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[Illustration: A. B. Ross, THE DEBUT
Engraved expressly for Graham's Magazine]


GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXIII. PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER, 1848. NO. 6.




MILDRED WARD.

OR THE DEBUT.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]


CHAPTER I.

Archibald Dundass was a rich Jamaica planter, whose estates were
situated in one of the most delightful regions in that garden of the
West India isles. His wife, an English lady, of great personal
attractions and highly connected, died when Helen, their only child,
had just entered her thirteenth year, an age when, perhaps, a mother's
counsel and tender guidance is most required. When the news of Mrs.
Dundass's death reached her friends, they immediately wrote,
beseeching the bereaved husband to come at once to England with his
child, or if not expedient for himself to leave Jamaica, that he would
at least suffer the little Helen to come to them; and especially did
they urge the plea that thereby he would enable her to receive a more
finished education than could possibly be acquired upon the island.

This plea, to be sure, offered a strong inducement to Mr. Dundass; but
how could he school his heart to this second bereavement. Helen
possessed all her mother's traits--her dark blue eyes--her golden hair
and skin of dazzling purity--the smile that played around her dimpled
mouth--her light airy step, were all her mother's. Looking upon her
thus in her budding loveliness the Helen of his youth once more moved
before him. To yield her up he could not--and therefore Mr. Dundass
rejected the oft-repeated entreaties of his English friends. Helen
remained in Jamaica. A governess was provided, and whatever money
could secure in the way of learning was most freely expended.

Mr. Dundass possessed many noble traits of character, yet pride was a
very strong ingredient in his composition leading him not unfrequently
into errors which his sober judgment condemned. Still he was generally
beloved, especially by his slaves, to whom he was a kind, indulgent
master. Knowing himself to be one of the richest, if not _the_ richest
proprietor upon the island, it was natural he should mark out an
alliance for his daughter commensurate with the fortune her hand would
bestow. When, therefore, Helen, beaming and beautiful as the star of
evening, burst from the confinement of the school-room to dazzle all
eyes and move all hearts, what wonder that pride and ambition swelled
the heart of Mr. Dundass. But


    "Love will venture in where it daur nae weel be seen;"


and, unfortunately for the realization of those ambitious dreams, a
mutual love had already sprung up between Helen and a young man
without friends or fortune, whom her father had received into favor,
and employed for some years in his counting-room.

To appeal to Mr. Dundass for his sanction to their union Ward knew
would be vain, and he therefore prevailed upon the imprudent Helen to
elope with him, assuring her that her father's anger would be but
momentary, and that his great affection triumphing over resentment,
would compel him to forgive her error, and open his arms to welcome
her return. But, unhappily, it was not so. There was no moving the
heart of Mr. Dundass to forgiveness. His anger and resentment were as
boundless as had been his love. He refused to see his child, spurned
her from his door, and to all the numerous and penitent letters she
addressed him, gave no reply. The blow was, indeed, a heavy one,
coming from one so idolized; his affections, as well as his
long-cherished pride, were crushed, and his resentment rose in
proportion.

In the meantime Ward had removed to a distant part of the island with
his young and beautiful bride, where he had obtained a situation which
promised to be lucrative. That he loved his young wife who for his
sake had renounced wealth, station, and a father's love, cannot be
doubted; but that he also held a corner of his heart for the
possessions she might inherit, is also certain. His disappointment,
therefore, at the inflexibility of Mr. Dundass was extreme, and
mingled with it a bitterness which, in a short time, displayed itself
toward his unoffending wife, and in an irritability which, ere the end
of a twelvemonth, caused his employer to dismiss him from his service.
From that time the life of poor Helen was most wretched, bitterly
reaping in tears and poverty the fruits of disobedience. From place to
place she followed her husband wherever he could obtain employ, but of
which his idle, dissolute habits soon deprived him. A constitution
naturally feeble sunk under the inroads of dissipation. Ere three
years a wife Helen became a widow. Her situation was now truly
deplorable. Without money, without friends, and thrown upon the cold
charity of the world ere yet she had reached her twentieth year. For
the sake of her innocent babe she resolved to make one more appeal to
the mercy of her father.

Over mountain ridges, through deep valleys--crossing dense forests and
treacherous rivulets--sometimes on foot, sometimes indebted to the
kindness of some chance traveler for a few miles ride, Helen at length
drew near the home of her childhood, and stole, unannounced, into the
presence of her father. The moment was propitious. Mr. Dundass had
already learned the death of his son-in-law, and the probable
destitution of his daughter. In those three years alienation from his
only child he had suffered much, and untimely old age had silvered his
temples and worn deep furrows o'er his brow. Not all his wealth, not
all the goadings of disappointed ambition, nor even the sting her
ingratitude had left, could drive her image from his heart, or check
the still small voice of conscience, which whispered that not even her
errors could excuse the harshness with which she had been repulsed.
The death of Ward seemed to unite Helen once more to him. Over her
misfortunes he shed bitter tears; and although pride still rebelled
against the yearnings of his heart, and made him resolve he would
never more admit her to his presence, yet even at the moment when she
fell fainting and exhausted at his feet, he was meditating some
measures by which he could place her and her little one above want.
Ah! pride, anger, enduring obstinacy, where are ye now? There was a
well of love in that old man's heart whose depths ye had not yet
probed. One look at the sad, care-worn face of Helen; one glance at
the innocent babe pillowed upon her breast, and that fount of love was
unsealed. The father took them to his breast and blessed them.


CHAPTER II.

A few years and Helen, more beautiful than ever, again made her
appearance in society, and again Mr. Dundass cherished his darling
dream of her forming some high connection. Little Mildred, in the
meanwhile, having been sent to England under the charge of a faithful
nurse, to receive her education.

A second time, however, was Mr. Dundass doomed to disappointment. The
charming and attractive young widow gave her hand to Mr. Donaldson, a
Scotch gentleman, whose only recommendation in the eyes of Mr.
Dundass was a showy exterior and a superb set of teeth. He had known
him for many years, and had always regarded him as more shrewd than
honest, and one who, where his own interests were concerned, would let
no scruples of conscience stand in the way of his advancement. He
thought him rich, but he had much rather he had been poor, if able to
boast a titled descent. The idea, therefore, of this second marriage
of his daughter gave him in reality as little satisfaction as the
first. His reluctant consent was, however, at length obtained, and
Helen borne off a second time a bride from her father's house.

The plantation of Mr. Donaldson was delightfully located in a most
lovely region of hill and dale, sparkling with delicious rivulets, and
sprinkled with charming groves of the deep-tinted pimento, the
graceful palm, and magnificent cotton-trees, and the air rife with the
fragrance of the orange and citron blossoms, through which, like
winged jewels, glanced birds of the most brilliant plumage. Whatever
may have been the errors which Mr. Dundass detected in the moral
character of Mr. Donaldson, he was a most tender and devoted husband;
and in this paradise to which he had brought her, the happiness of
Helen seemed perfect. The Cascade, as Mr. Donaldson had named his
station, from the numerous little rills and waterfalls in the
neighborhood, was distant fifty miles from Mount Dundass, yet the
intercourse between father and daughter continued uninterrupted until
the infirmities of age pressing upon Mr. Dundass, rendered his visits
to the Cascade less frequent, and the cares of a growing family
confining Mrs. Donaldson more closely at home.

Helen was now the mother of several children, charming, bright little
girls, yet it was strange that Mr. Dundass never seemed to regard them
in the same tender light he did Mildred Ward. Mr. Donaldson had never
seen Mildred, but already in his heart he hated her. The partiality of
the grandfather rankled his inmost soul, for he saw plainly it would
interfere with the prospects of his own children. Indeed, Mr. Dundass
had already settled fifty thousand dollars upon his granddaughter
Mildred, asserting also that at his death that sum should be doubled.
Mr. Donaldson possessed great influence over his wife--his words to
her were oracles--his wishes laws. By degrees, therefore, he instilled
into her mind a jealousy against her absent child, mingled with
feelings of resentment toward her father, that, to the exclusion of
her little Grace and Anna, he should have made her the object of his
love and munificence. This feeling once engendered Mr. Donaldson took
good care to keep alive. The poison worked slowly but so secretly,
that no doubt Helen herself would have been shocked could she have
read her own heart and found that, instigated by jealousy, a mother's
tenderness for her first-born was fast turning to bitterness.

In the meantime seventeen rosy summers had flitted as some fairy dream
over the head of Mildred, when her grandfather, no longer able to
resist his desire of seeing her, urged her return to Jamaica.


CHAPTER III.

To merry England our story now takes us, that we may trace a brief
sketch of those scenes wherein the days of Mildred had glided so
happily away.

Norcross Hall, the ancestral domain of the late Mrs. Dundass was
situated in one of England's most charming nooks, about forty miles
from the great metropolis. It was an ancient building, the main part
of which was said to have been erected in the time of Elizabeth--but
of this little of the original structure remained. Its present
occupant, Sir Hugh Norcross, was the son of Mrs. Dundass's eldest
brother, and to his guardianship the little Mildred had been
consigned. In this charming family she was treated with the utmost
tenderness, receiving the same education and sharing the same pursuits
as her little cousins, between whom and herself a lively affection
sprung up. Lady Norcross was a superior woman, both of mind and heart;
and under her guidance and gentle teachings, which her every-day life
so beautifully exemplified, what wonder that the little family growing
up around her should prove all that was good and lovely. Helen
Norcross was near the same age as Mildred, Rupert three years her
senior. It was not until the latter had reached his fourteenth year
that the three cousins were ever separated, even for a single day; but
now, Rupert was sent to Eton, and the two girls were left to weep and
mourn his absence, or to study a thousand delightful projects to
welcome his return at the holydays.

What happy seasons those were when, released for a time from the
thraldom of college pursuits, Rupert once more sprung in freedom
through the haunts of his childhood; the old walls rung with cheerful
voices, and every dell and dingle echoed to the merry music of their
happy hearts. And then, as each holyday came round, what changes
marked their progress. The two little girls had become graceful,
lovely women, while Rupert from a school-boy had as suddenly shot up
into a tall, elegant young man.

Sir Hugh and his lady saw with pleasure the attachment of the cousins;
they already loved Mildred as their daughter, and it was the nearest
wish of their hearts that in time the affection which now united them
might assume a more enduring form. As the education of Mildred might
now be considered completed, and the object for which she had been
sent to them attained, they grew every day more and more fearful that
Mrs. Donaldson would claim her long absent child. Mildred was too
young when she left Jamaica to have other than a faint recollection of
her mother; she could only remember the beautiful blue eyes which used
to meet hers so fondly, and the long golden ringlets through which, as
she nestled in mamma's lap, she had played bo-peep with an old
gentleman in a high-backed elbow-chair. Then she was so happy at
Norcross Hall that when her heart whispered to her, as it often did,
of her other dear mother in a far-off land, she could not but reproach
herself for not being more impatient for the moment to arrive when she
might again embrace her. But now the time drew near when she must bid
farewell to this cherished spot.

April had smiled farewell in tears, and May with her beauteous buds
and blossoms danced over the green earth. The streams welcomed her
presence with songs of glee, and the forests dressed in fresh beauty
opened their arms to greet her presence. It was yet early morning, and
to the uplifting of the rosy curtain draping the couch of the day-god
the birds were singing a merry prelude, as two young men stole softly
around an angle of the old building, and crept silently under the
shadow of the wall, until they stood beneath the windows of an
apartment whose inmates were probably buried in sleep, as through the
half-closed shutter the curtains appeared still closely drawn.

"You see I have proved a true prophet, for the girls still sleep,"
cried the taller of the two, laughing. "Now fie upon their laziness
this bright May morning--why we should have been off to the dell an
hour since, to gather the flowers ere the sun kissed away their
freshness."

"Now I will warrant you, Rupert," replied the other, "that while we
stand here with 'dewy feet,' maybe catching our deaths from this early
exposure of our delicate frames, the little jades are quietly dreaming
over the last new romance, or their first ball--come, let us arouse
them with a song!" and dropping on one knee, the young man placed his
hand upon his heart, and lifting his eyes to the window in the most
languishing manner began:


      "Come, come to me, love,
      Come, love, arise--
    And shame the bright stars
      With the light of thine eyes,
    Look out from thy lattice,
      O lady--"


"Very well sung, most tender swain--what a pity Mildred and myself by
our too early rising lost the melting expression of those upturned
orbs!" cried Helen, issuing with her cousin from a thicket of
rose-bushes. "So you thought us still sleeping, slanderers, when we
have already brushed the dew from the lawn, and look here," (showering
down a quantity of early violets,) "see what we stole from Flora while
you two were sleeping."

A few moments were spent in playful badinage, and then the happy party
strolled off in the direction of the dell. But, alas! like many of our
brightest hopes this morn which dawned so blissfully was destined to
end in sorrow! Upon the return of the party to the Hall, Sir Hugh with
a sorrowful countenance placed in the hands of Mildred a package of
letters. She grew pale as she read, and ere she had finished burst
into tears, and handing the package to Sir Hugh fled to her chamber.
Those letters contained the mandate for her return to Jamaica. That
very week she must leave Norcross Hall, its beloved inmates, and all
the delightful scenes of her childhood, and hasten to London, to join
a family who were about returning to the island, and to whose charge
her grandfather had consigned her.

The grief which filled all hearts at this dreaded separation may
easily be imagined. Rupert was nearly crazy at the thought. He now
felt how dear Mildred was to him, and that to part with her was like
rending soul and body. But certain that his love would meet the
sanction of his parents, knowing how tenderly they regarded her, he
hastened to make known his feelings to them, and to entreat that he
might accompany Mildred to Jamaica, and demand the consent of her
friends to their union.

"No, my dear son," said Sir Hugh, "Mildred is yet very young--of the
world she knows little, and it would be cruel to shackle her with ties
which she may in time be brought to abhor, nor would it be doing
justice to her friends to bind down her affections to us alone. Leave
her free, Rupert; if she loves you, that love will not diminish by
absence, and I promise you that in due time you shall be allowed to
prosecute your suit in the presence of her mother, and should you be
so fortunate as to win a bride so lovely, your parents' hearts will
welcome her with joy."

How coldly his father reasoned thought the ardent young lover, but
accustomed to yield all deference to his wishes, he consented that
Mildred should depart without knowing how necessary her love was to
his happiness.

Both Sir Hugh and Rupert accompanied her to London, and saw her safely
on board her majesty's ship the Essex, bound for Jamaica.


CHAPTER IV.

Leaving Mildred to pursue her voyage we will see what preparations
were already making for her return by Mr. Donaldson.

This gentleman was by no means as rich as many supposed him to be. His
plantations were valuable, and located advantageously, but whether
from mismanagement, or from circumstances beyond his control, for
several years his affairs had become greatly involved, and he had only
been saved from absolute ruin through the scheming friendship of a
Spaniard named Perozzi--a man whose cunning was as deep as his own,
and who by advancing large sums from time to time, only sought to
entangle his victim in such a snare as should secure him in the end
his valuable possessions. Pride prevented Mr. Donaldson from applying
to Mr. Dundass--every year matters grew worse, until finally he felt
himself to be completely in the power of Perozzi, who had even begun
to threaten loudly, and talk of distraining. It was at this critical
juncture that Mr. Dundass declared his intention of sending for
Mildred Ward. A project now suddenly suggested itself to Mr. Donaldson
which promised to relieve him from his difficulties, and which he
seized upon in his selfishness with as little conscience as the
highwayman who robs you of life in order to obtain your purse.

Mounting his mule he one morning rode over to the "Pen" of Perozzi,
some few miles farther down the valley. He was received rather coolly.

"Your timely visit has saved me a ride this morning, Donaldson," said
the Spaniard. "I have an imperative necessity for my money, or at
least for a part of it."

"My dear fellow, the very thing I have come to talk about!" said
Donaldson.

"_Corambre--to talk about!_ It must be something more than talk--words
will not answer my purpose," replied Perozzi, his sharp black eye
glittering with hate. "I tell you money I must have--money I will
have, or--"

"Good God, Perozzi, don't drive me to desperation. You know I cannot
pay you a single piastre! Only wait until I receive my return sales
from England, and I swear to you you shall receive your last
farthing!"

"Holy Mother Mary! your return sales from England!" exclaimed the
other, in a tone of cutting sarcasm. "In what manner of vessel must
those same returns be coming, for, if my memory serves me, Columbus
discovered a new world in less time than this same richly-freighted
_caravela_ has been crossing the Atlantic--this has been your answer
for twice a twelvemonth. And now," he continued, suddenly altering his
tone, and striding to the side of his victim, "there must be an end of
this--either pay me what you owe me, or give me a quit claim to the
Cascade, for which you have already received from me more than its
value."

"By heavens, Perozzi!" cried Mr. Donaldson, turning pale with anger
and mortification, "this is more than I can bear even from you; but
come," he added, suddenly forcing a laugh, "it was to see you upon a
more pleasing errand I came here."

"_Corambre!_" whistled through the teeth of the Spaniard.

"Hark ye, Perozzi; what would you say if I could this moment promise
to place you in possession of one hundred thousand dollars and--a
wife?"

"Say! why that the Devil helped you to cajole, and then deserted you
at the pinch, as he always does!" replied Perozzi.

"No cajolery about it, as you shall find," answered Mr. Donaldson.
"But come, let us sit--by your leave I'll taste your wine; your
health, signor, and" (turning out a second glass) "here is another to
Madame Perozzi--ha-ha-ha! There--now," said he, setting down his glass
with a force which nearly shivered it, "listen to me. You know that
Mrs. Donaldson, by her first husband, had one daughter, Mildred Ward,
who is at this moment on her return from England, whither she was sent
at an early age for her education. She is now, by the bye, seventeen,
and, as report informs us, extremely beautiful and accomplished. Now
what think you, Perozzi, of the charming Mildred for a wife?"

"I want money--no wife!" moodily replied Perozzi, draining a third
glass.

"Precisely--money," answered the other; "and that is what the fair
hand of Mildred tenders you."

"One hundred thousand dollars, did you say, Donaldson?" said the
Spaniard, with a searching gaze.

"I did. Fifty thousand with the wedding-ring, and the balance when the
old man, her grandfather, dies."

Excellent, by the Virgin!--ha-ha-ha! No one can dispute your skill in
diplomacy; but methinks it would be well to know by what method you
propose to bring about a "consummation so devoutly to be wished," said
Perozzi, with a sneer.

"Leave that to me; only act with me, and Mildred Ward becomes your
wife just so certain as I now drink to you--your health, signor."

"And, pray, allow me to ask," said Perozzi, "what benefit you expect
to reap from such unparalleled generosity--it cannot surely be out of
pure love to me that you thus


          "Buckle fortune on my back
    To bear her burthen whether I will or no!"


"You are right," answered Mr. Donaldson, dropping the servile tone in
which he had before spoken, "you are right--it is from no love to you;
my object is this. You know as well as I do the utter impracticability
of my refunding any part of the money I owe you at present. True, you
may seize my estates, but this I think you will hardly do in
preference to the plan I propose; it would be at best but a vexatious
affair, while by accepting my proposition you secure not only an
equivalent for your debt, but also the hand of a charming young girl."

"Well, well, to the point," interrupted the Spaniard, impatiently.

"It is simply this; give me your written promise to release me from
all obligation, return me whatever notes you hold against me, and I on
my part pledge to you the hand and fortune of my step-daughter."

Perozzi remained for some moments in deep revery, as if studying the
feasibility of the proposed plan. "I have half a mind to try it," he
mused; "it may do--the connection will be a good one. Old Dundass is
as rich as a Jew, and a man of great influence; while on the other
hand, should the project fail, I shall be no worse off than now,
unless an earthquake should swallow up the estates from my grasp."

"There is one contingency which seems to have entirely escaped your
forecast," he exclaimed aloud, turning to Mr. Donaldson, "the lady may
not be of your way of thinking--she may prove refractory."

"Leave that to me," was the reply.

"I may not fancy her."

"Nor the money?" added Mr. Donaldson, with a meaning smile.

"Ah, there, I grant, you have me. Well, well, I am willing to talk the
matter over with you a little more freely. Miss Ward is handsome, you
say?"

"As a Houri."

"And young?"

"Scarce seventeen."

"Very well--now to business."

But we have already entered into sufficient detail of the conversation
of these two men to show the reader in what peril poor Mildred stood
from their machinations. It is enough to say that ere they parted,
Perozzi pledged his word that, should their plot succeed, he would, on
his marriage-day, place in the hands of Mr. Donaldson a quit claim to
every demand he held against him.


CHAPTER V.

How beautiful was Mildred as she sprung to meet the embrace of her old
grandfather; and how fondly did the old man gaze upon his recovered
treasure, almost incredulous that this lovely girl could be the same
little pet, whose infantine gambols and artless caresses time had not
been able to efface from his mind.

The style of Mildred's beauty was, indeed, most captivating and
piquant. To a form of perfect symmetry and airy grace was added a
countenance beaming with intellect and vivacity. Her complexion was of
the same dazzling fairness as her mother's, but her eyes were of a
deep-gray, sparkling beneath the most delicately penciled brows, and
her hair of that dark, glossy chestnut, flecked as it were with
sunbeams, whose peculiar tint painters so much love to catch. A small,
rosy mouth, and white, regular teeth, which in her innocent vivacity
were often displayed, completes the picture of Mildred's charms.

After spending a few days at Mount Dundass she took leave of her
grandfather, and under the escort of Mr. Donaldson, who had hastened
thither for the purpose, departed for the Cascade, impatient to behold
her mother, in whose love she trusted to find a recompense for the
pain which parting with her dear friends at Norcross Hall had caused.
And for a few weeks all went happily. The sight of her innocent,
beautiful child banished for a time from the heart of Mrs. Donaldson
that unnatural jealousy her husband had awakened. Mr. Donaldson, for
his own selfish purposes, strove by every attention and kindness to
win her esteem and confidence, while Mildred on her part delighted
with and reciprocating her mother's affection, gratified by the
interest her step-father expressed for her, and perfectly enchanted
with the novel and beautiful scenery, threw off all her
sadness--linking the past with the present, not regretful or
sorrowful, but as one continued scene of love and happiness, for which
her heart rose in gratitude to her Maker that he had conferred upon
her so many rich blessings.

How often did she wish that Rupert and Helen could share with her this
West India paradise. The climate so bland and delicious--soft, balmy
airs by day, and nights of unclouded loveliness; the beautiful
undulating scenery of hill and valley stretching far away into the dim
haze of ocean--hills from whose summits towered the magnificent
cabbage-palm, its immense plume-like leaves waving like the crest of
some gigantic warrior above the band of palms crowding around, bending
their graceful heads to this their chief; valleys of luxuriant beauty,
studded with groves of the aromatic pimento, whose pure white blossoms
seem like snow-flakes just fallen amid their dark, glossy foliage,
while at intervals clumps of magnolia, resting on a carpet of bright
verdure sprinkled with flowers, and their trunks garlanded with the
gay passa-flora, arrested the eye. From those beautiful hill-sides
silvery cascades came leaping and dancing down into the rich valleys,
then twining their lovely arms through this charming landscape, as if
they would fain bear off its beauties to the broad ocean, whither they
are gliding.

In the meantime, you may be sure, Perozzi made his appearance at the
Cascade, where, under some slight pretext, he soon became almost
domesticated, merely riding over to the Pen at intervals of two or
three days. To Mildred there was something extremely repulsive in his
appearance, and she could not but feel amazed at the influence he
seemed to exercise over her parents, and the deference with which they
treated him. She little dreamed of the power he would soon exert
against her happiness--just as over those luxuriant valleys, whose
smiling beauty I have but imperfectly sketched, the whirl-wind comes
rushing in terrible might, scattering ruin and devastation around, did
the tempest burst over the head of Mildred, changing all the
brightness of her young life to darkness. Perozzi needed no other
impetus than the sight of Mildred's beauty to render him as eager to
push forward the plot in agitation as Mr. Donaldson, and in accordance
his attentions to her assumed a direct and positive form. She,
however, had not the most remote suspicion of his intentions. How
great, then, was her surprise when one day Perozzi made her a formal
offer of his hand, assuring her at the same time that he did so with
the consent and approbation of her parents and her grandfather.
Mildred could hardly credit her senses, that Perozzi, a man as old as
her step-father, should think of a mere child like herself for a wife,
seemed very strange, but that her friends should also approve of such
a match, stranger still.

"My dearest Mildred, what have you done!" cried Mrs. Donaldson,
meeting her daughter a few hours after. "Can it be possible you have
refused Signor Perozzi?"

"Dear mamma, you surely do not think I could do otherwise than refuse
him!" replied Mildred, surprised at her mother's manner.

"And why not, Mildred? Would it not be a most eligible match for
you--why he is not only very rich, but will probably soon succeed to a
title."

"Riches and titles can never make happiness, mamma."

"But they conduce greatly to its maintainance, Mildred."

"O, no, mamma, not if attached to such a disagreeable person as the
signor."

"Disagreeable! Mildred, you surprise me--pray what can be your
objections?"

"Indeed, they are so numerous, that the repetition would only be
tiresome," replied Mildred, smiling. "But you are surely laughing at
me; you did not really suppose, now did you, that I could love such a
man?"

"I did suppose you had more sense, Mildred, than to refuse him,"
replied Mrs. Donaldson. "I can only say your decision has deeply
grieved both Mr. Donaldson and myself; yet we regret it more for the
disappointment it will cause your grandfather, for to see you the wife
of Perozzi has long been his most cherished wish."

"Can it be!" cried Mildred. "Can it be that my grandfather, my kind
grandfather, would have me marry Perozzi--is it so, mamma?"

"It is, Mildred."

"Now, indeed, am I most unhappy," cried Mildred, bursting into tears,
"for it can never, never be!"

"My sweet child, I am sorry to see you so grieved!" said Mrs.
Donaldson. "It must be painful, I know, for you to distress your
excellent old grandfather, who loves you so truly, and has ever
treated you with such generosity; but perhaps your decision has been
too hasty--it is not too late; reconsider the subject, Mildred, and
perhaps you will conclude differently."

"No, mamma, my resolution is unalterable!"

"Let me at least soften your refusal to poor Perozzi--indeed, he is
quite overwhelmed with despair; let me bid him hope that in time you
may be brought to listen more favorably to his suit."

"O, not for worlds, mamma--not for worlds!"

"Well, well, my dear, you are strangely agitated. There, go--retire to
your chamber, and compose yourself, my love;" and affectionately
kissing her daughter, Mrs. Donaldson repaired to the library, where
her husband and Perozzi were awaiting the result of this interview.

Had Mrs. Donaldson forgotten her own youth?

From that day Mildred was the object of ceaseless persecution. Go
where she would, there was Perozzi ever at her side, to annoy her with
his odious attentions; walking or riding, he intruded himself upon
her; no room in the house seemed sacred from his approach; and even
when she retired to her own apartment, he either stationed himself
beneath her window, or stood at her door, ready to greet her with his
hateful smile as she issued forth. Constantly, too, was he urging his
suit, while her repeated refusals, her cold words, and still colder
looks, might as well have been spent upon a rock--for a rock could not
be more impressionless to their meaning. The persecution she underwent
from the odious Perozzi, had, perhaps, revealed to her the true nature
of her regard for Rupert, and in so doing, brought also the pleasing
consciousness that she was beloved even as she loved him. How
aggravating, then, her situation. Daily her life grew more wretched,
nor had she even the consolation of sympathy. With a yearning heart
did she now recall the happy days at Norcross Hall, rendered by
contrast still more dear. "O!" she cried, in her anguish, "could I but
once more rest in their loving arms, what power could tear me thence!
Dearest Helen! Dearest Rupert, come to me! O, hasten thither and
rescue me from this horrible thraldom!"

But months passed in sorrow; there came no letters from
England--nothing to cheer up her fainting heart, and finally, Mildred,
the once gay, happy Mildred, sunk into a state of utter despondency.


CHAPTER VI.

"_Hist--hist_, Pedro!" and a tall, swarthy Creole, obeying the finger
of Perozzi, glided stealthily behind a large tree, where stood the
Spaniard, both screened from observation by the thick drapery of
ferns and parasitic plants clinging around its trunk. Eyeing the man
keenly, Perozzi said, in a low tone,

"Hark-ye, Pedro! I have a job for you; here are thirty pistoles as an
earnest, and when it is finished, you shall receive thirty more."

"By St. Jago, signor! I am ready--what is it? _This?_" touching the
handle of his knife.

"_Corambre_, knave! No. Listen to me. Do you see yonder mansion, with
the green verandas stretching itself out on the hill-side like an
anaconda at play?"

"The Scotchman's--Donaldson's?"

"The same. Now look, and tell me what you see at the open jalousie on
the right, that is, if you can see through the heavy screen of
jessamines which droop over it."

"Ho, ho! I have eyes at any time for a pretty girl, signor; she is an
angel, that fair English girl!"

"Very well--you know her, then. Now do you remember the thick pimento
walk between this and the hospital?"

"Si, signor."

"Now, Pedro, hasten thither, and conceal yourself. This fair Signora
will soon pass that way. Now mind me, knave, when she reaches the
middle of the grove, do you rush suddenly upon her--seize her in your
arms, and--"

"Ho-ho! a pleasant job, signor!"

"Peace, knave! Seize her, I tell you, and draw your knife, as if about
to plunge it in her white bosom. Now, mark me, at that moment I rush
upon you and rescue the lady--do you understand?"

"Si, signor; but will your honor please to remember I am but flesh and
blood--don't strike more than skin deep, signor."

"Tush, knave! and remember--no violence; by the Holy Mother! if you so
much as breathe upon a hair of her head, you taste my dagger!"

"Ho-ho, signor! methinks to snatch a kiss from her sweet lips would be
worth more than a thousand pistoles."

"Villain, to your work!"

"Ho-ho! a pleasant job, signor--a pleasant job!" And with a hideous
leer, the lesser villain parted from the greater, and concealing
himself within the deep shadows of the grove, awaited the coming of
Mildred.

It was not long ere, little suspecting the terrible scene which she
was to encounter, Mildred set forth _en route_ to the hospital, to
visit an old faithful female slave. This was a favorite walk, and
soothed by the quiet of the scene, she lingered long in its delightful
depths. As her foot pressed the summit of a gentle <DW72>, enameled
with many- flowers, and over which frown the blood-tinged
foliage of a stately mahogany-tree, pendent garlands of the
passion-flower, and delicate white jasmine swung in the soft breeze,
she paused for a moment, as if to prolong this happy reprieve from the
presence of the Spaniard.

Suddenly, the wretch, Pedro, sprung in her path, and while with one
hand he seized the trembling girl, with the other he drew his
stiletto, and muttering a horrible oath, raised it as if about to
strike at her innocent bosom. Mildred did not scream, she did not
faint, but he eyes closed, and all power of speech and motion seemed
paralized. But the threatened blow was arrested; a violent struggle
ensued, during which she was clasped still more tightly to the breast
of the ruffian, who seemed to be defending himself from some superior
arm. Oaths and curses mingled with the clash of weapons; she was
dragged, as it were, several paces through the grove, and then, after
another struggle, she felt the arm of the assassin relax its
grasp--she was caught to the breast of her deliverer, and then placed
gently on the soft turf.

"Mildred--my angel--my life--O, speak to me!"

_That voice!_ Mildred knew its hateful tones; and a cold shudder crept
through her frame, as if some venomous reptile had touched her, as she
felt the villains lips press her brow. Recoiling, she slowly opened
her eyes.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Perozzi, "you are restored to me. Holy Virgin!
can it be--so near death, and yet living and unhurt, I now hold you in
my arms! O, blessed moment, when love guided me hither!"

"I owe you my life, signor," said Mildred, freeing herself from his
embrace, "but it is a thankless boon; methinks death would have been
sweeter! Leave me--I am better--I am well--leave me, signor!"

"Sweet angel! leave thee--leave thee thus exposed to new dangers!
No--lean on me, my beloved--let me guide your trembling steps!" and he
passed his arm around her.

"Away!" cried Mildred, springing from him. "Away! touch me not!
Monster--fiend! I hate you! Begone from my sight forever, or, in
mercy, kill me!"

Perozzi became livid with rage, and his eye-balls gleamed like fire in
the deepening shadows, as they rested on Mildred, never more beautiful
than as she now stood before him in all the majesty of outraged
purity. But masking the hell in his heart with a well-feigned air of
desperation, he fell on his knees before her.

"Would that the assassin's knife had reached my heart!" he exclaimed.
"Better for me to die than endure your scorn. Yes, _die_! By heavens!
why not end this miserable existence--here--yes, here, at your feet,
cruel Mildred! _It shall be done!_" and drawing a pistol from his
breast, he placed the muzzle to his temple.

"Hold--hold--for God's sake, miserable man, hold!" shrieked Mildred,
springing forward.

It was too late--the pistol exploded.

"Ha--ha--ha!" shouted Perozzi, wiping his blackened brows, "that was
well done!" And raising the now senseless girl in his arms he bore her
to the house.

When, after a long and death-like swoon, Mildred opened her eyes they
rested upon the anxious countenances of her mother and Mr. Donaldson
bending over her couch.

"Where am I?" she cried, starting up wildly--"how came I here--what
has happened? Ah, now I remember--or was it some dreadful dream?" She
pressed her hand to her forehead--"no, no, it was no dream--tell me,"
she added, with a convulsive shudder, closing her eyes as if to shut
out some horrible vision, "is he dead--is Perozzi dead?"

"Compose yourself, my dear Mildred," replied Mrs. Donaldson, "he
lives--fortunately the ball but slightly grazed his temple--yet, my
child, such is his despair--to such a state of frenzy has your cruelty
brought him, that we dare not trust him alone even for a moment, lest
he once more attempt to end his misery by self-destruction."

A heart-rending groan was the poor girl's only answer.

"Mildred, my daughter," said Mr. Donaldson, "I had decided to say no
more to you upon a subject so painful, but duty to my friend compels
me to make one more appeal to your compassion. Can I stand calmly by
and witness the wreck which despair has wrought in that beloved
friend--can I behold him resolutely rushing upon death to end his
misery and not speak! O, Mildred," falling on his knees, "save
him--for you can--Mildred, behold me thus imploring your pity for
Perozzi!"

Mildred burst into tears, and placed her hand within that of Mr.
Donaldson.

"You will relent, my sweet child, will you not?" said her mother,
throwing her arms around her--"yes, you will, and make us all
happy--see," she added, drawing a letter from her bosom, "here is a
letter from my beloved father--let his words plead with ours--shall I
read?" Mildred assented, and breaking the seal Mrs. Donaldson
continued:

     "MILDRED,--You have refused compliance with the fondest
     wish of my heart--you have obstinately cast from you
     the man of all others I wished to see your husband!
     Henceforth I renounce you. I loved you, my child, (as I
     now for the last time call you,) I have loved you from
     your infancy--to you I looked as my greatest earthly
     blessing--but it is all over--we never meet again! Yet,
     cruel, ungrateful girl, I will not doom you to a life
     of hardship and dependence. The fortune settled upon
     you is still yours. Take it, Mildred, and enjoy it if
     you can, knowing that you have broken the heart of your
     old doting grandfather,

                                         Archibald Dundass."

As Mrs. Donaldson concluded, Mildred sobbed aloud. These reproaches,
mingled with so much kindness, almost broke her heart.

"Give me the letter," said she, extending her trembling hand, and once
more she tearfully perused it, while a glance of triumph was exchanged
between husband and wife. The look of agony which Mildred cast upon
them as she finished reading would have melted a heart of stone. Mrs.
Donaldson burst into tears, and even the lip of her husband quivered
with agitation.

"My God, pity me!" cried Mildred, clasping her hands and raising her
eyes to heaven. Once more she turned them on her mother. "Mother, do
not weep--_I--O God--I--consent_!" And as if with those dreadful
words her pure spirit had fled, she fell back cold and rigid as marble
upon the pillow.


CHAPTER VII.

Let the silence of despair rest upon the sufferings of the unhappy
Mildred after those fatal words had passed her lips.

Among other artful devices agreed upon between Mr. Donaldson and
Perozzi, previous to Mildred's return, was that of keeping her
entirely secluded from society, lest some other suitor might wrest the
hand of the doomed girl from him. But now that a consent to their
infernal measures had been torn from her, it was resolved that a
magnificent _fete_ should mark the _debut_ of the affianced bride. The
evening previous to the wedding was the time fixed upon for this
important event, and accordingly invitations were immediately issued
for a grand _bal masque_, including the governor's family, together
with all the _elite_ of the island.

For weeks all was hurry and confusion at the Cascade--artisans of many
trades were busily engaged pulling down and putting up--the
drawing-rooms--the halls--verandas, all newly decorated--in fact, the
whole establishment, through the purse of Perozzi and the good taste
of Mrs. Donaldson, completely revolutionized. Mildred in the meanwhile
remained in strict seclusion in her apartment, unless dragged thence
by the importunities of the Spaniard, so sad, so perfectly overwhelmed
with the wretchedness of her lot, that it seemed most probable death
might claim the young bride ere the day of sacrifice came. In vain her
mother strove to interest her in the gay proceedings--entreating she
would at least choose a costume for her expected _debut_.

"Do with me as you will, mother," Mildred would reply, with a faint
smile.

In the sleeping-room of Mrs. Donaldson there hung a portrait of a
beautiful Turkish maiden. This picture was a favorite with Mildred,
and it occurred to Mrs. Donaldson that a similar costume would well
become the style of her daughter's beauty. A careful examination of
her own and Mildred's ward-robe convinced her the thing could be done,
and she set herself diligently to prepare the dress--Mildred passively
obeying her directions.

At length all was finished, and in its swift course Time brought round
the appointed evening for the _debut_ of the wretched Mildred, so soon
to become a more wretched wife. At an early hour those guests who
resided at a distance began to arrive, and after partaking of the
grateful refreshments provided for them were conducted to their
dressing-rooms, to prepare for the festivities of the evening--all
being expected to appear _en masque_.

Mrs. Donaldson, the still handsome mistress of the _fete_, wore a
splendid dress of the tartan, in compliment to the Scottish tastes of
her husband, who himself appeared in the costume of a Highland Chief,
and had already entered the drawing-room, in readiness to welcome the
gay throng. The victim, too, was ready. Passive as a lamb in the hands
of the destroyer, she had suffered her mother and her maid to array
her, and now sat like some marbled image, awaiting the coming of
Perozzi to lead her forth.

