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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 3, March 1849
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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[Illustration: WHY DON’T HE COME.]

                Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine



                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               VOL. XXXIV.      March, 1849.      No. 3.
                           Table of Contents

                    The Naval Officer
                    Florence
                    The Dial-Plate
                    Unequal Marriages
                    The Icebergs
                    Love
                    Doctor Sian Seng
                    A Billet-Doux
                    Western Recollections
                    Extract
                    The Unfinished Picture
                    The Heart’s Confession
                    Christ Weeping Over Jerusalem
                    Human Influence
                    Honor to Whom Honor is Due
                    Egeria
                    History of the Costume of Men
                    The Adventures of a Man
                    Summer’s Bacchanal
                    The Plantation of General Taylor
                    Fancies About a Lock of Hair
                    The Precious Rest
                    Wild-Birds of America
                    The Pine-Tree
                    Gems From Late Readings
                    To My Little Boy
                    Review of New Books
                    Editor’s Table
                    Oh Have I Not Been True To Thee

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



                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

                 *        *        *        *        *

               VOL. XXXIV.      March, 1849.      No. 3.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THE NAVAL OFFICER.


                            BY WM. F. LYNCH.


                               CHAPTER I.

It was just daybreak; the air was calm, and the whole face of nature was
shrouded in a light and silvery mist. Presently the mist became agitated
by a fitful breeze; rays of light, faint at first, but every moment
becoming brighter in their hue, penetrated it from the eastern horizon,
and at length gathering its folds, it prepared to follow the path of the
ascending sun. As it lifted, it disclosed a scene upon which the eye of
man delights to dwell.

An island, clothed with luxuriant foliage and redolent with the perfume
of the tropics, lay sleeping on the crystal waters. On its southern
side, the unruffled waves of a sheltered bay, broke with a murmuring
sound upon a white and shelving beach. At the foot of this bay,
embowered in a grove, was a small cluster of houses, whose white-washed
walls, seen through the interlacing branches of the trees, many of the
last laden with their golden fruit, looked the fit abodes of charity and
domestic peace. The flickering airs, soft and fragrant as the breath of
beauty, fanned the pale and attenuated cheek of an invalid, who, seated
at the foot of a cotton-tree, looked wistfully to seaward. A boundless
expanse of ocean, its undulating surface checkered with the prolonged
shadows of detached and scarcely moving clouds alone met his anxious
gaze.

Beside him, with a look as wistful as his own, but fixed on his wasted
features, stood a young and lovely female. Unconscious of her presence,
he seemed lost in revery, and the silence was for some moments
unbroken—for they were busied with the thoughts most congenial to the
nature of each—his of active exertion and the strife of men; while
hers, disinterested and pure, and true to the instinct of her sex, dwelt
only on _his_ hopes, _his_ prospects, and _his_ future happiness. With a
sigh, she broke the silence, and laying her hand gently upon his head,
she said,

“Oh, Edward! why this anxiety to leave us? Why this yearning for the
sea?”

“Mary, dearest Mary!” said he, looking up, “I knew not that you were
near. Sit down, dear girl, and I will tell you my little history. It
will be the best answer to your question, and your trustful nature
deserves implicit confidence. You know,” said he, as she complied, and
placed her hand in his, “you know that I am in the naval service of our
country, and that the captain of the ship to which I belong, sent me
ashore here some two months since, at the recommendation of the surgeon;
and you know, too, that your father, finding that I was connected with
some friends of his own in the United States, invited me to his house,
where, like a ministering angel, you have wooed me from the embrace of
death. This, save my unbounded gratitude and love, is all you know, and
unsuspicious of others as you are yourself confiding, hoping like an
angel, and believing what you hope, you have sought to learn nothing
more.

“I have no parents,” he proceeded to say, “and of a large family of
children, I am the sole survivor. My father died when I was yet an
infant; in my fourteenth year I lost my mother, and in the intervening
time, one by one, my brothers and my sisters fell, all swept off by that
insidious destroyer, whose victims waste away, even while the cheek is
flushed and the eye brilliant with anticipations of renovated health and
years of enjoyment. Oh, Mary! that you could have seen and known my
sister—for she was near your present age, and in many things you much
resemble her.”

“I should have loved her dearly, Edward?”

“You could not have helped it, for she was one of the purest, gentlest
beings I ever knew.”

“Describe her to me.”

“That is impossible, for, graceful as a fawn and with spirits buoyant
and elastic, her features, at one moment gleaming with hope, and the
next, subdued in sympathy, were changeable as the aspects of the summer
cloud, but beautiful in all its changes—for the light it reflected was
borrowed from heaven.”

“Hers, then, was the beauty of expression.”

“Yes, of angelic expression, and yet her countenance was exquisitely
lovely in repose. It reminded one of an inland lake, which, when serene
and undisturbed, reflects the flowers and the foliage around it; but,
when agitated, the shadows on its surface, the tiny crests of foam and
mimic waves brattling on the shore, all its wild and shifting beauties
are its own. She died on an early summer’s morning, the dew-drop yet
sparkling on the blade which, while it bent, it fertilized; and the
whole earth, in one gush of fragrance, sent up its tribute to the mighty
hand that made it.”

“Oh, Edward! it were happiness thus to die.”

“Ay, dearest, it is only a spirit pure and spotless as your own, that
can realize that death has no terrors where life has no reproaches.”

A pressure of the hand was her only reply, for his eyes were filled with
tears, and she felt too much moved to speak. After a slight pause he
proceeded. “In less than twelve months, my mother followed her to the
grave, and the day and the hour, the occasion and the scene, are deeply
graven in my memory; but,” he continued, observing her emotion, “I will
not distress you with the sad recital, although the sorrows of that
bitter hour were not without their solace—for, feeling that our loss
would be her gain, the showers and the sunshine, the alternate gloom and
brightness of the day without, were typical of our hopes and fears. My
patrimony was considerable, and my mother had named a distant relative
and seemingly attached friend as her executor and my guardian.

“A few weeks found me under the roof of Mr. Thornton. The exchange was a
sad one. I had left the home of my infancy, where every familiar object
was associated with some kindly phrase or act of endearment, to become a
member of a proud aristocratic family, which traced its lineage from
England. I could have endured privations without repining, but I was
peculiarly sensitive of neglect, and was like the vine cast from the
trunk which had supported it, whose tendrils, unsustained and drooping,
are swayed to and fro by the wind, seeking for something whereupon to
cling. Repelled by the cold indifference of the family, my yearning
nature found the sympathy it needed in the friendship of Mr. Winchester,
who was employed as a private tutor for Mr. Thornton’s children. Above
all men I have ever seen, he united the wisdom of the serpent with the
simplicity of the dove. Placed under his tuition, I made rapid progress,
he was pleased to say, not only in the acquisition of knowledge from
books, but in that more difficult branch which teaches us to analyze our
feelings, and to know ourselves. You remember Mr. Hamilton, who left
here shortly after my arrival?”

“Indeed, I do, and esteem him highly, for he is a most excellent man.”

“Well, imagine him a little taller, a shade more pensive, somewhat more
retiring in his manners, and with an enunciation yet more distinct, and
you have Mr. Winchester before you.”

“I see him—and with the character you give, feel that I could love him
too.”

“Ay, that you would, for his meek exterior concealed a spirit
incorruptible as that of Brutus, and as benevolent as Howard himself. To
him I am indebted for all that I am or can ever hope to be. At that time
politics ran high; Napoleon, the great human vulture, was gorging
himself with the blood of nations, and the blood-red flag of England
claimed the empire of the seas. The discordant clamor of party strife
was loud and vehement, and the whole country seemed to vibrate with the
throes of political convulsion. Warped by his pride of descent, and
giving the tone to his family, at Mr. Thornton’s fireside, in all
political discussions, the cause of England was strenuously maintained.
It was here that, as I grew older, I derived the greatest benefit from
the counsels of Mr. W. A pure patriot, without a parade of zeal, he ever
upheld the cause of his country. Pointing out the distinction between
the governments of Europe and the one we had adopted, how the former
strove to maintain an idle and luxurious class in exclusive privileges,
while the other recognized no difference between man and man, he
ingrafted in me an attachment to our institutions as warm and enduring
as his own. But for him, I might have imbibed the alien feelings of the
family with which I was domesticated.

“About the close of my second year under his tuition, news came of the
wanton attack upon, and inglorious surrender of the Chesapeake. At Mr.
Thornton’s table that day, much was said of the valor of the English,
and the craven spirit of the Americans. Mr. Winchester mildly but firmly
defended his countrymen; but his opposition provoked such a torrent of
abuse, and such violent denunciations of every thing pertaining to
America, that, interrupting Mr. Thornton in his loudest tirade, he
announced his determination of forever quitting a house which he
considered as a fit shelter only of foes and traitors. A violent
outbreak seemed inevitable, but his calm and lofty demeanor quelled the
rising storm; and, true to his word, he left the next morning. After his
departure, the last tie that bound me to the spot was severed, and I
applied to be sent to college. To my surprise, Mr. Thornton declined,
and threw out some vague hints of an unpaid bond and a threatened
lawsuit that might involve my whole estate. I then asked to be sent
elsewhere to school, but was again denied. I therefore determined, hap
what might, to leave the place, and make my way to one of the Atlantic
cities, where, in the sanguine spirit of youth, I felt sure of achieving
something. Any thing was preferable to the life there before me. I had
read of perilous escapes, and in my inexperience, confounding my
situation with that of some imaginary captive, and fearing a thousand
obstacles, I waited impatiently for a tempestuous night. It came at
last, wild and terrific to my heart’s content.

“Throughout the day the weather had been variable. At one time the tops
of the trees were bowed down by fitful gusts, while at another the wind
gently soughed among the branches, or dying away calm, every thing would
droop with the oppressive heat. The clouds, low, detached and ragged,
seemed to hover over us. The bold and craggy tops of the mountains were
wreathed in mist, and the same humid vapor filled the chasms and swept
down the distant slopes. Even before the sun disappeared, his disc
became lurid; the air seemed to thicken and respiration was difficult.
The untended cattle went lowing to their pens, and the poultry, with
discordant noises, hurried under cover. About dusk, a dense bank of
cloud gathered in the north-west, and while the thunder muttered in the
far-off mountains, it slowly approached us, the lightning playing across
it in incessant flashes. Suddenly, like the smoke of artillery, a number
of jets were thrown out from its upper surface, and then a flash,
compared to which, those were as artificial fire-works which had
preceded it, blinded the eye, and instantly every animate thing shrunk
with dread as a most terrific crash pealed upon the ear. Then came the
whirl and the roar of a tempest. The spirit of the storm was abroad, and
Omnipotence seemed, “to ride on the wings of the mighty wind.” Huge
trees and massive fragments of rock were whirled about like gossamer in
a summer’s breeze. An avalanche of rain followed, the very flood-gates
of heaven seeming to have opened above us.

“The long wished-for hour had now arrived, and bracing myself to the
desperate chance, I threw a change of raiment into a wallet I had
prepared, and hurried forth, preferring rather to encounter the battling
elements than abide with those I could not love. Breasting the driving
rain, I shouted with exultation at the prospect of achieving my own
fortune by my own exertions. Although ‘from cliff to cliff the rattling
crags among,’ I heard ‘the live thunder’ leaping, and the forked
lightning almost seethed the brain with its sharp and sulphurous fire. I
pressed on regardless of the storm and only fearful of pursuit. For some
miles the road, which ran winding among the hills, was overflowed, and
each indentation in the mountains had become the bed of a foaming
torrent. I was obliged to clamber the hill-sides, and spring from ledge
to ledge across the mad and plunging streams. But that I was in full
health, buoyant with hope, and of an elastic frame, I could never have
overcome the difficulties or survived the perils of that night. Once or
twice I nearly despaired, but the prospect of the unfeeling treatment to
which I would be subjected if I returned determined me to persevere.
After severe toil I gained the high-road, and threw myself down
exhausted. I had done so but a few minutes, when, borne upon the wind, I
heard a loud clatter, and now and then a shrill and piercing shriek.
Springing to my feet, I gazed anxiously up the road. The rain had
partially subsided, and a momentary luminous spot in the heavens, showed
the position of the moon; the thunder, no longer near, reverberated in
the distance, and the glare of the lightning, although less frequent,
was no less sulphurous and blinding. I could soon distinguish the tramp
of horses at full speed, and in an instant after, a carriage passed at
headlong velocity. The screams I had heard, satisfied me that there was
at least one person within, and I breathlessly hurried after it.

“A short distance below, the road descended a hill and crossed a stream,
ordinarily wide and shallow, but now, doubtless, swollen and scarcely
fordable. My fears were more than realized, for to my dismay, I soon
found myself up to the armpits in the water. The screams had ceased, and
I could hear nothing to guide me. Suddenly, through the lurid gleaming
of the storm, I saw the carriage, which seemed to be entangled with
something, while the horses, rearing and plunging, madly strove to free
themselves from the harness. With some difficulty I swam to it; the
lateral pressure of the water almost bearing me under by its velocity. I
found that the carriage had taken against a prostrate tree, and that the
struggles of the horses would soon precipitate it over on its side.
Fortunately, I had my hunting-knife with me, and swimming round,
contrived to cut the traces and liberate the horses, but not without
receiving a severe kick on my right shoulder. Forcing open the door, I
found a female form within, but whether alive or dead, in the uncertain
light I could not tell. The water was nearly up to the seat, and rising
with great rapidity. Bearing the body up, I hesitated what to do. With a
bruised limb, and supporting a lifeless form, it would be madness to
attempt to swim. Feeling about, I discovered that the front panel was a
large one, and forcing it out, dragged the wet and dripping figure
through, and placed her on the driver’s seat, while I loudly called for
help. Almost simultaneous with my own, I heard voices shouting along the
road, and guided by my call, assistance was soon procured, and the lady
(who had fainted) rescued from her perilous position.

“Mr. Stephens, a respectable merchant, was, with his wife, returning
from the springs, and had reached the village soon after the storm set
in. He had just alighted, and was holding forth his hand to assist Mrs.
S. to descend, when the horses, blinded by a flash of lightning and
terrified by the peal which succeeded it, ran off at full speed, and the
driver in his effort to recover the reins, fell to the ground.

“Mr. S. expressed so much gratitude for my efforts, and so frequently
proffered his services to aid me if he could, that, melted by his tones
of kindness, I confided to him the secret of my flight and all my future
plans. He listened with deep attention, and endeavored at first to
persuade me to return to my guardian, but finding my repugnance
insuperable, he suggested a mode of enfranchisement at the bare mention
of which my heart fairly leaped for joy. He proposed that I should enter
the navy, a profession, he remarked, which, although little esteemed by
the country, would, he felt sure, if an opportunity offered, gain for
itself a high and imperishable renown. Informing my guardian of the
course intended to be pursued, he exerted his influence, and in a short
time procured me an appointment.

“I made but one cruise previous to the war. Immediately after its
declaration, I was ordered to the frigate Constitution, then lying at
Annapolis. She was commanded by Captain Hull, who, with every officer
and man on board, was exceedingly anxious to get to sea before the enemy
should reach the Chesapeake in superior force. Our captain had twice
ineffectually written to the Secretary of the Navy, urging permission to
proceed to sea. At length he called up the officer of marines and said
to him,

“‘Have you no business that calls you to headquarters?’

“‘None, sir,’ replied the officer.

“‘Then you must make some,’ said the captain, and handing him a letter,
added, ‘you will start this evening so as to reach Washington early
to-morrow. When you get there, let it be your first business to call
upon the Secretary of the Navy and give him this letter, telling him at
the same time, that you will call in three hours for a reply. At the
expiration of the three hours, be sure to take your departure, and I
expect you to breakfast with me the morning after.’

“The officer strictly obeyed his instructions. When the Secretary had
read the captain’s letter, he remarked ‘I am very much occupied at
present, sir, but if you will call in two or three days, I will have an
answer ready for you.’

“‘Sir,’ replied the officer, ‘I am allowed but three hours in Washington
to see my colonel, and at two o’clock I am to start on my return.’

“‘Very well, sir,’ was the reply; and he took his leave.

“At two punctually, he called again, and the Secretary, somewhat
fretted, said, ‘Really, sir, I have not had time to attend to Captain
Hull’s letter, can you not wait until to-morrow?’

“‘Under my present orders, sir, it is impossible.’

“‘Very well, say to Captain Hull that I will write to him by mail.’

“‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the officer, ‘when I assure you that the captain
will be bitterly disappointed if I do not bring something from you.’

“With a gesture of impatience the Secretary drew a sheet of paper toward
him, and writing a few hurried lines, handed the note to the officer,
who took his departure. It contained these remarkable words:

“‘SIR,—You will proceed with the Constitution to New York, and should
you meet any vessels of the enemy, you will note it.’

“It was sufficient, and we immediately weighed anchor and stood to sea.
A short distance out, we encountered a squadron of the enemy, and the
chase that ensued has already become matter of history. Of the fatigue
we underwent, and the unsurpassed exertions we made, I can give you no
idea. For most of the time the wind was light, and occasionally it
subsided to a perfect calm. At such times the sun, fierce and fiery,
scorched us with the intensity of his blaze; while towing and kedging,
our crew toiled manfully and without a murmur: with the perspiration
streaming from their brows, no one dreamed of relaxation. Each one,
sleeping at his post, caught his meals as he could. At one time, the
nearest ship, being towed by all the boats of the squadron, was enabled
to gain fast upon us, notwithstanding our redoubled and almost
superhuman exertions. The surface of the ocean, unmoved by undulation,
and smooth as a mirror, reflected the black and threatening hulls of our
pursuers. Gradually, like huge, creeping monsters, they seemed all to
gain upon us, when, at the very crisis of our fate, a catspaw, faint as
a fleeting shadow, darkened a spot upon the water, and then disappeared,
leaving no trace behind; again, another, and another, imperceptibly
increasing in extent and force, until commingling into one, and rippling
the ocean with its breath, the light but glorious breeze came on.
Swinging the ponderous yards to meet its glad embrace, we thanked our
God that we were the first to feel it. The sails, late so listless and
inactive, first flapped exultingly, and then slowly distending, our
noble ship, in all her grace and pride and beauty, like a recruited
steed, renewed the race she had so nearly lost. With sail on sail,
packed wide and high, from the bulwarks to the trucks, each ship was
soon a pyramid of canvas. Behind us was captivity or death—before us
freedom, and perchance renown. Judge, then, with what thrills of delight
we soon perceived that we were leaving our pursuers. The wind freshened
as the night closed in, and early the ensuing day the enemy abandoned
the chase as hopeless. For sixty hours we had toiled unceasingly, and
human nature had been taxed to the utmost.

“Cut off from New York, our commander determined to proceed to Boston.
Off Long Island we spoke an American vessel, and by her the captain
wrote to the Secretary of the Navy, acquainting him with his escape, and
informing him that he would proceed to Boston, where he trusted to
receive permission to cruise at sea. We reached the harbor late one
evening, by midnight we had commenced taking in provisions and water,
and in twenty-four hours were ready for sea. For three days beyond the
time we should have heard from Washington, we were kept in the most
anxious suspense. All hands were detained on board except the purser,
who, on the arrival of each mail, hurried to the post-office, in the
hope of finding the desired letter. On the third day there did come an
official letter, but it was addressed to a ward-room officer on the
subject of his pay.

“It was then that Captain Hull took a resolution which evinced as much
wisdom as moral courage. He knew that the cruisers of the enemy swarmed
upon our coast, and he chafed with impatient desire to fairly encounter
one of them. He determined to put to sea without orders, and immediately
carried his purpose into execution.

“We had soon the satisfaction to meet an adversary. It was one of the
ships belonging to the squadron which had chased us. Instead of
increasing we now sought to lessen the intervening distance, and as we
approached, each ship, like a combatant in the arena, partially stripped
herself for the conflict. Under reduced sail, leisurely, deliberately,
we neared each other. It was a moment of intense excitement. England had
so long styled herself the mistress of the seas, and the arrogance of
the claim was so lessened by her almost uninterrupted career of victory,
that the boldest and most sanguine among us admitted probability of
defeat. Yet there was no shrinking of the nerve, not one instant’s
hesitation of purpose. Our country had sent us forth, and in the hour of
peril she relied upon us. We knew that we might be defeated, but felt
that we could not be disgraced. The flag, with the proud vessel which
bore it, might sink beneath the waves, or with it, by one terrific
explosion, be scattered in shreds and fragments upon its surface, but
each one felt that it could never be struck to a single adversary.

“I had thought before that I had some idea of a battle, but imagination
fell short of the stern and startling reality. Men, lately so calm,
collected, and seemingly almost impassive, were wrought to the highest
pitch of frenzy, and reeking with perspiration, and begrimed with
powder, as seen through the fire and the smoke, appeared like infuriated
demons. The ship, reeling like a drunken man, quivered with each recoil,
but there was no screaming, no shouting—the ministers of death were too
earnest for noisy exhibition, and except the stifled groans of the
wounded, and the brief, quick words of command, the human voice was
unheard.

“You know the result. At the report of the last gun in that conflict, as
at the blast of the Israelite trumpets before Jericho, the walls of
British invincibility fell—like them, too, never to rise again. But,
dearest, I tire you.”

“No, Edward, I love to listen to you. When I first read of that victory
I wept for joy. Now, although it is past, I tremble, while I rejoice, at
the danger you incurred; but tell me, did you escape unhurt?”

“I received a flesh wound merely, but it proved irritable and difficult
of cure. In consequence, I was prevented from again sailing in the ship;
but my promotion was secured, and I congratulate myself on my present
position. The ship to which I am attached is smaller than the
Constitution, but she is well-manned and ably commanded. There is no
telling at what moment she may meet with an opponent; and you, dearest,
would not have me absent while my shipmates are battling for our
country.”

“No, Edward, I will not be less patriotic than yourself; but we have so
shortly known and understood each other, that it is hard to separate so
soon, and when there is so much danger that we may never meet again;
beside, your impatience retards your recovery.”

“Fear not, Mary, the fever has entirely left me, and my strength
increases daily—thanks to your gentle nurture, for, unseen, though
hovering near, you not only supplied my wants but anticipated every
wish.”

“Speak of it no more, Edward; see, Alfred is coming to call us to
breakfast. I will take the path through the shrubbery and avoid him, or
he will have his jest at our expense when we meet at table.” Springing
from her lover’s side as she spoke, she lingered for an instant as she
gained the copse, and turned with a fond, confiding glance toward him,
but the sound of her brother’s footsteps checked the current of her
feelings, and she was out of sight in an instant.

Edward Talbot was in his 22d year. With a fine figure, his frame
indicated more activity than strength. His hazel eye, undimmed by recent
illness, expressed decision of character, and his dark hair fell in
untrimmed luxuriance over his pale but manly features.

Mary Gillespie was eighteen, and almost a woman. About the medium
stature of her sex, her light, elastic figure moved in unconscious
grace. Her silk-like chestnut hair shaded a neck of snowy whiteness; her
brilliant cheek, now white as a lily, now mantled with a blush, more
surely and more rapidly than words bespoke the current of her feelings;
while her deep-blue eyes, bathed in liquid crystal, and curtained from
the sight by their long and fringing lashes, rarely raised and as
suddenly withdrawn, struck the beholder with wonder and admiration.
Beautiful in person, sensitive in her feelings, and of a most confiding
and affectionate nature, she was a being formed for love.

Mr. Gillespie was a merchant who had resided eight years upon the
island, and for the last three held the situation of American Consul.
The war having interrupted his business, he had been for some time
winding up his affairs preparatory to returning home. He was an
unpretending man, of practical good sense and sterling integrity. He had
been five years a widower. Left with two children he had devoted every
leisure hour to their education. But his son, now in his 14th year,
proved more intractable than the daughter, and increased his anxiety to
return and place him under the charge of competent teachers.

Such was the state of things when Lieutenant Talbot was sent on shore
extremely ill. At first, in his province as consul, Mr. Gillespie had
procured for him the best lodgings that could be hired; but when he
heard his mother’s name, and found that through her the young officer
was related to an old and cherished friend, he at once had him removed
to his own house.

It was not to be expected that, under such circumstances, two kindred
spirits should meet and not assimilate. It is no wonder that thus thrown
together, they should become mutually attached. They did love! love only
as those can do who, trustful in their natures, are uncankered by care,
and in their thoughts, their prayers, their aspirations, and their
dreams, they soon become each other's constant and abiding theme.

The morning after the one with which this tale had opened, Mr. Talbot
threw open his casement, and stepping into the balcony, looked eagerly
toward the west. It was again calm, and the unclouded sun, just risen,
threw his unrefracted rays across the slumbering sea. It was Sunday, all
was silent, and not a vestige of a living thing was seen. Not a solitary
bird fanned the air, no roaming fish disturbed by its gambols the
mirror-like surface of the deep, but on the furthest verge of the
horizon,

        “As idle as a painted ship,
         Upon a painted ocean.”

floated a light and buoyant fabric, which alone, within the broad scope
of vision, proclaimed man as its architect. It was the Hornet, the
symmetrical Hornet, already renowned for a glorious achievement.

In a few hours the sea breeze set in, which, cool and refreshing, is
sent by a merciful Providence to temper the heat of a tropical sun. The
ship was soon under a cloud of canvas, and it was a beautiful thing to
see her inclined to the breeze, dashing along with graceful speed, while
the light tracery of her rigging was reflected upon the sails which
looked snow-white in the glancing beams of the sun. As if instinct with
life, she bounded across the water, and soon dropped her anchor in the
bay.

Captain Biddle, already distinguished for his gallantry, together with
several of his officers, dined with Mr. Gillespie that day. Before
midnight, they were again at sea, for there were enemies abroad, and
they felt bound to seek them.

It were useless to dwell upon the parting interview of the lovers. All
that the gushing fondness of two such natures could impart was
interchanged. Hap what might, though distance should separate, and
circumstances debar their intercourse for months or years, they felt
that unswerving confidence which true and loyal breasts alone can feel.
It is true that they both felt much anxiety—the maiden in especial, for
her lover was exposed to far more than the perils of the deep. But, with
a faith early instilled by the precepts of a pious mother, she placed
her trust on High, and with more of hope than fear, looked forward to
the future.


                              CHAPTER II.

For some weeks the Hornet sought in vain for a cruiser of the enemy.
Some valuable captures were made, and the vessels destroyed, and it was
determined to shift the cruising ground to the South Atlantic.

As they approached the equator, the atmosphere became humid and
oppressive, and they were deluged with frequent rain, compared to which
the heaviest showers of our own more favored clime, are as the dew-drop
to the overflowing cistern. Often at night the sea would be brilliantly
phosphorescent, and the water as dashed aside by the advancing prow,
fell over in curls of flame, while, gamboling around in very wantonness,
myriads of porpoises, the dolphins of antiquity, sportively chased each
other, and darting to and fro, without design or order, checkered with
lines of light the dark, unruffled sea.

The day on which they crossed the line was preceded by a night of
surpassing loveliness. Undisturbed and quiet as a sleeping infant, the
calm and placid ocean lay in beautiful repose, its very heavings, as if
moved by the modulation of sweet sounds, so gentle, as not to impair the
reflections of its mirror-like surface.

Toward morning, a mist arose, which, becoming dense, settled down and
banked around the horizon. As the night waned, faint streaks of light
tinged the dark cloud; gradually the hues became brighter and more
expanded, the violet became purple, the purple reddened into crimson,
and suddenly, as from a bed of flame, the sun looked forth upon the
quiet scene. The serene sky, the placid ocean, the soft breath of the
morning, and the gorgeous sun, were all in keeping with the attributes
of their Maker; while the tiny ship, a mere speck upon the waters,
girdled with iron and prepared for strife, was a fit emblem of the
frailty and insignificance of man.

The inconsiderate and the thoughtless were disappointed that the usual
ceremony of receiving Neptune was dispensed with on crossing the line;
but the Hornet was too well disciplined for such a disorderly
exhibition, and her commander wisely considered the custom of roughly
shaving the uninitiated as one more honored in the breach than the
observance.

After crossing the equator, the atmosphere improved and became balmy and
pleasant, and _so_ rarified that the stars became visible at the very
verge of the horizon. The pole star, the lamp hung out in heaven to
guide the wanderer on the northern deep, although steadfast as faith it
maintained its post, gradually disappeared, and others, more brilliant
but less endeared by association, rose upon the view. High up in the
heavens, two luminous bodies, like fragments of the milky way, became
visible, while lower down toward the pole, another of darker hue was
seen. They were the wonderful Magellan clouds which, from their position
and immovability, are supposed by Humboldt to be the reflections of the
Cordilleras.

The messmates of Talbot had soon perceived a marked change in his
demeanor: His hilarity was gone, and, avoiding his former associates, he
paced the deck or sat apart, wrapped in the visionary aspirations of a
lover. They all suspected the cause, but had too much regard for him to
wound his sensitive feelings by ill-timed jests and allusions. Indeed
their respect for him insensibly increased, for they perceived with
surprise that although completely absorbed in revery when he had no duty
to perform, yet he had become the most vigilant among them, and in
particular paid the most minute attention to the exercise of his
division at the guns and in the use of small arms. At such times, his
eyes sparkled with more than their wonted enthusiasm, and his very air
breathed some exalted purpose.

“Take care, gentlemen,” said the captain one day to a party of officers
near him, “take care! Talbot is wooing glory that he may win a bride,
and if opportunity offers he may bear away the palm.”

“Let him if he can,” was the reply, “we will not begrudge what must be
dearly earned.”

Nearly in a line with the extreme southern limits of two continents, at
the confluence of two mighty oceans, lies Tristan d’Acuna, a high, rocky
and uninhabited island, its summit wrapped in clouds, and, except in one
place, the surf loud and continuous broke upon its shore. The wind was
fresh, and the tumultuous waves ran high, when through the mist the
Hornet gained a sight of the land. While the captain hesitated whether
to venture in, or lie-to and await more favorable weather, the cry “sail
ho!” was heard from aloft.

“Where away?” was quickly asked by the officer of the deck.

“Broad off the weather beam, sir,” was the reply, and the Hornet wore
round and stood toward the stranger. None but those who have experienced
it can form an idea of the thrill of delight with which each man on
board of a cruiser, in time of war, hears the cry “sail ho!” which
ensures the excitement of a chase, and the probability of an engagement.

Long before the hull of the stranger was visible from the deck, her
spars and sails, enveloped in the mist, in their shadowy outline seemed
of gigantic size. Like a shapeless cloud rather than a thing of art, she
came down before the breeze, now and then the mist, in fantastic
wreaths, half concealing, half betraying her form and character. The
American hoisted her colors as an invitation to the stranger to declare
her nationality. Shortly after, the report of a gun came booming over
the water, and there was a shout of exultation among the crew of the
Hornet, as through the vapor they descried the ensign of St. George. The
commander of each vessel, however, was too good a seaman not to be aware
that the wind was too high, and the sea too rough, for a fair encounter.
Each one, brave himself, doubted not the valor of his adversary. With a
tacit understanding that they would meet when the gale abated, the ships
hove-to, in each other’s near vicinity. They rode out the night in
safety, each one carrying a light, to denote her position to the other.

The next day it moderated, and at 1 P. M. the Hornet hoisted her jack at
the fore, as an intimation that she was ready for the encounter. The
signal was promptly answered, and the vessels filling away on opposite
tacks, exchanged broadsides as they passed. Immediately after, like two
knights engaged _à l’outrance_, each again wore round and stood directly
for the other, while from forward, aft, successively as they bore, the
guns were fired with singular precision. As they neared each other, the
scene became more and more exciting: Beside the boom of the cannon, the
pealing of the musketry soon became incessant, and the hurtling of iron
and lead was terrific. The atmosphere was soon thick and stifling, and
the crews were working their guns with the energy of desperation, when a
severe concussion, followed by a harsh and grating sound, told that the
ships were afoul.

“Away! boarders away!” was the instant cry on board of the Englishman,
and a host of men, cutlas and pistol in hand, gathered on his
forecastle.

“Stand by to repel boarders,” was the prompt response of the American,
and a forest of bristling pikes was arrayed against the assailants. Talk
of serried ranks and wedged battalions; of the compact square, and even
of the deep moat and frowning parapet! who would not charge upon either,
rather than breast that fretted line of steel, held by those
stern-visaged men! The enemy paused and faltered.

By word and example, Talbot had encouraged his men to their utmost
exertion, and at the first call, had hurried with them to repel the
enemy; but, when that enemy hesitated, although but for an instant, he
shouted, “On them, men! on! on!” and rushed forward as he spoke, to
board them in turn.

“Hold, men! hold! Back, Mr. Talbot, back, I command you,” shouted the
captain. “My God! he’s gone!” he added, as the two ships, lifted high by
a passing wave, fell apart, and the fore-mast of the enemy came down
with a frightful crash. The instant before, Talbot had sprung upon her
bowsprit, and the next, just escaping the mast as it fell, he was upon
her deck.

Captain Biddle, although he had been firm as a veteran throughout the
fight, no sooner beheld the peril of his officer, than, trembling like
an aspen, he sprung into the rigging, and in a voice shrill and distinct
amid the uproar, called out, “Hurt but a hair of his head and I’ll sink
you where you lie.”

In the meantime, Talbot had not been idle. Striking right and left,
parrying where he could, but not stopping to return a blow, he pressed
on, and in less time than it has taken to narrate this incident, had
gained the quarter-deck, cut the halliards and hauled the ensign down.

Immediately on separating from the enemy, the Hornet ranged ahead, and
was prepared to throw in a broadside, but seeing the colors down, hailed
to know if they had surrendered. The reply was in the affirmative.

The prize was immediately taken possession of, and Talbot was found
almost insensible, endeavoring to staunch the blood from an ugly wound
with the flag he had hauled down.

So destructive had been the fire of the American that the prize was
completely riddled: She was therefore scuttled; and in a very short time
the Hornet was again prepared for action.

The wound of poor Talbot was so severe as to leave no hope of his being
able to perform duty the remainder of the cruise. A merchant vessel that
was fallen in with was chartered as a cartel, and all the prisoners,
with a few of the wounded, including Talbot, were put on board of her,
to be taken to the United States.

Under the judicious treatment of the medical officer who accompanied
them, he was fast recovering when they passed the island, where we first
introduced him to the reader. At his urgent request he was landed, the
cartel, after a few hours delay, proceeding on her course.

