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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b192d62 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63839 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63839) diff --git a/old/63839-0.txt b/old/63839-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 11d1673..0000000 --- a/old/63839-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4874 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, June -1841, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, June 1841 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: November 22, 2020 [EBook #63839] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JUNE 1841 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive (https://archive.org) - - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XVIII. June, 1841. No. 6. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - The Island of the Fay - The Reefer of ’76 (continued) - The Lost Heir - The Syrian Letters - The Clothing of the Ancients - The Life Guardsman - Ugolino, a Tale of Florence - The Thunder Storm - Poetry: The Uncertainty of Its Appreciation - Sports and Pastimes - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music and Fashion - - The Voice of the Wind - Time’s Changes - Sighs for the Unattainable - The Lay of the Affections - To Lord Byron - Sonnet Written in April - The Joys of Former Years Have Fled - Let Me Rest in the Land of My Birth - Fashions for June 1841 - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: _Engraved by J. Sartain._ -_The Island of the Fay._ - -_Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from an Original by Martin._] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XVIII. June, 1841. No. 6. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ISLAND OF THE FAY. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - - Science, true daughter of old Time thou art, - Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes! - Why prey’st thou thus upon the poet’s heart, - Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? - How should he love thee, or how deem thee wise - Who wouldst not leave him, in his wandering, - To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, - Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? - Hast thou not dragged Diana, from her car? - And driven the Hamadryad from the wood? - Hast thou not spoilt a story in each star? - Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood? - The elfin from the grass?—the dainty _fay_, - The witch, the sprite, the goblin—where are they? - _Anon._ - -“La musique,” says Marmontel, with the same odd confusion of thought and -language which leads him to give his very equivocal narratives the title -of “_Contes Moraux_”—“la musique est le seul des talens qui jouissent -de lui même; tous les autres veulent des temoins.” He here confounds the -pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating -them. No more than any other _talent_, is that for music susceptible of -complete enjoyment, where there is no second party to appreciate its -exercise. And it is only in common with other talents that it produces -_effects_ which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the -_raconteur_ has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed, -in its expression, to his national love of _point_, is, doubtless, the -very tenable one that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly -estimated when we are the most exclusively alone. The proposition, in -this form, will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its -own sake, and for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still -within the reach of fallen mortality—and perhaps only one—which owes -even more than does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I -mean the happiness experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. -In truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth -must in solitude behold that glory. To me, at least, the presence—not -of human life only—but of life in any other form than that of the green -things which grow upon the soil and are voiceless—is a stain upon the -landscape—is at war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to -regard the dark valleys, and the grey rocks, and the waters that -silently smile, and the forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the -proud watchful mountains that look down upon all—I love to regard these -as themselves but the colossal members of one vast animate and sentient -whole—a whole whose form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and -the most inclusive of all; whose path is among associate planets; whose -meek handmaiden is the moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose -life is eternity; whose intelligence is that of a God; whose enjoyment -is knowledge; whose destinies are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of -ourselves is akin with our own cognizance of the animalculæ in crystal, -or of those which infest the brain—a being which we, in consequence, -regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the same manner as -these animalculæ must thus regard us. - -Our telescopes, and our mathematical investigations assure us on every -hand—notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the -priesthood—that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important -consideration in the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars -move are those best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the -greatest possible number of bodies. The forms of these bodies are -accurately such as, within a given surface, to include the greatest -possible amount of matter;—while the surfaces themselves are so -disposed as to accommodate a denser population than could be -accommodated on the same surfaces otherwise arranged. Nor is it any -argument against bulk being an object with God, that space itself is -infinite; for there may be an infinity of matter to fill it. And since -we see clearly that the endowment of matter with vitality is a -principle—indeed as far as our judgments extend, the _leading_ -principle—in the operations of Deity—it is scarcely logical to imagine -that it is confined to the regions of the minute, where we daily trace -it, and that it does not extend to those of the august. As we find cycle -within cycle without end—yet all revolving around one far-distant -centre which is the God-head, may we not analogically suppose, in the -same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all -within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring, through -self-esteem, in believing man, in either his temporal or future -destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast “clod of -the valley” which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul -for no more profound reason than that he does not behold its operation. - -These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations -among the mountains, and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a -tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic. -My wanderings amid such scenes have been many, and far-searching, and -often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many -a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected Heaven of many a bright -lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have -strayed and gazed _alone_. What flippant Frenchman was it who said, in -allusion to the well-known work of Zimmerman, that “_la solitude est une -belle chose; mais il faut quelqu ’un pour vous dire que la solitude est -une belle chose_?” The epigram cannot be gainsayed; but the necessity is -a thing that does not exist. - -It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far-distant region of -mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns -writhing or sleeping within all—that I chanced upon the rivulet and the -island which are the subject of our engraving. I came upon them suddenly -in the leafy June, and threw myself upon the turf, beneath the branches -of an unknown odorous shrub, that I might doze as I contemplated the -scene. I felt that thus only should I look upon it, such was the -character of phantasm which it wore. - -On all sides—save to the west, where the sun was about sinking—arose -the verdant walls of the forest. The little river, which turned sharply -in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no -exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of -the trees to the east—while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to -me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly -and continuously into the valley, a rich, golden and crimson waterfall -from the sun-set fountains of the sky. - -About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one -small circular island, fantastically verdured, reposed upon the bosom of -the stream. - - So blended bank and shadow there, - That each seemed pendulous in air— - -so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to -say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal -dominion began. - -My position enabled me to include in a single view both the eastern and -western extremities of the islet; and I observed a singularly-marked -difference in their aspects. The latter was all one radiant harem of -garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye of the slant -sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was short, springy, -sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were lithe, -mirthful, erect—bright, slender and graceful—of eastern figure and -foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and particolored. There seemed a deep -sense of life and of joy about all; and although no airs blew from out -the Heavens, yet every thing had motion through the gentle sweepings to -and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for -tulips with wings.[1] - -The other, or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade. -A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things. The -trees were dark in color and mournful in form and attitude—wreathing -themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that conveyed ideas of -mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the deep tint of the -cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly, and, hither and -thither among it, were many small unsightly hillocks, low, and narrow, -and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were not, although -over and all about them the rue and the rosemary clambered. The shade of -the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself -therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness. I fancied -that each shadow, as the sun descended lower and lower, separated itself -sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed by -the stream; while other shadows issued momently from the trees, taking -the place of their predecessors entombed. - -This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it, and I -lost myself forthwith in reverie. “If ever island were enchanted,”—said -I to myself,—“this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who -remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?—or do -they yield up at all their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In -dying, do they not rather waste away mournfully; rendering unto God -their existence little by little, as these trees render up shadow after -shadow, exhausting their substances unto dissolution? What the wasting -tree is to the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by -what it preys upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the Death which -engulfs it?—but what fairy-like form is this which glides so solemnly -along the water?” - -As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun rapidly sank to -rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing -upon their bosom large, dazzling white flakes of the bark of the -sycamore—flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a -quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased—while I -thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays -about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness -from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in -a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an -oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude -seemed indicative of joy—but sorrow deformed it as she passed within -the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and -re-entered the region of light. “The revolution which has just been made -by the Fay,”—continued I musingly—“is the cycle of the brief year of -her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She -is a year nearer to Death; for I did not fail to see that as she came -into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the -dark water, making its blackness more black.” - -And again the boat appeared, and the Fay;—but about the attitude of the -latter there was more of care and uncertainty, and less of elastic joy. -She floated again from out the light, and into the gloom, (which -deepened momently) and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony -water, and became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she -made the circuit of the island, (while the sun rushed down to his -slumbers;) and at each issuing forth into the light, there was more -sorrow about her person, while it grew feebler, and far fainter, and -more indistinct; and at each passage into the gloom, there fell from her -a darker shade, which became whelmed in a shadow more black. But at -length, when the sun had utterly departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost -of her former self, went disconsolately with her boat into the region of -the ebony flood—and that she issued thence at all I cannot say,—for -darkness fell over all things, and I beheld her magical figure no more. - ------ - -[1] Florem putares nare per liquidum æthera.—_P. Commire._ - - Philadelphia, May, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE VOICE OF THE WIND. - - - “Whence comest thou, wind, in thy rapid flight, - Or the balmy play of the zephyrs light? - Hast thou breathed o’er the freshness of myrtle bowers, - And laden thy wings from the orange flowers? - Or pierced the darkness of distant caves, - Whose depths resound with the ocean’s waves? - Yet bring me no shadows of grief or woe, - ’Tis only earth’s beauties I fain would know.” - “I come in mirth,” said the gentle breeze, - “To bring the murmurs of distant seas; - I passed o’er the regions of fairest bloom, - Till my pinions were laden with soft perfume; - Where the dulcet tones of the wild bird’s note, - In the boundless regions of ether float. - I have come from the land of Olympus’ pride, - Where the Spartan fought, and the Persian died. - But prostrate palace, and fallen fane, - Of its grandeur and beauty alone remain. - I waved the boughs of the clustering vines, - As their shadows fell o’er the mouldering lines, - Which mark the spot of the warrior’s tomb, - In that home of glory and land of bloom. - And I kissed the brow of the dark-eyed girl, - As I stirred with my pinions each raven curl. - Nay, ask not a tale of unmingled joy, - For earth has no pleasure without alloy; - The widow’s moan, and the orphan’s wail, - Are often borne on the sighing gale. - When the clarion’s voice, and the cannon’s roar, - Bear terror and ruin from shore to shore. - I come in wrath, and the storm-clouds fly, - In blackening folds through the darksome sky; - And the mariner wakes from his joyful dream, - Midst the tempest’s roar, and the lightning’s gleam; - In the fathomless vaults of the ocean’s caves, - He must rest mid the tumult of angry waves. - I am fearless of sky, or of earth or sea, - But soar over all with pinions free; - I sport with the curls of the laughing child, - With the bandit play, or the maiden mild; - From the fragile flower to the lofty tree - All bend in submission and yield to me.” - Emma. - - Yonker’s Female Seminary, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE REEFER OF ’76. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.” - - - THE SHIP’S BOY. - -“Hillo!” said Westbrook, “who’s skulking here?” and he pushed his foot -against a dark heap, huddled up under the shade of one of the guns. As -he did so, a slight, pale-faced, sickly-looking boy started up. “Ah! -it’s you, Dick, is it?—why I never before thought you’d skulk—there, -go—but you mustn’t do it again, my lad.” - -The boy was a favorite with all on board. He had embarked at Newport, -and was, therefore, a new hand, but his quiet demeanor, as well as a -certain melancholy expression of face he always wore, had won him a way -to our hearts. Little was known of his history, except that he was an -orphan. Punctual in the discharge of his duties, yet holding himself -aloof from the rest of the boys, he seemed to be one, who although he -had determined to endure his present fate, was yet conscious of having -seen better days. I was the more confirmed in my belief that he had been -born to a higher station from the choice of his words in conversation, -especially with his superiors. His manner, too, was not that of one -brought up to buffett roughly against fortune. That one so young should -be thrust, unaided, out into the world, was a sure passport for him to -my heart, for his want of parents was a link of sympathy uniting us -together; and we had, therefore, always been as much friends as the -relative difference of our situations, on board a man-of-war would -allow. Yet even I, so great was his reserve, knew little more of his -history than the rest of my shipmates. Once, indeed, when I had rendered -him some little kindness, such as an officer always has it in his power -without much trouble to himself, to bestow upon an inferior, his heart -had opened, and he had told me, more by hints though than in direct -words, that he had lost his father and mother and a little sister, -within a few weeks of each other, and that, houseless, penniless and -friendless, he had been forced to sea by his only remaining relatives, -in order that he might shift for himself. I suspected that he did not -pass under his real name. But whatever had been his former lot, or -however great were his sufferings, he never repined. He went through his -duty silently, but sadly, as if—poor child!—he carried within him a -breaking heart. - -“Please, sir,” said he, in reply to Westbrook’s address, “it’s but a -minute any how I’ve been here.” - -“Well, well, Dick, I believe you,” said the warm-hearted midshipman. -“But there go eight bells, and as your watch is up, you may go below. -What! crying—fie, fie, my lad, how girl-hearted you have grown.” - -“I am not girl-hearted always,” sobbed the little fellow, looking up -into his superior’s face, “but I couldn’t help crying when I thought -that to-night a year ago my mother died, and I crept under the gun so -that no one might see and laugh at me, as they do at every one here. It -was just at this hour she died,” he continued, chokingly, bursting into -a fit of uncontrollable weeping, “and she was the only friend I had on -earth.” - -“Poor boy! God bless you!” said Westbrook, mentally, as the lad, -finishing his passionate exclamation, turned hastily away. - -It was my watch, and as Westbrook met me coming on deck, he paused a -moment, and said, - -“Do you know any thing about that poor little fellow, I mean Dick Rasey? -God help me I’ve been rating him for skulking, when the lad only wanted -to hide his grief for his mother from the jests of the crew. I wouldn’t -have done it for any thing.” - -“No—he has always maintained the greatest reserve respecting himself. -Has he gone below?” - -“Yes! who can he be? It’s strange I feel such an interest in him.” - -“Poor child!—he has seen better days, and this hard life is killing -him. I wish he could distinguish himself some how—the skipper might -then take a fancy to him and put him on the quarter-deck.” - -“What a dear little middy he would make,” said Westbrook, his gay humor -flashing out through his sadness, “why we havn’t got a cocked-hat aboard -that wouldn’t bury him up like an extinguisher, or a dirk to spare which -isn’t longer than his whole body.” - -“Shame, Jack—its not a matter for jest—the lad is dying by inches.” - -“Ah! you’re right, Parker; I wish to heaven the boy had a berth aft -here. But now I must go below, for I’m confoundedly sleepy. You’ll have -a lighter watch of it than I had. The moon will be up directly—and -there, by Jove! she comes—look how gloriously her disc slides up behind -that wave. But this is no time for poetry, for I’m as drowsy as if I was -about to sleep, like the old fellow in the Arabian story, for a matter -of a hundred years or more, or even like the seven sleepers of -Christendom, who fell into a doze some centuries back, and will come to -life again the Lord knows when,” and with a long yawn, my mercurial -messmate gave a parting glance at the rising luminary, and went below. - -The spectacle to which Westbrook had called my attention was indeed a -glorious one. The night had been somewhat misty, so that the stars were -obscured, or but faintly visible here and there; while the light breeze -that scarcely ruffled the sea, or sighed above a whisper in the rigging, -had given an air of profound repose to the scene. When I first stept on -deck the whole horizon was buried in this partial obscurity, and the -view around, excepting in the vicinity of the Fire-Fly, was lost in -misty indistinctness. A few moments, however, had changed the aspect of -the whole scene. When I relieved the watch the eastern horizon was -shrouded in a veil of dark, thick vapors—for the mists had collected -there in denser masses than any where else—while a single star, through -a rent in the midst of that weird-like canopy, shone calmly upon the -scene: but now the fog had lifted up like a curtain from the seaboard in -that quarter, and a long greenish streak of light, stretching along for -several points, and against which the dark waves undulated in bold -relief, betokened the approach of the moon. Even as Westbrook spoke, the -upper edge of her disc slid up above the watery horizon, disappearing -and appearing again as the surges rose and fell against it, until -gradually the huge globe lifted its whole vast volume above the -seaboard, and while the edge of the dark canopy above shone as if lined -with pearl, a flood of glorious light, flickering and dancing upon the -billows, was poured in a long line of molten silver across the sea -toward us, bathing hull, and spars, and sails in liquid radiance, and -seeming to transpose us in a moment into a fairy land. Such a scene of -unrivalled beauty I had never beheld. The contrast betwixt the dark -vapors hanging over the moon, and the dazzling brilliancy of her wake -below was indeed magnificent. I looked in mute delight. The few stars -above were at once obscured by the brighter glories of the moon. -Suddenly, however, as I gazed, a dark speck appeared upon the surface of -the moon, and in another instant the tall masts and exquisite tracery of -a ship could be seen, in bold relief against her disc, the fine dark -lines of the hamper seeming like the thinnest cobwebs crossing a -burnished shield of silver. So plainly was the vessel seen that her -minutest spars were perceptible as she rose and fell gallantly on the -long heavy swell. - -“Ah! my fine fellow,” I exclaimed, “we have you there. Had it not been -for yonder pretty mistress of the night you would have passed us unseen. -Make all sail at once—and bear up a few points more so as to get the -weather gauge of the stranger.” - -“Ay, ay, sir.” - -“How gallantly the old schooner eats into the wind,” I said, gazing with -admiration on our light little craft. I turned to the chase. “Has the -stranger altered her course?” I asked, looking for her in the old -position, but finding she was no more visible. - -“No, sir, I saw her but an instant ago: oh! there she is—that fog bank -settling down on the seaboard hid her from sight. You can see her now -just to leeward of the moon, sir.” - -I looked, and as the man had said, perceived that the dark massy bank of -vapors, which had lifted as the moon rose, was once more settling down -on the seaboard, obscuring her whole disc at intervals, and shrouding -every thing in that quarter in occasional gloom. For a moment the -strange sail had been lost in this obscurity, but as the moon struggled -through the clouds, it once more became visible just under the northern -side of that luminary. Apparently unconscious of our vicinity the -stranger was stealing gently along under easy sail, pitching upon the -long undulating swell, while, as he lay almost in the very wake of the -moon, every part of his hull and rigging was distinctly perceptible. Not -a yard, however, appeared to have been moved: not an additional sail was -set. Occasionally we lost sight of him as the moon, wading heavily -through the sombre clouds, became momentarily obscured, although even -then, from beneath the frowning canopy of vapors above, a silvery -radiance would steal out at the edges of the clouds, tipping the masts -and sails of the stranger with a soft pearly light that looked like -enchantment itself, and which, contrasted with the dark hues of the hull -and the gloomy deep beneath, produced an effect such as I have never -seen surpassed in nature or art. - -Meanwhile the wind gradually failed us, until at length it fell a dead -calm. All this time the fog was settling down more heavily around us, -not gathering in one compact mass however, but lying in patches -scattered over the whole expanse of the waters, and presenting a picture -such as no one, except he is familiar with a tropical sea, can imagine. -In some places the ocean was entirely clear of the fog, while a patch of -cold, blue sky above, spangled with innumerable stars, that shone with a -brilliancy unknown to colder climes, looked as if cut out of the mists, -which on every hand around covered the sky as with a veil. At times a -light breeze would spring up ruffling the polished surface of the swell, -and, undulating the fog as smoke-wreaths in the morning air, would open -up, for a moment, a sight of some new patch of blue sky above, with its -thousand brightly twinkling stars, reminding one of the beautiful skies -we used to dream of in our infant slumbers, and then, dying away as -suddenly as it arose, the mists would undulate uncertainly an instant, -roll toward each other, and twisting around in a thousand fantastic -folds, would finally close up, shrouding the sky once more in gloom, and -settling down bodily upon the sombre surface of the deep. At length the -moon became wholly obscured. A few stars only could be seen flickering -fainter and fainter far up in the fathomless ether, and finally, after -momentarily appearing and disappearing, they vanished altogether. A -profound gloom hung on all around. The silence of death reigned over our -little craft. Even the customary sounds of the swell rippling along our -sides, or the breeze sighing through the hamper faded entirely, and save -an occasional creaking of the boom, or the sullen falling of a -reef-point against the sail, not a sound broke the repose of the scene. -The strange sail had long since been lost sight of to starboard. So -profound was the darkness that we could scarcely distinguish the -look-out at the forecastle from the quarter-deck. Silent and motionless -we lay, shut in by that dark shroud of vapor, as if buried by some -potent enchanter in a living tomb. - -“Hist!” said a reefer of my watch to me, “don’t you hear something, Mr. -Parker?” - -I listened, attentively, and though my hearing was proverbially sharp, I -could distinguish nothing for several moments. At length, however, the -little fellow pinched my arm, and inclining my eye to the water, I heard -a low monotonous sound like the smothered rollicking of oars that had -been muffled. At first I could not credit my senses, but, as I listened -again, the sound came more distinctly to my ears, seeming to grow nearer -and nearer. There could be no mistaking it. Directly, moreover, these -sounds ceased, and then was heard a low murmured noise, as if human -voices were conversing together in stifled tones. At once it flashed -upon me that an attack was contemplated upon us—by whom I knew -not—though it was probable that the enemy came from the strange sail to -starboard. It was evident, however, that the assailants were at fault. -My measures were taken at once. Hastily ordering the watch to arm -themselves in quiet, I ordered the men to be called silently; and, as by -this time the look-outs began to detect the approach of our unknown -visitors, I enjoined equal silence upon them, commanding them at the -same time, however, to keep a sharp eye to starboard, in order to learn, -if possible, the exact position of the expected assailants. - -In a few minutes the men were mustered, and prepared for the visitors, -whether peaceful or not. Most of the officers, too, had found their way -on deck, although as it was uncertain as yet whether it might not be a -false alarm, I had not disturbed the skipper. Westbrook was already, -however, prepared for the fight, and as I ran my eye hastily over the -crew I thought I saw the slight form of Dick Rasey, standing amongst -them. - -“Can you hear any thing, Westbrook?” said I. - -“It’s like the grave!” was his whispered answer. - -“Pass the word on for the men to keep perfectly quiet, but to remain at -their stations.” - -“Ay, ay, sir.” - -For some minutes the death-like silence which had preceded the discovery -of our unknown visitors returned, and as moment after moment crept by -without betraying the slightest token of the vicinity of the assailants, -I almost began to doubt my senses, and believe that the sounds I had -heard had been imaginary. The most profound obscurity meantime reigned -over our decks. So great was the darkness that I could only distinguish -a shadowy group of human beings gathered forward, without being able to -discern distinctly any one face or figure; while the only sound I heard, -breaking the hush around, was the deep, but half-suppressed breathing of -our men. Suddenly, however, when our suspense had become exciting even -to nervousness, a low, quick sound was heard right off our starboard -quarter, as if one or more boats, with muffled oars, were pulling -swiftly on to us; while almost instantaneously a dark mass shot out of -the gloom on that side, and before we could realise the rapidity of -their approach, the boat had struck our side, and her crew were tumbling -in over the bulwarks, cutlass in hand. Our preparation took them, -however, by surprise, and for a moment they recoiled, but instantly -rallying at their leader’s voice, they poured in upon us again with -redoubled fierceness, cheering as they clambered up our sides, and -struggled over the bulwarks. - -“Beat them back, Fire-Flies!” I shouted, “give it to them with a will, -boys—strike.” - -“Press on, my lads, press on—the schooner’s our own!” shouted the -leader of the assailants. - -Levelling my pistol at the advancing speaker, and waving our men on with -my sword, I gave him no answer, but fired. The pistol flashed in the -pan. In an instant the leader of the foe was upon me, having sprung over -the bulwarks as I spoke. He was a tall, athletic man, and lifting his -sword high above his head, while in his other hand he presented a pistol -toward my breast, he dashed upon me. I parried his thrust with my blade, -but as he fired I felt a sharp pain in my arm, like the puncture of a -pin. I knew that I was wounded, but it only inspired me with fiercer -energy. I made a lunge at him, but he met it with a blow of his sword, -which shivered my weapon to atoms. Springing upon my gigantic adversary, -I wreathed my arms around him, and endeavored to make up for the want of -a weapon, by bearing him to the deck in my arms; but my utmost -exertions, desperate as they were, scarcely sufficed to stagger him, and -shortening his blade, he was about plunging it into my heart, when a -pistol went off close beside me, and my antagonist, giving a convulsive -leap, fell dead upon the deck. I freed myself from his embrace and -sprang to my feet, just in time to see little Dick, with the smoke still -wreathing from the mouth of his pistol, borne away by the press of the -assault. In the next instant I lost sight of him in the melee, which now -became really terrific. Hastily snatching a brand from one of the fallen -men, I plunged once more into the fight, for the enemy having been by -this time reinforced by another boat, were now pouring in upon us in -such numbers that the arm of every man became absolutely necessary. It -was indeed a desperate contest. Hand to hand and foot to foot we fought; -desperation on the one hand, and a determination to conquer on the -other, lent double fury to our crew; while the clash of swords, the -explosion of fire-arms, the shouts of the combatants, and the groans and -shrieks of the wounded and dying, gave additional horror to the scene. -By this time our captain had reached the deck, and his powerful voice -was heard over all the din of the battle urging on his men. The fall of -the enemy’s leader began now to be generally known among his crew, and -the consequence was soon apparent in their wavering and want of unity. -In vain the inferior officers urged them on; in vain they found their -retreat cut off by the shot we had hove into their boats; in vain they -were reminded by their leaders that they must now conquer or die, they -no longer fought with the fierceness of their first onset, and though -they still combatted manfully, and some of them desperately, they had -lost all unity of purpose, and, struck with a sudden panic, at a last -overwhelming charge of our gallant followers, they fled in disorder, -some leaping wildly overboard, some crying for quarter when they could -retreat no farther, and all of them giving up the contest as lost. Not a -soul escaped. They who did not fall in the strife were either drowned in -the panic-struck flight, or made prisoners. The whole contest did not -last seven minutes. When they found themselves deserted by their men the -officers sullenly resigned their swords, and we found that our -assailants were a cutting out party from the ship to starboard, an -English frigate. - -The man-of-war had not, it seems, discovered us until some time after -the moon arose, when her light, happening to fall full upon our sails, -betrayed us to their look-outs. The darkness almost directly afterward -obscured us from sight, and the calm that ensued forbade her reaching us -herself. Her boats were consequently manned, with the intention of -carrying us by boarding. The most singular portion of it was that none -of us perceived that the stranger was a man-of-war, but this may be -accounted for from her being built after a new model, which gave her the -appearance of a merchantman. - -The bustle of the fight was over; the prisoners had been secured; the -decks had been washed down; my wound which turned out slight had been -properly attended to; and the watch had once more resumed their -monotonous tread; while at proper intervals, the solemn cry, “all’s -well,” repeated from look-out to look-out, betokened that we were once -more in security, before I sought my hammock. I soon fell asleep, but -throughout the night I was troubled by wild dreams in which Beatrice, -the ship’s boy, and the late strife, were mingled promiscuously. At -length I awoke. It was still dark, and the only light near was a single -lantern hung at the extremity of the apartment. My fellow messmates -around were all buried in sleep. Suddenly, the surgeon’s mate stood -beside me. - -“Mr. Parker!” said he. - -I raised myself up and gazed curiously into his face. - -“Little Dick, sir—” he began. - -“My God!” I exclaimed, for I had actually forgotten, in the excitement -of the combat and the succeeding events, to enquire about my young -preserver, and I now felt a strange presentiment that the mate had come -to acquaint me with his death—“what of him? Is any thing the matter?” I -asked eagerly. - -“I fear, sir,” said the messenger, shaking his head sadly, “that he -cannot live till morning.” - -“And I have been lying here,” I exclaimed, reproachfully, “while the -poor boy is dying,” and I sprang at once from my hammock, hurried on my -clothes, saying, “lead me to him at once.” - -“He is delirious, but in the intervals of lunacy he asks for you, sir,” -and as the man spoke we stood by bedside of the dying boy. - -The sufferer did not lie in his usual hammock, for it was hung in the -very midst of the crew, and the close air around it was really stifling; -but he had been carried to a place, nearly under the open hatchway, and -laid there in a little open space of about four feet square. From the -sound of the ripples I judged the schooner was in motion, while the -clear calm blue sky, seen through the opening overhead and dotted with -myriads of stars, betokened that the fog had broken away. How calmly it -smiled down on the wan face of the dying boy. Occasionally a light -current of wind—oh! how deliciously cool in that pent-up hold—eddied -down the hatchway, and lifted the dark chesnut locks of the sufferer, -as, with his little head reposing in the lap of an old veteran, he lay -in an unquiet slumber. His shirt-collar was unbuttoned, and his childish -bosom, as white as that of a girl, was open and exposed. He breathed -quick and heavily. The wound of which he was dying, had been intensely -painful, but within the last half hour had somewhat lulled, though even -now his thin fingers tightly grasped the bed-clothes as if he suffered -the greatest agony. Another battle-stained and gray-haired seaman stood -beside him, holding a dull lantern in his hand, and gazing sorrowfully -down upon the sufferer. The surgeon knelt beside him, with his finger on -the boy’s pulse. As I approached they all looked up. The veteran who -held him shook his head, and would have spoken, but the tears gathered -too chokingly in his eyes. The surgeon said,— - -“He is going fast,—poor little fellow—do you see this?” and as he -spoke he lifted up a rich gold locket, which had lain upon the boy’s -breast. “He has seen better days.” - -I could not answer, for my heart was full. Here was the being to whom, -but a few hours before I had owed my life—a poor, slight, unprotected -child—lying before me, with death already written on his brow,—and yet -I had never known of his danger, and never even sought him out after the -conflict. How bitterly my heart reproached me in that hour. They noticed -my agitation, and his old friend—the seaman that held his head—said -sadly, - -“Poor little Dick—you’ll never see the shore again you have wished for -so long. But there’ll be more than one—thank God!—when your log’s out, -to mourn over you.” - -Suddenly the little fellow opened his eyes, and gazed vacantly around. - -“Has he come yet?” he asked in a low voice. “Why won’t he come?” - -“I am here,” said I, taking the little fellow’s hand, “don’t you know -me, Dick?” - -“Doctor, I am dying, ain’t I?” said the little fellow, “for my sight -grows dim. God bless you, Mr. Parker, for this. I see you now,” and he -faintly pressed my hand. - -“Can I do nothing for you, Dick?” said I, “you saved my life. God knows -I would coin my own blood to buy yours.” - -“I have nothing to ask, only, if it be possible, let me be buried by my -mother,—you will find the name of the place, and all about it, in my -trunk.” - -“Anything—everything, my poor lad,” I answered chokingly. - -The little fellow smiled faintly—it was like an angel’s smile—but he -did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the stars flickering in that -patch of blue sky, far overhead. His mind wandered. - -“It is a long—long way up there,—but there are bright angels among -them. Mother used to say that I would meet her there. How near they -come, and I see bright faces smiling on me from them. Hark! is that -music?” and, lifting his finger, he seemed listening intently for a -moment. He fell back; and the old veteran burst into tears. The child -was dead. Did he indeed hear angels’ voices? God grant it. - -I opened his trunk, and then discovered his real name. Out of mercy to -the unfeeling wretches, who were his relatives, and who had forced him -to sea, I suppress it. Suffice it to say, his family had once been rich, -but that reverses had come upon them. His father died of a broken heart, -nor did his mother long survive. Poor boy! I could not fulfil the whole -of his injunction, for we were far out at sea, but I caused a cenotaph -to be erected for him beside his mother’s grave. It tells the simple -tale of The Ship’s Boy. - - Philadelphia, May, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - TIME’S CHANGES. - - - BY JOHN W. FORNEY. - - - There is a sweet and wildering dream - Of by-gone fresh and joyous hours, - Which gilds the memory with its beam, - And the stern spirit overpowers. - - Seen thro’ the chequered glass of Time, - How spell-like do its glories rise! - Like some ethereal pantomime - Danced on the skirt of autumn skies! - - We stand and gaze; and wonder-rapt, - Think of the changing power of years, - As on our brow its trace has crept, - And from our eyes exacted tears. - - There is glad childhood, rob’d in smiles, - And beauteous as a dew-gem’d flower, - Whose silver laugh and boyish wiles, - Usurp the mother many an hour. - - There is the first half-spoken word, - How rare a music to her ear! - She listens, as she had not heard, - And hearing, owns it with a tear. - - There is a passing on of Time— - The boy is merged into the man— - And daringly he frets to climb - What once his vision could not scan. - - Come back from this poetic scene! - Come from this scene of flowery youth! - Come from the time when all was green, - To cold and dreary, stubborn truth. - - Look on your own now withered brow, - Where care sits emperor of the mind; - Look to your throbbing heart; and now - Cast all these dreams of youth behind. - - Read the sad change which Time has wrought - Compare it by your memory’s glass; - And turn from that whose lightest thought - Points to the grave where ages pass. - - See, from the cradle to the tomb, - Though years are multiplied between, - How brief, in varied joy and gloom, - Is Life’s wild, feverish, fitful scene. - - But yesterday, and youth was drest - In dimpled and in smiling glee, - Drawn, with fond fervor, to her breast, - Or throned upon a mother’s knee. - - To-day, and Time, with added years, - Has stampt his progress on our brow - In manhood’s pallid care, and tears - Unbidden dim the vision now. - - Lancaster, Pa. 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LOST HEIR. - - - BY H. J. VERNON. - - -“Well flown, falcon—see how it mounts into the clouds—the heron has -it—on, on knights and ladies fair, or we shall not be in at the death.” - -As the speaker ceased, the falcon, which had been mounting in gyrations -growing narrower and narrower as it ascended above its prey, suddenly -stooped from its height, and shooting upon the heron, like a -thunderbolt, bore the huge bird in its talons to the earth. The swoop, -and the descent passed with the rapidity of lightning, and in a moment -after the gallant train were gallopping to the assistance of the falcon. - -Their way lay along the high bank of the river, from whose reedy margin -the heron had been roused. The path was often broken, and difficult to -traverse; but so eager were all to reach the desired point that no one -appeared to mind these inequalities. Suddenly the path made an almost -precipitous descent, and while a portion of the train dashed recklessly -down the steep, the more prudent checked their course, and sought a less -dangerous road. By this means the party became divided, that which -remained on the brow of the hill being by far the more numerous. The -other group consisted, indeed, of but three individuals—a falconer, a -page, and the niece of their master, the Earl of Torston. The palfrey of -the latter was one of rare speed, and it was with difficulty that the -two servitors could keep up with their beautiful and high-spirited -mistress. - -“On Ralph—ay, Leoline, you are falling behind,” she said, glancing -around at her companions as the distance between them rapidly increased. - -“To the right—to the right,” shouted the falconer, “the heron has -fallen in the marsh.” - -The maiden suddenly drew her rein in, to follow this direction; but as -she did so a half a score of men, attired as Scottish borderers, started -from the thickets around, and seizing her bridle, and that of her -attendants, vanished with them into the recesses of the forest. All -efforts at resistance were precluded by the numbers of the assailants, -and lest the two servitors should alarm their now rapidly approaching -companions, they were hastily gagged. The whole party then set forward -at a brisk pace toward the neighboring Scottish border. - -The lady Eleanor was one of the most beautiful maidens of the north of -England, and her expectations from her childless uncle were equalled -only by her charms. Already had many a gallant knight broken a lance in -defence of her beauty, or sought even more openly to win her for his -bride. But to all alike she bore the same demeanor. Her heart was as yet -untouched. Gay, sportive, full of wit, and not altogether unconscious of -her exalted station, the heiress of three baronies continued to be the -idol of her uncle, and the admiration of the English chivalry. It was -while engaged in hawking with her train that she had been surprised, as -we have related, by a band of Scottish marauders, with the intention of -profiting by her ransom. - -For some hours the party continued their flight with unabated speed, -concealing themselves in the depths of the forests, until they had left -the possessions of Lord Torston, and gained a range of barren and -desolate hills, where there was little likelihood of meeting with -interruption. The object of the capturers was obviously to bear off -their prize across the border, so rapidly as to defy all measures to be -taken for her rescue. - -The lady Eleanor was not, however, without considerable energy of -character, arising in part no doubt from the stormy times in which she -lived, for she had listened so often to the tales of her ancestor’s -deeds that she felt it would derogate from her, even though a maiden, -not to shew a portion of the same spirit in disaster. As they were -hurried along, therefore, she busied herself in revolving a plan for her -escape. But she could think of no feasible scheme, without the -co-operation of her servitors, and they were kept so far in the rear, -and guarded so carefully, that any communication with them she saw would -be impossible. In this perplexity she breathed a silent prayer to the -virgin, and was about resigning herself to her fate when the wail of a -bugle broke upon her ear, and looking up she beheld three horsemen -crossing the brow of a hill, a few yards distant. At the same moment the -marauders recognised the new comers as enemies, and hurrying their -captives into the rear prepared for the fray. - -“Ah! what have we here?” exclaimed the leader of the men-at-arms, a bold -stalwart youth, just verging into manhood, turning to his companions, -“by St. George, a pack of Scottish thieves—and there is a lady among -them, a prisoner I trow, for she is dressed like a maiden of rank. What -say you, comrades? we are three good men against yon dozen varlets, -shall we attempt a rescue?” - -“Ay—ay—Harry Bowbent, lead on,” exclaimed the leader of his -companions, “for though your blood is often over-hot, yet who could -refuse to charge yon Scottish knaves in such a cause?” - -The marauders had, meanwhile, drawn themselves up across the road, and -when the three men-at-arms spurred their horses to the charge, the Scots -received them by stepping briskly aside, and striking at the animals -with their huge swords. Two of the assailants were thus brought to the -ground at the first onset; but the one called Bowbent, and his elder -companion, bore each a Scotsman to the earth with his long lance, and -then taking to their swords, struck about them with such fury as to -finish the contest in a space of time almost as short as that which it -takes to narrate it. They did not, however, gain this victory without -cost. Both the youth and his elder comrade were wounded, while the -man-at-arms, who had been unhorsed, was killed. Several of the marauders -fell on the field, and the others took to flight. - -“Poor Jasper,” said the youth, looking mournfully upon his slain -follower, “your life was soon ended. God help me! misfortunes seem to -attend on all who espouse my fortunes.” And, after regarding the dead -man a moment longer, the youth turned away with a sigh, to fulfil his -remaining duty, by inquiring whom he had rescued, and offering to -conduct her to a place of safety. - -Meanwhile the lady Eleanor had been an anxious though admiring spectator -of the contest, and many a prayer did she breathe for the success of her -gallant rescuers. The boldness of the youth especially aroused her -interest, and her heart beat faster and her breath came quicker, -whenever he seemed on the point of being overpowered. As he now moved -toward her, she felt, she knew not why, the color mounting in her -cheeks,—and as he raised his visor, she could not but acknowledge that -the countenance beneath, vied with, and even excelled, in manly beauty -and frankness of expression, any she had ever seen. The youth, however, -had just began to express, in the courtly language of the day, his -delight at having come up so opportunely, when a sudden paleness shot -over his countenance, and after endeavoring vainly to speak, he sank, -fainting to the ground. - -“It is only this ugly wound in his side,” said his older comrade, -noticing the alarm in the maiden’s countenance, “he has fainted from -loss of blood.” - -“Can he not be borne to the castle?—here Ralph, Leoline, a litter for -the wounded man—but, see, he revives.” - -The wounded youth opened his eyes faintly, and gazed upon the maiden as -she spoke, and then closed them, as if in pain. - -“He has fainted again,” said the lady Eleanor, “cannot the blood be -staunched? I have some slight skill in the healing art, let me at least -bind up his wounds.” - -Taking a scarf from her neck as she spoke, the maiden proceeded to -examine the hurts of the young man-at-arms, and having carefully bound -them up, during which operation the reviving sufferer testified his mute -gratitude by his looks, she allowed him to be placed on the rude litter -her servitors had hastily prepared for him, and then the whole party set -out to return to the castle. - - * * * * * - -It was a fortnight after the above events, and the wounded youth was now -convalescent. The room in which he sat, was a large old gothic -apartment, but the mild breath of summer stealing through the open -window, and bearing the odor of flowers upon its bosom, gave a freshness -to that old chamber, which banished, for the time, its gloominess. The -invalid was sitting up, and by his side was the lady Eleanor, gazing up -into his eyes with a look which a woman bestows only upon the one she -loves. - -On reaching the castle, the lady Eleanor, in the absence of her uncle, -ordered the utmost attentions to be paid to the wounded young man. In -consequence, the best room in the castle was allotted to him, and in the -absence of a better leech, and in compliance with the customs of the -time, the lady Eleanor herself became his physician. Opportunities were -thus presented for their being together, which, as he grew more -convalescent, became dangerous to the peace of both. Perhaps it was his -dependence on her skill; perhaps it was the wound he had received in her -cause; perhaps it was that she had expected no refinement whatever in -one apparently of such questionable rank; perhaps—but no matter—like -many a one before and since, it was not long before the lady Eleanor -found that in attending her patient, she had lost her heart. - -Nor was the wounded youth less inspired by affection for his fair -physician. Gratitude for her kindness, to say nothing of her sweetness -and beauty, had long since won his most devoted love. And, now, as they -sat together, one might perceive, by the heightened color on the cheek -of the maiden, and the unresisting manner in which her hand lay in that -of the youth, that their mutual affections had just been revealed to -each other in words. - -“Yes—sweet one,” said the youth, as if continuing a conversation, “we -may have much to overcome before we triumph, if indeed we ever may; and -I almost wish that we had never met.” His companion looked at him -chidingly. “No, not that either, dearest. But yet I would I could remove -this uncertainty that hangs around my birth. I am at least a gentleman -born—of that I have always been assured—I am, moreover a knight; but -whether the son of a peer, or of one with only a single fee, I know not. -Until this uncertainty can be removed, I cannot pretend openly to aspire -to your hand. I almost fear me that my honor may be questioned, thus to -plight my vows with you, dear Eleanor; yet fate, which has thrown us -thus together, has some meaning in her freak.” - -“May it prove indeed so,” said the maiden. “But you say you were always -told you were noble born. Who assured you of this? Indeed, I must hear -your history, for who knows,” continued she archly, “but I may unravel -your riddle?” - -“Of my early life I know little, for though I remember events as far -back even as infancy, yet it is but faintly, as we often remember -incidents in a dream. Indeed I have often thought that these memories -may be nothing more than vague recollections of dreams themselves -happening so far back in my childhood as to seem like realities. Be that -as it may, I have these shadowy impressions of living when very young in -a large old castle, with hosts of retainers, and being served as if I -was the owner of all. I remember also a fine noble looking man, and a -lovely lady who used to take me in her arms and smile upon me. One -day—it seems but yesterday, and I remember this more distinctly than -any thing else—I was taken out by my attendants, who were, I suspect, -attacked and overpowered, for I found myself rudely seized by a rough -soldier, at whom I cried, and by whom I was carried off. I never saw any -of my attendants more. Every face around me was new, and for days I -thought my heart would break. I think I must have been carried into -Scotland, for as I grew up the country around looked barren like it, and -my protectors were continually returning from forays over the border on -the Southron as they call us. Besides even yet I have somewhat of their -accent in my speech. - -“I could not have been but a very young child, however, when I changed -my protectors, and went beyond sea. For two or three years we travelled -much; but finally settled in France. Those with whom I resided were of -the better sort of peasants, and consisted of an old woman and her -daughter. We were often visited by a stern, dark man, whom I was told -was a knight. He indeed must have been the person who was my real -protector, for after a while, my habitation was again changed, and I -became the resident of an old decayed fortalice, where a warden and one -or two servants constituted the whole household. Here I remained for -many years, and until I was past my boyhood. I saw no more of my -imagined protector, but I have every reason to believe he owned the old -castle, where, by-the-bye, I picked up some knowledge of -war-like-exercises; sufficient indeed to fit me, at the age of eighteen, -to be sent to the army as a man-at-arms. I served a campaign under the -banner of the Sieur de Lorenge, to whom I had been recommended by, I -suppose, my unknown protector. His secret agency I have no doubt was -exerted in procuring me to be knighted. Since then I have been thrown -upon my own resources, and for a couple of years have served in -Flanders, but wishing to discover, if possible, my real birth, I left -the continent, and reaching England, set out on this apparently insane -search. I have been engaged in it more than a half a year, and have yet -obtained no clue to my parentage. I judge it, however, to be English, -from my having been brought up in Scotland, for I was certainly taken -prisoner in a foray. And now, dearest, you have my history—and what, -alas! do you know of me, except that I am a penniless unknown knight, -hunting through this broad realm for a parentage?” - -The maiden did not answer the question of her lover directly, but seemed -lost in thought. She gazed wonderingly upon the speaker, and said,— - -“Strange!—if it should prove to be so.” - -Wondering at her inexplicable question, her lover said,— - -“What is strange, dearest?” But scarcely had this inquiry been made, -when a servant appeared, informing the lovers, that the uncle of the -lady Eleanor had arrived unexpectedly from court, and begged at once to -be allowed to pay his thanks to the brave knight who had rescued his -niece. - - * * * * * - -It was a fortnight later in our history. A small cavalcade was winding -along a romantic road, late in the afternoon. At its front rode two -knights, completely armed, except as to their heads, which were covered -with light caps, instead of helmets. A palfrey, upon which rode a lady, -and the numerous handmaidens in the group, showed the cavalcade to be -that of a woman of rank. - -Suddenly the procession reached the brow of a hill, overlooking a wide -reach of pasture and woodland. An extensive valley stretched below, -through which meandered a stream, that now glittered in the sunlight, -and was now lost to sight as it entered the mazes of the forest. In the -very centre of the valley, and on a gentle elevation, stood a large and -extensive castle, its defences reaching completely around the low hill -upon which it stood. As the prospect broke upon the sight, the two -knights drew in their reins, and the elder turning to the younger one, -whom the reader will instantly recognise as the hero of our tale, -said,— - -“Yonder is Torston castle, and in less than an hour we shall be within -its walls.” - -“And a noble fortress it is, my lord. I have seen many both in this fair -realm and in France, but few to equal yon proud castle.” - -“The landscape is itself a fine one,” said Lord Torston, “though few of -our profession of arms have an eye for beauty.” - -“The rudest boor, my lord, could not fail to admire this scene. And yet -it does not seem wholly new to me. I have an indistinct impression of -having beheld something like it before.” - -“Perhaps, in some fair valley of France. But we must push on, or we -shall not reach the castle until nightfall.” - -A brisker pace, however, soon brought the cavalcade to the outskirts of -the domain. Descending the hill, they passed amid verdant woods and open -lawns, and villages scattered here and there, until they readied the -immediate vicinity of the castle, and in a few minutes more they entered -the large gateway, and drew up in the court-yard. Every thing around -seemed to recall to the mind of the young knight some long forgotten -dream; and when alighting, they entered the hall, with its raised table -at the upper end and the large antlers surmounting the dais, it appeared -to him as if he had returned to some favorite place on which he had been -wont to gaze in days long gone by. Suddenly he paused, looked eagerly -around, placed his hand to his brow, and said— - -“My lord, this is strange. It seems to me as if I knew this place, and -every step only reveals some old remembered feature to me. It cannot be -that I have dreamed of it.” - -“No, Sir Henry, you have not. You have seen it, but long ago. I have -suspected this for some days, but I am now convinced.” - -“My lord,” said the young knight with a bewildered air, “what mean you? -It cannot be, and yet your words, your looks, your gestures, imply -it—am I to find in this castle my birth-place?” - -“Yes! my son,” exclaimed the baron, unable longer to control the -emotions, which had been swelling for days in his bosom, “and in me you -find a father,” and opening his arms, his long lost son fell into his -arms. - -“I no sooner saw your face,” said the father, when these emotions had -subsided sufficiently to permit an explanation, “than I felt a yearning -towards you, for it reminded me of your mother. But when I heard your -story,” he continued, “it tallied so completely with the loss of my only -son, that I suspected at once that you were my child. Your age, too, -agreed with what his should have been. Unwilling, however, to make known -my belief, I enjoined silence on my niece, determining to bring you here -in order to see if the sight of your birth-place would awaken old -recollections in your bosom. I have succeeded. I do not doubt but that -you are my son,—and now let me lead you to your cousin, who by this -time will have changed her apparel, and be ready to receive us.” - -“One moment, only,” said Sir Henry, “I have that here, which as yet I -have shewn to no one. It is a ring I wore on my neck when a child. Here -it is.” - -“God be praised, my son,” said the old baron, “for removing every doubt. -This is your mother’s wedding ring, which, after her death, you wore -around your neck,” and the long-separated father and son again embraced, -while tears of joy and thankfulness stole down the old man’s face. - -Is it to be supposed that the lady Eleanor looked more coldly on her -lover, now that every difficulty in the way of their union was removed: -or that the young heir was less eager to possess himself of his bride, -because, by wedding her, he would preserve to her the possessions which -otherwise she would lose? Truth compels us to answer both questions in -the negative. Scarcely a month had elapsed before the young knight led -his blooming cousin to the altar, while his new-found father looked on -with a joy which he had thought, as a childless man, he could never more -have experienced. And in the proud array of England’s proudest chivalry, -which met at Torston castle to celebrate the nuptials, no one demeaned -himself more gallantly, or won more triumphs in the lists, than the -young knight, now no longer Harry Bowbent, the soldier of fortune, but -the heir of the richest earldom in the realm. - - Clairfait Hall, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - SIGHS FOR THE UNATTAINABLE. - - - BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. - - - My heart is like the basin deep, - From which a fountain’s waters flow— - It cannot all its treasures keep, - Nor find them welcome when they go. - - From its recesses dark and drear, - There bubble up a thousand springs, - Sparkles of hope, and drops of fear, - Wild thoughts and strange imaginings. - - ’Tis full of great and high desires— - It swells with wishes proud but vain— - And on its altar kindle fires, - Whose wasted warmth but nurtures pain. - - And feelings come, with potent spell, - In many a wildering throng combined, - Whose force no words can ever tell, - Nor language e’er a likeness find. - - But, ah! how sinks my saddened soul, - To know, with all its longings high, - It ne’er can reach the tempting goal, - Nor to the lofty issue fly. - - To feel the ardent wish to range - The world of thought and fancy o’er, - Yet know—oh! contradiction strange! - It owns a wing too weak to soar. - - To have the love of all that’s fair, - And beautiful and pure and free, - Yet find it choked with weeds of care, - Flung from the world’s tempestuous sea. - - To feel affections warm and high, - Boiling within my panting breast, - And meet a careless, cold reply, - Where sought my weary soul for rest. - - Oh! give me Nature’s kindly charm, - A scene where quiet beauty reigns— - Give me a heart with feeling warm, - To share my joy, to soothe my pains. - - And they who love the stormy path - Of wild Ambition’s wildered scheme, - May revel in its rage and wrath, - Most welcome to the bliss they dream. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE SYRIAN LETTERS. - - - WRITTEN FROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS - KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED. - - - Damascus. - - Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting: - -I hope you will not deem me tedious, my friend, if I endeavor to -describe to you the manner in which Lactantius maintained the truth of -that faith of which he is one of the most illustrious advocates. But you -should have heard him, to have felt yourself in the presence of one of -the greatest of men. As the day was mild, Septimus ordered the couches -to be disposed along the level roof, as affording much the most -delightful place to hold a conversation, for so harmless is the air of -this climate, that you may even take your midnight repose under the open -sky; and this they inform us is the reason why this land is so noted for -those who are skilled in the map of the heavens. This, you may truly -say, should be no matter of surprise, for it may be held impossible that -one the least inclined to meditation should behold, night after night, -without being fired with the spirit of investigation, that overspreading -canopy unbounded and far reaching as eternity, but bright with wheeling -stars, that rise at their own fixed moment, and set behind some -well-known peak, and thus, year after year, traverse the same unvarying -and harmonious circle, without collision with their sister -orbs—glorious and imperishable. - -The sun, last sinking toward Cyprus, robbed of his exhausting heats, was -mildly burning above Lebanon. The city lay on every side. In one -direction rose the pillar of Antonine; in another the amphitheatre; and -you might, with steady observation, see the wild beasts pacing to and -fro, with impatient step, their well-barred cages, kept now more for -curiosity than sport. In another quarter the accustomed grove relieved -the wilderness of marble, like a clump of palms which often starts out -so refreshingly against the whitened sands. - -But, what was most beautiful to behold from this elevated site, was the -far receding valley in which this city is built, sheltered on either -hand by an eternal battlement of rocks, cultivated to the utmost stretch -of industry, clothed with its fruitful vines, and glistening with its -hundred gardens, temples and villas, wherever you might look. Through -its centre ran the mazy Leontes, shining from among its tufted banks, -and catching ever and anon the parting glories of the sun while on its -bosom, or suddenly emerging from some green shade, the eye detected, by -the sparkling of the oar, the gaily colored galley, freighted with many -a light heart. Thus raised above the bustle of the crowded -thoroughfares, and soothed by the Cyprian breeze, we felt the inspiring -influence of all we saw. - -Lactantius was the first to speak. - -“I hesitate not to avow,” said he, “that I feel a deep solicitude in -behalf of my friend Mobilius. Would that I had the power to expound to -him the unsatisfactory reliance of his faith, the feebleness of its -supports, and the terms of its delusions. As the shivering reed trembles -on the first assault of the rude wind, so does this perishable belief -upon the first advance of swift-footed adversity; forsaking you when you -most require the aid of ready guidance and bright-eyed consolation. - -“Brought from Egypt by the crafty priest, that land of science, but of -superstition, he planted it in a soil where he was certain it would -thrive, and to make success more sure he mingled with it the gaudy -ceremonies of Chaldea. Strange that so noxious a plant should flourish -as well as in its native soil, and so near the walls of Bethlehem. - -“They burn an offering of perpetual fires to the king of day—what a -sorry imitation of his light when but a struggling ray shall quench it! -They behold his blinding brightness, they feel his piercing heats, they -see nature bloom beneath his smiles, and they forget he sprang from -something. They look not beyond. Will the sun rescue us from affliction, -and heal us in the hour of sickness? How,” he exclaimed, warming as he -spoke, and felt the influence of rapt attention—“How shall glittering -rites propitiate that which can neither feel nor see, which was created -to rule the day, divide the light from darkness, and mark the rolling -seasons, but has no power to save, to heal or vanquish? The throbbing -pulse, the glistening eye, the kindly sympathy we feel in another’s -anguish speaks to us of a soul, declares to us we sprang from some -sublime and all wise original. Behold,” said he, rising from his couch -with a commanding attitude, “yon temple, the boast of Syria, what -symmetry, what grandeur!—as wise would it be to say it sprang from -nothing, as that sun, which from time almost incalculable, has risen in -the east and set beneath those mountains. It must have been the -instrument of an all wise purpose. Then why not adore the source through -whose command it blazed into existence? - -“How is it, Mobilius, that the faithful follower in our faith, worn out -by agonising pain, or hastening, hour after hour, toward certain -dissolution, every thing, the bright skies, the anxious faces of those -that gather round him, exposing to his fading eye—how is it he is yet -more cheerful as his shattered frame sinks into increasing weakness—so -that neither the stake, with its tortures, the amphitheatre, with its -jeers and cruel glances, nor the silent chamber, where the last enemy of -the good man approaches with slower step, and where he does not find the -support or triumph of a martyrdom, shall shake his confidence?” - -Here Mobilius seemed oppressed with affliction. - -“What is it, my good friend,” said Lactantius, “that grieves you?” - -“I will tell you: your words shoot anguish through my soul, but it is -for memories that are past. My sister, she on whom I lavished every -thought, and all that I possessed, was snatched from me in the midst of -mutual happiness. She lingered, and was buoyed up by some sweet and -hidden consolation she appeared anxious to impart, but the flickering -flame of life burnt too feebly in the lamp. It was, it must have been -this; would I had known it, that I might have whispered into her ear I -knew it. Her last look was cast upon the blue depths of heaven, as if in -earnest contemplation of some glorious spectacle, and she died with a -sweet smile upon her features, as if listening to sweet music. -‘Mobilius,’ she said, pointing upward, ‘Mobilius, my dear brother, -behold the—’ but the trembling syllables died into a whisper—she had -fled! There were to me sweet smiles no longer to cheer the vigor of my -desolation—I was alone in the world.” - -“Console yourself,” replied Lactantius, “this was an evidence your -sister died in peace. Trouble not yourself on this account, you may meet -her again.” - -At this communication his countenance, dull and heavy with grief, -brightened as the sun through showers. You have seen a piece of marble -carved into a coarse resemblance of the face. You have come again. The -chisel of a master spirit has been busy in its god-like lineaments. It -almost speaks; the dull, cold marble almost warms into a smile—such was -the change. Mobilius, gathering his mantle about him, abruptly left us, -nor did I see him again throughout that day. - -The stars began to glimmer as the sunlight waned, and we felt in all its -bounteous fulness the care-dispelling influence of this clime. The -conversation was prolonged, and I found that Lactantius was as well -skilled in the policy of existing governments, as in the peculiarities -of all the prevailing theologies, in short, as competent for the duties -of a statesman as a bishop; and it grieves me not a little that so many -should be raised to this eminent station in the church so far inferior -to Lactantius, while he, blessed with every natural gift, endowed with -the quickest of intellects—enriched with all the learning—polished, -fiery and overwhelming in speech, or if it please him, mild and winning -as the softest Lydian measure, the Christian and the philosopher, should -be thrust aside. This age will be signalised upon the page of the -historian, as much because it gave birth to a Constantine as that on it -there flourished a Lactantius. - -We now descended, and the evening passed in the enjoyments of those -rational pleasures which are always sought with an increasing relish. - -To turn to another topic, shall I propose a subject for thy solution? -What is that which may be likened to the gleam that struggles through -the dark and overhanging mists, driving away in its scattering -brightness the gloom of the weeping clouds? Yes, and I have known it -prove stronger than the precepts of philosophy, or the examples of -heroic ardor, kindling dying courage, inspiring god-like resolution, and -confessing a manly port and look which seemed to herald victory ere it -was achieved. More enlivening than the wine of Chios, let it but beam -upon you, and the mist of bewilderment flies, and in its place you find -that joy the poets so sweetly picture. What is it, you say, has induced -Servilius to wander from the thread of his narrative? Of a certainty you -cannot hesitate a moment—a woman’s smile! You whisper the boy Cupid, -and that no other than one assailed by his dart, could invest with such -rosy hues that which one sees and feels every hour of the day. - -But let me pause. I am writing to a philosopher, and one who may chide -me when he remembers the discussions we have had upon this matter, and -in which I took the sterner part. But I recant, I renounce my errors. -You have influence, Cornelius, at Athens. Place the good of all that is -left to us below upon a loftier pedestal. Woman should be looked up to -with admiration, and not down upon with contempt. What, as yourself must -admit, so softens the rigors of existence as the winning influence of -woman, and why should they be treated as so insignificant a portion of -the state? Be persuaded that that nation, which by its laws most -elevates the character of woman, which pays the most profound obeisance -to their gentle virtues, is nearest the standard of true happiness, and -surest in the certainty of its duration. - -These were my reflections, when who other should approach, as wearied -and heated from exposure to the sun, I had thrown myself upon a couch -beside a fountain in the hall of Septimus, both unperceiving and -unperceived until too late to retreat, than Placidia and Lucretia. They -seemed to hesitate and blush, but instantly arising, I invited them to -stay. - -“You came, I know, to seek the coolness of this airy hall, and you must -permit me to retire.” - -“No!” they exclaimed, “that we must not do.” - -“You look wearied,” Lucretia added. - -“Yes, I have been pacing the crowded streets of this proud city in -search of amusement and instruction.” - -“How is it?” she asked, “that you youth of Rome who travel, take such -pleasure in beholding a pile of marble variously disposed. Having seen -one handsome temple, I am sure all the rest are like it, though -perchance they may be somewhat larger or smaller, or have an additional -column or so. Is it a taste which is natural or does it come of -cultivation?” and thus she dashed on in the same gay strain, as if -undetermined whether to speak with lightness or with seriousness. -Placidia now began a skilful attack upon my adversary, nor could the -best disciple of the schools have made a more effectual sally. - -“It was but yesterday, Lucretia, I heard you discourse so prettily about -the great buildings in the city, with choice of language, and glow of -thought that any poet might have envied. There were the flowery -capitals—the happy arrangement—the beautiful designs—the—but I -cannot remember the learned phrases which you used. I have it—you spoke -but to draw our friend into an argument, in order that he might show -wherein you are in error.” - -Lucretia stood silent, half-smiling, half-angry, as if to say, tarry -until a more fitting opportunity—wait until we are alone my sweet -Placidia, and I will amply revenge myself for these unreserved -communications. - -“I must acknowledge, Placidia,” I replied, “the kindness of your -interposition. But the inquiry of Lucretia has been fully answered by -the unfortunate Longinus, a copy of whose immortal works I have now in -my possessions, and it would be a source of pleasure to study them with -you.” - -“We embrace the proposition with delight,” she answered, but then, as if -fearing she had been too eager, she replied, “but Mobilius must be of -the number.” - -“Placidia,” said Lucretia, “do you know then that Septimus and all his -friends are alarmed at the absence of Mobilius: he has not been seen -since he left us last night?” This was uttered in a tone which led me to -believe her previous gaiety was but assumed. - -“Is it possible?” replied Placidia with emotion. - -“I must go and assist my friends in their search,” I replied. - -“But you are not acquainted with the streets of Heliopolis, and what -service could you render?”— - -“Friendship, Placidia—” but she interrupted me as if in anticipation of -what I was about to say. - -“Go—hasten,” at the same time whispering in my ear as she turned, and -deeply blushing, “let me see you on your return—I have something to -confide to you which hangs heavily upon my spirits.” - -“I see how it is,” and the fire of jealousy shot through my veins, “she -loves Mobilius;” but such ungenerous thoughts were soon driven from my -mind, when I remembered the uncertainty of the fate of my friend. At -this moment I heard the name of Septimus cried aloud. - -“Where is Septimus?” exclaimed one of the slaves as he rushed into the -hall; “a lion has escaped from the amphitheatre—” he said, and trembled -with fear. - -“And has been chasing you, or you are frightened,” I replied. “Why -hesitate? the door is closed.” He looked up, as if imploring my -patience. - -“Worse, worse,—Mobilius was found on the road that leads to the temple -of Venus, upon Lebanon, mangled,—” here he was completely overpowered. -Indeed, it was dreadful news, and I asked the man no further questions. -Placidia sank senseless upon a couch, while Lucretia, greatly affected, -endeavored to support her tottering frame. As soon as she was partially -restored, I departed, and meeting Lactantius, who had been more active -in his enquiries, he cheered me by a most agreeable piece of news, as -compared with the hopeless story I had heard. It was only the mantle of -Mobilius that had been found, and there was no blood upon it. I hastened -to relieve the anxieties of my friends, and was ushered into the -presence of Placidia, by her maid, who stood waiting for me under the -portico. - -I hastily told her what I had heard. After expressing her joy, she broke -to me her story. “Servilius, my friend, for you must permit me to call -you such, from your many acts of kindness I shall never be able to -repay—” - -“_You_ cannot _repay_,” I whispered to myself, “oh! cruel Placidia.” - -“There is something, which greatly troubles me, and some hidden prompter -seems to tell me that by unburdening to you the cause of my sorrow, I -shall find the speediest relief.” - -My heart now beat high with expectation, “dare I hope?” I said to -myself. - -“It cannot be a dream,” she said, with her eyes fixed, and half-musing, -as if for the moment unconscious of my presence. “It cannot be a -dream—but I no sooner beheld the face of Mobilius, than the -recollection of youth rushed upon my memory, and I thought of my brother -and my sister, who have long slept with the perished. They were wrecked -upon the coast of Africa, and none escaped to bear to mourning friends -the brief story of their fate, but one, who, floating on a fragment of -the vessel, was taken up as he was on the point of relinquishing his -hold, from utter weakness, by a Syrian galley. Messengers were -despatched, and my uncle himself undertook the risk and toil of a -journey on our behalf. But all was in vain.” - -“There is still an expectation to be cherished,” I said. - -“Do you give hope?” said she, faintly smiling through her tears, -“affection once clung to the feeblest support, but it has long since -despaired.” - -“It shall not despair,” I answered, with an energy that startled, her, -hurrying out of the apartment. - -I soon recollected myself. - -“What have I done?” I thought, “years have rolled by, nor could I -flatter myself with the hope of success even if I wandered over all the -territory of Rome, and ventured to the unknown land of the barbarian.” - -I now remembered that I had heard Apicius speak of some wealthy merchant -residing in Berytus, who owned many galleys in communicating with the -coast of Africa, but he had gone to his villa, and I was obliged to -postpone my investigation. - -Returning to the hall, I met Septimus, who told me the last that had -been heard of Mobilius was from a Syrian merchant, who knew and accosted -him hastening toward the road leading to the mountains, but with his eye -riveted upon the path. He advanced with rapid strides. I then told -Septimus the news his slave had brought. - -“Alas! there is no longer a doubt, Servilius,” he replied, “since this -is the same road on which the temple stands.” - -We parted in grief, and Septimus in despair. - -When first I met Mobilius there was a levity in his manner which did not -please me, but since his conversations with Lactantius a noted change -had been wrought in him, and the hidden virtues of his character shone -unclouded. - -We did not meet until we mingled at the evening tables; but no joy was -there, and the silence was only broken by a loud cry from the slaves, as -if something unusual had taken place. Septimus arose to ascertain the -cause, when he was suddenly confronted by Mobilius, with dishevelled -hair and robes. A shriek of surprise and joy burst from every tongue. - -“We greet you, my dear Mobilius,” said Sergius, as he pressed his hand -with parental fondness. - -Mobilius cast upon him a look of wonder, blended with bewilderment, as -if in the sudden but vain effort to recall some long effaced -recollection, or it might have been from gratitude at the interest of a -stranger in a stranger’s fate. All with one accord begged him to tell -the cause of his absence. - -“I knew you would feel solicitude,” he said, “and as you perceive by the -dust upon my robe, I have hastened to relieve your anxieties. The -conversation of last night, and the light that suddenly broke upon my -soul, for the while robbed me of my senses. I hurried from you, nor did -I stop until I left the city many a pace behind me. Midnight gathered -on. I began to recollect myself and sought shelter at the temple which -lay in my way. I struck its gate with redoubling blows. I cried aloud, -but none answered. Verily you might perish before these cruel priests -would give you protection. A lofty tree presented the only refuge. -Awakened by the morning sun, and descending, I retraced my steps with as -much anxiety to reach Heliopolis as I had felt to leave it. I had not -gone far, however, when to my horror I encountered that terrible lion of -the amphitheatre. Subterfuge and presence of mind afforded the only -chance of safety. Escape was impossible, and weapon I had none. He fixed -his fiery eye upon me, lashed his tail, as if sure of his prey, and -crouched to spring. Now was the only hope. Hastily unloosening my light -robe, I suddenly raised it upon a slender stick, torn from a neighboring -bush, and quickly stepped aside. The deceit was successful, the furious -animal sprang at it, dragged it on the ground, and tore it into atoms. -Rushing toward a tree, while I left him at the garment, I mounted among -its branches as with wings. I do assure you I never climbed with more -alacrity. The noble animal, discovering his mistake, scowled with sullen -fierceness toward my place of shelter, and seemingly satisfied with the -vengeance he had taken, strode onward.” - -“A most fortunate escape,” ejaculated Valerius; “you must present your -gifts to-morrow at the temple.” A tear twinkled in the eye of -Lactantius, and I fancied I saw his lips move as in the act of prayer. - -“Yes, Valerius, and it is not the first escape with which a guardian -Providence has blessed me. Shipwreck and slavery I also have escaped.” - -“Shipwreck,” enquired Sergius, with anxiety, “will you tell us the sad -story? I had a son who was shipwrecked,” and the old man trembled in the -effort to subdue his grief. - -“I will. I left Rome on a voyage to Athens; we were driven by stress of -weather into a port of Sicily. The storm abating, we pursued our course -along the coast of Africa, being obliged to touch at Alexandria, but we -were wrecked before we reached our haven, and nearly all the crew were -swallowed by the waves.” - -“Pardon me for asking,” said Marcus, “but did you not write to Rome, -after you secured your liberty, to discover whether your kindred were -still living?” - -“I wrote many epistles, and to my uncle also, who told me they were all -carried off by a terrible pestilence, which visited the city, and that -my patrimony had been previously confiscated to the state, because of -some act of my parent, and that if I ventured to Rome the rage of my -father’s enemies would doubtless be turned against me. I had no wish, -however, to undertake the voyage, since those most cherished were no -more.” - -“And what was the name of your father?” asked Lactantius. - -“Lucius Sergius.” - -The venerable man paused for a moment in mute bewilderment, and then -rushed into the arms of Mobilius, exclaiming, “Caius, my son, my long -lost son!” - -“My sisters,” he cried, as they ran to embrace their beloved brother, -and wept with joy. It was a touching scene, and the ecstacy of gladness -brightened every face. Here let me drop the veil with the promise of -ending the description of the trials and fortunes of my friend in my -next epistle. - - Farewell. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LAY OF THE AFFECTIONS. - - - Gently, gently, beating heart! - Love not earthly things too well! - Those who love too soon may part, - Sorrow’s waves too quickly swell. - Softly, softly, boding fear! - Tell me not of fleeting bliss— - Ever would I linger here - With a joy so pure as this. - - Shame thee, shame thee, earthly love! - Chain not thus my spirit here! - Earth must change, and joy must prove - Sure forerunner of despair. - Cheer thee! cheer thee, child of God! - Trust in Heaven, and all is well, - Come the smile, or fall the rod, - Cheer thee! cheer thee, all is well! - M. S. B. D. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CLOTHING OF THE ANCIENTS. - - - TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH. - - - BY WILLIAM DUANE, JR. - - -If the ancient inhabitants of the world had extreme difficulty in -sheltering themselves from the severity of the seasons, they experienced -much more in giving to their clothes the impress of art or industry. -Consult Strabo; he will tell you that certain nations covered themselves -with the bark of trees, fig-leaves or rushes, rudely intertwined. Often -also the skins of animals were employed, without the least preparation, -for the same end. In proportion as the barbarism disappeared which had -been introduced by the confusion of tongues, they began to think of the -wool of sheep, and to ask themselves if there were no means of uniting -in a single thread the different pieces of this substance by the aid of -a kind of spindle. Seeing their efforts crowned with success, “Let us -now,” said they, “try to imitate the spider.” They did so; and, behold, -as Democritus begs us to observe, the art of weaving invented! After -that, the invariable custom which existed among the Jews, fifteen -hundred years before Jesus Christ, of collecting the fleeces of their -sheep at fixed periods; and great was the account which they made of it -according to the testimony of Genesis (31, 19.) - -The history, true or fabulous, of the web of Penelope, the wife of -Ulysses, proves to us that wool was not the sole material to which they -thought of applying the art of weaving. And do we not read in Pliny that -“the cotton plant grew in Upper Egypt, that they made stuffs of it, and -that the Egyptian priests made admirable surplices of it?” It is -undeniable that garments of cotton and of linen were in use in the time -of the patriachs; indeed Moses commands his people in the 22d chapter of -Deuteronomy, “not to wear a dress of linen;” and the ancient -Babylonians, as Herodotus informs us, (Book I.) “wore immediately over -their skin a cambric tunic, which fell down to their feet in the -oriental manner.” It was the same among the Athenians, according to -Thucydides. - -In the age of Augustus, many people had already arrived at great -perfection in the manufacture of linen stuffs: it is the express -assertion of the historian Pliny. “The Faventine cloth,” says he, “is -always whiter than the Allienne cloth. That which they have designated -by the word _Retovine_, is so exceedingly fine that its threads are as -slender as those of the spider. I have myself seen a thread of Cumes -hemp so thin that a great net made of this material could go through a -common ring; and I have heard tell of a man who could carry on his back -as much as was required to encircle an entire forest. The fine cambric, -made of the linen of Byssus, is a product of Achaia; it was sold in old -times for its weight in gold.” (Book 19.) - -In the Egyptian Museum of the Royal Library of Paris, you may cast your -eyes upon mummies, found in the catacombs of Cairo: the cloth in which -they are wrapped is not at all coarser than the cambric of your shops; -and yet it has been woven three hundred years. On this occasion it is -not inappropriate to add that the art of weaving is still more ancient -than that of embalming; which this answer of Abraham to the king of -Sodom indicates: “I will not carry away a single thread of your wool,” -said the patriarch to him, “lest you should say—I have made Abraham -rich!” Elsewhere, Moses informs us that Abimelech presented a veil to -Sarah; that on the approach of Isaac, Rebecca covered her face with a -veil; and that when Joseph was appointed viceroy of Egypt, Prince -Pharaoh covered him with a linen robe after having placed his own ring -upon his finger. The Book of Job (the most ancient writing perhaps in -existence) mentions a weaver’s _shuttle_, (chapter 7.) A thousand years -before the Christian era, do you see, setting out along the desert, -those messengers of the wise Solomon, going to procure in Egypt cloths -of fine linen for the king, their master? Shortly after, the city of -Tyre obtained great celebrity for the beauty of its fine linens; and -Ezekiel dwells enraptured on the opulence of its merchants in the -following terms:—“All the planks of thy vessels are of the fine fir -tree of Senir, and their masts are of the cedar of Lebanon! For their -sails thou hast employed the fine linen of Egypt, splendidly -embroidered.” Do not suppose that all the sails of this period were of -as precious a material as those of the Tyrians: like those of the -Arabians of our days, they were generally composed of woven rushes. - -The women commonly wore white dresses; besides, the ancients had early -made rapid progress in the art of bleaching. They were all ignorant, as -you may well suppose, of the expeditious process which the illustrious -Berthollet has conceived, with the assistance of a hydrochlorate of lime -or of soda; they knew, however, how to use other detersive substances to -impart a shining whiteness to their stuffs. “There exists among us,” -says Pliny, “a species of poppy, very rare, which bleaches linen cloth -wonderfully; and yet, would one believe it? we have among us a crowd of -people so vain that they have attempted to dye their linen as well as -their wool.” In alluding in another passage to the sky-blue curtains of -the Emperor Nero, he begs us not to forget that, despite of all the rich -shades produced by dyeing, _white_ cloth never ceased to enjoy the -highest reputation, to such a degree that they conferred the title of -_Great_ on a person named _Lentulus Spinter_, who first conceived the -idea of hanging white curtains around the places consecrated to the -Olympic games. This same kind of stuff was spread upon all the houses of -the _Via Sacra_, by order of Cæsar, the Dictator, who planning -magnificent decorations, wished that they should extend from his -residence up to the Capitol. - -The basis of the hard soap of our days was undoubtedly known to the -ancients. The _natron_ or sub-carbonate of soda, which they collect in -the channels of the Nile at the present time, was really gathered there -in sufficient abundance in the first ages of the world. From another -place, the man of Uz made use of it; for he makes ready in one of his -chapters (Job, ch. 9.) to wash his clothes in a pit with _bor_ or -_borith_, a plant much esteemed on account of its alkaline properties. -(You must not confound this with the _boron_ of modern chemistry, which -with oxygen constitutes the boracic acid.) Open the Sixth Book of the -Odyssey; Homer will there shew you Nausicaa, and her companions, -trampling their clothes with their feet to whiten them for an -approaching marriage; the bard adds that the ladies knew perfectly well -the property which the atmosphere possessed of assisting in the -destruction of the only substance which imparts a greyish appearance to -cloths. In alluding to this passage, Goguet affirms that all the linen -and cotton garments were washed daily. An anecdote related by Apuleius -in his book of “The Golden Ass,” goes to prove still more the attention -which they formerly paid to the art of bleaching; “A wag,” said he to -us, “being secretly introduced into the house of a merchant, came near -being suffocated by the sulphurous gas which was given out by a -bleaching machine in which he was hid.” - -The ability of the ancients to bestow upon their linen, cotton[2] and -woolen cloths a brightness not inferior to that of the snow of their -mountains, did not fail them when they had to dye them. More than three -thousand years ago a cunning shrew, as Genesis informs us, (ch. 28.) -fastened a scarlet ribbon around the hand of one of the children of -Tamar: and Homer speaks to us in the part of his poem above mentioned, -of the colored cloths of Sidon as admirable productions. Jacob made for -his beloved son Joseph, “a robe of many colors,” and the king of Tyre -sent into the palace of Solomon “a man skilful to work wonderfully in -gold, silver, &c. and to produce upon fine linen the shades of purple, -blue and crimson.” According to Herodotus, who wrote, as you know, four -hundred years before Jesus Christ, some people of Caucasus washed in -water the leaves of a certain tree, which yielded at length a brilliant -color, with the aid of which they drew upon stuffs the figures of lions, -monkeys, dolphins and vultures. - -Among the brave knights who perished at Colchis, in the Argonautic -expedition, there was one whom the historian Valerius Flaccus -distinguishes by his painted tunic, at the same time that he expresses -his admiration of the whiteness of the fine cloth which the hero also -wore: - - “Tenuia non illum _candentis_ carbossa lini, - Non auro depicta chalymis, non flava galeri - Cæsaries, _pictoque_ juvant subtemine bracæ.” - (Val. Flac. 6.) - -Speaking of Colchis, it was there that the best materials for painting -were formerly procured. Besides, if you will ascend in spirit to the -days of old, you will perceive every year on the roads leading from -Georgia to the principal cities of India, as well as to Dimbeck, an -immense drove of two thousand camels, loaded with madder. Thence the -_red_[3] flowers were derived, of which Strabo speaks, which the nations -dwelling on the borders of the Indus and the Ganges loved to spread upon -their cloths. It is a particular worthy of remark that the Egyptians who -constantly clothed the statues of their goddess Isis with _linen_ and -_cotton_ drapery, never employed _wool_ for that purpose, a substance -which they hated so much that they did not permit the use of it, even in -interments, as the 44th chapter of Ezekiel informs us. This aversion -extended even to shepherds, for you may read in Genesis that every -shepherd was an abomination to the Egyptians. (46.) - -The purple of Tyre was known at an epoch exceedingly remote, and the -dyers of Phœnicia surpassed in skill those of all the other nations of -the east. This people came a thousand years ago as far as Great Britain -to procure an enormous quantity of tin, a metal which has the property, -or rather certain salts of it have, of augmenting the intensity of the -principal red colors contained in many vegetable and animal substances. -Upon this subject, we would advise you to run over, in the third book of -Strabo, the interesting recital which he gives of the pursuit of a -Phœnician vessel by a Roman bark, which wished to seize the tin with -which it was freighted. It was in the neighborhood of the coast of -Cornwall: the Phœnician, seeing the prow of the Roman near his stern, -threw three-fourths of his cargo overboard, and steered right upon a -sand-bank, where the enemy, as you may well suppose, did not think of -following him. The Tyrians, astonished at the great opulence which their -city attained, attributed to the gods the magic art of dyeing in purple. -All writers, and especially Ctesias, physician to a king of Persia, who -lived four hundred years before the Christian era, and Ælian, a -contemporary of Alexander Severus, frequently allude to an insect, to -which the Phœnicians were indebted for the superior manner in which they -could produce an admirable scarlet. It was evidently the cochineal: and -this little animal must have been at that time less rare than at present -in Syria, India, and Persia, since the humblest classes frequently wore -stuffs dyed with purple. It is not surprising that they knew not how to -extract from the cochineal the most brilliant of all the known reds, the -carmine, before which the vermillion grows pale, and which chemistry can -procure for us, in our days, in great abundance; and you know that this -little insect lives upon the _cactus_ which grow in Brazil, in Mexico, -at Jamaica, and at Saint Domingo. - -The fashion of wearing silk was unknown at Rome, before the beginning of -the empire. The rage for dressing in it was already so great in the time -of Tiberius, that the emperor prohibited the use of it by a positive -law. The Greeks also had a taste for it; and the cloak of _Amphion_ was -certainly of silk, for the historian Philostratus (Ion, Book I.) tells -us that its color changed according to the different ways in which the -light was reflected from it. Pliny gives us to understand that the gold -stuffs of the ancients were not made as those of our time, of a thread -of gold or silver, wrapped around a woof of silk, but that they were -woven of gold deprived of all alloy: knowing this, he speaks of the -manner in which the wife of Claudius dressed herself to attend a -_Naumachia_ or sea fight, in the following terms—“Nos vidimus -Agrippinam—indutam palludamento auro textile, _sine alia materia_.” It -is about fifty years since they extracted, by assaying, more than four -pounds weight of pure gold from some old dresses which the fathers of -the Clementine College, at Rome, discovered in an urn of basalt, buried -in their vineyard. Tarquin, the Elder, was he, among the Roman -Sovereigns who most usually wore dresses of gold. - -From the time of Homer the Greeks wore _black_ dresses for mourning. -This bard shews us Thetis wearing, after the death of Patroclus, the -blackest of her dresses. (Iliad, 24.) For many years the same usage -prevailed among the Romans, but it was partly changed under the -emperors, so that when Plutarch wrote, the women in mourning could wear -nothing but white. Besides, we have a proof of it at the obsequies of -Septimius Severus: “The image of this emperor,” Herodian tells us, -“formed of wax, was surrounded on one side by a row of women in _white_, -and on the other by the body of all the senators, clothed in _black_. At -the death of the Empress Plotina,” adds the historian, “her husband -Trajan covered himself with very black habits for the space of nine -days.” The _toga_ necessarily received as many shades of color as the -other garments: but as to the form of this kind of robe it is impossible -to decide. When Dionysius, of Halicarnassus, asserts that the toga -presented the appearance of a semicircle (’ημικυκλος) he did not at all -intend to describe its shape, but only the form which it assumed when -worn upon the body. Strabo asserts that the military cloak with which -the warriors clothed themselves had an oval form; and that among the -Athenians it was often worn by the young people even in time of peace. -The _tunic_, which was the principal part of the under clothing, was not -generally used among the nations of antiquity, except the Greeks and -Romans; all the Cynic philosophers disdained to make use of it. We know -that Augustus put on as many as four tunics in winter. The name of this -great emperor reminds us that it was in his reign, or thereabouts, that -the Romans began to use table-cloths. Montfaucon believes that the -greater part of them were of cloth striped with gold and purple. In -France the ancient table-cloths were intended for collecting, after the -meal, the smallest crumbs that were left, that nothing might be lost; -and D’Arcy informs you that among our neighbors, the English, table -linen was very seldom used in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. - -As there exist in our days many nations, especially in the torrid zone, -who do not wear _hats_, (a name by which we must understand every -covering for the head, as its etymology plainly indicates,) so it -formerly happened that the nations did not always think of making use of -them. Thus one of the most civilized, the Egyptians, went bare-headed, -according to the authority of Hesiod. Amongst the Orientals, and -especially amongst the Persians, the turban was in great vogue; that of -the sovereign was composed of a whole bale of muslin. It was from this -last mentioned people that the Jews derived the turban. The hats of the -Greeks must have had very large brims, to judge from the root of the -word (πετασος) which designated them. The Romans granted to their -freedmen the right of covering themselves with a kind of cap, which has -been since adopted as the emblem of liberty. It is to a Swiss, residing -in Paris, about the beginning of the fifteenth century, that we owe the -first invention of felt hats. They were generally known at the close of -the reign of Charles VII.: this monarch himself wore one at his -triumphal entry into Rouen, in 1449. We read in Daniel that the worthy -townsmen of that ancient city stood still as if petrified, so much were -they astonished at seeing his majesty’s hat; the historian adds that its -lining was of red silk, and that it was surmounted by a superb bunch of -feathers. Before the period of which we speak, it is probable that the -French covered their heads in the same way as the English, that is to -say, with woven caps or rather with cloth and silk hoods. - -The stockings of the ancients were made of little pieces of cloth sewed -together. We cannot say with certainty in what country the -stocking-frame was invented. France, England and Spain respectively -claim this useful discovery. A short time before the unfortunate -tournament, in which Henry II. lost his life, he put on the first pair -of silk stockings ever worn. Five years afterward, we see in England, -William Ryder presenting a pair, as a very precious article, to William, -Earl of Pembroke. Ryder had learnt the method of making them from an -Italian merchant. - -Many persons probably know not that _wooden shoes_ date from a very -remote period; for the Jews wore them long before the age of Augustus. -Perhaps they were not made exactly like the wooden shoes so common among -the poorer classes in France; but it is not less true that this kind of -covering for the feet was generally adopted among nearly all the people -of Judæa: sometimes, however, we observe leather shoes among them; and -the Jewish soldiers covered their feet with copper, or with iron. The -shoes of the Egyptians were of _papyrus_; the Chinese and the Indians -manufactured theirs of silk, of rushes, of the bark of trees, of iron, -of brass, of gold or of silver, according as their fortune permitted, or -their fancy dictated. At Rome, as in Greece, leather was the material -which covered the feet of every one. The Roman women wore _white_ shoes: -the common people wore _black_: and the magistrates set off their feet -with _red_ shoes on solemn occasions. A thousand years ago the most -powerful sovereigns of Europe had wooden soles to their shoes. Under -William Rufus, son of the great Duke of Normandy, who conquered at -Hastings, in 1066, a fashion was introduced into England of giving to -the shoes an excessive length; the point which terminated them was -stuffed with tow, and curved up on high like a ram’s horn. In the -fourteenth century they thought of connecting these points with the -knee, by means of a gold chain. Great must have been the surprise of the -worthy Anglo-Saxons, on beholding this strange species of vegetation -sprouting up suddenly amongst them! Some called to remembrance the -history of the serpent’s teeth, which Cadmus sowed, whence a swarm of -soldiers issued; others conceived that it was the costume of magicians; -and little children sometimes, when going to bed, asked their mothers if -there was no danger that their heads might be metamorphosed in the night -into those of a horrible deer? Before leaving this paragraph upon shoes, -we would call to recollection the antiquity of the art of the -leather-dresser: open for that purpose the Iliad, and you will find in -the Seventeenth Book, tanners preparing skins to make leather of them. -This class of manufacturers composed, three hundred years ago, a very -important body, since we possess the account of a furious quarrel which -broke out, under Queen Elizabeth, between them and the shoe-makers. We -are pleased to record here the perfection with which they manufacture -leather at this date in the New World. In South Carolina, as well as in -the state of Virginia, the Indian women are so skilful in this branch of -industry that a single person can dress as many as ten deer-skins a -day.[4] Of all the transformations which are wrought in the arts, that -of the animal substance into leather is, without doubt, one of the most -curious. The process, by means of which they set about accomplishing it -in old times, was the result of a calculation still more ingenious than -that of changing two opaque bodies into a transparent body to make -glass, for instance; or else two transparent bodies into an opaque body -for making soap. Besides, you know that chemistry actually teaches us -that leather is a real salt, a _tannate of gelatine_. This assertion was -not uttered with confidence until M. Pelouze had extracted from tan in -late years the tannic acid in a state of remarkable purity. Besides -this, you may now explain a phenomena which is repeated at a great -distance upon the ocean, at the time of some lamentable shipwreck. The -journal which records for you the history of one of these sad events -often tells you that in the last moment of famine, the unhappy survivors -took to eating their shoes, and that life is sometimes prolonged by -these means! Certainly, for the gelatine possesses nutritious -properties, even when its peculiarities are stained with a thousand -impurities, as is leather. - -The subject upon which we have endeavored to present some observations, -is so capable of being extended that a large volume in octavo would -scarcely suffice to contain all the historical knowledge relating to it. -But such a dissertation, carried out to the extent or with the exactness -which it admits of, would only constitute at last a kind of catalogue or -bare enumeration of the thousand modifications which human vestures have -undergone down to our times. The memory of the reader would be unable to -retain so prodigious a number of minute particulars, and the curiosity -of his mind, fatigued by so many useless details, would be extinguished -before finishing the third part. These changes have often, it is true, -nothing for their object but the accessory and secondary parts of dress, -as the following passage, which we meet with in the _voyages_ of M. de -Chateaubriand, seems to point out. - -“One thing has at the same time struck me and charmed me; I have met in -the dress of the Auvergne peasant the attire of the Breton peasant. -Whence comes this? It is because there was formerly for this kingdom, -and for all Europe, a _groundwork_ of a common attire.” (Vol. 2., p. -296.) - -In another particular also, men have always been constant, that they -have never ceased to seek for the material to compose their clothing -from the animals which the Creator has placed in their respective -climates. It will probably be the same till the end of the world. It is -thus that the nations under the temperate zone have recourse for -covering to wool, because, being a bad conductor of caloric, it prevents -the escape of it from their bodies. In the frozen zone the Russians, the -Esquimaux, and the Greenlanders, clothe themselves in furs, a material -which is a still worse conductor of caloric; while the natives of -countries under the influence of the torrid zone, make their dresses of -hair or horse-hair, whose conducting properties are in an inverse ratio -to those of furs. It is worth remarking that the animals which in -temperate regions are covered with wool or ordinary hair, are provided, -when they inhabit countries really cold, with an under-fleece of very -fine wool: it is the case with goats, sheep, dogs, horses, and Thibet -cows. - -If by a game of metempsychosis, you were enabled to return to existence -two hundred years hence, what unheard of changes would you not see in -the dress of individuals. Transport in anticipation your shade to a -point commanding one of the public promenades of the capital; suppose -yourself, for instance, on the top of the Vendôme Column, on a fine -summer’s evening; you would, perhaps, perceive the _dandies_ of the time -strutting in frocks, whose leg of mutton sleeves are as voluminous as -those of our sylphides at this day. Their hats, instead of being of -beaver or of fur, have a similar shape to that which our ladies adopted -in 1839. For the young folks a notched veil would be the prescribed -mode; the men, of a certain age, would embellish their hats with a -superb scarlet plume. As to the women, who will now dare to affirm that -they will not then cover their heads with perukes _à la_ Louis XIV. -topped off with three-cocked hats, and that from their chin there will -not descend a band _à la procureur du roi_? Extend your Pythagorean -glance farther into the ages, and you will, perhaps, discover another -part of mankind adding to their dress an enormous pair of wings! We may -doubt that the gnomes, the sciences, will never render the attempt to -make use of them more effectual than that of the son of Dædalus in old -times; but in return, posterity may fly by another process, in case the -æronauts can discover the secret of steering themselves in mid-air. -Should this expectation be realised, we may then hear one of your future -grand-nieces (who will be the belles of the noble Faubourg) say to her -domestic on rising from her breakfast, “Ganymede! my balloon, with its -boat; I wish to go dine to-day with my cousin, at Florence.” - ------ - -[2] It is generally believed that the word _calico_ is derived from -Calicut, a city on the coast of Malabar in Hindostan, whence the first -patterns of this stuff came to Europe. - -[3] Dyers now know how to produce a very durable red by dipping their -stuffs in a solution of acetate of alum, before subjecting them to the -action of the madder. It would be desirable that they should begin to -derive some advantage, on a large scale, of a new substance, lately -discovered by Mr. Robiquet, which possesses the property of producing a -red amaranth or pansy, very agreeable. Chemists call this substance -_orsine_. - -[4] This will be news to the people “in South Carolina, as well as in -the state of Virginia.” _Translator._ - - Philadelphia, May, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO LORD BYRON. - - - FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE. - - - BY R. M. WALSH. - - - Thou, whose true name the world doth yet not know, - Mysterious spirit, mortal, angel, fiend, - Whate’er thou art, oh! Byron, still I love - Thy concerts’ savage harmony, ev’n as - I love the noise of thunder and of winds - Commingling in the storm with torrents’ voice! - Night is thy dwelling, horror thy domain; - The eagle, king of deserts, thus doth scorn - The lowly plain; he seeks, like thee, steep rocks - By winter whitened, by the lightning riven; - Shores strewn with fragments of the fatal wreck, - Or fields all blackened with the gore of carnage: - And whilst the bird that plaintive sings its griefs - ’Mid flow’rets, builds its nest on bank of streams, - Of Athos he the summits fearful scales, - Suspends his eyre o’er the abyss, and there, - Surrounded by still palpitating limbs, - By rocks with bloody banquets ever foul, - Soothed by the screaming anguish of his prey, - And rocked by tempests, slumbers in his joy. - - Thou, Byron, like this brigand of the air, - In cries of woe dost sweetest music find. - Thy scene is evil, and thy victim man. - Like Satan, thou hast measured the abyss, - And plunging down, far, far from day and God, - Hast bid to hope farewell for evermore! - Like him, now reigning in the realms of gloom, - Thy dauntless genius swells funereal strains; - It triumphs; and thy voice in hellish tone - Sings hymns of glory to the god of evil. - But why against thy destiny contend? - ’Gainst fate what may rebellious reason do? - It hath but (like the eye) a bounded scope. - Beyond it nor thy eye nor reason strain; - There all escapes us; all is dark, unknown. - Within this circle God hath marked thy place. - How? why? who knows?—From His Almighty hands - The world and human beings he hath dropped, - As in our fields he spread around the dust, - Or sowed the atmosphere with might or light. - He knows; enough; the universe is his, - And we can only claim the present day. - Our crime is to be man and wish to know: - To serve and know not is our being’s law. - Byron, this truth is hard, and long I strove - Against it; but why turn away from truth? - With God, thy title is to be his work; - To feel, t’adore thy slavery divine; - In th’universal order to unite, - Weak atom as thou art, to his designs - Thy own free will; by his intelligence - To have been conceived, and by thy life alone - To glorify him—such, such is thy lot! - Ah! rather kiss the yoke that thou wouldst break; - Descend from thy usurped rank of god; - All, in its place, is well, is good, is great; - In His regard, who made immensity, - The worm is worth a world; they cost the same! - - This law, thou say’st, revolts thy sense of right; - It strikes thee merely as a strange caprice; - A snare where reason trips at every step— - Let us confess and judge it not, great bard! - Like thine, my mind with darkness is replete, - And not for me it is to explain the world: - Let Him who made, explain the universe. - The more I sound the abyss, the more, alas! - I lose myself amid its viewless depths. - Grief, here below, to grief is ever linked, - Day follows day, and pain succeeds to pain. - In nature bounded, infinite in wish, - Man is a fallen god rememb’ring Heaven: - Whether that, disinherited of all - His pristine glory, he doth still preserve - The mem’ry of his former destinies, - Or that the vastness of his wishes gives - A distant presage of his future greatness— - Imperfect at his birth, or fallen since— - The great, the awful mystery is man. - Within the senses’ prison chained on earth, - A slave, he feels a heart for freedom born, - And wretched, to felicity aspires. - He strives to sound the world; his eye is weak;— - He yearns to love; whate’er he loves is frail. - All mortals unto Eden’s exile bear - A sad resemblance—when his outraged God - Had banished him from that celestial realm, - Scanning the fatal limits with a look, - He sat him, weeping, near the barred gates, - He heard within the blest abode afar, - The sigh harmonious of eternal love, - Sweet strains of happiness, the choral song - Of angels sounding God’s triumphant praise; - And tearing then his soul from heav’n, his eye - Fell back affrighted on his dismal lot. - Woe, woe to him who from his exile here - Hath heard the concerts of an envied world! - When Nature once ideal nectar tastes, - She loathes the cup Reality presents. - Into the possible, in dreams she leaps; - (The real is cramped; the possible, immense;) - The soul with all her wishes there doth take - Her sojourn, where forever she may drink - From crystal springs of knowledge and of love, - And where, in streams of beauty and of light, - Man, ever thirsty, slakes his thirst. - And thus, with Syren visions charming sleep - On waking, scarce she knows herself again. - - Such was thy fate, and such my destiny! - I too the poisoned cup did drain; like thine - My eyes were opened, seeing not; in vain - I sought the enigma of the universe; - I questioned nature for its cause; I asked - Each creature why created; down the abyss, - The bottomless abyss, I plunged my look; - From the atom to the sun, I all explored; - Anticipated time, its stream did mount; - Now passing over seas to hear the words - That drop from wisdom’s oracles; but found - The world to pride is ever a sealed book! - Now, to divine the world inanimate. - To nature’s bosom flying with my soul, - I thought to find a meaning in her voice. - - I read the laws by which the heav’ns revolve. - My guide great Newton, through their shining paths. - Of crumbled empires o’er the dust I mused; - Rome saw me ’mid her sacred tombs descend; - Of holiest manes disturbing the repose; - The dust of heroes in my hands I weighed, - Asking their senseless ashes to restore - That immortality each mortal seeks. - What say I? hanging o’er the bed of death, - I sought it even in expiring eyes; - On summits darkened by eternal clouds, - On billows tortured by eternal storms, - I called; I braved the shock of elements. - Like to the sybil in her rage divine, - I fancied nature in those fearful scenes - Some portion of her secrets might reveal: - I loved to plunge amid those horrors dread. - But vainly in her calm and in her rage - This mighty secret hunting, everywhere - I saw a God, and understood him not. - I saw both good and ill, without design, - As if by chance, escaping from his hands; - I saw on all sides evil, where there might - Have been the best of good, and too infirm - To know and comprehend him, I blasphemed; - But breaking ’gainst that heav’n of brass, my voice - Had not the honor to e’en anger fate. - One day, however, that by mis’ry wrung, - I wearied heaven with my fierce complaint, - A light descended from on high, that filled - My bosom with its radiance, and inspired - My lips to bless what madly they had cursed. - I yielded, grateful, to the influence, - And from my lyre the hymn of reason poured. - - “Glory to thee, now and for evermore, - Eternal understanding, will supreme! - To thee, whose presence space doth recognise! - To thee, whose bright existence every morn - Announceth! Thy creative breath hath stooped - To me, and he who was not hath appeared - Before thy majesty! I knew thy voice - Ere I had known myself, and at its sound - Up to the gates of being I did rush. - Behold me! nothingness doth here presume - To hail thee at its coming into life. - Behold me! but what am I? what my name? - A thinking atom—who may dare to hope - Between us two the distance e’er to scan! - I, who in thee my brief existence breathe, - Myself unknown and fashioned at thy will, - What ow’st thou, Lord, to me, were I not born? - Before or after, naught—hail end supreme! - Who drew all from himself, to himself owes all. - Enjoy, great artist, of thy hands the work. - I live thy sov’reign orders to fulfil. - Dispose, ordain, control, in time, in space; - My day and sphere, for thy own glory mark; - My being, without question or complaint, - In silence hasten to assume its place. - - * * * * * * * - - Glory to thee! annihilate me, strike! - One cry, one cry alone shall reach thy ear— - Glory to thee, now, and for evermore!” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LIFE GUARDSMAN. - - - BY JESSE E. DOW. - - -The Life Guard of Washington! Who can think upon this band of gallant -spirits without feeling a glow of patriotism warming his heart, and -stirring up the sluggish feelings of his soul? Fancy paints again the -figures which history has suffered to fade away, as the shadows departed -from the magic mirror of Cornelius Agrippa; and the heroes of the past -start up before us like the clan of Roderick Dhu at the sound of their -chieftain’s whistle. They come from Cambridge, and from the Hudson, from -Trenton and from Princeton, from Yorktown and from the Brandywine, from -mountain pass and woody vale, gathering in battle array around the lowly -bed of their sleeping leader, amid the solitary shades of Vernon. - -The life guardsmen are fast fading away. One by one the aged members -have departed, and now Lee’s corporal slumbers beside his commander. -Their march of life is over. - -A more efficient corps never existed on this side of the Atlantic than -the Life Guard. Animated by one motive, guided by one object, they -surrounded their beloved commander-in-chief, and gloried in being known -as his body guard. Was there any difficult duty to perform? it fell to -this body, and gallantly did they perform the service entrusted to them. -The eye of the general glistened with delight as they filed before him -in the shade of evening, or returned into camp from some successful -incursion beyond the enemy’s lines, ere - - “Jocund day stood tiptoe on the mountain top”— - -or the _reveillé_ aroused the army from their slumbers. - - * * * * * - -It was the anniversary of the battle of Princeton, when an aged man, -with a stout staff in his hand, was seen trudging manfully down -Broadway. As he passed along from square to square, he cast his eyes -upon the signs and door-plates, and muttering, continued on his course. - -“Here,” said he, “was Clinton’s Quarters”—“Edward Mallory silks and -laces”—“and here was the house that Washington stopped at”—“John -Knipherhausen, tobacconist,” “and here was where the pretty Quakeress -lived, who used to furnish the commander-in-chief with information as to -the enemies movements”—“Câfé de mille colonnes”—“all, all are changed; -time has been busy with every thing but the seasons—they are the -same—the sun and the rain—the evening and the morning—the icicle and -the dew-drop—the frost and the snow-drift change not: but man and his -habitations—aye, the very names of places and people have been altered, -and the New York of the Revolution is not the New York of ’37.” - -As the old man said this he seated himself upon a marble door-step, and -wiped the perspiration from his brow; for he had walked a long way that -morning, and the thousand associations that pressed upon his memory -wearied him. - -A company of volunteers, in all the pomp and circumstance of city war, -now approached by a cross street. The bugle’s shrill note, mingled in -with the clarionet and cymbals; and the glance of the sun upon their -bayonets and polished helmets, lit up the martial fire that slumbered in -the old man’s soul. He rose upon his feet. - -“It is pleasant enough now to look upon such gatherings,” said he, “but -those who have heard the drums beat to drown the cries of the wounded -and the dying, cannot forget their meaning, though youth and joy -accompany them, and though the smiles of beauty urge them on.” And the -old man wept, for the men of other days stood about him; and the -battle-fields, then silent and deserted, teemed with the dead and the -dying; and the blood formed in pools amid the trampled grass, or -trickled in little rills down the smoky hill-side. - -A servant now came out of a neighboring house and invited the old man -in. He thankfully accepted the hospitality of the polite citizen, and -soon stood in a comfortable breakfast room. A young man of twenty-one -received him with kindness; and a tall, prim woman of eighty-six -cordially insisted upon his joining her family at the breakfast-table. A -beautiful girl of eighteen took the old man’s hat and cane, and wheeled -up an old arm-chair that had done the family some service in ancient -days. The old man as she seated herself beside him, patted her upon the -head, and a firm—“God bless you”—escaped from his wrinkled and pallid -lips. The old lady suddenly paused in her tea-table duty, and looked -earnestly at her guest. The old man’s eyes met hers—they had seen each -other before—but the mists of time shrouded their memories, and blended -names and places and periods strangely together. - -“Will thee have another cup of tea?” said the matron to the old man. - -“I have heard that voice,” thought the stranger, as he took the -proffered cup with gratitude, and finished his breakfast in silence. - -“Oh! grandmother,” said the maiden, springing to the window, “here come -the Iron Greys; how splendidly they look.” - -“I cannot look at them,” said the matron, in a trembling voice—“thy -grandfather was killed by the Brunswick Greys at Princeton.” - -“What was his name?” said the old man, fixing his dim eye steadily upon -the speaker’s face. - -“Charles Greely,” said the matron, shedding an unexpected tear. - -“Charles Greely,” said the old man springing up—“why he was a Life -Guardsman, and died by my side—I buried him at the hour of twilight by -the milestone.” - -“And thou art?” said the matron, earnestly. - -“Old Hugh Maxwell, a corporal of Washington’s Life Guard at your -service,” said the stranger guest. - -“Oh! well do I know thee,” said the matron, weeping—“it was thee who -gave me directions where to find him, and delivered to me his dying -sigh. This is an unhappy day to me, Hugh Maxwell, but thy presence lends -an interest to it that I had no idea of enjoying. William and Anne, thy -grandfather died upon Hugh Maxwell’s breast in battle—let us bless God -that we are permitted to entertain the gallant soldier upon the -anniversary of that day of glory.” - -And the son brought forth the old family bible, and the widow Greely -prayed after the manner of the Quakers, amid her little congregation. - -When the service was over, and the breakfast equipage had been removed, -the son and the daughter each drew a seat beside the old veteran, while -their grandmother carefully wiped her spectacles and took a moderate -pinch of Maccouba. Then seating herself as straight as a drill sergeant -in her cushioned seat in the corner, she turned her _well ear_ toward -the old corporal and looked out of the window. - -“Tell us about the battle of Trenton and of Princeton, Mr. Maxwell,” -said the grand-children, in one voice. The old man looked inquiringly at -the widow Greely. - -“Thee may tell it, though it may be a sad tale to me,” said the matron, -and Hugh Maxwell, after resting his head upon his hand for a moment, -began his account of - - - THE BATTLES OF TRENTON AND PRINCETON. - -The twenty-fifth of December, 1776, was a gloomy day in the American -camp. An army of thirty thousand British soldiers lay scattered along -the opposite side of the freezing Delaware, from Brunswick to the -environs of Philadelphia. Gen. Howe commanded the British cantonment, -and Lord Cornwallis was on the march from New York to reinforce him. - -The British soldiers were flushed with success. They had driven us -through the Jerseys. New York Island and the North River were in their -power. They had tracked us by our bloody foot-prints along the gloomy, -though snow-clad hills: and they looked eagerly forward to the day when -the head of our illustrious Washington should be placed upon Temple Bar, -and the mob of London should cry out while they pointed at it, “there -rests the head of a Traitor.” The banner of England floated heavily in -the wintry air, and the fur-clad Hessian paced his rounds on the gloomy -hills, with his bayonet gleaming in the stormy light; videttes were seen -galloping along the hill sides, and the valleys echoed with the martial -airs of England. But in our camp all was sadness. Five thousand men, -ill-armed, and worse clad, without tents or even camp utensils, sat -crouching over their lonely watch-fires. - -But this was not all. The crafty British general had offered a pardon to -all who would desert the American cause, and many men of property, aye! -even members of Congress, recreant to honor and principle, pocketed -their patriotism with the proclamation, and basely betrayed their -country in the hour of her peril. Members of Congress did I say? Yes, -those that had been members: and let me repeat their names, lest -perchance they may have been forgotten in the age of sham power and -speculation. Galloway and Allen deserted, and joined the enemies of -freedom in the fall of 1776. - -Such was the state of things at this period. All was silence in the -American camp. The spangled banner hung drooping over our head quarters, -and the sentinel by the low door-way stood leaning in melancholy mood -upon his rusty and flintless gun. The commander-in-chief held a council -of war. At the close of it he gave his opinion—he had heard of the -scattered cantonment of the British army. - -“Now,” said he striking his hand upon an order of battle, and pointing -from the window of the little farm house toward the wild river, “now is -the time to clip their wings.” It was a master-thought; the council of -war concurred with their leader, and each member retired silently to -prepare for immediate action. - -The regiments were mustered—the sentinels were called in—a hasty meal -was devoured—the evening shut in with darkness and storm—the word was -given—and we began our march. One party moved down, one remained -stationary, and one passed up to a point above Trenton. I was with -Washington. No one in the ranks knew where he was to go—all was -mystery; until we wheeled down the steep bank of the Delaware. - -“Onward,” was the word. “Cross the river,” thundered along the line, and -our freezing legions moved on. Who shall describe the pains and the -perils of that terrible march? Who shall reward the noble spirits, who, -trusting in their illustrious leader, moved onward, amid famine, -nakedness, and the winter’s storm? Surely at this day a generous nation -will not let the poor, old veteran die who has his scars—but no -certificate—to testify to the glory of that night—better feed an -imposter than starve a hero. - -But to my tale.