p>
<p class='line0'>Glides, gazing mournfully on me,</p>
<p class='line0'>        My gentle Geraldine.</p>
<p class='line0'>Her glances pierce my penitent heart,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As like a statued saint she stands —</p>
<p class='line0'>  A seraph from those unknown lands</p>
<p class='line0'>To which my soul must soon depart,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Freed from its fleshy bands.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Sweet Geraldine! her beauty fell</p>
<p class='line0'>  On sense and soul, like light from heaven;</p>
<p class='line0'>My heart looked up, like Dives from hell,</p>
<p class='line0'>        And prayed to be forgiven;</p>
<p class='line0'>Love swam within her lustrous eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Played in her shadowy hair.</p>
<p class='line0'>  Moved in her more than queenly air,</p>
<p class='line0'>And floated on her silver sighs —</p>
<p class='line0'>        To drown me with despair.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>O, woful day! O, woful hour!</p>
<p class='line0'>  That told me that my hopes were vain;</p>
<p class='line0'>I felt, that second, centuries</p>
<p class='line0'>        Of agonizing pain!</p>
<p class='line0'>Hope, tremulous with feverous fears,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Unclasped her wings, and fled;</p>
<p class='line0'>  I stood, like one whose dearest dead</p>
<p class='line0'>Lies on the trestles—steeped in tears —</p>
<p class='line0'>        Heaven’s judgment on my head.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Why did she hate me! Wherefore blight</p>
<p class='line0'>  My penitent heart with piercing scorn?</p>
<p class='line0'>My better angel took her flight</p>
<p class='line0'>        Despairing and forlorn:</p>
<p class='line0'>The Fiend, who stood exulting by,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Reclaimed his trembling slave;</p>
<p class='line0'>  God saw, but would not stoop to save</p>
<p class='line0'>The struggling wretch who dared defy</p>
<p class='line0'>        His laws, on land and wave.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>O, Geraldine, I see thee fly,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Despairing, from my accursed hands:</p>
<p class='line0'>“Better my bones should bleach,” thy cry,</p>
<p class='line0'>        “On savagest of strands</p>
<p class='line0'>Than that my fatal charms should cause</p>
<p class='line0'>  My never—never-dying shame;</p>
<p class='line0'>  Better, O, villain, virtuous fame</p>
<p class='line0'>With death, than life, when human laws,</p>
<p class='line0'>        And God’s, accuse my name!”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I see again thy mute, white face,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thy pallid cheeks and bloodless lips,</p>
<p class='line0'>Thine eyes, that shone like stars in space,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Rayless with shame’s eclipse —</p>
<p class='line0'>As flying, ghost-like, through the night,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Fearing death less than me,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thy heart went out beneath the sea:</p>
<p class='line0'>An angel soul that night took flight,</p>
<p class='line0'>        A martyr ceased to be!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I walked in blood, I swam in wine,</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='113' id='Page_113'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>  Until my desperate, daring crew</p>
<p class='line0'>Trembled at guilt so great as mine:</p>
<p class='line0'>        The unbelieving Jew</p>
<p class='line0'>Who smote his God was white as snow</p>
<p class='line0'>  To that which I became;</p>
<p class='line0'>  So black was I, so steeped in shame,</p>
<p class='line0'>The very fiends, who writhed below,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Howled when they heard my name.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Nature gave way: when I awoke</p>
<p class='line0'>  The sky was black, the sea was white;</p>
<p class='line0'>Day, that long since had dimly broke,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Was little more than night;</p>
<p class='line0'>And madly struggling with the waves</p>
<p class='line0'>  Careered my gallant craft;</p>
<p class='line0'>  My crew were pale, I only laughed,</p>
<p class='line0'>And coarsely cursed the drunken knaves</p>
<p class='line0'>        Who, full of wine, still quaffed.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Night came; my men lay sunk in sleep;</p>
<p class='line0'>  I only trod the silent deck:</p>
<p class='line0'>God’s anger walked the boisterous deep,</p>
<p class='line0'>        But little did I reck;</p>
<p class='line0'>When in the storm, before my eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>  My memory’s virgin queen,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The dead, the sainted Geraldine,</p>
<p class='line0'>Stood calmly pointing to the skies,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Madonna-like in mien.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I waved her from me, and she waned;</p>
<p class='line0'>  I saw not, know not, how, or where;</p>
<p class='line0'>A single pitying look she deigned,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Then, vanished into air.</p>
<p class='line0'>Then came a sudden shock and crash:</p>
<p class='line0'>  In frantic haste I clasped</p>
<p class='line0'>  A fragment of a shattered mast;</p>
<p class='line0'>I saw the boiling breakers flash,</p>
<p class='line0'>        And sense and memory passed.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>When I revived, the noon-day sun</p>
<p class='line0'>  Lay swooning on the sultry sand:</p>
<p class='line0'>I was the only human one</p>
<p class='line0'>        That ever touched the strand.</p>
<p class='line0'>The very birds that sported round</p>
<p class='line0'>  Screamed when they neared the shore;</p>
<p class='line0'>  The trackless sands were gray and hoar;</p>
<p class='line0'>Nor shrub, nor grass relieved the ground,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Which nothing living bore.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>We were alone—I and my soul —</p>
<p class='line0'>  A timid, trembling, guilty pair,</p>
<p class='line0'>Already near our earthly goal,</p>
<p class='line0'>        And livid with despair:</p>
<p class='line0'>Six weary days, six sleepless nights,</p>
<p class='line0'>  We walked the painful Past:</p>
<p class='line0'>  Our crimes, like ghosts, arose and cast</p>
<p class='line0'>Their glances on us: ah, what sights</p>
<p class='line0'>        And scenes were in that Past!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But when the moon lies on the sea,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The seraph soul of Geraldine</p>
<p class='line0'>Night after night comes down to me,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Walking its waves of green.</p>
<p class='line0'>Hunger and thirst like phantoms seem</p>
<p class='line0'>  Before her pitying eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As pointing always to the skies,</p>
<p class='line0'>She wanes and vanishes like a dream —</p>
<p class='line0'>        She and her pitying eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I feel that I shall die to-night;</p>
<p class='line0'>  Death seems already at my heart;</p>
<p class='line0'>My soul has plumed its wings for flight,</p>
<p class='line0'>        And struggles to depart.</p>
<p class='line0'>I only wait for Geraldine</p>
<p class='line0'>  To take me by the hand</p>
<p class='line0'>  And lead me to that blesséd band,</p>
<p class='line0'>Whose forms in visions I have seen,</p>
<p class='line0'>        Walking the Better Land.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk113'/>
<div><h1><a id='sonn'></a>SONNETS.—AT TWILIGHT.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY CHARLES R. CLARKE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<div class='stanza-inner'>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;'>I.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>The</span> day-god lingers in the waking west,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And as I gaze upon his burning brow</p>
<p class='line0'>My truant, willful thoughts abide no rest,</p>
<p class='line0'>  But wander forth in search of those who now,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like me, engage perchance an idle hour</p>
<p class='line0'>  In still more idle speculation, whence,</p>
<p class='line0'>(E’en as the case may be,) yon orb of power</p>
<p class='line0'>  Steals, begs, or borrows his magnificence: —</p>
<p class='line0'>And as he slowly wades beyond our sight,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Methinks I hear him likened to a king,</p>
<p class='line0'>On rosy couch retiring for the night,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Till morning stars, mild chanticleers, shall sing:</p>
<p class='line0'>O cruel thought! to bid him sleep in state</p>
<p class='line0'>While half the world still for their coffee wait.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;'>II.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Yet these are pointless thoughts, the hour, the place,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Command my muse to plume her wayward wing</p>
<p class='line0'>For some bold flight—o’er realms that bear no trace</p>
<p class='line0'>  Of other footsteps—be it mine to sing</p>
<p class='line0'>Of that more blissful twilight of <span class='it'>the soul</span> —</p>
<p class='line0'>  Which poets say, steals over it in dreams,</p>
<p class='line0'>When Want and Care resign their base control,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And tired Sense reclines ’neath Fancy’s beams.</p>
<p class='line0'>O! years agone I loved a maiden fair,</p>
<p class='line0'>  My hopes were high and my joys Elysian:</p>
<p class='line0'>Oft as I gazed upon her beauty rare,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Low my Fancy whispered <span class='it'>’tis a vision</span>!</p>
<p class='line0'>And now I turn and wish that o’er my soul</p>
<p class='line0'>Such fair and pleasant twilights oftener stole.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk114'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i050.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0004' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:x-small'>Painted by Bonington Engraved by F. Humphrys</span><br/></p> <br/><span class='bold'>THE LAY OF LOVE.</span><br/> <p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine</span></p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk115'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='114' id='Page_114'></span><h1><a id='loves'></a>LOVE’S INFLUENCE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY ENNA DUVAL.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='blockquote0r9'>
<p class='pindent'>Thus not all love, nor every mode of love is beautiful or worthy of commendation, but that alone which excites us
to love worthily. If any one seeks the friendship of another, believing him to be virtuous, for the sake of becoming
better through such intercourse and affection, and is deceived, his friend turning out to be worthless, and far from the
possession of virtue; yet it is honorable to have been so deceived. For such an one seems to have submitted to a kind
of servitude because he would endure any thing for the sake of becoming more virtuous and wise: a disposition of
mind eminently beautiful. So much, although unpremeditated, is what I have to deliver on the subject of Love, O
Phædrus. <span class='it'>Shelley’s Translation of the Symposium of Plato.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>In</span> looking back upon my school-girl friendships, I
always select Meta Hallowell as the most interesting,
and the most satisfactory to dwell upon. The influences
of friendship, love, society and time, have
made the most beautiful developments in her character.
She was a merry, light-hearted creature; but was more
remarkable at school for an affectionate disposition, and
a refined and delicate taste, than for any quick perception
of intellect, or even proper application. She was
a butterfly, flying from one thing to another in her
studies, just as the interest of the moment led her;
acting as if all the duties of life were merely for
amusement. I used to look at her and wonder silently
how she would ever be able to endure any trouble
that might come upon her in the future; she seemed
so volatile, so delicate, so totally unfitted to come in
contact with the thousand and one struggles and trials
that spring up in every one’s life-path. “Surely,” I
would say to myself, “trouble would overwhelm such
a frail spirit, or harden it, and deprive it of its refined
beauty.” But I have always been the very worst
person in the world to judge of character; and I never
could prophesy in that knowing manner, that so many
wise ones do, on the effects that certain influences or
circumstances would produce on different natures. Nor
has experience done me any good. I am no better judge
now, and although events have taken place in my own
life and in my own circle that would have enlightened
most persons, I am no brighter, no quicker; and I
make just as many blunders as I did when I played
with dreamy philosophy and the study of character at
seventeen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But I commenced with Meta Hallowell not with
myself. Meta was beautiful in person as well as in
spirit. She had a graceful, willowy figure, delicately
developed; a sparkling, yes, a brilliant face, with eyes
that were flashing or melting, just as she felt gay or
sentimental; and a finely-shaped mouth, whose lips
trembled with every shade of feeling, and around it
hung the expression of intuitive refinement and delicacy
that always hovers around the mouth if there be any
refinement in a person’s nature. Then her laugh was
the most musical thing in the world, and her voice the
sweetest of all voices. This sounds enthusiastic, but
Meta Hallowell was and is a subject worthy of enthusiasm.
She has never worn out; she is better, lovelier
and purer than when I first loved her in my school-days.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We left school at the same time, but our positions
were very different in the world. She belonged to a
gay family, and was immediately plunged into the
whirl of fashionable life, while I led a very quiet,
sober existence, which was well suited to my shy
nature, but formed a strong contrast to pretty Meta’s
sphere of action. One might have supposed our intercourse
would have been broken off; on the contrary,
we remained as intimate, as when we studied the same
lessons, and sat at the same desk. True, a great deal
of the visiting had to depend upon Meta, as home
duties necessarily kept me from her; and she seldom
passed a day without peeping in upon my “little nest,”
as she called our cozy library; and once in a while she
would enliven an evening by drinking tea with us;
thus she kept me “booked up” in all the gossip and
doings of the fashionable world.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had no parents; her sister, two years her senior,
and a widowed aunt, were her only near relatives.
Meta and her sister were in comfortable circumstances—they
had a nice little fortune apiece, which, of
course, the world magnified. Their aunt had, however,
quite a large life income, which, united with
their own, made a very handsome appearance. Mrs.
Hunsdon, the aunt, was a silly <span class='it'>one-ideaed</span> woman. To
be fashionable, was the sole aim of her existence. She
had no children, and turned all her attention to the
establishment in life of her nieces. She had not cleverness,
nor independence enough to be a leader in the
gay world, but was always found fastened on to some
<span class='it'>distingué</span> person, whose shadow she made herself—going
and coming, living and breathing as near like her
model as possible; poor soul! how much labor she
endured for her position in society. Her eldest niece
was her exact counterpart; and at the time of Meta’s
<span class='it'>entrée</span>, Miss Hallowell had secured an excellent offer
from a most unexceptionable person, according to their
ideas of such things; and the preparations for the approaching
wedding were carried on in a grand manner.
The whole town rang with Miss Hallowell’s magnificent
wardrobe; the beautiful gifts presented by her husband
elect; and I heard no less than a dozen different accounts
of what was to be her wedding-dress; each
account professing to come from Miss W., the fashionable
dress-maker and <span class='it'>modiste</span> of the day.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One morning Meta came dancing into the library
where I had snugly seated myself for a quiet hour’s
study, after having settled for the day, the affairs of
my little domestic kingdom.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah; this is a treat,” she exclaimed, “here is true
comfort;” and taking possession of her favorite lounge,
she gave me a half-laughing, half-serious account of
<span class='pageno' title='115' id='Page_115'></span>
the bustle and preparatory arrangements for the approaching
wedding. “How stupid is all this ceremony,
Enna, dear,” she continued, “aunt fusses about,
and Therese looks as grand as a queen. Then Mr.
Folwell is so wearying; how Tettie can fancy him is
a wonder to me. I have never heard him call her
‘dear Therese’ yet; it is always ‘Miss Hallowell’—such
dignity chills me. When I marry, there shall be
no grandeur about the affair. I want quiet, home love.
My husband shall call me ‘Meta, darling,’ varying it
once in a while with ‘angel bird,’ and all sorts of
sweet expletives; he shall love me dearly, put me in a
nice little home like this—just such a library; here he
shall study and write, and I’ll sit beside him, sew and
sing, and look at him, and bless heaven for making me
so happy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, Meta, your aunt and sister would lift their
hands in horror,” I said, laughingly. “But where are
you going to find such a nice lover—will Mr. Lawson
be all this?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A look of vexation overspread Meta’s pretty face
as she replied, “Oh no, not Mr. Lawson. I know
aunt would be delighted with him, but he is almost as
stupid as the rest of them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Lawson stupid!” I exclaimed. “Meta, where
is your taste? He is quiet and calm, I admit, but not
stupid. You naughty girl, not to love him; he is just
the husband for you, madcap. To be sure he might
not indulge in so many affectionate expletives, as you
say your husband must, but he would watch over your
happiness tenderly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Better marry him yourself, Enna, since you think
him so agreeable,” said Meta, a little quickly; then
springing toward me, she threw her arms around me
exclaiming, “I have just such a lover as I have pictured,
pet one; and I depend on your assistance in my
love affair.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now, young as I was, I was a perfect model of propriety—the
idea of being an assistant in a “love affair,”
frightened me out of my wits; for I was in truth, a
“born old maid,” as my old nurse, Katy, used to
call me.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Me assist you?” I asked. “How can that be
possible; I—who never go out any where, never see
any one?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For that very reason,” replied Meta, laughing
heartily at my fright and astonishment, “you are just
the very one; and that is why I have selected you.
This paragon lover of mine dislikes ceremony as much
as I do. He is perfectly unexceptionable; when I tell
you his name, you will admit that he is. If he had
addressed Tettie, I know she would have had him—that
is, if the rich Mr. Folwell had not come in the way;
but, thank Heaven, he did not want Tettie!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then why do you need any assistance, Meta?” I
asked, in a perplexed tone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because we wish to have our courtship perfectly
unsuspected,” she answered. “Charles Morris—there,
you see I have made no bad selection—Charles is a
little embarrassed just now; some unfortunate speculations
and business matters entangle him. Our engagement
may last a year, and I never could endure
hearing Aunt Margaret announce with such self-complacency,
that her niece, Miss Meta Hallowell, was engaged,
actually engaged, here, at the commencement
of her first season. If we were to be married now,
within a month or so, I would endeavor to bear it, but
to bear it at every dinner-party, every morning visit,
and every <span class='it'>soirée</span>, would surely kill me, and put an end
to all Charles’s prospects of future happiness. Our
plan is this, to keep perfectly quiet until his affairs are
<span class='it'>en traine</span>, then announce our intention of marriage to
Tettie and Aunt Margaret, just immediately before the
ceremony, and thus avoid all talk and interference.
But poor Charles says he cannot exist without seeing
me once in a while as a lover, so with your permission
we will chance to meet here now and then. I know
he has a calling acquaintance with you—there lies his
card uppermost on your card-basket.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” I replied. “He called yesterday. I did
not know his call was intended to prepare the way for
such a momentous affair as this.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you will help me, Enna, pet, will you not?”
said Meta, coaxingly. “There is no impropriety in it,
prude”—and I consented. It was wrong, I know;
mysteries and concealments rarely turn out well, and
are always injudicious; but I was very young, entirely
my own mistress, for my dear old father and Aunt
Mary fancied I had the judgment of a woman of forty;
and, moreover, I could not refuse any thing to dear
Meta. I had not liked Mr. Morris heretofore; true,
he was, as Meta had said, “perfectly unexceptionable,”
being a young merchant of good standing in society,
and having the reputation of some wealth. I knew
very well that there was no fear of Mrs. Hunsdon objecting
to him; but to me he had always seemed too
bland, too artificial; he never, by any chance forgot
himself; then I had heard a gossiping story about him,
although I did not respect the source from whence it
had proceeded, still it had prejudiced me against him.
I had been told by a scandal-loving connection of ours,
that Mr. Morris, a year before, had addressed a Miss
Wilson, and would have eloped with her had not her
friends interposed. This Miss Wilson was an ugly,
red-haired heiress, with little brains, excessive vulgarity,
but an immense estate. She was entirely out
of the set of his associates, and if he had addressed her,
it had been from mercenary motives. But now that I
heard Meta’s account of her engagement with him, I
dismissed Kate Holton’s story from my mind as a contemptible
gossiping falsehood, which I should have
been ashamed of listening to, and endeavored to find
him as agreeable and good as dear Meta said he was.</p>
<p class='pindent'>During the ensuing winter, Meta and Mr. Morris
met repeatedly at our house. We rarely received
company in the evenings, therefore, they were always
sure of being undisturbed. It was my father’s custom
to retire early, and my good Aunt Mary is by nature
unsuspicious and innocent as a child. She and I would
sit in the library, sewing and knitting, listening to
Meta’s merry talk; then, after Mr. Morris would join
the circle, I generally proposed music, which made an
excuse for Meta and her lover to go into the drawing-room,
which opened on my library. Meta was a good
musician, she played very finely, and had a beautiful
voice. I used to declare the music sounded better
<span class='pageno' title='116' id='Page_116'></span>
from the library; so by this little piece of management
on my part, the lovers were left together. After a few
pieces, the music ceased, and for an hour or more their
low, murmuring conversation would come soothingly
on my ear like the sound of sweet melody. I used to
smile as I would look around me. We would have
made a pretty picture if that sweet music of loving
voices could have been made visible on the canvas. I
was the only observing, conscious one of the circle, for
dear Aunt Mary was as unconscious as Zoe and Flirt,
the little hound and pet kitten that napped comfortably
on either side of the library fire. My aunt in her large
easy-chair and reading-stand before her, while her
knitting-needles fairly flew, would be completely absorbed
in some work of fiction, her greatest delight,
never dreaming that a real love-story was progressing
under her eyes. She has always been an inveterate
novel reader, this same Aunt Mary; but I must say
for her, that this taste, so pernicious to many, preventing
them from performing their daily duties with interest,
making real life tame for them, has had no bad
effect upon her—a more industrious, excellent woman
never breathed; and it has often amused me that,
although she dotes upon love-stories on paper, and can
follow patiently and unwearyingly the written account
of the most intricate romance, love in real life possesses
but little interest for her. She breathes a different atmosphere
while reading—seems in another state of
existence, which completely vanishes so soon as the
book is laid aside; and she takes up life and life’s duties
in the most matter-of-fact, conscientious manner imaginable.
I often wonder what she does with all the
love stories she reads, for she never makes use of them
in every day affairs; and even when a real little bit
of romance which has taken place in actual life is
pointed out to her, she is entirely wanting in sympathetic
appreciation, regarding it as quite absurd.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The winter passed quickly on. The only event of
moment that occurred was Meta’s rejection of Mr.
Lawson. How Mrs. Hunsdon stormed, and the haughty
Mrs. Folwell lectured, and I could not help regretting
it myself—Mr. Lawson was so gentlemanly, so good.
I knew it would have been far better for Meta to have
loved him; his influence over her impressible nature
would have been so beneficial; and when by chance
once or twice I met him in company with Meta, and
noticed his serious, grieved countenance, my conscience
felt smitten, and in sadness I would compare
him with Charles Morris, the comparison being any
thing but flattering to the latter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The spring opened upon my pair of lovers, who
were still as adoring as ever. One thing I do remember
as strange, and at the time it annoyed me, although
I felt at the time as we do in dreams, not able to express
or even realize the actual annoyance. Although
Mr. Morris knew, could not help knowing, that I was
fully aware of his engagement with Meta, he never
once spoke openly about it to me, never hinted at it;
and two or three times, when other unavoidable engagements
prevented Meta from joining him at the appointed
time, and on his coming in the evening, I would
hand him Meta’s note of excuse, containing a love
<span class='it'>poulet</span> for him, he would read it without remark, and,
to my surprise, stay the accustomed time, entertaining
Aunt Mary and myself as if he had come for that purpose.
That clever authoress, Mrs. Grey, makes one
of her heroines express an opinion, that certainly does
apply to such men us Charles Morris. She says, “I
have the highest opinion of men’s honor amongst
themselves, but you may depend upon it, there is very
little in the case where we women, with our interests
and affections are concerned.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The traveling season came on; and Mr. Morris
promised to meet Meta at the fashionable watering-place
she was going to with her aunt and Mrs. Folwell;
but the season passed without his doing so—business,
he said, had prevented him; and when Meta
returned in the fall, she looked pale, dispirited and unhappy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I could not hear from Charles,” she said, “without
exciting suspicion. Had you been in town, Enna, he
would have written through you; but as it was, I had
to pass the weary season without any intelligence
from him. Nine unhappy weeks have they been, and
truly, I think, even the horror I used to have of Aunt
Margaret’s fuss and bustle over my engagement, has
almost vanished. I think I could bear with it better
than this misery of silence and separation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They met again—but after the interview Meta
seemed still tearful and nervous. It was evident she
wearied of the concealment, but her lover did not.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have acted very foolishly,” she said to me one
evening, when, instead of meeting Mr. Morris at our
house, he had sent her a note of apology filled with excuses
for his unavoidable business engagements, “I
entered into this secret engagement so thoughtlessly—and
Heaven only knows when or where it is to end.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>We were alone. Aunt Mary, not being very well,
had retired immediately after tea. Meta threw herself
on the lounge, and drawing me to her, rested her
head on my shoulder, and sobbed like a child. I caressed
her silently, and my tears mingled with hers.
Frank and open, Meta could not have a thought or shade
of feeling without disclosing it to me. Her concealment
of her engagement from her family, had arisen
from delicacy, shyness, and the strong dash of romance
in her character; then the artificial natures of her aunt
and sister prevented all confidence with them, but with
those she loved and depended on, she was as confiding
and candid as an innocent child.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Charles says I have grown suspicious and fretful,”
she at last said, as her sobs became more quieted. “I
know I am altered; our separation in the summer was
so very painful to me as to make me restless in temper.
I confess I am tired of concealment, and when I told
him so, the other evening, I was mortified by the cold
manner with which he received it. He said it had
been my own proposition, that some time would necessarily
elapse before we could be married, and that the
same objections existed as at first to an open announcement
of our engagement. I felt wounded to the quick,
and when I passionately accused him of no longer
loving me, he very coolly left me to become more
reasonable, as he said, and came here into the library
and talked to you and your aunt. I have not seen him
since; no engagement should have kept him from me;
<span class='pageno' title='117' id='Page_117'></span>
he knows how wretchedly I must feel, even though I
may be unreasonable, and cherish groundless suspicions;
and yet his note this evening is so calm and
unmoved.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I soothed and encouraged her in the best way I could,
but I thought within myself it was a cloudy affair.
Again and again they met, but their meetings failed to
produce happiness for Meta. He was cold—she suspicious.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He never alludes to a past misunderstanding,” she
said, one evening to me after he had left, for he no
longer staid the whole evening as formerly, nor did he
come so often. “When he knows we have parted
miserably, and we meet again, instead of soothing and
assuring me, he commences talking on some indifferent
subject, as if nothing had occurred. If he has changed,
why not candidly avow it? So I told him this evening,
and he told me my absurd jealousy made me both selfish
and unkind. Oh, Enna! I am miserable, this
state of affairs cannot last much longer, it will kill me.
Do tell me, Enna, am I unjust in my accusations—is
not Charles altered?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I scarcely knew what to say, and by soothings and
caressings evaded a direct answer. Altered he surely
was; he no longer showed any particular desire to
meet her; sometimes a week and more would pass
without his coming; while poor Meta rarely omitted
an evening. Every night her pale, sad face rested on
my shoulder, starting nervously at every noise, and
then, when the carriage would come for her at ten
o’clock, she would kiss me good-night with trembling
lips, and disappointment in her heart; and for an hour
after, I would rest my head on my pillow, her glazed
and heavy eyes and wretched countenance would
come up before me like a spectre.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A few mornings after this last conversation I received
a visit from the Mrs. Holton who had first told
me of the gossip about Mr. Morris and Miss Wilson.
She had been absent from town several months, and
came in upon us unexpectedly, just as we were arising
from a late breakfast. I had not even read the morning
paper, which I had in my hand as she entered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah! I suppose, then, you have heard the news,”
she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why we rarely hear news, Kate, excepting from
you,” replied Aunt Mary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Holton laughed, but was evidently too much
interested in her new piece of gossip to notice Aunt
Mary’s sarcasm. She turned to me with a malicious
expression of countenance, and said, “Notwithstanding
it interests you so particularly, Enna, you bear it
very properly, I must confess.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I stared, as I well might, for I could not understand
a word of what she was saying.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is it you mean, Catharine?” said my aunt,
a little decidedly. Mrs. Holton stood a little in awe
of Aunt Mary, and said quickly, “Oh, I mean nothing,
to be sure; I did not believe the report about Enna
when I heard of it this morning, notwithstanding even
Mrs. Wilson herself told me Betty had been outrageously
jealous of her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mrs. Wilson!—Betty!—jealous of Enna!—what
are you talking about, Catharine Holton?” exclaimed
Aunt Mary, really angry, “truly that unruly member
of yours does make you take strange liberties.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I only say what every one else says,” said Mrs.
Holton, in a piqued tone, “that Mr. Morris’s attentions
to Enna, have been the means of his obtaining a rich wife.
That newspaper will tell you, if you choose to look at
it, that yesterday he eloped with Betty Wilson. The
whole affair has been managed admirably; her mother
never dreamed of such a thing until the bird had flown.
I went to see Mrs. Wilson this morning, as soon as I
read it in the paper, and she was raving away at a
terrible rate. She says she knew Betty was terribly
jealous of you, Enna, all last winter; but she thought
it had all blown over, as Betty had not mentioned his
name for a long while.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I have no doubt Kate Holton felt more gratification
in giving this account of Mr. Morris’s and Miss Wilson’s
marriage, than she had ever experienced before,
for my terror and wretchedness were expressed on my
face, although I listened with a forced calmness to all
her gossiping details of the affair. Up to this day I am
sure she thinks I was jilted by Mr. Morris, but at the
time I could say nothing, so anxious was I for poor
Meta. I knew that the elopement would be a town
talk, for during the last few months Miss Wilson had
made herself very prominent. Although not belonging
to that charmed circle yclept <span class='it'>par excellence</span>, “society,”
she had made herself a subject of conversation with
them, by her splendid equipage, her rich and noisy
costume, and lavish expenditure of the immense income
left to her, untrammeled, by her father, two
years before. Young, aristocratic beaux, with little
money, had saucily pitied the “poor thing’s isolated
position,” and more than one had declared his generous,
self-sacrificing intention of “taking the girl, and showing
her how to spend her money,” but here Charles
Morris had quietly stepped in and carried her off! I
may as well mention here, the part of Mrs. Holton’s
recital, which I subsequently learned, was true.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Morris had, before meeting with Meta, addressed
Miss Wilson. This occurred soon after the death of
her father. The mother, a sensible, shrewd old woman,
had influenced Miss Betty to refuse the aristocratic
lover. Then he met with Meta, with whose
family he had always been on intimate terms. At first
I believe he was sincere, or at least as sincere as his
selfish nature would permit him to be; but during the
previous summer he had discovered that the silly
heiress was dying of disappointed vanity and jealousy,
fancying from his frequent visits to our house, that he
had transferred his affections to me. By some chance
they met; he found her ready to throw herself and her
half million into his arms, almost without the asking,
which temptation he could not, of course, withstand.
This was the cause of his coldness and indifference to
poor Meta, for I suppose he did not wish to give her
up entirely until certain of the heiress.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Although I listened to Mrs. Holton’s conversation in
dignified silence, the agony I endured was almost unbearable.
I could almost have put her out of the
house, so anxious was I to go to Meta—and heartily
did I rejoice when this gossiping woman rose to go.
As the door closed on her, Aunt Mary exclaimed,
<span class='pageno' title='118' id='Page_118'></span>
“Why, Enna, one might believe Kate Holton’s story
about Mr. Morris’s jilting you was true, you look so
wretchedly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do I?” asked I, with an hysteric laugh and sob
mingled, and for a few moments my weeping was so
violent that my poor aunt really believed it, and turning
it over in her mind, innocent soul! she wondered she
had not divined it before. At last, under promise of
secrecy, I told her the whole affair, for I knew she
would fret unceasingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor Meta! foolish girl!” said Aunt Mary, as I
concluded. “She ought to consider herself well off
for being rid of him; he’s a good for nothing fellow,
and she never would have been happy if she had
married him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Just as she was taking this matter-of-fact view of
the subject, the library-door opened, and in rushed
Meta, looking wild and startled. Aunt Mary left us.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me, Enna,” she said, clinging to me, “have
you heard any thing? I know you have, darling, for
you will not look at me. Tell me all you have heard,
for indeed it will be better for me. I cannot suffer
more than I have these six months past;” and she sunk
on the floor before me, overwhelmed with her anguish.
She had heard the news from some morning visiters,
and had escaped from home quietly, to come to me for
comfort. The only consolation I could give, was
sympathy. The whole day passed sadly enough, and
I felt almost hopeless for her future, when suddenly a
ray of light beamed upon me, as I heard her exclaim,
“Well, thank Heaven! no one knows my miserable
folly but you, Enna. I shall not be mortified and
wounded by the insolent pity of society.” I saw that
her pride was roused, and there is every hope for both
man and woman so long as that remains. I took advantage
of this, and lost no time in rousing her self-esteem.
What an altered creature she seemed, pacing
up and down my library a half hour afterward. I
thought all the time of Queen Elizabeth’s reception of
Leicester, in Kenilworth, after she had learned his
perfidy to her and his poor wife, “Sweet Amy Robsart.”
Meta queened it nobly over herself; and after
the first struggle had passed, and the excitement of
wounded pride even had passed, purer and better influences
came to her aid and strengthened her. I had
trembled, as I have said, for the effect of any great
trouble or disappointment on Meta’s character, fearing
the meet injurious consequences; this proved how I
little I knew. The influence of trouble was beneficial
to her, it served to quicken and strengthen her intellect;
shook off the dreamy sentimentality that had hung
like a mist over her fine mind, and she took a better,
clearer view of life’s pursuits and duties.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A few years after this affair Meta married well and
happily. Her husband is a distinguished man, and my
friend leads the gay life of a woman of real society
not in a little provincial circle, like that in which she
had been brought up, and which had disgusted and
wearied her by its silly, trifling vanities and nothings,
but in stirring scenes of life, interesting herself in the
grand and noble pursuits of her husband, who is a
statesman and a scholar; receiving and entertaining
the crowds of people who are attracted around her
by her husband’s talents and her own brilliant, bewitching
manners.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Our intimacy still continues; and whenever I read
one of her sparkling letters, or pay her a visit, and see
how healthily and heartily she enjoys life, I can scarcely
conceive that she was ever the love-sick, romantic
Meta Hallowell of former days; and I see with delight
that she is now under the influence of the most beautiful,
the most holy of all feelings—true, spiritual love;
and that she retains only a smiling, pitying recollection
of that season of her past life, when she had for
awhile lingered in the depths of mortality, held down
by the enervating influence of that hollow mockery—love
for an unworthy object.</p>
<hr class='tbk116'/>
<div><h1><a id='song'></a>SONG.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Would</span> thou wert mine own wife,</p>
<p class='line0'>  I’d fold thee in these arms,</p>
<p class='line0'>And shield thee on this faithful breast</p>
<p class='line0'>  Secure from all alarms.</p>
<p class='line0'>Thou shouldst be with me ever,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And in gladness or in gloom,</p>
<p class='line0'>Thy presence like a sunbeam</p>
<p class='line0'>  Should life’s every hour illume.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The heaviest toil of life, love,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The weary weight of care,</p>
<p class='line0'>Cheered by thy smile serene and true,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Most gladly I would bear,</p>
<p class='line0'>And though forced by sterner duties</p>
<p class='line0'>  From thy gentle side to roam,</p>
<p class='line0'>I would know an angel blessed me</p>
<p class='line0'>  From the fireside of my home.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Would thou wert mine own wife</p>
<p class='line0'>  Then cherished in this breast,</p>
<p class='line0'>Thou’dst dwell in tender joyousness</p>
<p class='line0'>  A dove within her nest.</p>
<p class='line0'>Thus, hand in hand together,</p>
<p class='line0'>  We would tread the path of life,</p>
<p class='line0'>While flowers of joy should greet thy steps —</p>
<p class='line0'> Oh! would thou wert my wife.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk117'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='119' id='Page_119'></span><h1><a id='two'></a>THE TWO PORTRAITS.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY HELEN IRVING.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER I.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>                  “—his spirit wholly turned</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>To stern ambition’s dream, to that fierce strife</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Which leads to life’s high places, and recked not</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>What lovely flowers might perish in his path.”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:0.9em;'><span style='font-size:smaller'>L. E. L.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Life, with all its hues and changes,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  To thy heart doth lie,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Like those dreamy Alpine ranges</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  In the southern sky;</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Where in haze the clefts are hidden,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Which the heart should fear,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And the crags that fall unbidden</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Startle not the ear!”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Bayard Taylor.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Leaning</span> against the wall in the atelier of a young
artist, stood a picture to which the finishing touches
had that day been given. It was a face of singular
loveliness, and seemed to be that of a young girl in the
bloom of early womanhood, if the word bloom could
be used in connection with a face so spiritual in its
character. From the pale and rounded forehead, in
whose transparent temples the delicate tracery of veins
was distinctly seen, the hair flowed back in dark
waves, closely confined at the back, with the exception
of one or two long ringlets, which had escaped
and lay upon the white neck. The eyes were of
softest hazel, and into their far depths of sadness, calm,
and heavenly thought, it seemed impossible to look.
The delicate Grecian nose corresponded with the
spiritual brow and eye, and it was only in the full,
warm mouth, that the secret of an impassioned nature
was revealed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gazing upon the picture with drooping eyelids and
folded hands, sat a woman far past her early prime,
wearing an ordinary dress of deepest mourning.
