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diff --git a/old/67470-0.txt b/old/67470-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d7fa52b..0000000 --- a/old/67470-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5505 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 5, May -1842, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 5, May 1842 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George Rex Graham - -Release Date: February 22, 2022 [eBook #67470] - -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. 5, MAY 1842 *** - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XX. May, 1842 No. 5. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - The Bride - Centre Harbor, N. H. - The Mask of the Red Death - Procrastination - The Chevalier Gluck - The Late Sir David Wilkie - Edith Pemberton - Thoughts on Music - Harry Cavendish - Recollections of West Point - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music and Fashion - - Spring’s Advent - Perditi - Venus and the Modern Belle - My Bark Is Out upon the Sea - To Amie—Unknown - To an Antique Vase - The Old World - Euroclydon - Mystery - L’Envoy to E—— - The Orphan Ballad Singers - Latest Fashions for May - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: -Drawn by John Hayter, Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie -_The Bride_ -_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_] - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XX. PHILADELPHIA: MAY, 1842. No. 5. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BRIDE. - - - _Ros._ Ah, sir, a body would think she was well counterfeited. - - -“The earl is out, sir—and so is Lord William;” said the obsequious -lacquey, as I was ushered into Fairlie Hall, “will you amuse yourself in -the library until dinner, or take a stroll in the park? You will -probably meet with some of the family about the grounds.” - -Such was the salutation that greeted me on alighting at the princely -mansion of the earl of Fairlie, whither I had come at the invitation of -his only son—one of my inseparable friends at Oxford. The visit had -been promised for more than two years; and I was actuated to it, not -only by the desire of spending the vacation with my friend, but by a -lurking wish to behold the Lady Katharine, his only sister, whose beauty -I had heard extolled by a hundred lips. So I had given up a contemplated -run to the continent and come down to Fairlie Hall. - -After changing my dress and gazing from the windows of my chamber, I -began to feel ennuied and descending the ample staircase I determined on -a stroll into the magnificent park, which surrounded the hall for some -miles on every hand. My walk led me by a wild woodland path into one of -the most romantic recesses of the forest. Naturally of a dreamy cast of -mind, I walked on in a sort of reverie, until I was suddenly recalled to -my more sober senses by coming in front of a little summer house, -perched airily on a rock, and overlooking a mimic waterfall. Feeling -somewhat fatigued with my day’s travel, I walked in and sat down. There -was little furniture in the room, but on a table in the centre, lay a -copy of Spencer, as if some one had lately been there. Picking up my -favorite poet I began reading, but whether the interminable allegory -exercised a drowsy influence over me, or whether it was the sharp -morning air in which I had been riding that affected me, I cannot say, -but in a few minutes I fell into a light doze, such a one as while it -gives a dreamy character to our thoughts, or lulls them altogether into -repose, never assumes wholly the character of sleep, and is dissipated -by the slightest noise. Mine was soon broken, by a quick light step on -the greensward without, and a musical female voice singing a gay ditty. -Starting up I beheld an apparition standing in the door of the summer -house, whose exceeding loveliness I was doubtful, for a moment, whether -to refer to earth or heaven. - -This apparition bore the form of a young lady apparently about eighteen, -of a tall shapely figure, attired in a light summer dress—the sleeves -of which, being looped up at the shoulders, revealed a pair of -exquisitely rounded arms which might have vied with those of the fabled -Euphrosyne. Her dress came low down towards the bust, displaying the -full charms of her unrivalled shoulders and all the graceful swelling of -her snowy and swan-like neck. Her face was of the true oval shape, and -on either side of it flowed down her luxuriant auburn ringlets. The -features, without being regular, formed a combination of surpassing -beauty. The delicately arched eye-brows; the finely chiselled nose; the -small round chin; the rich lips whose luxuriance rivalled that of the -full blown rose; and the smooth pearly cheek, through which the vermeil -blood might be seen wandering in ten thousand tiny veins—so transparent -was the hue of the skin—united to form a countenance which would have -been beautiful, even without the constantly changing expression which -gave animation to each feature. The appearance of this wondrously lovely -being, just as I awoke from the half dreamy sleep I have described, in -which the visions of the poet and the sound of the waterfall had -contributed to fill my mind with fantastic images, made me doubt, for a -moment, whether the heavenly Una herself or one of her attendant nymphs -had not emerged on my dreaming vision. But the changing expressing of -her features soon convinced me that she was no airy visitant. At first a -look of surprise darted over her fine countenance, and she retreated a -step backwards, while the blood mantled her cheek, brow, and bosom, and -even tinged the ends of her delicate fingers. In an instant, however, -she regained her composure. No so myself. I had been equally startled, -but was longer in recovering my ease. A silence of a minute thus -occurred, during which we stood awkwardly regarding each other, but at -length the ludicrousness of the scene striking the fancy of the fair -apparition, she burst into a merry laugh, in which, despite my wounded -vanity, I was forced to follow her. She had now fully recovered from her -momentary embarrassment and advancing said, - -“Mr. Stanhope I presume, for we have been expecting you for some days.” -I bowed. “I see I must introduce myself. The Lady Katharine, daughter of -the Earl of Fairlie.” - -This then was the Lady Katharine of whom I had heard so much! There was -something in the gaiety and originality of the address that pleased me, -while at the same time it increased my embarrassment. I bowed again and -was about to reply, but in bowing I inadvertently made a step backwards, -and trod on a pet greyhound, which accompanied this wilful creature. The -animal with a cry sought shelter by its mistress’ side, who, by this -time, had sunk into one of the seats. - -“Poor Lama,” she said petting him, “you must be careful how you get in -the way of a bashful gallant again,” and then, turning to me, she said -in a tone of gay raillery. “Ah, Mr. Stanhope, you Oxford gentlemen, -knowing as you are in history, Greek, and Latin, are all alike awkward -at a bow—at least William is so, and his particular friend of whom I -have heard so much, and of whom I really hoped otherwise, is no better.” - -There was much in this galling to my vanity, but it carried with it some -alleviation. I had then been the subject of conversation with this fair -being, and she had thought favorably of me. This idea did much to -restore me to the use of my tongue, which otherwise would have been gone -forever, under the merciless raillery of the Lady Katharine. Besides I -saw that I was losing ground with my fair companion, and that it was -necessary to call some assurance to my aid. I rallied therefore and -replied: - -“Let me not be condemned without trial. Lady Katharine may yet soften -her sentence—or at least in the court of fashion over which she is -queen, I may have a chance of improvement.” - -There was a tone of easy badinage in this, so different from what she -had been led to expect from my former embarrassment, that the lady -looked up in unaffected surprise. - -“Very well, I declare—you improve on acquaintance. Why you have almost -earned for yourself the favor of being my knight homewards—quite -indeed, only that you have lamed my poor Lama. So I must even leave you -to Spencer, which I see you have been reading, and depart. We will meet -at dinner and I will see by that time if you have improved in your -bows.” - -“Not so, fair lady,” said I, “Spencer would never forgive me, and I -would indeed be unworthy to be called true knight, if I permitted damsel -to brave the perils of this enchanted forest alone.” And I started -forward to accompany her. - -She looked at me a minute dubiously, as if puzzled what to make of my -character, as she said: - -“I pardon you, for this once, and allow you to accompany me. We shall,” -she continued, looking at her watch, “have scarcely time to reach the -hall before the dinner bell will sound.” And with the words, off she -tripped, with a bound as free as that of her agile greyhound. I -followed, determined not to be outdone, but to maintain the gay rattling -tone I had assumed, as the only one fitted to cope with this wilful -creature. I had so far succeeded that when we parted at the hall to -dress for dinner, I really believe she would have been puzzled to say -what part of my conversation had been serious or what not. She must have -been completely in the dark as to my real sentiments on any one of the -many subjects we had discussed. Indeed she admitted as much to me at -dinner, where I managed to secure a place beside her. - -“You are a perfect puzzle—do you know it, Mr. Stanhope? At least I have -not yet decided what to think of you. At first I set you down for the -most bashful young man I had ever seen, and now you seem as if nothing -could intimidate you. Why, when pa was introduced to you, you talked -politics with him as if you had known him for years, and three minutes -after you were discussing the fashions with little Miss Mowbray, as if -you had been a man-milliner all your life. I scarcely know whether to -think you a cameleon, or attribute your wit to the champaigne.” - -“Neither, Lady Katharine, while a better reason may be found nearer -home.” - -“Ah! that wasn’t so badly said, although a little too plain. We ladies -like flattery well enough, but then it must be disguised.” - -“And it would be almost impossible to flatter you!—is that it?” - -“You puzzle me to tell, I declare, whether that is a compliment or -otherwise—but see, pa is waiting to drink champaigne with you.” - -In such gay conversation passed the dinner and evening; and when I -retired for the night it was with the consciousness that I was in a fair -way to fall in love with the Lady Katharine. I lay awake for some two -hours, thinking of all I had said and of her replies; and I came to the -conclusion that she was, beyond measure not only the loveliest but the -most fascinating of her sex. - -I had been among the first of the numerous guests to arrive; but the -remainder followed so close after me that in a few days the whole -company had assembled. It was an unusually gay party. The morning was -generally spent by the gentlemen in shooting among the preserves, -leaving the ladies to their indoor recreations or a ride around the -park. On these rides the gentlemen sometimes accompanied them. Lady -Katharine was always the star of the party; it was around her our sex -gathered. But, fascinating as I felt her to be I was, of all the beaux, -the most seldom found at her bridle-rein; and perhaps this comparatively -distant air was the most effectual means I could have taken to forward -my suit. At least I fancied more than once that I piqued the Lady -Katharine. - -We still kept up the tone of badinage with which our acquaintance had -commenced. There was a playful wit about the Lady Katharine which was -irresistible; and I flattered myself that she was pleased with my -conversation, perhaps because it was different from that of her suitors -in general. But whether her liking for me extended further than to my -qualities as a drawing-room companion I was unable to tell. If I strove -to hide my love from her, she was equally successful in concealing her -feelings whatever they might be. Yet she gave me the credit of being a -keen observer. - -“You take more notice of little things than any one of your sex I ever -saw,” she said to me one evening. “The ladies have a way of reading -one’s sentiments by trifles, which your sex generally deem beneath its -notice. But you! one would almost fear your finding out all one thinks.” - -“Oh! not at all,” said I. “At any rate, if your sex are such keen -observers they are also apt at concealment. What lady that has not -striven to hide from her lover that she returned his passion, at least -until he has proposed, and that even though aware how wholly he adores -her? We all alike play a part.” - -“Shame, shame, Mr. Stanhope! Would you have us surrender our only -protection, by betraying our sentiments too soon? And then to say that -we all play a part, as if hypocrisy—in little things, it is true, but -still _hypocrisy_—was an every-day affair. You make me ashamed of human -nature. You really cannot believe what you say!” - -This was spoken with a warmth that convinced me the words were from the -heart. I felt that however flippant the Lady Katharine might be to the -vain and empty suitors that usually thronged around her, she had a -heart—a warm, true, woman’s heart—a heart that beat with noble -emotions and was susceptible to all the finer feelings of love. I would -have replied, but at this instant the Duke of Chovers approached and -requested the honor of waltzing with her. - -The Duke of Chovers was a young man of about five and twenty. The -calibre of his mind was that of fashionable men in general; but then he -enjoyed a splendid fortune and wore the ducal coronet. He was -confessedly the best match of the season. The charms of the Lady -Katharine had been the first to divert his mind from his dress and -horses. It was whispered that a union was already arranged betwixt him -and my fair companion. As if to confirm this rumor, he always took his -place by her bridle-rein. The worldly advantages of such a connexion -were unanswerable; and I had been tortured by uneasy fears ever since I -heard the rumor. Now was a fair opportunity to learn the truth. I had -heard the Lady Katharine jestingly say a few days before, in describing -a late ball, that she refused to waltz with Lord —— because she -thought him unmarried, and that when she discovered her mistake she was -piqued at herself for losing the handsomest partner in the room. The -remark was made jestingly and casually, and was by this time forgotten -by her. But I still remembered it. Yet I know that if she was betrothed -to him she would accept his offer. How my heart thrilled, therefore, -when I heard her decline it! His grace walked away unable to conceal his -mortification. - -“You should not be so hard-hearted,” said I, “although the duke ought -have known that you waltz with none of the proscribed race of -bachelors.” - -She looked at me in unaffected surprise. - -“How did you discover that?” she said. “We have had no waltzing since -you came,” and then, reflecting that these hasty words had confirmed my -bold assertion, she blushed to the very brow and looked for a moment -confused. - -Our conversation was interrupted by her brother and one or two new -acquaintances who had driven home with him. I soon sauntered away. My -deductions respecting her and the duke were shaken, I confess, before -the evening was over, by seeing them sitting _tête-à-tête_, by one of -the casements, while the guests avoided them, as if by that tacit -agreement under which lovers are left to themselves. - -The attentions of his grace became daily more marked, and there was an -evident embarrassment of manner in the Lady Katharine under them. A -month slipped away meanwhile, and the time when the company was to break -up drew near. - -We were out on a ride one morning, and the duke, as usual, had -established himself at her bridle-rein, when, in cantering along the -brow of a somewhat precipitous hill, overlooking the country for miles -around, the horse of the Lady Katharine took fright, from some cause, -and dashed towards the edge of a precipice that sank sheer down for -nearly a hundred feet. The precipice was several hundred yards to the -right, but the pace at which the frighted steed went, threatened soon to -bring him up with it, while the efforts of the rider to alter his course -appeared to be unavailing. Our party was paralyzed, and his grace -particularly so. I alone retained my presence of mind. Driving my spurs -deep into the flanks of my steed, I plunged forward at full gallop, amid -the shrieks of the females and the warnings of the gentlemen of the -party. But I knew I could trust my gallant hunter. The Lady Katharine -heard my horse’s hoofs, and turned around. Never shall I forget her -pleading look. I dashed my rowels again into Arab, for only a few paces -yet remained betwixt the Lady Katharine’s frightened animal and the edge -of the precipice. One more leap and all would have been over; but -luckily at that instant I came head and head with her furious steed, and -catching him by the bridle, I swung him around with a superhuman -strength. But I was only partially successful. The animal plunged and -snorted, and nearly jerked me from the saddle. - -“For God’s sake dismount, my dear Lady Katharine, as well as you can, or -all is over.” - -The daring girl hesitated no more, but seizing a favorable instant when -the animal, though trembling all over, stood nearly still, she leaped to -the earth. The next instant her steed plunged more wildly than ever, and -seeing that she was safe I let go the bridle. He snorted, dashed forward -and went headlong over the precipice. In an instant I had dismounted and -was by the Lady Katharine’s side. I was just in time to catch her in my -arms as she fainted away. Before she recovered, the landau, with the -rest of the party, came up. I saw her in the hands of her mother, and -then giving reins to Arab, under pretence of sending medical aid, but in -reality to escape the gratulations of the company, I dashed off. - -When I entered the drawing-room before dinner, there was no one in the -apartment but the Lady Katharine. She looked pale, but on recognizing -me, a deep blush suffused her cheek and brow, while her eye lit up for -the instant, with an expression of dewy tenderness that made every vein -in my body thrill. But these traces of emotion passed as rapidly as they -came, leaving her manner as it usually was, only that there was an -unnatural restraint about it, as if her feelings of gratitude were -struggling with others of a different character. She rose, however, and -extended her hand. There was nothing of its usual light tone in her -voice, but an expression of deep seriousness, perhaps emotion, as she -said, - -“How shall I ever thank you sufficiently, Mr. Stanhope, for saving my -life?” and that same dewy tenderness again shone from her eyes. - -“By never alluding, my dear Lady Katharine, to this day’s occurrence. I -have only done what every other gentleman would have done.” - -She sighed. Was she thinking of the tardiness of the duke? I thought so, -and sighed too. She looked up suddenly, with her large full eyes fixed -on me, as if she would read my very soul; while a deep roseate blush -suffused her face and crimsoned even her shoulders and bosom. There was -something in that look that changed the whole current of my convictions, -and bid me hope. In the impulse of the moment, I took her hand. Again -that conscious blush rushed over her cheek and bosom; but this time her -eyes sought the ground. My brain reeled. At length I found words, and, -in burning language poured forth my hopes and fears, and told the tale -of my love. I ceased; her bosom heaved wildly, but she did not answer. I -still knelt at her feet. At length she said, - -“Rise.” - -There was something in the tone, rather than in the word, which assured -me I was beloved. If I needed further confirmation of this it was given -in the look of confiding tenderness with which she gazed an instant on -me, and then averted her eyes tremblingly. I stole my arm around her, -and drew her gently toward me. In a moment she looked up again half -reproachfully, and gently disengaged herself from my embrace. - -“We have been playing a part, dear Lady Katharine!” said I, still -retaining her hand. - -A gay smile, for the instant, shot over her face, but was lost as -quickly in the tenderness which was now its prevailing expression, as -she said, - -“I’m afraid we have! But now, Henry, _dear_ Henry, let me steal away, -for one moment, before they descend to dinner.” - -I restrained her only to press my first kiss on her odorous lips, and -then she darted from the room, leaving me in a tumult of feelings I -cannot attempt to describe. - -The duke had never been the Lady Katharine’s choice, and she had only -waited for him to propose in form to herself personally, to give him a -decided refusal. Although I was but the heir of a commoner—of a wealthy -and ancient family it is true; and he was the possessor of a dukedom, -she had loved me, as I had loved her, from the first moment we had met. -The duke had been backed by her parents, but when we both waited on -them, and told them that our happiness depended on their consent, they -sacrificed rank to the peace of their daughter, and gave it without -reluctance. Before winter came the Lady Katharine was my Bride. - - J. H. D. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: -W. H. Bartlett., A. J. Dick. -CENTRE HARBOUR. -(Lake Winnipisseogee) -_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_] - - * * * * * - - - - - CENTRE HARBOR, N. H. - - -This town is situated on one of the three bays jutting out at the -north-western extremity of Lake Winnipiseogee—a sheet of water situated -near the centre of New Hampshire, and celebrated for its picturesque -beauty. The lake is diversified with innumerable islands and -promontories. It is seen, perhaps, to the best advantage from Red Hill, -whence a magic landscape of hill, island and water stretches far away -beneath the beholder’s feet. The name of Winnipiseogee signifies in the -Indian language “the beautiful lake.” - -The view from Centre Harbor has always won the admiration of tourists, -there being a quiet beauty about it which few can resist. The best view -is from the highlands back of the town. The place itself is small, and -lies immediately beneath the gazer’s feet; but the lake, diversified -with its green islands, and shut in by its rolling hills, instantly -arrests the eye. In the quiet of a summer noon, or under a clear moonlit -sky, there is a depth of repose brooding over the scene which seems akin -to magic. - -The lake is, in some places, unfathomable, but abounds with fish. At -present it boasts little navigation, for the comparatively thinly -scattered population on its borders has not yet ruffled its quiet waters -with the keels of commerce. It is yet protected from the ravages of -utilitarianism; and the lover of the picturesque will pray that it may -long continue so. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MASK OF THE RED DEATH. - - - A FANTASY. - - - BY EDGAR A. POE. - - -The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had been -ever so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avator and its seal—the -redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden -dizziness, and then profuse bleedings at the pores, with dissolution. -The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the -victim, were the pest-ban which shut him out from the aid and from the -sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and -termination of the disease were the incidents of half an hour. - -But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless, and sagacious. When his -dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand -hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his -court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his -castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the -creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and -lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, -having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. -They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden -impulses of despair from without or of frenzy from within. The abbey was -amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid -defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In -the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had -provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were -improvisatori, there were ballêt-dancers, there were musicians, there -were cards, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security -were within. Without was the “Red Death.” - -It was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, -and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince -Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most -unusual magnificence. It was a voluptuous scene that masquerade. - -But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were -seven—an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a -long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to -the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is -scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been -expected from the duke’s love of the _bizarre_. The apartments were so -irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one -at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and -at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of -each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed -corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of -stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue -of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the -eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue—and vividly blue were -its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and -tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green -throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and -litten with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The -seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that -hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds -upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But, in this chamber only, -the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The -panes here were scarlet—a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven -apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of -golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the -roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle -within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the -suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a -brasier of fire that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so -glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of -gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the -effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through -the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild -a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few -of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all. - -It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western -wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a -dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when its minute-hand made the circuit -of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came forth from the -brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and -exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at -each lapse of an hour, the musicians in the orchestra were constrained -to pause, momently, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and -thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a -brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the -clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and that -the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in -confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a -light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at -each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made -whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock -should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of -sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of -the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and -then there were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as -before. - -But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The -tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and -effects. He disregarded the _decora_ of mere fashion. His plans were -bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There -are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was -not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be _sure_ that he -was not. - -He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven -chambers, upon occasion of this great _fête_, and it was his own guiding -taste which had given character to the costumes of the masqueraders. Be -sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy -and phantasm—much of what has been since seen in “Hernani.” There were -arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were -delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the -beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the _bizarre_, something of the -terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To -and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of -dreams. And these, the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the -rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo -of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in -the hall of the velvet. And then, momently, all is still, and all is -silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they -stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured but an -instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they -depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe -to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted -windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the -chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven there are now none of -the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a -ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the -sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, -there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly -emphatic than any which reaches _their_ ears who indulge in the more -remote gaieties of the other apartments. - -But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat -feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at -length was sounded the twelfth hour upon the clock. And then the music -ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; -and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there -were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it -happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into -the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, -again, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last -chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the -crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked -figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. -And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly -around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, -expressive at first of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of -terror, of horror, and of disgust. - -In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be -supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. -In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but -the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds -of even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts -of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with -the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there _are_ -matters of which no jest can be properly made. The whole company, -indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the -stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and -gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. -The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the -countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have -had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been -endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer -had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was -dabbled in _blood_—and his broad brow, with all the features of the -face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror. - -When the eyes of the Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image -(which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its -_rôle_, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be -convulsed, in the first moment, with a strong shudder either of terror -or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage. - -“Who dares?” he demanded hoarsely of the group that stood around him, -“who dares thus to make mockery of our woes? Uncase the varlet that we -may know whom we have to hang to-morrow at sunrise from the battlements. -Will no one stir at my bidding?