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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. 4, April 1842 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George Rex Graham - -Release Date: February 21, 2022 [eBook #67456] - -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. 4, APRIL 1842 *** - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XX. April, 1842 No. 4. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - The Wife - Lowell’s Poems - Life in Death - The Miner’s Fate - Recollections of West Point - Dreams of the Land and Sea - St. Agnes’ Eve—A Chit-Chat About Keats - The Affair at Tattletown - The Bachelor’s Experiment - The Duel - Harry Cavendish - The Two Dukes - Review of New Books - - Poetry and Music - - Birth of Freedom - Fragment - Agathè.—A Necromaunt - To a Spirit - The Old Man Returned Home - Stanzas from an Unpublished Poem - Sweethearts and Wives - Elegy on the Fate of Jane M’Crea - Sonnets—Michael Angelo & Raffaello - To Florence - Return From Hawking - There’s No Land Like Scotland - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: an oval-shaped lace doily] - -[Illustration: Painted by Prentice, Engraved by H. S. Sadd, N.Y. _The -Wife._ _Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_] - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XX. PHILADELPHIA: APRIL, 1842. No. 4. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE WIFE. - - - BY AGNES PIERSOL. - - -It was the dead hour of the night. The room was a high wainscotted -apartment, with furniture of a rich but antique pattern. The pale -moonlight streaming through the curtained window, and struggling with -the subdued light of a candle placed in a corner, disclosed the figure -of a sick man extended on a bed, wrapped in an unquiet slumber. By his -side sat a care-worn though still beautiful woman gazing anxiously on -his face, and breathlessly awaiting the crisis of the fever—for it was -now the ninth day since that strong man had been prostrated by the hand -of disease, and during all that time he had raved in an incessant -delirium. He had at length dropped into an unquiet slumber, broken at -first by starts and moans, but during the last hour he had been less -restless, and he now lay as still as a sculptured statue. His wife well -knew that ere morning the crisis would be past, and she waited, with all -a woman’s affection, breathlessly for the event. Aye! though few women -have been wronged as Emily Walpole had been wronged, she still cherished -her husband’s image, for he was, despite his errors, the lover of her -youth. - -Few girls had been more admired than Emily Severn. But it was not only -the beauty of her features and the elegance of her form which drew -around her a train of worshippers: her mind was one of no ordinary cast, -and the sweetness of her temper lent an ineffable charm to all she did. -No one was so eagerly sought for at a ball or a pic-nic as Emily Severn, -and at her parental fireside she was the universal favorite. It was long -before she loved. She was not to be misled by glitter or show. She could -only bestow her affections where she thought they were deserved, and it -was not until she met Edward Walpole that she learned to surrender her -heart. - -Edward Walpole, when he became the husband of Emily Severn, was -apparently all that a woman could wish. He was warm hearted, of a noble -soul, kind, gentle, and ever ready to waive his own selfish -gratification at the call of duty. But, alas! he had one weakness, _he -did not act from principle_. His generous deeds were the offspring of a -warm heart rather than of a regulated intellect. As yet he had never -been placed in circumstances which severely tried his principles. But, -about a year after his marriage, he fell heir to the large property of a -maiden aunt, and at once his whole style of life was altered. His -accession of wealth brought him into contact with society in which -hitherto he had never mingled, where the polish of factitious politeness -often hides the most depraved morals. Above all, by abandoning his -profession, he condemned himself to comparative idleness. He now began -to be tortured by _ennui_, and sought any excitement to pass away the -time. The harpies who infest society, and with the appearance of -gentlemen have the hearts of fiends, now marked him for their prey; and -his open and generous nature made him their victim in a comparatively -short space of time. We shall not trace his downward progress. It is -always a melancholy task to mark the lapse from virtue of a noble and -generous character, and how much more so when the heart of a wife is to -be broken by the dereliction from rectitude. - -Emily saw the gradual aberration of her husband, and though she mourned -the cause, no word of reproach escaped her lips, but by every gentle -means she strove to bring back her husband to the paths of virtue. But a -fatality seemed to have seized him. He was in a whirlpool from which he -could not extricate himself. He still loved his wife, and more than -once, when her looks cut him to the heart, he made an effort to break -loose from his associates; but they always found means to bring him back -ere long. Thus a year passed. His fortune began to give way, for he had -learnt to gamble. As his losses became more frequent his thirst for -cards became greater, until at length he grew sullen and desperate He -was now a changed man. He no longer felt compunction at the wrongs he -inflicted on his sweet wife, but if her sad looks touched his heart at -all they only stung him into undeserved reproaches. He was become harsh -and violent. Yet his poor wife endured all in silence. No recrimination -passed her lips. But in the solitude of her chamber she shed many a -bitter tear, and often, at the hour of midnight, when her husband was -far away in some riotous company, her prayers were heard ascending for -him. - -Two years had now elapsed, and the last one had been a year of bitter -sorrow to Emily. At length her husband came home one night an almost -ruined man. He had been stripped at the gambling table, of every cent of -his property, over which he had any control, and he was now in a state -almost approaching to madness. Before morning he was in a high fever. -For days he raved incessantly of his ruin, cursing the wretches by whom -he had been plundered. Nine days had passed and now the crisis was at -hand. - -The clock struck twelve. As sound after sound rung out on the stillness -and died away in echoes, reverberating through the house, the sick man -moved in his sleep, until, when the last stroke was given, he opened his -eyes and looked languidly and vacantly around. His gaze almost instantly -met the face of his wife. For a moment his recollection could be seen -struggling in his countenance, and at length an expression of deep -mental suffering settled in his face. His wife had by this time risen -and was now at his bedside. She saw that the crisis was past, and as she -laid her hand in his, and felt the moisture of the skin, she knew that -he would recover. Tears of joy gushed from her eyes and dropped on the -sick man’s face. - -“Heavenly father, I thank thee!” she murmured at length, when her -emotion suffered her to speak, while the tears streamed faster and -faster down her cheek, “he is safe. He will recover,” and though she -ceased speaking, her lips still moved in silent prayer. - -The sick man felt the tears on his face, he saw his wife’s grateful -emotion, he knew that she was even now praying for him, and as he -recalled to mind the wrongs which he had inflicted on that uncomplaining -woman, his heart was melted within him. There is no chastener like -sickness; the most stony bosom softens beneath it. He thought of the -long days and nights during which he must have been ill, and when his -insulted and abused wife had watched anxiously at his bedside. Oh! how -he had crushed that noble heart; and now this was her return! She prayed -for him who had wronged her. She shed tears of joy because her erring -husband had been restored, as it were, to life. These things rushed -through his bosom and the strong man’s eyes filled with tears. - -“Emily—dear Emily,” he said, “I have been a villain, and can you -forgive me? I deserve it not at your hands—but can you, will you -forgive a wretch like me?” - -“Oh! _can_ I forgive you?” sobbed the grateful wife, “yes! yes! but too -gladly. But it is not against me you have sinned, it is against a good -and righteous God.” - -“I know it—I know it,” said the repentant husband, “and to His mercy I -look. I cannot pray for myself, but oh! Emily pray for me. He has saved -me from the jaws of death. Pray for me, dear Emily.” - -The wife knelt at the bedside, and while the husband, exhausted by his -agitation, sank back with closed eyes on the pillow, she read the noble -petition for the sick, from the book of Common Prayer. At times the sobs -of Emily would almost choke her utterance, but the holy words she read -had at length, a soothing effect both on her mind and that of her -husband. When the prayer was over, she remained for several minutes -kneeling, while her husband murmured at intervals his heart-felt -responses. At length she rose from the bedside. Her husband would again -have spoken, to beseech once more her forgiveness. But with a glad -feeling at her heart—a feeling such as she had not had for years—she -enjoined silence on him, and sat down again by his bedside to watch. At -length he fell again into a calm slumber, while the now happy wife -watched at his bedside until morning, breathing thanksgivings for her -husband’s recovery, and shedding tears of joy the while. - -When the sick man awoke at daybreak, he was a changed being. He was now -convalescent, he was more, he was a repentant man. He wept on the bosom -of his wife, and made resolutions of reformation which, after his -recovery, through the blessing of God, he was enabled to fulfil. - -The fortune of Walpole was mostly gone, but sufficient remained from its -wrecks, to allow him the comforts, though not the luxuries of life. He -soon settled his affairs and removed from his splendid mansion to a -quiet cottage in a neighboring village. The only pang he felt was at -leaving the home which for so many years had been the dwelling of the -head of his family—the home where his uncle had died, and which had -been lost only through his own folly. - -Neither Walpole nor his wife ever regretted their loss of fortune; for -both looked upon it as the means used by an over-ruling Providence to -bring the husband back to the path of rectitude; and they referred to it -therefore with feelings rather of gratitude than of repining. In their -quiet cottage, on the wreck of their wealth, they enjoyed a happiness to -which they had been strangers in the days of their opulence. A family of -lovely children sprung up around them, and it was the daily task of the -parents to educate these young minds in the path of duty and rectitude. -Oh! the happy hours which they enjoyed in that white, vine-embowered -cottage, with their children smiling around them, and the consciousness -of a well regulated life, filling their hearts with peace. - -Years rolled by and the hair of Walpole began to turn gray, while the -brow of his sweet wife showed more than one wrinkle, but still their -happiness remained undiminished. - - * * * * * - - - - - LOWELL’S POEMS.[1] - - - A NEW SCHOOL OF POETRY AT HAND. - - -We shall never forget our emotions when we inhaled, for the first time -after a lingering illness, the fresh breezes of a September morning. Oh! -the visions of dewy meadows, rustling forest trees, and silvery brooks -which the delicious air called up before us. This little book has -awakened much the same emotions in our bosom. It reminds us of the -breezy lawns where we played when a child; of the old mossy forest trees -beneath which we loved to sit and muse; of the silent, stately -Brandywine that glided along at our feet, its clear waters sliding over -the rocks or rippling against the long willow leaves that trembled in -its current. There is a freshness about Lowell’s Poems which bewitches -our fancy. They display a genius that has startled us. They breathe a -healthy, honest, good old Saxon spirit, that opens our heart to them as -by a sign of brotherhood. We feel that he is kin of our kin and blood of -our blood, and we take his book to our bosom without suffering it to -plead the exquisite petition which he has put into its mouth, for -“charity in Christ’s dear name.” Lowell is a man after our own heart. We -have a word or two to say of him in connection with the poetry of the -day. - -Every one must have perceived that a new school of poetry is at hand. No -one who has thought on the subject can have failed to see that the fever -for Byron, like all fevers, is both wearing itself out and exhausting -the patient. With the death of the noble lord began the decline of the -school to which he gave such popularity, and though he has had many -imitators since, the phrenzy respecting his poetry is nearly over. We do -not mean to depreciate Byron. Every great poet should be spoken of with -reverence; for they all alike discourse in the language of the gods; and -Byron was not only a great poet, but the greatest poet of his school. -That school, however, was a bad one—the fierce, unholy offspring of an -incestuous age. It was a school in which the restlessness of passion -seems to have forced its votaries into poetry. They had none of the -calm, enduring enthusiasm of the great poets of the past; they did not -speak with the majesty of Jove, but with the fury of a Delphin -priestess. They were essentially the poets of a crowd, expressing the -emotions of men in a state of high excitement, and consequently whirling -away their hearers with them in a phrenzy for the time unconquerable, -but destined to subside with the first calm in the public mind. But the -truly great poets—Milton, Shakspeare and Spencer—sit far away on a -mountain by themselves, singing in calm enthusiasm to the stars of -heaven, and startling the dweller on the plain as well as the shepherd -on the hill-side with a melody that seems a part of heaven. The school -of Byron is that of a generation; the school of the old masters is that -of eternity. The one is a lurid planet, that blazes fitfully amid storm -and darkness; the others are fixed stars, that shine around Milton, the -greatest of all, in undimmed and undying lustre. - - Ὡς δ’ οτ’ εν ουρανω αστρα φαεινην αμφι σεληνην Φαινετ’ - αριπρεπεα. - -We have said that a new school of poetry is at hand, and the remark may, -at first sight, appear extravagant when we consider the stagnation which -has been exhibited for years. But betwixt the decline of one school and -the rise of another, there is always a pause. When Milton wrote, a -lustrum had elapsed since Shakspeare died. After the decay of Pope, a -half a century of barrenness ensued before Cowper brought in a more -masculine verse. The poetic soil, during these interregnums, seems to be -worn out, and to require to lie fallow until it can recruit its -energies. Only a few sparse flowers bloom upon the waste. But these, -although insignificant in themselves, serve to betray the changes in the -soil. They are premonitory of the coming harvest. They give us a clue to -the character of the approaching school, and although often vague and -contradictory, they afford us hints for which we would in vain seek -elsewhere. We do not say that, from such hints, the nature of a school -can be certainly predicted. The public taste, to use a phrase from the -geologists, is in a transition state, and what the result may be, will, -in a measure, puzzle the acutest mind. But we can still approximate to -the truth. And even now we may hazard a conjecture respecting the -characteristics of the school which will supersede that of Byron. It -will resemble, in many particulars, that of the old poets. It will have -the same calm, enduring enthusiasm. It will be marked by a like -earnestness of purpose, by the same comprehensive love for “suffering, -sad humanity.” It will have none of the jaundiced views of Byron, and -little of the _petit maître_ style of Pope. It will be intellectual, -and, we fear, pedantic also. It threatens to be disgraced by conceits. -Circumstances, it is true, may occur to give a different turn to the -character of the new school, or a Messiah may arise to do away by a -single dispensation with all former types; but, so far as we can foresee -now, the Tennysons, Longfellows, and poets of that cast of mind, will -give the tone to the coming change in the public taste. Indeed they are -already bringing about a revolution. Men are first acted on singly and -then in masses, and the masses have even now begun to feel the influence -of Longfellow and Tennyson. Wordsworth, too, is not to be disregarded in -this revolution, but his influence, though powerful so far as it goes, -will never be general. He is the poet of the few, not of the many. He is -the priest of the metaphysicians, the seer of the refiners of fine gold. -He writes poems, but his followers write twaddle. He cannot found a -school. He cannot do this aside from his peculiarities. We will explain. - -It is a common error to attribute the formation of a school of poetry to -the influence of some one great mind, and we are pointed to Byron, Pope, -Shakspeare and others, as instances to prove this creed. The theory is -false and illegitimate, the offspring of shallow minds and conceited -pedants. A popular poet, we grant, may have many imitators of his -_verbal_ style; but the spirit of his school, like the prophet’s -inspiration, dies with him. If we look to the poets of our own language -we shall find that the great masters usually followed rather than -preceded their respective schools; and if we look abroad we shall, with -few exceptions, discover the same fact. The school of Byron, for -instance, was born of the atheism, scorn and fury of the French -Revolution, and we can see foreshadowings of the spirit of Childe Harold -in most of the minor poems of that day. Byron carried the school up to -its culminating point, and since his death, if not before, it has been -on the decline. Pope was the last of a school that had its origin as far -back as the exile of Charles the Second, and the French style and sickly -effeminacy of this most finished of our poets began to decline while -Walpole still sat at the Treasury, when Lady Mary played the wit at -Richmond, while clouded canes and full-bottomed wigs yet figured in the -Mall. Milton belonged to no school but his own; he stands alone in -unapproachable glory; but his genius was deeply influenced by the -commotions of the civil wars. Shakspeare had few followers, but many -predecessors, and as he was the last so he was the greatest of his -school; while Spencer, standing as he did above the grave of chivalry -and allegorical romance, only gave vent, in his immortal poem, to a -requiem for the departed great. All these men embodied the -characteristics of their age, and left them as a heritage to posterity. -They were types of their times: they spoke the universal mind of their -cotemporaries. It is the cant of the day to talk of men as being in -advance of their age; but there never was and never will be such a man. -Even Bacon, the giant of the modern world, and the reputed author of the -inductive philosophy, was only its great high-priest; for even before he -had written his advancement of learning, twenty minds, in every quarter -of Europe, were stumbling on the same truths. We are not waiting, -therefore, for the advent of a seer to found a new poetic school, for -the school must come first, and then we may expect the seer. It will -require a dozen Tennysons to make a Spencer. The days of the years of -the sons of the prophets are not yet numbered—when they shall be, a new -Messiah will appear in our midst. - -The tendency of the age to a new school in poetry is strikingly evinced -by the genius of Lowell. He was educated in the school of the older -poets until his whole soul has become imbued with their spirit. Of these -writers Spencer is clearly his favorite. The allusions to this fine old -poet are frequent in his poems, and we often meet with expressions and -turns of thought, reminding us strikingly of the Faery Queen. We do not -mean to charge Lowell with plagiarism: far from it. But he has read -Spencer so thoroughly that he is often guilty of unconscious imitation. -His fondness for this enchanting writer, is indeed the greatest peril -which threatens his poetical career. There is such a thing as being -beguiled by a syren until you become her slave. We tell him to beware. -Let our young countryman shake himself loose from his bewitching -fetters, and be, as he is partially and can be wholly, original. Let him -be his own master. _Aut Cæsar, aut nihil._ - -This language, when applied to some, would be a satire. But Lowell has -evinced the possession of powers, nearly, if not altogether equal to -those of any cotemporary poet; and when, in connexion with this, we -consider his youth, we feel justified in assigning to him a genius of -the first rank. Let us not be misunderstood. We do not say that Lowell -has written better poems than any American, but only that he has evinced -a capacity, which in time, may enable him to do so. Indeed this volume -of poems, although possessing high merit, is rather a proof of what he -may do than of what he has done. There is scarcely a poem in the book -which a critic might not prove to be full of faults; but then there -would be passages scattered through it which, to an honest man, would -redeem the whole. And since the publication of this volume, Lowell has -written other poems evincing a progressive excellence and establishing -his genius beyond cavil. In one faculty he is certainly equal to any -cotemporary, and that faculty is the highest one a poet can possess—we -mean IDEALITY. The imagination of Lowell is of the loftiest character. -No one can read a ballad published in this Magazine for October, 1841, -or a poem entitled “Rosaline,” published for February, 1842, without -awarding to our young countryman the gift of this enviable faculty. -Whether he is capable of conceiving and executing an extended poem -remains to be seen; and we would not advise him to attempt the task -until time has matured his taste and refined his powers. But if the -Lycidas of Milton, or the Venus and Adonis of Shakspeare were any -evidence of the intellect of these two masters, then are some of the -poems of Lowell evidence that he has the power, which if properly -cultivated, will enable him to write a great poem. The young eagle that -flutters its wings on the mountain top may not yet be able to breast the -tempest, yet it is an eagle still, and he must be deaf indeed who cannot -distinguish its cry. We say that Lowell has an ideality of the loftiest -order, and that no one can read his poems without discovering this. We -say that ideality is the highest quality of a poet’s mind. So far forth, -therefore, Lowell is entitled to rank among the foremost of our poets. - -But this is not all. A poet may have the intellect of a god, and yet -want the heart to make him truly great; for all true greatness is based -on nobility of mind, without which mere intellect is but a tinkling -cymbal. All the great old poets eminently possessed this quality. Their -hearts kept time, in a majestic march, to noble sentiments. They loved -their race, and in their writings showed they were in earnest. This love -for his fellows is one of the finest characteristics of Lowell, and -contrasts strikingly with the frippery of Pope, and the sneering -misanthropy of Byron. We adore this feeling. It is the good old Saxon -spirit, the sentiment of universal brotherhood. We are all the children -of one father, fitted for sympathy, companionship, affection. We are not -born to scorn our fellows. We have not been created to seclude ourselves -from society, to dwell in caves, and cells, and lonely hermitages. We -are made for nobler purposes. Our mission, like that of him of Nazareth, -is to go about doing good. Nor let any man hate his fellows, thinking -them regardless of his sorrows. The most unfortunate of us are not -without friends, often loving us unknown and in spite of our faults. We -have seen the criminal at the bar, when all others shrunk from him, -cheered by the affection of the very wife or mother he had wronged; and -even the houseless old beggar by the way-side finds a friend in every -honest heart that sees his grey hairs tossing in the wind. All over this -wide world, in hut, or cottage, or lordly hall, millions of hearts are -beating with love towards each other, so that the whole human race is, -as it were, interwoven together by innumerable fine threads of sympathy -and affection. A word, a deed, or a kind look may make us a friend of -whom we little think: and it may be that even now, some one whom we have -never seen, is yearning towards us, because something that we may have -written has found an echo in his bosom. God be thanked for this, the -brightest gift in a poet’s mission! How many hearts have sympathised -with the blind old Milton, and how many more will sympathise with him to -the end of all time. And thus it is with the good of every age. They -live again in the memory of posterity. The dying words of Algernon -Sidney will thrill the freeman’s heart through untold centuries. The -apostolic charity of Fenelon, Latimer, Bunyan, Augustine, and of all -holy men, will endear them to noble hearts as long as time endures. The -only immortality worth having is an immortality like this; and it -matters not whether our names are known to those who bless us or not. -Men have written noble sentiments and died and been forgotten, yet -posterity has still yearned towards the poet when it read his lines. -What comfort may not an author thus bring upon his fellows! Go out into -the country and enter that lowly cottage,—you will find perhaps some -mother weeping over little Nell, and drawing consolation from traits in -the character which remind her of a darling child now in heaven. Thus by -ten thousand links does an author bind himself to the hearts of his -fellows, until at length he comes to be loved as we would love a -brother. And often the precepts he instils awaken the dormant good in -other hearts. Lowell has finely expressed this in one of his earliest -poems— - - “Noble thoughts like thistle-seed, - Wing’d by nature, fall and breed - From their heedless parents far, - Where fit soil and culture are.” - -This fellowship for his kind glows in every line of Lowell. Open his -pages where you may, the eye lights on some kindly word, some noble -thought, some sentiment overflowing with the milk of human kindness. -There is a fine sonnet now before us which expresses the feeling of -brotherhood in true Saxon words— - - “Why should we ever weary of this life; - Our souls should widen ever, not contract, - Grow stronger, and not harder, in the strife, - Filling each moment with a noble act: - If we live thus, of vigor all compact, - Doing our duty to our fellow-men, - And striving rather to exalt our race - Than our poor selves, with earnest hand or pen, - We shall erect our names a dwelling-place - Which not all ages shall cast down agen; - Offspring of Time shall then be born each hour, - Which, as of old, earth lovingly shall guard, - To live forever in youth’s perfect flower, - And guide her future children Heavenward.” - -And here is one, on the same theme, which many a brother poet would do -well to emulate. How fitly this sonnet might have been read to Gray! - - “Poet! who sittest in thy pleasant room, - Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love, - And of a holy life that leads above, - Striving to keep life’s spring-flowers still in bloom, - And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume,— - O, there were other duties meant for thee, - Than to sit down in peacefulness and be! - O, there are brother hearts that dwell in gloom, - Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin, - So crusted o’er with baseness, that no ray - Of Heaven’s blessed light may enter in! - Come down, then, to this hot and dusty way, - And lead them back to hope and peace again,— - For, save in Act, thy Love is all in vain.” - -Here is the sentiment of our mission finely expressed— - - “We were not meant to plod along the earth, - Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange. - We were not meant to struggle from our birth - To skulk and creep, and in mean pathways range; - Act! with stern truth, large faith, and loving will! - Up and be doing! God is with us still.” - -The following lines will cheer many a lonely heart in its sore distress: - - “Be of good courage, bear up to the end, - And on thine after way rejoicing go! - We all must suffer, if we aught would know; - Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom’s crown - Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down, - Blood, mix’d with tears, blinding our eyes doth flow; - But Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away - This bloody sweat—” - -Here are three lines which deserve to pass into a proverb: - - “_Be noble!_ and the nobleness that lies - In other men, sleeping but never dead - Will rise in majesty to meet thine own;” - -Lowell has a passion, if we may use the word, for images of quiet -beauty. He seems to worship nature; he is evidently a dreamer. We -venture to predict that he has spent many a day loitering through the -summer woods, or lingering by the side of some silvery stream. He is a -close observer—as what genius is not? There is a freshness about his -writings which convinces you that he has not drawn his notions of the -country, like many even of our rural poets, from books. He writes freely -and therefore gracefully. His images of nature come to us with a -delicious freshness, reminding us of forest nooks, sylvan retreats, and -the fragrance of new mown hay. He seems to be peculiarly fond of water, -and of the music which its dropping or its flow occasions, Thus: - - “Thy voice is like a fountain - Leaping up in still starlight, - And I never weary counting - Its clear droppings lone or single, - Or when in one full gush they mingle, - Shooting in melodious light!” - - “And thy light laughter rang as clear - As water drops I loved to hear - In days of boyhood as they fell - Tinkling far down the dim, still well.” - - “Weary never, still thou trillest - Spring-gladsome lays, - As of moss-rimmed water brooks - Murmuring through pebbly nooks - In quiet summer days.” - - “And like a moonbeam was her hair - That falls where flowing ripples are, - In summer evening, Isabel!” - -Many of the poems in this volume as well as several pieces since given -to the world, are love-poems, and breathe all the delicacy and exquisite -tenderness of a first affection. Lowell’s conception of the female -character is noble, chivalrous, pure and elevating. No poet in our -language has a loftier idea of a true woman. Mere personal beauty does -not appear to awaken his adoration, but every feeling of his soul -kindles at a sweet voice or a lovely mind. We like him for this. A sweet -voice is a talisman, and we question whether any true poet could love a -woman whose voice was not low and musical. There is a witchery in a soft -melodious accent that no language can describe. It seems to dissolve -itself into the soul and steal us away unconsciously to ourselves. A -lovely mind is the highest charm a woman can possess. How exquisitely -has Lowell pictured in the following verses, the purity of a young -maiden: - - “Early and late, at her soul’s gate - Sits chastity in warderwise, - No thought unchallenged, small or great, - Goes thence into her eyes.” - - “She is so gentle and so good - The very flowers in the wood - Do bless her with their sympathy.” - - “Thou mad’st me happy with thine eyes,— - And gentle feelings long forgot - Looked up and oped their eyes, - Like violets—when they see a spot - Of summer in the skies.” - - “Peace sits within thy eyes, - With white hands crost in joyful rest, - While through thy lips and face arise - The melodies from out thy breast. - She sits and sings - With folded wings.” - -The poems entitled “My Love,” “Ianthe,” and “The Lover,” are peculiarly -fraught with these elevated sentiments, and we recommend them, apart -from their poetic merit, to all who love to contemplate true beauty in -woman. The sonnets of Lowell are equally full of those delicate touches. -Those on names are very fine—the one entitled “Anne” particularly so. -Many others may be instanced as exquisite poems, full of tenderness and -beauty. - -With all this ideality, this calm enthusiasm, this love for his fellow -men, this freshness and delicacy, Lowell would be entitled to rank -already among the first poets of the country, if it were not for an -occasional affectation, and a comparative want of artistical knowledge. -His affectation is the result of his extravagant fondness for Spencer, -and partakes, in a great measure, of the peculiarities of that fine -poet. The most usual forms in which this affectation developes itself in -Lowell, is in a tendency to push his metaphors to the verge of allegory, -and in a quaintness that is as much out of place as a tie-wig on a beau -of the present generation. The want of artistical knowledge is only -comparative, for Lowell understands the rules of his art better than -nine-tenths of the craft. Indeed we question whether the slovenliness of -many of his poems, does not arise from carelessness as much as from -ignorance. The writings of few men betray such rapidity of composition, -evincing clearly to our mind, that the thoughts of the poet are thrown -upon the paper as fast as they bubble up from his heart. Lowell seems to -scorn revision. He strikes off his poems at a white heat, disdaining to -polish the steel when it has grown cool. Such neglect always leads to -the disbelief in an author’s artistical skill. The public will never -give him the credit of being a good workman, while he shows so great an -indifference to the finish of his wares. - -This carelessness is not only evinced in an occasional false measure, -but in other ways more detrimental. One of the slovenly habits of our -poet, is in the use of the accent to lengthen a short syllable. We -constantly meet with such words as “poisèd” “inspirèd,” and others of -like false quantity. Against such liberties we protest. It is no -argument to tell us that other poets have been guilty of the practice. -Twenty wrongs do not constitute a right, nor will volumes of false -quantity make a poem. An author is to take the language as he finds it -and evince his skill by adapting it to his purpose. If every writer is -allowed to beat a short syllable into a long one, there will soon be as -many varieties of accent in our language, as there are gods in the -Chinese theology. If words may be twisted as we please there will be no -end to the fools who write poems. It is time that men stood up for the -purity of our tongue. The affectations of Hunt, Lamb, and Hazlit, might -have been forgiven: but the barbarous jargon of Carlyle deserves to be -damned in the first act. There is a saint in the Brahmin calendar whom a -legion of devils has been tormenting for a thousand years; and the good -old manly English tongue seems to be in much the same predicament. Every -lustrum or two a new onset is made at its purity. Each successive -generation witnesses a mania for some foreign, illegitimate, unholy -alliance. The rage in the days of Pope was for the French school, in the -days of Johnson for the Latin school, and just now it is for the German -school. If we live many years longer we shall expect to see men -affecting the negro jargon from Coromantee. - -The false accentuation of his words is not the only sin of Lowell -against the purity of our tongue. His poems are disfigured, on almost -every page, by the use of compound words, which he seems to fabricate, -like an editor makes news, to fill out. We have “dreamy-winged,” -“long-agone,” “grass-hid,” “spring-gladsome,” “moss-rimmed,” -“study-withered,” “over-live,” “maiden-wise,” “rosy-white,” -“full-sailed,” “deep-glowing,” “earth-forgetting,” “down-gushing,” -“cross-folded,” and a host of like mongrel expressions, which no pure -writer would use, and for which not even the genius of Lowell can obtain -currency. The only redeeming feature in his case is that his later poems -evince a decided improvement in this respect. They betray comparatively -little of this carelessness. They show a wider command of words, a more -sonorous and elevated verse. They are less disfigured by affectations -from Spencer and others of the quaint old writers. They begin to be -worthy of the genius of Lowell. - -We have attributed these faults to carelessness; but they may be the -result of affectation. Much of the unique appearance of the poetry of -Lowell, is to be assigned unquestionably to these very things which we -have denounced as errors. But if intentional the faults are only the -more reprehensible. It is a very different thing whether a man commits a -murder ignorantly or with malice aforethought. If the first he may be -pardoned; if the second he should be hanged. - -The earlier poems of Lowell are apt to be as much overrated by one set -of readers, as they are to be depreciated by another set. The use of -obsolete words, of arbitrary accents, of metaphors that verge on -allegory, commend these poems to a certain school which seems to caress -quaintness with the infatuation of Queen Titania in kissing the long -ears of Bottom. But there is another school, which, possessing an honest -contempt for any thing like affectation, is in danger of transferring -its dislike from the errors to the author himself—of questioning his -genius because of the faults of his style. We condemn each of these -schools—both that which exaggerates and that which depreciates the -poet. Lowell has many of the elements of a great poet inherent in his -nature; while his faults are manifestly acquired, and can be corrected. -His ideality, his enthusiasm, his nobility of sentiment, would enable -him to produce even a great poem, if to these were added the capacity to -grasp a series of incidents in one vast comprehensive whole. This -capacity, or at least the elements of it, we believe him to possess, and -if he adheres to a rigid course of study, and awaits the mature -development of his powers, he will be enabled to prove this to the -world. By that time his taste will be ameliorated and his artistical -skill improved. He now writes rather as his feelings dictate than after -any sustained plan. We must be understood however, as using this -language only comparatively; for as we have before said, Lowell is -already equal in these respects to most of his cotemporaries. But there -is an empyrean to which none of them have yet attained. To that region -of eternal day we would have our young countryman aspire. - -We have spoken with frankness, because we love with discretion. The -genius of Lowell is surpassed by no cotemporary and he has only to be -known in order to be understood; but his countrymen have a right to -interpose and save him from the errors into which a false taste, a -pedantic clique, or indiscriminate flattery may plunge him. He cannot -wholly resist the peculiarities of the approaching school, but there is -no reason why he should not soften their errors and elevate their style. -He can display the taste of Coleridge without his absurdities, he can be -as intellectual as Shelley without his mysticism, he can emulate the -ideality of Tennyson and Keats without the affectation of the one, or -the redundancy of the other. He has high genius, susceptible of -improvement, but capable of perversion. He is in that critical period of -a poet’s life when the intoxication of success may lead to idleness, -when the misguided silence of his friends may confirm him in his worst -faults. The improvement which his later poems evince, fill us with high -hopes for the future; but his task is not yet done, as his powers are -still in the process of development. If we were his bosom friend we -should speak as we have written, using that noble sentence as our -apology, “strike, but hear me.” - -We look forward to the future career of Lowell, with hope, not -unmingled, however, with fear and trembling. To his hands, we fondly -trust, has been committed the task of achieving a great original -American poem, a work that shall silence the sneers of foreigners, and -write his own name amid the stars of heaven. He has the dormant -intellect which if rightly disciplined, will enable him to fulfil this -mission. But let him bide his time. Let him husband his powers, and yet -not let them rust in idleness; but gird up his loins for the work that -is before him, so that when the day of his translation shall arrive he -may lift up his eyes for the chariot of fire. If he does his mission -aright the hour of his rejoicing will surely come. No power will be able -to avert it. Against the revilings of the envious, against the sneers of -the unbelieving, against the persecution of hostile powers he can bear -himself proudly up, for the sight of the fiery chariot will swim before -his eyes and the sounds of celestial harmonies entrance his soul. - -We take leave of Lowell with a single word. He must not be discouraged -if his genius should at first be questioned. Few prophets have honor in -their own country. - - C. - ------ - -[1] “A Year’s Life”—by James Russell Lowell; 1 vol. C. C. Little & J. -Brown, Boston: 1841. - - * * * * * - - - - - LIFE IN DEATH. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - - Egli è _vivo_ e parlerebbe se non osservasse la rigola del silentio. - _Inscription beneath an Italian picture of St. Bruno._ - -My fever had been excessive and of long duration. All the remedies -attainable in this wild Appennine region had been exhausted to no -purpose. My valet and sole attendant in the lonely chateau, was too -nervous and too grossly unskilful to venture upon letting blood—of -which indeed I had already lost too much in the affray with the -banditti. Neither could I safely permit him to leave me in search of -assistance. At length I bethought me of a little pacquet of opium which -lay with my tobacco in the hookah-case; for at Constantinople I had -acquired the habit of smoking the weed with the drug. Pedro handed me -the case. I sought and found the narcotic. But when about to cut off a -portion I felt the necessity of hesitation. In smoking it was a matter -of little importance _how much_ was employed. Usually, I had half filled -the bowl of the hookah with opium and tobacco cut and mingled -intimately, half and half. Sometimes when I had used the whole of this -mixture I experienced no very peculiar effects; at other times I would -not have smoked the pipe more than two-thirds out, when symptoms of -mental derangement, which were even alarming, warned me to desist. But -the effect proceeded with an easy gradation which deprived the -indulgence of all danger. Here, however, the case was different. I had -never _swallowed_ opium before. Laudanum and morphine I had occasionally -used, and about _them_ should have had no reason to hesitate. But the -solid drug I had never seen employed. Pedro knew no more respecting the -proper quantity to be taken, than myself—and thus, in the sad -emergency, I was left altogether to conjecture. Still I felt no especial -uneasiness; for I resolved to proceed _by degrees_. I would take a -_very_ small dose in the first instance. Should this prove impotent, I -would repeat it; and so on, until I should find an abatement of the -fever, or obtain that sleep which was so pressingly requisite, and with -which my reeling senses had not been blessed for now more than a week. -No doubt it was this very reeling of my senses—it was the dull delirium -which already oppressed me—that prevented me from perceiving the -incoherence of my reason—which blinded me to the folly of defining any -thing as either large or small where I had no preconceived standard of -comparison. I had not, at the moment, the faintest idea that what I -conceived to be an exceedingly small dose of solid opium might, in fact, -be an excessively large one. On the contrary I well remember that I -judged confidently of the quantity to be taken by reference to the -entire quantity of the lump in possession. The portion which, in -conclusion, I swallowed, and swallowed without fear, was no doubt a very -small proportion _of the piece which I held in my hand_. - -The chateau into which Pedro had ventured to make forcible entrance -rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a -night in the open air, was one of those fantastic piles of commingled -gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines, not -less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it -had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. Day by day we expected -the return of the family who tenanted it, when the misadventure which -had befallen me would, no doubt, be received as sufficient apology for -the intrusion. Meantime, that this intrusion might be taken in better -part, we had established ourselves in one of the smallest and least -sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay high in a remote turret of the -building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls -were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform -armorial trophies, together with an unusually great number of very -spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these -paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main -surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the -chateau rendered necessary—in these paintings my incipient delirium, -perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that having swallowed -the opium, as before told, I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of -the room—since it was already night—to light the tongues of a tall -candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed—and to throw open far and -wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed -itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to -sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures, and -the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and -which purported to criticise and describe them. - -Long—long I read—and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. I felt meantime, the -voluptuous narcotic stealing its way to my brain. I felt that in its -magical influence lay much of the gorgeous richness and variety of the -frames—much of the ethereal hue that gleamed from the canvas—and much -of the wild interest of the book which I perused. Yet this consciousness -rather strengthened than impaired the delight of the illusion, while it -weakened the illusion itself. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by, -and the deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased -me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my -slumbering valet, I so placed it as to throw its rays more fully upon -the book. - -But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of -the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of -the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the -bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It -was the portrait of a young girl just ripened into womanhood. I glanced -at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was -not at first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids -remained thus shut, I ran over in mind my reason for so shutting them. -It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought—to make sure that -my vision had not deceived me—to calm and subdue my fancy for a more -sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again looked -fixedly at the painting. - -That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first -flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the -dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me into -waking life as if with the shock of a galvanic battery. - -The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a -mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a _vignette_ -manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the -bosom and even the ends of the radiant hair, melted imperceptibly into -the vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole. The -frame was oval, richly, yet fantastically gilded and filagreed. As a -work of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. -The loveliness of the face surpassed that of the fabulous Houri. But it -could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal -beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved -me. Least of all could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its -half-slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw -at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the _vignetting_ and of -the frame must have instantly dispelled such idea—must have prevented -even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, -I remained, for some hours perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with -my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied of the true -secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell -of the picture in a perfect _life-likeliness_ of expression, which at -first startling, finally confounded, subdued and appalled me. I could no -longer support the sad meaning smile of the half-parted lips, nor the -too real lustre of the wild eye. With a deep and reverent awe I replaced -the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep agitation -being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed -the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which -designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words -which follow: - -“She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of -glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the -painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride -in his Art: she a maiden of rarest beauty and not more lovely than full -of glee: all light and smiles and frolicksome as the young fawn: loving -and cherishing all things: hating only the Art which was her rival: -dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments -which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a -terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to -portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient and sat -meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret-chamber where the light -dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, -took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour and from day to -day. And he was a passionate, and wild and moody man, who became lost in -reveries; so that he _would_ not see that the light which fell so -ghastily in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his -bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, -uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter, (who had high -renown,) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day -and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more -dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of -its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel and a proof not less -of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he -depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer -to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the -painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his visage -from the canvas rarely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And -he _would_ not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were -drawn from the cheeks of her who sate beside him. And when many weeks -had passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth -and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as -the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, -and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood -entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while -yet he gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying -with a loud voice ‘This is indeed _Life_ itself!’ turned himself -suddenly round to his beloved—_who was dead_. The painter then -added—‘But is this indeed Death?’” - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MINER’S FATE. - - - FROM THE PORT-FOLIO OF A RAMBLING ARTIST. - - -A bright fresh May morning smiled upon one of the loveliest landscapes -in nature, and revealed to the eye of a wandering young artist a picture -of such exceeding beauty, that he found it impossible to confine his -attention to his canvas sufficiently long to produce the faintest -semblance of the loveliness which reigned and revelled around him. - -“What a grand effect is produced on that magnificent amphitheatre of -hills by the sunrise purpling their rising mist as it ascends and -imperceptibly mingles with the rose-colored clouds—while its base is -wrapped in the cold blue tint which the stronger rays of the sun will -presently disperse. If I could catch the hue of that many-tinted mist, -and throw over it the soft dreamy haze which clothes the atmosphere, I -should more than rival the mighty master, Claude Lorraine—one more -trial; such a scene must inspire the humblest artist.” - -He re-arranged a small easel as he spoke, and proceeded to cover his -pallet with the choicest and most exquisite colors; but the glories of -_outre mêr_ and carmine seemed so pale and faded before the -inexpressible radiance of earth and ether, that long before he had -finished laying on the dead coloring of his picture, he threw it aside -in despair. - -“I must complete it,” he said, “at some other time when the majesty of -nature may not mock my humble efforts.” He then arose, and re-packing -his paint-box, deposited it safely among the mossy rocks, and sauntered -slowly onward, to enjoy at least, if he could not imitate, the -enchantments of nature. And truly he might well give up his heart to the -passionate love of beauty which pervaded it; for the loveliness of that -quiet valley was well calculated to gratify the intense desires of a -mind thirsting for images of perfection. Not only did the mountain tops -and mist gleam with the golden sunlight, but every flower at his feet, -every blade of grass displayed each its wealth of gem-like dew -glittering with unrivalled colors. - - “The plumed insects swift and free, - Like golden boats on a sunny sea,” - -filled the scented air, and shed their “music of many murmurings” upon -his path; and he was inclined to fancy that no new feature could add -beauty to the landscape around, when a sudden turn in the winding path -convinced him of his error. - -He had turned his back on the semi-circular range of hills, and emerged -into a tract of country much more extensive, though still very broken. -Huge masses of rock salt, covered with crystals whose prismatic forms -lent them a startling brilliancy, gleamed upon his sight, and the green -sweep of land between was diversified by many small cottages built of -the gray rock which abounded throughout the country. The narrow path -bordered with vines and wild roses lured him on, until the sweet accents -of a female voice broke upon his ear, and he found that his path would -lead him to trespass upon the enclosure of a cottage which appeared to -be one of the neatest and best arranged among them. The painter paused, -and his eye, (that morning destined to agreeable surprises,) readily -discovered a group without the door, which immediately called out his -pencil and pocket port-folio. A very bright-eyed child had thrown his -chubby little arms around his father’s neck, and seemed resolved upon -detaining him from his day’s labor; while the young wife, with eyes and -lips scarcely less bright than those of the child, vainly endeavored to -attract the infant with the most enticing toys. At length the father -succeeded in unclasping the dimpled hands, and placing the baby on the -floor; but the child still endeavored to detain him by holding the -skirts of his coat. - -“Philip seems determined that you shall not go to-day,” said the young -woman; “perhaps there is a meaning in his warning.” - -“If I listened to all your signs and warnings, I should very seldom -leave you,” replied the husband. “I must go and that quickly, in spite -of my persevering little pet.” - -“But you will come back very soon?” - -“I cannot even promise that,” replied the miner; for the husband was a -laborer in the extensive salt mines, whose crystallizations produce so -beautiful an effect in the distance. “We have a tremendous piece of work -before us to-day, and there is no telling when it will be finished.” - -“Would to God it were safely over.” - -“Don’t look so pale and frightened, Mary; worse jobs are done every -day—but they will call me sluggard if I loiter here—so good-bye, -good-bye, darlings.” - -“Heaven preserve you,” responded the wife; and she turned with feelings -half of dread and half of hope to the cottage door. - -“Just such a morning,” muttered an old woman who sat crouching in the -chimney corner—“just such a morning, bright as this,—and a black night -followed the bright day—a black, black night.” - -“Now the saints save us!” exclaimed the young woman: “who ever heard -Dame Ursula talking away at such a rate before? As sure as fate -something unusual will happen. What is it you were saying grand-dame?” -she added in a louder tone, approaching the thin, withered old hag who -had crept slowly toward the door-step, and seating herself there, -continued to mutter and mumble half indistinct words. - -“Storms follow the sunshine—storms and tempests and thick darkness.” - -The anxious wife followed and sat down beside her. - -“Is there any evil hanging over us? for mercy sake tell me if you know,” -she asked. - -“Evil, did I say Evil! I spoke of the past, not the future—I spoke of -the days of youth and hope and beauty.” Then as her wandering memory -gradually linked together the chain of by-gone associations, her -countenance brightened, and she poured into the ear of her astonished -auditor the narrative of events which had taken place nearly a century -before, and were generally forgotten,—treasured only in the heart of -that desolate, and decrepid old creature. - -“Youth and beauty, and love I said, and you marvelled at hearing such -words from my lips; no wonder, for many a year has passed since these -things have been aught to me save idle dreams. But the time has been, -when I too was young—loving and loved—blessing and blessed. My -brother, your grandfather, and myself were left, you know, in early life -as orphans in the hands of strangers; and although we had no claim on -them except that of helplessness, and could only repay their kindness by -our exertions, we had no reason ever to complain of harshness or -ill-treatment among our kind and simple people. I was older than my -brother, and as I grew up to be a tall handsome lass, the young men of -the village strove which could make themselves most agreeable to the -light hearted and beautiful Ursula. I know it is folly in me to talk so -now, and you can scarcely believe it, but eighty years hence, if you -should live so long, your cheek may be wrinkled and your eye bleared -like mine, so that your laughing boy will scarcely credit the tale of -your former beauty.” - -“Heaven forbid.” - -“And if not,” resumed the crone, “the change may be far more -fearful—but where was I? Oh—a merry romping lass of eighteen, with -blue eyes, fair curling locks and red ripe lips—admired by all the -village—but above all the favored choice of young Albert Wessenbery. -The handsomest, bravest, noblest being! I wish you could have seen him, -Mary, in all his pride of vast strength, and perfection of manly beauty. -Words cannot express the love with which I loved him. A lifelong -loneliness has proved it. Well, as I told you, I was his choice, and -consequently the envy of all my acquaintances, for no one thought of -denying that Albert Wessenbery was the pride of the village. So -powerful, so stately, so devoted to me,—well, well! our wedding day was -fixed, and the bridesmaids appointed. A week before—yes, just seven -days before our wedding was to have taken place, I bade farewell to -Albert for a day only, I believed. Just such a day as this, it was—and -perhaps that is the reason why the soft clear sunshine, and the sweet -sounds in the air have called up all these old memories so freshly. He -pressed me in his arms and bade me farewell till evening. I dreaded his -going out to work that day, for there was dangerous duty to be done; but -he went in spite of my entreaties, and from that hour to this, I have -never seen him return. I remember but dimly what followed. A stunning -shock as if an avalanche had overwhelmed me. Death to him was worse than -death to me. They told me he had perished in the mine. I know not -whether they spoke truly. I have known nothing clearly since that time. -I remember only that the light was removed from my path, and that the -blackness of madness gathered round me for a while. How long this lasted -I know not—when I arose from my bed of sickness, my heart and my flesh -failed me, and I was as useless and decrepid as if years had passed over -my head. Since that time I have struggled on through a long life of -darkness and misery, dragging on a useless and tedious existence.” - -“Oh say not useless my good friend; have you not while you had strength, -given to others the happiness which fate denied you?” - -“My brother gave me a home in his chimney corner, and here have I lived -more years than I can count, and for what? God knows—perhaps I may yet -live to see Albert return. I cannot fancy him altered as I am. I cannot -help hoping to see him once more as he was of old. Vain as the hope may -seem to you—that hope has been the only happiness I have known since he -left me—the only hope. Of what other use am I in the world? why should -I live? what other use? what other hope?” So speaking and shaking her -palsied head, she relapsed into her former half unconscious state, -occasionally muttering words to which her young companion listened with -strained attention; but she could hear no more, neither did she succeed -in again arousing the old woman from her apathy. - -The Artist sauntered idly onward until he reached the mines; here -finding that the reflection of the noon-tide brilliancy from the -crystals was painful to the eyesight, he descended into one of the -deepest excavations, where he found his acquaintance of the morning, and -a fellow labourer at work. The day’s work was a heavy one, for they were -opening a communication between the mines, and in heaving up the massive -rocks there was great danger of being buried alive beneath their -crumbling weight. Such things had often happened. - -“Here is a mass which requires more strength than we can furnish,” said -Philip, and he shouted for help. The desired assistance arrived, and -after an hour’s severe labor, the huge rock was heaved upwards. This -removal disclosed a solid stratum of the salt for which they were -toiling; but the attainment of the object of their labor called forth no -expression of pleasure from the beholders, for the attention of every -one was riveted upon a strange and unlooked for apparition. Extended -upon this singular couch, lay the form of a young man, apparently not -more than twenty years of age; his limbs were exquisitely moulded, and -he looked as if but yesterday he had been hushed in the deep sleep of -death. It was evident to the minds of all, that many years must have -elapsed since the being they had thus disinterred, had been overwhelmed -with destruction in attempting to move that massive weight; for many -years had passed since that portion of the mine had been worked upon. -But was his destruction instantaneous? or did he linger on, day after -day, in vain hope for the help which came not? how long had that -crystalized rock been his mausoleum? who was he? where were his kindred? -Here was a wide field for conjecture. Could no one remember that form -which might have passed for a sculptured image of Antinous? But stranger -than all this, the body seemed utterly untouched by the hand of time. -The very pliability of the flesh remained! Destruction had passed -harmlessly by that glorious form, and decomposition had not come near -it. There he lay—he, whose existence none could remember—life-like, -and beautiful—embalmed as it were in the solid rock. The sinewy, and -rounded limbs told of the strength and beauty which had once been -theirs, and the long black hair curled wildly over the clay cold face, -and nerveless shoulders. He was in his ordinary mining dress, and by his -spade and pickaxe beside him, gave evidence of his final and fatal -occupation. The body was removed, and laid upon the thick green sward -for further inspection, and perhaps recognition. The news spread -rapidly, and the inhabitants quickly crowded around. None recollected -him, although some of the oldest among them told stories of such an -accident which had happened when they were little children; but none -could remember the circumstances. After awhile a universal murmur broke -from the crowd, for they beheld their oldest villager, Dame Ursula, -approach with tottering and unsteady steps, leaning on the arm of a -handsome young female. Not the exhumation of the life-like corpse -itself, produced greater sensation among them, than the appearance of -the living spectre—for such the old woman appeared, having never left -her home for more than twenty years. - -“Jesu, Maria—the Saints save us,” were echoed around her as the crowd -respectfully made room for her to advance. She passed on slowly, and -with difficulty, until she reached the stiff white figure of the dead -miner. Then throwing herself upon the grass beside him, she passed her -withered long fingers through his hair, and pressed it back from the -pale brow. - -“It is he, it is he—Albert Wessenbery,” she murmured; “and it was for -this I have been spared through long years of loneliness, and -wretchedness—long, long years—I knew not why I lived. It was for this, -for this: that I might see him once more, once more in all his unearthly -beauty, in his unmatched perfection: that I might see, and know that -time has not marred, nor decay changed, nor the worm defiled the being I -have idolized for nearly a century. Spared too to rejoice that my own -Albert cannot behold the change which time, and life have wrought in a -form he once loved so well. To him these withered arms and lips are -welcome as if they yet retained all their former loveliness. He will not -reject his early love for her age, and sickness, and unsightlessness. To -him therefore I devote the remainder of my existence. Here will I fulfil -the vows of love and constancy plighted in the spring time of life.” - -She bent her head as she spoke and imprinted with bloodless lips a kiss -upon his; her white hair streamed down, and mingled with his raven -tresses, her long skinny fingers warm with life, pressed the cold marble -hand of the dead! Strange union of youth and age—beauty and -deformity—life and death! Seven days afterwards they were buried in the -same grave, the superannuated woman, and her youthful lover. The -constancy of a lifetime was rewarded, for she was permitted to rest her -aged and hoary head, upon the manly, and unaltered breast of him she had -loved so long and so well. Turf and flowers sprung up as greenly and -freely above their grave as if they had been always young, and -beautiful, and happy. Many a garland of young flowers, and the more -lasting wreaths of the amaranth were hung upon that grave; and the names -of Ursula and Albert, rudely sculptured on the grey stone which covered -them, formed their only obituary, save the memory which survives in the -hearts of the villagers. - - * * * * * - - - - - BIRTH OF FREEDOM. - - - BY WM. WALLACE, AUTHOR OF “JERUSALEM,” “STAR LYRA,” ETC. - - - Yes, Freedom! Tyrants date thy splendid birth - With those uprisings in the bloody Past, - When all the lion-hearted of the earth - Unfurl’d their rebel-banners to the blast, - And from their limbs the dungeon-fetter cast; - But thou, Oh, idol of the brave! was’t born, - In full-grown majesty, upon that morn - When all the stars together sang, and forms - Of wondrous beauty, suns of dazzling light - Flamed from the bosom of those primal storms - Which lashed the rivers of chaotic night: - And some would drive thee from our gloomy sod; - Vainly they war with such blasphemous might; - Thy birth-place, Freedom! was the heart of God. - - * * * * * - - - - - RECOLLECTIONS OF WEST POINT. - - - BY MISS LESLIE. - - - PART THE FIRST. - -Among the numerous strangers that stop at West Point, in ascending or in -coming down the Hudson, there are comparatively few who allow themselves -sufficient time to become acquainted with even the half that is worthy -of note, in that extraordinary place—giving but one day, or perhaps -only a few hours, to a visit which ought at least to comprise a whole -week. A large proportion of these travellers, after they have hurried -through the rooms of the academy, walked round the camp, witnessed the -parade, heard the band, or perhaps accomplished a hasty survey of the -ruins of Fort Putnam, seem to believe that they are consequently -familiar with all that both nature and art have done for one of the most -beautiful and interesting spots on the American continent. - -And beautiful indeed it is, from its romantic situation in the midst of -the highlands, looking directly down on one of the finest rivers in the -world—and from its picturesque combinations of mountain, valley and -plain; woodland, rock, and water—scenery to which no painter has ever -yet done justice. And how intensely interesting are its associations -with the history of our revolutionary contest—when West Point commanded -the passes of the highlands—at once opposing a barrier to the descent -of the enemy from the lake country and to their ascent from the ocean. -Also amid these hills lay the army of Washington, at the time it was so -providentially saved by the discovery of Arnold’s treason. - -And now, “when the storm of war is gone,” and the Gibraltar of America -finds no farther occasion for its mountain fortresses, it has become the -nucleus from whence the military science of our country radiates to its -utmost boundaries; the nursery of a body of officers whose cultivated -minds, polished manners, and high tone of moral feeling, have rendered -them deservedly popular with their compatriots—also eliciting a -favourable testimony even from the British tourists. - -It is a common and, in most instances, a true remark, that first -impressions are lasting: at least with regard to external objects. My -own first impressions of West Point were received on a lovely summer -evening that succeeded a stormy day. I had left the city of New York -with my brother, at nine o’clock in the morning, in the slow and -unpopular Richmond; the only boat that went up the river on that day, -and the worst of the three steam-vessels which at that time comprised -the establishment of what is now termed the old North River Company. - -I need not say that it was during the period of the charter they had -obtained for the exclusive steam-navigation of the Hudson. In those -days, a voyage from New York to Albany frequently consumed twenty-four -hours, and the fare was ten dollars. - -I had anticipated the most extatic delight from my first view of the -grand and romantic scenery of this noble river. But very soon after we -left the city a heavy rain came on, and seemed to have set in for the -whole day. I had recently recovered from a long illness, and could not -venture to remain on the wet deck, even under the screen of an umbrella. -The canvass awning was so perforated with holes from the chimney-sparks, -that it afforded about as much shelter as a large sieve. There was no -upper cabin, and I reluctantly compelled myself to quit admiring the -Palisade Rocks and descend to the apartment appropriated to the ladies. -It was very crowded and perfectly close. The berths were all occupied by -females lying down in their clothes, and trying to sleep away the -tedious hours. The numerous children were uncomfortable, fretful, and -troublesome, as most children are when they are “cabin’d, crib’d, -confin’d.” Seats were so scarce (when were they otherwise in a summer -steam-boat) that many of us were glad to place ourselves on the wooden -edges of the lower berths. In this extreme I could not agree with the -old adage that “it is as cheap sitting as standing:” for if cheapness -means convenience or agreeableness, as is generally supposed, I found it -quite as convenient, and rather more agreeable, to stand leaning against -something, than to sit on the perpendicular edge of a board. We had not -even the pleasure of regaling our eyes with the handsome fittings-up -that now when there is no monopoly and great rivalry, are deemed -indispensable to the reputation of an American steam-boat. The old -Richmond was furnished very plainly, alias meanly. Her cabins had common -ingrain carpets of the ugliest possible patterns, pine tables painted -red, and curtains of coarse dark calico. By the by, reader, never go to -a boarding-house that professes a _plain_ table; you will be almost sure -to find it a mean one. Also, never engage a _plain_ cook—you will be -almost sure to find her no cook at all. - -We were nearly all day in the boat, and it rained incessantly. It was -very tantalizing on this, my first voyage up the Hudson, to obtain only -an occasional glimpse of its beautiful shores through the small cabin -windows, which windows were always monopolized by nurse-maids, seated on -the transom with their babies; the babies taking no interest in the -scenery, and their nurses still less. - -When we came into the highlands, the storm had increased, and my first -view of them was caught by ever-interrupted glances through a few inches -of window-pane, and by peeping over the head of a girl whose eyes were -all the time wandering among the people in the interior of the cabin. -These sublime mountains loomed green and dimly through the rain-mist -that veiled their rocky sides, and their towering heads were lost in the -volumes of fantastic clouds that rolled around them. But it proved what -is called the clearing up shower; and just as we were rounding that low -projection of bare rock that runs far out into the river, and forms the -extreme point of West Point, the clouds began to part in the zenith, and -the blue sky appeared between them, and the sun suddenly broke out -lighting up the western sides of the hills and pouring his full -effulgence on the river. We landed just as the evening parade was about -to commence, and I saw it from the front windows of an apartment that -commanded a full view. It was a beautiful scene; on this spacious and -level plain, elevated about a hundred and sixty feet above the river, -which bounds it on the north and east, while on the south and west it is -hemmed in by the mountains that rise directly from it. The numerous -windows of the barracks were sparkling and burnishing in the setting sun -that was beaming out below the retiring clouds, throwing a rosy tint on -the white tents of the camp, and glittering on the bayonets of the long -line of cadets drawn up for the exercise that, at a military post always -concludes the day. The band was playing delightfully, and the effect of -the whole was very striking at the moment when the drums rolled, the -evening gun went off, the flag came down, and the officers all drew -their swords and advanced to the front. - -Many circumstances contributed to render my first visit to West Point -peculiarly pleasant. I had never in my life spent three weeks so -agreeably. Subsequently, I resided there nearly two years in the family -of my brother. I have enjoyed the grand and lovely scenery of West Point -under all the various aspects of the seasons. I have been there when the -late, but rapid spring, with its balmy breathings, and its soft -sun-light, suddenly awakens the long-slumbering vegetation of these high -and northerly regions, when you can almost _see_ the forming of the buds -and their bursting into leaf; while patches of the last snow yet linger -here and there about the cavities of the rocks, and in the hollows that -lie among the roots of the trees, “on their cold and winter-shaded -side.” At the same time, in the warmer recesses of the forests, the -early flowers of the hepatica and the violet are finding their way up -amid the dead leaves which the wild blasts of November have strewed -thickly over the ground. - -These mountains are wooded from the base to the summit, (except where a -block of granite looks out from amid the trees,) and in the month of May -they are variegated with all those countless and exquisite shades of -green, that can only emanate from the hand of that Great Painter that -colored the Universe. While some of these inimitable tints are dark -almost to blackness, and some are of the richest olive, others present -in endless variety, the numerous gradations of deep-green, blue-green, -grass-green, apple-green, pea-green, and yellow-green; the catalpa and -the locust, with their clusters of pencilled blossoms, and the dogwood -with its milk-white flowers, supplying the bright lights of the picture. -Then, in looking up the river, the long perspective is closed at the -utmost verge of the horizon by the far-off Taghcanoke mountains: the -snows that still rest on their cold and lonely summits extending in -streaks of whiteness half-way down their dim blue sides. - -To a stranger at West Point the commencement of a summer’s day has many -circumstances of novelty and excitement that are almost lost upon those -to whom custom has rendered them familiar. With the earliest blush of -dawn, and at the third tap of the drum, the morning gun goes off, and -when the wind is in a certain direction, I have heard its loud booming -sound five times repeated by the mountain echoes, “fainter and fainter -still”—but always distinctly audible. At the same moment the flag is -run up, and flings out to the early breeze its waving folds of stars and -stripes denoting that the place is United States’ ground, a military -post, and under martial law. These ceremonies are immediately succeeded -by the drums and fifes commencing the delightful réveillée, clear, sweet -and exhilarating—the first notes of which seem so distinctly to express -the words, - - “The lark is up, the morn is gay, - The drums now beat the réveillée.” - -followed by a medley of popular airs, each one concluding like a rondo, -with—“The lark is up,” &c. - -It is beautiful on a soft summer morning to look out upon these -forest-cinctured mountains, when there has been a rain during the night, -and to see the misty clouds veiling their summits and rolling off from -their sides; breaking, as the sun ascends, into thin white wreaths that -creep slowly about the glens, and gradually losing all distinctness of -form and blending with the blue of ether. More beautiful still is the -broad expanse of the Hudson, glittering with the golden sun-light, and -reflecting the clear cerulean of the sky; while the white-sailed sloops -seem to slumber on the calm surface of the water, as each “floats -double, _sloop_ and shadow,” and near the shore the dark mountains and -the rocky precipices cast their deep masses of shade upon the liquid -mirror below. - -I was once at West Point when the dawn of our national anniversary was -ushered in by the roar of artillery from amid the ruins of Fort Putnam, -the guns having been previously conveyed up the mountain for that -purpose. There is a history belonging to these guns. They were -originally French; and are engraved with the name of the foundry at -which they were cast; bearing also the three _fleur de lis_ of the -_ancien regime_, the cypher of Louis the Fourteenth, (who at that time, -filled the throne of France) and the celebrated motto which he ordered -to be inscribed on all his cannon—“_Ultimo ratio regum._” The guns in -question were sent to Quebec, and were taken by the English on the -heights of Abraham, in that eventful battle, when both commanders fell -in the same hour that transferred the dominion of Canada from France to -England. Belonging afterwards to the army of Burgoyne, they became the -property of America on the surrender at Saratoga, and finally were -presented by Congress to the Military Academy. At the cadets annual ball -I have seen these guns decorated with wreaths of laurel, and arranged as -ornaments along a covered promenade, lighted up with lamps in front of -the ball-room. - -To the dwellers on the plain below, the effect on the aforesaid fourth -of July was indescribably fine; the guns thundering and echoing in a -region so far above us, their gleams of fire flashing out amid the -clouds of white smoke that rolled their eddying volumes round the old -dismantled ramparts. The salute was followed by a full burst of martial -harmony from the band, who had also gone up into the ruins; all playing -so admirably and in such perfect unison, that the whole of their various -instruments sounded like one alone—but like one whose grand and -exquisite tones seemed scarcely to belong to earth. The band had their -fourth of July dinner within the dilapidated recesses of the moss-grown -fortress, and frequently during the day, we heard their music. Sometimes -the soft sweet warblings of the octave flute rose alone upon the air; -then the clear melodious tones of Willis’s bugle seemed to “lap the soul -in Elysium;” then came the clarionets deepened by the trombone; and -finally the loud and thrilling notes of the bass-drum struck grandly in, -and swelled the full tide of sound till the rocks seemed to tremble with -its reverberations. Music, like painting, has its lights and shadows. - -Nothing can be more lovely than the scenery about West Point when -lighted up by the beams of the summer moon. While there, I was once on a -water party, in a delightful evening towards the close of the “leafy -month of June.” The gentlemen attached to the military academy had made -arrangements for taking the ladies on a moonlight voyage through the -highlands, in the boats belonging to the post. Of these boats I think -there were eight. The first and largest was appropriated to the band—in -the others followed the professors connected with the institution, the -officers, and the ladies—with soldiers as oarsmen. We were rowed to the -upper extremity of the highlands, beyond Butter Hill which, -notwithstanding its homely name, is a magnificent mountain with a -gradual slope on the land-side, but presenting to the water a -perpendicular precipice in height sixteen hundred feet. In the clefts of -this lofty rock tradition has asserted that the pirate Blackbeard -deposited portions of his treasure more than a century ago. It is not -many years since a gentleman who believed the story, was killed by -losing his hold, and falling down backwards upon the stones below, in a -desperate attempt to scale the precipice in quest of the rover’s gold. - -As we embarked on our aquatic excursion “the moon arose curtained in -clouds which her beams gradually dispelled.” When she climbed above -them, as they “turned forth their silver linings to the night,” and her -rays touched the top of the eastern hills, while their dark sides -reposed in shadow, I thought of a song in the Carnival of Venice. - - “And while the moon shines on the stream, - And while soft music breathes around, - The feathering oar returns the gleam - And dips in concert to the sound.” - -Having ascended beyond the inner highlands, our boats were put about. -The men resting on their oars we floated down with the tide nearly as -far as the Dunderberg, and never did this picturesque and romantic -region look more lovely. - -In the course of our little voyage several steam-boats passed us: and -all of them slackened their steam awhile, for the purpose of remaining -longer in our vicinity that the passengers might enjoy the music. One of -these boats, in stopping to hear us, lay directly on the broad line of -moonlight that was dancing and glittering on the water, the red glare of -her lanterns strangely mingling with the golden radiance beneath. Our -band was just then playing the Hunter’s Chorus, that ever-charming -composition which justly merits its universal popularity in every part -of the world where music is known, and which would alone have been -sufficient to entitle Weber to his tomb in Westminster Abbey. - -Nothing can be finer than the atmospheric phenomena of these elevated -regions. I remember one afternoon, when the sun was breaking out on the -close of a summer shower, we seemed to find ourselves in the midst of an -immense rain-bow which appeared to have descended upon the plain. The -camp, the south barracks, the trees, and the eastern hills beyond the -river were all brightly colored with its varied and beautiful tints, and -looked as if seen through an immense prism. - -A thunder storm in these mountains is sublime beyond all that -imagination can conceive. In looking up the river, while the sun is yet -shining brightly, and the sky is blue above our heads, we see a dark -cloud far off in the direction of Newburgh, whose white houses stand out -in strong relief against the deep gloom that has gathered beyond; the -coming vapor rises and spreads till it appears behind the Crow’s Nest, -casting its deep shade upon the tops of the mountains, while on their -sides still linger the last gleams of sunshine. As the clouds -accumulate, and unite their forces, the darkness descends upon the -river, whose blackening surface is seen ruffled with spots of white -foam; the zig-zag lightning begins to quiver up from the gloom behind -the hills; and then is heard the low murmur of the distant thunder; -every flash becoming brighter, every peal sounding louder and nearer. At -length, the wind rises, and the whole tempest rushes rapidly on. The -trees writhe and bend to their roots, and are soon covered with the -circling dust of the whirl-wind. The lightning glares out in one vast -sheet, “flashing intolerable day” upon the night-like darkness that -shrouds the river and its shores. At the same instant, the loud crash of -the thunder rattles directly over head, and it continues throughout the -storm its long and incessant roll, the echoes of one peal not subsiding -before those of another have commenced. The lightning glances on the -bayonets of the centinels that “walk their lonely rounds” on the skirts -of the camp; and frequently the tents are blown over by the violence of -the gust, and lie prostrate on the wet grass. These terrific -thunder-claps seem to shake the everlasting hills; the firm-set granite -buildings of the institution trembling to their foundations. Often the -tremendous power delegated to “the volleying bolt of heaven” is attested -by a riven and blasted tree, split in a moment from its topmost spray -down to its roots in the earth; while, at the same instant, every leaf -of its green and flourishing foliage becomes dead and yellow, the birds -that built their nests among its branches lying lifeless at its foot. - -I recommend to all visiters at the West Point hotel not to neglect -ascending to the belvidere or skylight room on the top of that building. -The view from thence is so vast and so magnificent that it rarely fails -to call forth exclamations of delighted astonishment; particularly when -autumn has colored the woods with its glowing and varied tints of -scarlet, crimson, and purple, and with every shade of brown and yellow -from the richest to the palest—such tints as, at this season, are to be -found only in the foliage of America, and are most beautiful when seen -through the gauzy haze of the Indian summer—that farewell smile of the -departing year. Then the dilated disk of the sun looks round and red -through its thin misty veil; the calm and slumbering river reflects a -sky of the mildest blue; and near the shores its waters glow with the -inverted beauties of the many-colored woods and hills. If viewed at -evening, the splendor of the picture is increased by the glories of an -autumnal sunset, when the clouds (such as are only seen in mountainous -regions) assume the grandest forms and the most gorgeous hues. - -Often after the last lingering beam has faded in the west, and all the -stars have come out in the deep blue heaven, a dark mist appears behind -the hills in the north, and from its dun recesses arise the -ever-changing corruscations of the mysterious aurora borealis. -Sometimes, its broad rays extend upwards nearly to the zenith, and -diffuse a cold strange light upon the river and its western banks, -rendering perfectly distinct the sloops on the water, and the trees and -rocks on the shore. In the houses on the bank, the front-rooms are at -times so well lighted by this incomprehensible phenomenon, that a -newspaper may be read after the lamps or candles have been removed from -the apartment. Then, perhaps in a few minutes, “the north’s dancing -streamers relinquished their fire,” and faded dimly away into darkness. -Suddenly they would again revive, darting upwards in renewed brightness -their far-spreading rays, tinted with crimson and purple, and sometimes -even with green and blue. - -In a chamber that I once occupied at West Point there was a small -knot-hole in the upper part of one of the shutters, by means of which, -in cold weather, when the windows were closed fast, and the room -consequently darkened, I frequently at early morning saw as in a camera -obscura, a landscape depicted on the white wall above the mantel-piece. -So that before I was up myself, I could observe the first gleams of the -dawnlight, and the changing colors of the clouds as they brightened upon -the blue sky, lending their glories to the hills beyond the river: and -the first rays of the sun, when they “fired the proud tops of the -eastern pines.” In this way, without opening the shutters to look out, I -could always tell whether the morning was clear or cloudy. - -The winter at West Point is long and cold; and (before the days of rail -roads,) when the river was once closed, the ice fast, and the boats laid -up for the season, the inhabitants of this insulated spot seemed nearly -shut out from all communication with the rest of the world; and it may -easily be guessed what interest was attached to the mails, after the -difficulties of transportation caused them to arrive irregularly. We -were very soon convinced of the fact that - - “When cold and raw the wind doth blow - Bleak in the morning early, - When all the hills are cover’d with snow - Then it is winter fairly.” - -I have known the snow so deep and so drifted, as to block up the parlor -windows of the house we then inhabited, precluding all possibility of -opening the shutters; and as to clear it away was no trifling task, we -were more than once obliged to breakfast by candle-light at eight -o’clock. - -In the “blue serene” of the clear and intensely cold mornings, which -usually succeeded a deep fall of snow, I have seen the whole atmosphere -glittering with minute particles of ice: to breathe which must, in -delicate lungs, have caused a sensation similar to laceration with a -sharp knife. No one afflicted with pulmonary disease should live at West -Point. - -The scenery, in its winter aspect, looked somewhat like a panorama done -in Indian ink, or rather like a great etching: except that the sky -formed a blue background to the snowy mountains, on which the leafless -branches of the denuded forest seemed pencilled in black and gray. We -had our winter walks too: and I never felt a more pleasant glow from -exercise than in climbing Mount Independence, through the snow, to visit -Fort Putnam. In addition to the ordinary steepness of the road, it was -now in many places rendered slippery by broad sheets of ice, beneath -which we saw the living waters of a mountain brook gliding and murmuring -along under their glassy coating. The snow had drifted high among the -recesses of the old fortress, and lay white and thick along the broken -and roofless edges of its dark gray walls, while here and there, amid -the desolation, lingered the evergreen of a lonely cedar. Long bright -icicles suspended their transparent and glittering fringes from the -arches of the dismantled casements, whose entrances were now even less -accessible than usual, being blocked up with mounds of snow that covered -the heaps of fallen stones. - -One of our favorite winter walks was to the cascade; and on entering the -close woods that led thither, we always felt a sensible access of warmth -in the atmosphere, which was very agreeable when compared to the -unsheltered bleakness of the plain. In looking down from the heights, -through the steeps of the forest, we saw glimpses of the river, as it -lay far below us; its solid waters now of a bluish-white, shining -beneath the wintry sun. Yet the cascade still poured its resistless -torrent freely among the snow-covered rocks, roaring, frothing, and -pitching from ledge to ledge. An old pine tree had thrown itself -horizontally across the upper fall, its dark green foliage almost -touching the water, and its rough trunk forming a bridge for the passage -of the minks, foxes, ground squirrels, and other petty denizens of the -wild. As the foaming torrent threw up its misty spray, this tree became -incrusted with ice of the most brilliant transparency; looking like an -immense chandelier, with multitudes of long crystal drops depending from -its feathery branches. - -The last winter I spent at West Point a funeral took place in the middle -of December. It was that of a gentleman attached to the institution, and -he died after a long and painful illness. The river had closed at a very -early period, and the little world of West Point was locked up in ice -and snow. Three o’clock was the time appointed for the melancholy -procession to take up its line of march; the coffin, covered with a -pall, having been previously carried into the chapel, and the funeral -service performed over it by the chaplain. - -It was a clear, cold afternoon, and the sun was already sinking behind -the mountains, whose giant shadows, magnificently colored with crimson -and purple, were projected far forward upon the frozen snow that covered -the plain; as a range of painted windows cast down their glowing tints -upon a white marble pavement. - -When the funeral began to move from the chapel, the band (preceding the -coffin) commenced one of the mournful airs that are usually appropriated -to “the march of death.” The muffled drums were struck only at long -intervals, and their heavy notes were deadened still more by the -chillness of the atmosphere; while Willis’s bugle sounded almost like -music from the world of spirits. Next came the soldiers, then the -cadets, afterwards the officers, and lastly the commandant; all walking -with their arms inverted. I saw the sad and lonely procession moving -slowly through the snow, and directing its course to the cemetery, which -is about a mile from the plain. Shaded with ancient trees, the grave -yard occupies the summit of a promontory that impends above the river; -and the Cadet’s Monument crowned by its military trophy in white marble, -forms one of the land marks of the shore. I heard (and it always seems -to me the most affecting part of the ceremonial) the volley which was -fired over the grave, after that cold and narrow cell had been covered -in with clods of frozen earth mingled with snow. - -A very extraordinary circumstance connected with military funerals is -the custom, that when all is over, and the procession is returning with -recovered arms, and marching in quick time, the music always performs a -lively air; frequently one that is designated in the army as, “So went -the merry man home to his grave.” This revolting practice is said to -have originated in the same principle that is set forth in the -commencing lines of the well-known song, said to have been sung by -General Wolfe at his supper table on the night before the battle in -which he was killed: - - “Why, soldiers why, - Should _we_ be melancholy boys - Whose business ’tis to die.” - -The horrors of _every_ war are, and must be so terrible, that its -practice admits of no palliation, except when the struggle is in defence -of our native land. How ought we then to rejoice that in this our own -favored country, no hecatombs of human victims can be immolated to swell -the pride, to gratify the ambition, or to feed the rapacity of a few of -their fellow men. Surely the people of another century will regard with -amazement the tales of blood and carnage that defile the pages of -history. They will wonder that rational beings could be found who were -willing to engage in these atrocious contests, undertaken “for the glory -of heroes, the splendor of thrones.” Where are now the Buonapartes and -the Bourbons, for whose sake forty thousand lives were destroyed in the -dreadful day of Waterloo, “on that tremendous harvest field where death -swung the scythe.” - -May we not hope that the war-times will pass away with the king-times. - - (To be concluded.) - - * * * * * - - - - - FRAGMENT. - - - BY ALBERT PIKE. - - - We are all mariners on this sea of life; - And they who climb above us up the shrouds, - Have only, in their over-topping place, - Gained a more dangerous station, and foothold - More insecure. The wind that passeth over - And harmeth not the humble crowd below, - Whistles amid the shrouds, and shaketh down - These overweening climbers of the ocean, - Into the great gigantic vase of death. - - * * * * * - - - - - DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA. - - - A NIGHT SCENE AT SEA. - - - BY DR. REYNELL COATES. - - - Oh night, - And storm, and darkness, ye are wonderous strong, - Yet lovely in your strength—as is the light - Of a dark eye in woman!—— - Byron. - -But few among those who constitute the educated portion of society on -shore, enjoy much opportunity of feeling the grandeur,—the awful -variety of night. Women are necessarily debarred from the privilege of -partaking freely of its mysterious but ennobling influence by the -restraints unfortunately requisite for their protection; and, in order -to reap the full advantage of such communion, we must be _alone_ with -the queen of the ebon wand and starry diadem. As for those of the bolder -sex,—by them, the hours of shade are usually devoted to study, -pleasure, or dissipation, and only the few possessing the poetic -temperament become familiar with her changeful moods. - -But, on the ocean, the closeness of the cabin drives the novice -frequently on deck, even in stormy weather and at unseasonable hours; -and when once this compulsory introduction has been effected, it is -surprising how rapidly the traveller, of either sex, becomes enamored of -solitude and night—of starlight and the storm. - -The changes in the heavens,—and the waters too—are quite as numerous -and far more impressive by night than by day.—There is no sameness in -the sea for those who are blest with capacity to feel the beauties of -Nature. - -Let us lounge away an hour of this lovely evening here, by the -companion-way. We are between the trades, and time would hang heavily on -our hands but for the baffling winds and tempting cats-paws that keep us -perpetually on the alert to gain or save a mile of southing.[2] At -present, we are suffering all the tedium of a calm. How dark!—How -absolutely black the sky appears, contrasted with the brightness of a -tropical moon! And yon dazzling star, waving its long line of reflected -rays athwart the glassy billows, rivalling the broad glare of the -moonlight!—What diamond ever equalled it in lustre, or surpassed it in -variety of hues, as its ray changes from red to yellow, and from yellow -to the most delicate blue? - -The sails are flapping against the mast and the ship rolls so gently -that one might well suppose no gale had ever ruffled this smooth summer -ocean. To see the sailors lolling on the watch, the observer would infer -they lead the idlest lives that mortals could enjoy; but alas! such -moments are like angel visits with the crew. Poor fellows! How rich to -them is the delight of a single hour of freedom spent in spinning their -“tough yarns” under the lea of the long-boat, in singing or in music! -That clarionet is admirably played, for rough and tarry fingers:—and -how softly the notes float on the damp night air! The mate, in his -impatience, is _whistling for a wind_; and that “old salt,” in whom many -years of service have implanted deeply all the superstitions of his -class, is muttering to himself with discontented glances, “You’ll have a -cap-full, and more than you want of it before long,—and in the wrong -quarter too.—I never knew any good to come of this whistling for wind.” - -And, in truth, to judge from appearances, the prophecy is likely, in -this case, to be fulfilled. Already the moon begins to be encircled by a -wide halo of vapor. It is almost imperceptible at present; but, even -while we speak, it gathers, and thickens, and seems to become more -palpable. Now it assumes the faint tints of the lunar rain-bow; and all -around a silvery veil is falling over the face of the heavens. - -Slight fleeces of denser mist are collecting in columns and squadrons -across the sky, giving it a mottled aspect. They are still too thin -materially to check the full-flooding of the moonlight; but, as they -gradually enlarge themselves, a slow, gliding motion is perceived among -them. They are wafted gently southward; but the breeze—if breeze there -be to-night—will come from the opposite quarter; for the higher and -lower currents of our atmosphere are almost invariably found thus at -variance with each other. The signs of the weather augur nothing -favorable to our success in speedily reaching the southern trades. - -Mark! How the broad glare of the moon-beams on the water fades away as -the vapors in the upper air increase in density! The starlight -reflection has disappeared; and the bright little orb from which it was -derived, still struggling hard to make itself conspicuous, shines on -with fitful ray.—And now, it is extinct.—Even the waters have lost -their azure hue, and all things above and below are rapidly becoming -gray. - -The swell is momentarily rising, though you discover no cause for the -change. Though we feel not a puff of wind the sails flap less heavily -against the mast, and occasionally they are buoyed up and bellied out -for many seconds, as if lifted by the breath of some unseen spirit. - -Listen to the voice of the waves!—For the sea has a voice as well as -the winds—not only where it speaks in thunders, booming upon the level -beach, or roars among the time-worn rocks of an iron-bound coast, but -far off in its loneliness, also, where no barrier opposes its will. Who -knows not the mild tone of the breeze of spring from the melancholy moan -of the autumnal gale?—As different is the dull plash of the lazy billow -in a settled calm from the threatening sound that precedes a storm. - -But the steward is ringing his supper-bell. Let us go below, and if I -mistake not, you will find all nature dressed in another garb when we -return on deck. - - * * * * * - -An hour has passed,—and what a change!—The ship close hauled on a -wind, no longer rolls listlessly over the swell; but, laboring slowly up -each coming wave, she staggers and shivers from stem to stern, as the -crest of the watery mountain dashes against the weather bow,—then, -rushing down into the trough of the sea and plunging deep into the -succeeding billow, she strains every shroud and back-stay with the -sudden jerk of the masts, and sends a broad sheet of crackling foam to -leeward from beneath the bows. - -How different is this disagreeable motion from that which we enjoy when -the wind is on the beam or the quarter!—Then, we glide gently over the -sea-hills, and every wave seems playfully bent on urging us -forward:—Now, we are opposed unceasingly by wind and swell, and must -contest laboriously each foot of the battle-ground, till the strength of -our enemies is exhausted—conscious the while, that every league we -loose in this strange, fitful region, may cost us a week’s delay in the -recovery. - -This is “a young gale” that bids fair to prove precocious; for it is -rapidly advancing towards maturity. But it cannot last. Nothing but a -calm displays much tendency to permanence between the trades. - -The heavens are dark as midnight:—no star or planet penetrates the -gloom with a friendly ray:—yet the color of the overhanging vault is by -no means uniform. Broad tracts or patches of intense obscurity cover the -chief part of the field of view; but, at intervals, you may perceive -long, moving, dusky lines dividing these heavy masses, made visible by a -strange and unaccountable half illumination. As they sweep hurriedly by, -on their northward course, seemingly almost within reach from the mast -head, we are made painfully conscious that the wings of the tempest are -hovering over us in dangerous proximity. - -Except the lamps in the binnacle, there is no obvious source of light -above or around us: yet the outlines of the vessel, with all the -labyrinth of spars and rigging, are dimly traceable in the murky air. -Whence do we derive this power of vision? you will naturally inquire.—A -glance at the surface of the water will explain it. - -Every wave, as it combs and breaks, bears on its summit a high crest of -foam, visible at a great distance by its own moonlight, or soft silvery -radiation. Each little ripple carries its tiny lantern. Wherever the sea -is disturbed by the motion of the vessel, and especially at the bow, -where the waters are rudely disparted, or in the wake, where they rush -together violently as she shoots along, a gentle, milky light is broadly -diffused; and here and there a brilliant spark is seen beneath the -surface shining distinct and permanent, like a star submerged, or -gleaming and disappearing alternately, like the fire-flies of June. - -The phosphorescence of the sea is unusually feeble at present, but it is -sufficient to prevent a total darkness, and by its aid we trace the dim -forms of surrounding objects, while a slight reflection from the clouds -betrays the threatening aspect of the weather. - -Do you observe those singular luminous appearances resembling masses of -pale fire, or torch lights, hurrying from place to place, turning and -meandering in all directions, some feet beneath the waves, like comets -liberated from their proper spheres, and wandering without rule in the -abyss of waters? They are produced by fish that are playing about the -vessel, and were we adepts in the sport we might chance to strike one -with the grains by the glare of his own torch. But this requires the -skill and long experience of many voyages. To strike a fish by day is -difficult enough; for, even then, he is not to be found where he -appears. When you look obliquely from the vessel’s side at any object in -the water, refraction changes its apparent place to a much greater -distance than the real one, and brings the image nearer to the surface. -Success in reaching such an object requires your aim to be directed -towards a point considerably below the spot at which your game is seen. -At night the difficulty is much enhanced;—for it is not the fish itself -that emits the light. The agitation produced by his rapid motions -awakens the thousands of luminous animalcules swarming in every cubic -foot of water, and, as they fire their little tapers in succession, they -fall into the rear, while the fish darts onward under cover of the -obscurity, leaving a brilliant wake which serves but to deceive, or -sometimes to guide, his enemies, and to attract his prey. - -But hark!—How the wind howls through the shrouds and whistles around -the slender rigging!—The gale increases, and another change comes over -the night scene. Do you observe how pitchy the gloom has grown to -windward?—All traces of the clouds in that direction are lost.—Ha!—A -flash of lightning!—Here it comes in earnest!—The pouring rain -obscures even the phosphoric glimmering of the waves, and now we have -“night and storm and darkness,” in all their terrible beauty! Who dares -attempt to paint the scene in words!—On every -hand,—above—around—within—all is confusion! The crew spring to their -stations, while the loud command and the scarce audible response are -mingled with the dash of waves, the roar of the blast, and the creaking -of the wracked timbers in one discordant, unintelligible burst of sound. - -You stand, or rather _hang_ by the mizzen shrouds, the centre of an -invisible world where the maddened elements and hardy men contend for -life or conquest. You hear them, but you see them not,—save when the -electric flash tinges sea and cloud with momentary brilliance. Your eye -detects the foot of the nearest mast, but you endeavor in vain to trace -the tall spar upwards towards the lofty perch of those brave fellows on -the yard, whose shrill voices—heard as if from a mile in the distance, -in answer to the trumpet of the captain,—just reach the ear amid the -din of a thousand unearthly voices, and add to the wizard wildness of -the scene. - -The storm swells loud and more loudly; but the yielding ship has risen -from the first awful impression of its force and now careers furiously -before it. The brailed but unfurled topsails flap with a dull and hollow -thunder, as they whirl and rebound under the restraint of the clue-lines -and the iron hands of the desperate crew. See that ghastly ball of -purple flame leaping from spar to spar, like the visible spirit of the -tempest![3]—Now it is on the foremast head,—now it glares on the -bowsprit,—and again, it springs to the mainyard and flashes full in the -face of you startled reefer, casting the hue of death over his boyish -features, rendered clearly visible for a moment in the demon torchlight. - -The first flurry of the squall is passed;—we are again on a wind!—but -still wave follows wave, rolling on with an angry roar;—and each in -turn, as it reaches the vessel, strikes the bow with a resounding crash. -Every plank in the firmly-bolted hull trembles beneath the blow, while -the billow sweeps off under the lea, hissing and frothing in baffled -rage to find the gallant bark invulnerable to its power.—Ever and anon -the vivid lightning gilds the wide circle of a boiling sea, covered with -broad streaks of foam driven onward for miles in narrow belts before the -wind, while the sharp, sudden thunder follows on the instant, with a -single detonation, like the discharge of an enormous cannon. Here are no -hills and valleys to awake the long reverberating echoes—no solid earth -to fling back the war-note of the storm in proud defiance to the clouds! - -The binnacle lamps are shining on a portion of the quarter-deck, and -light up the form of the helmsman at the wheel. Firm and unmoved amid -the elemental jar, he stands like a guardian spirit in the centre of an -illuminated sphere, contrasted so strongly with the palpable darkness -around, that the imponderable air itself is made to appear material and -tangible. On him depends our fate. One error!—one instance of momentary -neglect, and the mountain swell might overtop our oaken bulwarks, -leaving us a shattered and unmanagable wreck upon the desert waste of -waters! - -But listen!—what mean those indescribable sounds making themselves -audible at intervals above the roar of the gale? Look out into the -gloom, and strive to penetrate the mingled rain and spray! - -Do you not see from time to time, those undefined and monstrous -shapes,—blacker than night itself,—rising from the deep and giving -utterance to noises like the puff of a steam engine combined with the -snorting of some mammoth beast? Even here, while winds and waves are -raging—in this chaos of air and ocean, where the barriers of heaven and -earth seem broken down, and spray and foam—the sea—the rain—the -clouds—are whirled together in one wide mass of inextricable -confusion—_even here_, there are beings whose joy is in the tempest, -sporting their ungainly gambols—fearless of the scathing bolt and -glorying in the pealing thunder! - -We are surrounded by an army of the grampus whales. Their breathing adds -a fiend-like wildness to the voices of the night,—and their dusky forms -looming through the obscurity as they thrust their misshapen backs above -the surface of the sea, give an almost infernal aspect to the scene, _if -scene that may be called which is but half perceived_ in dimness that -appears, - - “Not light, but rather darkness visible.” - -But come below!—We are happily exempt from the necessity of dangerous -exposure, and the force of the salt spray that has been driven in our -faces with stinging effect for the last half hour begins to weaken the -impression of this magnificent display of Omnipotence. Man would find -room for selfishness and vanity amid “the wreck of matter and the crush -of worlds.”—Your complexion is in danger! So if you would avoid the -hard looks of a weather-beaten tar, it is time to seek the shelter of -the cabin. There I can amuse you with pictures of other night scenes by -sea and land, until this short-lived tropical squall is over, or you -feel inclined to retire to your state room. In another hour we shall -probably be bounding along merrily, with all sail set, and the moon -beams sparkling and playing _hide-and-go-seek_ among the little rippling -waves with which a six-knot breeze roughens a subsiding swell! - ------ - -[2] The scene of this sketch is laid in the tropical Atlantic, between -the northern and southern trade-winds;—a region of calms and baffling -winds. - -[3] The corposant, an electric ball or brush of light, sometimes -witnessed during storms at sea. - - * * * * * - - - - - AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT. - - - IN THREE CHIMERAS. - - - BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO. - - - Chimera III. - - Another moon! And over the blue night - She bendeth, like a holy spirit bright, - Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold; - As on she floateth with her image cold - Enamell’d on the deep, a sail of cloud - Is to her left, majestically proud! - Trailing its silver drapery away - In thin and fairy webs, that are at play - Like stormless waves upon a summer sea, - Dragging their length of waters lazily. - - Ay! to the rocks! and thou wilt see, I wist, - A lonely one, that bendeth in the mist - Of moonlight, with a wide and raven pall - Flung round him.—Is he mortal man at all? - For, by the meagre firelight that is under - Those eyelids, and the vision shade of wonder - Falling upon his features, I would guess - Of one that wanders out of blessedness! - Julio! raise thee! By the holy mass! - I wot not of the fearless one would pass - Thy wizard shadow. Where the raven hair - Was shorn before, in many a matted layer - It lieth now; and on a rock beside - The sea, like merman at the ebb of tide, - Feasting his wondrous vision on decay, - So art thou gazing over Agathè! - - Ah me! but this is never the fair girl, - With brow of light, as lovely as a pearl, - That was as beautiful as is the form - Of sea-bird at the breaking of a storm. - The eye is open, with convulsive strain— - A most unfleshly orb! the stars that wane - Have nothing of its hue; for it is cast - With sickly blood, and terribly aghast! - And sunken in its socket like the light - Of a red taper in the lonely night! - - And there is not a braid of her bright hair - But lieth floating in the moonlight air, - Like the long moss beside a silver spring, - In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring. - The worm hath ’gan to crawl upon her brow— - The living worm! and with a ripple now, - Like that upon the sea, are heard below - The slimy swarms all ravening as they go, - Amid the stagnate vitals, with a crush; - And one might hear them echoing the hush - Of Julio, as he watches by the side - Of the dead ladye, his betrothéd bride! - - And ever and anon a yellow group - Was creeping on her bosom, like a troop - Of stars, far up amid the galaxy, - Pale, pale, as snowy showers, and two or three - Were mocking the cold finger, round and round - With likeness of a ring; and, as they wound - About its bony girth, they had the hue - Of pearly jewels glistening in the dew. - That deathly stare! it is an awful thing - To gaze upon; and sickly thoughts will spring - Before it to the heart: it telleth how - There must be waste where there is beauty now. - The chalk! the chalk! where was the virgin snow - Of that once heaving bosom? even so, - The cold, pale dewy chalk, with yellow shade - Amid the leprous hues; and o’er it play’d - The straggling moonlight and the merry breeze, - Like two fair elves that by the murmuring seas - Woo’d smilingly together; but there fell - No life-gleam on the brow, all terrible - Becoming, through its beauty, like a cloud - That waneth paler even than a shroud, - All gorgeous and all glorious before; - For waste, like to the wanton night, was o’er - Her virgin features, stealing them away— - Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathè? - - “Enough! enough! oh God! but I have pray’d - To thee, in early daylight and in shade, - And the mad-curse is on me still—and still! - I cannot alter the eternal will— - But—but—I hate thee Agathè! I hate - What lunacy hath made me consecrate: - I am _not_ mad!—_not now!_—I do not feel - That slumberous and blessed opiate steal - Up to my brain—oh! that it only would, - To people this eternal solitude - With fancies, and fair dreams, and summer-mirth, - Which is not now—and yet my mother earth - I would not love to lie above thee so - As Agathè lies there—Oh! no! no! no! - To have these clay worms feast upon my heart! - And all the light of being to depart - Into a dismal shadow! I could die - As the red lightnings, quenching amid sky - Their wild and wizard breath; I could away - Like a blue billow bursting into spray: - But never—never have corruption here - To feed her worms and let the sunlight jeer - Above me so. ’Tis thou! I owe thee, moon, - To-night’s fair worship; so be lifting soon - Thy veil of clouds, that I may kneel as one - That seeketh for thy virgin benison!” - - He gathers the cold limpets as they creep - On the gray rocks beside the lonely deep, - And with a flint breaks through into the shell, - And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well. - And he hath lifted water in a clam - And tasted sweetly from a stream that swam - Down to the sea; and now is turn’d away - Again, again, to gaze on Agathè! - There is a cave upon that isle—a cave - Where dwelt a hermit-man: the winter wave - Roll’d to its entrance, casting a bright mound - Of snowy shells and fairy pebbles round; - And over were the solemn ridges strewn - Of a dark rock, that, like the wizard throne - Of some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hung - Wild thorn and bramble in confusion flung - Amid the startling crevices—like sky - Through gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by. - A cataract fell over, in a streak - Of silver, playing many a wanton freak; - Midway, and musical, with elfin glee - It bounded in its beauty to the sea, - Like dazzling angel vanishing away. - In sooth, ’twas pleasant in the moonlight gray - To see that fairy fountain leaping so, - Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe! - - The hermit had his cross and rosary: - I ween like other hermits so was he, - A holy man and frugal, and at night - He prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the light - Of the fair moon went wandering beside - The lonely sea, to hear the silver tide - Rolling in gleesome music to the shore; - The more he heard he loved to hear the more. - And there he is, his hoary beard adrift - To the night winds, that sportingly do lift - Its snow-white tresses; and he leaneth on - A rugged staff, all weakly and alone, - A childless, friendless man! - - He is beside - The ghastly Julio and his ghastlier bride. - ’Twas wond’rous strange to gaze upon the two! - And the old hermit felt a throbbing through - His pulses—“Holy Virgin! save me, save!” - He deem’d of spectre from the midnight wave, - And cross’d him thrice, and pray’d and pray’d again: - “Hence! hence!” and Julio started as the strain - Of exorcisms fell faintly on his ear: - “I knew thee, father, that thou beest here - To gaze upon this girl, as I have been. - By yonder moon! it was a frantic sin - To worship so an image of the clay; - It was like beauty—but is now away— - What lived upon her features, like the light - On yonder cloud, all tender and all bright; - But it is faded as the other must, - And she that was all beauty is all dust. - - “Father! thy hand upon this brow of mine - And tell me is it cold? But she will twine - No wreath upon these temples—never, never! - For there she lieth like a streamless river - That stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me here, - If I be madly throbbing in the fear - For that cold slimy worm. Ay! look and see - How dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly! - And where it is have been the living hues - Of beauty, purer than the very dews. - So, father! seest thou that yonder moon - Will be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon? - And I, that feel my being wear away, - Shall droop beside to darkness: so, but say - A prayer for the dead, when I am gone - And let the azure tide that floweth on - Cover us lightly with its murmuring surf, - Like a green sward of melancholy turf; - Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rear - A cenotaph on this lone island here, - Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree, - And carve an olden rhyme for her and me - Upon its brow.” - - He bends, and gazes yet - Before his ghastly bride! the anchoret - Sate by him, and hath press’d a cross of wood - To his wan lips * * * - * * * * * * - * * * * * * - “My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale. - Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale. - Alas! I fear that thou hast strangely been - A child of curse, and misery, and sin. - And this,—is she thy sister?”—“nay! my bride.” - “Anon! and thou?”—“True, true! but then she died, - And was a virgin, and is virgin still, - Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fill - Of light from the great sun. But now, go by, - And leave me to my madness, or to die! - This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and fold - Me round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold, - That are so writhing your eternal gyres - Before the moon, which, with a myriad tiars - Is crowning you, as ye do fall and kiss - Her pearly feet, that glide in blessedness! - Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die! - Let me be mangled sore with agony! - And be so cursed; so stricken by the spell - Of my heart’s frenzy, that a living hell - Be burning there!—back! back if thou art mad— - Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad. - Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see! - In truth it is a piteous thing for thee - To become childless—well a-well, go by! - Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh, - And I will bury her below the moon: - It may be but a trance or midnight swoon. - And she may wake. Wake, Ladye! ha! methought - It was like _her_.—Like her! and is it not? - My angel girl? my brain, my stricken brain!— - I know thee now!—I know myself again.” - - He flings him on the ladye, and anon, - With loathly shudder, from that wither’d one - Hath torn him back. “Oh me! no more—no more! - Thou virgin mother! is the dream not o’er, - That I have dreamt, but I must dream again - For moons together, till this weary brain - Become distemper’d as the winter sea! - Good father! give me blessing; let it be - Upon me as the dew upon the moss. - Oh me! but I have made the holy cross - A curse; and not a blessing! let me kiss - The sacred symbol; for, by this—by this! - I sware, and sware again, as now I will— - Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still, - If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bring - The light of comfort, on some angel wing - To one that lieth lone; do—do it now; - By all the stars that open on thy brow - Like silver flowers! and by the herald moon - That listeth to be forth at nightly noon, - Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true, - As I have perjured me, that I renew - Allegiance to thy God, and bind me o’er - To this same penance, I have done before! - That night and day I watch, as I have been - Long watching, o’er the partner of my sin! - That I taste never the delight of food, - But these wild shell-fish, that may make the mood - Of madness stronger, till it grapple death— - Despair—eternity!” - - He saith, he saith, - And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse, - Lieth all frenzied; one would see remorse, - And hopeless love, and hatred, struggling there, - And lunacy, that lightens up despair, - And makes a gladness out of agony. - Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee, - That hast the soul at will, and givest it play, - Amid the wildest fancies far away; - That thronest reason, on some wizard throne - Of fairy land, within the milky zone,— - Some spectre star, that glittereth beyond - The glorious galaxies of diamond. - - Beautiful lunacy! that shapest flight - For love to blessed bowers of delight, - And buildest holy monarchies within - The fancy, till the very heart is queen - Of all her golden wishes. Lunacy! - Thou empress of the passions! though they be, - A sister group of wild, unearthly forms, - Like lightnings playing in their home of storms! - I see thee, striking at the silver strings - Of the pure heart, and holy music springs - Before thy touch, in many a solemn strain, - Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main! - But say, is melancholy by thy side, - With tresses in a raven shower, that hide - Her pale and weeping features? Is she never - Flowing before thee, like a gloomy river, - The sister of thyself? But cold and chill, - And winter-born, and sorrowfully still, - And not like thee, that art in merry mood, - And frolicsome amid thy solitude? - - Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crown - Of hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending down - To mirror thy young image in a spring: - And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thing - As soulless as thyself. ’Tis tender, too, - The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hue - Of health! the pearly radiance of the brow! - All, all as tender,—beautiful as thou! - And wilt thou say, my sister, there is none - Will answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone, - A pure, pure being! but the God on high - Is with thee ever, as thou goest by. - - Thou Poetess! that harpest to the moon, - And, in soft concert to the silver tune, - Of waters play’d on by the magic wind, - As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined, - Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,— - I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth, - How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love, - That came, like seraph, from the stars above. - And was so sadly wedded unto Sin, - That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin. - Sorrow with mirthful Lunacy! that be - Together link’d for time, I deem of ye - That ye are worshipped as none others are,— - One as a lonely shadow,—one a star! - - Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now, - To his wild purpose, to his holy vow? - He seeth only in his ladye-bride - The image of the laughing girl, that died - A moon before—the same, the very same— - The Agathè that lisp’d her lover’s name, - To him and to her heart: that azure eye, - That shone through sunny tresses, waving by: - The brow, the cheek, that blush’d of fire and snow, - Both blending into one ethereal glow: - And the same breathing radiancy, that swam - Around her, like a pure and blessed calm - Around some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss’d - Her wormy lips, he felt that he was blest! - He felt her holy being stealing through - His own, like fountains of the azure dew, - That summer mingles with his golden light; - And he would clasp her, till the weary night, - Was worn away. - * * * * * * - * * * * * * - And morning rose in form - Of heavy clouds, that knitted into storm - The brow of Heaven, and through her lips the wind - Came rolling westward, with a tract behind - Of gloomy billows, bursting on the sea, - All rampant, like great lions terribly, - And gnashing on each other: and anon, - Julio heard them, rushing one by one, - And laugh’d and turn’d. The hermit was away - For he was old and weary, and he lay - Within his cave, and thought it was a dream, - A summer’s dream! and so the quiet stream - Of sleep came o’er his eyelids, and in truth - He dreamt of that strange ladye and the youth - That held a death-wake on her wasting form; - And so he slept and woke not till the storm - Was over. - - But they came—the wind, and sea, - And rain and thunder, that in giant glee, - Sang o’er the lightnings pale, as to and fro - They writhed, like stricken angels!