



Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed
Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from
page images generously made available by Google Books.





[Illustration: Drawn and Engraved by W. E. Tucker
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

                Whilst now with rapture burning,
                Thy smiles and sighs returning,
                Say wilt thou love be mine?
                See—the songsters’ wings are spreading,
                Each grove and arbour threading,
                To seek their Valentine.

                Then while all hearts are striving,
                And at Love’s Arts conniving,
                Send offerings to his shrine.
                May we, our pledge renewing,
                Our patrons favor wooing,
                Prove their true Valentine.




                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

              VOL. XXXIV.      FEBRUARY, 1849.      No. 2.

                           Table of Contents

                    The Young Lawyer’s First Case
                    The World
                    Christine
                    The Ennuyee
                    The Man in the Moon
                    The Mirror of Life
                    To the Thames, At Norwich, Conn.
                    The Song of the Axe
                    The Wager of Battle
                    Requiem
                    St. Valentine’s Day
                    The Past
                    A Song
                    A Recollection of Mendelssohn
                    Jasper Leech
                    My Bird Has Flown
                    Lessons in German
                    The Phantasmagoria
                    The Beating of the Heart
                    Doctor Sian Seng
                    The Highland Laddie’s Farewell
                    A Twilight Lay
                    The Chamber of Life and Death
                    Earth-Life
                    Eleonore Eboli
                    History of the Costume of Men
                    Wild-Birds of America
                    The Old Year and the New
                    The Lost Notes
                    An Hour Among the Dead
                    Gems From Late Readings
                    Review of New Books
                    Editor’s Table
                    The Bells of Ostend

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

                 *        *        *        *        *

       VOL. XXXIV.      PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1849.      No. 2.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     THE YOUNG LAWYER’S FIRST CASE.


                             BY JOHN TODD.

In one of those long, low, one-story, unpainted houses which succeeded
the log-houses in Vermont as the second generation of human habitations,
lay a sick woman. She knew, and all her friends knew, that her days were
numbered, and that when she left that room it would be in her
winding-sheet for the grave. Yet her face and her spirit were calm, and
the tones of her voice, like those of the dying swan, were sweeter than
those of life. She had taken an affectionate leave of all her children,
in faith and hope, save one—her eldest son—a mother’s boy and a
mother’s pride. By great economy and unwearied industry this son had
been sent to college. He was a mild, inoffensive, pale-faced one; but
the bright eye did not belie the spirit that dwelt in a casket so frail.
He had been sent for, but did not reach home till the day before his
mother’s death. As soon as she knew of his coming, she immediately had
him called to her room, and left alone with her. Long and tearful was
their conversation. Sweet and tender was this last interview between a
mother and son who had never lacked any degree of confidence on either
side.

“You know, my son, that it has always been my most earnest wish and
prayer that you should be a preacher of the gospel, and thus a
benefactor to the souls of men. In choosing the law, you are aware, you
have greatly disappointed these hopes.”

“I know it, dear mother; and I have done it, not because I like the law
so much, but because I dare not undertake a work so sacred as the
ministry, conscious as I am that I am not qualified in mind, or body, or
spirit, for the work. If I dared do it, for _your_ sake, if for no other
reason, I would do it.”

“In God’s time, my dear son, in God’s time, I trust you will. I neither
urge it, nor blame you. But promise me now, that you will never
undertake any cause which you think is unjust, and that you will never
aid in screening wrong from coming to light and punishment.”

The son said something about every man’s having the right to have his
case presented in the best light he could.

“I know what you mean,” said she; “but I know that if a man has violated
the laws of God and man, he has no _moral_ right to be shielded from
punishment. If he has confessions and explanations to offer, it is well.
But for you to take his side, and for money, to shield him from the
laws, seems to me no better than if, for money, you concealed him from
the officers of justice, under the plea that every man had a right to
get clear of the law if he could. But I am weak and cannot talk, my son;
and yet _if_ you will give me the solemn promise, it seems as if I
should die easier. But you must do as you think best.”

The young man bent over his dying mother, and with much emotion, gave
her the solemn promise which she desired. Tender was the last kiss she
gave him, warm the thanks which she expressed, and sweet the smile which
she wore, and which was left on her countenance after her spirit had
gone up to meet the smiles of the Redeemer.

Some months after the death of his mother, the young man left the
shadows of the Green Mountains, and toward a more sunny region, in a
large and thrifty village, he opened his office; the sign gave his name,
and under it, the words, “Attorney at Law.” There he was found early and
late, his office clean and neat, and his few books studied over and over
again, but no business. The first fee which he took was for writing a
short letter for his black wood-sawyer, and for that he conscientiously
charged only a single sixpence! People spoke well of him, and admired
the young man, but still no business came. After waiting till “hope
deferred made the heart sick,” one bright morning a coarse-looking,
knock-down sort of a young man was seen making toward the office. How
the heart of the young lawyer bounded at the sight of his first client!
What success, and cases, and fees danced in the vision in a moment!

“Are you the lawyer?” said the man, hastily taking off his hat.

“Yes, sir, that’s my business. What can I do for you?”

“Why, something of a job, I reckon. The fact is I have got into a little
trouble, and want a bit of help.” And he took out a five dollar bill,
and laid it on the table. The young lawyer made no motion toward taking
it.

“Why don’t you take it?” said he. “I don’t call it pay, but to begin
with—a kind of wedge—what do you call it?”

“Retention-fee, I presume you mean.”

“Just so, and by your taking it, you are my lawyer. So take it.”

“Not quite so fast, if you please. State your case, and then I will tell
you whether or not I take the retention-fee.”

The coarse fellow stared.

“Why, mister, the case is simply this. Last spring I was doing a little
business by way of selling meat. So I bought a yoke of oxen of old Maj.
Farnsworth. I was to have them for one hundred dollars.”

“Very well—what became of the oxen?”

“Butchered and sold out, to be sure.”

“By you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, where’s the trouble?”

“Why, they say, that as I only gave my note for them, I need not pay it,
and I want you to help me to get clear of it.”

“How do you expect me to do it?”

“Plain as day, man; just say, gentlemen of the jury, this young man was
not of age when he gave Maj. Farnsworth the note, and therefore, _in
law_, the note is good for nothing—that’s all!”

“And was it really so?”

“Exactly.”

“How came Maj. Farnsworth to let you have the oxen?”

“Oh, the godly old man never suspected that I was under age.”

“What did you get for the oxen in selling them out?”

“Why, somewhere between one hundred and thirty and one hundred and forty
dollars—they were noble fellows!”

“And so you want me to help you cheat that honest old man out of those
oxen, simply because the law, this human imperfection, gives you the
opportunity to do it! No, sir; put up your retention-fee. I promised my
dying mother never to do such a thing, and I will starve first. And as
for you—if I wanted to help you to go to the state’s prison, I could
take no course so sure as to do what you offer to pay me for doing. And,
depend upon it, the lawyer who does help you, will be your worst enemy.
Plead minority! No; go, sir, and pay for your oxen honestly and live and
act on the principle, that let what will come, you will be an honest
man.”

The coarse young man snatched up his bill, and muttering something about
seeing Squire Snapall, left the office.

So he lost his first fee and his first case. He felt poor and
discouraged, when left alone in the office; but he felt that he had done
right. His mother’s voice seemed to whisper, “Right, my son, right.” The
next day he was in old Maj. Farnsworth’s, and saw a pile of bills lying
upon the table. The good old man said he had just received them for a
debt which he expected to lose, but a kind Providence had interposed in
his behalf. The young lawyer said nothing, but his mother’s voice seemed
to come again, “Right, my son, right.”

Some days after this a man called in the evening, and asked the young
man to defend him in a trial just coming on.

“What is your case?”

“They accuse me of stealing a bee-hive.”

“A bee-hive!—surely that could not be worth much!”

“No, but the bees and the honey were in it.”

“Then you really did steal it?”

“Squire are you alone here—nobody to hear?”

“I am all alone.”

“Are you bound by oath to keep the secrets of your clients?”

“Certainly I am.”

“Well, then, ’twixt you and me, I did have a dab at that honey. There
was more than seventy pounds! But you can clear me.”

“How can I?”

“Why, Ned Hazen has agreed to swear that I was with him fishing at
Squanicook Pond that night.”

“So, by perjury, you hope to escape punishment. What can you afford to
pay a lawyer who will do his best?”

The man took out twenty dollars. It was a great temptation. The young
lawyer staggered for a moment—but only for a moment.

“No, sir, I will not undertake your case. I will not try to shield a man
whom I know to be a villain from the punishment which he deserves. I
will starve first.”

The man with an oath bolted out of the office, and made his way to
Snapall’s office. The poor lawyer sat down alone, and could have cried.
But a few dollars were left to him in the world, and what to do when
they were gone, he knew not. In a few moments the flush and burning of
the face was gone, as if he had been fanned by the wings of angels, and
again he heard his own mother’s voice, “Right, my son, right.”

Days and even weeks passed away, and no new client made his appearance.
The story of his having refused to take fees and defend his clients got
abroad, and many were the gibes concerning his folly. Lawyer Snapall
declared that such weakness would ruin any man. The multitude went
against the young advocate. But a few noted and remembered it in his
favor.

On entering his office one afternoon, the young man found a note lying
on his table. It read thus,

“Mrs. Henshaw’s compliments to Mr. Loudon, and requests, if it be not
too much trouble, that he would call on her at his earliest convenience,
as she wishes to consult him professionally, and with as much privacy as
may be.

“_Rose Cottage, June 25th._”

How his hand trembled while he read the note. It might lead to
business—it might be the first fruits of an honorable life. But who is
Mrs. Henshaw? He only knew that a friend by that name, a widow lady, had
lately arrived on a visit to the family who resided in that cottage. “At
his earliest convenience.” If he should go at once, would it not look as
if he were at perfect leisure? If he delayed, would it not be a
dishonesty which he had vowed never to practice? He whistled a moment,
took up his hat, and went toward “Rose Cottage.” On reaching the house,
he was received by a young lady of modest, yet easy manner. He inquired
for Mrs. Henshaw, and the young lady said,

“My mother is not well, but I will call her. Shall I carry your name,
sir?”

“Loudon, if you please.”

The young lady cast a searching, surprised look at him, and left the
room. In a few moments the mother, a graceful, well-bred lady of about
forty, entered the room. She had a mild; sweet face, and a look that
brought his own mother so vividly to mind, that the tears almost started
in his eyes. For some reason, Mrs. Henshaw appeared embarrassed.

“It is Mr. Loudon, the lawyer, I suppose,” said she.

“At your service, madam.”

“Is there any other gentleman at the Bar of your name, sir?”

“None that I know of. In what way can you command my services, madam?”

The lady . “I am afraid, sir, there is some mistake. I need a
lawyer to look at a difficult case, a man of _principle_, whom I can
trust. You were mentioned to me—but—I expected to see an older man.”

“If you will admit me,” said Loudon, who began to grow nervous in his
turn, “so far into your confidence as to state the case, I think I can
promise not to do any hurt, even if I do no good. And if on the whole,
you think it best to commit it to older and abler hands, I will charge
you nothing and engage not to be offended.”

The mother looked at the daughter, and saw on her face the look of
confidence and hope.

The whole afternoon was spent in going over the case, examining papers,
and the like. As they went along, Loudon took notes and memoranda with
his pencil.

“He will never do,” thought Mrs. Henshaw. “He takes every thing for
granted and unquestioned; and though I don’t design to mislead him, yet
it seems to me, as if he would take the moon to be green cheese, were I
to tell him so. He will never do;” and she felt that she had wasted her
time and strength. How great then was her surprise when Loudon pushed
aside the bundles of papers, and looking at his notes, again went over
the whole ground, sifting and scanning every point, weighing every
circumstance, pointing out the weak places, tearing and throwing off the
rubbish, discarding what was irrelevant, and placing the whole affair in
a light more luminous and clear than even she had ever seen it before.
Her color came and went as her hopes rose and fell. After he had laid it
open to her, he added, with unconscious dignity,

“Mrs. Henshaw, I think yours is a cause of right and justice. Even if
there should be a failure to convince a jury so that law would decide in
your favor, there are so many circumstantial proofs, that I have no
doubt that justice will be with you. If you please to entrust it to me,
I will do the best I can, and am quite sure I shall work harder than if
I were on the opposite side.”

“What do you say, Mary?” said the mother to the daughter. “You are as
much interested as I. Shall we commit it to Mr. Loudon?”

“You are the best judge, but it seems to me that he understands the case
better than any one you have ever talked with.”

Loudon thanked Mary with his eyes, but for some reason or other, hers
were cast down upon the figures of the carpet, and she did not see him.

“Well, Mr. Loudon, we will commit the whole affair to you. If you
succeed we shall be able to reward you; and if you do not, we shall be
no poorer than we have been.”

For weeks and months Loudon studied his case. He was often at Rose
Cottage to ask questions on some point not quite so clear. He found they
were very agreeable—the mother and the daughter—aside from the
law-suit, and I am not sure that he did not find occasion to ask
questions oftener than he would have done, had it been otherwise.

The case, briefly was this. Mr. Henshaw had been an active, intelligent
and high-minded man of business. He had dealt in iron, had large
furnaces at different places, and did business on an average with three
hundred different people a day. Among others, he had dealings with a man
by the name of Brown—a plausible, keen, and as many thought, an
unprincipled man. But Henshaw, without guile himself, put all confidence
in him. In a reverse of times—such as occur once in about ten years,
let who will be President—their affairs became embarrassed and terribly
perplexed. In order to extricate his business, it was necessary for
Henshaw to go to a distant part of the land, in company with Brown.
There he died—leaving a young widow, and an only child, Mary, then
about ten years old, and his business in a condition as bad as need be.
By the kindness of the creditors their beautiful home called Elm Glen,
was left to Mrs. Henshaw and her little girl, while the rest of the
property went to pay the debts. The widow and her orphan kept the place
of their joys and hopes in perfect order, and everybody said “it didn’t
look like a widow’s house.” But within four years of the death of Mr.
Henshaw, Brown returned. He had been detained by broken limbs and
business, he said. What was the amazement of the widow to have him set
up a claim for Elm Glen, as his property! He had loaned Mr. Henshaw
money, he said—he had been with him in sickness and in death; and the
high-minded Henshaw had made his will on his death-bed, and bequeathed
Elm Glen to Brown, as a payment for debts. The will was duly drawn,
signed with Mr. Henshaw’s own signature, and also by two competent
witnesses. Every one was astonished at the claim—at the will—at every
thing pertaining to it. It was contested in court, but the evidence was
clear, and the will was set up and established. Poor Mrs. Henshaw was
stripped of everything. With a sad heart she packed up her simple
wardrobe, and taking her child, left the village and went to a distant
State to teach school. For six years she had been absent, and for six
years had Brown enjoyed Elm Glen. No, not enjoyed it, for he enjoyed
nothing. He lived in it; but the haggard look—the frequent appeal to
the bottle—the jealous feelings which were ever uppermost—and his
coarse, profane conversation, showed that he was wretched. People
talked, too, of his lonely hours, his starting up in his sleep, his
clenching his fist in his dreams, and defying “all hell” to prove it,
and the like.

Suddenly and privately, Mrs. Henshaw returned to her once loved village.
She had obtained some information by which she hoped to bring truth to
light, for she had never believed that her husband ever made such a will
in favor of Brown. To prove that this will was a forgery was what Loudon
was now to attempt. An action was commenced, and Brown soon had notice
of the warfare now to be carried on against him. He raved and swore, but
he also laid aside his cups, and went to work to meet the storm like a
man in the full consciousness of the justice of his cause. There was
writing and riding, posting and sending writs—for both sides had much
at stake. It was the last hope for the widow. It was the first case for
young Loudon. It was victory or state’s prison for Brown. The community,
one and all took sides with Mrs. Henshaw. If a bias _could_ reach a
jury, it must have been in her favor. Mr. Snapall was engaged for Brown,
and was delighted to find that he had only that “white-faced boy” to
contend with; and the good public felt sorry that the widow had not
selected a man of some age and experience; but then they said, “women
will have their own way.”

The day of trial came on. Great was the excitement to hear the great
“will case,” and every horse in the region was hitched somewhere near
the courthouse.

In rising to open the case, young Loudon was embarrassed; but modesty
always meets with encouragement. The court gave him patient attention,
and soon felt that it was deserved. In a clear, concise, and masterly
manner, he laid open the case just as it stood in his own mind, and
proceeded with the evidence to prove the will to be a forgery. It was
easy to show the character of Brown to be one of great iniquity, and
that for him to do this was only in keeping with that general character.
He attempted to prove that the will could not be genuine, because one of
its witnesses on his death-bed had _confessed_ that it was a forgery,
and that he and his friend had been hired by Brown to testify and swear
to its being genuine. Here he adduced the affidavit of a deceased
witness, taken in full before James Johnson, Esq. Justice of the Peace,
and acknowledged by him. So far all was clear, and when the testimony
closed it seemed clear that the case was won. But when it came Mr.
Snapall’s turn, he demolished all these hopes by proving that though
James Johnson, Esq. had signed himself Justice of the Peace, yet he was
no magistrate, inasmuch as his commission had expired the very day
before he signed the paper, and although he had been re-appointed, yet
he had not been legally _qualified_ to act as a magistrate—that he
might or might not have supposed himself to be qualified to take an
affidavit; and that the law, for very wise reasons, demanded that an
affidavit should be taken only by a sworn magistrate. He was most happy,
he said, to acknowledge the cool assurance of his young brother in the
law; and the only difficulty was that he had proved nothing, except that
his tender conscience permitted him to offer as an affidavit a paper
that was in law not worth a straw, if any better than a forgery itself.

There was much sympathy felt for poor Loudon, but he took it very coolly
and seemed no way cast down. Mr. Snapall then brought forward his other
surviving witness—a gallows-looking fellow, but his testimony was
clear, decided and consistent. If he was committing perjury, it was
plain that he had been well-drilled by Snapall. Loudon kept his eye upon
him with the keenness of the lynx. And while Snapall was commenting upon
the case with great power, and while Mrs. Henshaw and Mary gave up all
for lost, it was plain that Loudon, as he turned over the will, and
looked at it again and again, was thinking of something else besides
what Snapall was saying. He acted something as a dog does when he feels
sure he is near the right track of the game, though he dare not yet
bark.

When Snapall was through, Loudon requested that the witness might again
be called to the stand. But he was so mild, and kind, and timid, that it
seemed as if he was the one about to commit perjury.

“You take your oath that this instrument, purporting to be the will of
Henry Henshaw, was signed by him in your presence?”

“I do.”

“And you signed it with your own hand as witness at the time?”

“I did.”

“What is the date of the will?”

“June 18, 1830.”

“When did Henshaw die?”

“June 22, 1830.”

“Were you living in the village where he died at the time?”

“I was.”

“How long had you lived there?”

“About four years, I believe, or somewhere thereabouts.”

Here Loudon handed the judge a paper, which the judge unfolded and laid
before him on the bench.

“Was that village a large or a small one?”

“Not very large—perhaps fifty houses.”

“You knew all these houses well, I presume?”

“I did.”

“Was the house in which Mr. Henshaw died, one story or two?”

“Two, I believe.”

“But you _know_, don’t you? Was he in the lower story or in the chamber
when you went to witness the deed?”

Here the witness tried to catch the eye of Snapall, but Loudon very
civilly held him to the point. At length he said, “In the chamber.”

“Will you inform the court what was the color of the house?”

“I think, feel sure, it wasn’t painted, but didn’t take particular
notice.”

“But you saw it every day for four years, and don’t you know?”

“It was not painted.”

“Which side of the street did it stand?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Can you remember which way the street ran?”

“It ran east and west.”

“The street ran east and west—the house two story, and unpainted, and
Mr. Henshaw was in the chamber when you witnessed the will. Well, I have
but two things more which I will request you to do. The first is to take
that pen and write your name on that piece of paper on the table.”

The witness demurred, and so did Snapall. But Loudon insisted upon it.

“I can’t, my hand trembles so,” said the witness.

“Indeed! but you wrote a bold, powerful hand when you signed that will.
Come, you _must_ try, just to oblige us.”

After much haggling and some bravado, it came out that he couldn’t
write, and never learned, and that he had requested Mr. Brown to sign
the paper for him!

“Oh, ho!” said Loudon. “I thought you swore that _you_ signed it
yourself. Now one thing more, and _I_ have done with you. Just let me
take the pocket-book in your pocket. I will open it here before the
court, and neither steal nor lose a paper.”

Again the witness refused, and appealed to Snapall; but that worthy man
was grinding his teeth and muttering something about the witness going
to the devil!

The pocket-book came out, and in it was a regular discharge of the
bearer, John Ordin, from four years imprisonment in the Pennsylvania
Penitentiary, and dated June 15, 1831, and signed by Mr. Wood, the
worthy warden.

The young advocate now took the paper which he had handed to the judge,
and showed the jury, that the house in which Mr. Henshaw died was
situated in a street running north and south—that it was a one-story
house—that it was _red_, the only red house in the village, and
moreover, that he died in a front room of the lower story.

There was a moment’s silence, and then a stifled murmur of joy all over
the room. Brown’s eyes looked blood-shot; the witness looked sullen and
dogged, and Mr. Snapall tried to look very indifferent. He made no
defence. The work was done. A very brief, decided charge was given by
the judge, and, without leaving their seats, the jury convicted Brown of
forgery!

“That young dog is keen, any how!” said Snapall.

“When his conscience tells him he is on the side of justice,” said
Loudon, overhearing the remark.

It was rather late in the evening before Loudon called on his clients to
congratulate them on the termination of their suit, and the recovery of
Elm Glen. He was met by Mary, who frankly gave him her hand, and with
tears thanked and praised him, and felt sure they could never
sufficiently reward him. Loudon , and seemed more troubled than
when in the court. At length he said abruptly, “Miss Henshaw, you and
your mother can _now_ aid me. There is a friend of yours—a young lady,
whose hand I wish to obtain. I am alone in the world, poor, and unknown.
This is my first law-case, and when I may have another is more than I
know.”

Mary turned pale, and faintly promised that she and her mother would aid
him to the extent of their power. Then there was a pause, and she felt
as if she, the only one who was supposed to be unagitated and cool, must
speak.

“Who is the fortunate friend of mine?”

“Don’t you suspect?”

“Indeed, I do not.”

“Well, here is her portrait,” handing her a miniature case. She touched
a spring and it flew open, and in a little mirror, _she saw her own
face_! Now the crimson came over her beautiful face, and the tears came
thick and fast, and she trembled; but I believe she survived the shock;
for the last time I was that way, I saw the conscientious young lawyer
and his charming wife living at Elm Glen; and I heard them speak of _his
first law-suit_!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               THE WORLD.


                           BY R. H. STODDARD.


           What wiser is the world in this bright age—
             What better than in the darkened days of old?
             Survey the Past, its blotted scroll unfold;
           Compare it with the Present’s golden page—
           It is no worse; the world was cruel then,
             And hearts were trampled on, and spirits bled,
             And tears and blood like summer rain were shed,
           And men were what they always will be—Men!
             Experience teaches naught, man will not heed
             And profit by the lessons. Fools can read;
           The task is said by rote; we do not learn,
             But live in ancient ignorance and crime.
           There is no hope—the Future will but turn
             The old sands in the failing glass of Time!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               CHRISTINE.


                      BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.


              Bright dreams were mine in life’s young day,
                Too bright, too fair to last,
              Fresh flow’rets sprung beside my way,
                And fragrance round it cast;
              And hopes as radiant as the dyes
                That angel-artists spread,
              Upon the western sunset skies,
                To my young heart were wed.

              Bright days, sweet days, forever gone!
                Ye can return no more,
              I’m doomed to tread the sands alone
                That skirt life’s desert shore!
              Afar, upon the ocean wide,
                My bark of hope went down,
              I saw the angel leave my side,
                And all things on me frown.

              But there are paintings hanging yet
                In memory’s ghostly halls,
              And bright young faces looking down
                Upon me from the walls.
              The gentle smile that thrilled my soul,
                In life’s young break-of-day,
              The small white hands once clasped in mine,
                Are pictured there for aye.

              There is a form, I see it now,
                More radiant far than all,
              The full, dark eye, the snowy brow
                That held my heart in thrall.
              But, O, that voice, so low and sweet!
                I ne’er shall hear it more;
              The fond, warm heart hath ceased to beat—
                My dream of bliss is o’er.

              And still another picture there—
                A being young and bright;
              The captive sunbeams in her hair,
                A form of love and light;
              The deep blue tints that stain the sky,
                When summer bids it gleam,
              Are mirrored in her laughing eye,
                Like violets in the stream.

              I deemed those forms forever fled
                From time’s bleak desert shore,
              And that the light upon me shed,
                Could visit me no more.
              But late I saw a vision bright,
                And fair as those of old,
              That taught to me this lesson trite—
                The heart can ne’er grow cold!

              O, charming, charming young Christine
                Long years may pass away,
              But cannot seize the love I ween,
                Of young life’s joyous day!
              O, would some gem like thee were mine
                Upon my breast to wear,
              Through Sorrow’s dreary hour to shine,
                And light the night of Care;

              My glance upon mankind should fall
                Contented, happy, free,
              And I should richer feel than all,
                My only treasure _thee_!
              But, O, my lot is wild and drear,
                And sad the night-winds moan;
              Upon life’s tree the leaves are sere,
                And I am all alone.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              THE ENNUYEE.


                          BY MRS. S. A. LEWIS.


            It hath been said, “for all who die,
                    There is a tear;
            Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh,
                    O’er every bier;”
            But in that hour of pain and dread,
                    Who will draw near,
            Around my humble couch, and shed
                    One farewell tear?

            Who watch life’s last dim parting ray,
                    In deep despair,
            And soothe my spirit on its way,
                    With holy prayer?
            What mourner round my bier will come,
                    In weeds of wo,
            And follow me to my long home,
                    Solemn and slow?

            When lying on my clayey bed,
                    In icy sleep,
            Who there, by pure affection led,
                    Will come and weep?
            And by the moon implant the rose
                    Upon my breast,
            And bid it cheer my dark repose,
                    My lowly rest?

            Could I but know when I am sleeping
                    Low in the ground,
            One faithful heart would there be keeping
                    Watch all night round,
            As if some gem lay shrined beneath
                    That sod’s cold gloom,
            ’Twould mitigate the pangs of death,
                    And light the tomb.

            Yes! in that hour, if I could feel,
                    From halls of glee
            And Beauty’s presence, one would steal
                    In secresy,
            And come and sit and weep by me
                    In night’s deep noon;
            Oh! I would ask of memory
                    No other boon.

            But, ah! a lonelier fate is mine—
                    A deeper wo;
            From all I love in youth’s sweet time
                    I soon must go,
            Drawn round me my pale robes of white
                    In a dark spot,
            To sleep through death’s long, dreamless night,
                    Lone and forgot.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE MAN IN THE MOON.


                             A TRUE STORY.

                (DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND MARTHA W. B——.)

                            BY CAROLINE C——.


               Away with weary cares and themes!
               Luring wide the moonlit gate of dreams!
               Leave free once more the land which teems
                 With wonders and romances!

               I know that _thou_ wilt judge aright
               Of all that makes the heart more light,
               Or lends one star-gleam to the night
                 Of clouded Melancholy!
                                        —J. G. WHITTIER.

I fancy, my good reader, that you are about as familiar with the
physical appearance of this exalted personage, the far-famed Man in the
Moon, as is your most obedient. That you have gazed upon him with
love-kindled eyes many and many a witching summer night, I have not the
shadow of a doubt—that you have often lamented the provoking
imperfectness of your vision, which presents such insurmountable
difficulties and obstructions in the way to your beholding clearly what
manner of man he truly is, I cannot have much hesitation in believing;
reasoning as I do, from my extensive knowledge of what passes in the
minds of other people, and from the thoughts and feelings I have had
myself in regard to the peculiar personalities of this mysterious
gentleman.

Until recently I never indulged in the hope of being counted among the
benefactors of my race, but, my fair countrywomen, I hope I do not
presume too much, when I say that I shall hereafter merit this honor at
your hands, for am I not going to speak to you of events which,
wonderful as they are, have hitherto never come to the knowledge of our
present generation? I cannot conscientiously make known to you the
mysterious means by which I became cognizant of the following events,
yet do I hold myself clear of any breach of confidence when I lay before
you these wondrous facts, upon the truth of which you may rely, on my
veracity as a story-teller!

Long, long ago there lived in a far country, among the mountains, which
towered to heaven much in the manner of mountains now, a young maiden,
who must certainly have been one of the progenitors of “The Sinless
Child;” for in personal beauty, and in excellence and purity of mind,
this girl was unsurpassed, perhaps unequaled in her day. A “rare and
radiant maiden” was she, albeit unaccomplished and unlearned.

Kind, generous and affectionate was Rose May, having withal such a
reasonable amount of spirited independence in her nature, as a child
born and bred among the mountain wilds would be like to have.

It was a glorious dwelling-place, that of my heroine! Grant May, her
father, was a shepherd, a rugged man of middle age, whose furrowed face
bore testimony to the fact, that he had encountered and weathered many a
hard storm in the course of his life. A true son of the mountains was
he; for three or four generations back his fathers had lived, shepherds,
in these same wild heights, and I doubt much if _this_ son of his father
could ever have breathed the warmer and gentler air of a less elevated
home. Occasionally, but at long intervals, he had wandered away to the
world below him, but, like the eagle, his eyry and his affections were
fixed amid the towering heights, the rugged scenes and bracing air of
the mountains—there was the home for which Nature and a forty years’
residence had fitted him.

The shepherd’s house was built in what, to an eye unaccustomed to such
scenes, would seem a most dangerous situation. But it was just to the
contrary. Erected on the side of a deep ravine at the bend of the
stream, it was sheltered on three sides from the rough, wild winds of
winter; and in summer it seemed half buried in the vegetation, which was
nowhere on the mountains so abundant as about this place. Above,
beneath, and around the cottage there were hardy bushes and flowering
shrubs, and towering high above them the pine-trees and the
strong-limbed offspring of that rugged clime; and higher still above the
flowers, and bushes, and pines, spread the bright deep blue sky, which
seemed to rest its mighty arches on the peaks and crags of those great
heights.

Yes, it was a glorious home, a noble dwelling-place, that of young Rose
May! The voice of the southern wind, when it crept so softly up the
mountain, and through the branches of the pines, to kiss her brow, and
tell her of the wild beauty of the land from which it wandered, that
voice was sweet and welcome music to her ear; but no less loved and
welcome was the trumpet-blast of the storm, when it came rushing like a
fiend’s voice past her home, or like the challenge of a giant fresh from
the strong fortress where the soldiery of Winter were garrisoned. Rose
loved the flowers, the gay bright blossoms which in midsummer bloomed
about her home, but more keen was her delight in the grandeur which made
her heart to thrill, and her blood to leap wildly through its veins,
when on awakening some dreary mornings of winter, she saw the pine-trees
loaded with the wealth of glittering icicles, which glowed and blazed
with a splendor greater than if the treasuries of all the kings and
princes of earth had been melted and poured over those same stately
scions of the soil.

Nature in all her phases was beautiful, and welcome to Rose May; but
there was something in the heart of the girl which made her sympathize
with, and rejoice more keenly in the grand and terrible shapes the great
Queen chose during more than eight months of the year to appear in.
Therefore Rose May was most truly a daughter, a bright, strong-hearted,
noble daughter of the mountains.

They had aptly named this maiden after the queen of the flowers. For
though there were many sons in Grant May’s household, Rose was the only
daughter, and she was like a rose indeed, the fairest as well as
tenderest bud opening beneath the family roof-tree. The bloom of health
was on the maiden’s cheek—the glow of health was in her veins and in
the calm beating of her heart, which told so steadily “all’s well.”

While Grant May and his sons were absent from their home all day,
tending to their many flocks, Rose remained with her mother at home,
assisting her with willing hand in the domestic toils; and a steady and
invaluable helpmate was she, spinning yarn from the sheep her father
called her own, and then knitting the proceeds into stout socks and
mittens for them who labored out of doors; and ingeniously contriving
numerous garments, whereby to keep the ears, necks and feet of her wild,
light-hearted brothers warm in the dreadful winter weather. Rose was, in
fact, quite a pattern maid; never complaining, or caring to rest herself
even when she was aweary, while there was any work left for her mother
to do—and the last thing she ever would have thought to boast of was
ignorance of any part of the book of domestic economy—which volume, if
you, my dear reader, have had any occasion to thumb, you know very well
is not printed with the most readable or understandable type.

Rose May had not many companions. There were, it is true, other
families, and numbers of them, scattered among the mountains, but these
lived at long distances from each other, and were so circumstanced as to
preclude the possibility of frequent visitings. But when these far-off
neighbors _did_ meet, it was with the warm and earnest good feeling
which people so situated would be likely to entertain for each other.
Perhaps their mutual interest was even more sincere and honest, their
friendship more generous and truthful, than if they had been able to
hold more frequent and familiar communication with each other,
partaking, as necessarily they did, each and all, of the mundane nature,
for they had scarcely time to discover one another’s particular failings
and short-comings.

There were two families, however, whose members maintained a more
familiar intimacy with the household of Grant May than the other
mountaineers. And for this reason. In both these families there was a
son—each, only sons, too, who regarded Rose May with fonder eyes than
mere friendly interest would warrant; they both loved her with all the
devotion their wild, earnest spirits were capable of—both acknowledged
her the queen of the mountain flowers, and the object of their supreme
regard.

One of these youths was named Joseph Rancy; his father was the
wealthiest of the shepherds—the son would be the old man’s sole heir.
This fact alone was one calculated to greatly enhance the merits of the
young man—to make him a favored guest—a much sought for friend—and an
acceptable suitor, especially in the eyes of parents who had a double
eye to their daughter’s happiness and good fortune.

Joseph was a tall, robust, free-spoken youth, with a heart whose honesty
forbade his lips ever speaking a word which could not safely be echoed
in its recesses. But his very bluntness, though it arose from his
honesty of purpose, was not perhaps calculated to make him a great
favorite with that class of people _said_ to be lovers of soft words and
honied speeches. Joseph was a great favorite with Grant May and with the
young brethren of Rose. They liked him for his generosity and daring,
and for many noble traits of character he evinced, which I will not now
stop to enumerate. The young man knew he stood well in their eyes—but
about her whose favor he cared for more than all the rest, he was as yet
in a state of doubt and perplexity.

The other youth who visited so frequently Grant May’s cottage was Rob
Horn. To say Rob was handsome as a picture would be rather a doubtful
compliment; but handsome he was, tall and straight as an Indian, with a
bright, smiling face—which (but for a treacherous expression sometimes
seen lurking about the mouth) seemed to hail every man a brother and
friend; then his hair was black as a raven’s wing, eyes ditto—a
becoming bloom on his brown cheeks, graceful, light-hearted, cheerful
and companionable—there, you have Rob Horn—is he one you would suppose
Rose May might love?

Rob also was an only son—but the great difference between him and
Joseph Rancy was, that his father was far from wealthy, having only
managed to keep partially “above board,” during all the long years of
his earthly pilgrimage.

More than once Rob had roved away from his mountain home to the low-land
villages, for his was a restless spirit, and his were roving eyes, that
grew weary at times of looking always on the same grand scenes; but
still he seemed to retain an unextinguishable affection for his native
home, for after a short absence he always returned to his father’s
humble cot, with his head full of the scenes he had looked upon in the
busy world, but with his curiosity satisfied, and his heart all right
toward home. The reason, however, of his invariable return was, that up
in the old eagle’s eyry (that is in Grant May’s cottage) there was the
little bird whose wild, free-gushing songs was the attractive power
which always called him back.

And among the fairer faced damsels who lived in cities, were there none
whom Rob thought comparable with the unfettered-by-fashion Rose May? Was
there none whose smile made his heart thrill with rapture? Was there not
one whose voice was sweeter than an angel’s to his ear, whose words were
dearly remembered, and treasured long after they were uttered? Let us
see.

Sitting by the blazing fire in Grant May’s kitchen during the long,
pleasant winter evenings, and telling to the gathered family the strange
fashions and habits of the people with whom he had occasionally
mingled—describing to the wondering children modes of life which they
in their simplicity had never dreamed of, and to the father the changes
which had occurred in public affairs, and to the mother, of the women,
whose acquaintance he had made, and of the friends she had known in her
girlhood whom he had chanced to meet, it is not to be supposed that he
neglected all this while, and thought not at all of the fair young
listener, to please whom he would have talked on forever, had that been
necessary—no, indeed, she was not forgotten, for during many years Rob
had been incessantly at work, forming a telegraph route between his
heart and her own; he was even then, during those winter evenings, busy
in that great work of his life, and ere long he was determined to prove
if the work was perfect—but he delayed sending the first real
dispatch—he feared lest it should be uncomprehended and unanswered.

To Rose, Rob had always _seemed_ kind, and noble, and honest—in short,
all that man _ought_ to be—all that Joseph Rancy _was_. And a keener
insight than she possessed, or many mortals on earth possess, would have
been requisite in this case to detect the true gold from the glittering
dross. Even when the maiden’s father discovered how all the inclination
and affection of his child chose Rob instead of Joseph, he did not see
any insurmountable objection lying in the way to the child’s union with
the former—and it was only with a sigh for the fortune which might have
been his daughter’s, that he gave up all idea of her ever wedding Joseph
Rancy.

These two boys had always been the most intimate and best of friends. In
earlier days the visits which they planned together to make to their
young friend, Rose, were unmarred by jealous thoughts, they were marked
as the best of their weekly holydays. No matter how deep the snow might
lie on their path toward Grant May’s cot, these appointments, which they
made between themselves, were ever regularly kept; for the thought of
the bright faces which always gave them such a hearty welcome, and made
for them a place by the warm fire with such ready zeal, was a sufficient
inducement for them to brave the coldest weather, and the stormiest day.

But as the two grew older, and learned to distinguish between
friendliness and love, they did, sorry am I to tell, grow jealous of one
another, and at last, before they had concluded it were better to make
these visits to Rose alone, each by himself, when Rose had unwittingly
spoken in a tone more kindly to one of them, and evinced in any way an
innocent and thoughtless preference, the other walked homeward with
closed lips and aching heart, and in most unsocial mood.

Joseph Rancy had never dared to speak openly to Rose May of _love_. It
was strange that one so stout-hearted as he, with all the advantages of
wealth, beside possessing much personal beauty, should falter as he
tried to tell a simple mountain maid he loved her! But so it was. The
words refused to obey his bidding when he tried to utter them. He had
not lived even in those busy places where men and women congregate, yet
he _did_ know that “faint heart never won fair lady,” and the very
knowledge of that truth but increased his fears. Poor fellow! he doubted
his own powers to please, and he knew that Rob Horn was a powerful and
much to be feared rival. But Joseph was one who could not easily give up
a thought he had cherished for so long. It was a hope it would have been
hard for him to relinquish; he could never forget that he had loved Rose
May, even though she turned a relentlessly deaf ear to his suit; his
heart would never be satisfied with the affection of another woman. And
I say but the truth, when I tell you he was worthy of her love—more
worthy, if a less dashing lover than Rob Horn. There was less glitter in
him, far more real worth, less of admiration, and passion, than deep and
earnest love in his thoughts of Rose.

He had placed his hopes upon her returning affection; and it is not
agreeable with the natural order of things, to suppose that he would for
ever continue irresolute in a case momentous as this; and so, once
again, with the express desire to hear his fate decided by her lips, he
set out on a summer morning, determined that his resolution _should_
hold out till he had heard his doom from her own voice.

The day was favorable; oh! if the event might only prove so, too! The
time also seemed propitious, for before Joseph had half way reached her
father’s house, he met Rose May. She was gathering wild-flowers, and
when she saw him coming toward her, she gayly bade him assist her in the
pleasant work. I know not if those simple people ever studied the
“language of flowers;” perhaps, however, the _science_ is a _natural_
one, but this I know, that there was a great preponderance of
mountain-roses, buds, and half-opened blossoms, in the flowers Joseph
gathered for the little lady. Ah, what a lucky wight! the beautiful
summer morning—the silent wood—the naturalness of the offer of his
heart with the flowers he gave her! Surely Fate, for once, was
propitious! But notwithstanding the chances were with him, and the hour
was one of a thousand, Joseph still hesitated and delayed; and it was
not till all the flowers were gathered, and Rose had actually set out on
her homeward path, that Joseph nerved himself to the pitch requisite.

And, indeed, it was quite a point in his destiny he had reached; the
next step you plainly see _was_ an important, an all important one to
him. It had been the hope of years that he might win, and one day wed,
Rose May; he had lived in that hope; its working out had been one of the
most blessed of his thoughts; and now, in five short minutes (perhaps
less) he would know if this dear dream were to have fruition, or was it
to pass away like the morning dew, leaving him no possibility of ever
indulging in it again, that is, with reason—and Joseph was a reasonable
youth.

As I have stated, he was an uneducated youth, that is, uneducated in the
schools, and ignorant and innocent of polite learning, therefore he knew
but one way of discovering a fact, and that was by asking a question
point-blank. When Rose was about emerging from the wood, from whence a
little path led down the ravine to her father’s house, he paused in the
walk, and said quite distinctly,

“Wait a moment, Rose May. I came to ask you a question I have thought to
ask you this long time—will you love me—will you be my wife?”

“Yours, Joseph,” replied Rose, as honestly and unreservedly as the
question had been put; “Yours—how can you think of such a thing?”

“I _have_ thought of it for years, Rose. You have so many brothers and
friends, like enough you have considered me as one of them; but I, I
have no sister, Rose, no friend I hold half so dear as you. It does not
strike me as such a very strange thing to ask you; if you will only
think of it, I do not ask you to answer me to-day. Perhaps when you
think it all over, the matter will not seem so strange; and I would not
have you answer me in haste, dear Rose.”

