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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXIV, No. 5, May 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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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                VOL. XXXIV.      May, 1849.      No. 5.


                           Table of Contents

                 Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson Jones
                 Lines to an Idea that Wouldn’t “Come.”
                 A Summer Evening Thought
                 The Naval Officer
                 The Rustic Shrine
                 Luna.—An Ode.
                 From Buchannan
                 The Recluse. No. II.
                 A Voice from the Wayside
                 A Sonnet
                 Passages of Life in Europe
                 The Grass of the Field
                 To an Absent Sister
                 Taste
                 The Man of Mind and the Man of Money
                 A May Song
                 Fifty Suggestions
                 History of the Costume of Men
                 Wild-Birds of America
                 Ariel in the Cloven Pine
                 Reminiscences
                 Parting
                 Montgomery’s House
                 Editor’s Table
                 Review of New Books
                 Virtue’s Evergreen

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET
Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, 61.
_Robes de M^{me}._ Bara Bréjard, _r. Lafitte, 5—_
_Coiffures de_ Hamelin, _pass. du Saumon, 21_.
_Fleurs de_ Chagot ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81—Dentelles de_ Violard, _r.
  Choiseul, 2^{bis}_.
Graham’s Magazine]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

                 *        *        *        *        *

          VOL. XXXIV.     PHILADELPHIA, May, 1849.     NO. 5.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                    MR. AND MRS. JOHN JOHNSON JONES.


                        A TALE OF EVERYDAY LIFE.


                         BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.


                  “These are the spiders of society.”

Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson Jones were commonplace people, but like him
who cried because there were no more worlds to conquer, they were
ambitious. There was one sphere within whose sacred precincts they could
not enter, and they wanted—to be fashionable. They looked around—they
beheld others, who, like themselves, had once been excluded from the
“land of promise,” and with a mighty resolution, determined to die or
conquer—to overthrow the _chevaux-de-frise_ surrounding Japonicadom,
with “the impudence of wealth;” and at length—at length the charmed
gates at which Mrs. Jones had sat in an agony of despair, burst open to
her delighted gaze, and she rose in public estimation high as the frothy
pyramids with which she ornamented her expensive suppers and baited her
guests.

After all, and in spite of the old copy that we have written, about the
root of all evil, money is a “great invention;” especially here, where
it bestows wit on fools, beauty on beasts, and covering the blots on all
escutcheons, forces us to that promiscuous mingling which out-democrats
democracy. How magnanimous it makes us! While the friends of the needy
assist them down the hill of fortune and bid them farewell, they turn to
help the lucky over its stepping stones, and lifting the pedlar’s pack
from his shoulders, rub them down, and push him into what we call “our
first circle”. And a pretty circle it would be, were the beginning
known! But the shining gold that glitters through a handsome purse, is
the _passe partout_; and like the princess in the fairy tale, nobody
looks behind for fear of hobgoblin discoveries of his next door
neighbor. Besides, reduced people are _so_ contemptible! Put them out!
With each new reign new peers arise, and so new houses should rear their
tops over the old ones, when the owners are useless and the furniture
tarnished.

Such a generation as we are! Such an age of refinement! Who would sit
down in the year 1849, to a dinner on a square-table! Who would touch
any but a Westphalia ham—drink champagne from a narrow glass—take a
cup of tea from any but a silver urn—sit in any but a Louis
Quatorze—kiss a baby that wore corals—notice an acquaintance with a
last winter bonnet, or a _visite_ instead of a Jenny Lind? Dear me! dear
me! I have been thinking a long time, and don’t know anybody that would!

Mrs. Jones knew better for one—so did Mr. Jones; and while they were as
vulgar as pride and ignorance could make them, learned to look upon
themselves as “glasses of fashion and moulds of form.” They had to labor
for the distinction with a zeal worthy a better cause; and my readers
shall have the benefit of their attempts if they are not already too
tired to proceed.

Mrs. Jones canvassed among her female acquaintances for popularity, by
calling, flattering, cringing, and sending them delicacies made by her
own fair hands; and Mr. Jones, who was very anxious to be “genteel,”
studied Chesterfield, and wondered what it meant. He belonged to one of
the first families of a state, in which all the families were first—a
universal right of distinction. His connections would have been titled
in an aristocracy; but their respect for the American government made
them condescend to be plain Misters, Madams, and Misses.

Mr. Jones himself was a little finnikin man, with sharp, black eyes, and
high cheek bones, upon which rested two red spots like the remains of a
fly-blister. He combed his hair into a stiff _toupet_, that made him
look like an inverted furniture-brush, with the usual equivocal portrait
of some very great individual upon it.

Fortune particularly distinguished Mr. Jones and saved him the trial of
an impossibility—the one of distinguishing himself. She gave him the
key to every door when she made him wealthy, and in pure gratitude he
converted his soul into a cent, and his heart into hard specie.

Then, Fortune bestowed on him the would-be-elegant Miss Pushaw, as
high-born as himself; and he was certainly a happy man when he stood up
with a bride whose dress was, like Margaret Overreach’s, “sprinkled o’er
with gold.” He was soon dazzled by her manœuvering qualities, and
touched by the congeniality of feeling which existed between them. An
adoration of fine clothes, fine furniture, and fashionable people, was
the sacred link that bound these loving hearts into one; and upon their
removal from the country to the city, no marble-cutter labored harder,
or struck more small pieces right and left, than did Mr. and Mrs. John
Johnson Jones, when they fawned and flattered, and ran small errands for
the neighbors that surrounded them, “the great Athenians.”

Mrs. Jones kept a small confectionary establishment in her pantry, for
all the ladies who fell sick; and Mr. Jones was kind enough to open a
cigar and drinking establishment for the gentlemen who were obliging
enough to call. They progressed, however, slowly in the affections of
the proud ——ians, and were somewhat discouraged, but recollecting the
pretty motto of “Hope on, hope ever,” they did not despair, and
contemplated taking larger strides toward gentility.

Mrs. Jones had been originally called Sally, but changed the appellation
for the softer one of Sara. Spring came on, and she resolved to follow
the world of fashion to one of its favorite resorts, the little village
of Quiproquo. She persuaded her loving spouse to rent one of its
cottages; and covering some old sofas and chairs with new chintz,
furnished it nicely and neatly enough to have satisfied the most
fastidious. But to every visiter the same apology was made for its
plainness; and Mrs. Jones informed them all that “her house in town was
furnished _elegunt_, but she didn’t like to bring out her mahogany
cheers,” while her husband’s invariable rejoinder was, “Why, Sara, there
are plenty more where them came from!” A mere playful allusion to the
amount of his fortune, a fact he never lost sight of, and in time it had
its due effect on his listeners.

This house became at length the _pied-à-terre_ for all the high-bred
loungers that had nothing to do but smoke, drink, and play Boston in the
summer months; the season of inevitable idleness for all Southerners of
all professions—doctors excepted.

Mrs. Jones talked very loud and very much _du nez_; she took all the
empty speeches she listened to for witticisms, and was forever busy in
the service of others, running about shaking a little basket of keys, to
impress them with a due sense of her importance.

Mr. Jones’s wine flowed freely, (so did his brandy par parenthesis.
Brandy-and-water drinking becomes a solemn duty in the warm weather,
among the inhabitants of Quiproquo.) Then the boxes of best Havanas were
fast emptied, and clouds of smoke arose from the front piazza,
frightening the neighbors into thinking the house was on fire until they
were used to it. And Boston! and whist! there was no end to these
favorite games, while the gossips of the village whispered that it was a
very profitable amusement to Mr. Jones.

But there was still a Mordecai at the gate of poor Mrs. Jones’s soul.
Many had called to see her, whose nod a few months previous was as great
as Jove’s from Mount Olympus; but like all who strive for much, she
wanted more. There was one card whose reception would at once stamp her
“a peer,” give her the right to place the golden grasshopper in her
hair; for Mrs. Macfuss was one of the proud Autochthones whose boast was
that she had never been but the first among the first. She had been
heard to say that she could not think of encouraging such persons as the
Joneses! And such a speech from the cynosure of all eyes threw Mrs.
Jones into hysterics.

Mrs. Macfuss’s house was the house par excellence; her suppers were
given in the Hall of Apollo, where Lucullus supped with Lucullus. The
dinners were triumphs of culinary art, over which the very spirit of Ude
must have presided. Her toilette was ever in the most exquisite taste.
Her dresses gave the _ton_, and her patronage decided the fate of a
mantuamaker for life. The entire race of milliners would have credited
her forever sooner than lose the honor of her custom; and she it was for
whose favor poor Mrs. Jones pined in green and yellow melancholy. She
cried for very spite, while Mr. Jones swore that he would trample on the
d—n proud set after a while.

They determined to make a mighty effort, and commenced preparations for
a ball. Invitations were written on scented paper, and put into
envelopes with embossed vines and bouquets over the seal. These were
sent to her new acquaintances, and the “picked and chosen” of her old
ones; and breaking through the charmed rules of etiquette, Mrs. Jones’s
cards were slipped into some of the invitations and left at Mrs.
Macfuss’s for herself and family. A band of music was engaged, and every
thing prepared on a large scale.

Mrs. Jones was seen rushing in and out of the house in an old loose gown
looking like—herself; sleeves up to her elbows, and said elbows covered
with eggs, sugar and butter; while behind her ran Master Pushaw Jones,
on a pair of hard fat, blue legs, his face besmeared with the same sweet
compound that graced his mamma’s arms, enlivening the scene with shrill
screams for egg-shells, into which he concocted sundry messes that defy
description.

In every sunny spot around the house were tables covered with cakes like
pyramids of snow, so white and smooth was the icing poured over them. In
the kitchen were fowls roasting and hams boiling; turkeys innumerable in
their tin houses, getting basted and browned; and oysters getting
plumped and pickled, peppered and spiced. There was more shuffling,
running about, upsetting and breaking, than can be imagined, and
fussing, to Mrs. Jones’s content. Baskets of champagne arriving from
town; blocks of ice; borrowed china and glass; lamps, candelabras, &c.,
&c. Servants rushing out to assist the draymen, shouting, tumbling over
one another in an agony of amazement at “Miss Sally’s importance,” and
ransacking drawers and closets for cup-towels and tumbler-towels that
were insufficient for all the wiping that was to be done.

The table was set out—and a magnificent one it was, if profusion is
beauty. There was nothing wanting. Plenty of lights, too, were in
readiness, and nearly all was completed the evening before, to poor Mrs.
Jones’s relief. She went to bed, endeavoring to think the fatigue a
pleasure, and slept soundly enough to feel recruited.

But, alas! a bad day and a worse night damped her expectations, and she
walked about, giving her directions with less buoyancy than the evening
previous. _Then_, the fair moon was filling the earth with her silver
light, and covering the galleries (whereon the guests were to have
promenaded) with her radiance. _Now_, the air was damp and chilly, the
rain was still dropping over the roof, and the roads were, of course,
almost impassable. The grandees shrugged their shoulders at the idea of
a wet drive to Mrs. Jones’s party, and many who would have gone,
remained at home for want of comfortable equipages.

The musicians called the quadrilles in hoarse voices, and their
instruments were out of tune. The wind blew out the lights, and great
confusion prevailed among the dancers. The icing ran down the sides of
the cakes, the Charlotte Russes flowed over and the beautiful jelly, so
perfectly moulded, melted away like a dream. Mrs. Jones was ready to
swoon, but rallied, and talked louder than ever as she ran to and fro,
in great agony of mind. Her husband suffered less; he was winning at
cards, and the expenses of the party were much lessened as some of the
guests pockets lightened. He even forgot the absent Macfusses, and
wondered that Sara “took on so.” Supper was announced—the champagne
foamed and sparkled, the corks flew about like hail-stones, and every
body was pleased but poor Mrs. Jones, who was glad when it ended, and
lay down at length with a terrible _migraine_. Then came the nightmare
in the shape of one of her own black cakes thrown at her head by Mrs.
Macfuss—and so ended the party for her.

She had, however, the consolation of telling her next door neighbor, who
was too sick to accept her invitation, what an “elegant supper she had,
and how much it had cost her.” She enumerated the number of empty
bottles that _had_ been full, the loaves of sugar that were broken up,
and the hundreds of pounds of ice that had been used for freezing, &c.,
&c. The dozens of eggs, the ounces of gelatin! She had followed Miss
Leslie’s receipts, “and,” added she, taking breath, “you know, Mrs.
Hill, that you _must_ go to vast expense for that, as she directs you to
take the best of every thing.”

Mrs. Hill did not doubt it, and as she afterward told her sister, heard
an account so minute of the costs of the entertainment, that she could
easily have made out the bills for the city confectioners and grocers.

“But she did not tell me who were her guests, Eda; and I really had no
opportunity of asking,” said she, smiling. “Now I might have learned
something more interesting for your benefit.”

“Not for mine, Fanny,” returned Miss Seymour, laughing. “Poor Mrs.
Jones! she could not tell you that Mrs. Macfuss did not accept her
polite invitation, and in _her_ absence, she considered her rooms empty.
Is she not a host within herself?”

“I should like to have seen _her_ reception of Mrs. Jones’s envelopes
and cards,” exclaimed young Seymour, rising from the sofa, and seating
himself at his sister’s side. “It is certainly a bore to have such
vulgarians thrust themselves among us. Fancy your compliance with the
request I heard her make _you_, Eda, to ‘Come over and be intimate!’”

“You may look as disdainful as you please, my exclusive brother,” said
Mrs. Hill, laying her white hand upon his own, “but I prophecy Mrs.
Jones’s rise in the world of fashion as a thing of certain occurrence,
as much as we all now laugh at and despise her vulgarity and ignorance.
She will be as well considered as you or I, and more, for she has
wealth, and we have only education and high-breeding.”

“Tell it not in Gath! What, Macfusses and all, Fanny!” cried her
brother. “Impossible! No one is a prophet in his own country, my dear
sister, and thus I console myself for the shock you have given me.”

“_Nous verrons, ce que nous verrons_, Harry,” said Mrs. Hill, smiling,
“but I think I am right. Human nature is the same all over the world,
and I have learned to study it of late years. Did not Lady Montague
write, that wherever she had gone in her travels in Europe and the East,
she met with ‘men and women!’”

“Very true, Fanny, but if what you predict comes to pass, I shall play
Timon of Athens, and fly to Texas.”

“O, lame and impotent conclusion!” said Eda, rising and running her
fingers over the harp-strings, sending a full, clear strain through the
apartment.

        “‘If music be the food of love, play on;
         Give me excess of it, that surfeiting—’

I may forget Fanny’s shocking view of fashionable human nature. She is a
perfect old Diogenes, and deserves no better than a tub! Play, Eda, that
‘music for a time may change _her_ nature.’”

“Nay, sing, sister,” said Fanny; “’twill soothe his troubled spirit
sooner. Sing something from Lucia di Lammermoor, and I will promise not
to repeat my offence.”

But Mrs. Hill was right. She did not presume to deny the title of every
one in our own free country to the equality it claims. She would exclude
none from the advantages of society, let their pedigree be what it
might. She respected honesty, and venerated truth. She knew that wealth
could not confer either, and was too often acquired in their absence; to
her it covered no faults, mended no reputation, refined no coarseness of
mind, and looking upon it as affording opportunities of relieving
misery, ways of making others happy, of giving to genius the advantages
of education and learning, it was no wonder that she sighed, as she
witnessed its daily influence on the minds and hearts of those with whom
she mingled. There was no bitterness in her contemplation of its
consequences, for she was too good and gentle to be envious, too pious
to repine. She had been in the sunshine of the great world’s favor, and
was now beginning to see its clouds, as her means of affording mere
entertainment to its votaries began to decline. But, although she felt
privations, the want of comforts to which she had ever been accustomed;
although she felt that wealth can bestow much happiness on those who
know its proper use, she murmured not, nor thought more of those on whom
fortune was conferring her choicest favors. No wonder, then, that she
could foresee the success of Mrs. Jones, when with _her_ accomplishments
and fine, noble mind, the diminution of prosperity brought her less
consideration. The mortification to her was, not the loss of fortune,
but the mistake she made in fancying that her real worth had been
appreciated. She knew that true hearts could not forsake her, that true
friends could not be changed, and the rest passed from her mind as a
dream that had lasted too long.

Winter approached, and after giving dinners, suppers, and picknicks
innumerable in honor of her new acquaintance, Mrs. Jones prepared to
remove into her house in town. At the same time Mrs. Macfuss was ready
to do the like, and as mortified as the former felt at her palpable
neglect, it was a comfort to know that their furniture-wagons went side
by side for six good miles.

And so ended Mrs. Jones’s first year of climbing. The ladder seemed not
so steep, nor the ascent so difficult; she could look up and smile on
those at the top, while hands were held out to help her as she mounted.

She dreamed of Paradise, and began to breathe and hope. Who would not in
her place? She talked louder than ever, and began to patronize a few,
offering to chaperone very young ladies, or ladies of a certain age. Her
toilette was magnificent, and began to be elegant. Mrs. Jones had
improved decidedly.

The house continued to be thronged with her usual visiters. Her parlors
were a kind of club-room for young men who staggered about, half-sober,
after having played cards all night, or rested their weary heads upon
the satin pillows of her sofas, and dozed off the effect of the
champagne. Mrs. Jones declined all further communication with her former
friends, and wrote pompous notes to all who took any liberty with her
name. It was a thing she could not think of allowing; she had certainly
the right of choosing her associates, and neither herself nor Mr. Jones
could permit any one to question their conduct in any manner. Indeed,
she was often upon the point of requesting Mr. Jones to impress it upon
the minds of the silly creatures, that she could not acknowledge the
acquaintance of such a promiscuous set. They had fastened upon her
during her residence at “the Creek,” and she could not shake them off;
she never dreamed of encouraging them, and had resolved on her return
from the North, not to notice any calls paid her by such an obstinate
set.

“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed the bosom-friend of days gone by, upon hearing
all this repeated; “she don’t intend to know us! Perhaps she forgets how
glad she was when aunt invited her and her sister to a party, and they
mortified us so, by coming with paper crowns on their heads, and little
baskets filled with artificial flowers on their arms?”

“And every one laughed so!” cried another. “She came to see _me_ once,
with a colored dress on, trimmed all over with broad white ruffles.
Wasn’t that a costume? I wonder who _she_ is, to slight us! She would do
better to recollect what she springs from. Indeed! the time was—”

But we have not time to repeat the angry sayings of Mrs. Jones’ friends.
Some were told to her, but she cared not a _sous_, since the old set and
the new would never meet to canvass her pedigree or her paper wreaths of
yore. So, bidding a long farewell to them all, she left for New York, in
all the glory of traveling-dresses, trunks labeled “John Johnson Jones,”
and a white nurse for Master Pushaw.


                              CHAPTER II.

                  “I dressed myself from top to toe.”

“Are you going out this morning, Sara?” said Mr. Jones, as he saw an
unusual quantity of finery on the dressing-table, embroidered collars,
cuffs, handkerchiefs and gay ribbons.

“Yes; I have some calls to make—no very important ones to be sure; I
intend dining out to Mrs. Hill’s place at Summerfield. But as I think it
a duty to assist in putting down the pride of such people, I wish to go
with some eeclaw, and will take Pushaw with me, to show off his handsome
suit. Some of my friends told me it was folly in me to put myself to the
trouble of calling, but I wish them to see how mistaken they were, poor
things! when they took upon themselves to treat us with so much
indifference when we were neighbors. The Hills are of no earthly use,
everybody knows that! and I vow and declare that I saw Mrs. Hill wear
that shine silk of hers two winters ago. I really must ask some of her
acquaintances; it is worth while to ascertain it. I suppose I must go
alone, for I could not ask any one to be charitable enough to go with
me; and after this, I mean to cut the Seymour and Hill clique most
decidedly.”

Mrs. Jones took breath, and laughed at her own wit as though she
relished it; and well she might, for the idea of her being able to “cut
people” was a very funny one to be sure.

“Hill is doing a bad business this winter,” said her husband, buttoning
his coat, and straightening himself before the glass. “He’ll be ‘done
up’ at the end of it, I’ll wager any thing, for he sold his beautiful
horse a short time since, and a man must be in a poor way to part with
such an animal as that is. Sinclair bought him, and hardly knows how to
ride.”

“Well, I’m sure _I_ don’t care, for one,” remarked Mrs. Jones, with
great elegance of manner and tone, as she threw over her shoulders a
Brussels cape that had been sent up by her modiste for her inspection.
“This is splendid, I declare! I’m glad Mrs. Puff thought of sending
this; it is exactly like one Mrs. Macfuss wore at the Ford’s fine
dinner, and so it must be the fashion. As I was saying, Mr. Jones, the
Hills were rather high with me last summer; I never could get them to
come over and be intimate. Now there’s Marian Fawney, as sweet a girl as
ever lived, I had only to tell her once, and we’ve been like sisters
ever since.”

“Yes; a little _too_ intimate for my good,” said Mr. Jones, as he
thought of the constant visits of all Miss Fawney’s family. “It may all
be very fine for you, Sally, and she may be a very good girl, but I
think she loves rich folks, and no others.”

“Well, and who don’t?” replied his wife, who felt herself subject to a
similar weakness. “Besides, Mr. Jones, her acquaintance has been an
advantage, consider that! I have no doubt but that through her influence
we shall have Mrs. Macfuss in our house before the season is out.”

“D—n Mrs. Macfuss!” exclaimed Mr. Jones, forgetting Chesterfield in his
indignation at the heart-aches she had given him and his helpmate. “You
expect the Saxons, too, I suppose! For they are as proud as the others,
and as grand in their notions.”

“The Saxons dine here on Monday,” said Mrs. Jones, with a look of
triumph. “They called this week, and I immediately asked them, reserving
the news for one of your cross humors, and you were just beginning one
at the Macfusses.”

Mr. Jones “unknit his threatening brow” and congratulated his wife upon
her cleverness. “And never mind, Sally,” continued he, forgetting to use
the more musical name of Sara, “I’ll pull down those Macfusses yet, with
the fortune I’m making; for I have sworn to be the wealthiest man in
——, and I don’t think Macfuss can say as much. I have the means before
me, and if Will can help, ‘there’s no such word as fail.’ Hurrah, Sally!
hurrah!”

Mr. Jones was like Richard, “himself again,” and almost upset the
chiffoniere in the middle of the room. His wife smiled benignantly upon
his playfulness, but thought it time to end his exhilaration where it
began; “for,” said she to herself, “if any one should hear him!” So she
dismissed him by reminding him of the hour, and Mr. Jones left his
Penates for his sanctuary, the counting-room. In his mind, if mind it
were, there was but one idea, the one of amassing wealth, and he was as
unlike that being of superiority, man, as the sloth to the bee. While
his limbs moved, while his fingers marked down the all-important
figures, his mind lay dormant, his soul stagnant; and forgetful of the
treasures that “neither rust nor moth doth consume, where thieves do not
break through nor steal,” he left uneared for the harvest which we are
bound to reap—the harvest of a good and useful life. Where his treasure
was, there also was his heart; but such things pass away, and will be
like a drop in the ocean; where then would lie the benefit of all this
toil, these struggles for the vain possessions of a passing world?

Equally heedless of _her_ real fortune, his wife proceeded to her duty
of _une grande toilette_. Calling her sable handmaid, she gave
directions for Master Pushaw’s outfit, upon this unusual occasion for
display.

“Dress him in the suit that came from the North, Cilla,” said she, with
an air of Zenobian authority. “I wish to take him with me. Be prompt,
and do not cross him, for he would cry, and I cannot have his face
swollen. It will disfigure him.”

There were few charms to destroy in Master Jones’s little dish-face, but
his mother descended to the front parlor with a Gracchi perception of
greatness in embryo, and walked up and down before the pier-glass until
her father’s softened image followed her. Sundry shrill screams had
found their way below, but as the injuries were entirely confined to
poor Cilla’s face and hands, Mrs. Jones was satisfied. She surveyed him
attentively, and the result was satisfactory; although Master Pushaw
looked very much as if he were about to mount Miss Foote for a race, or
a circus pony for a ride around the ring. His clothes were remarkable
for their gay color, and he wore a fools-cap, whose long gold tassel
swung to and fro as his motions grew animated. We have seen little
creatures dressed like, and resembling him—but they were not children.

Mrs. Jones was whirled off in triumph to Mrs. Hill’s. A pretty cottage,
elegantly but simply furnished, stood unmoved as the splendid equipage
dashed up to the front door. A servant opened it, at sound of the bell,
and answered in plain English that his mistress was “at home.” Mrs.
Jones descended the steps, and was ushered into the parlor. Still there
was no unusual stir about the place, the pretty portraits kept in their
frames on the wall, and the flowers remained unwithered at her approach.
Mrs Jones’s astonishment redoubled, and when Mrs. Hill entered the room,
her smiling, blooming countenance completed the disappointment of her
guest. Nay, her quiet manner, and indifference to the mass of ribbons,
flounces and embroidery that sat before her, gave Mrs. Jones nervous
twitches at the mouth, and she at length asked for Mrs. Hill’s little
boy, certain of seeing him, as Master Pushaw looked when he was not
“dressed in the suit that came from the North.”

But the nurse entered holding by the hand a beautiful boy, whose smooth,
fresh complexion was ornamented with only the bloom “Nature’s cunning
hand had laid on.” His costume was as unlike a fancy one as possible,
and Mrs. Jones felt the thorn deeper in her side, as his bright dark eye
rested boldly and scrutinizingly upon his visiter.

“What a funny cap!” exclaimed he, as it swung to and fro when Pushaw
turned his head.

“And so it is funny, dear!” replied the nurse with true Irish naiveté.

“Take the little boy with you, Charley, and get him a nice biscuit,”
said Mrs. Hill, and she felt relieved as the children left the room. “A
glass of wine will refresh you after the drive, Mrs. Jones,” continued
she, hoping to direct her attention to a different channel; and pulling
the bell, she ordered a tray of refreshment for her fashionable guest,
not fearing to display the contents of her pantry to such practiced
eyes.

Mrs. Jones swallowed a sponge cake, and washed it down with a mouthful
or two of wine; but it almost choked her, and she rose to go without
having dazzled Mrs. Hill with an account of her “elegant dinner-service,
and the splendid silver tea-set.” She remained imperturbable during the
enumeration of the parties Mrs. Jones had attended, and the invitations
she had been forced to decline, so bidding her hostess good morning, the
lady stepped into her carriage with a feeling of bitter disappointment,
“for” said she, “Mrs. Hill don’t look at all as though her husband were
doing a bad business. Mr. Jones must be mistaken; no woman on the verge
of poverty could ever look as undisturbed as she did this morning.”

No woman like Mrs. Jones _could_ have been cheerful under the sad
reverses of the young creature whom she chose to despise. _Her_ aim was
fashion—her idol wealth. Mrs. Hill cared for neither; she struggled to
preserve in adversity the happiness that had begun in prosperity. The
object of the visit she received was intelligible to her, and her only
emotion was one of pure amusement as she resumed her quiet rational
pursuits. Mrs. Jones would have disdained pleasures that occasioned no
display. Fanny felt grateful to the Giver of all good for the resources
that supplied the place of the worldly amusements in which she could no
longer afford to participate; and felt that however they may gratify for
a time, they leave, from their uselessness, a void in the heart.

That night, while she and her husband sat together in animated,
sprightly discourse over some work they had been reading, four people
were assembled around the centre-table in one of Mrs. Jones’s handsome
parlors. The lady herself, her husband, and Miss Fawney, with her
brother, a little snub-nosed, purple-visaged fellow, conceited, of
course, and fond of talking.

Mrs. Jones held a pencil in her hand. Before her lay a _portfeuille_ of
unexceptionable shape and hue, and on a sheet of satin paper she was
writing a list of the guests to be invited to a ball Miss Fawney thought
it advisable for her to give. It was a popularity party, but as she
catered for patronage that needed notes from the élite, not from the
vulgar, it was a very exclusive affair.

“Every thing shall be perfectly _elegunt_, Marian—so be as select as
you please, my love, I fear no rivalry in business like this; Mrs.
Macfuss shall see herself at home, if she accepts,” said Mrs. Jones,
raising her head proudly, and smiling as she concluded.

“That’s right, Sara!” said her husband, stroking his small crop of
whiskers. “Go the whole hog, and give us something out of the way.” (Mr.
Jones was forgetting Chesterfield, decidedly, but then he had not so
much need to learn refinement, since his rise in the world.)

“Do mind him for once, Mrs. Jones, although you ladies don’t love
obedience to the conjugal yoke,” observed Mr. Fawney, screwing up his
face to refrain from laughing at his own wit. “All the young men in town
are wishing that you would give a party. They know what they may expect,
I can tell you.”

“Do they, indeed?” said the lady, expanding. “Then lose no time, Marian
Fawney, I leave the invitations to you, for you know none but the first
people here, and we can ask as many as you will write down. I give you
_coorte blonche_.”

“Will you, dear Mrs. Jones,” cried she, embracing that lady with great
affection, and filled with delight at the commission given her. “How
kind of you to leave every thing to me! But then you know how much I
feel—” Miss Fawney here wept a little, and wiping her eyes and
snuffling, resumed: “Now we’ll begin with—the Macfusses, of
course—then the Fentons—”

“But none of them have called on Sara,” interrupted Mr. Jones.

“But they will—I know that they intend it. Mrs. Macfuss told me the
other day that Mrs. Jones entered a room like a Parisian, and that her
dress was perfect!” said Marian.

This appeased Mr. Jones, and so enraptured his wife, that it was a pity
it was not true; but Miss Fawney told an untruth so gracefully that
falsehood became in her _plus belle que la belle verité_.

“Shall Mrs. Hill be invited?” asked she in a tone that plainly demanded
a negative.

“Might as well,” said Mr. Jones, picking his teeth with fashionable
ease.

“Poor thing!” sighed Miss Fawney, while her face lengthened as she
assumed a look of compassion, “does she go out this winter?”

“Mrs. Jones says her husband does a bad business this season,” observed
Mrs. J. “She can’t get a ball-dress, what’s the use of tempting her?”

“Ever principled, my dear Mrs. Jones!” cried Miss Fawney, much affected
a second time, but restraining her tears. “However, she might borrow one
from her sister,” continued she, feeling that the more she dwelt upon
Mrs. Hill’s reverses, the less inclined Mrs. Jones was to be polite to
her.

“D—n it, let ’em come!” said the master of the house, conscious of no
reason for slighting people who were never rude. “What’s the difference
to Sally how they dress! She don’t lose by it, does she?”

“You have such a kind heart!” cried Marian, taking his hand, and gazing
upon him with a look of two-fold approbation; but Mr. Jones turned away,
wondering inwardly “what in heaven’s name the girl was forever crying
about!”

“Come, Sara, decide! shall the invitation be written, or not?” said he,
somewhat impatiently.

“No!” said the lady, positively, for she had just remembered Mrs. Hill’s
indifference to her costly silk, her new carriage, and Pushaw’s fancy
cap.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“Fanny,” said Miss Seymour, as she stepped from her carriage one evening
at her sister’s door, “come with me, wont you? I am going to drive on to
the city, having some _emplettes_ to make, and we can call on Mrs. Jones
as we return. The sound of her silvery voice will re-animate you this
evening, for you do not look so well.”

Mrs. Hill was not as cheerful as was her wont, for her prospects did not
brighten, and she had been sitting on the steps, thinking, until a few
tears rolling over her sweet face, left their glaze, and did not escape
Eda’s eye of affection. Ever willing to oblige, however, and anxious to
resume her usual looks, before her husband should return to mark and
grieve over her sadness, she assented.

“You must wait awhile, Eda, until I change my dress; I must put on a
more ceremonious costume, for Mrs. Jones has ceased asking me to ‘come
over and be intimate’ since my fortunes are changing. This satin de
laine would be an insult after the magnificence with which she assailed
me two weeks ago? Can you give me time to make _une toilette soignée_?”

“Certainly,” said Miss Seymour, seating herself and taking her little
nephew on her lap, “although you require but a slight change in my
humble opinion, to present yourself at Mrs. Jones’s door.” Fanny smiled
and hastened in; but soon returned, looking pretty enough to make the
fine lady jealous, in despite of her simple attire. She had that real
elegance of manner which Mrs. Jones so much admired in herself, but
could not see in others that failed to prosper in the world’s
estimation.

She was “at home,” the servant said, and they were ushered in by an
African damsel, in washing attire. Her clothes were looped about her
waist like a _blanchisseuse_, and she displayed a pair of ebony legs
ending with wide, naked feet. Her drapery was not like her mistress’s
company, “select,” but seemed to hold the accumulated dust and dirt of
the house.

Seated in the parlors, the sisters had leisure to contemplate the
contents of the apartment they had often heard described. Two portraits
hung opposite. One represented Mrs. Jones in ball costume, giving the
finishing touch to her toilette. On her lap was a very work-box looking
casket, out of which she was taking a string of most unequivocal
wax-beads, supposed to resemble pearls.

Mr. Jones sat bolt upright, with a book in his hand, looking very
learned, and very much puzzled about some weighty question.

But what struck them most was, that on the tables in the corners, stood
cake-baskets, covered with doilies, and candlesticks innumerable were
disposed about the room, with unlit candles, and curled paper wound
around them. Some of the baskets contained cake that plainly looked,
“don’t touch me yet,” and we forgot to mention a tub of rather muddy
water that stood in the middle of the folding-doors, on a large
oil-cloth, as though the dark damsel, with the very short garments, had
been interrupted in the act of scouring paint at this untimely hour.

“Mrs. Jones has scrubbing done at a strange time,” said Eda, pointing to
the implements before mentioned.

“Hush, Eda! I’m sure that we have called at a very wrong hour,” said
Fanny, pointing in her turn to the cake and candles. “Does not that look
like a bidding of guests to the banquet hall?”

“It does, indeed. What have we done, Fanny? How could we know of such
preparations when the stupid girl said her mistress was at home? The
idea of scouring at such an hour, too! Housekeeping should be like the
mechanism of the clock—we know that it goes, but do not see the
operation. When was our house ever seen in such a trim by visiters?”

“In such an _un_trim, you mean to say,” said Fanny; “but pray do not
laugh, Eda, it is like hypocrisy to do so now, that we have given
ourselves the trouble of coming to see Mrs. Jones.”

“You are too good, Fanny; but if you keep your face serious in that
absurd way, striving to practice what you preach, I shall shriek out,”
replied her sister. “Do laugh, if you feel like it.”

“No, Eda, no!” said Fanny, trying to look grave. “Do not make me act
rudely. _We_ have made the mistake, for we live in the country and hear
none of these ‘fine ladies’ doings.”

“Pshaw! Mrs. Jones cannot give a party without _my_ hearing of it; she
owes me the invitation, and you also.”

“I never shall expect one,” said Mrs. Hill, smiling, and the servant
entered to ask “if Miss Seymour were in the parlor.”

“Miss Seymour and Mrs. Hill,” said Eda, wondering what was to come next.