—white as snow - Roll’d billow after billow, and the tide - Came forward as an army deep and wide, - To charge with all its waters. There was heard - A murmur far and far, of those that stirr’d - Within the great encampment of the sea, - And dark they were, and lifted terribly - Their water-spouts like banners. It was grand - To see the black battalions, hand in hand - Striding to conflict, and their helmets bent - Below their foamy plumes magnificent! - - And Julio heard and laugh’d. “Shall I be king - To your great hosts, that ye are murmuring - For one to bear you to your holy war? - There is no sun, or moon, or any star, - To guide your iron footsteps as ye go, - But I, your king, will marshal you to flow - From shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell, - That I may ride before you terrible; - And bring my sceptre of the amber weed, - And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall lead - Your summer hosts, when these are ambling low, - In azure and in ermine, to and fro.” - - He said, and madly, with his wasted hand - Swept o’er the tuneless harp, and fast he spanned - The silver chords, until a rush of sound - Came from them, solemn—terrible—profound; - And then he dash’d the instrument away - Into the waters, and the giant play - Of billows threw it back unto the shore, - A shiver’d, stringless frame—its day of music o’er! - The tide, the rolling tide! the multitude - Of the sea surges, terrible and rude, - Tossing their chalky foam along the bed - Of thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread. - And fast retreating to the gloomy gorge - Of waters, sounding like a Titan forge! - It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide! - But Julio is bending to his bride, - And making mirthful whispers to her ear, - A cataract! a cataract is near, - Of one stupendous billow, and it breaks - Terribly furious, with a myriad flakes - Of foam, that fly about the haggard twain; - And Julio started, with a sudden pain, - That shot into his heart; his reason flew - Back to her throne: he rose, and wildly threw - His matted tresses over on his brow. - Another billow came, and even now - Was dashing at his feet. There was no shade - Of terror, as the serpent waters play’d - Before him, but his eye was calm as death. - Another, yet another! and the breath - Of the weird wind was with it, like a rock - Unriveted it fell—a shroud of smoke - Pass’d over—there was heard, and died away, - The voice of one shrill-shrieking “Agathè!” - - The sea-bird sitteth lonely by the side - Of the far waste of waters, flapping wide - His wet and weary wings; but he is gone, - The stricken Julio! a wave-swept stone - Stands there, on which he sat, and nakedly - It rises looking to the lonely sea; - But Julio is gone, and Agathè! - The waters swept them madly to their core— - The dead and living with a frantic roar! - And so he died, his bosom fondly set - On hers; and round her clay-cold waist were met - His bare and wither’d arms, and to her brow - His lips were press’d. Both, both are perish’d now! - - He died upon her bosom in a swoon: - And fancied of the pale and silver moon, - That went before him in her hall of blue; - He died like golden insect in the dew, - Calm, calm and pure; and not a chord was wrung - In his deep heart—but love. He perish’d young, - But perish’d wasted by some fatal flame - That fed upon his vitals: and there came - Lunacy, sweeping lightly, like a stream, - Along his brain—he perish’d in a dream! - - In sooth I marvel not - If death be only a mysterious thought, - That cometh on the heart and turns the brow - Brightless and chill, as Julio’s is now; - For only had the wasting struggle been - Of one wild feeling, till it rose within - Into the form of death, and nature felt - The light of the immortal being melt - Into its happier home beyond the sea, - And moon, and stars, into eternity! - - The sun broke through his dungeon, long enthrall’d - By dismal clouds, and on the emerald - Of the great living sea was blazing down - To gift the lordly billows with a crown - Of diamond and silver. From his cave - The hermit came, and by the dying wave - Lone wander’d, and he found upon the sand, - Below a truss of sea-weed, with his hand - Around the silent waist of Agathè - The corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it lay - Beside the wasted girl. The fireless eye - Was open, and a jewell’d rosary - Flung round the neck; but it was gone—the cross - That Agathè had given. - - Amid the moss - The hermit scoop’d a solitary grave - Below the pine-trees, and he sang a stave, - Or two, or three, of some old requiem - As in their narrow home he buried them; - And many a day before that blessed spot - He sate, in lone and melancholy thought, - Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess’d - Of some dark secret shadowing his breast. - And yet, to see him, with his silver hair - Adrift and floating in the sea-borne air, - And features chasten’d in the tears of woe, - In sooth, ’twas merely sad to see him so! - A wreck of nature floating far and fast, - Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last! - - And he is wandering by the shore again, - Hard leaning on his staff; the azure main - Lies sleeping far before him, with his seas - Fast folded in the bosom of the breeze, - That like the angel Peace, hath dropt his wings - Around the warring waters. Sadly sings - To his own heart that lonely hermit-man, - A tale of other days when passion ran - Along his pulses like a troubled stream, - And glory was a splendor and a dream! - He stoop’d to gather up a shining gem - That lay amid the shells, as bright as them, - It was a cross, the cross that Agathè - Had given to her Julio; the play - Of the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face, - And on the glistening jewels—but the trace - Of some old thought came burning to the brain - Of the pale hermit, and he shrunk in pain - Before the holy symbol. It was not - Because of the eternal ransom wrought - In ages far away, or he had bent - In pure devotion, sad and reverent; - But now, he startled as he look’d upon - That jewell’d thing, and wildly he is gone - Back to the mossy grave, away, away: - “My child, my child! my own, own Agathè!” - - It is her father,—he,—an alter’d man! - His quiet had been wounded, and the ban - Of misery came over him, and froze - The bright and holy tides, that fell and rose - In joy amid his heart. To think of her, - That he had injured so, and all so fair, - So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,— - It was a very dismal thought, in truth, - That he had left her hopelessly, for aye, - Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die! - And so he could not bear to have it be; - But sought for some lone island in the sea, - Where he might dwell in doleful solitude, - And do strange penance in his mirthful mood, - For this same crime, unnaturally wild, - That he had done unto his saintly child. - And ever he did think, when he had laid - These lovers in the grave, that, through the shade - Of ghostly features melting to decay, - He saw the image of his Agathè. - - And now the truth had flash’d into his brain: - And he has fallen, with a shriek of pain, - Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss; - For long ago he gave that blessed cross - To his fair girl, and knew the relic still, - By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at will - Before it of the one that was not now, - But, like a dream, had floated from the brow - Of time, that seeth many a lovely thing - Fade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring. - - The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steel - To woman’s earnest tears, and bade her feel - The curse of virgin solitude,—a veil; - And saw the gladsome features growing pale - Unmoved: ’tis rent like some eternal tower - The sea hath shaken, and its stately power - Lies lonely, fallen, scatter’d on the shore; - ’Tis rent like some great mountain, that before - The Deluge stood in glory and in might, - But now is lightning-riven, and the night - Is clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn, - Like coffins, here and there: ’tis rent! the throne - Where passions, in their awful anarchy, - Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh, - That took the being, on its troubled wings, - Far to the land of deep imaginings! - - All three are dead! that desolate green isle - Is only peopled by the passing smile - Of sun and moon, that surely have a sense, - They look so radiant with intelligence,— - So like the soul’s own element,—so fair! - The features of a God lie veiled there! - - And mariners that have been toiling far - Upon the deep, and lost the polar star, - Have visited that island, and have seen - That lover’s grave: and many there have been - That sat upon the grey and crumbling stone, - And started as they saw a skeleton - Amid the long sad moss, that fondly grew - Through the white wasted ribs: but never knew - Of those who slept below, or of the tale - Of that brain-stricken man, that felt the pale - And wandering moonlight steal his soul away,— - Poor Julio, and the Ladye Agathè! - - * * * * * - - We found them,—children of toil and tears, - Their birth of beauty shaded; - We left them in their early years - Fallen and faded. - - We found them, flowers of summer hue, - Their golden cups were lighted, - With sparkles of the pearly dew— - We left them blighted! - - We found them,—like those fairy flowers - And the light of morn lay holy - Over their sad and sainted bowers— - We left them lonely. - - We found them,—like twin stars, alone, - In brightness and in feeling; - We left them,—and the curse was on - Their beauty stealing. - - They rest in quiet, where they are: - Their life time is the story - Of some fair flower—some silver star, - Faded in glory! - - * * * * * - - - - - TO A SPIRIT. - - - BY JAMES ALDRICH. - - - Not the effulgent light - Of that bright realm where live the blest departed, - Nor the grave’s gloom, Oh! loved one, and true hearted, - Can hide thee from thy sight. - - Thy sweet angelic smile - Beams on my sleep. I see thee, hear thy voice, - Thou say’st unto my fettered soul, “Rejoice! - Wait but a little while.” - - Sometimes ’mid cloudlets bright, - The sunset splendors of a summer’s day, - An instant thou’lt appear, then pass away - From my entranced sight. - - Up in the blue heavens clear - A never-setting star hast thou become, - Pouring a silvery ray, from thy far home, - Upon my pathway here. - - Where tears ne’er dim the eyes, - Shall we not meet in some far blessed land? - Shall we not walk together, hand in hand, - In bowers of Paradise? - - My soul, though chained and pent, - Sore of a future glorious career, - In all its God-appointed labor here, - Toils on in calm content. - - * * * * * - - - - - ST. AGNES’ EVE. - - - A CHIT-CHAT ABOUT KEATS. - - -God bless you, Oliver, don’t think of such a thing! _I_ join the -temperance society!—why, you old curmudgeon, would you murder me -outright? Not that temperance societies haven’t done good—many a poor -wife and weeping mother have they made happy—but, then, ever since I -read Anacreon at college and shot buffalos at the Black Hills, I’ve had -a fellow feeling for the good things of this life, especially for -beef-steaks and port wine. I’m an Epicurean, sir—you needn’t talk to me -of glory—I despise the whole cant about posthumous renown. The great -end of life is happiness, and happiness is best secured by gratifying -our physical as well as our intellectual nature. I go in, sir, for -enjoying existence, and when I was in my prime, I flatter myself that -few could beat me at a dinner or had a more delicate way of making love -to the girls. But alas! we have fallen on troublous times. The wine of -these days—I say it with tears in my eyes—isn’t the wine of my youth; -and the girls—here’s a health to the sweet angels—have sadly -deteriorated from what their grandmothers were. _Eheu! Eheu!_ The world -is getting upside down, and I shouldn’t wonder if an earthquake or -epidemic or some other calamity should overtake us yet to fill up the -catalogue of our ills. - -I have just been reading Keats—shame on the wretches who tortured him -to death! He is a practical argument, sir, for my creed. Genius he had -unquestionably, yet he never enjoyed a happy hour. Why was this? Born in -humble life, he thirsted for distinction, and trusting to his genius to -achieve renown, found himself assailed by hostile critics, who dragged -his private life before the public eye, and sneered at his poetry with -the bitter scorn of fiends. He was naturally of a delicate -constitution—of a proud and aspiring character; but of a modesty as -shrinking as the sensitive plant; and when he found himself slighted, -abused, maligned—when he saw that he was thrust back at every attempt -to elevate himself, his delicate nature gave way, and he died of a -broken heart, requesting that his epitaph might be, “Here lies one whose -name was writ on water.” The world, since then, has done tardy justice -to his genius—but this did not soothe his sorrows, nor will it reach -him in his silent grave. What to him is posthumous renown?—what the -tears of this generation or the plaudits of the next? Had he been less -sensitive, had he thirsted less after glory, he might still have been -living, with matured powers, extorting even from his enemies deserved -commendation. But he fell in his youthful prime, an eaglet pierced -before it had learnt to soar. I have shed tears over his grave at -Rome—let us drink to his memory in solemn silence. - -Keats would have made a giant had he lived, sir. Everything he wrote -evinced high genius. Each successive poem he published displayed -increased merit. His sonnets remind me of Milton—his shorter pieces -breathe of Lycidas or Venus and Adonis. He had little artistical skill, -but then what an exuberant fancy! Few men had a finer perception of the -beautiful, the το καλον of poetry. He is one of the most Grecian—if I -may use the expression—of our poets. Shelley, perhaps, was more deeply -imbued with the Attic spirit, but then, although his heart was always -right, his intellect was always wrong, and thus it happens that his -poetry is often mystic, obscure, and even confused. Keats was not so. He -had this freshness without its mysticism. He delighted in themes drawn -from classic fountains, in allusions breathing of Thessaly and the gods. -There was in many of his poems a voluptuousness approaching to -effeminacy, reminding one of the Aphrodite in her own fragrant bowers. -In others of his poems there was an Arcadian sweetness. What is finer -than his ode to the Grecian Urn? Do you remember the opening? - - “Thou still unravished bride of quietness! - Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, - Sylvan historian who canst thus express - A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: - What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape - Of deities, or mortals, or of both, - In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? - What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? - What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? - What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstacy?” - -Delicious, is it not? You seem to be in classic Greece itself, amid the -groves of Academus, by the fountain of Castaly, beneath the -god-encircled Olympus. You can hear the Dorian flutes, you can see the -daughters of Ionia. There are the priest and his assistants leading the -flower-decked heifer to the altar—lo! a group of bacchantes singing and -dancing through the vale. And high up yonder is the snowy temple of -Jove—a picture for the gods! - -You shake your head—you have no taste for classic allusions. Egad! I -remember, you are a devotee of the German literature, and admire nothing -which is not of the romantic school, Well, well—have you ever read “The -Eve of St. Agnes?” It is—let me tell you—the poem for which Keats will -be loved, and you ought to walk barefooted a thousand miles, like an -ancient pilgrim to Loretto, for having neglected to peruse this poem. It -is not so fine as Hyperion, but then the latter is a fragment. It is as -superior to Endymion as a star to a satellite. It pleases me more than -Lamia or Isabella. It has the glow of a landscape seen through a rosy -glass—it is warm and blushing, yet pure as a maiden in her first -exceeding beauty. As Burgundy is to other wines, as a bride blushing to -her lover’s side is to other virgins, so is “The Eve of St. Agnes” to -other poems. What luxuriance of fancy, what scope of language, what -graphic power it displays! It is a love story, and right witchingly -told. How exquisite the description of Madeline, her moonlit chamber, -her awakening from her dream, and the delicious intoxicating emotions -which break on her when she learns that she loves and is beloved. Ah! -sir, we are old now, but I never read this poem without thinking of the -time when I first pressed my own Mary to my side, and felt her little -warm heart beating against my own. Egad, I will just skip over “The Eve -of St. Agnes,” to pass the time away while we finish this bottle. - -The poem opens with a graphic picture of a winter’s night. Draw closer -to the grate, for—by my ancestry!—it is a freezing theme. I will read. - - “St. Agnes’ eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! - The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; - The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, - And silent was the flock in woolly fold: - Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told - His rosary, and while his frosted breath, - Like pious incense from a censer old, - Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death, - Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.” - -The poet then proceeds to describe a festive scene, amid which is one -fair lady, whose heart had throbbed all day on love, she having heard -old dames tell that maidens might, on St. Agnes’ eve, behold their -lovers in dreams, if they observed certain mystic ceremonies. The lovely -Madeline has resolved to follow the old legend, and she sighs, amid her -suitors, for midnight to arrive. Then goes the story thus: - - “Meantime, across the moors, - Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire - For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, - Buttress’d from moonlight, stands he, and implores - All saints to give him sight of Madeline, - But for one moment in the tedious hours, - That he might gaze and worship all unseen; - Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have - been.” - -In that vast mansion, amid all that gay party, young Porphyro has but -one friend, an old beldame, for all the rest are athirst for his blood -and that of his line. While watching thus, the beldame discovers him and -beseeches him to fly. He refuses. In her garrulous entreaty she reveals -to Porphyro that his mistress intends playing the conjurer to discover -who shall be her lover. He eagerly makes a proposition, to which the old -dame objects in horror, but after many protestations on his part and a -rash declaration that otherwise he will reveal himself to his foes, she -finally consents. And what was his proposition? Let the poet tell. It -was - - ——“To lead him, in close secrecy, - Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide - Him in a closet, of such privacy - That he might see her beauty unespied, - And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, - While legion’d fairies paced the coverlet, - And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.” - -The old dame accordingly leads the lover, through many a dusky gallery, -to the maiden’s chamber, and then, hurriedly hiding him in a closet, is -feeling in the dark on the landing for the stair, - - “When Madeline, St. Agnes’ charmed maid, - Rose, like a missioned spirit unaware: - With silver taper’s light, and pious care, - She turn’d, and down the aged gossip led - To a safe level matting.” - -Ah! we have few Madelines now-a-days. I love her for that act, as I -would love an only daughter. Well may the poet exultingly say after -this— - - “Now prepare, - Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; - She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed and fled.” - -The whole picture that follows is purity itself. We wish the wind would -whistle less loudly without—there! it dies away as if in homage to this -maiden soft. Shut your eyes and dream, while I read in whispers. - - “Out went the taper as she hurried in; - Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: - She closed the door, she panted, all akin - To spirits of the air, and visions wide: - No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! - But to her heart, her heart was voluble, - Paining with eloquence her balmy side; - As though a tongueless nightingale should swell - Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. - - A casement high and triple-arched there was, - All garlanded with carven imageries - Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot grass, - And diamonded with panes of quaint device, - Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, - As are the tiger moth’s deep damask’d wings. - And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries, - And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, - A shielded ’scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and kings. - - Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, - And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast, - As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon: - Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, - And on her silver cross soft amethyst, - And on her hair a glory like a saint: - She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, - Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint: - She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. - - Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, - Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; - Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; - Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees - Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: - Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, - Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, - In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, - But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. - - Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, - In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay, - Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d - Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; - Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; - Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain; - Clasp’d like a missal where swart Paynims pray, - Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, - As though a rose should shut, and be a rose again.” - -And now, when the maiden is all asleep, her lover steals from his hiding -place, and mixing a charm, kneels by her bedside, and while his warm -unnerved arm sinks in her pillow, he whispers to her that he is her -eremite, and beseeches her for sweet Agnes’ sake to open her eyes. But -the maiden, lying there in her holy sleep, awakes not. At length he -takes her lute, and kneeling by her ear, plays an ancient ditty. She -utters a soft moan. He ceases—she pants quick—and suddenly her blue -eyes open in affright, while her lover sinks again on his knees, pale as -a sculptured statue. And Madeline awakening, and thinking that her -blissful dream is over, begins to weep. At length she finds vent for her -words, and are they not sweet as the complainings of a dove? - - “Ah! Porphyro!” said she “but even now - Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, - Made tunable with every sweetest vow; - And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: - How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! - Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, - Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! - O leave me not in this eternal woe, - For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go.” - -If you have ever been young, and heard, for the first time, the blushing -confession of her you loved in doubt and danger, you can form some -conception of the bewildering joy which seized Porphyro at this. Egad! -sir, I would give ten years of my life—old as I am—to enjoy such -rapture. But no tongue except that of the poet can even shadow forth his -ecstacy. Ah! to be loved is bliss, but to be loved by a Madeline—! - - “Beyond a mortal man impassioned far - At these voluptuous accents, he arose, - Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star - Seen ’mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose; - Into her dream he melted, as the rose - Blendeth its odor with this violet,— - Solution sweet:” - -You can see the end of all this as well as I can, for though never has -other mortal than Porphyro breathed the language of love into the ears -of one like Madeline, yet we have all pleaded more than once in the ears -of angels only one remove less beautiful. Shut your eyes, and fancy you -see the lover kneeling by the bedside of that white-armed one, fragrant -and pure as a lily in the overshadowed brook—lovelier than an Imogen, -whose very breath perfumes the chamber. Hear her low complainings when -she fancies that her lover is about to desert her. Are they not more -musical than the zephyrs sighing through the moonlit pines? And then how -soothing is Porphyro, and how delicately he allays her fears. Ah! the -moon is down, and the chamber is in darkness—and there, as I live, the -rain-drops are pattering against the casement. Now is thy time, bold -Porphyro—St. Agnes will befriend thee—urge, urge that sweet lady, with -all thy eloquence, to seize the chance and fly amid the confusion. We -know how it will end! Love ever wins the day—and is not Madeline yet -all blushing with her dream? And so—and so—hear the rest! - - “She hurried at the words, beset with fears, - For there were sleeping dragons all around, - At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears— - Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found,— - In all the house was heard no human sound. - A chain-dropp’d lamp was flickering by each door; - The arras, rich with horsemen, hawk, and hound, - Fluttered in the besieging wind’s uproar; - And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. - - They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; - Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, - Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, - With a huge empty flagon by his side: - The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, - But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: - By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:— - The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones; - The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. - - And they are gone: ay, ages long ago - These lovers fled away into the storm. - That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, - And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form - Of witch, and demon, and large coffin worm, - Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old - Died palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform; - The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, - For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.” - -Who, after that, will say that Keats was not a genius? But “Hyperion,” -though less complete than this poem, evinces—let me tell you—even more -of the “_mens divinior_.” “The Eve of St. Agnes” is warm, voluptuous, -luxuriant, yet pure as a quiet pool with silver sand below—but -“Hyperion” is bold, impassioned and colossal, Miltonic even in its -grandeur, overpowering at times as a thunder-storm among the mountains. -Would God that Keats had lived to finish it! With many faults, it -evinces more genius than any poem since written in our language. Hear -the speeches of the Titans!—read the description of Apollo!—drink in -the intoxication of its less sublime but more beautiful passages! It -often exhibits a redundant fancy—the style is at times affected, and -the choice of words bad—the execution is careless, though less so than -that of Endymion—and, above all, the plan of the poem, so far as it has -been developed, bears an unhappy resemblance to Milton’s Paradise Lost. -Yet it displays such extraordinary genius, that we will never forgive -the Quarterly for having disheartened Keats from the completion of this -poem. Ah! sir, what has the world lost? - -I repeat it, I am an Epicurean. Fame!—immortality!—what are they? We -wear out our lives for a bauble, and coin our souls away to purchase -dross. We dig our own graves and call it GLORY. Away with such -sophistry! Go over the melancholy list of unfortunate genius—White, -Collins, Keats, Chatterton and the rest—and tell me what they reaped -except thorns! Ah! sir, it melts my heart with pity—I must take a glass -on it. But, I declare, the bottle’s out, and—by my halidome!—here is -Oliver asleep. - - J. S. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE AFFAIR AT TATTLETOWN. - - - BY EPES SARGEANT. - - -It is very questionable whether the reader has ever heard a true and -impartial account of the affair at Tattletown. So many exaggerated -versions have been put forth—so many garbled and malicious reports in -regard to it, have been propagated—that the world is likely to be -either unduly prejudiced against one of the parties, or wholly in doubt -as to the merits of both. It is with an emotion of pride, that I take up -my pen with the consciousness of being able to throw light upon this -interesting, but mysterious subject. - -There have been many changes in Tattletown during the last twenty years. -Of this fact I became assured the last summer, when, by the way of a -parenthesis in a tour to the White Hills, I branched off from my -prescribed route to visit the little village where I had spent so many -pleasant days in boyhood. What a change! It used to be one of the -quietest, greenest, most sequestered nooks in the world, with its single -wide street, bordered by venerable elms, and its shady by-roads -radiating in every direction, and dotted with white cottages embosomed -in clouds of verdure. - -And then its inn! its single, unpretending inn, with its simple -flag-staff, its modest piazza, and its cool, clean parlor, with the vase -of asparagus upon the freshly reddened hearth-stone! Its sleeping-rooms -with their snow-white curtains and coverlets, and the rustling foliage -against their windows—what a temptation it was to enter them of a warm -summer afternoon! Now, forsooth, the respectable old tenement is -replaced by a hotel. I beg pardon—a _house_, built after the style of -the Parthenon, its sides painted very white, and its blinds very green. -The bar-room is floored with tesselated squares of marble, and there is -a white marble counter, behind which presides a spruce young man with -long dark hair plastered over his right ear, and an emerald breast-pin -on his shirt bosom. Nay, it is rumored that the landlord has serious -designs of introducing a gong in the place of the good old-fashioned -bell of our forefathers. What is the country coming to? - -Within my remembrance, the people of Tattletown were the best natured, -most industrious and contented people alive. Every evening in summer -their patriarchs might be seen sitting in front of their -woodbine-covered porches, smoking their pipes and talking over old -times, while groups of ruddy, riotous children, flaxen-haired and -blue-eyed, danced to the strains of some village Paganini. Poor, -deluded, miserable Tattletonians! What a sight was it for the -philanthropist to grieve at! Little knew they, of the errors and vices -of the social system! They had not read Miss Martineau’s tracts; knew -nothing of Owenism, nothing of Grahamism, nothing of transcendentalism, -nothing of Fourierism, nothing of Mormonism. The “Society for the -promotion of every thing,” had not established a branch among them. They -were benighted, uninitiated; contented to live as their fathers had -lived before them; to pluck the rose and leave the thorn behind; to keep -their linen and their consciences clean, and to remain at peace with all -mankind. - -Then the belles of the village—how beautiful they were! how artless! -how adorned with every sylvan grace! Now they all seem to have lost the -heritage of loveliness. They look didactic, sedentary and precocious. -There is not the same bloom on the cheek—the same sparkle in the -eye—the same ruby mischief on the lip. Instead of cultivating their -music and their flower-gardens, working flags for the Tattletown -“Guardians of Liberty,” and teaching the children their catechisms on -Sundays, they are meddling with matters that they have not the means of -comprehending, establishing _anti-everything_ societies, and fussing -over phrenology and other newfangled heresies. Instead of a vase of -freshly gathered flowers upon their shelves, you are now greeted by a -vile plaster bust, with the skull phrenologically mapped out, and -figured. I never encounter one of the odious things, without putting my -fist in its face. - -A religious revolution has, of course, been introduced among the other -mutations. Instead of one well-filled church, where all the villagers -may meet as members of one family, Tattletown can now boast of half a -dozen sectarian societies, which are eternally at war with one another. -Poor old Dr. Balmwell, who is still the meekest of God’s creatures, and -whose annual salary would not equal the one night’s wages of a -second-rate theatrical star, is denounced as a “haughty, over-fed -prelate,” “the advocate of an established church,” and a “vile minion of -the aristocracy.” Many a fair maiden is content to go with holes in her -stockings, in order that she may contribute to the “society for the -support of indigent young men intended for the ministry!” - - “Dear smiling village! loveliest of the lawn! - Thy joys are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn.” - -As for politics—but here I approach the subject which was uppermost in -my mind at starting. All the world knows that there are, or rather used -to be, two rival newspapers published at Tattletown, the editors of -which manage to keep the poor people in a perpetual ferment. There is -the Tattletown Independent American, edited by Mr. Snobb! and the -Tattletown _Free_ and Independent American, edited by Mr. Fobb. The -former is the longer established of the two, and, as the public are well -aware, is conservative in its tone. Fobb’s hebdomadal, on the contrary, -is characterised by the spirit of innovation. If a doctrine be new, -startling, incredible, abrupt, violating all preconceived notions and -prejudices, it commends itself at once to Fobb’s acceptance. He will -urge it with a boldness and pertinacity that confound the unthinking. To -incur his opposition, it is only necessary that a principle should be -old and well established. His morality would seem to resemble that of -the tribe, with whom it is a custom to kill all their old men and women. -Age is with him the worst of crimes, and the most penal. Novelty is the -first of charms. - -Strange as it may seem, Fobb has his devoted admirers and active -supporters. As for Snobb, I am credibly informed, that, disgusted with -the supineness of the Tattletonians, he had at one time resolved to -relinquish the publication of the “Independent American,” when, -unexpectedly, the field was invaded by Fobb with his “Free and -Independent.” Then it was that the patriotism and disinterestedness of -Snobb’s character shone conspicuous. He was, to use his own vigorous -expression, determined to stand to his guns, and however great might be -the pecuniary sacrifice, to remain in the village to combat the -pernicious influence, which, “like the Bohon Upas,” I quote Snobb’s own -words—“would spread poison and desolation among families and -communities.” Snobb wound off his appeal, by calling upon all, who -valued their liberty and their lives; who would save their country from -intestine confusion and slaughter; who would keep unstained the altar of -domestic felicity, and transmit unimpaired that glorious fabric of -constitutional right, cemented by the blood of martyred ancestors—to -rally round him and the Independent American. “Any person obtaining five -subscribers,” said he in conclusion, “shall receive a sixth copy -gratis.” - -It is difficult to conceive of the degree of excitement produced in -Tattletown by this fulmination, on the part of Snobb, and the subsequent -establishment of the “Free and Independent American,” on the part of -Fobb. Such a thing as neutrality could no longer exist. Great and vital -principles were at stake; and from the squire to the tinman’s -apprentice, it was necessary that every man should take one side or the -other—should be either a Snobbite or a Fobbite. Both journals were -benefited by this agitation. New subscribers poured in daily, and a fund -was raised by the partisans of each establishment for the more effectual -prosecution of the war. And what was the war about? To this day nobody -can tell. - -Personalities now began to be interchanged. Snobb gave Fobb the lie -direct, and defied him to prove a statement which had appeared in the -“Free and Independent,” accusing Snobb of highway robbery, arson and -other little peccadilloes. Fobb treated Snobb’s defiance with an easy -irony, which bewildered the good people of Tattletown, who began to -think that Fobb must know a good deal more of Snobb than other people. -The following answer appeared in the “Independent American:” - -“We must apologise to our readers for again polluting our columns with -an allusion to the reckless traducer, whose journal of yesterday came -forth reeking with slanders against ourselves. It would be charitable, -perhaps, to attribute to a diseased intellect, rather than a malicious -temper, these ebullitions of mendacity, but the motive is too obviously -bad. We can assure this poor creature, this beggarly reprobate and -unwashed scribbler, that mere declamation is not proof, and that -assertion carries no weight when unsustained by evidence. If he can keep -sober long enough, let him reply to the question which we once more -reiterate, ‘where are your proofs?’” - -It was with intense anxiety that the citizens of Tattletown looked for -the next number of the “Free and Independent.” Never before had Snobb -been so severe, so savage. Fobb’s rejoinder excited public interest in -the quarrel, to a painful degree. It was as follows: - -“The guilty fugitive from justice, whom it is with shame we acknowledge -as our contemporary, attempts to invalidate our charges by clamoring for -proofs. We beg him to reflect a moment before he repeats his call. If he -has sincerely striven to make reparation for past misdemeanors, by a -life comparatively guiltless—if there be any hope or prospect of -reformation in his case—most reluctantly would we be instrumental in -re-consigning him to the States-prison or the gallows. Before, -therefore, we come out with any statements, that shall be universally -admitted as final and conclusive as to the character of this man, we -will put a few questions which he will understand, however enigmatical -they may be to others. Did Snobb ever make the acquaintance of Miss -Amanda W——? Did he ever see a white crape scarf that used to belong to -that ill-fated young lady? Does he remember the circumstance of an old -pruning-knife being found beneath a cherry-tree? Has he still got _that -red silk hankerchief_?” - -I must leave it for some more graphic pen—to the author of “Jack -Sheppard” or “Barnaby Rudge,” to depict the consternation and horror -produced among the Tattletonians by this publication. Could it be that -Tattletown harbored a murderer? What other interpretation could be put -upon the diabolical insinuations in Fobb’s paper? For a week and more -nothing was talked of but this article. At the post office—the tinman’s -shop—the grocer’s—on the steps of the meeting-houses, no other topic -was broached. With unprecedented eagerness the next number of Snobb’s -paper was looked for and purchased. The only allusion it contained to -Fobb’s ferocious attack was in these simple lines: “As we shall make the -insinuations contained in the last number of the Tattletown Free and -Independent the subject of a judicial