—Upon a high bank Washington, and Knox, and a few staff -officers, wrapped in scanty military cloaks, sat upon their shivering -chargers, and awaited the progress of the broken line. - -We moved on—some on cakes of ice—some on rafts with the artillery—and -some in little boats. Dark reigned the night around—the wild blast from -the hills swept down the roaring stream—the water froze to our tattered -clothes, and our feet were blistered and peeled by treading upon the icy -way. The snow, like feathers borne upon a gale, whirled around us—the -dark waters yawned fearfully before us—at every step we were in danger. -Now precipitated into the stream, and now forced to climb the rugged -sides of the drift-ice, still we advanced. At length the cannon and -tumbrils were landed, and the last soldier stood upon the opposite -shore. - -Shivering with cold, and pale with hunger and fatigue, our column formed -and waited for the word. Washington and his staff were at hand. -“Briskly, men, briskly,” said he, as he rode to the head of the line; -and then the captains gave the word from company to company, and the -army marched on in silence. A secret movement of an army at night keeps -the drowsy awake, and the hungry from complaining. Man is an inquisitive -animal, and the only way to make him perform apparent impossibilities, -is to lead him after he knows not what. Columbus discovered America in a -cruize after Solomon’s gold mine, and the vast field of chemistry was -laid open to human ken, in a search for the elixir of life, and the -philosopher’s stone. - -All night our troops moved down the west bank of the river, and as the -morning spread her grey mantle over the eastern hills, we reached -Trenton. - -The Hessians, under Rawle, slept. No one feared Washington,—and the -moustached soldier dreamed of the Rhine and the Elbe, and the captain -slept careless at his inn. But suddenly the cry was raised,—“He comes! -he comes!” Our frosty drums beat the charge; the shrill fifes mingled in -with a merry strain; and our hungry army, with bare feet entered the -city. Like the Scandinavian horde—in impetuosity and necessity—before -the eternal city, we rushed up the streets, and attacked the surprised -enemy at every turn. The startled foe endeavored to defend themselves; -but, before any body of them could collect, a charge of our infantry cut -them to pieces. Their colors were absolutely hacked off of their -standard-staff, while they advanced in line, by a sergeant’s sword, and -their officers were cut down or taken prisoners. Our victory was -complete. One thousand men were killed and made prisoners, and the -artillery, consisting of nine pieces, was captured. Such was the effect -of the Battle of Trenton upon the enemy; but to us the consequences were -the reverse. Our hungry men were fed, our naked were clothed, the rank -and file were armed, and the officers promoted. - -The same evening we re-crossed the river, but it was not the terrible -stream of the previous night. The foot-prints of boots and shoes were -left on our trail, and the drums beat a merry call, while the bugles -answered sweet and clear. - -In a few hours the Hessian tents shrouded the captors on the site of our -old encampment; and Rawle’s officers had the pleasure of drinking _their -own wine in their own tents_, with General Washington, and his -subalterns, as prisoners of war. So well planned was this attack that we -lost but nine men, and two of them were frozen to death after being -wounded. - -On the 29th of December, 1776, we again crossed the Delaware, and at 1 -P. M., our eagles floated over Trenton. - - * * * * * - -The “merry Christmas” of our evening party astonished and aroused the -king’s generals. Lord Cornwallis hastened to form a junction with -General Grant at Princeton; and on the 2d of January, 1777, the British -army marched against Trenton. - -It was late in the afternoon when the advance guard of the enemy -appeared in sight, their red coats forming a striking contrast with the -winter’s snow. Our drums now beat to arms, and General Washington, with -5,000 of us, crossed the rivulet Assumpinck, and took post upon the high -ground facing the rivulet. A heavy cannonade speedily commenced, and -when night came on, both armies had a breathing spell. - -Fresh fuel was now piled upon the camp-fires—the sentinels were posted -in advance—small parties were stationed to guard each ford—the cry, -“all’s well,” the quick challenge, and the prompt answer; the tramping -of a returning vidette—and the occasional tapping of a drum in the -guard-room, were heard in our camp. The British general rejoiced in the -belief that the morning sun would behold him a conqueror of our leader -and ourselves. Secure of his prey, the enemy made preparations to attack -our camp on the first blush of morning. The noise of hammers—the heavy -rumbling of cannon wheels—the clashing of the armorer’s hammer, and the -laugh of the artizan and pioneer, came over upon the night-wind, and -grated harshly upon our sensitive ears. - -An officer, mounted, and wrapped in a military cloak, was now seen -silently approaching the commanders of regiments in quick succession. He -whispered his orders in a low tone—the colonels started with -astonishment,—they looked—it was their general, and they immediately -sent for their captains. Each officer heard the new order with -astonishment, but to hear was to obey. The captains whispered it to -their orderlies, and in twenty minutes after it was communicated to -commanders of regiments the whole army stood upon their feet in battle -array. Our tents were struck, and our baggage wagons were ready for a -march. - -The sentinels paced their rounds as though nothing was about to happen. -The laugh of the relieved guard was heard above the din of both armies, -and “all’s well” rang above the night. - -We now stood ready in open column to march. General Hugh Mercer had -command of the van-guard, and in a few moments our captains whispered, -“forward, and be silent”—our living mass immediately moved onward, and -filed off toward Allentown. Presently we heard the rear guard, with the -artillery, rumbling in our rear, and then our camp, so quietly deserted, -was lost sight of in the shadow of the hills. - -For upward of two hours we moved on in comparative silence. Nothing but -the whispers of the officers, and the heavy tread of men was heard. It -was quite dark, and every breast seemed to be under the spell of -mystery. At length a noise was heard ahead, and a staff officer galloped -to the rear. As he passed along he said, in a clear voice, “the enemy -are in sight.” In a few minutes the voice of the gallant Mercer was -heard loud and distinct, giving his orders—“attention, van-guard, close -order, quick time, march.” We sprang at the word—each soldier grasped -his musket with a firmer gripe—and away we went upon the run. - -Three regiments of light-infantry opposed us upon the plain at -Maidenhead, and their drums were beating merrily as we drew near -them—our front now came upon an open common. We broke into three -columns, and headed by the gallant Mercer, dashed on. In a moment a -stream of fire passed along the British line, the dead and wounded fell -around me, and our columns wavered. At this instant while General -Mercer, with his sword raised, was encouraging the van-guard to rush on -and secure the victory, a bullet struck him, and he fell from his horse -mortally wounded. For a moment only the battle was against us, but soon -the firm voice of Washington was heard, as he pressed on to the front. -Our musketry now echoed terribly; the enemy began to give way; a -well-directed fire from the artillery told fearfully upon the small -armed foe, and they were routed. At this moment a British soldier -clapped his bayonet to my breast—Charles Greely thrust it away with his -right hand—the soldier fired—his musket and the noble-hearted Greely -fell upon my breast. I grasped his hand—it faintly returned my -pressure—and then he straitened himself upon the ground, his eyes -became fixed, his jaw fell, and he was dead. I bore him quickly to a -wounded cart, and hastened to my platoon. The enemy were flying toward -Brunswick, and we were masters of the field. - -“On to Princeton,” shouted our noble leader, as he sent his wounded aid -to the rear on a litter. - -The line moved on in quick time, and soon we entered the town. Our visit -was as unexpected here as at Trenton. A portion of the enemy had taken -shelter in the college. Our general, as at Trenton, headed the charge in -gallant style, while the troops, animated by his fearlessness, nobly -seconded him. The artillery thundered against the garrisoned college, -and the musketry rung wildly from every corner. Surrounded by a superior -force, and not knowing but what Cornwallis had been routed, for they had -heard the midnight cannon at Maidenhead, most of the enemy surrendered. -A few, however, escaped by a precipitate flight along an unguarded -street at the commencement of the attack. In this affair one hundred of -the enemy were killed, and three hundred taken prisoners. Lord -Cornwallis, as he lay on his camp bed, was roused by the roar of cannon. -He started—the sound came from Princeton—he immediately ordered his -troops under arms, and hastened to the scene of action. When he arrived -the battle was won, and we were on our return march in triumph. As we -crossed the Milestone river, we were halted to destroy the bridge at -Kingston. I ordered a file of men to assist me, and hastily buried my -companion in arms by the water-side, while the enemy’s cannon answered -for minute-guns for the brave. Having shed a tear of sympathy over his -lonely grave, we joined the main-body. At sun-set we trod upon the bleak -hills of Morristown, and when the camp-fires were lighted the campaign -of ’76 was over. - - * * * * * - -As the old man finished his tale, the widow turned away her head, and -the grand-children hid their faces and wept. At length when they raised -their eyes to their guest, his face was pallid—a wildness was manifest -in his eyes; and his frame appeared to be stiffening in death. They -sprang to him. - -“Forward—on—to—Princeton!” said he, in a cold whisper; and then the -last Life Guardsman joined his companions in Heaven. - -The next day a numerous body of strangers followed the old veteran to -the tomb; and the widow Greely placed a plain marble slab at the head of -it, and inscribed upon it— - - HERE LIES - THE LAST OF WASHINGTON’S - LIFE GUARD. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET WRITTEN IN APRIL. - - - BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN. - - -“My harp also is turned to mourning, and my organ into the voice of those - that weep.”—_Job. 30, 31._ - - “Once” did this heart exult at coming spring, - My sunny smiles were bright as April skies! - Or if tears ever overflowed my eyes, - They passed as showers, which April clouds do bring, - And quick again my joyous soul took wing; - As when the bird from out its covert flies, - To welcome sunshine back with carolling, - New plumes its pinions, higher yet to rise. - But now, alas! I’m like the _wounded_ bird! - An arrow in this bosom pierces deep— - My spirit droops—my song no more is heard; - My harp to mourning turned, is only stirred - As with the plaintive tones of those that weep, - And I am sad, while Spring her festival doth keep. - - * * * * * - - - - - UGOLINO, - - - A TALE OF FLORENCE. - - - BY M. TOPHAM EVANS. - - - I. - -“Dark as the mouth of Acheron, and the rain seems inclined to warrant a -second deluge,” grumbled a rough voice, proceeding from one of the dark -alleys which branched out from the Porta san Piero. - -“Silence, rascal!” sharply rejoined another voice. “Wouldst betray us -with thy noise? Thou wouldst have the _bargello_ upon us, with a -murrain! Dost thou think that thou art brawling over thy liquor, that -thou wouldst bring the notice of the police upon us?” - -“Nay, I but spoke,” growled the other, and muffling himself up in his -heavy cloak, leaned against the wall and held his peace. - -The night was truly, as the first speaker observed, as black as -Tartarus. The rain plashed down in torrents; and the squalls of wind -which occasionally drove the showers with accelerated rapidity across -the street, whistled dismally among the tall turrets and battlemented -roofs of the Porta san Piero. The street was obscured by a thick mist, -through which the feeble light of the flickering lamps, hung in the -centre of the thoroughfare, at long distances from each other, shone -like lurid meteors. Few wayfarers lingered in the passage, and such as -were to be seen, with rapid strides, and close-wrapped cloaks, hurried -over the wet and slippery stones, which formed a kind of rude _pavé_. -Two figures, enveloped in large mantles, the actors in the dialogue, -were carefully ensconced in the thick darkness of the blind alley, -apparently upon the watch for some expected comer. - -The turret clock of San Marco pealed the hour of ten, and as if waiting -for the signal, the wind rose with increased fury, and spouts of water -deluged the persons of the concealed parties. - -“Corpo di Baccho!” swore the first speaker, “by the clock it is ten -already, and yet no signs of Ugolino. My mantle cleaves to the skin with -the wet, and altogether I feel more like a half-drowned rat, than a good -Catholic. By my rosary, a bright fire, and a comfortable cup of father -Borachio’s Lachryma, would be an excellent exchange for a dark alley and -a waterspout like this.” - -“Something has detained his honor beyond this time,” replied the other. -“Count Ugolino was not wont to be so slow in keeping his engagements. -Hark! I hear footsteps. It must be he. Stand close.” - -A merry laugh pealed through the deserted street. A troop of gallants, -masked, and attended by serving-men, and pages bearing torches, came -onward. They passed by, and the clank of their spurs, and the rattle of -their rapiers, died away in the distance. - -“The cursed Frenchmen!” muttered the shortest of the concealed -personages, while his hand clutched convulsively the hilt of his dagger. -“Ill fare the day that Florence ever saw Walter of Brienne!” - -“But as morn approaches the night is ever most dark,” rejoined his -comrade. “Would the count were here. By the scales of justice I am even -a’weary of waiting for him. Comes he not yet?” - -A tall figure was seen stealthily approaching through the gloom. - -“Ha! Ugolino! Count, is it thou?” - -“The same. Well found, Pino D’Rossi.” - -“We have watched long for thee, and almost feared that our watch was in -vain.” - -“I could not escape unnoticed. It is a wild night.” - -“The fitter for our purpose. The worthy Adimari greets thee well, and -joyfully receives thee as a brother. We are ready to conduct thee to the -assembly of the chiefs.” - -“In good time. Is Pompeo Medici there?” - -“He is there; to hear and to act.” - -“It is well. But time flies, and our conversation is too public if these -slaves of the _bargello_ be about. Let us away to the noble Adimari.” So -saying, the three plunged into the surrounding darkness, and were -quickly lost to the sight. - -In an ancient vault of the palace of the Adimari, the leaders of a -conspiracy were assembled. Noble forms and manly visages thronged the -damp and obscure apartment, and among the noblest in presence stood -Leonardo, the chief of the Adimari. But the countenances of the nobles -who composed the meeting, were dark and troubled. The flashing eye and -the quivering lip betrayed the deep passions which agitated the breasts -of the chiefs, as, in the course of their dialogue, some new cruelty, -some fresh instance of tyranny and rapacity upon the part of the Duke -d’Atene, was recited. A tap was heard at the grated door, and Leonardo -Adimari having personally opened it, Ugolino and his two companions -entered the apartment. The count had thrown off his reeking mantle, and -stood attired in a rich scarlet doublet, fancifully guarded with gold -embroidery, white long hose, and ruffled boots, which exposed his manly -person to the best advantage. His locks, of a dark chestnut hue, flowed -in long ringlets from beneath a scarlet barret cap, adorned with a -jewelled clasp and plume of white heron feathers. His countenance, -chiselled in the finest and most classical shape, was rendered highly -expressive by his dark eyes, which rolled and sparkled with Italian -vivacity of character. His form, sufficiently fleshy for a perfect -contour, displayed great muscular strength, united with the most -finished symmetry. Depending from a richly ornamented scarf, hung his -rapier in its ornamented sheath, and his dagger, of elegant workmanship, -was suspended from the embroidered hangers of his girdle. - -“Welcome, noble Ugolino,” said Adimari, as he led the count forward, -“and thou too, worthy Pino D’Rossi, we lack patriots such as thou.” - -“Thanks, noble Adimari,” replied D’Rossi, who was a short, sturdy man, -attired in a plain, black suit. His age might have been some forty-five -years, for his hair was already tinged with gray. A golden chain, -depending from his neck, denoted him to be of some mark among the -citizens, and his countenance and deportment were those of a stalwart -burgher. - -“Thanks, worthy Adimari. Patriots are never wanting to defend true -liberty, when she is attacked, and was it ever heard that Frenchmen were -the guardians of the goddess?” - -“Brave Leonardo,” said an old nobleman, rising slowly from his seat, -“these times call for a speedy action. The blood of a noble family—the -blood of my son, Giovanni de Medici—long-spilt, and even now staining -the ermine of Walter of Brienne, calls from the earth for vengeance. -This moment is propitious. The Florentine people, grieved and oppressed -by the hard measures of the Duke, and of Giulio D’Assisi—the Florentine -nobles, down-trodden and despised by the arrogant followers of this -count of Brienne—all are ready—all are willing at once to throw off -the yoke of thraldom, and to reassert the ancient liberties and -privileges of the city of Florence.” - -“Well hast thou spoken, noble Pompeo,” replied Adimari, “and it was my -intention to apportion this night to each, such charge as the exigencies -of the present time demand. My worthy friend, Pino D’Rossi assures me -that the people are ripe for the attempt, and my heart decides me that -the nobles will not fail to aid them.” - -“The arrogance of these minions of the duke have reached so outrageous a -height,” said D’Rossi, “that I will pledge mine honor that the populace -will prefer a thousand deaths to a longer submission.” - -“I,” said Bindo Altoviti, “will speak for the artizans, and will engage -to make as many mouthsful of those rascals, the _bargello_ and his son, -as they have murdered innocent men.” - -“For Gualtieri,” said the old Medici, “may the hand of the Everlasting -lie heavy on me and mine, if he, or aught of his race, shall escape the -general doom!” - -Ugolino started. - -“For mine own part,” said he, “I trust that the effusion of blood may -not be farther pursued in these unhappy times than the exigency of the -case requires. Far be it from me to justify the conduct of the Count of -Brienne, or the arrogance of his proud followers. Yet the count may have -been badly advised, and I think these cruelties may not be entirely -ascribed to the wickedness of his nature. Let not the noble Medici so -far mistake, as to suffer a private desire of revenge, however just such -a desire may appear, to overrule the cause of liberty. This, I trust, -may be attained without a sanguinary massacre. Let the sword of mercy -interpose, nor by a blind and indiscriminate fury, sacrifice the -innocent upon the same altar with the guilty.” - -“Aye, Count Ugolino,” said Medici, and a bitter sneer passed over his -thin features, “we well know the cause of your solicitations. Have we -forgotten the tale of Julian D’Este, and of the princess Rosabelle? The -fair sister of Walter of Brienne may, to a moonsick lover, be an object -of deeper interest than the prosecution of the holiest revenge, or the -re-assertion of our Florentine liberty.” - -“Now, by heaven, Pompeo Medici,” exclaimed Ugolino, “you do me infinite -wrong! What? dare you hint that Julian D’Este died by my hand? or that -Rosabelle de Brienne sways me with a stronger attachment than the -interests of Florence?” - -“I speak well-known facts,” replied the Medici. “Neither is the history -of Count Ugolino unknown to the world, nor are his _actions_ left -unscrutinized.” - -“Thou irreverend noble!” said Ugolino, while a deep flush overspread his -cheek. “Hadst thou not the sanction of thine age to protect thee, I -would force thee to eat thine own words, with no better sauce to them -than my stiletto.” - -“Nay,” interposed Adimari, while Pino D’Rossi intercepted Ugolino, -“these matters will break out again into our ancient broils. Worthy -Medici—valiant Ugolino—listen to reason—nay, Pompeo, sheathe thy -sword—this is utter ruin to our general cause!” - -Ugolino returned his dagger to its sheath. - -“Count Adimari,” said he, “I regret that the words of yon ancient -libeller should have moved me so far from my patience in this presence. -But enough of this—proceed we to matters of more general import.” - -“Mark me, Leonardo,” said old Medici, as he slowly resumed his seat. -“Ages have left us many a sad example. In an ill hour was Ugolino -admitted into this league. Strong is the dominion of a beautiful woman -over the most masculine mind. Beware of yon count, for Rosabelle de -Brienne will be the destruction of either himself, or of the cause of -Florentine liberty.” - -A smile of scorn curled the lip of Ugolino. - -“I receive not the prophecy,” said he. “The hour waxes late, and the -noble Adimari hath intimated his desire to apportion the charge of this -insurrection among the nobles. It is now the time for action, but thou -and I, Pompeo Medici, must confer still farther.” - - - II. - -On the same night upon which the above related events took place, the -ducal palace was brilliantly illuminated, and sounds of festivity -proceeded from the lofty portals. Duke Gualtieri held his high revel. -Troops of noble cavaliers and throngs of high-born dames filled the -grand hall of audience, at the top of which was the duke, seated upon an -elevated dais, covered with superb hangings, and surrounded by the -military chiefs of his faction. Gualtieri was a tall, muscular man of -fifty, in the expression of whose countenance a sort of soldierly -frankness struggled with a fierce and scornful air. He was splendidly -attired in a tunic of purple velvet, with hose of rich sendal, and over -his shoulder was thrown his ermined cloak. His head was covered with the -ducal coronet, and his neck encircled by a gorgeous chain of twisted -gold and jewellery. Near him stood Giulio D’Assisi, the dreaded -_bargello_, or head of police. This last was a man of middle age, -attired in scarlet robes, with a face strongly marked by the traces of -brutal passion. - -“A higher measure!” shouted the duke. “By the honor of the virgin, I -think our cavaliers be ungracious to-night, or else these fair dames are -more intent upon their beads than their lavoltas. Ha! gallants? hath our -air of Florence so dull and muddy a taste to the cavaliers of Provence, -that it seemeth to quench the fire of their courtesy?” - -“By my halidome!” said the _bargello_, “your highness speaks well and -merrily. The air of Florence, methinks, hath an exceeding thick -complexion, in comparison with the more delicate breezes which fan the -soil of France.” - -“Thou hast aided to thicken it with a vengeance,” said the duke with a -grim smile. “Ha, Giulio, the blood of these swine of Florence, whom thou -draggest to thy shambles, might well make the air murky?” - -“By the patrimony of St. Peter,” replied D’Assisi, “it is but a needful -phlebotomy. Marry, if the leech were more often employed in cleansing -the veins of your Florentine state, it were good for the health and -purification of the remaining body politic.” - -“Thou art the prince of provosts, my friend,” said the duke. - -“What, Rinaldo, is it thou? and away from the fair Matilde? When did -this happen before in Florence?” - -The person addressed was a tall, elegant cavalier, whose manly -countenance was rendered yet more interesting by the melancholy -expression of his eyes. He was plainly, but handsomely attired in a -costly suit of dark brown velvet, embroidered with seed pearls. - -“May it please your highness,” said Rinaldo, Comte D’Hunteville, (for he -was no less a personage,) “I have news of some import to communicate. An -esquire of mine, passing this night through the Porta san Piero, -discovered a person, whom he recognized as Pino D’Rossi, the chief of -the _balia_, accompanied by the Count Ugolino, and one whom he knew not, -proceeding in the direction of the palace of the Adimari. There are also -rumors of seditious meetings which have been held there, and I fear—” - -“Tush, man,” interrupted De Brienne. “Canst speak of business when so -fair a throng of ladies decks our court? or couple the word fear with -these dogs of Florence? They shall be cared for; but they have lost the -power to harm. Marry, as for the will, we doubt not of that. As for that -notorious villain, Ugolino, who has dared to aspire to the hand of our -sister,” continued he, while the fire of rage sparkled in his eyes, “and -through whom such infamous aspersions have been cast upon the honor of -the house of Brienne, I have my spies upon him. The least imprudent -action he dares commit, our trusty Giulio will take order it be not -repeated. Forward, Comte D’Hunteville, to the dance!” - -Hardly had the duke spoken these words, ere a man of singularly -unprepossessing countenance, entered the apartment. He was of small -stature, with a dark, thin visage; restless, inquisitive eyes, and a -hooked nose. He wore a plain, civil suit, and a walking rapier, more for -ornament than use, decorated his side. Quickly approaching the duke, he -whispered a few words in his ear. The duke started. - -“Art thou mad, man? A meeting at the palace of the Adimari! Pompeo -Medici there? Why was this not known sooner? Giulio, thy spies have -misled thee for the once! Why, they were desperate enemies, in whose -feud I placed a deep dependence for safety. Rinaldo, saidst thou that -D’Rossi was there?” - -“Mine esquire hath so informed me, please your grace.” - -“By the mass, I doubt some treachery. When Medici and Adimari shake -hands, their union is not to be despised. But thanks at least for this -information. Hark thee, Cerettieri, be it thy care to look farther into -this matter. Arrest this Adimari and Pino D’Rossi this very night. -Away—their plans shall never be matured! So, gallants, let us again -address ourselves to the festivity of the hour.” - - - III. - -The last lingering taper had disappeared from the windows of the palace, -and the clock of the tower had struck the hour of three, when the figure -of a man might have been descried, cautiously clambering over the wall -which enclosed the ducal gardens. Passing rapidly through the ornamental -parterre, he stopped beneath a window which opened upon the gardens, and -threw a pebble against the lattice. The signal having been again -repeated, the casement opened, and a female form advanced upon the -balcony. - -“Is it thou, Ugolino?” demanded a voice, the silvery sweetness of whose -tone was so clear and distinct, that it almost startled the count. - -“It is I, dearest Rosabelle,” he replied. “I have much to communicate -with thee, and the night wanes fast. Throw down the rope, that I may -ascend to thee, for the tidings I have to tell thee may brook no ears -save thine, for whose only they are intended.” - -The Princess D’Este retired for a moment and returned, bearing a silken -cord, one end of which she attached to the balcony, and threw the other -to the count. Ugolino ascended, and the princess in a moment was in his -embrace. - -“Quick, let us raise the robe, and close thy chamber carefully, for I -have much to say and speedily.” With these words they entered the -apartment. - -It was a lofty room, hung with tapestry of Arras, and sumptuously -furnished, as became the rank of its mistress. Large and costly -ottomans, oaken seats richly carved and ornamented with the armorial -bearings of Brienne, large Venetian mirrors set in massive frames, and -richly chiselled stands of colored marble, upon which heavy silver -candelabra were placed, added to the magnificence of the apartment, -which was lit by a swinging lamp of silver, from whence exhaled a -delicate perfume. The count threw himself upon a pile of cushions, and -covered his face with his hands. - -“Ugolino!” said the princess, passing her small white hand through the -curled locks of the count, “why are you thus agitated? Are we -discovered? Do the blood-hounds of my brother still pursue us? If so, -impart thy griefs to her who adores thee, that she may, at least, -participate in them, if she cannot console thee.” - -“I am come,” said the count, and a pang of agony shot across his noble -features, “to prove myself a most foul traitor.” - -“Traitor!” said Rosabelle. “Ugolino! can the name of a traitor associate -with thine?” - -“Aye. It can—it must! Thou knowest, Rosabelle, the price I paid for -thee ere now. Thou art yet doomed to exact from me a sterner sacrifice. -When I saw thee first, the fairest dame in France, at the gay field of -Poictou, I drew in love for thee with my first breath. Thou wert then -the wife of Julian D’Este. What I suffered for thee then, my -recollection brings too vividly to light. What agonies I now experience, -knowing the barbarous revenge which my already too deeply oppressed -countryman must undergo, when my tale is told to the duke—yet all for -thy sake—no human imagination can depict. Then I languished beneath the -load of an affection, which honor, reason, duty, chivalry, all combined -to oppose. Powerless opposition! The deity of love scorns all defensive -armor. I sought, impelled by fate, the charms of thy society. For thee, -Julian D’Este was no fitting spouse. Harsh and unrefined, he repelled -thine youthful affections, while I, unhappy, too surely was the magnet -which did attract them. Then followed our fatal step. Was it folly? My -heart still tells me it is no folly to adore thee. Was it madness? -Madness never spoke in so clear a tone of reason as in that, which on -the day, hallowed to my remembrance, as we perused that antique volume, -displayed all our feelings—disclosed the secret emotions of our -hearts—gave us soul to soul—and formed our future bliss—our future -woe! No base and vicious inclinations—no vulgar voluptuousness -disgraced our union. We felt that we were made for each other, and when -Julian D’Este fell beneath my poniard, I thought it no crime added to my -account, when I endeavored, by compassing his death, to confer happiness -upon thee.” - -Rosabelle answered nought, but hung more devotedly around the neck of -the count, while the soft blue of her eyes was dimmed with the rising -tear. - -“What ensued—the impossibility of discovering the murderer of -Julian—our farther intercourse—your brother’s hearty refusal of my -suit, and the suspicion attached to our names, were but matters, which, -had prudence been consulted ere the deed was done, she would have -foretold. But who advises calmly when the burning fire of love threatens -to consume him? In fine, the tyrant brought thee with him here to -Florence, upon his election as captain and signor of the city. Here, -secluded by him from the world, I had given thee up as lost. My faithful -Spalatro discovered thy retreat, and as yet we had hoped that our secret -interviews were undiscovered. Fatal infatuation! This very night has -Pompeo Medici thrown out hints, nay, open assertions of his knowledge of -our situation. Thanks to the death of Giovanni, else all had been -discovered to the duke!” - -“Let me counsel thee to fly!” said Rosabelle, “as I have done before. -There is no time to be lost. Myself will be companion of thy flight.” - -“It is, I fear, too late. Now listen to the conclusion of my tale. A -great conspiracy is on foot against the rule of the duke. It will break -out into revolt ere morning. All is prepared. The fierce Medici swears -utter ruin to thy race. Even though forewarned, I doubt that Gualtieri -will be overwhelmed. Adimari, equally exasperated with the Medici -against thy brother, dare not check Pompeo in his chase of blood, lest -he fall off and irretrievably ruin the fabric of the conspiracy. Pino -D’Rossi vows death to the minions of the duke, who, as I am a Christian -man, have well deserved it. Ere day-break, confusion will begin. Thou -must fly to thy brother, and advise him of the plot. My name must be -known as the traitor to my country, else thy tale will not be believed. -My charge lies at the church of Santa Mario del Fiore. Ere the palace is -invested, do thou devise means to escape, which may readily be done in -the confusion. Spalatro will conduct thee to the hotel of San Giovanni, -in the Primo Cerchio. There have I prepared disguises and horses. The -chances of escape then lie before us, and if fortune befriend us, we -will fly to some happier clime. At all events, death is the worst which -can betide us, and death ends all woes and calms every distress forever. -Art thou willing, my Rosabelle, to trust thus blindly to fate?” - -“Rosabelle can only live or die with Ugolino!” cried the princess, -throwing herself into the arms of the count. - -“Now, Rosabelle, fly to the duke. I hear already a distant sound—a far -murmuring, as of the gathering of throngs. This last sacrifice, -imperious love, will I make to thee! Remember! the hotel of San -Giovanni! Escape or happy death!” - -He imprinted an ardent kiss upon the lips of the beautiful princess, and -descending from the balcony was lost to her sight. - - - IV. - -No sooner had Ugolino disappeared, than the Princess Rosabelle left her -apartment, and with hurried steps rushed along the corridor to the -private chamber of the duke. The soldiers on duty before the door -respectfully resisted the entrance of the princess, informing her that -the duke was closeted with his principal chiefs, and had strictly -debarred all access to his presence. - -“Away!” shrieked the princess, “not speak with him! I must. It is his -life which is at stake! Ho! Gualtieri! as thou lovest thy life and -dukedom, hear Rosabelle!” - -“How now, minion?” said Gualtieri, coming from the chamber. “Is it not -enough that my daily life must be rendered a curse and a scandal to me -by thy presence and pestilent conduct, but I am to be disturbed at -midnight with thine outcries?” - -“Thy life is in danger,” said Rosabelle. “As thou art a soldier, arm -quickly, for ere long they will be here, who have sworn to see thy -heart’s blood.” - -“A likely invention!” said the duke, with a sneer, “by what miracle of -evil hast thou arrived at so sage a conclusion?” - -“It is true, by our lady,” said Rosabelle. “Oh, Gualtieri, wilt thou not -believe me? My brother, thou hast been harsh to me, but I cannot see -thee murdered without making an effort to save thee.” - -“Murder, fair Rosabelle,” said the duke, “if all say true, is by no -means unfamiliar to thy thoughts. How hast thou this rare intelligence? -Of what nature is it? Soldier, retire.” - -“Adimari and the Medici have plotted the downfall of thine authority,” -replied the princess. “This night; nay, this very moment their plans -will be matured. The throngs are now gathering which will hurl thee from -thy seat, and perchance, deprive thee of thy life.” - -“From whence thine information?” demanded the duke. - -“From the Count Ugolino.” - -The face of the duke became purple with rage. His hands shook like the -aspen, and his voice was hoarse as the growl of the enraged lion. - -“Ugolino!” he exclaimed. “Ha! harlot! Hast thou dared again to discourse -with that bloody villain? and this night? Thou diest for it, wert thou -thrice my sister!” - -Gualtieri drew his dagger, and was about to rush upon his sister, when -the hurried tread of men and the sound of voices arrested his arm. The -dagger fell from his hand. A door in the corridor flew violently open, -and Cerettieri Visdomini, followed by three or four soldiers, stood -before him. The face of Visdomini was pale as marble, and a rivulet of -blood, trickling from a deep wound in his forehead, gave a ghastly -expression to his countenance. His dress was disordered through haste -and fright, and in his hand he bore a broken rapier. - -“How now, Cerettieri?” shouted the duke, while Rosabelle, taking -advantage of the confusion, escaped from the apartment. - -“All is confirmed,” replied Visdomini, in a trembling voice. “The rabble -have gained head. Every thing is in disorder. Your banners are torn -down, and dragged through the filth of the slaughter-houses. The -cross-gules floats with the red lily every where triumphant. Rally your -train, my lord, and close the palace gates, before the rebels are upon -you.” - -“Where is that traitorous dog, Leonardo Adimari? Hast not arrested him?” - -“I did so. He has been rescued, and I bear nothing from Adimari, save -this sword-cut.” - -“And the Assisi?” - -“Have escaped to the palace. They are endeavoring to rally the troops. -Arm, my lord duke, for the sake of the Madonna, or all is lost!” - -A loud shout, “down with the tyrant!” and the clang of arms ran through -the corridor. - -“Ho! D’Argencourt! mine armour! my helmet!” shouted the duke. “Treason! -throw forth my banner! Stand fast, arbalastmen, to the windows! Ply -trebuchet and mangonel! Cerettieri, order the Count D’Hunteville to draw -forth my chivalry into the piazza! Shall we shrink from the hogs of -Florence? Fight valiantly, my brave knights and gallant soldiers, and -the spoil of the city shall be yours!” - - - V. - -The streets of Florence presented a wild and tumultuous scene in the -pale gray of the morning. The bells from the cathedral church of Santa -Maria del Fiore, and from the venerable towers of the church of the -Apostoli, tolled incessantly, while from the market-place and -town-house, as well as from the multitude of smaller chapels, the din -was fearfully augmented. The shrill cry “to arms!” resounded every -where. From the tall towers of the noble, from the windows of the -citizen’s house—aye, from hut and hovel, waved the flag of the ancient -republic. The rabble, armed with such imperfect weapons as haste and -rage could supply, wandered in confused masses through every lane and -thoroughfare, in pursuit of the instruments of the duke’s cruelty. Armed -bands of horsemen patrolled the city. The burghers of the town, inured -to military discipline, and trained to break opposing squadrons with the -spear, were ranged, each man under the respective banner of his ward. -Barriers were thrown up at the end of every street to break the charge -of the duke’s cavalry. Adimari and the Medici rode at the head of their -mailed retainers, displaying their armorial bearings, through every -ward, cheering and animating the citizens. The ducal soldiery, scattered -through the city, and unprepared for such an emergency, were endeavoring -to regain the palace, but many were seized and stripped of their armour, -by the vigilance of Pino D’Rossi and his associates. In front of the -palace was collected a blood-thirsty mob, in overwhelming numbers, -pouring from lane and alley, among which cross bows and mangonels of the -soldiery from the windows, scarce seemed to take effect, so fast were -those who fell replaced by throngs of the living. The cry of “death! -death!” was yelled out on every hand. Women thronged the windows of the -grand square, repeating the cry, and throwing weapons to the crowd -below. Many of the lesser minions of the duke were seized; some in -female apparel, endeavoring to escape, were rent in pieces by the -vindictive Florentines, with circumstances of horrible ferocity. In the -height of the uproar, a knight, mounted upon a barbed steed, and covered -with a gold and ivory pointed shield, his page being seated behind him, -was seen dashing along at full speed toward the city gates. - -“Ho!” cried Bindo Altoviti, “what guard keep ye here, archers? Draw to -the head, and send me yon Frenchman back to his own country, feathered -for his flight with a goose-wing of Florence!” - -A shower of arrows were directed against the fugitives, two of which -took effect, and the knight, with his page, fell to the ground. The -people pursued and caught the flying steed, crying, “thanks to the good -duke for the gift! Oh! the Florentine people for ever!” - -Adimari and Medici, with their train, rode up at the instant. - -“What cavalier is yon?” asked Adimari. “Some one examine him, that we -may know if he deserve honorable burial. God forbid we should deny that, -even to a foe.” - -Pompeo Medici rode up, attended by an esquire, to the bodies, and -dismounting, unlaced the helmet of the fallen cavalier, across whom the -body of the page was extended, as if to protect the form of his master. -The dying man turned his countenance to Medici, and with a shudder, fell -back dead in an unavailing effort to speak. - -“Ha! St. John! whom have we here?” cried Pompeo. “Noble Adimari, view -these corpses. My thoughts were not in error. And the page too—” - -“By the cross of St. Peter!” said Adimari, “it is no other than the -Count Ugolino, and the page is—?” - -“Rosabelle De Brienne.” - -A deep cloud of sorrow shaded the countenance of Adimari. - -“By San Giovanni!” said he, “I sorely mistrusted this. This is that -love, stronger than death. Noble Ugolino, an ill-fate hath attended -thee! This then hast been the cause of thy desertion, but, by my faith, -I cannot blame thee, for thy lady hast the fairest face I ever looked -upon.” - -“Peace be with their souls!” said Medici. “Death ends all feuds. Cover -their faces, and see that they be laid, side by side, in the chapel of -the Virgin, with such ceremonies as their high stations demand. Myself -shall be, if I live, chief mourner at this burial. Donato, be it thy -care to have their bodies conveyed to the Convent of Mercy.” - -The siege of the palace continued from day to day. Famine began to gnaw -the vitals of the French soldiery, and fixed her tooth, sharper than the -sword, beneath each iron cuirass. Rage without and hunger within, -popular clamor and mutinous murmurings, accumulated the distress of the -duke. In this emergency, he sent the Comte D’Hunteville, his almost only -virtuous follower, to intercede with the Florentines, and to make -honorable terms of capitulation. Adimari would hearken to no proposals, -unless Giulio and Ippolito D’Assisi, and Cerettieri Visdomini, the chief -agents of oppression, were delivered into the hands of the people. -Gualtieri, impelled by a sense of honor, refused to accede to this -demand. Thrice did the chief of the _balia_, the bishop, and the -Siennese envoys, urge to the duke the impossibility of maintaining the -palace, and the necessity of complying with the popular will. They met -with reiterated denial. The soldiers then sent a corporal to entreat the -duke to submission. Their suit was dismissed with scorn. Then did the -soldiers crowd, with frowning faces and clashing arms, the chamber of -the duke, with the memorable words, “lord duke, choose between these -three heads and your own.” Urged by imperious necessity, worn out with -famine, and watching, and clamor, Gualtieri, at last, gave a tacit -acquiescence to the delivery of his favorites, and the pangs which his -proud spirit felt at this ignominious humiliation were far more bitter -than any of the tortures which he had inflicted upon the objects of his -tyranny. Shall I record the doom of the victims? Is it not written in -the chronicles of the Florentine republic? They were torn in pieces by -the howling multitude, and their flesh actually devoured, even while -their palpitating limbs were quivering in the agonies of death! - -Quiet was once more restored to the city by the expulsion of the duke -and his followers. The chapel of the Convent of Mercy, hung with black, -and faintly lighted by dim and funeral tapers, was prepared for the last -death rites of Ugolino and of his lady. Around the bier, where reposed -the coffined forms of the dead, were gathered the noblest of Florence, -and crowds of the common sort thronged the sacred edifice. The last -notes of the pealing requiem died away. The solemn priest sprinkled the -holy water, and the last prayer for the dead passed from his lips. The -rites were ended, and amid the tears of that noble assemblage the marble -jaws of the tomb closed for ever upon the bodies of those, in whom love -had indeed been stronger than death. - -Still does their sad tale exist among the legends of Florence, and the -youths and maidens of that ancient town yet consecrate a tear to the -inscription which records the loves and fate of Count Ugolino and of -Rosabelle De Brienne. Yet indeed “death can only take away the sorrowful -from our affections: the flower expands: the colorless film that -enveloped it falls off and perishes.” - - Mount Savage, Md. May, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE THUNDER STORM. - - - BY J. H. DANA. - - -You never knew Agnes? She was the prettiest girl in the village, or, for -that matter, within a circuit of twenty miles. At the time I write of, -she was just budding into womanhood, and if ever there was a lovely -being, she was one at eighteen. Her eyes were blue, not of that light -blue which is so unmeaning, but of the deep azure tint of a midnight -sky, when a thousand stars are shining on its bosom, and you feel a -mysterious spell cast upon you as you gaze on high. Just so I felt -whenever Agnes would look into my eyes with those deep blue orbs of -hers, whose every glance thrilled me to the soul. And then her hair. It -was the poet’s color—a rich, sun-shiny gold. How I loved to gaze upon -its massy tresses, as they flowed down a neck unrivalled for shape and -whiteness. In figure she was like a sylph. Her voice excelled in -sweetness any I had ever heard. It was low, and soft, and musical as the -whisper of an angel. - -Agnes and I had grown up together. We were not relatives, but we were -both wards of Mr. Stanley, and had been playmates in childhood. Many a -time had we spent whole days in wandering across our guardian’s grounds, -now threading the old wood, now loitering by the little stream, and now -plucking buttercups to hold under each other’s chins. Ah! those were -pleasant hours. And as we grew up, and were separated,—she remaining at -home with her governess, and I going to an eastern college,—I would sit -for hours dreaming of Agnes, and wondering if she ever thought of me. I -know not how it was; but for years I looked upon her as I looked on no -other of her sex, and at the age when youth is most susceptible to -novelty, I remained true to Agnes, as to the star of my destiny. - -I returned, after a long absence of six years, to the residence of my -guardian. In all that time I had not seen Agnes. How I longed to -ascertain whether she had changed since we parted, and during the whole -of the last stage of my journey, I lay back in the carriage, wondering -in what manner she would meet. And when the vehicle stopped at the door -of Mr. Stanley’s mansion, and all the remembered scenes of my childhood -crowded around me, I turned from them impatiently, and, with a throbbing -heart, looked among the group awaiting me, to see if I could distinguish -Agnes. That gray-haired, gentlemanly man I knew to be my second father; -but was the surpassingly beautiful girl at his side my old playmate? My -heart beat quick; a sudden tremor seized me; my head was for a moment -dizzy, as I advanced hastily up the steps, and was clasped, the next -instant, in Mr. Stanley’s arms. - -“My dear—dear boy, God bless you!” said the kind-hearted old gentleman. -“We see you once more amongst us. But have you forgotten your old -play-fellow?” he continued, turning to the fair creature at his side. -“Six years make a great alteration I know. Agnes don’t you remember -Henry?” - -As I turned and fixed my eyes full upon her, I caught Agnes examining me -with eager curiosity. Detected in her scrutiny she blushed to the very -forehead, and dropped her eyes suddenly to the ground. I was equally -abashed. I had approached her intending to address her with my old -familiarity, but this aversion of her look somehow unaccountably -disheartened me. I hesitated whether I should offer her my hand. The -embarrassment was becoming oppressive, when, with a desperate effort, I -extended my hand, and said— - -“Miss Agnes—” but for the life of me I could not proceed. It was, -however, sufficient to induce her to look up, and our eyes met. At the -same instant she took my proffered hand. What happened afterward I could -never remember, only I recollect the blood rushed in torrents to my -cheeks, and I fancied that the tiny white hand I held in my own, -trembled a little, a very little, but still trembled. When I woke from -the delirium of indescribable emotions that ensued, I found myself -sitting with my guardian and Agnes in the parlor, but whether I walked -there on my head or my feet I cannot to this day remember. - -The month which followed was among the happiest of my life, for it was -spent at the side of Agnes. We walked, rode, chatted, and sang together; -not a morning or an evening found us apart; and insensibly her presence -became to me almost as necessary as the air I breathed. Yet—I know not -how it was—Agnes was a mystery to me. At first, indeed, we were almost -on the same footing as if we had been brother and sister, but after I -had been at my guardian’s about a month, she began to grow reserved, -although at times she would display all her old frankness, united with -even more than her usual gaiety. Often too, when I looked up at her -suddenly, I would find her gazing into my face, and when thus detected, -she would blush and cast her eyes down, and seem so embarrassed that I -scarcely knew what to think, unless it was that Agnes—but no!—how -could she be in love with one almost a stranger? - -For myself, I would have given the world, if I could only have -penetrated the secrets of her heart, and learned there whether the -affection toward her, which I had felt had stolen almost insensibly -across me, had been returned. Yes! I would have given an emperor’s -ransom to discover what my timidity would not allow me to enquire. It is -an old story, and has been told by hundreds before—this tale of a young -lover—but I cannot refrain from rehearsing it again. I was sadly -perplexed. Not a day passed but what I rose to the height of hope, or -fell to the depth of despair. A smile from Agnes was the sunlight of my -existence, and her reserve plunged me in unfathomable darkness. I could -not penetrate the fickleness of her manner, especially when any of her -young female friends were visiting her. If I spoke to them with any show -of interest, she would either be unnaturally gay or singularly silent, -and when I came to address her, I would be received with chilling -coldness. Yet, at other times, my despair would be relieved by a return -of her old frankness, and a hundred times have I been on the point of -telling her the whole story of my love, but either my fears, or her -returning reserve, prevented my purpose from being executed. - -One day, after I had been at my guardian’s for nearly three months, -Agnes and I set out together for a walk through the forest. It was a -beautiful morning, and the birds were carolling gaily from every bough, -while the balmy wind sighed sweetly among the fresh forest leaves, -making together a harmony such as nothing but nature herself, on a -morning so lovely, can produce. Our hearts were in unison with the -scenery around, and Agnes was in one of her old frank moods. We wandered -on accordingly, over stream and through glade and down dell, admiring -the glorious scenery on every hand, and now and then stopping to gather -a wild flower, to listen to the birds, or to rest upon some mossy bank, -until the day had far advanced, and recurring, for the first time to my -watch, I found that we had been several hours on our stroll, and that it -was already high noon. We were not so far, however, from home but what -we might reach it in an hour. - -“Had we not better return, Agnes?” said I, “it is growing late.” - -“Oh! yes,” she replied, “in a moment. Wait till I have finished this -wreath,” and she continued weaving together the wild flowers she had -gathered for a chaplet for her hair. How nimbly her taper fingers moved, -and how lovely she looked, as seated on the grassy knoll, with her hat -cast off beside her, and her beautiful face flushed with health and -pleasure, she pursued her task. - -She was still busy in her fanciful labor, when a cloud suddenly obscured -the sun, and we both looked up in some surprise, for the morning had -been unusually fair, and not a vapor hitherto had dimmed the sky. A -light fleecy film like a fine gauze veil, was floating across the sun’s -disc. - -“There is a storm brewing in the hills,” said I. - -“Let us return at once,” said Agnes, “for my chaplet is finished at -last, and it would be so dreadful to be caught in a shower.” - -We did not linger a moment, for we both knew that it was not unusual for -a thunder shower to come up, in that mountainous region, with a rapidity -almost inconceivable to those who have never lived in so elevated a -position. Hastily seizing her hat, and throwing her chaplet over her -bright brow, she set forth smiling as gaily as ever, to return by the -shortest path to our home. - -For nearly a half an hour we pursued our way through the forest, but at -every step we perceived that the storm was coming up more rapidly, until -at length the smiles of Agnes ceased, and we pursued our now hurried way -in silence, save when an exclamation from my fair companion betokened -some new and angrier aspect of the sky. - -“Oh! Harry,” she said, at length, “we shall get drenched through—see, -the tempest is at hand, and we have yet more than a mile to go.” - -I looked up. The storm was indeed at our doors. Yet it was as -magnificent a spectacle as I had ever beheld. The heavens were as black -as pitch, save now and then when for a moment they were obscured by a -lurid canopy of dust, swept upward from the highway, giving earth and -sky the appearance as of the day of doom. Now the wind wailed out in the -forest, and now whirled wildly past us. The trees groaned and bent in -the gale, their branches streaming out like banners on the air. Anon, -all was still. How deep and awful and seemingly endless was that boding -repose. Agnes shrank closer to my side, her face paler than ashes, and -her slight form trembling with ill-concealed agitation. Not a house was -in sight. I saw that our only shelter was the forest, and I retreated, -therefore, beneath a huge overshadowing oak, whose gnarled and aged -branches might have defied a thousand years. As I did so a few rain -drops pattered heavily to the earth—then came another silence—and then -with a rushing-sound through the forest, as if an army was at hand, the -tempest was upon us. - -Never had I beheld such a storm. It seemed as if earth and heaven had -met in battle, and that each was striving amid the ruins of a world for -the mastery. The first rush of the descending rain was like a deluge, -bending the mightiest trees like reeds beneath it, and filling the -hollows of the forest road with a flood of water. Suddenly a vivid flash -of lightning shot across the heaven, and then at a short interval -followed a clap of thunder. Agnes clung closely to my arm, her face wild -with affright. With a few hurried words I strove to sooth her, pressing -her still closer, and with strange delight, to my bosom. As I did so she -burst into tears. Her conduct—I cannot explain why—filled me with a -joy I had long despaired of, and in the impulse of the moment, I said, - -“Dear Agnes! fear not. I am beside you, and will die with you.” - -She looked up, all tearful as she was, into my eyes, and strove to -speak, but her emotion was too great, and, with a glance I shall never -forget, buried her face against my shoulder. I pressed her closer to my -heart. I felt a wild ecstacy tingling through every vein, such as I had -never experienced. I could not resist my feelings longer. - -“Agnes! dear, dear Agnes,” I said, bending over her, “_I love you._ Oh! -will you be mine if we escape?” - -She made me no answer, but sobbed aloud. I pressed her hand. The -pressure was gently returned. I wanted nothing more to assure me of her -affection. I was in a dream of wildering delight at the conviction. - -For a moment I had forgotten the tempest in my ecstacy. But suddenly I -was aroused from my rapture by a succession of loud and reiterated -peals, bursting nearer and nearer overhead, and I looked up now in real -alarm, wishing that we had kept the forest road, exposed as we would -have been to the rain, rather than subject ourselves to the dangers of -our present position. I determined even yet to fly from our peril, and -taking Agnes by the waist, urged her trembling steps onward. We had but -escaped from beneath the oak when a blinding flash of lightning -zig-zagged from one horizon to the other, and instantaneously a peal of -thunder, which rings in my ears even yet, burst right over us, and went -crackling and echoing down the sky, as if a thousand chariots were -driving furiously over its adamantine pavement. But this I scarcely -noticed at the time, though it filled my memory afterward, for the flash -of lightning seeming to dart from every quarter of the heaven, and unite -right over us, shot directly downward, and in the next instant the oak -under which we had been standing, riven in twain, stood a scarred and -blackened wreck, against the frowning sky. I felt my senses reeling: I -thought all was over. - -When I recovered my senses I found myself standing, with Agnes in my -arms, while the thunder was still rolling down the firmament. My first -thought was of the dear girl beside me, for I thought her form was -unusually heavy. She was apparently perfectly lifeless. Oh! the agony of -that moment! Could she have been struck by the lightning? Wild with fear -I exclaimed, - -“Agnes! look up—dear one, you are not hurt?” - -At length she moved. She had only fainted, and the rain revived her, so -that in a few minutes I had the inexpressible delight of feeling her -clasp my hand in return for my ardent emotion. But it was long before -she was able to return home, and when we did so we arrived thoroughly -drenched through. But every thing was forgotten in gratitude for our -escape, and joy at knowing that we were beloved. - -And Agnes is now my wife, and I hear her footstep, still to me like -music, approaching. I must close my sketch or the dear one will burn it, -for she has no notion, she says, of figuring in a magazine. - - April, 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE JOYS OF FORMER YEARS HAVE FLED. - - - BY G. A. RAYBOLD. - - - The joys of former years have fled, - Like meteors through the midnight skies; - The brief but brilliant light they shed, - Serves but to blind our anxious eyes: - So flee the joy of early days, - And perish like the meteor’s blaze. - - The joys of former years decay - Like summer flow’rs we linger o’er, - While, one by one, they fade away, - And fall to earth to bloom no more; - Touch’d by the chilling hand of Time, - Thus fail the joys of manhood’s prime. - - The joys of former years are like - The last sweet notes of music, when - Upon your ear they faintly strike, - You know they’ll ne’er be heard again - The breaking harp, last sweetest strain, - Ne’er woke by hand or harp again. - - The joys of former years when past, - Seem like a poet’s dream of bliss; - Too brightly beautiful to last - In such a changing world as this: - Where stern reality destroys - Life’s poetry, and all its joys. - - The joys of former years expire, - As each loved one is from us torn; - The dying flame of life’s last fire, - Then lights us to their grave to mourn; - Where joy entomb’d for ever, lies, - Hope still may from that grave arise. - - Swedesboro’, N. J. 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - POETRY: - - - THE UNCERTAINTY OF ITS APPRECIATION. - - - BY JOSEPH EVANS SNODGRASS. - - -There is nothing more uncertain than the nature of the reception a -Poet’s productions, and particularly his shortest pieces, are destined -to meet. Especially is this true with respect to the more egotistical -sort of versifications—such as sonnets, and the like—in which one’s -own feelings find vent in verses penned, perhaps, for an album, or -intended for the perusal of the immediate circle in which the writer -moves. Now, the appreciation of sentiments thus embodied, when they come -to be _volume-ized_, depends entirely upon the mood of mind in which -they find the reader. Such is, indeed, the case with _personal_ -thoughts, even when they appear amid the popular literature of the -day—but is more strikingly so under the circumstances named. If a -sonnet, for example, which has been addressed to some real or fancied -idol of the heart, falls into the hands of one who is under the -influence of the tender passion, it is sure to be fully appreciated, and -pronounced “beautiful.” To such an one, nothing is too sentimental.