How lovely she was, nor yet casting one look to the mirror wherein her
exquisite form and beautiful face were reflected. The robe her mother
had chosen was the same as the picture, of a pale rose color, floating
like a summer cloud around her lovely person, and confined to her
waist by a broad girdle of white satin, wrought with gold and clasped
by a superb diamond. The sleeves of the same airy fabric as the caftan
were long and loose, revealing in their transparency the fine contour
of her snowy arm, and were ornamented upon the shoulders and around
the graceful fold of the outer edge with rich embroidery seeded with
pearls. The caftan was slightly open at the bust, displaying an under
vest of thin white gauze gathered in maidenly modesty over her lovely
bosom, and fastened by a magnificent cluster of diamonds and rubies. A
_talpec_, or head-dress, of white velvet, around which were wound two
rows of the finest pearls, was placed low on her pale brow, from which
her beautiful hair fell in long natural ringlets, looped here and
there with sprigs of the white jasmine and orange buds.

Gently the wind swayed the orange boughs, and creeping through the
flowery links of the jessamine and passa-flora, kissed the pale cheek
of Mildred as she sat there in her misery--twilight stole on with
saddened step, and from out the cloudless heavens one by one the stars
looked down upon her wretchedness. Then over the distant mountains
rose up the full-orbed moon, bathing their summits with gladness and
flooding the valleys with calm and holy light. On she came, majestic
and serene, o'er her glorious path, and as her mild beams quivered
through the thick clustering blossoms around the window they touched
the heart of Mildred as the smile of angels. Throwing open the
jalousie she stepped into the veranda, and leaning over the balustrade
gazed upon the peaceful landscape stretching before her in all the
chastened loveliness of the moonlight.

There was something in the scene which brought with it the "light of
other days" to her sad heart. For a few brief moments she was
happy--present sorrows lost themselves in past pleasures. Once more
upon the ivy-clad battlements of Norcross Hall she was standing with
Helen and Rupert, while the scene upon which the moon looked down
identified itself with the woods and dells of that beloved spot. Her
bright dream was brief--the voice of Perozzi in loud and angry
altercation with some one awoke her too rudely to her misery.

"O, Rupert!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in agony as she turned
to re-enter her chamber--"Rupert, farewell--farewell forever!"

"Dearest Mildred!" cried a voice whose tones leaped into her heart
with a strange thrill of joy--"dearest Mildred!"

Did she still dream--or was it indeed Rupert to whose breast she was
now folded with a bliss too great for words!

"Thank God, Rupert, you have come!" cried Mildred.

"Mildred," said Rupert, (for it was indeed Rupert,) "what mean these
tears? Are you not happy--this marriage--"

"A--h!" shrieked Mildred, clinging to him as though the basilisk hand
of Perozzi were already upon her, "_save me--save me_, Rupert!"

"_Save_ you! dearest, beloved Mildred--tell me--tell me quick--this
marriage--is it not your own choice?"

"O no, no, no!" sobbed Mildred.

"Then no power on earth shall compel you to it! You are mine--mine,
dearest Mildred!" and clasping her once more in his arms, Rupert
kissed the tears from her beautiful eyes, as full of hope and love
they met his beaming gaze.

"But my grandfather!" she cried, starting up.

"He is here, dear girl."

"Here! then lead me to him quickly--let me implore him to have pity
upon me!"

The arrival of Mr. Dundass upon the scene was wholly unlooked for by
Mr. Donaldson--need we say as wholly unwelcome. Guilt and fear paled
his cheek and almost palsied his tongue as his lips feigned a
welcome--nor was Perozzi less moved. To define the feelings of Mrs.
Donaldson would be difficult. Her love for her daughter had been held
in complete subjugation to the will of her husband, and while she
grieved deeply for the sorrows heaped upon her, her love and fear of
Mr. Donaldson, and her knowledge of his pecuniary distress caused her
at the same time to exert all her influence to rivet the chain around
poor Mildred--so strange is human nature! What then was to be the
result of her father's unexpected visit--was it freedom for
Mildred--was it to heap disgrace upon her husband?

In the mean time Mr. Dundass had been shown to a private room in a
remote wing of the building, while Mr. Donaldson and Perozzi were
already planning new schemes. They resolved that Mildred should be
kept in ignorance of her grandfather's arrival as long as possible--of
Rupert's they themselves knew nothing--and that on no account should
she be allowed to speak with him privately. The marriage should take
place at an early hour the following morning--_that_ consummated they
would defy even the devil himself!

Mr. Dundass was sitting sad and sorrowful in the apartment to which he
had been conducted, for this marriage filled him with grief, wondering
that Mildred did not appear to welcome him, or that Rupert did not
return, when the door suddenly opened and Mildred rushed in, and
falling at his feet exclaimed:

"O dearest, dearest grandfather, pity me--O sacrifice me not to
Perozzi!"

"Sacrifice you, my darling child! Come to my arms--what mean
you--_sacrifice_--I thought it was your happiness I was securing by
consenting to your union."

"_Happiness!_ O grandfather--rather my misery!"

"What does this mean?" exclaimed Mr. Dundass. "There must be treachery
somewhere! God knows how it has grieved my heart to think of your
union with that man--I know him to be a villain, and when repeatedly
urged to consent to the marriage, I as repeatedly refused, until your
own letter--"

"_My_ letter--good heavens!" exclaimed Mildred.

"Written in the most moving language, at length won my reluctant
consent!"

All was now explained, and the villainy of Mr. Donaldson and his
coadjutor made clear.

"Courage, courage, my darling," said Mr. Dundass, "come with me. Come,
Rupert, I will 'beard the lion in his den,' and make known this
infamous plot--come."

"My mother--spare _her_, dear grandfather--forgive them all--I am
happy now--let us not mar the pleasure of the guests," interceded
Mildred.

"You say right, my child--to-morrow will be soon enough. But come with
me, children--let us join the gay assembly--nay, fear not, Mildred.
Perozzi, the villain, he shall not dare even to look upon you!"

Now strains of delicious music filled the air--lights gleamed--jewels
flashed--feathers waved, and on every side the merry laugh and gay
badinage met the ear from prince and beggar--wild roving gipsy and
sombre nun--knights in armor--minstrels--flower-girls--jugglers and
staid Quakers, as in confused _melee_ they swept through the
rooms--yet all stood aside in silent admiration as the lovely Mildred
Ward in her graceful Turkish costume, her face beaming with happiness,
entered the saloon leaning on the arm of her gray-haired sire.

Muttering curses through his closed visor, Perozzi (who was dressed as
a knight of Old Castile) hastily left the scene. He had sought Mildred
in her chamber--she was not there, and well did his guilty fears
surmise where she might be found. One glance at her speaking
countenance was enough. He saw in a moment all was over--that the
fiendish plot so near consummation was betrayed! With terrible oaths
he mounted his mule, and plunging his spurs rowel-deep into the sides
of the poor beast rushed, armed as he was, like some terrible demon
through the peaceful moon-lit vale until he reached the Pen--vowing
that on the morrow he would seize at once with the grip of a harpy
upon the estates of Mr. Donaldson.

But here, too, he was foiled! Mr. Donaldson, it is true, did not
deserve so much mercy, but when, like a penitent, he came before Mr.
Dundass and confessed his crime, the heart of the old man was moved to
pity. He generously advanced the necessary funds, and wrenched the
Cascade from the clutches of Perozzi. Touched by such unmerited
goodness and generosity, Mr. Donaldson resolved to become a better
man, and to repair by his future conduct the errors of the past.

At Mount Dundass, whither the whole family accompanied its venerable
proprietor, Rupert received the hand of the happy Mildred, and after
the death of Mr. Dundass, which took place only a few months later,
took his beautiful young bride to England.




A LAY.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.


    The glorious queen of heaven who flings
      Her royal radiance round me now,
      As with clasped hands and upturned brow
        I watch her pathway fair and free,
      Is not so silvery with the light
      She pours o'er darkened earth to-night,
    As in the gentle thoughts she brings
        Of thee, dear love, of thee!

    The night-wind trembling round the rose--
      The starlight floating on the river,
      The fearful aspen's silvery shiver,
        The dew-drop glistening on the lea,
      Night's pure baptism to the flowers--
      All, all bring back our dear, lost hours,
    Till every heart-string thrills and glows
        For thee, dear-love, for thee!

    And when dawn wakes the Earth with song,
      And Nature's heart, so hushed to-night,
      Goes leaping in the morning light,--
        While waves flash onward to the sea.
      While perfumed dews to heaven arise--
      While glory flashes o'er the skies--
    Still through my soul shall sweet thoughts throng
        Of thee, dear love, of thee!

    Ah, thou beloved, whose heart hath thrilled
      To blessed dreams and joys with mine,
      What power shall change thy love divine,
        Or shut its presence out from me!
      Since all bright things, from flower to star,
      Its types and sweet reminders are
    To this fond heart, this soul so filled
        With thee, dear love, with thee!

    We part not, though we said adieu--
      Since first thy thoughts chimed in with mine,
      And from those glorious eyes of thine
        A heaven of love looked down on me,
      My very life round thine is poured--
      Thy words within my soul I hoard--
    Still true, in every heart-throb true
        To thee, dear love, to thee!




THE SAILOR'S LIFE-TALE.

A TRUE REMINISCENCE.

BY SYBIL SUTHERLAND.

(DEDICATED TO MY COUSIN MARY S----.)


    "There's many an 'o'er true' tale, coz,
      That comes to the listening ear,
    That makes the cheek turn pale, coz,
      And brings the glistening tear."


During the last summer, Mary mine, I was one of a party of friends,
who, tired of the bustle and confusion of the busy city, resolved to
lay aside business and all other engagements, for the brief space of
one day, which was to be devoted to a picknick in some retired country
location. The destined spot for our intended _fete_ was, after
considerable consultation, at length decided upon, and we unanimously
agreed to spend the day in a pleasant woods in the neighborhood of New
Brighton.

It was upon a balmy June morning, when, with light hearts, but heavier
baskets, laden with provisions, sun-bonnets, books, music, and sundry
et caeteras indispensable upon such an occasion, we found ourselves
snugly ensconced upon the deck of one of those spacious steamboats
which hourly wend their way toward the sunny shores for which we were
bound; and after an exhilarating sail of half an hour's duration, we
landed at Snug Harbor, and proceeded toward our place of destination,
which was situated about ten minutes' walk distant.

It was to the Sailor's woods that our steps were bent on the morning
of our picknick. Sauntering slowly through a shady lane we first
passed the great gate leading to the Sailor's Snug Harbor, an
institution which, as you doubtless know, Cousin Mary, was, through
the munificence of a certain private individual, erected some years
since as a place of refuge and repose to the weary, wayworn seaman.
Walking a short distance beyond these stately buildings, we found
ourselves within "the deep solitudes of the leafy wood."

How shall I describe to you, gentle coz, that dear old woods, as on
that eventful day its beauties and wonders first greeted my gaze? We
had not advanced far within its recesses, when a welcome sound fell
upon our ears, and in a moment more


              "The flashing ray
    Of joyous waters in their play,"


came gladly upon our sight. A laughing little streamlet rose before
us, its bright waters rippling and dancing, and here and there
illuminated by a stray sunbeam that stole softly and faintly through
the thick foliage of the sturdy old trees above. The brook was narrow,
and one could have crossed it almost at a bound; but there was no
necessity for the exertion, for glancing but a few yards ahead, we
beheld a rustic bridge, which, on nearer approach, proved to be of
cedar, and was ornamented with a sofa of the same material.

Upon this rude couch we rested awhile till our friend C----, whom we
had elected master of ceremonies, went forward to take a more extended
survey of the woods and its surroundings. In a few minutes we heard a
loud and very expressive halloo from our absent companion, and looking
about to find whence the sound proceeded, we beheld him standing upon
a stone-fence at some distance, and beckoning us to hasten immediately
to his side. The mandate was obeyed, and after a scramble over the
stones, we succeeded in mounting the desired eminence, when a pleasant
sight met our delighted visions. The waters of the brook were here so
managed as to form two sylvan lakes, divided from each other by a
bridge similar to the one previously mentioned. The borders of these
lakes, through one of which glided two stately swans, were supplied
with seats formed of cedar wood, and so arranged as to resemble
lounges, _tete-a-tetes_, and arm-chairs, whose appearance seemed to
invite repose. And here we would fain have lingered, but asserting
that he had something to show us in another direction, C---- bade us
follow him a few steps farther.

Descending from our elevation, and roaming through a shadowed path, we
at last halted at the door of a diminutive and picturesque-looking
cottage, within which, to our astonishment, was a table, round which
were ranged seats more than sufficient for our number. In no measured
terms did we now express our surprise and delight at thus finding in
the very heart of the wilderness accommodations so necessary,
wondering at the same time whether the fairies had not been there
before us to provide every thing for our convenience.

Beside the door of this rustic dwelling an old man, evidently nearing
the allotted "three score and ten," was seated upon a rude bench,
busily engaged weaving a small and dainty-looking basket. He was
dressed in a sailor's garb, but there was an indescribable something
in his appearance, betraying that he did not belong to the lowest rank
of seamen. There was a cloud of melancholy upon his countenance, and
though the sounds of laughter and mirth were floating around him, he
desisted not from his occupation, nor even once gazed into the bright
faces by which he was surrounded. Absorbed in his own meditations, he
seemed not to heed nor care for aught else; and it was some time ere
any of us presumed to address him. But after awhile C----, who was on
every occasion the most venturesome of our group, approached the old
man, and endeavored to lead him into conversation. He did not resist
the attempt, and we now learned that the various adornments of the
woods were entirely the handiwork of an aged sailor, to whose taste
and ingenuity many a previous picknick party had owed the greater
portion of its pleasures. He showed us a spring near by, where we
regaled ourselves with a libation of the purest and coldest water, and
told us of a fitting place for a dance, an even, grass-grown spot in
another part of the woods. He also described to us a moss-house, which
he said was located just below the opposite hill, informing us at the
same time that it belonged to the estate of Mr. G----, one of New
York's merchant-princes, who kindly and unselfishly left it free and
open to the inspection of the curious, and wonder-loving community.
And to this latter domain my friends now agreed to adjourn--but much
to my regret, I was unable to accompany them. A severe headache, the
usual result of excitement of any kind, was now exerting its influence
over me; and I was confident, from experience, that my only way of
soon getting rid of it would be by remaining where I was and keeping
perfectly quiet. All of my friends expressed their sorrow at my sudden
indisposition, and each one kindly offered to stay and bear me
company; but unwilling to deprive them of any enjoyment, I declined
their offers, alleging that I should not be altogether alone, as the
old man whom we found there would doubtless continue where he was till
their return. The sailor looked up as I spoke, and said that it was
his intention to remain there for the rest of the morning, adding that
he frequently passed the entire day in the woods. So, assured that I
would not be actually solitary, they at last allowed themselves to be
persuaded to go without me in search of the moss-house.

After watching their forms till they had quite receded from my view, I
re-entered the arbor where the old sailor was still at work, and
seated myself very comfortably in a rocking-chair. It was somewhat of
an oddity, too, Mary--that rocking-chair; and though I had almost
forgotten to mention the circumstance to you, the first discovery of
such an article of furniture in the woods had been a source of
infinite amusement to my companions and myself. It was built of cedar,
to correspond with the other various decorations of the woods, and
though hewn of the roughest material, for ease and grace of motion, I
might confidently challenge the drawing-room of a fashionable lady to
produce its equal. Again, I say, it was an oddity--that rocking-chair.
But the powers of my simple pen being scarcely adequate to a
description of it, this being, as I have styled it, a true
reminiscence, I would advise and invite you, dear Mary, if you wish to
behold the rocker, and judge of its _indescribable_ merits, to
accompany me on the first summer's day you may have to spare, to the
pleasantest and most romantic spot in the immediate vicinity of New
York--the Sailor's Woods at Snug Harbor.

But to go on with my record. After enjoying for a space the easy
lulling motion of this inimitable chair; and after bathing my head
repeatedly in water from the woodland-spring, I began to feel
considerably revived, while the pure air, and the stillness that
reigned around, were of especial benefit to my aching temples. The
pain gradually grew less and less tormenting, till at length it was no
longer felt, and again I found myself watching the old sailor, who sat
at a few paces from me weaving his pretty, delicate basket. Gathering
courage, I entered into conversation with him. He had stated
previously that his abode was at "the Harbor," so I now made some
inquiries concerning that institution, its regulations, &c., and he
very readily gave me all the requisite information.

"They must be very happy, are they not?" I asked, referring to the
members of the institution of which we were speaking; "very happy and
very thankful, too, to have had so pleasant a home provided for them
in their old age?"

"They are generally contented," was the reply, "but there are many
among their number who, having no fears for their earthly future,
allow their minds to dwell too earnestly upon the past--and wo be to
them, if one voice from the memories of bygone days comes back with
reproachful accents!" He sighed heavily--and for some moments there
was a pause. At length, raising his eyes hastily to mine, he said,

"Young lady--do you think that _I_ am happy?"

The question was altogether so abrupt and unexpected, that I scarcely
knew what to answer; but, after some little hesitation, I replied, "I
do not, sir. There is too much of sadness in your countenance to speak
of a mind quite at ease. I should think that you had known many
sorrows."

"You are right," he rejoined, in a voice of emotion, "I have, indeed,
borne the burden of many griefs; but, alas! I do not mourn them so
much as the errors of a heart but for whose weakness they had never
oppressed me. I know not what it is, young lady, that prompts me to
confide to you my history. But, perchance, it may serve you as a
warning--it may impress more strongly upon your mind that divine law
of forgiveness inculcated by Him who pardons _our_ trespasses, 'as we
forgive those who trespass against us.' There is a passage in the
'Book of Books' that never fails to convey to me a reproof, for I
remembered not the lesson till it was too late to profit by it. 'Then
came one of his disciples unto him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my
brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus
saith unto him, I say not unto thee until seven times; but until
seventy times seven.'"

Though somewhat surprised at the turn matters were taking, yet, as the
speaker had paused, and was now apparently awaiting some token on my
part of interest in his proposed narration, _I_, of course, entreated
him to proceed. Nor was he long in complying with my desire.

It was truly a touching story, dear Mary. I would, indeed, that I
could "tell the tale as 'twas told to me." And yet I would not, if I
possessed the power, portray the mournful accents of that old man's
voice, and the sorrowing expression of his countenance--for the
picture would make you weep. I may not attempt to recall the sketch in
the language of the aged sailor, for that it would be utterly
impossible to do; but I will strive to repeat it to you after my own
peculiar fashion, and to the best of my ability. Could I boast your
incomparable grace of diction, Mary, I might do full justice to my
subject. But I know that with your accustomed kindness you will
overlook the faults which I humbly trust that time and practice may
enable me to overcome. So, having thus worthily delivered my preface,
let me hasten at once to my task.

Some sixty years since, there dwelt in the city of Boston, a merchant
by the name of Sydney--a man justly beloved and respected for
benevolence of character, integrity of purpose and of principle, and
envied by the worldly for the enormous income which enabled him to
surround his family with every luxury that money could procure. Early
in life he had married a beautiful girl, to whom he was tenderly
devoted. A son, whose name was Arthur, and who, to come at once to the
point, was the original narrator of this story, was the sole offspring
of this happy union, and, as may be supposed, the pride and idol of
his parents. They watched over him with the most untiring affection,
and endeavored to instil into his young mind those firm and honorable
principles which rendered their own lives so lovely. But at the age of
ten years the hand of death deprived Arthur Sydney of his gentle
mother, and daily he missed her counsels and her embrace, and most
bitterly did he mourn for the footstep that was to come no more.

The loss of his wife was a stunning blow to Mr. Sydney. He never
married again, for he had loved the departed one too well to think for
an instant of supplying her place; and so four more years elapsed, and
his child continued to be the only object of his cares. But at the
termination of that period this good and just man was called to a
mansion beyond the skies, doubtless there to claim the crown of
immortality. And then Arthur was left alone in the wide world--a young
and almost broken-hearted orphan.

Upon searching into Mr. Sydney's affairs soon after his decease, to
the surprise of every one, instead of leaving his son in the
possession of an immense estate, there was not quite sufficient to
meet the demands of creditors. When Arthur Sydney became older, he
could not help suspecting that there was some mystery about this, for
strictly honest as he had ever known his father to be, he could not
believe that he would ever have swerved thus from the path of right.
What was in reality the cause of this deficiency, whether it was
owing, as his son afterward thought, to the craft and fraud of his
executors, can only be answered from the curtain of futurity.

The mansion where Arthur's early years had passed so happily, was now
sold, with all its effects, and the lonely orphan took up his abode
beneath the roof of an uncle. But, alas! it was not like the home he
had lost--the dear hearth of his sunny childhood. His relative, Mr.
Lindsay, was a far different being from his deceased parent, and
though, like the latter, he lived in splendor, he knew not how to
enjoy it. Devoid of that generosity of spirit which Mr. Sydney had
possessed, he was also of a morose, exacting, and passionate nature,
and his family, instead of hailing his presence with delight, shrunk
from him ever with indifference, and sometimes with trembling.
Governed by the law of fear instead of that of love, it was scarcely
to be wondered at that his children resorted to every petty means of
covering their faults, and were often guilty of deception and
falsehood. Arthur Sydney's education had been widely different, and he
despised the meannesses which his cousins practiced; but when he
expostulated with them, as he frequently did, his words invariably
drew upon himself a torrent of invectives. They taunted him with his
dependence upon their father's charity, and asked what right a beggar
had to preach to _them_; and then the youth's proud heart would swell
within him, and he would rush to his own little room, and there,
unseen, give full vent to his wounded feelings.

His eldest cousin, Alfred Lindsay, who was always foremost in every
plan of mischief, and the most perfect adept in concealing the part he
had taken in it, was a twelvemonth Arthur's senior. From earliest
childhood the two had evinced a dislike to each other's society, and
as they grew up, the feeling did not diminish. At school they had been
rivals, and Arthur had now far outstripped Alfred in their course of
study. In various other ways he had also quite unintentionally foiled
his cousin's ambition; and he was convinced that at the first
opportunity Alfred would have his revenge. Too soon was the
fore-boding realized.

Mr. Lindsay one afternoon entered the room where his children
generally spent their leisure hours, and with threatening looks
announced that he had lost a ten dollar bank note. He had missed it
under such circumstances that he was sure it must have been purloined
by one of the younger members of his family; and he now declared his
intention of searching both their persons and their apartments, that
he might, if possible, discover the guilty one. Very pale were the
young faces that now gathered round him; and though Arthur's heart was
free from reproach, he, too, trembled with fear for the criminal. I
need not dwell upon the details of that search, but suffice it to say
that the bank-note was found--found in _Arthur Sydney's_ apartment,
within a little box that always stood upon his dressing-table as the
honored receptacle of his parents' miniatures. Vainly did he assert
his ignorance as to how it came there--his uncle refused to listen to
his words, and loaded with passionate reproaches, he was dismissed to
his own room, there to remain till he received permission to leave
it.

It was a long while ere the boy became sufficiently calm to reflect
upon what had occurred, for the thought that he was accused of theft
came with such bitterness to his soul that for several hours he was
almost frantic. But as he grew more composed he became confident that
this was the work of Alfred, and he remembered the triumphant leer
that stood upon his cousin's countenance when the hiding-place of the
missing note was proclaimed.

Just at this moment his meditations were disturbed by the sound of
footsteps stealthily approaching his door, and the next instant it was
opened, and Alfred Lindsay stood upon the threshold, gazing exultingly
upon Arthur's misery, while a malicious smile wreathed his lips as
pointing his finger exultingly at him, the single word, "thief!" fell
upon the ear of his victim. Oh! how that undeserved epithet stung the
innocent and sensitive boy; and, almost maddened by the sense of his
injuries, he rushed toward the offender, impelled by but one
thought--the wish for revenge. But, coward-like, Alfred fled from his
approach, and then closing the door, and locking it, Arthur threw
himself upon his couch in tearless, voiceless agony. It was not until
the shades of evening had closed in that he roused himself from the
stupor into which he had been thrown by those overpowering emotions.
And now came a determination that he would no longer remain in his
uncle's house, where he knew that he must ever after be subjected to
the sneers and gibes of his cousins. He resolved to quit Mr. Lindsay's
dwelling, though he knew not of any other roof where he might find a
shelter for his aching head.

That night, when the unbroken stillness that reigned around gave
assurance that the family had all retired to rest, Arthur Sydney stole
softly down the stairs, and taking with him nothing but a small bundle
of clothing, and the few treasured memorials of other days that he
could lawfully call his own, he left forever the mansion of his uncle.
And as he looked his last upon the home of Alfred Lindsay, there rose
in his heart a wild, dark resolve, that if he ever possessed the
power, his cousin should one day reap the fruits of his evil deed.

For hours the youth wandered listlessly through the now deserted
streets of the city, till at last overcome with fatigue, and
completely unnerved as the full sense of his desolate situation burst
upon him, he seated himself near the edge of one of the wharves, and
wept long and bitterly. Suddenly a hand was laid upon his shoulder,
and a voice whose tones though rough were yet full of sympathy,
inquired the cause of his grief, and looking hastily up, he beheld a
man apparently about fifty years of age, and habited in a seaman's
garb. Touched with his kindness, in the first impulse of the moment,
Arthur gave him a brief account of his misfortunes. When he had
concluded, much to his surprise, his listener informed him that he had
known his father, who had, years before, rendered him an important
service, in return for which, he said that he would now willingly do
all in his power to serve the child of one to whom he was so deeply
indebted. He told Arthur that he was at present commander of a large
vessel lying close at hand, and which was to sail the following day
for South America, and asked if he would be willing to accompany him,
and learn to be a sailor like himself. The idea was a novel one, and
the boy seized upon it with avidity, as beside being his only
available means of obtaining life's necessaries, he knew that by
embracing it he should lose the chance of meeting those relatives whom
he cared no more to behold. And when he at once expressed his
readiness to go, his new friend patted his head in token of approval,
prophesied that he would prove a brave mariner, and then taking his
young companion by the hand, led him toward the ship which was
henceforth to be his abiding-place. The next day Arthur bade adieu to
his native city, and commenced his career as a seamen. But upon the
events of that career I have not time to linger. For years Captain
Carter, for such was his patron's name, continued to treat his
_protege_ with unremitting favor, sharing with him all the nautical
knowledge he had acquired, and using every endeavor for his
advancement. At the age of eight-and-twenty, through this kind
friend's interest, Arthur was himself raised to the post of captain,
and took possession of a packet-ship sailing between the ports of New
York and Southampton. He had now attained the summit of his hopes, for
a way was opened before him of obtaining, what had long been his
desire, a competence, which would enable him to resume that station in
life which his father had occupied, and of supplying also to his
parent's creditors the sum of which they had been so strangely
defrauded. And at the close of five more years he had the satisfaction
of knowing that this latter purpose was accomplished.

It was about this period that an incident occurred which had a
material influence over the future destiny of Arthur Sydney. During
one of his voyages, accident revealed to his notice the wreck of what
had once apparently been a noble vessel. He immediately despatched a
boat with a portion of his crew to survey the ruins, and ascertain if
any of the passengers survived. They returned, bringing with them the
inanimate form of a lovely girl, seemingly not more than eighteen
years old. Every effort was used for her speedy restoration to
consciousness, but it was nearly two hours ere she opened her eyes,
and then she was so weak as to be quite unable to move or speak. Her
delicate frame was evidently exhausted by long fasting, and the
fearful scenes she must have witnessed; and for the whole of that day
Sydney watched beside her with feelings of the strongest sympathy for
her sufferings. The next morning she was much better, she could
recline in an easy chair, and had acquired sufficient strength to
relate her history. She was a native of Italy--the youngest daughter
of an ancient and noble family, whose father having been undeservedly
regarded by the government with suspicion, was threatened with
imprisonment, and had barely time to escape with his household on
board of a ship bound for America. That vessel was the one whose wreck
Captain Sydney had espied, and of the large number of souls within
it, who had departed but a few weeks before from Italia's sunny
shores, but one remained--that gentle and helpless maiden. For three
days she had continued upon the wreck without the slightest
sustenance, haunted by the memories of the terrible past, and
expecting that each instant would dash the frail fabric to pieces, and
precipitate her also into the deep, dark sea, till at length
consciousness forsook her, and in a death-like swoon she forgot the
dangers by which she was surrounded.

With tears of anguish she now spoke of the dear ones lost to her
forever on earth--the loved mother, the noble father, the darling
sisters, and the cherished brother, over each one of whom she had
beheld the wild waves close. Then she lamented her desolation, utterly
destitute, and nearing the shores of a foreign land, where no familiar
voice would accord her a welcome. There was a similarity in her
situation to what had once been his own, and as Sydney listened, the
story inspired him with an interest in that fair being such as he had
never till then experienced for a fellow-creature. He used every
effort to console her--gave her an account of his own early life, and
bade her trust in the kind Providence who in the hour of need had
given _him_ a friend. He assured her also that he, at least, would not
forsake her, but that he would endeavor to place her in some way of
gaining her own livelihood till she could write to and hear from her
friends in Italy; and begged that she would look upon him as a
brother. She heard him with glistening eyes, and clasping his hand in
hers, with child-like earnestness expressed her thanks for his
kindness.

During the rest of that voyage Captain Sydney spent every leisure
moment by the side of his beautiful charge. Returning health imparted
a bloom to her cheek, and a lustre to her soft, dark eyes, and as
Arthur gazed upon her, he often thought that earth had never owned a
fairer flower. It was not long ere he became fully conscious that she
daily grew dearer to him, and great was his joy as he marked the flush
that invariably rose to her pure forehead when he approached. And when
at length he poured his tale of love into the ear of the sweet Leonor,
the reply that he sought was given with an impassioned fervor that
sent a thrill of rapture to his soul.

They were united the day that they landed at New York, and renting a
small but pretty cottage in the outskirts of the city, Captain Sydney
installed his Leonor as the mistress of that pleasant domain. Here,
amidst flowers and birds, and enlivened by the music of two loving
hearts, the time glided tranquilly away till the hour of separation
arrived--and, for the first time, Sydney quitted the land with regret,
and embarked once more upon the deep blue ocean.

Eight years after his marriage, Captain Sydney was destined to weep
over the cold corpse of his lovely wife. She had never enjoyed
uninterrupted health since her residence beneath the variable clime of
her adoption, and at last she fell a victim to consumption. Vainly did
the anxious husband consult the most celebrated physicians--the
disease was incurable, and ere the blossoms of spring again burst
forth, Leonor slumbered beneath the sod. Wild, indeed, was the grief
of the bereaved one at her loss--but he recovered the first effects of
his sorrow, and leaving his only child, Harry, a brave boy just six
years of age, under the guardianship of a friend who had loved the
departed mother, Sydney resumed his former vocation.

Years again fled. Harry Sydney attained the age of manhood--and every
one that knew him loved him, for he was a fine, manly fellow,
honorable and generous in every impulse, with a heart susceptible of
the warmest sympathies. He inherited his mother's ardent temperament,
and was of a sensitive and impassioned nature. Captain Sydney had
destined him for a merchant, and as such he had just commenced life
with every prospect of success. Had he been allowed to take his own
inclination as a guide, Harry would fain have followed the sea. But to
this his father was averse, and early, at his command, he relinquished
the desire.

Upon his son all the hopes of Captain Sydney were centered. It was his
earnest wish to see him happily married, and determined to express the
desire to Harry, he one day sought his side for that purpose. Both to
his surprise and approval, the latter informed his father that he had
already met one to whom his heart's warmest affections were given. He
added that the young lady, though poor and dependent upon her own
exertions for her support, and that of an invalid father, was the
descendant of a family said to be highly respectable. "Her
grandfather," he continued, "was Robert Lindsay, a well-known merchant
of Boston; and though his son, Alfred, has dissipated the patrimony
left him by his parent, and now relies solely for maintenance upon the
proceeds of his daughter's needle, I am sure, my dear father, this
praiseworthy effort, on the part of one so young and lovely as Ida,
will but elevate her in your estimation?"

"Robert Lindsay! Alfred Lindsay!" were the exclamations of Captain
Sydney, in a voice full of passion, as those well-remembered names
fell upon his ear for the first time in many years; "boy--did you say
that _Alfred Lindsay_ was her parent? Then be assured that never,
while life lasts, will I give my consent to your marriage with the
daughter of him who was the enemy of my unprotected youth!"

"Father--what mean you?" asked Harry, in tones of amazement, for the
tale whose memory had so sudden an effect upon his companion, had
never been breathed to him. And suddenly recalled to a sense of his
son's ignorance upon the subject, Captain Sydney now hurriedly
sketched the history of the past.

"It is very strange," said Harry, musingly; "but they never mentioned
that they were related to me. It is probable that Ida's father, if
aware of the fact, concealed it from her knowledge."

"Or rather that he instigated her to keep it a secret, that in the end
she might reap the benefit of his injured cousin's wealth," was the
rejoinder.

"Oh, no, father!" replied the young man, warmly. "I could not wrong
Ida by a suspicion of that kind. She is too good and pure-hearted to
countenance deception, and," he added, after a moment's hesitation,
"I cannot give her up and wreck both her own happiness and mine, for
the sake of her parent's faults."

These words aroused Captain Sydney's indignation. He accused his son
of want of spirit in refusing to resent the occurrences that clouded
his youth; and when Harry responded that he felt them deeply, but
could not on their account brand himself with dishonor, by breaking
the troth already plighted to Ida Lindsay, his father parted from him
in anger, declaring that if his son married Ida, he might never expect
his blessing.

The thought of uniting his son by indissoluble ties to the child of
his early foe, was, indeed, repugnant to the heart of Captain Sydney;
and while he remembered his resolve uttered on the night when he went
forth from his uncle's roof a desolate, friendless and dishonored
being--dishonored through the machinations of his cousin Alfred--he
was determined that it should be fulfilled, even though in so doing he
thwarted the earnest wishes of the one dearest to him.

A few days afterward Captain Sydney departed upon one of his
accustomed voyages, and was absent several months. On his return he
found his son just recovering from a lingering fever, brought on, as
the physician averred, by distress of mind. He looked very pale and
thin, and his father could scarcely help feeling a sensation akin to
reproach, as he gazed upon that colorless cheek and wasted form. He
knew that this indisposition was occasioned by the manner in which he
had treated his son's engagement, for, through the medium of a friend,
he had learned that Ida Lindsay had nobly refused longer to encourage
attentions, which, as she learned from Harry, were tendered in
opposition to his father's desires. Alfred Lindsay, too, had died a
few weeks before, and the object of his resentment being no more,
Captain Sydney began to feel less reluctant to the match which he had
at first looked upon with such violent disapprobation. Conscience told
him he had acted cruelly in thus casting a blight over his child's
sweetest hopes, and he was determined that he would now do all in his
power to further them. And when Harry grew strong enough to bear a
conversation upon the subject, he communicated the change in his
feelings. Both startled and appalled was he at his son's reply.

"My father, would you mock me with this show of kindness, when it is
too late to profit by it? Know you not that she is now dying of
consumption? I was sure that _she_ was too delicate to endure the
steady occupation necessary for her support--and my presentiment has
been verified. Yes, Ida Lindsay is dying! I would have saved her--I
would have borne her to a more genial clime, where she might, perhaps,
have revived; but she refused to give me a right to be her guardian,
for it was against the will of my parent, without whose sanction, she
said, our union would never prosper."

He bowed his face, while for an instant his frame shook with emotion.
Hastily his father drew nearer to him, but he turned shudderingly
from those words of penitence and self-reproach, and dashing aside the
extended hand, rushed from the apartment.

It was, indeed, too true--Ida Lindsay was dying! The constant
confinement called for by her continued exertions to obtain a
livelihood, had proved too much for a constitution by no means
strong--and it was his anxiety for her failing health which had caused
the illness of Harry Sydney. Oh! what would not the erring father have
given for power to recall the past; but it was too late--too late! A
few hours after the interview with his son the intelligence of Ida's
death was received, and during the whole of the succeeding evening
Captain Sydney could plainly distinguish the sound of Harry's
footsteps as he wildly paced his chamber, and each echo sent a thrill
of remorse to his soul. Little did the repentant and sorrowing parent
then think it was the last time that footfall would ever resound in
his dwelling--for that night Harry Sydney departed from his home,
leaving no trace of his destination. Days, weeks, months passed on,
and the heart of his father grew dark with the anguish of despair, for
he felt most surely that he should behold his son no more. Whither the
latter had gone was a mystery he tried in vain to solve, though
sometimes he remembered Harry's predilection for a mariner's life, and
blighted as he had been in his affections, might he not now have
followed the yearnings of former times, as the only means of gaining
oblivion of his sorrows? So, night after night, Captain Sydney sat
alone at his deserted hearth--a father, and yet childless, with a host
of dark recollections pressing heavily upon his spirit. And at last he
sought forgetfulness of his errors in the sparkling wine-cup, whose
draught he drained with an intense eagerness, for it enabled him to
mock at his misery.

And so five more years passed on, during which period his mind was
seldom free from the delirium produced by the practices to which he
had resorted; and having, in utter recklessness of spirit dissipated
his property, deprived, through his own weakness, of his rank as
captain, he was at length forced to lower himself to the grade of a
common sailor, for the purpose of obtaining the means of subsistence.
Then a severe illness, caused by free indulgence in intoxicating
liquors, overtook him--and with sickness came reflection, and he
resolved to yield no longer to the voice of the tempter. He recovered
from his dangerous indisposition, but remaining fearfully weak, the
physician declared that his constitution was completely shattered, and
that he was no longer fit for service. At first he insisted upon
resuming his wonted occupation, for he had no other way of maintaining
himself. The physician seemed to comprehend his reluctance to obey his
command, and he now reminded his patient of an institution in the
vicinity of New York, where the indigent mariner might find a home.

It was then that Captain Sydney--for so let me still continue to call
him--sought the peaceful shades of "the Harbor," where for two years
he had, indeed, found all the external comforts of a home, and but
for the voices of the past he would have had no cause to repine.

About a twelvemonth after his arrival at "the Harbor," a new inmate
was admitted there, in the person of an invalid sailor, who was said
to be in a deep decline. He seldom left the apartment allotted to him,
save now and then of a warm sunny day, when he would go forth, leaning
upon the arm of an attendant, and seating himself upon a bench in the
garden beneath the shade of a tree, remain there for hours, gazing
silently upon the blue waters of the bay before him. Regarded by all
as in a dying state, no one strove at these times to disturb his
reverie. His situation had excited universal sympathy, and frequently
the other sailors would steal to his side and softly deposit there a
small basket of fruit, or some little delicacy which they knew would
prove acceptable to him on whom it was bestowed.