investigation, it is quite -unnecessary for us to bestow any farther notice upon the miserable -calumniator, who is striving to get into notice by means of the -attention he may provoke from ourselves.” - -Tattletown was disappointed in this rejoinder, and began to entertain -its suspicions as to the truth of Fobb’s intimations. The old women of -the place began to shake their heads and look wise, when the subject was -broached. “They _must_ say they always thought there was something -wrong—something not altogether _easy_ about Mr. Snobb. They hoped for -the best, but there _were_ things—however murder will out.” The fate of -the injured “Amanda” was a topic of endless speculation among the more -youthful of the feminine inhabitants; and there was a delightful mystery -about the “white crape scarf,” which afforded an exhaustless pabulum for -curiosity. Snobb must certainly clear up his character. He must explain -the circumstances in regard to that “ill-fated young lady.” He must tell -the public what became of “that red silk handkerchief.” Above all, he -must satisfactorily account for the horrible fact of the old -pruning-knife being found under the cherry-tree. - -In the meantime Fobb declared that he was daily and hourly environed -with the perils of assassination. He was obliged to go armed, to protect -himself from the minions of the culprit Snobb. His fearless devotion to -the cause of truth and justice had “sharpened daggers that were -thirsting for his blood—but what was life compared with the proud -satisfaction of having maintained the cause of the people, - - ‘Unmoved by flattery and unbribed by gain?’” - -In the midst of the excitement produced by this war of words, Tattletown -was electrified one fine morning in December, by the report, that Snobb -and Fobb had gone over to the neighboring village of Bungville to settle -their differences by mortal combat. Two spruce young men from New York -had arrived in the stage-coach the night before, and put up at the -Tattletown house. _They had brought guns with them_; and early that -morning the two editors, similarly armed and equipped, had started off -with the strangers in a wagon belonging to the latter, in the direction -of the village already named. As these facts became currently known -among the Tattletonians the sensation was prodigious. A meeting of the -“select men” was instantly called, and a committee of five, consisting -of Mr. Fuzz, the retired “squire of the village,” Mr. Rattle, the -tinman, Mr. Ponder, the celebrated lecturer on matters and things in -general, Mr. Rumble the auctioneer, and Mr. Blister the apothecary, were -appointed to proceed on horseback to Bungville, and prevent if possible -the duel—or, if that had transpired, to arrest the survivor and the -seconds. - -Headed by Mr. Fuzz, the cavalcade started off in gallant style, followed -by the prayers and anxious entreaties of the gentler sex to prevent if -possible the “effusion of blood.” Miss Celestina Scragg, the poetess of -the village, and the author of the celebrated ode to that beautiful -stream, the Squamkeog, came very near being thrown under the hoofs of -the squire’s horse, as she appealed to Mr. Fuzz, and besought him to -rescue Albert, as she tenderly designated Mr. Fobb, or “perish in the -attempt.” - -After riding hard for about an hour, the committee approached the -Bungville house, where they determined to make their first inquiries as -to the fate of the editors and their seconds. Mr. Buzz, the landlord, -was a brisk, officious little man, who always knew before you spoke what -you were going to say, and rarely listened to more than the two first -words of any question you might put to him. He was, moreover, a little -deaf, so that the habit of anticipation was, perhaps, as much a matter -of necessity as of choice. - -“Have we arrived too late?” asked Fuzz. - -“Oh, by more than an hour. It is all over,” replied Buzz, who supposed -that the inquiry had reference to the dinner hour. - -“It is all over, gentlemen,” said Fuzz, in a magisterial tone, turning -to his awe-stricken companions. “Has any one been killed or wounded?” -continued he, addressing the landlord. - -“Killed, indeed? I guess you would think so,” exclaimed Buzz. “They have -shot one fine, plump fellow.” - -“It is probably Snobb. He is the plump one,” said Fuzz, contracting his -lips, and looking sternly round at the members of the committee. “Did he -fall dead on the spot?” he rejoined. - -“Dead as Julius Cæsar—I may say very dead,” replied Buzz. - -“Serious business this, gentlemen,” said Fuzz, dilating with importance. - -Here Mr. Rattle, the tinman, was seen to mount his horse and gallop off -in the direction of Tattletown. He was determined to be the first to -communicate the news of the catastrophe. - -“There will be no need of your services, Mr. Blister,” said Fuzz, -bestowing a patronizing glance upon the apothecary. “Have the seconds -escaped, Mr. Buzz?” - -“Yes, the second one escaped, but with a bullet in his neck. They -tracked him a mile or two by his blood.” - -“Dreadful!” muttered Mr. Blister. “So Fobb is wounded! I will just ride -back and inform Miss Scragg of the fact. She will go into hysterics, and -I shall get a job.” And so saying, the apothecary mounted his horse, and -followed in Rattle’s track. - -“What have you done with the killed, Mr. Buzz?” - -“Oh, we have skinned him, and hung him up to dry, to be sure. One of the -gents _would_ have a slice of him for dinner, but he found it rather -tough eating I suspect; not quite equal to the ducks.” - -“What!” exclaimed Fuzz, turning pale and starting back with horror. “Are -they cannibals?” - -“Yes, to be sure,” responded Buzz, who did not fully comprehend the -question. - -“Gentlemen, we must pursue the guilty fugitives,” said the squire. “What -direction did they take, landlord? No equivocation, sir. The law will -bear us out in adopting the most rigorous measures. Where are they?” - -“Bless me, they are cosily seated at dinner in my little back parlor. I -wouldn’t interrupt them now. It may make them mad.” - -“Landlord! Lead us to them at once—at once, I say,” exclaimed Fuzz, -turning very red about the gills. - -“Well, squire, don’t talk so loud. I will show you the way, but mind -that I say I shouldn’t wonder if they resented it.” - -Buzz led the way through a long entry to a door, which he pointed out to -the squire as communicating with the apartment where the “young -gentlemen” were assembled. It needed not his words to convince Fuzz and -his two remaining companions of this fact. A noise of uproarious mirth, -mingled with the jingling of glasses, the clash of plates and the -stamping of feet, plainly foretold the state of things within. Fuzz -buttoned his coat, and tried to look undismayed. - -“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “stand by me. Don’t flinch.” - -He made a bold step forward, but as his palm approached the door-handle, -an explosion of laughter, loud and long, made him recoil like a man who -has barely saved himself from falling over a precipice. He looked at his -associates, puffed out his cheeks, and seemed to be gathering energy for -a renewed essay. Again he stopped suddenly, and assuming a look of -unwonted sagacity, remarked that it was best to proceed gently and -craftily about the business. Then motioning the bystanders to keep -silence, he cautiously turned the handle of the door, and, opening it an -inch or two, stealthily looked in upon the convivial party. It consisted -of four nice young men. They were seated at a round table, which was -plentifully covered with bottles, decanters, glasses, and the remains of -a dessert. Two of the party were strangers to Fuzz, but the other two -were, marvellous to behold, no other than Fobb and Snobb, not seamed -with ghastly wounds, but quaffing champagne and clapping each other on -the back with the affectionate familiarity of old friends. - -At this spectacle, Fuzz was no less amazed than he would have been, had -he seen one of the editors trussed, spitted and “done to a turn,” served -up in a big dish on the table, while the other was flourishing his knife -with the savory anticipation of making a meal of him. Cautiously -shutting the door, Fuzz communicated the astounding fact to his brethren -of the committee, and then reopening the door so that they might hear -without seeing or being seen, they listened “with all their ears.” - -“Yes, gentlemen,” said the voice of Fobb in tones of mock solemnity, -“you behold in that abandoned individual, my unworthy brother Zeke -Peabody, otherwise known as Simon Snobb—you behold in him, I repeat, -the ruthless, unhung murderer of the unfortunate Amanda W——.” - -Here a roar of obstreperous laughter, in which Snobb’s lungs seemed to -crow like chanticleer, interrupted the speaker for a moment. He -continued: - -“If you ask me for proofs, consider for a moment the fact of the red -silk handkerchief—the white crape scarf—the old pruning-knife that was -found under the cherry-tree. If these circumstances be not enough to -convict that cowering culprit—then pass along the champagne, and fill -to my toast.” - -“Fill to Fobb’s toast!” exclaimed three voices amid shouts of laughter. - -“My toast,” said Fobb, “is one that cannot fail to be appreciated by -this intelligent company. You, my dear Timms, will drink to it with a -tear in your eye, for are you not the immortal inventor of the -world-renowned Tricogrophpophphlogidion, that invaluable and -never-to-be-sufficiently-commended preparation for the hair, by merely -spreading which over a wig-block, you find there the next morning, a -beautiful, curly wig, redundant and glossy? And you, O modest and -retiring Jones, are not you the man that, by your grandfather’s -celebrated pills, have rejuvenated suffering humanity? Have you not -‘floored consumption,’ and broken the back of dispepsia? Isn’t it a -man’s own fault now if he is sick? Do not children cry for your -incomparable lozenges? Are they not a blessing to mothers, and a curse -to the doctors? Cannot a hand-cart-man, with your powerful ‘poor man’s -plaster’ on his back, draw fifty times the weight that he could without -it? Estimable, philanthropic Jones! Posterity will do you justice. And -you, brother Zeke, in Tattletown known as Snobb, where shall we find an -editor in the country who can fight windmills and make people think they -are devouring despots with a better grace than yourself? My own -accomplishments modesty forbids me to speak at length; but I flatter -myself, that the story of Amanda W—— and the pruning-knife—and my -eloquent denunciations of the monster, Snobb—are not unworthy specimens -of those talents which entitle me to rank myself in your fraternity, and -to participate in the emotions, which the sentiment I am now about to -offer is calculated to excite. I will give you, gentlemen: _Vive la -humbug!_” - -Hardly had the peals of laughter consequent upon this prolonged sally -subsided, when Fuzz, who was holding on to the door by the handle, being -pressed upon from behind by his own companions, and two or three -bar-room loungers, whom the sound of speech-making had attracted to the -spot, suddenly let the handle slip from his grasp, whereupon the whole -body of eaves-droppers, preceded by the squire, were precipitated into -the room, where the two editors and their friends were at their revels. -Imagining it to be a hostile invasion, the four friends, whose tempers -had been pretty well primed with champagne, immediately “squared off,” -and showed their “science.” - -Fuzz was greeted by Timms with what the latter was pleased to call “a -settler in his bread-basket,” which had the effect of lifting him from -his feet, and spinning him into a corner of the room with a most -unmagisterial celerity. Mr. Ponder, the “celebrated lecturer on matters -and things in general,” was attended to in the most prompt manner by -Jones, who, as he technically expressed himself, “punished him by a dig -in his dice-box,” meaning that his blow took effect somewhere in the -region of his teeth. As for Rumble, the auctioneer, he was knocked down -by a bottle in the hand of Snobb, like an old remnant of goods disposed -of under his own hammer. The rest of the invaders met with due attention -from Fobb, who broke two chairs over as many heads. - -The battle was speedily fought and won. The committee sent by the select -men of Tattletown returned home that night in melancholy disarray, and -imprecating vengeance upon their assailants. There was an immediate -demand in the village for brown paper and vinegar, court plaster and -lint. It was long before Mr. Ponder could deliver another lecture at the -new Lyceum, owing to the disfigurement of his countenance. As for Snobb -and Fobb, who were in fact the originators of the whole mischief, they -issued no more numbers of their sprightly papers. The “Independent,” and -the “Free and Independent” were abruptly stopped. The two brother -editors were never more seen in Tattletown. The last I heard of them, -one was lecturing on Animal Magnetism, while the other accompanied him -as a subject for his experiments. Their wonderful feats in clairvoyance -have been so trumpeted by the country press, that it is unnecessary for -me to allude to them more minutely. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE OLD MAN RETURNED HOME. - - - BY G. G. FOSTER. - - - The dews fall softly from the dropping skies, - And winds are dallying with the wanton flowers, - That like young maidens in their coy retreats - Unveil their beauties for the spirit stars - Alone to gaze on.—Age, they say, dries up - The fountain of enthusiasm, and the hues - That morning sunlight pictures in the wave, - Shrink like scared spirits away beneath the disc - Of noontide sun, or evening’s cheerless beam. - Now, I have seen old Time’s retreating tide - Leave its white froth upon me—aye, gray hairs - Have sprung from out the furrows of my brain, - As weeds will grow upon the o’erwrought soil, - To tell me that I’m _old_—bid me put off - The misty mantle of life’s morning dreams, - And plod in dull indifference to the grave. - Why, ’tis a lie! I feel the air as fresh— - I scent the fragrance of this beauteous eve - As gratefully—I watch the paling moon - Stealing to her magnificent repose - Behind the starry curtains of the west, - With as unchanged and vigorous delight - As when, a boy, beside my own dear lake - I lay, and saw the same moon kiss the wave - That in strange music murmured out its joy. - The whippoorwill amid the hazel boughs - Sings his old tunes _unchanged_—as are the leaves - And skies and waves that echo it. ’Tis _man_, - And not man’s real _nature_, which dims o’er - The gold of feeling with pernicious rust, - Drawn, like the poison of the asp, from flowers - Which spring forever, would he cherish them, - Within his heart of hearts. - What! I grow old? - I haven’t felt so young for forty years! - And, were it not my mother’s hair is white— - My father dead, and all that’s _human_, changed— - I’d deem the past but as a school-boy’s dream - Over an ill-conned lesson—and awake - To the reality of living joy. - - * * * * * - - - - - STANZAS - - - FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. - - - BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS. - - - “I have a passion” for the budding Spring, - Who clasps the wanton Earth in her embrace, - For, like a glorious vision, she doth bring - Rich fruits and flowers, which the tropics grace; - And shining bands, that make our forests ring - With melodies so rich, that they efface - All thoughts of gloomy winter from my mind, - And leave my heart as free as is the summer wind! - - “I have a passion” for the girdled mountain, - That rears its crowned head beneath the sky, - Which bends above it like a blue, sealed fountain, - Whose waters flow not in those realms on high! - Though many of these hours I cannot count on, - Yet when these glories meet mine eager eye, - I stand entranced upon the mount or lea, - For hours like these are years—are years of bliss to me! - - But more than these, I love the restless sea, - The kingly element!—Its dark blue waves - Were ever like some gentle friends to me! - For oft, in dreams, I’ve wandered through its caves - Like some pale spirit of the dead, now free; - I’ve seen the bright, but tombless “place of graves,” - Where Ocean gathers all his dead to sleep, - The pale and shadowy sleep, which Death’s phantasms keep! - - “I have a passion” for all lovely features - That deck fair nature’s ever glowing face; - Rocks, hills and waves to me seem glorious creatures, - Endowed with life, and majesty, and grace! - They are to us as everlasting teachers, - In whose revealings, truths divine we trace; - They bid us raise, when sad, our tearful eyes, - And seek perfection only ’mid the blissful skies. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BACHELOR’S EXPERIMENT. - - - BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. - - -There are some persons in the world who seem born to evil fortune; they -grow up under the shadow of care, and misfortune dogs their footsteps -like a sleuth-hound eager for his prey. Reversing the old fable of King -Midas, every thing they touch becomes valueless. Their best efforts are -rewarded with disappointment,—their life is a perpetual -struggle,—troubles come not in a host which might be confronted at -once, but in slow and sure succession, one evil being overcome only to -make room for another, until at length the energies of the worn spirit -are all exhausted, and patient endurance is the only trace which still -remains of the high capabilities with which it was originally gifted. -But there are others who are decidedly born to good luck. (Poor Power! -how do we check the career of laughter with a sigh, when some passing -word recalls the inimitable skill with which he ruled the chords of -mirth!) There are people to whom success is a sort of natural -inheritance,—who never put forth a finger to beckon fortune onwards, -and yet find her following in their track, dropping her golden favours -in their way, and smoothing with obsequious care the asperities in their -path of life. Such an one was the hero of the following sketch. - -Mr. Simon D. Waldie, or rather S. De Courcy Waldie, (for thus he always -wrote it; having rather a leaning towards aristocracy even in the -trifling matter of names,) was the son of a highly respectable merchant, -who, conscious of the defects in his own early education, determined to -bestow on his child all the advantages of scholarship. As young De -Courcy exhibited evidences of talent, and indeed was looked upon as a -remarkably precocious boy ere he attained his fifth year, he was early -banished from his paternal roof to the residence of a private tutor in -the country. This plan was adopted in order to rescue him from the -temptations to idleness which exist in large schools, and, so far, it -was very judicious. But to a constitution naturally delicate and a -temper exceedingly reserved, a public school offered some advantages -which were not to be found in the home of a secluded student, and the -want of which had no small influence on the future life of young De -Courcy. Shut out from other companionship than that of his pedantic -tutor, he devoted himself to study with most indefatigable zeal, and his -close application was rewarded by the attainment of the highest honours, -when called to pass through the ordeal of a collegiate examination. - -Of course all those who were interested in his future welfare -anticipated great results from this early development of mind. But in -the education of the young student one most material point had been -forgotten. He had been taught to labor but no object had been offered to -his future attainment:—he had learned to delve the classic mine but he -knew not how to coin the fine gold he there discovered:—he had been -trained to run a race without having any fixed goal to direct his steps. -His life was a perfectly aimless one,—he had no definite end in view. -His father’s competent fortune placed him above the necessity of seeking -a livelihood, and nothing short of absolute want seemed likely to drive -the solitary student into the haunts of men. When desired to choose a -profession he was utterly confounded. The various claims of Law, Gospel -and Physic were placed before him in every possible light; but they were -exhibited after his habits of desultory thought and profitless study had -become too deeply rooted. At first he was inclined to adopt the law; but -a few days attendance on court, (where he heard the finest powers of -reasoning and the noblest gifts of eloquence exerted in behalf of one of -the vilest criminals that ever stood before the bar of Justice,) -sickened him of this profession. “I cannot spend some of the best years -of my life,” said he, “in learning to make the worse appear the better -reason.” The delight with which he sometimes listened to the gifted -preacher, who spoke as if his lips had been ‘touched with a live coal -from the altar,’ tempted him to the study of divinity. But his delicate -sense of duty checked the impulse ere it became a wish, for he dared not -assume the ‘form’ without the ‘spirit of godliness’ or enter into the -‘holy of holies’ with the soil of earth upon his garments’ hem. The -study of medicine attracted him by the facilities which it afforded for -relieving the sufferings of mortality; but the illness of a young friend -showed him the darker side of the picture also. He beheld the weeping -relatives looking up to the medical attendant as if he were an angel -endowed with the power of life and death. He learned how fearful is the -responsibility of him who ministers at the bed of sickness, and how -deeply it is felt by the honest and conscientious physician. He was -disgusted with the heartlessness of those (and there are such) who -calculate a patient’s means of payment ere they enter his sick room; and -he was intimidated by the remembrance of the wear and tear of feeling -which is necessarily suffered by the man of science who puts heart and -soul into his duties at the couch of suffering. Commerce, De Courcy -abhorred, for the details of its busy scenes were little suited to his -reserved habits and refined tastes. Viewed in its fairest light he -recognised it as a noble calling, but those who pursued it were but too -apt to wander with idolatry and bow down before the golden calf. - -So the youth hesitated, and deferred his decision, passing his days amid -his books in the seclusion of his study until his habits of reverie were -rather rudely broken by the sudden death of his father. This startled -him from his torpor and had he been then called to enter upon the active -duties of life, might have aroused him more effectually. But the elder -Mr. Waldie had been one of those careful bodies who trust nothing to -chance. Every thing was in such perfect order, his business was so -admirably arranged, and his will was so precise in its directions that -De Courcy had nothing to do and little to reflect upon. The head clerk -assumed the business and purchased the stock in trade,—the income of -the property was bequeathed to mother and son during life with a -reversion of the whole estate to the survivor, and after the legal forms -had been properly attended to, every thing went on in its usual manner. -The only perceptible difference was that when rents, or interests on -bonds and mortgages became due the bold and flourishing signature of S. -De Courcy Waldie was appended to the receipts instead of the cramped and -queer hieroglyphics which were formerly presumed to designate the name -of his parent. - -There was something in the mode of life peculiarly calculated to cherish -the secluded habits of De Courcy Waldie. Their abode was situated in one -of those narrow gloomy streets, where the sun is only visible at -noonday,—a street which formed, in old times, a portion of the -‘court-end’ of the city, but which is now occupied principally by -elderly proprietors or decayed gentlewomen, who, compelled to live on a -small income, yet unwilling to appear shorn of their former honors, -haunt the scenes of their youthful gaiety, and affect to despise the -upstart ‘nobodies’ of B—— Street and —— Place. The tall, dusky -houses stand wedged in close array, looking upon their opposite -neighbors like a row of their old time-worn spinsters in an old -fashioned contra-dance; in one of these sleepy-looking mansions, resided -the Waldie family. Every thing in the house bore evidences of Dutch -neatness in housekeeping. The faded but unworn carpets were the same -which had been the wonder of the neighborhood when the parents of our -hero were first married; the carved chairs belonged to that -perpendicular race now rarely to be found except in rubbish rooms; the -narrow necked china jars on the high chimney-piece were relics of a -by-gone age; and the tall clock, standing in the very spot where it had -been placed thirty years before, rolled its Ethiop eyes, and ticked its -monotonous warnings in a most drowsy and slumber-inducing voice. Dark -heavy curtains in winter, and yellow Venitian half-blinds in summer, -added to the gloomy appearance of apartments in which the sun never -shone. The sound of the clock, the low purr of the cat as she stretched -her overgrown body on the soft hearth-rug, and the dull clicking of Mrs. -Waldie’s knitting-needles, which she plied with unceasing assiduity, -alone broke the deep silence of the apartment, and the most sincere -votary of indolence could scarcely have imagined a more comfortable sort -of domestic “sleepy-hollow.” - -Here would Mr. De Courcy Waldie sit hour after hour, pondering over some -learned treatise, digging out Greek roots, exhausting his ingenuity in -patching up some mutilated fragment of antiquity, and occasionally, by -way of light reading, arousing himself with the Latin Poets, but never -condescending to look into any thing which could not boast the musty -flavor of past ages, except the daily newspapers. It is not strange that -a man of such habits should soon learn to mistake _reverie_ for -_reflection_, and _feasible projects_ for _good resolutions_. There was -always something which he meant to do at some future time. He would tilt -himself back in his chair, plant his feet against the chimney-piece, -and, with a cigar in his mouth, indulge those vague and pleasant but -idle dreams, which such men are apt to dignify with the name of -thoughts. The household went on with a kind of mechanical regularity. -The important affairs of indoor life were managed by two old servants, -who, before the abolition of slavery in New York, had been the property -of Mr. Waldie, and had been carefully trained in all the duties of their -station, (a class, by the way, who make the very best domestics, but who -are now almost extinct; thanks to the spirit of philanthropy, which has -thrown them upon their own resources and left them to die by want, vice -and intemperance.) Mrs. Waldie walked into the kitchen every morning, -and gave, or fancied she gave directions for the day; but Dinah needed -no such watchfulness,—she knew her business and went about it as -regularly as if she were wound up like the clock every Saturday night. - -In the early part of his life it had been suggested that De Courcy ought -to look out for a wife. But the idea of returning into a throng of giddy -giggling girls, was quite too trying to the poor youth’s feelings. He -was sometimes conscious of an emotion of pleasure when, as he sat at the -head of his pew in church, his eye fell upon the rosy cheek and bright -eye of some fair damsel. Yet he only admired at a respectful distance, -for a single word from a lady, or even the necessity of touching his hat -to her in the street, would crimson his face with the painful blush of -most officious modesty. If perchance he did venture to play the -agreeable to some female less volatile than her companions, his -constrained manner and pedantic compliments evinced a much more intimate -acquaintance with the Daphnes and Chloes of antiquity, than with the -luring, breathing, captivating beauties of the nineteenth century. By -degrees all hope of taming the shy young student was relinquished. His -female contemporaries married less intractable individuals, and long -before he had made up his mind as to the propriety of assuming the -responsibilities of wedlock, a second race of giggling girls was -springing up around him. However he seemed quite contented with his -celibacy. Perhaps some of my readers may consider this as a very -integral portion of the good fortune which had fallen to his lot, and -this I will not venture to dispute, for to a man of his dreamy temper -and indolent habits, a wife would have been a positive annoyance—unless -indeed, he could have found a sister to the inimitable “_fat boy_” of -Pickwick. - -Matters went on very smoothly with De Courcy Waldie until he had -attained that awkward corner in man’s life, which must be turned, and -the pathway from which leads rather down hill. Mr. De Courcy Waldie -reached his forty-fifth birth-day, ere he had decided upon a profession -or concluded to take a wife, but his time had glided away so calmly, -that he scarcely noted its loss, till a second domestic bereavement -aroused him. Quiet old ladies, who do not trouble themselves about their -neighbors and never talk scandal, generally spin out life to its most -attenuated thread, and thus Mrs. Waldie dozed away until she had -completed her eighty-fourth year, when she fell into a sound sleep from -which she never woke. It was not until the bustle attendant upon the -funeral, had subsided, that the son had time to think of his loss, and -then, when left to the utter solitude of his home—for the first time in -his life he was sensible of actual profound grief. He did not know how -essential his mother’s presence had become to him. He was so accustomed -to see her in the warmest corner in winter, and by the recess of the -window in summer, that the apartment seemed to have lost, not only one -of its inmates, but part of its furniture. Her tiny work-table and easy -chair still held their wonted place, but she who was almost a part of -them, was gone forever, and a feeling of loneliness took possession of -his heart. He knew not, until the form of that revered parent was hidden -from his sight, how often his eye had wandered from the page of his -favourite book, to rest on her placid face. He remembered how carefully -she had studied his tastes, how scrupulously she had obeyed his wishes, -how well she had adapted herself to his peculiar habits; and when he -reflected upon the different degree of his grief at the loss of his -father, he began to think that there was something in the nature of -woman particularly calculated to make man happy. This thought was -followed by regret at not having secured a continuance of womanly -tenderness for his future life. In the natural order of events, he must -long outlive his mother, and who would have supplied her place, like a -devoted wife. Mr. De Courcy Waldie began to wish he was married. - -The longer he dreamed over this new idea, however, the more his -difficulties seemed to increase. He thought of the pretty delicate girls -whom he had admired in his college days, but he recollected them now as -fat comfortable matrons, or thin, withered spinsters; and he looked in -his mirror as if to discover whether age had made the same havoc with -his appearance. But the daily use of the said useful appendage of the -toilet had rendered him so gradually habituated to time’s changes, that -he could discern little difference in himself. He had never possessed -much of the bloom of youth, and his face had early worn the pale -student-like ‘cast of thought,’ which years had only traced in deeper -characters. His dapper little figure, still trim and upright, was not -spoiled by the obesity so much dreaded by elderly gentlemen; his teeth -were still perfect—his incipient baldness—but this was an exceedingly -delicate point—we will draw the veil of silence over his reflections on -this painful subject. Suffice it to say that Mr. De Courcy Waldie came -to the conclusion that he was yet young enough to think of matrimony. - -It was necessary for him to proceed with great caution however, for he -knew that he was reputed rich, and he heard that society contained such -anomalies as mercenary young ladies. While thinking over his new -project, he was one day called upon for a subscription to some -benevolent association, by one of those charitable persons who relieve -the real or fancied distresses of their fellow mortals, by a free -expenditure of _their own time_ and their _neighbor’s money_. With his -usual generosity, Mr. Waldie handed her a liberal contribution, not -sorry perhaps, to buy off her garrulity at such a price. But the lady -dropped some words ere she departed, which set him off upon a new track. -She had suggested the propriety of his adopting some orphan boy and -educating him as his own. This was quite a new idea to him, but he -viewed it in rather a different light from that which his visitor had -intended. “Adopt a son,” said he to himself, in a tone that seemed -strangely like disgust, “no indeed. I should go crazy with a rollicking -boy ransacking the house, and turning every thing upside down. Besides, -boys have always got dirty faces, and they are forever cutting their -fingers with their penknives, breaking their heads against horse posts -or cracking their skulls on skating ponds; then they always tear their -trousers, lose their gloves, and stump their toes through their shoes. -Faugh! I can’t endure great rude bearish boys. If she had said a -daughter now, I might have thought better of it; there is certainly -something very pleasant in a nice little quiet girl.” - -The more he reflected upon this fancy, the better he liked it, but the -idea of adopting a daughter soon gave place to a more eccentric scheme. -He determined to make an experiment. He would ‘train up’ a child in the -way she should go; he would _educate a wife_. - -Whether it was the loss of his mother which had awakened him from his -apathy, or whether the long latent affections of his nature were now -only developing themselves, cannot be determined, but, certain it is, -that before he had dreamed over his project three months, Mr. De Courcy -Waldie actually applied to the managers of the Orphan Asylum for -permission to adopt _three_ of the female inmates. He engaged to educate -them according to their different capacities, to furnish them with the -means of obtaining a future livelihood, and to settle the sum of two -thousand dollars on each, when she should either marry or attain her -majority. His character for probity and honor, was as well known as his -eccentricity, and as no doubt existed of the fulfilment of his promises, -his proposition was accepted. He was allowed to select his three -protégées, and however ignorant he might be of female character, he -showed himself no mean judge of female beauty, for his choice fell on -three of the loveliest children in the institution. He wished them to be -about twelve years of age, and there was but the difference of a few -months between them. They were poor, friendless orphans, destined to a -life of hardship if not of want, and he knew that if his experiment -terminated unsuccessfully, the girls would be better provided for by his -means, than if they were apprenticed to some hard task-master. He -determined to bestow on all the same care, to educate them after his own -peculiar notions, and when they should have attained a proper age, to -decide upon their individual claims to his affections. - -The old servants shook their heads in ominous silence, when they learned -the sudden increase of family. Old Dinah went so far as to hint that his -mother’s death had touched Mr. Waldie’s brain, and indeed wiser folks -than she came to something like the same conclusion. But your quiet -people, who are so amazingly slow in waking up to any purpose, pursue it -with wonderful perseverance, when once fairly placed on the track. Mr. -Waldie engaged an elderly governess to take charge of his young wards, -and an apartment in the upper part of the house was appropriated to her -use as a schoolroom. It was agreed that the privacy of Mr. Waldie’s -sitting room should never be violated by the intrusion of the females, -except when he invited them to enter its hallowed precincts. His -old-fashioned politeness regulated the etiquette of the table at their -daily meals, and very soon the household assumed its usual regularity, -notwithstanding the presence of three little girls. Mr. Waldie did not -consider them old enough to deserve his particular attention for the -present, and he therefore left them to the care of their very competent -governess: only stipulating that they were never to be allowed to read -poetry or fiction—never to wear any other dress than a calico frock, -white apron and cottage bonnet,—and by no means, to form an -acquaintance with other children. Having made these rules he returned to -his former abstract studies, until such a time as he should deem it -proper to undertake the instruction of his young protégées. - -He had chosen the little girls rather on account of their personal -beauty than with any regard to their mental gifts, for of these he -determined to judge for himself, and it was not surprising, therefore, -that he should discover great diversity in their characters. Fanny -Morris, the elder of the three, possessed that regular and classical -beauty which ever charms the eye in the remnants of Grecian art. Her -features were perfect, her complexion exquisite, her form symmetry -itself, but unfortunately, she seemed born to verify the oft-repeated -criticism on that paragon of ideal beauty, the Venus de Medici, of whom -it has been said that “if a woman exactly resembling her could be found -in this breathing world, she would in all probability, (judging by the -rules of physiognomy and phrenology) be _an idiot_.” Fanny’s small and -beautifully shaped head was utterly destitute of brains—her soft dark -eyes were never lighted up with any loftier expression than that of -pleasure at sight of a box of sugar plums—and her lovely mouth gave -utterance to none but the silliest of speeches. She could learn nothing, -and after a year spent in fruitless attempts to impart more than the -mere rudiments of knowledge, she was given up as incorrigible. But -mindful of his promise Mr. Waldie gave her the choice of an avocation, -and finding her only capable of the most mechanical employment, he -apprenticed her to a fringe and fancy-button maker; at the same time he -purchased, in her name, bank stock to the amount of two thousand -dollars, as her future dowry. Fanny seemed to have as little heart as -mind, and parted from her benefactor with no regret. As we shall not -have occasion to allude to her again, it may be as well to satisfy the -reader’s curiosity by stating that her beauty afterwards attracted the -attention of a young artist, who wanted just such a model. Finding that -her quiet stupidity rendered her a most untiring _sitter_, while her two -thousand dollars added weight to her other attractions, the painter -married her, and much of his present celebrity is owing to the matchless -loveliness of his silly wife. - -Of the two children who now remained under Mr. Waldie’s roof, Emily -Rivers was by far the most strikingly beautiful. Her blonde hair fell in -rich curls upon her fat, white shoulders, while her delicate features, -and large clear blue eyes gave an infantile grace to her lovely -countenance. There was a frank joyousness in her expression, which was -very attractive, and, at that time, few would have hesitated in giving -her the preference over her young companion. Celina Morley was one of -those children whose personal characteristics develop very slowly. She -was short in stature, and slightly inclined to stoop, while her gray -eyes, whose hue was deepened almost into blackness by the shadow of the -fringed lid, and a small mouth filled up with pearly teeth, formed her -only claims to admiration. Her face appeared out of proportion—her -forehead was so immensely high, her brows so thick and dark her cheeks -so colorless, that her countenance seemed like some modern engravings, -all _black and white_, without tints of light and shadow. - -Nor was this difference in their personal appearance the only one which -existed between the two girls. The shy, quiet demeanor of Celina, -contrasted strongly with the frank, bold manner of her companion. Emily -would run to meet Mr. Waldie with a gay laugh, and throwing herself on a -footstool beside him, would beguile him with her merry prattle, without -seeming to care whether he were annoyed by her intrusion. But Celina -would stand timidly awaiting an encouraging word from her benefactor, -and thus it often happened, in the little household as in the great -world, that modest merit was overlooked in favor of obtrusive -importunity, and Celina was forgotten for the more clamorous Emily. Yet -it was Celina who brought the dressing-gown the very moment it was -wanted, and drew the easy-chair into the accustomed corner—it was -Celina who laid the slippers just where his feet would be sure to find -them without giving the head trouble to think about them; it was Celina -who, when he was confined to his bed by sickness, watched in his room -through the long day, and listened at his door in the silent hours of -the night. But the caresses of Emily had opened a fountain of tenderness -in Mr. Waldie’s bosom, and after they had been inmates of his family for -rather more than two years, he felt that the time had come when his -course of instruction must commence. What that course was it is needless -to specify; let it suffice to know that he destined them to pursue a -series of studies which would have appalled the most zealous aspirant -for college honors. - -The true character of the two girls began now to be exhibited. They were -approaching their fifteenth year, and the fresh, glowing beauty of Emily -Rivers had already excited the notice of strangers. She had observed the -stolen glance of admiration, she had even heard the sudden exclamation -of delight, as some ardent youth peeped under the close cottage bonnet, -while she walked demurely beside her benefactor or her governess, in -their daily promenades, and the latent vanity of her nature had been -fully aroused. The calico dress and white apron annoyed her sadly. She -was