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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 5, May 1850

Author: Various

Editor: George R. Graham

Release date: August 22, 2018 [eBook #57748]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed
        Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XXXVI, NO. 5, MAY 1850 ***




Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed
Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net






[Illustration:
GAY AND SERIOUS.
Engraved & Printed expressly for Graham’s Magazine by S. Dainty]

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                VOL. XXXVI.      May, 1850.      No. 5.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          Shakspeare. Ulrici’s Discovery.—Analysis of Hamlet
          A Gale in the Channel
          Valentine Histories
          The Game of Draughts
          Life’s Lessons Teach Charity
          Loiterings and Life on the Great Prairies of the
            West
          The Lady of the Rock (continued)
          Home: or A Visit to the City
          Spring Snipe Shooting of 1850
          The Fine Arts
          Review of New Books

                            Poetry and Music

          Summer Friends
          Lines
          Spirit Of Hope
          To Mrs. E. C. K.
          The Valley of Shadow
          The “Still Small Voice.”
          To the Flower Hearts-Ease
          Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. IV
          The Might of Song
          The Mountain Spring
          Happiness—A Sonnet
          Sonnet.—From the Italian
          No Joy I’ll See but in Those Smiles

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

          VOL. XXXVI.     PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1850.     NO. 5.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              SHAKSPEARE.


                ULRICI’S DISCOVERY.—ANALYSIS OF HAMLET.


                           BY H. C. MOORHEAD.


MORE than half a century ago, one of Shakspeare’s most illustrious
commentators deemed it necessary to accompany the free expression of his
views with words like these:

“I am almost frighted at my own temerity; and when I estimate the fame
and the strength of those that maintain the contrary opinion, I am ready
to sink down in reverential silence, as Æneas withdrew from the defense
of Troy when he saw Neptune shaking the wall, and Juno heading the
besiegers.”

But the enthusiastic study of Shakspeare was then just beginning. How
many antiquarians, book-worms and hypercritics have since toiled and
quibbled over him! how many philosophers have deeply meditated him! how
many ponderous volumes have been written upon him? How many great actors
have played him? How many nations have heard and read him? Surely this
mine, however deep and fruitful, must long since have yielded all its
treasures.

If, indeed, the shadows of mighty names could subdue the inquiring
spirit of this age to any degree of fear or reverence, the Shakspeare
student might now be content to receive, with implicit confidence, the
creed which has been written. But whilst the works of Nature are daily
undergoing new investigations, and receiving new illustrations, it is
fit that those works which of all human productions most resemble
them—the works of Shakspeare—should be subjected to a similar
scrutiny. And so they have been, and with results worthy of the days of
telegraphs and locomotives. A German critic, named Ulrici, has recently
made a discovery which as far surpasses all former Shaksperian
discoveries, as the voyage of Columbus surpassed the voyages of those
navigators who before him had timorously hugged the shore.

A writer in the North British Review, for November, 1849, explains the
subject briefly thus:

“Ulrici’s most remarkable discovery is, that each of Shakspeare’s plays
has for its foundation some moral idea or theme, which is reflected and
echoed over and over again with endless variety and profit, in all the
characters, expressions, and events of the piece. The subtle German
critic would have produced more converts to his doctrine had he
illustrated it fully by the analysis of some one play, instead of having
merely suggested its prevalence by means of a slight sketch in each.”

The reviewer, then, observing that Ulrici’s views had been received in
England with a “wide skepticism,” proceeds to prove them by analyzing
the “Merchant of Venice.” He also, incidentally, mentions the theme of
“Timon of Athens,” and of “Love’s Labor Lost.” Beyond this no hint is
given as to the “ground-idea” (as it is termed) of any of the plays; and
yet so palpable is Ulrici’s theory, that the writer of these pages,
after having read the reviewer’s remarks, found no difficulty in
applying it to any of the plays with which he was familiar, by simply
revolving them in his mind. As any person tolerably read in Shakspeare
may do the same, the “wide skepticism” above referred to must soon give
way to universal conviction, accompanied by astonishment that the
discovery was not sooner made, and the frank admission that Shakspeare
has been understood by Ulrici alone.

Our author has always been called the Poet of Nature; and the better he
is understood, the better he is found to deserve the title. The leading
features of all mountains, of all lakes and rivers, of all mankind, are
the same; yet in the whole world there are no two of either precisely
alike. The theme in each of Shakspeare’s plays is one—pervading every
part of it, and giving tone and color to the whole. Yet how endless the
variety of character, of action, of sentiment! So striking, indeed, is
the _diversity_, that the _unity_ has, for more than two hundred years,
been strangely overlooked; so consummate is the _art_, that it has
wholly “concealed the art.”

If we examine the play of Hamlet by the light of Ulrici’s torch, we
shall find that its subject, like its plot, is very comprehensive. Yet
there is in it a “central idea,” to which all the various topics
discussed are more or less intimately related. This idea may be
expressed by the single word DISCRETION—discretion in its most
comprehensive sense, as signifying, “prudence, discernment and judgment,
directed by circumspection.” I propose to show that with this idea every
incident, every character, every speech, I might almost venture to say,
every sentiment of the play is connected, by the relation either of
resemblance or of contrast.

It will be most convenient (on account of the intricacy of the play) to
examine the several scenes and speeches, in connection with different
aspects of the theme. I shall therefore employ the following division:

I. _Reserve_; contrasted with which (1) Extravagance of conduct and
language; (2) Espionage; (3) Inquisitiveness; (4) Flattery.

II. _Vacillation._

III. _Craft._

The reader will readily perceive that all these qualities have an
intimate relation with the quality of _discretion_, directly or by
contrast, in its use or its abuse. As it is Shakspeare’s custom to
pursue his subject into all its collateral branches, there are doubtless
many other modifications of the theme of Hamlet, but the above division
will answer our present purpose.


                             I. _Reserve._

In the second scene of Act First, the king and queen expostulate with
Hamlet on his immoderate grief for the death of his father; reminding
him that it is a common occurrence, and urging him to “cast his nighted
color off.” In the next scene, Laertes, who is about to embark for
France, makes a long speech to Ophelia, recommending throughout
_reserve_ in her conduct toward Hamlet:

        The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
        If she unmask her beauty to the moon.

The admirable speech of Polonius to Laertes, which immediately follows,
is composed of ponderous maxims, _all_ of the same import; as, for
example, “Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;” “Take each man’s
censure, but reserve thy judgment;” “Neither a borrower nor a lender
be,” etc., etc. And the scene closes with a speech from Polonius to
Ophelia, in which he cautions her respecting Hamlet, telling her to be
“somewhat scanter of her maiden presence,” etc.

In the next scene (the fourth) occurs Hamlet’s speech to Horatio on
drunkenness, which, it will be observed, in conformity with the theme,
turns entirely upon the _imprudence_ of the practice. In the fifth scene
of the same act, Hamlet, after his interview with the Ghost, baffles the
curiosity of Horatio and Marcellus. Not content with keeping his own
secret, and swearing them not to reveal what they had seen, he makes
them further promise that if he should see fit “to put an antick
disposition on,” they never will, “with arms encumbered thus, or this
head-shake, or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, as _Well, well,
we know_; or, _we could, and if we would_; or, _if we list to speak_, or
such ambiguous giving out,” intimate that they “knew aught of him.” In
the same scene the Ghost says: “I could a tale unfold,” etc. “But that I
am _forbid to tell_ the secrets of my prison-house.”

In the first scene of the third act, Hamlet’s rude speeches to Ophelia,
“Get thee to a nunnery,” etc., are mainly on the same subject; and the
next following scene contains the celebrated advice to the players,
every word of which inculcates _reserve_ or _moderation_; it teaches the
same lesson as the speeches of Polonius and Laertes, above referred to,
though it is applicable to very different circumstances. Hamlet’s speech
to Horatio, immediately after, is to the same purpose:

                            “Blessed are those
        Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled,
        That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger
        To sound what stop she pleases; Give me that man
        That is not passion’s slave,” etc.

In the same scene Rosencrantz and Guildenstern endeavor to find out
Hamlet’s secret; but he baffles and rebukes them with the beautiful
illustration of the flute:

    _Ham._ Will you play upon this pipe?

    _Guild._ My lord, I can not.

  ·          ·          ·          ·          ·          ·          ·

    _Ham._ Why look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me.
    You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you
    would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from
    my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much
    music, excellent voice in this little organ; yet can not you
    make it speak. S’blood, do you think I am easier to be played on
    than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can
    fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Such are a few of the chief passages in which the lesson of “reserve” is
taught _directly_. The reader will find many others, (maxims,
illustrations and allusions,) in every scene; but I pass on to the
notice of some instances in which the same lesson is taught _indirectly_
or _by contrast_. These passages may properly be arranged under several
heads.

(1.) _Extravagance of conduct and language._

Hamlet is for the most part, calm and self-possessed. But on the
occasion of his first interview with the Ghost, in the 4th scene of the
first act he is transported (as, indeed, he well might be,) beyond all
bounds of moderation: in the words of Horatio:

        He waxes desperate with imagination.

His speech to Laertes at the grave of Ophelia is a still more remarkable
example of _extravagance_:

        Zounds, show me what thou’lt do;
        Woul’t weep? woul’t fight? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself?
        Woul’t drink up Esil? eat a crocodile?
        I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine?
        To outface me with leaping in her grave?
        Be buried quick with her, and so will I.
        And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
        Millions of acres on us; till our ground,
        Singeing his pate against the burning zone,
        Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth,
        I’ll rant as well as thou.

Ophelia’s madness is caused by the _extravagance_ of her love; and it is
worthy of remark that she is finally drowned in consequence of
_venturing too far_ on the “pendent boughs” of a willow which grew
“ascaunt the brook.”

In the last scene Hamlet and Laertes, whilst playing with rapiers,
become “_incensed_,” and thus the final catastrophe is produced.

In the last scene of the second act Hamlet meets the players and makes
them recite Eneas’ tale to Dido. The only justification of this long and
otherwise tedious passage, will be found in its close connection with
the theme; for it is an admirable specimen of _bombast_.

                  Unequal matched,
        Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage, strikes wide;
        But with the whiff and wind or his fell sword
        The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,
        Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top
        Stoops to his base; and with a hideous crash
        Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear, etc., etc.

How different this from Shakspeare’s _own_ style! We shall presently see
that the speeches of the _Player King_ and _Player Queen_ are direct
illustrations of another aspect of the theme; indeed every thing
connected with this “play within the play,” is directly to the main
purpose.

In the latter part of the first scene of act second Ophelia relates to
her father the wild conduct and appearance of Hamlet, and Polonius
attributes it to the _extravagance_ of his love:

        This is the very ecstasy of love, etc.,

and descants on the “violent property” of that passion. Laertes, as we
have seen, could speak well in favor of reserve, but he seldom practiced
it. His conduct is generally violent, and his speech ranting; as in his
riotous appearance before the king in act fourth, scene fifth, and in
his contest with Hamlet at the grave of Ophelia.

(2.) _Espionage._

This method of ferreting out secrets is extensively practiced throughout
the play.

In the first scene of act second, Polonius instructs Reynaldo (who is
going to Paris), where Laertes then was, to “make inquiry of his
(Laertes’) behaviour;” to find out his associates, and by pretending to
know his vices—by “putting forgeries upon him,”—draw from them an
account of his way of life:

        Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of troth;
        And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,
              .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
        By indirections find directions out.

In the next scene the king and queen employ Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
as spies upon Hamlet; and, to ascertain whether he loves Ophelia, the
king and Polonius agree to hide behind the arras, whilst the latter, as
he expresses it, “looses his daughter to him” in the lobby. Rosencrantz
and Guildenstern make several attempts to sound Hamlet, but, as they
report to the king and queen—act third scene first—he “with a crafty
madness keeps aloof.” In act third, scene fourth, Polonius again plays
the _eaves-dropper_ in order to overhear the conversation between Hamlet
and his mother, and Hamlet, hearing him, and supposing him to be the
king, makes a pass through the arras and kills him.

        I took thee for thy better; take thy fortune;
        Thou find’st, to be too busy, is some danger.

(3.) _Inquisitiveness._

Inquisitiveness is a very prevalent feature of the play. There are the
challenging of sentiments—ghost-seeing—the sending and receiving of
messages—soliloquies—(a species of self-examination,)—and the
conversation is to an unusual extent made up of questions and answers.
To this head may also be referred, (at any rate the reader will at once
recognize their relation to the central idea,) the _riddles_ of the old
grave-digger in the church-yard scene, (act fifth, scene first,) and his
witty _evasions_ of Hamlet’s questions. Also Hamlet’s refined
speculations, in which, as Horatio says, he “considers the matter too
curiously;” as, when he shows in act fourth, scene third, how a “worm
may go a progress through the guts of a beggar;” and “traces the noble
dust of Alexander till he finds it stopping a bung-hole,” in act fifth,
scene first; and in his reflections on the lawyer’s skull, and on that
of “poor Yorick.”

(4.) _Flattery._

In act third, scene third, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern vie with each
other in flattering the king. In act fourth, scene seventh, the king
flatters Laertes respecting his skill in fencing. Osric plays the
flatterer when he agrees with Hamlet first that it is very hot, then
cold, then hot again; and Polonius, when he sees the cloud in the shape
of a camel first, then of a weasel, and then of a whale, according as
Hamlet directs. In act second, scene second, Hamlet says to Rosencrantz:
“My uncle is king of Denmark; and those that would make mouths at him
while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, an hundred ducats
a-piece for his picture in little.” And in act third, scene second, he
teaches the _use_ of flattery:

            Why should the poor be flattered?
        No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,
        And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
        Where thrift may follow fawning.


                           II. _Vacillation._

Discretion, pushed to extremes, ends in _vacillation_, and this is the
leading trait in Hamlet’s character. His father’s ghost appears, tells
how he was “sleeping, by a brother’s hand cut off,” and enjoins on him,
as a solemn duty to avenge his death. Hamlet acknowledges the duty, and
resolves to perform it; he feels himself “prompted to his revenge by
heaven and hell,” and yet he shows from the first a painful
consciousness of his own infirmity of purpose.

        The time is out of Joint; O cursed spite,
        That ever I was born to set it right.

His numerous soliloquies are accordingly for the most part mere
developments of this trait of his character; and illustrations of the
inevitable tendency of meditation to beget inaction. The narrow or
bigoted mind, which either can not or will not see more than a single
feature of a subject, may well be prompt and decided; but whoever is
capable and willing to survey any great question in all its aspects,
will reach a firm conclusion,—if he reach it at all,—only by slow and
painful steps. Laertes, who is little better than a ranting madcap, no
sooner conceives a purpose, than he hastens to execute it; whilst
Hamlet, who is a calm philosopher, ponders, and procrastinates, and does
nothing.

In the last scene of act second, Hamlet, after having listened to the
recitation of a player, compares his own “motive and cue for passion,”
with that of a fellow, who spoke merely “in a fiction, in a dream of
passion;” and reproaches himself for coldness and inaction; but ends at
last in the conclusion that the spirit he had seen may be a devil, and
that he must have “grounds more relative than this.”

The next scene contains the great soliloquy on death. “To be or not to
be,” etc. On a former occasion Hamlet had exclaimed:

        O that the Everlasting had not fixed
        His canon ’gainst self-slaughter!

And he now concludes that the most profound meditation on the subject
merely

                          Puzzles the will,
        And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
        Than fly to others that we know not of.

This soliloquy has sometimes been condemned as taking an unworthy and
inadequate view of the great subjects of death, and “that undiscovered
country” beyond the grave; and if it had been Shakspeare’s purpose to
_discuss_ these subjects, the criticism would undoubtedly be just. But
let us bear in mind that his object in this passage was simply to
illustrate “vacillation of mind” in connection with the highest subjects
of human contemplation, and we shall find that he has accomplished all
he undertook in a manner entirely worthy of himself.

Very similar to this is the king’s soliloquy on repentance, in act
third, scene third.

                    What if this cursed hand
        Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?
        Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
        To wash it white as snow? . . . .
                            Then I’ll look up;
        My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
        Can serve my turn? . . . .
        Try what repentance can: What can it not?
        Yet what can it, when one can not repent.

Throughout the whole speech the mind of the guilty monarch fluctuates
between hope and despair; and Hamlet, seeing him on his knees, exclaims:
“now might I do it, pat; and now I’ll do it;” but again falls to
moralizing, and puts it off to a more convenient season.

Hamlet’s first soliloquy, before he has seen the Ghost, (act first,
scene second,) turns on the queen’s _inconstancy_ in forgetting his
father and marrying his uncle so soon: “But two months dead!” “A beast
that wants discourse of reason, would have mourned longer.” And his
conversation with Horatio immediately after is to the same effect:

                The funeral bak’d meats
        Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

In his interview with the queen in act third, scene fourth, where he
compares the picture of his father with that of his uncle, he dwells on
the same topic. See also the dumb show in act third, scene second, and
the dialogue between the _Player King_ and _Player Queen_. Every line of
these speeches illustrates the theme.

        _P. King._ I do believe you think what now you speak;
        But, what we do determine oft we break.
              .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
        This world is not for aye: nor ’tis not strange
        That even our loves should with our fortunes change.
              .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
        The great man down, you mark his favorite flies;
        The poor advanced makes friends of enemies.
              .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
        For who not needs shall never lack a friend;
        And who in want a hollow friend doth try,
        Directly seasons him his enemy.

The _constancy_ of Hamlet’s father is throughout opposed to the
inconstancy of his mother. The Ghost on his first appearance dwells on
the subject:

        From me, whose love was of that dignity
        That it went hand in hand even with the vow
        I made to her in marriage.

And after all the wrongs he has suffered, whilst enjoining upon Hamlet
to change his course, he charges him to contrive nothing against his
mother; and when he afterward appears at the interview between Hamlet
and the queen, he interposes in her behalf:

        But look! amazement on thy mother sits;
        O, step between her and her fighting soul.

The queen also, with all her faults, remains constant in her affection
for Hamlet, and “lives, almost, by his looks.” Ophelia is constant in
her love,—to insanity and a watery grave; and Hamlet makes fine
_speeches_ on constancy of purpose. His soliloquy in act first, scene
fifth, is in a noble strain:

          “Remember thee!”
        Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat,
        In this distracted globe. Remember thee?
        Yea, from the table of my memory
        I’ll wipe away all trivial, fond records,
              .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
        And thy commandment all alone shall live
        Within the book and volume of my brain, etc.

But his “remembrance” is like that of a man who “beholdeth his natural
face in a glass, and goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth what
manner of man he was.”


                             III. _Craft._

The word _craft_ properly signifies art, ability, dexterity, skill, as
well as cunning and dissimulation—and all these qualities have a close
relation to discretion.

The _pretended_ madness of Hamlet is therefore illustrative of the
theme; just as the _real_ madness of Lear is illustrative of the theme
of that play. The dissimulation of Hamlet, however, is not such as to
lessen our esteem for his character. Surrounded as he is with spies and
enemies, we feel that it is a justifiable stratagem. It is worthy of
remark that Edgar employs a similar means of defense in the Play of King
Lear; and that as Shakspeare’s love of contrast has led him thus to
oppose the assumed madness of Edgar to the real madness of Lear, so here
we have the real madness of Ophelia opposed to the assumed madness of
Hamlet.

Hamlet displays craft also (but still a justifiable craft,) in his
device of the play, “to catch the conscience of the king.” And when he
has succeeded, he triumphs in this proof of his own skill, with a very
natural vanity. “Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, (if the
rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me,) etc., get me a fellowship in a
cry of players?” In his interview with his mother, (the picture scene,)
he dwells chiefly on her _want of discernment_; and, at the conclusion
of the scene, alluding to his “two schoolfellows,” he boasts that he
will “delve one yard below their mines, and blow them at the moon;” a
feat which he very fully accomplishes. But after all he feels and
acknowledges that he is a mere instrument in the hands of a higher
power.

        Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
        When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us,
        There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
        Rough hew them how we will.

And when Horatio endeavors to dissuade him from fencing with Laertes,
because he acknowledges a foreboding of evil he replies: “Not a whit, we
defy augury; there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If
it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come it will be now; if it
be not now, yet it will come; the readiness is all.” These solemn
sentiments were a fit prelude to the tragic fate upon which he was
rushing.

Polonius frequently boasts of his own discernment. As when he says to
the king:

        Hath there been such a time (I’d fain know that,)
        That I have positively said _’tis so_;
        When it proved otherwise.

And though he was mistaken as to the cause of Hamlet’s madness, he
reasoned justly on the subject, and erred in his conclusion only because
there was a supernatural cause at work, which he could not penetrate.
The king also dwells on the same topic (skill or _management_,) in many
places, and especially in his several conversations with Laertes.

But I must hasten to a conclusion; hoping that I have awakened
sufficient interest in the reader’s mind to induce him to pursue the
subject with the play before him; and assuring him that he will find the
theme in some one of its various phases, ever present; from the
_sentinel’s challenge_ at the beginning, to the speech of Fortinbras on
_propriety_ at the end; in the love-letter of Hamlet; in the carol of
Ophelia; in the doggerel song of the old grave-digger; and every where
else.

A glance at the progress of the play will show that the theme, like the
plot and the characters, is gradually developed. A brief notice of the
contents of each act will make this apparent.

_Act first._—This act is wholly occupied with matters of an
_inquisitive_ character, and lectures on _reserve_ and _prudence_.

_Act second._—Craft is the characteristic of this act. Reynaldo is
appointed a spy upon Laertes: Hamlet begins to play the madman:
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are appointed spies upon Hamlet: Polonius
and the king resolve to secrete themselves where they can overhear
Hamlet talking with Ophelia: and Hamlet conceives the project of using
the players to make the king betray his own guilt. The object of all
these plots, however, it will be observed, is merely to gain
information.

_Act third._—In this act the several plots formed in the last, are
carried into execution.

_Act fourth._—Here the subject assumes a more serious aspect; Ophelia’s
indiscreet love ends in madness and death: Laertes, who has heretofore
discoursed like a philosopher on moderation, now becomes furious,
bearding the king on his throne; if craft is employed it is no longer
for the mere purpose of finding out secrets, but for the destruction of
life; as when the king sends Hamlet to England, to be put to death; and
when, on his unexpected return, Laertes and the king concert his death
by means of the treacherous fencing-match.

_Act fifth._—_Inquisitiveness_ now assumes a more intricate form in the
old grave-digger’s riddles, and in Hamlet’s refined speculations.
_Credulity_ (as Horatio’s account of prodigies in the first act,)
becomes _bigotry_ in the priest who buried Ophelia, and _faith in a
special Providence_ in Hamlet. Foppery and affectation reach their
height in Osric; discretion assumes its highest form in Hamlet’s frank
apology to Laertes, and in his anxiety lest he should leave a “wounded
name” behind him; Horatio crowns his _constancy_ by resolving to die
with his friend; and _ungoverned passion_ produces the scandalous
conflict at Ophelia’s grave, and the scuffle in fencing, which is the
immediate forerunner of the bloody catastrophe. The change of rapiers
has been condemned as a bungling device; but was it not most probably
designed to illustrate the theme, showing, as it does, the blind and
heedless rage of the combatants?

It is manifest that Ulrici’s method of reading these plays must lead to
a re-consideration of the most important criticisms which have
heretofore been made upon them. The propriety and relevancy of each part
being considered with reference to the “central idea,” many apparent
anomalies will be reconciled, and many imputed faults vindicated. A new
value will also be given to them; for, viewed in this light, the masters
of eloquence,—the Senator, the Advocate, and the Preacher,—may, from
these models, learn how to discuss a theme, or conduct a discussion. The
poet rambles through all nature, yet never for one moment forgets his
purpose; now he convulses us with laughter, and now melts us to tears;
now fires us with indignation, and now chills us with horror; yet ever,
amidst these various and conflicting emotions, steadily pursues his
_argument_. Every speech is to the same purpose, and yet there is no
repetition; and, though he perseveres till the subject is wholly
exhausted, our interest seldom for one moment languishes. Let him,
therefore, who would see Logic, and Rhetoric, and Poetry in their most
perfect form and combination, repair to the pages of SHAKSPEARE.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            SUMMER FRIENDS.


    THEY came—like bees in summer-time,
      When earth is decked with flowers,
    And while my year was in its prime
      They reveled in my bowers;
    But when my honey-blooms were shed,
      And chilling blasts came on,
    The bee had with the blossom fled:
      I sought them—they were gone.

    They came—like spring-birds to the grove,
      With varied notes of praise,
    And daily each with other strove
      The highest strain to raise;
    But when before the frosty gale
      My withered leaves were strown,
    And wintry blasts swept down the vale,
      I sought them—they were gone.
                               I. G. B.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 LINES.


                          BY GEO. D. PRENTISS.


    SWEET moon, I love thee, yet I grieve
      To gaze on thy pale orb to-night;
    It tells me of that last dear eve
      I passed with her, my soul’s delight.

    Hill, vale and wood and stream were dyed
      In the pale glory of thy beams,
    As forth we wandered, side by side,
      Once more to tell love’s burning dreams.

    My fond arm was her living zone,
      My hand within her hand was pressed,
    And love was in each earnest tone,
      And rapture in each heaving breast.

    And many a high and fervent vow
      Was breathed from her full heart and mine,
    While thy calm light was on her brow
      Like pure religion’s seal and sign.

    We knew, alas! that we must part,
      We knew we must be severed long,
    Yet joy was in each throbbing heart,
      For love was deep, and faith was strong.

    A thousand memories of the past
      Were busy in each glowing breast,
    And hope upon the future cast
      Her rainbow hues—and we were blest.

    I craved a boon—oh! in that boon
      There was a wild, delirious bliss—
    Ah, didst thou ever gaze, sweet moon,
      Upon a more impassioned kiss?

    The parting came—one moment brief
      Her dim and fading form I viewed—
    ’Twas gone—and there I stood in grief
      Amid life’s awful solitude.

    Tell me, sweet moon, for thou canst tell,
      If passion still unchanged is hers—
    Do thoughts of me her heart still swell
      Among her many worshipers?

    Say, does she sometimes wander now
      At eve beneath thy gentle flame,
    To raise to heaven her angel-brow
      And breathe her absent lover’s name!

    Oh when her gentle lids are wet,
      I pray thee, mark each falling gem,
    And tell me if my image yet
      Is pictured tremblingly in them!

    Ay, tell me, does her bosom thrill
      As wildly as of yore for me—
    Does her young heart adore me still,
      Or is that young heart changed like thee?

    Oh let thy beams, that softest shine,
      If still my love to her is dear,
    Bear to her gentle heart from mine
      A sigh, a blessing, and a tear.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            SPIRIT OF HOPE.


                          BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.


    Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest.


    HOW shall I lure thee to my side again,
      Thou, who wert once the Angel of my Youth?
    Thou, who didst woo me with thy blandest strain—
      Tinting wild Fancy with the hues of Truth;
    Whose plumy shape, floating in rosy light,
      Showered purest pearl-drops from its fairy wing,
    Making earth’s pathway like the day-star bright,
      Thou charmer rare of life’s enchanted spring!

    Fair were the scenes thy radiant pencil drew,
      When on my eyes the early beauty broke:
    And thy rich-ringing lyre, when life was new,
      A glowing rapture in my bosom woke.
    Then thy gay sister Fancy made my dreams
      Lovely, and lightsome as the summer-hours,
    And in her fairy loom wrought hues and gleams
      That clothed the Ideal in a robe of flowers.

    _Now_, thou hast vanished from my yearning sight—
      Thou comest no more in melting softness drest—
    No more thou weavest sweet visions of delight,
      No charm thou bring’st to lull my heart to rest.
    The bloom has faded from thy face, dear Hope—
      The light is lost—the shadow comes not back!
    Thy green oasis-flowers no more re-ope,
      To scatter fragrance o’er life’s desert track.

    Oh, angel-spirit of my perished years!
      Thy early memory stands before me now:
    Ah! by _that_ memory, which so fair appears,
      Unveil once more the beauty of thy brow;
    Come—if I have not _quite_ outlived thee—come!
      And bid thy rival dark Despair depart—
    _His_ touch has left me blind and deaf and dumb—
      Bring _thou_ one ray of sunshine to my heart!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         A GALE IN THE CHANNEL.


   BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” ETC.


IT was on a sunny day in the winter of 183-, that we dropped down the
Mersey and took our leave of Liverpool. Our vessel was a new ship of
seven hundred tons; and as she spread, one after another, her folds of
white canvas to the breeze, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful
sight. The scene around was lively and inspiriting. Innumerable craft of
all sizes covered the waters far and near: here, a large merchantman
moving like a stately swan, there, a light yacht skimming along with the
swiftness of a swallow. The sunlight sparkled and danced on the billows;
the receding coast grew more picturesque as we left it astern; and the
blue expanse of the Irish channel stretched away in front, until lost in
a thin haze on the opposite horizon.

I had been reading below for several hours, but toward nightfall went on
deck again. How I started at the change! It was yet an hour to sunset,
but the luminary of day was already hidden in a thick bank of clouds,
that lay stretched ominously along the western seaboard. The wind had
increased to a smart gale, and was laden with moisture. The billows
increased in size every minute, and were whitening with foam far and
near. Occasionally as a roller struck the ship’s bows, the white spray
flew crackling over the forecastle, and sometimes even shot into the
top: on these occasions a foreboding, melancholy sound, like the groan
of some huge animal in pain, issued from the thousand timbers of the
vessel. Already, in anticipation of the rising tempest, the canvas had
been reduced, and we were now heading toward the Irish coast under
reefed topsails, courses, a spanker and jib.

“A rough night in prospect, Jack!” I said addressing an old tar beside
me.

“You may well say that, sir,” he replied. “It’s bad on the Norway coast
in December, and bad going into Sandy Hook in a snow-storm; but both are
nothing to a gale in the channel here,” he added, as a sudden whirl of
the tempest covered us with spray.

“I wish we had more sea room,” I answered musingly.

“Ay! I’d give the wages of the voyage if we had. How happy you all
seemed in the cabin, sir, the ladies especially, an hour or two ago—I
suppose it was because we are going home—ah! little did any of us
think,” he added, with a seriousness, and in a language uncommon for a
sailor, “that we might be bound to another, and a last home, which we
should behold first.”

At this moment the captain shouted to shorten sail, and our conversation
was of necessity cut short. The ship, I ought to have said, had been
laid close to the wind, in order to claw off the English coast, to which
we were in dangerous propinquity; and, as the gale increased, the heavy
press of canvas forcing her down into the water, she struggled and
strained frightfully. While the crew were at work, I walked forward. The
billows, now increased to a gigantic size, came rolling down upon us one
after another, with such rapidity that our good craft could scarcely
recover from one before another was upon her. Each time she struck a
head-sea she would stagger an instant, quivering in every timber, while
the crest of the shattered wave would shoot to the fore-top like the jet
of a fountain: then, the vast surge sinking away beneath her, she would
settle groaning into the trough of the sea, until another billow lifted
her, another surge thundered against her bows, another shower of foam
flew over her. Now and then, when a more colossal wave than usual was
seen approaching, the cry “hold on all” rang warningly across the decks.
At such times, the vast billow would approach, its head towering in the
gathering twilight, until it threatened to engulf us; but, just when all
seemed over, our gallant ship would spring forward to meet it, like a
steed started by the spur, and the mountain of waters would break over
and around us, hissing, roaring and flashing by, and then sinking into
the apparently bottomless gulf beneath us.

Meanwhile the decks were resounding with the tread of the sailors, as
they hurried to and fro in obedience to the captain’s orders; while the
rattling of blocks, the shouts of command, and the quick replies of the
seamen, rose over the uproar of the storm.

“Let go bowlines,” cried the stentorian voice of the captain, “ease off
the tack—haul on the weather-braces.”

Away went the huge sail in obedience to the order.

“Ease off the sheet—haul up to lee!”

The crew redoubled their quickness; and soon the immense courses were
stowed. In a few minutes the ship’s canvas was reduced to reefed
topsails, spanker, and fore-topmast staysail. By this time evening had
set in, though the long twilight of that latitude prolonged a sickly
radiance.

But even this contraction of sail was not sufficient. The thick duck
tugged at the yards, as if it would snap them in two. Every moment I
expected to see the spanker go.

“We must take in that sail,” said the captain finally, “or she will tear
herself to pieces. All hands in with the spanker.”

In an instant the men were struggling with the huge sheet of canvas; and
never before had I been so forcibly impressed with the power and
usefulness of discipline. In an incredibly short interval the gigantic
sail, notwithstanding its struggles, was got under control, and safely
stowed.

The ship now labored less for awhile, but, as the storm increased, she
groaned and struggled as before. The captain saw it would not do to
carry even the little sail now remaining, for, under the tremendous
strain, the canvas might be continually expected to be blown from the
bolt-ropes. And yet our sole hope lay in crowding every stitch, in order
to claw off the English coast! The sailor will understand this at a
word, but to the landsman it may require explanation.

Our danger, then, consisted in having insufficient sea room. If we had
been on the broad Atlantic, with a hundred or two miles of ocean all
around us, we could have lain-to under some bit of a head-sail, or
fore-topmast sky-sail for instance, or a reefed fore-sail. But when a
vessel lies-to, or, in other words, faces the quarter whence the wind
comes, with only enough canvas set to steer her by, she necessarily
drifts considerably, and in a line of motion diagonal to her keel. This
is called making lee-way. Most ships, when lying-to in a gale, drill
very rapidly, sometimes hundreds of miles if the tempest is protracted.
It is for this reason that a vessel in a narrow channel dares not
lie-to, for a few miles of lee-way would wreck her on the neighboring
coast. The only resource, in such cases, is to carry a press of sail,
and head in the direction whence the wind comes, but not near so close
to it as in lying-to. This is called clawing off a lee-shore. A constant
struggle is maintained between the waves, which set the vessel in the
same track they are going themselves, and the wind, which urges her on
the opposite course. If the canvas holds, and the ship is not too close
to the shore under her lee, she escapes: if the sails part, she drives
upon the fatal coast before new ones can be got up and bent. Frequently
in such cases the struggle is protracted for hours. It is a noble yet
harrowing spectacle to see a gallant ship thus contending for her life,
as if an animated creature, breasting surge after surge, too often in
vain, panting, trembling and battling till the very last.

The captain did not appear satisfied with taking in the spanker; indeed,
all feared that the ship could not carry what sail was left.
Accordingly, he ordered the topsails to be close-reefed. Yet even after
this, the vessel tore through the waters as if every moment she would
jerk her masts out. The wind had now increased to a perfect hurricane.
It shrieked, howled and roared around as if a thousand fiends were
abroad on the blast.

In moments of extreme peril strong natures gather together, as if by
some secret instinct. It was in this way that the captain suddenly found
himself near the old topman, whom I had been conversing with in the
early part of the evening, and who, it appeared, was one of the oldest
and best seamen in the ship.

The captain stood by the man’s side a full minute without speaking,
looking at the wild waves that, like hungry wolves, came trooping down
toward us.

“How far are we from the coast?” he said at last.

“Perhaps five miles, perhaps three, sir!” quietly replied the man.

“And we have a long run to make before we get sea-room,” said the
captain.

“We shall all be in eternity before morning,” answered the man,
solemnly.

The captain paused a moment, when he replied,

“Our only hope is in the topsail-clews—if they give way, we are indeed
lost—God help us!”

“Amen!” I answered, involuntarily.

Silence now ensued, though none of us changed our positions. For myself,
I was occupied with thinking of the female passengers, soon, perhaps, to
be the prey of the wild waters. Every moment it seemed as if the
topsails would give way, she strained so frightfully. It was impossible
to stand up if exposed to the full force of the gale. So we sheltered
ourselves in the waist as we best could. The wind as well as spray,
however, reached us even here, though in diminished violence, the latter
stinging the face like shot thrown against it. It seemed to me, each
minute, as if we made more lee-way. At last, after half an hour’s
suspense, I heard the surf breaking, with a noise like thunder, on the
iron-bound coast to the eastward. Again and again I listened, and each
time the awful sound became more distinct.

I did not mention my fears, however, for I still thought I might be
mistaken. Suddenly the captain looked up.

“Hark!” he said.