Habitually reserved, and cultivating but little intercourse with those
around him, it was scarcely a matter of surprise that for some weeks
Captain Sydney took but little notice of the sailor of whom I have
been speaking. But chance at length brought him more fully beneath the
scope of his observation. While one day walking in the garden, buried
in thought, almost unconsciously he neared the spot generally occupied
by the invalid. But he heeded not the vicinity till startled by the
sound of a hollow cough, and looking hastily up, he met the gaze of
the feeble stranger. A half-suppressed cry burst from the latter, and
springing quickly forward, Captain Sydney caught him in his arms,
while the words, "Harry! my son--my son!" came in a tone of agony from
his lips. But he heeded not the caresses--he answered not the words of
mingled endearment and reproach which his parent murmured as he bent
wildly over him; and when at length the stricken father became calm
enough to summon assistance, they told him that the spirit of his
child was at rest.

    *    *    *    *    *

Such, my dear cousin, was the old man's history; and as he ceased, his
head leaned droopingly upon his hand, while his whole attitude
betokened the most intense mental suffering. For some moments there
was silence between us, for I felt that words were insufficient to
console him. But suddenly the stillness was broken by the sound of
lively voices approaching, and I recognized the tones of my
long-absent companions, and knew that they were close at hand. In a
few seconds more, they appeared near the stone-fence, which I have
once before alluded to. The old sailor evidently wished to avoid them,
for their gayety was discordant to his feelings. Rising from his seat,
he now drew closer to the spot where I was stationed.

"Farewell, young lady," were his parting words, as he clasped my
extended hand, and for a moment that pale, sad face, looked so
mournfully into mine, that tears of the deepest commiseration sprung
involuntarily to my eyes, "we may never meet again, and I trust you
will forgive me, if the repetition of my sorrows has cast a shadow
upon your heart. Remember me in your prayers, if you will, and ask
that I may soon be borne to my last repose in the little grave-yard
yonder, where my son lies sleeping. Farewell."

An instant more and he was gone--and for some moments I remained
seated where he had left me, patiently awaiting the approach of my
friends, and meanwhile musing earnestly and sadly upon the Sailor's
Life-Tale.




THE MOURNERS.


    Where'er I wander forth I view the mournful ones of earth:
    They tread no more, with buoyant feet, the radiant halls of mirth;
    Around their trembling frames are drawn the weary weeds of wo;
    Their sighs, like cold November rains, with saddened cadence flow;
    From the dead hopes and faded joys of bright departed years,
    They twine a garland for the brow, impearled with many tears;
    Upon the graves of buried loves they sit awhile and sigh,
    Then, mid the ruin-mantled waste of time, lie down to die.

    They close their weary eyes upon God's calm and holy light;
    They dwell girt round with misery as with a starless night;
    They fold a thick and icy shroud their care-worn bosoms round,
    And rest beneath the baleful charm like streams by winter bound;
    They nurse their sorrow till of all their thoughts it grows a part,
    And, like a cold and mighty snake, twines round the bleeding heart;
    And then its hissing tones descend in drops of fiery rain,
    And scathe, as lightning flashes blast, the weak and wandering brain.

    The mourners chant, with voices low, a sweet and sighing strain,
    That moans, as on a rocky shore, the solemn sounding main:
    It breathes alike when summer fades and when the violets spring;
    It mingles with the morning light and evening twilight dim.
    This is the burden of that faint and melancholy lay:
    "The cloud of wo hath hid the smiles and beauty of the day;
    The glow of earth, the radiant gleam, the bliss of life is o'er;
    The rose of human love may bloom for us no more--_no more_."

    Arise, be strong, O, mournful ones! The Future is your own;
    There Love may weave her rosy nest, there Joy erect a throne.
    Though youth's pale buds in early Spring were blighted and laid low,
    Thine yet may be the peerless bloom of life's rich summer glow.
    The blissful ones, the glorified, build up their own bright state.
    Let but the slumbering spirit learn "to labor and to wait,"
    Then, like a bird of tireless wing, 'twill rise above the storm,
    And bathe its flashing pinions in the glory of the morn!

                                                  REV. T. L. HARRIS.




REFLECTIONS

ON SOME OF THE EVENTS OF THE YEAR 1848.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

_Annus Mirabilis._


We are approaching the close of the year--a year marked by greater
vicissitudes in the affairs of nations than any in which we have
lived--any indeed of which we have read. History gives us accounts of
the rapid march and equally rapid conquests by ambitious kings, who
seemed only happy in the unhappiness of others, and only proud of
destroying that which constituted the pride of others. From time to
time ambitious men have exhibited themselves in the great theatre of
the world, and their greatness has been measured by the extent of
misery they have produced; and their claims to permanent fame have
rested upon the rapidity that marked their destruction of cities,
kingdoms and empires. While between the epochs which are distinguished
by these promoters of extensive mischief, there have at all times been
humble imitators of their crimes, whose limited power of doing
confined their actions to provinces, and compelled them to be
ministers of local vengeance, and the enjoyers of that petty infamy
which results from numerable murders and calculable crime. It is but
too evident that order has had its antagonists, at all times and in
all degrees, and if history has been employed with the works of those
whose extensive scale of action gives larger consequence to their
movements, it cannot be doubted that society has been convulsed at its
centre by the restless and the bad, who have been as efficient in
their sphere of wrong doing as have been those who occupied a larger
space. The latter struck the elevated, and disturbed public relations;
the former sent home its weapon to the humble, and brought disturbance
and misery into the more limited circle, reaching social life and
stabbing even to the heart of domestic peace.

Such great events have marked epochs, or made them; and such small
occurrences have been the characteristics of almost all times; so that
the wars of the present century may be considered but as continuations
of the belligerent movements of other times, modified indeed by the
improvement of the present age, but still of the same spirit and from
the same motives. But the events of the past year are of another kind.
The disturbances that have distinguished the history of Europe in that
time are not the result of the mad ambition of a conqueror to add to
his possessions, and subjugate kings and kingdoms as a means of
gratifying ambition; foreign conquest and invasion from abroad are not
now the occurrences which European rulers fear or anticipate. The
convulsions that distinguish every empire from the Atlantic to the
Black Sea, has nothing to do with the ambition of other _rulers_ but
are referable to the rising spirit of their own _people_. No longer do
the States of Germany combine to repel the assaults of the ruler of
France. Each member of the nominal confederacy is looking to itself as
possessing the active means of revolution, and each leans toward a
combination that shall sustain the rights of the people and put a
specific limit to the power of princes.

No longer do men startle at the grasping avarice of the upper powers
demanding new possessions and the recognition of enlarged prerogative;
no longer is the peace of nations disturbed by the attempts of an
ambitious ruler to extend his domains and enlarge his power. The
convulsions that are everywhere in Europe felt, come from the
up-heaving of the lower masses; deep down in the bosom of empires is
heard the voice of multitudes crying out for newly understood rights.
Up from that stratum comes a convulsive heave, that is toppling down
the thrones that have rested upon the hearts of the people, and not
outside the national limits, not at the terminal portions, not at the
"outer walls" of the capital is the movement felt--but within, at the
heart of the nation, within the shadow of the palace, along the quays
where business is pursued, in the narrow walks of trade, over the
bench of the artisan, or in the boudoir of beauty, is planned the
movement that is subverting thrones and leveling up society. For
nearly a century past have there been at work the elements of such
convulsion. The struggle of the antagonistic powers has been such that
results were postponed--only postponed--while the injurers lost power,
and the injured gathered strength. Premonitory movements were
observed, and in some instances seconded, as in France, in others
allayed by power or concessions, as in Austria and Great Britain. But
when the whole is only a right, the acquisition of a part is only a
prelude to a struggle for more, and this has been seen in every nation
where concession was made to the people, or wrung by force from the
rulers.

But there was reserved for the present year the great assertion of
human rights. The annunciation was first made in France, where tyranny
galled the sensitive portions of the people, or where a taste of
temporary freedom had created an appetite for constant enjoyment. The
flight of Louis Philippe seemed sudden--startling--almost without a
cause; and if nothing but the _emeute_ in Paris is regarded, certainly
the effect was entirely disproportioned to the cause. But the
revolution of the 22d of February was a natural consequence of the
pre-existing state of things. The fall of the leaf in autumn is not a
more natural result of a waning season than was the fall of Louis
Philippe a consequence of exhausted monarchy. The spirit of the people
had come up to that point at which monarchy must either assume the
form of absolutism, and rule by fear alone, or must yield to the
upward pressure of the people, and its possessors seek to escape the
opposing principle which they could not withstand. Louis Philippe
tried the former--it was too late--the army, that last hope of
tyrants, the sword and the bayonet _hired_ to defend the throne became
the people's support--failing in the effort to fix his power by blood,
Louis Philippe fled to save his life; a common movement of French
monarchs.

France may or may not establish republican institutions. Love of
monarchy will not prevent the fulfillment of her people's
hopes--difference of opinion as it regards degrees of freedom, and
want of self sacrifice, we mean the sacrifice of personal views,
(there will never be a want of self sacrifice of human life in
France,) will do more to <DW44> the establishment of republicanism in
France than all the lingering attachments to monarchy that can be
hunted up in the Faubourg de St. Germain, or in all the isolated
chateux of the interior of the country. The habits, not the affections
of the mass of the French people may also be regarded as one obstacle
to true republicanism--a constantly diminishing obstacle, it is true,
but still a formidable obstacle.

The revolution in France was the signal (not the _preconcerted_
signal, as it should have been,) for a general insurrectionary
movement, and no sooner had the press announced the departure of Louis
Philippe, than forthwith Poland gave signs of life--Austria heaved
with the workings of the under stratum--Hungary demanded
independence--Prussia was in an insurrectionary state--a voice was
heard from Russia--and Italy from the Alps to the Straights of Otranto
began to try the strength of those fetters which indolence, ignorance
and ease had allowed to be fastened upon her. The history of the
revolutionary movements on this peninsula has yet to be written; it is
full of interest, and if presented impartially, with a correct
reference to causes, both of tyranny and insurrection, must prove
deeply moving and instructive. We cannot do more than refer to the
fact that Italy has been aroused; that tyranny has received a blow
from which it can never wholly recover, and that there, as well as
elsewhere, the rights of man have been proclaimed--proclaimed in
part--proclaimed with doubts, with erroneous conceptions, with false
views and an unchastened spirit, but still proclaimed, and what is
more, openly admitted--admitted with purer views of property, more
definite ideas of practicability, chastened wishes and paternal
feelings. All is right in its tendencies. The false perceptions are
owing to the suddenness of the light recently admitted. The
inclusiveness of demands spring from a want of knowledge of the
sacrifices which order requires from the friends of liberty--success
will correct these views, and experience show the path which true
patriotism opens.

Regarding, as we do, all movements as effects of Providential
direction, we cannot forbear to consider the election of Pius IX. to
the papal throne as an important part of that providence, in regard to
the Peninsula of Italy in particular, and, perhaps, to the whole
world. The correctness of the doctrine which makes that prelate a
spiritual chief, or the propriety of uniting temporal with spiritual
power, are questions to be settled elsewhere. Both exist, and both
have an influence on the movements of nations; and the character of
the new administrator of the Papal See, had at once an effect on his
own subjects and upon all the people of Italy, and, through the
people, upon the rulers. The new Pope seemed to have stepped forward a
century from the line occupied by his predecessor, and to have stood
in the front ranks of the reformers of the age. He was young, no old
habits of yielding retarded his movements. He was young, none of the
nervous tremulousness of age, that is shocked at the proposition of
_change_, made him deaf to the demands of the time. He was young, and
he had not yet been hardened into that unyieldingness of age that
distinguishes the veteran church-man, who mingles the necessity of
faith in _divine_ doctrines with the necessity of non-resistance to
human precepts. He knew and sympathized in the feelings which had
animated the Italians: he was not ignorant that the prisons had been
filled by men charged with crimes which the oppression of Austria
provoked, and which the espionage of Austria detected and caused to be
punished. He felt that his own temporal power was abused by the
overawing influence of Austria, and he pardoned those who had offended
only a foreign potentate, and were suffering under the condemnation of
their own rulers. He would have led the movement to a peaceful and
desirable result, but, alas! the oppression of centuries had made the
many mad; and their limbs had been so galled with the manacles of
political oppression that they became restive under the wholesome
restraints that order and appropriate government demand; dragged
forward by these eccentric bodies, and restrained by the timidity and
prejudices of some of his legitimate advisers, Pius has felt that his
triple crown was the means of triple sorrow; but he has also shown
that he understood the maxim, that "he only is fitted to rule who
knows how to sacrifice."

The arms of the Italian States and the influence of the Pope have been
successful against Austria, and even though that overgrown and tumid
empire should reconquer all her late possessions in Lombardy, and be
as omnipotent in Venice as she is in Triest or Vienna, still the
prestige of power is gone, and she can no longer extend an influence
over the human mind that tends upward in its views. The _taste_ of
independence has been enjoyed--the tree of knowledge has yielded some
of its fruits--and hereafter there can be no rest, no quiet, without
something of liberty, much of science.

The question has been raised as to the existence of the power of the
Pope deprived of his temporalities. That is, can the Pope yield up the
government of the Papal States to a secular ruler, and maintain the
full amount of spiritual power which he now exercises, and which he
and those of his creed deem a necessary portion of his official life.

We are noways concerned in the settlement of that question, beyond its
bearing upon the condition of Italy, and through her upon many other
portions of the earth. We do not know that there is _now_ any
probability that the Papal States will pass under another ruler than
the Pope; but we entertain no doubt that the Pope could exercise all
the functions of Bishop of Rome, with all the supremacy which he
claims for that office over other bishoprics, as well without the
appanages of temporalities as with them. There is nothing in the
office, or all that is claimed for it, that renders direct temporal
power necessary. Bishops of Rome existed for centuries with all the
spiritual supremacy now claimed, but as destitute of temporal power as
the bishops of any other city. And the custom which rendered
concurrent the temporal rule--or admitted of extraordinary pomp--has
never been deemed more than a concurrence--never a necessity. And it
is a fact that when the invasion of a foreign power has stripped the
Pope of his territories, and made even Rome the home of invaders,
attention has been at once turned to the separation of spiritualities
from temporalities, and means adopted to drop the machinery of secular
government, and keep active and useful that of the church alone.

It is, we believe, an admitted fact, that among the papers of the
Cardinal Prime Minister of Pius VII., who was carried away and kept a
prisoner in France by Napoleon, were found plans for carrying on the
spiritual offices of the Pope without the least connection with
temporal power; and Rome was to be to its bishop no more than
Philadelphia to either of the bishops who reside therein, and
administer the dioceses committed to their care.

We mention these things, and dwell upon them, because speculation is,
and has been, active with regard to the effect of the revolution in
Italy, some movements of which evidently looked to the transfer of all
temporal power to laymen; and extraordinary effects were supposed to
be the necessary results of such a change. The change seems to us very
probable, and not very remote; but it does not appear to us that the
spiritual functions (proper) of the Pope will be essentially disturbed
by any such movement.

We dwell longer on Italy than its geographical dimensions would
warrant, but that peninsula is deeply interesting to the world, not
only on account of the religious relations to which we have referred,
but from the fact that for centuries a foreign arm has held it down;
and while half of the world beside was rising into consequence, by the
science and scientific men that Italy sent forth, Italy alone of all
the geographical divisions of the earth seemed to be without profit
from her own great men. Because she _did_ decay, men believed that the
elements of her prosperity were exhausted; because she ceased to hold
the preeminence which she once possessed, it was deemed that the seal
of ruin was set upon her. These suppositions are wrong; and the new
movements in that peninsula show that the spirit of man is yet
active, and _now_ active to man's great good. What Italy needed was
concert. What other nations practiced were constant attempts to foment
jealousies among her different States, and create a demand for foreign
interference and the presence of foreign troops. At present a dream of
the ancient republic is the animating cause (or rather perhaps a sense
of the capabilities of Italy for the new republicanism of the time)
with leaders; who appeal to the recollections of the past because a
sense of the present is not to be depended on in the many; and the
shout for the old federative republics of past centuries awakens the
pride of those whose patriotism might not be strong enough to lead
them to the sacrifices which the object demands.

There seems to be necessary to the Italian mind a hope of regaining
something that has been _lost_, and if this is rightly used there can
be no doubt that the people will attain to something they _need_. The
republics of elder Italy are no more the proper object for Italian
enterprise, than would be the old colonial dependencies for the
efforts of Americans. But Italy must be aroused; she must be called up
to some general object; her great men must be stimulated to useful
efforts, and her humbler citizens must be enticed away from
insurrectionary movements to revolutionary action, and that cry which
the soonest rouses and unites them is the true watchword of
independence. Some proper hand, some well endowed mind must lead them
in the right path--must set their faces and direct their efforts
toward the proper object. The alarm cry may be the same, though the
object of rising be opposite to that announced. The same bells and the
same peels would call up the citizens of Florence to withstand or
divert an inundation of the Arno which would be used to arouse them to
check the destructive progress of a conflagration.

Italy, however, must not be kept too long in chase of the past
republics. She needs the confederation of modern democracy, and, when
once aroused, must be early directed to the true object. The Italian
who spends his power, his wealth and his influence in attempts to
restore the ancient confederacy is like the man who starts westward at
evening to overtake the departed sun. But the Italian who, roused to a
proper sense of the capability of his country, determines to secure to
her the best good that other nations now enjoy, is like the man who,
starting at dawn, proceeds in an easterly course to meet the sun in
his rising. There is a necessity laid upon both--failure is certain
for the former, success inevitable to the latter.

We give more space to the changes and the condition of the Papal
States than to the circumstances of other kingdoms of Europe, because
the double power exercised there makes any change interesting, and the
extended influence of the spiritual supremacy gives proportionate
consequence to any movement or event that disturbs the dominancy of
the Bishop of Rome. Indeed so deeply interesting is the whole state of
Italy, taking its present movement in connection with its past
history, that a whole article might be profitably devoted to a
consideration of its past grandeur, its present distressed condition,
and its means and hopes of future restoration. We may in some future
number take up the subject.

The peninsula containing the kingdoms of Portugal and Spain has been
in constant agitation for the past year--but so trifling are the
relations of Portugal that very little interest is felt in her
convulsions, and few pause to inquire which party or faction is
uppermost at the latest dates. Spain has had her semi-revolutions, but
as yet they have produced little good to the people beyond the
weakening of the power or influence of the rulers; so that when the
people shall really rise, they will have less weight to keep them
down--less power to resist--less of obstruction to overcome. But the
energies of Spain seem to be on a revival, and there are hopes,
founded on existing recent improvement, that this abundant providence
on behalf of that country will not be much longer neglected by the
people, but that from one effort to another they will rise to that
rank in the scale of nations to which the kingdom is entitled, and of
which the attempt to go beyond deprived her.

Poor Portugal! She will linger yet, and perhaps be absorbed. Her
independent existence is not of sufficient consequence to the world to
induce an effort on her behalf; and England, now that France must
relinquish her claims on Spain, can afford to withdraw her patronage
from Portugal--if, indeed, we may not rather say that in the present
disturbed and crumbling state of European monarchies, neither England
nor any other kingdom will feel that she has much superflux of power
to shake to any decaying state.

Portugal was once an integral portion of Spain, and she may again be
in union with her sister. The mountains that interpose need no longer
make enemies of these two small states, and the common wants and
common weakness of both should and will induce them "like kindred
drops to mingle into one." The language of Portugal differs from that
of Spain considerably, but almost every Portuguese speaks Spanish, and
the literature of Spain is in a great measure that of Portugal, as
that of Great Britain is shared by the United States.

Portugal and Spain are both deriving the means of true strength by the
diminution of their colonial possessions, and when they have recovered
from the shock which the exercise of power over distant dependent
states is almost sure to bring, they may, united, have an important
rank with the European powers.

Terrible has been the oppression of rulers in some parts of Germany.
That oppression has not trodden _out_, though it may have trodden
_down_, the spirit of men. And even in Austria the awakening power has
been felt within the present year--felt to the agitation of national
councils--to the terror and flight of rulers. It is perhaps a subject
for joy rather than regret, that the movements of the people have been
less radical than in some other countries. This is, after all, the
true way. Grasping at more than they can retain, a rising people lose
what might have been of service. The lesson of France in her
revolution in the last century was not lost on Germany, and the people
demanded of their rulers that which might be granted without the
disturbance of order; and then they were content with what they
received, because it was at once a proof that asking they could
receive, and receiving they could learn to enjoy.

The King of Prussia, in reply to the demands of the people, yielded
some points, and then drew their attention to a long-cherished idea of
a confederation of the German States, by which the differences of the
several powers should be settled by an accredited tribunal, and a
species of federal government be established to watch over those
rights conceded by the individual states to the federal power.

It is to be regretted that the King of Prussia should have found
occasion in these trying times to provoke war with Denmark, upon a
claim by Schleswig for protection, and that claim rests upon the poor
plea that--though really a _dependence_ of Denmark--Schleswig is not
of Scandinavian origin, like Denmark, and therefore is anxious to
maintain her German relations. The Scandinavian blood runs through the
veins of Sweden and Russia as well as those of Denmark, and "will
protect itself," if not now, at least when a better opportunity
occurs.

The union of the various _States_ of Germany proposed by the King of
Prussia has been formed, and Arch-Duke John has been elected "VICAR of
the German Empire." He is a man of enlarged views, of liberal
political principles. He is a relation (an uncle) of the Emperor of
Austria. He was the representative of the emperor in the German Diet,
and his substitute during his (the emperor's) absence from his
capital.

This new organization of the German powers looks to the establishment
of a common army, and the creation and maintenance of a common navy;
and the attempt to produce these means and evidences of power _may_
create new disturbances, as they are costly to support, and often
dangerous to their supporters.

Austria, to which we have already alluded, felt the common _throe_ and
manifested the general alarm. The vigilance of a jealous government
had spread over the whole empire an appearance of tranquillity, but
the first symptom of popular movement abroad roused the Austrians to
an annunciation of their own wrongs, (they did not comprehend their
_rights_,) and as they felt most directly the arm of the Prince
Metternich, the tyrannical and efficient minister of the emperor, they
demanded his dismissal; they assaulted his castle of Johannisburg;
they destroyed it and wasted the palatable contents of its
cellars--stores of many years collection of the wine that bears the
name of its place of deposit.

In the mean time the people of Hungary, and those of Bohemia, which
had come to be dependencies upon the crown, demanded _their_ rights as
nations. It is remarkable of the movement in Hungary, that though the
people of that government had enjoyed privileges unknown to any other
subjects of the Austrian Emperor, yet they were the first to demand
further concessions; a proof this that the great agitation in Europe
is not the sudden action of an oppressed people. If it were, it would
be greatest and most _exigeant_ where the oppression was the most
intolerable: but the earliest and the most thorough opposition, and
the most effective insurrections have been where the hand of power was
most lenient, and the civil privileges of the people were the
greatest; a proof that the whole revolutionary movements in Europe
have been caused by a prevailing sense of human rights, rather than a
feeling of the people's wrongs; that the mind of man is rising to the
assertion of its own dignity, and is hastening forward to the
fulfillment of its own destiny; it is not content with toleration, it
demands an acknowledgment of freedom; and whatever restrains beyond
the necessity of government--of self-government--is regarded as an
infringement of rights; and the more delicate the perception, the
greater is the intolerance of the wrong.

Austria proper has made a strong and a long stride toward _freedom_.
Comparatively she is yet in the dark, but her face is set toward the
coming light, and year after year will show her progress toward it,
and the effect of that light upon her institutions. It is now too late
for tyrants to doubt that their true interests will be found in
graceful, moderate concessions; to _give_ a little, rather than to
have much _taken_; and with all the restlessness of the people, they
seem to be disposed to remain content with a moderate progress of
improvement; but wo to those who would stay the motion of that to
which the spirit of the age has imparted the means of progress.

The spirit of revolution has been rife along the shores of the Danube,
and the numerous states, provinces, and dependencies, that lie toward
the Black Sea, have formed alliances, and will assert their rights.

The city of Prague, famous in story and in song, has been laid in
ashes, as a punishment for its oppugnation against the emperor; but
the ashes of a favorite city may be as powerful a stimulant to the
spirit of injured man as to the best portion of the vegetable
world--and power may find itself injured by a conflagration as well as
its dependence.

Russia, amidst all this confusion among the nations of the Continent,
has been able to maintain her apparent quiet. But she has felt that
the experience of Austria was soon to be understood by herself; and
when light should have pierced into the almost impervious recesses of
that kingdom, her subjects would be able to discover not only the
chains upon their limbs, but those who placed them there. Her time is
at hand. She may yield, but the empire is too large to be conciliated
by concessions. Interest and feeling are opposite, and it is probable
that the only point upon which the whole can agree will be that of
immitigable hostility to the ruling powers. She will attempt to seize
upon the revolted provinces of other powers, and jeopard her central
position by the miserable attempt to keep truth and its enjoyment from
the extremities.

Great Britain has had her share in the difficulties which have
disturbed and convulsed her continental neighbors. She has had in her
midst a party of ultras, called Chartists, that look to the subversion
of the present form of government. She has dealt with them steadily,
sternly, and, for a time, effectually; but while there is oppression
almost necessarily in a form of government, there will be a place for
opposition to stand upon, and that opposition will assume any form
which can promote its object.

England, of all nations of Europe, seems to have understood the
advantage of concession. She has denied, postponed, hesitated, and
then granted, so that the joy caused by the concession has for a time
disarmed opposition, and given new strength, or at least additional
_time_ to the government. She has yielded slowly, but still yielding
from time to time what has been asked of the government in behalf of
the people, when the power of the government and the peace of the
realm were not involved. And she has overwhelmed with power or
ridicule all attempts at subverting the monarchy. The Radicals have
been shot down as at Manchester; the Chartists ridiculed into silence;
but Catholic emancipation has been allowed, and the corn-laws
repealed.

But let no one suppose that the results of force, of ridicule, or
concession are to be the yielding of the public; the same spirit which
called into action all those opposing means, is as constantly at work
now as it was ten years ago, and the demands will be as regular and as
imperative as ever, until the last vestige of inequality shall have
disappeared. Happy will it be for Great Britain if her ministry,
practicing the wisdom of the past, allows concession to prevent
revolution, and permits what of monarchy and aristocracy is left, to
come easily to the ground rather than to be upturned by the violence
of insurrection. England, for many years, has been as much in a state
of revolution as has France. She has had fewer convulsions, but she
has made a steady progress in her orbit, and those who live out the
century, will see the end of one grand cycle.

Ireland has been made to occupy a large portion of the public eye this
year. The death of O'Connell seemed to have left the "repeal party,"
(nearly the whole nation,) without a leader. Certainly without a sage
adviser; and the great measures which that distinguished man had so
long lead, was likely to be lost by the apathy of one section, or the
rash zeal of the other. That Ireland has been badly ruled by England,
ever since its conquest, is an historical fact; that the efforts
toward redress have usually resulted in worse than failure, is known.
But the prudence of O'Connell seemed to promise as favorable results
to the _repeal_ question, (reasonably considered,) as they had wrought
in favor of emancipation. He had age, talents, learning, experience,
prudence, fore-sight; he knew when to withdraw and when to press his
claims; he could not, of course, please all who desired the same
object with him, because all could not comprehend the powerful effect
of prudent restraint, or, as a southern statesman says, of "masterly
inactivity." And his death allowed those of more zeal but less
discretion to obtain an influence which he once possessed; and Ireland
is now plunged into the miseries of a _civil_ war.

Whatever may be the power of private feelings, our intention is to
refer to the insurrectionary movements in Ireland as to those of other
countries, namely, as the consequence of the growing sense of human
rights, and as that sense must increase, must constantly augment, it
is impossible that Ireland can remain in the same situation in which
she has been kept. It is known, however, that a galling sense of wrong
stimulates the Irish; that it is not the ordinary effects of an
oppressive government that produces rebellion, but injury that extends
to the domestic hearth, injury that strikes at the rights of
conscience, injury that makes even the wise man mad. The end is not
yet.

All is quiet in Holland and Belgium; and all is awaiting the
melioration which time and wisdom must bring.

This year has seen the close of the Mexican War, in which our army
gained fame, and our nation gained territory. And now the great
question is as to the uses of that territory, and the character of the
institutions that are to be granted to these new acquisitions soon to
become sovereignties. We do not mean to take any share in what may be
considered the party politics of the country; but we may allude
_historically_ to measures as well as to events, and therefore we are
at liberty to say, that the question now pressed upon the people of
the United States by the acquisition of new territory, is that of the
extension of the institution of slavery. Shall the new _territories_
be allowed by Congress to authorize slavery within their borders? and
on that question there is much feeling, and before it can be settled
there must of necessity be more, inasmuch as it has now become one of
the elements of party movements--not merely a question _in_ the
presidential canvass, but absolutely one on which a party stands, and
on which it nominated a president, nominated not merely a nominal
candidate, but one who, having held the office once, had acquired
distinction, and having manifested interest in all public measures
since, had maintained that distinction, and was a _real_ candidate.
The sooner this question is settled the _better_; and the better it is
settled, the more for the peace and the dignity of the nation.

To this question, which has in some respect, also, assumed one of
local distinction, we will not further refer; it is one that will
agitate until settled, and being settled, will no more disturb.

It is not our intention to place before our readers an array of
political facts, nor to make out a chronological table for the year
now drawing to a close. It would be better at once to refer the reader
to the easily accessible columns of the daily papers, which have
really been crowded with statements of convulsed states, and
revolutionized governments. It has not been a question with them as to
commercial changes, the fluctuations of a market, or the variation of
stocks; but they have had to record the fate of kingdoms, and the
flight or concession of kings and emperors. And we write necessarily
so much in advance of printing, that our quarter of the globe might
change its rulers between our pen and the type of our compositor.

We have been content to notice some of the most exciting movements in
Europe, without pretending to write their termination. We see in some
kingdoms the freshness of new institutions, and in others the renewal
of contests which had been deemed closed forever; where power has had
its heels upon the neck of the people for centuries, there are tokens
of _turning_; and from all this we learn that there is a spirit in the
mind of man, and that, in spite of all attempts to crush that spirit,
or to darken it, the inspiration of the Most High is giving it
understanding, and it is asserting its high prerogative, doing justice
to its lofty teachings.

How will all these things abroad affect us here? What will be the
influence upon the United States of these revolutionary movements in
Europe?

The effect is now being felt; it is only to calculate the increasing
power to understand the augmentation of results. Rapidly and more
rapidly will the number of inhabitants be increased; the amount of
wealth will be more than proportionably great, because not only will
not immigration be limited to the poor, but those of the rich who
_cannot_ come, will send hither their hoarded means, for safety; so
that while the abundance of our fields shall make us "the exhaustless
granary of the world," the permanence of our institutions shall make
us the depository of European wealth.

It may be asked whether our own country may not be exposed to the very
convulsions which make European nations so unstable. We answer, no;
agitation may occur here, and momentary excitement lead to fear of
local violence, but he who strikes here, strikes at himself. The very
nature of our institutions are such as to make it the interest of all
to sustain them, and the very causes which operate to the disturbance
of society in other countries, can have no existence here, or if they
exist, they have nothing to act upon, that evil effects may result.

In Europe, a majority of the people are deprived of their rights, are
made to yield to the dictation of a small minority, and sustain others
whom they do not like, with their own industry. They must submit to
laws which they do not approve, or submit to the charge of treason for
their attempts to resist, that they may change their laws. In this
country, whenever a majority is satisfied that certain measures are
inconsistent with their own good, they may instruct their law-makers
to change the enactments, or they can change the law-makers. This is
the _theory_ and this the actual _practice_ of our government.

The people of Europe find the means of living unequally divided. There
is less of a surplus, as it regards the _whole_, than for a _part_;
and while the few abound in all that is desirable, nay, with the
superfluities of life, the many lack the necessaries of wholesome
existence. And this is the result of their institutions--a result
which no convulsion, no revolution can at once change--so many
centuries have passed over the abuses, that not only are they
prescriptive, but there does not seem in the people any knowledge to
apply the power they may attain, to any _immediate_ remedy of the
evil.

With the United States there is no system to change--no institution to
be remodeled; of course, every year works some change in the operation
of the system, and makes more and more beneficial the institutions of
the country. The new views of man's importance and of human rights,
which work out revolutions in Europe, only make our citizens cling
close and closer to the institutions of their own country. While blood
is poured out like water in Paris to change the rulers of the people,
the rulers of this country are changed with a quiet that would denote
almost indifference. Men talk of an exciting _contest_ for the
presidential chair; but analyze that contest, and it is found to be
only a newspaper discussion of the merits of certain existing or
proposed acts of Congress, having nothing to do with the organic laws
of the land, or with the form of government; the contest or discussion
was closed on the 7th day of November last, and men scarcely remember
the earnestness of the newspaper paragraphs, or the stump speeches.

Broad and expanded are the views of a true Republic; there can be no
narrowness in the institution--it is for all men, and for all times;
and never since the first gathering of people into a political body
was there such a foundation for national greatness and diffused
individual happiness, as is laid in this country. Wealth, true wealth,
the means of general comfort, abounds. A variety of climate ensures
the produce of almost every section of the world, and the right to
cultivate a portion, gives to all the means of enjoyment; there can
never be in this country (without a special visitation of
Providence,) real want among any considerable number.

We have over twenty millions of inhabitants, and raise more than a
thousand million bushels of grain, and one hundred million bushels of
potatoes. With these means to be multiplied indefinitely, and a free
mind, what has America to fear?

It is not our purpose to make a eulogy upon our country, or to
anticipate the great results from the full operation of our system of
government with the immense natural advantages which we possess. But
we may remark, that with the progress of civil freedom in this country
has been the diffusion of morals and piety; and with the enjoyment of
political advantage, have been the enlargement of social delights, and
the augmentation of domestic happiness. Woman has found her rank in
the scale of existence, and enjoys that eminence in refined estimation
which the delicacy of her feelings, the purity of her sentiment, and
the intensity of her affections demand. And every where her influence
is felt, in the melioration of the public mind, as in the limited
circle at the home fire-side. Nay, it is _from_ the fire-side that the
circle of her influence expands, and she is respected abroad as she is
loved at home. This is one of the results of the free institutions of
this country; and while it is seen now as a result, it will be felt
hereafter as one of the powerfully operating causes of constantly
increasing human freedom and human happiness.

How beautiful the thought, that she who is the light of our hearts and
our homes is becoming the blessing of our country; and that not less
than domestic delight is political freedom to be derived from the
sanctifying influences of woman's gentleness and woman's purity.




ANGELS ON EARTH.

BY BLANCHE BENAIRDE.


    It sometimes chances, in this world of wo,
    That lovely flowers in gloomy forests grow,
    Which freely lend their sweetness to impart
    A sense of pleasure to the stranger's heart.
    They come to cheer and bless, like showers of rain
    That fall in mercy on the parched plain,
    And bloom in beauty, fair as though the light
    That shines from heaven had never been from sight.
    These flowers are emblems of the angels fair
    That oft appear, man's lot to bless and share.
    He dwells within a dreary forest wild,
    No cheering sun has ever on him smiled,
    His way is hedged with thorns, his soul is sad--
    He spies an angel in love's vestment clad;
    Kind words are spoken, and his grief has flown,
    His heart is cheered--for he is not alone;
    An angel ministers to him and points above,
    Bidding him cast his care on endless love.
    He lifts his eyes to heaven, and there behold,
    The azure sky, touched with a tinge of gold,
    Giving him promise of a brighter day,
    A life more calm, more clear his onward way.
    And angels, too, appear when Death comes nigh,
    To wipe the bitter tear from Sorrow's eye--
    They whisper of that bright and blessed shore
    Where pain and suffering will be no more.
    Oh, there are angels near us all the while,
    That guard our homes and sweetly on us smile!
    They minister _to all_--sometimes unseen--
    And change life's desert to a living green.




MRS. TIPTOP.

OR THE NEW MINISTER.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

     The tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full
     of deadly poison. JAMES iii. 8.


Few villages in the Union could exceed Green Valley in local beauty
and advantages; embosomed in hills, embellished with trees, and
watered by a willow-shaded stream that meandered through its centre.
Situated, too, within twenty miles of the great emporium, and skirted
by a railway leading to it, the cultivators of a soil, that ever
fulfilled more abundantly the hopes of the husbandman, could ask
nothing more favorable to the ready disposal of their crops. The
inhabitants of Green Valley were mostly farmers, who, besides "owing
no man any thing," had each a comfortable dwelling and ample outhouses
of his own, nothing better than his neighbors, but equaling theirs in
the well-to-do look of the fences, the garden and door-yard. That the
village was originally settled by Quakers, and half peopled by this
drab-coated sect at the date of our story, no stranger needed to
inquire, after passing through its straight-cut roads, or breathing
its air of purity and quietude. Long had its simple-minded,
true-hearted people lived in the daily enjoyment of mutual kindness
and love; till contentment seemed written not only on the broad brims
of the farmers, but on the bridles of their docile beasts, and on
their very implements of husbandry. In the course of time, other
religious denominations were established in Green Valley; but as the
descendants of Penn continued to "work in quietness and eat their own
bread," strangers intermeddled not with them; while the savor of their
peaceful spirits seemed so diffused among other sects, that all
"agreed to disagree" with one another, and for years unbroken harmony
was the result. But _we_ have only to do with the Congregational
church of Green Valley, and will forthwith introduce the reader to the
shepherd of this little flock. Mr. Worthiman was a plain man of
God--middle-aged, of respectable scholastic attainments, and one who,
for his sound judgment and exemplary "walk and conversation," had ever
a "good report of them that were without." The law of kindness dwelt
in his heart and on his lips, and in all the offices of exemplar,
teacher and comforter of his charge none was more worthy than he. The
church at its earliest organization, without a dissenting voice,
invited Mr. Worthiman to become its pastor--his prayer dedicated the
house of worship, and each succeeding Sabbath for a series of years
found him at his post, breaking the Bread of Life to a grateful,
confiding people. Nor were his pastoral duties less regularly
fulfilled: One afternoon of every week was devoted by himself and his
wife (whose living example was "such as becometh woman possessing
godliness,") to visiting in rotation the families of his congregation;
and so well timed was this custom, that the farmers' wives could
calculate each her honored turn to a day; so that the substantial
hospitalities of a generous board were added to the warm welcomes of
heart and hand.

