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diff --git a/old/67450-0.txt b/old/67450-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bca579f..0000000 --- a/old/67450-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6993 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 3, -March 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. 3, March 1842 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George Rex Graham - -Release Date: February 20, 2022 [eBook #67450] - -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. 3, MARCH 1842 *** - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XX. March, 1842 No. 3. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - The Crowning of Powhatan - German Writers, Heinrich Heine - The Two Dukes - May Evelyn - The Doom of the Traitress - The First Step - Dreams of the Land and Sea - The Lady and the Page - Imagination - Harry Cavendish continued - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music and Fashion - - To One Departed - The Young Widow - The Freshet - Marches for the Dead - To Isa in Heaven - An Epistle to Fanny - The Stranger’s Funeral - Agathè.—A Necromaunt - Western hospitality - Fancies About a Rosebud - A Lady Heard a Minstrel Sing - Spring Fashions - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: J. G. Chapman, R. Hinshelwood. _The Crowning of -Powhatan._ _Engraved for Graham’s Magazine from an Original Picture_] - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XX. PHILADELPHIA: MARCH, 1842. No. 3. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CROWNING OF POWHATAN. - - -The settlement at Jamestown was begun in 1606. Among the earliest of the -adventurers was the chivalrous Captain Smith, whose life was a romance -even in those romantic days. He soon came to be the leader of the -colonists, and it was through his exertions that the settlement was kept -up, amid privations and dangers almost incredible. The story of his -capture by the Indians, and his preservation from death by Pocahontas, -has become a national tradition, and poets have sung, orators declaimed, -and novelists penned volumes to record the bravery of the Captain, and -the love of the Indian maid. But, perhaps, nowhere is the story told -with such effect as in the “Generall Historie” of the gallant Smith -himself, a work published in 1624, and still to be met with in the -libraries of the curious. The book is a rarity. It is adorned with -maps,—not the most correct, to be sure—and with engravings setting -forth the various perilous situations of the author, over which a -book-worm would gloat for a month. The narrative is written in a plain, -frank, unassuming style, and the author is always spoken of in the third -person. To this book we are indebted for an account of the crowning of -Powhatan, and our only regret is that our limits will not suffer us to -give the quaint language of Smith. - -This singular ceremony took place in 1608, and was performed at the -instigation of the council at home, who sent over the necessary insignia -by Capt. Newport from London. The object of the ceremony was to -propitiate Powhatan, and induce him to guide the colonists to the -country of the _Monacons_, whom the dreamy adventurers, exaggerating the -casual hints of the Indians, had pictured to themselves as a people of -boundless wealth. It is evident, from the “Generall Historie,” that -Smith did not approve of the measure, for he says appositely—“As for -the coronation of Powhatan, and his presents of Basin and Ewer, Bed, -Bedstead, Clothes, &c., and such costly novelties, they had been much -better spared than so ill spent, for we had his favor much better only -for a plain piece of copper.” The measure had been resolved on at home, -however, and Captain Smith had no alternative but to obey. Accordingly, -he sent a messenger to Powhatan to come and receive his presents; but -the Indian monarch, with the spirit of an Alexander, replied, “If your -King have sent me presents, I also am a King, and this is my land: eight -days I will stay to receive them. Your father is to come to me, not I to -him.” The Captain now sent the presents “a hundred miles by river,” as -he tells us, to Powhatan. Here a masked ball and other festivities came -off, in which the Captain seems to have been quite a favorite with the -Indian belles. At length the ceremony of the coronation was performed, -but, if the bold Captain speaks aright, it must have been a sorry -crowning. He says, “But a sore trouble there was to make him kneel to -receive his crown, he neither knowing the majesty nor meaning of a -crown, nor bending of the knee, endured as many persuasions, examples -and instructions as enraged them all. At last, _by bearing hard on his -shoulders_, he a little stooped, and those having the crown in their -hands put it on his head, when by the warning of a pistol, the boats -were prepared with such a volley of shot, that the King started up with -a horrible fear, till he saw all was well.” A graphic picture. A sturdy -old republican was Powhatan, having no notion of their crown! We imagine -we can see the perturbation of the good Captain and his followers when -they found that the old warrior would not kneel, and the glee with which -they regarded their success, when, by pressing hard on the royal -shoulders, they surprised him into being duly crowned. - -The honor, however, failed of its object. Powhatan would give no aid to -the colonists in their designs on the Monacons, although that people was -a sworn enemy to his race. He proudly said that he needed no ally—that -he could conquer his foes alone. The only return he made for the gifts -of the council was a present of an old pair of slippers and a mantle to -Capt. Newport. The picture, by Chapman, graphically pourtrays the -ceremony. - - * * * * * - - - - - GERMAN WRITERS. - - - HEINRICH HEINE. - - - BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. - - -Ludwig Börne, the well-known author of _Letters from Paris_, once said, -that Voltaire was only the John the Baptist of Antichrist, but that -Heine was Antichrist himself. Perhaps he paid Heine too great a -compliment yet the remark is true so far as this, that it points him out -as the leader of that new school in Germany which is seeking to -establish a religion of sensuality, and to build a palace of Pleasure on -the ruins of the church. - -This school is known under the name of Young Germany. It is skeptical, -and sensual; and seems desirous of trying again the experiment so often -tried before, but never with any success, of living without a God. Heine -expresses this in phrases too blasphemous or too voluptuous to repeat; -and Gutzkow, his follower exclaims: “Let the only Priest, that weds our -hearts, be a moment of rapture, not the church, with her ceremonies, and -her servants with parted hair;” and again with a sigh: “Alas! had the -world known nothing of God, it would have been happier!” - -Thus the old and oft-repeated follies of mankind come up and are lived -over again by young men, who despise the wisdom of the Past, and imagine -themselves wiser than their own generation. Nor are these young men -without their admirers and advocates. Madame Dacier, of classic memory, -defended Sappho’s morals, and in reply to the hereditary scandal against -her, coldly said: “Sappho had her enemies.” Nearly in the same way is -Young Germany defended; and even theologians have not been wanting, to -palliate, excuse and justify. - -In this country, there are certain persons, who seem disposed to enact -this same tragic farce; for we too, have our Young America, which mocks -the elder prophets, and cries “Go up, bald-head!”—Young ladies read -with delight such books as _Festus_, and think the _Elective Affinities_ -“religious almost to piety.” Young men, who profess to be Christians, -like the Pagan of Lafontaine, believe in God by a kind of -patent-right,—_par bénéfice d’inventaire_. Nature, we are told, must -not be interfered with in any way, at any time; and so much is said -about this, that many respectable people begin to say with old Voss, -“Dear Nature! thou seemest to me quite too natural!” - -I do not, however, propose to discuss these points in the following -sketch; nor to consider Heine’s plans for regenerating society, which, -at best, are but vague opinions thrown out recklessly and at random, -like fire-brands, that set in a flame whatever light matter they fall -upon. It is the Author only, that I shall attempt to sketch. - -Henry Heine was born in 1797 at Düsseldorf on the Rhine; and studied at -the Universities of Bonn, Berlin, and Göttingen. He afterwards resided -in Hamburg, Berlin and Munich; and since 1830 has lived in Paris. His -principal writings are _Buch der Lieder_, a collection of lyrical poems; -two tragedies, _Almansor_ and _Radcliff_; the four volumes of -_Reisebilder_; the _Beiträge zur Geschichte der neuern schönen Literatur -in Deutschland_; the _Frangësische Zustände_; and _Der Salon_,—the last -two being collections of his various contributions to the German -newspapers. The most popular of his writings is the _Reisebilder_, -(Pictures of Travel.) The _Beiträge_ has been translated into English, -by Geo. W. Haven, under the title of _Letters auxiliary to the History -of modern Polite Literature in Germany, Boston, 1836_. The same work, -with many additions, has been published in Paris, under the title of _De -l’Allemagne_. - -The style of Heine is remarkable for vigor, wit and brilliancy; but is -wanting in taste and refinement. To the recklessness of Byron he adds -the sentimentality of Sterne. The _Reisebilder_ is a kind of _Don Juan_ -in prose, with passages from the _Sentimental Journey_. He is always in -extremes, either of praise or censure; setting at nought the decencies -of life, and treating the most sacred things with frivolity. Throughout -his writings you see traces of a morbid, ill-regulated mind; of deep -feeling, disappointment and suffering. His sympathies seem to have died -within him, like Ugolino’s children in the tower of Famine. With all his -various powers, he wants the one great power—the power of truth! He -wants, too, that ennobling principle of all human endeavors, the -aspiration “after an ideal standard, that is higher than himself.” In a -word, he wants sincerity and spirituality. - -In the highest degree reprehensible, too, is the fierce, implacable -hatred with which Heine pursues his foes. No man should write of another -as he permits himself to do at times. In speaking of Schlegel, as he -does in his _German Literature_, he is utterly without apology. And yet -to such remorseless invectives, to such witty sarcasms, he is indebted -in a great degree for his popularity. It was not till after he had -bitten the heel of Hercules, that the Crab was placed among the -constellations. - -The following passages from the _Reisebilder_, will give the reader a -general idea of Heine’s style; exhibiting at once his beauties and -defects—his poetic feeling—his spirit—his wit—his want of taste. The -first is from his description of a _Tour to the Harz Mountains_; the -second from his _Journey from Munich to Genoa_. - - - SCENE ON THE BROCKEN. - -In the dining-room of the inn I found all life and motion; students from -various Universities; some just arrived, are refreshing themselves, -others are preparing for their departure, buckling their knapsacks, -writing their names in the Album, receiving _Brocken-bouquets_ from the -servant girl; there is pinching of cheeks, singing, dancing, shouting; -questions are asked, answers given,—fine weather,—footpath,—God bless -you—good bye. Some of the departing are a little jolly, and take double -delight in the beautiful view, because a man when he is drunk sees all -things double. - -When I had somewhat refreshed myself, I ascended the observatory, and -found there a little gentleman with two ladies, one of them young, the -other oldish. The young lady was very beautiful. A glorious -figure,—upon her curling tresses a helm-like hat of black satin, with -whose white feathers the wind sported;—her delicate limbs so closely -wrapped in a black silk mantle, that the noble outlines were distinctly -seen;—and her free, large eye quietly gazing forth into the free, large -world. - -I sought without more ado to engage the beautiful lady in conversation; -for one does not truly enjoy the beauties of Nature, unless he can -express his feelings at the moment. She was not intellectual, but -attentive, sensible. Of a truth, most aristocratic features. I do not -mean that common, stiff, negative aristocratic bearing, that knows -exactly what must be let alone; but that rare, free, positive -aristocratic bearing, which tells us clearly what we may do, and gives -us with the greatest freedom of manners, the greatest social security. -To my own astonishment, I displayed considerable geographical knowledge; -told the curious fair one all the names of the towns that lay before us; -found and showed her the same on my map, which I unfolded with true -professional dignity, upon the stone table in the middle of the -platform. Many of the towns I could not find, perhaps because I looked -for them rather with my fingers, than with my eyes, which meanwhile were -investigating the face of the gentle lady, and found more beautiful -excursions there than _Schierke_ and _Elend_. It was one of those faces -that never excite, seldom fascinate, and always please. I love such -faces, because they smile to sleep my turbulent heart. - -In what relation the little gentleman, who accompanied the ladies, stood -to them I could not guess. He was a thin, curious-looking figure; a -little head, sparingly covered with little grey hairs, that came down -over his narrow forehead as far as his green dragon-fly eyes, his -crooked nose projecting to a great length, and his mouth and chin -retreating anxiously towards the ears. This funny little face seemed to -be made of a soft, yellowish clay, such as sculptors use in forming -their first models, and when the thin lips were pressed together, a -thousand fine, semi-circular wrinkles covered his cheeks. Not one word -did the little gentleman say; and only now and then, when the elderly -lady whispered something pleasant in his ear, he smiled like a -poodle-dog with a cold in his head. - -The elderly lady was the mother of the younger, and likewise possessed -the most aristocratic form and feature. Her eye betrayed a morbid, -sentimental melancholy; about her mouth was an expression of rigid -piety; and yet it seemed to me, as if once it had been very beautiful, -had laughed much, and taken and given many a kiss. Her face resembled a -_Codex palympsestus_, where, beneath the recent, black, monkish copy of -a homily of one of the Fathers of the Church, peeped forth the half -effaced verses of some ancient Greek love-poet. Both of the ladies, with -their companion, had been that year in Italy, and told me all kinds of -pretty things about Rome, Florence and Venice. The mother had a great -deal to say of Raphael’s paintings at St. Peter’s; the daughter talked -more about the opera and the _Teatro Fenice_. - -While we were speaking it began to grow dark; the air grew colder, the -sun sank lower, and the platform was filled with students, mechanics, -and some respectable cockneys, with their wives and daughters, all of -whom had come to see the sun set. It is a sublime spectacle, which -attunes the soul to prayer. A full quarter of an hour stood we all -solemnly silent, and saw how that beauteous ball of fire by slow degrees -sank in the west; our faces were lighted by the ruddy glow of -evening,—our hands folded themselves involuntarily;—it was as if we -stood there, a silent congregation in the nave of a vast cathedral, and -the Priest were elevating the Body of the Lord, and the eternal choral -of Palestrina flowing down from the organ! - -As I stood thus absorbed in devotion, I heard some one say close beside -me, - -“Generally speaking, how very beautiful nature is!” - -These words came from the tender heart of my fellow lodger, the young -shop-keeper. They brought me back again to my work-day mood, and I was -just in the humor to say several very polite things to the ladies about -the sunset, and quietly conduct them back to their room, as if nothing -had happened. They permitted me to sit and talk with them another hour. -As the earth itself, so revolved our conversation round the sun. The -mother remarked, that the sun, sinking in vapors, had looked like a red, -blushing rose, which the Heaven in its gallantry had thrown down upon -the broad-spreading, white bridal veil of his beloved Earth! The -daughter smiled, and expressed herself of the opinion, that too great -familiarity with the appearances of nature weakened their effect. The -mother corrected this erroneous view by a passage from Göthe’s -_Reisebriefen_, and asked me if I had read the _Sorrows of Werther_. I -believe we talked also about Angola cats, Etruscan vases, Cashmire -shawls, macaroni and Lord Byron, from whose poems the elderly lady, -prettily lisping and sighing, recited some passages on sunsets. To the -younger lady, who did not understand English, but wanted to read Byron, -I recommended the translations of my fair and gifted country-woman, the -Baronese Elise von Hohenhausen; and availed myself of the opportunity, -as I always do with young ladies, to express myself with warmth upon -Byron’s ungodliness, unloveliness and unhappiness. - - _Reisebilder, Vol. 1._ - - - STREET MUSICIANS. - -When I returned to the _Locanda della Grande Europa_, when I had ordered -a good _Pranzo_, I was so sad at heart that I could not eat,—and that -means a great deal. I seated myself before the door of the neighboring -_Botega_, refreshed myself with an ice, and said within myself: - -“Capricious Heart! thou art now forsooth in Italy—why singest thou not -like the lark? Perhaps the old German Sorrows, the little serpents, that -hid themselves deep within thee have come with us into Italy, and are -making merry now, and their common jubilee awakens in my breast that -picturesque sorrow, which so strangely stings and dances and whistles? -And why should not the old sorrows make merry for once? Here in Italy it -is indeed so beautiful, suffering itself is here so beautiful,—in these -ruinous marble palaces sighs sound far more romantically, than in our -neat brick houses,—beneath yon laurel trees one can weep far more -voluptuously, than under our surly, jagged pines,—and gaze with looks -of far sweeter longing at the ideal cloud-landscapes of celestial Italy, -than at the ash-gray, German work-day heaven, where the very clouds wear -the looks of decent burghers, and yawn so tediously down upon us! Stay -then in my heart, ye sorrows! Nowhere will you find a better lodging. -You are dear and precious to me; and no man knows better how to father -and cherish you, than I; and I confess to you, you give me pleasure. And -after all, what is pleasure? Pleasure is nothing else than a highly -agreeable Pain.” - -I believe that the music, which, without my taking note of it, sounded -before the _Botega_, and had already drawn round itself a circle of -spectators, had melo-dramatically accompanied this monologue. It was a -strange trio, consisting of two men, and a young girl, who played the -harp. One of the men, warmly clad in a white shaggy coat, was a robust -fellow, with a dark-red bandit-face, that gleamed from his black hair -and beard, like a portentous comet; and between his legs he held a -monstrous bass-viol, upon which he sawed as furiously, as if he had -thrown down a poor traveller in the Abruzzi, and was in haste to fiddle -his windpipe in two. The other was a tall, meagre graybeard, whose -mouldering bones shook in their thread-bare, black garments, and whose -snow-white hair formed a lamentable contrast with his _buffo_ song and -his foolish capers. It is sad enough, when an old man must barter for -bread the respect we owe to his years, and give himself up to -buffoonery; but more melancholy still, when he does this before or with -his own child! For that girl was the daughter of the old _Buffo_, and -accompanied with the harp the lowest jests of her gray-headed father; -or, laying her harp aside sang with him a comic duet, in which he -represented an amorous old dotard and she the young coquettish -_inamorata_. Moreover the girl seemed hardly to have passed the -threshold of childhood; as if the child, before it had grown to -maidenhood, had been made a woman, and not an honest woman. Hence that -pallid, faded look, and the expression of nervous discontent in her -beautiful face, whose proudly rounded features as it were disdained all -show of compassion;—hence the secret sorrowfulness of the eyes, that -from beneath their black, triumphal arches flashed forth such -challenges;—hence the deep mournful voice, that so strangely contrasted -with the laughing, beautiful lips, from which it fell;—hence the -debility of those too delicate limbs, around which a short, -anxious-looking robe of violet-colored silk, fluttered as low as it -possibly could. In addition to this, gay, variegated satin ribbands -flaunted from her faded straw hat, and emblematic of herself, her breast -was adorned with an open rose-bud, which seemed rather to have been -rudely torn open, than to have bloomed forth from its green sheath by -its own natural growth. Still in this unhappy girl, in this Spring which -Death had already breathed upon and blasted,—lay an indescribable -charm, a grace, which revealed itself in every look, in every motion, in -every tone. The bolder her gestures became, the deeper grew my -compassion; and when her voice rose from her breast so weak and -wondrous, and as it were implored forgiveness; then triumphed in my -breast the little serpents, and bit their tails for joy. The Rose -likewise seemed to look at me imploringly; once I saw it tremble and -grow pale,—but at the same moment rose the trills of the girl so much -the more laughingly aloft, the old man wooed still more amorously, and -the red comet-face murdered his viol so grimly, that it uttered the most -terrifically droll sounds, and the spectators shouted more madly than -ever. - - * * * * - -The little harper must have remarked, that while she was singing and -playing, I looked often at the rose upon her breast; and as I afterwards -threw upon the tin plate, with which she collected her honorarium, a -piece of gold, and not of the smallest, she smiled slily, and asked me -secretly, if I wanted her rose. - - * * * * - -Think no evil, dear reader. It had grown dark, and the stars looked so -pure and pious down into my heart. In that heart itself, however, -trembled the memory of the dead Maria. I thought again of that night, -when I stood beside the bed, where lay her beautiful, pale form, with -soft, still lips—I thought again of the strange look the old woman cast -at me, who was to watch by the dead body, and surrendered her charge to -me for a few hours—I thought again of the night-violet, that stood in a -glass upon the table, and smelt so strangely. Again I shuddered with the -doubt, whether it were really a draft of wind, that blew the lamp -out?—or whether there were a third person in the chamber! - - _Reisebilder, Vol. 3._ - -The minor poems of Heine, like most of his prose writings, are but a -portrait of himself. The same melancholy tone,—the same endless -sigh,—pervades them. Though they possess the highest lyric merit they -are for the most part fragmentary;—expressions of some momentary state -of feeling,—sudden ejaculations of pain or pleasure, of restlessness, -impatience, regret, longing, love. They profess to be songs, and as -songs must they be judged, and as German Songs. Then these imperfect -expressions of feeling,—these mere suggestions of thought,—this -“luminous mist,” that half reveals, half hides the sense,—this -selection of topics from scenes of every day life, and in fine this -prevailing tone of sentimental sadness, will not seem affected, -misplaced nor exaggerated. At the same time it must be confessed that -the trivial and common-place recur too frequently in these songs. Here, -likewise, as in the prose of Heine, the lofty aim is wanting; we listen -in vain for the spirit-stirring note—for the word of power—for those -ancestral melodies, which, amid the uproar of the world, breathe in our -ears forever-more the voices of consolation, encouragement and warning. -Heine is not sufficiently in earnest to be a great poet. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO ONE DEPARTED. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - - Seraph! thy memory is to me - Like some enchanted far-off isle - In some tumultuous sea— - Some ocean vexed as it may be - With storms; but where, meanwhile, - Serenest skies continually - Just o’er that one bright island smile. - For ’mid the earnest cares and woes - That crowd around my earthly path, - (Sad path, alas, where grows - Not even one lonely rose!) - My soul at least a solace hath - In dreams of _thee_; and therein knows - An Eden of bland repose. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: _DRAWN BY T. HAYTER_, _ENGRAVED BY H. S. SADD, N.Y._ _THE -YOUNG WIDOW._ _Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine_] - - * * * * * - - - - - THE YOUNG WIDOW. - - - LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A MINIATURE. - - - By the splendor of thine eyes, - Flashing in their ebon light - As a star across the skies - On the sable noon of night! - By the glory of that brow, - In its calm sublimity,— - With thee, or away, as now, - I worship thee! - - Sorrow has been thine, alas! - Once thou wert a happy bride; - Joy is like a brittle glass: - It was shivered at thy side. - Shall I love thee less for this? - Only be as true to me, - And I’ll glory in the bliss, - The bliss of thee! - - Are thy lashes wet with tears? - Canst thou never more be gay? - Chase afar these foolish fears— - I will kiss thy dread away! - We are parted—’till we meet, - Time shall pass how wearily! - Yet I’ll make each hour more fleet - By thoughts of thee! - - In the solitude of night, - In the tumult of the day, - By the gloamin’ fire’s light, - In the mazy dance and gay, - By the silver-sounding streams, - Underneath the rustling tree, - In my waking, or in dreams, - I’ll think of thee! - - When in ev’ry flower cup - Fairies dance the night away, - When the queenly moon is up, - Moving on her stately way, - When the stars upon the shore - Silence e’en the sounding sea— - Ever till we part no more, - I’ll think of thee! - A. A. I. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FRESHET. - - - A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARE. - - - BY ALFRED B. STREET. - - - March hath unlocked stern Winter’s chain, - Nature is wrapp’d in misty shrouds, - And ceaselessly the drenching rain - Drips from the gray sky-mantling clouds; - The deep snows melt, and swelling rills - Pour through each hollow of the hills; - The river from its rest hath risen, - And bounded from its shattered prison; - The huge ice-fragments onward dash - With grinding roar and splintering crash; - Swift leap the floods upon their way, - Like war-steeds thundering on their path, - With hoofs of waves and manes of spray - Restrainless in their mighty wrath. - - Wild mountains stretch in towering pride - Along the river’s either side; - Leaving between it and their walls - Narrow and level intervals. - When Summer glows, how sweet and bright - The landscape smiles upon the sight! - Here, the deep golden wheat-fields vie - With the rich carpets of the rye, - The buckwheat’s snowy mantles, there, - Shed honied fragrance on the air; - In long straight ranks, the maize uprears - Its silken plumes and pennon’d spears, - The yellow melon, underneath, - Plump, ripening, in its viny wreath: - Here, the thick rows of new-mown grass, - There, the potato-plant’s green mass; - All framed by woods—each limit shown - By zigzag rail, or wall of stone; - Contrasting here, within the shade, - The axe a space hath open laid - Cumber’d with trees hurl’d blended down, - Their verdure chang’d to wither’d brown; - There, the soil ashes-strew’d, and black, - Shows the red flame’s devouring track; - The fire-weed shooting thick where stood - The leafy monarchs of the wood: - A scene peculiar to one land - Which Freedom with her magic wand - Hath touch’d, to clothe with bloom, and bless - With peace, and joy, and plenteousness. - - The rains have ceas’d—the struggling glare - Of sunset lights the misty air, - The fierce wind sweeps the myriad throng - Of broken ragged clouds along, - From the rough saw-mill, where hath rung - Through all the hours, its grating tongue, - The raftsman sallies, as the gray - Of evening tells the flight of day: - And slowly seeks with loitering stride, - His cabin by the river-side. - As twilight darkens into night, - Still dash the waters in their flight, - Still the ice-fragments, thick and fast, - Shoot like the clouds before the blast. - - Beyond—the sinuous channel wends - Through a deep narrow gorge, and bends - With curve so sharp, the drilling ice, - Hurl’d by the flood’s tremendous might, - Piles the opposing precipice, - And every fragment swells the height; - Hour after hour uprears the wall, - Until a barrier huge and tall - Breasts the wild waves that vain upswell - To overwhelm the obstacle: - They bathe the alder on the verge, - The leaning hemlock now they merge, - The stately elm is dwindling low - Within the deep engulfing flow, - Till curb’d thus in its headlong flight, - With its accumulated might, - The river turning on its track, - Rolls its wide-spreading volumes back. - - Slumbers the raftsman—through his dream - Distorted visions wildly stream, - Now in the wood his axe he swings, - And now his sawmill’s jarring rings; - Now his huge raft is shooting swift - Cochecton’s white tumultuous rift, - Now floats it on the ebon lap - Of the grim shadow’d Water Gap, - And now it’s tossing on the swells - Fierce dashing down the slope of Wells, - The rapids crash upon his ear, - The deep sounds roll more loud and near, - They fill his dream—he starts—he wakes! - The moonlight through the casement falls, - Ha! the wild sight that on him breaks, - The floods sweep round his cabin-walls, - Beneath their bounding thundering shocks, - The frail log fabric groans and rocks; - Crash, crash! the ice-bolts round it shiver, - The walls like blast-swept branches quiver, - His wife is clinging to his breast, - The child within his arms is prest, - He staggers through the chilly flood - That numbs his limbs, and checks his blood, - On, on, he strives—the waters lave - Higher his form with every wave, - They steep his breast, on each side dash - The splinter’d ice with thundering crash - A fragment strikes him—ha! he reels, - That shock in every nerve he feels, - Faster, bold raftsman, speed thy way, - The waves roar round thee for their prey, - Thy cabin totters—sinks—the flood - Rolls its mad surges where it stood: - Before thy straining sight, the hill - Sleeps in the moonlight, bright and still, - Falter not, falter not, struggle on, - That goal of safety may be won, - Heavily droops thy wife with fear, - Thy boy’s shrill shriekings fill thine ear; - Urge, urge thy strength to where out-fling - Yon cedar branches for thy cling. - Joy, raftsman joy! thy need is past, - The wish’d for goal is won at last, - Joy, raftsman joy! thy quick foot now - Is resting on the hill’s steep brow: - Praise to high heaven, each knee is bending, - Each heart’s warm incense is ascending, - Praise to high heaven, each humble prayer - Oh, finds it not acceptance there? - - * * * * * - - - - - MARCHES FOR THE DEAD. - - - BY WM. WALLACE, AUTHOR OF “JERUSALEM,” “STAR LYRA,” ETC. - - - A march for the Dead—the _dreamless_ Dead - Of the tomb and the chancel aisle, - Where the cypress bends or the banner-spread - Waves round in the holy pile:— - Let the chimes be low as the awful breath - Of the midnight winds that creep, - With a pulse as faint as the step of Death, - O’er the chambers of the deep, - When the stars are in a solemn noon - Like o’er-wearied watchers there, - And a seraph-glory from the moon - Floats down through the sleeping air. - - A march for the Dead—the _lovely_ Dead - Whose voices still we hear, - Like a spirit-anthem, mournfully - Around a brother’s bier: - Their eyes still beam, as of old, on ours— - And their words still cheer the soul— - And their smiles still shine, like star-lit bow’rs, - Where the tides of Being roll. - Then, oh! minstrel strike your sweetest lyre, - Let its notes to feeling true, - Be warm as the sacred Eastern fire, - But, still, as chastened too: - And Sorrow there will incline her head, - While Hope sits fondly by— - With _one_ hand pointing to the Dead, - The _other_ to the sky. - - A march for the Dead—the _holy_ Dead— - They hallowed every sod - Like the rainbows _resting on our earth_— - _But soaring towards God_. - But, oh! what a diapason there - From the thrilling chords should start! - Like the lightning leaping from its lair - To wither Nature’s heart? - Like the Thunder when the Tempest’s hand - Unveils his giant form, - And strikes, with all his cloudy band, - The organs of the storm? - Ah, no! Let the march be soft, but glad - As a Sabbath evening’s breeze,— - For why should the heart of man be sad - When he thinks of these? _Of these?_ - - A march for the Dead—the _awful_ Dead— - Like mountain peaks, sublime, - Which show, as they rise, some River’s length, - They mark the stream of Time. - How dread they appear as each lies in his tomb, - With the earthy worm revelling there— - While the grim, hairless skulls from the terrible gloom - Are gleaming so ghastly and bare. - - Solemn and slow, with many a wail between, - Harp give thy song the deepest, grandest flow, - While yonder moon, so dim, so cold, serene, - Lights up the burial march of those below: - And from afar the billows of the Main - Send forth their long-drawn, melancholy moan— - Most fitting chorus, for this fearful strain - Breathed in the Temples of the Night alone. - - A march for the Dead—the _mighty_ Dead, - Whose mind like oceans hurl’d - Along the trembling Alps, have shook - A myriad-peopled world. - They were the links of that mighty chain, - Which the heaven unites to man, - Since first from its realm the morning strain - Of the minstrel-stars began: - And along them have flashed for six thousand years - A flame to this lowly sod, - (Oh! holier far than the light of the spheres,) - From the mighty heart of God! - Yet once more, oh! Bard—yet once more re-illume - The song-god’s olden fire, - And shed o’er the depths of the terrible tomb - The beauty of the lyre. - Give its full notes abroad—let its anthem ring out - Through the aisles of the blue-beaming air— - Wild, joyous and loud as the rapturous shout - When a great host of angels are there, - And the Heavens are all glad and wide-arching above. - Kiss the far-distant hills, like the warm lips of Love, - When she cradles the stars and the earth on her breast, - While the waters lie still in their sleep, - And the banners of Evening, unfurl’d in the west, - Pavilion her Deity’s sleep. - - It is well!— - Lo, the spell! - It shakes every shroud! - How they rise!—How they rise!— - The Great and the Proud— - Each a God, as you see by their glorious eyes! - ’Tis a terrible throng!— - And Thought from her Pyramid splendidly bows - And sits like a glory-wreathed crown on their brows,— - As they thunder along. - Hurry on! Hurry on!—ye have not lived in vain - As we see by each radiant head!— - Oh, minstrel still utter that sonorous strain— - ’Tis the march of _the mighty_—the Dead! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE TWO DUKES. - - - BY ANN S. STEPHENS. - - - (Continued from page 82.) - -The princely pile, known as Somerset House, remains even to this day -unfinished, and at the time of our story was, with the exception of one -block, scarcely raised above its foundations. The large square court and -every empty space, for many rods around its site, were cumbered with -building materials. Piles of rude stone—beds of newly made -mortar—window-sashes, with the lead and rich glass that composed them, -crushed together from the carelessness with which they had been flung -down—cornices with the gilding yet fresh upon them—great fragments of -carved oak—beams of timber with flags of marble, and even images of -saints, broken as they were torn from their niches, lay heaped together -promiscuously and with a kind of sacrilegious carelessness. That block -of the building, which runs parallel with the river, alone was -completed, while that portion of the square, which forms its angle on -the strand, was built to the second story so far as the great arched -entrance. But all the rest was only massed out by a line of rough stones -sunk into the earth, and in places almost concealed by the heaps of -rubbish which we have described. - -Notwithstanding the unfinished state of his palace the Lord Protector -had taken possession of that portion already completed, and from the -sumptuous—nay, almost regal magnificence of its adornments, seemed -determined to rival his royal nephew and king, in state, as he had -already done in power. - -We have been particular in describing the Lord Protector’s residence, -for, at the time our story resumes its thread, it contained the leading -personages who rendered themselves conspicuous in the St. Margaret’s -riot. - -Once more the gray of morning hung over the city of London, a faint hum -of voices and the sound of busy feet rose gradually within its bosom. -With the earliest glimmer a host of workmen came to their daily toil -upon the palace, and were seen in the yet dim light swarming upon the -heaps of material gathered in the court, and creeping, like ants drawn -from their mound, along the damp walls and the scaffolding that bristled -over them. - -Though the hum and bustle of busy life swelled and deepened in the -streets the light was not yet strong enough to penetrate the masses of -heavy velvet which muffled three tall windows of a chamber overlooking -the Thames, and a slope of rich, but trampled sward that rolled greenly -down to its brink. So thick and deeply folded were the curtains that it -was broad day in the streets, though the sun had not yet risen, before -sufficient light penetrated the chamber to draw out the objects which it -contained from the deep tranquil gloom that surrounded them. By degrees -a soft, warm light came stealing through a fold or two of the crimson -drapery as if a shower of wine were dashed against them, very faint and -rich it was, but sufficient to reveal a mantelpiece of clouded marble -surmounting an immense fire-place at one end of the room—tall chairs of -dark wood, heavily covered with cushions of crimson leather enveloped -with gold, standing in solemn magnificence around, and a massive bed -supported by immense posts of ebony, each carved like the stems of a -great vine twisted together and coiling upward to the ceiling, where -they branched off and twined together, a superb cornice of foliage cut -from the polished wood, and intermingled with clusters of fruit so -roundly carved that they seemed ready to break loose from the rich -workmanship of tendrils and leaves which bedded them. The broad -footboard was carved to a perfect net-work; its glittering black only -relieved by the Somerset crest exquisitely emblazoned in the centre. The -head was surmounted by a slab of broad ebony even more elaborately -wrought than the other, more nicely touched and interworked like a -specimen of Chinese ivory. In the centre, just over the pillows, a -basket of golden apples gleamed through the delicate dark tracery, which -seemed to prison it, and caught the first faint light that struggled -through the windows. As this light deepened and grew stronger within the -room, a counterpane of purple velvet sweeping over the bed began to -glow, as if the grapes above were red, and had been shaken during the -night over the lovely girl who lay in an unquiet slumber beneath it. The -counterpane was disturbed and lay in purple waves over the bed—for the -Lady Jane Seymour had started up more than once during the morning, and -after gazing wildly about in the dim light, sunk to her pillow again, in -that state of unquiet drowsiness, which is neither wakefulness nor -repose. Now and then, as she seemed most soundly asleep, her lips moved -with restless murmurs, and her fair brow was knitted as if in pain -beneath the crushed lace of her night-coif. She was lying thus with -closed eyes, and yet scarcely asleep, when a door opened, and the old -woman who had escaped from the riot on the previous day, stole softly -into the chamber, bearing in her arms a bundle of green rushes and a -basket of flowers—humble things, but fresh and with the night dew yet -upon them. She laid her burthen on the floor, and approaching the bed on -tipt-toe, bent down and kissed the small hand which crept out from a -fold of the counterpane, as if the beautiful sleeper had been half aware -of her approach. More than once did the kind nurse bend over and caress -her charge, but timidly and as if fearful of arousing her. At length she -went to her basket, took a bunch of wild violets from the blossoms it -contained and laid them upon the pillow. A faint smile beamed over that -fair face as the perfume stole over it, and Lady Jane murmured softly as -one who received pleasure in a dream. - -The nurse hurried away, and untying her rushes, began to scatter them -over the oaken floor. After casting down a few of the flowers upon the -fragrant carpet, she selected others to fill an antique little vase -which stood on a table richly wrought, like everything in the chamber, -and surmounted by a mirror which hung against the wall, in a frame of -ebony and gold, twined and drawn heavily together. The light was yet -very dim, so the good nurse cautiously drew back a fold of the -window-curtain. A sun-beam shot through and broke over the steel mirror -plate, as if a golden arrow had been shivered there. A flood of light, -more than she had intended to admit, filled the chamber and completely -aroused the Lady Jane. She started up in her couch, gazed wildly upon -her nurse, who stood almost terrified by what she had done, with the -half filled vase suspended over the table, and then bending her head -down upon her hand, seemed lost in thought, which ended in a fit of -weeping. - -“Nurse,” she said at last, but without lifting her face. - -The old woman set down her vase, and moving to the bed drew the young -girl to her bosom, and putting back her night-cap, affectionately -smoothed the bright hair gathered beneath it, with her hand. - -“Tell me all that happened, good nurse,” said the Lady at length, “I -know that something is wrong, that I have been in strange places, and -amid a host of people, but it all seems very long since, and strange, -like the dreams that haunt one in sickness.” She paused awhile, very -thoughtfully, and resumed what she was saying. - -“You were with me, and I remember now! they whirled you away in the -crowd. There was a little evil looking man came to me after that. He -rode by them. The church! the altar! that window! and Lord Dudley in the -grasp of rude soldiers! Nurse—tell me, where is the Duke? where is my -father? I must see my father! Go to him, and say that his daughter has -been ill, very ill, and would speak with him before he rides forth for -the morning. Go quickly, I am very well, and can robe myself.” - -As she uttered these hasty directions, the Lady Jane flung back the -bed-drapery, and springing to the floor, snatched a robe from the chair -to which it had been flung on the previous night, and thrusting her arms -into the loose sleeves, began eagerly and with trembling fingers, to -knot the silken cord which bound it to her waist. All at once her hands -dropped from the task, and her exalted features contracted with a sudden -and most painful thought. - -“Do not go,” she said in a stifled voice, but without lifting her face, -“It was my father who bade them tear the church down upon me. It was he -who flung Lord Dudley back among those bad men. Do not go.” - -The nurse, who had seemed reluctant to perform the mission desired of -her, returned, and taking up her young lady’s slippers, knelt down to -place them on her feet, which were heedlessly pressing the chill floor, -but putting the good woman gently aside, Lady Jane began to pace slowly -up and down the apartment, sweeping the rushes with her loose robe, and -crushing beneath her small white feet, the wild blossoms that had been -scattered among them. At length she stopped suddenly and clasping her -hands, turned a look full of wild anguish upon the good woman, who stood -meekly by the bed, with the rejected slippers in her hand. - -“Did you think that my father would ever have cursed _me_?” she said. -“That he would revile the bravest and most noble being in all England, -before a mob of riotous men; that he would let them seize him and -trample me to the earth; _me_, his youngest child—who loved him so.” - -“Nay, sweet Lady—you have been ill, and all this is a feverish fancy. -You should have seen with what tenderness my Lord The Duke, bore you up -from the barge, in his own arms, and would not rest till we brought him -word that you were safe in bed here, and asleep,” replied the nurse. - -Lady Jane shook her head and smiled sadly. “It was no dream,” she said, -“dreams are of the fancy, but such things as happened yesterday, sink -into the soul, and will not pass away.” - -“And yet,” replied the dame, “it was but now the Lord Duke took such -care of your repose, my gentle Lady, that he forbade the workmen -wielding a hammer or crowbar in the court, lest your rest might be -disturbed too early. I met him scarcely ten minutes since, on the way to -his closet, where he is about to examine my Lord Dudley, and that -strange looking man who was brought here on his lordship’s horse, while -the brave young gentleman came by water with a pack of soldiers at his -heels. The Duke, your father, was in haste, but he took occasion to -inquire after your welfare, and bade me observe that no one entered this -chamber, or disturbed you in the least, till you were quite restored.” - -Lady Jane took the slippers from her attendant’s hand, and hastily -thrusting her feet into them, began to arrange her dress once more. - -“Said you that Lord Dudley was with my father now?” she enquired, -turning from the steel mirror, before which she was hurriedly twisting -up her hair. - -“He may not have left his prisoner in the new rooms near the arch yet,” -replied the dame, “but I heard the Duke give orders that he should be -brought out directly with that fellow in the sheep-skin cap. If we were -but on the other side, nothing would be easier than to see them with the -guard, filing through the court.” - -“And has my father gone so far? Lord Dudley imprisoned in our own -dwelling with a felon knave like that?” murmured Lady Jane, folding her -arms and looking almost sternly upon the floor, “alas, what is his -offence, what is mine, that a parent, once so good and kind should deal -thus cruelly with us!” Tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke, and -advancing to the nurse she took her arm, and moved resolutely toward the -door. - -“Whither are you going my lady?” said the nurse, turning pale with -apprehension. - -“To my father,” replied Lady Jane calmly, “I would learn the nature of -my offence, and if accusation is brought against my affianced husband I -would stand by his side. Do not turn pale and tremble, nurse, I am not -the child which I went forth yesterday, though but a day older; intense -suffering is more powerful than time, and I almost think that my youth -has departed forever. Let us go!” - -“I dare not,” replied the old woman, “the duke has forbidden it.” - -“Am I also a prisoner, and in my father’s house?” demanded the lady, -“well, be it so! When the falcon is caged the poor dove should but peck -idly against her wires,” and sitting down the unhappy girl folded her -arms on the dressing-table, where she wept in bitterness of heart. The -noise of heavy feet passing along the corridor to which her chamber -opened aroused her. - -“It is the soldiers with Lord Dudley in charge,” said the nurse in reply -to her questioning look, “I will go and see.” The good woman arose and -softly opening the door looked out. Lady Jane gazed after her with -intense earnestness. When she stepped into the passage and the sound of -low voices came into the room the anxious young creature could restrain -herself no longer, for the tones were familiar and made her heart -thrill, burthened as it was with sorrow. She moved eagerly toward the -door, and, as it was swung open by the returning nurse, caught one -glance of Lord Dudley’s face. It was stern and pale as death. He saw her -and tried to smile, but the rude voice of a soldier bade him move on; he -was hereby excited and the effort was lost in a proud curve of the lips, -which chilled the unhappy young creature who gazed so breathlessly upon -him. It was the first time that she had ever seen a shadow of bitterness -on those lips, for her presence had always a power to bring sunshine to -them in his sternest mood. - -“Oh, what changes has one day brought,” she murmured, burying her face -once more upon the table, “my father’s curse upon me—Dudley, my Dudley, -estranged. My mother—alas! when has the morning dawned that her kiss -failed to greet me. Now, on this wretched day,” she broke off, locked -the small hands which covered her face more firmly together, and again -murmured, “Heaven help me, for I am alone!” - -“No, not alone—is your old nurse of no account? If they have made her -your jailor is she not a kind one?” said the good-hearted attendant, -bending over her weeping charge. “Come, take heart, lady-bird, dark days -cannot last forever; the stars, so beautiful and bright, are sometimes -lost in black clouds, but they always find a time to shine out again. -The duke cannot intend to deal harshly with you or he would never have -appointed your own fond old nurse keeper to your prison. Besides, Lord -Dudley will be set free directly; he bade me tell you that a messenger -had been sent to the staunch old earl, his father, and that another -night would not find him submitting to insult and confinement like the -last.” - -Lady Jane ceased to weep, but still remained sad and thoughtful; she was -troubled and grieved by the absence of her mother. It seemed as if every -thing she loved had deserted her, save the good old nurse. But she was -naturally a cheerful light-hearted creature, and storms must sweep over -such hearts again and again before hope is entirely driven forth. She -was even smiling with some degree of her old mischievous playfulness at -the pompous way in which the good nurse flourished her badge of office, -a huge key which had not yet been put in requisition, when the door was -pushed gently open and a lady of mature but delicate loveliness entered -the room. She was very pale. Her eyes, naturally dark and mild, were -full of troubled light, and flushed a little, as if she had just been -weeping. Her morning robe was slightly disordered, and the head dress of -jewels and velvet, which ornamented, without concealing her beautiful -hair, was placed a little too much on one side, a sure sign of agitation -in one usually so fastidious regarding her toilet. - -Lady Jane was still listening with a languid smile to the well-intended -prattle of her nurse, and the door opened, so quietly that she was not -apprised of her approach, till the duchess stood close by her side. - -With a glad exclamation, and like an infant pining for its mother’s -presence, she started up with an affectionate impulse, and flung her -arms around the lady, then bending her head back, and looking fondly in -her face, murmured— - -“Dear mother, have you come at last?” - -The duchess bent her face to that of the affectionate creature clinging -to her neck, but there was constraint in the action, and no kiss -followed it. Her daughter felt this as a repulse, and gently unclasping -her hands, stood without support, looking with a kind of regretful -fondness in the face which had never dwelt frowningly on her before. - -“Oh! mother, how can you look upon me thus—how have I deserved it!” she -said at last, striving to check the tears which would spring to her -eyes; “How is it that every one turns coldly from me. You, my kind and -gentle mother,—you, that have never sent me to rest without a blessing, -who scarce would let the light kiss my forehead till your lips had -pressed it in the morning. You are growing distrustful like the rest. I -did not think a mother’s love would chill so easily—that _my_ mother -could even find it in her heart to look harshly on her child. Nay, -mother,—dear, dear, mother, do not weep so—I did not think to grieve -you thus deeply. Why do your lips tremble? Why do you wring my hand so? -What wrong have I done? I entreat you tell me all—my heart will break -unless you love me as of old.” - -The duchess was much affected, but still maintained the severity of -manner which she had brought into the room, though it evidently cost her -a strong effort to resist the appeal of her child. She sat down upon the -bed, and, drawing Lady Jane before her, took the small hands, clasped -together, in both hers, and looked searchingly into the soft brown eyes -that met her gaze, not without anxiety, but still with a trustful -fondness that would have disarmed a firmer heart than that which beat so -full of generous and affectionate impulses in the bosom of that noble -lady. - -“Jane,” she said at last, glancing at the slender fingers locked in her -own, “where is the ring which I gave you on the duke’s last birth-day?” - -Lady Jane started at the question, and withdrawing her hand, cast a -quick glance upon it, and then turned anxiously to the old woman. - -“My careful nurse here, must have taken it from my finger as I slept,” -she said, doubtingly. - -The old woman shook her head, and Lady Jane turned earnestly to her -mother, perplexed alike by the loss of her ring, and the strange effect -which it produced on the duchess. - -“When did you wear it last?” enquired the lady. - -The young lady mused for a few moments, and then mentioned the previous -day as that when she remembered to have seen it on her finger. - -“Ay, I remember well,” said the nurse. “It was on my lady’s hand when -she lifted it to chide Richard for his outcry in the crowd. Just then I -was carried off by the mob, and jostled about till it seemed a miracle -that I ever reached the barge again. I mind now that Richard saw the -ring also, for when we all met at the landing, and sat waiting, hour -after hour, in hopes that some blessed chance would direct the poor lady -how to find us, I would have gone back in search of her, but he forbade -me, saying, that no harm would befall a lady of her high condition while -she carried on her fingers the power to purchase protection; so, when -the night closed in, we rowed down the river, just in time to see the -sweet child borne to her chamber, more dead than alive, with the -ill-treatment she had received.” - -The duchess turned her eyes earnestly on the nurse as she spoke, but if -she thought to detect anything but an honest spirit of truth in those -withered features, her scrutiny was unrewarded. - -“How chanced it,” she said, turning again to her daughter, “how chanced -it that you were entangled in the mob near St. Margaret’s, when you went -forth to enjoy the morning breeze upon the river?” - -Lady Jane looked surprised at the question, but answered it without -hesitation. - -“It was very early,” she said, “and the air blew chill on the water, so -I bade the men pull up at Westminster Bridge, intending to take a walk -in the Park, and return home, but as we were crossing up from the river, -the crowd came upon us, and in my terror I was separated from my -attendants and sought shelter as I best could.” Lady Jane then proceeded -to inform her mother of the events which we have already described in -two previous chapters; but she had been so dreadfully terrified that her -narrative was confused, and though it possessed all the simplicity and -force of truth, the disappearance of the ring still appeared a mystery, -for she could in no way account for the manner in which it had left her -possession, but stood pale and utterly overwhelmed with astonishment -when informed of the charge brought against her by the artisan. - -“And did my father believe this of me?” she said, turning to the duchess -in the anguish of an upright spirit unjustly accused. “I could not -suspect any one I loved of a base thing! Yet has my father, whom I -honored and worshipped so, not only condemned but reviled me in the -presence of my affianced husband, and all on the word of a base man, -more despicable far, than the rudest workman who breaks stone in his -court yonder.” - -There was a newly aroused pride in the young girl’s bosom that gave -dignity to the words she uttered. A rich color broke over her cheek, -and, for the first time, those soft eyes kindled with indignation as -they fell upon her mother. - -“Let me go,” she continued, “let me stand face to face with my accuser. -It is not well that the daughter of a noble house—the cousin of an -English Monarch, should be tried and condemned, without hearing, on the -word of a base varlet picked up amid the dregs of a mob.” - -The Duchess gazed upon the excited young creature before her with -mingled feelings of surprise, regret, and, perhaps, some little share of -anger, that she could so easily depart from the humility of her usual -deportment, for though a fond parent, she had even been rigid in her -exactions of deference and respect from her children. The love of a -mother is very powerful, but the pride of a high born English-woman, -educated for her station, is, perhaps, the strongest feeling of her -nature. The duchess felt the truth of all that her daughter had said, -but she felt its boldness also, and her nice feelings were shocked by -it. - -“Your father had other reasons for doubting the integrity of Lord -Dudley—for it would seem that this strange outbreak is occasioned as -much by his imprisonment as your own,” said the lady in a tone of grave -reproof, dropping her daughter’s hand. “We have good cause to fear that -the earl, his father, has been tampering with the young king, and that -he is using all secret means to supplant my noble lord in the power and -station which he now fills. He has left no means untried to gain -popularity in the city. That Lord Dudley has dared to appear against the -Lord Protector, heading a mob almost in open rebellion, is proof that -evil exists, and is spreading through the court. My lord has taken -prompt measures, and in this should not be arraigned by his own child. -If the Lord of Warwick and his son are still loyal to the Protector let -them prove it before the king. But from this hour it is the duke’s -pleasure that the contract existing between the two houses be at an end -forever.” - -Lady Jane stood perfectly motionless and pale as marble when her mother -finished speaking, but after a moment she moved across the room and -glided through the door without speaking a word, and, as if unconscious -of the presence she had left. - -“Poor young lady,” muttered the nurse, wiping her eyes and casting a -look, which would have been reproachful but for awe, upon the -duchess—“her heart was almost broken before, but this will be the death -of her.” - -“Peace, good dame, peace,” said the Duchess of Somerset, in her usual -calm and dignified manner. “My daughter must learn to make sacrifices -when the honor of her house is concerned. From the first I acquitted her -of all wrong intention regarding the diamond, and I deeply grieve at the -annoyance it has produced both to her and us. But regarding Lord Dudley -and his alliance with your young mistress—it can never be thought of -again. Let it be your duty, good dame, as the most cherished attendant -of my child, to reconcile her to the change.” - -With these words the Duchess of Somerset left the chamber just in time -to see the Lady Jane disappear from the extreme end of the corridor -which led to the duke’s closet. - - (To be continued.) - - * * * * * - - - - - TO ISA IN HEAVEN. - - - BY THOMAS HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D. - - - Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, - She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven! - —_Young._ - - Where is she now? - Oh! Isa! tell me where thou art? - If death has laid his hand upon thy brow, - Has he not touched my heart? - Has he not laid it in the grave with thine, - And buried all my joys?—Speak! thou art mine! - - If thou wert dead, - I would not ask thee to reply; - But thou art living—thy dear soul has fled - To heaven, where it can never die! - Then why not come to me? Return—return, - And comfort me, for I have much to mourn! - - I sigh all day! - I mourn for thee the livelong night! - And when the next night comes, thou art away, - And so is absent my delight! - Oh! as the lone dove for his absent mate, - So is my soul for thee disconsolate! - - I long for death— - For any thing—to be with thee! - I did inhale, alas! thy dying breath, - That it might have some power on me - To make me what thou art!—but, thou art dead! - And I am here!—it strengthened me instead! - - Joy there is none— - It went into the grave with thee! - And grief, because my spirit is alone, - Is all that comes to comfort me! - The very air I breathe is turned to sighs, - And all mine soul is melting from mine eyes! - - I hear, at even, - The liquid carol of the birds; - Their music makes me think of thee in heaven, - It is so much like thy sweet words. - The brooklet whispers, as it runs along, - Our first love-story with its liquid tongue. - - Wake, Isa! wake! - And come back in this world again! - Oh! come down to me, for my soul’s dear sake, - And cure me of this trying pain! - I would give all that earth to man can be, - If thou wert only in this world with me! - - Day after day - I seek thee, but thou art not near! - I sit down on thy grave in the cold clay, - And listen for thy soul!—oh! dear! - And when some withered leaf falls from the tree, - I start as if thy soul had spoke to me! - - And so it is, - And so it ever more must be - To him, who has been robbed of all the bliss - He ever knew, by loving thee! - For misery, in thine absence, is my wife! - What joy had been, hadst thou remained in life! - - It is now even; - The birds have sung themselves to sleep; - And all the stars seem coming out of heaven, - As if to look upon me weep!— - Oh! let me not look up to thee in vain, - But come back to me in this world again! - - * * * * * - - - - - MAY EVELYN. - - - BY FRANCES OSGOOD. - - -Beautiful, bewitching May! How shall I describe her? As the fanciful -village-poet, her devoted adorer, declared;—“The pencil that would -paint her charms should be made of sunbeams and dipped in the dewy heart -of a fresh moss-rose.” Whether this same bundle of beams and fragrant -rose-dew would have done full justice to her eloquent loveliness, I -cannot pretend to say—having never attempted the use of any brush less -earthly than are made of hog’s bristles, nor any color more refined than -a preparation from cochineal. Her eyes were “blue as Heaven,” the heaven -of midsummer—when its warm, intense and glorious hue seems deepening as -you gaze, and laughing in the joyous light of day. Her hair, I could -never guess its true color; it was always floating in such exquisite -disorder over her happy face and round white shoulders—now glistening, -glowing in the sunshine, like wreaths of glossy gold, and now, in -shadow, bathing her graceful neck with soft brown waves, that looked -like silken floss, changing forever and lovely in each change. Blushes -and dimples played hide and seek on her face. Her lip—her rich sweet -lip was slightly curved—just enough to show that there was pride as -well as love in her heart. She was, indeed, a spirited creature. Her -form was of fairy moulding, but perfect though “petite!” and her motions -graceful as those of the Alpine chamois. - -Reader, if I have failed in my attempt to convey to you an image of -youthful grace, beauty and sweetness, I pray you repair my deficiency -from the stores of your own lively imagination, and fancy our dear May -Evelyn the loveliest girl in the universe. - -And now for her history. Her father, of an ancient and noble family, had -married, in early life, a beautiful but extravagant woman, who died a -few years after their union, leaving him with two lovely children and an -all but exhausted fortune. On her death he retired from the gay world, -and settled with his infant treasures in Wales, and there, husbanding -his scanty means, he contrived to live in comfort if not in luxury. -There, too, brooding over the changes of human life—the fallacy of -human foresight, and the fickleness of human friendship, he became “a -sadder and a wiser man.” His two beautiful children, Lionel and May, -were the idols of his heart, and well did they repay his love. - -May’s first serious trouble arose from hearing her father express one -day his desire to purchase for Lionel a commission in the army. The boy -was high-spirited and intelligent, and had cherished from childhood an -ardent desire for military life; but there was no possibility of raising -sufficient money for the purpose, without sacrificing many of their -daily comforts. - -At this time May was just sixteen; but there was in her face a childlike -purity and innocence, which, combined with her playful simplicity of -manner, made her appear even younger than she was. She hated study, -except in the volume of nature; there indeed she was an apt and willing -pupil. Birds and streams and flowers were her favorite books; but though -little versed in the lore of her father’s well-stored library—she had -undoubted genius, and whenever she did apply herself, could learn with -wonderful rapidity. - -The only science, however, in which she was a proficient, was -music:—for this she had an excellent ear and, when a mere child, ere -her father’s removal to Wales, had been under the tuition of a -celebrated master. Her voice was rich, sweet and powerful, and her -execution on the guitar, piano and harp, was at once brilliant and -expressive. She had, also, a pretty talent for versifying, and often -composed music for words, which, if not remarkable for power or polish, -were certainly bewitching when sung by their youthful authoress. - -During most of the day, on the morning of which Mr. Evelyn first -mentioned his wishes with regard to Lionel, the sunny face of our -heroine was clouded with sorrowful thought; but towards evening, as her -father sat alone in his library, the door suddenly opened, and May, -bounding in, her eyes beaming with enthusiasm, exclaimed—“Papa! papa! I -have just thought—I know what I’ll do!—I’ll be a governess.” Her -father gazed at her in astonishment. - -“A governess, May! What can have put such an idea into your head? Why -should you be a governess?” - -“Oh! for Lionel, you know. I can soon earn enough to buy his -commission.” - -“And it is this then, my child,” said Mr. Evelyn, tenderly, “that has so -repressed your usual spirits!” But while he spoke seriously, he could -scarcely repress a smile at the thought of the wild, childlike being -before him, transformed into a staid, dignified teacher. - -During the six weeks following, the devoted girl deprived herself of all -her usual outdoor amusements, and, with wonderful energy applied, under -her father’s guidance, to study. At the end of that time, she laughingly -declared that she knew a little of everything; but still her passion for -birds and flowers was far greater than for books. - -Ere the six weeks had well expired, she heard from some young friends, -who were on a visit to Wales, from London, that the earl of —— was in -want of a governess for his four children. She begged them, on their -return, to mention her. This they did, and with youthful exaggeration -extolled her talents to the skies. - -The Earl understanding that she was the accomplished and amiable -daughter of an aged naval officer, saw, in his mind’s eye, a learned -lady of a certain age, who would, perhaps, prove a mother in kindness -and usefulness to his orphan children, and gladly acceded to the desire -of his young friends, that he should make trial of her. - -The poor things were not aware what a little ignoramus they were -recommending; for the youthful Lionel, who, sometimes took a peep into -the library, and stared in surprise at the various apparatus for study, -had boasted all over the village in which they resided, that his sister -knew everything under the sun, and had mentioned, in corroboration of -this sweeping declaration, that she was always poring over French, -Spanish, Greek or Latin books. This, her enthusiastic young friends, -who, by the way, had only known her a fortnight, took care to make the -most of—and the result was, that May was considered, by the Earl, as a -most fitting instructress for his children, and dreaded by them as a -prim and severe restraint upon their hitherto unchecked amusements. - - - CHAPTER II. - -It was the morning of the day on which the dreaded governess was -expected, Julia, Elizabeth, Georgiana and William—the first 15, the -second 10, the third 8, and the fourth 7 years of age, were at play in -the garden of the Earl’s country seat. They had heard awful things of -governesses from some of their young companions, and the younger -children had been whispering to each other their dread of the expected -tyrant. They had, however, resumed their gambols, and forgotten the -matter, with that charming versatility which makes them so interesting, -when their nurse appeared with the news that the governess had arrived, -and was waiting to be introduced to her young charge in the school-room. -A sudden change was observable on the countenances of all. It was -amusing to watch the expression on each of those young faces. Julia—the -pensive and graceful Julia sighed, and bent her soft eyes sadly on the -ground, as she instantly turned her steps towards the house. The little -wilful and spirited Willie began to strut manfully backward and forward, -declaring that the others might do as they liked, but that _he_ would -not go near the ugly old woman. Georgy pouted—and Lizzie burst into -tears. At the sound of weeping, Julia turned back—soothed and cheered -them all by turns—kissed away the tears of one sister—smoothed the -other’s frowning brow with her soft and loving hand, and laughed at -Willie till he was fain to join in the laugh in spite of himself. She -then desired them to follow her to the school-room—which they -did—clinging to her dress, however, as if they expected to see a -monster in the shape of a governess; but as they reached the flight of -steps which led from the lawn to the house, their courage failed, and, -leaving Julia to ascend alone, they suddenly and simultaneously turned -to escape, and hurrying away, concealed themselves in the garden, where -they soon resumed their sports. - -In the meantime Julia had ascended the steps and stood gazing in silent -astonishment through the glass door opening into the school-room. The -object of her dread was there—but not as she had pictured her—a prim, -severe old-maid. A girl apparently younger than herself, with a sweet -glowing face, shaded by a profusion of lovely hair,—her straw bonnet -flung on the floor, and her simple white dress looking anything but -old-maidish—was stooping to caress their favorite dog, Carlo, while the -pet-parrot sat perched on her shoulder, mingling his gorgeous plumage -with her light brown curls, and crying with all his might, “old-maid -governess! old-maid governess!” As our heroine raised her head, -wondering at the strange salutation, (which, by the way, master Willie -had been maliciously teaching him for some time previous,) her eyes -encountered those of the smiling Julia, who, equally surprised and -delighted at the scene, already saw, in Miss Evelyn, a friend after her -own heart, such an one as she had long ardently desired. - -At this critical moment, the good old nurse entered from the lawn, and -seeing the mutual embarrassment of the parties, said simply to -May—“This is your oldest pupil, madam.” At the words “madam” and -“pupil,” both May and Julia tried hard to repress the smiles which would -peep through their eyes and lips—in vain. The dimples on the cheek of -the youthful governess grew deeper and deeper—Julia’s dark eyes flashed -through their drooping fringes more and more brightly, and, at length, -the smothered merriment burst irresistibly forth. No sooner had the -latter’s eye caught the arch glance and her ear the musical laugh of -May, than she sprang forward to clasp her readily extended hand, -exclaiming, “I am sure you will be my friend!” - -“That I will,” said May, “if you won’t call me ‘old-maid governess’ -again.” - -“Old-maid governess, old-maid governess,” screamed the parrot from his -cage. - -May began to look grave, and Julia, blushing with vexation, led her -gently to the cage, outside of the door, and pointed to the bird in -silence. “How stupid I was!” exclaimed May; “I quite forgot the parrot -when I saw that beautiful dog. I do so love dogs—don’t you?” - -“Yes! but I love you better,” said Julia, affectionately, throwing her -arm around her new friend’s neck, and sealing her avowal with a kiss. - -At this moment, Willie was seen peeping and stealing slyly round the -shrubbery—his roguish face subdued to as demure a look as it could -possibly assume. For a moment he stared at the pair in amazement, and -then clapping his hands, he shouted, - -“Georgy! Lizzie! Georgy! come and see Julia kissing the governess!” - -“Oh! you lovely boy!” exclaimed May—bounding down the steps, “I must -have a kiss!” and away she flew after the little rosy rogue—he laughing -so heartily as to impede his progress, till at last helpless, from very -glee, he fell into her arms, and allowed her to kiss him half a dozen -times before he remembered that she was the teacher so dreaded by them -all. When he did recollect, he looked up half incredulously in her face. - -“You are not old!” said he,—“no, nor yet prim, nor cross. I don’t think -you are so very ugly either, and maybe you don’t know much after all. I -say, governess, if you please, ma’am, can you spin a top?” - -“No!” said May. - -“Hurrah! I thought so—hurrah, Georgy! she don’t know so much as I do -now—hurrah! hurrah! I’ll stand by her for one!” and, tossing his hat in -the air, he sprang into the lap of May, who had sank into a low rustic -seat, quite exhausted from her exercise—her cheeks glowing—her hair in -disorder, and her lips parted with smiling delight. - -By this time the two little girls, who had been peeping a long while, -ventured, followed by Julia, to approach;—Georgiana leading, or rather -dragging the shy but lovely little Lizzie in one hand, and holding in -the other a freshly gathered rose-bud, which she timidly presented to -our heroine, as if to bribe her not to be harsh with them. May stooped -to kiss the intelligent face whose dark and eloquent eyes looked so -pleadingly into hers; while Julia, who stood behind her, stole the rose -from her hand. “Let me wreathe it in your hair,” she said. At that -moment, while she was yet engaged in her graceful task, the Earl -suddenly appeared before them. It must be remembered that he had seen, -from his library window, the before-mentioned chase, and rather curious -to know who the beautiful visiter could be, (not having been apprised of -Miss Evelyn’s arrival,) he had followed them to the spot on which they -were now assembled—May on the seat, parting the dark curls from -Lizzie’s bashful and downcast brow; Willie on her knee; Georgy gazing up -in her face, and Julia placing the rose-bud in her hair. All started at -the sudden appearance of the Earl. Willie sprang to his arms, and little -Lizzie, afraid of every new comer, laid her curly head on the knee of -her newly-found friend, and turned up her bright eyes inquiringly to her -father’s face. - -“Do not let me disturb your play, my children,” said the Earl. “I only -come to remind you, that your governess will soon be here, and that you -must welcome her with respect and attention. But, Julia, you must -introduce me to this merry young friend of yours, who runs as if her -heart were in her feet;” and so saying, he playfully patted the drooping -head of the blushing and embarrassed girl, who, all this while, had been -striving to hide her fears and her confusion by pretending to be deeply -occupied in twisting Lizzie’s silken ringlets round her little taper -finger. The moment she had heard Willie exclaim, “papa!” all her former -dread of that awful personage returned, and, with it, for the first -time, a full sense of her own inefficiency to perform the task she had -undertaken. His voice so deep and yet so sweet and playful, banished -half her dread, but only increased her confusion. - -Julia, however, came instantly to her relief, with a tact and delicacy -uncommon in one so young—saying simply and seriously, “This is our -governess, papa. Miss Evelyn, this is our dear papa.” - -The Earl started back,—tried to repress his smiles, bowed low to -conceal them, and then taking her hand respectfully in his, bade her -welcome to the castle. - -The word “governess” had acted like a spell upon May’s faculties; it -restored her to a sense of the dignity of her situation, and rising -instantly and drawing her beautiful form to its full height, she -received and returned the compliments of the Earl with a graceful -dignity and self-possession, that astonished him, as much as it awed the -poor children. And when, in his courteous reply, he begged her pardon -for his mistake, in a tone at once gentle and deferential, she found -courage, for the first time, to raise her eyes. It was no stern, old, -pompous nobleman, such as her fears had portrayed, who stood before her, -but an elegant man, in the prime of life, with a noble figure and -singularly handsome face, full of genius and feeling. - -His dark eyes were bent upon her with a gaze of mingled curiosity and -admiration; but, as they met hers, he recollected himself, and wishing -her and his children good morning, and resigning Willie, as if it were a -thing of course, to her arms, (a circumstance, by the way, which he -could not help smiling at half an hour afterwards,) he passed on and -left them. - -And now came innumerable questions from all but the silent Georgy, who -contented herself with nestling close to the side of our heroine as they -wandered through the grounds—and gazing with her large soft eyes into -her face, now dimpled with the light of mirth, now softening into -tenderness, and now shadowed by a passing thought of “papa, and Lionel, -and home.” - -“And oh!” said Lizzie, “you won’t take away my doll and make me study -all the time, will you?” - -“No, indeed, darling! I would much rather help you dress your doll.” - -“And I may spin my top all day if I like—may I not?” asked Willie. - -“Yes, if papa is willing.” - -“Oh! but papa told us to obey all your commands.” - -“Commands,” thought May, “oh, dear, I shall never do for a governess!” - -The day passed on in sport. Our heroine’s duties were to commence on the -next; but she would not allow her fears for the morrow to interfere with -her present delight. In the meantime, the Earl, amid his important -duties, was haunted all day by one bewitching image;—a fair sweet face -glanced brightly up from every book he opened, from every paper to which -he referred; and, in his dreams that night, he led to the altar a second -bride, more lovely, more beloved than the first. - - - CHAPTER III. - -Early the next morning, as May sat teaching Willie to read, with a -demure face, through which the rebel dimples would peep in spite of her -assumed dignity; while Julia, with a look equally demure, was bending -over an Italian book; Georgy drawing, and Lizzie hemming a wee bit -’kerchief for her doll—the Earl entered the school-room from the lawn. - -Unseen, he paused at the open door to contemplate the lovely tableau -within;—the governess in her pretty girlish morning dress, with her -long ringlets shadowing half her face and neck, as she bent over the -boy, pointing out to him the word;—Willie by her side—one hand holding -the book, the other his top, kicking the chair impatiently—first with -one foot, then with the other, and looking round every minute to see -what his sisters were doing;—Georgy smiling as she drew; Lizzie sitting -upright in her little chair, with a doll almost as large as herself on -her lap, ever and anon trying the ’kerchief round its neck to see the -effect; and the simple, modest Julia, looking even older than May, with -her dark hair smoothly parted—raising at times her eyes with looks of -loving sympathy to those of the youthful teacher. - -It was indeed a sunny scene; but the silence was broken by the voice of -Georgy requesting assistance in her drawing. The young governess rose, -and taking her offered pencil, retouched the sketch in a few places, at -the same time giving the child directions how to finish it. Suddenly the -pencil trembled in her hand,—the sweet low voice stopped—went -on—faltered—ceased again, and May burst into tears! The Earl had -stolen behind them to watch the progress of the drawing. May had felt, -rather than heard, his approach,—and confused by his presence, half -suspecting her own deficiency in the art, yet afraid to discontinue her -directions at once, her face suffused with blushes, she tried in vain to -proceed. Little Lizzie saw her tears, and springing from her seat, -climbed a chair to caress her, exclaiming, “Don’t cry! papa won’t hurt -you! Papa loves you dearly—don’t you, papa?” - -Here was a situation! It was now the Earl’s turn to color; but the -artless and innocent May, who had as yet known only a father’s and a -brother’s love, did not dream of any other in the present case; on the -contrary, she was soothed by the affectionate assurances of the child, -and, smiling through her tears, looked up confidingly in the Earl’s -face. Charmed with the childlike sweetness of her expression he could -not resist taking her hand, with almost paternal tenderness, in his, -while May, reassured by the gentleness of his manner, ventured to -acknowledge her own ignorance, and to request his assistance in the -sketch before them. This, to the delight of all, he willingly consented -to give, and when, at two o’clock, the nurse came to take the children -to dinner, she found May seated alone at the table, intent on a newly -commenced drawing—the Earl leaning over her chair and instructing her -in its progress—Julia singing “Love’s Young Dream,” and the three -children gone no one knew where. - -The next day, and the next, the Earl was still to be found