—stop him and strip him, I say, of those -reddened vestures of sacrilege!” - -It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero -as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly -and clearly—for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had -become hushed at the waving of his hand. - -It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale -courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing -movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the -moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, -made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe -with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole -party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, -unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while -the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of -the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the -same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the -first, through the blue chamber to the purple—through the purple to the -green—through the green to the orange,—through this again to the -white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been -made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, -maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed -hurriedly through the six chambers—while none followed him on account -of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn -dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or -four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the -extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly round and confronted -his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon -the sable carpet, upon which instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in -death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, -a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black -apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and -motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable -horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they -handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form. - -And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like -a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the -blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing -posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that -of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And -Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. - - * * * * * - - - - - SPRING’S ADVENT. - - - BY PARK BENJAMIN. - - - From Winter into Spring the Year has passed - As calm and noiseless as the snow and dew— - The pearls and diamonds which adorn his robes— - Melt in the morning, when the solar beam - Touches the foliage like a glittering wand. - Blue is the sky above, the wave below; - Slow through the ether glide transparent clouds - Just wafted by the breeze, as on the sea - White sails are borne in graceful ease along. - Lifting its green spears through the hardened ground - The grass is seen; though yet no verdant shields, - United over head in one bright roof,— - Like that which rose above the serried ranks - Of Roman legions in the battle plain— - Defend it from assailing sun and shower. - In guarded spots alone young buds expand, - Nor yet on slopes along the Southward sides - Of gentle mountains have the flowers unveiled - Their maiden blushes to the eyes of Day. - It is the season when Fruition fails - To smile on Hope, who, lover-like, attends - Long-promised joys and distant, dear delights. - It is the season when the heart awakes - As from deep slumber, and, alive to all - The soft, sweet feelings that from lovely forms - Like odors float, receives them to itself - And fondly garners with a miser’s care, - Lest in the busy intercourse of life, - They, like untended roses, should retain - No fragrant freshness and no dewy bloom. - - To me the coming of the Spring is dear - As to the sailor the first wind from land - When, after some long voyage, he descries - The far, faint outline of his native coast. - Rocked by the wave, when grandly rose the gale, - He thought how peaceful was the calm on shore. - Rocked by the wave, when died the gale away, - He dreamed of quiet he should find at home. - So, when I heard the Wintry storm abroad, - So, when upon my window beat the rain, - Or when I felt the piercing, arrowy frost, - Or, looking forth, beheld the frequent snow, - Falling as mutely as the steps of Time, - I longed for thy glad advent, and resigned - My spirit to the gloom that Nature wore, - In contemplation of the laughing hours - That follow in thy train, delicious Spring! - - * * * * * - - - - - PROCRASTINATION. - - - BY MRS. M. H. PARSONS. - - -“To-morrow, I will do it to-morrow,” was the curse of Lucy Clifton’s -life. When a child, she always had it in view to make such charming -little dresses—to-morrow. When girlhood came her lessons were never -perfect,—“only excuse me this once mamma, and I will never put off my -lessons again!” The pleader was lovely, and engaging, mamma was weakly -indulgent; Lucy was forgiven and the fault grew apace, until she rarely -did any thing to-day, that could be put off till to-morrow. She was a -wife, and the mother of two children, at the period our story commences. - -With a cultivated mind, most engaging manners, and great beauty of form, -and features, Lucy had already lost all influence over the mind of her -husband, and was fast losing her hold on his affections. She had been -married when quite young, as so many American girls unfortunately are, -and with a character scarcely formed, had been thrown into situations of -emergency and trial she was very unprepared to encounter. Her husband -was a physician, had been but a year or two in practice, at the time of -their marriage. William Clifton was a young man of fine abilities, and -most excellent character; of quick temper, and impatient, he was ever -generous, and ready to acknowledge his fault. When he married Lucy, he -thought her as near perfection as it was possible for a woman to be; -proportionate was his disappointment, at finding the evil habit of -procrastination, almost inherent in her nature from long indulgence, -threatening to overturn the whole fabric of domestic happiness his fancy -had delighted to rear. There was no order in his household, no comfort -by his fireside; and oftimes when irritated to bitter anger, words -escaped the husband, that fell crushingly on the warm, affectionate -heart of the wife. The evil habit of procrastination had “grown with her -growth” no parental hand, kind in its severity, had lopped off the -excrescence, that now threatened to destroy her peace, that shadowed by -its evil consequences her otherwise fair and beautiful character. In -Lucy’s sphere of life there was necessity for much self-exertion, and -active superintendance over the affairs of her household. They lived -retired; economy and good management were essential to render the -limited income Doctor Clifton derived from his practice fully adequate -to their support—that income was steadily on the increase, and his -friends deemed the day not far distant, when he would rise to eminence -in his profession. Lucy’s father, a man of considerable wealth, but -large family, had purchased a house, furnished it, and presented it to -Lucy; she was quite willing to limit her visiting circle to a few -friends, as best suited with their present means. Surely William Clifton -was not unreasonable, when he looked forward to a life of domestic -happiness, with his young and tenderly nurtured bride. He could not know -that her many bright excelling virtues of character would be dimmed, by -the growth of the _one fault_, until a shadow lay on the pathway of his -daily life. If _mothers_ could lift the dim curtain of the future, and -read the destiny of their children, they would see neglected faults, -piercing like sharp adders the bosoms that bore them, and reproach -mingling with the agony, that she, who had moulded their young minds, -had not done her work aright! - -It was four years after their marriage, Doctor Clifton entered the -nursery hurriedly. - -“Lucy my dear, will you have my things in order by twelve o’clock? I -must leave home for two days, perhaps longer, if I find the patient I am -called to see very ill.” - -“Yes, yes! I will see to them. What shall I do with the child, William, -he is so very fretful? How I wish I had given him the medicine -yesterday; he is very troublesome!” - -“If you think he needs it, give it to him at once;” said her husband -abruptly, “and don’t I beg Lucy forget my clothes.” He left the room, -and Lucy tried to hush baby to sleep, but baby would not go, then the -nurse girl who assisted her could not keep him quiet, and the mother, as -she had often been before, became bewildered, and at a loss what to do -first. - -“If you please ma’am what am I to get for dinner?” said the cook, the -only servant they kept in the kitchen, putting her head in at the door, -and looking round with a half smile, on the littered room, and squalling -baby. - -“Directly, I shall be down directly Betty, I must first get baby to -sleep.” - -“Very well ma’am,” was the reply, and going down an hour afterwards, -Mrs. Clifton found Betty with her feet stretched out and her arms folded -one over the other, comfortably seated before an open window, intent in -watching, and enjoying the movements of every passer-by. - -“Betty, Betty!” said her mistress angrily, “have you nothing to do, that -you sit so idly here?” - -“I waited for orders, ma’am.” Dinner was an hour back, Lucy assisted for -a short time herself, and then went up stairs to arrange Clifton’s -clothes. Baby was screaming terribly, and Lucy half terrified did -_yesterday’s_ work, by giving him a dose of medicine. So the morning -sped on. Clifton came in at the appointed time. - -“Are my clothes in readiness, Lucy?” - -She colored with vexation, and shame. “The baby has been very cross; I -have not indeed had time. But I will go now.” Clifton went down to his -solitary dinner, and when he returned found Lucy busy with her needle; -it was evident even to his unskilled eye there was much to be done. - -“It is impossible to wait. Give me the things as they are; I am so -accustomed to wearing my shirts without buttons, and my stockings with -holes in, that I shall find it nothing new—nor more annoying than I -daily endure.” He threw the things carelessly into his carpet-bag, and -left the room, nor did he say one kindly word in farewell, or affection. -It was this giving away to violent anger, and using harsh language to -his wife that had broken her spirit, almost her heart. She never even -thought of reforming herself; she grieved bitterly, but hopelessly. -Surely it is better when man and wife are joined together by the tie -that “no man may put asunder,” to strive seriously, and in affection to -correct one another’s faults? There is scarcely any defect of character, -that a husband, by taking the right method may not cure; always -providing his wife is not unprincipled. But he must be very patient; -bear for a season; add to judicious counsel much tenderness and -affection; making it clear to her mind that love for herself and -solicitude for their mutual happiness are the objects in view. Hard in -heart, and with little of woman’s devotion unto him to whom her faith is -plighted, must the wife be who could long resist. Not such an one was -Lucy Clifton; but her husband in the stormy revulsion of feeling that -had attended the first breaking up of his domestic happiness, had done -injustice to her mind, to the sweetness of disposition that had borne -all his anger without retorting in like manner. If Clifton was conscious -of his own quickness of temper, approaching to violence, he did not for -one moment suppose, that _he_ was the cause of any portion of the misery -brooding over his daily path. He attributed it all to the -procrastinating spirit of Lucy, and upon her head he laid the blame with -no unsparing hand. He forgot that she had numbered twenty years, and was -the mother of two children; that her situation was one of exertion, and -toil under the most favorable circumstances; that he was much her -senior, had promised to cherish her tenderly. Yet the first harsh word -that dwelt on Lucy’s heart was from the lips of her husband! How -tenderly in years long gone had she been nurtured! The kind arm of a -father had guided and guarded her; the tender voice of a mother had -lighted on her path like sunshine—and now? Oh ye, who would crush the -spirit of the young and gentle, instead of leading it tenderly by a -straight path in the way of wisdom—go down into the breaking heart and -learn its agony; its desolation, when the fine feelings of a wasted -nature go in upon the brain and consume it! - -One morning Clifton entered the nursery, “Lucy,” he said; “my old -classmate, and very dear friend Walter Eustace is in town. He came -unexpectedly; his stay is short; I should like to ask him to spend the -day with me. Could you manage, love, to have the time pass _comfortably_ -to my friend?” Lucy felt all the meaning conveyed in the emphasis on a -word that from his lips sounded almost formidable in her ears. - -“I will do what I can,” she answered sadly. - -“Do not scruple Lucy to get assistance. Have every thing ready _in -time_, and do not fail in having order, and good arrangement. There was -a time Lucy, when Eustace heard much of you; I should be gratified to -think he found the wife worthy of the praise the lover lavished so -freely upon her. Sing for us to-night—it is long since the piano was -opened!—and look, and smile as you once did, in the days that are gone, -but not forgotten Lucy.” His voice softened unconsciously, he had gone -back to that early time, when love of Lucy absorbed every feeling of his -heart. He sighed; the stern, and bitter realities of his life came with -their heavy weight upon him, and there was no balm in the future, for -the endurance of present evils. - -He turned and left the room; Lucy’s eye followed him, and as the door -closed she murmured—“_not_ forgotten! Oh, Clifton how little reason I -have to believe you!” Lucy was absorbed in her own thoughts so long as -to be unconscious of the flight of time. When she roused, she thought -she would go down stairs and see what was to be done, but her little boy -asked her some question, which she stopped to answer; half an hour more -elapsed before she got to the kitchen. She told Betty she meant to hire -a cook for the morrow—thought she had better go at once and engage -one—yet, no, on second thoughts, she might come with her to the parlors -and assist in arranging them; it would be quite time enough to engage -the cook when they were completed. To the parlors they went, and Lucy -was well satisfied with the result of their labor—but mark her comment: -“What a great while we have been detained here; well, I am sure I have -meant this three weeks to clean the parlors, but never could find time. -If I could but manage to attend them every day, they would never get so -out of order.” - -The next morning came, the cook not engaged yet. Betty was despatched in -haste, but was unsuccessful—all engaged for the day. So Betty must be -trusted, who sometimes did well, and at others signally failed. Lucy -spent the morning in the kitchen assisting Betty and arranging every -thing she could do, but matters above were in the mean time sadly -neglected, her children dirty, and ill dressed, the nursery in -confusion, and Lucy almost bewildered in deciding what had better be -done, and what left undone. She concluded to keep the children in the -nursery without changing their dress, and then hastened to arrange her -own, and go down stairs, as her husband and his friend had by this time -arrived. Her face was flushed, and her countenance anxious; she was -conscious that Mr. Eustace noticed it, and her uncomfortable feelings -increased. The dinner, the dinner—if it were only over! she thought a -hundred times. It came at last, and all other mortifications were as -nothing in comparison. There was not a dish really well cooked, and -every thing was served up in a slovenly manner. Lucy’s cheeks tingled -with shame. Oh, if she had only sent _in time_ for a cook. It was her -bitterest thought even then. When the dinner was over Mr. Eustace asked -for the children, expressing a strong desire to see them. Lucy colored, -and in evident confusion, evaded the request. Her husband was silent, -having a suspicion how matters stood. - -Just then a great roar came from the hall, and the oldest boy burst into -the room. “Mother! mother! Hannah shut me up she did!” A word from his -father silenced him, and Lucy took her dirty, ill dressed boy by the -hand and left the room. She could not restrain her tears, but her keen -sense of right prevented her punishing the child, as she was fully -aware, had he been properly dressed, she would not have objected to his -presence, and that he was only claiming an accorded privilege. Mr. -Eustace very soon left, and as soon as the door closed on him Clifton -thought: “I never can hope to see a friend in comfort until I can afford -to keep a house-keeper. Was there ever such a curse in a man’s house as -a procrastinating spirit?” With such feelings it may be supposed he -could not meet his wife with any degree of cordiality. Lucy said, “There -was no help for it, she had done her very best.” Clifton answered her -contemptuously; wearied and exhausted with the fatigues of the day, she -made no reply, but rose up and retired to rest, glad to seek in sleep -forgetfulness of the weary life she led. Clifton had been unusually -irritated; when the morrow came, it still manifested itself in many ways -that bore hard on Lucy; she did not reply to an angry word that fell -from his lips, but she felt none the less deeply. Some misconduct in the -child induced him to reflect with bitterness on her maternal management. -She drew her hand over her eyes to keep back the tears, her lip -quivered, and her voice trembled as she uttered: - -“Do not speak so harshly Clifton, if the fault is all mine, most -certainly the misery is also!” - -“Of what avail is it to speak otherwise?” he said sternly, “you deserve -wretchedness, and it is only the sure result of your precious system.” - -“Did you ever encourage me to reform, or point out the way?” urged Lucy, -gently. - -“I married a woman for a companion, not a child to instruct her,” he -answered bitterly. - -“Ay—but I was a child! happy—so happy in that olden time, with all to -love, and none to chide me. A child, even in years, when you took me for -a wife—too soon a mother, shrinking from my responsibilities, and -without courage to meet my trials. I found no sympathy to encourage -me—no forbearance that my years were few—no advice when most I needed -it—no tenderness when my heart was nearly breaking. It is the first -time, Clifton, I have reproached you; but the worm will turn if it is -trodden upon,” and Lucy left the room. It was strange, even to herself, -that she had spoken so freely, yet it seemed a sort of relief to the -anguish of her heart. That he had allowed her to depart without reply -did not surprise her; it may be doubted, although her heart pined for -it, if ever she expected tenderness from Clifton more. It was perhaps an -hour after her conversation with Clifton, Lucy sat alone in the nursery; -her baby was asleep in the cradle beside her; they were alone together, -and as she gazed on its happy face, she hoped with an humble hope, to -rear it up, that it might be enabled to _give_ and receive happiness. -There was a slight rap at the door; she opened it, and a glad cry -escaped her,—“Uncle Joshua!” she exclaimed. He took her in his arms for -a moment,—that kindly and excellent old man, while a tear dimmed his -eye as he witnessed her joy at seeing him. She drew a stool towards him, -and sat down at his feet as she had often done before in her happy, -girlish days; she was glad when his hand rested on her head, even as it -had done in another time; she felt a friend had come back to her, who -had her interest nearly at heart, who had loved her long and most -tenderly. Mr. Tremaine was the brother of Lucy’s mother—he had arrived -in town unexpectedly; indeed had come chiefly with a view of discovering -the cause of Lucy’s low-spirited letters—he feared all was not right, -and as she was the object of almost his sole earthly attachment, he -could not rest in peace while he believed her unhappy. He was fast -approaching three score years and ten; never was there a warmer heart, a -more incorruptible, or sterling nature. Eccentric in many things, -possessing some prejudices, which inclined to ridicule in himself, no -man had sounder common sense, or a more careful judgment. His hair was -white, and fell in long smooth locks over his shoulders; his eye-brows -were heavy, and shaded an eye as keen and penetrating as though years -had no power to dim its light. The high, open brow, and the quiet -tenderness that dwelt in his smile, were the crowning charms of a -countenance on which nature had stamped her seal as her “noblest work.” -He spoke to Lucy of other days, of the happy home from whence he came, -till her tears came down like “summer rain,” with the mingling of sweet -and bitter recollections. Of her children next, and her eye lighted, and -her color came bright and joyous—the warm feelings of a mother’s heart -responded to every word of praise he uttered. Of her husband—and sadly -“Uncle Joshua” noticed the change;—her voice was low and desponding, -and a look of sorrow and care came back to the youthful face: “Clifton -was succeeding in business; she was gratified and proud of his success,” -and that was all she said. - -“Uncle Joshua’s” visit was of some duration. He saw things as they -really were, and the truth pained him deeply. “Lucy,” he said quietly, -as one day they were alone together—“I have much to say, and you to -hear. Can you bear the truth, my dear girl?” She was by his side in a -moment. - -“Anything from you, uncle. Tell me freely all you think, and if it is -censure of poor Lucy, little doubt but that she will profit by it.” - -“You are a good girl!” said “Uncle Joshua,” resting his hand on her -head, “and you will be rewarded yet.” He paused for a moment ere he -said—“Lucy, you are not a happy wife. You married with bright -prospects—who is to blame?” - -“I am—but not alone,” said Lucy, in a choking voice, “not alone, there -are some faults on both sides.” - -“Let us first consider yours; Clifton’s faults will not exonerate you -from the performance of your duty. For the love I bear you, Lucy, I will -speak the truth: all the misery of your wedded life proceeds from the -fatal indulgence of a procrastinating spirit. _One uncorrected fault_ -has been the means of alienating your husband’s affections, and bringing -discord and misrule into the very heart of your domestic Eden. This must -not be. You have strong sense and feeling, and must conquer the defect -of character that weighs so heavily on your peace.” - -Lucy burst into tears—“I fear I never can—and if I do, Clifton will -not thank me, or care.” - -“Try, Lucy. You can have little knowledge of the happiness it would -bring or you would make the effort. And Clifton will care. Bring order -into his household and comfort to his fireside, and he will take you to -his heart with a tenderer love than he ever gave to the bride of his -youth.” - -Lucy drew her breath gaspingly, and for a moment gazed into her uncle’s -face with something of his own enthusiasm; but it passed and despondency -came with its withering train of tortures to frighten her from exertion. - -“You cannot think, dear uncle, how much I have to do; and my children -are so troublesome, that I can never systematize time.” - -“Let us see first what you can do. What is your first duty in the -morning after you have dressed yourself?” - -“To wash and dress my children.” - -“Do you always do it? Because if you rise early you have time before -breakfast. Your children are happy and comfortable, only in your regular -management of every thing connected with them.” - -“I cannot always do it,” said Lucy, blushing—“sometimes I get up as -low-spirited and weary as after the fatigues of the day. I have no heart -to go to work; Clifton is cold, and hurries off to business. After -breakfast I go through the house and to the kitchen, so that it is often -noon before I _can_ manage to dress them.” - -“Now instead of all this, if you were to rise early, dress your little -ones before breakfast, arrange your work, and go regularly from one work -to the other; _never_ putting off one to finish another, you would get -through everything, and have time to walk—that each day may have its -necessary portion of exercise in the open air. That would dissipate -weariness, raise your spirits, and invigorate your frame. Lucy, will you -not make the trial for Clifton’s sake? Make his home a well-ordered one, -and he will be glad to come into it.” - -And Lucy promised to think of it. But her uncle was surprised at her -apparent apathy, and not long in divining the true reason. Her heart is -not in it, he thought, and if her husband don’t rouse it, never will be. -Lucy felt she was an object of indifference, if not dislike to Clifton; -there was no end to be accomplished by self-exertion; and as there was -nothing to repay her for the wasted love of many years, she would -encourage no new hopes to find them as false as the past. - -“Uncle Joshua” sat together with Dr. Clifton, in the office of the -latter. - -“Has it ever struck you, Doctor, how much Lucy is altered of late?” - -“I cannot say that I see any particular alteration. It is some time -since you saw her;—matrimony is not very favorable to good looks, and -may have diminished her beauty.” - -“It is not of her beauty I speak. Her character is wholly changed; her -spirits depressed, and her energies gone,” and “Uncle Joshua” spoke -warmly. - -“I never thought her particularly energetic,” said the Doctor, dryly. - -“No one would suppose, my good sir, you had ever thought, or cared much -about her.” “Uncle Joshua” was angry; but the red spot left his cheek as -soon as it came there as he went on:—“Let us speak in kindness of this -sad business. I see Lucy was in the right in thinking you had lost all -affection for her.” - -“Did Lucy say that? I should be sorry she thought so.” - -“A man has cause for sorrow, when a wife fully believes his love for her -is gone. Nothing can be more disheartening—nothing hardens the heart -more fearfully, and sad indeed is the lot of that woman who bears the -evils of matrimony without the happiness that often counterbalances -them. We, who are of harder natures, have too little sympathy, perhaps -too little thought for her peculiar trials.” Gently then, as a father to -an only son, the old man related to Clifton all that had passed between -Lucy and himself. More than once he saw his eyes moisten and strong -emotion manifest itself in his manly countenance. A something of -remorseful sorrow filled his heart, and its shadow lay on his face. -“Uncle Joshua” read aright the expression, and his honest heart beat -with joy at the prospects he thought it opened before them. Always -wise-judging he said nothing further, but left him to his own -reflections. And Clifton did indeed reflect long and anxiously: he saw -indeed how much his own conduct had discouraged his wife, while it had -been a source of positive unhappiness to her. He went at length to seek -her;—she was alone in the parlor reading, or rather a book was before -her, from which her eyes often wandered, until her head sank on the arm -of the sofa, and a heavy sigh came sadly on the ear of Clifton. “Lucy, -dear Lucy, grieve no more! We have both been wrong, but I have erred the -most—having years on my side and experience. Shall we not forgive each -other, my sweet wife?” and he lifted her tenderly in his arms, and -kissed the tears as they fell on her cheek. - -“I have caused you much suffering, Lucy, I greatly fear;—your faults -occasioned me only inconvenience. Dry up your tears, and let me hear -that you forgive me, Lucy.” - -“I have nothing to forgive,” exclaimed Lucy. “Oh, I have been wrong, -very wrong!