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diff --git a/old/67443-0.txt b/old/67443-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8037bc7..0000000 --- a/old/67443-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7058 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 2, -February 1842, 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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 2, February 1842 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George Rex Graham - -Release Date: February 19, 2022 [eBook #67443] - -Language: English - -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 - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XX, -NO. 2, FEBRUARY 1842 *** - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XX. February, 1842. No. 2. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - Harper’s Ferry - Harry Cavendish continued - The Two Dukes continued - Original Letter from Charles Dickens - The Duello - Dreams of the Land and Sea - Mrs. Norton - The Lady’s Choice - The Blue Velvet Mantilla - The Daughters of Dr. Byles - A Few Words About Brainard - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music and Fashion - - My Bonnie Steed - Nydia, The Blind Flower-Girl of Pompeii - Rosaline - Sonnet - The Veiled Altar - Agathè.—A Necromaunt - Sonnet - A Dream of the Dead - The Dream Is Past - Spring Fashions in Advance - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - - - -[Illustration: W.H. Bartlett, A.L. Dick., HARPER’S FERRY. (From the Blue -ridge.)] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XX. PHILADELPHIA: FEBRUARY, 1842. No. 2. - - * * * * * - - - - - HARPER’S FERRY. - - -The scenery at Harper’s Ferry, Virginia, is perhaps the most picturesque -in America. The view given in the accompanying engraving is taken from -the Blue Ridge, from whence the tourist enjoys the finest prospect of -this delightful spot. Lofty as the summit is, and difficult as the -ascent proves to the uninitiated, the magnificence of the view from the -top of the ridge amply compensates the adventurer for his trouble. -Immediately beneath your feet are seen the Potomac and Shenandoah -enveloping the beautiful village of Harper’s Ferry in their folds, and -then joining, their waters flow on in silent beauty, until lost behind -the gorges of the mountains. Far away in the distance stretch a -succession of woody plains, diversified with farm-houses and villages, -and gradually growing more and more indistinct, until they fade away -into the summits of the Alleghanies. But we cannot do better than give -President Jefferson’s unrivalled description of this scene. “The -passage,” he says, “of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is, perhaps, -one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high -point of land; on your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged -along the foot of the mountains a hundred miles to seek a vent, on your -left approaches the Potomac, in quest of a passage also: in the moment -of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it -asunder and pass off to the sea. The first glance of this scene harries -our senses into the opinion that the mountains were formed first, that -the rivers began to flow afterwards, that, in this place particularly -they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have formed -an ocean which filled the whole valley,—that continuing to rise, they -have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down -from its summit to its base. The piles of rock on each hand, but -particularly on the Shenandoah—the evident marks of their disrupture -and avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, -corroborate the impression. But the distant finishing which nature has -given to the picture, is of a very different character; it is a true -contrast to the foreground; it is as placid and delightful as that is -wild and tremendous,—for the mountain being cloven asunder, she -presents to your eye, through the cleft, a small closet of smooth blue -horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as -it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the -breach and participate in the calm below. Here the eye ultimately -composes itself, and that way, too, the road happens actually to lead. -You cross the Potomac just above its junction, pass along its side -through the base of the mountain for three miles, its terrible -precipices hanging over you, and, within about twenty miles, reach -Fredericktown and the fine country round that. This scene is worth a -voyage across the Atlantic.” - -Enthusiastic as Jefferson is in this description, he does not exceed the -truth. Foreigners have borne ample testimony to the splendor of the -prospect from the top of the ridge at Harper’s Ferry, admitting that -there are few scenes in Europe which surpass it. - -It is time to do justice to American scenery. Hundreds of our citizens -annually cross the Atlantic for the purpose of visiting the scenery of -Europe, under the mistaken supposition that their own country affords -nothing to compensate them for the trouble of a visit. This ignorance is -less general than formerly, but it still prevails to a considerable -extent. Yet no country affords finer or more magnificent scenery than -America. Go up the Hudson, travel along the banks of the Susquehanna, -cross the Alleghanies or ascend the Catskill, loiter over the fairy-like -waters of lake Horicon, and you will cease to believe that America -affords no scenery to reward the traveller. We say nothing of Niagara or -Trenton falls, or of the mountain scenery scattered all over the south. -We say nothing of the vast prairies of the west, of the boundless -melancholy expanse of the Mississippi, of the magnificent scenery on the -route to St. Anthony’s Falls. Let our people visit these before going -abroad. Let them learn to do justice to the country of their birth. - - * * * * * - - - - - HARRY CAVENDISH. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. - ETC. - - - THE ESCAPE. - -The night after the rescue of the passengers and crew of the brig was to -me a restless one. I could not sleep. Hour after hour I lay in my -hammock eagerly courting repose, but unable to find it, for the images -of the past crowded on my brain, and kept me in a feverish excitement -that drove slumber from my pillow. My thoughts were of my boyhood,—of -Pomfret Hall,—of my early schoolmate—and of his little seraph-like -sister, Annette. I was back once more in the sunny past. Friends whom I -had long forgotten,—scenes which had become strangers to me,—faces -which I once knew but which had faded from my memory, came thronging -back upon me, as if by some magic impulse, until I seemed to be once -more shouting by the brookside, galloping over the hills, or singing at -the side of sweet little Annette at Pomfret Hall. - -I was the son of a decayed family. My parents lived in honorable -poverty. But, though reduced in fortune, they had lost none of the -spirit of their ancestors. Their ambition was to see their son a -gentleman, a man of education. I had accordingly been early put to -school, preparatory to a college education. Here I met with a youth of -my own age, a proud, high-spirited, generous boy, Stanhope St. Clair. He -was the heir of a wealthy and ancient family, whose residence, not far -from Boston, combined baronial splendor with classic taste. We formed a -fast friendship. He was a year or two my senior, and being stronger than -myself, became my protector in our various school frays; this united me -to him by the tie of gratitude. During the vacation I spent a month at -his house; here I met his little sister, a sweet-tempered innocent -fairy, some four or five years my junior. Even at that early age I -experienced emotions towards her which I am even now wholly unable to -analyze, but they came nearer the sentiment of love than any other -feeling. She was so beautiful and sweet-tempered, so innocent and frank, -so bright, and sunny, and smiling, so infinitely superior to those of -her age and sex I had been in the habit of associating with, that I soon -learned to look on her with sentiments approaching to adoration. Yet I -felt no reserve in her society. Her frankness made me perfectly at home. -We played, sung and laughed together, as if life had nothing for us but -sunshine and joy. How often did those old woods, the quaintly carved -hall, the green and smiling lawn ring with our gladsome merriment. We -studied, too, together; and as I sat playfully at her feet, looking now -on her book and now in her eyes, while her long silken tresses undulated -in the breeze and frolicked over my face, I experienced sensations of -strange pleasure unlike anything I had ever experienced. At length the -time came when I was to leave this Eden. I remember how desolate I felt -on that day, but how from pride in my sex I struggled to hide my -emotions. Annette made no attempt to conceal her sorrow. She flung -herself into my arms and wept long and bitterly. It was the grief of a -child, but it filled my heart with sunshine, and dwelt in my memory for -years. - -I returned to school, but my playmate was always in my thoughts. In -dream or awake, at my tasks or in play, loitering under the forest trees -or wandering by the stream, in the noisy tumult of day or musing in the -silent moonshine, the vision of that light-hearted and beauteous girl -was ever present to my imagination. It may seem strange that such -emotions should occupy the mind of a mere boy; but so it was. At length, -however, St. Clair took sick, and died. How bitter was my grief at this -event. It was the first thing that taught me what real sorrow was. This -occurrence broke up my intimacy with the St. Clair family, for, young as -I was, I could perceive that my presence would be a pain to the family, -by continually reminding them of their lost boy. I never therefore -visited Pomfret Hall again,—but often would I linger in its vicinity -hoping to catch a glance of Annette. But I was unsuccessful. I never saw -her again. Our spheres of life were immeasurably separated, the circles -in which she moved knew me not. We had no friends in common, and -therefore no medium of communication. God knew whether she thought of -me. Her parents, though kind, had always acted towards me as if an -impassable barrier existed betwixt the haughty St. Clairs and the -beggared Cavendish, and now that their son was no more they doubtless -had forgotten me. Such thoughts filled my mind as I grew up. The busy -avocations of life interfered, my father died and left me pennyless, -and, to ensure a subsistence for my mother and myself, I went to sea. -The dreams of my youth had long since given way to the sad realities of -life,—and of all the sunny memories of childhood but one remained. That -memory was of Annette. - -It is a common saying that the love of a man is but an episode, while -that of a woman is the whole story of life, nor is it my purpose to -gainsay the remark. The wear and tear of toil, the stern conflict with -the world, the ever changing excitements which occupy him,—war, craft, -ambition,—these are sufficient reasons why love can never become the -sole passion of the stronger sex. But, though the saying is in general -true, it has one exception. The first love of a man is never forgotten. -It is through weal and woe the bright spot in his heart. Old men, whose -bosoms have been seared by seventy years conflict with the world, have -been known to weep at the recollection of their early love. The tone of -a voice, the beam of an eye,—a look, a smile, a footstep may bring up -to the mind the memory of her whom we worshipped in youth, and, like the -rod of Moses, sunder the flinty rock, bring tears gushing from the long -silent fountains of the heart. Nor has any after passion the purity of -our first love. If there is anything that links us to the angels, it is -the affection of our youth. It purifies and exalts the heart—it fills -the soul with visions of the bright and beautiful—it makes us scorn -littleness, and aspire after noble deeds. Point me out one who thus -loves, and I will point you out one who is incapable of a mean action. -Such was the effect which my sentiments for Annette had upon me. I saw -her not, it is true,—but she was ever present to my fancy. I pictured -continually to myself the approbation she would bestow on my conduct, -and I shrunk even from entertaining an ignoble thought. I knew that in -all probability we should never meet, but I thirsted to acquire renown, -to do some act which might reach her ears. I loved without hope, but not -the less fervently. A beggar might love a Princess, as a Paladin of old -looked up to his mistress, as an Indian worshipper adored the sun, I -loved, looked up to, and adored Annette. What little of fame I had won -was through her instrumentality. And now I had met her, had been her -preserver. As I lay in my hammock the memory of these things came -rushing through my mind, and emotions of bewilderment, joy, and -gratitude, prevented me from sleep. - -I had seen Annette only for a moment, as the fatigue they had endured, -had confined herself and companion to the cabin, during the day. How -should we meet on the morrow? My heart thrilled at the recollection of -her delighted recognition—would she greet me with the same joy when we -met again? How would her father receive me? A thousand such thoughts -rushed through my brain, and kept me long awake—and when at length I -fell into a troubled sleep, it was to dream of Annette. - -When I awoke, the morning watch was being called, and springing from my -hammock I was soon at my post on deck. The sky was clear, the waves had -gone down, and a gentle breeze was singing through the rigging. To have -gazed around on the almost unruffled sea one would never have imagined -the fury with which it had raged scarcely forty-eight hours before. - -Early in the day Mr. St. Clair appeared on deck, and his first words -were to renew his thanks to me of the day before. He alluded delicately -to past times, and reproved me gently for having suffered the intimacy -betwixt me and his family to decline. He concluded by hoping that, in -future, our friendship—for such he called it—would suffer no -diminution. - -I was attending, after breakfast, to the execution of an order forwards, -when, on turning my eyes aft, I saw the flutter of a woman’s dress. My -heart told me it was that of Annette, and, at the instant, she turned -around. Our eyes met. Her smile of recognition was even sweeter than -that of the day before. I bowed, but could not leave my duty, else I -should have flown to her side. It is strange what emotions her smile -awakened in my bosom. I could scarcely attend to the execution of my -orders, so wildly did my brain whirl with feelings of extatic joy. At -length my duty was performed. But then a new emotion seized me. I wished -and yet I feared to join Annette. But I mustered courage to go aft, and -no sooner had I reached the quarterdeck, than Mr. St. Clair beckoned me -to his side. - -“Annette,” he said, “has scarcely yet given you her thanks. She has not -forgotten you, indeed she was the first to recognise you yesterday. You -remember, love, don’t you?” he said, turning to his daughter, “the -summer Mr. Cavendish spent with us at the Hall. It was you, I believe, -who shed so many tears at his departure.” - -He said this gayly, but it called the color into his daughter’s cheek. -Perhaps he noticed this, for he instantly resumed in a different tone: - -“But see, Annette, here comes the captain, and I suppose you would take -a turn on the quarterdeck. Your cousin will accompany him,—Mr. -Cavendish must be your _chaperon_.” - -The demeanor of Mr. St. Clair perplexed me. Could it be that he saw my -love for his daughter and was willing to countenance my suit? The idea -was preposterous, as a moment’s reflection satisfied me. I knew too well -his haughty notions of the importance of his family. My common sense -taught me that he never had entertained the idea of my aspiring to his -daughter’s hand—that he would look on such a thing as madness—and his -conduct was dictated merely by a desire to show his gratitude and that -of his daughter to me. These thoughts passed through my mind while he -was speaking, and when he closed, and I offered to escort his daughter, -I almost drew a sigh at the immeasurable distance which separated me -from Annette. Prudence would have dictated that I should avoid the -society of one whom I was beginning to love so unreservedly, but who was -above my reach. Yet who has ever flown from the side of the one he -adores, however hopeless his suit, provided she did not herself repel -him? Besides, I could not, without rudeness, decline the office which -Mr. St. Clair thrust upon me. I obeyed his task, but I felt that my -heart beat faster when Annette’s taper finger was laid on my arm. How -shall I describe the sweetness and modesty with which Annette thanked me -for the service which I had been enabled to do her father and -herself—how to picture the delicacy with which she alluded to our -childhood, recalling the bright hours we had spent together by the -little brook, under the old trees, or in the rich wainscoted apartments -of Pomfret Hall! My heart fluttered as she called up these memories of -the past. I dwelt in return on the pleasure I had experienced in that -short visit, until her eye kindled and her cheek crimsoned at my -enthusiasm. She looked down on the deck, and it was not till I passed to -another theme that she raised her eyes again. Yet she did not seem to -have been displeased at what I had said. On the contrary it appeared to -be her delight to dwell with innocent frankness on the pleasure she had -experienced in that short visit. The pleasure of that half hour’s -promenade yet lives green and fresh in my memory. - -We were still conversing when my attention was called away by the cry of -the look-out that a sail was to be seen to windward. Instantly every eye -was turned over the weather-beam, for she was the first sail that had -been reported since the gale. An officer seized a glass, and, hurrying -to the mast-head, reported that the stranger was considered a heavy -craft, although, as yet, nothing but his royals could be seen. As we -were beating up to windward and the stranger was coming free towards us, -the distance betwixt the two vessels rapidly decreased, so that in a -short time the upper sails of the stranger could be distinctly seen from -the deck. His topgallant-yards were now plainly visible from the -cross-trees, and the officer aloft reported that the stranger was either -a heavy merchantman or a frigate. This increased the excitement on deck, -for we knew that there were no vessels of that grade in our navy, and if -the approaching sail should prove to be a man-of-war and an Englishman, -our chances of escape would be light, as he had the weather-gauge of us, -and appeared, from the velocity with which he approached us, to be a -fast sailer. The officers crowded on the quarterdeck, the crew thronged -every favorable point for a look-out, and the ladies, gathering around -Mr. St. Clair and myself, gazed out as eagerly as ourselves in the -direction of the stranger. At length her top-sails began to lift. - -“Ha!” said the captain, “he has an enormous swing—what think you of -him, Mr. Massey?” he asked, shutting the glass violently, and handing it -to his lieutenant. - -The officer addressed took the telescope and gazed for a minute on the -stranger. - -“I know that craft,” he said energetically, “she is a heavy -frigate,—the Ajax,—I served in her some eight years since. I know her -by the peculiar lift of her top-sails.” - -“Ah!” said the captain; “you are sure,” he continued, examining her -through his glass again; “she does indeed seem a heavy craft and we have -but one chance—we should surely fight her?” - -“If you ask me,” said the lieutenant, “I say no!—why that craft can -blow us out of the water in a couple of broadsides; she throws a weight -of metal treble our own.” - -“Then there is but one thing to do—we must wear, and take to our -heels—a stern chase is proverbially a long one.” - -During this conversation not a word had been spoken in our group; but I -had noticed that when the lieutenant revealed the strength of the foe, -the cheek of Annette for a moment grew pale. Her emotion however -continued but a moment. And when our ship had been wore, and we were -careering before the wind, her demeanor betrayed none of that -nervousness which characterized her cousin. - -“Can they overtake us Mr. Cavendish?” said her companion. “Oh! what a -treacherous thing the sea is. Here we were returning only from -Charleston to Boston, yet shipwrecked and almost lost,—and now pursued -by an enemy and perhaps destined to be captured.” - -“Fear not! sweet coz,” laughingly said Annette, “Mr. Cavendish would -scarcely admit that any ship afloat could outsail THE ARROW, and you see -what a start we have in the race. Besides, you heard Captain Smythe just -now say, that, when night came, he hoped to be able to drop the enemy -altogether. Are they pursuing us yet Mr. Cavendish?” - -“Oh! yes, they have been throwing out their light sails for the last -quarter of an hour—see there go some more of their kites.” - -“But will not we also spread more canvass?” - -I was saved the necessity of a reply by an order from the officer of the -deck to spread our studding-sails, and duty called me away. I left the -ladies in the charge of Mr. St. Clair, and hurried to my post. For the -next half hour I was so occupied that I had little opportunity to think -of Annette, and indeed the most of my time was spent below in -superintending the work of the men. When I returned on deck the chase -was progressing with vigor, and it was very evident that THE ARROW, -though a fast sailer, was hard pressed. Every stitch of canvass that -could be made to draw was spread, but the stranger astern had, -notwithstanding, considerably increased on the horizon since I left the -deck. The officers were beginning to exchange ominous looks, and the -faces of our passengers wore an anxious expression. One or two of the -older members of the crew were squinting suspiciously at the stranger. -The captain however wore his usual open front, but a close observer -might have noticed that my superior glanced every moment at the pursuer, -and then ran his eye as if unconsciously up our canvass. At this moment -the cry of a sail rang down from the mast-head, startling us as if we -had heard a voice from the dead, for so intense had been the interest -with which we had regarded our pursuer that not an eye gazed in any -direction except astern. The captain looked quickly around the horizon, -and hailing the look-out, shouted, - -“Whereaway?” - -“On the starboard-bow.” - -“What does he look like?” continued Captain Smythe to me, for I had -taken the glass at once and was now far on my way to the cross-trees. - -“He seems a craft about as heavy as our own.” - -“How now?” asked the captain, when sufficient space had elapsed to allow -the top-sails of the new visiter to be seen. - -“She has the jaunty cut of a corvette!” I replied. - -A short space of time—a delay of breathless interest—sufficed to -betray the character of the ship ahead. She proved, as I had expected, a -corvette. Nor were we long left in doubt as to her flag, for the red -field of St. George shot up to her gaff, and a cannon ball ricochetting -across the waves, plumped into the sea a few fathoms ahead of our bow. -For a moment we looked at each other in dismay at this new danger. We -saw that we were beset. A powerful foe was coming up with us hand over -hand astern, and a craft fully our equal was heading us off. Escape -seemed impossible. The ladies, who still kept the deck, turned pale and -clung closer to their protector’s arm. The crew were gloomy. The -officers looked perplexed. But the imperturbable calm of the captain -suffered no diminution. He had already ordered the crew to their -quarters, and the decks were now strewed with preparations for the -strife. - -“We will fight him,” he said; “we will cripple or sink him, and then -keep on our way. But let not a shot be fired until I give the order. -Steady, quartermaster, steady.” - -By this time I had descended to the deck, ready to take my post at -quarters. The ladies still kept the deck, but the captain’s eye -happening to fall on them, the stern expression of his countenance gave -way to one of a milder character, and, approaching them, he said, - -“I am afraid, my dear Miss St. Clair, that this will soon be no place -for you or your fair companion. Allow me to send you to a place of -safety. Ah! here is Mr. Cavendish, he will conduct you below.” - -“Oh! Mr. Cavendish,” said Isabel, with a tremulous voice, “is there any -chance of escape?” - -Annette did not speak, but she looked up into my face with an anxious -expression, while the color went and came in her cheek. My answer was a -confident assertion of victory, although, God knows, I scarcely dared to -entertain the hope of such a result. It reassured my fair companions, -however, and I thought that the eyes of Annette at least expressed the -gratitude which did not find vent in words. - -“We will not forget you in our prayers,” said Isabel, as I prepared to -reascend to the deck, “farewell—may—may we meet again!” and she -extended her hand. - -“God bless you and our other defenders,” said Annette. She would have -added more, but her voice lost its firmness. She could only extend her -hand. I grasped it, pressed it betwixt both of mine, and then tore -myself away. As I turned from them, I thought I heard a sob. I know that -a tear-drop was on that delicate hand when I pressed it in my own. - -When I reached the deck, I found Mr. St. Clair already at his post, for -he had volunteered to aid in the approaching combat. Nor was that combat -long delayed. We were now close on to the corvette, but yet not a shot -had been fired from our batteries, although the enemy was beginning a -rapid and furious cannonade, under which our brave tars chafed like -chained lions. Many a tanned and sun-browned veteran glared fiercely on -the foe, and even looked curiously and doubtingly on his officers, as -the balls of the corvette came hustling rapidly and more rapidly towards -us, and when at length a shot dismounted one of our carriages and laid -four of our brave fellows dead on the deck, the excitement of the men -became almost uncontrollable. At this instant, however, the corvette -yawed, bore up, and ran off with the wind on his quarter. Quick as -lightning Captain Smythe availed himself of the bravado. - -“Lay her alongside, quartermaster,” he thundered. - -“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the old water-rat, and during a few breathless -moments of suspense we crowded silently after the corvette. That -suspense, however, was of short duration. We were now on the quarter of -the enemy. The captain paused no longer, but waving his sword, he -shouted “FIRE,” and simultaneously our broadside was poured in, like a -hurricane of fire, on the foe. Nor during ten minutes was there any -intermission in our fire. The combat was terrific. The men jerked out -their pieces like playthings, and we could soon hear over even the din -of the conflict, the crashing of the enemy’s hull and the falling of his -spars. The rapidity and certainty of our fire meanwhile seemed to have -paralysed the foe, for his broadsides were delivered with little of the -fury which we had been led to expect. His foremast at length went by the -board. The silence of our crew was now first broken, and a deafening -huzza rose up from them, shaking the very welkin with the uproar. - -“Another broadside, my brave fellows,” said Captain Smythe, “and then -lay aloft and crowd all sail—I think she’ll hardly pursue us.” - -“Huzza, boys, pour it into her,” shouted a grim visaged captain of a -gun, “give her a parting shake, huzza!” - -Like a volcano in its might—like an earthquake reeling by—sped that -fearful broadside on its errand. We did not pause to see what damage we -had done, but while the ship yet quivered with the discharge the men -sprang aloft, and before the smoke had rolled away from the decks our -canvass was once more straining in the breeze and we were rapidly -leaving our late enemy. When the prospect cleared up we could see her -lying a hopeless wreck astern. The frigate which, during the conflict, -had drawn close upon us, was now sending her shots like hail-stones over -us, but when she came abreast of her consort she was forced to stop, as -our late foe by this time had hung out a signal of distress. We could -see that boats, laden with human beings, were putting off from the -corvette to the frigate, which proved that our late antagonist was in a -sinking condition. Before an hour she blew up with a tremendous -explosion. - -I was the first one to hurry below and relieve the suspense of Annette -and her cousin by apprising them of our success. A few hours repaired -the damage we had sustained, and before night-fall the frigate was out -of sight astern. So ended our first conflict with our enemy. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE TWO DUKES. - - - BY ANN S. STEPHENS. - - - (Continued from page 56.) - -The artisan whom we left mounted on Lord Dudley’s charger was, much -against his inclinations, swept onward by the crowd, till he found -himself heading, like a single item of cavalry, upon the body of -Somerset men now drawn up directly before him. He had no power to change -his course or dismount from the conspicuous situation which placed him -in full view of both parties, and which, under all the circumstances, -was rather annoying to a man of his retiring and modest nature. Still he -exerted himself to restrain the onward course of his charger with one -hand, while the other was bent in and the fingers clenched together over -the edge of his sleeve with a prudent regard for the diamond ring and -the emeralds which had been so hastily bestowed there. All at once he -gave a start that almost unclenched the grasp upon his sleeve and jerked -the bridle with a vehemence which brought the red and foaming mouth of -the spirited animal he bestrode down upon his chest with a violence that -sent the foam flying like a storm of snowflakes over his black shoulders -and mane. The proud and fretted creature gave an angry snort and -recoiled madly under this rough treatment. With burning eyes and a -fiercer toss of the head he recovered himself and leaped into the midst -of a body of armed horsemen which that moment formed a line across the -street, just above St. Margaret’s, and backed by an armed force, was -slowly driving the mob inch by inch from the ground they had occupied. - -The plunge was so sudden and furious that a slightly built but stern and -aristocratic man, who rode in the centre of his party, was almost -unhorsed by the shock, and a great deal of confusion was created among -the horses and people thus forced back upon those eagerly pressing -toward the church. The man, who had been so nearly flung from his -saddle, fiercely curbed his plunging horse, and pressing his feet hard -in the broad stirrups, regained his position, but with a pale face and -eyes flashing fire at the rude assault which he believed to have been -purposely made upon his person. - -“What, ho! take yon caitiff in charge,” he shouted, pointing sternly -with his drawn sword toward the artisan, “or cleave him to the earth a -base leader of a rabble as he seems.” - -Instantly the fiery and still restive charger was seized by the bit, a -dozen hands were laid upon the pale and frightened being who crouched -upon his back, and he was drawn face to face with Somerset, the Lord -Protector of England. - -There was something in the abject and insignificant figure of the -artisan which made the stern anger levelled at him by the haughty man -before whom he was forced almost ludicrous. This thought seemed to -present itself to the Lord Protector, for his mouth relaxed into a -contemptuous smile as he gazed upon his prisoner, and letting his sword -drop as if it had been a riding whip, he gave a careless order that the -man should be secured, and was about to move forward when his eye fell -upon the rich housings of Lord Dudley’s charger. At first a look of -surprise arose to his face, which gradually bent his brow into a heavy -and portentous frown. Once more lifting his sword, he pointed toward the -horse, demanding in a stern voice of the artisan, how he came there, and -so mounted? - -“May it please your highness,” faltered the artisan, resuming something -of his natural audacity when he saw that there was a chance of -extricating himself by craft rather than blows,—“May it please your -highness, the horse belongs to my good Lord of Dudley whom I left but -now among the rioters yonder. They lack a leader and cannot spare him -yet, or he would vouch for my honesty and care which I have taken to -bestow myself and the good horse into safe quarters without meddling -hand or foot in this affray.” - -“And how came Lord Dudley or his charger at St. Margaret’s?” said -Somerset, frowning still more heavily, “answer the truth now—how came -your lord here?” - -The artisan seemed at a loss how to reply; but when the Protector grew -impatient, he shook his head with a look of shrewd meaning, and said -that his lord had ridden forth to seek a fair lady in the morning who -had promised him a meeting somewhere in the neighborhood, but that being -called upon by the mob, he had led the rioters for a time in their -attack upon the workmen, and at last had joined them on foot, consigning -the charger to his, the artisan’s care, and that was all he knew of the -matter. - -“Think ye this varlet speaks truth,” said Somerset, bending to a -nobleman who rode at his left hand, “or does he make up this tale of the -lady to screen the premeditated share his master has taken in this -riot?” - -“He has a lying face,” replied the person thus consulted, “the look of -an unwashed dog, and but for the charger which speaks for itself, and -the cry which arose but now from the heart of the mob, I should doubt.” - -“Nay, it must be true, traitor as he looks,” exclaimed Somerset, -abruptly interrupting the other, “how could I expect aught else from a -Warwick? root and branch they are all alike, ambitious and full of -treachery. Take this man in charge!” he called aloud to those about him, -“and see that he find no means of escape. And now on, my good men, that -we may face this young traitor in the midst of his rabble followers—a -glorious band to be led on by a Warwick!” he added, tossing a scornful -glance over the rude throng which was beginning to give way before the -long pikes of his men. - -The artisan, who had been allowed to sit freely on his horse while under -examination, was again seized at the command of Somerset; but this time -he refused to submit tamely to the hands laid upon him. In the struggle -his fingers were torn from their hold on his sleeve, and the stolen -jewels fell sparkling upon the long black mane of the charger. Before he -could free his hands and snatch them up, they were observed and secured -by one of the men to whom he had been consigned, who approached the Lord -Protector, as he finished his scornful comment on the rioters, and laid -them in his hand, informing him how they had been obtained. - -Somerset glanced carelessly at the jewels, and was about to return them, -saying, - -“We will attend to it all anon; keep strict guard of the wretch and see -that he does not escape.” - -He had dropped part of the gems into the messenger’s hand again, when -his eye fell upon the ring; instantly the color flashed up to his -forehead, and he examined the stones with an intense interest, amounting -almost to agitation, for they circled his own family crest, and not many -hours before he had seen them on the hand of his youngest and favorite -daughter. He cast a keen glance on the man who had brought the jewels to -him, as if to ascertain if he had discovered the crest, and then quietly -reaching forth his hand he took the emeralds, examined them closely, and -forcing his horse up to the artisan, motioned that those around him -should draw back. He was obeyed so far as the crowd would permit, and -then drawing close to the prisoner, with a face almost as white and -agitated as his own, he demanded in a low severe voice how he came in -possession of the jewels? - -“How did I come in possession? May it please your highness, as an honest -man should. The ring was given me by a fair lady for good service -rendered in bringing her and her sweet-heart together; and as for the -green stones there, which may be of value and may not, there is no gold -about them; and I have my doubts, for in these cases I have always found -the lady most liberal of the party—for the emeralds—why my young -master was generous as well as the lady—and well he might be, for I had -much ado to bring them together, besides fighting through the crowd, and -caring for the horse, and helping my lord to make a passage for his -light-o-love.” - -“Hound! speak the word again and I will cleave thee to the earth, if it -be with my own sword, loth as I am to stain it so foully!” said Somerset -in a voice of intense rage. - -“I did but answer the question your highness put,” replied the artisan -cringingly. - -“Peace!” commanded the Protector. After a moment, he said with more -calmness, but still in the low and stern voice of concentrated anger— - -“Know you the lady’s name who gave you this ring?” - -“My lord called her Jane, or Lady Jane, which may be the true name and -may not—such light-o’—I crave your highness’ pardon—such ladies -sometimes have as many names as lovers—and this one may be Lady Jane to -my lord, and Mistress Jane, or Mary, or—” - -“Enough,” interrupted the Protector—“and this ring was given by the—a -lady to reward thee for bringing her to an interview with Lord Dudley. -How happened it that thy services were required?” - -“Well, as near as I can understand the matter,” replied the artisan, -somewhat reassured by the low calm tone of his questioner, though there -was something in the stern face that made his heart tremble, he knew not -why, “the lady, whoever she be, was to have met my lord somewhere near -the church yonder, but when he came to meet one person, behold a whole -parish of hotheaded people had taken possession, so instead of a love -passage he consoled himself by turning captain of the riot, and played -the leader to a marvel, as your highness may have heard by the clamorous -outcry with which he was cheered by the mob. I am but an humble man and -content me with looking on in a broil, so as I bestowed myself to a safe -corner, behold the fair lady of the ring had taken shelter there also, -and at her entreaties, urged in good sooth by a host of tears and those -sparklers almost as bright, she won me to give my lord an inkling of her -whereabouts, so as much for the bright tears as the gems I fought my way -through the mob and whispered a word in the eagle’s ears, which soon -brought him from his war flight to the dove cot, whereupon he gave me -charge of the horse here, and, taking the lady under his arm, went—” - -“Whither, sirrah, whither did he take her?” said the Lord Protector, in -a voice that frightened the man, for it came through his clenched teeth -scarcely louder than a whisper, and yet so distinct that it fell upon -his ear sharply amid all the surrounding din. - -“I lost sight of them in the crowd, for this strong-bitted brute was -enough to manage without troubling myself with love matters. They were -together, I had my reward, and that is the long and short of the -matter,” replied the artisan, mingling truth and falsehood with no -little address, considering the state of terror into which he had been -thrown. - -“And thou art ignorant where she is now?” inquired Somerset, still in a -calm constrained voice. - -“Even so, your highness. Lord Dudley has doubtless nestled his dove into -some safe nook hereabouts, while he leads on the rioters near the -church. I heard them shouting his name just as your lordly followers -seized my mettlesome beast by the bit. So there is little fear that he -will not be found all in good time.” - -The Lord Protector turned away his head and wheeled his horse around -without speaking a word, but his followers were struck by the fierce -deep light that burned in his eyes and the extraordinary whiteness of -his face. The artisan took this movement as a sign of his own -liberation, and, glad to escape even with the loss of his plunder, he -gathered up the bridle and was about to push his way from a presence -that filled him with fear and trembling. - -The Lord Protector’s quick eye caught the motion, and, as if all the -passions of his nature broke forth in the command, he thundered out— - -“Seize that man and take good care that he neither speaks nor is spoken -to. God of Heaven!” he added, suddenly bending forward with all the keen -anguish of a father and a disgraced noble breaking over his pale -features as they almost touched the saddle-bow—“Father of Heaven, that -the honor of a brave house should lie at the mercy of a slippery knave’s -tongue!” - -These words, spoken in a low stifled voice, were lost amid the din of -surrounding strife; but instantly that pale proud head was lifted again -and turned almost fierce upon his followers. The naked sword flashed -upward, and a shout, like that of a wounded eagle fierce in his -death-struggle, broke upon his white lips and rang almost like a shriek -upon the burthened air. - -“On to the church—on, on through the mob—trample them to the earth -till we stand face to face with the leader!” - -Instantly the men with their long pikes made a rush upon the multitude. -The horsemen plunged recklessly forward, crushing the unarmed people to -the earth, and trampling the warm life from many a human heart beneath -the hoofs of their chargers. - -It was the cry and struggle which arose from this onset that reached the -Lord Dudley in the dim and solemn quietude of St. Margaret’s church. It -was this which made the Lady Jane spring wildly upon the altar where she -had been extended so weak and helpless, put back the hair from her face -and listen, white and breathless as a statue, for another sound of her -father’s voice like the one shrill war-cry that had cut to her heart -like a denunciation. - -Lord Dudley hurried down the aisle again, for there was something in the -wild terror of her look that made him forgetful of everything but her. -As his foot was lifted upon the first step of the altar, the tumult -increased around the church till its foundation seemed tottering beneath -the levers of a thousand fiends, all fierce and clamorous for a fragment -of the sacred pile. There was a sound of heavy weapons battering against -the entrance. Shout rang upon shout—a terrible crash—the great arched -window was broken in. A fragment of the stone casement fell upon the -baptismal font, forcing it in twain and dashing the consecrated water -about till the censers and velvet footcloths were deluged with it. A -storm of painted glass filled the church—whirled and flashed in the -burst of sunshine, thus rudely let in, and fell upon the white -altar-stone, and the scarcely less white beings that stood upon it, like -a shower of gems shattered and ground to powder in their fall. Then the -door gave way, and those who had kept guard rushed in with uplifted -hands, and faces filled with terrible indignation, beseeching Lord -Dudley to arouse himself and come to their aid against the tyrant who -even then was planting his foot upon the ashes of their dead. - -It was no time for deliberation or delay; the foundation of the church -shook beneath their feet, a body of armed men hot with