in the -school-room, sometimes spinning Willie’s top, sometimes reading an -Italian author aloud to his daughter and her governess—often sharing -the book with the latter, and oftener still, blending his rich and manly -voice with hers as she sang to the harp or piano. One day a visiter -asked Willie how he liked his new governess? “Oh!” said the boy, “_papa_ -is governess now. May is only our sister, and we are all _so_ happy!” - -Thus passed a year—Julia and May daily improving under their indulgent -and unwearied teacher—and imparting in their turn instruction to the -younger branches of the family. May had confided to Julia all her little -history. She had written often to her father, and had received many -letters in return. From one of them she learned, to her great joy and -surprise, that Lionel had received his commission from some unknown -friend. At the same time, her father advised her, as she had engaged for -a year, to be contented until the expiration of it. “Contented!” - -The last day of the year had arrived—May had lately been so happy that -she had forgotten to think of being separated from the family she loved -so much. - -On the morning of the day, the Earl was in his library, Julia making -tea, and May on a low ottoman at his feet, reading aloud the morning -paper. Suddenly she paused, dropped the paper, and covered her face with -her hands. The Earl, alarmed, bent tenderly over her, and Julia was by -her side in a moment. - -“What is it, dear May?” she said. - -“Oh, the paper—look at the paper, Julia!” - -The Earl caught it up—“Where—tell me where to look, May?” - -“At the date—the date!” - -“The date—it is the first of June—and what then?” - -“Oh! did I not _come_ the first of June and must I not go to-morrow? I -am sure I shall never do for a governess!” and she hid her face on -Julia’s shoulder, and wept afresh. - -The Earl raised her gently—“Perhaps not; but you will do for something -else, sweet May!” - -“For what?” she asked earnestly—half wondering whether he could mean -_housekeeper_! - -“Come into the garden with me, dear, dear May, and I will tell you,” he -whispered in her ear. - -At once the whole truth flashed upon her heart. “She loved—she was -beloved!” She was no longer a child—that moment transformed her; and -shrinking instantly from his embrace and blushing till her very temples -glowed again—she said in a low and timid voice, “I think I had better -go home to-morrow—perhaps to-day: my father will expect me.” - -“Julia,” said the Earl, “run into the garden, love, and see to -Willie—he is in mischief, I dare say.” His daughter was out of sight in -a moment. May stood shrinking and trembling, but unable to move. The -Earl gazed, with a feeling bordering upon reverence, at the young girl, -as she stood alone in her innocence. He drew slowly towards -her—hesitated—again approached, and taking her hand with respectful -tenderness, he said—“You know that I love you, May—how fondly—how -fervently—time must show for language cannot:—will you—_say_ you will -be mine—with your father’s consent, dear May—or say that I may hope!” - -Her whole soul was in her eyes as she raised them slowly to his and -dropped them instantly again beneath his ardent gaze. “But—papa!” she -murmured. - -“We will all go together, and ask ‘papa,’ dearest; and now for a turn in -the garden. You will not refuse now, love?” And May Evelyn, blushing and -smiling, took his offered arm, wondering what “dear papa and Lionel” -would say to all this. - -It was a lovely evening in the early part of June, that, while Mr. -Evelyn sat dozing in his arm chair and dreaming of his absent children, -a light form stole over the threshold, and when he awoke, his gray hair -was mingled with the glistening locks of his own beautiful and beloved -May—his head resting on her shoulder, and her kiss warm upon his cheek! - -“My Lord,” said May, demurely, as she entered, with her father, the -drawing-room in which the Earl awaited them—“papa is very glad that I -have _given satisfaction_;—he thinks your visit a proof of it—although -he could hardly have expected so much from his little ignoramus, as he -will persist in calling me.” - -“My dear sir,” said the Earl, cordially pressing the offered hand of his -host, “she has given _so much satisfaction_, that I wish, with your -consent, to retain her as _governess_ for life, not for my children, but -myself.” - -The reader has already foreseen the conclusion. Mr. Evelyn’s consent was -obtained;—Lionel was sent for to be present at the wedding;—the -ceremony was quietly performed in the little church of the village;—and -for many succeeding seasons in London, the graceful and elegant wife of -the Earl of —— was “the observed of all observers,” “the cynosure of -neighboring eyes.” - - * * * * * - - - - - AN EPISTLE TO FANNY. - - - BY PARK BENJAMIN. - - - Sweet Fanny, though I know you not, - And I have never seen the splendor - That flashes from your hazel eyes - To make the souls of men surrender; - Though, when they ask me how you look, - I’m forced to say “I never met her,” - I hope you will not deem it wrong - If I address to you a letter. - - Here in mine own secluded room, - Forgetful of life’s sober duty, - Lapped in the stillness of repose, - I sit and muse and dream of beauty; - I picture all that’s fair and bright - Which poets sometimes call Elysian, - And, ’mid the shapes that round me throng, - Behold one soft, enchanting vision. - - A lady—lovely as the morn - When Night her starry mansion closes, - And gentle winds with fairy feet - Toss the sweet dew from blushing roses— - A lady—to whose lip and cheek - Some twenty summer suns have given - Colors as rich as those that melt - Along the evening clouds of Heaven. - - Her stature tall, her tresses dark, - Her brow like light in ambush lying, - Her hand—the very hand I’d give - The world to clasp if I were dying! - Her eyes, the glowing types of love, - Upon the heart they print their meaning— - How mild they shine as o’er them fall - Those lashes long their lustre screening! - - Sweet Fanny, can you not divine - The form that floats before my dreaming, - And whose the pictured smiles I see - This moment on my canvass beaming? - You cannot! then I’ve failed indeed, - To paint a single look I cherish— - So, you may cast my lines aside, - And bid them like my memory perish. - - My memory! what am I to thee, - Oh purest, gentlest, fairest, dearest! - Yes, _dearest_, though thy glance be cold - When first my humble name thou hearest. - Though I am nothing, thou to me - Art Fancy’s best beloved ideal; - And well I know the form she paints - Is far less charming than the real. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DOOM OF THE TRAITRESS.[1] - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CROMWELL,” “THE BROTHERS,” ETC. - - -A cold and dark northeaster had swept together a host of straggling -vapors and thin lowering clouds over the French metropolis—the course -of the Seine might be traced easily among the grotesque roofs and gothic -towers which at that day adorned its banks, by the gray ghostly mist -which seethed up from its sluggish waters—a small fine rain was falling -noiselessly and almost imperceptibly, by its own weight as it were, from -the surcharged and watery atmosphere—the air was keenly cold and -piercing, although the seasons had not crept far as yet beyond the -confines of the summer. The trees, for there were many in the streets of -Paris and still more in the fauxbourgs and gardens of the haute -noblesse, were thickly covered with white rime, as were the manes and -frontlets of the horses, the clothes, and hair, and eyebrows of the -human beings who ventured forth in spite of the inclement weather. A -sadder and more gloomy scene can scarcely be conceived than is presented -by the streets of a large city in such a time as that I have attempted -to describe. But this peculiar sadness was, on the day of which I write, -augmented and exaggerated by the continual tolling of the great bell of -St. Germain Auxerrois, replying to the iron din which arose from the -gray towers of Notre Dâme. From an early hour of the day the people had -been congregating in the streets and about the bridges leading to the -precincts of the royal palace, the Chateau des Tournelles, which then -stood—long since obliterated almost from the memory of men—upon the -Isle de Paris, the greater part of which was covered then with the -courts, and terraces, and gardens of that princely pile. - -Strong bodies of the household troops were posted here and there about -the avenues and gates of the royal demesne, and several large -detachments of the archers of the prevôt’s guard—still called so from -the arms which they had long since ceased to carry—might be seen every -where on duty. Yet there were no symptoms of an émeute among the -populace, nor any signs of angry feeling or excitement in the features -of the loitering crowd, which was increasing every moment as the day -waxed toward noon. Some feeling certainly there was—some dark and -earnest interest, as might be judged from the knit brows, clinched -hands, and anxious whispers which every where attended the exchange of -thought throughout the concourse—but it was by no means of an alarming -or an angry character. Grief, wonder, expectation, and a sort of half -doubtful pity, as far as might be gathered from the words of the passing -speakers, were the more prominent ingredients of the common feeling, -which had called out so large a portion of the city’s population on a -day so unsuited to any spectacle of interest. For several hours this -mob, increasing as it has been described from hour to hour, varied but -little in its character, save that as the day wore it became more and -more respectable in the appearance of its members. At first it had been -composed almost without exception of artisans and shop boys, and -mechanics of the lowest order, with not a few of the cheats, bravoes, -pickpockets, and similar ruffians, who then as now formed a fraternity -of no mean size in the Parisian world. As the morning advanced, however, -many of the burghers of the city, and respectable craftsmen, might be -seen among the crowd; and a little later many of the secondary gentry -and petite noblesse, with well-dressed women and even children, all -showing the same symptoms of sad yet eager expectation. Now, when it -lacked but a few minutes of noon, long trains of courtiers with their -retinues and armed attendants, many a head of a renowned and ancient -house, many a warrior famous for valor and for conduct might be seen -threading the mazes of the crowded thoroughfares toward the royal -palace. - -A double ceremony of singular and solemn nature was soon to be enacted -there—the interment of a noble soldier, slain lately in an unjust -quarrel, and the investiture of an unwilling woman with the robes of a -holy sisterhood preparatory to her lifelong interment in that sepulchre -of the living body—sepulchre of the pining soul—the convent cloisters. -Armand de Laguy!—Marguerite de Vaudreuil! - -Many circumstances had united in this matter to call forth much -excitement, much grave interest in the minds of all who had heard tell -of it!—the singular and wild romance of the story, the furious and -cruel combat which had resulted from it—and last not least, the -violent, and, as it was generally considered, unnatural resentment of -the King toward the guilty victim who survived the ruin she had wrought. - -The story was in truth, then, but little understood—a thousand rumors -were abroad, and of course no one accurately true—yet in each there was -a share of truth, and the amount of the whole was, perhaps, less wide of -the mark than is usual in matters of the kind. And thus they ran. -Marguerite de Vaudreuil had been betrothed to the youngest of France’s -famous warriors, Charles de La-Hirè, who after a time fell—as it was -related by his young friend and kinsman, Armand de Laguy—covered with -wounds and honor. The body had been found outstretched beneath the -surviver, who, himself desperately hurt, had alone witnessed, and in -vain endeavored to prevent, his cousin’s slaughter. The face of Charles -de La-Hirè, as all men deemed the corpse to be, was mangled and defaced -so frightfully as to render recognition by the features utterly -hopeless—yet from the emblazoned surcoat which it bore, the well-known -armor on the limbs, the signet ring upon the finger, and the accustomed -sword clenched in the dead right hand, none doubted the identity of the -body, or questioned the truth of Armand’s story. - -Armand de Laguy, succeeding by his cousin’s death to all his lands and -lordships, returned to the metropolis, mixed in the gayeties of that gay -period, when all the court of France was revelling in the celebration of -the union of the Dauphin with the lovely Mary Stuart, in after days the -hapless queen of Scotland. - -He wore no decent and accustomed garb of mourning—he suffered no -interval, however brief, due to decorum at least if not to kindly -feeling, to elapse before it was announced that Marguerite de Vaudreuil, -the dead man’s late betrothed, was instantly to wed his living cousin. -Her wondrous beauty, her all-seductive manners, her extreme youth had in -vain pleaded against the general censure of the court—the world! Men -had frowned on her for awhile, and women sneered and slandered!—but -after a little while, as the novelty of the story wore away, the -indignation against her inconstancy ceased, and she was once again -installed the leader of the court’s unwedded beauties. - -Suddenly, on the very eve of her intended nuptials, Charles de La-Hirè -returned—ransomed, as it turned out, by Brissac, from the Italian -dungeons of the Prince of Parma, and making fearful charges of treason -and intended murder against Armand de Laguy. The King had commanded that -the truth should be proved by a solemn combat, had sworn to execute upon -the felon’s block whichever of the two should yield or confess -falsehood, had sworn that the inconstant Marguerite, who, on the return -of De La-Hirè, had returned instantly to her former feelings, asserting -her perfect confidence in the truth of Charles, the treachery of Armand, -should either wed the victor, or live and die the inmate of the most -rigorous convent in his realm. - -The battle had been fought yesterday!—Armand de Laguy fell, mortally -wounded by his wronged cousin’s hand, and with his latest breath -declared his treasons, and implored pardon from his King, his kinsman, -and his God—happy to perish by a brave man’s sword not by a headsman’s -axe. And Marguerite—the victor’s prize—rejected by the man she had -betrayed—herself refusing, even if he were willing, to wed with him -whom she could but dishonor—had now no option save death or the -detested cloister. - -And now men pitied—women wept—all frowned and wondered and kept -silence. That a young, vain, capricious beauty—the pet and spoiled -child from her very cradle of a gay and luxurious court—worshipped for -her charms like a second Aphrodite—intoxicated with the love of -admiration—that such an one should be inconstant, fickle!—should -swerve from her fealty to the dead!—a questionable fealty always!—and -be won to a rash second love by the falsehood and treasons of a man, -young and brave and handsome—falsehood which had deceived wise -men—that such should be the course of events, men said, was neither -strange nor monstrous! It was a fault, a lapse of which she had been -guilty, which might indeed make her future faith suspected, which would -surely justify Charles de La-Hirè in casting back her proffered hand, -but which at the worst was venial, and deserving no such doom as the -soul-chilling cloister. - -She had, they said, in no respect participated in the guilt, or shared -the treacheries of Armand—on the contrary—she, the victim of his -fraud, had been the first to denounce, to spit at, to defy him. - -Moreover it was understood that although de La-Hirè had refused her -hand, several of equal and even higher birth than he had offered to -redeem her from the cloister by taking her to wife of their free -choice—Jarnac had claimed the beauty—and it was whispered that the -Duke de Nevers had sued to Henry vainly for the fair hand of the -unwilling novice. - -But the King was relentless. “Either the wife of De La-Hirè!—or the -bride of God in the cloister!” was his unvarying reply. No farther -answer would he give—no disclosure of his motives would he make even to -his wisest councillors. Some indeed augured that the good monarch’s -anger was but feigned, and that deeming her sufficiently punished -already he was desirous still of forcing her to be the bride of him to -whom she had been destined, and whom she still, despite her brief -inconstancy, unquestionably worshipped in her heart. For all men still -supposed that at the last Charles would forgive the hapless girl, and so -relieve her from the living tomb that even now seemed yawning to enclose -her. But others—and they were those who understood the best mood of -France’s second Henry—vowed that the wrath was real; and felt, that, -though no man could fathom the cause of his stern ire, he never would -forgive the guilty girl, whose frailty, as he swore, had caused such -strife and bloodshed. - -But now it was high noon, and forth filed from the palace gates a long -and glittering train—Henry and all his court, with all the rank and -beauty of the realm, knights, nobles, peers and princes, damsels and -dames—the pride of France and Europe. But at the monarch’s right walked -one, clad in no gay attire—pale, languid, wounded and warworn—Charles -de La-Hirè, the victor. A sad deep gloom o’ercast his large dark eye, -and threw a shadow over his massy forehead—his lip had forgot to smile! -his glance to lighten! yet was there no remorse, no doubt, no wavering -in his calm, noble features—only fixed, settled sorrow. His long and -waving hair of the darkest chesnut, evenly parted on his crown, fell -down on either cheek, and flowed over the broad plain collar of his -shirt which, decked with no embroidery lace, was folded back over the -cape of a plain black pourpoint, made of fine cloth indeed, but neither -laced nor passemented, nor even slashed with velvet—a broad scarf of -black taffeta supported his weapon—a heavy double-edged straight -broadsword, and served at the same time to support his left arm, the -sleeve of which hung open, tied in with points of ribbon. His trunk-hose -and his nether stocks of plain black silk, black velvet shoes and a -slouched hat, with neither feather nor cockade, completed the suit of -melancholy mourning which he wore. In the midst of the train was a yet -sadder sight, Marguerite de Vaudreuil, robed in the snow-white vestments -of a novice, with all her glorious ringlets flowing in loose redundance -over her shoulders and her bosom, soon to be cut close by the fatal -scissors—pale as the monumental stone and only not as rigid. A -hard-featured gray-headed monk, supported her on either hand—and a long -train of priests swept after with crucifix and rosary and censer. - -Scarce had this strange procession issued from the great gates of les -Tournelles, the death-bells tolling still from every tower and steeple, -before another train, gloomier yet and sadder, filed out from the gate -of the royal tilt-yard, at the farther end of which stood a superb -pavilion. Sixteen black Benedictine monks led the array chanting the -mournful _miserere_—next behind these, strange contrast!—strode on the -grim gaunt form, clad in his blood-stained tabard, and bearing full -displayed his broad two-handed axe—fell emblem of his odious -calling!—the public executioner of Paris. Immediately in the rear of -this dark functionary, not borne by his bold captains, nor followed by -his gallant vassals with arms reversed and signs of martial sorrow, but -ignominiously supported by the grim-visaged ministers of the law, came -on the bier of Armand, the last Count de Laguy. - -Stretched in a coffin of the rudest material and construction, with his -pale visage bare, displaying still in its distorted lines and sharpened -features the agonies of mind and body which had preceded his untimely -dissolution, the bad but haughty noble was borne to his long home in the -grave-yard of Notre Dâme. His sword, broken in twain, was laid across -his breast, his spurs had been hacked from his heels by the base cleaver -of the scullion, and his reversed escutcheon was hung above his head. - -Narrowly saved by his wronged kinsman’s intercession from dying by the -headsman’s weapon ere yet his mortal wounds should have let out his -spirit—he was yet destined to the shame of a dishonored sepulchre—such -was the King’s decree, alas! inexorable. - -The funeral train proceeded—the King and his court followed. They -reached the grave-yard, hard beneath those superb gray towers!—they -reached the grave, in a remote and gloomy corner, where, in -unconsecrated earth, reposed the executed felon—the priests attended -not the corpse beyond the precincts of that unholy spot—their solemn -chant died mournfully away—no rites were done, no prayers were said -above the senseless clay—but in silence was it lowered into the ready -pit—silence disturbed only by the deep hollow sound of the clods that -fell fast and heavy on the breast of the guilty noble! For many a day a -headstone might be seen—not raised by the kind hands of sorrowing -friends nor watered by the tears of kinsmen—but planted there, to tell -of his disgraceful doom—amid the nameless graves of the self-slain—and -the recorded resting-places of well-known thieves and felons. It was of -dark gray free-stone, and it bore these brief words—brief words, but in -that situation speaking the voice of volumes. - - Ci git Armand - Le Dernier Comte de Laguy. - -Three forms stood by the grave—stood till the last clod had been heaped -upon its kindred clay, and the dark headstone planted. Henry, the King! -and Charles, the Baron De La-Hirè; and Marguerite de Vaudreuil. - -And as the last clod was flattened down upon the dead, after the stone -was fixed, De La-Hirè crossed the grave to the despairing girl, where -she had stood gazing with a fixed rayless eye on the sad ceremony and -took her by the hand, and spoke so loud that all might hear his words, -while Henry looked on calmly but not without an air of wondering -excitement. - -“Not that I did not love thee,” he said, “Marguerite! Not that I did not -pardon thee thy brief inconstancy, caused as it was by evil arts of -which we will say nothing now—since he who plotted them hath suffered -even above his merits, and is—we trust—now pardoned! Not for these -causes, nor for any of them—have I declined thine hand thus far—but -that the King commanded, judging it in his wisdom best for both of us. -Now Armand is gone hence—and let all doubt and sorrow go hence with -him! Let all your tears, all my suspicions be buried in his grave -forever. I take your hand, dear Marguerite—I take you as mine honored -and loved bride—I claim you mine forever!” - -Thus far the girl had listened to him, not blushingly, nor with a -melting eye; nor with any sign of renewed hope or rekindled happiness in -her pale features—but with cold resolute attention—but now she put -away his hand very steadily, and spoke with a firm unfaltering voice. - -“Be not so weak!” she said. “Be not so weak, Charles de La-Hirè!—nor -fancy me so vain! The weight and wisdom of years have passed above my -head since yester morning—then was I a vain, thoughtless girl—now am I -a stern wise woman. That I have sinned is very true—that I have -betrayed thee—wronged thee! It may be, had you spoke pardon -yesterday—it might have been all well! It may be it _had been_ dishonor -in you to take me to your arms—but if to do so had been dishonor -yesterday, by what is it made honor now? No! no! Charles de La-Hirè—no! -no!—I had refused thee yesterday, hadst thou been willing to redeem me, -by self-sacrifice, _then_ from the convent walls!—I had refused thee -_then_, with love warming my heart toward thee—in all honor! Force me -not to reject thee _now_ with scorn and hatred. Nor dare to think that -Marguerite de Vaudreuil will owe to man’s compassion, what she owes not -to love! Peace! Charles de La-Hirè—I say, peace! my last words to thee -have been spoken, and never will I hear more from thee! And now, Sir -King, hear thou—may God judge between thee and me, as thou hast judged. -If I _was_ frail and fickle, nature and God made woman weak and -credulous—but made man _not_ wise, to deceive and ruin her. If I sinned -deeply against this Baron De La-Hirè—I sinned not knowingly, nor of -premeditation! If I sinned deeply, more deeply was I sinned -against—more deeply was I left to suffer!—even hadst thou heaped no -more brands upon the burning. If to bear hopeless love—to pine with -unavailing sorrow—to repent with continual remorse—to writhe with -trampled pride!—if these things be to suffer, then, Sir King, had I -enough suffered without thy _just_ interposition!” As she spoke, a -bitter sneer curled her lip for a moment; but as she saw Henry again -about to speak, a wilder and higher expression flashed over all her -features—her form appeared to distend—her bosom heaved—her eye -glared—her ringlets seemed to stiffen, as if instinct with life “Nay!” -she cried, in a voice clear as the strain of a silver trumpet—“nay! -thou _shalt_ hear me out—and thou didst swear yesterday I should live -in a cloister cell forever!—and I replied to thy words _then_, ‘not -long!’—I have thought better _now_—and _now_ I answer ‘_never_!’ Lo -here!—lo here! ye who have marked the doom of Armand—mark now the doom -of Marguerite! Ye who have judged the treason, mark the doom of the -traitress!” And with the words, before any one could interfere, even had -they suspected her intentions, she raised her right hand on high, and -all then saw the quick twinkle of a weapon, and struck herself, as it -seemed, a quick slight blow immediately under the left bosom! It seemed -a quick slight blow! but it had been so accurately studied—so steadily -aimed and fatally—that the keen blade, scarcely three inches long and -very slender, of the best of Milan steel, with nearly a third of the -hilt, was driven home into her very heart—she spoke no syllable -again!—nor uttered any cry!—nor did a single spasm contract her pallid -features, a single convulsion distort her shapely limbs! but she leaped -forward, and fell upon her face, quite dead, at the King’s feet! - -Henry smiled not again for many a day thereafter—Charles De La Hirè -died very old, a Carthusian monk of the strictest order, having mourned -sixty years and prayed in silence for the sorrows and the sins of that -most hapless being. - ------ - -[1] See the Duello, page 85. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE STRANGER’S FUNERAL. - - - BY N. C. BROOKS. - - - A solitary hearse without mourner or friend wheeled by me with - unceremonious speed. It filled my heart with feelings of the - most chilling desolation, which were augmented perhaps by the - peculiar gloom of the evening. I reached the rude grave in which - the corpse was deposited, and learned from the menial who was - performing the last rites that it was a young German of fine - talents, with whom I had travelled a few months before, who, far - from his home and friends, had fallen a victim to the prevailing - epidemic.—Letter of a Friend. - - No solemn bell pealed on the air, - No train in sable gloom - Moved slow with the holy man of prayer - To stand around his tomb; - The hearse rolled on without sign of love - To the church, in lonely woe, - Where bent the solemn heavens above - The opened grave below: - But he recked not of the heavens o’ercast, - Or the yawning gulf of death; - For with him Earth’s bitterness had passed, - Ere passed his fleeting breath. - - The stranger pressed a lonely bed, - No smiles dispelled the gloom - Of the dark and funeral shades that spread - Around his dying room; - And his heart with grief did melt, - And he wandered in fevered dreams - To the home where the loved of his youth still dwelt, - By the side of his own blue streams: - His heart for their voices yearned, - And the warm tears fell like rain, - As his dying eyes to the home were turned - That he ne’er should see again. - - The stranger’s griefs are o’er, - And his body lies alone, - From his friends afar on a foreign shore - Without a funeral stone; - And long shall voices call, - And midnight tapers burn - For him that is bound in death’s cold thrall, - But he shall no more return: - He shall return no more - From his lowly sleep in dust, - ’Till the trump announce death’s bondage o’er, - And the “rising of the just.” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FIRST STEP. - - - BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. - - -“Well met, Harry,” exclaimed Edward Morton, as he encountered his friend -Wilford in Broadway, “I have two questions to ask you. In the first -place, what do you call that odd-looking vehicle in which I saw you -riding yesterday? and in the second, who was that pretty little sister -Ruth seated so demurely beside you?” - -“My new carriage,” said Harry, laughing, “having been invented by -myself, has the honor to bear my name; it is called a Wilford; I will -sell it to you cheap, if you like it, for that booby Danforth has -ordered one of the same pattern, and I will never sport mine after he -comes out with his.” - -“And so because a fool follows your lead you throw up your cards; you -will have enough to do if you carry out that rule in all your actions. -Thank you for your kind offer; but really I am neither rich nor -fashionable enough to drive about town in such a Welsh butter-tub. Now, -answer my second question; who is the lady;—has she been named in honor -of the vehicle?” - -“No, but she will probably bear the name of its inventor in due time.” - -“Can it be possible, Harry? have you really determined to turn Benedict -before the pleasures of freedom have palled upon your taste? Have you -seriously reflected upon all you are about to relinquish? Have you -thought upon the pleasant _tête-à-têtes_, the agreeable flirtations, the -many delicious ‘love-passages’ which the admired Harry Wilford is -privileged to enjoy while he roves at large, but which will hereafter be -denied to him who wears the clanking fetters of matrimony?” - -“I have thought of every thing, Ned; and, to tell you the truth, I am -beginning to get tired of the aimless, profitless life I now lead.” - -“And, therefore, you are going to turn merchant and marry; you will have -a considerable amount to add to profit and loss by these experiments. -Pray who is the enchantress that has woven so wondrous a spell of -transformation?” - -“She bears the primitive name of Rachel, and was both born and bred in -the little village of Westbury, where, as I am told, a fashionably cut -coat or one of Leary’s hats would be regarded as a foreign curiosity. -She has never stirred beyond the precincts of her native place until -this spring, when she accompanied a newly married relative to our gay -city. Indeed she has been kept so strictly within the pale of her -society, that if her cousin had not fortunately married out of it, the -lovely Rachel would probably have walked quietly to meeting with some -grave young broad-brim, and contented herself with a drab bonnet all her -life.” - -“So your inamorata is country bred. By Jupiter I shall begin to believe -in the revival of witchcraft. Is she rich, Harry?” - -“I see the drift of your question, Ned; but you are mistaken if you -think I have looked on her through golden spectacles. She is an orphan -with sufficient property to render her independent of relatives, but not -enough to entice a fortune-hunter.” - -“Well, if any one but yourself had told me that Harry Wilford, with all -his advantages of _purse_ and _person_, had made choice of a little -rusticated Quakeress to be his bride, I could not have believed it,” -said Morton; “pray do you expect this pretty Lady Gravely to preside at -the exquisite dinners for which your bachelor’s establishment has long -been famous? or do you intend to forego such vulgar enjoyments for the -superior pleasures of playing Darby to Mrs. Wilford’s Joan in your -chimney corner?” - -“No quizzing, Ned,” said Wilford, smiling, “Rachel has been well -educated, and the staid decorum of the sect has not destroyed her native -elegance of manner.” - -“But the _drab bonnet_, Harry:—can _you_, the pride of your tailor and -the envy of your less tasteful friends,—_you_, the very prince of -Broadway exquisites,—you, the American Brummel, who would as willingly -have been caught picking a pocket, as wearing a glove two days, a hat -two weeks, or a coat two months,—can you venture to destroy the -reputation which you have acquired at such cost, by introducing a drab -bonnet to the acquaintance of your be-plumed and be-flowered female -friends?” - -“Wait awhile, Edward; Rachel has not yet learned to admire the gayeties -of our city; her eyes have been too long accustomed to the ‘sober -twilight gray,’ and she is rather dazzled than pleased with the splendor -of fashionable society, but she has too much of womanly feelings to -continue long insensible to womanly vanity.” - -“Well, success to you, Harry, but let me beg you to lay an interdict on -that ugly bonnet as soon as you have a right to exercise your marital -authority.” - -Wilford laughed, and the two gentlemen parted; the one to fulfil an -engagement with the pretty Quakeress, and the other to smoke a cigar, -drink a mint julep, and laugh at his friend’s folly. - -Harry Wilford had been so unlucky as to come into possession of a large -fortune as soon as he attained his majority. I am not in error, gentle -reader, when I say he was _unlucky_, for daily experience bears witness -to the fact, that in this country, at least in nine cases out of ten, a -large inheritance is a great misfortune. The records of gay life in -every large city prove that the most useless, most ignorant, most -vicious, and often the most degraded among the youth, are usually the -sons of plodding and hoarding parents, who have pawned health and -happiness, aye, and sometimes _integrity_—the very life of the soul—to -procure the gold which brings the destruction of their children. Wilford -had passed through college with the reputation of being one of the most -gifted and most indolent of scholars, while his eccentric fits of study, -which served to give him the highest rank in his class, only showed how -much more he might have done, if industry and perseverance had been -allowed to direct his pursuits. Like his career in the university had -been his course through life. With much latent energy of character he -was too infirm of purpose to become distinguished either for virtue or -talent. The curse of Ephraim seemed to have fallen upon the child of -prosperity, and the impressive words of the ancient Patriarch: “Unstable -as water, thou shalt not excel,” might have shadowed forth his destiny. -His fine talents were wasted in empty witticisms; his classical taste -only served to direct his lavish expenditure, and his really noble -feelings were frittered away in hollow friendship, or in transitory -attachments. Handsome, brilliant, and, above all, rich, he became the -idol of a coterie, and intoxicated by the incense which smoked before -him, he did not perceive that its subtle influence enervated all his -nobler faculties. Yet Wilford had escaped the contagion of vice. The -dark stain of criminal excess, which too often sullies the cloth of gold -more deeply than it does the coat of frieze, had never fallen upon his -garments. He could not forget the trembling hand which had been laid -upon his infant head when he offered up his innocent prayers at a -mother’s knee. He remembered her dying supplication that her child might -be kept “unspotted from the world,” and her gentle face, beaming with -unutterable purity and love, often interposed itself between his and his -tempter, when his heart would have failed from very weakness. - -Harry Wilford had completed his thirtieth summer and yet he was a -bachelor. The artillery of bright eyes and brighter smiles had been -levelled at him in vain; the gentler weapons of sweet words and soft -glances had been equally ineffectual. His heart had been captured again -and again, but it was a far easier task to _gain_ than to _keep_ it. -Indeed it was like an ill-garrisoned border fortress, and generally -surrendered at discretion to the first enemy that sat down before it, -who was sure to be soon driven out in turn by another victorious -assailant. He was too universal a lover, and until, like Apelles, he -could unite in one woman the charms which he admired in twenty, there -seemed little probability of his ever being won to wear the chain. The -truth was, that of the many who courted the attentions of the handsome -Mr. Wilford, there was none that seemed to have discovered the fine gold -which lay beneath the surface of his character. The very exuberance of -flowers and fruit which the soil produced, prevented one from expecting -any hidden treasure, for it is not often that the precious things of -earth are found beneath its gay adornments. We look for the diamond, not -under the bank of violets but in the rugged bosom of the mountain, and -thus Wilford’s friends, content with the beautiful blossoms of fancy and -wit which he lavishly flung around, suspected not the noble gifts of -intellect which he possessed. - -Wilford had frequently imagined himself in love, but something had -always occurred to undeceive him and to resolve his pleasant fancies -with very disagreeable facts. He had learned that the demon of -selfishness often lurks under the form of an angel of light, and he -began to distrust many of the fair beings who bestowed upon him their -gentle smiles. He had received more than one severe lesson in human -nature, and it was very soon after officiating as groomsman at the -bridal of a lovely girl whose faith had once been pledged to him, that -he first met the young and guileless Quakeress. There was something so -pure and vestal-like in the delicate complexion, soft blue eye, and -simply braided hair of the gentle Rachel, that Wilford was instantly -charmed. His eye, so long dazzled with the gorgeous draperies, -glittering jewels, and well-displayed beauties of fashionable belles, -rested with a sense of relief on the sober French gray silk, and -transparent lawn neckerchief which so carefully shaded the charms of the -fair rustic. He saw the prettiest of tiny feet peeping from beneath a -robe of far more decorous length than the laws of fashion then -allowed—the whitest of white hands were unadorned by a single -jewel—and the most snowy of necks was only discovered by the swan-like -grace which rendered it visible above its envious screen of muslin. Even -in the society of Friends, where a beautiful complexion is almost as -common to the females as a pair of eyes to each face, Rachel was -remarkable for the peculiar delicacy of hers. It was not of that waxy, -creamy tint, so often considered the true fashionable and aristocratic -complexion, because supposed to be an evidence that the “winds of -heaven” have never visited the face except through the blinds of a -carriage; nor was it the flake-white and carmine-red which often claims -for its possessor the reputation of a brilliant tincture of the skin. -Even the old and worn-out similes of the lily and the rose, would have -failed to give an idea of the delicate hues which added such a charm to -Rachel’s countenance, for the changing glow of her soft cheek, and the -tracery of blue veins which adorned her snowy brow could never be imaged -by a flower of the field. Harry Wilford thought he had never seen -anything so exquisitely lovely, so purely fair, as that sweet face when -in perfect repose, or so vividly bright as it seemed when lighted by the -blush of modesty. There are some faces which require shadows to perfect -their beauty; the eye, though bright, must flash beneath jetty lashes; -the brow, though white, must gleam amid raven tresses or half the effect -is lost. But Rachel’s face, like that of joyous childhood, was all -light. Her hair was silky and soft as an infant’s, her eyes blue as the -summer heaven, her lips like an opening rose-bud—it was a face like -spring sunshine, all brightness and all beauty. - -Rachel had been left an orphan in her infancy, and the relatives to whom -she was indebted for her early nurture were among the straitest of a -strait sect, consequently she had imbibed their rigid ideas of dress and -manners. Indeed she had never wasted a thought upon the pomps and -vanities of the ‘world’s people,’ until she visited the gay metropolis. -The sneers which her plain dress occasioned in the circle where she now -moved, and the merry jibes which young and thoughtless companions cast -upon her peculiar tenets of faith, aroused all the latent pride of her -nature, until she actually felt a degree of triumph in exhibiting her -quaint costume in society. - -If Wilford had been charmed with her beauty, he was in raptures with her -unsophisticated character. After ringing the changes on _sentiment_ -until his feelings were ‘like sweet bells jangled out of tune,’ it was -absolutely refreshing to find a damsel who had never hung enraptured -over the passionate pages of Byron, nor breathed the voluptuous songs of -Moore, but who, in the simplicity of her heart, admired and quoted the -gentle