“Never, Joseph Rancy,” answered Rose, speaking rapidly, but kindly,
though so firm. “I _have_ always thought of you as a dear friend, that
is true, but I can never be any more than that.”

“Will you not say any thing more, Rose? Think again; you call me your
dear friend, oh, be my wife, my best and dearest friend. Your home is so
happy, think of mine, lonely and dreary as it is now; what a paradise it
_might_ be were you there! Rose, dear Rose May, I pray you only to think
again.”

“I have thought, Joseph; do not speak to me so any more, it pains me;
there are many others who might make your home as happy, far happier
than I; forget that you have had such thoughts about me, my friend.”

“How can I forget,” said Joseph, sadly, while for a moment longer he
retained her to hear his words, for she was hastening away. “Tell me,
Rose,” he said, falteringly, “is there any other—do you love any body
better than me?”

“Yes, my father and mother.”

“Not them—I don’t mean them; the love I ask is not the kind you give to
them—but is there another—”

“It is not right in you to ask me such questions, you know it is not.
Don’t make me think the less of you as a friend by going too far now.”

“Forgive me dear, dear Rose—I’m going. Don’t let what I’ve said trouble
you; I’d let my tongue be burned with hot iron before speaking what I
have to you to-day, if I thought ’twould make you less happy.”

“Good-by, Joseph, now you are what you always have been, generous and
good; and if I don’t love you as you could wish, I honor you from my
heart—good-by.”

There was a lingering sadness in the maiden’s voice as she spoke, that
convinced Joseph she was honest in her words, and that she did sincerely
grieve to have been the cause of disappointment to him; yet that
knowledge did not soothe nor allay the heart-wound she had given him;
and he went back to his home, feeling, as I suppose many a poor mortal
has felt before, disconsolate and unhappy. Still Joseph was a young man
of sound mind, and he loved Rose May even better than ever he had
before; her very firmness made him respect her for it, though that
firmness was all directed against his suit.

Often as he thought over the unmeasurable distance there must forever
be, even in thought, between them, so often came the soothing
remembrance that it was not lack of worth on his part that made her
reject him. Had she not said she honored him? And was not such respect
and kindly feeling, indeed, the highest and the purest kind of love?
Might he not some day convince her that it was also the best love, and
the one most conducive to happiness in wedded life? But, alas! close
upon this thought came the death-blow to all hope, for Joseph was
convinced that she would wed another.

Yes, and there _was_ one she had promised to wed—one for whom she had
more than respect—one whom she more than honored—and he none other
than Rob Horn! He was the fortunate youth whose telegraph-dispatch was
successful in receiving a speedy and satisfactory reply. Fortune favored
him; does she favor only the good, and the deserving, and true?

The home of one of the most powerful of the spirits was in these
mountains—a spirit loving justice and equity, who watched the scales
wherein the good and evil were weighed with jealous eye. This being of
power took much interest in the affairs of the shepherds; sometimes she
had even deigned to speak with them in her quiet, unostentatious way;
and when she taught them, it was generally on some subject of domestic
good or household economy. Almost all her instructions had been of this
nature, for they were a quiet, religious people among whom she lived,
giving away very rarely to the temptations of vice; but once or twice
the spirit had spoken in rather strong and understandable language, to
an offender who rarely in his sinful life had any “compunctious
visitings.” No one had ever seen her bodily, and yet there was but one
person who dared to disbelieve in the spirit’s existence, but one who
would not recognize her power; and who should this reckless one be but
the wild youth, Rob Horn? _He_ dared to say, and say openly, too, that
there was never any such being in existence, and that from the very
nature of things there never could be. Some people will never believe in
any thing out of the ordinary range of facts, more especially if they be
in a state of partial ignorance—and of this very class of persons was
Rob; the spirit had never manifested herself in any shape to him, and
he, poor mortal! fancied she never could.

It was the only point in her lover’s nature that Rose May feared—this
skepticism; for Rose was a firm believer in all spiritual existences;
and often, but unavailingly, she had besought Rob to at least speak in a
manner more respectful of the powerful agent, who would, she knew, work
him wo if he continued obdurate in his unbelief. But there was nothing
in the natural world the young man feared, there was no danger he dared
not brave—why then tremble at the unseen, unknown, unheard? Why give
heed to the superstitious fears of old women and maidens? Instead of
being able in this case to convince her lover, Rose, after all, was
herself almost persuaded by his jests and ridicule to doubt the
existence of the power, which she also had never seen or heard. She
began to give place in her mind to Rob’s words, that it was the idlest
thing in the world to believe in such romantic impossible existences.
But as yet Rose had kept her growing infidelity to herself; she would
not have dared to breathe to her mother even, who was firm in the faith,
her strengthening doubts; perhaps it was well for her she did not dare.

It was night—the night previous to his bridal day—and at a late hour
Rob left the home of Rose, and bent his steps through the rough path
that led to his own dwelling-place. The happy fellow, if we may judge
from facts, was in a most delightful state of mind, well-pleased with
himself and his bride-to-be, and with all the world beside. “To-morrow”
was his wedding-day, and ever thereafter Rose May, the brightest flower
of the mountains, was his own! And well might he rejoice.

Grant May had yielded to the youth’s solicitations with a good grace
when he found his child’s hope and love were directed toward Rob; and it
was no difficult thing to win the consent of the mother, for he had
always been in high favor with her, since he brought her from his
wanderings in the valley, the inestimable gift of a few bright pieces of
useful furniture, which occupied the most honorable places and positions
in her household.

In a few days after the festivities following the great occasion were
over, Rob, with his bride, were to make the journey to the nearest large
town, which plan was of itself half enough to make young Rose wild with
joy, for the greatest multitude she had ever seen gathered, was on the
Sabbath days, when twenty or thirty of the mountain people met in the
little church to worship.

It was a bright moonlit night, the soft light streamed over the path he
was to tread, as Rob returned home. The parting kiss of Rose was warm on
his forehead; he fancied she was beside him, walking in the same path,
and nearly all the way he talked soft words of love as though she were
by to hear. When the young man had nearly reached his home, he
encountered Joseph Rancy. These two had been far from cordial in their
greetings of late, and with good reason, for Rob’s manner to Joseph had
been that of triumph, and Joseph’s that of a man heart-sore and jealous
of the success of his rival.

This night, however, Joseph Rancy had come out with the express purpose
of meeting his friend of other days, and to speak with him in the manner
of by-gone time, as kindly and as generously. When he had come up
directly in front of Rob, he was still unobserved; he paused then, and
holding out his hand, said,

“I came out on purpose to meet you, Rob.”

Horn took the proffered hand in his own, and said,

“I am glad to see you, truly, Rancy; we have not met of late.”

“No; we haven’t been the friends we once were, Rob. I have shunned you
because—because you seemed to triumph over me, my old friend. You who
have been so successful where I failed so bitterly.”

“Was it my _fault_ that I succeeded in winning Rose May, tell me that,”
replied Horn, sharply. “Where’s the blame, then, if I did rejoice?”

“No _blame_, none, none,” said Joseph, mildly, “you have been fortunate
indeed, I wish you and yours much joy Rob, now and ever.”

“Hold,” cried Rob as Joseph turned away, “you will come to the church
to-morrow, will you not. You will wish to see Rose married?”

“Rob!” exclaimed Joseph, in a tone of deep reproach, “no—I can bear to
know you are going to marry her—I can hope for you, and pray for you
both—but to see her married to another! You will not need me there.”

When he finished speaking Joseph went off quickly on his way, and Rob
Horn pursued his path home; the only answer he returned to Joseph’s
grief was a smothered laugh, which stifled as it was in the stillness of
the night, the disappointed seeker of peace heard distinctly.

All that night Joseph Rancy sat on the opposite bank of the ravine where
he might look on the dwelling-place of Rose May, and all that night he
prayed for her happiness, and strove hard to banish all unfriendly
thoughts toward Rob Horn from his mind. But when the morning came, long
before the sun rose he wandered away among the mountains, that he might
be far off from the place where _she_ would be given to another.

Rob went on to his home—the cot was still as sleep, for his father and
mother had hours before retired to their rest. He went to his chamber,
and soon upon the easy couch he slept. And then Rob dreamed; of course
there was but one he could dream of all that night, his young and
beautiful bride, the girl he would be so proud to hear the old priest
pronounce his wife. But though he could only dream of _her_, it does not
follow that his night visions were pleasant—far enough from pleasant
was the truth in this case.

He fancied that the spirit of the mountain, (the same in whose existence
he had doubted for so long,) came to him with an angry frown on her
spirit countenance. He trembled, yes he, the strong iron-willed youth
trembled when he looked on her; he had never feared or quailed before.
When she had come quite close to his bedside, and rested her hand upon
his shoulder, where it lay like lead, and gazed so sternly upon him, Rob
said to her:

“Why dost thou come here to disturb me, and trouble my dreams, thou
terrible shape?”

And the spirit answered:

“Tell me instead, what is it thou art about to do?”

“That is quickly told,” said Horn, “to-morrow I shall marry Rose May,
the loveliest maid the sun ever shone upon.”

“Ah, Rob Horn, Rob Horn,” said the spirit sternly, interrupting him,
“bethink thee what it is thou wilt do! bethink thee what has become of
thy betrothed in the distant village? does she wear thy ring? does she
remember thy kiss, and thy love vows? what of _her_ Rob Horn?”

When the spirit spoke thus Rob was amazed, and he could not hide his
amazement; his face became suddenly very red—was it the confusion of
guilt? and for a moment he was completely abashed. But soon he rallied
again, and said,

“I cannot marry two wives. I have loved Rose May all my life—I _must_
marry her; the maiden in the village can find another bridegroom.”

“Thou art not worthy to wed one like Rose May, but there _is_ one worthy
of her whom thou hast triumphed over many a time, and even this very
night, because thou hast been more successful than he—beware, thou
may’st go too far.”

“Too far! She will be mine to-morrow—what power in heaven or earth can
separate us? She is mine—mine—mine!”

“Thou mayest deceive thyself. I ask thee, wilt thou not give up Rose May
and betake thee to the pale and sorrowing maid who has awaited thy
coming so long?”

“Give her up? My Rose! never! Thou fool to ask it of me!”

“And yet I do ask thee again, wilt thou not be just? Do that which thine
honor and truth require of thee—the girl thou hast deserted will die.”

“Be death her bridegroom then! Who art thou to take my Rose from me? She
is mine, I will wed no other!”

“Why so sure? Did ever such wickedness as is in thee prosper? Thou hast
a bad heart Rob Horn, and a thousand things may come between thee and
her, even after the priest proclaims her thine. There is nothing sure or
stable for one like thee! give her up now, or beware—a fate more
terrible than thou canst think may be in store for thee.”

“Begone thou prating fool! rather will I give my life up than my Rose,
my bride, my beautiful!”

So firmly was this third repetition of his determination spoken that Rob
awoke, and as might be supposed he found himself alone, and the sunlight
streaming brightly through his little window. Heartily congratulating
himself that it was all a dream, the young man arose, and ere long had
tastefully adorned himself with the new raiment prepared for the
momentous occasion.

The morning was verging toward noon, when in the simple church the
wedding party gathered before the altar.

There was beautiful Rose May and her handsome bridegroom, and after the
manner of things, of necessity, the twain never in their lives looked so
charmingly as then. And there were the parents of the bridegroom and the
bride, happy as parents might be, who believed they were about to
witness the consummation of their children’s joy. And there also were
all the young brothers of Rose, bright and smiling, as such little folks
on such occasions invariably are. These were all gathered about the
altar; the body of the church was nearly filled with the young friends
of the to-be-married ones, and the sturdy old mountaineers with their
wives.

It would not be strictly cleaving to truth to say that Rob Horn was
wholly at ease that morning—far otherwise, for that strange dream of
his tormented him. It was foremost in his mind, claiming even in that
holy hour more of his thought than the gentle, excited girl who leaned
in trusting fondness on his arm. Why should a merely ugly dream annoy
him so? Was the young skeptic’s disbelief in spirits shaken? Had he in
reality a promised bride awaiting him in the far-off village? Have
patience with me, by the _dénoument_ you will know it all.

They were kneeling before the altar. The consecrated hands of the old
priest were raised in blessing above them, he was about pronouncing the
uniting words, and Rob, the bridegroom, was thinking even then if there
were in reality spirits he had overpowered his visitant, at least, by
his boldness and firmness, when suddenly there came a shape of light
floating through the open door of the church. It moved on noiselessly
through the holy edifice above the heads of the astonished and alarmed
congregation, until it came to the altar, and there it paused. And then
a voice soft and thrilling as the voice of the summer breeze, yet
distinctly audible to every soul gathered there, said—

“Rise, Robert Horn, thou _shalt not_ speak the marriage vows!”

And pale as death, Rob, unable to resist these words, lifted up himself.

Then distinctly as before, the voice said—

“Did I not tell thee to beware? Did I not forbid thee to wed this maid,
thou, who hast another plighted to thee, one who waits and watches for
thee, wondering at thy long delay? Did I not bid beware—didst thou not
laugh at my words? Answer me, Robert Horn?”

The bridegroom lifted up his eyes to the shape before him and said, but
with a voice that trembled—

“Thou didst bid me beware, but I _am_ here notwithstanding—here to take
this woman for my wife, and Rose is here, she is mine, and thou,
whatsoever thou art, canst not and shalt not part us.”

“Thou hast sealed thy fate,” answered the Spirit of the Mountain, “for
thy wickedness, thy falseness, and thy unbelief, thou shalt be banished
away from the earth for ever! And it shall be a part of the misery of
thy banishment, that once in every month from thy prison-house thou
shalt look down upon this lower world. Thou shalt see, and know, and
feel, all the pangs, and the bliss, and the glory of love, and yet
hereafter never share it with any mortal! The water-brooks, the oceans,
and the seas, shall reflect thy image, and thou shalt know the
bitterness of seeing even these unconscious soulless things unknowing
thee, uncaring for thee. Thou shalt live on for years till they are
counted by centuries, long after she thou hast so shamefully deserted
sleeps the quiet, blessed sleep of death; thou shalt live to mourn and
to lament over a fate thou canst not change. Thy doom is more dreadful
than thou canst yet conceive of! Come, wait not even for _her_ last
embrace, come—come—come!”

Swiftly away they passed, the spirit and the wifeless bridegroom,
without one parting look, or kiss, or word with the trembling girl
forever separated from the forever exiled youth. In an instant the
little church was vacant, and without its walls might be seen gathered a
group of terrified people, and foremost among them the widowed Rose,
gazing on the far upper flight of poor Rob Horn.

The new moon that night came up in all her glorious beauty, and sailed
on calmly as she was wont to do over the broad blue upper sea; and night
after night she glided over the vast expanse, unfurling gradually wider
and wider her sails, till in full and perfect splendor she at last
appeared. And then, yes then Rose May beheld her lover once more; but oh
that shadowy glimpse she caught of him was worse to her than had she
looked on utter vacancy. She _knew_ that he was gazing on her home, that
he looked in despair on her, but, alas! she saw no more the tender light
that filled once his beautiful, dark eyes; she heard no words from his
silenced lips, and it was like a torturing dream to her to look upon him
thus, and fancy all the horrors of his banishment.

And what of Rob? He dwells in moon-land yet! among the elevated
“mountains of the moon,” instead of those dear, wild heights his
dwelling place on earth. Who ever could have dreamed that the wretched
Wandering Jew had an unknown companion in yon bright sphere, whose lot
was yet more miserable than his own? Who ever thought a “breach of
promise” might be visited on unfaithful man, in quite another and more
effectual way, than by laying strong hold on his most precious
purse-strings?

Oh, ye soft-hearted maidens, I pray you henceforth bear in mind _who_ is
the captive knight to whom so oft your fond eyes are directed, “oft in
the stilly night,” when he doth stand on the brink of the “moon
mountains” and gazeth down so sadly on the world, remember ye this story
I have told, and turn away and leave him quite alone. Sing not in
pensive strains the praise he loves to hear, laud not the beauty of the
exile’s home, for oh his strained ear is strong to catch your words, his
eye is quick to note your admiration. Let him not gladden in one word
from thee.

And ye, gay-hearted knights, so strong to promise, and so slow to do; ye
who do count it pastime to win woman’s love, and then fling it away as
ye would cast aside the flower of lost fragrance, but be ye warned in
time, for spirits _are_, and moon-land yet may find room in its borders
for thy feet!

And now what more remains for me to tell. You have guessed, I know, how
the warm-hearted spirit taught Rose May that Joseph Rancy possessed all
the good and attractive qualities of the lost lover, with none of his
sins and follies! You have guessed that one gay morning the old church
doors were opened for another bridal party—that young Rose stood again
in marriage garments before the altar, and Joseph by her side. You have
guessed how the Spirit once more glided through the “place of prayer,”
to add her blessing to that which the priest pronounced over the
bridegroom and the bride.

Why speak of the happy home where Joseph Rancy dwelt with his beautiful
lady-love? Why tell of all that wedded bliss which people for the most
part in our world have heard of already, or else desire in an especial
manner to hear of, and to know. And why say that all the teachings and
advice which the Spirit deigned to administer to these two blest
mortals, was ever received and heeded by them with the utmost care and
gratitude?

Do you believe in dreams? No! Why not? Have you, indeed, yet to learn,
that through them the good spirits whisper to us advice, and peace, and
warning, and consolation! Are you so cold and dull as to believe there
are no ministering spirits, no guiding guardian angels? Do you, _can_
you scornfully repel the idea that the forests and mountains, the oceans
and the plains, have their myriad viewless _intellectual_ inhabitants?
Ah, foolishly unwise, may these powerful agents have mercy on you, and
charitably bear with your shameful, willful blindness!

What then—must I set you down as more ignorant and unlearned than even
simple Joseph Rancy? Fling all your book-learning aside and be a very
child in all knowledge, I beseech you, if that will give you faith in
these surrounding millions, to believe in them, and a keen mental
eyesight to behold them. And do not, above all things, dare to brave the
possible malignance of Rob Horn, that is, if you regard the preservation
of your worldly wealth. Gather not in your harvests, and your winter
stores, while he is gazing full upon you, rather follow honest Joseph’s
example, shear all shearable sheep, reap in the wealth of your
apple-trees, and massacre your swine while Rob is sleeping in the shade
of the mountains, just before he awakens from his slumber to gaze openly
upon your doings. And if you manifest your faith in my story in no other
way than in doing this, I shall be satisfied, and feel, whether you
admit it or not, that I have for once “well done.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE MIRROR OF LIFE.]

               _Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_

           _BY W. A. WILMER FROM A PICTURE BY W. A. CONORROE_

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE MIRROR OF LIFE.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

                 Sweet child, whose gentle eyes upon
                   The mirror’s polished surface rest,
                 Thy heart no grief has ever known,
                   No anxious care disturbs thy breast.

                 O, may the coming time, to thee
                   Calm as the present ever prove;
                 And she who guards thy infancy
                   Live years of rapture in thy love.
                                                 —ANNA.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    TO THE THAMES, AT NORWICH, CONN.


                      BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.


              Hail, Father Thames! ’Tis joy to me
              Once more thy face and haunts to see;
              For lingering verdure, soft and rare,
              Makes thine autumnal carpet fair;
              And ’mid thy bordering heights is seen
              The strong and patient evergreen,
              While checkering sunbeams gild thy way,
              And lightly with thy ripples play.
                Spare not to give me smile of cheer,
              And kindly bid me welcome here;
              For some, who erst my hand would take,
              And love me for affection’s sake,
              Sleep the cold sleep that may not break;
              And though to fill their vacant place
              Are blooming brows and forms of grace,
              Who still a favoring glance extend,
              And greet their parent’s cherished friend,
              Yet mingling with that welcome dear,
              Are voices that they may not hear;
              For visioned forms around me glide,
              And tender memories throng my side,
              Till tears, like pearl-drops, all apart,
              Swell in the silence of the heart.

                                  ———

              Methinks thou speak’st of change. ’Tis true;
              What hand may hold the morning dew
              All unexhaled through lengthened day,
              To sparkle ’neath the westering ray?
              Who dreams his flowing curls to keep,
              While years roll on, in eddies deep?
              The elastic feet, that sprung untired,
              Where cliffs o’er towering cliffs aspired;
              The heart, untaught a pang to bear,
              The cheek that ne’er had paled with care,
              The eye, undimmed by sorrow’s rain—
              How could I bring these back again?
              Change hath a part in every loan
              And gift that youth doth call its own,
              Nor grants old Earth a bond or claim,
              Without the endorsement of his name;
              So, that’s the tenure, father dear,
              By which we hold possession here,
              And be not strict to mark with shame,
              Unless thyself wert free from blame,
              For, in thy presence be it told,
              That even thou art changed and old.
                Methinks, with wild resentment’s flash,
              I hear thy rising currents dash—
              But still my charge I’ll deftly prove;
              Where are the healthful flowers that wove
              Fresh garlands here, in copse and grove?
              The golden-rod, of sunny hue,
              Heart’s-ease and violets deeply blue,
              The lustrous laurel, richly drest,
              That through the sober alders prest;
              These blossomed when I saw thee last,
              Yet now, dismantled branches cast
              Keen challenge to the mocking blast,
              And fallen leaves, in eddies dank,
              Reproachful strew thy mottled bank.
                Thy shrouded dells, where lovers stole,
              Or poets mused with raptured soul—
              Where are they now? I ask in vain;
              Strange iron steeds that scorn the rein,
              With shriek, and tramp, and nostrils bright,
              The herds amid thy pastures fright;
              And clashing wheel, and spindle’s force,
              Oft drain thy faithful allies’ source,
              Shetucket, with his roughened breast,
              And Yantic, that I love the best;
              While granite walls, and roofs of grace,
              Usurp the moping owlet’s place.
              Yes, thou art changed, the world hath made
              High inroad on thy hermit shade.
                But, say’st thou, that with spirit true
              Thou keep’st a glorious goal in view;
              Heaven speed thee on, with feet of glee,
              And bless thy bridal with the sea;
              Dear River! that doth lingering stay,
              Laving the sandals, on thy way;
              Of the fair city of my birth,
              Perchance, the loveliest spot on earth.
                Be thou our guide. Thy steadfast eye
              Might teach us our own goal to spy;
              For to that goal, through smile and tear,
              Each winged moment brings us near;
              Oh! may it be that blissful shore,
              Where chance and change are known no more.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE SONG OF THE AXE.


                            BY C. L. WHELER.


             Let the poet-lord bepraise the sword
               That gleams on Conquest’s track;
             Be’t mine to prolong a humbler song—
               The song of the woodman’s axe!
             ’Tis meet to sing of th’ lowliest thing
               That graces the reign of Peace,
             And add our praise, in hearty lays,
               Or prayers for bright increase.

             In the ruddy flood of battle’s blood
               Its splendor ne’er was dimmed,
             For a gentler fame awaits its name
               Than e’er the soldier hymned.
             Like a pioneer, with voice of cheer,
               It breaks the forest’s gloom,
             And maketh the earth give joyous birth,
               And like a garden bloom!

             And the palace dome, or peasant’s home,
               It rears with brave command;
             For no towering oak its lusty stroke
               Could ever yet withstand.
             Ho! the axe is king of the wildwood ring,
               And of the lordly trees,
             For before his blow they bow them low
               That laugh at the mountain breeze.

             And his trophies bright are truth and light,
               And Plenty’s golden store;
             For no drop of teen e’er dims the sheen
               That flashed in days of yore!
             Then praise to the king of the wildwood ring,
               The woodman’s shining axe;
             For a gentler fame awaits its name
               Than the sword or Conquest’s tracks.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE WAGER OF BATTLE.


                       A TALE OF THE FEUDAL AGES.

 BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD
                              HURDIS,” &c.


                               CHAPTER I.

The analysis of the dreaming faculty has never yet been made. The
nearest approach to it is in our own time, and by the doctors of
Phrenology. The suggestion of a plurality of mental attributes, and of
their independence, one of the other, affords a key to some of the
difficulties of the subject, without altogether enabling us to penetrate
the sanctuary. Many difficulties remain to be overcome, if we rely upon
the ordinary modes of thinking. My own notion is, simply, that the
condition of sleep is one which by no means affects the mental nature. I
think it probable that the mind, accustomed to exercise, thinks on,
however deep may be the sleep of the physical man; that the highest
exercise of the thinking faculty—that which involves the
imagination—is, perhaps, never more acutely free to work out its
problems, than when unembarrassed by the cares and anxieties of the
temperament and form; and that dreaming is neither more nor less than
habitual thought, apart from the ordinary restraints of humanity, of
which the memory, at waking, retains a more or less distinct
consciousness. This thought may or may not have been engendered by the
topics which have impressed or interested us during the day; but this is
not necessary, nor is it inevitable. We dream precisely as we think,
with suggestions arising to the mind in sleep, spontaneously, as they do
continually when awake, without any special provocation; and our dreams,
in all probability, did not our memory fail us at awaking, would possess
that coherence, proportion and mutual relation of parts, which the
ordinary use of the ratiocinative faculties requires. I have no sort of
doubt that the sleep of the physical man may be perfect, even while the
mind is at work, in a high state of activity, and even excitement in its
mighty store-house. The eye may be shut, the ear closed, the tongue
sealed, the taste inappreciative, and the nerves of touch locked up in
the fast embrace of unconsciousness, while thought, fancy, imagination,
comparison and causality, are all busy in the most keen inquiries, and
in the most wonderful creations. But my purpose is not now to insist
upon these phenomena, and my speculations are only meant properly to
introduce a vision of my own; one of those wild, strange, foreign
fancies which sometimes so unexpectedly people and employ our
slumbers—coherent, seemingly, in all its parts, yet as utterly remote
as can well be imagined from the topics of daily experience and
customary reflection.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I had probably been asleep a couple of hours, when I was awakened with
some oppressive mental sensation. I was conscious that I had been
dreaming, and that I had seen a crowd of persons, either in long
procession, or engaged in some great state ceremonial. But of the
particulars—the place, the parties, the purpose, or the period, I had
not the most distant recollection. I was conscious, however, of an
excited pulse, and of a feeling so restless, as made me, for a moment,
fancy that I had fever. Such, however, was not the case. I rose, threw
on my _robe de chambre_, and went to the window. The moon was in her
meridian; the whole landscape was flickering with the light silvery haze
with which she carpeted her pathway. From the glossy surface of the
orange leaves immediately beneath the window, glinted a thousand
diamond-like points of inexpressible brightness; while over all the
fields was spread a fleecy softness, that was doubly pure and delicate
in contact with the sombre foliage of the great forest, to the very foot
of which it stretched. There was nothing in the scene before me that was
not at once gentle and beautiful; nothing which, by the most remote
connection, could possibly suggest an idea of darkness or of terror. I
gazed upon the scene only for a few moments. The night was cold, and a
sudden shivering chillness which it sent through all my frame, counseled
me to get back to bed with all possible expedition. I did so, but was
not successful in wooing the return of those slumbers which had been so
unusually banished from mine eyes. For more than an hour I lay tossing
and dissatisfied, with my thoughts flitting from subject to subject with
all the caprice of an April butterfly. When I again slept, however, I
was again conscious of a crowd. A multitude of objects passed in
prolonged bodies before my sight. Troops of glittering forms then
occupied the canvas, one succeeding to the other regularly, but without
any individuality of object or distinct feature. But I could catch at
intervals a bright flash, as of a plume or jewel, of particular size and
splendor, leading me to the conviction that what I beheld was the
progress of some great state ceremonial, or the triumphal march of some
well-appointed army. But whether the procession moved under the eagles
of the Roman, the horse-tails of the Ottoman, or the lion banner of
England, it was impossible to ascertain. I could distinguish none of the
ensigns of battle. The movements were all slow and regular. There was
nothing of strife or hurry—none of the clamor of invasion or exultation
of victory. The spectacle passed on with a measured pomp, as if it
belonged to some sad and gloomy rite, where the splendor rather
increased the solemnity to which it was simply tributary.


                              CHAPTER II.

The scene changed even as I gazed. The crowd had disappeared. The vast
multitude was gone from sight, and mine eye, which had strained after
the last of their retreating shadows, now dropped its lids on vacancy.
Soon, however, instead of the great waste of space and sky, which left
me without place of rest for sight, I beheld the interior of a vast and
magnificent hall, most like the interior of some lofty cathedral. The
style of the building was arabesque, at once richly and elaborately
wrought, and sombre. The pointed arches, reached by half-moon
involutions, with the complex carvings and decorations of cornice,
column and ceiling, at once carried me back to those wondrous specimens
which the art of the Saracen has left rather for our admiration than
rivalry. The apartment was surrounded by a double row of columns;
slender shafts, which seemed rather the antennæ of graceful plants than
bulks and bodies of stone and marble, rising for near thirty feet in
height, then gradually spreading in numerous caryatides, resembling
twisted and unfolding serpents, to the support of the vast roof. All
appearance of bulk, of cumbrousness, even of strength, seemed lost in
the elaborate delicacy with which these antennæ stretched themselves
from side to side, uniting the several arches in spans of the most airy
lightness and beauty. The great dome for which they furnished the
adequate support, rose too high in the but partial light which filled
the hall, to enable me to gather more than an imperfect idea of its
character and workmanship. But of its great height the very incapacity
to define its character afforded me a sufficient notion. Where the light
yielded the desired opportunity, I found the flowery beauty of the
architecture, on every hand, to be alike inimitable. To describe it
would be impossible. A thousand exquisite points of light, the
slenderest beams, seemed to depend, like so many icicles, from arch and
elevation—to fringe the several entrances and windows—to hang from
every beam and rafter; and over all, to cast an appearance so perfectly
aerial, as to make me doubtful, at moments, whether the immense interior
which I saw them span, with the massive but dusky ceiling which they
were intended to sustain, were not, in fact, a little world of wood,
with the blue sky dimly overhead, a realm of vines and flowers, with
polished woodland shafts, lavishly and artfully accumulated in the open
air, so as to produce, in an imperfect light, a delusive appearance of
architectural weight, magnificence and majesty. An immense avenue,
formed of columns thus embraced and bound together by the most elaborate
and fantastic carvings, linked vines, boughs, flowers and serpents,
opened before me, conducting the eye through far vistas of the same
description, thus confirming the impression of cathedral avenues of
forest. The eye, beguiled along these passages, wandered into others
quite as interminable, with frequent glimpses into lateral ranges quite
as wonderful and ample, until the dim perspective was shut, not because
of the termination of the passage, but because of the painful inability
in the sight any further to pursue it. Each of these avenues had its
decorations, similarly elaborate and ornate with the rest of the
interior. Vines and flowers, stars and wreaths, crosses and
circles—with such variety of form and color as the kaleidoscope only
might produce in emulation of the fancy—were all present, but
symmetrically duplicated, so as to produce an equal correspondence on
each side, figure answering to figure. But these decorations were made
tributary to other objects. Numerous niches opened to the sight, as you
penetrated the mighty avenue, in which stood noble and commanding
forms;—statues of knights in armor; of princes; great men who had
swayed nations; heroes, who had encountered dragons for the safety of
the race; and saintly persons, who had called down blessings from heaven
upon the nation in the hour of its danger and its fear. The greater
number of these stood erect as when in life; but some sat, some
reclined, and others knelt; but all, save for the hue of the marble in
which they were wrought—so exquisite was the art which they had
employed—would have seemed to be living even then. Around the apartment
which I have been describing, were double aisles, or rather avenues,
formed by sister columns, corresponding in workmanship and style, if not
in size, with those which sustained the dome. These were deep and
sepulchral in shadow, but withal very attractive and lovely places;
retreats of shade, and silence, and solemn beauty; autumnal walks, where
the heart which had been wounded by the shafts and sorrows of the world,
might fly, and be secure; and where the form, wandering lonely among the
long shadows of grove and pillar, and in the presence of noble and holy
images of past worth and virtue, might still maintain the erect stature
which belongs to elevated fancies, to purest purposes, and great designs
forever working in the soul.

But it would be idle to attempt to convey, unless by generalities, any
definite idea of the vast and magnificent theatre, or of that singular
and sombre beauty with which I now found myself surrounded. Enough,
that, while I was absorbed, with my whole imagination deeply excited by
the architectural grandeur which I surveyed, I had grown heedless of the
progress of events among certain human actors—if I may be thus
permitted to designate the creatures of a vision—which had meanwhile
taken their places in little groups in a portion of the ample area.
While mine eyes had been uplifted in the contemplation of things
inanimate, it appears that a human action was in progress on a portion
of the scene below. I was suddenly aroused by a stir and bustle,
followed by a faint murmur, as of applauding voices, which at length
reached my ears, and diverted my gaze from the remote and lofty, to the
rich tesselated pavement of the apartment. If the mere splendor of the
structure had so fastened upon my imagination, what can I say of the
scene which now commanded my attention! There was the pomp of courts,
the pride of majesty, the glory of armor, the grace and charm of
aristocratic beauty, in all her plumage, to make me forgetful of all
other display. I now beheld groups of noble persons, clad in courtly
dresses, in knightly armor, sable and purple, with a profusion of gold
and jewels, rich scarfs, and plumes of surpassing splendor. Other groups
presented me with a most imposing vision of that gorgeous church, whose
mitred prelates could place their feet upon the necks of mightiest
princes, and sway, for good or evil, the destinies of conflicting
nations. There were priests clad in flowing garments, courtiers in
silks, and noblest dames, who had swayed in courts from immemorial time.
Their long and rustling trains were upborne by damsels and pages, lovely
enough, and richly enough arrayed, to be apt ministers in the very
courts of Love himself. A chair of state, massive, and richly draped in
purple and gold, with golden insignia, over which hung the jeweled tiara
of sovereignty, was raised upon a _dais_ some five feet above the level
of the crowd. This was filled by a tall and slender person, to whom all
made obeisance as to an imperial master. He was habited in sable, a
single jewel upon his brow, bearing up a massive shock of feathers as
black and glossy as if wrought out of sparkling coal. The air of majesty
in his action, the habitual command upon his brow, left me in no doubt
of his sovereign state, even had the obeisance of the multitude been
wanting. But he looked not as if long destined to hold sway in mortal
provinces. His person was meagre, as if wasted by disease. His cheeks
were pale and hollow; while a peculiar brightness of the eyes shone in
painful contrast with the pale and ghastly color of his face. Behind his
chair stood one who evidently held the position of a favorite and
trusted counselor. He was magnificently habited, with a profusion of
jewels, which nevertheless added but little to the noble air and
exquisite symmetry of his person. At intervals he could be seen to bend
over to the ear of the prince, as if whispering him in secret. This show
of intimacy, if pleasing to his superior, was yet evidently of different
effect upon many others in the assembly. The costume of the place was
that of the Norman sway in England, before the Saxons had quite
succeeded,—through the jealousy entertained by the kings, of their
nobles,—in obtaining a share of those indulgences which finally paved
the way to their recognition by the conquerors. Yet, even in this
respect of costume, I was conscious of some discrepancies. Some of the
habits worn were decidedly Spanish; but as these were mingled with
others which bore conclusive proof of the presence of the wearers in the
wars of the Crusades, it was not improbable that they had been adopted
as things of fancy, from a free communion of the parties with knights of
Spain whom they had encountered in the Holy Land.

But I was not long permitted to bestow my regards on a subject so
subordinate as dress. The scene was evidently no mere spectacle.
Important and adverse interests were depending—wild passions were at
work, and the action of a very vivid drama was about to open upon me. A
sudden blast of a trumpet penetrated the hall. I say _blast_, though the
sounds were faint as if subdued by distance. But the note itself, and
the instrument could not have been mistaken. A stir ensued among the
spectators. The crowd divided before an outer door, and those more
distant bent forward, looking in this direction with an eager anxiety
which none seemed disposed to conceal. They were not long kept in
suspense. A sudden unfolding of the great valves of the entrance
followed, when a rush was made from without. The tread of heavy
footsteps, the waving of tall plumes, and a murmur from the multitude,
announced the presence of other parties for whom the action of the drama
was kept in abeyance. The crowd opened from right to left, and one of
the company stood alone, with every eye of the vast assemblage fixed
curiously upon his person.


                              CHAPTER III.

And well, apart from every consideration yet to be developed, might they
gaze upon the princely form that now stood erect, and with something
approaching to defiance in his air and manner, in the centre of the vast
assemblage. He was habited in chain armor, the admirable work, in all
probability, of the shops of Milan. This, though painted or stained
thoroughly black, yet threw out a glossy lustre of incredible
brightness. Upon his breast, as if the love token of some noble damsel,
a broad scarf of the most delicate blue was seen to float. A cap of
velvet, with a double loop in front, bearing a very large brilliant,
from which rose a bunch of sable plumes, was discarded from his brows
the moment that he stood within the royal presence. He stood for a brief
space, seeming to survey the scene, then advanced with a bold and
somewhat rapid step, as if a natural spirit of fearlessness had been
stimulated into eagerness by a consciousness of wrong and a just feeling
of indignation. His face was scarcely less noble than his form and
manner, but it was marked by angry passions—was red and swollen—and as
he passed onward to the foot of the throne, he glanced fiercely on
either hand, as if seeking for an enemy. In spite of the fearlessness of
his progress, I could now perceive that he was under constraint and in
duresse. A strong body of halberdiers closed upon his course, and
evidently stood prepared and watchful of his every movement. As he
approached the throne, the several groups gave way before him, and he
stood, with unobstructed vision, in the immediate presence of the
monarch. For an instant he remained erect, with a mien unsubdued and
almost haughty, while a low murmur—as I fancied, of indignation—rose
in various portions of the hall. The face of the king himself seemed
suddenly flushed, and a lively play of the muscles of his countenance
led me to believe that he was about to give utterance to his anger; but,
at this moment, the stranger sunk gracefully but proudly upon his knee,
and, bending his forehead, with a studied humility in his prostration,
disarmed, if it had been felt, the indignation of his sovereign. This
done, he rose to his feet with a manly ease, and stood silent, in an
attitude of expectation, but with a calm, martial erectness, as rigid as
if cut from the inflexible rock.

The king spoke, but the words were inaudible to my ears. There was a
murmur from various parts of the assembly. Several voices followed that
of the monarch, but of these I could not comprehend the purport. I could
only judge of the character of what was said by its startling effect
upon the stranger. If excited before, he seemed to be almost maddened
now. His eyes followed the murmuring voices from side to side of the
assembly, with a fearful flashing energy, which made them dilate, as if
endangering the limits of their reddened sockets. A like feverish and
impatient fury threw his form into spasmodic action. His figure seemed
to rise and swell, towering above the rest. His arms were stretched in
the direction of the assailing voices. His clenched fist first seemed to
threaten the speakers with instant violence. Unintimidated by the
presence in which he stood, his appearance was that of a subject, not
only too strong for his superior, but too confident and presumptuous for
his own self-subjection, even in the moment of greatest peril to
himself.

He resumed his composure at last, and the murmur ceased around him.
There was deep silence, and the eyes of the stranger were fixed rigidly
upon those of his prince. The latter was evidently moved. His hand was
extended—something he spoke which I again lost; but, strange to say,
the reply of the stranger came sharply and distinctly to my ear.

“Swear! Why should I swear? Should I call upon the Holy Evangel as my
witness, when I see not my accuser? Let him appear. Let him look me in
the face, if there be lord or knight in this assembly so bold, and tell
me that I am guilty of this treason. Sire! I challenge my accuser. I
have no other answer to the charge!”


                              CHAPTER IV.

The lips of the King moved. The nobleman who stood behind his throne,
and whom I conceived to be his favorite, bent down and received his
orders; then disappeared behind one of the columns whose richly
decorated, but slender shafts, rose up directly behind him, like some
graceful stems of the forest, over which the wildering vine, and the
gaudy parasite clambers with an embrace that kills. But a few moments
elapsed when the favorite re-appeared. He was accompanied by a person,
whose peculiar form and aspect will deserve especial description.

In that hall, in the presence of princes, surrounded by knights and
nobles of the proudest in the land, the person newly come—though
seemingly neither knight nor noble, was one of the most lofty in his
carriage, and most imposing and impressive in his look and manner. He
was not only taller than the race of men in general, but he was
obviously taller than any in that select circle by which he was
surrounded. Nor did his features misbeseem his person. These were
singularly noble, and of Italian cast and character. His face was large,
and of the most perfect oval. Though that of a man who had probably seen
and suffered under sixty winters, it still bore the proofs of a beauty
once remarkable. It still retained a youthful freshness, which spoke for
a conscience free from remorse and self-reproach. His eyes were of a
mild, but holily expressive blue; and, beneath their rather thin white
brows, were declarative of more than human benevolence. His forehead was
very large and lofty, of great breadth and compass, in the regions of
ideality and sublimity, as well as causality; while his hair, thick
still, and depending from behind his head in numerous waving curls, was,
like his beard, of the most silvery whiteness. This was spread,
massively, upon his breast, which it covered almost to the waist. His
complexion was very pale, but of a clear whiteness, and harmonized
sweetly with the antique beauty and power of his head. His costume
differed in style, texture and stuff, entirely from that which prevailed
in the assembly. A loose white robe, which extended from his shoulders
to the ground, was bound about his body by a belt of plain Spanish
leather, and worn with a grace and nobleness perfectly majestical. His
feet were clothed in Jewish sandals. But there was nothing proud or
haughty in his majesty. On the contrary, it was in contrast with the
evident humility in his eye and gesture, that his dignity of bearing
betrayed itself. This seemed to be as much the fruit of pure and
elevated thoughts, calm and resigned, as of that superior physical
organization which made this aged man tower as greatly above the rest,
in person, as he certainly did in air and manner.