[5] -Anything which tells of the “trials of the heart”—of “true love”—of a -“broken heart”—is doubly welcome. If it have a sprinkle of -star-and-moon-sentiment about it, all the better. But place a piece of -poetry headed, “Sonnet to the Moon,” or “To Mary,” before a heartless -old bachelor, or an unsentimental matron, and the exclamation would -be—“what nonsense—what stuff!” - -But it is not only in the case of the love-struck, and the _sans-love_ -portions of the community, that the uncertainty named is made manifest, -by any means. The most thoughtful and dignified productions may be the -recipients of censure, for want of a _kindredness_ of sentimentality—or -absence of it—on the part of the reader. The mind may be totally -unfitted for the thoughts before it, by very conformation,—or what is -the same thing in effect—from habit. And, then again, the mind of the -most sentimental order by nature, may be placed under unfavorable -circumstances to appreciate the thoughts of the poet. So much so, that -the most beautiful creations of the most fanciful author, may be as -sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, though clothed in most harmonious -numbers. How, for instance, may we expect the merchant or mechanic, -wearied with the toils of the day, to peruse a poem, however short, with -the same pleasure and favorable reception as the man of leisure? The -thing is among the impossibles. But even the man of taste and leisure, -may fail (nay, often does,) to enter into the feelings of the -writer—and without _feeling_ the appreciation and penning of poetry, -are, alike, out of the question—unless we except some of the poetry of -Pope and others, which has left the ordinary track. It is so exceedingly -difficult to catch the nice shades of meaning which it is intended to -express, unless assisted by the heart. Poetical _allusions_ especially, -are always liable to be mistaken, if not scanned with a poetic eye. - -But it is the change of circumstances which often, more than aught else, -prevents the comprehension and appreciation of a poet’s thoughts—his -descriptive thoughts particularly. As much as descriptive poetry -resembles painting, it comes far short of the power which the latter art -exerts in representing scenes _as a whole_. Take a pastoral poem, by way -of making my meaning understood. A poet would describe the parts and -personages separately—such as the wood,—the stream,—the flocks, and -the pastoral lovers—but the painter can present them all at once, as a -single idea, so to speak. How difficult, then, must it be for an author -so to describe scenes, the like of which the reader may never have -beheld, as to be fully appreciated by all. If he is sketching,—as did -Thompson,—the customs and scenes of rural life, he will be understood -fully by those alone who have enjoyed such scenes and practised such -customs. Those who, in this case, had viewed the _original_, would be -able best to decide upon the merits of the picture. A poet might rhyme -forever about scenes which he had never looked upon, but he would -utterly fail to satisfy one familiar with the same, that his -portraitures were correct. So a reader, who had never viewed a river, or -a waterfall, or a gloomy ravine amid rock-ribbed mountains, would -scarcely be able fully to appreciate a description of the same. He -might, indeed form an idea of the reality—but it would be only _ideal_ -after all. I have often thought of Byron’s exclamation in connection -with the above train of reflections: - - “Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain’s air, - Which bloated ease can never hope to share.” - -He was probably among the hills of Portugal at the time, and, doubtless, -felt what he wrote. I never realized the force of the thought as I did -one summer morning, while seated in a piazza, a half mile or so from the -North Mountain, in my native Virginia, with a beautiful, green and -flowery meadow intervening. Just as I came to the stanza of “Childe -Harold,” from which I have quoted, a delightful mountain-breeze swept -over the plain. As it tossed my locks to and fro, and gamboled with the -leaves of the volume before me, I _felt_ indeed, that there was -“sweetness in the mountain air.” Nothing could set forth that -uncertainty of appreciation I have been dwelling upon, more clearly than -such an incident. It is probable that the greatest city admirer of his -lordship’s poetry, never noticed the full force of the idea which thus -arrested my attention, but passed it unappreciated, in admiration of -some sentiment, in the very same stanza, whose full import he could -comprehend, while he entered into the feelings of the poetic traveller. - -But the greatest difficulty with the “occasional” as well as shorter -pieces of a volume of poems, is the difference between the circumstances -under which they were severally penned, and those under which they are -perused. One reads, in the self-same hour, the diversified productions -of years. How, then, can a writer anticipate the appreciation of his -sentiments? He has ceased to enter into his _own_ peculiar, -circumstance-generated emotions. How, therefore, may others take his -views? To suppose an ability on the part of the critic, to do justice, -then, to the earlier and less-studied _morceaux_, (or, as I have styled -them above, the egotistical pieces of an author,) would be to suppose an -utter impossibility—a sort of critical _ubiquity_. Coleridge felt the -truth of what I have advanced,—as any one may learn from the preface of -his “Juvenile Poems.” He therein expresses his apprehensions in the -following language:—“I shall only add, that each of my readers will, I -hope, remember that these poems, on various subjects, which he reads at -one time, and under the influence of one set of feelings, were written -at different times, and prompted by very different feelings; and, -therefore, the inferiority of one poem to another, may, sometimes, be -owing to the temper of mind in which he happens to peruse it.” - -What shall we say, then? Shall an author abstain from publishing his -shorter and occasional pieces, on account of the facts alluded to by -Coleridge? By no means, I would say, though a consideration thereof may -well deter the judicious writer from admitting into his volume every -thing he may have penned. As to the dimensions of pieces, it may be more -advisable, in some cases, to republish the shortest sonnets, and the -like, relating to one’s own personal feelings and relations, than longer -productions—at least they are likely to be more pleasing to the general -reader. They are unquestionably useful, as throwing light upon points of -a man’s private history with a force of illumination which no biographer -could use, were he to attempt it—a something, by-the-bye, which seldom -happens; indicating the probability, that we seldom read _the_ man’s -real biography, but merely _a_ man’s—often an ideal man only. - -As to the effect of fugitive and earlier poems, when republished, upon -an author’s reputation—let them be appreciated or not, it matters -little. His fame does not hang upon such “slender threads.” It is to his -more elaborate productions that the public will look for evidences of -genius. It is a fact that a poet’s reputation, generally speaking, -depends upon the appreciation of some particular production. It is true, -readers may differ in their assignment of merit—but the fact of -non-agreement, as to the question of comparative merit, does not alter -the principle. If each one comes to the conclusion that the poet has -penned _one_ poem of prime excellence, his name is safe—the residue are -set down not as evidences of a want of genius, but of the neglect of a -right and careful use of it. The conclusion is, in other words, that he -could have written the others better, if he had made proper use of the -talents with which he was endowed. Were an example needed, I might refer -to Milton. When we think of him we never associate with his name any of -his productions but “Paradise Lost.” He might have published in the same -volume thousands of fugitive pieces, no better than those he did suffer -to see the light, (and they are with few exceptions, poor enough, as the -emanations of such a mind,) and yet his fame not suffer in the smallest -degree—the names of Milton, and of that great poem, would still have -descended as one and inseparable. - ------ - -[5] Omnia vincit amor.—_Virg. Bucol._ - - * * * * * - - - - - JUNE. - - - When the low south wind - Breathes over the trees - With a murmur soft - As the sound of the seas; - And the calm cold moon - From her mystic height, - Like a sybil looks - On the voiceless night— - ’Tis June, bright June! - - When the brooks have voice - Like a seraph fair, - And the songs of birds - Fill the balmy air, - When the wild flowers bloom - In the wood and dell - And we feel as if lapt - In a magic spell— - ’Tis June, bright June! - A. A. I. - - * * * * * - - - - - LET ME REST IN THE LAND OF MY BIRTH. - - - WRITTEN BY - CHARLES JEFFERYS, - COMPOSED BY - J. HARROWAY. - - Philadelphia, John F. Nunns, 184 Chesnut Street. - -[Illustration: musical score] - - Farewell to the home of my Childhood, - Farewell to my cottage and vine; - I go to the land of the Stranger, - Where pleasures alone will be mine. - When Life’s fleeting journey is over, - And Earth again mingles with - -[Illustration: musical score] - - Earth, - - I can rest in the land of the Stranger - As well as in that of my birth. - Yes, these were my feelings at parting, - But absence soon alter’d their tone; - The cold hand of Sickness came o’er me, - And I wept o’er my Sorrows alone. - - No friend came around me to cheer me, - No parent to soften my grief; - Nor brother nor sister were near me, - And strangers could give no relief. - ’Tis true that it matters but little, - Tho’ living the thought makes one pine, - - Whatever befalls the poor relic, - When the spirit has flown from its shrine. - But oh! when life’s journey is over, - And earth again mingles with earth, - Lamented or not, still my wish is, - To rest in the land of my birth. - - * * * * * - - - - - SPORTS AND PASTIMES. - - - HUNTING DOGS. - -We said, in our last, that no sport could be attained without _good_ -dogs. The first dog, and the very best for the sportsman, is _the -Pointer_. All our pointers are, in some degree, of Spanish extraction; -and such of them as have the most Spanish blood in their veins are -unquestionably the best. The Spanish pointer is about twenty-one inches -in height. He has a large head, is heavily made, broad-chested, -stout-limbed, with a large dew-lap; his eyes are full, and widely apart, -and his nose is broad; his tail is straight, short, and thick, and his -ears large, pendulous, and fine; he should have a round-balled and not a -flat foot. - -“The most essential point about the dog,” says General Hanger, “is a -good foot; for, without a good, firm foot, he can never hunt long. I -never look at a dog which has a thin, flat, wide, and spread foot. As -long as the ground is dry and hard, I always wash my dog’s feet with -warm soap and water, and clean them well, particularly between the toes -and balls of the feet; this comforts his feet, allays the heat, and -promotes the circulation in the feet. In the more advanced period of the -season, when the ground is very wet, then salt and water may be proper.” - -Scarcely two pointers are to be seen so much alike, that a naturalist -would pronounce them to belong to the same class of dogs, inasmuch as -they are dissimilar in size, weight, and appearance. We recognise only -two pointers—the Spaniard and the mongrel. Nearly all the pointers we -see are, in fact, mongrels, although each may have more or less of the -original Spanish blood. Such, however, is the force of nature, that a -dog, having in him very little of the blood of the pointer, may prove a -very serviceable dog to the shooter. We frequently meet with very good -dogs—dogs deemed by their owners first-rate—which bear little -resemblance, in point of shape and appearance, to the true pointer; some -of these have the sharp nose of the fox, others the snubbed nose of the -bull-dog; in short, there is every diversity in size and appearance from -the greyhound to the pug. The excellence of such dogs must be attributed -to judicious treatment, severe discipline, or having been constantly out -with a good shot, or in company with highly-trained dogs. It is, -however, a mistake to suppose that they are of a proper strain to breed -from. Their offspring will be deformed, and will probably manifest some -of the worst and more hidden qualities of the parents. - -The attempt to lay down a written rule whereby to distinguish between a -good and an indifferent pointer, would be futile. How much of the blood -of the pointer a dog has in him, will be read in his countenance, rather -than inferred from his general shape and appearance. There is an -indescribable something in the countenance of a thorough-bred pointer, -which a little habit of observation will enable the sportsman to detect -with tolerable accuracy, so that he may judge of the capabilities of a -dog, as a physiognomist will read at a glance a person’s disposition and -ability in his countenance. - -The instinct of pointing, we apprehend, is an indestructible principle -in the blood of the pointer, which, however that blood may be mingled -with inferior blood, will always, in some degree, manifest itself; and -on this ground we build our theory, that the farther any dog is removed -from the original Spanish pointer, the worse the dog is; and, -consequently, that all attempts to cross the pointer with any other -blood must necessarily deteriorate the breed. The greyhound is seldom or -never crossed to give him additional fleetness, nor the hound to improve -his nose; why then should the pointer be crossed with dogs which, in so -far as the sports of the field are concerned, scarcely inherit one -quality in common with him? Attempts, however, are constantly made to -improve the pointer, by a cross with the blood-hound, fox-hound, -Newfoundland dog, or mastiff, sometimes with a view of improving his -appearance, and bringing him to some fancied standard of perfection; -but, in reality, inducing a deformity. One of these imaginary standards -of perfection is, that to one part thorough Spanish blood, the pointer -should have in him an eighth of the fox-hound, and a sixteenth of the -blood-hound. A cross will sometimes produce dogs which are, in some -eyes, the _beau idéal_ of beauty; but however handsome such dogs may be, -they will necessarily possess some quality not belonging to the pointer. -A thorough-bred pointer carries his head well up when ranging; he will -not give tongue, nor has he much desire to chase footed game. The hound -pointer may be sometimes detected by his coarse ears, by his tail being -curled upwards, and being carried high, or by his rough coat. An -occasional cross with the mastiff or Newfoundland dog, is said to -increase the fineness of nose, but it is converting the pointer into a -mere retriever. Another, and the main source of the unsightliness of -sporting dogs, is the allowing an indiscriminate intercourse between -pointers and setters. Good dogs may be thus obtained sometimes, but they -are invariably mis-shapen; they have generally the head and brush tail -of the setter, with the body of the pointer, and their coats are not -sleek, and instead of standing at their point, they will crouch. When -the sire is nearly thorough-bred, dogs of a superior description, but -certainly not the best, are sometimes produced by the Newfoundland or -some other not strictly a pointer. We are not willing to allow that the -pointer is improved in any quality that renders him valuable to the -sportsman, by a cross with the hound or any other sort of dog; though we -cannot deny that the setter is materially improved in appearance by a -cross with the Newfoundland, but what it gains in appearance it loses in -other respects. - -Breeding mongrels, especially crossing with hounds, has given the -gamekeepers and dog-breakers an infinity of trouble, which might have -been avoided by keeping the blood pure. The Spanish pointer seldom -requires the whip; the hound pointer has never enough of it. One of the -main sources of the sportsman’s pleasure is to see the dogs point well. - -Dogs should be constantly shot over during the season by a successful -shot, and exercised during the shooting recess by some person who -understands well the management of them, otherwise they will fall off in -value—the half-bred ones will become unmanageable, and even the -thorough-bred ones will acquire disorderly habits. - -We look upon the setter to be an inferior kind of pointer perhaps; -originally a cross between the pointer and the spaniel, or some such dog -as the Newfoundland, for it has some qualities in common with each. The -pointer has the finer nose, and is more staunch than the setter; his -action is much finer. Pointers are averse to water; setters delight in -it. The setter will face briars and bushes better than the pointer, -which is in this respect a tender dog; and for this reason the setter is -preferred to the pointer for cover-shooting. Besides, his being not so -staunch as the pointer is an additional advantage in heavy covers. The -sportsman who shoots over well-broken pointers, frequently passes game -in woods, while the pointers, which are not seen by him, are at their -point; the setter, being more impatient to run in, affords the shooter -many shots in cover, which the over-staunch pointer would not. The -pointer is always to be preferred on open grounds. In hot weather the -pointer will endure more fatigue than the setter. - - * * * * * - -_The Spaniel, Cock Dog, or Springer._—Spaniels are the best dogs for -beating covers, provided they can be kept near the gun. They are -generally expected to give tongue when game is flushed: some Spaniels -will give notice of game before it rises, which is very well where -woodcocks only are expected to be found. Woodcock and pheasant shooting -are often combined; when that is the case, a noisy cry is not desirable: -pheasant shooting cannot be conducted too quietly, where covers are -limited. Wherever the underwood is so thick that the shooter cannot keep -his eye on the dogs, spaniels are to be preferred to pointers or -setters, whatever species of game the shooter may be in pursuit of. When -spaniels are brought to such a state of discipline as to be serviceable -in an open country, they will require no further tutoring to fit them -for the woods, unless it be that the eye of their master not being -always on them, they begin to ramble. The efficiency of the training of -spaniels for cover-shooting, depends, for the most part, on their -keeping near the shooter; for if they riot, they are the worst dogs he -can hunt. - -There is much less trouble in making a spaniel steady than at first -thought may be imagined. A puppy eight months old, introduced among -three or four well-broken dogs, is easily taught his business. The -breaker should use him to a cord of twenty yards length or so, before he -goes into the field, and then take him out with the pack. Many a young -dog is quiet and obedient from the first; another is shy, and stares and -runs about as much at the rising of the birds as the report of the gun. -Shortly he gets over this, and takes a part in the sport—he then begins -to chase, but finding he is not followed after little birds or game, he -returns; and should he not, and commence hunting out of shot, which is -very likely, he must be called in, and flogged or rated, as his temper -calls for. With care and patience, he will soon “pack up” with the -others, especially if that term is used when the dogs are dividing; and -if not, he may be checked by treading on the cord, and rated or beaten -as his fault requires. Spaniels will, in general, stand more whipping -than other dogs, but care must be taken not to be lavish or severe with -it at first, or the dog becomes cowed, and instead of hunting will sneak -along at heel. - - * * * * * - -_The Retriever._—The business of the retriever is to find lost game. -Newfoundland dogs are the best for the purpose. They should have a -remarkably fine sense of smelling, or they will be of little use in -tracing a wounded pheasant, or other game, through a thick cover, where -many birds have been running about. A good retriever will follow the -bird on whose track he is first put, as a blood-hound will that of a -human being or deer. He should be taught to bring his game, or in many -instances his finding a wounded bird would be of no advantage to the -shooter. - - * * * * * - -_Kennel Treatment._—The best regular food for sporting dogs is oatmeal -well boiled, and flesh, which may be either boiled with the meal or -given raw. In hot weather, dogs should not have either oatmeal or flesh -in a raw state, as they are heating. Potatoes boiled are good summer -food, and an excellent occasional variety in winter, but they should be -cleaned before being boiled, and _well dried_ after, or they will -produce disease. Roasted potatoes are equally good, if not better. The -best food to bring dogs into condition, and to preserve their wind in -hot weather, is sago boiled to a jelly, half a pound of which may be -given to each dog daily, in addition to potatoes or other light food; a -little flesh meat, or a few bones, being allowed every alternate day. -Dogs should have whey or buttermilk two or three times a week during -summer, when it can be procured, or in lieu thereof, should have a -table-spoonful of flour of sulphur once a fortnight. To bring a dog into -condition for the season, we would give him a very large table-spoonful -of sulphur about a fortnight before the 12th of August, and two days -after giving him that, a full table-spoonful of syrup of buckthorn -should be administered, and afterwards twice repeated at intervals of -three days, the dog being fed on the sago diet the while. There should -always be fresh water within reach. Dogs should never be chained up. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _“Critical and Miscellaneous Essays.” By T. Babington Macaulay. - Vol. 3d. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._ - -Macaulay has obtained a reputation which, although deservedly great, is -yet in a remarkable measure undeserved. The few who regard him merely as -a terse, forcible and logical writer, full of thought, and abounding in -original views often sagacious and never otherwise than admirably -expressed—appear to us precisely in the right. The many who look upon -him as not only all this, but as a comprehensive and profound thinker, -little prone to error, err essentially themselves. The source of the -general mistake lies in a very singular consideration—yet in one upon -which we do not remember ever to have heard a word of comment. We allude -to a tendency in the public mind towards logic for logic’s sake—a -liability to confound the vehicle with the conveyed—an aptitude to be -so dazzled by the luminousness with which an idea is set forth, as to -mistake it for the luminousness of the idea itself. The error is one -exactly analogous with that which leads the immature poet to think -himself sublime wherever he is obscure, because obscurity is a source of -the sublime—thus confounding obscurity of expression with the -expression of obscurity. In the case of Macaulay—and we may say, _en -passant_, of our own Channing—we assent to what he says, too often -because we so very clearly understand what it is that he intends to say. -Comprehending vividly the points and the sequence of his argument, we -fancy that we are concurring in the argument itself. It is not every -mind which is at once able to analyze the satisfaction it receives from -such Essays as we see here. If it were merely _beauty_ of style for -which they were distinguished—if they were remarkable only for -rhetorical flourishes—we would not be apt to estimate these flourishes -at more than their due value. We would not agree with the doctrines of -the essayist on account of the elegance with which they were urged. On -the contrary, we would be inclined to disbelief. But when all ornament -save that of simplicity is disclaimed—when we are attacked by precision -of language, by perfect accuracy of expression, by directness and -singleness of thought, and above all by a logic the most rigorously -close and consequential—it is hardly a matter for wonder that nine of -us out of ten are content to rest in the gratification thus received as -in the gratification of absolute truth. - -Of the terseness and simple vigor of Macaulay’s style it is unnecessary -to point out instances. Every one will acknowledge his merits on this -score. His exceeding _closeness_ of logic, however, is more especially -remarkable. With this he suffers nothing to interfere. Here, for -example, is a sentence in which, to preserve entire the chain of his -argument—_to leave no minute gap which the reader might have to fill up -with thought_—he runs into most unusual tautology. - -“The books and traditions of a sect may contain, mingled with -propositions strictly theological, other propositions, purporting to -rest on the same authority, which relate to physics. If new discoveries -should throw discredit on the physical propositions, the theological -propositions, unless they can be separated from the physical -propositions, will share in their discredit.” - -These things are very well in their way; but it is indeed questionable -whether they do not appertain rather to the trickery of thought’s -vehicle, than to thought itself—rather to reason’s shadow than to -reason. Truth, for truth’s sake, is seldom so enforced. It is scarcely -too much to say that the style of the profound thinker is never closely -logical. Here we might instance George Combe—than whom a more candid -reasoner never, perhaps, wrote or spoke—than whom a more complete -antipodes to Babington Macaulay there certainly never existed. The -former _reasons_ to discover the true. The latter _argues_ to convince -the world, and, in arguing, not unfrequently surprises himself into -conviction. What Combe appear to Macaulay it would be a difficult thing -to say. What Macaulay is thought of by Combe we can understand very -well. The man who looks at an argument in its details alone, will not -fail to be misled by the one; while he who keeps steadily in view the -_generality_ of a thesis will always at least approximate the truth -under guidance of the other. - -Macaulay’s tendency—and the tendency of mere logic in general—to -concentrate force upon minutiæ, at the expense of a subject as a whole, -is well instanced in an article (in the volume now before us) on Ranke’s -History of the Popes. This article is called a review—possibly because -it is anything else—_as lucus_ is _lucus a non lucendo_. In fact it is -nothing more than a beautifully written treatise on the main theme of -Ranke himself; the whole matter of the treatise being deduced from the -History. In the way of criticism there is nothing worth the name. The -strength of the essayist is put forth to account for the progress of -Romanism by maintaining that divinity is not a progressive science. The -enigmas, says he in substance, which perplex the natural theologian are -the same in all ages, while the Bible, where alone we are to seek -revealed truth, has always been what it is. - -The manner in which these two propositions are set forth, is a model for -the logician and for the student of _belles lettres_—yet the error into -which the essayist has rushed headlong, is egregious. He attempts to -deceive his readers, or has deceived himself, by confounding the nature -of that proof from which we reason of the concerns of earth, considered -as man’s habitation, and the nature of that evidence from which we -reason of the same earth regarded as a unit of that vast whole, the -universe. In the former case the _data_ being palpable, the proof is -direct: in the latter it is purely _analogical_. Were the indications we -derive from science, of the nature and designs of Deity, and thence, by -inference, of man’s destiny—were these indications proof direct, no -advance in science would strengthen them—for, as our author truly -observes, “nothing could be added to the force of the argument which the -mind finds in every beast, bird, or flower”—but as these indications -are rigidly analogical, every step in human knowledge—every -astronomical discovery, for instance—throws additional light upon the -august subject, _by extending the range of analogy_. That we know no -more to-day of the nature of Deity—of its purposes—and thus of man -himself—than we did even a dozen years ago—is a proposition -disgracefully absurd; and of this any astronomer could assure Mr. -Macaulay. Indeed, to our own mind, the _only_ irrefutable argument in -support of the soul’s immortality—or, rather, the only conclusive proof -of man’s alternate dissolution and re-juvenescence _ad infinitum_—is to -be found in analogies deduced from the modern established theory of the -nebular cosmogony.[6] Mr. Macaulay, in short, has forgotten what he -frequently forgets, or neglects,—the very gist of his subject. He has -forgotten that analogical evidence cannot, at all times, be discoursed -of as if identical with proof direct. Throughout the whole of his -treatise he has made no distinction whatever. - -This third volume completes, we believe, the miscellaneous writings of -its author. - ------ - -[6] This cosmogony _demonstrates_ that all existing bodies in the -universe are formed of a nebular matter, a rare ethereal medium, -pervading space—shows the mode and laws of formation—and _proves_ that -all things are in a perpetual state of progress—that nothing in nature -is _perfected_. - - * * * * * - - _“Corse de Leon: or the Brigand.” A Romance. By G. P. R. James. - 2 vols. Harper & Brothers._ - -Bernard de Rohan and Isabel de Brienne are betrothed to each other in -childhood, but the father of the latter dying, and her mother marrying -again, the union of the two lovers is opposed by the father-in-law, the -Lord of Masseran, who has another husband in view for her, the Count de -Meyrand. To escape his persecutions, the heroine elopes, and is married -in a private chapel to De Rohan; but just as the ceremony has closed, -the pair are surprised by Masseran and Meynard, who fling the hero into -a dungeon, and bear off Isabel. The young wife manages to escape, -however, and reaches Paris to throw herself on the protection of the -King, Henry the Second. Here she learns that her husband, whom the -monarch had ordered to be freed, has perished in a conflagration of -Masseran’s castle; and she determines to take the veil. In vain the king -endeavors to persuade her to wait. She is inflexible, until surprised by -the re-appearance of de Rohan, who, instead of perishing as supposed, -has been rescued, unknown, by Corse de Leon, a stern, wild, yet withal, -generous sort of a brigand, with whom he had become accidentally -acquainted on the frontiers of Savoy. As the stolen marriage of the -lovers has been revoked by a royal edict, it is necessary that the -ceremony should be repeated. A week hence is named for the wedding, but -before that time arrives de Rohan not only fights—unavoidably of -course—with his rival, which the monarch has forbidden, but is accused -by Masseran of the murder of Isabel’s brother in a remote province of -France. De Rohan is tried, found guilty and condemned to die; but on the -eve of execution is rescued by his good genius, the brigand. He flies -his country, and in disguise joins the army in Italy, where he greatly -distinguishes himself. Finally, he storms and carries a castle, by the -assistance of Corse de Leon, which Meyrand, now an outlaw, is holding -out against France; at the same time rescuing his long lost bride from -the clutches of the count, into which she had fallen by the sack of a -neighboring abbey. In the dungeon of the captured castle Isabel’s -brother is discovered, he having been confined there by Masseran, prior -to charging de Rohan with his murder. After a little farther bye-play, -which only spoils the work, and which we shall not notice, the lovers -are united, and thenceforth “all goes merry as a marriage bell.” - -This is the outline of the plot—well enough in its way; but partaking -largely of the common-place, and marred by the conclusion, which we have -omitted, and which was introduced only for the purpose of introducing -the famous death of Henry the Second, at a tournament. - -The characters, however, are still more common-place. De Rohan and -Isabel are like all James’ lovers, mere nothings—Father Welland and -Corse de Leon are the beneficent spirits, and Meyrand and Masseran are -the evil geniuses, of the novel. The other characters are lifeless, -common, and uncharacteristic. They make no impression, and you almost -forget their names. There is no originality in any of them, and save a -passage of fine writing here and there, nothing to be praised in the -book. Corse de Leon, the principal character, talks philosophy like -Bulwer’s heroes, and is altogether a plagiarism from that bombastic, -unnatural, cut-throat school,—besides, he possesses a universality of -knowledge, combined with a commensurable power, which, although they get -the hero very conveniently out of scrapes, belie all nature. In short, -this is but a readable novel, and a mere repetition of the author’s -former works. - - * * * * * - - _“Insubordination; An American Story of Real Life.” By the - Author of the “Subordinate.” One Volume. Baltimore; Knight & - Colman._ - -The author of the “Subordinate” is Mr. T. S. Arthur, of Baltimore, -formerly one of the editors of the “Visiter and Athenæum,” and now, we -believe, connected with “The Budget,” a new monthly journal of that -city—with the literature of which, generally, he has been more or less -identified for many years past. - -“The Subordinate” we have not had the pleasure of reading. The present -book, “Insubordination,” is excellently written in its way; although we -must be pardoned for saying that the _way_ itself is not of a high order -of excellence. It is all well enough to justify works of this class by -hyper-democratic allusions to the “moral dignity” of low life, &c. -&c.—but we cannot understand why a gentleman should feel or affect a -_penchant_ for vulgarity; nor can we comprehend the “moral dignity” of a -dissertation upon bed-bugs: for the opening part of “Insubordination” -is, if anything, a treatise on these peculiar animalculæ. - -Some portions of the book are worthy of the author’s ability, which it -would rejoice us to see more profitably occupied. For example, a passage -where Jimmy, an ill-treated orphan, relates to the only friend he has -ever found, some of the poignant sorrows of his childhood, embodies a -fine theme, handled in a manner which has seldom been excelled. Its -pathos is exquisite. The morality of the story is no doubt good; but the -reasoning by which it is urged is decrepid, and far too pertinaciously -thrust into the reader’s face at every page. The mode in which all the -characters are _reformed_, one after the other, belongs rather to the -desirable than to the credible. The style of the narrative is easy and -_truthful_. We dare say the work will prove popular in a certain sense; -but, upon the whole, we do not like it. - - * * * * * - - _“Marathon, and Other Poems.” By Pliny Earle, M. D. Henry - Perkins, Philadelphia._ - -We have long had a very high opinion of the talents of Doctor Earle; and -it gives us sincere pleasure to see his poems in book form. The -publication will place him at once in the front rank of our bards. His -qualities are all of a sterling character—a high imagination, -delighting in lofty themes—a rigorous simplicity, disdaining verbiage -and meretricious ornament—a thorough knowledge of the proprieties of -metre—and an ear nicely attuned to its delicacies. In addition, he -feels as a man, and thinks and writes as a scholar. His general manner, -puts us much in mind of Halleck. “Marathon,” the longest poem in the -volume before us, is fully equal to the “Bozzaris” of that writer; -although we confess that between the two poems there exists a similarity -in tone and construction which we would rather not have observed. - -In the present number of our Magazine will be found a very beautiful -composition by the author of “Marathon.” It exhibits all the rare -beauties of its author. - - * * * * * - - _“Selections from the Poetical Literature of the West.” U. P. - James; Cincinnati._ - -This handsomely printed volume fills a long-regretted _hiatus_ in our -poetical literature, and we are much indebted to Mr. James the -publisher; and to Mr. William D. Gallagher, who has superintended the -compilation. We are told, in the Preface by Mr. G. that the book “is not -sent forth as by any means the whole of the ‘Poetical Literature of the -West,’ but that it is believed it will represent its _character_ pretty -faithfully, as it certainly contains samples of its greatest -excellences, its mediocre qualities, and its worst defects.” It may be -questioned, indeed, how far we are to thank the editor for troubling us -with the “defects,” or, what in poesy is still worse, with the “mediocre -qualities” of any literature whatever. It is no apology to say that the -design was to represent “character”—for who cares for the character of -that man or of that poem which has no character at all? - -By these observations we mean merely to insinuate, as delicately as -possible, that Mr. Gallagher has admitted into this volume a great deal -of trash with which the public could well have dispensed. On the other -hand we recognise many poems of a high order of excellence; among which -we may mention an “Ode to the Press” by G. G. Foster, of the St. Louis -Pennant; several sweet pieces by our friend F. W. Thomas, of “Clinton -Bradshaw” memory; “The Flight of Years” by George D. Prentice; “To the -Star Lyra,” by William Wallace; and the “Miami Woods,” by Mr. Gallagher. - -We have spoken of this latter gentleman as the _editor_ of the -volume—but presume that in so speaking we have been in error. It is -probable that, the volume having been compiled by some other hand, he -was requested by Mr. James to write the Preface merely. We are forced -into this conclusion by observing that the poems of William D. Gallagher -occupy more room in the book than those of any other author, and that -the “Miami Woods” just mentioned—lines written by himself—form the -opening article of the work. We cannot believe that Mr. G. would have -been so wanting in modesty as to perpetrate these improprieties as -_editor_ of the “Poetical Literature of the West.” - - * * * * * - - _“The Quadroone.” A Novel. By the Author of “Lafitte,” &c. - Harper & Brothers, New York._ - -We see no good reason for differing with that general sentence of -condemnation which has been pronounced upon this book, both at home and -abroad—and less for attempting anything in the way of an extended -review of its contents. This was our design upon hearing the novel -announced; but an inspection of its pages assures us that the labor -would be misplaced. Nothing that we could say—had we even the -disposition to say it—would convince any sensible man that “The -Quadroone” is not a very bad book—such a book as Professor Ingraham -(for whom we have a high personal respect) ought to be ashamed of. _We_ -are ashamed of it. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: fashions] - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic -spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and -typesetting errors have been corrected without note. A cover was been -created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain. - -[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, June 1841_, George R. -Graham, Editor] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, -June 1841, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JUNE 1841 *** - -***** This file should be named 63839-0.txt or 63839-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/8/3/63839/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive (https://archive.org) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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margin-bottom:1em } - </style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, June -1841, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, June 1841 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: November 22, 2020 [EBook #63839] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JUNE 1841 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive (https://archive.org) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<div class='figcenter'> -<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0000' style='width:50%;height:auto;'/> -</div> - -<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.9em;font-weight:bold;'>GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.</p> - -<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'><span class='sc'>Vol. XVIII.</span> June, 1841. No. 6.</p> - -<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>Contents</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 tab1c1-col2 tdStyle0' colspan='2'><span class='bold'><span style='font-size:larger'>Fiction, Literature and Articles</span></span></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'> </td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#fay'>The Island of the Fay</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#reef'>The Reefer of ’76</a> (continued)</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#heir'>The Lost Heir</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#syr'>The Syrian Letters</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#clot'>The Clothing of the Ancients</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#lman'>The Life Guardsman</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#ugo'>Ugolino, a Tale of Florence</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#thun'>The Thunder Storm</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#poet'>Poetry: The Uncertainty of Its Appreciation</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#sport'>Sports and Pastimes</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#new'>Review of New Books</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle2'> </td></tr> -</table> - -<table id='tab2' summary='' class='center'> -<colgroup> -<col span='1' style='width: 25em;'/> -<col span='1' style='width: 1em;'/> -</colgroup> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle0' colspan='2'><span class='bold'><span style='font-size:larger'>Poetry, Music and Fashion</span></span></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'> </td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#wind'>The Voice of the Wind</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#time'>Time’s Changes</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#sigh'>Sighs for the Unattainable</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#lay'>The Lay of the Affections</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#lord'>To Lord Byron</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#sonn'>Sonnet Written in April</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#joys'>The Joys of Former Years Have Fled</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#let'>Let Me Rest in the Land of My Birth</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'><a href='#fash'>Fashions for June 1841</a></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'></td></tr> -<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle1'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle2'> </td></tr> -</table> - -<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;'><a href='#notes'>Transcriber’s Notes</a> can be found at the end of this eBook.</p> - -<hr class='tbk100'/> - -<div class='figcenter'> -<img src='images/i001.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0001' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/> -<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='it'>Engraved by J. Sartain.</span></span></p> <br/><span class='it'>The Island of the Fay.</span><br/> <br/><span class='it'>Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from an Original by Martin.</span> -</div> - -<hr class='tbk101'/> - -<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1.5em;font-size:1.9em;font-weight:bold;page-break-before:always;'>GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.</p> - -<hr class='tbk102'/> - -<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'><span class='sc'>Vol.</span> XVIII. June, 1841. <span class='sc'>No. 6.</span></p> - -<hr class='tbk103'/> - -<div><h1 class='nobreak'><a id='fay'></a>THE ISLAND OF THE FAY.</h1></div> - -<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;'>———</p> -<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY EDGAR A. POE.</p> -<p class='line0' 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'><span class='sc'>Science</span>, true daughter of old Time thou art,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes!</p> -<p class='line0'>Why prey’st thou thus upon the poet’s heart,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?</p> -<p class='line0'>How should he love thee, or how deem thee wise</p> -<p class='line0'>  Who wouldst not leave him, in his wandering,</p> -<p class='line0'>To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?</p> -<p class='line0'>Hast thou not dragged Diana, from her car?</p> -<p class='line0'>  And driven the Hamadryad from the wood?</p> -<p class='line0'>Hast thou not spoilt a story in each star?</p> -<p class='line0'>  Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood?</p> -<p class='line0'>The elfin from the grass?—the dainty <span class='it'>fay</span>,</p> -<p class='line0'>The witch, the sprite, the goblin—where are they?</p> -<p class='line0' style='text-align:right;margin-right:0em;margin-top:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='it'>Anon.</span></p> -</div> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>La</span> musique,” says Marmontel, with the same -odd confusion of thought and language which leads -him to give his very equivocal narratives the title -of “<span class='it'>Contes Moraux</span>”—“la musique est le seul des -talens qui jouissent de lui même; tous les autres -veulent des temoins.” He here confounds the -pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the -capacity for creating them. No more than any -other <span class='it'>talent</span>, is that for music susceptible of complete -enjoyment, where there is no second party to -appreciate its exercise. And it is only in common -with other talents that it produces <span class='it'>effects</span> which -may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which -the <span class='it'>raconteur</span> has either failed to entertain clearly, -or has sacrificed, in its expression, to his national -love of <span class='it'>point</span>, is, doubtless, the very tenable one -that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly -estimated when we are the most exclusively -alone. The proposition, in this form, will be -admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its -own sake, and for its spiritual uses. But there is -one pleasure still within the reach of fallen mortality—and -perhaps only one—which owes even -more than does music to the accessory sentiment -of seclusion. I mean the happiness experienced in -the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, -the man who would behold aright the glory of God -upon earth must in solitude behold that glory. To -me, at least, the presence—not of human life only—but -of life in any other form than that of the green -things which grow upon the soil and are voiceless—is -a stain upon the landscape—is at war with -the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard -the dark valleys, and the grey rocks, and the waters -that silently smile, and the forests that sigh in uneasy -slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains -that look down upon all—I love to regard these -as themselves but the colossal members of one vast -animate and sentient whole—a whole whose form -(that of the sphere) is the most perfect and the -most inclusive of all; whose path is among associate -planets; whose meek handmaiden is the -moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose -life is eternity; whose intelligence is that of a God; -whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies -are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves -is akin with our own cognizance of the animalculæ -in crystal, or of those which infest the -brain—a being which we, in consequence, regard -as purely inanimate and material, much in the same -manner as these animalculæ must thus regard us.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Our telescopes, and our mathematical investigations -assure us on every hand—notwithstanding -the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood—that -space, and therefore that bulk, is an important -consideration in the eyes of the Almighty. The -cycles in which the stars move are those best -adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the -greatest possible number of bodies. The forms of -these bodies are accurately such as, within a given -surface, to include the greatest possible amount of -matter;—while the surfaces themselves are so disposed -as to accommodate a denser population than -could be accommodated on the same surfaces otherwise -arranged. Nor is it any argument against -bulk being an object with God, that space itself is -infinite; for there may be an infinity of matter to -fill it. And since we see clearly that the endowment -of matter with vitality is a principle—indeed -as far as our judgments extend, the <span class='it'>leading</span> principle—in -the operations of Deity—it is scarcely logical -to imagine that it is confined to the regions of the -minute, where we daily trace it, and that it does -not extend to those of the august. As we find -cycle within cycle without end—yet all revolving -around one far-distant centre which is the God-head, -may we not analogically suppose, in the same -manner, life within life, the less within the greater, -and all within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are -madly erring, through self-esteem, in believing man, -in either his temporal or future destinies, to be of -more moment in the universe than that vast “clod -of the valley” which he tills and contemns, and to -which he denies a soul for no more profound -reason than that he does not behold its operation.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>These fancies, and such as these, have always -given to my meditations among the mountains, and -the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a tinge of -what the every-day world would not fail to term -the fantastic. My wanderings amid such scenes -have been many, and far-searching, and often solitary; -and the interest with which I have strayed -through many a dim deep valley, or gazed into the -reflected Heaven of many a bright lake, has been -an interest greatly deepened by the thought that -I have strayed and gazed <span class='it'>alone</span>. What flippant -Frenchman was it who said, in allusion to the -well-known work of Zimmerman, that “<span class='it'>la solitude -est une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu ’un pour vous -dire que la solitude est une belle chose</span>?” The -epigram cannot be gainsayed; but the necessity is -a thing that does not exist.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>It was during one of my lonely journeyings, -amid a far-distant region of mountain locked within -mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns -writhing or sleeping within all—that I chanced -upon the rivulet and the island which are the subject -of our engraving. I came upon them suddenly -in the leafy June, and threw myself upon the turf, -beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub, -that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I -felt that thus only should I look upon it, such was -the character of phantasm which it wore.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>On all sides—save to the west, where the sun -was about sinking—arose the verdant walls of the -forest. The little river, which turned sharply in its -course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, -seemed to have no exit from its prison, but to be -absorbed by the deep green foliage of the trees to -the east—while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared -to me as I lay at length and glanced -upward) there poured down noiselessly and continuously -into the valley, a rich, golden and crimson -waterfall from the sun-set fountains of the sky.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>About midway in the short vista which my -dreamy vision took in, one small circular island, -fantastically verdured, reposed upon the bosom of -the stream.</p> - - - <div class='poetry-container' style=''> - <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>So blended bank and shadow there,</p> -<p class='line0'>That each seemed pendulous in air—</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<p class='noindent'>so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was -scarcely possible to say at what point upon the -slope of the emerald turf its crystal dominion -began.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>My position enabled me to include in a single -view both the eastern and western extremities of -the islet; and I observed a singularly-marked difference -in their aspects. The latter was all one -radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and -blushed beneath the eye of the slant sunlight, and -fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was short, -springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. -The trees were lithe, mirthful, erect—bright, slender -and graceful—of eastern figure and foliage, with -bark smooth, glossy, and particolored. There -seemed a deep sense of life and of joy about all; -and although no airs blew from out the Heavens, -yet every thing had motion through the gentle -sweepings to and fro of innumerable butterflies, that -might have been mistaken for tulips with wings.<a id='r1'/><a href='#f1' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[1]</span></sup></a></p> - -<p class='pindent'>The other, or eastern end of the isle was -whelmed in the blackest shade. A sombre, yet -beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all -things. The trees were dark in color and mournful -in form and attitude—wreathing themselves into -sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that conveyed -ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The -grass wore the deep tint of the cypress, and the -heads of its blades hung droopingly, and, hither and -thither among it, were many small unsightly hillocks, -low, and narrow, and not very long, that had -the aspect of graves, but were not, although over -and all about them the rue and the rosemary clambered. -The shade of the trees fell heavily upon the -water, and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating -the depths of the element with darkness. I -fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended -lower and lower, separated itself sullenly from the -trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed -by the stream; while other shadows issued momently -from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors -entombed.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, -greatly excited it, and I lost myself forthwith in -reverie. “If ever island were enchanted,”—said I -to myself,—“this is it. This is the haunt of the -few gentle Fays who remain from the wreck of the -race. Are these green tombs theirs?—or do they -yield up at all their sweet lives as mankind yield up -their own? In dying, do they not rather waste away -mournfully; rendering unto God their existence -little by little, as these trees render up shadow after -shadow, exhausting their substances unto dissolution? -What the wasting tree is to the water that -imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it -preys upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the -Death which engulfs it?—but what fairy-like form -is this which glides so solemnly along the water?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the -sun rapidly sank to rest, and eddying currents careered -round and round the island, bearing upon -their bosom large, dazzling white flakes of the bark -of the sycamore—flakes which, in their multiform -positions upon the water, a quick imagination might -have converted into anything it pleased—while I -thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one -of those very Fays about whom I had been pondering, -made its way slowly into the darkness from out -the light at the western end of the island. She -stood erect in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged -it with the mere phantom of an oar. While within -the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude -seemed indicative of joy—but sorrow deformed it -as she passed within the shade. Slowly she glided -along, and at length rounded the islet and re-entered -the region of light. “The revolution which has -just been made by the Fay,”—continued I musingly—“is -the cycle of the brief year of her life. -She has floated through her winter and through her -summer. She is a year nearer to Death; for I did -not fail to see that as she came into the shade, -her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed -up in the dark water, making its blackness more -black.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>And again the boat appeared, and the Fay;—but -about the attitude of the latter there was more of -care and uncertainty, and less of elastic joy. She -floated again from out the light, and into the gloom, -(which deepened momently) and again her shadow -fell from her into the ebony water, and became absorbed -into its blackness. And again and again -she made the circuit of the island, (while the sun -rushed down to his slumbers;) and at each issuing -forth into the light, there was more sorrow about -her person, while it grew feebler, and far fainter, -and more indistinct; and at each passage into the -gloom, there fell from her a darker shade, which -became whelmed in a shadow more black. But at -length, when the sun had utterly departed, the Fay, -now the mere ghost of her former self, went disconsolately -with her boat into the region of the ebony -flood—and that she issued thence at all I cannot -say,—for darkness fell over all things, and I beheld -her magical figure no more.</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'>Florem putares nare per liquidum æthera.—<span class='it'>P. Commire.</span></p> - -</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Philadelphia, May, 1841.</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class='tbk104'/> - -<div><h1><a id='wind'></a>THE VOICE OF THE WIND.</h1></div> - -<div class='dramastart'><!----></div> - -<p class='dramaline-cont'>“<span class='sc'>Whence</span> comest thou, wind, in thy rapid flight,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Or the balmy play of the zephyrs light?</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Hast thou breathed o’er the freshness of myrtle bowers,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>And laden thy wings from the orange flowers?</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Or pierced the darkness of distant caves,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Whose depths resound with the ocean’s waves?</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Yet bring me no shadows of grief or woe,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>’Tis only earth’s beauties I fain would know.”</p> -<p class='dramaline'>“I come in mirth,” said the gentle breeze,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>“To bring the murmurs of distant seas;</p> -<p class='dramaline'>I passed o’er the regions of fairest bloom,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Till my pinions were laden with soft perfume;</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Where the dulcet tones of the wild bird’s note,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>In the boundless regions of ether float.</p> -<p class='dramaline'>I have come from the land of Olympus’ pride,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Where the Spartan fought, and the Persian died.</p> -<p class='dramaline'>But prostrate palace, and fallen fane,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Of its grandeur and beauty alone remain.</p> -<p class='dramaline'>I waved the boughs of the clustering vines,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>As their shadows fell o’er the mouldering lines,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Which mark the spot of the warrior’s tomb,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>In that home of glory and land of bloom.</p> -<p class='dramaline'>And I kissed the brow of the dark-eyed girl,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>As I stirred with my pinions each raven curl.</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Nay, ask not a tale of unmingled joy,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>For earth has no pleasure without alloy;</p> -<p class='dramaline'>The widow’s moan, and the orphan’s wail,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Are often borne on the sighing gale.</p> -<p class='dramaline'>When the clarion’s voice, and the cannon’s roar,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Bear terror and ruin from shore to shore.</p> -<p class='dramaline'>I come in wrath, and the storm-clouds fly,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>In blackening folds through the darksome sky;</p> -<p class='dramaline'>And the mariner wakes from his joyful dream,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>Midst the tempest’s roar, and the lightning’s gleam;</p> -<p class='dramaline'>In the fathomless vaults of the ocean’s caves,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>He must rest ’mid the tumult of angry waves.</p> -<p class='dramaline'>I am fearless of sky, or of earth or sea,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>But soar over all with pinions free;</p> -<p class='dramaline'>I sport with the curls of the laughing child,</p> -<p class='dramaline'>With the bandit play, or the maiden mild;</p> -<p class='dramaline'>From the fragile flower to the lofty tree</p> -<p class='dramaline'>All bend in submission and yield to me.”</p> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:left;margin-left:20em;margin-top:0.5em;font-size:0.9em;'><span class='sc'>Emma.</span></p> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Yonker’s Female Seminary, 1841.</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class='tbk105'/> - -<div><h1><a id='reef'></a>THE REEFER OF ’76.</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 THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p> - -<h2 class='nobreak'>THE SHIP’S BOY.</h2> - -<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>Hillo</span>!” said Westbrook, “who’s skulking -here?” and he pushed his foot against a dark -heap, huddled up under the shade of one of the -guns. As he did so, a slight, pale-faced, sickly-looking -boy started up. “Ah! it’s you, Dick, is -it?—why I never before thought you’d skulk—there, -go—but you mustn’t do it again, my lad.