Cowper, as the prince of poets. “She has much to learn in the -heart’s lore,” said Wilford to himself, “and what pleasure it will be to -develop her innocent affections.” So he offered his hand to the pretty -Quakeress, and she, little versed in the arts of coquetry, modestly -accepted the gift. - -One morning Rachel sat by the window, looking out upon the gay throng in -Broadway, when her cousin entered with a small packet in her hand. - -“Here is something for you, Rachel, a love token I suppose,” said Mrs. -Hadley. Rachel blushed as she opened the envelope, but her color -deepened to an almost angry hue when she unclosed a morocco box, and -beheld an exquisite set of pearls. - -“Beautiful!” exclaimed Mrs. Hadley. - -“I shall not keep them,” said Rachel quietly. - -“Not keep them! pray why?” asked her cousin. - -“Because I should never wear them, and because Mr. Wilford has not kept -his word with me. He promised never to interfere with what he called my -style of dress, and I told him I would never lay aside my plain costume, -though I was willing to modify it a little for his sake.” - -“Here he comes to answer for himself,” said Mrs. Hadley as Wilford -entered. “You are just in time,” she continued, “for Rachel is very -angry with you.” - -Rachel could not repress a feeling of pride and pleasure as she looked -on the graceful form of her lover, who, taking a seat beside her, -whispered, “Are you indeed displeased with me, dearest? Pray what is my -offence?” - -She replied by placing in his hand the box of pearls. - -“Do you then reject so simple an offering of affection, Rachel?” said -Harry, “you should regard these gems not as the vain ornaments of -fashion, but as the most delicate and beautiful productions of the -wonderful world of ocean. Look, can any thing be more emblematical of -purity?” and as he spoke he placed a pearl rose upon the soft golden -hair which was folded above her white forehead. - -Rachel did look, and, as the large mirror reflected her beautiful face, -she was conscious of an impulse, (almost her very first) of womanly -vanity. - -“I cannot wear them, Harry,” said she, “necklace and bracelets would be -very useless to one who never unveils either neck or arms, and such -costly head-gear would be ill suited to my plain silk dress, and lawn -cape.” - -Wilford had too much tact to press the subject. The box was consigned to -his pocket, and the offence was forgiven. - -“_Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute_,” said he, as he walked home, -“my fifteen hundred dollars has been thrown away for the present; I must -proceed more cautiously in my work of reform.” - -The morning fixed for the marriage at length arrived. Rachel was in her -apartment, surrounded by her friends, and had just commenced her toilet, -when a small parcel, accompanied by a delicate rose-colored note, was -placed in her hands. She, of course, opened the note first; it was as -follows: - -“Forgive me, my sweet Rachel, if on this morning I venture to suggest a -single addition to your simple dress. There are always idle persons -standing about the church door on such an occasion as a wedding, and I -am foolish enough to be unwilling that the careless eye of every -indifferent spectator should scan the exquisite beauty of your face -to-day. There is something extremely painful to me in the thought that -the blushing cheek of my fair bride should be the subject of cold -remark. Will you not, for my sake, dearest, veil the rich treasure of -your loveliness for one brief hour? I know I am selfish in making the -request, but for once forgive my jealousy, and shade your brightness -from the stranger’s gaze.” - -The parcel contained a Brussels lace veil of surpassing richness, so -delicate in its texture, so magnificent in its pattern that Rachel could -not repress an exclamation of pleasure at the sight. - -Her toilet was at length completed. A dress of plain white satin, -finished at the neck by a chemisette of simple lace, her hair folded -plainly around her small head and plaited in a single braid -behind:—such was the bridal attire of the rigid little Quakeress. - -“And the veil, Rachel,” whispered her cousin. - -“Why, rather than shock Harry’s delicacy,” said she, half smiling, “I -believe I will wear it, but I shall look very ridiculous in it.” - -The veil fell in rich folds nearly to her feet, and nothing could be -imagined more beautiful than her whole appearance in this plain but -magnificent costume. - -“You want a pearl comb, or something of the kind, to fasten this veil -properly,” said one of the bridesmaids. - -“What a pity you had not kept the box,” whispered her cousin. Rachel -smiled as she replied, “if I had ever dreamed of wearing such an unusual -appendage as this perhaps I might have retained the rose at least.” - -Rachel had taken the _first_ step when she consented to adopt the veil, -the second would have cost her less trouble. - -Immediately after the ceremony, Mr. and Mrs. Wilford set off for the -Springs. A servant had preceded them with their baggage, and Rachel soon -found herself in the midst of a more brilliant circle than she had yet -seen. The day after their arrival she was preparing for a ride, and a -crowd had collected on the piazza to admire Wilford’s elegant equipage -and fine blood-horses. But an unforeseen annoyance had occurred to -disturb the bride’s feelings. Attired in a dress of dark -lavender-colored silk, she folded her white cashmere around her -shoulders, and opened the band-box which contained her bridal hat. This -had only been sent home on the morning of her marriage, and having been -instantly forwarded with the other baggage, she had not yet seen it. How -was she startled therefore to find, instead of the close cottage hat -which she had ordered, as the nearest possible approach to her Quaker -bonnet, a gay-looking French affair, trimmed with a wreath of lilies of -the valley. What was to be done? it was impossible to procure another, -and to despoil the bonnet of its flowers gave it an unfinished and -slovenly appearance. Harry affected to condole with her, and finally -persuaded her to wear it rather than expose herself to the charge of -affectation by assuming her travelling calash. - -“_Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute_,” said he, to himself, as he -saw the blush mantle her lovely cheek when she contemplated her -reflection in the mirror. - -“What shall I do?” exclaimed Rachel, “it does not half cover my head; I -never wore such a flaunting, flaring thing in my life: I wish I had my -veil, for I am actually ashamed of myself: ah, here it is, coz must have -put it into the box, and I dare say it is she who has played me this -trick about my bonnet.” - -So, throwing on her splendid veil to hide her unwonted finery, Rachel -took her husband’s arm and entered the carriage, leaving the gentlemen -to admire her beauty and the ladies to talk about her magnificent -Brussels. - -Six months after her marriage Mrs. Wilford was dressing for a party; -Monsieur Frisette had arranged her beautiful hair in superb ringlets and -braids, and was just completing his task when the maid accidentally -removing her embroidered handkerchief from the dressing-table discovered -beneath it the box of pearls. - -“Ah voilà Madame, de very ting—dat leetle rose vill just do for fix -dese curl,” said Monsieur. - -As she continued her toilet she found that Madame M*** had trimmed the -corsage of her dress in such a manner as to preclude the possibility of -wearing either cape or scarf according to her usual habit. She could not -appear with her neck quite bare, and nothing remained but to cover it -with the massy medallions of her pearl necklace. In short, when fully -dressed for the party, some good reason had been found for adopting -every ornament which the box contained. - -“Just as I expected,” said Wilford, mentally, as he conducted her to the -carriage, “Rachel has taken the _first step_, she will never put on the -drab bonnet again.” - - * * * * * - -Three years after the events just recorded, the fatal red flag of the -auctioneer was seen projecting from one of the upper windows of a -stately house, and crowds of the idle, the curious, and the speculating -were entering the open door. It was the residence of Harry Wilford. - -“Well, how things will turn out,” said a fat, frowsy dame, as she seated -herself on a velvet sofa and drew a chair in front of her to keep off -the throng, “sit down Charlotte,” continued she, addressing a newly -married niece, “sit down and let us make ourselves comfortable until the -auctioneer has done selling the kitchen furniture. Only think—the last -time I was here before Mrs. Wilford had a great party, and the young -folks all came in fancy dresses, and I sat on this very sofa. That is -only three months ago, and now everything has gone to rack and ruin.” - -“How did it all happen?” asked a pleasant-looking woman who stood near. - -“Oh, Mrs. Wilford was awfully extravagant, and her husband thought there -was no bounds to his riches, so they lived too fast; ‘burnt their candle -at both ends,’ as the saying is. They say Mrs. Wilford hurried on her -husband’s ruin, for he had been speculating too deeply, and was in debt, -but his creditors would have waited if she had not given that last -dashing party.” - -“How do you know that fact!” asked the other. - -“Oh, from the best authority, my husband is one of the principal -creditors,” replied the dame with a look of dignity, “he told me the -whole story as we were going to the party, and declared that he would -not stand such dishonest dealings, so the very next morning he was down -upon Mr. Wilford, and before twelve o’clock he had compelled him to make -an assignment.” - -And it was among such people—men and women who would sit at the -hospitable board with murder in their hearts—who would share in the -festivities of a household even while meditating the destruction of that -pleasant home—it was among such as these that Wilford had lived—it was -for such as these that he had striven to change the simple habits and -artless manners of his true-hearted Rachel. It was the dread laugh of -such as these which had led him to waste her energies as well as his own -in the pursuit of fashion and folly. - -Wilford had succeeded even beyond his intentions in imbuing his gentle -bride with a love for worldly vanities. His wishes delicately but -earnestly expressed, together with the new-born vanity which her -unwonted adornments engendered in the bosom of Rachel, gradually -overcame her early habits. One by one the insignia of her simple faith -were thrown aside. Her beautiful neck was unveiled to the admiring -eye—her ungraceful sleeve receded until the rounded arm was visible in -its full proportions—the skirt, following the laws of fashion, lost -several degrees of longitude, until the beauty of Mrs. Wilford’s foot -was no longer a disputable fact. In short, in little more than two years -after her marriage, her wealth, her beauty, her elegance of manners, and -her costly dress made her decidedly a leader of ton. Wilford could not -but regret the change. She was ever affectionate and devoted to him with -all the earnestness of womanly tenderness, but he was ashamed to tell -her that in obeying his wishes she had actually gone beyond them. He -hoped that it was only the novelty of her position which had thus -fascinated her, and yet he often found himself regretting that he had -ever exposed her to such temptations. - -But new and unlooked-for trials were in store for both. The estate of -Mr. Wilford had always been managed by his uncle, a careful merchant, -who, through the course of his whole life, had seemed to possess the -Midas-like faculty of converting every thing he touched into gold; and -satisfied that, as he was the old man’s only heir, the property would be -carefully husbanded, Wilford gave himself no trouble about the matter. -But the mania for real estate speculation had now infected the whole -nation. The old gentleman found himself the ridiculed of many a bold -spirit who had dashed into the stream and gathered the gold dust which -it bore along; he had long withstood the sneers of those who considered -themselves wise in their generation, because they were pursuing a -gambling scheme of wealth; but at length he could no longer resist the -influence! He obtained the concurrence of his nephew, and thus furnished -with double means struck boldly out from the safe haven where he had -been ensconced. Every thing went on swimmingly for a time; his gains -were immense—_upon paper_, but the tide turned, and the result was -total wreck. - -It was long ere Wilford became aware of his misfortunes. Accustomed to -rely implicitly on his uncle’s judgment, he reposed in indolent security -until the tidings of the old man’s bankruptcy and his own consequent -ruin came upon him like a thunderbolt. He had been too long the child of -prosperity to bear reverses with fortitude. He had no profession, no -knowledge of business, nothing by which he could obtain a future -livelihood; and now, when habits of luxury had enervated both mind and -body, he found himself utterly beggared. He brooded over his losses in -moody bitterness of spirit long before the world became acquainted with -his situation. He even concealed them from his wife, from that mistaken -and cruel kindness which thinks to lighten the blow by keeping it long -suspended. “How can I overwhelm her with sorrow and mortification by -telling her we are beggars?” he cried, in anguish. “How can I bid her -descend from the lofty eminence of wealth and fashion and retire to -obscurity and seclusion? How can I be sure that she will bear the -tidings with a patient spirit? I have sown within her young heart the -seeds of vanity, and how can I hope to eradicate now the evils which -have sprang from them? Her own little fortune is all that is now left, -and how we are to live on that I cannot tell. Rachel cannot bear it—I -know she cannot!” - -His thoughts added new anguish to his regrets, and months of harrowing -dread and anxiety passed away before Wilford could summon courage to -face manfully his increasing misfortunes. - -Mrs. Wilford had long intended to celebrate her husband’s birth-day by a -brilliant party, and, quite unconscious of the storm which impended over -her, she issued her cards nearly a month previous to the appointed -evening. Harry Wilford knew that the party ought not to be given; he -knew that it would bring discredit upon him, and perhaps censure upon -his wife, for he was conscious that his affairs were rapidly approaching -a fatal crisis; but he had not courage to own the truth. He watched the -preparations for the party with a boding spirit; he looked sadly and -fondly upon the brilliant attire of his young wife as she glided about -the gorgeous apartments, and he felt that he was taking his last glance -at happiness and comfort. The very next day his principal creditor, a -fat, oily-faced, well-fed individual, remarkable for the regularity of -his attendance, and the loudness of his responses at church—a man whose -piety was carried to such lengths that in the fear lest his left hand -should know the good which his right hand did, he was particularly -careful never to do _any_—a man who would sit first at a feast and -store up the careless sayings of convivial frankness to serve his own -interest in the mart and the market-place—this man, after pledging him -in the wine-cup and parting from him with the cordial grasp of -friendship, met him with a legal demand for that which he knew would -ruin him. - -The fatal tidings could no longer be withheld from Mrs. Wilford, and she -was roused from the languor which the fatigue of the preceding evening -had left both on mind and body, by the tidings of her husband’s -misfortunes. - -“It is as I feared,” thought Wilford, as he observed her overwhelming -emotion, “she cannot bear the degradation.” - -But he was mistaken. There is a hidden strength of character which can -only be developed by the stroke of calamity, and such was possessed by -Rachel Wilford. A moment, and but a moment, she faltered; then she was -prepared to brave the worst evils of her altered fortunes. Wilford soon -found that she had both mind to comprehend and judgment to counsel. Ere -the morrow had passed half his sorrow was assuaged, for he had found -comfort and even hope in the bosom of his young and devoted wife. There -was only one thing over which she still deeply grieved, and this was her -fatal party. - -“Had you only confided in me, Harry,” said she, “worlds would not have -tempted me to place you and myself in so dishonorable a light. How could -you see me so unconscious of danger and treading so heedlessly on the -verge of ruin without withdrawing me from it? Your own good name, Harry, -aye, and _mine_ too, have suffered. Our integrity has been doubted.” - -“I did it for the best, Rachel; I would have spared you as long as -possible.” - -“It was most ill-judged kindness, Harry; it has ruined you and deeply -injured me. Believe me, a wife is infinitely happier in the -consciousness that she possesses her husband’s confidence, than in the -discovery that she has been treated like a petted child; a being of -powers too limited to understand his affairs or to be admitted to his -councils.” - -Mrs. Wilford did not merely meet her reverses with fortitude. She was -resolved to act as became a high-minded woman. Her jewels were -immediately disposed of, not stealthily, and as if she dreaded exposure, -but by going openly to the persons from whom they were purchased; and -thus realizing at least two-thirds of their original cost. This sum she -immediately appropriated to the payment of household debts; and with it -she satisfied the claims of all those who had supplied them with daily -comforts. “I could not rest,” she said, “if I felt there was one person -living who might say I wronged him out of the very bread I have eaten.” -The furniture was next given up—nothing was reserved—not even the -plate presented by her own friends, nor the work-box, the gift of Harry. -Lodgings quiet and respectable but plain and cheap were taken in a -private boarding-house. Every vestige of their former splendor was gone, -and when all was over, it was with a feeling of relief that the husband -and wife sat down together to form plans for the future. The past seemed -like a troubled dream. Scarcely six months had elapsed since their -stately mansion had been the scene of joyous festivity, and the very -suddenness with which distress had come seemed to have paralysed their -sense of suffering. - -“I received a proposal to-day, Rachel, which I would not accept without -consulting you,” said Harry, as they sat together in their neatly -furnished apartment. “Edward Morton offers me the situation of -book-keeper, with a salary of a thousand dollars per annum.” - -“Take it, by all means, dear Harry,” said his wife, “constant employment -will make you forget your troubles, and a thousand dollars,” added she, -with a bright smile, “will be a fortune to us.” - -“I suppose I had better accept his offer,” said Wilford, gloomily, “but -it cuts down a man’s pride to be reduced to the condition of a -hireling.” - -“Do not make me ashamed of my husband, dear Harry,” was the earnest -reply, “do not suffer me to blush for the weakness and false pride which -can think only of external show. We can live very comfortably on your -salary, especially when we have the consciousness of integrity to -sweeten our privations.” - -“You forget that you are not quite so much a beggar as your husband, -Rachel. The interest of your twenty thousand dollars, added to my -salary, will give us something more than the mere comforts of life.” - -“What do you mean, Harry?” asked his wife, turning very pale. - -“Why you do not suppose I was scoundrel enough to risk your little -property, Rachel; that was secured you by a marriage settlement, and no -creditor can touch it unless you should assign it.” - -Rachel made no reply but fell into a long fit of musing. - -It was but a few days after this conversation that Wilford, conquering -his false pride, entered upon his duties in the counting-room of his old -friend Morton. He returned early in the evening, wearied, sad, and -dispirited, but his wife met him with a face so bright that he almost -forgot the annoyances of the day. - -“How happy you look, Rachel,” said he, as she drew her chair beside his -and laid her hand upon his arm. - -“I am indeed happy, dear Harry, for I am now no richer than yourself.” - -“I don’t understand you,” replied Wilford with a puzzled look. - -“You gave me a most unpleasant piece of news yesterday, Harry, when you -told me that my paltry little fortune had been preserved from your -creditors, and now I am happy in the consciousness that no such reproach -can attach to us. I have been closeted with your lawyer this morning; he -told me about twenty thousand dollars would clear off all claims against -you, and by this time I suppose you are free.” - -“What have you done?” - -“Handed over my marriage settlement to your assignees, Harry”— - -“And reduced yourself to a bare subsistence, Rachel, to satisfy a group -of gaping creditors who would swallow my last morsel if they knew I was -left to starve.” - -“The debts were justly due, Harry, and I would rather that the charge of -illiberality should attach to them than of dishonesty to us.” - -“You have never known the evils of poverty, my poor child,” said -Wilford, despondingly. - -“Nor do I mean to experience them now, dear husband; you will not let me -want for comforts, and you seem to forget that, though you have tried to -spoil me, my early habits were those of economy and frugality.” - -“So you mean to adopt your simple Quaker habits again, Rachel,” said -Wilford, more cheerfully; “will they include the drab bonnet also?” - -“No,” returned the young wife, her face dimpled with joyous smiles, “I -believe now that as much vanity lurked under my plain bonnet as ever -sported on the wave of a jewelled plume; and yet,” said she, after a -moment’s pause, “when I threw off my Quaker garb I took my first step in -error, for I can trace all my folly, and extravagance, and waste of time -to the moment when I first looked with pleasure in that little mirror at -Saratoga.” - -“Well, well, dearest, your first step has not led you so far astray but -that you have been able most nobly to retrace your path. I am poorer -than I ever expected to be, yet richer than I could ever have hoped, for -had I never experienced a reverse of fortune, I should never have -learned the worth of my own sweet wife.” - -Harry Wilford was right, and the felicity which he now enjoys in his own -quiet and cheerful home—a home won by his own industry and -diligence—is well worth all the price at which it was purchased, even -though it cost him his whole estate. - - * * * * * - - - - - AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT. - - - IN THREE CHIMERAS. - - - BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO. - - - CHIMERA II. (Continued.) - - The ship! that self-same ship, that Julio knew - Had passed him, with her panic-stricken crew, - She gleams amid the storm, a shatter’d thing - Of pride and lordly beauty; her fair wing - Of sail is wounded—the proud pennon gone! - Dark, dark she sweepeth like an eagle, on - Through waters that are battling to and fro, - And tossing their great giant shrouds of snow - Over her deck.—Ahead, and there is seen - A black, strange line of breakers, down between - The awful surges, lifting up their manes - Like great sea-lions. Quick and high she strains - Her foaming keel—that solitary ship! - As if, in all her frenzy, she would leap - The cursed barrier: forward, fast and fast— - Back, back she reels; her timbers and her mast - Split in a thousand shivers! A white spring - Of the exulting sea rose bantering - Over her ruin; and the mighty crew - That mann’d her deck, were seen, a straggling few, - Far scatter’d on the surges. Julio felt - The impulse of that hour, and low he knelt, - Within his own light bark—a pray’rful man! - And clasp’d his lifeless bride; and to her wan, - Cold cheek did lay his melancholy brow.— - “Save thou a mariner!” he starteth now - To hear that dying cry; and there is one, - All worn and wave-wet, by his bark anon, - Clinging, in terror of the ireful sea, - A fair-hair’d mariner! But suddenly - He saw the pale dead ladye by a flame - Of blue and livid lightning, and there came - Over his features blindness, and the power - Of his strong hands grew weak,—a giant shower - Of foam rose up, and swept him far along; - And Julio saw him buffetting the throng - Of the great eddying waters, till they went - Over him—a wind-shaken cerement! - - Then terribly he laugh’d, and rose above - His soulless bride—the ladye of his love! - Lifting him up in all his wizard glee; - And he did wave, before the frantic sea, - His wasted arm.—“Adieu! adieu! adieu! - Thou sawest how we were; thou sawest, too, - Thou wert not so; for in the inmost shrine - Of my deep heart are thoughts that are not thine. - And thou art gone, fair mariner! in foam - And music-murmurs to thy blessed home— - Adieu! adieu! Thou sawest how that she - Sleeps in her holy beauty tranquilly: - And when the fair and floating vision breaks - From her pure brow, and Agathè awakes— - Till then, we meet not; so, adieu, adieu!” - Still on before the sullen tempest flew, - Fast as a meteor star, the lonely bark; - And Julio bent over to the dark, - The solitary sea, for close beside - Floated the stringed harp of one that died, - In that wild shipwreck, and he drew it home - With madness to his bosom; the white foam - Was o’er its strings; and on the streaming sail - He wiped them, running with his fingers pale, - Along the tuneless notes, that only gave - Seldom responses to his wandering stave! - - O THE HARP. - - Jewel! that lay before the heart - Of some romantic boy, - And startled music in her home, - Of mystery and joy! - - The image of his love was there; - And, with her golden wings, - She swept their tone of sorrow from - Thy melancholy strings! - - We drew thee, as an orphan one, - From waters that had cast - No music round thee, as they went - In their pale beauty past. - - No music but the changeless sigh— - That murmur of their own, - That loves not blending in the thrill - Of thine aerial tone. - - The girl that slumbers at our side - Will dream how they are bent, - That love her even as they love - Thy blessed instrument. - - And music, like a flood, will break - Upon the fairy throne - Of her pure heart, all glowing, like - A morning star, alone! - - Alone, but for the song of him - That waketh by her side, - And strikes thy chords of silver to - His fair and sea-borne bride. - - Jewel! that hung before the heart - Of some romantic boy: - Like him, I sweep thee with a storm - Of music and of joy! - - And Julio placed the trembling harp before - The ladye; till the minstrel winds came o’er - Its moisten’d strings, and tuned them with a sigh. - “I hear thee, how thy spirit goeth by, - In music and in love. Oh, Agathè! - Thou sleepest long, long, long; and they will say - That seek thee,—‘she is dead—she is no more!’ - But thou art cold, and I will throw before - Thy chilly brow the pale and snowy sheet.” - And he did lift it from her marble feet, - The sea-wet shroud! and flung it silently - Over her brow—the brow of Agathè! - - But, as a passion from the mooded mind, - The storm had died, and wearily the wind - Fell fast asleep at evening, like one - That hath been toiling in the fiery sun. - And the white sail dropt downward, as the wing - Of wounded sea-bird, feebly murmuring - Unto the mast—it was a deathly calm, - And holy stillness, like a shadow, swam - All over the wide sea, and the boat stood, - Like her of Sodom, in the solitude, - A snowy pillow, looking on the waste. - And there was nothing but the azure breast - Of ocean and the sky—the sea and sky. - And the lone bark; no clouds were floating by - Where the sun set, but his great seraph light, - Went down alone, in majesty and might; - And the stars came again, a silver troop, - Until, in shame, the coward shadows droop - Before the radiance of these holy gems, - That bear the images of diadems! - - And Julio fancied of a form that rose - Before him from the desolate repose - Of the deep waters—a huge ghastly form, - As of one lightning-stricken in a storm; - And leprosy cadaverous was hung - Before his brow, and awful terror flung - Around him like a pall—a solemn shroud!— - A drapery of darkness and of cloud! - And agony was writhing on his lip, - Heart-rooted, awful agony and deep, - Of fevers, and of plagues, and burning blain, - And ague, and the palsy of the brain— - A weird and yellow spectre! and his eyes - Were orbless and unpupil’d, as the skies - Without the sun, or moon, or any star: - And he was like the wreck of what men are,— - A wasted skeleton, that held the crest - Of time, and bore his motto on his breast! - - There came a group before of maladies, - And griefs, and Famine empty as a breeze,— - A double monster, with a gloating leer - Fix’d on his other half. They drew them near, - One after one, led onward by Despair, - That like the last of winter glimmer’d there,— - A dismal prologue to his brother Death, - Which was behind; and, with the horrid breath - Of his wide baneful nostrils, plied them on. - And often as they saw the skeleton - Grisly beside them, the wild phantasies - Grew mad and howl’d; the fever of disease - Became wild frenzy—very terrible! - And, for a hell of agony—a hell - Of rage, was there, that fed on misty things, - On dreams, ideas, and imaginings. - - And some were raving on philosophy, - And some on love, and some on jealousy, - And some upon the moon, and these were they - That were the wildest; and anon alway - Julio knew them by a something dim - About their wasted features like to him! - - But Death was by, like shell of pyramid - Among old obelisks, and his eyeless head - Shook o’er the wry ribs, where darkness lay - The image of a heart—she is away! - And Julio is watching, like Remorse, - Over the pale and solitary corse. - - Shower soft light, ye stars, that shake the dew - From your eternal blossoms! and thou, too, - Moon! minded of thy power, tide-bearing queen! - That hast a slave and votary within - The great rock-fetter’d deep, and hearest cry - To thee the hungry surges, rushing by - Like a vast herd of wolves,—fall full and fair - On Julio as he sleepeth, even there, - Amid the suppliant bosom of the sea!— - Sleep! dost thou come, and on thy blessed knee - With hush and whisper lull the troubled brain - Of this death-lover?—still the eyes do strain - Their orbs on Agathè—those raven eyes! - All earnest on the ladye as she lies - In her white shroud. They see not, though they are - As if they saw; no splendour like a star - Is under their dark lashes: they are full - Of dream and slumber—melancholy, dull! - - * * * * * * - - A wide, wide sea! and on it rear and van - Amid the stars, the silent meteors ran - All that still night, and Julio with a cry - Woke up, and saw them flashing fiercely by. - - * * * * * * - - Full three times three, its awful veil of night - Hath Heaven hung before the blessed light; - And a fair breeze falls o’er the sleeping sea, - When Julio is watching Agathè! - By sun and darkness hath he bent him over— - A mad, moon-stricken, melancholy lover! - And hardly hath he tasted, night or day, - Of drink or food, because of Agathè! - He sitteth in a dull and dreary mood, - Like statue in a ruin’d solitude, - Bearing the brent of sunlight and of shade, - Over the marble of some colonnade. - - The ladye, she hath lost the pearly hue - Upon her gorgeous brow, where tresses grew - Luxuriantly as thoughts of tenderness, - That once were floating in the pure recess - Of her bright soul. These are not as they were; - But are as weeds above a sepulchre, - Wild waving in the breeze: her eyes are now - Sunk deeply under the discolor’d brow, - That is of sickly yellow, and pale blue - Unnaturally blending. The same hue - Is on her cheek. It is the early breath - Of cold corruption, the ban-dog of death, - Falling upon her features. Let it be, - And gaze awhile on Julio, as he - Is gazing on the corse of Agathè! - - In truth, he seemeth like no living one, - But is the image of a skeleton: - A fearful portrait from the artist tool - Of madness—terrible and wonderful! - - There was no passion there—no feeling traced - Under those eyelids, where had run to waste - All that was wild, or beautiful, or bright; - A very cloud was cast upon their light, - That gave to them the heavy hue of lead; - And they were lorn, lustreless, and dead! - - He sate like vulture from the mountains gray, - Unsated, that had flown full many a day - O’er distant land and sea, and was in pride - Alighted by the lonely ladye’s side. - - He sat like winter o’er the wasted year— - Like melancholy winter, drawing near - To its own death. “Oh me! the worm at last - Will gorge upon me, and the autumn blast - Howl by!—Where?—where?—there is no worm to creep - Amid the waters of the lonely deep; - But I will take me Agathè upon - This sorrowful, sore bosom, and anon, - Down, down, through azure silence, we shall go, - Unepitaph’d, to cities far below; - Where the sea Triton, with his winding shell, - Shall sound our blessed welcome. We shall dwell - With many a mariner in his pearly home, - In bowers of amber weed and silver foam, - Amid the crimson corals; we shall be - Together, Agathè! fair Agathè!— - But thou art sickly, ladye—thou art sad; - And I am weary, ladye—I am mad! - They bring no food to feed us, and I feel - A frost upon my vitals, very chill, - Like winter breaking on the golden year - Of life. This bark shall be our floating bier, - And the dark waves our mourners; and the white, - Pure swarm of sunny sea birds, basking bright - On some fair isle, shall sorrowfully pour - Their wail of melancholy o’er and o’er, - At evening, on the waters of the sea,— - While, with its solemn burden, silently, - Floats forward our lone bark.—Oh, Agathè! - Methinks that I shall meet thee far away, - Within the awful centre of the earth, - Where, earliest, we had our holy birth, - In some huge cavern, arching wide below, - Upon whose airy pivot, years ago, - The world went round: ’tis infinitely deep, - But never dismal; for above it sleep, - And under it, blue waters, hung aloof, - And held below,—an amethystine roof, - A sapphire pavement; and the golden sun, - Afar, looks through alternately, like one - That watches round some treasure: often, too, - Through many a mile of ocean, sparkling through, - Are seen the stars and moon, all gloriously, - Bathing their angel brilliance in the sea! - - “And there are shafted pillars, that beyond, - Are ranged before a rook of diamond, - Awfully heaving its eternal heights, - From base of silver strewn with chrysolites; - And over it are chasms of glory seen, - With crimson rubies clustering between, - On sward of emerald, with leaves of pearl, - And topazes hung brilliantly on beryl, - So Agathè!—but thou art sickly sad, - And tellest me, poor Julio is mad,— - Ay, mad!—was he not madder when he swore - A vow to Heaven? Was there no madness then, - That he should do—for why?—a holy string - Of penances? No penances will bring - The stricken conscience to the blessed light - Of peace.—Oh! I am lost, and there is night, - Despair, and darkness, darkness and despair, - And want, that hunts me to the lion-lair - Of wild perdition: and I hear them all— - All cursing me! The very sun-rays fall - In curses, and the shadow of the moon, - And the pale star-light, and the winds that tune - Their voices to the music of the sea, - And thou,—yes, thou! my gentle Agathè!— - All curse me!—oh! that I were never, never! - Or but a breathless fancy, that was ever - Adrift upon the wilderness of Time, - That knew no impulse, but was left sublime - To play at its own will!—that I were hush’d - At night by silver cataracts, that gush’d - Through flowers of fairy hue, and then to die - Away, with all before me passing by. - Like a fair vision I had lived to see, - And died to see no more!—it cannot be! - By this right hand! I feel it is not so, - And by the beating of a heart below, - That strangely feareth for eternity!” - - He said, and gazing on the lonely sea, - Far off he saw, like an ascending cloud, - To westward, a bright island, lifted proud - Amid the struggling waters, and the light - Of the great sun was on its clifted height, - Scattering golden shadow, like a mirror; - But the gigantic billows sprung in terror - Upon its rock-built and eternal shore, - With silver foams, that fell in fury o’er - A thousand sunny breakers. Far above, - There stood a wild and solitary grove - Of aged pines, all leafless but their brows, - Where a green group of tempest-stricken boughs - Was waving now and then, and to and fro, - And the pale moss was clustering below. - - Then Julio saw, and bent his head away - To the cold wasted corse of Agathè, - And sigh’d; but ever he would turn again - A gaze to that green island on the main. - - The bark is drifting through the surf, beside - Its rocks of gray upon the coming tide; - And lightly is it stranded on the shore - Of purest silver shells, that lie before, - Glittering in the glory of the sun; - And Julio hath landed him, like one - That aileth of some wild and weary pest; - And Agathè is folded on his breast, - A faded flower! with all the vernal dews - From its bright blossom shaken, and the hues - Become as colorless as twilight air— - I marvel much, that she was ever fair! - - (End of the second Chimera.) - - * * * * * - - - - - DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA. - - - TAKE ME HOME. - - - BY DR. REYNELD COATES. - - - “And all for thee! vile yellow fiend!” - - -I was wandering in the streets of a populous city—thousands crowded the -thronged thoroughfares—jarring and jostling along,—each intent on his -own petty schemes. Here, a merchant rushed onward with a rapid step—for -it wanted but five minutes of three o’clock! If clouds had overspread -his countenance an hour before, they had given place to a determined -expression, that seemed to say, “safe till to-morrow, anyhow!” There, a -belle flaunted in costly attire, with a curl on her lip and pride in her -tread that spoke, more plainly than words, “conquest is my right! for my -beauty and wealth are alike undisputed, I have but to smile and win!” - -At one moment, my eye was attracted by a young couple in the spring-tide -of their promise, associated by that magic feeling which comes over us -but once in a life-time. At the next, it rested on a pair of -unfortunates with locked arms but gloomy brows and half averted faces, -convinced, by twenty years of bitter experience, that _it is wise to -preserve appearances_, even when doing penance for that most common, but -most fatal indiscretion of youth—an ill-assorted marriage! - -A little girl, upon the door-step of an elegant mansion, stood gazing -upon the passing crowd and the unbroken line of splendid equipages -hurrying by, glancing her eye occasionally upward at the tall trees that -shielded her from the sunshine, or the bright blue sky and fleecy vapor -which seemed to rest upon their summits. The breezes of May waved the -translucent ringlets athwart her snowy shoulders, while the leaves -danced and rustled mirthfully in the wind, and a little bird, upon a -neighboring bough, poured out its joyous song! The child threw back her -head and laughed long and merrily: yet there was nothing in view to -awaken laughter! - -Guarded, and clad,—and nourished,—and incognisant of care,—the -bounding pulse of youth felt keenly in every fibre,—existence itself, -with her, became delight! and she laughed in the fulness of -irrepressible joy—_that the skies were bright and the leaves were -green!_—On the pavement beside her, a barefoot and ragged boy leaned -for support against a post. Famine and fatigue were legibly stampt upon -his sunken cheek and attenuated limbs. The sound of merriment awakened -him, and he turned his dull eye in wonder upon the beautiful object -before him!—But he comprehended it not!—joy was to him a stranger! - -These, and a hundred other episodes in the selfish history of common -life claimed, in turn, my attention;—and each might have furnished -subject matter for a month of thought or a volume of moral deduction. -But there was one group so peculiarly striking that it still dwells upon -my memory with more than usual vividness of coloring. - -In the most luxurious portion of the city, where palaces of marble and -granite rose on every hand, and the very air was redolent of the incense -of exotic flowers, a coach, dusty with travel, suddenly drew up before -one of the most conspicuous residences. The liveried footman instantly -threw open the door, and a delicate young girl, with a highly -intellectual, but care-worn and sorrowful expression of countenance, -began to descend the steps. But, before she could reach the pavement a -masculine arm was projected from the vehicle to arrest her progress, and -a voice, tremulous with age and grief, exclaimed, “No! no! not here! not -here!—Why will you not take me home!—I must go home!—I am old and -sick!