He advanced, as he appeared, to the foot of the throne, gracefully sunk
before it, then rising, stood in quiet, as awaiting the royal command to
speak. His appearance seemed to fill the assembly with eager curiosity.
A sudden hush prevailed as he approached, the natural result of that awe
which great superiority usually inspires in the breast of ignorance.
There was but one face among the spectators that seemed to betray no
curiosity as he came in sight. This was that of the accused. With the
first coming of the ancient man, I had instinctively fixed my gaze upon
the countenance of the nobleman. I could easily discern that his lips
were compressed as if by sudden effort, while his usually florid
features were covered with a momentary paleness. This emotion, with the
utter absence of that air of curiosity which marked every other visage,
struck me, at once, as somewhat significant of guilt.

“Behold thy accuser!” exclaimed the sovereign.

“He! the bookworm!—the dreamer!—the mad-man!—sorcerer to the vulgar,
but less than dotard to the wise! Does your majesty look to a star-gazer
for such evidence as will degrade with shame the nobles of your realm?
Sire!—if no sorcerer, this old man is verily distraught! He is lunatic
or vile—a madman, or a bought servitor of Satan!”

The venerable man thus scornfully denounced, stood, meanwhile, looking
sorrowful and subdued, but calm and unruffled, at the foot of the
_dais_. His eye rested a moment upon the speaker, then turned, as if to
listen to that speech, with which the favorite, behind the throne of the
monarch, appeared to reply to the language of the accused. This I did
not hear, nor yet that which the sovereign addressed to the same person.
But the import might be divined by the answer of the accused.

“And I say, your majesty, that what he hath alleged is false—all a
false and bitter falsehood, devised by cunning and malice to work out
the purposes of hate. My word against his—my gauntlet against the
world. I defy him to the proof! I defy all my accusers!”

“And he shall have the truth, your majesty;” was the firm, clear answer
with which the venerable man responded to this defiance. His tones rang
through the assembly like those of a sweet bell in the wilderness.—“My
life, Sire, is sworn to the truth! I can speak no other language! That I
have said nothing falsely of this lord, I invoke the attestation of the
Lord of all. I have had his sacred volume brought into this presence.
You shall know, Sire, what I believe, by what I swear!”

He made a sign, even while he spoke, to a little girl whom I had not
before seen, but who had evidently followed him into the assembly. She
now approached, bearing in her hands one of those finely illuminated
manuscripts of an early day of Christian history in Europe, which are
now worth their weight in gold. I could just perceive, as he opened the
massive volume, by its heavy metallic clasps, that the characters were
strange, and readily conjectured them to be Hebrew. The work, from what
he said, and the use to which he applied it, I assumed to be the Holy
Scriptures. He received it reverently from the child, placed it
deliberately upon one of the steps of the _dais_, then knelt before it,
his venerable head for a moment, being bowed to the very floor. Then
raising his eyes, but without rising from his position, he placed one
hand upon this volume, raised the other to heaven, and, with a deep and
solemn voice, called upon God and the Holy Evangelists, to witness that
what he had spoken, and was about to speak, was “the truth, and the
truth only—spoken with no malice—no wicked or evil intent—and rather
to defeat and prevent the evil designs of the person he accused.” In
this posture, and thus affirming, he proceeded to declare that “the
accused had applied to him for a potent poison which should have the
power of usurping life slowly, and without producing any of those
striking effects upon the outward man, as would induce suspicion of
criminal practice.” He added, with other particulars, that “the accused
had invited him, under certain temptations, which had been succeeded by
threats, to become one of a party to his designs, the victim of which
was to be his majesty then sitting upon the throne.”


                               CHAPTER V.

Such was the tenor of the asseverations which he made, fortified by
numerous details, all tending strongly to confirm the truth of his
accusations, his own testimony once being relied on. There was something
so noble in this man’s action, so delicate, so impressive, so simple,
yet so grand; and the particulars which he gave were all so probably
arrayed, so well put together, and so seemingly in confirmation of other
circumstances drawn from the testimony of other parties, that all around
appeared fully impressed with the most perfect conviction that his
accusation was justly made. A short but painful silence followed his
narration, which seemed, for an instant, to confound the guilty noble.
The sad countenance of the monarch deepened to severity, while a smile
of triumph and exultation rose to that of the favorite behind his
throne. At this sight the accused person recovered all his audacity.
With half-choking utterance, and features kindling with fury rather than
faltering with fear, he demanded,

“Am I to be heard, your majesty?”

A wave of the monarch’s hand gave him the desired permission, and his
reply burst forth like a torrent. He gave the lie to his accuser, whom
he denounced as an impostor, as one who was the creature of his and the
king’s enemies, and tampering, himself, with the sovereign’s life while
pretending to minister to his ailments. He ridiculed, with bitterness
and scorn, the notion that any faith should be given to the statements,
though even offered on oath, of one whom he affirmed to be an unbeliever
and a Jew; and, as if to crown his defense with a seal no less
impressive than that of his accuser, he advanced to the foot of the
throne, grasped the sacred volume from the hands by which it was upheld,
and kneeling, with his lips pressed upon the opened pages, he imprecated
upon himself, if his denial were not the truth, all the treasured wrath
and thunder in the stores of Heaven!

The accuser heard, with uplifted hands and looks of holy horror, the
wild and terrible invocation. Almost unconsciously his lips parted with
the comment,

“God have mercy upon your soul, my lord, for you have spoken a most
awful perjury!”

The king looked bewildered, the favorite behind him dissatisfied, and
the whole audience apparently stunned by equal incertitude and
excitement. The eyes of all parties fluctuated between the accused and
the accuser. They stood but a few paces asunder. The former looked like
a man who only with a great struggle succeeded in controlling his fury.
The latter stood sorrowful, but calm. The little girl who had brought in
the holy volume stood before him, with one of his hands resting upon her
head. Her features greatly resembled his own. She looked terrified; her
eyes fastened ever upon the face of her father’s enemy with a
countenance of equal curiosity and suspicion. Some conversation, the
sense of which did not reach me, now ensued between the king and two of
his counselors, to which his favorite was a party. The former again
addressed the accuser.

“Have you any other testimony but that which you yourself offer of the
truth of your accusation.”

“None, your majesty. I have no witness of my truth but God, and it is
not for vain man to prescribe to him at what seasons his testimony
should be given. In bringing this accusation, my purpose was not the
destruction of the criminal, but the safety of my sovereign; and I am
the more happy that no conviction can now follow from my charge, as from
the dreadful oath which he has just taken, he places it out of the power
of human tribunal to resolve between us. For the same reason, sire, he
is in no condition to suffer death! Let him live! It is enough for me
that your majesty is safe from the present, and has been warned against
all future danger at his hands.”

“But not enough for me!” cried the accused, breaking in impetuously. “I
have been charged with a foul crime; I must free my scutcheon from the
shame. I will not rest beneath it. If this Jewish sorcerer hath no
better proof than his own false tongue, I demand from your majesty the
wager of battle! I, too, invoke God and the blessed Jesu, in testimony
of my innocence. This enemy hath slandered me; I will wash out the
slander with his blood! I demand the trial, sire, his arm against mine,
according to the laws and custom of this realm.”

“It cannot be denied!” was the cry from many voices. The favorite looked
grave and troubled. The eyes of the king were fixed sadly upon the
venerable accuser. The latter seemed to understand the expression.

“I am not a man of blood, your majesty. Strife hath long been banished
from this bosom; carnal weapons have long been discarded from these
hands.”

“Let him find a champion!” was the fierce answer of the accused.

“And of what avail to me,” returned the accuser, “the brute valor of the
hireling who sells for wages the strength of his manhood, and perils for
gain the safety of his life. Little should I hope from the skill of such
as he, opposed in combat to one of the greatest warriors of the realm.”

“Ah, sorcerer! thou fearest!” was the exulting cry of the accused; “but,
if thy cause be that of truth, as thou hast challenged the Most High to
witness, what hast thou to fear? The stars which thou searchest nightly,
will they not do battle in thy behalf?”

“Methinks,” said the favorite, who now advanced from behind the throne,
“methinks, old man, thou hast but too little reliance on the will and
power of God to assist thee in this matter. It is for him to strengthen
the feeblest, where he is innocent, and in the ranks of war to do
successful battle with the best and bravest. Is it not written, ‘the
race is not always to the swift, nor the triumph to the strong?’”

“Ah! do I not know this, my lord. Do not think that I question the power
of the Lord to do marvels, whenever it becomes his will to do so; but
who is it, believing in God’s might and mercy, flings himself idly from
the steep, with the hope that an angel’s wings shall be sent to bear him
up. I have been taught by the faith which I profess, to honor the Lord
our God, and not to tempt him; and I do not readily believe that we may
command the extraordinary manifestations of his power by any such vain
and uncertain issue as that which you would now institute. I believe not
the truth is inevitably sure to follow the wager and trial of battle,
nor will I lean on the succor of any hireling weapon to avouch for
mine.”

“It need be no hireling sword, old man. The brave and the noble love
adventure, for its own sake, in the paths of danger; and it may be that
thou shalt find some one, even in this assembly, noble as him thou
accusest, and not less valiant with his weapon, who, believing in thy
truth, shall be willing to do battle in thy behalf.”

“Thyself, perchance!” cried the accused, impetuously, and turning a
fiery glance upon the speaker. In this glance it seemed to me that I
could discover a far greater degree of bitterness and hate than in any
which he had shown to his accuser. “It is thyself that would do this
battle? Ha! thou art he, then, equally noble and not less valiant art
thou? Be it so! It will rejoice me shouldst thou venture thy body in
this quarrel. But I know thee—thou lovest it too well—thou durst not.”

“Choose me for thy champion, old man,” was the further speech of the
favorite, with a difficult effort to be calm. “I will do battle for
thee, and with God’s mercy, sustain the right in thy behalf.”

“Thou shalt not!” exclaimed the king, vehemently, but feebly, half
rising as he spoke, and turning to the favorite. “Thou shalt not! I
command thee mix not in this matter.”

More was said, but in such a feeble tone that they failed to reach my
senses. When the king grew silent, the favorite bowed with submissive
deference, and sunk again behind the throne. A scornful smile passed
over the lips of the accused, who looked, with a bitter intelligence of
gaze, upon a little group, seemingly his friends and supporters, who had
partly grouped themselves around him. Following his glance, a moment
after, toward the royal person, I was attracted by a movement, though
for a single instant only, of the uplifted hand of the favorite. It was
a sign to the accused, the former withdrawing the glove from his right
hand, a moment after, and flinging it, with a significant action, to the
floor behind him. The accused whispered to a page in waiting, who
immediately stole away and disappeared from sight. But a little while
elapsed when I beheld him approach the spot where the glove had fallen,
recover it adroitly, and convey it, unperceived, into his bosom. All
this by-play, though no doubt apparent to many in the assembly, was
evidently unseen and unsuspected by the king. I inferred the rank
luxuriance of the practice of chivalry in this region, from the nicety
with which the affair was conducted, and the forbearance of all those by
whom it had been witnessed, to make any report of what they had beheld.
The discussion was resumed by the accuser.

“I am aware, your majesty, that by the laws and practice of your realm,
the wager of battle is one that may be freely challenged by any one
accused of treason, or other crime against the state, against whom there
shall be no witness but the accuser. It is not the fear of danger which
makes me unwilling to seek this conflict; it is the fear of doing wrong.
Though the issues of battle are in the hands of the Lord, yet who shall
persuade me that he has decreed the combat to take place. Now I do
confess that I regard it as unholy, any invocation of the God of Peace,
to be a witness in a strife which his better lessons teach us to
abhor—a strife grossly at variance with his most settled and divine
ordinances.”

“I am grieved, old man, to hear you speak this language,” was the grave
censure of one who, from his garments, seemed to be very high in
authority, and the church. “What thou sayest is in direct reproach of
holy church, which has frequently called in the assistance of mortal
force and human weapons to put down the infidel, to crush the
wrong-doer, and to restore that peace which can only owe her continued
existence to the presence ever of a just readiness for war. Methinks
thou hast scarcely shown thyself enough reverent in this, thy bold
opinion.”

“Holy father, I mean not offence! I do not doubt that war, with
short-sightedness of human wisdom, has appeared to secure the advantages
of peace. I believe that God has endowed us with a strength for the
struggle, and with a wisdom that will enable us to pursue it with
success. These we are to employ when necessary for the protection of the
innocent, and the rescue and safety of those who are themselves
unwilling to do harm. But I am unwilling to believe that immortal
principles—the truth of man, and the value of his assurances—are to
depend upon the weight of his own blows, or the address with which he
can ward off the assaults of another. Were this the case, then would the
strong-limbed and brutal soldier be always the sole arbiter of truth,
and wisdom, and all moral government.”

We need not pursue the argument. It has long since been settled, though
with partial results only to humanity, as well by the Pagan as the
Christian philosopher. But, however ingenious, true, or eloquent, was
the venerable speaker, on this occasion, his arguments were entirely
lost upon that assembly. He himself soon perceived that the effect was
unfavorable to his cause, and exposed his veracity to question. With a
proper wisdom, therefore, he yielded promptly to the current. But first
he asked:—

“And what, may it please your majesty, if I decline this ordeal?”

“Death!” was the reply of more than one stern voice in the assembly.
“Death by fire, by the burning pincers, by the tortures of the screw and
rack.”

The venerable man replied calmly.

“Life is a duty! Life is precious!” he spoke musingly, looking down as
he spoke, upon the little girl who stood before him, while the big tears
gathered in his eyes as he gazed.

“Do you demand a champion?” was the inquiry of the king.

“No, Sire! If, in behalf of my truth, this battle must be fought, its
dangers must be mine only.”

“Thine!” exclaimed the favorite.

“Ay, my lord, mine. None other than myself must encounter this peril.”

A murmur of ridicule passed through the assembly. The accused laughed
outright, as the exulting warrior laughs, with his captive naked beneath
his weapon. A brief pause followed, and a visible anxiety prevailed
among the audience. Their ridicule afforded to the accuser sufficient
occasion for reply:

“This murmur of surprise and ridicule that I hear on every hand, is, of
itself, a sufficient commentary upon this trial of truth by the wager of
battle. It seems to all little less than madness, that a feeble old man,
like myself, even though in the cause of right, should oppose himself to
the most valiant warrior in the kingdom. Yet, if it be true that God
will make himself manifest in the issue, what matters it whether I be
old or young, strong or weak, well-skilled or ignorant in arms? If there
be a just wisdom in this mode of trial, the feeblest rush, in
maintenance of the truth, were mighty against the steel-clad bosom of
the bravest. I take the peril. I will meet this bold criminal, nothing
fearing, and will, in my own person, engage in the battle which is thus
forced upon me. But I know not the use of lance, or sword, or
battle-axe. These weapons are foreign to my hands. Is it permitted me to
use such implements of defense as my own skill and understanding may
invent, and I may think proper to employ?”

“Thou shalt use no evil arts, old man,” exclaimed the Churchman who had
before spoken, anticipating the answer of the monarch. “No sorcery, no
charms, no spells,—no accursed devices of Satan. I warn thee, if thou
art found guilty of arts like these thou shalt surely perish by fire.”

“None of these, Holy Father, shall I employ. My arts shall be those
only, the principles of which I shall proclaim to thyself, or to any
noble gentleman of the king’s household. My weapons shall be those only
which a human intelligence may prepare. They belong to the studies which
I pursue—to the same studies which have enabled me to arrive at truths,
some of which thou thyself hast been pleased to acknowledge, and which,
until I had discovered them, had been hidden from the experience of men.
It cannot be held unreasonable and unrighteous that I employ the weapons
the virtues of which I know, when my enemy uses those for which he is
renowned?”

Some discussion followed, the demand of the accuser being strenuously
resisted by the friends of the accused.

“The weapons for knightly encounter,” said they, “have long since been
acknowledged. These are sword, and battle-axe, and spear.”

“But I am no knight,” was the reply; “and as it is permitted to the
citizen to do battle with staff and cudgel, which are his wonted
weapons, so may it be permitted to me to make use of those which are
agreeable to my strength, experience, and the genius of my profession.”

Some demur followed from the churchman.

“Holy father,” replied the accuser, “the sacred volume should be your
guide as it is mine. My claim is such as seems already in one famous
instance, to have met the most decisive sanction of God himself.”

Here he unfolded the pages of the Holy Scriptures.

“Goliah,” said he, “was a Philistine knight, who came into battle with
the panoply of his order. David appeared with staff, and sling, and
stone, as was proper to the shepherd. He rejected the armor with which
Saul would have arrayed him for the combat. The reproach of the
Philistine knight comprises the objection which is offered here—‘Am I a
dog,’ said Goliah, ‘that thou comest to me with staves?’ The answer of
David, O king! shall be mine: ‘And all this assembly shall know that the
Lord saveth not with sword and spear; for the battle is the Lord’s, and
he will give you into our hands.’—Such were his words—they are mine.
God will deliver me from the rage of mine enemy. I will smite him
through all his panoply, and in spite of shield and spear.”

He spoke with a momentary kindling of his eyes, which was soon succeeded
by an expression of sadness.

“And yet, O king! I would be spared this trial. My heart loves not
strife. My soul shrinks in horror from the shedding of human blood.
Require not this last proof at my hands. Suffer me to keep my conscience
white, and clear of this sacrifice. Let this unhappy man live; for as
surely as we strive together, so surely must he perish.”

“Now this passeth all belief, as it passeth all human endurance!”
exclaimed the accused with irrepressible indignation. “I claim the
combat, O king, on any condition. Let him come as he will, with what
weapons he may, though forged in the very armory of Satan. My talisman
is in the holy cross, and the good sword buckled at my thigh by the
holiest prince in Christendom, will not fail me against the devil and
all his works. I demand the combat!”

“Be ye both ready within three days!” said the king.

“I submit,” replied the aged man. “I trust in the mercy of God to
sustain me against this trial, and to acquit me of its awful
consequences.”

“Ready, ay, ready!” was the answer of the accused, as with his hand he
clutched fiercely the handle of his sword, until the steel rung again in
the iron scabbard.


                              CHAPTER VII.

The scene underwent a sudden change, and I now found myself in a small
and dimly-lighted apartment, which seemed designed equally for a studio
and a laboratory of art. The walls were surrounded by enormous cases, on
the shelves of which were massive scrolls of vellum, huge parchment
manuscripts, and volumes fastened with clasps of brass and silver. Some
of these lay open. Charts hung wide marked with strange characters.
Frames of ebony were thus suspended also bearing the signs of the
zodiac. Other furniture, of quaint and strange fashion, seemed to show
conclusively that the possessor pursued the seductive science of
astrology. He had other pursuits—a small furnace, the coals of which
were ignited, occupied one corner of the chamber, near which stood a
table covered with retorts and receivers, cylinders and gauging-glasses,
and all the other paraphernalia which usually belong to the analytic
worker in chemistry. The old man, and the young girl described in the
previous scene, were, at first, the only occupants of the apartment. But
a few moments elapsed, however, when an inner door was thrown open, and
a third party appeared, closely enveloped in a cloak of sable. This he
threw aside, and I discovered him to be the same person who had been the
chief counselor of the king, and whom I supposed to be his favorite. At
his entrance the damsel disappeared. The stranger then, somewhat
abruptly, began in the following manner:

“Why, O why did you not choose me for your champion?”

“And why, my lord, expose you to a conflict with one of the bravest
warriors in all the realm?”

“He is brave, but I fear him not; besides, he who fights against guilt
hath a strength of arm which supplies all deficiencies. But it is not
too late. I may still supply your place.”

“Forgive me, dear lord, but I have made my election.”

“Alas! old man, why are you thus obstinate? He will slay you at the
first encounter.”

“And if he does, what matter! I have but a brief space to live,
according to the common allotment. He hath many, which were well
employed devoted to repentance. It were terrible, indeed, that he should
be hurried before the awful tribunal of Heaven with all the blackness in
his soul, with all his sins unpurged, upon his conscience.”

“Why, this is veriest madness. Think you what will follow your
submission and defeat? He will pursue his conspiracy. Others will do
what you have refused. He will drag other and bitter spirits into his
scheme. He will bring murder into our palaces, and desolation into our
cities. Know you not the man as I know him? Shall he be suffered to
escape, when the hand of God has clearly shown you that his purposes are
to be overthrown, and his crime to be punished through your agency?”

“And it shall be so, my dear lord. It is not my purpose to submit. The
traitor shall be met in battle.”

“But by thyself. Why not a champion? I am ready.”

“Greatly, indeed, do I thank and honor thee, my lord; but it cannot be!”

“Methinks there is some touch of insanity about thee, old man, in spite
of all thy wisdom. Thou canst not hope to contend, in sooth, against
this powerful warrior. He will hurl thee to the earth with the first
thrust of his heavy lance; or smite thee down to death with a single
blow of battle-axe or dagger.”

“Hear me, my lord, and have no fear. Thou knowest not the terrible
powers which I possess, nor should any know, but that this necessity
compels me to employ them. I will slay my enemy and thine. He cannot
harm me. He will perish helplessly ere his weapon shall be twice lifted
to affront me.”

“Thou meanest not to employ sorcery?”

“Be assured, my lord, I shall use a carnal agent only. The instrument
which I shall take with me to battle, though of terrible and destructive
power, shall be as fully blessed of Heaven, as any in your mortal
armory.”

“Be it so! I am glad that thou art so confident; and yet, let me entreat
thee to trust thy battle to my hands.”

“No, my dear lord, no! To thee there would be danger—to me, none. I
thank thee for thy goodness, and will name thee in my prayers to
Heaven.”

We need not pursue their dialogue, which was greatly prolonged, and
included much other matter which did not concern the event before us.
When the nobleman took his departure, the damsel reappeared. The old man
took her in his embrace, and while the tears glistened upon his snowy
beard, he thus addressed her:

“But for thee—for thee, chiefly—daughter of the beloved and sainted
child in Heaven, I had spared myself this trial. This wretched man
should live wert thou not present, making it needful that I should still
prolong to the last possible moment, the remnant of my days. Were I to
perish, where wert thou? What would be the safety of the sweet one and
the desolate? The insect would descend upon the bud, and it would lose
scent and freshness. The worm would fasten upon the flower, and a poison
worse than death would prey upon its core. No! my poor Lucilla, I must
live for thee, though I live not for myself. I must shed the blood of
mine enemy, and spare mine own, that thou mayest not be desolate.”


                             CHAPTER VIII.

While the tears of the two were yet mingling, the scene underwent a
change corresponding with my anxiety for the _dénouement_. A vast area
opened before me, surrounded by the seats and scaffolding as for a
tourney, and the space was filling fast with spectators. I will not
attempt to describe the splendor of the scene. Lords and ladies, in
their most gorgeous attire, occupied the high places; princes were
conspicuous; the people were assembled in thousands. At the sound of
trumpets the king made his appearance. A grand burst of music announced
that he was on his throne. Among the knights and nobles by whom he was
attended, I readily distinguished “the Favorite.” He was in armor, but
it was of an exceedingly simple pattern, and seemed designed for service
rather than display. He looked grave and apprehensive, and his eyes were
frequently turned upon the barriers, as if in anxious waiting for the
champions.

The accused was the first to appear. He was soon followed, however, by
the accuser, and both made their way through the crowd to the foot of
the throne. As the old man approached, the favorite drew nigh, and
addressed him in subdued, but earnest accents.

“It is not yet too late! Call upon me as thy champion. The king dare not
refuse thee, and as I live, I will avenge mine own and thy wrongs
together.”

“It cannot be, my lord,” was the reply, with a sad shake of the head.
“Besides,” he continued, “I have no wrongs to avenge. I seek for safety
only. It is only as my life is pledged equally to the living and the
dead, that I care to struggle for it, and to save.”

The face of the favorite was clouded with chagrin. He led the way in
silence to the foot of the throne, followed by the venerable man. There,
the latter made obeisance, and encountered the hostile and fierce glance
of his enemy, whom he regarded only with looks of sorrow and
commisseration. A breathless silence pervaded the vast assembly as they
beheld the white locks, the simple majesty of his face and air, and the
costume—singular for such an occasion—which he wore. This did not in
any degree differ from that in which he had always appeared habited
before. It consisted of a loose, flowing robe of the purest white, most
like, but more copious than the priestly cassock. His opponent, in
complete steel, shining like the sun, with helmeted head and gauntleted
hand, afforded to the spectators a most astonishing difference between
the combatants. The wonder increased with their speculations. The
surprise extended itself to the king, who proffered, as Saul had done to
David, the proper armor of a warrior to the defenseless man. But this he
steadily refused. The king, himself, condescended to remonstrate.

“This is sheer madness, old man. Would’st thou run upon thy death with
uncovered head and bosom?”

“Oh! Sire, I fear not death, and feel that I am not now to die. Yet
would I still implore that I may be spared this trial. Once more, I lay
myself at the foot of the throne, to supplicate its mercy.”

“For thyself!” cried his enemy, with a scornful taunt.

“For myself and for thee!”—was the firm reply—“that I may be spared
the pang of sending thee before the Eternal Judge, with all thy unatoned
crimes upon thy head.”

The voice and words of the venerable speaker, deep and solemn, thrilled,
with a sensible effect, throughout the assembly. Whence should he derive
this confidence? From heaven or from hell. The conclusion to which they
came, more than ever confirmed their belief in his reputed sorceries;
and his words inspired a deep and silent terror among the crowd. But the
accused, strong in his skill, courage and panoply of steel, if not in
the justice of his cause, mocked scornfully, and defied the doom which
was threatened. Some of his friends, however, shared strongly in the
apprehensions of the vulgar.

“He hath no visible armor,” was their cry; “with what would he defend
himself? How know we that he hath not magic arts, and devices of hell,
with which he secretly arms himself?”

“Thou hast weapons—visible weapons, as I hear”—remarked the King.

“They are at hand, Sire;—they are here.”

“Thou hast dealt in no forbidden practice?”

“None, Sire, as I stand uncovered in the sight of heaven. The reverend
father in God, to whom thou did’st give in charge this inquiry, is here,
and will answer to your majesty. He hath heard and seen the secret of my
strength—that strength which I know and declare is powerful to destroy
my foe. He knows it to be a secret of mortal wisdom only, as patiently
wrought out by human art and labor, as were the sword and axe of him who
now seeks my destruction. I have warned him already of the fearful power
which they impart. I would still have him live, unharmed by me.”

“Peace, insolent!” cried the accused; “I am here, your majesty, to
fight, not to prate!—to chastise, not to hearken to the speeches of
this pagan sorcerer. Let his power be what he esteems it: I trust to my
good sword, and to the favor of the Mother of God,—and I doubt not of
this good steel, which hath been crowned with a three-fold conquest, on
the plains of Saracem. I entreat that your majesty will give command for
the combat.”


                              CHAPTER IX.

The eye of the venerable accuser, regarded the face of the speaker with
a sad and touching solemnity; but at this moment, the little girl who
had before accompanied him, was conducted into the foreground by the
Archbishop. She bore in her hand a sarbacane,—seemingly of brass, long
and narrow like a wand, and crowned, at the extremity, by a small globe
or bulb of the same material. The length of this instrument was fully
six feet or more. The old man took it into his hands, and having
unscrewed a part of the bulb—which seemed a mere sheathing of brass, he
discovered beneath it another globe, similar, in shape and size, to that
which had been removed; but the inner bulb was manufactured of glass, of
a whiteness equally chrystallic and beautiful. He then took from beneath
his robes a little box of ebony, which he unlocked, and from which he
produced a head-piece, the face of which, instead of being hard steel or
iron, was of glass also, very thin, and quite transparent, through which
every muscle and motion of the features might be seen with the greatest
distinctness. To the thoughtless vulgar, such a shield seemed only a
mockery of that more solid furniture of metal, which, in those days,
thoroughly encased the warrior for battle. The inference, accordingly,
was very general, that if by any possibility, the accuser succeeded in
the combat, he would be indebted solely to supernatural agency for his
good fortune. His wand of brass, with its chrystal bulb—his glassy
vizor and helmet,—were only regarded as designed to divert the scrutiny
from the more secret agency which he employed.

“I am ready,” said the accuser.

“Hast thou prayed?” demanded his enemy in a mocking fashion. “If thou
hast not, get thee to thy knees quickly, and renounce the devil whom
thou servest. Verily, but little time is left thee.”

“I have prayed and confessed to the Holy Father. Do thou likewise, and
make thyself humble and contrite. Repent thee,—for, of a truth, my
lord, if the King forbid not this combat, thou art doomed this day, to
go to judgment.”

The heart of the accused was hardened within him. He replied with a hiss
of defiance and contempt to this last appeal; at the same moment he
declared himself in readiness also. They were then withdrawn from the
presence for a brief space, and were severally approached by their
friends and attendants. The Archbishop, and the King’s favorite went
aside with the accuser, and when the latter returned to the arena, in
order to the combat, the Archbishop led away with him the little girl,
upon whom, at parting, the old man bestowed many caresses, accompanied
by many tears. The spectators were all very much moved by this
tenderness, and now began to regard him as one set apart for
sacrifice—doomed to be separated forever, and by a violent death, from
the object of his affections. And when the opponents stood, at length,
confronting each other—with none to go between—awaiting only the word
for the combat _à l’outrance_;—when they regarded the strong
soldier-like frame, and the warlike bearing of the accused—beheld the
ease with which he strode the lists, and displayed his weapon;—and
contrasted this image of dire necessity and war, with the feeble, though
erect form of his venerable accuser,—habited in vestments like a priest
or woman—with the simple unmeaning wand within his grasp, and the frail
mask of brittle chrystal upon his face—a loud murmur of regret and
commisseration prevailed among the multitude. But this murmur was soon
quieted by the cry of the master of the tourney—

“Laissez aller!”

Then followed a painful silence.

“Now, sorcerer,” cried the knight, raising his glittering sword, and
advancing as deliberately and with the confident manner of the
executioner. The aged accuser simply presented the bulbous extremity of
his wand, and before the accused could smite, the frail glass was
shivered against the bars of his enemy’s mouth-piece. At this moment the
knight was seen slightly to recoil; but it was for a moment only; in the
next instant he darted forward, and with a fierce cry, seemed about to
strike. The old man, in the meantime, had suffered his wand to fall upon
the ground. He made no further effort—offered no show of fear or fly,
but with arms folded, seemed in resignation to await the death-stroke of
his enemy. But while the weapon of the man of war was in air, and
seemingly about to descend, he was seen to pause, while his form
suddenly became rigid. A quick and awful shudder seemed to pass through
his whole frame. Thus, for a second, he stood paralyzed, and then a
thin, mistlike vapor, which might be called smoke, was seen to creep out
from various parts of his frame, followed by a thin but oily liquor,
that now appeared oozing through all the crevices of his armor. His arm
dropped nervelessly by his side; the sword fell from the incapable grasp
of his gauntleted hands, and in an inconceivable fraction of time, he
himself with all his bulk, sunk down upon the earth—falling, not at
length, prostrate, either backward or forward, but in a heap, even upon
the spot which he had occupied when standing; and as if every bone had
suddenly been withdrawn which had sustained them, the several parts of
his armor became detached, and rolled away—his helmet, his gorget, his
cuirass, his greaves, his gloves—disclosing beneath a dark, discolored
mass—a mere jellied substance, in which bones and muscles were already
decomposed and resolved into something less than flesh. Above this heap
might be seen a still bright and shining eye, which, for a single
second, seemed to retain consciousness and life, as if the soul of the
immortal being had lingered in this beautiful and perfect orb, reluctant
to the last. But in a moment it, too, had disappeared—all the
brightness swallowed up and stifled in the little cloud of vapor which
now trembled, heaving up from the mass which but a moment before had
been a breathing, a burning, an exulting spirit. A cold horror
overspread the field, followed by a husky and convulsive cry, as from a
drowning multitude. The people gazed upon each other and upon the awful
heap in unspeakable terror. It was annihilation which had taken place
before them. Awful was the silence that prevailed for several minutes; a
vacant consternation freezing up the very souls of the spectators. But
the reaction was tremendous.

“Seize upon the sorcerer! Tear him in pieces!” was the cry from a
thousand voices. This was followed by a wild rush, like that of an
incoming sea struggling to overwhelm the headlands. The barriers were
broken down, the cries swelled into a very tempest, and the mammoth
multitude rolled onward, with souls on fire, eyes glaring with tiger
fury, and hands outstretched, clutching spasmodically at their victim.
Their course had but one centre, where the old man calmly stood. There
he kept his immovable station, calm, firm, subdued, but stately. How
will he avert his fate—how stay this ocean of souls, resolute to
overwhelm him. I trembled—I gasped with doubt and apprehension. But I
was spared the further contemplation of horrors which I could no longer
bear to witness, by the very intensity of the interest which my
imagination had conceived in the subject. There is a point beyond which
the mortal nature cannot endure. I had reached that point, and was
relieved. I awakened, and started into living consciousness, my face
covered with clammy dews, my hair upright and wet, my whole frame
agitated with the terrors which were due wholly to the imagination.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It would be easy, perhaps, to account for such a dream, assuming, as we
did at the outset, that the mental faculties never know abeyance—that
the thought never sleeps. Any speculation in regard to the transition
periods in English history, would give the requisite material. From a
survey of the powers of physical manhood to those rival and superior
powers which follow from the birth of art and science, the step is
natural enough, and the imagination might well delight itself by putting
them in contrast and opposition. But we have no space left for further
discussion.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                REQUIEM.


                        BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.


               Forget the dead, the past? O yet
             There are ghosts who may take revenge for it;
             Memories that make the heart a tomb,
             Regrets which glide through the spirit’s gloom
             And with ghostly whisper tell
             That joy, once lost, is pain.
                                               —SHELLEY.

             When the warring voice of storm is heard
             Across the sea goes the summer bird,
             But back again the wanderer flies
             When April’s azure drapes the skies,
                 With carol sweet
                 The morn to greet,
             But the radiant girl whom we deplore
             To the bower of Home will return no more.

             Decay, a loathsome bridegroom, now
             Kisses with mildewed lip her brow;
             Her heart is colder than the rill
             When winter bids its tongue be still;
                 Yet Spring will come,
                 With song and bloom,
             And unchain the silvery feet of waves,
             But break no bonds in voiceless graves.

             Wasting away with a sad decline,
             Far from these northern hills of pine,
             She would wander back to them in dreams,
             To hear the roar of their rushing streams;
                 And often spoke
                 Of a favorite oak
             On the door-sill flinging pleasant shade,
             And under which, a child, she played.

             When beat no more her snow-white breast,
             Strange hands the lovely ruin-drest,
             Smoothing, upon the forehead fair,
             Loose, glittering flakes of golden hair;
                 And strangers gave
                 To our dead a grave,
             Sprinkling above the frail remains
             Mould, moistened by autumnal rains.

             Ah! since she died a wilder wail
             Is uttered by the midnight gale,
             And voices, mourning something gone,
             Rise from the dead leaves on the lawn;
                 And sadness broods
                 Above the woods
             Moaning as if endowed with soul,
             For through their depths she loved to stroll.

             The lute that answered when she sung
             Old airs, at twilight, is unstrung—
             She wakes where the _sainted_ dwell alone
             An instrument of richer tone;
                 And angel’s smile
                 On her the while,
             And to garland her sinless brow of snow
             The rarest blossoms of Heaven bestow.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.


                         BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER

                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]


Happiness, it appears to us, is _a_ cause, as well as _the_ effect of
virtue. When the heart is warmed with rational enjoyment, it is
naturally grateful to those that promote the pleasure. When it is
excited to the indulgence of generous feelings by the operation of
kindness in others, it pours out those feelings upon all within its
influence. It does not confine the reflection of pleasure to those from
whom the pleasure springs; but seeks to dispense it upon all within its
influence, as the planets, receiving their light from the sun, dispense
that light to all the stars in the system. And the effort to promote the
enjoyment of others—the true rational enjoyment of others—is a virtue.
Those, therefore, who create an occasion for such social intercourse as
produces rational pleasure, are promoting, in some degree, the cause of
virtue.

It has been a common remark that there were not enough holydays in this
country—general holydays—those that are _holy_ or sacred to _all_. We
have indeed the CHRISTMAS, but that day, though it would seem to be
commended to the observance of all Christians, yet is not, for reasons
well understood by most of our readers, a general observance; not from
any want of respect to the event which the day is intended to celebrate,
but partly for a disagreement as to the mode or the time of the
celebration—and what is worse, perhaps, while one part of our
countrymen have grown up in a sort of doctrinal disrelish of any
celebration of the day, another part has extended its celebration
through many days, in a way which deprived the whole of all ideas of
sanctity, and gave to the rejoicings an appearance of those orgies which
paganism devoted to the honor of some impure divinity and the
gratification of some unclean appetite.

Christmas, it may be remarked, however, is gradually coming into a more
appropriate appreciation; and, throughout the length and breadth of the
land there is a growing disposition to honor to the day, and to make it
a season of renewed thankfulness to God, and of the exercise of
good-will _to_, and among, men. So much the better, it is one day
redeemed and set apart for the exercise of high and holy feelings, and
the indulgence of domestic intercourse, enlarged by the temporary union
of various branches of the family-tree with the fruits thereof.

WASHINGTON’S BIRTH-DAY was once more generally celebrated than it is
now; and even now when a celebration is had on that day, so sacred to
the dearest recollections of patriotism, and the sons of freedom
assemble together, Satan comes also among them to embitter the occasion
with the gall of party feeling, infused into every toast which is
offered, and squeezed into every glass that is emptied. So that
Washington’s birth-day has ceased to be a general holyday, or rather to
be celebrated with that community of feeling which makes a true holyday.

THE FOURTH OF JULY, one would suppose, should be set apart for universal
celebration wherever an American can be found, or wherever national
freedom can be appreciated. But the day, even when celebrated without
reference to party politics is not inclusive. Patriotism has in it a
dignified reserve which asks for a _solemnity_ on the national
birth-day; and so instead of a general rejoicing, there is a special and
limited celebration—and when the celebration falls into party hands,
then the day is neither _holy_ nor sanctified. At best the Fourth of
July must be celebrated with pomp, show, military display, bonfires, and
eating and drinking. Appropriate as all these may be, they are not the
ingredients for a real general holyday in which the fancy, the feelings,
and the affections find play, and gravity is dismissed to the next sun
rise.

We are not referring of course to SUNDAY, and other days set apart for
religious services; they are, as they should be, made specially
referable to our connection with, our dependence upon, and our duty and
obligations to, our God. May they be kept sacred from all worldly
intrusion, and by their holy character lend a sanctifying influence unto
all the other days of the week, so that whether we eat or drink, whether
we laugh or cry, whether mourn or rejoice, (for there is a time for each
of these,) we shall do all with a solemn deference to the duties which
we owe our Maker.

There is a movement, or rather there has been a movement toward the
restoration of a _holyday_, in which childhood and youth have a direct
interest, and manhood and age may find, if not a direct, at least, a
reflected pleasure; and we shall think better of the age in which we
live for the restoration to homage and joyful devotion of good old St.
Valentine of blessed memory. Who, whether he was a bachelor or a
widower, gave encouragement to the good work of courtship, and became
canonized, if not for the miracles he wrought upon the bodies of his
devotees, at least for his wonderful work upon the hearts of those who
knelt at his shrine. It has always been a matter of regret that the
proceedings of the sacred conclave in which Valentine obtained
canonization were not made public. We are sure that the cardinal who
took the part of Devil’s advocate in the trial of the saint’s claim to
the honors, must have labored hard if he meant to obtain future fees;
for, of all the antagonism to real sanctity nothing is equal to hatred,
and of all the principles which the Evil Spirit would oppose nothing can
equal affection. No one could get Satan’s permission to promote loving
feelings.

We are glad, on more accounts than one, that St. Dominic was not
selected, and even St. Augustine. They had their respective merits and
deserve special consideration, but dear old St. Valentine is commended
to the gentler affections of all, by the loveliness and beauty which his
own purity and grace threw around the affections of the human heart, and
the loftiness which his own goodness gave to the character of earthly
love, assimilating that passion with our affections for things divine,
and showing the intimate connection between the two—the difference
being only in degree consequent upon the objects.

Valentine was one of the early Christians; whether he was a bishop or
only a presbyter, it is now difficult to ascertain; and, truth to say,
it does not make a button’s difference, for he would not be the better
for his mitre nor the worse for his stole in the good work of love to
which he devoted himself, and for which he is now distinguished and
remembered. He was a good man and full of affection, and so Claudius
caused him to be put to death, and for good reason too, we think, at
least on principles of consistency—what could the murderer find to
admire in the mild and lovely character of Valentine, and what but
exposure to the husband of Messalina must be the chaste and affectionate
teaching of the apostle of pure affection.

We shall be told, we suppose, one day in February was set apart by the
pagan Romans for the celebration of their Lupercalia, when young men
drew from a box the name of some female favorite for the year. Well,
what then? Shall we not thank the returning sense of the people that
installs a Christian saint in the niche into which the pagans had thrust
their god Pan, who, by his ugly face and hideous howls, could drive away
wolves? Do we not all owe a tribute of thanks to those who instituted
the delightful festival of St. Valentine to supply the beastly orgies of
the Luperci? There is indeed some similarity in the merriment. The Roman
youth ran through the street with thongs, and the Christian youth hasten
with more agreeable presents; but in both ancient and modern times it
seems that the females were anxious, for various reasons, to be the
objects of the merriment.

Before we issue another number of Graham, the high and the augmenting
festival of St. Valentine will be celebrated. Celebrated this year, we
venture to assert, with a pomp and circumstance very far beyond that of
any other February since the _office_ of Juno gave a name to the month.
Celebrated in a way to demonstrate the growing estimation in which the
kindly feelings are held.

This will be as it should be. A day has been found in which all may have
an occasion for present pleasure; some (and most) to be active in the
circulation of those delicate compositions or handy-works which express
regard and sometimes promote affection; others will look back upon the
years past, and remember with a silent tear how the beautiful and
beloved ones, that made them happy by the transmission or the acceptance
of the token, are now mouldering in the earth, insensible to all those
affections which once made them happy, unconscious even of the regret
which their departure created and their absence keeps alive. Mournful
indeed is it to take from the secret ark, where affection has enshrined
it, the emblem of a love that death has severed; and still more painful
is it to gaze on the return of the anniversary of proffered vows, upon
that pledge which time never redeemed, and to feel that she who might
have been happy in ministering to your happiness, is miserable in a
union (the only point of union) with another.