“Well, then, marm, Miss Sarly say, (and I told her it was you and Mrs.
Hill, too,) that she’s been busy all day, and can’t see no company.
Here’s a ticket for you to come to the party. Miss Sarly say she never
had no time to send it out in the country, but long’s you are here, she
told me to fotch it down. They a’nt none for you marm,” turning to
Fanny.

This new way of sending invitations was, in reality, ignorance on the
part of poor Mrs. Jones. She had not yet been out as far as Mr.
Seymour’s country-seat, and thought it an excellent idea to take
advantage of Eda’s presence in the house. The neglect of Mrs. Hill was
intentional, as we have seen, but it was _now_ difficult to say which
was most uncontrollable, Eda’s indignation, or her sister’s amusement.

“I have a mind to send it back to her,” cried Eda, in French. “What
gross impertinence!”

“Ignorance, sister; she knew no better, and I told you I expected
nothing from Mrs. Jones,” said Fanny. “Do let us go, dear Eda! I cannot
help it now, I must laugh! Come”—and she led the way out, observing
that she ought to forgive it, as Mrs. Jones had not yet unlearned her
_habitudes de chaumière_. The door stood open, and behind it was Mrs.
Jones, intent upon hearing what comments were passed by Mrs. Hill, when
she found herself “neglected.” She had the great satisfaction of knowing
that she was seen, for Fanny’s merry eyes rested full upon her; and she
was somewhat disappointed as she heard the sweet, silver laugh that
echoed behind them as the carriage rolled away.

This was not pleasant, but Mrs. Jones remembered that Mrs. Hill saw no
one now, “and, of course, Miss Seymour wont come when her sister is not
invited. I wish I had not kept on this old gown, since they spied me
out; but, lor! it don’t make any difference. I wonder what they said,
too; I couldn’t tell from here.”

She asked Cilla; but Cilla replied that “they didn’t talk Merrican, and
how could _she_ understand? But I tell you what, Miss Sarly, I didn’t
like to invite one ’thout tother; and I felt very oncomfortable ’bout
it, too!”

So Cilla had the advantage over her mistress in good feeling at least,
but she was told to hold her tongue and go to her work, and no one was
ever the wiser by it. But as we wish to give only an account of the rise
of Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson Jones, we must pay less attention to the
little incidents of every-day life.

To have slighted Mrs. Hill, “whose husband did a bad business,” was one
triumph—to have secured Eda’s non-attendance, another. But to receive
Mrs. Macfuss’s acceptance, was one worthy of the gods! This joyful blow
was too much for Mrs. Jones’s nervous system! She had the paint
rescoured, and Cilla, much discomforted, observed (out of her lady’s
hearing, of course,) “that if cos Mrs. Makefuss is a comin’ I has to do
all my work over, I wish, (oh, my sakes! if Miss Sarly could hear me!)
she’d a kept her ’ceptance to herself. Here’s Miss Sarly almost out her
head, and when the ’oman _do_ come, she’ll be crazy as a coot—and coots
is bad off for sense.”

Cilla was not far wrong. When Miss Fawney communicated the intelligence
that an acceptance was to be sent on the morrow, Mrs. Jones ran about in
playful bewilderment and relieved herself a little by adding some
extra-artificials to her dress. She borrowed more candlesticks and
lamps, and had some idea of illuminating the house from attic to cellar,
ordering lanterns to be hung at the gate, that Mrs. Macfuss might not
mistake. “And now, Marian, my dear child,” continued she, turning to her
convenient friend, “do tell me what Mr. and Mrs. Macfuss like best to
eat. What more _can_ I have on my table that they would relish? I know
they always have the finest of every thing—think well now, and let me
know.”

Miss Fawney was a little puzzled at first, but suddenly recollected what
she liked most herself, so informed Mrs. Jones that Mr. Macfuss was very
fond of _pâté de foie gras_, and also of oyster gumbo.

“The gumbo I have prepared, my love, of course; but the potty dee foy
graws I had almost forgotten. Gourmand has quantities of potties, as he
is a Frenchman, and imports those articles from Paris direct. I think
you said Mrs. Macfuss liked sherbet and lemon ice cream?”

No; Miss Fawney liked vanilla best, and affirmed that Mrs. Macfuss was
very partial to it.

“Is she, indeed! Oh, Marian, I had ordered lemon!” cried Mrs. Jones, in
dismay. “Come, we’ll go to Praline’s this instant and reverse it. And
those pine apples. They must be rich. Smith! have the carriage round
immediately; I’ll go up and put on my bonnet, Marian;” and when Mrs.
Jones arrived at Praline’s her heart dilated as she saw in how much
consideration she was held by her confectioner and his wife. They were
all smirks and smiles, particularly as she constantly repeated “you know
now, Mrs. Praline, that I mind no expense whatever.” And Miss Fawney
called her an extravagant creature! “But I knew, Mrs. Jones, that when
you did give a party, it would be a magnificent affair!”

And so, indeed, it proved. The weather was fine and everybody came. Mrs.
Macfuss meeting her own set, and seeing so much display, was reconciled
to her new acquaintance. Mr. Macfuss, seeing a magnificent supper and
drinking the finest of wines, shook hands with his host, and asked him
to come and see him sociably.

There was a pleasant combination of things. The host and hostess said
they never would regret the ball, and Miss Fawney was profuse in her
congratulations. At length they had reached the goal, and began to feel
with Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Crummles, the sweets of popularity.

Mrs. Jones who heard soon after to say that she had scarcely time to
take her meals, people so thronged the house; and before she was quite
aware of it, she had asked Mrs. Macfuss to come over and be intimate!

                 *        *        *        *        *

One evening, as Mrs. Hill and her brother stood together at the gate of
her pretty cottage, a handsome equipage dashed by, filling with dust the
mouths of the plebeian pedestrians on either side of the smooth road
through Summerfield.

Two ladies were on the back seat, while in front sat two little boys,
looking very gravely at one another. The driver had on a coat filled
with brass buttons—and this was called a livery; so the whole effect
was very grand and imposing.

“Who was that, Fanny?” said young Seymour; “whose carriage is that?”

“The carriage belongs to Mrs. John Johnson Jones, brother. Did you not
see her?”

“I did not recognize her—she bowed, did she not?”

“Not she, my good sir; she never bends so low. Could you not see how
stiff the lady was?”

“Then who did bow to you just now?”

“Mrs. Macfuss,” said Fanny, smiling archly.

“Whew! Whose little innocents were those in front?”

“Master Pushaw Jones and Master Johnny Macfuss.”

Mr. Seymour paused.

“Fanny,” said he at length, “I’ll go to Texas. I see that Mrs. Macfuss
has been over, and is intimate!”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                 LINES TO AN IDEA THAT WOULDN’T “COME.”


                         BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.


                 “Why thus longing, thus forever sighing
                 For the far off, unattained and dim?

                 “Has Hope like the bird in the story,
                 That flitted from tree to tree,
                With the talisman’s glittering glory.
                 Has Hope been that bird to thee?”


               Oh! fondly wished for, why delay?
                 This virgin page awaits thee—
               It’s waited since the dawn of day—
                 What can it be belates thee?

               Thou ne’er wilt find a nicer couch,
                 A softer or a fairer?
               Thou ne’er wilt find a desk to which
                 Thy coming could be rarer.

               Oh! airy rover, rainbow-winged!
                 Oh! coy and cold deceiver!
               Alight upon this beggar leaf,
                 And blessèd be forever!

               Alight and shut your gleaming wing,
                 And let my verse be amber,
               To make for you, while glad you sing,
                 A fitting, fairy chamber!

               Whether around the dainty tip
                 Of Whitman’s pen you hover,
               Or rest on Greenwood’s rosy lip,
                 To greet some poet-lover;

               Or hide in glorious Hewitt’s heart
                 Until you’re robed divinely,
               Or lend impassioned Eva’s line
                 The glow she paints so finely.

               Oh! fly them all, and fly to me!
                 I’ll entertain ye rarely;
               My happy pen your host shall be,
                 And introduce you fairly.

               I’ll dress you in the prettiest words
                 You possibly can think of,
               I’ll let you sip the purest ink
                 That e’er you tried to drink of.

               Your rich _relations_ throng to _them_,
                 While I’m alone and needy;
               And though I cannot sing, my gem,
                 In tones so rich and reedy.

               Be sure I’ll make the most of thee!
                 While throned in state and glory,
               Oh! think what pride alone to be
                 _Unrivaled_ in my story!

               Oh! fairy treasure, fine and fleet,
                 Oh! subtle, rare creation!
               Whatever obstacles you meet,
                 Accept my invitation!

               I’ll give you welcome warm and true,
                 However strange you be;
               And take what route it pleases you,
                 It’s all the same to me.

               Oh! come by telegraph from Maine,
                 Or by a junk from China,
               By steamboat from the shores of Spain,
                 Or cars from Carolina!

               But _come_—at all events—without
                 Another doubt or fear;
               Fly, fly to this devoted heart,
                 And be—“my own Idea!”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       A SUMMER EVENING THOUGHT.


                            BY COUSIN MARY.


                See the fire-flies brightly sparkling,
                While the night around is darkling;
                See, above, the star-light streaming,
                Part of Heaven’s own radiance seeming.

                Brighter than the stars’ far beaming
                Is the nearer fire-flies’ gleaming;
                This, a moment shall endure,
                That, forever, calm and pure.

                To our world-bound hearts are given
                Joys of earth and hopes of Heaven—
                Flitting in the path before us,
                Star-like, beaming calmly o’er us.

                Shame such choice to deathless spirits,
                Who _some_ god-like traits inherit!
                Groveling still, we turn our eyes
                Earthward from the distant skies,

                And to our benighted vision
                Brighter earth than “fields Elysian;”
                Dearer are the joys here given
                Than the promised joys of Heaven!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THE NAVAL OFFICER.


                            BY WM. F. LYNCH.


                      (_Continued from page 230._)


                              CHAPTER IV.

It was the morning of the fifth day after the escape of Talbot and his
companion. The land breeze, like the breath of expiring humanity, had
become more and yet more faint, until it ceased entirely, and the flag
that was wont to wave over the ramparts of the Moro Castle hung listless
beside the staff which supported it. Into the cavernous recesses worn by
the friction of the water, in the foundations of the massive structure,
the sluggish waves tumbled with a dull and deafening sound. In the near
offing lay the frigate, rolling slowly on the unbroken surface of a
light ground swell, while the sails flapped against the masts, as if
impatient for the breeze. In various directions, a number of vessels,
differing in size and appearance, like the frigate awaited a wind to
waft them to their various destinations. Beyond them, and until it
blended with the distant horizon, save here and there a sea-gull
noiselessly skimming its surface, there was nothing visible on the
far-stretching and pellucid sea. Like a slumbering giant, the very
heavings of that sea told of the latent power that dwelt within it, and
conveyed a forcible idea of the might and majesty of the Great Being
that made it.

On the after part of the deck of the frigate, screened from the sun by
an awning overhead, sat Miss Gillespie and her brother. She, with an air
of unmitigated sadness; he, chafing at a captivity which he deemed
illegal, and impatient to reach the shore and obtain his freedom. He had
never understood for what purpose the soporific incense had been burned,
or, boy as he was, he would have attempted the life of their insidious
foe. He had imagined that it was an attempt on their lives, (for the
disaster of the count had been carefully concealed from them,) and his
sister had shrunk from undeceiving him. Her pure nature could itself
with difficulty comprehend such baseness, but was absolutely incapable
of conveying an idea of it to another, particularly one whose
disposition was naturally as unsuspecting as her own. She therefore
determined to avoid exciting his suspicions, and even forbore to
interfere further than by advice, when the steward, at the instance of
his master, now able to sit up, represented that so far from designing
injury, the object was to soothe their nerves, those of the lady in
especial, after the anxiety and alarm of the evening previous. He also
persuaded Frank that the count would exert himself to obtain their
speedy liberation when they reached the port; and, that having found
them on board of a privateer of the enemy, a class of vessels not in the
habit of conveying passengers, he was, by the strict tenor of his
orders, bound, although most reluctantly, to detain them. These
representations so far operated upon the youth, that he was several
times prevailed upon to visit the designing count. But his sister
pertinaciously refused to see, or receive any message from her
persecutor, and might have departed from her resolution and told Frank
sufficient to prevent him from leaving her alone, but that in her fears
for Talbot she had forgotten every thing else.

Although a prisoner, confined apart and denied all intercourse, the mere
presence of her lover in the same vessel gave her a sense of security.
But now he was gone, whither and wherefore she could not tell, and she
felt as if she were abandoned to the dreadful fate which so long had
threatened her. To do her justice, too, her bitterest source of grief
was in anxiety for the safety of Talbot. Had she heard nothing of him,
she would have concluded that he was still among the prisoners, and by
the strict vigilance of his guards denied the opportunity of
communicating with her. But her persecutor was too malignant, was also
too shrewd not to know that if he could persuade her of her lover’s
desertion, he might more reasonably hope for success. She was therefore
but too soon informed of the escape, of which the missing boat was
sufficient proof; and through others every representation was made,
calculated to impair her confidence and weaken her attachment. But, like
a mail of proof, her own integrity protected her, and the malicious
shafts fell harmless, creating no pain, and scarce attracting notice.

Although young and inexperienced, scarce more than a nestling that had
for the first time fledged its wing, this girl possessed the noblest
attributes of her sex, and hers was more than the ordinary love of
woman. True, deep, fervent love, such as that sex alone can feel, cannot
harbor a doubt. Undying and unchangeable in itself, it cannot comprehend
that, of the existence of which it is unconscious. Often placed
unhappily, often denied the communion for which it yearns, it looks
beyond the grave for the fruition of its hopes.

        “They sin who tell us love can die.”

She had listened to the soft and hesitating whisper of proffered love,
and her gushing eye and mantling cheek and throbbing breath had
confessed that love to be requited. Her soul had mingled with another’s
in the dearest and the noblest union which adorns and irradiates
existence—the union of manly strength with shrinking beauty; of the
clear eye to look upon, and the bold heart to encounter peril, with the
step hesitating and timid as a fawn! of skill to do and will to dare,
with affection to sustain and fortitude to endure; of man, fashioned in
comeliness and radiant with virtue, with woman, the celestial link that
binds him to a purer state! With a pledge as dear as it was enduring,
they had sworn to preserve that union until it should be merged into
that most glorious, holiest and most beautiful of all, which is effected
in death—when their souls, stripped of the mortal coils which
encumbered them, and wafted on the wings of love, should soar upward and
onward, until side by side, inseparable as in life, and inseparable
forever, they intoned their hymns of praise with the choir which
surrounds the Eternal!

Could a woman capable of conceiving such a pledge ever falter, much less
prove unfaithful? Never. And Miss Gillespie was as unmoved by the
insinuations of those around her, as is the calm and placid moon by the
howlings of a hungry wolf.

As the two orphans sat apart, occasionally exchanging a few words, and
then relapsing into silence, the first lieutenant, an old and worthy
officer, who, from the want of family influence, had long been denied
promotion, touched by the sadness of the fair captive, approached and
respectfully accosted them. He first confined himself to inquiries
respecting their health and comfort, and made some cheering observations
on their prospects of liberation. He then, after musing a few moments,
left them and whispered a few words to the officer of the deck. The
latter nodded intelligence, and immediately gave an order which required
those of the crew hovering about to go forward to aid in its execution.
The lieutenant then returning said, “Young lady, may I speak a few words
with you?” and leading her a few steps from where her brother sat,
continued, “I have two daughters at home, one of them about your age,
and when I think how I should feel if either of them were in your almost
unprotected situation, I sympathize deeply with you. Indeed I am not the
only one. There is a general feeling among the officers to protect you
if need be. You may rely upon our disposition to serve you—and now
answer me frankly—Does your extreme sadness proceed solely from your
detention here, and the escape and apparent desertion of your friend?”

“Oh no, sir!” cried she, immeasurably relieved by his words, “whatever
may have induced Mr. Talbot to leave us, I am sure that he has acted for
the best. You judge rightly,” she added, “in supposing that I have other
cause of anxiety than what proceeds from our detention, which, if we be
not most unjustly dealt by, must terminate so soon. I have not dared to
tell my brother what horrid fears distract me, for I know he would
attempt something violent, that would most probably separate us, and I
love my only protector.”

“Our fears then are not unfounded, and the mystery of that night is
partly solved,” said the lieutenant, in a soliloquizing tone.

“What night? Of what mystery do you speak?” exclaimed the lady.

“Of the night you came on board. But is it possible you are ignorant of
what I allude to?”

“I have not the most remote idea; Frank and I slept soundly the whole
night, and did not awake until late the next morning. I remember that at
first we thought that an attempt was being made to stupefy or smother us
with something that was burned, but, as we were not molested, we
concluded that we had been mistaken. For God’s sake, tell me what
happened?”

“Young lady,” he answered, “I have ever since sought an opportunity to
speak to you; why is it that you have confined yourself below?”

“We often wished to come up,” she replied, “but were told that the count
was too ill to be consulted, and that without his permission we could
not leave the cabin. But do tell me all about that night, I implore
you.”

The lieutenant then informed her of the condition in which the count was
found the next morning, and the general belief of the officers that his
villainous design had been frustrated by Talbot or Gonzalez, who must
have been concealed in the cabin. They conversed for some time, and
before leaving her, he advised her, as the count was nearly well, to
keep always near her brother, and to write a note to the American Consul
in Havana, claiming his protection, promising that if she would send her
note to him he would forward it at once to its destination.

With diminished fear, and in a comparatively cheerful mood, Miss
Gillespie returned to the cabin, and repeated to her brother such parts
of her conversation with the lieutenant as she thought she could safely
confide to him.

About the usual hour the breeze set in, and sailing “majestically slow,”
by the towering fortress on the one hand, and the gay and beautiful
structures of the town, with its crowded wharves and numerous shipping
on the other, the frigate, early in the afternoon, had anchored in the
upper harbor of Havana.

Frank Gillespie, who was no longer restricted to the cabin, watched his
opportunity and slipped into the old lieutenant’s hand the note with
which his sister had entrusted him. Soon after the ship had cast her
anchor, the Captain of the Port came on board to pay his official visit.
The lieutenant, who was on intimate terms with him, invited him down to
his state-room, and there giving him the note, with the assurance that
it was of very great importance, exacted a promise that he would
transmit it without delay to the American Consul. The officer promised
to attend punctually to the commission, and the kind-hearted lieutenant
with great satisfaction saw him, a short time afterward, take his
departure for the shore.

Quite late in the afternoon, when the ship was moored, the count, unable
to go himself, sent the first lieutenant to wait upon the admiral and
report the ship. About dusk, and before he returned, a boat came
alongside for Miss Gillespie and her brother. The person who came in
charge stated that the American Consul was absent and would not return
for a day or two, but that his wife had prepared a room for, and would
gladly welcome them. The message ended with an entreaty that they would
come at once. They needed no persuasion, and with alacrity making their
brief preparation, and without meeting obstructions, which to the last
they feared, with indescribable joy they took their seats in the boat
and bade adieu to their late floating prison.

Talbot and Gonzalez, representing themselves as having escaped from a
wreck, were kindly received at the little settlement where they landed,
but instead of accepting the hospitalities which were freely tendered,
they merely asked for a guide to conduct them into the interior, so
fearful were they of being pursued. With much toil and privation, and at
one time exposed to imminent peril, they reached the Reglos, a
settlement opposite to the city of Havana, the very day on which the
frigate arrived.

Afraid to venture out before night-fall, one of them feigned to be sick,
and the other remained as if to keep him company, in the small room of
an obscure fonda, which they occupied. They had remained for a very long
time without seeing or hearing any one, when, about an hour after the
ship had anchored, they heard footsteps on the creaking staircase, and
one called out, “Is there any one above, Marguerita?”

“There were two sailor-looking men there this morning,” replied a female
voice, “but they must have gone out, for I have heard nothing of them
since dinner.”

“We will see,” said the first voice. But Gonzalez was too quick for him.
He had started at the first word, and rising from the bed, which was at
the side of the room, placed himself by the door, and quietly turning
the bolt of the lock, withdrew the key. He then bent his head and
listened attentively, taking care not to place it in a line with the
key-hole.

The party, consisting of three, came up in the meantime, and two of them
proceeded to an adjoining room, while one stopped and tried the door. In
a few moments he rejoined his companions, saying, “All safe, they are
out.”

When Gonzalez started up and hurried to the door, Talbot was struck as
much by the expression of his countenance as by the movement itself, and
he had continued to watch him in silent amazement. But he was soon
convinced that his friend was not insane. When the person who tried the
door had retired, Gonzalez, stepping lightly to the bed, whispered,
“Don’t speak or make the slightest noise, it is the rascally steward,
with some of the cut-throats who resort to this side of the harbor. The
count has some design afoot, and Providence has sent us just in time to
save that unfortunate young lady.”

Talbot needed no more, and with their faculties on the full stretch,
they listened intently, and gathered almost every word of the
conversation in the next room.

It was a festival day in Havana. The clang of the bells had been
incessant since noon, and the air reverberated with the almost
uninterrupted discharge of artillery from the forts and men-of-war.
There was no diminution of light with the setting of the sun, for the
clouds which slowly floated along the sky, threw back the blaze of the
illuminated city, while, like an undulating mirror, the harbor reflected
the myriads of lights interspersed among the spars and rigging of the
men-of-war. Along the shore, in each direction, bonfires were blazing,
and from every point as well of the waters as the land, was heard the
whizzing sound of the sinuous and beautiful rocket, which, exploding
above and around with an unceasing feu de joie, filled the air with its
fiery flakes. The sound of music and the shouts of merriment commingled,
and wafted by the breeze, fell gratefully upon the ear of the boatmen
reclining upon their oars, and the distant sentinels making their
solitary rounds on the ramparts of the castle.

As the boat with Frank and his sister pushed off from the frigate,
another, and much smaller one, that had hovered within the shadow of the
ship, noiselessly pursued the same direction. The first pulled for some
distance up the river, until it had passed the city, and then stopped at
one of the neat villas that lined its banks. The smaller boat, which, as
the reader must have surmised, contained Talbot and Gonzalez, had been
obliged to keep close within the other shore, to avoid observation. When
the larger boat was turned toward the shore, the two friends, unseen
themselves, distinctly saw all that passed.

“I do not understand this movement,” said Gonzalez. “They have stopped
at a Posada, to which the citizens, in their evening rides, usually
resort for refreshment. There must be some change in their plans since
we heard them discuss it.”

In the meantime, the party, (with the exception of one who remained by
the boat,) had landed, and ascending the bank, opened the little
wicker-gate and proceeded through the garden toward the house. Talbot
and Gonzalez were about to pull across, and had nearly reached the line
of light when the latter cried, “Hush! back, back your oars quickly,
they are returning!”

They again retreated within the shadows of the opposite bank, and saw
two men, followed by a third, hurrying the lady rapidly toward the boat,
into which they forced her, for it was evident that she was struggling.
The moment she was placed in the boat, they again shoved off from the
shore.

“I now understand it all,” whispered Gonzalez to his companion. “They
have decoyed the brother into the house, and run off and left him. I am
sure, too, that the lady is gagged, for she does not cry out, although
she yet struggles desperately. Stop, stop! What are you about?” he
cried, as he saw Talbot begin to ply his oars with all his might.

“Do you ask me, with such a sight before us,” replied the latter,
indignantly.

“Nay, lay on your oars, I beg, I entreat you. Your precipitation will
ruin all. They are four, and well armed—we are defenceless. They would
slay us before we could cope with them, and then farewell to all hopes
of the lady’s rescue.”

“What shall we do, then?” said Talbot, as he despairingly rested his
oar.

“Follow them, as we at first proposed, and concert our plan after we
have seen the place in which they mean to place her.”

“Gonzalez,” said Talbot, “you have not so much at stake as I in this
matter, and you are therefore less agitated and better qualified to
adopt the course we should pursue. I will not be rash if I can help it;
but, come what may, I will not again lose sight of Mary. She has no
father; her brother is torn from her. I am her sole protector. I will
die before I desert her for an instant.”

“I have told you of my sister, Talbot,” said Gonzalez, “and you must
know I have a motive that impels me, which is as powerful as your own.
Love is your incentive, and revenge is mine. Yours is the most
impetuous, but mine, as the more cautious, is more certain to effect its
object. I pray you be moderate.”

“I will, Gonzalez, with the condition I have named.”

While they were speaking, they had not ceased to watch the movements of
the larger boat, which pulled about half a mile farther up, and landed
on the same side. The smaller boat following their motions with the
utmost caution, was run ashore a short distance below, and the two
friends crept along under cover of the thick brush that lined the bank,
to within a few paces of the ruffians. A carriage was in waiting, the
driver standing beside it. As soon as the latter saw them, he opened the
door, let down the steps, and then ascended his box. Two of the gang
forced the lady into the carriage, and followed after; the third closed
the door and mounted beside the driver. While this was taking place,
Talbot was endeavoring to free himself from the grasp of Gonzalez, who
tried to detain him. With a violent effort he succeeded, and springing
forward, leaped upon the foot-board of the carriage just as the driver
had applied the lash, and the horses started off at half speed. The
remaining ruffian, seeing Talbot rush by, turned to pursue him and give
the alarm, when Gonzalez sprung upon him, and violently struggling, they
fell to the ground.

The patriot, on the eve of a battle which is to decide the fate of his
country; the secreted lover, impatient for the footfall of the mistress
of his affections; the young mother, beside the sick couch of an only
child, are all less vigilant in their watchfulness, than the specious
villain who seeks to hold a fair character with the world, while he
covertly gives full indulgence to his depraved and licentious appetites.

The count had every reason to believe his plot well matured, and in a
fair train for execution, and yet he felt restless and uneasy. The
critical period between the conception and consummation of any
conspiracy, even when the judgment sanctions and the true heart approves
it, is the most trying of all the situations in which human nature can
be placed; but when the object is detestable, the means base and
treacherous, and the agents employed unprincipled, then, the suspense is
torturing—for the slightest accident, the most trivial carelessness may
frustrate, and the faithlessness of the least trusted agents betray the
best concerted plot that was ever laid.

For some days the count had feigned to be weaker than he really was, and
no sooner had Frank and his sister left than he jumped up and leaned out
of one of the ports to see them embark, and to satisfy himself that no
one from the ship accompanied them.

It is said that the Evil One favors his own, and in this instance the
adage was verified. No one had yet descended the side, and as the count
cast his scrutinizing glance in every direction, his quick ear detected
the light splash of an oar. Withdrawing instantly, he extinguished the
lamp and excluded as well as he could, the light of the illumination
which streamed through the opposite ports. Returning then to his first
position, in a few moments, as his eye became accustomed to the
obscurity, he saw indistinctly the small boat which contained Talbot and
Gonzalez. The outlines of the boat were alone visible, and he could not
make out how many persons it contained. It was, he thought, most
probably, the boat of some poor fisherman, compelled to forego present
enjoyment in order to procure tomorrow’s subsistence for himself and
family. Guilt, however, is always suspicious, and without being able to
assign to himself a reason for his misgivings, he summoned his steward
and gave him a few hurried instructions. The latter, immediately leaving
the apartment, slipped through one of the gun-deck ports as Talbot and
Gonzalez had done before him, and, unseen from the upper-deck, descended
into the boat just before it shoved off. The fears awakened (wherefore
he could not tell) by the sight of the tiny boat, had induced the count
to change his entire plan. It was therefore that Talbot, when he found
that the preconcerted plot they had heard discussed was not adhered to,
determined not to lose sight of his mistress.

When the large boat stopped at the posada, the orphans were conducted to
a private room, the steward and two of the gang remaining without, soon
after a servant-maid entered, and said that the consul’s lady was
indisposed, and had sent her to beg that Miss Gillespie would come to
her chamber. With unsuspecting alacrity the poor girl rose up and
followed the maid. At a turn in the passage, she was seized, a gag
instantly applied to her mouth, and then hurried to the boat.

Frank, who, unsuspecting as his sister, sat in patient expectation,
started up as he heard a stifled scream. At the same moment he was
felled to the floor by a blow of the ruffian, who, with a heavy cudgel,
had crept behind him. The miscreant then dragging the body into a closet
opening from the room, hastened after his companions.

The steward, as soon as the party landed at the posada, had dispatched a
sure messenger to direct the carriage to proceed from the place where he
knew it was in waiting, to the spot designated by the count in his last
instructions. It was not distant, and, as we have seen, was at the
appointed place before the boat arrived.

The steward and his party, warned by the count, had kept a vigilant look
out, to ascertain if they were followed by another boat; but, themselves
in the broad glare of light, they could not catch the slightest glimpse
of the one, which, much smaller and screened by the obscurity, hovered
sufficiently near to observe them.

The carriage, with the ruffians, the victim of their toils, and that
victim’s determined champion, was driven at a rapid rate along the road
which ran parallel with the stream for a mile or more, when it turned
into one of the bye-roads on the right, which, as it was less
frequented, they pursued at increased speed for nearly two hours.
Overcome by terror and exhaustion, Miss G. had swooned away some time,
and lay unnoticed on the back seat of the carriage. At length they
stopped at a gate on the left, and the driver’s companion got down to
open it. Heretofore Talbot had remained at little risk, for the carriage
was closed behind, but, as the man who dismounted would certainly wait
until the carriage had passed through, in order to close the gate, he
was exposed to certain peril of detection if he remained. The road was
clear where it passed, and there was a slight ascent from it on the
left, at the summit of which stood the gate. There was no bush or cover
to conceal him, and to descend was out of the question. Beside the gate,
on the right, was a large tree, that stood just within the inclosure.
While Talbot hesitated what to do, the carriage ascended the slope, and
as it passed through the gateway, one of the branches of the tree swept
its roof. On the instant, quick as thought, Talbot caught hold of the
limb, and swung himself into the tree. The rustling noise he made
startled the man who stood beside the gate, and who had certainly been
drinking freely.

“Hallo! what’s that?” he cried, and springing up to the box, called out,
“Drive on! drive on! It’s a wild beast! But I’ll have a shot at it,” he
added, as the carriage rolled on, and turning partly round, he
discharged his pistol into the tree.

The driver, with an imprecation, had called out to his companion not to
fire; but he was too late, and at the report the horses affrighted, ran
off at full speed. The ruffians within the carriage, as well as the one
without, were instantly awakened to a full sense of their danger. They
were all acquainted with the place, and knew that a short distance
ahead, certainly not more than a third of a mile, the road inclined
short to the left, to avoid an old quarry, which had a precipitous fall
of 15 or 16 feet. As cowardly as base, each one thought only of his own
safety. The ruffian in front clambered over the roof and leaped off from
behind; the others forced open a door and precipitated themselves, one
after the other, and all fell with violence and more or less injured to
the ground.

Beside Miss Gillespie within the carriage, the driver alone remained,
and he, with his feet pressed hard upon the foot-board, and with his
body bent forward, bore his whole weight upon the reins. Although they
passed with breathless velocity, he accurately noted every object along
the road, and was prepared, at the critical moment, to turn the horses
from the direction of the perilous chasm. With a quick eye and ready
hand the instant that he saw the turn, with all his might he pulled upon
the left hand rein. This over exertion ensured defeat, the rein snapped
asunder with the strain, and the horses rushing headlong, were with the
carriage precipitated over the bank. The driver fell upon some fragments
of rock, and laid senseless and immoveable. The horses, by their moans,
and the faint efforts they made to extricate themselves, showed that
they were severely bruised. Miss Gillespie laid on the battered side of
the carriage, partially revived from her swoon by the shock she had
sustained and the excruciating pain she felt.

Talbot, unharmed by the discharge of the pistol, sprung to the ground,
and hurried at his utmost speed after the carriage, as soon as he saw
that the horses had run away. He passed the bodies of the ruffians on
the road without heeding them, although one, rising up, called out and
limped after him, and reached the spot a few minutes after the accident
occurred. In his excited state, it was but the work of a moment to
extricate his mistress, to press her to his bosom, to examine her hurts,
and to hurry with her yet scarce animate body into the neighboring wood.
His first anxiety was for water, and pursuing the declivity of the
ground in a direction leading from the road, he soon heard the trickling
of a rivulet. He laid his load gently beside it, and on examination
discovered that Mary had received a severe cut in her head, which bled
profusely, and that her left arm was broken. The loss of blood, the
cooling effects of the water, which he freely applied, and the pain she
endured, all accelerated her return to consciousness, and in a little
while, was enabled to thank her lover in expressions, brief, indeed, but
touching, and which, like the stamp of the mint on standard coin, are
treasured by the heart that receives them in imperishable remembrance.
They had no time, however, for interchange of feeling. They were
strangers, and upon the grounds of a powerful and persevering enemy. It
was necessary, therefore, that they should leave the place as soon as
possible, in order that if overtaken, it might be on land not peopled
with the myrmidons or subject to the jurisdiction of the count. With the
simple means at his disposal, the water which babbled at their feet, a
few splints, made of the twigs which grew around them, and the bandages
torn from his own garments, Talbot soon dressed the wounds, and
temporarily assuaged the anguish which his mistress endured. She laid
for some time without a movement or a murmur. The heavy air was laden
with fragrance, and now and then the pattering on a leaf would tell how
abundantly the dew had fallen. He watched her closely, in the hope that
she was in a slumber, but he soon perceived that her features were
occasionally flushed by intensity of pain. In truth, her arm had now
begun to swell, and was exceedingly stiff and sore. He saw that it was
necessary to procure shelter and medical attendance without delay. But
whither should he proceed? The night was now far advanced. The pall of
darkness was just lifting in the east; faint, tremulous lines of light
began to stream along the sky, revealing a succession of ridges of
vapor, through which, with lessening ray, the morning star occasionally
glimmered. The laborers would soon be abroad, and it was indispensably
necessary to proceed. Prevailing upon Mary to make an effort, he was
with the greatest difficulty enabled to support her, while they slowly
threaded their way through the thick undergrowth of the woodland. After
wandering a short time, they came to a hedge of cactus, some of the
plants in full bloom, the brilliant tints of their gorgeous flowers
heightened and suffused by the golden rays of the now rising sun. They
turned into a path which led along the hedge toward the high-road. On
their right, towering above the tangled brushwood, were many trees,
mostly large, and some of them magnificent. The most conspicuous were
the assumah, the ya yati, and the robla,[1] but the grandest and most
beautiful of all, the lordly frangipan, with its deep-green leaves and
thickly studded scarlet blossoms. On the other side of the hedge was an
extensive field of sugar-cane, in all the rich luxuriance of a matured
and abundant crop. An immense mass of foliage, of the liveliest green,
thick and impenetrable in its growth, its tops waved gracefully in the
wind with a rustling sound that was borne onward until it died away in
the distance. On the opposite side, visible through the hedge, the field
was skirted by a forest, which, ascending a slope behind it, and
becoming thinner as it ascended, left only a few trees scattered here
and there along the ridge which bounded the western horizon. But Mary,
striving to conceal her weakness and suppress the moans that were every
instant rising to her lips, and Talbot, who was wholly engrossed by
anxiety for her, could neither of them enjoy the natural beauties of the
scene.