Besides the neat parsonage reared for the minister and his increasing
family, he was, through the generosity of his parishioners, the owner
of an old-fashioned chaise, and a horse gentle and well-ordered as his
master. These were always in requisition on visiting afternoons; and a
right comfortable sight it was to see the minister and his wife
jogging along over the smooth roads, blessing all they passed with the
smile of true benignity, and receiving the heart's blessing of all in
return; while the good dame to whose dwelling their course was
directed, having all things in readiness for the pastoral visitation,
stationed one of her cleanly-attired children at the window, to watch
for the first appearance of the reverend chaise wending up the lane to
the farm-house, at which signal, with beaming eyes, the child hastened
to open the gate, dreaming in the simplicity of her rosyhood, of no
greater honor than to usher in the respected pair. On these occasions
the farmer usually left the field, and donned his Sunday suit, the
good wife appeared in her best cap and snowy kerchief, and the maid
came from the dairy, with tidy apron, to claim her seat in the snug
parlor, that alike they might sit under the lips that dropped wisdom
for all. Then, when they gathered around the lengthened table, the
pastor's blessing was music in their ears, and supper being over, his
elongated prayer, comprehending the wants of each, and all, closed the
privileges of the pastor's visit. Mr. Worthiman was equally
satisfactory in his visits at the bedside of the sick--in his
consolations to the dying, and his sympathy in the house of mourning.
The aged leaned on him for support--the middle-aged walked hand in
hand with his counsels, and the young looked up to him for guidance;
while no austerity on his part forbade the merriment of their sports:
so far from this, it was his custom at weddings, after a salutation to
the bride, and a commendation of the bride's loaf, to take early
leave, lest his presence should restrain the music and dancing that
usually sum up a country bridal entertainment.

Such _was_ the pastoral position of Mr. Worthiman, and such the
unmolested happiness of Green Valley! But, alas! the serpent that
looked with envious eyes on the paradise of our first parents, was
about to creep stealthily among the vine-clad cottages of the peaceful
villagers. And as in Eden his poison first insinuated itself through
the mind of woman, so from woman was it to be communicated to these
homes of contentment and love.

Among the few merchants of all-wares that had come in to supply the
growing population of Green Valley, was a young man of more amiability
than vigor of mind, who, having lived a single but quiet and peaceable
life some years in the village, brought unexpectedly, from a town
near-by, a wife to divide or double his blessedness. Kate Tiptop was
cousin to the young man, and did not change her name in marrying him.
She was the only daughter of parents who lived just long enough to
spoil by indulgence a child whose native faculties of mind were more
than ordinarily vigorous and acute; such as, under a disciplinary
course of education, united with healthful moral training, would have
ripened her into the noblest development of woman; but her first idea
took the form of self, instead of truth, and growing perception
brought only increasing self-consciousness. In short, she had early
imbibed the belief that the world in which she moved was made for her
accommodation; and her inherent passion--love of power--became more
and more apparent as she increased in years. Had she been beautiful in
person, this might have shown itself in more vain, but less injurious
forms; as it was, she desired to sway hearts, not to receive their
flattering unction in return, but to strengthen and confirm her own
sense of ability to do it. Love of _action_ alone induced her to
engage in the practical duties of domestic life, and she married more
for the sake of being the head of a family, than from any motives of
affection. To accomplish this desire, she well knew that her husband
must be her inferior in mental strength; while the additional
inducement that fixed her choice on her cousin was, that in uniting
herself with him, she would not even have to yield her name. Mrs.
Tiptop soon became a pattern-card to all housewives--always having her
work _done_, and _well_ done; and never lacking time nor tongue to
entertain visiters, nor health, leisure, or purpose to visit among the
neighbors herself. She was one of those women whose husbands are
super-numeraries at home, while their wives are mouth-pieces for them
abroad.

Her go-_aheaditiveness_ was a new revelation to the plodding
villagers; it not only made her household cares a mere song, but
enabled her to preside over her husband's business affairs with a
dexterity of calculation that soon rendered his own position but a
sinecure. In short, Mrs. Tiptop was a trump-card at home, and every
where, always winning the game of domestic differences, and turning
the chances of all neighborly or church variances, which began to
spring up simultaneously with her introduction there.

In person Mrs. Tiptop was tall, of slender frame, and thin, almost to
emaciation, giving no indications of physical or mental strength,
save that it was "all in the _eye_"--black, penetrating, "wise as the
serpent," and possessing the optical versatility of seeing all sides
in a twinkling; yet when its latent forces were single-eyed to a
purpose, that end was achieved as unquestionably as when acknowledged
by many witnesses.

No sooner did that eye peer through the bridal veil at Mr. Worthiman,
on Mrs. Tiptop's introduction to the village church, than her purpose
was formed and executed as truly as when carried out through all the
intricate passages leading to its accomplishment.

She had determined to be _felt_ in the village, and Mr. Worthiman's
godly power over his unsophisticated people was then and there
destined to totter from its long settled foundations. Before the next
communion season Mrs. Tiptop had sent in her certificate, and was
placed on the list of church-members. Here was a footing on which she
could stand to use the instruments that would be needed in the
premeditated revolution. The initiation of a communicant into a
country church is generally succeeded by a call from its officers on
the new member. Nothing could be more gracious than Mrs. Tiptop's
reception of this church police, who paid her the complimentary visit
during the week subsequent to her admission; but in this instance, on
Deacon Heedful alone fell the _charm_ of her serpentine eye. Quick as
thought in discernment, she penetrated at once through the deacon's
tractable physiognomy to his more flexible mind; and while the good
man was inwardly congratulating his church on the acquisition of so
worthy a member, she was fastening around him the toils in which he
was hereafter to do her bidding, as willingly as the dray-horse works
in the harness. Deacon Heedful belonged to that small minority of
human beings who know nothing of double-meanings or double-dealings;
pure in himself, he was the embodiment of that "charity that thinketh
no evil" of others; but, unfortunately, of stronger heart than head.
Perhaps an innate sense of this _crowning_ weakness made him lend a
more ready ear to the suggestions of other minds; at any rate, Mrs.
Tiptop soon had him under her easy control, through that psychological
law by which superior intellect ever governs its inferior. This
accomplished, it were unnecessary to carry the reader through the
winding ways which led her, with the deacon, to that point where she
could spread out before him the spiritual position of Mr. Worthiman
and his church, and convince him that they were "far behind the
times." Now this was "a secret" that she had not even communicated to
her husband, but in which she could not be mistaken, having come from
a town where all was "stirring" in the cause of religion--where the
preachers were "wide awake," and dead-level homilies, like Mr.
Worthiman's, were not tolerated; for her part, she should soon
languish under such enervating sermons as his; and here her fears
being profusely watered by tears, began to take root in the heart of
Deacon Heedful, who gave her a sympathetic squeeze of the hand on
parting with her one evening, and turned, poor man! to the sleepless
pillow where she had planted a thorn. He, however, determined to
deliberate some days before communicating his fears, even to his
brother officers in the church, and never to do it, unless reflection
sanctioned Mrs. Tiptop's hints.

But seeds of discontent sown in one mind, are by some Mesmeric
sympathy conveyed into another, and _another_, till a rapid,
wide-spread growth is the unlooked for consequence; yet Mrs. Tiptop
waited for another visit from the deacon, before breaking the subject
to any one else, even to "dear Mr. Tiptop;" so _she_ was not to blame
for the disaffection that was springing up around her. Deacon Heedful
arrived even sooner than she had anticipated--and most _unexpected_ to
her was his account of the spreading influence that had so
_mysteriously_ come to light. The deacon's doubts were now matured
into a strong sense of duty, and, to the complete satisfaction of Mrs.
Tiptop, he had decided to take a _stand_ in the matter.

The only proposition she made was that the leading clergyman of her
native town should be invited to exchange one Sabbath with Mr.
Worthiman. This he promised should be effected, and took his leave for
the purpose. As the parsonage was in his way home, he called to pay
his respects to his minister, whom he found confined to the house by
an indisposition that would prevent his preaching the following
Sabbath; so he requested the deacon to read a sermon, as usual under
such circumstances. This was opportune for proposing to call in the
aid of a neighboring minister, which Mr. Worthiman acceding to, the
matter was soon arranged, and word given out through the village that
Mr. Newlight would fill the pulpit the coming Sabbath.

Providence, or _some_ invisible agent, seemed on the side of Mrs.
Tiptop, under the inspiration of which she went from house to house,
promising the parishioners a treat new to them from Mr. Worthiman's
pulpit.

The Sabbath was an anxious one to her, and an eventful one in the
Congregational church of Green Valley; the spirit-stirring tones of
Mr. Newlight's voice--his forceful manner, and novel forms of
presenting old truths, had such an electric effect upon his audience
that Mrs. Tiptop's eyes drank their fill of satisfaction, and
gratified ambition began to revel in her brain. Nothing was talked of
the succeeding day but Mr. Newlight's great sermon; and wishes were
openly expressed, mostly by the younger members of the congregation,
that Mr. Worthiman was more like him. Dissatisfaction spread like an
infectious disease, and before the year expired, a meeting had been
called to confer on the subject--the church was divided against
itself, and the iron had entered the soul of poor Mr. Worthiman. But
the oldest and best of his people, those who had been the pillars of
the church, were not to be so easily moved out of place, and the
result was, that the disaffected members--including at least one
half--immigrated in a body, under the lead of Deacon Heedful and Mrs.
Tiptop; were formed into another church, built a modern house of
worship, and called a new-school minister to fill its pulpit.

Mr. Lion was a man of strong sense, strong principle, and strong will.
His wife was an English lady of family and attainments, who, under the
influence of a fervid attachment, had left a high-born circle of
friends in her native land, to share the lot of an humble American
clergyman, when too young to have attained that maturity of
good-breeding which accommodates itself, without apparent effort, to
the accidents and diversities of society. Having few attributes of
mind, and no tastes in common with the secluded inhabitants of Green
Valley, but possessing a kind heart and an amiable temper, she
endeavored to conform, so far as native refinement would permit, to
the habits and wishes of her husband's pastoral charge.

For the first six months succeeding Mr. Lion's installation the
triumph of the immigrants seemed complete. Deacon Heedful was
reappointed to the office he held under Mr. Worthiman's ministration,
and Mrs. Tiptop assumed her undisputed place of honor next to the
minister's wife--introduced a maternal association, and a female
prayer-meeting among the women of the congregation, in the exercises
of which she invariably took the lead, and made herself so
_prominently_ useful, that Deacon Heedful often prayed that she might
live to be "a mother in Israel." Even the spirit of discord for a time
appeared to be exorcised from their midst, while admiration of the new
minister and his lovely wife was the absorbing passion of the day.

But the evil spirit that had built the church was not long to be
denied his right to a place in it, and before many months began to
show himself in various forms and guises. First, there arose an
indistinct murmur that Mr. Lion did not visit his people familiarly
and often enough; nor did he make pastoral tea-visits with his wife,
as was Mr. Worthiman's custom. Then a whisper was heard that Mrs. Lion
seemed to consider herself of "better flesh and blood" than others;
that even Mrs. Tiptop wasn't a confidential friend of hers; but they
guessed her piety was no better than theirs, by the fashionable way in
which she dressed. Then, the new minister and his wife cared more for
each other than they did for their parishioners, as they frequently
walked out together without stopping to call on any of them. Thus, in
various quarters, discontent began to show itself, and somehow or
other could always be traced back to Mrs. Tiptop, who evidently felt
chagrined at not being invited to share the secrets of Mrs. Lion's
household.

But now an unlooked for arrival at the new minister's gave fresh
impulse and direction to the evil genius of Green Valley. The
new-comer was a sister of Mrs. Lion's, just from England, who, it was
understood, would be a future inmate of the family. Miss May proved to
have the _disadvantages_, in the eyes of the village belles, of
beauty, accomplishments, and independence of mind and purse. Brought
up, and having just completed her education in the city of London, she
was now a bird let loose in the free air of the country, whither she
had been drawn by affection for her sister, and a desire, not
unmingled with romance, to see the land of liberty, and exult in the
freedom of its rural scenes. And exult she _did_--now in the woods and
fields gathering wild-flowers, and now, mounted on her English pony,
galloping over the hills and away--the villagers said, "none knew
where"--the stared-at of all starers, if not "the admired of all
admirers." Though Miss May was sweet enough to savor all the village
with amiability, and musical enough to harmonize the whole, the venom
of the serpent made her sweetness gall to the senses of her brother's
envious flock, and her music was discord in their ears.

One morning, as Miss May was riding rapidly over a bridge, her pony
stumbled on a loose plank and threw her over his head so violently,
that she was taken up senseless by a miller who lived on the stream,
and conveyed into his humble abode, where the good man committed her
to the care of his wife, while he went for the doctor. Now the village
physician, who was a middle-aged, married man, had a bachelor brother
connected with him, who was the envy of the village beaux for his
gentlemanly air and good looks, _he_ it was who, in this instance,
hastened to answer the urgent call of the miller. Dr. Mannerly, on his
arrival, found Miss May recovering from her unconsciousness, and quite
alarmed at seeing herself in such strange circumstances; but his
gentleness, joined with the homely manifestations of kindness and
concern on the part of the miller and his wife, soon composed her
mind, and after the doctor had taken some blood from her beautiful
arm, she was enabled to rise and receive his assurance that she had
sustained no very serious injury by the fall. Being, however, too much
bruised to mount her pony again, she accepted the doctor's polite
offer to take her home in his buggy.

Before night Miss May's adventure was the gossip of the village;
especially her ride homeward with the doctor, who was observed to look
uncommonly interested, and to be engaged in earnest conversation with
his fair companion; nor did it escape the vigilant eye of Mrs. Tiptop
that the doctor's buggy stood at the minister's gate every day for a
week thereafter, and longer each successive time than _she_ thought
necessary for a professional call. And then, when Miss May appeared
again on her pony, Dr. Mannerly was by her side, on his own
high-mettled horse, (the doctor never rode a _tame_ animal, nor
perpetrated a tame remark;) this happened, too, again and again, so
that it was soon a settled matter that Miss May and the doctor would
be a match.

In the course of a few months, an unusual stir was apparent at the new
minister's; the blinds were thrown open in the east parlor, and people
were seen bustling through the hall as if in preparation for some
important event. As Mr. Lion never received "donation visits," as the
custom is with village-ministers, the bustle meant nothing less than
Miss May's wedding--and for once, the gossip had some foundation in
truth.

Late in the afternoon a handsome carriage drove up to the house, from
which alighted a foreign-looking gentleman, of some twenty-five years,
who was pronounced to be an English acquaintance of Mrs. Lion's who
had been invited to the wedding. And a wedding, true enough, it was,
for Dr. Mannerly came hurrying along toward the minister's about dark,
equipped from top to toe, and wearing the white vest that decided him
to be the happy man. And now the uninvited multitude envied the very
lights that made brilliant "the east room," and no language could
express their mortification, when the honest chaise of Mr. Worthiman
dropped himself and wife at the new minister's door.

But a greater surprise awaited them the following morning, when the
carriage that brought the Englishman to the village, was seen rolling
rapidly away, and in it, seated by the stranger, was the heroine of
all their surmises.

The doctor visited his patients as usual on that day, and the village
newspaper announced the marriage, at Green Valley, of Sir Edward
Sterling, of London, England, to Miss Rosina May, of the same
metropolis.

Mrs. Tiptop and her followers were dumb-founded! But the evil genius,
paralyzed for the time, revived ere long again with fresh vigor, and
became so vexatious to Mr. and Mrs. Lion, that a dismissal was asked
for and obtained from the Second Congregational Church of Green
Valley, which, at the last accounts, was about calling a NEW MINISTER.




THE GARDENER.

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.


    From dewy day-dawn to its dewy close,
      Between the lark's song and the whippo-wil's,
      With life as fresh and musical as fills
    Their varied round, in quiet joyance goes
    The faithful gardener, spying out the foes
      Of queenly Beauty, whom, for all the ills
      They wrought her reign, his hand in pity kills.
    That pure-eyed Peace may in her realm repose.
    He bears cool water to the drooping flowers,
      And gently crops o'erflushed exuberance;
    Trains the young vines to crown imperial bowers,
      And guardeth well fair buds from foul mischance;
    Let others find what prize befits their powers,
      _His_ deeds put smiles on Nature's countenance.




ONE OF THE "SOUTHERN TIER OF COUNTIES."

BY ALFRED B. STREET.


    A realm of forest, hill and lake I sing,
      Nestling in wild and unknown loveliness
    Beneath the "Empire State's" protecting wing;
      But be not too inquisitive and press
    Its name--my motto must be, reader! "Stat
    Nominis umbra"--I'll not tell that's flat.

    But this much I will say; it bears the name
      Of a brave warrior, who, in times of old,
    Burst through the forests like a flood of flame,
      And on the savage foe deep vengeance told.
    And well that warrior kept unstained the wreath
    Reaped by his sword in fields of blood and death.

    And to be more explicit--on the west
      The Chihohocki[1] laves its mountain sides;
    East the grim Shawangunk uprears its crest,
      And monarch-like this forest-land divides
    From that whose name superfluous 't were to utter
    If mention's made of golden "Goshen butter."

    Within this realm Dame Nature's mantle wide
      Has scarcely yet been rent by human toil;
    Here tower the hill-tops in their forest pride,
      There smile the sylvan valleys, though the soil
    Is such, in truth, no wonder people chose
    To leave Dame Nature to her wild repose.

    Yet pleasant are the sights and sounds when Summer
      Wakens the forest depths to light and life;
    The woodpecker, a red-plumed, noisy drummer,
      Times to the thrasher's clearly flourished fife;
    The partridge strikes its bass upon its log,
    And with his deep bassoon chimes in the frog.

    The stream reflects the leaf, the trunk, the root,
      The sunlight drops its gold upon the moss,
    Whose delicate fringes sink beneath the foot
      Of the quick squirrel as it glides across;
    And, glancing like a vision to the eye,
    Through the tall trees the deer shoots, dream-like, by.

    Fancy your wearied foot has clambered now
      The Delaware's steep hill, and then glance back.
    The splendid sight will put you in a glow!
      There winds the river in its snake-like track,
    Whilst rural beauty laughs upon your view--
    Meadows of green, and fields of golden hue,

    And then White Lake, expanding far away!
      Oh, its pure waters gleam before me now!
    It sheds upon my world-worn heart a ray
      Bright as the crystal beauty of its brow.
    Loveliest of lakes! this pulse must cease to beat
    Ere I forget thee, beautiful and sweet!

    M., too, (the village,) is a lovely place,
      Clustered midst grain-fields rich and orchards green,
    With the grand woods around--in blended grace
      Nature and Art at every point are seen.
    Brimmed is it with good fellows, and those pearls
    Of man's prosaic being--witching girls.

    Yet there are places in this rising county
      Where Nature seems determined not to grow;
    Where travelers merit an especial bounty
      For perseverance, where the starving crow
    Would pass, disdaining to arrest his flight;
    (But these things in strict confidence I write.)

    The earth is sprinkled with a scanty growth
      Of ragged, scrubby pine, and here and there
    A lofty hemlock, looking as if loath
      To show its surly head--while grim and bare
    The ghosts of former trees their mossy locks
    Shake, but all else is one great bed of rocks.

    Yet there is beauty even there when green
      And sunbright--there the ground-pine twines its fringe,
    And the low whortleberries give the scene
      (So thick their downy gems) a purple tinge,
    And mossy paths are branching all about,
    But if you meet a rattlesnake, look out!

    Hour after hour, the stranger passing through
      This member of the "southern tier" will see
    Naught but the stretching forests, grand, 't is true,
      But then life's naught without variety,
    Though if he seeks with care to find that charm,
    He 'chance may stumble on some stumpy farm,

    And then the road called "Turnpike," "verbum sap!"
      Now climbing o'er some mountain's rugged brow,
    Now plunging headlong in some hollow's lap,
      Still, "vice versa," laboring on you go,
    How high soe'er the hill, it has its brother,
    You're scarce down one before you go up t'other.

    The people, too, who live--I mean, who stay
      In their green Alpine homes, (I like a touch
    Of the sublime,) presents a queer array
      Of three most interesting species--Dutch,
    Yankee and mongrel--and this triple mixture
    Form when they meet a very curious picture.

    They call one "smart" who's keen at overreaching,
      "Tonguey" the babbler of the loudest din,
    They'll travel miles on Sunday to a "preaching,"
      And seek next day to "take their neighbor in,"
    And the word "deacon," in this charming region,
    Covers, like charity, of sins a legion.

    And there's another race, "half flesh, half fish,"
      That live where rolls the Delaware its flood,
    Ready to fight or drink as others wish,
      Not as they care; whose speech is loud and rude,
    Half oath half boast, and think that all things slumber
    When "Philadelfy" markets fall in "lumber."

    Their toil is pastime when the river leaps
      On, like a war-horse foaming in his wrath,
    With thundering hoof and flashing mane, and sweeps
      The forest fragments on its roaring path,
    What time the Spring-rains its mild current thresh,
    And make what vulgarly is called a "fresh."

    Then from deep eddy and from winding creek
      His mammoth platform the bold raftsman steers,
    And, as his giant oar he pushes quick,
      With song and jest his wearying labor cheers,
    Whilst confident in skill he fearless drifts
    By swamping islands and o'er staving rifts.

    From rafts we glance to saw-mills--oft you meet
      Their pine-slab roofs and board-piles by some brook,
    And, with the splashing wheel and watery sheet
      Flinging its curtain o'er the dam, they look,
    (When tired of gazing at the endless woods,)
    Though saw-mills, pleasant in their solitudes.

[Footnote 1: The Indian (Delaware) name for the Delaware River.]




THE EXHAUSTED TOPIC.

BY CAROLINE C----.


What shall I write about? A sensible question enough for me to address
to you, good reader, were I a worn-out school-girl, with a mind quite
like an "exhausted receiver" on the one subject, frightful, dismal,
and hated at all times to _her_. But, thanks be to Time, I am _no_
school-girl--and it is rather a foolish question, this same one I have
proposed, considering that for sixty long seconds my mind has been
fully determined as to _what_ I will write about this morning.

I have been looking over a file of old magazines, which are now
scattered about me in most beautiful confusion, for the sole purpose
of discovering in the steps of _how many_ "illustrious predecessors" I
am to follow, when I expatiate on that, which, by the last tale in the
last new magazine, seems to be still a marvelous object in creation,
namely, "_The Coquette_."

And oh the poems, and tales, and essays, by the Mrs.'s and Misses--the
Mr.'s and Esqr.'s, let alone the Dr.'s and Rev.'s, who have not
disdained to pour forth their thoughts like water on this exhausted
(?) topic! I will spare you, through mere Christian charity, dear
reader, from listening to their enumeration.

By this time, if you are any thing of a magazine or newspaper reader,
you must _necessarily_ have arrived at some conclusion as to this
tribe of humans. Well, what do you think of coquettes _in general_, my
friend--what do you think of those with whom you have had to do with
_in particular_? According to Johnson, a coquette is "a gay, airy
girl, who by various _arts_ endeavors to gain admirers." Natural
enough, all that, _I_ should say.

When women are blessed (?) by a kind Providence with beauty, does it
not follow rapidly on the heels of the truth, that they are meant and
made to be admired, and loved, and wooed by the gender masculine? And
when the admiration and homage of men's hearts are offered at the
shrine of beauty--and the favored fair one tastes the cup of adulation
man _forces_ to her lips, say, ye wise ones! is there any thing so
very _unnatural_ in the fact that her human heart cries "more?" Why,
even that poor, miserable daughter of the horse-leech was not content
with saying "give!" once, it must needs be "give--_give_!"

Now, in all fairness, I put the question to you--what warrior, after a
brilliant achievement in _one_ battle--after one glorious conquest
over his foes, was content ever after to dwell in a quiet obscurity,
and suffer his name to be at last almost forgotten by men, because of
his very inaction? Tell me, was that shining light so often lit and
re-lit on the Mountain of Warning for the benefit of the sojourners
in the vallies of the world--I mean Napoleon Bonaparte? Was Cortes?
Was Alexander?

What _author_, after writing _one_ book that took the reading world by
storm, ever after that blessed day laid down his pen and said, "I have
done." Did any of those glorious beings who, with their
death-stiffened fingers _can_ write for us no more? Are the writers of
_our_ day satisfied with _one_ brilliant and successful effort in the
field of literary labor? Bear witness, oh, Bulwer, and Dickens, and
Cooper, and James, to the absurdity of _such_ an idea! Wait--I would
be truthful--even as I write there comes before me a bright
remembrance of _one_ glorious bard, living, voiceless _now_--our own
well-beloved Halleck; but even _he_ may awake, and speak yet--and so
make way with _the_ exception to my rule.

And what does the warrior battle for? Tell it not in this wise,
wide-awake century it is all _for country and the good of man_! We are
a wise people, WE! Such humbugging is too ancient. Say out plainly it
is for glory, for distinction, for place in the higher room, and we
will honor you for your honest words! And what does the author labor
and strive for, through dreary days and sleepless nights? Is it for
the enlightenment of mankind--the improvement of his fellows? Who will
say that _this_ is not oftenest, when indeed it is thought of at all,
the _secondary_ consideration? Ay, yes! there are such things as poor
misguided scribblers dipping their pens in their life-blood, wherewith
to leave a mark on the pages of time, "to be seen of men!" There _is_
such a thing as a "lord of creation," _pining_ for distinction, and
braving every distress, and even death, for--Fame! Yes, we have
records of sons of Genius who have _died_ because men recognized not
the light _they_ set before them. I mind me, and I "weep for Adonais!
he is dead."

I tell you, among men it is rare to find one who, after he has tasted
the honey of applause and world-admiration, but will taste, and
continue to taste, until he has cloyed himself, and almost (I do not
_say_ quite) sickened the patient bystanders.

Is there, then, any thing wonderful in the fact that woman loves
admiration? With such noble examples before her, why should she not? I
know it has been hinted broadly that it is heartless, and selfish, and
sinful, in a woman, merely for her personal gratification, to make
wrecks of the hearts of men(!!) and that coquetting is set down among
masculines in the catalogue of sins as one of the blackest dye. But,
if man, in his wonderful wisdom, can suffer himself to be so fooled,
pray whose fault or sin is it? If he rests his happiness on the smiles
of _one_ woman, which is a rarer thing than ye think, oh, maidens!
whom shall he blame, if the smile does not always await him? Whose
fault is it if he does not _continue_ to please, when the eyes of the
fair one are awakened to his numberless "short comings?" And some day
when a more favored one of nature draws near with his homage, why
should the old lover listen in amaze to cold words and colder
sentiments? Trust me, if men would only apply to this subject of our
consideration one iota of the coolness and calmness of unprejudiced
thought which distinguishes many of their other musings, they might
some day come to a just conclusion.

But enough of this; I have given a _preface_--and I know a case in
point--more satisfactory than all _my_ arguments I think it will
prove; and I imagine it will clear me from all suspicion, or charge,
if you should prefer it against me, of entertaining wrong opinions on
this important subject.

From a far longer time since than I can well remember, till within two
years past, the Cleveland family were our next door neighbors.
Florence, the eldest daughter, was a very dear friend of mine, and I
would not make her the heroine of this story to-day, were it not for
the following fact. Two years ago the whole family emigrated to
Wisconsin; and now that they are gone so very far "out of the world,"
I think no blame should be attached to me for giving her "experience"
to the good public. Sure am I, that buried as she is in the backwoods,
she will never know that _I_ have seized upon her as a "subject"
whereabout to expatiate. But if you should chance to meet Florence in
your wanderings, reader, do not, I pray you, wound her feelings, by
touching on this topic.

Every body said Flory was a coquette--and adopting as a settled point
the sentiment that "what every body says _must_ be true," I suppose
she was; that is, she was "a gay, airy girl, who was fond of
admiration;" and I will not deny that she may have exerted herself the
least bit in the world to obtain it. But I do repel most indignantly
the idea that _she_ was artful and designing, or that she ever
regularly _set a trap_ to ensnare any human heart.

Florence, when she parted from us, was of middle height, very fair,
and her cheeks wore the bloom of early roses; her hair was of a light,
glossy brown--and, oh, those beautiful ringlets! I can vouch for the
truth of it, _they_ never emerged from curl-papers--(and by the way,
how refreshing and pleasant now-a-days it is to see any thing
_natural_, even a paltry curl!) Then her eyes, "deeply, divinely
blue," sometimes filled with a sober, tranquil, _holy_ light, and
again dancing, beaming, and running over with joy and happiness.

Though Flory was the admiration of all eyes, and "the beaux" seemed
really to have no appreciation of the presence of we poor
insignificants when she was by, yet to not many of _us_ did the
"green-eyed monster" ever whisper one bad, ungracious thought of her.

We all loved her--and a sadder set never waited in our depot the
arrival of the eastern train, than gathered there the day Mr.
Cleveland and family were to leave for a home in the "far West."

There were some, indeed, who invariably honored Florence with the
title of "coquette!" and pursed up their lips very sanctimoniously
whenever they heard of her new conquests; particularly may this remark
apply to old Widow Forbes, who rejoiced in the possession of four
grown-up daughters--"fixtures" most decidedly they were in her
household--for these four above-mentioned, were not in any way
remarkable for their personal attractions; and two of them had
well-nigh passed the third stage of woman's unmarried life! But by far
the greater part of the villagers rejoiced in the presence of Florence
Cleveland as they would in a sunbeam on a dull day; she was always so
cheerful, so generous and obliging.

None of those sunny curls of hers were visible the day Florence set
out on her journey; perhaps you think that was because ladies do not
usually travel with such appendages in view, and that they were snugly
packed away in the back part of her traveling hat. But had Flory's
head been uncovered then, I fear me it would have borne terrible
witness of the desecrating hands which had been busy about it; for the
fairy-like ringlets which had so long adorned the beautiful head, full
beautiful enough without _them_, were slumbering on the hearts of us,
her miserable, weeping cronies; and I know not how many gentlemen's
purses were freighted with like treasure.

What a silent, stupid company we were gathered there that day. It was
a bright morning--there was not a cloud to be seen in all the sky; and
Susy, the old fortune-teller, said it was a day that augured well for
their future prosperity; but that did not help _us_ any. Every body
seemed to think we were to lose one of the choicest lights of our
village--and so, indeed, we were.

At last the odious depot-bell rung--soon after the "fire-demon" heaved
in sight, followed by its long train of crowded cars. In ten minutes
the leave-taking was all over, our friends were seated--their "worldly
goods" were stowed away--another ring of the bell, that never sounded
half so remorselessly before, and away they went, over the
road--across the bridge--past the burial-ground--and on--on--on!

To my bosom I pressed a package Florence had given to me that morning
of her departure, which she bade me not open till she was fairly gone.
I need not tell you how I hastened home when I had seen her
depart--how, with just one look at their old garden, which ran back of
my father's house, through whose paths we had wandered so often
together--how with one thought of how lonely I was and always should
be, now that _she_ was gone, I hied away to my room, that I might be
alone with my sorrow. But every thing seemed determined to speak out
to me of _her_; there, by the window, was _her_ "old arm-chair;" she
had given it to me as a keepsake; and many, many a time had the broad,
leather-covered seat supported us both--so, of course, the very sight
of that gave me such a blue-fit that I threw myself into its open
"arms," and indulged in the most luxurious fit of weeping, the length
whereof might be counted by hours, not by minutes. But when I had
fairly "cried it out," (you know all things must have an end,) I went
to bed with the most dreadful headache conceivable, and opened with
more of regret than curiosity, the last "testament" of dear Flory.

It was in the shape of a long, long letter, filling many pages of
paper; but I shall not indulge you, reader, with a glance even, at all
the contents--satisfy yourself with these few extracts, and oblige
yours, &c.

"Writing is not my _forte_, Carry, you know that very well," the
epistle began, "but I had for a long time determined to explain myself
to you; and when father finally succeeded in convincing mother that
the West is _such_ a wonderful country, and that it is the best and
only place for them to safely settle _our_ troop of boys, then I made
up my mind to _write_ you what I had intended to speak. Don't think me
vain, but I'm going to be my own heroine in these pages; I'm going to
give you the key wherewith to unfold parts of my life, which you, with
others, may now think quite unexplainable.

"When I am gone, and the partial regret some will feel at first, is
worn away, and they begin with all earnestness to give me what _they_
think _my_ 'due,' and honor me once more with the flattering titles
they have given me before this, then do you, my friend, take up the
gauntlet in my defence. If I should happen to die of those horrible
'fevers,' into whose hands we are about to commit ourselves, 'Aunt
Sally,' _may_ say it is a just 'dispensation of Providence' that has
removed me; and that old Juliet Baker _might_ take it into her head to
write my veritable history, under the title of 'The Coquette,' and so
be published in one of the magazines as a warning for all who shall
come after me--an immortality to which I assure you I do not aspire.
Or Tom Harding might be tempted to discourse more eloquently than ever
on my respective demerits--drawing some of his sage conclusions
therefrom. So, dear, if such things _should_ happen, remember to stand
up valiantly for 'woman's rights,' and _me_! As I have mentioned Tom
Harding's name, I may as well, in these 'confessions,' have done with
him as speedily as possible. I know very well what all the gossips
said when it was rumored that I had 'cut him dead,' after encouraging
the poor fellow, who was really 'too good for me!' But, as it happened
in _this_ case, they were all wrong--as doth unfortunately sometimes
happen even with gossipers. Tom, since time immemorial, (you will bear
me out in the truth of this statement,) has been one of the most
_active beaux_ in our village; attaching himself, with all his
_canine_ characteristics, to every lady who was favored with the least
pretensions to beauty, and making himself vastly useful in the way of
getting up all sorts of 'parties of pleasure' in summer, and in the
winter also. It was very needful, was it not, that we should be always
on good terms with _him_, which, as a body, we managed very well to
do. As he had been _in love with_, and offered himself to at least a
dozen girls of our acquaintance, I don't yet know why he should have
thought that _I_ would take up with him at last. Now was it not
presumption, Carry? To be sure, he came to our house night after
night, and sat often with us in church on Sundays--and it _was_
rumored we were engaged; but that, I fancy, did not make the case a
clear one."

_Ladies_ may be attentive and agreeable, even over the verge of
intimacy with one another, and yet not be suspected of _designs
matrimonial_; but boys and girls, who have from early childhood grown
up with the most fraternal feelings, as soon as childhood has passed,
must be expected to give up what was a very delightful kind of
friendship, indeed; is that wise?

"The fact is, I never for a moment thought of marrying Tom Harding;
but I _did_ think him a great deal better youth than he proved to be.
When he foolishly proposed _the_ subject to me, I dismissed it again
quietly as might be, convincing him, as I hope, that the thing was
forever impossible. And I kept his secret well. No one till to-day can
say that I was ever guilty of parading this offer, and its refusal,
before my friends; and I scarcely think _you_ will consider me as
parading it _now_; or, indeed, of entering on this recital merely to
gratify a foolish personal vanity. Tom, himself, by his ungentlemanly
conduct, exposed all that ever was exposed; and his impudent, silly
behavior toward me has had the final result of making me heartily
despise him; and I sincerely hope no damsel that _I_ love will ever
accept offers, which some dozens may yet have the honor, or--which is
it? be _doomed_ to hear!

"Harry Kirkland was, indeed, a fine fellow--at least I thought so
once, for I was engaged to him within a time I well remember.
Talented, too--was he not? But, oh, what an unreasonable mortal he
was.

"When I engaged myself to Harry, I did love him truly, or what I
_thought_ was him, but you will not wonder that my love cooled before
such evidences of tyranny, _incipient_ it could hardly be called, as
he exhibited, truly in a petty manner, but giving me good,
overpowering evidence of what I might expect when the _chains_ of
Hymen should be flung around us.

"_He_ went to his Club, and the Lyceum, and became a member of the Odd
Fellows Society, so soon as there was one organized in the
village--indeed, on all points acted his own pleasure, even as to the
number of cigars he would smoke per day. And I, like a reasonable
woman, thinking all this part and parcel of his own business, never
for a moment _thought_ of interfering. But no sooner had I, in a kind
of dumb way, (foolishly enough, I confess _now_,) answered his
pathetic appeals, by acknowledging that I loved him, than he at once,
without questioning his right and title, proceeded to take the reins
of government into his own hands. And then it was incessantly,
'Florence, why do you allow that cox-comb to visit you?' or, 'why did
you go to the party last night when I was away?' or, 'how _can_ you
endure that conceited fool?' or, 'do, dear, arrange your hair in some
other style--curls are so common!' or, at another time, when I had
adorned myself with special thoughts of him, and his particular taste,
the ungracious salutation would be, 'It is _so_ strange you will wear
flounces--_I_ cannot endure them, and they are so unbecoming for you!'

"Well, I _did_ give James Thompson, 'the cox-comb,' as Harry called
him, leave to understand I was not 'at home' to him; and I stayed away
from all places of amusement to which Harry _would not_, or could not
go, (which former I came at last to know was most frequently the
case.) And I did treat Charles Wood more coolly than my conscience
approved, for nature gave to him a good, kind heart, if she did not
make him a genius. And I left off flounces, which my tasty little
'dress-maker' thought '_such_ a pity;' and I braided my hair, which
all the time cried out against the stiff bands I put on the curly
locks; in short, for six months I made a fool of myself, by giving way
to all my exacting lover's whims. It makes me shudder when I think of
what had been my fate had I married him--I should have died a very
martyr long before this day.

"I knew that on most subjects Harry's opinion was worth having--his
judgment sound; so I resolved to try what might be done on _this_
point, which certainly concerned our happiness so much. By degrees I
went back to my old habits, saying never a word to him of the test I
was intending to put to him. Perhaps _you_ would have proceeded
differently--you might have reasoned with him, and urged him not to
distress himself about affairs far too trifling for him to interfere
with--about which no woman likes the interference, even of a favored
lover.

"But such a course was not the one for me--and in the end, a person
pursuing a far different method of reasoning might, probably would,
have arrived at the same climax that I did. Wherever among my old
friends I chose to go, I went without consulting the pleasure of his
highness, who had led me about as a child in leading-strings quite
long enough. What books I liked, I read; concerning my judgment on
this point, perhaps, (not altogether unwarrantably either,) quite as
good as his own. I dressed in what fashion I pleased--and wore my hair
in the style nature intended. At one determined stroke I broke the
thread-like chains which, from their very fineness, had been more
galling to me than links of iron. I could read by Harry's look of
astonishment what his thoughts were, as he saw these changes in
me--and it was with some anxiety, I do confess, that I awaited the
result; for all this time I loved him well, though my attachment was
_not_ so selfish in its nature as was his love toward me.