anger and chafed -by opposition thundered at the scarcely bolted entrance. Perhaps the -brave blood which burned in Dudley’s veins, urged him on to the step -which now seemed unavoidable. Still he would have died, like a lion in -his lair, rather than become in any way the leader of a mob, but he -could not see that bright and gentle being, so good and so beloved, -perish by the violence of her own father. He snatched her from the altar -where she stood, and bearing her to a corner of the church most distant -from the entrance, forced her clinging arms from his neck, pressed his -lips hurriedly to her forehead, and rushed toward the door, followed by -the men who had hitherto guarded it. The effort proved a useless one. -The doors were blocked up by a phalanx of parishioners, and he could not -make himself known or force a passage out. The brave band was almost -crushed between the walls of the church and the Lord Protector, who, -with his horsemen, had driven them back, step by step, till they were -wedged together, resolute but almost helpless from want of room. - -“To the window—stand beneath that I may mount by your shoulders,” -exclaimed Dudley to the men who surrounded him. - -Instantly the group gathered in a compact knot beneath the shattered -window. Lord Dudley sprang upon the sort of platform made by their -shoulders, and thence, with a vigorous leap to the stone sill where he -stood, exposed and unarmed before the people—his cloak swaying loosely -back from his shoulder—his cap off and his fine hair falling in damp -heavy curls over his pale forehead. - -A joyful shout and a fierce cry burst from the multitude and mingled -together as he appeared before them. A world of flashing eyes and -working faces was uplifted to the window, and for a moment the strife -raging about the church was relaxed, for men were astonished by his -appearance there, almost in open rebellion, face to face with the Lord -Protector. - -“Bring that man to the earth dead,” shouted Somerset, pointing toward -the young nobleman, “and then set fire to the building, to-morrow shall -not see a single stone in its place.” - -A shower of deadly missiles flew around the young noble, but he sprang -unhurt into the midst of the throng, which made way for him to pass till -he stood front to front with the man who had just commanded his death. -Somerset turned deadly pale, and, clenching his teeth with intense rage, -lifted his sword with both hands, as if to cleave the youth through the -head. - -“My Lord Duke,” said Dudley, in a manner so calm that it arrested the -proud nobleman’s hand, though his weapon was still kept uplifted, “I do -beseech your grace draw the soldiers away; the parishioners are furious, -and I am convinced will defend the church till you trample an entrance -over their dead bodies.” - -Dudley spoke respectfully and as a son to his parent, but with much -agitation, for everything that he held dear seemed involved in the -safety of the church. He knew that estrangement existed between the duke -and his own noble father, but up to that moment had no idea that his -personal favor with Somerset was in the least impaired. He had not -believed that the command levelled against his life was indeed intended -for him, and was therefore both astonished and perplexed when the duke -bent his face bloodless and distorted with rage close down to his and -exclaimed, - -“Dastard and traitor! where is my child?” - -“She is yonder within the church,” replied Dudley with prompt and manly -courage. “Safe, thank God! as yet, but if this fierce assault continue -she must perish in the ruin!” - -“So shall it be,” replied the Protector fiercely. “Let her life and her -shame be buried together.” - -“Her shame, my Lord Duke,” said Dudley, laying his hand on Somerset’s -bridle-rein, and meeting the stern glance fixed on him with one full of -proud feeling. “Another lip than yours had not coupled such words with -the pure name of Jane Seymour, and lived to utter another. But you are -her father.” - -“Ay, to my curse and bitter shame be it said, I _am_ her father,” -replied the duke, “and have power to punish both the victim and the -tempter. Your conduct, base son of a baser father, shall be answered for -before the king, but first stand by and see your weak victim meet the -reward of her art.” - -As he spoke, Somerset grasped the youth by his arm, and hurling him -among his followers, shouted, “secure the traitor, or if he resist cut -him down. Now on to the attack. A hundred pounds to the first man who -forces an entrance to the church. Set fire to it if our strength be not -enough, and let no one found there escape alive.” - -The confusion which followed this order was instant and tremendous. The -mob rushed fiercely upon the Protector in a fruitless effort to rescue -Lord Dudley, while the soldiers sprang forward upon the building, and -half a score were seen clambering like wild animals along the rough -stone-work toward the windows, for still the mob kept possession of the -door. - -The group which we left within the church hearing this command, looked -sternly into each other’s faces, and their leader—he who had admitted -Dudley and his companion—was aided by his friends, and sprang within -the shattered window just as the head of a clambering assailant was -raised above the sill. The sexton, for the man held that office in the -church, planted one foot upon the soldier’s fingers, when they clung -with a fierce gripe upon the stone, and stooping down he secured the -poor fellow by both shoulders, bent him back till his body was almost -doubled, and then with hands and foot spurned him from the wall with a -violence that hurled him many paces into the crowd. Another and another -shared the fate of this unfortunate man, and there stood the sexton, -unharmed, guarding the pass like a lion at bay, and tearing up fragments -of stone to hurl at the soldiers whenever he was not compelled to act on -the defensive; but his situation soon became very critical, for his -station became the point of general attack, and Somerset’s voice was -still heard fiercely ordering his men to fire the building; for a moment -the shower of missiles hurled from the soldiers beat him down, and he -was forced to spring into the church among his companions again for -shelter. The poor young lady heard the savage command of her parent, -and, rushing to the men, frantically besought them to inform the Duke of -Somerset his child was in the building, and that, she was certain, would -save it from destruction. There was something in the helplessness and -touching beauty of that young creature as she stood before them, -wringing her hands, and with tears streaming down her pale cheek, that -touched the men with compassion, or she might have perished by their -hands when her connection with their oppressor was made known. They -looked in each other’s faces and a few rapid words passed between them. -The sexton sprang once more upon the window, the rest turned upon the -terrified lady and she was lifted from hand to hand, till at last they -placed her by his side, trembling and almost senseless. - -“Behold,” cried the sexton, lifting the poor girl up before the -multitude and flinging back the hair from her pale and affrighted -features, that her father might recognise them, and feel to his heart, -all the indignity and peril of her position. “Behold, I say, lift but -another pike, hurl a stone but the size of a hazelnut against these -walls, and this proud lady shall share them all side by side with the -humble sexton. My Lord of Somerset,” he shouted, grasping the lady firm -with one arm, as if about to hurl her from the window, “Draw off your -soldiers, leave these old walls, where we may worship our God in peace, -or I will hurl your child into the midst of my brethren, that she may be -trampled beneath their feet, even as you have crushed human limbs this -day under your iron-shod war horses.” - -These words were uttered by a rude man, but excitement had made him -eloquent, and his voice rang over the crowd like the blast of a trumpet. -When he ceased speaking, a silence almost appalling, after the previous -wild sounds, fell upon the multitude. The horsemen stayed their swords, -and the soldiers stood with their pikes half lifted, and Somerset -himself sat like one stupified by the sudden apparition of his child; -among all that rude throng there was no hand brutal enough to lift -itself against that beautiful and trembling girl, but many a glistening -eye turned from her to the stern but now agonized face of the duke, -anxious that he should draw off his men. He was very pale, his lip -quivered for a moment, and then his face hardened again like marble. - -“Her blood be upon thy head, young man,” he exclaimed, bending his keen -but troubled eyes on Lord Dudley, who stood vainly struggling with his -captors; then lifting his voice he cried out, - -“Tear down the church; neither wall of stone nor human being must stop -our way!” - -Still a profound silence lay upon the multitude. There was something -horrible in the command that caused the coarsest heart to revolt at its -cruelty. So still and motionless remained the throng that the faint -shriek which died on the pale lips of that helpless girl as her father’s -command fell upon her ear, was distinctly heard even by the stern parent -himself. He lifted his eyes to the place where she was kneeling, her -hands clasped, her face like marble, and those eyes, usually so tranquil -and dove-like, glittering with terror and fixed imploringly upon his -face. - -He turned away his head and tried to repeat his command, but the words -died in his throat, and he could not utter them. Again her locked hands -were extended, and her heart seemed breaking with wonder at his cruelty -as she uttered the single word, “Father!” - -That little word as it came like a frightened dove over the listening -mob, settled upon the heart of that stern man, and awoke feelings which -would not be hushed again. It was the first word his child had ever -spoken. Her rosy infancy was before him—the sweet smile, the soft tiny -hands clasped triumphantly together, when those syllables were mastered, -seemed playing with his heart-strings, the same heart which had thrilled -with so sweet a pleasure to her infant greeting. It was a strange thing -that these memories should fall upon him when his passions were all -aroused and amid a concourse of rough contending people, but the heart -is an instrument of many tones, and nature sometimes hangs forth its -sweetest music in singular places, and amid scenes that we cannot -comprehend. The Lord Protector bent his head, for tears were in his -eyes, and, like many a being before and since, he was ashamed of his -better nature. At last he conquered his agitation, and in a loud firm -voice, commanded his soldiers to withdraw, and pledged his knightly word -to the rioters that the church should receive no farther injury. - -The people were generally satisfied with this assurance, and began to -disperse when they saw the soldiery filing away toward the river. The -duke dismissed his followers at the door of St. Margaret’s, saw Lord -Dudley conducted from his presence under a strong guard, and then -entered the church alone and much agitated. He found his child sitting -upon a step of the altar, shivering as with cold, and with her face -buried in her hands. She knew his step as he came slowly down the aisle, -and lifted her dim eyes with a look of touching appeal to his face. It -was stern, cold, and unforgiving. She arose timidly and moved with a -wavering step to meet him. His face was still averted, but she reached -up her arms, wound them about his neck, and swooned away with her cheek -pressed to his, like a grieved child that had sobbed itself to sleep. -Again the thoughts of her infancy came to his heart, and though it was -wrung with a belief that she had been very blameable and had trifled -with her proud name, she was senseless and could not know that he had -caressed her as of old; so the stern man bent his head and wept, as he -kissed her forehead. - - (To be continued.) - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: _MY BONNIE STEED_] - - * * * * * - - - - - MY BONNIE STEED. - - - BY ALEX. A. IRVINE. - - - My bonnie steed, with merry speed, - Away we gallop free, - The first to drink the morning breeze, - Or brush the dewy lea, - To hail the sun as o’er the hills - His slanting ray he flings, - Or hear the matin of the lark - That high in heaven rings. - - My bonnie steed, o’er noontide mead - We’ve swept in canter gay, - Through woodland path have boldly dash’d, - Oh! what can check our way? - With hound and horn in jocund band - And hearts that smile at fear, - And flowing rein and gay halloo, - We’ve chased the flying deer. - - My bonnie steed, with matchless speed - At eve we dash away, - The zephyrs laughing round our path - As children at their play, - And while in merry race and free, - Away, away we fly, - The thick stars shining overhead - Seem speeding swifter by. - - My bonnie steed, my bonnie steed, - True friend indeed thou art, - And none are brighter in mine eye - Or dearer to my heart. - Let others smile on gallants gay - I mock the lover’s creed, - Then onward press, away, away, - My bonnie, bonnie steed. - - * * * * * - - - - - ORIGINAL LETTER - - - FROM - - CHARLES DICKENS. - - - [For the truly characteristic letter here published, and for the - sketch which accompanies it, we are indebted to the obliging - attention of Mr. John Tomlin of Tennessee.—With our own warm - admiration of the writings and character of Dickens we can well - understand and easily pardon the enthusiasm of our friend.] - -In setting about that most difficult of all tasks, the sketching of the -character of a living author, I feel that I cannot entirely keep clear -of that weakness of the human mind, which praises the foibles of a -friend and condemns the virtues of an enemy. There is no task more -difficult of performance than the one I have imposed upon myself—no -task but what can be more easily performed correctly, than the -presentation to the world, in their nice distinctive shades, of living -characters. To admire one is to praise him—and to cover all of his -faults in the blindness of charity, is the weakness of our nature. It is -scarcely possible then, Mr. Poe, for one like me, whose love is as -strong as the faith of the martyr, when at the stake he expires, and -whose hate is as deep as the depths of the sea, to shun the errors that -almost every one has fallen into, who undertakes the task of sketching -characters, _life-like_, of eminent living individuals.—To succeed -partially is in my power, and in the power of almost every one, but to -succeed wholly in introducing to the mind’s eye the character as it -really is, of any individual, is scarcely possible. I will not say that -I am peculiarly fitted to shine in this province, nor will I say that I -am equal to the task that I have voluntarily imposed upon myself—but I -will say that everything I say will be said from a conviction of belief. - -Nay, do not start and turn pale, gentle reader, when I tell you that -“Boz,” the inimitable “Boz,” is the subject of the present sketch. It is -indeed true that Charles Dickens, the great English author—he who lives -in London amid the exciting scenes and struggles of this world’s great -Metropolis, is now about to be “talked off,” by a backwoodsman—but he -will do it with an _admiring_ reverence, and a _most partial_ -discretion. I will not speak of his published works, for they have been -numbered among our household gods,—nor of the genius of the mind that -has made them such. So long as there is mind to appreciate the high -conceptions of mind, and a taste to admire the purity of thought, so -long will Charles Dickens live “the noblest work of God.” - -Charles Dickens as an author is too well known for me to say aught for -or against him. It is only in his private capacity will I speak—only as -Charles Dickens, the private man. Those social qualities of the nature -so requisite in the making up of a good man, belong to him essentially -and justly. He could not be Charles Dickens and have not those qualities -of the soul which but few possess. Had all of us the true nobility of -nature, all of us would be like him in spirit. There is in him a -gentleness that commands our love as much as his genius has our -admiration. The kindness of his nature is as great as his talent is -pre-eminent. He could never be otherwise than “Boz” nor less than -Charles Dickens—the being of all kindly feeling. - -Dwelling in a little hamlet that is scarcely known beyond the sound of -its church bell—and in a place that a few years ago, resounded only to -the winds of the magic woods, or the moccasin tread of the Indian on the -dry leaves,—I, a creature less known by far than my village, addressed -a letter to “Boz,” and, in answer from him, received the following -letter: - - “1 Devonshire Terrace, York Gate. - Regent’s Park, London. - Tuesday, Twenty-third February, 1841. - - Dear Sir:—You are quite right in feeling assured that I should - answer the letter you have addressed to me. If you had - entertained a presentiment that it would afford me sincere - pleasure and delight to hear from a warm-hearted and admiring - reader of my books in the back-woods of America, you would not - have been far wrong. - - I thank you cordially and heartily, both for your letter, and - its kind and courteous terms. To think that I have awakened a - fellow-feeling and sympathy with the creatures of many - thoughtful hours among the vast solitudes in which you dwell, is - a source of the purest delight and pride to me; and believe me - that your expressions of affectionate remembrance and approval, - sounding from the great forests on the banks of the Mississippi, - sink deeper into my heart and gratify it more than all the - honorary distinctions that all the courts in Europe could - confer. - - It is such things as these that make one hope one does not live - in vain, and that are the highest reward of an author’s life. To - be numbered among the household gods of one’s distant countrymen - and associated with their homes and quiet pleasures—to be told - that in each nook and corner of the world’s great mass there - lives one well-wisher who holds communion with one in the - spirit—is a worthy fame indeed, and one which I would not - barter for a mine of wealth. - - That I may be happy enough to cheer some of your leisure hours - for a very long time to come, and to hold a place in your - pleasant thoughts is the earnest wish of Boz.—And with all good - wishes for yourself, and with a sincere reciprocation of all - your kindly feeling, I am, Dear Sir, - - Faithfully Yours, - Charles Dickens. - Mr. John Tomlin.” - -Can anything be more _unique_—or more sweetly beautiful than this -letter? In it there is the poetry of feeling warmed into life by his -sympathies with the “creatures of many thoughtful hours.” The brain has -never yet loosened from her alembic fountain, and dropped upon an -author’s page, thoughts more gem-like than those that we see sparkling -like diamonds in his letter. Time in her ravages on the thoughts of the -departed never harvested more sparkling things than what appears here -from the granary of “Boz’s” original mind. Throughout there is a -tenderness breathing its seer-like influence on every thought, until it -seems to become hallowed like the spirit-dream of a lover’s hope. - -The great difference between mankind is, that there is a feeling of -kindness in the heart of some that is not possessed by others. To live -in this world without conferring on others, benefits, is to live without -a purpose. Of what value to our fellow creatures is mind, no matter how -splendidly adorned, if it bestows no favors on them? The rich gems that -lie buried in the caves of the oceans, are not in their secret caves -intrinsically less valuable, but their value is really not known until -they yield a profit.—Napoleon in his granite mind impressed no stamp of -heaven on his countrymen. Hard as the winter of his Russian Service -lived his life on the memory of man! Frozen tears as thickly as -hail-drops from a thunder-shower fell from the eyes of his army to -blight and wither the affections of civilized Europe. In his life he -toiled for a name which he won at the sacrifice of the lives of -millions, and perished a prisoner on a bleak and rocky isle of the -ocean!—The splendid intellect of Byron, more dazzling than the sunbeam -from a summer sky, by one untoward circumstance came to prey upon every -good feeling of his heart—and what was he?—a misanthrope!—That -ill-fated and persecuted star, P. B. Shelley, what could he not have -been, had the genius of his high-toned feelings been directed aright? - -With all of the genius of these three beings Charles Dickens has a good -heart, with all of the philanthropy and patriotism of a Washington. How -few indeed are the great men that have lived in any age or in any -country whose social qualities of the heart have not been materially -injured, and in many instances totally destroyed, by eccentric -peculiarities. Sometimes these peculiarities are real, but mostly have -they been assumed. To be as nature made us is hardly possible now with -any being who has the least prospect of a brilliant career in the world -of letters. When nature bestows her high endowments on the mind, the -favored one immediately aspires to oddity, and often to insanity,—and -makes a non-descript of his genius. To have the world’s affability, and -those social qualities of the heart that give so much of happiness and -pleasure to our fellow creatures, is not considered by a man of genius -as a thing at all worthy of possession, or as gifts adding one lustre to -the character. Instead of being as they are, forming epochs in time and -being bright exemplars in the annals of chroniclers, which nature -intended them to do, they by the most odd monstrosities endeavor to mar -the genial warmth of the feeling by misanthropic actions, and destroy -from their very foundation the most kindly emotions. - -To see one of our fellow creatures on whom nature has with an unsparing -hand bestowed her best gifts, doing deeds unworthy the high standing of -his parentage, and disgracing the purity of his privileges, is to the -noble in spirit the source of its most feverish excitement. With the -best of minds, organized artistically, Byron fell into habits so -monstrously bad, that among the virtuous his name became a term used in -denoting disgrace. No excuse can be offered for the man who has -disgraced his name—no charity is so blind as not to see the stain. - -In the world’s history, as far back as the memory reaches into the past, -we have seen the most brilliant minds, associated in connection with -some of the worst qualities of the heart. There is occasionally some -solitary instance, standing as some beautiful _relief_ on the epoch of -time, of beings whose splendid endowments of mind have not been more -remarkable in their era of history for talent, than the generous -breathings of the holy purity of heart have been for kindness. Such -cases as these are few, and happen but seldom. In “Boz” these two -qualities have met. - - * * * * * - - - - - NYDIA, THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL OF POMPEII. - - - BY G. G. FOSTER. - - - Thou beautiful misfortune! image fair - Of flowers all ravished, yet their sweetness giving - To the rude hand that crushed them! thou dost wear - Thy loveliness so meekly—thy love hiving - Within thy deepest heart-cells—that the air - Pauses enamored, from thy breath contriving - To steal the perfume of the incensed fire - Which brightly burns within, yet burns without desire. - - Thy life should be among the roses, where - Beauty without its passion paints each leaf, - And gently-falling dews upon the air - The light of loveliness exhale, and brief - And glorious, without toil, or pain, or care, - They prideless bloom and wither without grief. - Thou shouldst not feel the slow and sure decay - Which frees ignoble spirits from their clay. - - Farewell, thou bright embodiment of truth— - Too warm to worship, yet too pure to love! - Thou shalt survive in thy immortal youth - Thy brief existence—while thy soul above - Rests in the bosom of its God. No ruth, - Or anguish, or despair, or hopeless love, - Again shall rend thy gentle breast—but bliss - Embalm in that bright world the heart that broke in this. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DUELLO.[1] - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” ETC. - - -It was a clear bright day in the early autumn when the royal tilt-yard, -on the Isle de Paris, was prepared for a deadly conflict. The tilt-yard -was a regular, oblong space, enclosed with stout squared palisades, and -galleries for the accommodation of spectators, immediately in the -vicinity of the royal residence of the Tournelles, a splendid gothic -structure, adorned with all the rare and fanciful devices of that rich -style of architecture—at a short distance thence arose the tall gray -towers of Notre Dame, the bells of which were tolling minutely the dirge -for a passing soul. From one of the windows of the palace a gallery had -been constructed, hung with rich crimson tapestry, leading to a long -range of seats, cushioned and decked with arras, and guarded by a strong -party of gentlemen in the royal livery with partizans in their hands and -sword and dagger at the belt—at either end of the list was a tent -pitched, that at the right of the royal gallery a plain marquee of -canvass of small size, which had apparently seen much service, and been -used in real warfare. The curtain which formed the door of this was -lowered, so that no part of the interior could be seen from without; but -a particolored pennon was pitched into the ground beside it, and a -shield suspended from the palisades, emblazoned with bearings, which all -men knew to be those of Charles Baron de La-Hirè, a renowned soldier in -the late Italian wars, and the challenger in the present conflict. The -pavilion at the left, or lower end, was of a widely different kind—of -the very largest sort then in use, completely framed of crimson cloth -lined with white silk, festooned and fringed with gold, and all the -curtains looped up to display a range of massive tables covered with -snow-white damask, and loaded with two hundred covers of pure -silver!—Vases of flowers and flasks of crystal were intermixed upon the -board with tankards, flagons, and cups and urns of gold, embossed and -jewelled—and behind every seat a page was placed, clad in the colors of -the Count de Laguy—a silken curtain concealed the entrance of an inner -tent, wherein the Count awaited the signal that should call him to the -lists.—Strange and indecent as such an accompaniment would be deemed -now-a-days to a solemn mortal conflict—it was then deemed neither -singular nor monstrous—and in this gay pavilion Armand de Laguy, the -challenged in the coming duel, had summoned all the nobles of the court -to feast with him, after he should have slain, so confident was he of -victory, his cousin and accuser, Charles Baron de La-Hirè. The entrances -of the tilt-yard were guarded by a detachment of the King’s sergeants, -sheathed _cap-a-pié_ in steel, with shouldered arquebuses and matches -ready lighted—the lists were strewn with saw-dust and hung completely -with black serge, save where the royal gallery afforded a strange -contrast by its rich decorations to the ghastly draperies of the -battle-ground. One other object only remains to be noticed; it was a -huge block of black-oak, dinted in many places as if by the edge of a -sharp weapon and stained with plashes of dark gore. Beside this -frightful emblem stood a tall muscular gray-headed man, dressed in a -leathern frock and apron stained like the block with many a gout of -blood, bare-headed and bare-armed, leaning upon a huge two-handed axe, -with a blade of three feet in breadth. A little way aloof from these was -placed a chair, wherein a monk was seated, a very aged man with a bald -head and beard as white as snow, telling his beads in silence until his -ministry should be required. - -The space around the lists and all the seats were crowded well nigh to -suffocation by thousands of anxious and attentive spectators; and many -an eye was turned to watch the royal seats which were yet vacant, but -which it was well known would be occupied before the trumpet should -sound for the onset. The sun was now nearly at the meridian, and the -expectation of the crowd was at its height, when the passing bell ceased -ringing, and was immediately succeeded by the accustomed peal, -announcing the hour of high noon. Within a moment or two, a bustle was -observed among the gentlemen pensioners—then a page or two entered the -royal seats, and, after looking about them for a moment, again retired. -Another pause of profound expectation, and then a long loud blast of -trumpets followed from the interior of the royal residence—nearer it -rang, and nearer, till the loud symphonies filled every ear and thrilled -to the core of every heart—and then the King, the dignified and noble -Henry, entered with all his glittering court, princes and dukes, and -peers and ladies of high birth and matchless beauty, and took their -seats among the thundering acclamations of the people, to witness the -dread scene that was about to follow, of wounds and blood and butchery. -All were arrayed in the most gorgeous splendor—all except one, a girl -of charms unrivalled, although she seemed plunged in the deepest agony -of grief, by the seductive beauties of the gayest. Her bright redundant -auburn hair was all dishevelled—her long dark eyelashes were pencilled -in distinct relief against the marble pallor of her colorless cheek—her -rich and rounded form was veiled, but not concealed, by a dress of the -coarsest serge, black as the robes of night, and thereby contrasting -more the exquisite fairness of her complexion. On her all eyes were -fixed—some with disgust—some with contempt—others with pity, -sympathy, and even admiration. That girl was Marguerite de -Vaudreuil—betrothed to either combatant—the betrayed herself and the -betrayer—rejected by the man whose memory, when she believed him dead, -she had herself deserted—rejecting in her turn, and absolutely loathing -him whose falsehood had betrayed her into the commission of a yet deeper -treason. Marguerite de Vaudreuil, lately the admired of all beholders, -now the prize of two kindred swordsmen, without an option save that -between the bed of a man she hated, and the life-long seclusion of the -convent. - -The King was seated—the trumpets flourished once again, and at the -signal the curtain was withdrawn from the tent door of the challenger, -and Charles de La-Hirè stepped calmly out on the arena, followed by his -godfather, De Jarnac, bearing two double-edged swords of great length -and weight, and two broad-bladed poniards. Charles de La-Hirè was very -pale and sallow, as if from ill health or from long confinement, but his -step was firm and elastic, and his air perfectly unmoved and tranquil; a -slight flush rose to his pale cheek as he was greeted by an enthusiastic -cheer from the people, to whom his fame in the wars of Italy had much -endeared him, but the flush was transient, and in a moment he was as -pale and cold as before the shout which hailed his entrance. He was clad -very plainly in a dark morone-colored pourpoint, with vest, trunk-hose, -and nether stocks of black silk netting, displaying to admiration the -outlines of his lithe and sinewy frame. De Jarnac, his godfather, on the -contrary, was very foppishly attired with an abundance of fluttering -tags and ruffles of rich lace, and feathers in his velvet cap. These two -had scarcely stood a moment in the lists, before, from the opposite -pavilion, De Laguy and the Duke de Nevers issued, the latter bearing, -like De Jarnac, a pair of swords and daggers; it was observed, however, -that the weapons of De Laguy were narrow three-cornered rapier blades -and Italian stilettoes, and it was well understood that on the choice of -the weapons depended much the result of the encounter—De Laguy being -renowned above any gentleman in the French court for his skill in the -science of defence, as practised by the Italian masters—while his -antagonist was known to excel in strength and skill in the management of -all downright soldierly weapons, in coolness, in decision, presence of -mind, and calm self-sustained valor, rather than in slight and -dexterity. Armand de Laguy was dressed sumptuously, in the same garb -indeed which he had worn at the festival whereon the strife arose which -now was on the point of being terminated—and forever! - -A few moments were spent in deliberation between the godfathers of the -combatants, and then it was proclaimed by De Jarnac, “that the wind and -sun having been equally divided between the two swordsmen, their places -were assigned—and that it remained only to decide upon the choice of -the weapons!—that the choice should be regulated by a throw of the -dice—and that with the weapons so chosen they should fight till one or -other should be _hors de combat_—but that in case that either weapon -should be bent or broken, the seconds should cry ‘hold,’ and recourse be -had to the other swords—the use of the poniard to be optional, as it -was to be used only for parrying, and not for striking—that either -combatant striking a blow or thrusting after the utterance of the word -‘hold,’ or using the dagger to inflict a wound, should be dragged to the -block and die the death of a felon.” - -This proclamation made, dice were produced, and De Nevers winning the -throw for Armand, the rapiers and stilettoes which he had selected were -produced, examined carefully, and measured, and delivered to the kindred -foemen. - -It was a stern and fearful sight—for there was no bravery nor show in -their attire, nor aught chivalrous in the way of battle. They had thrown -off their coats and hats, and remained in their shirt sleeves and under -garments only, with napkins bound about their brows, and their eyes -fixed each on the other’s with intense and terrible malignity. - -The signal was now given and the blades were crossed—and on the instant -it was seen how fearful was the advantage which De Laguy had gained by -the choice of weapons—for it was with the utmost difficulty that -Charles de La-Hirè avoided the incessant longes of his enemy, who -springing to and fro, stamping and writhing his body in every direction, -never ceased for a moment with every trick of feint and pass and -flourish to thrust at limb, face and body, easily parrying himself with -the poniard, which he held in his left hand, the less skilful assaults -of his enemy. Within five minutes the blood had been drawn in as many -places, though the wounds were but superficial, from the sword-arm, the -face and thigh of De La-Hirè, while he had not as yet pricked ever so -lightly his formidable enemy—his quick eye, however, and firm active -hand stood him in stead, and he contrived in every instance to turn the -thrusts of Armand so far at least aside as to render them innocuous to -life. As his blood, however, ebbed away, and as he knew that he must -soon become weak from the loss of it, De Jarnac evidently grew uneasy, -and many bets were offered that Armand would kill him without receiving -so much as a scratch himself. And now Charles saw his peril, and -determined on a fresh line of action—flinging away his dagger, he -altered his position rapidly, so as to bring his left hand toward De -Laguy, and made a motion with it, as if to grasp his sword-hilt—he was -immediately rewarded by a longe, which drove clear through his left arm -close to the elbow joint but just above it—De Jarnac turned on the -instant deadly pale, for he thought all was over—but he erred widely, -for De La-Hirè had calculated well his action and his time, and that -which threatened to destroy him proved, as he meant it, his -salvation—for as quick as light when he felt the wound he dropped his -own rapier, and grasping Armand’s guard with his right hand, he snapped -the blade short off in his own mangled flesh and bounded five feet -backward, with the broken fragment still sticking in his arm. - -“Hold!” shouted each godfather on the instant—and at the same time De -La-Hirè exclaimed, “give us the other swords—give us the other swords, -De Jarnac—” - -The exchange was made in a moment, the stilettoes and the broken weapons -were gathered up, and the heavy horse-swords given to the combatants, -who again faced each other with equal resolution, though now with -altered fortunes. “Now De La-Hirè,” exclaimed De Jarnac, as he put the -well poised blade into his friend’s hand—“you managed that right -gallantly and well—now fight the quick fight, ere you shall faint from -pain and bleeding!”—and it was instantly apparent that such was indeed -his intention—his eye lightened, and he looked like an eagle about to -pounce upon his foe, as he drew up his form to its utmost height and -whirled the long new blade about his head as though it had been but a -feather. Far less sublime and striking was the attitude and -swordsmanship of De Laguy, though he too fought both gallantly and well. -But at the fifth pass, feinting at his head, Charles fetched a long and -sweeping blow at his right leg, and striking him below the ham, divided -all the tendons with the back of the double-edged blade—then springing -in before he fell, plunged his sword into his body, that the hilt -knocked heavily at his breast bone and the point came out glittering -between his shoulders—the blood flashed out from the deep wound, from -nose, and ears, and mouth, as he fell prostrate, and Charles stood over -him, leaning on his avenging weapon and gazing sadly into his stiffening -features—“Fetch him a priest,” exclaimed De Nevers—“for by my halidome -he will not live ten minutes.” - -“If he live _five_,” cried the King rising from his seat—“if he live -_five_, he will live long enough to die upon the block—for he lies -there a felon and convicted traitor, and by my soul he shall die a -felon’s doom—but bring him a priest quickly.” - -The old monk ran across the lists, and raised the head of the dying man, -and held the crucifix aloft before his glazing eyes, and called upon him -to repent and to confess as he would have salvation. - -Faint and half choked with blood he faltered forth the words—“I do—I -do confess guilty—oh! double guilty!—pardon! oh -God—Charles!—Marguerite!”—and as the words died on his quivering lips -he sank down fainting with the excess of agony. - -“Ho! there!—guards, headsman”—shouted Henry—“off with him—off with -the villain to the block, before he die an honorable death by the sword -of as good a knight as ever fought for glory!” - -Then De La-Hirè knelt down beside the dying man, and took his hand in -his own and raised it tenderly, while a faint gleam of consciousness -kindled the pallid features—“May God as freely pardon thee as I do, oh -my cousin!”—then turning to the King—“You have admitted, sire, that I -have served you faithfully and well—never yet have I sought reward at -your hand—let this now be my guerdon. Much have I suffered, even thus -let me not feel that my King has increased my sufferings by consigning -one of my blood to the headsman’s blow—pardon him, sire, as I do—who -have the most cause of offence—pardon him, gracious King, as we will -hope that a King higher yet shall pardon him and us, who be all sinners -in the sight of his all-seeing eye!” - -“Be it so,” answered Henry—“it never shall be said of me that a French -King refused his bravest soldier’s first claim upon his justice—bear -him to his pavilion!” - -And they did bear him to his pavilion, decked as it was for revelry and -feasting, and they laid him there ghastly and gashed and gory upon the -festive board, and his blood streamed among the choice wines, and the -scent of death chilled the rich fragrance of the flowers—an hour! and -he was dead who had invited others to triumph over his cousin’s -slaughter—an hour! and the court lackeys shamefully spoiled and -plundered the repast which had been spread for nobles. - -“And now,” continued Henry, taking the hand of Marguerite—“Here is the -victor’s prize—wilt have him, Marguerite?—’fore heaven but he has won -thee nobly!—wilt have her, De La-Hirè, methinks her tears and beauty -may yet atone for fickleness produced by treasons such as his who now -shall never more betray, nor lie, nor sin forever!—” - -“Sire,” replied De La-Hirè very firmly, “I pardon her, I love her -yet!—but I wed not dishonor!” - -“He is right,” said the pale girl—“he is right, ever right and -noble—for what have such as I to do with wedlock? Fare thee -well!—Charles—dear, honored Charles!—The mists of this world are -clearing away from mine eyes, and I see now that I loved thee best—thee -only! Fare thee well, noble one, forget the wretch who has so deeply -wronged thee—forget me and be happy. For me I shall right soon be -free!” - -“Not so—not so,” replied King Henry, misunderstanding her meaning—“not -so, for I have sworn it, and though I may pity thee, I may not be -forsworn—to-morrow thou must to a convent, there to abide for ever!” - -“And that will not be long,” answered the girl, a gleam of her old pride -and impetuosity lighting up her fair features. - -“By heaven, I say forever,” cried Henry, stamping his foot on the ground -angrily. - -“And I reply, not long!” - ------ - -[1] See the “False Ladye,” page 27. - - * * * * * - - - - - DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA. - - - BY DR. REYNELL COATES. - - - SUNDAY AT SEA—A REVERY. - - “We could not pray together on the deep, - Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay, - Soft, solemn, holy!” - Hemans. - -’Tis Sunday!—Far to the westward lie the regions of the Amazonians, -and, in the east, the Caffre hunts the ostrich. From the south, the -lonely island of Tristan d’Acunha looms high above the horizon. Although -twenty-three miles of water intervene between us and the base of this -extinct volcano, the spray of the long billows of the southern ocean -rises in misty clouds above the perpendicular and rocky shores, shading -the mountain with a pearly veil, widely different in color from the soft -blue tint of distance.—Even from the mast-head, whither the desire of -solitude has led me, the summits of three or four billows complete the -range of vision; for, around the entire circuit of the earth, the -eternal west winds sweep, with scarce a barrier to their action. - -To those who are familiar with the Atlantic only—that comparatively -diminutive expanse, which Humboldt has appropriately called “an arm of -the sea,”—the extent of these mountain swells must appear almost -incredible. It is not their height—for this is fixed within narrow -limits by an immutable law—but their vast, unbroken magnitude, that -awes the observer with the consciousness of infinite power. What are the -proudest monuments of human strength and skill, dotting the surface of -creation, when compared with these majestic waves, which are themselves -but the ripple of a passing breeze? - -Reclining in the main-top, above all living things except the wild sea -bird—an antiquated volume on the Scandinavian mysteries in hand—I give -myself up to solitary reflection.—Dark dreams of superstition!—and -must the order and loveliness of this glorious world be terminated in -one wild wreck—one chaos of hopeless ruin!—shall all the labors of -creative goodness sink beneath the power of the unchained demon of -destruction! - -We move upon the hardened crust of a volcanic crater!—The solid pillars -of the earth have given way once and again!