There was something in the outline of her face, and in
the beauty of her dark-hazel eye, which would have
suggested to an observer the truth that she stood in the
relation of mother to the fair original of the portrait
before her, and the mourning garb might have aroused
a suspicion of what was also true, that Death had
claimed this treasure of her heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you will not sell me this picture?” she said in
a broken voice, apparently resuming a conversation
with the artist, who sat before his easel, at the farthest
end of the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, madam, it is quite impossible,” was the coldly
civil reply, as he touched and re-touched the work before
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I have said that I would pay you all, and more
than you usually demand for such a work, and—and—she
was my child.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let us once for all, madam, understand each
other,” said the artist, laying down his brush and
looking her full in the face—“it is true that I have
taken and still do take likenesses for the paltry sum of
fifty dollars, for I am young, with my fame yet to earn,
and fame alone in our profession wins money. But
this is no common picture—I had conceived the
thought to execute a work on which I would lay out
all my power, on which I would set the full seal of my
genius, when I met your daughter. Her face attracted
me; it was beautiful, it was singular in its character,
it was what I wanted—at my request she sat to me,
and for those sittings I paid her, as you well know, a
liberal price. I have spent weeks over this picture, I
have expended upon it all my energies, and for a purpose.
You may not be aware that the artists’ exhibition
takes place soon—my picture will be there—it
must command attention; I shall be known and my
fame will be established! Part with it now! No, not
for ten times its value would I sacrifice all the hopes
that hang upon that work.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The woman had held her breath to listen to his
words, and as his voice ceased, the long-suppressed
emotion burst forth, and she passionately cried—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do not, do not refuse me—think of your own
heart, should all that it worshiped on earth be torn
from it: think of your own mother, and for the love of
her and heaven, hear me! What is the fame you tell
of? Will it not come for other things than this—will
it be sweet if you trample over one bruised heart to
reach it—will praise be precious, bought at the price of
a mother’s agonized tears? Oh, pity my wretchedness,
and heaven will smile upon you—all the fame
you covet will one day be yours!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>As she finished, the artist quietly resumed his brush,
saying in his calm voice —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My time is greatly occupied this morning, Mrs.
Revere, and you will excuse me, if I decline all further
conversation on a subject, concerning which I
have already given you my intentions. I am momently
expecting a sitter, and must beg your pardon
for requesting you to allow me to attend to my preparations
for her reception, undisturbed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A convulsive cry escaped from the woman’s lips as
he turned away, and gathering her coarse veil about
the face which was now deathly pale, she turned to
leave the room. The cold heartlessness of those
words had frozen the last channel of Hope, and daring
not a glance at the face of her child, she feebly passed
over the broad staircase, and into the noise and bustle
of the crowded street.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had been gone but a few moments, and the artist
had had just time to brush with careless elegance
the magnificent hair from his white forehead, and to
fling a drapery over the portrait of Elise Revere, when
steps were heard approaching, and with eye all light
and lip all smiles, he hastened to the door to welcome
his young sitter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good morning Emil—Miss Hastings; I have been
impatiently looking for you,” and with deferential tenderness
he ushered her into the studio, and offered the
<span class='pageno' title='120' id='Page_120'></span>
luxurious chair which seemed to be her accustomed
seat. His voice was deep and musical, and his eyes
eloquent of admiration, as he stood conversing while
she laid aside her hat and shawl, and drew off her delicate
gloves.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Well might Edgar Loring gaze admiringly upon her,
for she was “beautiful exceedingly,” and yet a greater
contrast could not perhaps have been found, than she
presented to the picture we have just noticed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was scarcely seventeen, of a petite figure, and
her face, in the softness and delicacy of its outline,
seemed almost childish. Golden curls clustered around
her pure, sweet brow, lay against the sunny bloom of
her cheek, and fell in a bright shower over her dimpled
and snowy shoulders. Her eyes had that summer’s
day radiance given only to eyes of blue—her soft
lips were of the richest red, and seemed moulded to
thoughts of lovingness, and gentleness, and happiness.
It was a face into which you could not look without
the conviction that it had never known aught but sunshine
and love—that the dark truths of the world were
to its owner, but unreal visions of a far-off future. No
deep tide of feeling, no storm of strong passions had
left its impress there; yet the face so exquisite in its
infantile loveliness, was not without its signs of latent
power. There was often a deepening of the light
within those soft eyes, an earnest compressing of the
full lips, that were a prophecy of a higher type of beauty
for her maturer womanhood.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Edgar Loring loved sweet Emily Hastings, although
he had not yet told her of it save by looks and
tones perhaps as unmistakable as words. He loved
her fondly, almost passionately, <span class='it'>next to himself and
fame</span>. Intensely selfish and insatiably ambitious, he
was ignorant of his incapacity for a great and generous
love. Possessed of a good education, and a fine
share of talent if not genius, he had come to the city,
with no friends but these and his remarkably handsome
person, filled with the determination of making to
himself a name. Accident had brought him into contact
with a few influential persons, and he soon became
known among a certain clique as a young man
whom it were well worth while to patronize.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had been in the city a little more than two years,
and had painted several portraits in good families, when
he met with Emily Hastings, the daughter of one of
his patrons. Her beauty delighted his artistic eye, her
winning gentleness captivated his heart, her position
in society was a mark for his ambition. Well assured
of his growing love for her, he was also far from insensible
to the advantages which a union with her
would confer. Mr. Hastings, although a man of wealth
and high-standing, was free from the weak prejudices
of many of his class, and Edgar knew that were his
daughter’s heart bestowed upon a man of education
and character, he would not be looked upon as unworthy,
even though penniless. Could he win Emily’s
love, he felt that her father’s approval was sure, and in
all his thoughts of the future, he pictured himself a
distinguished artist, and the husband of Emily Hastings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But fame seemed to him yet afar off; to hear himself
spoken of as “a young artist who was remarkably
successful in likenesses”—“a young man of considerable
promise,” was galling to his vanity, and he resolved
to execute some work that should claim attention.
While he was thinking of this, unable to fix upon any
subject, he met, as we already know, Elise Revere.
That face of such strange beauty, line by line his skillful
pencil could copy; he could catch as he gazed upon
them living before him, the spiritual brow, and the
eye’s deep poetic thought—all that only a master-hand
could <span class='it'>create</span> upon canvas. The sittings were long and
many, but the artist was enchanted with his success—his
ambitious dreams grew brighter, and he almost felt
the laurel on his brow. Days and nights were occupied
with thoughts of this new work, and the cold selfishness
of his ambition cannot be better shown than
by the fact, that when the illness and death of poor
Elise reached his ears, the involuntary first thought
was, “My picture was in time!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And this was the being—his selfish nature unrevealed
in his good-natured face and cordial manner, who
sought to win the young, child-like heart of Emily.
Few could have resisted the fascination of his presence—the
mien deferential, tender—so eloquent of
admiration, and finally of love. Emily did not at least;
she thought him good, noble and gifted, and then he
was so handsome, and beauty is a powerful pleader to
the heart of seventeen. She soon learned to love the
books and music he had praised, to look for his smile
amid the crowd, and be sad if she met it not—to treasure
the flowers he had given and the words he had
whispered over them, and at last to be pensive or gay,
happy or sorrowful, in harmony with the music of
those sweet chimes that usher in the morning of a first
love.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The sittings for Emily’s portrait had been a happy
period to both the artist and his beautiful subject—hours
of pleasant interchange of thought and feeling,
memorable steps in the rosy pathway they were now
treading—and this day in especial had been so delightful,
with its thousand nothings of conversation, to
which time and circumstance give such a value, that
an unconcealed shadow of regret fell upon each face,
as Miss Hastings’ servant announced that the carriage
waited.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I believe,” said Emily, as she tied the little white
chip hat under her dainty chin, “that you told papa
yesterday there would be but one more sitting before
the picture was finished.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Only one more,” replied Edgar, in a tone which
sent a richer bloom into Emily’s cheek, and as fearful
of betrayal she turned away her head, her wandering
eyes fell upon the portrait of Elise Revere, from
which the carelessly fastened covering had fallen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, how beautiful, how adorably beautiful!” she
exclaimed, pressing eagerly forward, “and is it yours,
Edgar?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked into her glowing face, and his heart
swelled proudly as he answered:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I have just finished it for the coming exhibition;
it has occupied me for some time, and no one has
yet seen it, but I intended showing it to <span class='it'>you</span>; do you
like it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Like it? I could look forever into those wonderful
<span class='pageno' title='121' id='Page_121'></span>
eyes, and upon that calm, noble forehead. Is it a
portrait?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>No!</span>” came from the artist’s false lips, “it is an
ideal work.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>How unworthy was he of the look of proud delight,
of reverent worship written on the pure, girlish face
upturned to his! How unworthy was he of the tears
that quivered on the long, golden lashes—the tremulous
tones of that low voice! Yet with a quickened
pulse, he received the incense of her enthusiasm, for
it was a delicious foretaste of the homage yet to be
paid his name—a drop from the full beaker of fame for
which he thirsted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I could almost envy you,” said Emily, “the visions
of loveliness that must have come to you ere you could
have called into being so glorious a creation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was from the recollection of much, very much
of beauty that I wrought the work,” answered Edgar.
“I called into it the choicest elements of grace I had
ever known. Do you not recognize the mouth?” he
added, turning to Emily with a peculiar smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Unconscious as she was of her own charms, it was
impossible not to recognize in the form and expression
of those full, sweet lips, a likeness to her own. False
Edgar! it seemed to Emily a most delicate tribute of
admiring love, and it filled her heart with a strange
delight, to know that she was remembered amid his
visions of beauty, that she realized even in part his
dreams of the ideal. She did not answer, it was not
a time for words. The consciousness of Edgar’s
interest in her, now more fully revealed than ever,
came fraught with still thought to her spirit.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Edgar was silent, feeling for the first time sure
that the affections of the young being beside him were
his own; for it was but a part of the selfishness of his
nature to refrain from declaring his passion in direct
terms, until he could read in the face of the guileless
Emily that it were a welcome avowal. For a few
moments they stood gazing on the portrait, then Emily
lifted her happy eyes for one moment to his face, and
with a slight inclination of her head, passed from the
room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gladsome morning and tempestuous night are not in
greater contrast than were the light foot-fall and joyous
spirit of Emily, to the lingering step and heavy
heart of her who had so short a time preceded her.
Both had come from the contemplation of the same
picture—and to one its memory was as a talisman of
love and happiness, and to the other of anguish and
despair.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER II.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Dead—dead thou wert!—cold lay that form</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  In rarest beauty moulded,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And meekly o’er thy still, white breast</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The snowy hands were folded.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Pale wert thou as the lily buds</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Twined ’mid thy raven tresses,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And cold thy lip, and still thy heart</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  To all my wild caresses!”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:0.9em;'>—<span class='sc'>Grace Greenwood.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Another hand is beckoning on</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Another call is given,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And glows once more with angel steps</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The path which reaches Heaven.”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:0.9em;'>—<span class='sc'>Whittier.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>The beautiful residence of Mr. Hastings was situated in
the suburbs of the city, so that Emily, although familiar
with all the gayeties and fashionable delights of
life in town, was constantly surrounded with all the
sweet influences of Nature. The rippling of streams
and the rustling of forest leaves were the music of
home voices, and winding paths through green fields
and woods, up sunny hill-sides and over mossy rocks,
were dearer than the gay promenade in the city, or
even the aristocratic drive with her father’s noble
grays.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day following that of her interview with Edgar,
was bright with a warm May sunshine, and beautiful
in all the just unfolded loveliness of spring. The
breeze came whispering at her open window with an
eloquence not to be resisted, and with a brain full of
busy fancies, and a heart laden with sweet thoughts,
she sauntered out into the delicious air. With a light
quick step she walked along the graveled street, past
cultivated grounds and noble dwellings, until she
reached the green turf and wooded slopes beyond.
And here where the fresh, glad life of Nature seemed
kindred with her own, she loitered leisurely along
grass-bordered lanes, and beneath grand old trees,
dreaming of Edgar, of his genius and of his goodness,
and of his love for her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On her route, where a river curved around the foot
of a gently sloping hill, in the shadow of old forest
trees was made a rural cemetery—so beautiful with
its quiet paths, and its cool shades, that the living loved
to wander there; they who came not to watch beside
the dead, as well as they who tended the flowers upon
the graves of those they had lost.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Through a low ivy-covered gateway of stone, Emily
entered the quiet place. There were no massive railings
and lofty monuments, no superb carvings and
costly devices, but love had made very beautiful this
last resting-place of the dead—sweet flowers were
blooming every where, and murmuring streams were
guided along by the well-trodden paths. Here and
there arose a simple shaft or a light column, and the
graves of a household enclosed by a green hedge, or
surrounded by shadowing trees.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As Emily passed through the familiar walks, she
came suddenly upon a grave in a remote corner of the
cemetery, beside which sat a solitary mourner. The
spot was unenclosed, save by a few dark pines, and
the outline of the grave upon the grassy turf distinctly
visible. A small while slab lay upon the centre of the
green mound, and at its head grew a rose-tree of wonderful
beauty, bending till its weight of pure, white
buds and blossoms, touched the long bright grass upon
the grave.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Its simple loveliness touched the heart of Emily, and
drawing near, she stooped down and read upon the
pure marble—“<span class='it'>Dear Elise</span>.” Her young eyes filled
with tears, and with an irresistible impulse she turned
her face, full of tenderest sympathy toward her who
sat beside the grave, and murmured,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Was it your Elise?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The woman, who had been unheeding until now,
looked up at the sound of that earnest voice, and
meeting a glance of such sorrowing gentleness, answered
softly—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, my only, only child!”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='122' id='Page_122'></span>
There was something in the eye now first raised to
hers, that eye sunken but still wonderfully beautiful—a
half-remembered expression, that riveted Emily’s
gaze, and invested with a deep interest the stranger
before her. Laying her hand gently upon that of the
woman, she said softly —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it long since you laid her here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Only a few weeks,” was the reply; “there were
buds on the rose-tree when I brought it here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And was it hers?” asked Emily, stooping down to
inhale the rich fragrance of the beautiful flower.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, and it was the dearest treasure she possessed.
Oh! how often have I watched her as she sat beside
it at the window, with her proud head bending over
her work, its blossoms not more delicate and pure than
the brow against which they bloomed. Oh, my Elise,
how beautiful she was! I used to think that in all the
wide world, there was not, there could never be a face
so surpassingly lovely. I only cared to live that I
might look upon her beauty: I worshiped, I adored my
child, and God has taken her from me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She paused, but encouraged by the earnest, attentive
face of Emily, continued:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am of Italy, and my Elise inherited the dark
eyes and impassioned nature of the land of her birth.
When my child was but two years old, I left my native
shores, and with my only relative, my father, followed
my young American husband to his own land.
And here, before many years, he died and left me, with
a charge to watch over unceasingly, our marvelously
beautiful child, who, with her father’s fair, transparent
complexion and regular features, had also inherited his
delicate constitution.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We were poor, and I labored hard, but I cared not,
so that Elise were happy—so that I could but find her
the books she loved, and save her slight hands from
menial labor. No day was so dark, or so full of care,
that I did not find time to braid her magnificent hair
around her noble head, and it was joy enough to look
once into her soft eyes, and see her faint smile at my
fond pride.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Elise was not like me—she had a soul filled with
thoughts of beauty and of poetry, and she talked of
things in which I could not sympathize; the world
seemed to her full of voices, and heaven held more for
her than for me. I felt that I could not understand my
child—hers was a purer and a greater nature than
mine, and I looked upon her with a reverent worship.
I felt that God and the angels were near to her, and
that her wonderful beauty was, I knew not how, connected
with the spirit within.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And was there never a portrait of your gifted,
beautiful child?” interrupted Emily, in a quivering
tone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The question seemed to stir a deep fount of feeling—the
stranger’s face flushed, and passionate tears
gushed from her eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, yes! but I may not have it—I may not see it
long,” she cried. “Oh, my child, I must leave you forever!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Emily was startled by this emotion, but in a few moments
the mother became calm and continued:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not many weeks before Elise’s illness, as we were
walking in the city, an artist observed my child, and
followed her to our humble home. He praised her
loveliness to me, in words which I cannot now remember,
though I well recollect their import. He said her
beauty was remarkable—was rare. In all his life he
had never seen a face to compare with it, never an eye
so glorious, so full of soul; he said such beauty should
not be lost to the world, and he begged that I would
let her sit to him, offering at the same time a liberal
compensation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My heart was filled with a proud joy, but I let
Elise decide for herself, and alter many urgent entreaties,
she at length consented. Ah, I was very, very
happy! I felt that her beauty was not to wither in
unappreciation—the world would know of her loveliness—through
the artist they might hear of her, and
who could tell the happy days in store for my child.
And I joyed also to know that now in the bright mornings
she would be walking through the gay streets of
the city, in the glad, fresh air, instead of bending
wearily over her needle-work in our small dark room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For several mornings I accompanied Elise to the
studio of the artist, though I could ill afford the time,
but at length I found it utterly impossible, for our daily
bread was to be earned, and Elise went alone. I sometimes
fancied that when she returned at noon, she
looked weary from her long walk, but she never complained,
and I only thought her more beautiful than
ever. One day she returned, and flinging into my lap
her little green purse, heavy with silver, she said languidly —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘The picture does not need me any more, and I
am very glad, for my head aches sadly—they say the
portrait is very like me, mother.’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I resolved to go with her to see it on the following
day, but—oh, Father in Heaven! when the time came
that I looked upon it first, my child lay here. I cannot
tell you how she faded in my arms day by day—but,
when I had seen her own rose-tree planted over the
place of her rest, and had wept upon the green sod till
the fountain of tears seemed dry, slowly and wearily
I sought the studio of the painter, longing, yet almost
fearing, to look upon her image there. Oh, what a
vision met my gaze! I had thought to see her semblance—to
trace a likeness to my loved Elise in the
artist’s work; but there, full of life and beauty as though
she had never left me, she stood before me. I wept
over that picture tears more passionate than I had shed
beside her grave, and I begged and received permission
to visit it every day.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A few nights after, on returning to my home, I
found that my aged father, who had long been yearning
to return to the land of his youth, had been making
some arrangements with friends who were in a few
months to sail for Italy, feeling that I would not refuse
to go with him, now that my only tie to America, to
<span class='it'>life</span>, save him, was severed. A week before I would
have said yes—would have left the dear grave of my
buried Elise, and gone with my father to die in the
land of our birth; but now I seemed held by a living
tie—I felt as if my child were with me here, and I
must take her, or my heart would break. I told my
father and his friends this; we were all poor, but they
<span class='pageno' title='123' id='Page_123'></span>
loved me, and by the sale of many little articles—some
<span class='it'>how dear</span>, God only knows, we raised money enough
to buy the picture, at the price which I had often heard
from Elise the artist demanded for a portrait.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I could not have believed my stricken heart capable of
the joy that throbbed through all its pulses, as I entered
the painter’s room with my treasure-laden purse in my
hand. I know my voice faltered—but oh, Heaven!
how it died within me when I heard a firm denial of
my request! Tears and pleadings—all a mother’s
agony availed not; for some purpose of his own, some
artists’ exhibition—what, I could not wholly comprehend—he
would have the picture for his own—he
would not yield it up, but coldly and calmly persisted
in his refusal. Day after day I have been to him, but
in vain. The time of our departure is drawing near,
and I know that duty to my father demands that I
leave him not to go down the way of life alone. I
must go—I must leave my child, that blessed, pictured
face forever!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The woman’s frame trembled violently, and passionately
exclaiming—“Oh, Loring, Edgar Loring!” she
laid her face upon the grave and wept convulsively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Emily had been listening, her upturned eyes wet
with tears, and when the last, wild exclamation of the
stranger reached her ear, she started quickly, a deadly
faintness came over her heart, a paleness to her cheek,
and she too drooped her young head, bowed with a
sudden wretchedness, upon the grave before her.
Swiftly thought after thought, memory after memory
crowded upon her brain, all forcing with an anguish unalterable,
the fearful dread that Edgar was cold and
selfish—Edgar was untrue. That picture of Elise,
with the deep eyes so like the mother’s beside her—yes,
she had seen it, and Edgar had told her it was an
ideal work—and oh, mockery! that <span class='it'>her</span> loveliness was
remembered in the vision. And she felt that a fearful
moment in her life was now come: it was only necessary
to prove the identity of the picture she had seen
with that of the stranger’s child, to convict Edgar of
the basest falsehood; and he who could deceive a
heart young and trusting as hers, of what was he not
capable!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then awoke the latent power, the unrevealed energy
of her spirit, and with an intense effort she calmed the
tumultuous heavings of her heart, and strove to bring
back her own quiet smile to those quivering lips. For
some moments neither spoke, and when Emily lifted
her head from the sod where the mother still lay, her
face was calm, save a bright, uneasy flush upon her
cheek. Lightly she touched the prostrate form before
her, and said gently —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know this artist, and it may be that I can do
something for you; describe to me this picture—I think
that I have seen it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then minutely, Mrs. Revere (for my readers must
know it was she,) described the face of her Elise—and
the faint ray of hope died out in the breast of Emily.
Calmly she gathered from the mother all needful information—her
name and residence and time of sailing,
then giving her own address, and uttering words
of hope and consolation, arose and left the spot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was no joy in the sunshine, no music in the
song of birds, as she wended her way homeward over
the very ground where a few hours before she had
passed lightly, restless for very happiness. Reaching
her home she slowly ascended to her own room, and
closing the door, flung herself upon a couch and buried
her face in its crimson cushions. Not till then did she
know how great had been the strength exerted to keep
down her rising tears, to command her trembling voice,
to hide from other eyes her bitter sorrow. Long and
passionately she wept now, but it was a weeping over
the awakening from a dream. Edgar was cold-hearted—Edgar
was false! That which she had thought to
be the beautiful struggle of genius toward perfection,
was but a selfish ambition. And <span class='it'>she</span> had been trifled
with—duped—and as the humiliating thought rushed
upon her, she lifted her sweet head, and the proud flush
crimsoned cheek, neck and brow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Emily’s love for Edgar was but in its early bloom—scarcely
known even to herself; yet her pure, true
soul would have risen above even a stronger, deeper,
more engrossing passion. She had not loved the being
now revealed to her, but “a creature of her dreams,”
invested with all the beauty and nobleness which he
seemed to possess; and it was with her young faith in
human goodness still unshaken, that she mourned over
the vanishing of this first, and dearest vision of her
womanhood.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Emily did not meet the family at tea that evening,
she “had a headache, and required rest”—but at night
when her beloved mother came fondly to inquire if she
were ill, she flung herself into her arms and told her
all: all Edgar’s flattery and half-revealed love, all his
falsehood, all the sad story of the childless mother, and
besought her advice and aid in the course upon which
she was now resolved.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Happy for that young heart that it could breathe out
its first sorrow against a mother’s fond cheek—that the
pillow of that stricken head was a mother’s loving
bosom.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER III.</h2>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“The lips that breathe the burning vow</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  By falsehood base unstained must be;</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>The heart to which mine own shall bow,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Must worship Honor more than me!”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:0.9em;'>—<span class='sc'>Mrs. Osgood.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>The next morning found Emily and her father in the
atelier of Edgar Loring. The artist was not in, but
the boy in attendance, to whom they were well known,
brought forward at Emily’s request the portrait she had
so much admired a few days previous. It was fortunate
that Edgar was not present, for Emily, unpracticed
at concealment, found it impossible not to betray emotion
when the picture first met her eye, bringing up at
the same moment the joy and the falsehood of the hour
when she saw it first. But speedily she regained her
composure, and the artist soon entered the room. He
looked proud and pleased to see them there, and prouder
yet, when he saw how they were engaged.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will pardon the liberty we have taken in examining
your very beautiful picture in your absence,”
said Mr. Hastings, “but my Emily has a very earnest
desire to possess it, and now that I have seen it, I should
be only too happy to gratify her; is it for sale?”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='124' id='Page_124'></span>
Edgar’s vanity was flattered, his hopes encouraged,
his love strengthened by this mark of preference, and;
after a short silence, during which countless thoughts;
hurried through his brain, he replied —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I painted this picture for the coming artists’ exhibition,
and I had formed no design as to its subsequent
disposal, but I cannot decline the honor which you and
Miss Emily would do me in becoming its purchasers.
I would wish, however, previously to giving it up,
that it might be exhibited according to my intention—the
rooms open on Monday next.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Hastings hesitated; the Italian vessel was to
sail in a little more than two weeks—they must have
the picture at that time if ever, and he said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am aware that this is a painting of a high order,
and I am willing to pay you whatever you demand,
but I wish immediately to become its possessor. It
can be placed in the exhibition room for ten days, but
at the expiration of that time I must be allowed to take
it, if at all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Edgar reflected a few moments, well aware that in
the elegant saloons of Mr. Hastings, his picture would
be seen by quite as many critical and appreciative eyes
as in a crowded exhibition-room, and moreover, that the
fact of that gentleman being the owner, was a recommendation
of the greatest value.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The arrangement was at length completed, and
Emily and her father departed, leaving Edgar flushed
and excited with what seemed his wonderful success.
He had fancied to be sure, that Emily appeared a little
cold and reserved, but he attributed it only to the timidity
of her conscious love in the presence of her
father, and proud and joyous in the near approach of the
triumph-hour of his fame and love, he passed the day
in new visions of glory for the future.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That night, in his restless sleep, he dreamed that
Elise Revere kneeled before him, with her pale face
upturned to his, pleading him to have pity on her lone
and sorrowing mother—her cold hands clasped his own
beseechingly, and trembling he awoke. The full
moonlight flooded the room, and lay brightest on a table
by his couch, where bloomed in a vase rare flowers—the
gift of Emily Hastings on the last morning of her
sitting. He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressing
the flowers to his lips, crushed down the remorseful
feeling which had almost struggled into life, and
rejoiced, as he had more than once done of late, that
the ocean would soon lie between him and the wearisome
old woman who had so long annoyed him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The days passed away, and Edgar did not see
Emily—she had gone into the country with a sick
friend. Meanwhile her own portrait was sent home,
a beautiful and truthful likeness, and that of Elise
Revere in the exhibition room, had attracted crowds
of admirers, and the young artist’s praises had been
spoken by many lips. During this time also, Emily
had more than once seen Mrs. Revere, whose joy and
gratitude could hardly find expression. She had insisted
that the sum raised by herself and her few
Italian friends, should still be devoted to the dear purpose
to which it was first appropriated, and Emily
felt that it was best to allow their hearts this consolation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The morning of Monday had come, and with it
came also the beautiful portrait of Elise. A simple
frame had been prepared for it, and for one brief hour,
Emily saw it side by side with her own sweet picture.
Sad, sad tears she wept over it, for that stranger
face had grown very dear, and it was with a
mournful regret that she looked her last into those
deep, dark eyes, whose beauty had been to her thrice
blessed. Many emotions were weighing at her
heart, for she felt how far better would it have been
that her young head had been laid beneath the green
sod that covered Elise Revere, than that her fond, trusting
heart should have been buried in the cold selfishness
of Edgar Loring’s soul.</p>
<hr class='tbk118'/>
<p class='pindent'>The good ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples,
lay at the wharf—passengers were hurrying on board,
captain and mate were vociferating orders, flags were
flying, waters glancing—all wore the bright and joyous
air that attends a vessel outward bound, on a glorious
summer’s day. A carriage drawn by a fine pair of
grays came dashing down to the pier—Mr. Hastings
and Emily alighted, and were followed from the box
by a servant, who took the safely-cased portrait in his
arms, and accompanied them on board ship.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ah! even Edgar’s heart would have been touched
by the tears which gushed from the happy eyes of that
mother—by the voice choked with sobs, which murmured
thanks and prayers for blessing. They parted,
Emily and Mrs. Revere, like the friends of years,
and not as acquaintances of a few short weeks, and
over the hand fondly clasping her own, Emily promised
to care for the white rose-buds, blossoming in
the early summer over the lone grave of Elise, and
sometimes to see the sunset light falling rosy and
warm upon the pale marble that bore her name.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Hastings, who was well known, received from
the gallant captain a promise to take special charge of
the Italian and her aged parent, and to care for the
much valued picture. Again thanks and farewells,
and the father and daughter entered their carriage and
drove away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Emily reached home, she found an elegant
note from Edgar Loring, requesting permission to call
upon her that evening. Ah! a few short weeks ago,
how her heart would have fluttered at those words!
Now, going up to her room she seated herself at
her beautiful escritoir, and penned the following
words —</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>Mr. Loring</span>—I have this moment come in, and
found your note awaiting me. A previous engagement
will prevent my receiving the honor of a call
from you this evening. Enclosed you will find a
check for $200, which my father requests me to forward
to you in payment for <span class='it'>the portrait of Elise
Revere</span>.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;margin-top:0.5em;'><span class='sc'>Emily Hastings.</span>”</p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk119'/>
<p class='pindent'>In ten days from that time Edgar Loring had left
the city—he had gone to seek his fortunes in the far
South.</p>
<hr class='tbk120'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i073.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0005' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>VIEW OF BURLINGTON VERMONT.</span><br/> FROM AN ORIGINAL DRAWING</p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk121'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='125' id='Page_125'></span><h1><a id='myr'></a>MYRRAH OF TANGIERS.<a id='r1'/><a href='#f1' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[1]</span></sup></a></h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>A TRAGEDY.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY CAROLINE C——.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>A luxury of summer green</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Is on the southern plain,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And water-flags, with dewy screen,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Protect the ripening grain.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Upon the sky is not a cloud</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  To mar the golden glow,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Only the palm-tree is allowed</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  To fling its shade below.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And silvery, ’mid its fertile banks,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The winding river glides,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And every ray in heaven makes</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Its mirror of its tides.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And yet it is a place of scath —</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  A place of sacrifice;</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Heavy with woman’s parting breath,</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Weary with mourner’s cries.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Proud, beautiful, one boweth down</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Beneath a deep despair;</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Youth lingers on her lovely cheek —</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  It <span class='it'>only</span> lingers there.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>She will command herself, and brave</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The doom by fate assigned;</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>In natures high as hers, the heart</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Is mastered by the mind.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:0.9em;'><span style='font-size:smaller'>L. E. L.</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER I.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>It</span> is near sunrise, father,” said a gay young voice,
and a fair hand tapped lightly on the door of the apartment
where the old man slept.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her call was answered in a moment by the venerable
Jew, who came forth, prepared for the customary
morning walk to the holy synagogue.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou lookest not well, my father! thy face is pale.
I fear these early walks are too much for thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nay, child, our duty should never fatigue or weary
us in its performance—it is time for us to depart when
that happens. But, in truth, I had a heavy night,
dreaming of thy dead mother. It was sad to waken
and find, as, alas! so many other mornings I have, that
she cannot return again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We shall meet her hereafter,” said Myrrah, striving
to speak cheerfully; “you should think of that this
beautiful morning. The very air seems full of hope.
Even I, who have proved such a dull companion these
many days, feel as though there were new life in me
to-day—as though some joyful thing were about to
happen.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Were thy dreams of Othniel, then, my child?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A deep blush was the only answer returned to the
gently uttered question—for Myrrah turned all her
attention just then to busily assisting the old man down
the steep stairway, and the moment after they entered,
arm in arm, the quiet street; then, as if fearing a recurrence
to the subject of her dream and presentiment,
the daughter hurriedly again expressed her fears lest
the morning exercise should prove too much for his
feeble health. But again the old man replied slowly
and decisively,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For many years I have stood, morning and evening,
to worship in our synagogue, to ask the blessing
of God, and to pray His coming; this day, and every
day while life and strength are spared me, must I also
go, Myrrah; perchance this very morning may at last
be vouchsafed as a promise of His approach, for whose
appearance we have waited so long.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And the old man, Raguel, with his beautiful daughter,
moved onward in the path leading to the place of
worship.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But more heavily than he was wont the father
leaned upon the arm of his child. At last they reached
the synagogue, and stood, as was their custom, under
the pleasant shade-trees to rest, and to compose
their minds for a moment before entering the sacred
place.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Their prayers were made. From the “chambers
of the east” came forth only the rising sun—the Messiah,
the Counsellor, the Mighty King, the Prince of
Peace, for whose presence and aid they so longed,
came not; neither was there a sign given of his approach.
Again were the hearts of youthful worshipers
drawn to adoration of things earthly, as the lovely
Myrrah stood once more with them to pray; again
were the sighs of Jewish girls breathed almost audibly,
as they gazed upon her, and caught their own lover’s
eyes turned in watchful admiration to the place where
she knelt; for well did they know that none among
them could compare with the daughter and sole heiress
of the wealthy and excellent Raguel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>With a leisure step the two set out on their return
home through the rapidly-filling street. It was a sweet
morning. A light breeze swept from the sea over the
old town, wafting onward the fragrance of the blossoming
<span class='pageno' title='126' id='Page_126'></span>
trees and plants, which <span class='it'>filled</span> the air with their
rich perfume. The sun rose in splendor, and the
brightness which, as the smile of heaven spread over
the earth, increased the light-heartedness of the young
Jewess, as she moved on so soberly, so cheerfully, and
with so much dignity of manner, with her father.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was a pleasant home to which they were returning.
A home of peace, and joy, and love, and Myrrah was
its bright and never-failing star. Light-hearted as a
bird—cheerful, unwavering in her affection and reverence
for the aged father, she was, indeed, a model
daughter and maiden for all Tangiers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The morning repast, prepared by the old servant
who had lived since Myrrah’s birth in her father’s
employ, being made, the two at once repaired to the
small but beautiful garden, which bore no little resemblance,
on a small scale, to the Paradise Eden one is
wont to conceive of. A stranger, passing through the
small, mean street in which Raguel lived, would never
have imagined, as he cast his eye carelessly on the unpromising,
dismally high and dark-looking house, which
stood close upon the side-walk, of the taste and elegance
which reigned within those walls. Costly
adornments filled the beautifully-finished rooms, which
were befitting a palace; and the caskets of the Jewess
held many a gem which a queen had not disdained to
wear. But it was in the little garden, in the pleasant
shade of whose trees the devoted pair invariably spent
their mornings when the weather proved fine, that the
most perfect arrangement of taste in the laying out of
the limited grounds, in the disposal of the shrubs, and
trees, and flowering plants, that the guiding hand of
a woman essentially refined, was to be seen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ensconced in the luxurious chair, which Myrrah
wheeled into the silent place, consecrated to the voices
of singing-birds, and the fragrance of beauteous flowers,
and the sweet sounds of his dear child’s voice, the
hours passed swiftly on in blissful tranquillity to the
old man. It was in such hours that Myrrah sat at her
father’s feet, and read aloud in tones so musical and
entrancing, the records their fathers of the old time had
left, of God’s dealings with his loved people; of the
marvelous creation—of the faithful and beloved Abraham,
of Joseph, and of Jacob—of Daniel, and David,
and Absalom—of the long line of kings and princes—of
holy women, of prophets, and priests, and all their
wondrous deeds, wrought through the power which
God gave to them—of the first and momentous transgressions
of the tempted, tempting Eve—of the too
easily beguiled Adam—of the blessed hope which
from the day of their fall from the height of excellence
and purity, had been kindled, and had lived within the
hearts of all the faithful until that day when they still
looked with fond and hopeful and anxious eyes for His
coming who would bruise the serpent’s head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And when the old man grew sad, as the blessed
promises were reiterated in his ears, whose fulfillment
he had so long looked and sighed for, the reader’s
melodious voice would grow fainter and fainter, the
holy book be closed again, and with still softer tones,
accompanied by her harp, she would sing of the great
coming salvation—of the rescue which was surely
drawing nigh, till the color would deepen on his aged,
furrowed cheek, his eye grow bright again, and the
trembling hand would be laid in blessing on his darling’s
head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On this morning, as Myrrah’s hand unclasped the
precious books, they opened at the pages on which
were recorded the beautiful and touching story of
Ruth’s devotion to the mother of her dead husband.