"One day I sent Harry a note, with a purse which I had knitted for
him, and requested that he would accompany me in the evening, when
there was to be a horseback-party on the lake-shore. In about half an
hour much was I astonished by the return of the messenger, with an
answer to my note, and my _rejected gift_. He declined the ride also,
saying that he had a severe headache--(well might his head ache when
it contained a brain capable of suggesting _such_ a note.) After some
few preliminaries, Harry proceeded to tell me that my gifts were
altogether unacceptable so long as my heart continued not right
toward him; that I had grieved him beyond all power of expression by
the heartlessness I had exhibited _in my disregard of all his wishes
and opinions_; this strange note ended by begging that I would not
join the riding-party that night; that he would visit me in the
evening, and receive from me then any explanations I might be ready to
make.

"In ten minutes more the messenger was on his way back to Harry
Kirkland's office, with a neat package, which contained the young
man's notes, miniature, gifts, &c., with an assurance, which I wrote
with a most steady hand, that my evening ride would, doubtless, prove
more agreeable than a _tete-tete_ with him, and that, as I had no
explanations or apologies to offer, he need not be under the
inconvenience of seeking me again at home, or elsewhere. I will not
speak of the manner in which I passed that afternoon, after I had
returned Harry's _second_ note, _un_answered, and _un_opened; nor what
thoughts were busy in my mind, nor what feelings were busy in my
heart. But I will tell you this, at tea-time, when father came home,
_he_ did not reject his daughter's kiss, or the purse either; and now
it is snugly resting in the bottom of his pocket, well-filled, as I
hope it ever will be.

"That moonlight ride--you remember it; perhaps you remember, also,
that there was no gayer mortal among you than a certain Florence
Cleveland. She might not have slept _quite_ soundly that night, when
she was alone in her little chamber, but it was not _very_ long that
Harry Kirkland's image disturbed her dreams. Harry was proud as I;
doubtless he thought himself the abused one, (and _that_, you know, is
wonderfully efficacious in curing heart-wounds,) and I can readily
believe that many times since he has blessed the day that saved him
from _coquetting_ Florence Cleveland. But--you know already how
suddenly Harry moved to New York that autumn, and also how you
wondered we did not correspond.

"And what of George Stephenson? Ha! ha! I always laugh when I think of
him--_do you_, dear? What did _we_ think of him, _mon ami_, till we
discovered one day, much to our amaze, that he was engaged to us both.

"Never shall I forget that tableau we presented--being our own
spectators--when, with your head resting on my knee in the old
summer-house, you, with trembling lips, told me of that delightful
youth! and of your future prospects; and how, when you approached the
interesting climax, I joined in with you and told _my_ story, too; and
how, instead of our becoming sworn foes from that hour, two more
loving and light-hearted beings seldom took pen in hand, than we, when
we wrote that joint letter, and saved George from the fate of
bigamists! Well, there was _never_ a more captivating youth than
he--at least we must _say_ so, to save ourselves from the obloquy of
falling in love with such a _scamp_! Who'd have thought it? those very
stories of his early life, and sorrows which drew such earnest tears
from _my_ eyes. I suppose you, too, have wept upon his shoulder as he
told them. Ah, me!

"Then there was the poet, Earnest Ward. I tolerated _him_ because his
father was a college friend of my paternal, who wished us always to
show him kindness, and make the orphan feel himself not quite so
friendless. But you cannot believe that _I_ loved _him_. Poor fellow!
he is dead now. He never seemed destined to a long life to me; the
fact is, he did not possess _energy_ enough to keep him alive. And he
was eternally railing against Fate and his poverty, which no man who
wishes to gain favor in _my_ eyes must indulge in. His talents _were
not_ of that order which commands the ear of the public--and yet he
seemed to think so, and in that thought centered all his hope. There
was nothing practical about Ernest. He belonged to that miserable
class of beings, (how many of them we see about us,) who are aptly
described as having lost _their way_ in the great roads of life,
having early groped blindly past the stations they were designed to
fill. Ernest had a good deal of fancy and ingenuity--more than should
have been lavished on newspaper enigmas, and verses descriptive of the
color of my hair and eyes; he might have made a capital manufacturer,
or designer of toys. He was made, I am convinced, for some such
purpose, and might have excelled in some such _art_; but least of all,
you will acknowledge, was Ernest Ward fitted to be _my_ husband. And
well for us was it, that if he did not know it, _I did_.

"And, last of all of whom I will speak, there was Edward Graham; and
thus I fancy I hear him described by some (whom I _will_ say I am not
sorry to have left behind me,) 'a fine fellow! but driven to
desperation and to sea by that worthless flirt, Florence Cleveland!'
Now I will give you an opportunity, _ma chere_, to laugh in your
sleeve, if you will, for beyond the shadow of a doubt, I am engaged to
this same Edward Graham, who departed in such desperation; and what's
more, I mean to marry him, too.

"And how shall I explain conduct that will appear so strange as this
to you? You know Ned Graham _almost_ as well as I do; and as we both
have known him from childhood, it would be idle in me to speak of his
fine, noble, generous character, and of his _sensibleness_, by far a
rarer component of the human character than many people seem to
imagine. Our engagement was, I confess, an altogether unanticipated
thing to me, though there was always a lingering thought in my mind
that Ned approached a _little_ nearer my standard of manly perfection
than any suitor I ever had. You and I have often together admired the
outward man, so I will not now speak of those great black eyes of his,
which seem to pierce you through and through, as though they _would_
know your secret thoughts, (which, as far as they regarded him,
_could_ be only thoughts of admiration and respect.) And that manly
form, so sweet and noble, that was never yet bent by the weight of a
mean or sordid thought--that _could not_ stoop to any thing low or
ignoble. Now, when I tell you that Ned has hired himself to a
sea-captain, whom his father has known from boyhood, for three years,
that his wages (excepting only a moiety) have been paid at Ned's
request into his father's hands to aid the old man, who is now in
difficulties, when I tell you this, you will concur with me in
thinking _my_ Edward Graham the most noble and generous youth in the
world.

"Only a week before his departure _we_ made our arrangements; for
before that time Ned had never spoken to me of love--and I never heard
of his broaching the subject to any one else, did you? In three years
he is coming back again. By that time _we_ shall have become settled,
and have learned to love our new home. What farmers we shall be! Then
Ned will join us in Wisconsin--and who says we shall not be a happy
family there? And that Flory Cleveland will not prove herself quite
tractable and human, although people have dared and presumed to call
her a 'desperate flirt?'

"So, my dearest, I have given you a true history of my _coquetting_
(?) life, with the exception of those tragedies you are acquainted
with already. Frank Blake died, it is true, but never for a moment
have I reproached myself with _his_ death. He was 'found drowned,' so
the verdict of the coroner's jury ran; but have none others been ever
'found drowned,' than men who were in love? I am not jesting, or
speaking lightly now. Heaven knows the subject is far too fearful to
jest about! Could they who have seemed to delight in calling me little
better than a murderess, but know what bitter, bitter hours I have
passed writhing under their 'scorpion tongues,' they would, I think,
be satisfied. I tell you again, my friend, Frank never treated me more
kindly, or considerately, or _justly_ than he did that day when I told
him I _could not_ love him as he deserved to be loved, though I must
ever bear toward him the utmost respect and the kindliest feelings.
And when Tom Harding made that incident a theme for newspaper gossip,
I wonder Heaven had not blasted the right hand that dared to write
such things!

"You know how afterward I went to Frank's home--to his widowed mother.
She, too, turned in horror from me when I told her who I was, and why
I had come so far from my home in search of her. Go to her _now_, my
friend, and she will tell you that she attaches to me _no_ blame. Even
the agonized, heart-broken mother believed me, when I told her all
that had transpired between her son and me. She _knows_, as _you_
know, and as _I_ know, that I never won the affections of her son
intentionally, for the purpose of adding one more name to my list of
conquests.

"And of that other, whose name I will not write--he who died in the
convict's cell--my friend, _had I_ aught to do with that man's crimes?
The brutish madness with which he heard my refusal of his suit--his
dreadful downward course afterward; oh, can unreturned _love_ be the
instigator of such crimes? Had he not been a reckless youth ever;
disliked of all the village boys, whose friendship, even his wealth
and good family could not buy for him? If I would not wed a villain
such as he, where rests the blame? Oh, surely _not with me_! _I_ did
not make that festering, sinful heart of his, nor did I lure him on to
hope that I would _ever_ wed him. If love is _heaven_, what were life
with him!

"I cannot write more--_non sum qualis eram_! yet the sun shines
brightly on me still as in my childhood, and the future is _full_ of
hope. If I have cleared myself of the imputation of the folly and
heartlessness some have laid to my charge, it is well; _I_ cannot
think that my proceedings have been _very_ dreadful, or sinful; they
did not frighten honest-hearted, noble Ned Graham.

"And after this, when you see a woman whose conduct to you is quite
unexplainable, and full of mystery, listen, dear friend, and bid those
around you listen a little more earnestly, to the voice of _human love
and Christian charity_; and trust _me_, the number of women _who have
the power_ to act _long_ in direct opposition to all the better
impulses of woman's nature, is _surprisingly small_.

"If your trust continues in me still unshaken, as in the days gone by,
come ere long to Wisconsin, and I will insure you a husband of the
'free soil,' who shall bear as little resemblance to _our_ faithless
George, as my Ned does--and a home in the wilderness, this glorious
wilderness.

"God bless you, love--good bye!----."

"I have not yet obeyed the call of my friend to the far west," _now_
her happy home. Do you think it advisable that I should place myself
in the hands of such a--; but first let me ask you,

_Do_ you think Florence Cleveland was a coquette?

And--_is_ this _once_ prolific topic _yet_ exhausted?

I cannot conclude this discourse, "my hearers," without repeating to
you a song, which appeared some years ago in "Graham." It is by Miss
Barrett. Has it ever yet been "set to music?" if not, I would advise
some composer to neglect no longer so beautiful an effusion. And when
the _deed is done_, let every lady learn the song, and every gentleman
stand by and listen to it humbly. Here it is.

THE LADY'S YES.


    "Yes!" I answered you last night--
    "No'!" this morning, sir, I say;
    Colors seen by candlelight,
    Cannot look the same by day.

    When the tabors played their best,
    And the dancers were not slow,
    "Love me" sounded like a jest,
    Fit for "yes" or fit for "no."

    Thus the sin is on us both;
    Was the dance a time to woo?
    Wooer light makes fickle troth--
    Scorn of _me_ recoils on _you_.

    _Learn to win a lady's faith
    Nobly, as the thing is high--
    Bravely, as in fronting death,
    With a virtuous gravity._

    Lead her from the painted boards--
    Point her to the starry skies--
    _Guard her by your truthful words,
    Pure from courtship's flatteries_.

    By your truth she shall be true--
    Ever true, as wives of yore,
    And her "yes" once said to you,
    Shall be yes for evermore.




THE RECORD OF DECEMBER.

BY HENRY MORFORD.


    Write--with the finger of the angel-born,
      Upon the tablet of the human soul,
    That old December, wearied and outworn,
      Drags on his failing footsteps to the goal.
    Write--that the Christmas bells ring on till morn
      Peace and eternal pardon to the whole,
    And I, before I drop my farewell tear,
    Must lay December's closing record here.

    Write--for I weary; Age with failing thought
      Forgets the triumph of his younger days--
    Forgets the changes that himself has wrought--
      Forgets the lip that tuned to woman's praise--
    Forgets in summer how his fingers brought
      Fresh flowers in olden time for manhood's ways,
    Forgets all pleasure save an old man's word,
    To think of bygone sorrows and record.

    Write--ere he passes--even now they come
      With wailing harps and wreaths of withered flowers,
    To bind his brows and bear him to his home
      Amid the multitude of buried hours--
    A moment's respite ere his senses numb
      And the death throe seals up his mental powers;
    He shall not die, e'en in his age and dearth,
    Without a legacy of good to earth.

    His course has been with manhood, and his name
      Has changed with human years--we yet recall
    How bounding onward at the first he came,
      And trembled wearily unto his fall--
    How in his noon of life his strength was flame,
      Spurning the very hand that gave him all,
    How day by day and month by month he changed,
    Till Time on old December is avenged.

    The air he breathes is but ingratitude
      From each unto the other--from the air
    Unto the Giver of Eternal Good,
      And from man to the years unceasing care.
    Spirit to spirit on the moving flood,
      And demon unto demon in his lair,
    Jarring with discord, scarcely yet set free
    From the kind measure of God's harmony.

    And so he gave unto the sons of men
      Last winter, snow, and ice, and driving sleet,
    And the cold winds, each from his northern den,
      Strewed wrecks of forest branches at our feet.
    Old trees all naked shivered in the glen,
      And houseless wretches shivered in the street--
    It was the time when poor and cold mankind
    Should know the welcome of a generous mind.

    Few read the lesson--there was passing by
      Of squalid poverty by gilded pride,
    Wealth from the needy turned away his eye,
      Rich doors to richer guests were opened wide--
    Pity sought out a fancy scene to sigh
      And gave not burial to the poor who died--
    Beside the gourmand with his food opprest,
    Mothers hugged starving infants to the breast.

    Oh, not for this came winter, not for this
      Rolled out the storm clouds from the northern zone,
    There was a hope that gay luxurious bliss
      Would not be happy in itself alone:
    There was a hope that wealth might stoop to kiss
      Lips paler with cold sorrow than its own--
    There was a hope that severed things might blend,
    And man, the selfish, soften to the friend.

    The old man was but young, but thankless hearts
      They say are "sharper than the adder's tooth,"
    And ere the Spring came, by inhuman arts
      The marble forehead was no longer smooth;
    Cold blasts of scorn repaid him his deserts,
      Bitter forebodings grew too often sooth,
    At twenty years, they say, who knew him then,
    He had grown sadder than old withered men.

    Spring lay upon the garden--from his hand
      Showered the blossoms and the springing buds,
    The songsters sang tales of a summer land,
      And a new music lived upon the floods:
    And o'er the scene there waved a magic wand,
      And watched the spirit of the fields and woods,
    Laying in golden promise on the earth
    Beauties that mocked him in their very birth.

    The buds of spring grew withered in his grasp,
      The thorns lay hid beneath the rose's leaf,
    Leaving a poison deeper than the asp,
      Long as the memory of corroding grief.
    Rude hands tore off the petals, to unclasp
      Too soon the fullness of a lot so brief--
    There was ingratitude in bud and flower,
    And rude unkindness in man's thankless power.

    And all the summer long the rays he gave,
      To cheer the weary sons of sweat and toil,
    Flashed back with blistering brightness from the wave,
      And burned like molten lava from the soil.
    And vainly oft the giver came to crave
      A shelter from the burning heat the while,
    Beneath the bending vines the welcome fled,
    And yellow harvest seldom crowned his head.

    They knew not, as he pressed the table seat,
      That he alone had spread the groaning board,
    They cared not that the master came to eat
      Where one small blessing glittered from his hoard;
    They knew not, cared not, how the angel's feet
      Have trodden in the steps of good restored--
    The furrows deepened on the old man's brow,
    And sadly humankind had sped the plough.

    Autumn grew brown upon the teeming zone,
      Lo! here at last he should forget his pain
    Amid the mellow fruits around them thrown,
      With garners brimful of the golden grain,
    Men should look smiling to the giver's throne,
      And gentle peace sit on the loaded wain--
    There was a discord when the year began,
    That jarred the wider as the circle ran.

    The wheat-sheaf grew into the curse of life,
      And from the stalk the burning pain distilled--
    The orchard mast with the dark bane was rife,
      Pouring out poison as the master willed.
    The purple wine-grape reddened into strife,
      And in its shadow man by man was killed--
    Poison, dark poison, rankled in the cup,
    Pressed to his lips foredoomed to drink it up.

    So should the blessing of the fields and woods
      Be moulded into curses? think it not!
    Cold and unfeeling man's ingratitude,
      Who to the season gave back such a lot,
    To drink the cup gemmed with a poison flood,
      And bitter with the felon's loathsome blot;
    Oh deeply on our bosoms rests the stain
    That never years shall wash away again.

    The wail of autumn winds was on the air,
      That played with forest trunks as little things;
    The demons of the storm, each from his lair,
      Shot forth and hissed upon the tempest wings;
    Rent from the old man's head the scanty hair,
      Sung on the north wind as the cordage sings:
    Little they spared him in their giant course,
    The whirling winds that owed him all their force.

    Again 't is winter, to the sons of men
      Come forth the snow and wind and driving sleet--
    Again the storm-cloud lowers o'er the glen.
      Again the branches shiver at our feet.
    Faint and uncovered, over moor and fen,
      The weary man has come his doom to meet,
    The storms of winter beat upon his head,
    The record of his failing time is read.

    Chill to his heart strikes in the northern blast,
      Ending the season as the year began;
    December hastens to his final rest,
      Friendless by the dark cruelty of man.
    E'en now, while to his death-couch he is prest,
      A wail rings round his head so pale and wan,
    And withered flowers are ready for his bier,
    That mock the dying with his past career.

    His course has been with manhood, and his end
      Is fitting for a type of humankind,
    Around whose heavy head the laggard friend
      The veil of useless pity comes to bind.
    The dirge of his departure shall ascend
      From those who scarce recalled his life to mind,
    The tide of life above his grave rolls on,
    And few remember he is dead and gone.

    December passes, in the opening sky
      Of the new year's first morning breaks a star,
    The record he has left us here shall lie
      Beside us when his form is borne afar.
    Bending above his last farewell, I sigh
      That he has left us, ingrate as we are,
    And turning to the New Year, I behold
    A new-born spirit throned upon the old.




[Illustration: Overvboard in the Gulf]

OVERBOARD IN THE GULF.

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

[SEE ENGRAVING.]


"A man overboard!"

I heard the cry distinctly as the dark waters whirled me astern.

"Who?--where?"

"Heave over a coop!"

"Can you see him?"

"Clear away the quarter-boat!"

These were the cries that followed each other in rapid succession,
accompanied with the hurried tread of feet, which rose even over the
sounds of the whistling hurricane and of the roaring water in which I
was immersed.

We had been out from Marseilles about three days, and were now well up
with the Straits. A gale which had begun just after dawn had increased
with such violence that before the afternoon set in we were lying-to
under a storm stay-sail. Noticing that the heel of the boom was
chafing loose, I had gone aloft to repair it, when a sudden lurch tore
the spar from its fastenings, and flung me into the air like a ball
shot from a twenty-four.

At first I sunk plumb, as if tied to a shot; but in a few seconds
began to ascend. When I reached the surface, however, it was to find
myself whirling from the vessel's side, with a confused noise of the
howling tempest and the bubbling waters in my ears: yet over all rose
the shouts of my messmates.

I was so blinded by the water that I could not immediately see. I spun
around and around as in a whirlpool, for I had been caught in the
eddies under the stern. I looked to windward, too, for the ship;
forgetting that a heavy vessel would make more leeway than my light
person. Just as I sunk in the trough of the sea, however, I caught
sight of the tall spars pitching a short distance to leeward; and when
I rose on the next wave I took care to have my eyes fixed in that
direction. I could now behold the men in the rigging on the look-out,
and hear again distinctly their eager and excited cries. They were all
gazing to leeward, and consequently could not see me.

"Whereaway is he?"

"I can't see him--can you?"

"There--he has just sunk in the trough--no! it was not he."

"Hillo!"

"Hil-hil-loa!"

While these cries were following each other, the skipper himself came
on deck, and springing on the tafferel cast a rapid glance around the
horizon. I thought his eye had lighted on me, for, unlike the rest, he
turned to windward; but, after a hasty glance in the right direction,
he, too, looked off to leeward. How my heart sunk within me! Was I to
perish, and within hearing too, in consequence of this mistake of my
messmates? I raised my voice and shouted. I could still hear the
answers.

"Ahoy!--aho-o-y!"

"There--that was his voice certainly--can't you see him yet?"

"Ahoy!--ahoy!--aho-o-y!" I repeated, straining my lungs to the utmost.

"Hillo!" replied the stentorian voice of the skipper, the words
struggling faintly against the wind.

The ship was rapidly drifting down to leeward, and I knew that if not
soon discovered I was lost, so I shouted again.

"Aho-o-y!--A-hoy!--A-hoy!--Aho-o-y!"

The last word was frantically prolonged, and I watched its effect for
a full minute with intense anxiety. It was evident from the manner in
which my comrades on board glanced anew around the horizon, as also
from the shouts which they uttered in reply, that my cry had reached
them. I could not indeed hear their hail, but saw their hands to their
mouths as when persons shout loudly. Alas! the same fatal error of
still looking in the wrong direction prevailed among them: not an eye
was turned to windward. My heart died within me.

"Oh, God!" I cried, "they do not hear me, and I am lost. My mother--my
poor, poor mother."

I forgot to mention that, on my falling overboard, the cook, who had
been cleaning knives in the galley, had mechanically flung the board
he was using into the sea. Luckily it floated near me, and catching
it, I placed it, end up, under my chin, and thus supported my head
above the water without difficulty. But for this, perhaps, I should
have been wearied out already by the surges which would have broke
over me continually, but which I now generally rode. I also had on my
oilskin cap and coat: an equally fortunate circumstance.

After giving way, therefore, for a few minutes to despondency, as I
saw the ship drifting off, I rallied myself, and, reflecting that hope
never dies while there is life, began to consider my situation more
calmly. The comparative buoyancy of my dress, added to the board I had
so fortunately obtained, would enable me to keep afloat for an hour,
or perhaps for even a longer period, and in that time what chances
might not turn up! I knew the Gulf was crowded with vessels. I had
observed a French frigate, lying-to, to windward, just before I fell
overboard. The direction in which I was drifting would carry me near
her, when I might be more fortunate in attracting attention. I cheered
my heart with this reflection, and began to look out for the
man-of-war.

My first object, in this new frame of mind, was to get rid of my
boots, which were by this time full of water, and began sensibly to
drag me down. With great difficulty I succeeded in pulling them off;
for I had to retain hold of my board with one hand while I worked at
the boot with the other. At last I was rid of those dangerous
encumbrances, and, floating more lightly, had a better opportunity to
look around. Of course my vision of distant objects was cut off every
moment by my being carried down into the trough of the sea. No one,
who has not been in a similar situation, can appreciate the awfulness
with which I gazed on the dark, glistening sides of the immense
billows, as I saw myself sinking away from them, as if to the very
bottom of the ocean. With what horrid mockery the glassy waters seemed
to rise mountain high all around me. Suddenly, when I was at the
lowest, I would begin to ascend, as if by magic, from that gloomy
gulf, my velocity increasing every instant, until at last I would
shoot upward above the crest of the wave, like an arrow propelled from
the abyss. A toss of the head, to shake off the water, a long drawn
breath, to recover myself, a hasty glance around, and then I was
whirled downward again, half smothered in the wild abyss.

I had been overboard half an hour before I caught sight of the French
frigate. When at last I beheld her, I could scarcely restrain a cry of
joy. She was drifting rapidly toward me, and would pass within hail.
How beautiful she looked! Her symmetrical hull, that floated buoyantly
as some wild-fowl: her tall spars, unrelieved by a single bit of
canvas, except the close-reefed maintop-sail under which she was
lying-to: these, penciled against the horizon, formed together a
picture of grace and beauty unsurpassed. Now she would pitch
head-foremost into the sea; now slowly rise dripping from the deluge.
Here and there a look-out was visible dotting her rigging. As she
swung, pendulum-like, the wild and whirling clouds that rapidly
traversed the distant sky seemed one moment to stand still, and then
to speed past her with accelerated velocity. In the midst of peril as
I was I still felt all the charm of this picture.

Suddenly I reflected--what if I should miss the frigate? There were
other vessels in sight, but none in my track, for by this time I could
calculate, with some approach to accuracy, the direction of my drift.
Again the thought of my mother came up to me. I was her only son--her
almost sole hope--the comfort and darling of her old age. Perhaps even
now she was thinking of me. I seemed to see her silver hair, and hear
her mild voice once more. Then the vision of that gray head bowed in
grief arose. I beheld her in the weeds of deep mourning, bent in body
and prostrated in mind. They had told her that her child had been lost
overboard months ago, and was now a thousand fathom in the sea. I
groaned audibly. God knows, even in that awful hour, it was less of
myself than of my mother I thought!

I was now rapidly approaching the frigate.

"Hillo!--hil-lo!" I cried, waving my arm above my head, as I rose on
the crest of a wave.

I had but an instant to watch the effect of my cry, before I was
submerged again. But there was time enough to assure me that I had not
been heard.

I noticed, with terrible misgivings, that my voice was much weaker
than it had been half an hour before. Was I so soon becoming
exhausted? At this rate, an hour more would probably extinguish life.

This idea filled me with alarm, and as I gained the crest of the next
billow, I made a desperate exertion to shout both louder and quicker.

"Hillo!--hillo!--hillo-o-o!" I frantically cried.

I was still prolonging the sound when the comb of a wave went over me,
and half blinded as well as smothered, I was tumbled headlong down
into the trough of the sea, which I reached more dead than alive. I
was still so exhausted when I rose on the next billow that I could not
speak.

With agony inexpressible I now saw myself nearly abreast of the
frigate. Another descent, another mad whirl upward, and I found her
shooting from me. I was now almost delirious with despair,

"Hillo!--ahoy!" I cried. "Oh! for the love of God, hear me!"

I fancied I saw a look-out turn toward me. I knew he must have heard
me. If I could have remained on the top of that surge an instant
longer his eye would have fallen on me; but the insatiate gulf
demanded me, and seized in the embraces of the pitiless waters, I was
hurried downward to darkness and death.

When I next rose to the light of day, the man-of-war was fast
receding. I was so utterly drenched, so breathless from being nearly
smothered, that I could not raise my voice above that of a child, and
hence failed to attract the attention of the look-out whom I still saw
gazing in search of me. May Heaven grant that none who read these
words may ever experience feelings similar to mine at that moment! In
another instant I had recovered my voice, but the frigate was now out
of hearing.

Suddenly, just as I was giving way to despair, I saw in the distance a
large ship driving before the gale, under a reefed maintop-sail and
storm stay-sail. She was heading directly toward me. This afforded a
new gleam of hope. If I could but arrest her attention, I thought I
should be rescued. I forgot that it would be first necessary to throw
her into the wind, and that the risk of her broaching-to in this
manoeuvre would probably prevent her paying any attention to my cries.

On she came, racing like some mad courser, yet riding the gigantic
billows buoyantly as a bird. Now half enveloped in the driving
foam--now rolling her vast yard-arms almost to the water--now showing
her keel as far back as the dripping fore-chains, she presented a
spectacle of the most terrible sublimity. The scene around, too, added
to the awful majesty of the picture. Just as she rose on a colossal
wave, in the trough of which I was buried an immense distance beneath
her, a flash of lightning blazed across her track, while, at the same
instant, the clouds rolled away behind her, as if lifted like a
curtain, and the sun burst forth in all his glory. Never shall I
forget the sight! The after part of the gallant ship was buried in the
crest of the wave, which, beating over her quarter, flew into the
maintop itself. Her fore part had outrun the billow, and hung for a
second suspended over the abyss. Then, like a falcon stooping from its
height, she swooped down into the gulf, the wild waters roaring after
her, like wolves in pursuit of their prey.

She was somewhat to leeward of me, but nevertheless I shouted with all
my might, again and again.

It was in vain. Her crew clinging to the rigging, were all engaged
each in his own preservation, and no more noticed the half-buried
figure calling to them, than they observed the sea-bird that, like an
_avant courier_, swept the billow before them. I shouted, I shrieked,
I waved my arm frantically over my head. But all to no purpose. I
heard the fierce bubbling of the waters as the mighty ship tore
through them close at hand; I caught a glimpse of the pale and
terrified faces of her crew, gleaming out in the angry light of the
setting sun: and then the vision passed, a Titanic wave upheaved
between us, and I was alone.

Alone on the illimitable ocean! Alone while night was drawing on!
Alone with no chance of escape remaining! Far, far to leeward, just
visible occasionally over the distant surges, I saw my own vessel;
but, except this, the horizon was now without a speck.

I burst into tears. The tension of my nerves had been unnatural; they
now gave way: and, as I saw nothing but death before me, I wept like a
child. Yet still it was the thought of my mother that affected me, not
any consideration of self. My whole past life rushed in review before
me. I saw myself at my mother's knee looking and wondering as she
taught me to pray. I was a boy going to school, now chasing a
butterfly, now watching the angler from the village bridge, but ever
loitering on my way. I saw my little sister die, and after her, one by
one, in that season of terrible epidemic, my four brothers. I followed
my father to the grave, the last victim of that pestilence: I wept
with my surviving parent: I promised always to stay by her: I was her
all in all. And then, with the flight of years, came other pictures. I
was older and more adventurous, but, I fear, not wiser nor better. A
strange longing for the sea had seized me. I had secretly joined a
ship sailing to the Mediterranean, and was now on my return. But,
alas! I was never to see that happy home again. The avenging bolt of
God had overtaken me. No mother would ever weep above my ashes, no
kind hand would deck the sod with flowers. My doom was to be tossed to
and fro, midway down the depths of ocean, until the trumpet of the
arch-angel should sound.

The night began to close in. Darker and darker the shades of evening
fell around the waste of waters, and the wind, as it went by, seemed
moaning my requiem. Occasionally the lightning threw a ghastly
radiance across the water. I was cold, weary, and half stupefied. My
senses began to desert me. No longer able to buffet against fate as I
had done, I took in each moment larger draughts of the briny element.
In fact I was drowning. Things actual and things visionary--the
present and the past--began to commingle in my brain in a wild
phantasmagoria. Faces of childhood, the sweet faces of my dead
brothers and sisters, looked at me from the sky above; while hideous
ones, the countenances seen in fever-dreams, grinned out from the
spray around. Confused noises, too, were in my ears. There was music
as if from celestial spheres; then notes as if demons laughed in the
gale. Gradually all things, seen or heard, became more and more
indistinct; a dead blank swum before me, leaving only the sensation of
blackness: and then followed utter forgetfulness, the stupor of the
dead--or rather that trance between life and death, when the body is
exhausted but the vital spark not yet fled--that one dread pause
between this world and the next.

I have no recollection of any thing further, until I was partially
roused from my insensibility by a hand being laid on me. The next
instant I was dragged violently through the water, and thrown on my
chest across some sharp substance, which I concluded was the gunwale
of a boat. I fell with such force as to eject from me, as from a
force-pump, the water I had swallowed. The excessive pain roused me to
more complete consciousness. I languidly opened my eyes. I thought I
recognized familiar faces: the doubt was settled immediately by a well
known voice.

"Easy there, Jack--poor fellow! he is almost gone--now, my hearties!"

The words were spoken in the kind tone of the mate. I knew now that I
had been picked up by our ship's boat. She was lying head-on to the
waves, to prevent her being swamped while she took me up. Obeying the
directions of the mate, the men with a second effort lifted me
completely out of the water, and laid me in the stern-sheets of the
boat.

"How do you feel?" asked the mate. "God help us, we were looking for
you in the wrong direction, till, all at once, I remembered you ought
to be to windward, and so at last made you out, a mere speck on the
horizon. We had a hard pull to reach you too! At first I thought we
should be swamped. But here you are safe. And now, lads, give way
lustily."

The crew, at these words, put double strength into their oars, and
away we sped toward the ship. What a sensation of comfort and security
came over me as I felt the planks under me, and heard the waters,
which, cheated of their prey, followed roaring in our wake.

I looked up toward the mate, who, steering with one hand, was covering
me with his jacket with the other. He was doing it, too, as tenderly
as a mother wraps her babe. Oh! how full my heart was. I tried to
raise myself on my elbow and speak.

"Nay! shipmate," he said, placing his hand on my shoulder gently, as
if to press me down, "not a word. You need rest: you were three hours
in the water."

In truth, this little exertion had made me dizzy. I heard his words as
in a dream, and sunk back, while all things seemed to whirl around
me. I closed my eyes, and presently, in a whisper, the mate said--

"He sleeps. I don't think he could have stood it five minutes longer.
Who would have told his mother?"

From this time until I woke in my berth, I lay in a state of profound
insensibility. They have since told me that on reaching the ship they
thought me gone; but that by chafing my limbs, and employing stringent
restoratives they recovered me. I soon after sunk into a refreshing
sleep, and when I woke in the morning was perfectly well, though weak.

It was quite dark, it appears, when we reached the ship, so that if my
discovery had come a few minutes later, it is exceedingly doubtful
whether or not I could have been saved.

Years have passed since then, and I have rehearsed my deliverance a
hundred times, yet I always shudder to recall those terrible hours
when OVERBOARD IN THE GULF.




MY NATIVE ISLE.

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.


    My native isle! my native isle!
      Forever round thy sunny steep
    The low waves curl with sparkling foam
      And solemn murmurs deep;
    While o'er the surging waters blue
      The ceaseless breezes throng,
    And in the grand old woods awake
      An everlasting song.

    The sordid strife and petty cares
      That crowd the city's street,
    The rush, the race, the storm of Life
      Upon thee never meet;
    But quiet and contented hearts
      Their daily tasks fulfill,
    And meet with simple hope and trust
      The coming good or ill.

    The spireless church stands plain and brown
      The winding road beside;
    The green graves rise in silence near,
      With moss-grown tablets wide;
    And early on the Sabbath morn,
      Along the flowery sod,
    Unfettered souls, with humble prayer,
      Go up to worship God.

    And dearer far than sculptured fane
      Is that gray church to me,
    For in its shade my mother sleeps,
      Beneath the willow-tree;
    And often when my heart is raised,
      By sermon and by song,
    Her friendly smile appears to me
      From the seraphic throng.

    The sunset glow, the moon-lit stream
      Part of my being are;
    The fairy flowers that bloom and die,
      The skies so clear and far.
    The stars that circle Night's dark brow,
      The winds and waters free,
    Each with a lesson all its own
      Are monitors to me.

    The systems in their endless march
      Eternal truth proclaim;
    The flowers God's love from day to day
      In gentlest accents name;
    The skies for burdened hearts and faint
      A code of Faith prepare;
    What tempest ever left the heaven
      Without a blue spot there?

    My native isle! my native isle!
      In sunnier climes I've strayed,
    But better love thy pebbled beach
      And lonely forest glade,
    Where low winds stir with fragrant breath
      The purple violet's head,
    And the star-grass in the early spring
      Peeps from the sear leaf's bed.

    I would no more of tears and strife
      Might on thee ever meet,
    But when against the tide of years
      This heart has ceased to beat,
    Where the green weeping willows bend
      I fain would go to rest,
    Where waters lave, and winds may sweep
      Above my peaceful breast.




SONNET.

SUGGESTED BY THE GREAT MOVEMENTS IN EUROPE.

BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.


    To marshal you, oh army of the Poor!
    The spirits of the Past have back returned--
    They who once toiled for you, though crushed and spurned;
    Toiled, that while Truth and Freedom evermore
    Might guard the olive of the lowliest door:
    He, the Great human Type, for whom men yearned,
    And longed in prophecy, for you, who mourned:
    And they, the martyrs, red at every pore:
    The blood-sown Truth of all these mighty dead
    Ye have ingarnered, and the fruit appears
    Nursed unto giant growth to the full days--
    Now, Lebanon is shaken--Isles outspread
    Amid the seas are stirred--they who sowed in tears
    In gladness now the harvest paean raise.




ROCHESTER'S RETURN.

OR THE KING OUTWITTED.

BY JOSEPH A. NUNES.


CHAPTER I.

"We shall see," gentlemen, said King Charles, as he strode with a
hasty step across the apartment, "whether my lord of Rochester's
presence is as essential to the court and to the amusement of the
king, as his vanity induces him to suppose."

"The expression was a thoughtless one," observed the young Count de
Grammont, who was present, "and doubtless not intended for your
majesty's ears."

"Yet it was made, De Grammont," replied the king, "and, by the soul of
St. Paul! he shall be responsible for it. Rochester presumes too much
on our clemency, which he has so often experienced, but which he shall
have no reason to slight again."

"Be merciful, my liege, for the sake of his wit," said the Duke of
Buckingham, with an ill-concealed smile at the king's petulance.

"Better he had none, George," replied the king, "for he knows not how
to use it. Odds-fish! he as essential to Charles as Charles to him! We
have more wits at court, my lords, than Rochester. There's yourself,
Buckingham, and De Grammont, there, and Killegrew, Sedly, and a dozen
others who can make a pigmy of this Goliah!"

"But your majesty will limit the period of his disgrace?" asked De
Grammont, who was sincerely friendly toward the obnoxious earl.

"We will put this limit to it, and none other," replied Charles. "When
Rochester's wit is seductive enough to induce his king, personally, to
wait upon him three several times, or to command his presence at
court, then he may return, and not before; but come, gentleman, we
have other things to attend to this morning without wasting time upon
an ingrate."


CHAPTER II.

The wittiest man at the wittiest court in Europe--that of Charles the
Second of England--was undoubtedly John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester; and
innumerable are the anecdotes that have been related of him in
connection with his friend and sovereign, Charles. Rochester's wit,
however, sometimes resulted in inconvenience to himself, and was
occasionally the means of having him banished from the court. This
circumstance generally occurred at least once a year, and sometimes
oftener, as in seeking amusement for himself and friends, he held
nothing sacred. Persons and things alike shared his satire and his
wit, and even majesty was not always exempt from the shafts he
lavished so freely on all sides.

The dialogue detailed in the last chapter was the result of one of
those indiscretions. He had presented Charles to the court in so very
ridiculous a light, that the monarch became highly incensed, and
banished him from his presence. Rochester, at the time, happened to be
engaged in an intrigue with one of the maids of honor to the Duchess
of York, which made this interruption to his avocations the more
unpleasant than it otherwise would have been. He bore it, however,
with his usual humor, and left the court, declaring that his disgrace
could not be of long duration, as he was quite as indispensable to
Charles as Charles was necessary to him, and that within two months he
would be recalled.

This inconsiderate boast had, as we have seen, been as inconsiderately
repeated to the king, and resulted in the monarch's declaration that
Rochester should not return to court until his wit had induced him,
Charles, either to wait upon him three several times, or to command
his presence.

The Count de Grammont took an early opportunity of communicating this
resolution to his friend, and though he was himself sanguine in his
hopes, and fertile in his invention, he was not a little surprised at
the indifferent, not to say facetious, manner of its reception by
Rochester.

"I accept his majesty's challenge," exclaimed the wit, laughing; "and
by Miss Hobart's wrinkles, and the fair Temple's smiles, I swear, I am
now disposed to say that within a single moon our sacred, sapient king
shall command the presence of his most melancholy subject; ay, and
wait upon him, too."

"Be not too confident, _mon chere ami_" said De Grammont, "for this
time, for a wonder, our Charles is serious, and he must work deeply
and sharply who outwits him."