When they had proceeded a few hundred yards, they came to a small gate
set in an opening in the hedge. Talbot soon forced it open, and they
emerged upon a wagon-road which ran between the hedge and the cane. But
Mary could proceed no farther, and seating her on the road-side, Talbot,
himself in a state of indescribable anxiety, endeavored to cheer her
with hopes of speedy relief.

-----

[1] Spelt as they are pronounced.


                               CHAPTER V.

The first lieutenant returned to the frigate about half an hour after
Frank and his sister had left, and was delighted to hear that the
American consul had sent for them. Soon after he had made his report,
the count ordered his boat, and left the ship. Supposing that he was
summoned ashore by some of the letters he had received, the old
lieutenant little dreamed that the departure of his commander, in any
manner, had reference to the orphans. He believed them safe, and with
many claims upon his attention, dismissed them readily from his mind.

The count steered his boat to the usual landing-place, and hiring a
caleche, proceeded directly to the western gate. Here he was detained
but a moment, for the officer immediately coming out, recognized his
rank, and he was allowed to pass. Impatient of delay he took the reins
himself, and drove with a speed proportioned to the ardor of his
licentious passion, and his vindictive yearning, by its gratification,
to wreak vengeance upon her lover—whose hand he felt sure had before
frustrated him. There was a near cut through a neighboring plantation,
which struck a road leading to the rear of his hacienda, and saved
upward of two miles in distance. As he was well acquainted with the
owner of the plantation, without hesitation he took the road through it.
Once or twice he thought that he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs at a
rapid pace ahead of him, but the rattling of the vehicle he was in
rendered the sound uncertain, and he took it for granted that he was
mistaken. When he reached the rear of the building he alighted, and
liberally recompensing the driver, opened the postern gate with a key he
carried, and proceeded directly to the house. To the attendant who
obeyed his summons, he said impatiently,

“The young lady, where is she?”

“In her chamber,” was the reply, and in obedience to a gesture of the
count, the servant proceeded along the corridor and approached an
apartment at its extremity.

“Fools! Why have they put her there?” muttered the count.

“Señor?”

“Stand aside, sir!” and pushing by, he threw open the door and entered
the apartment. As he did so, he started back appalled and terrified.
Propped on a bed, catching her breath with difficulty, was a dying
woman. The blood was streaming from her mouth, and at each respiration
gurgled in her throat. It was the young, the once pure and lovely
Esperanza, the sister of Gonzalez. By the bedside stood the brother,
regarding him with a look of fixed and deadly hatred. But he moved not
his arm from the sinking form it supported. The unhappy girl with
staring eyes and outstretched hands, uttering inarticulate and guttural
sounds, strove in vain to speak to them. In the effort the attenuated
chords of life were snapped asunder, and she fell back a corpse.

“Conde de Ureña,” said Gonzalez, “behold your work! I came here to
protect the victim of your present plot—little dreaming of the sight
that awaited me. That poor girl must be avenged! You or I, one or both,
must bear Esperanza company.” As he looked toward the bed his voice
softened with emotion, but recovering himself instantly, he advanced to
the door and bolted it; then drawing a pair of pistols from his bosom,
he sternly added as he presented them, “take your choice.”

“Not now! not here! to-morrow! any time! any where else!” said the
count, his cheek blanched and his brow beaded with perspiration.

“Here! Upon this spot! This very instant!” shouted Gonzalez. “Vile
seducer and murderer,” he added, “you have killed your man! Where is
your vaunted courage? Will that arouse you?” and he struck him a fierce
blow. The count’s face flushed, he clutched the weapon, and turning to
Gonzalez with a look as vindictive as his own, sternly motioned him to
take his position. How corroding is the effect of vice! Time was when
the unhappy nobleman would have shrunk in horror from the contaminating
touch of one guilty of a crime, the dreadful consequences of which, in
all the appalling majesty of death, were then before him. And yet, more
fiend-like than such a wretch, he stood in all the concentrated hatred
of a duelist, prepared to take the life of the brother of his victim. By
a career of vice, the once honorable man had been converted into a
demon.

The combatants confronted each other, leveled their weapons, and fired
so simultaneously that the reports sounded as one. The pistol of
Gonzalez was struck from his hand and one of his fingers shattered.
Heedless of the pain, as the reverberation ceased, he bent forward to
see if his adversary were unhurt. Partially concealed by a spiral wreath
of smoke, the count stood seemingly unscathed before him. But the moment
after his weapon dropped, he pressed his hand to his side, and casting a
look of anguish and despair upon the corpse of the woman he had ruined,
tottered, reeled, and fell heavily upon the floor! The threat of
Gonzales was verified. Almost instantaneously, two souls were summoned
to their dread account.

When Gonzalez sprung upon the boatman from behind, he took him so much
by surprise that he had hurled him over and pointed a dagger to his
throat before he could muster presence of mind enough to defend himself.

“Villain,” said Gonzalez, “lie still, and answer me truly, or I pin you
to the earth. I already know enough to tell if you deceive me. As you
value your life, say where has that carriage gone?”

“A la hacienda Frangipina, señor.”

“Why doesn’t it go to Mariel, as first intended?”

“Yo no say, señor.”

“Will you swear that what you tell me is true?”

“Si, señor, por mi alma.”

“Pshaw! Your soul is forfeit.”

“Por la Señora Nuestra.”

“Well, I’ll believe you, for my countrymen never deceive when they swear
‘by our Lady.’”

He then permitted him to rise, and proceeded to question him further. He
soon found that the ruffian could be as readily employed to defeat as to
forward a nefarious plot. Gonzalez knew the hacienda well, and with the
aid of the boatman procured a horse and was enabled to reach it some ten
minutes before the count. Like the latter, he too had asked for la
señorita, (the young lady,) and by a similar mistake of the servant, who
knew nothing of the plot, he was shown to his sister’s chamber. He had
heard of her ruin, but knew not that she had been decoyed from their
father’s roof. He found her very ill, and her agitation at seeing him
brought on a profuse and fatal hemorrhage. All this, let it be borne in
mind, occurred before the carriage had entered the grounds.

When Frank recovered his consciousness in the closet where he was
confined, he could not conceive where he was, or what had befallen him.
By slow degrees the events of the night were recalled to his
recollection, and in great alarm he began to grope about in the
darkness. When he found the door, and vainly tried to open it, he
knocked and shouted loud and vehemently. The landlord and several
others, astonished at the uproar, hurried to the parlor and threw open
the closet-door. To their rapid and noisy questioning he could only
reply in his own tongue, which was to them unintelligible. When,
however, by his gestures, the landlord understood that he complained of
ill treatment in his house, he swore that the stranger must be some
robber, who had concealed himself in the closet, and that some one in
passing had locked the door. Improbable as was this supposition, in face
of the mark of the blow which Frank exhibited, all present concurred in
professing that they believed it true. A police officer was accordingly
sent for, and the unhappy youth taken to the guard-house. The next
morning he was summoned before the alcalde, who, too indolent to send to
the frigate to identify the prisoner, and, to do him justice, wholly
discrediting the latter’s statement of being thrust into the closet,
condemned him to be transported for six months to the Castle St. Juan de
Utloa, off Vera Cruz, the last place held by Spain on the eastern shore
of North America, and next to the last held by her on the continent.

Frank was taken immediately on board of a transport filled with troops
and convicts, the first to recruit the garrison, the last to assist in
repairs of the old, and the construction of additional fortifications.
The youth, although well-grown, it was evident was not accustomed to,
and could not perform manual labor. The alcalde had therefore sent a
message to the commander of the detachment, recommending that he should
be assigned to some light employment. The magistrate saw that the youth
was a foreigner, he believed him to be a vagrant if nothing else, and he
knew that hands of all descriptions were needed at that fortress. He
therefore made no inquiries. That afternoon the transport sailed.


                              CHAPTER VI.

Talbot and Mary were successful in reaching the city unpursued, and had
been four days in the American Consul’s house, before, through his
exertions, they discovered the departure and destination of Frank
Gillespie. The sister was grievously distressed, and mourned her brother
as dead, but Talbot pledged himself to follow and attempt his rescue,
and although the fractured bone of her arm was not well knit together,
she determined to accompany her lover as far as she could. Talbot was
provoked to the resolution, to say nothing of a more generous impulse,
by the refusal of the Spanish authorities to take cognizance of the
subject. And Mary felt that without impropriety she could proceed to
some one of the small ports on the route to Vera Cruz, if not to the
latter place itself. She hired a servant to supply the place of the one
drowned in the privateer, and felt more reconciled to the peril to which
Talbot would be exposed, from the assurance of Gonzalez that he would
share the enterprise. The latter, dreading more assassination by some of
the connections of the late count, than any legal investigation, kept
himself secreted in the city, but was frequently visited by Talbot.

The only vessel in port bound in the direction of Vera Cruz was an
American brig, advertised for Sisal. In her they engaged their passage,
and after night-fall Gonzalez, in disguise, accompanied them on board.
At break-of-day the next morning, they sailed with a fair wind, and had
gained some distance by sunset, when it fell calm, and with the land
upon one side, and an expanse of water on the other, the vessel rode
with graceful ease upon a prolonged but gentle undulation. The golden
rays of the setting sun mingled in the zenith with the soft and silvery
light of the moon in her meridian, and a long and lovely twilight
followed. Seated on deck, apart from their companions, (for Gonzalez was
too considerate to intrude,) Mary and her lover mused long and deeply.
The hour and the scene were calculated to dispel their anxieties and to
soothe their cares. When either was depressed—he, with the sad thought
that of all his race he stood alone—she, that she was an orphan, and
that her brother was perhaps lost to her forever, a glance around and
above would give their thoughts a holier and more soothing direction;
for the works of the Great Architect, the teeming earth, the slumbering
sea, the brilliant sky, all proclaimed in language unheard but _felt_
that mercy is His great and most peculiar attribute. It was indeed a
lovely scene! Directly overhead, the moon shone forth in serene and
unclouded lustre; a little lower, the fiery Mars peered forth; then the
resplendent orb of Jupiter, and in the same direct line, but just above
the horizon, the beautiful Venus sunk to rest, enveloped in a mantle yet
rich with the gorgeous rays of the sun which had preceded her. They
remained on deck until a late hour of the night, for whenever they went
below they were annoyed with the hum and fretted with the sting of the
mosquito. At last they parted, Talbot throwing himself upon the deck,
and Mary retired to her berth and soon fell asleep. If the waking hours
of that pure-minded girl had been those of endurance, the visions of
that night were ample compensation. Reclined upon her narrow bed, with
the folds of the mosquito-net tucked closely around her, while, like the
Cossacks before Ismael, the multitudinous insects strove to enter, she
was either in fancy communing with the man she loved, or with Frank and
her father knelt beneath the cotton-tree which shaded the grave of her
mother, and listened to the gentle wave as it rippled upon the beach,
while from the jeweled sky, fit canopy, for such a scene, the Omniscient
eye seemed to look down approving.

Among the crew there was a dandy sailor who took especial pride in his
flowing locks, and evidently sought to attract the notice of the lady
passenger. The day before they reached Sisal, seizing an opportunity
when Talbot and Gonzales were below, he passed once or twice by the
place where she sat on deck, and at length catching her eye, with a
meaning look dropped a letter at her feet, and immediately retired. Mary
had been beset with so many dangers of late; had been so often nearly
ensnared by plots, that she at once imagined the letter to contain a
friendly warning. She therefore hastily picked it up and ran below. It
proved to be a genuine love-letter, and despite her sadness and the
anxiety of her position, she laughed outright as she read it. Her
unusual merriment drew Talbot to her side, and after exacting a promise
from him that he would in no manner notice, or betray a knowledge of its
contents, she placed the letter in his hands, saying, “Don’t be
jealous—I will be true, although the offer is a tempting one.” Verbatim
et literatim, it ran thus:

    “dear Mary is a name so sweet,

    “i loves to spell it as i loves to eat. i kiles the ropes to
    spell it, i scratches it with a marlingspike on the rale,
    charming Miss Mary i addores you when you walkes the deck so
    gracefull as a swan a swimming of a Rivver, i looks down upon
    you from the top as you moves backards and forrards so
    musically, i wishes that I was a hauk to pounce down upon you
    and carry you of like a Duv in my Arms to sum luvly ileand in
    the sea. Sweetest Miss Mary i isent a Lofer, for my Parrents is
    respectible and my father ones a Large factory in New Jersy,
    whar he makes a Grate quontity of paper, not your common Rapping
    paper, but big sheets for the Nusepapers, and sum a grate deal
    Finer for Riting upon than this, which is the best i can gett. i
    is unfortunit Miss Mary but i isent a imposter for my Father is
    ever so Rich and will give plenty of munny if i will cum home
    and help him in his bizziness, but i cant go home nor no whars
    els onless you will smile upon me i offers you all my prospicts.
    if you will eccept my sute if your charming buzzom feels any
    pitty for a poor Retch who loves you to dispare, and you will
    cast them sweet killing ise on me, as you aires the deck, you
    will liten my hart of its hevvy lode and make it swim in Blis.
    Yours furever until deth.

                                                 “CIRUS LAMBERT.”

Poor Lambert!

                                “It were all one,
        That he should love a bright particular star,
        And think to wed it.”

But love, like faith, comes by inspiration, and whether it be a
milk-maid or a goddess, a man has a right to worship the object of his
affections. As we have seen, the maiden’s first impulse was to
merriment; but she soon perceived that the man was in earnest, and from
motives of delicacy and compassion she remained below the remainder of
the passage. The confinement was a brief one. The next afternoon they
reached Sisal, and were hospitably welcomed by an American merchant, to
whom Talbot had letters from our consul in Havana. Mary was immediately
taken to the gentleman’s house and cordially greeted by his wife, who
insisted upon her becoming an inmate of the family during her stay. An
offer most gratefully accepted. When the merchant was told of their
contemplated adventure he became a zealous coadjutor; chartered for them
a small, fast-sailing felucca, and purchased a cargo of salt, in order
that it might be supposed she was on one of her usual trading voyages.
He also procured for Talbot and Gonzalez, dresses such as are worn by
the crews of these vessels.

Determined not to lose a moment, as soon as the arrangements were
completed our adventurers set sail, Talbot with difficulty tearing
himself from his mistress, who clung to him in all the reckless
abandonment of grief. Coasting along the shore, they passed Alvarado and
anchored the second evening under Anton Lizardo, until the moon went
down. They then lifted their anchor, and passing between Sacrificios
Island (where a Spanish corvette lay) and the main land, they entered
the port of Vera Cruz unobserved.

Although necessary for the prosecution of their plan, yet coming to Vera
Cruz, in one contingency, very much increased their difficulties. It was
indispensable that tidings of their arrival should not reach the castle,
and yet they would certainly be communicated by the first flag of truce
that passed over. They therefore determined to dispose of their small
cargo at once—lay in a return one, make their remaining preparations,
and with a telescope examine the works of the castle, to decide on which
point they could with least danger approach, until near enough to
execute the stratagem they had devised.

The south front of the castle, facing the city, was 223 varas, or four
hundred and forty yards, including the south-west and south-east
bastions. Along this front were 34 guns mounted en barbette, i. e.,
without embrasures. The south-west curtain was the nearest, directly
facing, and half a mile distant from the town. Toward the north east,
protecting the sea front, was a tower bastion, which mounted a heavy gun
on a pivot. This tower bastion, nearly triangular in shape, was
completely isolated—its base line being fifty yards distant from the
north-east, or outside curtain of the castle, with the water flowing
between them—as also between the north-east and north-west faces of the
tower bastion and the outwork—in a space forty-two feet in width. The
outwork itself was very strongly fortified—indeed the strongest part of
the fortification, as defending the point which, at the time of its
construction, was deemed most likely to be attacked—as the engineer had
not foreseen that before an attack, the castle and the town might be
separately held by belligerents. The adventurers determined to make
direct for a postern in the south-east front, where there was a landing
of 2 or 3 steps, leading to a narrow platform, also of stone, which
opened into a covered way. Along the wall, between the south-west
bastion and the postern, were three or four rings inserted, to which, in
time of peace, vessels were ordinarily made fast, to ride under the lee
of the castle during the terrific gales so prevalent in the winter
months.

At an early hour the next morning they started, and a number of the
inhabitants who had heard of their intention to sail, were gathered on
the sea-wall to see if they could escape both the fire from the castle
and the pursuit of the corvette, then getting under way from her
anchorage at Sacrificios. They cheered the boat as she left the harbor,
and the loud vivas being heard by the garrison of the castle, several
shot were fired from the south-west bastion, which dispersed the
assemblage. A moment after the little felucca was seen standing boldly
out, and a signal was made from the castle to the corvette, while
several guns were brought to bear upon the daring little vessel—for
hitherto all attempts to pass had been made at night. The gunner stood
by one of the guns on the ramparts, and was about to apply the lighted
match, when his movement was arrested by an officer calling out, “Hold!
it is a friend.”

As soon as the felucca was well outside the pier, she hoisted the
Spanish ensign, and with a loud hurra from Talbot and Gonzalez, stood
directly for the castle. From the ramparts of the town were instantly
heard shouts of execration, and several muskets were discharged, but
without effect, and before one of the heavy guns could be prepared and
trained, the felucca was close under the walls of the castle. As
supposed deserters, they were received with apparent cordiality mingled
with distrust, and were conducted forthwith before the commandant, who
interrogated them long and closely. They represented themselves, Talbot
as a merchant whose property had been confiscated in consequence of his
inability to meet his portion of a forced loan, and subsequently sent to
Xalapa for some remarks he had made on the tyrannical course of the
government. Gonzalez professed to have been a resident of the latter
town, and that he had long been placed in surveillance for his political
opinions. That with his companion he had concerted and carried into
execution their plan of escape. The tale seemed plausible, but the
commandant was not thoroughly satisfied, and although he let them go at
large, directed that they should be strictly watched.

The boat was made fast to one of the ring-bolts secured in the wall in
the south-east face of the castle near the postern, and kept in her
position by a line fastened to a light kedge astern. Her bow was about
two fathoms or twelve feet from the landing. From the surface of the
water to the summit-level of the parapet was about thirty-five feet.

The two friends had feigned to be anxious to get away, but the
commandant withheld his consent, intending first more thoroughly to
satisfy himself of their character. They rejoiced at the delay, even
while they knew that it exposed them to increased hazard of detection.

Availing themselves of the privilege to wander about the works, they
looked anxiously in every direction for Frank. In every direction but
one they had looked in vain, and at last, almost in despair, Talbot
approached the quarters of the commandant. Here, in the last place to
have been expected, he found the object of his search in a kind of open
office, employed in converting into intelligible English some documents
written by an illiterate translator. At the sight of him Frank started
up, and was about to rush toward him, but resumed his seat when he saw
Talbot place his finger on his lip, and by a gesture indicated that the
sentry who stood near by, was observing them. On a small shelf just
within the door, stood a can of water, with a drinking-cup beside it.
Talbot stepping quickly within the door-way, asked the youth in Spanish
for a drink of water. The latter, understanding him, handed the cup, at
the same time closely watching every movement of his friend. The sentry
had in the meantime advanced to the door, and stood looking in. Talbot
drank with seeming thirst, and returning the cup with a simple
“_gratias_,” contrived to slip a bit of paper, unseen, into the hands of
Frank.

That night, Frank, complaining of the heat, obtained permission of the
officer of the day to sleep on the south-east bastion, or bastion of St.
Crispin, upon which the land-breeze blew, provided that he did so under
the eye of the sentinel posted there.

Gonzalez laid himself down at the foot of the stone stairway or ramp,
which led from the court of the castle below to the parapet above.

Between 2 and 3 o’clock in the morning, shortly after the sentinels had
been relieved, when the moon had set, and the light of the stars was
intercepted by masses of clouds wafted over from the land, Talbot, with
his cloak thrown around him, and a cap on his head, such as were worn by
the officers, ascended the stairway, mounted the parapet, and advanced
directly toward the sentinel near whom Frank had laid down.

The sentinel, taking it for granted that it was the officer of the day
who approached, (for Talbot had observed, and now closely imitated his
gait,) did not challenge until the latter was almost within the point of
his bayonet. As he brought his musket to a charge, demanding the
watchword, Talbot pushed the point of the weapon suddenly aside, and
rushing upon, threw over and fell upon the sentinel. Frank now sprung
up, and found that Talbot held the soldier by the throat with so much
force that he was nearly strangled. Together they soon securely tied and
gagged him. At a motion from Talbot, who, putting on the soldier’s cap,
and shouldering his musket, resumed the round, Frank fastened a cord
(which the former threw to him) to one of the barbette-guns, and let
himself down the face of the wall, landing upon the narrow stone ledge a
short distance from the boat. While he was doing this, Gonzalez had
stealthily crawled up the ramp or stairway, and creeping along the
parapet, in like manner, lowered himself down beside the youth. Talbot
then placing the musket by the gun, with the soldier’s cap upon, and his
cloak around it, followed their example, and reached his companions in
safety. One of them then swam out and cut the rope which held the boat
by the stern, but, on his return, found his companions in consternation.
A padlock had been put upon the chain, and in vain they strove to part
the bolt. At this moment the clouds had swept by, and they were thrown
into despair by hearing the sentinel on the south-west bastion call out,
“_Qui viv_.” In desperation they all sprung into the boat as the
sentinel discharged his musket, and gave the alarm. With the strength
which despair alone can give, they seized the chain, and with one mighty
effort tore the bolt from the stern of the boat with a crash. The alarm
was now general, and there was not an instant to be lost. Pushing boldly
from the landing, they hoisted their sail with expedition, and stood
diagonally across toward the main land, carefully keeping themselves in
a line with the angle of the south-east bastion. There was great
confusion in the garrison, several of the large guns were discharged,
and volleys of musketry were fired in the direction they pursued. The
balls flew wide of the mark, and as the felucca was now under rapid
headway, they began to congratulate themselves that they were out of
danger, when, by a discharge of the heavy pivot-gun on the
tower-bastion, loaded with grape, Gonzalez was struck down, mortally
wounded.

The felucca reached Sisal in safety, but Talbot and Mary deeply and
unceasingly mourned the loss of their true and invaluable friend. And
Frank bitterly grieved that his freedom should have been purchased at
such a sacrifice. He was, indeed, worthy of all regret—but a cloud had
overshadowed his sun of life. He would have brooded over his sister’s
shame until existence had become a burthen, and his impulsive nature
might by unlawful means have sought relief in the cold embrace of death.
He perished in a work of charity, and it is to be hoped that He who,

        “When all our souls were forfeit,
         Could the advantage best have took,
         Found out the remedy,”

in His abounding mercy, forgave one act of passion for the redeeming
merits of the cause wherein the unhappy Gonzalez met his death.

There was only one vessel at Sisal, bound at an early day to the United
States, and her destination was New Orleans. Frank, his sister and
Talbot, accordingly took passage in her, and reached the south-west pass
of the Mississippi just as a gale was coming on. The country above had
been overflowed by recent heavy rains, and what between the current from
within, and the swell without, they were greeted with a magnificent
spectacle. The waves of the gulf, driven before the gale, which had soon
become terrific, encountered the onward sweep of the waters of the
mighty river. The sight forcibly reminded them of Rebecca’s exclamation
in Ivanhoe, “God of Jacob! it is like the meeting of two oceans moved by
adverse tides!”

Nearly the whole period of their stay was embraced in one uninterrupted
storm, but the magnificence of the scenery compensated for the
inclemency of the weather. Vegetation was still in full luxuriance, and
the moss, pendent from the trees, and saturated with incessant rain,
like dripping garments swayed to and fro in the wind, while low, rugged
clouds trailed along but a short distance overhead, and a gray
semi-transparent mist floated above the surface of the ground. The
“Mississippi,” unusually turbid, and swollen to the utmost capacity of
its banks, with its mighty whirls and eddies, rushed impetuously on,
bearing on its surface many a vestige of the devastation it had caused.
Nor were the works of art, clumsy and unsymmetrical though they were,
wanting to the scene, spreading no sail to the breeze, but drifting idly
with the current, the arks and the broad-horns were whirled by with a
rapidity that seemed to defy management. Wafted over the water
frequently came the wild and not unmelodious sound of the bugle, while
in the stillness of the night were heard the manly and sonorous voices
of the boatmen singing,

          “The boatman dance, the boatman sing,
         The boatman up to every thing.
         When the boatman gets on shore,
         He spends his money and works for more.
         Dance, boatman, dance—
         Dance, boatman, dance—dance all night till broad daylight,
         And go home with the girls in the morning.”

Steam was just beginning to be introduced, and the soothing solitudes of
nature to be disturbed by the monotonous clank of machinery. Our party
availed themselves of an upward-bound steamboat, and slowly ascended the
Mississippi, whose turbid and swollen waters rolled far and wide beyond
their usual boundaries. The river was filled with broken rafts, drift
logs, and half-sunken and floating trees. The danger of running upon a
snag, or encountering a sawyer, was great and impending. The current was
so strong that their boat, although striving to keep in shore, would
frequently be caught by a whirl or an eddy, and like a stray leaf upon a
rivulet, would be turned round and round until striking against a tree,
it would be sent into the mid current and again be carried for miles
among the trees, from whose verdant tops the birds that had remained
undisturbed by the rush and the roar beneath, flew at the boat’s
approach, as if aware that their only enemy was man. They also ascended
the Ohio, whose limpid waters, gliding with a strong but not impetuous
current, have won for it the name of beautiful. When they stood upon the
crest of the Alleghany, and saw mountains, “hills and plains as graceful
in their sweep as the arrested billows of a mighty sea, and recollected
that more boundless than the view, that verdant sweep is uninterrupted
until the one extreme is locked in the fast embrace of thick-ribbed ice,
and the other is washed by the phosphorescent ripple of the tropic,
while on either side is heard the murmuring surge of a widespread and
magnificent ocean,”[2] their hearts bounded with exultation as they
thought of the unrivaled destinies of their country. As if on the high
altar of the land of his nativity, Talbot, who had wandered far and
wide, could not withhold his pledge of devotion, and the heartfelt
exclamation escaped him,

         “By travel taught, I can attest
        I love my native land the best.”

The commissioned officer, not unknown to fame, met with none of the
obstacles which the friendless orphan had encountered, and Talbot’s
estate was settled without difficulty.

When the chastening hand of time had hallowed the memories of the dead,
and substituted a Christian resignation for the bitterness of early
grief, Edward and Mary were united, and through a since much checkered
life, neither time nor circumstance, nor prosperity, nor distress, has
for one instant abated a feeling which is fixed and unalterable as their
future destinies.

-----

[2] From a speech of the author’s, 1844.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THE RUSTIC SHRINE.


                           BY GEO. W. DEWEY.


    Their names were found cut upon a rural bench, overgrown with
    vines, which proved to be at once Love’s shrine and
    cenotaph.    _Legends of the Rhine._

              A shadow of the cypress bough
                Lies on my path to-day—
              A melancholy—which in vain
                I strive to chase away.

              The angel Memory hath flown
                To old and cherished things,
              To bring the light of early years
                Around me on her wings;

              And where the love-lorn birds complain
                Within their green abode,
              Between two elms, a rustic seat
                Invites her from the road.

              There shall she sit, as oft before,
                And sigh as oft again,
              O’er names engraved, which long have braved
                The sunshine and the rain.

              And one—it is the dearest name
                On Love’s unnumbered shrines:—
              So dear, that even envious Time
                Hath guarded it with vines;

              And wreathed it with his choicest flowers.
                As if the bridal claim,
              Which Fate denied unto her brow,
                Should still adorn her name!

              Ah, well do I remember yet
                The day I carved that name!
              The rattle of the locusts’ drum
                Thrills o’er me now the same;

              Adown the lane the wayward breeze
                Comes with a stealthy pace,
              And brings the perfume of the fields
                To this deserted place:—

              Unto her blushing cheek again
                It comes—the blessèd air!
              Caressing, like a lover’s hand,
                The tresses of her hair.

              The brook runs laughing at her feet,
                O’erhead the wild-bird sings,
              The air is filled with butterflies,
                As though the flowers had wings:—

              But this is Fancy’s pilgrimage,
                And lures me back in vain!
              The brook, the bench, the flowers and vines
                I ne’er may see again;

              For this is but an idle dream
                That mocks me evermore—
              And memory only fills the place
                My loved one filled of yore!

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
  J. Dill, Sc.

TORTOSA, FROM THE ISLAND OF RUAD.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             LUNA.—AN ODE.


                          BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.


              _Casta Diva, che inargenti_
              _Questi sacri antiqui piante_
              _A noi volge il bel sembianti_
              _Senza nube e senza vel!_    NORMA.

       The south wind hath its balm, the sea its cheer,
         And autumn woods their bright and myriad hues;
           Thine is a joy that love and faith endear,
                 And awe subdues:
       The wave-tost seamen and the harvest crew,
         When on their golden sheaves the quivering dew
           Hangs like pure tears—all fear beguile,
       In glancing from their task to thy maternal smile!
         The mist of hill-tops undulating wreathes,
           At thy enchanting touch, a magic woof,
         And curling incense fainter odor breathes,
       And, in transparent clouds, hangs round the vaulted roof.
         Huge icebergs, with their crystal spires
           Slow heaving from the northern main,
         Like frozen monuments of high desires
           Destined to melt in nothingness again,—
             Float in thy mystic beams,
         As piles aerial down the tide of dreams!
             A sacred greeting falls
         With thy mild presence on the ruined fane,
       Columns time-stained, dim frieze, and ivied walls,
         As if a fond delight thou didst attain
             To mingle with the Past,
       And o’er her trophies lone a holy mantle cast!
           Along the billow’s snowy crest
           Thy beams a moment rest,
       And then in sparkling mirth dissolve away;
         Through forest boughs, amid the withered leaves,
             Thy light a tracery weaves,
       And on the mossy clumps its rays fantastic play.
           With thee, ethereal guide,
         What reverent joy to pace the temple floor,
           And watch thy silver tide
       O’er statue, tomb and arch its solemn radiance pour!
         Like a celestial magnet thou dost sway
           The untamed waters in their ebb and flow,
         The maniac raves beneath thy pallid ray.
             And poet’s visions glow;
       Madonna of the stars! through the cold prison-grate
         Thou stealest, like a nun on mercy bent.
             To cheer the desolate,
       And usher in grief’s tears when her mute pang is spent!
           I marvel not that once thy altars rose
               Sacred to human woes,
         And nations deemed thee arbitress of Fate,
           To whom enamored virgins made their prayer,
             Or widows in their first despair,
         And wistful gazed upon thy queenly state,
           As, with a meek assurance, gliding by,
             In might and beauty unelate,
           Into the bridal chambers of the sky!
           And less I marvel that Endymion sighed
             To yield his spirit unto thine,
           And felt thee soul-allied,
         Making his being thy receptive shrine!
           A lofty peace is thine!—the tides of life
         Flow gently when thy soothing orb appears,
             And passion’s fevered strife
       From thy chaste glow imbibes the calmness of the spheres!
         O twilight glory! that doth ne’er awake
           Exhausting joy, but evenly and fond,
         Allays the immortal thirst it cannot slake,
           And heals the chafing of the work-day bond;
         Give me thy patient spell!—to bear
           With an unclouded brow, the secret pain,
         (That floods my soul as thy pale beams the air,)
       Of hopes that Reason quells, for Love to wake again!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            FROM BUCHANNAN.


                         BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.


                   IN ZOILUM.

        Frustra ego te laudo; frustra me Zoile lædis
        Nemo mihi credit, Zoile, nemo tibi.

                   TO ZOILUS.

        Zoilus, in vain thy praise I spread;
          And vainly thou hast slandered me!
        No one believed a word I said,
          No one on earth would credit thee.
                      —
              Qui te videt beaties est;
              Beatior qui te audiet
              Qui basiat—semi deus est!


                 TRANSLATION.

        He who beholds thy charms is blest;
          More blest is he thy voice who hears;
        But he thy ruby lip that pressed,
          To me a demi-god appears.

The above was unquestionably suggested by the lines of Catullus to
Lesbia, beginning—

        Ille mi par esse Deo videtur
        Ille, si fas est, superare Divos
        Qui sedens adversus identidem te
            Spectat, et audit, etc.

This poem of Catullus is nothing more than a translation from the Greek
of Sappho, which has been rendered familiar by Ambrose Phillips’
version.

        “Blest as the immortal gods is he;
        The youth who fondly sits by thee:
        Who hears and sees thee, all the while,
        Softly speak and sweetly smile, etc.”

It would seem that Horace when composing his beautiful ode of “Integer
Vitæ,” had these verses of Sappho in mind, when he exclaims—

        Dulce ridentem, Lalagen amabo
                      Dulce loquentem.

The “_Dulce ridentum_” is also beautifully applied in the translation by
Catullus.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          THE RECLUSE. NO. II.


                           BY PARK BENJAMIN.


                                  IV.

From Paris, on the 28th of February last, about four o’clock in the
afternoon, a rainbow was distinguished in the heavens. “Bravo!” cried a
workman of the Faubourg Saint Antoine—“See how le bon Dieu (the good
God) also acknowledges the French Republic—he hangs out the tricolored
flag.”

This anecdote, though singularly French, who are noted for irreligion,
does not strike me as betraying any lack of reverence. Could not the
poor _ouvrier_ in his ignorance really have presumed the rainbow to be a
providential token? Instances of greater blindness might be recounted,
which have happened at our own doors. Who does not know the stories of
Millerite fanaticism? Are not the impostures of Matthias too recent not
to be remembered in detail? The miracles which they pretended, and which
were not too monstrous for the capacious maw of respectable credulity,
were much more marvelous than the tricolored flag of the poor Paris
laborer.


                          V.—TO AN OLD FLAME.

           _Written on one of the bitterest days of Winter._

        Ah, Mary, thou art far away,
          And never dost thou think of me,
        But unto thee my visions fly
          Like birds across the sea.

        I loved thee once with such a love
          As manhood only knows and feels,
        Less shown by actions and by words
          Than what the eye reveals.

        Within the warm and sunny South
          Thy form is folded like a rose,
        While I, in Northern realms afar,
          Am wrapt in wintry snows.

        Perhaps a husband’s arms enclose
          The treasure I’d have died to win,
        So that desire for thy sweet face
          Is very like a sin.

        But I’ll not think it—let me dream—
          Since dreams alone such bliss bestow—
        That, ere we meet in climes above,
          We yet may meet below.

        And I again may feel a thrill
          Of rapture as I sit and gaze
        Into thine eye’s delicious depth
          Till all my heart’s ablaze.

        And I can hear thy tuneful voice,
          With melody almost divine,
        Sing the sweet songs I joyed to hear
          In days of auld lang syne.

        But all in vain I strike my lyre,
          In vain my burning thoughts unfold,
        For, though my heart is warm with love,
          My hands are numb with cold.


                             VI.—SHIPWRECK.