—but if you had only encouraged me to reform, and sustained -and aided me in my efforts to do so by your affection, so many of our -married days would not have passed in sorrow and suffering.” - -“I feel they would not,” said Clifton, moved almost to tears. “Now, -Lucy, the self-exertion shall be mutual. I will never rest until I -correct the violence of temper, that has caused you so much pain. You -have but one fault, procrastination—will you strive also to overcome -it?” - -“I will,” said Lucy; “but you must be very patient with me, and rather -encourage me to new exertions. I have depended too long on your looks -not to be influenced by them still—my love, Clifton, stronger than your -own, fed on the memory of our early happiness, until my heart grew sick -that it would never return. Oh! if you could love me as you did then, -could respect me as once you did, I feel I could make any exertion to -deserve it.” - -“And will you not be more worthy of esteem and love than ever you were, -dear Lucy, if you succeed in reforming yourself! I believe you capable -of the effort; and if success attends it, the blessing will fall on us -both, Lucy, and on our own dear children. Of one thing be assured, that -my love will know no further change or diminution. You shall not have -cause to complain of me again, Lucy. Now smile on me, dearest, as you -once did in a time we will never forget—and tell me you will be happy -for my sake.” - -Lucy smiled, and gave the assurance—her heart beat lightly in her -bosom—the color spread over her face—her eyes sparkled with the new, -glad feelings of hope and happiness, and as Clifton clasped her in his -arms, he thought her more beautiful than in that early time when he had -first won her love. - -In that very hour Lucy began her work of reform; it seemed as though new -life had been infused into her hitherto drooping frame. She warbled many -a sweet note of her youth, long since forgotten, for her spirits seemed -running over from very excess of happiness. “Uncle Joshua” was consulted -in all her arrangements, and of great use he was:—he planned for her, -encouraged her, made all easy by his method and management. She had gone -to work with a strong wish to do her duty, and with a husband’s love -shining steadily on her path, a husband’s affection for all success, and -sympathy with every failure, there was little fear of her not -succeeding. ’Tis true, the habit had been long in forming, but every -link she broke in the chain that bound her, brought a new comfort to -that happy household hearth. Clifton had insisted on hiring a woman to -take charge of the children—this was a great relief. And somehow or -other, “Uncle Joshua” looked up a good cook. - -“Now,” said Lucy, “to fail would be a positive disgrace.” - -“No danger of your failing, my sweet wife,” said Clifton, with a glance -of affection that might have satisfied even her heart. “You are already -beyond the fear of it.” - -Lucy shook her head—“I must watch or my old enemy will be back again -before I am fully rid of him.” - -“It is right to watch ourselves, I know, Lucy; are you satisfied that I -have done so, and have, in some measure, corrected myself?” said -Clifton. - -“I have never seen a frown on your face since you promised me to be -patient. You have been, and will continue to be, I am sure,” said Lucy, -fondly, as she raised his hand to her lips which had rested on her arm. -They were happy both, and whatever trouble was in store for them in -their future life, they had strong mutual affection to sustain them -under it. - -“God bless them both,” murmured “Uncle Joshua,” as he drew his hand hard -across his eyes after witnessing this little scene. “I have done good -here, but in many a case I might be termed a meddling old fool, and not -without reason, perhaps. ’Tis a pity though, that folks, who will get -their necks into this matrimonial yoke, would not try to make smooth the -uneven places, instead of stumbling all the way, breaking their hearts -by way of amusement, as they go.” - -“What is that you say, ‘Uncle Joshua?’” said Lucy, turning quickly -round, and walking towards him, accompanied by her husband. - -“I have a bad habit of talking aloud,” said he, smiling. - -“But I thought you were abusing matrimony, uncle—you surely were not?” - -“Cannot say exactly what I was thinking aloud. I am an old bachelor, -Lucy, and have few objects of affection in the world: you have been to -me as a child, always a good child, Lucy, too—and now I think you will -make a good wife, and find the happiness you so well deserve. Am I -right, love?” - -“I hope you are, uncle. If it had not been for your kindness though, I -might never have been happy again,” and tears dimmed Lucy’s eyes at the -recollection. - -“We shall not forget your kindness,” said Clifton as he extended his -hand, which “Uncle Joshua” grasped warmly. “I wish every married pair in -trouble could find a good genius like yourself to interfere in their -favor.” - -“Ten to one he would be kicked out of doors!” said the old man, -laughing. “This matrimony is a queer thing—those who have their necks -in the noose had better make the most of it—and those out of the scrape -keep so. Ah! you little reprobate!” he cried as he caught Lucy’s bright -eye, and disbelieving shake of the head—“you don’t pretend to -contradict me?” - -“Yes I do, with my whole heart too. I would not give up my husband for -the wide world, nor he his Lucy for the fairest girl in America!” - -“Never!” exclaimed Clifton—“you are dearer to me than any other human -being!” - -“W-h-e-w!!” was “Uncle Joshua’s” reply, in a prolonged sort of whistle, -while his eyes opened in the profoundest wonder, and his whole -countenance was expressive of the most ludicrous -astonishment—“w-h-e-w!!” - - * * * * * - - - - - PERDITI.[1] - - -BY WM. WALLACE, ESQ. AUTHOR OF “BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE,” “MARCHES FOR THE - DEAD,” ETC., ETC. - - - The following poem is respectfully dedicated to the Hon. Elisha - M. Huntington, as a tribute of respect to his head and heart, by - the - - Author. - - PART FIRST—ITALY. - - Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright! - Where the echoless feet of the Hours - Are gliding forever in soft, dreamy light - Through their mazes of sunshine and flow’rs; - Fair clime of the Laurel—the Sword and the Lyre! - There the souls are all genius—the hearts are all fire; - There the Rivers—the Mountains—the lowliest sods - Were hallowed, long since, by the bright feet of Gods; - There Beauty and Grandeur their wonders of old - Like a bridal of star-light and thunder unroll’d; - There the air seems to breathe of a music sent out - From the rose-muffled lips of invisible streams, - Oh! sweet as the harmony whispered about - The Night’s moon-beaming portal of exquisite Dreams. - ’Though Beauty and Grandeur, magnificent clime! - Have walked o’er thy Vallies and Mountains sublime, - With a port as majestic—unfading as Time— - A death-pall is on Thee! The funeral glare - Of a grave-torch, Oh! Italy, gleams on the air! - Lo! the crimes of whole ages roll down on thy breast! - Hark! Hark to the fierce thunder-troops of the Storm! - Ah! soon shall they stamp on thy beautiful crest, - And riot unchecked o’er thy loveliest form! - - Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright! - ’Though the day of thy glory is o’er, - And the time-hallowed mountains are mantled in night - Where thy Liberty flourished before; - ’Though the black brow of Bigotry scowls on thy race - Which are kissing the chains of their brutal disgrace; - ’Though the torches of Freedom so long hurled about - By thy heroes of old are forever gone out; - Yet! yet shall thy Beauty shine out from the gloom, - Oh! Land of the Harp and the Wreath and the Tomb! - The seal has been set! Immortality beams - Like a time-daring star o’er thy temples and streams; - And still as whole tribes from the weird future dart, - They shall kneel at thine altar, Oh! clime of the Heart! - More splendid art thou, with thy banners all furl’d - And thy brow in the dust, than the rest of the world, - For the MIGHTY—the Dead who have hallowed our earth, - In thee have their rest and from thee took their birth. - Oh! alas that we live—_we_ the boastful who leap - Like mere rills where the sun-pillar’d Truth is enshrined - Where those broad-rolling rivers no longer may sweep - With their billows of light to the Ocean of Mind. - - It was a clime where mortal form - Hath never pressed the blasted soil— - Where tempest-fires and surging storm - Are struggling ever in their coil: - A sunless clime, whose dreary night - Gleams dimly with that doubtful light - Which men have seen—when Darkness threw - Around their homes its sombre hue— - The fearful herald of the wrath - That blazes on the Whirlwind’s path - Ere he has tossed his banners out - Like sable draperies o’er the Dead, - And with a wild, delirious shout - Struck his deep thunder-drum of dread; - A clime where e’en the fountains fall - With tone and step funereal: - And ever through the dark, old trees - A melancholy music rolls - Along the faintly-chiming breeze— - Sad as the wail of tortured souls. - - There ghastly forms were hurrying past - Like weird clouds through the ether driven, - In fear, before the HUNTER-BLAST, - Whose vengeance purifies the heaven. - And some were pale, as if with woe, - And ever cast their eyes below; - And some were quivering with a fear - In this their dreary sepulchre; - And some, whose awful aspects wore - A look where sat the seal of age, - On their convulsèd foreheads bore - The phrenzied agony of rage; - _On some_ a dreadful beauty shone - Like rays received from fallen stars— - So dim, so mournful and so lone, - Yet brave, despite of all their scars. - - Far from the throng two sat apart - Beneath a forest’s darkling plume— - In that communion of the heart - Which but the wretched can assume. - They seemed in earnest converse there, - As if with words to quench despair; - And one, along whose features grew, - A withering, deathly, demon-hue, - Wore that high, dread, defying look - Which but the Lost can dare to brook; - The other milder seemed—but he - Was shrouded, too, in mystery, - And ever threw along the sky - A fearful spiritual eye - Which in its gloomy light sublime— - Seemed half of virtue, half of crime, - Like lightning when you see its glow - Soft as a moonbeam flashed below— - And then in blasting brightness sent - Wild-quivering through the firmament. - So sat they in that dreary light, - Upon the blasted darkling mould— - Fit watchers of such awful night— - As thus the last his story told. - - LORRO. - The _many_ only look to _years_; - The _many_ think _they_ only roll - The tides of happiness or tears - Around the human soul: - I know a single hour for me— - _A minute_—was Eternity, - That seemed with its fierce, lidless eye - Fixed—fixed forever in the sky - Which, circling round the Italian shore, - Was only made for bliss before: - But now it darkled like a shroud - By demon-hands in warning shaken, - From their lone, scowling thunder-cloud - Ere yet its elements awaken. - - Oh! was it Fancy? or a spell - Hurled o’er me by some dreadful power,— - That I should carry thus a hell, - Within my bosom from that hour? - I know not—nor shall care to know; - For e’en Repentance will not dart - From her pure realm, a light below, - Upon my agony of heart; - Nor hath Remorse—that mad’ning fire— - That final minister of pain - And deadliest offspring of deep ire— - E’er flashed across my tortured brain: - Yet! yet there is a something here - Of hideous vacancy and fear, - (Not fear which cowards merely feel, - Who hear the damnèd’s thunder peal,) - A trembling—which the brave confess - In this their last and worst distress— - Part of the soul it burns a spell, - And like her indestructible— - Which only those who feel _that_ woe, - Brought by an unrepented deed, - Can in its fiercest aching know— - _For only they are doomed to bleed_. - - Go thou, whose cunning spirit hears - The mystic music of the spheres— - Who gazest with unquailing eye - Through this star-isled immensity— - Whose soul would feed on brighter flowers - Than earth’s—and sit with pinion furl’d - Where in its lonely grandeur towers - The outside pillar of your world— - Go! go with all thy boasted art— - And read _one_ mystery of the _Heart_. - What! think creation in a _sphere_! - The real universe is here— - _Here! here_ eternally enshrined - Within the secret caves of Mind. - - Blood! blood is reddening on these hands! - The blood of more than _one_ is here; - Unfaded too its crimson brands - Despite of many a weary year, - Whose tides of flame and darkness gloom - Amid the spirit’s stagnant air— - More fearful than the damn’d one’s tomb - And withering as despair. - - Oh! God why was I chos’n for such? - I who until that fearful hour— - Ah! would not e’en too wildly touch - The summer’s very humblest flower. - The little bird whose rain-bow wing - I saw, in spring time’s roseate eves, - With its own beauty quivering - Amid the golden orange leaves, - I made a friend—as if for me - It held its sinless revelry: - And e’en I’ve watched within the hall - The deadly spider weave his pall, - And smiled in very joy to see - The cunning workman’s tracery. - - The minstrel-breeze which struck by hours - Its tender instrument of flowers— - The moon that held her march alone - At midnight ’round th’ Eternal Throne— - The sullen thunder whose red eyes - Flashed angrily within our skies— - All! all to me were but the chain - Along whose wond’rous links there came - Unceasingly to head and brain - Love’s own electric flame. - Yes! when the Harp of Nature roll’d - Its midnight hymn from chords of gold, - And awful silence seemed to own, - Throughout the world, its wizard tone, - I’ve stood and wildly wished to float - Into that music’s liquid strain— - Oh! heavenly as its sweetest note— - Nor ever walk the earth again. - - What change is this? Hate, fiercest Hate, - Where once these angel-yearnings burned - Like torches set by Heaven’s bright gate, - Hath all to deadly poison turned. - - The Best can only feel the fire, - But once, which flashes from the clime - Where love sits beaming o’er the lyre - That strikes the mystic march of Time. - The tree of most luxuriant stem - Whose every leaflet glows a gem - Beneath its oriental sky, - When once its emerald diadem - Hath felt the simoon sweeping by. - Can never more in southern bowers - Renew its fragrant idol-flowers. - So with the great in soul—whose bloom - Of Heart hath felt the thunder-doom - Which mankind, trusted, may bestow - On him who little dreamed the blow— - Theirs be the joy!—But ours the woe! - - I was my father’s only child— - (The cherished scion of a race - Whose monuments of fame are piled - On glory’s mighty dwelling-place) - I need not tell how oft he smiled - When counting o’er to me each deed, - In gallant barque, on champing steed, - Of ancestors in battle wild; - Nor how he gazed upon my face - And there by hours would fondly trace - The lines which as they manlier grew, - He deemed the signs of Glory, too. - - I saw at last the sable pall - Gloom in our lordly castle’s hall, - And heard the Friar’s burial rite - Keeping the watches of the night. - Another noble form was laid - Where Lorro’s dead together meet— - And I, in ducal robes arrayed, - Took Lorro’s castled seat. - - I need not tell how passed the days, - I need not tell of pleasure’s ways— - Where bright-eyed mirth flung dewy flowers - Beneath the silver-feet of hours, - While Time himself o’er music’s strings - Lean’d panting on his weary wings. - - At last there came unto our gate - One looking worn and desolate, - Who asked compassion for his fate. - He said he was an orphan lad; - In sooth my lonely heart was glad— - For I was weary of my state - Where only courtiers crowded round; - I wished some fair and gentle mate, - And such I fondly hoped I found. - - Months rolled away and still he grew, - Beneath my care a lovely boy - And day by day I found anew - In him a very father’s joy.— - - And eighteen summers now have died - Since thou cam’st here my own heart’s pride: - And still thy voice of silver seems - Sweet as sweet music heard in dreams; - And still thy softly radiant eye - Looks innocent as yonder sky, - And all as fair—when rainbows rest - Like angel-plumes upon its breast; - And still thy soul seems richly set - Within its form, like some bright gem - Which might by worshippers be met - In Purity’s own diadem. - - In Lorro’s hall the tone of lutes - And harp is wafted through the air, - Such as the glad most fitly suits - When mirth and rosy wine are there. - In Lorro’s castle, wreathed in light - And flowers, I ween a holy rite, - Most cherished with the young and bright, - By cowlèd Priest, is done to-night. - - And who art thou around whose brow - The bridal chaplet sparkled now? - That form!—Oh, Heaven! and is it she - Thus standing there so radiantly?— - With bright curls floating on the air - And glorious as the cherubs wear; - An eye where love and virtue beam - Like spirits of an Angel’s dream! - - Away! away! thou maddening sight! - Away! what dost thou, Laura, here? - Thus standing by my side to-night, - And long since in thy sepulchre? - - What! will the grave its events tell? - The iron tomb dissolve its spell? - It has! it has! And there she stands - Mocking me with her outstretched hands; - And oft her icy fingers press - My hot brow through the long, long night; - And voices as of deep distress, - Like prisoned wind, whose wailing sound - Seems madly struggling under ground, - Peal dirge-like on my ear: away! - Nor wait, oh! horrid shape, for day - Such as these gloomy realms display— - E’er thou shalt quit my tortured sight.— - - And we were wed! I need not say - How heavenly came and went each day, - Enough! our souls together beat - Like two sweet tunes that wandering meet, - Then so harmoniously they run - The hearer deems they are but one. - - There are mailed forms in Lorro’s halls, - And rustling banners on its walls, - And nodding plumes o’er many a brow, - That moulders on the red field now. - - The wave of battle swells around! - Shall Lorro’s chieftain thus be found - In revelry or idlesse bound, - When Glory hangs her blood-red sign - Above the castellated Rhine? - - Away! away, I flew in pride - With those who mustered by my side: - But not, I ween, did Lorro miss - The ruler from its ducal throne, - ’Till many a wild and burning kiss - Of woman’s sweet lips warmed his own. - - And Julio, too, (for such the name - I gave the orphan boy,) with tears - And choking sob, and trembling came - To whisper me his rising fears. - - That I his father—I whose love - Had sheltered long his feeble form - E’en as some stronger bird the dove - All mateless wandering in the storm,— - That I borne down amid the stern - And bloody shapes of battle wild, - Would never from its wreck return - To sooth his lonely orphan child; - And then on bended knees he prayed— - (God! why availed not his prayer?) - That I would give him steed and blade, - So he might in my dangers share. - I left him for I could not bare - That tender brow to war’s wild air. - - Away! away on foaming steed, - For two long years my sword was out; - And I had learned (a soldier’s need,) - —Almost without a groan to bleed— - Aye! gloried in the battle’s shout; - For it gave presage of a fame - Such as the brave alone may claim. - - For two long years, as I have told, - The storm of war around me roll’d; - But never more, by day or night - In sunshine or in shower, - Did I forget my castle’s light— - Love’s only idol-flower! - - There is a deeper passion known - For those in love, when left alone; - Then busy fancy ponders o’er - Some kindness never prized before: - And we can almost turn with tears - And deep upbraiding (as distress - Comes with the holy light of years) - And kneeling ask forgiveness. - - And so I felt—and Laura beamed - Still lovelier than she ever seemed, - E’en when the dew of childhood’s hours - Along her heart’s first blossoms clung, - And I amid my native bowers - In sinless worship o’er them hung. - - Oh! are not feelings such as these - Like splendid rainbow-glories caught - (To cheer our voyage o’er life’s seas) - From Heaven’s own holy Land of Thought? - - And yet, oh, God! how soon may they - Like those bright glories flee away, - And leave the heart an unlit sea, - Where piloted by dark despair - The spirit-wreck rolls fearfully - Within the night of sullen air? - - At last the eye of battle closed— - Its lurid fires no longer burned— - The warrior on his wreath reposed, - And I unto my halls returned. - - Oh! who can tell the joys that start - Like angel-wings within the heart, - When wearied with war’s toil, the chief - In home’s dear light would seek relief! - - Not he who has no loved one there - Left in his absence lonely— - Whose heart he fondly hopes shall beat - For him and for him only. - - And such my Laura’s heart I deemed; - For me alone I thought she beamed - Like some pure lamp on hermit’s shrine, - Which only glows for him, divine - And beauteous as the spirit-eyes - That light the bow’rs of Paradise. - - It was a lovely eve, but known - Unto the South’s voluptuous zone; - An eve whose shining vesture hung - Like Heaven’s own rosy flags unfurl’d, - And by some star-eyed cherub flung - In sport around our gloomy world; - An eve in which the coldest frame - And heart must feel a warming flame, - When light and soul no longer single, - But in a bridal glory mingle: - Then think how I whose spirit bowed - Whene’er the dimmest light was sent - From twinkling star or rosy cloud - In God’s blue, glorious firmament— - How I in that ethereal time, - Standing beside my native rill - And shadowed by such hues sublime, - Felt unseen lightning through me thrill. - - I stood within my own domain— - Once more upon my birth-right soil, - Free’d from the gory battle-plain - And weary with its toil. - - “Laura!” my step is in the hall! - My sword suspended on the wall! - My standard-sheet once more uprolled - Where it has lain for years untold! - “Laura!”—In vain I stood for her - To meet the long-lost worshipper. - “Ho, Julio!” What? No answer yet? - It rung from base to parapet! - I mounted up the marble stair!— - I rushed into the olden room! - It shone beneath the evening’s glare - As silent as the tomb,— - Save that a slave with wond’ring eye - Looked from the dreary vacancy. - “Your Lady, Serf?” - “She’s in the bower.” - “In sooth I should have sought her there!” - For oft we passed the twilight hour - In its delicious air. - - I rushed with lightning steps—Oh, God! - Why flashed not then thy blasting flame— - That it might wither from the sod - The one who madly called Thy name? - - My poniard grasped, left not its sheath— - I had nor hope—nor life—nor breath; - I only felt the ice of death - Slowly congealing o’er my heart— - And on my eye a dizzy cloud - Swam round and round, a sickening part - Of that which seemed a closing shroud - The one might feel whom burial gave - All prematurely to the grave. - - But soon that deadly trance was o’er; - The foliage hid as yet; and I - Retraced the path I trod before - With such a heart-wild ecstasy. - - For as I gazed upon their guilt, - A thought flashed out of demon-hue; - And I resigned my dagger’s hilt - As deadlier then my vengeance grew. - - Small torture satisfies the _weak_— - For they but slightly feel a wrong; - I would by hours my vengeance wreak! - The deep revenge is for the _strong_. - - In Lorro’s castle is a cell - (Where Cruelty has sat in state, - I ween that some have known it well,) - Which is divided by a grate. - - No sunbeam ever pierced its night; - Nor aught save lamp there shed its light; - No sound save sound of wild despair - Hath ever vexed its heavy air. - Upon its walls so grim and old - Have gathered centuries of mould. - It seems that with the birth of time - That cell was hollowed out by crime, - And there, her hateful labor o’er, - She took her first sweet draught of gore. - - Ha! Ha! I see them! See them now— - The cold damp dripping from each brow, - With hands oustretched they mercy sue— - (Ye know not how my vengeance grew,) - While I stood by with sullen smile— - The only answer to their grief— - For wearied in that dungeon aisle, - In smiles _I_ even found relief. - - I watched them in that dreary gloom, - (To me a heaven—to them a tomb,) - For hours—for days—and joyed to hear - Their pleadings fill that sepulchre. - At first they tried to lull their state - By cheering each thro’ that dull grate, - (For this they lingered separate; - I could not bear e’en then to see - Them closer in their agony.) - And this they did for days! at last - A change upon them came— - For each to each reproaches cast, - In which I heard my name. - - I spake no word—their dread replies - Were only read within my eyes, - Which as they glared upon the pair, - Like scorpions writhing in their pain - When wounded in the loathsome lair, - Seemed burning to my very brain. - I shall not tell how hunger grew - In that dread time upon the two— - When each would vainly try to break - The bars an earthquake scarce could shake. - Nor how they gnawed, in their great pain, - Their dungeon’s rusted iron chain; - Nor how their curses, deep and oft, - From parching lips were rung aloft; - Nor how like babbling fiends they would - Together vex the solitude; - Nor how the wasting crimson tide - Of withered life their wants supplied; - Nor how—enough! enough they died - Aye! and I saw the red worm creep - Upon their slumbers, dark and deep, - And felt with more of joy than dread - The grim eyes of the fleshless dead. - - Long years have passed away, since then - And I have mixed with fellow men; - On land and wave my flag unfurl’d - Streamed like a storm above the world; - For Lorro was a soldier born; - His music was the battle-horn. - E’en when a boy—his playthings were - Such deadly toys as sword and spear. - I did not pant for fame or blood, - But thus in agony I sought - To strangle in their birth the brood - Of serpents cradled in my thought. - I’ve tried to pray: In vain! In vain! - The very words seem brands of fire - By demons hurled into my brain— - The burning ministers of ire. - - How Spirit, mid such fearful strife - I left the hated mortal life, - I need not say; it matters not - How we may break that earthly spell; - Enough! enough! I knew my lot - And feel its agony too well. - - My frame beside its father rests— - The same old banner o’er their breasts - Which they with all their serfs, of yore, - To battle and to triumph bore. - No chieftain sways the castle’s wall, - No chieftain revels in its hall. - And on each bastion’s leaning stone - Grim desolation sits alone, - While organ winds their masses roll - Around each lonely turret’s head, - And seem to chant, “Rest troubled soul! - Mercy! Oh! mercy for the dead!” - - The spirit bent his brow—and tears - The first which he had shed for years, - Fell burning from his eyes, for THOUGHT - Had oped their overflowing cells, - Like wakened lightning which has sought - The cloud with all its liquid spells. - - He wept—as he had wept of old— - When sudden through the gloomy air - A glorious gush of music roll’d - Around those wretched spirits there;— - They started up with frantic eyes - Wild-glancing to their sullen skies: - And still the angel-anthem went - Rejoicing ’round that firmament; - And shining harps were sparkling through - The cloud-rifts—held by seraph-forms - Oh! lovely as the loveliest hue - Of rainbows curled on buried storms. - - Faint and more faint the music grows— - Yet how entrancing in its close— - Sweeter! oh sweeter than the hymn - Of an enthusiast who has given - His anthem forth, at twilight dim, - And hopes with it to float to heaven. - - And see, where yonder tempests meet, - The rapid glance of silver feet— - The last of that refulgent train - Who leave this desolated sphere; - Oh! not for them such realms of Pain - Where Crime stands tremblingly by Fear:— - They’re gone, AND ALL IS DARK AGAIN. - - [End of Part First.] - ------ - -[1] The tale of Lorro is founded on an actual occurrence: one of the -incidents has already been turned to advantage by a prose writer. This -poem will be followed by another, in which I have attempted to show the -rewards of virtue. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CHEVALIER GLUCK. - - - BY W. W. STORY. - - -During the latter part of the autumn in Berlin there are usually some -fine days. The cloudless sun shines pleasantly out and evaporates the -moisture from the warm air which blows through the streets. Mingling -together in motley groups, you may see a long row of fashionables, -citizens with their wives, little children in Sunday clothes, priests, -Jewesses, young counsellors, professors, milliners, dancers, officers, -&c. walking among the lindens in the Park. All the seats in Klaus & -Weber’s coffee-house are soon occupied; the coffee throws off its steam. -The fashionables light their cigars; everywhere persons are talking; -here an argument is going on about war and peace, there about Madame -Bethman’s shoes, whether the last ones she wore were green or gray, or -about the state of the market and the bad money, &c., until all is -hushed by an Aria from “Tanchon,” with which an untuned harp, a pair of -ill-tuned violins, a wheezing flute, and a spasmodic bassoon torment -themselves and their audience. Upon the balustrade which separates -Weber’s place from the high-way, several little round tables and garden -chairs are placed; here one can breathe in the free air and observe the -comers and goers, at a distance from the monotonous noises of the -accursed orchestra. There I sat down, and, abandoning myself to the -light play of my fancy, conversed with the imaginary forms of friends -who came around me, upon science and art, and all that is dearest to -man. The mass of promenaders passing by me grows more and more motley, -but nothing disturbs me, nothing can drive away my imaginary company. -Now the execrable Trio of an intolerable waltz draws me out of my world -of dreams. The high, squeaking tones of the violins and flutes, and the -growling ground bass of the bassoon are all that I can hear; they follow -each other up and down in octaves, which tear the ear, until, at last, -like one who is seized with a burning pain, I cry out involuntarily, - -“What mad music! Those detestable octaves!”