—Do take me home at once!” - -The attempt to draw the young lady back within the coach endangered her -foot-hold, and courtesy obliged me to spring to her assistance, lest she -should fall beneath the wheels. Adroitly lifting her from the carriage -while the footman hastened to ring the bell, I obtained a view of all -the parties interested in this little incident. - -The half fainting girl, still leaning upon my arm, might have numbered -about fourteen summers, and within the coach were two other individuals, -in both of whom the same family traits were visible. One of these, a -woman about thirty-five years of age, was evidently the mother. She was -still beautiful, though strong traces of habitual thought and mental -suffering were perceptible upon her brow. The other was a man of noble -figure, probably advanced to seventy years, with locks of snowy -whiteness, but dressed with a degree of richness and precision, not -usually observed among the old. It was evident that he had been familiar -with the world—that wealth and luxury were no novelties to him. The -forms of society had been his study, if not the business of his life. -Yet, what a satire upon the vulgar misconceptions of the means of -happiness was the aspect of that face! The broad brow was furrowed with -deep lines of mental distress. The boldly chiselled nose was thinned, -rather by muscular contraction than by age. The model of the lip still -presented the curve of pride and habitual authority, contrasting most -painfully with the tremor of helpless suspicion and childish anxiety. - -“Why will you not take me home?” he exclaimed again—and his eye -wandered restlessly from side to side, peering through the door and -windows of the coach, as if in search of some object once familiar—with -an expression of hopeless distress that it was difficult even to witness -with fortitude. - -To one familiar with large hospitals, the scene was clearly -intelligible. Insanity from disappointed hope was mingled with the -fatuity of premature old age. - -Propriety would have dictated my immediate retreat, after the necessary -care of the ladies in alighting; but perceiving that the united -persuasions of mother and daughter were likely to fail in inducing the -grandfather to quit the coach without too strongly inviting public -attention towards a private misfortune, I felt bound to inquire, “May I -not save you, madam! from some embarrassment by begging you to enter the -house? I will engage myself to place your father under the protection of -your roof, in a very few minutes, and without annoyance.” Nothing -insures such instantaneous confidence with the gentler sex as -self-dependence in a man, and grave, though courteous authority of -manner. The offer was accepted with a glance of mute thankfulness, and -handing the ladies to the door, I returned to the carriage. - -“Come, my dear sir,” I said to the elderly gentleman, “allow me the -pleasure of assisting you to alight! your horses are a little restive.” - -“No, sir!” he replied; “you are in league with them!—You lead me from -place to place, and every where you tell me I am at home!—Oh! I shall -never find it!—I wish to repose in my own house, and my own -garden!—_my mother’s house!_—and you bring me here and tell me _this_ -is my house!—Do you think I have grown so weak and imbecile as not to -know the chamber where I was born?—the garden where I played when a -child?—No!—I will not go in!—They are kind to me here, but I am not -at home!—Do, take me home!—You seem to think that I cannot tell the -difference between this great palace, with its rich carpets and its -marble columns, and our own little cottage, with its arbor of -grape-vines and wild-creepers, where my mother used to nurse me to sleep -in the old carved rocking-chair!—Oh! take me home!” - -Long habituated to the management of lunatics, I had learned to guide -the tangled reins of a disordered mind, and found but little difficulty -in persuading the old man to rest awhile in the parlor on the plea of -examining whether his granddaughter, to whom he was much attached, had -not received some injury by stumbling in her descent from the coach. -Seating him upon an ottoman, it was easy, by the same innocent deception -to withdraw to another apartment in company with the ladies: and there, -after tendering any further services which their affliction might render -desirable, I heard, with deep attention, the history of their woes. - -Mr. A——, the old gentleman, was, as I had inferred, the father of the -elder and the grandsire of the younger lady. At an early age he came -into hereditary possession of a handsome capital, and a range of ample -stores near the centre of the commercial mart of ——. - -His mother, who was esteemed rich in those early times (soon after the -revolutionary war) retained the family homestead in addition to her -dower; and, in this venerable mansion, distant about a mile from the -borders of the _then_ small, but flourishing city, her son continued to -reside; for he preferred the society of his remaining parent, and the -quietude of rural life in the intervals of business, to the gayer scenes -and more luxurious habits of the town. Thither, he soon conveyed a young -and beautiful wife; and there his happiest years were spent in the midst -of a family circle bound together by ties of the warmest -affection.—Even their dead were gathered around them:—for the white -monuments of their departed friends peered over the stone wall of the -family grave-yard, from the grove of funereal pines behind the garden. - -But this peaceful life of domestic enjoyment was not destined to -continue. Within a few years subsequent to his marriage, there occurred -one of those sudden revolutions in trade which periodically sweep, with -the force of a deluge, over the commercial interests of our -country.—Mr. A—— was ruined!—He became dependent upon the resources -of his parent for the support of his wife; but pride would not permit -him to grant the urgent request of his mother that he would share that -support himself; and he fled his native country for a time, to woo the -breeze of Fortune beneath other stars. - -After two long years of toil and danger among the furs of the -North-West, the hides of California, the _biche-le-mer_ and birds-nests -of the Eastern Archipelagoes, he arrived at the great entrepot of the -Celestial Empire with a cargo insuring him an ample competence, just in -time to receive intelligence of the death of his wife, leaving to his -charge an only child! She had been the star of his destiny!—That star -was set, and darkness enshrouded his soul! - -Recovering from this terrible shock, he shunned the very idea of -returning to the scene of his former happiness. She for whom he had -braved the deep!—had toiled—had grappled with the sun of the -tropics,—the ice of the pole—had left him desolate!—the infant, whom -no parent welcomed to this world of trial, was a stranger to him!—one -whom he had never beheld! and the only remaining link which bound him to -his country was his affection for an aged mother. - -But who is not aware that the noon of manhood—its mid-day strife and -bustle—are unfavorable to the glow of filial affection? Maternal -love,—the deepest—the purest—the least selfish of human -emotions!—knows no ebb—no diminution on this side the grave! Time, -which may sap or shatter every other sympathy, adds strength to this at -every revolution of its fatal glass! - -Not so the attachment of the offspring!—Like a delicate flower which -sheds its fragrance freely on the morning or the evening air, but denies -all sweetness to the bold glance of noon, this feeling flourishes only -at the commencement and the close of our career. When, at length, in the -decline of our energies, both mind and body verge once more towards the -feebleness of infancy, how painfully the affections of earlier years -flow back upon us!—Then would we gladly repose our aching -temples—aching with the memory of many an unkind word or action—upon -the bosom from which we first drew sustenance! and we yearn after a -mother’s love with a longing that will not be repressed! - -It is not surprising that Mr. A——, thus suddenly cut off by death from -her whose welfare had been the chief purpose of his life, should have -buried his gloom in the cares of business. Such is the usual resource of -those who bound their vision, as, alas! too many are prone to do! within -the narrow limits of this sublunary theatre of action! For thirty years -he pursued the search of wealth beneath the burning skies of India, with -singleness of purpose and untiring zeal. - -He remitted large sums, from time to time, for the convenience of a -mother to whom he was ever dutiful, and a daughter that he had never -seen; but his letters were cold and formal. His child was married,—he -congratulated her. A grand-child was born to him;—he sent her his -blessing. His daughter became a widow;—he condoled with her upon her -loss. But nothing could arouse him from his bootless labor for -superfluous gold! - -At length, as age approached, he felt wearied with his monotonous -existence. With the decline of his bodily powers came the desire for -rest:—with the weakening of his mental energies, the longing for -sympathy grew stronger and stronger. _He did not wish to die alone!_ -Dreams of his juvenile days came over him, and he sighed for the -quietude of the old family mansion, and the warm welcome of his mother -on his return from the cares of business. When the sudden twilight of -the tropics sunk abruptly into night, he dreamed of the lingering -glories of an American evening. When he heard the cry of the bramin -kite, the harsh call of the adjutant crane, and the chattering of a -thousand obscene birds retiring to their roosts, gorged with their -horrible repast on the corpses that pollute the Ganges, he longed for -the wild notes of the whip-poor-will, the rushing sound of the -night-hawk, and the melancholy hooting of the owl, that render night -musical in the bright green woods of his native land. - -He knew that the growing city had swept far beyond the retreat of his -earlier days—that many magnificent residences had risen over the site -of his boyish play-grounds, and that even the relics of his dead had -been removed from their original resting-place, to make room for the -house of the stranger. He had permitted—_he had even advised these -changes_, but, he could not realize them! The old mansion with its broad -elms, the garden, and the pine-grove with the monuments beneath its -shade, were ever present to his mind, and his letters were painfully -charged with allusions to scenes and persons whose existence was blotted -from the page of history. - -With every year, these feelings became more and more intense, until -incipient childishness made its appearance, and he became affected with -a confirmed nostalogia. At length he closed his concerns, remitted the -unappropriated balance of his earnings, and launched himself once more -upon the ocean, on his homeward route. - -As he drew near his native shore, memory retraced more and more vividly, -the scenes of other days, until his failing intellect began to confuse -the present with the past, and, at times, he dreamed of once more -welcoming the little circle of the loved and cherished, in the same old -wainscotted parlor,—around the same wide, hospitable, antique -fire-place, where he slept with head reclined upon his mother’s knee -when the presence of company obtained him the privilege of sitting up an -hour beyond his usual bed time. - -The vessel neared the port. The pilot, ever the first to welcome the -wanderer home, ascended the deck and distributed the “papers” of the -previous day. With one of these, Mr. A—— hastily retired to the cabin. -Not even the blue hills of his native land, now full in sight, could -wean him from the fatal record. His eye glanced rapidly over the leading -article, but the struggle of contending candidates had no charm for him. -He furtively regarded the items of foreign news;—was shocked at the -long record of crimes and casualties made piquant and racy with details -and comments which the purer manners of his early years would not have -tolerated; and, for the first time in his life, he turned from the -_price current_ in disgust, but why did he start, turn pale, and tremble -when his eye rested upon the ominous black lines that cross the final -column of the second page? The identical paper is still preserved, and I -extract the notice!—Read! - - * * * * * - -Died, suddenly, of apoplexy, on the 29th inst., in the 96th year of her -age, Mrs. C—— A——, the venerable relict of the late Hon. W—— -A——, and mother of Mr. H—— A——, the distinguished American -merchant at ——. - - * * * * * - -The cup was full! There breathed not in the land of his birth one -kindred being to unite him with the past!—His daughter!—she was a -stranger! How should he recognise her in the stranger crowd!—The mind, -already weakened, was crushed!—The cracked vase was shivered! - -The moment the anchor dropped, he leaped into a boat, and hurried on -shore. Calling the nearest coach he ordered it in haste and sternly, “To -——’s lane, half a mile from the turnpike gate of the —— road!” - -The astonished driver stared as he replied, “There’s no such lane now, -sir! I heard of it when I was a boy, but it’s all built up long ago, and -I never knew even where it was!” - -“Then drive me to my mother’s,” cried Mr. A——, in a voice almost of -fury; and holding forth the paper, which had never left his hand, he -pointed to the notice. An old man, standing by, struck by the haggard -and maniacal look, perused the article and simply said, “Drive to the -marble building, No. 20 —— Place.” - -The grieving survivers of the family of Mrs. A—— were sitting silently -in the darkened parlor, on the morning after the funeral, when a loud -appeal at the bell startled the whole household—so ill did it accord -with the silence of grief brooding over all who had lived under the mild -influence of the departed! A female attendant hurried to the door, and -was instantly thrust to the wall by one who rushed furiously past her, -crying aloud and wildly, “Where is my wife!—my mother!” Mr. A—— -actually sprang into the presence of the ladies; for he was endowed for -the moment with unnatural strength by the intensity of feeling. The -figure of the elder lady, as she started to her feet in terror on the -sudden intrusion, appeared to awaken some long dormant recollection, for -he checked, on the instant, his precipitate advance, regarded her -intently for a moment, and approaching gently, but before her alarm -permitted her to move, he laid his hands upon her shoulders, and read -her features with a steady and protracted gaze that seemed to search her -very soul! “No! no!” he cried, “You are not my Jane!” and fainted at her -feet. - - * * * * * - -In the cemetery of ——, where the eye stretches wide and far over -beautiful wooded slopes and a broad expanse of water—rock, ravine, -spire, hamlet, and the distant city—where all is peace, and the weary -soul is tempted to covet the repose of those who wait beneath,—now rest -the remains of Mr. A——. - - “After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well!” - -Standing beside his grave, as the moon-beams flickered on the marble, -contending with the shadows of o’erhanging leaves that rustled in the -night-breeze, I thought how rapidly every haunt of my own bright, -holiday youth was yielding to the inroads of another populous capital. -The pond on which we used to ply the armed heel when winter ruled the -year, has disappeared.—Its site is occupied with civic palaces. The -shady glen where the winged hours of starry summer nights flew all -unheeded by in converse with the loved who are no more, lies bare and -sered beneath the August sun!—The very stream that wound so gracefully -among the trees is dry!—The dews of heaven that fed its crystal sources -fall now in vain upon a mountain mass of marble—column,—plynth and -dome—rising in mockery of _posthumous benevolence_,—a long enduring -witness of perverted trust! Where are the few and fondly cherished who -shared the converse of those happy hours?—One lies deep in the coral -groves of the Hesperides!—One fell a victim to a philanthropic spirit -when the plague of Indoostan ravaged the vallies of the -West!—Another!—Strangers tread lightly round his narrow house in the -gardens of Père-la-Chaise!—The last— - - “Peace to thy broken heart and early grave!” - -But why repeat these woes that are the lot of all?—Who is there that -has learned the value of the baubles that entice us _here_—Wealth! -Fame! Power! or sublunary Love!—but will join in the secret aspiration -with which I left the silent resting-place of a perturbed spirit—“Take! -oh! Take me home!” - - * * * * * - - - - - WESTERN HOSPITALITY. - - - BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. - - - Hard by I’ve a cottage that stands near a wood, - A stream glides in peace at the door, - Where all who are weary, ’tis well understood, - Receive hospitality’s store. - To cheer that the brook and the thicket afford, - The stranger we freely invite: - You’re welcome to come and partake at the board, - And afterwards rest for the night. - - The birds in the morning will sing from the trees, - And herald the young god of day; - Then with him uprising, depart if you please, - We’ll set you refresh’d on your way. - Your coin for this service we sternly reject, - No traffic for gain we pursue, - And all the reward that we wish or expect, - We take in the good that we do. - - Mankind are all travellers on life’s rugged road, - And myriads would wander astray - In seeking eternity’s silent abode - Did mercy not point out the way. - If all would their duty discharge as they should, - To those that are helpless and poor, - The world would resemble my cot near the wood, - And life the sweet stream at my door. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LADY AND THE PAGE. - - - A STORY OF MOORISH SPAIN. - - - BY MARY S. PEASE. - - -Many years ago there dwelt, not far from Seville, in a castle so old it -was a wonder what kept it from tumbling down, a Spanish hidalgo, -remarkable for but two things—a very beautiful daughter, and the very -strict manner in which he secluded her from the world. In every other -respect this hidalgo was like other hidalgos, full of pride, sporting a -pair of Spanish mustachios, and wearing a stiletto by his side. - -The wonderful beauty of his daughter, the Doña Ysabel, had somehow—in -spite of the seclusion in which she was kept—become proverbial, and the -fame thereof had spread from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees. Not a caballero -of that chivalric country but would have given his best steed for one -glance from the eyes of the hidalgo’s daughter—eyes which shrouded -under their long lashes, were like diamonds winning across the midnight. -Her hair was silky and soft, darker and more glossy than the raven’s -wing—and in such luxuriance did it grow that she might almost have hid -herself in it, as did “the lady of the golden locks” in the fairy tale. -Her face was fitful as an April day. It was the clear and faithful -mirror to the warmest, purest heart in all Spain. And never did a young -heart beat within a lighter and more graceful form than that of the Doña -Ysabel. - -The castle where the hidalgo resided with his daughter was built on a -rocky eminence, in one of the wildest parts of the country. Tradition -said it had been erected by a powerful and wealthy Moor, from whom it -had been conquered by the strong arm of one of the present occupant’s -ancestors. The father of Ysabel had resided there but rarely until the -death of his wife; but, after that event, he had retired almost -broken-hearted to this wild retreat. Here, from early childhood, the -Lady Ysabel had been brought up. Wanting the care of a mother, she had -always been left to have her own way, and a more self-willed, impetuous -sylph never dashed the dew from the wild flowers that grew so -luxuriantly around the Moorish castle. - -One day, when the Doña Ysabel had nearly attained her sevententh year, -the Count de Llenaro, her father, stood within the deep embrasure of the -richly carved corridor, absorbed in thought. His eyes were fixed on the -shadows that played so fancifully on the rocks below. A light step was -heard and a fairy form entered the apartment. - -“_Bella mi cara nina_, I was thinking of thee, I would speak with thee.” -And the gentle girl stood beside the proud lord. “What wouldst thou my -father?” The maiden’s voice was low and silvery soft. Her dark eye -looked up into her father’s with an expression soft and confiding as -childhood. One little snow-white hand rested upon his shoulder, while -the other nestled within his own. - -“How old are you, Ysy?” - -“I shall be seventeen come next Michaelmas.” - -“’Tis even as I thought. Thou art getting to be a great girl, Belle,—I -have something to say to thee; wilt thou listen?” - -“Dear papa, thy word is my law.” - -“Is it so?” and the father fixed his eyes upon the girl with a look so -penetrating that her own eye fell, and the rich warm blood rushed from -her young heart and burnt upon her brow. - -Llenaro seated himself upon a low _turco_, and drawing his child towards -him, he fondly kissed her glowing cheek. - -“I fear, Belle,” said he, putting back the world of curls that had -fallen over her brow, “thy will hath never yet been broken. Thou art but -a wild one.” Count Alcaros fell into a long fit of musing. The silver -breathing tones of the Doña’s soft voice broke the stillness. - -“What wouldst thou with thy child, papa? my birds, and young flowers, -even now mourn my absence.” - -“And canst thou not give one hour unto thy father, Ysy? What will thy -birds and flowers do when I bring thee a right noble bird, an eagle -among birds, for thine own? Wilt thou then give up all others and love -but only that?” - -“What does my papa mean?” tremblingly replied the maiden. - -“I mean that thou art to be a child no longer.” - -“But, papa, all my pretty birds and—” - -“Thou shalt have a bird worth the whole, a right proud gallant bird. -Ysy, dost thou remember the Marquis of Talavera?” - -“What of him, dearest papa?” - -“Dost thou remember him?” - -“Yes, papa.” - -“This Marquis hath sought thee, Belle, in marriage, and I have said thou -shalt be his bride.” - -The girl started to the ground in unfeigned surprise. - -“Why, papa! he is old enough to be my grandfather, and besides, he is -ugly enough to—” - -“He is just the age of thy father, Ysabel. His years will serve to guide -thy wayward ones. He is all that is brave and noble, besides being one -of the richest, and most powerful lords in Spain. You may know, Belle, -how well I think of him—he is almost the only one of my many _friends_, -that I admit into this our wild retreat.” - -“But, papa—” - -“Nay, Belle, I will have no buts. It must be as I say.” - -“But, papa.” The Count’s brow darkened. “But, papa, I do not love him.” - -“Love—pah!” - -“Papa, I _cannot_ love him.” - -“Pah!” - -“Papa, I _will not_ love him!” and the Doña’s eyes grew bright and -large. - -“Ysabel!” - -“Dear papa,—I mean I cannot—” and the little lady burst into tears. - -“Ysabel,—hear me—I have said thou shalt become the bride of the -Marquis of Talavera. What I say I never unsay—that thou knowest. Two -weeks from this. The day thou art seventeen—is the day decided upon. It -_must, it shall be so_! Wilt thou do thy father’s bidding, Belle?” - -The girl answered not a word but her eye lit up and her little mouth was -tightly compressed. Every line of her statue-like form expressed -firmness and resolution. - -“Wilt thou do thy father’s bidding, Ysabel?” again demanded the Count. - -“Thou hast ever been an indulgent father to me, never hast thou crossed -my slightest wish, and now, father, I must say firmly _no_! I never can -become the bride of him thou namest.” - -“Girl! thou shalt not even be consulted. Thou hast had thine own way -seventeen years, _now_ I will have mine. Thou shalt wed the Talavera if -I have to drag thee to the altar. Nay, no fawning.” The girl had twined -her soft round arms about her father’s neck—her eyes looked -beseechingly into his. But he pushed her from him, saying—“Go to thy -room, Ysabel, and there remain until thy reason comes to thee. Dost thou -hear me?” - -The Spaniard strode from the room, and the weeping lady sought, with a -heavy heart, her own turret. - -It was the first time her father had been unkind to her, and she threw -herself down, on a low couch, in all that utter hopelessness of grief -youth alone can feel. It was her first sorrow. - -There came a soft rap at the door,—but she heeded it not;—and not -until a hand, soft as woman’s, held her own,—and a voice, whose deep, -low tones were breathing music, whispered in her ear, did she know her -father’s handsome page was kneeling by her. - -“Weep not, mi cara Ysabel,” soothingly said he, “or rather let me share -thy grief. I know it all—thy father hath told me, and sent me here to -bring thee to reason, as he said. Can I do it sweet lady?” and the -handsome page smiled. - -It was wicked in him to smile when her heart was so full of grief—and -so the lady thought. But she had learned to love, and when love is warm -and new, all the loved one says or does is more than right. - - “Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head, - Faultless, immortal”—— - -The Doña Ysabel loved her father’s page,—loved him as an ardent-souled -daughter of sunny Spain knows how to love. The father!——he did not -even dream of such wickedness. (If he had he could not have slept for at -least six months)—the unpardonable wickedness of a daughter of his—his -bright, beautiful Ysabel—the high born lady of Llenaro,—loving her -father’s page!—a nameless page!—and so he slept secure. The thought -was too preposterous. And the Doña Ysabel loved. Love is all -trustfulness, all watchfulness, all hopefulness. The page was handsome; -the page was graceful, witty, accomplished. He was indeed an uncommon -page;—and so thought the Doña’s father,—and _so_ thought her father’s -daughter. He could sing to the music of Ysabel’s guitar, most divinely; -he could dance, fence, was perfectly skilled in all horsemanship, -moreover he was acquainted with all the then lore of bright Spain. He -wrote poetry too; and sang the words of his own composing. In sooth he -was a most marvellous page—a perfect paragon of a page; and then his -eye—why it was wilder than lightning shot from a midnight sky. The -servants all feared and hated him. To Ysabel alone was he all that was -gentle,—and to her father, for her sake. He was her teacher; her -patient, faithful, untiring teacher. They drank together at the pure -well of learning—a well too often untasted in those days of fair Spain. - -“Weep not, sweetest; thy noble father would see thee wed with the -Marquis of Talavera, and thou canst not love him. And it is for that -thou weepest. Is it not so sweet lady?” - -“I was happy,” replied the sorrowing girl. “I did not dream of love, or -that I had a heart. I only felt that I was happy. And now—” - -“And now, my gentle Ysabel?” - -“And now,” said the Señorita, deeply blushing, “now I feel I have no -heart to give.” - -“Bless thee, dearest, for those words. Ysabel hear me for I must speak. -I love thee Ysabel—I am other than I seem. I am no hireling—I am the -heir to a noble house. One year ago, having heard so much of thy -wondrous beauty, and full of curiosity and daring, I contrived to get -admitted into the castle as thy father’s page. To see, is to love -thee—but to be near thee day after day—to read thy gentle thoughts—to -gaze in thy liquid, truthful, soul-beaming eyes—to feel thy soft hand -within my own. Ysabel, a being cut from granite to see thee thus could -not help loving thee. I love _a soul_—a soul thou hast sweet Ysabel—a -reflecting, gentle, trustful, ardent, heart-ful soul. Ysabel I love -thee, wilt thou love me?” - -“Jose, I will, I do love thee”—and the girl’s eyes were soft as she -rested them in his. - -He took her hand—her little, warm, white hand, and covered it with -kisses. Then drawing her gently towards him, he clasped her silently to -his heart. She nestled like a bird in his bosom—and rested her head -there. At intervals a low sob swelled her little heart, like that of a -wearied infant, worn out with much crying. At length her sighs came less -and less frequent; and when the page bent over to gaze upon her face, -she had sunk into a calm, gentle sleep. A bright tear still glistened on -her silky lash—that long black fringe that reposed so quietly on her -pale, fair cheek. - -There is something inexpressibly touching in the quiet and calm repose -of a beautiful girl. And when we feel that that youth and beauty is all -we love on earth—that it is near us—nestling in sweet trust within our -arms—our all—our own—life of our life—heart of our heart—soul of -our soul—what other happiness can earth give more pure, more holy, more -unalloyed? - -The page Jose almost wished the Doña might never awake—but she did -awake. And when she did, she looked up in his eyes and smiled. There was -everything in that smile, love, hope, faith, gentleness, truth, trust, -joy. It was a droll smile too; there was archness in it—Jose never -forgot that smile!—Strange, that an outward symbol of the inner world -can express so much. - -The page attempted to kiss the bright smile into his own heart—but the -lady’s mood had changed. Half ashamed, half in sport, she broke from him -with a laugh—her own peculiar laugh—bird-like in its silvery -clearness; and like a bird, as wild, and sweet. - -“Sit down, dear Ysabel—I would talk with thee calmly—wilt thou be -mine? Ysabel, I love thee. Oh! how I love thee. Naught on earth is half -so dear as thou—life—ten thousand lives, were they mine, would I give -for thy love. Wilt thou be mine? my own?” - -The girl put both her little hands in his—that was her only answer. And -then the page drew her again to his heart and kissed her brow and lips. -And then—and then—and then—why then, and there, right up before -them—with curled lip and cloudy brow—stood the castle’s lord!—the -proud hidalgo!—the Count Alcaros de Llenaro!—the Doña Ysabel’s -father!—the handsome page’s master! - -“Ha!” exclaimed he, “is this the way ye obey my commands? Ah, I see! -Thou’rt doing my bidding, sir page. Hast thou won the self-willed lady -to think as I do? Away, girl!—Back, I say! Away with thee, page!” - -Pale, drooping, quailing beneath her father’s angry glance, the gentle -girl silently twined her arms around his frame, and strove to kiss away -the angry spot upon his brow. - -“Back! Judas!” exclaimed he, pushing her rudely from him. “When thou -hast learned to do thy father’s wishes, _then_ will he accept thy -caresses.” - -Frightened—crushed—she shrunk within herself, like the sensitive plant -at some rude touch, nor dared to raise her gentle eye to the -fire-darting ones of her angry sire. - -And the page? - -The father glanced from the drooping form of his daughter to the -unbending one of the presumptuous lover. - -“And so, sir menial, thou art aspiring—we like ambition. Thou thinkest -to love my daughter—the daughter of the noble house of Llenaro—good!” - -“Count of Llenaro—hear me. I ask of thee thy daughter. My house, proud -lord, is full as noble as thine own—perhaps more ancient. I am no -page—I am the only son of——” - -“I will not even hear who thou art—wert thou the monarch of the -universe, thou shouldst not wed my daughter. I have sworn she shall -become the bride of the Talavera—I never recall an oath.” - -The group as they stood there would have made a picture for the pencil -of a Salvator. The proud, determined figure of Llenaro, standing with -his arms folded, looking lightning on the no less proud form of the -handsome page, as he stood in the glow of his young manhood’s strength -and beauty. Then the shrinking form of the Doña Ysabel—slightly leaning -forward, with clasped hands—her head partly raised—the speechless, -imploring agony of her lovely face. - -The room contributed not a little to the scene—all around was purely, -beautifully feminine. The low damask ottomans—the bright-eyed birds in -their glittering gold cages—the rich, mellow paintings hanging around -the room. Among them was her own soft eyed mother. The sweet, dreamy -eyes of the Italian seemed to look down on the father of her daughter -reproachfully for his harshness to that daughter. The parting beams of -the sun, as he bade adieu to his love the fair earth, streamed in the -room, gilding with their warm glow the expressive faces of the three. A -ray more softened fell on the calm, angel face of the wife,—the mother. - -“Alcaros de Llenaro, I entreat thee to listen to me. On my knees I -supplicate thee to give me thy daughter. Doom her not to misery. She -loves me. Think upon thy child’s mother—on the love vows given and -taken before thy child was born. When she—the mother, the wife, was all -in all to thee. Thou _didst_ love once, and she thou didst love, was the -mother of the child thou’rt dooming to wretchedness—and now that mother -looks down upon thee, imploring happiness on her child.” - -Alcaros glanced at the image of his wife. He fancied, as the warm, red -sunlight fell upon it, the gentle eyes looked a reproachful gaze on him. -He was not a hard-hearted man. Pride was his ruling passion. False pride -it might have been; whether false or true, it fastened on him then, -driving back the kindlier feelings the memory of his wife had roused -within him. He checked the tear before it came to his eyes, and putting -on a heavy frown— - -“Rise, sir minion,” said he, “I have told thee my daughter shall wed the -Talavera—_and she shall!_” - -“_Never!_ as I live, never!” said the girl. “Never shall a Llenaro -become the bride of the man she cannot love!—never!” - -The lady looked her father’s child—as though she had been born to be -obeyed. The softness of the mother had gone. Her slight, round figure, -straight as a young Indian’s, had risen to its full height. Her eyes -dilated—those eyes, where shone her soul—those warm, black eyes, whose -every glance kept time to the throbbings of her impulsive heart. - -“Ysabel,” said Llenaro, sadly, after a pause, “thou forgetest I am thy -father.” - -“My father! dearest papa!—my own father, forgive me. Thou _art_ my -father! but do not,” her tones were low and earnest, “oh! do not force -this hated match on thy child. She will do anything—_all_ thou -wishest—but oh! do not seal her misery forever.” - -The count permitted the ardent caresses of the maiden, then putting her -gently from him, he told her to remain in her turret. He had much to say -to her. He would seek her when he was ready to tell her what he had to -say. Then turning to Jose, he added, “Follow me, sir page, I have -somewhat to say to thee also.” - -The maiden watched the receding forms of the two until they had -disappeared, and then she murmured, “He spoke kindly to me,” and _Hope_ -warmed her heart. A bright Hope! Hope the deceiver! What would the world -be without thee, fairy Hope? Thou comest like a dream, whispering in our -soul’s ear thy witching fancies, until they seem realities—and the _is -to be_, stands before us a living _now_! Great is thy power, fair -Hope—and thou knowest it,—and so thou goest on deluding -mortals,—making the dim shadowy perspective a glorious foreground. So, -when our hearts feel sad and weary, and long to burst the chain that -binds them to this dark earth, thou comest with the dews of heaven fresh -glistening on thy lips—and tellest us fairy tales, and singest us fairy -songs—and kissest our hearts with thy cool, dewy lips. And we believe -thee, syren, and let thee deceive us again and again. - -The Lady Ysabel rested her wild, black eyes—beaming with a thousand -thoughts—upon her mother’s picture, and kneeling before it, she clasped -her little hands and implored her gentle mother to look down kindly on -her daughter. “And, mother,” continued she—her lute-like voice scarce -audible—“ask _Him_, the mighty one—whose throne is in high heaven—to -forgive thy erring child, if she forgets, in her love for the creature, -the Creator. God forgive me if I love _him_ more than I ought, for I -cannot love him less.” - -The Lady Ysabel watched all that evening for her father, and the next -day—and the next—and the next—and then her cheek began to pale, and -her eye grew dim with weeping. For Hope had grown weary and fled. She -could not dream either why the page came not—a little indignation -mingled with her sorrow. - -The duenna did all she could to restore her young lady to her right -mind, as she said. At length she brought her a letter—saying— - -“Take it, _mi_ señorita, a holy friar gave it me for thee. Learn from -it, Señorita Ysabel, to control thy too great grief. It is sinful and -wrong to indulge in sorrow as thou dost.” - -The Lady Ysabel knew the writing—tremblingly she broke the seal, and -read, - - “_My gentle Ysabel_—Thy father hath forbidden me the castle, or - ever to see thee again—but fear not, dearest, thy father cannot - withstand thy gentleness—thy goodness. Thou wert not made to be - unhappy—thou art too good—too kind—too true. God will not see - thee made wretched. He watches over thee. He will not desert - thee—and, dearest, remember there is one heart that beats for - thee—and thee alone—whose every pulse is thine. Sunshine is - midnight without the light of thine eyes to tell where shineth - the sun, and when, gentlest, I would see thee, I would press thy - hands upon my heart—that its wild throbbings might be stilled. - I would look into the clear depths of thy truthful eyes, and - learn there a lesson of calmness—of faith to bear, and hope to - look beyond. Thy duenna, sweetest, more than mistrusts my - disguise—but a golden bait has lured stronger minds than hers - from the clear waters of truth. I cannot quit the castle - grounds, for in it is all that is dear to me on earth. Write, - dearest, if thou canst, to thine own - - Jose.” - -The lady sat before her scrutoire to write to him she loved, when she -heard her father’s step. She had only time to crumple his letter in her -bosom as the father entered. Ever obedient to her heart’s impulse, she -sprang towards him, and throwing her white arms about his neck, she -called him her dear, _dear_ papa, and burst into tears. - -“Calm thyself, my Ysabel. I would tell thee frankly why I ask thee to -sacrifice thyself—to seal thy misery, as thou sayest.” He led her -gently to an ottoman, and seated himself beside her. - -“Ysabel, wouldst thou see thy father penniless, homeless, a beggar?” - -“Papa!” looked the wondering eyes of Ysabel. - -“I repeat it, Ysy, wouldst thou see thy father resign all these fair -acres, and starve a houseless beggar? Wouldst thou, Ysy?” - -“What meanest thou, papa? in mercy tell me.” - -“If by one act of thine, it were in thy power to make thy father’s -happiness, wouldst thou not do that act?” - -“Dear papa, thou knowest I would—but oh! tell me all. What am I to do? -And yet I know—but _why_? tell me why”— - -“Ysabel, by becoming his bride, thou canst save thy father from becoming -a beggar.” - -The girl shuddered but said in a low calm voice, - -“Father, tell me why—tell me _all_. Make a confidant of thy child. I -can bear anything. See! I am calm.” - -“Ysabel, I will! in as few words as possible. A year ago, you may -remember, Talavera was here. He has not been here since. A short time -after that, his last visit, the page came—though it is not of him I -would speak. We played—Talavera and I. At first I won—in the success -of the moment I staked high—and lost. I still played on—every throw -swept off acre after acre of the lands my fathers owned. Midnight saw me -without a farthing—and without a foot of earth to call my own. Then -came a bond. I signed it. It gave me back my broad lands—my wealth—but -it deprived me of the only thing I had on earth to love—of you, my -Ysabel! See! here is the bond.” - -The lady’s heart was still—very still—so still it almost frightened -her. Her cheek, lips, hands, were cold and bloodless. It seemed as -though her blood had all gone to her heart—and frozen there! Her eye -was passionless, it was so calm. She held the open paper before her, and -without reading or seeing, she read and saw enough to know that the fair -grounds and castle of Ysolo-Rosse—where she had lived from her -infancy—where her father had loved her mother—were to go into the -hands of the Talavera, unless she became his bride. - -“Ysabel, I have sworn thou shalt be his bride, but I will recall my oath -if thou sayest so. What is thy decision?” - -“I will wed him,” replied the girl. - -Llenaro clasped her to his heart, and kissing her cold brow, he added, - -“The day thou art seventeen was the day decided upon—it will be here in -a week. But if ’twill be too soon, no doubt the Marquis will”— - -“’Twill not be too soon.” - -“Ysabel, thou frightenest me, thou art so pale—I will not force thee -into what would be thy unhappiness.” - -“Nay, papa, I had much rather be unhappy myself than to see thee so. But -I will not be. To-morrow thou shalt see me more cheerful.” - -The wily lord had learned the way to make his daughter’s will his own. -He loved that daughter, and felt a father’s pity for her. But he thought -although she suffered then—and it pained him to the soul to see it—she -would soon forget her youthful passion, and, as the wife of the -Talavera, she would gradually learn to be happy. Her future husband was -all that was noble and good—all this thought the father—and then he -thought “the Castle of Ysolo-Rosse will still be mine.” The father’s -conscience was _almost_ quieted. - -“I have foresworn playing, Belle,” said he, sadly, “never, should I live -forever, will another card pass through my hands. Ysabel, my darling -child! do not look so sad,—seek the cool air, it will revive thee. Go -and gather thy favorite wild flowers: they will divert thy mind from its -sorrow. My noble, generous girl.” He fondly kissed his child and then -withdrew. - -Ysabel left to herself mechanically sought the garden. She wandered over -her favorite haunts, scarce knowing what she did. Her heart, her -thoughts were still as the grave. She reached her bower—the little -vine-clad bower, where the page and she had so often sat listening to -the music of each other’s voices. And there, on the very seat where they -were wont to sit—was Jose! the page! - -“Ysabel! beloved!” exclaimed he in unfeigned delight—and the girl was -in his arms. - -“Dearest, best, my gentle Ysabel! am I once more permitted to see -thee?