We saw a lad conveying to the residence of the loved one the Valentine,
whose form and decoration told of its donor—no record of name was made,
nor was it necessary to the receiver—none was _politic_ for the
witnesses. There was a secret love—a love unannounced to the world, yet
not unknown. The giver and the receiver of the Valentine were married
before July—yet not to each other. That Valentine was the cause of
misery. The new husband knew that she loved another, yet persisted in
his courtship, and with the influence of his wealth over the mother,
procured marriage. He knew during the honeymoon all that had ever
occurred, and yet was content with his winnings—the accidental
discovery of the Valentine, though not where it could have been hoarded
away, as if of value, not placed as a memento of affection, but as if
thrown aside, because useless, and left as forgotten—the accidental
discovery of that Valentine awakened the bitterness of jealousy—not
jealousy of honor, but that contemptible narrowness of selfish esteem,
which demands that the eyes of a wife should always _have been_
closed—while the eyes and appetites of the husband _are_ always roving.
Was the Valentine then an evil? Nay—rather would not any object, or
rather no object, in two months have roused the unreasonableness of the
discoverer? Where there is much filth, spontaneous combustion will save
the application of the lighted match.

One who is reading the preceding paragraph while we are preparing for
_this_, tells us she obtained the best husband in the world by means of
a Valentine, and she has never forgotten the saint’s day since. It
would, probably, be more germain to the matter to say, that her husband
got the best wife in the country by a Valentine—though on second
thought, she may be right—women generally know best, and remember most.

We repeat our expression of pleasure, that there has arisen such a
general devotion to good St. Valentine, and we are sure that regard to
that canonized Christian’s memory will enlarge the spirit of true
devotion, so that if we had another saint in the calendar who stood in
the same relation to the pagan _Cupid_ which Valentine does to the
Luperci, that saint would find his shrine greatly enriched by those who
commenced their devotion on the 14th of February.

We are glad to see that the regard to good St. Valentine is presenting
of works, and that the devotion does not pass away in the breath that
utters vows; but, beside the incense that springs from the burning
thurible, there are _offerings_ laid upon the altar—rich, tasteful,
elaborate, simple, magnificent or humble. Every kind may be had, and
will be had from those who minister to the wants of the Valentinans, as
of old did the sellers of doves in the temple provide the means of
sacrifice to the unprepared devotee.

St. Valentine’s day then is becoming, nay, it has become, a national
holyday—one that brings smiles of pleasure to the young of both sexes,
and the joy of recollected pleasure to the old. It is a festival in
which the feelings need no stimulant, and in which it asks no boisterous
expression. Beautiful is the anticipation of such a season. Some hearts
beat quickly in the thought of what may be sent, and who will send it.
Some hopes will be excited by the manner of reception—all will be
joyful in preparing to give; all will be gratified in examining the
gift. Not all—one at least will go to the shrine where affection has
deposited the gift—and as she drops a tear upon the cherished memorial,
will send her thoughts far, far upward to the _home_ of the giver—or
backward to the hour in which it was given. Yet this is joy—this
sanctified Sabbath of the young heart seems doubly hallowed when its
light is reflected from the memorial of affection, an affection made
sure in _one_ by the icy hand of death; fixed undyingly in the other, by
a consecration which no change can divert from its hallowing purpose.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               THE PAST.


                      BY MISS CAROLINE E. SUTTON.


        When the young bird goes from her early home,
          Though the swift-winged moments in happiness fly,
        Though the bridegroom is near with a gentle tone
          And a truthful love in his deep dark eye—
        Though the future is strewn with the roses of hope,
         And peopled with phantoms too brilliant to last—
        She turns with a tear to the friends of her youth,
          To those who were dear in the past.

        The wanderer far, far from kindred and friends,
          In fancy revisits his dear native cot;
        He views the clear stream where the willow tree bends,
          And the cowslips that brighten the spot.
        He views the dark wood and the green sloping hill,
          The porch, with its graceful white jessamine hung,
        The half-open window that looks on the mill,
          And the garden where honey-bees hum.

        And before him appear, as distinct as of yore,
          His mother’s soft eye, and his sire’s furrowed brow;
        His Mary’s light form, as when last on the shore
          He bade her remember her vow;
        His sister’s long hair, with its sunshiny gleam,
          Like a banner of gold to the summer wind cast—
        But one touch of the present dissolves the light dream,
          And he sighs for the joys of the past.

        Though surrounded with blessings, and favored with all
          That God in his bounty bestows,
        We revert to the pleasures we ne’er can recall,
          And the tear-drop unconsciously flows.
        While roving, entranced, ’mid the fairest of scenes.
          A cloud o’er our warm glowing hearts will be cast,
        If we think of the blossoms, the birds and the streams
          That were lovely and loved in the past.

        Creator and Father! Oh! teach me to live
          With thy precepts divine for my guide,
        Oh! let my young bosom thy lessons receive,
          And divest it of folly and pride,
        That, when this lithe form is decrepit and bent,
          When my color is fading, my pulse waning fast—
        I can look back with joy to the moments well spent,
          And muse with delight on the past.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                A SONG.


                           BY RICHARD WILKE.


                   Dark clouds are hovering round me
                     With all their train of care:
                   A thousand woes surround me,
                     Drear shadows of despair!
                   But what are they?—a richer gem
                     Shines radiant from above:
                   It throws its sunshine over them,
                     And oh!—that light is Love!

                   Then why should cares alarm me,
                     Though adverse fortune reign?
                   Why frowns of wo disarm me?
                     Why sorrow give me pain?
                   For what are all!—a richer gem
                     Shines radiant from above:
                   It throws its sunshine over them,
                     And oh!—that light is Love!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     A RECOLLECTION OF MENDELSSOHN.


                          BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.


Scarcely a year has elapsed since the musical world has been painfully
moved by the death of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. No loss, which the
divine art has sustained since that of Von Weber, will be so difficult
to replace, and probably no man of genius was ever more sincerely
mourned, _as a man_. He not only possessed that universal sympathy with
humanity, which is so noble a characteristic of the highest genius, but,
unlike many great men, whose very isolation of intellect creates an
atmosphere about them which the world is awed from seeking to penetrate,
the familiar scope of his warm nature descended to an equality with all
he met, and though all who named him as a composer, may not have
understood or appreciated him, all who knew him as a man, could not
choose but love him. The career of genius, unhappily, is not often
surrounded at the onset with the worldly advantages, nor watched and
cherished with the fostering care, which fell to his lot. His nature was
never embittered by early struggles with an unrecognizing world, nor was
his natural faith in man shaken by a keen encounter with selfishness and
persecution. The development of his moral nature thus calmly ripened in
harmony with his mind, each sustaining and ennobling the other. The
contemplation of such a character is in itself exalting, and seems to
give his memory a more than ordinary consecration.

At this time, when we are still constantly reminded of his loss—when
those to whom his works have a voice and a power never mention his name
but with the unconscious sadness of a reverent heart, all which may help
to recall his living image possesses a universal interest. I trust,
therefore, that the relation of an interview, the recollection of which
is among those hours, for whose bestowal I am most grateful to the past,
will need no apology. On the contrary, it is rather the discharge of
that duty which we owe to art, as all her worshipers will acknowledge.

A winter’s residence in Frankfort, which of late years is somewhat
distinguished for the excellence of its opera, and the high degree of
culture attained by its various musical unions, sufficed to make me
familiar with many of the great works of the German composers.
Fortunately, it was not until after I had learned to feel the
all-pervading soul of beauty which inspired Mozart, and paused in awe on
the borders of Beethoven’s vast and solemn realm, that I heard the music
of Mendelssohn. Thus prepared, in part, the simple and severe grandeur
of his style impressed me with a consciousness of its power, though I
could not always grasp the spirit of the sound, and follow it back to
the sublime conception—as, when a schoolboy, I first opened the pages
of Milton, and read with wonder and delight what it would have puzzled
me exceedingly to explain. Mendelssohn’s music is of a more purely
intellectual character than that of any modern composer, and his
greatest works are those which but few thoroughly appreciate. While, in
his “Songs without Words,” and the simple grandeur of his sacred
melodies, he comes nearer to the general sympathy, his “Walpurgisnacht,”
and “Fingal’s Cave,” creations of startling power and sublimity, which
stand alone in the character of their expression, are rarely produced,
except in those German cities where the taste for music has not been led
away from the standard set up by the schools of Bach and Hayden, by the
voluptuous melodies of the modern Italian opera. Frankfort is one of
these cities, and I was fortunate enough to hear the Walpurgisnacht
performed by the Cæcilien-Verein, or Society of St. Cecilia. The poetry
of Goethe and the music of Mendelssohn!—it was a sublime marriage of
genius. The works of the latter are as full of wild and stormy pictures
as those of the former, and he has described in music the crags and
breakers of the bleak Hebrides, with as much power as Goethe exhibits,
in painting the savage scenery of the Brocken.

Mendelssohn was living in Frankfort during the winter I spent there, and
I was naturally anxious to see the face of a great man, whom there was
no probability of my ever being near again, in the course of my
wanderings. One sunny day in March, when all the population of Frankfort
seemed to have turned out upon the budding promenades which belt the
city, and the broad quays along the Main, to enjoy the first premonition
of spring, I went on my usual afternoon stroll with my friend and
countryman, W——, whose glowing talk upon the musical art was quite as
refreshing to me after the day’s study in the gloomy Marktplotz, as were
the blue mountains of Epessart, which are visible from the bridge over
the Main.

There had been a great inundation the week previous, and the cold,
wintry storms which accompanied it, had just given place to sunshine and
milder air. The boatmen upon the flat, clumsy barges which come down
from Würzburg and the upper Main, were loosening their lashings and
preparing to trust themselves upon the swollen waters. The music of
Savoyards and bands of mountain singers was heard in every open space,
and brave, ruddy-looking Tyrolese, wild-eyed Bohemians in their quaint,
national costume, and the men of Suabia and the Black Forest, mingled
with the crowd, till it seemed like a holyday assemblage made up from
all the German provinces. We threaded the motley multitude, finding a
pleasant pastime in reading their faces and costumes, turning rapidly,
as it were, the leaves of a historical picture book.

My eye was finally caught by a man who came toward us on the quay, and
whose face and air were in such striking contrast to those about him,
that my whole attention was at once fixed upon him. He was simply and
rather negligently dressed in dark cloth, with a cravat tied loosely
about his neck. His beard had evidently not been touched for two or
three days, and his black hair was long and frowzed by the wind. His
eyes, which were large, dark and kindling, were directed forward and
slightly lifted, in the abstraction of some absorbing thought, and as he
passed, I heard him singing to himself in a voice deep but not loud, and
yet with a far different tone from that of one who hums a careless air
as he walks. But a few notes caught my ear, yet I remember their sound,
elevated and with that scarcely perceptible vibration which betrays a
feeling below the soul’s surface, as distinctly now as at the time.
W—— grasped my arm quickly and said in a low voice, “Mendelssohn!” I
turned hastily, and looked after him, as he went down the quay,
apparently but half conscious of the stirring scenes around him. I could
easily imagine how the balmy, indolent sensation in the air, so like a
soothing and tranquilizing strain of music, should have led him into the
serene and majestic realm of his own creations.

It was something to have seen a man of genius thus alone, and in
communion with his inspired thoughts, and I could not repress a feeling
of pleasure at the idea of having unconsciously acknowledged the
influences around him, before I knew his name. After this passing
glimpse, this _flash_ of him, however, came the natural desire to see
his features in repose, and obtain some impression of his personal
character. An opportunity soon occurred. The performance of his
“Walpurgisnacht,” by the Cæcilien-Verein, a day or two thereafter,
increased the enthusiasm I had before felt for his works, and full of
the recollection of its sublime Druid choruses, I wrote a few lines to
him, expressive of the delight they had given me, and of my wish to
possess his name in autograph, that I might take to America some token
connected with their remembrance. The next day I received a very kind
note in reply, enclosing a manuscript score of a chorus from the
“Walpurgisnacht.”

Summoning up my courage the next morning, I decided on calling upon him
in person, feeling certain, from the character of his note, that he
would understand the motive which prompted me to take such a liberty. I
had no difficulty in finding his residence in the _Bockenheimer Gasse_,
in the western part of the city. The servant ushered me into a
handsomely furnished room, with a carpet, an unusual thing in German
houses; a grand piano occupied one side of the apartment. These struck
my eye on entering, but my observation was cut short by the appearance
of Mendelssohn. A few words of introduction served to remove any
embarrassment I might have felt on account of my unceremonious call, and
I was soon set entirely at ease by his frank and friendly manner. As he
sat opposite to me, beside a small table, covered with articles of
_vertù_, I was much struck with the high intellectual beauty of his
countenance. His forehead was white, unwrinkled, and expanding above, in
the region of the ideal faculties. His eyes were large, very dark and
lambent with a light that seemed to come through them—like the
phosphorescent gleam on the ocean at midnight. I have observed this
peculiar character of the eye only in men of the highest genius—the
sculptor Powers is another instance in which it has been frequently
remarked. None of the engravings of Mendelssohn which have yet been made
give any idea of the kindling effect which is thus given to his face.
His nose was slightly prominent, and the traces of his Jewish blood were
seen in this, as well as the thin but delicate curve of the upper lip,
and the high cheek-bones. Yet it was the Jewish face softened and
spiritualized, retaining none of its coarser characteristics. The faces
of Jewish youth are of a rare and remarkable beauty, but this is
scarcely ever retained beyond the first period of manhood. In
Mendelssohn, the perpetual youth of spirit, which is the gift of genius
alone, seemed to have kept his features moulded to its expression, while
the approach of maturer years but heightened and strengthened its
character.

He spoke of German music, and told me I should hear it best performed in
Vienna and Berlin. Some remarks on America led him to speak of a grand
Musical Festival, which was then in the course of preparation in New
York. He had received a letter inviting him to assist in it, and said he
would have gladly attended it, but his duty to his family would not
permit of his leaving. He appeared to be much gratified by the
invitation, not only for the personal appreciation which it implied, but
as a cheering sign of progress in the musical art. My friend W——, who
had met with Mendelssohn the summer previous, at the baths of Kronthal,
said that he had expressed much curiosity respecting the native <DW64>
melodies—which, after all, form the only peculiarly national music we
possess—and that he considered some of them exceedingly beautiful and
original.

I did not feel at liberty to intrude long upon the _morning hours_ of a
composer, and took my leave after a short interview. Mendelssohn, at
parting, expressed his warm interest in our country’s progress,
especially in the refined arts, and gave me a kind invitation to call
upon him in whatever German city I should find him. I left Frankfort in
two or three weeks after this, and although I was never afterward
enabled to fulfill my promise and desire, I was often forcibly reminded
of his person and his genius—and never more gratefully than when I
stood beside the marble monument to Sebastian Bach, in the promenades of
Leipzic—raised to the memory of that patriarch of harmony, by the
generosity of Mendelssohn.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             JASPER LEECH.


                     THE MAN WHO NEVER HAD ENOUGH.


The hero of my sketch, Jasper Leech, was, to use the stereotyped
expression, born of poor but honest parents; his infancy exhibited no
remarkable diagnostics, by which to illustrate or establish any
peculiarity of character, saving, perhaps, the simple fact, that with
him the process of weaning was protracted to a curious extent, any
attempt to cut off or diminish the maternal supply being met with
obstinate resistance, in spite of all the ingenious artifices usually
resorted to on such occasions to induce a distaste, still he sucked and
sucked, until the female visiters, one and all, noted it; shameful in a
great fellow like that.

At school, young Jasper was famous for the steady snail-pace at which he
crawled through the rudiments, and also for the extraordinary _penchant_
he evinced for any thing in his proximity which was, or appeared to be,
unattainable at the moment; say that one of his school-mates was in
possession of a new toy, Jasper would first envy him, then covet it,
cunningly waiting the moment when, the novelty being past, the boy was
open to negotiation, then would he chaffer and diplomatize, almost
invariably gaining his desired end. Thus he went on steadily
accumulating, until what with a natural appetite for trading, and a
calculating eye to the profitable side of a bargain, he managed to shut
up the market altogether by exhaustion. The very springtime of life,
which generally passes by in gleesome sport, was to him a period of
anxiety and care; for while his mates were rioting in boisterous play,
he would sit apart, his whole brain wrapped in the maze of
speculation—a _swop_ is in progression, and he must have the advantage.

Thus passed his boyhood; his schooling over, with his strong common
sense undulled by too much book-lore, he was duly inducted into the
mystery of shoe-craft. He served out his time with exemplary diligence,
working leisurely of days that he might keep reserve of strength to
spend the nights for his own profit, thereby saving a considerable sum
from the employment of his over-hours.

Once his own master, he deliberated long what road he should travel in
the pursuit of the blind goddess, invisible as well as blind—that
intangible phantasma which men wear out life and energy in the seeking,
only when found to confess with tears of bitterness how misspent was
time in the attainment.

At last our ambitious friend ventured humbly into trade on his own
account, declaring that should any thing approaching to success crown
his efforts, and that at the end of five or six years he could command a
thousand dollars, he would be the most contented, the happiest fellow on
earth.

He was lucky, curiously lucky; it seemed as though, Midas-like, all he
touched turned to gold; money swept in, so that before he had been three
years in business, instead of the limited one thousand, he was master of
_five_. “Now,” said he to himself, “if I could but make that five _ten_,
I might not only be enabled to enlarge my stock, and thereby increase my
returns, but I think I might even venture to look about for a helpmate
with an equal sum;” for Jasper would just as soon have thought of
investing the best part of his capital in the establishment of a lunatic
asylum, as of marrying a portionless woman.

The sun shone on—in less time than he could possibly have
anticipated—ten thousand was at his command. Very good, thought he;
this, with ten or fifteen thousand more, as a premium for encumbering
myself with a comforter of the snarling sex—for the ungallant Jasper
had a thoroughly mercantile business man’s opinion of the angelic
species—will be sufficient. I must investigate.

So he set out on a tour of the watering-places, and such like
wife-markets, where Cupid, the most wide-awake of auctioneers—it’s a
libel to say he’s blind—knocks the little darlings down to the highest
bidder. Of course, Jasper stopped at the first-class hotels, where he
scrutinized the _habitués_ of the ladies ordinary with uncommon
interest. There’s no use in disguising the fact, he sought not a wife,
but a fortune; in extenuation, allow me to say, he was not at all
singular, there are plenty of those individuals extant, young, tolerably
good-looking fellows, _bien gante_, and redolent of whisker, who linger
about the ladies’ drawing-room, in the faint hope of fascinating
something available, (prudent maternity avoids this class with pious
horror,) middle aged beaux, who dress sedulously, and toady _chaperons_,
carry fans, are always _so_ attentive and so obliging, dine regularly,
and affect a Burgundy decanter, which looks easy circumstanced, but
which the poor waiter is tired of carrying backward and forward,
ticketed some hundred and something.

These animals are generally great scandal-mongers, and always dangerous,
sweet-voiced but adder-tongued, their _modus operandi_ is to poison the
ear of the person addressed, against any other individual, hoping
thereby to elevate their own characters upon the slaughtered heap. Let
no woman suffer such pestilent breath to be a second time breathed
within her hearing.

Jasper, though indefatigable as you may well suppose, met with strange
adventure during his wife-hunt. Pretty women, after short experience, he
avoided utterly, for he found that they were usually too extravagant in
their expectations with regard to _personnel_, and as Jasper could not,
by any stretch of his imagination, fancy that he ranked in the category
of Fredericks and Augustuses, he endeavored to make up the deficiency by
a liberal display of wealth-prefiguring ornament, a kind of strong-box
index, which he shrewdly suspected might tempt some ambitious innocent
to investigate the contents thereof.

Perhaps it would be as well, at this period, as our hero is gotten up at
no small expense, to give a rough pen-and-ink outline of his appearance.
In the first place, he was twenty-eight years old, by his own account;
as he could scarcely be expected to know exactly himself, it’s not to be
wondered at that he and the parish register differed a few years; but
that was of little consequence, for he had an accommodating
peasant-<DW52> complexion, which, as it made him look at least forty,
will no doubt return the compliment by making him look no more at sixty;
his hair was about as indefinite, being a factitious auburn, a dry, wiry
red, something like the end of a fox’s brush in hot weather, crisp and
tangible, like fine copper-shavings; one could not help fancying that if
he shook his head, each individual hair would jar audibly against the
other. The whole arrangement gave one an idea of intense heat, and an
involuntary hope that the poor fellow had but a sprinkle of
hydrocephalus, he was of undecided height also, varying from five feet
four-and-a-half to five feet four-and-three-quarters, at the option of
his boot-maker; but the most remarkable features, if we may use the
expression, in his conformation, were his hands, which were gaunt and
bony, of a tanned-leathery consistence, and of a streaky, mottled,
castile-soap color, covered with a straggling crop of light, sandy hair,
and ornamented with several _wedding_-rings—evidences of broken-hearts,
which some men are fond of displaying as certificates of gallantry.
Dressed in irreproachable black, and capped and jeweled in the most
orthodox style, it may be imagined that Jasper was an _object_ of no
small solicitude to the “anxious mothers of slenderly-portioned
daughters;” he certainly had an air _bien riche_, if not
_distingué_—and that’s the marketable _materiel_ after all.

Months were unprofitably spent, and Jasper was beginning to think the
time irretrievably lost, when an occurrence of some little interest
varied the cateraceous-drinkability of hotel monotony. The Blodgerses
arrived, _en route_ to the fashionable ruralities.

Now the Blodgerses were extensive people in their way. They were
originated somewhere in Pennsylvania, and affected the tone of the far
south; traveled with huge trunks, two lap-dogs, a parrot, and a liveried
African. The head of the family was a pursy, important,
chairman-of-an-election-committee-looking man, with a superabundance of
excessively white shirt-frill, and a great deal too much watch-chain;
the latter appendage he invariably swung round as he conversed, its
momentum indicating the state of his temper during an argument; let him
speak upon uninteresting topics—literature, for instance, or any of the
useless arts—you notice but a gentle apathetic oscillation, but let him
get upon the tariff; let him hurl denunciations against his political
enemies, or eulogize his particular presidential candidate, and round it
goes with astonishing velocity.

Blodgers had been a grocer, or something of the kind, and having, during
a life of assiduous saving and scraping, accumulated a very large sum,
now flung himself with extraordinary _abandon_ upon the full stream of
gentility—and, to say the truth, most uncomfortable he found it; for
many a time would he acknowledge to his wife that “This flying about
from steam-car to steamboat, was far more fatiguing, and not quite so
profitable as quietly serving out lump sugar.” Then would Mrs. B.
indignantly check such compromising thoughts, for she was a person of
great pretension, had had a slight acquaintance with Mrs. Judge Pinning,
and once visited by accident Mrs. General Jollikins, so felt herself
bound to talk of “society.” “They don’t do this in our set;” or, “it’s
not the etiquette in _society_;” and such like sidewinded hints of her
position, formed the staple of her conversations. As for the heiress to
the wealthy grocer’s store, there was an indescribable something in her
air and manner which plainly indicated, “I am worth looking after!” She
talked loudly, stared mutely through a magnificent Parisian
double-glass, and in fact broke through all the recognized rules of good
breeding with that insolent familiarity which but poorly imitates the
_nonchalant_ ease of the really _distingué_.

No description of deportment could have made so great an impression on
Jasper. She looked ingots, she spoke specie, and her _prestige_ was
altogether redolent of _roleaux_. He was struck, but the stricken deer
took the precaution to investigate realities before he advanced a step
toward acquaintanceship. Now, thought he, if she but happen to have some
ten or fifteen thousand, she’d be just the wife for me. The result was
satisfactory. He discovered that a larger sum was settled to be her
marriage-portion—and so laid vigorous siege instanter.

Now Araminta Blodgers, although decidedly unqualified to grace the pages
of the book of beauty, had a strange predilection for “nice young men;”
so that at first Jasper met with decided, and not over-delicately
expressed, opposition. But he was not a man to retire from the first
repulse; he persevered, and finally so deceived the sympathetic Araminta
into the belief of his ardent affection, that, one fine summer evening,
she sighed forth an avowal that she and her expectations were at his
disposal.

Fresh from this successful attack upon the heiress’ susceptibilities,
with a feathery heart, Jasper snapped his fingers at love, and danced
down the corridor of the hotel, to the infinite wonderment of the
waiters. Either from force of habit, or as a means of tempering the
exuberance of his spirits, he plunged into the mysteries of the
guest-book, where, alas! for Araminta Blodgers, and for true love! the
first name he saw was that of Mrs. Skinnington, the rich widow from his
own immediate neighborhood; she whom he had sedulously church-ogled from
the opposite pew every Sunday, astonished at the vastness of his
presumption; she, the _bona fide_ and sole possessor of nearly half his
native town. Here was the shadow of a shade of opportunity. She was
alone. Jasper hesitated. Araminta’s fortune was ample, but when there
was a chance of more, it wasn’t _enough_! Finally, he determined to wait
the first interview with the widow, and be regulated by her manner.

They met at dinner, and she was singularly gracious. The fact is, those
eye-assaults had told a little; and I’m sorry to say, for the character
of the sex, that the widow, in case the siege should be renewed, had
predetermined on capitulation.

The result may be anticipated. The endurable Araminta was thrown over
for the intolerable widow and her superior wealth. They were married in
a curiously short space of time; and when Jasper found himself master of
the widow’s hoards, “Now,” thought he, with a glowing heart, “a few
thousand dollars more, and I shall be content. One hundred thousand is
the acme of my desire; let me but achieve that, and I shall then retire
and spend the remainder of my days in quiet comfort.”

In process of time he did realize the coveted amount; but did he keep
his word and retire. No! he had enough of that. Home was to him the
worst of all miseries, a sort of domestic Tartarus; the presiding fury,
his elderly wife, who, incapable of inspiring a sentiment of affection
herself, yet assumed all the caprice of a girl. Jealous to very lunacy,
she gave vent to the agonizing sensations of her soul by scribbling
heart-rending sonnets for the Fiddle-Faddle Magazine. Thin, withered,
romantic and exacting, you may suppose that to the unfortunately lucky
Jasper, home was no _dulce domum_.

The consequence was, that he, dreading the _tête-à-tête_ domestic,
confined his attention to his monetary affairs. Retirement with an
unlovable and moreover intolerably suspicious companion as Mrs. L., or,
as she signed herself, Sappho, was out of the question; so he determined
to stick to the counting-house. And now a great idea filled his brain
almost to monomania, which was, to make his one hundred thousand _two_.
Once conceived, every thought and action was merged in that one
absorbing idea. Heedless of the domestic tornadoes that ever and anon
swept over his devoted head, he slaved, fretted, lied, I think I may
venture to say, cheated, but honorably, and in the way of business,
until after a few years of health-destroying worry, he beheld himself
within sight of the desired haven. But five thousand more, and the sum
would be accomplished; one stroke of luck—one piece of indifferent
fortune, and he would then be really content.

Worn out by constant exertion, he fell dangerously sick. During his
illness, news arrived which brought him within a few hundreds of his
desired maximum. Notwithstanding his bad health, and in opposition to
all remonstrance, he called for his books, and with weak hand, and
weaker brain, attempted to calculate. After many hours labor, altogether
unaware that he was thus unprofitably expending his last flickering of
life, he gave a long sorrowful sigh, and gasping forth, “Not enough! not
enough!” expired.

Not many days after, a few feet of earth were sufficient for THE MAN WHO
NEVER HAD ENOUGH.

                                                                   B.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           MY BIRD HAS FLOWN.


                         BY MRS. E. W. CASWELL.


           [Written on reading “My Bird,” by Fanny Forester.]


                My bird has flown, my gentle bird!
                  Four autumn suns gone by,
                She left, to cheer our loneliness,
                  Her own dear native sky.

                With love, the precious treasure came;
                  I drew her to my breast,
                Gazed in her heaven-lit eye of blue,
                  And felt—how richly blest!

                She grew in beauty day by day,
                  More dear each passing hour,
                Until we came to feel our bird
                  Would never leave our bower.

                The rich, wild sweetness of her song,
                  Rung on the morning air,
                And mildly, on the evening breeze,
                  It told the hour of prayer.

                We thought when darkness frowned above,
                  And wint’ry winds went by—
                ’Twould still be summer _in our home_,
                  And sunshine _on our sky_.

                With our own sweet minstrel ever near
                  No sorrow could invade;
                Her song of love would cheer us still,
                  And bless our woodland shade.

                Now, many a weary day hath passed
                  Since from my tearful eye
                Her untaught pinion cleft the air,
                  And vanished in the sky.

                Why has she gone? Seeks she afar
                  Some green isle’s shadier bowers?
                Some happier nest—serener airs—
                  And purer love than ours?

                Oh not on earth! not here—not here!
                  Clouds veil our brightest skies,
                And summer’s mildest breezes,
                  Chill our bird of Paradise.

                The treasure which we deemed our own
                  Was briefly lent, not given.
                _Our Father knew his spotless bird,_
                  _And called her home to Heaven._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           LESSONS IN GERMAN.


                        BY MISS M. J. B. BROWNE.


                               CHAPTER I.

“Tut-tut-tut! don’t tell me ‘_it means nothing_,’ Sara,” said my uncle
Waldron, as he assumed quite an air of resentment, and seized in his
hand a cluster of cousin Sara’s beautiful ringlets, school-master
fashion, as if about to “pull her hair” for some just discovered
mischief.

“Why uncle!” expostulated Sara, looking up in his face, with a smile
that would have melted an iceberg, so warm and sunny was it—much more
did it melt the feigned frown on the brow of my bachelor uncle—“do let
me assure you”—

“I don’t _want_ any assurances niece—what need has a man of assurances
when he sees with his own eyes, especially if he has as much reason for
confidence in his visual organs as I have in _mine_,” smilingly retorted
uncle Theodore. “Don’t I catch him here most provokingly often? and is
there not such a commerce in books between you, as would justify the
suspicion that I have not a library of five thousand volumes, of all
sorts of books, in all sorts of languages, both living and dead, besides
shares in I know not how many circulating libraries”—

“But uncle,” I interposed, “you must remember that Mr. Greydon is the
_minister_, and he comes to make cousin Sara _pastoral calls_, and to
impart spiritual counsel—” I left my apology unfinished, for I was
obliged to stop and laugh at its mis-placed sanctimony.

“Yes, yes, yes, miss!” replied uncle The., fairly driven into one of his
merriest laughs—“and by all means his ‘spiritual’ what-did-you-call-it,
must be communicated in _German_—no medium but _German_ now—a little
while ago nothing but _French_—by and by it will be hocus-pocus, or
some other such gibberish!”

“Dear uncle,” interrupted poor blushing Sara, “I’m _studying_ German,
and Mr. Greydon is so kind as to give me two lessons a week, out of his
very valuable time.”

“Fol-de-rol, every word of it—if you wanted a German teacher, why
didn’t I ever hear of it, so I could have procured a genuine imported
one. But suppose he does come _twice_ a week to give you a lesson, he
comes the _other_ twice to—_what_, Sara? Help get it?” And Sara,
finding herself circumvented on that track, blushed redder, and uncle
Waldron laughed merrier than ever.

My other apology for the frequency of Mr. Greydon’s visits, was so
nearly a failure, I concluded this time, _silence_ was the “better part
of valor,” so I left cousin Sara, to her own extrications from the
cross-examinations of a wily old lawyer. As soon as she could make
herself heard above uncle’s successive peals of merriment, she said,
rather imploringly—

“Why, uncle Waldron, don’t make so much sport of me. You know I am so
much alone—I am sure I think Mr. Greydon is very kind.”

“Yes, yes, niece—very kind, indeed—I see. ‘_Alone_ so much,’ did you
say? How comes that, pray? Isn’t here Maria, and isn’t she company
enough? You pay my guest but a wretched compliment, putting her society
down as nothing.”

“O no, no, uncle,” said Sara, “I don’t mean _that_—indeed you are too
wicked to-night. Maria knows how truly I value her society. But she is
here only very little—didn’t I stay all winter alone, when you kept
promising me a cousin or friend to stay with me?”

“Well, well, uncle,” said I, “there is one thing for your
assurance—cousin Sara has repeatedly declared she would not marry a
clergyman!”

“That’s what she has—Sara,” said uncle Theodore, looking rather
equivocally in her face, as if he were prepared to overturn whatever she
might depose, “do you hold of that mind still?”

“Certainly, sir,” responded Sara, with some ill-concealed hesitation,
and not a little confusion, “I am not wont to vacillate much in my
opinions.”

“And you make a life-long bargain with me to retain your post as my
house-keeper, in presence of cousin Maria as witness, do you?”

“Yes, sir, unless you release me some time, at your pleasure.”

“You are a noble girl, Sara, darling—I’ll buy you that Arabian
to-morrow, and you shall have a groom on purpose to attend him;” and my
uncle laid his hand tenderly on cousin Sara’s beautiful head, in token
of his satisfaction.

By this time it was his stated hour for retiring—he took the “big ha’
Bible” from its place, reverently read a holy psalm, and then commending
his household to the care of an Almighty Protector, in a low and fervent
prayer, he bade us good night, and left the drawing room.


                              CHAPTER II.

My uncle Waldron, or Judge Waldron, for he had been promoted to “the
bench,” was a bachelor—a hopelessly confirmed bachelor. Not that he
under-valued woman—no—he regarded her with the noblest, loftiest, and
most rational admiration of any man I ever knew. But his notions were
peculiar, and perhaps not a little fastidious in the matter of what a
_wife_ should be, so he never proposed himself as a husband to any lady
of his widely extended and really valuable circle of acquaintances, to
the infinite astonishment of some of them. In the course of _long years_
he became thoroughly tired of being a _boarder_—of never realizing any
of the quiet pleasures and sympathies that cluster round the hearth and
the heart of home. So he erected a beautiful villa, just a delightful
drive from the city, adorned it within and without with all the
decorations and elegancies which could be suggested by the highest
refinement of taste, and a liberal expenditure of the amplest means, and
then we surely thought, as who would not, that having built his nest, my
uncle was about to choose his mate, and pass the winter of his life in
the calm sunshine of domestic bliss. But we “reckoned without our host,”
in that calculation. Uncle Waldron had other intentions.

Now cousin Sara was the eldest niece in the family circle, and from her
very birth she had been uncle Theodore’s acknowledged favorite—even in
her extreme babyhood he had condescended to take her in his arms, and
rock her for half-an-hour—an instance of partiality, by which none of
us could boast of being distinguished. We all wished that we could have
been the eldest niece, so we could have been the favorite—how much more
we wished we could be _just like_ cousin Sara.

Well, when his house was all complete, uncle Waldron proposed to Sara to
assume the responsibilities of its mistress, and threatened, in a way
she quite understood, to “cut her off with a shilling,” in case she
declined, so she followed her own inclination, and very readily
assented.

Cousin Sara was a star of the first magnitude in one of the most elegant
and policed literary constellations in her native city. Faultlessly
lovely in person, in manners, and in mind, her heart over-flowing with
the freshest and most cheerful piety, woman’s brightest ornament, it was
a mystery to us all, how she happened to live till she was twenty-seven
years old, without taking those responsibilities which most of our sex,
without a _tithe_ of her attractions or her abilities, assume, long
enough before they have the maturity and richness of twenty-seven
invaluable years in their favor—especially strange we thought it, when
so many most enviable inducements had been urged upon her acceptance.
But nobody seemed to please our fastidious cousin Sara.

When she had been some months at uncle Waldron’s, it became very evident
to _us_, quizzical spies of _cousins_, who took great pleasure in
spending a few weeks with her now and then, that she was more interested
in the society and person of the Rev. Robert Greydon, than she was
really willing we should discover. She hushed our impertinence in a
moment, if we undertook to rally her on the subject, by a peculiarly
imploring expression of countenance, which only made us think so all the
more. Mr. Greydon, as has been already intimated, was the clergyman of
the church where uncle Waldron worshiped. Cousin Sara had often declared
that she would not marry a _clergyman_ or a _widower_. Mr. Greydon,
though still a young man, united in his person _both_ those
disqualifications, so we managed, in the face of all indications to the
contrary, to conclude that we had nothing to fear. If he had _not_ been
a widower and clergyman, we should have chosen him, out of all the
world, for Sara’s husband—for he possessed all those rare and
invaluable excellencies of character, which Sara deserved, if ever a
lovely woman did, in the man of her choice.

Mr. Greydon was a very prudent man in his pastoral and social
intercourse. He did not wish to give the “silly women” of his parish,
who, as in duty bound, would keep a very faithful look-out after him,
any occasion to tattle—but the arrangement of the German lessons was
just the thing—it afforded him the most unimpeachable excuse for
enjoying Sara’s society without sounding an alarum in any body’s ears.


                              CHAPTER III.

“I would not light the lamp yet, Miss Hastings—this moonlight is so
magical,” said Mr. Greydon, as he sat in the bay window of uncle’s
drawing-room, one glorious evening in early summer. Indeed it was as
lovely an evening, and as fair a scene, as pencil of artist ever aspired
to sketch. I was sitting on the broad piazza, trying what my tyro pencil
could do with a landscape so wonderfully beautiful.

“You are sad, to-night, Mr. Greydon,” said Sara, desisting from her
purpose, and taking a chair by the table that had been drawn near the
window.

“No—not _sad_ exactly, Miss Hastings—only of a _doubtful_ mind,”
replied Mr. Greydon.

“Indeed!” gayly responded Sara—“but that must not be—it is expressly
_forbidden_ in Scripture and—”

“I know it Miss Hastings,” interrupted Mr. Greydon, with forced
playfulness in his tone, as if he were determined to rally himself—“but
it does not respect any matters of _doctrine_—rather of _practice_, I
might say. _You_ are always so cheerful and light-hearted, Miss
Hastings, it is almost a sin to be moody in your presence.”

“If I had the burden of a pastoral charge”—Sara checked
herself—“indeed, I fear it is the advantage of circumstances rather
than of temperament, Mr. Greydon,” she concluded.

There was a pause—the German lesson was finished long ago—Sara had
been singing, and Mr. Greydon accompanying her piano with the mellow
tones of his flute. There was a hush on the air, and a hush upon our
spirits. Perhaps it was the moonlight—perhaps it was the music—I don’t
know—but it became oppressive, and I began to feel that it was
somebody’s duty to relieve somebody’s embarrassment, by introducing a
new theme for conversation, and I was about to draw their attention to
some glorious shadows falling on the water in the distance, when Mr.
Greydon spoke.

“Miss Hastings, I have heard—but I hope it is not true—that you have
declared your intention never to marry a clergyman.”

“Indeed! Mr. Greydon—” stammered Sara, “I—who can have so mis—people
report so many—” Sara stopped; I never knew her self-possession so
completely recreant. Her heart assured her that if such had been her
resolution at any time, certain recent circumstances had essentially
shaken her purposes—so she could not assent; and to deny it just at
this point would make her more uncomfortable still. She was about to
conclude the remark as a very impertinent one, when Mr. Greydon
continued,

“I hope that determination is not invincible, Miss Hastings; my future
happiness depends—”

My sense of honor forbade my remaining in that neighborhood any longer.
I had innocently heard already more than was intended for the ears of a
third party; so I gathered up my drawing materials with what haste I
could, and without the sound of a foot-fall, made good my retreat to the
library.

I did not see cousin Sara again till we sat at the breakfast-table the
next morning, and then she looked as if she had attained the acme of a
pure and rational happiness. I never saw her half so lovely—half so
cheerful—half so spiritual; the dream of her whole life seemed about to
unfold into a blessed reality. As we sat in her dressing-room, after
breakfast, with a simplicity and confidence that made me love and admire
her more than ever, she told me of her engagement with the Rev. Robert
Greydon.

I opened my eyes and threw down my sewing in the most mischievous
surprise.

“Why, Sara Hastings! you have said a thousand times you would not marry
a minister! How can I believe you?”

“O, don’t, Maria—pray show me a little mercy; do you think, _uncle_ was
so wicked as to tell Mr. Greydon so! The truth is, young ladies had
better not make such resolutions, and if they do, it is better not to
express them. People cannot tell with much certainty what they _will_
do, and what they _will not_, till the inducement is before them.”

I assented to Sara’s philosophy, declared I never would say any such
thing, and with a kiss on her glowing cheek, I heartily congratulated
her, and told how sincerely I rejoiced at her choice, and her prospect
of earthly happiness.


                              CHAPTER IV.

There is to be a wedding at Uncle Waldron’s early in September, and I am
to be the first bridemaid! Truly an enviable appointment. Sweet Sara
Hastings will be the bride—Mr. Greydon the proud and happy bridegroom.
My dear old uncle will give away his “treasure,” and with her his villa
and all its elegant arrangements, as “a marriage dower.” The villa is to
become the “manse,” and uncle has, of course, stipulated that he shall,
through his whole natural life, be regarded as one of the indisputable
fixtures of the establishment.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           THE PHANTASMAGORIA


                            A LEGEND OF ELD.

                           BY A. J. REQUIER.


                                PART I.

          The morn is looking on the lake,
            Beside the ruined abbey;
          And its fingers white on the waters shake,
          Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,
          For the pale old moon it must keep its wake
            In the dark clouds thick and shaggy!
          The night-wind hath a moaning tone,
            And it cometh moaning by;
          The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,
          That years have crumbled, one by one,
          Answereth—sometimes like a groan,
            And sometimes like a sigh.

          A little light through the forest-trees
            Is twinkling very bright,
          Like a distant star upon waveless seas,
            Or a glow-worm of the night;
          ’Tis scarcely bigger than a pin,
            The little light of the village inn!