As with tremulous voice she read of the sudden and
awful bereavement of the young, loving wife in the
strange country, another listener approached, and stood,
until the story was concluded, in the shade of the great
trees. The new comer was also young, and his features
bore witness that he was a descendant of the
ancient Jews. But there was a gallant boldness, not
often perceivable in that down-trodden people, in the
frank, manly expression of countenance, in his garb,
and the manner in which it was worn, in the very
attitude he had chosen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>With a look of deepest love, his eyes fixed on the
unconscious reader, his ear drunk in the sweet sounds
of her voice, eagerly as the parched traveler in the
desert bends to the cooling fountains; but he did not
listen to the words she uttered; it was as though an
angel were singing to him, and in the delight with
which he heard her voice, he lost the burden of the
song she sung.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thus hast thou been to me always, my beloved,
blessed child,” said Raguel, fondly, as Myrrah read the
brave, heroic choice of Ruth; “since thy mother’s
death thou hast been my chief blessing in this strange
land.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But thou, dear father, thou art mine own; thou
hast been to me all the joy, the <span class='it'>best</span> joy I have ever
known. It is no deed of charity to keep always with
thee, for I should die to leave thee—there is nothing
I should care to live for, wert thou gone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nay, child, say not that. I know that many a
time thou hast refused to join thy young friends in
their merry-making, solely that thou mightest be with
me, thy stupid, dull old father. But this cannot be
always, Myrrah, for I am old, and my Master will
call me hence while thou art yet young.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Father! father!” Myrrah exclaimed, “do not
speak so! God will not take thee from me. He <span class='it'>will
not</span> leave me alone!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not <span class='it'>alone</span>, Myrrah, darling, I trust Thou hast
not surely forgotten Othniel? I would that he were
here to day with us. He wanders long.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He will come soon, I know. I would he were
here now—he is so skillful, and might easily restore
thy health, dear father.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is not in him, nor in any human physician to do
that; but I long to see him; then I should be at rest,
for thou, my child, wouldst have a comforter, and a
steady friend if —”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Say it not, oh Father! what is even he to me
when compared with <span class='it'>thee</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thy blessing, father—<span class='it'>my</span> father!” exclaimed the
youth, coming out swiftly from the shade, his countenance
and his voice betraying the strong agitation of
his spirit. “I have come home for thy blessing!”
and the young man knelt down at the old Jew’s
feet.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='127' id='Page_127'></span>
“My Othniel!” cried Myrrah, in joyous astonishment,
her tears suddenly giving way to the brightest
of smiles.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My son! my son, thou hast come at last! ten
thousand blessings be upon thy head.”</p>
<hr class='footnotemark'/>
<div class='footnote'>
<table summary='footnote_1'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' class='footnoteid'/>
<col span='1'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'>
<div class='footnote-id' id='f1'><a href='#r1'>[1]</a></div>
</td><td>
<p class='pindent'>Founded on fact.</p>
</td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER II.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>Darkness and silence crept through the prison-house
of Tangiers. Darkness, which spread terror through
the heart of many a poor, helpless criminal; silence,
that fell with heavy, crushing weight on the convicts
who knew that when on the morrow that stillness
was broken, and the city should be roused again, they
would be led forth to die the felon’s shameful death,
in presence of the jeering multitude.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In a cell separate from the rest, slept one who had
on the morning of that day awakened in freedom, the
joy and comfort of her old father’s home. Rude hands
had forced her to this dreary place, and left her as a
criminal, secured by bolts and bars. And she <span class='it'>slept</span>.
Yes, though she knew the rigor with which punishment
was visited on the transgressor, guilty of the sin
laid to her charge. Yes, though her old father were
alone in their beautiful home; yes, though the damp,
cold stones were all the couch spread beneath her
dainty form!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Look upon the youthful captive as she slumbers so
peacefully. There are traces of tears upon her cheeks,
though her lip wears a gay smile. Then she <span class='it'>had</span> wept
before she slept? Ay, for thoughts of the sorrow and
fear which she knew harassed the beloved ones at
home, troubled her; but now she smiled, for the good
spirits reigning in dream-land, had assured her of a
future full of bliss. How beautiful is Myrrah in her
sleep. The large and languid eyes which fascinated
the gazer as they turned upon him, are hid, and you
will not therefore be dazzled as you look on the clear
and beautiful olive complexion, the sweetness of expression,
and the regularity of the features; the delicate
bloom of the round cheek; the heavy mass of
black and shining hair; the slight, girlish form, these,
and the unmistakable evidences of youth, would increase
the interest of a stranger, and make us, who
have aforetime made her acquaintance, gaze with an
increase of sorrow on the young creature who is accused
of a crime punishable with death.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The malice of a bitter enemy had brought the Jewess
to that doleful situation. Orien Fez, the rich son of a
rich Mahommedan, had persecuted her with the most
unwelcome attentions, despite the contempt in which
her people were held by his own. He would fain
make her his wife, for his love was so strong as to
overcome all prejudice, and in a land far distant from
their own, he would have joyed to convince her happiness
would await them. In that blessed clime her
God should be the only object of his worship; he would
suffer himself to be despised of all men, if she would
in return only bless him with the assurance of her love.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Myrrah heard all the youth’s protestations with
an uninterested ear. There was no love in her heart
for the descendant of a race which ever delighted in
oppressing the descendants of Abraham. And for
Orien, the Moor, her heart had no predilection. He
was a handsome youth, to be sure, and the son of a
man who stood high among his people; and it was a
mystery to himself, how <span class='it'>he</span> should love so passionately
the daughter of the Jew. And it seemed no less
strange and unnatural to the young girl, when she remembered
the great and never-disguised contempt and
aversion with which her people were regarded by the
followers of Mahomet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Orien could boast of but little acquaintance with
Myrrah; his love had not been aroused by her virtues,
or a knowledge of her surpassing excellence of heart
and disposition; her exceeding beauty was the great
attraction, which he could not withstand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Many times chance had thrown the girl for a moment
in his way, and the Moor had never failed to take
the advantage of such moments to whisper words of
ardent love, to which any reply was very seldom
deigned. This silence and affectation of scorn, as he
thought it, but increased the passion of the lover—his
nature delighted in overcoming obstacles, and his determination
was only strengthened by the cold reserve
and dignity of Myrrah.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One night, as she was passing along the street in that
quiet quarter of the city where her people lived, Orien,
who had wandered there in the hope of catching but a
glimpse of her face or person, appeared suddenly by
her side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have something to say to thee,” he exclaimed,
abruptly; “thou knowest my name.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, thou art son of the great Mazarin Fez—what
dost <span class='it'>thou</span> here to-night?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To tell thee this. For a twelvemonth thou hast
been more than sunlight to me. I have lived in shade
and gloom, only when thou chanced to be near me.
Listen now; I pray thee haste not so quickly. I am
willing, ready, even this very night, if thou will it, to
renounce my people, my station, my God, for thee!
The shame and dishonor that is heaped upon the Jew,
I am ready, glad to take upon myself if thou —”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nay, stop,” said Myrrah, indignantly pausing, and
looking her suitor in the face, “there is <span class='it'>no</span> stain upon
my people for thee to take upon thyself. The shame
and the dishonor which crushes them belong to <span class='it'>thy</span>
people who impose it. There is no love in the hearts
of the daughters of Judah for the oppressors of their
fathers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Forgive me,” was the humble answer, “teach me
words that I may plead my love without offending
thee; be mine, Myrrah, and we will hasten to seek
out a home where the cruel injustice of my fathers
cannot visit yours. Be <span class='it'>my wife</span>, I will prove thy
willing, humble slave forever!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou art speaking madly, Orien Fez. I tell thee
I have fear of thee! Are thy people wont to become
the slaves of mine? I love thee not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I will bear even this, any thing from thee, if
thou wilt only love me. I will deck thee with jewels
that shall make thee look a queen; there shall be none
preferred before thee. Would it not be joy to dwell
where man has no power to crush, where thy place
might be among the most honored of the earth? Oh,
there are lands fairer than ours, more beautiful,
more blessed, where the flowers of love wave forever
<span class='pageno' title='128' id='Page_128'></span>
in eternal sunshine of bliss—wilt thou not seek that
land with me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have heard thee out, and thou talkest but foolishness!
I doubt thy truth. And even were I well assured
of that, dost thou think there are not ties binding me here
dearer than thou canst even conceive, with all thy professions
of love? Go, thou hast madly deceived thyself;
mayest thou have a speedy awakening, Orien
Fez, for I will not listen again to such words as thou
hast uttered to-night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They had reached her home, and Myrrah had disappeared
within the heavy doors, which opened as by
magic at her approach, ere her last words were fully
uttered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stung with madness at this peremptory dismissal of
his suit, and the scornful tone the Jewess had used to
him who had so humbled himself before her, Orien
turned in a rage away from the house, and slowly retraced
his steps. There was something frightful in the
calmness of his mien, and in the glittering of his bright
eyes; he knew then that the daughter of that most despised
of all people, would never give him a hearing
again; that she despised his offer, even his, the proud
and wealthy and powerful Orien. Ha! she should at
least be brought to her senses—he would assure her
whose were the words she had so lightly set at naught.
So, to his rest he went, to dream of the sweet voice
which haunted him incessantly, to think upon her
marvelous beauty, which to his eye never seemed even
so perfect, as when she turned toward him, and so
proudly and indignantly repelled the pleadings of his
love.</p>
<p class='pindent'>To the embraces of affection which more than satisfied
her brave heart, Myrrah went from the presence
of Orien Fez. But she did not make known to the
beloved ones awaiting her there, the persecuting attentions
of the Moor; she was confident in her own
power to repel his advances, and dreaded awaking
anxious thoughts for her in her old father. And
Othniel, she knew his fiery spirit, how his indignation
would kindle into a rash flame against the man who,
belonging to the host of oppressors, should dare sue
for the love of his beloved; therefore she spoke not to
<span class='it'>him</span> of the Moor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A happy group was that gathered under old Raguel’s
roof. The father, who cherished with unmeasured
affection the only child which the dreadful pestilence
had spared to him; Othniel, the traveler, the betrothed
of the maiden, who was to the old man’s heart already a
cherished son. He had come back from a long wandering
in the East, to claim of the father his child, for
early in their youth the two had vowed to love one
another; and as time passed on, it saw them cherishing
no regret for their childish vows. As he approached
the years of manhood, a desire to see the wonders of
the East had seized upon Othniel, and for a few years
he had traveled through all the Holy Land, in Egypt,
and over the deserts, until at last wearied and longing
for the embrace and the presence of those left behind,
he had hastened to the dearly remembered old town on
the shore of the blue sea. Since his return, his home
had been made with Raguel and Myrrah; and the day
was speedily approaching when the children of the
old man’s heart were to be made one. But the sunshine
of that home had been wanting without the
cheerful voice, the songs, the smiles of Myrrah—her
presence was the crowning joy that gave to all the
others worth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And, lo! that hope of the old man’s heart, that blessing
of young Othniel sleeps this night in a prison, and
armed men are keeping guard about her cell! Look,
<span class='it'>now</span> within the maiden’s home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The gray-haired father, whose face bears heavy
marks of age and sickness, lies smitten with sore
anguish upon his couch; his heavy moans are sad to
hear, for no light sorrow had brought tears to his eyes,
or wrung from him words of complaint. Pacing to
and fro through the beautiful chamber is the despairing
lover of the maiden. He, too, has wept, but his tears
are wiped away now, and anger and hopeless grief are
written on his countenance. It would seem that
Othniel’s rich and striking apparel had been assumed
in mockery of his own agony—but it was not so. Hope
and joy were never before so bright in his heart, as on
that morning, when he donned the embroidered robes,
and arrayed himself for the bridal. Yes, for the bridal!
Myrrah and Othniel were on that day to have been
made one.</p>
<p class='pindent'>See, now, as he moves so madly through the room,
his garments have become entangled in the chords of
Myrrah’s harp; hear the soft, sighing sound that escapes
from the instrument, as in a moment, calmed and subdued,
the youth bends down to disengage his robe;
that breath of music causes the father’s tears to flow
afresh, and Othniel, again unmanned, flings himself
upon the door, and gives way to the uncontrollable
grief.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In another chamber is prepared the wedding-feast;
a rich banquet, “fit for the gods,” served up in costliest
style, awaiting the bidden guests, and the happy bride
and bridegroom.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Above, in her own apartment, where Myrrah arrayed
herself on that morn so full of hope, is a profusion of
the choice and rich appareling with which the daughters
of wealth are wont to array themselves. Jewels, and
beautiful array, the proudest might covet, left in wild
confusion, show that the mistress of all that splendor
had gone forth in haste, alas! not to the altar, as she
had dreamed! for the bridal train had proceeded but
a little way toward the synagogue, where the priest
awaited them, when Myrrah was suddenly arrested in
the name of the public authorities, on charge of having
proved traitor to a solemn oath which she had taken,
and the dismayed party, instead of proceeding to the
place of worship, was hurried, with little ceremony,
before the cadi.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One was there in presence of the man of power, only
too ready with his false accusation. Orien Fez, discovering
that there was in the person of a preferred
lover, an impassable barrier to the accomplishment of
his hopes, had conceived in his base heart a fiendish
plan by which he might avenge himself, and this was
its first betrayal. That very morning the charge had
been made, to which he had solemnly sworn, to this
effect, that Myrrah, daughter of the Jew Raguel, had
to him, and in hearing of his witnesses, declared her
<span class='pageno' title='129' id='Page_129'></span>
firm and unalterable belief in Mahommedanism—had,
with her own lips, declared faith in the abominable
creed, “there is no God but God, and Mahomet is his
prophet.” That since that time she had proved false
to her vow, having returned to the worship of the
God of the Jews—a transgression which the laws of
the land held to be punishable with death.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On being asked if she had any reply to make to this
statement, the astonished prisoner, striving to quiet her
indignation, simply stated that the accusation was
altogether false—that she had <span class='it'>never</span>, on any occasion,
professed faith, either by thought, or word, or deed,
in other religion than that which her people had unwaveringly
held for so many years; further words than
this statement prudence prevented her speaking.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a vast difference in the social position of
the accuser and accused, which augured not well for
the state of feeling with which this cause would be
judged. Orien Fez was a representative of the higher
class of Moors, and, as has been stated, wealthy and
influential. The prisoner was the daughter of a despised
race—rich, also, it is true; but even the wealth
of her parent increased the professed contempt and
enmity with which he was regarded by the oppressors—for
riches possessed by any of his scorned and hated
brethren was invariably attributed to other than
honest means of acquirement.</p>
<p class='pindent'>An unprejudiced eye had seen, in the appearance
of Orien, the craft and subtlety of the Evil One; had
seen in that glittering eye, and the triumphant smile,
other cause for the accusation which he had made,
than merely an honest desire that the honor of his religion
and its professors should be kept bright. In the
young Jewess, on the contrary, was a look of conscious
innocence, a brave indignation, which of themselves
had proved her guiltless of the sin attributed to
her. But the cadi was not prepared to find blamelessness
in a Jew, when a Moor was the accuser, though
his shrewdness had more than half penetrated to the
truth of the matter already, therefore he said,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This case demands the most serious attention; it
is no light thing to condemn one to death, but neither
must the guilty go free. The matter shall be referred
to the pasha—we will care for thy daughter, Jew;
she shall be safely kept for trial on another day. When
thou art notified, accuser, Orien Fez, and ye, his witnesses,
appear without delay before the pasha, on pain
of severe and rigorous punishment.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was thus that Myrrah was imprisoned—thus that
the diabolical Moor sought his revenge.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER III.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>The following week—and, oh, how lonely and
drearily it had passed to parent, child, and lover; they
brought the accused before the pasha for trial. It was
a public trial, and a multitude had come together to
witness the proceedings—for the accusation of Orien
Fez, his high position among the people of Tangiers
on the one hand, and the beauty of the young prisoner,
the affecting circumstances attending her arrest, on the
other, were sufficient causes to attract more than usual
attention.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Arrayed still in the bridal garments, the dazzling
jewels and splendid apparel, Myrrah stood before the
pasha, facing the bold, and villainous, and unrelenting
accuser.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Old Raguel and Othniel were also there. Since her
first examination before the cadi, Myrrah had not been
permitted an interview with them; and the sight of
the poor old man, who seemed to her to have grown
ten years older in those few days, and the pale and
haggard countenance of the loved Othniel, quite overwhelmed
the young girl; for a moment her head was
bent, and her slight form strove in the tempest of grief—but
strength came to her again, and she stood up
once more calm and self-possessed, to be tried for
life!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Again was the false charge preferred—again the
answer of the captive was demanded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What sayest thou to this charge, maiden?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That it is false—that I am not guilty,” was the
firm reply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What! dost thou deny having ever professed thy
faith in our great Prophet? Wherefore, then should
these witnesses declare against thee—are they thine
enemies?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know naught save this—they are <span class='it'>false</span> witnesses.
Until the day when the accusation was first made, I
had never seen them—I know them not. Orien Fez I
<span class='it'>have</span> seen before; and I believe that enmity, which
has nothing to do with my religion or thine, has made
him bring this false charge against me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou standest alone, woman, and mere assertions
cannot avail. These witnesses are truthful believers—but
thou, we know not what thou art.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She is a woman who, during the fifteen years I
have ministered in the synagogue of Tangiers, has remained
constant in the worship of the God of her
fathers,” hurriedly exclaimed the venerable priest,
almost weeping, who had come to listen with all a
father’s affection and fear, while the daughter of his
heart was on trial.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am a true woman,” added the sweet voice of
Myrrah. “From whence shall I bring evidence to
satisfy you that I lie not? Are not the words of my
people always set at naught? You will not believe
me, yet have I ever remained faithful to my God—none
other have I ever professed to serve.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou knowest the punishment awarded to those
guilty of sin such as this of which thou art accused—it
is death, death of torture—to be burned at the stake,
and the body to be scattered to the winds of heaven.
Confess now—it is not too late; mercy may yet extend
a pardoning hand; profess anew thy faith in Mahomet;
<span class='it'>repeat</span> thy belief, ‘There is no God but God,
and Mahomet is his prophet!’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a moment’s pause, a silence like that in
the halls of death, then Myrrah said slowly,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou dost urge me to speak that which my lips
have never yet spoken—that which they dare not speak;
wouldst thou have me declare my faith, that thy prophet
is a <span class='it'>false</span> prophet? Wouldst thou have me say,
that to the God of Abraham <span class='it'>alone</span> I bend my knee and
my heart?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A murmur of surprise and indignation went up from
the Moors who were gathered there, while the voice
<span class='pageno' title='130' id='Page_130'></span>
of many a Jew was heard in earnest declaration,
“Pasha, she is innocent—she is innocent.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Raguel looked with mournful approval on his child
as she spoke so undauntedly; but boldly as her avowal
was made, Myrrah dared not look upon the father, nor
on that other, dearer to her than life—Othniel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The pasha was silent, he dreaded the utterance of
the awful sentence. Few who had witnessed his mode
of conducting criminal cases, had suspected there was
a particle of feeling in the bloody-minded man; but now
he paused, and looked with sorrowful interest on the
prisoner, and his voice trembled, when at last he said,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Death, then, can alone await thee! Consider this.
Thou art young, and I need not say thou art very beautiful.
Thy marriage garments are comely—the robes
of life befit thee well. Canst thou falter in the choice between
life and awful death, joy and the lonely grave?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My child! my child!” cried Raguel, “God is merciful!
He will forgive thee! Do not choose death—can
I live without thee? Myrrah! Myrrah, <span class='it'>live</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A deathly paleness overspread the face of the poor,
tempted young creature; she wept. But ere long the
weakness passed again. Looking mildly upon her
accusers and the judges, she said, solemnly,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ye <span class='it'>know</span> that life is very sweet to me, for I am
young—that it is very fair to me, ye know, for there
are some ties binding me to the dear world, very hard
to break. I have said that the charge spoken against
me is untrue; and the God of heaven knows that I have
spoken honestly to you. It is He who hath given me
strength in this hour to declare that death, even the
horrible death you have said awaits me, is to be chosen
rather than life and recreancy to my religion—it is He
who will support me in the fiery trial.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My daughter,” exclaimed Raguel, “oh, take back
those words! God surely will forgive thee. I cannot
lose thee! Wilt thou not choose as they desire, then
thou art still mine own? Thou hast not thought,
Myrrah, thou canst not guess the death of torture that
awaits thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know it all, dear father. But God will give me
strength. The sin and the shame of this deed rests
not on us. No! thy long life of integrity and steadfastness
to the faith of our fathers shall not be shamed
by me. Thou couldst not desire it, my father!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Myrrah, for <span class='it'>my</span> sake, then!” cried Othniel,
for the first time speaking, as he approached hurriedly
and threw himself at her feet. “Retract that determination
while the pasha will permit thee. Wilt thou
leave me to die of grief; or more awful fate, to live
alone without thee in this dark world? Take back
thy word. I entreat thee, believe in their prophet,
and live!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There were no tearless eyes in that people gathered
in the pasha’s presence; in breathless interest turned
they all to the young girl, hoping to see her stern determination
giving way to these appeals. Myrrah
turned her gaze from him, the passionate appealing of
Othniel’s dark eyes was more than she could bear, but
her will bore her up gloriously, though the voice,
which shook as the aspen, told how poor human nature
suffered in that conflict between the pleadings of
love and the stern sense of duty.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Othniel, it is between my God and thee I am
called to determine. Thou canst not secure to me
life and thyself even one day, but <span class='it'>He</span> can give me,
when one short pang is passed, an eternity of bliss; and
<span class='it'>thou</span> mayest share it, my father! Othniel, would ye
have me choose for time—for earth?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There came no answer to the noble girl’s appeal.
None dared to offer one persuading word when this
solemn reply of the Jewess was made.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hast thou chosen, maiden?” said the pasha at
length, in a voice that was scarcely audible.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have,” was the reply; “thy people are not my
people, I dare not confess thy God, and in so doing
forsake and deny mine own.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When this answer was given, the pasha, by a violent
exertion mastered his emotion, and arose, saying,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let the prisoner be conveyed to the dungeon; on
the morrow, at sunset, she must pay the death-penalty.
Her own words have sealed her fate. Thus perish
the enemies and mockers of our holy religion; thus
shall the heathen learn that there is no God but God,
and that Mahomet is his prophet!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>These words were pronounced in a loud, stern voice;
but the heart of the man of power failed within him,
as he looked on the beautiful victim of the rigid laws
of his country; and therefore it was that he caused to
be made known to the father and the betrothed that
the prison door would be open to them (contrary to
the usual custom) all the following day.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;'>——</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
<p class='pindent'>And how were passed the flying hours of that last
day, granted to the young and the beloved, on earth?
In desperate and wild, but vain appeals, to her love of
life—in still more mournful entreaties by her devotion
to them who were the joy of her existence, that she
would suffer them to bear her confession of penitence
and faith to the pasha.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was pitiful to see the gray-haired father at one
moment pleading her by every consideration, to take
the words of the Mussulman upon her lips, even if her
heart rebelled, and the next, when her gentle, but
firmly expressed determination was reiterated, thanking
God that He gave to her strength to remain firm in
the face of every temptation. It was pitiful to see the
hopeless, almost sullen agony of the younger man, as
he sat beside the condemned all these wretched hours,
clasping her hands within his own, and folding her so
often to his bosom in a wordless embrace.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Such tears were shed within that dismal cell as
have no other source but broken hearts; such sighs
were breathed as only the autumn breeze gives utterance
to when the joy and the glory of earth is departing;
such prayers ascended, as the heart of man can
alone conceive when every earthly hope has failed,
when the terrors of death, and the more terrible agonies
of life surround the helpless soul!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Once, when a chance word had called to mind the
now almost forgotten, but despised and hated Orien
Fez, Myrrah was on the point of revealing to Othniel
the only cause she could conceive of his malice against
her. But the reflection that such knowledge would
<span class='pageno' title='131' id='Page_131'></span>
only spur her beloved on to the committal of deeds
which would end fatally to him, while it could not
possibly avail even if made known to the prejudiced
mind of the pasha, in securing her pardon and liberation—made
her hesitate, and finally resolve in carrying
that slight clue to the cause of her arrest, into the silence
and oblivion of the grave.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Only once did she take the name of the accuser on
her lips, and then it was to implore Othniel to forgive
him his part in their calamity, and to leave him to the
mercy of God.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And the fiery youth promised it—revenge and hate—all
the evil passions which have to do with life, died
that day within him—the future time, after that woful
night on which he thought with agony, heaven with
Myrrah was all he dared to hope or think of—it was a
thought of blessedness—a dream, a hope which the
merciful spirit of God breathed into his soul when it
laid in the dust of despair.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The hours of daylight waned, night was fast approaching—then
came forth from the prison cell Othniel,
and on his arm was leaning the stricken father,
Raguel. The old man’s eyes had looked their last
upon the fair young idol which he worshiped with a
reverence approaching that which he held for his
Maker.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He wept not as the guard turned the key behind him
on the iron door, which would open again ere long that
<span class='it'>she</span> might be led forth to—death. He made no resistance
as they went with him to his deserted dwelling.
A sense of the awful bereavement seemed to have
passed away—he even smiled as they led him through
the cheerful rooms of the home that was always made
blessed by her presence—and said how pleasant it was
to be in one’s home again, away from the dark and
frightful prison. There was a bird of splendid plumage
caged in the old man’s parlor, (every portion of which
bore evidence of a woman’s frequent presence and exquisite
taste,) it was the young girl’s pet—the gift of
Othniel in days long since gone by. The noise of the
intruders on the silence of the house, startled the little
warbler, and he poured forth the most delicious flood
of melody; the sound aroused the old man, with an exclamation
of delight he threw himself upon the couch
near by, and listened in rapt astonishment and joy to
the exquisite songster.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Filled with gloomy foreboding as he noticed this
sudden and total change in the old Jew, Othniel left
him in the care of gentle friends, and hastened away
in the direction of the prison once more.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The sun was setting as he neared the great walls,
and the youth saw a procession moving from the gates,
and a band of soldiers was guarding the death-doomed
prisoner! The crowd gathered and increased with
every step of the slowly moving procession—in solemn
silence Jew and Mahommedan strode together, for the
moment forgetful of all save the mournful cause which
brought them there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A moment Othniel moved on hastily, he would rejoin
Myrrah, would be with her to the last—then a
remembrance of his own weakness, and of the effect
his sorrow might produce upon her, stayed him—and
apart from the crowd he walked or crept, slowly and
heavily, for the burden of his unutterable sorrow was
too great to bear.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Afar in the distance, beyond the confines of the
town, the funeral pile was to be made—the sacrifice
pure and innocent as was ever brought to the altar,
was to be offered up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Alone, deprived of her comforting words, and removed
from the restraining presence of the old man,
Othniel thought on all that she had been to him in the
happy past, of all that she might have been in that future
to which they were wont to look with so much
hope. He called to mind her beauty, her youth, and
her innocence; the love which she cherished for all
that was good, and pure, and true; for her aged father,
and for his unworthy self.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And as he thought, darker and darker grew the
cloud that swept over his mind; the lightning of hope
one second blazed athwart it, but was close followed
by the heavy pealing thunder of despair. His step
grew feeble and slow. The crowd was fast passing
by him, soon they were all gone, and the youth still
tried to totter on, as a feeble little child—for what? to
look once more, but once on her beloved face—but not
to witness her agony, he could not endure that. Faintness
crept over his limbs—his eyes became dim—slower
and slower was his step, but still he strove desperately
to move on in that direction in which the
multitude had gone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At last he was forced to pause—his strength had all
deserted him. There were trees growing by the wayside,
and a little spring wound through the pleasant
grove. Othniel reached the shade, and half-fainting,
flung himself upon the ground. He bathed his burning
brow in the cool stream, he drank of the reviving
waters, but though by degrees strength came again to
his limbs, there was a faintness in his heart that would
not pass.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Soon impelled irresistibly to the road-side again,
Othniel looked toward the north—there whither the
crowd had gone. Great Heaven! the black, hateful
smoke already was staining the pure air! and a murmur
that arose from the great mass of people, a faint
sound of wo, was wafted to his ear on the soft breath
of evening. Inspired with new life and strength, he
moved again swiftly on. He must see indeed if it
were indeed a reality that they would sacrifice his bride,
his worshiped Myrrah, to that hellish lie the Moor had
conceived. The weakness of limb was gone with that
thought. Forward he rushed as borne on the eagle’s
wings, until he stood with the great multitude.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For a moment his heart failed him, and Othniel stood
gazing on the armed guard who were ranged about
the prisoner, on the blazing faggots, on the weeping
men and women—on the pallid and sorrowful countenance
of the pasha, on the motionless Orien Fez where
he proudly stood with his powerful relatives, and on
her, his beloved, adored Myrrah, who stood so calm,
so brave before the kindled fire, that was kindled to
consume <span class='it'>her</span>. Looking upon her as she stood thus,
alone and unsupported, save by the inward sustaining
consciousness of right and innocence, his resolve to
only look and then depart, was broken; he lost all self-control,
and with the force of a whirlwind rushed
<span class='pageno' title='132' id='Page_132'></span>
through the dense, astonished mass, that gave way
right and left before him; past the ranks of vigilant
soldiery with maniac speed, until in the centre of the
awfully charmed circle, he flung himself before the
pale, loving, and forgiving idol, about to be crushed and
destroyed by the hand of power.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In those past moments, so fraught with horror to all
about her, Othniel had been in all her thoughts—but
she had hoped to never see his face on earth again—she
had hoped that his dear voice might not come,
drowning the voice of the angel God had sent to comfort
and to strengthen her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Othniel!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Myrrah!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>None strove to separate them, as they stood clasped
thus in a last, fond embrace. Only one whispered
word of deathless love was interchanged—only one
silent prayer that moment heard in Heaven for each
other’s peace, and their arms unclasped; they stood
pale and trembling, gazing on one another, and then
Othniel was gone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A deep-drawn sigh escaped the awe-struck crowd
as that last evidence of human love had passed, and
the poor girl lifted her eyes to heaven, knowing that
consolation and strength could alone come from thence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The sun had quite sunk, and the long twilight began.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was not a fragment of cloud in all the clear,
calm sky—there was a stillness, holy, soul-elevating on
the earth—and the brightness of the Father’s glory
seemed alone waiting the frail child of earth, as she
stood there to offer life and all its blessedness and joy,
to a higher love, a loftier and purer faith.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They bound her to the stake; the flames—the hot
and angry flames pressed closely on her lovely form,
which <span class='it'>he</span> had but now clasped to his breaking heart.
And when the stars came out in heaven, and a horrible
loneliness crept over that deserted place—where a
dense black cloud ascended, and the flames had died
away, there was another saint in heaven worthy to
rest in Abraham’s bosom!</p>
<hr class='tbk122'/>
<p class='pindent'>There was silence that night in Myrrah’s earthly
home—an old man slept upon the couch her fairy form
had ofttimes pressed—slept, but he dreamed not. His
eyes were closed—she was not there to watch his quiet
slumber—there was a sign of such deep peace laid
upon his brow as Myrrah never saw there; Raguel’s
heart had ceased its pulsations—the father was sleeping
the eternal sleep!</p>
<p class='pindent'>The calmness and the smiles which the amazed
friends beheld in him as he came from that last parting
with his child, were but the presage of the everlasting
calmness, the unfading smile, for the old man’s
spirit had sought the distant land ere another morning
dawned—called home by the merciful and loving Father
of the Gentile and the Jew.</p>
<hr class='tbk123'/>
<p class='pindent'>And Othniel again became a wanderer. Not a murderer,
for Myrrah’s parting counsel and entreaty had
saved him from blood-guiltiness—and the life of Orien
Fez was never required at <span class='it'>his</span> hands. But Othniel
died young, when his heart had learned to say, “God
is merciful—His will is best,” and the sands of the
desert were his resting-place.</p>
<hr class='tbk124'/>
<div><h1><a id='night'></a>NIGHT THOUGHTS.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY GIFTIE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>      <span class='sc'>Darkness</span> is on the wave,</p>
<p class='line0'>        The night wind hummeth low,</p>
<p class='line0'>    And through the soft bright air the gleams</p>
<p class='line0'>        Of moonlight come and go,</p>
<p class='line0'>          And all is hushed to rest</p>
<p class='line0'>          Upon Sleep’s quiet breast,</p>
<p class='line0'>All save the human heart, that sighing waketh still —</p>
<p class='line0'>          The heart, that never sleeping —</p>
<p class='line0'>          Its lonely vigil keeping —</p>
<p class='line0'>Findeth still naught on earth its depths to fill.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>      Thou art like Sleep, oh, Night!</p>
<p class='line0'>        Thou hast a thrilling power,</p>
<p class='line0'>    To awe, e’en with thy loveliest things,</p>
<p class='line0'>        The heart in this still hour.</p>
<p class='line0'>          Thou bringest up the past —</p>
<p class='line0'>          All bright things we have lost —</p>
<p class='line0'>The dead whom we have loved look on us from the skies,</p>
<p class='line0'>          Yet naught of fear or wo,</p>
<p class='line0'>          That cloud man’s life below,</p>
<p class='line0'>Is in the gaze of their calm spiritual eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>      Ay—faces of the dead</p>
<p class='line0'>        Look downward from the sky.</p>
<p class='line0'>    They wear the same loved look and mien</p>
<p class='line0'>        They wore in days gone by,</p>
<p class='line0'>          Yet something dimly there.</p>
<p class='line0'>          Though cheek and brow be fair,</p>
<p class='line0'>Says chillingly that human love hath passed away.</p>
<p class='line0'>          They care for us no more —</p>
<p class='line0'>          Those dwellers on the shore</p>
<p class='line0'>Where night is lost in heaven’s effulgent day.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>      Still—all is still around;</p>
<p class='line0'>        I hear the sound of streams,</p>
<p class='line0'>    That through the long grass singing flow</p>
<p class='line0'>        Beneath the starlight beams</p>
<p class='line0'>          Thus let my soul repose,</p>
<p class='line0'>          Serene ’mid earthly woes,</p>
<p class='line0'>Till death shall come and bid its longings cease,</p>
<p class='line0'>          Till I quench this weary thirst,</p>
<p class='line0'>          Where immortal fountains burst,</p>
<p class='line0'>And heavenly voices welcome me to peace.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk125'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='133' id='Page_133'></span><h1><a id='mex'></a>BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i093.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0006' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>PALO ALTO.</span></p>
</div>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>The</span> army lay in quiet rest: for many a weary league</p>
<p class='line0'>Had we marched in battle order, combating with fatigue;</p>
<p class='line0'>But when Point Isabel arose between us and the sun,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the evening gun exploded, we felt our toil was done,</p>
<p class='line0'>And we laid us down in silence, and we slept without alarm,</p>
<p class='line0'>Each soldier resting on the ground, with his head across his arm.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But when the gray of morning made twilight in the east,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like shadows, from the prairie arose both man and beast;</p>
<p class='line0'>And the soldiers stretched their arms, and the steeds with neigh and stamp,</p>
<p class='line0'>With the rattling rolling reveillé put motion in the camp;</p>
<p class='line0'>And the sunrise-gun boomed loudly, when, as its sound declined,</p>
<p class='line0'>A dull, funereal response rolled heavily down the wind.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The soldiers paused and listened, each with questions in his eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>As round and red the tropic sun walked, Mars-like, up the skies; —</p>
<p class='line0'>It was no echo; never yet made echo sound like that,</p>
<p class='line0'>For echo lives in the mountain glen, and not on the prairie flat:</p>
<p class='line0'>We clasped our muskets closer as we hurried to parade,</p>
<p class='line0'>Our beating hearts replying to the distant cannonade.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Not a word had yet been spoken, though, still, the cumbrous sound</p>
<p class='line0'>Came rolling, like a tumbril, over the damp and dewy ground;</p>
<p class='line0'>But beetling brows and heaving breasts and half-suspended sighs</p>
<p class='line0'>Spoke the anger of the passionate hearts whose lightning lit our eyes;</p>
<p class='line0'>Then a murmur rose along our ranks no discipline could drown,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the burthen of the chorus was the syllables—“Fort Brown!”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Just then our gallant general, on his favorite white horse,</p>
<p class='line0'>Rode slowly and serenely, like a father, through his force;</p>
<p class='line0'>But as the ranks “presented arms,” another murmur ran —</p>
<p class='line0'>“God bless old Rough and Ready,” loud and deep, from man to man.</p>
<p class='line0'>The brave old heart looked gratified, but his eyes sunk slowly down,</p>
<p class='line0'>For he thought of his companions who were battling at Fort Brown.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But scarcely had they fallen, when the air became so still</p>
<p class='line0'><span class='pageno' title='134' id='Page_134'></span></p>
<p class='line0'>We heard the campanero<a id='r2'/><a href='#f2' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[2]</span></sup></a> cry a league off, on the hill.</p>
<p class='line0'>The old man’s gray eyes glistened, and his horse reversed his ears,</p>
<p class='line0'>And stamped his hoofs, and neighed aloud, as laughing at our fears:</p>
<p class='line0'>We stood like statues, listening, when <span class='sc'>Taylor</span> made a sign,</p>
<p class='line0'>And <span class='sc'>Walker</span> left his Rangers, riding quickly down the line.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>That night the Texan hero was missed by all our men;</p>
<p class='line0'>But we smiled, for well we knew that he soon would come again,</p>
<p class='line0'>For a braver, or a better, or a more chivalrous knight</p>
<p class='line0'>Never put his lance in rest in the days when might was right;</p>
<p class='line0'>And he had the fox’s cunning, and the eagle’s restless eye,</p>
<p class='line0'>With his courage, to see danger, and that danger to defy.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Two days passed by, and hour by hour the army moved, with gloom</p>
<p class='line0'>On heart and soul, as though each man stood gazing on his tomb;</p>
<p class='line0'>But all at once a sudden cry!—our hearts sprung, like a steed</p>
<p class='line0'>Who sees the flash and hears the gun, then headlong ploughs the mead —</p>
<p class='line0'>Then Walker’s name—another shout!—and each one, with content</p>
<p class='line0'>In breast and brain, accoutred, rushed delighted from his tent.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>We all knew what was coming, when at the reveillé,</p>
<p class='line0'>We saw the Texan head his men, and heard the laugh of <span class='sc'>May</span>,</p>
<p class='line0'>For all had learned the news, and knew, that ere two suns went down</p>
<p class='line0'>Our army would be rolling, like a tempest, on Fort Brown;</p>
<p class='line0'>And that the foe in thousands were gathering in our way —</p>
<p class='line0'>Human panthers, couched in silence, expectant of their prey.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>At last we heard the order, and along the grassy plain</p>
<p class='line0'>Our army, like a sparkling snake, uncoiled its glittering train,</p>
<p class='line0'>And silently, but earnestly, we marched from dawn till night,</p>
<p class='line0'>And then laid down in silence till the breaking of the light:</p>
<p class='line0'>No fires disturbed the darkness, no sound betrayed our camp,</p>
<p class='line0'>Save, at intervals the countersign, with the sentinel’s measured tramp.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Next morning we pursued our march: it was a sultry day;</p>
<p class='line0'>The sunlight flickered like a flame along our sandy way;</p>
<p class='line0'>But no one lingered, for we knew our foemen were before,</p>
<p class='line0'>And, like blood-hounds howling on the scent, we trailed the distant gore;</p>
<p class='line0'>For we thought of our associates, and the thought had power to drown</p>
<p class='line0'>All human feelings, for we heard the cannon at Fort Brown.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>For twelve miles unmolested had we marched, when brazen noon</p>
<p class='line0'>Beheld the enemy deploy along the green lagoon:</p>
<p class='line0'>Our hearts beat high, for we were few, and scarcely one before</p>
<p class='line0'>Had fleshed his sword in battle, or had heard the cannon’s roar;</p>
<p class='line0'>But Lexington and Concord and Bunker-Hill beheld</p>
<p class='line0'>Just such recruits victorious in the iron days of old.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And now the word was passed—to halt, and each, in turn, was seen</p>
<p class='line0'>To stoop beside the limpid lake and fill his hot canteen;</p>
<p class='line0'>And then the order came to march; and now our foemen lay</p>
<p class='line0'>A musket shot before us, a barrier in our way,</p>
<p class='line0'>When, like a Paladin of old, <span class='sc'>Blake</span>, brave as brave could be,</p>
<p class='line0'>Sprung from the lines, and spurred his steed along the grassy lea.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>We saw him gallop toward the foe, and our passions thrilled us, when</p>
<p class='line0'>We viewed him ride along their lines and coolly count their men,</p>
<p class='line0'>And turn and gallop backward, and grasp our general’s hand,</p>
<p class='line0'>Then silently resume his place, and head his little band:</p>
<p class='line0'>We paused, when, rushing, roaring, whirling, whistling, wildly by,</p>
<p class='line0'>Came the iron rain of Battle, while his thunder shook the sky.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Like a cloud the smoke closed round, and like steeds to frenzy lashed</p>
<p class='line0'>The black eyes of our batteries their deadly fury flashed:</p>
<p class='line0'>We were maniacs; we were furies; we were fiends, not mortal men,</p>
<p class='line0'>And each one fought as if his arm contained the strength of ten;</p>
<p class='line0'>But the smoke grew denser round us, for, like a funeral pyre,</p>
<p class='line0'>The prairie blazed before our eyes—a sea of surging fire.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>It was a fearful sight, but we fought for life and fame,</p>
<p class='line0'>And incessantly and dauntlessly we answered flame with flame,</p>
<p class='line0'>When, breaking from the enemy’s left, a thousand lancers dashed,</p>
<p class='line0'>A human avalanche, on us; but our batteries fiercely flashed,</p>
<p class='line0'>And we drove them back like deer; but our brains went round and round,</p>
<p class='line0'>When <span class='sc'>Ringold</span>, staggering on his steed, fell, dying, to the ground!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But <span class='sc'>Ridgely</span> took the hero’s place, and, wheeling to the right,</p>
<p class='line0'>Plunged with his light artillery in the thickest of the fight;</p>
<p class='line0'>And <span class='sc'>Duncan</span>, wheeling to the left, poured in his shot like rain,</p>
<p class='line0'>While our never-ceasing muskets, like a hurricane swept the plain.</p>
<p class='line0'>One moment, like a herd of wolves, they stood, then broke and fled,</p>
<p class='line0'>As our army dashed in swift pursuit o’er the dying and the dead!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But the sun was setting fast, and darkness slowly fell,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like a pall, above the fallen who had fought so long and well;</p>
<p class='line0'>And we heard our leader’s summons, and our trumpets, call us back,</p>
<p class='line0'>To refreshment and repose in our lonely bivouac;</p>
<p class='line0'>And we laid us down in silence, surrounded by the slain,</p>
<p class='line0'>And slept the sleep of conquerors on Palo Alto’s plain.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='footnotemark'/>
<div class='footnote'>
<table summary='footnote_2'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' class='footnoteid'/>
<col span='1'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'>
<div class='footnote-id' id='f2'><a href='#r2'>[2]</a></div>
</td><td>
<p class='pindent'>The <span class='it'>Campanero</span>, a Mexican bird: so called from its
cry, which resembles the clang of a bell.</p>
</td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr class='tbk126'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='135' id='Page_135'></span><h1><a id='wilk'></a>THE WILKINSONS.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>A TRUE STORY</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>More</span> than fifty years ago, I was wont to sit at the
feet of a lady, then advancing considerably in years,
and to listen to her narrative of Indian wars and
French aggressions, until it seemed to me, on closing
my eyes, that I could call before me troops of hostile
aborigines dancing, by the light of a burning dwelling,
around prostrate prisoners, and celebrating their victory
with tortures upon the victims of their vengeance.