He stood with his finger raised in the attitude of one listening
intently, his eyes fixed on the face of the old sailor.

“It is the sound of breakers,” said the seaman.

“Breakers on the lee-quarter!” cried the look-out at this instant, his
hoarse voice sounding ominously across the night.

“Breakers on the lee-beam!” answered another.

“Breakers on the lee-bow!” echoed a third.

All eyes peered immediately into the darkness. A long line of foam was
plainly visible, skirting quite round the horizon to leeward.

“God have mercy on our souls!” I involuntarily ejaculated.

The captain sprung to the wheel, his eye flashing, his whole frame
dilated—for he had taken a sudden and desperate resolution. He saw
that, if no effort was made, we should be among the breakers in twenty
minutes; but if the mainsail could be set, and made to hold for half an
hour, we might yet escape. There were nine chances to one that the sail
would split the instant it was spread, and in a less terrible emergency
he would have shrunk from the experiment; but it was now our only hope.

“Keep her to it!” he shouted; “keep her well up. All hands to set the
main-course!”

Fortunately we were strong-handed, so that it would not be necessary to
carry the tack to the windlass, notwithstanding the gale. A portion of
the crew sprung to man this important rope; the remainder hurried up the
rigging, almost disappearing in the gloom overhead.

In less than a minute the huge sail fell from the yard, like a gigantic
puff of white smoke blown from the top. It struggled and whipped
terribly, but the good ropes held fast.

“Brace up the yard—haul out the bowline!” thundered the captain.

“Ay, ay, sir!” and it was done.

“Haul aft!”

The men ran off with the line, and the immense sheet came to its place.

This was the critical moment. The ship feeling the additional
propulsion, made a headlong plunge. I held my breath. I expected nothing
less than to see the heavy duck blown from the yard like a gossamer; but
the strong fabric held fast, though straining awfully.

“She comes up, don’t she?” interrogated the captain of the man at the
helm.

“Ay, ay, sir—she does!”

“How much?”

“Two points, sir!”

“If she holds for half an hour,” ejaculated the captain, “we may yet be
saved.”

On rushed the noble ship, seeming to know how much depended on her. She
met the billows, she rose above them, she struggled perseveringly
forward. In five minutes the breakers were visibly receding.

But hope had been given only to delude us. Suddenly I heard a crack,
sharper than an explosion of thunder, and simultaneously the course
parted from its fastenings, and sailed away to leeward, like a white
cloud driven down the gale.

A cry of horror rose from all. “It is over!” I cried; and I looked
around for a plank, intending to lash myself to it, in anticipation of
the moment for striking.

When the course went overboard, the head of the ship fell off
immediately; and now the wild breakers tumbled and roared closer at hand
each moment.

Suddenly the captain seized my arm, for we were holding on almost side
by side.

“Ha!” he cried, “is not that dark water yonder?” and he pointed across
our lee-bow.

I looked in the direction to which he referred. Unless my eyes deceived
me, the long line of breakers came to an abrupt termination there, as if
the shore curved inwards at that point.

“You are right—there is a deep bay ahead,” I cried, joyfully. “Look!
you can see the surf whitening around the cape.”

The whole crew simultaneously detected this new chance of escape. Though
unable to head to the wind as before, there was still a prospect that we
could clear the promontory. Accordingly, the next few minutes were
passed in breathless suspense. Not a word was spoken on board. Every eye
was fixed on that rocky headland, around which the waters boiled as in
the vortex of a maelstrom.

The ship seemed conscious of the general feeling, and struggled, I
thought, more desperately than ever. She breasted the huge billows with
gallant perseverance, and though each one set her closer to the shore,
she met the next wave with the same stubborn resolution. Nearer, nearer,
nearer we drilled toward the fatal cape. I could now almost fling a
biscuit into the breakers.

I had noticed a gigantic roller coming for some time, but had hoped we
might clear the cape before it reached us. I now saw the hope was in
vain. Towering and towering, the huge wave approached, its dark side
almost a perpendicular wall of waters.

“Hold on all!” thundered the captain.

Down it came! For an instant its vast summit hovered overhead, and then,
with a roar like ten thousand cataracts, it poured over us. The ship was
swept before it like a feather on a gale. With the waters dashing and
hissing over the decks, and whirling in wild eddies under our lee, we
drove in the direction of the cape. I held my breath in awe. A strong
man might almost have leaped on the extreme point of the promontory. I
closed my eyes shuddering. The next instant a hurrah met my ear. I
looked up. We had shot by the cape, and miles of dark water were before
us. An old tar beside me had given vent to the cheer.

“By the Lord!” he said, “but that was close scraping, sir. Another sich
would have cracked the hull like an egg-shell. But this craft wasn’t
made to go to Davy Jones’ locker!”

And with all the coolness imaginable, he took out a huge piece of
pig-tail, leisurely twisted off a bit, and began chewing with as much
composure as if nothing unusual had happened.

A year ago, when in New York, I met the captain again, unexpectedly, at
the Astor. We dined together, when I took occasion to ask him if he
remembered our winter night’s experience in the Irish Channel ten years
before.

“Ay!” he said. “And do you know that, when I went out to Liverpool on my
next trip, I heard that search had been made all along the coast for the
fragments of our ship. The escape was considered miraculous.”

“Sir,” I replied, “I’ve had enough of the Irish Channel.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            TO MRS. E. C. K.


                         BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN.


        LADY, when first upon my listening ear
      Thy song harmonious fell, subdued, entranced,
      And spell-bound by the strain, my spirit glanced
      Adown Time’s darkening track, and as it hung
        Upon the magic numbers, seemed to hear
      The lay that erst to Lycidas was sung,
        By Siloa’s rapt bard, whose visual orbs
      Were quenched in the intenser brilliancy
        Of Truth’s divinest radiance, that absorbs
      All lesser brightness; thus I mused of thee;
        But when I saw thee, fair as Hope’s young dream,
      Freshness like Morning’s on thy brow and cheek,
        Through which the soul’s celestial light doth beam
      As through a sculptured vase, I felt how weak
        Are images of manhood’s pride and fame
        That birth-right’s priceless value to proclaim,
      Where genius, wit, and poesy divine,
    Make woman’s heart of love their best and holiest shrine.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          VALENTINE HISTORIES.


                           BY S. SUTHERLAND.


FLORENCE HASTINGS sat alone in one of the spacious apartments of her
uncle’s stately mansion in —— square. The luxuriously cushioned sofa
was drawn quite close to the cheerful grate-fire, while the pale cheek
of its occupant, and the slight form almost hidden in the folds of a
large shawl, betokened an invalid. And such in reality was our young
heroine. Fresh in her memory, and consequently in its effects upon her
personal appearance, was a lingering and dangerous illness, and barely
three weeks had elapsed since the crisis was safely past, and she had
been pronounced convalescent.

Books and writing materials were now scattered carelessly upon a table
beside her—but they did not claim her interest. She seemed in an
unusually nervous, restless mood. At times her eyes would wander around
the apartment with a strangely dissatisfied look, (for every thing
before her wore an appearance of splendor very agreeable to the gaze of
the beholder,) then she would bury her face in her hands, while
something glittering and dewy—something greatly resembling _a
tear-drop_, would trickle slowly through those slender fingers. Could
it, indeed, be a tear-drop? What cause for sorrow had Florence Hastings,
the young and accomplished heiress? Florence was an orphan. At the early
age of ten years she had lost both the tender father, and the sweet
mother who had watched over her steps in infancy, and since that period
she had felt too deeply that there was no one to whom she could look for
the true love and sympathy for which her spirit pined. Her uncle and
guardian, absorbed in the duties of an extensive mercantile
establishment, troubled himself little about his niece. He was well
assured that her own goodly inheritance amply supplied all her
desires—and the morning salutation with which he honored Florence as
she took her accustomed seat beside him at the breakfast table, and the
gracious smile of approbation when he beheld her at evening bending over
her studies in the parlor, were generally sufficient to relieve his mind
of all scruples concerning the duties of personal intercourse. On this
point, however, no one who knew Mr. Hastings would have rested any blame
upon him. He was to all a man of few words—naturally cold and calm in
manner. His wife resembled him greatly in every respect—being of a
quiet, placid temperament, which no emotion was ever observed to
ruffle—pursuing the tenor of her way by rule rather than by impulse. So
in this case, at least, it was plainly evident that “Love’s delight” had
not consisted in “joining contrasts.” Casual observers might have said
that a similar description would apply to Mr. Hastings’ niece—but in
doing so they wronged her. Florence was, indeed, reserved, and
apparently cold, but it was from habit and education—not by
inheritance. Once she had been a sunny, glad-souled child, whose
bounding footstep and merry laugh resounded gayly through a home where
she was tenderly loved and cherished—but she was sensitive, too, beyond
her years; and when the light of that pleasant hearth was forever
extinguished, and she sat in affliction and desolation of spirit by the
fireside of those who till then had been strangers to her, the chilling
atmosphere of her new home effectually checked the return of that
animation of manner, which, from the fortunate inability of childhood to
retain a lasting remembrance of sorrow, might have been expected. So the
gleeful laughter of the once happy-hearted little Florence was hushed,
and her joyous, springing step exchanged for a slower and more measured
tread. It was a mournful thing for one so young and gentle and loving in
spirit as Florence, to be obliged to repress all exhibition of the
sweet, frank impulses of her nature, and live on with no voice to
whisper words of encouragement and affection. Yet the orphan succeeded
in moulding her manner in accordance with her new and strange existence.
A weary task it was, and oftentimes did her rebellious soul

                            “Beat the bars
          With burning wing and passionate song,
        And pour to the benignant stars
          The earnest story of its wrong.”

But the “benignant stars” alone looked down upon these struggles; no
human ear ever caught the moan of that fettered and wounded spirit. Mrs.
Hastings never dreamed, nor is it to be supposed she would have _cared_,
that the quiet and apparently passionless child who came with such
seeming carelessness to receive her customary good-night kiss, would
have clung to her fondly, and returned the caress with impassioned
earnestness, had it been impressed upon her brow with the slightest
token of feeling.

Till Florence had attained her fourteenth year her education had been
superintended by a governess who came daily to her uncle’s dwelling, and
with whom, being devoted to books and study, she had made rapid
progress. But for many reasons which I have not space here to enumerate,
it was at length thought advisable to send her to a celebrated seminary
located in the neighborhood of her residence. About the same period, Mr.
Hastings’ family received an addition, by the arrival of a niece of his
wife’s, who had also been consigned to his guardianship. Ida Hamilton
was about a year the senior of Florence, and a bright, frank,
gay-spirited creature, who had passed her life hitherto under none but
genial auspices. She was exactly what Florence would have been had her
soul always dwelt in the kindly atmosphere of affection. At the school
which they attended together, Ida was called “the Sunbeam,” and Florence
“the Iceberg;” and the society of the former was courted by all, while
the latter was uncared for, though none dared to think her neglected,
for they said she was cold and proud—

                      “Proud of her pride,
        And proud of the power to riches allied;”

and when in the hour of recreation she sat apart from all, apparently
absorbed in a book, and paying little heed to what passed around her,
what token had they for suspecting that it was the indifference of a
heart only too proud to seek for sympathy where she believed she would
meet with no return. Ida Hamilton had been an orphan from infancy; but
the place of her parents had been supplied by near and kind relatives,
who had petted and cherished her as their own. Her first grief had been
her separation from these relatives, when by the ill health of one of
its members the family circle was broken up, and a residence in the
South of Europe advised by the physicians. Ida was, meanwhile, left to
the care of her guardian, Mr. Hastings; and deeply as she at first
mourned the departure of her beloved friends, hope painted in glowing
colors her reunion with them at some future day, and so by degrees the
young girl became reconciled to the change. For awhile she felt, indeed,
a restraint upon her happy spirit, for the constraint and formality
which seemed the governing powers of her aunt’s domestic circle formed a
vivid contrast with that free-hearted and universal cordiality of
feeling to which she had been accustomed. But it was scarcely to be
supposed that she would long be daunted at the unpromising aspect of
things around her. Confiding, affectionate and yielding to those who
loved her, Ida was “as careless as the summer rill that sings itself
along” with those who had no claim upon her heart, and possessed withal
of a certain independence of manner which rendered all caviling out of
the question. If Mrs. Hastings felt any surprise when her niece
gradually cast aside the awe with which her presence had at first
inspired her, as usual, she gave no manifestation of it. But the
servants, well-trained as they were, looked exclamation points at one
another when, while engaged in active duties, they heard Miss Ida’s
lively sallies to their master and mistress, and _talked_ their
astonishment when, while in their own distinct quarters, they caught the
sound of her voice as it rang out dear and free in laughter, or warbled
silvery and sweet, wild snatches of some favorite song.

It may be supposed that with such pleasant companionship the life of
Florence Hastings had become more joyous. But it was not so. Though for
more than three years Ida Hamilton and Florence had been domesticated
beneath the same roof, upon the morning on which my sketch begins (the
ever memorable Fourteenth of February, 1850,) they were to all
appearance scarcely better acquainted than upon the day of Ida’s
introduction to Mr. Hasting’s dwelling. Bending daily, as they had done,
over the same studies, they had never sought one another’s sympathy; and
when they left school, it could scarcely be expected that the bond of
union would be more closely cemented. Mutually calculated though they
were to become warm-hearted friends, beyond the common civilities of
life, no intercourse had subsisted between them. Ida never jested with
Florence, or strove to provoke a smile by the thousand little witcheries
that she sometimes practiced upon others—not excepting her stately
uncle and aunt, and at intervals even in this case with success.
Florence often wished that she had but possessed a sister like Ida; her
heart throbbed with a deep, irrepressible yearning whenever that little,
soft hand by chance touched hers; but she had learned too perfectly the
art of keeping her feelings in check to betray them now, even “by
faintest flutter of a pulse, by lightest change of cheek, or eyelid’s
fall.”

As I have said, Florence was but just recovering from a lengthened and
dangerous illness, from the effects of which she was still weak. During
that illness she had been constantly attended by Mrs. Hastings; and
while deeply grateful for her care, she had, though unobserved, moments
of irritability when the immobile features of her aunt were an absolute
annoyance. And it was enhanced by the striking contrast of Ida’s bright
face, who daily paid a ceremonious visit to the sick-room—Ida, who was
never cold to any one but her! Then she would wish that Ida Hamilton
would not come near her at all—she was never so wretched as after the
reception of her unconscious visiter; and yet when Ida delayed her
coming an hour later than usual, she was restless and uneasy! And these
spells of feverish excitability greatly retarded her recovery. It was
the return of one of them upon the present occasion, by which the tears
that filled her eyes may be explained.

Among the various manuscripts lying upon the little table before her,
and bearing the signature of Florence Hastings, was the following,
characteristic of her present emotions, and upon the surface of which
the ink was still moist. She had evidently penned it but a few seconds
previously.

        This world is fair, with sunshine and with flowers,
          That fragrance to its happy wanderers bring;
        And while with listless step I roam life’s bowers,
          Fain would I pluck the blossoms where they spring;
        Ah! must I check the wish and pass them by—
        Must sunless ever be _my_ spirit’s sky?

        And yet they deem me reckless of the love
          Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain
        At the strange picture of a mind above
          All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;
        Oh! can they think my proud, high heart would _show_
        The wish for blessings it may never know?

        Watchful and wary of each look and word,
          Lest they, earth’s joyous ones, should chance to learn
        The feelings that within so oft are stirred,
          That such emotions in my bosom burn,
        Yet here unseen, unheard, I must give way,
        And for awhile to anguish yield the sway.

        _Alone!_ What weary thoughts at that word throng,
          Vainly some refuge from their weight I crave,
        Yet it shall be the burthen of my song
          Until I rest within the quiet grave;
        No brighter hope hath my sad spirit known—
        And I must still live on unloved—alone!

        They call me cold and reckless of the love
          Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain
        At the strange picture of a mind above
          All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;
        How can they dream my proud, high heart would show
        The wish for blessings it may never know!

Florence was suddenly aroused from her melancholy reverie by the sound
of footsteps approaching the door of her chamber. In another instant
there was a low knock—and hastily dashing aside her tears, and
assuming, as if by magic, her wonted exterior, she bade the intruder
enter. It proved to be a servant, who placed a small package in her
hand, saying, as she did so, “A Valentine for you, Miss Florence.” The
latter started with pleasurable surprise; who in all the wide world
could have taken the trouble to write _her_ a valentine? But the query
was answered by a single glance at the superscription. It was strangely
familiar—it was Ida Hamilton’s! Just as she broke the seal the servant
withdrew, saying that she had been requested to call in half an hour for
a reply.

When the package was unclosed, the following verses met the gaze of the
astonished and delighted Florence. They were entitled “A Supplication to
Florence.”

        Hearest thou my spirit chanting
          At the portals of thy heart?
        ’Tis to cross that threshold panting—
          Pining—bid it not depart.

        List not to its prayer unheeding,
          Entrance though it seeks to win—
        When it rises softly pleading,
          Prithee, prithee take me in!

        From a world of care and sadness,
          From its shadows and its sin,
        For Love’s sake, with love and gladness,
          Prithee, prithee take me in!

        Ah! within that mansion holy,
          May its nobler life begin?
        Turn not from its pleadings lowly,
          Prithee, prithee take me in!

Accompanying this playful but deeply earnest little strain—_doubly_
earnest, as coming from Ida to Florence—was an explanatory letter. Ida
Hamilton wrote thus:

    “It must, doubtless, seem very bewildering to you, Florence,
    that I should have taken the liberty of addressing a Valentine
    to one between whom and myself there has not hitherto existed an
    intimacy sufficiently familiar to warrant the presumption. But
    when, in excuse for my boldness, I plead my sincere wish for a
    nearer intimacy, my earnest desire to call you by the holy and
    tender name of _friend_—you will forgive me, will you not,
    _dear_ Florence?

    “For the past three years, dearest Florence, your image has
    haunted and troubled me—haunted me, because, from the moment of
    our first meeting, I have felt my heart irresistibly drawn
    toward you—troubled me, because the belief of others, and their
    oft-repeated assurance that you were totally destitute of warmth
    of character, could not consequently be aught but a source of
    pain. For this I must also crave your forgiveness, for I know
    now that in having for a time given credence to such assertions,
    I did you a grievous wrong.

    “For the last few months I have watched you closely, Florence,
    though you little dreamed yourself the object of my scrutiny. I
    have ascertained that you are not the statue-like being you have
    been represented, and, indeed, appear—that you are in reality

            ‘Not cold, but pure—not proud, but taught to know
             That the heart’s treasure is a holy thing.’

    “You are not aware that once, when you imagined yourself quite
    unobserved, I beheld you bending tearfully over the miniature of
    that dear parent whom God so early recalled to his heavenly
    mansions—that I saw you press your lips to it wildly and
    passionately; and though you spoke but the simple word “Mother!”
    the tone in which that word was uttered, was the revelation that
    I sought. And from that moment I found it easy to realize how
    the chilling atmosphere of my aunt’s domicil had operated upon
    your gentle heart, while I felt that had _I_ been transplanted
    to my present abode at an earlier and more impressible age, I,
    too, should have learned to wear a mask similar to that which
    concealed your ardent and sensitive spirit. And the discovery
    that brought such joy to my soul, gave new life to its former
    yearnings for your friendship. But toward myself you had never
    evinced the slightest token of preference—wearing in my
    presence the exterior which deceived all others; and I could not
    offer advances which I feared might be intrusive and unwelcome.
    So I strove to content myself with a silent interest in all your
    motions, and never until your recent illness allowed myself to
    imagine that the affection of a faulty, wayward heart like mine,
    would prove to you an acceptable gift. The occasion to which I
    refer was during one of my visits to your sick chamber, when, as
    I rose to leave you, you clasped my hand for the first time with
    a pressure, while as I spoke formally enough, my pleasure at
    seeing you recovering so rapidly, a faint color suffused your
    cheek. It faded instantly, however, and your wonted
    self-possession returned; but not before my heart had
    experienced a thrill of delight at the hope, delusive though it
    may have been, of winning your regard at some future day. It is
    that hope which has given me courage for my present
    proceeding—it has emboldened me to ask whether we may not
    become friends—become _dear_ friends, Florence?

    “In conclusion, I would say to you that I have to-day received a
    letter from a distant relative, who lives at the South, urgently
    pressing me to come and reside with her till the friends of my
    early youth return from abroad. She writes to me in a spirit of
    genial, heart-breathed kindness, very welcome to my thirsting
    soul—and her letter is different, indeed, from the
    precisely-worded epistle in which my aunt invited me to become a
    member of _her_ household. It rests with you, Florence, to tell
    me whether I shall go or stay. My present abode has never been a
    congenial one; but _your_ friendship would cast a heart-glow
    around it, and render me perfectly content to remain where I am.

    “I await with impatience your answer. If it should prove that I
    have had but a pleasant vision, too bright and sweet ever to be
    realized, be at least frank with me, Florence, as I have been
    with you.

                                                           “IDA.”

Florence Hastings closed that precious letter, upon which, as she read,
her tears had fallen thick and fast. To her it was the first of those
moments in life

            “When such sensations in the soul assemble
        As make it pleasure to the eyes to weep.”

And with scarce an instant’s delay, she traced the following reply.

    “Do not leave me, Ida. Heaven bless you for your generous
    avowal—for your sweet offer of affection! Oh! if you could but
    imagine how intensely happy it has made me! I have always loved
    _you_, though I scarcely dared confess it even to myself, for I
    never dreamed that I could be an object of interest to any one.
    My life has hitherto been _so_ sad, and dark, and desolate; and
    my proud efforts to conceal from view the yearning for sympathy
    and appreciation that possessed my soul, have given me an apathy
    of manner which could not but prove repelling to those with whom
    chance brought me in contact. _You_ alone have read me
    aright—you alone know that I am not what I seem; that
    discipline and not nature, is shadowed forth in my outward
    demeanor.

    “Come, then, to me, darling, and let me reveal myself to you
    _more_ fully. Let me fold you to my bosom, and then, while I
    confess how precious to my soul is the promise of your true and
    earnest friendship, you will forget that to _you_ at least I
    have ever seemed

                                                   “THE ICEBERG.”

Florence had just finished her answer when the servant came for it, and
this time her voice trembled perceptibly, as she repeated to the
messenger her desire to see Miss Hamilton as soon as she had perused it.

Five minutes elapsed; Florence, meanwhile, impatiently pacing the
apartment, her usually colorless cheek deeply flushed, and her dark eyes
glowing with an excitement that was destined speedily to end in
happiness the most perfect she had known since early childhood. At
length there was a light, hurrying tread upon the stair; nearer and
nearer it drew—and in another instant the door of Florence’s apartment
was hastily unclosed, and Ida Hamilton stood before her! There was a
quick burst of tears on the part of each; then Florence Hastings sprung
forward and clasped her newly found friend to her heart, returning her
caresses with impassioned fondness, and in tones that thrilled to the
inmost soul of her companion, murmuring, “Ida—my own Ida! Darling,
darling Ida!”

The Iceberg was irremediably _thawed_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

There is a cosy family party assembled in the well-lighted parlors of
Mr. Gordon’s dwelling, in —— street. It is the anniversary of his
wedding-day. Upon the festival of St. Valentine, exactly nine-and-forty
years ago, (for Mr. Gordon has passed the allotted “three score and
ten,”) as his wife, he brought to his then humble abode a lovely and
sunny-souled maiden of eighteen, now metamorphosed into the gray-haired
matron by his side, who has proved his genial partner through all life’s
joys and sorrows—the still blithe and sweet-voiced Grandma Gordon. From
time immemorial, the members of Mr. Gordon’s family, from far and near,
have gathered together upon this especial occasion. His own immediate
household had consisted originally of five sons and as many daughters;
and though some of these now rested beneath the sod, in their place had
arisen a numerous flock of grandchildren—and a prouder boast still, he
had lived to pet, and I had almost said _spoil_, no less than two
bright-eyed and most wonderful _great_-grandchildren—to wit, Master
Benjamin Franklin Gordon, or little Bennie, as everybody calls him, a
promising young gentleman of some three or four summers, and Helen
Gordon Bond, a most precocious young lady, who is now gliding rapidly
onward toward her second birthday. Both these important juveniles are
present upon this particular occasion. Grandfather Gordon, himself a
silvery-haired, benevolent-featured old man, (in appearance precisely
such a grandsire as the genius of a Waldmuller would have delighted to
immortalize upon canvas,) was seated in a capacious and well-cushioned
arm-chair by the fire. Occupying with becoming dignity the post of honor
upon his knee is little Helen, while Bennie Gordon has perched himself
upon one arm of his grandfather’s chair, and is teasing him for the
information whether the little toy-watch he holds in his hand—his first
assumption of manliness—is wound up or wound _down_.

It will be, perhaps, proper to introduce the reader to a portion of the
assembled family group. Yonder, upon the sofa, sit the two elder sons of
Mr. Gordon, busily engaged in a discussion upon the merits of last
year’s Art-Union exhibition. Alfred, the senior, is the _genuine_
grandfather of little Bennie.

That lady, who is just about leaving her station at the piano, is the
parent of little Helen. She is a sweet, fair creature, so childlike in
appearance, that it is difficult to recognize her as a wife and mother.
She has just been singing, “Be kind to the loved ones,” with a grace and
feeling that touched all hearts.

Next we behold a group of some half a dozen little girls, huddled
together in a corner, in most sociable proximity to one another. Katie
Wilmot, at present the “leading member,” a rosy, chatty little
curly-pate, is detailing most eloquently her experience of Santa Claus’s
last donation visit, while the others are patiently waiting their turn
to relate how lavishly he supplied their stockings.

Those two maidens of “sweet sixteen,” or thereabouts, seated upon the
ottoman, with their arms very lovingly entwined round one another, are
Mabel Wilmot and Fanny Gordon, light-hearted school-girls and
affectionate cousins—inseparable companions whenever a happy chance
throws them together. But, alas! their opportunities of intercourse have
as yet been “few and far between,” for Mabel’s home is in the country,
many miles distant. The cousins have recently, however, laid their plans
for removing this obstacle to their intimacy. They talk of becoming
voluntary old maids, and of coaxing grandfather to build for their sole
occupation an “Old Maid’s Hall.” Mabel has repeatedly declared her
determination never to be such a goose as to get married; while Fanny,
in one of her frequent letters to Mabel, has written, “Is it not a
glorious thing to be an old maid? And what further recommendation can a
lady need in the eyes of society if it is known that she is _an old
maid_!” It may be well if their plans are eventually put into execution,
for rumor says, though Mabel Wilmot disclaims the assertion with a most
indignant toss of her glossy ringlets, that a certain Mr. Merritt, the
high-souled, noble-looking, and wealthy rector of B——, has lately, for
the first time, been suspected of _interested motives_ in his
intercourse with a member of his flock; while the bright eyes and
witching smile of Fanny Gordon seem to argue for the future a prospectus
of hearts beguiled, one of which may eventually cause the overthrow of
the projected building.

A youth of nineteen or so, who is at present busily engaged entertaining
several younger cousins, is Mr. Harry Gordon, a theological student,
with whom social qualities and professional abilities, will always be
happily blended. He is amusing his juvenile companions with a game of
his own invention—a sort of play upon names, of which the following may
be taken as examples:

What well known scriptural name might a mother use in requesting her son
to escort home two young lady visiters?—Jeroboam. (“Jerry, bow ’em!”)

If an old gentleman told his son to crowd into an already well-filled
omnibus, the name of what conspicuous personage present would form the
command?—Benjamin. (“Ben, jam in!”)

The names of what popular authors of Great Britain might a person, while
gazing at a large bonfire, with propriety repeat?—Dickens, Howitt,
Burns. (“Dickens! how it burns!”)

The second of these was received with especial applause—not forgetting
to mention the brilliant sparkle of Grandfather Gordon’s eyes at this
original mode of bringing his pet, Bennie, into notice; while the third
particularly attracted the laughter and approval of a group around the
centre-table, consisting of Mrs. Gordon, the mother of Harry, Amy
Carter, her niece, and Mrs. Clinton, her sister. Amy is an orphan, and
has been so from infancy. But the tenderness of her grand-parents, with
whom she has always resided, has shielded her from the evils of
orphanage. She is a blithe, happy-hearted girl of seventeen, the very
soul of mirth and music. She is grandma’s especial darling; and the dear
old lady never gazes into that lovely, sunny face, never hears that
sweet voice warbling its merry carols, but she thinks of her own bright
youth, and says, with complacent fondness of her treasured grandchild,
“She is just what _I_ was at her age.” It is Grandfather Gordon’s firmly
expressed opinion that Amy, more than any other member of their
household, resembles his wife as he first knew her. Cousin Harry calls
his favorite Amy the Household Witch, because she has managed to wind
herself so closely about the hearts of all her relatives, that every eye
invariably brightens as her light footstep is heard approaching. But
this evening Amy seems for once herself to have been bewitched, for she
has found an absorbing object of interest in a spirited volume now lying
open before her, entitled, “Greenwood Leaves,” by Grace Greenwood. Amy
Carter has long felt an appreciation of the authoress, and to-night is
not the first time that, with all the fervor of a young, warm, generous
heart, she has wished her God speed in her journeys through Authorland.
Mrs. Clinton, who sits close beside her, with one of Amy’s hands resting
lovingly in hers, appears to be equally interested in a splendidly bound
and illustrated volume of Mrs. Osgood’s poems. She has just finished
reading to her sister, Mrs. Gordon, a brief essay upon the productions
of her favorite poetess, cut and preserved from a popular newspaper, and
from which the ensuing is an extract.

“The poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables,
but a spontaneous gushing forth of thoughts, fancies, and feelings,
which fall naturally into harmonious measures; and so perfectly is the
sense echoed in the sound, that it seems as if many of her compositions
might be intelligibly written in the characters of music. In all her
poems we find occasion to admire the author as well as the works. Her
spontaneous and instinctive effusions appear in a higher degree than any
others in our literature, to combine the rarest and highest capacities
in art with the sincerest and deepest sentiments, and the noblest
aspirations. They would convince us, if the beauty of her life were
otherwise unknown, that Mrs. Osgood is one of the loveliest characters
in the histories of literature or society.”

And it was pleasant to see what a beautiful glow of sympathy and
enthusiasm illumined the countenance of the reader as she concluded that
most happy and fitting tribute to genius.

Mrs. Clinton is the youngest child of Grandfather Gordon. When only
eighteen, she became the wife of one to whom she was devotedly attached,
and two years afterward bent wildly over the death-couch of her idolized
husband. Ten years have passed since then, and time has softened the
sorrow which at first seemed too grievous for human endurance. Though
now past her thirtieth birth-day, Mrs. Clinton looks much younger. You
would scarcely suppose her more than two-and-twenty; and though not what
the world calls a beautiful woman, it would be difficult to deny that
there is something striking and noble in her appearance. She is somewhat
above the medium height, with a form of faultless symmetry, and a step
and carriage, though stately, yet eminently graceful. The contour of her
head is certainly superb, and its effect upon the observer greatly
enhanced by the arrangement of her abundant soft, brown hair, which is
always wound about it simply, and with a grace the more perfect,
because, while perfectly natural, it is unconsciously artistic. But her
features are decidedly irregular and unimpressive; and it is only when
those large, gray eyes are lighted, as upon the present occasion, from
within, when some inner chord is touched, and the usually pale cheek is
flushed and animated with the fire of feeling, that you are ready to
accord to her the power of fascination. But once meet that peculiarly
soulful look, and it will reflect itself continually, and haunt you
forever after. You will probably gaze frequently again upon the same
immobile features, but expressionless they will seem never more. By
those to whom she deigns to reveal herself, Mrs. Clinton is worshiped as
the personification of all that is lovely and lovable and intellectual.
And there are many also who have caught accidental glimpses of that
beautiful, noble, and impassioned spirit, and who would give worlds for
the slightest token that the deep interest with which she inspires them
is returned. Mrs. Clinton has had many offers of marriage; she has
turned coldly yet tearfully from the homage of many a true and manly,
ay, and gifted heart; for though she has long since laid aside the weeds
of widowhood, her _soul_ is still arrayed in mourning-garb for the
husband of her bright, fresh youth. She is one of those beings, few and
rare, indeed, with whom, having once passionately loved and survived the
object of their attachment, no compensation, however heart-offered,
could induce one moment’s oblivion of the past, or the most remote
thought of yielding to another that place in their holiest affections
which has been occupied by the departed. Though shut out from a sphere
of usefulness which she might truly have called her own, the years of
Mrs. Clinton’s widowhood had not been inactive. As she recovered from
the effects of that well-nigh overwhelming affliction, her little niece,
Amy, was approaching the most interesting stage of childhood. Her
beautiful, bright face, and the daily revealings of a mind unusually
intelligent, together with the sweet orphan’s naturally winning and
bewitching ways, won more and more upon the heart of her aunt. And so,
when Amy Carter was nine years old, Mrs. Clinton begged that her niece
might be altogether withdrawn from school, and that she might herself be
allowed to superintend the little girl’s education. So from that time
Amy dwelt beneath the spiritual dominion of her aunt; and never was
pupil more docile, or preceptress kinder or more fondly beloved. And
Amy’s devotion to Mrs. Clinton is still as ardent and enthusiastic as in
the days of her childhood. Wherever the latter has stationed herself,
you may be sure that the former is not very many paces distant. Mrs.
Clinton sometimes laughingly, but lovingly, styles Amy her shadow; and
her eyes are often suffused with happy tears at some unobtrusive mark of
the young girl’s earnest affection.

But upon the foregoing imperfect daguerreotypes, gentle reader, I have
already lingered longer than my time admits; for, after all, my
principal object in asking you to bear me company within the precincts
of this pleasant household, was, that we might inspect some of the
Valentines in yonder daintily-wrought basket resting upon the table,
beside which fair Amy Carter is seated.

(As a particular secret, dear reader, I will whisper to you that the
authorship of most of these little friendly missives is ascribed to Mrs.
Clinton.)

The first Valentine within our reach is addressed to Harry Gordon.

        When on your downy couch you lie,
        And thoughtful heave the pensive sigh,
        Or muse on conquests—Cupid’s bow
                Oft bent by thee—
        Ere slumber comes—just then bestow
                One thought on me.

        And if your fancy can but paint
        A modest maid, not _quite_ a saint,
        In stature small, in visage fair,
                Mild and discreet,
        ’Tis she would free your mind from care
                With whispers sweet.

Upon the reception of which, it may be as well to mention, our
anticipated doctor of divinity had laid his hand most impressively upon
his heart, in token of his appreciating divination of a passion so
divine.

Next we have a Valentine upon the tiniest of all tiny sheets of
gilt-edged note-paper. It is inscribed to little Helen Bond.

        Little Helen—list awhile,
        And I’ll strive to wake a smile
        On thy pure and dimpled cheek,
        As I tell thee of a freak
        That thy dainty spirit played,
        Dreaming not ’twould be betrayed.
        Little one—when thou to-day,
        Cradled in sweet slumber lay,
        To a very distant goal,
        Lo! thy truant spirit stole.
        To my study, love, it came;
        And I hope thou wilt not blame,
        That with eager, wild delight,
        Greeted I a guest so bright!
        With a sweetly joyous shout,
        First it gayly skipped about,
        Chanting forth a song of glee,
        That awhile it might be free!
        Then it nestled at my side,
        Welcomed there with love and pride,
        When it touched my silent lute,
        Asking why its chords were mute?
        And with eyes upraised to mine,
        Pleaded for a Valentine!

        Little Helen—not in vain
        Did thy spirit seek the strain;
        Not in vain, love, did it stray
        From its native haunts away;
        For I roused my lyre again,
        Singing to a soft refrain
        Prayers and wishes, warm and fond,
        For thy Future—Helen Bond!
        And such prayers are and will be
        Gushing from my soul for thee
        Every day and every hour,
        Rare and lovely little flower!
        Long may they who guard thy bloom
        Live thy life-path to illume;
        And may hearts as true respond
        E’er to thine, sweet Helen Bond!
        Where thy fairy feet fall lightly
        Ever may _their_ eyes beam brightly,
        And those voices meet thine own,
        Cherishing its faintest tone.
        So will Love and Happiness,
        Spirits bright, that reign to bless,
        O’er thee wave their magic wand,
        Darling little Helen Bond!