"But he shall be outwitted, O, most unbelieving of infidels!" cried
Rochester, "if thou wilt only prove true to me."

"Thou hast me as sure as thy blade," replied the count.

"Then within a month," said the earl, "the smiles of Rochester shall
once more illuminate the court; and those who sigh in sadness now
shall confess that the sun shone not during his absence. Do you but
second my projects, and obey my behests, and Charles shall admit that
he is no match for Rochester."

"But whither go you now to banishment?" asked De Grammont, as
Rochester rose to leave him.

"You shall hear from me anon," replied the earl; "I go to make an
actress of my lady's maid, and to study snares for the king."


CHAPTER III.

Rochester left London for a day or two to conceal the traces of his
whereabouts; but disguising himself completely, and assuming the
habit of a simple citizen, he soon returned, and selected an
ostensible residence, where he intended, for the time, to appear in
the character he had adopted.

Chance, in this vagary, had given to Rochester, as a host, a gentleman
and a soldier, who had once been an equal and a companion.

A cavalier officer, and one of the most devoted to his king, Colonel
Boynton, had fought in almost every battle against the troops of the
parliament, and distinguished himself sufficiently in several to
attract the royal notice, and to elicit the commendation of his king.
With the loss of the royal cause, Colonel Boynton retired, wounded
both in person and in fortune, to private life, where, in the society
of his wife and infant daughter, he strove to forget the downfall of
the unfortunate though guilty Charles, and the ruin of his family.

The triumph of the parliamentary cause still further affected
Boynton's fortunes; yet, when some years after he knew that the sons
of his royal master were fugitives in a foreign land, and in pecuniary
distress, he did not hesitate to impoverish himself in order to
minister to their necessities; trusting to Providence and his own
exertions for his immediate wants, and to the re-establishment of the
monarchy and the royal gratitude for his future fortune.

Colonel Boynton had lived to see the son of the First Charles ascend
the throne; but his just expectations, with regard to his own fortune,
had not been realized. Too proud to present himself to the royal
notice to claim the reward of his services, and the return of his
advances, when he thought that gratitude required he should be sought
out, he languished, with his daughter, who had now grown up to be a
beautiful maiden, neglected and unnoticed in a condition not many
degrees removed from absolute want; struggling for the means of
existence, and cherishing each hour increased feelings of bitterness
against the king and the court.

It was with Colonel Boynton that Rochester now took up his abode, nor
was it long before he recognized the heroic soldier of former times;
and wild, reckless and dissipated as Rochester was, he could not help
deeply sympathizing with the condition of Boynton, and determining to
assist in having justice done to him. But from the Colonel himself he
met with an impediment he had not expected; for when, in his assumed
character, (Rochester did not disclose himself,) he suggested the
king's ignorance of his existence and urged him to present himself to
the monarch's notice, the old soldier unhesitatingly and indignantly
refused, alleging proudly, that it was not for him personally to
quicken the king's memory, adding, that if his services could be so
easily forgotten, he was satisfied they should forever remain in
oblivion.

Notwithstanding this unexpected obstinacy the earl resolved to serve
the veteran and his motherless child, and he conceived a plot at the
same time, by which he purposed making the colonel's history
subservient to his design of outwitting the Merry Monarch.


CHAPTER IV.

A fortnight had hardly elapsed since the retirement of Rochester from
court, when the reputation of a German doctor--said to be a wonderful
astrologist--began to be generally noised about. He had located
himself, on his arrival, in an obscure corner of the city of London,
and his practice was at first confined to valets, waiting-maids, and
such like persons; but so astounding and veracious had been his
disclosures to these, that his fame rapidly reached the upper circles,
and aroused the curiosity of the lords and ladies of the court. No
sooner had he obtained this run of custom than he became a made man,
with every prospect of a speedy fortune before him; for the displays
of his art, with which he had petrified his more humble patrons,
carried no less astonishment amongst the more fashionable ones, who at
first affected to disbelieve in it, and who originally sought only to
while away the tedium of an idle hour by laughing at the grossness of
his impositions. But he had overwhelmed them with consternation by his
knowledge, and his information of the intrigues with which they were
all more or less connected; he covered them with confusion for
themselves, at the same time that they could not withhold their
admiration of his skill. He was quickly esteemed a wonderful man, to
whom all hidden things were open, and who could decipher the pages of
the past and future as readily as he could read the events which were
transpiring around him.

Now to pretend that any supernatural powers had been displayed by the
learned astrologer, Doctor Herman Von Lieber, (for that was the name
under which this tenth wonder suffered himself to be known,) would,
perhaps, be going too far; though it was certain that he possessed a
knowledge of persons, and of the history of individuals who sought
him, that was really startling; and if we consider that the
development of personal matters of scandal, which we thought confined
to our own breasts, is more apt to astound us than effects which are
positively inexplicable and beyond the reach of human ken, we will not
be surprised at the celebrity which our astrologer suddenly acquired.

All the court was in commotion at his disclosures, and the royal
curiosity had been excited.

Late one afternoon the Chevalier de Grammont proposed to the king the
idea of disguising themselves and paying a visit to the astrologer,
who had created so great a sensation; and the monarch, who was anxious
that the time until evening--when he, with the chevalier, had a new
adventure to inspire them--should pass rapidly away, consented readily
to the suggestion.

At the residence of the astrologer they found all the arrangements of
the most singular character. They were met at the door by a couple of
Ethiopeans, fantastically dressed, who conducted them, without
question, through a suit of dim-looking apartments to one which would
have been quite dark, had its gloom not been relieved by a few small
antique lamps, whose light barely sufficed to disclose the necromantic
arrangements of the room and the untranslatable hieroglyphics around.

After bidding them be seated, one of the blacks approached a
strange-looking table, and rang a small silver bell, then lighting
another lamp, which in burning dispersed an aroma through the room,
he, with his companion, left our adventurers to themselves.

"Odds-fish, De Grammont," exclaimed the king, as the door closed, "the
sorcerer knows enough of human nature to commence his tricks by
astonishing the outward senses, thereby rendering the conquest of the
intellectual man the more simple."

"This looks necromancy, certainly;" replied De Grammont, "but let us
see further before we confess ourselves bewitched, even by so great an
adept."

At this moment a door at the further end of the apartment opened, and
a tall, stately, venerable looking man entered. His dress was almost
grotesque, but there was a certain dignity about it which redeemed it
from being entirely so. It was surmounted by a magnificent robe
trimmed with sables and decorated with a variety of unknown orders.
Upon his head he wore a richly wrought velvet cap, from beneath which
his long silvery hair escaped and reached quite down to his shoulders.

"Men seek me," said the astrologer, (for it was him) "but for two
purposes: either to have the past rehearsed to them, or to lift the
veil of time and unravel the mysteries of the future. For which of
these do you come?"

"Most learned doctor," said Charles, smiling at his companion, "we
come for both purposes; but more especially are we here to test that
wisdom, the reputation of which has reached the four corners of the
earth and filled the most profound with wonder."

"You sneer, my son," observed the doctor, gravely, "but nevertheless
your wishes shall be gratified, for even a skeptic may be made a
believer. Shall I expound the past to you?"

"First enlighten my incredulous companion as to his fate," replied
Charles, "and then I will judge how far you can speak of mine."

"Give me the hour of your birth," said the doctor, turning to De
Grammont, "and I will consult the stars in reference to your fortune."

De Grammont did as he was desired, and the astrologer left the
apartment. In a few moments he returned.

"You are not what you seem!" he said, seating himself, and addressing
De Grammont.

"Pray heaven you prove me no worse," replied De Grammont, laughing; "I
am a thriving merchant, though I would fain be a lord or a duke."

"The merchandise you deal in," said the astrologer, "is to be found in
the mart of fashion, where frailty, unrebuked, boldly lifts its head
by the side of innocence, making the latter undistinguishable Thou
hast naught to do with those wares that make a nation's commerce."

De Grammont laughed as he asked him of his parentage and past
fortune.

"You are nobly derived," replied the astrologer: "you have been the
companion of kings."

"Tut, tut!" exclaimed Charles, "thy art discloses naught. Thou wilt
surely make me an emperor if my friend is already the companion of
kings."

After a few more questions, which were as shrewdly answered by the
adept, it became the disguised monarch's turn to learn his fate.

"Yours has been a checkered life," the doctor said, when he had, as
before, consulted the stars. "The planets show that you have been
beset by as many and as great vicissitudes even as the monarch now
seated upon England's throne, and that thou hast profited as little by
them."

Charles exchanged a smile with De Grammont, as he said--

"I thought you had a throne reserved for me, though I fear me 'tis in
the moon it must be fixed. Prove but your words, however, and thou
shalt be my chief favorite."

"That," replied the astrologer, "is too precarious a place for me.
They say that Rochester is banished from King Charles's court, and
what hope could I have of pleasing if he could be dispensed with?
Nevertheless, I'll prove my words."

"Tell me, then, of the present," said Charles.

"I'll tell you of a war, and a concluded treaty of peace, that the
world knows not yet of."

"With what nation, most sapient sir?" asked the monarch, laughing.

"With a woman!" replied the doctor. "There is one, who this morning
was styled a countess, and, as such, waged war against you; the
preliminaries of peace have been signed, and she is now the Duchess of
Cleveland, for which concession she has consented to abjure the
society of St. Albans' nephew, Jermyn, and to meddle no more with his
Majesty's passion for the pretty Stewart!"

"Thou dealest with the devil!" exclaimed the monarch, startled into an
awkward admission.

"_I deal with the stars_," replied the doctor, gravely, "_and they are
unerring guides_."

"Let them speak of the future, then, and perchance I may think so."

"There is a bird a monarch seeks to cage, though the trembler knows
him not. This night he hies to her bower in a strange habit, and hopes
to win her thence; but let him take heed that more eyes look not on
him than the young bird's; she may escape, and he be unmasked."

"Odds my life! my friend, I think thou knowest me," cried Charles,
laughing, as he drew a purse from his belt.

"The stars proclaim thee England's king," replied the astrologer, as
he bent his knee to the monarch.

Charles satisfied himself by asking a few more questions, then threw
the doctor his purse, and, bidding him come to the palace to receive
another, he departed.

The doctor reseated himself, and taking off his cap and venerable wig
he disclosed the now easily recognized features of the Earl of
Rochester.

Rochester indulged in a hearty fit of laughter, as he muttered to
himself,--"Already you have been outwitted once, friend Charles,
thanks to De Grammont's aid, and shall be thrice, or Rochester will
confess himself a fool, and unworthy to be recalled."


CHAPTER V.

When Rochester casually stopped, an hour after the king's visit, at
the humble residence of Colonel Boynton, he was surprised to find much
confusion there. Two rough-looking strangers seemed to have taken
possession of the apartment usually occupied by the veteran. The
unfortunate old man stood passive, cold, and immoveable, while his
pretty daughter Margaret hung round his neck, weeping bitterly, and
pleading alternately with him and with the strangers, who--the
instruments of a flinty-hearted creditor--seemed quite unmoved by her
touching sorrow.

"What is this, my good friend?" asked Rochester, taking the colonel by
the hand.

"'Tis nothing," he replied, with a quivering lip, as he turned his
gaze upon his daughter; "I have been deficient in punctuality to an
impatient creditor, and he thinks the discipline of a prison may
quicken my memory and resources."

"Out upon him, the hard-hearted knave!" exclaimed Rochester, "he
should have his ears slit to teach him better manners."

"Oh, sir, speak to them!" cried Margaret, pointing to the officers;
"they refuse to let me bear my poor father company."

Rochester took the commitment from one of the men, and glancing at the
amount of the debt, proceeded at once to liquidate it from the king's
purse.

"Hold, sir!" said Boynton, interposing. "I thank you from my soul for
your intentions, but I cannot consent to receive charity from mortal
man."

"I had no thought of charity, my excellent friend," said Rochester;
"'tis only to exchange places with your creditor that I intend, and
shall, at your earliest convenience, expect payment at your
hands.--Think," he added in a lower tone, "of this fair girl, and
leave not her youth and inexperience exposed to the temptations and
corruptions by which she would be surrounded in your absence."

This argument was too powerful to be resisted. The gallant old colonel
shook his friend's offered hand, as he suffered him to pay the debt,
and dismiss the myrmidons of the law.

"I say it is no obligation," Rochester observed, in reply to the
veteran's reiterated acknowledgments; "fortune has smiles in store for
you yet, nor will they be withheld much longer. I must leave you now,
though," he said, smiling at a passing idea, "for I have this night to
superintend the planetary influences, in order to prevent the
prognostications of the stars from failing."

The colonel looked after him as he departed, but without comprehending
a word of his astrological remarks.


CHAPTER VI.

In a house remote from the one in which King Charles experienced his
last adventure with the pretended astrologer, he sat again, disguised
in the undress uniform of a naval officer, with his arm encircling the
neat waist of a remarkably pretty girl.

She affected to allow this liberty reluctantly, yet there was that in
her large black eyes and mischief-loving countenance which
contradicted the attempted coyness she at first evinced.

"So, they call thee Margaret?" said the king, as he leaned his face
against her curls.

"Yes, Master Stuart."

"And thou art poor, Margaret?"

"Alas! yes," she replied, "my father was once a royalist officer, and
rich; but the civil wars and his sacrifices for his king left him
penniless and friendless."

"It has been the fate of many besides him," the monarch observed.
"Those same wars were, at one time, the ruin of my own family. But
thou, Margaret, shalt be poor no longer. Thou shalt leave this home of
penury with me, and I will make thee rich."

"Nay, sir," she said, as he attempted to kiss her, "be not so tender
with your kindness. I fear already thy sympathy and its motive."

"Fear nothing from me, pretty one," said Charles, clasping her closely
to him.

"Why are we here alone?" she asked, seeming to realize, and be
startled at the idea, for the first time; "where is the friend who
introduced you--where is Master Granby?"

"He will be here anon, pretty Margaret," replied the king, "his own
affairs have called him hence for a time. Heed him not, though, my
sweet trembler, my Peri of perfection, my Houri of Paradise! thou art
safe with me, and with me thou shalt hie away to regions where love
will smile upon thee, and gold will pour in perpetual showers in thy
lap."

The monarch became so inexpressibly tender that the maiden, in her own
defence, was compelled to scream. After a moment's lapse an
approaching step upon the stairs warned the precipitate lover to defer
the prosecution of his suit to a more auspicious occasion. He hastened
to the door, but, to his astonishment, found it fastened, and on
trying the window, that, too, had been externally cared for.

"De Grammont has betrayed me!" he exclaimed, as he drew a concealed
pistol from his belt and prepared to confront the coming danger.

His apprehensions, were, however, groundless, for the only person who
entered the room was a tall, athletic looking old woman, in her night
dress, wearing a remarkably heavy pair of shoes. She placed her candle
upon the table and walked deliberately up to where the young girl was
sitting. Seeing her she started back in astonishment.

"Are you here, Margaret?" she exclaimed; "beshrew me, I thought thee
asleep two good hours ago, instead of throwing thy company away upon a
young man, and a stranger. Away with you, mistress, to your bed! You
are unworthy to be called your father's daughter."

"Nay, good dame, be not so hard with pretty Margaret," said Charles,
as he saw the young girl leaving the room with her handkerchief to her
eyes.

"Out upon thee, sirrah, for a knave!" retorted the old woman; "I'll
see directly who thou art, sir jack-a-napes. To thy chamber, Miss, and
thank Heaven for thy father's misfortune, which prevented his being
here this night."

When the girl had gone, she took up the light, and approaching the
king, scrutinized him closely from head to foot.

"Well, mother," he said, as he suffered her to proceed with the
examination, "find you aught here to fear?"

She was gazing at the moment at his face, and she started back as she
spoke.

"Much, much to fear!" she replied, "for I see here the features of a
king! When we find the wolf in the sheepfold we may slay him, but who
dare approach the 'lion!'

The king was filled with amazement at being recognised; but without
suffering his surprise to be evident, he endeavored to ridicule the
assertion.

"True, dame," he remarked, "they call me the king of good fellows; but
as for a lion, the comparison is somewhat strained; it would be more
apt with a longer-eared animal, for suffering myself to be trapped
thus sillily."

The old woman seized his hand, and after pointing to the royal signet,
dropped it.

"Charles Stuart, King of England, thou canst not deceive me!"

"Faith," said the king, laughing, "methinks this is another astrologer
in petticoats!"

"And is it to his king," exclaimed the old woman, reproachfully, "that
the unfortunate Colonel Boynton is indebted for a base attempt upon
his daughter's honor, at the very moment when he himself is the tenant
of a prison for having, by his loyalty, impoverished himself! Is this
the reward for the blood he has shed, and the honorable wounds he has
received in fighting your battles, and for hastening to offer you his
last penny in a foreign land, even when his own family was persecuted
and destitute at home!"

"Colonel Boynton!" cried Charles, as the old woman concluded; "surely
not the brave Boynton who served so nobly at Edge Hill, Naseby, and
Worcester, and who came to relieve his royal master's wants when he
was a wanderer and an outcast among strangers? This cannot be his
child, nor can he be living. They told me years since, when I caused
inquiry to be made for him, that he was dead."

"He knew not that his king had ever sought for him," the old woman
said; "he thought his services and his sacrifices in the past had been
willfully forgotten, and his proud spirit scorned to thrust unpleasant
recollections upon you."

"Poor Boynton! poor Boynton!" exclaimed Charles, "this has, indeed,
been ingratitude to one of the most deserving and faithful of my
subjects. Said you, my good woman, that he is now in a prison, and
for debt?"

"Ay, my good lord."

"There, there!" said Charles, hastily handing her a weighty purse,
"see that he is relieved at once--this night, if it be possible--and
bid him in the morning wait upon his king, whose greatest regret is
that he has not met with him sooner."

"Will your majesty _write_ your request for him to come to the palace?
he may be somewhat skeptical of your royal solicitude."

"Assuredly," replied the king, as he took up a pen from the table and
drew a sheet of paper toward him; "and do you also bear him company."

"Add, then, if your majesty pleases, that you desire the _bearer_ also
to appear."

The king looked at her an instant, then did as she suggested.

"And now, dame," said he, "relieve me from my durance, and allow me to
depart."

She hastily unfastened the door, and the king passed out. "Be sure,"
said he, as he lingered a moment at the threshold, "that you bring my
pretty Margaret with you; her fortunes, too, must be advanced at
court."

The old woman, after carefully fastening the door, threw herself into
a chair, and gave vent to a hearty burst of laughter.

"There, Nancy, you can come down," exclaimed the familiar voice of
Rochester, as the figure of the quondam Margaret appeared again upon
the stairs. "Thou art a good girl, and I will make thee a capital
actress yet. Old Rowley has again been outwitted!"


CHAPTER VII.

The next morning three strangers--two old men and a young girl--were
admitted to the palace of Whitehall, on showing the king's order to
that effect, but only one of the men was immediately conducted to the
king's presence.

The Count de Grammont, (who had made his peace for his seeming
desertion of the previous evening,) Lord Arlington, and Sir Charles
Sedly, were with the king when Colonel Boynton was announced.

The old man knelt at the monarch's feet, and taking his hand, kissed
it fervently.

"Rise, my gallant old friend, rise!" said Charles, assisting him as he
spoke; "it gives us joy to see one so faithful, and so long neglected,
once more near our person. Our greatest grief is that so tried a
servant, and so brave an officer as Colonel Boynton should have been
in adversity and we not know even of his existence; but you shall be
cared for, my old friend, and the future shall prove to you that
Charles knows how to be grateful to those who have served him when he
most needed services."

"Your majesty is over bountiful to one who wronged you by supposing
you capable of injustice. For this I crave your royal pardon, and also
for another and more heinous offence."

"Thou hast it," replied the king, "even if the offence be treason
against ourself."

"It is the offence of having imposed upon my sovereign," exclaimed a
voice that made the king start, while Rochester, ridding himself of
his disguise, knelt before him.

"By my life, it is Rochester!" cried the king, starting back from the
prostrate earl, while every one present, except De Grammont, was
filled with amazement at the sudden transformation of Colonel Boynton.

Charles was at first disposed to laugh, but recollecting his outraged
dignity, he restrained himself, and addressed his banished courtier in
terms of considerable severity.

"This presumption, my Lord Rochester," said he, "ill becomes you; nor
can the insult to your king be easily atoned for."

"Pardon me, my liege--" Rochester commenced.

"By what authority," said the king, interrupting him, "have you
ventured to intrude yourself upon our presence, contrary to our
express commands?"

"Simply by this, my gracious liege," replied the earl, handing the
paper he had received the previous evening, and pointing to the word
_bearer_.

"That, sir, was given to another, and a worthier person than the Earl
of Rochester."

"I might, your majesty," said Rochester, lowering his voice, and
approaching nearer to the king, "defend myself from the insinuation,
but I am prevented by a powerful reason, for, when we find the wolf in
the sheepfold, we may slay him, but who dare approach the lion."

Charles was astonished at hearing the old woman's words repeated, but
the fear of his own exposure somewhat mollified his anger.

"So, then, thou wert thyself in masquerade?" he said; "and with whom
hast thou dealt to put this cheat upon me."

"I deal with the stars," replied the earl, assuming as nearly as
possible the tone of the astrologer, "and they are unerring guides."

"Odd-fish, my lord," exclaimed Charles, now laughing heartily, "and
were you the necromancer, too?"

"And Colonel Boynton, too, my liege; and all for the purpose of
inducing your majesty to keep your royal word, which said, 'When
Rochester's wit is seductive enough to induce his king, personally, to
wait upon him three several times, or to command his presence at
court, then he may return.'"

"I think, my lords, I have been fairly caught," said the king,
smiling, and speaking to those around him, "and to keep my word
inviolate, must permit Rochester's return."

"To prove that I am not ungrateful for your majesty's goodness,"
observed the earl, "I am prepared to produce the objects of your
solicitude--Colonel Boynton and his fair daughter--they wait your
royal pleasure."

On the introduction of the venerable colonel and the pretty Margaret,
the king whispered to Rochester, "Surely, my lord, this is not the
girl I saw last night?"

"No, your majesty," replied the earl, "she was a pupil of my own."

Charles, in a few words, satisfied Colonel Boynton that the neglect of
his faithful services had been owing entirely to misapprehension. He
gave him at once a position which secured him against future reverses;
nor was it long before his interesting daughter found a husband worthy
of her choice.

Rochester's Protean exploits afforded amusement to the court for some
time. Charles bore the raillery he heard around him philosophically,
and good humoredly admitted that he had been completely outwitted.




LOVE THY MOTHER, LITTLE ONE.

BY RICHARD COE, JR.


    Love thy mother, little one,
        Love her tenderly;
    Clasp thy little arms around her,
    For a holy tie hath bound her--
        Bound her close to thee!
    Love thy mother, little one,
        Love her tenderly!

    Love thy mother, little one,
        Love her earnestly;
    Gaze into her eyes, and see there--
    All that thou couldst hope to be there--
        Warmest love for thee!
    Love thy mother, little one,
        Love her earnestly!

    Love thy mother, little one,
        Love her fervently;
    By thy couch she kneeleth nightly,
    And, with hands enclasped tightly,
        Prayeth, love, for thee!
    Love thy mother, little one,
        Love her fervently!

    Love thy mother, little one,
        Love her tenderly;
    Clasp thy little arms around her,
    For a holy tie hath bound her--
        Bound her close to thee!
    Love thy mother, little one,
        Love her tenderly!




THE EARLY CALLED.

A SKETCH.

BY MRS. FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON.


    And were not these high words to flow
      From woman's breaking heart?
    Through all that night of bitterest wo
      She bore her lofty part;
    But, oh! with such a glazing eye,
      With such a curdling cheek--
    Love, love! of mortal agony
      Thou--only thou shouldst speak.

                                        MRS. HEMANS.


    As their hearts--their way was one,
    And cannot be divided.

                                        JOANNA BAILLIE.


A child of seven summers reclined upon a couch. Suffering and disease
had so enfeebled his naturally fragile frame, that his thin hand could
scarcely sustain a bunch of roses, which his young sister Lillias had
culled for him, from his own rose-tree; the tree that it had been his
joy and pride to attend to, when in health. He hard marked, delighted,
the first green leaf that in the spring-time burst from its wintry
repose, and very joyously he clapped his little hands when a streak of
crimson peered out from the first bud. He dreamed not, amid his
happiness, that the Angel of Death should steal around him before its
bright hue faded, nor that others should bud and blossom--to wither
upon his grave. Even thus it was.

Willie M---- was a child of unusual feeling and sensibility, his young
face often shadowing forth strange, sad feelings--feelings that seldom
exist, save in the heart of maturer years. I have seen him gaze upward
to the bright blue sky with delight, as though his childish ken could
pierce the clouds, and commune with the intelligences of Heaven; and a
flower--a murmuring rill--a boundless flow of water--silvery
stars--and gentle winds--failed not to arouse enthusiastic emotions in
his young heart, at which many marveled. "None knew him but to love
him," and in his walks with "dear papa, sweet mamma, and darling
Lillias," many an eye followed him with blessings. "Ah," said an aged
one, whom he had cheered with sunny smiles and artless conversation,
"few will be the years of Willie M----; he is one of God's angels lent
to earth!" and her tears fell at the prophetic thought that even she
would live to see his winsome wee face hid beneath the coffin's lid.

    *    *    *    *    *

A group of young children stood around his bed, gazing with fearful
wonder on the change that had been wrought in their loved playmate. He
had begged of his mamma to send for them, that he might see them once
more; and his large, spiritual eye had looked its welcome on each of
that little band. Once he had hunted with them the early violet in the
glade and dingle; once the echoes of his voice rang merrily out as
they bounded over the greensward in chase of the bright, illusive
butterfly--and his heart grew sad as he felt that he should be with
them no more. A little hand was laid caressingly upon his head--it
was Gary Lincoln, and as he turned around to look upon her he saw that
her eyes were full of tears. "Why do you cry, Gary?" said he. "Because
mamma says that you are going away to Heaven," she replied, "and I
cannot bear to think of it--don't go, Willie, don't go!" and the tears
streamed down her young face like rain. It was her first sorrow.

Willie spoke not, but a grieved, yet tender expression rested on his
countenance, and his mamma, taking a hand of each within her own, told
her that if she were good, if they all were good children, they should
go to Willie--although he might not stay with them. She told them of
the glorious home to which he was hastening--how happy he would
be--never to suffer more--of the white robe--the starry crown and the
tiny golden harp that should be his--and how he would be their
guardian angel, through day and hush of night, and how joyfully he
would welcome each one to his happy home.

That mother's heart was bursting, and yet her absorbing love for her
child nerved her to this, and as she told of that clime where "the
soul wears its mantle of glory," the little sufferer's eye grew so
intensely bright that it seemed unearthly. Visions of Heaven seemed
opened to his view, and with a face radiant with delight he clasped
his hands, and said, "Dear mamma, let me go now." "We must wait, my
child, till God sends his angels for you." "Yes," he murmured, "till
the angels come," and sunk exhausted into a slumber. Slowly and
quietly the children departed--and when next they looked upon him he
was shrouded for the grave. In a few moments he awoke, and as he
missed the little faces that had been around him, a sad look rested
for a moment upon his face--but in an instant, as his eye rested on
his young sister, he smiled feebly, and exclaimed--"_They_ are all
gone--yet my sweet Lillias is with me still."

That night the angels kept vigil around his couch, and ere morn arose
upon the earth the unsullied spirit was wafted to its native Heaven.
Never--never can _that_ night of Death be effaced from the tablets of
memory--marked as it was by such holy, heavenly heroism on the part
of that fond and devoted mother. Burning tears were on the father's
cheek, and the young Lillias had sobbed herself into a feverish
slumber, but until life was over _the mother_ sat by the side of her
child, breathing sweet, low whispers of the Better Land, so soon to be
his home. She faltered not, and although her heart seemed consuming
itself, she would still trace, with an eye of faith, new rays of
comfort for the dying one. She could not bear to think that his
childish heart should shrink from the grave--nor think of it--invested
as it is so often--with dread and gloom. Thus she sustained him to the
very portals of Heaven, until he needed earthly consolation no more,
until the sheltering arms of Him received him, who hath said--"Suffer
little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is
the kingdom of Heaven." As peacefully as a child sinks to rest on a
mother's bosom, sunk he into Death's embrace.

The agony of the hour, when it is said of a beloved one, "he is dead,"
has never--nor can it be justly portrayed. Then it is that Hope plumes
her wing and soars afar--then it is the even, the clear eye of Faith
seems dimmed. When the truth burst upon the mother's heart that her
child was no more--when she felt that her grief had now no power to
afflict the childish heart that had idolized her--then did the pent up
torrents of agony rush forth, crushing every barrier, and threatening
to overwhelm her soul in their mighty depth. Yet was she
comforted--the glorious imaginings that she had so faithfully and
forcibly portrayed to the dying one had fastened upon her soul--and
when the first wild burst of grief was over, she turned from the
coffined face to the upper world, as though she would say, "not
here--but there."

    *    *    *    *    *

Once more a childish group gathered around Willie M----. His eye
smiled no welcome, his hand returned no pressure, but as he lay
enshrouded in the garments of the grave, methought he was even more
lovely than when his face was glowing with life. A smile still
wreathed the parted lips, as though the happy spirit had returned to
the tenement of clay, breathing of the blessedness of its glorious
home. Each imprinted a kiss on the placid brow, and as the icy chill
of death met their lips, so full of life and warmth, the reality of
their loss was felt by all. Gary Lincoln lingered until she placed
within those little hands a cluster of white rose-buds--"Flowers, pale
flowers"--they were love's last gift.

Now came the hopeless anguish of the last look--the suspension of
almost life, as the dear remains are lowered to their
resting-place--and, worse than all, the hollow, maddening sound of the
falling earth upon the coffin, sealing the doom of the bereaved,
making complete their misery. They laid him to rest amid the bloom and
shade of Mount Auburn, and his grave is a shrine around which those
who loved him come, bringing ever with them the offering of gentle
thoughts and pleasant memories of him who sleeps below. Little hands
deck it with garlands, and sweet Cary Lincoln has placed a tuft of
early violets above the sacred spot--for, said she, "Willie loved
violets so well."

For months after his death, during the "long bright summer hours," a
child was seen almost daily to visit his grave, lingering when all had
gone. It was Lillias--and I thought if the departed spirit were
hovering near, how often it would echo those words, "_They_ are all
gone, yet _thou_, my sweet Lillias, art with me still."

One year had elapsed, and a funeral train wound again through Mount
Auburn, pausing at the grave of Willie. Lillias was no more. She
ceased not to mourn for her brother, and during her last illness she
spoke of little, save that she should find him in heaven. Once more
that angel-mother sat by a dying child, breathing words of holy hope
and trust, and her eye grew bright, and her heart was warm, as she
spoke of a joyful reunion in heaven.

"Mamma," said the child, "we will keep a place for you and dear papa,
and will you come soon?"

Years have since passed, but often at the holy twilight hour those
gentle children are with me still; and when my rapt soul pierces the
azure vault, I seem to see Willie in angel robes, and listen,
entranced, to the tones of spirit-melody from his tiny golden harp--a
form as radiant as his own is ever near him, and I fancy, as I mark
the delighted look that ever greets a seraph strain from the beloved
lips, that I hear in sweet tones, "_thou, my sweet Lilias, art with me
still_."




THE CHRISTIAN HERO'S EPITAPH.


    Say, doth the sculptor's ready tool engrave
    A _mournful_ stanza o'er a _conqueror's_ grave?
    Or bid the willow bend, or cypress twine?
    Or doleful tokens to his fame combine?

    Then trace no saddening sentence o'er the place
    Where rests the victor in a heavenward race;
    Meeter the laurel and the trumpet-strain
    For one who fought a fadeless crown to gain!

    Bring the memorials of a warrior true,
    The "sword," the "helmet," and the "breast-plate" too;
    Write on the marble that by _these_ he won,
    And bid the gazer do as he hath done!

    Write of his faith; how humble, yet how bright,
    Diffusing round a clear and heavenly light;
    Write of his zeal; how quenchlessly it burned,
    How many a wanderer to the skies it turned!

    And, mourner, when thou comest with a tear,
    Love's costless tribute to remembrance dear,
    Bend there thy trembling knee upon the sod,
    And lift thy homage to the conqueror's God!




THE LADY OF FERNHEATH.

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.


CHAPTER I.

ISOLETH.

How shall I describe her? Who ever described the sun, or one of the
glorious stars, or the white, witching moon; or who, even the least
and simplest of the exquisitely, perfectly fashioned wild-flowers,
that grow upon the humblest road-side? If these are indescribable, how
much more so, in its highest perfection, is the most beautiful, most
perfect of all God's beautiful, perfect creations--woman? Who ever
depicted her one half as lovely and loving as she is? Who ever, amid
all the wild, rapturous praise that has been so profusely lavished
upon her, said one half that is her due for her truth and gentleness
and beauty, her untiring devotion, her unwearying patience, her ever
unselfish forgetfulness of self, her--,but what has been so many times
vainly attempted, _I_ cannot accomplish. How, then, shall I describe
thee, beautiful Isoleth? Loveliest, lovingest, glowing, glorious Lady
Isoleth! Bright Lady Isoleth!--wild as a hawk, and beautiful as Love.
Thy every motion was grace, thine every look was truth. Bewitching
little Isoleth! Her form was as lithe and flexible as a willow bough,
and light and graceful as a young fawn's. Her queenly little head sat
most proudly upon the daintiest, softest, whitest neck and bosom you
ever saw. Two deep wells of light and love were her eyes, revealing
every feeling of her beautiful soul. When she was sad, they looked
out, half shut, through their long shining lashes, dewy, dark and
tender; and when her mood grew merry, they danced in very joy. None
yet agreed on their color. One would have sworn they were the softest,
warmest brown--he saw them only when they were looking love, and he
was--but of him anon. Another would have told you they were pure,
clear blue--but he was the Lady Isoleth's confessor, with her when her
thoughts dwelt upon things holy. By turns were they violet and gray,
and all imaginable colors, in fact, except, indeed, green, or any
other such unrighteous shade that eyes sometimes take upon themselves.
Then her little, ripe, tempting mouth--ah! was it not just the mouth
one loves to kiss? small, dimpled, with soft, rose-red lips; and
tremulous ever--trembling with the love and gladness that filled her
young heart. Most beautiful was the Lady Isoleth of Fernheath.


CHAPTER II.

THE BIRTH-DAY.

"My lady!" exclaimed a bustling, good-natured little old body,
entering the room, which Wilhelm Gottfried, Baron of Arnhiem--the Lady
Isoleth's uncle and guardian--ever pleased himself with calling the
Lady Isoleth's menagerie, because, forsooth, the little lady delighted
herself with feeding and taming countless birds that had been brought
from all the known quarters of the globe. "My lady," spoke she, "do
you know that this is your ladyship's birth-day, that you this day
have arrived at an age which behooves you to put away childish things,
and take upon yourself the cares that belong--"

"You wise, dear little nurse! don't put on so much of the awful; don't
talk of care, you make me shiver at the bare idea.


    "Where the bee sucks, there lurk I:
    In the cowslip's bell I lie,
    There I couch when owls do cry,
    On the bat's back do I fly,
    After summer merrily,
    Merrily, merrily!"


And thus merrily sung the little airy Ariel, dancing around the room,
scarce touching the floor as she sung.

"Bless her light, little, happy heart! What a sin that love must come,
and with love, the self-loving, proud husband, that will bend that
bright will to his own; and then old age, and care, sure enough, and
wrinkles--and then that light, fairy-bounding step will be slow and
leaden, and that--alas! alas! that such perfect beauty--!"

"What is that you are muttering about, nursey dear? You must not let
me see one sad look to-day, for am I not this day sixteen--bright,
merry sixteen!"

"Yes, my dear lady, sixteen to-day--sixteen to-day;" and the little
dame, recovered from her momentary sadness, gave her lady a
mysterious, quizzical look, as she once more repeated, "sixteen
to-day!"

"Well, dear nurse, what would you have me do, or what shall I leave
off from doing, now that I have grown so exceedingly old?" asked
Isoleth, smiling that precious smile of hers--ten thousand dimples
danced around it--ten thousand loves nestled in each dimple.

"Sixteen to-day!" replied the queer little old body, with what she
meant for a very significant look. "Your guardian, the noble Baron of
Arnhiem, comes this day--"

"As he does every year to see me, dear nurse, staying several weeks,
sometimes months, with me."

"He comes not alone this year, my sweet lady," added the little woman,
looking still more significantly.

"I suppose we shall have my dear prim old maiden aunt of Hansfeldt,
with her snuff and lap-dogs, or is it my dear, sweet, beautiful
cousins Blumine and Alida? Tell me, nursey, if they are coming. You
shake your head. I guess, then, my proud uncle and aunt of Allwrath,
and my aristocratic cousins, their haughty sons and daughters?"

"None of them, sweet lady--that is, just yet."

"My beautiful, loving-cousin, Alice of Bernstorf, who has been living
these six years alone and lonely in her castle with only her younger
son and daughters. Is she or any of hers coming here again? And when
will my cousins of Bernstorf return from those hideous wars? I have
not seen them for so many years I should not know them."

"Now, dear lady, you are approaching nearer the fire, as the children
say in the play."

"You dear, queer little old nurse, don't look so mystical and
mystified, my circle of acquaintance, by reason of my father's will,
is not so very extensive but that the roll might soon be gone through
with. Come, unfold thy important, mysterious budget--who is it?"

"Who should it be, dear lady, but your noble cousin, Ferdinand, Prince
of Bernstorf! My lady, there is a clause in your father's will, that
you were not to know until your sixteenth birth-day, revealing a
compact between your noble father and your Cousin Ferdinand, the
reigning Duke of Bernstorf, that gave you as bride to your cousin,
Prince Ferdinand Of Bernstorf. There, now, my lady, 'tis out. The
secret has half-choked me these twelve years."

"Very kind and considerate in my father; but his child does not choose
to become the bride of any one just yet, least of all of one old
enough to be her grandfather."

"Old!" exclaimed the dame, throwing back her hands in amazement, "Old!
why, my dear lady, he is a mere boy; he will be but twenty-eight--"

"Twenty-eight! and I sixteen! why they would have me marry my
grandfather." And the little lady threw back her head, and with it its
world of soft brown curls, and laughed in very glee.

"He will be but twenty-eight, two--no, three days after this coming
Christmas. But, dear lady, do leave these screaming, noisy jack-daws
and mackdaws, and come and let me dress you in the beautiful new
court-dress your guardian sent you this morning."