Like the anguish of the parting, the glorious ecstasy of the meeting of
the lovers may be imagined, but cannot be described.

“Dear Edward,” said the maiden, as soon as they were alone, “Dr. Holmes
has told me all, and you have more than realized my wildest and most
extravagant hopes.”

“Say not so, Mary! indeed you should rather take credit to yourself, for
if I have been swayed by any other motive than love of country, it has
been to prove myself worthy of your rare affection.”

“It was ever so with you, Edward—you first excite our admiration, and
then ascribe to others the fruits of your own good deeds.”

“Nay, sweet girl, you wrong yourself and me. Tell me, what is the body
without the soul?”

“An inanimate lump of clay—but why the question?”

“Because to me you are what the soul is to the body—the life which
animates and the spirit which directs it—you are at once my inspiration
and my hope—the burthen of my thoughts, the aim and object of all my
aspirations.”

“Hush, Edward, this cannot, nay, I would not have it to be true; let us
change the theme.” She laid her hand upon his mouth as she spoke—but
what maiden was ever yet displeased with the devotion of a favored
lover?

In the course of their conversation, Talbot learned that Mr. Gillespie
had completed his arrangements, and was on the look out for a vessel to
convey himself and family to the United States. The former was of course
anxious to accompany them, and in the midst of happiness was, perhaps,
the most impatient of them all, for Mr. Gillespie would not consent to
his daughter’s marriage before she had seen her relatives at home:
Perhaps, too, he wished to inquire more particularly than he had yet
been enabled to do, into the character and circumstances of the man he
was about to receive as his son-in-law. He knew him to be brave and
intelligent, and of frank and winning manners, but he knew nothing
more—the captain of the ship, when he dined with him, having answered
his questions in general terms of commendation.

They waited for a long time in vain. So ruinous had the war become to
American commerce, that for months not a vessel from the United States
had visited the island.

Late one evening a schooner, named the Humming-bird, formerly an
American letter-of-marque, arrived, bringing intelligence of peace
between England and the United States. The owners of the schooner had
without delay applied for a commission to the Colombian minister, and
she was now equipped as a privateer under that flag. The commander of
her, having been drawn from his course by a vessel to which he had given
chase and captured two days previous, purposed proceeding immediately to
Nassau, New Providence. As from thence a speedy conveyance to the United
States could certainly be procured, and no Spanish cruisers were
supposed to be at sea, Mr. Gillespie offered such inducements to the
captain that he consented to take them as passengers, and gave up his
cabin for their accommodation.

In less than sixty hours they sailed, with a light but favorable wind.
About 4 P. M. the second day, when they were nearly through the Mona
passage, it fell calm. Within the passage, from shore to shore, there
was not a ripple upon the water, and the light and buoyant little
vessel, without advancing a foot, rose and fell with the mysterious
undulation. A few miles ahead, without the passage, stretching from the
east toward the west, the dark and ruffled surface was relieved by the
white caps of the waves, whose tops were curling and breaking into
sparkling foam. It was the trade wind sweeping, unobstructed by the
land, toward the Great Bahama Bank. Several vessels were in sight, among
them a large one, coming down before the wind, but which, less than any,
excited their attention—for she seemed too burthensome for a Spanish
trader to the colonies.

“Captain,” said Talbot, half an hour after, “unless I am very much
mistaken, that large stranger to windward is a man-of-war.”

“Probably an Englishman.” replied the captain.

“Scarcely, the canvas is not sufficiently dark, and the upper sails
roach too much; it is evidently a frigate, and now I think of it, can
hardly be a Frenchman, for they rarely cruise in this direction. Are you
sure that there are no Spanish cruisers among the islands?”

“None so large as this,” answered the captain, “for the Isabella went to
leeward upward of a month ago.”

“May it not have been a ruse?” asked Talbot.

“Give me the glass,” said the captain, and he looked long and earnestly;
“I cannot make her out,” he said at length, “but do not like her looks.
Get out the sweeps, Mr. Long,” he added, addressing his lieutenant, “we
must have the Humming-bird out of this mill-pond, or her wings will be
useless.”

The order was promptly obeyed, and the little vessel was soon moving at
the rate of three or four knots through the water; but the larger vessel
was in the mean time coming down at treble velocity. As soon as the
schooner began to feel the influence of the wind, the sweeps were laid
in, and all sail made to the northward, in the hope that the stranger
would pass without observing them. In this, however, they were
disappointed, for, as the latter was brought to bear abeam, they
observed with anxiety, that she edged away toward them.

“I fear that we have been deceived in our intelligence,” said the
captain, in reply to a look from Talbot, as they noticed the suspicious
movement of the stranger.

“For Heaven’s sake, conceal your misgivings from Mr. Gillespie and his
family while there is a hope,” asked Talbot; to which the captain nodded
assent, and proceeded quietly to make his arrangements to elude, if
possible, the grasp of his pursuer; for he now felt convinced that he
saw the Isabella. The best sailing of the schooner was by the wind;
instead, therefore, of keeping away before it, she was hauled close to
it, and steered N. N. E. bringing the frigate to bear forward of the
weather beam.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               FLORENCE.


                           BY HENRY B. HIRST.


                               PROLOGUE.

              An humble cottage, overgrown
                With woodbine, stood beside a hill,
              And nigh it, murmuring through moss,
                    Rippled a little rill.

              The hill was high and wore a crown
                Of leafiness, whence, gazing down,
              An eagle might behold the towers
                    And turrets of a town.

              And many a pleasant country cot,
                Snowy, and peering through the green,
              With, now and then, a rivulet,
                    Meandering, might be seen.

              But in the landscape, like a king,
                A short half mile or more away,
              A grim old castle stood, erect,
                    Baronial and gray.

              Around it lay an ample park,
                With, here and there, a drove of deer;
              A rude old Norman edifice,
                    Dark, desolate and drear!

              Perhaps it was the morning sun
                Which made the ancient building smile,
              But, nevertheless, a pleasant look
                    Was on the agéd pile.

              Perhaps it was with joy it smiled
                That morn, the merriest of the year,
              Which welcomed home its youthful lord,
                    Young Lionel De Vere.

              Perhaps the thought of earlier days
                Flitted athwart its granite brain;
              Perchance it dreamed it might behold
                    Those golden hours again—

              Those hours when, in the tournament,
                Warriors, in glistering steel attired,
              Tilted before young demoiselles,
                    Who blushed to be admired;

              Or when the forest echoes rang
                With many a merry bugle-horn,
              And stag and hounds, a baying rout,
                    Swept by some autumn morn.

              But whether it was the morning sun
                Which made the ancient mansion smile,
              Or other things, a pleasant look
                    Lit up the agéd pile.


                                PART I.

              She stood among her garden flowers,
                The very loveliest lily there,
              Beauty, bloom, purity and truth
                    Unfolding on the air.

              He paused among the trees and gazed,
                And like a bark with sails unfurled,
              His heaving heart went forth to seek
                    Another and a fairer world.

              All heaven he felt was in her eye;
                Its sunshine glistened in her glance;
              The air he breathed was elfin air;
                    His soul was in a trance:

              “Ah, spirit of some virgin saint,
                Turn—turn those blesséd eyes on me,
              And let me kneel and worship thee!”
                    Deliriously said he.

              She raised her eyes, her maiden cheek
                Mounting the crimson tinge of dawn,
              And, looking timidly around,
                Stood, like a startled fawn.

              “Nay, do not fly,” exclaimed the youth;
                “Remain; allow my thirsty eyes
              To quaff thy beauty: I would drain
                    A draught of Paradise.”

              Wonder awaking in her face,
                The maiden stood, with lips apart,
              Drinking his voice, whose cadence stole
                    In harmony to her heart.

              And even as she stood he came,
                And, kneeling, bade her fear no wrong;
              While all the while the murmuring air
                Moved musical with song.

              His words were not as other’s words,
                His voice was like no other voice,
              Somehow, she knew not why, it made
                    Her maiden heart rejoice.

              And from that moment all things grew
                Lovelier with light, because of him,
              And, like a cup of wine, her heart
                    Was crimson to the brim.

              “What shall I call thee?” asked the maid;
                “How name thee?” “Clarence is my name,”
              Returned the youth—“an honest one,
                    Though all unknown to fame.

              “And how shall I call thee?” quoth he.
                “Florence,” replied the maid—“a mean
              And humble village girl.” “But fit,”
                Said he, “to be a queen!”

              Day after day, at eventide,
                The stranger sought her, breathing words
              Of passion, while her timid heart
                    Beat like a frightened bird’s.

              But not with fear, for every pulse
                Was swayed by love, that, moon-like, rides
              The empyrean of the adoring heart
                    And rules its purple tides.


                                PART II.

              Merrily through the town they went
                A proud, chivalric cavalcade
              Of knights and nobles and esquires,
                    In silken robes arrayed.

              And each sustained his high degree,
                But foremost there, without a peer
              In manly majesty of mien,
                    Rode Lionel De Vere.

              The ostrich plumes which flowed and waved
                In silver clouds above his brow,
              Were gray and lustreless beside
                    That forehead’s dazzling snow.

              The diamond broach which held the plume
                Flashed in the sunlight, like a star,
              Throwing its ever radiant rays
                    In rainbow hues afar.

              The ruby burning on his breast,
                Blazing and blossoming as he turned,
              Was fervid as his heart, which, fed
                    With honor, nobly burned.

              And as he passed, his lofty head
                Bending in answer to the cries
              Of loving vassals, nobler form
                    Never met woman’s eyes.

              A smile for one of mean degree,
                A courteous bow for one of high,
              So modulated both that each
                    Saw friendship in his eye.

              Onward he rode, while like the sound
                Of surf along a shingly shore,
              The murmur of a people’s joy
                    Marched, herald-like, before.

              Timidly, while before them pressed
                The peasants, in a little nook
              Two women stood—two timid things—
                    To snatch a hasty look:

              One, weak and old—an agéd dame—
                December toward its latter day;
              The other young and pure and fair,
                    The maiden month of May:

              Trembling with curious delight
                She rose on tip-toe, gazing through
              The mass of heads which, like a hedge,
                    Bordered the avenue.

              The sound of horns, which rolled and broke
                Like summer thunder, and the crash
              Of cymbals, while the hound-like drum
                    Howled underneath the lash;

              The toss of plumes, the neigh of steeds,
                The silken murmur of attire,
              As the proud cavalcade drew nigh,
                    Filled her young heart with fire.

              He came, her lord, the lord of all
                Who gazed and gazed afar or near,
              And as he bowed they hailed with shouts
                    Lord Lionel De Vere.

              A trouble flitted through her face—
                A shadow, and before her eyes
              She passed her hands, as if to check
                    Some terrible surmise.

              Nearer and nearer, while like one
                Struck dumb she gazed, the noble came,
              And as he passed the people flung
                    Their blessings on his name.

              One little cry—a feeble cry—
                The name of “Clarence,” and she passed:
              He heard it not, its tiny sound
                    Died in the clarion’s blast.


                               PART III.

              The cottage stood in solitude,
                The woodbine rustled on the wall,
              The Marguerites in the garden waved
                    In murmurs one and all;

              And, rippling by, the rivulet
                Seemed sobbing, like a frightened child,
              Who, wandering on, has lost its way
                    In some deserted wild.

              The day was waning in the west,
                And slowly, like a dainty dream,
              The delicate twilight dropped her veil
                    On fallow, field and stream.

              The purple sky was sown with stars
                When Clarence came: she was not there,
              And desolately frowned the night,
                    And stagnant was the air.

              But on the little rustic seat
                Where they had often sat, there shone
              A letter, and the noble name
                    Along it was his own.

              “Farewell,” it said, “that I exist
                Breathing the word which is the knell
              Of love and hope is not my will.
                    But God’s alone: Farewell.

              “Never more on this once loved spot,
                Never more on the rivulet’s bank,
              Shall we sojourn: my love, great lord,
                    Insults thy lofty rank.

              “Go, seek some fitter mate: for me,
                Too poor to be thy wife, too proud
              To be thy leman, grief, despair,
                    The death-bed, and the shroud.”

              He read appalled, amazed, aghast,
                Stern as a statue, and the stone
              Was pale Despair, its haggard look
                    Less awful than his own.

              A thought, and like a storm he dashed
                Along the grassy walk: no spark
              Shone from the cottage: all within,
                    Without, around, was dark.

              He knocked and knocked, but no one came:
                He entered, and the silent room
              Was vacant, and his darkened heart
                    Grew darker with the gloom.

              Next day the grim old castle stood
                Neglected: whether its heart of stone
              Was touched, I know not, yet I heard
                    The ancient mansion moan.

              Perhaps I was deceived; the wind
                Went howling over woods and moors,
              And round the castle, like a ghost
                    Stalking its corridors.


                                PART IV.

              The snow had fallen hour on hour;
                The wind was keen, and loud and shrill
              It whistled through the naked trees
                    And round the frozen hill.

              The country everywhere was white;
                The forest oaks that moaned and pined
              Wore caps of snow, which, bowing low,
                    They doffed before the wind.

              Twilight descended, and the air
                Was gray, and like a sense of dread,
              Night on the virgin breast of earth
                    Her sable shadows spread.

              Slowly, with wavering steps a man
                Moved on a solitary moor,
              With staff, and shell, and sandaled shoon,
                    A pilgrim pale and poor.

              Slowly, with trembling steps he moved,
                Pausing, as if uncertain where
              To take his way, when, faint and far,
                    A bell disturbed the air.

              And as with concentrated strength
                He sought the sound, a little light
              Shone flickeringly and glow-worm like
                    Through the ravine of night.

              A little light that with each step
                Became distinct, until his eyes
              Beheld a convent’s welcome walls
                    Between him and the skies.

              He reached the portal—rang the bell,
                And as above him rose the moon,
              Sank, like the storm: the portress found
                    The pilgrim in a swoon.

              They bore the wasted wanderer in:
                Pallid but beautiful he lay,
              A dream which seemed to come from heaven
                    Though clad in suffering clay.

              And when, long hours of anguish gone,
                His eyes once more shone calmly blue,
              Looks that seemed grievous memories
                    Dimmed their ethereal hue.

              His soul, which many days had walked
                The ploughshares of consuming love.
              Wrung by the ordeal, raised its eyes
                    Toward Him Who reigned above.

              He sought the chapel; at the shrine
                Knelt, while his eyes were wet with tears—
              God’s love in holy harmonies
                    Filling his penitent ears.

              Even as he knelt the solemn mass,
                “ORA PRO NOBIS, DOMINE,”
              Rose, like a dove on sun-lit wings,
                    Seeking the heavenly way.

              Concordant voices sweet and clear
                Rang through the consecrated nave,
              Discoursing melodies which rolled
                    And broke, wave over wave.

              As in an ecstasy he knelt,
                Cheeks, lips and eyes alive with light,
              Radiant, as if a saint, or Christ
                    Himself had blessed his sight.

              For in the voices one sweet voice
                Swam, like a spirit’s, in his ears:
              He could not speak, or move, or breathe;
                    While slowly trickling tears

              Ran down his cheeks, as, louder still,
                The swan-voiced organ breathed its knell,
              And on its cloudy height of song
                    Paused, trembled, moaned and fell.

              But as its echoes died away,
                His spirit trod that golden shore
              Where hope becomes reality
                    And sorrow is no more.

              He sought the abbess; on his knees
                Unfolded, page by page, his grief;
              While she, albeit cold and stern,
                    Wept, yielding to belief.

              And Florence came, while Clarence stood
                In breathless silence far apart,
              A thousand hopes and joys and fears
                    Conflicting at his heart.

              Throwing aside his pilgrim cowl
                Clarence fell trembling at her feet:
              “Florence,” he murmured, “loved and lost,
                    At last, at last we meet.”

              She stood in silence, with her eyes
                Fixed on the youth—a heavenly calm
              From out whose subsidence of sound
                    Came “Clarence,” like a psalm.

              And then he knelt and told his tale:
                How he had loved in other lands,
              And she he sought had faithlessly
                    Obeyed a sire’s commands,

              And left him desolate; how, when,
                After long weeks of aching pain
              A pale, heartbroken, weary man,
                    With fevered brow and brain,

              He sought his native land, and stood
                Again within his castle halls,
              But found that soothing Peace had flown
                    Forever from its walls;

              And how, when wandering in the woods,
                Accusing God of all his wo,
              Madder with memories of the Past
                    Than any fiend below,

              She, Florence, like an angel, rose
                To calm his heart, and dry his tears,
              And fill his brain with melodies
                    Stolen from statelier spheres.

              And how he sought to test her love,
                And feared, recurring to the past,
              That this, his eidolon of joy,
                    Might prove too bright to last.

              And so, in humble garb, in state
                No loftier than the maiden’s own,
              He sought her love, not for his lands
                    But for himself alone.

              And how he came and found her gone,
                And since, month after month, in pain,
              Had followed her from town to town,
                    With burning heart and brain;

              And how, when hope was gone, and life
                Seemed like a land which lay behind—
              The future like a desolate void—
                    How, when he most repined—

              When death had been a welcome thing,
                Her voice, the concord of the spheres,
              Had called his memory from her tomb
                    On which it lay in tears.

              She stood and listened with her eyes
                And ears and heart—cheek, lip and brow
              Serene with happiness which shone,
                    Like sunlight over snow.

              And with a breathless eloquence
                Which, more than words or vows, exprest
              Her boundless confidence, she hid
                    Her blushes in his breast.


                               EPILOGUE.

              One day, in early autumn time,
                In spirit, I traversed the plain,
              And sought De Vere’s ancestral towers,
                    And gazed on them again.

              They stood in green and glorious age;
                The rooks wheeled round the ancient walls,
              And peals of mirthful merriment
                    Peopled the castle halls—

              Loud laughs, which made the watchful deer,
                With ears thrown forward, look and bleat
              And seek a covert, while the sounds
                    Followed their pattering feet.

              The swallows, twittering in the air,
                Seemed sharers in the general gladness;
              The stares from oak and beach and elm,
                    Chattered in merry madness.

              Across the drawbridge, as I gazed,
                A merry, laughing cavalcade,
              With dogs in leash and hawk on hand,
                    Dashed madly down the glade.

              Among them, stateliest of them all,
                Sat one whose broad and ample brow,
              Though white with time, was full of life
                    As lichen under snow.

              And by his side, with smiling eye,
                And swelling breast, in robes of green,
              Rode one, round whom the nobles prest
                    As round a loving queen.

              And after, hand on hip, two youths
                Rode gayly onward, side by side,
              Returning with admiring love
                    Their parents’ glance of pride.

              While in the distance, like a sire
                Who sees at Christmas festival
              His happy children laughing round,
                    Smiled the baronial hall.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            THE DIAL-PLATE.


                           BY A. J. REQUIER.


               All rusty is the iron grate
               That girds the garden desolate,
               But there it stands, the dial-plate,
               A thing of antiquated date,
                 Right opposite the sun.
               The wild moss and the fern have grown
               Upon its quaint, old-fashioned stone,
               And earthy mounds about it strown
               Seem each to say, in solemn tone,
                 “A race is run!”

               Of yore, in vernal beauty smiled
               This spot of earth so drear and wild,
               And you might chance to see a child,
               Up-scrambling on the gray stones piled
                 Around the dial-plate;
               Then might you hear his laughter ring
               Clear as the chime of bells in spring,
               When, like a pompous little king,
               He strutted on that queer old thing
                   In mock estate.

               Long years have circled slowly round
               Upon that wheel which hath no sound;
               The urchin has in manhood found
               A beauteous maid, and they are bound
                   By Hymen’s silken tie;
               There stand the couple, side by side,
               The bridegroom and his dainty bride,
               The sunbeams from the dial slide
               Deep in their cells beneath the tide—
                   As deep Love’s sigh!

               Comes tottering age with thin, white hair,
               And that same youth is standing there!
               But now his head is almost bare,
               And twinkles in his eye a tear,
                   Fresh from his withered core;
               Gone are the loved ones of his breast,
               Gone to their everlasting rest,
               Grim Death has robbed the old man’s nest,
               And they are now his mouldering guest
                   For evermore!

               Ye pilgrims on the shores of Time!
               Of every age and every clime,
               Like flowers ye spring up in your prime,
               Like them ye fade at vesper chime
                   In twilight of the tomb;
               Oh! pluck the roses while ye may,
               Each instant heralds Life’s decay,
               Mark well the dial’s fleeting ray,
               There is a world beyond the clay—
                   Beyond its gloom.

               Old father Time expects his fee,
               Look how he rubs his hands in glee,
               A mighty pair of scales hath he,
               To weigh Earth and Eternity,
                   “As misers count their gold;”
               From earth he plucks each minute-pin,
               And down the other he drops it in—
               Take heed! the weigher soon must win
               He stares upon you with a grin—
                   Your days are told!

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: W.P. Frith                                 Addison

THE BRIDAL NIGHT.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           UNEQUAL MARRIAGES.


                        BY CAROLINE. H. BUTLER.


“Sister, are you determined, then, to marry Annette to Mr. Eccleson?”
asked Mr. Goodman of his sister, Mrs. Doily.

“Certainly I am, brother,” answered the lady. “In every respect it is a
most advantageous match for her; indeed, John, I assure you that I look
upon an alliance with the Eccleson family as one of the most desirable
things which could possibly happen, and so does Mr. Doily.”

“I do not agree with you,” said her brother; “and I fear in the end, you
may have reason to change your present views.”

“And why so, brother?” returned Mrs. Doily. “It seems to me you are
always looking upon the dark side! Now do tell me, John, what reasonable
objection you can possibly have to Annette’s marriage—I am sure I see
none—and, of course, no one can have her happiness more at heart than
her own mother! Is not Mr. Eccleson very rich, and nearly allied to some
of the very first families in the city? His age surely can be no serious
objection—indeed, it is all for the best, for a man stands still, while
a woman grows old; and fifteen years hence, depend upon it, no one will
think him fifteen years her senior. Then he is very agreeable, and
certainly uncommonly good-looking!” and with the air of one who feels
satisfied that they have the best of the argument, Mrs. Doily
complacently swung to and fro in her easy rocking-chair.

“Yes, Jane, he is all these—and, you may add, too, as proud as
Lucifer!” said Mr. Goodman.

“He has reason to be proud!” put in Mrs. Doily.

“Perhaps he has,” answered her brother, “and you will find that his
pride will not allow him to acknowledge willingly any connection with a
dry-goods retailer!”

“Ridiculous, brother—how foolish you talk! Pray, then, why should he
offer to marry Annette, if he looks upon the connection as something to
be ashamed of?” said Mrs. Doily, getting almost angry.

“Why? why because he has fallen in love with Annette’s pretty face; he
means to marry _her_, not her family, and he trusts to his future power
over her, and to a woman’s devotedness to her husband, right or wrong,
to wean her away from all her earlier ties!”

“John, you really talk very strangely!” exclaimed Mrs. Doily, almost
ready to cry. “What possesses you to run on in this way, just as if my
dear Annette could ever be brought to give up all her old friends for
strangers. I do wish you would not talk so—it really makes me nervous!”

“Well, my dear sister, I may be mistaken, and for your sake, and for
Annette’s sake, I hope to God I am! I call myself a pretty good judge of
character, and if I err not, Mr. Eccleson has so much pride, arrogance,
perhaps, would be the better word, for it is not the pride of a
high-minded, honorable man, as will make him callous what ties he rends,
or what sacred altars he may trample down to serve his own ambitious
views. Besides, Jane, I never yet knew any true happiness to result from
unequal marriages; and I tell you honestly, that were Annette my
daughter, I would sooner see her the wife of an honest young tradesman,
who has his own fortune and standing to build up, than the wife of Penn
Eccleson, were he ten times richer than he is!”

“Oh, yes, John, were Annette _your daughter_!” said Mrs. Doily, forcing
a laugh. “Yes, I know, old bachelors and old maids are always most
wonderful patterns of parental prudence! but with all your prejudices
you will allow one thing, I hope, that Mr. Eccleson is far from being
either a selfish or a mercenary man!”

“I deny the first,” interrupted Mr. Goodman.

“For he refuses to receive any fortune with Annette; true, we could not
give her much—five or six thousand dollars, perhaps—but even that is
something; and I am sure his refusal to accept of it is very noble. It
is Annette, and Annette alone he wants.”

“True, very true—it is Annette he wants, and not a penny of the
retailer’s money—there shall be no obligation of that nature to bind
him to the family of the future Mrs. Eccleson!” exclaimed Mr. Goodman,
starting up angrily from his chair. “Jane, Jane, I protest against this
marriage!” and seizing his hat and cane, he withdrew, leaving poor Mrs.
Doily bathed in the tears she was no longer able to restrain—tears of
vexation and anger, at what she deemed the willful obstinacy of her
brother.

If what Uncle John said was true, it was certainly yet to be proved,
for, perhaps, no marriage in the eyes of partial, hopeful parents, ever
promised a fairer prospect of happiness to trusting girlhood than that
so soon to be consummated.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Penn Eccleson belonged exclusively to the monied aristocracy. His
grandfather and father before him, had both commenced life with a
determination to be rich—richer—richest—and what the former had
accumulated from small beginnings and careful savings, were as carefully
and judiciously applied by the son, until little by little the broad
foundation of future wealth was successfully established.

In the days of their youth, when the freshness of their young lives
should have been given to better and holier ends, the parents of Penn
Eccleson looked forward only to the aggrandizement of themselves and
children, through the potent influence of money; and to this end they
toiled and delved in the service of Mammon, with a bondage almost equal
to that of the gold-seeking maniac amid the mountain fastnesses of
California, denying themselves all the luxuries, and most of the
comforts of life to swell the hoard of avarice, and feed their
ill-directed ambition.

As years took their flight, step by step the Ecclesons gradually emerged
from the obscurity of a narrow cross-street in the lower part of the
city, to the possession of one of the most elegant establishments in the
fashionable region of —— Square. The most _genteel_ schools were
selected for their children, who were expressly forbidden to form any
friendships with their little school-mates, save those whose parents
could at least boast of a carriage, and thus, their heads early filled
with conceit and pride, the little Ecclesons formed as disagreeable a
trio as one would care to see—for assuredly there is nothing more
unpleasing, than to behold the beautiful simplicity of childhood lost in
the supercilious airs and artificial graces of the fine lady!

The Ecclesons were regarded at first in no very favorable light, in the
quarter they had chosen for their debut into high life, and occasionally
their pride suffered severely. But with a pertinacity worthy a higher
aim, they firmly stood their ground, and upon the strength of their fine
dinners, and their splendid parties, were, in the course of a few years,
not only tolerated, but received with favor into those circles they most
coveted. Their only son, meanwhile, was traveling in Europe, with a
_carte-blanche_ in his pocket for any expenses he might choose to
indulge, and the sage advice of worthy Polonius engrafted on his mind,
in the sense, I mean, with which Mr. Hudson translates Shakspeare, that
is, “to sit up all night to make himself a gentleman, and take no pains
to make himself a man.”

Time rolled on. Their daughters made highly eligible matches, their son
returned elegant in person, polished in manners, and then it was time
for the old people to die.

Doubtless it would have been a satisfaction to them to have witnessed
their own sumptuous funerals; to have known how daintily their rigid
limbs were draped in the finest of linen, and upon what soft, downy
cushions within their narrow bed their heads were pillowed. It would
have been a splendid pageant for their pride—the richly emblazoned
coffin—the pall of velvet sweeping to the ground—the hearse, with its
long shadowy plumes—the high-mettled horses curbed to a solemn pace,
yet tossing their heads and manes as if nobly spurning from them the
trappings of fictitious wo in which they were forced to act a part—the
stately equipages which follow their dust to the “City of the Dead”—and
then their own epitaphs; it would have amazed them to have known how
many virtues of which they themselves were ignorant, that finely
chiseled marble bestowed upon them.

The old gentleman remembered each of his daughters and their families
handsomely in his will, and then bequeathed to his son the residue of
his large property, including the fine mansion in —— Square. Penn
Eccleson might therefore be considered by speculating papas and mammas a
most eligible match. Nature had also been most lavish in her personal
gifts, while Fortune, as we have seen, had already secured him her
favors.

But young Eccleson seemed in no hurry to take a wife, and he had nearly
attained his thirtieth year ere he began seriously to look about him. At
this time he accidentally saw Annette Doily at the Opera, and became
instantly a victim to love at first sight. It must be owned his ardor
was somewhat cooled, upon ascertaining that this beautiful young
creature was—nobody! that is, she was only the daughter of a mere
shopkeeper, who dealt out tapes and bobbins, and sold cambric by the
yard. This fact, for a time, was sufficient to keep his ardor in check,
but upon being thrown again into her presence, it broke forth with
renewed violence. He gave himself no rest until he had found a way to
make her acquaintance, and thus led by the little god, the haughty Penn
Eccleson, who walked the earth as though he were lord of all, became a
frequent visiter at the house of Mr. Doily, and a suitor for the hand of
his daughter.

Annette was, indeed, a lovely young creature, whose seventeenth summer
had scarcely dawned over her innocent, happy life. I would fain describe
her, as her image comes up before me in the dream of the past, but my
pen is unable to trace the indescribable charm which dwelt upon her
countenance, or the artless grace which pervaded all her movements. And
these were the least traits which endeared her to her friends, for never
was there a heart more affectionate and confiding, or a disposition so
guileless. What wonder that the polished manners and insinuating address
of Eccleson should have gained her heart, and that with all the fervor
and truthfulness of a first love, she blushingly consented to be
his—grateful, too, for the preference he had yielded a simple child
like herself.

Mr. and Mrs. Doily were proud of their daughter, and proud of the
conquest she had achieved. In the alliance they saw an immense
advantage; it not only placed their beloved Annette at once in the
highest circles of rank and fashion, but to Mr. Doily, the benefit to
his business, arising from a connection with the Eccleson family, would
be incalculable. He already fancied himself turning his back upon the
counter, and established among the bales and boxes of a large wholesale
house—perhaps an importer—a ship-owner; while Mrs. Doily, with the
true instinct of a mother, forgetting all self, rejoiced that her two
younger daughters would be ushered into society under the patronage of
their wealthy brother-in-law.

Uncle John was the only one who predicted aught but undivided happiness
from the union.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Had the cloudless heaven which dawned upon their wedding morn, and the
bright sun which burst in gladness over them, but typified their future
lot, how blest and happy would it have been.

Eccleson preferred to be married in church, and a gay retinue attended
the bridal pair to the sacred edifice wherein their solemn vows were to
be registered. As side by side they stood in the holy chancel, all eyes
turned admiringly upon them—she so charming, yet so unconscious of her
loveliness, as with her little hand nestled in his she received the holy
benediction of the priest, while as he bent his lips to her pure brow, a
softness rested upon the features of the bridegroom, which rendered his
beauty almost godlike.

The ceremony over, the two sisters of Eccleson, proud, haughty dames,
advanced and coldly saluted the pale cheek of the fair bride, and
honored the sadly happy mother with a stately bow. Eccleson touched his
lips to the proffered cheek of Mrs. Doily, and then receiving the
weeping Annette from the arms of her parents, bore her exultingly to the
carriage, as if eager to point the barrier henceforth to be raised
between _her_ and _them_.

The new married pair were absent two or three months on a bridal tour,
and then returned to the city—their house in the interim having been
newly and magnificently furnished to the tune of thousands, under the
supervision of Mrs. Dash and Townlif, the sisters of Eccleson. But
Annette pined to embrace her mother; not all the gilded baubles which on
every side met her eye, not all the splendors of which her husband
proudly proclaimed her the mistress, could for a moment quell the
yearnings of her affectionate heart; and scarcely bestowing a glance
upon the magnificence which surrounded her, she begged the carriage
might take her to her parents and sisters.

Poor Annette! she was now to receive her first lesson from her haughty
lord.

“No, Annette, you must not think of it,” replied Eccleson, carelessly
loosing the arms twined so fondly round his neck, “you are very tired,
love, and I cannot consent to your further fatiguing yourself.”

“Indeed, dear Penn, you are mistaken, I am not in the least tired; O,
pray let me go home, if only for an hour!” said Annette, with her little
hand upon his shoulder, and her large, dark eyes bent beseechingly upon
his.

“I tell you, Annette, I cannot suffer you to go into P—— Street
to-night; beside, love,” he added, “it pains me to hear you speak of
going _home_, as if this were not your home, your _only_ home, Annette.”

There was a meaning stress upon the word “only,” which, however, Annette
did not observe, so crushed was she by the disappointment his refusal
caused her. She hesitated a moment, and then once more flinging her arms
around him, she said,

“Dearest husband, I must go—do not refuse me. Only think, it is three
months since I have seen them—three months, Penn, since I have embraced
my mother. I know they are pining to behold me once more, for I was
never away from them even for a day until I became yours, dear Penn; I
am sure I shall not sleep unless I see them to-night.”

“Nonsense, Annette,” replied Eccleson; “you are no longer a child, I
hope, to be thus sighing and whining after your mother; really I am
quite ashamed of my little wife! Come, I will myself show you to your
dressing-room; you have not yet seen the splendid diamonds I have for
you, nor the elegant _trousseau_ my sisters have prepared. Come,
Annette,” and encircling her slender waist with his arm, he would have
led her from the room.

Tears stood in Annette’s beautiful eyes.

“Dearest Penn, will you do me a favor? If you object to my going home
to-night, then let the carriage drive round into P—— Street, and bring
my mother here.”

Eccleson drew himself up haughtily.

“Absurd, Annette—I shall certainly do no such thing. In the morning I
shall not object to your visiting your parents, provided you take an
early hour ere we may expect _my_ friends to call upon you; but the
truth is, the less frequent you make your visits in P—— Street,
Annette, the better I shall be pleased.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Annette, with a startled look upon the
countenance of her husband; “indeed I do not understand you, dear Penn.”

“Well, my dear girl. I will endeavor to explain myself more clearly,”
answered Eccleson. “You are, of course, aware that by your marriage with
me, your position in life has wholly changed; you are now raised to a
sphere greatly above that from which I took you; and as my wife will
henceforth move in none but the highest and most distinguished circles
of the city; and therefore, dearest Annette, for my sake as well as for
your own, it will be desirable that you forget all old associations as
soon as possible.”

“I do not understand you even now, I think,” said Annette, smiling
sadly. “No, I am sure, dear Penn, I do not take your true meaning—for
it cannot be you would have me sacrifice my parents to my new position,
to renounce all the fond ties of home! that is not what you mean?” she
added with an appealing look.