—The stony relics of a -former world forewarn proud man himself, that he too, with all his -boastful race is hurrying to his doom!—All things have their cycles. - - “This huge rotundity we tread grows old!” - -What a pitiful guide is the unaided light of human reason, when it -grapples with the mysteries of creation! The good and great have lived -in every land, and all have striven to elevate the soul of man above the -grovelling passions and desires that link him with the brutes—pointing -his attention to the future, and instilling a belief in other powers, by -whose high best our destiny is governed, and whose wise decrees will -prove hereafter the reward of virtue and the scourge of vice.—Yet what -have they accomplished!—Each forms a Deity, whose attributes are the -reflection of the physical objects which surround him, or the echo of -his own ill-regulated feelings! - -In the bright regions of the East, where the unremitting ardor of the -sun gives birth to an infinity of life, and the decaying plant or animal -is scarce resolved into its elements, ere other forms start forth from -its remains—_there_, the soul of man must wander from link to link in -the great chain of Nature, till, purified by ages of distress, it merges -into the very essence of the power supreme!—a power divided and engaged -in an eternal contest with itself! a never-ceasing war between the -principles of Good and Evil! - -In those distant regions of the North, where winter rules three-quarters -of the year, and the orb of day, with look askance, but half illuminates -man’s dwelling and his labors—where verdure, for a few days, clothes -the hills with transitory grace; but all that seeks support from -vegetable aliment is endowed with fleetness like the reindeer, or -migrates, in the icy season, to more genial climes with the wild duck -and the pigeon;—in that gloomy circle, where the frozen earth scarce -yields a foot in depth to all the warming influence of summer, and men, -curtailed of half the sad resource spared even in the primeval curse, -swept with their robber hordes the provinces of their more fortunate -neighbors until the iron art of war barred up the avenues to these -precious granaries;—in that inhospitable region where dire necessity -inters the living infant with the departed mother, and resigns the aged -and decrepit to starvation!—the Parent of Good is a warrior armed, -compelled to struggle fruitlessly with Fate, until, with Thor’s dread -hammer in his hand, he yields, and breathes his last beneath the arm of -liberated Locke! - -All! all contention!—Our very nature refuses credence in annihilation! -Then— - - “When coldness wraps this suffering clay, - Ah! whither flies the immortal mind!” - -Is there no place of rest?—no truth in the visions which haunt us as -the sun declines, and the rich hues of evening fade away—when the -spirits of those we have loved “sit mournfully upon their clouds,” -gazing, with a chastened melancholy which refines but cannot darken the -calm bliss of Paradise, upon the ceaseless, bootless turmoil of their -once cherished friends? Mythology presents us with no brighter future -than the wild riot of the Hall of Odin, the lethean inanity of Hades, or -the sensual and unmanly luxury of the Moslem Bowers of the Blest. - -But hark! A manly voice, speaking of a loftier philosophy, rises upon -the clear air from the very bowels of the vessel. - -“And the earth,” it cries, “was without form and void, and darkness was -upon the face of the deep: and the spirit of God moved upon the face of -the waters.” - -Slowly and in measured cadence poured forth, from the lips of one who -felt the truths he uttered, the exposition of the order of creation and -the high destinies of the creature. ’Tis a layman’s effort, clothed in -language suited to the rude ideas of simple-minded men:—I am not of his -faith,—and cannot crowd my thoughts within the narrow compass of our -wooden walls:—aloft in air, my temple is the canopy of heaven!—my -hymn—the wild tone of the ocean-wind with the low rushing of the -billows!—the symphony of Nature!—yet, as the words of prayer ascend -upon the gale, my own thoughts follow them.—I know them for the pure -aspiration of the heart,—the breathing of a contrite spirit!—They are -registered above! - -All is still!—But, again, the harmony of many voices strikes the ear. A -hymn of praise from the wide bosom of the southern ocean!—No hearer but -the spirit to whose glory these sweet notes are tuned! The distance, and -the deadening influence of the narrow hatches, render words inaudible; -but, such as this, their tenor might have been. - - Being of almighty power, - On the wide and stormy sea, - In thy own appointed hour, - Here, we bow our hearts to thee! - - What is man, that he should dare - Ask of Thee a passing thought? - Ruling ocean, earth, and air, - Thou art all—and he is naught! - - Like a mote upon the earth! - (Earth—a mote in space to Thee!) - What avails his death or birth! - What, his hopes or destiny? - - Yet, a spirit Thou hast given - To thy creature of the clay, - Ranging free from Earth to Heaven, - Heir of an eternal day! - - In thy image Thou hast made, - Not the body, but the mind! - That shall lie defiled—decayed! - This to loftier fate consigned, - - Shall, above the tempest roar, - Viewless, gaze on all below, - And, its mundane warfare o’er, - Calmly watch Time’s ceaseless flow! - - Aid us! Father! with thy power! - (Without Thee our strength is naught!) - Thus, in Nature’s dreaded hour, - We may own the peaceful thought, - - That, our blinded efforts here, - May not mar Thy great design, - And each humble work appear - Worthy of a child of Thine! - -The voices have ceased.—The service, in which all the company except -the helmsman and myself had joined, is ended; and, one by one, the -officers of the vessel, followed by the watch on duty, in their well -blanched trousers and bright blue jackets, appear on deck; their -sobriety of mien, and cheerfulness of countenance speaking volumes in -favor of the benign influence of Christianity, even when acting upon -what are erroneously considered by many, the worst materials. - - * * * * * - - - - - ROSALINE. - - - BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. - - - Thou look’d’st on me all yesternight, - Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright - As when we murmured our trothplight - Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline! - Thy hair was braided on thy head - As on the day we two were wed, - Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead— - But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline! - - The deathwatch tickt behind the wall, - The blackness rustled like a pall, - The moaning wind did rise and fall - Among the bleak pines, Rosaline! - My heart beat thickly in mine ears: - The lids may shut out fleshly fears, - But still the spirit sees and hears, - Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline! - - A wildness rushing suddenly, - A knowing some ill shape is nigh, - A wish for death, a fear to die,— - Is not this vengeance, Rosaline! - A loneliness that is not lone, - A love quite withered up and gone, - A strong soul trampled from its throne,— - What would’st thou further, Rosaline! - - ’Tis lone such moonless nights as these, - Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, - And the leaves shiver in the trees, - And then thou comest, Rosaline! - I seem to hear the mourners go, - With long black garments trailing slow, - And plumes anodding to and fro, - As once I heard them, Rosaline! - - Thy shroud it is of snowy white, - And, in the middle of the night, - Thou standest moveless and upright, - Gazing upon me, Rosaline! - There is no sorrow in thine eyes, - But evermore that meek surprise,— - Oh, God! her gentle spirit tries - To deem me guiltless, Rosaline! - - Above thy grave the robin sings, - And swarms of bright and happy things - Flit all about with sunlit wings,— - But I am cheerless, Rosaline! - The violets on the hillock toss, - The gravestone is o’ergrown with moss, - For Nature feels not any loss,— - But I am cheerless, Rosaline! - - Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred? - Why was my pride galled on to wed - Her who brought lands and gold instead - Of thy heart’s treasure, Rosaline! - Why did I fear to let thee stay - To look on me and pass away - Forgivingly, as in its May, - A broken flower, Rosaline! - - I thought not, when my dagger strook, - Of thy blue eyes; I could not brook - The past all pleading in one look - Of utter sorrow, Rosaline! - I did not know when thou wert dead: - A blackbird whistling overhead - Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled - But dared not leave thee, Rosaline! - - A low, low moan, a light twig stirred - By the upspringing of a bird, - A drip of blood,—were all I heard— - Then deathly stillness, Rosaline! - The sun rolled down, and very soon, - Like a great fire, the awful moon - Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon - Crept chilly o’er me, Rosaline! - - The stars came out; and, one by one, - Each angel from his silver throne - Looked down and saw what I had done: - I dared not hide me, Rosaline! - I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry - Against me to God’s quiet sky, - I thought I saw the blue lips try - To utter something, Rosaline! - - I waited with a maddened grin - To hear that voice all icy thin - Slide forth and tell my deadly sin - To hell and Heaven, Rosaline! - But no voice came, and then it seemed - That if the very corpse had screamed - The sound like sunshine glad had streamed - Through that dark stillness, Rosaline! - - Dreams of old quiet glimmered by, - And faces loved in infancy - Came and looked on me mournfully, - Till my heart melted, Rosaline! - I saw my mother’s dying bed, - I heard her bless me, and I shed - Cool tears—but lo! the ghastly dead - Stared me to madness, Rosaline! - - And then amid the silent night - I screamed with horrible delight, - And in my brain an angel light - Did seem to crackle, Rosaline! - It is my curse! sweet mem’ries fall - From me like snow—and only all - Of that one night, like cold worms crawl - My doomed heart over, Rosaline! - - Thine eyes are shut: they nevermore - Will leap thy gentle words before - To tell the secret o’er and o’er - Thou could’st not smother, Rosaline! - Thine eyes are shut: they will not shine - With happy tears, or, through the vine - That hid thy casement, beam on mine - Sunfull with gladness, Rosaline! - - Thy voice I nevermore shall hear, - Which in old times did seem so dear, - That, ere it trembled in mine ear, - My quick heart heard it, Rosaline! - Would I might die! I were as well, - Ay, better, at my home in Hell, - To set for ay a burning spell - ’Twixt me and memory, Rosaline! - - Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, - Wherein such blessed memories, - Such pitying forgiveness lies, - Than hate more bitter, Rosaline! - Woe’s me! I know that love so high - As thine, true soul, could never die, - And with mean clay in church-yard lie— - Would God it were so, Rosaline! - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET. - - - If some small savor creep into my rhyme - Of the old poets, if some words I use, - Neglected long, which have the lusty thews - Of that gold-haired and earnest hearted time, - Whose loving joy and sorrow all sublime - Have given our tongue its starry eminence.— - It is not pride, God knows, but reverence - Which hath grown in me since my childhood’s prime; - Wherein I feel that my poor lyre is strung - With soul-strings like to theirs, and that I have - No right to muse their holy graves among, - If I can be a custom-fettered slave, - And, in mine own true spirit, am not brave - To speak what rusheth upward to my tongue. - - J. R. L. - - * * * * * - - - - - MRS. NORTON.[2] - - - BY PARK BENJAMIN. - - -In the last edition of Mrs. Norton’s poems, the unrivalled burine of -Lewis has attempted to trace the form and lineaments of the -authoress—one of the most perfect specimens of female loveliness that -ever furnished an idea to the painter or inspiration to the poet. -Affliction, which has graven such deep lines into her heart, has not yet -effaced the beauty of her countenance, or impaired the perfection of her -form. We have, in the engraving before us, the full maturity of that -gorgeous beauty, which, in its infancy, commanded the unqualified -admiration of the most severe and fastidious critics, that ever sat in -the Court of Fashion. We have still spared to us, that full and -voluptuous bust—the arm that statuaries delight to chisel, and a neck -that would have crazed Canova, while it rivals in whiteness, the purest -Carrara of his studio. But it is the more minute and delicate lines of -her beauty that have been swept by the touch of grief. Her countenance -is sad and subdued; her full and flexible lip is no longer played upon -by ever-varying smiles, and her eye, which once beamed with every -expression, from the twinkle of arch simplicity to the flash of an -insulted Jewess, has now settled into the melting, mournful, appealing -gaze of heart-breaking sorrow. - -When we consider that a form so peerless, is the dwelling place of a -most brilliant and gifted spirit—that a countenance so winning and -expressive is but the reflex of a pure and exalted soul,—that her eye -is moistened by the swelling fountain beneath—that lips whose mute -beauty is so persuasive, are the oracles of “thoughts that breathe and -of words that burn,” we can no longer discredit the miracles, which, in -all ages, female loveliness has wrought, the devotion and the sacrifices -it has wrung from the stern and selfish spirit of man. We are at no loss -for the reason, why the Greeks of old raised altars to incarnate Beauty, -why heroes bent their knees at her feet, and purchased trophies with -their blood that they might suspend them in her temples. - -If such endowments melt us into fealty, when, like the distant stars, -they shine above our reach and our aspirations,—if such a being -commands our respectful yet ardent love, when moving in a sphere we -never can approach, exacting homage from a thousand hearts, and raised -as much above our sympathy as our position—what strength of affection, -what full, free, unreserved devotion is enlisted in her service, when -she is brought _near_ to us by sorrow, when the sympathy of the humblest -may be a balm to the wounded spirit of the highest, when innocence is -assailed in _her_ form, her character defamed, her honor maligned, her -“life’s life lied away!” - -It must be known to most of our readers, that, incited by the political -enemies of Lord Melbourne, the husband of Mrs. Norton commenced legal -proceedings against that nobleman, alleging at the same time, the -infidelity of his own wife. No means, which personal hatred or political -bigotry could employ, were left untried, to sustain the accusation, and -the fate of this unfortunate lady became involved with the triumph or -the overthrow of Cabinets. All the arts, which were so successfully used -to blacken the memory and hurry to an early grave the illustrious -consort of George the Fourth, were revived against Mrs. Norton. Servants -were bribed, spies were employed, key-holes searched, perjury -encouraged, letters forged, surmises whispered about as facts, and -doubts magnified into certainties, that the lady might be convicted and -the minister crushed. The whole life, conduct, and conversation of the -victim were subjected to the most searching scrutiny, her letters and -private papers, her diary even—the communings of an imaginative woman -with her own soul—were placed in the hands of dexterous and sophistical -attorneys, that they might be tortured into proofs of guilt. Acts which -the most rigid duenna would not have named—indiscretions, the -out-gushings of a heart conscious of its own purity, the confiding -conduct of innocence, and the licentiousness of her grandfather, were -the strong proofs of adultery which counsel had the impudence to present -to an English Jury. On the testimony of bribed witnesses, perjured -coachmen and lubricious chambermaids, they sought to impeach the -unsullied honor of a British matron; to fix stain on the pure lawn of a -seraph by evidence which would not have sullied the flaunting robes of a -Cyprian. Need it be said that the result of such an infamous attempt was -the complete and triumphant vindication of the accused? But the -acquittal of a Jury can be no reparation to a woman whose honor has been -publicly assailed. Female virtue must not only be above reproach, but -beyond suspicion, and the breath of calumny is frequently as fatal to it -as the decrees of truth. The verdict of “not guilty,” is no bar to the -malignity of scandal-loving human nature; there remain the cavil, the -sneer, the “damning doubt,” the insolent jest. She is separated by an -impassable gulf from her only lawful protector; she can fly to no other -without shame; she is placed in the most ambiguous position in -society—that of an _unmarried_ wife; fettered by all the restraints, -watched with all the jealousy, but entitled to none of the privileges of -the conjugal tie. And, in addition to all this, she becomes a bereaved -mother; for the “righteous law entrusts the children to the exclusive -guardianship of the father.” Such is the position which a combination of -most untoward circumstances has forced upon a lady who has every claim -upon the protection, the respect, the admiration and the love of -mankind. - -We have dwelt thus long upon the domestic infelicity of Mrs. Norton, for -the purpose of illustrating the influence which it has had in modifying -her genius, and accounting for the undercurrent of deep melancholy which -is discernible in many of her pieces, and for the outbreaks of -passionate sympathy with the peculiar sorrows and sufferings of her own -sex, which distinguish all of her more recent productions. Not alone, -however, is Mrs. Norton in her misfortunes. She is but one of a large -sisterhood, who, finding the waters poisoned that rill from “affection’s -springs,” have sought to relieve their thirst from the “charmed cup” of -Fame, who, in the deep and bitter fountains of unrequited love, in the -gulfs of their own woe, have gathered pearls to deck the brow of female -genius. The mournful song of Hemans, of Tighe and of Landon, had -scarcely died away, before the lips of a fourth were touched with live -coals from the same furnace of affliction. Indeed, domestic infelicity -is so often connected with the developement of the poetical faculty in -woman, is so frequently the cause which first awakens those deep and -vivid emotions which are the essence of poetry, is so universally the -concomitant and the burthen of female song, that the relation between -the two is well worthy of philosophic investigation. - -It seems to us that the effect is a very manifest result of the cause. -The female mind is distinguished from that of the sterner sex, by its -more delicate organization, by its keener sensibility, by its stronger -and more sensitive affections; by its inferiority in mere strength of -intellect, clearness of understanding, and range of observation. Her -vision, therefore, though nicer, more accurate and susceptible, within -its own range, takes in but a very small portion of that poetic realm -which stretches from “heaven to earth, and from earth to heaven.” She is -consequently more entirely introversive than man, and draws whatever she -communicates more from within than from without. She does not derive her -inspiration, she does not form her genius, from a wide and accurate -survey of human passions. The emotions which gave birth to such -creations as Satan, Prometheus, Shylock, Manfred; the frightful visions -which glare from the lurid page of Dante’s Inferno; the wide range of -incident, description and passion which distinguish the poetry of Scott -and Southey—it would be unnatural and unreasonable to expect from the -delicate and peace-loving nature of woman. Her heart could never “bide -the beatings” of such storms. She can, at the most, but love ardently, -hope lastingly, and endure faithfully; and when she sings she can be but -the oracle of her own heart. When her hopes are baffled, when her -household gods are scattered, when despair takes up its abode within her -breast these emotions become vocal, and she sings of yearning love, of -deathless affections, of unshaken constancy, of patient endurance, of -self-sacrificing devotion. As by the law of her nature, so by her -position in society, the cultivation of her affections must be by far -the most prominent object of her life, as well as her most reliable -source for enjoyment. - -In man’s life love is but an episode; in woman’s it is the entire action -of the piece. With him it is but one act in the drama, with her it is -the beginning, middle, and end. Man’s warfare with the world is like the -battle array of the Romans—they had their first, second, and third -rank. If the first was defeated it fell back into the intervals of the -second, and both together renewed the attack; if vanquished again they -were received into the wider intervals of the third, and the whole mass -united made a more impetuous onset. Thus with man, if unsuccessful in -Love he rallies on Ambition; if again defeated, he falls back with -accumulated energy upon Avarice—the peculiar passion of old age. Not so -with woman; upon her success as a wife and a mother, her whole happiness -is risked. In her encounter with the world she has no passion in -reserve; she concentrates her whole force into one line and trusts -herself and her fortune upon the success of a single charge. If -unfortunate in this venture, she has no place for retreat except the -recesses of her own heart. Can we wonder, then, that disappointment in -what she values the most, the utter blight of her hopes, affections -driven back upon her heart, and trust betrayed, should excite those -strong and fervent emotions which will not “down” at mortal bidding, but -express themselves in song? or, that the wing of her spirit while -brooding over the ruin of her peace, should gather strength for poetic -flight? - -We do not know where we could have found a more complete illustration of -these views than in the history of Mrs. Norton. The blow which blighted -the fair promise of her spring, found her a poetess of some celebrity. -She had given to the world many pieces, imbued with the warm -sensibility, the pure, ardent, and devoted love of woman; but nothing -which in sincerity, strength, fervor and truthfulness of passion, can -compare with the “Dream”—gushing as it does from the heart of the -betrayed wife and abandoned mother. We had intended to speak at some -length of the characteristics of Mrs. Norton’s genius, but we believe -that the same end will be accomplished more to the edification of our -readers, by giving a short analysis of this beautiful poem. - -The story of the piece, is brief and simple, and was undoubtedly -suggested to her mind by the association of contrast. We are presented -with a widowed mother watching - - “her slumbering child, - On whose young face the sixteenth summer smiled.” - -And we have the following exquisite family piece presented—“_O matre -pulchrâ filia pulchrior._” - - “So like they seem’d in form and lineament, - You might have deem’d her face its shadow gave - To the clear mirror of a fountain’s wave; - Only in this they differ’d; that, while one - Was warm and radiant as the summer sun, - The other’s smile had more a moonlight play, - For many tears had wept its glow away; - Yet was she fair; of loveliness so true, - That time which faded, never could subdue; - And though the sleeper, like a half blown rose, - Show’d bright as angels in her soft repose, - Though bluer veins ran through each snowy lid, - Curtaining sweet eyes by long dark lashes hid— - Eyes that as yet had never learnt to weep, - But woke up smiling like a child from sleep;— - Though fainter lines were pencill’d on the brow, - Which cast soft shadow on the orbs below; - Though deeper color flush’d her youthful cheek, - In its smooth curve more joyous and less meek, - And fuller seem’d the small and crimson mouth, - With teeth like those that glitter in the south,— - She had but youth’s superior brightness, such - As the skill’d painter gives with flattering touch, - When he would picture every lingering grace, - Which once shone brighter in some copied face; - And it was compliment when’er she smiled - To say, ‘Thou’rt like thy mother, my fair child’.” - -Over such a child the mother hangs with devoted fondness, with sweet -recollections of her infancy, and - - “of the change of time and tide - Since Heaven first sent the blessing by her side,” - -and with mournful anticipations, of what would befall the fledged bird, -when it should grow impatient of the nest. The child at length awakes— - - “And when her shadowy gaze - Had lost the dazzled look of wild amaze,” - -she relates her dream to the mother. - - “Methought, oh! gentle mother, by thy side - I dwelt no more as now, but through a wide - And sweet world wander’d, nor even then alone; - For ever in that dream’s soft light stood one,— - I know not who,—yet most familiar seem’d - The fond companionship of which I dream’d! - A Brother’s love is but a name to me; - A Father’s brighten’d not my infancy, - To me in childhood’s years no stranger’s face - Took from long habit friendship’s holy grace; - My life hath still been lone, and needed not, - Heaven knows, more perfect love than was my lot - In thy dear heart; how dream’d I then, sweet Mother, - Of any love but thine, who knew no other?” - -Dear little innocence! you have much to learn. Thy “shadow and herself” -wander together by the “blue and boundless sea,” the shore is covered -with flowers and “tangled underwood” and “sunny fern.” The ocean, “the -floating nautilus,” the “pink-lipped” shells— - - “And many color’d weeds - And long bulbous things like jasper beads,” - -and ships with “swelling sails unfurled,” dance before her in this -delightful vision until— - - “The deep spirit of the wind awoke, - Ruffling in wrath each glassy verdant mound, - While onward roll’d the army of huge waves, - Until the foremost with exulting roar, - Rose proudly crested o’er his brother slaves, - And dashed triumphant to the groaning shore.” - -The ocean finally passes from her sleeping vision and the winged -travellers fly into a different scene— - - “We look on England’s woodland fresh and green,” - -and a beautiful picture is presented of the rural scenery of Great -Britain, until the scene changes again to some romantic resting-place of -the dead, to some _Père la Chaise_, or Laurel Hill, or Mount Auburn, to -a— - - “heath - Where yew and cypress seemed to wave - O’er countless tombs, so beautiful, that death - Seemed here to make a garden of the grave.” - -And as the fair one wanders over the “mighty dead,” over “warriors,” and -“sons of song” and orators— - - “whose all persuading tongue - Had moved the nations with resistless sway,” - -and “pale sons of science”— - - “He who wandered with me in my dream - Told me their histories as we onward went, - Till the grave shone with such a hallowed beam, - Such pleasure with their memory seem’d blent - That, when we looked to heaven, our upward eyes - With no funereal sadness mock’d the skies.” - -We are ourselves getting rapidly to envy that “fellow” who is “wandering -with her.” In our opinion she will soon be able to answer her own -_naïve_ question about love. Her companion leads her, with admirable -discernment, as we think, into a glorious “old library.” What better -place could he have selected to impress the heart of an imaginative and -appreciating “little love.” If the cemetery and those “histories” did -not explain to her the novel psychological emotion about which she -consulted her mother, what occurs in the library certainly will. For see -how the youth plays with the susceptibilities of a girl of “sixteen”— - - “We sate together: _his most noble head_ - Bent o’er the storied tome of other days, - And still he commented on all we read, - And taught me what to love and what to praise. - Then Spencer made the summer day seem brief, - Or Milton sounded with a loftier song, - Then Cowper charmed, with lays of gentle grief, - Or rough old Dryden roll’d the hour along. - Or, in his varied beauty dearer still, - Sweet Shakspeare changed the world around, at will; - And we forgot the sunshine of that room - To sit with Jacques in the forest gloom; - To look abroad with Juliet’s anxious eye - For her gay lover ’neath the moonlight sky; - Stand with Macbeth upon the haunted heath, - Or weep for gentle Desdemona’s death; - Watch on bright Cydnus’ wave, the glittering sheen, - And silken sails of Egypt’s wanton Queen; - Or roam with Ariel through that island strange, - Where spirits and not men were wont to range, - Still struggling on through brake and bush and hollow, - Hearing the sweet voice calling ‘Follow! follow!’ - - Nor were there wanting lays of other lands, - For these were all familiar in his hands: - And Dante’s dream of horror work’d its spell,— - And Petrarch’s sadness on our bosoms fell.— - And prison’d Tasso’s—he, the coldly loved, - The madly-loving! he, so deeply proved - By many a year of darkness, like the grave, - For her who dared not plead, or would not save, - For her who thought the poet’s suit brought shame, - Whose passion hath immortalized her name! - And Egmont, with his noble heart betrayed,— - And Carlo’s haunted by a murder’d shade,— - And Faust’s strange legend, sweet and wondrous wild, - Stole many a tear;—Creation’s loveliest child! - Guileless, ensnared, and tempted Margaret, - ‘Who could peruse thy fate with eyes unwet?’” - -If such a quantity of poetry and such poetry—Spencer, Milton, Dryden, -Cowper, Shakspeare, Dante, Tasso and Göethe did not enlighten the “young -innocent,” respecting the emotions with which she regarded the “fond -companion of her dreams,” we do not know to whom to commend her for -instruction. But we must hurry on with the story; the pair wander over -Italy, and a picture is presented, of mountain and vale, of orange and -myrtle groves, of grottoes, fountains, palaces, paintings, and statues -that would “create a soul” under the ribs of a utilitarian. We were -inclined to think that he of “the most noble brow,” entrapped the young -affections of the dreamer in the “old library,” but we do not believe -that she breathed the delicious confession into his ear until they -reached the sunny clime of Italy. It was the unrivalled music of that -land which unsealed her lips. - - “We sate and listened to some measure soft - From many instruments; or faint and lone - (Touch’d by his gentle hand or by my own) - The little lute its chorded notes would send, - Tender and clear; and with our voices blend - Cadence so true, that when the breeze swept by - _One mingled echo floated on its sigh!_ - And still as day by day we saw depart, - _I_ was the living idol of his heart: - How to make joy a portion of the air - That breathed around me seemed his only care. - For me the harp was strung, the page was turned; - For me the morning rose, the sunset burn’d; - For me the Spring put on her verdant suit; - For me the Summer flowers, the Autumn fruit; - The very world seemed mine, _so mighty strove_ - _For my contentment that enduring love._” - -But the slumbers of the dear girl are at length broken, she discovers -that it is _but a dream_, and thus repines over the contrast. - - “Is all that radiance past—gone by for ever— - And must there in its stead for ever be - The gray, sad sky, the cold and clouded river, - And dismal dwelling by the wintry sea? - Ere half a summer altering day by day, - In fickle brightness, here, hath passed away! - And was that form (whose love might well sustain) - Naught but a vapor of the dreaming brain? - Would I had slept forever.” - -The “mournful mother” now speaks. And how sweetly come from her lips the -lessons of piety and resignation. She gently rebukes her daughter, -contrasts the world which fancy paints with the stern realities of -existence, and distils into the opening mind of the child the wisdom -which her own sad experience had taught. - - “Upbraid not Heaven, whose wisdom thus would rule - A world whose changes are the soul’s best school: - All dream like thee and ’tis for mercy’s sake - That those who dream the wildest soonest wake; - All deem Perfection’s system would be found - In giving earthly sense no stint or bound; - All look for happiness beneath the sun, - And each expects what God hath given to _none_.” - -It is in this part of the argument that we discover the fervor, -strength, and pathos that the lessons of experience impart. It is here -that Mrs. Norton teaches in song what she has herself learnt in -suffering. If the following is not poetry it is something that moistens -the eye very much like it. - - “Nor ev’n does love whose fresh and radiant beam - Gave added brightness to thy wandering dream, - Preserve from bitter touch of ills unknown, - But rather brings strange sorrows of its own. - Various the ways in which our souls are tried; - Love often fails where most our faith relied. - Some wayward heart may win, without a thought, - That which thine own by sacrifice had bought; - May carelessly aside the treasure cast - And yet be madly worshipped to the last; - Whilst thou forsaken, grieving, left to pine, - Vainly may’st claim his plighted faith as thine; - Vainly his idol’s charms with thine compare, - And know thyself as young, as bright, as fair. - Vainly in jealous pangs consume thy day, - And waste the sleepless night in tears away; - Vainly with forced indulgence strive to smile, - In the cold world heart-broken all the while; - Or from its glittering and unquiet crowd, - Thy brain on fire, thy spirit crushed and bow’d, - Creep home unnoticed, there to weep alone, - Mock’d by a claim which gives thee not thy own; - Which leaves thee bound through all thy blighted youth - To him, whose perjured heart hath broke its truth; - While the just world beholding thee bereft, - Scorns—not his sin—but _thee_, for being left! - - * * * * * * - - “Those whom man, not God, hath parted know, - A heavier pang, a more enduring woe; - No softening memory mingles with _their_ tears, - Still the wound rankles on through dreary years, - Still the heart feels, in bitterest hours of blame - It dares not curse the long familiar name; - Still, vainly free, through many a cheerless day, - From weaker ties turns helplessly away, - Sick for the smile that bless’d its home of yore, - The natural joys of life that come no more; - And, all bewildered by the abyss, whose gloom - Dark and impassible as is the tomb, - Lies stretch’d between the future and the past,— - Sinks into deep and cold despair at last. - Heaven give thee poverty, disease or death, - Each varied ill that waits on human breath, - Rather than bid thee linger out thy life - In the long toil of such unnatural strife. - To wander through the world unreconciled, - Heart-weary as a spirit-broken child, - And think it were an hour of bliss like Heaven - If thou could’st die—forgiving and forgiven,— - Or with a feverish hope, of anguish born, - (Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn - Of all thy cruel foes who ’twixt thee stand, - Holding thy heart-strings with a reckless hand,) - Steal to his presence now unseen so long, - And claim _his_ mercy who hath dealt the wrong! - Within the aching depths of thy poor heart - Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain - And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart, - And burn like fire through thy bewildered brain. - Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal - To teach thy fellow creatures _how_ to feel.— - Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears,— - Recall the hopes, the influences of years,— - Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground, - Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound, - Invoke the heaven that knows thy sorrow’s truth, - By all the softening memories of youth— - By every hope that cheered thine earlier day— - By every tear that washes wrath away— - By every old remembrance long gone by— - By every pang that makes thee yearn to die; - And learn at length how deep and stern a blow - Near hands can strike, and yet no pity show! - Oh! weak to suffer, savage to inflict, - Is man’s commingling nature; hear him now - Some transient trial of his life depict, - Hear him in holy rites a suppliant bow; - See him shrink back from sickness and from pain, - And in his sorrow to his God complain— - ‘Remit my trespass, spare my sin,’ he cries, - ‘All-merciful, All-mighty, and All-wise: - Quench this affliction’s bitter whelming tide, - Draw out thy barbed arrow from my side;’— - And rises from that mockery of prayer - To hate some brother-debtor in despair.” - - -From what deep fountains of suffering must these lines have been drawn! -What days, weeks, months of deferred hope, of doubt, and of final -despair are recorded here! - - What life-drops from the minstrel wrung - Have gushed with every word? - -The mother at length ceases, and the spirited girl shrinking from the -picture of life which has been presented to her, thus replies:— - - “If this be so, then mother, let me die - Ere yet the glow hath faded from my sky! - Let me die young; before the holy trust, - In human kindness crumbles into dust; - Before I suffer what I have not earned - Or see by treachery my truth returned; - Before the love I live for fades away; - Before the hopes I cherish’d most decay; - Before the withering touch of fearful change - Makes some familiar face look cold and strange, - Or some dear heart close knitted to my own, - By perishing, hath left me more alone! - Though death be bitter, I can brave its pain - Better than all which threats if I remain, - While my soul, freed from ev’ry chance of ill, - Soars to that God whose high mysterious will, - Sent me, foredoom’d to grief, with wandering feet - To grope my way through all this fair deceit.” - -The mother then breaks forth in a beautiful strain, inculcating -confidence in God and submission to his will. We have never heard a -homily from any pulpit that has taught these lessons with one half the -force and eloquence of these beautiful lines. If any of our readers, in -the midst of sorrow, suffering or despair, are inclined to forget that -there is “another and a better world,” we advise them to learn patience -under tribulation from the lips of Mrs. Norton. We wish we could quote -them—but we cannot—we have already transcended our limits and can only -give the beautiful and touching end of this “sad and eventful history.” - - “There was a pause; then with a tremulous smile, - The maiden turned and pressed her mother’s hand: - ‘Shall I not bear what thou hast borne erewhile? - Shall I, rebellious, Heaven’s high will withstand? - No! cheerly on, my wandering path I’ll take; - Nor fear the destiny I did not make: - Though earthly joy grow dim—though pleasure waneth— - This thou hath taught thy child, that God remaineth!’ - - “And from her mother’s fond protecting side - She went into the world, a youthful bride.” - -Fain would we linger longer among the brilliant creations of Mrs. -Norton’s genius; but, like her own beautiful sleepers, our “dream” is -broken, and we must return from fairy-land to encounter “the rude -world.” - ------ - -[2] The Dream and other poems, by the Honorable Mrs. Norton—Dedicated -to Her Grace, the Duchess of Sutherland. - - “We have an human heart - All mortal thoughts confess a common home.” - _Shelley._ - -London. Henry Colburn, Publisher, Great Marlborough street, 1840. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE VEILED ALTAR, - - - OR THE POET’S DREAM. - - - BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS. - - - I bent me o’er him as he lay upon his couch, - Deep sleep weighed down the curtains of his eyes, - Forever and anon the seraph seemed to touch - His dreaming soul with radiance of the skies! - I bent me o’er him then, for mighty thoughts did seem - To pant for utterance, as he sighed for breath, - _And strove to speak_—for in that dark and fearful dream - He passed the portals of the phantom Death! - - “The chains that clogged my spirit’s pinions roll - Powerless back to earth—a vain, base clod, - And awe-inspiring thoughts brood o’er my soul, - _As angels hover round the ark of God!_ - I see before me in the distance far - A mystic altar veiled, and part concealed - Amid the tresses of a burning star, - Whose mysteries from earth are ever sealed! - - “It gleams—that fountain of mysterious light - At holy eve, far in the western sky, - And angels smile, when man ascends by night - To read in it his puny destiny! - A something bears me onward towards the throne - With speed which mocks the winged lightning’s glance! - And here, amid the stars’ eternal home - I stand, with senses steeped as in a trance! - - “I feel a power, a might within my soul - That I could wrest from angels, themes for song! - My earth-freed spirit soars and spurns control, - While deep and chainless thoughts around me throng! - I know the veil is pierced—the altar gained— - I bend me lowly at its foot sublime; - Yet false inspirers, who on earth have feigned - The God, depart from this eternal clime!” - - He woke—and swift unto the land of misty sleep - His dreams rolled back, and left him still on earth, - But ever after did the Poet’s spirit keep - This deep, unchanging, mystic, second birth! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LADY’S CHOICE. - - - BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. - - - “In terms of choice I am not solely led - By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes.” - _Merchant of Venice._ - -“I want to ask you a question, Mildred, but I am afraid you will deem it -an impertinent one.” - -“Ask me what you please, dear Emily, and be assured that you shall -receive a frank reply; we have known and loved each other too long to -doubt that affection and not mere idle curiosity prompts our mutual -inquiries respecting each other’s welfare during our separation.” - -“When I bade farewell to my native land, Mildred, I left you surrounded -by a wide circle of admirers; you were beautiful and rich,—these gifts -alone would have won you many a suitor,—but you were also possessed of -the noblest qualities of heart and mind, and were as worthy to be loved -as to be admired. How has it happened then that from among the many who -sought your hand, you selected one so—so—” - -“I understand you, Emily,—so misshapen and ugly, you would say; it is -precisely because I possessed a little more heart and soul than usually -belongs to a fashionable belle.” - -“What do you mean, Mildred? when I parted from you I thought you were -more than half in love with the handsome Frank Harcourt.” - -“And you return to find me married to his crooked cousin.” - -“I did not know Mr. Heyward was related to your quondam admirer.” - -“Ah, I see I must tell the whole story; ‘wooed an’ married an’ a’’ is -not enough for you; I must relate all the particulars which led to such -an apparently whimsical choice. - -“You remember me doubtless as the _enfant gâtée_ of society; the spoiled -child of doating parents, and the flattered votary of fashion. My web of -life, unbroken by a single sombre thread, seemed woven only of -rose-color and gold. My mirror taught me that the world spoke truth, -when it assigned to me the brightest of all womanly gifts: experience -showed me my superiority in mind over the well dressed dolls of society: -and the earnestness of my affection for the friends of my youth, -convinced me that many stronger and deeper emotions still lay latent -within my heart. Yet with all these gifts, Emily, I narrowly escaped the -fate of a fashionable flirt. I could not complain, like Voltaire, that -‘the world was stifling me with roses,’ but I might have truly said, -that the incense offered at the shrine of my vanity was fast defacing, -with its fragrant smoke, the fine gold that adorned the idol. -Selfishness is a weed which flourishes far more luxuriantly beneath the -sunshine of prosperity than under the weeping skies of adversity; for, -while sorrow imparts a fellow-feeling with all who suffer, happiness too -often engenders habits of indulgence, utterly incompatible with sympathy -and disinterestedness. Wherever I turned I was met by pleasant looks and -honied words, everybody seemed to consider me with favor, and I was in -great danger of believing that the world was all sincerity and Miss -Mildred all perfection. The idea that I shone in the reflected glitter -of my father’s gold never occurred to me. Too much accustomed to the -appliances of wealth to bestow a thought upon them; entirely ignorant of -the want and consequently of the value of money, I could not suppose -that other people prized what to me was a matter of such perfect -indifference, or that the weight of my purse gave me any undue -preponderance in the scale of society. Proud, haughty and self-willed as -I have been, yet my conscience acquits me of ever having valued myself -upon the adventitious advantages of wealth. Had I been born in a hovel I -still should have been proud:—proud of the capabilities of my own -character,—proud because I understood and appreciated the dignity of -human nature,—but I should have despised myself if, from the slippery -eminence of fortune, I could have looked with contempt upon my fellow -beings. - -“But I was spoiled, Emily, completely spoiled. There was so much -temptation around me,—so much opportunity for exaction and despotism -that my moral strength was not sufficient to resist the impulses of -wrong. With my head full of romantic whims, and my heart thrilling with -vague dreams of devoted love and life-long constancy; a brain teeming -with images of paladin and troubadour, and a bosom throbbing with vain -longings for the untasted joy of reciprocal affection,—I yet -condescended to play the part of a consummate coquette. But, no; if by -coquetry be meant a deliberate system of machinations to entrap hearts -which become worthless as soon as gained, then I never was a coquette, -but I certainly must plead guilty to the charge of thoughtless, aimless, -mischievous flirtation. If the Court of Love still existed,—that court, -which, as you know, was instituted in the later days of chivalry, and -composed of an equal number of knights and dames, whose duty it was to -try all criminals accused of offences against the laws of Love; if such -a tribunal still existed, I think it might render a verdict of _wilful -murder_ against a _coquette_, while only _manslaughter_ could be laid to -the charge of the _flirt_. The result of both cases is equally fatal, -but the latter crime is less in degree because it involves no _malice -prepense_. Do not misunderstand me, Emily, I do not mean to exculpate -the lesser criminal; for if the one deserves capital punishment the -other certainly merits imprisonment for life, and, next to the -slanderer, I look upon the coquette and habitual flirt as the most -dangerous characters in society. Yet I believe that many a woman is -imperceptibly led to the very verge of flirtation by a natural and even -praiseworthy desire to please. The fear of giving pain when we suspect -we possess the power, often gives softness to a woman’s voice and -sweetness to her manner, which, to the heart of a lover, may bear a -gentler interpretation. Among the chief of our minor duties may be -ranked that of making ourselves agreeable; and who does not know the -difficulty of walking between two lines without crossing either? You -think I am saying all this in exculpation of my past folly, and perhaps -you are right. - -“I was just nineteen, and in the full enjoyment of my triumphs in -society, when I officiated as your bridesmaid. I must confess, Emily, -that the marriage of such a pretty, delicate creature, as you then were, -with a man full twice your age, in whose dark whiskers glistened more -than one silver thread, and on whom time had already bestowed a most -_visible crown_, seemed to me one of the marvels of affection for which -I could not then account.” - -“Now you are taking your revenge, Mildred, for my saucy question -respecting your husband; but if you can give as good a reason for your -choice as I found for mine, I shall be perfectly satisfied.” - -“Let me gratify my merry malice, ladye fair; time has shown some little -consideration for you in this matter, for, while he has left no deeper -impress on your husband’s brow, he has expanded the slender girl into -the blooming, matronly-looking woman. You are now well matched, Emily, -and your husband is one of the handsomest men of—_his age_.” - -The arch look of the speaker interpreted the equivocally-worded -compliment, and, with a joyous laugh, Mrs. Heyward resumed: - -“It was about the time of your marriage, and shortly before your -departure for Europe, that I became acquainted with Frank Harcourt. You -must remember his exceeding beauty. The first time I beheld him, Byron’s -exquisite description of the Apollo Belvedere rose to my lips: - - ——“In his delicate form,—a dream of Love - Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose heart - Longed for a deathless lover from above - And maddened in that vision, is exprest - All that ideal beauty ever blessed - The mind with in its most unearthly mood.” - -His admirable symmetry of form, and a face of such perfect contour, such -exquisite regularity of feature, that its semblance in marble might have -been valued as a relic of Grecian ideal beauty, were alone sufficient to -attract the admiration of such a lover of the beautiful as I always have -been; but the charm of perfect coloring, the effect of light and shade -was not wanting in this finished picture. His full dark eye sparkled -beneath a snow-white forehead,—his cheek was bronzed by exposure and -yet bright with health,—his lips were crimson and velvet-like as the -pomegranate flower,—his teeth white as the ocean pearl,—his raven -curls fell in those rich slight tendrils so rarely seen except on the -head of infancy,—while the soft and delicate shadowing in his lip and -chin resembled rather the silken texture of a lady’s eyebrow, than the -wiry and matted masses of hair usually cherished under the name of -whiskers and moustache.” - -“You are quite impassioned in your description, Mildred; what would your -husband say if he were to hear you?” - -“He would agree with me in thinking that Frank Harcourt is the most -beautiful specimen of humanity that ever presented itself to my admiring -eyes.” - -“He has less jealousy then in his nature than most of his sex.” - -“A man has little cause to be jealous of a rival he has so utterly -discomfited. - -“Harcourt soon professed himself my admirer and need I say that his -attentions were by no means displeasing to me. The buzz of admiration -which met my ear whenever he appeared,—the delight with which ladies -accepted his slightest civilities,—the manœuvres constantly practised -to secure his society, all tended to render me vain of his homage. Had -he been merely a beautiful statue,—a rich but empty casket, I should -soon have become weary of my conquest. But Harcourt possessed a mind -rather above mediocrity, fine taste, elegant manners, and, what was -especially useful to him, great skill in decyphering character and -consummate tact in adapting himself to its various peculiarities. When -those beautiful lips parted only to utter the language of high-toned -sentiment, or to breathe the impassioned words of Byron and Moore,—when -those bright eyes glistened with suppressed tears at the voice of -melancholy music, or sparkled with merry delight at the tones of gayety; -when that fine person swayed itself with inimitable grace to the -movements of the mazy dance, or bent its towering altitude with gentle -dignity over the slight form of some delicate girl, it is not strange, -that, even to my eyes, he should seem all that was noble and majestic in -mind as well as person. Flattered by his courtly attentions, -congratulated by my fashionable friends, and captivated by his brilliant -qualities, my imagination soon became excited to a degree which bore a -strong semblance to affection. He offered me his hand and was accepted. -You look surprised, Emily; I thought you knew that I was actually -engaged to him.” - -“Indeed I did not, Mildred, and I regret now to learn that such was the -case. There is something to me very wrong,—I might almost say -_disgraceful_ in the disruption of such bonds; and the levity with which -young ladies now _make_ and _break_ engagements, argues as ill for the -morality of society, as does the frequency of bankruptcies and -suspensions.” - -“I agree with you, Emily, and since it has become the fashion to -consider the most solemn obligations only as a strait-laced garment -which may be thrown off as soon as we can shut out society from our -solitude,—since women pledge their hands without even knowing whether -they have such an article as a _heart_ to accompany it,—since men with -equal ease _repudiate_ their debts and their wives, I am afraid the next -generation has little chance of learning morality from their parents. -But sometimes, Emily, the sin is in _making_ not in _breaking_ the -engagement. However, hear my story, and then judge. - -“All the world knew that I was affianced to the handsome Frank Harcourt, -and I was quite willing to enjoy my triumph as long as possible, before -I settled myself down to the dull routine of domestic life. This -disposition to defer my marriage might have led me to suspect the nature -of my feelings, for no woman will ever shrink from a union with one to -whom her soul is knit in the close bonds of affection. My lover was -respectably connected, but had been educated for no profession and was -not possessed of fortune. He had left his native village to find -employment, and, as he hoped, wealth, in the busy mart of the Empire -state. How he managed to satisfy my father, who, in the true spirit of -an old Dutch burgomaster, looked upon every man as a rogue if he did not -possess some visible occupation, I never could discover. He probably -flattered his self-love by listening to all his schemes for the -reformation of society; and, I am not sure that he did not draw up the -constitution and by-laws of a certain association which my father wished -to establish,—to be entitled a “Society for the Encouragement of -Integrity among men of Business,” and of which the old gentleman meant -to constitute himself president. - -“It was agreed that our marriage should take place at the expiration of -a year, and my father (who was as fond of coincidents as a newspaper -editor) declared that on the very day of our nuptials, the name of -Harcourt should be added to the very respectable firm of Marchmont, -Goodfellow & Co. About this part of the arrangement I cared very little. -I enjoyed the present moment, and lavished my time, my thoughts and my -feelings as foolishly as I did the gold with which my father supplied -me. I was a mere child in my knowledge of the duties of life, and -perhaps there never was one of my age to whom the word -‘_responsibility_’ was so mystical a sound. - -“I soon discovered that I had a serious rival in the affections of my -future husband. Frank Harcourt loved himself far better than he did his -mistress; and though his tact enabled him to avoid any offensive -expression of this Narcissus-like preference, it was still very -perceptible to me. Yet how could I blame him when I looked upon his -handsome person? Indeed I often found myself quoting Pope’s celebrated -couplet, but with a difference, - - “If to his share a coxcomb’s errors fall, - Look in his face and you forget them all.” - -The truth was, that my vanity induced me to excuse his weakness. I was -proud of exhibiting, as my lover, the man whom all admired; and I felt -redoubled satisfaction in hearing him applauded by the very people who -had already bestowed on me the meed of praise. I was even so foolish as -to be vain of his costume, and although I knew that he wasted hours upon -the adornment of his person, I delighted to see him appear attired in -that manner, so peculiarly his own, which gave a graceful negligence to -a toilet the most _soignée_ and made a fanciful poet once style his -dress ‘_an elegant impromptu_.’ Like some other (so-called) impromptus, -many a weary hour had been bestowed upon the task of making it _seem_ -extemporaneous. - -“The only one of Frank Harcourt’s family with whom I then became -acquainted, was his cousin Louis Heyward, and, among the whole circle of -my acquaintances, there was no one whom I so cordially disliked. His -form was diminutive and slightly misshapen, while his face would have -been positively ugly, but for the effect of a pair of large, dark, soft -eyes which seemed to speak a more fluent language than his lips. His -manners were cold, quiet and indifferent; he mingled but little in -society, and I think our well-filled library and my music alone induced -him to conquer his reserve sufficiently to become one of my habitual -visiters. To me he was always polite and gentlemanly but no more. He -never flattered,—never even commended, though he often looked as if he -would have censured, had he felt himself privileged to do so. Frank used -to take great pains to bring him out into company, (Heaven forgive me if -I wrong him in believing _now_ that he wanted him as a foil to his own -exceeding beauty,) but, excepting at our house, Louis was rarely seen in -society. He had devoted himself to the gospel ministry, and, in order to -support himself independently during the period of his theological -studies, he had engaged to give instructions in some of the higher -branches of education, at one of our principal schools. In fact Louis -Heyward was only a poor student, a school-master,—yet he dared to -criticise the conduct of the flattered and spoiled Mildred Marchmont; -and he alone,—of all the gifted and the graceful who bowed before her -power,—he alone—the deformed, the unlovely—seemed to despise her -influence.” - -“Pray how did you discover that he was actuated by such feelings? he -surely did not venture to disclose them?” - -“No, Emily; he was usually silent and abstracted in my presence. His -relationship to Frank, placed him at once on a familiar footing in our -family, and, we soon became accustomed to his somewhat eccentric -manners. When not listening to my harp or piano, he was often occupied -with a book, seeming utterly regardless of every one around him. But, -often, when I have been sitting in the midst of an admiring circle of -‘danglers’ bestowing on one a smile, on another a sweet word, on another -a trifling command, and, in short, playing off the thousand petty airs -which belles are very apt to practise in order to claim the attentions -of all around them,—I have stolen a glance at that cold, grave -countenance, and there has been such severe expression in his speaking -eyes,—such a smile of contempt on his pale lip, that I have blushed for -my own folly even while I hated the cynic who made me sensible of it. I -was constantly disputing with him about trifling matters of opinion, and -I delighted in uttering beautiful fallacies, which I knew he would -contradict. It was a species of gladiatorial game which I enjoyed -because it was new and exciting. I had been so long accustomed to assent -and flattery that it was quite refreshing to meet with something like -opposition, which could arouse the dormant powers of my mind. The -information with which my early reading had stored my memory,—the -quickness of repartee which generally belongs to woman,—the readiness -to turn the weapon of the assailant with a shield for our own weakness -which is so very _feminine_ a mode of argument,—all afforded a new -gratification to my vanity, and while I heartily disliked the disputant, -I yet eagerly sought the dispute. Louis at length discovered my motives -for thus seeking to draw him into discussions, and, after that, no -provocation could induce him to enter into a war of wit with me. In vain -I uttered the most mischievous sophistries,—in vain I goaded him with -keen satire; he smiled at my futile attempts, as if I were a petted -child, but deigned me no reply. It was not until then that I estimated -the treasures of his gifted mind, for when he no longer allowed himself -to be drawn from his reserve,—when his fine conversational powers were -no longer exerted, I felt I had lost a positive enjoyment which when in -my possession I had scarcely thought of valuing. - -“I happened one afternoon to be walking on the Battery with the two -cousins, when we overtook an acquaintance who was unattended, except by -a young brother. We immediately joined her, and, with a feeling of -gratified vanity, (knowing that she had once diligently sought to -attract Mr. Harcourt,) I stepped back, and taking the arm of Louis, left -the lady in uninterrupted possession, _for a short time_, of my handsome -lover. There was a mean and petty triumph in my heart at which I now -blush, and, as I looked up into the face of my companion, after -performing the manœuvre, I was almost startled at the stern contempt -which was visible in his countenance.” - -“‘Come, Mr. Heyward, do make yourself agreeable for once,’ I exclaimed, -with levity, ‘do tell me you are flattered by my preference of your -society.’ - -“‘I never utter untruths,’ was the cold reply. - -“My first impulse was to withdraw my arm from his, but I restrained -myself, and flippantly said: - -“‘You are as complimentary as usual, I perceive.’ - -“‘Would you have me to feel flattered by being made the tool of your -vanity, Madam?’ said he, while his cheek flushed and his eye sparkled; -‘do I not know that you only sought to gratify a malicious triumph over -your less fortunate rival?’ - -“A denial rose to my lips, but my conscience forbade me to utter it. I -was perfectly silent—yet, perhaps, there was something of penitence in -my countenance, for he immediately added: - -“‘Good Heavens! Mildred,—Miss Marchmont, I mean—what capabilities of -mind,—what noble characteristics of feeling you are daily wasting in -society! How rapidly are the weeds of evil passion springing up amid the -rich plants of virtue which are still rooted in your heart! How awful is -the responsibility of one so nobly gifted as yourself!’ - -“‘What do you mean, sir?’ exclaimed I, startled at his earnestness. - -“‘Have you never read the parable of the unfaithful steward who hid his -talent in the earth?’ was his reply: ‘God has given you beauty and -mental power, and wealth and influence; yet what is your beauty but a -snare?—What are your talents but instruments to gratify your vanity? -Where is your wealth expended if not in ministering to your luxuries? -What suffering fellow-being has ever been cheered by your sympathy?—or -what weak and erring mortal has ever been strengthened in duty, or -wakened to virtue by your influence?’ - -“I cannot describe how deeply I was shocked and pained at these -impressive words. An emotion resembling terror seized me;—I was -actually alarmed at the picture they abruptly presented to my view. - -“Louis continued: ‘Forgive me, Miss Marchmont, if I have trespassed -beyond the limits of decorum. I speak the language of _truth_,—a -language you are but little accustomed to hear; but my conscience and my -heart have long reproached my silence.’ - -“‘You are a severe judge, Mr. Heyward,’ said I, with a faint attempt at -a smile; and just at that moment we were interrupted by some jesting -remarks from the party who preceded us. No opportunity was afforded for -renewing our conversation; but as we approached home, Louis lingered so -as to secure a moment’s time, and said in a low voice: - -“‘I will not ask you to forgive my frankness, Miss Marchmont, for -something tells me that the time will come when you will not resent my -apparent rudeness. I owe to you some of the happiest, and, it may be, -some of the saddest moments of my life. Before we part, I would fain -awaken you to a sense of your own true value, for amid all the -frivolities which now waste your life, I have discovered that _you were -born for better things_.’ As he uttered these words, we found ourselves -at my father’s door, and with a cold bow he turned away. - -“That night I was engaged to attend a brilliant ball, but my spirits -were depressed, and my brow clouded by unwonted sadness. Whether -wheeling in the giddy dance, or gliding with light words and lighter -laugh amid the groups of pleasure-seeking guests, still the deep voice -of Louis Heyward rung in my ears; and the words ‘_you were born for -better things_,’ seemed written upon everything that I beheld. - -“‘You are _triste_ to-night, _ma belle_,’ said Frank Harcourt, as he -placed me in the carriage to return home: ‘I shall be quite jealous of -my crooked cousin, if a _tête-à-tête_ with him has such power to dim -your radiance.’ - -“Many a truth is uttered in the language of mockery. That walk with -Louis had become an era in my life. How I longed to weep in solitude! -The weariness and satiety which had long unconsciously possessed -me,—the unsatisfied cravings for excitement, which had long been my -torment, now seemed to me fully explained. Louis Heyward had unfolded to -me the truth,—he had revealed the secret of my hidden discontent, when -he told me _I was born for better things_. I had ‘_placed my happiness -lower than myself_,’ and therefore did I gather only disappointment and -vexation. Why did I not utter these thoughts to my affianced lover? Why -did I not weep upon his bosom and seek his tender sympathy? Because I -instinctively knew that he would not understand me. The charm which -enrobed my idol was already unwinding, and I had learned that there were -many subjects on which there could exist no congenial sentiments. For -the first time in my life, I began to reflect; and, with reflection, -came remorse for wasted time and ill-regulated feelings. Like the -peasant girl in the fairy tale, mine eyes had been touched with the -ointment of disenchantment, the illusion which had made life seem a -scene of perfect beauty and happiness was dispelled forever, and I now -only beheld a field where thorns grew beneath every flower, and a path -where duties were strewn far more thickly than pleasures. - -“A circumstance which soon after occurred confirmed my melancholy -impressions. Do you remember little Fanny Rivers whom my mother took -while yet a child, with the intention of making her my confidential -servant and dressing-maid? She was about my age, and had grown up to be -very pretty,—with one of those sweet, innocent, child-like faces, which -are always so lovely in woman. Soon after your marriage she abruptly -left my service, and much to my regret I was unable to obtain any trace -of her. At the time of which I have just spoken, however, I received a -note from her. She was sick and in distress, and she requested from me -some pecuniary aid. I did not receive the appeal with indifference, and -instead of merely sending her assistance I determined to seek her in -person. I found her residing with a relative, a poor washerwoman, and as -I sat by the sick bed of the young invalid, I for the first time beheld, -with my own eyes, the actual life of poverty. Hitherto I had been lavish -of money in charity, from a thoughtless and selfish wish to avoid the -sight of suffering, but now I learned to sympathise with the poor and -unhappy. Poor Fanny was dying with consumption, and daily did I visit -her humble apartment, led thither as much by my morbid and excited -feelings as by my interest in the failing sufferer. But it was not till -she was near her death-hour that she revealed to me her painful story. -Never shall I forget her simple words: - -“‘I used to think ma’m, that nothing was so desirable as fine clothes, -and when I saw you dressed in your beautiful silks and satins, I used to -cry with envy because I was only a servant. As I grew older this wicked -feeling increased, and often when you had gone to a party, I have locked -myself in your dressing-room, and put on your laces, and flowers and -jewels, just to see how I should look in such fine dress. I felt very -proud when the large glass showed me that I looked just like a lady; but -it only made me more envious and unhappy. At last my hour of temptation -came. One,—whose name I have sworn never to reveal,—came to me with -promises of all that I had so long wanted. He offered me silk dresses, -and plenty of money, and said I should have servants to wait on me if I -would only love him. He was so handsome, and he brought me such costly -presents,—he talked to me so sweetly and pitied me so much for being a -servant when I ought to be a lady, that I could not refuse to believe -him. He told me I should be his wife in the sight of Heaven, and he -ridiculed what he called my old-fashioned notions, until he made me -forget the prayers which my poor mother taught me and the Bible which -she used to read to me. I was vain and so I became wicked. I sold my -happiness on earth and my hopes of Heaven hereafter, for the privilege -of wearing fine clothes; for indeed, Miss Mildred, I never was happy -after I left your house.’ - -“I sought to learn no more of poor Fanny’s history, Emily; I scarcely -heard the tale of her subsequent desertion and destitution. My -conscience was awakened, and fearfully did she knell in my ears my own -condemnation. ‘Who made ye to differ?’ asked my heart, as I gazed on -this victim to vanity and treachery. Who taught this fallen creature to -value the allurements of dress beyond the adornment of innocence? Who -sowed in her bosom the seeds of envy and discontent, and nurtured them -there until they bore the poisoned fruit of sin? Was I guiltless of my -brother’s blood? Had not I been the _first_ tempter of the guileless -child? Here, then, was an evidence of my influence;—how fatally -exercised! - -“Emily, I have repented in tears and agony of spirit:—I have prayed -that this weight of blood-guiltiness might be removed from my soul; and -I humbly trust my prayer has not been in vain:—but even now my heart -sickens at the recollection of the being whom my example first led -astray. It was at the bedside of the dying girl,—when my spirit was -bowed in humble penitence—that the words of religious truth first -impressed themselves upon my adamantine heart. I had listened unmoved to -the promises and denunciations of the gospel, when uttered from the -pulpit; but now, the time, the place, the circumstance gave them tenfold -power. I visited Fanny Rivers daily, until death released the penitent -from her sufferings, and then, I fell into a deep melancholy from which -nothing could arouse me, and for which no one could account. - -“Frank Harcourt was annoyed and vexed at this change. He earnestly -pressed our immediate marriage, and talked about a trip to Paris as an -infallible cure for my ‘_nervous excitement_.’ But in proportion as my -better feelings were awakened, my attachment to him decreased, until I -actually shrunk from a union with him. He now appeared to me frivolous -in his tastes, and the light tone with which he spoke of moral duties, -though often listened to as an idle jest, in calmer times, now offended -and disgusted me. In vain I tried to recall my past feelings. In vain I -gazed upon his exquisite face and watched the movements of his graceful -form, in the hope of again experiencing the thrill of pleasure which had -once been awakened by his presence. The flame had been kindled at the -unholy shrine of vanity, and already the ashes of perished fancies had -gathered over it to dim its brightness. I could no longer cheat myself -into the belief that I loved Frank Harcourt. He was still as glorious in -beauty,—still the idol of society; but the spell was broken, and I -looked back with wonder to my past delusion. - -“You will ask where, during all these changes, was Louis Heyward. The -very day after the conversation which had so awakened my remorse of -conscience, he bade me farewell, having been summoned to take charge of -a small congregation, and to ‘build up a church in the wilderness.’ I -would have given much for his counsel and his sympathy, but he was far -away, absorbed in noble duties, and had probably ceased to remember with -interest, the being whom his _one true word_ had rescued from -destruction. I was exceedingly wretched, and saw no escape from my -unhappiness. The approach of the period fixed upon for my marriage only -added to the horror of my feelings, and I sometimes fancied I should be -driven to madness. - -“But the _dénouement_,—a most unexpected one—came at length. The aunt -of poor Fanny, who was very grateful for my attentions to the unhappy -girl, accidentally heard that I was on the point of marriage with Mr. -Harcourt, and, instigated no less by revenge than by a sense of -gratitude to me, she revealed to me the _name_ which Fanny had _sworn_, -and she had _promised_ to conceal. You can imagine the rest, Emily. With -the indignant feeling of insulted virtue and outraged womanhood, I -instantly severed the tie that bound me to him. Did I not do right in -breaking my engagement? - -“More than two years passed away. I had withdrawn from the follies, -though not from the rational enjoyments of society; and, having joined -myself to the church, I endeavored to live in a manner worthy of my -profession. Alas! all my good deeds were insufficient to make amends for -my wasted years and baleful example. The world ceased, at last, to -wonder and ridicule my sudden reformation, (which they kindly attributed -to my lover’s fickleness,) and I was beginning to enjoy the peace of -mind, always attendant on the exercise of habitual duty, when I was -surprised by the intelligence that Louis Heyward had been chosen to -succeed the deceased pastor of our church. The day when he preached his -first sermon for us will long live in my remembrance. Associated, as he -was, with my brightest and my darkest hours, I almost feared to see him, -lest the calm of my feelings should be disturbed by painful -recollections. But he now appeared before me in a new and holier light. -He was a minister of truth unto the people, and as I watched the rich -glow of enthusiasm mantling his pale cheek, and the pure light of zeal -illumining his dark eyes, I thought there was indeed ‘a beauty in -holiness.’ - -“Do not think I was in love with our young pastor. I fancied that my -heart was dead to such impressions, and it was only with quiet -friendship that I greeted him when he renewed his acquaintance with her -whom he had once known as the glittering belle of a ball-room. I saw him -frequently, for I now understood the value of wealth and influence when -they could be made subservient to the interests of religion and -humanity. My purse as well as my time was readily bestowed for the good -of others. Always in extremes, I was in danger of running into the error -of fanaticism, and I owe it to Louis that I am now a rational, and I -trust, earnest Christian. But a long time elapsed after this renewal of -our intercourse before I was permitted to read the volume of his heart. -It was not until he was well assured that the change which he beheld was -the result, not of temporary disgust with the world, but of a thorough -conviction of error, that he ventured to indulge the affections of his -nature. He had loved me, Emily, during my days of vanity and folly. His -cold, stern manner was a penance imposed upon himself, to expiate his -weakness, and while he strove to scorn my levity, he was, in fact, the -slave of my caprice. But he crushed the passion even in its bud, and -forced himself to regard me only as his cousin’s bride. Yet the glimpses -of better feelings which sometimes struggled through every frivolity, -almost overcame his resolution, and the conversation which first -awakened me to reflection, was the result of a sense of duty strangely -blended with the impulses of a hopeless passion. - -“Perfect confidence now existed between us. My external life had been -almost an unbroken calm, but my heart’s history was one of change and -tumult and darkness. Louis wept,—aye, wept with joy, when he learned -that his hand had sown the good seed within my bosom. It is Madame de -Stäel who says that ‘Truth, no matter by what atmosphere it is -surrounded, is never uttered in vain;’ and I am a living proof that she -is right. I have now been five years a wife; and, though my husband has -not a face that limners love to paint and ladies to look upon,—though -his form is not moulded to perfect symmetry, and his limbs lack the -graceful comeliness of manly strength,—in short,—though he is a -_little, ugly, lame man_, yet I look upon him with a love as deep as it -is enduring, for the radiant beauty of his character has blinded my -feeble eyes to mere personal defects. Frank Harcourt was the sculptured -image,—the useless ornament of a boudoir, but Louis,—my own Louis is -the unpolished casket,—rude in its exterior, but enclosing a pearl of -price,—the treasure of a noble spirit.” - -“And what has become of your former lover?” - -“He is the ornament of Parisian saloons; living no one knows how, but -suspected to be one of that class, termed in England, ‘_flat-catchers_,’ -lending the aid of his fine person and fascinating manners to attract -victims to the gaming-table. He is said to be as handsome as -ever,—dresses well, and is the admiration of all the young ladies as -well as the dread of all the mammas who are on the watch to avoid -‘_ineligibles_.’ And now that you have heard my story, Emily, are you -still surprised at my choice?” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BLUE VELVET MANTILLA. - - - BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN. - - - “I do admire - Of womankind but one.” - _John Gilpin._ - -“So then, Julius, you are at last a lawyer, out and out?—how did you -pass your examination?” - -“Just to please myself, uncle, I wasn’t stumped once.” - -“Bravo! I am glad to hear it; that was exactly following my example. -Before I got through, they tried hard to pose me, but I was an overmatch -for them. I would have made a capital lawyer, Julius, had I chosen to -practise.” - -“What a pity you did not, uncle!” - -“Yes, that’s what all my friends say, and that, if I had not been too -rich to need it, they would have given me all the business in their -power,—every cent’s worth of it. Many of them wish that I had been -poorer, that I might have been of greater service to the public.” - -“What kind friends you must have, sir!” - -“You rascal! I see that you are laughing at me. However, I intend to -take you for my raw material, and make of you everything that I have -failed to be myself. In the first place, you are to rise to the height -of the profession here, in this very city, to make amends for my not -having attained the station.” - -“But the opposite reason to yours will forbid my accomplishing that, my -dear sir,—too light a purse, is, in the generality of cases, a greater -obstacle than one too heavy.” - -“An ingenious lawyer, to presume that, when I employ you to do my work -for me, I expect you to go upon your own means! why, my worshipful -attorney, you must live here with me, in my own house, and make use of -my own purse. It is my place to pay the expenses.” - -“Dear uncle! how kind you are! how generous!—I can never be -sufficiently grateful—” - -“Spare your eloquence to plead my causes for me!—we lawyers know how -much speeches ought to go for, so I want none of them here, just now. Am -I not telling you that you are to work for me in return?—and I wish you -to fulfil another of my duties towards society.” - -“Anything in the world, uncle, after all the kindness—” - -“Poh! it’s not any uncommon task I wish you to undertake. It is only to -marry a wife and to raise a family. You may imitate me in everything but -in being an idler, and an old bachelor.” - -“Why, everybody thinks you, sir, the happiest, most independent, most -contented old bachelor in the world. Quite an enviable person.” - -“I am not at all to be envied, Julius. As to being happy,—that’s all a -sham. I have never been contented since they called me an old bachelor. -No, no,—you must have a wife. I have picked one out for you.” - -“Indeed! pray who is she, uncle?” - -“One of the loveliest girls in the city,—your cousin Henrietta -Attwood.” - -“Etty Attwood! the pretty little second-cousin who used to come -sometimes to visit us when I was a boy! I remember her well;—the most -beautiful, sweetest tempered child in the world; with bright brown eyes, -and flaxen ringlets curling over her shoulders and down to her waist! if -she is as charming a woman as she was a child, I have not the shadow of -an objection. I used to call her my little wife then, and the first -poetry I ever perpetrated, was some stanzas addressed to her on her -birthday.” - -“Yes, she has shown them to me more than once; she remembers you as well -as you do her, and often inquires of me about her cousin and old -play-fellow, Julius Rockwell.” - -“But do you think she would have me, uncle?” - -“Why shouldn’t she?—you are plaguy good-looking,—you know that well -enough,—very much like what I was at your age; you have sense -plenty,—that is, if you are not a degenerate shoot of your family; if -you have not, you must acquire it; you have formed no bad habits, I -hope;—if you have, I must cane them out of you. And Etty will do -whatever I bid her,—I know she will. She is aware that I was looking -for you, and will expect you to call to see her immediately.” - -“I shall be delighted to do so; can you take me this evening, uncle? But -how does it happen that she is in the city? Her parents, I believe, -reside in the country still.” - -“She is with her aunt, Mrs. Attwood, a rich widow, who having married -off all her own daughters, has begged a share of her time for the sake -of her company. She is very much of a belle, but if you manage properly, -you and she will make a match of it in less than six months, or my name -is not Herman Holcroft. You must then live with me. I begin to feel -lonesome as I grow old, and, you perceive, I have house-room for twenty -more.” - -“My dear uncle, you are too kind!” - -“Stop a moment! remember it is only on condition you bring Etty with -you; I don’t know that I would like any one else. So I will go with you, -and introduce you to-night. I was afraid you would have to wait to be -provided with a new suit, but am agreeably disappointed. You look not -only genteel but fashionable. Your country tailors must be on the march -of improvement.” - -“Oh! since steam-engines are so abundant, no one need be behind the -fashions, unless he chooses;—but, uncle,—look here, quick!—Ah! she -has gone around that corner!” - -“Who?—what is it?” asked the old bachelor, hastily rising from his -superb, damask covered rocking chair, to approach the window. - -“A young lady,—the loveliest, brightest—” - -“Pho!” returned Mr. Holcroft, sinking again into his cushions with a -look of disappointment; “why I see thousands of lovely, bright-looking -girls passing here every day, and so it has been for the last twenty -years. That, I suppose, is one reason why I have not married. I never -could get one pretty face fixed in my heart, before a hundred others -presented themselves to drive it away.” - -The windows of the apartment, in which the gentlemen sat, opened upon -one of the most noted thoroughfares on this side of the Atlantic, which -at that hour, was crowded by an unusually brilliant throng of the fair -and the gay, called out by the bright sunshine of a clear December -afternoon, to exhibit, each, her new assortment of winter finery. During -the foregoing dialogue, young Rockwell had not been so much occupied as -to be unable to throw an occasional glance into the street, and the one -which preceded his exclamation, had been met by a pair of radiant eyes, -with an expression so cordial and familiar, that he was quite -startled,—and the more easily, that they belonged to one of the most -beautiful faces and one of the richest costumes that he had noticed on -the crowded pavé. “I could never have seen her before,—no, I never -did,”—said he to himself, and the passage of Moore so generally known -to the sentimental and romantic youths, who sigh in our language, came -into his mind:— - - “As if his soul that moment caught - An image it through life had sought; - As if the very lips and eyes, - Predestined to have all his sighs, - And never be forgot again, - Sparkled and smiled before him then.” - -“That is a favorite excuse with you old bachelors,” said he, at length, -remembering that a reply might be expected to his uncle’s last -observation; “but this young lady,—_such_ a face could not be easily -driven away! I wonder who she can be?—perhaps you know her,—she is -evidently one of your _élite_, but I can’t describe her; one thing I -noticed, however, she had on a blue velvet—, what is the name of those -new articles?—neither a cloak nor a shawl;—you understand what I mean, -uncle.” - -“A mantilla, you block-head!” replied the old bachelor, consequentially, -as if proud of being so far read in women’s gear. - -“Yes, a mantilla,—a blue velvet mantilla, worked in yellow figures.” - -“Embroidered in gold color, or straw, or canary, or lemon, the ladies -say,” returned Mr. Holcroft, in a tone of correction; “there are plenty -of blue velvet mantillas, and how am I to know which you mean?” - -Julius admitted that it might be rather difficult, and looked out of the -window with renewed interest, while his uncle kept up a rambling -discourse which required no reply. In a few moments the blue mantilla -again appeared, another witching glance was thrown upon him, and -snatching up his hat, without a word of explanation or excuse, he darted -from the room. Immediately after, a fine looking young man entered, and -was saluted by the name of Elkinton, by Mr. Holcroft, who sat wondering -at his nephew’s sudden disappearance. - -“Has Rockwell arrived, Mr. Holcroft?” asked the visiter. - -“Yes,—did you not meet him at the door?—he reached this an hour or two -ago, and has just bolted out as if life and death depended on his speed. -I suppose he saw something wonderful in the street. These rustics, when -they come to town, are always on the stare for novelties. A fire-bell -startles them as much as an earthquake would us. But won’t you sit -down?