—Near me some one mutters. - -“Cursed Fate! Here is another octave-hunter!” I look up and perceive now -for the first time that imperceptibly to me a man has taken a place at -the same table, who is looking intently at me, and from whom I cannot -take my eyes away again. Never did I see any head or figure which made -so sudden and powerful an impression upon me. A slightly crooked nose -was joined to a broad open brow, with remarkable prominences over the -bushy, half-gray eyebrows, under which the eyes glanced forth with an -almost wild, youthful fire, (the age of the man might be about fifty;) -the white and well-formed chin presented a singular contrast to the -compressed mouth, and a satirical smile breaking out in the curious play -of muscles in the hollow cheeks, seemed to contradict the deep -melancholy earnestness which rested upon the brow; a few gray locks of -hair lay behind the ears, which were large and prominent; over the tall, -slender figure was wrapped a large modern overcoat. As soon as I looked -at the man he cast down his eyes and gave his whole attention to the -occupation from which my outcry had probably aroused him. He was -shaking, with apparent delight, some snuff from several little paper -horns into a large box which stood before him, and moistening it with -red wine from a quarter-flask. The music had ceased and I felt an -irresistible desire to address him. - -“I am glad that the music is over,” said I, “it was really intolerable.” - -The old man threw a hasty glance at me and shook out the contents from -the last paper horn. - -“It would be better not to play at all,” I began again, “Don’t you think -so?” - -“I don’t think at all about it,” said he, “you are a musician and -connoisseur by profession”— - -“You are wrong, I am neither. I once took lessons upon the harpsichord -and in thorough-bass, because I considered it something which was -necessary to a good education, and among other things I was told that -nothing produced a more disagreeable effect than when the bass follows -the upper notes in octaves. At first I took this upon authority, and -have ever since found it to be a fact.” - -“Really?” interrupted he, and stood up and strode thoughtfully towards -the musicians, often casting his eyes upwards and striking upon his brow -with the palm of his hand, as if he wished to awaken some particular -remembrance. I saw him speak to the musicians whom he treated with a -dignified air of command—He returned and scarcely had he regained his -seat, before they began to play the overture to “Iphigenia in Aulis.” - -With his eyes half-closed and his folded arms resting on the table he -listened to the Andante; all the while slightly moving his foot to -indicate the falling in of the different parts; now he reversed his -head—threw a swift glance about him—the left hand, with fingers apart, -resting upon the table, as though he were striking a chord upon the -Piano Forte, and the right raised in the air; he was certainly the -conductor who was indicating to the orchestra the entrance of the -various Tempos—The right hand falls and the Allegro begins—a burning -blush flew over his pale cheeks; his eyebrows were raised and drawn -together; upon his wrinkled brow an inward rage flashed through his bold -eyes, with a fire, which by degrees changed into a smile that gathered -about his half-open mouth. Now he leaned back again, his eyebrows were -drawn up, the play of muscles again swept over his face, his eyes -glanced, the deep internal pain was dissolved in a delight which seized -and vehemently agitated every fibre of his frame—he heaved a deep sigh, -and drops stood upon his brow. He now indicated the entrance of the -Tutti and the other principal parts; his right hand never ceased beating -the time, and with his left he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and -wiped his face—Thus he animated with flesh and color the skeleton of -the Overture, formed by the two violins. I heard the soft plaintive -lament breathed out by the flutes, after the storm of the violins and -basses died away, and the thunder of the kettle drums had ceased; I -heard the lightly touched tones of the violoncello and the bassoon, -which fill the heart with irrepressible yearning—again the Tutti enters -treading along the unison like a towering huge giant and the hollow -lamenting expires beneath his crushing footsteps. - -The overture was finished; the man suffered both his arms to drop, and -sat with closed eyes, like one who was exhausted by excessive exertion. -This bottle was empty; I filled his glass with the Burgundy, which in -the meantime I had procured. He heaved a deep sigh, and seemed to awaken -out of his dream. I motioned him to drink; he did so without hesitation, -and swallowing the contents of the glass at one draught, exclaimed, - -“I am well pleased with the performance! The orchestra did bravely!” - -“And yet,” added I, “yet it was only a feeble outline of a master-piece -finished in living colors.” - -“Am I right? You are not a Berliner.” - -“Perfectly right; I only reside here occasionally.” - -“The Burgundy is good; but it is growing cold here.” - -“Let us go into the house and finish the flask.” - -“A good proposal—I do not know you; neither do you know me. We will not -ask each other’s names. Names are sometimes in the way. Here am I -drinking Burgundy without it costing me anything. Our companionship is -agreeable to both, and so far so good.” - -All this he said with good-humored frankness. We entered the house -together. As soon as he sat down and threw open his overcoat, I -perceived with astonishment, that under it he wore an embroidered vest -with long lappels, black velvet breeches, and a very small silver-hilted -dagger. He again buttoned up his coat carefully. - -“Why did you ask me if I was a Berliner?” I resumed. - -“Because in such a case it would be necessary for me to leave you.” - -“That sounds like a riddle.” - -“Not in the least, when I tell you that I—that I am a composer.” - -“I have no idea of your meaning.” - -“Well then excuse me for my exclamation just now. I see that you -understand yourself thoroughly and nothing of Berlin and Berliners.” - -He rose and walked once hastily up and down; then went to the window, -and in a scarcely audible voice hummed the chorus of Priestesses from -the Iphigenia in Tauris, while at intervals he struck upon the window at -the entrance of the Tutti. To my great astonishment I observed that he -made several modifications of the melody, which struck me with their -power and originality. I let him go on without interruption. He finished -and returned to his seat. Surprised by the extraordinary bearing of the -man, and by this fantastic expression of his singular musical talent—I -remained silent. After some time he began— - -“Have you never composed?” - -“Yes, I have made some attempts in the art; only I found that all which -seemed to me to have been written at inspired moments, became afterwards -flat and tedious; so that I let it alone.” - -“You have done wrong: for the mere fact of your having made the attempt -is no small proof of your talent. We learn music when we are children, -because papa and mamma will have it so; now you go to work jingling and -fiddling, but imperceptibly the mind becomes susceptible to music. -Perhaps the half-forgotten theme of the little song, which you formerly -sang, was the first original thought, and from this embryo, nourished -laboriously by foreign powers, grows a giant, who consumes all within -his reach, and changes all into his own flesh and blood! Ah, how is it -possible to point out the innumerable influences which lead a man to -compose. There is a broad high-way, where all are hurrying round and -shouting and screaming; we are the initiated! we are at the goal! Only -through the ivory door is there entrance to the land of dreams; few ever -see the door and still fewer pass through it. All seems strange here. -Wild forms move hither and thither and each has a certain character—one -more than the others. They are never seen in the high-way; they only can -be found behind the ivory door. It is difficult to come out of this -kingdom. Monsters besiege the way as before the Castle of Alsinens—they -twirl—they twist. Many dream their dream in the Kingdom of -Dreams,—they dissolve in dreams,—they cast no more shadows—otherwise -by means of their shadows they would perceive the rays which pass -through this realm; only a few awakened out of this dream, walk about -and stride through the Kingdom of Dreams—they come to Truth. This is -the highest moment;—the union with the eternal and unspeakable! It is -the triple tone, from which the accords, like stars, shoot down and spin -around you with threads of fire. You lie there like a chrysalis in the -fire, until the Psyche soars up to the sun.” - -As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and raised his eyes, and -threw up his hand. Then he seated himself and quickly emptied the full -glass. A silence ensued, which I would not break, through a fear of -leading this extraordinary man out of his track. At last he continued in -a calmer manner— - -“When I was in the kingdom of dreams a thousand pangs and sorrows -tormented me. It was night, and the grinning forms of monsters rushed in -upon me, now dragging me down into the abyss of the sea, and now lifting -me high into the air. Rays of light streamed through the night, and -these rays were tones which encircled me with delicious clearness. I -awoke out of my pain and saw a large clear eye, gazing into an organ, -and while it gazed, tones issued forth and sparkled and intervened in -chords more glorious than I had ever imagined. Up and down streamed -melodies, and as I swam in this stream, and was on the point of sinking, -the eye looked down upon me and raised me out of the roaring waves. It -was night again. Two colossi in glittering harnesses stepped up to -me—Tonic and fifth! they lifted me up but the eye smiled; I know what -fills thy breast with yearnings, the gentle tender third will step -between the colossi; you will hear his sweet voice, will see me again, -and my melodies shall become yours.” - -He paused. - -“And you saw the eye again?” - -“Yes, I saw it again. Long years I sighed in the realms of -dreams—there—yes, there!—I sat in a beautiful valley, and listened to -the flowers as they sang together; only one sun-flower was silent and -sadly bent its closed chalice towards the earth. Invisible bonds bound -me to it—it raised its head. The chalice opened, and streaming out of -it again the eye met mine—The tones, like rays of light, drew my head -toward the flower which eagerly enclosed it. Larger and larger grew the -leaves—flames streamed forth from it—they flowed around me—the eye -had vanished and I was in the chalice.” - -As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and rushed out of the room -with rapid youthful strides. I awaited his return in vain; I concluded -at last to go down into the city. - -As I approached the Brandenburg gates, I saw in the gloaming a tall -figure stride by me, which I immediately recognized as my strange -companion—I said to him— - -“Why did you leave me so abruptly?” - -“It was too late and the Euphon began to sound.” - -“I don’t know what you mean!” - -“So much the better!” - -“So much the worse: for I should like to understand you.” - -“Do you hear nothing?” - -“No.” - -“It is past! Let us go—I do not generally like company; but—you are -not a composer—you are not a Berliner?” - -“I cannot conceive what so prejudices you against the Berliners. Here, -where art is so highly esteemed and practised by the people in the -highest degree—I should think that a man of your genius in art would -like to be.” - -“You are mistaken. I am condemned for my torment to wander about here in -this deserted place like a departed spirit.” - -“Here in Berlin—a deserted place?” - -“Yes, it is deserted to me, for I can find no kindred spirit here. I am -alone.” - -“But the artists!—the composers!” - -“Away with them. They criticise and criticise, refining away everything -to find one poor little thought—but beyond their babble about art and -artistical taste, and I know not what—they can shape out nothing, and -as soon as they endeavor to bring out a few thoughts into -daylight—their fearful coldness shows their extreme distance from the -sun—it is Lapland work.” - -“Your judgment seems to me too stern. At least you must allow that their -theatrical representations are magnificent.” - -“I once resolved to go to the theatre to hear the opera of one of my -young friends—what is the name of it? The whole world is in this -opera—through the confused bustle of dressed up men, wander the spirits -of Orcus. All here has a voice and an almighty sound. The devil—I mean -Don Juan. But I could not endure it beyond the overture, through which -they blustered as fast as possible without perception or understanding. -And I had prepared myself for that by a course of fasting and prayer, -because I know that the Euphon is much too severely tried by this -measure and gives an indistinct utterance.” - -“Though I must admit that Mozart’s masterpieces are generally slighted -here in a most inexplicable manner—yet Gluck’s works are very much -better represented.” - -“Do you think so? I once was desirous of hearing the Iphigenia in -Tauris. As soon as I entered the theatre, I perceived they were playing -the Iphigenia in Aulis. Then—thought I, this is a mistake. Do they call -_this_ Iphigenia? I was amazed—for now the Andante came in, with which -the Iphigenia in Tauris opens, and the storm followed. There is an -interval of twenty years. All the effect, all the admirably arranged -exposition of the tragedy is lost. A still sea—a storm—the Greeks -wrecked on the land—this is the opera. How?—has the composer written -the overture at random, so that one may play it as he pleases and when -he will, like a trumpet-piece?” - -“I confess that is a mistake. Yet in the meantime, they are doing all -they can to raise Gluck’s works in the general estimation.” - -“Oh yes!” said he shortly—and then smiled more and more bitterly. -Suddenly he walked off, and nothing could detain him. In a moment he -disappeared, and for many successive days I sought him in vain in the -park. - - * * * * * - -Several months had elapsed, when one cold, rainy evening, having been -belated in a distant part of the city, I was going towards my house in -Friedrich street. It was necessary to pass by the theatre. The noisy -music of trumpets and kettle drums reminded me that Gluck’s Armida was -to be now performed, and I was on the point of going in, when a curious -soliloquy spoken from the window, where every note of the orchestra was -distinctly audible, arrested my attention. - -“Now comes the king—they play the march—beat, beat away on your kettle -drums. That’s right, that’s lively. Yes, yes, you must do that eleven -times now—or else the procession won’t be long enough. Ha, -ha—Maestro—drag along, children. See there is a figurant with his -shoe-string caught. That’s right for the twelfth time!—Keep beating on -that dominant—Oh! ye eternal powers this will never cease. Now he -presents his compliments—Armida returns thanks. Still once more? Yes, I -see all’s right—there are two soldiers yet to come. What evil spirit -has banished me here?” - -“The ban is loosed,” cried I—“come!” - -I seized my curious friend by the arm (for the soliloquist was no other -than he,) and hurrying him out of the park, carried him away with me. He -seemed surprised, and followed me in silence. We had already arrived in -Friedrich street when he suddenly stopped. - -“I know you,” said he.—“You were in the park. We talked together. I -drank your wine—grew heated by it. The Euphon sounded two days -afterwards—I suffered much—it is over.” - -“I am rejoiced that accident has thrown you again in my way. Let us be -better acquainted. I live not far from here—suppose you—” - -“I cannot, and dare not go with any one.” - -“No, you shall not escape me thus—I will go with you.” - -“Then you must go about two hundred steps. But you were just going into -the theatre?” - -“I was going to hear Armida, but now—” - -“You shall hear Armida _now_—come!” - -In silence we went down Friedrich street. He turned quickly down a cross -street, running so fast that I could with difficulty follow him—until -he stopped at last before a common-looking house. After knocking for -some time the door was opened.—Groping in the dark, we ascended the -steps and entered a chamber in the upper story, the door of which my -guide carefully locked. I heard a door open; through this he led me with -a light, and the appearance of the curiously decorated apartment -surprised me not a little—old-fashioned, richly adorned chairs, a clock -fixed against the wall with a gilt case, and a heavy broad mirror gave -to the whole the gloomy appearance of antiquated splendor. In the middle -stood a little Piano Forte, upon which was placed a large inkstand; and -near it lay several sheets of music. A more attentive examination of -these arrangements for composition made it evident to me that for some -time nothing could have been written; for the paper was perfectly -yellow, and thick spider webs were woven over the inkstand—the man -stepped towards a press in the corner of a chamber which I had not -perceived before, and as soon as he drew aside the curtain I saw a row -of beautifully bound books with golden titles. -Orfeo—Armida—Alcesti—Iphigenia—&c.—in short a collection of Gluck’s -master pieces standing together. - -“Do you own all Gluck’s works?” I cried. - -He made no answer, but a spasmodic smile played across his mouth, and -the play of muscles in the hollow cheeks distorted his countenance to -the appearance of a hideous mask—He fixed his dark eyes sternly upon -me, seized one of the books—it was Armida—and stepped solemnly towards -the piano forte.—I opened it quickly and drew up the music rack; that -appeared to give him pleasure—He opened the book—I beheld ruled -leaves, but not a single note written upon them. - -He began; “now I will play the overture—Do you turn over the leaves at -the proper time”—I promised—and now grasping the full chords, -gloriously and like a master, he played the majestic Tempo di Marcia -with which the overture begins, without deviating from the original; but -the Allegro was only interpenetrated by Gluck’s principal thought. He -brought out so many rich changes that my astonishment increased—His -modulations were particularly bold, without being startling, and so -great was his facility of hanging upon the principal idea of a thousand -melodious lyrics, that each one seemed a reproduction of it in a new and -renovated form—His countenance glowed—now he contracted his eyebrows -and a long suppressed wrath broke powerfully forth, and now his eyes -swam in tears of deep yearning melancholy. Sometimes with a pleasant -tenor voice he sang the Thema, while both hands were employed in -artist-like lyrics, and sometimes he imitated with his voice in an -entirely different manner the hollow tone of the beaten kettle drums. I -industriously turned over the leaves, as I followed his look. The -overture was finished and he fell back exhausted with closed eyes, upon -the arm chair. But soon he raised himself again and turning hastily over -a few blank leaves, said to me in a hollow tone— - -“All this, sir, have I written when I came out of the kingdom of dreams, -but I betrayed the holy to unholy, and an ice-cold hand fastened upon -this glowing heart. It broke not. Yet was I condemned to wander among -the unholy like a departed spirit—formless, so that no one knew me -until the sun-flower again lifted me up to the eternal—Ha, now let us -sing Armida’s Scena.” - -Then he sang the closing scene of the Armida with an expression which -penetrated my inmost heart—Here also he deviated perceptibly from the -original—but the substituted music was Gluck-like music in still higher -potency.—All that Hate, Love, Despair, Madness, can express in its -strongest traits—he united in his tones—His voice seemed that of a -young man, for from its deep hollowness swelled forth an irrepressible -strength—Every fibre trembled—I was beside myself—When he had -finished I threw myself into his arms, and cried with suppressed -voice—“What does this mean? Who are you?” - -He stood up and gazed at me with earnest, penetrating look—but as I was -about to speak again he vanished with the light through a door and left -me in the darkness—He was absent a quarter of an hour—I despaired of -seeing him again and ascertaining my position from the situation of the -piano forte sought to open the door, when suddenly in an embroidered -dress coat, rich vest and with a sword at his side and a light in his -hand he entered— - -I started—he came solemnly up to me, took me softly by the hand, and -said, softly smiling— - -“I am the Chevalier Gluck!” - - * * * * * - - - - - VENUS AND THE MODERN BELLE. - - - BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD. - - - Young Beauty looked over her gems one night, - And stole to her glass, with a petulant air: - She braided her hair, with their burning light, - Till they played like the gleam of a glowworm there. - - Then she folded, over her form of grace, - A costly robe from an Indian loom - But a cloud overshadowed her exquisite face, - And Love’s sunny dimple was hid in the gloom. - - “It is useless!” she murmured,—“my jewels have lost - All their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!” - And she snatched off the treasures, and haughtily tost, - Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies and pearls. - - Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion; - “And what?” she exclaimed, “shall the star of the ball - Be seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion?”— - Away went the robe,—ribbons, laces and all! - - “Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sighed in despair, - “Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone, - Which Juno of old condescended to wear, - And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”— - - She said and she started; for lo! in the glass, - Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came! - She turned,—it was Venus herself! and the lass - Stood blushing before her, in silence and shame. - - “Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek, - Is one you can summon at once, if you will; - It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek, - And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes, fill. - - “No gem in your casket such lustre can lend, - No silk wrought in silver, such beauty, bestow, - With that talisman heed not, tho’ simply, my friend, - Your robe and your ringlets unjewelled may flow!” - - “Oh! tell it me! give it me!”—Beauty exclaimed,— - As Hope’s happy smile, to her rosy mouth, stole,— - “Nay! you wear it e’en now, since your temper is tamed, - ’Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul.” - - * * * * * - - - - - MY BARK IS OUT UPON THE SEA. - - - BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. - - - My bark is out upon the sea - The moon’s above; - Her light a presence seems to me - Like woman’s love. - My native land I’ve left behind; - Afar I roam; - In other climes no hearts I’ll find, - Like those at home. - - Of all yon sisterhood of stars, - But one is true; - She paves my path with crystal spars, - And beams like you, - Whose purity the waves recall - In music’s flow, - As round my bark they rise and fall - In liquid snow. - - The freshening breeze now swells the sails, - A storm is on; - The weary moon’s dim lustre fails, - The stars are gone. - Not so fades love’s eternal light - When storm-clouds weep; - I know one heart’s with me to-night - Upon the deep. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LATE SIR DAVID WILKIE. - - - BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO. - - -Under the head of Painting, England undoubtedly at present stands -considerably above any of the continental nations; but they surpass her -perhaps in an equal degree, in the sister Art of Sculpture, and in -Music,—Italy in both of these, and Germany in the latter. France may -perhaps be said to have reached the same general point that England has -in all these Arts; but she cannot claim the same exceptions in favor of -individual instances, in either of them. In musical composers, on the -other hand, she surpasses England, and yet reaches to only a very -moderate degree of excellence. - -Sir David Wilkie was one of the most distinguished Artists, in his -particular line, that England, or any other country ever possessed. He -has, to be sure, produced, comparatively speaking, but few pictures; but -in force and richness of expression, in truth and depth of character, in -subtlety of thought, and felicity of invention, I have seen none in the -same class that at all equal these few. In the above particulars, and in -a marvellous truth and simplicity of pencil in delineating what he sees -or remembers, Wilkie as far surpasses Teniers himself, as Teniers -surpasses him in freedom and felicity of touch, and freshness, -transparency, and beauty of coloring. And important as these latter -qualities are in a picture, those which spring from, and appeal to, the -intellect chiefly, must be allowed to be still more so. - -The subject of Wilkie’s pictures are confined to what may be called the -higher classes of low life, where the habits and institutions of modern -society have hitherto, in a great measure, failed to diffuse that -artificial and conventional form of character, which, if it does not -altogether preclude the _action_ of the feelings, at least forbids all -outward manifestation of them. If Sir David had unfortunately devoted -his peculiar and unrivalled power of depicting what _is_, to scenes in -high, or even in middle life, he would have produced works altogether -feeble and worthless; because he could only represent what actually did -exist; and, in these classes of life, _this_, as far as regards its -outward attributes, is smoothed and polished down to a plane and -colorless surface, which will not admit the passage of any thing from -within, and from which every thing without slides off like water-drops -from the feathers of a bird. - -Only think of making a picture of a party of _ladies and gentlemen_, -assembled to hear a piece of political news read; or of the same persons -listening to a solo on the violin by an eminent professor! And yet these -are the subjects of Wilkie’s Village Politicians, and his Blind Fiddler; -two of the most interesting and perfect works that ever proceeded from -the pencil; and which at once evince in the artist, and excite in the -spectator, more activity of thought, and play of sentiment, than are -called forth at all the fashionable parties of London and Paris for a -whole season. - -Wilkie’s power was confined, as I have said, to the representation of -what he saw; but he selected and combined this with such admirable -judgment, and represented it with such unrivalled truth and precision, -that his pictures impress themselves on the memory with all the force -and reality of facts. We remember, and recur to, the scenes he places -before us, just as we should to the real scenes if we had been present -at them; and can hardly think of, and refer to them as any thing _but_ -real scenes. They seem to become part of our experience—to increase the -stores of our actual knowledge of life and human nature; and the actors -in them take their places among the persons we have seen and known in -our intercourse with the living world. - -Wilkie’s pictures are, in one sense of the term, the most _national_ -that were ever painted; and will carry down to posterity the face, -character, habits, costume, etc. of the period and class which they -represent, in a way that nothing else ever did or could; for they are -literally the things themselves—the truth, and nothing but the truth. -The painter allows himself no liberty or licence in the minutest -particulars. He seems to have a superstitious reverence for the truth; -and he would no more _paint_ a lie than he would tell one. I suppose he -has never introduced an article of dress or furniture into any one of -his pictures, that he had not actually seen worn or used under the -circumstances he was representing. If he had occasion to paint a peasant -who had just entered a cottage on a rainy day, he would, as a matter of -conscience, leave the marks of his dirty footsteps on the threshold of -the door! This scrupulous minuteness of detail, which would be the bane -of some class of art, is the beauty of his, coupled, and made -subservient, as it was, to the most curious, natural, and interesting -development of character, sentiment and thought. - -But the most extraordinary examples of this artist’s professional skill, -are those in which he has depicted some peculiar _expression_ in the -face and action of some one of his characters. The quantity and degree -of expression that he has, in several of these instances, thrown into -the compass of a face and figure of less than the common miniature size, -is not to be conceived without being seen, and has certainly never -before been equalled in the Art. His most extraordinary efforts of this -kind are two, in which the expressions are not very agreeable, but which -become highly interesting, on account of the extreme difficulty that is -felt to have been overcome in the production of them. One of these is an -old man, in the act of coughing violently; and the other is a child, who -has cut his fingers. - -But if this is the most extraordinary part of Wilkie’s pictures, and the -part most likely to attract vulgar attention and curiosity, it is far -from being the most valuable and characteristic. If it were, I should -not regard him as the really great artist which I now do. The mere -overcoming of difficulty, for the sake of overcoming it, and without -producing any other ulterior effect, would be a mere idle waste of time -and skill, and quite unworthy either of praise or attention. It is in -these particular instances which I have noticed above, as in numerous -others in different lines of art, a mere sleight of hand, exceedingly -curious, as exhibiting the possible extent of human skill, but no more. - -In Wilkie’s pictures, this exhibition of mere manual skill is used very -sparingly, and is almost always kept in subjection to, or brought in aid -of, other infinitely more valuable ends. With the single exception of -the “Cut Finger,” which is a mere gratuitous effort of this manual -dexterity, all his pictures are moral tales, more or less interesting, -from their perfectly true delineation of habits and manners, or -impressive, from their development of character, passion, and sentiment. -The “Opening of the Will” is as fine in this way, as any of Sir Walter -Scott’s novels; and the “Rent Day” includes a whole series of national -tales of English pastoral life in the nineteenth century. - -It is a great mistake to consider Wilkie as a comic painter, in which -light he is generally regarded by the public on both sides of the -Atlantic. When they are standing before his pictures, they seem to feel -themselves bound to be moved to laughter by them, as they would by a -comedy or a farce; and without this, they do not show their taste; -whereas laughter seems to me to be the very last sensation these works -are adapted to call forth. - -Speaking of the best and most characteristic of them, I would say, that -scarcely any compositions of the art, in whatever class, are calculated -to excite a greater variety of deep and serious feelings; feelings, it -is true, so uniformly tempered and modified by a calm and delightful -satisfaction, that they can scarcely be considered without calling up a -_smile_ to the countenance. But the smile arising from inward delight is -as different from the laughter excited by strangeness and drollery as -any one thing can be from another. It is, in fact, the very essence of -Wilkie’s pictures, that there is literally nothing strange, and -consequently nothing droll and laughter-moving about them. - -From the works of no one English artist have I received so much pure and -unmixed pleasure and instruction as I have from those of Sir David -Wilkie. He differs from all the great old masters, inasmuch as I think -he possesses more vigor of pencil, and more natural and characteristic -truth of expression than any of them. His style cannot, indeed, be said -to possess the airy and enchanting graces of Claude, or the classic -power and beauty of the Poussins, or the delicious sweetness of Paul -Potter, or the sunny brightness of Wynants, or the elegant warmth of -Both, or the delightfully rural and country-fied air of Hobbima. In -fact, he has no peculiar or distinguishing style of _his own_; and this -is his great and characteristic beauty. There is nothing in his pictures -but what belongs positively and exclusively to the scene they profess to -represent. When any of the above qualities are required in his pictures, -they are sure to be found there; not because they are part of _his_ -style, but because they are part of _Nature’s_, in the circumstances -under which he is representing her. The _artist_ never obtrudes himself -to share with nature the admiration of the spectator. And this is a very -rare and admirable quality to possess in these days of pretence and -affectation; when _subject_ is usually but a _secondary_ consideration, -and is kept in submission to the display of style, manner, and what is -called _effect_. - - * * * * * - - - - - TO AMIE—UNKNOWN. - - - BY L. J. CIST. - - - They tell me, lady! thou art fair - As pale December’s driven snow; - That thy rich curls of golden hair - Are bright as summer-sunset’s glow; - That on the coral of thy lips - Dwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips; - And in thy deep cerulean eye - A thousand gentle graces lie; - While lofty thought, all pure as thou, - Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow! - - Lady! I love thee! though I ne’er - Have seen that form of faultless grace; - Though never met mine eyes the fair - And perfect beauty of thy face: - Yet not for that thy face is fair— - Nor for thy sunny golden hair— - Nor for thy lips of roseate hue— - Nor for those eyes of Heaven’s own blue— - Nor swan-like neck—nor stately brow— - I love thee:—not to _these_ I bow! - - I love thee for the gifts of mind - With which they tell me thou’rt endow’d; - And for thy graceful manners—kind, - And gently frank, and meekly proud! - And for thy warm and gushing heart, - And soul, all void of guileful art, - And lofty intellect, well stored - With learning’s rich and varied hoard; - For gifts like _these_ (gifts all thine own) - I love thee!—BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN! - - * * * * * - - - - - EDITH PEMBERTON. - - - BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. - - - Oh! days of youth and joy long clouded, - Why thus forever haunt my view? - While in the grave your light lay shrouded, - Why did not memory die there too? - Moore. - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton, drawing her needle through a very -dilapidated stocking which she was darning, “my dear, do you know how -much your old friend Ellis is worth?” - -Mr. Pemberton looked up from his newspaper with some surprise, as he -replied, “I can’t tell exactly, but I should think his property cannot -fall short of one hundred thousand dollars.” - -“That will be twenty thousand a piece for each of his five children,” -said Mrs. Pemberton, apparently pursuing some hidden train of thought. - -“I am not so sure of that,” returned her husband, with a smile, “it is -difficult to calculate the fortune of a child during the life of a -parent. Mr. Ellis is a hale hearty man, and may live long enough to -double his fortune or perhaps to _lose_ it all. But why are you so -interested in his affairs just now, Sarah?” - -“To tell you the truth, husband, I have been thinking that Edward Ellis -would be a good match for Caroline.” - -“Pooh! pooh! Carry is but sixteen, it will be time enough three years -hence, to think of a husband for her.” - -“But if a good opportunity should offer, it would be the height of folly -to let it slip only on account of her youth. Edward is certainly very -constant in his visits.” - -“His intimacy with Charles, sufficiently accounts for his frequent -visits, and his attentions, if they mean anything, are rather directed -to Edith, as far as I can judge,” said Mr. Pemberton. - -“Oh that is only because Edith is the eldest. I could easily manage to -keep her out of the way, if she were to interfere with Caroline’s -prospects.” - -“But why not secure him for Edith, if you are so desirous of allying him -to the family?” - -“Mercy on me, husband, what should I do without Edith? I would not, upon -any account, put such a notion into her head; nobody could supply her -place if she were to marry just now.” - -“Rotation in office, my dear, is the true and just system in family -government, whatever it may be in politics; it is time that Caroline -shared some of Edith’s manifold duties,” said Mr. Pemberton. - -“How little men know of domestic affairs,” exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton; “do -you suppose that such a giddy creature as Carry could ever be taught the -patience, industry and thoughtfulness which seem so natural to Edith? -No, no, I must keep Edith at home as long as possible.” - -“So you have come to the conclusion that she is too useful to be allowed -to seek her own happiness.” - -“Oh, Mr. Pemberton how can you talk so? I am sure if Edith really loved -any body I would never throw any obstacle in her way. She is quite -contented now and I don’t believe marriage is necessary to the happiness -of every body.” - -“Why then are you so anxious to make matches for your girls? Why not -wait and see whether Carry is not also content to be single?” - -“Because Caroline is such a hare-brained, thoughtless girl, that nothing -but domestic duties will ever give her steadiness of character, and -therefore I am anxious to see her settled in life.” - -“Well I don’t think you need waste any feminine manœuvres upon Edward -Ellis, for whatever fortune his father may possess, he will never -support his sons in idleness. He means that they shall work for -themselves as he has done, and though he has given Edward a liberal -education, he intends to make him a thorough merchant.” - -“Edward wishes to study a profession.” - -“I know old Ellis well enough to believe that he sets too high a value -on time and money to consent to such a plan. He would never be willing -to maintain Edward during the next ten years, as must necessarily be the -case, if he adopted a profession.” - -“Edward is a remarkably fine young man.” - -“Yes, he possesses excellent talents and an amiable disposition, but his -character is yet to be formed by time and circumstance.” - -“He is two and twenty, husband; and you were married when you were not -that age.” - -“I know it, Sarah,” said Mr. Pemberton, drily, “and we both married five -years too soon. I became burdened with the support of a family at the -outset of life, and you were weighed down with domestic cares, while yet -in your girlhood; the consequence to me has been, that I am now obliged -to labour as hard for a living at forty-five as I did at twenty, and -with as little prospect of making a fortune; while the result to you has -been broken health and wearied spirits.” - -“I am sure I never repented our marriage, my dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton -half reproachfully. - -“Nor I, my dear Sarah,” replied her husband kindly, “it would be but an -ill requital for all your affection and goodness; but should we not be -equally happy and less care-worn now, if we had deferred our union until -we had been a little older and wiser?” - -“Ah well,” sighed Mrs. Pemberton, feeling the truth of her husband’s -remark, but unwilling to confess it, “there is no use in such -retrospection; we have a large family around us, and there are no finer -children than ours in the whole circle of our acquaintance. If I am -broken down with the care of bringing them up, I can forget all my -trouble, when I have so much cause to be proud of them. A better -daughter than Edith, a more steady boy than Charley, and prettier girls -than Caroline and Maria, are not to be found anywhere in society; and I -dare say I shall be just as proud of the little ones in the nursery as -they grow up.” - -“I dare say you will, my dear,” said her husband, smiling -good-humoredly, “it would be very strange if you were not, and quite as -strange if I had not similar opinions; Edith is as good as she is -handsome and I only wish young Ellis was in circumstances to marry her.” - -“Don’t speak of such a thing, husband, I cannot consent to part with her -for the next four or five years.” - -“Yet you want to get rid of Caroline.” - -“I have already told you my motives; there never were two sisters more -unlike.” - -“Edith has all the prudence and kindliness which befits a good wife, and -therefore deserves to be well mated.” - -“She does not seem to think of such a thing as marriage, and I am truly -glad she is so indifferent about it, indeed I almost believe that Edith -is destined to be an old maid.” - -“It needs no great prophetic skill to predict that, if you keep her -forever in the back-ground.” - -“I am sure I do no such thing,” said Mrs. Pemberton, warmly. - -“I don’t pretend to know much about these matters but I have noticed -that when the girls are invited to a party it is generally Edith who is -left at home.” - -“It is not my fault, Mr. Pemberton, if she takes no pleasure in gay -society.” - -“Are you certain she always stays at home from choice?” - -“I dare say she does, at least she is never controlled by me.” - -“But you know as well as I do, that the slightest expression of a wish -is sufficient to influence her. The truth is, Edith has made herself so -useful in the family that we all depend upon her for a large portion of -our comforts, and are too apt to forget that she often sacrifices her -own. Do you suppose that she actually preferred staying at home to nurse -little Margaret, the other night, to going to Mrs. Moore’s grand ball?” - -“No, I can’t say she did, for she seemed rather anxious to attend that -ball, and had trimmed a dress beautifully for the occasion.” - -“The child was certainly not so ill as to require her attendance in -addition to yours, and why, therefore, was she obliged to remain?” - -“No, the baby was not very sick, but she cried so bitterly when she saw -Edith dressed for the party, that I was afraid she would bring on a -fever.” - -“Therefore you disappointed Edith merely to gratify the whim of a petted -infant.” - -“I left her to do as she pleased; she immediately changed her dress, to -pacify Margaret, and took her usual place by the cradle.” - -“Yes, you left her to do as she pleased, after she had been allowed to -discover exactly what you wished she should do. This is always the way, -Sarah; the incident just mentioned, is only one out of hundreds, where -Edith’s kind feelings have been made to interfere with her pleasures. I -have long seen in the family a disposition to take advantage of her -unselfish character, and it seems to me exceedingly unjust. I do not -want to part with Edith, and should give her to a husband with great -reluctance, but I insist that she should have a fair chance, and not be -compelled to join the single sisterhood whether she will or not. You had -better let match-making alone, Sarah; leave the girls to choose for -themselves; only be careful that they have the right sort of admirers, -from which to select their future master.” - -Edith Pemberton was the eldest of a large family. Her father, immersed -in business like most of our American merchants, spent the working days -of every week at his counting room, only returning at evening, jaded and -fatigued, to read the newspaper, and to doze upon the sofa till bed -time. Governed by the erroneous ideas, which led men, in our country, to -attempt the accumulation of a rapid fortune, in the vain hope of -enjoying perfect leisure in their later years, Mr. Pemberton had become -little more than a money-making machine. He loved his family but he had -little time to devote to them. He spared no expense in the education of -his children, liberally provided them with comforts, and punctually paid -all the family bills, but he left all the management of household -matters to his wife, who soon found it utterly useless to consult him on -any domestic arrangement. His purse was always open to her demands, but -his time he could not give. The consequence was that Mrs. Pemberton -while endeavoring conscientiously to perform her duties, made the usual -mistake, and fell into those habits which often convert our good wives -into mere housekeepers and nurse maids; “household drudges” as our -grumbling cousin Bull calls them. A rapidly increasing family, and her -utter ignorance of her husband’s business prospects, induced her to -practise the strictest economy which was consistent with comfort. -Abandoning the elegant accomplishments which she had acquired with so -much expense of time and labor at school, she secluded herself in her -nursery, and in the care of her children and the duties of housekeeping -found full employment. - -In childhood, Edith was what old ladies call ‘a nice quiet little girl.’ -Her delicate features, fair complexion, and blonde hair, established her -claim to infantile beauty, while her bright smile, sweet voice and -graceful gentleness seemed to win the love of all who knew her. Endowed -with no remarkable intellect, no decided genius, she yet managed, by -dint of good sense, industry and perseverance, to maintain her place at -the head of her classes, and to leave school, which she did at fifteen, -with the reputation of a very good scholar. A plain, but thorough -English education, a little French, a few not very ill done drawings in -water colors; some velvet paintings and a profound knowledge of the art -of stitching in all its varieties, were the fruits of Edith’s studies. -Gentle reader, do not despise the scanty list of accomplishments which -she could number. It comprised the usual course of education at that -time, and perhaps, in point of real usefulness, would bear a fair -comparison with the more imposing “_sciences_” and “_ologies_” which are -now _presumed_ to be taught in schools of higher pretensions. Her skill -in _needlecraft_ was a most valuable acquisition to the eldest daughter -of so numerous a family, and Mrs. Pemberton availed herself fully of its -aid. Edith returned from school only to take her place as an assistant -to her mother in the nursery. The maid whose business it was to take -care of the children, was not trustworthy, and it became the duty of -Edith to watch over the welfare of the little ones, while she employed -her busy fingers in shaping and sewing their multifarious garments. -Kindly in her feelings, affectionate in her disposition, gentle and -patient in temper, she was dearly loved by the children. It was soon -discovered that her influence could do more than the clamor of an -impatient nursemaid, or the frown of a mother whose natural good temper -had been fretted into irritability. If a child was refractory, sister -Edith alone could administer medicine, or smooth the uneasy pillow,—and -in short Edith became a kind of second mother to her five sisters and -three brothers. - -Had her nature been in the slightest degree tainted with selfishness, -she might have reasonably murmured against the heavy burdens which were -laid upon her at so early an age. But Edith never thought of herself. To -contribute to the happiness of others was her chief pleasure, and she -seemed totally unconscious of the value of her daily sacrifices. If any -particularly disagreeable piece of work was to be done, it was always -concluded that Edith would not refuse to undertake it; if any one was -compelled to forego some anticipated pleasure, the lot was sure to fall -on Edith; and in short the total absence of selfishness in her seemed to -be the warrant for a double allowance of that ingredient in the -characters of all around her. Have you never met, friend reader, with -one of those kind, affectionate, ingenuous persons who have the knack of -doing every thing well, and the tact of doing every thing kindly? and -did you never observe that with this useful and willing person, every -body seemed to claim the right of sharing their troubles? Such an one -was Edith Pemberton. - -But Edith was not proof against that passion which is usually libelled -as selfish and engrossing. Edward Ellis had cultivated an intimacy with -her young and studious brother, solely on her account, and the patience -with which the gifted “senior,” assisted the efforts of the zealous -“sophomore,” might be attributed less to friendship than to a warmer -emotion. Ellis was talented, ambitious and vain, but he was also -warm-hearted, and susceptible to virtuous impressions. The perfect -gentleness, the feminine delicacy, the modest beauty of Edith had -charmed the romantic student, and her unaffected admiration of his -superior mental endowments, completed the spell of her fascination. His -parents, well knowing how strong a safeguard against evil influences, is -a virtuous attachment, rather encouraged his intimacy with the Pemberton -family, without enquiring closely into his motives; and Edward was -content to enjoy the present, leaving the future to take care of itself. -In compliance with his wishes, his father had given him a liberal -education, but when, upon leaving college he requested permission to -study some profession, he met with a decided negative. “I wish you to be -a merchant, Edward,” said his father, “I have given you an education -which will enable you to be an enlightened and intelligent one, but upon -yourself it depends to become a rich one. Talents and learning without -money are of as little use as rough gems; they are curiosities for the -cabinet of the virtuoso, not valuables to the man of sense; they must be -polished and set in a golden frame before they can adorn the possessor, -or seem precious in the eyes of the multitude. If you are wealthy, a -little wisdom will procure you a great reputation; if you are poor your -brightest talents only serve as a farthing rush-light to show you your -own misery!” Such were the views of Mr. Ellis, and though his son -differed widely from him in feeling, yet he dared not gainsay the -assertions which he deemed the result of experience and worldly wisdom. - -It was but a few days after the conversation just narrated that another -of a different character took place between two of the parties -interested. Edith was returning from a visit to a sick friend, just as -evening was closing in, when she was met at her door, by Edward Ellis. - -“Come with me, Edith,” said Edward hurriedly, “wrap your shawl about -you, and walk with me on the Battery.” - -“Not now, Mr. Ellis,” replied Edith, “it is quite late, and little Madge -is waiting for me to sing her to sleep.” - -“Psha! Edith, you are always thinking of some family matter; do you ever -think of your own wishes?” - -“Yes,” replied Edith, laughing, “and I confess I should prefer a -pleasant walk with you to a warm and noisy nursery.” - -“Then come,” said Edward, drawing her arm through his, “I have something -of great consequence to say to you.” - -Edith looked surprised, but the expression of Edward’s countenance was -anxious and troubled, so she offered no further opposition. They entered -the Battery, and walked along the river side, for some minutes in -perfect silence, before Edward could summon courage to enter upon the -subject nearest his thoughts. At length as they turned into a less -frequented path, he abruptly exclaimed, “Do you know, Edith, that I am -going away?” - -Edith’s heart gave a sudden bound, and then every pulsation seemed as -suddenly to cease, as with trembling voice she uttered a faint -exclamation of astonishment. - -“You are surprised, Edith, I knew you would be so, but have you no other -feeling at this announcement of my departure? Nay, turn not your sweet -face from me; I must know whether your heart responds to mine.” - -Edith blushed and trembled as she thus listened, for the first time, to -the voice of passionate tenderness. Feelings which had long been growing -up unnoticed in her heart, and to which she had never thought of giving -a name—fancies, beautiful in their vagueness,—emotions undefined and -undetermined, but still pleasant in the indulgence,—all the - - “countless things - That keep young hearts forever glowing,” - -found in that instant their object and their aim. Edith had never -thought of Edward as a lover, she had never looked into her heart to -discover whether she really wished him to be such, but at the magic -voice of affection, the mystery of her own heart was revealed to her, -its secret recesses were unveiled to her gaze, and she knew that his -image had long been there unconsciously enshrined. Her lover saw not all -her emotions in her expressive countenance, but he read there no -repulsive coldness, and as he clasped the little hand, which lay on his -arm, he said: - -“Listen to me, dear Edith; my father informed me, to-day, that he has -made an arrangement with my uncle, (whom, as you know, has long resided -at Smyrna,) by which I am to become the junior partner in the house, and -he has directed me to be ready in three weeks, to sail in one of his -ships, now lading for that port. How long I shall be absent, is -uncertain, but as my uncle is desirous of returning to America, I -presume that it is intended I shall take his place abroad. Years, -therefore, may elapse ere I again behold my native land, and I cannot -depart without telling you how dear you have long been to my heart. Yet -let me not deceive you Edith: I have confessed to my father my affection -for you,—he acknowledges your worth, and does not disapprove my choice, -but he has positively forbidden me to form any engagement for the -future. I am violating his commands in thus expressing my feelings to -you.” - -“What are his objections, Edward?” faltered the trembling girl. - -“Oh it is the old story of over-prudent age; he says we may both change -long before I return, and that it is best to be unfettered by any -promise; then no harm can happen to either, and if you love me you will -wait my return, without requiring any engagement to confirm your faith. -Thus he argues and I can make no reply. I have no means of supporting a -wife, therefore I dare not ask you of your parents, and my father’s -caution deprives me of the only comfort which hope might have afforded -me in my exile.” - -Edith was deeply agitated, and her cheek grew pale, as she murmured: -“You are right in obeying your father, Edward; happiness never yet -waited on one who was deficient in filial duty.” - -“And is this all you can say, Edith,” exclaimed Edward passionately. “Is -this cold approval all I can hope to receive from the object of my first -and only love? Have not my every look and tone told you how deeply I -loved you, and can you let me depart without one word of tenderness or -regret? Must I remember your gentle face but as a dream of boyhood? -Shall your low, sweet voice be but as the melody of by-gone years? May I -not bear with me, in my banishment, a hope, faint and cold it may be as -the winter sunbeam, yet lighting up my dreary path with something like a -promise of future happiness? Edith I ask no plighted faith; I wish you -not to pledge me your hand till I can come forward and claim it openly; -but I would fain know whether my love is but as incense flung upon the -winds. If you can offer no return to my affection, dearest, let me at -once know my fate, and with all the force of an over-mastering will, -shall my heart be silenced, if not subdued. Say that you love me not, -Edith, and though the stream of my life must forever bear your image on -its surface, yet you shall never know how dark has been the shadow it -has cast. Say that you love me not, and you shall never hear a murmur -from my lips, nor shall your peaceful existence be saddened by the gloom -which must ever pervade mine. You are silent Edith—you cannot bear to -utter the words which must condemn me to despair.” - -Ellis paused, and strove to read in Edith’s face, the feelings to which -she could not give utterance. But her eyes were bent upon the ground, -while the big tears fell like rain from beneath the drooping lids and in -her flushed cheek he saw only displeasure. - -“I was right, Edith,” said he, sadly, “you do not love me; forgive and -forget my folly, but let us not part in coldness.” He took her hand -again, as he spoke: “I perhaps deserve punishment for my selfishness in -thus asking the heart when I could not claim the hand; when I am gone, -some happier lover will perhaps ask both and then—” - -“He will be denied,” interrupted Edith, hastily, turning her agitated -face towards her suitor. “This is no time for maiden coyness, Edward; -your happiness and mine are both at stake, and therefore I tell you, -what till this moment was unknown even to myself, that my affections are -in your keeping.” - -“Dearest, dearest Edith, then am I supremely happy; I ask no more; let -the only bond between us be the secret one of cherished love.” - -“Not so, Edward; you have promised your father not to enter into any -engagement, but I am bound by no such restraints. You are, and must -remain free from all other bonds than those of feeling, but if it will -add to your happiness to be assured of my faith during your absence, I -pledge you my word that my hand shall be yours whenever you come to -claim it.” - -“But your parents, Edith,—what will they say, if they find you clinging -to a remembered lover, and perhaps rejecting some advantageous -settlement?” - -“They will suffer me to pursue my own course, Edward, and will be -satisfied with any thing that binds me to my childhood’s home. I am too -much the companion of my parents to be looked upon in the light of an -intruder, when I prolong the period of filial dependence.” - -“Then be it so, dearest; bound by no outward pledge, we will cherish our -affection within our hearts, and since we must part, you will still -gladden your quiet home with your sweet presence, while I will wander -forth to win the fortune which can alone secure me my future happiness.” - -Three weeks after this interview, Edward Ellis sailed for Smyrna, and -Mrs. Pemberton, as she witnessed the ill-disguised agitation of the -lovers, was compelled to acknowledge that “after all, she really -believed, if Edward had staid, there would have been a match between him -and Edith.” - -But Edith buried within her own bosom, her newly awakened emotions. Her -manner was always so quiet, that if her step did become less light, and -her voice grow softer in its melancholy cadence, it was scarcely noticed -by her thoughtless companions. She had learned that she was beloved, -only in the moment of separation, and therefore there were few tender -and blissful recollections to beguile the weary days of absence; but - - “Woman’s love can live on long remembrance - And oh! how precious is the slightest thing - Affection gives, and hallows!” - -She was one of those gentle beings who draw from the font of tenderness -within their own bosoms, a full draught of sympathy for the sufferings -and wants of others. She returned to her self-denying duties with a more -thoughtful spirit and a more loving heart. Her character, always full of -goodness and truth, seemed to assume an elevation of feeling, such as -nothing but a pure and unselfish attachment can ever create. A desire to -become in all respects, worthy of him whom she loved, gave a new tone to -all her impulses, and her vivid sense of duty became blended with her -earnest desire to merit her future happiness. Edward wrote very -punctually to his young friend Charles Pemberton, and every letter -contained some message to Edith, but she alone could detect the secret -meaning of the apparently careless lines. They afforded sufficient -nutriment to the love which was rapidly becoming a part of her very -being; and Edith was content to abide her time! - -In the mean time Mrs. Pemberton, who became an adept in match-making, -busied herself in providing for her younger girls, and was fortunate -enough to secure two most eligible offers. Caroline, at eighteen became -the wife of a promising young lawyer, while Maria, who was nearly two -years younger, married at the same time a prosperous merchant, who had -lately set up his carriage and, as he had no time to use it himself, -wanted a wife to ride in it. Mrs. Pemberton was in ecstasies, for she -had succeeded in all her plans. Edith was still at home, as a sort of -house keeper, head cook, chief nurse, etc. etc., sharing every body’s -labors and lightening every body’s troubles, while the two giddy girls -who had resolved not to become useful as long as they could avoid the -necessity of it, were respectably settled in their own homes. She was -never tired of extolling the talents of one son-in-law, and the fine -fortune of the other, while she spoke of Edith as “that dear good girl, -who, I am happy to say, is a confirmed old maid, and will never leave -her mother while she lives.” But this manœuvre did not discourage -several from seeking the hand of the gentle girl. Her father wondered -when she refused two of the most unexceptionable offers, and even her -mother felt almost sorry, when she declined the addresses of an elderly -widower, endowed with a fortune of half a million, and a family of fine -children. But a total want of congeniality of feeling in all her -immediate friends, had taught Edith a degree of reserve which seemed -effectually to conceal her deepest feelings. She was patient and -trustful, she considered herself affianced in heart, and though -conscious that not even the tie of honor, as the world would consider -it, bound her lover to his troth, she felt no misgivings as to his -fidelity. She trod the even tenor of her way, diffusing cheerfulness and -comfort around her, thinking for every body, remembering every thing and -forgetting only herself. None sought her sympathy or assistance in vain; -in her own family—in the chamber of sickness or death, among her -friends,—in the hovel of poverty and distress, she was alike useful and -kindly. Every one loved her, and even those who tested her powers of -endurance most fully, almost idolized the unselfish and affectionate -daughter and sister. - -Years passed on, and brought their usual chances and charges. Caroline -became a mother, and fancied that her cares were quite too heavy for her -to bear alone. Edith was therefore summoned to assist and soon found -herself occupying a similar station in her sister’s nursery to that -which she had long filled at home. The baby was often sick and always -cross; nobody but Edith could manage him, and therefore Edith took the -entire charge of him, while the mother paid visits and the nurse -gossiped in the kitchen. Maria too began to assert claims upon her. She, -poor thing, was entirely too young for the duties she had undertaken. -Thoughtless, fond of dress, and profuse in household expenditure, she -had no idea of systematic housekeeping, and Edith was called in to place -matters on a better footing. But before Maria had attained her -eighteenth year, her family was rather liberally increased by the -addition of twin daughters, and again the agency of the useful sister -was required. Her girlhood had been consumed amid womanly cares, and now -her years of blooming womanhood were to be wasted in supplying the -deficiencies of those who had incurred responsibilities which exceeded -their powers. Yet Edith never thought of murmuring. She had been so long -accustomed to live for others that self-sacrifice had now become -habitual, and she never dreamed too much might be asked of or granted by -sisterly affection. - -It is a common remark that the years seem to grow shorter as we advance -in life, and they who could once exclaim “_a whole year!_” in accents of -unqualified alarm at its length, at last find themselves referring to -the same space in the careless tone of indifference as “_only a year_.” -Twelve months had seemed almost an eternity to Edith when her lover -first bade her farewell, and the time that intervened between his -letters to her brother seemed almost endless. But as she became -engrossed in new cares, and her youth began to slip by, the years seemed -to revolve with greater speed, even although Charles was now in a -distant part of the country and the correspondence between him and her -lover if it was still continued, never met her eye. She had formed an -intimacy with Edward’s mother, and, as the old lady was very fond of -needle-worked pin-cushions, net purses, worsted fire screens, and all -such little nick nacks if obtained without expense, Edith was soon -established in her good graces. She was thus enabled to see Edward’s -letters to his parents, and though they were very business-like -commonplace affairs, not at all resembling a lady’s beau-ideal of a -lover’s epistle, still Edith was satisfied. It was strange that so -strong, so abiding, so pervading a passion should have taken possession -of a creature so gentle, so almost cold in her demeanor. But the calmest -exterior often conceals the strongest emotions, and, if the flow of -Edith’s feelings was quiet it was only because they worked for -themselves a deeper and less fathomable channel. - -Seventeen years,—a long period in the annals of time, and a longer in -the records of the heart;—seventeen years passed ere Edward Ellis -returned to his native land. He had left it a romantic warm-hearted -youth and he returned a respectable, intelligent, wealthy man. The -ambition which would have led him to seek literary fame, had been -expended in search of other distinctions in the world of commerce. He -had become a keen observer of men and an acute student of the more -sordid qualities of human nature—in a word, he had devoted his fine -energies to the acquisition of wealth, and as his father predicted, he -had so well availed himself of his opportunities that he was both an -enlightened and rich merchant. But the romance of his early days had -long since passed away. The imaginative student was concealed or rather -lost in the man of the world. Thrown upon his own resources, in a -foreign land, and surrounded by strangers he had learned to think and -act for himself. He had acquired the worldly wisdom which enabled him to -study his own interests, and it is not strange that selfishness should -have mingled its alloy with his naturally amiable character. During his -long sojourn abroad no claims had been made upon his affections, he had -lived unloving and unloved, and the warm current of his feelings seemed -gradually to have become chilled. When seen through the mist of absence, -or viewed through the long vista of time, the familiar faces of his -distant home, faded into vague and indistinct images. He returned to the -scenes of his youth with a feeling of strangeness and the remembrances -at every step of his approach were rather mournful than pleasant to his -soul. - -Edward Ellis had been several days at home, he had fully answered all -the claims filial and fraternal duty, and received the congratulations -of the friends who are always found ready to note one’s good fortune, -ere he bent his steps towards the dwelling of Edith Pemberton. His -feelings in this as in most other things were materially altered. His -early passion, like his aspirations after fame, had become but as a -dream of the past, a shadow of some unattainable felicity. The hope -which once made his love a source of anticipated happiness, had long -since faded from his sight, and as time passed on, a tender and -melancholy interest, such as one feels when regarding the youthful dead, -was the only emotion which the recollection of Edith could inspire. He -had outlived the affection which he had designed to be the measure of -their existence. The flower had been blighted by the cold breath of -worldliness, and so many sordid interests had occupied his heart since, -that every trace of its beauty was lost forever. Not with a wish to -revive old feelings, but from a morbid restless unsatisfied yearning -towards the past, Ellis betook himself to the abode of his once loved -Edith. - -As he entered the hall, and ere the servant could announce his name, a -young lady emerged from the drawing-room, and met him face to face. He -started in unfeigned surprise, as he exclaimed:— - -“Miss Pemberton!