“In a certain sense that _is_ my meaning, love,” answered her husband.
“I shall offer no objections to your visiting your excellent parents
occasionally, or as your parents of receiving them into my house; but,
my sweet Annette, you must study to control your wishes for a very
frequent repetition of these family meetings. It may seem impossible to
you now, but believe me, dearest, you will soon find so much that is
novel and delightful to occupy your thoughts, that you will cease to
regret that which appears to afflict you so much at present.”

With her little hands clasped upon her bosom, and her eyes gazing almost
wildly into his, did Annette listen to the words of her heartless,
selfish husband. But there was no resentment, no anger visible in her
sweet face; with a sigh which would have moved any heart but his, she
said,

“I am grieved to hear you speak so, dear Penn; nothing can ever make me
forgetful of the ties of nature; you yourself would despise me, if,
through the allurements of wealth and fashion, I could be brought to
forget those who gave me being. You know you would; say so, dearest
Penn—you only wanted to prove me, did you?” and casting one arm fondly
around his neck, with a sadly sweet smile she bent her lovely eyes upon
him.

“Annette, we will not talk of this more at present,” answered her
husband; “enough that if you love me, you will, by and bye, better
understand and _do_ my meaning.”

The first night Annette passed under her husband’s roof was a sleepless
one. Her chamber, in its luxurious adornments, might have received a
princess—but little did she heed it. The beautiful hangings of pink and
silver which swept around the bed—the rich counterpane of white satin
which enveloped her lovely form—the downy pillows cased in the finest
lace—nor all the splendors which surrounded her, had power for a moment
to divert her saddened thoughts, or stay the tears of wounded affection.

But hope, bright hope is ever the blessing of youth as of age, and with
the morning dawn gladdened the heart of the young wife with its peaceful
influence, and whispered that her husband meant not the cruel words he
had spoken, and that all would yet be well.

At an early hour the carriage was at the door, and Annette was borne
once more to the arms of her parents. She hoped, but dared not ask her
husband to accompany her, and it was with a heavy sigh and a starting
tear that, after handing her into the carriage, she saw him once more
ascend the marble steps, and then, as the carriage drove off, kissing
his hand to her, re-enter the house.

In the fond welcome of home Annette lost the sorrow which already
touched her young heart. As she viewed each dear familiar spot, her
marriage seemed but a dream. From room to room she flew with the
gladness of a bird—the kitchen—the nursery—the dear old school-room,
all felt her light footstep now rapidly sweeping the keys of the piano
as she glided past—now chasing the little kitten from “mother’s”
work-basket—now releasing her pet canary from its wiry prison, to perch
upon her finger—and finally seating herself upon a low cushion at the
feet of her mother, with the shaggy, sleepy head of old Rover in her
lap, she prepared to answer some of the many questions poured upon her.

And what a proud, happy mother was Mrs. Doily at that moment—laughing
and crying at the same moment as she looked upon her dear, darling
Annette. How many affectionate inquiries she had to make about her new
son-in-law—what plans she laid for the future—why did not Mr. Eccleson
come with her? But she knew he would soon—and Annette must stay to
dinner; yes, the carriage must go back without her, she had been away
from them so long they could not spare her to-day; and Mr. Eccleson
would come to dinner—it was lucky, for they were going to have boiled
turkey and oysters, and the nicest, fattest pair of ducks she ever saw.
But Annette reluctantly excused herself—they were to receive their
wedding visits, and she must go—some other day, soon, very soon she
would come. And kissing them all a dozen times, she sprung into the
carriage and returned home with a lightened heart—for it could not be
that her husband would willingly deprive her of so much enjoyment as
that one brief hour had given her.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It is needless to trace, day by day, and hour by hour, the thralls which
gradually tightened around the kind, loving heart of Annette, who
passively yielded herself to the selfish demands of her husband.

By the haughty relatives of Eccleson she was received either with formal
courtesy, or with that condescending air of patronage, the most keenly
cutting to a sensitive soul. She would have loved them, poor girl, if
they would have suffered her love; but her advances were always
chillingly repelled—they wished her to feel the vast difference which
existed between a shopkeeper’s daughter and their “almighty dreadful
little mightinesses.”

Eccleson loved his young wife as dearly as it was in his nature to love
any one, save _self_—and all _but_ his pride, would have sacrificed to
her happiness. To a gay round of parties, _soirées_, the opera,
theatres, and concerts, he bore her night after night, until any less
gentle nature than Annette’s would have been lost in the giddy whirl of
fashion. Her dresses, her jewels, her equipage, out-rivaled all others;
she was the belle of the brilliant circle in which she moved; but she
pined in her gilded prison, and longed to lay her aching head upon her
mother’s bosom.

The very fact that her husband looked upon her relatives as inferior to
himself, marked the galling dependence of her situation. She was his
wife, but fettered by bonds which ate into her soul. Almost wholly was
she now debarred from the society of her own friends—for she could not
see them insulted, and no better than insult was the haughty bearing
which Eccleson assumed toward them, and therefore she preferred they
should think her the heartless thing she seemed, than by persisting in
her claims, subject them and herself to renewed contumely.

Better would it have been for Annette had she possessed more firmness of
character—a _will_ to do as she pleased—a determination to have her
rights respected. But she was by nature too gentle to wrestle with the
unfeeling hearts around her, and therefore yielded herself a passive
victim. Or better, perhaps, would it have been, had her bosom covered a
marble heart, and that, callous to all the tender ties which can make
life desirable, she should have walked through life that mysterious
anomaly—a beautiful woman without a soul!

But it was not so.

The step of Annette gradually lost its light elastic tread—her cheek
grew pale—her eyes no longer reflected the innocent gayety of a happy
heart, but bent low their drooping lids as if to hide their weight of
sorrow—the bright smile which lent its charms to her speaking
countenance faded sadly away. In less than two years after her marriage
with that proud, haughty man, poor Annette was dying—dying of a
broken-heart—of crushed and blighted affection!

Too late to save her did Eccleson see his error. He saw that he had
drawn too strongly upon her gentle, pliant nature, and that barred from
the light and sun of her childhood’s home—shut out from the kindly
sympathies of parental love, like some beautiful flower of the forest
torn from its genial bed, she was to fade and die at ambition’s altar!

To restore her, if possible, and bitterly repenting his cruelty,
Eccleson now did all in the power of mortal to stay her angel flight. He
brought her parents around her—he surrounded her bedside with the most
skillful physicians, and lavished upon her all the comforts which wealth
could purchase. He took her home and restored to her the treasured
associations of her early life.

Poor Annette was grateful—deeply grateful for this too long deferred
kindness; and now that in this reunion life seemed again to present so
many charms, she would have desired to live had her Heavenly Father so
willed it. But it was too late. The barbed arrow had penetrated too
deeply her innocent bosom to be withdrawn. With her hand clasped in that
of her repentant husband, and her head pillowed on her mother’s breast,
her gentle spirit took its flight.

Gentle reader, this is no exaggerated story I have given you. It is but
another life-drawn sketch of the evils which too frequently arise from
unequal marriages.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             THE ICEBERGS.


                           BY PARK BENJAMIN.


[This poem was composed after reading a vivid description of the passage
  of a ship through the magnificent fields of ice in Hudson’s Bay, by
                              Ballantyne.]

           Beautiful are the Icebergs! gorgeous piles,
             White, green, gold, crimson in the flashing rays
           Of the round sun. Along the waves for miles
             They rise like temples of remotest days.

           Or like cathedrals, churches, columns grand,
             Grander than all that modern Art can claim—
           The gilded fabrics of some Eastern land,
             The mighty monuments of Roman fame.

           Our vessel sails among them like a bird
             Of darkest form, and plumage turned to brown,
           Beside their lustre, as they lie unstirred,
             Yet threatening to careen and topple down.

           Strange, splendid, massive, fanciful, grotesque,
             Of shapes as various as Invention drew—
           Gothic, Corinthian, Grecian, Arabesque,
             Perfect or shattered, age-renowned or new.

           Builded upon the ice-fields, stretching vast
             Into mid-ocean, like a frozen shore
           Which skirts a continent, unknown to past
             Or present time and shall be evermore.

           Cities and towns girt round with crystal walls,
             And filled with crystal palaces, as fair
           As Boreal Aurora, when she falls
             Brilliant from heaven and streams along the air.

           No sound disturbs the stillness of the scene
             Hushed in eternal slumber, calm and deep;
           To break the spell no voices intervene,
             The very waters share the death-like sleep.

           No fragment severs from the solid mass,
             No torrents from the hills translucent flow,
           But all is rigid, while we slowly pass,
             As glacial mountains in a world of snow.

           No avalanche impends, but leaning towers,
             Like that of Pisa, seem about to rush
           In ruin downward, though for years as hours
             They still may stand, nor fear a final crush.

           Ye icebergs! held by adamantine chains,
             Nor moved from your foundations by the gales
           Which Winter, hoary tyrant, ne’er restrains,
             But sends, relentless, where his power prevails—

           Ye are stern Desolation’s home and throne,
             Fixed on the boundaries of human life;
           The lofty watch-towers of the Frigid Zone,
             Locked in securely from the ocean’s strife.

           I look upon you with deep awe, and feel
             That all my generation will decay
           Ere Cold shall cease your ramparts to congeal,
             Or Tempest hurl you from your base away!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                 LOVE.


                          BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.


           The winds are tranquil on the heaving deep;
             And from her azure throne Night bendeth down,
             And to old Ocean’s brow transfers her crown
           Of peerless beauty. All things are asleep!—
           Save Love, who doth his ceaseless vigils keep
             In my fond heart, where to thine image, now,
             He kneeleth, breathing many a passionate vow,
           And earnest prayer, filled with affection deep.
           Like pious pilgrim at his sainted shrine,
             His dearest treasures, and most precious things—
             Devotion, constancy and truth he brings,
           And lays them humble offerings upon thine,
             Inspired with trusting hope that thou, who art
           All gentleness, wilt smile, nor bid him to depart.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            DOCTOR SIAN SENG


                        OR THE CHINAMAN IN PARIS

                       (FROM THE FRENCH OF MERY.)


                      (_Concluded from page 128._)

[Illustration]

“I am,” cried I, falling at her feet, “a simple mortal, who loses his
senses before your beauty.”

“Get up! doctor, get up,” said the _danseuse_, with a countenance of
severity suddenly assumed—“no nonsense before your god-daughter! You
forget yourself—she will tell a thousand stories when we get home. Have
you never seen the ‘Terrible Children of Gavarni?’ They are all spies,
these little innocents!”

I got up from my knees in confusion, and excused myself as well as I
could. Her anger seemed to cool. She gave me her hand, and drawing a
deep sigh, said,

“If I had all these beautiful things in my drawing-room, I should
consider myself richer than the Sultana Valida.”

“This evening, Mademoiselle, my Chinese parlor shall be transferred to
your hotel.”

“Well then, doctor, I will go and prepare for it. I hope you are in
earnest, for the fun of the thing, even if it were only to shame the
Parisians by your generosity. By the bye, wouldn’t you like to sketch my
left foot also? What will you do with one foot without the other—don’t
be modest—have the match to it!”

“Mademoiselle, I dared not ask you—”

“Ah! I am always generous—I don’t do things by halves.”

“What kindliness and grace! Mademoiselle, it is not this miserable
collection I should offer you. I would I could place at your feet the
pagoda of the suburb Vai lo ching, which is of porcelain, with tiles of
massive gold!”

“That would suit me exactly, _particularly the tiles_!—Is my foot
placed right?”

“My design is completed, Mademoiselle; my gratitude for your kindness
will never end—may I call to-morrow to visit you?”

“To-morrow—dear doctor, to-morrow is an unlucky day! I dance to-morrow,
and must practice for five hours.”

“The day after, then?”

“The day after? that’s Saturday—I always dine with my mother on
Saturday—Sunday I shall be free as air. Suppose I take you to
Versailles on Sunday? we can eat a hare at a country inn, and drink
milk. You will accept my invitation will you not?—agreed then. Oh! how
delighted I shall be to get into the fields and inhale the fragrance of
the flowers. Sunday, then, dear doctor, my carriage shall be at your
door at twelve o’clock; I am as exact as a Breguet watch—adieu!”

We have no women in China—it is the only thing our ancestors forgot to
invent! If Mademoiselle Alexandrine were to appear at Pekin she would
take the empire by storm! You can form no idea of that divine
creature—graceful as a bird—speaking as melodiously as she
sings—springing as she walks—doing a thousand delicious things in a
moment, and throwing at you sweet and flashing glances, like the
twinkling of a star.

In quitting my parlor, she left a void which made me nervous. It was
necessary to do something not to fall a prey to melancholy. I hurried my
servants to the four corners of the street for porters, and in about an
hour my room was cleared—before dinner my beautiful _danseuse_ had
received every thing. What a sweet night I had! I had the copy of each
foot in either hand! and I said to myself, at this moment she is
blessing me—she praises my generosity before the altar of Tien—in her
eyes a single man exists! and that is me!—for her the rest of the world
has disappeared!

With what impatience was Sunday expected—that Sunday which promised me
such happiness! I wanted to break all the clocks about me, because they
seemed joined in a conspiracy against me, to lengthen out Saturday!
Notwithstanding my impatience the hours rolled round, and on Sunday, an
age after the clock struck eleven, it announced mid-day.

I stood in my balcony and devoured every carriage with my eyes. At six
o’clock I had seen all the carriages in Paris roll by—and I was still
alone! Alone! when one has been promised a _rendezvous_! There is in
this deception the very delirium of despair!

As soon as it was proper I ran to visit Mademoiselle de St. Phar. The
porter, hardly concealing a smile, said, “Mademoiselle de Saint Phar has
gone to the country.”

“When will she return?” asked I, with deathlike visage.

“After Easter or Christmas,” answered the porter.

As I came away I heard loud laughter in chorus from the whole family of
porters.

No news of Mademoiselle de Saint Phar! Every night at the opera—but no
_danseuse_. Her name no longer appeared in the bills—it had disappeared
from the ballet as her person had from her hotel.

Could I abase my dignity as representative of the Celestial Empire by
causing search to be made for a _danseuse_? What would the grand
secretary for foreign affairs have said of me! I could only suffer in
silence. So I did suffer—and hold my tongue.

Forty days after that fatal Sunday I was walking along a great street,
whose name I forget, and having a habit of reading signs as I pass
along, what was my astonishment to read the following:

                            “CITY OF PEKIN!”

                  Chinese Curiosities at fix’d prices.

In taking a glance at the window, I recognized some of those I had
formerly owned. So I stepped into the shop, resolved to repurchase them
if the price were not too high. An involuntary exclamation escaped me!
the shopkeeper was a young woman—in short, Mademoiselle Alexandrine de
Saint Phar!

I was thunderstruck, and as immovable as one of my clay compatriots at
my side: but the _danseuse_ smiled charmingly, and without interrupting
her embroidery work, she said with a _sang froid_ sublime,

“Ah! good morning, dear doctor—you are very good to favor us so early
with a visit—look around and see if you cannot find something here to
your taste. Your god-daughter has the small-pox—she asks for her
god-father every day—the dear little Dileri!”

I crossed my arms upon my breast and shook my head—a pantomime which I
have remarked in a drama at the Theatre Ambigu means “what infamy!”

Mademoiselle cast a sidelong glance at me—shrugged her shoulders, and
biting off a scarlet thread with her teeth, said—

“By the bye, dear doctor, I am married now—I have been a wife fifteen
days—Madame Telamon, at your service. I will introduce you to my
husband—a very handsome man—you would scarcely reach to his waist even
if you raised yourself upon your toes. Hold! here he is!”

I saluted her hastily, and left the shop furiously angry, the more so
that I was obliged to conceal my rage. A single glance I gave toward the
husband—real or false—sufficed for me to recognize the pretended
decorator at the opera, who came to my box to invite my judgment upon
his Chinese kiosque. That I had been the victim of a regular conspiracy
was very evident—resignation was my only resource.

A fortnight afterward I assumed a disguise, and had the weakness to go
and promenade before the shop in the evening twilight, to catch a last
glimpse of the unworthy object of my idolatry.

The colossal husband was brushing the dust from a mandarin in porcelain,
and I heard him murmur,

“If that Doctor Sian Seng should attempt to set his foot inside my door
again, I’ll choke him, pack him in straw, and sell his carcass to the
doctors for fifteen louis!”

Oh no! I shall never see this beautiful monster again; I have the
resolution of a man and of a philosopher; I will fulfill my mission to
the end, and will again make myself worthy of you, oh! holy city, which
the silver moon illumines so caressingly when from the top of Mount
Tyryathon she hangs like a lantern of silk from Nanking!

In Paris there are physicians who devote themselves entirely to specific
diseases; there are some who treat only infants at the breast; others,
after weaning; others who prescribe only for those of sixty and above of
it. Bills are stuck up at the corners of all the streets, and
advertisements in the newspapers, proclaiming a thousand infallible
receipts for the six hundred maladies which the celebrated Pi-ké has
found to germinate in the human body. They have discovered amongst other
curious things in physics, how to put a new nose upon faces
unfortunately deprived of that ornament, and to elongate it when too
short. They make teeth of ivory for old men—hair for the bald—legs for
those who have lost them—eyes for the blind—tongues for the dumb—ears
for the deaf—brains for fools—and have wonderful methods to
resuscitate the dead. But they forgot to invent one remedy—a cure for
disappointed love! In China we know nothing about love; that passion was
first discovered in France, by a troubadour called Raymond—for five
hundred years it has ravaged fearfully. It is estimated that eleven
millions seven hundred and thirty-eight persons have fallen victims to
it, through assassinations, languishing death, and suicide, caused by
this scourge of the human race—that amounts to double the number of
victims of cholera in Asia since the reign of Aurengzebé. The French
government have never taken any means to stop the progress of this
epidemic, on the contrary, it pays largely toward the support of four
royal theatres, where they celebrate the power of love and another
mortal disease called champagne. Mr. Scribe has made a fortune of five
hundred thousand francs a year, by celebrating the delights of love and
champagne for the governmental theatres.

In leaving the shop where my _Chinoiseries_ were sold by Mademoiselle
Alexandrine de Saint Phar, I had another violent attack of love; and you
cannot imagine how I cursed that rascal Raymond. Having vented my rage
where it was so well deserved, I began to think seriously about a cure,
and I walked about the streets searching at every corner for some
advertisement of a remedy; useless trouble! I went to the Hospital for
Incurables, and asked the doctor there whether he had not some patient
afflicted with this malady, so perfectly unknown in our harems; but he
only shrugged his shoulders, and turned his back upon me. My head burned
like fire—my heart beat violently—my eyes glazed. The phantom of
Mademoiselle Alexandrine danced before my eyes continually with
fascinating grace, my ears were filled with her silvery voice—alas! I
lived only in her!

“Physician cure thyself,” has said the wise Menu—this thought suddenly
occurred to me. Since the French doctors have forgotten to invent a cure
for love, let us find a remedy; and we will give a Chinese name to this
grand consolation for suffering Europe!

If I could live for a week without thinking of Mademoiselle Alexandrine
I should be saved! It was impossible to remain in my lodgings, every
thing there reminded me of her, the faithless one! Besides, solitude
never cures the wounds of love, it only festers them. Visits to the
country are still more dangerous. The streets, boulevards and theatres
are filled with women, and the species too often reminds one of the
individual traitress; still it is necessary to live a week in total
forgetfulness of the ungrateful fair.

Fo has inspired me; let me render thanks to Fo! Paris is filled with
monuments, many of them very high; I chose four from among them—the
tower of Notre Dame, the Pantheon, the Column Vendôme and the tower of
St. James; by the payment of a few sous, one is permitted to ascend
these towers, which are kept by a tractable porter. I resolved to pass
some days in going up and down the stairs of these monuments and towers
without taking rest, only, to vary the monotony of this continual ascent
and descent, I jumped into a cabriolet occasionally at the Place
Vendôme, drove to the Depôt of the Railroad to Versailles, and traversed
the distance to that royal city five or six times, with my eyes shut.
When evening came I returned home, and, after a slight repast, went to
bed and slept soundly.

In my dreams I imagined that huge giants poised me in a swing, hung over
the moon on a golden nail, and the fright I had in such an alarming
position drove the phantom of Alexandrine from the boundless space in
which I undulated between the Pantheon and the fixed stars!

The eighth day the porters of the four towers closed their doors against
me, saying that I would wear out their stairs! My cure not being
complete, I took to the road to Versailles, and hiring a carriage by the
day, drove first on one side of the river, and then on the other, for
five days longer, with the most salutary fatigue—at the end of a
fortnight my remedy triumphed.

In looking back upon my endless routine of dark stairs—of dreamy
swingings—and the ceaseless rumblings of my carriage, I perceived in
the hazy distance the fleeting image of the false Alexandrine, and it
appeared as if my passionate love were like the tale of a past age, or
of an extinguished world!

A single instant I was recalled to the sensible recollection of her. In
looking over my cash, I observed the enormous void caused by the
expenditure of the 3700 francs at Garbo & Gamboi’s. The spirit of
Chinese ingenuity and enterprise inspired me with a happy thought. I was
upon the eve of recovering my lost francs! I inserted an advertisement
in all the journals of the day, as follows:

                           RADICAL CURE FOR
                          DISAPPOINTED LOVE,
                          IN FIFTEEN DAYS?!!
                   _Consult from 12 till 2 o’clock_,
                                DOCTOR SIAN SENG,
                              _Rue Neuve de Luxembourg_.
                           _No Cure, no Pay_:

I did not expect such success as attended me. What a city! what a
people! How quickly do new opinions become popular!

The first day I had 300 visits for consultation at 20 francs each. The
second I was obliged to seek at the Prefecture of Police four gend’arms
as a protection! They took my office by assault. At length I hit upon a
plan of giving advice to classes of twelve at a time, which in some
measure reduced the crowd.

The week following I gave public lectures at the Athenæum, at five
francs the ticket. Mr. Lefort told me the fashion would not last long,
and that I should “make hay while the sun shone”—a proverb Menu forgot
to make!—besides, there was danger that the prefect of police would
close the monuments. I therefore entered into a contract with the porter
at the Tower of St. James, to receive all my patients who subscribed for
a fortnight.

The two trains to Versailles were filled with victims with closed eyes!
I was told that if I would ask the minister for a patent, that he would
probably grant me a pension—as they did to Mr. Daguerre—of six
thousand francs a year.

My best reward, however, I found in the unanimous gratitude of my
relieved and happy patients; they wanted to strike a gold medal in my
honor!—unheard of enthusiasm!

Five of my most inveterate cases, aged from twenty to fifty years,
struck with an infatuation for the vaudeville, of which I relieved them,
became great proselytes to my doctrines, and are determined to prosecute
it on their own account after my departure—they even propose to
purchase the Tower of St. James by subscription, and add two hundred
more steps to the ascent.

Ti-en has given to the world no malady without its cure; he has placed
the water-lily by the side of the pimento—the wood to make the sluice
beside the torrent of Kiang-ho. It is for man to discover the remedy.
Ti-en knows always what he does—and _we_—we do what we know not!

My mind is now calm; my heart is light, as is every thing which is
empty. I shall now go and take my leave of the Minister for Foreign
Affairs, and endeavor to correct the errors in diplomacy I have made,
since I have been possessed by the foot of Mademoiselle Alexandrine de
Saint Phar!

                           DOCTOR SIAN SENG.
                          “A true copy.” MERY.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             A BILLET-DOUX.


                         BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.


         Is your soul at home to-day,
                       Eulalie?
                       And if it be,
         May mine come in and stay,
                       Eulalie?
         Or has yours gone out to play,
                       Eulalie!
                       And if it be,
         Will it be long away,
                       Eulalie?

         I know it is the willfulest of things,
                       Eulalie!
                       But if it be
         Too gay to shut an hour its frolic wings,
                       Eulalie,
         When it alights, so tenderly it sings,
                       Eulalie,
                       That as for me,
         More joy than some that longer stay it brings,
                       Eulalie!

         And I would not have it fettered for the world,
                       Eulalie!
                       For if it be—
         Ah! that lip, with laughing scorn I see it curled,
                       Eulalie!
         Its wings would lose their light if they were furled,
                       Eulalie!
                       Then not for me,
         No fetter be on them for all the world,
                       Eulalie!

         If my soul, on calling, “not at home,” is told,
                       Eulalie,
                       I would make free
         To wait till yours came back, tired and cold,
                       Eulalie!
         And then it will be glad its wings to fold,
                       Eulalie,
                       And I should see
         How long I might the glorious truant hold,
                       Eulalie!

         They say that more domestic and more tame,
                       Eulalie,
                       It ought to be!
         But if Heaven gave it wings, were you to blame,
                       Eulalie?
         Ah, no! to tie a Peri were a shame,
                       Eulalie!
                       And they might see
         It always carried joy where’er it came,
                       Eulalie!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         WESTERN RECOLLECTIONS.


              THE ILLINOIS RIVER AND THE OZARK MOUNTAINS.

                          BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

Every one knows of the Illinois River emptying into the Mississippi at
Alton, and of the fertile champagne country it waters. All are familiar
with the traditions of the hardships undergone in its discovery by the
good fathers Hennepin and Marquette; of the stirring wars of the
Illinois, Potawatamie and Peoria Indians, and of the recollections of
that cordon of military posts by which France united Detroit with the
great point d’appui of Fort Chartres, built near where Trinity now
stands, but of which scarcely a trace remains, except a portion of the
curtain and bastions. These are the associations which rise in the mind
of most persons at the word Illinois, which to me, however, is
suggestive of another train of ideas. In a south-western direction from
the point of confluence of the Gasconade and Missouri Rivers, extends a
broad chain of mountains, of which little except the name Ozark is
known. Many streams which elsewhere would be esteemed large rivers roll
from its valleys northward into the Osage, and in a southern direction
into the Arkansas. After crossing two-thirds of the state of Missouri,
this ridge passes through the north-west county of the State of
Arkansas, and thence reaches across the country of the Cherokees and
Chactas far into Texas. Through the passes of this range many important
rivers flow, among which are the Arkansas, Red and Canadienne. There is
a striking peculiarity in this mountain range—that all the waters
flowing from it, either northward or southward, are clear as crystal,
while all the other streams of the country are foul and turbid. On one
of these streams, the Neosho, stands the lonely post of Fort Gibson, and
twenty miles below is another river called the Illinois. This is not a
large stream, measuring certainly not more than a hundred miles, but is
one of the most picturesque imaginable. Flowing between two ridges of
the Ozark, it winds like a serpent around the bases of the mountains,
which now tower in immensity, clad to their very summits with huge
pines, or again gradually decrease in size until they spread into rich
and luxuriant prairies. The road from Fort Gibson to Fayetteville, in
Arkansas, is along this stream, which it crosses more than a dozen
times, and thus enables the traveler to behold all the wonderful
beauties of the scenery. Words cannot describe it adequately. I have
often in fording the river, which may at many places be done without
wetting the saddle-girths, looked up the bed. Smooth and transparent as
glass, rolling over pebbles of silex and crystal, it looks like a band
of silver beneath the arched boughs of the aspen and gigantic walnut
trees, while the immediate banks were fringed by the long-leaved willow
and cane. Not unfrequently a single glance would reveal to me, when lost
in admiration at the quiet beauty of such a scene, another of a far
different yet equally pleasing style. The current would quicken—small
islets would appear, scarcely more than a rood in breadth, against which
the waters would leap and lash themselves into fury. The current would
quicken yet more, and in the distance a rugged mountain would be seen.
Against the base of this the waters would rush and whirl into eddies
over the seething surface of which wild-fowl almost constantly floated.
The low grounds on the river abounded with the sloe or scuppanon, and at
distances of every mile or two, natural vineyards, bearing a large,
rich, luscious grape, without a particle of the musky flavor which
characterises almost all the American _uvæ_, were seen. So immense were
these vines that they ran from tree to tree, masking every thing with
their foliage, and displaying their grand clusters over the barren limbs
of the stunted oak or hickory. I have called the Illinois a beautiful
river, and have spoken of the lucidness of its water—I can give an
illustration of the latter which is most apropos. Several years since I
was stationed on the bank of this stream with a small detachment of men,
and without any other officer. In the long August days, when the
prairies were burned, and scarcely a breath of air was to be had in the
forests, I used to while away many weary hours upon the banks of the
river either fishing or bathing. One day I amused myself with an Indian
lance in killing the fine buffalo-fish, which I could see distinctly in
the translucent waters. I had _posed_ myself on the bow of the boat in
pursuit of one peculiarly large fish which shot up the stream with the
rapidity of an arrow. The soldier who sat at the stern of the boat, a
very active and nervous man, (he was killed, poor fellow, at the
storming of Taos, in New Mexico,) drove the boat after the quarry with
scarcely less rapidity. At last I had overtaken him, the boat hung above
him, like a gigantic leaf in the atmosphere, which could scarcely be
distinguished from the water below. Poising myself, I drove the lance
into the fish, and a second afterward, to my amazement, was floundering
ten feet below the surface of the water, and probably yet twenty from
the pebbly bottom. I would have sworn the water was not more than four
feet deep, and scrambled out I know not how, for I could never
swim—not, however, until I had upset the boat and made poor Orndorf a
sharer in my calamity. The clearness of the water, surpassing any thing
I have ever seen, is only approached by the one spring near Fort
Fanning, in Florida, upon which so much inquiry has been expended. I
would myself pronounce it the famous fountain of health for which De
Leon sought so long, were it not that every human being who drinks of
its transparent waters, unless craftily qualified, dies with that most
loathsome of all diseases, the ague and fever.

The first white man who ever trod in the valleys of the Ozark was the
famous Fernando de Soto. About the year 1539 or 1540, this gallant
soldier, capitan-general of Florida, and a marquis, made a voyage to his
commandery, for the purpose of conquering it. Sailing from Havana he
landed at the bay of the Holy Spirit, now called Tampa, Hillsborough,
Honda, etc., and occupied an Indian village not far from the mouth of
the Manittee River, and just opposite the present post of Fort Brooke.
The old ruins are still visible there, and the trace of an aqueduct or
canal which appears at some distant day to have connected the waters of
the great interior lakes with the gulf. People say the ruins are the
remnant of an old Spanish fort; but half a glance will satisfy any one
that all the Spanish troops ever in North America could not have
constructed that aqueduct, which to all appearance is old as the city of
Seville. The ruins belonged evidently to some older race, and are very
curious though they have nothing to do with De Soto.

De Soto marched through Florida across the country of Apalache Indians,
with whom he had a fight, across the Mississippi toward Mexico. De Soto,
first of Europeans, saw the Mississippi, and crossed it somewhere near
Memphis, if the account given by old Biedma, his historian, of
topography be true. Thence he now passed through the now State of
Arkansas, crossing the Ozark Ridge, passing over the Red River, and
marching along the false Wachita until he came to the famous Rio Grande,
since famous for the battles of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma, and
celebrated by the Mexican poet,[1] Ho Axe de Saltillo. De Soto did not
reach New Spain, but was forced to retrace his steps, died, and was
thrown by his soldiers into the Mississippi, to prevent the natives from
mutilating his remains. It was a fitting tomb for so great a man. Any
one who wishes to read all the items of this great march may find them
in old Biedma’s strange book, in the _vidas de los Conquistadores_, or
as those books are somewhat rare, in the Compendium of Discoveries until
1573, by Conway Robinson, Esq., of Richmond, Va., a person who devotes
himself for amusement and relaxation to digging out the gems of strange
old books most persons would think it hard work to read.

De Soto first looked on these Ozark Mountains and a weary time his
men-at-arms, in coats of mail and chain armor, must have had to climb
them. They were then, as they were until very recently, uninhabited, and
the home of all kinds of wild beasts known on the continent. The black
bear, the cougar, catamount, deer and elk, were found among its ravines
and the glades at their foot, and even now old beaver-dams attest the
existence of those bestial republicans on almost all the minor streams
which run into the Illinois. The land is barren, except upon the
immediate bank of the river, and the mountains seem masses of pebbles
similar in character to those over which the river runs. Strangely
enough gigantic pines grow upon the mountains, the dark foliage of
which, seen even in the sunlight, looks, compared with that of other
trees, like the shadows cast by what Schiller calls

    Fliegende Wolken, Segler des Luft,

over the earth during a windy day of March. The table-land, however, at
the top of what I may call the secondary hills, is covered with what are
called black-jacks, the ugliest and most ungainly of all things on the
surface of the earth, not excepting the Mexican cactus, which is like no
other thing animal or vegetable, except the porcupine. The hills seem
vast masses of limestone, with the granite occasionally showing itself.
I have no doubt of the richness of the soil in mineral wealth, copper
being everywhere apparent, and the Ozark Mountains evidently connecting
themselves with the Sierra Madre and Cordillera of Mexico. Some day the
gold-hunter will deform this beautiful land, the vast groves and of
timber which crown its mountains will fall. Worse than all, the
picturesque Illinois will be deformed and forced to pass through some
series of plank troughs in the gold-washing establishment of Messrs.
Jones, Smith & Co.

In 1837 these mountains were uninhabited. One road wound among the
intricacies of the mountains between Fort Gibson and the village of
Fayetteville. After leaving the Methodist Mission of Prospect Hill smoke
was scarcely seen by the traveler until he had entered the limits of
Arkansas. There were a few hunting and bridle-paths, leading in a
direction parallel to the road, which were frequented exclusively by the
smugglers engaged in the nefarious business of selling whiskey to the
Indians. Since then a mighty change has taken place. On the removal of
the Cherokee Indians west, the North Carolina band selected these hills
as most like their old homes and established themselves among them.
Hamlets grew up in the valleys and farms were opened; so that in a short
time the intelligent Cherokee citizens, second to no agricultural class
in the world, followed in their train, and large plantations were
opened. One of these colonists, the well-known chief, Bushyhead, has a
magnificent estate comprising a prairie and grove of about one thousand
acres, which has none to surpass it in the country. A wooded knoll rises
at the back of his house, to the heighth of about 250 feet, and on a
calm summer-day the ripple of the Illinois may be heard in the distance
through the forests and green corn-fields. The writer has often partaken
of his hospitality, and has been a witness of the prosperity and
happiness of his whole household, Indian and Negro, (he has many
slaves.) This happiness would be without alloy but that the Indian
always knows he is but a tenant at will of the soil he stands upon, and
looks back, perhaps with regret, to the days when his forefathers
wandered in savage independence on the shores of the Atlantic. On the
other side of the Neosho River the mountains are higher and wilder, and
even now desolate; and in the year 1840 I crossed that portion of the
ridge on duty, and have a strange tale to tell of it.

