Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 3, March 1850
Author: Various
Language: English
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[Illustration: Painted by H. Thompson, R.A.
THE IDLE SCHOOLBOY.
Engraved by T. B. Welch expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               VOL. XXXVI.      March, 1850.      No. 3.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          March
          The Lady of the Rock
          The Brigand and His Wife
          An Essay on American Literature and Its Prospects
          Buondlemonte. A Tale of Italy
          A Reception Morning
          The Young Artist
          Life of General Nathaniel Greene
          Wild-Birds of America
          Gems From Moore’s Irish Melodies. No. III.—Come
            Rest In This Bosom
          Review of New Books
          Editor’s Table

                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. II
          The Cry of the Forsaken
          A Midnight Storm in March
          A Sunbeam
          Long Ago
          The Two Worlds
          The Sky
          Taurus
          The Dying Student
          To —— In Absence
          Memory—The Gleaner
          Le Follet
          Thou Art Lovelier

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

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

         VOL. XXXVI.     PHILADELPHIA, March, 1850.     NO. 3.

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                                 MARCH.


SPENSER finely characterizes this month—

        Study March with brows full sternly bent
        And armed strongly;

yet he pictures it, as it advances, scattering blessings around, calling
on the buds to throw aside their wintry vestments, and come forth to
gladden the earth with their smiles. Such is, in reality, the progress
of the season. In the early days of the month

        “Winter, still lingering on the verge of Spring,
         Retires reluctant, and, from time to time,
         Looks back.”

As it proceeds, however—

        “The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth
         Her universal green, and the clear sky
         Delights still more and more the gazing eye,”

and all is joy and gladness. The lark is caroling in the clear blue
vault of heaven; the notes of the blackbird resound through the yet
leafless groves; the robin is again heard from his lofty perch on the
branch of some tall tree. The waters are dancing in the pale sunshine,
and every thing looks as if regeneration had commenced its work.

A quaint old writer says, “the _moneth_ of March was called by the
Saxons _Leneth moneth_, because the days did then first begin in length
to exceed the nights. And this _moneth_ being by our ancient fathers so
called when they received Christianity, and, consequently, therewith the
annual Christian custome of fasting, they called their chief season of
fasting the fast of _Lenet_, because of the _Lenet moneth_, whereon most
part of this fasting always fell, and hereof it cometh that we now call
it Lent.” According to other etymologists, Lenet, or Lent, means Spring;
hence, March was literally the Spring month. Spring, most delightful of
seasons! how beautifully have thy charms been celebrated in undying
song, by bards of old from the very dawn of literature. With what
pleasure do we look back on thy worshipers of other days—such as
Chaucer, Spenser, Herrick, Ben Jonson, Shakspeare, each speaking of thy
beauties out of the fullness of his heart. But in our admiration of
those whose memories will ever live in song, let us not forget those of
our own day; gratitude, admiration and pride prompt our notice of
Bryant, our favorite American poet, who thus beautifully apostrophizes
this blustering month:

        The stormy March is come at last,
          With wind and cloud and changing skies:
        I hear the rushing of the blast,
          That through the snowy valley flies.

        Ah! passing few are those who speak,
          Wild stormy month, in praise of thee!
        Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak,
          Thou art a welcome month to me.

        For thou to northern lands again
          The glad and glorious sun dost bring;
        And thou hast joined the gentle train,
          And wearest the gentle name of Spring.

        And in thy reign of blast and storm
          Smiles many a long bright sunny day,
        When the changed winds are soft and warm,
          And heaven puts on the bloom of May.

        Then sing aloud the gushing rills,
          And the full springs from frost set free,
        That brightly leaping down the hills
          Are just set out to meet the sea.

        The year’s departing beauty hides
          Of wintry storms the sullen threat,
        But in thy sternest frown abides
          A look of kindly promise yet.

        Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies,
          And that soft hue of many showers,
        When the wide bloom on earth that lies
          Seems of a brighter world than ours.

How graphically does the author of the “Fairie Queene” marshal this
harbinger of Spring, in the noble march of the Seasons—

        First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of floures
          That freshly budded, and new blossomes did beare,
        In which a thousand birds had built their bowres,
          That sweetly sung to call forth paramoures:
        And in his hand a javelin he did beare,
          And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)
        A guilt-engraven morion he did weare,
          That as some did him love, so others did him feare

The great operations of Nature during this month seem to be, to dry up
the superabundant moisture of February, thereby preventing the roots and
seeds from rotting in the earth, and gradually to bring forward the
process of evolution in the swelling buds, whilst, at the same time, by
the wholesome severity of the chilling blasts, they are kept from a
premature disclosure, which would expose their tender contents to injury
from the yet unconfirmed season. Shakspeare in one of his beautiful
similies says—

        And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north,
        Checks all our buds from blowing.

This seeming tyranny, however, is to be regarded as the most useful
discipline; and those years generally prove most fruitful in which the
pleasing appearances of Spring are the latest.

The sun having now acquired some power, often reminds us of the genial
influence of Spring, though the naked shrubs and trees still give the
landscape the comfortless appearance of Winter—

        “There is a vernal freshness in the air,
         A breaking in the sky, full of sweet promise
         That the tardy Spring, capricious as she is,
         And chary of her favors, will, ere long,
         Smile on us in her beauty, and call forth
         From slumber long and deep each living thing.
           I know it by this warm delicious breeze,
         Balmy, yet fresh, the very soul of health—
         Of health, of hope, of joy; by these bright beams,
         And yonder azure heavens, I know it well.
           Soon the pent blossom in the naked spray,
         Trained to the sunny wall, shall own her power,
         And ope its leaves, tinged like an ocean shell:
         Soon shall each bank which fronts the southern sky,
         And tangled wood, and quiet sheltered nook,
         Be gemm’d with countless flowers—earth’s living stars.”

Mild, pleasant weather in March is seldom, however, of long duration. In
Europe, where the seasons are much more forward than they are with us,
they have an old proverb—“A peck of March dust is worth a king’s
ransom.” For as soon as a few dry days have made the land fit for
working, the farmer goes to the plough, and, if the fair weather
continues, proceeds to sowing oats and barley, though this business is
seldom finished till the next month.

“A strange commotion,” observes a celebrated English writer, “may be
seen and heard at this season among the winged creatures, portending
momentous matters. The lark is high up in the cold air before daylight,
and his chosen mistress is listening to him among the dank grass, with
the dew still upon her unshaken wing. The robin, too, has left off, for
a brief season, his low, plaintive piping, which, it must be confessed,
was poured forth for his own exclusive satisfaction, and, reckoning on
his spruce looks and sparkling eyes, issues his quick, peremptory
love-call in a somewhat ungallant and husband-like manner.

“The sparrows who have lately been skulking silently about from tree to
tree, with ruffled plumes and drooping wings, now spruce themselves up,
till they do not look half their former size, and if it were not pairing
time, one might fancy there was more of war than of love in their noisy
squabblings.” Among other indications of the advancing season, says
Gray—

        New born lambs in rustic dance
          Frisking ply their nimble feet,
        Forgetful of their wintry trance
          The birds his presence greet;
        But chief the sky-lark warbles high
        His trembling, thrilling ecstasy,
        And lessening from the dazzled sight,
        Melts into air and liquid light.

Nothing, at this season, is a more pleasing spectacle than the sporting
of the young lambs, most of which are yeaned this month, and are, if the
weather is severe, protected in covered sheds, till the mildness of the
season permits them to venture abroad. Dyer, in his poem of “The
Fleece,” gives a very natural and beautiful description of this
circumstance:

        Spread around thy tend’rest diligence
        In ploughing spring-time, when the new-dropt lamb,
        Tottering with weakness by his mother’s side,
        Feels the fresh world about him, and each thorn,
        Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet;
        Oh! guard his meek, sweet innocence from all
        The innum’rous ills that rush around his life!
        Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone,
        Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain!
        Observe the larking crows! beware the brake,
        There the sly wolf the careless minute waits!
        Nor trust thy neighbor’s dog, nor earth nor sky;
        Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide!
        Eurus oft slings his hail; the tardy fields
        Pay not their promised food; and oft the dam
        O’er her weak twins with empty udder mourns,
        Or fails to guard, when the bold bird of prey
        Alights, and hops in many turns around,
        And tires her, also turning; to her aid
        Be nimble, and the weakest, in thine arms,
        Gently convey to the warm cote; and oft,
        Between the lark’s note and the nightingale’s
        His hungry bleating still with tepid milk;
        In this soft office may thy children join,
        And charitable habits learn in sport;
        Nor yield him to himself, ere the vernal airs
        Sprinkle thy little croft with daisy flowers.

Another most agreeable token of the arrival of Spring is, that the bees,

        “Pilgrims of Summer, who do bow the knee
         At every shrine,”

begin to venture out of their hives about the middle of this month. As
their food is the honey-like juice found in the tubes of flowers, their
coming abroad is a certain indication of the approach of Spring. No
creature seems possessed of a greater power of foreseeing the weather;
so that their appearance in the morning may be reckoned a sure token of
a fine day.

        The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb,
        Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time.
        Bees stroke their little legs across their wings,
        And venture short flights where the snow-drop brings
        Its silver bell, and winter aconite,
        Its buttercup-like flowers, that shut at night,
        With green leaf furling round its cup of gold,
        Like tender maiden muffled from the cold;
        They sip, and find their honey-dreams are vain,
        Then feebly hasten to their hives again.
        The butterflies, by eager hopes undone,
        Glad as a child come out to greet the sun;
        Beneath the shadow of a sudden shower,
        Are lost—nor see to-morrow’s April flower.