—Edith—can it be possible?” - -The lady looked a little alarmed, and opening the door through which she -had just passed said:— - -“My name is Margaret, sir; did you wish to see sister Edith?” - -He answered in the affirmative, and as he took his seat while the -sylph-like figure of the beautiful girl disappeared, he could not help -glancing at the mirror, where a moment’s reflection soon convinced him -that the years which had so changed him could scarcely have left Edith -untouched. The thought that Margaret whom he had left almost an infant -should have thus expanded into the lovely image of her sister, prepared -him in some measure for other changes. - -Edith had expected his visit with a flutter of spirits most unusual and -distressing. She was conscious that he would find her sadly altered in -person, and she had been trying to school herself for the interview, -which she well knew must be fraught with pain even if it brought -happiness. But when her young sister came to her with a ludicrous -account of the strange gentleman’s droll mistake, her prophetic soul, -which had acquired the gift of prescience from sorrow, saw but too -plainly the cloud upon her future. She descended to the drawing-room -with a determination to control her emotions, and, to one so accustomed -to self command, the task though difficult was not impossible. The -meeting between the long parted lovers was painful and full of -constraint. In the emaciated figure, and hollow cheek of her who had -long passed the spring of life, Ellis saw little to awaken the -associations of early affection, for the being who now appeared before -him scarcely retained a trace of her former self. Time, and care, and -the wearing anxiety of hope deferred had blighted the beauty which under -happier circumstances might have outlived her youthfulness. Edith was -now only a placid pleasant looking woman with that indescribable air of -mannerism which always characterises the single lady of a certain age, -and as Ellis compared her present appearance with that of her blooming -sister, who bore a most singular resemblance to her, he was tempted to -feel a secret satisfaction in the belief that her heart was as much -changed as her person. - -And what felt Edith at this meeting? She had lived on one sweet hope, -and had borne absence, and sorrow, and the wasting of weary expectancy -with the patience of a loving and trusting heart. It is true that, as -years sped on, she lost much of the sanguine temper which once seemed to -abbreviate time and diminish space. It is true that as time stole the -bloom from her cheek and the brightness from her eye, many a misgiving -troubled her gentle bosom, and the shadow of a settled grief seemed -gradually extending its gloom over her feelings. But still hope -existed,—no longer as the brilliant sunshine of existence,—no longer -as the only hope which the future could afford,—but faded and dim—its -radiance lost in the mist of years, yet still retaining a spark of its -early warmth. She had many doubts and fears but she still had pleasant -fancies of the future, which, cherished in her secret heart, were the -only fountains of delight in the dreary desert of her wasted feelings. -But now all was at an end. They had met, not as strangers, but, far -worse, as estranged friends. The dream of her life was rudely -broken—the veil was lifted from her eyes,—the illusion which had given -all she knew of happiness, was destroyed forever. In the words of him -who has sounded every string of love’s sweet lyre, she might have -exclaimed in the bitterness of her heart:— - - “Had we but known, since first we met, - Some few short hours of bliss, - We might in numbering them, forget - The deep deep pain of this; - But no! our hope was born in fears - And nursed ’mid vain regrets! - Like winter suns, it rose in tears, - Like them, in tears it sets.” - -Mrs. Pemberton at first formed some schemes, founded on the remembrance -of Edward’s former liking for Edith, but when she learned his error -respecting Margaret she began to fancy that if her eldest daughter was a -little too old, the younger was none too young to make a good wife for -the rich merchant. She expressed her admiration of his expanded figure, -extolled his fine hair, which happened to be a well made wig, was in -raptures with his beautiful teeth which owed their brilliancy to the -skill of a French dentist, and, in short, left no means untried to -accomplish her end. But she was doomed to disappointment. It is not easy -to kindle a new flame from the ashes of an extinguished passion. There -was a secret consciousness, a sense of dissatisfaction with himself, -that made Ellis rather shrink from Edith’s society, and threw an air of -constraint over his manner towards the whole family. He was not happy in -the presence of her who appeared before him as a spectre of the past, -bearing reproaches in its melancholy countenance, and after a few -embarrassed attempts at carelessness in his intercourse with her, he -ceased entirely to visit the family. - -No one ever knew what Edith suffered, for no one suspected her -long-cherished attachment. Her step became languid, her cheek sunken, -her eye unnaturally bright, and when at length, a hacking cough fastened -itself upon her lungs, every body said that Edith Pemberton was falling -into a consumption. Some attributed it to a cold taken when nursing her -sister through a dangerous illness,—others thought she had worn out her -health among her numerous nephews and nieces. But the worm lay at the -root of the tree and though the storm and the wind might work its final -overthrow, the true cause of its fall was the gnawing of the secret -destroyer. Gradually and quietly and silently she faded from among the -living. Friends gathered round her couch of suffering and the -consolations of the Book of all truth smoothed her passage to the tomb. -With a world of sorrow and care sinking from her view, and an eternal -life of happiness opening upon her dying eyes, she closed her useful and -blameless life. - -On the very day fixed upon for his marriage with a young and fashionable -heiress, Edward Ellis received a summons to attend, as pall bearer, the -funeral of Edith Pemberton. Of course he could not decline, and as he -beheld the earth flung upon the coffin which concealed the faded form of -her whom he had once loved, the heart of the selfish and worldly man was -touched with pity and remorse. But he turned from Edith’s grave to his -own bridal and in the festivities of that gay scene soon forgot her who, -after a life spent in the service of others, had fallen a victim to that -chronic heart-break which destroys many a victim never numbered in the -records of mortality. - -Gentle reader, I have told you a simple story, but one so like the -truth, that you will be tempted to conjecture that the real heroine has -been actually known to you. Will not the circle of your own acquaintance -furnish an Edith Pemberton?—a gentle, lovely and loveable woman, who -leads a life of quiet benevolence, and whose obscure and peaceful -existence is marked by deeds of kindness, even as the windings of a -summer brook are traced by the freshness of the verdure and flowers that -adorn its banks? Have you never met with one of those persons on whose -gravestone might be inscribed the beautiful and touching lines of the -poet Delille? - - “Joyless I lived yet joy to others gave!” - -And when you have listened to the bitter jest, the keen sarcasm and the -thoughtless ridicule which the young and gay are apt to utter against -“_the old maid_,” has it never occurred to you that each of these -solitary and useful beings may have her own true tale of young and -disappointed affection? - - * * * * * - - - - - TO AN ANTIQUE VASE. - - - BY N. C. BROOKS. - - - In the cabinet of M. Villaneu is an antique vase of elegant - proportions and beautiful workmanship that was fished up from - the sea. It is wreathed with coral and madripore, in the most - grotesque manner. The play of Imagination I hope will not be - considered too free in supposing it had been used in ancient - sacrifices, at the founding of cities, and the revels of - royalty. - - Ages have passed since, amid the gale, - A votive gift to the god of the sea - Thou wert cast where the Tyrian’s broidered sail - O’er the Adrian wave swept wildly free: - And we muse, as we gaze on thy tarnished gleam, - On the vanished past in a quiet dream. - - Where ancient temples once flashed with gold - Thou hast stood with the priest at the holy shrine— - Where in amber wreaths the incense rolled, - Thou hast shed thy treasure of votive wine: - Now the temples are fallen—the altars lone, - And the white-robed priest and his gods are gone. - - Where the augur waved and the monarch prayed - Thy font has the full libation poured; - And when the city walls were laid - The palace rose and the castle towered: - But they sunk by the engine and Time’s dark flood, - And the wild grass waves where the columns stood. - - In the festal halls where eyes grew bright, - And pulses leaped at the viol’s sound, - Thou hast winged the hours with mystic flight, - As the feast and the mazy dance went round: - Now mosses the mouldering walls encrust, - And the pulseless hearts of the guests are dust. - - Yes creeds have changed, and forms have grown old— - Empires and nations have faded away - Since the grape last purpled thy shining gold; - And grandeur and greatness have met decay - Since the beaded bubbles of old did swim, - Like rubies, around thy jewelled brim. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE OLD WORLD. - - - BY GEORGE LUNT. - - - There was once a world and a brave old world, - Away in the ancient time, - When the men were brave and the women fair, - And the world was in its prime; - And the priest he had his book, - And the scholar had his gown, - And the old knight stout, he walked about - With his broadsword hanging down. - - Ye may see this world was a brave old world, - In the days long past and gone, - And the sun it shone, and the rain it rained, - And the world went merrily on. - The shepherd kept his sheep, - And the milkmaid milked the kine, - And the serving-man was a sturdy loon - In a cap and doublet fine. - - And I’ve been told in this brave old world, - There were jolly times and free, - And they danced and sung, till the welkin rung, - All under the greenwood tree. - The sexton chimed his sweet sweet bells, - And the huntsman blew his horn, - And the hunt went out, with a merry shout, - Beneath the jovial morn. - - Oh, the golden days of the brave old world - Made hall and cottage shine; - The squire he sat in his oaken chair, - And quaff’d the good red wine; - The lovely village maiden, - She was the village queen, - And, by the mass, tript through the grass - To the May-pole on the green. - - When trumpets roused this brave old world, - And banners flaunted wide, - The knight bestrode the stalwart steed, - And the page rode by his side. - And plumes and pennons tossing bright - Dash’d through the wild mêlée, - And he who prest amid them best - Was lord of all, that day. - - And ladies fair, in the brave old world, - They ruled with wondrous sway; - But the stoutest knight he was lord of right, - As the strongest is to-day. - The baron bold he kept his hold, - Her bower his bright ladye, - But the forester kept the good greenwood, - All under the forest tree. - - Oh, how they laugh’d in the brave old world, - And flung grim care away! - And when they were tired of working - They held it time to play. - The bookman was a reverend wight, - With a studious face so pale, - And the curfew bell, with its sullen swell, - Broke duly on the gale. - - And so passed on, in the brave old world, - Those merry days and free; - The king drank wine and the clown drank ale, - Each man in his degree. - And some ruled well and some ruled ill, - And thus passed on the time, - With jolly ways in those brave old days - When the world was in its prime. - - * * * * * - - - - - THOUGHTS ON MUSIC. - - - BY HENRY COOD WATSON. - - -From whence does the Musician draw his inspiration? This question is -often asked, but seldom correctly answered. Music, as a science, is but -little understood. The importance of its detail is not considered, -because its effects are not examined, by the appreciating eye of -knowledge. To common observers, music possesses no feature worthy of -consideration, beyond an accidental succession of notes, which gives a -pleasing sensation to the ear, without intention or design. Most persons -believe that they could write music, if they only knew their notes. To -“turn” a melody is the easiest thing in life, and all the adjuncts, -harmony and instrumentation, are merely mechanical parts of the art, -which every one might learn. This is a popular and very gross error. -Music is either a simple succession of relative intervals, which form a -melody, or an aggregate of consonant or dissonant sounds, which produces -a harmony. These two combined, form a vehicle for the expression of the -passions of the human heart, more forcible and more truthful, than the -noblest works of either the painter or the poet. - -It would require too much space, and would lead me too far from my -original subject, to enquire into, and to trace out, the means by which -simple sounds, produced by vibration, percussion or detonation, affect -the mind and imagination of the hearer. It will be sufficient to say, -that the individual experience of every one, will bear witness to the -existence of this most powerful agency. - -The music of a low sweet voice, how it penetrates and vibrates through -the whole being! The music of the small birds, though limited in its -scale, how it fills up the measure of the imagination, by giving a voice -of harmony to the silent beauties of nature. The pealing organ with its -various tones, breathes out religious strains, and moves the heart to -penitence and prayer. This instrument is suited above all others, to -display the imagination of a master hand, from the vast extent of its -compass, and the almost endless variety of its powers by combinations. -It affects the imagination more than any individual instrument, or any -combination of instruments. How deep and varied the emotions of the -heart of him, whose “spirit is attentive,” while listening to one of the -sublime masses of Mozart, Haydn or Beethoven. With what a thrilling and -awful feeling, the dark, mysterious and wailing miserere falls upon the -soul; and with what a happy contrast, does the beautiful and comforting -benedictus, pour “oil upon the bruised spirit.” - -The shrill fife, the hollow drum and the clangourous trumpet, speak to -other and wilder passions of our hearts. They breathe an inspiration -into the mind; they nerve the arm, make firm the tread, and give an -animated existence to slumbering ambition, or wavering courage. The soft -toned flute, the plaintive oboe, the mellow clarionette, with the other -various harmonious instruments, under the influence of the creative -mind, affect to smiles or tears, discourse of love, or breathe of hate, -according to the shades of feeling pourtrayed by the composition. - -But by what means is the imitation of these non-tangible things, -transferred to a medium, which is not visible to the eye, nor -distinguishable to the touch? From whence does the musician draw, to -enable him to affect his hearers, by the means of sound, with the very -feelings which he attempts to imitate? We will proceed to answer these -inquiries. - -The task of the poet is one of less difficulty, than the task of the -musician, for he treats of real or imaginary subjects, with the aid of a -medium that is universally understood and appreciated, according to the -various degrees, and powers of the peruser’s intellect. This medium is -language. Words embody and define ideas; a word can express a passion, -and other words can describe its rise and progress, and follow it in all -its secret channels, and through all its numerous ramifications. The -power of language is unbounded. Every thing that is, has a name, which -name becomes associated with it in the mind, and inseparable from it, -always presenting to the mental vision the object that it represents. -The most subtle emotions of the human mind, feelings which lie deep in -the recesses of the heart, can be torn from their lair, and displayed -before the world by means of this mighty agent. Even nature with her ten -thousand hoarded secrets, is over mastered, and bares her bosom to the -force of thought, and stands revealed to the world, yea, even to her -innermost core, by the power of language. To aid him in the task, the -poet hath a million adjuncts. He moves amidst the human world, and -gathers from its denizens, unending food for thought and -observation,—their joys and their sorrows; their pursuits and their -ends; their passions and their vices, their virtues and their charities. -The life of a single being in that living mass, would form a subject of -varied and startling interest, and leave but little for the imagination -to fill up, or to heighten. He looks up into the heavens, and finds a -space of boundless immensity, in which his restless speculation may run -riot. He looks abroad upon the face of nature, and there are endless -stores of bright and beautiful things, to feed his fancy, to stimulate -his imagination and refresh his thoughts. - -How few of these fruitful themes, are available to the musician! - -The painter in all his beautiful creations, pourtrays his subjects by -the means of the actual. From the living loveliness which he daily sees, -he hoards up rich stores of beauty, for some happy thought. But to aid -him in his labors, he has the actual form and color, light and shade. -The forms of beauty that glow and breathe upon the canvass; the quiet -landscape, so full of harmony and peacefulness; the rolling ocean, the -strife of the elements, the wild commingling of warring men, are but the -transcripts of the actual things. - -The sculptor as he hews from the rough block, some form of exquisite -loveliness, whose charms shall throw a spell over men’s souls for ages, -does but compress into one fair creation, the beauties of a thousand -living models. - -But the resources of the musician are in his own soul. From that alone -can he forge the chain of melody, that shall bind the senses in a -wordless ecstasy. Tangibilities to him are useless. Comparisons are of -no avail. He individualises, but does not reflect. He feels but does not -think. He deals with action and emotion, but form and substance are -beyond his imitation. He is a metaphysician, but not a philosopher. But -the depth of the music, will depend entirely upon the man. From a close -study of the works of Mozart and Beethoven, a correct and metaphysical -analysis of their characters can be obtained. In the early works of -Mozart will be found a continuous chain of tender and impassioned -sentiment; an overflowing of soul, an exuberance of love, and his early -life will be found to be a counterpart of these emotions. In him the -passions were developed at an age, when in ordinary children their germ -would be scarcely observed. Loved almost to idolatry by his family, and -loving them as fondly in return, his life was passed in one unceasing -round of the tenderest endearments. All that was beautiful in his nature -was brought into action, and gave that tone of exquisite tenderness, -that pervades all his imperishable works. But as the passing years -brought with them an increase of thought and reflection, a change is to -be found equally in the character of the music and the man. This change -can be traced in his later operas, Le Nozze de Figaro, Don Giovanni, -Cosi Fan Tutti, La Clemenza di Tito, Die Zauberflöte, and Die Entführung -aus dem Serail. In these works there is the evidence of deeper and more -comprehensive thought; the metaphysical identity of character is as -strictly maintained, and as closely developed, as it could be pourtrayed -by words. His Il Don Giovanni, stands now, and will forever stand, an -unapproachable model of musical perfection. - -The character of Beethoven exhibits no decided change through life, -excepting, that in his later years the characteristics of his youth and -manhood, increased to a degree of morbid acuteness. From his earliest -childhood he was of a retiring, studious, and reflective nature. The -conscious possession of great genius, made him wilful and unyielding in -his opinions. Too high minded to court favours, he at various times -suffered the severest privations that poverty could inflict; and, taking -deeply to heart the total want of public appreciation, he became morose, -distrustful and dissatisfied. These feelings were rendered morbid in the -highest degree, by the melancholy affliction that assailed him in his -later years. He became nearly deaf, and was consequently deprived of the -dearest enjoyment of a musician’s life. These feelings were developed, -in a marked degree, in all his purely ideal compositions. Dark and -mysterious strains of harmony would be succeeded by a burst of wild and -melancholy fancy. Anon a tender, but broad and flowing melody, would -melt the soul by its passionate pathos, but only of sufficient duration -to render the cadence of heart-rending despair, which succeeds it, the -more striking. Rapid and abrupt modulations, strange and startling -combinations, bore evidence of his wild imagination, and the -uncontrollable impulse of his feelings. The opera of Fidelio, the only -dramatic work that he ever wrote, ranks only second to Don Giovanni. In -Fidelio each person has a distinct musical character, so clearly and -forcibly marked, that the aid of words is not necessary to distinguish -them. It would be impossible to transpose them without losing their -identity, and destroying the sense of the music. Mozart’s genius was -tender yet sublime: Beethoven’s was melancholy, mysterious, yet -gigantic. Each painted himself; each drew from his own bosom all the -inspiration his works exhibited. They required no outward influence; -they needed no adventitious circumstances to rouse their imagination, or -to cause their thoughts to flow, for in their own souls was an ever -gushing spring of divine melody, that could not be controlled. They -_thought music_, and, as light flows from the sun, gladdening the -creation, so their music came from them, irradiating the hearts of men, -and throwing over them a delicious spell, whose charm is everlasting. - -Music is so ethereal, and deals so little in realities, that its -followers, partaking of its characteristics, are in most instances, -impulsive, impassioned and unworldly. Careless of the excitements and -mutations of the times; unambitious of place or power; indifferent to -the struggles and heart-burnings of party politicians, from the utter -uncongeniality of the feelings and emotions they engender, with their -own, they live secluded, shut up within their own hearts, and seldom -appear to the world in their true colors, from the utter impossibility -of making it comprehend or sympathise with their refined and mysterious -feelings. The world has no conception of the exquisite delight that -music confers upon musicians. It is not mere pleasure; it is not a mere -gratification that can be experienced and forgotten! Oh, no! It is a -blending of the physical with the intellectual; it softens the nature; -it heightens the imagination; it throws a delicious languor over the -whole organization; it isolates the thoughts, concentrating them only to -listen and receive; it elevates the soul to a region of its own, until -it is faint with breathing the melodious atmosphere. - -Music is the offspring of these feelings. The inspiration is the gift of -God alone, and cannot be added to or diminished. - - * * * * * - - - - - EUROCLYDON. - - - BY CHARLES LANMAN, AUTHOR OF “ESSAYS FOR SUMMER HOURS.” - - -At one stride came the dark, and it is now night. Cold and loud is the -raging storm. Rain enow and sleet are dashing most furiously against the -windows,—actually dampening the curtains within. There—there goes a -shutter, torn from its hinges by the wind! Another gust,—and how -desolate its moan! It is the voice of the Winter Storm Spirit, who comes -from beyond the ice-plains of the North. I can interpret his cry, which -is dismal as the howl of wolves. - -“Mortal crouch—crouch like a worm beside thy hearth-stone and -acknowledge thy insignificance. When the skies are bright, and thou art -surrounded by the comforts of life, thou goest forth among thy fellows -boasting of thine intellect and greatness. But when the elements arise, -shaking the very earth to its foundation, thou dost tremble with fear, -and thy boasting is forgotten. Approach the window, and as thou lookest -upon the gloom of this stormy night, learn a lesson of humility. Thou -art in thyself as frail and helpless as the icicle depending from yonder -bough. - -“O, this is a glorious night for me! I have broken the chains which have -bound me in the Arctic Sea, and fearful elements follow in my path to -execute my bidding. Listen, while I picture to your mind a few of the -countless scenes I have witnessed, which are terrible to man, but to me -a delight. - -“An hundred miles away, there is a lonely cottage on the border of an -inland lake. An hour ago I passed by there, and a mingled sound of woe -came from its inmates, for they were poor and sick, and had no wood. A -miserable starving dog was whining at their door. I laughed with joy and -left them to their suffering. - -“I came to a broad river, where two ferrymen were toiling painfully at -their work. I loosened the ice that had been formed farther up, and it -crushed them to death in its mad career. - -“Beside a mountain, a solitary foot-traveller, of three score years and -ten, was ascending a road heavily and slow. I chilled the crimson -current in his veins, and the pure white snow became his winding sheet. -What matter! It was his time to die. - -“On yonder rock-bound coast, a fisherman was startled from his fireside -by a signal of distress. He looked through the darkness and discovered a -noble ship hastening toward a dangerous reef. I brought her there, -regardless of the costly merchandize and freight of human life. She -struck,—and three hundred hardy men went down into that black roaring -element which gives not back its dead. The morrow will dawn, and the -child at home will lisp its father’s name, unconscious of his fate, and -the wife will smile and press her infant to her bosom, not doubting but -that her husband will soon return to bless her with his love. I have no -sympathy with the widow and the fatherless. - -“Hark! did you not hear it?—that dismal shout! Alas! the deed is -done,—the touch of the incendiary hath kindled a fire such as this city -has never beheld. What rich and glowing color in those clouds of smoke -rising so heavily from yonder turrets! Already they are changed into an -ocean of flame, hissing and roaring. Unheard, save at intervals, is the -cry of the watchman, and the ringing bells; and muffled are the hasty -footsteps of the thronging multitude, for the snow is deep. Slowly do -the engines rumble along, while strained to their utmost are the sinews -of those hardy firemen. But useless is all this noise and labor, for the -receptacles of water are blocked with ice. Fire! fire!! fire!!!” - -And here endeth the song of Euroclydon, which was listened to on the -16th of December, 1835. It will be recollected, that when the sun rose -in unclouded beauty on the following morning, six hundred buildings had -been consumed, many lives lost and twenty millions of property -destroyed. - - * * * * * - - - - - MYSTERY. - - - All things are dark! A mystery shrouds the same - Yon gorgeous sun or twilight’s feeble star. - We feel, but who can analyze the flame - That wanders calmly from those realms afar? - Science may soar, but soon she finds a bar - Against her wing: and so she spends a life - Of sleepless doubt and agonizing strife, - Like some mad mind with its own self at war: - And many will repine, repine in vain, - And in their impious frenzy almost curse - This all-encircling, adamantine chain - That binds the portal of the Universe. - Not so the wize! for they delight to see - His might and glory in this mystery. - - * * * * * - - - - - HARRY CAVENDISH. - - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. - ETC. - - - THE EXPEDITION. - -It was a melancholy day when the body of the murdered Mr. Neville was -deposited in the burial ground of the port of ——; and if strangers -shed tears at his funeral what must have been the emotions of his -orphaned daughter! All that kindness could do, however, was done to -alleviate her grief; her friends crowded around her to offer -consolation; and even our hardy tars showed their sympathy for her by -more than one act. It was a fortunate occurrence that she had a near -relative in town, and in his family accordingly she took up her -residence, where she could indulge her sorrow on the bosoms of those who -were united to her by natural ties, and could sympathize with her the -more sincerely because they knew the worth of which she had been -deprived. It is one of the wisest dispensations of Providence that our -grief should be shared, and as it were soothed, by those we love. - -The pirates had no sooner been committed to prison than endeavors were -made, on the part of the authorities, to ascertain the haunt of the -gang; for its depredations had been carried on during the past year to -an extent that left no doubt that the prisoners formed only a detachment -of a larger body, which, dividing into different parties, preyed on the -commerce of the surrounding islands, from as many different points. -Where the head-quarters of the pirates were held was however unknown; as -every attempt to discover them, or even to capture any of the gang had -hitherto proved abortive. The authorities were, therefore, anxious to -get one or more of the prisoners to reveal the retreat of their -messmates on a promise of pardon; but for some time their efforts were -unavailing, as each prisoner knew, that if any of the gang escaped, the -life of the traitor would not be worth a moment’s purchase. At length, -however, the temptations held out to two of the prisoners proved -irresistible, and they revealed the secret which the governor-general -was so anxious to know. The head-quarters of the pirates proved to be on -a small island, some leagues north of the spot where we captured the -prisoners. The place was said to be admirably fortified by nature, and -there was no doubt, from the prisoners’ confession, that art had been -called in to render the retreat impregnable. - -The number of the pirates usually left behind to protect their -head-quarters was said to amount to a considerable force. -Notwithstanding these things, the governor-general resolved on sending a -secret expedition to carry the place and, if possible, make prisoners of -the whole nest of freebooters. As, however, the spies of the gang were -known to infest the town, it was necessary to carry on the preparations -for the expedition with the utmost caution, so that no intelligence of -the contemplated attack should reach the pirates to warn them of their -danger. While, therefore, the authorities were apparently occupied with -the approaching trial to the exclusion of everything else, they were, in -fact, secretly making the most active exertions to fit out an expedition -for the purpose of breaking up the haunts of the gang. Several vessels -were purchased, ostensibly for private purposes; and soldiers drafted -into them, under the cloud of night. The vessels then left the harbor, -cleared for various ports, with the understanding, however, that they -should all rendezvous on an appointed day at a cape a few leagues -distant from the retreat of the pirates. So adroitly was the affair -managed, that the various vessels composing the expedition left the port -unsuspected—even high officers of government who were not admitted to -the secret, regarding them merely as common merchant-men departing on -their several voyages. Indeed, had an attack been contemplated on a -hostile power the preparations could not have been more secret or -comprehensive. The almost incredible strength of the piratical force -rendered such preparations, however, not only desirable but necessary. - -I was one among the few admitted to the secret, for the governor-general -did me the honor to consult me on several important particulars -respecting the expedition. Tired of the life of inactivity I was -leading, and anxious to see the end of the adventure, I offered to -accompany the enterprise as a volunteer—an offer which his excellency -gladly accepted. - -We set sail in a trim little brig, disguised as a