"You naughty nurse! to abuse my beautiful birds. I have only one
jack-daw, and these are my pretty West Indian macaws, _not_ mackdaws,
wise nursey. And those are my bright-eyed canaries, and that is--but
you will not remember their names, although I have told them to you so
often."

"I see some are blue, and some bright red, and I know that little
Jenny, who helps you take care of them, loves them as well as you do.
But will you not come now and try on your splendid dress? I would have
you look your best and prettiest when your cousin comes."

"I know I shall not like him, and if I do not, my guardian will not
force me to marry him."

"But your father's will--"

"I will not think of that now, nor will I dress, dear nursey. I will
go ride my pony, and gather some of those wild-flowers my guardian
loves so well." And away flew the bright, happy little maiden; she
herself, of all the glad, sweet wild-flowers that grew among the
shades of Fernheath, the gladdest, sweetest, merriest and wildest;
and the one of all the rest her guardian uncle loved the best.

Little Dame Hildreth, while she flew about preparing for the reception
of Baron Arnhiem and the prince, could not help sadly bemoaning the
strange perversity of her young lady, in preferring birds and
wild-flowers and ponies to court-dresses and husbands.

The Lady Isoleth soon forgot that she had arrived at the advanced age
of sixteen, and that she had to put away childish things, and all
about her father's will, and the awful prince. She rode her pony
through the wood down to the sea; then ran a race with him upon the
beach--the pony playfully allowing his mistress to win. She climbed
the highest rocks in search of wild-flowers, and wove the sweet
flowers into garlands; at length, recollecting how long she had been
gone from home, she mounted her pony and galloped on toward the
castle, her head wreathed with holly, and her arms full of flowers. As
she entered the avenue there stood her impatient nurse awaiting her.

"My dear, darling young lady, what an age you have been away. We have
all been watching--"

"Has he come?"

"Who, the prince?"

"My dear uncle--has he come?"

"Yes, my dearest lady. They both came, Prince Ferdinand and your
guardian, soon after you left, and have been here for three long
mortal hours waiting for you very anxiously. The prince looks very
noble and handsome, and is dressed most magnificently. You must not be
disappointed though, dearest lady, for he is somewhat changed."

"Changed! How changed, dear nurse? I have not seen him these six or
seven years, ever since, you remember the time, he and my cousin duke,
his father, with so many others, went to fight those horrid Turks."

"He looks older, much older than he did--that, though, must be--yes,
it must be on account--"

"Older! why you simple, queer little nurse, he _is_ older. Why should
he not look--I expect to see him look half as old as Methuselah at
least. How shockingly old one must feel if they live to be
twenty-eight."

"Yes, he _does_ seem older than I expected to see him--though, to be
sure, he has been, for the last seven years engaged in the wars; yes,
that must be it. Nothing makes one grow old so fast as fighting. But,
dear lady, come, now, and dress, there's a darling. You will have just
about time enough before dinner. But where is your bonnet?"

"Up in the branch of a tree, nursey dear. It will make some bird a
delightful nest next spring. I lost it getting this curious white
flower. Look at it. It grew in an almost inaccessible spot upon the
cliff by the sea."

"You are a dear little kid clambering among those ugly rocks. Let me
take some of your flowers, your bundle is nearly as big as yourself.
The saints preserve us! if there are not your uncle guardian and the
prince! And you in such a tattered plight. For the love of Heaven,
dear lady, come in here among these bushes until--"

But the little dame had to finish her speech to the winds, for the
impulsive Isoleth had sprung from her pony, and was clasped in her
guardian uncle's embrace before her nurse was half through beseeching
her to hide.

"Why, my dear child, have you turned gipsy? You are as ragged as one,
and are as brown as a berry. But I can see through your long, thick
curls that the last year has improved you most wonderfully. Let me
introduce you to your cousin, Ferdinand of Bernstorf."

Isoleth looked up and beheld--gracious me! He was every day as old as
her guardian, and positively had gray hairs. She was sure she saw
white hairs among his black curls. She could give him only one glance,
for his dark, handsome eyes were fastened searchingly upon her. Her
eyes fell beneath his admiring gaze, and fell upon her torn muslin
dress--the rocks and briars had paid no respect to it--rather _had_
paid their best respects to it; and, without vouchsafing a word in
reply to her uncle or handsome cousin, she sprung, light as a fawn,
into her saddle, and was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye.

"What say you, Cousin of Bernstorf, to such a bride as that for the
proposed alliance--a wild one, is it not?"

"I like her exceedingly. By the holy mass! but she is the most
beautiful creature I ever saw. We will take her to court, she will
bewitch us all, old and young. By my faith, but she is--"

"Yes, yes, she _is_," replied the baron, smiling at Ferdinand's
earnestness. I thought she would surprise you. I cannot conceive of
any thing one-half so beautiful as she."

"Beautiful! you surprise me! Bless my soul! she is radiant with
beauty, and she is the greatest surprise I ever had in my life. We
will electrify the whole court with surprise and delight at her
wondrous grace and beauty, and--"

"All in good time, noble cousin. You recollect her father's will--that
she should remain at Fernheath, neither going from here, nor receiving
much company, save her own kinsfolk, until after her marriage with
your noble--"

"Yes, yes, I have not forgotten the will. 'So was it nominated in the
bond.' It delights me most exceedingly that she is so marvelously
beautiful. St. Jerome! but I feel already that I love her as dearly as
though she were my own--"

"Good gracious, cousin! You always had a spice of enthusiasm that is
delightful and refreshing to me." And the baron laughed right heartily
because he was delighted--and the laugh seemed to refresh him. "After
all," continued he, as soon as the corners of his mouth had come
within speaking distance of each other, "after all, she is but an
untrained country-girl; she--"

"Nature, and her own beautiful soul, have given her all the training
she needs. Her wild, unconstrained life, has developed her as no court
or city life could. That I can see, seeing her as little as I have."

"You think just as I do, dear cousin. My brother's will was a wise
one, that kept her thus from the deadening conventionalities of a
court life."

"By my soul! how exceedingly lovely she is. She surpasses all my
expectations. I recollect her as a little fairy thing of eight or ten.
I have not seen her until now--"

"Since just before this last war, full seven years ago."

    *    *    *    *    *

If Ferdinand of Bernstorf thought the little tattered gypsey Isoleth
so inconceivably lovely, his eyes were half blinded with the radiant
beauty of the young Countess of Fernheath, as she entered the
dining-hall, clad in the shining court-robe her guardian had sent her.
Her cousin's dark eyes were fastened upon her with a look of
passionate admiration, that caused the bright blood to burn on her
face and bosom. Nor did those handsome black eyes scarce leave her
during the whole long dinner. As soon as she could release herself she
hastened to her only confidante, Dame Hildreth.

She found the little dame kneeling upon the floor, busily engaged in
unpacking boxes, while the floor was literally alive with silks, and
satins, and laces, and woman's finery.

"See here, my lady--and here--and there! Look what your uncle guardian
of Arnheim has provided for your approaching nuptials! And, dear lady,
do but look here;" and the eager, proud little dame opened a casket of
beautiful pearls--necklace, girdle, coronet, brooch and armlets. This
noble present comes from the father of your betrothed. It is to be
followed by a still more beautiful set of diamonds."

"These pearls may deck my burial instead of my bridal, for I never
will live to wed with _him_ below."

"Why, my sweetest lady!" exclaimed nurse Hildreth, glancing up in
surprise at her young mistress's flushed and excited face. "For the
love of Heaven, do not talk in that way! What objection can you
possibly have to such a noble, handsome, princely prince? He is the
oldest son and heir to--"

"Oldest, indeed! He is old enough to be my father's father."

"Mercy on us! Lady Isoleth, you talk wild. I will wager my life he is
only twenty-eight, three days after this coming Christmas. He has been
in the wars, you know--and war is no gentle nurse. Exposure in the
wars has caused him to appear somewhat older than he is. You know,
dearest lady, that war--"

"But he is gray--"

"Exposure in the wars--"

"And wrinkled--"

"Exposure in the wars--"

"But there is that about him I never could love, were he as young
as--I never can love him--I hate him, and I will not wed him."

"But, my dear, dear, dearest young lady, what _will_ you do?" The
thought never entering her head that the Lady Isoleth could do any
thing but submit to the will of others; for woman in those times was
sought and given in marriage without often consulting her own
inclination.

What will I do, dear nurse? Why I will fall on my knees at the feet of
my beloved guardian and plead with him. He never refused me any thing;
and I know he will grant--"

"But your father's will, dearest lady--"

"Shall be put aside, where his daughter's happiness is at stake."

"Would it may be as you wish, sweetest lady. But I fear. Still he is a
right noble prince, and will make a right noble husband."

"_Not_ for me."


CHAPTER III.

THE SURPRISE.

In the saddest of sad moods the Lady Isoleth betook herself to her
favorite retreat among the rocks, and there within her own little
vine-covered bower, was--not a bird, nor a squirrel, nor her tame
deer--but a man! young and wondrously handsome; with a broad, pale,
noble brow, and a host of jet-black curls shading it. There was
something in his clear, dark eye, so still and serene as it gazed
beyond this world, and something in the expression of his fine, manly
face, so tender, so almost sad, that made her forget to be afraid of
him. She approached him gently, and asked him in a soft voice,

"What are thy meditations, beautiful stranger?"

"I was dreaming of thee!" uttered he, awaking from his reverie, and
fixing his dark, earnest eyes full upon the glowing form before him.
His glance, so full of passion, so full of tenderness, so fervent,
went to her heart and woke it up--that precious little heart that had
been sleeping for sixteen long years.

"Of me! How can that be?" asked Isoleth, with a deep blush. "Dost thou
know me? Dost thou--'

"One like thee, most beautiful being!"

"One like me--just like me? How strange! What is her name?"

"Whatever is thy name, loveliest, most lovely lady, is hers."

"My name is Isoleth," replied she, with a low voice, and a deep blush.

"Art thou the Lady Isoleth of Fernheath? _Art_ thou? Stupid! that I
did not see sooner that thou art! Yes, thou art! And I am happy, most
happy, most inconceivably happy that thou art! Ah!" continued he, in a
tone of the most rapturous delight, "that my dream and my bride should
prove to be one and the same. I am most inexpressibly joyful!"--and
the large tears fell from his eyes like summer rain--"most
unutterably--and thou, wilt thou love me, and be mine, my glorious,
sweetest, loveliest cousin--my most, most beautiful bride!"

"Thy cousin! thy bride! Alas! alas! thy cousin I may be, but thy
bride--! They are going to marry me up there at the castle to an old,
ugly, cross prince; he is there now, and you cannot know how much I
hate him. I will die--"

"The devil they are! Forgive me, sweetest, most beautiful cousin, it
is a foolish way we learn of speaking in camps. But, loveliest, do not
talk of dying, let the old and the ugly die, but thou--First tell me
who this ugly, old, cross prince is, they shall not marry you to any
such."

"Why he is not so very ugly--and I do not exactly know that he is
cross; but then he is old, very old--yes, very old and very
disagreeable--and I never can love him."

"Nor shalt thou--his name, most beautiful?"

"Ferdinand, Prince of Bernstorf."

"Ferdinand, prince of ten thousand devils! I beseech of thee to
forgive me once again, sweetest cousin; but thou dost petrify me.
Ferdinand, Prince of ---- Ah! it must be--yes, yes, it must be so."

"What must be? Thou speakest in riddles, stranger cousin."

"And thou lovest him not, nor dost thou wish to wed him?" asked the
stranger, an almost provoking smile just curling his handsome mouth.

"No, no, never--never!"

"Nor shalt thou ever!" exclaimed he, his manner changing to one of
serious earnestness. Nor shalt thou ever, dearest, most beautiful--for
_I_ will prevent it, I--"

"Thou? Alas! alas! I have been betrothed to him ever since I was an
infant. How could my dear father--"

"Dearest cousin, trust to me--wilt thou not? And, dearest, sweetest
cousin, love me, and be my beautiful wife. Nay, shake not thy
loveliest head. Have I been too hasty in urging my love? I have known
thee, and loved thee, for so many years; thou hast, thy beautiful
spirit has ever, night and day, been near me, the light of my life;
but I have frightened thee by my impetuosity--and thou canst never
love me? But, no, thy beautiful eyes look tenderly upon me; and thou
wouldst not let me hold this little soft, warm hand, and imprison it
within mine, if thou didst hate me. I do not lightly ask that precious
boon, thy love. Believe me, it is as I say," continued he, earnestly
bending upon her his deep, dark, eloquent eyes--eyes that made her
little heart thrill to its very core. "It is as I tell thee, thou hast
been my dream by day and by night. See here," and he drew from his
bosom a small miniature, and handed it to her--the exact image
of--herself. "And now I will tell thee what I never before told mortal
being. Just three years ago, after a fatiguing day's fight, I lay in
my tent, awake; and thou didst come to me, just as thou now dost
appear--a vision of light and purity and glorious loveliness. Whether
it was a dream or not, or a trance, I know not; but never since has
that radiant vision left me. Thou didst lay thy little soft, white
hand upon my fevered brow, and I heard most distinctly, as thy sweet
face bent over me, these words: 'Do not love other than me, for I
alone, on earth, am destined for thee.' From my earliest boyhood have
I loved to use the pencil; and on the next morning I tried, and
succeeded in conveying to this bit of ivory the image of that most,
most beautiful vision; and I have worn it upon my heart ever since,
where I would the loved, deeply, dearly loved and beautiful original
might ever be. From then till now have I worn next to my heart that
semblance of my nightly, daily dream; but never until now have I been
blessed in seeing my dream, living, breathing before me."

How that young heart throbbed and bounded, almost suffocating its
loving, lovely owner with the intensity of its joyous emotion, as the
earnest tones of that low, passionate voice fell, word by word, into
its inmost centre, as the glance of those deeply, deeply loving eyes
awoke it to life and love. Her hand lay within his, and by little he
drew her more and more closely and warmly to his heart, and by little
her head gradually sunk upon his manly breast, her eyes looked up
tenderly and trustingly into his and drank in his passionate gaze, as
though it were her life. Time flew by them unheeded, each pouring out
joy and life into the heart of the other. Their very being melting and
mingling each into the other, until each felt that their two lives
were one. Nor did he sully those pure, exquisite lips, with one
earthly kiss. His soul kissed hers, and her own vibrated to his in
trembling unison.

Such moments of intense soul-rapture do not often occur to many of us
on earth, for perfect love seeks perfect fulfillment; and in the
perfect fulfillment of love is too often the satiety that deadens its
finest, most spiritual impulses.

The castle gong sounded, booming heavily through the trees. Isoleth
started to her feet like a frightened doe.

"I must go," exclaimed she, "my guardian--"

"Stay one moment, sweetest, I have something to tell thee, that thou
must hear."

"I have staid too long already," interrupted she, hastily, "my
guardian will be sending out for me--it is already growing dark. Fare
thee well;" and she gave him a farewell with her soft, brown eyes that
never left his heart--so full of unconscious love was it.

"You will meet me here again to-morrow morning? Promise me at least so
much, dearest beloved."

"Yes, yes," and with another glance from her soft, bright eyes, she
glided out of his sight.


CHAPTER IV.

SUSPENSE.

"I am glad to see thee safely at home, my dear child. Where hast thou
been? Thou knowest I hate to have thee rambling about the
castle-grounds after night-fall. I have already sent out to seek thee,
and was on the point of going in search of thee myself. But, dear
child, if walking at any time will bring thee home with such a
radiant, glowing color, I shall not quarrel with the cause or hour.
Thou art looking as bright and as happy and beautiful as I hope always
to see thee look."

"I was afraid, dear uncle," replied Isoleth, blushing still more
deeply, and casting her conscious, love-full eyes to the ground, "I
was afraid thou wouldst begin to be uneasy about me, and I hastened--I
have no one, dearest uncle, when thou art away, to take such good care
of me. I go wandering about among my favorite haunts at my own good
will and pleasure, night or day, as it happens."

"The time is coming, eh! sweet Isoleth, when thou wilt have to consult
another will save thine own," said the baron, patting her fondly on
her soft, white neck.

Ferdinand laughed, and looked very impressed and impressive, and gazed
her out of countenance with assured, admiring eyes, as he answered for
her,

"Yes, yes, we are waiting only for the goodly company that are to
witness the approaching nuptials. Is it not so, fairest lady?"

"The hideous being!" thought Isoleth, without vouchsafing an audible
reply. "Is this the one with whom I am to spend my days--but no, it
shall not be."

She did the honors of the supper-table with a suffocating throat, with
a proud rebellious heart, full of love for one she felt she ought not
to love, and full of hate for another that she knew she ought to love.
She was absent in spite of herself, and did all manner of queer things
that people do, who, for a time, take leave of absence of
themselves--answering yes, for no--and no, for yes--attempting to bite
a piece out of her little porcelain cup-plate, instead of the cook's
snowy cake; pouring her guardian's cup up with cream instead of
coffee, and sweetening it with salt instead of sugar. Many other
little pleasantries of like nature did she perform, very much to the
amusement of her guardian and the hated Ferdinand. The latter made
himself exceeding merry at her expense, at the same time showing her
every attention and gallantry that he, finished courtier, could
devise. Isoleth felt at length completely worried and tired to death,
as though she could not for one moment longer, endure the torture of
her heart's conflicting emotion.

"You look pale and tired, my beloved child," said her guardian,
tenderly taking her little cold, white hand within his. All your
beautiful color is gone. I fear that after all your walk, or the
excitement, has been too much for you. You had best retire for the
night. Shall I ring for Dame Hildreth, or some of your maidens?"

"No, dear uncle, with your permission, I will seek those I wish,"
answered Isoleth, only too glad to escape from the hated presence into
the calm stillness of her own room.

She found the good little dame awaiting her; and to her compassionate
ear she poured forth the sorrow and joy of her young heart. The
kind-hearted little woman sympathized cordially with her precious
foster-child, wishing over and over again that some benevolent fairy
would change the beautiful stranger cousin with the hateful old Prince
Ferdinand--she had to acknowledge that he did _look_ old--until after
the happy wedding was over. "And then how blank and black the prince
would look, and how astonished we all would be to find you had married
the handsome young man instead of the grumpy old one."

"Now leave me, good nurse, I would be alone. I will entreat my dear
uncle on the morrow to release me from this dreaded alliance. He
never yet refused a request of mine."

Isoleth quieted herself in the belief that her beloved guardian would
certainly grant her petition as soon as she made it known to him. In
child-like confidence, therefore, she sunk to her happy sleep, with a
pair of dark, loving eyes hovering over her and mingling with her
dreams. And never eyes gazed on more gentle sleep or lovely sleeper.


CHAPTER V.

THE APPEAL.

With a buoyant step and a sparkling eye the Lady Isoleth sought her
guardian early the next morning. He was deeply immersed in papers and
parchments, while huge, formidable-looking books were piled high
around him. He nevertheless welcomed his sweet niece with a sudden
clearing off of his thought-lined brow, and a fond, affectionate
smile.

"Forgive me, dearest uncle, if I have disturbed thy studies; but I
would see thee alone, and I feared this might be the only opportunity,
as the carriages containing our kinsfolk are even now expected; so
nurse Hildreth informed me."

"What would my pet bird have that she seeks her uncle thus early?"

"A boon that you must grant, dearest uncle, for upon it depends my
heart's happiness now and forever."

"Name it, my darling Isy--what wouldst thou have, little enthusiast?"

"Release from one I never can love. Oh! my dearest uncle," continued
she, fondly twining her soft, white arms around his neck, and lovingly
kissing his time-worn brow, "do, for Heaven's sweet love, tell me at
once that I need not wed him, for I never can love him--never, never!"

"Bless her little heart, what is the child raving about? Whom dost
thou mean, dear baby, by _him_?"

"Who should I mean, dearest uncle, but my cousin, this Prince
Ferdinand. I _need_ not be his wife. I--"

"Thy cousin, Prince Ferdinand!"

"I hate him--I abhor him--I utterly detest him! I never can love him!
I never will be his wife! I never--"

"Hold, hold! not so fast; why thou romantic little recluse! thou hast
lived alone too much by half. Thy little head is brim full of fancies.
Thy tongue is running wild. Thou _hatest_ him! Why what wouldst thou
have better? Is he not all a woman could desire? Is he not young
and--"

"Young!"

"And handsome, and--"

"Handsome!"

"And is he not a prince? And is he not heir to a powerful, wealthy
ducal throne? And will he not take thee to court--the gay, beautiful
court; and wilt thou not reign there a queen--a queen of beauty and
joy and light--and ere long queen of the throne?"

"All that does not dazzle me, dearest uncle--for what are thrones and
splendor where love is not? Oh! dear, dearest uncle, do not press
this hated match upon me. Do not doom me to eternal sorrow. Do not--"

"Hoity, toity! Why thou dost talk just as they do in those silly
romances. I wager thy head is full of them. Thou hast had bad
teachers, child, to permit thee to fill thy poor little brain with
such trash instead of useful knowledge. Or is it," said he, fixing his
gray eyes searchingly upon her, "or is it that thou hast met some
sighing Adonis in the woods? Ha! thou dost blush--have a care, child.
There, thou needest not tremble, I will not seek to know thy secret,
if secret thou hast. This much, however, know for a certainty, that
Prince Ferdinand is destined to be thy--"

"Dearest uncle!" exclaimed the little lady, her beautiful eyes filling
with tears, "thou shalt know all--all I have to tell, if thou wilt but
deliver me from this--"

"Have done with this folly, Lady Isoleth," and his cold gray eyes
sternly regarded her. "It was thy dead father's will that thou
shouldst marry thy cousin, Prince Ferdinand of Bernstorf; and thy
father's will must and shall be obeyed."

"'Folly!' 'Lady Isoleth!' 'must and shall!' He never before now spoke
one unkind word to me." And the weeping Isoleth went with a breaking
heart and shut herself in her own room, alone, and locking herself in,
she gave unrestrained vent to her passionate grief.


CHAPTER VI.

THE LAST APPEAL.

"I will seek _him_--yes, _he_ will not refuse my prayer. I will tell
him I hate him. He will be only too glad to release me when he knows
the depth of hatred I bear him. I will go this moment, for soon will
all my gay cousins be here, and then will be the horrid betrothal
ceremony--but I will not think of that--"

"Ha! my shy, beautiful cousin, Lady Isoleth!" Ferdinand was in the
library, amusing himself with books and prints. "See here, beautiful
cousin, I have found a book of rare merit, and beautifully
illuminated. I suppose, though," continued he with a quizzical look,
"that all the books here and their manifold contents are familiar to
thy bright eyes--is it not so?"

"Not exactly _all_," replied Isoleth, smiling in spite of her sorrow,
as she glanced at the endless rows of huge leather-bound tomes, that
had not even had the cobwebs dusted from them for a century at least.

"Wilt thou not deign to look over this precious book with me, most
beauteous lady? Thy sharp wit may help my slow faculties to comprehend
its quaint poetry, and thy glorious eyes will love its finely executed
prints."

"I came not to disturb thy meditations," replied she, shrinking from
his approaching steps. I came to crave a boon from thee."

"It is granted thee, fairest lady, even before thou dost utter it. But
what is it, the most beautiful, most lovely of her beautiful, lovely
sex would ask? Be it even unto the half of my kingdom--"

"It is not the half of thy kingdom, but the whole of it, together with
thy kingdom's lord, that I would be freed from."

"Thou art pleased to be facetious, most charming Lady Isoleth. Pray
explain thyself, that my dull understanding may comprehend thy
meaning."

"Ferdinand, Prince of Bernstorf--"

"Yes--"

"Is one that I never, never can love--one that I had rather should see
me in the grave ere he shall call me wife."

"Ha! well, loveliest cousin, that is plain, and easy to be understood
even by the slowest comprehension. Thou hatest him, dost thou?"

"Most cordially."

"My son thanks thee, fair cousin--and I also, in his name."

"Thy son!"

"Ay, and here he is to thank thee himself. How now, scapegrace! Thou
art tardy in paying thy respects to this beautiful, noble lady. Thou
shouldst have been here days ago. Even now thy fair cousin was on the
point of refusing thee. I tell thee, lad, thou'lt never find a fairer.
Courting was not done in this slipshod way when I was a boy."

All this while Isoleth was gazing in mute astonishment upon--yes, she
was not mistaken--he was the very one--the very most beautiful being
to whom she had given, only the night before, her precious little
heart. And those dark, earnest eyes were passionately regarding her,
drinking in rapturously her glowing beauty, until her eyes, abashed,
sought the floor, unable to bear the light of those intensely loving
ones.

"Then thou'rt the _Duke_ of Bernstorf, my father's cousin?" suddenly
asked she, of Ferdinand the elder.

"Who else, fairest cousin? Ha! thou didst then think--" a sudden light
seemed to break through the chambers of his brain. "Ha! ha! ha!"
laughed he, "Thou thoughtest that _I_ was the one. I could not wish a
fairer, more beautiful bride than thou; but--ha! ha! ha! I have one
goodly wife already, who is to be here this very day; and, between you
and I, one is more than I can manage, although she is one of the best
of her perfect, bewitching sex. Still--So, that was the reason thou
wert so shy of me, sweet flower." And the father, Ferdinand, threw
himself back in his chair, and gave way to the most uncontrollable
bursts of laughter; while Ferdinand, the son, had taken the soft,
lily-white hand of his lovely betrothed, and was talking to her in
words from his heart's heart.

"I should have told thee all this last evening if thou couldst have
waited but one instant longer. I was to have accompanied my father and
thy guardian here; but I dreaded so much to see my affianced
bride--not dreaming until last evening that my beloved and betrothed
were one and the same--that my beautiful dream was a more beautiful
reality. If I had come and found the young Countess of Fernheath one
that I could not have loved, I should certainly have moved earth and
heaven but that I would have had the contract, made by our goodly
sires, annulled--or I would have drowned or shot myself. Don't
shudder, sweetest, I shall do neither now, unless I am shot by the
lightning of your bright eyes, and drowned in the bliss--but, dearest,
I love you too dearly to speak nonsense to thee--even love nonsense.
Strange, was it not, darling, that I should not have recognized you?
It has been many a long year since I saw you a little rosy, romping,
fairy thing of only a few bright summers. We have had troublous times
since then; war and bloodshed that would--"

"Pardon me, most beautiful cousin, my long laughter hath been rude;
but, indeed, thy mistake was most droll. There, sweet cousin, I have
done! Thy blushes, however, are exceedingly becoming thy fair face. So
thou and my goodly son hast met before--is it not so? And he is not
the laggard in love I unjustly deemed him. And now I suppose the best
thing for me to do is to take myself off to another world, and resign
my kingdom and crown in this for one in the--however, we will arrange
all that after the wedding. Let us, meantime, enjoy the present. Ah!
here comes thy good uncle with a cloudy brow; something has gone wrong
with him--we must have no gloom to-day. And here also comes thundering
down the avenue all the goodly old carriages containing our expected
kinsfolk."

And here also comes,


CHAPTER THE LAST,

Which I know will delight you, dearest reader, as it containeth the
wedding; but most especially will it delight you because it _is_ the
last. The wedding was of course a splendid one, and better still, a
joyous one. Little Dame Hildreth would let no one but herself fasten
so much as a bridal ornament on her beautiful young foster-child. It
would be hard saying which moved fastest on the important day, her
hands or her tongue.

"Just to think!" exclaimed she, as she clasped those same pearls, that
had once been cast aside in scorn, upon her darling--and pure and
lovely they shone among her soft, brown curls, and on her snow-white
arms and neck, and around her lithe and slender waist--"to think that
I could have mistaken Ferdinand, the reigning Duke of Bernstorf, for
Ferdinand, the Prince. Really, though, my lady, to look at them, one
does not see much difference in their appearance--they are both so
handsome and grand-looking. Oh, yes! _you_ see a vast odds in their
looks--that's natural! These old eyes, I suppose, are growing dim--but
they are bright enough to see that thou art the dearest, loveliest,
most beautiful bride that ever the sun shone upon."

    "_Sic transit gloria mundi._"




THE CITY OF MEXICO.

WRITTEN WHILE THE WAR WAS PENDING.

BY M. E. THROPP.


    Pride of the South, thy glittering spires
      Point to the arching sky,
    While tower and palace proudly rear
      Their stately forms on high;
    Thy spacious squares spread far and wide
      Along the valley green,
    And bright above thy hundred fanes
      An hundred crosses gleam.

    Bland, spring-like breezes, brilliant skies,
      Birds of gay song and plume,
    Cool sparkling founts, wide shaded walks,
      Trees, of eternal bloom,
    Bright glowing flowers, as fresh and pure
      As infant's rosy mouth,
    Rare, tempting fruits--all--all are thine,
      Sweet City of the South.

    Around thee lime and citron bowers
      In peaceful beauty rest,
    While orange groves stretch far away
      To blue Tezcuco's breast;
    Beyond thee giant bulwarks stand,
      Cordillera's mountain line,
    And lift along thine azure sky
      Their silver crests sublime.

    Ah! thou hast beauty, Southern Queen,
      And thou hadst wealth and power;
    But wealth and beauty proved to thee
      "A darkly glorious dower."
    Iberia on her rocky heights
      Beheld thee from afar,
    And rolled o'er all thy subject clime
      The lurid tide of war.

    On thee the mighty torrent burst,
      And with resistless sway
    Bore from thy desperate, struggling sons
      Their gods, their kings away.
    Then followed weary, weary years,
      Such as the conquered know,
    When brave hearts bleed and faint ones break
      Beneath their weight of wo.

    Iberia's brood with iron sway
      Kept down thy fallen ones,
    And bonds and stripes were freely doled
      To thy degraded sons;
    Then spear and lance were left to rust
      Along thy bannered walls,
    Thine eagle drooped and strangers dwelt
      In "Montezuma's halls."

    Oppression's long dark night of pain
      At length wore slowly on,
    And, radiant 'mid receding gloom,
      Hope heralded the dawn.
    Day broke, and Freedom's glorious sun
      Uprose o'er thine and thee,
    While thy clear bells with silvery chime
      Proclaimed a country FREE.

    And mingling with their heavenly tones
      Glad triumphs swelled the breeze,
    For that bright sun dispelled the gloom
      Of rolling centuries.
    A flood of golden light streamed down
      O'er valley mount and plain,
    Thy joyous eagle plumed his wing
      And soared aloft again.

    Thy sons rejoiced o'er rights restored,
      The joy of other years,
    And gentler woman's truthful heart
      Wept silent grateful tears;
    And thou--bathed in thy new-born light--
      Thou ancient island-gem,
    Ah! to thy proud fond children's hearts
      Thou wert an Eden then.

    But thy stern oracles the while
      Spoke ever deep and slow--
    "Dark hours are yet reserved for thee,
      Ill-fated Mexico!"
    And after years proved all too soon,
      Proved to thy bitter pain,
    Thy soil's vast wealth, thy sons' best blood,
      Had flowed, and flowed in vain.

    How hast thou mourned the civil broils
      That shook thy peaceful homes?
    How hast thou mourned the broken faith
      Of thy degenerate sons?
    The faith thrice broken that incurred
      Columbia's vengeful sword,
    Till red o'er many a battle-plain
      Thy blood like water poured.

    Again the stranger's echoing tread
      Sounds from thy ancient halls--
    Again the flag of other lands
      Waves o'er thy captured walls.
    Thy peerless beauty, storied lore,
      Thy buried heroes' fame,
    Wealth, power--ah, what are they to thee
      With thy dishonored name!

    The foe that first beheld thy towers
      Beyond the lake's green shore,
    And they who fondly reared thee up,
      The lordly ones of yore--
    They did not dream a change like this
      Could on thy pride be hurled,
    Who erst amid thy mountains reigned
      Queen of the new-found world.




GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.--NO. XI.

[Illustration: THE RUFFED GROUSE OR PHEASANT.]


In the Eastern States the true partridge is known by the name of
quail, the appellation of partridge being there given to what in
Pennsylvania is called the pheasant, and which in the Ornithologies
bears the name of the Ruffed Grouse, (_Tetrao Umbellus._ WILSON.) It
inhabits a very extensive range of country, being found at Hudson's
Bay, in Kentucky and Indiana, Oregon and the Floridas. Its favorite
places of resort are high mountains covered with the balsam, pine,
hemlock and other evergreens, and as we descend from such heights to
the lower country they become more rare; and in the Carolinas, Georgia
and Florida they are very scarce. The manners of the pheasant are
solitary, they are seldom found in coveys of more than four or five
together, and more usually in pairs, or singly. They are often shot in
the mornings in the roads over the mountains bounding the Susquehanna;
where they come for gravel. On foggy mornings very considerable
numbers may be seen in these situations, moving along with great
stateliness, their broad fan-like tail expanded to its fullest extent.
The _drumming_ of the pheasant, a sound compared by Wilson to that
produced by striking two full blown ox bladders together, but much
louder; the strokes at first slow and distinct, but gradually
increasing in rapidity till they run into each other, resembling the
rumbling sound of very distant thunder dying away gradually on the
ear. This drumming is the call of the male bird to his mate, and may
be heard in a calm day nearly half a mile. Wilson thus describes the
manner in which this singular noise is produced. The bird, standing on
an old prostrate log, generally in a retired and sheltered situation,
lowers his wings, erects his expanded tail, contracts his throat,
elevates two tufts of feathers on the neck, and inflates his whole
body something in the manner of the turkey-cock, strutting and
wheeling about with great stateliness. After a few manoeuvres of this
kind he begins to strike with his stiffened wings in short and quick
strokes, which become more and more rapid until they run into each
other, as has been already described. This is most common in the
morning and evening, though Wilson states that he has heard them
drumming at all hours of the day. By means of this the pheasant leads
the gunner to the place of his retreat, though to those unacquainted
with the sound there is great deception in the supposed distance, it
generally appearing to be much nearer than it really is. Audubon
mentions having often called them within shot by imitating the sound.
This he accomplished by beating a large inflated bullock's bladder
with a stick, keeping up as much as possible the same time as that in
which the bird beats. At the sound produced by the bladder and the
stick, the male grouse, inflamed with jealousy, has flown directly
toward him, when, being prepared beforehand, he has easily shot it.
When flushed, the pheasant flies with great vigor through the woods,
beyond the reach of view, springing up at first within a few yards,
with a loud whirring noise. Noticing this peculiarity of flight, Mr.
Audubon states that when this bird rises from the ground at a time
when pursued by an enemy, or tracked by a dog, it produces a loud
whirring sound resembling that of the whole tribe, excepting the
black-cock of Europe, which has less of it than any other species. The
whirring sound is never heard when the grouse rises of its own accord,
for the purpose of removing from one place to another; nor, in similar
circumstances, is it commonly produced by our little partridge. "In
fact," he continues, "I do not believe that it is emitted by any
species of grouse, unless when surprised and forced to rise. I have
often been lying on the ground in the woods or the fields, for hours
at a time, for the express purpose of observing the movements and
habits of different birds, and have frequently seen a partridge or a
grouse rise on wing within a few yards of the spot where I lay,
unobserved by them, as gently and softly as any other bird, and
without producing any whirring sound. Nor even when this grouse
ascends to the top of a tree does it make any greater noise than other
birds of the same size would do."

With a good dog, pheasants are easily found, and what is singular,
they will look down upon him from the branches of a tree, where they
sit, apparently stupefied, not attempting to fly, but allowing
themselves to be shot one by one until all are killed. Should one of
those on the higher branches, however, be shot first, the sight of his
fall will cause an immediate flight. A figure 4 trap is used with
success in taking them, especially when deep snow lies on the ground.
They were formerly numerous in the immediate vicinity of Philadelphia,
but the advances of the agriculturist have led them to retreat to the
interior, and but a very few can be now found within several miles.
The pheasant is in the best order in September and October, but in
mid-winter those who shoot them should be careful to draw them as soon
as possible, as the buds of laurel on which at that season they
sometimes feed, if left in the stomach of the dead bird, diffuse their
poisonous qualities over its whole body, and render it dangerous food.

[Illustration: AMERICAN PARTRIDGE, OR QUAIL. (_Perdrix Virginianus._ WILSON.)]

This well known bird, though not very migratory in its habits, has
extended its colonies from New England to Mexico. The spot where they
have been raised, if they can at all support life, is their home; and
there they will remain until the whole flock is destroyed by
sportsmen. This fact sufficiently disproves the asserted identity of
our partridge with the quail of the European continent, which is a
bird of passage, leaving Europe for Asia at the approach of winter,
and returning in very great numbers in the spring. Partridges assemble
in small families, varying according to circumstances from three to
thirty; and, except in the breeding season, they all live together in
a happy and mutual alliance. The quails on the other hand are
pugnacious to a proverb--"as quarrelsome as quails in a cage."

The partridges are nearly full grown by the beginning of September,
and associated in the usual coveys of from twenty to thirty afford
considerable sport to the gunner. The notes of the males at this time
are frequent, clear and loud, and they may by skillful imitation of
the call be deceived and induced approach. Their food consists of
grain seed, insects and berries of various kinds. The buckwheat fields
suffer severely from their depredations in September and October,
affording them at that time abundant food and secure shelter. At night
they roost in the middle of a field, on high ground, sitting round in
a circle with their heads outward. In this position they place
themselves at the commencement of a fall of snow, when their mutual
warmth is the better able to resist the effects of frost, and each
forms a guard for the whole against the approach of danger. They are
not afraid of snow, for they sometimes fly to a drift for safety; it
being only when a coating of frozen sleet resists their efforts to
leave it that they experience bad effects from it. The loud whirring
sound of their flight when flushed is well known. Its steady,
horizontal flight renders it an easy prey to the sportsman, especially
when he is assisted by a sagacious dog. The flesh of the partridge is
peculiarly white, tender and delicate, in this respect unequaled by
any other American game.

[Illustration: THE AMERICAN ROBIN. (_Turdus Migratorius._)]

This well known bird, and universal favorite, can require but a very
few words at our hands. His unassuming familiarity of manners has
caused him to be immortalized in the Songs for the Nursery, and others
of Mother Goose's collections for the little ones. His nest is
preserved from the rude hands of boyhood by a sort of instinctive
veneration for his well known and long established character, and his
cheerful, zealous singing not unfrequently causes the older sportsman
to take down the armed gun from his shoulder, and suffer the assiduous
songster to enjoy his liberty and life.

The robin is particularly fond of gum-berries, and it is only
necessary for the sportsman to take his stand near one of these trees
when it is covered with fruit, and load and fire his gun. One flock
after another will come to it without intermission during the whole
day.




TO A ROSE-BUD.