          It is a parlor dimly lit,
          And shadows on the arras flit;
          Shadows here and shadows there,
          Shadows shifting everywhere,
          Very thin and very tall,
          Moving, mingling on the wall—
          Till they make one shadow all!

          An old clock in the corner stands,
            Clicking! clicking! all the while;
          And its long and shadowy hands
          Would seem to say this hour is man’s,
          But Life hath swiftly running sands,
            And may wither in a smile.

          A fire is blazing upon the hearth,
          And it crackles aloud as if in mirth;
          By its flickering flames you may chance to see
          There are six men sitting in groups of three;
          They laugh and talk—they drink and drain
          Their goblets, till to drink is pain,
          And the eyes are brighter than the brain.

          Three gamble at the pictured vice,
          And three upheave the rattling dice,
              The cards go round—
              The boxes sound—
          A king!—an ace!!—a deuce!—a doublet!!
          For luck a laugh—for loss a goblet;
          An aching smile and a muttered curse,
          A beating heart ’gainst a broken purse,
          Ha! ha! ha! ha! how wild the din
          Of hearts that lose and hearts that win!


                                PART II.

          Near the corner, and near the clock,
          Sits a man in a dingy frock;
          A slouchèd hat on his head wears he,
          So sunken his eyes you cannot see;
          His clothes are turned of a rusty hue,
          All worn with age and damp with dew,
          A traveler! I’ll be sworn he be,
          This stranger man so strange to see,
          Weary with driving adown the lea;
          He hath ridden hard—he hath ridden long,
          And would like a meal more than a song!

          The rattling dice come rattling down!
            The pictured tablets glide;
          But a deeper shade on the light hath grown
            Of the parlor dim and wide,
          And the embers utter a fitful blaze
            On the forms that sit beside:
          For three look white in its ghastly rays—
          White as the corpse of ended days—
          While three are dark, and yet darker gaze
          On the cards and dice with which each one plays
            In the parlor dim and wide!

          And near the corner—near the clock—
            In silence sitteth still,
          The stranger motionless as a rock—
          The stranger man with a dingy frock—
          Who entered the room without nod or knock,
            As quietly as a rill.

          Clicking!—clicking!—all the while,
            The old clock soundeth on,
          As if it never had seen a smile,
          But was kin to that in the abbey-aisle—
            Chiming for mortals gone!

          Click—click! and hearts are beating
            High with the fate of game;
          Click—click! the clock is repeating
            Its lesson still the same—
          But one has uttered a fearful word,
          And started up like a startled bird,
            To dash the dice-box down;
          And with the click of the ancient clock
          Is heard the click of a pistol’s cock—
          And then—the deep fall, in a sudden shock,
            Of a body lifeless grown.

          The stranger is standing beside the board—
          The stranger that entered without a word—
          And to five who with cowardice quail and quake,
          As white as the moon looking on the lake,
          It was thus that the noiseless stranger spake:—

          “The blood which has ceased in the veins to run
          Of this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,
          This blood—a score of years ago—
          Belonged to a noble hidalgo,
          With a great estate and a greater name,
          And a palace proud, and a beauteous dame,
          And a little child—his only heir—
          Soft as the dew in the morning air,
          And as opening roses fresh and fair.

          “And it was this noble hidalgo
          Who sat in this chamber dim and low,
          But now a score of years ago,
          With a youth who bore beside his name,
          Which had never known the weight of blame,
          A treasure placed in his trusty hand
          By the sovereign lord of this mighty land.

          “And it was in this chamber dim and low,
          As the pendulum wide swung to and fro,
          That this youth and the high-born hidalgo
            Rattled a cursèd horn;
          That they played for the treasures of the king,
          Played till the cocks began to sing.
          And the youth had become a worthless thing—
            A mark for shame and scorn.

          “The youth knelt down at the noble’s feet,
          And, weeping, prayed that he should not meet
          The eyes of his master, the injured king,
          Who had trusted him well—a worthless thing!
          Yet he turned, the wretch! to stalk away,
          When a cry arrested his cruel way,
          And he heard a voice in agony say—
          A voice departing from its clay—
          ‘It shall follow thy house—it shall blast thy pride—
          It shall be as a thorn in thine aching side—
          Yea, learn, unpitying child of sin,
          Not always lucky are those who win;
          For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,
          Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,
          Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!’
          The blood which has ceased in the veins to run
          Of this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,
          This blood—a score of years ago—
          Belonged to a noble hidalgo,
          And _I am_—”

                      Here the ancient clock,
            With a rusty, rumbling sound,
          Shook as it struck—and the matin cock
          Answered the solemn chime of the clock,
            Till it echoed round and round!

          The embers that on the hearth-stone lay
          Down into ashes dropped away,
          While from the lattice worn and white,
          In the moonshine waning with the night,
          A steed was seen like the drifted snow
          As it galloped across the plain below,
          Swift as an arrow from its bow;
          With the slouchèd hat and the dingy frock
          Of the figure that sat near the corner and clock,
          And which came and went without nod or knock.

          And they that remained on each other bent
            Glances so dim and drear,
          That neither could tell what the other meant,
          Save that in all there was fear blent
          With a something which told them Heaven-sent
            Was the doom of the dead man there.

          One was a laborer tough and tanned,
          With the toil of tilling his meager land;
          The next, a veteran who did wield
          The sword on many a bloody field;
          The third, a friar grave or gay,
          As chase or chancel led the way,
          With shaven crown and cassock gray;
          The fourth, a publican, sorry elf!
          Who cared for no one but himself;
          And the last, a chield, as we often ken,
          Unknowing their ways in the walks of men.

          And these departed homeward all,
            Far holier than they came;
          For the sights which their visions did appall—
          The signs and sights in the haunted hall—
          Like to the writing on the wall,
            Spoke with a tongue of flame.


                               PART III.

          Torches are gleaming to and fro,
            In the abbey’s ancient vault;
          While a mute procession slowly go
          Into its mouldering depths below,
            And, in solemn order, halt!
          A monk hath chanted the midnight mass
          For a soul that tempted its final pass;
          And the little, gloomy sacristan
          Striveth to soothe an aged man,
          As they lift from the blazoned bier
            The stately drooping pall;
          And the old man sees him lying there
            His son—his heir—his all!

          Thou canst not soothe him, sacristan,
            Go to thy cord and corse—
          It is a fiend which gnaws that man;
            The worst of fiends—Remorse!
          It is a fiend which whispereth still,
          Or noon or night, or well or ill,
          From the dark caverns of the past,
          Through all their chambers dim and vast,
          “For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,
          Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,
          Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!”

          The lights have vanished—and the gate
          Of the abbey closed up desolate,
          And all is silent as before
          The key was turned in that rusty door,
          To add a slumbering mortal more
          To its never, never failing store;
          All is silent save the owl
          That moans like a monk from beneath his cowl,
          As the moon is looking on the lake,

            Beside the ruined abbey;
          And its fingers white on the waters shake,
          Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,
          For the pale old moon it must keep its wake
            In the dark clouds thick and shaggy!
          The night-wind hath a moaning tone,
            And it cometh moaning by;
          The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,
          That years have crumbled, one by one,
          Answereth—sometimes like a groan,
            And sometimes like a sigh.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       THE BEATING OF THE HEART.


                          BY RICHARD HAYWARDE.


                Heart that beateth, trembleth, yearneth,
                  Now with grief and pain assailed,
                Now with joy triumphant burneth,
                  Now in sorrow veiled;
                Moveless us the wave-worn rock
                  In the battle’s deadly shock,
                When the charging lines advance,
                    Doom on every lance;
                Yet melting at some mimic show,
                    Or plaintive tale of wo!

                Faint with love—of conquest proud—
                  Seared with hate—with fury riven,
                Like the fire-armed thunder-cloud
                  By the tempest driven:
                Hark! the chords with rapture swell,
                  Flood on flood melodious flowing,
                Sudden! strikes the passing bell,
                Swinging with reverbing knell,
                  While the soul is going!

                Though at times, “Oh, Death!” I cry,
                  “Ope the door, thy son entreateth!”
                Though from life I strive to fly,
                  Still the heart-clock beateth—
                No, not yet I wish for thee,
                  Gaunt and pale remorseless king!
                Soon, too soon, thou’lt come for me,
                  O’er life triumphing.

                Glow and dance in every vein,
                  Crimson current, ruby river,
                To thy source return again,
                As the teeming summer-rain
                Seeks again the parent main,
                  The all-bounteous giver;
                Beat, dear heart, against my breast,
                  Tell me thou art there again—
                Life and thee together rest
                  In that hold of joy and pain—
                Stronghold yet of life thou art,
                  Restless, ever-working heart!

                Night comes draped in shadows sombre,
                  Morning robed in light appears,
                Minutes, hours, withouten number,
                  Days and months and years
                Pass like dreams; yet still thou art
                Ever busy, restless heart!

                When his doom the captive heareth,
                  How thy summons, stroke on stroke,
                Tells the fatal moment neareth,
                  Sounding like the heavy stroke
                  Distant heard as falls the oak!

                How the maiden fair would hide
                  Thee within her bosom white,
                Still against her tender side
                  Throbs the soft delight;
                Every pulse reveals the flame,
                  Every fibre softly thrills,
                But how innocent the shame
                  That her bosom fills.

                In the hero, firm as steel,
                  In the virgin, soft as snow,
                In the coward, citadel
                  Where the recreant blood doth go
                  Hiding from the sight of foe.
                In the mother’s anxious breast
                Who can picture thy unrest?
                  When her babe lies low—
                With the fitful fever burning,
                No relief—still restless turning
                  Ever to and fro!
                In the bride what mixed commotion
                  When the words, “Be man and wife”
                Thrill her with that soft emotion
                  Known but once in life.

                Priceless jewel! hidden treasure!
                  All the world to thee is naught;
                Working loom of ceaseless pleasure,
                Weaving without stint or measure
                  Woof and web of thought:
                Hive of Life! where drone and bee
                Struggle for the mastery,
                In the never-ceasing motion,
                Like a great star in the ocean,
                Shines the soul! thy heavenly part,
                  Throbbing, life-assuring heart!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            DOCTOR SIAN SENG


                        OR THE CHINAMAN IN PARIS

                       (FROM THE FRENCH OF MERY.)


[Illustration]

I, the Doctor Sian Seng to Tching-bit-ha-ki.

On receipt of this letter forthwith go to Houang-xa, to the yellow
temple of Fo, and burn upon the altar a stick of camphor for me, for I
have arrived safely at Paris. I have sailed five thousand three hundred
and twenty leagues since my embarkation at Hoang-Ho, with peril of life
beneath my feet the whole voyage—and Providence has protected me.

May my ancestors deign to watch over me more than ever at this moment!
Paris is a field of battle, where bullets are represented by wheels and
horses; those who have neither carriage nor horses, perish miserably in
the flower of their age. There are seventeen hospitals for the wounded;
I saw one yesterday with this inscription, in large letters, “Hospital
for Incurables.” The wounded who are carried there, know when they enter
that they will never come out alive—they know their fate! It is very
charitable on the part of the doctors. You can now see that the
Barbarians understand civilization!

Notwithstanding the sage precepts of Li-ki, and the law of Menu, I have
purchased a carriage on four wheels, drawn by horses, and have wept in
anticipation of the unhappy fate of those I am about to send to the
“Hospital for Incurables;” but there are but two modes of living in
Paris—you must crush others, or be crushed yourself. I think it most
prudent to do the first.

I went down to the river to make my ablutions, and was about to commence
this holy act, when a policeman threatened me with his _baton_. In
looking at the water, I was consoled for the deprivation, as it had not
the pure and limpid flow of our own Yu-ho, which runs by Pekin under the
marble bridge of Pekiao. The Seine is a dirty yellow stream, which
descends to the ocean for a bath. I shall wait until it comes back!

I was told that Christians take a bath at home, which costs two francs.
I called for one, and was furnished with an iron box, very much
resembling the coffins in the cemetery of Ming-tang-y; one gets into
them and lies upon the back, with the hands crossed upon the breast,
like a true believer who has died in the faith of Fo.

In Paris, each house is governed by a tyrant, who is called a porter.
There are twenty thousand porters here, who make a million of
inhabitants unhappy and desolate. They sometimes make a Revolution to
overturn a poor devil, called a king; but they have never overturned the
twenty thousand porters. Mine receives my orders with loud explosions of
laughter, and when I threaten him, he says to me, “You are a Chinaman!”
Since he thinks to insult me by calling me by the name of my country, I
make the matter equal by crying, “And you are a Frenchman!”

“_Render insult for insult_,” says the sage Menu. These things have most
astonished me in Paris.

My first duty (in quality of my rank in the Ming tang, the greatest
society of _savans_ in the universe) has been to visit the Royal
Library, renowned here as “a vast depot of all human knowledge.” This
asylum of meditation, of reflection and study, is situated in the most
noisy street in the city; the millions of books it contains shake
continually with the passage of carriages and other vehicles. It is very
much as if you and I should go for instruction between the bridge
Tchoung-yu-Ho-Khias, where all the cats in Pekin are sold, and the
street Toung-Kiang-mi-Kiang, where salutes are fired night and day!

One of the librarians received me with great politeness, and offered me
a chair.

“Sir,” said I, in tolerable French, “I would be much obliged if you
could lend me, for a few moments, the ‘History of the Dynasties of the
Five Brothers Loung, and of the sixty-four Ché-ti’? You know that these
glorious reigns commenced immediately after the third race of the first
emperors—those of the Jin-Hoang, or the Emperors of Men, to distinguish
them from the second race, called Ti-Hoang, or Emperors of the Earth.”

The _savant_ did not appear as if he knew it. He put into his nose some
of the forbidden opium, and after reflecting awhile, said,

“Lao-yé, we have not that.”

He appeared pleased to show me that he understood that “Lao-yé” was
equivalent to “sir,” and repeated it a thousand times during our
conversation.

“You know, sir,” said I, continuing, “that after the glorious reigns of
Koung-san-che, of Tchen Min, of Y-ti-ché, and of Houx-toun-che, came the
reigns, still more glorious, of the seventy-one families, and that so
much glory was only effaced by the birth of the immortal Emperor Ki, the
greatest musician the world ever saw, and the inventor of Chinese
politeness. I would like to consult, in this ‘vast depôt of all human
knowledge,’ the history of the immortal Ki.”

The nose of the _philosophe_ received a second time a pinch of the
forbidden opium. He then opened an enormous handkerchief of Madras, and
suddenly jerking the head, neck, and hand, made a great noise resembling
that of a prolonged stroke upon a gong. When this tempest of the brain
had passed by, he folded up his Madras, drew it five times across his
face, and said,

“We have not the history of the immortal Ki, your emperor.”

“You have nothing, then,” said I, with that calmness which arises from
wisdom, and which is humiliating to those Barbarians whom the genius of
_Menu_ has never enlightened.

The learned man crossed his hands and inclined his head, shutting his
eyes, which means “Nothing,” in the language of the universe.

Nevertheless, I continued my requests.

“Since you have no books in this ‘vast depôt of all human knowledge,’
have you any maps?”

“Oh, maps!” said he, with the smile of a resuscitated _savant_, “we have
all kinds of maps, from the map of the Roman Emperor Theodosius to that
of ‘_dame de cœur_.’”

This answer, I have since been told, is a _bon mot_, apparently made by
this man of study to relieve his mind of _ennui_.

“Will you then show me,” said I, “the map of the Celestial Empire,
called Tai-thsing-i-thoung icki?”

The Madras again covered the visage of the _savant_; the box of opium
was exhibited, and a shake of the head, covered with a white powder,
announced to me that the map I sought did not exist at this vast depôt.

“Wait,” said he to me, with a joyous expression, “I can, nevertheless,
show you a few Chinese books which will please you. Follow me, lao-yé.”

I followed him.

We descended into some subterranean galleries, like to those of the
Indian temples of the “Elephant.” The air was infected with camphor and
whale oil. Right and left one could see by the twilight a great quantity
of busts, in plaster, of the great men of France, all dead—because, I
am told, there are never any living great ones there.

“See!” said my conductor, “this is the shelf of Chinese books.”

They were Persian.

I thanked the _philosophe_ with that simple politeness which was
invented by our immortal Ki, and left the library.

As I passed to my lodgings, I saw a crowd collected near some
scaffolding; and on inquiring of my coachman what was the cause of it,
was told that they were erecting a monument to a great man, dead two
hundred years ago, whose name was Molière. He composed _chefs-d’œuvre_,
which were hissed at their performance; he was persecuted by the court,
martyrized by his wife and his creditors, and died miserably at the
theatre between two suet candles. They refused the honors of burial to
his remains; and now, two hundred years after his death, his countrymen,
to show their gratitude, erect a monument to his memory, to recompense
his sufferings.

In most things the French are lively and mercurial; but in the matter of
gratitude, they take two centuries for reflection.

There is no great stone in the valley which has not “the ambition to
emulate Mount Tergyton,” says a verse of Li-Ki; so at Paris they have
taken it into their heads to imitate our large and endless Street of
Tranquillity, “Tchang-ngan-Kiai,” which runs the whole length of the
imperial palace at Pekin, and terminates at the most beautiful of the
seventeen gates of the city, “Thsiam Men,” the gate of “Military Glory.”

I felt pride while traversing their Rue Rivoli, in thinking what a
miserable imitation it was of our incomparable “tchang-ngan-Kiai;” my
national vanity was appeased.

It was in following this street that I came to another palace, inhabited
by the four hundred and seventy emperors who govern Paris, France, and
Africa, and whom they call “Deputies.” One must have a little dirty
piece of paper to gain admittance there. You give this little paper to a
man with a red face and a saucy-looking nose, who permits you to enter.
The four hundred and seventy emperors, each sit at the bottom of a dark
well, which seems lighted by the moon in her last quarter. An old
emperor, with a pleasing and paternal countenance, named Mr. Sosé,
governs the four hundred and seventy others, by playing tunes upon a
little silver bell. This spectacle is very amusing. The emperors are all
badly dressed and _coiffé_. They talk a great deal—walk about—play
tricks—sleep, or write letters to their wives, while an emperor,
perched up on a high seat, sings in a low voice something mysterious, to
a monotonous air, which resembles our “Hymn to our Ancestors,” without
the accompaniment of our national music. Each emperor has the right to
mount this seat, and sing to himself his favorite song, turning his back
upon Mr. Sosé. I asked a person sitting by me, “What they called this
play?” The “Representative Government,” he replied.

Salutes are not fired at Paris, except on the birth-day of the king,
which renders a sojourn here almost insupportable. I suppose this
wonderful spectacle does not amuse the inhabitants, since they only give
it once a year; and if it does not, why do they have it even on the
king’s birth-day? I asked this question of a man whom one calls a friend
here, one Mr. Lefort, my neighbor at my unfurnished lodgings, who
answered, “I do not understand you.”

This answer is made to me every day. One would imagine I spoke to them
in Chinese.

Being deprived of these “_feux de joie_,” which delight us at Pekin,
each evening I go to spend a few hours at the Opera, which is a theatre
where they pay public screamers salaries of fifty thousand francs per
annum. When a young man frightens his family by his cries, they shut him
up in a place they call “the Conservatory,” where a professor of
screaming gives him lessons for twenty-four moons. The pupil then enters
the Opera, and acts a part before fifty copper instruments, which make a
thousand times more noise than he does himself. You can well comprehend
that a good Chinaman, habituated from infancy to the soft melody of the
“Hymn to Aurora,” does not feel inclined to have his ears bored twice by
these public screamers at the Opera; so I was about to make my adieu to
the theatre the first evening, but having learned that, with a
contradiction peculiarly French, they performed other pieces, in which
not a word was said, I continued my visits. I was delighted with this
spectacle, which they call the “_ballet_.” Nothing is so admirable at
Paris as this performance; so that when seeing it one does not even
regret Pekin. Figure to yourself fifty women, with Chinese feet, dancing
“_à ravir_” without uttering a word. I have taken a box for all the
“_ballets_.”

There is a _danseuse_ among them called Alexandrine, and surnamed
_Figuranté_. I suppose on account of her fine figure. She has splendid
black hair, which flows down in torrents to her feet; and those feet so
small that, in her perpetual whirlpool of _pirouettes_ and _entrechats_,
they disappear from the sight. For ten nights, would you believe it, I
have watched this “_danseuse_” with particular attention, forgetting the
high mission with which I was entrusted, and the forty revolutions of
twelve moons which rest upon my head.

One evening the door of my box opened and a man entered, bowing
profoundly, and with much respect, said, “Light of the Celestial Empire,
Star of Tien, I have a favor to ask.”

I made him the universal sign which means, “Speak.” He did speak.

“I am a decorator of the Opera,” said he, “and am at this moment putting
the finishing touches to a Chinese Kiosque for the new _ballet_ of
“China Opened, or the Loves of Mademoiselle Flambeau, of Pekin;” may I
request you to come, during the interval of the acts, and give a glance
at my work, and suggest any improvement that may strike you?”

“Sir,” replied I, “your request is not disagreeable. Show me the way—I
will follow you.”

We walked for some time along subterranean damp galleries until we
arrived in the “_coulisses_” of the Opera. The decorator showed me his
work, and I had nothing but praise to offer him; it was in the most
exquisite Chinese taste.

There was a soft whispering near us of sweet and girlish voices, which
caused me to turn suddenly. It was a group of young _danseuses_, who
profited by the interval to gossip a little to relieve themselves, like
mutes delivered from a _régime forcé_. A blaze of light made me close my
eyes—Mademoiselle Alexandrine was there.

I looked for my friend the decorator to keep me in countenance, but he
had disappeared.

I invoked the spirits of my glorious ancestors, and asked of them
courage and calmness of mind, those two virtues so necessary in love and
war.

Mademoiselle Alexandrine had the carriage of a queen; her well-rounded
and graceful person was sustained solely by her left foot, upon which
she stood proudly, while the right one undulated from right to left, the
heel and toe only touching the floor. My eyes followed that wonderful
foot and never left it.

Imagine my astonishment when I heard the mellifluous voice of
Mademoiselle addressing me with a boldness worthy of a captain in our
Imperial Tiger Guard.

“Will you do us the honor, sir, to assist at the first representation of
the _Ballet Chinois_?”

I quitted the foot to look up at the face of the _danseuse_, and
answered with a well imitated Parisian accent, “I should be delighted to
be there, Mademoiselle, to put my eyes at your feet.”

Mademoiselle Alexandrine took me caressingly by the arm, and made me
promenade with her behind the scene.

“So it seems, sir, that China really exists, and that the Yellow river
is not a fable? Tell me, are not all Chinamen made of porcelain? Do they
really walk and talk like you and me? I did not know that there were any
other Chinamen than our Auriol de Franconi—do you know Auriol?”

All these questions were asked so rapidly as to defy answer. At her last
word, the _danseuse_, called upon the stage by a signal, quitted
suddenly my arm, and bounded away with the grace and springiness of a
gazelle, humming the air to which she was to dance. I awaited her return
to answer her questions; but when she again took my arm, she had
apparently forgotten them; her gayety had disappeared—care contracted
her brow.

“Have you noticed how cold the audience is this evening?” said she at
length. “Is there an Opera in your country?”

“No, Mademoiselle.”

“What a miserable country! Without an Opera! What do you do, then?”

“One is miserable _s’ennuie_, Mademoiselle, because you are not there!”

“That is very gallant. By the bye, you have beautiful fans in your
country; the nephew of a peer of France gave me a Chinese fan as a New
Year’s gift—_un bijou adorable_; the sticks were of ivory, with
incrustations of silver filigree work, and the picture of two yellow
cats playing with their tails as they ran in a circle; but I lost it at
‘Muzard’s.’”

“It is very easy to replace it, Mademoiselle; I brought thirty-three
with me, made at the celebrated manufactory of Zhe-hol.”

“Is it possible! And what will you do with such a collection?”

“They are intended as presents for the wives of ministers and
ambassadors.”

“Bah! the wives of ministers will laugh at your fans; and they are only
old withered faces! If I had your thirty-three fans, I would make all
the first _danseuses_ in Paris die of chagrin.”

“Mademoiselle, they shall be at your door to-morrow morning.”

“No one can be more French than you, sir; but who would have expected it
of a Chinaman. I will give you my address—“_Mademoiselle Alexandrine,
de Saint Phar, Rue de Provence, on the first floor._” My porter receives
my presents any time after seven o’clock in the morning, and places them
scrupulously in the hand of my chambermaid after mid-day.”

She made a _pirouette_, and disappeared.

Returning to my hotel after the Opera, I wished to meditate upon my
position, but my ideas wandered. You know my harem of Khé-Emil—it is
the most modest of harems—scarcely can one count in it fifteen women of
Zhe-hol of Tartar blood, and as many of Thong-Chou-fo, of pure Chinese
race, not to speak of some twenty or more _odalisques_, maintained
merely as decorations to the seraglio. Well, if Mademoiselle entered
that harem, she would eclipse my favorites among its women, as the light
of the full moon puts out the morning star. Yes, I have, unhappily,
discovered that her face charms me more than my whole thirty, shut up in
my modest harem. It is an unhappy fate! Happy are the three mandarins of
the seventh class, who have accompanied me to Paris. They dine at the
_Rocher de Cancale_; they eat beef in spite of the beard of Menu; they
attend the minister’s _soirées_, and know nothing of the exquisite foot
of Mademoiselle Alexandrine de St. Phar.

The next morning at eight o’clock, I sent to her porter the thirty-three
fans, with a box of the delicious tea of “Satouran.”

In the afternoon I dressed myself in court costume, my mandarin’s cap of
canary-yellow, ornamented with a plume of Leu-tze, and long robe of the
color _clair de la lune_, with gloves of citron- crape. My glass
told me I resembled the young Tcheon, the Prince of Light, and Son of
the Morning. Flattered by my mirror, I went to visit Mademoiselle
Alexandrine, and was introduced with the most surprising facility.

Her dress costume only rendered her more beautiful; her foot alone was
always the same. It seemed to live in a perpetual motion; one might well
say that it contained the soul of the _danseuse_, and that she thought
with her dear little toes.

“Sir,” said she, taking me familiarly by the hands, “I am the happiest
girl in the world! your present is truly royal. Sit down upon this
chair, and let us converse a little. I wish to present to you my little
sister, a perfect angel, as you’ll see.”

A young girl about twelve years old, as graceful as a fawn, leaped into
my arms, and seized my mandarin’s cap from my head.

“What do you think of her,” said the _danseuse_.

“She is your sister,” said I, with an expressive glance.

“Still gallant, dear doctor!”

“What is her name, Mademoiselle?”

“She has none yet, doctor; she waits for a godfather—it is the custom
at the Opera. Will you be hers?”

“Very willingly, Mademoiselle.”

“Give her, then, a pretty name—some name of your country.”

“Very well; then I name her ‘Dileri,’ which is a Mogul name.”

“What does it mean?”

“_Light of the eyes._ Does it please you, Mademoiselle?”

“Dileri is charming! Do the Moguls have such soft names, doctor?—and
they are still Moguls. It is wonderful! Mademoiselle Dileri, thank your
godfather.”

With that marvellous refinement with which the spirit of the great Fo
has imbued his faithful followers, and which renders them superior to
all of human kind, I asked Mademoiselle Alexandrine, negligently, “if
she had any taste for marriage?”

“Ah!” said she, crossing her beautiful feet upon a footstool of crimson
velvet, “it is not marriage that I fear, it is the husband. You do not
know French husbands, dear doctor. Such egotists! They marry a pretty
woman to have a slave, in spite of the law which forbids trading in
human flesh; and when they have her fast enchained, they show her as a
curiosity to their friends to excite their envy. Well, since China is
now opened, we will go to China to seek husbands. Dear doctor, you will
not find in all Paris a husband who would give his wife thirty-three
fans without any pretension, as if he merely said, ‘good-day!’ Are the
Chinamen good husbands, doctor?”

“Mademoiselle, ’twas a Chinaman who invented the honeymoon!”

“I do not doubt it. What a pity the Chinawomen have such queer eyes.”

“For that reason we come to seek wives at Paris.”

“Truly, doctor, you are _adorable_! and I am confused by your kindness.
I do not know how to express my sense of your compliments, and gratitude
for your splendid presents. May I not offer you a box in the fourth tier
for your suite? Giselle is performed to-morrow. My cousin has written a
play for the Theatre d’Ambigu; I will ask him for a box for you this
evening. Perhaps you will accept a free ticket for a month on the
railroad to Rouen.”

“Thanks, Mademoiselle! I am as grateful for your kind offers as if I had
accepted them. But I have a favor to ask.”

“It is already granted—speak.”

“I have brought with me some Indian ink, and I beg you will permit me to
make a picture of your right foot.”

“What a Chinese idea!” cried the _danseuse_, with a rich burst of merry
laughter. “Do you call that a favor? Take your crayon, dear doctor, I
give you up my foot; will you copy it _au naturel_, or in an odalisque’s
sandal?”

“I will paint it as it is at this moment.”

“As you like; meantime I will amuse myself and little sister by admiring
your thirty fans.”

At the third fan I had a striking resemblance of the wonderful foot. The
_danseuse_ glanced at it and uttered a cry of admiration, saying,

“Dear doctor, you have taken it with a dash of the pencil.”

“Mademoiselle,” answered I, “it is said of me that I could copy the
wind, if I could see it pass. I have copied your foot which is more
agile than the wind.”

“If you continue these compliments, doctor, I am afraid I shall fall in
love with you; I, who the other day shut my door in the face of a Greek
prince and two bankers.”

The candor of innocence was imprinted on the features of the _danseuse_;
and I bowed my head in reverence before this ingenuous woman, who
unveiled her heart to me without reserve. In taking leave of her I was
allowed to touch with my lips the ends of fingers which rivaled her feet
in beauty.

The Secretary for Foreign Affairs awaited me at five o’clock, to inquire
concerning the ceremonies used at Zhe-hol and at Pekin, at the reception
of European ambassadors, and to sound me in regard to certain political
secrets relating to the Chinese empire and Queen Victoria.

During the audience I experienced many distractions and made many
mistakes. May Ti-en grant that my errors may not one day cause trouble
to the Celestial Empire. Whilst the great minister of the Christians was
speaking to me, I was thinking of the foot of Mademoiselle Alexandrine
St. Phar! You see that that foot will overturn Pekin yet!

After dinner, a perfumed billet, the paper of which resembled a
butterfly’s wing, was brought to me, and I read as follows:

“DEAR DOCTOR,—I hear that you have brought to this country numberless
Chinese curiosities. Dileri, your charming god-daughter, is so much
delighted in looking at your fans, that she longs to know all the wealth
of her godfather; a childish folly! But I have promised her to visit you
to-morrow at 12 o’clock.

“Your god-daughter kisses you between the eyes, and I place you at my
feet.

                                              “ALEXANDRINE ST. PHAR.”

You know, my dear Tching-bit-ha-ki, that I have not brought with me many
of our toys. I only provided a few as presents to attachés’ wives, and
perhaps ministers. Happily, when I received the billet of Mademoiselle
Alexandrine, I had not yet distributed any of them; nevertheless, I felt
that my collection was too contemptible to be honored with a glance from
the divine _danseuse_, and I resolved to add to it before showing it to
her. I obtained all the information I could, and then went to Darbo’s,
Rue Richelieu, and to Gamba’s, Rue Neuve de Capucines—two merchants of
celebrity in _Chinoiseries_. I purchased at these shops two screens, a
pagoda of rice, two boxes of cloves, four tulip vases, two complete
services of porcelain, with a chamber tea service, a table of sandal
wood, inlaid with cypress, four figures of mandarins in clay from
Pei-ho, twelve pairs of embroidered slippers, a shop in miniature, a
chamberlain with his wand of office, two leaves of tam-tam, a parasol,
two lions _frisés_, and a copy of the royal carriage of the brother of
the sun and moon, the Emperor Tsieng-Long.

Most of these _Chinoiseries_ were made in Paris, and I doubted
particularly the royal carriage; but the imitation was so good, that a
mandarin only of the first class could distinguish the true from the
counterfeit. I did not cheapen these things, and paid the bill, an
enormous sum—thirty-seven hundred francs.

Night arrived; I went to bed to enjoy dreams of happiness to come, and
slept with my copy of the divine foot in my hand. My first thought in
the early morning was to put my Chinese riches in order, to exhibit them
to the best advantage. What a happiness, said I to myself, if she will
deign to point her foot to some one of these _bagatelles_, and say, in
her flute-like tones,

“Dear doctor, give me that for my boudoir.”

At length 12 o’clock struck, and my door opened.

Oh! the City of Houris will be one day destroyed for having forgotten to
produce Mademoiselle Alexandrine de St. Phar! I was thunderstruck at her
morning beauty. The divine _danseuse_ led her little sister by the hand.
She threw her hat and shawl upon the first chair, pressed my hands, ran
about the room, _pirouetting_ before each _Chinoiserie_ with cries of
pleasure and joy which went to my very heart. When she had exhausted
every exclamation of delight, she said to me,

“Dear doctor, I am sorry to have brought your god-daughter with me—she
asks for every thing she sees. Oh, these children! one should never show
them any thing. It is true I am somewhat of a child in that way, too. If
I had to choose some one of these things, I should be in great
embarrassment, and would not dare to do it, lest I should to-morrow
regret that I had not taken something else.”

In saying these words with delicious volubility, she pushed out her
right foot from the protection of the shortest of robes. She might have
seduced the most virtuous Lama of Lin-Ching.

“Mademoiselle,” said I, “permit me to point out a plan to avoid that
difficulty.”

“Ah, will you! Dear doctor, tell me this plan!”

“Will you swear to act according to it?”

“I swear it!”

“You will keep your oath?”

“I will.”

“Well, Mademoiselle, take them all.”

The divine _danseuse_ raised her arms gracefully, threw back her queenly
head, and her bosom of ivory palpitated with sudden gladness, like the
throat of a bird that sings with very happiness.

“You are a rare fellow,” cried she; “after your death, your body should
be embalmed, and your tomb be a ‘Mecca’ for all true gallants from
thenceforth forever. But, dear doctor, remember that I am a woman. You
do not know to what you expose yourself. Suppose I were to take you at
your word?”

“I should say you were a woman of your word, and knew how to keep an
oath.”

“No, no, dear doctor, no joking! you wish to try me!”

“Not in the least; I speak seriously. All these curiosities belong to me
no longer—they are yours.”

“Then you must be the brother of the sun and moon and cousin to the
seven stars in disguise. Long live the Emperor!”

                                           [_Conclusion in our next._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                    THE HIGHLAND LADDIE’S FAREWELL.


                              BY AUGUSTA.


Come an’ sit thee doon langside me now, my ain, my darling Sue,
Let your laddie view those e’es, lass, that match yon heaven’s blue:
Dearie, pit that wee saft han’ in mine, whiles swear that ye’ll be true
To Willie when he’s gane awa’, to fight for hame an’ you.

Here’s a bonnie sprig o’ broom, I plucked it yander on the lea,
Pit it in the auld ha’ Bible, ’twill mind thee aft o’ me,
Ken ye weel the motto o’ the broom? ’tis “hope an’ constancy;”
An’ dinna, lass, forgit me when I am far awa’ frae thee.

Ye will roam where we hae roamed, lassie, langside the mountain rill,
An’ think how aft thegither we hae watched the brooklet fill:
Ye will miss my step come bounding ’mang the heather on the hill,
But in spirit I’ll be there, lass, an’ guard thee frae all ill.

When the moon is saftly beaming, love, an’ a’ are wrapt in sleep,
When starlets frae the curtains o’ the sky come forth an’ peep,
When the heath-bell bends its tiny head, while dew-draps o’er it weep,
’Tis then my spirit shall its welcome vigil o’er thine keep.

When the haly Sabbath morn comes roun’, an’ sweet the kirk bells ring,
When wee birds wake the dingle with the songs o’ praise they sing,
When ye bend before the throne o’ HIM to whom all praise we bring,
Oh! ask him then to guide me, lass, an’ guard me with His wing.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            A TWILIGHT LAY.


                         BY W. HORRY STILWELL.


            This glorious sunset I behold,
              This lovely closing scene of day,
            The western sky embathed in gold,
              The calm, low murmurings that play
                Upon the quiet ear of eve;—
            Yon fields, in waving beauty spread,
              The summer-rose now paling here,
            The sunflower’s gently drooping head,
              Proclaim the day, the hour near,
                O’er which, for aye, I vainly grieve!

            No more the rapture now, that grew
              Within our hearts, pale sleeping _one_!
            While dwelling on that gorgeous view
              Unfolded by the setting sun—
                No more thy loved, thy lonely flowers
            Will bend to kiss the gentle hand
              Outstretched to train their heavenward bloom;
            No more that angel form will stand
              Beside me, in the twilight gloom,
                To light with love my darkened hours!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     THE CHAMBER OF LIFE AND DEATH.


                          BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.


                               CHAPTER I.

A light was seen gleaming at an unusual hour, in one of the rooms of
—— college. The sole occupant of said room was Willard Carlton, a
member of the junior class. He was a diligent and successful student,
but was not wont to trim the midnight lamp. By a wise employment of
sunlight, by avoiding the loss of isolated moments, he accomplished as
much mental labor as the laws of health would allow, and devoted a large
portion of the night to refreshing sleep.

The light attracted the attention of a friend and fellow student, who
was laying the foundation of a life of suffering, by prolonging his
night studies to the morning hours. He repaired to Carlton’s room, and
found him leaning upon his table, his countenance marked with deep
dejection.

“Are you ill?” said Temple.

“I am not,” said Carlton, pointing to a seat.

“I knew there must be some cause for your being up at this late hour, I
thought it could be nothing less than sickness.”

“It is something more than sickness.”

“Is it any thing in regard to which I can be of any service to you? I am
entirely at your command.”

“Thank you—you can do nothing for me. I have received a letter from
home.”

“It contains bad news.”

“Yes.”

“Is your father ill?”

“My father is well; but I am informed that another—friend has a mortal
disease.”

“Another friend! a lady?”

Carlton bowed his head in reply.

Temple was silent. He knew that Carlton had no relative in his native
place except his father. He inferred at once the nature of his
connection with the invalid whose situation caused such deep solicitude.
He felt a little hurt at the reserve with which he had been treated.

“Perhaps,” said Carlton, rightly divining what was passing in the mind
of his friend, “I should have informed you of my acquaintance with Miss
Warren. I have tried to do so more than once. My silence has not
resulted from a want of confidence, or from a desire of concealing my
engagement.”

“I think,” said Temple, “I can understand and appreciate the reason.
Does Miss Warren live in your native place?”

“Yes; her parents removed there just two years ago. I became acquainted
with her in the course of the first vacation after I entered college. We
have been engaged nearly a year. She has recently been traveling for
several months in hope of benefiting her health. My father incidentally
mentions that her lungs are diseased beyond hope of recovery.”

“What is her age?”

“She was eighteen yesterday. She has seen only eighteen summers, and yet
she must go down to the grave.”

“May we not hope that the fears of her friends have led them to overrate
her danger?”

“The error always lies in the other direction.”

“Is it your purpose to go home?”

“I have written to my father for permission to do so,” pointing to a
letter which lay on the table. “It is useless for me to stay here. When
she is gone, I shall have no motive to study. I have desired distinction
for her sake. I have lived for her alone.”

Temple strove to think of some topic of consolation which he could
appropriately present. He knew his friend too well to suggest any thing
which did not fully meet his case. He was constrained to leave him to
his own reflections. Assuring him of his sympathy, and exhorting him to
seek repose, he withdrew to his own apartment.

Carlton remained in his seat until his lamp was paled by the morning
light. He then vainly sought an hour of repose; then rose, and having
obtained leave of absence, seated himself in the morning stage-coach,
and was borne over the hills and plains toward his native village.

The forests were putting on the scarlet and gold of autumn; but he saw
not their beauty. He was like the shipwrecked mariner whose eye is fixed
upon the bark which is fast receding in the distance. He was well nigh
insensible to every thing around him.

His father was surprised and alarmed as the coach drew up at the door,
and his son alighted. The pale and anxious countenance of the son had no
tendency to dispel the fears which his sudden appearance had occasioned.
To the hurried inquiries made respecting his health, he gave
satisfactory replies, and then added:

“I came home solely on account of Miss Warren. Have you heard from her
to-day?”

“She is not quite so well to-day,” said the father, in a tone of
sympathy which went to the heart of his son. He comprehended at once the
state of the case. Sympathy for the evident suffering of his son,
prevented him from making even the mental inquiry, whether that son had
not failed in duty to him, by not seeking his approbation in a matter so
momentous in its influence.

It was not from want of respect or regard for his parent, that Willard
had not made known to him the state of his affections. In all ordinary
matters, the wishes of his parent were a law to him; concealment was
foreign to his nature. But when those dreams, and longings, and
aspirations which the young heart is scarcely willing to confess even to
itself, began to cluster around a living object; when, ere he was aware
of it, all the wealth of his ardent soul was bestowed upon Eliza Warren,
he felt an almost invincible repugnance to speak of it to any one but
her.

After attempting to partake of some refreshment, he directed his
footsteps toward the chamber of sickness, and to him of sorrow. His
father kindly offered to attend him, but he begged permission to go
alone.

A chill autumnal wind swept through the branches of the shade-trees,
which were rapidly losing their foliage in consequence of the early
frosts. The hues of evening were falling upon the landscape, and it
seemed to him that it would never more be illumined by the morning sun.

As he reached the door of Miss Warren’s dwelling, he met the physician,
who advised that she should not see him, or be apprised of his arrival
until morning. Willard turned and made his way slowly homeward. His
father, not expecting his speedy return, had gone out. The house was
desolate—his mother had died when Willard was an infant.

He went to his chamber. Exhausted nature claimed repose. He slept till
the light of morning began to struggle for entrance through the window,
thickly shaded by the woodbine, which had not yet felt the influence of
the frost.