The gardens are now beginning to be studded by the crocus—

                “The flower of Hope, whose hue
        Is bright with coming joy,”

the varieties of which adorn the borders with a rich mixture of yellow
and purple. The little shrubs of mezereon are in their beauty. The
fields begin to be clothed with the springing grass, and but few flowers
appear to decorate their velvet mounds. The flowers of Spring have been
favorite themes for the poets. Shakspeare represents Perdita as desirous
to present to her guests

                                    Daffodils
        That come before the swallow dares, and take
        The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim,
        But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,
        Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses,
        That die unmarried, ere they can behold
        Bright Phœbus in his strength, a malady
        Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
        The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,
        The flower-de-luce being one!

and Chaucer has sung so melodiously and so affectionately of the charms
of

                These flowres, white and rede,
        Soch that men callen daisies in our town,

as to entwine it with the recollections of himself. Shelley, among the
modern writers, in a single couplet, has left one of the most exquisite
descriptions of this flower that ever was written:

        Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
        The constellated flower that never sets!

And another poet endears it by a single epithet. He is seeking for a
flower to place in the coffined hand of a dead infant.

        Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose,
          That tiny hand to fill,
        Go search the fields! the lichen wet,
          Bends o’er the unfailing well:
        Beneath the furrow lingers yet
          The scarlet pimpernel.
        Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower,
          Where never froze the spring?
        _A daisy? oh! bring childhood’s flower—_
          _The half-blown daisy bring!_
        Yes, lay the daisy’s little head
          Beside the little cheek;
        Oh, hush! the last of five is dead—
          The childless cannot speak!

The inimitable Wordsworth, with the garrulity of a nurse, fondling a
beloved infant, lavishes on it in a single poem, several endearing
appellations, in one verse styling it

        A nun demure, of lowly port.

And in another line:

        A queen in crown of rubies drest.

And again:

        A little Cyclops, with one eye,
        Staring to threaten or defy.

The primrose, a beautiful little flower but little known in this
country, also has been embalmed in song. Milton introduces it in terms
of endearment, “the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,” as if its little
heart was too gentle to withstand alone the rude shocks of the world.

The violet seems to have been a favorite flower with this author, when
he says,

        No sweeter fragrance e’er perfumed the gale.

Herrick thus fancifully accounts for its color:

        Love, on a day, wise poets tell,
          Some time in wrangling spent,
        Whether the violet should excel,
          Or she, in sweetest scent.

        But Venus, having lost the day,
          Poore girles, she fell on you,
        And beate ye so, as some dare say,
          Her blows did make ye blew.

Even the most unpoetical nature must have been occasionally conscious of
some such emotion as is embodied in these lines:

                               There’s to me
        A daintiness about these early flowers
        That touches one like poetry.

Among the visitants of March, especially if the season be mild, that now
delights the eye of the observer, is the rich scarlet flower of the
_Pyrus Japonica_; and the sweet-smelling jonquil irradiates the
flower-border, and if he ventures into the fields, and braves the
blustering winds of the season, he will be charmed with the bright
blossoms of the celandine and the butter-cup, whose bright golden faces
recall many an hour of childhood and happiness of the time when

        “Daisies and buttercups gladdened our sight,
         Like treasures of silver and gold.”

As we approach the Equinox, the storms and winds tempestuous and
frequent, yet from these extremes, reconciled and moderated by the hand
of Providence, much good results. Thus says the poet of nature, whose
philosophic reflections and moral remarks are only to be equalled by his
own matchless descriptions:

        Be patient, swains, these cruel seeming winds
        Blow not in vain; for hence they keep repressed
        Those deepening clouds on clouds, surcharged with rain,
        That o’er the vast Atlantic hither borne,
        In endless rain would quench the summer blaze,
        And cheerless drown the crude unripened year.

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                         THE LADY OF THE ROCK.


                        A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.


                         BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.


                               CHAPTER I.

              Splendor in heaven, and horror on the main,
              Sunshine and storm at once—a troubled day.
                                           DRAMATIC POEM.

ALL readers of English history must be able to recall to mind with
especial distinctness that period in its annals when the unfortunate
Charles I. drew upon himself the odium and mistrust of Parliament, and
London witnessed the unprecedented scene of the trial of a king for
treason before a court chosen from amongst his subjects. It will be
recollected that opposing religious interests operated with those of a
merely political nature in leading many of the enemies of Charles to
push their aversion to his measures to this extreme. His unwise
prohibition of the Puritan emigration to the American colonies was not
the least of these creating causes; and might be cited by such as are
fond of tracing retributive justice in human affairs, as one of those
instances in which men are permitted by their frowardness to pass upon
themselves the sentence of their own destruction, since, but for that
prohibition, the most powerful opponent of Charles, and the mighty
instrument of his ruin, would have embarked for New England, and this
country have become the theatre of Cromwell’s actions and
renown—supposing that the elements of that remarkable character must
have won elsewhere something of the same name he has left behind him—a
name to live alike in the condemnation and commendation of mankind.

To the period alluded the beginning of this tale reverts. The trial of
the king had been in progress several days. Of more than an hundred and
thirty judges appointed by the Commons, about seventy sat in constant
attendance. Chief in rank and importance among these was General
Lisle—a man whom we should not confound either with the mad enthusiasts
of that day, or with those dissembling hypocrites who used their
religion only as a stepping-stone to power, or the cloak to conceal a
guilty and treasonable ambition, since his opposition to Charles was
actuated solely by the purest principles of patriotism and religion. He
was, at the time of the trial, in his sixtieth year; and his constant
attendance and unwavering firmness of purpose—the evident results of
preconceived principle—during the whole sitting of that strange
tribunal, were not without great effect in nerving to continued
resolution the otherwise faltering minds of many of the younger judges.
For it cannot be doubted that compunctious feelings must have had
moments of ascendency in the hearts of a number of those with whom
rested the event of this questionable trial. This was evinced in some by
their occasional absence; in others, who nevertheless felt scrupulously
bound to be present, by a nervous tremor at the appearance of the
prisoner, and subsequent abstraction of attention from the scene, as
testifying a desire to assume as small a share as possible of the deep
responsibility belonging to the occasion.

Of the latter class was William Heath, the son of a Puritan divine in
Sussex. At the opening of the war, he had repaired to the army, and
risen by his gallantry and merits to the rank of general. Though still
young, he had been afterward conspicuous in Parliament, and was one of
those who took up accusations against the eleven members. Yet although
he was friendly to the king’s deposition, he had at first positively
refused to sit when appointed one of a Court called to make inquisition
for his blood. And he had at length only consented to assume the place
assigned him there, as it was notoriously believed, through the
influence of Lisle, to whose daughter he was betrothed, and his nuptials
with whom were to be completed on the night on which this narrative
opens.

His handsome countenance, as he sat in the Court through the whole day
preceding—though it contrasted with the pallor which had marked it
during those previous, in wearing upon it the anxious flush of the
expectant bridegroom, yet bore the same harassed air which had been seen
upon it since the commencement of the trial, and which even the blissful
hopes he was about to realize could not suffice to dissipate. It was
only when he turned his eyes upon Lisle, unflinching in his dignified
composure, that he seemed momentarily able to yield himself up to the
unalloyed anticipation of happiness. So true is it, that a conscience
ill at ease with itself has the power to mar the bliss of heaven.

The Court had adjourned; the prisoner had been remanded to the care of
Lisle, in whose house he had been kept in strict and harsh confinement
ever since his landing in London, during those hours not occupied with
his trial; and but one more day remained to decide the doom of the
unhappy Charles Stuart.

It was eight o’clock in the evening. In an apartment, far remote from
that chamber of Lisle’s spacious but sombre-looking dwelling, which held
the person of the royal prisoner, were assembled the wedding guests. As
much festivity and ornament had been called to grace the occasion as was
consistent with Lisle’s Puritanic views, yet the whole seemed by far too
little to celebrate the marriage of the lovely divinity for whom it was
prepared. The apartment was in the Elizabethan style of architecture,
but devoid of those ornaments of luxurious taste, which, in the reign of
Charles I. graced the houses of the opulent and distinguished of the
Church of England. A quaint stiffness reigned throughout the furniture
and other arrangements. Rows of high-backed chairs, interrupted here and
there with a book-case, table, or other heavy piece of mahogany, stood
in prim regularity against the wall; tall candlesticks, containing
taller candles, cast their blue light from the mantel-piece, and a large
Bible, laid open upon the table, was calculated to infuse devotional or
religious sentiments into those mirthful feelings belonging to the
occasion. No branches of mistletoe or holly hung around the room
remained as suggestions of the recent Christmas; no superb and
glittering chandelier shed its soft flood of light upon the assembly; no
damask drapery or luxurious sofas gave an air of elegance and comfort to
the spacious dreariness of the apartment; no music was prepared for the
enlivenment of the evening; nor were any profane amusements that night
to invoke the judgments of Heaven upon the approaching ceremony.

The company consisted of more than two hundred guests, gentlemen and
ladies, all staunch Puritans, and opposers of the king. The countenances
of many of the male portion of these were recognisable as the same which
had, for the last few days, appeared as the arraigners at the trial so
speedily about to be terminated, and a certain peculiar expression,
common to each, betokening a mind preoccupied by one deeply engrossing
topic, might have enabled an uninformed observer readily to select them
from the rest. Yet there were others present to whom the affair alluded
to was not less momentous, and with whom rested fully as much of the
responsibility of its now almost certainly dark result.

One of these latter, conspicuously seated near to Lisle, was the mighty
mover of the political revolution of the day, and the chief instrument
in procuring the king’s unhappy position—the aspiring, though still
religious Cromwell. The descriptions of history have made the personal
appearance of this remarkable man so familiar to posterity, that it is
superfluous here to draw any picture of his coarse and strongly-made
form, and severely harsh, but thoughtful features. The mention of his
name will at once call up to the minds of such as have ever interested
themselves in the account of those stirring times which have left their
impress upon subsequent events, and one of whose later results may be
traced in our own national freedom, no vague or shadowy embodiment, but
a well-defined portrait, engraved on the tablet of memory.

On this evening, his furtive glance around him from beneath his shaggy
eye-brows, as he conversed with Lisle in a labyrinthine manner peculiar
to him at times, evinced a wish to penetrate into the secrets of such
hearts as rated his character at its true value. A close observer might
have noted, too, that ever and anon as that glance, after wandering to
distant parts of the room, returned and fixed upon Lisle, it gradually
fell, as if stricken to earth by the steady gaze of the truly
disinterested religionist, and the rebukes of its owner’s accusing
conscience.