merchantman; but as -soon as morning dawned and we had gained an offing, we threw off our -disguise, and presented an armament of six guns on a side, with a -proportionable number of men. Our craft, indeed, was the heaviest one -belonging to the expedition, and all on board acquainted with her -destination were sanguine of success. - -The wind proved favorable, and in less than forty-eight hours we made -Capo del Istri, where the four vessels composing the expedition were to -rendezvous. As we approached the promontory, we discovered one after -another of the little fleet, for as we had been the last to leave port, -our consorts had naturally first reached the rendezvous, and in a few -minutes we hove to in the centre of the squadron hoisting a signal for -the respective captains to come aboard, in order to consult respecting -the attack. - -The den of the pirates was situated at the head of a narrow strait, -communicating with a lagoon of some extent, formed by the waters of a -river collecting in the hollow of three hills, before they discharged -themselves into the sea. Across the mouth of this lagoon was moored the -hull of a dismasted ship, in such a position that her broadside -commanded the entrance to the lake. Behind, the huts of the piratical -settlement stretched along the shore, while the various vessels of the -freebooters lay anchored in different positions in the lagoon. Such, at -least, we were told, was the appearance of the place when the pirates -were not absent on their expeditions. - -Our plan of attack was soon arranged. It was determined to divide our -forces into two divisions, so that while one party should attack the -pirates in front the other should take a more circuitous path, and -penetrating by land to the back of the settlement, take the enemy in the -rear. As night was already closing in, it was determined to disembark -the latter party at once, so that it might proceed, under the guidance -of one of the prisoners, to the position behind the enemy, and reach -there, as near as possible, at the first dawn of day. It was arranged -that the attack by water should commence an hour or two before day. By -this means each party could reach its point of attack almost -simultaneously. The onset however was to be first made from the water -side, and the ambuscade in the rear of the foe was not to show itself -until the fight had made some progress on our side. - -The men destined for the land service were accordingly mustered and set -ashore, under the guidance of one of the prisoners. We watched their -receding forms through the twilight until they were lost to view, when -we sought our hammocks for a few hours repose preparatory to what might -be our last conflict. - -The night was yet young, however, when we entered the mouth of the -strait, and with a favorable breeze sailed along up towards the lagoon. -The shallowness of the water in the channel had compelled us to leave -our two larger craft behind and our forces were consequently crowded -into the remaining vessels. Neither of these carried a broadside of -weight sufficient to cope with that of the hull moored across the mouth -of the lagoon. - -As we advanced up the strait a death-like stillness reigned on its -shadowy shores; and we had nearly reached the mouth of the lagoon before -any sign betokened that the pirates were aware of our approach. We could -just catch sight of the tall rakish masts of a schooner over the low -tree tops on the right, when a gun was heard in the direction of the -lagoon, whether accidently fired or not we could not tell. We listened -attentively for a repetition of the sound; but it came not. Could it -have been a careless discharge from our own friends in the rear of the -foe, or was it a warning fired by one of the pirates’ sentinels? Five or -ten minutes elapsed, however, and all was silent. Meantime our vessels, -with a wind free over the taffrail, were stealing almost noiselessly -along the smooth surface of the strait; while the men lying close at -their quarters, fully armed for the combat, breathlessly awaited the -moment of attack, the intenseness of their excitement increasing as the -period approached. - -My own emotions I will not attempt to pourtray. We were already within a -cable’s length of the end of the strait, and in rounding-to into the -lagoon we would if our approach had been detected, have to run the -gauntlet of the broadside of the craft guarding this approach to the -pirates’ den—a broadside which if well delivered would in all -probability send us to the bottom. Our peril was indeed imminent. And -the uncertainty whether our approach had been detected or not created a -feeling of nervous suspense which increased our sensation of our peril. - -“A minute more and we shall shoot by the pirate,” said I to the captain -of our craft. - -“Ay!” said he, “I have just passed the word for the men to lie down -under the shelter of the bulwarks, so that if they pour a fire of -musketry into us, we shall escape it as much as possible. Let us follow -their example.” - -We sheltered ourselves just forward of the wheel-house, so that as the -vessel came around on the starboard tack, no living individual was left -standing on the deck, except the helmsman. The next moment, leaving the -shelter of the high bank, we swept into the lagoon, and saw the dark -hull of the opposing vessel moored directly across our way. - -Our suspense however was soon brought to a close. We had scarcely come -abreast of the enemy’s broadside when, as if by magic, her port-holes -were thrown open, and as the blaze of the battle lanterns streamed -across the night, her guns were run out and instantaneously her fire was -poured out from stem to stern in one continuous sheet of flame. Our -mainmast went at once by the board; our hull was fearfully cut up; and -the shrieks of the wounded of our crew rose up in terrible discord as -the roar of the broadside died away. But we still had headway. Springing -to his feet the captain shouted to cut away the hamper that dragged the -mainmast by our side. His orders were instantly obeyed. The schooner was -once more headed for the hulk, and with a loud cheer our men sprang to -their guns, while our consort behind opened her fire at the same moment. -Our light armament however was almost wholly inefficient. But happily we -had not relied on it. - -“Lay her aboard!” shouted the captain, “boarders away!” - -At the word, amid the fire of a renewed broadside we dashed up to the -foe, and running her afoul just abaft of the mizzen-chains, poured our -exasperated men like a torrent upon her decks. I was one of the first to -mount her bulwarks. Attacked thus at their very guns the pirates rallied -desperately to the defence, and a furious combat ensued. I remember -striking eagerly for a moment or two in the very thickest of the fight, -and then feeling a sharp pain in my side, as a pistol went off beside -me. I have a faint recollection of sinking to the deck, but after that -all is a void. - - * * * * * - - - - - RECOLLECTIONS OF WEST POINT. - - - BY MISS LESLIE. - - - (Continued from page 209.) - - - PART II. - -The two winters that I spent at West Point, though long and cold, were -by no means tedious. Secluded as we were from the rest of the world, -while the river was locked up in ice, still we contrived amusements for -ourselves, and had much enjoyment in our own way. The society of the -place, though not large, was excellent. And in the evening (the best -time for social intercourse) almost every member of our little circle -was either out visiting, or at home entertaining visiters. There were -reading-parties that assembled every Thursday night at the respective -houses—the ladies bringing their work, and the gentlemen their books. -The gentlemen had also weekly chess-parties, of ten or twelve -chess-players and five or six chess-boards. They met at an early hour, -and no ladies being present, they seriously set to work at this -absorbing game—the solemnities being interrupted only by a _petit -souper_ at ten o’clock,—after which they resumed their chess, and -frequently took no note of time till near midnight. - -On the second winter of my abode at West Point, we had a series of -regular subscription-balls, held in the large up-stairs room of the mess -hall—the expense being defrayed by the officers and professors. On the -first of these evenings the ground was hard frozen, but as yet no snow -had fallen. The managers had notified that the ladies were all to ride -to the ball. We were at a loss to conjecture where they would find -conveyances for us—and we were not Cinderellas with convenient -fairy-godmothers to transform pumpkins into coaches. An omnibus would -have been a glorious acquisition—but at that time there was nothing on -West Point in the shape of a wheeled carriage, with the exception of the -doctor’s gig. This vehicle was pressed into the service—and having -great duty to perform, it commenced its trips at a very early hour, -actually calling for the first lady at five o’clock in the -afternoon—and from that time it was continually coming and going like a -short stage. At last, by way of expediting the business, they thought -proper to adopt, as an auxiliary to the gig, another conveyance not of -the most dignified character. But then nobody saw us but ourselves—and -newspaper correspondents had not yet begun to come up to West Point to -forage among us in quest of food for their columns. - -My sister-in-law and myself had not quite finished dressing, when we -heard my brother down stairs calling to our man to know why he had -thrown open the large gate?—“To let in the cart, sir, to take the -ladies to the ball”—was Richard’s reply. And, true enough, we found at -the door a real _bonâ fide_ open cart, having its flooring covered with -straw. In it were some rather inelegant chairs, upon which my sister and -I seated ourselves, like a couple of market-women. My brother having -assisted us in, seemed to think it unofficer-like conduct to ride in a -cart, and therefore, preferred walking—which, however, was no great -fatigue, the distance being only a few furlongs from the house in which -we then lived to the mess hall. The driver perched himself on the edge -of the front board—and after a few steps of the horse, each accompanied -by one jolt and two creaks, we were safely transported to the ball. - -Fortunately, before the next _soirée de danse_ the ground was covered -with a deep snow; and the sleighing was excellent during the remainder -of the winter. As sleighs were singularly plenty on West Point, and as a -sleigh has the faculty of holding ladies _ad libitum_, the company was -conveyed very expeditiously to the subsequent balls. This mode of -transportation was found so convenient, that at the close of the season, -(which was not till late in March,) though the snow had all disappeared -and the ground was clear, the sleighs were still kept in requisition; -and we went to the last ball sleighing upon nothing. - -I well remember being at a New Year’s ball given by the cadets. This -also took place in the large upper room of the mess hall. The -decorations (which were the best the place and the season could furnish) -were planned and executed entirely by those young gentlemen. For several -previous days they had devoted their leisure-time to cutting and -bringing in an immense quantity of evergreens, with which they festooned -the walls, and converted every one of the numerous windows into a sort -of bower, by arching it from the top to the floor with an impervious -mass of thickly-woven foliage. The pillars that supported the ceiling -were each encircled by muskets with very bright bayonets. The orchestra -for the music was constructed of the national flag that belonged to the -post. This flag, which, when flying out from the top of its lofty staff, -looks at that height scarcely more than a yard or two in length, is, in -reality, so large, that when taken down two men are required to carry it -away in its voluminous folds. On this occasion the drapery of the stars -and stripes was ingeniously disposed, so as to form something like a -stage-box with a canopy over it. The two elegant standards that had been -presented to the corps of cadets by the hands of ladies, were fancifully -and gracefully suspended between the central pillars, and waved over the -heads of the dancers. Affixed to the walls were numerous lights in -sconces, decorated with wreaths of the mountain-laurel whose leaves are -green all winter. These sconces were merely of tin, made very bright for -the occasion; but they were the same that had been used at the ball -given, while our army lay at West Point, by the American to the French -officers, in honor of the birth of the dauphin. For this camp-like -entertainment, the soldiers erected on the plain, a sort of pavilion or -arbor of immense length covered in with laurel branches, and illuminated -by these simple lamps, which afterwards became valuable as revolutionary -relics. They have ever since been taken care of, in the military -store-house belonging to West Point. - -At this memorable ball whose courtesies were emblematic of the national -feeling, and which was intended to assist in strengthening the bonds of -alliance between the regal government of France and the first congress -of America, the ladies of many of our continental officers were present: -having travelled to West Point for the purpose—and in the dance that -commenced the festivities of the evening, the lady of General Knox led -off as the partner of Washington. In all probability the -commander-in-chief, with his fine figure and always graceful deportment, -was in early life an excellent dancer, according to the fashion of those -times. - -Undoubtedly the intelligence of this complimentary entertainment was -received with pleasure by Louis the Sixteenth and his beautiful -Antoinette. Little did these unfortunate sovereigns surmise that those -of their own subjects who participated in the festivities of that night, -would return to France so imbued with republican principles as to lend -their aid in overturning the throne;—that throne whose foundation had -already been undermined by the crimes and vices of the two preceding -monarchs. Few were the years that intervened between the emancipation of -America, and that tremendous period when the brilliant court of -Versailles was swept away by the hands of an infuriated people; its -“princes and lords” either flying into exile or perishing on the -scaffold. And, idolized as they had been at the commencement of their -eventful reign, the son of St. Louis and the daughter of the Cæsars were -relentlessly consigned to a dreary captivity terminated by a bloody -death. - - “How short, how gay, how bright the smile - That cheered their morning ray; - How dark, how cold, how loud the storm - That raging closed their day!” - -The dauphin, whose birth was thus honored in the far-off land which his -royal father was assisting in her contest for liberty, died, happily for -himself, in early childhood; thus, escaping the miseries that were -heaped upon the unfortunate boy who succeeded him. - -The West Point balls seem to have peculiar charms for strangers, -particularly if these strangers are young ladies, and it is a pleasure -to the residents of the place to see them enjoy the novelty of the -scene. The fair visiters are always delighted with the decorations of -the room, with the chivalric gallantry of the officers and cadets, and -still more with the circumstance of all their partners being in uniform. -To those who are not “to the manner born,” there is something very -dazzling in the shine of a military costume. - -At the New Year’s ball to which I have alluded, among other invited -guests was a party that came over in an open boat from the opposite side -of the Hudson, notwithstanding that the weather was intensely cold, the -sky threatening a snow-storm, and the river almost impassable from the -accumulating ice. The young ladies belonging to this party were -certainly valuable acquisitions to the company, as they were handsome, -sprightly, beautifully drest, and excellent dancers. I particularly -recollect one of them—a tall, fair, fine-looking girl, attired in white -satin with an upper dress of transparent pink zephyr, the skirt and -sleeves looped up with small white roses. Her figure was set off to -great advantage by an extremely well-fitting boddice of pale pink satin, -laced in front with white silk cord and tassels—and a spray of white -roses looked out among the plats that were enwreathed at the back of her -finely-formed head. This young lady and her friends seemed to enter _con -amore_ into the enjoyment of the scene and the dance. But their pleasure -was dearly purchased. As they had made arrangements to return home that -night, after twelve o’clock, when the ball was over, they could not be -persuaded to remain at West Point till the following day. They embarked -with the gentlemen who belonged to their party. At daylight their boat -was descried in the middle of the river. It was completely blocked up by -the ice that had gathered round it, and in this manner they had passed -the cold and dreary remainder of the night whose first part had afforded -them so much enjoyment. A boat was immediately sent out from West Point -to their rescue, and the ladies were found benumbed with cold, and -indeed nearly dead. The ice was cut away with axes brought for the -purpose, they were released from their perilous condition, and with much -difficulty the passage to the other side of the river was finally -achieved. After the ladies had recovered from the effects of so many -hours severe suffering, they were said to have declared that they would -willingly go through a repetition of the same for the sake of another -such ball. - -My compassion was much excited by a _contre-tems_ that happened to -certain fair young strangers from New York, whom I found in the -dressing-room at the close of one of the summer balls annually given by -the cadets about the last of August, on the eve of the day in which they -break up their encampment, and return to their usual residence in the -barracks. The above-mentioned young ladies had come up from the city -that evening, in consequence of invitations sent down to them a week -before. By some unaccountable oversight either of themselves or of the -gentlemen that escorted them, the trunks or boxes containing their -ball-room paraphernalia, instead of being landed on the wharf at West -Point had been left on board the steam-boat, and had gone up to Albany. -As it was a rainy evening, these young ladies (four or five in number) -had embarked in their very worst dresses, which they considered quite -good enough for the crowd and damp and heat of the ladies’ cabin, in -whose uncomfortable precincts the bad weather would compel them to -seclude themselves during their voyage of three or four hours. They did -not discover that their baggage was missing till after their arrival at -the dressing-room, supposing that the trunks were coming after them -up-stairs. Here they had remained the whole evening, and all they knew -of the ball and its anticipated pleasures was the sound of the music -from below as it imperfectly reached them; the shaking of the windows as -the floor vibrated under the feet of the dancers; and a glance at the -dresses of the ladies as they came up when the ball was over, to muffle -themselves in their shawls and calashes. None of the distressed damsels -had sufficient courage to go down to the ball-room in their dishabille, -and sit there as spectators: though much importuned to do so by their -unlucky beaux. I give this little anecdote as an admonition to my -youthful readers to take especial care that their baggage does not give -them the slip when they are travelling to a ball. - -The cadets are remarkably clever at getting up fancy-balls, and in -dressing and sustaining whatever characters they then assume. The corps -being composed of miscellaneous young gentlemen from every section of -the Union, each is _au fait_ to the peculiar characteristics of the -common people that he has seen in his native place—and they represent -them with much truth and humor. There will be, for instance, a hunter -from the far west; a Yankee pedlar with his tins and other “notions;” an -assortment of Tuckahoes, Buckeyes, Hooshers, Wolverines, &c.; and also a -good proportion of Indians. - -At one of these fancy-balls the squeak of a bad fife (or perhaps of a -good fife badly played on) and the tuck of an ill-braced drum, was heard -ascending the stair-case followed by an irregular tramp of feet and the -chatter of many voices. The door (which had been recently closed) was -now thrown open with a bang, and a militia company, personated by a -number of the choicest cadets, came marching in, with a step that set -all time and tune at defiance; some trudging, some ambling, and some -striding. They were headed by a captain who, compared to Uncle Sam’s -officers, certainly wore his regimentals “with a difference.” Having -“marshalled his clan,” whom he arranged with a picturesque intermixture -of tall and short, and in a line partaking of the serpentine, he put -them through their exercise in a manner so laughably bad as could only -have been enacted by persons who knew perfectly well what it ought to -be. Their firelocks were rough sticks, cornstalks, and shut -umbrellas—and when the captain was calling the muster-roll, the names -to which his men answered were ludicrous in the extreme. - -I have before alluded to the West Point Band, which must always be -classed among the most agreeable recollections connected with that -place; particularly by those who were familiar with its excellence when -Willis was the instructor in military music. He was an Irishman, and had -belonged to the lord lieutenant’s band at Dublin Castle. His own -exquisite performance on the Kent bugle can never be forgotten by any -one who has been so fortunate as to hear it; and he taught all the -members of the West Point Band to play on their respective instruments -in the most admirable manner. One of them, named Ford, excelled on the -octave flute. Sometimes when, on a moonlight summer evening, they were -playing under the beautiful elms that are clustered in front of the mess -house, and delighting us with a charming composition called the -Nightingale, Ford would ascend one of the trees, and seated amidst its -branches, perform solo on his flute those passages that imitated the -warbling of the bird. - -Occasionally a distinguished vocalist came to West Point for the purpose -of having a concert; and these concerts were always well attended. On -one of the concert nights, Willis accompanied Keene (a celebrated singer -of that time) in the fine martial air of the Last Bugle—a beautiful -song beginning, - - “When the muffled drum sounds the last march of the brave.” - -As each verse finished with, “When he hears the last bugle,” Willis -sounded the bugle in a manner which seemed almost a foretaste of the -muse of another world. “When he hears the last bugle”—is again -repeated, and the bugle accompaniment is lower and still sweeter. But at -the concluding words, “When he hears the last bugle he’ll stand to his -arms”—the loud, exulting and melodious tones of the noble instrument -came out in all their fullness of sound, with an effect that elicited -the most rapturous applause, and which words cannot describe nor -imagination conceive. - -How much is the beauty of music assisted by the beauty of poetry. Shame -on selfish composers and conceited performers who, “wishing all the -interest to centre in themselves,” assert that the words of a song are -of no consequence, and that if good, they only divert the attention of -the hearers from the music—Milton thought otherwise when (himself a -fine musician) he speaks of the double charms of “music married to -immortal verse.” As well might we say that it was a disadvantage for a -handsome woman to possess a fine figure, lest it should render the -beauty of her face less conspicuous. - -Music affords additional delight when, it accompanies the recollection -of some interesting fact; or of some fanciful and vivid allusion -connected with romance, that idol of the young and enthusiastic. Among -the numerous accounts of the peninsular war which have been given to the -world by English officers, I was much struck by a little incident that I -once read in a description of the entrance of Wellington’s army into -France while expelling the French from Spain and following them into -their own land beyond the Pyrenees. The first division of the English -troops had at length reached the frontier. After a day of toilsome march -the regiment to which our author belonged encamped for the night in the -far-famed valley of Roncevalles, where a thousand years before the army -of Charlemagne in attempting the invasion of Spain, had been driven back -by the Spanish Moors and defeated with great slaughter, and the loss of -his best and noblest paladins, including “Roland brave, and Olivier.” -The mind of our narrator was carried back to the chivalrous days of the -dark ages, and he might almost have listened for - - ——“The blast of that dread horn - On Fontarabian echoes borne - The dying hero’s call.”—— - -It was a clear cool evening—the sun had sunk behind the hills—the roll -had been called, the sentinels posted, and the band of the regiment was -playing. The English officer, imbued with the subject of his reverie, -advanced to request of its leader that beautiful air - - “Sad and fearful is the story - Of the Roncevalles fight,”—— - -when he was unexpectedly anticipated by one of his companions in arms, -another young officer whose thoughts had been running in the same -channel, and who had stepped forward before him with the same request. -The wild and melancholy notes of Lewis’s popular song now rose upon the -still evening air, on the very same spot where ten centuries ago the -battle that it lamented, had been fought. - -On the West Point Band I have frequently heard music of a soft and -touching character played with a taste and pathos that almost drew tears -from the hearers—for instance, the sad but charming Scottish air, - - “Oh! Mary when the wild wind blows.” - -I have heard Willis say, that after the publication of the Irish -melodies was planned, he was engaged by Moore and Sir John Stevenson, to -travel in bye roads and remote places among the peasantry, for the -purpose of collecting from them all the songs and tunes peculiar to -their country. He frequently passed the night in their cabins, where he -was always hospitably received, and where he was liked the better for -making himself at home among the people; singing new songs for _them_, -(he was a good singer) and inducing them to sing him old ones in return. -So that in this way he caught a great number of national airs, which -were then new to him, and which he afterwards put in score. It was for -these melodies that the minstrel of Ireland wrote those exquisite songs, -on which he may rest his fairest claim to immortality. - -Willis was himself an excellent composer of military music. While at -West Point he produced a number of very fine marches and quicksteps, -usually calling them after the officers. Those denominated General -Swift’s March, and Lieutenant Blaney’s Quickstep, were perhaps the best. -To some he did not even take the trouble to affix a title, but -distinguished them by numbers. Sometimes when we sent out to ask the -name of “that fine new march or quickstep that the band had just -played,” he would reply that it was No. 12 or No. 16. The officers often -suggested to him the publication of these admirable pieces as a source -of profit to himself, and of pleasure to the community; but with his -habitual carelessness of his own interest, he always neglected taking -any steps for the purpose. There is reason to fear that few or no copies -of them are now in existence: and therefore they will be lost for ever -to the admirers of martial music. Willis lived about twelve years at -West Point, and died there of a lingering illness in 1830. - -When the manager of the Park Theatre was getting up a new musical piece -or reviving an old one, he generally borrowed Willis, for a few of the -first evenings, to play in the orchestra. On one of these occasions he -took down with him to New York his two little boys, neither of whom had -ever been in a theatre. Mr. Simpson, the manager, allotted them seats in -his private box over one of the stage doors. Both the children had been -instructed by their father, and sung very well. The after piece was -O’Keefe’s little opera of Sprigs of Laurel. In the duett between the two -rival soldiers, in which each in his turn celebrates the charms of Mary, -the major’s daughter, one of the boys on hearing the symphony, exclaimed -to his brother—“Why Jem! that’s our duett—the very last we’ve been -practising.” “So it is,” replied Jem, “let’s join in and sing it with -them.” Unconscious of such a proceeding being the least out of rule, -they united their voices to those of the two actors, and went through -the song with them in perfect time and tune. The soldiers were amazed at -this unexpected addition to their duett, but looking up, soon found from -whence the sound proceeded. Willis (who was in the orchestra) became -greatly disconcerted, and in vain made signs to his children to cease. -Their attention was too much engaged to perceive his displeasure. The -audience were not long in discovering the young singers, and loudly -applauded them, equally pleased with the _naïveté_ of the boys and their -proficiency in vocalism. - -It was formerly customary for the West Point band to play sacred music -every Sunday morning, in the camp, after the guard was marched off. - - “Sweet as the shepherd’s tuneful reed,” - -was performed by them delightfully. - -Before the erection of the present edifice as a church, public worship -was held in the large room designated as the chapel. The chaplains of -the United States Military Academy, like the chaplain of congress, may -be chosen from the clergy of any denomination. But as their congregation -consists of persons from every part of the union, and of every religious -denomination, according to the faith in which they have been educated by -their parents, it is understood that the pastor will have sufficient -good taste, or rather good sense, to refrain from all attempts to -advance the peculiar doctrines of his own immediate sect. After the -officers and professors have all come in and taken their appropriate -seats, the cadets make their entrance in a body, and occupy the benches -allotted to them. I was one Sunday at the chapel, when five graduates, -or ex-cadets, all of whom had recently been honored with commissions in -the engineers, came in together, habited in their new uniforms, (that of -the engineers is the handsomest in the army,) and for the first time -took their seats with the officers. I could have said with Sterne—“Oh! -how I envied them their feelings!” One of these young gentlemen was a -Jew; and as I looked at him that day, I hoped he was grateful to the God -of Abraham for having cast his lot in a country where the Hebrew faith -can be no impediment to advancement in any profession either civil or -military. Are “the wanderers of Israel,” who still have so much to -contend with in the old world, sufficiently aware of the advantages they -would derive from changing their residence to the new? - -It is a custom among the cadets, after they have completed their course -of study, obtained their commissions as lieutenants, and received orders -for repairing to their respective posts, to have a farewell-meeting -previous to their departure from West Point. At this meeting it is -understood that all offences, bickerings and animosities, which may have -arisen among them during their four years intercourse as -fellow-students, are to be consigned to oblivion. The hand of friendship -is given all round, and before their separation they exchange rings -which have been made for this express purpose, all of the same pattern. -These rings they are to retain through life, as mementoes of “Auld lang -syne,” and as pledges of kind feelings under whatever circumstances, and -in whatever part of the world they may meet