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The boy was a favorite with all on board. He -had embarked at Newport, and was, therefore, a -new hand, but his quiet demeanor, as well as a -certain melancholy expression of face he always -wore, had won him a way to our hearts. Little -was known of his history, except that he was an -orphan. Punctual in the discharge of his duties, -yet holding himself aloof from the rest of the boys, -he seemed to be one, who although he had determined -to endure his present fate, was yet conscious -of having seen better days. I was the more confirmed -in my belief that he had been born to a -higher station from the choice of his words in -conversation, especially with his superiors. His -manner, too, was not that of one brought up to -buffett roughly against fortune. That one so young -should be thrust, unaided, out into the world, was a -sure passport for him to my heart, for his want of -parents was a link of sympathy uniting us together; -and we had, therefore, always been as much friends -as the relative difference of our situations, on board -a man-of-war would allow. Yet even I, so great -was his reserve, knew little more of his history than -the rest of my shipmates. Once, indeed, when I -had rendered him some little kindness, such as an -officer always has it in his power without much -trouble to himself, to bestow upon an inferior, his -heart had opened, and he had told me, more by -hints though than in direct words, that he had lost -his father and mother and a little sister, within a -few weeks of each other, and that, houseless, penniless -and friendless, he had been forced to sea by -his only remaining relatives, in order that he might -shift for himself. I suspected that he did not pass -under his real name. But whatever had been his -former lot, or however great were his sufferings, he -never repined. He went through his duty silently, -but sadly, as if—poor child!—he carried within -him a breaking heart.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Please, sir,” said he, in reply to Westbrook’s address, -“it’s but a minute any how I’ve been here.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Well, well, Dick, I believe you,” said the -warm-hearted midshipman. “But there go eight -bells, and as your watch is up, you may go below. -What! crying—fie, fie, my lad, how girl-hearted -you have grown.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I am not girl-hearted always,” sobbed the -little fellow, looking up into his superior’s face, -“but I couldn’t help crying when I thought that -to-night a year ago my mother died, and I crept -under the gun so that no one might see and laugh -at me, as they do at every one here. It was just -at this hour she died,” he continued, chokingly, -bursting into a fit of uncontrollable weeping, “and -she was the only friend I had on earth.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Poor boy! God bless you!” said Westbrook, -mentally, as the lad, finishing his passionate exclamation, -turned hastily away.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>It was my watch, and as Westbrook met me -coming on deck, he paused a moment, and said,</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Do you know any thing about that poor little -fellow, I mean Dick Rasey? God help me I’ve -been rating him for skulking, when the lad only -wanted to hide his grief for his mother from the -jests of the crew. I wouldn’t have done it for -any thing.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“No—he has always maintained the greatest -reserve respecting himself. Has he gone below?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Yes! who can he be? It’s strange I feel -such an interest in him.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Poor child!—he has seen better days, and this -hard life is killing him. I wish he could distinguish -himself some how—the skipper might then take a -fancy to him and put him on the quarter-deck.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“What a dear little middy he would make,” said -Westbrook, his gay humor flashing out through his -sadness, “why we havn’t got a cocked-hat aboard -that wouldn’t bury him up like an extinguisher, or -a dirk to spare which isn’t longer than his whole -body.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Shame, Jack—its not a matter for jest—the -lad is dying by inches.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ah! you’re right, Parker; I wish to heaven -the boy had a berth aft here. But now I must go -below, for I’m confoundedly sleepy. You’ll have -a lighter watch of it than I had. The moon will -be up directly—and there, by Jove! she comes—look -how gloriously her disc slides up behind that -wave. But this is no time for poetry, for I’m as -drowsy as if I was about to sleep, like the old -fellow in the Arabian story, for a matter of a -hundred years or more, or even like the seven -sleepers of Christendom, who fell into a doze some -centuries back, and will come to life again the Lord -knows when,” and with a long yawn, my mercurial -messmate gave a parting glance at the rising luminary, -and went below.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The spectacle to which Westbrook had called -my attention was indeed a glorious one. The -night had been somewhat misty, so that the stars -were obscured, or but faintly visible here and there; -while the light breeze that scarcely ruffled the sea, -or sighed above a whisper in the rigging, had given -an air of profound repose to the scene. When I -first stept on deck the whole horizon was buried in -this partial obscurity, and the view around, excepting -in the vicinity of the Fire-Fly, was lost in -misty indistinctness. A few moments, however, -had changed the aspect of the whole scene. -When I relieved the watch the eastern horizon -was shrouded in a veil of dark, thick vapors—for -the mists had collected there in denser masses than -any where else—while a single star, through a -rent in the midst of that weird-like canopy, shone -calmly upon the scene: but now the fog had lifted -up like a curtain from the seaboard in that quarter, -and a long greenish streak of light, stretching along -for several points, and against which the dark waves -undulated in bold relief, betokened the approach of -the moon. Even as Westbrook spoke, the upper -edge of her disc slid up above the watery horizon, -disappearing and appearing again as the surges rose -and fell against it, until gradually the huge globe -lifted its whole vast volume above the seaboard, -and while the edge of the dark canopy above shone -as if lined with pearl, a flood of glorious light, -flickering and dancing upon the billows, was poured -in a long line of molten silver across the sea toward -us, bathing hull, and spars, and sails in liquid radiance, -and seeming to transpose us in a moment -into a fairy land. Such a scene of unrivalled -beauty I had never beheld. The contrast betwixt -the dark vapors hanging over the moon, and the -dazzling brilliancy of her wake below was indeed -magnificent. I looked in mute delight. The few -stars above were at once obscured by the brighter -glories of the moon. Suddenly, however, as I gazed, -a dark speck appeared upon the surface of the moon, -and in another instant the tall masts and exquisite -tracery of a ship could be seen, in bold relief against -her disc, the fine dark lines of the hamper seeming -like the thinnest cobwebs crossing a burnished -shield of silver. So plainly was the vessel seen -that her minutest spars were perceptible as she rose -and fell gallantly on the long heavy swell.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ah! my fine fellow,” I exclaimed, “we have -you there. Had it not been for yonder pretty -mistress of the night you would have passed us -unseen. Make all sail at once—and bear up a -few points more so as to get the weather gauge of -the stranger.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ay, ay, sir.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“How gallantly the old schooner eats into the -wind,” I said, gazing with admiration on our -light little craft. I turned to the chase. “Has -the stranger altered her course?” I asked, looking -for her in the old position, but finding she was no -more visible.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“No, sir, I saw her but an instant ago: oh! -there she is—that fog bank settling down on the -seaboard hid her from sight. You can see her -now just to leeward of the moon, sir.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I looked, and as the man had said, perceived -that the dark massy bank of vapors, which had -lifted as the moon rose, was once more settling -down on the seaboard, obscuring her whole disc at -intervals, and shrouding every thing in that quarter -in occasional gloom. For a moment the strange -sail had been lost in this obscurity, but as the moon -struggled through the clouds, it once more became -visible just under the northern side of that luminary. -Apparently unconscious of our vicinity the stranger -was stealing gently along under easy sail, pitching -upon the long undulating swell, while, as he lay -almost in the very wake of the moon, every part of -his hull and rigging was distinctly perceptible. Not -a yard, however, appeared to have been moved: not -an additional sail was set. Occasionally we lost -sight of him as the moon, wading heavily through -the sombre clouds, became momentarily obscured, -although even then, from beneath the frowning -canopy of vapors above, a silvery radiance would -steal out at the edges of the clouds, tipping the -masts and sails of the stranger with a soft pearly -light that looked like enchantment itself, and which, -contrasted with the dark hues of the hull and the -gloomy deep beneath, produced an effect such as I -have never seen surpassed in nature or art.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Meanwhile the wind gradually failed us, until at -length it fell a dead calm. All this time the fog -was settling down more heavily around us, not -gathering in one compact mass however, but lying -in patches scattered over the whole expanse of the -waters, and presenting a picture such as no one, -except he is familiar with a tropical sea, can imagine. -In some places the ocean was entirely clear -of the fog, while a patch of cold, blue sky above, -spangled with innumerable stars, that shone with a -brilliancy unknown to colder climes, looked as if -cut out of the mists, which on every hand around -covered the sky as with a veil. At times a light -breeze would spring up ruffling the polished surface -of the swell, and, undulating the fog as smoke-wreaths -in the morning air, would open up, for a -moment, a sight of some new patch of blue sky -above, with its thousand brightly twinkling stars, reminding -one of the beautiful skies we used to -dream of in our infant slumbers, and then, dying -away as suddenly as it arose, the mists would -undulate uncertainly an instant, roll toward each -other, and twisting around in a thousand fantastic -folds, would finally close up, shrouding the sky -once more in gloom, and settling down bodily upon -the sombre surface of the deep. At length the -moon became wholly obscured. A few stars only -could be seen flickering fainter and fainter far up -in the fathomless ether, and finally, after momentarily -appearing and disappearing, they vanished -altogether. A profound gloom hung on all around. -The silence of death reigned over our little craft. -Even the customary sounds of the swell rippling -along our sides, or the breeze sighing through the -hamper faded entirely, and save an occasional -creaking of the boom, or the sullen falling of a -reef-point against the sail, not a sound broke the -repose of the scene. The strange sail had long -since been lost sight of to starboard. So profound -was the darkness that we could scarcely distinguish -the look-out at the forecastle from the quarter-deck. -Silent and motionless we lay, shut in by that dark -shroud of vapor, as if buried by some potent enchanter -in a living tomb.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Hist!” said a reefer of my watch to me, “don’t -you hear something, Mr. Parker?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I listened, attentively, and though my hearing -was proverbially sharp, I could distinguish nothing -for several moments. At length, however, the little -fellow pinched my arm, and inclining my eye to the -water, I heard a low monotonous sound like the -smothered rollicking of oars that had been muffled. -At first I could not credit my senses, but, as I -listened again, the sound came more distinctly to -my ears, seeming to grow nearer and nearer. -There could be no mistaking it. Directly, moreover, -these sounds ceased, and then was heard a -low murmured noise, as if human voices were -conversing together in stifled tones. At once -it flashed upon me that an attack was contemplated -upon us—by whom I knew not—though it was -probable that the enemy came from the strange -sail to starboard. It was evident, however, that -the assailants were at fault. My measures were -taken at once. Hastily ordering the watch to arm -themselves in quiet, I ordered the men to be called -silently; and, as by this time the look-outs began -to detect the approach of our unknown visitors, I -enjoined equal silence upon them, commanding -them at the same time, however, to keep a sharp -eye to starboard, in order to learn, if possible, the -exact position of the expected assailants.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>In a few minutes the men were mustered, and -prepared for the visitors, whether peaceful or not. -Most of the officers, too, had found their way on -deck, although as it was uncertain as yet whether -it might not be a false alarm, I had not disturbed -the skipper. Westbrook was already, however, -prepared for the fight, and as I ran my eye hastily -over the crew I thought I saw the slight form of -Dick Rasey, standing amongst them.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Can you hear any thing, Westbrook?” said I.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It’s like the grave!” was his whispered answer.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Pass the word on for the men to keep perfectly -quiet, but to remain at their stations.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ay, ay, sir.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>For some minutes the death-like silence which -had preceded the discovery of our unknown visitors -returned, and as moment after moment crept by -without betraying the slightest token of the vicinity -of the assailants, I almost began to doubt my -senses, and believe that the sounds I had heard -had been imaginary. The most profound obscurity -meantime reigned over our decks. So great was the -darkness that I could only distinguish a shadowy -group of human beings gathered forward, without -being able to discern distinctly any one face or -figure; while the only sound I heard, breaking -the hush around, was the deep, but half-suppressed -breathing of our men. Suddenly, however, when -our suspense had become exciting even to nervousness, -a low, quick sound was heard right off our -starboard quarter, as if one or more boats, with -muffled oars, were pulling swiftly on to us; while -almost instantaneously a dark mass shot out of the -gloom on that side, and before we could realise the -rapidity of their approach, the boat had struck our -side, and her crew were tumbling in over the bulwarks, -cutlass in hand. Our preparation took -them, however, by surprise, and for a moment they -recoiled, but instantly rallying at their leader’s voice, -they poured in upon us again with redoubled fierceness, -cheering as they clambered up our sides, and -struggled over the bulwarks.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Beat them back, Fire-Flies!” I shouted, “give -it to them with a will, boys—strike.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Press on, my lads, press on—the schooner’s -our own!” shouted the leader of the assailants.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Levelling my pistol at the advancing speaker, -and waving our men on with my sword, I gave -him no answer, but fired. The pistol flashed in -the pan. In an instant the leader of the foe was -upon me, having sprung over the bulwarks as I -spoke. He was a tall, athletic man, and lifting his -sword high above his head, while in his other hand -he presented a pistol toward my breast, he dashed -upon me. I parried his thrust with my blade, but -as he fired I felt a sharp pain in my arm, like the -puncture of a pin. I knew that I was wounded, -but it only inspired me with fiercer energy. I -made a lunge at him, but he met it with a blow of -his sword, which shivered my weapon to atoms. -Springing upon my gigantic adversary, I wreathed -my arms around him, and endeavored to make up -for the want of a weapon, by bearing him to the -deck in my arms; but my utmost exertions, desperate -as they were, scarcely sufficed to stagger -him, and shortening his blade, he was about plunging -it into my heart, when a pistol went off close -beside me, and my antagonist, giving a convulsive -leap, fell dead upon the deck. I freed myself -from his embrace and sprang to my feet, just in -time to see little Dick, with the smoke still wreathing -from the mouth of his pistol, borne away by -the press of the assault. In the next instant I lost -sight of him in the melee, which now became really -terrific. Hastily snatching a brand from one of the -fallen men, I plunged once more into the fight, for -the enemy having been by this time reinforced by -another boat, were now pouring in upon us in such -numbers that the arm of every man became absolutely -necessary. It was indeed a desperate contest. -Hand to hand and foot to foot we fought; -desperation on the one hand, and a determination to -conquer on the other, lent double fury to our crew; -while the clash of swords, the explosion of fire-arms, -the shouts of the combatants, and the groans and -shrieks of the wounded and dying, gave additional -horror to the scene. By this time our captain had -reached the deck, and his powerful voice was heard -over all the din of the battle urging on his men. -The fall of the enemy’s leader began now to be -generally known among his crew, and the consequence -was soon apparent in their wavering and -want of unity. In vain the inferior officers urged -them on; in vain they found their retreat cut off by -the shot we had hove into their boats; in vain they -were reminded by their leaders that they must now -conquer or die, they no longer fought with the -fierceness of their first onset, and though they still -combatted manfully, and some of them desperately, -they had lost all unity of purpose, and, struck with -a sudden panic, at a last overwhelming charge of -our gallant followers, they fled in disorder, some -leaping wildly overboard, some crying for quarter -when they could retreat no farther, and all of them -giving up the contest as lost. Not a soul escaped. -They who did not fall in the strife were either -drowned in the panic-struck flight, or made prisoners. -The whole contest did not last seven -minutes. When they found themselves deserted by -their men the officers sullenly resigned their swords, -and we found that our assailants were a cutting -out party from the ship to starboard, an English -frigate.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The man-of-war had not, it seems, discovered us -until some time after the moon arose, when her -light, happening to fall full upon our sails, betrayed -us to their look-outs. The darkness almost directly -afterward obscured us from sight, and the calm that -ensued forbade her reaching us herself. Her boats -were consequently manned, with the intention of -carrying us by boarding. The most singular portion -of it was that none of us perceived that the -stranger was a man-of-war, but this may be accounted -for from her being built after a new model, -which gave her the appearance of a merchantman.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The bustle of the fight was over; the prisoners -had been secured; the decks had been washed -down; my wound which turned out slight had been -properly attended to; and the watch had once more -resumed their monotonous tread; while at proper -intervals, the solemn cry, “all’s well,” repeated -from look-out to look-out, betokened that we were -once more in security, before I sought my hammock. -I soon fell asleep, but throughout the night -I was troubled by wild dreams in which Beatrice, -the ship’s boy, and the late strife, were mingled -promiscuously. At length I awoke. It was still -dark, and the only light near was a single lantern -hung at the extremity of the apartment. My fellow -messmates around were all buried in sleep. Suddenly, -the surgeon’s mate stood beside me.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Parker!” said he.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I raised myself up and gazed curiously into his -face.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Little Dick, sir—” he began.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“My God!” I exclaimed, for I had actually forgotten, -in the excitement of the combat and the -succeeding events, to enquire about my young preserver, -and I now felt a strange presentiment that -the mate had come to acquaint me with his death—“what -of him? Is any thing the matter?” I asked -eagerly.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I fear, sir,” said the messenger, shaking his -head sadly, “that he cannot live till morning.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“And I have been lying here,” I exclaimed, reproachfully, -“while the poor boy is dying,” and I -sprang at once from my hammock, hurried on my -clothes, saying, “lead me to him at once.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“He is delirious, but in the intervals of lunacy -he asks for you, sir,” and as the man spoke we -stood by bedside of the dying boy.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The sufferer did not lie in his usual hammock, -for it was hung in the very midst of the crew, and -the close air around it was really stifling; but he -had been carried to a place, nearly under the open -hatchway, and laid there in a little open space of -about four feet square. From the sound of the -ripples I judged the schooner was in motion, while -the clear calm blue sky, seen through the opening -overhead and dotted with myriads of stars, betokened -that the fog had broken away. How calmly -it smiled down on the wan face of the dying boy. -Occasionally a light current of wind—oh! how -deliciously cool in that pent-up hold—eddied down -the hatchway, and lifted the dark chesnut locks of -the sufferer, as, with his little head reposing in the -lap of an old veteran, he lay in an unquiet slumber. -His shirt-collar was unbuttoned, and his childish -bosom, as white as that of a girl, was open and exposed. -He breathed quick and heavily. The wound -of which he was dying, had been intensely painful, -but within the last half hour had somewhat lulled, -though even now his thin fingers tightly grasped -the bed-clothes as if he suffered the greatest agony. -Another battle-stained and gray-haired seaman stood -beside him, holding a dull lantern in his hand, and -gazing sorrowfully down upon the sufferer. The -surgeon knelt beside him, with his finger on the -boy’s pulse. As I approached they all looked up. -The veteran who held him shook his head, and -would have spoken, but the tears gathered too -chokingly in his eyes. The surgeon said,—</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“He is going fast,—poor little fellow—do you -see this?” and as he spoke he lifted up a rich gold -locket, which had lain upon the boy’s breast. “He -has seen better days.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I could not answer, for my heart was full. Here -was the being to whom, but a few hours before I -had owed my life—a poor, slight, unprotected -child—lying before me, with death already written -on his brow,—and yet I had never known of his -danger, and never even sought him out after the -conflict. How bitterly my heart reproached me in -that hour. They noticed my agitation, and his old -friend—the seaman that held his head—said sadly,</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Poor little Dick—you’ll never see the shore -again you have wished for so long. But there’ll -be more than one—thank God!—when your log’s -out, to mourn over you.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Suddenly the little fellow opened his eyes, and -gazed vacantly around.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Has he come yet?” he asked in a low voice. -“Why won’t he come?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I am here,” said I, taking the little fellow’s -hand, “don’t you know me, Dick?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Doctor, I am dying, ain’t I?” said the little -fellow, “for my sight grows dim. God bless you, -Mr. Parker, for this. I see you now,” and he -faintly pressed my hand.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Can I do nothing for you, Dick?” said I, “you -saved my life. God knows I would coin my own -blood to buy yours.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I have nothing to ask, only, if it be possible, -let me be buried by my mother,—you will find the -name of the place, and all about it, in my trunk.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Anything—everything, my poor lad,” I answered -chokingly.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The little fellow smiled faintly—it was like an -angel’s smile—but he did not answer. His eyes -were fixed on the stars flickering in that patch of -blue sky, far overhead. His mind wandered.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It is a long—long way up there,—but there -are bright angels among them. Mother used -to say that I would meet her there. How near -they come, and I see bright faces smiling on me -from them. Hark! is that music?” and, lifting his -finger, he seemed listening intently for a moment. -He fell back; and the old veteran burst into tears. -The child was dead. Did he indeed hear angels’ -voices? God grant it.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I opened his trunk, and then discovered his real -name. Out of mercy to the unfeeling wretches, -who were his relatives, and who had forced him to -sea, I suppress it. Suffice it to say, his family had -once been rich, but that reverses had come upon -them. His father died of a broken heart, nor did -his mother long survive. Poor boy! I could not -fulfil the whole of his injunction, for we were far -out at sea, but I caused a cenotaph to be erected -for him beside his mother’s grave. It tells the simple -tale of <span class='sc'>The Ship’s Boy</span>.</p> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Philadelphia, May, 1841.</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class='tbk106'/> - -<div><h1><a id='time'></a>TIME’S CHANGES.</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 JOHN W. FORNEY.</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'>There</span> is a sweet and wildering dream</p> -<p class='line0'>  Of by-gone fresh and joyous hours,</p> -<p class='line0'>Which gilds the memory with its beam,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And the stern spirit overpowers.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Seen thro’ the chequered glass of Time,</p> -<p class='line0'>  How spell-like do its glories rise!</p> -<p class='line0'>Like some ethereal pantomime</p> -<p class='line0'>  Danced on the skirt of autumn skies!</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>We stand and gaze; and wonder-rapt,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Think of the changing power of years,</p> -<p class='line0'>As on our brow its trace has crept,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And from our eyes exacted tears.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>There is glad childhood, rob’d in smiles,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And beauteous as a dew-gem’d flower,</p> -<p class='line0'>Whose silver laugh and boyish wiles,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Usurp the mother many an hour.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>There is the first half-spoken word,</p> -<p class='line0'>  How rare a music to her ear!</p> -<p class='line0'>She listens, as she had not heard,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And hearing, owns it with a tear.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>There is a passing on of Time—</p> -<p class='line0'>  The boy is merged into the man—</p> -<p class='line0'>And daringly he frets to climb</p> -<p class='line0'>  What once his vision could not scan.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Come back from this poetic scene!</p> -<p class='line0'>  Come from this scene of flowery youth!</p> -<p class='line0'>Come from the time when all was green,</p> -<p class='line0'>  To cold and dreary, stubborn truth.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Look on your own now withered brow,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Where care sits emperor of the mind;</p> -<p class='line0'>Look to your throbbing heart; and now</p> -<p class='line0'>  Cast all these dreams of youth behind.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Read the sad change which Time has wrought</p> -<p class='line0'>  Compare it by your memory’s glass;</p> -<p class='line0'>And turn from that whose lightest thought</p> -<p class='line0'>  Points to the grave where ages pass.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>See, from the cradle to the tomb,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Though years are multiplied between,</p> -<p class='line0'>How brief, in varied joy and gloom,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Is Life’s wild, feverish, fitful scene.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>But yesterday, and youth was drest</p> -<p class='line0'>  In dimpled and in smiling glee,</p> -<p class='line0'>Drawn, with fond fervor, to her breast,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Or throned upon a mother’s knee.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>To-day, and Time, with added years,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Has stampt his progress on our brow</p> -<p class='line0'>In manhood’s pallid care, and tears</p> -<p class='line0'>  Unbidden dim the vision now.</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Lancaster, Pa. 1841.</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class='tbk107'/> - -<div><h1><a id='heir'></a>THE LOST HEIR.</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 H. J. VERNON.</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>Well</span> flown, falcon—see how it mounts into -the clouds—the heron has it—on, on knights and -ladies fair, or we shall not be in at the death.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>As the speaker ceased, the falcon, which had -been mounting in gyrations growing narrower and -narrower as it ascended above its prey, suddenly -stooped from its height, and shooting upon the -heron, like a thunderbolt, bore the huge bird in its -talons to the earth. The swoop, and the descent -passed with the rapidity of lightning, and in a -moment after the gallant train were gallopping to -the assistance of the falcon.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Their way lay along the high bank of the river, -from whose reedy margin the heron had been -roused. The path was often broken, and difficult -to traverse; but so eager were all to reach the -desired point that no one appeared to mind these -inequalities. Suddenly the path made an almost -precipitous descent, and while a portion of the -train dashed recklessly down the steep, the more -prudent checked their course, and sought a less -dangerous road. By this means the party became -divided, that which remained on the brow of the -hill being by far the more numerous. The other -group consisted, indeed, of but three individuals—a -falconer, a page, and the niece of their master, the -Earl of Torston. The palfrey of the latter was one -of rare speed, and it was with difficulty that the -two servitors could keep up with their beautiful and -high-spirited mistress.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“On Ralph—ay, Leoline, you are falling behind,” -she said, glancing around at her companions as the -distance between them rapidly increased.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“To the right—to the right,” shouted the falconer, -“the heron has fallen in the marsh.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The maiden suddenly drew her rein in, to follow -this direction; but as she did so a half a score of -men, attired as Scottish borderers, started from the -thickets around, and seizing her bridle, and that of -her attendants, vanished with them into the recesses -of the forest. All efforts at resistance were precluded -by the numbers of the assailants, and lest -the two servitors should alarm their now rapidly -approaching companions, they were hastily gagged. -The whole party then set forward at a brisk pace -toward the neighboring Scottish border.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The lady Eleanor was one of the most beautiful -maidens of the north of England, and her expectations -from her childless uncle were equalled only by -her charms. Already had many a gallant knight -broken a lance in defence of her beauty, or sought -even more openly to win her for his bride. But to -all alike she bore the same demeanor. Her heart -was as yet untouched. Gay, sportive, full of wit, -and not altogether unconscious of her exalted station, -the heiress of three baronies continued to be -the idol of her uncle, and the admiration of the -English chivalry. It was while engaged in -hawking with her train that she had been surprised, -as we have related, by a band of Scottish -marauders, with the intention of profiting by her -ransom.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>For some hours the party continued their flight -with unabated speed, concealing themselves in the -depths of the forests, until they had left the possessions -of Lord Torston, and gained a range of barren -and desolate hills, where there was little likelihood -of meeting with interruption. The object of the -capturers was obviously to bear off their prize -across the border, so rapidly as to defy all measures -to be taken for her rescue.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The lady Eleanor was not, however, without -considerable energy of character, arising in part -no doubt from the stormy times in which she lived, -for she had listened so often to the tales of her -ancestor’s deeds that she felt it would derogate -from her, even though a maiden, not to shew a -portion of the same spirit in disaster. As they -were hurried along, therefore, she busied herself in -revolving a plan for her escape. But she could -think of no feasible scheme, without the co-operation -of her servitors, and they were kept so far in -the rear, and guarded so carefully, that any communication -with them she saw would be impossible. -In this perplexity she breathed a silent prayer to -the virgin, and was about resigning herself to her -fate when the wail of a bugle broke upon her ear, -and looking up she beheld three horsemen crossing -the brow of a hill, a few yards distant. At the -same moment the marauders recognised the new -comers as enemies, and hurrying their captives into -the rear prepared for the fray.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ah! what have we here?” exclaimed the leader -of the men-at-arms, a bold stalwart youth, just verging -into manhood, turning to his companions, “by -St. George, a pack of Scottish thieves—and there -is a lady among them, a prisoner I trow, for she -is dressed like a maiden of rank. What say you, -comrades? we are three good men against yon -dozen varlets, shall we attempt a rescue?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ay—ay—Harry Bowbent, lead on,” exclaimed -the leader of his companions, “for though your -blood is often over-hot, yet who could refuse to -charge yon Scottish knaves in such a cause?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The marauders had, meanwhile, drawn themselves -up across the road, and when the three men-at-arms -spurred their horses to the charge, the -Scots received them by stepping briskly aside, and -striking at the animals with their huge swords. -Two of the assailants were thus brought to the -ground at the first onset; but the one called Bowbent, -and his elder companion, bore each a Scotsman -to the earth with his long lance, and then -taking to their swords, struck about them with -such fury as to finish the contest in a space of time -almost as short as that which it takes to narrate it. -They did not, however, gain this victory without -cost. Both the youth and his elder comrade were -wounded, while the man-at-arms, who had been -unhorsed, was killed. Several of the marauders -fell on the field, and the others took to flight.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Poor Jasper,” said the youth, looking mournfully -upon his slain follower, “your life was soon -ended. God help me! misfortunes seem to attend -on all who espouse my fortunes.” And, after regarding -the dead man a moment longer, the youth -turned away with a sigh, to fulfil his remaining -duty, by inquiring whom he had rescued, and offering -to conduct her to a place of safety.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Meanwhile the lady Eleanor had been an anxious -though admiring spectator of the contest, and many -a prayer did she breathe for the success of her gallant -rescuers. The boldness of the youth especially -aroused her interest, and her heart beat faster -and her breath came quicker, whenever he seemed -on the point of being overpowered. As he now -moved toward her, she felt, she knew not why, the -color mounting in her cheeks,—and as he raised -his visor, she could not but acknowledge that the -countenance beneath, vied with, and even excelled, -in manly beauty and frankness of expression, any -she had ever seen. The youth, however, had just -began to express, in the courtly language of the -day, his delight at having come up so opportunely, -when a sudden paleness shot over his countenance, -and after endeavoring vainly to speak, he sank, -fainting to the ground.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It is only this ugly wound in his side,” said his -older comrade, noticing the alarm in the maiden’s -countenance, “he has fainted from loss of blood.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Can he not be borne to the castle?—here -Ralph, Leoline, a litter for the wounded man—but, -see, he revives.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The wounded youth opened his eyes faintly, and -gazed upon the maiden as she spoke, and then -closed them, as if in pain.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“He has fainted again,” said the lady Eleanor, -“cannot the blood be staunched? I have some -slight skill in the healing art, let me at least bind -up his wounds.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Taking a scarf from her neck as she spoke, the -maiden proceeded to examine the hurts of the young -man-at-arms, and having carefully bound them up, -during which operation the reviving sufferer testified -his mute gratitude by his looks, she allowed him to -be placed on the rude litter her servitors had hastily -prepared for him, and then the whole party set out -to return to the castle.</p> - -<hr class='tbk108'/> - -<p class='pindent'>It was a fortnight after the above events, and the -wounded youth was now convalescent. The room -in which he sat, was a large old gothic apartment, -but the mild breath of summer stealing through the -open window, and bearing the odor of flowers upon -its bosom, gave a freshness to that old chamber, -which banished, for the time, its gloominess. The -invalid was sitting up, and by his side was the lady -Eleanor, gazing up into his eyes with a look which -a woman bestows only upon the one she loves.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>On reaching the castle, the lady Eleanor, in the -absence of her uncle, ordered the utmost attentions -to be paid to the wounded young man. In consequence, -the best room in the castle was allotted to -him, and in the absence of a better leech, and in -compliance with the customs of the time, the lady -Eleanor herself became his physician. Opportunities -were thus presented for their being together, -which, as he grew more convalescent, became dangerous -to the peace of both. Perhaps it was his -dependence on her skill; perhaps it was the wound -he had received in her cause; perhaps it was that -she had expected no refinement whatever in one -apparently of such questionable rank; perhaps—but -no matter—like many a one before and since, it -was not long before the lady Eleanor found that in -attending her patient, she had lost her heart.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Nor was the wounded youth less inspired by -affection for his fair physician. Gratitude for her -kindness, to say nothing of her sweetness and -beauty, had long since won his most devoted love. -And, now, as they sat together, one might perceive, -by the heightened color on the cheek of the maiden, -and the unresisting manner in which her hand lay -in that of the youth, that their mutual affections had -just been revealed to each other in words.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Yes—sweet one,” said the youth, as if continuing -a conversation, “we may have much to overcome -before we triumph, if indeed we ever may; -and I almost wish that we had never met.” His -companion looked at him chidingly. “No, not -that either, dearest. But yet I would I could remove -this uncertainty that hangs around my birth. -I am at least a gentleman born—of that I have -always been assured—I am, moreover a knight; -but whether the son of a peer, or of one with only -a single fee, I know not. Until this uncertainty -can be removed, I cannot pretend openly to aspire -to your hand. I almost fear me that my honor -may be questioned, thus to plight my vows with -you, dear Eleanor; yet fate, which has thrown us -thus together, has some meaning in her freak.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“May it prove indeed so,” said the maiden. -“But you say you were always told you were noble -born. Who assured you of this? Indeed, I must -hear your history, for who knows,” continued she -archly, “but I may unravel your riddle?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Of my early life I know little, for though I -remember events as far back even as infancy, yet -it is but faintly, as we often remember incidents in a -dream. Indeed I have often thought that these -memories may be nothing more than vague recollections -of dreams themselves happening so far back -in my childhood as to seem like realities. Be that -as it may, I have these shadowy impressions of -living when very young in a large old castle, with -hosts of retainers, and being served as if I was the -owner of all. I remember also a fine noble looking -man, and a lovely lady who used to take me in her -arms and smile upon me. One day—it seems but -yesterday, and I remember this more distinctly than -any thing else—I was taken out by my attendants, -who were, I suspect, attacked and overpowered, for -I found myself rudely seized by a rough soldier, at -whom I cried, and by whom I was carried off. I -never saw any of my attendants more. Every face -around me was new, and for days I thought my -heart would break. I think I must have been -carried into Scotland, for as I grew up the country -around looked barren like it, and my protectors -were continually returning from forays over the -border on the Southron as they call us. Besides -even yet I have somewhat of their accent in my -speech.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I could not have been but a very young child, -however, when I changed my protectors, and went -beyond sea. For two or three years we travelled -much; but finally settled in France. Those with -whom I resided were of the better sort of peasants, -and consisted of an old woman and her daughter. -We were often visited by a stern, dark man, whom -I was told was a knight. He indeed must have -been the person who was my real protector, for -after a while, my habitation was again changed, -and I became the resident of an old decayed fortalice, -where a warden and one or two servants constituted -the whole household. Here I remained -for many years, and until I was past my boyhood. -I saw no more of my imagined protector, but I -have every reason to believe he owned the old -castle, where, by-the-bye, I picked up some knowledge -of war-like-exercises; sufficient indeed to fit -me, at the age of eighteen, to be sent to the army -as a man-at-arms. I served a campaign under the -banner of the Sieur de Lorenge, to whom I had -been recommended by, I suppose, my unknown -protector. His secret agency I have no doubt was -exerted in procuring me to be knighted. Since -then I have been thrown upon my own resources, -and for a couple of years have served in Flanders, -but wishing to discover, if possible, my real birth, I -left the continent, and reaching England, set out on -this apparently insane search. I have been engaged -in it more than a half a year, and have yet obtained -no clue to my parentage. I judge it, however, to -be English, from my having been brought up in -Scotland, for I was certainly taken prisoner in a -foray. And now, dearest, you have my history—and -what, alas! do you know of me, except that I -am a penniless unknown knight, hunting through -this broad realm for a parentage?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The maiden did not answer the question of her -lover directly, but seemed lost in thought. She -gazed wonderingly upon the speaker, and said,—</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Strange!—if it should prove to be so.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Wondering at her inexplicable question, her lover -said,—</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“What is strange, dearest?” But scarcely had -this inquiry been made, when a servant appeared, -informing the lovers, that the uncle of the lady -Eleanor had arrived unexpectedly from court, and -begged at once to be allowed to pay his thanks to -the brave knight who had rescued his niece.</p> - -<hr class='tbk109'/> - -<p class='pindent'>It was a fortnight later in our history. A small -cavalcade was winding along a romantic road, late -in the afternoon. At its front rode two knights, -completely armed, except as to their heads, which -were covered with light caps, instead of helmets. -A palfrey, upon which rode a lady, and the numerous -handmaidens in the group, showed the cavalcade -to be that of a woman of rank.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Suddenly the procession reached the brow of a -hill, overlooking a wide reach of pasture and woodland. -An extensive valley stretched below, through -which meandered a stream, that now glittered in -the sunlight, and was now lost to sight as it entered -the mazes of the forest. In the very centre of the -valley, and on a gentle elevation, stood a large and -extensive castle, its defences reaching completely -around the low hill upon which it stood. As the -prospect broke upon the sight, the two knights drew -in their reins, and the elder turning to the younger -one, whom the reader will instantly recognise as -the hero of our tale, said,—</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Yonder is Torston castle, and in less than an -hour we shall be within its walls.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“And a noble fortress it is, my lord. I have -seen many both in this fair realm and in France, -but few to equal yon proud castle.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“The landscape is itself a fine one,” said Lord -Torston, “though few of our profession of arms -have an eye for beauty.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“The rudest boor, my lord, could not fail to -admire this scene. And yet it does not seem -wholly new to me. I have an indistinct impression -of having beheld something like it before.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps, in some fair valley of France. But -we must push on, or we shall not reach the castle -until nightfall.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A brisker pace, however, soon brought the cavalcade -to the outskirts of the domain. Descending -the hill, they passed amid verdant woods and open -lawns, and villages scattered here and there, until -they readied the immediate vicinity of the castle, -and in a few minutes more they entered the large -gateway, and drew up in the court-yard. Every -thing around seemed to recall to the mind of the -young knight some long forgotten dream; and -when alighting, they entered the hall, with its raised -table at the upper end and the large antlers surmounting -the dais, it appeared to him as if he had -returned to some favorite place on which he had -been wont to gaze in days long gone by. Suddenly -he paused, looked eagerly around, placed his hand -to his brow, and said—</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“My lord, this is strange. It seems to me as if -I knew this place, and every step only reveals some -old remembered feature to me. It cannot be that I -have dreamed of it.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“No, Sir Henry, you have not. You have seen -it, but long ago. I have suspected this for some -days, but I am now convinced.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“My lord,” said the young knight with a bewildered -air, “what mean you? It cannot be, and -yet your words, your looks, your gestures, imply it—am -I to find in this castle my birth-place?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Yes! my son,” exclaimed the baron, unable -longer to control the emotions, which had been -swelling for days in his bosom, “and in me you -find a father,” and opening his arms, his long lost -son fell into his arms.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I no sooner saw your face,” said the father, -when these emotions had subsided sufficiently to -permit an explanation, “than I felt a yearning towards -you, for it reminded me of your mother. But -when I heard your story,” he continued, “it tallied -so completely with the loss of my only son, that I -suspected at once that you were my child. Your -age, too, agreed with what his should have been. -Unwilling, however, to make known my belief, I -enjoined silence on my niece, determining to bring -you here in order to see if the sight of your birth-place -would awaken old recollections in your bosom. -I have succeeded. I do not doubt but that -you are my son,—and now let me lead you to your -cousin, who by this time will have changed her apparel, -and be ready to receive us.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“One moment, only,” said Sir Henry, “I have -that here, which as yet I have shewn to no one. It -is a ring I wore on my neck when a child. Here -it is.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“God be praised, my son,” said the old baron, -“for removing every doubt. This is your mother’s -wedding ring, which, after her death, you wore -around your neck,” and the long-separated father -and son again embraced, while tears of joy and -thankfulness stole down the old man’s face.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Is it to be supposed that the lady Eleanor looked -more coldly on her lover, now that every difficulty -in the way of their union was removed: or that the -young heir was less eager to possess himself of his -bride, because, by wedding her, he would preserve -to her the possessions which otherwise she would -lose? Truth compels us to answer both questions -in the negative. Scarcely a month had elapsed -before the young knight led his blooming cousin to -the altar, while his new-found father looked on with -a joy which he had thought, as a childless man, he -could never more have experienced. And in the -proud array of England’s proudest chivalry, which -met at Torston castle to celebrate the nuptials, no -one demeaned himself more gallantly, or won more -triumphs in the lists, than the young knight, now -no longer Harry Bowbent, the soldier of fortune, -but the heir of the richest earldom in the realm.</p> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Clairfait Hall, 1841.</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class='tbk110'/> - -<div><h1><a id='sigh'></a>SIGHS FOR THE UNATTAINABLE.</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 WEST THOMSON.</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'>My heart is like the basin deep,</p> -<p class='line0'>  From which a fountain’s waters flow—</p> -<p class='line0'>It cannot all its treasures keep,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Nor find them welcome when they go.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>From its recesses dark and drear,</p> -<p class='line0'>  There bubble up a thousand springs,</p> -<p class='line0'>Sparkles of hope, and drops of fear,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Wild thoughts and strange imaginings.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>’Tis full of great and high desires—</p> -<p class='line0'>  It swells with wishes proud but vain—</p> -<p class='line0'>And on its altar kindle fires,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Whose wasted warmth but nurtures pain.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>And feelings come, with potent spell,</p> -<p class='line0'>  In many a wildering throng combined,</p> -<p class='line0'>Whose force no words can ever tell,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Nor language e’er a likeness find.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>But, ah! how sinks my saddened soul,</p> -<p class='line0'>  To know, with all its longings high,</p> -<p class='line0'>It ne’er can reach the tempting goal,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Nor to the lofty issue fly.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>To feel the ardent wish to range</p> -<p class='line0'>  The world of thought and fancy o’er,</p> -<p class='line0'>Yet know—oh! contradiction strange!</p> -<p class='line0'>  It owns a wing too weak to soar.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>To have the love of all that’s fair,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And beautiful and pure and free,</p> -<p class='line0'>Yet find it choked with weeds of care,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Flung from the world’s tempestuous sea.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>To feel affections warm and high,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Boiling within my panting breast,</p> -<p class='line0'>And meet a careless, cold reply,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Where sought my weary soul for rest.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Oh! give me Nature’s kindly charm,</p> -<p class='line0'>  A scene where quiet beauty reigns—</p> -<p class='line0'>Give me a heart with feeling warm,</p> -<p class='line0'>  To share my joy, to soothe my pains.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>And they who love the stormy path</p> -<p class='line0'>  Of wild Ambition’s wildered scheme,</p> -<p class='line0'>May revel in its rage and wrath,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Most welcome to the bliss they dream.</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<hr class='tbk111'/> - -<div><h1><a id='syr'></a>THE SYRIAN LETTERS.</h1></div> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;font-weight:bold;'>WRITTEN FROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.</p> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;margin-bottom:1em;'>Damascus.</p> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:left;margin-left:2em;margin-bottom:1em;'><span class='sc'>Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting</span>:</p> - -<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>I hope</span> you will not deem me tedious, my friend, -if I endeavor to describe to you the manner in which -Lactantius maintained the truth of that faith of -which he is one of the most illustrious advocates. -But you should have heard him, to have felt yourself -in the presence of one of the greatest of men. As -the day was mild, Septimus ordered the couches to -be disposed along the level roof, as affording much -the most delightful place to hold a conversation, -for so harmless is the air of this climate, that you -may even take your midnight repose under the -open sky; and this they inform us is the reason -why this land is so noted for those who are skilled -in the map of the heavens. This, you may truly -say, should be no matter of surprise, for it may be -held impossible that one the least inclined to meditation -should behold, night after night, without being -fired with the spirit of investigation, that overspreading -canopy unbounded and far reaching as eternity, -but bright with wheeling stars, that rise at their -own fixed moment, and set behind some well-known -peak, and thus, year after year, traverse the same -unvarying and harmonious circle, without collision -with their sister orbs—glorious and imperishable.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The sun, last sinking toward Cyprus, robbed of -his exhausting heats, was mildly burning above -Lebanon. The city lay on every side. In one -direction rose the pillar of Antonine; in another -the amphitheatre; and you might, with steady observation, -see the wild beasts pacing to and fro, -with impatient step, their well-barred cages, kept -now more for curiosity than sport. In another -quarter the accustomed grove relieved the wilderness -of marble, like a clump of palms which often -starts out so refreshingly against the whitened sands.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>But, what was most beautiful to behold from this -elevated site, was the far receding valley in which -this city is built, sheltered on either hand by an -eternal battlement of rocks, cultivated to the utmost -stretch of industry, clothed with its fruitful vines, -and glistening with its hundred gardens, temples -and villas, wherever you might look. Through its -centre ran the mazy Leontes, shining from among -its tufted banks, and catching ever and anon the -parting glories of the sun while on its bosom, or -suddenly emerging from some green shade, the eye -detected, by the sparkling of the oar, the gaily -colored galley, freighted with many a light heart. -Thus raised above the bustle of the crowded -thoroughfares, and soothed by the Cyprian breeze, -we felt the inspiring influence of all we saw.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Lactantius was the first to speak.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I hesitate not to avow,” said he, “that I feel -a deep solicitude in behalf of my friend Mobilius. -Would that I had the power to expound to him the -unsatisfactory reliance of his faith, the feebleness -of its supports, and the terms of its delusions. As -the shivering reed trembles on the first assault of -the rude wind, so does this perishable belief upon -the first advance of swift-footed adversity; forsaking -you when you most require the aid of ready guidance -and bright-eyed consolation.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Brought from Egypt by the crafty priest, that -land of science, but of superstition, he planted it in -a soil where he was certain it would thrive, and -to make success more sure he mingled with it the -gaudy ceremonies of Chaldea. Strange that so -noxious a plant should flourish as well as in its -native soil, and so near the walls of Bethlehem.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“They burn an offering of perpetual fires to the -king of day—what a sorry imitation of his light -when but a struggling ray shall quench it! They -behold his blinding brightness, they feel his piercing -heats, they see nature bloom beneath his smiles, -and they forget he sprang from something. They -look not beyond. Will the sun rescue us from -affliction, and heal us in the hour of sickness? -How,” he exclaimed, warming as he spoke, and -felt the influence of rapt attention—“How shall -glittering rites propitiate that which can neither -feel nor see, which was created to rule the day, -divide the light from darkness, and mark the rolling -seasons, but has no power to save, to heal or vanquish? -The throbbing pulse, the glistening eye, the -kindly sympathy we feel in another’s anguish speaks -to us of a soul, declares to us we sprang from some -sublime and all wise original. Behold,” said he, -rising from his couch with a commanding attitude, -“yon temple, the boast of Syria, what symmetry, -what grandeur!—as wise would it be to say it sprang -from nothing, as that sun, which from time almost -incalculable, has risen in the east and set beneath -those mountains. It must have been the instrument -of an all wise purpose. Then why not adore -the source through whose command it blazed into -existence?</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“How is it, Mobilius, that the faithful follower -in our faith, worn out by agonising pain, or hastening, -hour after hour, toward certain dissolution, -every thing, the bright skies, the anxious faces of -those that gather round him, exposing to his fading -eye—how is it he is yet more cheerful as his shattered -frame sinks into increasing weakness—so -that neither the stake, with its tortures, the amphitheatre, -with its jeers and cruel glances, nor the -silent chamber, where the last enemy of the good -man approaches with slower step, and where he -does not find the support or triumph of a martyrdom, -shall shake his confidence?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Here Mobilius seemed oppressed with affliction.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“What is it, my good friend,” said Lactantius, -“that grieves you?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I will tell you: your words shoot anguish -through my soul, but it is for memories that are -past. My sister, she on whom I lavished every -thought, and all that I possessed, was snatched -from me in the midst of mutual happiness. She -lingered, and was buoyed up by some sweet and -hidden consolation she appeared anxious to impart, -but the flickering flame of life burnt too feebly in -the lamp. It was, it must have been this; would I -had known it, that I might have whispered into her -ear I knew it. Her last look was cast upon the -blue depths of heaven, as if in earnest contemplation -of some glorious spectacle, and she died with -a sweet smile upon her features, as if listening to -sweet music. ‘Mobilius,’ she said, pointing upward, -‘Mobilius, my dear brother, behold the—’ -but the trembling syllables died into a whisper—she -had fled! There were to me sweet smiles no -longer to cheer the vigor of my desolation—I was -alone in the world.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Console yourself,” replied Lactantius, “this -was an evidence your sister died in peace. Trouble -not yourself on this account, you may meet her -again.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>At this communication his countenance, dull and -heavy with grief, brightened as the sun through -showers. You have seen a piece of marble carved -into a coarse resemblance of the face. You have -come again. The chisel of a master spirit has -been busy in its god-like lineaments. It almost -speaks; the dull, cold marble almost warms into a -smile—such was the change. Mobilius, gathering -his mantle about him, abruptly left us, nor did I see -him again throughout that day.