Or I could discern in the distance the fleets or troops
of the French king, rushing upon some weakly defended
colonial settlement, and sweeping away the
inhabitants, as if the full reward of a Frenchman’s toil
was an Englishman’s blood. I cannot say that I had
any very correct view of the geographical limits where
such scenes were enacted; nor am I able now to say
that my conceptions of the French or Indian character
were made wholly faultless by the exactness of the
lady’s account. ’Tis marvelous how the minds of
some persons become warped by early prejudices or
<span class='it'>fears</span>, but my instructive female friend, while she was
no exception to the general rule, did not, I imagine,
carry her prejudices much beyond those of persons
who would probably sneer at, if not condemn her,
should I tell the tales as she narrated them to me. But
I cannot so tell them. Often indeed have I tried to
recall the story, to give it shape and continuity, but in
vain; I can only recollect some vague fragments of
different tales, which she deemed history, and bring
back the impression which her narrative caused upon
my mind. It is certainly a sort of pleasure thus to fish
in pools whither are gathered the currents of other
years, and seek to drag to the shore, for present use,
what has so long remained undisturbed beneath the
waters. It is pleasant but profitless, for I cannot succeed;
and even if I could, is it likely that what was
so calculated to amuse me as a child, would be profitable
and pleasant with half a century’s experience on
my head since they were made its tenants?</p>
<p class='pindent'>An opportunity occurred last summer to refresh my
memory, while I was on a visit to that part of the
country in which I heard the stories. The good old
woman had survived those who started in life with
her, had buried the companions of her children, and
witnessed indeed the sepulture, or mourned the death
of most of the children of those who had been her
contemporaries; but she survived, and when I presented
myself before her she was knitting what appeared
to be the mate of the same stocking upon which
she was engaged two generations back. Time had
done no more for her locks than he had for mine, and
so we met on conditions as newly equal as were those
which distinguished our circumstances fifty years before.
After some conversation, by which I supplied,
at her request, information that served as some required
links to the chain of my own history, I ventured
to ask for a repetition of one or two of those stories
which were wont, in olden times, to keep my
little feet from the ice, and my tender hands from the
snow-balls.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, don’t you remember them?” said she.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not the narrative, but I distinctly recall some incidents,
and the general effect.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you must remember them, for Mr. Wilmer’s
daughter has frequently read to me some of your stories,
in which I recognised my own share in the composition.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It may be so. I may have drawn upon memory
instead of imagination, and thus have been retailing
your supplies instead of dealing in my own wares.
And to say the truth, Aunt Sarah, I should be very
happy now to owe you credit for a whole story.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alas! I have found so few who would listen to
the whole of any story, that I have forgotten most that
I ever knew, and as books have been greatly multiplied
of late, neither I nor those who would have been
my auditors have any thing to regret.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cannot you recall the principal events in the account
which you gave me of the Wilkinson family?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you will have patience with my feeble voice,
and assist with your own recollection my even more
feeble memory, I will attempt that story, especially as
certain events have served to keep a portion of it, at
least, fresh in my mind, and especially as the act of
narrating it will call back to my memory the times
when I hired you to forbear outdoor sports, too rude,
in the weather too inclement for your tender age. I
have always considered that Providence had much to
do with the affairs of</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:0.5em;margin-bottom:0.5em;'>‘THE WILKINSON FAMILY.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The persons concerned in the narrative which I
have to repeat, are now nearly all departed. Some
sleep beneath the sod in the rear of the meeting-house
on yonder hill, and some are of the number of those
who wait until the sea shall give up its dead, and like
the informant of Job I may almost say, “that I only
have escaped to tell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>One day the stage which passed between Plymouth
and Boston, at stated periods, and rarely varying in its
time of passing any particular point more than two or
three hours, (the whole distance, you know, is now
<span class='pageno' title='136' id='Page_136'></span>
performed in one hour and a half by rail-road.) One
day the stage stopped at the small house of Mrs. Wendall,
near Stony Brook, and a young, well-dressed lady
was seen to alight, with an infant, and enter the house.
A large trunk was deposited, and the stage passed on.
It was soon known throughout the village that a lady
with whom Mrs. Wendall had formed an acquaintance
at a boarding-house in Boston, had come to spend
some time with her. Curiosity and courtesy induced
several persons to call on Mrs. W. and her new guest,
though little was seen of the latter, excepting on Sunday,
when she was early at meeting, and devout in
her deportment. She was handsome certainly, and
much more refined in her manners than most of our
people. She declined entering into much social intercourse,
assigning as a reason that she was in delicate
health, and censure was therefore busy with her name,
and the conduct of Mrs. W. for receiving and entertaining
her. But an application having been made,
about this time, to the clergyman to admit her to
membership in the church, certain papers were
exhibited <span class='it'>to him</span>, and his sanction of her wish, and
his introducing her to his family, at once settled the
question of propriety. To a few leading questions,
which some of her more inquisitive female neighbors
chose to put, in what they denominated a spirit of
Christian feeling, and which they hoped would be
answered with Christian candor, the lady gave no
definite answer, but contented herself and quieted the
guests with the remark, that whatever she had to say
of herself she would make known without interrogation,
and whenever she declined an answer to such
questions as had been put, it would be because such
an answer involved the secrets of other persons.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This mode of treating the inquisitive was effective
if not satisfactory, and as Mrs. Bertrand did not thrust
herself upon any one, and as both the clergyman and
Mrs. W. were satisfied with the lady, things were
allowed to remain. It was supposed that Mrs. Wendall,
in her semi-annual visits to Boston, received
some money for Mrs. Bertrand. And at the death of
Mrs. Wendall, Mrs. B. entered upon the possession of
her neat house, and became the head of a little family,
consisting of herself, her daughter Amelia, and one
female in the character of assistant.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The education of Amelia was conducted by her
mother—we had then no school in which <span class='it'>education</span>
could be acquired—and the home lessons, by precept
and example, which Mrs. B. gave to her daughter
were effective in the formation of one of the most
lovely characters that ever blessed our neighborhood.
The melancholy, fixed and sometimes communicative,
of the mother had an effect upon the daughter. Not
indeed to infuse into her moral character any morbid
sensibility, but to check the exuberance of youthful
feeling, and to chasten and direct a girlish fancy.
There was religion, too, in all her thoughts—religion
lying at the foundation of her character—religion operating
upon all her plans and directing all their execution.
There was no time when she seemed without
this power, no time when she came into its possession.
She lived in the atmosphere of her mother; she was
from the cradle a child of prayer, and she participated
in thousands of acts of goodness and plans of beneficence,
of which none but herself and mother knew the
source, but which made the heart of the afflicted beat
with joy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>While such goodness blessed the dwelling of Mrs.
Bertrand, it was diffused through the neighborhood.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I dwell on these things because I have always
thought that the loveliness of Mrs. B.’s little family
circle, though peculiar, undoubtedly, was imitable, and
that the same education in the parent, and the same
care for the child, would result in similar excellencies.
But somehow, I never could make my views understood—and
people around seemed to be impressed with
the idea that what they admired in the mother and
daughter was some special endowment by Providence,
not attainable by any others. It is in this matter
pretty much as it was with the minister’s garden—all
admired its beauty, and each was willing to share in the
excellence of its produce, but we had few who were
willing to think that its beauty and usefulness resulted
from his culture, and that with the same care their
own weedy patch might have become rich in beauty
and profitable in fruits.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Such, however, was the chastened excellence of Mrs.
Bertrand’s character, such the beauty of her life, I
might add, indeed, of her person, and such the sweetness
of disposition and almost angelic temper and devotion
of Amelia, that perhaps it was not strange that
many should regard their domestic and social virtues
and their Christian graces as inimitable. Oh, how often
have I sat down in my chamber and resolved, with
God’s blessing, to copy into my heart some of the heavenly
lessons of their lives, and to exhibit in my conduct
and conversation something of the lesser graces
of this mother and her daughter. Alas! while I feel
much benefit in myself from the examples and excellence
with which I was occasionally associated, I
have little hope that I ever made others sensible of my
efforts.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is certain that our whole town felt and acknowledged
the benefit of Mrs. Bertrand’s residence among
us; and, strange as it may appear, I do not remember
that any envious tongues were employed to diminish
the credit of her efforts, or to lessen her power of usefulness.
It was a beautiful homage to female excellence
which our neighborhood paid to the virtues of
mother and daughter, and I have often thought that
some credit was due to us all for thus appreciating
what was so truly beautiful, without allowing the disparity
between us and them to excite envy. Perhaps,
however, it was the vast difference between us that
served to keep down jealousy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>During a violent gale that followed the vernal equinox,
a vessel coming, I think, from Havana, and bound
for Boston, was wrecked on one of the outer capes of
the bay. She strode at some distance from the shore;
and went to pieces in the gale. It was believed that
all on board had perished as several dead bodies
washed ashore. One person, however, was taken up
lashed to a spar; he exhibited some evidence of remaining
vitality, and was put into a vessel to be conveyed
to Plymouth, but the tide and wind favored the
landing at this end of the bay, and he was conveyed to
<span class='pageno' title='137' id='Page_137'></span>
a solitary house on the point of land at the mouth of
the river. There medical men ascertained that an arm
was broken, and some injury sustained in one of the
sufferer’s legs. Surgical aid was given, and careful
nursing was required. This was most difficult to procure—money
was to be had, for the pockets of the
sufferer were filled with gold coin, and subsequently
portions of the ceiling of the ship’s cabin which washed
ashore, were found to be studded with guineas, driven
into the boards that they might drift ashore. As the
suffering man was found to have similar coin with him,
it was supposed that these waifs were his also.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Bertrand was at the time quite too unwell to
visit the Nook, as the place was called, where the
sick man lay—so Amelia went with such appliances
for the sick chamber as her mother could send, and
afterward she obtained permission of her mother to
remain and assist one of the other persons of the village
to take care of the sick man, that the family
whose rooms he occupied, might not be drawn from
their necessary labor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The shipwrecked person seemed to be about forty
years of age; it was difficult to judge of his person, but
his face and head were attractive. He was rather
patient than resigned; and if he forbore to complain of
his suffering, it was evident that the pride of a man
habitually trusting to himself, rather than the Christian
submitting to Providence, restrained his tongue.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was nothing in the case of the sufferer to
render his situation particularly perilous, unless a fever
should supervene, so said the doctor, but he also confessed
that the symptoms indicated more than ordinary
exhaustion of shipwreck and the consequence of broken
limbs, so he advised a disposition of worldly affairs, as
one of the best means of tranquillizing his system.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the night, while Amelia relieved the watch of the
other person, the sufferer called her to him, and when
she had disposed his limbs in a favorable position, he
remarked that during the whole of her kind attendance
on him he had never seen her face—her voice he had
heard, it seemed familiar to him, and the name by
which she was called was one that he could never
forget.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Amelia drew the curtain aside, and the light of the
night-lamp gave the patient a full view of her face. He
started:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And that face, too!—looks and name, too! Do I
dream, or is it real?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you see?” said Amelia with kindness.
“You seem astonished at my name—is it so unusual,
or so familiar to you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You surely are not of this place? And the
name —”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I <span class='it'>am</span> of this place—though I was not born here—and
though <span class='it'>Amelia</span> is the name of my mother, I have
reason to believe that I was named for the daughter of
one of our excellent neighbors.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is so—yes. I must have been dreaming—perhaps
I am feverish. Will you talk a little, however,
and let me hear your voice?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you feel able to hear me <span class='it'>talk</span>, perhaps you
would prefer to hear me read a short passage in the
Bible.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The patient rather <span class='it'>consented</span>, than desired it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was the next day a much longer conversation
between the patient and his young nurse, in which he
took occasion to utter opinions upon religious matters
quite heretical.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I did not come hither, captain,” said Amelia, “to
dispute upon religious subjects with you. I am no
disputant. It is my duty, however, to say distinctly,
lest you should mistake my silence, that in my opinion
you are quite wrong, and that your present situation is
such as to render your irreligious impressions the more
fearful to me as they are the more dangerous to
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why then will you not discuss the question of the
truth of Christianity with me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Simply because I do not think that I am competent
to the task; and—but no.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean by your unassigned second
reason?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I mean simply that I do not think you wish to be convinced
of the truth of religion.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is hard—but I do wish to believe it if it is
true.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Captain Wilkinson, if you really wish to believe
in the great truths of Christianity, I will invite the
clergyman to come down hither and converse with
you. Tell me—not now, but tell me after thinking
maturely upon it, say this evening, whether you really
desire information.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At night it was again Amelia’s turn to sit with the
patient. He intimated that he continued of the same
opinion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then I will send for the minister.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let me, while you remain, talk with you, we will
have the parson afterward.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Considerable time was spent by the captain in presenting
his views of theology. They were crude and
disjointed. He had been poorly instructed, and having
led a life of great freedom he felt it much easier to
deny the existence of any law, than to reconcile his
conduct to the requirements of what was declared to
be a divine law. “Nay,” said he, “truth, honesty,
sincerity, sobriety, and all these virtues, are only the
result of long experience, and men willing to enforce
them as a sort of mercantile convenience have declared
them to be a part of the requirements of a divine power.
The very fact that they are found to be convenient to
social and public life, proves that they are mere deductions
from general experience, and not the requirements
of God.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So then you think that a God who is the father as
well as the creator of mankind, would not make the
rules which He gave for man’s government subservient
to man’s happiness?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me, Amelia, does your happiness result from
your obedience?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So far as I am obedient I am happy. It is my mortification
to believe that my obedience is too often in
the <span class='it'>act</span>, rather than in the will. It is easy for me to
obey the command of my mother and to have her satisfied—but
God who sees the heart, undoubtedly
judges me closer, and knowing it, I lack the happiness
which perfect obedience would insure.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='138' id='Page_138'></span>
“Do you see the relation between the actor of a
present life and his happiness or misery?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, I do not. But I believe that such a relation
does exist, and though I may not be able now to show
that relation in others, yet I believe it becomes manifest
at some period; certainly where they are not
traceable in this world they become evident in the
next.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That next world is a sort of safety-valve to those
who argue on religious topics with men like me. But
if you could show me the relations which exist between
your conduct and your present situation, or the
dependence of my situation upon my present conduct,
I might believe that there was some law—and when
there is a law there must be a law-giver.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alas, captain, the discussion of causes and effects
will not much benefit you at the present time, especially
with such an one as I for an expounder. What
you need is not argument, but reflection. Be assured
of one thing, religion has had stronger antagonists than
you, and they have been defeated, convinced, converted.
But what you need—and captain you do need
<span class='it'>that</span>—is to cease to argue in your own breast, and
against what I perceive to be your own convictions—confess
plainly now that you have made up your scepticism
to meet certain circumstances of your own life,
and that you are not prepared to admit of the connection
of revealed religion and the terrible consequences
of a neglect of its requirements.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What circumstance of my life,” said the captain,
with much emphasis, “what circumstance of my life
has thus induced me to shut my eyes and heart against
truth?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That I do not know. But I believe if you will go
over in your own mind candidly the events of your
life, you will confess that, if they have not brought
upon you the present fearful visitations, they have at
least served to make you argue yourself into infidelity.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Amelia, what you say may be true—I will think of
the matter. It would be curious if I should be brought
back to my early belief by one so young and delicate
as you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My youth and ignorance may be altogether in
favor of such a result. You can have little or no pride
in a discussion with me, and thus, instead of seeking
to sustain an argument for the sake of a triumph, you
might be willing to listen to the truths which I utter
for the sake of the truth. But you intimated a disposition
to review your life, and see whether you cannot
find some relation between your past conduct and your
present scepticism. And permit me to say that your
present situation, though not dangerous perhaps, is one
that ought to suggest to you the inquiry, whether the
foundation on which you have placed your future condition
is safe, and the conversation which we have
already had is as much I am sure as the doctor would
permit were he here. Sleep will be advantageous to
your physical powers. I am confident that calm reflection,
and honest retrospection must be profitable to
your mind.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She talks like a parson,” said the captain, as he
settled himself for sleep or for thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>More than two hours had elapsed before Amelia
could discover that her patient was asleep, though he
was perfectly still. At length the heavy, regular
breathing denoted that he had succeeded in his effort
to sleep, or had failed in his efforts to keep awake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Before Amelia saw the captain again she had visited
her mother and made her acquainted with the state of the
patient’s mind. Mrs. B. could discover in the remarks
of the captain which her daughter repeated to
her, little else than the willingness of a sick or lame
man to be courteous and civil to a voluntary nurse,
and she expressed such an opinion to her daughter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think otherwise, mother,” said Amelia, “not so
much from the words of the captain as from his tone,
his earnestness of expression, and his readiness to return
to the conversation whenever other persons leave
the room.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have not so much confidence, Amelia, in the re-adoption
of early religious opinions upon a sick bed;
as some persons have. I love the virtue, the piety
which extends along from the nursery to the grave,
blessing and sanctifying the whole existence, and forming
a complete chain of moral life, a religious growth.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, dear mother, if that chain has been ruptured
by extraordinary violence, is it not best to connect the
links? There may be less of continued perfection, but
the reproduction of a part is worth the effort.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The captain seems to have made a strong impression
upon you, and to have excited unusual interest for
a stranger.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Amelia did not blush, because she did not understand
what would ordinarily be inferred from such a remark
as her mother’s.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not know when I have felt a greater interest
for one of whom I know so little. But undoubtedly a
part of the interest is mingled with curiosity. He is a
man of some education, of much travel, and of more
observation than masters of ships generally have. But
there seems to be some event in his past life upon
which he is strongly sensitive, and to which he is constantly
referring; especially when a little feverish and
in disturbed sleep.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I need not say to you, my child, that you will hear
as little of such involuntary talk as possible, and never
repeat a word of it unless it be to <span class='it'>his</span> advantage.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I understand, mother. But I have already told the
captain that I thought his scepticism was referable to
some past event, and he seemed to be struck by the
remark.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will find that you were correct; and you will
discern, moreover, that while he is sceptical from <span class='it'>past</span>
occurrences, he postpones investigating the foundation
of his opinions, on account of the interference
which a correction of error would have on some <span class='it'>future</span>
event. Men deceive themselves, or try to, just as much
as they try to deceive others; and the whole course of
the immoral man is one of deception, self-deception,
from which rarely any thing but death arouses him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Amelia received some advice with regard to her
conduct, and some instruction relative to her proposed
argument, and then took leave of her mother to enter
upon her turn of duty in the chamber of the captain,
promising to return the next morning.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='139' id='Page_139'></span>
But the next morning Mrs. Bertrand looked in vain
for her daughter, and more than ever regretted that she
herself was unable to share in the duties which Amelia
assumed. It was not until evening that a lad came to
the house, and brought a letter from Amelia, addressed
to her mother. This is a copy of the letter hastily, but
I believe faithfully made.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;margin-bottom:0.5em;'><span class='it'>Thursday, Noon.</span></p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Dear Mother</span>,—You will wonder at my absence,
and still more that, not returning in the morning, I did
not send word to you; before I conclude this hasty
note, you will see not only why I did not come, but
why I now write.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After some arrangements made for the night, the
other attendant left me with the patient, who seemed
unusually restless, and were it not for the large box in
which his leg is confined, he certainly would have left
the bed. I sought to soothe him, and it was only when
I reopened the conversation of my former visit, that he
seemed to forget his pain.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You remarked,” said he, “that scepticism is often
referable to some former error of life, and the sceptic
is only seeking to hide his fears of consequences in
another state of existence, by creating a belief that
there is no other state.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That was the inference, if not the words of my
remarks,” said I.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I have thought much of it since you left me,
and I have wished for life to repair if possible some
injuries which I have done to others. The very
feverish condition in which I find myself, and which I
heard the doctor say would be dangerous should it come,
leads me to fear that I shall not be able to accomplish
my wish; and struck with the peculiar expression of
your face, and the coincidence of your name —”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is my mother’s name,” said I.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you were born in this town?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I gave no answer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nevertheless, I will yield to the suggestion which I
have felt, if you will allow me, and show you that
while I have greatly erred, and may refer my scepticism
to my errors, I yet have sought to repair a part
of the injuries I did in my youth.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I heard your statement, should I be at liberty to
tell my mother, because I do not like to hear anything
which I may not communicate to her; and, of course,
I could not tell, and she would not hear what was told
to me in strict confidence?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The captain reached his uninjured arm over the
bed-side, and pressed my hand. I understood it to be
a commendation of your instructions to me, and a
consent that I should be at liberty to repeat what he
said. But, oh, what a fever was scorching his skin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was left with a fortune, a good education, and a
knowledge of mercantile life. Too young to have the
guidance of myself—but I escaped what the world
calls gross dissipation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At 21 I was married to a poor, friendless girl,
whom I had <span class='it'>injured</span>. I was married in the morning
at 6 o’clock, and in half an hour left the home of my
wife, whom I never saw again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I returned from Europe in about a year, having
added much to my knowledge of the world, and to my
means of enjoying it. In New York, I met a young
lady, whose excellence in every female qualification
so enraptured me, let me say rather, so awakened in
me the slumbering affection of my heart, that I became
attentive, and found that I had been successful in inducing
love for me in her breast. I will not, for my
mind now seems to waver, I will not attempt to describe
the progress of my courtship. But when I returned
from another voyage to England, I led Amelia
to the altar. We were married in Grace Church; and
if mortal ever felt happy, certainly I did, as I handed
my wife into the parlor of her distant relative with
whom she resided—her father and mother having been
dead for some years.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Some time in the course of that day, for we were
married early in the morning, letters were received at
the house. One was addressed to Amelia—of course,
with her family name. I remember now, as she opened
it, she turned the letter over, and pointing to the superscription,
which was in a bold, masculine hand, remarked,
that if it was an offer, it came rather late.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Too late for any thing <span class='it'>now</span>,’ said her relatives.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My own heart seemed to sink within me.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Amelia opened the letter. I looked at her as she
read it. She turned pale, and for a moment I thought
she would have fainted; but rallying herself, she placed
the letter in my hand, with the single remark, ‘It is
for you to explain this.’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The letter was from some one in Albany—it contained
only these words:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘If the mail is not detained, this will reach you before
you are married. Ask Captain Wilkinson whether
he has not already a wife in Vermont.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;margin-top:0.5em;margin-bottom:0.5em;'>‘<span class='sc'>A Friend.</span>’</p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“For one moment I hesitated whether I would not
deny the charge implied, and take Amelia with me
to Europe—her means with my wealth would have
sustained us. But truth is always ready for utterance—and
before the lie could be formed, I was ready to
confess.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Whatever wrong may have been done,’ said
Amelia, ‘all I ask is that it may not be increased.’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘The answer to the question in the letter,’ said I
‘is in the <span class='it'>affirmative</span>.’ And before explanation could
be given, Amelia had been conducted to her chamber,
and I took my hat and left the house. I have not seen
her since, nor have I ever been able to ascertain her
residence. She is probably dead, as is certainly also
the unfortunate woman in Vermont, who died soon after
my exposure. I have been in business, and I have
traveled much; I have wasted much wealth, and acquired
much. I have none to share with me my property,
and no one to inherit it when I depart, which
must be soon, as I believe the child born in Vermont
died soon after its mother’s decease. The deep solicitude
which you have manifested for my welfare, temporal
and spiritual, has not been without its effect, and
I have resolved that, whether I recover or not, you
shall inherit the remainder of my fortune, either by
right or by bequest; read—read a little—the Bible, or
some from the Prayer Book.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I did read, and he seemed calmer for a moment,
and then he said, “you now see what are the errors—the
<span class='pageno' title='140' id='Page_140'></span>
sins—and the misery of my past life; I give up
scepticism; I do believe,” and he added, “ ‘help thou
mine unbelief.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The face of Captain W. at this moment appeared inflamed
and swollen, and he became uneasy and quite
delirious—and all his symptoms were aggravated.
Early this morning Dr. F. pronounced the new disease
to be the small-pox. Of course, I have been exposed,
and I shall now remain in the house, and while I am
able, shall attend upon the Captain. Let no one else
be exposed to the contagion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But, dear mother, what is this which I have heard?
I know that you once resided in New York. I have
seen in your desk, whither you had sent me, letters
addressed to you in a name different from that which
we both have. I saw also, in the same place, but never
ventured to mention the discovery to you, a miniature
which much resembled Capt. Wilkinson. What am I
to think? Is this your husband—are you the woman
whom he deceived—if so, who and what am <span class='it'>I</span>? Certainly
I cannot be <span class='it'>his</span> child. Let me know—let me
know all; but whatever else happen, oh, dear, dear
mother, let me not lose the title of your affectionate
<span class='it'>daughter</span>.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;margin-top:0.5em;margin-bottom:0.5em;'><span class='sc'>Amelia.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The next day Amelia received a note from her mother.
It was short and written under great agitation.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>My Dear Child</span>,—The information which your
letter conveyed has sent me to my bed. You are exposed
to the contagion of the small-pox; may God protect
you! I cannot doubt that Capt. Wilkinson is the
person whom you suppose him to be, if so, he is indeed
your father. Be kindly attentive to him, and pray for</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.5em;'>Your affectionate mother,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-bottom:0.5em;'><span class='sc'>Amelia Bertrand</span>.</p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The information which this note conveyed struck
Amelia with painful surprise; if Capt. Wilkinson was,
indeed, the man to whom her mother had been married—and
there seemed to be no reason to doubt it—how
could he be <span class='it'>her</span> father? The poor girl sat wrapt in
doubt and perplexity. If he was her father, she knew
the duty which she owed to him—and she blessed God
that at any risk she had been allowed to minister to his
physical comforts, and, as she had reason to believe,
to his spiritual aid; and she would renew her devotion
to him. But what could she say of her mother’s conduct—her
pure-hearted, her saintly mother? Is there
shame on her name, too? Amelia arose up with firmness,
and as she passed to the sick-chamber of her
father, she said to herself, “I never knew her to say or
do aught unbecoming a Christian lady; should not
nearly twenty years experience teach me to trust to
her purity and truth, rather than yield to doubt, which
unexplained circumstances suggest. I will have faith
in <span class='it'>her</span> who has never deceived nor has ever distrusted
me. <span class='it'>Misfortunes</span> are around us—but may God shield
us from <span class='it'>shame</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Wilkinson soon passed through the worst
stages of the loathsome disease, but he was still held to
his bed by the broken limbs. One morning he missed
his nurse, and on inquiry, learned that she was confined
to her chamber with evident symptoms of the
small-pox. This was most painful to him, as he felt
that she had taken the disease by her attendance on
him. “Am I destined,” said he, “to bring distress
into every family I visit, and repay the hospitality of a
stranger with misery, and perhaps death? If she should
ever recover it is likely that the ravages of the disease
will destroy the beauty of a face that made the loveliness
of the mind so captivating. Could I roll back
twenty years of my life, could I forget, or could heaven
forgive the follies which have caused so much
misery, surely this young woman would, however disease
may mar her beauty, be to me all that I had desired
in the charms of one I ruined and in the mental
excellence of her I shamefully imposed upon. How
like the two Amelias is she—the gentle manners of the
first, the mental excellence of the second. How can I
compensate her for the distress which my advent here
has wrought? If my life and hers are spared that
must be my study. Heaven helping me, I here dedicate
the remainder of my existence and my wealth to
compensate, as far as both will go, those who have
suffered by me, and when the injured individuals cannot
be found, may my efforts for the good of others be
accepted instead of the direct compensation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is a Christian resolution,” said the physician,
who had entered the room unnoticed by his patient.
“And as I have heard your remarks by mere accident,
will you allow me to express my congratulation at
what I regard a much greater change in your mental
than in your physical condition, though the latter is
truly hopeful?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where two such physicians as yourself and my late
gentle, meek nurse are employed, we may hope for
every thing of which the patient is capable; but let me
add in truth, doctor, that skillful as you have shown
yourself with my broken and bruised limbs, and my
painful disease, I think Amelia has shown no less skill
in dealing with an unbalanced mind and an untoward
will.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, captain, neither of us hope for much success
without a blessing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah! such an attendant as Amelia was in itself a
blessing—she treated the wounds of my mind like
those of my body, with perfect gentleness, but with the
same direct application. But what will her aged mother
say to the terrible consequences of her daughter’s
kindness to me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She will answer for herself, captain, as she is
with us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The doctor then mentioned Mrs. Bertrand’s name,
and Captain W. apologized for his inability to recognize
her; his lameness prevented him from moving,
and the room was darkened with reference to the
weakness of the eyesight consequent upon the small-pox.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. B. seated herself by the bed-side, and the physician
withdrew.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your daughter, madam, is I am afraid, paying a
terrible price for charity to me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My daughter, sir, has been taught to consider it
proper to discharge a duty and leave the consequences
to Heaven. But are you aware, captain, that my
daughter felt it a duty to acquaint me with an interesting
account which you gave her of your own life?”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='141' id='Page_141'></span>
“I gave her full permission to do so.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have come, having had the small-pox, to assist in
the care of my daughter, and as far as possible, to supply
her place by your bedside.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have not deserved this from Heaven or of men.
Help me only to understand and do my duty, and you
will complete the work which Amelia began.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In some conversation which Mrs. Bertrand had with
Captain W. the next day, she alluded to his resolution
to make reparation as far as possible for any injury he
had inflicted on others. “Do you,” said she, “continue
of that resolution?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Increasingly so. And if now I could find where I
might begin the work, I would divest myself at once,
if necessary, of every dollar I possess to alleviate the
suffering I have caused.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Such a sacrifice can scarcely be required, it is certainly
not necessary so far as I understand your situation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What then can I do—when shall I begin the <span class='it'>work</span>
of repentance?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is undoubtedly begun already in the resolve of
restitution. I take that to be the essence of repentance,
or rather the evidence of it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Am I then to recover, as the doctor assures me I
shall? Am I to sit down in the enjoyment of my
ample means, and in no way minister to the comfort
of those whom my follies made miserable? My wife
and child dead—and she, who should have been my
wife, lost to me—dead perhaps likewise! I have by
various means sought to find Amelia. I even put into
a New York and a Boston paper an advertisement,
which if it met her eye, would have assured her of my
repentance; but, alas! I might repent, I might seek
now to marry her, with the same selfish views which
I had at first. I might even for <span class='it'>her</span> sake now do
what would be called justice by some, but what act of
mine, however just, could compensate for the horrible
outrage which I had committed, the gross insult, public,
palpable, unpardonable, which I had offered to her?