There is no event, by which sorrow is brought to mankind, which arouses
in the mind of old and young a livelier horror than “shipwreck.” There
is something so terrible in the loneliness and obscurity of the sea,
something so deplorable in the utter helplessness of the sailors, that
there is scarcely any danger which we would not rather encounter. When
we read of one, either near at hand or afar off, we involuntarily close
our eyes, as if to shut out the awful scene; the noble ship helplessly
reeling and tumbling on the billows, the pall of clouds, the driving
rain, the white spray and foam drifting like ghosts over the water, some
boat perhaps crowded with human beings, some broken mast or spar to
which cling drowning wretches, and alone, all alone on the ocean-desert,
with no hope of aid or succor. Vainly do we strive to shut our ears to
the cries of misery and despair, to the wail of the wind, the loud
lamenting of the surge, the deep groans of the vessel as her timbers
part, and the noblest fabric of human skill is about to be torn to
fragments and utterly destroyed.

Lord Byron, describing a ship under full sail, uses the forcible
expression,

        “She walks the water like a thing of like.”

There is as much truth as beauty in this. Indeed it is difficult to
imagine so proud and glorious an object, moving obedient to reason and
command, to be nothing more than an inanimate mass. Behold her, as she
sets out upon her voyage, with a fair sky and favoring breeze! How
gracefully she parts the waters and sweeps onward! Is not that form
instinct with feeling and endowed with intellect? No! she is but a
wonderful piece of mechanism; but the dullest fancy might imagine her a
being, an intelligence, capable of volition, powerful in deed. Observe
her, too, when overmastered by the tempest and made subject to the
waves, she drifts powerless along! Does she not seem to suffer human
pangs in her struggles, and to die with all of mortal agony?

The attachment, I might say friendship, which seamen entertain for
particular vessels is not to be wondered at. The deck is the home of the
mariner: here the greater number of his days are spent: the masts,
sails, rigging are to him familiar objects, the objects of his constant
care and solicitude, and he feels for them a species of paternal love.
When these are destroyed, lost, wrecked, he mourns them with a real
sorrow.

It is my lot to live within constant sight of the sea. I am on one of
the grand highways from Europe to New York. Ships of all nations pass my
door. Many a noble vessel has been wrecked within a mile from my
dwelling. My mind therefore often reverts to this most fearful calamity,
and it is difficult for me to expel even from my dreams visions of
shipwreck.


                            VII.—DR. SYNTAX.

Will nobody republish “A Tour in Search of the Picturesque?” Will nobody
print it and give us the original pictures, colored engravings of the
richest sort—none of your meager outlines—your skeletons of
sketches—but the rotund figures in full of the veritable hero of that
glorious poem, and all the scenes and adventures through which he
passed?

Darling old Dr. Syntax! How many a sad, long year has droned away since
I, a merry boy, used to read thy most fascinating of Tours! Nothing ever
so captivated my young imagination as thy solitary rambles on thy
faithful steed through town and hamlet—now taking up thy abode with
some lordly proprietor, and now sleeping contentedly beneath the roof of
some sturdy yeoman—now kissing the squire’s wife and sister, and now
giving sympathizing advice to the dairy-maid, who was, like poor
Ophelia, disappointed in love. Oh, Doctor! thou wast never above
humanity. Though never frail thyself, yet wast thou no inexorable judge
over the frailties of others.

I long, most patient and peculiar of travelers, I long sincerely to
accompany thee once more in thy rambles. Most charitable of divines,
most lenient of pedagogues, “take thee for all in all, I shall not look
upon thy like again!” _Interestingest_ of all authors, I would enter
into thy feelings once more. I would feel the joy thou feltest in
quitting thy spouse (no _dulcis uxor_) and mounting thy famous mare,
Grizzle, and setting forth on thy most speculative and picturesque
expedition. You were a creature of the brain, Doctor, I suppose—but to
me you are a reality. I remember you perfectly. I loved you when a boy
at school with all my heart. Orthography, Etymology and Prosody I
hated—but I loved Syntax.

Which of you generous and gentlemenly booksellers will immediately send
me a copy (bound or unbound, but it must have the pictures,) of Dr.
Syntax’s Tour in Search of the Picturesque? Speak not all at once! I
will promise you “a first-rate notice in the Boston Post.” It would
afford me “a wonderful sight” of fun, as they say in Androscoggin, to
read that book. I should be _rejuvenesced_. Kind Mr. Hart, be so
obliging as to ransack your shelves and transmit an old English copy,
directed TO THE RECLUSE, _aux soins du redacteur en chef de_
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.


                           VIII.—A CHARACTER.

My friend, Ralph Willinton, is a man of adventures. More strange things
have happened to him than to any dozen people I ever heard of, in what
are called “the common walks of life.” Ralph is by no means an
extraordinary individual. If the North River waited for him to set it on
fire, it might flow on through the Highlands unscorched forever. He was
not born to greatness; he will never achieve greatness, nor will
greatness be thrust upon him. But do not misunderstand me: Ralph, as the
gentleman felicitously remarked of Shakespeare, “is no fool.” On the
contrary, he is a fellow of parts. He never dazzled in conversation by a
coruscation of mother-wit; but when he has heard a happy rejoinder, he
remembers it, and has the skill to use it to advantage.

Ralph is the happiest mimic in these _Untied_ States, as they may sooner
or later be called. There never appeared an actor in any one of our
theatres whose voice and manner he cannot imitate with marvelous
verisimilitude. Moreover he sings a very good song, though with no very
powerful or melodious voice. He can write Magazine articles on music,
composes occasionally himself, and writes love ditties, such as they
are. Add to these accomplishments a manner irresistibly winning, and
tones in speaking as sweet as those which the author of Guy Mannering
gives to Rashleigh Osbaldistone, and you are possessed of the sum total
of Ralph’s recommendations. The sum total do I say? when I have but
obscurely hinted at his extraordinary gift or faculty of story-telling,
by which, like Hamlet’s Yorick, he can set the whole table on a roar. In
sooth, he is the most diverting of dinner-table companions. He richly
earns his invitations, of which no man has more. You can bear to listen
to those stories of his (which are nothing when any one else tells them)
a hundred times. They are “ever charming, ever new.” Age cannot mar nor
custom stale his infinite variety. His profession is the law, and his
practice is amusement.

Ralph is, in fine, a capital fellow. It is a pity that he should have a
capital propensity. He is the hero of all his romances. Had he been
Macbeth, he never would have exclaimed, “Thou canst not say _I_ did it!”
He would rather have had the _credit_ of murdering Duncan himself than
have been thought to have no hand in the “bloody business.” Ralph is the
most ubiquitous of mortals. To have effected an iota of what he
attributes to his own talents, valor and industry, to have done one in
fifty of those deeds of which he asserts “_quorum pars magna fui_,” he
must have been in a very considerable number of places at once.
Nevertheless and notwithstanding Ralph Willinton is a glorious good
fellow. Reader, did you ever meet with Ralph Willinton?

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       A VOICE FROM THE WAYSIDE:


                            ABOUT A GENIUS.


                            BY CAROLINE C——.


           We wither from our youth, we waste away,
           Sick, sick, unfound the boon—unslaked the thirst.
                                                      BYRON.

In summer time there are few things more delightful than an occasionally
wet day to “out-of-towners.”

Then we of the country, in our almost noiseless homes, may delight and
rejoice in the strange and pleasant quietness attending a still,
steadily-falling rain; we can watch with admiring eyes how the fields
and the well-draperied woods grow bright and cleanly, ’neath the hand of
that pattern housekeeper, Dame Nature; we can listen undisturbed by the
multitudinous noises which infest a city, to the dear wild-birds, who,
impatient of the long-continued weeping of the skies, occasionally break
forth into the merriest songs, as if questioning each other as to how
they stand the charges of the elements.

And then there is the generous Sun King, (I acknowledge, however, he
does not shine for country-people _only_,) glancing out at intervals
from between the heavy clouds, smiling upon us joyously, and looking for
all the world as though he would say if he could, “never mind, children,
the storm will soon be passed!” And then the after-part of a summer
shower! the freshened fragrance of the flowers—the purified
atmosphere—the bright blue sky—the increased glory of the
setting-sun—the rainbow in the east—the drops of water glistening on
the flowers and on the grass, so pure and bright, that one might almost
imagine them the tears of spirits—the glad songs of innumerable
birds—the groups of children exhibiting in various ways their nautical
daring on and about the newly-formed lakelets in the roads and
fields—the many evidences of life awakened out of doors—then the holy
calmness of the ensuing summer night—the soft light of the stars—and
after that the trembling glory of the new moon! Oh, beautiful, beautiful
summer! with thy rain-storms and thy sunshine, hasten to us again!

But—a rainy day in winter! its horrors encircle me at this moment; I
forbear entering into its details. However much _you_ may delight in a
day like unto this, oh, listen to the humble voice now emerging from the
way-side, _I_ have no courage to speak even of the stubborn,
hard-headed, cheerless figure Nature presents when she stands gazing in
such mute dismay upon her domicil.

It is in human nature, at least in mine, and I claim to be human, to be
always looking for _a something better_, and despite all this dreariness
without, my heart is even now continually singing, “Spring is coming!
spring is coming!” but a few weeks! and then, instead of the dismal
trappings of winter, how beautiful and bright all without and around us
will be! the very thought is enough to make every soul shout, “Hasten
the time! Amen!”

There is such a desolateness in the court of the white-headed old king
which people very naturally shrink from as they grow older in years!

Looking back into childhood, these stony-hearted months when frost and
snow reign king and queen over earth, seem, indeed, the most joyous—and
not without reason. For then the “Christman” and the youth so full of
promise, the bright New Year, are never-failing guests by the mid-winter
fire-side. There is joy for the child on the ice-bound hill, on the
glassy, frozen lake, in the gurgling, merry sound of the sleigh-bells,
in the sight of the cheerful home-fire, in the bracing out-door air, in
the huge snow-drifts—everywhere, everywhere there is joy for the child!

And why? Because of bounding hopes and joyous dreams, and the careless
yielding up of oneself to every passing enjoyment—because of freedom
from labor—because of ignorance of the worth and supremacy of
gold—because of utter innocence of the strict “proprieties” of life!
There is joy for the child, because he has not yet learned much of
disappointments; he does not know how uncomfortable is the close-fitting
garment of manhood. He is not wise enough to see in the winter storms,
in the driving blasts in which he so much delights, the type of what
assuredly awaits him. He does not know that the life-storms with which
he will have to struggle, will come suddenly and furiously upon
him—that he will, perforce, then fling aside his mittens and grapple
open handed with his foes. And it must certainly be at the warm and
genial hearth-fire of truth and honesty, and no stifling stove-heat by
which he must keep his heart, and its hopes and affections warm and in
health, else they will die away suddenly and utterly, even as the fire
of the “patent air-tight” dies!

Hark! now I hear the flapping of wings; and lo, here, almost close
beside my window, are passing pigeons—snow-white pigeons; and, where
_could_ it have streamed from, there is a ray of sunlight on their
wings! and since I have begun writing, the clouds seem to have “spent
their fury,” they are less dull and dreary—they are slowly breaking
away.

The view from the window by which I am writing is not especially
charming. In one direction there are sheds, and barns, and barren trees,
and a little farther on, the spire of an unpretending church, and sundry
chimney-tops, together with the roofs of a few loftier buildings meet my
eye. These are all certainly very _suggestive_ scenes, and might make so
many important heads of a very interesting discourse; but, in another
direction from this same window there are great fields, and farther on,
woods and hills, and between them and me, there are two points in the
landscape on which very often my eyes rest, and many are the
recollections, bitter and sweet, they awaken. One is a village
school-house, the other a thickly-populated grave-yard.

Over those hills, and through the woods, and by the sandy shores of our
beautiful lake, I was once a frequent wanderer, and with me invariably
in all those rovings, was a child of somewhere near my own age, to whom,
good reader, you may now consider yourself introduced.

When the week, with its disappointments, and hopes and joys has passed,
and Saturday afternoon, the child’s holyday the world over, comes round
again, how often my thoughts have turned back to her, and to the time
when _we_ also were young; oh, how much of meaning there is in that
word, _youth_!

But looking back into the past is not an over-pleasant business at any
time. There are very many reasons why people, for the most part, dread
the rolling up of that curtain within which lies buried much of
destroyed confidence, and happiness that died of fearful wounds; but I
am willing to trespass on my own feelings at this present, that you may
know something of Lily Reeve.

People said she was a genius. They said rightly—she was. And to
complete the interest attachable to her therefor, Lily was poor—_very_
poor, and had been all the days of her life.

When the Reeve family moved among us they had no acquaintance or
relative in our village—and their circumstances and business were not
such as attached any importance or attracted any notice to them. Had it
not been for Lily they would probably have remained long enough in our
midst, unknown and uncared for. The mother was a middle-aged woman, a
widow; of the children I knew not much, save that with much
appropriateness their name might have been “legion.” Lily was the eldest
child—not beautiful—and far from being even interesting, personally.

Why her parents had bestowed on her so decided a name as Lily was always
a mystery—for very far from a resemblance, even the slightest, to that
graceful flower, was she. Neither was she a brunette, but of complexion
rather dark, hair _very_ black, and always curled, which gave her a
decidedly Mrs. Hemanish look at times. Her features were irregular—oh,
certainly, she was _far_ from beautiful, and yet there was much
sweetness of expression in the mouth, and much of vigor and
determination perceivable in her dark eyes.

It was a good many years ago, but I remember distinctly the first time I
ever saw Lily. With a number of juveniles I was returning from a _very_
long walk—all our foot-jaunts were long in those days—when, on passing
by an old-fashioned frame-house, brown with age, and poor and
disconsolate in its outward appearance, one of the group said, “Let’s go
into that house; there’s a girl living there who paints.”

And we went in. One of the more confident of our number said to the
woman who received us, “Will you show us some of the pictures your
daughter has painted?”

With a smile of satisfaction, as though she were pleased that even we
children should have heard of her daughter, the woman bade us sit down;
and then she brought from an old chest a handful of papers, and spread
them on the table before us. Some of these were pictures of warriors on
their steeds, others landscapes, and some were heads. There was one
which more than all the others attracted my attention—it was a portrait
of a sleeping child. We asked if this were one of her children, or only
a fancy sketch.

“That was her little brother who died,” replied the woman, with a sigh.
“Lily drew it when he was dead.” There was something so sad in the
mother’s voice as she said this, that it checked our gay spirits, and
tended to subdue our loud expressions of admiration. While we yet stood
there turning over the papers, and gazing in wonder on the productions
of a girl no older than the youngest among us, the subject of our
thoughts and curiosity came into the room.

When she saw what was our object there, she came up to the table, and
putting her arm around me, as though confident she was with friends, she
asked if we liked her drawings. I remember well the thrill which passed
over me at this simple act of hers, for I had begun to regard the girl
as something quite extraordinary, and almost more than human. From that
day I date a friendship I am proud to have formed, one which, while it
lasted, delighted me more than any similar tie I have ever known.

It was very easy to see that the heart of the mother in those days was
full of hope—that the mind of the daughter teemed with ambitious
desires, and a determination, apparently invincible, to accomplish great
things. About that time there were many people who turned prophets, and
looking into the future, they saw a great name added to America’s
illustrious daughters of song—the name of Lily Reeve. Do you think
their prophecy has proved true?

In the old school-house, (which I heartily regret to say has been of
late abandoned, and its former inmates have taken possession of a more
stately edifice up-town,) in that little old brick building, _we_ in the
years long, long gone by, were wont to assemble—and Lily joined us
there. And although on the humdrum route of _learning_ we were quite in
the advance, she soon very far outstripped us, and moved on with most
rapid strides through all the first branches of education. It was
impossible for us dullards to see her strange advancement, and not feel
a little envious of her ability, notwithstanding we liked Lily so well.
In one short year she had acquired nearly all the instruction it was
possible for our teacher to impart, and as may be supposed for his part,
he was watching her progress with somewhat of anxiety. But his honor as
a teacher was not destined to be sacrificed to the young girl’s genius.

One afternoon, when school was dismissed, Lily said to me, “You and I
will go home by the other street. I have something to tell you, and the
way will be longer. Besides, I want to be away from these rough boys and
girls.”

So we crossed the road, and entered a path which led us by a long way
home. When we had reached the bridge, which crossed a deep, rapidly
running brook, we sat down on the bench, placed in the shade of an old
tree, which from “time immemorial” has stood there, with the most of its
tangled roots buried in the water; then Lily spoke again, for the first
time since we went out from the school-house.

“Do you know they are going to send me to the other school—they think I
can learn more there, and have teachers in the higher branches, and in
the languages. Oh, dear!”

“But why that ‘oh, dear!’ Lily? I only wish I were ready to go there
too, but I am such an ignoramus, and you know every thing!”

“Not quite every thing. I _should_ be glad to go—and there are a great
many reasons why. I have the greatest desire to learn, and I’m sure if I
have a little more education, I can make my way easily in the world;
but—but—in short, they are rich people who are going to send me, and
they will expect miracles from me, you may depend upon it—_I_ know.
Because I am poor, and can write pretty well, and paint, and sketch
likenesses, they have taken an interest in me; but I tell you before
hand, and you will see before long I speak rightly; I shall have to work
like a slave to keep up with their expectations. Isn’t it enough to make
any body say, ‘oh, dear?’”

“No—I don’t think so, Lily. You _can’t help_ equaling their
expectations, and they have such nice teachers at the other school, and
no great rude boys go there.”

“That makes no difference at all. One can learn as well in one place as
another. If it were not that mother felt so glad when the ladies made
her the offer to send me there, I’d never go. You don’t know any thing
about what it means to be dependent; you can’t think what a heavy load
seems resting on me, ever since so many people have seemed to take an
interest in me. I really begin to doubt my own powers. It seems to me as
though I ought not to be forced like a plant in a hot-bed. I almost wish
I never had any particular gifts.”

“And you say this, Lily Reeve, when all the girls in town are envying
you! Now just be firm, for I’m sure if you only make up your mind you
_will_ do a thing, you _can_ do it!”

“Do you believe it?” she asked, so suddenly, that I was startled and
began in some trepidation to bethink my words.

“Certainly,” I answered at last; “I heard our minister say the other day
your verses were excellent; and you know your pictures sold well at the
fair. How can you doubt yourself so?”

“I don’t know,” said Lily, thoughtfully, “perhaps they are nearer right
than I dare to think them—but I cannot explain it to you. I am never
satisfied with any thing I do. My verses always sound so rough when
compared with the melody in my brain—and my pictures, when I begin
them, my fingers almost fly, I think I will surpass myself—and when
they are finished, they always look so rude and rough, that I am tempted
often to burn them every one.”

“Never mind,” said I, confidently, “you will see the day yet when all
will be brighter to you—and you know the teacher says every day
‘practice makes perfect;’ and he always looks at you when he says
it—you ought to have learned that by this time.”

“I’ll learn it now from you,” said Lily; “we’ll go now to the woods, I
want to get some flowers to take to mother.”

Just beyond the woods to which we then bent our steps, there was a large
field, in the upper portion of which, early in the season, we always
found multitudes of purple flowers and white lilies; our first business
that night was to fill our aprons with these treasures, and then we went
into the woods, and sat down by a stream in a most romantic place, and
began to arrange our huge bunches of flowers. Lily made hers into small
bouquets, one for each of her family, while I twined mine into a wreath,
and laid it on her head. But soon the fast increasing shade in the woods
warned us it was time to be returning home. The thought of the
obligation she was about to incur evidently still troubled my
companion’s mind, for she spoke but little, and her words, when she did
speak, were desponding, and even the bright flowers with which her hands
were filled, failed to attract her usual attention, or awaken the
delight they were wont to.

We were about crossing the stile that was placed at the entrance of the
wood, when Lily suddenly flung the beautiful green moss she had gathered
in a damp place, with violence from the bosom of her dress, where she
had laid it. And when I looked with amazement at the excited girl, she
exclaimed, “Look there! I had a snake in my bosom!” Truly enough, there
was a tiny, striped, infant snake, creeping out leisurely from the bunch
of moss she had flung upon the ground. A thought darted through my
mind—I grasped her arm and said,

“You shall hear the moral of this before you go a step further, Lily
Reeve. I’m no genius, but I’ll teach you a plain lesson. You have thrown
the snake away from you; don’t, don’t ever take it back again. Don’t
doubt those who mean to do you kindness; only just do what nature
intended you should, and all who know you will be satisfied! When you
come to be very famous, the people who help you now will think you did
them a favor in letting them aid you. Mother says perseverance will work
wonders, and I believe it—_you_ can prove it.”

When I had finished my oration, I stood somewhat astonished at my own
audacity, but after a moment’s silence Lily said,

“Thank you—thank you, for you have learned me two lessons—I’ll not
forget them; no, I will never take the serpent back, you may depend on
that.”

A few days after Lily was established at the larger school, dwelling
with other boarders in the family of the principal, the wonder of all
the scholars, and the pet pupil with the teachers.

The hopeful expectations of her family were kept up by her progress, and
by her own increasing courage and cheerfulness. And in reality it seemed
no unfounded expectation, that which they cherished, that the young girl
would soon be able to support them all by dint of her genius. Her
efforts became daily more worthy and more promising, now that she
possessed these superior advantages; fortune seemed really determined to
work good things for the rich peoples’ _protégé_.

Lily was not yet seventeen, but her poems had many of them attracted
much attention; injudicious praises were lavished upon her; by their
attentions and flattery, the proud, and the rich, and the learned seemed
to have conspired to spoil a girl—a school-girl—poor “from her youth
up.” They did not take it into consideration that it was quite possible
for them to raise her hopes and self-appreciativeness too high; they did
not give heed to the fact that it might require years of struggling and
disappointment for her to produce any thing worthy the reward and honor
they would fain believe were rightfully hers even then.

But soon enough they had cause to regret this course they adopted.

“A change came o’er the spirit of her dream.” Self-confidence rapidly
usurped the place of a befitting humility, which had once characterized
her. Instead of comparing herself with the great masters of song and
painting, Lily seemed to think that in outstripping all her schoolmates,
and in being considered a prodigy among teachers, she was rapidly
filling the measure of her greatness; and the laudations which good-will
prompted others to speak, instead of being listened to and valued at
their worth, came at last to be considered as quite true and
well-deserved.

It is said that more strength of mind is requisite to bear composedly a
sudden _favorable_ turn of fortune than is necessary calmly to endure
reverses. Having never had occasion to test the truth of the
proposition, I, of course, have only a right to _suppose_ there is
somewhat “more of truth than poetry” in the idea; at all events, that is
a very easy way to account for Lily’s derelictions.

It was the wish of her “patrons,” as well as of the kind lady teacher to
whose care she was chiefly commended, that Lily should finish the course
of studies apportioned to each scholar previous to graduating. But there
was a growing willfulness, an increasing confidence in her own
attainments, that tempted her to set at naught these desires. Her
impulsive nature longed to be free from restraint; she would fain throw
aside all bondage, together with the loathed idea of dependence, and
labor for herself in the way she was best fitted to labor. She wished to
begin _at once_ to reap the reward of her years of study, and thus to
alleviate the wants of her home. Alas! the serpent had crept back into
Lily’s breast!

So, despite all the remonstrances and the pleadings of those who began
to see their mistake in their dealings with the young girl, Lily left
the school, and returned to her own home. I shall never forget her as
she was at that time; the passions, hopes, desires and resolution of
mature years seemed to have even then a full development in her. In
feeling she had grown too old, in will too decisive, to submit patiently
to the judgment of other minds. But soon enough the lesson was forced
upon her that poetic efforts are rarely capable of being changed at once
for food, and fuel, and raiment.

“I have sent a poem of some length to —— ——,” she said to me one
day, naming a distinguished writer and editor, “and you know I am
superstitious—if he accepts it, and will pay me for it, I shall take it
as a good omen for my future; but if he does not—” she hesitated.

“Well, if he does not, Lily?”

“Then those horrid doubts will come back to me with renewed force! Oh,
they tormented me so once!”

When I saw my friend again there was no need to ask her what her
reception at the “editor’s table” had been. It was a freezing cold
winter night, and feeling somewhat disconsolate on my own account, as
well as rather curious in regard to Lily’s progress, I sought her in her
own home.

I found Lily there seated at the centre-table—yes, it was such, for it
did occupy the central portion of the apartment—but it was not of
polished mahogany, or marble-surfaced, gentle reader, but a miserable,
old, broken affair, that had seen its best days long before it came into
the possession of its then owners. Scattered about the room were the
numerous boys and girls of the family; there was little temptation even
for the boys without that night, it was so cold and stormy. The room in
which they lived was the upper story of a small building, the first
floor of which was occupied as a mechanic’s shop; it was partitioned by
a curtain of cloth, which was all the separation between the sleeping
apartments and the place where they cooked, and ate, and lived.

There was a deep silence in the room when I entered. Lily was occupied
with her drawing, lighted by two tapers burning in a cup half-filled
with oil. There was none of that cheerful hope beaming in her fine eyes
that usually filled them when she welcomed me. And all the faces in the
room looked doleful enough—some rebuff they had certainly met with from
some quarter.

“I am drawing this for you,” she said, when I sat down beside her and
looked at her work, “it is for a parting gift.”

“Parting!” I exclaimed; “what are you going to do now, were you
successful in your letter to Mr. ——?”

“Read it and see,” she said, producing a letter,

And I read as follows:

    “MISS REEVE.—Dear Madam,—Your favor was many days ago
    received, and now, at my first leisure, I hasten to reply. I
    regret that an answer similar to that given to many applicants
    during every week must also be returned to you. I regret this
    the more, because your communications show talent, but—you need
    much practice; and, permit me to say, a writer must usually have
    acquired _some reputation_ before he can receive any ‘golden
    rewards.’ If you are necessitated to labor, I would advise you
    that there are many ways less vexatious, and more certain as to
    their issue, in which you might successfully employ yourself.

    “I retain the MS. subject to your orders.

                                          “Respectfully, etc.,

                                                         “—— ——.”

It was with difficulty I could repress my grief, as I looked about that
cheerless room, and on the young girl whose disappointment I knew must
be so keen; but calmly, and apparently undisturbed, Lily continued her
drawing.

“What will you do now, Lily?” I asked, anxious to at least break the
embarrassing silence.

“We are going west next week!”

“West! where—how?”

“To Illinois. I have borrowed the money—we cannot stay here and starve.
I am going there to take a school. If I cannot get a living by writing,
there _are_ many other ways—and I will try them at least.”

Had she told me her immediate intention of taking a journey to the South
Pole, I should have felt my powers of credulity very little more taxed
than they were at that moment, so wild and perfectly impracticable
seemed the scheme. But Lily had spoken so seriously, and with so much
determination, I was constrained to believe her.

The picture she was engaged upon—I have it yet—was an imaginative and
a striking one. It was a moonlight scene. Beside the water’s edge, among
wild rocks, a girl was standing alone—the figure was a likeness of
herself—and a very perfect one it was, too. The _expression_ of the
sketch was touching in the extreme.

“She is looking for peace and rest there,” said Lily, in explanation.
“She has sought it so often, but has not found it—and she never will.”

“Does she seek it in the right way, Lily?”

“I don’t know. Every thing seems changed to me of late. I am bewildered.
It seems to me as though I had lost myself. Since that letter came I
doubt my powers more than ever. To think of one in my situation having
to _practice_ before I can work successfully! There is little time to
practice, I think, when eight human beings are wondering where their
next meal is to come from—when their wood-yard is in such a state of
depression and emptiness as ours is!”

The mother sighed heavily as Lily said this, but did not speak.

“But you certainly can do something here,” I cried. “Don’t go and bury
yourself in the back-woods. I’m sure you can be a teacher in our school
if you’ll only ask. It’s perfectly wild in you to think of going this
winter! traveling, you know, at this time of year is a very costly
business, dear Lily, besides being so cheerless!”

“There is no use talking about it; I should have loved to live here, for
my own part, all my life, but I have engaged a school in the town we are
going to, and they wish it to be opened early in the spring. There’s no
help for it—we must go.”

And they went.

From that day until within a few months I heard nothing in regard to the
Reeve Family. Lily had promised to tell us her experience in the west,
of her success in this new attempt at securing a livelihood; but her
promise was unfulfilled, and we could not but fear lest despondency had
utterly crushed all the aspirations of her genius, that if she yet
lived, poverty and hopelessness had come to be her only portion.

Still, though her name had never reached us through the medium talents
like hers choose for their utterance—the press—there was always with
me a lingering hope and belief that Lily had, under some assumed name,
made herself famous. Knowing so well her ability, the more I thought of
this the more I became strongly convinced that it was so. At last, when
I had dreamed of her night after night, and thought much of her in my
waking hours, it became absolutely necessary to my own peace of mind
that I should write to her once more—a thing I had not done in many
years—in order to discover if she were actually dead or alive—famous
or unknown to the world. It was with much anxiety, as all my lady
readers will believe, I awaited her reply—for an answer I felt
convinced I should receive. It came at last; and as people such as she
are regarded by the world as a species of public property, as regards
their thoughts, words, and deeds, I have little scruples in laying
Lily’s epistle open for public inspection, knowing that her words will
awaken the hope and renewed efforts of the despairing, and excite the
admiration and commendation of all good people.

“I have but just received your letter, dear friend of by-gone days, and
believe me, it has given me no little satisfaction to think that you
remember me, and with interest still. I am inclined to laugh, and weep,
and wonder, when I think of myself as I was in the days long ago, when
we lived among you so very poor and dependent; but there is a feeling of
gratitude living in my heart stronger than every other emotion now
excited in my breast by the freshened remembrance of my old home.

“You ask me to tell you what I have been doing, and wish to know under
what name I have immortalized myself. You will not believe I left behind
me all my ambitious desires when we made our abode here in the west!
Have you ever chanced to hear of ——? It is the name I chose to adopt
in my appearance before the public. Perhaps you may have seen it, and
read verses accompanying it, but I am confident you never recognized in
those merry strains the voice and the heart-tune of your once
poverty-stricken and desponding friend.”

(The reader may imagine my astonishment and amaze on reading these
words—for my correspondent, Lily Reeve, was none other than one of the
most beloved and popular of writers!)

“I feel conversational to-day, besides, I know it is but just to assure
those who were so generous in my days of adversity, that their money and
sympathy were not altogether thrown away. I was very far from being
forgetful of those who in my earlier years rendered me such efficient
and valuable aid; but I thought it better even at the risk of being
esteemed ungrateful, to be unknown to them and to you, until I should be
able to reflect some little credit upon them. I shall soon publish a
book which is dedicated to those friends of former days, through that I
hope to relieve myself from any charge of forgetfulness or coldness they
may have justly brought against me.

“It is only ten years since we first made our home in this western
world; but I have grown gray in feeling since then, and looking back
into my childhood, the road to it seems to be one of interminable
length. Decidedly as our fortunes have brightened, we have had our
struggles and heart-sorrows here also; and we have had much of sickness
too, which seems to await almost every settler in the west; but there is
so much more for which we have occasion to be thankful, that it seems
almost a sin even to revert to our first trials and vexations. My
mother, thank Heaven! now that she is old, may rest; her latter years
are not harassed with the thoughts of a dependent, impoverished family;
my brothers are in a way, all of them, to support themselves, and my
young sisters are being educated in such a way that they will never have
to rely on others for their support. And for all this I pray we may be
ever thankful as we ought.

“When we first came to this place all things were decidedly _new_. The
inhabitants, men, women and children, truly seemed to us to have
reflected in their own natures the marvelous greenness and freshness of
the close surrounding forests; the village was poor, like all new
places, and not one quarter its present size. Indeed, we call it a city
now.

“But you never can think what a house of refuge it was to us poor
people! I was glad from my heart that there were none rich, none
powerful here; that all was one grand level, above which wisdom and
strength of mind, and superior goodness alone might rise. I was glad, I
say, for despise it as you may, I am bold to acknowledge there was
something awfully repelling to me in the thought of looking _up_ to
people because they happened to be rich, or occupy by birth a high
station. Even the notice taken of me in my young days, in the place
where I sojourned, was galling to me. It savored too much of
condescension, which, child as I was, even then I despised and hated.
There were many children here even in those days; for some years mine
was the only school—how well it was patronized I need not say. I
prospered, and was contented. Oh, it was such a joy to look on our own
comfortable home; to know what a cheerful fire and plenty of food meant
in one’s own house! There is something so exhilarating in the thought of
independence and reliance on one’s own exertions, that for a whole year
after our removal here I altogether abandoned my pencil and my pen; I
thought I would never labor with them again. But I was mistaken in
myself, as many times before I had been. I knew not the wants and
necessities of my own nature.

“The second winter I had continually a restless yearning for higher and
nobler pursuits than the mere business of school-teaching; that supplied
our natural wants and necessities admirably, it is true, but there were
longings of my mind that it became as necessary for me to supply. And so
once more in the long winter evenings I resumed my pencils and pen, and
I worked with them. It is impossible for me to express to you the
intense satisfaction following these labors; it seemed as though I had
found suddenly an Aladdin’s lamp, and that it dispelled the darkness and
gloom of undefined yearning, and showed me a true and a great end that I
could accomplish! I did not then immediately force my new productions
upon the editors, but remembering well that one salutary lesson I
received long ago, I strove hard to perfect myself. It would be
wearisome for you to listen to the narration of my progress till I had
gradually mounted up into the notice of the noble people of the west;
how kindly and charitably they hailed my writings; how encouraging were
the letters which, from many sources unexpected and unsought, I
received, I will leave you to imagine—I felt then as though I were
truly working out my destiny. Words crowded to my lips for utterance;
thoughts pleaded in my brain to be heard; I longed to speak words of
encouragement and strength to others—such words as from my own
experience I knew full well many an overburdened soul needed. I spoke
them, and I humbly hope they found acceptance and regard in many a
heart.

“You will ask if I then was wholly satisfied? You will ask if notoriety
pleased me? If I cared for no other and humbler good after I had
attained that—in short, if I did not yearn for other love than that
lavished on me by my own kin. In all calmness and confidence now, I can
answer, yes! there were hopes unsatisfied, desires unfulfilled.
Admiration was not _all_ I craved—commendation not all I coveted. But
years passed on, and with them the time when I could have rejoiced in
loving and in being loved. The wild dream that haunted my mind of a
perfect happiness on earth, of another kind of affection than I had yet
received or given, went by. Coldness, and I am almost constrained to
think at times, heartlessness, have usurped the place once occupied by
the winged god; the altar which needed but a word to be enkindled and
wrapped in flame, is torn away—a calm, immovable spirit occupies its
place. I am not lonely or unhappy, only I feel strangely changed. I feel
old in spirit; there may be no cloud, but there certainly is no
sunshine; passionless now, and without the least craving for human love,
my years glide on. I am satisfied in having helped to make the happiness
of those for whom I have labored, and yet, true to woman’s belief, I
must say, I am well aware that I have missed life’s highest good; I have
passed by, in my eager search for a something that has not satisfied,
that bright possession which the poorest of earth’s children, equally
with the most exalted have extended to them by the hand of our
beneficent Father. Do you think I am strangely confiding with one whom
for ten years I have not known by thought, or word, or deed? But we were
children together; and I remember how that you more than all I left
behind me knew the thoughts and desires of my inner life. Doubtless,
since we have come to be _women_, we have both much changed, but at this
hour I will believe you sympathize with me as in the days of old.