After a furlough of some years, I returned in 1840 to the west, and
after reporting for duty to the headquarters of the department, was
ordered to join a squadron of my regiment then stationed on the Red
River. The navigation of the western rivers was then most uncertain, and
I was ordered to cross the intermediate country by land instead of
trusting to the tortuous navigation of the Arkansas, emphatically one of
those streams of which John Randolph said, “they were dry in summer and
choked up with ice during the winter.”

The old officers of the post told me I might easily have my orders
changed by applying to the general, and advised me to do so, as my route
lay through a peculiarly wild and desolate country. They told me what
they had heard of the Ozark Mountains, of the precipices and torrents,
the almost impassable _resacas_, _etc._ I was, however, an old _coureur
des bois_, and all this but stimulated me to attempt the passage. Fort
Gibson lay at the head of navigation at that time, though steamboats
have since passed far above the Cape Farewell of 1840. Similarly
situated was Fort Towson, on the Red River; between the two lay the
country of the Cherokees, Chactas, and Chichasas, and many formidable
rivers, such as the Canadienne, the Verdigris, and the whole of the
southern tributaries of the Arkansas. To cross this country with all its
difficulties on the first Wednesday in April, 1810, I left Fort Gibson,
with no equipage, or what Cæsar calls _impedimenta_, other than one pack
mule, loaded with provisions, and a servant, like myself, mounted, who
rejoiced in the name of Barny. I often wonder what has become of him,
and whether, like Latour d’Auvergne, first grenadier of France, he may
not have “died on the field of glory,” during the Mexican war.

As my orders contained no recommendation to make the journey with
peculiar rapidity, and as I was aware that nothing awaited me at Fort
Towson but the monotonous existence of a subaltern, I loitered along the
road systematically, as a veteran colonel _en route_ to reinforce a
militia general, and on Sunday lay by on the banks of a picturesque
stream, whiling away time with my rod and angle, which Isack Walton
recommends as “fosterers of meditation, and gratitude to God for having
made so many fine fish for man’s especial benefit,” and which I was too
old a soldier to be without in the North American wilderness. Monday
broke upon me cold and chill, and wearied even by my voluntary halt, I
set out to continue my journey. There had been during the night a mist
and sleet, so that the prairie, which on the day before had looked like
a garden covered with periwinkles, the beautiful wild indigo, and the
sensitive-plant, was now become a glacier. I rode on, therefore, wrapped
in the cape of my dragoon cloak, and scarcely noticing what passed
around me. Few persons except half-breeds had ever crossed the prairie
in this direction before, and having to depend merely on general
direction for my course, it is not surprising that I became lost. Any
one ever lost in the north-western prairie is aware that when once
astray, every attempt at correction makes matters worse, and what with
the uniformity of the whole face of the country, at nightfall I was
utterly bewildered. I was forced to encamp on the bald prairie,
sacrificing to my comfort the solitary tree which I afterward learned
was a land-mark. It made a very bad fire, being filled with sap, but
sufficed to broil a rasher of bacon which, with a cup of coffee
transformed into what the Spaniards call a _gloria_ by a glass of “old
corn,” constituted my supper. The sleet had by this time disappeared,
and the cattle hobbled and allowed to wander at will, fared better than
I, on the young prairie grass, which they relished not a little after
their dry provender at Fort Gibson. Tuesday came fair and bright, and
far in the distance I saw one of the Ozark’s peaks rising tall and
solitary in just the direction I had not been marching on the day
before. To it I directed my course.

The country soon became broken, and on each side of me rose rough hills.
I knew at once I would be forced to cross the ridge, and set manfully to
the task. As I progressed the scenery became every mile more grand, and
I began to be thankful for the accident which had led me into the
bewildering maze.

I have stood on tall mountains, having threaded the Alleghany, and
looked on the boldest peaks of wilder lands. Above rose a tall peak with
half precipitous sides, its base skirted with a dense growth of the
Osage orange. This strange and peculiar tree merits a more minute
description. It belongs, I believe, to the same genus with the box-tree
of our forest, for from its limbs and leaves, when broken, exudes a
milky gelatinous humor, not unlike that of the fig and India-rubber
plant. Its leaves are smooth and glazed and so precisely like those of
the Florida orange that the two cannot easily be distinguished. It bears
a large fruit in character similar to the balls of the sycamore, but
which becomes during the process of decay a noisome pulp, and is said to
be a deadly poison. The size of the fruit is about that of the
cocoa-nut, divested of its husk, and the heighth of the tree about
thirty-five feet, with thick, gnarled limbs, covered with long, straight
spines, like those of the honey acacia. By the Canadian colonists of
Arkansas and the French of Louisiana it was called the _bois d’arc_,
from the fact that of this the Natches and Opelousas made their bows.
This beautiful growth is now rapidly disappearing, it having been
discovered that it furnishes a dye of a brilliant yellow, long a
desideratum in the arts. During the last few years many cargoes have
been sent to France, and the cutting it has, like the procuring of
log-wood, become a distinct and important branch of industry. Many
stories are told of this tree which would make us believe it exerts an
influence scarcely less baleful than that of the fabulous Upas tree of
Borneo, popular superstition attributing to it the deadly disease of man
and brute known as the “milk sickness.”

The base of the peak before me was skirted with thickets of this
beautiful tree, intermingled with the dog-wood, then in the glory of its
flower, and three or four varieties of the acacia and Canadian redbud.
Here and there on the very hill-side were expanses grown up with the
tall green-cane and the beautiful Mexican oats. Through such a growth I
commenced my ascent, and soon passed by the sinuosities of an Indian
trail into an expanse of cupriferous volcanic rock, almost without any
other growth than the red-root, or Indian tea. Passing through this, I
came into a belt of tall pines, reaching far above the crest of the
peak. No engineer could have constructed a glacis with a more regular
inclination than this portion of the mountain displayed. At last I stood
upon the crest, and a prospect opened before me I have never seen
surpassed or equaled. I was on the very backbone of the ridge, and
before me lay a succession of peaks, gradually descending into the bosom
of a vale perhaps ten miles wide, while beyond this happy valley rose
another ridge, parallel, descending gradually as the one on which I
stood had become elevated. A clear, cold stream ran at the foot of the
peak on which I was, and amid the stillness of a calm spring day I
distinctly heard the murmur of its ripples. Down the bleak hill-sides of
the other ridge I could trace more than one silver line which marked the
descent of tributary rills. I could have remained long on that bald
mountain-peak, but was warned by the descent of the sun to proceed
downward. Taking the horses by the bridle, for I committed the care of
the pack-mule to poor Barny, I began carefully to follow the pathway,
and was ultimately enabled to reach the base in spite of sundry falls of
the heavy pack, which, in spite of discipline, wrung hearty curses from
poor Barny’s over-burdened heart. I encamped at the foot of the peak, on
a branch of the Boggy, or _Bogue_, itself a tributary of the Red.

After many days of painful travel, precisely similar to the one I have
described, except that the western ridge was more difficult than the
eastern, I reached the prairie through which the Red River runs. On the
summit of several of the peaks I had found large springs and pools of
water, and in the valleys the streams expanded into beautiful lakes. In
some of these valleys were grand groves of the wild-plum, and a variety
of other growths, among which was the iron-wood and box-elder. The
cotton-wood, so common northward, has disappeared. At last I arrived at
Fort Towson. I had missed the direction, and to reach a point about one
hundred miles from Gibson, had traveled three. Twenty miles after
leaving the latter post, I had seen the smoke of not one hearth till I
reached the yellow water, about ten miles from Fort Towson, yet during
all this time I had been in a small labyrinth of mountains, surrounded
on all sides by the dense population of the Cherokee and Chickasa
nation, the Opeloulas of Louisiana and Western Texas.

I afterward was informed that the Indian path I had more than once
passed was a portion of the great Delaware trail which crosses the whole
American continent, from Erie, in Pennsylvania, to California, and which
marks the migration of those American Gitanos from the homes where the
white man found them to the chief seat of the tribe on the Missouri
River, to the outposts on the Red River and on the Pacific. Along it
they still go, and not unfrequently two of their well-armed and gallant
braves will fight their way through hordes of hostile and degenerate
Indians of the prairie. It will be found always to cross the streams at
the most fordable point, and he who strays from it to avoid travel, will
generally find that the longest way round is the nearest way home. After
my arrival at Fort Gibson I did not regret my mistake, which had made me
acquainted with so beautiful a country; and I hope my reader is weary
neither of the Illinois River or the Ozark Mountains.

-----

[1] C. F. Hoffman, of New York.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                EXTRACT.


                          BY HENRY S. HAGERT.


           So die the young, ere yet the bud has burst
             Its leafy prison-house—perchance, ’tis best—
           The flower may pine and perish with the thirst
             For dew and moisture, but the dead will rest,
             Heedless of storm and sunshine; on their breast
           The modest violet at Spring will bloom,
             And speak their noteless epitaph—the west
           May blow too rudely in an hour of gloom,
         But still it clings to thee, lone tenant of the tomb.

           It clings to thee! ’Twas a most lovely creed,
             That taught within a flower might dwell the soul
           Of a lost friend—wronged one, does it not breed
             Within thee quiet thoughts of a green knoll,
             Bedecked with daisies, though no sculptured scroll
           Be there to tell thy virtues? O! ’Tis sweet
             To know that when the dews from heaven have stole
           Down to the earth, those penciled lips shall meet,
         The cold sod of thy grave and love’s long kiss repeat!

           Then gird thy loins with patience—from the crowd
             Be thou a willing exile—but if Fate
           Hath otherwise decreed it, if the proud
             Should sneer upon thee, or the rich and great
             Laugh at thy misery, do thou await
           The coming of that hour which shall decide
             The issue of the game; and then, with state,
           Wrapping thy robe around thee, do thou glide
         Away to thy long rest and sleep in regal pride.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        THE UNFINISHED PICTURE.


                       BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.


                               CHAPTER I.

                  O God! to clasp those fingers close,
                    And yet to feel so lonely!
                  To see a light on dearest brows,
                    Which is the daylight only!
                                 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

I was sitting one morning in the library of a friend, looking over a
valuable collection of works of art, made during a five years residence
abroad, and listening to his animated description of scenes and places
now become familiar to every one who reads at all, through the medium of
“Jottings,” “Impressions,” and “Travels,” with which the press abounds.

Among the paintings were small copies in oil from Corregio, Guercino,
Guido, and Rafaelle. There was a head of the latter, copied from a
portrait painted by himself, and preserved in the Pitti Palace. With the
slightest shade of hectic on the cheek, and the large unfathomable eyes
looking into the great beyond, it was truly angelic in its loveliness.
No wonder the man for whom nature had done so much, and who delighted in
portraying the loftiest ideal beauty, no wonder he was called “divine!”

“Here,” said my friend, lovingly holding forth one of those inimitable
creations, the beauty of which once seen, haunts us for a lifetime,
“here is the far-famed ‘violin-player,’ the friend of Rafaelle. By the
bye, I must tell you an anecdote I heard while abroad. There were two
gentlemen sight-seers looking at pictures in the Vatican; one called to
the other, who was at a short distance from him, ‘come, look at this,
here is the celebrated violin-player.’ ‘Ah!’ said his companion,
hastening toward him, ‘Paganini!’ I give you the story as I heard it
related for truth, and as a somewhat laughable example of traveled
ignorance.”

On one side of the room in which we were conversing, stood a picture
apart from all the others, which soon engrossed my entire attention. A
young man was represented reclining on a couch, and wrapped in a robe
falling in loose folds about his person. His countenance bore the traces
of suffering, but his dark eyes were filled with the light of love, and
hope, as they looked up into the face of a young female bending
mournfully at his side. On the head of this female the artist had
lavished all the _love_ of genius. With the sunny hair parted on the
fair forehead, and the rich braids simply confined by a silver
arrow—the dark eyes from which the tears seemed about to fall—the
half-parted lips quivering as if from intense devotion—oh, it was
transcendently lovely! The rest of the figure was in outline, but as
vividly portrayed as some of those wonderful illustrations by Flaxman,
in which a single line reveals a story.

“How is this,” said I, after gazing long and earnestly upon it, “how is
this?—why is the picture unfinished. And who was the painter?”

“The tale,” replied my friend, “is a sad one; and if you are tired of
looking at pictures and medals, I will relate it to you.”

“Not tired, yet I should like to hear the story to which this picture
imparts an unusual interest.”

“You remember Paul Talbot, who left here some years ago to pursue the
study of his art abroad.”

“I do, but that young man—sick—almost dying—I thought the face a
familiar one; but can that be Paul?”

“Alas! yes—he is dead!” and my friend dashed away a tear as he spoke.

“Dead!” repeated I. “Paul Talbot dead! when did he die?”

“Not long before my return. Poor fellow! he endured much, and his career
was an exemplification of what a man of untiring energy can accomplish
under the most adverse circumstances.

“Soon after the birth of Paul, his father died, leaving little, save a
mother’s love and a stainless reputation to his infant son.

“Mr. Talbot was a man of refined taste, and had collected round him
objects of which an amateur might be justly proud—and thus from
childhood had been fostered Paul’s love for the beautiful.

“Well educated and accomplished, Mrs. Talbot undertook the tuition of
her child, and by giving lessons in drawing, painting miniatures on
ivory, and small portraits in oil, kept herself and her boy above the
pressure of want. Carefully she instilled into his tender mind those
lofty principles of rectitude, of uncompromising integrity, and that
child-like trust in the goodness of an overruling Providence, which
sustained him through all the trials of after years.

“How holy, how powerful is the influence of a mother! The father may do
much, but the mother can do more toward the formation of the mind, and
the habits of early childhood. Exercising a power, silent, yet
refreshing as the dews of heaven, her least word, her lightest look,
sinks deep into the hearts of her children, and moulds them to her will.
How many men have owed all that has made them great to the early
teachings of a mother’s love! The father, necessarily occupied with
business or professional duties, cannot give the needful attention to
the minor shades in the character and disposition of his little ones,
but the mother can encourage and draw out the latent energies of the
timid, can check the bold, and exert an influence which may be felt not
only through time, but through eternity.

“It was beautiful to see Paul Talbot standing by his mother’s side, with
his childish gaze fixed upon her face, while receiving instruction from
her lips, and to hear him as he grew in years, wishing he was a man,
that he might be enabled to supply her every want.

“‘You know,’ he would exclaim, while his fine eyes was flashing with
enthusiasm, ‘that I will be an artist; and, oh, mother, if I could, like
Washington Allston, be a painter-poet; could I but paint such a head as
that we saw in the Academy, and write such a book as Monaldi, then,
mother, I would gain fame; orders would crowd upon me—and then—then we
would go to Italy!’

“Go to Italy! of this he thought by day, and dreamed by night; and to
accomplish this was the crowning ambition of the boy’s life.

“He was willing to toil, to endure privation and fatigue, could he but
visit that land where heavenly beauty is depicted on the canvas, where
the marble wants but the clasp of him of old to warm it into life, and
where the soft blue of the sky, and the delicious atmosphere brooding
over the glories of centuries gone by, make it the Mecca of the artist’s
heart.

“But amid all these dreams of the future, all these ambitious aspirings
of the gifted youth, death cast his dark shadow over that peaceful
dwelling, and the mother, the guardian angel of the fatherless boy, was
borne away to be a dweller in the silent land.

“With what passionate earnestness did he call upon her name. How did he
long to lie down by her side. His mother! his mother! she had taught his
lisping accents their first prayer; she had watched over his little bed,
and moistened his parched lips when he was ill with fever—so ill, that
his mother’s watchful tenderness was all, under God, that saved him from
the grave. As he grew older, she had spoken to him, not like the boy he
was in years, but like the man to whom she would impart her thoughts,
and with whose mind of almost premature development, she might hold
converse, and feel herself understood. And now, in his fifteenth year,
when he was thinking of all that he could, nay, of all that he _would_
do for her, his mother had died! Who can wonder that the boy pined, and
sat upon her grave, and longed for her companionship, and wept as if his
heart must break.


                              CHAPTER II.

                             Then all the charm
               Is broken—all that phantom-world so fair
               Vanished, and a thousand circlets spread,
               And each misshapes the other.
                                              COLERIDGE.

“Abstracted in his habits, quiet and sensitive, from his reveries in
dream-land, the orphan woke to find himself the inmate of a new home.

“Mrs. Winter, the only sister of the late Mr. Talbot, was wholly unlike
her brother. With little taste for the elegancies of life, except so far
as she thought their possession would give her importance in the eyes of
others, with no sympathy for any ambition save that of acquiring money,
she looked with no very favorable eye on her brother’s orphan. Dazzled
by the prospect of a carriage, a town and country-house in perspective,
she had married a man of sixty, when she was barely sixteen, and could
never forgive her brother for not falling in with her scheme of catching
the rich heiress, who, she avowed, waited but the asking to change the
name of Miss Patty Pringle, for the more lofty-sounding title of Mrs.
Percy Talbot. But Percy Talbot preferred the portionless Isabel Morton,
and the monotony of a counting-room, to the bank-stock, real estate, and
soulless face of Miss Patty Pringle. Hence there was little intercourse
between the brother and sister, and when the younger Talbot sought the
shelter of his aunt’s roof, she animadverted with great bitterness on
the folly of people gratifying a taste for luxuries beyond their means,
and encouraging boys without a shilling to spend their time in reading
books and daubing canvas.

“Nor could Mrs. Winter refrain from talking of stupidity, when Paul sat
quietly at his drawing, while her own sons were making the house ring
with their boisterous mirth. The boys, catching the spirit of their
mother, ridiculed Paul’s sketches, and with the petty tyranny of little
minds, subjected him to every annoyance, and taunted him with his
dependent state. The proud, sensitive boy, writhed under such treatment,
and determined on leaving the relatives who had neither tastes nor
sympathies in common with his own.

“When at the age of twelve years, he hung over the landscape he was
trying to imitate, and from which no boyish sports could lure him; when
he saw the sketch grow beneath his touch, and look more and more like
the original, until in the exultation of his young heart, he exclaimed,
‘I knew that I could do it if I did but try,’ he unconsciously displayed
that perseverance of character without which no one can hope to attain
eminence. And now that same energy was employed in seeking means to gain
a livelihood without being subjected to the bitterness of insult.

“He succeeded in obtaining a situation in a dry-good store, and in
compensation for his services, received his board and a scanty salary.
True, he had but little, but that little was his own; he had earned it,
and a proud feeling of independence was his, when purchasing the scanty
stock of drawing materials with money obtained by his own exertions. And
so passed a few years, during which he diligently devoted himself to the
business of his employer through the day, and to reading and drawing at
night.

“The long cherished hope of visiting Italy had never been abandoned,
although the many obstacles in the way seemed almost insurmountable. But
now a bright thought occurred to him; ‘I will give up my situation; I
will hire a room with the money already saved, and devote myself
entirely to the pursuit of art. I shall paint a picture—it will be
placed in the exhibition—and then—’ Talbot paused, and his cheek
glowed, and his heart-pulse quickened as he looked into the future.

“The resolution once taken, he was not long in carrying it into effect;
and day after day saw him at his easel, laboring with patient assiduity,
and flattering himself that his picture would not pass unnoticed.

“When the day of exhibition arrived, Talbot walked nervously up and down
the gallery where the pictures were hanging, every now and then glancing
at his own, with the small ticket appended announcing it for sale, and
pausing to observe if it attracted attention. But it had been placed in
a bad light, directly beneath two brightly-tinted landscapes, and so low
down that you were obliged to put one knee on the floor before it could
be examined. Poor Paul! no one gave more than a passing glance to what
had cost you weeks of patient labor, and the papers passed it by with
merely announcing its name and number on the catalogue.

“What a rude dashing down of all his hopes was here! What a fading of
the air-built castles he had taken such delight in building? The land of
promise had receded from his view, and the shores of Italy were as a
far-off vision seen in the dimness of deepening twilight. Oh, what a
sinking of the heart follows such disappointments! A goal is to be
won—the aspirant rushes eagerly to the race—hope lures him on—he
grows weary, oh, how weary—courage—the thrilling sound of fame’s
trumpet-peal is ringing on those heights afar—courage—one more
struggle and the prize will be his own! One more struggle—and hope
fades from his sight—and the last faint echo of fame’s music dies upon
his ear—and a dull lethargy seizes on his mind—and the pulses of his
heart grow still and cold as the waveless, tideless surface of a deep,
dark lake! Happy he who can shake off the despondency attendant on times
like these, and, like the bird momentarily driven back by the storm, can
plume his wings and dare a nobler flight.


                              CHAPTER III.

              Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes
           not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is
           thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future,
           without fear, and with a manly heart.
                                                 LONGFELLOW.

“The spirits of youth are elastic, and after great pressure will
naturally rebound. ‘Hope on, hope ever,’ is a maxim seldom forgotten
until age has chilled the blood and palsied the powers of life. After a
few days spent in brooding over the present, Paul again looked forward
to the future, and determined to seek some other avenue by which he
might gather up a little, just a little, of the treasure which others
possessed in such abundance. His fondness for literature suggested the
idea that his pen might be employed with more profit than his pencil,
and the periodicals of the day appeared to offer a wide field for
exertion. But emolument from such sources was precarious at best. All
who held an established reputation in the world of letters were
contributors to the various popular publications, and Paul Talbot wanted
the “magic of a _name_” to win _golden_ opinions from the Press.
Sometimes he met with those who were more just, and more generous, and
thus encouraged he toiled on, hoping even against hope, that his desires
would yet be accomplished.

“With many misgivings, and a fear that he had mistaken his vocation, he
had taken his ill-fated picture to a place where engravings were kept
for sale, and left it with the shopkeeper, promising to pay him one half
the money for which it might be sold. How discouraging to see it week
after week in the window, until it began to look like a soiled fixture
of the establishment. No one would ever buy it, that was certain, and if
they would not purchase this his best work, how could he ever hope to
dispose of others of less merit, which were standing round the walls of
his little room? Alas, no! but when once in Italy—then he would paint
pictures such as he dreamed of in imagination. For the present, with
weary frame and throbbing brow, he must Labor on.

“There are few but know

        ‘How cruelly it tries a broken heart
           To see a mirth in any thing it loves.’

And who that has ever walked forth on a particularly bright morning,
when he was nursing a deep sorrow, or was weighed down by the pressure
of misfortune, but felt annoyed by the light, and noise, and
cheerfulness around him? Those vast tides of human life what are they to
him? He is but a drop in a wave of the mighty ocean—but a pebble thrown
upon the sand—a broken link in the great chain of the Universe. Thus
felt Paul, as on one of the loveliest days of laughing June, he wended
his way to the office where he had left a manuscript to be examined by
the publisher.

“‘How can those people look so smilingly,’ thought he, while glancing at
the well-dressed groups on the side-walk. ‘And those children, how noisy
they are—and see that carriage with its liveried attendants—pshaw!’
Now Paul was not envious, and he was particularly fond of children, but
the feeling of loneliness in the crowd was oppressive, and with another
half audible pshaw! he turned into a quieter street.

“The smiling face of the great man who employed so many subordinates in
his large establishment, somewhat reassured the desponding youth, and
after a little preliminary talk about encouraging native talent, a sum
was offered, which, though small in itself, was just then a god-send to
the needy Paul, who with many thanks bowed himself out of the
publisher’s presence. One ray of light had dawned on his darkened path,
one beam of hope had shed its warmth upon his heart, and how differently
now looked the scene through which he had lately passed! With buoyant
step he went on. He, too, could smile,—the darling little ones, how
delighted he was to see them looking so happy—and the poor blind man at
the corner must not be forgotten! Like the child who plays with the
kaleidoscope, and every moment sees some new beauty, so Paul toyed with
the many-colored hues in the rainbow of Hope, grouping them together in
the most beautiful and dazzling forms.

“It was destined to be a red-letter day in his book of life. As he
passed the print-shop he saw that his picture was gone from the window.
It had been sold, and a companion-piece ordered by the purchaser. ‘Oh
that my mother were living!’ sighed Paul—‘oh that my mother were
living, we might yet go to Italy!’

“Again the painter laid aside his pen and resumed his pallet. The one
order was executed, the money transferred to his slender purse, and even
now he began to think how much might be put aside for his darling
project.

“‘Could I but obtain enough to pay for my passage—once there, in that
delicious climate, I could live on so little. Oh that some one would buy
this,’ he continued, taking up a small picture on which he had bestowed
unusual care, ‘it is worth more than either of the others. I shall leave
it with the kind Mr. Barry; how generous he was in refusing the
commission I promised him for the last one he sold.’

“Mr. Barry, at whose print-shop Paul had left his first picture, had
kindly drawn from him the story of his life, and felt deeply interested
in the young artist’s changing fortunes, but, like many other
generous-hearted men, he was always forming schemes for the benefit of
others, which his means would not permit him to accomplish.

“The kind man had just reared a goodly super-structure of greatness,
upon a rather sandy foundation, for his young protégé, when Paul entered
with the new work fresh from his easel.

“‘Why, Talbot,’ said he, cordially grasping the painter’s hand, ‘this is
capital! and I consider myself a tolerably good judge. When younger, I
was in the employ of a picture-dealer, who pursued the profitable
business of making old pictures look like new, and the still more
profitable one of making new pictures look like old. You stare, it is a
fact, I assure you. To a Madonna, that had been bought for a trifling
sum, I had the honor of imparting a time-worn tinge, which so took the
fancy of an amateur, that he paid two hundred and fifty dollars for it
at auction. But I never could endure cheating, so I left the picture
manufactory, and commenced the sale of prints on my own account.’

“‘Do you think there is any chance of selling this Landscape?’ inquired
Paul. ‘I will take fifteen dollars for it.’

“‘Why, Talbot, you are foolish, it is worth at least fifty.’

“‘Ah, no one would give me so large a sum for a picture; fifty dollars!
that would almost take me to Italy.’

“‘Well, well, my dear fellow, it is said, Providence helps those who
help themselves, and you are sure to be helped in some way or other. I
was thinking about you this morning, and wrote a note of introduction to
Mr. C., who is a great patron of the Fine Arts. I have told him of your
desire to go abroad, and how you are situated—’

“‘Nay, nay, my kind friend,’ interrupted Paul, ‘this looks too much like
begging a favor, remember I cannot sacrifice my independence, even to
secure the accomplishment of my most ardent wishes.’

“‘You are wrong, Talbot, you do not solicit him for aid; he has a taste
for art, and if he give you money, you return an equivalent in your
picture, so that the obligation is mutual.’

“Paul was persuaded, and, bearing his friend’s letter, bent his way to a
fine-looking house, a long way from his own abode. Upon ringing the
bell, he was informed by the servant that the family were at dinner.
Leaving the letter with the waiter, he desired him to hand it to Mr. C.,
and say that Mr. Talbot would call to-morrow evening. The next evening
Mr. C. was engaged, and on the next, when Paul was ushered into the
drawing-room, and his name announced, he received a stately and
patronizing bow from a short, stout gentleman, who stood with his back
to the fire, conversing with three or four more who were seated near
him.

“‘Take a seat, sir,’ and the short man waved his hand toward the
intruder, and resumed the conversation thus momentarily interrupted.

“Paul grew nervous, and taking advantage of a pause he rose, and bowing
slightly, advanced toward Mr. C. for the purpose of speaking. The latter
began first—‘I have looked over Mr. Barry’s letter, young man, and
hardly think it will be in my power to assist you.’

“‘I came not seeking assistance, sir,’ replied Paul; ‘my friend Mr.
Barry thought you might perhaps wish to add another picture to your
collection, and, as I purpose going abroad, assured me that you would
cheerfully give a few lines of introduction to your young countryman.’

“‘Well, well, we will see, we will see, but all you young men have taken
it into your heads that you must travel, and this makes so many
applicants.’

“‘Applicants!’ the word stung Paul to the quick, and again bowing to Mr.
C., he left the apartment. Once in the free air of heaven, he gave vent
to his suppressed feelings, and vowed that should be his first and last
visit to a patron.

“Barry was indignant when he heard the non-success of his young friend.
‘Why, Talbot, that man’s name is bruited abroad as a most liberal patron
of Art, a fosterer of early genius, an encourager of native talent—how
I have been deceived!’

“‘Never mind, my dear friend, you will sell the picture to some one
else, and I will conquer yet.’

“And Paul Talbot did conquer. When another year had gone by, he stood
with the hand of his friend Barry clasped in his own, returning the warm
‘God bless you,’ fervently uttered by the old man in that hour of
parting.

“In a wild tumult of feeling, half joy half sorrow, he stood upon the
deck of the vessel, and watched the shores of his native land as they
faded in the distance.

        ‘The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew,
           As glad to waft him from his native home.’

And now he is on the ocean—the waves are dashing against the ship and
bearing him onward—whither? To the land of his hopes. To the land of
his dreams. Why each moment does he grow sadder and sadder? Why, as the
crescent moon rises serenely in the heavens, does he press his eyelids
down to shut her beauty from his sight?

“‘Oh that my mother were here! Great God! yon moon is shining on my
mother’s grave!’


                              CHAPTER IV.

            Wilt thou take measure of such minds as those,
              Or sound, with plummet-line, the Artist-Heart?
                                                MRS. NORTON.

                 Its holy flame forever burneth,
               From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
               Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,
               At times deceived, at times opprest,
                 It here is tried and purified,
               Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest!
                 It soweth here with toil and care,
               But the harvest time of Love is there.
                                                SOUTHEY.

“Paul Talbot is in the city of wonders. Ivy-girdled ruins of the
time-embalming Past are lying in the distance. Lofty cathedrals, rich in
votive offerings of surpassing magnificence, surround him on every side.
Stately palaces, their long galleries filled with the noblest works of
the mighty minds of old, are baring their treasures to his gaze. The
‘dew-dropping coolness’ of the marble fountain, breathes new vigor into
his frame. He is excited—bewildered—‘dazzled and drunk with beauty,’
and for weeks Paul wandered about Rome and its environs, half forgetful
that his lot was still to struggle and to toil.

“When roused to action, he threw himself heart and soul into his art,
and the consequence was a long and severe illness, brought on by that
absorbing devotion which often kept him at his pursuits until the
morning dawn peering into his room reminded him that he was weary and
overtasked. For months he lay wasted by sickness, helpless at times as a
feeble child, but nature triumphed over disease, and he wandered once
more beneath the blue sky, and felt the kiss of the balmy air upon his
pallid cheek.

“With a return to health, Paul returned with renewed ardor to his task,
until the picture on which he had long and earnestly labored was at
length completed. He had chosen for his subject a scene representing the
Hermit Peter exhorting the people to join the crusaders. Standing in the
midst, with one arm outstretched, and the other raised to heaven, was
seen the enthusiast. On either side, were grouped mailed knights and
stalwart forms, the tillers of the soil. One gentle lady, like the
weeping Andromeda, was clinging to her lord, and a villager’s wife held
up her child for his father’s last fond kiss. So animated and life-like
was the figure of the preacher—so eager and intense the emotion
betrayed by the assembled multitude—that you listened to hear the
eloquence that roused all Europe, and sent prince, peer, and peasant to
rescue the holy sepulchre from the hand of the Infidel, to cast down the
crescent of Mohammed, and to raise the cross of Christ.

“And now came that fame for which the young painter had toiled, and to
which he had looked forward as his highest guerdon. Crowds were daily
drawn to his _atelier_, and artists who had themselves won a world-wide
renown, bestowed their warmest praises upon the ‘Hermit’ of Paul Talbot.

“The following winter Paul passed in Florence, and there his picture was
purchased by a Florentine merchant, at a price which relieved the artist
from fear of pecuniary embarrassment. Paul was requested to visit the
house of the merchant, and select the most fitting place to display the
work of which the fortunate possessor was so justly proud. He went, and
in the picture-gallery of the wealthy Florentine was opened a new page
in the artist’s book of life.

“Poets and painters have ever an eye for beauty in women; and when
Carlotta D. entered the apartment, leaning on the arm of her father,
Paul started as if one of the bright visions of his ideal world stood
suddenly embodied before him. The lady, too, was for a moment
half-embarrassed—for the fame of the young painter had reached her
ears, and, womanlike, she had been wondering if report spoke truly when
it ascribed to him the dark clustering locks, and the lustrous eyes of
her own sunny south.

        ‘Love’s not a flower that grows on the dull earth;
        Springs by the calendar; must wait for sun—
        For rain; matures by parts—must take its time
        To stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. It owns
        A richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed!
        You look for it and see it not: and lo!
        E’en while you look the peerless flower is up,
        Consummate in the birth!’

“Was it strange that Paul and Carlotta, both worshipers of the
beautiful, with souls alive to the most holy sympathies of our nature,
was it strange that they should love?

“Paul had hitherto lived for his art alone. Painting was the mistress he
had ever wooed with intense passion, but now another claimed his homage,
and he bowed with a fervor little less than idolatrous at woman’s
shrine. Such a love could not long remain concealed. The father of
Carlotta, a vain and purse-proud man, hoping by his wealth to obtain a
husband for his daughter among some of the haughty but decayed nobility,
frowned on the artist, and forbade him his house. In secret the lovers
plighted their troth, and parted, not knowing when they should meet
again.

“Paul left Florence with the resolve to win not fame alone, but wealth.

“At Rome he was enrolled a member of the Academy of St. Luke, under
Overbeck—the spiritually-minded Overbeck—who himself the son of a
poet, has enriched his art with the divinely poetical conceptions of his
own pencil. At Munich, one of his pictures was shown by Cornelius to the
king of Bavaria, and purchased by that munificent patron of art at a
price far exceeding the painter’s expectations. At Vienna a similar
success attended him, and he returned to Florence after an absence of
six years, with fame, and wealth enough for the foundation of a fortune.