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The stars began to glimmer as the sunlight -waned, and we felt in all its bounteous fulness the -care-dispelling influence of this clime. The conversation -was prolonged, and I found that Lactantius -was as well skilled in the policy of existing -governments, as in the peculiarities of all the prevailing -theologies, in short, as competent for the -duties of a statesman as a bishop; and it grieves -me not a little that so many should be raised to -this eminent station in the church so far inferior to -Lactantius, while he, blessed with every natural -gift, endowed with the quickest of intellects—enriched -with all the learning—polished, fiery and -overwhelming in speech, or if it please him, mild -and winning as the softest Lydian measure, the -Christian and the philosopher, should be thrust aside. -This age will be signalised upon the page of the -historian, as much because it gave birth to a Constantine -as that on it there flourished a Lactantius.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>We now descended, and the evening passed in -the enjoyments of those rational pleasures which -are always sought with an increasing relish.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>To turn to another topic, shall I propose a subject -for thy solution? What is that which may be -likened to the gleam that struggles through the -dark and overhanging mists, driving away in its -scattering brightness the gloom of the weeping -clouds? Yes, and I have known it prove stronger -than the precepts of philosophy, or the examples of -heroic ardor, kindling dying courage, inspiring god-like -resolution, and confessing a manly port and -look which seemed to herald victory ere it was -achieved. More enlivening than the wine of Chios, -let it but beam upon you, and the mist of bewilderment -flies, and in its place you find that joy the -poets so sweetly picture. What is it, you say, has -induced Servilius to wander from the thread of his -narrative? Of a certainty you cannot hesitate a moment—a -woman’s smile! You whisper the boy -Cupid, and that no other than one assailed by his -dart, could invest with such rosy hues that which -one sees and feels every hour of the day.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>But let me pause. I am writing to a philosopher, -and one who may chide me when he remembers -the discussions we have had upon this matter, and -in which I took the sterner part. But I recant, I -renounce my errors. You have influence, Cornelius, -at Athens. Place the good of all that is left to us -below upon a loftier pedestal. Woman should be -looked up to with admiration, and not down upon -with contempt. What, as yourself must admit, so -softens the rigors of existence as the winning influence -of woman, and why should they be treated -as so insignificant a portion of the state? Be persuaded -that that nation, which by its laws most -elevates the character of woman, which pays the -most profound obeisance to their gentle virtues, is -nearest the standard of true happiness, and surest -in the certainty of its duration.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>These were my reflections, when who other -should approach, as wearied and heated from exposure -to the sun, I had thrown myself upon a couch -beside a fountain in the hall of Septimus, both unperceiving -and unperceived until too late to retreat, -than Placidia and Lucretia. They seemed to hesitate -and blush, but instantly arising, I invited them -to stay.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“You came, I know, to seek the coolness of -this airy hall, and you must permit me to retire.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“No!” they exclaimed, “that we must not do.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“You look wearied,” Lucretia added.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I have been pacing the crowded streets -of this proud city in search of amusement and instruction.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“How is it?” she asked, “that you youth of -Rome who travel, take such pleasure in beholding -a pile of marble variously disposed. Having seen -one handsome temple, I am sure all the rest are -like it, though perchance they may be somewhat -larger or smaller, or have an additional column or -so. Is it a taste which is natural or does it come -of cultivation?” and thus she dashed on in the -same gay strain, as if undetermined whether to -speak with lightness or with seriousness. Placidia -now began a skilful attack upon my adversary, nor -could the best disciple of the schools have made a -more effectual sally.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It was but yesterday, Lucretia, I heard you -discourse so prettily about the great buildings in the -city, with choice of language, and glow of thought -that any poet might have envied. There were the -flowery capitals—the happy arrangement—the beautiful -designs—the—but I cannot remember the -learned phrases which you used. I have it—you -spoke but to draw our friend into an argument, -in order that he might show wherein you are in -error.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Lucretia stood silent, half-smiling, half-angry, as -if to say, tarry until a more fitting opportunity—wait -until we are alone my sweet Placidia, and I -will amply revenge myself for these unreserved -communications.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I must acknowledge, Placidia,” I replied, “the -kindness of your interposition. But the inquiry of -Lucretia has been fully answered by the unfortunate -Longinus, a copy of whose immortal works I have -now in my possessions, and it would be a source -of pleasure to study them with you.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“We embrace the proposition with delight,” she -answered, but then, as if fearing she had been too -eager, she replied, “but Mobilius must be of the -number.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Placidia,” said Lucretia, “do you know then -that Septimus and all his friends are alarmed at the -absence of Mobilius: he has not been seen since -he left us last night?” This was uttered in a tone -which led me to believe her previous gaiety was -but assumed.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Is it possible?” replied Placidia with emotion.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I must go and assist my friends in their search,” -I replied.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“But you are not acquainted with the streets of -Heliopolis, and what service could you render?”—</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Friendship, Placidia—” but she interrupted me -as if in anticipation of what I was about to say.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Go—hasten,” at the same time whispering in -my ear as she turned, and deeply blushing, “let me -see you on your return—I have something to confide -to you which hangs heavily upon my spirits.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I see how it is,” and the fire of jealousy shot -through my veins, “she loves Mobilius;” but such -ungenerous thoughts were soon driven from my -mind, when I remembered the uncertainty of the -fate of my friend. At this moment I heard the -name of Septimus cried aloud.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Where is Septimus?” exclaimed one of the -slaves as he rushed into the hall; “a lion has escaped -from the amphitheatre—” he said, and trembled -with fear.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“And has been chasing you, or you are frightened,” -I replied. “Why hesitate? the door is -closed.” He looked up, as if imploring my patience.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Worse, worse,—Mobilius was found on the -road that leads to the temple of Venus, upon Lebanon, -mangled,—” here he was completely overpowered. -Indeed, it was dreadful news, and I -asked the man no further questions. Placidia sank -senseless upon a couch, while Lucretia, greatly -affected, endeavored to support her tottering frame. -As soon as she was partially restored, I departed, -and meeting Lactantius, who had been more active -in his enquiries, he cheered me by a most agreeable -piece of news, as compared with the hopeless story -I had heard. It was only the mantle of Mobilius -that had been found, and there was no blood upon -it. I hastened to relieve the anxieties of my -friends, and was ushered into the presence of Placidia, -by her maid, who stood waiting for me under -the portico.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I hastily told her what I had heard. After expressing -her joy, she broke to me her story. “Servilius, -my friend, for you must permit me to call -you such, from your many acts of kindness I shall -never be able to repay—”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>You</span> cannot <span class='it'>repay</span>,” I whispered to myself, -“oh! cruel Placidia.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“There is something, which greatly troubles me, -and some hidden prompter seems to tell me that by -unburdening to you the cause of my sorrow, I shall -find the speediest relief.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>My heart now beat high with expectation, “dare -I hope?” I said to myself.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It cannot be a dream,” she said, with her eyes -fixed, and half-musing, as if for the moment unconscious -of my presence. “It cannot be a dream—but -I no sooner beheld the face of Mobilius, than -the recollection of youth rushed upon my memory, -and I thought of my brother and my sister, who -have long slept with the perished. They were -wrecked upon the coast of Africa, and none escaped -to bear to mourning friends the brief story of their -fate, but one, who, floating on a fragment of the -vessel, was taken up as he was on the point of -relinquishing his hold, from utter weakness, by a -Syrian galley. Messengers were despatched, and -my uncle himself undertook the risk and toil of a -journey on our behalf. But all was in vain.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“There is still an expectation to be cherished,” I -said.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Do you give hope?” said she, faintly smiling -through her tears, “affection once clung to the -feeblest support, but it has long since despaired.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It shall not despair,” I answered, with an -energy that startled, her, hurrying out of the apartment.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I soon recollected myself.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“What have I done?” I thought, “years have -rolled by, nor could I flatter myself with the hope -of success even if I wandered over all the territory -of Rome, and ventured to the unknown land of the -barbarian.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I now remembered that I had heard Apicius -speak of some wealthy merchant residing in Berytus, -who owned many galleys in communicating -with the coast of Africa, but he had gone to his -villa, and I was obliged to postpone my investigation.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Returning to the hall, I met Septimus, who told -me the last that had been heard of Mobilius was -from a Syrian merchant, who knew and accosted -him hastening toward the road leading to the -mountains, but with his eye riveted upon the path. -He advanced with rapid strides. I then told Septimus -the news his slave had brought.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Alas! there is no longer a doubt, Servilius,” he -replied, “since this is the same road on which the -temple stands.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>We parted in grief, and Septimus in despair.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>When first I met Mobilius there was a levity in -his manner which did not please me, but since his -conversations with Lactantius a noted change had -been wrought in him, and the hidden virtues of his -character shone unclouded.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>We did not meet until we mingled at the evening -tables; but no joy was there, and the silence was -only broken by a loud cry from the slaves, as if -something unusual had taken place. Septimus -arose to ascertain the cause, when he was suddenly -confronted by Mobilius, with dishevelled hair and -robes. A shriek of surprise and joy burst from -every tongue.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“We greet you, my dear Mobilius,” said Sergius, -as he pressed his hand with parental fondness.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Mobilius cast upon him a look of wonder, blended -with bewilderment, as if in the sudden but vain -effort to recall some long effaced recollection, or it -might have been from gratitude at the interest of a -stranger in a stranger’s fate. All with one accord -begged him to tell the cause of his absence.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I knew you would feel solicitude,” he said, -“and as you perceive by the dust upon my robe, I -have hastened to relieve your anxieties. The conversation -of last night, and the light that suddenly -broke upon my soul, for the while robbed me of my -senses. I hurried from you, nor did I stop until I -left the city many a pace behind me. Midnight -gathered on. I began to recollect myself and -sought shelter at the temple which lay in my way. -I struck its gate with redoubling blows. I cried -aloud, but none answered. Verily you might perish -before these cruel priests would give you protection. -A lofty tree presented the only refuge. Awakened -by the morning sun, and descending, I retraced my -steps with as much anxiety to reach Heliopolis as I -had felt to leave it. I had not gone far, however, -when to my horror I encountered that terrible lion -of the amphitheatre. Subterfuge and presence of -mind afforded the only chance of safety. Escape -was impossible, and weapon I had none. He fixed -his fiery eye upon me, lashed his tail, as if sure of -his prey, and crouched to spring. Now was the -only hope. Hastily unloosening my light robe, I -suddenly raised it upon a slender stick, torn from a -neighboring bush, and quickly stepped aside. The -deceit was successful, the furious animal sprang at -it, dragged it on the ground, and tore it into atoms. -Rushing toward a tree, while I left him at the -garment, I mounted among its branches as with -wings. I do assure you I never climbed with more -alacrity. The noble animal, discovering his mistake, -scowled with sullen fierceness toward my -place of shelter, and seemingly satisfied with the -vengeance he had taken, strode onward.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“A most fortunate escape,” ejaculated Valerius; -“you must present your gifts to-morrow at the -temple.” A tear twinkled in the eye of Lactantius, -and I fancied I saw his lips move as in the act of -prayer.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Yes, Valerius, and it is not the first escape with -which a guardian Providence has blessed me. Shipwreck -and slavery I also have escaped.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Shipwreck,” enquired Sergius, with anxiety, -“will you tell us the sad story? I had a son who -was shipwrecked,” and the old man trembled in the -effort to subdue his grief.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I will. I left Rome on a voyage to Athens; -we were driven by stress of weather into a port of -Sicily. The storm abating, we pursued our course -along the coast of Africa, being obliged to touch at -Alexandria, but we were wrecked before we reached -our haven, and nearly all the crew were swallowed -by the waves.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Pardon me for asking,” said Marcus, “but did -you not write to Rome, after you secured your -liberty, to discover whether your kindred were still -living?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I wrote many epistles, and to my uncle also, -who told me they were all carried off by a terrible -pestilence, which visited the city, and that my patrimony -had been previously confiscated to the state, -because of some act of my parent, and that if I -ventured to Rome the rage of my father’s enemies -would doubtless be turned against me. I had no -wish, however, to undertake the voyage, since those -most cherished were no more.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“And what was the name of your father?” asked -Lactantius.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Lucius Sergius.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The venerable man paused for a moment in -mute bewilderment, and then rushed into the arms -of Mobilius, exclaiming, “Caius, my son, my long -lost son!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“My sisters,” he cried, as they ran to embrace -their beloved brother, and wept with joy. It was a -touching scene, and the ecstacy of gladness brightened -every face. Here let me drop the veil with -the promise of ending the description of the trials -and fortunes of my friend in my next epistle.</p> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;margin-top:0.5em;'>Farewell.</p> - -<hr class='tbk112'/> - -<div><h1><a id='lay'></a>THE LAY OF THE AFFECTIONS.</h1></div> - - - <div class='poetry-container' style=''> - <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'><span class='sc'>Gently</span>, gently, beating heart!</p> -<p class='line0'>  Love not earthly things too well!</p> -<p class='line0'>Those who love too soon may part,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Sorrow’s waves too quickly swell.</p> -<p class='line0'>Softly, softly, boding fear!</p> -<p class='line0'>  Tell me not of fleeting bliss—</p> -<p class='line0'>Ever would I linger here</p> -<p class='line0'>  With a joy so pure as this.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Shame thee, shame thee, earthly love!</p> -<p class='line0'>  Chain not thus my spirit here!</p> -<p class='line0'>Earth must change, and joy must prove</p> -<p class='line0'>  Sure forerunner of despair.</p> -<p class='line0'>Cheer thee! cheer thee, child of God!</p> -<p class='line0'>  Trust in Heaven, and all is well,</p> -<p class='line0'>Come the smile, or fall the rod,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Cheer thee! cheer thee, all is well!</p> -<p class='line0'>                       <span style='font-size:smaller'>M. S. B. D.</span></p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<hr class='tbk113'/> - -<div><h1><a id='clot'></a>THE CLOTHING OF THE ANCIENTS.</h1></div> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.</p> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY WILLIAM DUANE, JR.</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p> - -<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>If</span> the ancient inhabitants of the world had -extreme difficulty in sheltering themselves from -the severity of the seasons, they experienced much -more in giving to their clothes the impress of art -or industry. Consult Strabo; he will tell you that -certain nations covered themselves with the bark -of trees, fig-leaves or rushes, rudely intertwined. -Often also the skins of animals were employed, -without the least preparation, for the same end. -In proportion as the barbarism disappeared which -had been introduced by the confusion of tongues, -they began to think of the wool of sheep, and to -ask themselves if there were no means of uniting in -a single thread the different pieces of this substance -by the aid of a kind of spindle. Seeing their efforts -crowned with success, “Let us now,” said they, -“try to imitate the spider.” They did so; and, -behold, as Democritus begs us to observe, the art -of weaving invented! After that, the invariable -custom which existed among the Jews, fifteen -hundred years before Jesus Christ, of collecting -the fleeces of their sheep at fixed periods; and -great was the account which they made of it -according to the testimony of Genesis (31, 19.)</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The history, true or fabulous, of the web of -Penelope, the wife of Ulysses, proves to us that -wool was not the sole material to which they -thought of applying the art of weaving. And do -we not read in Pliny that “the cotton plant grew -in Upper Egypt, that they made stuffs of it, and -that the Egyptian priests made admirable surplices -of it?” It is undeniable that garments of cotton -and of linen were in use in the time of the patriachs; -indeed Moses commands his people in the 22d -chapter of Deuteronomy, “not to wear a dress of -linen;” and the ancient Babylonians, as Herodotus -informs us, (Book I.) “wore immediately over their -skin a cambric tunic, which fell down to their feet -in the oriental manner.” It was the same among -the Athenians, according to Thucydides.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>In the age of Augustus, many people had already -arrived at great perfection in the manufacture of -linen stuffs: it is the express assertion of the historian -Pliny. “The Faventine cloth,” says he, “is -always whiter than the Allienne cloth. That which -they have designated by the word <span class='it'>Retovine</span>, is so -exceedingly fine that its threads are as slender as -those of the spider. I have myself seen a thread -of Cumes hemp so thin that a great net made of -this material could go through a common ring; and -I have heard tell of a man who could carry on his -back as much as was required to encircle an entire -forest. The fine cambric, made of the linen of -Byssus, is a product of Achaia; it was sold in old -times for its weight in gold.” (Book 19.)</p> - -<p class='pindent'>In the Egyptian Museum of the Royal Library -of Paris, you may cast your eyes upon mummies, -found in the catacombs of Cairo: the cloth in -which they are wrapped is not at all coarser than -the cambric of your shops; and yet it has been -woven three hundred years. On this occasion it is -not inappropriate to add that the art of weaving is -still more ancient than that of embalming; which -this answer of Abraham to the king of Sodom -indicates: “I will not carry away a single thread -of your wool,” said the patriarch to him, “lest you -should say—I have made Abraham rich!” Elsewhere, -Moses informs us that Abimelech presented -a veil to Sarah; that on the approach of Isaac, -Rebecca covered her face with a veil; and that -when Joseph was appointed viceroy of Egypt, -Prince Pharaoh covered him with a linen robe -after having placed his own ring upon his finger. -The Book of Job (the most ancient writing perhaps -in existence) mentions a weaver’s <span class='it'>shuttle</span>, (chapter -7.) A thousand years before the Christian era, do -you see, setting out along the desert, those messengers -of the wise Solomon, going to procure in -Egypt cloths of fine linen for the king, their master? -Shortly after, the city of Tyre obtained great celebrity -for the beauty of its fine linens; and Ezekiel -dwells enraptured on the opulence of its merchants -in the following terms:—“All the planks of thy -vessels are of the fine fir tree of Senir, and their -masts are of the cedar of Lebanon! For their -sails thou hast employed the fine linen of Egypt, -splendidly embroidered.” Do not suppose that all -the sails of this period were of as precious a material -as those of the Tyrians: like those of the -Arabians of our days, they were generally composed -of woven rushes.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The women commonly wore white dresses; besides, -the ancients had early made rapid progress -in the art of bleaching. They were all ignorant, -as you may well suppose, of the expeditious process -which the illustrious Berthollet has conceived, with -the assistance of a hydrochlorate of lime or of -soda; they knew, however, how to use other -detersive substances to impart a shining whiteness -to their stuffs. “There exists among us,” says -Pliny, “a species of poppy, very rare, which bleaches -linen cloth wonderfully; and yet, would one believe -it? we have among us a crowd of people so vain -that they have attempted to dye their linen as well -as their wool.” In alluding in another passage to -the sky-blue curtains of the Emperor Nero, he begs -us not to forget that, despite of all the rich shades -produced by dyeing, <span class='it'>white</span> cloth never ceased to -enjoy the highest reputation, to such a degree that -they conferred the title of <span class='it'>Great</span> on a person named -<span class='it'>Lentulus Spinter</span>, who first conceived the idea of -hanging white curtains around the places consecrated -to the Olympic games. This same kind of -stuff was spread upon all the houses of the <span class='it'>Via -Sacra</span>, by order of Cæsar, the Dictator, who planning -magnificent decorations, wished that they -should extend from his residence up to the Capitol.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The basis of the hard soap of our days was undoubtedly -known to the ancients. The <span class='it'>natron</span> or -sub-carbonate of soda, which they collect in the -channels of the Nile at the present time, was really -gathered there in sufficient abundance in the first -ages of the world. From another place, the man -of Uz made use of it; for he makes ready in -one of his chapters (Job, ch. 9.) to wash his clothes -in a pit with <span class='it'>bor</span> or <span class='it'>borith</span>, a plant much esteemed -on account of its alkaline properties. (You must -not confound this with the <span class='it'>boron</span> of modern chemistry, -which with oxygen constitutes the boracic -acid.) Open the Sixth Book of the Odyssey; -Homer will there shew you Nausicaa, and her -companions, trampling their clothes with their feet -to whiten them for an approaching marriage; the -bard adds that the ladies knew perfectly well the -property which the atmosphere possessed of assisting -in the destruction of the only substance which -imparts a greyish appearance to cloths. In alluding -to this passage, Goguet affirms that all the linen -and cotton garments were washed daily. An anecdote -related by Apuleius in his book of “The Golden -Ass,” goes to prove still more the attention which -they formerly paid to the art of bleaching; “A -wag,” said he to us, “being secretly introduced -into the house of a merchant, came near being -suffocated by the sulphurous gas which was given -out by a bleaching machine in which he was hid.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The ability of the ancients to bestow upon their -linen, cotton<a id='r2'/><a href='#f2' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[2]</span></sup></a> and woolen cloths a brightness not -inferior to that of the snow of their mountains, did -not fail them when they had to dye them. More -than three thousand years ago a cunning shrew, -as Genesis informs us, (ch. 28.) fastened a scarlet -ribbon around the hand of one of the children of -Tamar: and Homer speaks to us in the part of his -poem above mentioned, of the colored cloths of -Sidon as admirable productions. Jacob made for -his beloved son Joseph, “a robe of many colors,” -and the king of Tyre sent into the palace of Solomon -“a man skilful to work wonderfully in gold, -silver, &c. and to produce upon fine linen the -shades of purple, blue and crimson.” According -to Herodotus, who wrote, as you know, four hundred -years before Jesus Christ, some people of -Caucasus washed in water the leaves of a certain -tree, which yielded at length a brilliant color, with -the aid of which they drew upon stuffs the figures -of lions, monkeys, dolphins and vultures.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Among the brave knights who perished at -Colchis, in the Argonautic expedition, there was -one whom the historian Valerius Flaccus distinguishes -by his painted tunic, at the same time that -he expresses his admiration of the whiteness of the -fine cloth which the hero also wore:</p> - - - <div class='poetry-container' style=''> - <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>“Tenuia non illum <span class='it'>candentis</span> carbossa lini,</p> -<p class='line0'>Non auro depicta chalymis, non flava galeri</p> -<p class='line0'>Cæsaries, <span class='it'>pictoque</span> juvant subtemine bracæ.”</p> -<p class='line0'>                                  (Val. Flac. 6.)</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<p class='pindent'>Speaking of Colchis, it was there that the best -materials for painting were formerly procured. -Besides, if you will ascend in spirit to the days -of old, you will perceive every year on the roads -leading from Georgia to the principal cities of -India, as well as to Dimbeck, an immense drove -of two thousand camels, loaded with madder. -Thence the <span class='it'>red</span><a id='r3'/><a href='#f3' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[3]</span></sup></a> flowers were derived, of which -Strabo speaks, which the nations dwelling on the -borders of the Indus and the Ganges loved to -spread upon their cloths. It is a particular worthy -of remark that the Egyptians who constantly -clothed the statues of their goddess Isis with <span class='it'>linen</span> -and <span class='it'>cotton</span> drapery, never employed <span class='it'>wool</span> for that -purpose, a substance which they hated so much -that they did not permit the use of it, even in interments, -as the 44th chapter of Ezekiel informs us. -This aversion extended even to shepherds, for you -may read in Genesis that every shepherd was an -abomination to the Egyptians. (46.)</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The purple of Tyre was known at an epoch -exceedingly remote, and the dyers of Phœnicia surpassed -in skill those of all the other nations of the -east. This people came a thousand years ago as -far as Great Britain to procure an enormous quantity -of tin, a metal which has the property, or rather -certain salts of it have, of augmenting the intensity -of the principal red colors contained in many vegetable -and animal substances. Upon this subject, we -would advise you to run over, in the third book of -Strabo, the interesting recital which he gives of the -pursuit of a Phœnician vessel by a Roman bark, -which wished to seize the tin with which it was -freighted. It was in the neighborhood of the coast -of Cornwall: the Phœnician, seeing the prow of the -Roman near his stern, threw three-fourths of his -cargo overboard, and steered right upon a sand-bank, -where the enemy, as you may well suppose, -did not think of following him. The Tyrians, -astonished at the great opulence which their city -attained, attributed to the gods the magic art of -dyeing in purple. All writers, and especially -Ctesias, physician to a king of Persia, who lived -four hundred years before the Christian era, and -Ælian, a contemporary of Alexander Severus, frequently -allude to an insect, to which the Phœnicians -were indebted for the superior manner in -which they could produce an admirable scarlet. It -was evidently the cochineal: and this little animal -must have been at that time less rare than at present -in Syria, India, and Persia, since the humblest -classes frequently wore stuffs dyed with purple. It -is not surprising that they knew not how to extract -from the cochineal the most brilliant of all the -known reds, the carmine, before which the vermillion -grows pale, and which chemistry can procure -for us, in our days, in great abundance; and you -know that this little insect lives upon the <span class='it'>cactus</span> -which grow in Brazil, in Mexico, at Jamaica, and -at Saint Domingo.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The fashion of wearing silk was unknown at -Rome, before the beginning of the empire. The -rage for dressing in it was already so great in the -time of Tiberius, that the emperor prohibited the -use of it by a positive law. The Greeks also had -a taste for it; and the cloak of <span class='it'>Amphion</span> was certainly -of silk, for the historian Philostratus (Ion, -Book I.) tells us that its color changed according -to the different ways in which the light was reflected -from it. Pliny gives us to understand that the gold -stuffs of the ancients were not made as those of -our time, of a thread of gold or silver, wrapped -around a woof of silk, but that they were woven of -gold deprived of all alloy: knowing this, he speaks -of the manner in which the wife of Claudius dressed -herself to attend a <span class='it'>Naumachia</span> or sea fight, in -the following terms—“Nos vidimus Agrippinam—indutam -palludamento auro textile, <span class='it'>sine alia materia</span>.” -It is about fifty years since they extracted, -by assaying, more than four pounds weight of pure -gold from some old dresses which the fathers of -the Clementine College, at Rome, discovered in an -urn of basalt, buried in their vineyard. Tarquin, -the Elder, was he, among the Roman Sovereigns -who most usually wore dresses of gold.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>From the time of Homer the Greeks wore <span class='it'>black</span> -dresses for mourning. This bard shews us Thetis -wearing, after the death of Patroclus, the blackest -of her dresses. (Iliad, 24.) For many years the -same usage prevailed among the Romans, but it -was partly changed under the emperors, so that -when Plutarch wrote, the women in mourning -could wear nothing but white. Besides, we have -a proof of it at the obsequies of Septimius Severus: -“The image of this emperor,” Herodian tells us, -“formed of wax, was surrounded on one side by a -row of women in <span class='it'>white</span>, and on the other by the -body of all the senators, clothed in <span class='it'>black</span>. At the -death of the Empress Plotina,” adds the historian, -“her husband Trajan covered himself with very -black habits for the space of nine days.” The -<span class='it'>toga</span> necessarily received as many shades of color -as the other garments: but as to the form of this -kind of robe it is impossible to decide. When -Dionysius, of Halicarnassus, asserts that the toga -presented the appearance of a semicircle (’ημικυκλος) -he did not at all intend to describe its shape, but -only the form which it assumed when worn upon -the body. Strabo asserts that the military cloak -with which the warriors clothed themselves had an -oval form; and that among the Athenians it was -often worn by the young people even in time of -peace. The <span class='it'>tunic</span>, which was the principal part -of the under clothing, was not generally used -among the nations of antiquity, except the Greeks -and Romans; all the Cynic philosophers disdained -to make use of it. We know that Augustus put -on as many as four tunics in winter. The name -of this great emperor reminds us that it was in his -reign, or thereabouts, that the Romans began to -use table-cloths. Montfaucon believes that the -greater part of them were of cloth striped with -gold and purple. In France the ancient table-cloths -were intended for collecting, after the meal, -the smallest crumbs that were left, that nothing -might be lost; and D’Arcy informs you that among -our neighbors, the English, table linen was very -seldom used in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>As there exist in our days many nations, especially -in the torrid zone, who do not wear <span class='it'>hats</span>, -(a name by which we must understand every covering -for the head, as its etymology plainly indicates,) -so it formerly happened that the nations did not -always think of making use of them. Thus one of -the most civilized, the Egyptians, went bare-headed, -according to the authority of Hesiod. Amongst -the Orientals, and especially amongst the Persians, -the turban was in great vogue; that of the sovereign -was composed of a whole bale of muslin. It was -from this last mentioned people that the Jews derived -the turban. The hats of the Greeks must -have had very large brims, to judge from the root -of the word (πετασος) which designated them. The -Romans granted to their freedmen the right of -covering themselves with a kind of cap, which has -been since adopted as the emblem of liberty. It is -to a Swiss, residing in Paris, about the beginning -of the fifteenth century, that we owe the first invention -of felt hats. They were generally known -at the close of the reign of Charles VII.: this -monarch himself wore one at his triumphal entry -into Rouen, in 1449. We read in Daniel that the -worthy townsmen of that ancient city stood still -as if petrified, so much were they astonished at -seeing his majesty’s hat; the historian adds that its -lining was of red silk, and that it was surmounted -by a superb bunch of feathers. Before the period -of which we speak, it is probable that the French -covered their heads in the same way as the English, -that is to say, with woven caps or rather with -cloth and silk hoods.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The stockings of the ancients were made of little -pieces of cloth sewed together. We cannot say -with certainty in what country the stocking-frame -was invented. France, England and Spain respectively -claim this useful discovery. A short time -before the unfortunate tournament, in which Henry -II. lost his life, he put on the first pair of silk -stockings ever worn. Five years afterward, we see -in England, William Ryder presenting a pair, as a -very precious article, to William, Earl of Pembroke. -Ryder had learnt the method of making -them from an Italian merchant.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Many persons probably know not that <span class='it'>wooden -shoes</span> date from a very remote period; for the -Jews wore them long before the age of Augustus. -Perhaps they were not made exactly like the -wooden shoes so common among the poorer -classes in France; but it is not less true that -this kind of covering for the feet was generally -adopted among nearly all the people of Judæa: -sometimes, however, we observe leather shoes -among them; and the Jewish soldiers covered -their feet with copper, or with iron. The shoes -of the Egyptians were of <span class='it'>papyrus</span>; the Chinese -and the Indians manufactured theirs of silk, of -rushes, of the bark of trees, of iron, of brass, of -gold or of silver, according as their fortune permitted, -or their fancy dictated. At Rome, as in -Greece, leather was the material which covered -the feet of every one. The Roman women wore -<span class='it'>white</span> shoes: the common people wore <span class='it'>black</span>: and -the magistrates set off their feet with <span class='it'>red</span> shoes on -solemn occasions. A thousand years ago the most -powerful sovereigns of Europe had wooden soles -to their shoes. Under William Rufus, son of the -great Duke of Normandy, who conquered at Hastings, -in 1066, a fashion was introduced into England -of giving to the shoes an excessive length; -the point which terminated them was stuffed with -tow, and curved up on high like a ram’s horn. In -the fourteenth century they thought of connecting -these points with the knee, by means of a gold -chain. Great must have been the surprise of the -worthy Anglo-Saxons, on beholding this strange -species of vegetation sprouting up suddenly amongst -them! Some called to remembrance the history of -the serpent’s teeth, which Cadmus sowed, whence -a swarm of soldiers issued; others conceived that -it was the costume of magicians; and little children -sometimes, when going to bed, asked their mothers -if there was no danger that their heads might be -metamorphosed in the night into those of a horrible -deer? Before leaving this paragraph upon shoes, -we would call to recollection the antiquity of the -art of the leather-dresser: open for that purpose the -Iliad, and you will find in the Seventeenth Book, -tanners preparing skins to make leather of them. -This class of manufacturers composed, three hundred -years ago, a very important body, since we -possess the account of a furious quarrel which -broke out, under Queen Elizabeth, between them -and the shoe-makers. We are pleased to record -here the perfection with which they manufacture -leather at this date in the New World. In South -Carolina, as well as in the state of Virginia, the -Indian women are so skilful in this branch of -industry that a single person can dress as many -as ten deer-skins a day.<a id='r4'/><a href='#f4' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[4]</span></sup></a> Of all the transformations -which are wrought in the arts, that of the -animal substance into leather is, without doubt, -one of the most curious. The process, by means -of which they set about accomplishing it in old -times, was the result of a calculation still more -ingenious than that of changing two opaque bodies -into a transparent body to make glass, for instance; -or else two transparent bodies into an opaque body -for making soap. Besides, you know that chemistry -actually teaches us that leather is a real salt, a -<span class='it'>tannate of gelatine</span>. This assertion was not uttered -with confidence until M. Pelouze had extracted from -tan in late years the tannic acid in a state of remarkable -purity. Besides this, you may now explain -a phenomena which is repeated at a great -distance upon the ocean, at the time of some -lamentable shipwreck. The journal which records -for you the history of one of these sad events often -tells you that in the last moment of famine, the -unhappy survivors took to eating their shoes, and -that life is sometimes prolonged by these means! -Certainly, for the gelatine possesses nutritious properties, -even when its peculiarities are stained with -a thousand impurities, as is leather.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The subject upon which we have endeavored to -present some observations, is so capable of being -extended that a large volume in octavo would -scarcely suffice to contain all the historical knowledge -relating to it. But such a dissertation, carried -out to the extent or with the exactness which it -admits of, would only constitute at last a kind of -catalogue or bare enumeration of the thousand -modifications which human vestures have undergone -down to our times. The memory of the reader -would be unable to retain so prodigious a number -of minute particulars, and the curiosity of his mind, -fatigued by so many useless details, would be extinguished -before finishing the third part. These -changes have often, it is true, nothing for their -object but the accessory and secondary parts of -dress, as the following passage, which we meet -with in the <span class='it'>voyages</span> of M. de Chateaubriand, seems -to point out.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“One thing has at the same time struck me and -charmed me; I have met in the dress of the Auvergne -peasant the attire of the Breton peasant. -Whence comes this? It is because there was formerly -for this kingdom, and for all Europe, a -<span class='it'>groundwork</span> of a common attire.” (Vol. 2., p. 296.)</p> - -<p class='pindent'>In another particular also, men have always been -constant, that they have never ceased to seek for -the material to compose their clothing from the -animals which the Creator has placed in their respective -climates. It will probably be the same till -the end of the world. It is thus that the nations -under the temperate zone have recourse for covering -to wool, because, being a bad conductor of caloric, it -prevents the escape of it from their bodies. In the -frozen zone the Russians, the Esquimaux, and the -Greenlanders, clothe themselves in furs, a material -which is a still worse conductor of caloric; while -the natives of countries under the influence of the -torrid zone, make their dresses of hair or horse-hair, -whose conducting properties are in an inverse ratio -to those of furs. It is worth remarking that the -animals which in temperate regions are covered -with wool or ordinary hair, are provided, when -they inhabit countries really cold, with an under-fleece -of very fine wool: it is the case with goats, -sheep, dogs, horses, and Thibet cows.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>If by a game of metempsychosis, you were enabled -to return to existence two hundred years hence, -what unheard of changes would you not see in -the dress of individuals. Transport in anticipation -your shade to a point commanding one of the public -promenades of the capital; suppose yourself, for instance, -on the top of the Vendôme Column, on a -fine summer’s evening; you would, perhaps, perceive -the <span class='it'>dandies</span> of the time strutting in frocks, whose -leg of mutton sleeves are as voluminous as those of -our sylphides at this day. Their hats, instead of -being of beaver or of fur, have a similar shape to -that which our ladies adopted in 1839. For the -young folks a notched veil would be the prescribed -mode; the men, of a certain age, would embellish -their hats with a superb scarlet plume. As to the -women, who will now dare to affirm that they will -not then cover their heads with perukes <span class='it'>à la</span> Louis -XIV. topped off with three-cocked hats, and that -from their chin there will not descend a band <span class='it'>à la -procureur du roi</span>? Extend your Pythagorean glance -farther into the ages, and you will, perhaps, discover -another part of mankind adding to their dress an -enormous pair of wings! We may doubt that the -gnomes, the sciences, will never render the attempt -to make use of them more effectual than that of -the son of Dædalus in old times; but in return, -posterity may fly by another process, in case -the æronauts can discover the secret of steering -themselves in mid-air. Should this expectation be -realised, we may then hear one of your future -grand-nieces (who will be the belles of the noble -Faubourg) say to her domestic on rising from -her breakfast, “Ganymede! my balloon, with its -boat; I wish to go dine to-day with my cousin, -at Florence.”</p> - -<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'>It is generally believed that the word <span class='it'>calico</span> is -derived from Calicut, a city on the coast of Malabar -in Hindostan, whence the first patterns of this stuff -came to Europe.</p> - -</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<div class='footnote'> -<table summary='footnote_3'> -<colgroup> -<col span='1' class='footnoteid'/> -<col span='1'/> -</colgroup> -<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'> -<div class='footnote-id' id='f3'><a href='#r3'>[3]</a></div> -</td><td> - -<p class='pindent'>Dyers now know how to produce a very durable -red by dipping their stuffs in a solution of acetate -of alum, before subjecting them to the action -of the madder. It would be desirable that they -should begin to derive some advantage, on a large -scale, of a new substance, lately discovered by Mr. -Robiquet, which possesses the property of producing -a red amaranth or pansy, very agreeable. Chemists -call this substance <span class='it'>orsine</span>.</p> - -</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<div class='footnote'> -<table summary='footnote_4'> -<colgroup> -<col span='1' class='footnoteid'/> -<col span='1'/> -</colgroup> -<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'> -<div class='footnote-id' id='f4'><a href='#r4'>[4]</a></div> -</td><td> - -<p class='pindent'>This will be news to the people “in South Carolina, -as well as in the state of Virginia.” <span class='it'>Translator.</span></p> - -</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Philadelphia, May, 1841.</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class='tbk114'/> - -<div><h1><a id='lord'></a>TO LORD BYRON.</h1></div> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.</p> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY R. M. WALSH.</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'>Thou</span>, whose true name the world doth yet not know,</p> -<p class='line0'>Mysterious spirit, mortal, angel, fiend,</p> -<p class='line0'>Whate’er thou art, oh! Byron, still I love</p> -<p class='line0'>Thy concerts’ savage harmony, ev’n as</p> -<p class='line0'>I love the noise of thunder and of winds</p> -<p class='line0'>Commingling in the storm with torrents’ voice!</p> -<p class='line0'>Night is thy dwelling, horror thy domain;</p> -<p class='line0'>The eagle, king of deserts, thus doth scorn</p> -<p class='line0'>The lowly plain; he seeks, like thee, steep rocks</p> -<p class='line0'>By winter whitened, by the lightning riven;</p> -<p class='line0'>Shores strewn with fragments of the fatal wreck,</p> -<p class='line0'>Or fields all blackened with the gore of carnage:</p> -<p class='line0'>And whilst the bird that plaintive sings its griefs</p> -<p class='line0'>’Mid flow’rets, builds its nest on bank of streams,</p> -<p class='line0'>Of Athos he the summits fearful scales,</p> -<p class='line0'>Suspends his eyre o’er the abyss, and there,</p> -<p class='line0'>Surrounded by still palpitating limbs,</p> -<p class='line0'>By rocks with bloody banquets ever foul,</p> -<p class='line0'>Soothed by the screaming anguish of his prey,</p> -<p class='line0'>And rocked by tempests, slumbers in his joy.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Thou, Byron, like this brigand of the air,</p> -<p class='line0'>In cries of woe dost sweetest music find.</p> -<p class='line0'>Thy scene is evil, and thy victim man.</p> -<p class='line0'>Like Satan, thou hast measured the abyss,</p> -<p class='line0'>And plunging down, far, far from day and God,</p> -<p class='line0'>Hast bid to hope farewell for evermore!</p> -<p class='line0'>Like him, now reigning in the realms of gloom,</p> -<p class='line0'>Thy dauntless genius swells funereal strains;</p> -<p class='line0'>It triumphs; and thy voice in hellish tone</p> -<p class='line0'>Sings hymns of glory to the god of evil.</p> -<p class='line0'>But why against thy destiny contend?</p> -<p class='line0'>’Gainst fate what may rebellious reason do?</p> -<p class='line0'>It hath but (like the eye) a bounded scope.</p> -<p class='line0'>Beyond it nor thy eye nor reason strain;</p> -<p class='line0'>There all escapes us; all is dark, unknown.</p> -<p class='line0'>Within this circle God hath marked thy place.</p> -<p class='line0'>How? why? who knows?—From His Almighty hands</p> -<p class='line0'>The world and human beings he hath dropped,</p> -<p class='line0'>As in our fields he spread around the dust,</p> -<p class='line0'>Or sowed the atmosphere with might or light.</p> -<p class='line0'>He knows; enough; the universe is his,</p> -<p class='line0'>And we can only claim the present day.</p> -<p class='line0'>Our crime is to be man and wish to know:</p> -<p class='line0'>To serve and know not is our being’s law.</p> -<p class='line0'>Byron, this truth is hard, and long I strove</p> -<p class='line0'>Against it; but why turn away from truth?</p> -<p class='line0'>With God, thy title is to be his work;</p> -<p class='line0'>To feel, t’adore thy slavery divine;</p> -<p class='line0'>In th’universal order to unite,</p> -<p class='line0'>Weak atom as thou art, to his designs</p> -<p class='line0'>Thy own free will; by his intelligence</p> -<p class='line0'>To have been conceived, and by thy life alone</p> -<p class='line0'>To glorify him—such, such is thy lot!</p> -<p class='line0'>Ah! rather kiss the yoke that thou wouldst break;</p> -<p class='line0'>Descend from thy usurped rank of god;</p> -<p class='line0'>All, in its place, is well, is good, is great;</p> -<p class='line0'>In His regard, who made immensity,</p> -<p class='line0'>The worm is worth a world; they cost the same!</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>This law, thou say’st, revolts thy sense of right;</p> -<p class='line0'>It strikes thee merely as a strange caprice;</p> -<p class='line0'>A snare where reason trips at every step—</p> -<p class='line0'>Let us confess and judge it not, great bard!</p> -<p class='line0'>Like thine, my mind with darkness is replete,</p> -<p class='line0'>And not for me it is to explain the world:</p> -<p class='line0'>Let Him who made, explain the universe.</p> -<p class='line0'>The more I sound the abyss, the more, alas!</p> -<p class='line0'>I lose myself amid its viewless depths.</p> -<p class='line0'>Grief, here below, to grief is ever linked,</p> -<p class='line0'>Day follows day, and pain succeeds to pain.</p> -<p class='line0'>In nature bounded, infinite in wish,</p> -<p class='line0'>Man is a fallen god rememb’ring Heaven:</p> -<p class='line0'>Whether that, disinherited of all</p> -<p class='line0'>His pristine glory, he doth still preserve</p> -<p class='line0'>The mem’ry of his former destinies,</p> -<p class='line0'>Or that the vastness of his wishes gives</p> -<p class='line0'>A distant presage of his future greatness—</p> -<p class='line0'>Imperfect at his birth, or fallen since—</p> -<p class='line0'>The great, the awful mystery is man.</p> -<p class='line0'>Within the senses’ prison chained on earth,</p> -<p class='line0'>A slave, he feels a heart for freedom born,</p> -<p class='line0'>And wretched, to felicity aspires.</p> -<p class='line0'>He strives to sound the world; his eye is weak;—</p> -<p class='line0'>He yearns to love; whate’er he loves is frail.</p> -<p class='line0'>All mortals unto Eden’s exile bear</p> -<p class='line0'>A sad resemblance—when his outraged God</p> -<p class='line0'>Had banished him from that celestial realm,</p> -<p class='line0'>Scanning the fatal limits with a look,</p> -<p class='line0'>He sat him, weeping, near the barred gates,</p> -<p class='line0'>He heard within the blest abode afar,</p> -<p class='line0'>The sigh harmonious of eternal love,</p> -<p class='line0'>Sweet strains of happiness, the choral song</p> -<p class='line0'>Of angels sounding God’s triumphant praise;</p> -<p class='line0'>And tearing then his soul from heav’n, his eye</p> -<p class='line0'>Fell back affrighted on his dismal lot.</p> -<p class='line0'>Woe, woe to him who from his exile here</p> -<p class='line0'>Hath heard the concerts of an envied world!</p> -<p class='line0'>When Nature once ideal nectar tastes,</p> -<p class='line0'>She loathes the cup Reality presents.</p> -<p class='line0'>Into the possible, in dreams she leaps;</p> -<p class='line0'>(The real is cramped; the possible, immense;)</p> -<p class='line0'>The soul with all her wishes there doth take</p> -<p class='line0'>Her sojourn, where forever she may drink</p> -<p class='line0'>From crystal springs of knowledge and of love,</p> -<p class='line0'>And where, in streams of beauty and of light,</p> -<p class='line0'>Man, ever thirsty, slakes his thirst.</p> -<p class='line0'>And thus, with Syren visions charming sleep</p> -<p class='line0'>On waking, scarce she knows herself again.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Such was thy fate, and such my destiny!</p> -<p class='line0'>I too the poisoned cup did drain; like thine</p> -<p class='line0'>My eyes were opened, seeing not; in vain</p> -<p class='line0'>I sought the enigma of the universe;</p> -<p class='line0'>I questioned nature for its cause; I asked</p> -<p class='line0'>Each creature why created; down the abyss,</p> -<p class='line0'>The bottomless abyss, I plunged my look;</p> -<p class='line0'>From the atom to the sun, I all explored;</p> -<p class='line0'>Anticipated time, its stream did mount;</p> -<p class='line0'>Now passing over seas to hear the words</p> -<p class='line0'>That drop from wisdom’s oracles; but found</p> -<p class='line0'>The world to pride is ever a sealed book!</p> -<p class='line0'>Now, to divine the world inanimate.</p> -<p class='line0'>To nature’s bosom flying with my soul,</p> -<p class='line0'>I thought to find a meaning in her voice.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>I read the laws by which the heav’ns revolve.</p> -<p class='line0'>My guide great Newton, through their shining paths.</p> -<p class='line0'>Of crumbled empires o’er the dust I mused;</p> -<p class='line0'>Rome saw me ’mid her sacred tombs descend;</p> -<p class='line0'>Of holiest manes disturbing the repose;</p> -<p class='line0'>The dust of heroes in my hands I weighed,</p> -<p class='line0'>Asking their senseless ashes to restore</p> -<p class='line0'>That immortality each mortal seeks.</p> -<p class='line0'>What say I? hanging o’er the bed of death,</p> -<p class='line0'>I sought it even in expiring eyes;</p> -<p class='line0'>On summits darkened by eternal clouds,</p> -<p class='line0'>On billows tortured by eternal storms,</p> -<p class='line0'>I called; I braved the shock of elements.</p> -<p class='line0'>Like to the sybil in her rage divine,</p> -<p class='line0'>I fancied nature in those fearful scenes</p> -<p class='line0'>Some portion of her secrets might reveal:</p> -<p class='line0'>I loved to plunge amid those horrors dread.</p> -<p class='line0'>But vainly in her calm and in her rage</p> -<p class='line0'>This mighty secret hunting, everywhere</p> -<p class='line0'>I saw a God, and understood him not.</p> -<p class='line0'>I saw both good and ill, without design,</p> -<p class='line0'>As if by chance, escaping from his hands;</p> -<p class='line0'>I saw on all sides evil, where there might</p> -<p class='line0'>Have been the best of good, and too infirm</p> -<p class='line0'>To know and comprehend him, I blasphemed;</p> -<p class='line0'>But breaking ’gainst that heav’n of brass, my voice</p> -<p class='line0'>Had not the honor to e’en anger fate.</p> -<p class='line0'>One day, however, that by mis’ry wrung,</p> -<p class='line0'>I wearied heaven with my fierce complaint,</p> -<p class='line0'>A light descended from on high, that filled</p> -<p class='line0'>My bosom with its radiance, and inspired</p> -<p class='line0'>My lips to bless what madly they had cursed.</p> -<p class='line0'>I yielded, grateful, to the influence,</p> -<p class='line0'>And from my lyre the hymn of reason poured.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>“Glory to thee, now and for evermore,</p> -<p class='line0'>Eternal understanding, will supreme!</p> -<p class='line0'>To thee, whose presence space doth recognise!</p> -<p class='line0'>To thee, whose bright existence every morn</p> -<p class='line0'>Announceth! Thy creative breath hath stooped</p> -<p class='line0'>To me, and he who was not hath appeared</p> -<p class='line0'>Before thy majesty! I knew thy voice</p> -<p class='line0'>Ere I had known myself, and at its sound</p> -<p class='line0'>Up to the gates of being I did rush.</p> -<p class='line0'>Behold me! nothingness doth here presume</p> -<p class='line0'>To hail thee at its coming into life.</p> -<p class='line0'>Behold me! but what am I? what my name?</p> -<p class='line0'>A thinking atom—who may dare to hope</p> -<p class='line0'>Between us two the distance e’er to scan!</p> -<p class='line0'>I, who in thee my brief existence breathe,</p> -<p class='line0'>Myself unknown and fashioned at thy will,</p> -<p class='line0'>What ow’st thou, Lord, to me, were I not born?</p> -<p class='line0'>Before or after, naught—hail end supreme!</p> -<p class='line0'>Who drew all from himself, to himself owes all.</p> -<p class='line0'>Enjoy, great artist, of thy hands the work.</p> -<p class='line0'>I live thy sov’reign orders to fulfil.</p> -<p class='line0'>Dispose, ordain, control, in time, in space;</p> -<p class='line0'>My day and sphere, for thy own glory mark;</p> -<p class='line0'>My being, without question or complaint,</p> -<p class='line0'>In silence hasten to assume its place.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'> * * * * * * *</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Glory to thee! annihilate me, strike!</p> -<p class='line0'>One cry, one cry alone shall reach thy ear—</p> -<p class='line0'>Glory to thee, now, and for evermore!”</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<hr class='tbk115'/> - -<div><h1><a id='lman'></a>THE LIFE GUARDSMAN.</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 JESSE E. DOW.</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p> - -<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> Life Guard of Washington! Who can -think upon this band of gallant spirits without -feeling a glow of patriotism warming his heart, -and stirring up the sluggish feelings of his soul? -Fancy paints again the figures which history has -suffered to fade away, as the shadows departed -from the magic mirror of Cornelius Agrippa; and -the heroes of the past start up before us like the -clan of Roderick Dhu at the sound of their chieftain’s -whistle. They come from Cambridge, and -from the Hudson, from Trenton and from Princeton, -from Yorktown and from the Brandywine, from -mountain pass and woody vale, gathering in battle -array around the lowly bed of their sleeping leader, -amid the solitary shades of Vernon.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The life guardsmen are fast fading away. One -by one the aged members have departed, and now -Lee’s corporal slumbers beside his commander. -Their march of life is over.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A more efficient corps never existed on this side -of the Atlantic than the Life Guard. Animated by -one motive, guided by one object, they surrounded -their beloved commander-in-chief, and gloried in -being known as his body guard. Was there any -difficult duty to perform? it fell to this body, and -gallantly did they perform the service entrusted -to them. The eye of the general glistened with -delight as they filed before him in the shade of -evening, or returned into camp from some successful -incursion beyond the enemy’s lines, ere</p> - - - <div class='poetry-container' style=''> - <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>“Jocund day stood tiptoe on the mountain top”—</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<p class='noindent'>or the <span class='it'>reveillé</span> aroused the army from their slumbers.</p> - -<hr class='tbk116'/> - -<p class='pindent'>It was the anniversary of the battle of Princeton, -when an aged man, with a stout staff in his hand, -was seen trudging manfully down Broadway. As -he passed along from square to square, he cast his -eyes upon the signs and door-plates, and muttering, -continued on his course.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Here,” said he, “was Clinton’s Quarters”—“Edward -Mallory silks and laces”—“and here was -the house that Washington stopped at”—“John -Knipherhausen, tobacconist,” “and here was where -the pretty Quakeress lived, who used to furnish the -commander-in-chief with information as to the -enemies movements”—“Câfé de mille colonnes”—“all, -all are changed; time has been busy with every -thing but the seasons—they are the same—the sun -and the rain—the evening and the morning—the -icicle and the dew-drop—the frost and the snow-drift -change not: but man and his habitations—aye, -the very names of places and people have been -altered, and the New York of the Revolution is -not the New York of ’37.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>As the old man said this he seated himself upon -a marble door-step, and wiped the perspiration from -his brow; for he had walked a long way that morning, -and the thousand associations that pressed upon -his memory wearied him.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A company of volunteers, in all the pomp and -circumstance of city war, now approached by a -cross street. The bugle’s shrill note, mingled in -with the clarionet and cymbals; and the glance of -the sun upon their bayonets and polished helmets, -lit up the martial fire that slumbered in the old -man’s soul. He rose upon his feet.