Here are two Valentines written upon the same sheet of paper—not for
economy’s sake, gentle reader, but to convey an idea that the parties
addressed are as they profess to be—one in spirit. The first is
inscribed to Mabel Wilmot, and the following is its language.

        Mable, dear Mable! pray beware,
        Or else you’ll fall into a snare;
        Laid down, I’m very much afraid
        For you—a volunteer—old-maid!

        _He_ waits but till you’re free from school,
        To take you ’neath his lordly rule;
        For then he hopes to hear you say,
        You’ll “love and honor and obey!”

        ’Tis naught to you, though wealth and _merit_
        Beyond a doubt he does inherit;
        You’re bound to live and die a maid,
        Demure, respectable and staid.

        So, Mable, darling, _do_ beware
        Of that gay sportsman’s cunning snare,
        And as your hand and heart’s his mark.
        Just bid your heart _emit the spark_!

Upon the opposite page are traced the ensuing lines to Fanny Gordon.

        Sweet Fanny! deep within my “heart of hearts,”
          A true and holy sentiment hath birth,
        Which there must ever dwell till life departs—
          Respect and reverence for thy modest worth!
        Like the dear violet, blooming in the shade,
          Scarce daring e’en to court the sun’s soft rays,
        Shrinking and trembling when by chance betrayed
          To the wild ardor of some earnest gaze.
        Thus art _thou_, Fanny! and thus will the light
          Of thy fair spirit burst from its disguise
        With sudden glory, and the vision bright
          Shall thrill all hearts with love and glad surprise;
        And startled souls shall _thy_ bright soul allure
        To kneel and worship at a shrine so pure!

You should have seen, dear reader, with what exuberance of glee Katie
Wilmot received _her_ Valentine, which is the one we are now about to
unfold. You should have caught the sound of her merry, ringing laughter,
and the gayly triumphant tone in which, holding her newly-gained
treasure to view, she exclaimed, “Sister Mabel—Cousin Fanny, can you
guess who this is for? Ah, you can’t guess—you wouldn’t dream of such a
thing? It’s for me—for _me_!” Then you should have witnessed how
joyously the little fairy clapped her tiny hands together, and the
impromptu polka which she accomplished round the apartment after the
following all-important little missive was read to her.

                    TO KATIE.

        Within my heart, you darling elf!
        I’ve caged your little frolic self,
        There will I hold you tight and fast—
        And so you see you’re caught at last;
        While this resolve I’ve made sincerely,
        To kiss and pet and love you dearly;
        You need not struggle to get free,
        You’re snugly locked—Love has the key;
        And once within his power, you know,
        He never lets a prisoner go!

        You saucy witch! you need not pout,
        And vow you’ll surely raise a route,
        Unless within one minute more,
        I summon Love to ope the door!

        Now plead not with that coaxing smile,
        Just to be free _a little while_;
        You waste your cunning, for in vain
        You strive to break Love’s silken chain.
        Whene’er he plays the jailor’s part
        He’s “up to” every dainty art,
        And though you think he’ll let you off,
        When well you know you’ll laugh and scoff
        The moment when, on loosened pinions,
        You wing away from his dominions;
        From that wild dream you’ll soon awaken,
        To learn you’re wofully mistaken;
        Love never yet betrayed a trust,
        So, for your comfort, stay you must!

        Ah! by this time I see you’ve found
        You’re really safely caught and bound;
        So, having tamed you down in season,
        I’m sure you soon will list to reason,
        And cease for liberty to pine,
        My true heart’s captive Valentine!

Yes, Katie Wilmot was _very_ proud of that; and she might have been
heard from time to time, through the evening, repeating with peculiar
satisfaction what seemed to be her two favorite lines,

        While this resolve I’ve made sincerely
        To kiss and pet and love you dearly!

These three appropriate little verses, addressed to Amy Carter, next
demand our attention.

        The “Household Witch,” _thy_ winning name,
          Because o’er all around thee,
        To weave Love’s magic spell the aim,
          Which true as Truth has found thee!

        Then as through future years thy smiles
          Illume this favored dwelling,
        All shadows by thy frolic wiles
          And witchery dispelling.

        By wile and smile in every niche,
          All needless gloom suppressing,
        Remaining yet the Household Witch,
          Still prove—_the Household Blessing_!

Dear Amy Carter! The ardent, impulsive kiss which your lips imprinted
upon that well-known handwriting, told how precious was this pleasant
tribute; that you recognized and blessed the traces of your childhood’s
loving friend, of your girlhood’s guardian angel!

One more poetical heart-effusion and our recording space is filled even
to overflowing. It is inscribed to Mrs. Clinton.

        Though I turn, I fly not,
            I cannot depart;
        I would try, but try not,
            To release my heart;
        And my hopes are dying,
        While on dreams relying,
            I am spelled by art.

        Thus the bright snake coiling
          ’Neath the forest tree,
        Wins the bird beguiling
          To come down and see.
        Like that bird the lover,
        Round his fate will hover,
        Till the blow is over,
          And he sinks—like me!

Ah, Mrs. Clinton! when you read that token of a never-fading attachment,
your sorrowing spirit murmured in tones of subdued melancholy, “For
years he has followed me, and though I have never encouraged his
attentions, it has seemed as if I could not be forgotten—as though he
could not bear to give me up. Yet I can never be grateful for his love,
I must only regret that it has been bestowed upon me. I can make him no
return—for still with me

        “Affection sheds its holiest light
         Upon my husband’s tomb!”

And so with “tears, radiant emanations,” welling from the innermost
depths of your soul, and glistening in your eyes, with intuitive
delicacy, you placed that avowal of disappointed affection in your
portfolio, deeming it there so safe from observation that not even Amy,
your darling, would ever catch a glimpse of it. But, unfortunately, on
the way to your own apartment, it escaped from its hiding-place, and was
picked up upon the stair by one of your little nieces, who transferred
it to the general Valentine-receptacle in the parlor. By and by you will
doubtless ask yourself with regretful wonder, how it came there.

But the day is already too far spent to admit of a longer sojourn with
the Gordons. And it is solely the fault of the recorder, gentle reader,
if you are not able to bid them adieu with the firm conviction that
theirs is one of those “homes of America” to whom Miss Bremer referred
when she said so sweetly, “wherever there is a good husband and father,
a true wife and mother, dutiful children, the spirit of freedom and
peace and love, and that beautiful feeling of noble minds which makes
them confer happiness on their fellow-creatures according to their gifts
and wishes, there also would I fain be myself, to see, to enjoy, to shed
tears of delight that paradise still is to be found on this poor earth.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE VALLEY OF SHADOW.


                           BY HENRY B. HIRST.


    WHEN daylight ends, where night begins,
    (May Jesus save us from our sins!)
    There lies a narrow, shadowy vale—
    (Mark me, I but repeat a tale
    Which once, I know not how, or when,
    Came mystically within my ken:)
    A dark, sepulchral, silent vale,
    Lying beyond the ultimate pale
    Of distant Time—beyond the din
    Of human tongues—by which the Djin,
    And Ghoul, and Afreet, hating light,
    Come in the noiselessness of night
    To chant unearthly notes and bars
    To the unquiet, pensive stars—
    To carol many a carping tune
    In mockery of the mourning moon—
    By which the jackal and the lynx
    Make curious queries to the Sphynx,
    Who never drops her stony eyes
    From contemplation of the skies
    To heed the rout, whose awful howls
    Alarm the fiery-visioned owls,
    That, at the decadence of day,
    Flit round and round in search of prey.

    Without a stream, without a tree,
    The vale has been and still will be—
    Though obelisks with many a trace
    Of many an immemorial race,
    With many a mighty pyramid
    In which lost histories lie hid,
    Rudely engraved on silent stone,
    For countless centuries unknown,
    Point, here, and there, and yon, to where
    God and his angels dwell in air;—
    And thistles rise and grow and bloom,
    And cypresses, those trees of gloom,
    Frown everywhere along the pale
    Which is the entrance to the vale;—
    But nothing—nothing _moves_ within:
    _There_ is no tumult and no din:—
    Shut out by hills that scarcely show
    A rift of sky to those below,
    The dwellers in this lonely spot
    Rest even by memory forgot:—
    Recumbent, in a sunless rest
    They lie, with hands across their breast,
    So motionless of hand or head
    That he who gazed would deem them dead,
    Or sleeping, when their toil was done,
    Until the rising of the sun.
    They have no mind, thus left alone;
    Strike them; you will not hear a groan;
    An icy torpor fills their veins;
    They have no mortal cares, or pains,
    Or sense, as we have; theirs is life,
    If sleep be life, with nothing rife
    Which we who love the setting sun
    And crimson sky and crystal run,
    And all things else that God has made—
    We, who would moulder in the shade,
    Can contemplate or understand
    Like these inhabitants of the land,
    These rigid and insensible blocks
    Of clay, as cold of heart as rocks:
    Still, so the legend sings, whose tune
    Dropped, dew-like, from the tearful moon,
    When sky and earth shall pass away,
    When space becomes eternal day
    The Dwellers of the Vale will rise
    Beyond what once have been the skies,
    Radiant, before immortal eyes,
    To live and love in Paradise!

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.


                       [WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]


                           BY C. F. ASHMEAD.


                                     There is a game,
                   A frivolous and foolish play,
                   Wherewith we while away the day.
                                     BYRON’S MAZEPPA.

THE Lady Arabella H—— was the reigning belle and beauty of a court not
excelled, in the long annals of its previous history, for accomplished
and fascinating women. Many stars, of no little magnitude, sparkled in
the regal diadem of female loveliness, but she outshone them all. In the
graces of her person, in wit, in accomplishments, she appeared without a
competitor—not to say without a rival. Her own sex reluctantly yielded
the palm to her indisputable pretensions, and the other proudly crowned
her with its leaves. She was the Venus of the day.

Countless suitors knelt at her feet—from the gay nobleman to the grave
statesman—for in the versatility of her attractions lay some charm for
all. But the lady was strangely cold to the accents of love. One gallant
after another retired with his suit rejected, and despair in his heart:
and it might have been believed that the exquisite temple of her form
enshrined a soul callous to the passion it was so peculiarly fitted to
inspire.

                 *        *        *        *        *

A brilliant ball was in progress. It was graced by the presence of
royalty, and the arrangements and decorations were worthy of the
distinguished visiters. Beauty and fashion, and taste, conspired to lend
a magic to the festive scene. Conspicuous among the admired of her sex
shone the graceful figure of Lady Arabella H. Her loveliness on this
evening surpassed itself: and there was a languishing tenderness in her
eyes that bespoke a softer mood than her wont, and lent hope once more
to her despairing suitors. With renewed energy, these crowded around her
to seek her smiles, while new aspirants for her gracious favor added the
meed of their respective homage. One gallant alone remained aloof from
the idol of universal worship. This was the young Lord R—, remarkable
for his handsome person, his general accomplishments, and more than all,
his noble soul. It was but recently that he had appeared at court after
an absence abroad. On his first return, he had seemed to share in the
fascination caused by the charms of the Lady Arabella. But by degrees,
he had shunned her society: and on this evening, he evidently avoided
passing within the charmed circle of her blandishments. His very glances
appeared schooled to prevent their resting on her, as he stood
dejectedly within the door, with his eyes cast upon the ground.

“What aileth thee, my lord, that thou holdest thyself to-night beyond
the attraction of yonder dazzling orb?” inquired Sir Charles G—,
advancing close beside him.

“I may not approach without being singed by its fire, from which I have
already suffered more than enough for my happiness.”

“By my troth, then, the star is resolved to approach thee: for lo! the
lady nears us now, and takes her station not far from thy side, attended
by some of her satellites.”

Lord R. did not trust himself with a single glance to ascertain the
correctness of the assertion: but turned his face toward the ante-room.

“Thou art too diffident of thyself,” continued Sir Charles. “Attack the
peace of the haughty belle even as she hath thine, and she will
surrender her hand at thy discretion.”

“You flatter, my friend. How dare I to entertain hope, when so many have
been rejected by her with less than indifference? Nay, there remains no
alternative for my happiness save to shun her altogether.”

A stifled sigh here arrested the attention of the speakers, and the fair
being who was the subject of their remarks passed within the door-way in
which they stood. She leaned on the arm of a young nobleman who regarded
her with looks of anxiety. A sudden indisposition had that instant
seized her, and she was retiring to seek her recovery apart from the
crowd.

“Leave me here alone,” said she to her companion, when they had reached
the recess of a window in the ante-room. “It is but a slight faintness,
and I shall be myself again presently.”

The gallant obeyed, and the lady occupied the ante-room in solitude.

Giving way to a burst of tears, she murmured, “Alas! he whom alone I
love of all that seek my hand hath declared that he will in future shun
me altogether; and yet the very declaration implies that he is not
indifferent to me. Untoward fate! how hast thou permitted a
misapprehension so cruel?——”

A succession of sobs interrupted her voice, and her soliloquy sunk into
inaudible words. But her unhappy train of thought continued, and she
remained for a considerable time with her emotion deepening rather than
diminishing.

At length, by an effort, she recovered in some measure her
self-possession. The surprise her absence from the dancers would
occasion now suggested itself to her mind, and she had arisen for the
purpose of rejoining them, when two persons entered the ante-room.

The projection of the window hid her from their observation: and it was
fortunate for her that this was the case; for, on recognizing in one of
the intruders the graceful figure and handsome countenance of Lord R.,
her former emotion returned with increased violence. Smothering her
sensations to prevent her attracting their attention, until the effort
almost choked her, she sank back again upon her seat, where the damask
window-curtains afforded her an effectual screen from discovery.

Entirely unconscious of her presence, the two gallants drew a small
side-table near the window, and sat down to a game of draughts.

The gentleman who accompanied Lord R. was the same with whom he had
recently been conversing, and he had, with the charitable design of
diverting his friend’s melancholy mood, suggested a trial against
himself of the noted skill of Lord R. at the game in question—he being
himself also a scientific and accomplished player.

They went through five or six successive games, and Lord R. was every
time the winner.

As they played, the Lady Arabella, whose situation gave her an
opportunity of viewing the board, though, as has been said, it was such
as to prevent her being herself observed, gradually became interested in
the moves, enlisting all her sympathies on the side of the successful
combatant.

“Conquered completely,” said Sir Charles at length, pushing back the
board and rising from the table. “You are more than a match for me, and
yet I have ever been counted no mean player.”

“I have never met any one able to beat me since the first dozen games I
played as a tyro,” replied Lord R., as he followed the example of the
other in leaving the table, and linking his arm within that of his
friend, they made their exit from the apartment.

It was not until some little time after their departure that our heroine
arose from the seat she occupied. But when she did so, it would have
seemed, from her countenance, that some bright and sanguine idea had
struck her, possessing the power to dispel her previous desponding state
of mind.

When she again appeared in the ball-room, Lord R. had quitted the scene.
But her hope, whatever it was, evidently extended beyond the present
into the future: and the reader, who is acquainted with her sentiments,
may augur, from the beaming smiles which throughout the remainder of the
evening she shed around her—too bright to be the result of aught else
than heartfelt confidence and joy—that she had discovered some delicate
mode of communicating her preference for him whose love for her, the
words she had so lately heard from his own lips, left her no room to
doubt.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Lady Arabella suddenly grew extraordinarily partial to a pleasing,
though not heretofore engrossing amusement. Hoyle had not at that day
been published; but practice was her teacher, and she became an
astonishing adept at Draughts. A passion emanating from so admired a
source soon spread throughout the court circle, until checker-boards
took the place of dancing and music, and conversation, in every festive
concourse. For the remainder of the season, nothing else was in vogue.
The ball-room continued empty, the drama remained unnoticed, and the
worshipers at the shrine of Pleasure sought her only at the table of the
fashionable game. The lady who was skillful at draughts, was deemed
something more worthy to aspire to distant rivalry with the Lady
Arabella, and the man who excelled at the same, was thought more fitting
to become, however unsuccessfully, her suitor.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The excitement in the metropolis, caused by the retirement of lords and
ladies to their country residences, was at its height. The atmosphere
exhaled the balmy softness and fragrancy of an English June; and a
succession of delicious days witnessed the arrival of a party of the
first noblemen of the realm at the Castle of ——.

This castle was beautifully situated on the margin of a winding lake,
surrounded by the most bewitching and graceful mountain scenery. Art,
moreover, lent its aid to increase the attractions of the spot, and
gardens, groves, grottos, arbors, and fountains, appeared at every turn
in rich and tasteful variety. It was a residence worthy of a divinity.
And such, indeed, Fortune had placed in it, for the magnificent domain
was the inheritance of the father of the Lady Arabella, while his
daughter was the goddess of the place.

It was a singular mandate which here congregated around her the chivalry
of the day. She had caused it to be known that she desired her suitors,
one and all, to meet her at this particular crisis, in trial of their
skill against her own, at the late fashionable game of draughts. He who
should prove her successful antagonist, the proclamation declared, was
to take his revenge in claiming her hand. Three months had been given
them for practice, and the time had at length expired. The aspirants day
by day were arriving in numbers, and the castle became filled with
guests.

England might well have been proud of the flower of her manhood, as they
showed on this occasion. Stately and stalwort forms, and haughty brows,
and eyes of intellectual fire, were to be seen among the motley but
graceful crowd.

At length, the day which limited any further arrivals dawned. It was the
same that was to decide the fate of those visiters already assembled.

At an early hour, clad in a dress of simple white, with a bodice of blue
satin, the Lady Arabella descended among her palpitating guests.

“I am ready, gentlemen,” said she, with one of her radiant smiles. “I
will retire to the adjoining colonnade, and let him who wishes to make
the first trial join me there. When a single game with him is over,
another can take his place. There is but one suggestion I would make,”
she added, “which is, that those who are deemed the most skillful
players remain until the last.” So saying, she turned and departed.

The colonnade which the Lady Arabella had thus dedicated to the singular
contest, was situated so as to receive the breeze from the neighboring
lake. A fountain of pure water, placed near, likewise contributed to
refresh the atmosphere, while the picturesque mountain scenery in the
distance delighted the eye, and the songs of birds in an adjoining grove
made melody to the ear.

After a few moments’ consultation among her suitors, our heroine was
speedily followed into this pleasing retreat, first by one and then by
another in rapid succession. The only interruption the routine
experienced was that caused by the necessity of her taking some
refreshment. In this manner, the day wore away, and each of her
antagonists retired in turn, crest-fallen and vanquished.

It was almost twilight, and there now remained but one gallant to be
tested. He had unanimously been voted the best player present; and had
therefore, according to the Lady Arabella’s suggestion, been preceded by
all his companions. As he entered the colonnade with an embarrassed,
though graceful step, the lady blushed, and her eyes grew soft and
tender. Intent upon the great stake before him, these indications were
lost upon the nobleman, who took his seat at the board. In fact, he dare
scarcely trust himself with more than a glance at the fair being
opposite him, lest the dazzling vision should disarm his skill.

But for the first time throughout the day, the gentle combatant played
carelessly. Her eyes were riveted upon the countenance of her opponent,
rather than as previously, fixed upon the board. Her moves seemed made
without foresight, resembling those of a beginner more than an adept,
and she failed to crown a single king. In a word, the meanest antagonist
might have won the game at issue, and in a quarter of an hour her
opponent gained an easy victory.

“Dare I,” asked he—gathering some suspicion of a preference on her
part, which alone could have led to this result, after the skill she had
previously manifested towards his rivals—“dare I presume to claim the
rich reward?”

His voice grew lower—he drew his chair to her side, and ventured to
raise his eyes to her countenance.

It beamed sweet affection; and as she extended her hand to meet his, the
nobleman grasped the treasure as one which that gesture made willingly
and confidingly his own.

The victorious gallant was Lord R., and ere another winter, the Lady
Arabella H—— became his bride. Draughts went out of fashion in the
_beau monde_, but, during their hours of privacy, the game continued,
throughout their life-time, a favorite recreation of the happy pair whom
it was instrumental in bringing to a blissful union.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        THE “STILL SMALL VOICE.”


                         BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.


    THE stars were weary—all the summer night
    They held high revelry through heaven’s blue halls,
    And danced along their wanton wanderings
    To the weird chiming of the “Sister Seven,”
    Now, slowly paling like young beauty’s cheek
    Returning from the midnight festival,
    Their glances faded, lest they should behold
    The gentle dalliance of the earth and sky.

      The silver lute of the young morning star
    Thrilled faintly into silence, as the dawn
    With red lip kissed the mountain’s snowy brow,
    Which, bathed in softest slumber, blushed to own
    The gentle pressure. As the waves of light
    Broke o’er the margin of a darkened world,
    In golden ripples, faintly they revealed
    Bright uplands, where the spirit of the mist
    Hung low upon the bosom of the hills,
    And wept soft dewy tears, while o’er their crests
    Swept her long tresses of the wreathing cloud,
    With white peaks flashing through their tangled curls,
    Like jewels crushed in the disheveled hair
    Of maniac beauty, in some gentle hour
    Of quiet sadness; and more faintly still,
    Gleamed through the shadows at the mountain’s base,
    Where smiling valleys dimpled Nature’s cheek,
    And laughing meadows cradled singing streams.

      On Horeb’s mount a holy man of God
    Stood forth to view the fragrant strife of morn,
    Sunshine with shadow—rosy day with night—
    And sleeping Death with glory-wakened Life.
    A close dark mantle wrapped his agéd form,
    His brow uncovered, though a snowy lock,
    Stirred by the breeze of morning, waved above
    Its frozen marble; while the gathered shades
    Of many years hung, like a coronal
    Of withered leaves, around it—and his eyes,
    Strange, deep, and fathomless, gleamed forth beneath
    Its deadly whiteness, like two liquid flames.
    From the recesses of a marble tomb.
    Mystic and subtle as some charmed perfume,
    A sense of pleasure thrilled upon his heart,
    As quick, faint pulses of the scented breeze
    Brought balmy odors from the dewy flowers,
    Waved the plumed monarchs of the forest proud,
    And wafted on the islets of the cloud
    Through liquid sapphire, where they seemed to float
    Softly and dreamily, and full of love.
    He bowed and worshiped—and “the Lord passed by.”

      The sky was changed—and hoarsely, from afar,
    A sound of waters, and of mingled winds,
    Through forests raging, crept upon the ear;
    And, driving o’er the azure fields of heaven,
    Cloud after cloud came rolling swiftly on,
    Black Pelion upon gloomy Ossa piled.
    Like giant towers they gather, and from point
    To point along their frowning battlements
    Red signal-fires are flashing far and free.
    Hark! the deep watchword of the rushing storm!
    The thunder-spirit calls his squadrons dark,
    Far through the trackless void of scowling space,
    And lightning rends the cloudy canopy,
    As prophet’s vision tears aside the veil
    That shadows o’er the future, and beholds
    Beyond unfolded naught but dim, and wild,
    And fearful mystery. Then the sullen roar
    Of elemental conflict crashing fell—
    A mingled din of crushing thunderbolts,
    And sadly moaning winds, and heavy drops
    Of rain, as though the demons of the storm
    Wept o’er the ruin which their fury wrought.
      ’Twas past—and o’er the eastern mountains rolled
    The cloudy banners, and the chariot wheels
    Of burning levin—by the tempest led,
    (As some great conqueror from battle won,)
    The serried hosts of falling waters passed
    Beneath the rainbow’s bright triumphal arch;
    And Nature shouted as the wing of peace
    Fell softly o’er the wild and wasted track
    Of elemental war. “The Lord was not”
    Amid the rushing armies of the storm,
    Its fierceness was the shadow of his frown,
    Deep-veiled, yet dark, and terribly sublime;
    And, as upon its far retiring verge,
    The glorious rainbow brightened, ’twas a dim
    And faint reflection of His mercy’s smile!

      Again the spirit of a fearful change
    Came stealing o’er the blue and tranquil heaven—
    A hollow, rushing murmur filled the air,
    And the low sobbing of the rising wind
    Grew deeper, till in howling gusts it whirled
    Dark wreaths of earthy fragments to the sky,
    As though the maddened gnomes were hurling death
    Against the vapory armaments of air;
    And lurid flames with blue and ghastly glare
    Gleamed o’er the face of Nature till it blanched,
    As though the warning of the last dread trump
    Had smote her guilt upon a coward heart.
      The earthquake rising from his burning lair,
    Deep in the bosom of a rock-ribbed world,
    Shook everlasting hills from out his path,
    Like a roused lion flinging from his mane
    The dewy drops of morning. At his tread
    The pale earth trembled, and anon there came
    A crushing down of rocky battlements,
    Which, for a moment, high and quivering hung,
    On cloud-crowned pinnacles, then thundering fell
    Far down the dark, immeasurable void
    Which yawned beneath them like the livid lips
    Of fierce, insatiate hell. He tore away
    The iron nerves from that strong mountain’s heart,
    As though the destiny of a conqueror lay
    Deep hid within it, and the hour was come
    When he must march to seek it, in a last
    And wild death-revel. As this passed away,
    In racking throes, which might have seemed the strong
    Convulsive shudder of dissolving worlds,
    The earth moaned feebly, as a dying child
    Will murmur faintly in its fever-dream—
    Then darkness gathered round it, like the deep,
    Black jaws of cold annihilation.
      It came—it vanished—and “the Lord was not”
    Throned high upon the earthquake’s blasting rage;
    But, at the echo of His chariot wheels,
    The iron land tossed like the ocean waves,
    And mountains dashed aloft their crested heads
    As surging billows flout a stormy sky.

      The air was stagnant, cold, and dark, and dull,
    Heavy as morn to aching senses, when
    Some dreamer wakes to feel a load of care
    Pressed back upon his memory, and hastes
    To close his eyes, that he may cast it off,
    And dream once more of happiness and hope.
    Like molten lead along the sullen sky,
    Gray clouds hung drooping, for the summer wind
    Seemed frozen, and its restless wing was dead.
      Strong, swift, and chainless as some maddening thought,
    There came the spirit of a change, which seemed
    To wave aloft the banner and the sword
    Of a destroying angel—withering winds
    Rose, winged with lightning, and the brazen sky
    Was one red desert, peopled with a host
    Of burning shadows, lurid shapes of hell,
    That wildly mingled with the falling stars,
    And whirled in flaming chaos up to heaven!
    Clouds heated to a whiteness writhed and tossed
    Along the horizon’s verge of liquid fire,
    And, from their snowy foldings rent and torn,
    Gushed forth a stream of meteors, like deep gouts
    Of crimson blood from Beauty’s mangled bosom.
    Bright glowed the valleys, and the eternal hills
    Seemed towering to the brassy vault of heaven
    In gorgeous pyramids of living flame—
    A mighty holocaust, and offered high
    On the red altars of a crumbling world
    To some fierce god of elemental fire.
      It flamed—it faded—but “the Lord was not”
    Upon the burning pinions of its strength;
    His glance, which withers dynasties and thrones—
    His passing breath, where hangs the fate of kings
    And mighty nations, kindled up the sky,
    And lightened o’er a terror-stricken world.

      Noontide poured down upon the sleeping earth
    And dreaming waves a long and fervid kiss
    Of panting passion, and the Orient’s heart
    Glowed in its languid atmosphere of love.
    The storm, the earthquake, and the flashing fire.
    Had left it placid as the orbéd brow
    Of slumbering Beauty—through the fragrant air
    There came no sounding sweep of angel wings,
    No frowning fury rushing on to tread
    The wrathful wine-press of avenging God;
    But the rich music of a “still, small voice,”
    From the far arches of the vaulted sky
    Stole slowly earthward, and as though the breath
    Of God were sweeping o’er the Æolian line
    Of universal being, till it thrilled
    A new creation into loving life,
    Hushed was the chiming of each starry sphere,
    The universe of harmony was dumb,
    For in the music of that “still small voice,”
    Was blent the omnipresence of the Lord.
      The prophet shrouded up his lofty brow
    Deep in his mantle, and his soul grew still
    With silent worship, as his thirsting heart
    Drank the rich murmur of that mystic tone
    Which told the mighty presence of his God!

      The true existence of a gifted soul
    Is like that prophet’s vision, and it seems
    A dread reality, to which his trance
    Was but the faint foreshadowing. The hues
    Of morning sleep upon enchanted earth
    When the young soul exulting presses on
    To chase the pleasures of its opening day.
    Its dreams are fairy cloudlets, flushed with hope,
    Wrought into beauty by the singing wind,
    Which bears them on its wing so joyously;
    While the glad revel of its morning song
    Fills the blue arches of its summer heaven.

      The strong day deepens, as the spirit speeds
    Along the crowded thoroughfares of life,
    But apprehension’s vague, dim, shadow flits
    O’er thought’s bright beauty; strange and fitfully
    Gray tints of doubt will mingle with the hues
    Of rainbow light, with which it used to paint
    The future’s glory—and the Right and Wrong
    Will struggle fiercely in the wavering heart,
    Like light and shadow ’mid the wreathing folds
    Of cloudy columns driven by the storm.
      It grovels with the herd of Mammon’s slaves,
    And drops of poisoned anguish from the heart
    Will start and thicken on the pallid brow.
      Deep disappointment, like the serpent’s fang,
    Strikes through the spirit sharply, and the cry
    Of midnight whirlwinds shrieking on the wold
    Is not so weird and fearful. Tempest-tossed,
    The soul must wander on its weary way,
    Till, from the caverns of its being, rent
    By strong fatality, a first, great love
    Bursts on its raptured vision, as of old
    A mighty angel rolled away the stone
    Which shrouded o’er the sepulchre of God,
    And clothed in living glory, as a robe,
    Came forth the Crucified! How soft at first
    The voiceless breathing of that atmosphere—
    How sweet the stillness where no breezes sigh
    Save that of Love’s impassioned oracle!

      Anon ’tis broken, and the future sobs
    A low, sad warning of the storm to come.
    ’Tis Passion’s earthquake rising in its might,
    To scatter thought, as gathered cloud on cloud,
    It hangs around the pinnacles of mind,
    Perchance deep-freighted with some glorious truth,
    Which, could it melt away in genial showers,
    Would bless and beautify a desert world.
    As some strong column, God-erected, on
    The mountain’s misty summit, the young heart
    Sways to and fro between the Right and Wrong—
    The first may triumph, or the last may win,
    It matters not, wild Passion’s dreams is past,
    The soul is stagnant—but it sleeps no more.
    Cradled in heaven, but entombed in hell,
    Then comes the torture of its aching void,
    Silent, beneath the suffocating press
    Of bitter, sullen agony it lies.
      The spirit sickens with its loneliness—
    And thirst of _power_ dissolves the icy spell,
    Which bound its pulses into leaden sleep;
    Then mad Ambition withers down the wrecks
    Of disappointed Passion, as the crash
    Of thunder follows in the lightning’s path;
    The myrtle-wreath, now trampled and despoiled,
    Is dashed aside to grasp a laurel crown.
    The meed of genius, and of victory!
      The past becomes a broken altar-stone.
    But from the ashes of its cold despair
    The strong soul rises into glorious life,
    Like a young Phœnix flaming into birth.

      Sweet rainbow-tinted fancies have decayed,
    But lofty thoughts like gorgeous banners wave
    In triumph o’er the citadel of Mind—
    Though tossed, perchance, upon a sigh which tells
    Of ruined hope, and desolated love;
    The eloquence of passion-parted lips
    Has softly faded, like the rich perfume
    Of burning incense—but a vaporous flame
    Of proud defiance scathes the listening world.
    Thus goaded on to action by the fire
    That madly rages in a wasted heart,
    It struggles on to win the dust of time,
    To strew it o’er the amaranthine leaves
    Of an immortal coronal; its fame
    Flashes, a meteor through the changing sky
    Of popular opinion, ever urged
    “_Onward—still onward_”—by the iron hand
    Of strong, resistless Destiny. The storm,
    The rocking earthquake, and devouring fire,
    Have done their work upon the heart and soul;
    Have torn away the sweetest bloom of life
    And flung it wantonly upon the world—
    Corroding Care has shed its poison dew
    O’er Pleasure, which is foam upon the wave—
    And Shame’s red plague-spot flashes in the heart,
    While Pride and Passion’s flaming lava-drops
    Fall hissing through its purest depths, to change
    Their sweets to bitter burning.

                                  O’er the fount,
    Erewhile so wild and troubled, sweeps a spell
    And “peace, be still,” is in its music tone.
      The “still, small voice,” which breathes of “love divine,”
    Steals o’er the spirit like the singing rain
    To blossoms by the summer lightning crushed.
    Shrouded in beauty, flows the fountain calm.
    In dewy light the feelings sparkle on,
    For every wave of thought is full of prayer.
    Within its holy sanctuary hushed,
    So softly beats the bosom purified,
    So sweet the slumber of a soul forgiven,—
    While blended with its harmony of thought
    That angel “voice” is sounding peacefully,
    With waning life alone to pass away,
    And fade into the melody of Heaven!
      _Memphis_, 1850.
    “L’INCONNUE.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       TO THE FLOWER HEARTS-EASE.


    RENOUNCE thy name, deceitful flower,
    Nor boast an art beyond thy power;
    Dost thou such consequence assume,
    That yieldeth no such rich perfume?
    The jessamine and fragrant rose
    Surpass thee far, yet humbler those:
    Nor does the woodbine e’er pretend
    To cheer or to console a friend.
    Cease, cease to promise happiness—
    What widow’s desolate distress,
    Or aged parent’s troubled soul
    Hast thou been able to control?

    Thou pretty groveler on the ground,
    No spell for sorrow can be found
    In thee—a gaudy, rich attire
    Is all thy votaries admire.
    When varied colors, gay and bright,
    Can give a joyless mind delight,
    My muse shall celebrate thy fame—
    Till then, false flower, renounce thy name.
      _Burlington, N. J._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     LIFE’S LESSONS TEACH CHARITY.


                             BY ENNA DUVAL.


    Turn thy eyes back upon thyself, and see thou judge not the
    doings of others. THOMAS A’KEMPIS.

“WE missed you so much at Mrs. Fenton’s last evening, Cornelia; why did
you not come?” asked Miss Lee.

“Because Miss Enna had just come to us, and was not well; nor did I feel
very well myself.”

“Mrs. Fenton told us Miss Duval had partly promised to come also,” said
Miss Ellen Lee, a younger sister of the first speaker.

“So I did,” I replied; “when Mrs. Fenton called at Miss Clemson’s
yesterday morning, I told her if I felt well enough in the evening I
would come.”

“What a very pleasant young person Miss Clemson is, Miss Duval,” drawled
out young Colton, a dangling beau of the Miss Lees, “my sisters go to
school to her, and I had no idea their _school ma’am_ was such a nice
young woman.”

The young ladies giggled at this would-be witty and patronizing remark,
to which I only replied with a cold assenting bow of my head.

“I have never met with her before,” said Miss Ellen Lee, “but I really
liked her very much.”

“She converses very well,” said the elder Miss Lee. “We had an
opportunity of judging last evening, for she did the most of the
talking.”

“She’s one of your talking women, I believe, but that’s her business,
you know,” rejoined the dandy, in an affected languid tone of voice, as
if the exertion of talking was too much for a person of gentility. A
sharp retort trembled on my tongue, but I checked myself, as my eyes
passed over his insipid, characterless face; and I returned with such
animation to a little drawing I was making for Cornelia’s mother, that I
snapped off the end of my pencil.

“I did not know that Miss Clemson visited this winter in society,” said
Cornelia. “Is she not in mourning?”

“Oh! no,” exclaimed Miss Ellen Lee, “she is not in mourning, for she was
dressed beautifully last evening, she had on a light silver-gray silk,
very rich and expensive looking;—any thing but mourning.”

“She does not approve of mourning,” said the elder sister, “and although
her brother and his wife died only a few weeks since, I suppose she does
not approve of observing any of the customs of society on such
occasions, no matter how sad they may be.”

“Why, my dear,” said Mrs. Knowles, a purse-proud _parvenue_ woman,
“persons not properly in society, like Miss Clemson, are excusable in
differing from its usual customs; it matters little what they do.”