“The Court, thou sayest,” ran his speech, “have this day considered and
agreed upon a judgment. It is well. But I tell thee that not Parliament,
nor the army, nor this Court, could avail to pull down Charles Stuart
from his high place, saving that the God of Heaven is at war with him.
What though there be witnesses to prove that he set up his standard at
Nottingham, led his armed troops at Newbury, Edgehill and Naseby—issued
proclamations and mandates for the prosecution of the war? They are but
instruments in the hands of the same God who destroyed and dethroned
Belshazzar of old, because he was weighed in the balance and found
wanting. And is it not meet that we Christians should buckle on our
armor in behalf of the Lord of Hosts? Yea, verily! else for mine own
part, Charles Stuart should not fall from the throne of England. I am
not a bloody man; nay, by reason of human frailty, my heart had now
well-nigh failed me in this very cause, but that he who putteth his hand
to the plough in these troublous times, and looketh back, need be
careful that he be not hanged upon the gallows which Haman prepared for
Mordecai.”

The whole of this last sentence was spoken in soliloquy, for Lisle had
at that moment risen to receive some guests.

The persons entering were three in number—a gentleman of about forty
years of age, attended by two lovely females, whose youthful years and
striking resemblance to himself, would instantly have suggested, what
was in reality the case, that they were his daughters.

From the looks of interest with which his arrival was regarded by all
present, it was evident that he was a person of some distinction, though
he had not, at that period, given to the world the monument of his
genius on which he has since built his immortality. Yet John Milton was
justly celebrated even then for his political writings, his strenuous
assertion and defense of liberty, his austere Puritanic views, and his
abstemious manner of life. His whole appearance was prepossessing in the
extreme, but rather interesting than commanding; for his stature was
low, though his body was strongly made and muscular. His hair, which was
of light brown, streaked with hues of gold, and hanging in silken waves
to his shoulders, was parted in the middle, after the fashion of the
day, and surmounted a low yet expansive forehead, sufficiently
indicative of the depth of genius which lay beneath. His complexion was
fair, and delicately colored as a woman’s; and the contour of his
features might have been objected to as effeminate, were it not for the
expression of manly dignity which animated the whole countenance. His
full, gray eye, in its somewhat sleepy expression, evinced that quiet
melancholy peculiar to poetic genius, while a certain searching and
wandering look with which he occasionally stared fixedly around him,
suggested the idea that his sight was not perfect.

The two daughters of Milton, by whom he was attended, were highly
interesting in appearance, with the dignity of countenance peculiar to
their father, and having upon them the unmistakable stamp of an
inheritance from him of nature’s noblest gift of intellect.

Returning Lisle’s salutation as he approached to meet them, these two
young females retired to a seat amongst the ladies, and left Milton and
his host standing near the entrance of the apartment.

“Thou losest thy daughter to-night, honored friend,” said the former. “I
trust she may find a continuance of that happiness in wedlock that she
has enjoyed in her father’s house.”

“True happiness belongs not to this earth,” said Lisle. “It is in mercy
withheld from us by the Almighty, that we may be the more ready to meet
death when the summons calls us hence.”

“Thou speakest well,” replied Milton; “the very impossibility of finding
happiness here is a merciful provision of the all-wise Creator. But
talking of a willingness to encounter death, they tell me that the court
have decided upon the sentence of the tyrant and traitor king. Is the
rumor correct?”

“So much so,” said Lisle, “that to-morrow we sign the warrant for his
execution.”

“I shall marvel,” said the other, “though I speak it with shame, if
fifty out of your hundred have the Christian courage to stain their
fingers with the touch of the bloody quill prepared for them.”

“May all such then,” returned Lisle, while a flush as of indignation
passed over his countenance for an instant, and then died rapidly
away—“may all such as flinch from the performance of this noble act of
duty to their country and to God, and omit to place their names, when
called upon, to that righteous document of His preparing, not find at
the last judgment that the angel of the Lord has likewise omitted to
place their names upon his book. But here is my daughter and her future
husband; and the man of God has risen to perform the marriage ceremony.
Excuse me, I must meet them at the door.”

“I pray thee give me thy hand first, and conduct me to a seat. A strange
mistiness which I have of late had to come frequently across my eyes, is
upon them now, and every object before me seems indistinct and
confused.”

Lisle hastily did as his friend desired, scarcely hearing or heeding, in
his hurry, the import of his words, and then advancing to meet his
daughter and Heath, he conducted them toward the venerable minister of
their faith, in waiting to unite the young couple in the bonds of holy
wedlock.

As they took their station before him, his pious “Let us pray,” was
heard, and all present arose. After a long and fervent supplication, in
the manner of the Puritan divines of that period, he delivered a sort of
homily upon the duties and responsibilities of the marriage state, and
then pronounced an extemporaneous and brief ceremony, ending with the
words, “What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” This was
followed by another lengthy prayer, and William Heath and Alice Lisle
were husband and wife.

The company now advanced to greet the bride and groom, who separately
returned their salutations with a polished grace appropriate to their
differing sex.

Unscreened by the customary bridal veil, as savoring too much of a form
belonging to the established church, the lovely face of Alice was not
covered, save that a few natural ringlets, purposely left unfastened,
fell upon her cheeks, and partially screened from observation her
exquisitely beautiful features. Her dress was of the simplest and purest
white, and without ornament or addition to enhance her natural
loveliness; and it is impossible to conceive of a being more charming
than she appeared in the modest diffidence of her sex on the most
important and conspicuous occasion of a woman’s life, and yet withal
losing nothing of the dignity of manner belonging to one conscious of
possessing that energy of mind, which, so far from being, as some
erroneously suppose, a masculine or unwomanly trait, is, on the
contrary, the distinguishing and crowning mark of a character
essentially feminine. What but such strength of mind has ever yet
triumphed over female vanity and love of display, and from the exacting
divinity of man’s homage, converted a woman into the self-sacrificing
and judicious minister to his happiness, fitted her to be true to one
with untiring devotion through evil report and good report, rejoicing
with him not for her sake, but for his, in his prosperity; sharing with
him uncomplainingly his adversity, and cheering, with words of comfort,
while her own heart may have been well nigh breaking, the path in which,
but for her example to shame him, and her voice to comfort and encourage
him, he would have sunk to rise no more.

Well was it for William Heath that Alice Lisle possessed these
requisites for becoming such an unwavering and devoted companion in
misfortune, as we have described; for the day, though not immediately
near, was still in store, when her willingness to encounter adversity,
and her fitness to meet it with fortitude sufficient to sustain herself,
her father, and the husband to whom she had that night given her hand,
and had long since pledged the full affections of her heart, were amply
to be tested.

The appearance of Heath was such as was well calculated to excite
interest, and his mind, character, and winning manners, such as speedily
to change this on the appearance of any preference on his part, into
sentiments of a more tender character. There was something in his whole
mien—in the easy and upright carriage of his head—the intrepid
character of his features—the bold and vigorous flashing of his dark
eyes—that marked him no common man.

The salutations were soon ended, and the company now being somewhat
relieved from the awkward embarrassment which they had experienced while
waiting for the appearance of those whom the occasion was to honor—for,
in those days, society was much the same in that respect as at present,
the company scattered, and gathered together in knots and groups, and
discussed with great eagerness the engrossing topic of the trial.
Conversation, however, flowed, not as it was wont, in its pleasant
current, diverging here and there, as fancy or caprice suggested, but an
appearance of gloom pervaded the whole intercourse; and although each
individual appeared evidently to make an effort to relieve this feeling,
the effort itself showed a consciousness of the constraint.

It was not then the custom to deprive the groom and bride of each
other’s society during the whole evening after the ceremony, but was
rather the fashion to throw them together as much as possible—which
must at least, in the case of all love-matches, have been more
conformable with the inclinations, than that habit of scrupulously
avoiding one another, now in vogue. Agreeably with this ordinary
arrangement, Alice and Heath withdrew toward the close of the evening,
without attracting observation, into an anteroom adjoining the main
apartment.

It had not escaped the notice of any, that notwithstanding the blissful
occasion, the brow of Alice wore a cloud, if not actually of sorrow, at
least of melancholy sadness. We may believe that this had attracted the
especial notice of him who had that evening taken her happiness into his
proper keeping. But his sympathetic heart rightly surmised its cause.

“Thou art sad, my own Alice,” he said, “on this night, which I had
fondly hoped would have made thee as supremely joyful as it does myself.
You distress yourself on account of the king’s situation: is it not so?”

“Not only on account of the king’s unhappy situation, but likewise
because of the hand my father and thyself have had in it. I fear that
his blood, if he be sentenced, as the rumor is, to-morrow, will be
avenged upon the heads of those whom I love best on earth.”

“But, Alice,” argued the husband, “he has merited, by his tyranny and
treason, this trial, and in contemning the court, as he has done
throughout in refusing to plead, he will likewise merit whatever
sentence it may see fit, after examining the competent witnesses, to
pass upon him. Besides, has not your father told you that this is the
Lord’s cause, and that He calleth aloud from the throne of Heaven for
the blood of Charles Stuart?”

“Those are indeed my father’s words,” replied Alice, “_too severe_ in
his religious views, and forgetting that the Almighty is a God of mercy
no less than of justice. But, William Heath, they are not the words
dictated by the generous and kind heart that animates thy bosom, else
Alice Lisle, though she be her father’s daughter, had not this night
become thy wife. Listen to the conscience which the penetrating eye of
true affection seeth even now reproving thee, and have no further hand
in this bloody work. Charles Stuart may be all that the Parliament and
your court have named him; and if he be, God forbid that I should
justify his baseness. But as we are all prone to err, it is sweet to
forgive, even as we hope to be forgiven. Go not to the court to-morrow,
William, nor stain this hand of thine by affixing thy signature to the
death-warrant of the king. Promise me this, I ask it as my wedding
boon.”