—to clasp thee to my heart? But, sweetest, how thou hast changed. -How pale thou art. Go with me dearest, I will be thy father, brother, -husband, friend. Leave this hated castle—now—speak, dear one, wilt -thou go with me? Dear, _dear_ Ysabel, tell me.” - -“Jose, I cannot—I have promised to become his bride!” - -“But, dearest, they shall not force thee to do what thou dost not wish.” - -“Jose, I had my own free choice.” - -“And thou didst choose—” - -“To become his bride.” - -“Will nothing induce thee to alter thy determination?” - -“_Nothing!_” - -“Good bye, Ysabel.” - -“Jose! Dear Jose—” but the page was gone. - -The next morning found the lady Ysabel in the spot where the page had -left her. Then followed many days of sickness. Her life was despaired -of. Day after day she lay, pale, cold, insensible. Reason had forsaken -her throne. Her sweet smiles were gone; and the speaking glances of her -dewy eyes had fled. Her voice too—for she had not spoken since that -night. Even the pulsations of her heart were silent. Life alone -remained—life without its light. And how her father watched over -her—and how bitterly he lamented, and cursed himself for having brought -her thus. At length light shone in her eyes—the light of life. Morning -dawned in upon the darkness of her soul. - -“_Good bye, Ysabel_,” said she. - -“My own child, what dost thou say?” asked the father, bending anxiously -over her. - -“Good bye, Ysabel—” and she looked up in her father’s face and -smiled.—_That smile!_ it haunted him to his grave! - -“Are you better, my own Ysabel? my dearest child?” - -“Yes papa,—I am well. What a strange dream I have had. Ah! now I -recollect—” and she sunk into a gentle sleep. - -Day by day she gained health and strength. The father never left her -side. - -“Papa,” said she one day, “will you let me see that paper again? you -know the one I mean.” - -“No, my child, you never need see or think of it.” - -“Do let me take it, papa—you do not know how well and strong I am—do, -dearest papa?” And the father was prevailed upon. She saw she could save -her father from ruin, and her mind was made. - -“How old am I, papa?” - -“Three weeks ago saw you seventeen.” - -“Does the—does my future husband know of my illness?” - -“He has sent repeatedly to inquire after your health. His courier was -here this morning.” - -“Will you send him word I am well—and am ready in two weeks from now to -become his wife?” - -“Are you in earnest, Ysabel?” - -“Perfectly so.” - -“Is it of your own free will you speak?” - -“It is, papa.” And the father was deceived—perhaps too willingly so. - -The Lady Ysabel was able now to revisit her favorite haunts. Every thing -she saw brought the page vividly before her eyes. Sometimes an -inscription on a tree—the walks, the flowers, the bower where last they -met—all, all brought with them the memory of _him_. She strove to -banish, as high treason to her happiness, all thoughts of him—and the -firmness of her nature conquered. She familiarised herself to all the -old spots where she had loved to be with him—and she thought she was -happy—almost—happy. - -The day at length came—clear—cloudless—sun-bright. And then the -lady’s heart misgave her—she said not a word, however, but let them -deck her in her bridal gear, scarce knowing or caring what they did. - -Evening came. The chapel was brilliantly lighted. The bright red wine -flowed freely—and joy danced in all hearts, save one. - -Ysabel was pale, very, very pale when she entered the chapel. The orange -buds that wreathed her hair were not more pale. - -The Talavera had not yet come. All was ready. The priest in his long -flowing robes—the father—the bridesmaid—the guests; for the father -had invited many a noble house to witness his daughter’s nuptials. All -were ready, and still the bridegroom came not. At length was heard a -confused movement, and, in the midst of that joyous mass of life, the -Marquis of Talavera had been thrown from his carriage, and the servants, -in their fright and dismay, scarce knowing what they did, had borne him -in his litter to the chapel. - -The Lady Ysabel grew even more pale, as she looked upon the bier. There -lay the lord who was to have been her husband! She gazed on him in a -sort of nightmare fascination—a weight seemed taken from her heart—a -feeling of relief mingled with the horror of the hour. - -The Doña Ysabel enjoyed one short month of tranquillity—and then came -news from the castle of Talavera. The will of the marquis had been read. -He had bequeathed to his son and heir all his vast estates together with -the Lady Ysabel, should he himself die before the marriage took place. -The _bond_ still held good! - -A letter came from the young marquis to the count, demanding his -daughter’s hand in marriage. The letter was gracefully written, and told -how he had long heard of the wondrous beauty of the Doña Ysabel, and how -ardently he desired to become the possessor of it. - -Again the lady yielded to her father’s persuasion. The present marquis -was young and handsome—so the objection of age was removed. All Spain -knew he was noble, and brave—and all the bright-eyed daughters of Spain -might well look envy on the favored Ysabel, that the young Talavera had -chosen her. - -He was then travelling in the interior of Europe. His letter was dated, -Vienna. One year from the day of the elder Talavera’s death was the day -fixed upon to celebrate the bridals of the bravest cavalier and -loveliest flower in all Spain. - -Ysabel yielded, and tried to seem cheerful, but her step grew slower and -slower, and her fair face paler and more pale. As her days went on did -she each day lose some part of this earth, earthy. So very gradual was -the change that neither her father nor those around her seemed to -observe it. So passed seven months. Four months more were to find her a -new home in the heart of the Talavera. - -She daily visited the spot where she had last seen _him_, in the hope -of——she knew not what. - -The Doña Ysabel was in her bower—neither reading, nor sewing, nor -watching her flowers—but in a state of listlessness, half reclining on -the cushioned seat, when suddenly her name was spoken! It was not her -father’s voice. The next instant saw the Doña close to the heart of the -page, Jose! Neither spoke—the heart of each was too full for -words—dull words cannot express our strongest emotions, when the heart -is too big for utterance, speech is but a mockery. Words came at length, -and the page told her how much anguish he had suffered, and how he could -no longer stay away from her he loved. That he came, hardly expecting to -see her, and if he did see her, he feared he should find her changed. - -“And, dearest Ysabel, thou art changed—not in thy love—but thou art -but the shadow of the Ysabel that in days syne, bounded so joyfully over -these hills.” He held up her hand— - - “It was so thin and transparent of hue, - You might have seen the moon shine through!” - -The Lady Ysabel told the page _all_. How that she had consented to -become the bride of the young Talavera. The page learned the reason from -her too, why she had consented to become the wife of one she could not -love. He smiled when he heard that the Talavera must become master, -either of the castle and property of Ysolo-Rosse, or of the lovely Lady -Ysabel. - -When Ysabel retired to rest that night, it was with a light heart. Day -after day witnessed the meetings of the lady and the page—and day after -day witnessed her returning bloom of face and buoyancy of heart. She was -once more that glad, bright Ysabel as when the page first came to her -father’s castle. - -The father, without inquiring the cause, saw his child happy and -smiling, and he was satisfied. And she _was_ happy and smiling—the -smiles never left her little dimpled mouth—soon as one went another -came. Even in her sleep, her joyous heart beamed from her face. - -The morning came bright and sunshiny as it had done just one year -before. The chapel was again illuminated—again were the guests -assembled—and again, surrounded by her bridesmaids, came the Lady -Ysabel into the chapel. But oh! what a different Lady Ysabel from the -one of the year ago. The bridal wreath encircled her brow—and below -that fair brow beamed out the _happiest_ pair of eyes imaginable! What -could it mean? - -There was heard among the guests a universal murmur of admiration as she -made her appearance. So beautiful, so bright, so radiant a being they -had never seen. Her face appeared actually to _emit light_—so truly did -the bright sunshine of her glad young heart shine through. - -A slight movement at the great double door of the chapel—and the -bridegroom, the Marquis of Talavera was announced! - -Quite as great a sensation did the noble, manly figure of the young -marquis create, as had the softer and more gentle one of the Lady -Ysabel. - -The father seemed struck dumb in sudden surprise!—at length, burst from -his lips—“The page!” - -Any of the old gossips of Spain will tell you the rest of the story—and -what a joyous wedding there was—and how every one said there never was -so well matched—so noble a pair, as Don Jose, Marquis of Talavera, and -his gentle bride, Ysabel! They will tell you, too, that the honey-moon, -instead of lasting but thirty-one days, did outlast thirty-one -years!—and the love that was true to the sire could not but bless the -son. - - * * * * * - -So endeth the story of “The Lady and the Page.” - - * * * * * - - - - - FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, - - - PRESSED IN AN OLD COPY OF SPENSER. - - - BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. - - - Who prest you here? The Past can tell, - When summer skies were bright above, - And some full heart did leap and swell - Beneath the white new moon of love. - - Some Poet, haply, when the world - Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue, - Ere its cold, inky waves had curled - O’er the numb heart once warm and true; - - When, with his soul brimful of morn, - He looked beyond the vale of Time, - Nor saw therein the dullard scorn - That made his heavenliness a crime; - - When, musing o’er the Poets olden, - His soul did like a sun upstart - To shoot its arrows, clear and golden, - Through slavery’s cold and darksome heart. - - Alas! too soon the veil is lifted - That hangs between the soul and pain, - Too soon the morning-red hath drifted - Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain! - - Or were you prest by one who nurst - Bleak memories of love gone by, - Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst - In dark and erring vacancy? - - To him you still were fresh and green - As when you grew upon the stalk, - And many a breezy summer scene - Came back—and many a moonlit walk; - - And there would be a hum of bees, - A smell of childhood in the air, - And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze - That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair! - - Then would you suddenly be blasted - By the keen wind of one dark thought, - One nameless woe, that had outlasted - The sudden blow whereby ’twas brought. - - Or were you pressed here by two lovers - Who seemed to read these verses rare, - But found between the antique covers - What Spenser could not prison there: - - Songs which his glorious soul had heard, - But his dull pen could never write, - Which flew, like some gold-winged bird, - Through the blue heaven out of sight? - - My heart is with them as they sit, - I see the rose-bud in her breast, - I see her small hand taking it - From out its odorous, snowy nest; - - I hear him swear that he will keep it, - In memory of that blessed day, - To smile on it or over-weep it - When she and spring are far away. - - Ah me! I needs must droop my head, - And brush away a happy tear, - For they are gone, and, dry and dead, - The rose-bud lies before me here. - - Yet is it in no stranger’s hand, - For I will guard it tenderly, - And it shall be a magic wand - To bring mine own true love to me. - - My heart runs o’er with sweet surmises, - The while my fancy weaves her rhyme, - Kind hopes and musical surprises - Throng round me from the olden time. - - I do not care to know who prest you: - Enough for me to feel and know - That some heart’s love and longing blest you, - Knitting to-day with long-ago. - - * * * * * - - - - - IMAGINATION.[2] - - -It is so long a time since a poem of any serious pretensions has made -its appearance before the British or American public, that we have -almost ceased to look for new metrical productions, divided into books -or cantos. We have been contented with the light, fugitive strains of -the periodicals, and have not asked for grand overtures—such as used to -absorb the whole interest of the reading public, twenty, thirty, fifty -and more years ago. In the middle of the last century, a man, to be -recognised as a poet, was required to issue some single work of a -thousand lines. Quantity was more considered than quality; intellectual -labor was judged of rather by the amount of its achievements than by -their kind. - -Poetry has at times been criticised by a different rule than Painting. -That age never was, when an artist acquired a reputation in consequence -of the number of his pictures: one gem of art has always been more -highly esteemed than a million crystals. In all days past, as in the day -present, it might be said of a single head by a master, small, faded, -stained, yet beautiful through the rust of age,—“that little bit of -canvass is worth more than a whole gallery of fresh portraits, though -after living models, as beautiful as Aspasia, or as stately as -Alcibiades.” But a solitary brief poem was never so valued in comparison -with a voluminous production. Even now, formed and polished as the -public taste pretends itself to be, there lurks with us that prejudice -which more highly ranks the author of a book of verses than the author -of a sonnet. Though the book may be as negative in merit as the correct -hand of gentle dullness could make it, and the sonnet as perfect as the -best that Petrarch wrote, in the intensest glow of his love and his -genius—except by the few, the former would be regarded as the more -arduous, the more commendable performance. - -The philosophy of this prejudice, is a sort of respect mankind -entertains for a constant fulfilment of the original curse. We love to -see hard work done or indicated. We look at a mass of printed leaves and -exclaim, “Goodness! what an industrious individual the writer must have -been! How much he has accomplished!” It may be that, upon examination, -his work may have added nothing to the available stock of literature; it -may be that it will prove useless lumber, destined to dust and obscurity -in men’s garrets, and not worth the corners it will encumber. “What of -that? the author had to work hard to do it—didn’t he?” Yes! such is the -question put by people who seem to love labor for its own sake. They -look upon men of talent very much in the same light that old Girard of -Philadelphia considered poor people who existed by the employment of -their arms and legs. - -At a season of distress, some day-laborers applied to Girard for -assistance. There was a huge pile of bricks lying in the vicinity of the -house of Dives. “Take up those bricks,” said he, “and place them yonder, -and then I will pay you for the task.” The men obeyed; the bricks—to -use a verb for which we are indebted to Dr. Noah Webster and the Georgia -negroes—were _toted_ from one position to another, and the stipulated -price demanded. Girard paid it cheerfully. “But,” said the laborers, -“what are we to do now? Must we be idle while we spend this money, and -starve by and by? We shall come to you again in a week. Keep us -employed—bid us perform another task.” “Yes,” said Girard. “Take up -those bricks from the place where you have put them, and carry them back -to the place whence you removed them.” Pretty much as Girard used the -poor _operatives_ does the public treat the man of genius. Let him write -the immortal sonnet, bright and beautiful, to be fixed hereafter, a star -in the firmament of fame, and his contemporaries, in reply to his demand -for praise, will say, “What has he done? What book has he written? What -is he the author of?”—They want to see work—honest labor, and plenty -of it, though that labor be as useless as the _toting_ of the bricks. - -Not without some qualifications must these remarks be considered -strictly true, with regard to the present age, or to our own country. -There are facts to the contrary, though not sufficient to disprove the -general truth of what we say. We have no poet, who is more generally, or -more highly esteemed, than Halleck; and yet his truly great reputation -has been built up on some four or six short pieces of verse. On the -other hand, Mr. Sumner Lincoln Fairfield, has lumbered the bookseller’s -lofts with ream after ream of printed paper, and nobody but an -occasional crazy reviewer, calls such a dunce, a poet. Nevertheless, we -maintain the verity of the general observation, that those poets have -heretofore been most esteemed, who have done the most work. It is -downright astonishing, how much some of them did _do_. We look over -their long poems, with a sentiment of wonder, and reverence, and we are -awfully perplexed to determine, how vast a length of time it must have -taken these modern Cheopses, to build their pyramids. Hamlet’s account -to Polonius, of the graybeard’s book he was reading, appears to us a -pretty comprehensive description of many of these vast metrical -diffusions—“words, words, words.” It exceeds our powers of conjecture, -how the writers could have completed their whole task, so labors the -line and so slow runs the verse. We have seen a sturdy blacksmith pound -a piece of iron, for hours and hours, till it became as malleable as -lead; we have seen a woodsawyer saw, and saw, and saw, up and down, down -and up, till the very sight of him made us ready to drop with imaginary -fatigue; thy still-beginning, never ending whirl, oh weary -knife-grinder, have we also contemplated with feverish melancholy—still -for the endurance of all these, have we been able satisfactorily to -account; drilled by habit, ruled by habit, habit is to them a second -nature. But for the perpetration of a long, tedious poem for the -manufacture of verse after verse, the last drier and duller than the -preceding, there is no possible manner of accounting. It is an -infliction, which can be borne by neither gods, men nor columns. Your -_médiocre_ man may be forgiven for talking one into a paralysis, or -writing prose, till every word acts like a mesmerist and puts you to -sleep; but for his writing verses, there can be, there ought to be no -forgiveness; he should be consigned to the cave of perpetual oblivion, -and over its entrance should be inscribed, “Hope never enters here.” - -Were we to follow in the track of reviewers in the Quarterlies, who -always seem to think it necessary to make a considerable preliminary -flourish to the solemn common-places they are about to utter, we should -observe that the foregoing remarks had been elicited by a work on our -table, entitled “Imagination, a poem in two parts, with other poems, by -Louisa Frances Poulter.” But as the work did not call forth the remarks, -we shall observe nothing of the kind. The moment we wrote the title of -the poem, and saw that it consisted of nearly eleven hundred lines, we -began to reflect that very few long poems had been written lately, and -our pen scampered over the paper at a rail-road rate, till we reached -the _dépôt_ at the end of this paragraph. - -Pausing here, we first look back over what we have said; it pleases -us—let it stand, therefore, and let us now employ ourselves with -reading Miss Poulter’s poem in two cantos. We have not the slightest -dread of it—no! it seems a pleasant land, of which we have had -delightful glimpses in a transient survey. With these glimpses we mean -to entertain the reader, besides giving him an idea of the face of the -country. - -_In limine_, we ought to confess ourselves amiable critics, when we are -called upon to pronounce on the works of a female writer, and more -particularly of one who is a new claimant for distinction. It is our -desire to encourage the intellectual efforts of the gentle sex, if for -no better purpose, at least for that of inciting women to assert their -claims to the honors and the rewards of authorship. These pages are -scrutinized by many a brilliant pair of eyes, ready to flash indignation -upon the slightest disparagement of female genius. Far be it from us to -evoke from those mortal stars any other beams than those of softness and -serenity. Lovely readers! smile therefore upon this article as kindly as -upon the prettiest story in the Magazine, and think well of him who -seeks to win no better guerdon than your approbation. - -Miss Poulter has put upon her title-page a striking passage in French -from some essay of _Bernardin de St. Pierre_, which may be thus -literally translated. “Tasso, while travelling with a friend, one day -ascended a very high mountain. When he had reached the summit, he -exclaimed: ‘Seest thou these rugged rocks, these wild forests, this -brook bordered with flowers, which winds through the valley, this -majestic river, which rolls onward and onward till it bathes the walls -of a hundred cities? Well, these rocks, these mountains, these walls, -these cities, gods, men—lo! these are my poem!’” On the page -immediately preceding the principal poem in the volume, “Imagination,” -there appears the following from _Stewart’s Outlines of Moral -Philosophy_, “One of the principal effects of a liberal education is to -accustom us to withdraw our attention from the objects of our present -perceptions, and to dwell at pleasure on the past, the absent and the -future. How much it must enlarge in this way the sphere of our enjoyment -or suffering is obvious: for (not to mention the recollection of the -past) all that part of our happiness or misery, which arises from our -hopes or our fears, derives its existence entirely from the power of our -imagination.” - -We are pleased with these quotations. They augur well for the original -words that are to follow. They prepare the mind of the reader for -something almost as good as they are. The talent, or rather tact of -quoting well is no mean one; it is not possessed by many, scarcely -possessed at all by those who say that a quotation should be as strictly -appropriate as a title. It is enough that a quotation be one naturally -appertaining to or suggestive _per se_ of the subject matter. Mottoes, -it should be remembered, are not texts, but simply prefixes, intended -rather as ornaments than things of use. They are to books, chapters, and -cantos, what jewels are to the clasps of a fair lady’s girdle, not -indispensable to the clasps, but decorating them. In the choice of the -jewels and the style of their setting the taste of the wearer is -manifested. - -The reflection which first suggests itself to us after a consideration -of this poem, is that the author preferred rather to indulge her -inclination for roving from topic to topic, than to confine herself to -any exact method. She does not so much consider the power of imagination -or its effect upon life as she does the places and persons upon which -this faculty of the mind would choose to expand itself. The single word, -therefore, which constitutes the title, might be regarded as too -pretensive, as demanding too much, more than it is within the capacity -or education of the writer to give. Her modes of thought seem to be too -independent of the influence of “Association,” and it would confuse a -philosophical thinker to follow the diversities of her fancy. Perhaps, -however, the person who reads only to be amused, would derive more -gratification from Miss Poulter’s disregard of rules than were she more -correct and less fervid. - -The poem opens with a picture of sunset after a storm, and this affords -an apt and natural illustration for the Power of the Imagination. The -first topic pursued is the fact that childhood is but little under the -influence of Imagination, being led away by the pleasures of the present -moment and apt to resign itself wholly to the object by which it is -temporarily attracted. Illustrative of this is the following admirably -drawn scene— - - See, from his sheltering roof, the infant boy - Rush with delight, to snatch the promised joy; - Allowed for once to stray where’er he please, - And live one day of liberty and ease. - His frugal basket to his girdle hung, - His little rod across his shoulder flung, - With eager haste he starts at dawn of day, - Yet every trifle lures him from his way; - An opening rose, a gaudy butterfly, - Turn his light steps and fix his wandering eye; - He plucks ripe berries blushing in the hedge, - And pungent cresses from the watery sedge. - At length he gains the bank, and seeks to fill - His little scrip, and prove his infant skill; - He marks the fish approach in long array— - Then, stamps the ground, to see them glide away. - But lo! one speckled wanderer lurks behind, - ’Mid the tall reeds that skirt the stream confined: - It comes—it bites—he finds himself possest - Of one small trout, less wary than the rest: - With trembling hands he grasps his finny spoil, - The rich reward of one long day of toil. - For some short moments yet he keeps his seat - Close to the brook, and laves his weary feet; - Wide from his face his auburn locks he throws, - That playful airs may fan his little brows; - Then upward springs, and hums a blithesome lay, - To cheat fatigue, and charm his lengthened way. - Hark! while across the verdant lawn he skips, - The half-told tale is muttered from his lips; - With bounding heart he shows his spotted prize, - And marks, exulting, the well-feigned surprise. - A second moment sees him locked in sleep, - And placid slumbers o’er his senses creep; - In dreams he rests along some river’s side, - Where giant trout beneath clear waters glide. - -The following figure illustrates the toilsome ascent of youth to -Greatness: - - So up yon cliffs that frown in stern array, - The hardy pilgrim climbs his painful way; - His form bends forward—see! how he expands - O’er each frail mountain-shrub his fearful hands; - Will it resist?—or, from the rocky steep, - Whirl him below unnumbered fathoms deep? - He grasps it firm—he keeps his dizzy ground— - Though blasts and foaming torrents roar around; - Soon from the summit, views, with raptured eye, - The lovely scenes that far extended lie; - The smiling hamlet; the deep-tangled grove; - The lake whose breast reflects the hills above; - The lowing herds that through green pastures stray, - Where limpid streams pursue their pebbled way. - -After showing that imagination is most powerful in youth, and the -different manner in which it operates upon men, leading some to public -life, and some to retirement; after drawing a picture of domestic -felicity, and dwelling upon the question whether the happiness derived -from the indulgence of an ardent fancy is not ill exchanged for a -reasonable view of human life,—the poet speaks of the moral influence -of a fine imagination; and here occur these lines— - - Shall the pale Autumn shed his leaves in vain, - Sear the green woods, and all their glories stain? - Shall Winter clouds and bitter frosts impart, - Yet force no saddening moral on the heart? - Oh! let the warning past one thought employ! - Have not our projects, marked by grief or joy, - And all that we call beauty, talent, worth, - Mimicked the transient fashion of the Earth? - The fragile bloom has withered in the storm— - The pride of better years now feeds the worm! - -The next subject of contemplation is the death of a beloved and -distinguished friend; afterwards the poet goes on to describe the -influence of sublime scenery in awakening corresponding sensations in -the mind. An address to the Deity is attempted: next it is shown that -external beauties alone cannot soothe a wounded heart; a fact happily -illustrated by the disappointment of Tasso on his return to his native -Sorrento— - - Tasso, the pride, the victim of the Great, - Who learned the value of their smile too late. - Had shone in courts resplendent, and beneath - A prison’s wall had drawn his painful breath, - Sought his beloved Sorrento; for he fed - A wild delirious hope that bade him tread, - In search of peace, her groves, her spicy hills, - And woo the balsam her soft air distils. - Impetuous passion in his mind had wrought, - And trenched it deep with many a bitter thought; - Perchance the breeze that fans her rocky shore, - The mournful measure of the plashing oar, - Her blooming gardens that expanded lie, - Breathing their citron fragrance to the sky, - Her clustered almond trees, her sighing pines, - Her founts of crystal, and her palmy wines, - May lull its throb, its languid tone restore, - And charm it back to all it was before. - -The poetess then describes the anguish he endured. - -This is all that we can extract for the reader’s recreation from the -first Part or Canto of this meritorious poem, with the exception of a -very touching ballad. The verses are supposed to be repeated by an -Indian mother, over the grave of her departed child. Let us call them - - THE INDIAN MOTHER’S LAMENT. - - Twice falling snows have clad the earth; - Twice hath the fly-bird weaved his nest; - Since first I smiled upon thy birth, - And felt thee breathing on my breast. - - Now snowy wreaths will melt away, - And buds of red will shine around; - But, heedless of the sunny ray, - Thy form shall wither in the ground. - - Oft hath thy father dared the foe, - And, while their arrows drank his blood, - And round him lay his brothers low, - Careless ’mid thousand darts he stood. - - But when he saw thee droop thy head, - Thy little limbs grow stiff and cold, - And from thy lip the scarlet fled, - Fast down his cheek the tear-drops rolled. - - The land of souls lies distant far, - And dark and lonely is the road; - No ghost of night, no shining star, - Shall guide me to thy new abode. - - Will some good Spirit to thee bring - The milky fruits of cocoa-tree? - To shield thee stretch his pitying wing? - Or spread the beaver’s skin for thee? - - Oh! in the blue-bird’s shape descend, - When broad magnolias shut their leaves! - With evening airs thy lisping blend, - And watch the tomb thy mother weaves! - - I’ve marked the lily’s silken vest, - When winds blew fresh and sunbeams shine - On Mississippi’s furrowed breast, - By many a watery wreath entwined. - - But soon they rippled down the stream, - To lave the stranger’s distant shore; - One moment sparkled in the beam— - Then saw their native banks no more. - -Of the second Part or Canto, the following is a brief analysis. The poet -first addresses the Spirit of Ruin; then displays various forms of -destruction—a shipwreck: the descent of an avalanche. The topics next -treated are intellectual decay; the fatal effects of an ill-regulated -and warm Imagination; the power of Love in youth; the influence of -Imagination in our choice of life; the love of Fame; an active life -necessary to a person of vivid Imagination; the thirst of some -overcoming the love of life. Next occurs an apostrophe to the noble and -patriotic and sainted spirits of the heroes of Switzerland and -America—Arnold de Winkelried and George Washington. It is then shown -that Imagination represents them as still living; the power of -Imagination in old age is portrayed, and the poem concludes. - -From this part, we regret that we have room but for two extracts; for -these are of so excellent a character that the reader, like Oliver -Twist, will be certain to ask for more. - -Our first extract is a description of the life of an Alpine shepherd. -The lines are eminently good. - - Track thou my path where Alpine winters shed - Their lingering snows o’er bare St. Gothard’s head, - Ghastly his savage aspect; there recline - Rocks piled on rocks, and shagg’d with stunted pine; - Yet touched with beauty, when the purple haze - Its softening shadows o’er their summit lays; - Then melts in air, while wandering sunbeams streak, - With tints of rose, each ridge and frozen peak. - From cliff to cliff hoarse cataracts pursue - Their shattered course; now stained with lovely hue, - Lovely, and yet more transient, while a ray - Athwart the shivered waters cuts its way; - Now whirling in black eddies, as they lash - The darkened precipice with hideous crash. - But see! with trees and freshest verdure bright, - A lonely valley starts upon the sight, - Whose peaceful hamlet clinging to their side, - And sweet retirements, beetling mountains hide. - Their fury spent, o’er dell and grassy knoll - The lucid streams in crystal bubbles roll, - Whose gentle gushings break the deep repose, - As down steep, pebbled banks, the current flows. - Here, free from Passion’s storm and splendid Care, - A hardy race Life’s simple blessings share. - Breathes there on Earth who boasts a happier lot, - Than the rude owner of yon smiling cot? - Sighs he for joys by Nature’s hand denied? - Feels he a want by labor unsupplied? - The flock which oft his children’s pranks disturb, - The goats delighting in the sprouted herb, - The sleepy cows aroused by sauntering flies, - His verdant paddock with sweet food supplies. - Vigorous from rest, not weak with slothful ease, - At dawn he scents the sharp reviving breeze; - With eager industry and rustic skill - First prunes his purple vine, then hastes to till - His garden, freshened by the chills of night, - Where many a grateful tribute cheers his sight; - The jasmine bent beneath his clustering bees, - The green retiring herb, the lofty trees, - That, gemmed with blooms and dew drops, on the air - Waft their sweet incense to the God of pray’r. - But noon advances, and he drives his flocks - Where spots of verdure brighten ’mid the rocks; - There spends the day; and, far above, inhales - The love of Freedom with his mountain gales. - Hark! to those sounds, which now the herds invite, - Slow pacing homeward from the dizzy height; - The shepherd’s evening call—and in each dell - Tinkles the music of the pastoral bell. - His labor done, a frugal meal prepared - By her he loves, recruits his strength impaired; - Breathing a pious prayer he sinks to rest, - And rural visions charm his peaceful breast. - -Our second, and last, extract is one the spirit and force of which every -devotee of Freedom, every true American heart cannot fail to -acknowledge. - - Spirits of noble beings, who, arrayed - In mortal clothing, once a proud part played - Upon this nether orb! If ye retain - No human sense of honor, joy, or pain; - If, fixed in seats of blessedness, ye deem - Earth’s goodliest pageantries an idiot’s dream; - Yet in your bosoms not in vain was sown - Deep as Life’s pulse the love of fair Renown; - For still as Age to fleeting Age succeeds, - Your track of Glory, your remembered deeds, - A spark of fire ethereal shall impart, - To rouse each godlike passion in the heart. - Still, gallant Arnold! while the Switzer fights - E’en to his blood’s last drop, to guard his rights; - The right to tread his hills begirt with storm, - Free as the winds that brace his nervous form; - Your dying words, invincible he hears; - When with gored bosom, grasping Austria’s spears, - To glorious death you singly forced the way, - And bade forever live red Sempach’s day; - “The ranks are broken! charge! the cowards yield! - My little orphans, Oh my Country! shield.” - And You! in whose unconquerable mind - The wide-expanded wish to serve Mankind - Ruled as a master-passion; whether laid - At ease, you wooed Mount Vernon’s pleasant shade, - And the pure luxury of rural life; - Or plunged, reluctant, into desperate strife, - To breast the weight of tyrannous command. - And stamp the badge of Freedom on your Land; - Shall You, the meteor of a fickle day, - Blaze for one moment, strike, and pass away? - No—to her sons unborn shall cling your name, - Linked to their country’s proudest hour of Fame; - Till private, public worth, to Ruin hurled, - Shall leave not e’en their shadow in the World; - _Then_ must the Slave, the Patriot, share one lot— - And He, and Washington, shall be forgot. - -From the remarks, with which this article began, it is clearly enough to -be inferred that we are no admirers of long poems, unless they be of -extraordinary and sustained merit. This praise cannot be awarded to Miss -Poulter’s production: We believe that we have taken pretty much all that -is excellent, though a fine passage or two may be left in the exquisite -volume which we have just now cut to pieces—not metaphorically, but -literally. It was sad to destroy so charming a library book; but what -were the exquisite typography and clear white paper of one of Saunders & -Otley’s editions, when compared with the amusement of the friends of -Graham’s Magazine? Nothing. Moreover, we should not have quoted so -largely as we have, had we not felt assured of the fact that the volume -to which we refer was the only copy of Miss Poulter’s poem in America. -Such works are not in the least likely to be reprinted here; and our -readers would therefore know nothing about them, were it not for the -pains we are happy to take in their behalf. - ------ - -[2] Imagination: a Poem in two parts, with other poems, by Louisa -Frances Poulter, London: Saunders and Otley, Conduit Street. - - * * * * * - - - - - HARRY CAVENDISH. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. - ETC. - - - A DASH AT A CONVOY. - -It was the second night after our brush with the corvette, when a party, -composed of Mr. St. Clair, his niece and daughter, together with several -of the officers, stood at the side of the ship. It was a lovely evening. -The moon was high in heaven, sailing on in cloudless splendor; her -silvery light tipping the tops of the billows, and stretching in a long -line of effulgence across the waters. A gentle breeze was singing, with -a clear musical intonation, among the thousand tiny threads of the -rigging. The water rippled pleasantly against the sides of the ship. Not -far off lay a small rakish schooner, from which the sound of a bugle, -borne gently on the night air, floated in delicious melody to our ears. -The decks were noiseless. The quiet moon seemed as if, by some magic -spell, she had hushed the deep into silence, for scarcely a sound rose -up from the heaving waves, which, glittering now in the wake of the -moon, and now sinking into sudden shadow, stretched away in the distance -until they faded into the dim mystic haze of the distant seaboard. The -whole scene was like a vision of romance. - -The group which I have mentioned stood at the gangway of the ship. A -boat was rocking gently below. The passengers, whom we had rescued from -the brig, were about transferring themselves to the schooner lying-to a -short distance off, which we had spoken about an hour before, and which -proved to be a small privateer bound in for Newport. As we were off -Block Island, and the run would consequently be a short one, Mr. St. -Clair had resolved to avail himself of this opportunity to place his -daughter and niece safely on shore. The party were now about to embark. - -“I shall never forget your kindness,” said Mr. St. Clair, addressing the -captain, “and I am sure that my daughter and niece will give you their -especial prayers, as the best return they can make for the obligations -they owe you. And as for my friend, Mr. Cavendish—I hardly know how to -express my thanks. You will come and see us,” he continued, turning -frankly to me, and taking both my hands, “Pomfret Hall will always open -its doors gladly to welcome the preserver of its owner.” - -I promised that I would not forget it, and turned away to hide the -emotion occasioned by the kind tone of Mr. St. Clair. As I moved away my -eyes fell on Annette. Her gaze was fixed on me with an expression I -shall never forget, but which I would have given the world to have been -able to interpret. There was an expression of the deepest interest in -that look, and the eyes, I fancied, were partially humid. As soon as she -caught my gaze, she blushed deeply, and looked down. What meant that -earnest gaze—this sudden embarrassment? Did she then really love me? My -heart beat fast, my brain fairly swam around, my emotion, for an -instant, almost overpowered me. I could, if no one had been present, -have rushed to her feet and told my suit. But a moment’s reflection -changed the current of my thoughts. Perhaps she had noticed my feelings -while her father had been speaking. If so, her subsequent emotion arose -from being detected in observing me. I ran over everything which had -happened since she had been on board, and could find nothing -corroborating, directly, the idea that she loved me. Her manner had -always been frank and kind; but what had she said or done to give me -hope? As these thoughts rushed through my mind my towering hopes fell. -The revulsion was extreme. I despaired now as much as I had exulted but -a moment before. I was about to turn gloomily away, when the voice of -Isabel called me. I looked up. She was beckoning me gayly toward her as -she leaned on Annette’s arm. - -“Why, I declare, Mr. Cavendish,” she said laughingly, “you seem to be -determined to leave us depart without even saying ‘adieu’—a pretty -gallant you are, to be sure! Here is Annette really displeased at your -coldness.” - -A look of silent reproach was the only reply of her cousin, who dared -not raise her eyes to mine. With the vacillation of a lover my -sentiments again underwent a change. Had Annette really been wondering -at my coldness? How unjust then had been my suspicions. I advanced -eagerly to her side. Yet when I had done so I knew not what to say. -Isabel seemed not only to see my embarrassment but to enjoy it. She -continued gayly— - -“There, now, do your _devoir_ like a gallant knight and soldier—coz, -have you no glove or other favor for him to wear on his bosom in battle? -Ah! me, the days of courtesy and chivalry have gone forever. But there I -see uncle ordering down my package, I must see that he does not let it -drop clumsily over-board,” and she tripped laughingly away. - -Left almost _tête-à-tête_ with Annette—for every eye was that moment -turned to the gangway where some of the passengers were already -embarking, I yet felt unable to avail myself of an opportunity for which -I had longed. A single word would decide my fate, and yet that word I -could not pronounce. My boldness had all disappeared, and I stood before -that fair girl equally agitated with herself. At length I looked up. She -stole a furtive glance at me as I did so, and blushed again to the very -brow. I took her hand, it was not withdrawn. Words of fire were already -on my lips when her father turned toward us, saying— - -“Annie, my love, they wait for you—Mr. Cavendish, a last good-bye”—and -as he spoke every eye was turned toward us. The precious moment was -past. I could do nothing but lead Annette forward. Yet I ventured to -press her hand. My senses deceived me, or it was faintly, though very -faintly, returned. I would have given worlds, if I had them, for the -delay of a minute, that I might learn my fate from the lips of that fair -girl. But it was not to be. We were already in the centre of the group. -Mr. St. Clair took his daughter and lifted her into the chair, and in -another moment her white dress fluttered in its descent to the boat. My -heart died within me. The golden moment had passed, perhaps forever; for -when should we meet again? New scenes, new friends would in all -probability drive me from Annette’s remembrance before we should next -see each other. These thoughts filled my mind as I leaned over the -bulwark and waved my hand while the boat put off. Mr. St. Clair stood up -in the barge and bowed in return, while I thought I could see, through -the shadowy moonlight, the fair hand of Annette returning my parting -adieus. - -I watched the receding figures until they reached the schooner, and even -after they had ascended the deck, and the two vessels had parted each on -its own way, I continued gazing on the white dress of Annette until I -could no longer detect the faintest shadow of it. When at length it -disappeared totally in the distance, I felt a loneliness of the heart, -such as no language can express. To a late hour I continued pensively -walking the deck, unable to shake off this feeling, and it was only a -gay remark of one of my messmates that finally aroused me from my -abstraction. I shook off my pensiveness by an effort, laughed gayly in -reply, and soon sought my hammock, as my spirits would not permit me -much longer to carry on this double game. - -For a week we cruized in the track of the homeward bound fleet from the -West Indies, but without success. During this time Annette was -constantly in my thoughts. Her last look—that gentle pressure of her -hand thrilled through every vein, as often as they recurred to me. Never -could I forget her—would she continue to think of me? - -More than a week had passed, as I have said, since we had parted from -the St. Clairs, yet still we had not spoken a sail. At length one day, -when I had the morning watch, the lookout hailed from the cross-trees, -that a sail was down on the seaboard to leeward. Chase was instantly -given to the stranger. The breeze was fresh, and we were in consequence -soon close enough to discern the character of our neighbor. She had not -from the first appeared to avoid us, and no sooner did we show our -colors, than she ran up the ensign of France. We were going on different -tacks, and, as we approached, both ships lay-to for a moment’s -conversation. The French merchantman was a noble ship, and as she came -up gallantly towards us, her long bowsprit sunk far down into the trough -of the wave, and then, with a slow swan-like motion she rose on the -ensuing swell until her bows were elevated almost clear of the water, -while the bright copper dripping with brine glistened gloriously in the -sunbeams. - -The Frenchman backed his topsails as he drew near, and the two vessels -stood head on, while we sent a boat on board. The merchantman proved to -be upon her homeward passage, and had consequently no intelligence from -Europe to furnish us. But the French skipper told us what was far more -interesting to us. He mentioned that he had, but the day before, fallen -in with the homeward bound English fleet, from the West Indies, -amounting to some sixty sail. The fleet was convoyed by four men-of-war. -Our captain, however, resolved to have a dash at the convoy. He -conceived the daring project of cutting off a portion of the fleet, -under the very batteries of the men-of-war. The French skipper wished us -a “_bon voyage_,” and the two vessels parted company. - -We cracked on all sail, during the whole of the day and night. The next -morning, at the dawn of day, our lookout descried the English fleet, on -our larboard-side. Luckily, we had the weather-gauge. We kept crowding -on our canvass, however, during the whole forenoon, and as we gained on -the convoy, we saw sail after sail rising in the seaboard, until the -whole horizon was dotted with them, and the lookout reported more than -fifty, in sight. By this the men-of-war had caught the alarm, and were -firing guns to keep their flock around them. The dull sailers, however, -fell rapidly behind. This forced one of the English frigates to leave -the advance, and run astern of the fleet. During the whole day we kept -coquetting to windward of the fleet, but no demonstrations against us -were made on the part of the men-of-war. - -“A cowardly set, by the Lord Harry,” said our old boatswain, who often -beguiled a dull hour with a yarn, “here are we giving them a chance for -a fair stand-up fight, and the cowardly lubbers haven’t the pluck to -come up and take or give a thrashing. I can’t stand such sneaking -scoundrels—by St. George,” and the old fellow energetically squirted a -stream of tobacco-juice from his mouth, as if from a force-pump. - -“We’ll have a brush with them, nevertheless, Hinton,” said I, “or I know -nothing of the captain. He has got his eye on more than one rich prize -in that fleet, and depend upon it, he’ll make a dash for it before -long.” - -“Ay! ay! you’re right,” answered the boatswain “and he’ll do it, too, -before two bells have struck in the morning watch.” - -The night shut in squally and dark. The fleet was some three miles to -leeward, for during the whole day we had carefully maintained the -weather gauge. As the darkness increased we lost sight of the enemy’s -ships, but their numerous lights glistening like stars along the -seaboard, still pointed out to us their position. The wind was -uncertain, now coming in fitful puffs, and then blowing steadily for a -quarter of an hour, when it would again die away and sweep in squalls -across the waste of waters. Scud clouds began to fly across the face of -the heavens, obscuring the few stars, and giving a wild and ominous -appearance to the firmament. Down to the west the seaboard was covered -by a dense bank of clouds, out of which occasionally a flash of -lightning would zig-zag, followed by a low hoarse growl of distant -thunder. It was evident that a tempest was raging, far down in that -quarter. On the opposite horizon, however, the sky was nearly free from -clouds, only a few fleecy vapors being discernible in that quarter, -through which the bright stars twinkled clear and lustrous. The English -fleet lay between these two opposite quarters of the horizon—the right -wing of the convoy stretching down almost into the utter darkness in -that direction, and the left wing skirting along the horizon to the -eastward. Along the whole expanse of seaboard, more than fifty lights -were now glittering, like so many fire-flies winging through the gloom -along the edge of a forest, on a summer eve. The scene was one of -surpassing novelty, and drew forth the admiration even of our veteran -tars. Now and then the vapors in the east would clear entirely away, -leaving the firmament in that direction, sparkling with thousands of -stars; and then again the murky shroud would enclose them in nearly -total darkness. Occasionally, as if in contrast to this, a brighter -flash of lightning would gleam, or a louder burst of thunder roll up -from the dark bank of clouds enclosing the tempest to the westward. - -The night had scarcely settled down before the ship’s course was altered -and we bore down upon the fleet—taking the precaution, however, to put -out all the lights on board except the one at the binnacle. Meantime the -men were called to quarters, the tompions of the guns removed, the -ammunition served out, pikes, cutlasses and fire arms distributed among -the crew, and every preparation made for action. As we drew nearer to -the convoy the darkness of the night increased, until, at length, we -could see but a few fathoms ahead into the gloom. The eastern firmament -now became wholly obscured. Not a star shone on high to guide us on our -way. Had it not been for the long line of lights sparkling along the -seaboard, betraying the positions occupied by the various vessels in the -convoy, we should have possessed no guide to our prey,—and nothing but -the confidence felt by the enemy in his superior force could have -induced him to continue his lights aboard, when otherwise he might have -run a chance of dropping us in the darkness. But he never dreamed of the -bold swoop which we projected, into the very midst of his flock. He -would as soon have thought of our blockading the Thames, or burning the -English fleet at Portsmouth. - -The plan of Captain Smythe was indeed a bold one. Bearing right onwards -into the very centre of the fleet, he intended to cut off one of the -wings from the main body, and then board and take possession of as many -of the merchantmen as he could carry in the obscurity. We judged that -the men-of-war were in the van, with the exception of a frigate which we -had seen before nightfall hovering in the rear of the fleet to cover the -lagging merchantmen. This frigate, however, we supposed to be on the -extreme right of the enemy. We therefore bore down for the opposite -extremity of the fleet. - -For more than an hour, while, with every rag of canvass abroad, we were -hastening to overtake the enemy, scarcely a word was spoken by the -crew,—but each man remained at his station eagerly watching the gradual -diminution of the distance betwixt us and the convoy. Indeed silence -was, in some measure, necessary to the success of our plot. Even the -orders of the officers therefore were given and executed with as little -bustle as possible. As the darkness increased we noticed that the lights -ahead began to diminish in number, and it was not long before we became -satisfied that the foe had at length awoke to the probability of our -being in the vicinity. At length scarcely more than half a dozen lights -could be seen. These we judged to belong to the men-of-war, being kept -aloft for the convoy to steer by. - -The difficulty of our enterprise was now redoubled, for, if the darkness -should increase, there would be great danger of a collision with one or -another of the fleet. This peril, however, we shared in common with the -merchantmen composing the convoy. Our only precaution consisted in -doubling our look-outs. - -Another hour passed, during which we steered by the lights of the -men-of-war. By the end of that period we had run, according to our -calculation, into the very heart of the fleet, leaving a man-of-war -broad on our larboard beam, a mile or two distant. This latter vessel we -fancied to be the frigate which had been hovering towards nightfall in -the rear of the fleet. Our anxiety now increased. We were surrounded, on -every side, by the vessels of the convoy, and the obscurity was so -profound that we could not see a pistol shot on any hand. Our progress, -meantime, was continued in utter silence. The only sound we heard was -the singing of the wind through the rigging, the occasional cheeping of -a block, or the rushing of the water along our sides. Suddenly, however, -I thought I heard a sound as of the bracing of a yard right over our -starboard bow. - -“Hist!” I said to the boatswain, who happened that moment to be passing, -“hist! do you hear that?” - -The old fellow stopped, listened a moment, and then shaking his head, -said, - -“I hear nothing. What did _you_ hear?” - -“Hark! there it goes again,” I said, as the sound of a sail flapping -against a mast came distinctly out of the gloom. - -“By St. George, you are right,” exclaimed the old water-rat, “ay! ay! -young ears are arter-all the sharpest!” - -He had scarcely spoken before the tall masts of a ship, like a spectre -rising through the night, lifted themselves up out of the obscurity in -the direction whence the sound had proceeded, and instantaneously we -heard the tramping of many feet on the decks of the stranger, the rapid -orders of the officers, the running of ropes, the creaking of yards, and -the dull flapping of sails in the wind. At the same time a voice hailed, - -“Luff up or you’ll be into us,” and then the same voice spoke as if -addressing the helmsman on board the stranger, “up with your -helm—around, around with her—my God! we’ll be afoul.” - -The consternation of the British skipper was not without cause. No -sooner had Capt. Smythe discovered our proximity to the stranger, than -he formed the determination of running her aboard, taking her by a sally -of our brave fellows, and then, after throwing into her a party -sufficiently strong to maintain possession of her, keeping on his way. -During the minute therefore that elapsed betwixt the discovery of the -merchantman, and the hail of her affrighted skipper, the boarders had -been called away and the quartermaster ordered to run us bows on to the -quarter of the stranger. Instead of luffing, therefore, we kept straight -on in our course, and as a score of lanterns were instantly shown on -board both ships, sufficient light was thrown over the scene to guide us -in our manœuvre. As the English ship wore around, bringing the wind on -her starboard quarter, our helm was jammed to port, and swinging around -almost on our heel we shot upon the foe, striking her in the stern -galley, which we crushed as we would have crushed an egg-shell. The -English ship was heavily loaded, and in consequence our bowsprit ran -high above her decks, affording a bridge on which our brave tars might -easily pass on board. At the moment we struck, the captain dashed -forward, and summoning the boarders to follow him, had leaped, sword in -hand, into the centre of the enemy’s crew, before her skipper had ceased -giving orders to the perplexed seamen, who were running to and fro on -her decks, in the vain hope of preventing any damage resulting to them -from this collision, with, as they thought, a sister vessel. The -consternation of the master may well be conceived when he found his ship -in possession of an enemy. For some minutes he imagined it to be a jest, -for he could not conceive how any foe would have the audacity to cut him -out from the very heart of the fleet. His rueful countenance when he -discovered his error, I shall never forget, nor the bad grace with which -he consented to be transferred with a portion of his men to the Aurora. -In less than five minutes, however, this necessary precaution had been -carried into effect, and a prize-crew left in possession of the -merchantman. The officer in command was ordered to haul out of the -fleet, and gain a position as speedily as possible to windward. Then the -two ships were parted, and we stood away as before on the larboard tack, -while the prize braced sharp up, hauled her bowlines, and went off close -into the wind’s eye. - -“By Jove,” said a reefer, elated with the part he had acted among the -boarders, for he had been one of the first to step on the decks of the -merchantman, “by Jupiter, but that was neatly done—eh! don’t you think -so, Hinton, my old boy?” - -“Shut your dead-lights, you young jackanapes,” growled the old -boatswain, by no means pleased with such a salutation, “and keep your -tongue for cheering against the enemy: you’ll have enough of it to do -yet before you turn in. Avast! there! I say,” he continued, perceiving -that the youngster was about to interrupt him, “go to your post, or I’ll -report you, you young whelp. None of your blarney, as your thick-tongued -Irish messmate would say—away with you.” - -When Hinton’s ire was up the safest plan was to retreat, for he would -brook no retort unless from the captain or lieutenant. Over the young -reefers, especially those who were in disfavor with him, he domineered -with a rod of iron. The youngster who had forgotten for a moment, in the -elation of his first victory, the awe in which he held the boatswain, -was recalled by these words to a sense of the authority of the old tar, -and he shrunk accordingly away, disdaining to reply. - -“Ay! go, you varmint,” chuckled Hinton, as the reefer walked to his -post, “and give none of your long shore palaver to a man who had learned -before you were born to hold his tongue before an enemy as his first -duty. Isn’t it so, Mr. Cavendish?” - -I was a great favorite of the old fellow, and always made a point of -humoring him, so I nodded an assent to his remark, although I was -tempted to ask him how long since he had forgotten this important duty -of silence. I restrained, however, my question, and the smile which -would fain have preceded it: and listened for several minutes in return -for this complaisance to a long philippic on the part of the old fellow, -against what he chose to call the almost universal presumption of -midshipmen. From this tirade, however, the boatswain condescended to -exempt me. How long he would have dilated upon this favorite subject, I -know not; but, at this moment, a hail came out of the gloom ahead, and -every eye was instantly attracted in the direction from which the voice -proceeded. - -“Ship ahoy!” shouted a herculean voice, “what craft is that?” - -The tone of the speaker betrayed a latent suspicion that all was not -right with us. Indeed he must have been so close to us in our late -encounter with the merchantman, that he necessarily heard many things to -awaken his doubts. As he spoke, too, the tall figure of a heavy craft -loomed out from the obscurity, and while we were yet speculating as to -the answer the captain would make, a dozen lanterns flashing through as -many open port-holes, revealed that our neighbor was a man-of-war. - -“What ship is that?” thundered the voice again, “answer, or I’ll fire -into you!” - -Our dauntless captain waved his hand for the batteries to be unmasked, -and springing into the mizzen rigging, while a neighboring -battle-lantern now disclosed to the night, flung its light full upon his -form, he shouted in an equally stentorian voice— - -“This is the Aurora—commissioned by the good commonwealth of——” - -“Give it to the canting rebel,” roared the British officer, breaking in -on this reply, “fire—for God and St. George—FIRE!” - -“Ay! fire my brave boys,” thundered our leader, “one and all, for the -old thirteen—FIRE!” - -From the moment when the enemy had disclosed his lighted ports, our -gallant tars had been waiting, like hounds in the leash, for the signal -which was to let them loose upon the foe. The silent gesture of the -captain, when he sprung into the mizzen rigging, had been intuitively -understood by the crew, and the orders of the proper officers were -scarcely waited for, before the ports were opened, the battle lanterns -unmasked, the guns run out, and the whole deck changed, as if by magic, -from a scene of almost Egyptian darkness to one of comparative light. -Nor were the men less ready to discover the moment when to open their -fire. The first word of the British officer’s haughty interruption had -scarcely been spoken, when the gunners began to pat their pieces and -squint knowingly along them, so that, when the command to fire was -given, our whole broadside went off at once, like a volcano, and with -deadly effect. Every gun had been accurately aimed, every shot was sent -crashing into the foe. Not so the enemy. Although the British captain -had certainly viewed us with suspicion, his crew had apparently thought -us deserving of little caution; and the reply of our leader, and the -order of their own to fire, took them, after all, with surprise. Nearly -a minute accordingly elapsed before they delivered their broadside, and -then it was done hurriedly and with little certainty of aim. The first -fire is always more effective than the ensuing six; and the advantage of -the surprise was decided; for while we could hear the crashing of -timbers, and the shrieks of the wounded, following our discharge, the -shot of the enemy passed mostly over our heads, and, in my vicinity, not -a man of our crew was killed. One poor fellow, however, fell wounded at -the gun next to mine. - -“Huzza!” roared Hinton, leaping like a lion to fill the place of the -injured man, “they’ve got their grog already. Have at ’em, my brave -fellows, again, and revenge your messmate. Never mind, Jack,” he said, -turning to the bleeding man, “every one must have a kick sometime in his -life, and the sooner its over, my hearty, the better. Bouse her out, -shipmates! Huzza for old Nantucket—the varmints have it again on full -allowance!” - -For ten minutes the fight was maintained on our side without cessation. -The enemy, at first, rallied and attempted to return our broadsides -promptly, but the injuries she had suffered from our first discharge had -disheartened her men, and, when they found the spirit with which we -maintained our fire, they soon gave up the contest and deserted their -arms. Still, however, the enemy did not strike. One or two of her -forward guns were occasionally and suddenly discharged at us, but all -systematic resistance had ceased in less than five minutes. - -By this time, however, the whole fleet was in an uproar. Lights were -dashing in every quarter of the horizon, and, as the darkness had been -clearing away since our brush with the merchantman, our lookout aloft -could see through the faint, misty distance, more than one vessel -bearing down toward us. The majority, however, of the fleet, seemed to -be struck with a complete panic, and, like a flock of startled -partridges, were hurrying from us in every direction. It soon became -apparent that the ships, bearing down upon us, were armed; and before we -had been engaged ten minutes with our antagonist, no less than three -men-of-war, from as many quarters of the horizon, had opened a -concentric fire on us, regardless of the damage they would do their -consort. Still, however, unwilling to leave his antagonist without -compelling her to strike, our leader maintained his position and poured -in a series of rapid broadsides which cut the foe up fearfully. Yet she -would not strike. On the other hand, reanimated by the approach of her -consorts, her men rallied to her guns and began again to reply to our -broadsides. Meanwhile the hostile frigates were coming up to us, hand -over hand, increasing the rapidity of their cannonade as the distance -betwixt us lessened. Our situation was becoming momentarily more -critical. Yet even amid our peril my eye was attracted by the sublimity -of the scene. - -The night, I have said, had partially cleared away, but the darkness was -still sufficiently intense to render the approaching frigates but dimly -visible, except when a gush of fire would stream from their ports, -lighting up, for the moment, with a ghastly glare, the smoke-encircled -hull, the tall masts, and the thousand mazes of the hamper. Often the -whole three vessels would discharge their broadsides at once, when it -would seem for an instant as if we were girdled by fire. Then, as the -smoke settled on their decks, they would disappear wholly from our -sight, and only become again distinguishable, when they belched forth -their sulphureous flame once more. In the west, the scene was even more -magnificent, for in that quarter, was unexpectedly the nearest of the -three men-of-war, and as she came up to us close-hauled, she yawed -whenever she fired, and then steadily discharged her pieces, doing more -damage than all her other consorts. The gallant manner in which she -delivered her fire—the measured, distinct booming of her long -twenty-fours—and more than all, the inky hue of the sky, in the -background, brought out into the boldest relief, by the light of her -guns, made up a picture of gloomy grandeur, which the imagination can -compare to nothing, except the fitful, ghastly gleams of light shooting -across the darkness of that infernal realm, which Dante has painted with -his pen of horror. While, however, I was gazing awe-struck, on this -scene, I noticed that the dark bank of clouds behind the frigate, was -visibly in motion, rolling up towards us. Our superior officer had, -perhaps, noticed the same phenomenon, and knowing what it portended, had -remained by his antagonist, when otherwise, our only chance of escape -would have been in an early flight. Some of the older tars now perceived -the approaching tempest, and paused instantaneously from the combat. -Indeed, not a moment was to be lost. I had scarcely time to look once -more in the direction of the other frigates, and then turn again to the -westward, before our antagonist in that quarter, was completely shut in -by the squall. The wind had, meantime, died away, leaving us rocking -unquietly in the swell. A pause of a minute ensued, a pause of the most -breathless suspense. The men had instinctively left their guns, and -stood awaiting the directions of their leaders to whom they looked in -this emergency. We were happily nearly before the wind, which could now -be seen lashing the foam from the billows, and driving down upon us with -the speed of a race-horse. Another instant and the squall would be upon -us. All this, however, had passed, in less time than is occupied in the -relation, for scarcely a minute had elapsed, since I first saw the -approaching squall, before Captain Smythe shouted, - -“Stand by to clew down—quick there all!” - -The command was not an instant too soon. His opening words were heard -distinctly in the boding calm that preceded the squall, but the -concluding sentence was lost in the hissing and roaring of the hurricane -that now swept across our decks. The captain saw that it was useless to -attempt to speak in the uproar, and waving his hand for the -quartermaster to keep her away, while the men instinctively clewed down -the topsail-yards, and hauled out the reef-tackles, he awaited the -subsidence of the squall. For five minutes we went skimming before the -tempest, like a snow-flake in a storm. On—on—on, we drove, the fine -spray hissing past us on the gale, and the shrill scream of the wind -through our hamper deafening our ears. Whither we were going, or what -perils might meet us in our mad career, we knew not. We were flying -helplessly onward, enclosed by the mist, at the mercy of the winds. Even -if the intensity of the squall would have allowed us to bring by the -wind and reef, prudence would dictate that we should run before the -hurricane, as the only chance of escaping from the clutches of our foes. -Yet, surrounded as we were by the merchantmen of the fleet, we knew not -but the next moment, we might run down some luckless craft, and perhaps -by the collision, sink both them and ourselves. - -For nearly half an hour we drove thus before the hurricane. More than -once we fancied that we heard the shrieks of drowning men, rising high -over all the uproar of the tempest, but whether they were in reality the -cries of the dying or only the sounds created by an overheated -imagination and having no existence except in the brain of the hearer, -God only knows! A thousand ships might have sunk within a cable’s length -of us, and not a prayer of the sufferers, not a shriek of despair have -met our ears. There was a fearfulness in that palpable darkness, which -struck the most veteran heart with an awe akin to fear. When men can -look abroad and see the real extent of the peril which surrounds them -they can dare almost anything; but when surrounded by darkness their -imaginations conjure up dangers in every strange intonation of the -tempest, in every new outbreak of the surge. They tremble at what they -cannot behold; in the language of the scripture “their joints are loosed -with fear.” - -At length the fury of the squall began to subside, and the dark bank of -clouds which had encircled us, undulated, rolled to and fro, and finally -flew in ragged vapors away, flitting wildly past the stars that once -more twinkled in the sky. As the prospect brightened, we looked eagerly -around to see what damage the squall had occasioned. The fleet was -scattered hither and thither over the horizon, torn, shattered, -dismantled, powerless. Far up in the quarter from whence the hurricane -had burst could be faintly seen the body of the convoy; but on every -hand around some of the less fortunate ships were discoverable. Whether, -however, most of the merchantmen had attempted to lie-to, or whether we -had scudded before the gale with a velocity which none could rival, it -was evident that we had passed away like a thunderbolt from the rest of -the fleet, leaving them at a hopeless distance astern. - -Owing to the rapidity with which our canvass had been got in, we -suffered no material injury; and, when the gale subsided and the wind -came out again from the north, we lost no time in hauling up and getting -the weather-gauge of the convoy. The ship was put once more in trim—the -crew then turned in, and the watches were left in undisturbed possession -of the decks. As I stood at my post and watched the bright stars -overhead, shining placidly upon me, or listened to the cry of “All’s -well!” passed from lookout to lookout across the deck, I could not help -contrasting the peace and silence of the scene with the fearful uproar -of the preceding hour. - -When morning dawned, not a vestige of the fleet remained on the southern -seaboard. Our anxiety was now turned to the fate of the merchantman we -had captured and that of the prize-crew we had thrown into her. But -toward the afternoon watch, a sail was discovered on the horizon to -windward, and when we had approached within a proper distance we -recognized our prize. Our joy at rejoining may well be imagined. - -The prize proved to be laden with a valuable cargo, and, as this was the -first capture of any moment we had made, it raised the spirits of the -men in a commensurate degree. The skipper of the merchantman could never -comprehend the justice of his capture. Like the generals whom Napoleon -has been beating at a later day, he protested that he had been taken -against all the rules of war. - -After keeping company with us for a few days, the prize hauled up for -the coast with the intention of going into Newport. We subsequently -learned that she accomplished her aim, but not until she had run the -gauntlet of an English fleet. As for ourselves, we stood towards the -south on the look out for a new prize. - - * * * * * - - - - - A LADY HEARD A MINSTREL SING. - - - BALLAD. - - THE POETRY BY T. HAYNES BAYLY, ESQ. - - THE MUSIC BY J. P. KNIGHT. - - _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_. - - -[Illustration: musical score] - -[Illustration: musical score] - - A Lady heard a Minstrel sing, - One night beneath her bower, - In wrath she cried, “oh! what can bring - A stranger at this hour?” - She clos’d the casement,— veil’d the lamp, - The Minstrel paus’d in sorrow, - Yet said, “tho’ now I must decamp, - I’ll try again to-morrow.” - - The minstrel came again next night, - The lady was not sleeping! - She slily (tho’ she veil’d the light) - Was thro’ her casement peeping. - She heard him fondly breathe her name, - Then saw him go with sorrow; - And cried, “I wonder whence he came? - Perhaps he’ll come to-morrow.” - - Again she heard the sweet guitar,— - But soon the song was broken: - Tho’ songs are sweet, oh! sweeter far - Are words in kindness spoken: - She loves him for himself alone, - Disguise no more he’ll borrow, - The minstrel’s rank at length is known,— - She’ll grace a court to-morrow. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Charles O’Malley, The Irish Dragoon. By Harry Lorrequer. With - Forty Illustrations by Phiz. Complete in One Volume. Carey & - Hart: Philadelphia._ - -The first point to be observed in the consideration of “Charles -O’Malley” is the great _popularity_ of the work. We believe that in this -respect it has surpassed even the inimitable compositions of Mr. -Dickens. At all events it has met with a most extensive sale; and, -although the graver journals have avoided its discussion, the ephemeral -press has been nearly if not quite unanimous in its praise. To be sure, -the commendation, although unqualified, cannot be said to have abounded -in specification, or to have been, in any regard, of a satisfactory -character to one seeking precise ideas on the topic of the book’s -particular merit. It appears to us, in fact, that the cabalistical words -“fun,” “rollicking” and “devil-may-care,” if indeed words they be, have -been made to stand in good stead of all critical comment in the case of -the work now under review. We first saw these dexterous expressions in a -fly-leaf of “Opinions of the Press” appended to the renowned “Harry -Lorrequer” by his publisher in Dublin. Thence transmitted, with -complacent echo, from critic to critic, through daily, weekly and -monthly journals without number, they have come at length to form a -pendant and a portion of our author’s celebrity—have come to be -regarded as sufficient response to the few ignoramuses who, obstinate as -ignorant, and fool-hardy as obstinate, venture to propound a question or -two about the true claims of “Harry Lorrequer” or the justice of the -pretensions of “Charles O’Malley.” - -We shall not insult our readers by supposing any one of them unaware of -the fact, that a book may be even exceedingly _popular_ without _any_ -legitimate literary merit. This fact can be proven by numerous examples -which, now and here, it will be unnecessary and perhaps indecorous to -mention. The dogma, then, is absurdly false, that the popularity of a -work is _primâ facie_ evidence of its excellence in some respects; that -is to say, the dogma is false if we confine the meaning of excellence -(as here of course it must be confined) to excellence in a literary -sense. The truth is, that the popularity of a book is _primâ facie_ -evidence of just the converse of the proposition—it is evidence of the -book’s _demerit_, inasmuch as it shows a “stooping to conquer”—inasmuch -as it shows that the author has dealt largely, if not altogether, in -matters which are susceptible of appreciation by the mass of mankind—by -uneducated thought, by uncultivated taste, by unrefined and unguided -passion. So long as the world retains its present point of civilization, -so long will it be almost an axiom that no extensively _popular_ book, -in the right application of the term, can be a work of high merit, _as -regards those particulars of the work which are popular_. A book may be -readily sold, may be universally read, for the sake of some half or -two-thirds of its matter, which half or two-thirds may be susceptible of -popular appreciation, while the one-half or one-third remaining may be -the delight of the highest intellect and genius, and absolute _caviare_ -to the rabble. And just as - - _Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci_, - -so will the writer of fiction, who looks most sagaciously to his own -_interest_, combine all votes by intermingling with his loftier efforts -such amount of less ethereal matter as will give general currency to his -composition. And here we shall be pardoned for quoting some observations -of the English artist, H. Howard. Speaking of _imitation_, he says: - - The pleasure which results from it, even when employed upon the - most ordinary materials, will always render that property of our - art the most attractive with the majority, because it may be - enjoyed with the least mental exertion. _All_ men are in some - degree judges of it. The cobbler in his own line may criticize - Apelles; and popular opinions are never to be wholly disregarded - concerning that which is addressed to the public—who, to a - certain extent, are generally right; although as the language of - the refined can never be intelligible to the uneducated, so the - higher styles of art can never be acceptable to the multitude. - In proportion as a work rises in the scale of intellect, it must - necessarily become limited in the number of its admirers. For - this reason the judicious artist, even in his loftiest efforts, - will endeavor to introduce some of those qualities which are - interesting to all, as a passport for those of a more - intellectual character. - -And these remarks upon painting—remarks which are mere truisms in -themselves—embody nearly the whole _rationale_ of the topic now under -discussion. It may be added, however, that the _skill_ with which the -author addresses the lower taste of the populace, is often a source of -pleasure because of admiration, to a taste higher and more refined, and -may be made a point of comment and of commendation by the critic. - -In our review, last month, of “Barnaby Rudge,” we were prevented, -through want of space, from showing how Mr. Dickens had so well -succeeded in uniting all suffrages. What we have just said, however, -will suffice upon this point. While he has appealed, in innumerable -regards, to the most exalted intellect, he has meanwhile invariably -touched a certain string whose vibrations are omni-prevalent. We allude -to his powers of _imitation_—that species of imitation to which Mr. -Howard has reference—the _faithful_ depicting of what is called -still-life, and particularly of _character_ in humble condition. It is -his close observation and imitation of nature here which have rendered -him popular, while his higher qualities, with the ingenuity evinced in -addressing the general taste, have secured him the good word of the -informed and intellectual. - -But this is an important point upon which we desire to be distinctly -understood. We wish here to record our positive dissent (be that dissent -worth what it may) from a very usual opinion—the opinion that Mr. -Dickens has done justice to his own genius—that any man ever failed to -do grievous wrong to his own genius—in appealing to the popular -judgment _at all_. As a matter of pecuniary policy alone, is any such -appeal defensible. But we speak, of course, in relation to fame—in -regard to that - - ——spur which the true spirit doth raise - To scorn delight and live laborious days. - -That a perfume should be found by any “true spirit” in the incense of -mere popular applause, is, to our own apprehension at least, a thing -inconceivable, inappreciable,—a paradox which gives the lie unto -itself—a mystery more profound than the well of Democritus. Mr. Dickens -has no more business with the rabble than a seraph with a _chapeau de -bras_. What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba? What is he to Jacques -Bonhomme[3] or Jacques Bonhomme to him? The higher genius is a rare gift -and divine. Ὡπόλλων ου παντι φαεινεται, ος μιν ιδη, μεγας ουτος—not to -all men Apollo shows himself; _he_ is _alone great_ who beholds him.