At an early hour he presented himself at the door of the invalid. She
was dressed in a robe befitting the sick-chamber. She attempted to rise
as he entered, but her strength was not equal to the effort, and she
sunk back in her chair. The crimson attendant upon the attempt was
succeeded by a deadly paleness, which, however, did not drive the sweet
smile from her lips. He stood and gazed upon her, as if upon a statue of
surpassing loveliness, or a vision from another world. It was not till
her hand was extended to invite him to approach her, and the tears began
to fill her eyes, that the spell was broken, and he advanced to press
her thin hand to his aching heart. He sat down by her side without
speaking.

“I am glad to see you,” said she, almost in a whisper, which to his ear
had a sepulchral hollowness. “When did you hear of my return?”

“Have you a cough?” said he, not heeding her question.

Before she could answer, a paroxysm of coughing, which she strove in
vain to repress, shook her delicate frame in a manner which caused him
to feel from that moment that there was no hope. He rose and paced the
room in agony.

“Sit down,” said she, as soon as she had recovered strength to speak. “I
shall use no ceremony with you now—sit down here,” and she drew the
chair he had occupied closer to her own. “I have heretofore I
felt—shall I own it?” and here a smile, such as first won his heart,
lighted up her features—“a little afraid of you. I do not feel so now.”

“You do not expect to get well,” said he, as he sat down and took her
hand in his.

“I do not,” was her reply, but her countenance underwent not the
slightest change. A convulsive burst of grief on his part caused her to
weep in sympathy.

“Do not,” said she, “make me weep. Dry your tears and let us talk
together.” He endeavored to obey her request.

“Have you suffered much since I saw you?”

“Not much physical pain.” She did not say how much she had suffered when
the darkness first fell upon all her prospects and hopes of life. She
did not tell him how much she had suffered in view of the anguish which
her early death would give to her friends, and most of all to him.

“How can it be,” said he, as though speaking to himself.

“It can, and must be,” said she, with entire composure, “and there is
one thought connected with this dispensation, which does more than all
other things relating to earth, to reconcile me to it.”

“Nothing can reconcile me to it”—said he, in a manner indicating
disapprobation of the expression she had used.

“You surely would not have me like the imprisoned bird which wounds
itself against the bars of its prison?”

“Oh no, I was selfish in the remark. I was thinking only of myself.”

“No, Willard, you shall not do yourself injustice, you were thinking of
me. But the thought I alluded to is this—all your hopes have had
reference to this world. They have not reached beyond the horizon of
time. You have loved me as I do not deserve to be loved. I know and
appreciate the depth of your love. The loss of your idol may cause you
to take off your thoughts from the earth, and fix them on an enduring
portion. If my death could be the means of your spiritual life, I think,
solemn and awful as is the change which it brings, I could willingly
meet it. And will it not have that effect? When I am gone will you not
seek a better portion—even an heavenly?”

“When you are gone life will be utterly valueless to me.”

“Do not say so. You cannot say so and be blameless. If I now speak with
calmness respecting our situation, you will not ascribe it to
indifference to life, and the objects it set before me. You are not less
dear to me than I am to you. Nothing has kept my heart from breaking in
view of the blighting of all my earthly prospects, but a firm conviction
that all events are ordered by Infinite Wisdom—that I am in the hands
of a Being whose tenderness far surpasses that of my earthly parents,
and whose power will cause all things to work together for my
everlasting good. This conviction, and the hope that you will be induced
to seek a better portion, enable me to go calmly forward by easy, but
somewhat rapid stages, toward the grave. I have ever been very anxious
on your account. Even in my happiest moments I have often trembled lest
I should be the means of your continuing to rest contented with this
world.”

The entrance of the physician prevented further conversation. He found
her pulse accelerated, and advised that she should seek repose.


                              CHAPTER II.

Young Carlton had not enjoyed the advantages of early instruction in
religious truth. His pious mother died while he was in his infancy. His
father took the utmost pains with the intellectual, social, and emotive
education of his son. The subject of personal religion was never
mentioned by him. He was not a disbeliever in Christianity; but he gave
little heed to its peculiar claims. He was much in public life, and a
reputation for high and honorable principle was all the religion to
which he aspired. It is not strange therefore that Willard was ignorant
of those consoling truths which formed the support of Eliza in her dark
hour of trial.

In his view, she was a perfect being. He questioned the justice of the
decree which was about to consign her to an early grave. He questioned
the right of the Great Disposer to take from him his portion and destroy
his hope. His life had been marked by strict integrity. He had no
sympathy with the sensual. His aims had been purer and higher than those
of the great majority of men. Why should the scathing bolt fall upon
him, while the mercenary and abandoned passed on and realized their
ends? Thoughts like these passed through the mind of Carlton, and as he
walked to and fro in his chamber after the interview above described,
they had no tendency to calm his agitation. The tempest in his bosom at
length overpowered him. His father found him in a sleep bordering upon
insensibility.

A day of illness intervened. On the next morning he again visited Eliza.
There was the game voice and smile—perhaps the one was a little
fainter—the other, if possible, a little sweeter than at the previous
interview. Eliza entered upon a series of cheerful inquiries respecting
his studies, his friends, and his purposes: she failed to chase away the
deep expression of sorrow that rested upon his brow.

“It is useless,” said he, comprehending her purpose, “let us speak of
what concerns us more, or let us enjoy each other’s society in silence.
When with you I can even now speak of enjoyment.”

“I hope you will speak of it and feel it when I am gone; but I know that
you cannot unless your affections are set in right tune by the hand of
God. You are different from all other men. In my young dreams I used to
fancy one whose whole life should consist in the exercise of affection.
I never expected to find such a being. I have found one. Those
affections will be to you ministers of sorrow, unless they are fixed
upon something more enduring than an earthly object.”

“I can now think of nothing but you. If I am to have you but for a short
time longer, do not attempt to turn my thoughts to other things. If I
survive you, I will do all you wish.”

“I shall insist on the fulfillment of that promise.”

“Can you tell me,” said Willard, after a brief interval of silence, “why
the heartless and cruel are suffered to remain, while the pure and
gentle are taken away?”

“I cannot. I cannot tell why the summer flower was not made to endure as
long as the mountain rock. We can only refer it to the wisdom and the
will of God. But I begin to feel too much fatigued to converse longer.
Will you read to me?”

“From what book?”

“From this, if you have no objection”—handing him a small copy of the
New Testament, which she drew from her bosom. He took it and pressed it
to his lips. He then read chapter after chapter, as she named them to
him. Occasionally he would steal a glance at her countenance as she
shaded her closed eyelids with her hand—beautiful as a statue, yet
revealing the priceless soul in every vein.

“I wish you could pray with me,” she whispered, as he closed the volume
and rose to depart.

“I cannot,” was the reply. This answer did not drive away the smile that
was upon her lips—it was transferred to his, as they met.

“How long before you return to college?”

“I shall never leave you again.”

He retired. His last expression caused a flowing of tears more copious
and exhausting than had been shed during the whole period of her
decline.

Day after day Carlton took his station in the chamber of the
consumptive, and watched her rapidly decaying strength. He spent much
time in reading to her, occasionally from their favorite poets, but
generally from the sacred volume. He thus became familiar with its
truths, and no longer wondered at the calm confidence with which his
beloved could look forward to lying down in the dark and narrow house.

At length she became too weak to rise from her bed, except for a few
moments—usually at the close of the day. One evening she was sitting
supported by her lover. Lights had not yet been brought into the
apartment. The beams of a full October moon streamed through the
casement, and painted its outlines in silver upon the floor. They sat
and gazed in silence upon its soft brightness. For a few moments she
leaned upon him more heavily, as if in sleep; then partially raising
herself, she said:

“I saw many bright beings all clothed in that silver light, and they
promised me that they would take care of you, and bring you to me.”

“Where were you?” said he, a chill creeping over him as if the
inhabitants of the spirit world were around him.

She did not seem to hear his question, but continued—“Oh, it was
beautiful—not an imperfect flower on all that plain—and such delicious
gales—and such a firmament—and they looked upon me as the eyes of
beloved friends, and I knew that they would watch over you for good.”

“Where was this?” said Willard, almost with terror. Still she heeded him
not.

“The stream was as smooth as glass, and the moonbeams covered it with
silver—it was wide, wide, and I could not see you. I looked in the far
distance and saw a boat swiftly gliding toward me, and I knew you were
in it, and were safe.”

“You are dreaming, dearest.”

She leaned more heavily upon him, and slept. He feared she was passing
away. He tried to still his heart while he listened. He heard her gentle
breathing. He laid his hand upon her heart. It still kept up its
workings. He laid her as gently as one would lay an infant upon her bed,
and summoned her attendants. She continued to sleep. The physician
assured him that death, though near, was not yet at the door.

The next morning revealed a marked change in the condition of the
invalid. At first, she did not seem to recognize Carlton. The cloud,
however, soon passed from her mind, and she gave him her usual smile and
welcome.

“I shall never rise from my bed again,” said she; “do not leave me
except when I sleep. My mind begins at times to give way. Remember your
promise to prepare to meet me in the better land.”

“I will,” said he, nerving himself to composure for her sake. He then
read the Scriptures to her, and, unasked, kneeled and offered a prayer
in her behalf.

Ere long the aged pastor of the village church entered the chamber. He
had been absent some time on a visit of mercy to a prodigal son of one
of his parishioners. He silently pressed the hand of Carlton, and
passing to the bedside, impressed a kiss upon the forehead of Eliza. His
experienced eye told him that the silver thread of life was well nigh
broken.

“You are on the verge of Jordan,” said he.

“Yes,” was the calm reply.

“Its waves are not rough?”

“Calm and peaceful.”

“You have no fears of death?”

“None.”

“Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus
Christ. You can say Thy will be done?”

Looking for a moment with unutterable tenderness upon Carlton, she
closed her eyes and said, in a low but thrilling tone, “_Thy will be
done._”

Her parents were called in. After uttering, from the depths of his
experience, a few words of consolation, the pastor kneeled down and
offered a prayer, first for the dying girl, then for him who watched
over her, and then for her parents and friends. During the prayer
Carlton held her hand in his, and felt its feeble pressure as the
petitions had reference to him.

She sunk into a brief slumber almost as soon as the prayer was ended.
Perfect silence was preserved, that she might not be disturbed. Carlton
still retained her hand. The mother was about to make a whispered
inquiry of the pastor, when the sleeper awoke.

“Did you hear that music?” said she.

“No, dearest.”

“It was the sweetest I ever heard. It must have come from the golden
harps. Hark! hear it again.”

She closed her eyes. Carlton felt her hand relax its feeble grasp. He
looked toward the pastor who came to the bedside.

“She is with her God,” said the old man, bending down and imprinting a
kiss upon the cheek which felt not the warm tear that fell upon it, “and
you my friends”—turning to the parents—“can say, ‘the Lord gave, and
the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.’”


                              CHAPTER III.

Carlton remained by the bedside of the departed one till the attendants
came to prepare the body for the grave. He then repaired with apparent
calmness to his chamber, and remained there till summoned to attend the
funeral. He took his seat in the church with the afflicted parents, and
with them followed the coffin to the grave-yard; but no tear fell from
his eye, nor, in view of the multitude, at least, did his countenance
wear the expression of deep sorrow. Some thought he was wonderfully
supported, and others doubted the strength of his affection for the
departed one.

When the last sod had been laid upon the grave, he returned home, and
seated himself by his father’s side.

“You will hardly be disposed to return to college this term, my son,”
said the sympathizing father. “Consult your own inclinations in relation
to the matter.”

“I shall return to-morrow,” was the unexpected reply. The father made no
objection. He looked upon exertion as the great antidote of sorrow.

Early the next morning Willard arose, and having visited the grave-yard,
and laid his head upon the sere turf of the new made grave, he set out
on his return to college.

The evening found him at his room, surrounded by his friends, who came
to express their sympathy for his bereavement, or their joy at his
return. At an early hour he intimated his desire to be left alone. His
well-known habit of retiring early, and the painful scene through which
he had passed, formed, in the judgment of his friends, an ample apology
for any want of courtesy implied in the intimation.

If there were any who thought that his affliction would weaken his
devotion to intellectual pursuits, they were disappointed. His friends
soon found that their society was not desired by him. Even Temple was
constrained to feel that his presence was irksome to his friend. He
seemed to desire to spend every moment in study. No light burned later
than that which threw its rays upon the page before him. Modes of mental
exertion, which he had formerly neglected, now received his earnest
attention. In the halls of debate which he had seldom visited, he was
now present on every occasion, and the energy with which he grasped
every question awakened the highest admiration. In whatever he undertook
there was an exhibition of power never before suspected even by his
partial friends.

But the tense chord was at length broken. An impassioned burst of
eloquence, which, in the judgment of those present, surpassed any thing
they had heard from mortal lips, was followed by the ravings of lunacy.

[Illustration: HOME TREASURES.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

Released from the control of the will, the mind revealed the thought
which had wrecked it. The name which had never passed his lips, since
she who bore it ceased to be an inhabitant of earth, was now constantly
repeated in tones which drew tears from eyes “unused to weep.”

He was removed by his friends to a lunatic asylum. After a long and
dangerous illness, his brain began gradually to resume its proper
functions. Several relapses, however, were experienced, and it was not
till the spring and summer had passed, that his mind was fully restored.

He then returned, feeble and wasted, to his native village. With the
consent of his father, he took up his abode with the parents of the lost
one, and occupied the chamber in which she breathed her last. He passed
the days sitting in her chair, looking out upon the landscape which she
had loved to gaze upon, and in reading the New Testament which had lain
in her bosom.

For a few days his strength seemed to increase; but there was little to
justify the hope of his friends that he would be restored to health.

The aged pastor visited him, and kindly inquired respecting the state of
his soul toward God.

“He is too strong for me. I cannot contend with Him,” replied the
humbled sufferer.

“It is well for us to be convinced of that truth. It should lead us to
acquaint ourselves with Him and be at peace.”

“I am devoting all my time to the attainment of that knowledge and
peace.”

“_He that seeketh findeth!_ What a blessed assurance!”

After some further inquiries and appropriate counsels, the pastor
withdrew, strongly hoping that that chamber would be the scene of
spiritual birth, and as strongly fearing that it was again to bear
witness to the power of death.

The apparent improvement in the health of Carlton was of short
continuance. Once only was he able to walk to the grave-yard, and rest
upon the turf which was now green upon the grave of Eliza.

“Tell my father,” said he, one day to the physician, who had not
expressed his opinion upon the case, “that I shall not recover.”

“Have you no desire to live?” said the pastor, who was present.

“I think I can say with her, ‘_Thy will be done._’ I see that life is
altogether a different thing from what I supposed. If it were God’s will
that I should continue here, I could perform as an hireling my day. But
he excuses me, and I am content; though I have to regret that I have
been of no benefit to my fellow men.”

His departure was much more sudden than was expected. On going to his
chamber in the morning, his friends found that his spirit had fled. Her
New Testament was between his hands, which were clasped upon his bosom.
Apparently he had passed away as gently as did the former owner of that
precious volume.

The autumn leaves were falling as the procession wound its way to the
church-yard, and laid him to rest by the side of the grass-grown grave
made just twelve months before.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              EARTH-LIFE.


                          BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.


          The breeze is blowing fresh and strong;
            The rocking shallop chafes its chain,
          And the billows are breaking in swells of song,
            That call me forth to the deep again:
          A fiery charger paws the sand;
            A hound looks up with watching eye,
          To scour the forest and valley land,
            And bay with the winds on the mountain high!

          Let horns be heard in the gray ravine,
            And stormy songs from off the sea!
          There’s blood in my heart, where tears had been,[1]
            And the blood of Youth is bold and free!
          Leave, weary Soul, the hermit-lore
            Which kept this arm from the Life of Earth—
          Lie down to rest on the quiet shore,
            While the dust, exulting, marches forth!

          Thou hast wasted weak and pale, oh frame,
            That once wert ruddy as the dawn!
          But the Earth, thy mother, is filled with flame,
            Whose sturdy warmth to thee has gone.
          Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air—
            Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine;
          She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare,
            And warm thy veins with generous wine!

          Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power,
            On the wild <DW72>s of craggy hills;
          Thou shalt bore thy breast to the arrowy shower,
            And catch in thine arms the icy rills:
          Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same,
            When fevered cares in the spirit start,
          As a pine, when the mountain is swathed in flame,
            Keeps green and fresh in his spicy heart!

          Thou shalt go where the battle clarions blare,
            With the fierce, heroic rage of old;
          The lust of the soldier thy brow shall wear—
            Thy heart shall swell like a banner’s fold.
          In the shrieking hail thou shalt stand, my frame,
            Nor shrink from the path of thine arm’s employ,
          When the thews are steel and the veins are flame,
            And Death to thee is a terrible joy!

          Then, tighten the girth and loose the rein!
            Unleash the keen, impatient hound,
          And deep in the seething foam again
            Let every quivering oar be drowned!
          We will rock on the ocean’s solemn roll,
            Or follow the charging music’s mirth,
          And the vine’s bright blood shall crown the bowl
            That brims for us with the Life of Earth!

-----

[1] Mon cœur, au lieu de sang, ne roule que des larmes.

               LAMARTINE.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            ELEONORE EBOLI.


                            A TALE OF FACT.

                        BY WINIFRED BARRINGTON.


                               CHAPTER I.

In the garret room of a little two-story house in Philadelphia, sat two
women, both of whom were foreigners. A child reclined in the lap of one
of them, who was haggard and thin, yet beautiful. Her features were of
the Grecian cast, with a most fascinating smile, and hair of a light
auburn, that curled naturally and in profusion around her finely modeled
head.

The appearance of the other woman was common-place, but she had a frank
and kind expression that redeemed her bad looks. They were both French;
the _blonde_ had evidently a Parisian air, whilst the other as evidently
came from one of the provinces.

“Ah, Madame Eboli!” said the latter, “now that I am going to join my
husband in New Orleans, what is to become of you? You must not stay in
this tiresome Philadelphia, where the women have no grace, no tournure;
and the men never wear a moustache! not even an imperial! It is not
astonishing that I should be able to bear it, having been condemned from
my earliest youth to a country-life, where I was sometimes compelled to
bring myself in contact with such rusticity! But you who come from our
dear Paris, what a blow to your feelings to be placed among these
savages! What a horror!”

“My dear friend,” returned Madame Eboli, “the world has of late altered
in my eyes. The outward forms of men had once an effect on me; now, I
see little beauty in even the finest features where there is no
expression of sympathy for the unfortunate. As to remaining any longer
in this city it is impossible. My funds had been exhausted two days
previous to your sending me that last piece of sewing. I cannot get
sufficient employment by my needle to support myself and Eleonore, and
if I could I should fear the consequences. Bending over my work from
early morning till late at night, makes me very ill. I have now a
constant pain in my side. It is but nine months since I crossed the sea,
when my poor husband died, and I wish to be near the sea, for then I do
not seem so far away from him whose grave it is—”

“You are a good musician, can you not teach the piano or the guitar?”

“Ah, Madame Persaune! I have tried that, but no one would take lessons
of a stranger. My garb was an evidence of my poverty, and in their eyes
of my inefficiency; my face had the sufferings I have endured written
upon it.”

“It is true that the ground is occupied by those of high reputation and
long standing, and I see no other means by which women can earn a
livelihood in this detestable country. Now in France you might go into
one of the shops kept by women, or make pastry in a confectionery. But
in this country men monopolize all the labor, with the exception of
sewing and taking care of the children. However, I must go now and pack
my trunks. God be with you and dear little Eleonore! You must accept
this from me. God bless you!”

The good woman hurried away before Madame Eboli could speak. Her friend
had left her a well-filled purse. “There is money enough,” thought she,
“to take me to New York. In New York I shall find countrymen, and it may
be friends. If I die, they will then take care of Eleonore.”

“Dear mother, kiss me!” said the little three-year-old Eleonore.

“Yes, my child, and we will leave this place, and I will take my angel
to New York, where I may find some old friends. My aunt thought of going
there with my boy cousins. Were I only to see her dear face once more!
She always loved me, and when I married poor Gustave and my father and
mother cast me from them, she addressed me with words of kindness. Dear
aunt!—and my sweet sister too. Alas! I shall never see her more. Dear
sister Eugenie! so young and so beautiful. But come, Eleonore, bring thy
doll; we will go to New York this very day.”

The poor woman was too ill, however, to accomplish this, so it was put
off till the following day. A good dinner gave her renewed strength, it
being the first she had eaten for many weeks.

They were several days on the journey, and late on the afternoon of the
day of their arrival, Madame Eboli, with her child in her arms, stopped
at the door of a small house in Seventeenth street. By dint of gestures
and broken English, the Irish, who were its inhabitants, were induced to
relinquish a room to her. She had wandered the city through, until weary
and way-worn, her feet refused her further support.

She sank on a bed exhausted with fatigue, anxiety, and want of food. Her
child she had fed with cakes, and the little creature had fallen asleep,
wearied by the excitement of the day.

Many and bitter were poor Madame Eboli’s reflections. She cared little
for herself, but she thought that her tender and beautiful Eleonore was
without a home and without friends. Not a countryman had she seen that
whole day, and she had been followed by the jeers of the rude and
ignorant German and Irish who form our suburbs, and who felt no pity for
the poor stranger who could not make herself understood.


                              CHAPTER II.

“_Maman veut du feu!_” said a little girl, as she pushed open the door
of an Irish shanty, and stood with a shovel in her hand.

“Was there ever the like!” said Bridget, resting her fists on her hips.
“Now this be’s the third blessed day that the child has been here for
coals and said that same thing!”

The child went quietly to the hearth, took some coals on her shovel, and
departed.

“I’se been thinking it isn’t our language she’s a speaking, though she’s
such a bit of a thing one couldn’t tell rightly what she’d be afther?
I’ll follow her, belike she’s in mischief, though it isn’t in my heart
to think ill of such a purty little cratur!”

So away ran Bridget, down one pair of stairs and up another, following
the child, who pushed open a door with her shovel; and there on the
naked bed she saw Madame Eboli, with no covering but a shawl. Madame
Eboli spoke, but so faintly that Bridget could not understand her; she
then laid Bridget’s hand on her forehead, when the Irish woman instantly
perceived that she was dying with fever.

Bridget flew to a poor friend of hers, whom she knew was attended by an
eminent French physician of the city. He had been kind, she thought, and
done much for my sick friend, why should he not do the same for this
woman, who was also in distress? Fortunately he was at the bedside of
his patient when Bridget arrived.

“Och, sir! an there’s a poor woman in Seventeenth street, what’s a
terrible faver on her, and no clothes to her bed, and nothing to ate;
maybe yees’d go and see her a bit! She’s a nice looking woman, and got
as purty a child as ever I see.”

“I will come to her directly,” said Doctor Breton.

“I think she’s a foreigner, maybe yees could talk with her, being one
yoursel; she’s so wake, poor thing! there’s no telling what she’d be
saying.”

It was but a short ten minutes after Bridget’s summons when the doctor
opened the door of Madame Eboli’s room. The little girl was crying, and
making vain efforts to turn her mother toward her. As the child spoke in
French, he addressed the mother in that language, giving her at the same
time, some reviving medicine. After taking it, she was able to give him
an account of herself, and also to tell him of her anxiety concerning
Eleonore.

The doctor left the house, promising to return in an hour or two.
Proceeding to the hospital, he procured an entrance for her, and by the
afternoon she had been carried there, placed on a nice clean bed, and
her wants well attended to—thanks to the generous kindness of a
Christian heart! He then exerted himself in behalf of the little one. He
related the strange history of the mother to all his French patients,
and raised a subscription to pay for the child’s board after her
mother’s death, which was evidently near.

On his way to the hospital one morning, he over-took one Mr. Carron, and
told him Madame Eboli’s sad story, asking his aid. They had by that time
reached the door of the hospital, and Mr. Carron accepted Doctor
Breton’s invitation to enter and see the little Eleonore.

Mr. Carron was a very impulsive man. He never hesitated, never
reflected, (never asked his wife’s opinion, as every reasonable man
should,) but went into raptures over little Eleonore’s beauty, and
offered on the spot to adopt the child as his own—an offer that was
thankfully accepted by the poor mother.

It was but a week after this, that the doctor found Madame Eboli much
worse. On leaving her he requested to be called should any change take
place in her symptoms.


                              CHAPTER III.

. . . . . It was ten o’clock. The night-lamp of the infirmary showed
with a horrible distinctness the haggard inmates who were tossing and
groaning on their pallets. The doctor sat beside the bed of Madame
Eboli. They were discoursing concerning Eleonore.

“I conjure you,” said the doctor, “tell me the name of your family. It
is necessary to the future welfare of your child!”

“My parents cast me from them. They loved me not—how should they love
my child? No! it is better that she should eat the bread of strangers,
and receive good and evil from their hands, than suffer only insult and
degradation from her mother’s parents.”

“Then at least tell me your husband’s name, and where his relations are
to be found?”

“Alas! Gustave Eboli was an orphan, and poor; therefore my father said I
should not love him. . . . But I feel very faint—you said I should see
my child soon?”

At this very moment the sound of advancing steps was heard, and Monsieur
Carron entered with Eleonore in his arms. He placed her on the bed with
Madame Eboli. The little creature nestled close, kissing and embracing
her mother in a transport of delight; soon, however, the strange sounds,
the shadowy figures that flitted past with noiseless footsteps, startled
and awed the child. And then her mother looked so sadly on her, that she
wept, scarce knowing why, but in a subdued tone, as though some grief
swelled her little heart too deeply to be given utterance.

“Poor child!” sighed the mother, “this is thy first real sorrow. . . .
But I have a request yet to make. In my basket you will find a miniature
of my sister, set in a pearl necklace; and a ring, my dear aunt’s gift.
Should she ever come to this country, which she has spoken of doing, her
first inquiries would be concerning me. The name of Eleonore Eboli and
these jewels, would be sufficient evidence. . . . . There are two
letters also, which I would have saved for Eleonore; they are her
father’s. . . . . . . My sister and my aunt are the only persons of my
family who knew that my destination was America.”

Here she paused, as if exhausted. Little Eleonore had ceased crying, and
was gazing earnestly at her mother.

“Fear not for your child,” said Mr. Carron, “I will take care of her.
You may trust in me.”

Madame Eboli continued—“And now, my Eleonore, listen—you must be good,
and stay with this gentleman, who will love you like papa.”

“It is not papa? Where is papa?” and the little lips quivered.

“Where I shall soon see him, dear Eleonore! I am going to leave you.
Never forget your poor mother.” She then kissed the child several times.
“There is some of papa’s hair in the locket around my neck.” Then
addressing the gentlemen, she added: “Take it when I am gone—not till
then.”

Madame Eboli then sank into a stupor, in which she lay for half an hour;
then opening her eyes, she only said:

“Gustave says come! . . . . My child we will watch over thee. . . . .
Protect her, she is so young—so innocent. I come, Gustave—I come!”

And the angel of death passed by and received her last breath. Sixteen
summers had found her a child, eighteen a woman, and at twenty she was
laid where the aged sleep.

        “Be her sleep calm and deep,
        Like theirs who fell, not ours who weep.”[2]

-----

[2] That same night, in the adjoining room of the hospital, died the son
of Marmontel, from the effects of exposure and hunger. He had been
traveling over North America, when from some cause his remittances from
France were discontinued. He found himself at Albany utterly without
resources. Leaving his trunk there, he walked to New York in hopes of
finding the money, or of borrowing some from the French consul. His
journey was a lone and toilsome one, and the exposure to the cold
induced the return of a fever from which he had but lately recovered at
the West. The French consul treated him harshly, disbelieved his story,
and sent him to the hospital. The day after his death a large sum
directed to him, was received through a packet-ship, which had been
detained at sea by a succession of disasters, two months longer than her
usual time.


                              CHAPTER IV.

Eleonore became at once, by the death of her mother, an inmate of the
Carron family. Mr. Carron petted the child for a short time, and then
she was given over to the servants, Madame Carron having something else
to do, as she said, beside taking care of orphans.

Eleonore vegetated—I cannot use any other word—in the servants’ rooms
for six whole years. At the end of that time, fortunately for my
heroine, Mr. Carron’s affairs obliged him to leave this country
suddenly. It was rumored that he ran away from his creditors, but I know
nothing of the matter. The consequence to Eleonore was, that she was
left with Mr. Carron’s brother Jerome.

This brother Jerome had a very sensible wife, who was quite shocked at
finding that the poor orphan had not been instructed even in the common
rudiments of knowledge. Her health was delicate, and as she could not
undertake the charge of Eleonore’s education, she placed her forthwith
at Mr. Delombre’s boarding-school, one of the best in the city of New
York.

I remember perfectly well the first time that I saw her. She was led by
Madame Delombre into the school-room, and was there introduced to
numbers of children of every size, from her own up to the grown woman.
I, who write this memoir, was there among the rest. It was intermission,
and we were all amusing ourselves in the way we liked best. A desk next
to mine was empty, and Eleonore was placed there. She looked sad and
frightened, and was withal so pretty, that I felt attracted to her. I
essayed to make acquaintance by offering a part of my luncheon—she
declined. I then continued, the ice being broken.

“Do you like going to school?”

“I do not know. I never went.”

I suppose my eyes expressed astonishment, for she blushed. “I wonder if
we shall be in the same class? How old are you?”

“I am twelve years old,” answered Eleonore.

“Oh dear! I am between ten and eleven years old. I am afraid they will
put you in the class above me!”

“What will be my studies?” said the young girl, timidly.

I gave her a catalogue of my own lessons, which made her look very
blank, and I then proceeded to tell her who the scholars were, and which
I liked the best; and I also gave her some information respecting the
rules and regulations of the school.

“It is one o’clock,” said the teacher. “The intermission is over!”

We hurried to our desks. I went to my lessons, and though Eleonore sat
beside me I could speak no more to her that afternoon. I saw,
nevertheless, that there would be no danger of her getting in the class
above me for a long time to come.


                               CHAPTER V.

Two years and a half have passed since I introduced Eleonore as my
companion at the desk. She was now between fifteen and sixteen. A tall
and finely formed girl for her age, her personal appearance was so
pleasing that she attracted universal attention wherever she appeared.
Her hair still curled in the same long golden locks; she had the
straight Grecian nose, and the deep, large blue eyes of her mother, and
a noble forehead. Monsieur Delombre had more than fulfilled his promise.
She was his best scholar.

Our intimacy had continued increasing, and we had become inseparable.
Every other Saturday had been spent with her uncle and aunt; but as I
was something of a favorite with Mr. Delombre, I was allowed to take her
with me on the intervening Saturdays to my mother’s house.

Oh, how happy we were then! She was so gay and so cheerful, except when
we talked of France, for papa Carron had intimated in his letters to his
brother, that the time was approaching when Eleonore must leave America,
she being now of an age in which her services would be required by the
family.

“She loved uncle and aunt Carron,” she said, “and she dreaded papa and
mamma Carron. She had kind friends in Mr. and Mrs. Delombre, and also in
my mother’s family. It was hard to be obliged to leave them, and live
with those who cared not for her. But she would try to gain their
good-will by all the means in her power.”

Thus she talked as we were seated, one warm summer’s afternoon, side by
side on the green sward before my mother’s cottage.

As the evening shadows fell, she grew more communicative, and gave me
the little history which I have here related. Since then it has been
attested to me by those who saw her mother.

. . . . . . . . The next winter passed by, and when the spring came my
mother took her children to the country again for the summer. I bade
Eleonore a gay adieu, under the promise of a long visit from her during
the vacation. Alas! instead of a visit, I only received a brief but
affectionate note, stating that in two days the “_Silvie de Grace_” was
to take her as a passenger, and she should leave forever the shores of
America.

Men and women usually laugh at the friendships of school-girls. It is
true they are often transitory and of a frivolous character, but they
are often, too, of a lasting nature, and founded on real esteem. I felt
and appreciated the worth of Eleonore, and for years regretted her loss.
Marriage, and a long residence abroad again brought me in contact with
her, but under very different circumstances.

                 ELEONORE EBOLI TO WINIFRED BARRINGTON.

                                       _Paris, November 1st, 18—._

    “MY DEAR WINIFRED,—Now that I am safely housed in Paris, I
    shall give you a short account of my journey. We were but four
    weeks on the ocean, and had no storms to boast of (at least the
    captain maintained this,) though we were all much frightened one
    windy night, when a gale arose that shattered our sails, and
    tossed us about in a most unceremonious manner.

    “I was very sick, and as I lay in my berth I could feel each
    wave as it upheaved the ship, and when she pitched, headlong
    down its side, I wondered sometimes if we should ever see the
    light again. But I felt no fear, I was too sad for that. I
    thought of the happy home I had left behind, and its probable
    contrast with that of Papa and Mamma Carron’s establishment, I
    remembered that it was my mother’s birth-place, that I should
    visit Paris. Paris was my goal! There every object would acquire
    new interest in my eyes, each house would seem the one in which
    my mother passed her girlhood, each beautiful girl my mother’s
    darling sister, each man her brother, the aged her parents; ALL
    AGES would have the charm of mystery to attract me, and my fancy
    would quickly vision forth the family to which I was related!
    But I will talk no more of this.

    “The captain of our ship conducted me to Paris. He was very
    kind, and to gratify me, took the route up the Seine from Havre
    to Rouen in the day-boat, that I might see picturesque Normandy,
    with its lovely valleys, its cottages, with their thatched roofs
    and gables; the varied costumes of its peasantry, and its giant
    horses, which move with the power and majesty of elephants.

    “I was very inquisitive, and the captain often found a
    difficulty in ascertaining the names of the villages and the
    castles situated on the banks of the river, to reply to my
    queries. A young gentleman seeing our trouble, obligingly
    offered his guide-book, which contained all the information we
    needed. He also gave us many anecdotes concerning the nobility
    who lived in the chateaux. In the course of conversation he
    mentioned that his father lived but fifteen miles from Rouen,
    and that he was now on the way to visit him. His own name is
    Lazun.

    “When he heard that I came from America, he immediately offered
    to be our guide in visiting the cathedral, and other curiosities
    of Rouen, an invitation which we gladly accepted.

    “On separating for the night, our traveling companion said that
    we might expect him punctually at half-past ten the next morning
    to escort us. But when the hour arrived Mr. Lazun did not
    appear. The little French gilt clock on the mantel-piece struck
    eleven o’clock, then twelve, then one. The captain was fairly
    angry, and I must confess I was not at all pleased, for I had
    imagined he would come earlier than the hour. I am afraid I have
    but little penetration.

    “We sallied out alone, but the day was hot, and the city dirty.
    We could not find the cathedral, and the captain would ask for
    no directions; so we returned to the hotel, where we had but
    just time to eat our dinner before the DILIGENCE arrived to take
    us away to Paris. You see what civility we meet with!

                 *        *        *        *        *

    “I cannot say that I am happy. Yet I do not complain, for I am
    well fed and well clothed, but my heart and mind are oppressed
    by my dependent situation, which is hinted at on every occasion.
    I do _my best_ to assist the family, but they are never
    satisfied with my efforts. Little Adele is at a boarding-school,
    so that I have no one to love; but say nothing of all this to
    any one. I would not have others know that I am unhappily
    placed.

    “After my first communion, which is to take place next year, I
    shall endeavor to gain my own living, though I do not know yet
    in what way.

    . . . . . “Write to me soon dear Winifred, for I am very lonely,
    and believe me, I remain always your sincerely attached friend,

                                         “ELEONORE EBOLI CARRON.”


                              CHAPTER VI.

Two young men were walking in the _Rue de Rivoli_ one fine morning.

“There is a grand figure before us with a majestic walk,” said one of
them. “Walk faster. I would see her face.”

“What! _you_ run after a woman because she walks well? I thought you
only admired intellect. Beauty never possesses it, don’t you know that
yet, Victor Lazun?”

“No; you don’t know any thing about the matter. Faith! ’tis the lady I
met on board the steamboat between Rouen and Havre! I could not then
ascertain her name, nor have I caught sight of her since till now. You
know my father’s illness compelled me to leave Rouen at a minute’s
notice, and you know I only arrived in time to bid him farewell. But I
will not now lose sight of her. I will know where she lives.”

“You can easily do that!”

Monsieur Lazun saluted the lady; gave the reasons for his singular
behavior at Rouen, which were kindly received, and taking leave, asked
permission to call upon her, which she granted.

On returning from her walk she informed Madame Carron of having met Mr.
Lazun, and of her giving him her address. A storm of reproaches followed
this confession of her _indiscretion_, so that Eleonore concluded that
if she made any friends it would not be through the aid of Madame
Carron. In future she should not mention those she met.

But a few days elapsed before Eleonore met Mr. Lazun again. She gave him
to understand, very delicately, that her guardian did not like to
receive strangers. Which he answered, by saying that he should wait upon
Mr. Carron at the earliest opportunity and show him some letters of
recommendation, and also bring a friend with him, who was one of the
first bankers in Paris, slightly acquainted with Mr. Carron. He thought
he could satisfy any one as to his character and social position.

Eleonore heard this with pleasure, for she felt interested in Mr. Lazun,
and as she had so few opportunities of conversing with agreeable people,
looked upon the young man as quite a god-send.

It was not long before Mr. Carron received a visit from the two
gentlemen, and upon the banker’s sending up his name, they were
immediately ushered into his study with great attention; but when the
object of the visit was made known, “mine host” changed his tone, and
rudeness took the place of courtesy. There was no mistaking his manner,
and Mr. Lazun knew that his acquaintance was not desired, and that he
must give up all thoughts of the fair Eleonore who had made so strong an
impression on his fancy.

But fortunately, or unfortunately, my hero and heroine frequently walked
in the same direction, (drawn probably by some mesmeric attraction)—by
degrees they became strongly attached to each other, and finally, an
engagement of marriage took place.

A hint from one of the servants, who had met the lovers in one of their
walks, made _madame_ send the young lady directly to the convent of St.
Germain, for her communion. She was ordered never to think of marriage,
(for Eleonore had immediately confessed her engagement,) she must make
herself useful in the family to whom she owed every thing, and work she
must and should for them all her life.

Eleonore made no reply to all this, but afterwards, in the solitude of
her convent cell, she made this decision: “I _will_ marry Victor
Lazun—my debt of gratitude has been paid to my guardians. As a child,
my only expense to them was clothing of the poorest quality. My food was
not missed in the extravagant household which they kept. To their
brother and sister I owe much, and also to Mr. and Mrs. Delombre. _They_
taught me _all_ that I know. Since my arrival in France I have
embroidered all madame’s collars, I have done the marketing, overlooked
all household affairs, made preserves, done up the muslins, beside
mending, sewing, and any little odd job which madame did not like
herself.

“This has gone on for two years, and I have done it willingly, but now I
am old enough to choose my future course, and shall do so.”

This passage I have copied from a note which she sent to Victor Lazun on
her departure for the convent. There, of course, he could not see her,
but he well knew that his pretty cousin Victorine La Graviere was at the
same convent, and with a little coaxing, he persuaded his aunt to take a
note to Victorine, in which he begged his cousin to show Eleonore some
kindness for his sake, though without mentioning his name or their
relationship.

The acquaintance of the two girls soon ripened into friendship, and it
was not long before young Lazun thought his aunt sufficiently interested
in Eleonore through his own representations and Victorine’s eulogies, to
confide his secret to her care. Yes, dear reader! it was a secret, and
you would have laughed to see the dismay on the face of the gentle
Countess La Graviere when she learned of his intended marriage.

“But you are not going to marry this poor orphan, are you, Victor? With
your rank and favor at court it is quite absurd?”

“I certainly shall, my dear aunt. As to my rank she knows nothing of
that, nor my fortune either; so, thank God! she loves me for myself
alone.”

“Is this indeed so, Victor?”

“It is all settled. I am my own master, and will marry whom I please. I
do wish you would ask her to visit you at your country-seat during the
next month. You will be delighted with her. She is the very image of
your sister-in-law the Marchioness Eugenie.”

“She must be very beautiful then. I will see her, Victor, and invite her
for your sake. But do not be hasty about the marriage. Think it over
coolly. Your relations will be mortified, and I fear that the king will
be much displeased.”

“The king cares less for rank than most of his subjects. And as to my
relations, _I_ marry the girl, not they.”


                              CHAPTER VII.

We must now allow six weeks to have passed by, and we shall find
Eleonore at the chateau La Graviere, dressing for a fête which is to
celebrate Victorine’s birth-day. Victorine is assisting Eleonore.

“Only look at this pearl necklace of mine. It is beautiful, and you must
wear it this evening,” said Victorine.

Eleonore returned—“I have also a pearl necklace, which I value highly.
It contains a miniature of my aunt. Here it is.”

“What a resemblance to the marchioness. If I did not know that it was
impossible, I should say that your aunt and mine were one and the same
person. It is strange, now I perceive you have the regular Grecian La
Graviere nose. Papa will fall in love with you at once. He is always
looking at my nose, and wondering there is not danger that it will not
become one-sided. I believe if I were to fall from a carriage the first
question he would ask, would be, ‘Have you hit your nose?’”

“Your father will soon be here, will he not?” asked Eleonore.

“Yes, if the Duke of Orleans do not detain him. There will be eight
gentlemen beside from the court. But I hear carriages. The neighboring
guests have began to assemble, and I must help mamma to receive
them—come!”

The ball-room was brilliantly lighted, and Eleonore’s beauty was the
theme of every tongue. Her dress was white satin, covered with white
lace and looped with white roses. The only ornament she wore was the
miniature necklace, clasped tightly around her throat.

The countess was delighted with the appearance of her young guest, and
introduced her to all her particular friends. In about half an hour
there was a rush in the hall; the folding-doors of the ante-chamber were
thrown wide open, and the prince royal entered, leaning on the arm of
Monsieur La Graviere, and followed by his suite.

Monsieur La Graviere, after saluting his wife and presenting her to the
prince, turned away to pay his compliments to some of the ladies
present, when his eye was suddenly caught by Eleonore’s face, as she
stood within a few feet of him. “Good God! my sister!” he exclaimed,
impetuously.