“Would that you had spared me, beloved one, the pain of hearing you ask
aught that I cannot and dare not grant. My word of honor to your father
is pledged to perform the very act which you implore me to leave undone.
It was the condition which sealed my happiness in calling you wife this
night. When I would have shrunk from the responsibility of taking an
active part in the trial, and resigned my place to an older and more
experienced statesman than myself, Henry Lisle, in disgust at what he
conceived the indecision and irreligion of my character, would have
robbed me of that dear hope which has even now been realized. I was
forced to promise your father, Alice, that I would not only accept my
place as one of the judges, but that I would be present throughout the
trial, and shrink from no act which my position as a member of the court
imposed on me—even to the signing of the warrant for Charles Stuart’s
death. Is there naught else, involving less than my honor, that you
would have me grant you? If there is, ask it, sweet one, and I will move
heaven and earth to accomplish it.”

“These are idle words of gallantry, William, unworthy the confidence
which should exist between us. A wife need have no boon to ask of her
husband unless in a case which involves his own best interests. As such,
I would have had thee remain away from the court to-morrow, and even
have sought to use our united influence to detain my father also. But it
seems he has set his heart upon the matter even more than I had deemed.
I pray the Lord that his retributive justice for this parricidal act,
fall not heavily on the heads of all of us. If this cause, as ye both
believe, be His, can ye not be persuaded that He will avenge Himself on
the king without human agency. Is there no hope for Charles Stuart? He
is in this house: can no means be contrived for his escape?”

“That were impossible, dearest, guarded as he is on all hands. But if he
would but abate his hauteur, and plead his cause in the eloquent manner
he so well knows how to assume, there might yet, perhaps, exist a hope
for him. In this lies his only chance of escape.”

At that moment supper was announced, and Alice and Heath repaired with
the rest of the company to the refreshment-room.


                              CHAPTER II.

                       “Hark! the warning tone
                     Deepens—its word is _death_!”
                                      MRS. HEMANS.

The large hall clock in Lisle’s house had told the hour of eleven, after
the marriage described in the last chapter, and some fifteen or twenty
minutes had elapsed since the departure of the guests, when the reader
is invited into a small upper chamber, in a remote wing of the mansion.
It was rather comfortless than otherwise in its whole aspect, and its
grated windows, and long distance from any adjoining room—being
surrounded entirely by galleries—suggested the idea of a place of
confinement. It was one of those small rooms, common in large buildings
at that period, and scarcely more suitable in its arrangements for an
occupant than the waste halls and galleries which led to it. Some hasty
preparations had been made for the prisoner’s accommodation. Arras had
been tacked up, and a fire lighted in the rusty grate, which had been
long unused, and a rude pallet placed in one corner.

Seated before a table in this chamber, was a person of something less
than fifty years of age. He was dressed in plain black velvet, slashed
with satin, and on his cloak, which was thrown back, glittered a star
belonging to the order of the garter. His hair, thick and black, was
slightly sprinkled with gray, and arranged in the custom of the day with
scrupulous exactness. His mustaches were large and curled upward, and
his pointed beard was of that formal style, so frequently seen in the
portraits of that reign. His face was oval and handsome: the features
being regular, notwithstanding that his full brown eyes seemed rather
dull as he sat in thought; and a peculiar expression of exceeding
melancholy rested upon his countenance. This look of melancholy was not
relieved by the marks of any strong ruling passion or principle, nor
much indication of individuality of character. Yet withal, it might not
have escaped observation, that in the whole aspect there was not wanting
a certain air of cold resolution, almost at variance with the mildness
of the brow. This person was of the middle height, strongly made, and
showing in his entire appearance a dignity denoting the highest birth.

Before him on the table lay the miniature of a lovely child, and a large
Book of Common Prayer open beside it. He sat gazing upon the picture,
until a tear ran slowly down his cheek. It was that of a blooming boy,
the bright face shaded by clustered ringlets, and the whole countenance
beaming with youthful hope and beauty.

“Sweet child,” he said audibly, “may you ascend the throne of the
Stuarts under better auspices than I have done! Heaven in its mercy
grant that you may never suffer the fate of your wretched father! Or if,
at least, such hour of trial ever come upon you, may you not know what
it is to be thus alone in your affliction, and separated from all you
love on earth—shut out from the sweet sympathies of wife, children and
home, while your rank and dignity as King of England is trampled upon,
and you are imprisoned and tried by your own people!”

His softened mood seemed suddenly to give place to more angry feelings,
as, rising up, and the dullness of his eyes brightening to a keen flash,
he exclaimed:

“Let this court continue the mockery of its sitting; let it arraign me
day by day, as a traitor, tyrant, and murderer. Am I not Charles Stuart,
heir to a mighty line of sovereigns, and shall I stoop to acknowledge
its authority, rather than resign myself to whatever fate its villainy
may impose on me? Methinks already my doom could hardly be aggravated:
yon matted floor—those wooden chairs—those grated windows—this narrow
room—surely a prison were no worse. Yet perchance—but it cannot—no,
it CANNOT be, that the base Cromwell will dare incite them to shed my
blood.”

At this moment the door opened, and Alice Heath entered the apartment.

“Who is it intrudes upon me at this unseasonable hour?” angrily
exclaimed the king, turning round and facing his fair visiter, who
approached him, and dropped upon her knee.

“Spare your displeasure, sire!” she said, in the most soothing voice, “I
am General Lisle’s daughter, but I come to you as a subject and a
friend.”

“Rise, maiden,” said the king, “and talk not of being subject to an
imprisoned and belied monarch. Charles Stuart is hardly now a sovereign
in name.”

“Nevertheless, I would perform my duty by acknowledging him as such,”
replied Alice, taking his hand, and then rising. “But it is not merely
to admit his title, that I come to him at this hour of the night. I come
to beg him to sacrifice his pride as the owner of that same dignity, and
stoop to plead his cause for the saving of his life. Know, my liege,
that to-morrow, unless you consent to relax your pertinacious refusal to
plead your cause, the Court sign the warrant for your execution. I am
ignorant whether or not you be all that my father and your enemies
believe; but if you be, you are then the less fit to meet death.”

“Death! And has it come to this?” exclaimed Charles, setting his teeth,
and rapidly pacing the room for some moments, without replying to his
gentle visiter, or even heeding her presence.

At length she ventured to approach him.

“I have told you in what alone lies your hope of averting this awful
sentence, my lord. I pray you to reflect upon it this night. A little
sacrifice of pride—the mere utterance of a few humble words—”

“Sacrifice of pride! utterance of humble words! thou knowest not, girl,
of what you speak. Charles Stuart cannot stoop so far, even though it be
to save his life. Spirits of my royal ancestors,” added he, “spare me
from a weakness which would make you blush to own me as your
descendant.” And he covered his face with his hands.

“If it is permitted to a subject to own the feeling for her king, I
compassionate your unhappy case most deeply,” said Alice, taking his
passive hand, while her tears were falling fast.

A few moments silence prevailed, which Alice interrupted.

“Can I not induce you,” said she at length, “to value the precious boon
of your life above the foolish pride of which we were speaking? Think,
my lord, how sweet is existence, and all its precious ties of pleasure
and affection—and she pointed to the miniature on the table—how awful
is a violent death, and how lonely and dark and mysterious the tomb.
Cannot the consideration of all these things move your purpose?”

“I thank you, sweet maiden, for your noble intention, and may God reward
you for your words and wishes of goodness,” replied Charles, much
touched by her tone of deep interest, “but my resolution is fixed.”

“Can you suggest nothing then, yourself, my liege, less displeasing to
you? Have you no powerful friend whose influence I might this night move
in your behalf?”

“Nay, it cannot be,” replied the king, after pondering a moment upon her
words. “Charles Stuart is deserted on all hands, and it is the Lord’s
will that he shall die. I begin to look upon it already with
resignation. Yet the first intimation came upon me like the stroke of a
thunderbolt. Private assassination I have long dreaded; but a public
execution I had never dreamed of. Nevertheless, be it so. I shall meet
death like a man and a king.”

“Then, farewell, since my visit is futile, and the Almighty be your
support and comfort in your added affliction,” said Alice, as again
kissing his hand, and bathing it with tears, she withdrew.

Left alone, the king remained for some time in deep thought. All anger
and weakness appeared to have passed from his mood, and the remarkable
expression of melancholy which we have before described, deepened on his
face to a degree scarce ever seen except upon canvas. Not less
heightened, however, was that coldly resolute air likewise previously
alluded to—so that if evidently sad, it might likewise have been seen
that Charles Stuart was also determined unto death.

What were his reflections in view of the announcement he had just
received from the lips of Alice Heath, and which he saw no means of
averting short of sacrificing the dignity with which his rank as
sovereign of England invested him, we will not attempt to conjecture.
None who have not been in his situation can form any thing like an
adequate conception of his state of mind; and it were sacrilege to
attempt to invade the sanctuary of the human soul in such hour of agony.

Whatever his cogitations were, they were of limited duration. For, after
sitting thus for a considerable time, Charles pushed back his chair, and
falling upon his knees before the table, he drew the Book of Prayer
toward him, and clasping his hands upon it, read aloud:

“The day of thy servant’s calamity is at hand, and he is accounted as
one of them that go down to the pit. Blessed Lord, remember thy mercies;
give him, we beseech thee, patience in this his time of adversity, and
support under the terrors that encompass him; set before his eyes the
things which he hath done in the body, which have justly provoked thee
to anger, and forasmuch as his continuance appeareth to be short among
us, quicken him so much the more by thy grace and Holy Spirit; that he,
being converted and reconciled unto thee, before thy judgments have cut
him off from the earth, may at the hour of his death depart in peace,
and be received into thine everlasting kingdom, through Jesus Christ,
our Lord. Amen.”

Rising, he slowly disrobed, and throwing himself upon the bed, soon sunk
into a placid slumber. Strange! that sleep of the prisoner in the
prospect of death. The excitement of suspense—the palpitation of hope
not altogether dead—these banish rest; but when the feverish
perturbation caused by expectation departs, and the mind has nothing to
feed upon but one dark and fearful certainty, it turns to seek
forgetfulness in sleep.