full of projects for making Mr. Waldie sensible of the folly of his -restrictions, and while he was busied in teaching them to solve -algebraic problems, she was as busy in devising schemes for eluding his -vigilance. She had no taste for study, but she had tact and quickness of -comprehension and thus it often happened that her adroitness stood her -in the stead of application and industry. While Celina devoted herself -to the performance of her required tasks, Emily exerted her ingenuity in -evading them, or in skilfully applying to her own use, the industry and -talent of her young companion. But Emily had a most decided love for -dress. She was wonderfully tasteful in trimming bonnets and furbelowing -dresses and debarred from any such pleasures for her own account, she -amused her leisure hours by furbishing up old Dinah (who was -particularly fond of a fine spreading knot of ribbons) and regarnishing -the head gear of all the dingy dame’s dressy acquaintances. - -At length her vanity would no longer be controlled. The girls received a -regular allowance of pocket-money, which it was expected they would -spend in charity, and this sum Emily hoarded up until she was enabled to -purchase some of the long-coveted finery. Determined to try the strength -of Mr. Waldie’s rules, she came down to the parlor one Sunday morning, -prepared to accompany him to church, clad in her new attire. For a few -minutes he looked at her in stern silence, while, with a beating heart -but resolute spirit, she awaited his reproaches. The little cottage -bonnet had given place to a tawdry pink silk hat, flaunting with -streamers of lace and ribbons, and instead of her simple white cape her -shoulders were now covered with a bright yellow gauze scarf. She had -certainly not improved her appearance by her new display, but she wished -to try the effect of a little rebellion, and she was fully satisfied. -Mr. Waldie quietly desired her to change her dress,—she -remonstrated,—he insisted,—she grew angry and exhibited a degree of -fiery passion, which, though by no means strange to the other members of -the family, had hitherto been carefully concealed from him; until at -length, irritated by her vehement opposition, he led her to her -apartment and locked her in. There were three faults which Mr. Waldie -regarded with peculiar abhorrence in the female character, and these -were a passionate temper, a love of dress, and a determined will. He was -perfectly horror-stricken, therefore, at the sudden discovery of all -these most dreaded attributes in the beautiful Emily. Nor was his -disgust much diminished, when, on his return from church, he proceeded -to her apartment to receive, as he hoped, an humble confession of her -fault. He found her leaning from the window engaged in an interesting -conversation with a beardless young gentleman who resided in the -adjoining house, and who was now standing on the top of a ladder placed -against the garden wall, in order to be within whispering or rather -murmuring distance of the young lady, with whom he had for some months -carried on a flirtation by means of billets tied to pebbles and flung -into her window. This of course decided the matter. Emily was desired by -her benefactor to make choice of some trade, and, as she fancied it must -be perfectly delightful to live among finery, she decided upon adopting -the _profession_ of a milliner. Accordingly, Latin and Geometry were -exchanged for frippery and folly. Emily soon became a most skilful -_artiste_, and, by exhibiting their effect on her beautiful face, which -nothing could spoil, was the means of selling so many ugly bonnets and -turbans, that she was quite a prize to her employer. At the age of -eighteen she married a fashionable draper and tailor, when she received -her promised dowry from the hand of Mr. Waldie. As the business of both -husband and wife was one which ministered to the master spirit of -vanity, they made a large fortune in a few years, and I have heard—but -I will not vouch for the truth of the story—that after their -retirement, Colonel Fitwell and his beautiful wife made quite a figure -in the saloons of Paris, where she could boast of the honor of having -been noticed by royalty; his majesty having been heard to ask the name -of that very _large woman_ with blonde hair! What an honor for a simple -republican! - -Celina Morley was now left alone, and the punishment inflicted on her -companion, for such to her sensitive nature it seemed, rather tended to -increase her timid reserve. But she possessed high intellectual gifts -and a great love for study, so that her progress in learning equalled -her eccentric benefactor’s highest anticipations. I am afraid she would -have been deemed a blue-stocking in the circles of fashion, for she was -a fine Latin scholar, read Greek with great ease, had not even been -delayed on the Pons Asinorum in her mathematical career, and in short, -when she had attained her eighteenth year, knew considerably more than -most collegians when they take their degree. Do not think this is an -over-estimate of the attainments of our heroine, gentle reader. Let an -intelligent woman be endowed with industry, perseverance and a love for -study, then give her a powerful motive, such as love or gratitude, to -stimulate her, and all the boasted intellect of man will hardly outstrip -her in the race of learning. - -The person of Celina had developed as fully as her mind. Her swarthy -complexion had cleared into a fine brunette, her dark hair parted -smoothly on her high forehead, added feminine grace to a rather -masculine feature, while the intellectual expression which beamed in her -fine eyes, lighted up her whole face with positive beauty. Her form had -become tall and majestic, scarcely rounded enough for perfect symmetry, -but just such a figure as expands with queenly grace in later life. In -short, Celina had become a stately, beautiful, and gifted woman. But -while all these things had been going on, Mr. Waldie had become some six -or seven years older, and already passed his _fiftieth_ year; yet some -how or other, he did not seem to be very impatient to change his -condition. It is true, Celina had attained the age which he had -originally destined to be the period of marriage, but he felt so very -comfortable and was so much the creature of habit, that he seemed rather -to dread any innovation. He had taken the precaution to keep his wards -in ignorance of his final intentions, and therefore, Celina loved him -with truly filial affection, without dreaming that she might be called -upon to cherish any warmer emotion. As she grew up to the stature of -womanhood, Mr. Waldie had been induced, by the remonstrance of the -governess, to withdraw some of his restrictions in female attire; and -though he still insisted on a rigid proscription of bows, feathers, -flowers and lace, he allowed Celina to assume a garb somewhat in -accordance with the prevailing fashion. But he had forbidden her to -acquire any feminine accomplishment except sewing and knitting. The -first act he found very necessary to his own comfort, as strings would -break, and buttons would come off, which evils no one could repair with -such neat-handed rapidity as Celina; while the second mystery he looked -upon as essential to every well-trained woman, because it had been the -sole occupation of his mother for the last twenty years of her life. But -sad to tell! the young victim of theory could neither dance, nor play on -the piano, nor sketch in crayons, nor paint velvet, nor make filigree -boxes, nor work worsted:—in short, she was utterly unskilled in the -thousand lady-like arts of _idle industry_. - -Yet nature had made her beautiful and good, education had made her a -fine scholar, and her innate tact (without which talent and learning are -often but useless gifts) had taught her womanly duties and womanly -tastes. Indeed she had rather too much feminine delicacy to suit the -peculiar notions of Mr. Waldie. He had an idea that the want of physical -courage, which characterizes the sex, was simply an error in female -education, and, not content with the passive endurance and moral -strength which make woman a heroine in the chamber of pestilence, he -determined that Celina should possess some share of masculine boldness. -Accordingly, he practised various fantastic experiments to habituate her -to pain and terror. He dropped hot sealing-wax on her bare arms, fired -pistols within six inches of her head, and practised various feats of a -similar nature, until, after having thrice set fire to her dress by -accident, and once shocked her into a fit of sickness, he gave up his -attempt in despair of ever bringing her to the required point of -courage. Mr. Waldie was a little disappointed. Celina did not quite -realize his ideal of the partner of his life. She bore little -resemblance to the dull, drowsy, quiet creature, who, soon after his -mother’s death, seemed to fulfil his notions of wifely excellence, and -neither was she that most unfeminine of all females—a plodding and -slovenly book-worm. She was simply a gentle, lovely, intellectual woman, -whom profound learning had failed to make either a pedant or a -metaphysician. Do not listen to your prejudices, friend reader, and -fancy that I am portraying an immaterial character: such women are to be -found—sometimes in the saloons of gaiety but more frequently in the -shades of private life, and the fire on the domestic hearth may still -burn brightly and cheerfully even when lighted by the torch of wisdom. - -A year or two more passed on. Mr. Waldie seemed to linger long on the -threshold of celibacy ere he could summon courage to cross it, and in -the meantime he was spared all future anxiety about the matter. Among -the few, who still kept up their acquaintance with the eccentric Mr. -Waldie, was the head-clerk of his deceased father, who, grateful for the -liberal treatment which he had received at the settlement of the estate, -was always ready to do a kindness for the heir. Unpunctual tenants and -troublesome debtors were peculiar objects of his watchfulness, and Mr. -Waldie was saved from many a loss and many a vexation by his honest -friend. The son of this gentleman, after receiving a liberal education, -had devoted himself to the church, and, as Mr. Waldie’s extensive -library furnished a great variety of polemical works, he had gladly -accepted the bachelor’s kind invitation to visit it at all times, -without restraint. At first young Willington Merwyn came rarely, and -taking some dusty volume of controversial divinity would retire to his -own quiet study. By degrees he learned to linger longer, and ponderous -tomes which he formerly sought were often forgotten when he took his -departure. He came frequently and staid late, while Mr. Waldie, absorbed -in his own speculative philosophy, always greeted the presence of the -clergyman as a tribute to the value of his intellectual stores, or a -compliment to his own scholarship. He fancied, good man, that the long -metaphysical discussions and ingenious theories, in which he took so -much delight, were the young man’s chief attraction, and never dreamed -that even the presence of philosophy herself, - - “Attired in all - The star-gemmed robes of speculative truth” - -would have awakened far less emotion in the bosom of Willington Merwyn -than did the beauty and gentleness of Celina. But the lady herself had -some little inkling of the truth, for women seem to have a sort of -intuitive knowledge of the heart’s love. There were looks and tones and -casual words which needed no interpreter, or if they did, she soon found -one in her own feelings. She discovered that the visits of the clergyman -were only recurring pleasures to her, and she reflected upon the matter -till she came to the very natural conclusion, that, considering the warm -regard manifested by her benefactor to his young friend, it probably was -his wish that they should obey the command of the apostle to “love one -another.” Not long after she had arrived at this conclusion, one of -those lucky chances, which always favor lovers, revealed to her the fact -that Mr. Merwyn had precisely the same opinion. In short, if the -commandment already quoted had contained the sum of Christian duty, they -would certainly have been regarded as eminently excellent young persons. - -Of course the elder Mr. Merwyn was soon made acquainted with his son’s -passion for Celina, and, following the honest old-fashioned mode of -transacting such affairs, he thought it best to be sure of his friend’s -approbation. Now it so happened that Mr. Waldie was at length coming to -a decision on the momentous subject which had so long occupied his -thoughts. He had made up his mind that, however reluctant he might feel -to assume the responsible duties of matrimony, a further delay would be -an act of cruel injustice to Celina. He thought over all her good -qualities, and, though he did not quite like her cowardice, he -determined that, rather than doom her to a life of celibacy, he would -celebrate his _fifty-fifth_ birth-day by a wedding. It cost him some -effort to make this decision; for, in addition to his natural indolence -which led him to dread any change in his mode of life, Mr. Waldie had -one secret which he could not bear to betray. It was one of his weak -points—nobody knew it, and he dreaded lest the familiar intercourse of -married life should reveal it. Nothing but a sense of duty towards his -ward could have induced him to overcome this last objection which seemed -to have gained new force with the progress of time. It was just at this -moment, when his heroic self-devotion had carried him to the verge of an -explanation with Celina, that Mr. Merwyn, with sundry nods, and winks, -and dry jokes, disclosed to him the wishes of the young people. Mr. -Waldie was thunder-struck. It seemed to him too preposterous for belief, -but it was sufficiently startling to determine him to judge for himself. -He shook off his abstraction long enough to discover that his old friend -was not very far wrong, and once assured of the fact, he fell into his -usual reverie before coming to any definite decision. He had sufficient -practical wisdom to keep his own counsel about his original plan, and he -reflected upon Celina’s incorrigible timidity—the many little troubles -which matrimony is apt to bring around one—his own bachelor -comforts—and, above all, his inviolable SECRET, until he was quite -disposed to believe that it was “all for the best.” - -Mr. Waldie’s fifty-fifth birth-day was celebrated by a wedding; but Mr. -Waldie still enjoyed his celibacy and his secret. Celina became the wife -of Willington Merwyn. At the request of the eccentric but kind bachelor, -the happy pair took up their abode with him. He probably did not gain -much in the way of quiet by this arrangement, for in the course of a few -years a certain little rosy-cheeked De Courcy and his chubby sister -started the decorous echoes of the old house with the sounds of -baby-grief and baby-joy. However, there is a wonderful power of -adaptation in the human mind, and Mr. Waldie learned, after a while, to -allow them free ingress to his student’s den, while he often neglected -his speculative theories for practical illustrations of kindly -affections. Celina made quite as good a wife as if she had been brought -up in the usual lady-like ignorance of science. She shaped and sewed her -children’s garments, concocted puddings and pies, directed the mechanism -of her household, and was quite as useful in her sphere as the most -vehement declaimer against _learned women_ could have deemed necessary -to vindicate her character. Mr. Waldie never regretted the result of his -experiment. He lived in perfect harmony and peace with his now enlarged -family, and it was not until Celina had become a comely matron and her -children had grown up to love and reverence him, that the old man was -gathered to his fathers. But his secret had been discovered long before -his death, for he gradually lost his little personal vanity as soon as -he finally concluded to remain a bachelor, and he did not find any -decrease in Celina’s affection even when she learned that _he wore_ A -WIG. - - * * * * * - - - - - SWEETHEARTS AND WIVES. - - - Though the ever-heaving ocean - Bear us from our forest-land, - Through the rising waves’ commotion, - To a far and foreign strand; - Still the heart, all space unheeding, - Firmly ’gainst our progress strives, - Leaves us, and with haste is speeding - To our sweethearts and our wives. - - Ye may bind the eagle’s pinion,— - Check the deer’s impetuous course,— - Curb the steed to your dominion,— - Quell the torrent’s headlong force,— - But the spirit, fetters spurning - As our proud ship onward drives, - Leaves us, in its joy returning - To our sweethearts and our wives. - - Noah’s freed and wand’ring raven - Toward the ark for safety flew; - Backward, to the spotless heaven, - Springs, at morn, the vesper dew. - Thus affection’s fond devotion, - Balm and solace of our lives; - Flies, like incense, o’er the ocean, - To our sweethearts and our wives. - P. E. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DUEL. - - - BY E. S. GOULD, ESQ. OF NEW YORK. - - -Harry Bradford sat musing by the window and was apparently lost in -thought, when a sudden knock at his door aroused him; but before he -could bid the applicant enter, Fred Stanley burst into the room. - -“It’s all arranged, Harry,” said he with a glee in which, however, his -companion did not seem at all to participate. - -“So I supposed,” replied Harry, quietly; “such an affair is not likely -to remain long unfinished in your hands.” - -“And why should it, pray?” inquired Stanley, a little nettled at his -friend’s want of enthusiasm. - -“Oh, it should not, of course,” said Harry; “such matters, after all, -are best done when soonest done. Where do we meet?” - -“On the old battle-ground—Weehawken,” said Stanley; “no place like it.” - -“No, none like it, indeed! What time have you appointed?” asked Harry. - -“To-morrow, at sunrise,” replied Stanley. - -“That’s rather prompt, too,” said Harry, “if one has to take leave of -his friends and make his peace with God.” - -“Bah!” said Stanley, slightingly, “we must not think too much of these -things.” - -“_I_ must not, certainly,” replied Harry, “if I would just now retain my -self-possession. We use pistols, I presume?” - -“Yes, at ten paces;” said Stanley. - -“A fearful proximity for men of approved courage and skill who are bent -on taking each other’s life!” rejoined Harry; then after a pause, he -added, “Wilson persists in his challenge, Fred?” - -“Good G—!” exclaimed Stanley in dismay at what appeared to him a -prospect of losing his expected sport, “you are not afraid to meet him -Harry?” - -“No, Stanley,” said Harry, “not in your sense of the word. So long as -consequences are limited to myself, I have little thought of fear. But,” -he continued—and he spoke in a low tone and with unwonted rapidity, -lest some tremulousness of the voice might betray his emotion—“there -are other interests, other fears, other considerations—” - -“Forget them for heaven’s sake, until after to-morrow,” said Stanley, -interrupting him, “or you will never acquit yourself with honor. If you -have any little affairs to despatch, set about them at once, and don’t -fail to be abed and asleep before ten, or you won’t be up in season. I -would not have Wilson on the ground before us for the world. Good-bye; I -must prepare my pistols, for I see you will never give them a thought;” -and away went Fred Stanley as full of bravery, as solicitous for his -friend’s honor, and as indifferent about his friend’s distress of -mind—as seconds are wont to be. - -Harry did not move for some minutes after Stanley left him; and when at -length he raised his eyes from the floor, his countenance bore an -expression of unutterable wo. - -It was no wonder. He was the only child of a widowed mother, and the -affianced lover of the sweetest maid in the land. If he should fall, as -he well might, what would become of that mother and of Kate Birney? - -He at length aroused himself saying—“I dare not see my mother: but -Kate—dearest, loveliest Kate! I promised to call on her at five; and -it’s five now; and, by heaven, there she stands at her parlor window -beckoning me to hasten; yes! and she holds up that bouquet of flowers. -It was but yesterday I gathered them for her—and what has not happened -since yesterday!” Here he paused, as if too much overcome by fond -recollections to proceed: he then added in a different tone—“these -follies come upon us, with both cause and consequences, as suddenly, as -fatally as the inevitable casualties of life! A day of promise is -changed to a life of mourning by the event of a moment; the act of an -instant destroys the happiness and poisons the memory of years! Those -flowers were gathered in hope; and before they—frail, perishing -mementos—can wither, he who bound them and she who wears them may be -lost in despair!” - -With a heavy heart Harry repaired to his love’s rendezvous, where, full -of beauty and tenderness, Kate awaited him. They were to be married in a -week; and these interviews of the lovers now possessed an additional -witchery from the fact that their communings, as lovers, were so soon to -terminate forever. - -The romance of passion is a bright episode in our youth. The hymenæal -sun, while he yet clambers toward the “misty mountain-tops” on the -morning of a wedding-day, spreads his promise over the broad firmament -in a thousand fantastical images of crimson and gold. We watch the -accumulating splendors of the sky and say, exultingly, if the dawn be so -gorgeous what will not the day bring forth? But as we gaze, the sun -heaves his broad disk above the horizon—the ephemeral imagery of vapor -disappears—and the calm, steady sunlight of every day-life succeeds to -the beautiful vision. - -To Kate, this glowing blazonry of heaven was now at its culminating -point; but Harry felt, as he almost reluctantly approached her, that a -cloud—the more terrible from his uncertainty as to its dimensions and -progress—was gathering on that glorious sky. - -As he approached, his lovely mistress hailed him with an arch reproof -for his delay; but when she reached out her hand to welcome him, she saw -that his face was flushed and his eye disturbed; and, changing her tone -of censure to one of solicitude, she inquired anxiously: - -“Are you ill, Harry?” - -The pressure of the hand—the eager look of inquiry—the tremulous tone -of affection which accompanied these few words startled Harry from his -self-possession; and he replied— - -“No—no—not at all ill; I—I—” - -“Harry! dear Harry!” exclaimed Kate with passionate earnestness, “what -has happened? Tell me, Harry! tell me _all_!” - -It was instantly obvious to the young man that his engagement for the -morning—which he held himself bound in honor to fulfil—would in some -way certainly be interfered with by his mistress, if he allowed her to -be informed of it; for, whatever might be his notions of chivalric -obligations, and however imperiously he might demand her acquiescence in -them, he still knew that a dread of personal danger to himself would -overbear, in her mind, _all_ other considerations. He, therefore, felt -it necessary to equivocate and deceive her. This train of argument, -which of course went through his mind in far less time than is required -to note it down, resulted in his saying promptly— - -“For heaven’s sake, Kate, don’t alarm yourself in this manner! Nothing -has happened.” - -It is not to be supposed that this reply was altogether satisfactory, -but as Harry, in his attempt to mislead Kate had broken the spell of his -own forebodings, he was now able to regain his self command; and he then -soon succeeded in making a jest of her fears. - -After an interview such as lovers know how to protract and no one knows -how to describe, they parted; Kate inspired with bright visions of -happiness, and Harry, in a state of wretchedness, the nature, but not -the extent, of which may be readily conceived. He hurried to his room -and without any preparation for the morrow cast himself on the bed where -his agony found poor relief in a fit of uncontrollable weeping. - -In this condition, he fell asleep. - -It often happens, by some strange contrariety of nature, that our dreams -have relation to the subjects _not_ nearest our hearts: what has -occupied our thoughts during the day usually gives place, in sleep, to -something of more remote interest—as if the soul, when momentarily -disencumbered of the cares of life, shook off its dependence on the body -and pursued the bent of its own fancy, regardless of the wants and woes -of this tabernacle of day to which it is ordinarily held in subjection. -But Harry’s experience did not, at this time, conform to the rule. - -After he had slept awhile, he dreamed that he was hurrying, stealthily -and alone, to the scene of mortal strife. A little in advance of him was -an old man whom he had several times tried to avoid by changing his -route, but the stranger, without appearing to be conscious of Harry’s -motions, happened so exactly to regulate his course by that which Harry -took, that the impatient youth found it necessary to brush past him, at -the risk of being interrupted, if he would reach his destination in due -season. - -He had just overtaken the old man, and was rapidly striding onward, when -the latter, with a promptness and vigor not to be expected in one of his -years, grasped Harry’s arm, saying— - -“Hold a moment, young man; you are Harry Bradford, I believe?” - -“That is my name, old gentleman,” replied Harry, with a stare of -astonishment, “but as I have not the pleasure of knowing you, I must beg -you to defer your civilities. I am in haste.” - -“Stay a moment, nevertheless,” continued the stranger, “or,”—seeing -Harry about to move on in spite of him—“if you will not, at least walk -slower, that I may accompany you. I knew your father, Harry, and I can -surely claim of his son the privilege of a parting word just as he is -about to rush unbidden into eternity.” - -“Who are you, then, and what would you say?” exclaimed Harry, not a -little startled to find that his purpose as well as his name was known -to the stranger. - -“I am your friend,” replied the old man, “and my name is Common Sense. -Why are you determined to throw away your life?” - -“Sir,” said Harry, “I am engaged in an affair of honor—a matter with -which, I fancy, you can have no concern.” - -“I have little to do with honor as young men understand it; but I am -desirous to serve you. Tell me, therefore, what is your predicament?” - -“A quondam friend and rival lover, jealous of my success with a lady, -insinuated something to her prejudice in the presence of gentlemen. I -struck him. He challenged me; and I am bound to fight him.” - -“Why?” - -“The laws of honor accord full satisfaction to an injured person.” - -“Is he injured?” - -“No, not in fact: he merely received a just chastisement for a wanton -insult.” - -“Who says, then, that he is injured?” - -“He says so.” - -“And is it one of the articles of your code of honor that a party to a -quarrel is entitled, also, to be a judge of his own case?” - -“That is immaterial. If a man chooses to consider himself aggrieved, he -can demand an apology, or, personal satisfaction. The apology being -refused—as in my case it must be—the challenge ensues: and to question -his right to issue it, provided he is recognised as a gentleman, is, -equally with a refusal to fight, equivalent to an admission of -cowardice.” - -“An admission of one’s own cowardice is, truly, no alluring alternative. -But let us understand each other: what sort of cowardice do you mean?” - -“I know of but one.” - -“Indeed! Cowardice, speaking generally, is fear: what fear does a man -betray who declines to accept a challenge?” - -“The fear—eh—that is—the fear of being shot.” - -“Death, young gentleman, to one who believes in a future state of reward -and punishment, is a solemn event; and I apprehend that a brave man, or -a good man (to say nothing of a bad man) may fear to meet it without -suffering the imputation of cowardice: so that, thus far, your position -is none of the strongest. Does this cowardice comprehend nothing else -than the fear of death?” - -“Nothing else.” - -“Then we have all the argument on that side of the question. Let us look -a moment at the other. What induces a man to accept a challenge?” - -“The fear of dishonor.” - -“Ay? then _fear_ operates on both horns of the dilemma: and, for my own -part, if I were forced to act under the dictation of fear, I would -choose that course which promised the least disastrous result. But here, -again, we do not perhaps understand each other. What kind of _dishonor_ -is this?” - -“Disgrace, in an intolerable form! A man thus degraded would be driven -from society, branded with the stigma of cowardice, and blasted with the -scorn of all honorable men.” - -“That, truly, were a fate to be deprecated; though a man of sober -judgment might urge that even such a fate is nothing compared to what -awaits those who throw themselves, uncalled and unprepared, into the -presence of their Maker. But is what you say _true_? Does such dishonor -involve such consequences?” - -“Unquestionably it does!” - -“Stop a moment. Let us consider this. You say the man would be driven -from society: tell me, by whom?” - -“By public opinion.” - -“And the same agent would brand him a coward and blast him with -universal scorn?” - -“Even so.” - -“This public opinion, I take it, is the united opinion of that class -whom you designate by the phrase _all honorable men_?” - -“It is.” - -“Very well. I wish now to ascertain the practical operation of public -opinion. Supposing you were this dishonored individual: who, as the -Scripture hath it, would cast the first stone at you? Who would take the -initiative in banishing, branding and scorning you—would your father -have done it?” - -“No, certainly not.” - -“Would your mother?” - -“No.” - -“Would the lady you love—or _any_ lady on the face of the earth?” - -“No.” - -“Would any of the old respectable inhabitants—your father’s companions -and equals?” - -“No.” - -“Would any of those who, by common consent, form the respectable and -estimable portion of the community?” - -“No.” - -“Would not, rather, all these to whom I have referred, applaud you for -refusing deliberately to give or receive a death-wound in a quarrel; and -honor you for daring to _practice_ what every sensible man has -_preached_ since the world began?” - -“Perhaps they might.” - -“Then will you tell me, identically, _who_ would inflict on you the -penalties of this imaginary dishonor? _Who_ would pronounce you -disgraced and point at you as a coward?” - -“Why, Wilson, and Fred Stanly, and Jack Smith, and Jim Brown, and every -body.” - -“What are they?” - -“Gentlemen.” - -“What is a gentleman?” - -“One who has, or had, or expects to have a plenty of cash—who has no -particular vocation—who carries a rattan, wears long hair, and goes to -all the fashionable parties.” - -“I have but two questions more to ask: supposing you are killed in this -duel: what would be the consequences _to others_?” - -“My mother would die of a broken heart; and Kate—God knows what would -become of her!” - -“Supposing, on the contrary, you should kill your antagonist?” - -“If I were not arrested and hanged according to law, I should be obliged -to quit the country and bear, ever, in my bosom the remorse and on my -brow the mark of a murderer.” - -“One thing more: are you not heartily ashamed of your present purpose?” - -Before Harry could reply, Stanley stood at his side and awakened him by -saying: - -“Come, Harry, you will be too late!” - -The brotherly, disinterested zeal of a second is worthy of all -admiration. How dispassionately he tries the flint! How coolly he -squints along the barrel to ascertain if the sight is in order! How -carefully he graduates the powder, and with what a touching -connoisseurship he chooses a ball! Observe, too, with what a stately air -he paces off the ground—from the pride of his step you might imagine he -was a prince or a conqueror marching to receive the reward of his -greatness!—God in heaven! is that man arranging the ground where his -friend is to be shot—shot in cold blood—and he, a silent, -premeditating witness of the deed? - -At the hour designated, the parties were all in attendance: the ground -was measured and the pistols were loaded. - -Harry now interrupted the proceedings saying: - -“Gentlemen this affair has gone far enough.” - -“It is too late now, sir!” said Wilson’s second, haughtily: “my friend -refuses to accept an apology.” - -“He had better wait,” said Harry, “until I offer it. I accepted his -challenge under a misapprehension of my obligations to my friends, to -society, and to what are called the laws of honor. I now retract that -acceptance. He insulted me and I struck him; the reckoning of revenge -was thus closed as soon as it was opened. If he dares to repeat the -offence, I shall repeat the punishment; without holding myself liable to -be shot at like a wild beast of the forest. You are all welcome to put -your own interpretation on my refusal to fight. My conduct will _justify -itself_ to all those whose opinions are truly worthy of regard; and as -for the bullying denunciation of those few miscreants whose highest -ambition is to be known as the lamp-lighters and candle-snuffers of -mortal combats—combats which the laws of God and man pronounce to be -murder—as for their denunciation, my now wishing you a good morning -shows how thoroughly I despise it.” - - * * * * * - -Was Harry Bradford a sensible man or a fool? Did he, in after years, -regret his refusal to fight a duel? And will anyone who reads this have -the good sense and manliness to do likewise? - - * * * * * - - - - - ELEGY ON THE FATE OF JANE M’CREA. - - - BY THOMAS G. SPEAR. - - - When Genius, Valor, Worth, too soon decays, - The world sings vocal with posthumous praise, - And o’er the love that fate has sorely tried, - Oft have the hearts of pitying mortals sigh’d. - What then to thee, oh, hapless maid! is due, - Whose form was lovely as thy soul was true? - Who fell ere life hope’s promise could impart, - Or love’s fruition cheer thy constant heart? - As some sweet bird that leaves its nest to fly, - With sportive wings along the alluring sky, - ’Midst greener scenes and groves of happier song, - To wake its wild notes with its kindred throng, - Feels the quick shot its gushing bosom smite, - Just when it seeks to ease its tiring flight, - And ere its glance can tell the ball is sped, - Finds the cold sod its blood-encrimson’d bed. - - Ah, sad for thee! when life’s frail thread was shorn, - Few near thee wept, though many liv’d to mourn. - No arm was there to stay the savage deed, - That left thy form with gory wounds to bleed. - No mystic rites from holy tongues were thine, - In death’s cold sleep thy beauty to resign— - No hearse-drawn train, with mournful steps and slow, - Was nigh to yield the accustomed signs of woe, - But Peace was priestess o’er the virgin clay, - When Nature’s arms embrac’d thee in decay, - While duteous there a remnant of the brave, - Bent o’er thy dust, and form’d thy humble grave, - And ’neath the pine-tree’s unfrequented shade, - Lone and compos’d thy blood-stain’d relics laid, - Where from the boughs the wild-bird chim’d its song, - And gurgling leap’d the fountain’s stream along— - In earth’s green breast by warrior hands enshrin’d,— - Beauty in earth by Valor’s side reclined! - - But unforgetful Grief her debt hath paid, - In sad remembrance of thy lovely shade; - And friendly hands have op’d this cell of sleep, - Thy dust to honor, and thy fall to weep, - And maiden trains from village hamlets nigh, - Have borne thy relics thence to where they lie, - There rear’d the slab that tells thy joyless doom, - Points to the skies, and shows thy hallow’d tomb. - - Ne’er shall thy fate around thee fail to draw, - Hearts ever true to Nature’s kindliest law— - To trace the spot whereon thy bosom bled, - Where Guilt to Death Life’s sinless semblance wed— - Where startling shrieks in savage madness rose, - That rous’d the panther from his lair’s repose— - Where stood dismay’d the feeble hand that bore - Thy form where savage hands thy ringlets tore— - Where flows the fount, and still the pine-tree stands, - Notch’d by the bird’s beak, and the stranger’s hands, - Rocking its wide boughs to the shivering gale, - The time-worn witness of thy chilling tale. - - Now shall the feet of pensive wanderers turn, - With heedless steps from thy more classic urn; - But sadly tread the village grave-yard round, - ’Midst tombs defac’d, and many a mouldering mound, - And pause and ponder where, embower’d in green, - Thy marble crowns the fair surrounding scene— - Where gentle gales their flowery fragrance strew, - And morn and eve thy lowly turf bedew— - Where the fresh sward and trembling tree-leaves wave, - While night-winds sing their dirges round thy grave— - And slow-wing’d warblers on their airy way, - Breathe their sad wails o’er Murder’s beauteous prey. - - Fair maid belov’d! whose vows were kept in heav’n, - By angels welcom’d ere pronounc’d forgiven— - ’Tis not alone that thou didst early die, - That rain thee tears from every manly eye— - Not that thy love’s unanswer’d wish was pure, - Does the touch’d heart remember and deplore; - But that thy form a savage hand should doom, - In bridal robes to share a nuptial tomb— - Just as hope held life’s blissful prize in view, - That death should prove it mockery and untrue, - And make thee share, who sought the plighted brave, - A lover’s anguish and a martyr’s grave! - - But vain for thee may roll the tuneful line, - Since praises breath’d from every tongue are thine— - In vain may song its mournful strain bestow, - Since grief to feel is but thy fate to know— - In vain may sorrow her sad dirge impart, - For Pity’s throb is thine from every heart— - In vain thy tale these thoughtful numbers chime, - Since trac’d in blood upon the scroll of time. - - Cease then the song, and drop the tear instead, - O’er the still slumbers of the lovely dead— - Heave from the breast the unaffected sigh, - Where spreads her name, and where her ashes lie. - For when from art the world shall cease to know, - Afflicted Beauty’s all-surviving woe— - When poet’s verse and sculptor’s shaft decay, - Time o’er the wreck the story shall display, - And simple truth, with tragic power relate - The love that perish’d from the wrongs of fate, - While Pity melts, and listening Fear turns pale, - With each stern horror of the harrowing tale. - - * * * * * - - - - - HARRY CAVENDISH. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. - ETC. - - - THE PIRATE. - -It was a tropical night. The moon had gone down, but the stars shone -clear and lustrous, with a brilliancy unknown to more temperate climes, -painting a myriad of silvery lines along the smooth swell of the -sleeping ocean. A light breeze was murmuring across the waters, now and -then rippling the waves in the starlight, and flapping the reef-points -occasionally against the sails. A heavy dew was falling, bringing with -it, from the island that lay far up to windward, a thousand spicy odors -mingled into one delicious perfume. On the extreme verge of the horizon -hung a misty veil, shrouding the sea-board in obscurity. Up to windward -the same delicate gauze-like vapor was perceptible, and the position of -the island which we had made at twilight, was only to be told from the -denser masses of mist, that had gathered in one particular spot on the -horizon in that quarter. - -It was the morning watch and I was standing, wrapped up in my monkey -jacket, looking out dreamingly on the ripples that played under our side -in the starlight, when the bluff voice of the boatswain addressed me, at -the same time that the old fellow wrung an enormous piece of tobacco -from a still larger mass that he held in his brawny hand. - -“A still night, Mr. Cavendish,” began Hinton—“it looks as if the old -salt-lake was dreaming, and had drawn around her that fog as a sort of -curtain to keep herself quiet, as I’ve heard King George and other big -folks do when they go to sleep. For my part I’ve no notion of such sort -of sleeping, for I’d stifle to death if I had to be wrapt in every night -like the Egyptian mummies that I’ve seen up the straits. Give me a -hammock for sleeping comfortable like in—I never slept out of one since -I went to sea but once, and then I’d as lief have slept head downwards, -for I didn’t get a wink all night.” - -“You mean to say that you tried to sleep,” said I smiling. - -“Exactly—I’m no scollard, and none the worse for that I think. Them as -is born to live by head work ought to be sent to ’cademies and colleges -and such high places,—but them as have to get a living by their hands -had better leave book-larnin’ alone, for—take my word for it—it only -ends in making them rascals; and there’s other ways of killing a dog -without choking him to death with bread and butter. Them’s my -sentiments, and so when I’ve got to speak, instead of skulking about the -business in search of big words, like the cook in the galley, I come out -at once in the plain style my fathers taught me. The devil fly away with -them that can’t speak without shaking in their shoes lest they make a -mistake. What’s not to be expected of them can’t be, and big words don’t -make an honest man much less a good boatswain—the proof of the pudding -is in the chewing,” and the old fellow paused and looked in my face for -a reply. He had scarcely done so when he started, looked around and -turned as pale as ashes. A low melancholy strain, seeming to pervade the -air, and coming now from above and now from some other quarter, could be -distinctly heard rising solemnly across the night. The phenomenon -baffled even myself, but on Hinton it had an extraordinary effect. -Sailors are at all times superstitious, and the bluff boatswain -possessed a large share of this faculty. These singular sounds, -therefore, appealed to one of the strongest feelings in his bosom. He -looked at me doubtingly, turned around on tip-toe, and listened -attentively a moment in every direction. His scrutiny did not satisfy -him, but rather increased his wonder. There could be no doubt that the -sounds existed in reality, for although they died away for a moment now -and then, they would almost instantly be heard again, apparently coming -from a different quarter of the horizon. The burden of the strain could -not indeed be distinguished, but I fancied I could recognize human -voices in it, although I was forced to confess that I had never heard -from mortal lips such exquisite melody, for as the strain rose and fell -across the night, now swelling out clear and full as if sung almost at -our ears, and then melting away in the distance until it died off like -the faintest breathing of a wind-harp, I was tempted almost to attribute -the music to angelic visitants. The old boatswain seemed to assign the -sounds to the same cause, for drawing nearer to my side, he ran his eye -cautiously and as if in awe, up to the mast-head; and then looked with a -blank and puzzled gaze, in which, perhaps, some supernatural fear might -be detected, into my face. - -My own astonishment, however, was but momentary. Hastily scanning the -horizon, I had noticed that the mist in the direction of the island had -been, during the fifteen minutes that I had been idly looking over the -ship’s side, slowly creeping up towards us, although in every other -direction, except down in the extreme distance, the sky was as clear as -before. At first moreover my imagination had yielded to the impression -that, as the strain died away on the night, it came out again from a -different quarter of the horizon; but when, divesting myself of the -momentary influence of my fancy, I began to analyze the causes of this -phenomenon I became satisfied that the sounds in reality arose out of -the bank of clouds, to windward, and the illusion had been produced by -the rising and falling of the strain upon the night. When therefore, the -old boatswain turned to me with his baffled look, I had made up my mind -as to the real causes of that which puzzled the veteran seaman. - -“There is a craft up yonder in that fog,” I said, pointing to windward, -“and there are women on board, for the voices we hear are too sweet for -those of men.” - -I said this with a calm smile, which at once dissipated the fear of my -companion, for after thinking a moment in silence, the puzzled -expression of his face gradually cleared away, and he replied with a low -laugh, which I thought, notwithstanding, a little forced. - -“You are right—and that’s a reason for book-larnin I never thought of -before. Here have I sailed for a matter of forty years or so, and yet I -couldn’t exactly come at the cause of them same sounds, when you, who -havn’t been ten years on the water,—though you’re a smart sailor, I -must say, for your years—can tell at once all about it, just because -you’ve had a riggilar eddication. Book-larnin ain’t to be despised arter -all,” he continued shaking his head, “even for a boatswain, and, by the -blessing of God, I’ll borrow the good book of the parson, to-morrow, and -go at it myself; for when I was a youngster I could spell, I calculate, -at the rate of a ten knot breeze. But mayhap,” he continued, his -thoughts suddenly changing, “that craft up yonder may turn out a fat -prize—we could soon overhaul her if the wind would only breeze up a -little.” - -The wind, however, had now fallen to a dead calm and the sails hung idly -from the masts, while the ship rolled with a scarce perceptible motion -upon the quiet sea. A current was setting in however, to the island, and -we were thus gradually borne nearer to the unseen craft. This soon -became evident from the greater distinctness of the sounds, and at -length I thought I could distinguish a few of the words sung, which -seemed to be those of a Spanish air. As the night advanced the music -ceased; but the silence did not long continue. Suddenly a shriek was -heard rising fearfully on the air, followed by a strange mixture of -noises, as if oaths, groans and entreaties, and even sounds of mortal -strife were all mingled in one fearful discord. The shriek was now -repeated, with even more fearful vehemence; and then came the report of -a pistol across the darkness. Our hearts beat with strange feelings. -What nefarious deeds were being done on board the unseen craft? Hitherto -the captain, who had strolled on deck to enjoy the music, had said that -he should await the dawn, or at least the appearance of a breeze, before -overhauling the stranger, but now he came to the determination of -ordering out the boats, and learning the cause of those fearful -outcries. - -“Some hellish work, I fear,” he said, “is going on yonder; perhaps a -piratical boat has boarded the craft, for the villains infest these -islands. Board her at every risk, and then no mercy to the fiends if -they are really at their work.” - -The boats were hastily lowered, manned and shoved off from the side of -the ship. The second lieutenant commanded one of the boats, and to me -was deputed the charge of the other. We proceeded rapidly and as -noiselessly as possible, into the bank of clouds and soon lost sight of -The Arrow, although long after her hull and spars had disappeared in the -obscurity, her top-light was to be seen like a red baneful star, -floating in the firmament. Our guide meanwhile, was the sounds of strife -on board the invisible craft, but as we proceeded, the uproar died away, -and for a few moments a profound silence reigned. Then came a few sullen -plunges in the water which we were at no loss to understand. The men -sprung to their oars with renewed vigor at the sounds. A perfect -stillness reigned once more, but we knew, from the distinctness with -which we had heard the plunges, that we were close on to the craft. -Steering in the direction therefore, from which the sounds had come, we -glided along the smooth surface of the sea with almost incredible -velocity. Not a word was spoken, but the oarsmen strained their sinews -to the utmost, while the officers gazed intently into the gloom ahead. -Each moment seemed an age. Scarcely a dozen more strokes of the oar had -been given, however, when the outlines of a brig shot up, as if by -magic, out of the mist ahead, and almost instantaneously a voice from -the stranger hailed us in the Spanish tongue. - -“Keep her to it my lads—pull with a will,” I said, as the boat -commanded by the lieutenant dashed on without heeding the hail. - -“Boats ahoy!” shouted another voice from the brig, and this time the -words were in English, “lay on your oars or we’ll fire into you,” and at -the same time a score of heads was faintly seen crowding the bulwarks of -the vessel. - -“Dash into her my brave lads!” exclaimed the lieutenant, standing up in -the stern-sheets and waving his sword aloft, “another pull and we are up -to them.” - -The men cheered in reply, and, with a jerk that made the ash blades bend -like willow wands, we shot up to the sides of the brig. But not -unopposed; for almost before the lieutenant had ceased speaking, the -dark villains crowding the sides of the brig poured in a rattling fire -on us that would have checked men in the pursuit of a less holy object. -But the character of the assassins who had taken the brig had now become -apparent, and every man of our crew, remembering that agonizing shriek, -thirsted to avenge the sufferer. The volley of the pirates was not, -however, as deadly as it might have been had they not been taken -partially by surprise; and been in consequence, without that preparation -to meet us which they otherwise would have shown. Their discharge -however—God knows!—was deadly enough. The stroke oarsman, but a few -feet in advance of me, fell dead across the thwart. But the other boat, -being in advance, suffered far more, for I saw several of the men -stagger in their places,—while the lieutenant, springing up like a -deer, tumbled headlong into the stern-sheets. He had been shot through -the heart. The impetus, however, which the last gigantic stroke of the -men had given to the boats sent them onwards to the brig, and we struck -her side almost instantaneously with the fall of my superior. - -“Vengeance,” I shouted, “vengeance my lads! follow me,” and springing -into the forechains of the brig, I leaped from thence upon her deck, and -found myself, the next moment almost unsupported amidst a circle of -desperate foes. But it was only for a moment that I was left without -aid. I had scarcely exchanged the first parry with a brawny desperado -who met me at the bulwark, when my gallant fellows came pouring in after -me, inflamed to double fury by the loss we had suffered, and betokening -by their stern determined looks that the approaching conflict was to be -one of extermination or death. The pirates, seemingly aware of their -situation, glared on us with the fury of wild-beasts, and sprang with -curses and yells to repel the boarders. This left me, for the instant, -almost alone with my stalwart opponent, and had my cause been less -righteous, or my skill at my weapon not a proverb, I should have -trembled for my life. Barely indeed have I seen a finer looking or more -muscular man than my opponent on that fatal night. He was a tall sinewy -Spaniard, of the pure olive complexion, with a dark, glittering, fearful -eye, and a huge black mustache such as I never saw on a man before or -since. His head was bare, with the exception of a red scarf which was -bound around it in the form of a turban, the ends of which depended on -the left side, as I have sometimes seen them fancifully arranged by the -creole girls of the islands. His shirt collar was thrown open, -displaying a broad and brawny chest that would have served as a model -for that of an athlete. His arms were bared to above the elbow, and in -his hand he held a common cutlass; but a brace of huge silver mounted -pistols, and a dagger with a splendidly ornamented hilt were thrust into -the scarf he wore around his waist. I forgot to mention that a small -cross, the jewels of which sparkled even in the comparative darkness, -depended by a rich gold chain from his neck. - -I am able to give this description of him, because when we found -ourselves left almost alone, we paused a moment, as men engaged in a -deadly single combat will often do, before commencing our strife. I -suspected at once that I was opposed to the leader of the pirates, and -he seemed to feel that I held the same office among the assailants, for -he gazed at me a moment, with a kind of proud satisfaction, which, -however, settled down, as his eye took in my comparatively slight -proportions, to an expression of sneering scorn. Our pause, although -sufficiently long for me to observe all this, endured but for an -instant, for the momentary admiration of my foe faded before that -sneering expression, and making a blow at him with my cutlass, which he -dexterously repelled, we were soon engaged in mortal combat. At first my -opponent underrated my powers, but a wound, which I gave him in the arm, -seemed to convince him that victory would cost him an effort, and he -became more wary. For several moments the conflict was only a rapid -exchange of passes, during which our blades rattled and flashed -incessantly; for neither of us could obtain the slightest advantage over -the other. How the combatants progressed during this interval I neither -knew nor cared to ascertain, for so intensely was I engrossed in my duel -with the pirate-leader that I heard nothing but the ringing of our -blades, and saw only the glittering eye of my opponent. Those only who -have been engaged in a deadly strife can understand the feelings of one -in such a situation. Every faculty is engrossed in the struggle—the -very heart seems to stand still, awaiting the end. The hand -involuntarily follows the impulse of the mind, and the eye never loses -sight of that of its destined victim. The combat had continued for -several minutes, when I saw that the pirate was beginning to grow -chafed, for the calm, collected expression of his eye gave place -gradually to one of fury, and his lunges were made with inconceivable -rapidity, and with a daring amounting to rashness. It took all my skill -to protect myself, and I was forced at length to give ground. The eye of -the pirate glared at his success like that of a wild beast already sure -of its prey, and, becoming even more venturesome, he pressed forward and -made a pass at me which I avoided with difficulty, and then only -partially, for the keen blade, although averted from my heart, glanced -sideways, and penetrating my arm inflicted a fearful wound. But at the -time I was insensible of the injury. I felt the wound no more than if a -pin had pierced me. Every thought and feeling was engrossed by the now -defenceless front of my antagonist, for, as he lunged forward with his -blade, he lost his defence and his bosom lay unguarded before me. Quick -as lightning I shortened my blade and prepared to plunge it into the -heart of the pirate. He saw his error and made an attempt to grasp a -pistol with his left hand, to ward off the blow with his sword arm. But -it was in vain. With one desperate effort I drove my blade inwards—it -cut through and through his half opposed defence—and with a dull heavy -sound went to his very heart. His eyes glared an instant more wildly -than ever—his lips opened, but the faint cry was stifled ere it was -half uttered—a quick, shuddering, convulsive movement passed over his -face and through his frame, and, as I drew out the glittering blade, now -red with the life blood of one who, a moment before, had been in full -existence, the pirate fell back dead upon the deck. At the same moment I -heard a hearty cheer, and looking around, I saw that our brave fellows -had gained a footing on the deck, and were driving the pirates backwards -towards the stern of the vessel. I now, for the first time, felt the -pain of my wound. But hastily snatching the scarf from the body of my -late opponent, I managed to bandage my arm so as partially to stop the -blood, and hurried to head my gallant tars. - -All this had not occupied three minutes, so rapid are the events of a -mortal combat. I had at first thought that we had been forgotten in the -excitement of the strife, but I had not been wholly unobserved, for as I -stooped to snatch the scarf of the pirate, one of his followers who had -seen him fall, levelled a pistol at me with a curse, but the missile was -struck up by one of my men, just as it was discharged, and the ball -lodged itself harmlessly in the bulwark beside me. In another instant I -was again in the midst of the fight. The red scarf which I wore however, -reminding the pirates of the death of their leader, called down on me -their revenge, and my appearance in the strife was a signal for a -general rush upon me. - -“Down with him,” roared a tall swarthy assassin, who, from his tone of -authority, I judged to be the second in command, “cut him down—revenge! -revenge!” - -I was at that moment surrounded on two sides by the pirates, but -springing back while my gallant tars raised their blades in an arch over -me, I escaped the cutlasses of the foe. - -“Hurl the hell-hounds to perdition,” growled a veteran fore-top-man, as -he dashed at the piratical lieutenant. - -“Stand fast, all—life or death—that for your vengeance,” was the -response of the foe as he levelled a pistol at the breast of the gallant -seaman. The ball sped on its errand, and the top man fell at my feet. - -My men were now infuriated beyond all control. They dashed forward, like -a torrent, sweeping every thing before them. The pirates, headed by -their leader, made one or two desperate efforts to maintain their -ground, but the impetuosity of their antagonists was irresistable, and -the desperadoes, at first sullenly giving way, at length were forced -into an indiscriminate retreat. A few of the most daring of the -freebooters, however, refused to yield an inch and were cut down; while -others, after flying a few paces, turned and died at bay; but with the -mass the love of immediate life triumphed over the fear of an ultimate -ignominious death, and they retreated to the fore-hatch, down which they -were driven. A few attempted to regain the long crank boat in which they -had attacked the brig from the island, but their design was anticipated -by one of our fellows who hove a brace of shot through her bottom. - -I now bethought me of the female whose shriek had first alarmed us; and, -advancing to the cabin, I descended with a trembling heart, anxious and -yet fearing to learn the truth. I have faced death in a hundred -forms—in storm, in battle, and amidst epidemics, but my nerves never -trembled before or since as they did when I opened the door into the -cabin. What a sight was there! Extended on the floor lay a white-haired -old man, with a huge gash in his forehead, and his long silvery locks -dabbled in his own gore. At his side, in a state of grief approaching to -stupefaction, sat, or rather knelt, a lovely young creature who might be -about seventeen, her long golden tresses dishevelled on her snowy -shoulders, and her blue eyes gazing with a dry, stony look upon the face -of her dead parent. Both the daughter and the father were attired with -an elegance which bespoke wealth if not rank. Around her were several -female slaves, filling the cabin with their lamentations, and, at -intervals, vainly endeavoring to comfort their young mistress. Several -books and a guitar were scattered about, and the whole apartment, though -only the cabin of a common merchant brig, had an air of feminine grace -and neatness. The sight of the instruments of music almost brought the -tears into my eyes. Alas! little had that lovely girl imagined, when -singing her artless songs, in what misery another hour would find her. - -My entrance, however, partially aroused the desolate girl. She looked up -with alarm in every feature, gazed at me irresolutely a moment, and then -frantically clasping the body of her murdered parent, shrunk from my -approach. The negro women clustered around her, their lamentations -stilled by their fears. - -“You are free—thank God!” said I in a voice husky with emotion, “the -murderers of your parent are avenged!” - -The terrified girl looked at me with an expression which I shall never -forget—an expression in which agony, joy and doubt were all mingled -into one—and then, pressing the cold body of that old man close to her -bosom, she burst into a flood of tears; while her slaves, reassured by -my words, resumed their noisy grief. I knew that the tears of the -agonised daughter would relieve her grief, and respecting the sacredness -of her sorrow, I withdrew to the deck. - -Meantime, one of the crew of the brig who had managed to secrete himself -from the pirates, and had thus escaped the massacre which befell -indiscriminately his messmates, had come forth from his hiding place, -and related the story of their capture. I will give it, adding other -matters in their place, as I learnt them subsequently from the inmates -of the cabin. The brig was a coaster, and had left the Havanna a few -days before, having for passengers an English gentleman of large fortune -with his daughter and her personal slaves. They had been becalmed the -preceding evening under the lee of the neighboring island, and, as the -night was a fine one, their passengers had remained on deck until a late -hour, the daughter of Mr. Neville amusing herself with singing on her -own guitar, or listening to the ruder but yet dulcet music of her -slaves. At length they had descended to the cabin, but, within a few -minutes of their retirement, a large crank boat, pulled by some twenty -armed piratical ruffians, had been seen coming towards the brig. Escape -was impossible, and defence was useless. The feeble though desperate -resistance made by the crew of a half dozen men, was soon overcome. Mr. -Neville had headed the combat, and, when the ruffians gained possession -of the deck, had retreated to the cabin, barricading the entrance on the -inside. But the pirates, headed by their leader, although baffled for a -while, had eventually broke through this defence and poured into the -cabin; but not until several of their number had been wounded by the -desperate parent, who, fighting like a lion at bay, had even fired -through the door on his assailants, after they had shattered it and -before it was finally broken in. At length the ruffians had gained an -entrance; and a dozen swords were levelled at Mr. Neville, who still -endeavored to shield his daughter. He fell—and God knows what would -have been the fate of that innocent girl, if we had not at the instant -reached the brig. The ruffian leader was forced to leave his prey and -hasten on deck. The reader knows the rest. - -When morning dawned we were still abreast of the island. By this time, -however, a light breeze had sprung up and the schooner had been brought -to under the quarter of The Arrow. My superior heard with emotion of the -death of his lieutenant, and expressed his determination of carrying the -pirates into the neighboring port at once, and delivering them up for -trial. He gave up his own cabin temporarily to the afflicted daughter, -and sympathized with her sorrow as if she had been his own child. The -remains of her parent were not consigned to the deep, but allotted, on -the following day, a place in consecrated ground. But I pass over the -events immediately succeeding the capture of the pirates. Suffice it to -say that, after a delay of three or four days in port, we found it would -be impossible to have the pirates brought to trial by the tardy -authorities under a month. As my presence was deemed necessary on that -event, and as my superior was unwilling to delay his cruise for so long -a period, it was determined then that The Arrow should pursue her -voyage, calling again at the port to take me up in the course of a month -or six weeks. The next day, after this arrangement, she sailed. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNETS. - - - BY W. W. STORY. - - - MICHAEL ANGELO. - - Fixed, as if nothing ever could o’erthrow - Its infinite faith, and firm as it had stood, - Stemming life-long misfortune’s sapping flood, - Is the brave head of Michael Angelo. - No smile, no fear, that noble face doth show: - A sublime purpose o’er it seems to brood, - In which no mean thought ever did intrude, - No busy interest hurry to and fro— - A will so stern, that nothing can abate, - Fastens the mouth. The anxious abstract eye, - Beyond earth’s gloomy shadow’s lowering nigh, - Beholds great angels in the distance wait— - And on those features, seamed with many a line, - Love seems like sunlight on rude cliffs to shine. - - RAFFAELLO. - - Thou wouldst seem sorrowful, but that we knew - That mild, fair brow, that serious seeking eye, - Where the pale lightnings of emotion lie, - Were caught from earnest striving to look through - These shadows that obscure the mortal view— - This hazy distance of humanity, - Far dawnings of the Beautiful and True, - And those divine thoughts that can never die. - Thy mouth, so tender and so sensitive— - Full and unrigid—formed as if to part - With each emotion—seemeth tuned by Art, - Like harp-strings, with each wandering breath to live; - And that same apostolic light is thine - Which made thy Christ and Mother so divine. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO FLORENCE. - - - BY PARK BENJAMIN. - - - Dear Florence! young and fair thou art, - Thy cheeks are like the rose’s heart— - The sweet, red rose, that’s newly born, - When from the faintly dappled sky, - Looks out the laughing glance of morn. - Alas! dear one, I can but sigh - To think how many years divide - Thy happy turn of life and mine! - A river rolleth deep and wide - Between my destined path and thine. - Still unto thee my fancy flies, - With thee my thoughts and visions dwell, - And from thy soft, celestial eyes - Comes sunshine to my hermit-cell. - - I love thee! nay—turn not away! - I dare not hope—’twere worse than vain - To cherish in my heart a ray - Of feeling fraught with grief and pain. - All but thy image I resign; - With that I cannot part—it glows - With hues so lovely, so divine. - That though upon my head the snows - Of Age were cast, I yet should trace - The lines of thy enchanting face; - Still would thy form, instinct with grace, - Before me rise, and I should see, - In all things bright some types of thee! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE TWO DUKES. - - - BY ANN S. STEPHENS. - - - (Continued from page 144.) - -A still more important scene than that which we have described in Lady -Jane Seymour’s chamber was passing in the Lord Protector’s closet. A -portion of those noblemen forming his council had been hastily summoned -to assist in the examination of Lord Dudley, who was brought up from his -prison in the new and damp rooms, near the Strand, where he had spent a -night of discomfort, which by no means reconciled his proud spirit to -the degradation heaped upon it. Though a member, and most powerful one, -of his own council, the Lord Protector had neglected to summon the Earl -of Warwick to the examination of his son, and Dudley was far too anxious -for a good understanding between his own father and the family of his -betrothed, to solicit his interference, or even send news of his arrest -to the haughty earl. He dreaded the fiery indignation with which the -intelligence might be received, and even felt a sensation of relief when -he found his father’s seat vacant at the tribunal before which he was so -ignominiously arraigned. He was sensible that the Earl of Warwick, as -well as the duke, was willing to avail himself of any excuse which might -terminate the contract existing between himself and the Lady Jane. His -affection for the sweet girl was both sincere and ardent, and though he -felt the insult offered by her father with the irritation of a proud, -sensitive spirit, he suffered still more deeply from a consciousness -that she was a sharer in his trouble, and that the proceedings to which -he was an unwilling party were not only a degradation to his manhood but -liable to separate him from the object of his affections forever. - -With these indignant and conflicting feelings the young nobleman -presented himself before the Lord Protector and the few councillors whom -he had gathered to his assistance—men who seemed but ill at ease in the -position which they held, and were in truth far more anxious to appease -the duke than to join him in rash measures against a family which had -already rendered itself fearful throughout the kingdom by the might of -its power. The artisan was there, craven and abject, yet with something -of insolence in his manner; but whether he was brought forward as a -witness or a prisoner the proud young man did not deign to inquire; -under any circumstances to be so associated was a cruel insult which -made the blood tingle in his veins. It was with a firm lip and an eye -darkling with subdued excitement that Lord Dudley placed himself before -the council table to be questioned like a criminal by the man he had -loved almost as a father. The duke seemed touched by some regretful -feelings, and a flush came up to his forehead as he encountered the -proud glance which was bent upon him by the prisoner. At another time he -would have shrunk from mingling the pure name of his child with an -investigation so strange in its nature—with questions which might even -endanger the honor of his name, but this consideration was lost in his -dislike of the Earl of Warwick—a man whom he feared and hated almost as -much as he could fear and hate mortal being. Ambition was the leading -characteristic of both—such ambition as at last rendered their strife -for power like the struggle of two gladiators in mortal combat. They -were bold combatants, and hitherto the strife had been a quiet and -subtle one. Now a kingdom was looking on. Somerset had sprung into the -arena, struck the first blow, and he was well aware that his station and -power depended on the victory which he was contending for—that Warwick -must be driven from the council of the nation or himself from the -protectorship. He little knew how still and subtle had been the windings -of his enemy, and with how deep a triumph he received the news of his -son’s arrest. We have said that Dudley had caught one glimpse of his -betrothed on his way to the council, and for her sake he condescended to -answer, with haughty calmness, the questions propounded by her father. -His account of the share he had taken in the St. Margaret’s riot was -simple, and given in few words. - -He had sallied forth, as usual, on his morning ride with the ordinary -number of attendants and without the most remote suspicion that any -disturbance was threatened. He described the manner in which he had -become entangled with the crowd, but avoided all mention of the Lady -Jane till called upon by her father to state how she came under his -protection. He explained all about the condition in which he had found -her—the struggle with which she was conducted through the crowd—their -entrance to the church and every thing that transpired till the poor -girl was exposed to public outrage by the violence of her own parent. -There was truth and dignity in the young man’s statement, which, against -his will, convinced the duke of his injustice. But he had already -proceeded too far, and he felt that to leave the charge against his -prisoner unsubstantiated was to make himself still more unpopular with -the people, and fling a fearful power into the hands of his rival. -Family affection, his daughter, everything was forgotten in the strife -to maintain his tottering power, and though his eye quailed and his brow -crimsoned as he perpetrated the insult, that cringing artisan was called -forward to disprove the solemn statement of a high born and honorable -man. - -Lord Dudley turned very pale and drew back with a stern brow and folded -arms as the wretch gave his infamous story. The artisan had enough of -low born cunning to see that any statement, calculated to implicate the -noble youth, would be received as an atonement for the base fraud which -he had committed, and persisted in the assertions that he had previously -made. When the jewels and the ring were produced he turned, like a -coward hound, from the stern glance fixed on him by the young noble, but -still in a tone of low bravado, asserted that the ring had been given by -the Lady Jane, and that Lord Dudley had rewarded his exertions in -bringing them together with the emeralds. - -Lord Dudley shut his teeth hard and folded his arms more tightly, as if -to repress an impulse to smite the worm where he stood, but turning his -flashing eyes from the miscreant to the Duke of Somerset he once more -forced himself to composure. The artisan proceeded to substantiate his -evidence by assertions regarding the manner and words of the lady, and -was going on adding falsehood to falsehood, when the gentle girl, whom -he so cruelly aspersed, opened the door and glided into the room. She -moved forward to a chair which stood directly in front of the wretch, -and grasping the back with her hand, stood regarding him with a look of -calm and almost solemn indignation. So noiseless was her entrance that -she had been more than a minute in the room before those assembled there -became conscious of her presence. As the perjured man lifted his eyes in -uttering a sentence, they met the rebuke of that calm glance and quailed -beneath it. He faltered in what he was saying and shrunk back to avoid -the frown of her innocent presence. When the duke saw his child standing -before him, her robe hastily girt round her person, her hair wound in a -heavy web over her head, and her sweet face bearing upon each feature -evidence of late and bitter suffering, he started to his feet with an -exclamation of displeasure and would have demanded the cause of her -intrusion, but the change which had fallen upon her was so great that he -stood gazing upon her face, lost in a degree of astonishment that had -something of awe in it. He could scarcely believe that the face so calm, -so pale and resolute, was that of his quiet and child-like daughter. The -fountains of a resolute and noble heart had been troubled for the first -time, and their overflow left upon her face an expression that never -left it again—the impress of such thoughts and feelings as exalt and -strengthen the heart they wring. The Lady Jane had become suddenly -capable of acting for herself. - -“Father,” she said, turning her large eyes from the perjurer to his -judge, “Father, I have heard enough to prove how base a thing may be -dared even in the presence of a parent; that man has spoken falsely, the -ring which you hold was taken from my finger when I lay helpless, and so -terrified that I was almost unconscious of the loss, and only remember -now as in a dream that a strange grasp was on my hand, a wrench that -pained me; then I fainted and forgot all till my mother spoke of the -ring a few moments since in my chamber. The emeralds my Lord Duke—” she -hesitated a moment and her eyes filled as if with regret that she had -uttered so cold a tittle, “the emeralds—my father, were not Lord -Dudley’s but my mother’s gift, and I bound my hair with them yesterday -morning when I went forth according to your command to take the air; -they must have broken loose from my head, for behold here is a proof -that they were my own and not Lord Dudley’s.” - -As she spoke the Lady Jane unbound the rich masses of her hair, which -had not been smoothed since the previous day, and disentangled a -fragment of the emerald band which still sparkled within it. They were -broad smooth gems linked together with its delicate chain work of gold, -and each with a fanciful device cut upon its surface. One of those which -the duke held, still remained firm in its setting, a link or two of the -chain adhered to it, and those links corresponded in size and -workmanship with the fragment which Lady Jane had taken from her hair. - -“Still,” said the Duke of Somerset, willing to exculpate his daughter, -but determined at all hazards to make good his charge against Dudley, -“still does this in no way clear the prisoner from his participation in -the riot. We saw him with our own eyes amid the mob, we—” - -The duke broke off suddenly, for as the last words left his lips, the -closet door was flung open and a tall man, almost regally arrayed, and -of imperious presence, entered the room. He cast one quick glance at the -Lord Protector, from under his eyebrows, and moving tranquilly to a -chair by the council table sat down. - -“Go on, my lord duke; I am rather late, but do not let my entrance -disturb these august proceedings,” he said, blandly, though there was a -slight trembling of the voice which told how tumultuous were the -passions concealed beneath all that elaborate and courteous display of -words. - -The Duke bowed stiffly, and his face was crimson to the temples. Lord -Dudley grew pale and red by turns, half disposed to approach his father, -and as yet uncertain that he was aware of the position in which he was -placed before the council. The Lady Jane trembled visibly and grasped -the chair against which she stood for support, while the councillors -looked in each other’s faces confused and at a loss how to act. - -All this time Warwick sat with his elbow resting on the table, -supporting his chin with the palm of his bent hand, and gazing with a -doubtful smile, quietly into the duke’s face, as if they had been the -best friends on earth. - -“Go on, my lord duke, go on,” he said slightly waving his right hand, -“Pray do not allow my late and abrupt entrance to interrupt the flow of -your grace’s eloquence.” - -“Excuse me,” replied the duke, rising from his seat, “this subject must -be a painful one, alike to your Lordship and myself. We scarcely -expected the Earl of Warwick would choose to meet us in council this -morning.” - -“And therefore did not summon him to the examination of his son and -heir. It was kindly managed, my lord duke, very kindly; be assured the -earl of Warwick will not forget this delicacy. Nor will the king, whom I -left but now, so deeply impressed with the generous care which your -grace bestows on the honor of my humble house, that he has summoned such -noblemen of your council as were deemed worthy of the generous silence -with which your grace has honored me, to meet him at Somerset House, -where, with permission, I will have the pleasure of conducting my son.” - -There was cool and cutting irony in this speech which would have lashed -the exciteable protector to fury, but for the startling intelligence -which it conveyed, regarding the young king. This so over-powered him -that he sat pale and with gleaming eyes gazing on the composed and -smiling features of the earl, speechless and for a moment bereft of all -presence of mind. - -Without seeming to notice the effect his speech had made on the -protector, Warwick arose, threw back his velvet cloak with a careless -toss that exposed the sable facings, and smoothing the folds over his -shoulder with elaborate care, as if no deeper thought than that of -personal appearance entered his mind, approached Lord Dudley and taking -his arm seemed about to conduct him from the room without further -ceremony. - -“My Lord of Warwick,” exclaimed Somerset starting to his feet and -suddenly finding voice, “that young man is a prisoner under arrest for -treason, and shall not leave this presence save with a guard of armed -men.” - -“This young man is my prisoner, under the king’s warrant, and he not -only leaves this room without other guard than his father’s arm, but -denies the right of any man here, to question or retain him.” - -The Earl of Warwick turned as he spoke, and for the first time that day, -all the haughty fire of his soul burst into the usually quiet but fine -black eyes, which dwelt upon the Lord Protector’s face. - -“What—what means this? am I to be braved at my own council table? I—” - -The Earl of Somerset broke off, for so intense was his rage, that words -were denied him, and specks of foam rushed up to his white lips in their -place. - -“No, my lord duke,” replied Warwick, once more recovering the composure -which he seldom lost, even in moments of the deepest excitement, “not at -your own council table; that no longer exists. The council of this -nation is sitting now at Somerset House, and _I_ preside there by a -choice of the majority, and by desire of King Edward.” - -The Duke of Somerset fell back in his chair as if a sudden blow had -stunned him, and shading his pale face with his scarcely less pallid -hand, remained motionless and silent. The Lady Jane sprang to his side, -flung her arm around his neck, and as Lord Dudley broke from the hold -which Warwick placed on his arm, she put him calmly away with her -disengaged hand. Then lifting her face to the earl, she said, “Your work -is done. Leave my father to those who love him.” For one moment a shade -of feeling swept over Warwick’s face, but it was instantly banished, and -a courteous inclination of the head was all the reply he made. After a -moment he turned to the few councillors still retaining their seats in -silent consternation, and invited them in the name of King Edward and -their colleagues, sitting at Somerset House, to join himself and son -there. - -There was a brief and whispered consultation around the board; then all, -save one man arose, casting furtive glances at the fallen protector, as -if they were anxious to escape from his presence unnoticed. The duke -lifted his head, and a smile of mingled bitterness and pain passed over -his pale features as he saw this movement of his friends. The Lady Jane -too, blanched a little whiter and lifted her large clear eyes with an -expression of painful astonishment, as if her generous nature could -scarcely force itself to believe the selfishness with which she was -surrounded. - -With cringing and noiseless steps, those men whom Somerset had deemed -his true and tried friends, those that would cling to him through good -and through evil report—had glided from his presence and stood in the -corridor, consulting together in whispers and waiting anxiously for -Warwick to come forth, that they might offer him their support unchecked -by the presence of the fallen noble to whom, in his prosperity, they had -cringed with servile spirits, ready to kneel at any shrine which -possessed stepping stones for their own ambition. - -One man there was, a gray-haired and frank old nobleman, poor and proud, -of a high name, but dignified in his poverty, who had never cringed to -the protector or flattered him in the plenitude of his power, but who -put away the hand which his antagonist extended as he passed round the -table and knelt down by the fallen duke, with a true homage which had -more of feeling in its silence than hours of protestation could have -conveyed. The duke had leaned forward to the table, and one hand was -pressed over his eyes, the other hung nervelessly by his side, and the -quivering lips of that brave old man—for he was braver in his moral -strength than a thousand battle heroes, went to his heart. One large -tear forced itself through his fingers, and dashing it away, the Duke of -Somerset arose a more dignified man in his adversity than he had ever -been in prosperity. - -“My Lord of Warwick,” he said, “this is your hour of triumph—how -obtained your own heart can best reply.” - -“No, your grace’s rashness is my answer,” interrupted Warwick, with a -bland and courteous inclination, “but I have no time for cavil and -recrimination. The king is waiting, and methinks there has been enough -of high words for a lady’s presence. Lady Jane, we should all crave -pardon for discussing state affairs in so gentle a presence. Permit my -son to lead you from the room.” - -The young girl looked up and hesitated, then drawing nearer to the duke, -she said very mildly— - -“My father will permit me to stay. That which concerns him cannot be -improper for his daughter to witness.” - -The earl seemed embarrassed by her refusal, but after a moment resumed -his usual composed manner. - -“Forgive me,” he said, “if I am compelled to perform the first duty of -my office in a manner which might have been avoided,” and stepping to -the door, the Earl of Warwick beckoned with his hand to some persons in -the corridor. Instantly three men, whom Somerset knew, entered the -closet, and there at his own council table, and in the presence of his -child, arrested him for treason. - -A death-like stillness reigned throughout the room for the duration of a -minute after the warrant was read. Until this moment Dudley had remained -inactive, confused and uncertain how to interfere in a scene which -seemed passing before him like a wild dream, but now he stepped forward -firmly and with the air of a man resolved to act from his own honest -impulses at all hazards. - -“My lord,” he said, addressing his father, “you will not proceed to such -extremities against an old friend.” - -Warwick looked in his son’s face, and a slight sneer curled his lip as -he muttered, “old friends, indeed—well.” - -“I am certain,” resumed Dudley, “your own honorable heart must revolt at -an act so cruel. If the Duke of Somerset has offended the king let his -majesty find some other person than the Earl of Warwick to proceed -against him, lest those who deem that there is little of friendly -feeling between the houses of Somerset and Warwick, may impute other -motives than a love of justice to the prosecution.” - -Dudley spoke in a low voice, but every tone fell upon the anxious ear of -Lady Jane, and a flash of gratified affection, half pride and half -tenderness filled her eyes. For she knew how deep was the reverence he -rendered to the earl, and how much of moral courage was in the heart -which could have the displeasure of a man so imperative and haughty, but -who had even preserved the affections as well as the fear of his family. - -“Very prettily argued, my clerkly son,” replied Warwick, lightly—“but -pray can you tell me what the good people of England may think of the -nobleman, who took advantage of his power to cast a son, and heir of -that same ‘old friend’ whom you prate of into a damp hole in his palace, -to herd him with a cur like that, and drag him before a picked number of -councillors to be examined, on a question which touched his honor and -life itself? Love is a question to amuse the people more than any act of -mine. If His Grace of Somerset has seen fit to tread upon a serpent’s -nest, the world will not marvel that his foot is stung where it would -have crushed. - -“No, Dudley, no—the king has rightly decided, and he who would have -heaped ignominy on my son shall drain the cup he has drugged! Even as he -forced the heir to my house to this closet in base contact with a wretch -like that cringing cur yonder, shall he go forth and in like company.” - -Dudley heard his father out with habitual reverence, but still opened -his lips to expostulate once more against the course he was pursuing, -but Warwick turned impatiently away. - -“Tush man,” he said with a quick wave of the hand, “have done with this -and meet me at Somerset House within the hour. The king desires it. If -your grace is ready,” he added, turning to Somerset as if extending the -most trifling invitation on earth, “we will proceed at once to the -council.” - -Somerset arose, folded a cloak about him, and though his face was very -pale, moved toward the door without speaking a word. The guard closed in -around him, and he left the closet like one in a bewildering dream. He -had entered that room but an hour before, arrogant in the consciousness -of power, second to none in the kingdom; he left it a prisoner and a -ruined man. - -Warwick gave a sign that the artisan should be secured and followed the -fallen duke. The old councillor kept by the side of his friend, and on -their way through the corridor the Duchess of Somerset came through a -side door and approached her husband, but seeing how pale he was, and -that many persons were around him, she drew back disappointed in the -womanly impulse which had induced her to seek an interview before he -went from the palace, that the cause of her child might be justly -understood. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: PAINTED BY R. LANDSEER, Engraved by J. SARTAIN. _Return -from Hawking._ _Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_] - - * * * * * - - - - - RETURN FROM HAWKING. - - - ON A PICTURE BY LANDSEER. - - - They form a picture that appears of Eld— - The beauteous mother and the husband bold, - And smiling infant like a rose-bud held - Upon the parent-stem, but half unrolled - Yet blushing brightly in each crimson fold. - The household steed, in quiet sympathy, - Looks silent on and seems to share their glee. - The shaggy dog that wakes the forest old - With joyous echoes as he bounds along, - Starting the heron from his reedy lair— - These, while the morning sunbeams slant along - Through that old portal, massy, grim and bare, - Stand, grouped together,—emblems fit, I ween, - Of many another quiet household scene! - - E. - - * * * * * - - - - - THERE’S NO LAND LIKE SCOTLAND. - - - BALLAD. - - SUNG BY MR. DEMPSTER. - - COMPOSED BY - - EDWARD J. LODER. - - _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_. - - -[Illustration: musical score] - -[Illustration: musical score] - - There’s no land like Scotland within the wide sea, - There’s no land like Scotland, - The fearless and free, - With her fair glens and mountains, - Her fair locks and fountains, - Her wild springing heather and modest blue bell, - No place in the world do I love half so well, - No place in the world do I love half so well, - - Oh! sleepin’ or wakin’, where e’er I may be, - My thoughts aye are turning dear Scotland to thee, - Bright gem of the northern wave, - Home of the free and brave, - While life endures thou canst never depart, - Ah! while life endures thou canst never depart, - Dear pride of the north from thy throne in my heart. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Ballads and Other Poems. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Author - of “Voices of the Night,” “Hyperion,” &c. Second Edition. John - Owen: Cambridge._ - -In our last number we had some hasty observations on these -“Ballads”—observations which we now propose, in some measure, to -amplify and explain. - -It may be remembered that, among other points, we demurred to Mr. -Longfellow’s _themes_, or rather to their general character. We found -fault with the too obtrusive nature of their _didacticism_. Some years -ago we urged a similar objection to one or two of the longer pieces of -Bryant; and neither time nor reflection has sufficed to modify, in the -slightest particular, our convictions upon this topic. - -We have said that Mr. Longfellow’s conception of the _aims_ of poesy is -erroneous; and that thus, laboring at a disadvantage, he does violent -wrong to his own high powers; and now the question is, what _are_ his -ideas of the aims of the Muse, as we gather these ideas from the -_general_ tendency of his poems? It will be at once evident that, imbued -with the peculiar spirit of German song (a pure conventionality) he -regards the inculcation of a _moral_ as essential. Here we find it -necessary to repeat that we have reference only to the _general_ -tendency of his compositions; for there are some magnificent exceptions, -where, as if by accident, he has permitted his genius to get the better -of his conventional prejudice. But didacticism is the prevalent _tone_ -of his song. His invention, his imagery, his all, is made subservient to -the elucidation of some one or more points (but rarely of more than one) -which he looks upon as _truth_. And that this mode of procedure will -find stern defenders should never excite surprise, so long as the world -is full to overflowing with cant and conventicles. There are men who -will scramble on all fours through the muddiest sloughs of vice to pick -up a single apple of virtue. There are things called men who, so long as -the sun rolls, will greet with snuffling huzzas every figure that takes -upon itself the semblance of truth, even although the figure, in itself -only a “stuffed Paddy,” be as much out of place as a toga on the statue -of Washington, or out of season as rabbits in the days of the dog-star. - -Now with as deep a reverence for “the true” as ever inspired the bosom -of mortal man, we would limit, in many respects, its modes of -inculcation. We would limit to enforce them. We would not render them -impotent by dissipation. The demands of truth are severe. She has no -sympathy with the myrtles. All that is indispensible in song is all with -which she has nothing to do. To deck her in gay robes is to render her a -harlot. It is but making her a flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems -and flowers. Even in stating this our present proposition, we verify our -own words—we feel the necessity, in enforcing this _truth_, of -descending from metaphor. Let us then be simple and distinct. To convey -“the true” we are required to dismiss from the attention all -inessentials. We must be perspicuous, precise, terse. We need -concentration rather than expansion of mind. We must be calm, -unimpassioned, unexcited—in a word, we must be in that peculiar mood -which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He -must be blind indeed who cannot perceive the radical and chasmal -difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. -He must be grossly wedded to conventionalisms who, in spite of this -difference, shall still attempt to reconcile the obstinate oils and -waters of Poetry and Truth. - -Dividing the world of mind into its most obvious and immediately -recognisable distinctions, we have the pure intellect, taste, and the -moral sense. We place _taste_ between the intellect and the moral sense, -because it is just this intermediate space which, in the mind, it -occupies. It is the connecting link in the triple chain. It serves to -sustain a mutual intelligence between the extremes. It appertains, in -strict appreciation, to the former, but is distinguished from the latter -by so faint a difference, that Aristotle has not hesitated to class some -of its operations among the Virtues themselves. But the _offices_ of the -trio are broadly marked. Just as conscience, or the moral sense, -recognises duty; just as the intellect deals with _truth_; so is it the -part of taste alone to inform us of BEAUTY. And Poesy is the handmaiden -but of Taste. Yet we would not be misunderstood. This handmaiden is not -forbidden to moralise—in her own fashion. She is not forbidden to -depict—but to reason and preach, of virtue. As, of this latter, -conscience recognises the obligation, so intellect leaches the -expediency, while taste contents herself with displaying the beauty: -waging war with vice merely on the ground of its inconsistency with -fitness, harmony, proportion—in a word with το καλον. - -An important condition of man’s immortal nature is thus, plainly, the -sense of the Beautiful. This it is which ministers to his delight in the -manifold forms and colors and sounds and sentiments amid which he -exists. And, just as the eyes of Amaryllis are repeated in the mirror, -or the living lily in the lake, so is the mere _record_ of these forms -and colors and sounds and sentiments—so is their mere oral or written -repetition a duplicate source of delight. But this repetition is not -Poesy. He who shall merely sing with whatever rapture, in however -harmonious strains, or with however vivid a truth of imitation, of the -sights and sounds which greet him in common with all mankind—he, we -say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a longing -unsatisfied, which he has been impotent to fulfil. There is still a -thirst unquenchable, which to allay he has shown us no crystal springs. -This burning thirst belongs to the _immortal_ essence of man’s nature. -It _is_ equally a consequence and an indication of his perennial life. -It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is not the mere -appreciation of the beauty before us. It is a wild effort to reach the -beauty above. It is a forethought of the loveliness to come. It is a -passion to be satiated by no sublunary sights, or sounds, or sentiments, -and the soul thus athirst strives to allay its fever in futile efforts -at _creation_. Inspired with a prescient ecstasy of the beauty beyond -the grave, it struggles by multiform novelty of combination among the -things and thoughts of Time, to anticipate some portion of that -loveliness whose very elements, perhaps, appertain solely to Eternity. -And the result of such effort, on the part of souls fittingly -constituted, is alone what mankind have agreed to denominate Poetry. - -We say this with little fear of contradiction. Yet the spirit of our -assertion must be more heeded than the letter. Mankind have _seemed_ to -define Poesy in a thousand, and in a thousand conflicting definitions. -But the war is one only of words. Induction is as well applicable to -this subject as to the most palpable and utilitarian; and by its sober -processes we find that, in respect to compositions which have been -really received as poems, the _imaginative_, or, more popularly, the -creative portions _alone_ have ensured them to be so received. Yet these -works, on account of these portions, having once been so received and so -named, it has happened, naturally and inevitably, that other portions -totally unpoetic have not only come to be regarded by the popular voice -as poetic, but have been made to serve as false standards of perfection, -in the adjustment of other poetical claims. Whatever has been found in -whatever has been received as a poem, has been blindly regarded as _ex -statû_ poetic. And this is a species of gross error which scarcely could -have made its way into any less intangible topic. In fact that license -which appertains to the Muse herself, it has been thought decorous, if -not sagacious to indulge, in all examination of her character. - -Poesy is thus seen to be a response—unsatisfactory it is true—but -still in some measure a response, to a natural and irrepressible demand. -Man being what he is, the time could never have been in which Poesy was -not. Its first element is the thirst for supernal Beauty—a beauty which -is not afforded the soul by any existing collocation of earth’s forms—a -beauty which, perhaps, _no possible_ combination of these forms would -fully produce. Its second element is the attempt to satisfy this thirst -by _novel_ combinations among those forms of beauty which already -exist—or by novel combinations _of those combinations which our -predecessors, toiling in chase of the same phantom, have already set in -order_. We thus clearly deduce the _novelty_, the _originality_, the -_invention_, the _imagination_, or lastly the _creation_ of BEAUTY, (for -the terms as here employed are synonymous) as the essence of all Poesy. -Nor is this idea so much at variance with ordinary opinion as, at first -sight, it may appear. A multitude of antique dogmas on this topic will -be found, when divested of extrinsic speculation, to be easily resoluble -into the definition now proposed. We do nothing more than present -tangibly the vague clouds of the world’s idea. We recognize the idea -itself floating, unsettled, indefinite, in every attempt which has yet -been made to circumscribe the conception of “Poesy” in words. A striking -instance of this is observable in the fact that no definition exists, in -which either “the beautiful,” or some one of those qualities which we -have above designated synonymously with “creation,” has not been pointed -out as the _chief_ attribute of the Muse. “Invention,” however, or -“imagination,” is by far more commonly insisted upon. The word ποιησις -itself (creation) speaks volumes upon this point. Neither will it be -amiss here to mention Count Bielfeld’s definition of poetry as “_L’art -d’exprimer les pensées par la fiction_.” With this definition (of which -the philosophy is profound to a certain extent) the German terms -_Dichtkunst_, the art of fiction, and _Dichten_, to feign, which are -used for “_poetry_” and “_to make verses_,” are in full and remarkable -accordance. It is, nevertheless, in the _combination_ of the two -omni-prevalent ideas that the novelty and, we believe, the force of our -own proposition is to be found. - -So far, we have spoken of Poesy as of an abstraction alone. As such, it -is obvious that it may be applicable in various moods. The sentiment may -develop itself in Sculpture, in Painting, in Music, or otherwise. But -our present business is with its development in words—that development -to which, in practical acceptation, the world has agreed to limit the -term. And at this point there is one consideration which induces us to -pause. We cannot make up our minds to admit (as some have admitted) the -inessentiality of rhythm. On the contrary, the universality of its use -in the earliest poetical efforts of all mankind would be sufficient to -assure us, not merely of its congeniality with the Muse, or of its -adaptation to her purposes, but of its elementary and indispensible -importance. But here we must, perforce, content ourselves with mere -suggestion; for this topic is of a character which would lead us too -far. We have already spoken of Music as one of the moods of poetical -development. It is in Music, perhaps, that the soul most nearly attains -that end upon which we have commented—the creation of supernal beauty. -It may be, indeed, that this august aim is here even partially or -imperfectly attained, _in fact_. The _elements_ of that beauty which is -felt in sound, _may be_ the mutual or common heritage of Earth and -Heaven. In the soul’s struggles at combination it is thus not impossible -that a harp may strike notes not unfamiliar to the angels. And in this -view the wonder may well be less that all attempts at defining the -character or sentiment of the deeper musical impressions, has been found -absolutely futile. Contenting ourselves, therefore, with the firm -conviction, that music (in its modifications of rhythm and rhyme) is of -so vast a moment in Poesy, as _never_ to be neglected by him who is -truly poetical—is of so mighty a force in furthering the great aim -intended that he is mad who rejects its assistance—content with this -idea we shall not pause to maintain its absolute essentiality, for the -mere sake of rounding a definition. We will but add, at this point, that -the highest possible development of the Poetical Sentiment is to be -found in the union of song with music, in its popular sense. The old -Bards and Minnesingers possessed, in the fullest perfection, the finest -and truest elements of Poesy; and Thomas Moore, singing his own ballads, -is but putting the final touch to their completion as poems. - -To recapitulate, then, we would define in brief the Poetry of words as -the _Rhythmical Creation of Beauty_. Beyond the limits of Beauty its -province does not extend. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect -or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations. It has no -dependence, unless incidentally, upon either Duty or _Truth_. That our -definition will necessarily exclude much of what, through a supine -toleration, has been hitherto ranked as poetical, is a matter which -affords us not even momentary concern. We address but the thoughtful, -and heed only their approval—with our own. If our suggestions are -truthful, then “after many days” shall they be understood as truth, even -though found in contradiction of _all_ that has been hitherto so -understood. If false shall we not be the first to bid them die? - -We would reject, of course, all such matters as “Armstrong on Health,” a -revolting production; Pope’s “Essay on Man,” which may well be content -with the title of an “Essay in Rhyme;” “Hudibras” and other merely -humorous pieces. We do not gainsay the peculiar merits of either of -these latter compositions—but deny them the position held. In a notice, -month before last, of Brainard’s Poems, we took occasion to show that -the common use of a certain instrument, (rhythm) had tended, more than -aught else, to confound humorous verse with poetry. The observation is -now recalled to corroborate what we have just said in respect to the -vast effect or force of melody in itself—an effect which could elevate -into even momentary confusion with the highest efforts of mind, -compositions such as are the greater number of satires or burlesques. - -Of the poets who have appeared most fully instinct with the principles -now developed, we may mention _Keats_ as the most remarkable. He is the -sole British poet who has never erred in his themes. Beauty is always -his aim. - -We have thus shown our ground of objection to the general _themes_ of -Professor Longfellow. In common with all who claim the sacred title of -poet, he should limit his endeavors to the creation of novel moods of -beauty, in form, in color, in sound, in sentiment; for over all this -wide range has the poetry of words dominion. To what the world terms -_prose_ may be safely and properly left all else. The artist who doubts -of his thesis, may always resolve his doubt by the single -question—“might not this matter be as well or better handled in -_prose_?” If it _may_, then is it no subject for the Muse. In the -general acceptation of the term _Beauty_ we are content to rest; being -careful only to suggest that, in our peculiar views, it must be -understood as inclusive of _the sublime_. - -Of the pieces which constitute the present volume, there are not more -than one or two thoroughly fulfilling the idea above proposed; although -the volume as a whole is by no means so chargeable with didacticism as -Mr. Longfellow’s previous book. We would mention as poems _nearly true_, -“The Village Blacksmith;” “The Wreck of the Hesperus” and especially -“The Skeleton in Armor.” In the first-mentioned we have the _beauty_ of -simple-mindedness as a genuine thesis; and this thesis is inimitably -handled until the concluding stanza, where the spirit of legitimate -poesy is aggrieved in the pointed antithetical deduction of a _moral_ -from what has gone before. In “The Wreck of the Hesperus” we have the -_beauty_ of child-like confidence and innocence, with that of the -father’s stern courage and affection. But, with slight exception, those -particulars of the storm here detailed are not poetic subjects. Their -thrilling _horror_ belongs to prose, in which it could be far more -effectively discussed, as Professor Longfellow may assure himself at any -moment by experiment. There are points of a tempest which afford the -loftiest and truest poetical themes—points in which pure beauty is -found, or, better still, beauty heightened into the sublime, by terror. -But when we read, among other similar things, that - - The salt sea was frozen on her breast, - The salt tears in her eyes, - -we feel, if not positive disgust, at least a chilling sense of the -inappropriate. In the “Skeleton in Armor” we find a pure and perfect -thesis artistically treated. We find the beauty of bold courage and -self-confidence, of love and maiden devotion, of reckless adventure, and -finally of life-contemning grief. Combined with all this we have -numerous _points_ of beauty apparently insulated, but all aiding the -main effect or impression. The heart is stirred, and the mind does not -lament its mal-instruction. The metre is simple, sonorous, well-balanced -and fully adapted to the subject. Upon the whole, there are fewer truer -poems than this. It has but one defection—an important one. The prose -remarks prefacing the narrative are really _necessary_. But every work -of art should contain within itself all that is requisite for its own -comprehension. And this remark is especially true of the ballad. In -poems of magnitude the mind of the reader is not, at all times, enabled -to include, in one comprehensive survey, the proportions and proper -adjustment of the whole. He is pleased, if at all, with particular -passages; and the sum of his pleasure is compounded of the sums of the -pleasurable sentiments inspired by these individual passages in the -progress of perusal. But, in pieces of less extent, the pleasure is -_unique_, in the proper acceptation of this term—the understanding is -employed, without difficulty, in the contemplation of the picture _as a_ -_whole_; and thus its effect will depend, in great measure, upon the -perfection of its finish, upon the nice adaptation of its constituent -parts, and especially, upon what is rightly termed by Schlegel _the -unity or totality of interest_. But the practice of prefixing -explanatory passages is utterly at variance with such unity. By the -prefix, we are either put in possession of the subject of the poem; or -some hint, historic fact, or suggestion, is thereby afforded, not -included in the body of the piece, which, without the hint, is -incomprehensible. In the latter case, while perusing the poem, the -reader must revert, in mind at least, to the prefix, for the necessary -explanation. In the former, the poem being a mere paraphrase of the -prefix, the interest is divided between the prefix and the paraphrase. -In either instance the totality of effect is destroyed. - -Of the other original poems in the volume before us, there is none in -which the aim of instruction, or _truth_, has not been too obviously -substituted for the legitimate aim, _beauty_. In our last number, we -took occasion to say that a didactic moral might be happily made the -_under-current_ of a poetical theme, and, in “Burton’s Magazine,” some -two years since, we treated this point at length, in a review of Moore’s -“Alciphron;” but the moral thus conveyed is invariably an ill effect -when obtruding beyond the upper current of the thesis itself. Perhaps -the worst specimen of this obtrusion is given us by our poet in “Blind -Bartimeus” and the “Goblet of Life,” where, it will be observed that the -_sole_ interest of the upper current of meaning depends upon its -relation or reference to the under. What we read upon the surface would -be _vox et preterea nihil_ in default of the moral beneath. The Greek -_finales_ of “Blind Bartimeus” are an affectation altogether -inexcusable. What the small, second-hand, Gibbon-ish pedantry of Byron -introduced, is unworthy the imitation of Longfellow. - -Of the translations we scarcely think it necessary to speak at all. We -regret that our poet will persist in busying himself about such matters. -_His_ time might be better employed in original conception. Most of -these versions are marked with the error upon which we have commented. -This error is in fact, essentially Germanic. “The Luck of Edenhall,” -however, is a truly beautiful poem; and we say this with all that -deference which the opinion of the “Democratic Review” demands. This -composition appears to us _one of the very finest_. It has all the free, -hearty, _obvious_ movement of the true ballad-legend. The greatest force -of language is combined in it with the richest imagination, acting in -its most legitimate province. Upon the whole, we prefer it even to the -“Sword-Song” of Körner. The pointed moral with which it terminates is so -exceedingly natural—so perfectly fluent from the incidents—that we -have hardly heart to pronounce it in ill taste. We may observe of this -ballad, in conclusion, that its subject is more _physical_ than is usual -in Germany. Its images are rich rather in physical than in moral beauty. -And this tendency, in Song, is the true one. It is chiefly, if we are -not mistaken—it is chiefly amid forms of physical loveliness (we use -the word _forms_ in its widest sense as embracing modifications of sound -and color) that the soul seeks the realization of its dreams of Beauty. -It is to her demand in this sense especially, that the poet, who is -wise, will most frequently and most earnestly respond. - -“The Children of the Lord’s Supper” is, beyond doubt, a true and most -beautiful poem in great part, while, in some particulars, it is too -metaphysical to have any pretension to the name. In our last number, we -objected, briefly, to its metre—the ordinary Latin or Greek -Hexameter—dactyls and spondees at random, with a spondee in conclusion. -We maintain that the Hexameter can never be introduced into our -language, from the nature of that language itself. This rhythm demands, -_for English ears_, a preponderance of natural spondees. Our tongue has -few. Not only does the Latin and Greek, with the Swedish, and some -others, abound in them; but the Greek and Roman ear had become -reconciled (why or how is unknown) to the reception of artificial -spondees—that is to say, spondaic words formed partly of one word and -partly of another, or from an excised part of one word. In short the -ancients were content to read _as they scanned_, or nearly so. It may be -safely prophesied that we shall never do this; and thus we shall never -admit English Hexameters. The attempt to introduce them, after the -repeated failures of Sir Philip Sidney, and others, is, perhaps, -somewhat discreditable to the scholarship of Professor Longfellow. The -“Democratic Review,” in saying that he has triumphed over difficulties -in this rhythm, has been deceived, it is evident, by the facility with -which some of these verses may be read. In glancing over the poem, we do -not observe a single verse which can be read, _to English ears, as a -Greek Hexameter_. There are many, however, which can be well read as -mere English dactylic verses; such, for example, as the well known lines -of Byron, commencing - - Know ye the | land where the | cypress and | myrtle. - -These lines (although full of irregularities) are, in their perfection, -formed of three dactyls and a cæsura—just as if we should cut short the -initial verse of the Bucolics thus— - - Tityre | tu patu | læ recu | bans— - -The “myrtle,” at the close of Byron’s line, is a double rhyme, and must -be understood as one syllable. - -Now a great number of Professor Longfellow’s Hexameters are merely these -dactylic lines, _continued for two feet_. For example— - - Whispered the | race of the | flowers and | merry on | - balancing | branches. - -In this example, also, “branches,” which is a double ending, must be -regarded as the cæsura, or one syllable, of which alone it has the -force. - -As we have already alluded, in one or two regards, to a notice of these -poems which appeared in the “Democratic Review,” we may as well here -proceed with some few further comments upon the article in -question—with whose general tenor we are happy to agree. - -The Review speaks of “Maidenhood” as a poem, “not to be understood but -at the expense of more time and trouble than a song can justly claim.” -We are scarcely less surprised at this opinion from Mr. Langtree than we -were at the condemnation of “The Luck of Edenhall.” - -“Maidenhood” is faulty, it appears to us, only on the score of its -theme, which is somewhat didactic. Its _meaning_ seems simplicity -itself. A maiden on the verge of womanhood, hesitating to enjoy life -(for which she has a strong appetite) through a false idea of duty, is -bidden to fear nothing, having purity of heart as her lion of Una. - -What Mr. Langtree styles “an unfortunate peculiarity” in Mr. Longfellow, -resulting from “adherence to a false system” has really been always -regarded by us as one of his idiosyncratic merits. “In each poem,” says -the critic, “he has but _one_ idea which, in the progress of his song is -gradually unfolded, and at last reaches its full development in the -concluding lines; this singleness of thought might lead a harsh critic -to suspect intellectual barrenness.” It leads _us_, individually, only -to a full sense of the artistical power and knowledge of the poet. We -confess that now, for the first time, we hear unity of conception -objected to as a defect. But Mr. Langtree seems to have fallen into the -singular error of supposing the poet to have absolutely _but one idea_ -in each of his ballads. Yet how “one idea” can be “gradually unfolded” -without other ideas, is, to us, a mystery of mysteries. Mr. Longfellow, -very properly, has but one _leading_ idea which forms the basis of his -poem; but to the aid and development of this one there are innumerable -others, of which the rare excellence is, that all are in keeping, that -none could be well omitted, that each tends to the one general effect. -It is unnecessary to say another word upon this topic. - -In speaking of “Excelsior,” Mr. Langtree (are we wrong in attributing -the notice to his very forcible pen?) seems to labor under some similar -misconception. “It carries along with it,” says he, “a false moral which -greatly diminishes its merit in our eyes. The great merit of a picture, -whether made with the pencil or pen, is its _truth_; and this merit does -not belong to Mr. Longfellow’s sketch. Men of genius may and probably -do, meet with greater difficulties in their struggles with the world -than their fellow-men who are less highly gifted; but their power of -overcoming obstacles is proportionably greater, and the result of their -laborious suffering is not death but immortality.” - -That the chief merit of a picture is its _truth_, is an assertion -deplorably erroneous. Even in Painting which is, more essentially than -Poetry, a mimetic art, the proposition cannot be sustained. Truth is not -even _the aim_. Indeed it is curious to observe how very slight a degree -of truth is sufficient to satisfy the mind, which acquiesces in the -absence of numerous essentials in the thing depicted. An outline -frequently stirs the spirit more pleasantly than the most elaborate -picture. We need only refer to the compositions of Flaxman and of -Retzch. Here all details are omitted—nothing can be farther from -_truth_. Without even color the most thrilling effects are produced. In -statues we are rather pleased than disgusted with _the want of the -eyeball_. The hair of the Venus de Medicis _was gilded_. Truth indeed! -The grapes of Zeuxis as well as the curtain of Parrhasius were received -as indisputable evidence of the truthful ability of these artists—but -they were not even _classed among their pictures_. If truth is the -highest aim of either Painting or Poesy, then Jan Steen was a greater -artist than Angelo, and Crabbe is a more noble poet than Milton. - -But we have not quoted the observation of Mr. Langtree to deny its -philosophy; our design was simply to show that he has misunderstood the -poet. “Excelsior” has not even a remote tendency to the interpretation -assigned it by the critic. It depicts the _earnest upward impulse of the -soul_—an impulse not to be subdued even in Death. Despising danger, -resisting pleasure, the youth, bearing the banner inscribed -“_Excelsior!_” (higher still!) struggles through all difficulties to an -Alpine summit. Warned to be content with the elevation attained, his cry -is still “_Excelsior!_” And, even in falling dead on the highest -pinnacle, his cry is _still_ “_Excelsior!_” There is yet an immortal -height to be surmounted—an ascent in Eternity. The poet holds in view -the idea of never-ending _progress_. That he is misunderstood is rather -the misfortune of Mr. Langtree than the fault of Mr. Longfellow. There -is an old adage about the difficulty of one’s furnishing an auditor both -with matter to be comprehended and brains for its comprehension. - - * * * * * - - _Ideals and other Poems, by Algernon. Henry Perkins: - Philadelphia._ - -Externally, this is a beautiful little volume, in which Mr. Longfellow’s -“Ballads” just noticed are imitated with close precision. Internally, no -two publications could be more different. A tripping prettiness, in -thought and expression, is all to which the author of “Ideals” may lay -claim. There is much poetry in his book, but none of a lofty order. The -piece which gives name to the volume, is an unimpressive production of -two pages and a half. The longest article is a tame translation of a -portion of Göthe’s “Torquato Tasso.” The best, is entitled “Preaching in -the Woods,” and this would bear comparison at some points with many of -our most noted American poems. There are also twelve lines, seemingly -intended as a sonnet, and prefacing the book—twelve lines of a sweet -and quaint simplicity. The general air of the whole is nevertheless -commonplace. It has nothing, except its mechanical execution, to -distinguish it from the multitudinous ephemera with which our national -poetical press is now groaning. - -As regards the minor morals of the Muse, the author is either uninformed -or affected. He is especially fond of unusual accents; and this, at -least, is a point in which novelty produces no good or admissible -effect. He has constantly such words as “accord” and “resource”—utter -abominations. He is endeavoring too, and very literally, to render -confusion worse confounded by the introduction into poetry of Carlyle’s -hyper-ridiculous ellisions in prose. Here, for example, where the -pronoun “he” is left to be understood: - - Now the fervent preacher rises, - And his theme is heavenly love, - _Tells_ how once the blessed Saviour - Left his throne above. - -His roughness is frequently reprehensible. We meet every where, or at -least far too often, with lines such as this— - - Its clustered stars beneath Spring’s footsteps meets - -in which the consonants are more sadly clustered than the stars. The -poet who would bring uninterruptedly together such letters as t h s p -and r, has either no ear at all, or two unusually long ones. The word -“footsteps,” moreover, should never be used in verse. To read the line -quoted, one must mouth like Forrest and hiss like a serpent. - - * * * * * - - _Twice-Told Tales. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. James Monroe & Co.: - Boston._ - -We have always regarded the _Tale_ (using this word in its popular -acceptation) as affording the best prose opportunity for display of the -highest talent. It has peculiar advantages which the novel does not -admit. It is, of course, a far finer field than the essay. It has even -points of superiority over the poem. An accident has deprived us, this -month, of our customary space for review; and thus nipped in the bud a -design long cherished of treating this subject in detail, taking Mr. -Hawthorne’s volumes as a text. In May we shall endeavor to carry out our -intention. At present we are forced to be brief. - -With rare exception—in the case of Mr. Irving’s “Tales of a Traveller” -and a few other works of a like cast—we have had no American tales of -high merit. We have had no skilful compositions—nothing which could -bear examination as works of art. Of twattle called tale-writing we have -had, perhaps, more than enough. We have had a superabundance of the -Rosa-Matilda effusions—gilt-edged paper all _couleur de rose_: a full -allowance of cut-and-thrust blue-blazing melodramaticisms; a nauseating -surfeit of low miniature copying of low life, much in the manner, and -with about half the merit, of the Dutch herrings and decayed cheeses of -Van Tuyssel—of all this, _eheu jam satis_! - -Mr. Hawthorne’s volumes appear to us misnamed in two respects. In the -first place they should not have been called “Twice-Told Tales”—for -this is a title which will not bear _repetition_. If in the first -collected edition they were twice-told, of course now they are -thrice-told.—May we live to hear them told a hundred times! In the -second place, these compositions are by no means _all_ “Tales.” The most -of them are essays properly so called. It would have been wise in their -author to have modified his title, so as to have had reference to all -included. This point could have been easily arranged. - -But under whatever titular blunders we receive the book, it is most -cordially welcome. We have seen no prose composition by any American -which can compare with _some_ of these articles in the higher merits, or -indeed in the lower; while there is not a single piece which would do -dishonor to the best of the British essayists. - -“The Rill from the Town Pump” which, through the _ad captandum_ nature -of its title, has attracted more of public notice than any one other of -Mr. Hawthorne’s compositions, is perhaps, the _least_ meritorious. Among -his best, we may briefly mention “The Hollow of the Three Hills;” “The -Minister’s Black Veil;” “Wakefield;” “Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe;” -“Fancy’s Show-Box;” “Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment;” “David Swan;” “The -Wedding Knell;” and; “The White Old Maid.” It is remarkable that all -these, with one exception, are from the first volume. - -The style of Mr. Hawthorne is purity itself. His _tone_ is singularly -effective—wild, plaintive, thoughtful, and in full accordance with his -themes. We have only to object that there is insufficient diversity in -these themes themselves, or rather in their character. His _originality_ -both of incident and of reflection is very remarkable; and this trait -alone would ensure him at least _our_ warmest regard and commendation. -We speak here chiefly of the tales; the essays are not so markedly -novel. Upon the whole we look upon him as one of the few men of -indisputable genius to whom our country has as yet given birth. As such, -it will be our delight to do him honor; and lest, in these undigested -and cursory remarks, without proof and without explanation, we should -appear to do him _more_ honor than is his due, we postpone all farther -comment until a more favorable opportunity. - - * * * * * - - _A Translation of Jacobs’ Greek Reader, (adapted to all the - editions printed in America) for the use of Schools, Academies, - Colleges, and Private Learners; with Copious Notes, Critical and - Explanatory: illustrated with numerous Parallel Passages and - Apposite Quotations from the Greek, Latin, French, English, - Spanish, and Italian Languages: and a Complete Parsing Index; - Elucidated by References to the most Popular Greek Grammars - Extant: By Patrick S. Casserly, author of “A New Literal - Translation of Longinus” &c. W. E. Dean: New York._ - -We give this title in full, as affording the best possible idea of the -character of the work. Nothing is left for us to say, except that we -highly approve the use of literal translations. In spite of all care, -these _will_ be employed by students, and thus it is surely an object to -furnish reputable versions. Mr. Casserly is, perhaps, chargeable with -inflation and Johnsonism as regards his own style—a defect from which -we have never known one of his profession free. The merit of his -translations, however, is unquestionable. - - * * * * * - -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 due -to the fonts and character sets available in the device. - -A cover has been created for this eBook and is placed in the public -domain. - -[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 4, April 1842_, George R. -Graham, Editor] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XX, NO. -4, APRIL 1842 *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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