I quietly permitted the conversation to proceed, for I felt too much
contempt for the company, to take any trouble to defend my dear friend,
Mary Clemson. I knew their remarks proceeded from willful malice, and
that it would be of little use to set them right. My little pencil
sketch, however, from my repressed temper, was growing quite as spirited
under my quick, impulsive touches, as the original, from which I was
copying it—the only good that resulted from the gossip; and I should
have remained silent, had not my friend, Cornelia Payne—who was not
acquainted with Miss Clemson, joined in the conversation, and
animadverted pretty severely on Miss Clemson’s want of feeling.

“She might dress as she pleased,” said Cornelia, in reply to a flippant
remark of Ellen Lee’s, that Miss Clemson dressed very expensively and
extravagantly for one in her position and circumstances; “dressing is a
matter that belongs to one’s own taste, and so far as circumstances and
means are concerned, that is nobody’s business; but I think it argues a
want of feeling, a coldness of heart, when one who has recently gone
through so much trouble, can so readily throw it aside and make their
appearance at an evening party.”

“Oh, Miss Clemson prides herself upon being above all such weaknesses,”
said Miss Hill, another young lady present. “Little Sallie Foster, one
of her pupils, told me the other day, that Miss Mary had given her quite
a lecture because she cried at the prospect of a rainy day, which would
necessarily put off a May party, and said she could scarcely conceive of
the necessity of shedding tears, no matter how great the trial might
be.”

My memory quickly recalled the scene Miss Hill alluded to. I had been
visiting Mary Clemson the week before, and had been present at the
conversation with little Sallie Foster. The remark quoted had been meant
to apply merely to temporal trials; and as the sobbing Sallie left the
room, I remembered the touching, sad expression of my noble,
strong-minded friend’s countenance, as she turned to me, and said,
“Heaven grant the poor child may never have real trials to weep for.”

“It’s well she is strong enough to overcome natural feeling,” said
Cornelia Payne, in reply to Miss Hill’s remark, “that is, well for her
own worldly comfort, I mean, but I do not admire such unfeeling
persons.”

This was going a little too far for my patience, for I respected and
loved Cornelia Payne, though I knew her to be somewhat uncharitable, and
harsh in her judgments of others.

“Cornelia,” I said, “Miss Clemson is not unfeeling; she has as warm and
sensitive a heart as any one I know.”

“Oh, we forgot,” exclaimed the Misses Lee in a breath, “that Miss
Clemson was an intimate friend of Miss Duval’s.”

“Yes,” I said, looking at Mrs. Knowles, “my mother knew Miss Clemson’s
mother, when she was the rich heiress, Miss Fleming; and your father
Mrs. Knowles, made Miss Fleming’s carriage, which was the talk of the
town, at the time of her marriage with Mr. Clemson. I have heard my
mother frequently speak of it. You remember it, do you not, Mrs. Payne?”
I asked, turning to Cornelia’s mother.

“Perfectly well, my dear,” replied this gentlest of all gentlewomen,
smiling at my sudden arousing. My tongue was now unloosened, and I felt
ready to measure swords, or the more feminine weapon, darning-needles,
with them all. I continued—

“I must scold my pretty, thoughtless friend, Mrs. Fenton, for deceiving
Miss Clemson. She assured us that only Mrs. Fay and ourselves would be
with her last evening; and you, Cornelia, were only invited, because I
had promised you and your mother to commence my visit here yesterday,
and Mrs. Fenton wanted to secure me, to accompany Mary Clemson. Mrs.
Fenton has been one of Miss Clemson’s most attentive friends, and Mrs.
Fay knew Mary’s mother when she was a girl. Mrs. Fay wanted to see Miss
Clemson on business, and was too infirm to go to her; she wishes Miss
Clemson to take charge of her nieces, the Miss Foresters.”

“What, our cousins the Foresters?” exclaimed the two Lees. “Why I think
Aunt Fay might have consulted with mamma about it,” continued the elder
one, “however, it will be a great thing for Miss Clemson to have them,
for the girls are immensely wealthy.”

“Yes, Miss Lee.” I replied, trying to be very calm. “But who would have
thought, when your aunt, the now rich Mrs. Fay, and your mother kept the
fashionable boarding school, at which Miss Fleming was educated, that
Miss Fleming’s daughter would in turn be governess to the nieces of Mrs.
Fay and her sister. Life has many strange reverses, Mr. Colton.”

Poor Steenie Colton, colored to the roots of his faded hair and
whiskers. I suppose he thought I was going to tell him of his
respectable old grandfather, who had kept a very nice meat and vegetable
store, but I spared him, for I felt I had said enough to my discomfited
gossips.

“Now tell me, Miss Lee,” I asked, “who all were at this evening party of
Lizzie Fenton’s.”

“It was no evening party, Miss Duval,” replied the young lady sulkily.
“Neither Ellen nor I have said so. Mr. Colton went in with us during the
evening to see Aunt Fay.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but did you go by invitation?”

“Why, Miss Duval?” inquired the younger one pertly, as her elder sister
answered me in the negative.

“Because,” I replied, “my friend has been accused of heartlessness and
want of feeling by one whom I respect, and to clear Miss Clemson in
Cornelia Payne’s opinion, is all I care for. Others may think as they
please of her, but Cornelia can appreciate such a noble good woman as
Mary Clemson.”

The conversation naturally flagged after this, and soon the morning
visiters bade us good day.

“Bravo!” cried Cornelia, after they all left, clapping her little hands
on my shoulders. “Bravo! Captain Duval, why you have routed my poor
little gossiping brigade completely, put them all to flight.”

“They are the most disagreeable people that visit us,” said Mrs. Payne;
“as for those silly Miss Lees, I wonder, Cornelia, how you can endure
them.”

“Oh, my dear mother,” replied the daughter, “it takes all sorts of
people to make up the world. You know old Patsie tells you that every
day. But, Enna, I must know this paragon of yours; we will call on her
together.”

I was about to remonstrate with Cornelia for her harsh and hasty
judgment, during the preceding conversation, but the entrance of some
other visiters prevented me.

I loved and respected Cornelia Payne; she was one of my dearest friends,
and, unlike most girls of her age—we were only nineteen then—she had a
strong, decided character. Her oddities did not spring from affectation,
nor did her warmly expressed opinions proceed from a spirit of arbitrary
obstinacy. She was true and sincere, and had a good, strong mind. She
had faults,—who has not? And her principal fault was a sad one, she was
harsh and uncharitable in her judgments of others. She had never known
trouble or temptation; and honest, firm, and upright herself, she always
judged every one by her own standard—a standard that had never been
tested by a single trial. Whenever we remonstrated with her, her replies
were such as “Nine times out of ten appearances are the best to judge
by,” or, “There is so much cant and affectation, so much petty falsehood
in society, that it makes one forget there is such a virtue as charity,”
or, “There are certain bounds to charity beyond which it ceases to be a
virtue, and becomes a weakness, and a cowardly shield to vice,” which
replies generally silenced me.

The evening following the conversation which opened this sketch, we were
all assembled in the _cozie_, comfortable library. Some friends had
called in, and, according to the too usual custom, the conversation
turned upon the absent. The subject of discourse was the conduct of two
persons, a husband and wife, with whom the company assembled were
sufficiently acquainted, to feel interested in their well or ill doings.
A few weeks previous the husband had made a most disgraceful failure,
and had been detected in various dishonorable transactions; whereupon
his wife, with whom he had always lived happily, apparently, left him,
and returned to her family; and since her desertion of him, her friends
had made application for a divorce. This was commented upon pretty
severely, and almost every one blamed the wife for her heartlessness;
and circumstances were mentioned to prove the uniform kindness and
lavish indulgence of the husband in the days of his prosperity. My
friend Cornelia was almost the only one of the party who defended her.

“That’s so like you, Cornelia,” said her cousin, Harry Peters, laughing,
“you always lake ‘the forlorne hope’ in an argument, and seize up the
cudgels for the minority.”

“You are unjust, Harry,” replied Cornelia, a little piqued, “I always
take the side of my opinion, and defend that which I think honest and
right. I scarcely know Mrs. Barclay, therefore, neither am I prejudiced,
for she is no favorite of mine; she always seemed to me a cold, selfish
woman, even when everybody, and you particularly, Harry, admired her so
much. But I do say, that I do not excuse, I uphold her conduct in this
matter. Even thus should I have acted had I been thus placed, guided by
a strict sense of duty. I could love as devotedly and truly as any of
you, but my love would wither away, under the scorching breath of
dishonor and crime.”

The conversation grew very animated, and all spoke at once, to express
their decided opposition to Cornelia, but she stoutly defended her
position.

“True, Cornelia,” said her mother, “your love might be weakened, but
would that change of feeling justify desertion?”

“It would not be desertion, mother,” replied Cornelia, “it would be
fleeing from the plague spot of sin. No one has a right to subject their
spiritual nature to the degrading influence of daily association with
crime.”

This was what Harry Peters playfully called, “one of Cornelia’s grand,
solemn, rhetorical conclusions,” which generally silenced all further
debate, without convincing any one; but often, in after hours of sorrow,
Cornelia’s figure and countenance, as she looked during this
conversation, would come before me, with painful distinctness. In her
earnestness she had arisen from her seat, and her fine, tall figure
seemed dilated with indignation, while her beautiful face was stern and
severe as that of the avenging Archangel.

Poor Cornelia! _then_, she knew not what trouble was. Her father was a
prosperous merchant, and her mother was a gentle, delicate woman, who
rarely interfered with any one, except to do some sweet office of love.
Cornelia was a complete contrast to both of her parents; for her father,
a bright, joyous, warm-hearted man, was even weakly indulgent to others.
They were a loving, happy family, and Cornelia, although stern and
severe to what she called error, was enthusiastic in her love for her
family, ready to sacrifice any thing for them, if occasion required. I
always felt improved in spirit as well as in body, after a visit to
them, for they all seemed to enjoy life so healthily and properly.
Possessing ample means, and in the midst of a pleasant circle of
friends, they appeared to be exempt from humanity’s penalty—trouble.
But sunshine dwelleth not always with us, and every light hath its
shadow.

I had not been many days with my friends when I observed that the kind,
good natured father was not in his usual spirits. It was in the spring,
following the winter of 183—, a sad winter to commercial men in ——;
and long will it be remembered as a season of trying reverses. Mrs.
Payne did not notice the change in her husband; his health was not so
strong as usual, which would have accounted for his heaviness had she
noticed it; then, fortunately, her younger children monopolized her
attention; but Cornelia, I very soon saw, both noticed and felt the
change in her father’s manner.

One pleasant, soft morning, Mrs. Payne being too much engaged with some
home duties, to accompany us on a shopping or visiting excursion,
Cornelia and I concluded to take a long drive out of the town, that we
might enjoy the refreshing spring air. The trees were just budding, and
Nature was unfolding a light, tender green mantle of foliage. We took
long breaths of the delicious air, and it seemed as if the heavy cloud,
which hung around us all in town, was dispelled completely, under the
genial influence of the youthful spring. Cornelia was brighter, and as
we pointed out to each other striking bits of the landscape, or noticed
the graceful branches of the trees, and the delicate hues of the
blossoms, we chanted aloud, passages from the old English poets, who so
particularly rejoiced in, and welcomed so melodiously, the “Coming of
the longed-for May.” How vividly does my memory recal every word uttered
during that drive. I remember quoting with gleeful spirit, a verse from
Herrick, which is full of that bounding, flowing melody that is heard in
wild wood and dell, Nature’s own music.

        “Rise and put on your foliage and be seen
        To come forth like the spring time fresh and green,
            And sweet as Flora. Take no care
            For jewels for your gown or hair;
            Fear not the leaves will strew
            Gems in abundance upon you;
        Besides the childhood of the day has kept,
        Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.”

As the horses’ heads turned homeward Cornelia’s gayety faded away, and
after a few moments of serious silence, she looked up and said,

“My dear, own Enna, I am very much afraid we are about to have some
heavy trouble to contend with.”

“Why, Cornelia?” was my reply, for as this was the first time she had
spoken to me of her presentiment of sorrow, I did not wish to add to it,
by letting her know that I likewise had observed the cause for it. She
told me that she could not tell why she anticipated this trouble; that
she knew nothing certain, but she had, like myself, noticed a change in
her father—something of moment she was sure must be resting heavily on
his mind, for he had not had his usual spirits for some time.

“At night,” said she, “when my dear mother is asleep, I hear him walking
his dressing-room sometimes until day-dawn. Mother says he is not well,
but I am very confident that it is not sickness of the body that affects
him; it is, I fear, sickness of the mind; and yet how foolish, if it be
pecuniary difficulties, to grieve so much about it and keep it from us.”

“He knows, dear Cornelia,” I replied, “how unfit his family are to bear
reverses of fortune. You alone are able to bear up against loss of
means.”

“That’s true,” she sighed, “God only knows what is coming, but I pray He
may send strength when the dark hour of trial does burst upon us.”

Poor girl, she did not know how much her father needed her prayer at
that very moment, for the hour of trial had arrived to him, and strength
was indeed wanting.

At dinner Mrs. Payne received a note from her husband, in which he said,
that he would not be at home, until late in the evening, as he was very
busy at the counting-house. The meal was a silent one, for even Mrs.
Payne looked serious, and expressed her anxiety for her husband’s
health, which she feared might be injured by over-exertion. As we arose
from the dinner table, Mrs. Payne put her arm affectionately around
Cornelia, and said,

“Come, my daughter, give us some of your beautiful music, something that
is very brilliant to enliven us, for we are rather heavy this evening.”

I knew well that Cornelia was unfit for any exertion, and as we entered
the gay, light drawing-room I seated myself at the piano, and asked Mrs.
Payne if my music would not answer the purpose as well as Cornelia’s.
Cornelia’s eyes expressed such a world of thanks, that I felt quite
repaid for the effort—for effort it was—and soon after I noticed that
she quietly slipped out of the room. Mrs. Payne was passionately fond of
music, and I sang and played for her, nearly two hours. She was a fine
harpist, though she seldom played, but I even prevailed upon her, to
play with me some harp duets. While we were in the midst of a brilliant
piece, the waiter entered, and said that Mr. Payne wished to see me in
the library.

“Mr. Payne at home?” inquired Mrs. Payne.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered the man, “he has been in some time, but has been
busy with some gentleman in the library.”

“Some news for you from home, Enna, dear,” said Mrs. Payne quietly. “I
suppose Mr. Payne thinks we have company with us, we are so musical, and
he feels too tired to come up.”

“Very likely.” I answered with forced calmness, glad that her easy,
happy disposition prevented her from feeling the sad apprehensions which
had chilled my heart at the summons. I knew, from the expression of the
waiter’s face, that something was wrong, and as I reached the lower hall
he said to me, as he left me,

“Miss Cornelia’s very sick in the library, Miss Enna.”

I opened the library-door, and Heaven grant such another sight may never
be presented to me again. On a lounge lay Cornelia, partly insensible,
and before her knelt her father, not in trouble for her sickness only,
but in anguish, deep, heart-rending anguish. In low tones he besought
his child to open her eyes, to look at him, and tell him she did not
despise him. I saw the insensibility was passing off, and I raised her
head and moistened her lips with some water. As I took the water from
the table, I saw on it a case of pistols, over which I hastily threw my
handkerchief, though chilled and trembling with fear of I scarcely knew
what. When I raised Cornelia, and Mr. Payne saw her returning
consciousness, he shrunk, like a guilty thing, behind a large,
old-fashioned screen, that stood partly in front of the lounge. Cornelia
stared wildly around.

“Where is father?” she exclaimed, and before I could answer, she darted
from the lounge, and was about leaving the room, when she heard his low,
suppressed groan; quick as thought she was beside him. She covered his
hands, that hid his face, with kisses—she soothed him with every
affectionate endearing word, and as he cowered to the ground, she raised
him as a mother would a child. They sat on the lounge together, her arms
encircled him tenderly, while her lips rested on his brow, that was
wrinkled with heavy lines of anguish.

“My dear, dear father,” she said, “have you forgotten your daughter,
your Cornelia, who could not live without you? Come, come, I was only a
little sick; it is all over now, and Enna Duval is here, to take care of
us both. Come, cheer up; think of mother, and Tom, and Cassy, and all
the dear ones. We are all left to you yet.”

Thus she tenderly soothed him, and I, seeing that she was so much
stronger, thought I had better leave the room. As I put my hand on the
door, Cornelia gave a low cry of alarm, I turned and saw that Mr. Payne
was in violent convulsions. In a little while the best physicians in
town were summoned, and Mr. Payne declared to be in great danger, for
his disease was a raging brain fever. For days we watched beside his
bed—Cornelia and I—for with nervous anxiety she kept every one from
her father that she could. He raved incessantly of disgrace and crime,
and during his agonized ravings, my poor friend would weep bitterly. I
never saw such devoted tenderness as Cornelia displayed during this
fearful illness. At one time death seemed almost inevitable, but as Mr.
Payne possessed a good constitution, and had always been a man of
regular habits, he rallied under this sickness, which would have proved
fatal to most men. But when the delirium left him, and he opened his
languid eyes beaming, though dimly, with the light of reason, their
expression of anguish was painful indeed. Cornelia was beside him, her
arms around him, and the sweetest, tenderest words of love fell from her
lips to greet his returning senses.

“Then, my daughter,” he said in a low, feeble whisper, “you do not hate
and despise your father.”

No words could express the deep love of Cornelia’s embrace, and with
soothing, tender expressions she sought to quiet him, which succeeded,
for he sunk back in her arms with a calm, peaceful smile on his sad,
care-worn face.

Mr. Payne grew gradually better, dear reader, and during the hours of
convalescence, when I was at different times alone with him, he told me
the sad scene which had occurred previous to his sending for me to the
library. He had been staggering under a load of business difficulties
for some time, as Cornelia had suspected, but could not bear to look
upon his affairs as they really were. He could not summon strength and
courage to come to his wife, and tell her that all the fine fortune her
father had left, was gone, that she and her children were penniless. Day
after day he struggled on,—difficulties increased, and in a moment of
desperation, to relieve himself of a pressing demand, he added the crime
of forgery to the load of debt; hoping to relieve himself before he
should be discovered.

This happened on the day, at the very time of our drive, when Cornelia
was praying for strength. He had some days before written to a business
firm in a neighboring town for assistance. Upon them he had some, yes,
great claims, for ten years before his capital had established them in
business; and he anxiously looked for an answer to his demand, in order
to relieve himself before any one could discover his weak act. Late in
the afternoon he received, instead of the frank, friendly aid he
expected, a cold, short refusal. He staggered home. The enormity of his
offence increased upon him, and as he reached his home, the
consciousness of having added disgrace to poverty, almost set him wild.
He went first into the library, which was in the lower part of the
house, because, as he said, the sound of music and gayety that came from
the drawing-room, maddened him. He had scarcely entered the room when
the hall-bell rang, and the servant ushered into the dimly lighted
library, a gentleman; and as he heard his name announced, Mr. Payne
shuddered,—it was the very name he had used unlawfully, a few hours
before. It was a young merchant of great property, which he had
inherited from his father.

“I have come, Mr. Payne,” said the young man, as the servant closed the
door, “to return to your hands a paper which you must destroy. No human
being knows of it, but you and myself—and believe me, my dear sir,” he
added, in a voice trembling with feeling, as the guilty man buried his
face in his hands, groaning aloud, “believe me, I am certain, that
great, great must have been the temptation—the trial that goaded
Hartley Payne to such an act; and I thank God! it was upon me—upon the
son of Jacob Hallett you did it. You befriended my father in the dark
hour of poverty, you helped him up on the stepping-stone to fortune, and
had you come to me in your emergency for this money,—that and double,
and thrice treble the amount, should have been freely yours.”

Young Hallett then tore the note into a thousand pieces and burned it.

“I thank you,” said Mr Payne in a hoarse voice, “you have saved me from
disgrace which is worse than death; but you must leave me now, and when
I am more composed I will express to you my gratitude.”

“Not until you will promise me,” answered young Hallett, “that you will
let me come to you to-morrow, and give me the satisfaction of assisting
you in your trouble.”

Mr. Payne took the kind young man’s proffered hand, and pressing it,
assured him, in broken words, that he would accept his offer; and young
Hallett seeing that Mr. Payne was really suffering from the humiliation
and mortification which his presence caused him, left him.

Mr. Payne walked up and down the room once or twice. He felt like a
maniac. The crime he had committed stood before him in letters of fire.
Maddened with remorse, he opened an escritoir, and taking from it a case
of pistols, which were loaded, he laid it upon the table. Calmly he
snapped the spring of the case, and throwing back the lid, took out one
of the pistols, which he held deliberately to his head. As he did this,
he heard a low shriek beside him, and with a strong grasp, the pistol
was taken from his hand. He turned—and beside him stood Cornelia.

She had been in the library all the while. She had come there from the
drawing-room after dinner, to watch for her father’s return, and had
fallen asleep on the lounge, which was hidden by the large old screen
that stood between it and the door. Her sleep was heavy from exhaustion,
and she had not awakened until Mr. Hallett had entered; this aroused
her, and with chilling horror she heard the whole conversation between
them. After he left the room, she lay stunned, and was only aroused by
the click of the escritoir lock. This startled her, and she sprang to
her feet, just in time to save her father’s life. The revulsion was so
great, that she sank to the floor, insensible, and then it was he sent
for me.

Mr. Payne knew Cornelia’s stern, severe opinions; he remembered also how
she always shrunk from all those who had been guilty of even venial
sins, and he felt more keenly, the mortification of his crime before
her, than before any other living being. But so beautifully, so
tenderly, and respectfully did she bear herself toward him, that one
might have fancied she had forgotten every thing but the fear of losing
her father. He grew stronger, and as soon as his health was restored he
courageously examined his affairs.

Young Hallett, who during Mr. Payne’s sickness had been an excellent and
efficient friend, was of great service. Every thing was given up, the
magnificent town house, the carriages and horses, the plate, and every
luxury; but my friends looked very happy in their pleasant country home,
and though quite humble was their style of living, they scarcely seemed
to miss their former splendor.

Even the tender, delicate Mrs. Payne, who had been born and reared in
luxury, and for whom we had all trembled, bore the reverse of fortune as
brightly and philosophically as Cornelia. But the most beautiful sight
was the great change that had taken place in my friend Cornelia’s
character. All sternness, all severity had vanished, and the gentlest
spirit of Christian, loving charity displayed itself in every word,
every act of hers.

“Sweet are the uses adversity,” I often repeated to myself, when looking
at her. Toward her father she always displayed the most delicate and
affectionate respect, and the children no longer found in her a stern,
close judging Mentor, but a kind, loving, indulgent companion.

Three years after, a gay party assembled at Mr. Payne’s little country
house. It was the wedding party of our dear Cornelia, who was the bride
of Mr. Hallett. She is now the mistress of a fine establishment, and had
the satisfaction of seeing her father once more comfortable. He was for
many years associated in business with his son-in-law, and no one ever
knew or dreamed that the highly respected Hartley Payne, of the wealthy
firm of Hallett & Payne, was once on the verge of disgraceful ruin.

                 *        *        *        *        *




               BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. IV.


                    BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.


[Illustration: Death of Najira.]


                        AN INCIDENT OF MONTEREY.

                 (FROM THE MEXICAN OF FERNANDO GARCIA.)

    IT was morn on the Mother of Mountains,[1]
      While, curling like incense, away
    Rose the mists from the Eden-like valley,
      In which lay our loved Monterey:—
    In the distance was green San Domingo,
      Where, wearied, in silent repose,
    Slept the ranks of the resolute Saxon,
      The files of our conquering foes.

    On the edge of the hills, in our eyry,
      Like statues, we silently stood—
    Our cavalry guarding the mountain,
      Our infantry watching the wood.
    We gazed on our beautiful city,
      We thought of the stain on our name.
    And we swore that the sun of our country
      Should never descend on our shame!

    Like a knight, in his saddle Najira[2]
      Sat, watching the foeman with smiles,
    As they mounted the rugged sierra,
      And marched through its craggy defiles;
    And he laughed, as he turned to the vultures
      That circled and soared overhead,
    Coming down from their nests in the mountains
      To fatten and gorge on the dead.

    On, like wolves, came the reckless invader:
      We heard the huzzas of their men,
    Now low, in the depth of the forest,
      Now loud, when they formed in the glen;
    And we saw the bright gleam of their muskets
      Flash and fade through the emerald trees.
    And the crimson and white of their banner
      As it rippled and flowed on the breeze.

    Arising erect in his stirrups,
      Najira looked round on his band,
    And his eye flashed as brightly and keenly
      As the brand that he held in his hand:
    “For your altars—your country, her honor!
      Your daughters, your sires and your wives,
    Be warriors—be heroes,” he shouted,
      “And conquer, or yield up your lives!”

    On they came, and we looked on our leader,
      Who paused ere he gave us the word;
    His dark eye was pregnant with passion,
      His hand clutched the hilt of his sword;
    But a moment, and down, like the whirlwind,
      Steed and man, in the pride of our might.
    We plunged on the ruthless invader,
      And swam in the hell of the fight!

    Our noble, chivalric Najira,
      Over rock, through defile and ravine,
    Wherever the danger was darkest,
      Wherever a foeman was seen,
    Led the charge, as, in old, Alvarado
      And Cortez, again and again,
    Led the Spaniard to conquest and glory
      Over many a Mexican plain.

    And his men, full of ardor, with vivas,
      Pursued where the enemy fled—
    The hoofs of their horses disfiguring
      The faces and forms of the dead;
    And ever the shout of Najira
      Was heard in the din of the fray,
    As he swooped, like his own native eagle,
      With fire-flashing eyes, on his prey.

    Full of terror the traitorous Texan,[3]
      That stain on the Mexican name,
    Gave way in dismay, as Najira
      Plunged on in his passion for fame.
    As, pursuing, he wheeled round the mountain
      And swept like a storm through the gorge,
    From an ambuscade, deep in the forest,
      Their guns flushed like sparks from a forge.

    Their cannon swept o’er us and through us;
      Their rifles rained death on the field:
    We had sworn by the Mother of Jesus
      To conquer, but never to yield:
    Down, down, where he fought fell each hero,
      Horse and man, one by one, where he stood;
    And the sands of the rugged sierra
      Were crimson with Mexican blood.

    Like a lion at bay rode Najira:
      Not one of the troop that he led
    But was stretched on the side of the mountain—
      Thick strown with the dying and dead.
    His coat and his saddle were bloody;
      He reeled in his seat as he strove
    To strike once again for his country,
      Once again for the land of his love.

    All alone, all alone did he battle.
      Disdaining to yield, or to fly;
    He had failed, as he promised, to conquer,
      And nothing was left but to—die!
    “Surrender! surrender!” his foemen,
      Full of wonder, entreatingly cried,
    As, defying, he galloped his charger
      Along the sierra’s steep side.

    Down, down, at each stroke an invader
      Sank wounded, and gasping, and dead,
    As he galloped from foeman to foeman,
      His sword, waved in scorn, overhead.
    But the bullet at last rent his bosom,
      And down, from the cliff to the plain,
    Rolled the form of the dying Najira,
      The bravest and best of the slain.

    Weep, weep, for the gallant Najira!
      For never will Mexico own
    So heroic, so gallant a soldier,
      So fearless, so faultless a son!
    On his tomb lay your chaplets of laurel,
      And, Maidens of Mexico, pray
    For the soul of the knightly Najira—
      Pray, Maidens of Mexico, pray!


                                 NOTES.

[1] The Sierra Madre.

[2] Lieutenant-colonel Don Juan Najira, (pronounced Nah-_hee_-ra,) led
the Guanjuato regiment in its attack on General Worth’s division, on the
morning of the 21st September. He was as brave as the Chevalier Bayard,
the knight “_sans peur, et sans reproche_.” RIPLEY, in his “War with
Mexico,” says of him, that—“In spite of wounds he refused to surrender,
and struggled on, until, at length, he fell from his horse, and rolled,
dead, down the side of the mountain.”

[3] “The traitorous Texan,” an epithet which is purely Mexican, as the
ballad is supposed to be the product of a Mexican bard. The retreat of
the Texan regiment, however, is a historical fact; but the Mexican
lancers paid dearly for their short-lived triumph: not a man of them (I
quote Ripley) survived.

[Illustration]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          LOITERINGS AND LIFE


                   ON THE GREAT PRAIRIES OF THE WEST.


                            BY J. M. LEGARE.


                     A LOVE STORY OF THE PRAIRIES.

ABOUT the year 1820, among the Sioux, on Teton river, was a young chief
whose reputation had extended throughout the West, and excited the envy
and wonder, not only of the warriors of his own nation, but of every
tribe, from the Chippeways, who paddle bark canoes on the western lakes,
to the root-digging Shoshones at the base of the Rocky Mountains; and
far and near the hearts of the young Indian girls were taken captive by
the rude chivalry which added brilliancy to his invariable success. Like
many other heroes, with his early history was mingled not a little of
the fabulous and superhuman, and what was most singular, was, that there
appeared to be some grounds for this belief, it being well known that he
was not a Sioux by birth—a hunting-party of that tribe having found
him, when a mere infant, lying in the open prairie, partially wrapped in
a white buffalo-robe, a string of grisly-bear’s teeth around his neck,
and an eagle-feather in his little clenched hand—all unmistakable
evidences of exalted birth. The tradition did not stop here, for if the
testimony of some was to be credited, a great war-eagle was perceived
soaring away into the blue, from whose talons, beyond doubt, the child
must have dropped. One thing was certain, the insignia of a chief about
the young stranger admitted of no dispute, and accordingly as a chief
and with no small care was he reared.

But now that Ta-his-ka (“the white buffalo,” a name given him by the
Sioux, from the robe in which he was found) had grown, young as he was,
to be the most prominent warrior and successful hunter from the Pacific
to the Mississippi, it appeared that his parentage was not so celestial
as had been by some imagined, for the Pawnees formally demanded the
chief as one of themselves; and to prove their priority of right,
described minutely a scar on his hip, which, whether really what they
claimed it to be, or a mark of which they had obtained secret
information and craftily turned to account, was found to be as they had
described. The only result of this extraordinary proposal was a storm of
words in the Tepe-wah-kah (council-house) of the Sioux, directed against
the audacity of the Pawnees, and an amount of hate cherished between the
two tribes which filled some of the lodges with scalps and others with
wailing as well on the Teton, as in the vicinity of the River Platte.
Ta-his-ka himself both in the council and on the prairies was foremost
in opposing the Pawnees, and the trophies torn from these last were
neither few nor bloodless when the young chief headed a hunting party
whose search was more frequently after the hunters of the buffaloes than
the herds themselves. But the latter were not readily baffled, and
bringing all their ingenuity into play to entrap his person, succeeded
at last one day in decoying Ta-his-ka into a ravine, where his braves
were every man slain, and he himself, while performing feats worthy of a
copper-colored Achilles, stunned by an arrow and disarmed
instantaneously. Overjoyed at having in their possession one whose
presence they superstitiously believed to be a pledge of good luck to
their lodges, the captors hastened homeward, guarding him with the
utmost vigilance, but always refraining from binding his limbs, as they
did not despair now by large promises and offers to induce him to
acknowledge his Pawnee paternity. Accordingly, the chiefs loaded him
with honors and caresses, and made him proffers of squaws, horses,
lodges, robes, and, in short, every thing which constitutes savage
wealth; to all of which he listened with a contemptuous indifference and
total silence, which was sufficient answer in itself. At this time there
existed among the Pawnees a custom probably derived originally from the
Mandans, remains of whose villages are to be seen even so low down the
Missouri as the mouth of the Platte, the words used to designate it
being found in the latter tongue; this custom was to select every
alternate ten years the most beautiful female child of the tribe, who
was placed under the strict guardianship of two old squaws, without whom
she left the medicine-lodge neither day nor night, and between whom she
was obliged to sleep until her term of years expired, in order that she
might be a pure sacrifice to the Evil Spirit during the feast of green
corn, at the termination of the ten years, when, in the midst of
barbarous ceremonies, games, etc., the victim suddenly disappeared no
one but the medicine-men knew where. This doomed girl was called
MAH-PEN’KE’KA-MORSE,[4] (wife of the Evil Spirit,) and they supposed,
caused the fiend to abstain from injuring the tribe to which he was
related by marriage. Now as Ta-his-ka was believed to be in some sort
supernatural, one of the divisions of the medicine-lodge was assigned
him, and the partitions in an Indian house being neither so impervious
to sight nor bodily passage as plastered walls, a most unheard-of thing
took place—the appointed squaw of the Evil One yielded up her heart and
person to the illustrious prisoner, eluding nightly the vigilance of her
duennas. As for Ta-his-ka, he loved for the first time, and with all the
resistless passion of a wild but earnest soul; thus, although he was
brought every moon before the council of chiefs, and the former offers
renewed only to be answered by the same stern silence, (for no man had
heard him speak since his capture,) he made no attempt at escape,
contenting himself with merely food enough to sustain life, and scorning
to touch the prairie delicacies daily set before him.

So light were, meanwhile, the feet of the girl, or so heavy the eyes of
her ancient guardians, that none dreamed of the secret intercourse; and
even when the condition of the former could no longer be concealed,
strange to say, the medicine-men overlooked the proximity of the
handsome captive, and concluded their evil-divinity willed to bestow on
their nation one of his own offspring, who might in time assume the
place proffered to the obstinate Ta-his-ka. But when the infant proved
to be a girl, they were at a loss to determine whether their hero was to
be born of this squaw, when arrived at woman’s years, or whether by the
preference shown to the present wife above all precedent, it was his
wish to protract her existence.

While they still debated the matter, an end was put to their discussions
in rather a startling manner; maternal affection and love for the chief
from whom she had been parted some weeks, got the better of prudence,
and in the act of bearing the infant to her husband, (for the marriage
rites are simple enough in the Great West,) a cry from the former at
last aroused the duennas, and the whole was as clear as day even to
their purblind eyes.

What a commotion was then in the village! the old witches were
immediately put to death, and the unfortunate three reserved only until
preparations for their torture could be made on a scale equivalent to
the crime. All apathy had suddenly disappeared from the noble face of
the Sioux chief, his voice was found, and dauntlessly acknowledging his
child, offered to lead them against whomsoever they desired, if they
would give him the Ka-morse for a squaw. But the tide had now turned as
strongly against him as it had formerly flowed in his favor, and his
proposal was received with rage and horror. They both bound his limbs,
and surrounded the hut to which he was removed with a circle of braves
who slept as near to one another as might be reached with the arm; but
the White-buffalo was now at bay, and resistless as of old. In spite of
these precautions, on the second morning after the discovery, one of the
warriors was found stiff, with a knife in his heart, and despoiled of
his weapons, two others at the entrance of the medicine-lodge as
effectually silenced, and the two squaws who had been bound, one on each
side of the young mother, strangled in their sleep, the cords cut, and
their captive flown; in short, Ta-his-ka had gnawed through, or found
means of severing his bonds, and after liberating his wife and child,
had carried them off on his own horse, deliberately selected. Such a
feat astounded the Pawnees, but quietly recovering from their stupor,
every horse was bestrode, and the whole body of warriors gave chase; the
trail of the fugitives being easily found and pursued. After many hours
of vain pursuit, however, and when they had found time to consider the
hopelessness of recapturing on the open prairie a warrior noted for his
own craft and endurance, as well as the wonderful strength and size of
his steed, they resolved to refrain from farther pursuit, but to send
after the fugitives an enemy, which, with the high southern wind then
blowing, must overtake them before the sun went down—a terrible
messenger on the prairies, indeed—_fire_.