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It is pleasant enough now to look upon such -gatherings,” said he, “but those who have heard -the drums beat to drown the cries of the wounded -and the dying, cannot forget their meaning, though -youth and joy accompany them, and though the -smiles of beauty urge them on.” And the old man -wept, for the men of other days stood about him; -and the battle-fields, then silent and deserted, teemed -with the dead and the dying; and the blood formed -in pools amid the trampled grass, or trickled in little -rills down the smoky hill-side.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A servant now came out of a neighboring house -and invited the old man in. He thankfully accepted -the hospitality of the polite citizen, and soon stood -in a comfortable breakfast room. A young man of -twenty-one received him with kindness; and a tall, -prim woman of eighty-six cordially insisted upon his -joining her family at the breakfast-table. A beautiful -girl of eighteen took the old man’s hat and -cane, and wheeled up an old arm-chair that had -done the family some service in ancient days. The -old man as she seated herself beside him, patted -her upon the head, and a firm—“God bless you”—escaped -from his wrinkled and pallid lips. The -old lady suddenly paused in her tea-table duty, and -looked earnestly at her guest. The old man’s eyes -met hers—they had seen each other before—but -the mists of time shrouded their memories, and -blended names and places and periods strangely -together.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Will thee have another cup of tea?” said the -matron to the old man.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I have heard that voice,” thought the stranger, -as he took the proffered cup with gratitude, and -finished his breakfast in silence.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Oh! grandmother,” said the maiden, springing -to the window, “here come the Iron Greys; how -splendidly they look.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I cannot look at them,” said the matron, in a -trembling voice—“thy grandfather was killed by -the Brunswick Greys at Princeton.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“What was his name?” said the old man, fixing -his dim eye steadily upon the speaker’s face.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Charles Greely,” said the matron, shedding an -unexpected tear.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Charles Greely,” said the old man springing -up—“why he was a Life Guardsman, and died by -my side—I buried him at the hour of twilight by -the milestone.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“And thou art?” said the matron, earnestly.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Old Hugh Maxwell, a corporal of Washington’s -Life Guard at your service,” said the stranger -guest.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Oh! well do I know thee,” said the matron, -weeping—“it was thee who gave me directions -where to find him, and delivered to me his dying -sigh. This is an unhappy day to me, Hugh Maxwell, -but thy presence lends an interest to it that I -had no idea of enjoying. William and Anne, thy -grandfather died upon Hugh Maxwell’s breast in -battle—let us bless God that we are permitted to -entertain the gallant soldier upon the anniversary -of that day of glory.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>And the son brought forth the old family bible, -and the widow Greely prayed after the manner of -the Quakers, amid her little congregation.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>When the service was over, and the breakfast -equipage had been removed, the son and the daughter -each drew a seat beside the old veteran, while -their grandmother carefully wiped her spectacles -and took a moderate pinch of Maccouba. Then -seating herself as straight as a drill sergeant in her -cushioned seat in the corner, she turned her <span class='it'>well -ear</span> toward the old corporal and looked out of the -window.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Tell us about the battle of Trenton and of -Princeton, Mr. Maxwell,” said the grand-children, -in one voice. The old man looked inquiringly at -the widow Greely.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Thee may tell it, though it may be a sad tale -to me,” said the matron, and Hugh Maxwell, after -resting his head upon his hand for a moment, began -his account of</p> - -<h2 class='nobreak'>THE BATTLES OF TRENTON AND PRINCETON.</h2> - -<p class='pindent'>The twenty-fifth of December, 1776, was a -gloomy day in the American camp. An army of -thirty thousand British soldiers lay scattered along -the opposite side of the freezing Delaware, from -Brunswick to the environs of Philadelphia. Gen. -Howe commanded the British cantonment, and -Lord Cornwallis was on the march from New -York to reinforce him.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The British soldiers were flushed with success. -They had driven us through the Jerseys. New -York Island and the North River were in their -power. They had tracked us by our bloody foot-prints -along the gloomy, though snow-clad hills: -and they looked eagerly forward to the day when -the head of our illustrious Washington should be -placed upon Temple Bar, and the mob of London -should cry out while they pointed at it, “there rests -the head of a Traitor.” The banner of England -floated heavily in the wintry air, and the fur-clad -Hessian paced his rounds on the gloomy hills, with -his bayonet gleaming in the stormy light; videttes -were seen galloping along the hill sides, and the -valleys echoed with the martial airs of England. -But in our camp all was sadness. Five thousand -men, ill-armed, and worse clad, without tents or -even camp utensils, sat crouching over their lonely -watch-fires.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>But this was not all. The crafty British general -had offered a pardon to all who would desert the -American cause, and many men of property, aye! -even members of Congress, recreant to honor and -principle, pocketed their patriotism with the proclamation, -and basely betrayed their country in the -hour of her peril. Members of Congress did I say? -Yes, those that had been members: and let me -repeat their names, lest perchance they may have -been forgotten in the age of sham power and -speculation. Galloway and Allen deserted, and -joined the enemies of freedom in the fall of 1776.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Such was the state of things at this period. All -was silence in the American camp. The spangled -banner hung drooping over our head quarters, and -the sentinel by the low door-way stood leaning in -melancholy mood upon his rusty and flintless gun. -The commander-in-chief held a council of war. At -the close of it he gave his opinion—he had heard -of the scattered cantonment of the British army.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Now,” said he striking his hand upon an order -of battle, and pointing from the window of the little -farm house toward the wild river, “now is the time -to clip their wings.” It was a master-thought; the -council of war concurred with their leader, and -each member retired silently to prepare for immediate -action.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The regiments were mustered—the sentinels were -called in—a hasty meal was devoured—the evening -shut in with darkness and storm—the word was -given—and we began our march. One party moved -down, one remained stationary, and one passed up -to a point above Trenton. I was with Washington. -No one in the ranks knew where he was to go—all -was mystery; until we wheeled down the steep -bank of the Delaware.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Onward,” was the word. “Cross the river,” -thundered along the line, and our freezing legions -moved on. Who shall describe the pains and the -perils of that terrible march? Who shall reward -the noble spirits, who, trusting in their illustrious -leader, moved onward, amid famine, nakedness, and -the winter’s storm? Surely at this day a generous -nation will not let the poor, old veteran die who -has his scars—but no certificate—to testify to the -glory of that night—better feed an imposter than -starve a hero.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>But to my tale.—Upon a high bank Washington, -and Knox, and a few staff officers, wrapped in scanty -military cloaks, sat upon their shivering chargers, -and awaited the progress of the broken line.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>We moved on—some on cakes of ice—some on -rafts with the artillery—and some in little boats. -Dark reigned the night around—the wild blast from -the hills swept down the roaring stream—the water -froze to our tattered clothes, and our feet were -blistered and peeled by treading upon the icy way. -The snow, like feathers borne upon a gale, whirled -around us—the dark waters yawned fearfully before -us—at every step we were in danger. Now precipitated -into the stream, and now forced to climb -the rugged sides of the drift-ice, still we advanced. -At length the cannon and tumbrils were landed, and -the last soldier stood upon the opposite shore.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Shivering with cold, and pale with hunger and -fatigue, our column formed and waited for the word. -Washington and his staff were at hand. “Briskly, -men, briskly,” said he, as he rode to the head of -the line; and then the captains gave the word from -company to company, and the army marched on in -silence. A secret movement of an army at night -keeps the drowsy awake, and the hungry from -complaining. Man is an inquisitive animal, and -the only way to make him perform apparent impossibilities, -is to lead him after he knows not -what. Columbus discovered America in a cruize -after Solomon’s gold mine, and the vast field of -chemistry was laid open to human ken, in a search -for the elixir of life, and the philosopher’s stone.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>All night our troops moved down the west bank -of the river, and as the morning spread her grey -mantle over the eastern hills, we reached Trenton.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The Hessians, under Rawle, slept. No one feared -Washington,—and the moustached soldier dreamed -of the Rhine and the Elbe, and the captain slept -careless at his inn. But suddenly the cry was -raised,—“He comes! he comes!” Our frosty -drums beat the charge; the shrill fifes mingled in -with a merry strain; and our hungry army, with -bare feet entered the city. Like the Scandinavian -horde—in impetuosity and necessity—before the -eternal city, we rushed up the streets, and attacked -the surprised enemy at every turn. The startled -foe endeavored to defend themselves; but, before -any body of them could collect, a charge of our -infantry cut them to pieces. Their colors were -absolutely hacked off of their standard-staff, while -they advanced in line, by a sergeant’s sword, and -their officers were cut down or taken prisoners. -Our victory was complete. One thousand men were -killed and made prisoners, and the artillery, consisting -of nine pieces, was captured. Such was the -effect of the Battle of Trenton upon the enemy; -but to us the consequences were the reverse. Our -hungry men were fed, our naked were clothed, the -rank and file were armed, and the officers promoted.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The same evening we re-crossed the river, but it -was not the terrible stream of the previous night. -The foot-prints of boots and shoes were left on our -trail, and the drums beat a merry call, while the -bugles answered sweet and clear.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>In a few hours the Hessian tents shrouded the -captors on the site of our old encampment; and -Rawle’s officers had the pleasure of drinking <span class='it'>their -own wine in their own tents</span>, with General Washington, -and his subalterns, as prisoners of war. So -well planned was this attack that we lost but nine -men, and two of them were frozen to death after -being wounded.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>On the 29th of December, 1776, we again crossed -the Delaware, and at 1 P. M., our eagles floated -over Trenton.</p> - -<hr class='tbk117'/> - -<p class='pindent'>The “merry Christmas” of our evening party -astonished and aroused the king’s generals. Lord -Cornwallis hastened to form a junction with General -Grant at Princeton; and on the 2d of January, -1777, the British army marched against Trenton.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>It was late in the afternoon when the advance -guard of the enemy appeared in sight, their red -coats forming a striking contrast with the winter’s -snow. Our drums now beat to arms, and General -Washington, with 5,000 of us, crossed the rivulet -Assumpinck, and took post upon the high ground -facing the rivulet. A heavy cannonade speedily -commenced, and when night came on, both armies -had a breathing spell.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Fresh fuel was now piled upon the camp-fires—the -sentinels were posted in advance—small parties -were stationed to guard each ford—the cry, “all’s -well,” the quick challenge, and the prompt answer; -the tramping of a returning vidette—and the occasional -tapping of a drum in the guard-room, were -heard in our camp. The British general rejoiced -in the belief that the morning sun would behold -him a conqueror of our leader and ourselves. Secure -of his prey, the enemy made preparations to -attack our camp on the first blush of morning. The -noise of hammers—the heavy rumbling of cannon -wheels—the clashing of the armorer’s hammer, and -the laugh of the artizan and pioneer, came over -upon the night-wind, and grated harshly upon our -sensitive ears.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>An officer, mounted, and wrapped in a military -cloak, was now seen silently approaching the commanders -of regiments in quick succession. He -whispered his orders in a low tone—the colonels -started with astonishment,—they looked—it was -their general, and they immediately sent for their -captains. Each officer heard the new order with -astonishment, but to hear was to obey. The captains -whispered it to their orderlies, and in twenty -minutes after it was communicated to commanders -of regiments the whole army stood upon their feet -in battle array. Our tents were struck, and our -baggage wagons were ready for a march.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The sentinels paced their rounds as though -nothing was about to happen. The laugh of the -relieved guard was heard above the din of both -armies, and “all’s well” rang above the night.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>We now stood ready in open column to march. -General Hugh Mercer had command of the van-guard, -and in a few moments our captains whispered, -“forward, and be silent”—our living mass -immediately moved onward, and filed off toward -Allentown. Presently we heard the rear guard, -with the artillery, rumbling in our rear, and then -our camp, so quietly deserted, was lost sight of in -the shadow of the hills.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>For upward of two hours we moved on in comparative -silence. Nothing but the whispers of the -officers, and the heavy tread of men was heard. It -was quite dark, and every breast seemed to be under -the spell of mystery. At length a noise was heard -ahead, and a staff officer galloped to the rear. As -he passed along he said, in a clear voice, “the enemy -are in sight.” In a few minutes the voice of the -gallant Mercer was heard loud and distinct, giving -his orders—“attention, van-guard, close order, -quick time, march.” We sprang at the word—each -soldier grasped his musket with a firmer gripe—and -away we went upon the run.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Three regiments of light-infantry opposed us -upon the plain at Maidenhead, and their drums -were beating merrily as we drew near them—our -front now came upon an open common. We broke -into three columns, and headed by the gallant Mercer, -dashed on. In a moment a stream of fire -passed along the British line, the dead and wounded -fell around me, and our columns wavered. At this -instant while General Mercer, with his sword -raised, was encouraging the van-guard to rush on -and secure the victory, a bullet struck him, and he -fell from his horse mortally wounded. For a moment -only the battle was against us, but soon the -firm voice of Washington was heard, as he pressed -on to the front. Our musketry now echoed terribly; -the enemy began to give way; a well-directed -fire from the artillery told fearfully upon the small -armed foe, and they were routed. At this moment -a British soldier clapped his bayonet to my breast—Charles -Greely thrust it away with his right hand—the -soldier fired—his musket and the noble-hearted -Greely fell upon my breast. I grasped his hand—it -faintly returned my pressure—and then he straitened -himself upon the ground, his eyes became fixed, his -jaw fell, and he was dead. I bore him quickly to -a wounded cart, and hastened to my platoon. The -enemy were flying toward Brunswick, and we were -masters of the field.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“On to Princeton,” shouted our noble leader, as -he sent his wounded aid to the rear on a litter.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The line moved on in quick time, and soon we -entered the town. Our visit was as unexpected -here as at Trenton. A portion of the enemy had -taken shelter in the college. Our general, as at -Trenton, headed the charge in gallant style, while -the troops, animated by his fearlessness, nobly seconded -him. The artillery thundered against the -garrisoned college, and the musketry rung wildly -from every corner. Surrounded by a superior force, -and not knowing but what Cornwallis had been -routed, for they had heard the midnight cannon at -Maidenhead, most of the enemy surrendered. A -few, however, escaped by a precipitate flight along -an unguarded street at the commencement of the -attack. In this affair one hundred of the enemy -were killed, and three hundred taken prisoners. -Lord Cornwallis, as he lay on his camp bed, was -roused by the roar of cannon. He started—the -sound came from Princeton—he immediately ordered -his troops under arms, and hastened to the -scene of action. When he arrived the battle was -won, and we were on our return march in triumph. -As we crossed the Milestone river, we were halted -to destroy the bridge at Kingston. I ordered a -file of men to assist me, and hastily buried my -companion in arms by the water-side, while the -enemy’s cannon answered for minute-guns for the -brave. Having shed a tear of sympathy over his -lonely grave, we joined the main-body. At sun-set -we trod upon the bleak hills of Morristown, and -when the camp-fires were lighted the campaign of -’76 was over.</p> - -<hr class='tbk118'/> - -<p class='pindent'>As the old man finished his tale, the widow -turned away her head, and the grand-children hid -their faces and wept. At length when they raised -their eyes to their guest, his face was pallid—a -wildness was manifest in his eyes; and his frame -appeared to be stiffening in death. They sprang to -him.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Forward—on—to—Princeton!” said he, in a -cold whisper; and then the last Life Guardsman -joined his companions in Heaven.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The next day a numerous body of strangers followed -the old veteran to the tomb; and the widow -Greely placed a plain marble slab at the head of it, -and inscribed upon it—</p> - -<div class='lgc' style='page-break-before:avoid'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<p class='line'> </p> -<p class='line'>HERE LIES</p> -<p class='line'>THE LAST OF WASHINGTON’S</p> -<p class='line' style='font-size:1.2em;'>LIFE GUARD.</p> -</div> <!-- end rend --> - -<hr class='tbk119'/> - -<div><h1><a id='sonn'></a>SONNET WRITTEN IN APRIL.</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 MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p> - -<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:1em;'>“My harp also is turned to mourning, and my organ into the voice of those that weep.”—<span class='it'>Job. 30, 31.</span></p> - - - <div class='poetry-container' style=''> - <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>“Once” did this heart exult at coming spring,</p> -<p class='line0'>  My sunny smiles were bright as April skies!</p> -<p class='line0'>  Or if tears ever overflowed my eyes,</p> -<p class='line0'>They passed as showers, which April clouds do bring,</p> -<p class='line0'>And quick again my joyous soul took wing;</p> -<p class='line0'>  As when the bird from out its covert flies,</p> -<p class='line0'>To welcome sunshine back with carolling,</p> -<p class='line0'>  New plumes its pinions, higher yet to rise.</p> -<p class='line0'>  But now, alas! I’m like the <span class='it'>wounded</span> bird!</p> -<p class='line0'>An arrow in this bosom pierces deep—</p> -<p class='line0'>  My spirit droops—my song no more is heard;</p> -<p class='line0'>  My harp to mourning turned, is only stirred</p> -<p class='line0'>As with the plaintive tones of those that weep,</p> -<p class='line0'>And I am sad, while Spring her festival doth keep.</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<hr class='tbk120'/> - -<div><h1><a id='ugo'></a>UGOLINO,</h1></div> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>A TALE OF FLORENCE.</p> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>———</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:0.8em;font-weight:bold;'>BY M. TOPHAM EVANS.</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p> - -<h2 class='nobreak'>I.</h2> - -<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>Dark</span> as the mouth of Acheron, and the rain -seems inclined to warrant a second deluge,” grumbled -a rough voice, proceeding from one of the dark -alleys which branched out from the Porta san -Piero.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Silence, rascal!” sharply rejoined another voice. -“Wouldst betray us with thy noise? Thou wouldst -have the <span class='it'>bargello</span> upon us, with a murrain! Dost -thou think that thou art brawling over thy liquor, -that thou wouldst bring the notice of the police -upon us?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Nay, I but spoke,” growled the other, and -muffling himself up in his heavy cloak, leaned -against the wall and held his peace.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The night was truly, as the first speaker observed, -as black as Tartarus. The rain plashed down in -torrents; and the squalls of wind which occasionally -drove the showers with accelerated rapidity -across the street, whistled dismally among the tall -turrets and battlemented roofs of the Porta san -Piero. The street was obscured by a thick mist, -through which the feeble light of the flickering -lamps, hung in the centre of the thoroughfare, at -long distances from each other, shone like lurid -meteors. Few wayfarers lingered in the passage, -and such as were to be seen, with rapid strides, and -close-wrapped cloaks, hurried over the wet and -slippery stones, which formed a kind of rude <span class='it'>pavé</span>. -Two figures, enveloped in large mantles, the actors -in the dialogue, were carefully ensconced in the thick -darkness of the blind alley, apparently upon the -watch for some expected comer.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The turret clock of San Marco pealed the hour -of ten, and as if waiting for the signal, the wind -rose with increased fury, and spouts of water deluged -the persons of the concealed parties.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Corpo di Baccho!” swore the first speaker, -“by the clock it is ten already, and yet no signs of -Ugolino. My mantle cleaves to the skin with the -wet, and altogether I feel more like a half-drowned -rat, than a good Catholic. By my rosary, a bright -fire, and a comfortable cup of father Borachio’s Lachryma, -would be an excellent exchange for a dark -alley and a waterspout like this.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Something has detained his honor beyond this -time,” replied the other. “Count Ugolino was not -wont to be so slow in keeping his engagements. -Hark! I hear footsteps. It must be he. Stand -close.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A merry laugh pealed through the deserted street. -A troop of gallants, masked, and attended by serving-men, -and pages bearing torches, came onward. -They passed by, and the clank of their spurs, and -the rattle of their rapiers, died away in the distance.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“The cursed Frenchmen!” muttered the shortest -of the concealed personages, while his hand clutched -convulsively the hilt of his dagger. “Ill fare the -day that Florence ever saw Walter of Brienne!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“But as morn approaches the night is ever most -dark,” rejoined his comrade. “Would the count -were here. By the scales of justice I am even -a’weary of waiting for him. Comes he not yet?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A tall figure was seen stealthily approaching -through the gloom.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ha! Ugolino! Count, is it thou?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“The same. Well found, Pino D’Rossi.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“We have watched long for thee, and almost -feared that our watch was in vain.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I could not escape unnoticed. It is a wild -night.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“The fitter for our purpose. The worthy Adimari -greets thee well, and joyfully receives thee as -a brother. We are ready to conduct thee to the -assembly of the chiefs.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“In good time. Is Pompeo Medici there?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“He is there; to hear and to act.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It is well. But time flies, and our conversation -is too public if these slaves of the <span class='it'>bargello</span> be about. -Let us away to the noble Adimari.” So saying, -the three plunged into the surrounding darkness, -and were quickly lost to the sight.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>In an ancient vault of the palace of the Adimari, -the leaders of a conspiracy were assembled. Noble -forms and manly visages thronged the damp and -obscure apartment, and among the noblest in presence -stood Leonardo, the chief of the Adimari. -But the countenances of the nobles who composed -the meeting, were dark and troubled. The flashing -eye and the quivering lip betrayed the deep passions -which agitated the breasts of the chiefs, as, in the -course of their dialogue, some new cruelty, some -fresh instance of tyranny and rapacity upon the part -of the Duke d’Atene, was recited. A tap was heard -at the grated door, and Leonardo Adimari having -personally opened it, Ugolino and his two companions -entered the apartment. The count had thrown -off his reeking mantle, and stood attired in a rich -scarlet doublet, fancifully guarded with gold embroidery, -white long hose, and ruffled boots, which -exposed his manly person to the best advantage. -His locks, of a dark chestnut hue, flowed in long -ringlets from beneath a scarlet barret cap, adorned -with a jewelled clasp and plume of white heron feathers. -His countenance, chiselled in the finest and -most classical shape, was rendered highly expressive -by his dark eyes, which rolled and sparkled with -Italian vivacity of character. His form, sufficiently -fleshy for a perfect contour, displayed great muscular -strength, united with the most finished symmetry. -Depending from a richly ornamented scarf, hung his -rapier in its ornamented sheath, and his dagger, of -elegant workmanship, was suspended from the embroidered -hangers of his girdle.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Welcome, noble Ugolino,” said Adimari, as he -led the count forward, “and thou too, worthy Pino -D’Rossi, we lack patriots such as thou.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Thanks, noble Adimari,” replied D’Rossi, who -was a short, sturdy man, attired in a plain, black -suit. His age might have been some forty-five -years, for his hair was already tinged with gray. A -golden chain, depending from his neck, denoted him -to be of some mark among the citizens, and his -countenance and deportment were those of a stalwart -burgher.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Thanks, worthy Adimari. Patriots are never -wanting to defend true liberty, when she is attacked, -and was it ever heard that Frenchmen were the -guardians of the goddess?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Brave Leonardo,” said an old nobleman, rising -slowly from his seat, “these times call for a speedy -action. The blood of a noble family—the blood of -my son, Giovanni de Medici—long-spilt, and even -now staining the ermine of Walter of Brienne, calls -from the earth for vengeance. This moment is -propitious. The Florentine people, grieved and -oppressed by the hard measures of the Duke, and of -Giulio D’Assisi—the Florentine nobles, down-trodden -and despised by the arrogant followers of this -count of Brienne—all are ready—all are willing at -once to throw off the yoke of thraldom, and to reassert -the ancient liberties and privileges of the city -of Florence.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Well hast thou spoken, noble Pompeo,” replied -Adimari, “and it was my intention to apportion -this night to each, such charge as the exigencies of -the present time demand. My worthy friend, Pino -D’Rossi assures me that the people are ripe for the -attempt, and my heart decides me that the nobles -will not fail to aid them.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“The arrogance of these minions of the duke -have reached so outrageous a height,” said D’Rossi, -“that I will pledge mine honor that the populace -will prefer a thousand deaths to a longer submission.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I,” said Bindo Altoviti, “will speak for the artizans, -and will engage to make as many mouthsful -of those rascals, the <span class='it'>bargello</span> and his son, as they -have murdered innocent men.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“For Gualtieri,” said the old Medici, “may the -hand of the Everlasting lie heavy on me and mine, -if he, or aught of his race, shall escape the general -doom!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Ugolino started.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“For mine own part,” said he, “I trust that the -effusion of blood may not be farther pursued in -these unhappy times than the exigency of the case -requires. Far be it from me to justify the conduct -of the Count of Brienne, or the arrogance of his -proud followers. Yet the count may have been -badly advised, and I think these cruelties may not -be entirely ascribed to the wickedness of his nature. -Let not the noble Medici so far mistake, as to suffer -a private desire of revenge, however just such a -desire may appear, to overrule the cause of liberty. -This, I trust, may be attained without a sanguinary -massacre. Let the sword of mercy interpose, nor -by a blind and indiscriminate fury, sacrifice the innocent -upon the same altar with the guilty.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Aye, Count Ugolino,” said Medici, and a bitter -sneer passed over his thin features, “we well know -the cause of your solicitations. Have we forgotten -the tale of Julian D’Este, and of the princess Rosabelle? -The fair sister of Walter of Brienne may, -to a moonsick lover, be an object of deeper interest -than the prosecution of the holiest revenge, or the -re-assertion of our Florentine liberty.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Now, by heaven, Pompeo Medici,” exclaimed -Ugolino, “you do me infinite wrong! What? dare -you hint that Julian D’Este died by my hand? or -that Rosabelle de Brienne sways me with a stronger -attachment than the interests of Florence?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I speak well-known facts,” replied the Medici. -“Neither is the history of Count Ugolino unknown -to the world, nor are his <span class='it'>actions</span> left unscrutinized.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Thou irreverend noble!” said Ugolino, while a -deep flush overspread his cheek. “Hadst thou not -the sanction of thine age to protect thee, I would -force thee to eat thine own words, with no better -sauce to them than my stiletto.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Nay,” interposed Adimari, while Pino D’Rossi -intercepted Ugolino, “these matters will break out -again into our ancient broils. Worthy Medici—valiant -Ugolino—listen to reason—nay, Pompeo, -sheathe thy sword—this is utter ruin to our general -cause!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Ugolino returned his dagger to its sheath.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Count Adimari,” said he, “I regret that the -words of yon ancient libeller should have moved -me so far from my patience in this presence. But -enough of this—proceed we to matters of more -general import.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Mark me, Leonardo,” said old Medici, as he -slowly resumed his seat. “Ages have left us many -a sad example. In an ill hour was Ugolino admitted -into this league. Strong is the dominion of a -beautiful woman over the most masculine mind. -Beware of yon count, for Rosabelle de Brienne will -be the destruction of either himself, or of the cause -of Florentine liberty.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A smile of scorn curled the lip of Ugolino.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I receive not the prophecy,” said he. “The -hour waxes late, and the noble Adimari hath intimated -his desire to apportion the charge of this -insurrection among the nobles. It is now the -time for action, but thou and I, Pompeo Medici, -must confer still farther.”</p> - -<h2 class='nobreak'>II.</h2> - -<p class='pindent'>On the same night upon which the above related -events took place, the ducal palace was brilliantly -illuminated, and sounds of festivity proceeded from -the lofty portals. Duke Gualtieri held his high -revel. Troops of noble cavaliers and throngs of -high-born dames filled the grand hall of audience, -at the top of which was the duke, seated upon an -elevated dais, covered with superb hangings, and -surrounded by the military chiefs of his faction. -Gualtieri was a tall, muscular man of fifty, in the -expression of whose countenance a sort of soldierly -frankness struggled with a fierce and scornful air. -He was splendidly attired in a tunic of purple velvet, -with hose of rich sendal, and over his shoulder -was thrown his ermined cloak. His head was -covered with the ducal coronet, and his neck encircled -by a gorgeous chain of twisted gold and jewellery. -Near him stood Giulio D’Assisi, the dreaded -<span class='it'>bargello</span>, or head of police. This last was a man -of middle age, attired in scarlet robes, with a face -strongly marked by the traces of brutal passion.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“A higher measure!” shouted the duke. “By -the honor of the virgin, I think our cavaliers be -ungracious to-night, or else these fair dames are -more intent upon their beads than their lavoltas. -Ha! gallants? hath our air of Florence so dull -and muddy a taste to the cavaliers of Provence, -that it seemeth to quench the fire of their courtesy?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“By my halidome!” said the <span class='it'>bargello</span>, “your -highness speaks well and merrily. The air of Florence, -methinks, hath an exceeding thick complexion, -in comparison with the more delicate breezes which -fan the soil of France.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Thou hast aided to thicken it with a vengeance,” -said the duke with a grim smile. “Ha, -Giulio, the blood of these swine of Florence, whom -thou draggest to thy shambles, might well make the -air murky?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“By the patrimony of St. Peter,” replied D’Assisi, -“it is but a needful phlebotomy. Marry, if the -leech were more often employed in cleansing the -veins of your Florentine state, it were good for the -health and purification of the remaining body politic.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Thou art the prince of provosts, my friend,” -said the duke.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“What, Rinaldo, is it thou? and away from the -fair Matilde? When did this happen before in -Florence?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The person addressed was a tall, elegant cavalier, -whose manly countenance was rendered yet -more interesting by the melancholy expression of -his eyes. He was plainly, but handsomely attired -in a costly suit of dark brown velvet, embroidered -with seed pearls.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“May it please your highness,” said Rinaldo, -Comte D’Hunteville, (for he was no less a personage,) -“I have news of some import to communicate. -An esquire of mine, passing this night through the -Porta san Piero, discovered a person, whom he recognized -as Pino D’Rossi, the chief of the <span class='it'>balia</span>, -accompanied by the Count Ugolino, and one whom -he knew not, proceeding in the direction of the palace -of the Adimari. There are also rumors of -seditious meetings which have been held there, and -I fear—”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Tush, man,” interrupted De Brienne. “Canst -speak of business when so fair a throng of ladies -decks our court? or couple the word fear with these -dogs of Florence? They shall be cared for; but -they have lost the power to harm. Marry, as for -the will, we doubt not of that. As for that notorious -villain, Ugolino, who has dared to aspire to -the hand of our sister,” continued he, while the fire -of rage sparkled in his eyes, “and through whom -such infamous aspersions have been cast upon the -honor of the house of Brienne, I have my spies -upon him. The least imprudent action he dares -commit, our trusty Giulio will take order it be not -repeated. Forward, Comte D’Hunteville, to the -dance!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Hardly had the duke spoken these words, ere a -man of singularly unprepossessing countenance, entered -the apartment. He was of small stature, with -a dark, thin visage; restless, inquisitive eyes, and a -hooked nose. He wore a plain, civil suit, and a -walking rapier, more for ornament than use, decorated -his side. Quickly approaching the duke, -he whispered a few words in his ear. The duke -started.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Art thou mad, man? A meeting at the palace -of the Adimari! Pompeo Medici there? Why -was this not known sooner? Giulio, thy spies have -misled thee for the once! Why, they were desperate -enemies, in whose feud I placed a deep dependence -for safety. Rinaldo, saidst thou that D’Rossi -was there?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Mine esquire hath so informed me, please your -grace.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“By the mass, I doubt some treachery. When -Medici and Adimari shake hands, their union is not -to be despised. But thanks at least for this information. -Hark thee, Cerettieri, be it thy care to -look farther into this matter. Arrest this Adimari -and Pino D’Rossi this very night. Away—their -plans shall never be matured! So, gallants, let us -again address ourselves to the festivity of the hour.”</p> - -<h2 class='nobreak'>III.</h2> - -<p class='pindent'>The last lingering taper had disappeared from the -windows of the palace, and the clock of the tower -had struck the hour of three, when the figure of a -man might have been descried, cautiously clambering -over the wall which enclosed the ducal gardens. -Passing rapidly through the ornamental parterre, he -stopped beneath a window which opened upon the -gardens, and threw a pebble against the lattice. -The signal having been again repeated, the casement -opened, and a female form advanced upon the -balcony.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Is it thou, Ugolino?” demanded a voice, the -silvery sweetness of whose tone was so clear and -distinct, that it almost startled the count.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It is I, dearest Rosabelle,” he replied. “I -have much to communicate with thee, and the -night wanes fast. Throw down the rope, that I -may ascend to thee, for the tidings I have to tell -thee may brook no ears save thine, for whose only -they are intended.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The Princess D’Este retired for a moment and -returned, bearing a silken cord, one end of which -she attached to the balcony, and threw the other to -the count. Ugolino ascended, and the princess in a -moment was in his embrace.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Quick, let us raise the robe, and close thy -chamber carefully, for I have much to say and -speedily.” With these words they entered the -apartment.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>It was a lofty room, hung with tapestry of Arras, -and sumptuously furnished, as became the rank of -its mistress. Large and costly ottomans, oaken -seats richly carved and ornamented with the armorial -bearings of Brienne, large Venetian mirrors set -in massive frames, and richly chiselled stands of -colored marble, upon which heavy silver candelabra -were placed, added to the magnificence of the -apartment, which was lit by a swinging lamp of -silver, from whence exhaled a delicate perfume. -The count threw himself upon a pile of cushions, -and covered his face with his hands.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ugolino!” said the princess, passing her small -white hand through the curled locks of the count, -“why are you thus agitated? Are we discovered? -Do the blood-hounds of my brother still pursue us? -If so, impart thy griefs to her who adores thee, -that she may, at least, participate in them, if she -cannot console thee.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I am come,” said the count, and a pang of -agony shot across his noble features, “to prove -myself a most foul traitor.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Traitor!” said Rosabelle. “Ugolino! can the -name of a traitor associate with thine?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Aye. It can—it must! Thou knowest, Rosabelle, -the price I paid for thee ere now. Thou art -yet doomed to exact from me a sterner sacrifice. -When I saw thee first, the fairest dame in France, -at the gay field of Poictou, I drew in love for thee -with my first breath. Thou wert then the wife of -Julian D’Este. What I suffered for thee then, my -recollection brings too vividly to light. What agonies -I now experience, knowing the barbarous revenge -which my already too deeply oppressed -countryman must undergo, when my tale is told -to the duke—yet all for thy sake—no human imagination -can depict. Then I languished beneath -the load of an affection, which honor, reason, duty, -chivalry, all combined to oppose. Powerless opposition! -The deity of love scorns all defensive -armor. I sought, impelled by fate, the charms of -thy society. For thee, Julian D’Este was no fitting -spouse. Harsh and unrefined, he repelled thine -youthful affections, while I, unhappy, too surely -was the magnet which did attract them. Then -followed our fatal step. Was it folly? My heart -still tells me it is no folly to adore thee. Was it -madness? Madness never spoke in so clear a tone -of reason as in that, which on the day, hallowed -to my remembrance, as we perused that antique -volume, displayed all our feelings—disclosed the -secret emotions of our hearts—gave us soul to soul—and -formed our future bliss—our future woe! -No base and vicious inclinations—no vulgar voluptuousness -disgraced our union. We felt that we -were made for each other, and when Julian D’Este -fell beneath my poniard, I thought it no crime added -to my account, when I endeavored, by compassing -his death, to confer happiness upon thee.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Rosabelle answered nought, but hung more devotedly -around the neck of the count, while the -soft blue of her eyes was dimmed with the rising -tear.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“What ensued—the impossibility of discovering -the murderer of Julian—our farther intercourse—your -brother’s hearty refusal of my suit, and the -suspicion attached to our names, were but matters, -which, had prudence been consulted ere the deed -was done, she would have foretold. But who advises -calmly when the burning fire of love threatens -to consume him? In fine, the tyrant brought thee -with him here to Florence, upon his election as -captain and signor of the city. Here, secluded by -him from the world, I had given thee up as lost. -My faithful Spalatro discovered thy retreat, and as -yet we had hoped that our secret interviews were -undiscovered. Fatal infatuation! This very night -has Pompeo Medici thrown out hints, nay, open -assertions of his knowledge of our situation. -Thanks to the death of Giovanni, else all had -been discovered to the duke!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Let me counsel thee to fly!” said Rosabelle, -“as I have done before. There is no time to be -lost. Myself will be companion of thy flight.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It is, I fear, too late. Now listen to the conclusion -of my tale. A great conspiracy is on foot -against the rule of the duke. It will break out -into revolt ere morning. All is prepared. The -fierce Medici swears utter ruin to thy race. Even -though forewarned, I doubt that Gualtieri will be -overwhelmed. Adimari, equally exasperated with -the Medici against thy brother, dare not check -Pompeo in his chase of blood, lest he fall off and -irretrievably ruin the fabric of the conspiracy. -Pino D’Rossi vows death to the minions of the -duke, who, as I am a Christian man, have well -deserved it. Ere day-break, confusion will begin. -Thou must fly to thy brother, and advise him of -the plot. My name must be known as the traitor -to my country, else thy tale will not be believed. -My charge lies at the church of Santa Mario del -Fiore. Ere the palace is invested, do thou devise -means to escape, which may readily be done in the -confusion. Spalatro will conduct thee to the hotel -of San Giovanni, in the Primo Cerchio. There -have I prepared disguises and horses. The chances -of escape then lie before us, and if fortune befriend -us, we will fly to some happier clime. At all -events, death is the worst which can betide us, -and death ends all woes and calms every distress -forever. Art thou willing, my Rosabelle, to trust -thus blindly to fate?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Rosabelle can only live or die with Ugolino!” -cried the princess, throwing herself into the arms of -the count.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Now, Rosabelle, fly to the duke. I hear -already a distant sound—a far murmuring, as of -the gathering of throngs. This last sacrifice, imperious -love, will I make to thee! Remember! the -hotel of San Giovanni! Escape or happy death!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>He imprinted an ardent kiss upon the lips of the -beautiful princess, and descending from the balcony -was lost to her sight.</p> - -<h2 class='nobreak'>IV.</h2> - -<p class='pindent'>No sooner had Ugolino disappeared, than the -Princess Rosabelle left her apartment, and with -hurried steps rushed along the corridor to the private -chamber of the duke. The soldiers on duty -before the door respectfully resisted the entrance -of the princess, informing her that the duke was -closeted with his principal chiefs, and had strictly -debarred all access to his presence.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Away!” shrieked the princess, “not speak with -him! I must. It is his life which is at stake! -Ho! Gualtieri! as thou lovest thy life and dukedom, -hear Rosabelle!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“How now, minion?” said Gualtieri, coming -from the chamber. “Is it not enough that my -daily life must be rendered a curse and a scandal to -me by thy presence and pestilent conduct, but I am -to be disturbed at midnight with thine outcries?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Thy life is in danger,” said Rosabelle. “As -thou art a soldier, arm quickly, for ere long they will -be here, who have sworn to see thy heart’s blood.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“A likely invention!” said the duke, with a -sneer, “by what miracle of evil hast thou arrived -at so sage a conclusion?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“It is true, by our lady,” said Rosabelle. “Oh, -Gualtieri, wilt thou not believe me? My brother, -thou hast been harsh to me, but I cannot see thee -murdered without making an effort to save thee.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Murder, fair Rosabelle,” said the duke, “if all -say true, is by no means unfamiliar to thy thoughts. -How hast thou this rare intelligence? Of what -nature is it? Soldier, retire.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Adimari and the Medici have plotted the downfall -of thine authority,” replied the princess. “This -night; nay, this very moment their plans will be -matured. The throngs are now gathering which -will hurl thee from thy seat, and perchance, deprive -thee of thy life.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“From whence thine information?” demanded -the duke.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“From the Count Ugolino.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The face of the duke became purple with rage. -His hands shook like the aspen, and his voice was -hoarse as the growl of the enraged lion.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ugolino!” he exclaimed. “Ha! harlot! Hast -thou dared again to discourse with that bloody villain? -and this night? Thou diest for it, wert thou -thrice my sister!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Gualtieri drew his dagger, and was about to rush -upon his sister, when the hurried tread of men and -the sound of voices arrested his arm. The dagger -fell from his hand. A door in the corridor flew -violently open, and Cerettieri Visdomini, followed -by three or four soldiers, stood before him. The -face of Visdomini was pale as marble, and a rivulet -of blood, trickling from a deep wound in his forehead, -gave a ghastly expression to his countenance. -His dress was disordered through haste and fright, -and in his hand he bore a broken rapier.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“How now, Cerettieri?” shouted the duke, while -Rosabelle, taking advantage of the confusion, escaped -from the apartment.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“All is confirmed,” replied Visdomini, in a -trembling voice. “The rabble have gained head. -Every thing is in disorder. Your banners are torn -down, and dragged through the filth of the slaughter-houses. -The cross-gules floats with the red lily -every where triumphant. Rally your train, my -lord, and close the palace gates, before the rebels -are upon you.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Where is that traitorous dog, Leonardo Adimari? -Hast not arrested him?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“I did so. He has been rescued, and I bear -nothing from Adimari, save this sword-cut.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“And the Assisi?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Have escaped to the palace. They are endeavoring -to rally the troops. Arm, my lord duke, -for the sake of the Madonna, or all is lost!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A loud shout, “down with the tyrant!” and the -clang of arms ran through the corridor.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ho! D’Argencourt! mine armour! my helmet!” -shouted the duke. “Treason! throw forth -my banner! Stand fast, arbalastmen, to the windows! -Ply trebuchet and mangonel! Cerettieri, -order the Count D’Hunteville to draw forth my -chivalry into the piazza! Shall we shrink from -the hogs of Florence? Fight valiantly, my brave -knights and gallant soldiers, and the spoil of the -city shall be yours!”</p> - -<h2 class='nobreak'>V.</h2> - -<p class='pindent'>The streets of Florence presented a wild and -tumultuous scene in the pale gray of the morning. -The bells from the cathedral church of Santa Maria -del Fiore, and from the venerable towers of the -church of the Apostoli, tolled incessantly, while -from the market-place and town-house, as well as -from the multitude of smaller chapels, the din was -fearfully augmented. The shrill cry “to arms!” -resounded every where. From the tall towers of -the noble, from the windows of the citizen’s house—aye, -from hut and hovel, waved the flag of the -ancient republic. The rabble, armed with such -imperfect weapons as haste and rage could supply, -wandered in confused masses through every lane -and thoroughfare, in pursuit of the instruments of -the duke’s cruelty. Armed bands of horsemen patrolled -the city. The burghers of the town, inured -to military discipline, and trained to break opposing -squadrons with the spear, were ranged, each man -under the respective banner of his ward. Barriers -were thrown up at the end of every street to break -the charge of the duke’s cavalry. Adimari and the -Medici rode at the head of their mailed retainers, -displaying their armorial bearings, through every -ward, cheering and animating the citizens. The -ducal soldiery, scattered through the city, and unprepared -for such an emergency, were endeavoring -to regain the palace, but many were seized and -stripped of their armour, by the vigilance of Pino -D’Rossi and his associates. In front of the palace -was collected a blood-thirsty mob, in overwhelming -numbers, pouring from lane and alley, among which -cross bows and mangonels of the soldiery from the -windows, scarce seemed to take effect, so fast were -those who fell replaced by throngs of the living. The -cry of “death! death!” was yelled out on every -hand. Women thronged the windows of the -grand square, repeating the cry, and throwing -weapons to the crowd below. Many of the lesser -minions of the duke were seized; some in female -apparel, endeavoring to escape, were rent in -pieces by the vindictive Florentines, with circumstances -of horrible ferocity. In the height of the -uproar, a knight, mounted upon a barbed steed, -and covered with a gold and ivory pointed shield, -his page being seated behind him, was seen dashing -along at full speed toward the city gates.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ho!” cried Bindo Altoviti, “what guard keep -ye here, archers? Draw to the head, and send -me yon Frenchman back to his own country, -feathered for his flight with a goose-wing of Florence!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A shower of arrows were directed against the -fugitives, two of which took effect, and the knight, -with his page, fell to the ground. The people pursued -and caught the flying steed, crying, “thanks -to the good duke for the gift! Oh! the Florentine -people for ever!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Adimari and Medici, with their train, rode up at -the instant.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“What cavalier is yon?” asked Adimari. “Some -one examine him, that we may know if he deserve -honorable burial. God forbid we should deny that, -even to a foe.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Pompeo Medici rode up, attended by an esquire, -to the bodies, and dismounting, unlaced the helmet -of the fallen cavalier, across whom the body of the -page was extended, as if to protect the form of his -master. The dying man turned his countenance to -Medici, and with a shudder, fell back dead in an -unavailing effort to speak.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Ha! St. John! whom have we here?” cried -Pompeo. “Noble Adimari, view these corpses. -My thoughts were not in error. And the page -too—”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“By the cross of St. Peter!” said Adimari, “it is -no other than the Count Ugolino, and the page is—?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Rosabelle De Brienne.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>A deep cloud of sorrow shaded the countenance -of Adimari.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“By San Giovanni!” said he, “I sorely mistrusted -this. This is that love, stronger than death. -Noble Ugolino, an ill-fate hath attended thee! This -then hast been the cause of thy desertion, but, by -my faith, I cannot blame thee, for thy lady hast the -fairest face I ever looked upon.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Peace be with their souls!” said Medici. -“Death ends all feuds. Cover their faces, and see -that they be laid, side by side, in the chapel of the -Virgin, with such ceremonies as their high stations -demand. Myself shall be, if I live, chief mourner -at this burial. Donato, be it thy care to have their -bodies conveyed to the Convent of Mercy.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The siege of the palace continued from day to -day. Famine began to gnaw the vitals of the -French soldiery, and fixed her tooth, sharper than -the sword, beneath each iron cuirass. Rage without -and hunger within, popular clamor and mutinous -murmurings, accumulated the distress of the -duke. In this emergency, he sent the Comte -D’Hunteville, his almost only virtuous follower, to -intercede with the Florentines, and to make honorable -terms of capitulation. Adimari would hearken -to no proposals, unless Giulio and Ippolito D’Assisi, -and Cerettieri Visdomini, the chief agents of oppression, -were delivered into the hands of the -people. Gualtieri, impelled by a sense of honor, -refused to accede to this demand. Thrice did the -chief of the <span class='it'>balia</span>, the bishop, and the Siennese -envoys, urge to the duke the impossibility of maintaining -the palace, and the necessity of complying -with the popular will. They met with reiterated -denial. The soldiers then sent a corporal to entreat -the duke to submission. Their suit was dismissed -with scorn. Then did the soldiers crowd, -with frowning faces and clashing arms, the chamber -of the duke, with the memorable words, “lord duke, -choose between these three heads and your own.” -Urged by imperious necessity, worn out with famine, -and watching, and clamor, Gualtieri, at last, -gave a tacit acquiescence to the delivery of his -favorites, and the pangs which his proud spirit felt -at this ignominious humiliation were far more bitter -than any of the tortures which he had inflicted upon -the objects of his tyranny. Shall I record the doom -of the victims? Is it not written in the chronicles -of the Florentine republic? They were torn in -pieces by the howling multitude, and their flesh actually -devoured, even while their palpitating limbs -were quivering in the agonies of death!</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Quiet was once more restored to the city by -the expulsion of the duke and his followers. The -chapel of the Convent of Mercy, hung with black, -and faintly lighted by dim and funeral tapers, was -prepared for the last death rites of Ugolino and of -his lady. Around the bier, where reposed the -coffined forms of the dead, were gathered the -noblest of Florence, and crowds of the common -sort thronged the sacred edifice. The last notes -of the pealing requiem died away. The solemn -priest sprinkled the holy water, and the last prayer -for the dead passed from his lips. The rites were -ended, and amid the tears of that noble assemblage -the marble jaws of the tomb closed for ever upon -the bodies of those, in whom love had indeed been -stronger than death.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Still does their sad tale exist among the legends -of Florence, and the youths and maidens of that -ancient town yet consecrate a tear to the inscription -which records the loves and fate of Count -Ugolino and of Rosabelle De Brienne. Yet indeed -“death can only take away the sorrowful from our -affections: the flower expands: the colorless film -that enveloped it falls off and perishes.”</p> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Mount Savage, Md. May, 1841.</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class='tbk121'/> - -<div><h1><a id='thun'></a>THE THUNDER STORM.</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 J. H. DANA.</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p> - -<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>You</span> never knew Agnes? She was the prettiest -girl in the village, or, for that matter, within a circuit -of twenty miles. At the time I write of, she -was just budding into womanhood, and if ever there -was a lovely being, she was one at eighteen. Her -eyes were blue, not of that light blue which is so -unmeaning, but of the deep azure tint of a midnight -sky, when a thousand stars are shining on its -bosom, and you feel a mysterious spell cast upon -you as you gaze on high. Just so I felt whenever -Agnes would look into my eyes with those deep -blue orbs of hers, whose every glance thrilled me to -the soul. And then her hair. It was the poet’s -color—a rich, sun-shiny gold. How I loved to -gaze upon its massy tresses, as they flowed down a -neck unrivalled for shape and whiteness. In figure -she was like a sylph. Her voice excelled in sweetness -any I had ever heard. It was low, and soft, -and musical as the whisper of an angel.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Agnes and I had grown up together. We were -not relatives, but we were both wards of Mr. Stanley, -and had been playmates in childhood. Many -a time had we spent whole days in wandering -across our guardian’s grounds, now threading the -old wood, now loitering by the little stream, and -now plucking buttercups to hold under each other’s -chins. Ah! those were pleasant hours. And as -we grew up, and were separated,—she remaining -at home with her governess, and I going to an -eastern college,—I would sit for hours dreaming of -Agnes, and wondering if she ever thought of me. -I know not how it was; but for years I looked -upon her as I looked on no other of her sex, and -at the age when youth is most susceptible to novelty, -I remained true to Agnes, as to the star of -my destiny.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I returned, after a long absence of six years, to -the residence of my guardian. In all that time I -had not seen Agnes. How I longed to ascertain -whether she had changed since we parted, and -during the whole of the last stage of my journey, I -lay back in the carriage, wondering in what manner -she would meet. And when the vehicle stopped at -the door of Mr. Stanley’s mansion, and all the remembered -scenes of my childhood crowded around -me, I turned from them impatiently, and, with a -throbbing heart, looked among the group awaiting -me, to see if I could distinguish Agnes. That gray-haired, -gentlemanly man I knew to be my second -father; but was the surpassingly beautiful girl at -his side my old playmate? My heart beat quick; -a sudden tremor seized me; my head was for a -moment dizzy, as I advanced hastily up the steps, -and was clasped, the next instant, in Mr. Stanley’s -arms.