“Not long ago there came one to me, a man gifted with noble intellectual
faculties, and rich in heart-wealth; he has wished me to be his wife;
but knowing as I do what a very pauper I am in all that is best
calculated to make his a happy home—you will understand I am not
speaking of fortune or beauty _now_—I have declined his suit. I cannot
regard him as I could have a few, _but_ a few short years ago. I do not
love him as my imagination tells me that woman _can_ and _should_ love.
For a moment when I read his words, my heart beat wildly—I was happy;
but that passed quickly; I distrust myself; I do not wish _now_ that any
one should intrust to me a charge of their happiness through life; it
would be madness, and no less than foul wrong in me to wed with one
whose affection I could make but such a paltry return. I give to you the
answer I sent him; it is the sum total of my thoughts on this
subject—and I would ask you as you read them, do you not think that
there is but little to envy in one who has flung away a diamond, for a
trifling but more brilliant gem?

                       TO —— ——.

        It is too late; once, once I could have loved thee,
          Before my heart grew passionless and cold;
        My years are few, but trials have out-worn me—
          In thought and struggle I am old—am old!
        I had not _once_ been deaf to thy fond pleading—
          My soul had throbbed to hear thy ardent words;
        But now no inward voice is interceding,
          Thy finger touches upon tuneless chords!

        There _was_ a time when, hadst thou breathed of love,
          A fire had swiftly kindled in my heart;
        I would have coveted then, far, far above
          All earthly good—all that is set apart
        For the strong soul to labor for—a tone
          A look, such as thou gavest now to me,
        I would have gloried then to be thine own;
          That time is past—it never more can be!

        Once, when my heart beat strong with youth and hope,
          Once, when the future held a glorious prize,
        Through the surrounding gloom I strove to grope,
          And to close-thronging dangers shut my eyes.
        I fought for honor—fame. I thought that these
          Would _buy_ for me that other, nobler good,
        For which I prayed upon my bended knees,
          The boon of love—but fate my prayer withstood!

        Too many years have passed since that sweet dream—
          Too hard and ceaseless has my striving been;
        Through the calm twilight now there comes no gleam
          Of that wild hope—it cannot live again.
        It cannot be—thou wouldst not prize a gift
          So worthless as is all I have to give;
        Thou wouldst not care from my cold heart to lift
          The burden ’neath which I am doomed to live!

        Seek for a younger mind—a lighter soul;
          Seek one who has not been what I have been.
        I would not that around thy home should roll
          A cloud surcharged with gloominess and pain;
        Seek one who hath not from her childhood seen
          Her inmost thoughts—the best and brightest gold;
        Seek one who smiles—one who yet dares to dream—
          Who has not ‘hardened to a crystal cold!’

“And now, being quite sure that I have outwearied you, and believing
that you will gladly let the remainder of your interrogatories to-day
pass unanswered, I will conclude, with the earnest hope that _you_ may
never be tempted to barter the sacred affections of your heart for any
more alluring, but less, oh, far less satisfying prize—in the name of
our childhood.

                                                    “Always yours,

                                                        “LILY REEVE.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Dear reader, it may be proper to state, that despite this most emphatic
disclaimer on the part of Lily, a western paper I have recently
received, contains a notice of the marriage of the distinguished
poetess, Lily Reeve, with the Hon. —— ——. Had it not been for this,
one other proof of what is called the fickleness of woman’s nature, you
perceive I should have been enabled to end my story without a marriage;
but you will bear in mind that this repetition of the almost invariable
climax, is not _my_ fault!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               A SONNET.


                          BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.


                    [SEE ENGRAVING OF MAY MORNING.]

             Read on, young maiden. I will gage a kiss
               The page so earnestly thou porest o’er,
             To be the record of the ecstasies
               Of some great bard, or it may be the lore
               Of wild adventure by Armida’s shore—
             Or how Diana wooed the Hunter-boy,
               Or how to Dido erst Æneas swore
             Unmeasured love. Read while thou may’st enjoy,
               For certainly as this bright morn of May
             Will lose its zest, thy happiness will fade.
               As Orient smiles of Spring too soon decay,
             As clouds o’ershadow all the happy glade,
               Now smiling in the early morning’s ray,
               Thy peerless beauty e’en will pass away.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: _DRAWN BY PASTORINI_

MAY MORNING.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                      PASSAGES OF LIFE IN EUROPE.


                          By J. BAYARD TAYLOR.


                      I.—HEIDELBERG IN SEPTEMBER.

The sun was just setting on the last day of August, when the ponderous
_eilwagen_, in which I had journeyed from Frankfort, rounded the foot of
the Holy Mountain into the Valley of the Neckar, and Heidelberg—the
brave, romantic, beautiful old electoral city—was stretched out before
me on the opposite side of the river. Far above it rose the wooded
Kaiserstuhl, midway down whose side hung the granite bastions, terraces
and roofless halls of the famed Castle. Heavy masses of ivy hung from
its arches, and overran the quaint sculpture of its walls, while the
foliage of its gardens was visible behind, deep in the shadow of the
mountain. A faint yellow glow trembled over the pines and birches on the
top of the Kaiserstuhl, and kept the clear blue on the distant hills up
the Neckar. Down the steep paths of the Holy Mountain, on my left, came
the peasant-girls, with baskets on their heads, laden with the purple
clusters of the Muscatel, and talking to each other gayly over
garden-walls, and under arbors, which made a “green twilight” even at
noon. Careless students, pipe in hand, sauntered along the river bank,
listening to the sweet evening chimes, rung first in the towers of the
Hauptkirche, and taken up like an echo, from village to village, among
the hills.

Looking forward to Heidelberg as a place for rest and quiet study, there
was something peculiarly grateful and tranquilizing in the scene. To my
eyes the scenery presented a mingling of the wild with the
cultivated—of the pastoral with the grand—a combination so inspiring
that I found it difficult to keep my enthusiasm within reasonable
bounds. From the river bank, above the bridge, cannon began firing a
closing salute for the Grand Duke’s birth-day, and my heart never kept
more bounding time to the minute-guns on a Fourth of July at home. The
German passengers in the _eilwagen_ were highly gratified by my delight,
for all Germans are proud of Heidelberg.

By a piece of good fortune the friends who had left me at Mayence and
arrived the day before, happened to be passing up the main street when
the vehicle stopped, and I was spared the risk of searching for them,
which, to one ignorant of the language, was no slight task.

In a day or two, by the help of a _valet de place_, who spoke half a
dozen words of English, we obtained rooms in a large house overhanging
the Neckar. From one side we looked upon the Heiligenberg, so near that
we could hear the girls singing among the vines every morning, and all
day long the rapid river below us was noisy with raftsmen, guiding the
pines they had felled among the Suabian hills down to the Rhine. On the
other side the Kaiserstuhl stood between us and the eastern sky, and we
always saw the sunrise first on the opposite mountains. In the cool,
cloudless autumn mornings, the air was full of church-chimes and merry
voices, which came echoed back from the hills, so that our first waking
sensation was one of pleasure, and every day brought us some new form of
enjoyment.

The valley of the Neckar is narrow, and only the little slopes which
here and there lie between the feet of its wooded mountains are capable
of cultivation. Higher up, there are glens and meadows of luxuriant
grass, to which the peasants drive their cattle, further still, it is
barren and rocky, and upon the summits dwells a solitude as complete as
upon the unsettled prairies of the far West. An hour’s walk takes one
from the busy streets of the little city to this beautiful and lonely
region, and the stranger may explore the paths he finds leading far away
among the hills, for weeks together, without exhausting their store of
new scenes and influences. The calm impressiveness of these mountain
landscapes disposes the mind to quiet thought, and one who has felt them
till their spirit grew familiar, is at no loss to comprehend the
inspiration from which Schiller, Uhland and Hauff have sung.

It is a favorite habit with the Heidelbergers, and one into which the
traveler willingly falls, to spend the last hour or two of daylight in a
walk by the Neckar, in the gardens of the castle, or off in the forests.
At spots of especial beauty rustic inns have been erected, where, at
tables in the shade, the visiter is furnished with beer, cool from its
underground vaults, and thick curds, to which a relish is given by sugar
and powdered cinnamon. The most noted of these places is the
Wolfsbrunnen, about a mile and a half from the city, in a lonely glen,
high up on the mountain. A large stone basin, two centuries old, stands
there, pouring out a stream of the coldest and purest water, dammed up
below to form a small pool, in which hundreds of trout breed and grow
fat from the benevolence of visiters. A wooden inn, two stories high,
with balconies on all sides, is nestled among the trees, and farther
down the stream a little mill does its steady work from year to year.

A party was once formed by our German friends, and we spent a whole
Saturday afternoon in this delicious retreat. Frau Dr. S——, who was
always ready for any piece of social merriment, had the management of
the excursion, and directed us with the skill of a general. Fräulein
Marie, her niece, a blooming maiden of eighteen, and Madame Louise ——,
a sprightly little widow from Mannheim, with Dr. S——, one or two
students, and we Americans, were her subjects. Every thing was arranged
with precision before we started. The books, the cards, the music
(including a most patient guitar) were distributed among those best able
to carry them, and we finally started, without any particular order of
march. German etiquette forbids a lady to take the arm of a male friend,
unless she is betrothed to him; talking is allowed, fortunately.

As we climbed to the terraces of the castle, we could see the thread of
the Rhine, in the distance, sparkling through the haze. The light air
which came down the Neckar was fragrant with pine and the first falling
leaves of summer trees. The vineyards below us were beginning to look
crisp and brown, but hanging from stake to stake the vines were bent
down by blue clusters, with the bloom still upon them. Troops of
light-hearted students, children, blue-eyed and blond-haired, and
contented citizens, were taking the same path, and like them, we forgot
every thing but the sense of present happiness.

We had a table spread upon the upper balcony of the inn, after our
scattered forces returned from many a long ramble up the glen and out on
the meadows. Frau Dr. S—— ordered a repast, and the “landlady’s
daughter”—not the sweet maid of Uhland’s song, but a stout-armed and
stout-waisted damsel—brought us a jar of curds, dripping with the cool
water in which it had stood. A loaf of brown bread next made its
appearance, followed by a stone jug of foaming beer, and two or three
dishes of those prune-tarts peculiar to Germany, completed the fare. On
the porch below us, two or three musicians played waltzes, and the
tables around the fountain were filled with students, laughing, clinking
their beer-glasses, or trolling some burschen chorus. Our own table did
not lack the heartiest spirit of mirth; this could not be otherwise so
long as Frau Dr. S—— sat at the head of it. The students were gay and
full of life, and even Dr. S——, the most earnest and studious of the
party, was so far influenced by the spirit of the time, that he sang the
“King of Thule” with more warmth than I had thought possible.

The afternoon sped away like a thought, and Heidelberg was forgotten
until the faint sound of its evening chimes came up the valley. We
returned in time to see a glowing sky fade over the mountains of
Alsatia, and then first, as the twilight gathered, came the remembrance
of home—a remembrance which did not chide the happiness of the day.

One of these excursions was accompanied by a different and less
agreeable finale. A small party had been arranged to visit the ruins of
St. Michael’s Chapel, on the summit of the Holy Mountain. I had ascended
it previously, after an hour’s climbing, directly up the side, but as
ladies were to accompany us, it was necessary to take a winding road,
two or three miles in length, to reach the chapel. We mounted, by
flights of steps through the terraced vineyards, to the Philosopher’s
Walk, followed it to a retired glen called the Angels’ Meadow, and then
entered a forest-road. The wind roared loudly among the trees, and the
sky grew darker as we ascended, but we took little heed of these signs.
Finally, however, on reaching a rocky point whence we could look down on
the Rhine-plain, we were somewhat alarmed to see a heavy rain-cloud
approaching from the west. The chapel was still half a mile distant, and
its open walls and dismantled towers could afford us no protection, so
there was nothing left but to turn about and descend with all speed.

The rain had just crossed the Rhine, and would probably be half an hour
in reaching us, and as we could trace its misty advance on the sheet of
landscape below us, we hoped to time our rate of walking so as to reach
some shelter before it struck the mountain. Vain hope!—before we
reached the Angels’ Meadow the wind fairly howled among the trees, and
swept over us, laden with dust and showers of leaves. The rain followed,
and as our path led over the exposed ridge of the mountain, the arrows
of the storm smote pitilessly in our faces. The ladies shrieked, the men
groaned, and, like Norval’s barbarians, we “rushed like a torrent,”—and
with a torrent—“upon the vale.” When we arrived at the village of
Neuenheim the shower was nearly over, but it might have continued all
day, without more effect upon us.

The village of Ziegelhausen, up the Neckar, with its grim old convent,
gardens and cascades, and the delightful arbors of vine, reaching down
to the very brink of the river, is another favorite place of resort. The
pastor of its church, who was familiar with our German friends, would
frequently join us in an afternoon walk, followed by a cup of tea in the
garden of the inn, and frequently by a share in the games of the village
children. The pastor was a most jovial, genial character; he sang very
finely—indeed, he was brother to the _primo tenore_ in the Opera at
Brunswick—and his wit was inexhaustible. His religion was as genuine as
his cheerfulness; it was no gloomy ascetism, which looked on mirth as
sin, but a joyous, affectionate and abounding spirit, bright as God’s
sunshine and as unconscious of its blessing. How happily passed those
September afternoons, warmed by such true social feeling, and refreshed
by all the kindly influences of nature! If a return like this to the
simple joys of the child’s heart be but obtained by the mature age of a
nation, I could almost wish this country might grow old speedily. The
restless energy of Youth is still upon us. The nation overflows with
active impulses, which fear nothing, and yield to nothing. We have not
yet felt the need of Rest.

I have said nothing of my struggles with the perverse German
language—my daily sieges, advancing from trench to trench, till the
strong fortress was stormed and all its priceless stores in my
possession. I have not spoken of my blunders arising from ignorance and
inexperience, nor the novelty of customs and life so different from
ours. These would be tedious, nor are they necessary to give some
impression of Heidelberg in its most delightful season. The most
romantic and picturesque of all German cities, and therefore most
thronged by romance-hunting tourists, its good old social character is
still happily preserved. The last Revolution has fortunately spared it,
and in spite of railroads beside its mountains, and steamboats on the
Neckar, it will be for many years to come one of the pleasantest spots
in Europe.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        THE GRASS OF THE FIELD.


                            BY CAROLINE MAY.


        The grass of the field shall be now my theme,
          For when winter is past, and the snow
        Has melted away from the earth like a dream,
          No flowers that in loveliness grow
        More dear, or more beautiful ever can be
        Than the simple grass of the field to me.

        It springs up so quick, when showers call aloud
          For every thing glad to come forth;
        And when the sun bursts from his rainbow-cloud,
          As the rain passes off to the north—
        It shines in his glory, and laughs in his light,
        The green grass of the field, so glistening and bright.

        Happy children love in the grass to play,
          Thick and soft for their dancing feet;
        And there the wild bees gather honey all day
          From the clover so blushing and sweet,
        And find no stores that the garden can yield
        Are richer than those from the grass of the field.

        The lark makes his nest in the twining grass,
          And methinks when he soars to the skies,
        And sings the clear notes that all others surpass,
          His gladness must surely arise
        From the lowly content of that innocent breast,
        Which finds in the grass of the field a safe nest.

        There are few who notice the delicate flower
          That blooms in the grass at their feet,
        Yet the proudest plant in the greenhouse or bower
          Is not fairer, or more complete;
        And to those who observe—it is clearly revealed
        That God clothes with beauty the grass of the field.

        The mower comes out so busy and blythe,
          At the dawn of a summer’s day,
        And the tall waving grass at the stroke of his scythe
          Is cut down and withers away:
        But the fragrance it sends over valley and hill
        Makes the grass of the field loved and lovely still.

        And while on the perishing grass we look,
          A soft voice in the summer wind
        Will whisper the words of the Holy Book
          To the humble and thoughtful mind.
        “All flesh is as grass,” it will seem to say—
        “Like the flower of the grass ye shall pass away.”

        But oh! we will hope with a faith secure—
          Through the years of this mortal strife—
        On the words of the Lord, which forever endure,
          For in them is eternal life:
        Thus lessons of truth all our pleasures will yield,
        And wisdom we’ll learn from the grass of the field.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          TO AN ABSENT SISTER.


                       BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.


             Thy natal morn hath dawned again
               With pure and cloudless ray;
             May Peace and Hope attend thy steps,
               Sweet sister, on this day.

             It is the first that ever found
               Me severed from thy side,
             And tears will mingle with my prayer
               At morn and eventide.

             For I have yearned to lay my hand
               In blessing on thy brow,
             And speak the earnest words of love
               That stir my spirit now;

             Have longed, but longed in vain, to meet
               The dark and sunny eye,
             That has from childhood been to me
               A star in every sky.

             Have sought amid a stranger band
               The smile I loved so well,
             And lived in spirit o’er again
               A sorrowful farewell!

             And thou hast missed a warm caress,
               And wept its loss, I know,
             For we were joined as flowers that spring
               From the same root below;

             The early sunbeam as it stole
               Across our quiet room,
             Seemed to thy tearful eyes to wear
               An all unwonted gloom.

             And low winds seemed with mournful wail
               The forest leaves to thrill,
             As memory whispered that thou hadst
               A vacant place to fill.

             But we have loved as few can love,
               For years, through storm and shine,
             And though our paths lie separate now,
               Thy heart still clings to mine.

             By childhood’s smiles and youth’s gay dreams,
               By memories of the dead,
             By the stern discipline of grief,
               My soul to thine is wed:

             Links as eternal as the prayer
               We used to breathe at even,
             As ever-during as the vow
               That binds us unto Heaven.

             Then blessings on thee, dearest one,
               My heart leaps o’er the sea;
             I feel thy breath upon my cheek,
               May God watch over thee.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                 TASTE.


                       BY MISS AUGUSTA C. TWIGGS.


This seems a little word, while we repeat it less than one second of
time is consumed, yet in its signification it is a great word—a word of
vast and unmeasured import:

By it we understand a just appreciation of the good, the beautiful, the
pleasant, the worthy and the useful:

Still it is not alike to all: Tastes differ with characters, and
characters with men. By an all wise Creator was this so ordained, and in
every thing we see the wisdom and the beauty of His system.

Suppose, for instance, we pass in fancy around this vast globe, as we
progress onward, countries, climates, men and characters undergo every
conceivable grade of change. Gradually we pass from regions inhabited by
enlightened men—men of learning and deep research, men to whom Science
seems to have lent her very self, until we come to a race of beings
between whom and the brute creation there is scarcely a demarcation: Yet
each and every one of these thousands upon thousands of countless beings
has his own peculiar sphere of action, and his own especial tastes,
adapted to his position and circumstances.

Taste may, however, be improved or debased, elevated to the highest
appreciations, the noblest conceptions, or lowered to the most sordid
views, the most groveling level, and this is left to man himself—to
rise or fall, to sink or soar, is left to his own choice, and is within
his own power.

Of course this remark is not unqualified, it is not intended that the
natives of Central Africa, or of the inhabited regions around the Poles,
can improve their moral condition, and rise to the same high standard as
may the enlightened nations of Europe or of our own loved country. To
assert such a thing would be preposterous, to expect it ridiculous. Our
resources are not their resources, our advantages not theirs, but there
is implanted in the breast of every man a frame-work and basis, with
which, and upon which, he may build something that shall make him better
than he now is. And the greater his advantages, the vaster the amount of
material furnished him wherewith to work, the more will be expected of
him, and higher and higher will the eyes of men rise, seeking for the
pinnacles of that temple of the mind which they of a right expect him to
rear.

To ensure without fail the meeting of their views, (perchance to surpass
them,) it is not sufficient to seize indiscriminately and pile block
upon block, and stone upon stone. It is not sufficient to heap up a vast
mountain of brick and mortar, jumbled together without taste or
elegance, and then write upon it—This is Parian marble—these are
classic proportions. This will not do, the cheat will be found out, and
Ridicule will mingle her laughter with the shouts and jeers of the
multitude as they mock and scan the shallow attempt at imposition.

What then is to be done?

This—let us seek Taste, let us acquaint ourselves with her, coax her,
court her, make her our own, and we are safe. But we must be sure it is
no impostor, no false being who assumes the name, for there are such,
and they are to be shunned. We must “be sure we are right, then” onward,
right onward.

True taste will teach us to select the choice blocks, the finely grained
and unflawed marble, she will bid us to reject the huge, coarse,
glittering rocks with which some will strive to dazzle our eyes and
mislead our judgment, and cause us to turn aside from those brittle and
perishing kinds which will scarce bear handling.

Having chosen our materials, now let us build. Up go the blocks one
after another, and high the temple grows. Day by day it increases in
height, but why is it men stand and gaze with mortified and disappointed
looks upon the structure? Why do no sounds of encouragement, no
acclamations and shouts of admiration reach the ear? Hear the reason—we
sought Taste—we courted her, we bid her aid us seek our materials, and
teach us how to judge of them. She did so—that done we scorned her aid,
we forgot her, and trusting in ourselves we reared a vast work of folly.

But “_nil desperandum_,” there is yet time. Tear down the monument of
heedlessness and call Taste to teach us once again. Faithful she returns
at our bidding. Now hark to the sound of the mallet and chisel as they
ring against the stone, chip by chip of superfluous material is worked
away, piece by piece which is unneeded is broken off and thrown aside
until some other work shall call them into use.

Now seems to become exhumed, as from a grave of stone and rubbish, the
massive pedestal, the firm base, the graceful column, the sculptured
capital and the rich cornice. Day by day, and hour by hour, these
multiply in true and classic beauty, and higher and higher skyward soars
the now elegant structure, until, amid the shouts and admiration of the
world, the voice of Reason proclaims that Taste has fashioned it.

This, then, is an edifice, a work worthy of the mind, formed from
materials the choicest within man’s reach, wrought out and builded by
the hand of Taste; it is worthy to be gazed upon, to be admired and
copied by all.

Age after age will go by, but still it will stand firm, and beautiful,
and admired as when the artist gave the last stroke, and proclaimed it
to the world as finished.

Are proofs required, among the names of the ancients may be found those
time-honored and long worshiped ones of Lysippus, Polycletus,
Praxiteles, Timanthes, Appelles, Zeuxis, Parrhasius, Plato, Aristotle,
Pliny, Ovid, Pollio, Catullus, Demosthenes, Thucydides, Xenophon,
Aristophanes, Orpheus, Archilocus and Timotheus, together with many,
many of their cotemporaries, for whose names I have no space, but whose
memories are still, and still are to be, revered.

Following in the path which these have hewn through the thickets of
prejudice and ignorance comes a long bright train. Amidst the stars of
this latter day firmament gleam conspicuous the names of Banks, Young,
Cole, West, White, Vandyck, Tasso, Titian, Rittenhouse, Mozart, Milton,
Crabbe, Gallileo and Godfry, and ever and anon new and brilliant planets
flash forth and shed their glad effulgence around.

Could this be without Taste?

It could not. Glorious and rich and varied as are the works of those
whose efforts and the productions of whose minds have tended to elevate
and improve our condition, they never could have been without Taste to
suggest—Taste to aid, and Taste to accomplish the mighty, the
stupendous, the gigantic works they have wrought.

What was it, let us inquire, that induced the ancient Egyptians to build
the city of Thebes in such glorious magnificence that even its ruins
produced effects upon historians to cause them to be immortalized? Homer
tells of her hundred gates, from each of which two hundred chariots and
ten thousand warriors could issue at a time. To her palaces painting and
sculpture had lent all their art, combining to render this city one of
the glories of the world. Was not this Taste?

What, too, induced them to erect those monuments of the strength of man
and tyranny of kings—the Obelisks and Pyramids, to erect them in such
huge size and vast strength that still they stand, as through long ages
they have stood, firm and immovable as the “everlasting hills?”

Taste.

Need we ask Astronomy, that grand and elevating science, the
contemplation of which forces upon us our own insignificance, and raises
us from “Nature up to Nature’s God”—that science which teaches us to
admire and wonder, to gaze and fear, to glorify and adore the _Great
Being_ who formed “Arcturus, Orion and the Pleiades.” Need we ask to
what considerations upon the part of man we are indebted for the
important and immense researches which all lie open to us, which teach
us to trace out the constellations, and “call the stars by their
names”—which drew Phytheas from his home and caused him to wander
unsatisfied with the observations he was able to make in his own
country, from the Pillars of Hercules to the mouth of the Tanais—which
made Egypt, Rome, Spain, France, Germany and Denmark the cradles of the
then infant science?

Is it necessary to reply it is Taste?

Turn we then to Philosophy, and in the deep researches of Thales, the
moral reasoning of Socrates, the eloquence of Plato, and the
disinterestedness of Zenocrates read of Taste.

Chemistry, with all its brilliant discoveries, and Rhetoric, in its
elegance, speak of it.

Music, Oratory, History, Geography, Grammar and Physic are each and all
of them proofs of Taste in its truth and purity; and Poetry shouts forth
with glad and eager pride Eureka! we have found it.

The beauty, delicacy and usefulness of Botany, the rich and varied hue
of the flowers, those “gems of earth,” whisper softly to us of Taste;
and the importance of Anatomy proves it.

Metaphysics and Geometry demonstrate its truth; while the wild bird’s
carol hymns forth its notes of praise and gladness to the Creator of it
and of that element of man’s happiness, Taste.

It is here, it is there, it is everywhere, one grand, pervading
principle, one first element, one chief ingredient of all things.

It was implanted in the mind by _Him_ who formed us, and it is as much
the duty of man to cultivate and improve his taste, as it is his duty to
improve and cultivate any other talent lent him to keep; and he will be
considered no more excusable for wrapping this precious deposit in a
napkin and hiding it away than was the servant of old, who buried the
talent until the coming of his lord. Let us then cultivate Taste, each
according to the kind and portion given us.

It has been said that “every man is born to excel in something, and the
only reason so many fail is they mistake their calling.” Be this as it
may, it sounds marvelously like sense, and it would be well for every
one to examine strictly, that he may discover wherein it is intended he
shall excel, and what the peculiar Taste or Tastes may be which, to
himself, to society at large, and to a _higher power_ than either, it is
his duty to cultivate.

Yet although Taste has been given us, and we are required to improve and
use it to the best advantage, it is not intended there are no other
gifts bestowed on man which can equal it. That would be to assume for it
more than could well be proven. It is intended that Taste shall act as a
means of enjoyment and happiness, as a means whereby we can investigate
causes, and admire and apply effects—a means whereby we can dive into
the very depths of science and open the sealed treasure-house of
knowledge—a means of searching out the beauties and glories of
creation, and comprehending, as far as the mind of man is capable of
comprehending, the wonderful omnipotence of the Deity.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                 THE MAN OF MIND AND THE MAN OF MONEY.


                            BY T. S. ARTHUR.


At nineteen, Silas Loring left college and went into a store to be
educated for a merchant. At the same time, a school-companion, named
Alfred Benedict, with whom he had been intimate, was placed by his
parents in the counting-room of a large shipper. The two young men had
enjoyed equal advantages, so far as education was concerned; but they
had improved these advantages differently. The father of Loring early
impressed upon his mind the idea that wealth gave a man all power and
influence in the world; that it was the greatest good that could be
sought; while the father of Benedict urged his son to gain knowledge as
the highest and best possession. The two young men had been influenced,
as well by their natural tastes and feelings as by the opinions and
advice of their parents. On leaving college, Loring left behind him all
affection for literature or scientific pursuits, and took with him only
an ardent desire to become wealthy, accompanied by a confident assurance
that he possessed the ability required to attain the summit of his
wishes. Benedict, on the contrary, entered the world with his love of
knowledge as active as ever, and his desire for its attainment more
ardent than when he passed at first over the threshold of Wisdom’s
temple.

Equal as to external advantages, the two young men started in the world.
Neither of their parents were rich, though both were able to give their
children a good education, that surest guaranty of success. But
difference of purpose in a few years made a great difference in their
relative positions. When Loring was twenty-five years of age he was a
partner in the house where he had served his apprenticeship, and the
most active and really intelligent business man in the firm; while
Benedict was merely a book-keeper, receiving a salary of twelve hundred
dollars a year. All the energies of the active mind of Loring, inspired
by his love of money, were given to business; while the no less active
mind of Benedict was as deeply absorbed in literary pursuits and
scientific investigations. As a book-keeper, the latter was faithful,
attentive and accurate, and valued by his employers; but beyond his
journal and ledger his thoughts never penetrated the arcana of trade. He
had no affection for it. His mind loved rather to explore the arcana of
knowledge, and gather in from fields that were ever opening before him,
rich harvests of intelligence.

In the manners and appearance of the two young men there was also a
noticeable change. Loring had an air of self-importance, and an
off-hand, dashing sort of manner, that bespoke a mind well satisfied
with itself, and conscious of having done something. But Benedict had
become more quiet and unobtrusive. He looked like a man who did not
entertain a very high opinion of himself, as being of consequence in the
community.

As men appear in society, so are they usually estimated by the mass.
Loring was bowed to across the street a dozen times in every square; was
met in company by a hearty shake of the hand, and treated wherever he
went as an individual of some importance. And such he really felt
himself to be. Benedict, on the contrary, might walk a dozen squares
without receiving a nod, or mingle in society and be almost unnoticed
and alone. But he did not feel this. In fact he was hardly conscious of
it; for he rarely, if ever, thought any thing about the estimation in
which others held him. His mind was in a higher and purer region.

The intimate friendship that had existed between Loring and Benedict,
did not continue very long after they left college, although they
remained friends and acquaintances, and were interested in each other
for some years. But, after Loring had changed from a clerk to a
merchant, he began to feel that he was no longer on a level with a mere
book-keeper, who was likely to remain a book-keeper for life. Merchants
were now his associates. Men who used to bow to him with distant
formality, _now_ took him cordially by the hand, and were as familiar
with him as he had been with mere clerks before. He likewise received
invitations to the houses of these merchants, and was introduced into a
new and higher circle. In this circle he never met his old friend
Benedict. Is it any wonder that he looked down upon him as an inferior?
None. We see by means of the atmosphere by which we are surrounded,
whether naturally or spiritually. The atmosphere in which the mind of
Loring breathed and saw, was so different from the one that gave life
and vision to the mind of Benedict, that he was unable to see by it the
true quality and character of his friend. He could see in his own
atmosphere, but that which surrounded the humble book-keeper was
darkness to his eyes.

Thus the years went by, Loring accumulating gold, and Benedict treasures
of knowledge, that neither moth nor rust could corrupt, nor thieves
break through and steal. As these treasures increased, he began to feel
a desire to impart something of what he possessed to others. This desire
prompted him to write out his reflections, experiences, and the new
views that were constantly pressing in upon his mind, and send them to
the various literary and scientific journals for publication. It was not
long before this brought him into honorable notice, and made his name
familiar to men of intelligence throughout the country, with many of
whom he gradually came into correspondence.

“What has become of Benedict?” asked Mr. Loring, one day of the merchant
whose book-keeper he had been for many years. “I have missed him from
your store for some time.”

“He left me several months ago,” was the reply.

“How came that? But I suppose his mind got so lost in his literary
pursuits that he was no longer good for any thing as a clerk.”

“He was faithful and correct to the last,” promptly answered the
individual to whom this remark was made. “I never had and never expect
to have a more valuable clerk than Benedict. But he has obtained a
better place, and one more suited to his tastes and abilities.”

“Ah, where has he gone?”

“To Bowdoin College. The Professorship of —— was offered to him, and
he accepted it.”

“I didn’t know that he had any friends away off there. Isn’t it rather
singular that he should be appointed to such a chair? Do you think him
capable of filling it?”

“I presume those who appointed him knew his ability.”

“Did he apply for it?”

“No. He knew nothing of the vacancy until he was notified of his
appointment.”

“That is a little singular,” remarked Loring, wondering for the moment
how a man of so little importance, and no very distinguished ability,
should be voluntarily tendered a high professorship in Bowdoin College.
But the wonder did not occupy his mind very long. It passed away with
the thought of his old school-friend.

Great activity and energy in a business already firmly established, in
which was ample capital, made Loring the possessor, in a few years, of
quite a handsome property. Ambitious of a more rapid increase of
fortune, and believing that he ought to have the entire benefit of his
activity, energy, and capacity for trade, he withdrew from the house in
which he was a partner, and commenced business alone. He did not err in
his calculations. The results was as favorable as he had expected. Money
came in more rapidly, and with its accumulation rose his ideas of his
own importance, until he looked down upon every man whose coffers were
not quite as full as his own, at the same time that he felt himself to
be as good as any millionaire in the land.

It is a little singular how the mere possession of money raises a man’s
ideas of his own importance, and causes him to think meanly of all who
are not favored with any considerable portion of this world’s goods.
Upon what a slender basis of real worth do men sometimes build a
towering structure of self-conceit! Wealth is very rarely the
correspondent of solid virtue and sterling merit in those who possess
it; not that men of wealth are less virtuous or meritorious as a class,
but wealth, upon which most persons value themselves, is not the true
standard for estimating the man. It never gives quality to the heart,
principles to the mind, nor to the understanding rational intelligence.

As Mr. Loring continued to grow richer, his ideas of his own importance
continued to rise, until he felt himself quite an “exclusive” in
society. At the age of forty, he determined to take a trip across the
Atlantic, and see the world abroad. He must spend some time in London,
Paris and Italy. In order to be prepared for this journey, he brushed up
his French, and spent his leisure time in reading about the places he
proposed to visit. So far as his knowledge of matters and things in his
own country, out of the mercantile sphere, was concerned, it was very
limited. Even in politics he was not very well posted up. As to what was
doing in literature and science, he was altogether ignorant. He was a
successful merchant, and that was about all that could be said of him.

All things ready, Mr. Loring took passage in a steamer for Liverpool.
The ship had cast off her moorings, and was gliding swiftly along the
smooth waters of the bay, when the merchant, in turning his eyes from
the diminishing city to the nearer and more palpable objects on board
the vessel that was bearing him on to the ocean, noticed a familiar
face. At first he was at a loss where to place its owner. But soon his
memory was clear upon that subject. His old friend, Benedict, was a
fellow-passenger! The eyes of the latter were upon him, and his
countenance about expressing a pleasurable recognition, when Loring
turned away and glanced back again upon the dim and distant city. He did
not wish to renew the acquaintance. When he next looked around upon his
companions for the voyage, Benedict was not to be seen.

There were one hundred passengers on board, and among them several men
of high reputation in the United States. A former Governor of
Massachusetts, whose name and fame were familiar to every one, was among
the number; also two men from the South, who had distinguished
themselves during many years in the national legislature. One of them
had held the office of Secretary of State. Besides these, there were
many men of standing and character both from the mercantile class and
the learned professions. In looking over the list of passengers, Mr.
Loring was well satisfied to find himself in such good company. The only
drawback was the presence of so obscure an individual as Mr. Benedict,
with whom he had once been acquainted, but toward whom he must now, in
justice to his own character and position, conduct himself as a
stranger.