“From Carlotta he had rarely heard, but he knew her heart was his, and
he had that faith in her character as a true woman, which made him
believe that no entreaties or commands of her father would induce her to
wed another. And Paul was right—Carlotta D. still remained unmarried.
In her the budding loveliness of the girl had expanded into the fuller
beauty of the woman, but Talbot was sadly altered. The feverish
excitement—the continued toil—the broken rest—the anxiety of thought
to which he had been subjected, undermined his health, and planted the
seeds of that insidious disease, which, while it wastes the bodily
strength, leaves the mind unimpaired, and the hope of the sufferer
buoyed to the last. The father of Carlotta finding that neither
persuasion nor coercion could make his high-souled daughter barter her
love for a title, consented at last that she should become the bride of
the artist; but many said the wily Florentine had given his consent the
more readily, because he saw that Paul would not long be a barrier in
the way of his ambition.

“Paul Talbot had buffeted the adverse waves of fortune; he had gained
renown in a land filled with the most exquisite creations of the gifted;
he had won a promised bride. Whence, in that bright hour loomed the one
dark cloud that blotted the stars from the sky? Could it be the shadow
of the tomb? Was death interweaving his gloomy cypress with the laurel
on the painter’s brow? Oh, no, no—he was but weary—he only wanted
rest, and his powers would again be in full vigor. Then, with Carlotta
at his side—with her smile to cheer him on—he would aim higher, and
yet higher in his art.

“And the young wife was deceived. Although a nameless dread, a dark
prescience lay heavy at her heart, she yet thought the bright flush on
the cheek of Paul a sign of returning health. How tenderly and anxiously
she watched lest he should fatigue himself at his easel, and how gently
she chid, and lured him from his task into the open air of their
beautiful garden.

“One of the days thus passed had been deliciously mild, and, although
mid-winter, in that heavenly climate where flowers are ever blooming in
the open air, each breeze was laden with the heavy odor of the orange
blossom, and the fainter perfume of the Provence rose. Stepping lightly
from the balcony where Paul and she had been seated watching the
piled-up masses of crimson, of purple, and of gold that hung like regal
drapery round the couch of the western sun, Carlotta pushed aside the
opening blossoms of the night-jasmine which intercepted her reach, and
gathering a handful of rose-buds, carried them to Paul. He took the
flowers from his wife, and looking mournfully upon them, said, ‘When we
cross the waters to visit my native land, we will take with us some of
your precious roses, beloved, and beautify my mother’s silent home; and
now,’ he continued, twining his arm round her waist, and leading her to
the harp, ‘sing me that little song I wrote while yet a student in old
Rome.’ Pressing her lips upon his brow, Carlotta seated herself, and
sung the song, which she had set to music. The air was soft and
melancholy, and the sweet tones of the singer were tremulous with
emotion.

        Fill high the festive bowl to-night,
          In memory of former years,
        And let the wine-cup foam as bright
          As ere our eyes were dimmed with tears.

        Pledge, pledge me those whose joyous smile
          Around our happy circle shone,
        Whose genial mirth would hours beguile,
          Which, but for them, were sad and lone.

        Those hours, those friends, those social ties,
          They linger round me yet,
        Like twilight clouds of golden dyes,
          When summer suns have set.

        Then fill the bowl—but while you drink,
          In silence pledge all once so dear,
        Nor let the gay ones round us think
          We sigh for those who are not here.

“‘My dear Paul,’ said his wife, smiling through the tears with which, in
spite of her efforts to repress them, her eyes were suffused, ‘this sad
song should be sung on the last night of the year, the night for which
it was composed. It should be sung while the student-band of artists
stood around, each holding the flower-wreathed goblet from which he
might quaff in silence, while his heart-memories were wandering back to
fatherland. Let me sing,’—she paused on seeing the deep melancholy
depicted on her husband’s countenance—‘nay, forgive me for jesting,
love, I know with whom are your thoughts to-night, and will not ask you
to listen to a lighter strain.’

“A month went by winged with love and hope. Paul found himself growing
weaker, but he looked forward to a sea-voyage as a sure means of
restoring him to health. Carlotta was hastening her preparatory
arrangements, willing to leave her home, willing to brave the perils of
the deep, in the belief that old Ocean’s life-inspiring wave would prove
the fabled fountain of youth to her beloved. She had never seen
consumption in any of its varied and sometimes beautiful forms. She knew
not that the eye could retain its lustre, that the cheek could glow with
more than its usual brightness, that the heart could be lured by a false
hope, until, like a red leaf of the forest, dropping suddenly from the
topmost bough, the doomed one fell, stricken down in an unthought of
moment by the stern destroyer.

“One morning, when Paul had remained much longer than usual in his
apartment, Carlotta sought him for the purpose of whiling him abroad.

“He was lying asleep on a couch, where he must have thrown himself from
very weariness, as one of the brushes with which he had been painting
had fallen from his hand upon the floor. His wife softly approached. She
stooped and kissed his lips. He opened his eyes, smiled lovingly upon
her, and pointed to the picture.

“‘You have made me too beautiful, dearest; this must be a copy of the
image in your heart.’

“‘Ah, I have not done you justice, you are far more lovely, my own wife,
yes, far more lovely—my mother—my mother—’ repeated Paul, dreamily.
It was evident his thoughts were wandering.

“‘You are exhausted, dear love; but sleep now, and I will watch beside
you.’

Carlotta knelt down and laid her cheek on his. Afraid of disturbing him,
some minutes elapsed ere she again raised her head and turned to look
upon the sleeper. She took the hand that hung listlessly by his side. It
was cold, and she thought to warm it by pressing it to her lips—to her
cheek—to her heart. She bent her ear close to the sleeper—there was no
sound; she laid her lips on his—oh, God! where was the warm breath? A
horrible dread came over her, and unable from the intensity of her agony
to utter any cry, she sunk down and gazed fixedly in her husband’s face,
realizing the heart-touching thoughts of the poet.

        ‘And still upon that face I look,
          And think ’twill smile again,
        And still the thought I cannot brook
          That I must look in vain.’

“And thus were they found by her father, who was the first to enter the
apartment. Paul quite dead—Carlotta lying to all appearance lifeless at
his side—and before them the unfinished picture.

“When the fond wife was restored to consciousness, and felt the full
weight of that misery that was crushing out her young life, her reason
became unsettled. It was very sad to see her wandering from room to room
as if in search of some lost object, often stopping to unfold, and then
folding again, the garments prepared for their journey. She would
frequently rise with a sudden start, walk hurriedly to the window, and
stand for a long time in an attitude of fixed attention, then mournfully
shaking her head to and fro, would slowly resume her accustomed seat,
and in a low voice repeat ‘not yet—not yet—Paul still lingers in
Rome.’ Carlotta remained in this melancholy state during the time I was
in Florence, but a letter received since my return home informs me that
after a short interval, in which reason resumed her sway, the sufferer
calmly departed, coupling the name of her beloved with the rest and the
bliss of Paradise.

“The wretched father was filled with self-upbraidings. But for him, he
said, Paul Talbot might have been living, and his daughter living, happy
in each other’s love. He spoke truly. To gratify his ambition, Paul had
overtasked the powers of life. The frail shrine was consumed by the
flame which for years had been scorching and burning into the heart and
soul of the artist. Too late had he obtained his reward. Too late had
Carlotta’s father consented to her union with Paul. Too late had the old
man found that by his daughter’s alliance with a man of genius, a
greater lustre would have shone upon his house than could ever be
reflected from his glittering hoard.”

Here ended my friend’s narration, and while with him I lamented the fate
of genius, I could not forbear blaming the conduct of the wealthy
Florentine. Nor could I help thinking, that too often the golden ears
betray the ass, while wisdom, virtue, talent, constitute the only real
greatness.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        THE HEART’S CONFESSION.


                           BY HENRY MORFORD.


         Little that moves the pulse of youth and joy
           My wayward heart bends downward to confess;
         Little of virtue, without some alloy
           To make my good deeds vain and valueless;
         Though the world pass me, trusting and deceived,
           Though sunny smiles glitter where frowns have been,
         There is a spirit in my bosom grieved,
           Before whose eyes I may not draw the screen;
         And here, when I am sad, she folds her wings
           To warble of lost hopes and past desires,
         My heart-strings loosen as the spirit sings,
           And cooling tears drop on my wasting fires.

         And then I know that I have turned away
           From the proud picture that my fancy drew,
         That I am passing further every day
           From my own standard of the good and true;
         We go not to the grave as we arise
           From childhood’s slumbers, in the outward face,
         And the soul, looking out from human eyes,
           Becomes corrupt and bitter in the race.
         I deemed that I should pass into my age
           As I began, warm, generous and kind,
         And pausing here upon life’s second stage,
           I turn and look upon a cankered mind!

         I have o’erstepped my bound—I have passed by
           The goal that none may pass and yet be pure,
         The pole star has grown glimmering to my eye,
           And meteors have become my spirit’s lure—
         So from one failing step we come to tread
           Paths that in early youth we swore to shun,
         So, from the blue sky shining overhead,
           The whispering angels leave us, one by one.
         I have past by the goal; ’tis hard to pause,
           And, but for pride, I should shake hands with Vice.
         Trample on Virtue’s desecrated laws,
           And with my own dishonor pay the price.

         Wo to us, when our pride becomes our truth
           And hollow-hearted selfishness our trust,
         With age’s avarice creeping over youth,
           And clothing all things in corroding rust!
         Pride is frail hold on virtue, yet ’tis all
           That binds me to one deed of human hope;
         Let me forget my pride and I shall fall
           So low contempt will lose me in its scope!
         How long shall this frail pride support my name?
           How long ere malice o’er my head shall creep.
         And touch me with the fangs of his dark shame,
           And lure me, with his serpent eyes, to sleep?

         I know not that I shall forget my kind,
           Nor shame the form I owe to human birth;
         I know not but the foaming of my mind
           May leave a legacy of good to earth;
         But I am saddened when I think that all
           Of the world’s plaudit flows from my deceit,
         And that the eyes that love me would recall
           Their pleasant looks, could they but trace my feet!
         The heart’s confession bears the curse of years,
           To be without a pure thought at my side,
         And if I fall lament me not with tears,
           But think that time has shorn away my pride!

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Painted by C. L. Eastlake R. A.            Engraved by W.
  E. Tucker

CHRIST WEEPING OVER JERUSALEM.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                     CHRIST WEEPING OVER JERUSALEM.


                         BY JOSEPH E. CHANDLER.

                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]


“How beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of those that bring glad
tidings,” is the language of elder Scripture, and how often has the
heart of man responded to the truth of the declaration, as the eye has
caught the earnest smile and noted the lightness of feet that
distinguish the bearer of pleasing intelligence.

The great poet of nature hath, in the spirit of the above comment,
remarked that the bearer of unwelcome news has “but a losing office.”
And thousands of those who have been messengers of good to the great,
the wealth-possessing and honor-conferring among men, have found
themselves ennobled and sometimes enriched, for the simple narrative of
an event in which they had no share, and of which they knew little more
than the report which they had received from others and delivered where
it was greatly desired.

We know that the text of Scripture which we have placed at the beginning
of these remarks has allusion to tidings of greater joy, of more
gladness, than all the bulletins of battles and statements of victories
which the hastened dispatch bearer has ever conveyed to the awaiting
monarch—more lovely and more desired than messages of love and tokens
of reciprocation which the herald of man’s affection and woman’s deep,
late-told love ever conveyed. The triumph of the conqueror of armies
must be short and partial—the love of the most devoted perishes, at
least with the object, if it is not quenched by its own fitful sallies.
But the glad tidings which hasten and beautify the feet of those who
come over the mountain of our offences is of life-long endurance, and
enters into the eternity for which it prepares.

There is a picture in this number of the Magazine to which we are
alluding, and to which we mean to refer when we talk of messengers of
glad tidings. We know that the common reader will look at the title,
and, if he recollects the narrative, he will be startled at the idea of
“glad tidings,” when sorrow and tears were on the face of the messenger,
bodings of terrible afflictions were in his mind, and their nearness was
being foretold.

Are these glad tidings? Do such messages make beautiful the bearer? Can
we rejoice at the overwhelming evil that is to befall the “City of
Peace,” and sweep away the temple of the Most High, and give to famine,
to violence, to dishonor and to death the sons and the daughters of the
people of God?

But if these evils were the consequences of crimes, if the destroyer
were but an instrument in the hand of omnipotent love to waste the
destroyed, and to be himself the object of a similar wrath, that the
“peace” which the great messenger was to bring on earth might have an
abiding place, in consequence of the terrible things which he only
foretold—surely the feet of such an one are beautiful. He _brings_
salvation, while he only _foretells_ destruction; he makes the wrath of
man, which he prophecies, the instrument to produce that love and peace
of which he is the real author.

                 *        *        *        *        *

There had been much confusion in the city in consequence of reports
brought to the principal ecclesiastical and civic officers, of the
unusual proceedings of citizens at a short distance beyond the place,
where palm branches had been strewn in the highway, and garments spread
out, upon which the hoofs of the rider’s animal were to tread—tokens of
remarkable respect, which seemed to look treasonable to the foreign
power, that directed the political affairs, and to the native priests
who directed the spiritual concerns—the forum and the temple were
agitated; the viceroy and the high-priest each started at such evidences
of neglect of fealty. Rome and Jerusalem both felt that there was an
antagonistic power operating, if not directly against, at least
incidentally hostile to them; and Rome and Jerusalem—the conqueror and
the conquered—joined in efforts to suppress the evil. Each would have
crushed the power of the other, but both would unite to repel a power
that was hostile to both. Each would have bruised the mailed arm of the
other, but both trembled at what would have healed the breast of each.

There had been a scene of triumph—but He who had been the object of the
huzzas of the multitude that thronged his way with tokens of
obedience—_head_ obedience, with little of _heart_ in the offering—he
had sat unmoved by outward demonstration of feeling for the acclamations
of those who thronged his path. Another mission was his—another triumph
was desired—another evidence of popular feeling was to be experienced,
and in a little time he separated from the multitude, and ascending the
mount, at whose base he had stood, he sat down with the four or five
that were with him, and gazed abroad upon the outstretched scene below
them.

It was a beautiful evening. Behind them the dust which had not yet
subsided since the people had thronged the roads with songs of triumph,
was reflecting the light of the declining sun. Beneath them was the
Valley of Jehoshaphat, the terrible seat of _judgment_ and dread; and
beyond was the beloved city, stretched out in the repose of the evening
sun, which was reflected by numerous gorgeous domes; and the busy hum of
business came up to the quiet summit of Olivet, as if to bear to those
who rested here the story of man’s heedlessness of his life’s great end.

They were Jews that thus looked out, the leader and the followers,
Hebrews of Hebrews, and they loved the land of their birth and the city
of their nation’s boast. Every affection of the human heart was enlisted
for the beautiful towns and sacred edifices, and all the outspread
loveliness of the country’s hills and valleys; and as the sun seemed to
pour surpassing splendor upon the place, and as youth and beauty went
forth to seek their pleasures, and age toiled upward toward the temple
for the evening sacrifice, and all that was seen, and all that the heart
suggested, appealed to the patriotic affection of the four—they looked
to see whether the loveliness of the scene would not light up an
unwonted smile upon the face of their Master, who was looking intently
upon the city.

But there was no smile. The deep thought that rested on his brow, and
the tear that glistened in his eye, showed that the past and the future
were with him. That all the blessings which had been pronounced upon
Jerusalem, and all the promises made in her behalf, all the sins which
she had committed, and which God had pardoned, and all the negligence
against which she had been warned, and for which pardon had been
presented; all her thoughtlessness now, and all the uncomprehended
miseries which were in her path, were in one group in his mind—and the
sound of the destroyer and the desolation of the conquered stood before
him—the famine that wasted the people and the fire that destroyed the
temple were there, and as he remembered how He would have sheltered them
from the consequences of their own follies, and how they despised his
love; how he would have shielded and comforted the sons and daughters of
that city of his love, but they refused, _He wept_—wept human
tears—wept tears of earthly fondness, that came bursting up from his
heart—deep agony marked his face when gathering the recollection of all
the promises which had accompanied their probation, the glories by which
they had been invited to goodness—he exclaimed, “But now they are
forever hidden from thine eyes.”

What a mission was that the Master assumed—what an experience was that
of his intimate followers. The many listened to his heavenly doctrine
and love—many were astonished at the miracles that marked his public
ministry, that made the temple and the wayside _clinics_ where his
divine skill was exhibited, and drew the people from their synagogues
and altars, to offer at the street corners the sacrifice of enlightened
hearts and the homage of soul admiration. But these, the favored few,
the elders and chosen ones of his little flock stood with him in the
terrible moments, when the office of his mission was not exercised on
others, but came to be ministered on himself—three of them witnessed
the tears at the grave of a friend—they saw with trembling awe the
glory of his transfiguration with Moses and Elias—and now these stood
there solemn, trembling witnesses of an agony of affliction that wrung
tears for others from Him who could look down upon the garden that was
to be the scene of a trial which human eyes could not witness and
live—who could look forward to the hall of infamy that was to witness
his mockery, to the winding way of sorrow in which he was to bear his
cross, and upward to the eminence where the work was to be consummated.
The tears were not for himself. He wept for the misery of those who
should procure the agonizing passion.

The artist has chosen this moment for his picture. It was a bold
thought—but it was a good one—what the pen records may not the pencil
illustrate, and is not the lesson of that most instructive hour brought
closer home to the heart by the representation of the scene which the
sacred historian describes? How well the artist has executed his task is
not for us to say. Indeed such a picture is in its conception so full of
suggestion, that we may safely leave to the painter’s professional pride
the finishing of his work according to the canons of his art. The moment
that we recognize the subject, the moment we catch the time, the place
and the office, we lose sight of all that the pen has written or the
pencil attempted to delineate, and acknowledge that our hearts, our
fancy have taken hold of all and borne us back to the awful hour—we do
not pause to look at features or position on the canvas, but at once we
kneel in imagination at a distance from the consecrated group, and as
Olivet and Sinai and Calvary meet the eye, and the temple gleams in the
light of the setting sun, we inquire what is the thought, the high,
mighty thought that swells upward in the heart of the Master there?
Alas! who shall know? Who could conceive? Eternities are in his mind,
and all the vast concerns of angels and of men are before him; and yet
for one city, one erring city, one little spot upon the great map of the
universe, he fixes his eyes, and over its fate he weeps tears of earthly
sorrow—weeps not that one stone of the temple shall not be left upon
the other—weeps not that all the monuments of his nation’s glory shall
be wasted, and that the ploughshare of the infidel shall upturn the
sacred soil. Not for these did he weep—but that those children of the
Father, whom he “would have gathered as a hen gathereth her chickens
under her wings,” should be destroyed by the sword, and the virtue of
the daughters of his people should be the derision and spoil of the
conqueror. They were human tears—but divine sympathies!

And in that scene of wounded love, when the foreseeing, or the
foredwelling of his higher nature made the _present_ of his human
exposure terrible—in that hour of sympathy and sorrow, the favored and
the _intimate_ were his companions. Theirs was not yet the gift of
foreknowledge—they lived only in the present, and knew only of the
past. Little indeed could they comprehend the agony of the Master, as
they could not foresee the cause. Their highest gift was _faith_—they
could believe—they could confide—they could listen with silent
assurance—and however contradictory might appear the words of the
Teacher and the circumstances of the times, they had learned from
rebukes and experience to trust to the former. And as they follow with
their eyes the mournful bend of the Master’s gaze, as they melted before
the weeping of the sinless and loving, they bowed in meek assent to the
terrible _anathema_ foretold, and, not being authorized to give, or to
proclaim it, they meekly sighed the _maranatha_, and left the work to
God.

You see some of the multitude pressing up _toward_ the Master, but not
_upon_ him. You see, too, in the distance, woman with her face set
toward Him to whom her heart is given. Woman following but not
approaching. The first evidence of personal suffering would have brought
her to his side—the first chance of offering homage would have taken
her to his feet. It is woman, too, in her beautiful office—her heart is
with the Master—it is good for her to stand where she may be called. He
may not indeed speak to her, but virtue might go forth from him and
bless her—and so she had brought with her a little child. It seemed not
meet to her that she should seek Jesus and her child not be led to him.
She had indeed heard the Master say, in regard to some others, “suffer
little children to come unto me,” and how did she know, standing afar
off though she might be—standing in awe and reverence—how did she know
but when his moment of bitter sorrow had passed away, the Master might
turn and smile on her—and take her little child in his arms and bless
him—so had he done to others—and so she was willing to await, willing
to stand and see what the Lord would do.

But in the immediate scene of tears and solemn wailing woman is not
found. Where are those that followed his steps? Where are those who
ministered to his wants? Alas! the scene was not for such hearts. It was
the last sacrifice of national feeling; humanity acknowledges the
claim—for mental mortal agony at events to come there was no
consolation.

It was for woman to make beautiful her mission by her implicit faith; it
was for woman to minister to his _physical_ wants; her humility would
find a delightful office when she bathed his feet with her tears, and
her faith had comforting expression when she wiped them with the hairs
of her head. Woman’s care provided the household comforts which humanity
needed, and woman’s piety sat self-abased, yet gathered strength at the
Master’s feet as he opened the oracles of truth. Woman wept for him as
he bore his cross upward to Calvary; and woman lingered at the foot of
that cross when others had fled; and it was woman that came earliest to
kneel at the sepulchre. Where service was to be performed, where faith
was to be tried, where physical wants were to be supplied, and physical
suffering assuaged, there woman was to be found. But where the agony of
mental passion was to be endured; where the unspeakable and the
incomprehensible were to be exhibited, woman was not. Her mission of
faith and love required no such exercise, her feelings demanded no such
purification.

We have done. The picture which we give is suggestive, and we hope that
it will suggest more to others than we have been able to express;
because to such a scene as the artist represents, when the heart or
fancy enters it is lost in amazement. A thousand thoughts crowd, less
for utterance than for existence, and we feel that when there is more
than earthly love, more than earthly interest, the idea must be more
than human, and expression will be infinitely short of the conception.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            HUMAN INFLUENCE.


                            BY MARIE ROSEAU.


              Oh! deem not thou canst lightly err,
                And none may bear its weight but thee:
              There’s none on earth who stands alone,
                None so devoid of sympathy,
              But that each fault will wing a dart
              To pierce some gentle, feeling heart.

              Oh! say not that no sin of thine
                Will cause another, weaker one,
              To fall, or stumble by the way—
                By following _thee_ his soul undone—
              Drawn to the very depths of shame:
              Then on whose head shall rest the blame?

              Oh! say not thou art far too weak
                To help some brother poor and frail,
              Whose footsteps falter by the way—
                Whose burthened strength begins to fail—
              Thy words of hope may sooth his grief,
              Thy hand, though weak, may bring relief.

              Perchance some weary spirit mourns,
                In bitterness of grief e’en now,
              That thus in bonds, by error wrought,
                So strong a soul as thine should bow—
              That _thou_, of all the world shouldst stray
              From wisdom’s straight and pleasant way.

              Perchance e’en now thy many faults
                Stand in some wand’ring brother’s road,
              That but for _thee_ his feet would tread
                The path of wisdom and of God—
              Who, but for _thee_, or for thy sin,
              A victor’s glorious crown might win.

              Oh! none there are whose deeds and words
                May not exert an influence wide,
              There is no hand that hath not strength
                Some wand’rer from the way to guide:
              No voice with tones too weak to bless
              Some hapless brother in distress.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                      HONOR TO WHOM HONOR IS DUE.


                         A TALE OF OLDEN TIMES.

                      BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.

Grenada had fallen. The miserable remnant of a once powerful nation,
driven from the cities of their glorious empire, hunted by an untiring
zeal to destroy, crowded at length into their chief stronghold, the city
of their regal power—the birth-place and the sepulchre of a long race
of puissant monarchs—had endured all the miseries of siege, of famine,
and of slaughter; had endured with an invincible determination to die
rather than yield; and they had died by the sword, by hunger and thirst,
by despair, by pestilence; and their rich and magnificent city had been
sacked, plundered, ravaged, made the prey of soldiers, greedy for spoil,
thirsting for the blood of an infidel foe, exasperated by resistance,
and maddened by fanatical zeal. Grenada had fallen; the Moors were no
longer a nation of the earth. Ferdinand and Isabella, weary of war, and
satiated with conquest, were reposing in state at Santa Fe, or San
Felipe, with every demonstration of triumph, every show of thanksgiving
to the God of battles. The days were divided between the most gloriously
marshaled tournaments and the most magnificent religious processions;
the nights were devoted to the masquerade and the mass; the whole world
seemed vocal, now with strains of triumphant martial music, now with the
no less lofty Te Deum, or Gloria in Excelsis. All was joy and gladness,
triumph and gratitude. The temporary palace was shining like the fabled
palace of Aladdin, builded of the gold and gems of the genii world. In
all the apartments the magic of regal magnificence was displayed in the
taste of the most approved style of art. Tapestries of regal blue and
Tyrian purple, broidered and fringed with scarlet, green and gold, in
the inimitable style of the artists of Babylon, swept from the lofty
ceilings to the velvety carpels of the marble pavements which were rich
with tufted work of flowers of every hue, while in the recesses of the
windows, where the tapestries were looped aside with cords of the
richest dyed and braided silks, entwined with strings of glittering
gems, and heavy with tassels of feathery silk and drops of gold and
diamonds, were placed beautifully enameled vases of the porcelain of
Italia, supporting branches of artificial flowers and fruits of immense
value. From the daisy, with its petals of pearl and eye of platted gold,
to the rose of Damascus, formed of flashing rubies, and dewed with
purest diamonds; from the rich clusters of grapes of amethyst, to the
golden pear and nectarine, beryl and sardonix. Doors opened upon
seemingly interminable vistas of trees and flowering shrubs,
intermingled with candelabras of gold, wrought into the semblance of
tall plants, bearing flowers of crystal and purest porcelain of every
delicate tint, each of which was a lamp, burning perfumed oil, and
giving out rich fragrance with its mellowed light; while birds of every
clime, from the stately pea-fowl to the minutest lady-bird, admirably
imitated in enameled gold and precious stones, were fixed upon elastic
sprays, swaying to every breath, and chirping forth melody from little
organs, played upon by their own tremulous motions, and so perfect was
the workmanship that their forms and notes were hardly to be
distinguished from those of the real birds that walked or flew amongst
them in the gay parterres.

Amid all this enchantment moved groups of richly habited men and women;
dons and cavaliers, in their blazing military costumes, and dark-eyed
donnas, in soft silks, rich velvets, and transparent muslins of India,
ornamented with brilliants, plumes, or flowers, each as her fancy
dictated. Some were dancing to lively music, some listening to soft
melodies and songs of love; some were grouped around the beautifully
imitated trees, on which ripe fruits of every clime seemed to hang in
nature’s wild profusion; some clustered around statues, which presented
baskets and trays of the choicest viands; others again rested beside
fountains which threw up jets of perfumed wine, which, as it descended
in drops, displayed rainbows of inimitable splendor, painted by colored
lights arranged for the purpose, while here and there a youthful couple,
walking apart, and apparently unconscious of all the surrounding
splendor, betrayed the tender topic of their sweet communings.

Could discontent and heaviness of heart exist amid all this wealth and
splendor and apparent happiness? or do all these fail to satisfy the
yearnings of the immortal mind? In a retired part of the gardens, where
a few dark evergreens clustered over a natural spring of living water,
stood a man apparently forty years of age, plainly habited in rich black
velvet, which displayed to the best advantage a form of manly mould and
exquisite symmetry. His beaver lay beside him on the turf, and his noble
head thus exposed, displayed the perfection of nature’s statuary. His
high and expansive forehead, strongly marked and delicately moulded
features, dark, piercing and restless eyes, bespoke genius to conceive,
energy to prosecute, perseverance to complete achievement of lofty
daring. But there was an expression of melancholy around his perfect
mouth, and his dark brows had acquired a contraction which proved that
he was familiar with disappointment, and the contumely of inferior
souls. Wrapped in deep thought he seemed, except that from time to time,
as he lifted his eyes and glanced up the vista, there flashed from their
dark depths the impatience of a mighty spirit, baffled of its aim,
chained in its flight, and misunderstood in the darkness of surrounding
ignorance. A figure, elastic with the buoyancy of joy, advanced toward
him, a warm hand clasped his, and a glad voice exclaimed, “Courage, my
friend, she has consented to see you, to listen to your plea, to weigh
your arguments, and decide upon your claims to patronage. Courage, I
say, for if she listen to you, she will espouse your cause.” A light,
intense, but momentary, flashed over the face of the dark-browed man, as
he pressed the hand of his messenger, exclaiming, “Thank you—to me you
are, indeed, San Angel!”

Gradually the gay groups disappeared from the scene of magnificent
enchantment; the lights went out one by one, like stars at the approach
of day; the voices of melody ceased amongst the pavilions, and in the
echoing halls, and silence seemed resuming her natural empire over the
night.

In a retired apartment of the royal palace sat Isabella of Castile, with
her two young daughters. The beauty of the queen was of a style to
command respect rather than admiration, obedience rather than love.
Majesty was in her form and mien, pride sat on her brow, and in her
tones and gestures lived an authority which none dared question or
disobey. Well was it for herself and those around her that she was
governed by the nicest principles of honor; that her whole life was
swayed by the most fervent and conscientious devotional feelings; so
that as a queen, as a wife, and as a mother, she was above reproach.

Her eldest daughter, the Lady Isabella, inherited with her mother’s
name, a large portion of her personal and mental qualities; but while
one was a woman and a queen, the other was a young princess, proud,
impatient of control or contradiction, and delighting in magnificence
and admiration. Her younger sister, the Lady Joanna, though she had a
fine form and regular features, with the dark, languid eyes of her
country, was destitute of that grace and vivacity which is the great
charm in woman’s character. The warm blood never gave a living glow to
the dark olive of her complexion, and it was seldom that the deep
fringes of her eyelids were lifted sufficiently to allow those with whom
she conversed to mark the beautiful and flitting shadows of the deep and
sweet emotions of her loving spirit.

“Oh, mother!” cried the young Isabella, her whole person radiant with
the spirit’s light, “oh, mother, what a glorious thing it is to be a
queen’s daughter; to live in such magnificence, to be an object of
admiration and worship, to listen while gay and noble cavaliers extol
one’s beauty and accomplishments; but, mother, it is my highest glory
that I am _your_ child, your namesake, and like you in mind and person.
Oh, how my heart swelled last night as I heard men speak of the truly
royal Isabella of Castile. But, mother, I am not quite as noble-souled
as you, for I heard them tell that in your girlhood, when the
discontented nobles and people would have placed you on your brother’s
throne, you utterly refused to consent to his being deposed, and only
allowed yourself to be declared his successor. I could not have been so
moderate; oh, I long to be a queen like you.”

“A queen!” murmured Joanna, who occupied a cushion at her mother’s feet,
“a queen,” and her voice was low and sweet as the murmur of a guitar,
when its strings are moved by the orange-scented breeze alone. “I would
be queen of one loving heart alone. I ask no kingdom beyond a quiet
home, with one to love me, dearly, truly, unchangingly, as I could love
again. Oh, mother, I am weary of all this noise and show; my heart grows
sick, as I mark these glorious things, and feel that they are spoils of
war, relics of a fallen power, trophies of a victory achieved by
bloodshed, fire, famine, and pestilence. Do not frown, dear mother, my
queen; but I cannot help thinking of the loving hearts, and beautiful
women, and tender babes that perished in Grenada. They were infidels,
but they had human hearts; they loved, and were beloved, and, oh, what
bitter sundering of holy ties was in that devoted city. I cannot rejoice
in such dreadful victory; I dare not thank our merciful Father in Heaven
that he has permitted our armies to inflict such a vast amount of
misery, not only on our armed foes, but on their helpless and innocent
families.”

The queen’s countenance was troubled; she regarded her daughters
alternately. “Alas! my children,” she said at length, “I foresee
unhappiness for you both. Isabella’s spirit will never be satisfied with
power and grandeur; and your heart, Joanna, will never be filled with
the love for which alone it asks. It is possible to be beautiful,
honored, and a mighty queen, and yet be very miserable—oh, very
miserable! Leave me now, my children, for the hour of audience is at
hand; and I am to listen to a strange suitor and weigh a mighty
project.”

Queen Isabella sat in her private audience-chamber, surrounded by her
nobles. There was a shadow on her brow deeper than the shade of business
cares; and it was remarked by her counsellors that every article of the
spoils of the fallen Moors had been removed from her apartments.

Presently San Angel and his friend, Columbus, were ushered to the royal
presence. The great adventurer wore the same plain habit of black
velvet, but appeared infinitely more noble in that dress than did any of
the embroidery-decked cavaliers in the royal presence. Columbus was no
stranger to courts and princes, yet as he bent his knee before Isabella
of Castile, he felt to pay her the homage of the soul, and she thought
that she had never until then looked upon true greatness.

“Rise,” she said, “and speak what you have to say.”

He stood before her calm, collected, and with the air of a man having
full confidence in himself; and his speech, which at first was
hesitating and low, soon flowed in a torrent of strong eloquence,
betraying the tide of the deep spirit which thus poured out its
speculative treasures.

“Madam,” he said, “you behold me, a native of Genoa, a suitor to your
majesty for aid, not to prosecute an idle enterprise to attain for
myself gay baubles, or the yellow gold that lies like a heavy chain upon
the souls of its votaries, but to prosecute a great and glorious
enterprise, of the success of which I am morally certain, and which will
be an inestimable benefit to the whole world, and add, if it be
possible, new honors to the name of Isabella of Castile. Madam, the
teachings of science, as well as my apprehension of the goodness and
wisdom of our bountiful Creator, have led me to a firm conviction that
all the unexplored surface of this vast globe is not, cannot be, a
barren waste of waters. I know that there are vast islands, probably a
great continent, sufficient to balance the lands that now compose the
world, lying away in the western ocean. These unknown lands I would
discover and explore. Or even if such do not exist, as we know that the
earth is globular in form, I shall at least discover a passage to India
through the western ocean, and so add a glory to the crown of Castile
which shall eclipse the lustre which recent navigators have given to
Portugal. This is the age of naval enterprise and great discoveries; let
the most important exploit of this age live with the name of Queen
Isabella on the historic page forever and forever.