                              CHAPTER III.

           With my own power my majesty they wound;
           In the king’s name, the king himself’s uncrowned,
           So doth the dust destroy the diamond.
                         CHARLES STUART’S MAJESTY IN MISERY.

               _Sardanapalus._——Answer, slave! how long
               Have slaves decided on the doom of kings?

               _Herald._—Since they were free.
                                   BYRON’S SARDANAPALUS.

All London was astir. The excited populace filled every street and alley
of the vast city. The report that sentence of death was that day to be
passed upon Charles Stuart, rung on every tongue, and the popular
feeling ran mainly in favor of his condemnation. All business was
suspended; and from an early hour crowds were wending their way to
Westminster Hall, where the trial was about to be brought to a close.

That specimen of perfect architecture—which modern art is not ashamed
to take as a model, but vainly seeks to imitate—had been fitted up with
great regard to the smallest details, for this most remarkable occasion.
This had been done in order to invest the ceremonial of the trial with
all the pomp and dignity becoming the delegates of a great nation,
sitting in judgment upon their monarch, and trying him for a breach of
the trust committed to his care—the weal and peace of the people.
Benches covered with blue velvet were arranged at the upper end for the
accommodation of the judges; and within the bar were strewn thick
carpets and cushions. A splendid chair, to correspond with the benches,
was placed for the use of the firm and subtle Bradshaw, who had the
honor or disgrace, according as it may be deemed, of presiding over the
court. He was seated before a table covered with crimson drapery—his
fine countenance betokening that decision for which he was
remarkable—attired in costly dress, and supported on either hand by his
assessors.

The galleries were filled to suffocation with spectators; and the main
body of the building was thronged with a vast concourse of people, while
a regiment of armed soldiery was in attendance, with pieces loaded and
ready for use in case any tumult should arise. The Puritan party, now no
longer timid or wavering, took no pains to conceal their sense of coming
victory, and even Cromwell, usually so guarded in every outward
observance, took his seat without the bar, with a look of conscious
triumph. A profound stillness prevailed as the judges entered.
Fifty-nine only out of the one hundred and thirty-three had been able to
summon sufficient resolution to be present. With sad and solemn, though
severe and determined countenances, these severally seated themselves,
apparently filled almost to a sense of oppression, with the
responsibility devolved on them, but seeming not the less resolved to
act according to their determination previously agreed upon. Among these
were Lisle and Heath, the latter of whom was perhaps the only
commissioner whose countenance wanted something of the resolute bearing
we have described. They had scarcely taken their seats when the rumbling
noise of an approaching vehicle was distinctly heard. The previous
silence if possible deepened, and for some moments the multitude, as if
moved by one mighty impulse, almost ceased to breathe. Not a hand was in
motion—not an air stirred—and scarce a pulse beat, as the ponderous
door slowly revolved upon its hinges, and the regal prisoner entered. He
cast a look of blended pride and sorrow upon the judges, as he walked up
to the bar, surrounded by a guard. But he made no token of
acknowledgment or reverence, nor did he remove his velvet cap, as he
took the seat prepared for him.

The names of the judges were called over. Bradshaw then arose, and in a
silvery and ringing tone, which made his declamation peculiarly
impressive, while a shade of deepening pallor was perceptible on his
countenance, addressed the court.

He deviated from the usually calm and temperate manner he was accustomed
to assume, and became warm and impassioned. As he went on, his rich
voice swelled on the air with a clear, distinct intonation, that fell
deeply and artfully into the ears of the listeners. He was evidently
bent as much on appealing to those without the bar, as to the judges.
With the consummate skill of a rhetorician he first drew the picture of
the serf-like slavery of the people, dependent upon the will or caprice
of the king. He next pointed out the liberty to which, by a just
sentence passed against its tyrant, the nation would be restored.
Although a studied simplicity of language pervaded in general his
remarks, yet, at times, some striking or brilliant metaphor would, as it
were, accidentally escape him, which was speedily followed by a loud
roar of applause, evincing its full appreciation by his hearers. He then
turned to the prisoner in the following words:

“Charles Stuart, King of England, it is now the fourth time that you
have been arraigned before this tribunal. On each occasion you have
persisted in contemning its authority, and denying its
validity—breaking in upon its proceedings with frivolous and
impertinent interruptions—frequently turning your back upon the
judges—nay, sometimes even laughing outright at the awful charges which
have been preferred against you. Since its last convention, witnesses
have appeared to prove conclusively that you took up arms against the
troops commissioned by the Parliament. Once again, therefore, you are
called upon in the name of your country and your God, to plead guilty or
not guilty of tyranny, treason and murder.”

No change whatever took place in the king’s countenance at hearing these
words. When they had ceased, he slowly rose, his head still covered, and
made answer:

“I acknowledge not the authority of this court. Were I to do so, it were
to betray the sacred and inviolable trust confided to me in the care of
the liberties of the British people. Your delegation, to be legal,
should have come alike from the individual voice of the meanest and most
ignorant boor of this realm, as from the high and cultivated hypocrites
who have empowered you. Should I ratify such an authority—in the eyes
of the law not better founded than that of pirates and murderers—I
would indeed be the traitor ye would brand me. Nay, let me rather die a
martyr to the constitution. But before ye proceed to pronounce the
judgment ye threaten, I demand, by all those rights of inheritance which
invest me as a monarch, with a majesty and power second only to the
Omnipotent, to be heard before a convention of both houses of
Parliament; and, whether or not ye refuse me, I adjure ye, the so-called
judges of this court, as ye each hope to be arraigned at no unlawful or
incompetent bar at the final judgment, to pause and reflect before ye
take upon ye the high-handed responsibility of passing sentence upon
your king.”

He resumed his seat, and after a few moments’ intense quiet, William
Heath arose, and suggested that the court would do well to adjourn for a
brief season for the purpose of taking into consideration the request of
the prisoner.

The expediency of this suggestion was acceded to, and they withdrew and
remained for some fifteen or twenty minutes in conference.

On their return, after a few moments’ consultation with some of the
older judges, Lisle among the rest, Bradshaw, taking a parchment from
the table, turned to the king with these words:

“Charles Stuart, you have in your request to be heard before Parliament,
as well as in other language addressed by you some moments since to this
honorable court, given a fresh denial of its jurisdiction, and an added
proof of your contempt. It has already, by such contumacy on your part,
been too long delayed, and must now proceed to pass judgment against
you. You have been proven a traitor to England in waging war against her
Parliament, and in refusing to plead in your own behalf, or endeavoring
to invalidate such proof, justice has no alternative but to demand your
death. The following warrant has therefore been agreed upon by your
judges, who will presently affix their signatures thereunto. ‘_We, the
Commissioners appointed by the Commons to sit in trial on Charles
Stuart, King of England, arraigned as a traitor, tyrant and murderer,
having found these charges amply substantiated, do for the glory of God,
and the liberties of the British people, hereby adjudge him to death._’”

He ceased: the members of the court had risen during the reading of the
warrant, to testify their concurrence, and the fatal document was now
circulated among them to receive their various signatures. It was
observed to be written in the chirography of Cromwell.

Throughout the remarks of Bradshaw, Charles had remained with his eyes
fixed upon the ground; but while the warrant was being read, he raised
them and cast them upon Cromwell, who was standing without the bar.
Brief as was this glance, it seemed to convey some momentous truth, for
Cromwell became at first scarlet, and then pale as death. Instantly,
however, he turned away, and began coolly to unfold the plaits of a
white cambric handkerchief, and appeared only occupied with that object.

As soon as the warrant had been passed around to receive the signatures,
and Bradshaw had resumed his seat, Charles arose, and with more of
dignity than contempt in the act, he turned his back upon the judges—as
though his pride would prevent their observing whatever effect their
sentence had upon him.

The profound silence which had heretofore prevailed among the crowd,
here gave way to loud hisses, and expressions of contempt and disgust;
while the soldiers, instigated by the Roundheads, uttered exclamations
of “Justice!” “Justice!”

Charles, on hearing the cries of these latter, turned mildly toward
them, and casting on them a look of pity, said, in a tone of voice,
which, though not loud, was yet sufficiently distinct to be heard by all
within the bar:

“I pity them! for a little money they would do as much against their
commanders.”

The proceedings closed; and under a strong escort, and amid the shouts
of the populace, the noble prisoner was conducted out of the hall. As he
proceeded, various outrages were put upon him. With a kingly majesty
superior to insult, he received these indignities, as though he deemed
them unworthy to excite any emotion within him, save what his sorrowful
eye indicated, that of pity for the offenders. Some few, in the midst of
the general odium, endeavored to evince their continued allegiance. But
their faint prayer of “God save the king!” was drowned in the swelling
cries of “Down with the traitor!” “Vengeance on the tyrant!” “Away with
the murderer!” One soldier, who was intentionally or inadvertently heard
humming the national air of his country, was stricken to the ground by
his officer, just as the king crossed the threshold of the door.

“Poor fellow,” said Charles, “methinks his punishment was greater than
his offence.”


                              CHAPTER IV.

                         Will nothing move him?
                               THE TWO FOSCARI.

The streets of a crowded metropolis, which, with their noise and clamor,
their variety of lights, and the eternally changing bustle of their
hundred groups, offer, by night especially, a spectacle which, though
composed of the most vulgar materials, when they are separately
considered, has, when they are combined, a striking and powerful effect
upon the imagination.

At a late hour on the following night, when London presented such a
scene as we have described, two persons were winding their way to the
Palace of Whitehall. One was an individual of the male sex, in whom
might have been seen, even through the gloom, a polished and dignified
bearing, which, together with his dress—though of the Puritanic
order—declared him a gentleman of more than ordinary rank. His
companion was a delicate woman, evidently like himself of the most
genteel class, but attired in the simplest and plainest walking costume
of the times. She leaned on his arm with much appearance of womanly
trust, although there was an air of self-confidence in her step,
suggesting the idea of one capable of acting alone on occasion of
emergency, and a striking yet perfectly feminine dignity presiding over
her whole aspect.