Such were the reflections of Mr. Loring, as he turned from the vessel’s
side and went below, late in the afternoon of the day on which they had
sailed. On entering the cabin, the first objects that met his eyes were
the ex-governor of Massachusetts and Mr. Benedict engaged in
conversation. This surprised him at first, but on reflection, he
explained the circumstance by supposing that Benedict had intruded
himself upon the individual with whom he was conversing, and that the
latter submitted to the intrusion from mere politeness. He sat down at
some distance from them, expecting to see their interview quickly
terminated. But he was disappointed in this, for the parties grew more
and more interested. Whenever Benedict spoke, he observed that the other
listened with deep attention, and that his manner toward him was always
respectful, and sometimes even deferential. The conversation was
prolonged until tea-time, and then the two men separated.

There was something in this that the man of wealth could not understand.

On the next day Mr. Loring sought an opportunity to make the formal
acquaintance of Mr. ——, from the Bay State, through the introduction
of a friend on board, who presented him as “one of our first merchants,”
going out to visit Europe. Mr. —— was very polite, and made some
commonplace remarks to the merchant, who replied with a self-importance
in his manner that did not make the impression he designed. The
ex-governor knew just how much money was worth as a standard by which to
estimate the man. The words, “one of our first merchants,” made no
impression upon him whatever. In fact, he scarcely noticed it. After
talking a short time with Mr. Loring, with a polite bow he moved away
and joined Mr. Benedict, who was standing on the opposite side of the
vessel. He was soon again in close conversation with this obscure
individual.

Loring was not only surprised at this, but chafed. It puzzled as well as
annoyed him. He could not but remark that Mr. Benedict was perfectly at
his ease with the distinguished individual who had just left him, and
that there was nothing in the manner of Mr. —— approaching to
condescension. Not many minutes elapsed before they were joined by a
third person, to whom Mr. —— presented Loring’s old friend in a formal
introduction. This individual was from the South. He had formerly held
the office of Secretary of State at Washington. At the mention of Mr.
Benedict’s name he shook him warmly by the hand, and treated him with
marked attention. The three men then went below, where Loring saw them,
about an hour afterward, in the centre of a group of five or six, all
men of standing and character in the United States. Benedict was
speaking, and all were listening to him with deep attention.

“Can it be possible that his fortunes have changed—that he has become
wealthy?” the merchant said to himself; and a feeling of respect for his
old acquaintance arose in his mind.

Day after day went by, and still Mr. Benedict continued to be on terms
of intimacy with these men, while they treated Mr. Loring, who was
introduced to them by a friend, with reserved and distant politeness.

“Who is that man?” asked the merchant, affecting not to know Benedict.
The question was put to a fellow-passenger.

“That’s Professor Benedict,” replied the person addressed, manifesting
surprise at the question. “Are you not acquainted with him?”

Loring shook his head.

“You have heard of him, of course?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Not heard of Professor Benedict!” The passenger looked into the face of
Loring with a broad stare. “Why he is known from one end of our country
to the other as a distinguished scholar and man of science. His articles
in the Quarterly Review, and his essays on Political and Social Economy,
‘Wealth and Labor,’ ‘The Times,’ etc., have won for him an enviable
reputation. There are few abler men in our country than Professor
Benedict.”

Mr. Loring asked no further questions. He felt rebuked and mortified.
Rich as he was, and highly as he valued himself, he felt that the man of
intellect was ranked higher than the man of money. In the small compass
of that steam-vessel were clustered together men of wealth, eminence,
and political distinction. There were few on board whom even Mr. Loring
would think beneath him; and yet he was treated by them with no
particular deference. When he spoke, he was listened to with the
politeness that always accompanies good-breeding; but that was all. None
gathered around him; none sought his company; none treated him as a man
distinguished from the rest. Wealth! that was a common possession; but
strong intellect was the god-like gift of the few; and men bowed before
it and yielded freely their homage.

The proud man was deeply humbled during the brief period occupied in
sweeping across the broad Atlantic, and he felt relieved and breathed
more freely the moment he set his foot on shore at Liverpool. Shame had
kept him from renewing his acquaintance with Benedict, who continued to
be an object of interest to almost every one during the voyage.

In the great world of London, Mr. Loring quickly recovered his balance
of mind. He took letters of introduction to eminent merchants and
bankers there, by whom he was received and treated with the greatest
attention. He was again conscious of the fact, that wealth was power,
and that the possessor of wealth ranked highest of any.

In Paris he did not feel quite so much at ease. He brought letters to
the American Minister, the Hon. Mr. ——, who had represented our
country at the palace of St. Cloud for some five years with honor to
himself and the nation; and was received with the courtesy and attention
which always marked that gentleman’s conduct toward his countrymen. Mr.
Loring had only been in Paris a couple of days when the American
Minister said to him,

“A distinguished countryman of ours is now in Paris. He is to dine with
me day after tomorrow, in company with about fifty of the most
celebrated scientific and literary men in the city. Your arrival is
quite opportune, Mr. Loring, I shall, of course, have the pleasure of
your company.”

Mr. Loring bowed in acquiescence, and then inquired who the
distinguished American was.

“Professor Benedict,” replied the minister. “He is an honor to our
country, and I feel proud of the opportunity I shall have of presenting
him to men of a like spirit with himself, to whom his name has long been
familiar.”

Mr. Loring was confounded.

“He has been for some years a member of the Philosophical Society here,”
continued the minister, “and his communications, published in their
annual report of proceedings, are among the finest papers that emanate
from that body. They cause honorable notice of our countryman to be made
in all the scientific journals of Europe. I need not ask you in what
estimation he is held at home, as I see by Silliman’s Journal, the North
American Review, and the transactions of the various learned societies
there, that his worth is fully known and appreciated. Have you ever had
the pleasure of meeting him?”

“Oh, yes,” was the reply. “He is an old college-mate of mine.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. We were quite intimate as young men; but our pursuits in life were
so different that, in the very nature of things, this intimate
acquaintance could not continue. But I had the pleasure of meeting him
again in crossing the Atlantic. We came over in the same steamer.”

“Did you? That must have been a very pleasant voyage. Fair weather the
whole time, and the company of so many men eminent for their talents.
Mr. Benedict says that the two weeks he spent upon the ocean he shall
number as the most agreeable of his whole life.”

Mr. Loring now felt himself to be in a very awkward position indeed. How
to act he did not know. He had accepted the American Minister’s
invitation to dine with him, and at his table he would meet the man whom
he had for years considered beneath him, and whose very acquaintance he
had dropped as discreditable to one in his position. And this man was to
be the honored guest! Mr. Loring retired to his hotel with his mind
bewildered and his feelings at a lower range in the thermometer of his
self-esteem than they had been for a very long time. If it had not
happened that Benedict came over in the same steamer with him, and that
he had cut his acquaintance before he knew that he had become an
individual of some note, the way would have been plain enough before
him. He could have gone to the dinner and renewed his old friendship,
and felt honored in being his countryman. But this he felt to be out of
the question now. Benedict might refuse to know him, or might treat him
in such a manner as to wound and mortify him severely, and expose him to
the just contempt of men whose good opinion he was the very man to
value.

The exceeding smallness of the foundation upon which he had built a
towering structure of self-importance, was brought, by the circumstances
in which he was placed, with painful clearness to his mind. He saw and
felt, almost for the first time in his life, that money was not every
thing, and that it would not make a man worshiped every where, and by
all classes of men.

For a long time the mind of Mr. Loring was in debate as to the best
course to be pursued. At one time he resolved to send a note to the
American Minister, on the day the dinner was to take place, regretting
his inability to make one of his guests, on account of indisposition.
But this intention was after a while abandoned, and he determined to
leave Paris for Italy on the next day. Like the first resolution, this
was also given up, and his mind was all in confusion again. At length he
decided, though with much reluctance, that he would call upon Mr.
Benedict, and formally renew his acquaintance. There was something, he
felt, humiliating in this; but it was a step greatly to be preferred to
any that he had yet thought of taking. He did not wish to lie direct to
the American Minister, by saying that he was indisposed; nor did he wish
to leave Paris for at least a month.

By little and by little, since the day the steamer left New York, the
man of money had felt increasing respect for the man of mind. He saw
that he was honored by those who were themselves honorable; that he was
known and highly esteemed by distinguished men in Paris and throughout
Europe, while his name had scarcely been heard of beyond his own city.
There was no mistake about this. It was all plain as daylight. The
humble book-keeper was a greater man than the purse-proud merchant.

The severest conflict between pride and necessity that ever took place
in Mr. Loring’s mind, was that which ended in a determination to call
upon Mr. Benedict. What his reception would be he knew not, nor could he
fix upon any mode of address, on meeting him, that was satisfactory.

At length, after hours of hesitation and debate, and a re-consideration
of the whole matter, the merchant left his hotel and proceeded to that
of the old friend whom he had cast off years before as beneath him in
social rank and real worth. Gradually his respect for him had been
rising, until now he rather looked up than down upon him, as the
possessor of something far more intrinsically excellent than any thing
of which he could boast. Known throughout all Europe! The honored guest
of the American Minister! Courted by men of learning and distinction in
Paris! His very name a passport into the first circles, and an
introduction to the most eminent men of the day! What had he been
thinking about? Where were his eyes, that he had not before seen this
rising star, now suddenly revealed to him, shining in beauty and
splendor? Respect was easily changed into a feeling of deference. As
distinctly as he could, Mr. Loring endeavored to recall to his mind the
appearance and manner of Mr. Benedict, during the voyage across the
Atlantic. This he could not do very distinctly, as he had kept out of
his way as much as possible. Still he could recollect that there was
ease, self-possession, dignity of manner, and the consciousness of
power. These were the visible marks of a great man about him—not so
much perceived at the time at recognized, now that they were remembered.

This was the state of mind, and such were the thoughts that oppressed
Mr. Loring, as he started on his humiliating errand. He, of course,
expected to be received with coldness and dignity, if received at all.
It might be that Mr. Benedict would decline renewing the acquaintance
that he had almost rudely dropped, which, under the circumstances, would
be mortifying in the extreme, and compel him to decline the invitation
to dine with the American Minister.

His card sent up, the merchant awaited the return of the porter with
serious misgivings at heart. When that functionary returned, and
signified that Mr. Benedict would be happy to receive him, he proceeded
toward his apartments in a state of mind such as he had never before
experienced, and certainly never wished to experience again. A door was
thrown open by the porter, and a man, in the prime of life, stood near
the centre of the room. His quiet, thoughtful face, and calm, steady
eye, so well remembered, and so little changed by time, was lit up
instantly by a warm, frank smile, so natural and familiar, that it
seemed the smile of years before, when they met as intimate friends. He
stepped forward quickly, and grasped Mr. Loring’s extended hand.

The merchant was subdued and humbled. He could hardly utter the words
that rose to his tongue. He stood in the presence of one who was
superior to himself, and who yet assumed no consequence. The beauty and
true nobility of this he clearly saw, because it affected himself. He
felt that Benedict possessed a generous, manly spirit and a true heart,
of the real worth of which he had never before had any conception.

In the interview that followed this meeting, no allusion was made to the
voyage across the Atlantic by either party. The conversation mostly
referred to former years and events.

When they separated, Mr. Loring was in some doubt as to the real
greatness of his old friend. He saw nothing in him that he had not seen
before. Not a brilliant sentence was uttered; nothing out of the common
order was apparent in his conversation. He even permitted the query to
arise in his mind whether or no he had not been overrated? Whether
distance had not lent enchantment to the view? This was his state of
mind when he met him again at the American Minister’s, surrounded by
some of the most celebrated men of learning in Paris; but it changed
after Benedict had been toasted, and he replied in an address of great
beauty, force, and originality, that enchained the attention of every
one. Loring was lost in astonishment and admiration; nor was he less
surprised at the apparent unconsciousness of being more than an ordinary
man manifested by his every act and word during the five hours that he
observed him in the midst of these eminent men, with the best of whom he
could not but acknowledge him, from what he then saw, to be equal.

The man of money did not again come in contact with the man of mind
during his tour in Europe; nor has he met him since his return home. But
now, and he cannot but wonder why it was not so before, he hears the
name of Professor Benedict frequently mentioned, and often meets with it
in the public journals. Whenever he does so, the feeling of purse-proud
superiority that has grown with his growth, and strengthened with his
strength, has a leaf withered, a flower blighted, or a branch riven from
the stem. But the roots of that feeling are vigorous, and strike deeply
into a rich soil. Although its very luxuriant growth is at times
checked, yet we cannot hope to see the plant destroyed. It is too well
matured, and its aliment too abundant.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              A MAY SONG.


                           BY S. D. ANDERSON.


       Hurrah! for sweet May, it is here with its brightness,
         The songs of the birds, and the breath of the flowers,
       The sighs of the zephyrs, that woo with their lightness,
         And hasten the steps of the Summer’s glad hours;
       The earth is all gladness—the sky is all beaming
         With rose-tinted shadows of beauty and light,
       As rich as those insects whose golden wings gleaming
         Are twined in the hair of the maidens at night.

       The soft balmy air through the casement is singing
         In tones of delight to the bud and the bee—
       Like the laughter of girlhood in ecstasy ringing,
         When the first star of evening has bidden them free—
       In the depths of the forest the wild vine is creeping
         Around the huge oak with its blossoms of gold—
       And, curtained with leafiness, flowerets are sleeping,
         Surrounded with perfume and beauty untold.

       Come out with the sunrise!—all Nature is glowing—
         Each hill-top is bathed in the morn’s early beams;
       In the valley the fragrance of spring-time is blowing,
         To scatter the mists from the flower-margined streams;
       On the greensward the footsteps of children are straying,
         As free as the gambols of Summer’s pure air,
       As, ladened with health, from the mountain ’tis playing,
         And tossing each ringlet of gold-colored hair.

       With an echo of music the river is laving
         Its white pebbled shore, as it dances along;
       Now sunshine, now shade o’er its clear bosom waving,
         Like the world’s beaten pathway, half sorrow, half song,
       Far, far in the distance, the ocean is lying,
         As calm and as tideless as infancy’s breast;
       While the last lingering rays of the purple light dying
         Is shed on its face ere it sinks into rest.

       And then comes the _eve_ with its moonlight and dreaming,
         When melody floats on each whisper and sigh.
       When eyes are as bright as the stars that are gleaming,
         And hearts are as free as the breeze passing by.
       In the wildwood the song of the night-bird is blending
         With the light tread of dancers, and shoutings of mirth,
       Whilst all round are the _rosy boy’s_ arrows descending,
         And _love_, like our joys, has a star-lighted birth.

       The Summer’s young Ganymede’s cup is o’erflowing
         With dew-drops, distilled from the Spring’s early morn,
       As pure as the breath of the west wind that’s blowing,
         Or wishes deep down in a maiden’s heart born;
       Then a health for sweet May! what heart is not swelling
         As the mild air of Summer comes soft o’er the brow,
       And a thousand bright tokens all round us are telling
         That the May-day of _Youth_ and _Affection_ is now.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           FIFTY SUGGESTIONS.


                            BY EDGAR A. POE.


                                   1.

It is observable that, while among all nations the omni-color, white,
has been received as an emblem of the Pure, the no-color, black, has by
no means been generally admitted as _sufficiently_ typical of Impurity.
There are blue devils as well as black; and when we think _very_ ill of
a woman, and wish to _blacken_ her character, we merely call her “a
_blue_-stocking” and advise her to read, in Rabelais’ “_Gargantua_,” the
chapter “_de ce qui est signifié par les couleurs blanc et bleu_.” There
is far more difference between these “_couleurs_,” in fact, than that
which exists between simple _black_ and white. Your “blue,” when we come
to talk of stockings, is black in _issimo_—“_nigrum nigrius
nigro_”—like the matter from which Raymond Lully first manufactured his
alcohol.

                                   2.

Mr. ——, I perceive, has been appointed Librarian to the new ——
Athenæum. To him, the appointment is advantageous in many respects.
Especially:—“_Mon cousin, voici une belle occasion pour apprendre à
lire!_”

                                   3.

As far as I can understand the “loving our enemies,” it implies the
hating our friends.

                                   4.

In commencing our dinners with gravy soup, no doubt we have taken a hint
from Horace.

            —— Da, he says, si _grave_ non est,
        Quæ prima iratum ventrem placaverit isca.

                                   5.

Of much of our cottage architecture we may safely say, I think,
(admitting the good intention,) that it _would_ have been Gothic if it
had not felt it its duty to be Dutch.

                                   6.

James’s multitudinous novels seem to be written upon the plan of “the
songs of the Bard of Schiraz,” in which, we are assured by Fadladeen,
“the same beautiful thought occurs again and again in every possible
variety of phrase.”

                                   7.

Some of our foreign lions resemble the human brain in one very striking
particular. They are without any sense themselves and yet are the
centres of sensation.

                                   8.

Mirabeau, I fancy, acquired his wonderful tact at foreseeing and meeting
_contingencies_, during his residence in the stronghold of _If_.

                                   9.

Cottle’s “Reminiscences of Coleridge” is just such a book as damns its
perpetrator forever in the opinion of every gentleman who reads it. More
and more every day do we moderns _pavoneggiarsi_ about our Christianity;
yet, so far as the _spirit_ of Christianity is concerned, we are
immeasurably behind the ancients. Mottoes and proverbs are the indices
of national character; and the Anglo-Saxons are disgraced in having no
proverbial equivalent to the “_De mortuis nil nisi bonum._”
Moreover—where, in all statutory Christendom, shall we find a _law_ so
Christian as the “_Defuncti injuriâ ne afficiantur_” of the Twelve
Tables?

The simple _negative_ injunction of the Latin law and proverb—the
injunction _not to do ill_ to the dead—seems at a first glance,
scarcely susceptible of improvement in the delicate respect of its
terms. I cannot help thinking, however, that the sentiment, if not the
idea intended, is more forcibly conveyed in an apophthegm by one of the
old English moralists, James Puckle. By an ingenious figure of speech he
contrives to imbue the negation of the Roman command with a spirit of
active and positive beneficence. “When speaking of the dead,” he says,
in his “Grey Cap for a Green Head,” “_so fold up your discourse that
their virtues may be outwardly shown, while their vices are wrapped up
in silence_.”

                                  10.

I have no doubt that the Fourierites honestly fancy “a nasty poet fit
for nothing” to be the true translation of “_poeta nascitur non fit_.”

                                  11.

There surely can_not_ be “more things in Heaven and Earth than are
dreamt of” (oh, Andrew Jackson Davis!) “in _your_ philosophy.”

                                  12.

“It is only as the Bird of Paradise quits us in taking wing,” observes,
or should observe, some poet, “that we obtain a full view of the beauty
of its plumage;” and it is only as the politician is about being “turned
out” that—like the snake of the Irish Chronicle when touched by St.
Patrick—he “awakens to a sense of his _situation_.”

                                  13.

Newspaper editors seem to have constitutions closely similar to those of
the Deities in “Walhalla,” who cut each other to pieces every day, and
yet got up perfectly sound and fresh every morning.

                                  14.

As far as I can comprehend the modern cant in favor of “unadulterated
Saxon,” it is fast leading us to the language of that region where, as
Addison has it, “they sell the best fish and speak the plainest
English.”

                                  15.

The frightfully long money-pouches—“like the Cucumber called the
Gigantic”—which have come in vogue among our belles—are _not_ of
Parisian origin, as many suppose, but are strictly indigenous here. The
fact is, such a fashion would be quite out of place in Paris, where it
is money _only_ that women keep in a purse. The purse of an American
lady, however, must be large enough to carry both her money and the soul
of its owner.

                                  16.

I can see no objection to gentlemen “standing for Congress”—provided
they stand on one side—nor to their “running for Congress”—if they are
in a very great hurry to get there—but it would be a blessing if some
of them could be persuaded into sitting still, for Congress, after they
arrive.

                                  17.

If _Envy_, as Cyprian has it, be “the moth of the soul,” whether shall
we regard _Content_ as its Scotch snuff or its camphor?

                                  18.

M——, having been “used up” in the —— Review, goes about town lauding
his critic—as an epicure lauds the best London mustard—with the tears
in his eyes.

                                  19.

“_Con tal que las costumbres de un autor sean puras y castas_,” says the
Catholic Don Tomas de las Torres, in the Preface to his “Amatory Poems,”
“_importo muy poco qui no sean igualmente severas sus obras_:” meaning,
in plain English, that, provided the personal morals of an author are
pure, it matters little what those of his books are.

For so unprincipled an idea, Don Tomas, no doubt, is still having a hard
time of it in Purgatory; and, by way of most pointedly manifesting their
disgust at his philosophy on the topic in question, many modern
theologians and divines are now busily squaring their conduct by his
proposition exactly _conversed_.

                                  20.

Children are never too tender to be whipped:—like tough beefsteaks, the
more you beat them the more tender they become.

                                  21.

Lucian, in describing the statue “with its surface of Parian marble and
its interior filled with rags,” must have been looking with a prophetic
eye at some of our great “moneyed institutions.”

                                  22.

That poets (using the word comprehensively, as including artists in
general) are a _genus irritabile_, is well understood; but the _why_,
seems not to be commonly seen. An artist is an artist only by dint of
his exquisite sense of Beauty—a sense affording him rapturous
enjoyment, but at the same time implying, or involving, an equally
exquisite sense of Deformity of disproportion. Thus a wrong—an
injustice—done a poet who is really a poet, excites him to a degree
which, to ordinary apprehension, appears disproportionate with the
wrong. Poets _see_ injustice—_never_ where it does not exist—but very
often where the unpoetical see no injustice whatever. Thus the poetical
irritability has no reference to “temper” in the vulgar sense, but
merely to a more than usual clear-sightedness in respect to Wrong:—this
clear-sightedness being nothing more than a corollary from the vivid
perception of Right—of justice—of proportion—in a word, of το καλου.
But one thing is clear—that the man who is _not_ “irritable,” (to the
ordinary apprehension,) is _no poet_.

                                  23.

Let a man succeed ever so evidently—ever so demonstrably—in many
different displays of _genius_, the envy of criticism will agree with
the popular voice in denying him more than _talent_ in any. Thus a poet
who has achieved a great (by which I mean an effective) poem, should be
cautious not to distinguish himself in any other walk of Letters. In
especial—let him make no effort in Science—unless anonymously, or with
the view of waiting patiently the judgment of posterity. Because
universal or even versatile geniuses have rarely or never been known,
_therefore_, thinks the world, none such can ever be. A “therefore” of
this kind is, with the world, conclusive. But what is the _fact_, as
taught us by analysis of mental power? Simply, that the _highest_
genius—that the genius which all men instantaneously acknowledge as
such—which acts upon individuals, as well as upon the mass, by a
species of magnetism incomprehensible but irresistible and _never
resisted_—that this genius which demonstrates itself in the simplest
gesture—or even by the absence of all—this genius which speaks without
a voice and flashes from the unopened eye—is but the result of
generally large mental power existing in a state of _absolute
proportion_—so that no one faculty has undue predominance. _That_
factitious “genius”—that “genius” in the popular sense—which is but
the manifestation of the abnormal predominance of some one faculty over
all the others—and, of course, at the expense and to the detriment, of
all the others—is a result of mental disease or rather, of organic
malformation of mind:—it is this and nothing more. Not only will such
“genius” fail, if turned aside from the path indicated by its
predominant faculty; but, even when pursuing this path—when producing
those works in which, certainly, it is _best_ calculated to
succeed—will give unmistakeable indications of _unsoundness_, in
respect to general intellect. Hence, indeed, arises the just idea that

        “Great wit to madness nearly is allied.”

I say “_just_ idea;” for by “great wit,” in this case, the poet intends
precisely the pseudo-genius to which I refer. The true genius, on the
other hand, is necessarily, if not universal in its manifestations, at
least capable of universality; and if, attempting all things, it
succeeds in one rather better than in another, this is merely on account
of a certain bias by which _Taste_ leads it with more earnestness in the
one direction than in the other. With equal zeal, it would succeed
equally in all.

To sum up our results in respect to this very simple, but much _vexata
questio_:—

What the world calls “genius” is the state of mental disease arising
from the undue predominance of some one of the faculties. The works of
such genius are never sound in themselves and, in especial, always
betray the general mental insanity.

The _proportion_ of the mental faculties, in a case where the general
mental power is _not_ inordinate, gives that result which we distinguish
as _talent_:—and the talent is greater or less, first, as the general
mental power is greater or less; and, secondly, as the proportion of the
faculties is more or less absolute.

The proportion of the faculties, in a case where the mental power is
inordinately great, gives that result which _is_ the true _genius_ (but
which, on account of the proportion and seeming simplicity of its works,
is seldom acknowledged to _be_ so;) and the genius is greater or less,
first, as the general mental power is more or less inordinately great;
and, secondly, as the proportion of the faculties is more or less
absolute.

An objection will be made:—that the greatest excess of mental power,
however proportionate, does not seem to satisfy our idea of genius,
unless we have, in addition, sensibility, passion, energy. The reply is,
that the “absolute proportion” spoken of, when applied to inordinate
mental power, gives, as a result, the appreciation of Beauty and horror
of Deformity which we call sensibility, together with that intense
vitality, which is implied when we speak of “Energy” or “Passion.”

                                  24.

“And Beauty draws us by a single hair.”—Capillary attraction, of
course.

                                  25.

It is by no means clear, as regards the present revolutionary spirit of
Europe, that it is a spirit which “moveth altogether if it move at all.”
In Great Britain it may be kept quiet for half a century yet, by placing
at the head of affairs an experienced medical man. He should keep his
forefinger constantly on the pulse of the patient, and exhibit _panem_
in gentle doses, with as much _circenses_ as the stomach can be made to
retain.

                                           [_Conclusion in our next._

                 *        *        *        *        *



                     HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,


   DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.


                          BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.


                      (_Concluded from page 266._)

When Parisian society had passed the dread ordeal which bears the name
of the Reign of Terror, through continual scenes of blood and tears, it
seemed by a strange and almost unaccountable impulse to be impelled to
mirth and festivity. On the day after the disappearance of the
guillotine French frivolity resumed its sway with a thousand whims and
vagaries, to which the stern muse of history would pay no attention, but
to which, in this sketch of the follies of humanity, we may aptly
attend. One of the whimsicalities peculiar to the day is that in memory
of the sad toilette of the guillotine, when the hair was cropped by the
shears of the executioner, a similar _coiffure_ was the _mode_. Women
laid aside their luxuriant locks for a _coiffure à la victime_, and wore
a band of blood-red velvet around the neck, as if in derision of the
fall of the axe. This fashion, emanating in France, where recklessness
had been produced by the constant presence of danger, went the round of
the world, and the _coiffure à la victime_ was worn by both sexes in
quiet neighborhoods, which had learned only by report of the fearful
atrocities committed in the capital of civilization. Balls _à la
victime_ also became the vogue, and none were at first admitted to them
except those who had lost relations on the scaffold. To some of these
balls it was requisite not to have lost collaterals only, but a parent,
or brother, sister, husband or wife. There were exclusives even there,
and a new nobility of the scaffold was created. This was the era of
corsets _à la justice_ and bonnets _à la humanité_.

Away with care! Bring in the violin and minstrels! was the cry. A mania
for the dance pervaded all society. High and low, aristocrats and
people, antiques and moderns all danced. The chapel of the old Carmelite
convent became a ballroom, and the Jesuits’ college a place of
festivity, as did also the convents of _Saint-Sulpice_ of the _Filles de
Saint-Marie_. In the _guinguettes_ and in the most elegant society all
danced. “If the traces of crime and degradation were seen every where
else,” says a writer of that age, “a man of taste had at least the
consolation to find in these brilliant assemblages society not unlike
that which made Paris once the wonder of the world. The winter-balls are
the asylum of good taste, elegance and propriety. In them a young man
may purify himself by the spectacle of triumphant VIRTUE.” Yet the only
requisite to admission to these balls was a subscription of 96 francs,
(about $19.20.) A cotemporary thus describes one of the most celebrated
of these reunions, that at the Hotel Richelieu, in a manner to make us
skeptical about the virtue. “It is,” says he, “an arch of _transparent
robes_ of lace, head-dresses of gold and diamonds. A subscription is
required, and the visiter is ushered into the society of perfumed
goddesses, crowned with flowers, who float about in Athenian robes, and
receive the lisping flattery of the _incroyables_, who prate of their
_parole d’honneur_.” It need not be said this is a mere _phase_ of
Parisian society, fortunately not reflected by the rest of the world.

The ball of the Opera was revived, and to it we must look for the most
striking specimens of costume. The plain black domino exclusively worn
at such places during the monarchy had disappeared, and was replaced by
a similar garment of the most striking colors. Turks, Chinese and the
old traditional characters were exiled to the places of popular
amusement, and the great room of the Opera was filled with Caius Marius,
Dentatus, Cicero, Mutius Scævola, Pericles, Lycurgus, Cymon and
Herodotus. The charm, however, was gone; the new society had no
traditions; the people composing it were almost ignorant of each other,
and the playful badinage of which the old balls had been the scene was
lost forever. The _Jeunesse Dorée_, as the courtiers of the Directory
and Consulate were called, frequented these balls most faithfully, but
the old prestige was destroyed, and families were not seen as they had
been in the days of old.

It is strange with what rapidity from the epoch of the Directory a taste
for luxury and pleasure sprung up in the minds of the people. Music
again resumed its sway, and a hundred places of public amusement were
opened. One of the most significant evidences that the late or present
French Revolution is not yet over, is the fact that as yet public
amusements do not thrive, and that the people look elsewhere for
excitement than to the stage and concert. The most curious of all
spectacles is the stormy deliberation of the Assembly, and the artistes
of the Executive power the most attractive of all performers.

Gradually a disposition _to make a figure_ inoculated society. As the
Revolution became distant luxury increased. Yet it was not the _faste_
of old monarchy, but a new splendor, which the persons left on the
surface of society by the _bouleversement_ of all orders threw around
them. The women in the lowness of the bosoms of their dresses descended
below even the modesty required by the Regency, and the _incroyables_
became more fantastic than the _marquis_. The following was the costume
they adopted, and a more tasteless one can scarcely be conceived:

[Illustration]

They were not so richly dressed as their predecessors, nor were they so
elegant and graceful, but their manners were quite as affected. Then
came again the taste for gallant acrostics and love songs, which caused
the poetry of the Cheniers to be forgotten for _fantasies_ addressed to
the popular actresses. This prodigality was the more criminal because it
had a contrast in alarming want. The Revolution did not make France more
rich, nor did the hecatombs slain in defence of the liberty of the
country make the cornfields and vineyards more fruitful. French
prodigality was imitated everywhere, and to this recklessness may we
attribute the fact of the great increase of the expense of dress in
every grade of society over all the civilized world.

The mode of wearing the hair for men had long become fixed; it was
cropped and _au naturel_, and has thus remained to our own day. The male
costume became every day more and more inelegant. Frocks were worn
short, loose and broad; pantaloons loose as a sailor’s lasted to a late
day of the empire. This costume had but one merit, simplicity, a quality
inspection of the following engraving will show it to have possessed in
a great degree.

[Illustration]

All embroidery was abandoned. In 1803 the coat had taken its definite
form, where there is every prospect that it will remain permanent. It
had an immense collar and was very short before, but it was yet a coat.
Pantaloons were by no means what they are now, yet still the garment is
unchanged. The hat had become round, and the cravat was stationary.

This brings us to the end of our subject. From the doublet of Louis XIV.
costume has been traced to our time, and an impartial observer will be
satisfied we have lost nothing by the change; for none who compare the
garments of the _schneiders_ of our own era with those of the Latours or
Justins of old, will think good taste has retrograded, or dream of
comparing the bucket-like things which once were worn on the head, with
the tasteful and artistic hats of Oakford. Thus ends this disquisition
on dress, which, believe me, is no trifle; and the evidence of it is,
that nothing more ridiculous can be conceived, than would be a
President, a Senate, or a Supreme Court _in puris naturalibus_.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.


                          BY PROFESSOR FROST.


[Illustration]


                             THE CAT-BIRD.

The Cat-Bird is one of our earliest morning songsters, beginning
generally before break of day, and hovering from bush to bush with great
sprightliness when there is scarcely light sufficient to distinguish
him. His favorite note is the one from which he takes his name, and is
known to every farmer’s boy in the United States. It so exactly
resembles the mewing of a kitten as to be invariably taken for it by the
uninitiated; and when a number of these birds get together it is
difficult to resist the impression that all the feline residents of an
entire village are gravely discussing some important subject. But in
addition to this rather singular tone, the Cat-Bird has a variety of
others, made up, it is true, mostly of imitations, but blended together
with considerable strength and melody. The Cat-Bird is indeed no mean
songster, and when listened to attentively is capable of at once
pleasing and interesting. He is one of the most familiar of the
feathered race, seeming to have very little dread of man, and building
his nest in every garden hedge. His confidence is but too often repaid
with death; and notwithstanding his friendly habits he is persecuted
with singular and unrelenting prejudice by every inmate of the
farm-house. It must be acknowledged that he sometimes revenges himself
by drafts upon the strawberry-beds and cherry-trees.

The Cat-Bird is one of the most prolific of the feathered race, and were
he to fly in flocks would darken the air. He probably winters in
Florida, from whence he reaches Georgia early in March. In the following
month he appears in Pennsylvania. His nest is generally finished by the
beginning of May. The place is usually a hawthorn fence, a small tree,
briers, brambles or a thick vine. The female lays four eggs, of a
greenish blue color, and sometimes raises three broods in a season. In
affection and attention to their young the Cat-Bird is unsurpassed. The
cry of man imitating their brood will frequently throw her apparently
into fits; and in their defence both male and female often risk their
lives. He boldly attacks the black-snake, striking him on the head with
his bill, until the baffled reptile is glad to withdraw from the coveted
nest. It is rare that the female forsakes her eggs, even after they have
been handled by man. If one or two be broken she continues to sit upon
the others; and if strange eggs are put in she, with the assistance of
her mate, turns them out. If the nest be removed to another situation
she follows it and continues to sit as before.

The Cat-Bird is nine inches long, of a deep slate color above, which
fades into a lighter tint on the breast and throat. The legs, bill and
tail are black, with some red about the latter. He is sometimes
domesticated, and in the cage will eat fruit, insects, bread, cakes, and
nearly every kind of vegetable. He is fond of the water, and, when wild,
frequently dashes through it with great velocity. The species is said to
reach as far north as Kamschatka.

The author of the American Ornithology thus philosophizes on the
ungrounded antipathy against this harmless and interesting bird:

“Even those by whom it is entertained, can scarcely tell you why; only
they ‘hate Cat-Birds;’ as some persons tell you they hate Frenchmen,
they hate Dutchmen, etc., expressions that bespeak their own narrowness
of understanding and want of liberality. Yet, after ruminating over in
my own mind all the probable causes, I think I have at last hit upon
some of them; the principal of which seems to me to be a certain
similarity of taste, and clashing of interest, between the Cat-Bird and
the farmer.