“Madam, I know that I am no idle dreamer, no speculative theorist; I
seek to confirm by actual discovery the truths which reason and religion
proclaim to my mind as indisputable. And yet I have found no soul
capable of understanding mine; no rich prince or noble willing to risk a
few thousands for an incalculable benefit to the whole world through all
the years to come, and a fame which shall live until the sun burns out
in the great temple of the blue ether. You will ask why I, a citizen of
Genoa, a rich and powerful state, find it necessary to solicit the aid
of foreign powers. I have said I find no souls capable of understanding
mine. The great ones of my dear native city have pronounced me a framer
of illusive theories. I would have won for her an imperishable honor;
she would not receive it at my hand. Filled with sorrow and indignation,
I then turned toward Portugal, encouraged by her recently acquired
reputation as a patron of adventurous navigators. Her great ones
listened to my suit, amused with hopes, and delayed to give me a
definite answer; and while I waited and strove to convince them of the
rationality of my speculations, they treacherously drew from me all my
grounds of belief in the existence of another continent, my intended
method of discovery, with the direction I meant to steer, and all the
information I could give concerning my projected voyage; and, indeed,
madam, you will find it hard to believe such infamy, they fitted out a
fleet secretly, which sailed, failed of its object, encountered storms,
and returned, asserting that they had done all that navigators could do,
and that my theory is false and futile. Thus I have been cheated out of
three years of my existence, while my ardent soul is burning out its
habitation. Then I thought of England. I sent my brother to lay my
project before her royal Henry. Years have passed, and yet he has not
returned. Madam, I know that the lands of which I have spoken do exist.
I know that I am able to search them out in the world of dark waters
which has wrapped them from our knowledge since the world began. I know
that I can reach them, for God has raised me up and endowed me as his
instrument to affect these great discoveries, and he will preserve my
life, and guide me by his almighty power. I have petitioned your august
consort, but he is occupied by other matters, or swayed by those who
would prevent me from achieving that which they dare not undertake
themselves, who would withhold from me the honors which they have not
courage and ability to achieve for themselves. On you, therefore,
illustrious madam, now rest my ardent hopes. Surely amid all this
magnificence, the small sum necessary for my outfit would not be felt.
And in the event of my success, which I deem certain, would not the vast
and rich territory thus added to the dominions of Castile and Aragon,
bring millions of revenue for every hundred expended on my expedition. I
beseech your highness, listen to my plea; I am like a strong eagle,
longing to scale the pinnacle of a lofty mountain, but bound by a heavy
chain in a dark and miry valley, I am wearing out my life in a vain
effort to spread my shackled pinions to the glorious sunlight. Let your
royal bounty remove these shackles, give me the means, and say to me go,
explore the ocean, discover new worlds, and take possession in the name
of Isabella, the illustrious queen of Castile. Let me go, in pity to my
restless spirit. Let me go and win everlasting honors for myself and the
age, and for my royal patroness.”

Queen Isabella had listened with evident interest, her dark eyes
flashed, and her cheeks burned with excitement. She extended her
beautiful hand to the suppliant. “I grant your prayer,” she said; “I
will furnish funds for your voyage. This display of magnificence is not
at my command. It belongs to our nobles, our churches, our officers and
soldiers. You behold here the spoils of the vanquished, which must
reward the vanquishers. It is possible to be poor in the midst of regal
splendor. But I have jewels which are at my own disposal, which add
nothing to my power or my happiness. I will dispose of them, and give
you the means to prosecute your project to discover new worlds amid the
wilderness of waves, and win that undying fame which you deem within
your reach.”

Low on his knees fell the joyful adventurer, and poured out his
gratitude in few but forceful words.

Looks of scorn, contempt, and bitter enmity were fixed upon the
adventurous Genoese by the courtiers who surrounded her majesty, and it
was evident that her presence alone restrained them from openly
expressing their hatred of him, and disapproval of her decision. One
cavalier in particular ground his teeth with rage, and muttered his vow
of eternal enmity to him whose soul so overreached all human intellect
had heretofore achieved.

But Isabella’s royal word was pledged, and her powerful eloquence had
won her regal Ferdinand of Aragon to espouse the cause of Columbus, and
associate his name with hers in patronage of his great adventure. But
the man of mighty soul had departed on his limitless voyage, and his
scoffers continued to clamor against him, and predict the utter failure
of his project, and destruction of his fleet and crews.

Ferdinand and Isabella were holding their court in Barcelona, when a
courier arrived with intelligence that Columbus with his fleet had made
the harbor of Palos, from which he sailed about ten months previous.
Various rumors followed the announcement, rumors of glory, and gold, and
territories, rich and blooming as the garden of Eden. Then gushed in
clamorous torrents the bitter waters of envy, hatred, and detraction;
but Isabella heeded not their clamors, but awaited with hope and
exultation the arrival of her protégé.

At length a triumphant train approached the city. Loud shouts swelled up
to heaven from the excited multitudes; the city poured out her torrents
of living creatures to meet the mighty man who had wrested a world from
the untraversed ocean floods.

The monarchs, in their most glorious apparel, sat upon their throne in
the magnificently furnished reception hall of their palace home.

The procession approached; a herald announced the great discoverer. He
entered the presence, and the monarchs arose and stood to greet him.

With him came natives of his new world, with their strange features and
unheard of complexions—habited in the grotesque costume of their native
clime. In beautiful caskets and vases were borne gold, unwrought, and
fashioned into curious ornaments, fruits and flowering plants, and
strangely beautiful specimens of verdure and foliage, with articles of
the manufacture of those far-off lands—all things strange to the
admiring beholders, and different from aught that the eastern continent
produced. All was wonder, admiration and delight, except in the black
habitations of envy and murderous hate. But Columbus had achieved his
triumph—he had discovered a new world; he had triumphed over the malice
of his enemies, he had won for himself an imperishable fame; but he laid
all his glories at the feet of his royal patroness, ISABELLA OF CASTILE,
without whose aid the mighty soul of enterprise would have worn itself
out in vain endeavors to spread its glorious pinions. Oh, that every
mighty mind could find an Isabella.

Ought not the name of Isabella to be forever associated with that of
Columbus, as without her aid he could never have crossed the Atlantic?
Should not the honor of the discovery of the western world rest alike
upon him who conceived, and her who enabled him to execute the mighty
project? And yet the fame of Columbus is wide as the world, and eternal
as the lands to which he opened the way across the billows; while she
who gave wings to his genius and power to his arm is almost forgotten.

But I would wed her name to his forever by christening this great and
hitherto nameless republic, by the appropriate and euphonious title of
Columbella. Thus would I give honor to whom honor is due.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                EGERIA.


                           BY MARY L. LAWSON.


                In a soft, still summer twilight,
                  When the sunset’s golden beam
                Gleamed behind the cold gray mountain,
                  With a misty haze between,
                When the stars were faintly breaking,
                  One by one, upon the sky,
                And the winds that whispered near me
                  Were as gentle as a sigh,
                ’Neath a mossed and gnarled oak,
                  With its branches ivy-bound,
                Where the mingled sweets of flowers
                  Threw a breathing perfume round,
                There a lovely dream stole o’er me,
                  ’Twas life’s sweetest, last, and best;
                Bright Egeria, lost Egeria,
                  Thou hast left my lonely breast.

                I have sought the spot full often
                  In the morning, in the noon,
                In the chill and bleak December,
                  In the rosy light of June;
                And when floods of silvery moonlight
                  O’er the valley slept serene,
                While its pale and silent splendor
                  Mocked my spirit’s restless dream.
                Yet I linger as of old—
                  Still I seek the shadowed lake,
                And the mountains stern and drear,
                  Where the Alpine glaciers break;
                There I watch the storm-god rise,
                  But I wander on in vain;
                Bright Egeria, lost Egeria,
                  Will we never meet again.

                ’Mid my deep and yearning sadness,
                  With enrapturing thought I dwell
                On the scenes whose hues are melting
                  Into memory’s mystic spell;
                But my gladness hath departed,
                  For I tremblingly pursue
                The beloved yet changing phantom
                  That still fades before my view;
                Aerial music floats around,
                  Aerial voices meet mine ear,
                And my sighs are oft repeated
                  By soft echoes hovering near;
                And from visions half ethereal—
                  Mad with hope—I wildly start—
                But thy footsteps, lost Egeria,
                  Are the beatings of my heart.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                     HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,


   DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

                          BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

                      (_Continued from page 141._)


We had almost forgotten to speak of another class, important though
youthful, of the saucy, petted and spoiled _pages_. They, too, are gone,
and not one of them survived the eighteenth century. The Almanac of the
Empire, it is true, bears the names of thirty-two pages, and that of the
restoration of seventy-two; but all this means nothing, for the last
page, who really was what he professed to be, and who was the most
celebrated of his class, was named Cherubim, and was born April 27,
1784.

The following is his portrait.

[Illustration]

The old Duke of Lauraguais said that the first English frock worn in
France had been the death-blow of the French nobility, one of the most
numerous of the grades of which had been the first to adopt it. The
Marquises, with their proverbial love of change, began from that time to
transform their _modes_, and effected it so rapidly that their brocade
garments were soon only found on the stage, or in the _bals-costumés_.
This frock, (fr. froc,) which had so disadvantageous an influence, was a
kind of loose gown, with pockets on the inside, and without any
tightness at the waist. It was cut lengthwise with the cloth, and though
first without a collar, ultimately acquired one. The dress of the age in
other respects remained long unaltered, though its accessories, such as
buttons, plaits, _etc._, were constantly changing. The coats first were
made to button all the way up, and then only from the pockets up:
finally buttons were not used at all. After some lapse of time loops
were used, which clasped the narrow coat over the often portly
_tournure_ in the most ridiculous manner. Waistcoats then were
waistcoats, not _gilets_, but substantial coats without sleeves. The
wardrobe of a gentleman also contained another garment called a
_veston_, covered with lace and _broderie_, a _volant_, which was always
single-breasted, various kinds of redingotes, such as the _roquelaure_,
the _houppelande_, etc., all of which were made of every conceivable
material and color. The above are the general characteristics of
costume, all the variations of which we cannot be expected to describe
any more than the botanist is to count every leaf on a tree.

Black, now the _ne plus ultra_ of dress, was then worn only by
_procureurs_, authors, small landholders, and, in a word, all persons
who were negligent in their toilette. It was the index of restricted
means, and of mourning, when the most obscure bourgeois dressed himself
like a count or marquis.

The greatest variety of colors were worn, and contrasts which now would
seem most repulsive were every day met with. A scarlet velvet coat, with
a black collar and steel buttons, sulphur-colored breeches and
blue-striped hose were considered in very good taste about 1785. _Boue
de Paris_ (brick-dust color) and London smoke were worn in both London
and Paris in 1786, and in 1788, a color known by the repulsive name of
beef' s-blood was the extremity of fashion. Waistcoats had all kinds of
names, taken from operas, such as Figaro, Cœur-de-Lion, etc.
Handkerchiefs _aux adieux de Fontainebleu_ were worn; neither of these,
however, seem to have differed materially from other waistcoats and
handkerchiefs.

This was the age of _cravats_, made of fine lawn or baptiste richly
laced, with hanging ends; peruques _à la Grecque_, with three buckles;
the sword and plumed hat. Some persons also wore the stockinet breeches,
by the side of which Adam’s fig-leaf was decent.

The following is a group altogether characteristic of that age in which
the redingote, the _coiffure à la Grecque_, and plumed hat all appear:

[Illustration]

None now can take an interest in all the mysteries of powder and
_coiffure_, with their high-sounding names _à la Brigadière_, _à la
Sartine_, _à trois marteaux_, etc., they are gone forever, and when the
great Leonard fled to Russia after the execution of the king were
forgotten in Paris. It will be remembered that other capitals always
copied the costumes of the French capital, and that in speaking of Paris
we describe the costume of Europe.

Grave reflections do not belong to the history of so frivolous a thing
as costume, but any one may see that it is impossible to avoid making a
comparison, not only between the costumes, but the ideas of the past and
present. The decay of the luxury of the old monarchy was but the
forerunner of the fall of the monarchy itself, so that rightly enough
Dumourier echoed the prophecy of its ruin, made by an old
gentleman-usher who saw the great Roland appear before the king with
shoes with strings instead of buckles. We have brought down the history
of costume to the verge of a revolution, all the terrors of which luxury
survived, and there may be those who think the crisis in the midst of
which France is, may pass away, and things yet a second time resume
their old state. This cannot be the centre of fashion is destroyed, and
cannot be again created. France has more serious things to attend to,
and though all the world submitted to French dictation, it is scarcely
probable that it will bow itself to another sceptre. France cannot
resume her sway. In 1792 the dispersed court bore away with it all the
splendor and magnificence of the past, and left a void which the
republic could not fill. In 1830 _noblesse_, as a cast, had disappeared,
but an opulent class yet remained, who had grown accustomed to dictate
in fashion. In the year 1848 the revolution was more complete, and all
have other things to do besides thinking of periwigs and shoe-buckles.

Among the causes which tended in the eighteenth century to modify French
costume, by assimilating all classes, we must in the first place mention
the influence of what is now called Anglo-mania. Even as far back as
Louis XV., the young nobles had become accustomed to visit England,
where they acquired new habits if not new ideas. England for a time was
the sovereign of fashion, and hats were worn _à la Tamise_ instead of _à
la Seine_. The nobles, in imitation of the English, ruined themselves by
extravagance in horses and equipages. Quarrels arose about the good
looks of jockeys, and princes of the blood and dukes transformed
themselves into coach-drivers. Marie Antoinette even took pride in the
dexterity with which she handled the whip and reins of a pony-phaeton.
The revolution has naturalized in France many political phrases, but
long before that French ears and the French palate had grown used to
punch, or _ponche_ as they called it, and both sexes had become
accustomed to cover up their costume with the _redingote_, or English
riding-coat. Tea canes and hats were ultimately adopted, also from
England.

The revolution in England, and the round-head ideas it evolved, had much
simplified English costume, and by the Anglo-mania this simplicity was
now reflected back on France, and continued to as late a day as the
revolution. In 1786 the English costume was frequently seen in the
streets of Paris, and contributed in a great degree to dissipate the air
of pretension which yet animated French society. The English boot was
adopted almost universally, and gaiters became as common as in London.
The loose locks of the English sailors were also imitated, and this was
a severe blow on the old costume, an important portion of which was the
_coiffure_. The three-cornered cocked was replaced by the jockey’s round
hat, a ridiculous and ungainly thing which no taste can make becoming,
and no art make comfortable. The probability, however, is that it will
become universal, and that some day all the world will wear this
head-piece.

This mutual imitation continued until the adoption of Napoleon’s
Continental system, which, as is well known, separated England from all
intercourse with Europe. When peace had put an end to the long wars this
system had occasioned, and Englishmen again came on the Continent, their
appearance struck each other as supremely ludicrous, as the apparition
of one of our own grandfathers in the gigantic waistcoat and the bag wig
they wore would seem to us in a modern drawing-room.

Before, however, an universal costume had been adopted the revolution
came. Fortunes were swept away, palaces lost, and the people who
inhabited them dispersed. We here lose sight of powdered hair forever,
for both sexes cut their hair short, and shoes with strings were
universally adopted. The reign of terror came, _sans-culottism_ was the
rage. The red cap of liberty, the _houppelande_ of red worsted, or the
_carmagnole_ usurped the place of the plumed hat and the graceful
_roquelaure_. Open shirt collars and a knotted stick, like the Irish
shilelah, were indispensible accompaniments to this dress, an admirable
representation of which is to be seen in the making up of James Wallack,
senior, for one of his many admirable impersonations, called David
Duvigne, in that pretty two act drama of the “Hazard of the Die.” This
costume is scarcely worthy of remark, except on account of the red
Italian cap, a garment far more graceful than our hat, but proscribed on
account of the horrors enacted by those who wore it. It, however, never
was worn except in France, and we may well enough drop it here forever.

Yet people must not think there was no richness of costume during the
republic. There was as much extravagance as ever, only every one dressed
according to his own whim. There were fops, too, called _Muscadins
incroyables_ and _mervilleux_, who aped the manners of the old marquis.
One great _trait_ of these was they were all near-sighted, and could not
pronounce the letter R. They were the prototypes of our own dandies, as
may be seen by the following specimen:

[Illustration]

This costume was imitated over all the world, and, except in the hat,
breeches and ribbons at the knee, does not differ greatly from the dress
of our own day.

                                                [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        THE ADVENTURES OF A MAN


                     “WHO COULD NEVER DRESS WELL.”

                          BY M. TOPHAM EVANS.

“Hang it!” I exclaimed, as I thrust the poker violently into the grate,
and slammed myself into an arm-chair before the fire, “I am the most
unfortunate rascal in the world!”

I had just returned from the Hon. Mrs. Scatter’s squeeze. I can’t
imagine why it should be the case, but it seems to be my unlucky destiny
either to be thrust or to thrust myself eternally into the most
inappropriate places possible. What the deuce should have taken me
there? I know that I have no business at such assemblies—yet, oh,
Julia!

She waltzed with that fool, Fitzcrocky. The fellow hasn’t a particle of
brain, but such a _moustache_! And then the style of his dress. With
what elegant ease he sports his habiliments! Such perfect taste in their
arrangement, and so harmonious the _tout ensemble_! Then look at me.
They were whispering. He cast a sneering glance at my exterior. I know
she laughed at me. Zounds, I could tear my hair to tatters!

I never could dress well. If I have a handsome and well-made coat, the
vest and pants are sure to be of the most unsuitable colors. That
infernal tailor, I verily believe, takes every advantage to make me
appear disadvantageously; and I could swear that he palms all his
unsaleable remnants upon me. Let me see how he has figged me out for
what I intended to be the victorious campaign of this evening. Scipio,
wheel up that cheval glass. Gods and fishes! A purple coat with silver
filagree buttons—a white satin vest—scarlet under ditto—light drab
pantaloons, and a check cravat! Black silk stockings and pumps with
rosettes. Jupiter and Moses! Why I look like one of Bunbury’s
caricatures! Tregear’s shop-window never exhibited such a monster. No
wonder _they_ laughed at me. Ha! ha! By Jove, I can’t help laughing at
myself, and it’s no joking matter, after I had laid myself out to make a
deep impression.

There, Scipio, draw the curtains and go. Stay; hand me the brandy-bottle
and some cigars before you make your final exit. I might as well get
drunk, and by that means bury my woes in a temporary oblivion, despite
of all temperance societies.

Give me my dressing-gown, and pitch this infernal coat out at the
window. Ha! here’s another specimen of my undeniable taste. What man,
save myself, would ever encase himself in a brocade of a pattern like a
bed-curtain. No matter; your Persian says it is all _takdeer_—destiny.
All this, I presume, was fore-ordained—it must have been predestined,
this atrocious, villainous piece of business, and I suppose I can’t help
it. Scipio, go to bed.

Scipio retired, and I was left alone. The night was dark and
confoundedly cold. I picked up a volume. It was Peter Schlemihl. I
lighted a cigar, and mixing some strong brandy-and-water, I applied
myself to the business which the reader has been previously informed I
had in contemplation.

But all would not do. I could not succeed in my intention. I smoked one
Dos Amigos after another, and quaffed glass after glass of Seignette.
The more I drank, in the more odious light did I appear to myself. I
ruminated upon Julia’s flirtation with Fitzcrocky. I attempted to
analyze the causes of my abominable want of taste in the components of
costume.

“Deuce take me!” at last I cried, exhausted, and half mad with vexation,
“I wish to Heaven that I could exchange this unlucky carcass with some
more fortunate individual, whose kinder stars may have granted him a
comelier body and a more _recherché_ taste in its decoration than my
miserable self!”

Scarcely had I spoken these words when a gentle cough attracted my
attention. I looked up. Opposite to me there sat a gentleman of the most
prepossessing exterior. He had drawn up a lounge to the side of the
grate, and was seated, with patient politeness, as if in expectation of
drawing my attention to himself. He was attired in a neat and elegant
suit of black, which fitted him _à merveille_. A dark maroon velvet
vest, buttoned tightly to his chest, and falling over into a rolling
collar, displayed his linen of superb make and texture, fastened by a
small diamond pin. His cravat was tied with a prim precision; his boots
and gloves would have driven Staub and Walker to despair. His hat was of
the most appropriate block, and a cambric handkerchief, delicate as the
web of Arachne, and scented with _bouquet du roi_, was occasionally
applied to his nose, in the most graceful manner. The contour of his
face was perfect Grecian, and a mass of wavy chestnut-hair was
negligently disposed over his forehead. He wore neither whisker nor
_moustache_.

For some time I sat in silent amazement, wondering how my guest had
procured his _entreé_, inasmuch as I knew that all the doors were locked
and bolted, and that my janitor had gone to bed some hour and a half
previous to the stranger’s appearance. He sat in equal silence.
Presently he arose, and pouring out a glass of brandy, he swallowed it
in a twinkling, bowing to me with infinite gravity. He next produced a
long and slender meerschaum from his pocket, lighted it with a _pastille
ambreé_ and resuming his seat, his eyes traveled over my attire from
head to foot, with an air of well-bred curiosity. My bile began to work.

“May I ask, sir,” said I, “what is the meaning of this unusual visit?”

The stranger, carelessly desisting from his investigation, expelled a
mouthful of smoke, and with a kind of concealed chuckle, which I did not
half like, replied,

“Pray, sir, may I, without infringing upon propriety, inquire of you,
who _is_ your tailor?”

My hand inadvertently sought the decanter, and I had a vague idea of
hurling it at my visiter’s head. One moment’s reflection, together with
a glance at the well-made and sinewy form before me, determined me to
waive hostilities.

“I cannot imagine, sir,” I replied, with severe dignity, “your motives
in making any such inquiry.”

“Oh, a mere trifle. I was anxious to become acquainted with the name of
your fashioner, who, to judge from the appearance of your habiliments,
must possess a most exquisite taste.”

For a moment, I had suspicions that my _amis inconnu_ was quizzing me. I
eyed him narrowly, but the expression of his face was that of respectful
earnestness, mingled with some curiosity. Not the slightest trace of a
quiz could be detected upon his immovable aspect.

“If you are really anxious to know,” said I, and I confess I fell
naturally gratified, for it was the first compliment I had ever heard
addressed to my taste, “I can refer you to Cabbage & Stickem, Oxford
street.”

“I could almost wish to exchange my vile taste in costume for your more
original and certainly more refined style,” said the stranger, without
moving a single muscle of his face.

“And I,” I cried, seizing him by the hand, “highly as I feel flattered
by such a declaration, would willingly make such an exchange, if it were
possible to do so.”

“We shall find it very possible,” replied the stranger. “Come, let us
take a glass to our better acquaintance. I am charmed to have it in my
power to confer an obligation upon a gentleman like yourself, especially
when it meets so exactly with my own inclinations.”

“Egad,” said I, as we hob-nobbed very cordially together, “I am agreed
to make the exchange directly.”

I had no sooner said the word than I felt a most violent blow at the
back of my head. On my recovery, for it almost stunned me, I was
stupefied with astonishment, upon looking up, to behold _myself_ sitting
at my ease, and smoking with great _insouciance_, upon the very seat
which I had previously occupied _in propria persona_.

“Be so good, worthy sir,” said I, or the figure I saw seated in my-arm
chair, “to look in yonder glass, and you will discover that your wishes
have been complied with.”

I stepped to the cheval, and to my unspeakable amazement and joy, viewed
in the reflection the person of the elegant gentleman with whom I had
exchanged exteriors.

“I hope,” said the personage who rejoiced in my original ugliness and
odious garments, “that this exchange is entirely to your satisfaction?”

I could have hugged him, for I was almost beside myself with delight.

“How can I thank you for your kindness,” I exclaimed, for my old attire
looked doubly ridiculous to my new optics. “I do assure you, sir, that I
am forever at your service.”

“That’s it,” said the gentleman with a peculiar smile, which in the
plenitude of my joy I did not notice at the time, although I recollected
it afterward perfectly well. “And now, as it grows late, I will bid you
good evening.”

As he spoke, I saw my ancient figure walk quietly out at the door. I
don’t know, but I thought I heard him laugh a little after closing it.
For my own part I was so elated, that I could not think of going to bed,
so I sat drinking and singing, building castles in the air, and
ruminating upon the magnificent figure which I should oppose against the
fascinations of Fitzcrocky, in the eyes of Julia. I determined, with the
afternoon of that day, to commence my triumphal progress in her
affections. In fact, I never noticed how time slipped by, and when the
entrance of some one at the door aroused me, and I collected my
scattered senses, it was at least four hours after sunrise.

“Gollamighty!” exclaimed the voice of Scipio. “What de debbil we got
heah? Trange man in massa’s bed-room, and he not up yit. What you want,
eh? He some tief—some robber.”

“Why you old fool,” said I, “don’t you see it’s me—myself?”

“Who me?—what dat, eh? Debbil tak me if I no b’lieve dat he has
murdered massa and teal all de spoons! Help! murder!”

“What do you mean, you old villain!” cried I. “Do you want to bring in
the whole neighborhood?” and seizing a candlestick, I leveled it at his
woolly pate.

“What do _you_ mean, you scoundrel, by abusing _my_ servant?” roared a
voice from the bed. I looked in that direction. There was my head
protruded from the curtains, surmounted by a red night-cap, and a
clenched fist was violently shaken at me from the same purlieu.

“Turn him out, Scipio!” I shouted.

“Turn him out!” repeated my _Eidolon_, if I may so term him.

“Turn _who_ out!” queried Scipio, in a state of profound bewilderment.

Perfectly frantic with rage, I flew toward the bed, eager for a
pugilistic encounter, when the door was thrown open, and my old
housekeeper, with pallid visage, peeped into the apartment. I determined
to make an appeal to her.

“Am I, or am I not your master, Nancy?” said I, in a very melancholy
tone.

“_You_ my master! Come up, mister himperence,” replied Nancy. “My master
is in yonder bed, young man. Run, Sip, and call a policeman. He’ll make
you know _your_ master, jail-bird.”

“Ah!” thought I, “it’s all up, I see. That fellow’s me, and I’m somebody
else, but hang me if I know who. Well, as I don’t choose to take a
morning airing at Hatton Garden, I might as well abdicate at once. But,”
cried I, “you scoundrel, you shall pay for this.”

“Turn him out, Sip!” grunted my former voice from the bed. How hateful
it sounded! “Turn him out, and don’t let me be disturbed till twelve. My
head aches confoundedly.”

I sneaked out of my own room like a detected pickpocket, Nancy and
Scipio attending me down stairs, and delivering a brace of running
lectures upon the evil courses which I was pursuing, admonishing me
likewise of the certain and ignominious end which awaits such depraved
and dissolute characters as I was presumed to be. At the foot of the
stairs, Scipio insisted upon searching me, an operation to which,
crest-fallen as I was, I did not pretend to make the slightest
opposition. I was then dismissed in the same manner with Master Candide
from the _château_ of Thonderdentronck, namely with _grands coups de
pied dans le derrière_, pretty well administered by a brace of sturdy
valets, whom Scipio had summoned to his assistance from a neighboring
area.

This ejection from my own mansion took place about half past nine
o’clock. In the first impulses of my rage and despair, I resolved to
apply to my friends, in order to establish my identity by their
testimonies. It was early; too early in fact to find any of them up, and
I was fain to stroll the streets until the lingering hands of the clock
should signify the proper and canonical hour of rising. So I patrolled
Hyde Park for an hour or so, until my insides began to give me very
unequivocal tokens of their desire for breakfast. Rage, as well as love
and all other sublunary matters, must yield to the calls of hunger. I
entered a coffee-house in Upper Brook street, and ordered my morning
meal. I drank a couple of cups of tea, ate a French roll and a modicum
of raw beefsteak, and walked to the bar to pay my bill. I put my hand
into my pocket in search of my purse. It was not there. I tried another,
and another, and yet another pocket. Horrid to relate, I could not meet
with the smallest coin of the realm! The waiter began to look very
black, and I could overhear the monosyllable “_bilk_” ground out between
his teeth in a tone which indicated profound aversion and contempt. My
hair fairly stood on end. Nevertheless I thought it best to brazen it
out.

“Do you see, my good fellow,” said I, and I assure you, I spoke in a
very bland and courteous tone, “I have most unaccountably forgotten my
purse—”

“Gammon!” was the very significant response of the Ganymede. “How d’ye
know you ever had one?”

“Confound your impudence, fellow!” said I, nettled by the coolness of
the query. “What d’ ye mean by insulting a gentleman?”

“More like a swell out o’ luck,” growled the servitor. “Come, young ’un,
this here kind of a job’s no go. Post the cole, my boy, or it’ll be the
worse for somebody.”

As luck would have it, I thought of my diamond breastpin, and taking
that article of jewelry from my shirt front, I offered it to the waiter.

“Blast your Brummagem traps!” quoth that gentleman. “D’ ye think I don’t
know a diamond from a Bristol stone, or gold from pinchbeck?”

It was pinchbeck, by Jupiter!

The waiter must have been touched by the despair depicted upon my
countenance. With a grim smile,

“Come, my fine chap,” said he, “if you are a bilk, it’s plain that
you’re a new hand at the trade, and I don’t care about being too hard
upon you. Give me your wipe, and I’ll let you off for this time, but you
take care you doesn’t come the swell mob again over this ’ere house,
that’s all.”

My heart was too full for speech. I gave him my handkerchief with a
profound sigh, and throwing the pinchbeck breastpin into the
coal-scuttle, I vanished with all convenient speed.

Leaving the coffee-house, I espied my crony, Dick Buffers, across the
street. To join him was but the work of a moment.

“Hollo, Dick!” said I, slapping him heartily upon the shoulder. This was
the irrepressible outpouring of a bosom, into which a ray of light,
imparted by hope, had penetrated, cheering the darksome abode with its
enlivening presence. Quickly was my joy turned into sorrow.

“What do you mean, sir?” said Dick, drawing himself up with magnificent
reserve. “Do you mean to insult me?”

“Come, Dick,” said I, in a sort of whimper, for I was really becoming
very much alarmed, “don’t put a strange face on the matter. It isn’t
possible that you don’t know your old friend, Flashington Highflyer? Why
we only parted at midnight, and dined together no later than yesterday.”

“Highflyer!” said Buffers. “To be sure I know him, and very well, too.
We undoubtedly did dine together yesterday, although I cannot account
for your knowledge of the fact. But it will take even more than your
impudence to convince me that you are the man. You must be either drunk
or a fool. Flashington Highflyer! ha! ha! Your very dress convicts you
of a lie.”

Buffers might have spared this sarcasm.

“Upon my honor, Richard Buffers,” said I, solemnly, while the tears
actually stood in my eyes, “I am that most unfortunate man.”

“You are? Why, the man’s mad! View that looking glass in yonder
shop-window, and if you haven’t been looking into the glass too often
this morning already, you will discover that your countenance bears not
the slightest resemblance to that of Mr. Highflyer, that is, if you are
at all acquainted with the physiognomy of the gentleman to whose name
you have laid claim.”

I stepped to the window. One glance was sufficient. Oh! how I cursed my
super-lunatic folly, and how I longed for my former shape.

“Egad, it’s true,” I soliloquized. “It’s all correct, as my Yankee
friends have it. That rascal has got into possession of my goods and
chattels, as well as of my person, and has left me nothing in return but
a most confoundedly disagreeable sense of my own individuality. What a
horrid piece of business to be sure!”

I turned. Dick was gone.

“Who am I, then?” was my next very natural self interrogatory.

It was needless to disturb my remaining acquaintance for proofs of my
identity, as, indeed, if any body had demanded of me my address, I
should have been amazingly puzzled to give it. I turned about, entirely
reckless of whither I went. Twelve, one o’clock went by. I met many of
my acquaintance, but there was no recognition. I was in despair, and
could have sat down upon the curb-stone and wept. My walk procured me
one thing, it is true, namely, a very good appetite; but I could have
readily dispensed with that, inasmuch as I was painfully conscious that,
without pawning my coat, I was utterly unable to satisfy the cravings of
hunger.

The hours rolled on. The force of habit, I presume, led me to Hyde Park
once more. All the world was abroad. Beauty, rank and fashion were
collected in one splendid, aristocratic mass. Carriages and four, with
servants in gorgeous liveries; every variety of vehicle, from the
dashing tandem to the humbler carriage and pair, tilburies,
buggy-wagons, and cabs thronged and thundered around the ring. Horsemen
dashed along the carriage-ways, and pedestrians crowded the footpaths. I
sat down upon a bench and mechanically surveyed the scene. Every
well-known face, which was wont to greet me with smiles, but which now
bestowed upon me, _en passant_, but a vacant stare, struck a pang to my
heart. My despair would have been uncontrollable, and I should have
groveled and bit the ground with fury, but an innate self-respect, and a
desire to appear to every possible advantage, qualities which I presume
I gained together with my once admired, but now odiously detested
figure, prevented me from making such an exhibition, although I verily
believe that I was haunted with demoniac incitements to perform all
manner of curious antics.

The crowd was now at its thickest. A chariot, with servants in splendid
liveries, which I immediately recognized as my own, whirled onward.
Julia was seated in it by _myself_, or the devil in my shape. There I
was, perfectly plain to behold. The face, the form were the same, but
the dress superlatively exquisite, and beautifully adapted to the
figure. The turn-out of Fitzcrocky dashed by at the same time. He glared
furiously upon my happy representative. With matchless insinuation this
latter ogled and flirted with Julia. She returned his smiles with
eyliads of incipient affection. As they passed me by, the fellow who had
thus impudently usurped my figure and property winked—yes, he
absolutely winked at me. My veins boiled with rage. Shrieking out a
fearful oath, I seized a fragment of paving-stone and hurled it
frantically at him. A scream, a rush, and I turned and fled, without
stopping to ascertain the amount of damage inflicted by my missile, and
ran as if the furies had been after me. But I ran not alone. A dense
crowd of policemen, servants and gentleman on horseback dashed in
pursuit. Never did fugitive from the galleys exert his legs with a
better will, or with more effect, than I did. _Timor additit alas._ On I
rushed, amidst the clamor, and dust, and clatter of the yelling
multitude, as if the avenger of blood had been behind me. I had been a
sportsman, and never did a Leicestershire fox lead a squad of Meltonians
such a circumbendibus as I did my pursuers. One by one they gave in—the
noise died away gradually, and I was safe.