—he will be back again in a few minutes, no doubt.” - -“Thank you, I have not time to wait. I merely called in to see if he had -come. Perhaps I may find him in the street.” - -Meanwhile Julius was eagerly tracing the fair unknown, and unpractised -as he was in threading the mazes of a city crowd, he found little -difficulty in gaining upon the light, quick step he followed. But at -length, as he joyfully held, his good genius befriended him. She was -stopped by a distinguished looking girl, whose tall figure, dark eyes, -and black hair, contrasted strongly with her own rather _petite_ -proportions, hazel eyes and ringlets of light brown. He came up in time -to hear the lady of his pursuit say to the other, “I half expect -visiters this evening, but should they not call, I shall go certainly. I -believe it is the Vandenhoffs’ benefit, and, no doubt, a treat may be -looked for.” - -Just then a carriage drew up to the curbstone, and an elderly lady -called from it, “I have half a notion to make you both walk home;—I -have been driving up and down street for an hour, expecting to meet you. -Get in,—quick!” - -The steps were let down, and the black-eyed damsel was handed in. Her -companion was about to follow, when, glancing over her shoulder, she -beheld our hero. She paused, half-smiled, blushed, and springing into -the carriage, was driven off, and out of sight in a moment, while Julius -stood transfixed where she left him. He was aroused by a hand laid on -his arm, and turning, he exclaimed, somewhat abashed at being found in a -position so equivocal, “Is it possible, Elkinton!” - -“My dear Rockwell! I am rejoiced to see you! I almost passed without -recognising you; I could scarcely have expected to meet you, fresh from -the country, standing in a brown study, in the most crowded square of -the city!” - -The two young men had been classmates at college, and though a regular -correspondence had not been kept up between them, they were always the -warmest of friends whenever they chanced to meet. They turned to walk -together towards Mr. Holcroft’s. - -“Pray, Elkinton, do you know any lady who wears a blue velvet mantilla?” -asked Julius as soon as politeness allowed him to introduce an extrinsic -subject. - -“Very probably I may, but I never recollect ladies by their dress, as I -seldom pay the slightest attention to it. What sort of a lady do you -mean?” - -“A young, very beautiful one, with bright complexion, clear hazel eyes -and sunny tresses.” - -“I know several such,—you may see plenty of them passing any hour; but -what about her?” - -“Oh, nothing! only I saw her in the street and was struck with her -appearance.” - -“Pshaw! you will be struck ten times a minute if you are on the look-out -for beauty. For my part, I have given up looking at the ladies in -general.” - -“Then it must be because you are engrossed by one in particular.” - -“Right, and I’ll introduce you to her for old acquaintance sake. Don’t -you remember our standing argument, that neither of us would marry -without a communication to, and a consultation with, the other?” - -“Of course,” replied Julius abstractedly; “I must try to find out who -she is.” - -“You shall know all about her, my Julius, and become acquainted with -her; as soon as you are at leisure, I should like to have your -impression of my choice,” returned Elkinton cordially; of course -alluding to his own lady love; “but I have not time to talk longer, just -now. I’ll call to see you in the morning.” - -“Stay, at which house are the Vandenhoffs to perform to-night?” asked -Julius, detaining him. - -Elkinton named the theatre and hurried away. - -On returning to his uncle, there being visiters present, no questions -were asked about his absence, and when they were again alone, the old -gentleman desired him to have himself in readiness to call on his -cousin, Miss Attwood, after tea. With some hesitation, he excused -himself. “Perhaps you would like to go to see the Vandenhoffs, as this -is their last night,” said Mr. Holcroft, presuming that to be his -objection; “if so, by going early to visit Etty, we may have a chance to -take her along, if she is not engaged. You need not mind being out of -etiquette, as I shall propose it myself.” - -Still Julius demurred about the visit, and added, “It was my intention -to go to the theatre, but I should prefer going alone.” - -“Going alone!” repeated the old gentleman, looking at him -scrutinizingly; “that is altogether wrong, Julius. A young man should -not, if possible, appear at a place of amusement, which ladies are -sanctioned to attend, without having one along. They are a protection -from improper associations, and add greatly to the respectability of -one’s appearance. On the present occasion, your attendance on Henrietta -Attwood will establish your standing in society at once. She is -certainly one of the most admired girls in the city.” - -“No doubt of it, uncle; but for my part I never admired dumpy girls.” - -“Dumpy girls?—what do you intimate by that, sir? why Etty has one of -the most perfect figures I ever saw! she is a very sylph.” - -“Indeed! when she was a child, she was very short and fat. At any rate, -she must have white hair,—she formerly had,—and I have no great -partiality for ‘lint white locks.’” - -“White hair! what the plague has got into the fellow? she has no such -thing. An hour or two ago you were all anxiety that I should take you to -see her, and you seem ready to decline going altogether.” - -“Excuse me, uncle, but really I don’t feel in the humor for ladies’ -society this evening.” - -“Oh, very well, sir; consult your own pleasure,” replied the old -bachelor in a tone of pique, and took his tea in silence. - -Julius noticed it, but though sorry to displease him, was ashamed to -confess his motive for wishing to go alone, and, after a few minutes of -constraint, in the drawing-room, he set off for the theatre. - -He arrived early, and selecting a place which commanded a view of the -whole house, he kept his eyes in constant motion from door to door, with -the purpose of scanning every group that entered, a feat not easy to -accomplish, as an unusual number were thronging the house. At length, a -round of applause, on the rising of the curtain, distracted his -attention, for a moment, and on again turning round, he beheld in a box -near him, the identical blue velvet mantilla, accompanied by an elderly -gentleman, and the tall brunette. The best acting of the season was all -lost upon him, the one object alone chaining his eyes and his thoughts. -She, too, evidently perceived him, while surveying the audience. At the -end of the first act, and several times afterward, she met his gaze with -conscious blushes, and an apparent effort to repress a smile. He also -fancied that some communication on the subject passed between her and -her companions. - -The play at length was over, and the party rose to go. Julius pushed -through the crowd until he found himself beside them. In the press, the -mantilla became unfastened, and, unperceived, by its owner, a gentleman -set his foot upon it. “The lady’s mantilla, sir!” said our hero, eagerly -catching it up. She nodded her thanks with looks half downcast, and -confusedly taking it from his hand, wrapped it around her and, in a few -minutes, they had reached the door. The old gentleman handed his fair -charges into a carriage in waiting, and, saying that he would walk, -ordered the servant to drive on. - -“Have a hack, sir?” asked a coachman. - -“Yes,—follow that carriage,” replied Julius, and springing in, was -driven into one of the most fashionable streets of the city. The -carriage stopped before one of the handsomest houses in it, and he saw -the ladies alight and enter the door. Then discharging his coach, he -reconnoitered the house and square, to know them again, and -congratulating himself on his discovery, he returned to his uncle’s. - -Mr. Holcroft had recovered, in some degree, from his displeasure against -the morning, and with a return of his usual manner, he questioned his -nephew upon the quality of the past night’s entertainment. - -“I can hardly tell, sir; that is,—I believe it was good, sir;” answered -he with some incoherence. - -“Why, my good fellow, I hope you are not so green as not to know whether -a theatrical performance was good or the contrary!” said the old -bachelor, staring at him, whereupon the young gentleman felt himself -necessitated to be somewhat less abstracted. - -After breakfast he took up his hat with unexpressed intention to visit -the scene of his discovery, and half formed hopes, and his uncle, having -observed that in a stroll through the city he might see some books, or -other such matters, which he would like to possess, kindly proffered him -funds to purchase them. - -Julius thanked him, and answered that he was provided with a sum, naming -it, amply sufficient for the expenses of the three or four weeks he had -proposed for the length of his visit. - -“Don’t forget to be back again at twelve,” said Mr. Holcroft; “against -that time I shall want you to go with me to see your cousin Etty.” - -“Hang my cousin Etty!” thought Julius, but he said nothing, and, with a -bow, he departed. On reaching the place where his thoughts had been all -the morning, he examined the door, but could find no name, nor could he -see a child or a servant within half a square, of whom he might have -obtained information. But, crossing the street in his disappointment, he -noticed on the first house before him, a large brass door-plate, -inscribed “Boarding,” and actuated by the first suggestion of his fancy, -he rang the bell, and inquired if he could obtain lodgings for a short -time. - -“My rooms are all taken, sir,—that is, all the best apartments,” -replied the mistress of the mansion, presuming, from his appearance, -that none but good accommodations would answer. - -Julius paused a moment, but having gone so far, he concluded not to draw -back. “I would be willing to put up with an inferior one, provided it is -in the front of the house,” said he. - -“The small room, in the third story, over the entrance, is vacant,” said -the lady, hesitating to offer it. - -“I’ll take it, madam,” he returned, and without further question or -examination, he hastened to have his baggage brought. This he executed -without the knowledge of his uncle, the old gentleman having rode out -after breakfast. - -He felt half ashamed of his precipitancy, when he saw his trunks -deposited in a chamber, so filled up by a narrow bed, a washstand and a -single chair, that there was hardly space enough for them, but on -approaching the window, he beheld the blue mantilla descending from the -steps of the house opposite, and he regarded himself as fully -compensated for the sacrifice. - -“Who lives in the house immediately across the way?” asked he of the -servant who was arranging the room. - -“Mr. Lawrenson, sir,—that gentleman coming out.” It was the old -gentleman of the theatre. - -“There are a couple of young ladies in the house, are there not?” - -“Only one, sir, that I know of,—a great belle among the quality. The -gentlemen call her the _beautiful_ Miss Lawrenson.” - -Julius was satisfied. He knew the family by reputation, and to have -attracted the attention, and commenced a flirtation of the eyes with a -beauty so distinguished, he felt was an adventure to be pursued without -respect to little inconveniences. He was strengthened in this sentiment -by some of the gentlemen at the dinner-table stating, that one of the -most prominent ornaments of the dress circle, at the theatre, the night -before, was the beautiful Charlotte Lawrenson. - -After dinner he watched long for the return of his fair neighbor, an -occupation not the most comfortable, as there was no chimney in the -room, and therefore no possibility of his having a fire; but she did not -again appear, and recollecting that his uncle ought to be informed of -his change of quarters, he proceeded to fulfil that duty. On his way he -had some misgiving that the old gentleman would not receive his apprisal -on the best of terms, and he was projecting some plausible excuse to -satisfy him, when the result of his ingenuity was annihilated by his -encountering, face to face, the lady of his thoughts,—his heart, as he -believed. The same half-smile met him,—there might have been observed -an additional expression of familiarity;—the same blush, and he would -have turned to follow her again, but his sense of propriety had not so -far left him, as to admit of the repetition,—particularly as there was -no object to be gained by it. So, satisfied that from his close -vicinity, he could have an opportunity of seeing her daily, and of -taking advantage of any favorable accident for a better acquaintance, he -entered the drawing-room of the old bachelor, who received him with an -exclamation of “Where upon earth have you been all this day, Julius?” - -“At my lodgings, sir,” replied the youth, having come to the conclusion -that it would be best to treat his desertion in the most matter of -course way possible. - -“Your lodgings!” repeated Mr. Holcroft, in astonishment. - -“Yes, uncle; as I don’t like to trouble my friends more than I can help, -I decided upon taking boarding, and your absence, when I came to remove -my baggage, prevented my informing you of it.” - -“What, after I had proposed your taking up your residence in my house, -not only during your visit, but during my life time! I need a better -excuse than that. Where have you gone?” - -Julius named the place. - -“One of the most expensive establishments in the city, and one -frequented by dandies, _roués_, and _bon vivants_,—the very worst sort -of society for a young man, who aspires to attaining eminence in one of -the learned professions. You might, at least, have consulted me about a -place proper for you, even though you had decided upon mortifying me by -leaving my house. How long have you engaged to stay?” - -“Only a week or two, uncle,” replied Julius, devoutly hoping that no -questions would be asked, which would compel him to confess that he had -ensconsed himself in the worst apartment in the house. - -“I waited dinner for you an hour, after having expected you for two or -three to go with me to visit your cousin Etty. However, you can stay to -tea, and go with me in the evening.” - -“Excuse me, dear sir,—I have a particular reason for declining.” - -“What! again?—how do you intend to dispose of yourself?” - -“I—I shall stay in my own room, I believe, uncle.” - -“You vex and surprise me more and more, Julius. Independent of my -earnest desire that you should see your cousin, your duty as a gentleman -and as a relative requires that you should make her a visit, and the -sooner it is done, the more it will be to your credit.” - -“The young lady in question being only my second-cousin, I cannot -perceive that there is any duty connected with the matter. -Second-cousins, except in cases of convenience, are seldom regarded as -relatives at all.” - -“Whew! I presume that, after all that, I need not be surprised if you -should propose to dissolve the connection between me and yourself! I, a -queer, plain, old fellow, will hardly be likely to remain an -_acknowledged_ kinsman of one who declines the relationship of one of -the loveliest girls that ever the sun shone upon!” - -“My dear uncle, I meant no disrespect towards Miss Attwood, much less to -you, but really, I have something to attend to, that will debar me from -the pleasure of fulfilling your wishes, to-night. I will see you again -in the morning. Good evening.” - -“I must keep a sharp watch on that youngster,” said the old bachelor to -himself; “he can’t have formed an attachment at home, for he appeared -delighted, at first, with my proposition for his settlement. As to his -leaving my house, it strikes me that it was done for the purpose of -escaping my _surveillance_. I must be careful as to what sort of habits -he has formed, before I decide on carrying out my plans. I must go to -see Etty this evening myself, and as she will expect some excuse for his -not calling, I can tell her that he is diffident,—not used to ladies’ -society, or something that way. She has not been here for several days, -I presume on his account; so I’ll tell her that he has taken boarding at -Mrs. W——’s. I have no notion of being cheated out of my only lady -visiter by the ungrateful scamp.” And the old gentleman carried his -resolve into execution. - -Julius had really told the truth in saying that he intended to remain at -home that evening, but he would not for any thing in the world,—except, -indeed, the heart under the blue velvet mantilla,—have acknowledged his -reason for so doing. The fact was, he had concluded that no time was to -be lost in pursuing his advantage, and that, as he had been the poet of -his class at college, he might be inspired, if in solitude, to produce a -metrical accompaniment for some pretty _gage d’amour_, to be sent the -next morning. His muse not unpropitious, but cabin’d, confined, in his -fireless dormitory, his ardour would, no doubt, have abated, had he not, -by an occasional glance out of the window, been reminded, by the blue -sky and its golden embroidery of stars, of the azure mantilla. Thus -refreshed, whenever he found himself flagging, he completed his -performance to his full satisfaction, and after copying it on paper -perfumed and gilt,—with his washstand for a writing table,—he retired -to dream the night into day. - -In the morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he set off in quest of -his intended gift, and seeing the gorgeous display of exotics, in the -window of a celebrated florist, he stopped and selected flowers for a -bouquet, the richest and rarest, without regard to cost, and ordering -them to be sent immediately to his lodgings, he hastened to meet them -there. He was stopped, however, in his course by his friend Elkinton. - -“I am glad at the accident of meeting you,” said the latter; “I called -last evening and this morning at Mr. Holcroft’s in expectation of your -coming in,—the servants having told me yesterday that you had changed -your residence. Where do you lodge?—your uncle was not at home, and, -consequently, I did not ascertain.” - -Julius evaded an answer, afraid of exposing to any acquaintance how -comfortless a place he had deposited himself in, and though they had now -nearly reached it, he walked off in a contrary direction to avoid -suspicion, talking all the while with much more animation than he would -have been likely to do in his present state of feeling, if there had not -been a strong motive to prompt him. - -“Have you any engagement for this evening?” asked Elkinton; “if not, I -will take you to see my _fiancée_, as I promised you the other day. I -really wish to have your congratulations on my selection. All the -fellows of my acquaintance regard me with envy;—you need not smile,—I -say it without vanity or boasting.” - -Julius declined without offering an excuse. - -“When will you go then?” persisted the intruder. - -“I don’t know,—in truth I go very little into ladies’ society at -present,” replied Rockwell, with an air of _nonchalance_. - -That his friend should be totally indifferent towards his mistress, is -little less unpardonable to a lover, than that he should attempt to -rival him in her affections; accordingly Elkinton, after replying -coolly, “very well, I hold you to no appointment,” bowed stiffly, and -walked away. - -Not giving his friend’s change of deportment a thought, Julius hastened -to his room, where the flowers had arrived before him, and folded his -poetical billet-doux to send with them. How to direct it was the next -question, and determining that it would be disrespectful, without his -having an introduction, to address it to “Miss Lawrenson,” he -substituted, in place of her name, to “The Blue Velvet Mantilla.” He -then rang the bell, and giving the waiter who appeared, a liberal -douceur to carry it across the street, and leave it for Miss Lawrenson, -with the bouquet, he watched at the window until he saw it delivered to -a servant at the door. - -The other boarders having left the parlors, he took possession of one of -the front windows with a newspaper in his hand, and watched every -movement across the way. In a short time the tall brunette emerged from -the doorway, but her companion of the sunny ringlets did not appear. -After dinner she really did present herself,—he was on the watch -again;—and he noticed that, before she reached the steps, she glanced -across with apparent curiosity, from which he conjectured that she had -discovered, by means of the servant, whence the offering had come. And -then, when she turned to look again, after she had pulled the bell, he -was confident that she recognised his figure at the window. Towards -evening he tore himself from his loadstone long enough to saunter out -with the object of paying his respects to his uncle, but the old -gentleman not being in the house, he did not enter, and returning to his -room, he busied himself, as the evening before, in writing verses for a -future occasion. - -Thus ended one day of folly, and the next was spent in a similar manner, -except that he sent a costly English annual, as his second tribute, and, -to his surprise and ecstasy, received, in return, by his messenger, a -geranium leaf, enclosed in a sheet of rose-colored note-paper, in which -was inscribed, in a dainty female hand, the single line,—“From the Blue -Velvet Mantilla.” - -The third day, he sent a present equally elegant, and employed some of -the most skilful members of a famous band to discourse their most -elegant music under her window in the night, and he felt not a little -flattered, secretly, to hear some of the boarders pronounce it the most -delightful serenade ever heard, even in the neighborhood of Miss -Lawrenson. But it would be tedious to follow him in his extravagances. -He dispensed his flowers, and books, and music, and tasteful _bijoux_ as -prodigally as if he had possessed the purse of a Fortunio, until better -than a week had passed. During this time he forced himself to call daily -on his uncle, and daily declined a visit to his cousin, until the old -gentleman, deeply offended, ceased to invite him to his house, and he -for the same reason, ceased to go. Elkinton, too, met him once or twice, -and, in remembrance of his want of courtesy, passed him with merely a -nod, but what was all that, in comparison with the compensation he -received from the lady of the mantilla?—sundry glances and blushes, -when he chanced to meet her on the street; a wave of her scarf across -the window, which could not have been accidental; and above all, two -several notes, containing, each, familiar quotations, in her own -delicate hand, as answers to some of his impassioned rhapsodies. A new -incident, however, brought him somewhat to his senses. - -One morning his messenger, on returning, presented him with a note, -markedly different, from its bold penmanship, to the others, and on -opening it, he read to the following effect.— - -“The person, who, for a week past, has been so liberal of his favors to -Miss C—— L——, is requested to call this afternoon, three o’clock, at -No. 26, —— Hotel, and explain his conduct to one possessed of a right -to demand it. Should he not comply, it will be presumed that he is -unworthy of being treated as a gentleman, and he shall be dealt with -accordingly.” - -“From whom did you receive this?” asked he of the servant. - -“From Mr. Lawrenson’s footman, sir, who always receives my messages; he -said it was given to him by a gentleman who ordered him not to tell his -name.” - -“Very well; that is sufficient,” said Julius, with considerably more -self-possession than if it had contained another quotation or geranium -leaf. - -What explanation should he make?—was he to meet a father, or a brother? -whom? or, what? was he to be called upon to apologize, or to fight? or -what was to be done? He could settle none of these questions to his -satisfaction, and so he concluded to remain as unconcerned as possible, -and be guided by the relative position and deportment of his challenger. - -The appointed hour came, and found our hero at the house designated. He -asked to be shown to No. 26, and, on rapping at the door, to his -surprise, it was opened by Elkinton. The latter, also, looked surprised, -but presuming that he had called to atone for his former unfriendliness, -he invited him in, and seated him, with much cordiality. Julius looked -around, and perceiving no other person in the room, took the letter from -his pocket, and remarked—“There must be some mistake here. To confess -the truth, Elkinton, I did not expect to find myself in your apartment. -This note directed me to number 26, but it must be a mistake of the pew. -However, as I am here, I would be very glad of your advice as a friend. -Read this.” - -Elkinton glanced at the note, and, with a heightened color, returned, -“There must, indeed, be some mistake. I am the writer of this, but you, -certainly, cannot be the person for whom it was intended.” - -Julius started, but commanded himself to reply coolly,—“Judging from -its import, it undoubtedly was destined for my hands.” - -Elkinton paced the room once or twice, and then, seating himself beside -his visiter, remarked, “This is a delicate affair, Julius, but, as old -friends, let us talk it over quietly. That there may be no -misunderstanding, let us be certain that we both interpret these -initials alike.” - -“I presumed them to be those of Miss Lawrenson,—Charlotte Lawrenson,” -answered Julius. - -“She, indeed, is the person meant, and to prove to you my right to -interfere in this matter, she is the lady to whom I am engaged, of which -I informed you,—who is affianced to be my wife in a few months.” - -Julius sprang to his feet, and turned pale as marble. To be thus flirted -and betrayed! - -“Now,” pursued Elkinton, earnestly, “you will understand why I should -have felt indignant at any one presuming to make such advances, as you -have done, towards the lady in question, and you will not be surprised -if I ask by what you were encouraged to persist in them, so -assiduously.” - -“By the lady’s own conduct,” said Julius, with his usual impetuosity; -“by her accepting my presents, which were invariably accompanied by -expressions of admiration,—nay, of passion; by her noticing those -expressions with answers, which, if not explicitly favorable, could not -have been construed otherwise, as they were not reprobatory; by tokens -of personal recognition from her house, and by conscious, and not -discouraging looks, whenever we met in the street.” - -“Stay, Julius! these are serious charges, and such as no man could -patiently listen to of his affianced wife. Your presents I know she -received, for from her jestingly showing them to me, and pointing out -the house from which they came, I was led to write the note in your -hand, of which she is aware; but that a girl of Charlotte Lawrenson’s -dignity of character would answer love-letters from an entire stranger, -and exchange coquettish glances with him in the streets, is more than I -can credit.” - -“That is language, Elkinton, that I cannot and will not submit to,” -retorted Julius angrily; “if you must have proofs farther than the word -of a man of honor, take these!” and he drew the notes from his bosom, -where, in the most approved fashion of lovers, he had kept them secured -day and night. - -Elkinton snatched them, and after a scrutinizing examination replied, “I -can say, almost positively, that not a word here is in her handwriting.” - -“No doubt, you find it very satisfactory to feel thus assured,” said -Julius, with a sarcastic smile. - -“To save further dispute, by which neither of us can be convinced,” -returned Elkinton, endeavoring to be more composed, “I will go directly -to Miss Lawrenson, and ask an explanation from her, without which, I at -least, cannot feel satisfied. If you shall be at leisure, I will call on -you, or, if you prefer it, shall expect you here at eight this evening.” - -For particular reasons, unnecessary to specify, Julius chose the latter, -and Elkinton, escorting him out with cold politeness, proceeded, in much -perturbation, to the mansion of Mr. Lawrenson. - -Our hero was punctual to his appointment in the evening, and found -Elkinton impatiently awaiting him. “I have laid your representations -before Miss Lawrenson, and, for your sake, am sorry that she disclaims -their veracity. Though she again acknowledges having your presents in -her possession, she denies having answered your notes, or even having -opened them; denies ever having given you a mark of recognition, and -denies that, to her knowledge, she ever saw you in the street.” - -Julius stood aghast. To have the truth so pointedly disowned, to have -his word so plainly doubted, it was not to be borne. “Her retaining my -love-tokens, I think, might be sufficient evidence to you that all is -not exactly as you would desire,” he replied indignantly, “a woman who -encourages the advances of a total stranger, in everything but words, -while betrothed to another, and then, to preserve his favor, denies the -whole course of her conduct, is unworthy the notice of any man who calls -himself a gentleman.” - -“One thing can yet be done,” said Elkinton, repressing a furious answer; -“let me have those notes, and, through them, Miss Lawrenson may probably -be enabled to discover by whom they were produced. If that cannot be -done, I shall hold you responsible for gross misrepresentations of her -character;” and he strode out, leaving his rival in possession of his -room. - -Matters now wore a serious aspect. Should the lady make no confession, a -challenge would be the consequence, and even should she vouchsafe to -explain, it would be to make him a laughing stock by proving him -quizzed, coquetted and jilted. If the first were to occur, it behoved -him to prepare to leave the world; if the latter, at least to leave the -city. And on his way homeward, he decided to put his affairs in order. -He remembered that his landlady had sent in her bill that morning, -requiring money for a pressing engagement, and that, having pretty well -exhausted his funds in his expensive outlays for his fair enchantress, -he had concluded to apply to his uncle for means to discharge it. -Accordingly he stopped to inquire for him, but not finding him at home, -he left on his secretaire a note, requesting the loan of the sum he -required, and saying he would call for it in the morning. He then -retired to his lodgings in such a state of excitement as it had not been -his lot before to experience. - -In the morning, when completing his toilet, for breakfast, he heard the -sound of a stick and an unusually heavy step on the stairs, and after a -loud rap on the door, Mr. Holcroft, to his great surprise, presented -himself. - -“So,” said the old bachelor, seating himself on the side of the bed, the -only chair being occupied by Julius’ collar and cravat, and looking -around in astonishment, “a pretty exchange you have made, young -gentleman, for the pleasant apartments to which I welcomed you on your -arrival!” - -Julius saw that his ire was aroused, but unable to conjecture why, and -somewhat abashed at the shabbiness of his surroundings, he could only -stammer something about having found it impossible to obtain the -accommodation of a better room. - -“And what are your reasons, young man, for submitting to such -discomforts and inconveniences?—You need not take the trouble to -fabricate an answer. Your last night’s demand for money has given me a -full insight into your character and pursuits, and I have come to assert -my tacit right as your mother’s brother, and your nearest living -relation, to use the power of a guardian, and remove you from scenes in -which you are in a fair way to prove a disgrace to me and to the memory -of your parents. On your arrival in the city, I laid before you my plans -for your future benefit,—that you should make your home with me as my -son, and my prospective heir, an offer which almost any young man would -have considered extraordinary good fortune,—and suggested to you an -alliance which, I felt confident, would secure your happiness. I was not -such an old block-head to expect you to marry your cousin without your -own conviction that she would suit you, but merely named her to you as a -woman who, to any reasonable man, would be a treasure, such as, I fear, -you will never deserve to possess. Then, instead of calling on your -cousin, as I requested, if only through civility to me,—you displayed a -churlish indifference to female society, which young men of good -principles and education seldom feel, and to escape from the watch and -control which you supposed I would keep on your movements,—you -clandestinely left my house. To be sure, you did make a show of respect, -by coming occasionally to see me, but your abstracted manner, and entire -silence as to your engagements and mode of spending the time, confirmed -my suspicions that your amusements were such as you were ashamed to -confess them to be. On one occasion, however, you committed -yourself,—in naming the amount of funds you had brought with -you,—quite sufficient for any young man of good habits for a month, -situated as you are; and now, though I am perfectly willing to give you -the sum you require, and as much in addition, as will take you away from -temptation as far as you may choose to go, I demand in return, to know -how your own has been spent.” - -Hurt, mortified and vexed at suspicions so unjust and injurious, Julius -did not attempt to interrupt him, and against he concluded, had made up -his mind to confess the whole truth, which he did, circumstantially and -minutely. - -“Can it be possible that my sister’s son should have made such a fool of -himself?” exclaimed the old gentleman, raising his hands in amazement, -“that you should have given up the comforts of my house, and the -pleasures of the agreeable society you would have met there, for this -inconvenient dungeon in a boarding-house; squandered your money like a -tragedy hero, and put yourself into a situation to shoot, or to be shot -by, one of your best friends, all for the sake of a girl who was silly -and impudent enough to cast a few coquettish glances at you in the -street! truly! truly!—however, it is not quite so bad as I apprehended, -certainly less unpardonable that you should play the idiot than to have -turned out a gambler or _roué_, as I suspected. But just see how easily -all this might have been avoided!—merely by your going with me to see -your cousin, and falling in love with her, and thus putting yourself out -of danger of becoming entangled in the snares of another. It is a lucky -thing for you, my gentle Romeo, that we came to an understanding so -soon, for I had made up my mind, partly, to marry Mrs. Attwood, the -widow, right off, and as Etty would have been a sort of niece, to make -her my heiress. What d’ye think of that? But there’s your breakfast -bell, and my carriage is waiting for me. Go down, and in half an hour I -will call and take you home with me. In the meantime I will see -Elkinton, and try if the matter can’t be settled without pistols.” - -At the end of the half-hour Mr. Holcroft returned, and apprising Julius -that he had made an appointment with Elkinton to meet him at eleven, he -took him away, talking all the time with much spirit, evidently to -engage and amuse the thoughts of the chagrined and disappointed lover. -This seemed to have little effect, when, thinking of another expedient, -he ordered his coachman to stop at the rooms of an eminent painter, -where, he stated to Julius, he was getting some pictures executed, which -he would like him to examine. He would take no refusal, and the young -gentleman was obliged to alight and accompany him into the gallery. When -they had reached it, he found no difficulty in recognizing the first -piece pointed out to him as the portrait of his uncle himself, and after -giving it the appropriate measure of approbation, he strolled away, on -seeing the artist approach. With occasionally a cursory glance at them, -he walked in front of a row of ladies and gentlemen, who smiled upon him -from the canvass in a manner that, to his moodiness, appeared quite -tantalizing, and, at length, an exclamation from him drew Mr. Holcroft -to his side, who found him gazing pale and breathless upon a picture, -the very counterpart, even to the blue velvet mantilla, of the one in -his heart. - -“Why, what’s the matter?—whom do you recognize there?” asked the old -bachelor. - -“She,—herself,—the fair cause of my late—insanity;” answered he, with -an unsuccessful effort to return the smile. - -“Who?—that?—the original of that! Whew! ha! ha!” exclaimed the old -gentleman with a stare and then a boisterous laugh; “and is it she, that -you have allowed to put you on the road to Bedlam!—a dumpy little thing -like that! ha! ha! But I see that I have frustrated my own intention, in -bringing you here to compose you. Don’t stand there in such an attitude, -and looking so wo-begone, or Mr. —— will make a caricature of you; he -has his keen eye fixed on you now, come along!” and Julius followed -unwillingly down stairs, his uncle laughing all the way in a manner that -was excessively provoking. - -In a few minutes they had reached home. “I’ll not get out,” said the old -bachelor, “just go in and amuse yourself, until I return, which will be -shortly. Be sure that you wait for me, as I wish to be present at your -interview with Elkinton.” - -Julius did as he was requested, and in due time his uncle returned. -“Come now,” said he, “I have no doubt that the young lady will make a -confession, and that you will escape with your character untarnished -except by folly. Then after we have got over our business with Elkinton, -if it should be settled amicably, we will go to see your cousin -Henrietta.” - -“My dear uncle! I beseech you do not propose my going to visit a lady, -in my present frame of mind! I really should disgrace both myself and -you. Make my excuses to Etty, and when I have returned to the city, -after I shall have banished the remembrance of my disappointment by a -few months in the country, I will endeavour to do everything that is -proper.” - -“I forgot to tell you,” said Mr. Holcroft, “that we are not to meet -Elkinton at his lodgings, but in a private house; an arrangement made, I -suspect, that Miss Lawrenson might be present, to make an explanation of -her conduct. Here is the place, now.” - -Julius started, but the carriage stopped, and he followed his uncle in -silence. They were ushered into an elegant drawing-room, and on an -ottoman, in full view of the door, sat the blue velvet mantilla.—She -bowed to Mr. Holcroft, and looked at Julius, as if quite prepared to -confront him. The sight of her convinced him that he was not yet cured -of his passion, but before he had had any time to betray it, his uncle -took him by the arm, and said as he drew him forward, “Allow me, Julius, -to present you to your cousin Henrietta Attwood.” - -“The most unnecessary thing in the world, Mr. Holcroft,” returned the -lady rising, “as I would have known my cousin Julius anywhere. He, -however, I presume, would not have found it so easy to recognize me!” -and looking into his face with a merry, ringing laugh, she approached -him, and held out her hand. - -Confounded by the many emotions that crowded upon him, Julius stood -speechless, and almost afraid to touch it, when her laugh was echoed -from the adjoining room and Elkinton appeared, accompanied by the -dark-eyed damsel, whom our hero had seen as the companion of his cousin, -and introduced her as Miss Lawrenson. - -“My dear Rockwell,” said he, heartily grasping Julius’ hand, “I am -delighted to meet you again as one of the most valued of my friends. We -have good reason to congratulate each other that we did not fall victims -to a stratagem, planned by these cruel nymphs, as cunning as ever was -devised by Circe of old.” - -“Stop, stop, Elkinton!” interrupted the old bachelor, “as the merit of -the _dénouement_ is mine, I think I am entitled to make a speech to -Julius.” - -“Not now, not here, before us! dear Mr. Holcroft!” exclaimed both the -girls laughing and blushing, but as he showed signs of proceeding, they -ran away, and left the gentlemen by themselves. - -According to Mr. Holcroft’s explanation, Henrietta had recognized her -cousin on the day of his arrival, which fully accounted for her pleasant -glances; and from his following her in the street, approaching her at -the theatre, and tracing her to Mr. Lawrenson’s, which that gentleman -had observed, she presumed that she was equally known to him, and, of -course, wondered that he did not avail himself of the easier method of -renewing their acquaintance by means of his uncle. But on discovering, -from Mr. Holcroft’s representations, that she was mistaken, learning his -change of residence, and receiving through Miss Lawrenson, his verses, -in which she recognized his hand, she was struck with a clearer -perception of the case, and she determined to engage in the flirtation, -and pursue it until he should make her a visit, as a relation, and then -have a laugh at his expense. Miss Lawrenson, in return for assisting -her, by receiving his communications, claimed the privilege of having -some amusement of her own out of the adventure, and to effect this, she -made use of his beautiful gifts to excite the jealousy of Elkinton; they -both, however, discovered that they had carried the game too far, and -alarmed at the turn it had taken, had sent for Elkinton, an hour or two -before, from Mrs. Attwood’s, and made a full confession. There Mr. -Holcroft had found him, when he called to inform Etty of his discovery -in the picture-room, and of his nephew’s difficulties, and there the -grand finale was projected. - -“It must have been my indistinct and unconscious recollection of my old -play-fellow, after all,” said Julius, “which so attracted me, and it was -her getting out of the carriage at Mr. Lawrenson’s and being there so -often, which brought you into the drama, Elkinton.” - -“Yes, she is to be our bridesmaid, and, no doubt, she and Charlotte have -a good many little matters to talk over;—that accounts for their being -so much together. She stayed over night the time in question.” - -“Well, well, it is a mercy that in their confabulations they did not set -you two blowing each other’s brains out; and it would have been no -wonder, Julius, if such a catastrophe had happened, to punish you for -your disobedience,” said the old bachelor, “now, if you had obliged me, -like a dutiful nephew, by calling on your cousin, and acted a friend’s -part towards Elkinton, by going to see his sweetheart, everything would -have ended properly without any of this trouble. But it is too often the -case that people run after all sorts of shadows, and get themselves into -all sorts of scrapes, in their search after happiness, when they could -find it at once by quietly attending to their duties at home.” - -The young ladies returned, and, through delicacy towards them, no -allusion was made to the subject just canvassed, but Julius, on -returning with his uncle to dinner, declared his intention of offering -himself to Etty that very evening, if he should find an opportunity. -This the old gentleman expressly forbade, giving him a fortnight as a -term of probation; but whether he was obeyed more closely in this than -in his former requisitions, was, from certain indications, a matter of -doubt. - -At the end of the two weeks, there was a friendly contest between -Rockwell and Elkinton, as to which must wait to be the groomsman of the -other. It was left to the decision of Mr. Holcroft, who declared in -favor of the latter, he having determined to serve in that capacity, -towards his nephew himself. - -He did so, in the course of a few months, and though Julius has not had -time to rise, as his substitute, to the height of the profession, he has -carried out the original plan so far as to have furnished the Holcroft -mansion with a boy, athletic enough already to ride on his grand uncle’s -cane, and a girl, so ingenious as to have, occasionally, made a doll’s -cradle of his rocking chair. - - * * * * * - - - - - AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT. - - - IN THREE CHIMERAS. - - - BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO. - - - Chimera II. - - A curse! a curse!—the beautiful pale wing - Of a sea-bird was worn with wandering, - And, on a sunny rock beside the shore - It stood, the golden waters gazing o’er, - And they were heaving a brown amber flow - Of weeds, that glittered gloriously below. - - It was the sunset, and the gorgeous hall - Of heaven rose up on pillars magical - Of living silver, shafting the fair sky - Between dark time and great eternity. - They rose upon their pedestal of sun, - A line of snowy columns! and anon, - Were lost in the rich tracery of cloud - That hung along magnificently proud, - Predicting the pure star-light, that beyond - The East was armoring in diamond - About the camp of twilight, and was soon - To marshal under the fair champion moon, - That called her chariot of unearthly mist, - Toward her citadel of amethyst. - - A curse! a curse!