Yet I loved her, love her now, have ever loved her,
and though I have sought refuge for my conscience in
the clouds of infidelity, I have never ceased to love
<span class='it'>her</span> image in my heart, and that has saved me from the
follies and vices to which my state of mind and my
profession exposed me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The spring with its chill winds had passed, and summer
was warming the earth. It was then, as it is
now, delightful to sit and watch the waving of the long
grass on yonder meadows, as the breeze passed over
it, or to see the shadow of the cloud flit over the waters
that are rippled with the west wind. You who
have lived in other states, have undoubtedly found
much that you think far more beautiful than this scene,
but for me who have spent childhood and age on the
banks of this river and the shores of the bay, I know
of nothing in nature more lovely. It was just such a
morning as this when the invalids were brought from
the house, to taste the fresh air from the bay and to
look abroad upon land and water, and thank God that
they had been spared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The captain walked with a crutch—his fine manly
form would have attracted attention any where.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Poor Amelia sat in her chair, wrapped about with
customary garments for the sick, and her face, then
sadly marked with the remains of the small-pox, was
covered with a green veil.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hope you enjoy this scene, captain,” said
Amelia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All of physical enjoyment which a healthful breeze
can impart I certainly have, but I am incapable of
mental ease.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is that a fruit of repentance?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If repentance is the recognition of errors, surely
that repentance, even which seems the pardon of heaven,
must keep alive the grief for the offence, though
it may rather seem joy for the pardon.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I may say to you, Amelia, that I have hinted to
your mother, that while I shall retain enough of my
wealth to sustain myself and do justice to others, I desire
to make you remuneration for the benefits you
have conferred on me, and the terrible suffering you
have endured for me, and for this I shall not wait my
own death, but I desire to place you at once in possession.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am compensated—but here comes my mother.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Bertrand advanced, her face covered with her
veil.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Captain Wilkinson,” she said, “your partial restoration
renders unnecessary any further attendance on
my part. You will probably leave to-morrow, and as
I shall remove Amelia immediately to my own house,
I have thought this a good opportunity to take my
leave of you. I know you feel thankful to Amelia—I
believe you are grateful to Heaven. I carry with me
the happy reflection, that you will soon be restored to
entire health, and that your moral condition is by the
mercy of God infinitely improved.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Am I not to be allowed to pay my respects to you—not
again to say farewell to my beloved nurse,
Amelia?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We part now—part forever, sir—part with my
prayers for your good—with my —”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Bertrand fainted from excessive agitation, the
unbroken arm of Captain Wilkinson prevented her
from falling, and Amelia rose with pain from the chair
to remove the veil from the face of her mother, and
admit the fresh wind from the bay to her face. When
she recovered she looked up into the face of the captain;
for a moment he seemed to stagger under the
weight that rested upon him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Amelia, what is this—what does this mean?
Whom do I hold on my arm?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is your Amelia,” said the girl—“Amelia Benton.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Bertrand was placed in the chair which the
captain had occupied, while he kneeling at her side,
and Amelia rested her hand upon her mother’s knees.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is Amelia Benton!” cried the captain—“but
who are you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am her daughter.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand, “not my
daughter—not <span class='it'>my</span> daughter; your daughter, sir—the
child of Amelia Woodstock!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I saw this scene. I heard the wild burst of grief, of
joy, of passion, of shame from the captain, and the
anguished cry of the young Amelia, but I cannot describe
them. She prevailed, nevertheless; and two
<span class='pageno' title='142' id='Page_142'></span>
months after that, Amelia Benton was again married
to William Wilkinson; but not until she was satisfied
that his “repentance was unto life, not to be repented
of.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They left us, returning only for an occasional visit.
Yet one of their children, and his daughter, Amelia,
are buried in this village. She lived to do good, and
to enjoy the blessings she had assisted to promote.
She died with no wish ungratified, and was buried here;
strange as it may seem to you, buried where the sunny
hours of childhood had been spent, and where she had
in that childhood selected a spot in which she desired
to await the call at which her mortality should put on
immortality.</p>
<hr class='tbk127'/>
<div><h1><a id='spani'></a>A SPANISH ROMANCE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Bright</span> fell thy smiling ray,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Rosy Aurora!</p>
<p class='line0'>Where Alvarado lay,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Dreaming of Mora!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>To the tent stole a youth</p>
<p class='line0'>  Lovely as morning,</p>
<p class='line0'>Yet was his mien in sooth</p>
<p class='line0'>  Full of proud scorning.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Bright, wavy locks fell o’er</p>
<p class='line0'>  Eyes wildly beaming,</p>
<p class='line0'>Deep the plumed cap he wore</p>
<p class='line0'>  Shadowed their gleaming.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>To his pale cheek there came</p>
<p class='line0'>  Hues like the sunset,</p>
<p class='line0'>For his light, fragile frame</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thrilled for the onset.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Fiercely his sword he drew,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Bold was his bearing,</p>
<p class='line0'>While to the knight he threw</p>
<p class='line0'>  Words of wild daring.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Crying—“Thou craven false!”</p>
<p class='line0'>  Dark the knight lowered—</p>
<p class='line0'>“He who in battle halts</p>
<p class='line0'>  Proves him a coward.”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Long had he calmly heard—</p>
<p class='line0'>  Brave Alvarado—</p>
<p class='line0'>Deeming each daring word</p>
<p class='line0'>  Boyish bravado;</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But as that bitter name</p>
<p class='line0'>  Left the lip curling,</p>
<p class='line0'>Flashed his swift sword—a flame</p>
<p class='line0'>  Through the air whirling.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Proud as his princely foe,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Dauntless in danger,</p>
<p class='line0'>Springing to meet the blow</p>
<p class='line0'>  Sprang the bright stranger.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Home struck the steel—and ah!</p>
<p class='line0'>  At his feet lying,</p>
<p class='line0'>Pale as a waning star—</p>
<p class='line0'>  <span class='it'>Who</span> is it dying?</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Back fall the cap and plume,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Back the bright tresses—</p>
<p class='line0'>No more her rosy bloom</p>
<p class='line0'>  Meets his caresses.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Lightly her lovely hair</p>
<p class='line0'>  Floats o’er his shoulder,</p>
<p class='line0'>To his heart’s mad despair</p>
<p class='line0'>  Soft his arms fold her.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“Wo worth the day,” he cried,</p>
<p class='line0'>  “Sweetest Lenora!</p>
<p class='line0'>When I left thee, my bride</p>
<p class='line0'>  For the false Mora.”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Then in her wistful eyes,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Blue as yon heaven,</p>
<p class='line0'>He saw her soul arise,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Sighing “Forgiven!”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But her pale, parted lips</p>
<p class='line0'>  Silently quiver,</p>
<p class='line0'>And in Death’s dark eclipse</p>
<p class='line0'>  Falls she forever!</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Sad fell thy sunny ray,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Rosy Aurora,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where Alvarado lay</p>
<p class='line0'>  By his Lenora.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk128'/>
<div><h1><a id='toar'></a>TO A. R.</h1></div>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<div class='stanza-inner'>
<p class='line0'>  <span class='sc'>How</span> many nights, old friend, in earlier times,</p>
<p class='line0'>    When we were boys, we sat together nights,</p>
<p class='line0'>    Poring on books, with ever-new delights,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Fresh, dewy prose, and sweet and flowery rhymes;</p>
<p class='line0'>  I looked for you, as sure as evening came —</p>
<p class='line0'>    I knew your footstep on the stair, I knew</p>
<p class='line0'>    Your sudden rap, and said it must be you —</p>
<p class='line0'>  For step and rap were evermore the same.</p>
<p class='line0'>  We talked of every thing a little while,</p>
<p class='line0'>    And then I took to writing simple themes,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And you to reading—and I could but smile</p>
<p class='line0'>    (Hunting for rhymes, perplexed and lost in dreams,)</p>
<p class='line0'>  To see you knit your thought-contracted brow,</p>
<p class='line0'>And when you caught my eye, I wrote again—as now!</p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-top:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'>R. H. S.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk129'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='143' id='Page_143'></span><h1><a id='fanny'></a>FANNY DAY’S PRESENTIMENT.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY MARIE ROSEAU.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='pindent'>(<span class='sc'>My</span> dear Rose, you ask me to write something
which Mr. Graham will print, for your sake; because
it is the best Magazine extant, and because you subscribe
for it. I will try.)</p>
<p class='pindent'>Do you believe in presentiments?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Two summers ago Fanny Day and myself visited
Caroline Alden in her country home, about one hundred
miles from Philadelphia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The morning previous to that fixed upon for our departure,
after vainly using all the ingenuity and strength
of which I was capable, to stow away in the top of
my trunk three dresses, one large shawl, nine bound
books, a portfolio, and the four last numbers of “Graham,”
I was forced to the conclusion that one-half the
articles named must be left behind. Then came the
serious business of deciding which of them should be
rejected.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Couldn’t I leave one of the dresses?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>No, that was out of the question. If I meant to ramble
over rocks and hills the five (two were already deposited
in the lower part of the trunk,) would be
barely sufficient to last me through the visit.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Suppose you leave some of the books—those two
large ones, for instance?” suggested one of my sisters,
called upon to aid me in the dilemma.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh no, indeed! I could not think of taking fewer
books. Those two volumes of Waldie in particular
must go, for Caroline was so anxious to read ‘Modern
Societies’ and ‘Home.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But the others?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I picked them up one at a time. There were “The
Cricket on the Hearth, &c.;” “Sketches of Married
Life;” Mrs. Stowe’s “May Flower,” Willis and Longfellow,
and three of the Abbott series, for Sunday
reading. Each pleaded so eloquently to be taken, that
I thought that to leave either would be an insult to the
author, and so, after a little hesitation, I felt that <span class='it'>all</span> of
them must go.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Couldn’t you do without the portfolio and magazines?”
was then asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That would be <span class='it'>impossible</span>!” I exclaimed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then you must take that small portmantua, too.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I hate to take so much baggage with me,” I
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then I can’t think of any other mode of freeing
you from the difficulty.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the midst of this dilemma Fanny Day was announced.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell her to come up here,” I said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What, in this disordered room?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I hastily glanced at the books and dresses strewn
around me, and then replied:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The room don’t look <span class='it'>very</span> well, I know; but I
can’t leave my packing just now: besides Fanny may
be able to assist me in this difficulty.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I had expected to find Fanny full of joy and enthusiasm
in the near prospect of our visit, for so she had
always been when we talked about it previously; but
she looked sad and dispirited, and it was not until I
had made many repeated and eloquent exclamations
upon the subject, that she would take any interest in
my packing. Then she said quietly —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never mind, Marie, there is plenty of room in
my trunk for more than half those things.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I thanked her with delight; yet could not but be surprised
that she should be satisfied with fewer “<span class='it'>positively
necessary</span>” articles than myself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, that you have this matter satisfactorily arranged,
will you go out with me?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where?” I inquired with slight hesitation, for I
had already planned engagements of some sort for
every hour in the day.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Down Chestnut street,” she replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you keep me long?” I asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will tell you all about it when we get into the
street,” she answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I hesitated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come, Marie, do go with me; that’s a dear, good
girl,” Fanny continued, looking coaxingly in my face
all the time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I had not the heart to resist her pleading, and very
soon we were on our way to Chestnut street.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am going to Mr. Root’s to have my daguerreotype
taken,” Fanny said, when we were about a
square from home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you had three taken last week,” I said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, but my mother did not like those very well.
They were not taken by Root, and now I am determined
to have a good one for her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Had you not better wait till we return?” I
asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No; I cannot,” she replied, in a serious tone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>I looked at her inquiringly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know you will laugh at me, Marie, and think me
very foolish,” she said, “but I have a presentiment
that I shall never live to return.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have had a dozen such in my life-time,” I answered,
“yet they all proved untrue; and so may
yours, Fanny dear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I fear not,” she replied in a sad tone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Knowing that all reasoning would be ineffectual in
my friend’s present mood, I simply tried to relieve
her sadness by talking upon other subjects on the way.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The likeness was a perfect one. It might have presented
a gloomy countenance, but fortunately, I whispered
to her, as she seated herself —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, Fanny, do let your mother have a pleasant
smile, or she will not like the picture.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I wish you could see the likeness; the position was
so natural and the work so beautifully executed! But
<span class='pageno' title='144' id='Page_144'></span>
you cannot—Fanny gave it into my hands to be faithfully
delivered to her mother at some future time; and
now—but my story must develop its present hiding-place.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Shall I tell you of our long rail-road journey, and of
the dark tunnels through which we passed, reminding
one of the “valley of death,” where, as I carelessly
alluded to this resemblance, Fanny’s hand grasped,
mine with a touch so cold as to send a sympathetic
chill of horror through my veins? Or shall I tell you
of the shorter stage-ride, and the close companionship
of its occupants? No, I will not weary you with
either of these in detail; for there was nothing to vary
the usual monotony of such journeys we being allowed
the customary number of crying babies, and troublesome
older children, and the same amount of agreeable
and disagreeable strangers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>We found Caroline delighted to see us, (as who
would not be,) and I was pleased to notice that much
of Fanny’s sadness had disappeared during the first
evening. The next morning, however, it was again
observable in a listless demeanor, or deep sigh in the
midst of a witty remark, or gay laugh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is the matter with you, Fanny?” Caroline
asked, after some very marked signs of abstractedness
on the part of the former.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, nothing at all!” Fanny answered quickly, and
for a while she endeavored to take more interest in our
conversation, but this soon subsided.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fanny, if you can give no better explanation of
your conduct this morning, I must be under the necessity
of attributing it to the usual cause of sighs and
absent-mindedness, and believe you to be in love,”
Caroline said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fanny colored, and exclaimed—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no indeed, I am not!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then don’t look so confused and mortified, my
dear; for even if you were, you need not be ashamed
of it,” Caroline answered composedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fanny left the room soon after this, and I produced
the daguerreotype from a corner in my work-box, and
showed it to Caroline. She pronounced it the very
best likeness she had ever seen, and laid it on the sofa-table.
Just then a visiter was announced, proving to
be Mr. Harry Lambert, who had spent the previous
winter in Philadelphia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After a mutual recognition, and a few of the common-place
inquiries usually made upon such occasions,
had passed, he carelessly opened the case containing
Fanny’s likeness. As the face met his eye, I thought
he changed color, but this may have been mere fancy;
for he said, in a perfectly calm and indifferent tone,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This face looks familiar to me. I must certainly
have met the original before.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course you have, it is Fanny Day. You were
quite well acquainted with her in Philadelphia, and I
trust you cannot so soon have forgotten an old friend,”
I said; and scarcely was the remark made, when the
object of it entered the room. This time there was no
mistaking the glow upon the gentleman’s face; but
Fanny’s cheek was quite colorless as she returned his
greeting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Unfortunately for me, on this very evening, a young
gentleman of prepossessing appearance, and a stranger
to me, called. Unfortunately in the <a id='denoue'></a><span class='it'>dénouement</span>, I
mean. I was very much pleased with him, and
thought him quite like Harry Lambert; although I
wondered in what this likeness consisted, for there
were no general points of resemblance either in person
or manners between them. Very soon, however,
I found it to consist in the fact that <span class='it'>they were both
lovers</span>.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It <span class='it'>is</span> unpleasant to find one’s self completely thrown
upon the back-ground. I <span class='it'>know</span> that I am not naturally
envious; but I could not help feeling akin to chagrin
and disappointment upon perceiving the state of things;
yet it was not <span class='it'>envy</span>. I am sure I did not care one bit
that Fanny and Caroline should each have some one
so completely absorbed in their interests, as to be indifferent
to every thing else, for it made them happy;
and I like to see people enjoy themselves. But I <span class='it'>did</span>
think it looked stupid, or narrow-minded, or something
of the sort, of any persons to be so intent upon <span class='it'>themselves</span>,
as to take no notice of others, and so I told the
ladies after their visiters were gone, I said —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Caroline, are the people here in the habit of giving
invitations to tea?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes,” she replied; “you will be overwhelmed
with them, Marie, in a little time: but why do you
ask?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because I shall be very glad, in the words of the
song,</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>           ‘——if any one invites me out to tea,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>For ’tis very dull to stay at home with no one courting me,’ ”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>I replied, poutingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Caroline looked at Fanny, and both laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor Mae,” the former said, in a coaxing tone,
putting her arm around me, “it was <span class='it'>too</span> bad of us;
but never mind, the next time we will behave better.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do hope you will,” I answered, “for it is extremely
annoying when you are playing your best
pieces, and think you have succeeded in charming the
company, upon taking a sly peep to observe the effect,
to find them coupled off, and each enjoying a quiet
<span class='it'>tête-à-tête</span>; evidently regarding the music only as a
happy means of getting rid of one who would otherwise
be very much in the way.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are not jealous, of course,” said Caroline, with
a comic laugh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Certainly I am not,” I replied. “I think beaux
extremely disagreeable.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Messieurs Russell and Lambert particularly so, I
presume,” Caroline remarked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps they may be,” I replied; “but I cannot
answer to a certainty, for my means of ascertaining
their endowments were very limited: they did not
either of them direct a half-dozen words to me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>From this time there was a marked change visible
in Fanny. There was no unusual gayety in her manner,
but a habitual look of quiet happiness. She talked
no more of her presentiment, and, though strongly
tempted to do so, I could not bear to annoy her by reminding
her of it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Harry Lambert was our constant visiter. No, not
our, for his visits were evidently only meant for Fanny’s
<span class='pageno' title='145' id='Page_145'></span>
benefit. They walked, and rode, and played, and
sang together; always preferring a duet to a trio, or
quartette.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His appearance in Mr. Alden’s neighborhood was
entirely unexpected to both of us. We did not know
where he had settled. During his visit to Philadelphia
he had been very attentive to Fanny; yet we all regarded
this as a mere flirtation, or rather as the attentive
kindness of a friend, who had had no thought of
becoming a lover, as he left the city without having
made any profession of attachment to her. This, I
ascertained since, was owing to his having been led to
believe, just before the termination of his visit, that she
loved another. Afterward he learned that these suspicions
were unfounded, and deeply regretted that they
had ever existed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Howard Russell performed the same part toward
Caroline that Harry Lambert did to Fanny, during the
remainder of our stay: but after the few first days had
passed, I was not left companionless; for I formed
some pleasant acquaintances there, the thoughts of
which will be always dear to my memory.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Before Fanny returned to Philadelphia, with the full
consent of her parents, she had entered into an engagement
with Harry Lambert, and the daguerreotype
was left as her parting gift to him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thus ended Fanny Day’s presentiment.</p>
<hr class='tbk130'/>
<div><h1><a id='pale'></a>THE PALE THINKER.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY “ORAN.”</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>I saw</span> him, at the dawn of day, come forth to greet the sun,</p>
<p class='line0'>With salutation not unlike Electra’s orison;</p>
<p class='line0'>And, as with sad, though manly voice, he breathed his morning prayer,</p>
<p class='line0'>I knew that, like Electra’s self, he felt the weight of care.</p>
<p class='line0'>“An idle student,” many said, “who talks to trees and flowers,</p>
<p class='line0'>And loiters by the running brook, and wastes away his hours.”</p>
<p class='line0'>I saw him in the maple wood, beside that murmuring stream,</p>
<p class='line0'>Stoop, gazing downward thoughtfully, as in a pleasant dream;</p>
<p class='line0'>And as he gazed thus often spoke—“O stream, away, away,</p>
<p class='line0'>To some far-off and unknown sea thou hastenest every day!</p>
<p class='line0'>And trees and flowers and stars and clouds are mirrored on thy breast,</p>
<p class='line0'>They cheer thee on with greetings kind thou smilest, but dost not rest.</p>
<p class='line0'>So to its far eternity the longing spirit goes —</p>
<p class='line0'>This stream of life—away—away—O God, how fast it flows!”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I saw him, like a cloistered monk, at night, among his books,</p>
<p class='line0'>He read and mused and wrote, with troubled, earnest looks;</p>
<p class='line0'>Then late and weary sought his couch—I could not turn away,</p>
<p class='line0'>For still with earnest, troubled looks the restless sleeper lay.</p>
<p class='line0'>Then Fancy, by some magic art, the sleeper’s brain laid bare,</p>
<p class='line0'>O Heaven, it seemed a universe had been concentred there!</p>
<p class='line0'>The semblance of all outer things in miniature was there,</p>
<p class='line0'>And, working each a wondrous art, all spirits, foul and fair.</p>
<p class='line0'>Uncertain forms traversed a plain, far-reaching as the sight,</p>
<p class='line0'>Whereon, what seemed a “mount of pain,” uprose in misty light.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“The flaming forge of life” glowed red, as burning fire could be,</p>
<p class='line0'>And restless workmen toiled to forge an immortality.</p>
<p class='line0'>Like beating surf on rocky shore, the sea of passion roared,</p>
<p class='line0'>Like meteor on a dusky sky Ambition flashed and soared.</p>
<p class='line0'>Far out imagination flew, on restless wings of light,</p>
<p class='line0'>And myriad strangest forms of thought glimmered in reason’s sight.</p>
<p class='line0'>Religion and her goddess train their golden offerings poor,</p>
<p class='line0'>The spirit of the wondrous past unfolds her wondrous store.</p>
<p class='line0'>And fast and fierce the work goes on, furnace and forge and fire,</p>
<p class='line0'>And busy hands, which ply the loom and weave the golden wire.</p>
<p class='line0'>In glee the shadowy workmen toil, and this the song they sing —</p>
<p class='line0'>“In deepest shade of destiny lies hid what man would know,</p>
<p class='line0'>And useful thought comes but by pain, drawn up from down below.</p>
<p class='line0'>He surely is a child of heaven who brings new truth to man,</p>
<p class='line0'>To whom ’tis given, with vision clear, the inner world to scan,</p>
<p class='line0'>’Tis ours to work behind the veil, thanks to this earnest soul,</p>
<p class='line0'>Soon from these varied gems of thought shall rise a beauteous whole,</p>
<p class='line0'>Adown the aisles of distant time our thinker’s voice shall sound,</p>
<p class='line0'>Inspiring hope and life and joy to souls in darkness bound.</p>
<p class='line0'>To write a book inspired of heaven, O, ’tis a glorious task!</p>
<p class='line0'>Pale thinker, though thy brain run wild, what higher boon couldst ask?”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And, Genius, by such toil as this thy fairest gifts are bought!</p>
<p class='line0'>And he’s a child of pain, though blest, whose life is earnest thought.</p>
<p class='line0'>Ye who, with careless eye, peruse the page ye’ve bought for gold,</p>
<p class='line0'>Ye little know the cost of that to you so cheaply sold.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk131'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='146' id='Page_146'></span><h1><a id='gems'></a>GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>NO. II.—THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1.5em;font-size:0.9em;'>[SEE ENGRAVING.]</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> simple, yet exquisitely touching air to which
Moore wrote the words of this song, is now one of the
most familiar that we hear. Yet, familiar as it is, it
never falls upon the sense without awakening in the
heart the most tender, and even sad emotions. The
song itself is in fine keeping with the melody.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>’Tis the last rose of summer,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Left blooming alone;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>All her lovely companions</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Are faded and gone:</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>No flower of her kindred,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  No rose-bud is nigh,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>To reflect back her blushes,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Or give sigh for sigh.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  To pine on the stem;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Since the lovely are sleeping,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Go, sleep thou with them.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Thus kindly I scatter</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Thy leaves o’er the bed,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Where thy mates of the garden</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  Lie scentless and dead.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>So, soon may <span class='it'>I</span> follow,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  When friendships decay,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>And from Love’s shining circle</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  The gems drop away;</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>When true hearts lie withered,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  And fond ones are flown,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>Oh! who would inhabit</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>  This bleak world alone?</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Although in private fashionable circles, like the
“Meeting of the Waters,” this song is rarely heard
yet now and then the air, or the words and the air
united, break unexpectedly upon us in public, and the
effect is almost electric. Well do we remember, on
the first appearance of Herz, the effect produced on a
crowded assembly, combining nearly all the musical
taste and talent of our city, when, after a rapturous
<span class='it'>encore</span>, he let his fingers fall with the exquisite grace
that marked his playing on the keys of the piano, and
“The Last Rose of Summer” trembled upon the
hushed air. Literally, a pin might have been heard
falling upon the floor. There was not a heart there
that did not respond to the melody as an outburst of
true emotion. The same effect was produced, not
long since, when this air came thrilling over a large
audience in the Musical Fund Hall, from the violincello
of Knoop, and, soon after, from the warbling
throat of Madame Bishop. Not to the players nor
singer was this effect wholly to be ascribed. The
power lay in the melody itself, to which they gave a
full expression.</p>
<p class='pindent'>So long as there is an ear that can appreciate nature’s
own music, and a heart to be touched by genuine
emotion, “The Last Rose of Summer” will continue
to be a favorite.</p>
<hr class='tbk132'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i126.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0007' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.</span></p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk133'/>
<div><h1><a id='evil'></a>THE EVIL EYE.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY MARY L. LAWSON.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Past</span> from my heart the place and hour</p>
<p class='line0'>When first I met and owned thy power —</p>
<p class='line0'>To shadow life with vain regret,</p>
<p class='line0'>And clouds that darkened when we met —</p>
<p class='line0'>But still through changing years I see</p>
<p class='line0'>The lengthened gaze then fixed on me,</p>
<p class='line0'>As, thrilling with a strange surprise,</p>
<p class='line0'>I trembled ’neath those earnest eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I know not whence their lustre came —</p>
<p class='line0'>They quiver with a living flame;</p>
<p class='line0'>Their liquid light, like diamonds beam,</p>
<p class='line0'>Through ebon lashes darkly gleam,</p>
<p class='line0'>Or softly melt with passion’s ray,</p>
<p class='line0'>That chase their baleful shades away,</p>
<p class='line0'>Or with a hidden power control</p>
<p class='line0'>The strongest impulse of the soul.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Those eyes have bent their glance on mine,</p>
<p class='line0'>Each hidden feeling to divine</p>
<p class='line0'>’Mid love’s first dream—and love’s decay —</p>
<p class='line0'>Though from their gaze I turned away;</p>
<p class='line0'>Read every hope and timid fear,</p>
<p class='line0'>And smiled away the doubting tear;</p>
<p class='line0'>Knew all I strove not to impart —</p>
<p class='line0'>The weakness of my woman’s heart.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>In parting once they met mine own,</p>
<p class='line0'>And cold in stern reproach they shone,</p>
<p class='line0'>And lost the anguish of the hour</p>
<p class='line0'>Beneath their dark and withering power —</p>
<p class='line0'>The blighting sting no words can tell —</p>
<p class='line0'>That lurked beneath that calm farewell,</p>
<p class='line0'>The silent glance that left behind</p>
<p class='line0'>The fevered pulse and wasted mind.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Since then, through thoughts of joy and pain.</p>
<p class='line0'>Those haunting eyes their spell retain,</p>
<p class='line0'>And silently they’ve watched me weep</p>
<p class='line0'>O’er lonely graves where dear ones sleep;</p>
<p class='line0'>But in my deepest wo’s increase</p>
<p class='line0'>Their beams have never whispered peace,</p>
<p class='line0'>Though kindly words were breathed again,</p>
<p class='line0'>I sought those speaking eyes in vain.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>When steeped in wo, or wild with mirth,</p>
<p class='line0'>The fickle, fleeting joy of earth,</p>
<p class='line0'>Bound to the world with reckless thrall,</p>
<p class='line0'>Those fated eyes have marked it all,</p>
<p class='line0'>And taught the lip with mocking art</p>
<p class='line0'>To act the tempter’s wily part,</p>
<p class='line0'>The soul with dreams of bliss to fill</p>
<p class='line0'>And gently veil the lurking ill.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Alone!—by life’s rough storms distressed,</p>
<p class='line0'>Unprized, uncared for and oppressed,</p>
<p class='line0'>Still wert thou near with tender tone,</p>
<p class='line0'>That spoke of days forever gone,</p>
<p class='line0'>Till softened memory made thee dear,</p>
<p class='line0'>And half dispelled each chilling fear —</p>
<p class='line0'>But starting from my heart’s warm sighs</p>
<p class='line0'>I marked the gleaming of those eyes.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Some demon power thy soul must bear,</p>
<p class='line0'>Though angel guise thy features wear,</p>
<p class='line0'>Arrayed in love alluring mien</p>
<p class='line0'>To stand my better thoughts between,</p>
<p class='line0'>Sin imaged form to tempt away —</p>
<p class='line0'>The holier hopes for which I pray —</p>
<p class='line0'>A watch above my heart to keep</p>
<p class='line0'>Till it has sunk to dreamless sleep.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk134'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='147' id='Page_147'></span><h1><a id='rev'></a>THE REVEALINGS OF A HEART.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY D. T. KILBOURN.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'>(<span class='it'>Concluded from page 75.</span>)</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>As</span> Arthur approached the city, the sun was sinking
behind the snowy clouds, wreathing its trail of gorgeous
light around their fleecy summits, then stretching
along the blue horizon, until its brilliant folds, resting
upon the leafless trees, swept o’er the barren earth,
bathing field, mountain, air, sky and water, in one
flood of golden light. A fitting robe to herald forth the
natal dawn of man’s Redeemer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As Arthur gazed upon the beauteous scene, enhanced
by the music of the merry sleigh-bells as they glided
past, and the hurrying to and fro of gladsome faces, his
heart leapt for joy, and he bounded along, forgetting his
fatigue as the sweet face of the little Amy rose before
him, radiant with smiles, at his return. He felt her
little arms fondly clinging about his neck, and her
warm caress upon his cheek; and oh, how distant
seemed that pile before him, as his yearning heart leapt
to her embrace.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And then came the time when he would come to
take her away. And the past year, too, rose before
him—his struggles mid scorn and reproach, to be a man,
that he might take her to his own home, and be always
near her. What cared he if they did laugh, and call
him a poor <span class='it'>alms-house</span> boy, if one day he might always
have his loved sister near him? That sister who looked
so much like their dear, dead mother. He wondered
if she had grown—and how she looked; and thus his
happy heart glowed with fond anticipations of the
future.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Entering the gate, and passing rapidly round the
main building, with a beating heart, he rapped at the
door of that part occupied by the children.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A stranger ushered him in, but in a few moments
Mrs. Williams stood before him. In his joy he sprung
to meet her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, Arthur, is this you? How you’ve grown!
and so altered, I scarcely know you! But who would
have thought of you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Without noticing the last part of her speech, he cried,
“Where is sister Amy—can’t I see her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Amy!—why Amy has been dead this long time!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dead! dead!” cried he, grasping her hands, while
from his eyes gleamed a look of intense, imploring
agony. “Oh, dear Mrs. Williams, don’t, don’t say
that Amy is dead! She’s not dead! I know she
would not die and leave me alone!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Trying to release her hands from his tightening
grasp, she cried, “Boy, you don’t know what you’re
saying! She is dead, and no fault of mine; for, after
you went away, she grieved so after you, poor thing!
I tried to do every thing I could for her, and told her
you would come back. But nothing would do—she
would not eat, and looked so pitiful, that we were all
glad when she died. And you ought to be glad too,
for she is much better off. She was such a poor little
delicate creature, she wasn’t fit to be in this cold world
without a mother.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Arthur slowly relaxed his grasp, as a consciousness
of his utter loneliness came over him. Not a cry
escaped his lips—not a sigh. There he stood—his
wild, tearless eyes fixed on vacancy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Arthur, don’t take on so, child!” said Mrs. Williams,
forcing back her tears. “She’s better off;
come and see the boys”—taking his hand to lead him
away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Again turning his fearful eyes upon her, he said,
“Wont you tell me where they have put her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, the snow has covered all the graves—you
can’t tell hers from any other.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh do! Mrs Williams; do, only show me where
they have laid her. Lead me to the spot, and I will
never trouble you again!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now really affected, Mrs. Williams, after wiping her
eyes, took Arthur’s hand, and led him to the humble
resting-place of the poor. Not a stone marked the spot
of their repose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Long did Arthur gaze with that same look of wild,
unutterable agony, upon the spot which contained all
to which his young heart had clung with such fond
adoration; all for which he had borne mockery and
insult; all that to him was fair, or beautiful, or loved
on earth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Turning to Mrs. Williams, in a hollow voice, he
asked, “Why has God taken my sister from me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because she would be better off, Arthur.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why did he not take me, too? <span class='it'>I</span> would be better
off in the still grave.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is wicked to say such things, Arthur.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why wicked?” asked he, with an inquiring look.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because, God will be angry with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is angry with me already,” murmured he,
turning from the spot.</p>
<hr class='tbk135'/>
<p class='pindent'>The heavy clock told the hour of midnight; silence
hung heavily over the slumbering earth. In a small
room sat Arthur. The look of agony had settled down
into one of calm, hopeless misery. And as he gazed
upon the stars, his guardian angel hovered near—no
smile played round its radiant face, but tear-drops
sparkled in its eyes. Around his brow glowed the
beings of intellect; some, in their flight, mounted toward
those shining orbs, while others floated near to
earth, as if in search of something, they knew not
what. Love, too, was there, followed by the bright
<span class='pageno' title='148' id='Page_148'></span>
beings of adoration. To and fro they moved, apparently
without an aim; while the ministers of flesh
poured incense on unhallowed altars, to obscure their
vision and lure them to earth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A hand was laid upon his shoulder—he started.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come, Arthur, come to bed. I cannot sleep while
you sit here,” was said by a boy, apparently several
years his senior, who had arisen from a bed in the
room. But finding Arthur still immovable, he continued,
“Don’t mind them, Arthur—I would not mind
what they say. The whole crew have about as much
sense as their <span class='it'>Poodle</span>, on which the entire stock of
their susceptibilities seems expended. And to hear the
rascally old fellow threaten to flog you, after making
such a fuss to get you back. But that’s the old woman’s
fault, because the poor old gentleman, in his
perturbation at your disappearance, sat down on her
‘sweet Adonis’s paw!’ Why, Arthur, you would have
died laughing, (for I did nearly,) if you could have
heard the fuss that was raised over that miserable
little dog. But we were all glad that you had spunk
enough to go to see your sister.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was not thinking of them,” interrupted Arthur—“I
don’t care what they say or do to me now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then, Arthur, wont you come and lie down?”
laying his arm coaxingly upon his shoulder.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Arthur suffered himself passively to be led to bed,
after which, Dick continued. “I suppose, when the
old woman broke her word with you, after you had
saved the life of her child, she thought <span class='it'>she</span> had a particular
license to lie! And the old man, too, when he
tells me to say that I am selling things ‘under cost,’
while he is getting a good profit on them. So I thought,
as <span class='it'>they</span> are good <span class='it'>church-going</span> people, there could be
no possible harm, in a poor <span class='it'>dog</span> like myself, following
their example. And when they asked me where you
were gone, I would not say what you had told me to,
for I thought it better you should get the start of them;
so I told them I did not know,” and with this Dick fell
asleep, leaving Arthur to his own melancholy reflections.</p>
<hr class='tbk136'/>
<p class='pindent'>Spring again appeared in all her loveliness. The
full-orbed moon rode above on her chariot of clouds,
now smiling upon the tranquil earth, now veiling her
face in their misty folds. And as her smiles beamed
forth, they shone through a window upon a bunch of
drooping violets.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The little flower-spirit awakened, beheld before it
the child of yore; but oh, how changed! That brow,
though still so beautifully fair, had lost the halo of its
purity. The brilliant beings of the mind, pluming
their pinions to the distant spheres, were dragged to
earth. Love, too, with the bright beings that adore,
was bound, but a rosy light played round its fetters,
while ministers of flesh were tracing, with barbed
arrows, dark, fearful characters upon the throbbing
heart. The angel’s face was veiled, but sorrowful
supplications still went up to heaven.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The boy started from his feverish slumbers, and
looked fearfully around. Awakening his companion,
he cried, “Dick! Dick! do wake up! Oh, I have had
such horrible dreams I cannot sleep! Oh, this weight
upon my heart will kill me! I cannot deceive Mr.