“She does indeed resemble Aunt Eugenie! We all observed it,” said
Victorine.

“Introduce me, my child. What is her name?”

“Eleonore Carron.”

“Carron—it was not his name. It is impossible.”

The introduction was made, and the master of the castle was inquiring if
she was a native of Paris, when he stopped short—started, and then
said:

“Forgive me, mademoiselle; but is not that a miniature of my sister
Eugenie in your necklace?”

Eleonore trembled, but she stood erect, and answered firmly. “It is a
miniature of my aunt.”

“And what was her name?”

“You will excuse my not answering any further questions.”

“I hope you will forgive my rudeness, when you see its likeness to my
sister,” continued the count. “Here she comes!”

Eleonore turned pale, for she felt that the hour was at hand that would
reveal her name and kindred. Her self-command increased in proportion.
Pride forbade any manifestation of emotion before those who spurned the
mother who gave her birth; yet when she saw a face streaming with tears
before her, that she knew belonged to her mother’s only and dear sister;
when she received a warm embrace, and heard in a soft voice, these
words—“I know it is Eleonore Eboli, my beloved niece!” The poor child
sighed “Yes!” and then fainted.

She was quickly carried out, and though soon restored to consciousness,
did not venture again into the saloon. She was in the arms of an aunt, a
cousin sat beside her; they both gave thanks to God that she had been
brought to them; they wept when she told them of her mother’s death. And
the poor marchioness said—

“I will be your mother in future, dear child! you shall no longer be an
orphan. I am rich, and all that can be done to contribute to your
happiness will be freely bestowed.”

Here Eleonore summoned courage, and with down-cast eyes and faltering
words, told her aunt that her destiny was decided, she should become the
wife of a young architect of Paris. He was poor in purse, but rich in
affection, and she begged her aunt to say nothing against their
marriage, till at least, she had seen the youth.

“She is like her mother in heart as well as in form,” sighed the
marchioness. “But come, Eleonore, I think we must go to bed; we have had
happiness enough for one night, and you, Victorine, must return to the
ball; his royal highness will miss those bright eyes!”

With many a kind embrace they then separated for the night.

                 *        *        *        *        *

About an hour before breakfast, Victorine and Eleonore were taking their
morning promenade on a terrace that overlooked the Seine, and Eleonore
was unburthening her heart to her cousin, when Victorine exclaimed—

“Here comes the prince!”

“Good God! he is arm in arm with Victor Lazun!”

“Yes, that is _my_ cousin, but not _yours_.”

“Your cousin!!! with the prince too. Ah! what will happen next; I hardly
know now what I am saying, my senses are bewildered, one strange scene
succeeds another till I almost doubt my own identity!”

“I salute you, ladies,” said the prince. “My lord duke and I have been
rifling your flower-beds. May I present you this bouquet?”

“My flowers will feel grateful for your highness’ attentions,” said
Victorine.

“Forgive me, Eleonore,” said young Lazun, “you will not love me the less
now that I am a duke and peer of France. I am still Victor Lazun, as you
are Eleonore Eboli.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

I had recently arrived in Paris. A ball was given at the Tuilleries, and
many Americans were there. We stood in rows through which the royal
family passed, followed by several maids of honor and ladies of the
bed-chamber.

I caught my breath as one passed near me. “Who is that?” said I to a
friend, who was well acquainted at court.

“It is the Duchess of Lazun, the intimate friend of the Princess Marie
of Orleans. She is a great favorite with all the royal family, and her
husband also. But here she comes again.”

Our eyes met, we recognized each other—my readers may guess the rest.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                     HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,


   DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

                          BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.


                      (_Continued from page 72._)

The costume of the Catholic church at the altar has always been
prominent and unchangeable, and even the secular garb of its priests has
undergone fewer mutations than that of any other class of the community.
All, however, will be struck with the marked difference between the
following portrait of a young abbé and the churchmen of to-day.

[Illustration]

We have to do, generally, in this and the following articles merely with
the fashionable dress of the day, and therefore might omit all that
related to what the noblesse were pleased to call the _bas peuple_; we
will, however, give a portrait of a famous French Intendant of that day,
filling an office the English call a steward. Except that the coat is
plainer, that there is no sword, and that the _coiffure_ is less
labored, it is almost identical with the first engraving given.

[Illustration]

An examination of the above will show that one great difference between
the costumes of that day and our own was the use of powder; a stupid
fashion which nothing but the confusion of the French revolution could
do away with, yet which was adhered to with the most wonderful tenacity.
Another whim was the habit of wearing the sword, which may be said yet
more positively to separate the eighteenth from the nineteenth century.
This habit, which had its use in the days of the _Ligne_ and the
_Fronde_, lasted till the commencement of the present century. Etiquette
absolutely required that all who presented themselves within the sacred
precincts of Versailles should be thus decked, and it became ultimately
a passport, so that the shopkeeper, dancing-master and _coiffeur_ had
only thus to deck themselves, and they might jostle in the stairway of
the palace gentlemen as noble as the king. This, however, all
disappeared amid the revolution, when the pike and musket usurped the
place of the gilded rapier.

The materials of the fashionable coat of that day were Brussels’ camlet,
velvet or silk. At this time we can form little idea of the variety of
colors worn; black, green, blue, rose, yellow and violet all were seen.
The waistcoat was not a _gilet_, but reached the hip, extending below
which were breeches, which being worn like a sailor’s, without
suspenders, had from time to time to be hitched up by the hands. In the
cold winter of 1739 the English gaiters and over-coat were worn for the
first time, and to this new fashion an old French nobleman attributed
the decay of the monarchy.

The fashions of the present time date from the days of Louis XVI. and
when we come to treat of his reign, we shall see the passing away and
development of the old and new modes. Nor do they disappear alone, for
classes go with them. Having been rejected as a livery unworthy of men,
the beings who had glittered in them disappeared like shadows, either
because they had really been annihilated, or had been regenerated under
the new order of things. Among the classes which thus disappeared was
the _Morgues_, the gilded type of French folly, not the creature, but
the butt of the wit of Moliere; a compound of pride, insipidity and wit,
of politeness and impudence, of gallantry and impertinence, of
affectation and good manners. Not even comedy preserves them. Dandies
are eternal—for such were the _Muscadins_, the _Mervelleux_ and the
_Incroyables_, but the _Morgues_ are gone. With the Morgues disappeared
their younger brothers, the abbés and _mousquetaires_, and with their
estates the _intendants_.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.


                          BY PROFESSOR FROST.


[Illustration]
                           THE MOCKING-BIRD.

This noble songster, the pride of the American forest, is peculiar to
the New World. So greatly superior are its powers of melody to those of
any European bird, that long after the discovery of the western
continent, reports of its existence were treated as a mere fable, akin
to the other unnatural marvels with which an excited imagination peopled
our vast forests. And this skepticism will appear the more excusable
when we remember that few persons, who have never heard the
mocking-bird, have any sufficient conception of his powers of imitation,
the sweetness of his melody, or the wildness of his native tones. When
these are in full display, the forest resounds with a succession of
notes, as though from every warbler of the grove, so that the listener,
instead of believing that he hears only one bird, seems to be surrounded
with myriads. Nor is this power confined to imitations of song. With the
strains of the Thrush and Warbler, chime in the wail of the
Whippoor-will, the crowing of the cock, and the loud scream of the
eagle. The mewing of cats, the whistling of man, and the grating sounds
of brute matter, form variations to this singular chorus, blended and
linked together in so artful a manner as to surpass immeasurably every
performance of the kind in the whole range of animated creation. “With
the dawn of morning,” says Nuttall, “while yet the sun lingers below the
blushing horizon, our sublime songster in his native wilds, mounted on
the topmost branch of a tall bush or tree in the forest, pours out his
admirable song, which, amid the multitude of notes from all the warbling
host, still rises pre-eminent, so that his solo is heard alone, and all
the rest of the musical choir appear employed in mere accompaniments to
this grand actor in the sublime opera of nature.” Nor is the power of
the Mocking-bird confined to mere imitation. His native tones are sweet,
bold and clear; these he blends with the borrowed music in such a manner
as to render the whole a complete chorus of song. While singing he
spreads his wings, elevates his head, and moves rapidly from one
position to another. Some observers have even fancied a regularity in
his motions, as though keeping time to his own music. Not unfrequently
he darts high into the air with a scream which at once silences every
warbler of the grove.

Writers on Ornithology have sometimes amused themselves by comparing the
powers of the Mocking-bird with those of the Nightingale. Barrington, a
distinguished British naturalist, who had heard the American bird,
declares him to be equal to the Nightingale in every respect, but thinks
the song spoiled by frequent mixture of disagreeable sounds. On this
opinion Wilson has the following remarks:

“If the Mocking-bird be fully equal to the song of the Nightingale, and,
as I can with confidence add, not only to that, but to the song of
almost every other bird, beside being capable of exactly imitating
various other sounds and voices of animals, his vocal powers are
unquestionably superior to those of the Nightingale, which possesses its
own native notes alone. Further, if we consider, as is asserted by Mr.
Barrington, that one reason of the Nightingale’s being more attended to
than others is, that it sings in the night; and if we believe, with
Shakspeare, that

        The Nightingale, if she should sing by day,
        When every goose is cackling, would be thought
        No better a musician than a Wren,

what must we think of that bird who, in the glare of day, when a
multitude of songsters are straining their throats in melody, overpowers
all competition, and by the superiority of his voice, expression and
action, not only attracts every ear, but frequently strikes dumb his
mortified rivals, when the silence of night, as well as the bustle of
the day, bear witness to his melody; and whenever in captivity, in a
foreign country, he is declared, by the best judges in that country, to
be fully equal to the song of their sweetest bird in its whole compass?
The supposed degradation of his song by the introduction of extraneous
sounds and unexpected imitations, is in fact one of the chief
excellencies of this bird, as these changes give a perpetual novelty to
the strain, keep attention constantly awake, and impress every hearer
with a deeper interest in what is to follow. In short, if we believe in
the truth of that mathematical axiom, that the whole is greater than a
part, all that is excellent or delightful, amusing or striking, in the
music of birds, must belong to that admirable songster, whose vocal
powers are equal to the whole compass of their whole strains.”

Confinement does not seem to have much effect upon the Mocking-bird’s
song. In the cage it is a most agreeable pet, seeming to exert itself to
give pleasure. Even at night, when all else is hushed to rest, it pours
forth its magical notes, which ring along the solitary haunts of man
with strange cadence, and as echoes of a more beautiful sphere. Its
chief pleasure consists in deceiving the animals of the household. “He
whistles for the dog,” says the author quoted above, “Cæsar starts up,
wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt
chicken, and the hen hurries about with hanging wings and bristled
feathers, clucking to protect her injured brood. The barking of the dog,
the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow
with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by his
master, fully and faithfully.” Those taken when wild are the best
singers; when raised by hand they should be kept perfectly clean, and at
first fed regularly every half hour, on milk thickened with Indian meal.
This should occasionally be mingled with cherries, strawberries,
cedar-berries, insects, especially spiders, and fine gravel. Meat, cut
very fine, is also given. Attempts, partially successful, have been made
to breed them in confinement.

The Mocking-bird is found in all our forests from the Great Lakes to
Mexico. It was once abundant in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, but
has been driven thence by the amateur sportsman. It delights, however,
in a warm climate, and especially one like that of Carolina, low, and
near the sea. From the middle of April to the middle of May embraces the
time of building, the season varying with the climate and nature of the
spring. The nest is mostly placed upon a solitary thorn or cedar-bush,
often close to the habitation of man, whose society this bird seems to
court. The eggs are four or five in number, blue, with large brown
spots. The female rears two broods in a season, during which time she is
closely guarded, fed and enlivened by the male. The courage of these
birds in defending their young is astonishing. During the period of
incubation, neither cat, dog, animal nor man can approach the nest
without being attacked. Their great enemy is the black-snake. When the
male perceives this wily foe, he darts rapidly upon it, and to avoid its
bite, strikes rapidly about the head and eyes, until the enemy, blinded
and baffled, hastens to retreat. But his little antagonist pursues,
redoubling his efforts until the snake is killed. Then joining his mate,
the victor pours forth his loudest strains, seemingly in celebration of
his good fortune.

The Mocking-bird is nine and a half inches long, and thirteen broad. The
upper parts of the head, neck and back are a brownish ash color. The
wings and tail nearly black, tipped with white. The male is
distinguished by having the whole nine primaries of the wings of a clear
white, while but seven are of that color in the female, with whom also
the color inclines to dun. The tail is cuneiform; the legs and feet
strong and black; bill of the same color; the eye yellowish, inclining
to golden. His plumage, like that of the nightingale, is sober and
pleasing, and his figure neat, active and inspiriting.

A bird, called by Nuttall, the Mountain Mocking-bird, possesses
considerable powers of imitation. It is found on the vast table-lands of
Oregon and Mexico. It is smaller than its valuable relative, somewhat
different in shape and color, and possesses much power and sweetness of
tone. The eggs are emerald green. Little, however, is known of this
bird.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.


                               BY CLARA.


          Here, on the threshold of the year, we feel
            New thoughts. New plans perplex the mental view,
          And fain would we endeavor thus to heal
            The _Old Year’s_ disappointments in the _New_.

          As ends the year, to us all time must end—
            As time’s knell soundeth, to our knell must toll—
          Oh! may our lives so pass, that we may mend
            The BODY’S sorrows in the RISEN SOUL.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            THE LOST NOTES.


                             BY MRS. HUGHS.


“You could not have made your application at a more apropos time, my
good fellow,” said a pale, emaciated invalid, who was seated on an easy
chair in his own chamber, addressing a fine, intelligent-looking young
man near him; “I had exactly the sum you want paid to me very
unexpectedly yesterday. I had the good fortune some years ago to assist
a friend with a few hundred dollars, but though the money was
serviceable at the time, he eventually became a bankrupt, and as I had
only his note for the loan, I never expected to receive any thing from
him. Yesterday, however, he came and put into my hand two bank notes of
a thousand dollars each, which was the amount of my own money and the
legal interest upon it. I am very happy to be able to accommodate you,
though I am sorry at the same time to find you are under the necessity
of borrowing.”

“It is a painful circumstance,” replied the other, “but happily it does
not arise from any fault of my own.”

“I never imagined it did,” returned the master of the house, “and
consequently had no hesitation in promising to assist you. But pray, may
I ask what has occasioned so painful a necessity?”

“I came with the full intention of explaining it to you,” said the young
man, whom we will here introduce to our readers by the name of Norman
Horton. “Do not leave the room, Lucy, I beg,” he continued, addressing a
lovely girl, who had hitherto sat sewing at a distant window, but who at
this moment rose to quit the apartment. “I have nothing to say that I
would not wish you to hear.”

“I am sure you have not,” said Mr. Woodford, “so sit still, Lucy dear.”
Then turning, as his daughter resumed her seat and her work, to Horton,
he added, “My lease of life is so nearly expired that I am afraid to let
my nurse leave me even for a few minutes, lest my warning to quit should
come when she is away from me. The spasms to which I have for some time
been subject have of late increased so much in violence, that I believe
my physicians have little hope of my surviving another. But I am
interfering with your explanation, which I am anxious to hear; for,
though so nearly done with this world myself, I still retain my interest
in the welfare of those I esteem. So go on, Norman, and let me hear what
you were going to say.”

“You are aware,” returned Horton, with an expression of countenance that
proved the subject to be a painful one to him, “that my poor father
frequently involved himself in difficulties. At one time he became so
embarrassed that his farm was condemned by the court, and would have
been sold by the sheriff, had not his friends, for my mother’s sake,
made great efforts in his favor. It is unnecessary for me to trouble you
with all the particulars; suffice it to say, that the person who had
intended to sell took a mortgage on the place, for two thousand dollars,
still retaining the right which the court had given, of making a sale at
any moment that he chose. This mortgage and privilege he last year
transferred to old Hinkley, and he, though his interest has been
regularly paid, and though he has never even asked for the principal,
is, I find, about to seize upon and sell the property.”

“Is it possible? Are you sure of it? Have you heard it from himself?”

“Yes; I went to him as soon as I had an intimation on the subject, and
found him determined; nor could I prevail upon him to promise to give me
any time to look about me, except on a condition, which he had before
proposed to me, but which I cannot possibly comply with.”

“And what may that be?” asked the master of the house.

“That I would consent to become his son-in-law,” replied Norman, whilst
his cheeks became tinged with a color not unworthy of a young girl.

“Truly, I should suppose that would be no very unacceptable proposal,”
returned Mr. Woodford, with a smile. “Maria Hinckley is a very sweet,
pretty girl, and is generally thought a very amiable one. Beside which,
it is well known she will have a very handsome fortune.”

“That is all very true, and I admire Maria exceedingly; but,
unfortunately, there is an insurmountable obstacle in the way.”

“You mean, I suppose, that you are not in love, whatever she may be.”

“I have no reason to imagine that she is any more in love with me than I
am with her.”

“But may it not be worth while, my young friend,” said Mr. Woodford, in
a serious tone, “to consider whether this love which young people are so
apt to think indispensable, is really so essential as they imagine. I am
myself disposed to think that if there is care taken to choose a partner
with amiable dispositions and correct principles, there would be as much
real happiness found in the end, as if they allowed themselves to be
wholly guided by the love that is proverbially blind.”

“But if the little god has happened to stumble in the way first,” said
Horton, laughing, “what is to be done then?”

“Ah, true, that is another matter. I forgot at the time what was
whispered about that pretty little Miss Shirley, who paid your mother so
long a visit last summer. She was, indeed, a very fine girl, and as she
and Lucy have been such great friends ever since they became acquainted,
I would advise you, if you are not quite sure of your ground, to bespeak
the interest of your old school-fellow and playmate. What say you, Lucy?
You would do your best to aid Norman’s cause, would you not?” But Lucy,
who had before been sewing at a wonderful rate, just at the moment her
father appealed to her, happened to drop her needle, so that when he
paused for a reply, she was too much occupied in searching the carpet to
give it.

“Let me assist you,” said Horton, but before he reached the place where
the needle had dropt, she had found it, and risen from her bending
posture.

“Why, my child, you have sent all the blood of your body into your face,
by stooping to search for that foolish needle,” said her father. And,
indeed, the poor girl’s face was a perfect scarlet, and the beautifully
defined shades of white and red, which were amongst her striking
beauties, were completely destroyed.

“You haven’t told us yet,” continued the father, as Lucy made a slight
effort to shake back the bright auburn tresses which seemed to try to
curtain her face till it recovered its usual hue, “whether you will give
Norman your vote and interest.”

“Oh, certainly, papa! Norman knows well enough it will always give me
pleasure to be of service to him,” said the young girl, but in
consequence, perhaps, of the blood having been forced into her head, her
voice had not its sweet silvery sound, but seemed husky and scarcely
audible.

“As soon as I have settled Hinckley’s affair, I believe I shall be
tempted to come and make a trial of your kindness,” said the young man;
“but as long as I am in his clutches, it would be inexcusable in me to
try to involve any other person in my fortunes.”

“We will soon give him his quietus,” returned Mr. Woodford; “Lucy, dear,
where did I put those notes?”

“I don’t know, papa, I never saw them. Indeed I didn’t know you had
received them till I heard you mention it just now.”

“That’s strange! You are always with me, and know every thing I either
do or say.”

“But you know you sent me yesterday morning to see brother Henry, when
sister sent word he was sick; and I suppose the gentleman came while I
was away.”

“Ah, true, so he did; and where was I dear—what room was I in. Sickness
has destroyed my memory so entirely that I cannot remember any thing.”

“I left you in the breakfast-room reading, and when I came back, you
were in this room lying down.”

“Yes, I remember now, I felt what I thought were premonitory symptoms of
spasms, and hastened to lie down. But no doubt I put the notes by first,
though where I don’t recollect. Go, dear, and look in my desk. You will
probably find them in the large red pocket-book or in one of the little
drawers, or—”

“I will look everywhere, papa,” interrupted Lucy, who had now recovered
her voice and natural color, and immediately left the room.

“It seems a strange thing,” said Mr. Woodford, turning to his companion,
“that I should be so careless about such a sum of money; but the fact
is, I had already set my house in order, as far as money matters are
concerned, and was therefore almost sorry to have my mind called back to
such a subject, from things of so much higher importance.”

“There is one thing, however, in the business,” said Norman, “which
cannot fail to be gratifying, and that is the proof your friend has
given of his honorable feelings.”

“Yes, that gave me sincere pleasure; and, indeed, I don’t pretend to say
that the money itself was not very acceptable, for though we have had
enough to live upon comfortably whilst all together, it will be but a
small portion for each when divided amongst my large family.”

Lucy now returned to the room, but with a look of disappointment. The
notes were no where to be found. Again and again she was sent on various
errands of search, but all proved equally fruitless.

“I should not wonder, after all,” said the invalid, “if I merely put
them into my pocket till you came home;” and as he spoke he began to
draw one piece of paper out of his pockets after another—but the right
ones were not there.

“Papa,” said Lucy, and the color almost forsook her cheeks, “you gave me
some paper out of your pocket last night to light the lamp with.”

“And what sort of paper was it?” asked the father.

“It was too dark for me to see it, but it felt soft and thin.”

“Was it single or double?”

“It was double; but I cannot tell whether it was in one or two pieces.”

“What did you do with the part that was not consumed? If the number is
left, the money may still be obtained.”

“I threw it into the fire,” replied Lucy, in a mournful tone.

“Then I am afraid it is gone,” said the father “But keep up your
spirits, Norman, I have promised my aid, and you shall have it, unless
death overtake me before I have time to make the arrangement. I cannot
think of letting one so deserving be trodden on by the foot of
persecution.”

“For myself,” returned Horton, “it would not be of much consequence to
have to begin the world again, even with very limited means. I am young
and healthy, and have had an education which has put many resources in
my power. But my poor mother! It would go hard, indeed, at her age, and
with her delicate health, to be turned away from the scene of all her
early pleasures, and which is endeared to her by a thousand tender
associations.”

“It must not be,” said the invalid; “and I will see after the business
as soon as I have taken a little rest; but at present I feel rather
exhausted.”

Horton then took leave, and Lucy, after assisting her father to lie
down, resumed her accustomed seat, and began to sew, her active mind
keeping pace with her no less active fingers. With painful anxiety she
dwelt on the state of her only surviving parent, and on the loneliness
and destitution in which she would be left were he to be taken from her.
It was true she had a brother older than herself, but she remembered
with a sigh, how little either he or his wife were calculated to fill up
the vacuum. The rest of the children were all younger than herself, and
were consequently of an age rather to require protection than to render
it. A sister of her father’s had promised to remain with the younger
branches of the family, but though a well-meaning woman, she was but a
poor substitute for the parent that was about to be taken from her. Then
her thoughts would turn to Norman Horton’s embarrassments, and to the
distress of his poor mother—and the tears of sympathy often filled her
soft beautiful eyes, though they were as often dashed away, lest they
should be observed by her father. Indeed, the gentle, self-denying girl,
had learnt to deprive herself, almost wholly, of the luxury of tears,
from an anxiety to keep her parent’s mind composed and tranquil. But
nature would sometimes have its course, and on this day it was unusually
imperative. “It would be strange if I did not feel for Mrs. Horton,” she
argued with herself, as if anxious to find an excuse for the tears which
in spite of her utmost efforts would course each other down her cheeks.
“It would be most ungrateful of me did I not do so, for ever since
mother’s death she has behaved to me with even maternal tenderness. It
is true I have not seen much of her of late, but that is certainly not
owing to any fault of hers.” The truth is that since the visit of Miss
Shirley to Mrs. Horton, Norman and Lucy had met much less frequently
than formerly. That young lady had hinted to Lucy the probability of an
engagement taking place between herself and Norman, and as he had since
that time been a much less frequent visiter at Mr. Woodford’s, Lucy
concluded that the engagement had actually taken place. It was a subject
which she had never ventured either to inquire into, or even to examine
her own bosom upon, for though in the habit of scrutinizing her thoughts
and feelings on all others, on this one she was a complete coward, and
preferred remaining in ignorance to risking the result of an
investigation. It was true that from what Norman had said that morning,
it was evident no actual engagement yet existed, but as it was equally
evident that it was a thing he desired, she was determined to use
whatever influence she had in forwarding his wishes, though she at the
same time felt ashamed of the strange sensations that the probability of
being called upon to perform such an office, excited in her mind. She
was, however, routed from these interesting though painful reveries by
the voice of her father. On going to his bed-side she was exceedingly
alarmed at the expression of his countenance, and the blueness round his
mouth, which always preceded one of his severe attacks.

“Go, Lucy,” said he, in a feeble voice, “and look in the private drawer
in my writing-desk. I had my desk open to write a receipt, and I may
perhaps have put the notes in that drawer.”

“But, papa, you will be left alone,” objected the daughter.

“Send your aunt to me,” returned the invalid, “and look well, for I am
exceedingly anxious on poor Norman’s account.”

Lucy did as desired, but with a faint and trembling heart; first,
however, dispatching one of her brothers to summon the doctor, for there
was a something about her father’s look that seemed to say, they would
soon be an orphan family.

The writing-desk was diligently searched, and every paper it contained
carefully examined, but in vain, and she was just turning the key to
lock it again, when she was hastily called by her aunt, who said her
father had made two or three attempts to speak, but she could not
understand him. Lucy ran with all the speed of which she was capable to
the bed-side of the invalid, but could scarcely restrain a scream of
horror at sight of the frightful change that had taken place in the few
minutes she had been absent. The blueness that she had before observed
around his mouth had extended to his lips, and his whole face wore that
expression that all who have attended the bed of death know as the
indications of approaching dissolution. The moment she appeared he
motioned to her to put her head close to his mouth, when he said, in a
voice scarcely audible, “I know now, they are in the—” but the last
word, though evidently spoken, could not be heard.

“Never mind the notes, dear papa,” cried Lucy, in an agony of distress,
“only keep yourself composed and let them take their chance.”

But the dying man shook his head, and again attempted to speak. “Look in
the—” but again the word died away, and though the anxious girl laid
her ear close to the blue and stiffening lips, she was unable to catch a
shadow of the sound which they emitted. After lying a few minutes as if
to collect the small portion of strength yet remaining, the sufferer
made another effort, and again Lucy put her ear to his now cold lips,
and stretched every faculty to catch the sound, far more, however, for
the sake of satisfying him, than on account of the money itself; but the
word “in” was all she could distinguish. Distressed beyond measure at
seeing his ineffectual efforts, she cried, “Don’t attempt to speak, dear
papa, but let me guess, and if I am right only make a motion of assent.”
She then guessed the breakfast-table drawer, the drawer in her own
work-box, and a variety of similar places, but received no intimation in
return. Whilst thus engaged the physician arrived, who, struck with the
extreme stillness of his patient, endeavored to raise his head, but in
so doing he found that life was already extinct, and the spirit which
had made its last effort in an attempt to aid a fellow-creature, had
burst its prison bars.

We pass over the grief of the mourning family. Those who have never
experienced such an affliction could have little idea of it from our
description, and those who have already tasted the bitter cup, have no
need of any thing to give clearness to their perceptions. Suffice it,
then, to say, that after the first paroxysms of grief were over, Lucy’s
mind reverted to the state of her friends from whom she had received
many kind and sympathizing messages, and assurances that nothing but
severe sickness would have prevented Mrs. Horton from offering them in
person. After some consideration about how she should act, Lucy
determined it would only be right to inform Norman of her father’s
ineffectual efforts to serve him, and for this purpose she sent a
request that he would call upon her. He was not long obeying the
summons, and entered the room with a countenance little less agitated
than her own.

“I would not have waited to be told to come,” said he, in a tone of deep
feeling, “had I not been afraid of my visit being attributed to a
selfish motive.”

“I know well that selfishness forms no part of your character,” replied
Lucy, making a strong effort to speak with composure; “but though my
poor father was deprived of the pleasure of serving you, I was anxious
you should know that his very last efforts were made in your behalf.
Could I have made out his last words, you might still have had the
assistance you require.”

“I beg you will not trouble yourself any more about the matter,”
returned Horton, endeavoring to speak cheerfully. “The worst, I believe,
is now over, for the sheriff is already in possession of the place.”

“And your mother?” said Lucy, raising her soft eyes in anxious suspense
to his face.

“She has been, and is still ill, but I hope she is gradually becoming
more resigned. Transplantation, however, will, I fear, go hard with
her.”

“Take care, Norman,” said Lucy, earnestly, “that you bring not severe
repentance upon yourself by exposing her to it.”

“But what can I do? I have no alternative. I have left no stone unturned
to procure the money; and if a few months had been allowed me, I could
easily have obtained it, but this is just the time when everybody’s
money is locked up.”

“Mr. Hinckley offered you an alternative,” said Lucy, timidly.

“And is it possible that you can advise me to accept it, Lucy! Can you,
who know what it is to love, offer me such advice?”

“Who told you I knew how to love?” asked Lucy, in a tone of extreme
alarm.

“I scarcely know whether it is honorable in me to repeat what was told
me in confidence, but I had it from Emma Shirley that you had accepted
the addresses of Joseph Constant.”

“Then she must have been trying the extent of your credulity,” returned
the young girl, with a look of ingenuousness that could not for a moment
be doubted, “for she knew very well that he was an object of actual
dislike to me.”

“And yet he has visited you for a long time both regularly and
frequently,” said Horton, whilst his eyes began to sparkle, and the
cloud that had for months overspread his fine countenance was rapidly
dispersing.

“He has come to the house both regularly and frequently, it is true, but
never with my consent. Brother Henry, I scarcely know why, has
undertaken to espouse his cause, and to bring him here. Though
exceedingly annoyed at the circumstance, I could not bear to complain of
it to papa, for fear of agitating him, and therefore satisfied myself
with taking good care that my own sentiments were clearly understood.”

“Lucy,” said Horton, taking her hand tenderly, whilst a soul full of
happiness and affection beamed in his eyes, “as long as I believed your
heart to be disengaged, I used to flatter myself with the hope of one
day making it mine; and now that I find it is still at liberty, the same
fond hope is again swelling in my bosom and urging me to renew my
endeavors. Say, dearest Lucy, would the effort be altogether a hopeless
one?”

We cannot pretend to say what was Lucy’s reply, but we know the hand he
had taken still remained in his possession, when an hour or two had
elapsed and they began to think about the passage of time. Never once
during that period had the thought of old Hinckley and his inveterate
persecution entered their heads; or if for a moment the circumstance of
having but little to commence life with obtruded itself on their
recollection, it was met without fear or apprehension. They were both
young, vigorous and active, and though they might have to work a little
harder, their toil would be sweetened by the delightful idea that they
mutually labored for each other.

“It will still be a hard struggle for my poor mother,” said Horton,
after his full heart had so far found vent as to enable him to turn his
thoughts once more on his sorrowing parent; “but she loves us both too
well to grieve long when she sees us so happy.”

“And though,” said Lucy, “she will have to live in a much smaller house,
and to exchange her large and beautiful garden for a very circumscribed
one, she will still have the rich garden of nature to look at; and
beside, she will have another child to watch over her, and administer to
her comfort.”

The day of sale arrived, and it having been proposed by Lucy that Norman
should bring his mother to spend that day with her, that she might be
out of the way of the noise and bustle with which the house would
necessarily be surrounded. The old lady came at an early hour, and Lucy
exerted her every art to amuse her, and divert her mind from what was
going on at home. As she was still a great invalid, she was obliged to
recline almost constantly on the sofa, but she proved how much her
thoughts clung to the home that was about to be so cruelly taken away
from her, by the frequent questions she asked.

“Are the people beginning to gather yet, Lucy?” she asked, as she
observed Lucy’s face turned toward the window which commanded a view of
the place.

“Every thing seems very quiet yet,” returned her affectionate attendant.

“I see two, three, nine, seven wagons,” said Lucy’s little sister.

“And I see a great many men riding,” said a little fellow still younger
than she who had just spoken. Lucy, anxious to stop the children’s
remarks, enticed them away from the window by giving them a picture-book
to look at. Then turning to Mrs. Horton, she asked if she could not read
something to her to amuse her.

“Amusement is out of the question, dear,” said the invalid, “but you may
read something that will give me a useful lesson. Take the Bible, my
child, and read the sermon on the mount. I always feel myself a better
woman after I have read it.”

Lucy took her father’s large quarto Bible, and the children, leaving
their own pictures, came to stand by her as she did so, for it was
beautifully illustrated, and they were anxious to see the engravings,
which they had seldom a chance of doing, as it was too valuable a book
for them to be allowed to touch themselves. But just as Lucy was opening
it, the little boy, who happened to turn his head to the window,
exclaimed, “Look! look at that man standing up above all the rest, and
flourishing something in his hand!” Mrs. Horton heaved a deep sigh, and
turned her face toward the back of the sofa, whilst Lucy, making a
motion to the children to be silent, began to read. But just as she had
pronounced the words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be
comforted,” a servant came to tell her she was wanted, and giving the
children permission (by way of keeping them quiet) to look at the
pictures whilst she was absent, she left the room. She was not gone many
minutes, but when she came back she found that they had been disputing
which should turn over the leaves, and in the struggle they had let the
ponderous volume fall on the floor, where it still lay, with the leaves
doubled in all directions. Mortified to see a book that her father had
always forbidden the children to touch so abused, she ran to lift it up,
and as she did so, two pieces of paper fell from between some of the
leaves. But what was her surprise and delight, on looking at them, to
see they were the two lost notes. Uttering a scream of delight, she ran
out of the room, without even stopping to tell Mrs. Horton what she had
found, from the fear that the auctioneer’s hammer might fall before she
got within hearing. Camilla herself could scarcely have flown more
rapidly across the intermediate fields, and just at the moment that the
hammer was descending, evidently for the last time, she contrived to
make her cry of “stop! stop!” heard, and the auctioneer’s hand was
instantly arrested. The next moment Norman was at her side. The rest may
be easily imagined. There is none, we presume, who will not rejoice at
the defeat of Norman’s ungenerous persecutor; nor is there a heart so
cold as not to sympathize with the invalid mother at finding she was
still to remain in the home endeared to her by so many tender
reminiscences, or with the young lovers, at the happy prospect that was
opened out before them by the recovery of the lost notes.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        AN HOUR AMONG THE DEAD.


                        (WRITTEN IN A CEMETERY.)

                         BY J. BEAUCHAMP JONES.


        Alone, withdrawn from all the thoughtless throng,
          I seek in solitude a peaceful hour,
        Nor deem that others who are gay are wrong,
          If midst multipled cares they have such power.
        But I would commune with my heavy heart
          Beneath the foliage of this lonely bower;
        Perchance a soothing vision here may start,
          Or at my feet may rise some tender flower,
        Refreshing to the wounded spirit’s thirst,
          Which for the moment I may call my own,
        Unlike the hopes and buds that gladdened first,
          And paled and withered ’neath the world’s rude frown.
        But hope seems vain, for round me sleep the dead,
          Who quaffed their pleasures, and at last laid down,
        While all the aims and sweets of life have fled,
          And twining grass is now their mournful crown.

        Yet there is something soothing in the air;
          The thrush sings softly as it flits along;
        The towering trees shut out the sun’s bold glare,
          And round my temples breathes the wind’s low song:
        A katy-did chirps on a marble urn,
          The distant doves their plaintive moans prolong,
        And sweet perfumes arise where’er I turn,
          To woo a wand’rer from a world of wrong.
        And why should one look further for a grave,
          And seek vain pomps and plaudits ere he die?
        Earth’s gold is venom, each great king a slave
          To some vile passion, and enjoyments fly
        We know not whither, but they ne’er return;
          And memory brings but a tear or sigh
        For moments lost, for bliss we once could spurn,
          Bright dreams of youth, or friends that buried lie.

        Under yon willow bending near the brook,
          Where crystal waters glide the shrubs among—
        Where a lone mortal, with abstracted look,
          Is brooding o’er some grief his heart hath stung
        Methinks that one might bid a last farewell,
          To all the foes that here his bosom wrung,
        And like the martyr who, forgiving, fell,
          Ask no sad requiem o’er his ashes sung.
        O, in the final and oblivious rest,
          I would recline beneath such hallowed sod,
        Where flowers sweet might bloom above my breast,
          No longer mark for Slander’s pointed rod!
        And yet a day must come when e’en the dead
          Will bid adieu to the dark valley’s clod,
        And all the just, with spotless pinions spread,
          Shall soar above to their effulgent God!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.


                 *        *        *        *        *


                           BY E. L. BULWER.

The soul really grand is only tested in its errors. As we know the true
might of the intellect by the rich resources and patient strength with
which it redeems a failure, so do we prove the elevation of the soul by
its courageous return into light—its instinctive rebound into higher
air—after some error that has darked its vision and soiled its plumes.

                 *        *        *        *        *


                           BY G. H. BOKER.

                       You tread on dangerous ground,
           A mental bog that quakes beneath your feet.
           These words would seem to come from humbleness,
           And low opinion of yourself and man,
           Yet are engendered by the rankest pride,
           Arrayed in robes of meek humility—
           Stop! the next step is infidelity!
           Contempt for man begets contempt for God;
           He who hates man, must scorn the source of man,
           And challenge, as unwise, his awful Maker.
           The next step, doubt—and then comes unbelief;
           Last, you raise man above all else beside,
           And make him chiefest in the universe.
           So, from a self-contempt grows impious pride,
           Which swells your first-thought pigmy to a giant,
           And gives the puffed up atom fancied sway.
           God is! Philosophy here ends her flight!
           This is the height and term of human reason;
           A fact that, like the whirling Norway pool,
           Draws to its centre all things, swallows all.
           How can you know God’s nature to Himself?
           How learn His purpose in creating man?
           Enough for you to know that here you are—
           A thought of God made manifest on earth.
           Ah, yet His voice is heard within the heart,
           Faint, but oracular, it whispers there;
           Follow that voice, love all, and trust to Him.

                 *        *        *        *        *


                       BY MRS. D. ELLEN GODMAN.

I never see a fairy girl, with health’s glow upon her cheek, and love’s
light in her beaming eye; I never hear her silvery laugh, and listen to
the echo of her sweet voice, but I think of the darkness of coming
years. I have seen so many a beautiful thing wither and fall to the
grave; I have watched the overthrow of so many earthly schemes, and
noted the death of so many earthly hopes, that I tremble for the
trusting, warm heart, which I know must ere long bleed over some faded
dream or withered idol. I have stood by the low, calm resting-place of
age, where the aged man, with his snowy locks, was sweetly sleeping; but
I shed no tear over his fate. For must it not be pleasant, after a long
life of care and toil, and it may be of suffering, to lie down at last
in the grave, to bid adieu to a changing world, and welcome the joys of
everlasting life? But my tears have watered the fresh sod beneath which
slumbered the young, the gay, the beautiful. I have wept, Heaven knows
how bitterly, over the blighting of youthful loveliness—over the faded
wreath of earthly love. But amid all the gloom, all the decay around,
there comes a soft, sweet whisper—a low, gentle breathing, as from an
angel’s lips, soothing the heart, and pouring into the bleeding bosom
the balm of consolation.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The following beautiful poem is taken from a volume recently published
in London, entitled, “Poems by a Sempstress,” and has never been
reprinted in this country. It possesses great merits, and if the
authorship be authentic, is certainly a remarkable production.

                              THE DREAMER.


           Not in the laughing bowers,
           Where, by green twining arms, a pleasant shade,
           A summer-noon is made;
           And where swift-footed hours
           Steal the rich breath of the enamored flowers;
           Dream I—nor where the golden glories be,
           At sunset paving o’er the flowing sea,
           And to pure eyes the faculty is giv’n
           To trace the smooth ascent from earth to heaven.

           Not on the couch of ease,
           With all appliances of joys at hand;
           Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command,
           Viands that might a god-like palate please,
           And music’s soul-creative ecstasies;
           Dream I—nor gloating o’er a wide estate,
           Till the full, self-complacent heart, elate,
           Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth,
           Sighs for an immortality on earth:

           But where the incessant din
           Of iron hands, and roar of brazen throats,
           Join their unmingling notes;
           While the long summer day is pouring in,
           Till day is done, and darkness doth begin;
           Dream I—or in the corner where I lie,
           On winter nights, just covered from the sky;
           Such is my fate, and barren as it seem,
           Yet, thou blind soulless scorner! yet, I dream.

           And, yet, I dream—
           Dream what, were man more just, I might have been!
           How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene,
           Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien,
           The conscious crown to Nature’s blissful scene;
           In just and equal brotherhood to glean,
           With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen:
           Such is my dream.

           And, yet, I dream—
           I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eye,
           Bright with the lustre of integrity,
           In unappealing wretchedness on high,
           And the last rage of destiny defy;
           Resolved, alone to live—alone to die,
           Nor swell the tide of human misery.

           And, yet, I dream—
           Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come;
           My last, my first, my only welcome home!
           Rest, unbeheld since life’s beginning stage,
           Sole remnant of my glorious heritage
           Unalienable, I shall find thee yet,
           And in thy soft embrace, the past forget!
           Thus do I dream.

                 *        *        *        *        *


                            BY JOHN KEATS.

                        MILTON AND WORDSWORTH.

      From “Life and Literary Remains of Keats,” by R. M. Milnes.