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“My dear—dear boy, God bless you!” said the -kind-hearted old gentleman. “We see you once -more amongst us. But have you forgotten your -old play-fellow?” he continued, turning to the fair -creature at his side. “Six years make a great -alteration I know. Agnes don’t you remember -Henry?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>As I turned and fixed my eyes full upon her, I -caught Agnes examining me with eager curiosity. -Detected in her scrutiny she blushed to the very -forehead, and dropped her eyes suddenly to the -ground. I was equally abashed. I had approached -her intending to address her with my old familiarity, -but this aversion of her look somehow unaccountably -disheartened me. I hesitated whether I should -offer her my hand. The embarrassment was becoming -oppressive, when, with a desperate effort, I -extended my hand, and said—</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Miss Agnes—” but for the life of me I could -not proceed. It was, however, sufficient to induce -her to look up, and our eyes met. At the same -instant she took my proffered hand. What happened -afterward I could never remember, only I recollect -the blood rushed in torrents to my cheeks, and I -fancied that the tiny white hand I held in my own, -trembled a little, a very little, but still trembled. -When I woke from the delirium of indescribable -emotions that ensued, I found myself sitting with -my guardian and Agnes in the parlor, but whether -I walked there on my head or my feet I cannot to -this day remember.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The month which followed was among the happiest -of my life, for it was spent at the side of -Agnes. We walked, rode, chatted, and sang together; -not a morning or an evening found us -apart; and insensibly her presence became to me -almost as necessary as the air I breathed. Yet—I -know not how it was—Agnes was a mystery to -me. At first, indeed, we were almost on the same -footing as if we had been brother and sister, but -after I had been at my guardian’s about a month, -she began to grow reserved, although at times she -would display all her old frankness, united with even -more than her usual gaiety. Often too, when I -looked up at her suddenly, I would find her gazing -into my face, and when thus detected, she would -blush and cast her eyes down, and seem so embarrassed -that I scarcely knew what to think, unless -it was that Agnes—but no!—how could she be in -love with one almost a stranger?</p> - -<p class='pindent'>For myself, I would have given the world, if I -could only have penetrated the secrets of her heart, -and learned there whether the affection toward her, -which I had felt had stolen almost insensibly across -me, had been returned. Yes! I would have given -an emperor’s ransom to discover what my timidity -would not allow me to enquire. It is an old story, -and has been told by hundreds before—this tale of -a young lover—but I cannot refrain from rehearsing -it again. I was sadly perplexed. Not a day passed -but what I rose to the height of hope, or fell to the -depth of despair. A smile from Agnes was the -sunlight of my existence, and her reserve plunged -me in unfathomable darkness. I could not penetrate -the fickleness of her manner, especially when -any of her young female friends were visiting her. -If I spoke to them with any show of interest, she -would either be unnaturally gay or singularly silent, -and when I came to address her, I would be received -with chilling coldness. Yet, at other times, my -despair would be relieved by a return of her old -frankness, and a hundred times have I been on the -point of telling her the whole story of my love, but -either my fears, or her returning reserve, prevented -my purpose from being executed.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>One day, after I had been at my guardian’s for -nearly three months, Agnes and I set out together -for a walk through the forest. It was a beautiful -morning, and the birds were carolling gaily from -every bough, while the balmy wind sighed sweetly -among the fresh forest leaves, making together a -harmony such as nothing but nature herself, on a -morning so lovely, can produce. Our hearts were -in unison with the scenery around, and Agnes was -in one of her old frank moods. We wandered on -accordingly, over stream and through glade and -down dell, admiring the glorious scenery on every -hand, and now and then stopping to gather a wild -flower, to listen to the birds, or to rest upon some -mossy bank, until the day had far advanced, and -recurring, for the first time to my watch, I found -that we had been several hours on our stroll, and -that it was already high noon. We were not so -far, however, from home but what we might reach -it in an hour.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Had we not better return, Agnes?” said I, “it -is growing late.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Oh! yes,” she replied, “in a moment. Wait -till I have finished this wreath,” and she continued -weaving together the wild flowers she had gathered -for a chaplet for her hair. How nimbly her taper -fingers moved, and how lovely she looked, as seated -on the grassy knoll, with her hat cast off beside -her, and her beautiful face flushed with health and -pleasure, she pursued her task.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>She was still busy in her fanciful labor, when -a cloud suddenly obscured the sun, and we both -looked up in some surprise, for the morning had -been unusually fair, and not a vapor hitherto had -dimmed the sky. A light fleecy film like a fine -gauze veil, was floating across the sun’s disc.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“There is a storm brewing in the hills,” said I.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Let us return at once,” said Agnes, “for my -chaplet is finished at last, and it would be so dreadful -to be caught in a shower.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>We did not linger a moment, for we both knew -that it was not unusual for a thunder shower to -come up, in that mountainous region, with a rapidity -almost inconceivable to those who have never lived -in so elevated a position. Hastily seizing her hat, -and throwing her chaplet over her bright brow, she -set forth smiling as gaily as ever, to return by the -shortest path to our home.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>For nearly a half an hour we pursued our way -through the forest, but at every step we perceived -that the storm was coming up more rapidly, until -at length the smiles of Agnes ceased, and we pursued -our now hurried way in silence, save when -an exclamation from my fair companion betokened -some new and angrier aspect of the sky.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Oh! Harry,” she said, at length, “we shall get -drenched through—see, the tempest is at hand, and -we have yet more than a mile to go.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>I looked up. The storm was indeed at our -doors. Yet it was as magnificent a spectacle as I -had ever beheld. The heavens were as black as -pitch, save now and then when for a moment they -were obscured by a lurid canopy of dust, swept -upward from the highway, giving earth and sky the -appearance as of the day of doom. Now the wind -wailed out in the forest, and now whirled wildly -past us. The trees groaned and bent in the gale, -their branches streaming out like banners on the -air. Anon, all was still. How deep and awful -and seemingly endless was that boding repose. -Agnes shrank closer to my side, her face paler -than ashes, and her slight form trembling with -ill-concealed agitation. Not a house was in sight. -I saw that our only shelter was the forest, and I -retreated, therefore, beneath a huge overshadowing -oak, whose gnarled and aged branches might have -defied a thousand years. As I did so a few rain -drops pattered heavily to the earth—then came -another silence—and then with a rushing-sound -through the forest, as if an army was at hand, the -tempest was upon us.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Never had I beheld such a storm. It seemed -as if earth and heaven had met in battle, and that -each was striving amid the ruins of a world for the -mastery. The first rush of the descending rain -was like a deluge, bending the mightiest trees like -reeds beneath it, and filling the hollows of the -forest road with a flood of water. Suddenly a -vivid flash of lightning shot across the heaven, and -then at a short interval followed a clap of thunder. -Agnes clung closely to my arm, her face wild with -affright. With a few hurried words I strove to -sooth her, pressing her still closer, and with -strange delight, to my bosom. As I did so she -burst into tears. Her conduct—I cannot explain -why—filled me with a joy I had long despaired of, -and in the impulse of the moment, I said,</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Dear Agnes! fear not. I am beside you, and -will die with you.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>She looked up, all tearful as she was, into my -eyes, and strove to speak, but her emotion was -too great, and, with a glance I shall never forget, -buried her face against my shoulder. I pressed -her closer to my heart. I felt a wild ecstacy -tingling through every vein, such as I had never -experienced. I could not resist my feelings longer.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Agnes! dear, dear Agnes,” I said, bending -over her, “<span class='it'>I love you.</span> Oh! will you be mine if -we escape?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>She made me no answer, but sobbed aloud. I -pressed her hand. The pressure was gently returned. -I wanted nothing more to assure me of -her affection. I was in a dream of wildering -delight at the conviction.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>For a moment I had forgotten the tempest in -my ecstacy. But suddenly I was aroused from -my rapture by a succession of loud and reiterated -peals, bursting nearer and nearer overhead, and I -looked up now in real alarm, wishing that we had -kept the forest road, exposed as we would have -been to the rain, rather than subject ourselves to -the dangers of our present position. I determined -even yet to fly from our peril, and taking Agnes by -the waist, urged her trembling steps onward. We -had but escaped from beneath the oak when a -blinding flash of lightning zig-zagged from one -horizon to the other, and instantaneously a peal -of thunder, which rings in my ears even yet, burst -right over us, and went crackling and echoing -down the sky, as if a thousand chariots were -driving furiously over its adamantine pavement. -But this I scarcely noticed at the time, though it -filled my memory afterward, for the flash of lightning -seeming to dart from every quarter of the -heaven, and unite right over us, shot directly -downward, and in the next instant the oak under -which we had been standing, riven in twain, stood -a scarred and blackened wreck, against the frowning -sky. I felt my senses reeling: I thought all -was over.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>When I recovered my senses I found myself -standing, with Agnes in my arms, while the thunder -was still rolling down the firmament. My first -thought was of the dear girl beside me, for I -thought her form was unusually heavy. She was -apparently perfectly lifeless. Oh! the agony of -that moment! Could she have been struck by the -lightning? Wild with fear I exclaimed,</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“Agnes! look up—dear one, you are not hurt?”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>At length she moved. She had only fainted, and -the rain revived her, so that in a few minutes I had -the inexpressible delight of feeling her clasp my -hand in return for my ardent emotion. But it was -long before she was able to return home, and when -we did so we arrived thoroughly drenched through. -But every thing was forgotten in gratitude for our -escape, and joy at knowing that we were beloved.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>And Agnes is now my wife, and I hear her -footstep, still to me like music, approaching. I -must close my sketch or the dear one will burn it, -for she has no notion, she says, of figuring in a -magazine.</p> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>April, 1841.</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class='tbk122'/> - -<div><h1><a id='joys'></a>THE JOYS OF FORMER YEARS HAVE FLED.</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 G. A. RAYBOLD.</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'>The</span> joys of former years have fled,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Like meteors through the midnight skies;</p> -<p class='line0'>The brief but brilliant light they shed,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Serves but to blind our anxious eyes:</p> -<p class='line0'>  So flee the joy of early days,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And perish like the meteor’s blaze.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>The joys of former years decay</p> -<p class='line0'>  Like summer flow’rs we linger o’er,</p> -<p class='line0'>While, one by one, they fade away,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And fall to earth to bloom no more;</p> -<p class='line0'>  Touch’d by the chilling hand of Time,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Thus fail the joys of manhood’s prime.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>The joys of former years are like</p> -<p class='line0'>  The last sweet notes of music, when</p> -<p class='line0'>Upon your ear they faintly strike,</p> -<p class='line0'>  You know they’ll ne’er be heard again</p> -<p class='line0'>  The breaking harp, last sweetest strain,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Ne’er woke by hand or harp again.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>The joys of former years when past,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Seem like a poet’s dream of bliss;</p> -<p class='line0'>Too brightly beautiful to last</p> -<p class='line0'>  In such a changing world as this:</p> -<p class='line0'>  Where stern reality destroys</p> -<p class='line0'>  Life’s poetry, and all its joys.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>The joys of former years expire,</p> -<p class='line0'>  As each loved one is from us torn;</p> -<p class='line0'>The dying flame of life’s last fire,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Then lights us to their grave to mourn;</p> -<p class='line0'>  Where joy entomb’d for ever, lies,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Hope still may from that grave arise.</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Swedesboro’, N. J. 1841.</span></p> - -</div> - -<hr class='tbk123'/> - -<div><h1><a id='poet'></a>POETRY:</h1></div> - -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-weight:bold;'>THE UNCERTAINTY OF ITS APPRECIATION.</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 EVANS SNODGRASS.</p> -<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1.5em;'>———</p> - -<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>There</span> is nothing more uncertain than the nature -of the reception a Poet’s productions, and particularly -his shortest pieces, are destined to meet. -Especially is this true with respect to the more -egotistical sort of versifications—such as sonnets, -and the like—in which one’s own feelings find vent -in verses penned, perhaps, for an album, or intended -for the perusal of the immediate circle in which the -writer moves. Now, the appreciation of sentiments -thus embodied, when they come to be <span class='it'>volume-ized</span>, -depends entirely upon the mood of mind in which -they find the reader. Such is, indeed, the case -with <span class='it'>personal</span> thoughts, even when they appear -amid the popular literature of the day—but is more -strikingly so under the circumstances named. If a -sonnet, for example, which has been addressed to -some real or fancied idol of the heart, falls into the -hands of one who is under the influence of the -tender passion, it is sure to be fully appreciated, and -pronounced “beautiful.” To such an one, nothing -is too sentimental.<a id='r5'/><a href='#f5' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[5]</span></sup></a> Anything which tells of the -“trials of the heart”—of “true love”—of a “broken -heart”—is doubly welcome. If it have a sprinkle -of star-and-moon-sentiment about it, all the better. -But place a piece of poetry headed, “Sonnet to -the Moon,” or “To Mary,” before a heartless old -bachelor, or an unsentimental matron, and the exclamation -would be—“what nonsense—what stuff!”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>But it is not only in the case of the love-struck, -and the <span class='it'>sans-love</span> portions of the community, that -the uncertainty named is made manifest, by any -means. The most thoughtful and dignified productions -may be the recipients of censure, for want of -a <span class='it'>kindredness</span> of sentimentality—or absence of it—on -the part of the reader. The mind may be totally -unfitted for the thoughts before it, by very conformation,—or -what is the same thing in effect—from -habit. And, then again, the mind of the most -sentimental order by nature, may be placed under -unfavorable circumstances to appreciate the thoughts -of the poet. So much so, that the most beautiful -creations of the most fanciful author, may be as -sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, though -clothed in most harmonious numbers. How, for -instance, may we expect the merchant or mechanic, -wearied with the toils of the day, to peruse a poem, -however short, with the same pleasure and favorable -reception as the man of leisure? The thing is -among the impossibles. But even the man of taste -and leisure, may fail (nay, often does,) to enter into -the feelings of the writer—and without <span class='it'>feeling</span> the -appreciation and penning of poetry, are, alike, out -of the question—unless we except some of the -poetry of <span class='sc'>Pope</span> and others, which has left the ordinary -track. It is so exceedingly difficult to catch -the nice shades of meaning which it is intended to -express, unless assisted by the heart. Poetical -<span class='it'>allusions</span> especially, are always liable to be mistaken, -if not scanned with a poetic eye.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>But it is the change of circumstances which -often, more than aught else, prevents the comprehension -and appreciation of a poet’s thoughts—his -descriptive thoughts particularly. As much as descriptive -poetry resembles painting, it comes far -short of the power which the latter art exerts in -representing scenes <span class='it'>as a whole</span>. Take a pastoral -poem, by way of making my meaning understood. -A poet would describe the parts and personages -separately—such as the wood,—the stream,—the -flocks, and the pastoral lovers—but the painter can -present them all at once, as a single idea, so to -speak. How difficult, then, must it be for an -author so to describe scenes, the like of which the -reader may never have beheld, as to be fully appreciated -by all. If he is sketching,—as did Thompson,—the -customs and scenes of rural life, he will -be understood fully by those alone who have enjoyed -such scenes and practised such customs. Those -who, in this case, had viewed the <span class='it'>original</span>, would -be able best to decide upon the merits of the picture. -A poet might rhyme forever about scenes -which he had never looked upon, but he would -utterly fail to satisfy one familiar with the same, -that his portraitures were correct. So a reader, -who had never viewed a river, or a waterfall, or a -gloomy ravine amid rock-ribbed mountains, would -scarcely be able fully to appreciate a description of -the same. He might, indeed form an idea of the -reality—but it would be only <span class='it'>ideal</span> after all. I have -often thought of Byron’s exclamation in connection -with the above train of reflections:</p> - - - <div class='poetry-container' style=''> - <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>“Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain’s air,</p> -<p class='line0'>Which bloated ease can never hope to share.”</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<p class='noindent'>He was probably among the hills of Portugal at the -time, and, doubtless, felt what he wrote. I never -realized the force of the thought as I did one summer -morning, while seated in a piazza, a half mile -or so from the North Mountain, in my native Virginia, -with a beautiful, green and flowery meadow -intervening. Just as I came to the stanza of -“Childe Harold,” from which I have quoted, a -delightful mountain-breeze swept over the plain. As -it tossed my locks to and fro, and gamboled with -the leaves of the volume before me, I <span class='it'>felt</span> indeed, -that there was “sweetness in the mountain air.” -Nothing could set forth that uncertainty of appreciation -I have been dwelling upon, more clearly -than such an incident. It is probable that the -greatest city admirer of his lordship’s poetry, never -noticed the full force of the idea which thus arrested -my attention, but passed it unappreciated, in admiration -of some sentiment, in the very same stanza, -whose full import he could comprehend, while he -entered into the feelings of the poetic traveller.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>But the greatest difficulty with the “occasional” -as well as shorter pieces of a volume of poems, is -the difference between the circumstances under -which they were severally penned, and those under -which they are perused. One reads, in the self-same -hour, the diversified productions of years. -How, then, can a writer anticipate the appreciation -of his sentiments? He has ceased to enter into -his <span class='it'>own</span> peculiar, circumstance-generated emotions. -How, therefore, may others take his views? To -suppose an ability on the part of the critic, to do -justice, then, to the earlier and less-studied <span class='it'>morceaux</span>, -(or, as I have styled them above, the egotistical -pieces of an author,) would be to suppose an utter -impossibility—a sort of critical <span class='it'>ubiquity</span>. Coleridge -felt the truth of what I have advanced,—as any one -may learn from the preface of his “Juvenile -Poems.” He therein expresses his apprehensions -in the following language:—“I shall only add, that -each of my readers will, I hope, remember that -these poems, on various subjects, which he reads at -one time, and under the influence of one set of -feelings, were written at different times, and -prompted by very different feelings; and, therefore, -the inferiority of one poem to another, may, sometimes, -be owing to the temper of mind in which he -happens to peruse it.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>What shall we say, then? Shall an author abstain -from publishing his shorter and occasional -pieces, on account of the facts alluded to by Coleridge? -By no means, I would say, though a consideration -thereof may well deter the judicious -writer from admitting into his volume every thing -he may have penned. As to the dimensions of -pieces, it may be more advisable, in some cases, to -republish the shortest sonnets, and the like, relating -to one’s own personal feelings and relations, than -longer productions—at least they are likely to be -more pleasing to the general reader. They are -unquestionably useful, as throwing light upon points -of a man’s private history with a force of illumination -which no biographer could use, were he to -attempt it—a something, by-the-bye, which seldom -happens; indicating the probability, that we seldom -read <span class='it'>the</span> man’s real biography, but merely <span class='it'>a</span> man’s—often -an ideal man only.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>As to the effect of fugitive and earlier poems, -when republished, upon an author’s reputation—let -them be appreciated or not, it matters little. His -fame does not hang upon such “slender threads.” -It is to his more elaborate productions that the -public will look for evidences of genius. It is a -fact that a poet’s reputation, generally speaking, -depends upon the appreciation of some particular -production. It is true, readers may differ in their -assignment of merit—but the fact of non-agreement, -as to the question of comparative merit, does -not alter the principle. If each one comes to the -conclusion that the poet has penned <span class='it'>one</span> poem of -prime excellence, his name is safe—the residue are -set down not as evidences of a want of genius, but -of the neglect of a right and careful use of it. The -conclusion is, in other words, that he could have -written the others better, if he had made proper -use of the talents with which he was endowed. -Were an example needed, I might refer to Milton. -When we think of him we never associate with his -name any of his productions but “Paradise Lost.” -He might have published in the same volume thousands -of fugitive pieces, no better than those he did -suffer to see the light, (and they are with few exceptions, -poor enough, as the emanations of such a -mind,) and yet his fame not suffer in the smallest -degree—the names of Milton, and of that great poem, -would still have descended as one and inseparable.</p> - -<hr class='footnotemark'/> - -<div class='footnote'> -<table summary='footnote_5'> -<colgroup> -<col span='1' class='footnoteid'/> -<col span='1'/> -</colgroup> -<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'> -<div class='footnote-id' id='f5'><a href='#r5'>[5]</a></div> -</td><td> - -<p class='pindent'>Omnia vincit amor.—<span class='it'>Virg. Bucol.</span></p> - -</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<hr class='tbk124'/> - -<div><h1><a id='June'></a>JUNE.</h1></div> - - - <div class='poetry-container' style=''> - <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>When the low south wind</p> -<p class='line0'>  Breathes over the trees</p> -<p class='line0'>With a murmur soft</p> -<p class='line0'>  As the sound of the seas;</p> -<p class='line0'>And the calm cold moon</p> -<p class='line0'>  From her mystic height,</p> -<p class='line0'>Like a sybil looks</p> -<p class='line0'>  On the voiceless night—</p> -<p class='line0'>    ’Tis June, bright June!</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>When the brooks have voice</p> -<p class='line0'>  Like a seraph fair,</p> -<p class='line0'>And the songs of birds</p> -<p class='line0'>  Fill the balmy air,</p> -<p class='line0'>When the wild flowers bloom</p> -<p class='line0'>  In the wood and dell</p> -<p class='line0'>And we feel as if lapt</p> -<p class='line0'>  In a magic spell—</p> -<p class='line0'>    ’Tis June, bright June!</p> -<p class='line0'>               <span style='font-size:smaller'>A. A. I.</span></p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<hr class='tbk125'/> - -<div><h1><a id='let'></a>LET ME REST IN THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.</h1></div> - -<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' --> -<p class='line'>WRITTEN BY</p> -<p class='line' style='font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>CHARLES JEFFERYS,</p> -<p class='line'>COMPOSED BY</p> -<p class='line' style='margin-bottom:0.7em;font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>J. HARROWAY.</p> -<p class='line'>Philadelphia, <span class='sc'>John F. Nunns</span>, 184 Chesnut Street.</p> -</div> <!-- end rend --> - -<div class='figcenter'> -<img src='images/i089.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0002' style='width:75%;height:auto;'/> -</div> - - - <div class='poetry-container' style=''> - <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Farewell to the home of my Childhood,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Farewell to my cottage and vine;</p> -<p class='line0'>I go to the land of the Stranger,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Where pleasures alone will be mine.</p> -<p class='line0'>When Life’s fleeting journey is over,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And Earth again mingles with</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<div class='figcenter'> -<img src='images/i090.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0003' style='width:75%;height:auto;'/> -</div> - - - <div class='poetry-container' style=''> - <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' --> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Earth,</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>I can rest in the land of the Stranger</p> -<p class='line0'>  As well as in that of my birth.</p> -<p class='line0'>Yes, these were my feelings at parting,</p> -<p class='line0'>  But absence soon alter’d their tone;</p> -<p class='line0'>The cold hand of Sickness came o’er me,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And I wept o’er my Sorrows alone.</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>No friend came around me to cheer me,</p> -<p class='line0'>  No parent to soften my grief;</p> -<p class='line0'>Nor brother nor sister were near me,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And strangers could give no relief.</p> -<p class='line0'>’Tis true that it matters but little,</p> -<p class='line0'>  Tho’ living the thought makes one pine,</p> -<p class='line'> </p> -</div> -<div class='stanza-outer'> -<p class='line0'>Whatever befalls the poor relic,</p> -<p class='line0'>  When the spirit has flown from its shrine.</p> -<p class='line0'>But oh! when life’s journey is over,</p> -<p class='line0'>  And earth again mingles with earth,</p> -<p class='line0'>Lamented or not, still my wish is,</p> -<p class='line0'>  To rest in the land of my birth.</p> -</div> -</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend --> - -<hr class='tbk126'/> - -<div><h1><a id='sport'></a>SPORTS AND PASTIMES.</h1></div> - -<h2 class='nobreak'>HUNTING DOGS.</h2> - -<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>We</span> said, in our last, that no sport could be attained -without <span class='it'>good</span> dogs. The first dog, and the very best -for the sportsman, is <span class='it'>the Pointer</span>. All our pointers -are, in some degree, of Spanish extraction; and such -of them as have the most Spanish blood in their veins -are unquestionably the best. The Spanish pointer is -about twenty-one inches in height. He has a large -head, is heavily made, broad-chested, stout-limbed, -with a large dew-lap; his eyes are full, and widely -apart, and his nose is broad; his tail is straight, short, -and thick, and his ears large, pendulous, and fine; he -should have a round-balled and not a flat foot.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“The most essential point about the dog,” says -General Hanger, “is a good foot; for, without a good, -firm foot, he can never hunt long. I never look at a -dog which has a thin, flat, wide, and spread foot. As -long as the ground is dry and hard, I always wash my -dog’s feet with warm soap and water, and clean them -well, particularly between the toes and balls of the -feet; this comforts his feet, allays the heat, and promotes -the circulation in the feet. In the more advanced -period of the season, when the ground is very -wet, then salt and water may be proper.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Scarcely two pointers are to be seen so much alike, -that a naturalist would pronounce them to belong to -the same class of dogs, inasmuch as they are dissimilar -in size, weight, and appearance. We recognise -only two pointers—the Spaniard and the mongrel. -Nearly all the pointers we see are, in fact, mongrels, -although each may have more or less of the original -Spanish blood. Such, however, is the force of nature, -that a dog, having in him very little of the blood of -the pointer, may prove a very serviceable dog to the -shooter. We frequently meet with very good dogs—dogs -deemed by their owners first-rate—which bear -little resemblance, in point of shape and appearance, -to the true pointer; some of these have the sharp -nose of the fox, others the snubbed nose of the bull-dog; -in short, there is every diversity in size and -appearance from the greyhound to the pug. The -excellence of such dogs must be attributed to judicious -treatment, severe discipline, or having been constantly -out with a good shot, or in company with highly-trained -dogs. It is, however, a mistake to suppose -that they are of a proper strain to breed from. Their -offspring will be deformed, and will probably manifest -some of the worst and more hidden qualities of -the parents.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The attempt to lay down a written rule whereby to -distinguish between a good and an indifferent pointer, -would be futile. How much of the blood of the -pointer a dog has in him, will be read in his countenance, -rather than inferred from his general shape -and appearance. There is an indescribable something -in the countenance of a thorough-bred pointer, which -a little habit of observation will enable the sportsman -to detect with tolerable accuracy, so that he may -judge of the capabilities of a dog, as a physiognomist -will read at a glance a person’s disposition and ability -in his countenance.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The instinct of pointing, we apprehend, is an indestructible -principle in the blood of the pointer, which, -however that blood may be mingled with inferior -blood, will always, in some degree, manifest itself; -and on this ground we build our theory, that the farther -any dog is removed from the original Spanish -pointer, the worse the dog is; and, consequently, that -all attempts to cross the pointer with any other blood -must necessarily deteriorate the breed. The greyhound -is seldom or never crossed to give him additional -fleetness, nor the hound to improve his nose; -why then should the pointer be crossed with dogs -which, in so far as the sports of the field are concerned, -scarcely inherit one quality in common with -him? Attempts, however, are constantly made to -improve the pointer, by a cross with the blood-hound, -fox-hound, Newfoundland dog, or mastiff, sometimes -with a view of improving his appearance, and bringing -him to some fancied standard of perfection; but, -in reality, inducing a deformity. One of these imaginary -standards of perfection is, that to one part -thorough Spanish blood, the pointer should have in -him an eighth of the fox-hound, and a sixteenth of the -blood-hound. A cross will sometimes produce dogs -which are, in some eyes, the <span class='it'>beau idéal</span> of beauty; -but however handsome such dogs may be, they will -necessarily possess some quality not belonging to the -pointer. A thorough-bred pointer carries his head -well up when ranging; he will not give tongue, nor -has he much desire to chase footed game. The hound -pointer may be sometimes detected by his coarse ears, -by his tail being curled upwards, and being carried -high, or by his rough coat. An occasional cross with -the mastiff or Newfoundland dog, is said to increase -the fineness of nose, but it is converting the pointer -into a mere retriever. Another, and the main source -of the unsightliness of sporting dogs, is the allowing -an indiscriminate intercourse between pointers and -setters. Good dogs may be thus obtained sometimes, -but they are invariably mis-shapen; they have generally -the head and brush tail of the setter, with the -body of the pointer, and their coats are not sleek, -and instead of standing at their point, they will crouch. -When the sire is nearly thorough-bred, dogs of a superior -description, but certainly not the best, are -sometimes produced by the Newfoundland or some -other not strictly a pointer. We are not willing to -allow that the pointer is improved in any quality that -renders him valuable to the sportsman, by a cross -with the hound or any other sort of dog; though we -cannot deny that the setter is materially improved in -appearance by a cross with the Newfoundland, but -what it gains in appearance it loses in other respects.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Breeding mongrels, especially crossing with hounds, -has given the gamekeepers and dog-breakers an infinity -of trouble, which might have been avoided by -keeping the blood pure. The Spanish pointer seldom -requires the whip; the hound pointer has never -enough of it. One of the main sources of the sportsman’s -pleasure is to see the dogs point well.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Dogs should be constantly shot over during the -season by a successful shot, and exercised during the -shooting recess by some person who understands -well the management of them, otherwise they will -fall off in value—the half-bred ones will become unmanageable, -and even the thorough-bred ones will -acquire disorderly habits.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>We look upon the setter to be an inferior kind of -pointer perhaps; originally a cross between the pointer -and the spaniel, or some such dog as the Newfoundland, -for it has some qualities in common with each. -The pointer has the finer nose, and is more staunch -than the setter; his action is much finer. Pointers -are averse to water; setters delight in it. The setter -will face briars and bushes better than the pointer, -which is in this respect a tender dog; and for this -reason the setter is preferred to the pointer for cover-shooting. -Besides, his being not so staunch as the -pointer is an additional advantage in heavy covers. -The sportsman who shoots over well-broken pointers, -frequently passes game in woods, while the pointers, -which are not seen by him, are at their point; the -setter, being more impatient to run in, affords the -shooter many shots in cover, which the over-staunch -pointer would not. The pointer is always to be preferred -on open grounds. In hot weather the pointer -will endure more fatigue than the setter.</p> - -<hr class='tbk127'/> - -<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>The Spaniel, Cock Dog, or Springer.</span>—Spaniels are -the best dogs for beating covers, provided they can -be kept near the gun. They are generally expected -to give tongue when game is flushed: some Spaniels -will give notice of game before it rises, which is very -well where woodcocks only are expected to be found. -Woodcock and pheasant shooting are often combined; -when that is the case, a noisy cry is not desirable: -pheasant shooting cannot be conducted too quietly, -where covers are limited. Wherever the underwood -is so thick that the shooter cannot keep his eye on -the dogs, spaniels are to be preferred to pointers or -setters, whatever species of game the shooter may be -in pursuit of. When spaniels are brought to such a -state of discipline as to be serviceable in an open -country, they will require no further tutoring to fit -them for the woods, unless it be that the eye of their -master not being always on them, they begin to ramble. -The efficiency of the training of spaniels for -cover-shooting, depends, for the most part, on their -keeping near the shooter; for if they riot, they are -the worst dogs he can hunt.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>There is much less trouble in making a spaniel -steady than at first thought may be imagined. A puppy -eight months old, introduced among three or four -well-broken dogs, is easily taught his business. The -breaker should use him to a cord of twenty yards -length or so, before he goes into the field, and then -take him out with the pack. Many a young dog is -quiet and obedient from the first; another is shy, and -stares and runs about as much at the rising of the -birds as the report of the gun. Shortly he gets over -this, and takes a part in the sport—he then begins to -chase, but finding he is not followed after little birds -or game, he returns; and should he not, and commence -hunting out of shot, which is very likely, he -must be called in, and flogged or rated, as his temper -calls for. With care and patience, he will soon “pack -up” with the others, especially if that term is used -when the dogs are dividing; and if not, he may be -checked by treading on the cord, and rated or beaten -as his fault requires. Spaniels will, in general, stand -more whipping than other dogs, but care must be -taken not to be lavish or severe with it at first, or the -dog becomes cowed, and instead of hunting will sneak -along at heel.</p> - -<hr class='tbk128'/> - -<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>The Retriever.</span>—The business of the retriever is to -find lost game. Newfoundland dogs are the best for -the purpose. They should have a remarkably fine -sense of smelling, or they will be of little use in tracing -a wounded pheasant, or other game, through a -thick cover, where many birds have been running -about. A good retriever will follow the bird on whose -track he is first put, as a blood-hound will that of a -human being or deer. He should be taught to bring -his game, or in many instances his finding a wounded -bird would be of no advantage to the shooter.</p> - -<hr class='tbk129'/> - -<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>Kennel Treatment.</span>—The best regular food for -sporting dogs is oatmeal well boiled, and flesh, which -may be either boiled with the meal or given raw. In -hot weather, dogs should not have either oatmeal or -flesh in a raw state, as they are heating. Potatoes -boiled are good summer food, and an excellent occasional -variety in winter, but they should be cleaned -before being boiled, and <span class='it'>well dried</span> after, or they will -produce disease. Roasted potatoes are equally good, -if not better. The best food to bring dogs into condition, -and to preserve their wind in hot weather, is -sago boiled to a jelly, half a pound of which may be -given to each dog daily, in addition to potatoes or -other light food; a little flesh meat, or a few bones, -being allowed every alternate day. Dogs should have -whey or buttermilk two or three times a week during -summer, when it can be procured, or in lieu thereof, -should have a table-spoonful of flour of sulphur once -a fortnight. To bring a dog into condition for the -season, we would give him a very large table-spoonful -of sulphur about a fortnight before the 12th of August, -and two days after giving him that, a full table-spoonful -of syrup of buckthorn should be administered, and -afterwards twice repeated at intervals of three days, -the dog being fed on the sago diet the while. There -should always be fresh water within reach. Dogs -should never be chained up.</p> - -<hr class='tbk130'/> - -<div><h1><a id='new'></a>REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.</h1></div> - -<hr class='tbk131'/> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='hang'><span class='it'>“Critical and Miscellaneous Essays.” By T. Babington -Macaulay. Vol. 3d. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia.</span></p> - -</div> - -<p class='pindent'>Macaulay has obtained a reputation which, although -deservedly great, is yet in a remarkable measure undeserved. -The few who regard him merely as a -terse, forcible and logical writer, full of thought, and -abounding in original views often sagacious and never -otherwise than admirably expressed—appear to us -precisely in the right. The many who look upon him -as not only all this, but as a comprehensive and profound -thinker, little prone to error, err essentially -themselves. The source of the general mistake lies -in a very singular consideration—yet in one upon -which we do not remember ever to have heard a word -of comment. We allude to a tendency in the public -mind towards logic for logic’s sake—a liability to -confound the vehicle with the conveyed—an aptitude -to be so dazzled by the luminousness with which an -idea is set forth, as to mistake it for the luminousness -of the idea itself. The error is one exactly analogous -with that which leads the immature poet to think -himself sublime wherever he is obscure, because obscurity -is a source of the sublime—thus confounding -obscurity of expression with the expression of obscurity. -In the case of Macaulay—and we may say, <span class='it'>en -passant</span>, of our own Channing—we assent to what he -says, too often because we so very clearly understand -what it is that he intends to say. Comprehending -vividly the points and the sequence of his argument, -we fancy that we are concurring in the argument itself. -It is not every mind which is at once able to -analyze the satisfaction it receives from such Essays -as we see here. If it were merely <span class='it'>beauty</span> of style for -which they were distinguished—if they were remarkable -only for rhetorical flourishes—we would not be -apt to estimate these flourishes at more than their due -value. We would not agree with the doctrines of -the essayist on account of the elegance with which -they were urged. On the contrary, we would be inclined -to disbelief. But when all ornament save that -of simplicity is disclaimed—when we are attacked by -precision of language, by perfect accuracy of expression, -by directness and singleness of thought, and -above all by a logic the most rigorously close and -consequential—it is hardly a matter for wonder that -nine of us out of ten are content to rest in the gratification -thus received as in the gratification of absolute -truth.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Of the terseness and simple vigor of Macaulay’s -style it is unnecessary to point out instances. Every -one will acknowledge his merits on this score. His -exceeding <span class='it'>closeness</span> of logic, however, is more especially -remarkable. With this he suffers nothing to -interfere. Here, for example, is a sentence in which, -to preserve entire the chain of his argument—<span class='it'>to leave -no minute gap which the reader might have to fill up -with thought</span>—he runs into most unusual tautology.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“The books and traditions of a sect may contain, -mingled with propositions strictly theological, other -propositions, purporting to rest on the same authority, -which relate to physics. If new discoveries should -throw discredit on the physical propositions, the -theological propositions, unless they can be separated -from the physical propositions, will share in their -discredit.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>These things are very well in their way; but it is -indeed questionable whether they do not appertain -rather to the trickery of thought’s vehicle, than to -thought itself—rather to reason’s shadow than to -reason. Truth, for truth’s sake, is seldom so enforced. -It is scarcely too much to say that the style -of the profound thinker is never closely logical. -Here we might instance George Combe—than whom -a more candid reasoner never, perhaps, wrote or -spoke—than whom a more complete antipodes to -Babington Macaulay there certainly never existed. -The former <span class='it'>reasons</span> to discover the true. The latter -<span class='it'>argues</span> to convince the world, and, in arguing, not -unfrequently surprises himself into conviction. What -Combe appear to Macaulay it would be a difficult -thing to say. What Macaulay is thought of by Combe -we can understand very well. The man who looks -at an argument in its details alone, will not fail to be -misled by the one; while he who keeps steadily in -view the <span class='it'>generality</span> of a thesis will always at least -approximate the truth under guidance of the other.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Macaulay’s tendency—and the tendency of mere -logic in general—to concentrate force upon minutiæ, -at the expense of a subject as a whole, is well instanced -in an article (in the volume now before us) on -Ranke’s History of the Popes. This article is called -a review—possibly because it is anything else—<span class='it'>as -lucus</span> is <span class='it'>lucus a non lucendo</span>. In fact it is nothing -more than a beautifully written treatise on the main -theme of Ranke himself; the whole matter of the -treatise being deduced from the History. In the way -of criticism there is nothing worth the name. The -strength of the essayist is put forth to account for the -progress of Romanism by maintaining that divinity is -not a progressive science. The enigmas, says he in -substance, which perplex the natural theologian are -the same in all ages, while the Bible, where alone we -are to seek revealed truth, has always been what it is.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The manner in which these two propositions are -set forth, is a model for the logician and for the student -of <span class='it'>belles lettres</span>—yet the error into which the -essayist has rushed headlong, is egregious. He attempts -to deceive his readers, or has deceived himself, -by confounding the nature of that proof from -which we reason of the concerns of earth, considered -as man’s habitation, and the nature of that evidence -from which we reason of the same earth regarded as -a unit of that vast whole, the universe. In the former -case the <span class='it'>data</span> being palpable, the proof is direct: in -the latter it is purely <span class='it'>analogical</span>. Were the indications -we derive from science, of the nature and designs -of Deity, and thence, by inference, of man’s -destiny—were these indications proof direct, no -advance in science would strengthen them—for, as -our author truly observes, “nothing could be added -to the force of the argument which the mind finds in -every beast, bird, or flower”—but as these indications -are rigidly analogical, every step in human -knowledge—every astronomical discovery, for instance—throws -additional light upon the august subject, -<span class='it'>by extending the range of analogy</span>. That we -know no more to-day of the nature of Deity—of its -purposes—and thus of man himself—than we did -even a dozen years ago—is a proposition disgracefully -absurd; and of this any astronomer could assure -Mr. Macaulay. Indeed, to our own mind, the <span class='it'>only</span> -irrefutable argument in support of the soul’s immortality—or, -rather, the only conclusive proof of man’s -alternate dissolution and re-juvenescence <span class='it'>ad infinitum</span>—is -to be found in analogies deduced from the modern -established theory of the nebular cosmogony.<a id='r6'/><a href='#f6' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[6]</span></sup></a> Mr. -Macaulay, in short, has forgotten what he frequently -forgets, or neglects,—the very gist of his subject. -He has forgotten that analogical evidence cannot, at -all times, be discoursed of as if identical with proof -direct. Throughout the whole of his treatise he has -made no distinction whatever.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>This third volume completes, we believe, the miscellaneous -writings of its author.</p> - -<hr class='footnotemark'/> - -<div class='footnote'> -<table summary='footnote_6'> -<colgroup> -<col span='1' class='footnoteid'/> -<col span='1'/> -</colgroup> -<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'> -<div class='footnote-id' id='f6'><a href='#r6'>[6]</a></div> -</td><td> - -<p class='pindent'>This cosmogony <span class='it'>demonstrates</span> that all existing -bodies in the universe are formed of a nebular matter, -a rare ethereal medium, pervading space—shows the -mode and laws of formation—and <span class='it'>proves</span> that all -things are in a perpetual state of progress—that -nothing in nature is <span class='it'>perfected</span>.</p> - -</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<hr class='tbk132'/> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='hang'><span class='it'>“Corse de Leon: or the Brigand.” A Romance. By -G. P. R. James. 2 vols. Harper & Brothers.</span></p> - -</div> - -<p class='pindent'>Bernard de Rohan and Isabel de Brienne are betrothed -to each other in childhood, but the father of -the latter dying, and her mother marrying again, the -union of the two lovers is opposed by the father-in-law, -the Lord of Masseran, who has another husband -in view for her, the Count de Meyrand. To escape -his persecutions, the heroine elopes, and is married -in a private chapel to De Rohan; but just as the ceremony -has closed, the pair are surprised by Masseran -and Meynard, who fling the hero into a dungeon, and -bear off Isabel. The young wife manages to escape, -however, and reaches Paris to throw herself on the -protection of the King, Henry the Second. Here she -learns that her husband, whom the monarch had ordered -to be freed, has perished in a conflagration of -Masseran’s castle; and she determines to take the veil. -In vain the king endeavors to persuade her to wait. -She is inflexible, until surprised by the re-appearance -of de Rohan, who, instead of perishing as supposed, -has been rescued, unknown, by Corse de Leon, a -stern, wild, yet withal, generous sort of a brigand, -with whom he had become accidentally acquainted on -the frontiers of Savoy. As the stolen marriage of the -lovers has been revoked by a royal edict, it is necessary -that the ceremony should be repeated. A week -hence is named for the wedding, but before that time -arrives de Rohan not only fights—unavoidably of -course—with his rival, which the monarch has forbidden, -but is accused by Masseran of the murder of -Isabel’s brother in a remote province of France. De -Rohan is tried, found guilty and condemned to die; -but on the eve of execution is rescued by his good -genius, the brigand. He flies his country, and in disguise -joins the army in Italy, where he greatly distinguishes -himself. Finally, he storms and carries a -castle, by the assistance of Corse de Leon, which -Meyrand, now an outlaw, is holding out against France; -at the same time rescuing his long lost bride from the -clutches of the count, into which she had fallen by -the sack of a neighboring abbey. In the dungeon of -the captured castle Isabel’s brother is discovered, he -having been confined there by Masseran, prior to -charging de Rohan with his murder. After a little -farther bye-play, which only spoils the work, and -which we shall not notice, the lovers are united, -and thenceforth “all goes merry as a marriage -bell.”</p> - -<p class='pindent'>This is the outline of the plot—well enough in its -way; but partaking largely of the common-place, and -marred by the conclusion, which we have omitted, -and which was introduced only for the purpose of -introducing the famous death of Henry the Second, -at a tournament.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>The characters, however, are still more common-place. -De Rohan and Isabel are like all James’ -lovers, mere nothings—Father Welland and Corse de -Leon are the beneficent spirits, and Meyrand and -Masseran are the evil geniuses, of the novel. The -other characters are lifeless, common, and uncharacteristic. -They make no impression, and you almost -forget their names. There is no originality in any of -them, and save a passage of fine writing here and -there, nothing to be praised in the book. Corse de -Leon, the principal character, talks philosophy like -Bulwer’s heroes, and is altogether a plagiarism from -that bombastic, unnatural, cut-throat school,—besides, -he possesses a universality of knowledge, combined -with a commensurable power, which, although they -get the hero very conveniently out of scrapes, belie -all nature. In short, this is but a readable novel, and -a mere repetition of the author’s former works.</p> - -<hr class='tbk133'/> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='hang'><span class='it'>“Insubordination; An American Story of Real -Life.” By the Author of the “Subordinate.” One -Volume. Baltimore; Knight & Colman.</span></p> - -</div> - -<p class='pindent'>The author of the “Subordinate” is Mr. T. S. Arthur, -of Baltimore, formerly one of the editors of the -“Visiter and Athenæum,” and now, we believe, connected -with “The Budget,” a new monthly journal -of that city—with the literature of which, generally, -he has been more or less identified for many years past.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>“The Subordinate” we have not had the pleasure -of reading. The present book, “Insubordination,” is -excellently written in its way; although we must be -pardoned for saying that the <span class='it'>way</span> itself is not of a -high order of excellence. It is all well enough to -justify works of this class by hyper-democratic allusions -to the “moral dignity” of low life, &c. &c.—but -we cannot understand why a gentleman should feel -or affect a <span class='it'>penchant</span> for vulgarity; nor can we comprehend -the “moral dignity” of a dissertation upon -bed-bugs: for the opening part of “Insubordination” -is, if anything, a treatise on these peculiar animalculæ.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>Some portions of the book are worthy of the author’s -ability, which it would rejoice us to see more -profitably occupied. For example, a passage where -Jimmy, an ill-treated orphan, relates to the only friend -he has ever found, some of the poignant sorrows of -his childhood, embodies a fine theme, handled in a -manner which has seldom been excelled. Its pathos -is exquisite. The morality of the story is no doubt -good; but the reasoning by which it is urged is decrepid, -and far too pertinaciously thrust into the reader’s -face at every page. The mode in which all the characters -are <span class='it'>reformed</span>, one after the other, belongs -rather to the desirable than to the credible. The style -of the narrative is easy and <span class='it'>truthful</span>. We dare say -the work will prove popular in a certain sense; but, -upon the whole, we do not like it.</p> - -<hr class='tbk134'/> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='hang'><span class='it'>“Marathon, and Other Poems.” By Pliny Earle, -M. D. Henry Perkins, Philadelphia.</span></p> - -</div> - -<p class='pindent'>We have long had a very high opinion of the talents -of Doctor Earle; and it gives us sincere pleasure to -see his poems in book form. The publication will -place him at once in the front rank of our bards. His -qualities are all of a sterling character—a high imagination, -delighting in lofty themes—a rigorous simplicity, -disdaining verbiage and meretricious ornament—a -thorough knowledge of the proprieties of metre—and -an ear nicely attuned to its delicacies. In addition, -he feels as a man, and thinks and writes as a scholar. -His general manner, puts us much in mind of Halleck. -“Marathon,” the longest poem in the volume before -us, is fully equal to the “Bozzaris” of that writer; -although we confess that between the two poems -there exists a similarity in tone and construction -which we would rather not have observed.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>In the present number of our Magazine will be -found a very beautiful composition by the author of -“Marathon.” It exhibits all the rare beauties of -its author.</p> - -<hr class='tbk135'/> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='hang'><span class='it'>“Selections from the Poetical Literature of the West.” -U. P. James; Cincinnati.</span></p> - -</div> - -<p class='pindent'>This handsomely printed volume fills a long-regretted -<span class='it'>hiatus</span> in our poetical literature, and we are much -indebted to Mr. James the publisher; and to Mr. William -D. Gallagher, who has superintended the compilation. -We are told, in the Preface by Mr. G. that -the book “is not sent forth as by any means the -whole of the ‘Poetical Literature of the West,’ but -that it is believed it will represent its <span class='it'>character</span> pretty -faithfully, as it certainly contains samples of its -greatest excellences, its mediocre qualities, and its -worst defects.” It may be questioned, indeed, how -far we are to thank the editor for troubling us with -the “defects,” or, what in poesy is still worse, with -the “mediocre qualities” of any literature whatever. -It is no apology to say that the design was to represent -“character”—for who cares for the character of -that man or of that poem which has no character at all?</p> - -<p class='pindent'>By these observations we mean merely to insinuate, -as delicately as possible, that Mr. Gallagher has admitted -into this volume a great deal of trash with -which the public could well have dispensed. On the -other hand we recognise many poems of a high order -of excellence; among which we may mention an -“Ode to the Press” by G. G. Foster, of the St. Louis -Pennant; several sweet pieces by our friend F. W. -Thomas, of “Clinton Bradshaw” memory; “The -Flight of Years” by George D. Prentice; “To the -Star Lyra,” by William Wallace; and the “Miami -Woods,” by Mr. Gallagher.</p> - -<p class='pindent'>We have spoken of this latter gentleman as the -<span class='it'>editor</span> of the volume—but presume that in so speaking -we have been in error. It is probable that, the -volume having been compiled by some other hand, he -was requested by Mr. James to write the Preface -merely. We are forced into this conclusion by observing -that the poems of William D. Gallagher -occupy more room in the book than those of any -other author, and that the “Miami Woods” just -mentioned—lines written by himself—form the opening -article of the work. We cannot believe that Mr. -G. would have been so wanting in modesty as to -perpetrate these improprieties as <span class='it'>editor</span> of the “Poetical -Literature of the West.”</p> - -<hr class='tbk136'/> - -<div class='blockquote'> - -<p class='hang'><span class='it'>“The Quadroone.” A Novel. By the Author of -“Lafitte,” &c. Harper & Brothers, New York.</span></p> - -</div> - -<p class='pindent'>We see no good reason for differing with that general -sentence of condemnation which has been pronounced -upon this book, both at home and abroad—and -less for attempting anything in the way of an -extended review of its contents. This was our design -upon hearing the novel announced; but an inspection -of its pages assures us that the labor would be misplaced. -Nothing that we could say—had we even the -disposition to say it—would convince any sensible man -that “The Quadroone” is not a very bad book—such -a book as Professor Ingraham (for whom we have a -high personal respect) ought to be ashamed of. <span class='it'>We</span> -are ashamed of it.</p> - -<hr class='tbk137'/> - -<p class='pindent'><a id='fash'></a></p> - -<div class='figcenter'> -<img src='images/i101.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0004' style='width:100%;height:auto;'/> -</div> - -<hr class='tbk138'/> - -<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 punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected -without note. A cover was been created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.</p> - -<p class='line'> </p> - -<p class='noindent'>[End of <span class='it'>Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, June 1841</span>, George R. Graham, Editor]</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, -June 1841, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JUNE 1841 *** - -***** This file should be named 63839-h.htm or 63839-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/8/3/63839/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive (https://archive.org) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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