“I have counseled your visiting him at this late hour,” said the
gentleman, “because, as the only hope lies in striking terror into his
conscience, the purpose may be best answered in the solitude and silence
of a season like this. Conscience is a coward in the daylight, but
darkness and night generally give her courage to assert her power.”

“True, William,” replied Alice Heath, (for she it was, and her
companion, as the reader is aware by this time, was her husband,)
“true—but alas! I fear for the success of my visit; the individual of
whom we are speaking deceives himself no less than others, and therefore
to him she is a coward at all times. Hast thou not read what my poor
dead grandfather’s old acquaintance has written about a man’s ‘making
such a sinner of his conscience as to believe his own lies’?”

“I have not forgotten the passage, my Alice, and ever correct in your
judgment, you have penetrated rightly into the singular character we are
alluding to. I wot it were hard for himself to say how far he has been
actuated by pure, and how far by ambitious motives, in the hand he has
had in the sentence of the king. Nevertheless, you would believe his
conscience to be not altogether dead, had you seen him tremble and grow
pale yesterday in the court, during the reading of the warrant, (which,
by the way, he had worded and written with his own hands,) when Charles
Stuart raised his eyes and looked upon him as if to imply that he knew
him for the instigator, and no unselfish one either, of his doom. The
emotion he then testified, it was, which led me to hope he may yet be
operated upon to prevent the fatal judgment from taking effect. It is
true, Charles is a traitor, and I cannot regret that in being arraigned
and tried, an example has been made of him. But having from the first
anticipated this result, except for your father, Alice, I would have had
no part in the matter, being entirely opposed to the shedding of his
blood. All ends which his death can accomplish have already been
answered; and I devoutly pray that the effort your gentle heart is now
about to make for the saving of his life, may be blessed in procuring
that merciful result.”

At this moment they paused before the magnificent structure known as the
Palace of Whitehall, and applied for admission. Vacated some time since
by the king, it was now occupied by his rival in power, the aspiring
Cromwell; and although the hour was so late, the vast pile was still
illuminated. Having gained speedy access to the main building, the
visiters were admitted by a servant in the gorgeous livery of the fallen
monarch. Heath requested to be shown to an anteroom, while Alice
solicited to be conducted without previous announcement to the presence
of his master. After a moment’s hesitation on the part of the servant,
which, however, was quickly overcome by her persuasive manner, he
conducted her through various spacious halls, and up numerous flights of
stairs, till pausing suddenly before the door of a chamber, he knocked
gently. As they waited for an answer, the accents of prayer were
distinctly audible. They were desired to enter; the servant threw open
the door, simply announcing a lady. Alice entered, and found herself
alone with Cromwell.

The apartment was an anteroom attached to the spacious bed-chamber
formerly belonging to the king. It was luxuriously furnished with all
the appliances of ease and elegance suitable to a royal with-drawing
room. Tables and chairs of rose-wood, richly inlaid with ivory and
mother-of-pearl, were arranged in order around the room; magnificent
vases of porcelain decorated the mantel-piece; statues from the chisel
of Michael Angelo stood in the niches; and pictures in gorgeous frames
hung upon the walls.

There, near a table, on which burned a single-shaded lamp, standing
upright, in the attitude of prayer, from which he had just been
interrupted, stood the occupant. For an instant—as she lingered near
the door, and looked upon his figure, which bore so strongly the impress
of power, and felt that on his word hung the fate of him for whom she
had come to plead—she already feared for the success of her mission,
and would fain almost have retracted her visit. But remembering the
accents of prayer she had heard while waiting without, she considered
that her purposed appeal was to the conscience of one whom she had just
surprised, as it were, in the presence of his Maker, and took courage to
advance.

“May I pray thee to approach, and be seated, madam, and unfold the
object of this visit,” said Cromwell, in a thick, rapid utterance, the
result of his surprise, as he waved his visiter to a chair. “At that
distance, and by this light, I can hardly distinguish the features of
the lady who so inopportunely and unceremoniously honors me with her
presence.”

Immediately advancing, she threw back her hood, and offering him her
hand, said, “It is Alice Heath, the daughter of your friend, General
Lisle.”

Cromwell’s rugged countenance expressed the utmost surprise, as he
awkwardly strove to assume a courtesy foreign to his manner, and
exchange his first ungracious greeting for something of a more cordial
welcome.

With exceeding tact, Alice hastened to relieve his embarrassment, by
falling back into the chair he had offered, and at once declaring the
purpose of her visit.

“General Cromwell,” she began, in a voice sweetly distinct, “you stand
high in the eyes of man, not only as a patriot, but a strict and
conscientious servant of the Most High. As such, you have been the main
instrument in procuring the doom now hanging in awful expectation over
the head of him who once tenanted, in the same splendor that now
surrounds yourself, the building in which I find you. Methinks his
vacation of these princely premises, and your succession thereunto,
renders you scarcely capable of being a disinterested advocate for his
death—since, by it, you become successor to all the pomp and power
formerly his. Have you asked yourself the question whether no motives of
self-aggrandisement have tainted this deed of patriotism, or sullied
this act of religion?”

“Your language is unwarrantable and unbecoming, madam,” said Cromwell,
deadly pale and trembling violently; “it is written—”

“Excuse me,” said Alice, interrupting him; “you think it uncourteous and
even impertinent that I should intrude upon you with a question such as
I but now addressed to you. But, General Cromwell, a human life is at
stake, and that the life of no ordinary being, but the descendant of a
race of kings. Nay, hear me out, sir, I beg of you. Charles Stuart is
about to die an awful and a violent death; your voice has condemned
him—your voice can yet save him. If it be your country’s weal that you
desire, that object has been already sufficiently answered by the
example of his trial; or, if it is to further the cause of the Lord of
Hosts that you place yourself at the head of Britain in his place, be
assured that he who would assert his power by surrounding himself with a
pomp like this, is no delegate of One who commissioned Moses to lead his
people through the wilderness, a sharer in the common lot, and a
houseless wanderer like themselves. Bethink you, therefore, what must be
the doom of him at the final judgment, who—for the sake of ambition and
pride—in order that he might for the brief space of his life enjoy
luxury and power—under the borrowed name, too, of that God who views
the act with horror and detestation—stains his hands with parricidal
blood. Yes, General Cromwell, for thy own soul’s, if not for mercy’s
sake, I entreat thee, in whom alone lies the power, to cause Charles
Stuart’s sentence to be remitted.”

As she waxed warm in her enthusiasm, Alice Heath had risen and drawn
close to Cromwell, who was still standing, as on her entrance, and in
her entreaty, she had even laid her hand on his arm. His tremor and
pallor had increased every moment while she spoke, and though at first
he would have interrupted her, he seemed very greatly at a loss, and
little disposed to reply.

After a few moment’s hesitation, during which Alice looked in his face
with the deepest anxiety, and awaited his answer, he said, “Go to, young
woman, who presumest to interfere between a judge raised up for the
redemption of England, and a traitor king, whom the Lord hath permitted
to be condemned to the axe. As my soul liveth, and as He liveth who will
one day make me a ruler in Israel, thou hast more than the vanity of thy
sex, in hoping by thy foolish speech to move me to lift up my hand
against the decree of the Almighty. Truly—”

“Nay, General Cromwell,” said Alice, interrupting him, as soon as she
perceived he was about to enter into one of his lengthy and pointless
harangues “nay, you evade the matter both with me and with the
conscience whose workings I have for the last few moments beheld in the
disorder of your frame. Have its pleadings—for to them I look and not
to any eloquence of mine own—been of no avail? Will it please you to do
aught for the king?”

“Young lady,” replied Cromwell, bursting into tears, which he was
occasionally wont to do, “a man like me, who is called to perform great
acts in Israel, had need to be immovable to feelings of human charities.
Think you not it is painful to our mortal sympathies to be called upon
to execute the righteous judgments of Heaven, while we are yet in the
body. And think you that when we must remove some prime tyrant that the
instruments of his removal can at all times view their part in his
punishment with unshaken nerves? Must they not even at times doubt the
inspiration under which they have felt and acted? Must they not
occasionally question the origin of that strong impulse which appears
the inward answer to prayer for direction under heavenly difficulties,
and in their disturbed apprehensions, confuse even the responses of
truth with the strong delusions of Satan. Would that the Lord would
harden my heart even as he hardened that of—”

“Stop, sir,” said Alice, again interrupting him ere his softened mood
should have passed away, “utter not such a sacrilegeous wish. Why are
the kindly sympathies which you describe implanted in your bosom, unless
it be to prevent your ambition from stifling your humanity? The rather
encourage them, and save Charles Stuart. Let your mind dwell upon the
many traits of nobleness in his character which might be mentioned with
enthusiasm, ay, and with sorrow, too, that they should be thus
sacrificed.”

“The Most High, young woman, will have no fainters in spirit in his
service—none who turn back from Mount Gilead for fear of the
Amalekites. To be brief—it waxes late; to discuss this topic longer is
but to distress us both. Charles Stuart must die—the mouth of the Lord
hath spoken it.”

As he spoke, he bowed with a determined but respectful reverence, and
when he lifted up his head, the expression of his features told Alice
that the doom of the king was irrevocably fixed.

“I see there is no hope,” said she, with a deep sigh, as Cromwell spoke
these words in a tone of decision which left her no further
encouragement, and with a brevity so unusual to him. Nor was his hint to
close the interview lost upon her. “No hope!” she repeated, drawing
back. “I leave you, then, inexorable man of iron, and may you not plead
thus in vain for mercy at the bar of God.”

So saying, she turned, and rejoining her husband who remained in waiting
for her, they returned together to Lisle’s house.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       THE BRIGAND AND HIS WIFE.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

THE fine picture which our artist has given us for this number of our
Magazine, is a spirited representation of a scene in the lives of those
men of violence and murder who, setting at defiance both human and
divine laws, wrest from the unarmed or overpowered traveler, amid the
mountainous districts of Europe, the means of subsistence they are too
idle to obtain through honest industry. To their secret retreat the band
of robbers have been traced by armed soldiers, whose approach they are
anxiously watching. The wife of the robber-chief is by his side.