hereafter. - -Among the numerous benefits which this noble institution has conferred -on the community, is that of creating attachment and diffusing -friendship among so many young men from different sections of our -widely-extended country, and belonging to different classes in society. -The military academy has made gentlemen of many intelligent youths, -sprung from the humbler grades of our people. It has made _men_ of many -scions of high estate, whose talents would otherwise have been smothered -under the follies of fashion and the enervations of luxury. - -In that kindness and consideration for females, which is one of the -brightest gems in the American character, none can exceed the cadets and -officers of the American army. Were I to relate all that I know on this -subject I could fill a volume. For instance, I could tell of a young -gentleman from Albany who out of his pay as a cadet, (twenty-eight -dollars a month,) saved enough to defray the expenses of his sister’s -education, during four years of economy and self-denial to himself. - -On the southern bank of the river, beyond the picturesque spot -designated as Kosciusko’s garden, the shore for some miles continues -woody and precipitous, down to the Kinsley farm-house, a mile or two -below. The path along these rocks was narrow, rugged, dark and -dangerous. In some places it was impeded by trees growing so close -together, and so near the verge of the precipice that it was expedient -in passing along to cling to their trunks, or to catch hold of their -lower branches, as a support against the danger of falling down the -rocks that impended over the river. Yet with all its perils and -difficulties this was an interesting walk to any lover of nature in her -rudest aspects. There were wild vines and wild roses, and the trees were -so old and lofty, and their shade so solemn and impervious. And at their -roots grew clusters of ephemeral plants, of the fungus tribe it is true, -but glowing with the most brilliant colors, yellow, orange, scarlet and -crimson, often diversified with a group that was white as snow. -Sometimes we saw a lizard of the finest verditer-green, gliding among -the blocks of granite; and sometimes on hearing a slight chattering -above our heads, we looked up and saw the squirrel as he - - ——“leap’d from tree to tree - And shell’d his nuts at liberty.” - -In the decline of a beautiful afternoon when “the sun was hasting to the -west,” and the sweet notes of the wood-thrush had already began “to hymn -the fading fires of day,” I set out on a walk accompanied by two young -ladies from Philadelphia, whom in our daily rambles I had already guided -to some of the most popular places on West Point. Having found that my -youthful friends were fearless scramblers “over bush and over brier,” I -proposed that our walk to-day should be in this narrow pathway through -these rocky woods, or rather along these woody rocks. - -We proceeded accordingly—and our dangers and difficulties seemed to -increase the enjoyment of my young companions. At length we suddenly -emerged into a spot where the open sunshine denoted that, since my last -walk in this direction, many of the trees had been cut away. About this -little clearing we found eight or ten men busily at work with spades and -pick-axes. I was struck at once with the excellent aspect of their -habiliments, though their coats were off and hanging on the bushes and -low rocks around them. We stopped, and I turned to one of my companions, -and was about remarking to her, “what a happiness it was to live in a -country where the common laboring men were enabled to make so -respectable an appearance, and even while engaged at their work to wear -clothes that were perfectly whole, and as clean as if put on fresh that -day.” While I was making this observation in a low voice, the men -perceived us; and they all ceased work, and several stood leaning on -their spades, looking much disconcerted. They consulted a little -together and then one of the foresters advanced, as if to speak to us. -The two young ladies, seized with a sudden panic, hastily ran back into -the woods. He came up and addressed me by name, and I immediately -recognised an officer who visited intimately at my brother’s house. On -looking at his comrades, I found that I knew them every one; and that -they were all gentlemen belonging to West Point. They seemed much, -though needlessly, confused at being detected by ladies in their present -occupation. - -The gentleman who had come forward made some remarks on the -inconveniences we must have encountered during our rugged walk, and he -directed us to a way of going home that, though longer and more -circuitous, would be less difficult. My young friends now ventured out -from their retreat; I introduced them to the officer who had been -talking to me, and leaving him with his comrades to pursue their work, -we found our way home by the road that he indicated. - -In the evening the same gentleman made one of his accustomed visits at -my brother’s, and explained to us the scene of the afternoon. - -Captain H——, was the only surviving child of an aged and widowed -mother, the sister of a distinguished general-officer in the -revolutionary army. Her son, a graduate of the Military Academy, was -afterwards stationed at West Point; and he then went to Vermont and -brought his mother that they might live near each other. His own -apartments being in one of the barracks, he took lodgings for Mrs. -H——, at a quiet farm-house in the vicinity: and devoted nearly all his -leisure-time to her society. The old lady sometimes came up to visit her -son in his rooms at the barracks, to see that he was comfortable there, -and keep his ward-robe in order. The nearest way from her residence to -the plain, was along the dark and rugged forest path on the edge of the -rocks; and this was the road she always came. The captain wishing to -make it more easy and less dangerous for his mother, set about doing so -with his own hands. He had already made some progress in this work of -filial affection, when he was discovered by several of his brother -officers; they mentioned it to others, and they all immediately -volunteered to assist him in his praise-worthy undertaking. They -assembled of afternoons for this purpose, (which they endeavored to keep -as secret as possible) and it was now about half accomplished; having -been commenced at the end nearest to Mrs. H——’s residence. In -consequence of this explanation, by the captain’s friend, we took care -not to interrupt them by walking in that direction, till after the work -was completed. - -They cut down trees, cleared away bushes, removed masses of stone, -levelled banks, filled up hollows, and paved quagmires: leading the path -to a safe distance from the ledge of rocks. A fine convenient road was -soon completed, and the old lady was enabled to visit the captain -without difficulty or danger. - -The grave has long since closed over that mother, and the military -station of her son has been changed to a place far distant from West -Point. But the pathway commenced by filial affection, and finished with -the assistance of friendship is still there, forming a convenient and -beautiful walk through the woods to the farm-house and its vicinity. - -It is known by all the inhabitants of West Point as the Officer’s Road; -and long may it continue to bear that title. - - * * * * * - - - - - L’ENVOY TO E——. - - - BY G. HILL, AUTHOR OF “TITANIA’S BANQUET,” ETC., ETC. - - - The nights are o’er when, by the shore, - We strayed—thy arm in mine, - And our hearts were like the full cup ere - The sparkle leaves the wine. - But the sparkle flies, the cup is drained, - And the nights return no more - When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm, - We strayed by the moonlit shore. - - The nights are o’er when, by the shore, - We strayed—thy arm in mine, - And thy eye was like the star whose beam - We saw on the still wave shine. - But the bright star-beam has left the stream, - And the nights return no more - When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm, - We strayed by the moonlit shore. - - The nights are o’er when, by the shore, - We strayed—thy arm in mine, - And thy tones were heard where the wind-harp’s chord - Is the bough that the June-flowers twine. - But my boat rocks lone where the palm-trees moan[2] - And the nights return no more - When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm, - We strayed by the moonlit shore. - ------ - -[2] Of the Nile. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE ORPHAN BALLAD SINGERS. - - - BALLAD. - - COMPOSED BY - - HENRY RUSSELL. - - _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_. - - -[Illustration: musical score] - -[Illustration: musical score] - - Oh weary, weary are our feet, - And weary weary is our way, - Thro’ many a long and crowded street - We’ve wandered mournfully to-day; - My little sister she is pale, - She is too tender and too young - To bear the autumn’s sullen gale, - And all day long the child has sung. - - She was our mother’s favorite child, - Who loved her for her eyes of blue, - And she is delicate and mild, - She cannot do what I can do. - She never met her father’s eyes, - Although they were so like her own; - In some far distant sea he lies, - A father to his child unknown. - - The first time that she lisped his name, - A little playful thing was she; - How proud we were,—yet that night came - The tale how he had sunk at sea. - My mother never raised her head; - How strange how white how cold she grew! - It was a broken heart they said— - I wish our hearts were broken too. - - We have no home—we have no friends - They said our home no more was ours— - Our cottage where the ash-tree bends, - The garden we had filled with flowers. - The sounding shells our father brought, - That we might hear the sea at home; - Our bees, that in the summer wrought - The winter’s golden honeycomb. - - We wandered forth mid wind and rain, - No shelter from the open sky; - I only wish to see again - My mother’s grave and rest and die, - Alas, it is a weary thing - To sing our ballads o’er and o’er: - The songs we used at home to sing— - Alas we have a home no more! - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Twice-Told Tales. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Two Volumes. Boston: - James Munroe and Co._ - -We said a few hurried words about Mr. Hawthorne in our last number, with -the design of speaking more fully in the present. We are still, however, -pressed for room, and must necessarily discuss his volumes more briefly -and more at random than their high merits deserve. - -The book professes to be a collection of _tales_, yet is, in two -respects, misnamed. These pieces are now in their third republication, -and, of course, are thrice-told. Moreover, they are by no means _all_ -tales, either in the ordinary or in the legitimate understanding of the -term. Many of them are pure essays, for example, “Sights from a -Steeple,” “Sunday at Home,” “Little Annie’s Ramble,” “A Rill from the -Town-Pump,” “The Toll-Gatherer’s Day,” “The Haunted Mind,” “The Sister -Years,” “Snow-Flakes,” “Night Sketches,” and “Foot-Prints on the -Sea-Shore.” We mention these matters chiefly on account of their -discrepancy with that marked precision and finish by which the body of -the work is distinguished. - -Of the Essays just named, we must be content to speak in brief. They are -each and all beautiful, without being characterised by the polish and -adaptation so visible in the tales proper. A painter would at once note -their leading or predominant feature, and style it _repose_. There is no -attempt at effect. All is quiet, thoughtful, subdued. Yet this repose -may exist simultaneously with high originality of thought; and Mr. -Hawthorne has demonstrated the fact. At every turn we meet with novel -combinations, yet these combinations never surpass the limits of the -quiet. We are soothed as we read; and withal is a calm astonishment that -ideas so apparently obvious have never occurred or been presented to us -before. Herein our author differs materially from Lamb or Hunt or -Hazlitt—who, with vivid originality of manner and expression, have less -of the true novelty of thought than is generally supposed, and whose -originality, at best, has an uneasy and meretricious quaintness, replete -with startling effects unfounded in nature, and inducing trains of -reflection which lead to no satisfactory result. The Essays of Hawthorne -have much of the character of Irving, with more of originality, and less -of finish; while, compared with the Spectator, they have a vast -superiority at all points. The Spectator, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Hawthorne -have in common that tranquil and subdued manner which we have chosen to -denominate _repose_; but, in the case of the two former, this repose is -attained rather by the absence of novel combination, or of originality, -than otherwise, and consists chiefly in the calm, quiet, unostentatious -expression of commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious unadulterated -Saxon. In them, by strong effort, we are made to conceive the absence of -all. In the essays before us the absence of effort is too obvious to be -mistaken, and a strong under-current of _suggestion_ runs continuously -beneath the upper stream of the tranquil thesis. In short, these -effusions of Mr. Hawthorne are the product of a truly imaginative -intellect, restrained, and in some measure repressed, by fastidiousness -of taste, by constitutional melancholy and by indolence. - -But it is of his tales that we desire principally to speak. The tale -proper, in our opinion, affords unquestionably the fairest field for the -exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be afforded by the wide -domains of mere prose. Were we bidden to say how the highest genius -could be most advantageously employed for the best display of its own -powers, we should answer, without hesitation—in the composition of a -rhymed poem, not to exceed in length what might be perused in an hour. -Within this limit alone can the highest order of true poetry exist. We -need only here say, upon this topic, that, in almost all classes of -composition, the unity of effect or impression is a point of the -greatest importance. It is clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be -thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal cannot be completed at -one sitting. We may continue the reading of a prose composition, from -the very nature of prose itself, much longer than we can persevere, to -any good purpose, in the perusal of a poem. This latter, if truly -fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment, induces an exaltation of -the soul which cannot be long sustained. All high excitements are -necessarily transient. Thus a long poem is a paradox. And, without unity -of impression, the deepest effects cannot be brought about. Epics were -the offspring of an imperfect sense of Art, and their reign is no more. -A poem _too_ brief may produce a vivid, but never an intense or enduring -impression. Without a certain continuity of effort—without a certain -duration or repetition of purpose—the soul is never deeply moved. There -must be the dropping of the water upon the rock. De Béranger has wrought -brilliant things—pungent and spirit-stirring—but, like all immassive -bodies, they lack _momentum_, and thus fail to satisfy the Poetic -Sentiment. They sparkle and excite, but, from want of continuity, fail -deeply to impress. Extreme brevity will degenerate into epigrammatism; -but the sin of extreme length is even more unpardonable. _In medio -tutissimus ibis._ - -Were we called upon however to designate that class of composition -which, next to such a poem as we have suggested, should best fulfil the -demands of high genius—should offer it the most advantageous field of -exertion—we should unhesitatingly speak of the prose tale, as Mr. -Hawthorne has here exemplified it. We allude to the short prose -narrative, requiring from a half-hour to one or two hours in its -perusal. The ordinary novel is objectionable, from its length, for -reasons already stated in substance. As it cannot be read at one -sitting, it deprives itself, of course, of the immense force derivable -from _totality_. Worldly interests intervening during the pauses of -perusal, modify, annul, or counteract, in a greater or less degree, the -impressions of the book. But simple cessation in reading would, of -itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the brief tale, -however, the author is enabled to carry out the fulness of his -intention, be it what it may. During the hour of perusal the soul of the -reader is at the writer’s control. There are no external or extrinsic -influences—resulting from weariness or interruption. - -A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not -fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having -conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single _effect_ to -be wrought out, he then invents such incidents—he then combines such -events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If -his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, -then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there -should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is -not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care -and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of -him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest -satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished, -because undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable by the novel. Undue -brevity is just as exceptionable here as in the poem, but undue length -is yet more to be avoided. - -We have said that the tale has a point of superiority even over the -poem. In fact, while the _rhythm_ of this latter is an essential aid in -the development of the poem’s highest idea—the idea of the -Beautiful—the artificialities of this rhythm are an inseparable bar to -the development of all points of thought or expression which have their -basis in _Truth_. But Truth is often, and in very great degree, the aim -of the tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus -the field of this species of composition, if not in so elevated a region -on the mountain of Mind, is a table-land of far vaster extent than the -domain of the mere poem. Its products are never so rich, but infinitely -more numerous, and more appreciable by the mass of mankind. The writer -of the prose tale, in short, may bring to his theme a vast variety of -modes or inflections of thought and expression—(the ratiocinative, for -example, the sarcastic or the humorous) which are not only -antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but absolutely forbidden by -one of its most peculiar and indispensable adjuncts; we allude of -course, to rhythm. It may be added, here, _par parenthèse_, that the -author who aims at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is laboring at -great disadvantage. For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so -with terror, or passion, or horror, or a multitude of such other points. -And here it will be seen how full of prejudice are the usual -animadversions against those _tales of effect_ many fine examples of -which were found in the earlier numbers of Blackwood. The impressions -produced were wrought in a legitimate sphere of action, and constituted -a legitimate although sometimes an exaggerated interest. They were -relished by every man of genius: although there were found many men of -genius who condemned them without just ground. The true critic will but -demand that the design intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent, -by the means most advantageously applicable. - -We have very few American tales of real merit—we may say, indeed, none, -with the exception of “The Tales of a Traveller” of Washington Irving, -and these “Twice-Told Tales” of Mr. Hawthorne. Some of the pieces of Mr. -John Neal abound in vigor and originality; but in general, his -compositions of this class are excessively diffuse, extravagant, and -indicative of an imperfect sentiment of Art. Articles at random are, now -and then, met with in our periodicals which might be advantageously -compared with the best effusions of the British Magazines; but, upon the -whole, we are far behind our progenitors in this department of -literature. - -Of Mr. Hawthorne’s Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong to -the highest region of Art—an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty -order. We had supposed, with good reason for so supposing, that he had -been thrust into his present position by one of the impudent _cliques_ -which beset our literature, and whose pretensions it is our full purpose -to expose at the earliest opportunity; but we have been most agreeably -mistaken. We know of few compositions which the critic can more honestly -commend than these “Twice-Told Tales.” As Americans, we feel proud of -the book. - -Mr. Hawthorne’s distinctive trait is invention, creation, imagination, -originality—a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is positively -worth all the rest. But the nature of originality, so far as regards its -manifestation in letters, is but imperfectly understood. The inventive -or original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of _tone_ as -in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original at _all_ points. - -It would be a matter of some difficulty to designate the best of these -tales, we repeat that, without exception, they are beautiful. -“Wakefield” is remarkable for the skill with which an old idea—a -well-known incident—is worked up or discussed. A man of whims conceives -the purpose of quitting his wife and residing _incognito_, for twenty -years, in her immediate neighborhood. Something of this kind actually -happened in London. The force of Mr. Hawthorne’s tale lies in the -analysis of the motives which must or might have impelled the husband to -such folly, in the first instance, with the possible causes of his -perseverance. Upon this thesis a sketch of singular power has been -constructed. - -“The Wedding Knell” is full of the boldest imagination—an imagination -fully controlled by taste. The most captious critic could find no flaw -in this production. - -“The Minister’s Black Veil” is a masterly composition of which the sole -defect is that to the rabble its exquisite skill will be _caviare_. The -_obvious_ meaning of this article will be found to smother its -insinuated one. The _moral_ put into the mouth of the dying minister -will be supposed to convey the _true_ import of the narrative; and that -a crime of dark dye, (having reference to the “young lady”) has been -committed, is a point which only minds congenial with that of the author -will perceive. - -“Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe” is vividly original and managed most -dexterously. - -“Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment” is exceedingly well imagined, and executed -with surpassing ability. The artist breathes in every line of it. - -“The White Old Maid” is objectionable, even more than the “Minister’s -Black Veil,” on the score of its mysticism. Even with the thoughtful and -analytic, there will be much trouble in penetrating its entire import. - -“The Hollow of the Three Hills” we would quote in full, had we -space;—not as evincing higher talent than any of the other pieces, but -as affording an excellent example of the author’s peculiar ability. The -subject is commonplace. A witch subjects the Distant and the Past to the -view of a mourner. It has been the fashion to describe, in such cases, a -mirror in which the images of the absent appear; or a cloud of smoke is -made to arise, and thence the figures are gradually unfolded. Mr. -Hawthorne has wonderfully heightened his effect by making the ear, in -place of the eye, the medium by which the fantasy is conveyed. The head -of the mourner is enveloped in the cloak of the witch, and within its -magic folds there arise sounds which have an all-sufficient -intelligence. Throughout this article also, the artist is -conspicuous—not more in positive than in negative merits. Not only is -all done that should be done, but (what perhaps is an end with more -difficulty attained) there is nothing done which should not be. Every -word _tells_, and there is not a word which does _not_ tell. - -In “Howe’s Masquerade” we observe something which resembles a -plagiarism—but which _may be_ a very flattering coincidence of thought. -We quote the passage in question. - - “_With a dark flush of wrath_ upon his brow they saw the general - _draw his sword_ and _advance to meet_ the figure _in the cloak_ - before the latter had stepped one pace upon the floor. - - “‘_Villain, unmuffle yourself_,’ cried he, ‘you pass no - farther!’ - - “The figure, without blenching a hair’s breadth from the sword - which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause, and - _lowered the cape of the cloak_ from his face, yet not - sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. But - Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough. The sternness of his - countenance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not - horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, _and - let fall his sword_ upon the floor.”—See vol. 2, page 20. - -The idea here is, that the figure in the cloak is the phantom or -reduplication of Sir William Howe; but in an article called “William -Wilson,” one of the “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,” we have not -only the same idea, but the same idea similarly presented in several -respects. We quote two paragraphs, which our readers may compare with -what has been already given. We have italicized, above, the immediate -particulars of resemblance. - - “The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient - to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangement at - the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror, it - appeared to me, now stood where none had been perceptible - before: and as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine - own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood, - _advanced_ with a feeble and tottering gait to meet me. - - “Thus it appeared I say, but was not. It was Wilson, who then - stood before me in the agonies of dissolution. Not a line in all - the marked and singular lineaments of that face which was not - even identically mine own. _His mask and cloak lay where he had - thrown them, upon the floor._”—Vol. 2. p. 57. - -Here it will be observed that, not only are the two general conceptions -identical, but there are various _points_ of similarity. In each case -the figure seen is the wraith or duplication of the beholder. In each -case the scene is a masquerade. In each case the figure is cloaked. In -each, there is a quarrel—that is to say, angry words pass between the -parties. In each the beholder is enraged. In each the cloak and sword -fall upon the floor. The “villain, unmuffle yourself,” of Mr. H. is -precisely paralleled by a passage at page 56 of “William Wilson.” - -In the way of objection we have scarcely a word to say of these tales. -There is, perhaps, a somewhat too general or prevalent _tone_—a tone of -melancholy and mysticism. The subjects are insufficiently varied. There -is not so much of _versatility_ evinced as we might well be warranted in -expecting from the high powers of Mr. Hawthorne. But beyond these -trivial exceptions we have really none to make. The style is purity -itself. Force abounds. High imagination gleams from every page. Mr. -Hawthorne is a man of the truest genius. We only regret that the limits -of our Magazine will not permit us to pay him that full tribute of -commendation, which, under other circumstances, we should be so eager to -pay. - - * * * * * - - _The Vigil of Faith, and Other Poems. By C. F. Hoffman, Author - of “Greyslaer,” &c. S. Coleman: New York._ - -Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman is well known as the author of several popular -novels, and as the quondam editor of the “American Monthly Magazine;” -but his poetical abilities have not as yet attracted that attention -which is indubitably their due. - -“The Vigil of Faith,” a poem of fifty-two irregular stanzas, embodies a -deeply interesting narrative supposed to be related by an Indian -encountered by the author in a hunting excursion amid the Highlands of -the Hudson. It bears the impress of the true spirit upon every line; but -appears to be carelessly written. - -The occasional Poems are scarcely more beautiful, but, in general, are -more complete and polished. Now and then, however, we observe, even in -these, an inaccurate rhythm. Here, for example, in “Moonlight on the -Hudson,” page 63, we note a foot too much— - - “Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers.” - -This line is not used as an Alexandrine, but occurs in the body of a -stanza. Mr. Hoffman is, also, somewhat too fond of a double rhyme, -which, unduly employed, never fails to give a flippant air to a serious -poem. It is not improbable that we shall speak more fully of this really -beautiful volume hereafter. Its external or mechanical appearance excels -that of any book we have seen for a long time. - - * * * * * - - _The Life of Lorenzo de’ Medici, called the Magnificent. By - William Roscoe. From the London Edition, Corrected. In Two - Volumes. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._ - -The genius of Lorenzo de’ Medici has never, perhaps, been so highly -estimated, as his exertions on behalf of Italian literature. Yet he was -not only an author unsurpassed by any of his illustrious contemporaries, -but, as a statesman, gave evidence of profound ability. A week -illustrating the value of his character and discussing his vast -influence upon his age, has been long wanting, and no man lives who -could better supply the _desideratum_ than Mr. Roscoe. In republishing -these volumes Messieurs Carey & Hart have rendered a service of the -highest importance to the reading public of America. - - * * * * * - - _The Poets and Poetry of America. With an Historical - Introduction. By Rufus W. Griswold. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._ - -This is a volume of remarkable beauty externally, and of very high merit -internally. It embraces selections from the poetical works of every true -poet in America without exception; and these selections are prefaced, in -each instance, with a brief memoir, for whose accuracy we can vouch. We -know that no pains or expense have been spared in this compilation, -which is, by very much indeed, the best of its class—affording, at one -view, the justest idea of our poetical literature. Mr. Griswold is -remarkably well qualified for the task he has undertaken. We shall speak -at length of this book in our next. - - * * * * * - - _Beauchampe, or The Kentucky Tragedy. A Tale of Passion. By the - Author of “Richard Hurdis,” “Border Beagles,” etc. Two Volumes. - Lea & Blanchard: Philadelphia._ - -The events upon which this novel is based are but too real. No more -thrilling, no more romantic tragedy did ever the brain of poet conceive -than was the tragedy of Sharpe and Beauchampe. We are not sure that the -author of “Border Beagles” has done right in the selection of his theme. -Too little has been left for invention. We are sure, however, that the -theme is skilfully handled. The author of “Richard Hurdis” is one among -the best of our native novelists—pure, bold, vigorous, original. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: four ladies and a gentleman dressed in latest fashions] - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic -spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and -typesetting errors have been corrected without note. - -A cover has been created for this eBook and is placed in the public -domain. - -[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 5, May 1842_, George R. Graham, -Editor] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XX, NO. -5, MAY 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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