“The Cat-Bird is fond of large, ripe garden-strawberries; so is the
farmer, for the good price they bring in the market; the Cat-Bird loves
the best and richest early cherries; so does the farmer, for they are
sometimes the most profitable of the early fruit; the Cat-Bird has a
particular partiality for the finest, ripe mellow pears; and these are
also particular favorites with the farmer. But the Cat-Bird has
frequently the advantage of the farmer, by snatching off the first
fruits of these delicious productions; and the farmer takes revenge by
shooting him down with his gun, as he finds old hats, wind-mills, and
scare-crows are no impediments in his way to these forbidden fruits; and
nothing but this resource—the ultimatum of farmers as well as
kings—can restrain his visits. The boys are now set to watch the
cherry-trees with the gun; and thus commences a train of prejudices and
antipathies, that commonly continue through life. Perhaps, too, the
common note of the Cat-Bird, so like the mewing of the animal whose name
it bears, and who itself sustains no small share of prejudice, the
homeliness of its plumage, and even his familiarity, so proverbially
known to beget contempt, may also contribute to this mean, illiberal and
persecuting prejudice; but with the generous and the good, the lovers of
nature and rural charms, the confidence which the familiar bird places
in man, by building in his garden, under his eye, the music of his song,
and the interesting playfulness of his manners, will always be more than
a recompense for all the little stolen morsels he snatches.”

[Illustration]


                             THE CHICADEE.

This bird is also known as the Black-capt Titmouse. It is an active,
hardy animal, abounding in the Northern and Middle States, Canada, and
as far north as the 60th parallel. It is a familiar and amusing bird,
often making its appearance in our cities in fall or winter, and
approaching near to man, in order to glean from his bounty or
carelessness a supply of food. During the same seasons large flocks
scour the fields and woods in search of insects, larvæ, seeds and
berries. Kernels containing oil, and the fat of animals are greedily
devoured by them. When all these fail, they enter barns, sheds, and the
roofs of houses, clearing them of moths, eggs of insects, spiders and
wood-worms. They appear to be very little affected by extreme cold,
being provided with thick downy feathers, and a constitution naturally
robust. In winter, numbers collect on a snow-bank, and swallow small
pieces, either to slake thirst or for pleasure. On such occasions, and
generally when collecting food, they keep up a continual chattering,
which renders their places of haunt easy of discovery.

The Chicadee builds in the hollows of trees, the nest being constructed
of moss, feathers, and similar soft materials. The eggs are from six to
a dozen in number, white, speckled with red. They rear two broods in a
season. The young are strong and lively, requiring little assistance
from the old ones, but living with them, as one family, through the fall
and winter.

Beside the usual chicking note of this bird, from whence its name, it
has a harsh angry tone, to express anger or fright, and a kind of
melancholy wail, approaching a song. Sometimes its voice is said to
resemble the noise produced by sharpening a saw. “These birds,” says
Wilson, “sometimes fight violently with each other, and are known to
attack young and sickly birds that are incapable of resistance, always
directing their blows against the skull. Being in the woods one day, I
followed a bird for some time, the singularity of whose notes surprised
me. Having shot him from off the top of a very tall tree, I found it to
be the Black-Headed Titmouse, with a long and deep indentation in the
cranium, the skull having been evidently at some former time drove in
and fractured, but was now perfectly healed. Whether or not the change
of voice could be owing to this circumstance, I cannot pretend to
decide.” The unnatural practice of destroying their sick is however
denied of these birds by late writers.

The Chicadee is five and a half inches in length, and six in extent. The
whole upper part of the head and neck is black, and the body a
mouse-color. It has often been confounded with the European Marsh
Titmouse, but there seems good reason to consider this as an error. The
foreign bird is never seen in flocks, frequents streams or
water-courses, and has a note quite different from that of the Chicadee.
It is also an inch shorter.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE.


                           BY BAYARD TAYLOR.


                Now the frosty stars are gone:
                I have watched them, one by one,
                Fainting on the shores of Dawn.
                Round and full the glorious sun
                Walks with level step the spray,
                Through his vestibule of Day,
                While the wolves that howled anon
                Slink to dens and coverts foul,
                Guarded by the demon owl,
                Who, last night, with mocking croon
                Wheeled athwart the chilly moon,
                And with eyes that blankly glared
                On my direful torment stared.

                The lark is flickering in the light;
                Still the nightingale doth sing—
                All the isle, alive with Spring,
                Lies, a jewel of delight
                On the blue sea’s heaving breast:
                Not a breath from out the West,
                But some balmy smell doth bring
                From the sprouting myrtle buds,
                Or from meadows wide, that lie
                Each a green and dazzling sky,
                Paved with yellow cowslip-stars,
                Cloud-like, crossed by roseate bars
                Of the bloomy almond woods,
                And lit, like heaven, with fairest sheen
                Of the sun that hangs between.
                All is life that I can spy,
                To the farthest sea and sky,
                And my own the only pain
                Within this ring of Tyrrhene main.

                In the gnarled and cloven Pine
                Where that hell-born hag did chain me,
                All this orb of cloudless shine,
                All this youth in Earth’s old veins
                Tingling with the Spring’s sweet wine,
                With a sharper torment pain me.
                Pansies, in soft April rains
                And April’s sun, from Thea’s lap
                Fill their stalks with honeyed sap,
                But the sluggish blood she brings
                To the tough Pine’s hundred rings,
                Closer locks their cruel hold,
                Closer draws the scaly bark
                Round my prison, lightning-riven;
                So when Winter, wild and dark,
                Vexes wave and writhing wold
                And with murk vapor swathes the heaven,
                I must feel the vile bat creep
                In my narrow cleft, to sleep.
                By this coarse and alien state
                Is my dainty essence wronged;
                The fine sense that erst belonged
                To my nature, chafes at Fate,
                Till the happier elves I hate,
                Who in moonlight dances turn
                Underneath the palmy fern,
                Or in light and twinkling bands
                Follow on with linked hands
                To the Ocean’s yellow sands.

                The primrose-bells each morning ope
                In their cool, deep beds of grass;
                Violets make the airs that pass
                Tell-tales of their fragrant slope.
                I can see them where they spring
                Never brushed by fairy wing.
                All those corners I can spy
                In the island’s solitude,
                Where the dew is never dry,
                Nor the miser bees intrude.
                Cups of rarest hue are there,
                Full of perfumed wine undrained—
                Mushroom banquets, ne’er profaned,
                Canopied by maiden-hair.
                Pearls I see upon the sands,
                Never touched by other hands,
                And the rainbow bubbles shine
                On the ridged and frothy brine,
                Tenantless of voyager
                Till they burst in vacant air.
                O the songs that sung might be
                And the mazy dances woven,
                Had that witch ne’er crossed the sea
                And the Pine been never cloven!

                Many years my direst pain
                Has made the wave-rocked isle complain.
                Winds, that from the Cyclades
                Came, to ruffle with foul riot
                Round its shore’s enchanted quiet,
                Bore my waitings on the seas;
                Sorrowing birds in Autumn went
                Through the world with my lament.
                Still the bitter fate is mine,
                All delight unshared to see,
                Smarting in the cloven Pine,
                While I wait the tardy axe
                Which, perchance, shall set me free
                From the damned witch, Sycorax.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             REMINISCENCES;


                       OR AUNT ABBY’S PINCUSHION.


                           BY EMMA C. EMBURY.


Reader, do you love old houses, old books, old pieces of furniture, old
chairs, in short, all the relics of antiquity which fashionable people
usually discard and despise? If so, there is a bond of sympathy between
us, and I shall not be afraid to rake among the cold ashes of the past
for some unconsumed remnant of other days, even though I find only
trifles to reward my search. The very table on which I write, black with
age, and wearing a polish which nothing but years and years of manual
labor could have given it, owes its peculiar favor in my eyes to the
fact of its being more than a century old. What stories could it not
tell of days gone by; what reminiscences of tea-drinkings, and
christenings, and weddings, and funerals must be imbedded in every pore
of the old mahogany!

But for real hearty enjoyment of such a taste for homely antiquities,
commend me to an old-fashioned secretary, (_that_ is the true
name—_bureau_ is but a modern Gallicism,) with its desk, and
pigeon-holes, and secret-drawers, especially if it have been an heirloom
in possession of a maiden aunt, who died a spinster of seventy-two, or
thereabouts. What stores of relics it contains—locks of hair taken from
the heads of pretty children, whom we only recollect as wrinkled old
bodies that seemed never to have been young; mourning-rings, with
obituary inscriptions of persons whose existence we should never have
known but for this record of their death; golden knee-buckles and
sparkling paste shoe-buckles, reminding us of the days when the dress of
a gentleman was hopelessly inimitable to the rowdies and loafers of the
period; fragments of wedding-gowns, carefully rolled in bits of linen,
yellow with age—preserved in order to impress the next generation with
due respect for some wizened-up, childish old lady, who was once a
belle, and was married in a dress of silver brocade.

Perhaps, too, there are more tender memorials hidden in the secret
drawer. Let us touch the spring, and lo! what trophies of love’s power
are there. Shall we pause to read these verses? The ink is almost faded
out, the paper is falling to pieces in its folds, and he who wrote, and
she who with fluttering heart first read those tender lines, have long
since been dirt and ashes. Here is a quaint old ring—two hands clapped
together, and within the circle an inscription in old English
characters—the single word, “_Forever_.” She who once wore that ring
was an angel upon earth, and he who placed it there, lived and died “as
the beasts that perish;” will their union be, indeed, _forever_? Look at
that bracelet, woven of soft, silken hair, its golden clasps are dimmed
with age, but the hair still wears its rich sunshiny lustre, though she
who bestowed it as a parting gift to a sister, has been long a tenant of
the tomb. What is this, folded so carefully and so closely, like one of
the mummied mysteries of the pyramids? A curl, a thick, dark curl—not
the long flowing tress that might have floated over woman’s graceful
neck; these crisped and glossy tendrils tell of the strength and beauty
of manhood. A faint perfume rises from the inner folds of the
envelope—the ashes of a rose are there enclosed. And this is all! But
what a tale do these scanty memorials of a by-gone love impart to the
beholder! What matters it that the details of the story are forgotten?
What matters it whether the lady or her lover were to blame? It was a
love tender and true, but yet unhappy, else wherefore the curl of raven
hair so carefully cherished, and the dead rose so reverently buried
beside the more life-like memento? The love which brings happiness
becomes diffusive in its expression, and the love-tokens of the youth
and maiden are hidden, in after-days, beneath the accumulation of
affection’s later offerings. But when one flower becomes the treasure of
a life-time; when one lock of hair is guarded like the heart’s pearl of
price, then be sure that the hallowing touch of sorrow has been there.
It is only when grief and love go hand in hand, that trifles become holy
relics wherever they tread. Alas! do we not all wear upon our hearts a
reliquary, in which, impearled with tears, and adorned with the fine
gold of our best affections, we have enshrined some fragment of the
past, whose value we alone can tell?

But I am growing sad, serious, and, of course, dull; yet the object
which led me into this train of thought was certainly not calculated to
inspire any especial exhibition of sentiment. I was rummaging in such a
secretary as I have described, when I accidentally pulled out a round
pincushion, banded with silver about the middle, and attached to a
substantial silver chain, which terminated in a broad hook, for the
purpose of fastening it to the girdle of some thrifty housewife. On the
heavily-wrought circlet which made the equinoctial line of the purple
velvet globes which had been doomed to do duty in so humble a capacity,
were the initials “_A. L._,” and I at once recognized it as the constant
appendage of my respected and venerated relative, Aunt Abby.

I had just been reading a paragraph respecting the female clubs in
Paris, and the sight of this relic of old times, reminded me of the fact
that poor Aunt Abbey had lived just half a century too soon, for to the
day of her death the old lady’s favorite topic of conversation was the
“equality of the sexes.” How would she have rejoiced in the modern
attempts to enfranchise woman from her thraldom! how would she have
gloried in the idea of woman’s equal rights of property! how would she
have delighted in the prospect of political privileges for her sex! how
she would have expatiated upon the benefits of a female House of
Representatives! Aunt Abby (my _great_ aunt, by the by) was emphatically
an advocate for woman’s “_standing alone_,” (I believe that is the
phrase among the reformers,) and certainly, though she had a father,
uncles, cousins, to say nothing of a husband, she succeeded in
“_standing alone_,” to a certain extent, all her life.

But what, you will say, had a disciple of progress, a defender of
woman’s rights, a declaimer against woman’s slavery, to do with a
_pincushion_? Let me sketch her portrait at full length, and then you
will see how curiously she blended the duties and prerogatives of both
sexes in her own proper person.

Abigal, or, as she was usually called, Abby Leyburn, was the only child
of a learned and eccentric clergyman, who, being disappointed in his
hope of exercising his theories of education on a son, chose to educate
his daughter after the manner of a boy. Fortunately for him, the little
girl possessed a singularly strong and quick mind. She grasped at
knowledge as most children would at playthings, and imbibed wisdom with
as much zest as others would have sucked an orange. Latin, Greek and
Hebrew, mathematics, moral philosophy, to say nothing of the lighter
accomplishments of botany, geology, and natural history, were _among_
the young lady’s acquirements. Her father had determined to make her a
second Madame Dacier, and he really seemed likely to find her a sort of
female _Crichton_. Nor were these all her acquisitions. The details of
housekeeping, the thrift, management, and tidiness necessary to the
comfort of American homes, was as easy as the alphabet to Abby. She
could knit, and spin, and sew; she could bake, and brew, and cook; she
could milk, and churn, and make cheese; and nobody could so effectually
and rapidly “set things to rights.”

Beside all this, Abby Leyburn, at twenty years of age, was one of the
handsomest girls in the country. She was like nothing so much as the
effigy of Britannia on an English penny. Don’t laugh, reader, the
comparison is a highly complimentary one, but lest you should not
recollect the stately Mrs. Bull, I will describe my heroine. Abby was
just six feet high, but magnificently proportioned, a perfect Juno in
form, with large black eyes, a high forehead, full red lips, and a chin
as massive and as despotic in its expression as Napoleon’s. Her profile
was superb—bold, strongly-marked, but beautifully classical. Her
abundant hair, usually worn back from her brow, and gathered into a knot
at the back of her head, was black as the crow’s wing. Her teeth were
white, strong, and somewhat pointed in shape, a peculiarity which rather
impaired the softness of her smile, inasmuch as it was always associated
with the beholder’s remembrance of a somewhat similar conformation in
the dental perfections of the only wild animal who has ever been accused
of laughing—I mean the hyena. Not that Abby bore the slightest
resemblance to the disagreeable creature just named. But her smile
certainly lacked that indefinable charm which usually belongs to such
pleasant demonstrations of good humor.

As a specimen of the human animal Abby was perfect. The superb
proportions of her well-rounded figure, her complexion, pure, fresh, and
radiant with health, her firm step, quick, active motions, and great
strength of frame, combined to make her a model of “_le grande et beau
physique_.” Add to these personal attractions, her learning, and her
domestic accomplishments, and one might almost fancy that Aunt Abby, in
her younger days at least, came near being

        “That faultless monster which the world ne’er saw.”

What did she lack? you will ask. Certainly not virtues, for she abounded
in them. No; her defects were of a very different character. She had
every thing that one would consider desirable; but Aunt Abby lacked “one
sweet weakness.” There was the difficulty. She had no _weaknesses_. That
magnificent person of hers was brimful of strong, stubborn intellect. If
she had a heart, it was only a piece of mechanism, necessary to the
workings of the human machine. The brain—the strong, massive, abundant
brain, which lay behind that immense forehead, was the only motive power
which she acknowledged. Had she no benevolence, no kindly impulses, no
yearning tenderness of soul, no sentiment? Not an atom of either; yet
she did the most benevolent things in the world, lavished kindness upon
all who deserved it, was full of gentleness toward little children, and,
if judged by her deeds, would have seemed overflowing with the milk of
human kindness. But still it was the dictates of that cold despotic
intellect which she obeyed. “People must be in want, and must be
relieved by those who had means. Humanity was full of suffering—the
healthy must look after the sick. Little children are incipient men and
women, therefore must be taken care of. Sentiment was but the
_penumbra_, the shadow of a shadow as unsubstantial as itself.” Such
were among the apothegms of this singular woman. Reversing the
established axiom, that “there is nothing in the intellect which does
not come by the senses,” she seemed to assert that “there was nothing in
the senses which did not come by the intellect.”

As Mr. Leyburn held the office of president over one of the few
institutions of learning then in America, Abby had ample opportunity for
displaying her talents and beauty to the admiring eyes of sundry young
students. But Abby had no personal vanity; she knew she was handsome,
just as she knew she was strong and robust, and she would have scorned
the idea of being a belle. The young men, although belonging to that
peculiarly inflammable species known by the name of “College Boys,”
would as soon have thought of falling in love with the stone image of
Minerva on the college-green, as with the president’s learned daughter.
There was something in her sturdy good sense which everybody rather
liked, yet the want of softness and pliability in her character excited
a certain dread in all who came near her. Gifted with peculiar powers
both of mind and body, she had no compassion for feebleness of frame or
infirmity of purpose, for she had no clear perception of such things.
Her intellect was like a telescope through which she could examine the
grand and the remote, but she could not use it as a microscope to
examine the littlenesses of humanity. It is only through the sympathies
of the heart that we learn respect for the sufferings, or compassion for
the weaknesses of our fellows—and Abby Leyburn had no sympathies,
except those of the brain.

Perfectly self-possessed, because thoroughly conscious of her own vast
superiority, and utterly indifferent as to the impression she was likely
to make, Abby’s manners in society had all the elegance and nonchalant
ease which fashion tries so hard to teach. She conversed exceedingly
well on all subjects, and possessed the gift (most rare among talented
women) of making herself as agreeable to her own sex, as to the men.
Everybody admired her, yet everybody feared her; everybody acknowledged
her rare powers, yet everybody kept at a certain distance. “He comes too
near who comes to be denied,” so says one of the wits and demi-reps of a
past age; but Abby never suffered any one to reach the confines of
_Love-Land_, and, of course, none ever attained to _Declaration Point_.

It is difficult to imagine a character like that of Aunt Abby. A woman
without softness, and tenderness, and sentiment, seems such an anomaly,
that we are tempted to doubt the probability of her possessing any of
the qualities we seek in woman. But Abby had all the necessary knowledge
of womanly duties, all the considerateness we look for in woman, all the
attention to detail which is a woman’s peculiar province, and withal was
possessed of the most indomitable good humor. She was sententious,
because every truth became, in her mind, an axiom, to be stowed away in
the smallest possible space; she was dogmatic, because her opinions were
made up by her own unaided reflection, and were not to be changed or
modified by words. Her self-esteem was prodigious; it was not the puny
vanity which is so often dignified with such a title, it was rather a
magnificent _Johnsonesque_ self-appreciation, precisely like that which
looms so grandly beside the vain pettinesses of the biographer of the
great lexicographer.

She was certainly a great puzzle to every one. A woman who could quote
Longinus, read Homer, expound a disputed text in the Hebrew Bible, chop
logic with the most caviling acuteness, and talk of the Differential
Calculus as if it were the last new poem, was certainly something of a
wonder; but when that same woman was seen seated on the milking-stool,
or standing at the churn, or presiding over a blazing oven, or, broom in
hand, raising motes in the sunbeams by her vigorous attack upon the
“dust of the schools,” or displaying the beauty of her Juno-like figure,
as she paced to and from the huge spinning-wheel; she was certainly a
_world’s_ wonder. There is a half-remembered story of Aunt Abby’s
spirit, which no one dares to talk of openly; but it is believed that a
certain gentleman, now high in civic honors, received, when a youth of
twenty, a severe _caning_ from the lady, in consequence of some
impertinence, offered when under the influence of a deep potation. But
this may be only a piece of scandal.

The circumstances of Aunt Abby’s marriage were as peculiar as were her
own traits of character. Among the students of the college was a young
gentleman of large fortune and fine talents, who was afflicted with a
constitutional timidity and nervousness that paralyzed all his powers.
He was the only child of a widowed mother, who had foolishly resisted
the boy’s wish to go to school. He had therefore remained at home under
the charge of tutors, and when the death of his mother released him from
her affectionate tyranny, he entered college only to find himself
inferior in attainments to every one else, and a perfect butt, from his
timid shyness. He was full of poetry and sentiment. Among realities he
was lost and bewildered, but in the world of fancy he was a hero even to
himself.

To a gay set of frolicksome students nothing could offer better game
than the mental and personal peculiarities of the rich young Southerner,
who rejoiced in the name of Sampson Terricott, (a name soon transmuted
into Sampson Tear-your-coat) by his companions. Nothing could be more
ludicrous than the association of such a name with such a person. The
redoubtable Sampson was some five feet four inches in height, with an
exceedingly slight figure, small features of the style usually
designated as “_snub-faced_,” with a skim-milk complexion, and hair of
that _sun-burned_ flaxen color, so common among hatless country urchins.
His voice was a piping treble, with an occasional tone in it like that
of a cracked penny-trumpet. His hands and feet were ridiculously small,
and when attired in his college-gown, it required but little
caricaturing to draw his portrait in a style decidedly feminine, yet
decidedly like. He received all kinds of nicknames for his personal
peculiarities, but, perhaps, none annoyed him more than the _soubriquet_
of “Miss Dalilah,” which was generally bestowed upon him. Yet a mind
filled with images of beauty was hidden beneath this unpromising
exterior. He had no force of character, no iron strength of intellect,
but he had an unbounded imagination, and an unlimited reach of vision
into spiritualities. He was a poet, but lacking the key to a poet’s
harmonies of utterance, he expended his strength in the beautiful
cloud-land of metaphysics and became a moral philosopher.

Like all diminutive men Sampson had a decided partiality for large
women. The colossal beauty of Abby Leyburn had struck him when he first
beheld her, and he loved nothing so well as to contemplate her from a
distance, being quite too timid to address himself to her. Now there was
in Abby a certain propensity that might almost be called compassion
toward little people. She regarded them as a huge Newfoundland dog often
looks upon a poodle—their very insignificance and feebleness seemed a
claim upon her protection. It had often been remarked that Miss Leyburn
showed especial favor to those whom she denominated “the _poor little_
fellows,” and no one was surprised, therefore, to find her taking a
great fancy to Sampson Terricott. There was something so appealing in
his manner, such a tacit acknowledgment of inferiority in his humble
demeanor, such an irresistible claim to tender treatment in his timid
little voice and stammering speech, that Abby at once took to him as to
one of those “incurables” for whom the world is a hospital, and every
charitable person ought to be a nurse. To the gentle Sampson the lady
became “like the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.” She
overshadowed him so completely that he could find repose and refreshment
in her presence. Instead of attempting to be any thing, or do any thing,
or say any thing, he gave himself up to the enjoyment of a consciousness
of perfect insignificance as compared with the splendid creature, who
could excel any and every body. It was a comfort to see everybody look
small in her presence, but to the nervous student it was a positive
luxury to _feel small_, without being mortified and disgraced.

Sampson was not in love with his Minerva, he had no sentiment, no
passionate longings for any thing which the world of reality could
afford. His loves were all idealities, and could not be prisoned in
flesh. But with the same weak fondness that had once tied him to his
mother’s apron-string, he submitted to the guidance of Abby Leyburn.
What were Abby’s motives for troubling herself with little Sampson no
one knew or cared; but when it was known that she was soon to become
Mrs. Terricott, everybody thought that the large fortune of the tiny
lover would account for the whole affair.

As usual, the world was mistaken. Abby was as free from all mercenary
feelings as she was from all other frailties. But she had her own
notions about doing good. She saw in Sampson Terricott a highly
imaginative and gifted man, wasting mental power in immature schemes
which his timidity thwarted in their very outset, and suffering a fine
fortune to be idle in his hands for want of energy to take up his
stewardship. He was weak in health, and subject to attacks of morbid
spirits which sometimes threatened his reason. In a word, Abby saw that
he wanted some one to take care of him, and she fixed upon herself as
the fittest person. She was now nine-and-twenty, in the full bloom of
health and beauty, and, as she argued, “if society provides no other
resource for destitute females than marriage, I must marry, or at my
father’s death find myself a beggar.” Having come to this conclusion,
she decided that, as the giving herself a master was out of the
question, and the idea of possessing a slave in her husband was equally
disagreeable, she had better divide the difference, and unite herself to
one who needed a stronger nature on which to rest.

How the courtship was managed no one ever knew. I am inclined to think
there was not much love-making, and from the kind of dreamy surprise
which Sampson exhibited when questioned about his engagement, it is
presumed he was scarcely conscious of his own happiness. People said
that Miss Leyburn, reversing the usual order of things, had popped the
question to Sampson, who stammered out, “Yes,” through sheer fright. The
probability is that he did exactly as she directed him. She gave him to
understand she meant to marry him, and if he offered no resistance,
feeling rather pleased at being relieved from responsibility for the
rest of his life.

They were married in the chapel of the college, and the half-suppressed
glee of the saucy students may be imagined. All the blank walls about
the college were filled with caricatures, illustrative of the one idea,
“_paired, not matched_.” One of these charcoal libels was particularly
annoying, it represented a nondescript and beautiful winged animal—a
Hippogriff—with the face of a woman, curving her proud neck beneath a
rein held in the hands of Apollo, while directly beneath was a second
representation of the same magnificent creature tamely yoked with an ox
to the plough.

But Abby cared little for these things, and she would not suffer her
husband to pay any attention to them. She made him one of the best wives
in the world, and though she was ten years his elder, and thrice as big
as he, nobody ever believed that he repented the step he had taken.
Their home was at the South, and, during her husband’s lifetime, Abby
never paid a visit to her early friends. But she was visited by her
family connections, and we younger members of the circle were often
entertained in childhood by the accounts of Aunt Abby’s splendid service
of gold-plate, her massive silver ewers and basins in every
dressing-room, her Turkey carpets and rich hangings of Gobelin tapestry,
and all the paraphernalia of great wealth and magnificent tastes.

When Terricott died, she exhibited her peculiarities of character still
more strikingly. She knew people had accused her of marrying for money,
and she therefore induced him to make a will, bestowing all his large
property upon his own relatives, with the exception of a life-annuity of
a thousand dollars to his widow. “I don’t want his money,” she said, “I
took good care of him while he lived, and if he did not become a great
man, it was no fault of mine. He was rich, and I used his money freely,
because he liked to see fine things and good things around him; but now
I have no occupation here, and so I shall go back to my old home, and
‘live along.’ I dare say something will be given me to do.”

So she buried her poor little Sampson, handed over his property to the
heirs, and with the first instalment of her annuity in her pocket, came
to take up her abode in ——. But her father had been dead for many
years, and the place was filled with new people who knew little of her
history or of her character. She soon became disgusted with her new
home, and removing to New York, established herself there for the rest
of her life. In her later years she gave up taking exercise daily, and
in consequence of this she grew immensely large. I have the faintest
shadow of a reminiscence respecting her personal appearance at that
time. I was a child of perhaps five years old, and had a dear old aunt,
who was as little as a fairy, and almost as benevolent. This kind little
old body once took me to see our great Aunt Abby; but my head was
crammed full of fairy legends and nursery tales, and when I saw an
immensely large, fat woman sitting in a chair from which she could not
lift her ponderous form, and met the full stare of her great black eyes,
I thought of the Ogress who always devoured little children, and
immediately set up such a howl of terror that I was sent away in
disgrace. She died not long afterward, having lived to count her
_ninetieth_ birthday. Her disinterestedness left her no fortune to
bestow on her relatives, and but for her profile, (which, cut in black
paper, hangs in an attic room,) her pincushion, and the traditions which
remain in the family respecting her, all trace of her has vanished from
the earth.

Poor Aunt Abby! she used to shock the women of her time by talking of
women’s rights, and was guilty once of the enormity of wishing to be
Pope of Rome, in order to carry out some scheme for the advancement of
woman’s social position. She talked of _freedom_ until some pious prudes
really suspected she meant _license_, and she predicted that the time
would come when the genius of woman would rise superior to the imposed
trammels of sex. She should have lived in the present age, when she
would have seen woman’s struggles for emancipation, as exhibited in the
French female clubs, and the German free associations, to say nothing of
the free inquirers and declaimers against female slavery in this
country. She should have lived till now to exhibit a rare and peculiar
instance of masculine power submitting itself cheerfully to feminine
duties; and perhaps the knowledge that Aunt Abby, with all her mental,
moral, and physical perfections, lived and died unloving and unloved,
might go far toward settling the question of _woman’s rights_, and make
her quite satisfied with her easily accorded _privileges_.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                PARTING.


               INSCRIBED TO MY SISTER ADELA M. WADSWORTH.


                      BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.


          Parting! Oh, is it not the bitterness
            Of life, and death? It were small agony
          If we and those we love—heart pressed to heart—
            With loving words, and blended prayers, could die.

          ’Tis not the rending of the strings of life
            That makes death terrible. The mental pain
          Is parting from our dear and beautiful,
            Who weep, and pray—and bid us live in vain.

          It is not that we fear to close our eyes,
            And rest from life’s long labor, that we cling
          To pain and weakness. ’Tis fond human love
            Which binds our soul with many a quivering string.

          To know that we shall never look again
            Into those loving eyes—shall never hear
          Again those sweet-toned voices—never clasp
            Again those forms, so tender, and so dear.

          Yes—parting is the bitterness of death—
            And life is full of parting. Day by day
          We see the cherished of our homes depart,
            As fledglings from the bird-nests flit away.

          The cherished ones, whom we have called our own,
            And loved so many years, that they have grown
          Into our hearts, and so become a part
            Of all that we have felt, or done, or known.

          The ever-present with us, who were wont
            To greet us every morning, with a smile,—
          To answer to our voices all day long,—
            And cheer us with love’s sunlight all the while.

          Each hath a separate mission to fulfill,
            And when their path diverges from our own,
          And they have said farewell! and turned away
            From our embrace—oh, then, we are _alone!_

          We miss them in all places, everywhere,
            And feel a shadow, and an emptiness
          Forever by our side—but most of all
            In the departed one’s accustomed place.

          We turn to speak to them—they are not there—
            The thought we would have uttered curdles back
          Upon our heart, a stifling agony—
            We turn our tearful gaze along the track

          By which the dear one went—’tis desolate—
            Our home—our heart—our world is desolate—
          In all the places where our joy has been
            Dark shades, and weeping memories, congregate.

          But when our only one—the dearest, best,
            The angel of our household, bids good-bye
          And goes forth weeping—then the tortured heart
            Reels with the anguish of the broken tie.

          Yes—parting is the bitterness of life—
            The agony of death—the ban of earth—
          The inevitable doom—to love—to part—
            Is the condition of our human birth.

          Thank God! there is a world where loved ones meet
            In perfect beauty, and unclouded joy,
          Where all is love—where parting never comes
            The everlasting rapture to destroy.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          MONTGOMERY’S HOUSE.


   THE HEAD-QUARTERS OF GENERAL JACKSON AT THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

By the courtesy of Mr. J. R. Smith, the artist, we are permitted to
present our readers with another view of a remarkable place. It is
Montgomery’s House, occupied by General Jackson as his headquarters at
the time of the celebrated Battle of New Orleans, January 8, 1815. It is
surrounded by a splendid garden and grounds, and a beautiful grove of
cedars, which in this latitude grow to an immense size. The line of
intrenchments running up the lane by Montgomery’s House back to the
cedar swamp can still be distinctly traced. Farther down on the banks of
the river Mississippi are four live-oak trees, of immense size, forming
a square, and hanging with Spanish moss. Beneath these trees the British
commander, General Packenham, expired and was laid out. The spot is a
favorite resort of curious visiters from the city, who go to examine the
battle-ground. Below this is a splendid building, called the
Battle-Ground Sugar Refinery, on the rear of which is a group of
willows, with a mound in the centre, and surrounded by water. Here are
buried the 2000 British warriors who were slain in the battle of the 8th
of January. A planter’s house near the spot was occupied, previously to
the action, by General Packenham as his head-quarters. All these objects
form very suitable subjects for the pencils of our artists; and we are
only surprised that they have not been drawn, engraved and familiarized
to the public long ago.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


                         GOING AROUND THE HORN.

[Illustration: THE DIRECT ROAD TO FORTUNE.]

The search after the philosopher’s stone, after having vexed the
crucibles, and puzzled the brains of alchemists for ages, is about to be
rewarded with success. The New Eldorado promises wonders as great, and
riches as abundant, as the most vigilant of dreamers could imagine. The
phrase “untold gold” is meaningless now, for nothing but gold is talked
of, and the wealth, which was significant of immensity, when coupled
with “iron chests,” and “bank vaults,” is sicklied over, and feeble,
when contrasted with the fields of gold which glitter over thousands of
square miles. The very idea of “10,000 a year” has become paltry—it is
but the cost of a dish of bean-soup in California—suggestive of utter
poverty—the daily scrapings of the poorest and most indigent digger,
self-sold into slavery at the mines. The man who owns a square of brick
houses is nobody; an empty braggart, beside him who sits upon golden
rocks, with a cigar in his mouth, overlooking acres of the shining
metal. The very millionaire who used to strut about consequentially,
with his hands thrust into his pockets significantly, may be hooted now
by the veriest sweep in California, as a vulgar ragamuffin, who would
scarce have money enough to pay his board there on Saturday night, and
would be utterly at the mercy of his landlady.

Girard College, as a building, is very well, too, in its way, as
reminding us of an old gentleman who spent half a century in picking up
gold flakes, one at a time, with his fingers; a plodding, careful old
chap, who lacked the creative faculty altogether, and had no idea of
cradles and basins. His school-house on the Ridge Road will do very well
as a specimen of primitive architecture, and might answer very well as a
sort of outhouse to the palaces that we _will have_ in California—a
very good stable for the Master of Hounds to Col. Mason, or some other
grandee—but as it stands, it is _now_ a shocking evidence of parsimony,
utterly disgraceful to the spirit of the age. A sort of lame and
impotent conclusion to a long life foolishly spent.

The far-famed Genoese must have been a dull fellow, or he would have
cast anchor in the Pacific, near San Francisco, instead of sailing about
to no purpose. It is a wonder, too, how he could have been so stupid,
when there are so many routes to this desirable haven. He certainly must
have been a bad navigator, too, or he would have got around the Horn,
some how, at some time. But it was reserved for the adventurous sons of
Jonathan to make the successful voyage, and with _the sword_ to cut the
way to fortune; and instead of diverging like radii from a common
centre, to take the outermost limit, and to claim as his own all that he
walked around and into. Showing conclusively that instead of bothering
one’s brain about getting on the right side of a question, the safest
plan is to get around it, and capture it by force of arms, as the Irish
policeman did with the mob. It saves a vast deal of hair-splitting, in
argument, and of irrelevant discussion, first to knock down your man,
and then pinion him. Or like the Cockney sportsman, who winged the
farmer’s goose, to say that you “only came out for the sport, and now
that you have hit the bird, you have no objection to _buy him_.”
Jonathan in this case, and in this way, seems to have bagged the one
that laid the golden eggs, which we used to read of in the nursery, and
a whole army of his sons are now rifling her nest. She must have left
behind her a prolific brood if she satisfies the whole of them. The
veriest “madness of the moon,” must impart a feeble pulse, compared with
the fever which Jonathan’s lucky hit has created in the whole family.
Homeopathy is totally at fault in this disease. Nothing but very violent
depletion will answer.