Buckler any longer—I must go tell him all, or my
heart will break.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go, and be kicked away as a <span class='it'>poor alms-house
boy</span> for your pains.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot help it, Dick. I’d rather be called any
thing, bear any thing, than feel this weight upon my
heart. Before this I could feel that my mother and
sister were near me; but now that I am guilty of wrong,
they are gone, and every thing is so awful!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Arthur, you have had the <span class='it'>nightmare</span>, and are
frightened.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There was a time, Dick, that I knew not fear. I
was a very small boy, then. But if there were nothing
else, Dick, to meet Mr. Buckler and <span class='it'>feel</span> that I have
deceived him, when he has reposed so much confidence
in me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Arthur, if you <span class='it'>peach</span>, you know that I shall be
sent away in disgrace, and it would break my poor
father’s heart—that father who was so kind to you;
who took you home and saved you from perishing of
cold. ’Twas but little, ’tis true, that he did, but that
little was much to you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Arthur groaned. After a few moments, he continued,
“Dick, do you never feel unhappy when you have
done wrong?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I used to be as chicken-hearted as you when
I first came here; but now that I see that every one’s
for himself, and that a man is respected for his <span class='it'>cloth</span>,
not his worth, I try to shake off such feelings. But I
cannot always banish them when I think of my father
and mother.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let us go to Mr. Buckler, Dick, and tell him all—I
know that he will forgive us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The old flint! I know him too well for that. But,
Arthur, if you want to <span class='it'>peach</span>, you may.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On no, Dick, you know I would not do that; but,
if you will only consent.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But what have I done, after all, only taken a little
of my own!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your own, Dick—how so?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, don’t we do as much as the old man; and
if right’s right, is it not as much ours as his?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh no, Dick—not as long as we gain it for him and
not for ourselves.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But what have you done, Arthur? Why you only
saw me go to the money-drawer, and said you knew
nothing about it. That’s no deception, Arthur.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But it is, Dick.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, if that will satisfy you, I will promise not
to be guilty of the like again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But will you likewise promise not to go into that
company again? I went with you, because I was so
unhappy at home. And you were the son of one who
had been kind to me, and I loved you for it; and after
Amy died, I no longer felt a motive for wishing to
become a great or a good man; but I feel to-night as if I
should have been happier if I had never gone with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Dick was asleep. He knew that Arthur would
not expose him. His parent’s kindness sunk so
deeply into his grateful heart, that it seemed to give
their son a talismanic power over the unhappy boy, to
govern him at will.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='149' id='Page_149'></span>
Again ’twas evening, and the little flower-spirit,
cradled in the pearly folds of a pure snow-drop, looked
from its lovely bed. There sat Arthur. Beside him
glimmered the midnight lamp; his dark, full eyes were
fixed intently upon the pages of a book, on which,
spread by the ministers of earth, shone a glittering
banquet. The <span class='it'>name</span> of Love was there—aye, and the
counterfeit of its bright plumage, too, which threw a
hue of beauty o’er the scene. This, the master of the
feast, (to fix its spell on the unwary reader,) had deified
as the radiant vision sent from high Heaven. And
the bright beings of his soul caught greedily the tempting
viands, as the food for which they sighed. But,
as the poison mingled through their veins, their pinions
flagged—the Passions threw their hateful coils around,
binding them closer, tighter still to earth. And yet,
upon that <span class='it'>title-page</span> there shone the name of one
called <span class='it'>great</span> on earth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And the little flower-spirit asked the weeping
guardian, why he was called great! since the sole
object for which he had labored, was to subject
the bright beings of the soul to the groveling ones of
flesh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is great and god-like in his <span class='it'>powers</span>,” replied
the angel. “This, men see—and as he garnishes his
viands with the counterfeit of love, their dazzled
vision penetrates not the indignity he offers. And, oh,
when a being thus armed with the panoply of the archangel,
sent forth with powers to unseal the book of
knowledge to the starving spirits of the mind, that
they, gazing upon its effulgent pages, may drink in the
glory, light and love of Deity! When such a being not
only immolates this power-divine upon earth’s altars,
but, seizing thence unhallowed incense, wafts it forth,
a <span class='it'>poison</span> to the young, confiding soul—a cry of agony
mounts up to heaven, that echoes through the mazes
of eternity.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The door opened, and Dick entered. “What,
Arthur, you up still! Why do you shut yourself up in
this confined room, <a id='por'></a>poring over books, while there is
so much fun in life! You don’t know how much
you’ve lost. There was a splendid party at Mrs. M.’s
this evening, and the ladies were really quite displeased
with me for not bringing you along. Why,
Arthur, you are getting to be quite a <span class='it'>Lion</span>! To tell
the truth, I am jealous of you; and yet I shall not, after
this, dare to show my face any where, unaccompanied
by your beautiful self, for fear of getting no reception
at all. I’m half sorry that I persuaded you to go to
Mrs. Bailey’s ball, since you seem destined to eclipse
me every where. Still, I could not bear to see you
sit here moping, night after night, and month after
month, all alone. But, ah, ha! Mr. Arthur! I see
your time’s not all spent in dreaming, either! May I
ask, of what fair damsel that is a memento?” pointing
to the snow-drop.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Arthur had raised his eyes from his book, and was
listening with pleased attention to the rattle of his
friend; but at the mention of the snow-drop, the smile
fled from his parted lips. Taking the little flower and
gazing upon it, in melancholy accents, he said, “ ’Twas
Amy’s favorite—and it is so like her sweet self, that
I love to have it near me. The violet, too, I never
meet one but I pluck it; to me it is as if her own blue
eyes were mirrored in its little petals.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Arthur, you must not think of her—it always
makes you melancholy; and she has been dead now
so long.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The thoughts of my mother and sister, Dick, are
the only things that really give me any pleasure; and
could I once believe that their sweet spirits could die,
I would, without hesitation, subscribe to the opinions
of Voltaire.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, Arthur, I don’t trouble myself about any
thing of the kind, as you well know—and you must
not. Live and enjoy life while you can, is my motto.
I have promised to take you to Mrs. G.’s, and you
must go—so come, let’s to bed.”</p>
<hr class='tbk137'/>
<p class='pindent'>Time sped. The sun had sunk to its ocean-bed;
the dark clouds, one by one, rode forth, until their
threatening hosts o’erspread the vault of heaven. And
the sullen murmur of the ebon deep, as it heaved to
and fro its struggling waters, all bespoke the coming
strife of elements.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Upon the bosom of that troubled deep, there rode a
frail, lone vessel, with white sails furled, like the wild
bird of storm. And as the heavy thunder boomed o’er
the mighty sea, and lurid lightnings, darting from cloud
to cloud, lit up the awful scene, there stood upon that
vessel’s deck, a human form. His arms were folded
on his breast—his head bared to the blast that whistled
through his massy locks—his dark eyes fixed, without
dismay, upon the forms of wrath, as they contended
in their mortal hate. And as the winds swept by,
making the light vessel leap and plunge upon its foamy
bed, while the bursting din and scathing glare, made the
heart of the rude sailor quake with fear; and as the
ghastly hue spread o’er his pallid face, he murmured,
“On, on, ye raging elements! ye ne’er can equal the war
within this heart. I love your horrid music, ’tis soothing
to my reeling brain! Once I feared you. Then, oh then,
this heart was like the summer-lake—but that is long,
long past. Oh, visions of happiness, why will ye rise before
me, in mockery of my wo! Then, there was a heart
to love me—to counsel me when I was wrong! but
now, a wretch, a lone outcast, and stained with vile ingratitude—a
forger! Accursed beauty! fatal friendship!
How have the powers of Hell been leagued against
me since that fatal night, when she, my mother, died
of cold and want! Tell me of a God—there is no God!
Yet why this bitter, burning, deep remorse! If there’s
a God—then I’m an outcast, and have been from my
infancy. But oh, what were the pains I suffered then,
of separation, loneliness, contempt, to those which
now devour my heart! And if there is a hell—its pains
were bliss to these!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A week had passed. The same strange being stood
at the corner of a dark, deserted street, in the city of
——. No longer a look of proud despair flashed from
his eyes; but want and suffering sat upon his pale, wan
features. This noble form was bowed, and from his
starting eyes there gleamed, bitter, heart-rending
misery.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Two days had he sought employment, and sought
in vain. There he stood, without a home—without
<span class='pageno' title='150' id='Page_150'></span>
food—without shelter. Beg he could not. A step is
heard—a horrid thought darts through his brain; despair
nerves him, and, as the unknown passes, he demands
his money. The stranger resists—with one
stroke of his powerful arm, he fells him to the earth—rifles
him of his purse—and fleeing, leaves him
for dead.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Reader, now we have witnessed the last step to
ruin of the miserable young man. Why follow him in
his downward career? Why enter with him into the
abodes of vice and infamy? Why present the blackened
picture to the mind of innocence? The guilty
can imagine it but too well.</p>
<hr class='tbk138'/>
<p class='pindent'>For a moment Ellen seemed transfixed to the spot
whereon she stood. “I think it is all over with
him,” said the woman, who had followed her to the
bed-side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellen, stooping, took one of the cold hands that lay
upon the coverlid, and pressing her fingers to his pulse,
discovered by its faint, slow movement, that the soul
yet lingered this side the portals of eternity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Kneeling, she breathed one intense, imploring supplication,
which, caught by the listening angels, was
on wings of rapture borne to the throne of Grace.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Rising, she said to the woman, who stood gazing
wonderingly upon her—“Where is the clergyman
who belongs to this institution?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh! madam, he’s gone a traveling after his
health!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And the physicians?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If it’s the doctors you mean, ma’am, <span class='it'>they</span> gave
him up long ago.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At this moment Mr. Norton, who had been conversing
aside with Mr. Barker, entered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ellen, my child, you here!” And seeing her gaze
intently fixed upon the corpse-like form before her, he
looked inquiringly upon Mr. Barker, who said,</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, the poor fellow! he’s gone then—I don’t
know that I ever pitied any one so much in my life.
He appears to have seen better days.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Has he no friends?” asked Ellen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We do not know,” was the reply. “He was
picked up in the street, almost frozen to death, about
six months ago—and has been, until about three weeks
since, confined in one of the cells. He raves a great
deal about his mother, who, as he seems to suppose,
was frozen to death—and a sister—and appears to be
one of those maniacs who fancy all kinds of demons
pursuing them. But, poor fellow! it’s all over with
him now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is not dead,” said Ellen, “his pulse moves!”
And as she again stooped to take his hand his lids
raised, and his large ghastly eyes bent full upon her.
Involuntarily laying her hand upon his marble brow,
she said in sweet tones of sympathy, while the tears
filled her eyes—“You are better now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Shrinking from her touch, while a lurid glare momentarily
fired his eyes, in a hoarse whisper he said—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t, don’t come near me! They will drag
you down to this horrible place where they have me.
Don’t you see how their eye-balls glare at you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They can’t hurt us,” said Ellen, in soothing accents—“and
we have come to take you from them!”
And calling for some cold water, she seated herself by
his bed, and commenced bathing his temples.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are an angel,” murmured the poor maniac,
gazing wildly upon her. “My mother, did she send
you to release me? And Amy!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They are all happy,” said Ellen, following the
poor creature’s vagaries, “and you shall be happy too!
God will send away those demons from you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is there a God?” murmured he, a ray of reason
for one moment, seeming to dart across his brain.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was he who sent us to you,” answered she.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sweet angel! can you give me tears to quench this
raging fire?” he said, laying his hand upon his heart,
“naught but tears can do it! They took them all
away when Amy died.” Here nature yielded, and he
sank exhausted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The purity of Ellen’s heart threw around her every
act a halo of beauty; and Mr. Barker, who had been
accustomed to see the fair ones of earth shrinking
with horror and disgust from the poor fettered wretch
deprived of reason, thought, as he gazed on Ellen as
she knelt beside the unhappy sufferer and bathed his
temples, that she was indeed an angel! And she had
risen and spoken to him the second time, ere he was
conscious of being addressed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Barker,” she continued, without noticing his
embarrassment, “cannot this poor man be removed to
a more comfortable apartment? I am sure that he is
perfectly harmless!” Seeing him hesitate, she continued—“Or,
at least, till he can be removed to the
insane hospital.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will consult Dr. L.,” and he turned to retire,
when Lucy entered accompanied by that gentleman.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, papa, I could not think what had become of
you and Ellen—I waited till my patience was quite
exhausted, when meeting Doctor L. I taxed his gallantry
to help me find you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We are very glad, cousin, that you have brought
the doctor hither,” said Ellen, “for Mr. Barker was
just going in search of him, to see if this poor man
cannot be removed to a more comfortable apartment
in the main-building.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought the poor fellow dead. He was sinking
very fast two days ago.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And have you not seen him since?” asked Ellen
in surprise.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no! I think the sooner such people die the
better. They have no enjoyment themselves, and are
a burden to others. And as to his being removed to
the main-building, a raging maniac—that cannot be
thought of.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not see,” persisted Ellen, “what objection
can possibly be urged to removing a dying man to a
comfortable room, even if he be a raging maniac.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Really! Miss Lincoln,” said Doctor L. with a
meaning smile, “you seem to have taken a very deep
interest in the handsome stranger.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellen raised her full eyes upon him, and while a
smile of pitying contempt cradled about her mouth,
said calmly—“The suffering, doctor, always excite
the sympathies of the <span class='it'>humane</span>, and I trust I am of that
class.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='151' id='Page_151'></span>
And turning to the unconscious sufferer, she continued
bathing his wrists and temples, as if to hide
her emotion, while a tear trembled upon her downcast
lids.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let us go from here, Cousin Ellen,” whispered
Lucy, “we can do the poor man no good.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dear Lucy,” said Ellen rising, “I cannot go and
leave this poor creature without a soul near him in his
last moments—and this good woman tells me that he
has been pleading for some one to pray for him, which
proves that reason has, at times, resumed her throne.
And if uncle will consent, I will remain here, while
Mr. Barker sends for the Rev. Mr. P., whose ear is
ever open to the call of distress.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, Ellen, it is growing late, and you will be subject
to remark.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Lucy,” she continued, “it is well to regard the
world’s opinion when it combats not with duty, but if
the world remark unjustly, when I do my duty, be it
even so. But what say you, uncle, shall I not stay?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ellen, my child,” said Mr. Norton, “I think with
Lucy, you had better not stay.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh! uncle,” cried Ellen, her eyes filling with tears,
“think, for one moment, if this were your own son.
Think if it were Lucy or myself, dying alone, without
one being to pity, or hand a drop of cold water to
soothe the parched lips—and in its last agonies, when
the poor soul is about to take its flight, perhaps to the
presence of an offended God, without one sympathizing
soul to breathe a prayer for mercy!” And here,
overcome by her feelings, she bowed her head upon
his arm and wept.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My noble girl!” said Mr. Norton, folding her to
his heart, “you shall not only stay, but Lucy and myself
will stay with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At length, raising her head, she said—“This place,
uncle, is cold and damp, and would, I fear, increase
your rheumatism—and Cousin Lucy, you know, dear
uncle, is not strong; and I fear his sufferings might affect
her too sensibly. But I am well and healthy, and
if you will send nurse and John to me, I will watch
here to-night, if Mr. Barker will permit.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You shall send for no one,” said Mr. Barker, much
affected. “Mary and myself will share your labors.
You have taught us our duty, Miss Lincoln.”</p>
<hr class='tbk139'/>
<p class='pindent'>As a fragrant honeysuckle raised its tiny head to the
soft caress of the dewy night winds, a rude blast swept
it from its trellised home, through an open window,
until caught in the ample folds of a snowy curtain.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The unbidden breeze extinguished a flickering light,
rousing the nurse from her recumbent position beside
a couch whereon reposed a pale unconscious form.
Re-lighting the taper, she advanced to close the window,
and hastily throwing aside the curtain, the little
floweret found a resting-place below, upon the bosom
of a sweet bouquet formed of its beauteous sisters.
And, as the little flower-spirit gazed upon the sleeper’s
form, the same mysterious atmosphere was there that
erst had hovered round the fairy child, but greatly
changed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>No longer basked in golden beams the brilliant beings
of the mind, nor those of flesh wove chains; but
with each other waged a mortal strife. Among the
latter might another form be seen, grim, shadowy, and
severe. Within his hand a barbed shaft he bore, and
whatsoever it rested on was rendered powerless.
Above, far in the hazy atmosphere, there shone a radiant
light! mysteriously beautiful and fair it seemed;
too pure for earth’s conception—and there was seen
an angel form bearing a golden vessel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And the little spirit asked the angel guide, who with
uplifted pinions, looks of love, and rapturous adoration,
gazed on that glorious vision—what these things
meant.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yon radiant vision is the cause of all you see. It
is the soul’s true aliment—the emanations of a dying
Saviour’s love, reflected from the noble hearts of those
who have so prayerfully watched around the sufferer’s
couch. This, the bright spirits of the soul perceive,
and strive to free themselves from earth’s dull chains,
to plume their pinions to yon glorious light.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The grim and shadowy form you see moving amid
the ministers of flesh, is fell Disease, offspring of laws
transgressed—the direst fee and curse of earthly life.
Already have the ministers of flesh felt his barbed
shaft—and this it is, that sunk that noble form so low
and powerless.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That angel bright, bearing a golden vessel, is hither
drawn from Calvary’s mount, by the united efforts,
prayers, and tears of those who, weariless, have at the
Throne of Grace implored that soul’s release. He
bears the purifying fount of Love, to wash and cleanse
that blackened, tainted heart from every trace of sin—nearer
it must not, <span class='it'>cannot</span> come, until <span class='it'>his will</span> shall
plead.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The spirit of flowers turned to the sleeper. His
large eyes raised—one deep, imploring gaze—and then
his hands were tightly clasped in earnest supplication!
A cry of joy <a id='ecst'></a>ecstatic burst from the angel-guide, ascended
heavenward, and caused the seraphs round
the Lamb’s pure throne to tune their harps anew!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Heavy, convulsive sobs burst from the bosom of the
penitent; and as the watcher raised his head, the light
of heaven played around his brow—while from his
heaving heart was washed away the name, with every
blackened trace of sin! But still, at times, dim shadows
flitted past, shading the lustre of its purity. And the
little spirit asked, in much surprise, why this should be?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“These are <span class='it'>regrets</span>,” the angel said, “shadowed
from wings of <span class='it'>memory</span>, as she flits o’er the past. On
earth these ne’er can be effaced.”</p>
<hr class='tbk140'/>
<p class='pindent'>It was a beautiful morning in autumn. The mellow,
golden light of an Indian summer shed its soft rays
over the pensive earth, as arrayed in her magnificent
robe of a thousand varied hues, she seemed to cling
with fond remembrance to departed joys, while with
melancholy repose she awaited the chilling approach
of the stern and rigid form of winter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her sweet breath, wafted by gentle zephyrs through
an open casement, filling the apartment, and kissing the
pale, sad features of a beautiful invalid, as wrapped in
a morning-dress, resting in a large easy-chair, his head
supported by snowy pillows, he gazed thoughtfully
upon the winding river as it flowed beneath, not a ripple
<span class='pageno' title='152' id='Page_152'></span>
resting upon its placid surface, save, ever and anon,
when some fairy sailboat moved gracefully along, reflecting
the bright sunbeams from its dazzling sails.
At last, raising his eyes to the benevolent countenance
of a matron, whose plain, neat attire, and light cautious
movement, bespoke the office of nurse, he said —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it not time for some of Mr. Norton’s family to
be here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I saw the carriage stop, sir, a short time since,
below the hill, and some persons get out. I think the
ladies,” she replied. A rap upon the door, and Mr.
Norton entered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The invalid reached forth his emaciated hand, while
a smile of pleasure lit up his features. Grasping it
warmly within his own, Mr. Norton said —</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am delighted to see you so much better, Mr. Edridge.
Dr. Warner tells me, if this fine weather continues,
we may take you home with us—although, I
don’t know that you will thank me for carrying you
away from this beautiful place, for every time I ascend
this hill and breathe its pure atmosphere, I feel
like a young man again. It is, indeed, a delightful
situation, just the place for a hospital.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Tears filled the dark eyes of the invalid, as returning
the pressure of Mr. Norton, he said—“Kindness
such as has been bestowed upon an object as unworthy
as myself, Heaven alone can repay. Could I once
have received but one ray, I should not now have to
mourn over misspent time and degraded talents.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, don’t think of the past,” interrupted Mr. Norton,
“you have many long years of usefulness yet
before you. You must not be sad. I left Ellen and
Lucy at the foot of the hill to gather flowers, they preferred
ascending on foot—but here they are, and they
must cheer you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At this moment nurse ushered them in; and as the
former approached, an expression of holy joy irradiated
his noble features, as with extended hand, she
said—“Mr. Edridge—well then, Arthur if you will—we
are, indeed, pleased to see you so much better.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But he seems to have a slight touch of the <span class='it'>blues</span>!
You must not let that be, girls,” said Mr. Norton,
laughingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy, with a merry smile, “if
you did not know it before, you certainly will learn
by this,” (presenting him a bouquet of gay wild flowers,)
“that I am an inveterate enemy to every thing of a
sombre hue.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And myself, also,” responded Ellen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Lincoln,” he continued, with a still deeper
tone of sadness, “if you had the same power to renew
the wasted energies of the mind, and blot out from the
pages of memory the dark characters of the past, as
you seem to possess, to lead the rebellious, blackened
heart to the fount of purifying Love, no gleam but
that of joy, should ever emanate from my grateful
heart.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t say <span class='it'>I</span>, Mr. Edridge, but the humble, holy
man who led you to a Saviour’s arms.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not know which had the greater influence,
Miss Lincoln—your sympathy—your earnest pleadings
to remain with a poor abandoned wretch in that loathsome
room, to soothe his dying agonies, who conscious,
yet powerless, listened in wonder—your prayerful
watchfulness during that awful night, amid ravings of
despair and cries for mercy, intermingled with the
yells of the chained maniacs; or the unwearied kindness
and holy teachings of the Rev. Mr. P. If one
led me to this fount, the other had created in my soul
a thirst for its purifying waters. From the moment
you first knelt beside my couch, a new light seemed to
dawn upon my darkened soul, though at first faint and
indistinct, and this morning, as I gaze upon this beautiful
landscape, all, all comes up so vividly before my
mental vision, accompanied with the sad picture of my
wasted time and degraded powers, that, although it
may give you pain, I cannot deny myself the pleasure
of some slight expression of gratitude, even though
shaded by my own sombre reflections. Oh! could I
but regain my lost health and strength, how would I
labor to show forth the love, mercy, and wisdom of the
glorious Being whom I have so blasphemed. Then,
Miss Lincoln, would you see that your sympathies and
kindness have not been thrown away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Resignation to the will of Heaven,” said Ellen,
endeavoring to regain her wonted composure, “has
power, if not to obliterate the dark characters upon
the pages of memory, to take from them their bitterness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That you have yet to teach me, Miss Lincoln,”
said he with a melancholy smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>I</span> shall teach, Mr. Edridge,” said Lucy laughingly,
(perceiving the embarrassment of her cousin, and
wishing to relieve her from the conversation,) “that
when I present to you a bouquet, you are not to pull
it to pieces.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Arthur smiled, and commenced re-arranging the scattered
flowers. While the little flower-spirit saw his
bright guardian, now radiant with heavenly smiles,
hovering near. In its hand it bore a chalice, from
which it poured sweet odors upon the pure heart of
the noble Ellen.</p>
<hr class='tbk141'/>
<p class='pindent'>’Twas midnight—every sound was hushed. The
earth lay slumbering in her fleecy robe of white. The
diamond-gemmed trees, the tall spires, and the distant
hills, all reflected back the smiles of the queen of night,
as she rode majestically above, presenting a scene of
enchanting loveliness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In an elegant apartment, reposed a little flower-spirit
upon the soft bosom of the lily of the Nile. The same
strange, delicious music filled the atmosphere, that erst
had burst from cherub choir that hovered round the
sleeping babe—save that its strains were louder, more
triumphant.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Forth floated the little flower-spirit. There lay upon
a couch, round which gathered weeping friends, a form
of manly beauty. The ministers of earth lay cold and
lifeless—their work was done. The bright beings of
Intellect and Adoration rested upon the shadowy pinions
of the celestial guardian—while <span class='it'>Love</span> floated in
the ethereal beams of other worlds reflected from the
golden wreaths of light, encircling the snowy brows of
a seraph band, upon which the full dark eyes of the
dying man were fixed; while far above, beyond the
deep blue vaults, there burst forth strains of sublime,
<span class='pageno' title='153' id='Page_153'></span>
entrancing melody—as if the revolving spheres had
joined the joyous anthem that echoed round the throne
of God—a soul redeemed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Arthur, are you willing to die, are you happy?”
whispered a sobbing voice, while a pearly tear fell
upon his brow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, joy inconceivable! Happiness that mortals
ne’er can know! But see’st thou that bright seraph?
It is Amy—her arms stretched forth to meet me. And
my mother—she is pouring blessings on thy head!
Ellen, sister—friends farewell—we meet again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And as they grasped his icy hands, the spirit freed,
was borne upon the rapturous wings of the awaiting
angels to the realms of bliss.</p>
<hr class='tbk142'/>
<p class='pindent'>“Dear Ellen,” said Lucy, as they were seated together
one pleasant morn, “why did you refuse the
hand of Dr. Warner? I am sure he is talented, pious,
and every thing one’s heart could wish. Then, you
know, he loves you for your own worth, and not your
wealth, for he has enough of that already.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What makes you suppose that I have refused him,
coz?” said Ellen, a bright blush suffusing her cheek.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Simply, appearances. As you say <span class='it'>such</span> secrets
should not be revealed, I do not expect to get much
information from yourself,” was Lucy’s reply. “But,
in the first place, there used to be a peculiar looking
bouquet sent here every morning for Miss Lincoln—then
papa’s consent was asked! And lastly, he is
among the missing, bouquets and all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Really, Lucy!” said Ellen laughing, “you form
very rapid conclusions.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But not always unjust ones,” she persisted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well then, Lucy, if you will have it so, suppose I
did refuse the hand of Dr. Warner; it was simply, that
I neither wish nor intend to marry.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do not intend to marry, cousin!” said Lucy, laying
down her work.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, coz!” said Ellen smiling, “you seem surprised.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cousin Ellen,” continued Lucy, in a more serious
tone, “I wish to ask you another question—will you
answer me candidly?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Certainly,” said Ellen, “if it be in my power.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then Ellen, did you love the beautiful penitent?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Arthur! Lucy. What could have induced you to
ask such a question?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have two reasons. The one, because the world
says so. The other, because I was half in love with
him myself, before he became so etherial.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The world says so,” responded Ellen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, it says that you fell violently in love with his
handsome face at the alms-house; then, afterwards,
had him removed to the insane hospital, where he remained
at your expense, (though papa did pay the
bills!) and since his death, that you have formed the
resolution to devote your life to <span class='it'>single</span> blessedness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Here Ellen burst into a peal of merry laughter “Dr.
L. must have reported that story. Poor fellow! his
soul is so given to earth, that he cannot conceive one
idea above it—and it is but natural that he should form
such conclusions. But to be serious, Lucy,” continued
she, a sad smile lighting up her expressive countenance,
“I never felt for Arthur one ray of earthly love!
What I did for him at the alms-house, I would have
done as you well know, and would still do, for the
most hideous wretch who possesses an immortal soul.
His deep contrition, and early history, made me feel
for him the love of a sister for an erring, but penitent
brother; but, to say that his uncommon beauty, and
superior powers of mind, did not heighten that interest
would be false. We are all formed to love what is
beautiful and sublime, and I know of nothing more
beautiful, than beautiful features lit up by purity of
heart—or more God-like and sublime, than great
powers of mind rightly directed; for, even when fallen
and degraded from their high estate, we cannot divest
them of interest. And when he came to reside with
us, his pious resignation under suffering, and his deep
absorbing love for our blessed Saviour, made me feel
as in the presence of a pure spirit! and as such, I loved
him. And now, every spot that he loved—every
flower which he cherished—the room in which he
died—all have to me a holy charm!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is this a new resolution, cousin?” said Lucy, after
a pause; “or do you suppose yourself incapable of
feeling any attachment for Dr. Warner?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, Lucy, the resolution was formed long since.
And as for my affections, were I to permit them to
rest upon an object as worthy as he, I doubt not they
would cling to it—as the heart must cling to something.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You speak of permission, Cousin Ellen. Do you
think we have any power over our affections?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Certainly, Lucy. It is the greatest insult to reason
to suppose otherwise. For why are we punishable
for misplaced affections, if we have no power to govern
those affections? As I said before, we are created
to love all that is lovely, pure, and noble; and if the
heart turns to aught else, it arises, not from the laws
of the Deity, but from the transgression of those
laws.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then, cousin,” said Lucy, “if the heart is formed
to love all that is good and noble, why do you speak
of not permitting your affections to rest upon a worthy
object—since they would naturally cling to it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dear Lucy,” answered she, her pure countenance
radiating with an expression of heavenly beauty,
“there is a higher and holier object of love than is
found on earth, and to which all human affections
should be subservient—the love for a crucified Redeemer!
In possessing this, we love all that his
eternal Father has created—all for whom that Saviour
died.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then do you mean to say, Cousin Ellen, that in
order to make ourselves acceptable in the sight of
Heaven, we must all devote ourselves to a life of single-blessedness?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Far from it, dear Lucy. Matrimony as instituted
by God, and blessed by the presence of his divine Son,
can but be holy, and consequently acceptable. But
since, dear Lucy, we have seen the ‘Revealings of a
Heart,’ I feel that there could be so much misery relieved—so
many hearts gained for Heaven, by a knowledge
of <span class='it'>self</span>, and the perfections of the Deity—not
taught in dry, dogmatical truths, addressed only to the
<span class='pageno' title='154' id='Page_154'></span>
reason, but in words and acts of sympathy and love,
which soothe the torn and lacerated heart, and bind in
sweet captivity the young and pure. And since, dear
cousin, I feel convinced of this truth, I have resolved
to devote the fortune, together with the few talents
intrusted to my care, to the relief of the unfortunate
and distressed. And the reason <span class='it'>I</span> do not wish to
marry, is, that my duties, my affections, would claim
much of my energies, and where the force is weak,
dear coz, you know that it were better not divided.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear, my noble cousin,” said Lucy, throwing
her arms around her, “I fear that I shall never understand
you. It was Dr. Warner himself who told me
of his rejection. He is so good, so noble, and was so
kind to poor Arthur from the first, that I promised to
intercede for him. Then papa was anxious you
should marry him; for he thinks, as he must part with
you some day, that Dr. Warner is the only person he
has ever met worthy of you. And now, dear Ellen,
shall I not tell them of your noble resolution? They
must love you for it as I do!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ellen was silent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At length, while a mischievous smile danced through
her tears, Lucy cried—“I wonder if <span class='it'>I</span> wouldn’t do
for the doctor! and then papa can retain all his treasures.
There he comes! I must run to tell him of
this new plan!” And away she flew to meet her
father.</p>
<hr class='tbk143'/>
<div><h1><a id='fanc'></a>FANCIES ABOUT A PORTRAIT.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY S. D. ANDERSON.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>O sweet</span> the dreams that gather now,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Around me with their magic power,</p>
<p class='line0'>The years are falling from my brow,</p>
<p class='line0'>And hope, and joyousness, and thou,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Are back again with childhood’s hour.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Thou, thou, a bright-eyed laughing girl,</p>
<p class='line0'>  With voice as sweet as summer glee,</p>
<p class='line0'>And hair upon whose clustering curl</p>
<p class='line0'>  The sunbeams rested gloriously.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Footsteps, as light as legends tell,</p>
<p class='line0'>  By moonlight gather on the lawn,</p>
<p class='line0'>Scarce shake the dew-drops from the cell</p>
<p class='line0'>Of some down-looking lily bell,</p>
<p class='line0'>  That opens to the ardent dawn.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>A nature mild as summer’s cheek,</p>
<p class='line0'>  On which the smile of beauty lingers;</p>
<p class='line0'>But glowing as some mountain peak,</p>
<p class='line0'>  That’s tipt with sunlight’s dying fingers.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And now I look far down the vale,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Through which our weary steps have come,</p>
<p class='line0'>And memory tells me many a tale,</p>
<p class='line0'>Of hopes that perished in the gale,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Since last we looked on home.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I think of one around whose form</p>
<p class='line0'>  Thy arms have clung in fond caress,</p>
<p class='line0'>Whose bark amid the world’s wild storm</p>
<p class='line0'>  Was guided by thy tenderness.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And fancy brings thy home again</p>
<p class='line0'>  Back as it was in years ago,</p>
<p class='line0'>The robin by the window-pane,</p>
<p class='line0'>Amid the woodbine pours his strain,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In murmurs soft and low.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The meadow, with its singing stream,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Is stretched before the door,</p>
<p class='line0'>And in its crystal depths the bream</p>
<p class='line0'>  Plays on the pebbled floor.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>I hear the songs of infancy,</p>
<p class='line0'>  At evening, in that peaceful cot,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the young mother in her glee</p>
<p class='line0'>Echoes them back in mimicry,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And cares and fears are all forgot.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Love’s sunlight pours beneath that roof</p>
<p class='line0'>  Its beams upon the path of all,</p>
<p class='line0'>Threading with golden hopes the woof</p>
<p class='line0'>  Of life’s bright festival.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But time goes on, and far away,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Beneath another sun and sky,</p>
<p class='line0'>Two graves are opened, and the day</p>
<p class='line0'>Looks down into them mild and gay,</p>
<p class='line0'>  With scarce a murmur or a sigh.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And that young mother kneeling there,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Heart-broken, desolate and lone,</p>
<p class='line0'>Hears nothing in that summer air</p>
<p class='line0'>  But grief would fashion to a moan.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Her heart is lying ’neath the flower</p>
<p class='line0'>  She planted on that quiet sod,</p>
<p class='line0'>And memory with her magic power</p>
<p class='line0'>Goes back, at evening’s holy hour,</p>
<p class='line0'>  With pilgrim’s staff and rod.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>One morning, when the corn was green,</p>
<p class='line0'> And song-birds warbled forth their glee,</p>
<p class='line0'>A wan and faded form was seen</p>
<p class='line0'>  Beneath the church-yard tree.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>A pale moss rose was in her breast,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Wet with the dew of burning tears;</p>
<p class='line0'>And wandering words and looks confessed</p>
<p class='line0'>That she, amid her wild unrest,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Was living o’er the by-gone years.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And thus with names she loved so well</p>
<p class='line0'>  Still lingering on her clay-cold lips,</p>
<p class='line0'>Speaking affection’s fadeless spell,</p>
<p class='line0'>  She sunk beneath death’s dark eclipse.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>This is a dream from which I start,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And wonder if it can be so—</p>
<p class='line0'>For there, with ruby lips apart,</p>
<p class='line0'>And sunny youthfulness, thou art,</p>
<p class='line0'>  As in those years long, long ago.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk144'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i145.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0008' style='width:90%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span class='bold'>GEN<sup>L</sup>. JOSEPH WARREN.</span><br/> <span class='it'>Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine</span></p>
</div>
<div><span class='pageno' title='155' id='Page_155'></span><h1><a id='life'></a>LIFE OF GENERAL JOSEPH WARREN.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE,” ETC. ETC. ETC.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;font-size:0.9em;'>[SEE ENGRAVING.]</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>This</span> illustrious champion of liberty was born in
Roxbury, near Boston, in the year 1741. His father
was a respectable farmer, and employed much of his
time in raising fruit. He was the person that produced
that species of apple called the <span class='it'>Warren Russet</span>.
The house in which his father resided is still standing,
near the centre of the village, in a street which has received
his name. One day in autumn, as he was in
his orchard, he saw an apple remaining on the top of a
tree, which, by its uncommon beauty tempted him to
climb the tree to pluck it, but as he was reaching the
apple, the branch upon which he stood broke under
him, and precipitated him to the ground a lifeless
corpse. His youngest son, the late Dr. John Warren,
of Boston, then four years old, who had been sent by
his mother to the orchard to call him to dinner, met
the body borne by two laborers. By this fatal accident
the mother of Warren was left a widow, with the
charge of four boys, of whom the eldest, Joseph, was
then about sixteen years of age. The fidelity with
which she executed this arduous trust, is sufficiently
attested by the eminent virtues and talents of her
children. She lived to a very advanced age at the
house in Roxbury, surrounded by the younger members
of the family, and reaping in their affectionate attention,
the best reward for her exemplary and maternal
duties. Joseph commenced his education at
the grammar-school of Roxbury, which at that time
had great celebrity from the superior attainments of its
teachers. At fourteen he entered college at Harvard,
and passed his examination with such satisfaction to
his preceptors, that drew from them expressions of surprise
and admiration. The whole term of his collegiate
life was marked by a generous, independent deportment,
fine manners, with indomitable courage and
perseverance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In 1759, Warren graduated with the highest honors,
and on leaving college, signified his wish to study
medicine; this was complied with by his maternal
parent, who placed him under the care of a personal
friend of his father. His professional studies were
alike prosecuted with energy and success.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the age of twenty-three he established himself at
Boston, and commenced the practice of his profession,
which he pursued with distinguished success.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had not been in practice more than two years
when the town was threatened with that direful disease,
the small-pox, the treatment of which was but little
known at that day—it was considered the most dreadful
scourge of the human race. This disease continued
to rage with the greatest violence, baffling the
skill and efforts of many of the most learned of the
faculty.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Our young practitioner soon distinguished himself
by his successful method of treating that disease, and
from that moment was exalted to the highest pinnacle
of fame. He stood, week after week, untiringly by
the bed of his patient, using the necessary exertions
with his own hands. These noble and humane traits,
apart from his laborious profession, firmly attached
him to the people; he stood high among his older
brethren in the profession, and his courtesy and his
humanity won the way to the hearts of all—and what
he once gained he never lost.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A bright and lasting fame in his profession was now
before him, whilst wealth and influence were awaiting
his grasp; his exalted talents had secured the conquest
it had always been his aim to achieve. But the circumstances
in which his beloved country was then
placed necessarily directed the attention of Warren
from professional pursuits, and concentrated it upon
political affairs.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The same superiority of talents and ardor of temperament,
which would have given him an easy success
in any profession, rendered him more than ordinarily
susceptible of the influences which then operated
upon the community, and threw him forward into the
front rank of the asserters of liberal principles. The
fact, however, that men, like Warren, of the finest
talents, and in every respect the fairest promise, were
among the first to join in the opposition to the measures
of the government, shows sufficiently how completely
the whole mind of the colonies had given itself
up to the cause, and how utterly impossible it was for
the ministry to sustain their pretensions by any power
that could be brought to bear upon the people of
America.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In answer to a letter received from his late preceptor,
advising him against any action amounting to rashness,
he says, “The calls of my distracted country are paramount
to every interest of my own. I willingly leave
fame and all its glories to aid in bursting the bonds
of tyranny, and giving freedom to a virtuous people.”