    Thy leaves are not unfolded yet to the sweet light of love,
    Thy bosom now is blushing like the sunset clouds above;
    Thy beauteous form is perfect, thy hopes are fair and bright,
    Thy dreams are sweet while sleeping in the gentle breeze of night;
    And though I know a dew-drop tear hath in thy bosom been,
    'Twas only sent to nourish thee, and make thee pure within:
    No canker-worm corrodes thy rest, and life is life to thee,
    And as the past has ever been so may the future be.
    May all thy dreams be realized, thy hopes be not in vain,
    Thy life pass calm and sweetly on without a sigh of pain:
    And when thy leaves shall droop and fall, as droop and fall they must,
    Thy lovely form will then lie low, to mingle with the dust;
    And to thy long last resting-place soft winds shall be thy bier,
    While the fragrance of thy loving heart will ever linger near;
    To me thy memory will come back when I am lone and sad,
    And thoughts of thy pure, gentle life shall make my spirit glad.
    Ah! lovely rose-bud, well I know that both of us must die,
    And when death comes, may I, like you, leave earth without a sigh;
    May I, like you, when youth shall fade, still yield the sweet perfume,
    The incense of a worthy heart, which age can not consume:
    Farewell, farewell, sweet rose-bud, were I but as pure as thee,
    My soul would be contented, my spirit would be free,
    Each wish would then be gratified, each longing have a home,
    And joy and peace would fill my heart wherever I might roam.

                                                            Y. S.




ERIN WAKING.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.


      Light streams through a rift in the cloud
        That hangs over green Innisfail--
    While voices of millions are shouting aloud
        The satraps of Tyranny quail:
      The collar of Shame hath been worn
        Through ages of folly and wo--
    Too long hath thy neck, O Hibernia! borne
        The yoke of a merciless foe,
    Whose creatures, while Perfidy sharpened the dart,
    Like vultures have crimsoned their beaks in thy heart.

      Hot winds from the waste of Despair
        On thy blood-bedewed shamrock have breathed,
    But the leaves, growing verdant in Liberty's air,
        Again round her brow shall be wreathed:
      And chisel of Art on the stone
        Shall name of that martyr engrave
    Who prayed for a sepulchre, noteless and lone,
        While foot of one heart-broken slave
    Polluted the green of that beautiful shore,
    By steel-harnessed champions trodden of yore.

      Gone forth hath the gathering word,
        And under Hesperian skies
    Fond exiles the call of their mother have heard,
        And homeward are turning their eyes:
      They send o'er the murmuring brine
        In answer a shout of applause,
    And drops, that give warmth to their bosoms, like wine,
        Are ready to shed in a cause
    That cannot march on with a faltering stride
    While Truth wears a buckler, and God is a guide.

      Land of the valiant! at last
        The brow of thy future is bright;
    In return for a shadowed and comfortless past
        Is dawning an era of light:
      The Lion of Britain in vain

        Is baring his teeth for the fray--
    Thy children have sworn that dishonoring stain
        Shall be wiped from thy forehead away:
    The bones of thy martyrs have stirred in the tomb,
    And glimmers the starlight of Hope through the gloom.

      Invaders thy valor have rued--
        To deeds that will aye be admired
    Bear witness, Clontarf! where the Dane was subdued,
        And Bryan, the dauntless, expired:
      Thy sons on the scaffold have died,
        The block hath been soaked with their gore,
    And long ago banished thy splendor and pride;
        But idle it seems to deplore--
    Unbending resolve to blot out thy disgrace,
    In hearts of the brave, to regret should give place.

      The Genius of Erin from earth,
        Uprising, hath broken the bowl,
    Whose tide to a black-crested viper gave birth,
        That long dimmed the light of her soul;
      And millions of high-hearted men
        Who thus can wild passion restrain,
    Though driven for refuge to cavern and den,
        Will arm for the conflict again--
    And, venturing all on the hazardous cast,
    Prove victors, though worn and outnumbered, at last.

      Thou isle, on the breast of the sea
        Like an emerald gracefully set,
    Though feet shod with iron have trampled on thee,
        A brightness belongs to thee yet:
      In bondage thy magical lyre
        Hath thrilled a wide world with its strains,
    And thine eloquent sons have awakened a fire
        That fast is dissolving thy chains:--
    The Saxon is watching the issue in fear--
    He knows that thy day of redemption draws near.




LINES

TO A SKETCH OF J. BAYARD TAYLOR, IN HIS ALPINE COSTUME.

BY GEO. W. DEWEY.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]


    The inspiration of thy smile,
      Thou minstrel of the wayside song,
    Yet lingers on thy face the while
      I see thee climb the Alps along;
    As if thy harp's unwearied lay
    Sustained thee on thy rugged way.

    There dwells within thy poet-eyes
      The spirit of the ancient bards--
    A soul in which no shadow lies--
      A glance forever heavenwards;
    As though the thoughts thy dreams unfurled
    Hung, star-like, o'er a watching world.

    Methinks the bard who saw at night,
      Amid the glacier's snow and ice,
    A youth ascend the spectral height,
      Unfurling there "the strange device,"
    Did, with a prophet's pen, foreshow
    Thy form upon those mounts of snow.

    And when the mists have valeward rolled,
      Below thy pathway, hard and long,
    Stern Death shall find thee, pale and cold,
      Upon the highest _peak_ of SONG--
    Still grasping, with a frozen hand,
    The banner of _that_ ALPINE LAND!


[Illustration: Yours ever, Bayard Taylor
ONE OF OUR CONTRIBUTORS
Expressly engraved for Graham's Magazine]




GAUTAMA'S SONG OF REST.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

[The Hindoo philosopher Gautama, now worshiped under the name of
Buddha, lived in the fifth century before Christ. He taught the unity
of God and Nature, or rather, that the physical and spiritual worlds
are merely different conditions of an eternal Being. In the spiritual
state, this Being exists in perfect and blissful rest, whose
emanations and over-flowings enter the visible world, first in the
lowest forms of nature, but rising through gradual and progressive
changes till they reach man, who returns after death to the original
rest and beatitude.]


    How long, oh! all-pervading Soul of Earth,
      Ere Thy last toils on this worn being close,
    And trembling with its sudden glory-birth,
      Its wings are folded in the lost repose?

    Thy doom, resistless, on its travel lies
      Through weary wastes of labor and of pain,
    Where the soul falters, as its Paradise
      In far-off mirage fades and flies again.

    From that pure realm of silence and of joy,
      The quickening glories of Thy slumber shine,
    Kindling to birth the lifeless world's alloy,
      Till its dead bosom bears a seed divine.

    Through meaner forms the spirit slowly rose,
      Which now to meet its near elysium burns;
    Through toilsome ages, circling towards repose,
      The sphere of Being on its axle turns!

    Filled with the conscious essence that shall grow,
      Through many-changed existence, up to Man,
    The sighing airs of scented Ceylon blow,
      And desert whirlwinds whelm the caravan.

    On the blue bosom of th' eternal deep
      It moves forever in the heaving tide;
    And, throned on giant Himalaya's steep,
      It hurls the crashing avalanche down his side!

    The wing of fire strives upward to the air,
      Bursting in thunder rock-bound hills apart,
    And the deep globe itself complains to bear
      The earthquake beatings of its mighty heart!

    Even when the waves are wearied out with toil,
      And in their caverns swoon the winds away,
    A thousand germs break through the yielding soil,
      And bees and blossoms charm the drowsy day.

    In stillest calms, when Nature's self doth seem
      Sick for the far-off rest, the work goes on
    In deep old forests, like a silent dream,
      And sparry caves, that never knew the dawn.

    From step to step, through long and weary time,
      The struggling atoms rise in Nature's plan,
    Till dust instinctive reaches mind sublime--
      Till lowliest being finds its bloom in Man!

    Here, on the borders of that Realm of Peace,
      The gathered burdens of existence rest,
    And like a sea whose surges never cease,
      Heaves with its care the weary human breast.

    Oh! bright effulgence of th' Eternal Power,
      Break the worn band, and wide thy portals roll!
    With silent glory flood the solemn hour
      When star-eyed slumber welcomes back the soul!

    Then shall the spirit sink in rapture down,
      Like some rich blossom drunk with noontide's beam,
    Or the wild bliss of music, sent to crown
      The wakening moment of a midnight dream.

    Through all the luminous seas of ether there,
      Stirs not a trembling wave, to break the rest;
    But fragrance, and the silent sense of prayer,
      Charm the eternal slumber of the Blest!




MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.


    It is a sweet and shady spot
      Beneath the aged trees,
    Where perfumed wild flowers lowly bend
      Unto the passing breeze;
    And joyous song-birds warble there
    Rich music to the sunny air,
    And many a golden-tinted beam
    Fails on the spot like childhood's dream.

    The moss-clad church is standing there,
      The stream goes laughing by,
    Sending its gurgling music out
      Along a summer sky;
    The rose has found a dwelling here
    Beside the coffin and the bier;
    And here the lily rears its head,
    Within this _Eden_ of the dead.

    The sunlight glances on the scene
      With many a sombre hue,
    Caught from the cypress near the stream,
      Or from the funeral yew;
    And, spirit-like, above each stone
    Is heard the night-wind's whispered tone,
    As if the spirit lingered there,
    Enchanted with a scene so fair.

    The wild bee revels 'mid the flowers
      That climb the ruined wall,
    And, gently drooping, shroud the tomb
      With Nature's fairest pall;
    And dirge-like sings the trickling rill,
    At evening's hour when all is still;
    Whilst echo answers back again
    In mimic notes the plaintive strain.

    But moonlight gilds the scene anew,
      Now all is hushed and calm;
    The very winds seem sunk to rest,
      O'erladen with their balm;
    The stars, pale watchers of the night,
    Look brightly out on such a sight;
    Whilst from the hill the bird's low wail
    Is wafted on the evening gale.

    Be mine the lot, when life's dull day
      Has drawn unto a close,
    And dreams of Love, and hopes of Fame,
      Have sunk to calm repose,
    By all forgot, to rest my head
    Unmarked beside the silent dead;
    Hushed by the murmurs of the wave
    That moans around my FATHER'S GRAVE.




VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT LAND.

WORDS BY JOHN S. ADAMS.

COMPOSED AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE

BY VALENTINE DISTER.

Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chestnut Street.--Copyright
Secured according to Law.

[Illustration: music sheet 1]


    In the silence of the midnight,
      When the cares of day are o'er,
    In my soul I hear the voices
      Of the loved ones gone before;

[Illustration: music sheet 2]


    And the words of comfort whisp'ring,
      Tell they'll watch on ev'ry hand,
    And I love, I love to list to
      Voices from the spirit land,
    And I love, I love to list to
      Voices from the spirit land.

2.

    In my wanderings, oft there cometh
      Sudden stillness to my soul;
    When around, above, within it
      Rapturous joys unnumber'd roll;
    Though around me all is tumult,
      Noise and strife on every hand,
    Yet within my soul I list to
      Voices from the spirit land.

3.

    Loved ones that have gone before me
      Whisper words of peace and joy;
    Those that long since have departed,
      Tell me their divine employ
    Is to watch and guard my footsteps:
      Oh, it is an angel band!
    And my soul is cheered in hearing
      Voices from the spirit land.




GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.


BY THE AUTHOR OF KATE WALSINGHAM.

Oh, there is many a spot in this every-day world of ours as bright and
beautiful as those of which we dream, or go miles away to visit and
admire; but we must seek for them in the right spirit, ere the dimness
will pass away from eyes blinded by the love of foreign novelties. Our
own land, ay, even our own city--the crowded mart of commerce, and the
vast haunt of poverty and crime, is rich in many a quiet nook, which,
although it might arrest the attention if depicted on the gemmed page
of the picturesque annual by some summer tourist, it is considered
plebeian to notice as we pass them in our daily walks.

We have sat beneath the vines and blue skies of Italy, and heard from
her moonlight balconies such strains as made us hold our breath to
listen that we might not lose a note ere the perfumed breeze bore it
lingeringly away: and in after years, in those English balconies we
have described, wept, beneath the same moon, tears that had more of
joy than grief in them, at some rude and simple strain which, sung by
loved lips, made the charm of our careless and happy childhood. We
have stood awe-stricken before the walls of the Colosseum, at Rome,
and dreamt of it for evermore! But we have likewise paused opposite
the Colosseum in the Regent's Park, investing it in the dim twilight
with a thousand beauties that made it an object of interest. We can
well remember lingering in the neighborhood, before the mimic church,
or convent, as we had been taught to call it, of St. Catharine, with
the moonshine gleaming through its arches, and the flickering lights
appearing here and there in the diamond-paned windows, watching
eagerly for the appearance of those white-robed nuns with which our
childish fancy had peopled that quiet place--wondering that they never
came. And amid all the architectural glory of foreign churches and
cathedrals, since visited, have failed again to realize that simple
love of, and faith in the beautiful, which then invested every scene
with its peculiar charm. Where the mind makes its own picturesque, it
never yet failed to find materials, and is often gifted with a strange
power to charm others into seeing with its own loving eyes! So the
poet immortalizes the humble home of his boyhood, and in after years
men make pilgrimages to the time-worn stile, the


          Rustic bridge--the willow tree;
    Bathing its tresses in the quiet brook;


which his genius has redeemed from obscurity, and rendered hallowed
spots for evermore.


BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.


    Oh! tell me not of lofty fate,
      Of glory's deathless name;
    The bosom love leaves desolate
      Has naught to do with fame.

    Vainly philosophy would soar--
      Love's height it may not reach;
    The heart soon learns a sweeter lore
      Than ever sage could teach.

    The cup may bear a poisoned draught,
      The altar may be cold,
    But yet the chalice will be quaffed--
      The shrine sought as of old.

    Man's sterner nature turns away
      To seek ambition's goal;
    Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray,
      May charm his weary soul;--

    But woman knows one only dream--
      That broken--all is o'er;
    For on life's dark and sluggish stream
      Hope's sunbeam rests no more.


BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.


How strange it is to those who are in some sense new to the world, to
see the way in which time plasters over wounds which we should have
imagined that nothing could have healed: wounds which we should have
expected to see bleed afresh at the sight of the inflictor, as it was
said of old that those of the murdered did at the approach of the
murderer. Sometimes we almost feel as if nothing was real in that
singular existence called _the world_. Like the performers, who laugh
and talk behind the scenes after the close of some dreadful tragedy;
we see around us men who have ruined the fortunes and destroyed the
happiness of others, women who have betrayed and been betrayed, whose
existence has been perhaps devoted to misery and to infamy by the
first step they have taken in the path of guilt, and whose hearts, if
they did not break grew hard; we see the victims and the destroyers,
those who have loved and those who have hated, those who have injured
and those who have been injured, mix together in the common
thoroughfares of life, meet even in social intimacy, with offered
hands and ready smiles; not because "Blessed are the merciful, for
they shall obtain mercy;" not because "To those who forgive, shall
much be forgiven;" but because what is genuine and true, what is deep
and what is strong, takes no root in that worn-out soil on which we
tread, thrives not in that withering air which we breathe in that
fictitious region which we live in, and which we so emphatically and
so presumptuously call _the world_.


BY MRS. LUELLA J. CASE.

CHARITY.


    Speak kindly, oh! speak soothingly,
      To him whose hopes are crossed,
    Whose blessed trust in human love,
      Was early, sadly lost;
    For wearily--how wearily!
      Drags life, if love depart;
    Oh! let the balm of gentle words
      Fall on the smitten heart.

    Go gladly, with true sympathy,
      Where want's pale victims pine,
    And bid life's sweetest smiles again
      Along their pathway shine.
    Oh, heavily doth poverty
      Man's nobler instincts bind;
    Yet sever not that chain, to cast
      A sadder on the mind.


BY G. P. R. JAMES.


He was a fool, and not a philosopher, who said that uncertainty was
the just condition of man's mind. In trust, in confidence, in firm
conviction, and in faith, is only to be found repose and peace.
Assurance is what man's heart and understanding both require, and the
very fact of the mind not being capable of obtaining certainty upon
many points, is a proof of weakness, not of strength.




EDITOR'S TABLE.


THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.--The year is closing on us--and the change
suggests reflections, which, if rather melancholy, may nevertheless be
profitable. We acknowledge that the divisions of time are rather
arbitrary--and therefore may vary, as they do vary, in different parts
of the world. But whenever we arrive at one of these important epochs,
whatever that may be, and wherever it constitutes a point in the
popular calendar, we have passed one period of our life, and have so
much the less to spend.

If we _feel_ the rapidity of time's march in our ordinary festivity,
and regret the approaching dissolution of the pleasant assembly, by
how much the more do we feel if we pause to think that we are
approaching the time when all our associations in life must cease, and
we be remembered--not known--and that remembrance day by day growing
less and less distinct, as new objects occupy the public eye, or new
associations are taken up by those we leave. Nor would we "jump the
life to come," by neglecting to make our approximation to that an
occasion for such a solicitude as would lead to a preparation.

But we would not have all those reflections gloomy. We would not cloud
the close of the year, nor the evening of life with moroseness, as if
all were vanity that we had enjoyed, and all were vexation of spirit
that was left. Such a use of the season would be a poor return for all
the good things which Providence has wrought in our behalf. We know at
this season of the year that the mountain summits are covered with
snow, and in some places the drooping sides are whitened with the
treasures of the clouds, but even these things, chilling as they may
appear, are good in their season, and the beauteous covering of the
hill-tops may glisten with the reflected rays of the sun, and seem to
enjoy the visiter that has descended upon them. All the trees that
yield their leaves to the season have for weeks been bare, ready to
receive the weight of snow which might fall upon them, and teaching
man that preparation is necessary to meet the evils of life and
sustain its burthens. Here and there a few evergreens retain their
foliage, and appear doubly beautiful amid the waste that is around
them.

But it is not alone for their beauty that these objects are worthy of
consideration--they teach also. They are full of instruction. Every
leaf that glistens with winter's frost, or is crushed dry and rustling
beneath our feet, has its lesson--it is well that all do not retain
their position--they would be less monitory, less worthy our thought.
Nature, in her use of foliage, acts upon the plan which the sybil of
old adopted--she writes her lessons upon the leaves--and yet so
arranges the truths they should convey, that they become more and more
apparent, more and more valuable, as the hand of destructive time
diminishes their number.

Elsewhere we have given reflections upon those events by which
kingdoms and empires have been shaken in the year now coming to a
close. Let us come nearer the heart, and speak of some of those
changes by which human affections and individual attachments have been
disturbed. Not, however, to quote the instance exactly--that would be
to drag up into life the hidden sorrow, and expose to observation the
grief which is sanctified for the recesses of the heart, whither in
moments of leisure the wounded retire and sit and brood in profitable
reflection over the affliction which Providence has allowed. We dare
not drag up to day and its exposure each grief that lies buried deep
in the grave of the mourner's heart. How truly beautiful, however, is
the reflection that the stone of the sepulchre may be rolled away,
and that in appropriate seasons the afflicted one makes a retreat from
the business and the pleasures of life, and "goeth unto the grave to
weep there." Sanctified--as beautiful--be the sorrow that hath not its
exponent in the public assembly, that hath no signal by which its
existence is to be denoted--no condition of countenance by which its
extent is to be measured. Perhaps the _sufferer_ had not yet obtained
permission to call the object hers--and thus is deprived of the
privilege of admitted mourning--how deep is _that_ grief--it has known
only the hope of life which takes with it all of the sunlight that
_makes_ the rainbow; without one drop of the storm from which that bow
is reflected. Perhaps the young WIFE sits solitary in the chamber
which affection has blessed, and pines amid the thousand emblems of
the taste or customs of the dead--perhaps her grief is her
inspiration, and she gives to story or to song the promptings of her
sorrow, which the world supposes is the gift of joyous inspiration.

Perhaps the _mother_ is pausing in the midst of renewed anguish for
the departure of her gifted, her only child, and sits enumerating all
his perfections, the greatest of which, and that which sanctified all
other virtues, and hid the very shadowings of error, was his deep,
constant love for her. Oh, how the maternal heart, smitten by the
heaviest of griefs, bathes itself in the fountain of filial love; and
when, at last, the over-wrought frame yields to the undermining
sorrow, the mourner comforts herself with the reflection of the
afflicted monarch of Israel, "I shall go unto him, he shall not come
again unto me." These reflections, with all of blighted hopes which
parent, lover, friend and patriot have indulged, the falling leaves of
autumn suggest; but the evergreen tells us of the survival of
affections, of friends, of beauty, and, perhaps, of attainments, and
teaches us that while we bend, and may bend in bitter anguish--anguish
long indulged beneath the rod of affliction--it is good for us also to
kiss the rod--for it has the power of budding anew in the hand of Him
who wields it; and the same might which made it the instrument of His
afflictive dealings can make it also the means of after joy and peace.

Perhaps, upon the leaves that we examine, the sybil, with rearward
glance, has recorded some event for joyous reflection. Have we not
been made participants of high gratifications--domestic, social,
public associations of instructive and pleasant operation? Have not
new affections warmed the heart, or old ones sent out new tendrils to
cling with a stronger hold upon us? Perhaps we have had the
acquisition of wealth without the augmentation of desires, so that we
can make ourselves happy by judicious distribution. Perhaps, above
all, and over all, we are better, by the passage of the year, better
by newly acquired, and especially newly exercised virtues--virtues
that bless others, and, through them, bless ourselves. If so, surely
we have grounds for pleasant reflections on the close of the year, and
may hope that we have not lived in vain.

The virtues of the human heart are like the water-springs of the
earth, their worth is measured by what overflows; nay, as an
accumulation even of the purest water must become stagnant, profitless
and offensive without an outlet, so what we call the virtues of man
become useless and even injurious, unless they extend to others, by
overflowing the fountain breast. Virtue is communicable; and those who
associate with the good, find an influx of affection and piety, as the
woman of faith was cured by touching the hems of the garment, that
covered the source and example of all health and goodness. If we have
sought to acquire good for ourselves, and to do good to others during
the present year, reflections upon its approaching close need not be
painful; it should be to us a source of high gratification, that,
enjoying as we have enjoyed, and mourning as we have mourned, we are
nearer the union of the good who have gone before us, and further from
the ills that follow upon our footsteps; and as we close our year, or
close our life, may we throw back from joyous, grateful hearts, a
smile of virtuous pleasure, which shall enrich the stern clouds that
have passed us with the bow of promise of pleasures that are to come.
C.

    *    *    *    *    *

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE FOR 1849.--The new volume of Graham's Magazine, to
be commenced with the January number, will, beyond all doubt, be the
most elegant volume that has ever been issued of this most popular of
all the American monthlies. The ample experience and liberal
expenditure of money by the publishers, the ability of its host of
contributors, the editorial tact which will be brought into service,
and the genius and skill of the artists engaged to embellish it, must
more than sustain the high position it has heretofore held in public
estimation. The magazine literature of this country is destined to a
warmer appreciation in the public regard, as it becomes purged from
the sickly sentimentality which degrades public taste, and when the
first minds in the nation are found devoting solid thought to adorn
and elevate it. A few years since, the highest aim of contemporary
competition seemed to be to fill a given number of pages with the
silly effusions of a class of writers whose feeble powers and false
taste were gradually undermining public regard, and bringing this
branch of national literature into contempt and disgrace, but the
higher aims of the publishers of the now leading periodicals, evinced
in the engagement of the brightest intellect of the country, have
raised American periodicals to a scale second to none in the world.

Blackwood and Frazer, in England, and The Knickerbocker and "Graham's
Magazine," in America, now stand side by side, and by paying liberally
for talent, command the very highest. It may be doubted, however,
whether in this country the _force_ of periodical writing has not been
in some degree impaired, by a diversion of the public eye and taste in
the smaller class of magazines with feeble aims, to engravings and
pictures, many of which are but the refuse of the English Annuals, and
the efforts of second rate artists in this country; and also how far
those magazines which are marked by ability, and which, as magazines
of ART as well as of LITERATURE, embracing in their object and scope,
the improvement of a very laudable branch of art--that of
engraving--as well as the adornment of the work, should be drawn aside
into a competition in the _number_ of their engravings, instead of the
_worth_ which should mark each one of them. It appears to us that this
degrading of magazines into picture-books for children, by
impoverishing the literary department to swell the number of wretched
engravings in a department of art, so called, must impair the value
and shorten the existence of any periodical thus conducted.

For ourselves, we have marked out a course in regard to the mere
illustrations of this periodical, from which we shall not be diverted.
We shall continue to furnish to our readers the most finished and
elegant specimens of the American engraver's skill, keeping at the
same time in view the value aside from the mere _ornament_ of the
engraving, thus catching the public desire in the portrait of a person
who may have some claim upon posterity, even though the face may not
be the most beautiful; and in sketches of such scenes as deserve to
live in the pages of this magazine, either from their own great
beauty, from their grandeur, or from association which gives them
value to the American eye and mind.

    *    *    *    *    *

THE FEMALE POETS OF AMERICA.--Messrs. Lindsay & Blakiston have
presented to the public a delightful volume prepared by Caroline May.
It embraces biographical sketches, and extracts from the productions
of many of our own native female writers, and serves to render us
familiar with those whose sweet strains have often charmed our hearts.
The style of execution of the volume in question, corresponds with the
excellent character of its contents, and the authoress, publishers and
printers have executed their respective parts with great skill and
effect.

    *    *    *    *    *

BURNS, AS A POET AND AS A MAN.--The admirers of the gifted Scottish
bard, will find an interesting and well executed review of his
character as a Poet and a Man, in a volume, prepared by S. Tyler,
Esq., of the Maryland bar, and just issued by Baker and Schriver, of
New York. We are indebted for a copy to Messrs. Lindsay & Blakiston,
of this city, who are ever skillful in catering for the intellectual
taste of their literary friends.

    *    *    *    *    *

[Illo: pointing finger] We lay our present number before our readers
with feelings of pride and pleasure, confident of the admission, on
their part, that a richer or more varied treat has never been
presented in the pages of any magazine. Our contributors have supplied
us with admirable articles--our artists have acquitted themselves with
great ability--our printers have acted well their part--and now, we
trust, our patrons will complete our gratification, by being as much
pleased with the number before them as we are in making the offering.

    *    *    *    *    *

[Illo: pointing finger] We thank our editorial brethren throughout the
country for the favorable manner in which they continue to notice our
Magazine. They do us but justice when they say that all our efforts
will be put in exercise to keep our Magazine in the enviable position
we have so long occupied. Always in advance of every contemporary, we
shall show in the new volume upon which we are entering, what
enterprise, zeal and energy can accomplish in the elevation of the
standard of literature and the arts.

    *    *    *    *    *

KATE WALSINGHAM.--This is another of Miss Pickering's delightful
novels, just issued from the press of <sc>T. B. Peterson</sc>. The story is an
interesting one, and the book abounds with brilliant and sparkling
beauties.

    *    *    *    *    *

LAYS AND BALLADS, _by T. B. Read_.--A volume from the pen of Mr. Read,
one of the most accomplished of our contributors, has just been
published by Mr. Appleton. The lateness of the hour at which a copy
reached us prevents us from noticing it at present as we desire to do.
We shall therefore make it the subject of a paragraph in a future
number.

    *    *    *    *    *

J. BAYARD TAYLOR, Esq.--A life-like portrait of our friend and
co-laborer, J. B. Taylor, graces this number of the Magazine. We know
our readers--our fair ones especially--will admire him; and we would
remark, _en passant_, for their information, that well-looking as he
unquestionably is, his merits in this particular are fully equaled by
his good qualities of head and heart.




REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


     _Principles of Political Economy, with some of their
     Applications to Social Philosophy. By John Stuart Mill.
     Boston: Little & Brown. 2 vols. 8vo._


Mr. Mill is almost the model man of science of his age. To habits of
deep and thorough investigation, and rigid, penetrating, exhaustive
thought--pursuing a principle through all the details of its
application, and never stopping halfway to pause or digress--he adds a
calm but strong sympathy with the philanthropic movements of the age;
and the tendency of all his writings is to advance the cause of truth,
justice and benevolence. But he is a reformer in a peculiar sense, not
practically understood by many who bear the name. A comprehensive and
patient thinker, and discussing every question bearing on the
interest, happiness and elevation of mankind with a conscientious as
well as rigid logic, he indulges in no vituperation, uses none of the
weapons of passion and malice, and irresistibly conveys the impression
to the most prejudiced mind that it is truth he is seeking, not the
gratification of vanity or antipathy. The consequence is that he is
the only radical thinker in England who is read by all parties, and
who influences all parties. With more industry, mental vigor and
scientific precision than Mackintosh, he has a great deal of that
beneficence of spirit, that judicial comprehension, and that strict
impartiality of understanding, which enabled Mackintosh to reach minds
separated from his by the walls of sect and faction. Mill is one of
those rare men who make no distinction between moral and logical
honesty; who would as much disdain to utter a sophism as to tell a
lie; and who can discuss questions which array the passions of a
nation on different sides, without adopting any of the opposite
bigotries with which they are usually connected. As a matter of course
the prejudiced and the bigoted themselves, in those hours of calmness
when they really desire to know the truth and reason of the things
they are quarreling about, go to a man like him with perfect
confidence. Thus Mill, a philosophical English radical, is ever
treated with that respect which clings to a profound and conscientious
thinker, even by the most violent of his Tory opponents. One of the
late numbers of Blackwood's Magazine--a periodical accustomed to
blackguard the men it cannot answer, and in which Mackintosh himself
was ever treated with coarse invective or affected contempt--has a
long article on Mill's present work on political economy, admitting
its claim to be considered one of the greatest works of the century,
even though it takes strong ground against many of the cherished
absurdities of the Tory political creed.

The reputation of Mr. Mill was sufficiently established before his
political economy was published. As the writer, over the signature of
A., of several articles in the Westminster Review, such as those on
Coleridge, Bentham, and the Privileged Classes, and the author of the
profoundest and most complete treatise on Logic ever written, he
needed no introduction to the public. "The Principles of Political
Economy" is a book bearing on every page the decisive marks of his
strong and accurate mind. It is a work after the model of Smith's
Wealth of Nations, in which principles are always associated with
their applications, and economical questions considered in their
relations to social philosophy, and the general well-being of man. As,
since the time of Adam Smith, political economy and social philosophy
have both made a perceptible advance, Mr. Mill's work purports to
supply the deficiency of a complete system of political economy,
including all the latest discoveries, and combining a strict
scientific exposition of the abstract principles of the subject with
their practical applications. The result is that he has produced the
most complete and satisfactory work of the kind at present in
existence, and, on the whole, the most important contribution to
political economy since the time of Adam Smith.

We, of course, have no space to refer at any length to his treatment
of the different branches of his subject; but the book has one
characteristic which we hope will have the effect to make it generally
read. The style is so clear, vigorous, simple and lucid, and the
illustrations so apt and copious, that the work can be readily
understood by those readers who are commonly repelled by the dry and
abstract character of other treatises on the science. The author
intended that his book should be popular as well as profound, and has
exerted his full strength of mind in simplifying the more abstruse
principles of his subject; and we trust that his labor will not have
been spent in vain. Every legislator, merchant, manufacturer, and
agriculturist, every man who is in any way connected with the creation
or distribution of wealth, should read this book.


     _An Oration Delivered Before the Society of Phi Beta
     Kappa, at Cambridge, August 24, 1848. By Horace
     Bushnell. Cambridge: George Nichols._


Dr. Bushnell has within a year or two taken a prominent position among
New England divines, and promises to rank high among the influencing
minds of the day. To deep and scholarly culture, he unites a strong,
independent, and singularly keen and ingenious intellect, and a
beautiful and bountiful spirit of cheerfulness and charity. The
present oration is a fine poem, expressing rather a mood of mind than
a system of philosophy, but grouping together with fine art many facts
of consciousness, and applying them to the phenomena of life. Every
thing, in fact, is surveyed in the light of two ideas, Work and Play,
and though the application is sometimes more fanciful than reasonable,
the result is a series of beautiful representations, original in
conception and finely felicitous in expression. There is room for
considerable difference of opinion in the oration, but none will be
inclined to doubt the author's ability or keenness. As a specimen of
the style we extract a passage relating to war, which he calls an
imposing and plausible counterfeit of play, or inspiration.

"Since," he says, "we cannot stay content in the dull uninspired world
of economy and work, we are as ready to see a hero as he is to be one.
Nay, we must have our heroes, as I just said, and we are ready to
harness ourselves, by the million, to any man who will let us fight
him out the name. Thus we find out occasions for war--wrongs to be
redressed, revenges to be taken, such as we may feign inspiration and
play the great heart under. We collect armies, and dress up leaders in
gold and high colors, meaning by the brave look, to inspire some
notion of a hero beforehand. Then we set the men in phalanxes and
squadrons, where the personality itself is taken away, and a vast
impersonal person called an army, a magnanimous and brave monster, is
all that remains. The masses of fierce color, the glitter of the
steel, the dancing plumes, the waving flags, the deep throb of the
music lifting every foot--under these the living acres of men,
possessed by the one thought of playing brave to-day, are rolled on
to battle. Thunder, fire, dust, blood, groans--what of these?--nobody
thinks of these, for nobody dares to think till the day is over, and
then the world rejoices to behold a new batch of heroes."


     _Three Sisters and Three Fortunes; or Rose, Blanche and
     Violet. By G. H. Lewes. New York: Harper & Brothers._


Mr. Lewes is an author very little known in this country. This is the
first work of his which has been reprinted. But in England he has
considerable reputation among the higher class of readers and men of
taste for his brilliant powers of mind and extensive acquirements. His
Biographical History of Philosophy we have never seen, but we have
observed allusions to it in other publications, exalting it to a very
high rank among thoughtful books. For some time, if we are not
mistaken, he was the chief literary critic of the Westminster Review,
and many of his articles were marked by strong and deep thinking, a
little injured by vagaries of expression. In a novel by such a writer
we should naturally expect more than a mere love story, more than a
narrative of incidents and representation of passions; and he has not
disappointed expectation. Indeed one can easily see that the book is
based on a philosophical system, and that more is meant than directly
meets the eye. The characters and events all illustrate some problems
in metaphysics and ethics, and refer more to the understanding than
the imagination. The story does not lack interest, nor the personages
character, but both are o'erinformed with meditation. Fine as the
novel undoubtedly is, the author has not given it the requisite
artistical finish to produce an harmonious impression. Speculation on
matters connected with literature, art and politics, essays on the
passions and the will, appear in their naked character amid romantic
incidents and imaginative representation. The author, in short, ought
to have made his book altogether didactic or altogether dramatic, to
fulfill the requisitions of either department. Had he fused all his
abstract thought and practical speculation in the alembic of the
imagination, and accordingly represented all in the concrete form of
character and events, t
he result would have been a much better
novel.


     _Euthanasy; or Happy Talk Toward the End of Life. By
     William Mountford, Author of Martyria, &c., &c. Boston:
     Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._


The author of this volume is one of the most profoundly meditative
writers living. We are not aware that his productions have had an
extended circulation out of New England, where they are very popular,
and if they have not, we hardly know of a better service we could do
our readers than to advise them to seek his companionship. Martyria
and the present work are two books which no one can read without being
benefitted--without having a deeper sense of the "dread soul within
him," and without feeling a warmer love of his race. "Euthanasy" is
one of those volumes which win their way into the heart with a soft
unconscious persuasiveness, and abide there when they have once found
an entrance. The author's spirit is rich, sweet, thoughtful,
tender--seeking the beautiful and the good by a spontaneous instinct,
and discerning them often, with the subtilty of purity in things which
seem valueless to the common eye--and while it soars into the highest
regions of spiritual contemplation, can still survey practical life
with a wisdom and sagacity which almost seem incompatible with its
loftiness. The truth is that the author possesses one of the rarest
things ever seen in this world--a truly spiritual mind, in which there
is established no divorce between the practical and the spiritual,
the common and the ideal. Spirituality with him is a life--no hearsay
or imagination, but an experience. He consequently spiritualizes the
human and humanizes the spiritual.

The work, in addition to its own stores of original thought, has many
a golden sentence and rhyme from the meditative poets of Germany and
England, which lend it increased richness and beauty.


     _Ellen Middleton; a Tale. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton,
     Author of Grantly Manor. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1
     vol. 12mo._


Grantly Manor is a novel of high and peculiar excellence, and has had
a great run. Its readers threw themselves upon the present work as
soon as it was published, their expectations whetted by the memory of
the last. The result has been comparative disappointment. The truth is
Ellen Middleton preceded Grantly Manor, and is altogether a less
pleasing production. Considered, however, as the first work of the
author, it is rich in promise and by no means insignificant in
performance. The characters are strongly drawn and well discriminated,
and the passions with which it deals are of that potent kind which
test a novelist's strength and daring. The difficulty with the book is
not its lack of power, but its lack of homely interest. The characters
and incidents are too much made up in the author's mind--enclosed, as
it were, in a peculiar domain, and  by one peculiar experience
of life--to give that satisfaction which results from a delineation of
actual life, or from vivid and beautiful ideal creations. There is too
much agony, and anguish, and hyperbolical emotion, and splitting of
the heart, and such like rioting in spiritual misery and ruin. The
elegance, eloquence and sweetness of the author's style, and the high
moral and religious character of her mind, appear, however, in Ellen
Middleton as in Grantly Manor, and with the advantage of as good a
story would produce as agreeable an impression.


     _History of Mary, Queen of Scotts. By Jacob Abbott.
     With Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol.
     16mo._


This is one of a series of popular histories which Mr. Abbott is
preparing for his countrymen. The tone and object will considerably
differ from the common historical works in circulation. Mr. Abbott
considers that the situation and principles of American readers
require views of historical events different from those they would
obtain from foreigners. The present work is devoted to one of the most
romantic and thrilling stories in historical literature--the Life of
Mary, Queen of Scotts. It is elegantly and truthfully written, and the
mechanical execution of the volume is exceedingly beautiful.


     _Macaulay's History of England._


The Harpers have received from the author, in sheets, the first and
second volumes of "The History of England, from the Accession of James
II., by T. B. Macaulay." For these they pay one hundred guineas a
volume. The work itself will doubtless create as great a stir as any
book published within the last twenty years. Every body is curious
especially to discover the style which Macaulay has adopted--that of
his Essays being too brisk, brilliant and epigrammatic for an
historian. It will probably be something like that of the Preface to
the "Lays of Ancient Rome," or that of his latest article on Lord
Chatham.


Transcriber's Note:

Printer's errors and typos were corrected without comment. Irregularities
or archaisms in spelling or grammar were preserved.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol XXXIII, No. 6,
December 1848, by Various

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