By songs, stories, and pictures, much false sympathy has been created in
the minds of the unreflecting for “bold brigands,” who are represented
too often as possessed of chivalrous feelings and generous sentiments,
while a charm is thrown about their wild and reckless lives which is
altogether unreal. Love, too, a often brought in to give a warmer and
more attractive color to the pictures thus drawn. The roving bandit is
represented as loving passionately and tenderly some refined,
pure-hearted, and high-souled woman, who, in turn, pours out for him her
heart’s best affections.

Different from all this is the hard and harsh reality of the bandit’s
life. He is no man of fine feelings and generous sympathies, but a
selfish and cruel-minded villain; and between him and the woman, who, as
his wife, shares his life of exposure and violence, there can be no
gentle passages of affection, for these are only born of love laid upon
the solid foundations of virtuous respect.

The real truth on this subject, Dumas has given in a Calabrian story. A
body of soldiers had pursued a band of mountain robbers, in Calabria,
and hemmed them in so effectually that, with all the passes guarded,
escape seemed impossible. From this dilemma the chief determined to
relieve his men, as they had refused to surrender, although promised
pardon if they would give up their leader. The only possible way of
escape was by crossing a deep chasm, so wide, that even the supple
chamois could not make the fearful leap in safety. To reach this point,
it was necessary to go along a narrow pass, near which sentinels had
been placed. The movement was made at night. The chief of the robbers
had a wife, and she had a babe at her bosom. For days they had been
without food, except such roots as they dug from the ground, and the
want of nourishment had dried the fountain of life in the mother’s
breast, and the babe pined and fretted with hunger. As the little band
moved silently along the narrow path, in which, if discovered by the
soldiers, their destruction would be inevitable, the suffering babe
began to cry. Instantly it was seized by the father, swung in the air,
and its brains dashed out against a tree. For a moment the mother stood
like a statue of horror, then gathering the mutilated remains of her
murdered babe in her apron, she followed the retreating party.

Safely, through the skill of the chief, the chasm was passed, and they
were beyond the reach of danger. All, then, after procuring some food,
lay down to sleep, except a sentinel and the mother, who dug a grave
with her own hands, in which to bury her child. This sad duty performed,
she returned to the spot where her husband and his companions lay in
deep slumber. It was not difficult for her to persuade the tired and
sleepy sentinel to let her take his place, and soon she alone remained
awake. Then stealthily approaching the spot where the father of her dead
babe lay, she placed the muzzle of the piece she had taken from the
sentinel within a few inches of his breast, and pulled the trigger. The
ball passed through his heart!

Here we have something of the reality attending the life of a “bold
brigand.” A lawless robber and murderer is incapable of such a sentiment
as the true love of a woman. This feeling lives only in the breast of
the virtuous. And whenever the poet or the novelist represents a pirate
or robber as loving faithfully and tenderly some beautiful, true-hearted
woman, the reader may set it all down as mere romance. Such things are
contrary to the very nature of things. They never exist in real life.
True love of woman is an unselfish love; but the inordinate self-love of
these men leads them so utterly to disregard the rights of others, as to
commit robbery and murder. How, then, are they capable of loving any
thing out of themselves? It is impossible. A bitter fountain cannot send
forth sweet water.

                 *        *        *        *        *



               BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. II.


                    BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.


[Illustration: Resaca de la Palma.]

    ONCE again was daylight dawning, when the shrill, awakening fife
    Called our soldiers from their slumbers to the toils of martial life:
    We were weary: some among us through the long and dreary night
    Had traversed, like silent ghosts, the scene of PALO ALTO’S fight—
    For our wounded lay around us, who had struggled at our side,
    Stemming with their human bodies Battle’s hurricane-like tide.

    All were anxious, for we knew that, though our foes had flown the
      field,
    They were still in force before us, vowing never more to yield.
    One by one our scouts came in—some with faces of dismay—
    Others smiling at the promise of another glorious fray;
    But the tidings that they brought only fired us, and we stood,
    Like the old Norweyan Vikings, anxious for the feast of blood.

    When our wounded were in motion, for our general, like a man
    And a father, sent them back before the onward march began—
    When we saw the laden wagons, with the sad, disheartened train,
    Toward Point Isabel in silence slowly roll along the plain—
    We advanced and took our places, drawing a determined breath,
    While our wide-expanding nostrils drank the distant scent of death.

    As we marched along the prairie, creeping, cat-like, from the day,
    We could see the spotted jaguar, stealing from his human prey,
    While in flocks the huge, majestic condor with his mighty wings
    Flapped from his unusual feast, and swept above the plain in rings,
    Shrieking, as he clove the air, some desperate necromantic charm
    Over the pale, enchanted bodies that had lost the power of harm.

    Here and there, as we proceeded, lying wounded in our way
    We would meet some pallid victim, perishing in the face of day;
    He was, yesterday, a foeman—now, a helpless, suffering man,
    And a brother, praying sadly for some good Samaritan:
    So we bound his wounds and fed him—each one from his little store
    Taking what his pitying heart would fain have made a great deal more.

    Hour by hour we marched in silence, throwing out in our advance
    Daring souls with dauntless hearts, who laughed at lasso, ball and
      lance,
    And, as, riding like the wind, one dashed along our serried files,
    Twice a thousand lips breathed welcome, twice a thousand eyes looked
      smiles;
    But at last the tidings reached us that our foes had made a stand
    Between us and our gallant friends, near the yellow Rio Grande.

    On we went with bounding hearts till the prairie lay behind.
    While the tall, swan-like palmetto waved a welcome in the wind;
    But when we reached the Swamp of Palms,[1] the bristling chapparal,
    With our foes in solid thousands, rose before us, like a wall;
    And the dense woods frowned upon us, clothed with centuries of green,
    Precipitously plunging down the dark and deep ravine.

    The army paused. A moment, and we passed along the plain,
    With rapid steps and loud huzzas, defiling by the train,
    And spreading right and left, marched on, when, ere we fired a shot,
    Cannon and grape and musket-ball swept through us thick and hot;
    But we never faltered—never; no; we took their fire, and then,
    Acknowledging their courtesy, we gave it back like men.

    But our men, though doing wonders, began to disappear,
    When RIDGELY thundered with his guns up from the distant rear,
    And we heard his balls go crashing through the thick palmetto trees,
    And the shrieks of wounded Mexicans come ringing up the breeze;
    And we hurried on like maniacs, scarcely stopping to take breath,
    While every where around us rushed the messengers of death!

    By this time our brave infantry had reached the chapparal:—
    Here and there we heard our comrades answering one another’s call;
    And the sharp crack of their muskets, and the death-cries of their
      foes,
    With the constant boom of cannon—Battle’s diapason rose!
    All was chaos; while, like lightning, sword and lance and bayonet
    Flashed around, as desperate men in the deadly _mêlée_ met.

    Hand to hand, and foot to foot, through the ascending clouds of smoke,
    On the enemy, through them, over them, gallantly our soldiers broke,
    Dealing death at every stroke: then we heard the shout of MAY,
    And beheld his brave dragoons for an instant line the way:
    RIDGELY’S voice—the roar of cannon—clashing sabres—dying cries—
    Rose distinct, yet intermingled as a chorus, toward the skies,

    As the vapor separated, dashing down the rough ravine,
    MAY and INGE, with all their men, for an instant filled the scene—
    Rushing like an autumn tempest through the chapparal, down the glen,
    MAY, half-hidden by streaming hair, with gallant INGE led on the men,
    Loud hurraing: but a crash! and INGE clutched wildly at his rein—
    And twice a score of neighing steeds swept riderless along the plain.

    All in vain: another instant! MAY was riding o’er the wall,
    Waving on his fiery followers through the tangled chapparal;
    Wheeling in a moment, backward, with the same resistless force
    Came the hero, like a giant, on his gaunt and sinewy horse;—
    As our infantry came up, battling boldly by his gun,
    General LA VEGA yielded, and the battery was won.

    But the brave Tampicoäns still refused to fly or yield,
    And maintained the unequal fight until the last one kissed the field;
    When their flag went down a cry of anguish rent the Mexic ranks,
    And our foemen broke and fled despairing toward the river’s banks.
    All was over: we pursued them, and the now-descending sun,
    Saw RESACA DE LA PALMA’S bloody battle lost and won!

-----

[1] _Resaca de la Palma_—the Swamp of Palms. _Resaca_ has no equivalent
in English. Literally speaking, it is a place on which the tide ebbs and
flows.

[Illustration]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                AN ESSAY


               ON AMERICAN LITERATURE AND ITS PROSPECTS.


                          BY MRS. M. A. FORD.


A NATIONAL literature, purely our own, must rise superior to an
imitation of that fostered by the institutions of the old world, and of
course sustaining them. The principles of liberty and independence,
which govern our country, are united in our national motto, with that
which only can give them permanency, Virtue. Loose this bond of union,
and the beautiful fabric of our institutions falls forever. To sustain
virtue in her proud position, should then be the principal aim of
republican literature. It is this alone which will preserve us from the
disastrous fate of former republics, beginning, like our own, with a
dawn of prosperity most auspicious, but whose fall, when at the very
noon of fame and power, startled and disappointed a world.

Most of the writers and philosophers of ancient times, who defended
virtue, wrote, regardless of the vengeance of those corrupt and
luxurious governments under which they lived.

Thus was their testimony rendered more dear to succeeding generations,
from the sacrifice of selfish interest with which it was given.

That genius which is called into action by the desire of fame only, must
be interested; that stimulated by gain alone must be mercenary. Happily
there is not enough of these encouragements in our new country to induce
the many to leave the walks of busy life, or the more healthful though
rugged paths of labor, from motives so liable to disappointment. Few can
afford to devote a life to literature, and many of our brightest gems in
poetry and prose are the offspring of minds, whose influence is more
powerfully felt in the great action of our nation’s progress, or the
refining process of their own good example on the morals of society.
Others just peep out from the veil of their cherished domestic duties,
to throw a simple flower into the world’s path. If lost, or unheeded, it
causes no aching of the heart.