It was already past mid-day and Ta-his-ka had repeatedly turned his face
to speak encouraging words to the young wife, while with covert
uneasiness he watched the volumes of pale smoke rolling up from the line
of horizon far behind, and now that they had entered one of those vast
luxuriant bottoms so dreaded, even by the Indians, in autumn, although
nothing but the sky overhead could be perceived, through the parted tops
of the tall grass and reeds, it was no longer to be hidden even from the
terrified Ka-Morse, that a dimness had spread above not occasioned by
clouds, and that the scent of fire grew every moment less faint and
uncertain. The bottom lands to which I have referred as so pregnant with
danger during conflagrations on the prairies, can scarcely be called
such, as they extend for leagues, and are not to the eye sensibly lower
than the greater portion of the surrounding plain; yet that there is
some depression may be deduced from the frequent humidity of the soil,
and the wild luxuriance of the grass, rising to the height of eight or
ten feet, and matted together about the stalks with innumerable
pea-vines, from which causes a horseman can pursue no other route than
the trails made by the files of buffaloes, and as these are often
tortuous and winding in the last degree, it sometimes occurs that
Indians or traders have found themselves enclosed between these
combustible hedges, turning in every direction, when the whirlwind of
fire behind would leave them little prospect of escape in a straight
line and on the open prairie. And in this imminent risk must we leave
the fugitives, and allow Jean, now that he comes into the simple
narrative as an actor, to continue the story in his own words as nearly
as I can recall them.

“Voilà!” cried Jean, standing up in his stirrups and reaching as high as
he could with the hand, from which he had let fall his rein, “de grass
was tall _comme ça_, oh, vere tall, and I could see not’ing mais smoke,
smoke, and hear de rattlin’ _terrible_ ven de fire leap into de
canebrake like de—what you call?—volley ob de ten thousands mousquets.
Den de little deer and de big deer, and de bears, and de painters, was
all runnin’ deir best to save deir hide from scorchin; and de
prairie-hens drop down and rise up and drop down agen—and it was all
like one big oven! _Mais—hola! j’ai oublié_ de buffalo, which was more
worse dan all—he bellow and tear along on dis hand and on dat—_je la
confesse_, I was vere much afraid dat a big bull would choose de trail I
was in, and punce mon cheval in de hind part wid his horn!

“Presently, I look behind—_ah, miséricorde!_ de grass was carry by de
win’ en avant, all in de blaze, and w’ere it fall, it was one new fire
_immédiatement_! Den I say to myself, Ah, Jean Moreau, _mon brave_, you
will be roast alive, and dere is no help for it—and de beautiful skins
will be lost in dis dam fire! _mais_, at de word, something say, not
loud out, but softly—‘Quelle sottise! why you not pray, eh? better dan
curse!’ Eh bien, good, I say—I will pray! _Mais, I have not any
prayers!_ Enfin, je remembre—je dis in de voice haute, ‘Malbrouc s’en
va’t’en querre;’ and—what do I see? Oh, quelle joie—de grass not so
high, and in de front a short hill! I gallop up—I am on de pieds—I am
strike a light—I blow vere softly, den more hard—de grass is in one
blaze—de win’ take de fire—de black spot is dere w’ere I stan, and—I
am save! Den I feel de heart vere light, I smile at myself—I smile at
de horse, I rub my hand, and walk about—eh bien, _I was vere
comfortàble_! Presently I look; oh, misericorde! voila—voila de
diable—misericorde! and I run to hide, for I was vere much scare; but
dere was no place to hide. Den I look agen, and it was not de diable,
mais one Ingen vere burn, and on de face in de grass. I make haste, I
pull him out ob de fire—dere was one leetle drop in de canteen—ah, ha!
dat bring back de life.

“Mais w’en de life was com’, he would have lose it _immèdiatement_, if I
had not hold on to de horse. ‘Hola!’ I say, ‘you burn your own self, but
you not roast _mon cheval—non, non_!’

“Den he look at me hard, and strike his breast, and talk in Ingen.

“‘Hist! de chief and his squaw and little one saw de fire yonder. Look!
de prairie lies black, and de chief is here, but de squaw and little one
are in de belly of de chief’s horse!’

“‘What is dat?’ I cry, bien surpris. ‘Dans son ventre! oh sacre!
malheur—quel diable of a horse! Mais, what for you let him eat up your
squaw, eh?’

“‘_Non, non!_’ he cry; ‘w’en de fire was vere close, he kills son
cheval, and in de skin roll up de squaw, voyez?’

“Ah, dat was better—bien good! j’étais satisfait, moi!”

This was the most stirring part of Jean’s narrative, and therefore to
save time and patience, I will relate the remainder, not in his but my
words. The night was so dark, from the smoke obscuring the sky, that
none but an Indian could have found his way back to where Jean had sat
composedly, after watching the chief disappear toward the south on the
former’s horse. Back he came, however, after the lapse of some hours,
with a cheerful whoop, bearing in his arms his wife and child, the green
skin having protected them while the fierce element swept over their
heads.

The brave (for as yet Jean was ignorant of even the name of his
companion) professed to be acquainted with the prairie thereabouts, and
led them half a mile to an island in a moist hollow, which had not been
touched by the conflagration; and here they all supped on the jerked
meat which Jean chanced to have with him, all game being effectually
frighted away. There is no need of following them on their journey,
which was generally in the neighborhood of the Missouri, for the sake of
the deer and buffalos which had fled for refuge to the wooded ravines
and valleys intersecting the banks, the young squaw and child riding,
while the men walked at her side. Not far from the mouth of the Teton
river they parted company, Jean to proceed to the station of the
American Fur Company, and Ta-his-ka to rejoin his tribe, the former
insisting on the horse being retained for the use of the young mother,
whose slender frame had begun to waste away under a continuance of
fatigue and excitement, for which the peculiar nature of her former
life, so different from that of ordinary Indian girls, had rendered her
totally unfit. There Jean learned for the first time the name of the
chief—one long familiar to his ears—and the events already narrated.

He had not been more than a week at the company’s fort, when, with marks
of the deepest grief and rage stamped on his countenance, Ta-his-ka
presented himself before him; the child lay mutely in his arms, but no
squaw—where was she?

“Ee-ohk paze!” (dark-dead,) was the laconic answer, but accompanied by a
twitching of the mouth-corners, which showed how the fierce spirit was
moved. It seemed that the numerous enemies jealousy of his fame and
power had created among the Sioux, had taken advantage of the
White-buffalo’s prolonged absence, to spread the most injurious and
unfounded reports of his deeds, and growing bolder by degrees, asserted
openly that Ta-his-ka had abandoned his tribe, delivered up the warriors
who followed him to the knives of the Pawnees, and, won over by their
gifts and promises, become a Pawnee himself. Thus when the chief
re-appeared, he was charged before the council of braves with treachery
of the most abhorrent kind, and his Pawnee wife cited as a proof of
their accusations; and but for his well-remembered strength and
resistless fortune, which no one cared to dispute, even his proud and
indignant denial would scarcely have delivered him from his former
companions on the war-path.

But the frail flower from the Platte had drooped and died on the return,
and it was his wish now to leave the child in charge of some one to whom
it might be safely intrusted. Jean related the circumstances to the wife
of one of the company’s officers, who immediately adopted the infant
until the chief should return to claim it. Thus it was that Wah (snow)
had surprised us by the correctness of her English in the chief’s lodge;
for even after he had become once more a powerful chief, he contented
himself with occasional and secret visits to the station, and did not
carry her home until about a year previous to our visit. The rest of the
story may be told in a few words. Ta-his-ka crossed the river and
wandered on until he arrived at a village of the Ioways. These people
pleased him, and they were equally gratified by the presence of a
warrior whose feats in their hunts or games appeared every day more
marvelous; for, until the Pawnees, who had traced the fugitive to his
retreat, claimed his person with threats, they were ignorant of the
renown of their guest. The Ioways were too proud of their acquisition to
pay much heed to the repeated menaces of the ambassadors, and their
principal chief dying about that time, they chose the Sioux by
acclamation to lead them against the Pawnees of the Platte. The old fire
now returned to Ta-his-ka’s breast—he was once more the terrible
_medicine_ chief, (“Wakon,”) and the scourge of his old enemies, who,
losing more scalps in each skirmish than they could hope to regain while
the White-Buffalo led on, presently petitioned that the hatchet might be
buried, and conducted themselves with a crafty obsequiousness Ta-his-ka
took no pains to conceal his contempt of; and, in fact, as in the
instance occurring the night of our stay in his village, by stern
opposition to their evil plottings, occasionally brought to light the
smouldering hate lurking in their breasts. The story of _Wah_—the
snow-flake—which I heard nearly two years afterward, if less wild than
that of her mother, the young Ka-morse, was more touching, and more
tinged with delicate romance—one of those gentle episodes in the stir
of prairie life, like the soft down under the bristling feathers of the
fierce war-eagle’s wings.

-----

[4] Mandan.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE MIGHT OF SONG.


    An extract from a Poem delivered by W. H. C. HOSMER before the
    Literary Societies of Hamilton College, July, 1848.

    IF we were chained forever to the Real,
      God’s benison would be indeed withdrawn;
    Without rich glimpses of the bright Ideal
      In vain would morning dawn.

    Upward, on pinions of sublime devotion,
      The soul would cleave its native sky no more,
    But loathsome grow—a pool devoid of motion,
      Foul to its weedy floor.

    Our grosser nature ever strives to win us
      From worship of the beautiful and bright,
    And deaf are many to the voice within us
      That whispers “_seek the light!_”

    Not they alone work faithfully who labor
      On the dull, dusty thoroughfare of life;
    The clerkly pen can vanquish when the sabre
      Is useless in the strife.

    In cloistered gloom the quiet man of letters,
      Launching his thoughts like arrows from the bow,
    Oft strikes at Treason, and his base abettors,
      Bringing their grandeur low.

    Armed with a scroll, the birds of evil omen
      That curse a country he can scare away,
    Or in the wake of Error marshal foemen
      Impatient for the fray.

    Scorn not the Sons of Song! or deem them only
      Poor, worthless weeds upon the shore of Time;
    Although they move in walks retired and lonely,
      They have their tasks sublime.

    When tyrants tread the hill-top and the valley,
      Calling the birth-right of the brave their own,
    Around the tomb of Liberty they rally,
      And roll away the stone:—

    Or, roused by some dark peril, they have written
      Words that awe Guilt behind his guarded wall,
    Or, by the lightning of their numbers smitten,
      Beheld the Bigot fall.

    Though fierce, unbridled passions, running riot,
      Hiss like Medusa’s vipers in the breast,
    The witchcraft of harmonic sound can quiet
      The turmoil into rest.

    Who through the chieftain’s castle-hall is stealing
      With the light foot-fall of some beast of prey,
    While vengeance hushes every softer feeling,
      Nerving his arm to slay?

    Where is his home? To flame its roof was given,
      And heavy clouds above the ruin lower—
    While the dread foe, by whom his soul was riven,
      Unwarned, is in his power.

    Where are his kinsmen? Ask the fox and raven
      That feed upon their corpses gashed and red;
    And will he now turn back a trembling craven—
      What, what arrests his tread?

    Young Annot Lyle, her Highland clairshack waking,
      Trills an old ballad to remembrance dear—
    And dagger-hilt his rugged hand forsaking
      Brushes away the tear.

    Lo! the proud Norman and his host are flying,
      While in pursuit, with fierce, triumphant cheers,
    That drown the groans of horse and rider dying,
      Press on the Saxon spears.

    What stays their flight? The song of Rolla rising
      In angry swell above the dreadful roar—
    Again they charge!—the bolts of death despising,
      And Harold’s reign is o’er.

    Dread Power of Song! whose voice can thus awaken
      Notes that consign an empire to the grave;
    Or, when recoils a host by panic shaken,
      From rout the valiant save.

    The fearful mantle that the seer is wearing
      Derives from thee its tints of living fire—
    And higher mounts Philosophy when sharing
      The wealth of thy attire:

    And in the distance to thy vision brightly
      Gleam happy homes beyond this land of graves,
    As airy domes and towers at sunset lightly
      Rise from Sicilian waves.

    When History, her task but ill-achieving,
      Fails some far epoch faintly to illume,
    Her thread the muse, like Ariadne weaving,
      Conducts us through the gloom.

    She fronts the sun—and on the purple ridges
      The virgin Future lifts her veil of snow—
    Looks westward, and an arch of splendor bridges
      The gulf of Long Ago.

    She speaks, and, lo! Italian sunlight flashes
      Over the dark expanse of northern skies—
    Death hears her thrilling cry, and cold, gray ashes
      Take mortal shape, and rise.

    When factions vex a state, and new abuses
      Bring to her drooping banner-fold disgrace,
    And Mind, forgetful of its nobler uses,
      Grows sensual and base—

    When the gray fathers of a nation falter,
      Muffling their faces for the funeral knell.
    A lightning-flash, from her poetic altar;
      The darkness can dispel.

    Then honored be the Bard!—a heavenly mansion
      Alone could be the birth-place of an Art
    That gives to deathless intellect expansion,
      And purifies the heart.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE LADY OF THE ROCK.


                        A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.


                         BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.


                      (_Continued from page 255._)


                               CHAPTER X.

               The sun was slowly sinking to the west
               Pavilioned with a thousand glorious dyes;
               The turtle-doves were winging to the nest,
               Along the mountain’s soft declivities.
                                                  CROLEY.

YOUNG STANLEY’S congratulations that he alone knew of the communication
held by Lucy Ellet and her sister with the mysterious creature whom he
had seen, were not destined to be of long duration. The lady of the
vapor was soon beheld by various other persons of the village at
different times—and the _Haunted Rock_ became an object of universal
dread. The rumor, moreover, speedily grew rife that the object of her
visitations was to hold unholy intercourse with the young nieces of the
governor of the colony. These, therefore, from having been the idols of
all classes in the place, became subjects of curiosity and vague
apprehension.

Superstition, when not arrayed in her full horrors, had charms which
makes us regret her banishment in a state of society enlightened by
reason and education. Her system of imaginary terrors had something
exciting to minds fond of feeding upon the marvelous. This is especially
true with regard to the lighter forms in which she sometimes appeared
when fortune-tellers were introduced as part of the amusements of the
age, and their auguries regarded as serious and prophetic earnest. But
as we have seen, none of the lighter forms by which imagination works
upon her subjects were here indulged as the food of a wild and wayward
fancy. Their belief, though not less erroneous, was founded on the
records of that page which cannot lie, and which warned them of the
existence of one great and mighty spirit of evil, wandering to and fro
in the earth, and seeking to decoy the souls of mankind to his abode of
darkness. The object of this dread was no other than he who had once
stood high in Heaven, and afterward became prince of the powers of Hell.

Recollecting that the wiles of this same adversary practiced upon the
mother of our race, had become the means of expelling her from the
bowers of Paradise, and bringing “death into the world and all our wo,”
it is not surprising that Lucy and Jessy Ellet were now regarded with
suspicion on all hands. The gossips, like the sybils, after consulting
their leaves, arranged and combined their information, which passed
through a hundred channels, and in a hundred different varieties in the
village of L. The rumors to which their communications gave rise were
strange and inconsistent. The result was that the society of the sisters
became as much avoided as it had been previously sought after. Closer
observation, however, caused the chief blame to rest upon Lucy, who was
seen daily, at sunrise and sunset, wending her way to the haunted spot.

It was some weeks after Stanley’s first sight of the phantom lady that
twilight overtook him on an evening ramble. He had carefully, since the
time we have described, avoided bending his steps toward that vicinity
in any of his walks. Accordingly, on this evening, he had turned off at
the outskirts of the village, at a place where another road met that
leading to the fearful spot. Having been occupied with reflections of a
deeper cast than are common to youths, he had remained until the slow
departing sunset reminded him to retrace his steps. On approaching the
place where the two roads met, he was startled by the sight of a light
figure emerging into the main path. The thought of the strange lady of
the mist instantly suggested itself to the mind of the youth. A new moon
had just risen behind the dim embodiment, and shed her soft rays upon
the spot where it stood. The last beams of the setting sun were almost
lost beyond the distant hills, and nothing but the soft light of that
evening-queen lit the scene.

Stanley advanced to meet the spectral shape—it turned—a pair of dark
eyes flashed from beneath a silken hood, and the clear voice of Lucy
Ellet sounded in his ears.

“Well met, Master Frank Stanley,” it said; “you have avoided me of late,
as have all our villagers.”

“After what I have been witness to, Miss Lucy,” began Stanley—

“Believe me, Frank, the interview you beheld between myself and the Lady
of the Rock was pure as the intercourse above.”

“I beseech you, Lucy Ellet,” exclaimed the youth, earnestly, and not
heeding her words, “for your own soul’s sake, for your young sister’s
sake, cease these suspicious visits to yonder mysterious spot!”

“Oblige me, then, in relieving me of my duty toward that unhappy lady,
by assuming the task hitherto performed by myself, and I will go thither
no more.”

“I would do aught but perjure my own soul, to have thee and thy sister
reinstated in the opinion of our little community, to say nothing of
saving ye both from future destruction. Yet,” continued he, “if I also
must hold frequent converse with that visionary form, I dare not—”

“Out on thee, Frank,” interrupted the young lady, “I had thought thee a
brave youth, afraid of nothing but sin.”

“And is it not sin to hold constant speech with a spirit-messenger of
Satan?” inquired the boy.

“I will request thee to have no speech of her; I would merely depute you
to bear, morning and evening, a little basket resembling this, (and she
drew one from beneath her shawl,) place it on the rock—wait until the
unknown lady appears to remove it, and replace it with another—then
return to the village. Do this to oblige me, Frank, and save me the
necessity I shall otherwise be under of continuing the visits so
execrated. More confidence I cannot put in you at present; but will you
not have faith that I would not instigate you to the performance of an
act that was otherwise than noble.”

“Lucy Ellet,” said Stanley, looking on her steadily, “there is that in
your manner and your words which shows me that you are actuated by some
generous principle in this singular affair. What this mystery may be,
time must prove. I will do your errand.”

“The Lord reward you,” replied Miss Ellet. “The basket, then, shall be
placed under the large willow-tree at the end of your father’s orchard,
that we may not seem to have any connection in regard to it. You must
always replace on the same spot the one you will receive at the rock;
and I will cause it to be removed and replenished in time to have it
there again ready for your next visit. But here we are within the
village,” added Lucy, “and had better not be seen together, lest it
might excite suspicion. You will find a circuitous path to the rock in
yonder direction,” she continued, pointing to the left, “and had better
use it in your excursions, that you may be the more likely to escape
notice.” So saying, and without giving the youth time to reply, Lucy
parted from Stanley, and soon after turned into her uncle’s house.

The boy proceeded on his way with an undefinable sentiment of approval
in his bosom. Some instinct had prompted him, notwithstanding all his
preconceived notions of horror at the abandonment of the young Ellets to
the power of the Lady of the Rock, to accede to Lucy’s proposal that he
would supply her place in her daily visits to that mysterious being; and
so far from feeling any reproaches of conscience in remembering that he
had given her his promise to that effect, he rather enjoyed all the
elation of spirit experienced by one who generously sacrifices himself
to suspicion for a noble cause. Something in Lucy Ellet’s manner
convinced him that feelings of the same kind had actuated her conduct in
this strange affair, and he thought of her now more with admiration than
with reproach. “Yet what,” said he to himself, startled at the change a
half an hour had wrought in his views, “if this approbation of myself
and Miss Ellet be only a suggestion of the arch tempter to place me in
his power?” But no, the idea was dismissed in a moment as incompatible
with his feelings of satisfaction in what he had pledged himself to
undertake.

Stanley rose at sunrise on the following morning, for the purpose of
commencing the fulfillment of his promise. Seeking the willow-tree in
the garden, he found the little basket prepared for him, and assuming
the charge of it, set out upon his walk. He speedily turned into the
winding path indicated by Lucy Ellet, and pursued his way. The morning
beams were just breaking, and their light glanced upon the dewy grass
beneath his feet, and caused it to sparkle as though his tread were upon
myriads of diamonds. The waking birds were chanting their matin lays,
and the insects humming in every brake and dingle. Every thing gave
promise of one of those days in the latter end of May when spring seems
resolved to triumph over summer, by contrasting her superiority in
beauty and freshness with that sultry season so soon to appear, at the
same time that she might almost vie with the latter in the genial heat
of her noontide sun.

But the balmy morning and the day it presaged were alike lost on our
hero, whose mind was filled with reflections concerning his singular
mission. He walked on, rapt in thought, till he approached the foot of
the hills. He there paused, despite his conclusions of the previous
evening, overpowered with a doubtful feeling regarding his errand. He
was about to minister to the shadowy spirit whom he had twice beheld
upon that insecure summit. What fearful spells might she not weave
around him by thus doing her will? He ascended a short distance, and
turned to look behind him. A scene of more complete solitude, having all
its peculiarities heightened by the serenity of the weather, the quiet
composure of the atmosphere, and the perfect stillness of the elements,
could hardly be imagined. He could descry nothing of the scenes he had
left, save the valley beneath him, and the spire of the village church
in the distance. Should he return home or proceed? He remembered his
promise to Miss Ellet, and again applied himself to continue his ascent.
He drew near the ominous spot—climbed a few steps higher—touched the
rock, and placed the basket upon its base.

Slowly and gradually appeared the form of the lady of the mist. It was
not without something like alarm that Stanley beheld this mysterious
being standing close beside him. She had been about to speak, but seeing
the boy, cast her beautiful azure eyes on him with a look of surprise,
exchanged the basket for another, and with a pensive smile, disappeared
from his view.

Had all the spells he had dreaded in his approach to the spot been
concentrated in that look and smile, the change in the feelings of young
Stanley could not have been more instantaneous. Surprise succeeded to
his former superstitious sentiments of awe, for he had discovered that
the Lady of the Mist was no vague embodiment as he had deemed, but a
gentle shape of human flesh and blood. Where or how she had vanished,
however, was still a mystery; but he was so overpowered with a sense of
his discovery, that he turned to descend without attempting to make any
investigation, and reached the village to encounter a day of great
agitation.


                              CHAPTER XI.

           Through solid curls of smoke, the bursting fires
           Climb in tall pyramids above the spires,
           Concentring all the winds; whose forces, driven
           With equal rage from every point of heaven,
           Whirl into conflict, round the scantling pour
           The twisting flames, and through the rafters roar.
                                                      BARLOW.

           Yes, thou must die—there is but one resource,
           The last—the worst—if torture were not worse.
                                                       BYRON.

Several topics of excitement began at this time to prevail in the
village of L., in addition to that connected with the haunted rock. One
was the projected marriage of Lucy Ellet very shortly to Mr. Elmore, to
whom she had been for some time betrothed; another, the reappearance of
Messrs. Brooks and Dale in the village, where they took up their abode
for a short period; and a third, the threatened incursion of some of the
neighboring Indian tribes.

To guard against this last evil, the inhabitants were obliged to appear
at all times armed, and prepared for repelling hostilities. A fast was
likewise appointed by the governor of the colony, and public worship
held daily to offer up prayer in view of the impending danger. At such
times, a guard of men, with muskets ready for immediate use, was
stationed without the building, to repulse any attack of the savages,
and give the word of warning to those engaged within. In this way, as
the situation of the village was in itself strong, owing to the hills
that surrounded it, the inhabitants trusted that they were fully
prepared to resist any sudden attack.

Things were in this state, when, on a certain day, the morning beams had
shone on the unpretending spire of L. for five or six hours, and the
people had assembled in the building beneath as usual. The lengthy
prayer with which the Puritans were wont to commence their exercises had
concluded, and, just as every voice was attuned to the melody of a pious
psalm, a loud and unusual noise was heard.

The worshipers of that humble meeting-house paused to listen with ears
erect and faces filled with boding expectation. It was the terrific yell
of the approaching Indians. This was speedily followed by the appointed
signal from the soldiery stationed without, and at the instant that the
report of the musketry rang in the air, the congregation started from
their seats in terror. Each man rushed for his arms, and crowding to the
doors and windows, found the building completely surrounded by savages.
The females, remaining in the interior, shrieked in the extremity of
their alarm.

The scene that followed is not easily described. A fearful struggle, of
course, ensued. Heaven, too, at that moment, added its terrors to the
scene. A furious thunder-storm arose, and amidst the most vivid flashes
of lightning, and awful reverberations, the rain began to descend in
torrents. The villagers now yielded themselves completely to terror, and
abandoning the conflict, prostrated themselves on their knees, and
resorted to prayer. The Indians took fresh courage from this
circumstance, and commenced firing the meeting-house. For a little time
the rain prevented their efforts from taking effect. But at length, as
the strong army of a battle will rout the less powerful, so did the
fiercer element dispel the weaker.

The fire was finally triumphant, and spouted in jets of flame out at
each window of the consuming building, while huge flakes of burning
materials went driving on the wind, and rolling a dark canopy of smoke
over the neighborhood. The lurid glow lit up the air, and showed with
terrible distinctness the waving crowd that stood around. The rain,
however, prevented the progress of devastation further. But the shouts
of the Indians resounded far and wide, as they turned to continue their
work of destruction by setting fire to the other dwellings in the
village.

At this crisis, the villagers, as if animated by a sudden and
simultaneous impulse, arose from their knees, and betook themselves
again to the defensive. Previously, in their resistance, wild confusion,
despair, and frenzied efforts had been blended in such a manner as
completely to destroy any thing like unity of action. But now, in
concert, and disposed according to the best military arrangements, they
advanced a second time upon these invaders.

The Indians, in confidence of their approaching triumph, had uttered the
whoop of success, which called their warriors from the adjoining
vicinity to behold the approaching scene. In surprise, therefore,
notwithstanding this addition to their forces, they found themselves
resisted with a power and a skill such as they had never before
witnessed. But their previous success had given new spirit to an enemy
already sufficiently audacious, and continuing their war-cries with
redoubled ferocity, they pursued the attack. The combat raged for about
half an hour, when the Indians were utterly defeated, and betook
themselves to flight.

At that moment the clouds of heaven suddenly opened, shedding the
blessed light of the returning sun upon the village; and it might have
been seen that the recent victory had been obtained through the means of
a stranger, who had appeared and aroused the people from their panic of
fear, assumed the command, arranged and ordered them in the best
military manner, and thus enabled them to repel and rout the Indians,
and save the village. This person was a man of dignified and majestic
bearing, and with an interesting beauty and pallor of countenance.

The parting clouds had scarcely permitted the gleams of renewed sunshine
to fall upon the rescued spot, and the inhabitants began to realize
their safety, and look around to return thanks to the skillful and
unknown commander to whom the rescue was due, ere it was discovered that
he had mysteriously vanished. Awe and amazement filled the minds of the
spectators, for they were utterly unable to account for the singular
arrival and sudden disappearance of this remarkable person. After many
unsatisfactory conjectures, the only conclusion they could arrive at was
that the Lord had sent an angel to their deliverance.

It was on the evening of the day on which this attack took place, that
Frank Stanley was proceeding on his second errand to the rock. As he
walked on, he pondered deeply upon the discovery he had that morning
made. The recent scene of excitement in the village had banished the
thoughts of it throughout the day from his mind. But now his curiosity
recurred to the subject with all the strength with which that feeling
fixes upon a mystery but partially solved. The stranger who had so
singularly appeared during the conflict with the Indians and put them to
flight, seemed somehow associated in the boy’s mind with the Lady of the
Rock, and he could no more join with the villagers in believing the one
an angel of the Lord, than he could now in supposing the other an evil
spirit.

The more perplexed the more he reflected, Stanley one moment resolved at
all hazards to penetrate the singular mystery, to overcome on his
present errand the internal and undefinable feelings which would
restrain him from accosting the lady, and offering her any further
assistance in his power, and discovering the place of her retreat. Yet
to press himself on her confidence might be impertinence, and as she had
in the morning disappeared without noticing his presence, it was evident
that she did not mean voluntarily to make him her confident, and
probably she was involved in no difficulties where he might be useful.
The next instant, therefore, he resolved to suppress all desire to
penetrate the secret, dismiss his disquieting and fruitless conjectures,
and without attempting to invade the manner and place of the sudden
disappearance of the fair but living vision, await the period when time
should throw light upon the subject.

He was thus divided in his own determinations when he reached the woods
at the foot of the hill where his purposed visit lay. At that moment he
became startled from his reflections by the rustling of leaves.
Remembering the assault from the Indians in the morning, the youth
paused, and leaned forward to listen, holding his breath, and condensing
every faculty in the single sense of hearing. Silence, however, seemed
restored to the disturbed foliage, and reigned as completely as though
it had previously been unbroken. The boy pursued his course, supposing
the noise he had heard simply to have been occasioned by a sudden gust
of wind. But he had not proceeded many steps when the sound was
distinctly perceptible of approaching voices, speaking in the deep tones
of the savages. He turned, and ere many minutes elapsed, the forms of
three Indians were visible. “Dog of the pale faces!” was their
exclamation, as they rushed upon him. The youth was entirely
alone—cheered by no friendly eye, emboldened by no encouraging voice,
and so sudden had been the event that his mind was wholly unprepared for
the emergency. Yet, perceiving at once his danger, and determined to
make one bold effort for his life, he burst from them ere they were
aware of his purpose, and bounded off with the swiftness and alertness
of a deer. There was but one breathless moment, the Indians raised the
cry of alarm, and pursued hotly after him. As soon as a favorable
instant presented itself, he darted through an opening and ascended the
hill. A bullet grazed his clothes, and several branches from the bushes
at his side, but not one harmed him.

Stanley knew too well the nature of the struggle in which he was engaged
to lose one of the precious moments. Accordingly, he kept his way up the
acclivity, which, though neither very high nor very steep, was yet
sufficiently toilsome to one contending for life to render it painfully
oppressive. There, however, he was obliged to slacken his speed to
recover breath. The violence with which his heart beat showed how great
had been his exertions. He must proceed again, however, for the
footsteps of his pursuers were near.

He started off a second time, but his strength was exhausted, and ere he
had gained the summit of the second hill, he fell prostrate upon the
ground. He rose, proceeded again for a few moments at his former swift
pace. By degrees this slackened—the Indians were within a few yards of
him. He had a loaded pistol in his pocket—but he knew it could only
destroy one of his enemies, and there would still remain two to contend
with. Generously, therefore, he refrained from using it, and prepared to
resign himself into their hands, and yielded himself up a prisoner with
a dignity that was remarkable for his years.

Dragging him to a glen which intervened between the two hills, they
bound him tightly, and then turned apparently to make some consultations
respecting the manner of his fate. The prospect of death is terrible at
every period of life; but in the first spring-tide of youth, with all
the capacities of pleasure astir and eager for gratification, to be
forcibly snatched from the untasted banquet is peculiarly trying, even
when the change comes in the form of a natural death-bed. But to sit,
like young Stanley, in horrid uncertainty in regard to the mode in which
life was to be extinguished, was a situation to break the boldest
spirit; and the unhappy captive could not restrain the tears which
flowed from his eyes. We have seen that although he was a brave youth in
any danger which could be met by action, yet withal, he was strongly
imaginative and apt to be led away by the exaggerations of
fancy—exaggerations likely to act more or less upon the soul of any one
who is in suspense and passively awaiting an approaching calamity. This
agony of mind continued until the feelings of the youth arose almost to
a state of frenzy. He started up, and struggled so violently to become
freed from his bonds, that it almost seemed that they should have burst
by the force of his strength, as did the withes of Sampson. But the
cords were of too firm a texture, and, after an unavailing struggle, the
boy fell back exhausted.

The Indians were evidently now preparing some torture, which would put
the sufferer to severe bodily anguish. As Stanley lay and looked on,
overcome with his late violent exertions, the scene swam before him. At
this instant he became aware of an interruption to the preparations of
the savages, and had just time to recognize the mysterious stranger of
the morning, to whom the preservation of his native village was due, and
behold him fall upon the enemy, when he became insensible.


                              CHAPTER XII.

      Can no rest find me, no private place secure me
      But still my miseries like bloodhounds haunt me?
      Unfortunate young man, which way now guides thee.
      Guides thee from death? the country’s laid around for thee.
                                                   WOMEN PLEASED.

      Did I but purpose to embark with thee
      On a smooth surface of a Summer sea,
      And would forsake the skiff and make the shore
      When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar?
                                                           PRIOR.

      A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate—
      I’ve seen the last look of her heavenly eyes;
      I’ve heard the last sound of her blessed voice—
      I’ve seen the fair form from my sight depart—
      My doom is closed.
                                                     COUNT BASIL.

When young Stanley first returned to consciousness he found himself in a
place whose shaded artificial light seemed very grateful to his eyes,
aching as they were in sympathy with his throbbing brain: without
arousing himself sufficiently to consider the nature of his situation,
further than to know that his limbs were free, and that he was lying
upon a comfortable bed, he fell into a heavy and unnatural slumber.
During this lethargy, which lasted many hours, sudden starts, the
perspiration which stood upon his brow, the distortions of his
countenance, and the manner in which he flung about his limbs, showed
that in his dreams he was again encountering the terrors from which he
had escaped. This lasted for several hours, but, at length, fatigue
prevailed over nervous excitation, and he relapsed into a soft
untroubled repose.

After some time, he sighed, stirred and awoke. On looking round, he
found himself in a place surrounded by walls of stone, with an opening
on one side, blockaded by a piece of rock, and leaving a single crevice
through which a faint ray of daylight fell. The floor and ceiling of
earth, showed that it was under ground; yet it contained various
articles of rude furniture, and the moss bed on which he lay was soft
and pliable under his weight. The brands of a falling fire had been
carefully raked together in one corner, and were burning with a feeble
and wavering flame, which cast faint, flickering shadows upon the dark
walls.

Continuing his inspection more closely, the boy saw the figure of an
aged man, seated upon a stone, bending over the pages of a large Bible
which lay open upon his knee. His countenance was majestic and
dignified. His brow had a care-worn and anxious expression, yet withal
an air of calm resignation inexpressibly sublime. His locks were almost
completely white, though his dark and intelligent eye still retained
much of the fire of early youth, while the hale cheek, and undaunted
presence indicated patience and content in the greatest suffering that
can befall humanity.

Stanley neither spoke nor moved; but remained with his eyes riveted on
the attractive countenance before him with a species of holy awe. As he
gazed, the old man arose, kneeled, and poured out the aspirations of a
pure spirit in fervent petitions to that Power whose support he
evidently needed.

While he was yet praying, a manly form entered at the opening of the
cavern. The stranger wore a military cloak. He stood in the shadow until
the aged man had ceased and risen, then dropped his cloak and approached
the latter, and Stanley knew him for the mysterious deliverer of the
village, and the person whom he had seen when he lay bound by the
Indians, to fall upon them, and effect, he felt certain, the
preservation he had experienced. He was a specimen of manly beauty; and
the proud and lofty forehead, the deep-set brow and eyes, the expressive
lip, addressed themselves to the interest of the youth.

Overcome with surprise, the boy still remained immovable, and the old
man addressed the stranger. “Has she not yet arrived? the sun is
high—it must be noon-day.”

“It is reason enough for her detention,” replied the other, in a half
impatient voice, the tones of which were deep and clear, “that I have
gone forth to meet her. All objects that I seek elude my pursuit: there
is a curse upon my every pathway.”

“Give not way to repinings, my son, turn thine eyes upon the blessings
that remain to thee, which far exceed the deserts of the best of men.”

“Talk not to me of blessings, my father,” replied the other. “If there
crawls upon the earth a living being deserving of pity, I am that man.
My food no longer nourishes me, my sleep fails to refresh me, my
devotions do not comfort me—all that is necessary and cheering to me
has turned to poison. Vegetating on the same spot, fancy, feeling,
judgment and health gradually decaying, like a tree whose bark has been
destroyed—I have been a man more sinned against than sinning.”

“He who is immured in a living grave like this,” he continued, after an
instant’s pause, “may well wish for one yet more calm and sequestered.
Let us go forth, and challenge the death that awaits us. Hunted by
bloodhounds, our fate is doomed. Rather, then, let it come at once than
hold us longer in this state of misery.”

“William,” said the old man, “would’st thou rashly cast away the boon of
life that God has given thee? Canst thou be fated to death simply
because the word of a vindictive king has gone forth against thee? Nay,
my son, let us abide the Lord’s time, and endure here unto the end, that
we may obtain a crown of rejoicing hereafter. And,” he added, while a
tear dimmed his eye, “would you leave Alice and your child?”

“William,” pursued the aged man, “you forbade me but now to tell you of
blessings. But, surely, thou art strangely unthankful for thine—even
for the incalculable blessing thou hast in that noble-minded woman. Hath
she not accompanied us hither, and cheered and sustained us with her
angel presence?”