And in another letter to a friend, who had remonstrated
with him on the same cause, he says, “It is the united
voice of America to preserve their freedom or lose
their lives in defense of it; their resolutions are not the
effects of inconsiderate rashness, but the sound result
of sober inquiry and deliberation. I am convinced
that the true spirit of liberty was never so universally
diffused through all ranks and orders of people in any
country on the face of the earth, as it is now through
all North America.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>No sooner were Warren’s intentions made known,
than he was appointed surgeon-general of the army.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the time of Warren’s appointment, the conclusion
<span class='pageno' title='156' id='Page_156'></span>
of the definitive treaty of peace, which terminated
the French war took place, and from that
period to the battles of Lexington and Bunker’s Hill,
eleven years intervened, which period was filled up by
a succession of interesting events, many of which occurred
in the vicinity of Boston.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Stamp Act; the tumults which followed it; its
repeal; the Tea Act; the troubles which attended its
enforcement, and which terminated in the celebrated
Boston <span class='it'>Tea Party</span>; the military occupation of Boston
by the British army; the hostile encounters that occurred
so frequently between the troops and the
citizens, including the fatal events of the 5th March,
1770; these occurrences, with various others of less
importance, were the preludes to the tragedies of the
19th April and 17th June, 1775. In adverting to one
or two of these occasions, it will be seen that General
Warren was the leading spirit of the colony during
the eleven years before mentioned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Everett, in his biography of this distinguished
officer, says, “The great authority and influence which
Warren exercised over his fellow citizens, evidently
show that he combined in a remarkable degree the
qualities requisite for excellence in civil pursuits, with
a strong taste and aptitude for war. In this particular
he stood alone among the leading patriots of Massachusetts;
this, had his valuable life been prolonged,
would have contributed very much to establish and
extend his political influence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He also possessed, in high perfection, the gift of
eloquence, and in exercising it, he is represented as
having exhibited the discretion which in all respects
tempered so honorably the ardor of his character!</p>
<p class='pindent'>His voice was often raised in public, for the purpose
of dissuading the people from tumultuous movements,
and exhorting them to seek redress for their
wrongs, as much as possible, according to the forms
of law, and without detriment to the rights of individuals,
or a breach of the public peace. The daily
riots, which followed the attempt to enforce the new
revenue laws at Boston, produced, as must have been
expected, the military occupation of the town by
British troops.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the year 1768, two regiments from Halifax, and
two from Ireland, making together nearly four thousand
men, were ordered to be stationed at Boston,
under the command of General Gage, an officer who
had honorably distinguished himself in the preceding
French war. This gave great dissatisfaction to the
inhabitants, and the general found great difficulty in
erecting barracks for their accommodations, and consequently
hired houses for the greatest part, and
the remainder were quartered in tents upon the
common.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This military occupation of Boston led to continual
animosity between the soldiers and the citizens. In
these very frequently the latter were in the wrong,
which was certainly the fact on the tragical 5th of
March, 1770.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the evening of that day, while the soldiers were
on guard at the Custom House, King Street, now State
Street, a mob of citizens, armed with every description
of weapons, insulted, and finally assaulted them. The
guard exhibited great forbearance, until one of their
number had been actually knocked down by one of
the mob, and ill-treated; they then precipitately fired
and killed three persons on the spot, and wounded two
others. So satisfied were the patriots that the citizens
were in the wrong, that John Adams and Josiah
Quincy volunteered their services as counsel for Captain
Preston, the commanding officer of the guard who
had been brought to trial for the offence. He was
honorably acquitted. This unhappy affair left in the
bosoms of the citizens an impression that seemed impossible
to erase; and they determined to set apart
that day for an annual celebration; and it was accordingly
so observed for several years, until the anniversary
of the Declaration of Independence was finally
substituted for it. On the second of these celebrations,
Samuel Adams was invited to deliver the address.
He declined the task, and it was then committed to
Dr. Warren, who acquitted himself with great ability.
On another anniversary, three years afterward, he
again delivered another and last address, which, from
the mutual exasperation between the troops and the
citizens, was considered rather a critical duty. The
day arrived, however, and the weather remarkably
propitious; the old South Meeting-House was the place
appropriated for the delivery of the oration, and so
crowded was the building at an early hour, that on the
arrival of our young orator, there was no way of access
but by the pulpit window, which his friends
effected for him by means of a ladder. The British
officers occupied the aisles, and the stairs leading to
the pulpit. Each man felt the palpitation of his own
heart, and watched the pale but determined face of
of his neighbor. The speaker began his oration in a
firm tone of voice, and proceeded with great energy
and pathos.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Warren and his friends were prepared to chastise
contumely, prevent disgrace, and avenge an attempt at
assassination. The scene was sublime. A patriot in
whom the flush of youth and the grace and dignity of
manhood were combined, stood armed in the holy
sanctuary to animate and encourage the sons of liberty,
and to hurl defiance at their oppressors. The orator
commenced with the early history of the country,
described the tenure by which we held our liberties
and property; the affection we had constantly shown
the parent country, and boldly told them how, and by
whom these blessings of life had been violated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was in this appeal to Britain—in this description
of suffering, agony and horror, a calm and high-souled
defiance, which must have chilled the blood of
every sensible foe. Such another hour, perhaps, has
seldom happened in the history of man, and is not surpassed
in the records of nations. An able writer, commenting
on the oration, says, “The thunders of Demosthenes
rolled at a distance from Philip and his host—and
Tully poured the fiercest torrent of his invective
when Catiline was far off, and his dagger no longer to
be feared; but Warren’s speech was made to proud
oppressors, resting on their arms, whose errand it was
to overawe, and whose business it was to fight. If the
deed of Brutus deserved to be commemorated by history,
poetry, painting and sculpture, should not this instance
<span class='pageno' title='157' id='Page_157'></span>
of patriotism and bravery be held in lasting
remembrance? If he</p>
<div class='blockquote0r9'>
<p class='pindent'>‘That struck the foremost man of all this world,’</p>
</div>
<p class='noindent'>was hailed as the first of freemen, what honors are not
due to him, who, undismayed, bearded the British
lion, to show the world what his countrymen dared to
do in the cause of liberty? If the statue of Brutus
was placed among those of the gods, who were the
preservers of Roman freedom, should not that of
Warren fill a lofty niche in the temple reared to perpetuate
the remembrance of our birth as a nation?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The late Rev. Dr. Homer, of Newton, Massachusetts,
recently deceased, who was present on this
ever memorable occasion, related the following incident,
which we consider worthy a place on these
pages. He says, “while the oration was in progress,
a British officer, seated on the pulpit-stairs, raised
himself up and held one of his hands before the speaker,
with several pistol-bullets on the open palm. Warren
observed the action, and without discontinuing his
discourse, dropped a white handkerchief upon the
officer’s hand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>How happy had it been for the country, if this gentle
and graceful admonition could have arrested the march
of violence, and averted the fatal presage afforded by
this sinister occurrence of the future fate of the patriotic
speaker—a presage too soon and too exactly realized
on the following 17th of June. The first position of
a public character in which Dr. Warren took a part,
were those which grew out of Governor Gage’s determination
to fortify the southern entrance of Boston, by
lines drawn across the isthmus or Neck, which unites
it to Roxbury. On this occasion a convention was
held, of delegates from all the towns in the county of
Suffolk, which then comprehended the present county
of Norfolk, for the purpose of endeavoring to prevent
this measure from being carried into effect. Dr.
Warren was a delegate to this convention, and was
made chairman of the committee which was appointed
to prepare an address to the governor upon the subject.
The governor replied in a brief and unsatisfactory
manner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The committee rejoined in another address, of
greater length, which was transmitted to the governor,
to which he did not think proper to reply. These
papers were written by Warren, and give a very favorable
idea of his literary taste and talent, as well as of
his courage and patriotism. The correspondence was
communicated by Dr. Warren, as chairman of the
committee, to the Continental Congress; and that body,
in their reply, notice, in terms of high approbation, the
part taken in it by the committee. The high sense,
which was now entertained by his fellow-citizens, of
the value of the services of Warren to the cause of
liberty, was strikingly evinced on this occasion, first
by his election as a delegate from Boston to the Congress,
and secondly, by his designation as President of
that body, and chairman of the committee of public
safety. By virtue of these situations, he united in his
person the chief responsibility for the conduct of the
whole civil and military affairs of the new commonwealth,
and became a sort of popular dictator. The
Congress was organized at Salem, but shortly after removed
to Concord, and, a few days before the battle
of Lexington, adjourned to meet again at Watertown,
on the 10th May, 1775. The Committee of Safety
held its meetings, at this time, in a public house at
West Cambridge, and seems to have been in session
every day. It was soon apparent that the station now
occupied by Warren, in the councils of Massachusetts,
would be no sinecure. The events of the 19th of
April, including the battles of Lexington and Concord
were of such a character, that no individual could well
occupy a very conspicuous position in the field. There
was no commander-in-chief, and, properly speaking,
no regular engagement or battle. The object of the
British was to destroy the military stores at Concord;
that of the Americans, to prevent this, if possible, and
to show that, in this quarter of the country, every
inch of ground would be desperately contested. For
the vigor and determination which marked the conduct
of the people on this important day, it is not too
much to say, that the country is mainly indebted to the
vigilance, activity and energy of Warren.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It had been the intention of the British commander
to surprise the Americans, and so severe were the precautions
taken for this purpose, that the officers employed
in the expedition were only informed of it on
the preceding day. Information of a meditated attack
had been, however, for some time in possession of the
Americans; the first intimation having been given by a
patriotic lady of Boston, the wife of a royalist officer.
A most vigilant observation was, in consequence,
maintained upon the movements of the British; and, in
this operation, great advantage was derived from the
services of an association, composed chiefly of Boston
mechanics, which had been formed in the autumn of
the preceding year. The late Col. Paul Revere was
an active member of this society, and was employed
by Dr. Warren, on this occasion, as his principal confidential
messenger. Some preparatory movements
took place among the British troops on the 15th of
April, which attracted the attention of Warren. It
was known that the principal object of the contemplated
expedition was to seize the stores at Concord.
Presuming that the movement would now be made
without delay, the committee of safety took measures
for securing the stores by distributing a part of them
among the neighboring towns. John Hancock and
Samuel Adams were then at the house of the Rev.
Mr. Clark, in Lexington, and Colonel Revere was dispatched
as a special messenger to inform them of the
probable designs of General Gage. On his return to
Boston, he made an agreement with his friends in
Charlestown, that, if the expedition proceeded by water,
two lights should be displayed on the steeple of the
North Church, if it moved over the neck, through
Roxbury, only one. The British commander finally
fixed upon the 19th for the intended attempt; and, on
the evening of the 18th he sent for the officers whom
he had designated for this service, and communicated
to them, for the first time, the nature of the expedition
upon which they were to be employed. So strict had
been the secrecy observed by the governor in regard
to this matter. The same discretion had not been
<span class='pageno' title='158' id='Page_158'></span>
maintained in other quarters, for Lord Percy, who was
to command the reserve, on his way home to his lodgings,
heard the expedition talked of, by a group of citizens,
at the corner of one of the streets.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He hastened back to the governor’s headquarters,
and informed him that he had been betrayed. An
order was instantly issued to prevent any American
from leaving town, but it came a few minutes too late
to produce effect. Dr. Warren, who had returned in
the evening from the meeting of the Committee of
Public Safety, at West Cambridge, was already informed
of the movement of the British army, and had
taken the necessary measures for spreading the intelligence
through the country. At about nine o’clock on
the evening of the 18th the British troops intended for
the expedition were embarked, under the command of
Colonel Small, in boats at the bottom of the Common.
Dr. Warren inspected the embarkation in person, and
having returned home immediately after, sent for
Colonel Revere, who reached his house about ten
o’clock. He had already dispatched Mr. Dawes overland
as a special messenger to Lexington, and he now
requested Colonel Revere to proceed through Charlestown
on the same errand. The colonel made arrangements,
in the first place, for displaying the two lights
on the steeple of the North Church, agreeably to the
understanding with his friends in Charlestown, and
then repaired to a wharf, at the north part of the town,
where he kept his boat. He was rowed over by two
friends, a little to the eastward of the British ship of
war <span class='it'>Somerset</span>, which lay at anchor in this part of the
channel, and was landed on the Charlestown side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He pursued his way through Charlestown and West
Cambridge, not without several perilous encounters
with British officers, who were patroling the neighborhood,
and finally arrived safely at Lexington, where he
met the other messenger, Mr. Dawes, whom he had,
however, anticipated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After reposing a short time, they proceeded together
to Concord, alarming the whole country as they went,
by literally knocking at the door of almost every house
upon the road. They had of course been in part anticipated
by the signals on the North Church steeple,
which had spread intelligence of the intended movement,
with the speed of light, through all the neighboring
towns. By the effect of these well-judged and
well-executed measures, Hancock and Adams were
enabled to provide in season for their personal safety,
and the whole population of the towns, through which
the British troops were to pass, were roused and on
foot before they made their appearance. On reaching
Lexington Green, they found a corps of militia under
arms and prepared to meet them. At Concord, they
found another; and when, after effecting as far as they
could, the objects of their expedition, they turned their
steps homeward, they were enveloped, as it were, in a
cloud of the armed yeomanry, which thickened around
them at every step, and did such fearful execution in
their ranks, that nothing but their timely meeting with
the reinforcements under Lord Percy, at West Cambridge,
could have saved them from entire disorganization
and actual surrender. Colonel Revere, many
years afterward, drew up a very curious and interesting
account of his adventures on this expedition, in the
form of a letter to the corresponding secretary of the
Massachusetts Historical Society, which is printed in
the Collections of that body, and is now familiar to the
public. Warren who was now in attendance on the
Committee of Safety at West Cambridge, expecting
the British troops to pass that way on their return from
Concord, awaited their arrival.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On their approach he armed himself and went out
in company with General Heath to meet them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On this occasion he displayed his usual fearlessness,
by exposing his person very freely to the fire of the
enemy; and a bullet passed so near his head, as to
carry away one of the long, close, horizontal curls,
which, agreeably to the fashion of the day, he wore
above his ears.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This accident was regarded by the superstitious as
an ill-omen, or a presage of an early doom that awaited
him. But Warren himself, even in a superstitious
age, never yielded to such notions, his frank and generous
spirit would rather sympathize with the gallant
Trojan hero, who when he was advised to await, before
he entered upon a battle, till the omens deduced
from the flight of birds should become favorable, exclaimed,
“What care I for the flight of birds, whether
they take their course to the right or to the left? I ask
no better omen than to draw my sword in the cause of
my country.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is a remarkable fact, on examining the composition
of the New England army of 1775, how many
names we find of men, either previously or subsequently
illustrious in the history of the country.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The fact is one among many other proofs, how
completely the spirit of the times had taken possession
of the whole mind of the colonies, and drawn within
the sphere of its influence the most eminent professional,
political, and military characters, as well as the
mass of the people. In regard to the character of the
troops, it is sufficient to say that they were the flower
and the pride of our hardy yeomanry. They were not
like the rank and file of the regular armies of Europe,
the refuse of society, enlisted in the worst haunts of
crowded cities, under the influence of a large bounty,
or perhaps an inspiration of a still inferior kind. They
were, as they are correctly described by our enemies,
“the country people.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Though generally unaccustomed to regular service,
their continual conflicts with the Indians made them
expert in the use of arms. Of the officers, who commanded
in this army, Warren has been rendered, by
subsequent events, by far the most conspicuous.
Prescott and Putnam, both veterans of the former
wars, occupied with him at the time, the highest place
in the confidence of the country. But, in addition to
these, there were many others whose names are not
much less extensively known throughout the world
than theirs. It will not be <a id='irr'></a>irrelevant we trust, to touch
some of the leading characters in connection at that
time, without this, the character of him who figures
in this memoir must be incomplete. To Mr. Everett,
the able historian of Warren, we are indebted for much
of the history following.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Prescott, the colonel of one of the Middlesex regiments,
<span class='pageno' title='159' id='Page_159'></span>
was the officer, who, on the 16th of June,
received the orders of the commander-in-chief to occupy
and fortify the heights of Charlestown, and who
commanded in the redoubt on the day of the battle.
He was a native of Pepperell, in the county of Middlesex,
where his family, one of the most distinguished and
respected in the State, still reside during a part of the
year. Prescott inherited an ample fortune from his
father; but he seems to have possessed a natural aptitude
for military pursuits, and, at the opening of the
war of 1756, he, with so many others of the noble
spirits of New England, joined the expedition against
Nova Scotia, under General Winslow, with a provincial
commission. He served with such distinction,
that, after the close of the war, he was urged to accept
a commission in the British line; but he declined the
honor, and preferred returning to the paternal estate.
Here he resided, occupied in the peaceful pursuits of
agriculture, and in dispensing a frank and liberal hospitality
to his neighbors, many of whom were his old
companions in arms, until the opening of the Revolution
called him, already a veteran, to the council and
the field. During the progress of the battle of Bunker’s
Hill, he was frequently seen on the top of the
parapet, attired in a calico frock, with his bald head
uncovered to the sun, observing the enemy, or encouraging
his men to action. Governor Gage, who, at one
of these moments, was reconnoitering the American
works through a telescope, remarked the singular appearance
of Prescott, and inquired of Willard, one of
the council, who he was. “My brother-in-law Colonel
Prescott,” was the reply. “Will he fight?” returned
the governor. “Ay,” said Willard, “to the
last drop of his blood.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Putnam, another veteran of the French wars, was
not less bold in action, and equally regardless of unnecessary
show and ceremony.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the war of 1756 he commanded a company of
provincial rangers, and, in this capacity, rendered the
most essential services; passing through a series of
adventures, the details of which, though resting on
unquestionable evidence, seem like a wild and extravagant
fable. After the close of the seven years’ war,
Putnam returned to the plough, and was in the act of
guiding it, when he heard the news of the battle of
Lexington.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Like Cincinnatus of old, he left it in the furrow, and
repaired at once to Cambridge, though now more than
sixty years of age. He was particularly earnest, in the
council of war, in recommending the measure of fortifying
Bunker’s Hill; a part of his regiment was detached
for the service, and he was present and active
himself on the field, through the night of the battle, and
during the action.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Whether, as some suppose, he was charged by the
Council of War with a general superintendence of the
whole affair; or whether, like Warren, he appeared
upon the field as a volunteer, is not known with certainty;
for the official record of the orders of the day is
lost, and the want of it is not supplied, for this purpose,
by any other evidence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is certain, however, from all the accounts, that his
agency in the action was great and effectual. It may
be here remarked, that the principal British and American
officers were personally known to each other.
They had served together in the French wars, and in
some instances, had contracted a close and intimate
friendship.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Not long after the battle of Lexington, there was an
interview at Charlestown, between some of the officers
on both sides, to regulate an exchange of prisoners;
and Governor Brooks, who was present, was
accustomed to relate that General Putnam and Major
Small, of the British army, no sooner met, than they
ran into each other’s arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In this state of the hostile preparations of the two
parties, and with the strong feeling of mutual exasperation,
which, notwithstanding occasional instances of
a different character, prevailed generally between the
masses of both, it was apparent, that a trial of strength
on a more extensive scale, and of a much more serious
and decisive kind, than any that had yet occurred,
must soon take place.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Americans had been for some time employed in
fortifying the heights of Charlestown, and in preparing
to defend them against the enemy; the British on their
part had commenced preparing for an attack.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At an early hour in the morning, Governor Gage
summoned a council of war at the City Hall. They
were all agreed as to the propriety of dislodging the
Americans from their work; but there was some difference
of opinion upon the mode of making the attack.
Generals Clinton and Grant were for landing at Charlestown
Neck, and attacking the works in the rear, but
this plan was considered too hazardous.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It would place the British between two armies, one
superior in force, and the other strongly intrenched, by
which they might be attacked at once in front and rear,
without the possibility of a retreat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The plan preferred by the council was to attack the
works in front. Accordingly, at about noon, twenty-eight
barges left the end of Long Wharf, filled with the
principal part of the first detachment of the British
troops, which consisted of four battalions of infantry,
ten companies of light infantry, and ten of grenadiers.
They had six pieces of artillery, one of which was
placed in each of the six leading boats.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The barges formed in single file, and in two parallel
lines.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day was without a cloud, and the regular
movement of this splendid naval procession, with the
glow of the brazen artillery, and the scarlet dresses and
burnished arms of the troops, exhibited to the unaccustomed
eyes of the Americans a brilliant and imposing
spectacle. The barges proceeded in good order,
and landed their freight at the south-eastern point of
the peninsula, commonly called Morton’s Point. Immediately
after they had landed, it was discovered that
most of the cannon-balls, which had been brought over,
were too large for the pieces, and that it was necessary
to send them back and obtain a fresh supply. A
British writer of that day gives the following ludicrous
account of this blunder of over-sized balls, he says:
“This blunder arose from the dotage of an officer of
high rank, who spends all his time with school-masters’
daughters.” It seems that General Cleveland,
<span class='pageno' title='160' id='Page_160'></span>
“who,” as the same author says, “though no Samson,
must have his Delilah,” became very much in love with
the beautiful daughter of Master Lovell, and, in order
to gain favor with the damsel, had given her young
brother, a mere boy, an appointment in the ordnance
department, for which he was not qualified. His inexperience
was the cause of the error, for which
General Cleveland was much censured by his commanding
officer, as it created some delay and diminished
the British fire during the first two attacks.
While the British commander was preparing to send
off his second detachment, the first remained unmolested
at Morton’s Point, and quietly dined from the contents
of their knapsacks. At about two o’clock, the second
detachment followed in barges to join the first at Morton’s
Point, soon after a few companies of grenadiers
and light infantry, with a party of mariners, the whole
amounting to about four thousand men, who were
commanded by General Howe. He had under him
General Pigot, and Colonels Nesbit, Abercrombie, and
Clark.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Such, then, were the respective forces and positions
of the two armies immediately preceding the battle.
General Burgoyne, in a letter written some days after
the battle, has given a spirited sketch of the splendid
panorama, seen by the British officers from the heights
at the northern extremity of Boston. He says, “the
spectacle which was exhibited at this time by the two
peninsulas and the surrounding waters, was of a highly
varied and brilliant character; for immediately below
flowed the river Charles,” (not, as now, interrupted
by numerous bridges,) “pursuing a smooth, unbroken
way to the ocean. Between this and Charlestown
shore, lay at anchor, the ships of war, the <span class='it'>Somerset</span>,
the <span class='it'>Lively</span>, and the <span class='it'>Falcon</span>; and further on the left,
within the bay, the <span class='it'>Glasgow</span>. Their black and
threatening hulks poured forth at every new discharge,
fresh volumes of smoke, which hung like fleecy clouds
upon the air, till cleared by the northern breezes, when
the spectator could perceive on the opposite side of the
river, rising from the shore by a gentle ascent, the sister
hills of Charlestown, clothed in the green luxuriance
of the first flush of vegetation, excepting where their
summits were broken by the low and hasty works of the
Americans.” While both the armies and the assembled
multitude were hushed in breathless expectation,
might be seen our gallant fathers, eagerly awaiting the
signal for the action, ready to rush to the rescue of
freedom and their country. Their homely apparel had
but little to attract the eye, but frequently, when some
favorite officer made his appearance, a shout of gratulation
passed along the ranks, which showed the zeal
that inspired them for the cause. During this silent
suspense, a horseman was seen advancing at full speed
toward the American works. As he crossed the hill,
General Putnam rode forward to meet him, and perceived
it was General Warren.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“General Warren!” exclaimed the veteran, “is it
you? I rejoice and regret to see you. Your life is
too precious to be exposed here; but, since you are
arrived, I take your orders.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“General Putnam, I have none to give. You have
made your arrangements, therefore proceed. I come
to aid you as a volunteer. Tell me where I can be
useful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go, then,” said Putnam, “to the redoubt; you will
there be covered.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I came not to be covered,” replied Warren, “I
came to do my duty; tell me where I shall be most in
danger, and where the action will be hottest.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The redoubt,” said Putnam, “will be the enemy’s
object; if that can be defended, the day is ours.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>General Warren at once hastened to the redoubt,
and his approach to the troops, who recognized him,
though he wore no uniform, was welcomed with loud
acclamations. When he reached the redoubt, Colonel
Prescott requested him to give him his orders.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, Colonel Prescott,” he replied, “give me yours—give
me a musket; I have come here to take a lesson
of a veteran soldier in the art of war.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>These particulars, including the dialogue, are given
substantially, as reported afterward by General Putnam
and Colonel Prescott, and may be depended on
as authentic. General Warren was originally opposed
to the plan of fortifying the Heights of Charlestown;
but when he found the Council of War had decided in
favor of it, he told them he should aid them personally
in carrying it into effect. Against this he was strongly
urged, but his resolution was immovable. Warren
had officiated the preceding day at Watertown, as President
of Congress; that body being in session there,
and had passed the whole night in transacting business.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At daylight he mounted his horse, and rode to headquarters
at Cambridge, where he arrived much indisposed
from fatigue; he was urged to take some repose,
which he did; but he had retired to bed but a short
time, when information was received from General
Ward that the British were moving.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He rose immediately, said he was quite well, and
attended the meeting of the Committee of Safety as
chairman. During this meeting, Elbridge Gerry, who
entertained the same opinion as Warren upon the prudence
of the attempt, earnestly requested him not to
expose his person.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am aware of the danger,” replied the young and
ardent soldier, “but I should die with shame, if I were
to remain at home in safety, while my friends and
fellow-citizens are shedding their blood, and hazarding
their lives in the cause.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your ardent temper,” replied Gerry, “will carry
you forward into the midst of peril, and you will probably
fall.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know that I may fall,” returned Warren; “but
where is the American who does not think it a glory
to die in defense of his country?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>After the adjournment of the committee, he mounted
his horse, and rode to Charlestown, where he arrived
but a short time before the battle commenced.</p>
<p class='pindent'>General Pomroy, of Northampton, reached headquarters
at this time, as a volunteer; he had served,
with the rank of captain, under Sir William Johnson,
in the war of 1756; and was distinguished in the celebrated
battle with the French and Indians, under Baron
Dieskau. When the sound of the artillery rattled in
his ears, he felt it as a summons to action, and could
not resist the temptation to repair to the field. He accordingly
<span class='pageno' title='161' id='Page_161'></span>
requested General Ward to lend him a horse,
and taking a musket, set off at full speed for Charlestown.
On reaching the Neck, and finding it enfiladed
by a hot and heavy fire of round, bar, and chain-shot
from the <span class='it'>Glasgow</span>, he began to be alarmed, not, as
may be supposed, for his own safety, but for that of
General Ward’s horse. Horses were at this time
almost as rare and precious as the nobler animals that
rode them. Too honest to expose his borrowed horse
to “the pelting of the pitiless storm,” and too bold to
dream of shrinking from it himself, the conqueror of
Baron Dieskau dismounted, delivered the horse to a
sentry near, shouldered his musket, and marched on
foot across the Neck. On reaching the hill, he took
his station near the redoubt; and he had no sooner been
recognised by the soldiers, than his name rang with
repeated shouts along the line. About three o’clock in
the afternoon, every necessary preparation being made,
the signal for action was given by a general discharge
of artillery along the whole British line.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The troops advanced in two divisions, General
Howe, in person, led the right, toward the rail-fence;
General Pigot, with the left, aimed directly at the redoubt.
At this time, it appears, the order for the exchange
of balls sent in mistake, had not yet been answered,
which caused a suspension of the fire from
the British artillery very soon after it had commenced.
It was, however, renewed with grape-shot. The little
battery, stationed at the opening between the redoubt
and breastwork, in the American lines, replied with
great effect. In the meantime, the American drums
beat to arms. General Putnam, who was still at work
on the redoubt, quitted the intrenchment, and led his
men into action. “Powder is scarce,” said the veteran,
addressing them in his usual laconic style; “powder
is scarce, and must not be wasted; reserve your fire
till you see the whites of their eyes, then take aim at
the officers.” These laconic remarks were repeated
as an order along the line; but when the British had
come within gunshot of the works, a few sharp-shooters
disobeyed the injunction, and fired. “Fire again before
the word is given at your peril,” exclaimed Prescott;
“the next man that disobeys orders shall be instantly
shot.” The British were now at only eight
rods distance. “Now, men, now is your time!” said
Prescott. “Make ready! take aim! fire!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So effectually was this order obeyed, that when the
smoke disappeared, the whole hill-side was covered
with the fallen. The British returned the fire, and
attempted to rally and advance, but without success.
After a moment’s irresolution, they turned their backs,
and hurried from the hill.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Such was the futile attempt to storm the works; and
had the reinforcements of artillery and supplies of ammunition,
which had been ordered from Cambridge,
arrived, a brilliant success must have followed. It
was at this moment that the mischief resulting from
Colonel Gridley’s ill-judged exhibition of parental partiality,
in giving the place of major in the artillery to
his son, in preference to Count Rumford, was severely
felt. This young officer, as his subsequent conduct
proved, was entirely incompetent to the duty assigned
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Could the long-tried and energetic character of Rumford
been employed, there would have been no want
of ammunition; powder and balls enough would have
found their way into their works, and the day might
still have been ours. But America paid the penalty of
Colonel Gridley’s fatherly weakness, as Great Britain
did that of General Cleveland’s superannuated gallantry.
The American artillery was badly served through the
whole action. Early in the day the officer, who was
stationed with his company and two field pieces at the
opening between the redoubt and breastwork, drew off
his pieces from the post assigned, in order, as he said,
to prepare his ammunition in safety. General Putnam
was obliged to employ Captain Ford to drag the pieces
back; by him and Captain Perkins, they were served
the whole day. Major Gridley, who had been ordered
with his battalion from Cambridge to the lines
with all speed; had advanced only a short distance
beyond the Neck, and halted, as he said, in order to
wait and cover the retreat, which his inexperience
deemed inevitable.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At that moment, Colonel Frye, a veteran of the old
French wars, whose regiment was in the redoubt, perceived
Major Gridley with his artillery in the position
described. Frye galloped up to him, and demanded
what it meant.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We are waiting,” said Gridley, “to cover the
retreat.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Retreat!” replied the veteran, “who talks of retreating?
This day thirty years ago I was present at
the first taking of Louisburg, when your father, with
his own hand, lodged a shell in the citadel. His son
was not born to talk of retreating. Forward to the
lines!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gridley proceeded a short distance with his artillery,
but overcome with terror, and unequal to such a task,
he ordered his men to re-cross the Neck, and take a
position, where they were to fire with their three
pounders upon the <span class='it'>Glasgow</span>. The order was so absurd
that Captain Trevett refused to obey it, and proceeded
at once toward the lines. Major Gridley was
tried for neglect of duty, and dismissed from service.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A few hours had now passed in silence, when General
Howe determined upon a second attack, and, having
rallied and re-organized his men, gave the order to advance.
This was complied with, and the artillery
pushed forward to within three hundred yards of the
rail-fence, to prepare the way for the infantry. During
these movements, a solemn silence brooded over the
American lines.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The men were ordered not to fire till the enemy
were within six rods distance. While every thing
was in agitation, a new spectacle burst upon the eyes
of the assembled multitude, and added another feature
more startling, if possible, than the rest, to the terrible
sublimity of the scene. Clouds of smoke were seen
to overspread the air, from which flashed sheets of
fire. It soon became apparent that Charlestown was
in flames. The British General had been annoyed, at
his first attack upon the works, by the fire of a detachment
stationed in the town, and had given orders that
it should be burned. For this purpose, combustibles
were hurled into it from Boston, which commenced
<span class='pageno' title='162' id='Page_162'></span>
the conflagration; and a detachment of marines from
the <span class='it'>Somerset</span>, were directed to land, and aid in its
destruction. The flames spread with devastating rapidity,
till street on street, and house on house, were
even with the ground. The last structure which
seemed to strive with holy efforts against the devouring
element, was the large church; sublime indeed was
the spectacle! the crackling flames ascending from the
body of the spacious building, and playing around its
lofty spire. Solemn indeed was the continuous toll of
the large bell, as the beams that suspended it were
vibrating, till they fell with one tremendous crash.
Scenes like these in ordinary times, which would have
driven the most inanimate soul to madness, were entirely
overlooked by both armies, who coolly prosecuted
their work.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The British troops ascended the hill by slow and
regular approaches, firing without aim, in platoons,
with all the precision of a holyday review.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Americans, agreeably to their orders, reserved
their fire till the British were within six rods distance.
The word was then given, and the discharge took
place with more fatal effect than the former attack.
Hundreds of the British soldiers fell—General Howe
remained almost alone, for he lost almost every officer
belonging to his staff. His aids, Colonels Gordon, Balfour
and Addison; the last was a member of the family
of the author of the “Spectator.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So tremendous was the havoc, that, the second time
on this eventful day, did the British army retreat from
the hill. At this period in the progress of the battle, a
little incident occurred, which shows that the American
officers were fighting for their country, not for the
sake of blood and carnage, and that they never forgot
that high-souled feeling for which they were ever distinguished.
After the fire from the American works
had taken effect, Major Small, (who has been named
before as a personal friend of Putnam,) like his commander,
remained almost alone on the field.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His companions in arms had been all swept away,
and standing thus apart, he became, from the brilliancy
of his uniform, a conspicuous mark for the Americans
within the redoubt. They had already pointed their
unerring rifles at his heart, and the delay of another
minute would probably have stopped its pulses forever.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At this moment Putnam recognized his friend, and
perceiving the imminent danger in which he was
placed, sprang upon the parapet, and threw himself
before the levelled rifles.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Spare that officer, my gallant comrades, he is my
friend; do you not remember our affectionate meeting
at the exchange of prisoners?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This appeal from the favorite old chief was successful,
and Small retired unmolested.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This anecdote, poetical as it appears, is attested by
undoubted authority.</p>
<p class='pindent'>General Howe, undaunted by the second repulse,
felt determined to venture a third attack, but thought
best to adopt a more judicious plan than before. He
this time concentrated his whole force upon the redoubt
and breastwork, instead of directing a portion of it
against the rail-fence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He also directed his men to reserve their fire, and
trust wholly to the bayonet. He had discovered the
vulnerable point in the American defenses, and pushed
forward his artillery to the opening between the redoubt
and breastwork, where it turned our works and
enfiladed the whole line. By this time the Americans
were nearly reduced to the last extremity. Their ammunition
was exhausted; they had no bayonets; no
reinforcements appeared. Colonel Gardiner, who had
been stationed with his regiment at Charlestown Neck,
but had received no orders to march, reached Bunker’s
Hill with three hundred men. He had no sooner
reached the lines, when he received a wound from a
musket ball, which afterward proved fatal. As his
men were carrying him from the field, his son, a youth
of nineteen, second lieutenant in Trevett’s artillery
company, which had just come up, met and recognised
his father. Distracted at seeing him in this condition,
he offered to aid in conducting him from the field.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Think not of me,” replied the gallant patriot,
“think not of me—I am well. Go forward to your
duty!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The son obeyed his orders, and the father retired
from the field to die.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Americans awaited with desperate resolution
the onset of the British, prepared to repel them, as best
they could, with the remaining charges of powder and
ball, with the stocks of their muskets, and with stones.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Having reached the works, the foremost of the
British attempted to scale them. Richardson, a private
in the Royal Irish regiment, was the first to mount the
parapet. He was shot down at once. Major Pitcairn
followed him, and as he stepped on the parapet was
heard to exclaim, “The day is ours!” But the words
had no sooner escaped his lips, than he was shot
through the body; his son caught him in his arms as
he fell, and carried him from the hill.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He led the detachment which first encountered our
troops upon Lexington Green, on the 19th of April; he
had a horse shot under him on that day, and was left
upon the field for dead. General Pigot, who had
mounted the redoubt by means of a tree left standing
there, was the first person to enter the works. He
was followed by others. The Americans, however,
still held out, till the principal of their officers were
badly wounded. Perceiving, at length, that further
resistance would be a wanton and useless sacrifice of
valuable life, Colonel Prescott ordered a retreat. The
Americans left the hill with very little molestation.