When partially recovered, I found myself within a queer, dark-looking
old court, in the neighborhood of Hertford street and Brick Lane. I was
surrounded by a multitude of crazy, loitering, reeking houses,
apparently the abodes of no living beings, save Jew clothesmen, oyster
venders, pawnbrokers, and gin dealers. A squalid, miserable, broken-down
dog-kennel it was too! Tattered children ran about, dabbling in the
filthy gutters, indulging in the mockery of play. Rough looking men,
wrapped in heavy pea-coats and coarse jackets, with red and bloated
faces, lounged about the doors of the various dealers, and haggard,
wretched-looking women might have been descried entering the dens of the
pawnbrokers, in hopes to raise some pittance of money for the purchase
of food or liquor, by pledging paltry articles of dress or furniture. I
sat down on the pavement side and stared around me. The scene was
altogether dissimilar to any thing I had been in the habit of
witnessing, and it was an interesting though a painful novelty. Good
God! the misery, and wretchedness, and grinding poverty, deadening to
the heart, which exist in large cities, within ken of opulence, of
luxury and of splendor! O! could the voice of these wretched throngs be
heard, in its collected wailing, what a cry of despairful agony would go
up to the throne of the Everlasting! Dead souls in living sepulchres,
stalking their gloomy round of poverty, neglect and wo—uneducated,
ungodly, famine-stricken—what hope is there for them in this world,
and, word of horror, what in the next!

As I sat in revery, some one tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up. A
stout, heavily built man, with a pimpled and swollen face, attired in a
rough drab over-coat, with leather gaiters and hob-nailed bootees, stood
beside me.

“Hollo, gen’l’mn Bill,” quoth this interesting parsonage. “Vy, vot
brings you in these parts?”

I knew the fellow at first glance, but, by Jupiter, I had never seen him
before.

“Well, old fellow,” said I, with a hilarity that disgusted me, although
Heaven knows I couldn’t help it, “what news from your ken?”

“I’tell thee vot,” said Gabriel Sooterkins, for the gentleman was
familiarly known by that appellation, “a’ter this night, Billy, my bo,
you had better change your tramp. The beaks ’ave nabbed Ikey about that
’ere job on Saffron Hill, and they say he’s peached upon it. Confound
the trade, say I, if pals can’t be true to one another.”

I recollected perfectly the matter he alluded to. It was a burglary
committed upon an old miser, who had fixed his dwelling in that delicate
abode, and I very well remembered, now that Mr. Gabriel Sooterkins
mentioned it, that I had been the head and front of the offending, and
that Ikey and himself were accomplices in the business.

An exceedingly reputable exchange of persons I had made.

“Well,” said I, “if it’s done it can’t be helped, you know, and I’m off
this night,” although I had not the most remote idea of where I was
going.

“If I’d a known vere you vos,” said Mr. Sooterkins, “I’d ha’ blowed this
here spot o’ work afore. But step in here. I’ve a vord or two to say to
you, for I s’pose there’s very little dust at the bottom of your fob.”

Mr. Sooterkins plunged downward into a dingy cellar, and I followed him
very obediently.

The place into which I accompanied him was a filthy diving, or slap-bang
shop, in which retreat was collected as motley an assemblage as the
imagination of man can conceive. A long table extended from one end of
the cellar to the other, covered with pewter mugs and dishes, cheap
crockery ware, and knives and forks, which latter implements were
chained to the table. A very satisfactory idea of the morals of the
guests might be gathered from this circumstance; although, indeed, if
that hint had been wanting, the variety of villany stamped upon the
faces of the profligate crew which surrounded the table, gave proof
satisfactory that they were not of that number who rank with the honest
of this world.

Mr. Sooterkins nodded to this amiable assembly upon entering, and I
obeyed his example, inasmuch as I recognized among these gentlemen some
very familiar acquaintances. We were received in a remarkably hilarious
manner, and some of the most jovial of our friends pressed their regards
rather closely, by playing off two or three practical jokes upon Mr.
Sooterkins. The application of a quart pot to the head of the most
forward of these wits sent him howling into a corner, and, to my
unspeakable satisfaction, put a very sudden conclusion to the incipient
merriment.

“Take that,” growled Sooterkins, “and now, as you gen’l’mn seems to be
so ’ighly delighted at this here cheerful occasion, you’ll just ’ave the
goodness to leave me and my pal to our own cards for a brace of minnits.
You see, Bill, ve must speak to Sal, and git posted up on this last
score. Hollo! Sal! you old limb of Satan, move yer shanks this way, I
tell ye!”

A withered crone, who seemed to be the mistress of the cellar, came
hobbling forward, being thus politely conjured to appear.

“Wot!” said she, extending her wrinkled hand to me. “Gentleman Bill
here! Here’s a sight for sore eyes!”

“Dight your gab,” interrupted Sooterkins. “Bill’s here, but he’ll be
obliged to cut and run this darkey, for the beaks are a’ter him ’bout
that job of Ikey’s. Now _he’s_ got no stump, and the devil a mag have I,
so you must fork over, for the purchase wot come in vos fairly vorth
double as much nor you paid for it. Bill, and Ikey, and I, are all in
fur the business, but the blackguard daren’t peach on me, ’cause if he
gits off from this scrape, I knows enough of other matters about him to
bring him to a hemp crawat wery speedily. You’ve got the plunder, you
old hag, and it’s only fair as you should come down with the tin for the
tramp.”

“Ah, Gabe,” said the old woman, “you will drive hard bargains with me.
But I can’t well refuse for the pretty face of him.”

Singular as it may appear. I felt gratified by the compliment of the
hag.

“Yes, mother,” said I, “change of air is good for the constitution, and
I’ll cheat Jack Ketch of his fees in spite of fate for this bout.”

“How much can you do vith?” queried Mr. Sooterkins, who had lighted a
fragment of a clay pipe, and commenced to smoke most industriously.

“Ten pounds will carry me on to Portsmouth,” said I, for the localities
and resources of roguery were fast becoming familiar to me.

“Too much,” grumbled the crone. Gabe was about to make a savage reply,
when two females descended the ladder, and entered the cellar.

“By my forks!” whistled Gabe. “This ’ere is just wot I hoped vouldn’t
’appen; but these cussed gals is everlastin’ly a riggin a man, till he
trots over the Old Bailey valls on a vooden oss.”

“Bill!” cried one of the females, recognizing and running to me. “Is it
you, Bill? I’ve been over the whole of this blessed town after you, for
I heard that Ikey Solomon had let all out, and I feared that you were
caught. But, thank Heaven, you’re safe—you’re safe!”

With an hysterical burst of laughter, the girl threw her arms around me
and embraced me tightly. Her laughter gradually ceased, and gave way to
a violent fit of weeping.

Amazed at first, and not knowing what she could mean, the truth began to
break upon me. Poor girl! The burglar’s mistress! What a world of guilt
and wo are in those words! Her face was handsome, but oh! how deadly
pale, save on the summit of the cheek-bones, where the fire of the
hectic blazed. Her large, dark orbs were sunken, and gleamed like the
reflected glow of a furnace from their deep cavities. Her apparel, which
was a shade or two better than that of her companion, and her language,
which showed her to be superior to the wretched assemblage around us,
told a tale of sorrow—which, although a common tale, struck deeply on
my heart.

“Hang it, Bess,” said Sooterkins, endeavoring to push the girl away,
“vot dost mean, crying and sniveling about a chap ven his wery life
hangs on his speed in gettin’ out o’Lunnun? Stand aside, thou foolish
jade, and let me have my say out vith him.”

“Stand by, Bess dear,” said I, “and I will speak with you directly.”

The girl obeyed.

“Now then,” said Sooterkins, “As I’ve vormed the ten pounds out o’ Sal,
all you’ve got to do is this. Be off now, d’rectly, and take all the by
cuts till you’re out o’ town, snug in the fields. I’ve a friend as goes
down on the mail in the morning, and mind, give him this jark. He’ll be
down on the sly with you, for my sake. Then pull for Common Hard, and
off over the Channel, till this ’ere job blows by. Lose no time, the
night’s dark, and make forward like the wind.”

“And Bess?” said I, for the girl’s affection had interested me, and the
emotions of my burglar friend began to quicken in my breast.

“Pshaw!” said Sooterkins, “why canst not mind thine own affairs, and let
the girl alone?”

“I must speak to her before I go, Gabe,” I replied. “What she is, I have
made her, and it would break my heart to leave her thus.”

“Speak, then, fool, and be spry about it.”

“Bess,” said I, stealing my arm around the waist of the unfortunate
girl, “I must be off for Portsmouth.”

“Are you going, Bill?” she said, in a low and tremulous voice, as she
lifted her eyes anxiously to mine; and that expression cut me to the
soul, keen as a knife, “I never shall see you again.”

“Hush, dearest, you must not speak so. We shall see each other soon, and
live as happy days as ever.”

The eyes of the young girl became suffused with tears.

“Happy! No, Bill, I never shall know happiness again. I have been weak
and ill of late. I’m dying, Bill, and I know it. Before you will dare to
return here, I shall be laid, in the parish shell, cold enough in the
grave of a pauper. Do you remember the little cottage near the Downs?
Ah! those were my happy days. Then I was innocent, but you—but I wont
speak of that, dearest, for I would not distress you.”

“Nay, Bess, compose yourself—”

“In the sleep of death? There is no other composure for me. You are
going, and the strings of my heart snap as I look upon you for the last
time. Oh! through misery and crime, Bill—and we have been miserable and
criminal—I have loved you, dearer than the light of heaven! But,
dearest, if you do escape and return, quit this awful life, for the sake
of her whom you once vowed never to abandon—quit this den of villainy,
and for God’s sake, oh, never enter it again!”

The tears gushed from my eyes at this appeal, and my whole frame was
shaken.

“I promise—I swear it,” whispered I.

“Thank you, dearest. Take this little ring. You know its history. And
now, for the last time, this kiss. Farewell!”

Her head sunk upon her breast. Bestowing an embrace upon her, I darted
from her side, and sprang up the steps of the cellar. At the foot I
paused for a moment. Bess had hidden her face in her lap, and the
heaving of her breast, plainly perceptible through its thin covering,
testified the agony of her spirit.

The labyrinths of the dark and dingy by-streets seemed familiar to me as
the interior of my own house. In fact, I was becoming rapidly identified
with the character, as well as with the person of the burglar. But as I
sped on, the recollection of my former condition was forcibly recalled,
as I came upon a tailor’s shop, ostentatiously placed at the corner of a
well lighted street. The view of that shop acted as a talisman. It
recalled me to a due sense, and to a most painful recollection of the
transactions of the preceding night, and of my rencontre in Hyde Park
with the usurper of my rights. I recollected perfectly well that I had
received an invitation to a grand gala at Lord Flannery’s for this
evening, of which I doubted not for an instant that my representative
would avail himself. Julia, I also knew, had promised to be there.
Curiosity, no less than jealousy, spurred me on. I felt a strong desire
to see in what manner and to what advantage I should appear. I
determined to make my way to his lordship’s, forgetting that if the
police laid eyes upon me, I should dangle most loftily from the front of
Newgate or the Old Bailey.

Onward I strode until I reached Grosvenor Square, from near which point
I had started on my morning peregrinations. It was past eleven o’clock.
I stationed myself in front of Lord Flannery’s mansion, where the glow
of lights, crowds of liveried menials, and the sound of music indicated
the commencement of the rout. Equipage after equipage rolled up, and
depositing their inmates at the door, drove off in rapid succession.
Crowds of fashionables swarmed the apartments. I waited for Julia’s
arrival until my patience was nearly exhausted, and I was upon the point
of giving the matter up in despair, when a magnificent turn-out drove up
to the door, and Flashington Highflyer, Esquire, descended from the
vehicle, attired in a most _recherché_ evening dress, and handed
out—_proh pudor!_—the Honorable Miss Julia Adeliza Dashleigh!

I was petrified with astonishment. There was the figure which had
excited her laughter but the previous night, and which was evidently the
present object of her favorable regard. As the pair passed me, the light
from the hall shone strongly upon my features. My representative gave
me, _en passant_, a most facetious dig in the small ribs with his elbow,
and suddenly clapping his hands upon his pockets, exclaimed,

“There are thieves here! I have lost my snuff-box and my handkerchief!”

“Dear Mr. Highflyer!” said Julia, with a winning glance.

“Secure this fellow,” said the hateful scoundrel, for whose crimes I was
penitently atoning, pointing to me. “He has a suspicious look. Bring him
into the hall. Come, _dearest_ Julia, I will attend you to the
dressing-room, and will then return to examine this man.”

Instantly I was pounced upon by a police officer, assisted by a dozen
servants, and in spite of my cries and protestations of innocence, was
dragged into the hall. Mr. Highflyer was not long in making his
appearance.

“Search him, officer,” said he, as he drew out his tooth-pick, and
planted himself in a very Lara-like style, with his back to the
banisters.

“You infernal, thieving, rope-cracking black-guard!” I roared, goaded to
the very verge of insanity by these accumulated misadventures.

“Gag him,” said my tormentor. “Have you found any thing, officer?”

“All right, sir,” replied that functionary, “Is this here vipe yours?”

Shocking to relate, the missing articles were found upon me!

“That handkerchief is mine, as well as the snuff-box. I shall appear to
prosecute. Off with him to Bow Street. A p-r-e-e-tt-y good-looking chap
for a pickpocket,” continued he, as he turned his head with a
supercilious smile, and examined me through his eye-glass. The smile
gave way to a sneer of the most diabolical description as he ascended
the staircase. I had never thought myself so confoundedly ugly as I did
at that moment.

Of course I was dragged off to the police-office, upon the charge of
robbing myself. All that I could say would be of no avail, therefore I
kept a most stoical silence. Having arrived at our destination, I was
walked in before the head of the police, who, after a long and
scrutinizing survey of my person, whispered an officer, who went out. I
was then desired, or rather commanded, to extend my wrists to another
officer, who placed upon them a very ornamental, but not very agreeable
appendage, in the shape of a pair of manacles. I had subsided into a
dogged, sullen, almost unconscious state of mind, and was becoming, in
fact, very careless as regarded consequences. Half an hour had elapsed,
when the officer who had spoken with the chief of police, returned. He
whispered the presiding functionary, who grinned approvingly.

“Well, my kiddy,” said he, “the Saffron-Hill job warn’t enough for you,
eh? But I’ve caged you now, bird, and you’ll be made to sing plenty loud
for that matter, outcepting this altogether.”

“I never heerd the like of this lark,” said the under-strapper. “It’s a
rigler demeanin’ of the trade. Here’s one of your Jimmy burglary swells
come down to a-sneak of a pickpocket!”

It would be a work of supererogation to detail the variety of insults
and the tortures of mind that I was forced to undergo from my appearance
before the magistrate the next morning, until my final trial at the Old
Bailey upon the charge of burglary. I had heard nothing of my ingenious
tyrant, who was evidently, at the time I saw him last, in a very fair
way to lead my lady-love to the altar. Nor, indeed, had I any
opportunity of hearing from him. I saw no persons save my keeper, and a
little, seedy, Jew attorney, whom I discovered to be in pay of the gang
of which I was a worthy member. After various consultations with this
gentleman, who informed me that he would be able, in spite of the
veracious testimony of the respectable Mr. Ikey Solomons, to produce a
satisfactory alibi, it was decided that I was to put in the plea of Not
Guilty.

The day of trial arrived, after a weary and solitary residence within
the walls of my prison of a month. None of the gang came near me, and I
could never learn any tidings of Bess. At the appointed time, I was
escorted into the court, and being duly arraigned, the charge was read
to me, in that agreeable nasality of tone peculiar to the clerks of all
legal tribunals. During this process, to which I paid not the least
attention, I espied a newspaper lying by the side of the dock. I picked
it up, and was vacantly pouring over the columns, unseen by my jailers,
when my attention was riveted by the following paragraph, which filled
my breast with horror and despair.

“Married, by the Right Rev. Doctor Dumfungle, at St. Martin’s in the
Fields, Flashington Highflyer, Esq., to the Hon. Julia Adeliza, daughter
of Sir Poins Dashleigh, Bart.”

The climax to my sorrows had then arrived. The whole man was quelled
within me. Spectators, judge and jury were all forgotten, and the tide
of my woes rushed irresistibly onward, overwhelming me in the vortex.
The question was put in the usual form, “guilty or not guilty?” Life had
cloyed with me. I longed to occupy a resting place where I should be
secure from the scorn and the persecutions of the world. The grave
offered this refuge, and I gladly embraced it.

I therefore rose from my seat, and replied to the query of the clerk,
“guilty.”

My attorney fairly fell under the table with astonishment. The whole
assemblage seemed utterly confounded at my audacity, and a voice was
heard above the general buz of tongues, which I recognized as
appertaining to my acquaintance, Mr. Sooterkins.

“Vell, by blazes, h’aint you gone and done it!”

Of course I was sentenced to be hanged. Day after day dragged on its
weary course, and as I gazed at the gray walls of my dungeon, my heart
seemed to harden like the stone itself. In vain did the ministers of the
gospel strive to arouse me from my apathy. All was cold and dead within
me. The day before that which was fixed for my execution, to my extreme
surprise, Mr. Flashington Highflyer entered my cell.

For some time indignation chained up my tongue. I experienced a choking
sensation as I stared furiously upon my visiter, whose countenance was
drawn out into the most hypocritical length. This did not very long
continue, for the solemn visage which he had chosen to exhibit at his
entrance soon gave place to a most malicious and devilish sneer.

“Well,” said he, with an odious chuckle, “my fine fellow, how d’ye like
your bargain?”

“Avaunt, fiend!” I exclaimed. He certainly manifested no symptoms of
departure, but lolling upon my bunk, produced a Havana from his
mother-of-pearl cigar-case, and igniting it by means of a Lucifer,
commenced to smoke with great _sang froid_.

“Pretty pleasant lodgings, those of yours, my old chap, but your
wardrobe was horridly low and vulgar. In fact, I was compelled to make a
bonfire of all your old clothes, before I could manage to put it into
tolerable order.”

“You infernal scoundrel!” I roared, goaded to madness by this last
insult. “I told you that you should pay for your rascality, and, by
heaven, you shall pay for it now!”

As I spoke, I rushed upon him and grappled tightly with him. He resisted
strenuously, but rage had nerved me with the strength of a dozen men,
and seizing him by the throat, we rolled upon the ground together.

“Ya—ya—yough! Gollamity, massa, what you do? Want fur choke Sip?—oh,
murder! murder!”

I looked with bewildered eyes around me. I had upset the table, tumbled
from my chair upon the floor, and had grappled poor Scipio by the
throat, until his eye-balls protruded an inch from his head.

“Hollo!” I cried, “where the devil am I?”

“Why, you home, be sure, massa,” replied Scipio, whimpering from the
effects of the rough salutation I had bestowed upon him, “and be broad
daylight, and you no bin to bed yit.”

I looked at the decanter. It was empty.

“Oh!” ejaculated I.

The odious apparel of the preceding night still decked my person and
strewed the room. There was a sickening odor of stale tobacco-smoke
hovering through the chamber, and, with a very clear perception that I
should require a tumbler of Hock and soda to reinvigorate the inner man,
I arrived at the comfortable conclusion that I was still in _propria
persona_, the “man who could never dress well.”

P. S. I’m off to Paris. Fitzcrocky has Julia’s promise. A pea-green coat
with gilt buttons, and a scarlet satin lining has done my business.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          SUMMER’S BACCHANAL.


                          BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.


         Fill the cup from some secretest fountain,
           Under granite ledges, deep and low,
         Where the crystal vintage of the mountain
           Runs in foam from dazzling fields of snow!

         Some lost stream, that in a woodland hollow
           Coils, to sleep its weariness away,
         Hid from prying stars, that fain would follow,
           In the emerald glooms of hemlock spray.

         Fill, dear friend, a goblet cool and sparkling
           As the sunlight of October morns—
         Not for us the crimson wave, that darkling
           Stains the lips of olden drinking-horns!

         We will quaff, beneath the noontide glowing,
           Draughts of nectar, sweet as faery dew;
         Couched on ferny banks, where light airs blowing,
           Shake the leaves between us and the blue.

         We will pledge, in breathless, long libation,
           All we have been, or have sworn to be—
         Fame, and Joy, and Love’s dear adoration—
           Summer’s lusty bacchanals are we!

         Fill again, and let our goblets, clashing,
           Stir the feathery ripples on the brim:
         Let the light, within their bosoms flashing,
           Leap like youth to every idle limb!

         Round the white roots of the fragrant lily
           And the mossy hazels, purple-stained,
         Once the music of these waters chilly
           Gave return for all the sweetness drained.

         How that rare, delicious, woodland flavor
           Mocked my palate in the fever hours,
         When I pined for springs of coolest savor,
           As the burning Earth for thunder-showers!

         In the wave, that through my maddened dreaming
           Flowed to cheat me, fill the cups again!
         Drink, dear friend, to life which is not seeming—
           Fresh as this to manhood’s heart and brain!

         Fill, fill high! and while our goblets, ringing,
           Shine with vintage of the mountain-snow,
         Youth’s bright Fountain, clear and blithely springing.
           Brims our souls to endless overflow!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                   THE PLANTATION OF GENERAL TAYLOR.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]


We present our readers this month with the first of a series of views
which, by permission, we have caused to be engraved expressly for this
Magazine, from Mr. John R. Smith’s celebrated Panorama of the
Mississippi River. It represents the cotton plantation belonging to the
recently elected President of the U. S., General Zachary Taylor. It is
situated on the eastern branch of the Mississippi River, in Jefferson
county, Mississippi, seven miles below the town of Rodney, between the
estates of James Suggett, on the north, and Colonel Barker, on the
south. The view embraces the overseer’s house, the cottages of the
laborers, with a small portion of the broad acres which are comprised in
the plantation. The spot is interesting, not only as being the property
and the occasional residence of a distinguished public man, but as
affording a specimen of those cotton estates, the culture of which
exerts so important an influence on the commercial and financial
destinies of the republic.

[Illustration: Plantation of General Taylor]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                     FANCIES ABOUT A LOCK OF HAIR.


                           BY S. D. ANDERSON.


            What is this dream that o’er me now
              Comes with its bright and sunny spell,
            As starlight falls on childhood’s brow?
              Haply this lock of hair can tell.

            Ah me! how thoughts of early years
              Are linked with this dear gift of thine—
            The doubts, the memories, and the tears
              That cluster round this bygone shrine.

            The air seems filled with boyhood’s flowers,
              The perfume of the summer fields;
            The dreams and gladness of the hours
              That freshness to our pathway yields.

            Times when the heart was glad and young,
              A thousand scenes of love and truth,
            That, rose-like, from our track have sprung,
              Amid the dreamy times of youth.

            Hours when each gushing fount of life
              Leaped high amid this desert wild,
            Come angel-like to calm the strife,
              As once they did when Eden smiled.

            Not often on life’s beaten track
              Come such rich summer times,
            To bring the heart’s pure sunshine back,
              Like old remembered rhymes.

            But now I see, deep in a wood,
              Two lovers ’neath the trees so hoary;
            She, blushing to the solitude
              Beneath his simple touching story;

            Her sweet face coyly turned away,
              To hide the thoughts that on her cheek
            Are mantling like the wakened day
              Upon the mountain’s highest peak.

            And he, perhaps some poet who
              Had filled the world with golden dreams,
            Hopes, that around his path upgrew,
              As wild flowers deck the singing streams.

            And thus, as hand in hand they go,
              He tells her much we may not hear—
            How his heart swelled to overflow
              Under a sky so dark and drear—

            How on the soul came _Care_ and _Pain_,
              Twin-sisters of the soulless _Real_,
            The race and haggle for the gain
              That those who win the world must feel.

            The striving to become a part
              Of that great sea whose tideings ever
            Bears on its waves each manly heart,
              That, struggling, droops its pinions never.

            And now there is a bridal throng
              Slow winding through the moss-grown aisle;
            The ring, the vow, the nuptial song—
              From age a tear, from youth a smile.

            A cot with jessamine-covered door,
              A streamlet singing all the day,
            And on the dew-bespangled floor
              A thousand golden sunbeams play.

            Gay groups of happy children there,
              The old oak and the breathless swing,
            The shouts of laughter on the air,
              The chaplets that the young girls bring.

            All’s gone! except these gushing tears,
              Sad relics of the joyous past,
            The shrines that memory uprears
              To shield the incense from the blast.

            Some sleep beneath the ocean’s wave,
              Some ’neath the flowers that loved ones tend,
            Others have found an early grave
              Where stranger skies above them bend,

            And she, the cherished one, she sleeps
              Beneath the violet-covered earth,
            Where spring-time’s earliest cloudlet weeps
              And roses have a dewy birth.

            Enough, she sleeps—would that my dreams
              Could rest forever by her side,
            As peaceful as the morning beams
              Are pillowed on the sleeping tide.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THE PRECIOUS REST.


                          BY RICHARD COE, JR.


                Once on a lovely summer day,
                I saw a little child at play,
                    While in a garden straying—
                Till suddenly I heard him say,
                    “I am tired with playing!”
                Then running to his father he
                Laid down his head upon his knee,
                And slept, oh! how contentedly?

                So life is but a summer day,
                And man—a little child at play—
                    While through the world a-straying:
                And often, too, we hear him say,
                    “I am tired with playing!”
                Till hast’ning to his Father, he
                Lays down his head upon his knee,
                And rests, oh! how contentedly!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.


                          BY PROFESSOR FROST.

[Illustration: THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.]

This singular bird is found throughout the greater portion of the United
States, and by the notes from which it derives its name is known to
almost every farmer. The species was long considered identical with the
Night Hawk; but this fallacy was fully exposed by Wilson. The
Whip-poor-will appears in the Middle States toward the end of April,
when its low, sad wail, may be heard at evening along the creeks and by
the woods of the country. So peculiarly mournful is this sound that the
ignorant almost invariably consider it an omen of approaching evil. By
the Indians it is regarded as a spirit-voice, boding death or perhaps
national calamity. The bird articulates pretty distinctly the syllables
_whip-poor-will_, the first and last being uttered with great emphasis.
A kind of chuckling sound sometimes precedes the principal tone. At
these times the bird is generally on the wing, flying close to the
ground in the manner of swallows, and sometimes skimming around houses.
The notes of the Whip-poor-will are continued until about midnight, and
on fine moonlight nights until morning. The shady banks of creeks and
rivulets are favorite haunts. During the day they remain in the darkest
parts of the forest, hushed to silence like owls, and apparently annoyed
at the presence of sunlight. The cry of the Whip-poor-will is not heard
after the middle of June; and early in September it departs for the
south.

The Whip-poor-will is nine inches and a-half long, of a beautiful
mottled-brown, relieved by other colors. It is noted for an
extravagantly large mouth, beset on each side with thick bristles, and
for a very strong bill. The female is less in size than the male, and
rather lighter colored. She begins to lay toward the middle of May,
choosing for this purpose a dry situation, covered with brush, decayed
leaves, etc., but building no nest. The eggs are two in number, dark and
marbled. The young appear early in June.

The Goatsucker, Night Hawk, and seventeen other species belong to the
same genus as the Whip-poor-will. Of these fifteen belong to America.
Nuttall has the following remarks on some of these.

“But if superstition takes alarm at our familiar and simple species,
what would be thought by the ignorant of a South American kind, large as
the Wood Owl, which, in the lonely forests of Demerara, about midnight,
breaks out, lamenting like one in deep distress, and in a tone more
dismal even than the painful hexachord of the slothful Ai. The sounds
like the expiring sighs of some agonizing victim, begin with a high,
loud note, ‘_ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! ha! ha!_’ each tone falling lower and
lower, till the last syllable is scarcely heard, pausing a moment or two
between this reiterated tale of seeming madness.

“Four other species of the Goat-sucker, according to Waterton, also
inhabit the tropical wilderness, among which is included our present
subject. Figure to yourself the surprise and wonder of the stranger who
takes up his solitary abode for the first night amidst these awful and
interminable forests, when, at twilight, he begins to be assailed
familiarly with a spectral equivocal bird, approaching within a few
yards, and then accosting him with ‘_who-are-you, who—who—who are
you?_’ Another approaches, and bids him, as if a slave under the lash,
‘_work-away, work—work—work-away!_’ A third, mournfully cries, ‘_willy
come go, willy—willy—willy come go!_’ and as you get among the
highlands, our old acquaintance vociferates, ‘_whip-poor-will,
whip—whip—whip-poor-will!_’ It is, therefore, not surprising that such
unearthly sounds should be considered in the light of supernatural
forebodings issuing from spectres in the guise of birds.”

[Illustration: THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE.]

This lively and beautiful bird is widely diffused through the United
States under the names of Oriole, Hanging-Bird, Golden Robin, Fire Bird,
and Baltimore Bird. According to Catesby, the latter name originates
from the colors of its plumage being the same as that of Lord
Baltimore’s livery. It is seven inches in length. The head, throat, and
upper part of the back, are black, and the remaining portions bright
orange, inclining to vermilion on the breast, with some white among the
feathers of the wings. The colors of the female are less bright than
those of the male, and she is somewhat smaller. The male does not
acquire his full plumage until the third spring, undergoing in the
intermediate time many singular changes.

The Oriole family are distinguished for the singular manner of building.
“For this purpose,” says Wilson, “he generally fixes on the high-bending
extremities of the branches, fastening strong strings of hemp or flax
round two forked twigs, corresponding to the intended width of the nest.
With the same materials, mixed with quantities of loose tow, he
interweaves or fabricates a strong, firm kind of cloth, not unlike the
substance of a hat in its raw state, forming it into a pouch of six or
seven inches in depth, lining it substantially with various soft
substances well interwoven with the outward netting, and lastly,
finishes with a layer of horse-hair; the whole being shaded from the sun
and rain by a natural pent-house or canopy of leaves.” The solicitude of
the Baltimore to obtain proper materials for his nest, often leads him
to commit depredations on the farmer’s hemp, or the thread and silk of
the housewife. Skeins of these materials have been found in the nest
after its being deserted by the young.

According to Nuttall, the Oriole possesses a propensity to imitate other
birds. He is particular in describing their natural notes. “The
mellow-whistled notes which they are heard to trumpet from the high
branches of our tallest trees and gigantic elms, resemble at times,
_tshippe-tshayia too too_, and _’tshippee-’tshippee, too too_, (with the
two last syllables loud and full.) These notes are also varied so as to
resemble _’tsh, ’tsh ’tsheet shoo tshoo tshoo_,[2] also _tsh, ’tsheefa
’tsheefa tshoo_ and _’k’túfatúf a túf a téa kerry_.[3] Another bird I
have occasionally heard to call for hours, with some little variation,
_tu teo teo teo too_, in a loud, querulous, and yet almost ridiculously
merry strain. At other intervals, the sensations of solitude seem to
stimulate sometimes a loud interrogatory note, echoed forth at
intervals, as _k’rry kerry?_ and terminating plaintively _k’rry k’rry
tu_, the voice falling off very slenderly in the last long syllable,
which is apparently an imitation from the Cardinal Grosbeak, and the
rest is derived from the Crested Titmouse, whom they have heard already
in concert as they passed through the warmer states. Another
interrogatory strain which I heard in the spring of 1830, was precisely
_’yip ’k’rry, ’yip ’yip k’rry_, very loud and oft repeated. Another male
went in his ordinary key, _tsherry tsherry, tshipee_ _tsh’rry_, notes
copied from the exhaustless stock of the Carolina Wren, (also heard on
his passage,) but modulated to suit the fancy of our vocalist. The
female likewise sings, but less agreeably than the male.”

This particularity in describing sounds which are almost indescribable
may seem frivolous to some of our readers, but those who have ever
listened to the melting notes of the Baltimore Oriole will pardon this
accurate observer of nature the attempt.

The common food of the Oriole is insects, especially a species of small
beetle. They are said to love the honey in the blossoms of trees. If
domesticated, they must still be fed on animal food, principally minced
meat, soaked in milk. When adult, they will also eat fruit-cakes and
meal. They are not difficult to tame, and form a pleasant pet. Their
eggs are four or five in number, white, with dark lines and spots. In
the Southern States they sometimes raise two broods; but further
northward only one. The Oriole extends over the continent as far south
as Brazil, where hundreds of nests are found in every forest.

-----

[2] The first three of these notes are derived from the summer Yellow
Bird, though not its usual notes.

[3] The last phrase loud and ascending, the _tea_ plaintive, and the
last syllable tender and echoing.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             THE PINE-TREE.


                            BY CAROLINE MAY.


           How dear to my heart and my memory
           Is that old majestic evergreen tree!
           It stands like the guardian of our cot
           Time-honored friend! it shall ne’er be forgot,
               For I’ve spent bright hours of glee,
                   And of quiet rest
                   More deeply blest,
               In the shade of the dark pine-tree.

           A rose-tree lived ’neath this agéd one,
           Concealed from the noontide rays of the sun,
           And ’twas sweet to mark in his resting hour,
           (The only time he could look on the flower,)
               How he smiled on her lovingly,
                   Till her rosy hue
                   Still rosier grew,
               In the shade of the dark pine-tree.

           Up by its trunk I would stand and lean,
           Gazing with rapture upon the soft scene,
           (On the feathery-outlined isle that lay
           Where the river and stream together play,)
               For beauty and love seemed to be
                   Everywhere felt,
                   The spirits that dwelt
               In the shade of the dark pine-tree.

           And, laid at its feet, I oft tried to read,
           But the breeze would play with my book, and plead
           For my heart and ear, in a witching song
           Which I could not resist, for ’twas never long,
               And plaintive as plaintive could be;
                   So I listened, and sighed
                   When the sweet breeze died
               In the shade of the dark pine-tree.

           And there in the quiet I fain would rhyme,
           And weave loving lays with a measured chime,
           But my thoughts, as wild as the birds, would fly
           From the beautiful earth to the beautiful sky
               Unfixed, unfettered, and free,
                   In a dreamy joy
                   Which naught could destroy,
               In the shade of the dark pine-tree.

           I loved to be up on a merry May morn,
           When musical sounds and bright clouds were born,
           And join in the earliest chant of praise,
           Which all that had life seemed glad to raise,
               The clear carols of gushing glee
                   The birds would make,
                   Just at day-break,
               In the shade of the dark pine-tree.

           And I loved in the summer twilight dim,
           To sing with my sister some holy hymn,
           And watch the green shades as they deeper grew,
           And a strange mysterious darkness threw;
               And most dearly I loved to see
                   O’er the wavy grass
                   The night-wind pass,
               In the shade of the dark pine-tree.