“My father, drive me not to frenzy,” exclaimed the other. “You have
struck the chord which another touch would break. It is the sight of
her, dearer to me than life itself—immured in this ghostly
hiding-place, and day by day, growing thin and waxing pale, and smiling
in the midst of misery, that is more than I can bear. And it is I who
have brought this evil upon her. But for me, she might now have been
blooming in increasing beauty in some brilliant destiny beyond the seas.
Never were the bright prospects of opening life more cruelly dashed. And
can she, frail as she is, much longer sustain the effort by which she
has met this stroke of fortune? Will not the reaction, when it comes, be
too terrible to be borne? Oh, God, the thought of her is agony!” and he
covered his face with his hands.

A female form entered. She advanced into the cave, and throwing off a
cloak and hood, Stanley recognized the mysterious Lady of the Rock. For
a second, she regarded the younger of the two without speaking. “My
dearest William,” said she, at length, as drawing close to him, she laid
her hand in a sympathetic manner on his arm, “why do you yield thus to
grief?”

As if her touch and voice were magic, the unhappy exile raised his head
to meet her glance. “I grieve for you, my Alice,” he replied, after
gazing on her anxiously for some moments, and throwing his arm around
her passionately, “to see you bereft of all the appliances of comfort,
and to behold your noble spirit display its courage in mild submission,
and generous efforts to support the hearts of others. How cruel doth the
decree of Fate seem that you, so pure, so gentle, so lovely, should be
visited thus heavily.” Unable to endure his own thoughts, he broke
abruptly away from her, and paced heavily up and down the cave.

“My dear husband,” she said, approaching him, and looking in his face;
“do not think of my lot. Believe me, it would have been but too happy if
it could have alleviated the bitterness of yours, or soothed one sorrow
of my father’s heart. Come hither, my parent, I have news of
encouragement for you both. There is reason to trust that our troubles
will be but short-lived. Our friends have great confidence in the effect
of a personal appeal from me to Charles II. Nay, look not thus
distressed, my father: it is for your sakes that I leave those who are
dearer to me than life itself. I will present myself at the throne of
the king, and petition him for your pardon: and Heaven grant that if we
meet again on earth, it may be in circumstances of peace and safety.”

“Alice, thou shall not leave us!” exclaimed Heath. “Death were far
preferable to life in this gloomy cavern uncheered by your presence. I
will go forth and yield myself up to my pursuers, if thou talkest again
of thine absence.”

“Nay, William, I shall not leave you in this place. The marriage of Lucy
Ellet will occur to-night, and Mr. Elmore has kindly offered you both an
asylum in his house until my return, or for the remainder of your lives,
should it be necessary. The remote and secluded nature of the spot will
withdraw you from the intrusions of impertinent curiosity.”

At that instant, the voices of men were heard without the cavern, and a
fearful suspicion dawned suddenly on the minds of all present.

“Oh, God!” exclaimed young Stanley, starting from his couch, “your
pursuers are seeking you: keep a profound silence, or your voices will
betray you.”

“Let them find us,” said Heath, aloud. “I am weary of eluding them, and
am glad my hour is arrived.”

“William, dear William, be silent,” whispered the lady, bending toward
him with a look of unspeakable terror, as a deep flush mantled the cheek
that a moment back was so pale.

“Alice, I tell you it is useless——”

“Hush, love, for my sake, for your child’s sake,” urged the lady in his
ear, as her countenance became agonized.

The voices without now grew so audible that words could be
distinguished. The old man clasped his hands in resignation, and his
half-parted lips murmured, “The Lord’s will be done!” Alice threw one
arm around the neck of her husband, with a gesture of unutterable love
as though she would shield him, and placed the other hand on his mouth,
while she trembled in every limb.

“The entrance of their asylum is well hidden,” said one of the voices.
“It will be a day’s work to discover it.”

“Let us spend the day at it then,” replied the other speaker, in a
gruffer and harsher tone. “We will not give up the search until we find
it.”

And they seemed approaching the mouth of the cavern. A moment of intense
and breathless anxiety to the inmates elapsed. They stood still and
silent as the rocks around them, suspending every, even the slightest
external motion, and would have ceased to breathe, had nature permitted
such an intermission of her functions. More torturing their suspense
than the long, lingering seconds in which a duellist beholds his
adversary’s pistol wavering over his heart or brain. Their discovery
seemed inevitable. In a few minutes, however, those outside passed on,
and after a short time their voices grew fainter and fainter, until they
were lost in the distance.

“Seize the opportunity of escape ere their return,” said Alice, breaking
the death-like stillness that had been preserved. “Quick father,
William, the moments fly. Make your way toward the house of Mr. Elmore.
I will linger here to baffle the inquiries of your pursuers.”

“Come, my son,” said the old man, rising with a sudden energy. “The Lord
has opened another door of salvation for us. Dost thou hear!”

“Nay, I will not again fly for my wretched life,” said Heath. “I will
passively await my fate.”

“William, William,” exclaimed his wife, in an agony of heartfelt urgency
and sweetness, “I pray you, by whatever is dear in our past association
together—by all the claims, I will not say of the continued love you
but this day professed for me, but by those of an affection on my part
which would endure all things for your sake—to use the proper means for
your preservation. Depart without delay;” and an expression of
unanswerable entreaty beamed in the eye of the suppliant.

“I will do aught that you ask, beloved one, even to the prolonging of my
life of wretchedness,” rejoined her husband, as he imprinted a kiss on
her brow, and drew her with him toward the door of the cave.

“Let me be your guide,” said Stanley, advancing and addressing Heath.
“It will be some small return for the service you have rendered me.”

“I had almost forgotten, in my affliction, to see to you, kind youth.
But you have slept long, and appear to be recovered.”

“Thanks to you, sir, I am living and well,” answered the boy. “But time
grows apace. Will you accept my services?”

“Nay, I am acquainted with the whole neighborhood. You will do me a
greater favor to remain with this deserted lady, and see her safe in the
hands of friends.”

With a countenance of perfect calmness, the heroic wife and daughter
endeavored to hasten the moment of separation.

“Farewell,” she said, casting her arms around the old man, while a smile
was on her lips. “Farewell; we may be parted for years, perhaps for
ever,”—and she made a violent effort to repress her distress.

“Bless me and forgive me, my parent, ere you depart.”

“Thou hast, thou hast my blessing, my suffering dove; and for my pardon,
how canst thou ask it, who hast never done me an offence since God made
me parent to so noble a child? May the Lord be to thee a rock of
shelter, and a path of deliverance from affliction.”

The old man here turned away, and began to descend the hill.

“You must not linger longer, William,” said the lady, turning to her
husband, who stood with his eyes fixed upon her face. “Farewell; our
fortunes look dark, it is true, but mayhap the same bright morning will
yet dawn for us. And if not, we are not still denied the glorious hope
that in the darkest moments of separation clings to humanity—the
anticipation of reunion in the future.”

“Farewell,” said Heath, folding her in a long embrace to his heart,
while his cheek trembled, and a tear dimmed his manly eye. “My beloved
wife, farewell:—my Alice, my own one, adieu.” And drawing his cap over
his brow, and tightening the folds of the cloak he had resumed, he broke
away, and followed his aged companion.

The lady watched the fugitives until they were out of sight, and Stanley
remained by her side silent, judging it best not to disturb her feelings
at the moment with any ill-timed remark.

While they stood, he had time to examine the entrance to the cavern,
which had eluded his discovery so completely on his former visits to the
rock. Nothing could be more concealed than its entrance. The opening,
extremely small, lay in the face of the cliffs, directly behind a large
gray rock, or rather upright stone, which served at once to conceal it
from strangers, and as a mark to point out its situation to those who
employed it as a place of retreat. The space between the stone and
cliffs was very narrow, and might easily escape not only ordinary
observation, but the minute search of a mind not perseveringly active.
The boy did not marvel when he perceived its secret position, that it
had previously been unnoticed by him: for it might have eluded the
attention of those who had stood at its very opening. As he was still
engaged in admiring its security, the lady turned and said to him, “Let
us return within till I make the necessary preparation for my
departure.”

“I leave this spot,” said she, as they entered, “endeared by many sad
associations, never to return to it again.”

“You are likely to leave it in a way you do not imagine,” said a man,
springing in at the opening. He was speedily followed by another, and
they both stood within the cave.

“How is this?” said the latter, looking surprised and disappointed—“a
woman and a boy.”

Alice turned, at first much startled: but when a moment was past, she
prepared herself to receive the intruders with the perfect confidence
which a woman never fails to feel in the mildness and reason of a man,
however rude. Moreover, having nothing to fear for her husband and
father, she found little difficulty in retaining her self-possession,
supported by her inherent dignity.

One of them, who was distinguished from his companion by much
superiority of mien, lifting his hat respectfully, addressed her: “It is
unpleasant to question a woman, especially one of your appearance; but,
madam, where are your companions?”

“I am unable to inform you,” said Alice modestly; “yet I must say that
in my present situation I could have wished to be spared the pain of
confessing my ignorance.”

The harsh features of the elder contracted into their sternest look, and
it was evident how much he was disturbed by the cool manner of her
reply. Alice gazed at his lowering features for a moment in perfect
composure, as if she had naught to fear from his intentions.

“Perhaps you can give us the information we desire?” said he, turning to
Stanley.

“Like this lady, I must confess my ignorance of their whereabouts, if
you allude to Messrs. Lisle and Heath.”

“Pardon us, fair lady of this grotto,” replied the younger cavalier,
“but we will be obliged to search its inmost recesses.”

“True, perhaps they are here, and this coolness may be assumed,” said
the other: “let us proceed to make a thorough investigation.”

“I will vacate the premises for you, gentlemen,” said Alice, drawing her
arm through Stanley’s, and leaving the cave. After which, at a slow
pace, they proceeded together toward the village.


                             CHAPTER XIII.

          Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
          They were born to blush in her shining hair:
          She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth,
          She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth;
          Her place is now by another’s side;
          Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
                                                  MRS. HEMANS.

A calm and cloudless evening followed the exciting morning which had
been experienced in L. The fairest moon of May shone above the ruined
meeting-house, which lay in blackened rubbish upon the ground. Her soft
light lit up the white dwellings and shrubbery of the village with a
holy beauty, until they stood out in bold relief against the surrounding
hills, which, in like manner, stood out in similar relief against a sky
sparkling with myriads of stars. The herbage sent up its sweetest
fragrance, and the air was balmy and delicious. In short, the earth and
sky seemed wedded in harmony, and formed a fitting emblem of the
marriage-tie about to be celebrated.

The laws regulating wedlock in the colonies were suited to the infant
state of society, and threw but few obstacles in the way of the
connection. Agreeably with this banishment of all unnecessary form, it
was not usual to celebrate their nuptials in places of public worship.

This was peculiarly fortunate in the case of Lucy Ellet, whose marriage
having been fixed for this evening, would have had to be deferred, had
it been the expectation to celebrate it in the village meeting-house.
The arrangements, however, had been made for the performance of the
ceremony in the house of her uncle, and the unpleasant affair of the
morning was not permitted to retard a matter of such vitality. Lucy’s
nerves, too, being of that firm kind which no shock could shatter or
disturb beyond the passing moment, there was no necessity for deferring
the period.

The hospitalities of her uncle’s house were thrown open to the
villagers—not, it is true, by great displays, such as grace nuptial
feasts at the present day, but by means of that unpretending welcome and
abundance of cheer, which appeals at once to the heart and appetite of
the guest. The best parlor was graced with vases of the freshest spring
flowers, and tasteful green branches interwoven with white roses—the
whole answering to the idea of a fitting place for a marriage scene.

The gate leading to Governor H—’s house was besieged by vehicles of
almost every shape and description. The company had assembled about
eight o’clock, and were awaiting the entrance of the bridal train, when
their attention was diverted by the appearance of Jessy Ellet, the young
sister of the bride, holding by the hand of a lady, who, from the fact
that she was a stranger, as well as from something striking in her
aspect, elicited an unusual degree of notice. Care, more than time, had
made inroads upon a face still exquisitely lovely; and the extreme
simplicity of her attire served to adorn the melancholy and touching
beauty of her countenance. There was something elevated in the sadness
of her expression, as though her hopes lay scarce any longer upon earth,
but were removed into a scene where disappointment and sorrow could
never come. But withal there was occasionally a lustre in her eye, and a
beaming smile upon her lip, that proved her capable of the deepest and
strongest earthly attachments.

This was evinced in her manner toward the child, upon whom she
frequently bestowed these momentary marks of affection. Retiring to a
distant part of the room, it was evident that she sought to escape
observation. Curiosity, however, had been excited, and every eye
remained fixed upon her. As she seated herself, and the little Jessy
clung to her, and looked up into her face, to make some childish sally,
a strange resemblance became perceptible between the two. Upon the brow
of each there was the same mild and placid expression; the same azure
eyes, and the identical peculiar smile, changing the expression of the
whole countenance.

The bustle attending the arrival of the guests had subsided, and the
minister, with his features settled into a suitable degree of solemnity,
stood waiting with becoming dignity the entrance of those upon whom he
was lo pronounce the nuptial benediction. The door opened, and a group
moved slowly forward. Lucy was in front, leaning on the arm which Henry
Elmore had given her as much for her support as from motives of
courtesy. She appeared attired in a manner suitable to the simplicity as
well as the importance of the ceremony. A dress of simple white
concealed by its folds the graceful proportions of her slender form.
Under it was a vest cut in the fashion of that period, in such a manner
as to give the exact outline of her shape. A few orange blossoms were
carelessly entwined in the raven braids of her hair, showing more
spotlessly by the contrast.

As they drew near to the expecting clergyman, Lucy’s step, which had
been slightly unsteady, grew firmer. Although she exhibited the least
composure of the two, yet she showed the most intentness on the
solemnity before them, and raising her eyes toward the clergyman, she
kept them fixed on him throughout the ceremony with sweet and earnest
attention.

In a moment, the low, solemn tones of the minister were heard. As he
delivered the usual opening homily, he paused frequently and long,
giving to each injunction a distinct and marked emphasis. After
performing the ceremony, when he came to the closing words, “what God
hath joined together, let not man put asunder,” he lifted his voice as
though he were addressing the guests: And when the blessing was
pronounced, for a few moments not a sound was heard in the room. The
minister advanced first, and congratulated the pair, followed by the
guests, who also approached and made their compliments.

The enjoyments of the Puritans were of a very quiet nature. They neither
jested, heard music, nor drank healths, and yet they seemed not the less
to enjoy themselves. Political leanings had not then contributed their
bitterness to private life: but religion being the chief topic of their
thoughts, became also the principal subject of their conversation.

Throughout the evening, therefore, metaphysical and doctrinal subjects
were discussed, creeds and sects compared, and their own views fortified
by Bible authority among the elder gentlemen; the merits of different
preachers balanced by the more advanced ladies; while the young people
of both sexes, without entering into the discussion of subjects of that
nature, yet tempered their remarks on more ordinary matters by many a
scriptural phrase and pious expression.

A tone of cheerfulness, however, prevailed over all, except when an eye
occasionally rested on the stranger lady, of whose melancholy look the
faintest token of liveliness seemed a mockery. This lady was not
introduced to any of the company, but remained throughout the evening in
the recess she had first chosen. She kept the hand of the fair child,
who seemed fascinated by her presence, and continued riveted to her
side. Every kindness and attention was paid her by her hosts. Frequently
Governor H. and his wife approached her and conversed; and the bride at
one time during the evening remained seated with her more than an hour.
Several persons made attempts to satisfy the curiosity her presence and
appearance excited, by questioning those whom they had seen speaking
with her. But their queries were evaded, and they obtained little or no
satisfaction. For several days succeeding she continued to form a
subject of much gossip and surmise. Not afterward, however, being seen
in L., her existence was soon forgotten.

A table groaning with every variety of excellent cheer, and in the
greatest abundance, was provided for the company. Fish, flesh and fowl,
cake of all kinds, and sweetmeats in profusion, graced the board.
Nothing was wanting that trouble and good housewifery could supply. This
repast was partaken of at an early hour, and the company returned to
their homes.


                              CHAPTER XIV.

           I, that please some, try all: both joy and terror
           Of good and bad;—that make and unfold error—
           Now take upon me in the name of Time
           To see my wings. Impute it not a crime
           To me or my swift passage that I slide
           O’er sixteen years, and leave the ground untried
           Of that wide gap.
                                              WINTER’S TALE.

The course of our narrative obliges us to pass over sixteen years ere we
again introduce its characters to our readers. To those of them who may
happen to have lived nearly twice that period, the interval will not
appear long.

Lucy Ellet had removed on the day following her marriage to the house of
Henry Elmore, situated about five miles distant from New Haven. It was a
cheerful country residence, fitted up with much neatness. Around it, lay
a perfect wilderness of flower-gardens, amid which a refined taste had
caused to be erected little summer-houses, which afforded points of view
over the distant bay of New Haven. Attached to these grounds was a large
farm, over which Lucy soon learned to preside with much matronly grace
and dignity. The house itself had been originally small; but shortly
after the marriage of the owner, it had been enlarged by the addition of
a wing at the back part. This was not exactly adjoining the main
building, but connected with it by a corridor. With regard to the
purpose for which it had been added nothing was known in the
neighborhood with any certainty. Many stories had been circulated
concerning its object, and a belief had at length become current that it
was haunted by spirits. There were those, indeed, who stated that they
had beheld through the opening of a curtain at the window a strangely
emaciated face, with sunken eyes of an unnatural lustre, and a look that
was not of earth.

The mystery that was attached to this portion of the building, and the
tales that were circulated in relation to it—together with the former
reports that had attached to Lucy Ellet and her young sister—rendered
its inmates avoided and unpopular throughout the neighborhood. No
distress or mollification, however, seemed to be felt at this
circumstance by Henry Elmore and his wife, who showed no disposition for
the society of their neighbors, and who no more exchanged visits with
any other persons than Governor H. and his wife, (who still resided in
L.,) visits which were mutually given and rendered as often as the
distance that intervened between their homes allowed.

Jessy Ellet, now grown to womanhood, resided with her sister. She had
retained the exceeding beauty of her childhood, but exhibited what
appeared a wildness of character to those who were incapable of
understanding the superiority of her nature. She possessed a certain
elevated independence, and ardent feelings, forming a character that few
could love, and still fewer could understand. With the enthusiastic
feelings we have described, the love of natural objects was to her a
passion capable not only of occupying, but at times of agitating her
mind. Scenes upon which her sister looked with a sense of tranquil awe
or emotion, and the recollection of which became speedily dissipated,
continued long to haunt the memory of Jessy, in moments of solitude and
the silence of the night. Although she had no selfish pride or vanity,
yet there was an air of superiority in her every gesture, which, taken
in connection with the other traits we have mentioned, contributed to
gain her the character of the eccentric young lady. There was, however,
a life and animation in her gayety, a fascination in her manners and
expression, whether of language or countenance, a touchingness also in
her purity of thought, which, in conversation with the very few persons
with whom she associated intimately, gave her society a charm.

The parlor of Lucy Elmore’s house was a neat and comfortable apartment.
All its arrangements bespoke the skill of a refined female genius—which
genius was, in fact, her tasteful and fastidious sister. It was Jessy
who had on this dark autumn-day caused the sofa to be wheeled out
opposite the fire; she it was who had a few weeks previous directed the
graceful looping of the dimity and silk curtains in the windows. The
inventive mind of the same guardian divinity had likewise anticipated
the more modern fashion of the centre or sofa-table, and induced her to
keep a piece of furniture of that description constantly replenished
with various new specimens of literature and art. The geraniums and
other house-plants in the windows owed their flourishing condition to
her training hand; and many other little accessories to the tout
ensemble of the room, giving it an air of exceeding home-elegance and
comfort—felt rather than perceived—were the results of her care.

It was the evening. Henry Elmore was in his little study, and his wife
had taken a book in her hand, and retired to the mysterious wing of the
house where her sister knew she always spent an hour every morning and
evening, though for what purpose she had never inquired, perceiving that
Lucy desired the object of these visits to be secret.

Jessy was seated alone in the parlor we have described. She had drawn
near the table, and bending over a volume of poetry which lay open
before her. One fair hand was engaged in playing with the ringlets of
her hair, and the other lay upon the classic page. The fire had given a
slight flush to her cheeks, usually perhaps a shade too pale; and, as
she sat thus, it would have been difficult to imagine a more beautiful
object. Sea and land might have been searched, and they would have
produced nothing half so interesting or half so lovely.

A slight knock at the door interrupted her reading, and a young man of
polished manners and handsome exterior presented himself. The new comer
was about five-and-twenty, in a military undress, and bearing in his
manner and looks a good deal of the martial profession. Notwithstanding
the great change which the lapse from youth to manhood makes in his sex,
it would not have been difficult for any who had known him in the former
period, to trace in the countenance of the visiter the lineaments of his
boyhood. There was the same brow, surmounted by its chestnut curls—the
latter, it may be, a shade darker and a fold thicker; there was the same
hazel eye, with its peculiarly thoughtful expression, and a lip which
had preserved the native frankness of its smile. In short, the person
entering was—but, reader, we will not anticipate Jessy Ellet in calling
him by name.

She seemed slightly startled on recognizing him, but rose with a blush
and extended her hand. No hue of rising or setting day was ever so
lovely in the eyes of the young man as that blush was in his
recollection, nor ever did enthusiastic visionary or poetic dreamer
discover so many fanciful forms in the clouds.

He advanced and took her offered hand with more of tenderness than
courtesy in his manner, for he held it a moment ere he resigned it.

Some little time had elapsed in a few commonplace remarks, when the
gentleman drew his chair close to Jessy’s side. “Miss Ellett,” said he,
“I have come this evening emboldened to pour into your ear the story of
a long and devoted attachment.”

“Mr. Stanley,” interrupted the lady, blushing deeply, while the small
hand which lay upon the edge of the table might have been seen slightly
to tremble, “I cannot allow you to place yourself at the disadvantage of
uttering any thing you might regret when you become acquainted with what
I must have to reply in regard to any declaration of this kind.”

“Do not, I beseech you, Miss Ellet, say aught to dash my dearest earthly
hopes. I had flattered myself—”

“I know what you would say,” rejoined the young lady, again interrupting
him. “You mean that you had hoped—” and she hesitated an instant, “that
you were not altogether indifferent to me. But what avails it whether or
no this be the case, when I have that to reveal to you which may make
you instantly withdraw your proffered affection?”

“No revelation that you could make would have the power to effect a
change in the feelings of one who has known you so well.”

“Nay, wait until you hear what I have to tell. Know, then, that I am not
what I appear.”

“Your language is enigmatical,” said her lover, looking at her
bewildered; “but if it were possible for any human being to surpass in
internal graces the loveliest outside, in that way I can believe that
there is truth in your words.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” said Jessy, smiling in acknowledgment.
“But it is not in regard to my personal graces, either external or
internal—for I have too much vanity, I assure you, to suppose that
there is aught that can be said in disparagement of either—but in
regard to my outward position I speak. I pass for the niece of Governor
H., and the sister of Lucy Elmore. Now I am confident that I am
neither.”

“What is it you say?” said her lover, looking at her in astonishment.

“Mr. Stanley,” continued she, “do you recollect the melancholy-looking
lady who was present at Lucy’s wedding?”

“I do,” said he, “and can tell you more than you have probably ever
known. She was the mysterious Lady of the Rock, and the noble wife of
the exiled regicide. I shall never forget her touching beauty, nor the
heroic fortitude with which she hastened the flight of her husband and
father on the day when their hiding-place in the cave was discovered.
But what were you going to say of her?”

“I felt drawn to her by yearnings of a peculiar kind, and a strange
sympathy such as _I_ have never known before or since for any human
being. At parting with me, she dropped no tear on my face, but pressing
me to her heart with a lengthened and agonized caress, whispered these
words in my ears, ‘_my daughter, remember your mother!_’ Mr. Stanley,”
she continued, looking at him steadily, “do you see no singular
resemblance in me to that strange lady? Methinks I can behold a
marvelous likeness.”

As she spoke, a curious similarity in the beloved being before him to
that unhappy lady, whose image was impressed upon his memory, struck him
in the most forcible manner, thrilling him in addition to Jessy’s words
with the suspicion they suggested.

“She was my mother,” continued Miss Ellet. “I know it by an instinct
that cannot err. Look, too, how little coincidence of looks, no less
than taste, exists between myself and my uncle’s family. Lucy, too,
although affectionate and kind, resembles me in nothing. I am a
mysterious and lonely being.”

“There maybe truth in what you surmise,” replied Stanley, who had been
pondering deeply during her last remarks; “but call not yourself lonely,
unless you positively decline the companionship of one who desires no
higher pleasure in life than to share it with you.”

“You do not shrink from me, then, because I am thus shrouded in
mystery?”

“Nay,” said he, venturing to take her hand, “nothing that could be
either surmised or proven in regard to your parentage, could change the
feelings or wishes of my heart toward you. Jessy, I sail in a few days
for England, to be absent for six months, and would know my fate from
you ere I depart?”

There was a pause of a few moments of that expressive kind which such an
occasion only witnesses, and Stanley gathered from its stillness that he
might deem his suit not rejected.

Some time longer passed, in which the lovers remained alone conversing.
Their language was of that kind which none but those who have been in
the same situation can properly repeat, and which, therefore, the
inexperience of the historian prevents being here repeated.

At length Lucy made her appearance, not like one who had been dealing
with spirits, but full of cheerful interest in those earthly beings whom
she encountered. Time had passed lightly over her, and she looked as
young and blooming as on the night of her marriage. The remainder of the
evening passed pleasantly. Stanley mentioned his intended visit to
England, and the conversation turned for a while upon the mother
country. The hour for family prayers arrived. Henry Elmore read a
chapter of the Old Testament in a deep, solemn voice, and all standing
up, he prayed fervently.

The house being some miles distant from the town of New Haven, the guest
was shown to a room above the parlor.

A cheerful fire burned in the hearth: the bed was curtained and quilted
with white, and every thing invited comfort and repose. The occupant,
however, was too full of his late happy interview to feel inclined to
sleep, and he threw himself into a large easy chair that stood near the
fire. He sat there long, in a deep reverie. After other reflections more
intimately connected with his blissful emotions, his thoughts reverted
to the revelation Jessy had made to him of her suspicions in regard to
the Lady of the Rock. His own mind had readily received these suspicions
until, in reconsidering them, they amounted almost to a certainty. What,
then, had become of the lady, and what was the fate of her companion?
She had announced in his hearing, in the cavern, her intention of going
to England for the purpose of endeavoring to obtain their pardon. But
she had never returned, nor had he heard her mentioned since the
excitement caused by her appearance at Governor H.’s had subsided. There
had been no rumor of the apprehension of the regicides, and it was
therefore possible that they still remained hidden. Young Stanley now
recalled what he had likewise overheard in the cave, about the exiles
having been offered a home with Mr. Elmore. He had been absent
prosecuting his studies, when the mysterious wing was attached to the
dwelling, and in that way had missed hearing the reports to which it
gave rise, or it is possible he might have surmised differently in
regard to it, from the ordinary conclusion. At his return, the gossip
had pretty much subsided into a steady avoidance of the family, so that
none of the rumors had ever reached him. It was hardly possible, then,
he thought, as he had seen or heard nothing of the outcasts, that they
could be residing with Mr. Elmore. Jessy, too, had never named any such
inmates to him: nor, this evening, when he had mentioned them in
connection with the lady for whom she had expressed such interest, had
she evinced a knowledge of their being. They had not, therefore, he
concluded, repaired to Mr. Elmore’s; whither had they gone?

Casting aside his reflections, after a considerable length of time,
Stanley rose from his seat and began to prepare for bed. Walking to a
window, he beheld a light in what seemed a house or room opposite. It
seemed strange to him that there should be any dwelling situated in this
manner in regard to the house he was in—since it was in the country. He
was about to persuade himself that it was merely the reflection of his
own room, when he saw standing facing him the aged man of the cave.
Convinced now that his own imagination was at work, and had conjured up
the likeness of one of those who had just occupied his thoughts to so
great an extent, he turned away, and hastened to court repose.

                                           [_Conclusion in our next._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE MOUNTAIN SPRING.


                         BY MISS MARY MACLEAN.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

    ON a sultry noon in summer,
      When the very air was still,
    Young Jessie from her cottage
      Came, sighing, to the rill:—
    Her graceless lover, Donald,
      With his laird, Sir Vasavour,
    And a troop of gallant gentlemen.
      Were hunting on the moor;
    And many a day and night had passed
      Since he had sought her door.

    But when the simple maiden
      Drew slowly toward the spring—
    So heavy with her loneliness,
      She had not heart to sing—
    She saw a stranger kneeling,
      And paused, with modest fears,
    But the cadence of her footstep
      Had reached his eager ears—
    And Jessie lay in Donald’s arms,
      While he kissed away her tears.

[Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN SPRING.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by G. J. Anderson]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          HAPPINESS—A SONNET.


                          BY RICHARD COX, JR.


      THOU gilded phantom of the cheated brain,
        Through days and nights of long-successive years
        We follow thee—through sunshine and through tears,
      With beating hearts and eager eyes, in vain
        We wait thy coming! now thou art anear,
      And now afar-off straying, and again
        Dost give as something of thy bliss to feel,
      That we, contrasting thy sweet self and pain,
        Might know thee worthy all our woes to heal.
      Thou art the essence of a joy supreme,
        Too pure to dwell upon this earthly clod—
      The real presence of the Christian’s dream;
      Thy dwelling is where mortal never trod,
    Thy home is Heaven! and thy creator—God!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     HOME: OR A VISIT TO THE CITY.


                     A SOUTHERN STORY OF REAL LIFE.


                   BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE GOLD BEADS.”


                               CHAPTER I.

              Far from the mad’ning crowds ignoble strife
                Their sober wishes never learned to stray,
              Along the cool sequestered vale of life
                They kept the even tenor of their way.
                                             GRAY’S ELEGY.

ABOUT thirty miles from Savannah, on the banks of the river of that
name, is a pretty little village, which, with its small white houses
nestled away in the thick green woods, is something like a hail-stone
which has fallen in a cluster of green leaves. Scarce a quarter of a
mile from the village is the modest residence of Mrs. Delmont, which is
in itself a little paradise of beauty. Shaded by the stately sycamore,
the magnolia, with its deep green leaves, the catalpa, with its silver
blossoms, and the luxuriant orange-tree, it stands unrivaled for the
romance of its situation for miles around; while the cape-jessamine, the
japonica, the oleander, and many other rare and beautiful flowers lend
their radiant hues to ornament the latticed piazza, which is covered
over with the fragrant honeysuckle, together with jessamines of every
hue. In this beautiful and peaceful retreat Mrs. Delmont had resided
since the death of her husband, which had taken place when her children,
of whom she had three, were very young.

William, her only son, was a sunny faced boy of eight years old. Rosa,
two years older, had the blue eyes and golden hair of her mother; while
Clara had her father’s dark eyes and shining hair, which clustered in
dark brown ringlets around her fair face.

Clara had just completed her eighteenth year, and was a tall, graceful
and beautiful girl; she had been carefully trained by her affectionate
mother, and well did she repay that mother’s anxious care, for in her
bereavement she was her comforter and assistant in many things, and in
nothing more than in undertaking the education of her little brother and
sister, a useful, although we cannot agree with the poet in styling it a
“delightful task,” yet one that Clara was well qualified to perform, as
she had herself received a finished education, although she had never
left her native village: and she was thus occupied one morning, when
Mrs. Delmont entered the room with an open letter in her hand, and
addressed our heroine in the following manner:

“My dear Clara, your cousin Mrs. Cleveland writes that she, with Mr.
Cleveland and their three children, will be here next Wednesday evening,
to spend a fortnight with us, after which they wish you to accompany
them to their city residence, and remain there for this winter.”

“Oh, mamma, that would be delightful,” exclaimed Clara. “I know I will
enjoy my time with cousin Florence; and then, you know, the city is so
gay a place. I would be too happy to go.”

“So I think, my dear,” replied her mother, “and therefore if you wish it
I have no possible objection; but how can you leave Mr. Seymour?” added
she, archly.

“Why, ma,” exclaimed Clara, blushing deeply, “what is Mr. Seymour to
me?”

“Ah, Clara,” replied Mrs. Delmont, “I know what he is to you, better
than you are willing to acknowledge to yourself. But seriously, my dear
child, you must decide at once, so that I may write an answer to your
cousin’s letter.”

“Of course, mamma, I should be delighted to go.” And Mrs. Delmont
retired to write the letter, while Clara indulged herself in a long
walk, in order to meditate on the news, and to anticipate the delights
of a visit to the city.

On the appointed day, after assisting the cook to make a rich plum-cake,
and some delicate tarts, she repaired to the parlor, which she had taken
great care and pains to assist her mother in furnishing as handsomely as
their circumstances would allow, and arranged with faultless taste the
brilliant flowers which her little brother and sister, who were now
entirely in the spirit of preparation, had gathered, and placed the nuts
they had cracked in a silver basket on the carefully polished table,
fastened back the snowy curtains, with white chrysanthemums interspersed
with their rich green leaves, adjusting them so as to throw the most
advantageous light on a beautiful painting which she herself had
executed. From the parlor Clara proceeded to the apartment which she
intended for her cousin: it opened on a grove in which were several
rustic seats and boxes of flowers, and through an opening in the trees
the broad river was seen to glide calmly on through banks now dressed in
the brightest colors of an American autumn. The furniture of this room
was Clara’s peculiar taste, and it well accorded with the simplicity and
purity of her own mind. The counterpane, curtains and toilet were white
as a snow-drift; the curtains being on this occasion looped up with
crimson roses, and the toilet beautifully embroidered by Clara’s own
hand, and on it were laid a handsome Bible and Prayer-Book; and she
finished her preparations by taking a rich and antique China vase,
frosted with silver, which she prized not a little, and placing it on
the table, filled it with the choicest flowers the garden afforded.

“Oh, mamma,” cried Clara, “come here;” and throwing open the
parlor-door, she exhibited the apartment; “come here and see how you
like my arrangements for cousin Florence; are not those flowers
beautiful?”

“And will not Cousin Florence admire our new carpet, mamma?” said little
Rosa.

“I dare say,” said Clara, “it is handsomer than Cousin Florence’s, as it
is in all probability so much newer.”

“Yes, my dears,” said Mrs. Delmont, smiling at the simplicity of the
young girls, while she was careful not to destroy their pleasant
anticipations by undeceiving them. “Yes, my dears, every thing looks
very sweet and pretty; those flowers are really beautiful, and I give
you a great deal of credit for your good taste. Come, daughters, and
show me your cousin’s room.”

“Here, mamma,” said Clara, opening the door, “does it not look quiet and
beautiful?”

“Oh, ma!” exclaimed Rosa, “look at those roses on the window-curtains.
Sister Clara, how did you fasten them so prettily?”

“Really, my dear Clara,” said Mrs. Delmont, “I congratulate you on your
success. I do not think you will see a prettier room in Savannah.
Recollect, Rosa, to have some plates in the parlor to eat those nuts in,
as I fear the children will soil the carpet with them.”

“Oh, Cousin Florence would not let them soil our pretty carpet, I do not
think, mamma,” said little Rosa, as she tripped off for the plates.

The sound of wheels was now heard in the distance, and Clara and her
mother hastened to meet their cousin, whom they had not seen for several
years.

It was late in October, and the soft breath of summer was chilled, but
not frightened away by the coming winter, and the vines that draped the
windows still perfumed the air with the rich fragrance of their
clustering blossoms. A gentle melancholy, peculiar to autumn, overspread
the scene, which seemed the very habitation of beauty and happiness:
when Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland drove up the long avenue, and alighted at
the gate of Primrose Cottage, as Clara had called Mrs. Delmont’s house,
in memory of one of her favorite books, the dear old Vicar of Wakefield.