[4] -And his greatness has its office God-assigned. But that office is not a -low communion with low, or even with ordinary intellect. The holy—the -electric spark of genius is the medium of intercourse between the noble -and more noble mind. For lesser purposes there are humbler agents. There -are puppets enough, able enough, willing enough, to perform in -literature the little things to which we have had reference. For one -Fouqué there are fifty Molières. For one Angelo there are five hundred -Jan Steens. For one Dickens there are five million Smolletts, Fieldings, -Marryatts, Arthurs, Cocktons, Bogtons and Frogtons. - -It is, in brief, the duty of all whom circumstances have led into -criticism—it is, at least, a duty from which _we_ individually shall -never shrink—to uphold the true dignity of genius, to combat its -degradation, to plead for the exercise of its powers in those bright -fields which are its legitimate and peculiar province, and which for it -alone lie gloriously outspread. - -But to return to “Charles O’Malley,” and its popularity. We have -endeavored to show that this latter must not be considered in any degree -as the measure of its merit, but should rather be understood as -indicating a deficiency in this respect, when we bear in mind, as we -should do, the highest aims of intellect in fiction. A slight -examination of the work, (for in truth it is worth no more,) will -sustain us in what we have said. The plot is exceedingly meagre. Charles -O’Malley, the hero, is a young orphan Irishman, living in Galway county, -Ireland, in the house of his uncle, Godfrey, to whose sadly encumbered -estates the youth is heir apparent and presumptive. He becomes -enamoured, while on a visit to a neighbor, of Miss Lucy Dashwood, and -finds a rival in a Captain Hammersley. Some words carelessly spoken by -Lucy, inspire him with a desire for military renown. After sojourning, -therefore, for a brief period, at Dublin University, he obtains a -commission and proceeds to the Peninsula, with the British army under -Wellington. Here he distinguishes himself; is promoted; and meets -frequently with Miss Dashwood, whom obstinately, and in spite of the -lady’s own acknowledgment of love for himself, he supposes in love with -Hammersley. Upon the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo he returns home; finds -his uncle, of course, _just_ dead; and sells his commission to -disencumber the estate. Presently Napoleon escapes from Elba, and our -hero, obtaining a staff appointment under Picton, returns to the -Peninsula, is present at Waterloo, (where Hammersley is killed) saves -the life of Lucy’s father, for the second time, as he has already twice -saved that of Lucy herself; is rewarded by the hand of the latter; and, -making his way back to O’Malley Castle, “lives happily all the rest of -his days.” - -In and about this plot (if such it may be called) there are more -absurdities than we have patience to enumerate. The author, or narrator, -for example, is supposed to be Harry Lorrequer as far as the end of the -preface, which by the way, is one of the best portions of the book. -O’Malley then tells his own story. But the publishing office of the -“Dublin University Magazine” (in which the narrative originally -appeared) having been burned down, there ensues a sad confusion of -identity between O’Malley and Lorrequer, so that it is difficult, for -the nonce, to say which is which. In the want of copy consequent upon -the disaster, James, the novelist, comes in to the relief of Lorrequer, -or perhaps of O’Malley, with one of the flattest and most irrelevant of -love-tales. Meantime, in the story proper are repetitions without end. -We have already said that the hero _saves the life of his mistress -twice, and of her father twice_. But not content with this, he has _two_ -mistresses, and _saves the life of both, at different periods, in -precisely the same manner_—that is to say, by causing his horse, in -each instance, to perform a Munchausen side-leap, at the moment when a -spring forward would have impelled him upon his beloved. And then we -have one unending, undeviating succession of junketings, in which -“devilled kidneys” are never by any accident found wanting. The unction -and pertinacity with which the author discusses what he chooses to -denominate “devilled kidneys” are indeed edifying, to say no more. The -truth is, that drinking wine, telling anecdotes, and devouring “devilled -kidneys” may be considered as the sum total, as the _thesis_ of the -book. Never in the whole course of his eventful life, does Mr. O’Malley -get “two or three assembled together” without seducing them forthwith to -a table, and placing before them a dozen of wine and a dish of “devilled -kidneys.” This accomplished, the parties begin what seems to be the -business of the author’s existence—the narration of unusually _broad -tales_—like those of the Southdown mutton. And here, in fact, we have -the _plan_ of that whole work of which the “United Service Gazette” has -been pleased to vow it “would rather be the author than of all the -‘Pickwicks’ and ‘Nicklebys’ in the world”—a sentiment which we really -blush to say has been echoed by many respectable members of our own -press. The general plot or narrative is a mere thread upon which -after-dinner anecdotes, some good, some bad, some utterly worthless, and -_not one truly original_, are strung with about as much method, and -about half as much dexterity, as we see ragged urchins employ in -stringing the kernels of nuts. - -It would, indeed, be difficult to convey to one who has not examined -this production for himself, any idea of the exceedingly rough, clumsy, -and inartistical manner in which even this bald conception is carried -out. The stories are absolutely dragged in by the ears. So far from -finding them result naturally or plausibly from the conversation of the -interlocutors, even the blindest reader may perceive the author’s -struggling and blundering effort to introduce them. It is rendered quite -evident that they were originally “on hand,” and that “O’Malley” has -been concocted for their introduction. Among other _niaïseries_ we -observe the silly trick of whetting appetite by delay. The conversation -over the “kidneys” is brought, for example, to such a pass that one of -the speakers is called upon for a story, which he forthwith declines for -any reason, or for none. At a subsequent “broil” he is again pressed, -and again refuses, and it is not until the reader’s patience is fairly -exhausted, and he has consigned both the story and its author to Hades, -that the gentleman in question is prevailed upon to discourse. The only -conceivable result of this _fanfarronade_ is the ruin of the tale when -told, through exaggerating anticipation respecting it. - -The anecdotes thus narrated being the staple of the book, and the -awkward manner of their interlocution having been pointed out, it but -remains to be seen what the anecdotes are, in themselves, and what is -the merit of their narration. And here, let it not be supposed that we -have any design to deprive the devil of his due. There are several very -excellent anecdotes in “Charles O’Malley” very cleverly and pungently -told. Many of the scenes in which Monsoon figures are rich—less, -however, from the scenes themselves than from the piquant, but by no -means original character of Monsoon—a drunken, maudlin, dishonest old -Major, given to communicativeness and mock morality over his cups, and -not over careful in detailing adventures which tell against himself. One -or two of the college pictures are unquestionably good—but might have -been better. In general, the reader is made to feel that fine subjects -have fallen into unskilful hands. By way of instancing this assertion, -and at the same time of conveying an idea of the tone and character of -the stories, we will quote one of the shortest, and assuredly one of the -best. - - “Ah, by-the-by, how’s the Major?” - - “Charmingly: only a little bit in a scrape just now. Sir - Arthur—Lord Wellington, I mean—had him up for his fellows - being caught pillaging, and gave him a devil of a rowing a few - days ago. - - “‘Very disorderly corps yours, Major O’Shaughnessy,’ said the - general; ‘more men up for punishment than any regiment in the - service.’ - - “Shaugh muttered something, but his voice was lost in a loud - cock-a-doo-doo-doo, that some bold chanticleer set up at the - moment. - - “‘If the officers do their duty Major O’Shaughnessy, these acts - of insubordination do not occur.’ - - “‘Cock-a-doo-doo-doo,’ was the reply. Some of the staff found it - hard not to laugh; but the general went on— - - “‘If, therefore, the practice does not cease, I’ll draft the men - into West India regiments.’ - - “‘Cock-a-doo-doo-doo!’ - - “‘And if any articles pillaged from the inhabitants are detected - in the quarters, or about the persons of the troops—’ - - “‘Cock-a-doo-doo-_doo_!’ screamed louder here than ever. - - “‘Damn that cock—where is it?’ - - “There was a general look around on all sides, which seemed in - vain; when a tremendous repetition of the cry resounded from - O’Shaughnessy’s coat-pocket: thus detecting the valiant Major - himself in the very practice of his corps. There was no standing - this: every one burst out into a peal of laughter; and Lord - Wellington himself could not resist, but turned away, muttering - to himself as he went—‘Damned robbers every man of them,’ while - a final war-note from the Major’s pocket closed the interview.” - -Now this is an anecdote at which every one will laugh; but its effect -might have been vastly heightened by putting a few words of grave -morality and reprobation of the conduct of his troops, into the mouth of -O’Shaughnessy, upon whose character they would have told well. The cock, -in interrupting the thread of his discourse, would thus have afforded an -excellent context. We have scarcely a reader, moreover, who will fail to -perceive the want of _tact_ shown in dwelling upon the _mirth_ which the -anecdote occasioned. The error here is precisely like that of a man’s -laughing at his own spoken jokes. Our author is uniformly guilty of this -mistake. He has an absurd fashion, also, of informing the reader, at the -conclusion of each of his anecdotes, that, however good the anecdote -might be, he (the reader) cannot enjoy it to the full extent in default -of the _manner_ in which it was orally narrated. He has no business to -say anything of this kind. It is his duty to convey the manner not less -than the matter of his narratives. - -But we may say of these latter that, in general, they have the air of -being _remembered_ rather than invented. No man who has seen much of the -rough life of the camp will fail to recognize among them many very old -acquaintances. Some of them are as ancient as the hills, and have been, -time out of mind, the common property of the bivouac. They have been -narrated orally all the world over. The chief merit of the writer is, -that he has been the first to collect and to print them. It is -observable, in fact, that the second volume of the work is very far -inferior to the first. The author seems to have exhausted his whole -hoarded store in the beginning. His conclusion is barren indeed, and but -for the historical details (for which he has no claim to merit) would be -especially prosy and dull. _Now the true invention never exhausts -itself._ It is mere cant and ignorance to talk of the possibility of the -really imaginative man’s “writing himself out.” His soul but derives -nourishment from the streams that flow therefrom. As well prate about -the aridity of the eternal ocean εξ ουπερ παντες ποταμοι. So long as the -universe of thought shall furnish matter for novel combinations, so long -will the spirit of true genius be original, be exhaustless—be itself. - -A few cursory observations. The book is filled to over-flowing with -songs of very doubtful excellence, the most at which are put into the -mouth of one Micky Free, an amusing Irish servant of O’Malley’s, and are -given as his impromptu effusions. The subject of the improvisos is -always the matter in hand at the moment of composition. The author -evidently prides himself upon his poetical powers, about which the less -we say the better; but if anything were wanting to assure us of his -absurd ignorance and inappreciation of Art, we should find the fullest -assurance in the mode in which these doggrel verses are introduced. - -The occasional sentiment with which the volumes are interspersed there -is an absolute necessity for skipping. - -Can anybody tell us what is meant by the affectation of the word -_L’envoy_ which is made the heading of two prefaces? - -That portion of the account of the battle of Waterloo which gives -O’Malley’s experiences while a prisoner, and in close juxta-position to -Napoleon, bears evident traces of having been translated, and very -literally too, from a French manuscript. - -The English of the work is sometimes even amusing. We have continually, -for example, _eat_, the present, for _ate_, the perfect—see page 17. At -page 16, we have this delightful sentence—“Captain Hammersley, however, -_never_ took further notice of me, but continued to recount, for the -amusement of those _about_, several excellent stories of his military -career, which I confess were heard with every _test_ of delight by all -save me.” At page 357 we have some sage talk about “the entire of the -army;” and at page 368, the accomplished O’Malley speaks of “_drawing_ a -last look upon his sweetheart.” These things arrest our attention as we -open the book at random. It abounds in them, and in vulgarisms even much -worse than they. - -But why speak of vulgarisms of language? There is a disgusting vulgarism -of thought which pervades and contaminates this whole production, and -from which a delicate or lofty mind will shrink as from a pestilence. -Not the least repulsive manifestation of this leprosy is to be found in -the author’s blind and grovelling worship of mere rank. Of the Prince -Regent, that filthy compound of all that is bestial—that lazar-house of -all moral corruption—he scruples not to speak in terms of the grossest -adulation—sneering at Edmund Burke in the same villainous breath in -which he extols the talents, the graces and _the virtues_ of George the -Fourth! That any man, to-day, can be found so degraded in heart as to -style this reprobate, “one who, in every feeling of his nature, and in -every feature of his deportment was every inch a prince”—is matter for -grave reflection and sorrowful debate. The American, at least, who shall -peruse the concluding pages of the book now under review, and not turn -in disgust from the base sycophancy which infects them, is unworthy of -his country and his name. But the truth is, that a gross and contracted -soul renders itself unquestionably manifest in almost every line of the -composition. - -And this—_this_ is the _work_, in respect to which its author, aping -the airs of intellect, prates about his “haggard cheek,” his “sunken -eye,” his “aching and tired head,” his “nights of toil” and (Good -Heavens!) his “days of _thought_!” That the thing is popular we -grant—while that we cannot deny the fact, we grieve. But the career of -true taste is onward—and now more vigorously onward than ever—and the -period, perhaps, is not hopelessly distant, when, in decrying the mere -balderdash of such matters as “Charles O’Malley,” we shall do less -violence to the feelings and judgment even of the populace, than, we -much fear, has been done to-day. - ------ - -[3] Nickname for the populace in the middle ages - -[4] Callimachus—_Hymn to Apollo_. - - * * * * * - - _Ballads and other Poems. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Author - of “Voices of the Night,” “Hyperion,” etc.: Second Edition. John - Owen: Cambridge._ - -“_Il y a à parier_,” says Chamfort, “_que toute idée publique, toute -convention reçue, est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus grand -nombre_.”—One would be safe in wagering that any given public idea is -erroneous, for it has been yielded to the clamor of the majority;—and -this strictly philosophical, although somewhat French assertion has -especial bearing upon the whole race of what are termed maxims and -popular proverbs; nine-tenths of which are the quintessence of folly. -One of the most deplorably false of them is the antique adage, _De -gustibus non est disputandum_—there should be no disputing about taste. -Here the idea designed to be conveyed is that any one person has as just -right to consider his own taste _the true_, as has any one other—that -taste itself, in short, is an arbitrary something, amenable to no law, -and measurable by no definite rules. It must be confessed, however, that -the exceedingly vague and impotent treatises which are alone extant, -have much to answer for as regards confirming the general error. Not the -least important service which, hereafter, mankind will owe to -_Phrenology_, may perhaps, be recognised in an analysis of the real -principles, and a digest of the resulting laws of taste. These -principles, in fact, are as clearly traceable, and these laws as readily -susceptible of system as are any whatever. - -In the meantime, the inane adage above mentioned is in no respect more -generally, more stupidly, and more pertinaciously quoted than by the -admirers of what is termed the “good old Pope,” or the “good old -Goldsmith school” of poetry, in reference to the bolder, more natural, -and _more ideal_ compositions of such authors as Coëtlogon and -Lamartine[5] in France; Herder, Körner, and Uhland in Germany; Brun and -Baggesen in Denmark; Bellman, Tegnér, and Nyberg[6] in Sweden; Keats, -Shelley, Coleridge, and Tennyson in England; Lowell and Longfellow in -America. “_De gustibus non_,” say these “good-old-school” fellows; and -we have no doubt that their mental translation of the phrase is—“We -pity your taste—we pity every body’s taste but our own.” - -It is our purpose, hereafter, when occasion shall be afforded us, to -controvert in an article of some length, the popular idea that the poets -just mentioned owe to novelty, to trickeries of expression, and to other -meretricious effects, their appreciation by certain readers:—to -demonstrate (for the matter is susceptible of demonstration) that such -poetry and _such alone_ has fulfilled the legitimate office of the muse; -has thoroughly satisfied an earnest and unquenchable desire existing in -the heart of man. In the present number of our Magazine we have left -ourselves barely room to say a few random words of welcome to these -“Ballads,” by Longfellow, and to tender him, and all such as he, the -homage of our most earnest love and admiration. - -The volume before us (in whose outward appearance the keen “taste” of -genius is evinced with nearly as much precision as in its internal soul) -includes, with several brief original pieces, a translation from the -Swedish of Tegnér. In attempting (what never should be attempted) a -literal version of both the words and the metre of this poem, Professor -Longfellow has failed to do justice either to his author or himself. He -has striven to do what no man ever did well and what, from the nature of -language itself, never _can_ be well done. Unless, for example, we shall -come to have an influx of _spondees_ in our English tongue, it will -always be impossible to construct an English hexameter. Our spondees, -or, we should say, our spondaic words, are rare. In the Swedish they are -nearly as abundant as in the Latin and Greek. We have only “_compound_,” -“_context_,” “_footfall_,” and a few other similar ones. This is the -difficulty; and that it _is_ so will become evident upon reading “The -Children of the Lord’s Supper,” where the sole _readable_ verses are -those in which we meet with the rare spondaic dissyllables. We mean to -say _readable as Hexameters_; for many of them will read very well as -mere English Dactylics with certain irregularities. - -But within the narrow compass now left us we must not indulge in -anything like critical comment. Our readers will be better satisfied -perhaps with a few brief extracts from the original poems of the -volume—which we give for their rare excellence, without pausing now to -say in what particulars this excellence exists. - - And, like the water’s flow - Under December’s snow - Came a dull voice of woe, - From the heart’s chamber. - - So the loud laugh of scorn, - Out of those lips unshorn - From the deep drinking-horn - Blew the foam lightly. - - As with his wings aslant - Sails the fierce cormorant - Seeking some rocky haunt, - With his prey laden, - So toward the open main, - Beating to sea again, - Through the wild hurricane, - Bore I the maiden. - - Down came the storm and smote amain - The vessel in its strength; - She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed - Then leaped her cable’s length. - - She drifted a dreary wreck, - And a whooping billow swept the crew - Like icicles from her deck. - - He hears the parson pray and preach, - He hears his daughter’s voice, - Singing in the village choir, - And it makes his heart rejoice. - It sounds to him like her mother’s voice - Singing in Paradise! - He needs must think of her once more - How in the grave she lies; - And with his hard rough hand he wipes - A tear out of his eyes. - - Thus at the flaming forge of life - Our fortunes must be wrought; - Thus on its sounding anvil shaped - Each burning deed and thought. - - The rising moon has hid the stars - Her level rays like golden bars - Lie on the landscape green - With shadows brown between. - - Love lifts the boughs whose shadows deep - Are life’s oblivion, the soul’s sleep, - And kisses the closed eyes - Of him who slumbering lies. - - Friends my soul with joy remembers! - How like quivering flames they start, - When I fan the living embers - On the hearth-stone of my heart. - - Hearest thou voices on the shore, - That our ears perceive no more - Deafened by the cataract’s roar? - - And from the sky, serene and far, - A voice fell like a falling star. - -Some of these passages cannot be fully appreciated apart from the -context—but we address these who have read the book. Of the -translations we have not spoken. It is but right to say, however, that -“The Luck of Edenhall” is a far finer poem, in every respect, than any -of the original pieces. Nor would we have our previous observations -misunderstood. Much as we admire the genius of Mr. Longfellow, we are -fully sensible of his many errors of affectation and imitation. His -artistical skill is great, and his ideality high. But his conception of -the _aims_ of poesy _is all wrong_; and this we shall prove at some -future day—to our own satisfaction, at least. His didactics are all -_out of place_. He has written brilliant poems—by accident; that is to -say when permitting his genius to get the better of his conventional -habit of thinking—a habit deduced from German study. We do not mean to -say that a didactic moral may not be well made the _under-current_ of a -poetical thesis; but that it can never be well put so obtrusively forth, -as in the majority of his compositions. There is a young American who, -with ideality not richer than that of Longfellow and with less -artistical knowledge, has yet composed far truer poems, merely through -the greater propriety of his themes. We allude to James Russel Lowell; -and in the number of this Magazine for last month, will be found a -ballad entitled “Rosaline,” affording excellent exemplification of our -meaning. This composition has unquestionably its defects, and the very -defects which are never perceptible in Mr. Longfellow—but we sincerely -think that _no American poem equals it_ in the higher elements of song. - ------ - -[5] We allude here chiefly to the “David” of Coëtlogon, and _only_ to -the “_Chûte d’un Ange_” of Lamartine. - -[6] C. Julia Nyberg, author of the “Dikter von Euphrosyne.” - - * * * * * - - _The Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Henry Lord Brougham, - to which is Prefixed a Sketch of his Character. Two volumes. Lea - and Blanchard._ - -That Lord Brougham _was_ an extraordinary man no one in his senses will -deny. An intellect of unusual capacity, goaded into diseased action by -passions nearly ferocious, enabled him to astonish the world, and -especially the “hero-worshippers,” as the author of Sartor-Resartus has -it, by the combined extent and variety of his mental triumphs. -Attempting many things, it may at least be said that he egregiously -failed in none. But that he pre-eminently excelled in any cannot be -affirmed with truth, and might well be denied _à priori_. We have no -faith in admirable Crichtons, and this merely because we have implicit -faith in Nature and her laws. “He that is born to be a man,” says -Wieland, in his ‘Peregrinus Proteus,’ “neither should nor can be -anything nobler, greater, nor better than a man.” The Broughams of the -human intellect are never its Newtons or its Bayles. Yet the -contemporaneous reputation to be acquired by the former is naturally -greater than any which the latter may attain. The versatility of one -whom we see and hear is a more dazzling and more readily appreciable -merit than his profundity; which latter is best estimated in the silence -of the closet, and after the quiet lapse of years. What impression Lord -Brougham has stamped upon his age, cannot be accurately determined until -Time has fixed and rendered definite the lines of the medal; and fifty -years hence it will be difficult, perhaps, even to make out the deepest -indentations of the _exergue_. Like Coleridge he should be regarded as -one who might have done much, had he been satisfied with attempting but -little. - -The title of the book before us is, we think, somewhat disingenuous. -These two volumes contain but a small portion of the “Critical and -Miscellaneous Writings” of Lord Brougham; and the preface itself assures -us that what is here published _forms only a part of his anonymous -contributions to the Edinburgh Review_. In fact three similar selections -from his “Miscellaneous Works” have been given to the world within a -year or two past, by Philadelphian publishers, and neither of these -selections embrace any of the matter now issued. - -The present volumes, however, are not the less valuable on this account. -They contain many of the most noted and some of the best compositions of -the author. Among other articles of interest we have the celebrated -“Discourse on the Objects, Pleasures and Advantages of Science”—a -title, by the way, in which the word “pleasures” is one of the purest -supererogation. That this discourse is well written, we, of course, -admit, since we do not wish to be denounced as blockheads; but we beg -leave to disagree, most positively, with the Preface, which asserts that -“there was only one individual living by whom it could have been -produced.” This round asseveration will only excite a smile upon the -lips of every man of the slightest pretension to scientific acquirement. -We are personally acquainted with at least a dozen individuals who could -have written this treatise _as well_ as the Lord Chancellor has written -it. In fact, a discourse of this character is by no means difficult of -composition—a discourse such as Lord Brougham has given us. His whole -design consists in an unmethodical collection of the most _striking_ and -at the same time the most _popularly comprehensible facts_ in general -science. And it cannot be denied that this plan of demonstrating the -advantages of science as a whole _by detailing insulated specimens of -its interest_ is a most unphilosophical and inartistical mode of -procedure—a mode which even puts one in mind of the σκολαστικος -offering a brick as a sample of the house he wished to sell. Neither is -the essay free (as should be imperatively demanded in a case of this -nature) from very gross error and mis-statement. Its style, too, in its -minor points, is unusually bad. The strangest grammatical errors abound, -of which the initial pages are especially full, and the whole is -singularly deficient in that precision which should characterise a -scientific discourse. In short, it is an entertaining essay, but in some -degree superficial and quackish, and could have been _better_ written by -any one of a multitude of living _savans_. - -There is a very amusing paper, in this collection, upon the authorship -of Junius. We allude to it, now especially, by way of corroborating what -we said, in our January number, touching the ordinary character of the -English review-system. The article was furnished the Edinburgh Quarterly -by its author, who, no doubt, received for it a very liberal -compensation. It is, nevertheless, one of the most barefaced impositions -we ever beheld; being nothing in the world more than a tame -_compendium_, fact by fact, of the book under discussion—“The Identity -of Junius with a Distinguished Living Character Established.” There is -no attempt at analysis—no new fact is adduced—no novel argument is -urged—and yet the thing is called a criticism and liberally paid for as -such. The secret of this style of Review-making is that of mystifying -the reader by an artful substitution of the interest appertaining to the -text for interest aroused by the commentator. - - * * * * * - - _Pantology; or a systematic survey of Human Knowledge; Proposing - a Classification of all its branches, and illustrating their - History, Relations, Uses, and Objects; with a Synopsis of their - leading Facts and Principles; and a Select Catalogue of Books on - all Subjects, suitable for a Cabinet Library. The whole designed - as a Guide to Study for advanced Students in Colleges, - Academies, and Schools; and as a popular Directory in - Literature, Science and the Arts. Second Edition. By Roswell - Park, A. M., Professor of Natural Philosophy and Chemistry in - the University of Pennsylvania, &c. Hogan and Thompson: - Philadelphia._ - -The title of this work explains its nature with accuracy. To human -knowledge in general, it is what a map of the world is to geography. The -design is chiefly, _to classify_, and thus present a dependent and -clearly discernible whole. To those who have paid much attention to -Natural History and the endless, unstable, and consequently vexatious -classifications which there occur—to those, in especial, who have -labored over the “Conchologies” of De Blainville and Lamarck, some -faint—some very faint idea of the difficulties attending such a labor -as this, will occur. There have been numerous prior attempts of the same -kind, and although this is unquestionably _one_ of the best, we cannot -regard it as the best. Mr. Park has chosen a highly artificial scheme of -arrangement; and both reason and experience show us that _natural_ -classifications, or those which proceed upon broad and immediately -recognisable distinctions, are alone practically or permanently -successful. We say this, however, with much deference to the opinions of -a gentleman, whose means of acquiring _knowledge_, have been equalled -only by his zeal in its pursuit, and whose general talents we have had -some personal opportunity of estimating. - -We mean nothing like criticism in so brief a paragraph as we can here -afford, upon a work so voluminous and so important as the one before us. -Our design is merely to call the attention of our friends to the -publication—whose merits are obvious and great. Its defects are, of -course, numerous. We mean rather to say, that in every work of this -nature, it is in the power of almost every reader to suggest a thousand -emendations. We might object to many of the details. We _must_ object to -nearly all of the belles-lettres portion of the book. We cannot stand -being told, for example, that “Barlow’s ‘Columbiad’ is a poem of -considerable merit;” nor are we rendered more patient under the -infliction of this and similar opinions, by the information that Vander -Vondel and Vander Doos (the deuce!) wrote capital Dutch epics, while -“the poems of Cats are said to be spirited and _pious_!” We know nothing -about cats, nor cats about piety. - -The volume is sadly disfigured by typographical errors. On the -title-page of the very first “province” is a blunder in Greek. - - * * * * * - - _The Student-Life of Germany: By William Howitt, Author of the - “Rural Life of England,” “Book of the Seasons,” etc. From the - unpublished MS. of Dr. Cornelius. Containing nearly Forty of the - most Famous Student Songs. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._ - -Mr. Howitt has here given us the only complete and faithful account of -the Student-Life of Germany which has appeared in any quarter of the -world. The institutions and customs which his book describes, form, to -use his own language, “the most singular state of social existence to be -found in the bosom of civilized Europe,” and are doubly curious and -worthy of investigation—first, on account of the jealousy with which -the students have hitherto withheld all information on the subject, and -secondly, on account of the deep root which the customs themselves have -taken in the heart of the German life. The Burschendom, of which we have -all heard so much, yet so vaguely, is no modern or evanescent -eccentricity; but a matter of firm and reverent faith coeval with the -universities; and this faith is now depicted, _con amore_, and with -knowledge, by a German who has himself felt and confessed it. To the -philosopher, to the man of the world, and especially, to the man of -imagination, this beautiful volume will prove a rare treat. Its -_novelty_ will startle all. - - * * * * * - - _Lectures on Modern History, from the Irruption of the Northern - Nations to the Close of the American Revolution. By William - Smyth, Professor of Modern History in the University of - Cambridge. Two volumes. From the Second London Edition, with a - Preface, List of Books on American History, etc. By Jared - Sparks, L. L. D., Professor of Ancient and Modern History in - Harvard University. John Owen: Cambridge._ - -Professor Smyth’s system of history is remarkable, if not peculiar. He -selects certain periods, and groups around them individually those -events to which they have closest affinity not only in time, but -character. The effect is surprising through its force and perspicuity. -The name of Professor Sparks would be alone sufficient to recommend -these volumes—but in themselves they are a treasure. - - * * * * * - - _First Book of Natural History, Prepared for the Use of Schools - and Colleges. By W. S. W. Ruschenberger, M. D., Surgeon in the - U. S. Navy, &c. &c. From the Text of Milne Edwards & Achille - Comte, Professors of Natural History in the Colleges of Henri - IV. and Charlemagne. With Plates. Turner & Fisher: - Philadelphia._ - -This little book forms, in the original, the first of a series of First -or Elementary works on Natural History, arranged by Messieurs Edwards -and Comte, two gentlemen distinguished for labors of the kind, and who -enjoy the patronage of the “Royal Council of Public Instruction of -France.” The translator is well known to the reading world, and there -can be no doubt of the value of the publication in its present form. - - * * * * * - - _A System of Elocution, with Special Reference to Gesture, to - the Treatment of Stammering, and Defective Articulation, - Comprising Numerous Diagrams and Engraved Figures, Illustrative - of the Subject. By Andrew Comstock, M. D. Published by the - Author: Philadelphia._ - -This is, in many respects, an excellent book, although the principal -claim of Dr. Comstock is that of having cleverly compiled. His method of -representing, or notating, the modulations of the speaking voice, is -original, as he himself states, but there is little else which can be -called so. Originality, however, is not what we seek in a school-book, -and this has the merit of tasteful selection and precision of style. - - * * * * * - - _Sturmer; A Tale of Mesmerism. To which are added other Sketches - from Life. By Isabella F. Romer. Two Volumes. Lea & Blanchard: - Philadelphia._ - -This work is republished, we presume, not so much on account of its -intrinsic merit, as on account of the present _émeute_ in our immediate -vicinity and elsewhere, on the subject of Animal Magnetism. “Sturmer,” -the principal story, is, nevertheless, well narrated and will do much in -the way of helping unbelief. The minor tales are even beautiful. “The -Mother and Daughter” is exceedingly pathetic. - - * * * * * - - _Famous Old People. Being the Second Epoch of Grandfather’s - Chair. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Author of “Twice-Told Tales.” - Boston: Tappan & Dennet._ - -Mr. Hawthorne has received high praise from men whose opinions we have -been accustomed to respect. Hereafter we shall endeavor to speak of his -tales with that deliberation which is their due. The one now before us -is a simple and pretty story. - - * * * * * - - _History of the Life of Richard Cœur de Lion, King of England. - By G. P. R. James, Esq., author of “Richelieu,” &c. Two volumes. - New York: I. & H. G. Langley._ - -We like Mr. James far better as the historian or biographer than as the -novelist. The truth is, it is sheer waste of time to read second-rate -fictions by men of merely imitative talent, when at the same expense of -money and labor we can indulge in the never-failing stream of invention -now poured forth by true genius. - - * * * * * - - _The Effinghams; or, Home as I Found it. Two volumes. By the - author of the “Victim of Chancery,” &c. New York: Samuel - Colman._ - -These volumes are satirical and have some fair hits at Mr. Cooper, -against whom they are especially levelled; but we like neither this -design of personal ridicule nor the manner in which it is effected. - - * * * * * - - _Organic Chemistry in its Applications to Agriculture and - Physiology. By Justus Leiby, M. D, &c. Edited from the MS. of - the Author, by Lyon Playfair, Ph. D. Second American Edition, - with an Introduction, Notes and Appendix, by John W. Webster, M. - D., Professor of Chemistry in Harvard University. John Owen: - Cambridge._ - -This book excited and still excites great attention in England. It is -needless to speak of its merits, which are well understood by all -students of Physics. - - * * * * * - - _Arbitrary Power, Popery, Protestantism; as contained in Nos. - XV. XVIII. XIX. of the Dublin Review. Philadelphia: M. Fithian._ - -A republication from the Dublin Review of three able articles in defence -of Catholicism. - - * * * * * - - _Second Book of Natural History, Prepared for the Use of Schools - and Colleges. By W. S. W. Ruschenberger, M. D., &c. From the - text of Milne Edwards and Achille Comte. With Plates. - Philadelphia: Turner & Fisher._ - -We need only say of this volume that it is a combination of the “First -Book” just noticed, although sufficiently distinct in itself. - - * * * * * - - _The Amazonian Republic Recently Discovered in the Interior of - Peru. By Ex-Midshipman Timothy Savage, B. C. New York: Samuel - Colman._ - -This is a very passable satirical fiction, in the manner of Gulliver. We -should not be surprised if it were the composition of Dr. Beasely of -this city. - - * * * * * - - _St. John Chrysostom, Archbishop of Constantinople: His Life, - Eloquence and Piety. By W. Joseph Walter, late of St. Edmund’s - College. Philadelphia: Godey & M^{c}Michael._ - -An eloquent tribute to the memory of an eloquent and in every respect a -remarkable man. - - * * * * * - - _Life in China. The Porcelain Tower; or Nine Stories of China. - Compiled from Original Sources. By T. T. T. Embellished by J. - Leech. Lea & Blanchard: Philadelphia._ - -This is a very clever and amusing _jeu-d’esprit_, in which the oddities, -or what we regard as the oddities of “Life in China,” are divertingly -caricatured. The work is handsomely printed, and the designs by Leech -are well conceived and executed. - - * * * * * - - _Select Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Fourth Edition, with - Illustrations. Edward C. Biddle: Philadelphia._ - -The publisher, in his preface, states that three editions of this work, -comprising eight thousand copies, have been sold; and of this we are -pleased to hear; but we are not equally pleased with the information -(conveyed also in the preface) that a _new_ set of illustrations is -given. If these “illustrations” are _new_, then “new” has come to be -employed in the sense of “old.” The plates are not only antique but -trashy in other respects. Of the poems themselves we have no space to -speak fully this month. Some of them are excellent; and there are many -which merit no commendation. Mrs. Sigourney deserves much, but by no -means all of the applause which her compositions have elicited. - -It would be easy to cite, from the volume now before us, numerous brief -passages of the truest beauty; but we fear that it would be more -difficult to point out an entire poem which would bear examination, _as -a whole_. In the piece entitled “Indian Names,” there are thoughts and -_expression_ which would do honor to any one. We note, also, an -unusually noble idea in the “Death of an Infant.” - - ——forth from those blue eyes - There spake a wishful tenderness—a doubt - Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence - Alone may wear. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: _Spring Fashions 1842 Latest Style_] - - * * * * * - -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. Greek phrases in -this ebook contain characters which may not display in some devices -based on the fonts and character sets available. - -A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public -domain. - -The Duello, mentioned in the story The Doom of the Traitress, can be -found in the February 1842 issue of Graham’s Magazine. - -[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 3, March 1842_, George R. -Graham, Editor] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XX, NO. -3, MARCH 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. 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