—a lonely man is there - By the deep waters, with a burden fair - Clasped in his wearied arras.—’Tis he; ’tis he - The brain-struck Julio and Agathè! - His cowl is back—flung back upon the breeze,— - His lofty brow is haggard with disease, - As if a wild libation had been pour’d - Of lightning on those temples, and they shower’d - A dismal perspiration, like a rain, - Shook by the thunder and the hurricane! - - He dropt upon a rock, and by him placed, - Over a bed of sea-pinks growing waste, - The silent ladye, and he mutter’d wild, - Strange words, about a mother, and no child. - “And I shall wed thee, Agathè! although - Ours be no God—blest bride—even so!” - And from the sand he took a silver shell, - That had been wasted by the fall and swell - Of many a moon-borne tide into a ring— - A rude, rude ring; it was a snow-white thing, - Where a lone hermit limpet slept and died, - In ages far away.—“Thou art a bride, - Sweet Agathè! wake up; we must not linger.” - He press’d the ring upon her chilly finger, - And to the sea-bird, on its sunny stone, - Shouted,—“Pale priest! that liest all alone - Upon thy ocean-altar, rise away - To our glad bridal!” and its wings of gray - All lazily it spread, and hover’d by - With a wild shriek—a melancholy cry! - Then swooping slowly o’er the heaving breast - Of the blue ocean, vanish’d in the west. - And Julio is chanting to his bride, - A merry song of his wild heart, that died - On the soft breeze through pinks beside the sea, - All rustling in their beauty gladsomely. - - SONG. - - A rosary of stars, love! we’ll count them as we go - Upon the laughing waters, that are wandering below, - And we’ll o’er the pearly moon-beam, as it lieth in the sea - In beauty and in glory, like a shadowing of thee! - - A rosary of stars, love! a prayer as we glide - And a whisper in the wind, and a murmur on the tide! - And we’ll say a fair adieu to the flowers that are seen, - With shells of silver sown in radiancy between. - - A rosary of stars, love! the purest they shall be, - Like spirits of pale pearl, in the bosom of the sea; - Now help thee, virgin mother! with a blessing as we go, - Upon the laughing waters, that are wandering below. - - He lifted the dead girl, and is away - To where a light boat in its moorings lay, - Like a sea-cradle, rocking to the hush - Of the nurse waters; with a frantic rush - O’er the wild field of tangles he hath sped, - And through the shoaling waves that fell and fled - Upon the furrow’d beach. - - The snowy sail - Is hoisted to the gladly gushing gale, - That bosom’d its fair canvass with a breast - Of silver, looking lovely to the west; - And at the helm there sits the wither’d one, - Gazing and gazing on the sister nun, - With her fair tresses floating on his knee— - The beautiful death-stricken Agathè! - Fast, fast, and far away, the bark hath stood - Out toward the great heaving solitude, - That gurgled in its deeps, as if the breath - Went through its lungs of agony and death! - - The sun is lost within the labyrinth - Of clouds of purple and pale hyacinth, - That are the frontlet of the sister sky - Kissing her brother ocean; and they lie - Bathing in blushes, till the rival queen, - Night, with her starry tiar, floateth in— - A dark and dazzling beauty! that doth draw - Over the light of love a shade of awe - Most strange, that parts our wonder not the less - Between her mystery and loveliness! - - And she is there, that is a Pyramid - Whereon the stars, the statues of the dead, - Are imaged over the eternal hall, - A group of radiances majestical! - And Julio looks up, and there they be, - And Agathè, and all the waste of sea, - That slept in wizard slumber, with a shroud - Of night flung o’er his bosom, throbbing proud - Amid its azure pulses, and again - He dropt his blighted eye-orbs, with a strain - Of mirth upon the ladye:—Agathè! - Sweet bride! be thou a queen and I will lay - A crown of sea-weed on thy royal brow! - And I will twine these tresses, that are now - Floating beside me, to a diadem: - And the sea foam will sprinkle gem on gem, - And so will the soft dews. Be thou the queen - Of the unpeopled waters, sadly seen - By star-light, till the yet unrisen moon - Issue, unveiled, from her anteroom, - To bathe in the sea fountains: let me say, - “Hail—hail to thee! thrice hail, my Agathè!” - - The warrior world was lifting to the bent - Of his eternal brow magnificent, - The fiery moon, that in her blazonry - Shone eastward, like a shield. The throbbing sea - Felt fever on his azure arteries, - That shadow’d them with crimson, while the breeze - Fell faster on the solitary sail. - But the red moon grew loftier and pale, - And the great ocean, like the holy hall, - Where slept a seraph host maritimal, - Was gorgeous, with wings of diamond - Fann’d over it, and millions beyond - Of tiny waves were playing to and fro, - All musical, with an incessant flow - Of cadences, innumerably heard - Between the shrill notes of a hermit bird, - That held a solemn pæan to the moon. - - A few devotional fair clouds were soon - Breath’d o’er the living countenance of Heaven, - And under the great galaxies were driven - Of stars that group’d together, and they went - Like voyagers along the firmament, - And grew to silver in the blessed light - Of the moon alchymist. It was not night, - Not the dark deathly shadow, that falls o’er - The eye-lid like a curse, but far before - In splendor, struggling through a fall of gloom, - In many a myriad gushes, that do come - Direct from the eternal stars beyond, - Like holy fountains pouring diamond! - - A sail! awake thee, Julio! a sail! - And be not bending to thy trances pale. - But he is gazing on the moonlit brow - Of his dead Agathè, and fondly now, - The light is silvering her bloodless face - And the cold grave-clothes. There is loveliness - As in a marble image, very bright! - But stricken with a phantasy of light - That is not given to the mortal hue, - To life and breathing beauty: and she too - Is more of the expressless lineament, - Than of the golden thoughts that came and went - Over her features, like a living tide - No while before. - - A sail is on the wide - And moving waters, and it draweth nigh - Like a sea-cloud. The elfin billows fly - Before it, in their armories enthrall’d - Of radiant and moon-breasted emerald: - And many is the mariner that sees - That lone boat in the melancholy breeze, - Waving her snowy canvass, and anon - Their stately vessel with a gallant run - Crowds by in all her glory; but the cheer - Of men is pass’d into a sudden fear, - And whisperings, and shaking of the head.— - The moon was streaming on a virgin dead, - And Julio sat over her insane, - Like a sea demon! o’er and o’er again, - Each cross’d him, as the stately vessel stood - Far out into the murmuring solitude! - - But Julio saw not; he only heard - A rushing, like the passing of a bird, - And felt him heaving on the foam, that flew - Along the startled billows: and he knew - Of a strange sail, by broken oaths that fell - Beside him, on the coming of the swell. - - “They knew thou wert a queen, my royal bride! - And made obeisance at thy holy side. - They saw thee, Agathè! and go to bring - Fair worshippers, and many a poet-king, - To utter music at thy pearly feet.— - Now, wake thee! for the moonlight cometh sweet, - To visit in thy temple of the sea; - Thy sister moon is watching over thee! - And she is spreading a fair mantle of - Pure silver, in thy lonely palace, love!— - Now, wake thee! for the sea-bird is aloof, - In solitude, below the starry roof: - And on its dewy plume there is a light - Of palest splendor, o’er the blessed night. - Thy spirit, Agathè!—and yet thou art - Beside me, and my solitary heart - Is throbbing near to thee: I must not feel - The sweet notes of thy holy music steal - Into my feverous and burning brain,— - So wake not! and I’ll hush thee with a strain - Of my wild fancy, till thou dream of me, - And I be loved as I have lovéd thee:—” - - SONG. - - ’Tis light to love thee living, girl, when hope is full and fair - In the springtide of thy beauty, when there is no sorrow there— - No sorrow on thy brow, and no shadow on thy heart! - When, like a floating sea-bird, bright and beautiful thou art! - - ’Tis light to love thee living, girl—to see thee ever so, - With health, that, like a crimson flower, lies blushing in the snow; - And thy tresses falling over, like the amber on the pearl— - Oh! true, it is a _lightsome_ thing, to love thee living, girl: - - But when the brow is blighted, like a star at morning tide, - And faded is the crimson blush upon the cheek beside: - It is to love as seldom love, the brightest and the best, - When our love lies like a dew upon the one that is at rest, - Because of hopes that fallen are changing to despair, - And the heart is always dreaming on the ruin that is there. - Oh, true! ’tis weary, weary, to be gazing over thee, - And the light of thy pure vision breaketh never upon me! - - He lifts her in his arms, and o’er and o’er, - Upon the brow of chilliness and hoar, - Repeats a silent kiss:—along the side - Of the lone bark, he leans that pallid bride, - Until the waves do image her within - Their bosom, like a spectre—’tis a sin - Too deadly to be shadow’d or forgiven - To do such mockery in the sight of Heaven! - And bid her gaze into the startled sea, - And say, “Thy image, from eternity, - Hath come to meet thee, ladye!” and anon - He bade the cold corse kiss the shadowy one, - That shook amid the waters, like the light - Of borealis in a winter night! - - And after, he did strain her sea-wet hair - Between his chilly fingers, with a stare - Of mystery, that marvell’d how that she - Had drench’d it so amid the moonlit sea. - - The morning rose, with breast of living gold, - Like eastern phœnix, and his plumage roll’d - In clouds of molted brilliance, very bright! - And on the waste of waters floated light.— - - In truth, ’twas strange to see that merry bark - Skimming the silver ocean, like a shark - At play amid the beautiful sea-green, - And all so sadly desolate within. - - And hours flew after hours, a weary length, - Until the sunlight, in meridian strength, - Threw burning floods upon the wasted brow - Of that sea-hermit mariner; and now - He felt the fire-light feed upon his brain, - And started with intensity of pain, - And washed him in the sea;—it only brought - Wild reason, like a demon; and he thought - Strange thoughts, like dreaming men,—he thought how those - Were round him he had seen, and many rose - His heart had hated; every billow threw - Features before him, and pale faces grew - Out of the sea by myriads:—the self-same - Was moulded from its image, and they came - In groups together, and all said, like one, - “Be cursed!” and vanish’d in the deep anon. - Then thirst, intolerable as the breath - Of Upas, fanning the wild wings of death, - Crept up his very gorge,—like to a snake, - That stifled him, and bade the pulses ache - Through all the boiling current of his blood. - It was a thirst, that let the fever flood - Fall over him, and gave a ghastly hue - To his cramp’d lips, until their breathing grew - White as a mist and short, and like a sigh, - Heaved with a struggle, till it faltered by. - And ever he did look upon the corse - With idiot visage, like the hag Remorse - That gloateth over on a nameless deed - Of darkness and of dole unhistoried. - And were there that might hear him, they would hear - The murmur of a prayer in deep fear - Through unbarr’d lips, escaping by the half, - And all but smother’d by a maniac laugh, - That follow’d it, so sudden and so shrill, - That swarms of sea-birds, wandering at will - Upon the wave, rose startled, and away - Went flocking, like a silver shower of spray! - And aye he called for water, and the sea - Mock’d him with his brine surges tauntingly, - And lash’d them over on his fev’rous brow, - Volleying roars of curses,—“Stay thee, now, - Avenger! lest I die; for I am worn - Fainter than star-light at the birth of morn; - Stay thee, great angel! for I am not shriven, - But frantic as thyself: Oh! Heaven! Heaven! - But thou hast made me brother of the sea, - That I may tremble at his tyranny: - Or am I slave? a very, very jest - To the sarcastic waters? let me breast - The base insulters, and defy them so, - In this lone little skiff.—I am your foe! - Ye raving, lion-like, and ramping seas, - That open up your nostrils to the breeze, - And fain would swallow me! Do ye not fly, - Pale, sick, and gurgling, as I pass you by? - - “Lift up! and let me see, that I may tell - Ye can be mad, and strange, and terrible; - That ye have power, and passion, and a sound, - As of the flying of an angel round - The mighty world: that ye are one with time, - And in the great primordium sublime - Were cursed together, as an infant-twain,— - A glory and a wonder! I would fain - Hold truce, thou elder brother! for we are, - In feature, as the sun is to a star. - So are we like, and we are touch’d in tune - With lunacy as music; and the moon, - That setteth the tides sentinel before - Thy camp of waters, on the pebbled shore, - And measures their great footsteps to and fro, - Hath lifted up into my brain the flow - Of this mad tide of blood—ay? we are like - In foam and frenzy; the same winds do strike, - The same fierce sun-rays, from their battlement - Of fire! so, when I perish impotent - Before the might of death, they’ll say of me, - He died as mad and frantic as the sea!” - - A cloud stood for the East, a cloud like night, - Like a huge vulture, and the blessed light - Of the great Sun grew shadow’d awfully; - It seemed to mount up from the mighty sea, - Shaking the showers from its solemn wings, - And grew, and grew, and many a myriad springs - Were on its bosom, teeming full of rain. - There fell a terrible and wizard chain - Of lightning, from its black and heated forge, - And the dark waters took it to their gorge, - And lifted up their shaggy flanks in wonder - With rival chorus to the peal of thunder, - That wheel’d in many a squadron terrible - The stern black clouds, and as they rose and fell - They oozed great showers; and Julio held up - His wasted hands, in likeness of a cup, - And drank the blessed waters, and they roll’d - Upon his cheeks like tears, but sadly cold!— - ’Twas very strange to look on Agathè! - How the quick lightnings, in their elfin play, - Stream’d pale upon her features, and they were - Sickly, like tapers in a sepulchre! - - (To be continued.) - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DAUGHTERS OF DR. BYLES. - - - A SKETCH FROM REALITY. - - - BY MISS LESLIE. - - - (Concluded from page 65.) - - - PART II. - -Having thus become acquainted with the two Miss Byleses, and -understanding that they were always delighted when strangers were -brought to see them in a similar manner, I afterwards became the -introducer of several friends from other cities, who successively -visited Boston in the course of that summer, and who expressed a desire -to pay their compliments to these singular old ladies. - -In every instance, the same routine was pursued upon these occasions by -the two sisters, and the practice of nearly half a century had, of -course, made them perfect in it. I was told by a lady who had known the -Miss Byleses long and intimately, and had introduced to them, at their -house, not less than fifty persons, that she had never observed the -slightest variation in their usual series of sayings and doings. And so -I always found it, whenever I brought them a new visitor. Miss Mary -always came to receive us at the front door,—and Miss Catharine always -produced her own effect by not making her appearance, till we had sat -sometime in the parlour. The attention of the stranger was always, in -the same words, directed to the cornelian ring on their father’s -picture, and always the new guests were placed in the great carved -chair, and the same wonder was expressed that “they should sit easy -under the crown.” Always did their visiter hear the history of “their -nephew, poor boy, whom they had not seen for forty years.” Always did -Miss Catharine with the same diffidence exhibit the snake,—and always -was the snake unwilling to re-enter his box, till he had been brought to -obedience by a little wholesome chastisement. The astounding trick of -the alphabetical bits of paper was unfailingly shown;—and, always when -the visiters gave symptoms of departure, did Miss Mary slip out of the -room, and lock the front door, that she might have an opportunity of -repeating her excellent joke about the ladies’ night caps. - -It was very desirable that all ladies and gentlemen, taken to see the -Miss Byleses, should have sufficient tact to be astonished up to the -exact point at the exhibition of their curiosities, that they should -laugh, just enough, at their witticisms; and that they should humor, -rather than controvert, their gratuitous manifestations of loyalty to -the person they called their rightful king. - -My friend Mr. Sully, (who was glad to have an opportunity of seeing -Copley’s portrait of Dr. Byles,) enacted his part _à mervëílle_;—or -rather, it was no acting at all; but the genuine impulse of his kind and -considerate feelings, and of his ever-indulgent toleration for the -peculiarities of such minds as are not so fortunate as to resemble his -own. - -Another gentleman who was desirous of an introduction to the sisters, -rather alarmed me by over-doing his part,—and, as I thought, being -rather _too_ much amazed at the curiosities; and rather too mirthful at -the jokes,—and rather too warm in praising kings and deprecating -presidents. But on this occasion, I threw away a great deal of good -uneasiness, for I afterwards found that the Miss Byleses, spoke of this -very gentleman as one of the most sensible and agreeable men they had -ever seen,—and one who had exactly the right way of talking and -behaving. - -A lady who testified a wish to accompany me on a visit to the Miss -Byleses, found little either to interest or amuse her,—the truth was, -that being unable to enter the least into their characters, she looked -very gravely all the time, and afterwards told me she saw nothing in -them but foolishness. - -I must do the Miss Byleses the justice to say, that they appeared to -much less advantage on these the first visits of new people, than to -those among the initiated, who took sufficient interest in them to -cultivate an after-acquaintance. I went sometimes alone to sit an hour -with them towards the decline of a summer afternoon,—and then I always -found them infinitely more rational than when “putting themselves -through their facings,” to show off to strangers. In the course of these -quiet visits, they told me many little circumstances connected with the -royalist side of our revolutionary contest, that I could scarcely have -obtained from any other source,—the few persons yet remaining among us -that were tories during that eventful period, taking care to say as -little about it as possible: and every one is so considerate as to ask -them no questions on a subject so sore to them. - -But with the daughters of Dr. Byles, the case was quite different. They -gloried,—they triumphed, in the firm adherence of their father and his -family to the royalty of England,—and scorned the idea of even now -being classed among the _citoyennes_ of a republic; a republic which, as -they said, _they_ had never acknowledged, and never would; regarding -themselves still as faithful subjects to the majesty of Britain, whoever -that majesty might be. Of the kings that they knew of, they had a -decided preference for George the Third, as the monarch of their -youthful days, and under whom the most important events of their lives -had taken place. All since the revolution was nearly a blank in their -memories;—they dated almost entirely from that period,—and since then, -they had acquired but a scanty accession to the number of their ideas. -From their visiters they learnt little or nothing, as they always had -the chief of the talk to themselves. With English history, and with the -writers of the first half of the last century they were somewhat -conversant,—but all that had transpired in the literary and political -world since the peace of ’83, was to them indistinct and shadowy as the -images of a dream not worth remembering. But they talked of what, to us, -is now the olden time with a vividness of recollection that seemed as if -the things had occurred but yesterday. In the coloring of their -pictures, I, of course, made allowance for the predominant tinge of -toryism, and who for a large portion of the lingering vanity, which I -regarded indulgently, because it injured no one, and their -self-satisfaction added to the happiness of these isolated old ladies. -They once showed me, in an upper room, portraits of themselves at the -ages of seventeen and eighteen, painted by Pelham, the brother-in-law, I -believe, of Copley. The pictures were tolerably executed; and I think -they _must_ have been likenesses, for the faded faces of the -octogenarian sisters still retained some resemblance to their youthful -prototypes. The Miss Byleses were not depicted in the prevailing costume -of that period. They had neither hoop-petticoats, stomachers, nor -powdered heads,—both were represented in a species of non-descript -garments, imagined by the painter,—and for head gear, Miss Catharine -had her own fair locks in a state of nature,—and Miss Mary a thing like -a small turban. - -From their own account they must have been regarded somewhat in the -light of belles by the British officers. They talked of walking on the -Common arm in arm with General Howe and Lord Percy: both of whom, they -said, were frequent visitors at the house, and often took tea and spent -the evening there. - -I imagined the heir of Northumberland, taking his tea in the old -parlour, by the old fire-place, at the old tea-table,—entertained by -the witticisms of Dr. Byles, and the prettinesses of his daughters; who, -of course, were the envy of all the female tories of Boston, at least of -those who could not aspire to the honor of being talked to by English -noblemen. Moreover, Lord Percy frequently ordered the band of his -regiment to play under the chesnut trees, for the gratification of the -Miss Byleses, who then, as they said, had “God save the King” in -perfection. By the bye, I have never heard either God save the king or -Rule Britannia _well_ played by an American band; though our musicians -seem to perform the Marseillaise _con amore_. - -The venerable ladies told me that the intimacy of their family with the -principal British officers became so well known, that in a short time -they found it expedient to close their shutters before dark, as the -lights gleaming through the parlor windows made the house of Dr. Byles, -a mark for the Americans to fire at from their fortifications on -Dorchester heights, in the hope that every ball might destroy a -red-coated visitor. Also, that the cannon-shot, still sticking in the -tower of Brattle-street church, was aimed by the Cambridge rebels at -General Howe, who had established his head-quarters at the old Province -House. Unpractised artillerymen as they then were, it is difficult to -believe that, if the Province House was really their mark, they could -have missed it so widely. - -The Miss Byleses related many anecdotes of their father; some of which -were new to me, and with others I had long been familiar. For the -benefit of such of my readers as have not yet met with any of these old -fashioned _jeux d’esprit_ I will insert a few samples of their quality. - -For instance, his daughters told me of the doctor walking one day with a -whig gentleman, in the vicinity of the Common, where a division of the -British troops lay encamped. His companion pointing to the soldiers of -the crown—said—“you see there the cause of all our evils—” “—But you -cannot say that our evils are not _red-dressed_,” remarked Dr. Byles. -“Your pun is not a good one,” observed his companion, “you have -mis-spelt the word by adding another D.”—“Well—” replied the clerical -joker,—“as a doctor of divinity, am I not entitled to the use of two -D’s?” - -They spoke of their father’s captivity in his own mansion. And one of -them repeated to me the well known story of Dr. Byles coming out to the -centinel who was on guard, in a porch that then ran along the front of -the house, and requesting him to go to the street pump and bring a -bucket of cold water, as the day was warm, and the doctor very thirsty. -The soldier, it seems, at first declined; alleging his reluctance to -violate the rules of the service by quitting his post before the relief -came round. The doctor assured the man that _he_ would take his place, -and be his own guard till the water was brought. The centinel at last -complied; and took the bucket and went to the pump,—first resigning his -musket to Dr. Byles, who shouldered it in a very soldier-like manner, -and paced the porch, guarding himself till the sentry came back,—to -whom on returning his piece, he said,—“Now my friend, you see I have -been guarded—re-guarded—and dis-regarded.” - -The Miss Byleses also referred to the anecdote of their father having -once paid his addresses to a lady who refused him, and afterwards -married the Mr. Quincy of that time, a name which then, as now, is -frequently in Boston pronounced Quinsy. The doctor afterwards meeting -the lady, said to her jocosely,—“Your taste in distempers must be very -bad, when it has led you to prefer the Quinsy to Byles.” - -In front of the house was in former times a large deep slough, that had -been suffered by the municipal authorities to remain there for several -winters, with all its inconveniences, which in wet weather rendered it -nearly impassable. One day, Dr. Byles observed from his window that a -chaise, containing two of the select men, or regulators of the town, had -been completely arrested in its progress by sticking fast in the thick -heavy mud,—and they were both obliged to get out, and putting their -shoulders to the wheel, work almost knee-deep in the mire before they -could liberate their vehicle. The doctor came out to his gate, and -bowing respectfully, said to them—“Gentlemen, I have frequently -represented that slough to you as a nuisance to the street, but hitherto -without any effect. Therefore I am rejoiced to see you _stirring_ in the -matter at last.” - -Certain fanatics who called themselves New-Lights had become very -obnoxious to the more rational part of the community, and were regarded -with much displeasure by the orthodox churches. A woman of this sect, -who lived in the neighborhood, came in as usual, one morning, to annoy -Dr. Byles, by a long argumentative, or rather vituperative visit. “Have -you heard the news?” asked the doctor, immediately on the entrance of -his unwelcome guest; he having just learnt the arrival, from London, of -three hundred street lamps. - -She replied in the negative. - -“Well then,”—resumed the doctor,—“Not less than three hundred new -lights have just arrived from England, and the civil authorities are -going immediately to have them all put in irons.” - -The lady was shocked to hear of the cruel treatment designed for her -sectarian brethren that had just come over, and she hastened away -directly, to spread the intelligence among all her acquaintances, in the -hope, as she said, that something might be done to prevent the -infliction of so unmerited a punishment. And the doctor congratulated -himself on the success of the jest by which he had gotten rid of a -troublesome visiter. - -A son of Dr. Byles, that retired to Halifax, must have probably -inherited a portion of his father’s mantle; for his sisters repeated to -me one of his conundrums, the humor of which almost atones for its -coarseness—“Why do the leaders of insurrections resemble men that like -sausages?”—“Because they are fond of intestine broils.” - -The Miss Byleses told me much of the scarcity of provisions and -fire-wood, throughout Boston, during the winter of 1775, when the -British and their adherents held out the town against the Yankee rebels, -as they called them—and who had invested it every-where on the land -side, taking especial care that no supplies should pass in. It was then -that the old North Church was torn down by order of General Howe, that -the soldiers might convert into fuel the wood of which it was built. - -By the bye, Mrs. Corder, an aged and intelligent female, living at the -North end, informed me that, when a little girl, she witnessed from her -father’s house on the opposite side of the way, the demolition of this -church; and that she was terrified at the noise of the falling beams and -of the wooden walls, as they battered them down, and at the shouting and -swearing of the soldiers as they quarrelled over their plunder. -Nevertheless, when the work of destruction was over, and the soldiers -all gone, she and other children of the neighborhood ran out to scramble -among the rubbish—and she found and carried home a little wooden -footstool or cricket, that had evidently been thrown out from one of the -demolished pews. I bought of my informant (who was in indigent -circumstances) this humble and time-darkened relic, and it is now in -possession of my youngest niece. - -To return to the daughters of Dr. Byles.—They still lamented greatly -over the privations endured that winter by the British army shut up and -beleaguered in Boston; though certainly the same sufferings were shared -by all the inhabitants that remained in the town.—And they grieved -accordingly, to think that these inconveniencies finally compelled their -English friends to take to their ships and depart. - -Miss Mary Byles related to me, that on one occasion she had given to a -hungry British soldier a piece of cold pork that had been left from -dinner. A few evenings after, the same man knocked at the door, and -requested to see one of the ladies—Miss Mary presented herself, and the -grateful soldier slipped into her hand a paper containing a small -quantity of the herb called by the whigs of that time “the detested -tea;” and which it was then scarcely possible to obtain on any terms. - - * * * * * - -Several years elapsed before I again was in Boston. In the interim, I -heard something of the Miss Byleses from ladies who knew and visited -them. I understood that, at length, they had found it impossible to -prevent what they had so long dreaded, the opening of a street that -would take in their little green lawn, their old horse-chesnut trees, -and that part of their house that stood directly across the way. For -this surrender of their property, they received from the city an ample -compensation in money; also their house was made as good or rather -better than ever besides being new roofed and thoroughly repaired. The -despoiled sisters, though another and more comfortable residence was -offered to them during the time of their destruction, as they termed it, -steadily persisted in remaining on their own domain during the whole -process of its dismemberment. Their house, as they said, was cut in -half; that part which faced the end of Tremont street being taken away. -They mourned over the departure of every beam and plank as if each was -an old friend—and so they truly were. And deep indeed was the -affliction of the aged sisters when they saw, falling beneath the -remorseless axe, their noble horse-chesnut trees whose scattered -branches, as they lay on the grass, the old ladies declared, seemed to -them like the dismembered limbs of children. At this juncture, their -grief and indignation reached its climax; and they excited much sympathy -even among professed utilitarians. There were many indulgent hearts in -Boston that felt as if the improvement of this part of the city might -yet have been delayed for a few short years, till after these venerable -and harmless females should have closed their eyes for ever upon all -that could attach them to this side of the grave. And that even if the -march of public spirit should in consequence have allowed itself to -pause a little longer in this part of its road, “neither heaven nor -earth would have grieved at the mercy.” - -Miss Mary Byles, who with more sprightliness had less strength of mind -than her younger sister, never, as the saying is, held up her head -again.—Her health and spirits declined from that time—she sunk slowly -but surely; and after lingering some months, a few days of severe bodily -suffering terminated all her afflictions, and consigned her mortal -remains to their final resting-place beside her father. In the meantime -she had lost her nephew, Mather Brown, the painter, who died at an -advanced age in London and who was to have been the heir of all that his -aunts possessed. - -In addition to the rest of their little wealth, the Miss Byleses had in -a sort of strong hold up stairs a chest of old-fashioned plate, no -article of which was on any occasion used by them. Also, they retained -some rare and valuable books that had belonged to their father, and a -few curious and excellent mathematical instruments brought by him from -England, and which the University of Harvard had vainly endeavoured to -purchase from them. Among other articles was an immense burning-glass, -said to be one of the largest in the world, and which the old ladies -kept locked up in a closet, and carefully covered with a thick cloth, -lest, as they said, it should set the house on fire. - - * * * * * - -On a subsequent visit to the metropolis of the American east, I went to -see the surviving Miss Byles; and when I reached the accustomed place I -could scarcely recognize it. The main part of the old house was yet -standing; but the loss of one end had given it quite a different aspect. -There was no longer the green inclosure, the fence-gate, and the narrow -path through the grass—the door opened directly upon a brick pavement -and on the dusty street. To be sure there was a fresh-looking wooden -door-step. New tenements had been run up all about the now noisy -vicinity, which had entirely lost its air of quiet retirement. All was -now symptomatic of bustle and business. The ancient dwelling-place of -the Byles family had ceased to be picturesque. It had been repaired and -made comfortable; but denuded of its guardian trees there was nothing -more to screen from full view its extreme unsightliness. Above its -weather-blackened walls (which the sisters would not allow to be -painted, lest it should look _totally_ unlike itself) the new shingles -of the roof seemed out of keeping—I thought of all the poor ladies must -have suffered during the transformation of their paternal domicile. - -On knocking at the door, it was opened for me by an extremely -good-looking neatly dressed matron, who conducted me into a room which I -could scarcely believe was the original old parlor. The homely antique -furniture had disappeared, and was replaced by some very neat and -convenient articles of modern form. The floor was nicely carpeted; there -were new chairs and a new table,—a bed with white curtains and -counterpane, and window-curtains to match.—Nothing looked familiar but -the antique crown chair and the pictures. - -I found Miss Catharine Byles seated in a rocking chair with a pillow at -her back.—She looked paler, thinner, sharper, and much older than when -I last saw her. She was no longer in a white short gown but wore a whole -gown of black merino, with a nice white muslin collar and a regular -day-cap trimmed with black ribbon. - -Though glad to find her so much improved as to comfort, I take shame to -myself when I confess that I felt something not unlike disappointment, -at seeing such a change in the ancient lady and her attributes. The -quaintness, and I may say the picturesqueness of the old mansion, and -its accessories, and also that of its octogenarian mistress, seemed gone -for ever. I am sorry to acknowledge that at the moment I thought of the -French artist Lebrun, who meeting in the street an old tattered -beggar-man with long gray locks and a venerable silver beard, was struck -with the idea of his being a capital subject for the pencil, and engaged -him to come to him next day and have his likeness transferred to -canvass. The beggar came; but thinking that all people who sit for their -pictures should look spruce, he had bedizened himself in a very genteel -suit of Sunday clothes, with kneebuckles and silk stockings; his face -and hands nicely washed; his chin shaved clean; and his hair dressed and -powdered; the whole man looking altogether as unpaintable as -possible.—All artists will sympathize with the disappointed Lebrun, as -he contemplated his beggar with dismay, and exclaimed “—oh! you are -spoiled!—you are spoiled!” I suppose it is because I am a painter’s -sister, that I caught myself nearly on the point of making a similar -ejaculation on seeing the new-modelling of Miss Catharine Byles, and her -domicile. - -But a truce with such unpardonable thoughts—Miss Catharine recognized -me at once, and seemed very glad to see me. She soon began to talk about -her troubles, and her sorrows, and alluded in a very affecting manner to -the loss of her sister, who she said had died of a broken heart in -consequence of the changes made in their little patrimony; having always -hoped to die, as she had lived, in her father’s house just as he had -left it—“But the worst of all,” pursued Miss Catharine—“was the -cutting down of the old trees.—Every stroke of the axe seemed like a -blow upon our hearts. Neither of us slept a wink all that night. Poor -sister Mary; she soon fretted herself to death. To think of our having -to submit to these dreadful changes, all at once; when for ten years our -dear father’s spectacles, were never removed from the place in which he -had last laid them down.” - -I attempted to offer a few words of consolation to Miss Catharine, but -she wept bitterly and would not be comforted. “Ah!”—said she—“this is -one of the consequences of living in a republic. Had we been still under -a king, he would have known nothing about our little property, and we -could have enjoyed it in our own way as long as we lived. There is one -comfort, that not a creature in the states will be any the better for -what _we_ shall leave behind us—Sister and I have taken care of that. -We have bequeathed every article to our relations in Nova Scotia since -our nephew, poor boy, was so unfortunate as to die before us. In all our -trials it has been a great satisfaction to us to reflect that when -everything was changing around, grace has been given us to remain -faithful to our church and king.” - -The loyal old lady then informed me that, on his accession to the -throne, she had written a letter of congratulation to his Britannic -Majesty, William the Fourth, whom she remembered having seen in Boston -before the revolution, when he was there as Duke of Clarence and an -officer in his father’s navy. In this epistle she had earnestly assured -him that the family of Dr. Byles always were, and always would be, most -true and fervent in their devotion to their liege lord and rightful -sovereign the king of England.—To have attempted to argue her out of -this feeling, the pride and solace of her declining life, would have -been cruel; and moreover entirely useless—I did not hint to her the -improbability of her letter ever having reached the royal personage to -whom it was addressed. - -The old lady told me that her chief occupation now was to write serious -poetry, and she gave me a copy of some stanzas which she had recently -composed. The verses were tolerably good, and written in a hand -remarkably neat, handsome, and steady. - - * * * * * - -Miss Catharine Byles survived her sister Miss Mary about two years, and -died of gradual decay in the summer of 1837. Her remains repose with -those of her father and sister beneath the flooring of Trinity Church. -They left the whole of their property to their loyalist relations in -Nova Scotia, true to their long-cherished resolution that no republican -should inherit the value of a farthing from them. The representative of -the family is said to have come to Boston and taken possession of the -bequest. - -It is curious, as well as instructive, to contemplate the infinite -varieties of human character, and the strange phases under which human -intellect presents itself. The peculiarities of these two sisters -strikingly evinced the lasting power of early impressions, almost always -indelible when acting upon minds that have not been expanded by -intercourse with the world. For instance—their steadfast, gratuitous -and useless loyalty, cherished for monarchs whom they had never seen, -and who had forgotten the very existence of Dr. Byles (if indeed they -had ever remembered it) and who, of course, neither knew nor cared -anything about his daughters; their rooted antipathy to the republic in -which they lived, and where if they had not persisted in shutting their -eyes they must have seen everything flourishing around them; the strict -economy which induced them to deny themselves even the comforts of life, -and their willingness to be assisted by the benevolent rather than -render themselves independent by an advantageous disposal of their -property. The almost idolatrous devotion with which they clung to the -inanimate objects that had been familiar to them in early life, showed -an intensity of feeling which was both pitied and respected by their -friends, though reason perhaps would not have sanctioned its entire -indulgence. By living so much alone, by visiting at no other house, by -never going out of their native town, by perpetually thinking and -talking over the occurrences of their youth, they had wrought themselves -into a firm belief that no way was right but their own way, no opinions -correct but their own opinions: and above all, that in no other -dwelling-place but their paternal mansion was it possible for them to be -happy or even to exist. - -As a set-off to their weaknesses, their vanities and their prejudices, -it gives me pleasure to bear testimony to the kindness of their -deportment, the soft tones of their voices, and to the old-fashioned -polish of their manners; which at once denoted them to be ladies, even -in their short-gowns and petticoats. - -Though, in the latter part of their lives, the daughters of Dr. Byles -were subjected to the sore trial of seeing the little green lawn on -which they had played when children converted into a dusty street, and -the fine old trees (which would take a century to replace) demolished in -a few minutes before their eyes: still they were both permitted to die -beneath the same roof under which their existence had commenced. The -house of their heavenly father has many mansions; and there, in their -eternal abode, now that their mental vision has cleared, and their souls -have been purified from the dross of mortality, they have learnt the -futility of having set their hearts too steadfastly on a dwelling -erected by human hands; and more than all, of fostering prejudices in -favor of that system of government which, according to the signs of the -times, is fast and deservedly passing away. Is it too much to hope that -ere the lapse of another half century, not a being in the civilized -world will render the homage of a bended knee, except to the King of -Heaven. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET. - - - A dream of love, too short, but ah, how dear! - Hath fled and left me sad and desolate. - Oft from my lids I dash the silent tear - And mourn as mourns the wood-dove for her mate, - Who on some branch of thunder-stricken oak - Wastes in complainings tremulous and low - Her gentle soul away. The charm is broke, - Which link’d me erst to joy. With pensive brow, - At midnight hour beneath the ruined pile, - Musing o’er change my vigil lone I keep,— - While streaming faint aslant the shattered aisle, - Soft on its moss the pillowed moonbeams sleep, - Or trim the flickering lamp and eager pore - On bard or sage in Hellas famed of yore. - - B. H. B. - - * * * * * - - - - - A FEW WORDS ABOUT BRAINARD. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - -Among all the _pioneers_ of American literature, whether prose or -poetical, there is _not one_ whose productions have not been much -over-rated by his countrymen. But this fact is more especially obvious -in respect to such of these pioneers as are no longer living,—nor is it -a fact of so deeply transcendental a nature as only to be accounted for -by the Emersons and Alcotts. In the first place, we have but to consider -that gratitude, surprise, and a species of hyper-patriotic triumph have -been blended, and finally confounded, with mere admiration, or -appreciation, in respect to the labors of our earlier writers; and, in -the second place, that Death has thrown his customary veil of the sacred -over these commingled feelings, forbidding them, in a measure, to be -_now_ separated or subjected to analysis. “In speaking of the deceased,” -says that excellent old English Moralist, James Puckle, in his “Gray Cap -for a Green Head,” “so fold up your discourse that their virtues may be -outwardly shown, while their vices are wrapped up in silence.” And with -somewhat too inconsiderate a promptitude have we followed the spirit of -this quaint advice. The mass of American readers have been, hitherto, in -no frame of mind to view with calmness, and to discuss with -discrimination, the true claims of the few who were _first_ in -convincing the mother country that her sons were not all brainless, as, -in the plentitude of her arrogance, she, at one period, half affected -and half wished to believe; and where any of these few have departed -from among us, the difficulty of bringing their pretensions to the test -of a proper criticism has been enhanced in a very remarkable degree. But -even as concerns the living: is there any one so blind as not to see -that Mr. Cooper, for example, owes much, and that Mr. Paulding, owes -_all_ of his reputation as a novelist, to his early occupation of the -field? Is there any one so dull as not to know that fictions which -neither Mr. Paulding nor Mr. Cooper _could_ have written, are daily -published by native authors without attracting more of commendation than -can be crammed into a hack newspaper paragraph? And, again, is there any -one so prejudiced as not to acknowledge that all this is because there -is no longer either reason or wit in the query,—“Who reads an American -book?” It is not because we lack the talent in which the days of Mr. -Paulding exulted, but because such talent has shown itself to be common. -It is not because we have _no_ Mr. Coopers; but because it has been -demonstrated that we might, at any moment, have as many Mr. Coopers as -we please. In fact we are now strong in our own resources. We have, at -length, arrived at that epoch when our literature may and must stand on -its own merits, or fall through its own defects. We have snapped asunder -the leading-strings of our British Grandmamma, and, better still, we -have survived the first hours of our novel freedom,—the first -licentious hours of a hobbledehoy braggadocio and swagger. _At last_, -then, we are in a condition to be criticised—even more, to be -neglected; and the journalist is no longer in danger of being impeached -for _lèse-majesté_ of the Democratic Spirit, who shall assert, with -sufficient humility, that we have committed an error in mistaking -“Kettell’s Specimens” for the Pentateuch, or Joseph Rodman Drake for -Apollo. - -The case of this latter gentleman is one which well illustrates what we -have been saying. We believe it was some five years ago that Mr. -Dearborn republished the “Culprit Fay,” which then, as at the period of -its original issue, was belauded by the universal American press, in a -manner which must have appeared ludicrous—not to speak _very_ -plainly—in the eyes of all unprejudiced observers. With a curiosity -much excited by comments at once so grandiloquent and so general, we -procured and read the poem. What we found it we ventured to express -distinctly, and at some length, in the pages of the “Southern -Messenger.” It is a well-versified and sufficiently fluent composition, -without high merit of any kind. Its defects are gross and superabundant. -Its plot and conduct, considered in reference to its scene, are absurd. -Its originality is none at all. Its imagination (and this was the great -feature insisted upon by its admirers,) is but a “counterfeit -presentment,”—but the shadow of the shade of that lofty quality which -is, in fact, the soul of the Poetic Sentiment—but a drivelling _effort -to be fanciful_—an effort resulting in a species of -hop-skip-and-go-merry rhodomontade, which the uninitiated feel it a duty -to call ideality, and to admire as such, while lost in surprise at the -impossibility of performing at least the latter half of the duty with -any thing like satisfaction to themselves. And all this we not only -asserted, but without difficulty _proved_. Dr. Drake has written some -beautiful poems, but the “Culprit Fay,” is not of them. We neither -expected to hear any dissent from our opinions, nor did we hear any. On -the contrary, the approving voice of every critic in the country whose -_dictum_ we had been accustomed to respect, was to us a sufficient -assurance that we had not been very grossly in the wrong. In fact the -public taste was then _approaching_ the right. The truth indeed had not, -as yet, made itself heard; but we had reached a point at which it had -but to be plainly and boldly _put_, to be, at least tacitly, admitted. - -This habit of apotheosising our literary pioneers was a most -indiscriminating one. Upon _all_ who wrote, the applause was plastered -with an impartiality really refreshing. Of course, the system favored -the dunces at the expense of true merit; and, since there existed a -certain fixed standard of exaggerated commendation to which all were -adapted after the fashion of Procrustes, it is clear that the most -meritorious required _the least stretching_,—in other words, that, -although all were much over-rated, the deserving were over-rated in a -less degree than the unworthy. Thus with Brainard:—a man of -indisputable genius, who, in any more discriminate system of panegyric, -would have been long ago bepuffed into Demi-Deism; for if “M’Fingal,” -for example, is in reality what we have been told, the commentators upon -Trumbull, as a matter of the simplest consistency, should have exalted -into the seventh heaven of poetical dominion the author of the many -graceful and vigorous effusions which are now lying, in a very neat -little volume, before us.[3] - -Yet we maintain that even these effusions have been overpraised, and -materially so. It is not that Brainard has not written poems which may -rank with those of any American, with the single exception of -Longfellow—but that the general merit of our whole national Muse has -been estimated too highly, and that the author of “The Connecticut -River” has, individually, shared in the exaggeration. No poet among us -has composed what would deserve the tithe of that amount of approbation -so innocently lavished upon Brainard. But it would not suit our purpose -just now, and in this department of the Magazine, to enter into any -elaborate analysis of his productions. It so happens, however, that we -open the book at a brief poem, an examination of which will stand us in -good stead of this general analysis, since it is by this very poem that -the admirers of its author are content to swear—since it is the fashion -to cite it as his best—since thus, in short, it is the chief basis of -his notoriety, if not the surest triumph of his fame. - -We allude to “The Fall of Niagara,” and shall be pardoned for quoting it -in full. - - The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain - While I look upward to thee. It would seem - As if God poured thee from his hollow hand, - And hung his brow upon thine awful front, - And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him - Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour’s sake - The “sound of many waters,” and had bade - Thy flood to chronicle the ages back - And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks. - - Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we - That hear the question of that voice sublime? - O, what are all the notes that ever rung - From war’s vain trumpet by thy thundering side? - Yea, what is all the riot man can make - In his short life to thy unceasing roar? - And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to HIM - Who drowned a world and heaped the waters far - Above its loftiest mountains?—a light wave - That breaks and whispers of its Maker’s might. - -It is a very usual thing to hear these verses called not merely the best -of their author, but the best which have been written on the subject of -Niagara. Its positive merit appears to us only partial. We have been -informed that the poet _had seen_ the great cataract before writing the -lines; but the Memoir prefixed to the present edition, denies what, for -our own part, we never believed; for Brainard was truly a poet, and no -poet could have looked upon Niagara, in the substance, and written thus -about it. If he saw it at all, it must have been in fancy—“at a -distance”—εκας—as the lying Pindar says he saw Archilocus, who died -ages before the villain was born. - -To the two opening verses we have no objection; but it may be well -observed, in passing, that had the mind of the poet been really “crowded -with strange thoughts,” and not merely _engaged in an endeavor to think_ -he would have entered at once upon the thoughts themselves, without -allusion to the state of his brain. His subject would have left him no -room for self. - -The third line embodies an absurd, and impossible, not to say a -contemptible image. We are called upon to conceive a similarity between -the _continuous_ downward sweep of Niagara, and the momentary splashing -of some definite and of course trifling quantity of water _from a hand_; -for, although it is the hand of the Deity himself which is referred to, -the mind is irresistibly led, by the words “poured from his hollow -hand,” to that idea which has been _customarily_ attached to such -phrase. It is needless to say, moreover, that the bestowing upon Deity a -human form, is at best a low and most unideal conception.[4] In fact the -poet has committed the grossest of errors in _likening_ the fall to -_any_ material object; for the human fancy can fashion nothing which -shall not be inferior in majesty to the cataract itself. Thus bathos is -inevitable; and there is no better exemplification of bathos than Mr. -Brainard has here given.[5] - -The fourth line but renders the matter worse, for here the figure is -most inartistically shifted. The handful of water becomes animate; for -it has a front—that is, a forehead, and upon this forehead the Deity -proceeds to hang a bow, that is, a rainbow. At the same time he “speaks -in that loud voice, &c.;” and here it is obvious that the ideas of the -writer are in a sad state of fluctuation; for he transfers the -idiosyncrasy of the fall itself (that is to say its sound) to the one -who pours it from his hand. But not content with all this, Mr. Brainard -commands the flood to _keep a kind of tally_; for this is the low -thought which the expression about “notching in the rocks” immediately -and inevitably induces. The whole of this first division of the poem, -embraces, we hesitate not to say, one of the most jarring, -inappropriate, mean, and in every way monstrous assemblages of false -imagery, which can be found out of the tragedies of Nat Lee, or the -farces of Thomas Carlyle. - -In the latter division, the poet recovers himself, as if ashamed of his -previous bombast. His natural instinct (for Brainard was no artist) has -enabled him _to feel_ that _subjects which surpass in grandeur all -efforts of the human imagination are well depicted only in the simplest -and least metaphorical language_—a proposition as susceptible of -demonstration as any in Euclid. Accordingly, we find a material sinking -in tone; although he does not at once, discard all imagery. The “Deep -calleth unto deep” is nevertheless a great improvement upon his previous -rhetoricianism. The personification of the waters above and below would -be good in reference to any subject less august. The moral reflections -which immediately follow, have at least the merit of simplicity: but the -poet exhibits no very lofty imagination when he bases these reflections -only upon the cataract’s superiority to man _in the noise it can -create_; nor is the concluding idea more spirited, where the mere -difference between the quantity of water which occasioned the flood, and -the quantity which Niagara precipitates, is made the measure of the -Almighty Mind’s superiority to that cataract which it called by a -thought into existence. - -But although “The Fall of Niagara” does not deserve all the unmeaning -commendation it has received, there are, nevertheless, many truly -beautiful poems in this collection, and even more certain evidences of -poetic power. “To a Child, the Daughter of a Friend” is exceedingly -graceful and terse. “To the Dead” has equal grace, with more vigor, and, -moreover, a touching air of melancholy. Its melody is very rich, and in -the monotonous repetition, at each stanza, of a certain rhyme, we -recognise a fantastic yet true imagination. “Mr. Merry’s Lament for Long -Tom” would be worthy of all praise were not its unusually beautiful -rhythm an imitation from Campbell, who would deserve his high poetical -rank, if only for its construction. Of the merely humorous pieces we -have little to say. Such things are not _poetry_. Mr. Brainard excelled -in them, and they are very good in their place; but that place is not in -a collection of _poems_. The prevalent notions upon this head are -extremely vague; yet we see no reason why any ambiguity should exist. -Humor, with an exception to be made hereafter, is directly -antagonistical to that which is the soul of the Muse proper; and the -omni-prevalent belief, that melancholy is inseparable from the higher -manifestations of the beautiful, is not without a firm basis in nature -and in reason. But it so happens that humor and that quality which we -have termed the soul of the Muse (imagination) are both essentially -aided in their development by the same adventitious assistance—that of -rhythm and of rhyme. Thus the only bond between humorous verse and -poetry, properly so called, is that they employ in common, a certain -tool. But this single circumstance has been sufficient to occasion, and -to maintain through long ages, a confusion of two very distinct ideas in -the brain of the unthinking critic. There is, nevertheless, an -individual branch of humor which blends so happily with the ideal, that -from the union result some of the finest effects of legitimate poesy. We -allude to what is termed “_archness_”—a trait with which popular -feeling, which is unfailingly poetic, has invested, for example, the -whole character of the fairy. In the volume before us there is a brief -composition entitled “The Tree Toad” which will afford a fine -exemplification of our idea. It seems to have been hurriedly -constructed, as if its author had felt ashamed of his light labor. But -that in his heart there was a secret exultation over these verses for -which his reason found it difficult to account, _we know_; and there is -not a really imaginative man within sound of our voice to-day, who, upon -perusal of this little “Tree Toad” will not admit it to be one of the -_truest poems_ ever written by Brainard. - ------ - -[3] _The Poems of John G. C. Brainard. A New and Authentic Collection, -with an original Memoir of his Life. Hartford: Edward Hopkins._ - -[4] The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having -really a human form.—See Clarke’s Sermons, vol. 1, page 26, fol. edit. - -“The drift of Milton’s argument leads him to employ language which would -appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine: but it will be -seen immediately that he guards himself against the charge of having -adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the -church.”—Dr. Sumner’s Notes on Milton’s “Christian Doctrine.” - -The opinion could never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of -Messopotamia, who lived in the fourth century, was condemned for the -doctrine, as heretical. His few disciples were called Anthropmorphites. -_See Du Pin._ - -[5] It is remarkable that Drake, of whose “Culprit Fay,” we have just -spoken is, perhaps, the sole poet who has employed, in the description -of Niagara, imagery which does not produce a pathetic impression. In one -of his minor poems he has these magnificent lines— - - How sweet ’twould be, _when all the air_ - _In moonlight swims_, along the river - To couch upon the grass and hear - Niagara’s everlasting voice - Far in the deep blue West away; - That dreamy and poetic noise - We mark not in the glare of day— - Oh, how unlike its torrent-cry - When o’er the brink the tide is driven - _As if the vast and sheeted sky_ - _In thunder fell from Heaven!_ - - * * * * * - - - - - A DREAM OF THE DEAD. - - - BY G. HILL, AUTHOR OF “TITANIA’S BANQUET.” - - - Who, when my thoughts at midnight deep, - And senses drowned in slumber lie, - And star and moon their still watch keep, - Is imaged to my sleeping eye? - The gems amid the braids that ’twine - The dark locks from her pale brow thrown, - Faintly, as dews by eve wept, shine. - Her cheek—its living tints are flown. - - Sure I should know that fond, fixed gaze, - Those hands whose fairy palms infold - Gently my own, the smile that plays - Around those lips now pale and cold. - O! ever thus, as Night repeats - Her silent star-watch, come to me! - More dear than all which living greets - My waking eye, a dream of thee. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DREAM IS PAST. - - - COMPOSED BY - - STEPHEN GLOVER. - - _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_. - - -[Illustration: musical score] - -[Illustration: musical score] - - The dream is past, and with it fled, - The hopes that once my passion fed; - And darkly die, mid grief and pain, - The joys which gone come not again. - - My soul in silence and in tears, - Has cherish’d now for many years, - A love for one who does not know - The thoughts that in my bosom glow. - - Oh! cease my heart, thy throbbing hide, - Another soon will be his bride; - And hope’s last faint, but cheering ray, - Will then for ever pass away. - - They cannot see the silent tear, - That falls unchecked when none are near; - Nor do they mark the smother’d sigh - That heaves my breast when they are by. - I know my cheek is paler now, - And smiles no longer deck my brow, - - ’Tis youth’s decay, ’twill soon begin - To tell the thoughts that dwell within. - Oh! let me rouse my sleeping pride, - And from his gaze my feelings hide; - He shall not smile to think that I - With love for him could pine and die. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Barnaby Rudge; By Charles Dickens, (Boz) Author of “The Old - Curiosity-Shop,” “Pickwick,” “Oliver Twist,” etc. etc. With - numerous Illustrations, by Cattermole, Browne & Sibson. Lea & - Blanchard: Philadelphia._ - -We often hear it said, of this or of that proposition, that it may be -good in theory, but will not answer in practice; and in such assertions -we find the substance of all the sneers at Critical Art which so -gracefully curl the upper lips of a tribe which is beneath it. We mean -the small geniuses—the literary Titmice—animalculae which judge of -merit solely by _result_, and boast of the solidity, tangibility and -infallibility of the test which they employ. The worth of a work is most -accurately estimated, they assure us, by the number of those who peruse -it; and “does a book sell?” is a query embodying, in their opinion, all -that need be said or sung on the topic of its fitness for sale. We -should as soon think of maintaining, in the presence of these creatures, -the _dictum_ of Anaxagoras, that snow is black, as of disputing, for -example, the profundity of that genius which, in a run of five hundred -nights, has rendered itself evident in “London Assurance.” “What,” cry -they, “are critical precepts to us, or to anybody? Were we to observe -all the critical rules in creation we should still be unable to write a -good book”—a point, by the way, which we shall not now pause to deny. -“Give us _results_,” they vociferate, “for we are plain men of common -sense. We contend for fact instead of fancy—for practice in opposition -to theory.” - -The mistake into which the Titmice have been innocently led, however, is -precisely that of dividing the practice which they would uphold, from -the theory to which they would object. They should have been told in -infancy, and thus prevented from exposing themselves in old age, that -theory and practice are in so much _one_, that the former implies or -includes the latter. A theory is only good as such, in proportion to its -reducibility to practice. If the practice fail, it is because the theory -is imperfect. To say what they are in the daily habit of saying—that -such or such a matter may be good in theory but is false in -practice,—is to perpetrate a bull—to commit a paradox—to state a -contradiction in terms—in plain words, to tell a lie _which is a lie at -sight_ to the understanding of anything bigger than a Titmouse. - -But we have no idea, just now, of persecuting the Tittlebats by too -close a scrutiny into their little opinions. It is not our purpose, for -example, to press them with so grave a weapon as the _argumentum ad -absurdum_, or to ask them why, if the popularity of a book be in fact -the measure of its worth, we should not be at once in condition to admit -the inferiority of “Newton’s Principia” to “Hoyle’s Games;” of “Ernest -Maltravers” to “Jack-the-Giant-Killer,” or “Jack Sheppard,” or “Jack -Brag;” and of “Dick’s Christian Philosopher” to “Charlotte Temple,” or -the “Memoirs of de Grammont,” or to one or two dozen other works which -must be nameless. Our present design is but to speak, at some length, of -a book which in so much concerns the Titmice, that it affords them the -very kind of demonstration which they chiefly affect—_practical_ -demonstration—of the fallacy of one of their favorite dogmas; we mean -the dogma that no work of fiction can fully suit, at the same time, the -critical and the popular taste; in fact, that the disregarding or -contravening of Critical Rule is absolutely essential to success, beyond -a certain and very limited extent, with the public at large. And if, in -the course of our random observations—for we have no space for -systematic review—it should appear, incidentally, that the vast -popularity of “Barnaby Rudge” must be regarded less as the measure of -its value, than as the legitimate and inevitable result of certain -well-understood critical propositions reduced by genius into practice, -there will appear nothing more than what has before become apparent in -the “Vicar of Wakefield” of Goldsmith, or in the “Robinson Crusoe” of De -Foe—nothing more, in fact, than what is a truism to all but the -Titmice. - -Those who know us will not, from what is here premised, suppose it our -intention, to enter into any wholesale _laudation_ of “Barnaby Rudge.” -In truth, our design may appear, at a cursory glance, to be very -different indeed. Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” -tells us that a critic once presented Apollo with a severe censure upon -an excellent poem. The God asked him for the beauties of the work. He -replied that he only troubled himself about the errors. Apollo presented -him with a sack of unwinnowed wheat, and bade him pick out all the chaff -for his pains. Now we have not fully made up our minds that the God was -in the right. We are not sure that the limit of critical duty is not -very generally misapprehended. _Excellence_ may be considered an axiom, -or a proposition which becomes self-evident just in proportion to the -clearness or precision with which it is _put_. If it fairly exists, in -this sense, it requires no farther elucidation. It is not excellence if -it need to be demonstrated as such. To point out too particularly the -beauties of a work, is to admit, tacitly, that these beauties are not -wholly admirable. Regarding, then, excellence as that which is capable -of self-manifestation, it but remains for the critic to show when, -where, and how it fails in becoming manifest; and, in this showing, it -will be the fault of the book itself if what of beauty it contains be -not, at least, placed in the fairest light. In a word, we may assume, -notwithstanding a vast deal of pitiable cant upon this topic, that in -pointing out frankly the errors of a work, we do nearly all that is -critically necessary in displaying its merits. In teaching what -perfection _is_, how, in fact, shall we more rationally proceed than in -specifying what it _is not_? - -The plot of “Barnaby Rudge” runs thus: About a hundred years ago, -Geoffrey Haredale and John Chester were schoolmates in England—the -former being the scape-goat and drudge of the latter. Leaving school, -the boys become friends, with much of the old understanding. Haredale -loves; Chester deprives him of his mistress. The one cherishes the most -deadly hatred; the other merely contemns and avoids. By routes widely -different both attain mature age. Haredale, remembering his old love, -and still cherishing his old hatred, remains a bachelor and is poor. -Chester, among other crimes, is guilty of the seduction and heartless -abandonment of a gypsy-girl, who, after the desertion of her lover, -gives birth to a son, and, falling into evil courses, is finally hung at -Tyburn. The son is received and taken charge of, at an inn called the -Maypole, upon the borders of Epping forest, and about twelve miles from -London. This inn is kept by one John Willet, a burley-headed and very -obtuse little man, who has a son, Joe, and who employs his _protégé_, -under the single name of Hugh, as perpetual hostler at the inn. Hugh’s -father marries, in the meantime, a rich _parvenue_, who soon dies, but -not before having presented Mr. Chester with a boy, Edward. The father, -(a thoroughly selfish man-of-the-world, whose model is Chesterfield,) -educates this son at a distance, seeing him rarely, and calling him to -the paternal residence, at London, only when he has attained the age of -twenty-four or five. He, the father, has, long ere this time, spent the -fortune brought him by his wife, having been living upon his wits and a -small annuity for some eighteen years. The son is recalled chiefly that -by marrying an heiress, on the strength of his own personal merit and -the reputed wealth of old Chester, he may enable the latter to continue -his gayeties in old age. But of this design, as well as of his poverty, -Edward is kept in ignorance for some three or four years after his -recall; when the father’s discovery of what he considers an inexpedient -love-entanglement on the part of the son, induces him to disclose the -true state of his affairs, as well as the real tenor of his intentions. - -Now the love-entanglement of which we speak, is considered inexpedient -by Mr. Chester for two reasons—the first of which is, that the lady -beloved is the orphan niece of his old enemy, Haredale, and the second -is, that Haredale (although in circumstances which have been much and -very unexpectedly improved during the preceding twenty-two years) is -still insufficiently wealthy to meet the views of Mr. Chester. - -We say that, about twenty-two years before the period in question, there -came an unlooked-for change in the worldly circumstances of Haredale. -This gentleman has an elder brother, Reuben, who has long possessed the -family inheritance of the Haredales, residing at a mansion called “The -Warren,” not far from the Maypole-Inn, which is itself a portion of the -estate. Reuben _is a widower_, with one child, a daughter, Emma. Besides -this daughter, there are living with him a gardener, a steward (whose -name is Rudge) and _two_ women servants, one of whom is the wife of -Rudge. On the night of the nineteenth of March, 1733, Rudge murders his -master for the sake of a large sum of money which he is known to have in -possession. During the struggle, Mr. Haredale grasps the cord of an -alarm-bell which hangs within his reach, but succeeds in sounding it -only once or twice, when it is severed by the knife of the ruffian, who -then, completing his bloody business, and securing the money, proceeds -to quit the chamber. While doing this, however, he is disconcerted by -meeting the gardener, whose pallid countenance evinces suspicion of the -deed committed. The murderer is thus forced to kill his fellow servant. -Having done so, the idea strikes him of transferring the burden of the -crime from himself. He dresses the corpse of the gardener in his own -clothes, puts upon its finger his own ring and in its pocket his own -watch—then drags it to a pond in the grounds, and throws it in. He now -returns to the house, and, disclosing all to his wife, requests her to -become a partner in his flight. Horror-stricken, she falls to the -ground. He attempts to raise her. She seizes his wrist, _staining her -hand with blood in the attempt_. She renounces him forever; yet promises -to conceal the crime. Alone, he flees the country. The next morning, Mr. -Haredale being found murdered, and the steward and gardener being both -missing, both are suspected. Mrs. Rudge leaves The Warren, and retires -to an obscure lodging in London (where she lives upon an annuity allowed -her by Haredale) having given birth, _on the very day after the murder_, -to a son, Barnaby Rudge, who proves an idiot, who bears upon his wrist a -red mark, and who is born possessed with a maniacal horror of blood. - -Some months since the assassination having elapsed, what appears to be -the corpse of Rudge is discovered, and the outrage is attributed to the -gardener. Yet not universally:—for, as Geoffrey Haredale comes into -possession of the estate, there are not wanting suspicions (fomented by -Chester) of his own participation in the deed. This taint of suspicion, -acting upon his hereditary gloom, together with the natural grief and -horror of the atrocity, embitters the whole life of Haredale. He -secludes himself at The Warren, and acquires a monomaniac acerbity of -temper relieved only by love of his beautiful niece. - -Time wears away. Twenty-two years pass by. The niece has ripened into -womanhood, and loves young Chester without the knowledge of her uncle or -the youth’s father. Hugh has grown a stalwart man—the type of man _the -animal_, as his father is of man the ultra-civilized. Rudge, the -murderer, returns, urged to his undoing by Fate. He appears at the -Maypole and inquires stealthily of the circumstances which have occurred -at The Warren in his absence. He proceeds to London, discovers the -dwelling of his wife, threatens her with the betrayal of her idiot son -into vice and extorts from her the bounty of Haredale. Revolting at such -appropriation of such means, the widow, with Barnaby, again seeks The -Warren, renounces the annuity, and, refusing to assign any reason for -her conduct, states her intention of quitting London forever, and of -burying herself in some obscure retreat—a retreat which she begs -Haredale not to attempt discovering. When he seeks her in London the -next day, she is gone; and there are no tidings, either of herself or of -Barnaby, _until the expiration of five years_—which bring the time up -to that of the Celebrated “No Popery” Riots of Lord George Gordon. - -In the meanwhile, and immediately subsequent to the re-appearance of -Rudge; Haredale and the elder Chester, each heartily desirous of -preventing the union of Edward and Emma, have entered into a covenant, -the result of which is that, by means of treachery on the part of -Chester, permitted on that of Haredale, the lovers misunderstand each -other and are estranged. Joe, also, the son of the innkeeper, Willet, -having been coquetted with, to too great an extent, by Dolly Varden, -(the pretty daughter of one Gabriel Varden, a locksmith of Clerkenwell, -London) and having been otherwise mal-treated at home, enlists in his -Majesty’s army and is carried beyond seas, to America; not returning -until towards the close of the riots. Just before their commencement, -Rudge, in a midnight prowl about the scene of his atrocity, is -encountered by an individual who had been familiar with him in earlier -life, while living at The Warren. This individual, terrified at what he -supposes, very naturally, to be the ghost of the murdered Rudge, relates -his adventure to his companions at the Maypole, and John Willet conveys -the intelligence, forthwith, to Mr. Haredale. Connecting the apparition, -in his own mind, with the peculiar conduct of Mrs. Rudge, this gentleman -imbibes a suspicion, at once, of the true state of affairs. This -suspicion (which he mentions to no one) is, moreover, very strongly -confirmed by an occurrence happening to Varden, the locksmith, who, -visiting the woman late one night, finds her in communion of a nature -apparently most confidential, with a ruffian whom the locksmith knows to -be such, without knowing the man himself. Upon an attempt, on the part -of Varden, to seize this ruffian, he is thwarted by Mrs. R.; and upon -Haredale’s inquiring minutely into the personal appearance of the man, -he is found to accord with Rudge. We have already shown that the ruffian -was in fact Rudge himself. Acting upon the suspicion thus aroused, -Haredale watches, by night, alone, in the deserted house formerly -occupied by Mrs. R. in hope of here coming upon the murderer, and makes -other exertions with the view of arresting him; but all in vain. - -It is, also, at the conclusion _of the five years_, that the hitherto -uninvaded retreat of Mrs. Rudge is disturbed by a message from her -husband, demanding money. He has discovered her abode by accident. -Giving him what she has at the time, she afterwards eludes him, and -hastens, with Barnaby, to bury herself in the crowd of London, until she -can find opportunity again to seek retreat in some more distant region -of England. But the riots have now begun. The idiot is beguiled into -joining the mob, and, becoming separated from his mother (who, growing -ill through grief, is borne to a hospital) meets with his old playmate -Hugh, and becomes with him a ringleader in the rebellion. - -The riots proceed. A conspicuous part is borne in them by one Simon -Tappertit, a fantastic and conceited little apprentice of Varden’s, and -a sworn enemy to Joe Willet, who has rivalled him in the affection of -Dolly. A hangman, Dennis, is also very busy amid the mob. Lord George -Gordon, and his secretary, Gashford, with John Grueby, his servant, -appear, of course, upon the scene. Old Chester, who, during the five -years, has become Sir John, instigates Gashford, who has received -personal insult from Haredale, (a catholic and consequently obnoxious to -the mob) instigates Gashford to procure the burning of The Warren, and -to abduct Emma during the excitement ensuing. The mansion is burned, -(Hugh, who also fancies himself wronged by Haredale, being chief actor -in the outrage) and Miss H. carried off, in company with Dolly, who had -long lived with her, and whom Tappertit abducts upon his own -responsibility. Rudge, in the meantime, finding the eye of Haredale upon -him, (since he has become aware of the watch kept nightly at his -wife’s,) goaded by the dread of solitude, and fancying that his sole -chance of safety lies in joining the rioters, hurries upon their track -to the doomed Warren. He arrives too late—the mob have departed. -Skulking about the ruins, he is discovered by Haredale, and finally -captured, without a struggle, within the glowing walls of the very -chamber in which the deed was committed. He is conveyed to prison, where -he meets and recognises Barnaby, who had been captured as a rioter. The -mob assail and burn the jail. The father and son escape. Betrayed by -Dennis, both are again retaken, and Hugh shares their fate. In Newgate, -Dennis, through accident, discovers the parentage of Hugh, and an effort -is made in vain to interest Chester in behalf of his son. Finally, -Varden procures the pardon of Barnaby; but Hugh, Rudge and Dennis are -hung. At the eleventh hour, Joe returns from abroad with one arm. In -company with Edward Chester, he performs prodigies of valor (during the -last riots) on behalf of the government. The two, with Haredale and -Varden, rescue Emma and Dolly. A double marriage, of course, takes -place; for Dolly has repented her fine airs, and the prejudices of -Haredale are overcome. Having killed Chester in a duel, he quits England -forever, and ends his days in the seclusion of an Italian convent. Thus, -after summary disposal of the understrappers, ends the drama of “Barnaby -Rudge.” - -We have given, as may well be supposed, but a very meagre outline of the -story, and we have given it in the simple or natural sequence. That is -to say, we have related the events, as nearly as might be, in the order -of their occurrence. But this order would by no means have suited the -purpose of the novelist, whose design has been to maintain the secret of -the murder, and the consequent mystery which encircles Rudge, and the -actions of his wife, until the catastrophe of his discovery by Haredale. -The _thesis_ of the novel may thus be regarded as based upon curiosity. -Every point is so arranged as to perplex the reader, and whet his desire -for elucidation:—for example, the first appearance of Rudge at the -Maypole; his questions; his persecution of Mrs. R.; the ghost seen by -the frequenter of the Maypole; and Haredale’s impressive conduct in -consequence. What _we_ have told, in the very beginning of our digest, -in regard to the shifting of the gardener’s dress, is sedulously kept -from the reader’s knowledge until he learns it from Rudge’s own -confession in jail. We say sedulously; for, _the intention once known_, -the _traces_ of the design can be found upon every page. There is an -amusing and exceedingly ingenious instance at page 145, where Solomon -Daisy describes his adventure with the ghost. - - “It was a ghost—a spirit,” cried Daisy. - - “Whose?” they all three asked together. - - In the excess of his emotion (for he fell back trembling in his - chair and waved his hand as if entreating them to question him - no farther) _his answer was lost upon all_ but old John Willet, - who happened to be seated close beside him. - - “Who!” cried Parkes and Tom Cobb—“Who was it?” - - “Gentlemen,” said Mr. Willet, after a long pause, “you needn’t - ask. The likeness of a murdered man. This is the nineteenth of - March.” - - A profound silence ensued. - -The impression here skilfully conveyed is, that the ghost seen is that -of Reuben Haredale; and the mind of the not-too-acute reader is at once -averted from the true state of the case—from the murderer, Rudge, -living in the body. - -Now there can be no question that, by such means as these, many points -which are comparatively insipid in the natural sequence of our digest, -and which would have been comparatively insipid even if given in full -detail in a natural sequence, are endued with the interest of mystery; -but neither can it be denied that a vast many more points are at the -same time deprived of all effect, and become null, through the -impossibility of comprehending them without the key. The author, who, -cognizant of his plot, writes with this cognizance continually operating -upon him, and thus _writes to himself_ in spite of himself, does not, of -course, feel that much of what is effective to his own informed -perception, must necessarily be lost upon his uninformed readers; and he -himself is never in condition, as regards his own work, to bring the -matter to test. But the reader may easily satisfy himself of the -validity of our objection. Let him _re-peruse_ “Barnaby Rudge,” and, -with a pre-comprehension of the mystery, these points of which we speak -break out in all directions like stars, and throw quadruple brilliance -over the narrative—a brilliance which a correct taste will at once -declare unprofitably sacrificed at the shrine of the keenest interest of -mere mystery. - -The design of _mystery_, however, being once determined upon by an -author, it becomes imperative, first, that no undue or inartistical -means be employed to conceal the secret of the plot; and, secondly, that -the secret be well kept. Now, when, at page 16, we read that “the body -of _poor Mr. Rudge, the steward, was found_” months after the outrage, -&c. we see that Mr. Dickens has been guilty of no misdemeanor against -Art in stating what was not the fact; since the falsehood is put into -the mouth of Solomon Daisy, and given merely as the impression of this -individual and of the public. The writer has not asserted it in his own -person, but ingeniously conveyed an idea (false in itself, yet a belief -in which is necessary for the effect of the tale) by the mouth of one of -his characters. The case is different, however, when Mrs. Rudge is -repeatedly denominated “the widow.” It is the author who, himself, -frequently so terms her. This is disingenuous and inartistical: -accidentally so, of course. We speak of the matter merely by way of -illustrating our point, and as an oversight on the part of Mr. Dickens. - -That the secret be well kept is obviously necessary. A failure to -preserve it until the proper moment of _dénouement_, throws all into -confusion, so far as regards the _effect_ intended. If the mystery leak -out, against the author’s will, his purposes are immediately at odds and -ends; for he proceeds upon the supposition that certain impressions _do_ -exist, which do _not_ exist, in the mind of his readers. We are not -prepared to say, so positively as we could wish, whether, by the public -at large, the whole _mystery_ of the murder committed by Rudge, with the -identity of the Maypole ruffian with Rudge himself, was fathomed at any -period previous to the period intended, or, if so, whether at a period -so early as materially to interfere with the interest designed; but we -are forced, through sheer modesty, to suppose this the case; since, by -ourselves individually, the secret was distinctly understood immediately -upon the perusal of the story of Solomon Daisy, which occurs at the -seventh page of this volume of three hundred and twenty-three. In the -number of the “Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post,” for May the 1st, -1841, (the tale having then only begun) will be found a _prospective -notice_ of some length, in which we made use of the following words— - - That Barnaby is the son of the murderer may not appear evident - to our readers—but we will explain. The person murdered is Mr. - Reuben Haredale. He was found assassinated in his bed-chamber. - His steward (Mr. Rudge, senior,) and his gardener (name not - mentioned) are missing. At first both are suspected. ‘Some - months afterward,’ here we use the words of the story—‘the - steward’s body, scarcely to be recognised but by his clothes, - and the watch and ring he wore—was found at the bottom of a - piece of water in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast - where he had been stabbed by a knife. He was only partly - dressed; and all people agreed that he had been sitting up - reading in his own room, where there were many traces of blood, - and was suddenly fallen upon and killed, before his master.’ - - Now, be it observed, it is not the author himself who asserts - that _the steward’s body was found_; he has put the words in the - mouth of one of his characters. His design is to make it appear, - in the _dénouement_, that the steward, Rudge, first murdered the - gardener, then went to his master’s chamber, murdered _him_, was - interrupted by his (Rudge’s) wife, whom he seized and held _by - the wrist_, to prevent her giving the alarm—that he then, after - possessing himself of the booty desired, returned to the - gardener’s room, exchanged clothes with him, put upon the corpse - his own watch and ring, and secreted it where it was afterwards - discovered at so late a period that the features could not be - identified. - -The differences between our pre-conceived ideas, as here stated, and the -actual facts of the story, will be found immaterial. The gardener was -murdered not before but after his master; and that Rudge’s wife seized -_him_ by the wrist, instead of his seizing _her_, has so much the air of -a mistake on the part of Mr. Dickens, that we can scarcely speak of our -own version as erroneous. The grasp of a murderer’s bloody hand on the -wrist of a woman _enceinte_, would have been more likely to produce the -effect described (and this every one will allow) than the grasp of the -hand of the woman upon the wrist of the assassin. We may therefore say -of our supposition as Talleyrand said of some cockney’s bad French—_que -s’il ne soit pas Français, assurément donc il le doit être_—that if we -did not rightly prophesy, yet, at least, our prophecy _should have been_ -right. - -We are informed in the Preface to “Barnaby Rudge” that “no account of -the Gordon Riots having been introduced into any work of fiction, and -the subject presenting very extraordinary and remarkable features,” our -author “was led to project this tale.” But for this distinct -announcement (for Mr. Dickens can scarcely have deceived himself) we -should have looked upon the Riots as altogether an afterthought. It is -evident that they have no necessary connection with the story. In our -digest, which carefully includes all _essentials_ of the plot, we have -dismissed the doings of the mob in a paragraph. The whole event of the -drama would have proceeded as well without as with them. They have even -the appearance of being _forcibly_ introduced. In our compendium above, -it will be seen that we emphasised several allusions to an interval of -_five years_. The action is brought up to a certain point. The train of -events is, so far, uninterrupted—nor is there any apparent need of -interruption—yet all the characters are now thrown forward for a period -of _five years_. And why? We ask in vain. It is not to bestow upon the -lovers a more decorous maturity of age—for this is the only possible -idea which suggests itself—Edward Chester is already eight-and-twenty, -and Emma Haredale would, in America at least, be upon the list of old -maids. No—there is no such reason; nor does there appear to be any one -more plausible than that, as it is now the year of our Lord 1775, an -advance of five years will bring the _dramatis personae_ up to a very -remarkable period, affording an admirable opportunity for their -display—the period, in short, of the “No Popery” riots. This was the -idea with which we were forcibly impressed in perusal, and which nothing -less than Mr. Dickens’ positive assurance to the contrary would have -been sufficient to eradicate. - -It is, perhaps, but one of a thousand instances of the disadvantages, -both to the author and the public, of the present absurd fashion of -periodical novel-writing, that our author had not sufficiently -considered or determined upon _any_ particular plot when he began the -story now under review. In fact, we see, or fancy that we see, numerous -traces of indecision—traces which a dexterous supervision of the -complete work might have enabled him to erase. We have already spoken of -the intermission of a lustrum. The opening speeches of old Chester are -by far too _truly_ gentlemanly for his subsequent character. The wife of -Varden, also, is too wholesale a shrew to be converted into the quiet -wife—the original design was to punish her. At page 16, we read -thus—Solomon Daisy is telling his story: - - “I put as good a face upon it as I could, and, muffling myself - up, started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key - of the church in the other”—at this point of the narrative, the - dress of the strange man rustled as if he had turned to hear - more distinctly. - -Here the design is to call the reader’s attention to a _point_ in the -tale; but no subsequent explanation is made. Again, a few lines below— - - “The houses were all shut up, and the folks in doors, and - perhaps there is only one man in the world who knows how dark it - really was.” - -Here the intention is still more evident, but there is no result. Again, -at page 54, the idiot draws Mr. Chester to the window, and directs his -attention to the clothes hanging upon the lines in the yard— - - “Look down,” he said softly; “do you mark how they whisper in - each other’s ears, then dance and leap to make believe they are - in sport? Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think - there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again; and - then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief - they’ve been plotting? Look at ’em now! See how they whirl and - plunge. And now they stop again, and whisper cautiously - together—little thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the - ground and watched them. I say—what is it that they plot and - hatch? Do you know?” - -Upon perusal of these ravings we, at once, supposed them to have -allusion to some _real_ plotting; and even now we cannot force ourselves -to believe them not so intended. They suggested the opinion that -Haredale himself would be implicated in the murder, and that the -counsellings alluded to might be those of that gentleman with Rudge. It -is by no means impossible that some such conception wavered in the mind -of the author. At page 32 we have a confirmation of our idea, when -Varden endeavors to arrest the murderer in the house of his wife— - - “Come back—come back!” exclaimed the woman, wrestling with and - clasping him. “Do not touch him on your life. _He carries other - lives beside his own._” - -The _dénouement_ fails to account for this exclamation. - -In the beginning of the story much emphasis is placed upon the _two_ -female servants of Haredale, and upon his journey to and from London, as -well as upon his wife. We have merely said, in our digest, that he was a -widower, italicizing the remark. All these other points are, in fact, -singularly irrelevant, in the supposition that the original design has -not undergone modification. - -Again, at page 57, when Haredale talks of “his dismantled and beggared -hearth,” we cannot help fancying that the author had in view some -different wrong, or series of wrongs, perpetrated by Chester, than any -which appear in the end. This gentleman, too, takes extreme and frequent -pains to acquire dominion over the rough Hugh—this matter is -particularly insisted upon by the novelist—we look, of course, for some -important result—but the filching of a letter is nearly all that is -accomplished. That Barnaby’s delight in the desperate scenes of the -rebellion, is inconsistent with his horror of blood, will strike every -reader; and this inconsistency seems to be the consequence of the -_afterthought_ upon which we have already commented. In fact the title -of the work, the elaborate and pointed manner of the commencement, the -impressive description of The Warren, and especially of Mrs. Rudge, go -far to show that Mr. Dickens has really deceived himself—that the soul -of the plot, as originally conceived, was the murder of Haredale with -the subsequent discovery of the murderer in Rudge—but that this idea -was afterwards abandoned, or rather suffered to be merged in that of the -Popish Riots. The result has been most unfavorable. That which, of -itself would have proved highly effective, has been rendered nearly null -by its situation. In the multitudinous outrage and horror of the -Rebellion, the _one_ atrocity is utterly whelmed and extinguished. - -The reasons of this deflection from the first purpose appear to us -self-evident. One of them we have already mentioned. The other is that -our author discovered, when too late, that _he had anticipated, and thus -rendered valueless, his chief effect_. This will be readily understood. -The particulars of the assassination being withheld, the strength of the -narrator is put forth, in the beginning of the story, to _whet -curiosity_ in respect to these particulars; and, so far, he is but in -proper pursuance of his main design. But from this intention he -unwittingly passes into the error of _exaggerating anticipation_. And -error though it be, it is an error wrought with consummate skill. What, -for example, could more vividly enhance our impression of the unknown -horror enacted, than the deep and enduring gloom of Haredale—than the -idiot’s inborn awe of blood—or, especially, than the expression of -countenance so imaginatively attributed to Mrs. Rudge—“the capacity for -expressing terror—something only dimly seen, but never absent for a -moment—the shadow of some look to which an instant of intense and most -unutterable horror only could have given rise?” But it is a condition of -the human fancy that the promises of such words are irredeemable. In the -notice before mentioned we thus spoke upon this topic— - - This is a conception admirably adapted to whet curiosity in - respect to the character of that event which is hinted at as - forming the basis of the story. But this observation should not - fail to be made—that the anticipation must surpass the reality; - that no matter how terrific be the circumstances which, in the - _dénouement_, shall appear to have occasioned the expression of - countenance worn habitually by Mrs. Rudge, still they will not - be able to satisfy the mind of the reader. He will surely be - disappointed. The skilful intimation of horror held out by the - artist, produces an effect which will deprive his conclusion of - all. These intimations—these dark hints of some uncertain - evil—are often rhetorically praised as effective—but are only - justly so praised where there is _no dénouement_ whatever—where - the reader’s imagination is left to clear up the mystery for - itself—and this is not the design of Mr. Dickens. - -And, in fact, our author was not long in seeing his precipitancy. He had -placed himself in a dilemma from which even his high genius could not -extricate him. He at once shifts the main interest—and in truth we do -not see what better he could have done. The reader’s attention becomes -absorbed in the riots, and he fails to observe that what should have -been the true catastrophe of the novel, is exceedingly feeble and -ineffective. - -A few cursory remarks:—Mr. Dickens fails peculiarly in _pure_ -narration. See, for example, page 296, where the connection of Hugh and -Chester is detailed by Varden. See also in “The Curiosity-Shop,” where, -when the result is fully known, so many words are occupied in explaining -the relationship of the brothers. - -The effect of the present narrative might have been materially increased -by confining the action within the limits of London. The “Notre Dame” of -Hugo affords a fine example of the force which can be gained by -concentration, or unity of place. The unity of time is also sadly -neglected, to no purpose, in “Barnaby Rudge.” - -That Rudge should so long and so deeply feel the sting of conscience is -inconsistent with his brutality. - -On page 15 the interval elapsing between the murder and Rudge’s return, -is variously stated at twenty-two and twenty-four years. - -It may be asked why the inmates of The Warren failed to hear the -alarm-bell which was heard by Solomon Daisy. - -The idea of persecution by being tracked, as by bloodhounds, from one -spot of quietude to another is a favorite one with Mr. Dickens. Its -effect cannot be denied. - -The stain upon Barnaby’s wrist, caused by fright in the mother at so -late a period of gestation as one day before mature parturition, is -shockingly at war with all medical experience. - -When Rudge, escaped from prison, unshackled, with money at command, is -in agony at his wife’s refusal to perjure herself for his salvation—is -it not _queer_ that he should demand any other salvation than lay in his -heels? - -Some of the conclusions of chapters—see pages 40 and 100—seem to have -been written for the mere purpose of illustrating tail-pieces. - -The leading idiosyncrasy of Mr. Dickens’ remarkable humor, is to be -found in his _translating the language of gesture, or action, or tone_. -For example— - - “The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr. Parkes remarked in an - under tone, shaking his head meanwhile, _as who should say ‘let - no man contradict me, for I won’t believe him,’_ that Willet was - in amazing force to-night.” - -The riots form a series of vivid pictures never surpassed. - -At page 17, the road between London and the Maypole is described as a -horribly rough and dangerous, and at page 97, as an uncommonly smooth -and convenient one. - -At page 116, how comes Chester in possession of the key of Mrs. Rudge’s -vacated house? - -Mr. Dickens’ English is usually pure. His most remarkable error is that -of employing the adverb “directly” in the sense of “as soon as.” For -example—“Directly he arrived, Rudge said, &c.” Bulwer is uniformly -guilty of the same blunder. - -It is observable that so original a stylist as our author should -occasionally lapse into a gross imitation of what, itself, is a gross -imitation. We mean the manner of Lamb—a manner based in the Latin -construction. For example— - - In summer time its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers springs - cooler and more sparkling and deeper than other wells; and as - they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, - they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards - the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, - despondent. - -The wood-cut _designs_ which accompany the edition before us are -occasionally good. The copper engravings are pitiably ill-conceived and -ill-drawn; and not only this, but are in broad contradiction of the -wood-designs and text. - -There are many _coincidences_ wrought into the narrative—those, for -example, which relate to the nineteenth of March; the dream of Barnaby, -respecting his father, at the very period when his father is actually in -the house; and the dream of Haredale previous to his final meeting with -Chester. These things are meant to _insinuate_ a fatality which, very -properly, is not expressed in plain terms—but it is questionable -whether the story derives more, in ideality, from their introduction, -than it might have gained of verisimilitude from their omission. - -The _dramatis personae_ sustain the high fame of Mr. Dickens as a -delineator of character. Miggs, the disconsolate handmaiden of Varden; -Tappertit, his chivalrous apprentice; Mrs. Varden, herself; and Dennis, -a hangman—may be regarded as original caricatures, of the highest merit -as such. Their traits are founded in acute observation of nature, but -are exaggerated to the utmost admissible extent. Miss Haredale and -Edward Chester are common-places—no effort has been made in their -behalf. Joe Willet is a naturally drawn country youth. Stagg is a mere -make-weight. Gashford and Gordon are truthfully copied. Dolly Varden is -truth itself. Haredale, Rudge and Mrs. Rudge are impressive only through -the circumstances which surround them. Sir John Chester is, of course, -not original, but is a vast improvement upon all his predecessors—his -heartlessness is rendered somewhat too amusing, and his end too much -that of a man of honor. Hugh is a noble conception. His fierce -exultation in his animal powers; his subserviency to the smooth Chester; -his mirthful contempt and patronage of Tappertit, and his _brutal_ yet -firm courage in the hour of death—form a picture to be set in diamonds. -Old Willet is not surpassed by any character even among those of -Dickens. He is nature itself—yet a step farther would have placed him -in the class of caricatures. His combined conceit and obtusity are -indescribably droll, and his peculiar misdirected energy when aroused, -is one of the most exquisite touches in all humorous painting. We shall -never forget how heartily we laughed at his shaking Solomon Daisy and -threatening to put him behind the fire, because the unfortunate little -man was too much frightened to articulate. Varden is one of those free, -jovial, honest fellows at charity with all mankind, whom our author is -so fond of depicting. And lastly, Barnaby, the hero of the tale—in him -we have been somewhat disappointed. We have already said that his -delight in the atrocities of the Rebellion is at variance with his -horror of blood. But this horror of blood is _inconsequential_; and of -this we complain. Strongly insisted upon in the beginning of the -narrative, it produces no adequate result. And here how fine an -opportunity has Mr. Dickens missed! The conviction of the assassin, -after the lapse of twenty-two years, might easily have been brought -about through his son’s mysterious awe of blood—_an awe created in the -unborn by the assassination itself_—and this would have been one of the -finest possible embodiments of the idea which we are accustomed to -attach to “poetical justice.” The raven, too, intensely amusing as it -is, might have been made, more than we now see it, a portion of the -conception of the fantastic Barnaby. Its croakings might have been -_prophetically_ heard in the course of the drama. Its character might -have performed, in regard to that of the idiot, much the same part as -does, in music, the accompaniment in respect to the air. Each might have -been distinct. Each might have differed remarkably from the other. Yet -between them there might have been wrought an analogical resemblance, -and, although each might have existed apart, they might have formed -together a whole which would have been imperfect in the absence of -either. - -From what we have here said—and, perhaps, said without due -deliberation—(for alas! the hurried duties of the journalist preclude -it) there will not be wanting those who will accuse us of a mad design -to detract from the pure fame of the novelist. But to such we merely say -in the language of heraldry “ye should wear a plain point sanguine in -your arms.” If this be understood, well; if not, well again. There lives -no man feeling a deeper reverence for genius than ourself. If we have -not dwelt so especially upon the high merits as upon the trivial defects -of “Barnaby Rudge” we have already given our reasons for the omission, -and these reasons will be sufficiently understood by all whom we care to -understand them. The work before us is not, we think, equal to the tale -which immediately preceded it; but there are few—very few others to -which we consider it inferior. Our chief objection has not, perhaps, -been so distinctly stated as we could wish. That this fiction, or indeed -that any fiction written by Mr. Dickens, should be based in the -excitement and maintenance of curiosity we look upon as a misconception, -on the part of the writer, of his own very great yet very peculiar -powers. He has done this thing well, to be sure—he would do anything -well in comparison with the herd of his contemporaries—but he has not -done it so thoroughly well as his high and just reputation would demand. -We think that the whole book has been an effort to him—solely through -the nature of its design. He has been smitten with an untimely desire -for a novel path. The idiosyncrasy of his intellect would lead him, -naturally, into the most fluent and simple style of narration. In tales -of ordinary sequence he may and will long reign triumphant. He has a -_talent_ for all things, but no positive _genius_ for _adaptation_, and -still less for that metaphysical art in which the souls of all -_mysteries_ lie. “Caleb Williams” is a far less noble work than “The Old -Curiosity-Shop;” but Mr. Dickens could no more have constructed the one -than Mr. Godwin could have dreamed of the other. - - * * * * * - - _Wakondah; The Master of Life. A Poem. George L. Curry and Co.: - New York._ - -“Wakondah” is the composition of Mr. Cornelius Mathews, one of the -editors of the Monthly Magazine, “Arcturus.” In the December number of -the journal, the poem was originally set forth by its author, very much -“_avec l’air d’un homme qui sauve sa patrie_.” To be sure, it was not -what is usually termed the _leading_ article of the month. It did not -occupy that post of honor which, hitherto, has been so modestly filled -by “Puffer Hopkins.” But it took precedence of some exceedingly -beautiful stanzas by Professor Longfellow, and stood second only to a -very serious account of a supper which, however well it might have -suited the taste of an Ariel, would scarcely have feasted the Anakim, or -satisfied the appetite of a Grandgousier. The supper was, or might have -been, a good thing. The poem which succeeded it _is not_; nor can we -imagine what has induced Messrs. Curry & Co. to be at the trouble of its -republication. We are vexed with these gentlemen for having thrust this -affair the second time before us. They have placed us in a predicament -we dislike. In the pages of “Arcturus” the poem did not come necessarily -under the eye of the Magazine critic. There is a tacitly-understood -courtesy about these matters—a courtesy upon which we need not comment. -The contributed papers in any one journal of the class of “Arcturus” are -not considered as _debateable_ by any one other. General propositions, -under the editorial head, are rightly made the subject of discussion; -but in speaking of “Wakondah,” for example, in the pages of our own -Magazine, we should have felt as if _making an occasion_. Now, upon our -first perusal of the poem in question, we were both astonished and -grieved that we could say, honestly, very little in its -praise:—astonished, for by some means, not just now altogether -intelligible to ourselves, we had become imbued with the idea of high -poetical talent in Mr. Mathews:—grieved, because, under the -circumstances of his position as editor of one of the _very_ best -journals in the country, we had been sincerely anxious to think well of -his abilities. Moreover, we felt that to _speak ill_ of them, under any -circumstances whatever, would be to subject ourselves to the charge of -envy or jealousy, on the part of those who do not personally know us. -We, therefore, rejoiced that “Wakondah” was not a topic we were called -upon to discuss. But the poem is republished, and placed upon our table, -and these very “circumstances of position,” which restrained us in the -first place, render it a positive duty that we speak distinctly in the -second. - -And very distinctly shall we speak. In fact this effusion is a dilemma -whose horns _goad_ us into frankness and candor—“_c’est un malheur_,” -to use the words of Victor Hugo, “_d’où on ne pourrait se tirer par des -periphrases, par des quemadmodums et des verumenimveros_.” If we mention -it at all, we are _forced_ to employ the language of that region where, -as Addison has it, “they sell the best fish and speak the plainest -English.” “Wakondah,” then, from beginning to end, is trash. With the -trivial exceptions which we shall designate, it has _no_ merit whatever; -while its faults, more numerous than the leaves of Valombrosa, are of -that rampant class which, if any schoolboy _could_ be found so -uninformed as to commit them, any schoolboy should be remorselessly -flogged for committing. - -The story, or as the epics have it, the argument, although brief, is by -no means particularly easy of comprehension. The design seems to be -based upon a passage in Mr. Irving’s “Astoria.” He tells us that the -Indians who inhabit the Chippewyan range of mountains, call it the -“Crest of the World,” and “think that Wakondah, or the Master of Life, -as they designate the Supreme Being, has his residence among these -aerial heights.” Upon this hint Mr. Mathews has proceeded. He introduces -us to Wakondah standing in person upon a mountain-top. He describes his -appearance, and thinks that a Chinook would be frightened to behold it. -He causes the “Master of Life” to make a speech, which is addressed, -generally, to things at large, and particularly to the neighboring -Woods, Cataracts, Rivers, Pinnacles, Steeps, and Lakes—not to mention -an Earthquake. But all these (and we think, judiciously) turn a deaf ear -to the oration, which, to be plain, is scarcely equal to a second-rate -Piankitank stump speech. In fact, it is a bare-faced attempt at animal -magnetism, and the mountains, &c., do no more than show its potency in -resigning themselves to sleep, as they do. - - Then shone Wakondah’s dreadful eyes - -—then he becomes _very_ indignant, and accordingly launches forth into -speech the second—with which the delinquents are afflicted, with -occasional brief interruptions from the poet, in proper person, until -the conclusion of the poem. - -The _subject_ of the two orations we shall be permitted to sum up -compendiously in the one term “rigmarole.” But we do not mean to say -that our compendium is not an improvement, and a very considerable one, -upon the speeches themselves,—which, taken altogether, are the -queerest, and the most rhetorical, not to say the most miscellaneous -orations we ever remember to have listened to outside of an Arkansas -House of Delegates. - -In saying this we mean what we say. We intend no joke. Were it possible, -we would quote the whole poem in support of our opinion. But as this is -_not_ possible, and moreover, as we presume Mr. Mathews has not been so -negligent as to omit securing his valuable property by a copyright, we -must be contented with a few extracts here and there at random, with a -few comments equally so. But we have already hinted that there were -really one or two words to be said of this effusion in the way of -commendation, and these one or two words might as well be said now as -hereafter. - -The poem thus commences— - - The moon ascends the vaulted sky to-night; - With a slow motion full of pomp ascends, - But, mightier than the Moon that o’er it bends, - A form is dwelling on the mountain height - That boldly intercepts the struggling light - With darkness nobler than the planet’s fire,— - A gloom and dreadful grandeur that aspire - To match the cheerful Heaven’s far-shining might. - -If we were to shut our eyes to the repetition of “might,” (which, in its -various inflections, is a pet word with our author, and lugged in upon -all occasions) and to the obvious imitation of Longfellow’s Hymn to the -Night in the second line of this stanza, we should be justified in -calling it _good_. The “darkness nobler than the planet’s fire” is -_certainly_ good. The general conception of the colossal figure on the -mountain summit, relieved against the full moon, would be unquestionably -_grand_ were it not for the _bullish_ phraseology by which the -conception is rendered, in a great measure, abortive. The moon is -described as “ascending,” and its “motion” is referred to, while we have -the standing figure continuously intercepting its light. That the orb -would soon pass from behind the figure, is a physical fact which the -purpose of the poet required to be left out of sight, and which scarcely -any other language than that which he has actually employed would have -succeeded in forcing upon the reader’s attention. With all these -defects, however, the passage, especially as an opening passage, is one -of high merit. - -Looking carefully for something else to be commended we find at length -the lines— - - Lo! where our foe up through these vales ascends, - Fresh from the embraces of the swelling sea, - A glorious, white and shining Deity. - Upon our strength his deep blue eye he bends, - With threatenings full of thought and steadfast ends; - _While desolation from his nostril breathes_ - _His glittering rage he scornfully unsheathes_ - _And to the startled air its splendor lends._ - -This again, however, is worth only qualified commendation. The first six -lines preserve the personification (that of a ship) sufficiently well; -but, in the seventh and eighth, the author suffers the image to slide -into that of a warrior unsheathing his sword. Still there is _force_ in -these concluding verses, and we begin to fancy that this is saying a -very great deal for the author of “Puffer Hopkins.” - -The best stanza in the poem (there are thirty-four in all) is the -thirty-third. - - No cloud was on the moon, yet on His brow - A deepening shadow fell, and on his knees - _That shook like tempest-stricken mountain trees_ - _His heavy head descended sad and low_ - _Like a high city smitten by the blow_ - _Which secret earthquakes strike and topling falls_ - _With all its arches, towers, and cathedrals_ - _In swift and unconjectured overthrow._ - -This is, positively, not bad. The first line italicized is bold and -vigorous, both in thought and expression; and the four last (although by -no means original) convey a striking picture. But then the whole idea, -in its general want of keeping, is preposterous. What is more absurd -than the conception of a man’s head descending _to his knees_, as here -described—the thing could not be done by an Indian juggler or a man of -gum-caoutchouc—and what is more inappropriate than the resemblance -attempted to be drawn between a _single_ head descending, and the -_innumerable_ pinnacles of a falling city? It is difficult to -understand, _en passant_, why Mr. Mathews has thought proper to give -“cathedrals” a quantity which does not belong to it, or to write -“unconjectured” when the rhythm might have been fulfilled by -“unexpected” and when “unexpected” would have fully conveyed the meaning -which “unconjectured” does not. - -By dint of farther microscopic survey, we are enabled to point out one, -and alas, _only_ one more good line in the poem. - - Green dells that into silence stretch away - -contains a richly poetical thought, melodiously embodied. We only -refrain, however, from declaring, flatly, that the line is not the -property of Mr. Mathews, because we have not at hand the volume from -which we believe it to be stolen. - -We quote the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth stanzas in full. They -will serve to convey some faint idea of the general poem. The Italics -are our own. - - VI. - - _The spirit lowers and speaks: “Tremble ye wild Woods!_ - Ye Cataracts! your _organ-voices_ sound! - Deep Crags, in earth by massy tenures bound, - Oh, Earthquake, _level flat_! The peace that broods - Above this world, and steadfastly eludes - Your power, howl Winds and break; the peace that mocks - Dismay ’mid silent streams and voiceless rocks— - Through wildernesses, cliffs, and solitudes. - - VII. - - “Night-shadowed Rivers—lift your dusky hands - And clap them harshly _with a sullen roar_! - Ye thousand Pinnacles and Steeps deplore - The glory that departs; above _you_ stands, - _Ye_ Lakes with azure waves and snowy strands, - A Power that utters forth his loud behest - Till mountain, lake and river shall attest, - The puissance of a Master’s _large commands_.” - - VIII. - - So spake the Spirit with a wide-cast look - Of bounteous power and _cheerful_ majesty; - As if he caught a sight of either sea - And all the subject realm between: then shook - His brandished arms; his stature scarce could brook - Its confine; _swelling wide, it seemed to grow_ - _As grows a cedar on a mountain’s brow_ - By the mad air in ruffling breezes _took_! - - IX. - - The woods are deaf and will not be aroused— - The mountains are asleep, they hear him not, - Nor from deep-founded silence can be wrought, - Tho’ herded bison on their steeps have browsed: - Beneath their hanks in _darksome stillness_ housed - The rivers loiter like a calm-bound sea; - _In anchored nuptials to dumb apathy_ - _Cliff, wilderness and solitude are spoused_. - -Let us endeavor to translate this gibberish, by way of ascertaining its -import, if possible. Or, rather, let us state the stanzas, in substance. -The spirit _lowers_, that is to say _grows angry_, and speaks. He calls -upon the Wild Woods to tremble, and upon the Cataracts to sound their -voices which have the tone of an organ. He addresses, then, _an_ -Earthquake, or perhaps Earthquake in general, and requests it to _level -flat_ all the Deep Crags which are bound by massy tenures in earth—a -request, by the way, which any sensible Earthquake must have regarded as -tautological, since it is difficult to level anything otherwise than -_flat_:—Mr. Mathews, however, is no doubt the best judge of flatness in -the abstract, and may have peculiar ideas respecting it. But to proceed -with the Spirit. Turning to the Winds, he enjoins them to howl and break -the peace that broods above this world and steadfastly eludes their -power—the same peace that mocks a Dismay ’mid streams, rocks, et -cetera. He now speaks to the night-shadowed Rivers, and commands them to -lift their dusky hands, and clap them harshly _with a sullen roar_—and -as _roaring_ with one’s _hands_ is not the easiest matter in the world, -we can only conclude that the Rivers here reluctantly disobeyed the -injunction. Nothing daunted, however, the Spirit, addressing a thousand -Pinnacles and Steeps, desires them to deplore the glory that departs, or -is departing—and we can almost fancy that we see the Pinnacles -deploring it upon the spot. The Lakes—at least such of them as possess -azure waves and snowy strands—then come in for their share of the -oration. They are called upon to observe—to take notice—that above -them stands no ordinary character—no Piankitank stump orator, or -anything of that sort—but a Power;—a power, in short, to use the exact -words of Mr. Mathews, “that _utters forth_ his loud behest, till -mountain, lake and river shall attest the puissance of a Master’s _large -commands_.” _Utters forth_ is no doubt somewhat supererogatory, since -“to utter” is of itself to emit, or send forth; but as “the Power” -appears to be somewhat excited he should be forgiven such mere errors of -speech. We cannot, however, pass over his boast about uttering forth his -loud behest _till_ mountain, lake and rivers shall obey him—for the -fact is that his threat is _vox et preterea nihil_, like the -countryman’s nightingale in Catullus; the issue showing that the -mountains, lakes and rivers—all very sensible creatures—go fast asleep -upon the spot, and pay no attention to his rigmarole whatever. Upon the -“large commands” it is not our intention to dwell. The phrase is a -singularly mercantile one to be in the mouth of “a Power.” It is not -impossible, however, that Mr. Mathews himself is - - —busy in the cotton trade - And sugar line. - -But to resume. We were originally told that the Spirit “lowered” and -spoke, and in truth his entire speech is a scold at Creation; yet stanza -the eighth is so forgetful as to say that he spoke “with a wide-cast -look of bounteous power and _cheerful_ majesty.” Be this point as it -may, he now shakes his brandished arms, and, swelling out, seems to -grow— - - As grows a cedar on a mountain’s top - By the mad air in ruffling breezes _took_ - -—or as swells a turkey-gobbler; whose image the poet unquestionably had -in his mind’s eye when he penned the words about the ruffled cedar. As -for _took_ instead of _taken_—why not say _tuk_ at once? We have heard -of chaps vot vas tuk up for sheep-stealing, and we know of one or two -that ought to be tuk up for murder of the Queen’s English. - -We shall never get on. Stanza the ninth assures us that the woods are -deaf and will not be aroused, that the mountains are asleep and so -forth—all which Mr. Mathews might have anticipated. But the rest he -could not have foreseen. He could not have foreknown that “the rivers, -housed beneath their banks in _darksome stillness_,” would “loiter like -a calm-bound sea,” and still less could he have been aware, unless -informed of the fact, that “_cliff, wilderness and solitude would be -spoused in anchored nuptials to dumb apathy_!” Good Heavens—no!—nobody -could have anticipated _that_! Now, Mr. Mathews, we put it to you as to -a man of veracity—what _does_ it all mean? - - As when in times to startle and revere. - -This line, of course, is an accident on the part of our author. At the -time of writing it he could not have remembered - - To haunt, to startle, and waylay. - -Here is another accident of imitation; for seriously, we do not mean to -_assert_ that it is anything more— - - I urged the dark red hunter in his quest - Of pard or panther with a gloomy zest; - And while through darkling woods they swiftly fare - _Two seeming creatures of the oak-shadowed air_, - I sped the game and fired the follower’s breast. - -The line italicized we have seen quoted by some of our daily critics as -beautiful; and so, barring the “oak-shadowed air,” it is. In the -meantime Campbell, in “Gertrude of Wyoming,” has the _words_ - - —the hunter and the deer a shade. - -Campbell stole the idea from our own Freneau, who has the _line_ - - The hunter and the deer a shade. - -Between the two, Mr. Mathews’ claim to originality, at this point, will, -very possibly, fall to the ground. - -It appears to us that the author of “Wakondah” is either very innocent -or very original about matters of versification. His stanza is an -ordinary one. If we are not mistaken, it is that employed by Campbell in -his “Gertrude of Wyoming”—a favorite poem of our author’s. At all -events it is composed of pentameters whose rhymes alternate by a simple -and fixed rule. But our poet’s deviations from this rule are so many and -so unusually picturesque, that we scarcely know what to think of them. -Sometimes he introduces an Alexandrine at the close of a stanza; and -here we have no right to quarrel with him. It is not _usual_ in this -metre; but still he _may_ do it if he pleases. To put an Alexandrine in -the middle, or at the beginning, of one of these stanzas is droll, to -say no more. See stanza third, which commences with the verse - - Upon his brow a garland of the woods he wears, - -and stanza twenty-eight, where the last line but one is - - And rivers singing all aloud tho’ still unseen. - -Stanza the seventh begins thus - - The Spirit lowers and speaks—tremble ye Wild Woods! - -Here it must be observed that “wild woods” is not meant for a double -rhyme. If scanned on the fingers (and we presume Mr. Mathews is in the -practice of scanning thus) the line is a legitimate Alexandrine. -Nevertheless, it cannot be _read_. It is like nothing under the sun; -except, perhaps, Sir Philip Sidney’s attempt at English Hexameter in his -“Arcadia.” Some one or two of his verses we remember. For example— - - So to the | woods Love | runs as | well as | rides to the | palace; - Neither he | bears reve | rence to a | prince nor | pity to a | - beggar, - But like a | point in the | midst of a | circle is | still of a | - nearness. - -With the aid of an additional spondee or dactyl Mr. Mathews’ _very_ odd -verse might be scanned in the same manner, and would, in fact, be a -legitimate Hexameter— - - The Spi | rit lowers | and speaks | tremble ye | wild woods - -Sometimes our poet takes even a higher flight and _drops_ a foot, or a -half-foot, or, for the matter of that, a foot and a half. Here, for -example, is a very singular verse to be introduced in a pentameter -rhythm— - - Then shone Wakondah’s dreadful eyes. - -Here another— - - Yon full-orbed fire shall cease to shine. - -Here, again, are lines in which the rhythm demands an accent on -impossible syllables. - - But ah winged _with_ what agonies and pangs. - Swiftly before me _nor_ care I how vast. - I see _visions_ denied to mortal eyes. - Uplifted longer _in_ heaven’s western glow. - -But these are trifles. Mr. Mathews is young and we take it for granted -that he will improve. In the meantime what does he mean by spelling -lose, _loose_, and its (the possessive pronoun) _it’s_—re-iterated -instances of which fashions are to be found _passim_ in “Wakondah”? What -does he mean by writing _dare_, the present, for _dared_ the -perfect?—see stanza the twelfth. And, as we are now in the catachetical -vein, we may as well conclude our dissertation at once with a few other -similar queries. - -What do you mean, then, Mr. Mathews, by - - A sudden silence _like a tempest_ fell? - -What do you mean by “a quivered stream;” “a shapeless gloom;” a -“habitable wish;” “natural blood;” “oak-shadowed air;” “customary peers” -and “thunderous noises?” - -What do you mean by - - A sorrow mightier than the midnight skies? - -What do you mean by - - A bulk that swallows up the sea-blue sky? - -Are you not aware that calling the sky as blue as the sea, is like -saying of the snow that it is as white as a sheet of paper? - -What do you mean, in short, by - - Its feathers darker than a thousand fears? - -Is not this something like “blacker than a dozen and a half of -chimney-sweeps and a stack of black cats,” and are not the whole of -these illustrative observations of yours somewhat upon the plan of that -of the witness who described a certain article stolen as being of the -size and shape of a bit of chalk? What do you _mean_ by them we say? - -And here notwithstanding our earnest wish to satisfy the author of -Wakondah, it is indispensable that we bring our notice of the poem to a -close. We feel grieved that our observations have been so much at -random:—but at random, after all, is it alone possible to convey either -the letter or the spirit of that, which, a mere jumble of incongruous -nonsense, has neither beginning, middle, nor end. We should be delighted -to proceed—but how? to applaud—but what? Surely not this trumpery -declamation, this maudlin sentiment, this metaphor run-mad, this -twaddling verbiage, this halting and doggerel rhythm, this -unintelligible rant and cant! “Slid, if these be your passados and -montantes, we’ll have none of them.” Mr. Mathews, you have clearly -mistaken your vocation, and your effusion as little deserves the title -of _poem_, (oh sacred name!) as did the rocks of the royal forest of -Fontainebleau that of “_mes déserts_” bestowed upon them by Francis the -First. In bidding you adieu we commend to your careful consideration the -remark of M. Timon “_que le Ministre de l’Instruction Publique doit -lui-même savoir parler Français_.” - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: SPRING FASHIONS. 1842 IN ADVANCE.] - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic -spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and -typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have -been corrected as noted below. - -A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public -domain. - -page 97, joyous laugh, Miss Heyward resumed ==> joyous laugh, Mrs. Heyward - resumed - -[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 2, February 1842_, George R. -Graham, Editor] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XX, NO. -2, FEBRUARY 1842 *** - -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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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