Mrs. Cleveland was the wife of a flourishing merchant in the city of
Savannah, where she had resided since her marriage, which had taken
place about five years previous to the commencement of our story; and
was an amiable though an exceedingly indolent woman, and indulged her
children to such an extent that they were, in consequence, extremely
annoying to every one by whom they were surrounded. As soon as Mrs.
Cleveland entered the house complaining of excessive fatigue, she was
ushered by Clara into her neat apartment, which, however, we are sorry
to say, did not long remain so, for the lady immediately threw herself
on the bed, caused her trunk to be unpacked, insisted upon the
children’s dresses being changed, while the mother, the children, and
their nurse, seemed to vie with each other in the attempt to fill every
chair and vacant place with such articles as were not in immediate
requisition, which gave to the room so disorderly and careless an
appearance, that it would never have been recognized as the same sweet
looking apartment which Clara had prepared that morning for their
reception.

“Ma, I want something to eat,” whined George, the eldest boy.

“Well, my darling,” replied his mother, “Cousin Clara will get you some
bread and honey;” and Clara immediately left the room in quest of
refreshments for the children, who, when they were obtained, immediately
placed them upon the new settee, which Clara had re-covered expressly
for this occasion, an arrangement which did not tend greatly to improve
its appearance.

“George,” said Mrs. Cleveland, “little Lucy has been teasing for flowers
the whole evening, give her those on the table;” and the child, in his
haste to hand the flowers, turned the honey over on the settee, and what
was still more annoying, threw down Clara’s beautiful vase and broke it
into twenty pieces. Tears filled the eyes of our unphilosophizing
heroine at this unfortunate accident, but her cousin only remarked:

“There, now, you careless boy, you have broken the pretty vase, but
don’t cry now pet; come kiss your mother; Martha, (to the maid) take up
those pieces of broken china, I am afraid they will hurt the children’s
feet; Cousin Clara, do you recollect who it is that says, ‘Crystal and
hearts are only valuable for their fragility,’ quite true.”

Tea was now announced, after which the whole party adjourned to the
parlor, where the children commenced throwing the nuts over the floor;
regardless of the plates, a proceeding at which little Rosa was greatly
scandalized; particularly as Mrs. Cleveland, instead of admiring the
carpet, merely remarked, “Really, Johnny, it is well your aunt’s carpet
is not a very elegant one, or you would soon spoil it.”

“How much better it is, Cousin Clara, to have a plain carpet, children
are so ruinous, and yet they are so sweet one cannot scold them.” Clara
thought that if the sweetness of such spoiled children, as they were,
was their only protection, it was a coin that would not pass current
with every one.

We will not linger over the remainder of Mrs. Cleveland’s visit to
Primrose Cottage, nor describe the many annoyances to which her children
subjected Clara and her mother, nor will we tire the reader with the
many pleasant anticipations which the former entertained of her visit to
the city, which, in her simplicity, she imagined to be the most
delightful place in the known world.


                              CHAPTER II.

                  I remember its waking sigh,
                We roamed in a verdant spot
                  And he culled for me, a cluster bright
                Of the purple forget-me-not.
                                                 BALLAD.

It was the last evening of Mrs. Cleveland’s stay; and Clara was dressed
with peculiar taste. An observing eye could also have discovered, that
the freshest and rarest flowers decked the flower-pots; and that Clara
from time to time looked anxiously from the window; who could she be
expecting. But the mystery was soon solved, by the appearance of a very
handsome young man, who invited Clara to join him in a walk, a request
which she readily granted; and, accordingly, they soon left the domestic
circle, for a quiet stroll on the banks of the placid Savannah.

It was a lovely evening, the sun was setting in autumnal splendor; the
broad river, gilded by its last rays, rolled majestically on; the tinkle
of a bell was heard in the distance; the ground was carpeted with leaves
of the brightest colors; and through the now nearly bare trees a
beautiful view was obtained of the various windings of the river, and of
the little village, with its small white houses and their latticed
porches, shaded by magnificent sycamore, cypress, and magnolia trees.
When we are happy, autumn brings no melancholy to our hearts, but the
mournful sound of the wind, the fading leaves, and the hazy beauty of
the landscape, is fraught with sadness to one already anxious and
dejected; and on this evening Edward Seymour’s handsome countenance was
clouded with apprehension; for in addition to his grief at parting with
Clara, he could not banish from his mind the gloomy possibility, that
every bright hope he had cherished through the balmy gales of spring,
and the sunny hours of summer, would vanish with the flowers and leaves
of autumn. But, the reader will inquire, did not Clara sympathize with
his feelings, and soothe his fears? To a degree, she did; but although
Clara loved him, and would not have given him, or any other friend, up
for the whole city of Savannah, yet, like a giddy girl, she was so much
dazzled by its perspective gayeties that she could not be so deeply
affected at leaving him as she would have been under other
circumstances.

They returned to the house just as the stars began to appear; and sat
alone in the moonlit piazza; for Mrs. Delmont, with a mother’s judicious
care, had so arranged things that the children could pursue their
boisterous sports in the back yard, while she sat with Mrs. Cleveland in
her own room. An hour passed delightfully away, and when Edward
regretfully arose to take his departure, he gave to Clara a fresh
bouquet of orange flowers, which he had brought for her, and as he did
so, kissed the little hand that trembled in his own. A tear sparkled in
Clara’s eye at this token of his affection, but her feelings of sadness
were quickly dissipated by the bustle of packing for her journey, in
which she was engaged, as soon as Mr. Seymour had taken his departure.

The next day was cold and rainy, and it was late when the travelers
arrived at the place of their destination, and Clara retired to her
apartment much fatigued with her ride, as she had carried Johnny, a
troublesome child of three years old, in her lap the whole way, not
because there was no room for him elsewhere, but merely because the
“little darling” wouldn’t ride any where but with “Cousin Clara,” whose
new riding-dress he also chose to daub with molasses candy.

The next morning, when Clara arose, she was informed by a servant that
breakfast was ready, who at the same time requested her to excuse
“master and missus, as they were too much fatigued with their journey to
come down.” Accordingly, Clara descended to an elegantly furnished
breakfast-room, which, however, was extremely cold, on account of the
very small fire; and the handsome furniture seemed much tarnished by the
children, and the breakfast-table was much disordered, as is always the
case when, as they did on this occasion, any members of the family take
their breakfast in their own room.

No one was at the breakfast-table but the two eldest children, whose
company was not very agreeable, as they did nothing but quarrel with
each other, and call fretfully to the servants for articles which were
not on the table; and during her solitary meal Clara could but compare
the pleasant breakfast-room at Primrose Cottage, with its neat carpet of
domestic manufacture, its snowy curtains, and its blazing fire, with the
cold and comfortless apartment in which she now sat; nor could she avoid
drawing a like comparison between her own dear mother’s quiet and
cheerful neatness, and the sweet-tempered voices of her little brother
and sister, with her cousin’s careless self-indulgence, and the fretful
ill temper of her children; yet, while Clara made these comparisons, not
very flattering to her cousin, she also reflected that Mrs. Cleveland
had just returned from a journey; and it was natural to suppose that the
house would be in some confusion, and the children tired, and in
consequence fretful, immediately upon their return.


                              CHAPTER III.

                 But I was a gay and a thoughtless girl,
               And I cast them all away,
                 And gathered the dandelion buds,
               And the wild grapes gadding spray.
                                                 BALLAD.

“Clara, my love,” said Mrs. Cleveland one morning to our heroine, “you
have now been here for some weeks, and have received several calls, not
half so many though as you would have, had I the industry to return
visits that I owe to some of the most agreeable of my acquaintances;
however, we will to-morrow return those which have been paid; and do, my
dear, wear the new silk which you thought me so extravagant in making
you purchase, merely because, like a little country girl that you are,
you thought that it did not accord with your means.”

To this proposal Clara readily acceded, but could not avoid thinking
that her cousin might have exerted herself sufficiently to return the
calls she mentioned, if it were only on her account. Accordingly, on the
following morning Clara, dressed with much care, descended to the
parlor, looking beautifully.

“Dear me, Clara,” exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, “how charmingly you are
dressed, are you going out?”

“Why, my dear Florence, have you forgotten our arrangement to make calls
this morning.”

“Calls! how provoking that I should have forgotten all about it; and
what is still more so, have sent the carriage driver into the country,
to purchase some necessary articles for family use; which, however, I
could easily have done without, had I recollected our intended
excursion. Never mind, Clara, my dear, you shall not be disappointed,
for after dinner we will go shopping, for I have some purchases to make
which you shall assist me to select.”

But the walk did not afford much pleasure to Clara, for it was nothing
more than a continued search for articles in which Mrs. Cleveland was
too fastidious to be pleased, and they returned home in the evening,
Mrs. Cleveland much fatigued, where they found that Mr. Cleveland had
just arrived before them.

“Well, Clara,” observed he, as they took their places at the tea-table,
“you have me to thank that after your long walk, you have not to be kept
up to-night till ten o’clock with company: Mr. Hambden and Mr. Lester
asked leave to call, but I saw you and Florence out, and concluded that
you would be too much fatigued to see them this evening; so I made some
excuse. They are very fine young men, by the way, and you must attempt a
conquest the first time you happen in company with them.”

Now, although Clara had no idea of attempting a conquest, yet naturally
fond of company, she would have been glad to have seen the gentlemen
mentioned, and wished that Mr. Cleveland had not been so solicitous for
her comfort; she therefore made no answer, but Mrs. Cleveland exclaimed,

“Why, Cousin Clara! don’t you recollect the very handsome and
_distingué_ looking young man you met this evening, and admired so much;
well, that was Mr. Lester; I have no doubt the impression was returned.
Henry, why didn’t you let them call?”

“Why, my dear, I thought that you and Cousin Clara were so happy in each
other’s company, that I disliked to introduce any one else into our
quiet circle; I think, now that Cousin Clara is with us, we ought to be
quite sufficient for our own happiness: for when I am engaged in
business I feel assured that my Florence is not alone, and I hope that
her cousin will become so much attached to the city, that she will
hereafter spend every winter with us.”

“Indeed I perfectly agree with you, my dearest Henry, and I now see that
you were quite right in acting as you did, for I am quite sure that
Cousin Clara enjoys herself with us. As for me, her company is such an
acquisition that I shall scarcely leave the house this winter, but shall
reserve all my dissipation for the time when I shall be compelled to
lose her, and seek for amusement abroad. Clara, my dear, whenever you
wish to retire Mildred will give you a candle; I am going now to sit in
my own room, you know the dear children will never go to sleep without
mamma;” and so saying, she retired to her own room, accompanied by her
husband, after which Clara went to her apartment, which was rendered
chilly, by the small fire having nearly gone out; as it had been hastily
kindled by a careless servant.

“After all,” soliloquized Clara, throwing herself on a chair in her
cheerless apartment, “after all, it is not so very delightful in the
city as I anticipated. Dear Cousin Florence is very kind and
affectionate, and yet it seems to me, that she is a little thoughtless,
and although I would not mention it to any one, yet I think she
considers my comfort and amusement very little, and is so domestic
herself, that she thinks I ought to be so too, never considering for a
moment that she has a husband and children to interest and occupy her
mind, while I am left to my own resources. Dull as my cousin seems to
consider my own home, I am beginning to wish I had never left it; there
every one studied my tastes, and sought to promote my happiness; here I
am completely thrown into the shade. But one thing I have learned, and
that is, that whoever has a happy home should never sigh for the
gayeties of a city life, for they may feel assured, that they will enjoy
more true happiness at their own home, in partaking of the pleasures
which it affords, and performing the duties which it enjoins.” As our
heroine pronounced these words her eyes fell on an open drawer, where,
crushed and faded, were carelessly thrown the bouquet of orange flowers
which Edward had given her, and while her now fast falling tears dropped
over the neglected token, how bitterly did she chide herself for the
light value which she had attached to her last precious interview with
_him_ to whom, however she might strive to conceal them even from
herself, she now felt that she must ever cherish sentiments of the
sincerest affection.


                              CHAPTER IV.

                  In early youth when Hope is new,
                  The heart expands with love and joy,
                  Each prospect wears a brighter hue,
                  And pleasure seems without alloy.
                                              E. M. B.

“My dear Florence,” said Mr. Cleveland, as he entered the room, some
days after the circumstances related in the preceding chapter; “Mr.
Preston is in the parlor, and if you and Cousin Clara wish to see him I
will take you out.”

“Certainly, Henry,” replied Mrs. Cleveland, “I will go as soon as I can
change my dress. Wait for me, dearest Clara, I am always so terribly
afraid of Mr. Preston.”

Clara’s heart beat tumultuously at the thought of meeting Mr. Preston,
who was an eminent literary character, and nearly related to Edward
Seymour, and Clara knew that the latter would not only be pleased to
hear from his cousin and early instructor, whom he had not seen for a
considerable length of time, but had expressed an anxious wish that she
should see and become acquainted with him. Meanwhile Mrs. Cleveland,
accompanied by Clara, went to her own room and proceeded to arrange her
dress, a task in which she, indeed, seemed desirous to be expeditious,
but which she in reality, loitered over for such a length of time, as
almost to exhaust our heroine’s patience. At length, when the last
ribbon had been fastened, and the last ornament arranged, Mrs. Cleveland
said, “Well, Cousin Clara, I am ready; yet, stop one moment, and let me
pacify my little Lucy, she is so fretful.” But the one “moment” was
extended to several, and as Mrs. Cleveland turned to the door, her
husband entered it and informed her that Mr. Preston had just gone, as
he was compelled to leave the city that day, and the boat was just
starting.

“Really, my dear,” added he, “it is a pity you did not make more haste,
I never saw Mr. Preston so agreeable.” Without waiting to hear Mr.
Cleveland’s comments, or Mrs. Cleveland’s regrets, poor Clara turned,
disappointed, to the window to catch a glimpse of one so nearly
connected with her lover.

Thus the winter passed fleetly away, and although Clara certainly spent
some portions of her time agreeably, and made some very pleasant
acquaintances, yet, on the whole, she was much disappointed with her
visit to the city; during which she was not only deprived of many novel
and amusing scenes, highly interesting to young persons, by her cousin’s
indolence and want of thought, but was, by the same culpable negligence,
prevented from seeing many of the curiosities of the place, from a view
of which she had promised herself much amusement, as her residence in
the country had hitherto precluded her from any thing of the kind; while
Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland erroneously imagined that whatever was stale to
them must necessarily be so to our heroine. Besides these sources of
vexation, Clara had one, which Mrs. Cleveland, habitually careless in
money matters, could not sympathize with more than she did with her
other annoyances, and this was the state of her purse, as Mrs.
Cleveland, with characteristic thoughtlessness insisted upon Clara’s
purchasing whatever was handsome or fashionable, without regard to
expense.

In accordance with this habit, Mrs. Cleveland one morning addressed
Clara in the following manner:

“At last, my dear cousin, we are to have an excellent performance by the
Thalian Association; and I have been anxious for you to see one, ever
since you have been with us; you know there has been only one this
winter, and then I could not go because the children were so cross, but
the little rogues shall not prevent our going this time. By the way, my
dear Clara, Mrs. Dawson has some elegant head-dresses, and we must go
down this evening and get one for you.”

“But, Cousin Florence, you don’t recollect that I have several already,
and one that I have never worn.”

“La, Clara, you wore that to Mrs. Armand’s party.”

“But the wreath of white roses, cousin.”

“Oh, Clara, that is too simple altogether.”

“To tell you the truth, Cousin Florence, the sum of money mamma gave me
when I left home was, I thought, much more than I should need, but I now
find that it is nearly expended, and if I purchase these superfluities I
must exceed that sum, and you know that our circumstances are limited.”

“Pshaw, child, what of that? you can get all you want from your mother’s
business man.”

Now, our heroine ought to have had moral courage enough to have firmly
declined making the unnecessary purchase, but it must be recollected
that she was very young, and being always accustomed to depend on her
mother in such matters, it will not be wondered at if she quietly gave
up the point.

As soon as the head-dress, which was a very handsome one for six
dollars, was purchased Mrs. Cleveland turned to a ribbon-box, and
selecting a very pretty piece insisted upon Clara’s purchasing it: “Yes,
Clara,” said she, “it is only four dollars.”

“Really, I do not think I need it, Cousin Florence,” replied our
heroine.

But Mrs. Cleveland would hear no objections, so the sash was purchased,
and Clara with her cousin left the shop. When they returned home the
sash was much admired by every one; but Mrs. Cleveland discovered that
it was too long, and cutting off the superfluity, saying that, “it would
make beautiful pin-cushions for the fair which Clara expected would take
place shortly after her return home.”

But Mrs. Cleveland might have spared herself the trouble of assigning
any use to the ribbon, for Johnny having risen in haste from the
dinner-table, his hands were in such a state as, after having possessed
himself of the ribbon, soon to render it unfit for pin-cushions or any
other purpose. “Johnny! you mischief,” exclaimed his mother, “Cousin
Clara’ll whip you.” She would have been mortified had she known that
Clara felt very much inclined to do so.

The evening at length arrived, which Clara hoped so much to enjoy; but
here again our heroine was destined to disappointment, for immediately
after tea, Mrs. Cleveland observed,

“Really, my dear Clara, I am very sorry, but Mr. Cleveland has gone to
the Odd Fellows Lodge, he expressed his intention before I said any
thing about the performance; and though he would willingly have staid
and gone with us, yet I did so much dislike to disconcert, even the
least of his arrangements, that I said nothing about it. Never mind, my
love, there will be many more performances before you leave Savannah.”

Clara knew that she must shortly return home, and that it was probable
there would not be another performance before she left town, and when
she thought that she could not gratify her little brother and sister, as
she had promised, with an account of the many beautiful things which she
expected to see there, and thought—shall we confess it—of her new sash
and head-dress, she retired to her own room, and indulged in a girlish
burst of tears.

In a few moments a knock was heard at the door, and hastily drying her
tears, she opened the door, when a servant entered and gave her a letter
from her mother, which informed her that, Mr. B—, an old friend of the
family, would visit Savannah in the course of a few days, and that if
Clara felt disposed, it would be an opportunity for her to return home;
at the same time, she desired her to consult her own inclinations on the
subject. Clara’s eyes sparkled at the thoughts of again being with the
dear ones at Primrose Cottage, and she retired to rest, determined to
accept Mr. B—’s protection home.

On the following morning, when Clara entered the breakfast-room, Mrs.
Cleveland exclaimed, “My dear Clara, what do you think, Mrs. Wellwood’s
ball, that has been so much talked of, comes off next Wednesday evening,
and cards have just been left for us; now I will tell you what we will
do this very morning, we will go to Dawson’s, and you shall get one of
those beautiful robes, they are just twelve dollars, and how sweet you
will look, for I will tell you, Clara, what I never did before, that
there are few girls in Savannah with half your attractions. Now, will it
not be delightful?” Clara hesitated a moment, but considered that the
enjoyment of the ball would not be adequate to the expense, besides
preventing her return home with Mr. B—, she therefore replied:

“In consequence of a letter I last night received from mamma, I shall
find it necessary, my dear cousin, to return home before that time.”

“Oh, Clara!” exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, “how can you leave the city for
that dull place?” And Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland added many arguments and
entreaties to prevail on her to remain; but Clara had made her decision,
she therefore affectionately but firmly insisted upon adhering to it;
and the few remaining days of her stay were spent in taking leave of her
friends, and making preparations for her journey.


                               CHAPTER V.

             The wild rose, eglantine and broom
             Scattered around their rich perfume.    SCOTT.

             Sweet is the hour that brings us home.
                           _Quoted from recollection._


It was a bright and beautiful morning in March, when Clara, after taking
an affectionate leave of her cousin, whom, despite her little foibles,
she tenderly loved, was seated by her old friend and commenced her
homeward journey.

March, in our southern clime, is not always rude and boisterous, but has
many a gentle day, when Nature is dressed in as lovely a garb as she
wears at any season of the year, and such a day was the one of which we
speak; the woods were covered with fresh green leaves, the marshes and
banks of the streams were gay with the yellow jessamine, the dew-drops
sparkled like diamonds in the morning sun, and the cooing of the
turtle-dove, the cheerful notes of the mockingbird, and the fresh
country air that fanned her cheek, were to Clara like friends of her
early days. The sun was just setting when from a winding in the road
Clara obtained a glance of Primrose Cottage, as it stood imbosomed in
trees arrayed in the freshest green—of the river, whose banks, where
she had pursued her childish sports, were now decked with wild flowers
of every hue, and finally, of the group of expecting friends, who at the
sound of wheels had hastened into the piazza, and Clara’s heart beat
high as she recognized Edward, the foremost of the party.

Clara was soon out of the carriage, and in the arms of her mother, nor
did Edward neglect to press her hand very tenderly, as he handed her
from the carriage, after which she was conducted into the house.

“And, now, which do you like best, _Home_ or the _City_, sister?” asked
little Rosa, when Clara had reached her own room, and was removing her
traveling dress, and arranging her hair.

“Home, my dear Rosa,” replied our heroine, “there I enjoy myself much
more than I ever have during my visit to the city, and yet, mamma,”
added she, “if I had a house in Savannah, I would have young ladies to
visit me, and I know I would make these visits delightful.”

They now returned to the parlor, where they had left Mr. Seymour, and
after tea, Clara sat once more with Edward in the fragrant vine-covered
piazza, before mentioned, where the moonbeams sparkled on the seat they
occupied, through a richly blossoming mass of yellow jessamine—that
dear seat, which seemed intended for the very use of which it was made,
namely, that of Edward’s offering his hand, and of Clara’s accepting the
offer, which was sealed by—no matter what it was sealed by, gentle
reader, only accept that patient lover, whom you have been so long
trifling with, and you will soon find out for yourself.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     SPRING SNIPE SHOOTING OF 1850.


 BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “WARWICK WOODLANDS,” “MY SHOOTING
                               BOX,” ETC.


IT is a singular thing, and one which elucidates the great research
necessary, and the extreme difficulties encountered, in the attempt to
establish facts of natural history with regard to birds of passage, that
this beautiful little bird, the general favorite of the sportsman and
the epicure, well known to all classes of men, and a visitant, in some
one of its closely allied varieties, of every known nation, is still a
mystery, as regards some of its habits, and continues to baffle the
inquiries of the most learned and inquisitive ornithologists.

Its habits, the nature of its food, and therefore the necessities of its
existence, render it an inhabitant of temperate climates, and of regions
in which the moist and loamy soil, from which it derives its sustenance
of small worms, insects, and the like, is not frozen during the period
of its visitations so hard as to preclude its boring with its delicate
and sensitive bill for its semi-aquatic prey of worms and larvæ.

Still, as extreme cold prevents it from obtaining subsistence, extreme
heat would appear to be still less congenial to its tastes or
temperament; for, whereas it lingers in the north until autumnal frosts
seal up the marshes and the soft stream margins against its probing
bill, it flies from its winter quarters in the rice-fields of Carolina
and Georgia, and the farther morasses of Texas and New Mexico, the
instant that opening spring admits of its return to the fresh meadows
and pure rivulets of the north-east.

The winter quarters of this bird, then, are fairly ascertained, ranging
from Carolina southward until almost the northern limits of the Tropics;
thence, so soon as the blue-bird begins to pipe in the apple-trees, the
shad to appear in the rivers, the willow-buds to turn yellow, and the
frogs to croak and chirrup, with us to the northward, the snipe is seen
everywhere, hurrying, according to the progress of the season, singly,
in whisps of ten or twelve, or in huge flights, ever, ever, northwardly.
In Maryland, in Delaware, in southern Pennsylvania and New Jersey, he is
wont to appear from the 1st to the 20th of March; in New York and New
Jersey northward, from the 15th of March to the 20th of April, remaining
for a longer or shorter period according to the steadiness of the
weather, the state of the ground as regards wet or drought, and the
geniality of the season. In mild, soft, temperate, moist seasons, with a
prevalence of westerly weather, he will linger with us into the lap of
June; and in such seasons, more or less, he woos his mate, nidificates
and rears his young among us, from the Raritan and the Passaic northward
and eastward to the Great Lakes, and throughout Michigan, Wisconsin
probably, and Canada west, up far into the Arctic Circles.

Still, those which breed with us in the United States, and even in the
Canadas, are but as drops of water to an ocean, to those which rush on
the untiring pinions moved by amatory instinct to the far breeding
grounds of Labrador, Symsonia, and Boothia Felix, where it is _supposed_
they resort to rear their young in hyperborean solitude, thence to
reissue, in the summer and the earlier autumn, and re-populate our
midland meadows.

In the neighborhood of Amherstburg, Canada west, they appear very early;
often in February of mild seasons, always in March; and there may breed,
and remain until banished by severe cold. I shot one there myself last
autumn, the last bird of the season, very late in November, I believe on
the 28th or 29th; and with the plover, the Hudsonian godwit, and the
Esquimaux curlew, they were seen there this spring in the first days of
March.

Around Quebec, I have shot English snipe on the uplands, in fallow
fields and rushy pastures—for the grass in the morasses does not begin
to shoot in those far northern latitudes, so as to afford them shelter,
until much later in the year—in the end of April and the beginning of
May; but they arrive there only by small scattered whisps, or single
birds, tarry a few short days, and flit onward to their unknown
destination.

This, then, is their mystery—that in no known land are they perennial;
in no ascertained region—so far as I can learn—are they positively
known to breed in the vast concourses which must breed somewhere, in
order to supply the prodigious flights which issue yearly from the
northern regions of three continents, Europe, America, and Asia, to fill
the warmer countries, and to be slaughtered literally by myriads, season
after season, without undergoing much if any visible diminution of
numbers.

Ever, in all places, in all countries, in all continents, which they
visit in spring, they are seen pressing northward still, from March
until May; no one being able to say here ends their tide of emigration,
this is their chosen resting place.

Their breeding season is from the middle of May to the beginning of
July; on the 4th of which month I have shot young birds, with the
pin-feathers undeveloped, as large as the parents—these birds having
been hatched on the ground whereon I killed them. Indeed, it is my
opinion, that all birds which tarry in our latitudes beyond the 10th of
May, either _do_ breed with us, or would do so but for the persecution
of the pot-hunter—all which intend to steer farther north having
departed ere that time.

About the 15th of July the returning hordes, young birds and old
together, full grown and in fine condition, begin to reappear in the
marshes of Quebec and its vicinity, which may be said to be the
extremest northern point from which we have continuous and authentic
annual information of their appearance. At that time the slaughter of
the snipe on the marshes of Chateau Richer, and of the islands farther
down the St. Lawrence, is prodigious. There they linger until the frosts
become so severe as to drive them from their feeding-grounds, which
generally takes place early in September, from which time, throughout
that month, all October, and a portion—more or less according to the
season—of November, and even December, every likely swamp, morass, and
feeding-ground of Canada west, of the western, midland, and eastern
states, from which they are not persecuted and banished by the incessant
banging of pot-hunters and idle village boys, swarms with them, in
quantities sufficient to afford sport to hundreds, and a delicacy to
thousands of our inhabitants, if they were protected from useless and
unmeaning persecution, by which alone they are prevented from being as
numerous among us as at any former period.

For I am well assured, that, unlike the woodcock, which, breeding in our
midst, and dwelling with us for months at a time, is annually
slaughtered while breeding, hatching, or immature, and is thus in rapid
progress toward extirpation—the snipe, unmolested in its
breeding-grounds, is not diminished in its numerical production, but is
rendered scarcer in thickly settled districts, nigh to large towns, by
incessant harassing, which drives it to remoter and securer
feeding-grounds.

I do not mean by this, however, to assert that the abolition of spring
snipe-shooting would not be an advantage—on the contrary, I am
convinced that it would; although well assured that no such measure can
be hoped at the hands of our legislators; for, as the snipe ordinarily
lays four eggs, the destruction of each one of the breeders on their way
northward, of course diminishes the stock of the coming season by five
birds.

So much for the times and places of the snipe’s migrations. Of his
appearance or characteristics—so well is he known—it is almost useless
to speak! It may, however, be well to observe that although commonly
termed the ENGLISH SNIPE, our bird is a thorough _native American_,
differing from the bird of Europe in being about one inch smaller in
every way, and in having two more feathers, sixteen instead of fourteen,
in the tail. In other minute, but still _permanent_, and therefore
characteristic distinctions, it differs from the Asiatic and Antarctic
snipes; although in their rapid, zigzag flight and shrill squeak when
flushed; in their irregular soaring through the air in gloomy weather;
in their perpendicular towering and plumb descent, their drumming with
the wing-feathers, and bleating with the voice, during the
breeding-season, all the species or varieties so closely resemble each
other that they are far more easily confounded than distinguished by the
unscientific sportsman.

The American bird has, however, two or three habits, during early
spring-shooting, which I have never observed in the European species,
nor seen noticed in any work of natural history; the first of these is
frequenting underwood and bushy covert abounding in springs and
intersected by cattle-tracks, and occasionally even high woods, during
wild, stormy, and dark weather, especially when snow-squalls are
driving; and this is a habit of the bird meriting the attention of the
sportsman, as in such weather, when he finds no birds on the open and
unsheltered marshes, he will do well to beat the neighboring underwoods,
if any, and if not, the nearest swampy woodlands; by doing which he will
oftentimes fill his bag when he despairs of any sport. The second habit
is that of alighting, not unfrequently, on rail-fences, or stumps, and
even on high trees, which I think I can safely assert that the European
bird _never does_; and the third is the utterance, when in the act of
skimming over the meadows, after soaring, bleating, and drumming for an
hour at a stretch in mid air, of “a sharp reiterated chatter, consisting
of a quick, jarring repetition of the syllables, _kek-kek-kek-kek-kek_,
many times in succession, with a rising and falling inflection, like
that of a hen which has just laid an egg.”[5]

There is no JACK SNIPE in America, though many persons ignorantly and
obstinately assert the reverse; the true Jack Snipe being a northern
bird of Europe and Asia, visiting the milder climates during the hard
weather. It is an exact counterpart of the English Snipe, only about
one-half smaller; it never utters any cry on rising, and rarely flies
above one hundred yards, often dropping within fifty feet of the muzzle
of a gun just discharged at it, although unwounded. The bird which is
here confounded with it, is the PECTORAL SANDPIPER, a bird about
one-third smaller than the snipe, of a lighter brown, with a short,
arched bill, and a feeble, quavering whistle. It is found
indiscriminately on the sea-shore, and in upland marshes; I have shot it
from Lake Huron to the Penobscot, and the Capes of the Delaware; it lies
well before dogs, which will point it, and is a good bird on the table.
It is known in Long Island as the “Meadow Snipe” and the “Short Neck,”
in New Jersey, and thence westward, as the “Fat Bird,” or “Jack Snipe”
indiscriminately. It is not a snipe at all, but a Sandpiper, _Tringa
Pectoralis_.

The only other true snipe ascertained to exist in America, is the RED
BREASTED SNIPE, _Scolopax Noveboracensis_, better known as the
“DOWITCHER,” an unmeaning name, adopted and persevered in by the Baymen,
or as the “Quail Snipe.” At Egg Harbor the gunners call it the
“Brown-back.” It is found only on the salt marshes, and is never hunted
with dogs but shot from ambush over decoys.

It appears, then, that the coming and stay of the common snipe in our
districts, in spring, is very uncertain, and dependent on the state and
steadiness of the weather. Some seasons, they will stay for weeks on the
moist, muddy flats among the young and succulent herbage, growing fat
and lazy, lying well to the dog, and affording great sport. Sometimes
they will merely alight, feed, rest, and resume their flight, never
giving the sportsman a chance even of knowing that they have been, and
are gone, except by their chalkings and borings where they have fed.
Again, at other seasons, they will lie singly, or in scattered whisps on
the uplands, in fallow fields, even among stunted brushwood, lurking
_perdu_ all day, and resorting to the marshes by night, leaving the
traces of their presence in multitudes, to perplex the sportsman, who,
perhaps, beats the ground for them, day after day, only to find that
they were, but are not.

This variance in the habit of the snipe it is, which makes him so hard a
bird to kill; for, although he is perplexing from his rapid and twisting
flight to a novice, I consider him, to a cool old hand, as easy a bird
to kill as any that flies. The snipe invariably rises against or across
wind, and in doing so hangs for an instant on the air before he can
gather his way; that instant is the time in which to shoot him, and that
trick of rising against wind is his bane with the accomplished shot and
sportsman, for by beating _down the wind_, keeping his brace of dogs
quartering the ground before him, _across the wind_, so that they will
still have the air in their noses, he compels the bird to rise before
him, and cross to the right on the left hand, affording him a clear and
close shot, instead of whistling straight away up wind, dead ahead of
him, exposing the smallest surface to his aim, and frequently getting
off without a shot, as it will constantly do, if the shooter beats _up
wind_, even with the best and steadiest dogs in the world. The _knack_
of shooting snipe, as some people who can’t do it choose to call it, is
no other than the knack of shooting quick, shooting straight, and
shooting well ahead of cross shots—this done with a gun that will throw
its charge close at 40 to 50 yards, with 1½ oz. of No. 8 shot, equal
measures of shot and of Brough’s diamond-grain powder will fetch three
snipe out of every five, which is great work, in spite of what the
cockneys say, who pick their shots, never firing at a hard bird, or one
over twenty paces away, and then boast of killing twenty shots in
succession. _Verbum sap._

The great difference of the grounds to be beaten in different weathers;
the difficulty in determining which ground to assign to which day; the
immense extent of country to be traversed, if birds are scarce or wild,
or if there are many varieties of soil, covert, and feeding in one
range, and the sportsman fail in his two or three first beats in finding
game, and therefore have to persevere till he do find them, these, and
the hardness of the walking in rotten quagmires and deep morasses,
affording no sure foot-hold, and often knee-deep in water, these it is
which make successful snipe-shooting one of the greatest feats in the
art, and the crack snipe-finder and snipe-killer—for the two are one,
or rather the second depends mainly on the first—one of the first, if
not the first artist in the line.

It is from this necessity of beating, oftentimes, very extensive tracts
of land before finding birds, and therefore of beating very rapidly if
you would find birds betimes, that I so greatly prefer and recommend the
use of very fast, very highly-bred, and very far-ranging setters, to
that of any pointer in the world, for snipe-shooting in the open—apart
from their great superiority over the pointer in hardihood, endurance of
cold, powers of retrieving, beauty and good-nature.

Of course, speaking of dogs, whether setter, pointer, dropper, or
cocking-spaniel, it is understood that we speak of dogs of equal
qualities of nose, staunchness to the point, and steadiness at coming to
the charge the instant a shot is fired. No dog which does not do all
these things habitually, and of course, is worth the rope that should
hang him; and no man is worthy the name of a shot or a sportsman, who
cannot, and does not, keep his dogs, whether setters, pointers, or
cockers, under such command that he can turn them to the right or left,
bring them to heel, stop them, or down charge them, at two hundred yards
distance if it be needful.

If these things, then, be equal, as they can be made equal, though I
admit a setter to be more difficultly kept in discipline than a
pointer—the fastest setter you can get, is the best dog for
snipe-shooting; his superiority, in other points, infinitely
counterbalancing the greater trouble it requires to break and control
him. I am well aware that it has been said, and that by authorities,
that the best dog over which to shoot snipe, is an old, slow,
broken-down, staunch pointer, who crawls along at a foot’s pace, and
never misses, overruns, or flushes a bird.

And so, in two cases, he is; but in one case, no dog is just as good as
he is, and in the other, the argument is one of incapacity to use what
is best, and therefore is no argument.

If birds are so thick on the grounds, and so tame that you can fill your
bag in walking over one or two acres at a foot’s pace, a very slow
pointer _is_ better than fast setters—but no dog at all, your walking
up your birds yourself, which you can do just as quickly as the dog can,
is better than the slow pointer. Indeed, on very small grounds, very
thickly stocked, it is by far the most killing way to use no dog, but to
walk up the birds.

If a man is so weak and infirm of purpose, or so ignorant of the first
principles of his art, as to be unable to control his setters, he must,
I suppose, use a slow pointer; but it cannot matter what dog such a man
uses, he never can be a sportsman.

If there be a hundred birds lying, and lying well on one acre of
feeding-ground, the birds can be killed without a dog, or with a slow
dog, as you will; any man who can pull a trigger must fill his bag.

If there be a hundred birds scattered, wild, over five hundred acres of
ground, where are you with your slow dog, or your no dog? Just no where.
While you are painfully picking up your three or four birds with your
slow pointer, your true sportsman, and slashing walker, with his racing
up-head and down-stern setters, will have found fifty, and bagged
twenty-five or thirty.