General Warren had come upon the field, as he said
to learn the art of war from a veteran soldier. He
had offered to take Colonel Prescott’s orders, and it
was with extreme reluctance that he quitted the redoubt.
He was slowly retreating from it, only a few
rods distance, when the British obtained full possession,
which exposed his person to imminent danger.
Major Small, whose life, as has been mentioned in the
preceding chapter, had been saved in a similar emergency,
by the interference of General Putnam, attempted
to requite the service by rendering one of a like
character to Warren. He called out to him by name
from the redoubt, and begged him to surrender, at the
same time ordering his men around him to suspend
their fire. On hearing the voice of Major Small, Warren
<span class='pageno' title='163' id='Page_163'></span>
turned his head, but the effort was too late. While
his face was directed toward the works, a ball struck
him on the forehead, and inflicted a wound which was
instantly fatal. The magnanimous champion of liberty
had fallen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The body of General Warren was identified the following
day, and the ball which terminated his life was
taken from the body by Mr. Savage, an officer in the
Custom House, and was carried to England. Several
years afterward it was returned to the family, in
whose possession it now remains. The remains of
Warren were buried on the spot where he fell, but
the following year they were removed to a tomb in
the Tremont Cemetery, and subsequently deposited in
the family vault, under St. Paul’s church, Boston.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the official account of the battle of Bunker’s Hill,
the character of Warren is noticed in the most honorable
terms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Among the dead,” says the account, “was Major
General Joseph Warren, a man whose memory will
be endeared to his countrymen, and to the worthy in
every part and age of the world, so long as virtue and
valor shall be esteemed among mankind.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>General Warren left four children, two sons and two
daughters. Within a year after the death of Warren,
it was resolved, by the Continental Congress, that his
eldest son should be educated at the public expense;
and two or three years after, it was further resolved,
that public provision should be made for the education
of the other children, until the youngest should be of
age. The sons both died in their minority; the daughters
were distinguished for their amiable qualities, and
personal beauty; one of them married the late General
Arnold Welles, of Boston, and died without issue; the
other married Richard Newcomb, of Greenfield, Massachusetts,
whose children are the only surviving
descendants of the hero of Bunker’s Hill. In addition
to the public provision made by the Congress for the
children of Warren, it was also resolved by that body
that a monument should be erected, at the national
expense, to his memory. This resolution, like similar
ones to the other officers of the Revolution, remains as
yet without effect. Such are the only particulars of
interest that are known of the brief and brilliant career
of Joseph Warren. As Mr. Everett remarks:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To Warren, distinguished as he was among the
bravest, wisest and best of the patriotic band, was
assigned, in the inscrutable degrees of Providence, the
crown of early martyrdom. It becomes not human
frailty to murmur at the will of heaven; and however
painful may be the first emotions excited in the mind
by the sudden and premature eclipse of so much talent
and virtue, it may perhaps well be doubted, whether
by any course of active service in a civil or military
department, General Warren could have rendered
more essential benefit to the country, or to the cause
of liberty throughout the world, than by the single act
of heroic self-devotion which closed his existence.
The blood of martyrs has been in all ages the nourishing
rain of religion and liberty. The friends of liberty
from all countries and throughout all time, as they
kneel upon the spot that was moistened by the blood
of Warren, will find their better feelings strengthened
by the influence of the place, and will gather from it a
virtue in some degree allied to his own.”</p>
<hr class='tbk145'/>
<div><h1><a id='dream'></a>THE DREAM OF YOUTH.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY WM. P. BRANNAN.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>O give</span> me back my dream of youth,</p>
<p class='line0'>  When every pulse throbbed wild and gay,</p>
<p class='line0'>My heart’s sweet spring-time when life’s flowers</p>
<p class='line0'>  Bewildering bloomed along my way;</p>
<p class='line0'>When all the world was Paradise,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And Pleasure held a sovereign sway;</p>
<p class='line0'>When every change brought new delight,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And all the blessed year was May.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>O give again those rapturous hours</p>
<p class='line0'>  When first my soul with beauty thrilled,</p>
<p class='line0'>And mad with ecstasy I dared</p>
<p class='line0'>  To love, nor cared if loving killed</p>
<p class='line0'>When every radiant face I saw</p>
<p class='line0'>  Flashed with enchantment on my brain,</p>
<p class='line0'>Till earth seemed changing spheres with heaven;</p>
<p class='line0'>  O give to me that dream again.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Those aspirations for a fame</p>
<p class='line0'>  Immortal through all coming time;</p>
<p class='line0'>That faith which soared on angel wings</p>
<p class='line0'>  From gladsome earth to heights sublime;</p>
<p class='line0'>When every air a perfume breathed,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Melodious with the voice of song,</p>
<p class='line0'>That swayed me with resistless power</p>
<p class='line0'>  And nerved my soul with purpose strong.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>O give me back my boyhood’s dream,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Those gleams of glory from above,</p>
<p class='line0'>That hope which grasped a deathless name,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And blest me with undying love;</p>
<p class='line0'>O let me taste that joy again</p>
<p class='line0'>  Which riots in my thought to-day —</p>
<p class='line0'>That earnest and exulting youth</p>
<p class='line0'>  When all the blessed year was May.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk146'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='164' id='Page_164'></span><h1><a id='table'></a>EDITOR’S TABLE.</h1></div>
<hr class='tbk147'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i166.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0009' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>FREAKS OF THE PEN.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”</h2>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>My dear Jeremy</span>,—I write you while a hail-storm is
rattling at the window-panes, as if anxious to get in and
warm its nose, and while the fire in my Radiator is roaring
as angrily as a young lion, as if anxious to get out and
have a battle with the storm. The clouds without, too,
have a warlike aspect, look blue, and go tumbling about
as if they had taken whisky-toddy not over warm. Nature,
after the sulks, is hysterical. The wind goes moaning and
howling around the house, as if anxious to vent its temper
in a blow at somebody. The solitary oysterman in the
street, is raising a cry as dolorous as if he had taken a
breeze—been on a gale—on his own account, was melancholy,
and had not the heart to sing-“away;” yet in fact
he keeps singing away, in tones rather inviting to blue-devils.
He does not feel, evidently, as well as his oysters,
though he is their master. The vanity of riches is thus
made apparent,—wealth does not always produce happiness.
Patient industry in the storm is dismal—so another
apophthegm is exploded. Knowledge is not the grand
specific either. Their ignorance of the roasting which
awaits them, is bliss. His knowledge of the roasting
which awaits him—if he goes home without market-money—is,
perhaps, the particular misery which weighs upon his
soul, and renders his cry so plaintive.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The philosophers say that contentment is happiness—but
who is contented? The very discoverers of this sovereign
balm for restless spirits, go toiling on over musty tomes
in search of something new, and grow fretful and peevish
from indigestion, or irritable from age and failing eyesight.
Nature herself is not always calm and smiling. She
has her storms, her earthquakes, and her eruptions. The
earth is not satisfied with her own dull face, but must
borrow her brightness and beauty from the sun, she gets
the dumps, and grows cold, if the loan is reluctantly given.
What, then, can she expect from her children, but a thirst
insatiate for change and glory of some sort? Philosophy
is all very well in its way, and so is the philosopher’s
stone—but who is the happy possessor of either? People
talk of the insensibility of the oyster—perhaps that is the
great secret; but try him upon a hot stove, if you wish to
witness the open-mouthed, but mute, appeal of despairing
distress; try him upon your palate afterward, if you wish
to paliate conscience for his sufferings—but do not slander
the fine feelings of so good a fellow for the sake of an apophthegm.
He is more worthy of your regards than many
men who put him to the torture on silver dishes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Happiness, after all, is more active than passive, and
depends a good deal upon the bent which education, our
<span class='pageno' title='165' id='Page_165'></span>
own strong instincts, or the fashion of the age or the day
may inculcate. I’ll warrant me, that the Crusaders
thought it consisted in slicing off the heads of the Saracens—the
good old monks in fasting, prayer, and hair-garments,—some
of the old fathers again, in capon, burgundy,
and beauty. The curate of the English Church, thinks it
is the mitre and the bishop’s holy office—the bishop, in
turn, the gold and the influence of the station, yet he is
not wholly satisfied. Some of the Spanish girls think it
consists in a rich old husband, and a handsome young
cavalier; others, who will none of them, turn nuns. John
Bull finds his in roast-beef, trade, and the aristocracy.
Brother Jonathan in politics, progression, gold, and the
cuteness of the universal Yankee nation. But what philosopher,
to clinch his theory, will bring you an individual
who has no longings, no aspirings to be, or do, or have
something more? Who does not feel proud to excel in
something?—goodness even becomes a marketable article,
for praise. Virtue in rags loves incense. Every man
does, or feels that he does, outdo his fellows in something.
The inflation of a mind conscious of superior powers; the
thought of a purse larger and deeper—of a cheek of purer
roundness, whiteness, or bloom—a voice of richer powers—a
name, a position, the huzzas, or the stare of the multitude—to
be a lucky fellow, a great man, these make up
the sum of personal gratification. But who is contented,
without taxing the praise, the envy, the pockets of others?
The fashionable woman, who shines in brighter jewels
and more brilliant parties than her opposing friends—the
merchant who chuckles over the feat of driving a sharp
bargain with a brother trader, each has a standard of happiness
not set down in philosophy—self-sufficiency—personal
acquisition and glory—vanity all, Jeremy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Above the roar of my little fire, I hear, from my den
editorial, the tumult of the great world without, and fancy
I can see the struggle going on through all the avenues of
life—from the church where we have specimen preaching
and fashionable morals, down to the poor boot-black, who
polishes your patent boots, and praises his patent blacking.
You will find all things made up to lure and dazzle the
unsophisticated. At every turn you must beware of man-traps
and cajolings. In a moment, and a shape you least
anticipate, some brilliant fortune-seducer and ensnarer,
will start up opportunely in your very path; for what your
own brain does not suggest, your passion and self-love
urge you to—will spring, full-armed from the head of some
daring genius, who is your dear friend, and takes you in,
for that reason only. The influence of a bad example in
morals or business, a determination not to be outdone or
to be bullied, a suggestion to excel and overtop our fellows,
are poisons very flatteringly administered to our
self-esteem, but certain and deadly, nevertheless. The
disease is contagious, and you have been slightly bitten
already; be contented, my dear boy, if you can—but be
modest, be wary, be cool. Instead of trying to practice
philosophical apophthegms in a world made up as ours is,
try a little self-denial. Let the glitter and the huzzas of the
supposed great and successful, sweep by you, but stand
firm—it is a luxury worth the testing. You shall look
from the banks of the stream of time, and see the dead of
the slain of this world float by you, and with your staff in
hand, shall walk slowly and surely onward and upward
to the source of all inspiration and happiness. You can
have no chance in the bold games played in this world,
without a defilement of the heart—an utter loss of self-respect,
a total disregard or an annihilation of conscience.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Yet your sharp fellows—what a feast of enjoyment have
they, in a world made up expressly to their hands of duller
clay? Men who, smiling kindly, will cheat you before
your very eyes, with a consciousness of self-power, that
you cannot, with all your acuteness, tell under which
thimble “the little joker” happens to be. Is there rare
enjoyment in this? There must be, you will think, or why
is it so perseveringly followed in nearly all the dealings of
man with man. Your eyes are your market, my friend—keep
them open. I’ll warrant you, that my dismal friend,
who is singing so sadly out in the street over his bivalves,
says in his heart—“the world is mine oyster,” and has as
high an opinion of his own sagacity, as any dealer in broad-cloths
or sugars, and will trick you as nicely with a specimen
oyster, as the best of them. You shall buy them, upon
looking at the one he opens for you—but be not amazed,
oh, weak and trusting purchaser, at the shrunken forms of
the shell-fish when thou openest the kettle! Call not hard
names after the departing vendor—it is the way of life—a
specimen is the same, all the world over. The departure
from the <span class='it'>principle</span> is the exception, not the rule.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Not to say any thing about copper, a friend of mine was
ruined by Patent Pumps—not dancing shoes, for he was a
Quaker—but a very plain water-pump. He invested
his all, as purchaser of the <span class='it'>right</span>, after seeing the model,
which was very ingeniously devised to supply the famishing
cattle of all the farm-houses in the country, at the
shortest notice, with a steady supply from never-failing
wells. There were not less than thirty thousand farmers
anxiously waiting at that instant to buy the article at
twenty dollars each. The inventor was poor, and needed
ready money, or he never would have parted with it for
ten times the sum agreed to be given. The only difficulty,
with the new owner, was to find logs to be bored, and
men as borers—it was a bore decidedly, and nothing but
energy and perseverance could have surmounted these
obstacles. But somehow, though the model worked bravely—even
the ruin of its owner, pumping him dry—the water
was obstinate in coming above its level in large bodies,
and in consequence, the enterprise was water-logged. And
so failing in the water business, he became a member of
the Sons of Temperance, and took his revenge by putting
down that water, that wouldn’t come up. And this man
was an editor, like yourself, Jeremy, with a great fund of
knowledge, and should have known better—at least so his
friends said, and that was all the comfort they gave him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Tom Brown, too—you remember Tom? had a wisdom
above his years, and rather an ambition to do something extravagant
and new. He therefore became discontented
with the slow and sure profits of a regular business, and
embarked his little fortune, great experience, and goahead-a-tive-ness
in a “swift-sure” line. He purchased “<span class='it'>The
Patent Steam Sand Excavator and Elevator</span>,” designed for
the very laudable purpose of taking superfluous sand from
river-beds, and transferring it to the mortar-beds of the
builder. Tom had fortune now by the skirts, and would
not let go. People wondered what Tom and his friends
were at, ploughing up and down the river with their sand-scow,
but supposed that they must have a large contract
from government for cleansing the beds of the rivers—taking
the initiative in navigation made easy. From the
quantity of sand carefully piled upon shore, it was manifest
that the business was to be done, and would be,
thoroughly. Tom was cautious, close, smiling, and enjoyed
highly all manner of jokes, such as “Capt. Sandy
Tom”—Tom’s hair was red, but he wasn’t to be—and
winked knowingly to the engineer, when he came on
board.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It will never do,” said Tom, “to let the secret out to
these fellows, until we get our contracts with the builders,
or we shouldn’t get half-price. And in order to do that
safely, on a large scale, we must first get out the sand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bright thought, shrewd Tom! The engine, therefore,
went on puffing, but not Tom—he kept quiet, but busy.</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='pageno' title='166' id='Page_166'></span>
“If we can throw dust into their eyes,” said he, “until
we get <span class='it'>a pile</span>, we can come the bluff game on the river-side,
with a hand full of spades, ha! How do you like that,
engineer?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The engineer thought that Tom <span class='it'>was some</span>, at a pun.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The enterprise went on, but it came to a head too,
as all enterprises will, somehow; and Tom had spent his
availables. But then he had the sand, heaps—yes, mountains
of it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is time now,” said he, “that I made my contracts
with these builders. I’ll offer—let me see—ten thousand
loads, at ten per cent. below the market price; that will
bring in the funds, and send out the Excavator. They’ll
snap at that, in no time. Then twenty thousand, at fifteen
per cent. discount—and I’ll contract to supply the market
for three years, at twenty-five per cent. off—and <span class='it'>do it</span>, too!
Talk about your Liverpool Steamers, and your Girards improving
the river fronts, will you? when you can scoup a
fortune out of the dock, while these merchant princes are
asleep.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Tom made his terms for the ten thousand loads, “to be
delivered as wanted.” He commenced, too, to fulfill his
contracts, but the builders “did not <span class='it'>want</span> the article at
all.” They had contracted for sand—not mud and sand
together—and <span class='it'>sand</span> they insisted on having.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Alas! for the patent Excavator, neither it nor Tom’s
genius could separate the particles. An action was brought
against him for obstructing the river front, as soon as it was
found he was not backed by government, and was backing
himself, out of his contracts.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Tom coolly replied, “that he was devilish sorry, the
<span class='it'>Patent Steam Sand Excavator and Elevator</span> had not been
originally designed to run on land, as it might be used,
now, to shovel it back again; but as for himself, he
had been thrown so high by the Elevator, that it was
doubtful if he would ever come down, in time to attend
to it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>I know another gentleman of the quill—who perpetrated
errors of the press of this sort—who, in addition to instructing
mankind, took it into his head to teach the hens something
that nature never knew. An invention of some
gigantic Yankee genius, styled “<span class='it'>The Patent Chicken
Hatcher, and Grand Cluck to the whole Commonwealth</span>”
was irresistible, and he bought it. It was demonstrated
upon paper, that a certain number of chickens, ate but a
given quantity of corn-meal. That any number of hens
laid any number of eggs. That these produced any number
of chickens, which, in a very short period of time, sold
for any amount of money, or produced other eggs, after
eating the aforesaid corn-meal. Now the “Chicken
Hatcher,” proposed to improve upon nature by a sort of
double rule of three proposition, and to show the result by
logarithms as a sort of short-hand process, in the arithmetical
progression of profits. “Nature abhors a vacuum,”
and she had therefore given up half the argument
to the Hatcher—for the proposition was, to keep the hens
continually at work, producing eggs for the Hatcher;
while the Hatcher was continually working for them, in a
sort of compound ratio producing chickens which should
go on laying eggs to produce other chickens, <span class='it'>ad infinitum</span>.
The thing was as plain as the nose on your face. To reason
about it was to be absurd. To doubt, was to be scorned.
Barbecues looked cheap and plentiful in perspective—roasts
abundant, but rather more of a delicacy, as interfering
somewhat more with progressive profits.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The eggs of a whole county were first to be submitted
to experiment, previous to taking the entire Commonwealth
under the capacious wing of the Hatcher. The
first process of cubation completed, it was only necessary
to heat the Patent, and the business was done, and so
were the chickens; but instead of producing hens or
roosters, it only roasted the eggs—and very nicely it did
it, too, it is said. Nature defied the power of figures, and
gave facts as arguments. The hens of the neighborhood
survived the innovation, and went on in the old way.
Our friend had burned his fingers as well as his eggs, and
was sore when the subject was touched. It was his bull,
and he didn’t wish him horned. A dilemma, neither horn
of which he wished to take. He had hatched himself a
life-time remembrancer whenever he heard a cock crow—and
he wanted no crowing. He was no <span class='it'>eg</span>-otist on this
subject; on the whole, he would rather cry <span class='it'>peccavi</span>—and
shell out—he would stand treats, but no jokes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But, my dear Jeremy, do not consider me as sneering at
the ambition of man to outdo his fellows, to surpass all
previous knowledge, to wrest nature from herself to fulfill
his purposes—it is of the eternal law of progress. Man
can no more stop, and be contented, than the worlds which
are revolving in space, can rest and shine on. Each age
makes a giant’s stride onward. The past is strewn with
theories toppled down, and with systems exploded. The
monuments of philosophy, the labor of ages, are the marks
now for the child’s finger of scorn. The voyage of Columbus
is now the work of a week. Work, did I say?—his
toilsome and desolate path over the waters, is now the
holyday ramble of all nations. Thought itself leaps a continent
in a second, and by means of cipher, is communicated
to minds thousands of miles distant, putting the <span class='it'>speed</span>
of steam, the glory of an age just gone, to shame; accomplishing
its purpose, even while the sonorous steam-whistle
is but giving its note of departure. The press, in
a night, performs the labor of a year, in multiplying printed
thought, and a Commonwealth, a Nation is shaken in the
time requisite, formerly, to ink the rollers for Franklin’s
heavy edition. Who will say that man himself shall not
yet be shot into the air like a rocket, and diverge at pleasure
to any point of the compass, in defiance of the caprice
of air-currents? That if he can now snatch from the sun a
likeness of himself in an instant of time, he shall not, one
day, look the sun itself in the face with unblinking eyes, take
his observations from the horn of some remote planet, and
return to earth to record his discoveries. “Philosophy,”
you will say. But how much is philosophy herself learning
daily? How much of her previous knowledge is shown
daily to have been worthless? The chemist, the geologist,
the astronomer, torture nature continually for her secrets,
but the provident Mother is chary. It is but by a step at a
time that her children are allowed to enter into her mysteries,
lest the full blaze of her awful truths should suddenly
strike them blind.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Shall we be contented, then, and pin our faith to the
sleeve of that philosophy, which sees happiness in the
indolence and ignorance of the savage, who</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';fs:0.9em;' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'>“Basks in the glare, and stems the tepid wave,</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:0.9em;'> And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>Or shall we assert the rights of a diviner principle within
us, restless, yearning, unsatisfied, which if it is not allowed
to soar up and grasp after a goodness, like unto God, will
attempt to absorb its energies in the pursuit of evil, wreaking
upon humanity around it, the power of a fiend to make
wretched, the cunning of a devil, to seduce and destroy?</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is reserved for the Millenium, to give us all the knowledge,
all the good, all the perfection we are striving after;
until then, who will—<span class='it'>any, who can</span>—rest satisfied? When
“the lion and the lamb shall lie down together,” and man
shall cease to war upon his brother, the philosophy of Experiment
and of Observation shall be perfect, man shall
cease from struggling, shall be contented and be <span style='font-size:smaller'>HAPPY</span>.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:3em;margin-top:0.5em;'><span style='font-size:smaller'>G. R. G.</span></p>
<hr class='tbk148'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='167' id='Page_167'></span><h1><a id='books'></a>REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.</h1></div>
<hr class='tbk149'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Poems and Prose Writings. By Richard Henry Dana.
New York: Baker & Scribner. 2 vols. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>In reading these elegantly printed volumes one is surprised
that a collection of poems and essays, possessing
excellencies so original and striking as this, should not
have been made before. Mr. Dana is, unquestionably, in
his own department, one of the deepest, most original and
most suggestive thinkers that the country has produced,
and although his writings may not be familiar to a large
class of readers, his name is generally known and honored.
We think that the present work will fully sustain his
reputation, and that many who have heretofore been content
with acknowledging his fame as a poet and thinker,
will now be glad of an opportunity of testing it, by reading
his productions. The first volume contains his poems
and the essays and narratives originally published under
the title of The Idle Man. These are better known than
the reviews and dissertations contained in the second
volume, now for the first time collected. It is curious
that compositions of such excellence and permanent interest
should so long have slumbered undisturbed in old
magazines and reviews. They are marked by great force
and fertility of thought, singular felicity in discerning the
spirit and meaning of things, and singular sweetness, richness
and harmony of style. The reviews bear the unmistakable
stamp of a poetic mind, <a id='inter'></a>interpreting by the freemasonry
of genius the intellectual excellence and moral
beauty of other minds, and flashing light into every corner
of the subject of which it treats. The articles on Allston,
Hazlitt’s Lectures on the English Poets, The Sketch Book,
Pollock’s Course of Time, Henry Martyn, not to mention
others, are replete with sound and searching judgment as
well as imaginative beauty.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In a short notice of a work of such literary pretensions
as the present, it is more appropriate to indicate its positive
merits than to allude to its defects. A mind so vital,
powerful and individual as Mr. Dana’s can claim the privilege
of being judged by its own laws of thought and
production, and an application to it of external rules,
which it does not profess to regard, would be little better
than an impertinence. Still there are some peculiarities
in the volumes which are slightly unpleasing, not because
they are peculiar expressions of the author’s nature, but
because they occasionally manifest an ungenial development
of it. It is said that Mr. Carlyle’s opinion on any
social reform can be accurately calculated from the
speeches of the Exeter Hall reformers—he being sure to
contradict them, whatever they may say. Accordingly,
he defends slavery when they denounce it, and is in favor
of dealing powder and shot to Ireland, when they are in
ecstasies of philanthropic horror at its misgovernment.
Something of this reactionary disgust we discern in a few
of Mr. Dana’s compositions, and it gives to them as much
willfulness as can possibly have its seat in a mind so
gentle and just as his. His poems often have a roughness
which is evidently intentional, and which indicates not so
much a desire to produce new musical tones as to express
contempt for old ones. Some of his speculations on society
and government appear to us not fair expressions of his
really large and solid intellect, but to spring from a morbid
dislike, rather than from a calm objective vision,
of the present. With these slight drawbacks, we hardly
know of a recent work which contains so much to nourish
the mind, to develop its finer tastes and affections, and
give breadth to its thinking, than this collection of Mr.
Dana’s poems and prose writings.</p>
<hr class='tbk150'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Agnes Grey, an Autobiography. By the Author of “Jane
Eyre,” “Shirley,” etc. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This is a charming novel, full of fine character painting,
and strongly marked by that exquisite development and
analysis of the female heart, which distinguishes all the
novels of this writer. As an autobiography, partaking of
the nature of <span class='it'>confessions</span>, it has afforded fine scope for the
display of the peculiar powers of the author. Agnes
Grey, the heroine, herself, is one of the most vigorous and
truthful drawings of character—one of the finest pieces of
pen-limning that we have encountered any where, though
not to young readers, perhaps, as distinctive as that of
“Shirley,” as it has less of the really romantic to give it
impressiveness. He gives in this novel a charm to love,
in the vulgar course of this world’s affairs, by laying bare
the sentiment of the heart—the exceeding beauty of pure
love unadorned. As Hazlett says of Shakspeare’s women,
“We think as little of her face, as she does herself,
but are let into the secrets of her heart, and are charmed.”
It is not until she has fallen in love, that our hearts open
kindly to receive her, for the full beauty of the woman is
then exposed to our worshiping eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Rosalie Murray is a different character, but drawn with
a keen discrimination, a nice discernment of coquetry,
rarely met with. She is the most finished flirt of all the
class—nature, and a heart totally uneducated, no less than
the scheming of an ambitious mother, made her a very
beautiful fiend.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He who quarrels with the loves of Edward Weston
and Agnes Grey, must have read the novel, and studied
human nature indifferently. We commend the work cordially
to our readers, admonishing them that they will
complain of its shortness; for we are mistaken if they do
not find themselves, on closing the book, desirous—as we
felt—of following the heroine in the holy duties and daily
beauty of her life in her new sphere.</p>
<hr class='tbk151'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Poetical and Prose Writings of Charles Sprague. Boston:
Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This edition of Sprague is beautifully printed, is published
under the sanction of the author, and contains a
number of poems never before collected. Although the
current style in poetry has changed since Sprague first
won his reputation, and an entirely new class of poets has
caught the public ear, Sprague himself has been excepted
from the neglect which has fallen upon too many of his
school. The reason is that Sprague is really a poet, and
the form of composition which a poet assumes, whether it
be that of Pope or Wordsworth, of Young or Browning,
is never of itself sufficient to consign him to oblivion. It
is impossible to read a page of the present volume without
being impressed with the conviction that you are communing
with a strong nature, sound in heart and brain,
and piercing through the shows to the realities of things
by a native force and vividness of conception. Sprague
appears here as a satirist and humorist, as a lyrist and as
a poet of sentiment. In all of these he is successful. His
curiosity is one of the best occasional poems over written
<span class='pageno' title='168' id='Page_168'></span>
in the United States. When we consider how wide a
variety of humorous and pathetic pictures are called into
being in the unfolding of one teeming idea, and that amid
all the variety, the impression of unity is never lost, we
must admit it to be not only poetical in passages, but
poetical in its whole spirit and execution. The Odes we
do not like so well. They are full of brain, but the feeling
and sentiment do not seem to us sufficiently hearty and impassioned.
The best pieces in the volume are the poems
devoted to the affections. These are expressions of tenderness,
love, grief, and hope, coming from the heart and
imagination of a strong man, and their intensity is heightened
by their very reserve. They are arrows sent directly
to the reader’s heart. We never have been able to wear
them out by frequent reperusal, their pathos keeping
always its morning freshness and searching sweetness.</p>
<hr class='tbk152'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Poems of Alice and Phœbe Carey. Philadelphia: Moss
& Brother. 1 vol. 16mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>There are few volumes more calculated to relax the rigidity
of criticism than this elegant octo-duodecimo, gilded
without and golden within. Sisters in song as in blood,
the authoresses awaken the chivalric rather than the
critical sentiment, although they are abundantly capable
of bearing some of the most tormenting acquirements of
the latter. There is a family likeness in their minds, but
in Alice the imaginative element is predominant, while
her sister displays more of the reflective. Both are poets
as distinguished from fluent versifers of accredited commonplaces,
and both manifest originality in their imagery
and music, but the mind of Alice is remarkably sensitive
and imaginative, melting at once into melody the moment
her heart is filled with a poetical object, and absolutely
gushing out in song. A fine poetical instinct of the most
subtle and elusive character, seems to dwell at the very
life-spring of her nature, so that poetry seems the necessity
of her being, the inevitable mode in which her nature must
be expressed, if expressed at all. The poem entitled “Pictures
of Memory,” is one of the simplest and subtlest expressions
of ethereal sentiment and refined imagination we
ever read: it being an exquisite embodiment of a mood of
mind rarely experienced in its purity by any intellect, and
certainly never pictured forth with more truth to the spirit
of the subject. Phœbe Carey hardly has this instinctive
and unconscious certainty in the action of her mind, but
excels in thoughtfulness, tenderness, and fancy, “leaning
her ear” to catch “the still, sad music of humanity,” and
conscious of a moral purpose in her singing. Both deserve
a hearty recognition equally from their countrywomen
and countrymen.</p>
<hr class='tbk153'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Boston Book. Being Specimens of Metropolitan Literature.
Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This beautiful volume contains prose and poetical pieces
from some fifty writers hailing from Boston, such as Willis,
Dana, Hillard, Sumner, Emerson, Sprague, Choate, Webster,
Buckingham, Whittier, Fields, Lowell, Longfellow,
Hawthorne, Holmes, and the like. A number of the
articles are original contributions. Among the best of
these are the poems by Holmes and Parsons. The editor
has exhibited great taste in his choice of matter, both as
regards excellence and variety, including, as he has, in one
duodecimo, not only fair specimens of Boston belles-lettres,
but selecting pieces addressed to almost every mood,
satirical, humorous, tender, thoughtful, impassioned, imaginative
and didactive, and written in all varieties of style
and manner. We have poets lyrical, and poets elegaic;
poets of the school of Goldsmith and Gray, and poets of
the school of Wordsworth and Coleridge; prose writers
with sentences long as Hooker’s, and prose writers with
sentences short as Macaulay’s; and the general impression
left by the book is, that the city it represents is under the
dominion of no clique of writers, but that all kinds find
“ample room and verge enough” for their peculiarities,
and follow their own sweet will without any fear of established
canons. In looking through the volume, one is surprised
to find how few of the contributors are men of
letters by profession. There are literary clergymen, poetic
physicians, ethical merchants, and transcendental lawyers
in abundance, with a good representation of men who live
on the interest of their money, and only write from occasional
impulse, but no <span class='it'>litterateurs</span>, and no hacks.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The book is really creditable to Boston, and its interest
is not merely local. The publishers have issued it in that
style of elegance for which they are widely celebrated.</p>
<hr class='tbk154'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Pilot; a Tale of the Sea. By the Author of the Spy, etc.
Revised, Corrected, and Illustrated, with a new Introduction.
Notes, etc. by the Author. New York: George
P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>We are glad to welcome this handsome volume, so soon
following the lead of “The Spy.” A collection of Cooper’s
works, in a style worthy of their merit and their position
in American literature, we doubt not will be a good speculation
for author and bookseller. The present volume is
one of the most popular of the series, and will ever keep
its position among standard novels, whatever fate should
befall some of the others.</p>
<hr class='tbk155'/>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>The Caravan; A Collection of Popular Tales. Translated
from the German of Wilhelm Hauff. By G. P. Quackenbos,
A. M. Illustrated by J. W. Orr. New York:
D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 16mo.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>This is a good translation of a good book. The stories
are thoroughly German, though the costume and manners
are Asiatic, and from their supernatural character, take a
strong hold upon the feelings through the imagination.
The Spectre Ship is especially powerful.</p>
<hr class='tbk156'/>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Music.</span>—We have received from the publisher, Mr.
Walker, a new song, entitled <span class='it'>Saucy Kate</span>, the words by
Henry H. Paul. Esq., which is very beautiful in all respects,
and reflects great credit upon both writer and publisher.
Mr. Walker is making the public indebted to him
by almost daily issuing new and fashionable music, in the
most attractive style, and we are glad to hear is doing a
very handsome business. This store is one of the elegant
rooms immediately under Barnum’s Museum, where he
will be glad to see our friends.</p>
<hr class='tbk157'/>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Levy’s</span> <span class='it'>New and Elegant Store</span>—decidedly the handsomest
in Philadelphia, is daily crowded with beautiful
and fashionable ladies, presenting, during the holydays,
a <span class='it'>Levée</span> quite attractive and enticing. The finest silks, the
richest laces and shawls, and the most splendid goods of
all kinds fill the shelves and flood the counters of this
establishment, and all the town finds its way there to
admire and purchase. Messrs. Levy and Grugan are gentleman
of exquisite taste and tact, and in the management
and general arrangement of their business, have shown
both. Our friends in any part of the country, may rely
with perfect assurance upon their judgment and integrity,
to fill any orders sent them satisfactorily and promptly.</p>
<hr class='tbk158'/>
<p class='pindent'><a id='follet'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i176.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0010' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:left;margin-left:1em;'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Anaïs Toudouze</span></p>
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'><span style='font-size:larger'><span class='bold'>LE FOLLET</span></span></p>
<p class='line'><span class='bold'>PARIS</span> Boulevart S<sup>t</sup>. Martin 61</p>
<p class='line'><span class='it'>Chapeaux M<sup>me</sup>.</span> <span class='bold'>Grafeton</span>, <span class='it'>pl. de la Madeleine, 5—Dentelles de</span> <span class='bold'>Violard</span>, <span class='it'>r. Choiseul, 2<sup>bis</sup></span>;</p>
<p class='line'><span class='it'>Robes et pardessus de M<sup>me</sup>.</span> <span class='bold'>Bara Bréjard</span>, <span class='it'>r. Laffitte, 5—Plumes de</span> <span class='bold'>Chagot ainé</span>, <span class='it'>r. Richelieu, 81</span>;</p>
<p class='line'><span class='it'>Mouchoir de</span> <span class='bold'>L. Chapron & Dubois</span>, <span class='it'>r. de la Paix, 7.</span></p>
<p class='line'>Graham’s Magazine</p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='tbk159'/>
<div><span class='pageno' title='169' id='Page_169'></span><h1><a id='wiss'></a>WISSAHIKON WALTZ.</h1></div>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'>ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO AND DEDICATED TO</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;'>MISS ELIZA L. HALL,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>BY</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;'>CHARLES GROBE.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Published by permission of Mr. E. L. Walker, No. 160 Chestnut Street.</span></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i177.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0011' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i178.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0012' style='width:80%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<hr class='tbk160'/>
<p class='line' style='margin-top:2em;font-size:1.1em;font-weight:bold;'><a id='notes'></a>Transcriber’s Notes:</p>
<p class='noindent'>Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained.
Obvious type-setting and punctuation errors have been corrected
without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For
illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of
the originals available for preparation of the eBook.</p>
<div class='lgl' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>page 144, in the <span class='it'>denouément</span> ==> in the <a href='#denoue'><span class='it'>dénouement</span></a></p>
<p class='line'>page 149, room, pouring over books, ==> room, <a href='#por'>poring</a> over books,</p>
<p class='line'>page 151, joy exstatic burst from ==> joy <a href='#ecst'>ecstatic</a> burst from</p>
<p class='line'>page 158, not be irrelevent we ==> not be <a href='#irr'>irrelevant</a> we</p>
<p class='line'>page 167, mind, interpretating by the ==> mind, <a href='#inter'>interpreting</a> by the</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'>[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 2, February 1850]</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57733 ***</div>
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