The whole body of family physicians, and nurses of the body politic,
have their hands full, and the multifarious practice sets at naught the
popular idea of perfection, as a necessary consequence. It is gratifying
to know, however, that in the absence of consistent and regular
treatment, the popular remedy applied in its early stages is conducive
to longevity and temperance—those who suffer severely from the fever
here, and become exceedingly dry in consequence, are cured effectually
by GOING AROUND THE HORN. Lying water-logged under the
Tropics being rather a different thing from “getting up a breeze” at
home, and being eminently suggestive of sobriety of thought, and of
taking their cue from facts, and not from “Q Brandy” continually. Young
gentlemen whose systems were here so relaxed, that nothing but taking a
horn two or three times before dinner could impart to them sufficient
energy to attend to out-of-door business, go around it, and give it a
wide berth in the hot latitudes—shut their ears to all hints about the
nervous system, and with a hardihood and self command, acquired within
view of sharks and yellow fever, brave danger without stimulus, and
fatigue without “having a gale.”

Under the tropics, too, young men, who have at home found no difficulty
in getting three sheets in the wind, have rather an aerial difficulty in
getting a flowing sail, and with plenty of steam on board, in the
absence of propellers, decline all invitation to steam it, “to drive
dull care away”—the trouble greatest, for the time, being to get away
themselves. The boys who often declared in the hours of midnight that
they were the particular individuals who feared no noise, and who would
not go home till morning, wish themselves very quietly dozing there, and
are perfectly subdued and indolent under the Equator in a three days’
calm, and do not insist upon “three more—and again,” so that they have
an opportunity of candid inquiry and sober reflection, which may be
serviceable—promotive of a thirst for cold water, and an abhorrence of
dark brandy, in a “_sun_ny” clime. We do not see why something cannot be
done for Temperance in this way, as well as not. People talk very
disparagingly about “whipping the devil round the stump,” but so that
the old scoundrel gets soundly thrashed at last, I never could see that
the _modus operandi_ is so particularly important.

Now, without pursuing this question, or glancing at the disappointment
of the adventurer—the long days of toil in unhealthy waters—the
burning heat of the sun—the chilling nights on a dreary soil—the
fevers of the mind as well as of the body—the hope deferred—the horror
of being mixed with such society—the desolation of all good that he
must see around him, mingling with the memory of the calm delights, the
peaceful repose, the joys and purity of home—the glad eyes of sister or
mother left behind, but now seemingly looking out sadly upon the
scene—the longings for that paradise once more, where in boyhood he put
up a prayer at the parental knee:—Without speaking of all this, is the
reward, reader, worthy of your sacrifice or of mine, of present comforts
and present friends. I think not. The road to fortune, to honorable
advancement, is open and plainly marked here, and beaten as it is, with
the tread of many feet, it offers far greater chances of success than
all the sparkling sands of California, mixed as they are with all that
is vile and unworthy. In that immense crowd of adventurers, which is
pouring in from every clime, virtue and goodness will be but as pearls
dropped into the sea—selfishness unmitigated, vice unabashed, and even
red-handed murder, will rear aloft their hideous forms, overawing all
decency, and setting at naught “all law, all precedent, all right.” The
very absence of all female restraint, their tender charities, and gentle
generosities and affections, and noble self sacrifices, which knit the
bands of society together and render man human, will there cause to be
let loose all the savage passions and instincts of our natures, and a
vast army of unprincipled men, fierce in the pursuit of wealth,
unrelenting in their towering selfishness as the grave, will make
California a second Pandemonium. What is all the gold of the earth, in a
land of wrong and violence, and that smells of blood heaven-high, with
the whole atmosphere below tainted with its appalling odor?

No! let _us_ stay at home, and cultivate habits of industry, economy and
temperance. With a vigilant eye and a steady step pursue the path which
has been marked out for us to tread through life—never swerving from
our duty to the allurements of pleasure—or by the discouragements of
defeat—but up and on! fearless, determined, brave; looking all danger
manfully in the face; grappling with all difficulties, if not with the
strength, with the determination of giants to overcome; never growing
faint or weary in well doing—and my life for it, in ten years you will
not exchange places with the proudest aristocrat in California, whose
heart and brain have been seared in the acquisition of wealth. Above all
things, let those of us who stay behind imitate the self command of the
adventurers who have gone, and go boldly and resolutely “AROUND THE
HORN” here, and depend upon it, we shall find that the true
philosopher’s stone—the real Eldorado—the place where we may truly
enjoy the horn of Plenty and the cup of Peace, IS AT HOME—AROUND OUR
OWN HEARTH-STONE—where the light of kind eyes, and the prayers of warm
and true hearts ascend to heaven with our own, for guidance and
protection.

                                                             G. R. G.


                     THE PHILADELPHIA DAILY PRESS.

THE NORTH AMERICAN.—The very head and front of the offending party
journals, oracular, dignified, and eminently solemn. Doctor Bird’s
leaders have a stately look in solid column, and his political articles
read as if they had been subjected to a very patient drill before
showing themselves to the public eye; but his fine genius flashes out
the moment he touches a congenial subject. Of all American writers we
look upon him as the best qualified to conduct a literary journal, or a
monthly review. But, alas! he is a martyr, who must groan under the
daily responsibilities of a party organ, with a hearty disrelish of its
duties. Why should two such men as Bird and Bryant be sold into slavery
in politics, and be thus comparatively lost to the lovers of polite
literature? “Independent,” the Washington correspondent of the journal,
dashes in like Saladin, and wo to the Christian who gets a full stroke
of his scimitar; he is cloven to the chin, or has something to nurse and
to remember. His egotism has been objected to by those who dislike his
slashing style, but that, as much as his correctness of information, has
given his correspondence character. He is at least fearless in the use
of his weapon, and strikes at high and low with equal strength and
temerity. Hennis gives us once in a while his touching little essays,
conceived in the quiet beauty of Mr. Chandler’s style—the Gamaliel at
whose feet he sat and learned. For the rest, we do not like the paper.
It is heavy, cautious, and cruelly cold and selfish.

THE INQUIRER.—The model of a daily family paper, marked by continued
and unwearied industry, and beaming with the kindly nature of its
editor. Its ample pages are crowded with well-chosen selections and
active scissoring of news paragraphs; not, however, always carefully
pruned and clipped down. It is only once in a while that Mr. Morris
shows us that he can write, and his Saturday Readings are full of the
warm impulses and genuine kindness of the man, but are written more for
purposes of good than to display his powers. Occasionally he warms up in
his general articles, and lets out a spark or two, shows us a glimpse of
the wealth he hoards, and causes us to wish for continued examples of
the ability he possesses. In his political leaders he sometimes is
forced by unfair opponents into a little causticity at the opening of
his article, but he relents before he gets through, and will most likely
give his “friend” a chance to back out of his blunder. He has not the
heart, though he possesses the strength, to press his antagonist to the
wall, and to pin him there. Mr. Morris has an agreeable, ready and
devoted coadjutor in Mr. Crump, a man of various learning and diligent
application. This journal is shockingly “made up,” to our taste, and is
all over disfigured with staring black head-lines, which look to our eye
like the sable of a hearse—its “_postscript_” is our particular horror.

THE DAILY NEWS.—The absence of Judge Conrad from the daily press seems
to have reinvigorated his powers, and has given additional force to his
pen, and fire to his thoughts; like an unprisoned eagle, with a spring
he darts to the skies and gazes in the sun. Some of the finest articles
he ever wrote have appeared in the News. Every subject that Judge Conrad
touches, seems to have been fused, as in a furnace, and the metal flies
off in lumps from his gigantic mind. His intellect illumes and pervades
every part of his subject, and when he drops it, there is nothing more
to be said. His compact, all-grasping sentences, may furnish subjects
for whole leaders to others, but the vitality has been extracted, and
any treatment of the topic is tame and impotent in contrast. He does
not, however, always seem to know the power of the words he uses, and
will give a whack with his sledge-hammer with a will at a fly, which
would effectually knock down an ox. Hence he should never write short
paragraphs upon unimportant topics—his style is too ponderous. The
News, as a political sheet, is well managed, barring some desire,
occasionally manifested, to pull, for personal ends, the strings of its
influence; but it is sadly deficient in mercantile news and facts. At
this writing, too, it is shamefully brought out, and is made up as if
the matter had been sifted over the form, and then locked-up and
printed, and very badly printed at that. Mr. Sanderson should look to
this, for the general editing of his News is too good to come before the
public under so great a disadvantage.

THE PUBLIC LEDGER.—Unquestionably the best penny paper that has ever
been established—showing in all its appointments the very perfection of
mechanical execution, and in its news collection and collation,
sleepless enterprise and vigilance, as well as persevering ability. Its
leaders are unequal, for the most part written with great force and
adroitness, upon topics familiar or of practical utility, but
occasionally insufferably stupid and dull. On scientific topics it
affects the _ultra_-learned. We always drop the Ledger when it gets upon
“oligies.” Mr. Lane, whose quiet humor occasionally gleams out in his
short editorial articles, like lightning from the edge of a summer
cloud, is unquestionably the _best_ news man in our daily press; clear
and discriminative, you always find in his columns all that ought to be
said of any and every news fact, and no more. A nicety of judgment very
rarely attained, and never in our experience so fully, as in the case of
the late Mr. Holden of the Courier.

THE SUN.—Graced by a good humor that no annoyance can ruffle, but
occasionally inclined to mischief. Carelessly giving a whack, regardless
of consequences, and forgetting it at the same instant. We regard Mr.
Wallace as a most able man in any paper; enduring, persevering, and
always on the alert. We know of no one in his department of a newspaper
who can for so long a time continue to perform downright hard, honest
good labor. His nerves and his temper are equally enduring. He appears
to have been born where they sing “Old Virginy never tire,” and to have
lived through life, the music, the temper, and the sentiment of the
song. The topmost bubble of his heart always sparkles. He is, too, what
we like, a pretty good hater, though with a good deal more philosophy
than is often practiced, in taking his revenges. With _his_ editorials,
his SON makes a capital newspaper, agreeable, gossipy and gay. The news
is filled in with the coolness of an experienced hand, and with the
uprightness and newspaper devotion of his father, he will one day stand
as _high_.

THE PENNSYLVANIAN.—Col. Forney is the best political editor that his
party has ever had in Philadelphia—discerning, prompt and fearless. He
deals, however, too much in light skirmishing, and pops his enemy off
once in a while from an unsuspected cedar-bush, merely to show the
accuracy of his aim. But he is an able tactician, and when he _does_
close fairly, his opponent finds him a tough and sinewy customer. His
articles seem for the most part to have been dashed off at a heat, and
lack the polishing touch. He often, too, uses a hard word for its sound
where another would be more effective. Occasionally he sits down in
earnest, blocks out his ground, and makes sore and steady advances; and
especially when he has occasion to defend Mr. Buchanan, his intellect is
fully aroused and on the alert—he then writes with his full vigor and
spirit, and writes well. His partner, Mr. Hamilton, is one of the most
capable business printers that we know, and every thing in his
department is marked by exactness and proficiency. The press-work of the
Pennsylvanian, on each issue, is what the magazines would call “a
specimen number.”

THE TIMES.—A jaunty, crotchetty, impudent little sheet, filled with
quibs and quirks, and a sort of laughing philosophy that shouts over
seriousness. Its editor, would, if he could, go to his own funeral
dressed in ribbons, and wearing a look of rejoicing. He has the
happiness of never seeming for a moment anxious; and you might as well
punch at a wreath of smoke with a foil, as attempt to interest him in a
serious controversy. He will answer your arguments with a pun, your
serious reasoning with a laugh, and will set ridiculously on end your
most carefully rounded sentence, and go to hacking at its grammar.
Having got you out of humor, he will decline all controversy with you,
if you cannot observe the decencies and proprieties. So that the man who
urges a controversy with Du Solle, has his anger for his pains, and is
fuming while he is chatting and laughing unconcernedly upon some other
more agreeable topic. Yet the Times has never given him scope to show
the real ability and general information he possesses. He should be in
the Ledger with Lane, he would settle the “ologies” in short metre.

THE BULLETIN.—Our only evening paper, but managed with great enterprise
and vigor. Mr. Peterson’s strong Saxon words and nervous style, combined
with his various and correct learning, make the leading articles of this
journal among the ablest that we read anywhere, and have stamped a high
value upon the leading column. There is a want of editorial tact in its
less imposing, but equally important digest of news and facts. It has
all the news, but it has it in bulk, and looks at times, with its heavy,
solid nonpareil, like a little man covered with black patches, or as if
part of the paper had gone into mourning for the absence of an itemizer.
It is always up, however, to the full requirements of the public in its
telegraphic despatches, and it _had_—what has become of him—the writer
of money articles that was most regarded here. For the rest, it affects
a very nice morality in regard to the theatres, which we do not like,
and do not pretend to understand. It is too deep for us. It _advertises_
for the theatres, but does not _notice_ them. Are they wrong, or right,
or neither? We suppose there _must_ be a nice line, which casuists who
examine morals with a microscope have detected.

                                                             G. R. G.

                 *        *        *        *        *

DEAR GRAHAM,—Poor Tom says, “Let not the creaking of shoes, nor the
rustling of silks, betray thy poor heart to women: keep thy hand out of
plackets, and thy pen from _lenders’ books_, and defy the foul fiend.”
Without misconstruing this text more than texts are usually
misinterpreted, I opine, that from those same “_lenders’ books_” of past
generations the current literature of our day is being manufactured. The
vast shapes of the Past have overshadowed the Present, and we are in the
umbra of the eclipse. Pray tell me if there is room left in the whole
length and breadth of the world for an epic, without trenching upon the
preëmption rights of Homer, Virgil, Dante, Tasso and Milton? Then as
regards dramatic poetry—“ahem! Shakspeare.” Wit and humor? What, after
Chaucer, Rabelais, Ben Jonson, Cervantes, Butler, Swift, Pope, Sterne,
the Spectator writers generally, Fielding and Smollet? Are there any new
Continents to be discovered? Our own Irving, to be sure, has been
cruising among beautiful summer islands, and returned with a wondrous
store of wealth—jewels and gold tissues, fragrant gums, Hesperidean
apples, painted Salvages, flowers and odorous spices, to the world
unknown before. The gentle Elia has embroidered incomparable tapestries,
and formed the school of the age. Scott gathers in his mighty arms the
banners of a hundred conquests, and for melodious versification (after
Spenser) Coleridge, Shelley and Moore, in

        “Numbers moving musically,”

have filled the world with harmonies, to which no echoes answer. Who
shall sweep the strings of passion after Byron! Truly, with much
thankfulness for the kind intentions of those who have written for
Posterity, we might add that it is a pity they did not leave Posterity a
little chance to write for himself. But since it is so, let us, with due
credit, make free for a time with some of those same “lenders’ books,”
for as George Wither quaintly says—

        “We are neither just nor wise,
        If present mercies we despise;
        Or mind not how there may be made
        A thankful use of what we had.”

Room, then! for one of Dante’s Angels—

        “And now there came o’er the perturbed waves,
        Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made
        Either shore tremble, as if of a wind
        Impetuous, from conflicting vapors sprung,
        That ’gainst some forest driving all his might.
        Plucks off the branches, beats them down, and hurls
        Afar; then, onward passing, proudly sweeps
        His whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly.

                .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .

                                        As frogs
        Before their foe, the serpent, through the wave
        Ply swiftly all, till at the ground each one
        Lies on a heap; more than a thousand spirits
        Destroyed, so saw I fleeing before one
        Who passed with unwet feet the Stygian sound,
        He, _from his face removing the gross air_,
        Oft his left hand forth stretched, and seemed alone
        Of that annoyance wearied. I perceived
        That he was sent from heaven; and to my guide
        Turned me, who signal made that I should stand
        Quiet and bend to him. Ah me! _how full_
        _Of noble anger seemed he_. To the gate
        he came, and with his wand touched it, whereat
        _Open without impediment it flew_!”

Compare this with Milton’s Raphael—

                    “Down thither prone in flight
        He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky
        Sailed between worlds and worlds, with steady wing,
        Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan
        Winnows the buxom air; till within soar
        Of towering eagles, to all fowls he seems
        A phœnix, gazed by all, as that sole bird,
        When to enshrine his reliques in the sun’s
        Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies.”

Or the flight of Satan—

                                    “Sometimes
        He scours the right hand coast, sometimes the left,
        Now shaves with level wing the deep, then soars
        Up to the fiery concave, towering high.
        As when far off at sea a fleet descried
        Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds
        Close sailing from Bengula, or the Isles
        Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring
        Their spicy drugs: they on the trading flood
        Through the wide Ethiopean to the Cape
        Ply, stemming nightly toward the pole. So seemed
        Far off the flying fiend.”

Do you not think Dante’s angel the most spiritual? He says,

                                    “he wore
        The semblance of a man by other care
        Beset, and keenly pressed, than thought of him
        Who in his presence stand.”

And Milton—

            “——on some great charge employed
        He seemed, or fixed in cogitation deep.”

The thought here is evidently borrowed from the Italian “_lender’s
book_.”

There is a strange propensity to follow these lofty flights; as when in
looking from an eminence we feel a temptation to breast the blue ether
below us. We are fairly in the wake of Satan when he

          “_Shaves with level wing the deep_, then soars
        UP to the fiery concave—”

And now since we are pinion-mounted, like Icarus or Daniel O’Rourke, let
us select a few more familiar specimens of flying. “Look you,” from
Coleridge—

        “Triumphant on the bosom of the storm
        Glances the fire-clad eagle’s wheeling form.”

And lo! from Shelly on eagle,

                              “—— a winged form
          On all the winds of heaven approaching ever
          _Floated, dilating as it came_: the storm
        Pursued it with fierce blasts and lightnings swift and warm.”

The Viking’s war-ship, from Longfellow’s Saga of the Skeleton in Armor
is a brave picture,

        “As with his wings aslant,
        Sails the fierce cormorant,
        Seeking some rocky haunt,
            With his prey laden:
        So toward the open main,
        Beating to sea again
        Through the wild hurricane,
            Bore I the maiden.”

And Dryden, in his Annus Mirabilis, hath likewise a warship that
_flies_!

        “With roomy deck, and guns of mighty strength,
        Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves,
        Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length,
        She seems a sea-wasp flying o’er the waves.”

But of all winged things the sky-lark is the bird of the poets. Hear
Shakspeare—

        “Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
          And Phœbus ’gins arise,
        His steeds to water at those springs
          On chaliced flowers that lies;
        And winking May-buds begin
          To ope their golden eyes:
        With every thing that pretty bin,
          My lady sweet, arise.”

Or this from Shelley—

                “Higher still and higher
                From the earth thou springest,
              Like a cloud of fire!
                The blue deep thou wingest,
        And singing, still dost soar; and soaring, ever singest.

                “In the golden lightning
                Of the sunken sun,
              O’er which clouds are brightening,
                Thou dost float and run;
        Like an embodied joy, whose race has just begun.
              All the earth and air
                With thy voice is loud,
              As, when night is bare,
                _From one lonely cloud_
        _The moon rains out her beams and heaven it overflowed._”

Coleridge, too, in his Ancient Mariner—

        “Sometimes adropping from the sky
          I heard the sky-lark sing;
        Sometimes all little birds that are,
        Now they seemed to fill the sea and air
          With their sweet jargoning!
        And now ’twas like all instruments,
          Now like a lonely flute;
        And now it is an angel’s song,
          That makes the heavens be mute.”

And Wordsworth in that beautiful couplet—

        “Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam;
        True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!”

There is a sweet little bird in the description of a Summer’s morning,
by Thomas Miller, which I would fain add to this goodly company—

              “A little bird now hops beside the brook,
              _Peeping about like an affrighted nun_,
            And ever as she drinks _doth upward look_,
        Twitters and drinks again; _then seeks her cloistered nook_.”

But alas the prettiest part of it is borrowed from one of those same
“lenders’ books.” John Bunyan’s—no less. The Interpreter takes
Christiana into the “Significant Rooms,” where he shows her that “one of
the chickens went to the trough to drink, _and every time she drank she
lifted up her eyes toward heaven_. ‘See,’ said he, ‘what this little
chick doth, and learn of her to acknowledge whence your mercies come, by
receiving them with looking up,’” And now, having winged our way from
angels to John Bunyan, let us lay these same lenders’ books upon the
shelves until a future period.

                                                     Truly thine,
                                                      RICHARD HAYWARDE.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _The Salamander: Found amongst the Papers of the late Ernest
    Helfenstein. Edited by E. Oakes Smith. Second Edition. New York:
    George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mrs. Smith has written nothing so well calculated to convey to the
majority of readers a clear sense of the richness, originality, and
elevation of her genius, as this wonderful little story. It evinces a
high degree of creative power, being an organic product of the mind,
with a central principle of life, and vital in every part. The scenery,
events and characters have all a living connection with the leading idea
of the work, and illustrate each other. The form is the ever facile and
yielding instrument of the plastic spirit within, and varies with the
variations in the story and the changes in the thought or feeling
expressed. By a felicity of nature, Mrs. Smith appears instinctively to
subordinate the material to the spiritual; and thus by making the former
simply the symbol by which she expresses the latter, she spiritualizes
matter, and makes it the living body of the soul. She vivifies and
vitalizes the form until it becomes o’er informed with spirit. Natural
objects as used by the poet, derive all their effect from being the
pictorial language of impassioned thought, the visible image being but
the embodiment to the eye of the viewless force which penetrates and
animates it; and fitly to employ objects as exponents of thoughts, a
firm, decisive grasp of spiritual realities, of something lying back of
all expression, is necessary. The moment the material predominates over
or precedes the spiritual, it becomes so much dead matter, without
significance, because without life. A great excellence of the present
story is the constant dominion exercised by the soul over or through its
forms of expression, and the physiognomical character of the style and
imagery. When we thus speak of it as pre-eminently spiritual, we of
course imply that it is thoroughly alive.

But the wonder of the book, and the quality which will give it a
permanent place in American literature, is the sure and fine audacity
with which it brings the supernaturally beautiful and the supernaturally
terrible into vital relations with human life, without any shock or jar
of the unnatural to disturb the exquisiteness of the combination; and
this is done in a manner purely original, awakening no reminiscences of
German or English supernaturalism, and giving unmistakable evidence of
being drawn from the writer’s own life and mental experience. Indeed, by
the very constitution of her mind, Mrs. Smith seems to see things in
their spiritual relations; consequently she not only looks at things and
into things, but she looks through them, and discerns the supernatural
region from which they proceed and on which they depend. This vision
into a sphere _above_ sense, is accompanied by an imagination of
sufficient force to shape what she sees into a form palpable _to_ sense,
and thus to reach the mystical elements in other minds through their
sensuous imagination. This vision and this faculty are possessed by all
high and powerful natures, and the test of the reality of the powers is
in the originality of the products. Similarity, even when it does not
approach plagiarism, indicates the intervention of another mind, and by
suggesting spectacles casts ominous conjecture on the soundness or reach
of the eyes. Now the supernatural, as it appears in this volume, is
strictly individual and peculiar, evidencing that the authoress has
herself contemplated, face to face, the spiritual truths she has
embodied.

While the present story is thus eminently a work of creative
imagination, working in the region of the supernatural, and ranking
“strange combinations out of common things,” it is at the same time
intensely human, touching at every step on some affection or aspiration
of the human heart, and full of the glee and gloom of our common life.
As every thing is realized to the eye and imagination, and the vital
relation between the natural feeling and the preternatural agencies is
clearly represented, the reader is conscious of no unharmoniousness in
the general impression left on his mind by the whole work, but simply
feels as though he had been brought nearer to the life of things, and
discerned evil and good in their spiritual natures. With a power of
thought, as felicitous in its delicacy as in its strength, moral beauty
and moral deformity are both seized in their intrinsic principles, and
embodied in such a manner that the material form ceases to be the veil
and becomes the vehicle of the nature it encloses.

To the shaping imagination which this work indicates, we must add that
form or expression of the imaginative faculty, by which things
inexpressible in images are suggested by cunning verbal combinations, or
which escape in the peculiar turn of a period, or which are breathed to
the inner ear of the mind in the rhythm of a sentence. This mystical
charm, this elusive, dreamy, ever vanishing and yet ever appearing
grace, gives to the whole work a character of strangeness almost
bewitching, and produces that fine and faint intoxication of the
imagination which makes it ready to receive and accredit wonders with as
much faith as it commonly awards to possibilities. It is this quality
also which makes it impossible to convey the moral of the story in any
didactic proposition. It has a profound moral, but it is a moral which
refuses to be comprehended in an ethical axiom, being felt in the brain
and “felt along the heart.”

We have been so much engrossed by the merits of this story that we have
little space left to notice some faults. The notes should not be
retained at the bottom of the page, but should be transferred to an
appendix. Occasionally the imagination of the authoress stutters in its
sublime talk, and gives fragments of gigantic images instead of wholes.
Here and there the philosophic prevails over the imaginative, and
discourse monopolizes a sentence which should be strictly sacred to
representation. But the sweetness, the tenderness, the beauty, purity
and majesty, with which the work is so replete, hardly allow even the
critical reader to be captious; and to the uncritical, the absorbing
interest of the story would be sufficient to hide even prominent
defects.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Poems. By James F. Fields. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol.
    16mo._

Book-writing and book-publishing, according to the most approved
doctrines of the division of labor, are to be kept strictly apart, and
commonly there yawns a natural gulf between the two, as wide and deep as
that which separated Lazarus and Dives. The present volume, however,
illustrates this seemingly impossible combination, the author being also
one of the publishers, and it must be confessed that the intellectual
and mechanical execution reflect credit on each other. Mr. Fields has a
mind of great flexibility and fertility, and occasionally he has
compressed within the limit of this volume a large variety of matter,
answering to the mirthful, the pathetic, the satirical, the tender, and
the impassioned. He not only does not repeat himself, but the work is
too small adequately to express the whole range of his poetic faculty.
The two longest poems in the collection are the “Post of Honor” and
“Commerce,” both of them originally pronounced before the Boston
Mercantile Library Association, and each including many topics under the
general subject. These evince a keen, shrewd eye for practical life and
character, and the satirical portions are characterized by a mingled wit
and humor unexcelled for general sharpness. “The Post of Honor” is by
far the best, and its pictures of life, both serious and mirthful, are
exceedingly vivid and true. The versification evinces a complete mastery
of the heroic couplet, in all its ease, energy and harmony of flow, and
it is spangled with fine felicities of fancy and original verbal
combinations. The passages relating to Lamb and Grey, are replete with a
quiet searching pathos, which touches the inmost nerve of sensibility.

Many of the shorter poems have already had a wide circulation through
the newspapers. “Fair Wind,” originally published in “Graham,” and “The
Dirge,” we have seen in the poetical corner of at least a hundred
journals. The new ballads and lyrics, now first published, are among the
best in the whole collection. “The Ballad of the Tempest,” the “Pair of
Antlers,” and “Common Sense,” are very brilliant and beautiful. “Life at
Niagara,” and the “Alarmed Skipper,” are good specimens of mirthful
poetry as distinguished from versified mirth. “Children in Exile,” and
“A Bridal Melody,” have an intensity of deep and sweet feeling, which
wins its way into the very core of the heart. We might refer to others
as worthy of notice as these, but we must be content with quoting one
instead of naming many, and we accordingly present our readers with a
most beautiful specimen of blank verse, addressed to Rogers:

                ON A BOOK OF SEA-MOSSES,

             SENT TO AN EMINENT ENGLISH POET.

        To him who sang of Venice, and revealed
        How Wealth and Glory clustered in her streets,
        And poised her marble domes with wondrous skill,
        We send these tributes, plundered from the sea.
        These many-colored, variegated forms
        Sail to our rougher shores, and rise and fall
        To the deep music of the Atlantic wave.
        Such spoils we capture where the rainbows drop,
        Melting in ocean. Here are broideries strange,
        Wrought by the sea-nymphs from their golden hair,
        And wove by moonlight. Gently turn the leaf.
        From narrow cells, scooped in the rocks, we take
        These fairy textures, lightly moored at morn.
        Down sunny slopes, outstretching to the deep,
        We roam at noon, and gather shapes like these.
        Note now the painted webs from verdurous isles,
        Festooned and spangled in sea-caves, and say
        What hues of land can rival tints like those,
        Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of kings
        Who dwell beneath the waters.
                                        Such our gift,
        Culled from a margin of the western world,
        And offered unto Genius in the old.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Raphael; or Pages from the Book of Life at Twenty. By Alphonse
    de Lamartine. New York: Harper & Brothers._

Lamartine, with many of the high qualities of genius, is deficient in
one of the most important—Common Sense. He is a fine and eloquent
singer of his own idealized and idolized self, but is gifted with very
imperfect powers of objective perception. He sees nothing as it is, but
every object is more or less a mirror of self. This is equally true
whether the object be Mont Blanc or a Paris mob. All his descriptions of
scenery, though often rising to a strain of rapturous eloquence and
beauty, are never accurate, even in an elevated poetical signification
of accuracy. Different scenes, in different climes, are all enveloped in
one atmosphere, and all stand for one tyrannizing class of emotions.
Lamartine is a sentimentalist, and no sentimentalist can celebrate any
nature but his own, or consider the universe as worth any thing in
itself. The excellence of the present volume consists in its subject
admitting of a strictly lyrical treatment, and it accordingly is full to
running over of Lamartine’s strong but narrow genius, and is resplendent
with glittering sentiment and decorative imagery. The work is not long
enough to tire by its egotism and fine writing, and is closed before
admiration has subsided from the interjection into the yawn of
satisfaction. A nature so rich as Lamartine’s might fill even a larger
book without exhausting its wealth of sentiment or thought.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Moral, Social, and Professional Duties of Attorneys and
    Solicitors. By Samuel Warren, F. R. S. New York: Harper &
    Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

Mr. Warren’s works on Law are almost as entertaining as his novels. The
present book is full of matter important to the young lawyer, and
interesting to the general reader. All who are accustomed to have
dealings with the profession, can obtain from this little volume many
useful and some lucrative hints. The two points on which Mr. Warren
expends his sense and his eloquence are knavery and incapacity, as those
qualities exist among lawyers. As many lives and more fortunes depend on
the existence of the opposite qualities in the profession, this volume
will be equally valuable if it succeed either in expelling rogues and
dunces from the law, or in enabling clients to detect them.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Aurifodina; or Adventures in the Gold Region. By Cantell A.
    Bigby. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 16mo._

The author of this little volume has availed himself of the interest
excited by the late disclosures in California, to construct a story of
marvelous adventures in that region. In regard to probability the work
is half way between Gulliver’s Travels and the Arabian Nights. As every
thing wonderful relating to California is greedily devoured, the
disclosures of this work will undoubtedly receive their due attention.
They are nearly as much entitled to belief as many of the newspaper
accounts.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A New Spanish Reader: Consisting of Passages from the Most
    Approved Authors, in Prose and Verse. By Mariana Velasquez de la
    Cadena. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The editor of this volume is Professor of the Spanish Language and
Literature in Columbia College. He has so arranged his matter as to
remove all possible obstacles in the way of the learner, and to conduct
him, step by step, into the heart of the noble language of Castile. The
selections are admirably made. The volume is not only well adapted for
schools and colleges, but for the private student, and we trust it will
induce many to study a language which will give them a key to the
versatile and fertile genius of Lope de Vega, the mystical beauty of
Calderon, and the profound and genial humor of Cervantes.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Essay on the Union of Church and State. By Baptist W. Noel, M.
    A. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work has produced a considerable sensation in England, being a
well-written protest against the Church Establishment, supported by a
long array of facts and arguments. The author was for twenty-two years
an Episcopal clergyman, and was at last forced by his reason and
conscience into his present position. Mr. Noel does not attack the
doctrines of the Church, but its union with the State, and he attempts
to prove that this union is condemned by the letter and spirit of the
Bible, is unjust, inexpedient, and productive of a host of evils, from
which free churches are exempt.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _History of Hannibal the Carthagenian. By Jacob Abbott. With
    Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

This is one of a series of historical books for the people, prepared by
Mr. Abbott with his usual felicity of condensation and simplification.
The series so far includes the Life of Mary, Queen of Scots, Alexander
the Great, Charles I. and the present volume, and others are to follow.
The author manages his matter with much art, and while few can read his
volumes without an addition to their information, they must be
invaluable to a large class of minds almost altogether deficient in
historical knowledge.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A Catechism of the Steam Engine, Illustrative of the Scientific
    Principles on which Its Operation Depends, etc. By John Bourne,
    C. E. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 16mo._

Here, in the space of one small volume, is condensed a large amount of
available information on the steam engine, its principles, the practical
details of its structure, and its application to mines and mills, as
well as steam navigation and railways. The author evinces an intimate
practical acquaintance with his subject, and his work, while it is
invaluable to the engineer, possesses great interest to every reader
desirous of fathoming the mystery of the structure and operation of the
steam engine.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          VIRTUE’S EVERGREEN.


                      POETRY BY THEODORE A. GOULD.


                MUSIC COMPOSED BY THEODORE VON LA HACHE.


[Illustration]

                The ilied brow, the rosy cheek,
                Where beaming smiles of beauty play,
                Are transient things, they but beguile,
                As April’s bland and fickle smile,
                They charm us with their light awhile,
                Then

[Illustration]

              fade, then fade at last away,
              They charm us with their light awhile,
              Then fade, then fade at last away.
              ’Tis Virtue’s Virtue’s evergreen.


                       SECOND VERSE.

              They fade at last away! the form
                So beautiful in youth’s gay prime,
              Must shrivel up—the hair turn grey,
              The eye abate its lustrous ray,
              The smooth and pearly teeth decay,
                        Beneath the touch of Time.


                       THIRD VERSE.

              Beneath the touch of Time! a price
                There is he cannot touch, I ween;
              It bloometh always fair and bright
              Through springs warm day or winter’s night,
              A plant his hand can never blight;
                        ’Tis Virtue’s Evergreen,

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some
spellings peculiar to Graham’s. Punctuation has been corrected without
note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For
illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.

page 278, put into envelops with ==> put into envelopes with
page 279, Nous verrons, se que ==> Nous verrons, ce que
page 282, crop of whispers. ==> crop of whiskers.
page 291, most beautiful, all of the ==> most beautiful of all, the
page 291, many claim upon his ==> many claims upon his
page 292, drowned in the privater, ==> drowned in the privateer,
page 299, Orthrography, Etymology and ==> Orthography, Etymology and
page 306, of our benificent Father ==> of our beneficent Father
page 306, interrogatories to day pass ==> interrogatories to-day pass
page 307, widow from Manheim ==> widow from Mannheim
page 317, in all statutary Christendom ==> in all statutory Christendom
page 317, an apopthegm by one of ==> an apophthegm by one of
page 326, grande e beau physique ==> grande et beau physique
page 332, of his scimiter; ==> of his scimitar;
page 333, solid nonpariel, like ==> solid nonpareil, like
page 335, in images are sugguested ==> in images are suggested





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