There are ten days in a season when birds are wild and sparse, for one
when they are congregated and lie hard; and the argument comes to this,
that when birds can be killed with ease, even without a dog at all, a
slow pointer is the best; when they are difficult to find, and hard to
kill, even by a crack shot, the slow pointer is no where, and of no use,
while the racing setters will fill the bag to a certainty.

For my own part, I can say to a certainty, that I have had more sport,
and killed more birds, by many, many times, when birds have been widely
scattered, and difficult to find, and when I have walked half or a
quarter of a mile between every shot fired, than I ever have when birds
have lain close, and jumped up at every pace under my feet; and for a
simple reason, that the places in which birds so rise and lie, are rare
and of small extent, and the days on which they do so few and far apart.

Therefore I say, _friend_—for all true sportsmen I hold friends—choose
well thy day, when the air is soft and genial, the wind south-westerly,
the meadows green with succulent and tender grasses, and moist with the
deposit of subsiding waters—select thy grounds carefully; in such a
time as I have named, the wide and open marsh meadows; but if the wind
be from the eastward, cold, squally and snow laden, then try the bushy,
briary brakes, where cattle poach the soil, and the marsh waters creep,
or the verge of the meadows, under the lea of the maple swamp, or at the
worst the very grounds where you would beat for woodcock in July—begin
from the farthest windward point of thy beat, casting thy brace of
_setters_ off from thy heel, to the right and left, and so often as they
have diverged one hundred yards, taming them with a whistle and a wave
of the hand, so that they shall cross continually before thy face, down
wind of thee, at some thirty paces distant; and so persevere—if birds
be plenty and lie well, walking not to exceed two miles the hour; if
they be rare and wild, four miles, or by ’r lady! five, if thou mayest
compass it. If one dog stand, while the other’s back is turned, whistle,
that he shall turn his head, then hold thy hand aloft, with one quiet
“_toho!_” but no shooting; if he be broke, he shall stand like a carved
stone. Then walk up to the point leisurely, be sure that thou go _down
wind_, making a circuit if needs be, with thy gun at half-cock, the ball
of thy thumb on the hammer, and the nail of thy fore-finger inside the
guard, but not upon the trigger. When the bird rises, cock your gun, and
down him! If thy dogs do their devoir, they shall drop to the charge
unbidden; if they do not, raise thy hand with an imperious gesture, and
cry coolly and calmly “down charge;” but however ill they behave, nay!
even if they run in and eat thy bird, move not till thy gun is loaded;
then calmly walk up to them, drag them, pitilessly scourging them all
the way, to the place where they should have charged, and rate them in
the best of thy dog-language. I say “scourging them _pitilessly_,”
because that is, in truth, the merciful course; for so one or two
whippings will suffice, instead of constant small chastisement and
irritation, which spoil a dog’s temper and break his spirit, without
conquering his obstinacy, or gaining the ascendancy over him.

If, on the contrary, they charge as decent dogs should and do charge, so
soon as thy gun be loaded, lift them, with a “Hold up, good lads!” and
cast them gently onward, checking them with a “Steady, dogs!” if they
show disposition to be rash, until they point the dead bird, if killed,
or draw on him, if running. Then, with a “Toho! Steady!” walk to their
point; pick up the bird under their noses, praising them the while, or
bid them “Fetch!” according to the circumstances of the case; but if
they retrieve the bird without pointing him, or even after pointing him,
until told to “fetch,” let chastisement not hide her head.

This, rest assured, friend is the way to do it.

For the rest, whether thou wear fen-boots, or shoes and trowsers, or, as
I use, by deliberate preference, arch-boots, corduroy shorts, and
leggins, suit thine own fancy; but let thy shooting-jacket be roomy on
the chest and shoulders, and well supplied with ample pockets. Let thy
gun be—for my choice—of 31 inches, 12 or 14 gauge, 7¾ to 8 pounds. Let
thy powder be Brough’s diamond grain, or John Hall’s glass—on no
account any other—thou mayest get it of Henry T. Cooper, in Broadway,
New York—thy shot No. 8—thy caps Starkey’s central fire, or Moore &
Gray’s, or Westley Richards’—by no means _French_, or Walker’s, the
first of which _fly_, while the latter are, I think, corrosive. Forget
not to have in thy pocket a dog-whip, a stout knife, a yard or two of
strong cord, a pocket-flask, replenished, as thou wilt, with old Otard,
or as I recommend thee, Ferintosh or Glenlivat whisky—stick in the seam
of thy waistcoat a strong darning-needle, headed with sealing-wax, it is
the only true and responsible gun-picker; and so, good sport to thee,
and health and temper to enjoy it!—as good sport, gentle reader, as I
trust myself to enjoy this coming week of April, the rain-gods and the
river-gods permitting, and the nymphs remembering us, as their long-time
adorer, in their kind orisons.

  _The Cedars, March 25, 1850._

-----

[5] Frank Forester’s Field Sports of North America. Vol. i. p 161.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       SONNET.—FROM THE ITALIAN.


                         BY GIDDINGS H. BALLOU.


    WHAT is it to the fields of heaven
        Light hath given,
    Radiance glowing, unexpected,
    And from soft imbosomed bowers,
        And od’rous flowers,
    Hath sweet Spring to us directed?

    See! by gentle May upholden,
        Beech-tree olden
    Joyful welcomes springing leaflet;
    Spring the flowers of glorious tinting,
        Fair imprinting
    Meadows kissed by smiling wavelet.

    Ah, ’tis Lilla, ever charming,
        Soul-disarming,
    Gathers flowers, her hair adorning!
    Dearest Lilla, dost discover
        With thy lover
    Spring and Summer now returning?

    Flows for thee the tiny river,
        Cheerful giver,
    Early green and freshness bringing;
    Springs for thee the joyous morning,
        Heaven adorning,
    All the air with praises ringing.

    Shepherds, shepherds, to the chorus!
        See, before us,
    Binds with flowers her hair dark flowing—
    While our hearts all homage will her—
        Dearest Lilla,
    Sing her name with praises glowing!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE FINE ARTS.


NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN.—The twenty-fifth anniversary of this
institution was held on the first of last month, at the new galleries,
No. 663 Broadway, in the rear of the Stuyvesant Institute. It is
extremely gratifying to the friends of Art to know that this excellent
nursery of artistic talent has now suitable buildings for its
accommodation, and the display of the productions of the painters of New
York. It was only last fall that definite arrangements were made for the
construction of this building, and already, as if at the bidding of the
genii who ministered to the wants of our youthful friend Aladdin, it has
sprung into existence. This result has been effected by the constant
exertions and devoted attentions of the building trustees, Messrs.
Durand, Cummings, Ingraham, Edmonds, Sterges and Leupp. The new edifice
is situated in the heart of the fashion of the metropolis; the galleries
are five in number, all intercommunicating, well lighted, airy, spacious
and elegantly neat. The _coup d’œil_ of the whole, when filled with
works of art for exhibition, will present one of the most animating and
beautiful scenes which the city can afford. The artists of New York have
a right to be proud of this edifice, and we do not doubt that the public
will be equally proud of those splendid productions with which they will
adorn its walls. At the advanced period, when we write this article, it
is impossible to give any definite account of the present exhibition;
but the notes of preparation, the foreshadowings and the glorious
promise of an array of talented names, are the tokens that it will be of
unusual brilliancy. Every exertion will be made to give _éclat_ to the
opening, and more pains will be bestowed on this display, that its
_debut_ before the public may be dazzling and defiant of criticism.

We learn from the New York papers, and from other sources, that all the
artists of that city will offer “tastes of their quality” to the public.
Huntington, who has been exhibiting nearly all his prominent works for
his own benefit, states in the catalogue that his latest efforts have
been retained privately for the opening of the new gallery. Durand has a
new work, of which report speaks in the most rapturous terms; this, with
others of his elaborate and highly finished compositions, will be
displayed. Cummings, Ingraham, Gray, Edmonds, Elliott, Cropsey, Stearns,
Kensett, Gignoux, Cafferty, Edouart, Audubon, and others, will
contribute portraits, compositions, landscapes, etc. In fact, the
artists have determined by every means in their power to make the first
exhibition in the new building both brilliant and attractive. We hope by
our next number to be able to speak more fully of this exhibition.

                 *        *        *        *        *

THE PHILADELPHIA ART UNION.—It is but a few years only since the first
plan of an Art Union was suggested in Germany, and already they are in
existence wherever the beautiful is venerated and art admired. In this
country we have Art Unions in New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Newark and
Cincinnati. The Philadelphia institution differs from all the rest in
its mode of distribution, and follows, we believe, in every respect the
London one, which has been by far the most successful ever started. In
New York the managers purchase pictures and distribute them. Under this
arrangement it frequently happens that the person who draws a prize is
disappointed, because he has not obtained some particular picture in the
collection which pleased his fancy. The Philadelphia plan is to divide
the proceeds of the subscription money into various sums, which are
allotted to the subscribers, who with the certificates, when successful,
can choose any picture which may suit their taste, provided it is by an
American artist, and on exhibition in some accredited gallery of art in
the country. The annual distribution of the Philadelphia Art Union takes
place on the 6th of this month, and we are pleased to learn that its
prospects are most flattering. The engraving for this year is from
HUNTINGTON’S celebrated picture of “Mercy’s Dream,” which will be
executed in a mixed style of line, stipple and mezzotint by A. H.
RITCHIE, of New York. This composition is derived from Bunyan’s
Pilgrim’s Progress, where Mercy relates to Christiana the sweet dream
she had in a solitary place, where she saw a winged messenger
approaching, who placed a crown upon her head, and invited her to a
golden gate, etc. The landscape of this picture is clothed in the first
shades of evening, and the figures of Mercy and the Angel form the
attraction of the work. In calm, spiritual expression, anatomical
precision, delicacy of coloring, and perfect keeping, there is no modern
work which can surpass this.

The Free Gallery of this Institution, located at No. 210 Chestnut
Street, has doubtless had a most beneficial influence in disseminating a
taste for Art, and preparing the public for its just appreciation. The
walls of this gallery have been constantly supplied with much-admired
pictures, and a crowd of visiters are always in attendance. We hope
hereafter to find much pleasure in referring to the new pictures
exhibited in this gallery. The effects which are dependent upon the
success of the Art Union, are shown by the great impetus which has been
given of late years to many extremely varied branches of manufactures
and commerce by a judicious encouragement of the Arts of Design. It has
been found, more particularly in Europe, that numerous classes, hitherto
considered as inoperative and useless, have been supplied with
employment, and entire districts revivified, as it were, by the
establishment of certain manufactures, whose excellence depended mainly
upon the skill of the artist. The surest means of effecting this result,
is to create a public taste, and not merely comply with it as it exists
at large; and it may be brought about by offering rewards for the best
designs, by the publication of the best specimens of Art at cheap
prices, by the erection of free galleries of painting, and chiefly by
the encouragement of Art Unions. With such objects in view, and such
results to achieve, the multiplication of these institutions in our
country must be regarded as a cheering indication of the true progress
of the age, and the precursor of a widely diffused love of the Beautiful
in Art, which cannot but tend to the general improvement of the useful
arts. All such results must be effected by our citizens at large, for we
cannot expect legislative aid, and hence it is that we feel the
necessity of impressing upon the public attention the operation of the
Art Unions, as the great popular plan for fostering talent, infusing a
love for the beautiful in Nature and Art, and cultivating those studies
which invariably mark national progress in civilization, refinement and
general happiness.

                 *        *        *        *        *

NEW JERSEY ART UNION.—We announce with great pleasure that an
association of the friends of art in Newark have drawn up the programme
of an Art Union, and made a stirring appeal to the citizens of the State
for encouragement and co-operation. A free gallery will be opened
immediately at Newark, and pictures purchased for distribution among
subscribers. For the present, no engraving will be contracted for, and
this heavy item being dispensed with, will increase the sum to be
appropriated for the purchase of paintings. We most cordially wish the
enterprise success, and trust that our New Jersey friends will be prompt
in sending their names to Thomas H. Stephens, the
Corresponding Secretary, at Newark.

                 *        *        *        *        *

GLIDDON’S PANORAMA OF THE NILE.—This magnificent work has been
exhibited in New York and Boston with great _éclat_. Mr. GLIDDON is
favorably and extensively known as a lecturer on hieroglyphical
literature, and has rendered popular throughout our country, the
wonderful discoveries and theories of the Champollionists of ancient
mythological history. As a work of art, the superiority of this panorama
cannot be doubted, when we mention the facts, derived from the Boston
Transcript, that while such artists as WARREN, BONOMI, and FAHEY, in
England, aided by numerous assistants, conceived and executed the
painting; Martin, the famed depictor of “Belshazzar’s Feast,”
volunteered the exquisite moonlight, sunset, and other transparent
scenes, where the effects of fire, light, and heat are produced with
magical skill, CARBOULD volunteered the magnificent Arabian horses, and
Weigall the boats, and similar objects that actually seem to spring
forth from the canvas. The spectator of the panorama begins his supposed
voyage at Cairo, ascends the eastern bank of the Nile to the second
cataract, and descends on the western bank, as far as the location of
the Sphinx. The interest is not in the ancient associations alone, but
Turks, Arabs, Bedouins, Nubians in their variegated costumes, Mohammed
Ali and his court, the manners, customs, and usages of oriental life,
with the various geological, botanical, zoological, and even
atmospherical singularities of the land are faithfully depicted. Even
the music which accompanies the exhibition is characteristically of
Eastern origin, and novel airs of Egypt, Arabia, Turkey, Greece, etc.,
are introduced. The whole may be considered as a work of infinite
attraction, and of a high order of art.

                 *        *        *        *        *

LE ROI D’YVETOT.—This comic opera, by Adolphe Adam, is but
little known in this country, except the overture, and it is very
recently that it has been presented, for the first time, to a London
audience. It was first produced October 1849, in Paris, at the Théâtre
Royal de l’Opéra Comique, and made a very decided impression. It is
founded on the political _chanson_ of Béranger, and of course the
caricatures of royalty, and the hits at the nobility, are the very life
of the drama. The music is full of vivacity and elegant melody. It is
somewhat singular that ADAM is an expert organist, and composes a fugue
or a comic strain with equal facility; his sacred compositions are very
grand, and he has a remarkable skill in adapting music to the most
fantastic ideas and expressions in a libretto. Many of his works in the
_opera buffa_ are well known in our country—the “Postilion de
Lonjumeau” and “Le Brasseur de Preston,” in particular, while the
mournful sweetness and touching simplicity of his ballet music, in
“Giselle,” have been often felt and enjoyed. We live in hopes that some
day we may hear “Le Roi d’Yvetot”—

                          ——the king
          In history little known,
        Who thought that glory, useless thing,
          Would not become his throne.
        A cotton night-cap graced his brows,
        Which Jeannette, mistress of his house,
          Gave him as crown. O dear!
          Oh! what a funny king was here.

                 *        *        *        *        *

MEYERBEER’S “PROPHETE” was given fifty times at the Grand Opera in
Paris, when it was withdrawn for a time, as Madame VIARDOT had to visit
Berlin, to fulfill an engagement. Madame CASTELLAN, so well remembered
in this country, sung the part of _Berthe_ in this opera.

                 *        *        *        *        *

VERDI has selected the subject of Shakspeare’s “Tempest,” for the
libretto of his next opera. The genius of VERDI will luxuriate in the
storm of the elements and the fierce contentions of passion, but he will
never be able to illustrate the spirit of the “_dainty Ariel_,” or the
innocent devotedness of _Miranda_. We should think, however, that he
will construct a magnificent composition upon the many sublime themes
and graphic word-paintings of the great bard.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _The Scarlet Letter, a Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Boston:
    Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo._

In this beautiful and touching romance Hawthorne has produced something
really worthy of the fine and deep genius which lies within him. The
“Twice Told Tales,” and “Mosses from an Old Manse,” are composed simply
of sketches and stories, and although such sketches and stories as few
living men could write, they are rather indications of the possibilities
of his mind than realizations of its native power, penetration, and
creativeness. In “The Scarlet Letter” we have a complete work, evincing
a true artist’s certainty of touch and expression in the exhibition of
characters and events, and a keen-sighted and far-sighted vision into
the essence and purpose of spiritual laws. There is a profound
philosophy underlying the story which will escape many of the readers
whose attention is engrossed by the narrative.

The book is prefaced by some fifty pages of autobiographical matter,
relating to the author, his native city of Salem, and the Custom House,
from which he was ousted by the Whigs. These pages, instinct with the
vital spirit of humor, show how rich and exhaustless a fountain of mirth
Hawthorne has at his command. The whole representation has the dreamy
yet distinct remoteness of the purely comic ideal. The view of Salem
streets; the picture of the old Custom House at the head of Derby’s
wharf, with its torpid officers on a summer’s afternoon, their chairs
all tipped against the wall, chatting about old stories, “while the
frozen witticisms of past generations were thawed out, and came bubbling
with laughter from their lips”—the delineation of the old Inspector,
whose “reminiscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the
actual banquet, seemed to bring the savor of pig or turkey under one’s
very nostrils,” and on whose palate there were flavors “which had
lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years, and were still
apparently as fresh as that of the mutton-chop which he had just
devoured for his breakfast,” and the grand view of the stout Collector,
in his aged heroism, with the honors of Chippewa and Fort Erie on his
brow, are all encircled with that visionary atmosphere which proves the
humorist to be a poet, and indicates that his pictures are drawn from
the images which observation has left on his imagination. The whole
introduction, indeed, is worthy of a place among the essays of Addison
and Charles Lamb.

With regard to “The Scarlet Letter,” the readers of Hawthorne might have
expected an exquisitely written story, expansive in sentiment, and
suggestive in characterization, but they will hardly be prepared for a
novel of so much tragic interest and tragic power, so deep in thought
and so condensed in style, as is here presented to them. It evinces
equal genius in the region of great passions and elusive emotions, and
bears on every page the evidence of a mind thoroughly alive, watching
patiently the movements of morbid hearts when stirred by strange
experiences, and piercing, by its imaginative power, directly through
all the externals to the core of things. The fault of the book, if fault
it have, is the almost morbid intensity with which the characters are
realized, and the consequent lack of sufficient geniality in the
delineation. A portion of the pain of the author’s own heart is
communicated to the reader, and although there is great pleasure
received while reading the volume, the general impression left by it is
not satisfying to the artistic sense. Beauty bends to power throughout
the work, and therefore the power displayed is not always beautiful.
There is a strange fascination to a man of contemplative genius in the
psychological details of a strange crime like that which forms the plot
of the Scarlet Letter, and he is therefore apt to become, like
Hawthorne, too painfully anatomical in his exhibition of them.

If there be, however, a comparative lack of relief to the painful
emotions which the novel excites, owing to the intensity with which the
author concentrates attention on the working of dark passions, it must
be confessed that the moral purpose of the book is made more definite by
this very deficiency. The most abandoned libertine could not read the
volume without being thrilled into something like virtuous resolution,
and the roué would find that the deep-seeing eye of the novelist had
mustered the whole philosophy of that guilt of which practical roués are
but childish disciples. To another class of readers, those who have
theories of seduction and adultery modeled after the French school of
novelists, and for whom libertinism is of the brain, the volume may
afford matter for very instructive and edifying contemplation; for, in
truth, Hawthorne, in The Scarlet Letter, has utterly undermined the
whole philosophy on which the French novels rest, by seeing farther and
deeper into the essence both of conventional and moral laws; and he has
given the results of his insight, not in disquisitions and criticisms,
but in representations more powerful even than those of Sue, Dumas, or
George Sand. He has made his guilty parties end, not as his own fancy or
his own benevolent sympathies might dictate, but as the spiritual laws,
lying back of all persons, dictated to him. In this respect there is
hardly a novel in English literature more purely objective.

As everybody will read “The Scarlet Letter,” it would be impertinent to
give a synopsis of the plot. The principal characters, Dimmesdale,
Chillingworth, Hester, and little Pearl, all indicate a firm grasp of
individualities, although from the peculiar method of the story, they
are developed more in the way of logical analysis than by events. The
descriptive portions of the novel are in a high degree picturesque and
vivid, bringing the scenes directly home to the heart and imagination,
and indicating a clear vision of the life as well as forms of nature.
Little Pearl is perhaps Hawthorne’s finest poetical creation, and is the
very perfection of ideal impishness.

In common, we trust, with the rest of mankind, we regretted Hawthorne’s
dismissal from the Custom House, but if that event compels him to exert
his genius in the production of such books as the present, we shall be
inclined to class the Honorable Secretary of the Treasury among the
great philanthropists. In his next work we hope to have a romance equal
to The Scarlet Letter in pathos and power, but more relieved by touches
of that beautiful and peculiar humor, so serene and so searching, in
which he excels almost all living writers.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Latter Day Pamphlets. Edited by Thomas Carlyle. No. 1. The
    Present Time. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co._

The reader of Carlyle will find nothing new in principle, and little new
in phraseology, in this pamphlet, but it is still fresh and racy, and
exhibits the author hammering as lustily as ever on his old anvil, with
his old tools. The picture given of the poor simple Pope, with the New
Testament in his hand—the pitying contempt with which Lamartine is
alluded to—and the view of American democracy—will be found the most
readable portions of the pamphlet. Lamartine, with his fine French
phrases and sentimentalities, looks small enough as subjected to the
surly tests of such an Icelandic critic as Carlyle—“a most eloquent,
fair-spoken literary gentleman, whom thoughtless persons took for a
prophet, priest, and heaven-sent evangelist, and whom a wise Yankee
friend of mine discerned to be properly ‘the first stump-orator in the
world, standing, too, on the highest stump for the time.’ _A sorrowful
spectacle to all men of reflection during the time he lasted, that poor
M. de Lamartine_; with nothing in him but melodious wind and _soft
sowder_, which he and others took for something divine, and not
diabolic! Sad enough: the eloquent latest impersonation of
Chaos-come-again; able to talk for itself, and declare persuasively that
_it_ is Cosmos! However, you have but to wait a little, in such cases;
all balloons do and must give up their gas in the pressure of things,
and are collapsed in a sufficiently wretched manner before long.” The
wise Yankee friend alluded to here is, we suppose, Mr. Emerson.

Carlyle, though he seems with De Tocqueville, to consider Democracy
inevitable in Europe, still despises and hates it, and thinks that even
in America it is nothing more than “Anarchy _plus_ the constable.” His
view of the United States, sufficiently contemptuous as a whole, closes
with a bitter, sardonic jest, which we think will make the tour of the
world, and injure us more than a thousand Trollopes and Basil Halls. He
asks, “What great human soul, what great thought, what great, noble
thing that one could worship, or loyally admire, has yet been produced
there?” We might answer this question easily, but Carlyle answers it in
a sufficiently provoking manner—“What have they done? They have doubled
their population every twenty years. They have begotten, with a rapidity
beyond recorded example, _eighteen millions of the greatest bores_ ever
seen in this world before—that, hitherto, is their feat in History.”

As regards Great Britain, Carlyle considers that the only practical way
to remedy its evils, is to reject all cant about liberty and
constitutional government, and enslave the lower classes. He accordingly
recommends to the English government a plan of enforced labor, and puts
an imaginary speech in the mouth of the Prime Minister, addressed to the
“floods of Irish and other Beggars, the able-bodied Lackalls, nomadic or
stationary, and the General Assembly, outdoor and indoor, of the Pauper
Populations of these Realms.” This speech sounds well enough as a joke,
provided a man can view a horde of men as he would so many horses, but
it is ridiculous as a practical exposition of principles. It is certain
that in one hour after a British minister had made such a declaration,
army, navy, and party would melt away from him, and he would be on the
gallows or in Bedlam. As a politician, Carlyle is little more than a
philosopher of sneers and negations, without one positive practical
principle. His idea of government implies a falsehood in fact, reposing
on the monstrous assumption that civilized society is composed of a vast
collection of men, little better than brutes, who would endure the
tyranny of a smaller number of despots, little better than Carlyle.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Modern Literature and Literary Men: Being a Second Gallery of
    Literary Portraits. By George Gilfillan: New York: D. Appleton &
    Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Emerson has remarked that “it makes a great difference in the force
of a sentence whether a man be behind it or no.” We hardly think that
there is a true man behind the best of Mr. Gilfillan’s sentences. He has
a mind of much sensitiveness to his own merits, and some to the merits
of others, and welters readily into the expression of both; but his
inspiration seems to spring from presumption and whisky-punch. The
reader is teased into attention by Mr. Gilfillan’s confident manner,
without having his attention rewarded by intimacy with Mr. Gilfillan’s
nature. There is merit in his occasional thoughts, and truth in his
detached remarks, but the impression of the whole is of a slush of
shining words. The subject is only an occasion for the author to pour
out his own memories and fancies, and thus to exhibit himself. The
movement of his mind is half-way between a strut and a reel, and his
faculties are ever in a state of pert intoxication. He paws rather than
handles a great poet, and we never witness his approach to a Milton or
Wordsworth without a shudder. Having in his intellect no presiding will
or even principle, his compositions are an anarchy of opinions and
terms, without any intellectual conscientiousness or austere regard for
the truth of things; and their popularity is the result of that sack of
the dictionary which has made so much of our popular literature a mere
debauch in words.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Cosmos: a Sketch of a Physical Description of the Universe. By
    Alexander Von Humboldt. Translated from the German, by E. C.
    Otté. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._

The noble head of Humboldt which adorns the title-page of this edition
gives at once a favorable impression of his capacity to treat even the
vast subject which here has tasked his powers. The head is high, broad,
massive, and _roomy_—spacious enough for knowledge as universal as his,
and strong enough to use that knowledge, and not be used by it. The work
promises to be one which will leave its mark on the century. Even in
England it is acknowledged by some men of science to be the greatest
mental product of the time. The advantage which Humboldt holds over most
savans is his appreciation of the two aspects under which nature may be
viewed, and the two uses she serves. He combines the philosopher and the
poet, looking for beauty as well as truth, and seeing also that there is
a point where they unite. “Cosmos” contains a vast amount of generalized
knowledge to satisfy the understanding; but it is also replete with
gorgeous descriptions of natural scenery to fill and stimulate the
imagination. We know of few works which can be more profitably read by
enthusiasts either for the exclusively scientific or the exclusively
poetic method of observing nature.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The East: Sketches of Travel in Egypt and the Holy Land. By the
    Rev. J. A. Spencer, M. A. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol.
    8vo._

This work is elegantly printed and appropriately illustrated. The field
of the author’s travels is of exceeding interest, and the mere title,
“The East,” is sufficient to stir the imagination and kindle the
curiosity of all “the West.” Mr. Spencer is a scholar, a Christian, and,
we may add, well versed in English Composition, but he has chosen to
preserve the epistolary form in which he recorded his first impressions,
and this he has done without having in his letters much of that familiar
charm which is the justification of the practice. If the traveler be
Lady Montagu, or Horace Walpole, or Gray, or Cowper, or Byron, or even
Lord Chesterfield, we should be inclined to wish to read his letters
rather than his formal “tour;” but few writers are gifted with a genius
for epistolary composition; and Mr. Spencer is not one of the few. There
is much in his volume which might have been omitted with positive
advantage. His style is the very reverse of epistolary, and yet he says
a great many things having all the unimportance of chat without its
raciness. With this exception we think the book an excellent one,
containing valuable information clearly conveyed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Optimist. By Henry T. Tuckerman. New York: George P.
    Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is the most delightful of Mr. Tuckerman’s many volumes of essays.
It contains twenty-two papers, on as many subjects, is written in a
style which evinces a graceful mastery of the resources of language, and
is no less fluent in thought than in expression. Perhaps the most
pleasing quality of the volume is its wealth of illustration. The
writer’s mind is not only affluent in comparison and imagery, but his
literary culture is so extensive as to give him a command of those
sources of fascination which come from felicitous allusions to the world
of authors and books. The object of the volume is finely stated, in an
elegantly written preface, to be the search for the good in life, as
that good is exhibited to one who can comment kindly on society, and
interpret the true and beautiful in common experience. The best papers
in the volume are those on New England Philosophy, Art and Artists,
Lyric Poetry, Eye-Language, Flowers, Costume, Music, and Conversation.
The volume should be on the shelves of every man who has the heart and
imagination to enjoy the English essayists, for to that goodly company
it is a positive addition.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. By
    Edward Gibbon, Esq. With Notes by the Rev. H. H. Milman. A New
    Edition, to which is added a Complete Index of the Whole Work.
    In six volumes. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. Vols. 1 & 2._

This is a cheap reprint of the latest and best edition of Gibbon, and
when completed will place one of the greatest historical productions in
the world within the reach of the most limited means—the price of the
whole not amounting to four dollars. Milman’s edition is in some degree
founded upon Guizot’s French edition, and includes the principal notes
of the latter. Both Milman and Guizot have gone carefully over Gibbon’s
authorities, and while they have thus been enabled to correct his
misrepresentations, they have also added much which he overlooked, or
which has been brought to light since the period in which the history
was written. Of the book itself, it may be said, that in the combination
of vast erudition with philosophic thought, it is the object of emulous
despair to all succeeding historians. The subject is the greatest within
the range of historical composition, and Gibbon has so nearly exhausted
it that even a philosophical historian like Guizot is contented to be
but an annotator when he approaches it. The general reader, after many
repeated perusals of the work, continually returns to it for the depth
and acuteness of its reflections, the richness and weight of its style,
and that masterly irony, sapping a solemn creed with “solemn sneer,”
which, though sometimes an expression of the author’s moral
deficiencies, and in a few instances disgracefully disingenuous, is
still a weapon which makes falsehood and prejudice wither when it merely
gleams, and perish when it strikes.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A Few Thoughts for a Young Man. A Lecture, delivered before the
    Boston Mercantile Library Association. By Horace Mann. Boston:
    Ticknor, Reed & Fields._

The author of this eloquent lecture is known principally for his great
services to the cause of popular education—a cause which he has adopted
with his whole soul, and into which he has thrown whatever of fire there
is in his blood and of intelligence there is in his brain. The present
address flames with the peculiar characteristics of his
genius—vehement, rapid, and epigrammatic in style, large, generous,
independent and original in thought. We disagree with some of the
positions he has assumed, but we know of few books which contain, in so
small a space, so much to breathe energy and aspiration into the souls
of young men as this warm gush of blended thought and knowledge, from a
soul eminently energetic and aspiring itself.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Modern Housewife. By Alexis Soyer. Edited by an American
    Housekeeper. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This book we can commend to all ladies who are, or hope to be,
housewifes. It simplifies the whole art of cooking, and has a receipt
for every dish which the Heliogabalus imagination of man has conceived.
It has been edited, seemingly with great care, by some gentleman amateur
of the table, and contains directions for the food equally of rich and
poor, the dyspeptic and the ostrich stomach.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Thomas Chalmers, D. D. LLD.
    By his Son-in-Law, the Rev. William Hanna, LLD. New York: Harper
    & Brothers. 3 vols. 12mo._

The first volume of this important work has just been issued, containing
long extracts from the doctor’s early diary and correspondence, and full
accounts of his life and writings to the year 1814. As the biography of
a good and eminent man, furnishing, as it does, the means of
understanding the process according to which his character grew into
such large proportions. The work promises to be one of the most valuable
of the season.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Red Rover. By the author of “The Spy,” “The Pilot,” etc.
    Revised, Corrected, and Illustrated with a New Introduction,
    Notes, etc. by the Author. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol.
    12mo._

We well recollect the excitement in the novel-reading world produced by
this book on its first publication. The rush on the circulating
libraries was continued for a couple of months, and even boys were
considered behind the age, unless they had read it. In its present cheap
and elegant form, and enriched by the revision of the author’s maturer
judgment, we hope it will have another term of popularity.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Elements of Natural Philosophy. By Alonzo Gray, A. M.
    Illustrated by 300 Wood Cuts. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1
    vol. 12mo._

This work is designed as a text book for academies, high schools, and
colleges, but it is well adapted also for the general reader. Principles
are stated with equal clearness and accuracy, and the examples and
illustrations are happily selected. The author evidently understands the
avenues through which scientific knowledge must pass in order to reach
the learner’s mind.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Hume’s History of England. Vol. 6. Boston: Phillips, Sampson &
    Co._

This volume is the last of the Boston edition of Hume—an edition which
places one of the most valuable and fascinating works in the language
within the reach of readers of the humblest means. We are glad to see
that the same enterprising house, intend to issue an edition of Gibbon
in the same style, and at the same low price.

                 *        *        *        *        *

FOREIGN ENDORSEMENT.—It must be amusing to the subscribers of Graham’s
Magazine, to see the American Press praising the story of “The Village
Doctor,” published in “Blackwood’s Magazine” last year as the _first_
translation of that excellent French story. The article appeared in
“Graham’s Magazine” more than two years before, i. e. in the October and
November numbers, 1847, and had therefore been read in this country by
at least one hundred thousand readers, before it was copied by the
weekly press in this country from Blackwood.

The truth is, the American Magazines contain every month articles which
would make the fortune of a London or Edinburgh periodical, which are
passed over in silence, but the most inferior article of English stamp
is endorsed as something extraordinary, merely because it _is_ English.
This should be corrected.

Mr. Leonard Myers, who translated the story of “The Village Doctor” for
us, has just had published by Messrs. Lippincott & Co., a capital story
from the French, called “Money-bags and Titles.” It is a very creditable
volume in every respect; the story is well told and contains some
admirable hits at the follies of the age. It can be sent by mail, and is
published at the price of fifty cents the volume.

                 *        *        *        *        *

A CAPITAL STORY.—The Saturday Courier has been publishing, for the past
few numbers, a story of more than usual excellence, called “Linda,” by
Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, whose stories heretofore in this admirable
family paper have made so much stir among readers of light literature.
Her story of the “Mob-Cap” ran through several editions, and is still
praised as one of the most effective articles that ever appeared in a
periodical. Mr. M‘Makin will find that “Linda” is destined to make a
fresh demand for articles from the able pen of this lady, and we are
sure he will receive the thanks of his hundred thousand readers for his
liberality in thus catering to their refined taste.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Our correspondent, Richard Coe, Jr., is about to publish a volume of his
beautiful poems—a neat edition for the centre-table at the price of one
dollar per volume. His address is 33 Church Alley, Philadelphia, where
any of his friends will be supplied.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                  NO JOY I’LL SEE BUT IN THOSE SMILES.


                               WRITTEN BY
                            JOSEPH A. NUNES.

                              COMPOSED BY

                             JAMES BELLAK.

 Published by permission of Mr. E. L. Walker, No. 160 Chestnut Street.

[Illustration: musical score]

        I’ll think of thee, that thought alone
          Can never from my mem’ry flee,
        In ev’ry breeze I’ll find a tone
          That whispers nought but love and

[Illustration: musical score]

        thee
        And ev’ry sound that greets my ear,
          And ev’ry object that I see,
        Will be to me more sweet, more dear,
          When mingled with the thought of thee.

        Should fortune smile, and hope be bright,
          And from the world be nought to fear,
        Oh! what can add to that delight
          But the one thought that thou art near.
        Then pleasure, with its thousand smiles,
          Will vainly strive this heart to free:
        No joy I’ll see but in those smiles,
          No rapture feel away from thee.

        And when existence’s span is run
          And death impatient waits for me,
        My soul, as to its earthly sun,
          Will turn a lingering look on thee:
        E’en when the last sad scene of life
          Shall mingle with the shades of death,
        My spirit, in its latest strife,
          Will bless thee with its parting breath.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious type-setting and
punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have
been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may
be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for
preparation of the eBook.

page 304, soulfull look, and ==> soulful look, and
page 306, reader, with what exhuberance ==> reader, with what exuberance
page 308, some of her satelites ==> some of her satellites
page 310, eyes were rivited upon ==> eyes were riveted upon
page 318, To batten and gorge on ==> To fatten and gorge on
page 341, of Amherstbergh, Canada west, ==> of Amherstburg, Canada west,
page 341, by incessant harrassing, which ==>  by incessant harassing,
  which
page 346, and whom libertinism ==> and for whom libertinism

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 5, May 1850]







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