With your patience, I will return to Wordsworth—whether or no he has an
extended vision or a circumscribed grandeur—whether he is an eagle in
his nest or on the wing; and, to be more explicit, and to show you how
tall I stand by the giant, I will put down a simile of human life, as
far as I now perceive it; that is, to the point to which I say we both
have arrived at. Well, I compare human life to a large mansion of many
apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest
being as yet shut upon me. The first we step into we call the infant or
thoughtless chamber, in which we remain as long as we do not think. We
remain there a long while, and notwithstanding the doors of the second
chamber remain wide open, showing a bright appearance, we care not to
hasten to it, but are, at length, imperceptibly impelled by the
awakening of the thinking principle within us. We no sooner get into the
second chamber, which I shall call the chamber of maiden-thought, than
we become intoxicated with the light and the atmosphere. We see nothing
but pleasant wonders, and think of delaying there for ever in delight.
However, among the effects this breathing is father of, is that
tremendous one of sharpening one’s vision into the heart and nature of
man, of convincing one’s nerves that the world is full of misery and
heart-break, pain, sickness, and oppression; whereby this chamber of
maiden-thought becomes gradually darkened, and at the same time, on all
sides of it, many doors are set open—but all dark—all leading to dark
passages. We see not the balance of good and evil; we are in a mist, we
are in that state, we feel the “Burden of the Mystery.” To this point
was Wordsworth come, as far as I can conceive, when he wrote “Tintern
Abbey,” and it seems to me that his genius is explorative of those dark
passages. Now if we live, and go on thinking, we too shall explore them.
He is a genius and superior [to] us, in so far as he can, more than we,
make discoveries and shed a light in them. Here I must think Wordsworth
is deeper than Milton, though I think it has depended more upon the
general and gregarious advance of intellect than individual greatness of
mind. From the “Paradise Lost,” and the other works of Milton, I hope it
is not too presuming, even between ourselves, to say, that his
philosophy, human and divine, may be tolerably understood by one not
much advanced in years. In his time, Englishmen were just emancipated
from a great superstition, and men had got hold of certain points and
resting-places in reasoning which were too newly born to be doubted, and
too much opposed by the rest of Europe, not to be thought ethereal and
authentically divine. Who could gainsay his ideas on virtue, vice, and
chastity, in “Comus,” just at the time of the dismissal of a hundred
social disgraces? Who would not rest satisfied with his hintings at good
and evil in his “Paradise Lost,” when just free from the inquisition and
burning in Smithfield? The Reformation produced such immediate and great
benefits, that Protestantism was considered under the immediate eye of
heaven, and its own remaining dogmas and superstitions then, as it were,
regenerated, constituted those resting-places and seeming sure points of
reasoning. From what I have mentioned, Milton, whatever he may have
thought in the sequel, appears to have been content with these by his
writings. He did not think with the human heart as Wordsworth has done;
yet Milton, as a philosopher, had surely as great powers as Wordsworth.
What is then to be inferred? Oh! many things: it proves there is really
a grand march of intellect; it proves that a mighty Providence subdues
the mightiest minds to the service of the time being, whether it be in
human knowledge or religion.

                 *        *        *        *        *


                   BY THE AUTHOR OF “MARY BARTON.”

The woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped, are those that admit
least earthly comforting. Of all trite, worn-out, hollow-mockeries of
comfort that were ever uttered by people who will not take the trouble
of sympathizing with others, the one I dislike the most is the
exhortation not to grieve over an event, “for it cannot be helped.” Do
you think, if I could help it, I would sit still, content to mourn? Do
you not believe that as long as hope remained I would be up and doing? I
mourn because what has occurred cannot be helped. The reason you give me
for not grieving, is the very and sole reason of my grief. Give me
nobler and higher reasons for enduring meekly what my father sees fit to
send, and I will try earnestly and faithfully to be patient. But mock me
not, or any other mourner, with the speech, “Do not grieve, for it
cannot be helped. It is past remedy.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

                What a single word can do!
                Thrilling all the heart-strings through,
                Calling forth fond memories,
                Raining round hope’s melodies,
                Steeping all in one bright hue—
                What a single word can do!

                What a single word can do!
                Making life seem all untrue,
                Driving joy and hope away,
                Leaving not one cheering ray,
                Blighting every flower that grew—
                What a single word can do!

                 *        *        *        *        *


                          BY G. P. R. JAMES.

There are certain classes of passions and vices which people often find
an excuse for indulging by persuading themselves that they are
invariably connected with some great or noble feeling. Now, of this
character is _revenge_, which men are apt to fancy must be the offspring
of a generous and vehement heart, and a fine, determined, and sensitive
mind. But this is a mistake. Revenge, in the abstract, is merely a
prolongation throughout a greater space of time, of that base
selfishness which leads us to feel a momentary impulse to strike any
thing that hurts or pains us either mentally or corporeally; and the
more brutal, and animal, and beast-like be the character of the person,
the greater will be his disposition to revenge. But we must speak one
moment upon its modifications. Revenge always proceeds either from a
sense of real injury, or a feeling of wounded vanity. It seldom,
however, arises from any real injury; and when it does, it would (if
possible to justify it at all,) be more justifiable; but in this
modification, a corrective is often found in the great mover of man’s
heart, and vanity itself whispers, it will seem nobler and more generous
to forgive. The more ordinary species of revenge, however, and the more
filthy, is that which proceeds from wounded vanity—when our pride or
our conceit has been greatly hurt—not alone in the eyes of the world,
but in our own eyes—when the little internal idol that we have set up
to worship in our hearts, has been pulled down from the throne of our
idolatry, and we have been painfully shown that it is nothing but a
thing of gilt wood. Then, indeed, revenge, supported by the great mover
of man’s heart, instead of being corrected by it, is insatiable and
everlasting. But, in all cases, instead of being connected with any
great quality, it is the fruit of a narrow mind, and a vain, selfish
heart.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Oh, if people would but take as much pains to do good as they take to do
evil—if even the well-disposed were as zealous in beneficence, as the
wicked are energetic in wrong—what a pleasant little clod this earth of
ours would be for us human crickets to go chirping about from morning
till night.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Poems. By John G. Whittier. Illustrated by Hammott Billings.
    Boston: B. B. Mussey & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This is a beautiful and highly decorated volume, splendidly bound, and
well printed. It is illustrated with engravings after original designs
by H. Billings, a Boston artist of great and peculiar merit, whose fine
and fertile genius we should like to see oftener employed in the
illustration of the poets.

Whittier is a positive force in the community, and has popularity as
well as reputation. As a poet of sentiment and imagination he is known
wherever American literature is read, and has been recognized as an
originality by criticism. But even if the critics had denounced, it
would have made little difference with his popularity, for his burning
lyrics have been sung and declaimed by thousands who know nothing and
care nothing for questions relating to style and rhythm. A man with so
grand and large a heart—a heart that instinctively runs out in sympathy
with his fellow men, must necessarily exercise influence. But this
sensibility, though an important and noble element in Whittier’s genius,
occasionally does more than its portion of the work of production.
Passion, of itself, is not a high peculiarity of a poet, but impassioned
imagination is, perhaps, the highest. Now Whittier has passion and has
imagination, but they are not always combined. Sensibility is only
valuable as it gives force and fire to thought, and the grandest poems
in the present collection are those in which conceptions are penetrated
with emotions, and the least valuable are those in which emotions get
the start of conceptions and roll out on their own account. The reader
of the present volume, however, will find a class of poems in it
essentially different from those which are intellectually vehement or
passionately vehement—a class which are pure utterances of the author’s
soul in its most contemplative moods. These are exquisitely tender and
beautiful, giving evidence of a mind which to all lovely objects in the
material world can

                        “——Add the gleam,
        The light that never was on sea or land.
        The consecration and the poet’s dream.”

No one can read the present volume without being struck with the vigor
and variety of the author’s mind, the breadth and intensity of his
sympathies, and the true manliness of his character. The success of such
a work is certain.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Remarks on the Science of History; Followed by an A Priori
    Autobiography. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is one of the most original and striking books ever published in
the United States, and if it were not marred by some needless
obscurities in the preface and notes, would be likely to obtain a
popularity commensurate with its merits. It evinces a mind of great
power in the region of pure thought, and of great acquisitions in
metaphysical science. The leading object of the volume is to present
universal history under the form of biography, and its hero is a person
who lives the life of the race. It is assumed that he who thoroughly
understands the present epoch must have reproduced, and lived through,
in his private experience, all the religions, dispensations and
civilizations which preceded it; and accordingly the author supposes the
case of a man whose mind, in its development, passes through all the
leading systems of philosophy which have successively appeared in the
world, and lives them in thought as in different ages they have been
lived in action. His hero accordingly lives and outlives sensuality,
diabolism, atheism, deism, pantheism, Platonism, necessitarianism,
transcendentalism, until he arrives at the belief of a living God and a
Christian dispensation. The mental moods as well as the opinions of
these different systems are represented, and an almost audacious
expression given to some of them. Though the work is deficient somewhat
in artistical as distinguished from logical completeness, and is too
condensed in passages where expansion would have aided the reader, no
person who avoids the notes and adheres to the autobiography, can fail
to notice the clearness as well as the depth and force of mind it
evinces. We are aware of no other book in which so much knowledge of
mental philosophy is conveyed in so small a space. The exposition of
Plato’s theory of Ideas—the stringent logic applied to the doctrine of
necessity—the keenness with which the weak points of atheism are
detected, and the remorseless analysis with which they are probed, and
the masterly power of impassioned argumentation, fierce, rapid and
close, with which the subject of the Will is cleared from its
obscurities, all indicate a mind of no common order. The author is
evidently a man destined to leave his mark on the philosophical
literature of the country. In the present volume there are important and
original ideas which will sooner or later become influential.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Remarks on the Past and its Legacies to American Society. By J.
    D. Nourse. Louisville: Morton & Griswold. 1 vol. 12mo._

Those of our readers who have any taste for the philosophy of history,
and who are desirous to see how an American writer can handle the
problems which have tasked the acutest and most comprehensive European
intellects, had better procure this work. It is written in a style of
much energy, beauty and clearness, and is the result of forcible and
patient thinking on a wide basis of historical facts and principles. The
author is a Kentuckian and a scholar in the true sense. Although the
book evidences a familiarity with the productions of others in a similar
department of letters, it is still original as well as powerful. There
are sentences in it which deserve to pass into maxims; and through the
whole volume none can fail to observe the steady and almost triumphant
march of an independent and forcible intellect. We do not know how the
work has succeeded at the west, but if it has failed to attract notice
there, it shows that Kentucky is not so ready to recognize marked
ability in letters as in politics. The author, from his position as an
American, really holds an advantage over his European rivals; and the
felicity and comprehensiveness of his grasp of some great principles,
and the power with which he wields them, are in a considerable degree
referable to his freedom from many prejudices which beset the largest
minds abroad. This volume ought to give Mr. Nourse a name, and we trust
it will have that large circulation which its importance and usefulness
so richly merit.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Romance of Yachting. By Joseph C. Hart. New York: Harper &
    Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a sprightly book, written in a dashing and defiant style,
bristling with paradox and sparkling with whimsicalities. The
peculiarity of the book consists in its dogmatism, and like all
dogmatists the author gives as confident expression to the extravagances
of his caprice as to the deductions of his understanding. Many topics
are discussed which the title of the book would never suggest. Such are
the remarks on the Puritans, Shakspeare, and the Moors in Spain. With
regard to the first, the author chimes in with the opponents of the
Puritans, and administers twenty lashes to “New England Conceit.” We do
not know but that our Eastern friends have dilated a little too much on
their ancestors, and been too prone to consider every thing excellent as
dating from the Puritans, but certainly the style in which our New York
brethren are now bragging about their progenitors, promises to outshine
in pretension and impertinence every thing of the kind we have had in
Massachusetts or Virginia. Mr. Hart, especially, fairly crows a note
higher than any antiquarian chanticleer of ancestry it has ever been our
fortune to meet in literature. There is a long passage in the book on
Shakspeare, in which the author attempts to prove that in the plays
published under Shakspeare’s name, there is little property belonging to
him but the rant and obscenity. If Mr. Hart means his dissertation on
this topic as badinage, it is rather tedious joking; and if he is in
earnest, he shows a strange ignorance of facts and arguments which are
as familiar to every student of English letters as his alphabet.
Seriously, to combat such a clumsy specimen of irony would only turn the
laugh against the critic, and no honor could possibly be gained in
proving that the sun shines, or that “eggs is eggs.”

Apart from some extravagances of the kind we have noticed, the book is a
grand and exhilarating one, and cannot fail to prove interesting to
almost all classes of readers. To seamen, and to all who go out upon the
sea in ships or yachts, it is an invaluable companion. The vigor,
elasticity and decision of the style are in fine harmony with the frank,
cordial, and somewhat chivalric nature of the author.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By W. M. Thackeray. New York:
    Harper & Brothers._

We believe that this novel was published before Vanity Fair, and it
certainly cannot compare with that brilliant work in incident or
characterization; but it is still well worthy a diligent reading. It
relates principally to that pinchbeck class of English swells, known as
“gents,” and represents English society, as seen through the medium of a
cockney’s mind. Mr. Sam Titmarsh, the worthy autobiographer, is a vain
but innocent gent, and tells his story with delicious simplicity, and
occasionally with much pathos. His little wife is a gem. The scene in
which she obtains the office of nurse to Lady Tiptoff’s child, is
exquisitely natural and pathetic. Every reader is inclined to echo Mr.
Yellowplush’s opinion, even as expressed in his original orthography.
“You see, Tit, my boy,” he remarks to the happy husband, “I’m a
oonnyshure, and up to enough; and if ever I see a lady in my life, Mrs.
Titmarsh is one. I can’t be fimiliar with her as I am with you. There’s
a somethink in her, a jennysquaw, that haws me, sir.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Forgery; a Tale. By G. P. R. James. New York: Harper &
    Brothers._

It is a common charge against critics that they do not read the books
they review. We acknowledge the charge in the case of Mr. James’s latest
novel, with a feeling akin to exultation. We have read some twenty of
his romances, more to verify an opinion than to gratify a taste, and
certainly the man is to be praised for doing so large an amount of
business on so small a capital. Though his mind is exceedingly limited
in its range, he has contrived to fill more space with his books than
the most comprehensive and creative of intellects would be justified in
occupying. His success must be mortifying to all novelists who really
possess original power, and who consider that a new character is
something else than an old one with a new name. If Mr. James possessed
sufficient force to stamp any character, incident or description, on the
imagination, he would miserably fail in the application of his science
of repetition and philosophy of dilution. His salvation from popular
martyrdom is owing to the very feebleness of the impression he makes on
the popular mind.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Moneypenny; or the Heart of the World. A Romance of the Present
    Day. Illustrated by Darley. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 1
    vol._

This book has passed to a second edition, and promises to take a high
rank among American romances. It is so altogether above the general run
of novels published in a cheap form, that it is important for the public
to understand that though in yellow covers, it has none of the nonsense,
stupidity, and ribaldry commonly associated with yellow-covered
literature. The author not only understands practical life practically,
but he is a scholar and a man of original power. The work is exceedingly
interesting, evinces a strong grasp of character, is well written, and
while it deserves and will reward the attention of the more tasteful
class of readers, it will tend to give a more important, because more
numerous and sensitive class, a higher notion of the requirements of
romance. We cordially wish the author success.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Model Men, Women and Children. Modeled by Horace Mayhew. New
    York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This little volume is crammed with shrewd and diverting satire, and
illustrated by appropriate cuts. The series originally appeared in
Punch. The author evidently understands all the fooleries and deviltries
as well as most of the humanities of practical life; and he has
commented upon them in a style which is universally appreciable. There
is a sort of percussion-cap explosion of wit and satire which keeps
attention constantly awake. The book, apart from its brilliancy and
readableness, is a good medicine for “snobism” of all sorts.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Greyslaer; or a Romance of the Mohawk. By Charles Penno
    Hoffman. Fourth Edition. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol.
    12mo._

The sturdiest champion of literary nationality must concede to Mr.
Hoffman the merit of being an American writer. He knows the country, is
familiar with its scenery, sympathises with the events of its history,
and understands its people, aboriginal and imported. The present novel,
which has now reached its fourth edition—an honor enjoyed by few
fictions—is a pregnant illustration of the author’s thorough
nationality. He is an American without being an Americanism. We have not
the least doubt that this edition of Greyslaer will receive a cordial
welcome from all who are capable of appreciating the grand and
chivalrous spirit which breathes through and animates the fine talents
and large acquirements of the author.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Mirror of Nature: A Book of Instruction and Entertainment ,
    Translated from the German of G. H. Schubert, by William H.
    Furness, pp. 497. Philadelphia: Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co._

Here is a good book, full of practical instruction, and of information
that makes other knowledge practical. A German writer, a good man, has
brought a well-stored mind to the task of preparing a volume that shall
give the great authors on natural study, without the minuteness of a
class-book, or the elaborate development of a thorough treatise. He has
opened up the beautiful operations of Nature and her works, and has not
neglected to recognize the soul as the antecedent of the body. So that
while one is studying about the mighty gatherings of mineral wealth, the
wonderful effects of chemical operations, and the instincts of animal
life, he is constantly kept above his theme by the declared truth of his
superiority to all these, in the possession of an immortal soul. A
Christian American has given the work in an English form—good, pure,
simple, expressive English—no Germanisms to offend the ear—and yet an
occasional adaptation of a German mode of expressing thoughts shows the
intimacy of the translator with the original, and his power to select
the most expressive forms.

In this volume man is considered, and his power of mental and physical
existence developed. The outreaching of the human mind is regarded as
worthy of consideration, and lessons of usefulness derived therefrom.
The volume before us is admirably suited to the classes of our public
schools and to the general reader—and when furnished as it will be with
a set of questions suited to the text, it will be a handbook for the
classes, of immense usefulness.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Poems. By Charles G. Eastman. Montpelier: Eastman & Danforth. 1
    vol. 18mo._

This volume is a collection of songs and short poems from the pen of one
of the ablest political editors in Vermont. The book shows that the
author’s heart is in what is called the right place, in spite of the
stir and fret of politics. The characteristic of the volume is
simplicity in the expression of emotion. There is no parade of ornament,
and very little fanciful decoration, but the author contrives still to
express a variety of moods in a most genuine way. The verse has a spring
and elastic vigor in its movement, which continually suggests the notion
of impromptu composition. The finest poem in the volume is the first,
entitled “The Picture,” and certainly no poet could begin a collection
with a piece more calculated to propitiate the reader, and make him look
lovingly on what follows.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Foot-Prints. By R. H. Stoddard._

A copy of this neat little volume has been laid upon our table, and we
have read it with great pleasure. The poems it contains are, generally,
good. Some of them are marked with great felicity of thought and power
of expression. Mr. Stoddard is familiar to the readers of “Graham’s
Magazine,” as one of the contributors to its pages, and we have now on
hand some of his poetical articles which we design publishing in due
order. His contributions are favorite ones with our readers, who, if
they wish to have a collection of the author’s writings, cannot do a
better thing than obtain from the publishers, or at any of the principal
bookstores, a copy of “Foot-Prints.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


THE MIRROR OF LIFE.—We have caused to be prepared, as one of the
embellishments of our Magazine for the present mouth, a picture entitled
“The Mirror of Life.” As a picture, we think it good, excellent indeed,
artistically considered; and the face of the female, the mother, nay,
the whole form so far as visible, may be considered as beautiful. We
had, in truth, some stronger terms to use with regard to this figure,
but we forbear them now, and refer our male readers to the picture
itself, to say whether they have seen any thing more handsome, more
really beautiful, than that for a long time. And to the ladies we appeal
with equal confidence, whether any one of them has seen so beautiful a
representation of the female face and form for years—excepting only
that which she sees reflected from her own mirror.

As for the little boy, we will confess, that though he has grown more
comely under the burin of Mr. Tucker, we do not mean to claim any
particular credit for his beauty; the truth is, the child looks like his
father.

But the lesson of the picture is what concerns us. The _prima facia_
evidence of this picture is against the character of the mother for
proper discipline; she has given her child a mirror for a plaything, a
hammer would complete the picture and the mirror. But that would be to
regard the representation physically. The child is looking into the
mirror with earnestness. Do our readers mark the Johnsonian cast of the
little philosopher’s head? Do they see how he has set his eyes and
mouth, as if he would see and taste what of life lies before him. And
with no less intensity does the mother gaze into the mirroring eyes of
her child; and as he gathers from the glass in front of him the shadows
which coming events cast before them, she collects the facts from his
eyes, and is wrapt into the future, not of herself, but of her child.

What would one give to learn that future? to gaze into the mirror of
life, and discover its terrible lessons in advance! Could we prevent
them by learning?—Alas! no—if we could, we could not learn. Can we
look into the future and see what _is_ to take place, and then by
efforts prevent the occurrence? If we could prevent that which we saw,
how could we see it?

But the little fellow is peering down the vista of time, and he is
seeing care and anxiety dogging his heels; he is looking at the
antagonistic movements of his life, and wondering how life can _be_, and
_be_ thus opposed. He is seeing his future self, bowing down to the
object of affection, and he is hearing _her_ calculations of the
advantages which his offer had over that of another; and his young heart
sickens at the mercenary selfishness of the idea.

But if the mirror reflects or prefigures truly, his own _heart_ had made
the same calculations before it was offered. And this is the common
experience of life. Men pause in the midst of their business or their
pleasure, and begin to think about marriage; they are reminded of this
by the movements of others, or the customs of their kind. Do they look
about and see where they can bestow the most of benefit, or confer the
greatest amount of good? Do they say, “I have wealth and position, here
is a lovely female, poor and humble, the ascentive power of my
possessions will take _her_ up?” Or do they set down and make the
calculations as to the amount of personal benefits which they would
derive from the match?

Ninety-nine times in the hundred the calculations upon a wife and her
uses, are as carefully and as selfishly made by man, as are those upon
the purchase of real estate, or stock for a stable or a farm. And we do
not mean to say that on the whole marriages resulting from such
calculations are not productive of as much _content_ as those which seem
to be made with all the disinterestedness which novelists ascribe to
their favorite heroes and heroines.

Well, when the calculation is complete, the gentleman hastens off and
_proposes_ to the lady; if the female is found to pause upon the
proposal, and to ask herself, or to ask some one who knows, what are the
means which this lover possesses to make her happier than she is now, or
as happy as twenty other young men who are ready (when they have
finished _their_ calculations) to make the same offer; if she pause thus
and inquire, she is set down as a cold-hearted, selfish, intereste girl,
with no force of affection, with no ideas of a married life beyond the
bargaining of the shopman.

Yet if two months _after_ marriage that same woman should be found
holding such discourse with herself about any of the affairs of life in
which she or her husband may have an interest, the whole world would
pronounce her a woman of sound principles, of good common sense, and a
pattern of wives. Yet, in the transaction which of all others most
concerns her, she must not urge advantages, must not calculate the
probable chances, must shut her eyes, and leap into a gulf which can
never restore her to the situation which she left. Perhaps some of our
young female readers will look over the shoulder of the child, and see
what the mirror says about such parts of life.

Doubtless the mirror of life furnishes much of pleasure, much of high
distinction to the young gazer into its vaticinating depths; for what
child of such a mother ever lived long without desirable distinction?
All that we have of value in our character, and even in our later
condition, seems to spring from our mother. Wealth and consequent
position may be derived from the father, but unless the gentle
monitions, the constant watchfulness, the careful mind-moulding and
character-forming devotion of the mother prepare the child to retain and
exalt his position and augment his wealth, the legacy from the father
will waste away; wealth will be dissipated and position lost in the
early encounters of the youth with the world. But from infancy to
adolescence, from youth to manhood, and onward to age, the legacy of the
mother has continual increase; the beauties of mind which she imparted
augment with development, and the lofty lessons of virtue which she
gave, comes in man’s intercourse to be the rule of his conduct, and
means of his distinction.

Is it not probable that the mother is now giving one of her lessons to
the child, imparting some instruction which shall hereafter be fruitful
of good?

It does not seem that the heavenly look which rests upon her face is the
consequence of a mother’s love for the fame and fortunes of her child.
She is just entertaining the bright idea of the immortality of her son.
She is looking deep into his heart through his eyes, and she is thinking
how she shall impart that mighty thought to the boy; how she shall make
him comprehend her views about the antecedence of his soul, that
doctrine upon which must rest all her lessons of life, and all her hopes
of good from these lessons.

The mother has caught the idea (whether true or false it matters not)
that her infant has some high remembrances of a former existence, and
that struck with what he sees in the mirror of life, he is attempting to
recall something of that state from which he came to animate the body
where youth seems to overshadow the past in his soul and clog its
movements toward the communion it once enjoyed. She sees, or thinks she
sees, something of this, and she catches the ennobling thought that the
antecedent of that soul, its primary and indefeasible right to
consideration, demand her utmost care, and that the cultivation of the
higher powers of the intellect must be made subservient to this still
_higher_ power—the immortal principal—where this union of soul and
body shall be made profitable to both. That is the mission of the
mother; her reward is not in the wealth, the honor, or the happiness of
her child—circumstances, consequent though these be upon her
teachings—her great reward, the certain and abiding compensation to the
virtuous mother for rearing her son to virtue, is found in that state
where virtue has its full appreciation, and affection its perfect work.
“The mirror of life” is full of lessons; it reflects truths that need
only appropriate display to make them profitable; and happy will it be
for all, if, catching some of the foreshadowings of the mirror of life,
we adapt our conduct to the events; and though we may not be able to
change an order of Providence, we can at least make the effect of that
Providence beneficial to ourselves.

                                                                    G.

                 *        *        *        *        *


                     “GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”

MY DEAR JEREMY,—Do you ever think of our boarding-school loves, and
wonder where all those bright eyes, which used to blaze as from a
battery upon us from that pyramid of laughing faces, rising one above
the other to the topmost pane of those ample windows, are weeping or
laughing now? Do you promenade on the west side, as of yore, without a
sigh, and gaze into those deserted windows, from which smiles and
rose-tinted notes were showered down upon us with such munificence,
without a thought of the fair hands and glad hearts which then gave a
sort of sunlight to our devotion—the Mecca to which we turned in our
morning prayers and evening rambles? Is it not a sad thought, that as we
journey through life, the very innocency of boyhood, the first fresh
feelings of the heart, are things of which it is conventional to be
ashamed? As if it were a happiness, which we should call a conquest, to
learn the bitter lessons of life, at a sacrifice of all the fond
recollections of youth, a triumph to know the secret of deceiving with
smiles, and of wringing the hand kindly, of people we despise. Yet must
we learn the uses of adversity by time, and feel that the brightest of
_our_ days are passed forever; that hope, having cheated us for a
thousand times, has become bankrupt in our esteem, while the past,
brilliant and certain in joys experienced, recalls with the flitting
present, doubts of true happiness for us again. It is a stern
lesson—that which experience teaches us as we advance in years, to live
a life of distrust and doubt, to believe all goodness assumed, and
friendship but a cheat; to think that every man’s hand is either raised
against his brother, or is thrust into his pocket, and that there is no
such thing as self-sacrifice, except among the Hindoos.

But, Jeremy, not to speak of instances, all of which must be as fresh to
your memory as to mine, I come back to the first question—do you ever
think of our boarding-school loves? and mingle with the remembrance
those unexpressed hopes and fears which flutter in the hearts of all of
us. My falcon towered above yours in ambition then; nothing less than a
mistress of rhetoric and _belles_ letters tempted the magnificent swoop
of my poetry and ambition; yours had a fierce and Byronic generality,
which made it dangerous for the whole covey of lesser birds. How many
were you in love with, _Jeremy_? At least, how many were made goddesses
by your poetry? “You decline,” under present circumstances matrimonial.
Well, a man with a growing family, I suppose, owes something to
appearances and to example. I have no such excuse to plead, and can be
as open as the day.

_I_ really was in love then, Jeremy. Don’t you think so? But I was as
jealous as a Turk—a passion which you, from a lack of concentration,
thought very unreasonable. It _was_, too, considering that it was
engendered _before I_ _had ever spoken to the lady_, and finally
exploded very foolishly, and harmlessly, too, I believe, upon the head
of an innocent old teacher of Latin Grammar, or something of that sort,
old enough to be the lady’s grandfather, who _would_ be looking over her
album. I wrote my last piece of poetry after that, which _did my
business_ in that quarter, for the lady refused to see me or my poetry
any more. The loss, I think, was hers in the long run, though I suffered
with a heart-ache and prospective suicide for a month or two. I was very
much like the poor man in the story book, however,

        “For when I saw my eyes were out,
        With all my might and main,
        I jumped into another bush,
        And scratched them in again.”

The process was a rough one, and left a scar behind. I never saw the
lady but once afterward, and that was at Niblo’s. I confess to a
heart-fluttering, Jeremy, and some of that Spanish fierceness for making
declarations, which you used to laugh at; but fortune or fate denied me
means and opportunity; when the Vaudeville was over she was led off by
her party—_and I lost her_.

        “I saw her depart as the crowd hurried on,
        Like the moon down the ocean, the graceful was gone!
        On my ear her adieu, with its dulcimer swell,
        Like the gush of cool waters in melody fell.

        “Starry stranger! so dazzlingly distant—unknown—
        And observed in thy luminous transit alone;
        By what fiat supreme must thy brilliancy quiver
        O’er the depths of my darkened existence forever!”

But our old friend C——, he’s married now, and is the happy father of
eight children, I believe. He always _had_ an insane passion for crowds.
Do you remember the night he escorted the whole boarding-school home
with his umbrella; he always _would_, like the author of “Calavar,” have
his umbrella with him—_a green one_—and this night the gods were
propitious. It blew a hurricane, and the rain came pitching down in
sheets, as if Niagara had attached a spout to the passing clouds. C——
plied between the concert-room and the boarding-school, with the
regularity and precision of a Brooklyn ferry-boat, showing his regard
for the _fair_. After having deposited the fifteenth damsel safely, he
totally upset the propriety of an elderly lady who opened the door with
a polite invitation for him to “walk in”—an open sesame worth a
ducat—with the information that “_he was afraid_ _some more of the
folks were without umbrellas, and he must_ _see them home!_” A spirit of
self-denial and enlarged philanthropy worthy of a martyr.

Do you remember the exploits of S—— with those gay girls? He was a
determined dandy and lady-killer, and resolved to take the whole school
by storm, and to punish the refractory. But some how or other they
wouldn’t be taken; so after firing into the flock a dozen times, with
his most distinguished bow, and letting off a whole volley of passionate
verses upon imprisoned damsels generally without execution—for no
enamored Julia threw herself at his feet, or replied—he resolved to
pick his bird. S—— had a cousin who visited a Miss T——, who was
immured in that dungeon which frowned most terrifically, in S.’s mind,
upon those within as well as those without; and he made, through this
channel, her acquaintance. A walk to church in company with his cousin
and Miss T—— perfected his little plot of taking the whole castle by
this entrance; but a simple incident destroyed the forces of the enemy,
and routed him, horse, foot, and dragoons. A violent storm came on while
they were at church one Sunday evening, and the streets were flooded
when they came out. The storm had passed, however, and a dull moon lent
but a feeble light to the escort. S—— dropped his cousin at her
door—it was the first chance he had, and starting on with Miss T——,
opened the batteries of the sentimental upon his victim in most
magnificent strength and style. As they crossed Canal street, S——, who
had been carefully piloting the way, releasing the lady’s arm gently
from his, and taking hold of the tips of those taper fingers with a
grace that D’Orsey could not have excelled, requested her to “please
step upon that stone,”—which the dull moon had _made_ in the
water—and, _presto!_ the lady stepped into a pool which would have
discolored the _belt_ of a grenadier of six feet; and in his horror at
his mistake, S—— missed his footing, and plunged in with a dive that
would have gained him admirers in _frogdom_.

You remember the wit of Miss T——; she was out of the water almost
before he was in it, and turning round with a gay laugh at the
discomfited dandy, begged that “_if his thoughts of suicide were
confirmed, to try the river the next time, but she must decline being
either the disconsolate mourner, or a party to the folly!_” and with a
light trip was off, up the steps, and had rung the bell before S——
could gasp an apology.

This, with most men, would have been a settler, but S——’s vanity was
water and bullet-proof both. He dispatched the whole affair, to his
_own_ satisfaction, in a sonnet; and the next day, at two, strode past
the school with the step of a conqueror, the mark of a score of
quizzing-glasses and laughing faces. S—— bore the infliction _this
once_ with a nerve that would have taken any man to the cannon’s mouth.
But he grew fiery and retaliatory under its repetition. “I will settle
this business with a twenty-four pounder,” said he; and he did. The next
day S—— begged the spy-glass of an old pilot, and walking calmly down
with his dexter-eye on the enemy, surprised his forces by a cool,
steady, deliberate gaze through his blunderbuss with glasses. The
mistress ended the flirtation and supposed conquest by a threat,
delicately conveyed, that “any future conduct of the kind would be
intimated to the police.”

S—— determined to “die game,” and marched by with his Spanish mantle
on each particular cold day, with the step of a grenadier; but fate,
jealous of his valor, tripped him up one exceedingly wintry afternoon,
when boys were experimenting with skates upon the side-walk. Poor S——,
who had given his cloak an extra turn over his shoulders, fell at full
length exactly opposite the window of the boarding-school, and
floundered in his vain attempts to extricate himself, like a salmon
thrown upon the land, his “Oakford” most ruinously crushed by a passing
omnibus; and to crown his confusion, in the midst of a dozen windows
suddenly thrown up, an Irish cabman hastened to his rescue, and having
unrolled him and placed him on his feet, considerately asked, within
hearing of two score of ears, “_whether he had been long there?_” The
glory of the conqueror was gone!

        “So fades, so languishes, grows dim, and dies,
        All that this world is proud of.”

The bright faces, laughing eyes, and happy hearts of our youth, with its
early friendships, have been replaced with sadder views of life, and you
and I, Jeremy, are older—the world would say, wiser—but are we
happier, Jeremy, think you?

                                                              G. R. G.

                 *        *        *        *        *

MRS. DAVIDSON.—We present our reader this month with a well engraved
portrait of Mrs. Davidson, the mother of the celebrated and talented
girls Margaret and Lucretia Davidson, made immortal as well by their own
genius as by the beautiful volumes of their works, edited by Washington
Irving and Miss Sedgwick, and published by Lea & Blanchard in 1841.
Lucretia was born in Plattsburg, New York, on the 27th of September,
1808, and died on the 27th of August, 1825, just one month before her
17th birth-day. Margaret was born at the same place, on the 26th of
March, 1823, and died on the 25th of November, 1838, at the early age of
fifteen years and eight months. The early fate and singular genius of
these youthful poets occupied for so long a time the attention and
sympathy of the literary world, that it is needless for us to say much
here, but we cannot refrain from quoting two passages from a
distinguished critic upon their works.

“The name of Lucretia Davidson is familiar to all readers of poetry.
Dying at the early age of 17, she has been rendered famous not less, and
certainly not more, by her own precocious genius than by three memorable
biographies, one by President Morse of the American Society of Arts, one
by Miss Sedgwick, and a third by Robert Southey. Mr. Irving had formed
an acquaintance with some of her relatives, and thus, while in Europe,
took great interest in all that was written or said of his young
countrywomen. Upon his return to this country, he called upon Mrs.
Davidson, and then, in 1833, first saw the subject of the memoir, a
fairy-like child of eleven. Three years having again elapsed, the MSS.,
which formed the basis of his volume, were placed in his hands by Mr.
Davidson, as all that remained of his daughter. Few books have
interested us more profoundly. Yet the interest does not appertain
solely to Margaret. In fact, the narrative, says Mr. Irving, ‘will be
found almost as illustrative of the _character of the mother as the
child;_ _they were singularly identified in taste, feeling and
pursuits_: tenderly entwined together by maternal and filial affection,
they reflected an inexpressibly touching grace and interest upon each
other by this holy relationship, and, to my mind, it would be marring
one of the most beautiful and affecting groups in modern literature to
sunder them.’ In these words the biographer conveys no more than a just
idea of the loveliness of the picture here presented to view.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

“In the way of criticism upon these extraordinary compositions, Mr.
Irving has attempted little. . . . In respect to a poem entitled “My
Sister Lucretia,” he thus speaks, ‘We have said that the example of her
sister Lucretia was incessantly before her, and no better proof can be
given of it than the following lines, which breathe the heavenly
aspirations of her pure young spirit, in strains quite unearthly. We may
have read poetry more artificially perfect in its structure, but never
any more truly divine in its inspiration.’”

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Lucretia Maria Davidson, the elder of the two sweet sisters, who have
acquired so much fame prematurely, had not, like Margaret, an object of
poetical emulation in her own family. In her genius, be it what it may,
there is more of self-dependence—less of the imitative. _Her mother’s
generous romance of soul may have stimulated_ but did not instruct.
Thus, although she has actually given less _evidence_ of power than
Margaret—less written proof—still its _indication_ must be considered
at higher value. Margaret, we think, has left the better
poems—certainly the more precocious—while Lucretia evinces more
unequivocally the soul of a poet.”

We had intended to have said more of the mother—since deceased—of
these remarkable girls, but our space warns us, that in this number, it
is impossible. Enough has been indicated above, to show her strong
sympathy with her daughter’s tastes, and how much she aided in forming
them.

                 *        *        *        *        *

THE JANUARY NUMBER.—We confess to a great degree of pride, from the
reception of our January number, by the newspaper press all over the
country, and from the regular subscribers to the work. It has been
pronounced, indeed, in several influential quarters, “The best number of
a monthly magazine ever issued in the language,” and this not alone from
the number and beauty of the embellishments—every one of which imparted
a value as a work of art to the number—but from the worth, variety and
_amount_ of literary matter. In issuing a _double number_ to our
readers, we were fully aware that we were repaying but a part of what we
owe them, for the liberal encouragement extended to us for a period of
ten years, without deviation or diminution; but we were scarcely
prepared for the large increase to our list of new friends which, in two
cities alone, extended to over three thousand new names.

From every part of the country each mail comes freighted with clubs from
persons with whose subscriptions we have not heretofore been honored,
and our old friends, with astonishing unanimity, continue to cling to
“Graham as the best and only good Magazine” amidst the mass of
periodicals which now make up in noise and promises, what they lack in
merit and ability to perform. To say that we are not flattered by this
mark of favor extended to us by the readers of this country would be
useless, but so far from this fact lessening our exertions, it only
spurs us on to new endeavors to maintain that ascendancy over all others
which we have always held, by issuing a Magazine incomparably better
than any that attempts to rival it.

Our February number, we think, will show no falling off in our
exertions, and the two numbers of the volume are an earnest of what our
readers may expect during the whole year of 1849. May it prove a
prosperous and happy one to our subscribers, as it has opened
auspiciously for ourselves.

                 *        *        *        *        *

A NEW SEA STORY.—We are gratified to be able to announce a new Sea
Story for the pages of Graham’s Magazine, by W. F. Lynch, of the navy,
whose recent explorations of the Dead Sea and vicinity, have so much
occupied the attention of the newspapers and scientific bodies
generally. The story is written with marked ability, and will be quite
an attraction in the coming numbers of Graham.

                 *        *        *        *        *

OUR PREMIUM PLATE.—We shall forward promptly to clubs and subscribers
entitled to our large premium plate, copies, carefully done up for
preservation, as soon as the artist completes it. It will be a very
beautiful parlor ornament when properly framed.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Our Fashion Plate for this month has been delayed by the ocean steamer,
and as we issue this number early, we postpone it till next month.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Painted by Cook         Eng^{d} by Rawdon, Wright & Hatch

(OUR CONTRIBUTORS)

_Mrs. M. M. Davidson_]

                Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE BELLS OF OSTEND.


             WRITTEN ON A BEAUTIFUL MORNING AFTER A STORM,

                            BY W. L. BOWLES,

            THE MUSIC COMPOSED AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO

                   SAMUEL MOFFAT JR. ESQ. OF ALBANY,

                          BY J. HILTON JONES.

[Illustration]

           No, I never, till life and its shadows shall end,
           Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend!
           The day set in darkness, the wind it blew loud,
           And rung as it pass’d thro’ each

[Illustration]

         murmuring shroud.

         My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray,
         My heart sighed in secret for those far away;
         When slowly the morning advanc’d from the east,
         The toils and the noise of the tempest had ceased:
         The peal from a land I ne’er saw seemed to say,
         Let the stranger forget all his sorrow to-day.

                             SECOND VERSE.

         Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain—
         I thought of those eyes I should ne’er see again;
         I thought of the kiss, the last kiss which I gave,
         And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave;
         I thought of the schemes fond affection had planned,
         Of the trees, of the towers of my own native land;
         But still the sweet sounds, as they swelled on the air
         Seemed tidings of pleasure, though mournful to bear;
         And I never, till life and its shadows shall end,
         Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals available for preparation of the ebook. In
the story The Wager of Battle, the Chapter VI heading is missing due to
being absent from the original publication. Hyphenation and archaic
spellings have been retained. Punctuation has been corrected without
note. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as noted below.

page 90, leaves are sear, ==> leaves are sere,
page 93, to make their ==> to make to their
page 104, whispered a page ==> whispered to a page
page 106, cylinders and guaging ==> cylinders and gauging
page 107, for the _denouément_ ==> for the _dénouement_
page 107, I glad ==> I am glad
page 110, from all wordly ==> from all worldly
page 111, none was _politec_ ==> none was _politic_
page 111, of their Lupercalla ==> of their Lupercalia
page 113, the wordly advantages ==> the worldly advantages
page 113, Mendelsshon’s music ==> Mendelssohn’s music
page 114, Druid chorusses ==> Druid choruses
page 119, Greydon, then she ==> Greydon, than she
page 121, tonge of flame ==> tongue of flame
page 125, from a _regime forcé_ ==> from a _régime forcé_
page 127, merchans of celebrity ==> merchants of celebrity
page 128, ask him them ==> ask him then
page 132, sod have been ==> sod had been
page 132, sear turf of ==> sere turf of
page 145, havn’t told us ==> haven’t told us
page 146, physican arrived ==> physician arrived
page 150, maiden-thought be- becomes ==> maiden-thought becomes
page 151, style and rythm ==> style and rhythm
page 152, invaluabte companion ==> invaluable companion
page 153, with the orginal ==> with the original
page 154, down and mak ==> down and make
page 155, was her’s ==> was hers
page 155, an open sessame ==> an open sesame





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 2,
February 1849, by Various

*** 