           Then since I have loved both in shape and shine
           Under its sheltering boughs to recline—
           Since what I once love I love to the end,
           Be it tree, bird or flower—book, music or friend—
               When death cometh I fain would be
                   There laid to sleep,
                   Lowly and deep,
               In the shade of the dark pine-tree.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.


                             BY MRS. GORE.

But few of those who examine the reminiscences of their own hearts, and
the incidents of their own lives, will deny that scarcely a given moment
of their youth admitted of swearing to a solitary object of attachment.
Till the heart throbs with the master-passion which impels a man to seek
a partner for life by an impulse as overmastering as that which prompts
an heroic action, or generates a _chef-d’œuvre_, it is pretty sure to
experience a succession of feverish spasms; the commencement of one of
which is as hazily interblended with the conclusion of another, as with
nocturnal darkness the glimmerings of a summer-day dawn, when “night is
at odds with morning, which is which.”

                 *        *        *        *        *


                     BY J. WESTLAND MARSTON, ESQ.

                            LOVE’S VICTORY.

         I was a bard—she listened to my lay
         As there her questioning soul had answer found.
         She stooped to pluck my wild-flowers on the way,

         Fancies that teem from the prolific ground
         In the heart’s solstice—in whose inner light
         Through all the pleasant paths of earth we wound.

         And sometimes through her music of delight
         An undersound of sadness softly stole,
         And floated ’twixt the fountain pure and bright

         Of her deep joy and heaven—a cloud of dole
         That almost seemed relief—for scarce below
         The noon of rapture is allowed the soul.

         Hence even in life’s summer sunbeams throw
         Shades on the very path they glorify—
         And ecstasy would perish but for wo.

         I asked not if she loved me; for reply
         To every doubt, I read her glance and tone,
         And made them oracles of destiny.

         They whispered love—I deemed that love my own:
         Nor guessed that in the mirror of my song
         She saw an idol face to me unknown.

         Nor that the chords of my devotion, strung
         To feeling’s highest tension for her sake,
         And on whose notes with breathless hush she hung,

         Were prized for memories which they did awake—
         To her an echo what to me was life.
         O God, the strings that quivered would not break!—

         He came! Can I forget that inward strife
         Which made me calm?—The mightiest grief is dumb.
         They met:—he clasped her—called her plighted wife!—

         A frost was in that moment to benumb
         My very sense of anguish—and I smiled.
         Freed by despair—what after-pang could come?

         She was his own—both Love’s. They roamed the wild,
         And knew not it was bleak:—the wooded dell
         They called not fair, for love had reconciled

         And blent all difference. From their spirits fell
         A glow that bathed creation. Where they stood
         Light was their shadow:—bliss unspeakable

         Became at once their being and its food:—
         The world they did inhabit was themselves;
         And they were Love’s—and all their world was good!

         As o’er a barren reef that sea-ward shelves
         Waves dash, their gladness sported o’er my fate;
         But in the abyss no line of pity delves

         Lay the wrecked hope which naught could re-create—
         At least I deemed so then: and yet we parted
         With blessings, and her eyes were dim with tears.

         She told me I had been her friend true-hearted—
         The friend she would recall in other years.
         These came; and when the storm was spent there darted

         Over my sombre deep as from the spheres,
         The memory of those words, at first revealing
         More present gloom from all the past endears.

         In time, their light and beauty o’er me stealing,
         Softened despair to grief; and in its dew
         My withered heart put forth one bud of feeling.

         I dared not hope its life:—fierce tempests blew
         From the cold east of Youth in day’s decline,
         And shook its tender petals:—still it grew!

         It grew and blossomed to a hope divine:—
         I might be like her in her nature’s worth;
         I might live for her though she was not mine!

         From her each better impulse should take birth—
         For her my song should raise and cheer mankind,
         And I would sow her influence through the earth.

         And, as by great attraction are combined
         All kindred essences—as waters blend
         With waters, flame with flame—and though confined

         By bounds material, each to other tend—
         Released from the division of our clay
         Again might be united friend with friend.

         For then, immortal and beyond decay,
         The store of love partaken richer grows:
         The torch that burned for one—for all, a day!

         Oh, ye whose hearts in _happy_ love repose,
         Your thankful blessings at its footstool lay,
         Since faith and peace can issue from its woes!

                 *        *        *        *        *


                      BY MISS MARIA J. McINTOSH.

With most of us it is only when we are nigh unto death that we learn
what it is to live. We talk of acquainting ourselves with the lives of
eminent persons, when we read a record of the events through which they
have passed; we call our own lives desolate, because events of a painful
nature have befallen us; but these are not our life. Life—the principle
which makes us sentient, intelligent, active beings; the principle by
which we hold converse with the living spirit of beauty and goodness, by
which—if we pervert not its heavenly aims—assimilating with that
spirit incarnated in the adorable Saviour, we rise from the finite to
the infinite, and, resting on the bosom of love, find blessedness when
that which made our happiness has vanished from our grasp; this life no
events can make desolate. Sorrow may darken our sky, but the loving,
trusting child of God rises above its gloomy cloud, and there shines his
life supremely bright.

Who shall penetrate into the spirit’s mysterious intercourse with Him,
who inhabiting eternity, yet dwelleth with the humble and contrite
heart? Reverently and humbly to illustrate this precious truth, to show
that in His presence earth’s discords are harmonized, and peace and
strength arise where all was disorder and weakness may be permitted—but
there let us pause, lest we be as the fools who “rush in where angels
dare not tread.”

                 *        *        *        *        *


                           BY G. A BERTIE.

                               STANZAS.

         I am not what I was—the time’s gone by
         When, bright and cloudless as the summer’s sky,
                 My day of life began;
         When all was music to my raptured ear,
         And, bounding onward, without grief or fear,
                 Eager my course I ran.

         I am not what I was—the sense of youth,
         And hope, and joyous feeling, and the truth
                 Of earth, hath passed away;
         The heart that once throbbed high with health and life
         Beats faint and wearied with the ceaseless strife
                 Which there has held its sway.

                 *        *        *        *        *


                          BY G. P. R. JAMES.

Long experience of any thing existing, has shown mankind all its
benefits and all its evils; but beside this, there is an indirect
advantage in retaining that which is, namely, that it has adjusted
itself to the things by which it is surrounded; and there is an indirect
disadvantage in change, namely, that one can never calculate what
derangements of all relations may take place, by any great alteration of
even one small part in the complicated machine of any state or society.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It is difficult to find words to express the infinite; and although it
may seem a pleonasmatic expression, I must say that all the varieties of
human character have infinite varieties within themselves. However, the
easily impressible character, that which suffers opinions, feelings,
thoughts, purposes, actions to be continually altered by the changing
circumstances around—the chameleon character, if I may so call it—is,
perhaps, the most dangerous to itself, and to those it affects, of any
that I know. It goes beyond the chameleon, indeed. The reptile only
reflects the colors of objects near, retaining its own form and nature.
The impressible character, on the contrary, is changed in every line, as
well as in every hue, by that with which it comes in contact. Certain
attributes it certainly does retain. The substance is the same, but the
color and the form are always varying. In the substance lies the
permanence and the identity. All else is moulded and painted by
circumstance.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The pure, ingenuous, open-hearted candor of early years, would be a
better friend to man, if he did but cling to it with affection, through
life, than all the worldly friends we gain in passing through
existence—shrewdness, caution, prudence, selfishness, wit, or even
wisdom.

                 *        *        *        *        *


              BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE.”

A high, pure earthly love is powerful above all other earthly principles
for overcoming evils; but even in its highest purity, it has not
sufficient power to lead to fall perfection. It is from Heaven, but it
is not Heaven itself; it is but as an angel messenger, and fails in its
office if it does not lead on to love, perfect, unchangeable, divine.

                 *        *        *        *        *


                            BY MRS. GREY.

Is there a woman to be found who is not insensibly flattered, even
against her better reason, by devoted incense to her charms?—Very few,
we fear!—poor human nature is full of vanity. A woman will indignantly
spurn such love—her sense of right will make her shrink with shuddering
from such feelings; still there is too often a latent, lingering spark
of gratified self-love hovering about the heart; although the spark is
prevented from spreading into a flame, by the preponderating influence
of strong principle and purity of mind. It is, as we before said, _human
nature_—and this same nature is miserably full of weakness and vanity.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           TO MY LITTLE BOY.


                     BY MRS. HENRIETTA L. COLEMAN.


              I watched a rose, one lovely morn,
                Parade herself a summer queen,
              While by her side a bud, new-born,
                Lay locked in leaves of softest green:
                  As that fresh bud to beauty blew,
                  That rose lost all its scent and hue:
                  Alas! I cried, that this should be!—
                  For I thought, dear boy, of thee and me.

              I watched a parent bird that fed
                Her fledgling many a vernal day,
              Training his dainty wings to spread
                And lightly flit from spray to spray:
                  Away—afar—I marked him soar,
                  Never to own fond guidance more.
                  Can care and love thus wasted be?—
                  Sadly I thought of thee and me.

              I watched the moon rise sweetly bright,
                With one fair star that lay below,
              Each lovelier shone from mutual light,
                As hearts united gentler flow:
                  Though moon and star in heaven divide
                  Time brings them ever side by side.
                  Glorying I spoke, thus may it be!—
                  For I thought, dear boy, of thee and me.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Merry-Mount; A Romance of Massachusetts Colony. Boston: James
    Monroe & Co. 2 vols. 12mo._

This novel is the production of a New England writer of fine talents and
large acquirements, but of talents and acquirements which have not been
as bountifully expressed in literature as the Public, that exacting
leech of intellects raised above the mass, had a right to demand. The
work, with some obvious defects, evinces a range of characterization,
and a general opulence of mind, which place it above many novels which
can claim more felicity in the evolution of a story and more variety of
incident. The scene is laid in the early history of Massachusetts,
commencing about eight years after the landing of the Pilgrims at
Plymouth, and its peculiarity consists in vividly reproducing to the
imagination a period which even the driest annalists have hardly
touched. The novel might with propriety be called, “The Cavaliers in
Massachusetts,” for its originality, as an American story, consists in
bringing together Cavalier and Roundhead on New England ground. The
hero, Morton, is a loose, licentious, scheming, good-natured, and
good-for-nothing English “gentleman,” engaged in a project to outwit the
Puritans, and to obtain the ascendancy in Massachusetts of a different
code of principles and a different kind of government from those which
the Puritans aimed to establish. Connected with this reckless Cavalier
is a deeper plotter, Sir Christopher Gardiner, a villain half after
James’s and half after Bulwer’s heart, pursuing schemes of empire and
schemes of seduction with equal ingenuity and equal ill-success. These
two, with the followers and liege men of Morton—a gang of ferocities,
rascalities and un-moralities from the lowest London taverns—constitute
the chief carnal ingredients of the novel. Opposed to these we have
grand and life-like portraits of Miles Standish, Endicott, Winthrop, and
other Puritan celebrities, with only an occasional view of the Indians.
The business of the affections is principally transacted by two
persons—a pure, elevated, large-hearted and high-spirited woman, and a
noble-minded but somewhat irascible man; and this portion of the novel
has the ecstasies and agonies which are appropriate to the subject.

We think the novel a real addition to American literature, whether
considered in respect to the amount of new information it conveys, or
the splendor, vivacity and distinctness of its representations both of
character and scenery. A dozen passages might be extracted, which,
viewed simply as descriptions, are grand enough to establish a
reputation. But the author’s great merit consists in having as clear and
distinct a notion of the Cavalier, in his daily life and conversation,
as of the Puritan, and this merit, rare in an American, he could only
have obtained from a profound study of the elder dramatists of England,
and a vivid insight into the very heart of their characters. Out of
Scott, we do not know where to look for finer representations of these
two great classes of English society, as they must have appeared when
brought into opposition to each other. No one familiar with Marston,
Deckar, Beaumont and Fletcher, or any other dramatist in whose plays the
bullies and minor reprobates of the Elizabethan age appear, will call
even Bootefish, Cakebread and Company, improbable or unnatural.

The leading defect of the novel is the lack of a steady, orderly and
artistical development of the plot. The narrative wants rapidity of
movement; the rich materials of the work are imperfectly fused together;
and occasionally things good in themselves seem to be in each other’s
way. All those faults which beset the creations of the most fertile
intellects, when they aim to give great variety of incident and
character without having a grand, leading, ever-present conception of
their work as a whole, are visible in this novel, and mar its harmony as
a work of art. But these defects inhere in many romances which are read
with delight by thousands, and though the splendid talents of the author
of Merry-Mount may not always hide the heterogeneousness of his plan,
they are amply sufficient to prevent it from interfering seriously with
the interest of his novel, and sufficient also to delineate persons and
scenes which leave on the reader’s mind a strong impression of power and
beauty.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Female Poets of America. By Rufus W. Griswold.
    Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8mo._

In the space of four hundred closely printed pages, Mr. Griswold has
here brought together some ninety of our female poets, and introduced
them with critical and biographical notices. Of all Mr. Griswold’s
various works, the present evinces the greatest triumph over
difficulties, and best demonstrates the minuteness and the extent of his
knowledge of American literature. Very few of the women included in this
collection have ever published editions of their writings, and a
considerable portion of the verse was published anonymously. The labor,
therefore, of collecting the materials both of the biographies and the
illustrative extracts, must have been of that arduous and vexatious kind
which only enthusiasm for the subject could have sustained. The volume
is an important original contribution to the literary history of the
country, and nobody, whose mind is not incurably vitiated by prejudice,
can make dissimilarity of opinion with regard to some of the judgments
expressed in the book, a ground for denying its general ability, honesty
and value. Most of the materials are strictly new, and this fact of
itself is sufficient to stamp the work with that character which
distinguishes books of original research from mere compilations.

Mr. Griswold has given us a fine preface, in which he ably vindicates
and acutely limits the genius of women. The biographies and extracts
which follow, commence with Mrs. Anne Bradstreet and close with Miss
Phillips. Between these two he has included an amount of beautiful and
touching poetry which will surprise even those who are inclined to take
the most elevated view of the intellectual excellence of their
countrywomen. We have here the lofty and energetic thought of Miss
Townsend, the bright fancy and primitive feeling of Miss Gould, the
impassioned imagination and deep discernment of Maria Brooks, the holy
and meditative spirit of Mrs. Sigourney, the tender and graceful
sentiment of Mrs. Embury; Mrs. Whitman, with her grasp of all
literatures, her keen thought which pierces through nature’s most
mystical symbols, and her ethereal spirit casting on every object that
light “which never was on sea or land;” Mrs. Oakes Smith, with her
constant sense of the pure and the good, her daring and shaping
imagination, before whose creations and revelations her soul shrinks
awed and subdued, and her deep feeling of the spiritual significance of
things—a woman worthy to be the companion of Plato; Fanny Osgood, the
most brilliant and graceful of poetesses, with her quick decisive
sensibility, and her teeming and exhaustless fancy, eloquent of love and
romance, and high-heartedness in every relation of life; Miss Lynch,
simple, austere, bold, despising ornament as ornament, and keeping her
raised eye fixed on the vanishing features of the elusive thought she
aims to shape into almost sculptural form; Grace Greenwood, with her
fine combination of the tender and the impassioned in feeling, and the
subtile and grand in thought, “with a heart in her brain and a brain in
her heart;”—all these, and many more whom we lack epithets to
characterize rather than desire to celebrate, appear in Mr. Griswold’s
volume in all the royalty of womanhood. To proceed further in
description would be merely to enumerate names, without being able to
suggest things. In addition to the notables, whose names are known to
all readers of the magazines, Mr. Griswold has included in his
collection, many a timid violet and daisy of womanhood, too modest and
sensitive not to feel the fear of notoriety, and has transplanted it to
his book with a delicacy as commendable as the taste which dictated it.

In conclusion, we have only to observe that a volume, so complimentary
to the genius of our countrywomen, can hardly be read without a feeling
of exultation and pride. We trust it will meet that wide circulation it
so richly deserves.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Acton: or the Circle of Life. A Collection of Thoughts and
    Observations, designed to delineate Life, Man, and the World.
    New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This beautiful volume is the result of a life of observation and
thought. The author has traveled in every part of the globe, and viewed
mankind in a greater variety of aspects than most of those who meditate
as well as observe. He has thrown his reflections into a somewhat quaint
form, and has but a few words for even the greatest topics, but whatever
he touches he either adorns or illuminates, and his book furnishes
numberless texts for essays. Like most writers of maxims, he has a
sardonic element in his mind, and occasionally disposes of an important
matter, deserving serious discussion, with a gibe or a fleer, and
sometimes descends even to flippancy and impertinence; but these are the
almost inevitable vices of the form of composition he has chosen, and he
has fewer of them than might be expected. A good part of the raciness of
such books as Acton comes from the occasional substitution of the
writer’s impressions or prejudices for general truths. The didactic tone
of such compositions is in this way relieved, and a paradox or a piece
of acute nonsense thrown in, here and there, reminds us that it is a
person who is thinking, not a moral and reasoning machine. The author of
the present work has been especially successful in giving an
individuality to his general remarks, and preserving them from the
abstract and “do-me-good” character of impersonal morality.

The volume is so laden with striking thoughts and observations, that it
is difficult to fix upon any deserving especial quotation. As a specimen
of the writer’s manner, the following on Genius and Talent may serve:

“Talent is strength and subtlety of mind, genius is mental inspiration
and delicacy of feeling. Talent possesses vigor and acuteness of
penetration, but is surpassed by the vivid intellectual conceptions of
genius. The former is skillful and bold, the latter aspiring and gentle;
but talent excels in practical sagacity, and hence those striking
contrasts so often witnessed in the world, the triumph of talent through
its adroit and active energies, and the adversities of genius in the
midst of its boundless but unattainable aspirations.

“Talent is the Lion and the Serpent; Genius is the Eagle and the Dove.

“Or the first is like some conspicuous flower which flaunts its glory in
the sunshine, while the last resembles the odoriferous spikenard’s root,
whose sweetness is concealed in the ground.

“The flower displays itself openly, the root must be extracted from the
earth.”

Here is a piece of verse, in a different vein, on a very common
dispensation of Providence, the Mean Fellow. We fear that few are so
fortunate as not to be able to apply it to some acquaintance or enemy:

        “Born but to be some snarl or plague,
        Vile product of a rotten egg,
        In every feature of thy face,
        A want of heart, of soul, we trace;
        By every honest man contemn’d,
        By your own looks betray’d, condemn’d—
        Of shame in front there is no lack,
        And curses ride upon your back.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Sacred Poets of England and America, for Three Centuries.
    Edited by Rufus W. Griswold. Illustrated by Steel engravings.
    New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

There is a strange impression current even among people who ought to
know better, that religious poetry is a form of composition confined to
poets of the third or fourth class, and chiefly valuable for Hymn Books.
The existence of any verse, instinct with the finest essence of poetry,
and glowing with the rapt and holy passions of the religious bard, is
practically denied. Now nothing is more certain than that poetry,
impassioned imagination, is essentially religious both in its nature and
its expression. It springs from that raised mood of mind in which the
object present to thought is worshiped. This is true even in poetry
relating to the senses and to human passion, for if we scrutinize it
sharply, we shall find that the object which fills the poet’s mind,
however low in itself, is still deified for the moment, and made the
exclusive object of his adoration. In this way bards often make gods of
persons and things very questionable in themselves, but this is owing
rather to the direction than the nature of the poet’s powers. If these
powers instead of being devoted to the idealization of appetite or
destructive passions, be directed upward to the true object of worship,
the poetry will be really more beautiful and sublime than if it were
merely confined to spiritualized sensations.

No one can glance over Mr. Griswold’s beautiful book without feeling how
rich is English literature in song, celebrating the beauty of holiness
and the infinite perfections of God. The compilation comprehends the
early as well as the later English poets, and contains some exquisite
but not generally known extracts from Spenser, Gascoigne, Drayton, Sir
Henry Wottan, Davies, Carew, Ben Jonson, Drummond, Fletcher, Donne, Sir
John Beaumont, Wither, Herrick, Quarles, Vaughan and Herbert. The holy
poets of a later date, both of England and America, are likewise
profusely quoted, and the whole collection is well deserving a place in
every family library in the country.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Benjamin Franklin: His Autobiography. With a Narrative of his
    Public Life and Services. By Rev. H. Hastings Weld. New York:
    Harper & Brothers._

The Harpers are publishing this work in numbers, to be completed in
eight. It is illustrated with numerous engravings after designs by
Chapman, and is printed in large type on fine paper. The edition
promises to be altogether the best which has been issued in the country,
and will tend to make more familiar to his countrymen the great American
philosopher’s genuine character and real services to the world.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Haunted Man. By Charles Dickens. New York: Harper &
    Brothers._

This new Christmas story by Dickens is hardly worthy of him, though it
might be considered a triumph to almost any body else. It has a _jobby_
air, as though it had been written in accordance with a contract, and
without any especial inspiration. The materials are, in great part, the
old capital of the author, and repetition is stamped on almost every
page. The Tetterbys and the baby, however, and Mrs. William, are full of
beautiful humor and pathos, and succeed in saving the book from positive
condemnation and failure.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


                     “GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”

MY DEAR JEREMY,—Your name would be euphonious in the stock-market, at
times; but I believe stocks are muddied waters in which you seldom
dabble. You are wise. But do you find yourself at all in the _vein_
speculative, particularly now, when the streams of that new El Dorado,
California, sparkle invitingly with yellow pebbles? and its many broad
acres spread themselves out temptingly, with their bowels of undug gold,
begging for pickaxe, shovel and basin? How many ears heretofore closed
to the artifices of the speculator, are pricked up, or belie their
masters, at the all-enchanting sound of the word GOLD!! With all the
close calculation and keen spirit of inquiry which mark us as a nation,
I fear me that Jonathan has his weakness, and that his soft side is
metallic. There is something in the clinking of gold and silver that
sets aside his ordinary caution and shrewdness, and leads him to do very
silly things to get at it. It belongs to his nature to be impetuous, and
continued success leads him into very rash ventures. A more interrupted
fortune would, in this case, have allowed him breathing time to make a
“calculation;” and when Jonathan does that coolly, he is seldom
overreached. But he has flogged the Mexicans, taken the territory that
he wanted—as he knew he would—and he is ready now to believe that the
golden pavements of the Incas were no fable, and that the streams in
California are walled in with gold, if you will. At least he will
believe it until he sees for himself. He is a little taken by surprise
with this glittering bait, and no trout dashes at a tempting fly with a
more ravenous bite than he does at these shining “placers.” What cares
he for the thousands of miles that intervene; for the storms of winter
that howl around the Horn, and threaten danger and death! At the first
glimpse of the prospect, a thousand sails are set, and whitening the
ocean, bear him to fortune. No ordinary comforts, no moderate success
here, restrains his keen thirst of adventure. Were home a paradise, and
California a desert, with its shores bristling with opposing bayonets,
and parked with roaring artillery, he would go. Yes! he would, perhaps,
rather go then than now. The glory of the achievement would enhance the
value of the wealth. The founder of Nations—he must work out a
prophecy. Already the cry of a great people goes up with a shout from
the once desolate hills, and ardent, panting thousands, answer the cry
with, “WE COME!” and the shout swells with a louder triumph, a more
emphatic joy, for “_a nation is born in a day!_”

The impetuous rush to that far-off land is not in itself striking or
marvelous. Other and feebler nations have shown the same avidity for
gold. The Spaniards have dared more, to quench the same insatiate
thirst. But the Anglo-Saxon heel, upon that soil, seals its greatness
and proclaims its destiny. From every wooded hill-side and babbling
stream—from the snow-capped mountain to the fertile valley—yes! even
over the great desert plains, where the footstep cracks the crisp soil,
a voice has gone forth, which the Nations hear and obey,
proclaiming—BE YE FREE!

Do you not think that the abandoning of all domestic and personal
comfort, sundering of all social and friendly ties, and rushing into the
doubtful companionship of California, for the mere sake of gold, is a
pretty accurate data from which to estimate a man’s heart, or brain, or
both? Is it not something so absolutely sordid, that one cannot help
losing a little of the respect heretofore entertained for a friend who
is seized with this yellow fever? As if life had nothing to mitigate the
evils of existence but wealth—indeed, as if we were born only to
worship that as a god—upon whose shrine we are to sacrifice time,
friends, health, and even life itself, to be the masters of so much
tinsel as you can clutch at the altar. Bah! Is there not in home
enjoyments and the society and friendship of men who know us well, and
love us truly, more _real_ wealth than all that will ever be attained by
the slaves who sweep the dirt from the streams in California—live upon
frogs and beetles, and fill the air with curses. Think of men, of even
the most ordinary sense of decency, herding—_for any sum_—for months
and years with the scum of every clime; with souls sickened and minds
defiled with their abominations; to be of them, “or not to _be_” at
all—is there any consideration that could tempt your avarice or mine?
None that I can think of, unless to gratify some darling revenge,
vigilant and sleepless for years, which men sometimes cherish for
wrongs, and which nothing but gold could furnish the means of
satisfying—even in that case it would be the _last_ resort.

If any friend of yours is solicitous to enrich a patch of soil, two feet
by six, I think I can recommend an Undertaker who will arrange the thing
nicely for him here; it is not worth while for him to go to California
with his benevolence. For _you_, he would be reasonable, as you are
_Short_.

But, my dear Jeremy, I had no intention of wandering from my purpose, of
giving you a reminding hint of “Copper Mining.” as a sort of sedative to
the gold “placers.” Some of Jonathan’s younger sons were then severely
bitten, and were so thoroughly inoculated with the virus, as to have
rather a sharpened recollection of metals. The most of _them_, I should
think, would be safe from this _later_ disease, even in its most violent
and contagious forms. Yet there is something very attractive, and most
dangerously seductive, in delving for minerals, counting each shovelfull
as so many guineas coined, and already in your pocket. There is no
enthusiast more dangerous than your professional miner. The gentle
madness is so infectious that his example may turn the heads of a whole
district. Yet _his_ bite is not half so venomous as that of another
species—a kind of ground-shark—who affects the same sort of insanity,
and while digging below ground, puts his “placer” on the “Stock List.”

It is astonishing, too, that we will be caught once in a while in this
way, while there are people all around us, _anxious friends_, who
exclaim, “I knew it!” but who never hinted a word about the matter. Did
it ever strike you that we live in a very sagacious and knowing
world—the mind of each man being simply the reflection of that of
another? Our brightest fancies are but the suggestions of other people’s
brains—our good fortune in life is always known beforehand—our
reverses have always been most indubitably predicted by parties, who
confirm their sagacity with a consolatory—“I told you so.” We are,
after all, then, but the mere creatures of the impulses of other
people—our destiny it is to work out their predictions. The iron
energy, the indomitable perseverance, sleepless vigilance, untiring
industry—have all been weighed beforehand—duly appreciated and
predicted. There is no such thing as surprising any body. It is all
perfectly understood.

W—, by a keen sagacity in detecting, and ready tact in managing a new
business, has struck the tide that bears to fortune. But _he_ has made
no discovery. Forty other men, with scarcely brains to comprehend, much
less originate an idea, knew all about it. _They told you so!_ W— goes
on, originates new combinations of trade, enlarges business ideas, and
still succeeds. But _Toldyeso_ knew it, and was indifferent.

SHARP has his eye upon W—. “AH!” says he “there is a man who has a soul
above buttons—a _genius_ for business. Every thing _he_ touches turns
to gold.”

But W—, with his multitude of irons in the fire, incautiously takes
hold of the hot end of one of them, and is maimed. “BAH!” says Sharp, “I
knew how it would be! He was always _rushing_ business up against the
stream. Bound to fail—_I told you so_!” And yet nobody ever knew Sharp
to originate, or succeed in, any thing—but _he knows_—and that must be
some consolation to a ninny.

But, Jeremy, not to imitate the folly of this world in regard to the
past, nor to affect the wisdom of the next, to tell of the future, I
have a story about mining to give you in my next, in which you will find
both Sharps and Flats, which I think will induce you to believe with
me—that people who have cultivated a dangerous intimacy with
Copper-Heads ought to be cautious, and particularly shy how they _now_
run after Gold-Bugs with a _hum_.

C. has been in town, and I passed an evening with him since last I wrote
you. He has still the same joyous laugh, that used to set the table in a
roar, and it is quite as contagious. At every jest he would burst out
with a sort of a shout in his hearty guffaw, which, if practiced at
home, must wake the echoes of his native mountain. I was thoughtful over
the past, and became partially a convert to your theory, in regard to
the chilling effects of extra city refinement; and your beautiful
picture of country life, with its honest, hearty friendships, came to my
mind forcibly. It must be true, for I confess I _felt_ that I had grown
older, and colder, too. Can you, Jeremy, laugh as of yore—as loud and
as long?—with the same hearty good will and utter _abandon_. Or is your
mirth choked and clogged with bitter remembrances, which will steal upon
the heart even in its gayest moments? Thought! is _it_ a companion with
which you can entertain hilarity? Or is your joy overshadowed with the
darkness of evil that has been, or that you anticipate, you scarce know
why? I cannot experience the light-heartedness we had formerly. Perhaps
it is that I attempt its cultivation. It must come of natural buoyancy
of spirits, I think, to be genuine. It is else but a hot-house plant in
a snow-storm—its leaves torn off by the blast or shriveled in a frosty
embrace. I doubt much whether our intellectual pleasures, as we proudly
call them, are half as exhilarating, and deeply steeped in genuine
happiness, as were those more animal sensations which we experienced
when boys, as we went hallooing and shouting along in the very
exuberance of our spirits, with a gay, glad, spirited defiance of care
and all its imps. This was the riches of the heart and not of the
pocket. Was it not? We had no gold in those days, so it could not have
been _that_!

                                                             G. R. G.

                 *        *        *        *        *

THE FEBRUARY NUMBER.—Our number for the last month has been pronounced,
everywhere, the very best of the Magazines for the month, and has thus
far so largely increased our sales, that we shall be obliged to issue a
very greatly increased edition of future numbers. The year 1849 seems to
have opened with most unparalleled promises for magazine literature; and
while our own sales have augmented on all sides, we have the
gratification, in our good fortune, to feel that we are not impairing
the prosperity of our neighbors. Indeed, the Philadelphia magazines,
high as they have heretofore stood before the country, and widely as
they have been circulated, seem just now to have made a bound in popular
favor that savors of romance. Fifteen or twenty thousand copies of a
monthly magazine was formerly regarded as the highest point of success
to enterprising publishers, and ambitious editors, but the dawning of
this brighter day promises such results as a simple matter of _increase_
on the year’s business. We hope that our readers see, in the growing
improvement of “Graham,” a disposition to impart a higher value to the
book, as patronage increases, and a careful catering to taste, which
shows no falling off in efforts to please, as well as to instruct our
literary household. Our _aim_ has been to furnish our readers with a
work, in point of literary excellence, that is unsurpassable, and in
pictorial beauty at once chaste and elegant. We could multiply, _ad
infinitum_, second rate articles and engravings, but we feel that we are
consulting both the reader’s taste and interest in adhering rigidly to
the course we have adopted, and we certainly have sufficient evidence of
its good policy, in the ample support we have received.

The March number may fairly challenge a rigid scrutiny, and we invite a
comparison between the literary matter and that of the other magazines.
The embellishments are all most beautifully executed; but the plate of
“_Christ Weeping Over Jerusalem_” is a gem in the way of engraving, and
we refer to it with a conscious pride that it can neither be
successfully imitated nor excelled. Our eyes linger over it with
something like exultation, as we present to our readers a plate of such
exquisite beauty. In this effort _even Tucker_ seems to have surpassed
himself.

                 *        *        *        *        *

THE FAMILY MESSENGER.—This is one of the cheapest and best of the
weekly newspapers. Its circulation is equal to its deserts, numbering
_now_ some sixty thousand readers. It has so long held its position
before the newspaper world, and is so widely and well known, that we but
endorse the general opinion, when we say that it is one of the best
Family journals in the nation. How the enterprising publisher can
furnish it at a dollar per annum is a wonder to us, and we have no doubt
to its thousands of subscribers. A specimen copy is furnished to any
person who may wish to see it, by application, post-paid, to the
publisher.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                    OH HAVE I NOT BEEN TRUE TO THEE:


                                A SONG,

               WRITTEN AND ADAPTED TO A BEAUTIFUL MELODY,

                           BY JOHN H. HEWITT.

Presented by G. Willig, No. 171 Chestnut St. Published by G. Willig Jr.
                               Baltimore.

                          [Copyright secured.]

[Illustration]

                   Oh! have I not been true to thee,
                   In joy and sorrow still the same?
                   Has e’en your coldness altered me,
                   Or sternness check’d my bosom’s

[Illustration]

                 flame?
                 Thou’st bid me hush my plaintive song,
                 And still my lute’s wild melody;
                 Yet, yet its strain will float along,
                 Oh! have I not been true to thee?

                             SECOND VERSE.

                Thy falcon now has thy caress,
                Thy hound leaps gladly to thy beck;
                But she who loves to wild excess
                Cannot one pulse of feeling wake.
                This should not be, I cannot brook
                The icy smile thou givest me;
                There’s death in each reproachful look—
                Oh! have I not been true to thee?

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has
been corrected without note. Obvious typographical errors have been
corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be
missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals used for
preparation of the ebook.

page 160, Chesapeak in superior ==> Chesapeake in superior
page 167, Shown flickeringly ==> Shone flickeringly
page 171, the guilded baubles ==> the gilded baubles
page 180, the honey accacia ==> the honey acacia
page 181, accacia and Canadian ==> acacia and Canadian
page 185, see, we wil see ==> see, we will see
page 186, knights and stalwort ==> knights and stalwart
page 186, picture was purched ==> picture was purchased
page 188, have past by ==> have passed by
page 197, à la Brigadiere ==> à la Brigadière
page 197, a trois morteaux ==> à trois marteaux
page 199, at the widow ==> at the window
page 201, derriere, pretty well ==> derrière, pretty well
page 201, havn’t been looking ==> haven’t been looking
page 204, Highflier, Esquire, descended ==> Highflyer, Esquire, descended
page 205, table with atonishment ==> table with astonishment
page 210, sheltering bows to ==> sheltering boughs to
page 211, _chef-de’œuvre_ ==> _chef-d’œuvre_
page 211, My whithered heart ==> My withered heart
page 215, of the Inca’s ==> of the Incas
page 215, thoroughly innoculated ==> thoroughly inoculated





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