The great system of general education, now disseminating its light
throughout our land, will place knowledge a welcome guest at every
cottage hearth, and national intelligence will form the firm basis of
our national literature. The labor of intense thought will not fall too
heavily on the few. From the shade of every valley, from the height of
every hill, genius will spring forth. The friction of cheerful and
healthful labor, will light the spark, which virtuous emulation will fan
to a flame.

From the freedom and happiness enjoyed, must necessarily arise a
grateful sense of these blessings, a warm expression of that sense, and
an anxiety to perpetuate those blessings. With genius and education,
these feelings will find a vent in the flowing numbers of song, or the
more perspicuous paragraphs of prose.

In both the old and new world, the present is a golden age of
literature, rich in its array of brilliant talents and gifted minds.
Some of these are glorious as the day-star, and like it, the harbingers
of increasing light. Minds that from their own fullness impart knowledge
and feelings, whose gushings are like those of the mountain stream, pure
even when impetuous.

Others are like the meteor, brilliant, startling; their path a track of
fire, but under that bright deception, like that wandering light are
only a combination of unwholesome exhalations. Under their false glare,
the clouds of vice are tinged with beauty, and the guilt of crime seems
but the trace of romantic catastrophe.

That literature alone is valuable, which leaves an impression of
increased knowledge, and improved moral sentiments, of chastened feeling
and benign impulses, of virtuous resolutions and high aspirations. By
these, man is prepared to fill the high station for which the Creator
designed him. To partake of the joys of life without selfishness, to
meet its sorrows with fortitude, to practice its virtues with firmness,
to avoid its errors by resolution, and to dispense its charities with
the feeling of brother toward brother. Under a free government, the arts
and intrigue of the courtier would be useless and disgraceful appendages
to the accomplishments that ornament life. Unsullied honor is based on
truth and generous feeling, and the blessings enjoyed by freemen will
teach them not to treat lightly the privileges of others. As the
principles they profess are so different from those maintained by the
policy of monarchical courts, the expression of them must also differ,
and our country can proudly point to those, whose writings on these
subjects may justly be considered standards for future efforts.

Constellations are already forming in our literary skies; some stars
shining out in bold relief, like those glowing in the belt of Orion, or
sparkling in the eye of Aldebaren. Some stretch across the northern sky,
separate and grand as those in the Ursa major, while others timidly
shrink from their own simplicity and beauty, like the meek twinkling of
Pleiads. But all have their peculiar influence.

History, with its crowding events and exciting struggles, has already
employed many gifted pens in our land. That of Bancroft, with his strong
resources and vivid style; of Prescott, with his fine arrangement and
freshness, combined with his clear narrative and research, and others,
whose talents a limited essay is obliged to pass without remark.

Ethics and philosophy have brought to their aid a strong array of
brilliant minds; the peculiar lights of each have their admirers.
Comparison might be considered invidious, and it is enough that their
names and talents belong to their country.

In various sciences, the American mind has shown itself capable of deep
investigation, and our writers on these subjects, by their clear
elucidations, have shed light on much that was shadowed in doubt.

In medical learning many works have appeared, and some of them of high
importance and value. The number must increase, for the varied climate
and diseases of our country require it, and the young physician, just
entering on the practice of his profession in some newly settled
prairie, or border land of the northern lakes, will find an American
author his best guide in the treatment of diseases that differ so much
in their nature from those of Europe, as to be but lightly glanced at by
the best medical writers of the old world.

Works on law are also increasing; some of them emanating from those
whose eloquence has “held captive their hearers.” If they cannot always
impart that charm which seems the peculiar privilege of the few, their
lessons must be the surest guide to the American lawyer; for, though
including the best portions of the English code, there are so many
peculiarities appertaining to the different States of the Union, each a
sovereignty in itself, that national works must offer the clearest
elucidations of all difficult cases.

Descriptive and narrative literature is rich in its contributions. The
graceful ease and elegant diction of Irving, his vivid imagination and
touching feeling, and the charm which he throws around his subject, have
gained him an enviable fame both at home and abroad.

In the peculiar walks of Indian life, and the lonely daring of pioneer
character, the pen of Cooper moves like a spell, and when it dips in the
sea-wave—like the stroke of the oar, bright droppings glisten on its
rising.

We can but name a few of the many whose talents have adorned this
portion of literature. The interesting delineations of Simms, whose
patriotic feeling glows under a southern sky; the reminiscent charm of
Kennedy; the graphic strength of Paulding; the lively portraiture of
Mrs. Kirkland, and the graceful but feeling pictures of Miss Sedgwick,
recur to our memory.

These have all written on American subjects, and many more of equal
merit might be added, if space allowed.

In poetry we have the bright imagery and refreshing beauty of Bryant,
whose genius, like a clear stream, reflects the heavens above, and the
loveliness of nature around.

Many others have the charm of originality, and a versification almost
musical, but the votaries of the muse are so numerous, we must pass them
without naming, yet our country may be proud of many a wild flower of
poesy, the fragrance of which has been borne over the ocean, and
appreciated in other lands.

The sweetness and beauty of Mrs. Sigourney’s muse, the elegance and
delicacy of Halleck, the tenderness and strong feeling of Dana, the
light grace of Willis, and many others of equal genius and talent are
crowding on our memory.

But in this, as in every other branch, we must look to the future for
the fulfillment of the high destiny of American literature.

Perhaps nothing has contributed more to the diffusion of intellectual
knowledge, than periodical literature, which includes the reviews,
magazines, and daily and weekly newspapers. Not a great many years have
passed since the number of these were few, and though that few were of
known excellence, how sparing was the patronage bestowed on them. How
were the journals of other lands looked to for that supply of
intellectual beauty, which the gifted minds of our own countrymen needed
but a fair encouragement to pour forth. Yet who does not now look back
with pride to the pioneer path of our first periodicals, those early
gatherers of essays, showing the powers of mind now more strongly
developed in our country?

These, in later years, have been followed by a gradual increase, and we
can now proudly point to their numbers, many of them varied with the
classic learning and lighter literature of contributors, whose talents
would do honor to any country.

Possessing great advantages from its unassuming appearance and light
form, periodical literature travels through the land. Like a gentle
stream it winds its way, with banks covered with flowers, and pebbled
bed, too pure to sully its waters. It comes to the door of the cottager
to refresh him after labor. Its murmurs are heard near the
village-green, and youth hastens to its welcome bath. If it bears not on
its breast the heavy freight the larger river boasts, the light skiff on
its waters offers a bijouterie that is truly interesting and valuable.
Gems of poetry, incidents in history, pearls from the ocean, legends of
the land, light from the sciences, and aid from the arts.

Some of the most beautiful effusions of American genius have graced the
pages of periodical literature. Timid and retiring talent has been
encouraged to take the first step in a path it is destined to illumine.
How many gems from the ocean of thought have been brought to the
surface, to sparkle on the view by the aid of this species of
literature? What pearls from the shells which memory gathers, have
thrown the faint but touching light of the past upon the present?

The gifted writers whose efforts have appeared on the pages of
periodical literature, are too numerous, and many of them too equal in
merit, though different in style, to be particularly named. This is
especially the case with female writers, from some of whose pens the
finely pointed moral or touching incident of narrative comes forth with
varied beauty, but almost equal claims to attention.

This may be said with less force of male writers, where the
scintillations of wit and graceful charm of humor in some, is in
contrast with the grave discussions and intellectual strength of others,
where the elegance of classic learning stands side by side with useful
essays on national policy.

But the bright prospect of future American literature again opens before
us in all its moral grandeur. When time shall have quieted the ruder
anxieties of our being, when comfortable independence shall have passed
from the few to the many, and the busy exertion of life can take longer
rest from its labors, when the dignity of intellect shall outweigh that
of wealth, how will the treasures of mind be poured on our land!

Future American literature must be very varied, from the great
difference of climate and habits in our widely extended country.
Stretching its immense length along the great Atlantic, the firm barrier
of its waters, it almost connects the frozen pole with the burning
Equator. The fervid imaginations of the sunny South will breathe their
strains under the shadow of the lime-tree, and amidst the fragrance of
the orange-grove, and the scenery and flowers that give emblems to their
poetry, will be as strange to the dwellers on the rock-bound coast of
the North-Eastern States, as the acacia of Arabia is to the Icelander,
but its strange beauty will be dear to them, for it is American still.

From the calm, cold North, the calculations of Philosophy and the
discoveries of scientific research will continue to issue. The progress
already made, forms a bright page in our history, and the last great
discovery which has realized the vision of our venerated Franklin,
making the lightning of heaven the agent of earth, seems like a stray
beam from the science of the skies. By it, knowledge, love, feeling,
travel with the unseen speed of “angel’s visits.” The name of Morse will
find a high association with that of the “Sage of the Revolution.”

For the light yet elegant portions of literature, our country presents a
wide field. The history of Poetry in the old world, is mournfully,
painfully interesting, from the blind dependence of the immortal Homer,
down to the despairing end of the gifted Chatterton. From thence to the
present time, how few have been successful, and of that few, how oft
have their pages been marked, not, indeed, by the tear of weary anguish
and hope deferred, but by a bitterness of sentiment filling the place
from whence that tear was obliterated. Alas! how many strings in the
harp of Genius have been broken by the force of its own disappointed
feelings.

Pastoral poetry may well offer its incense at the shrine of our
country’s scenery and productions, and breathe its strains in harmony
with the happiness of American rural life. Here there need be no servile
muse to sing of fruits the parched lip never tasted, nor of groves and
streams whose verdure and coolness were felt not in the close atmosphere
of garret penury. But from homes rendered happy by industry and content,
the poets of our land may breathe their strains. The heart will speak
from its own fullness, like the ascending vapor of the cottage chimney,
that tells the comfort and warmth of the hearth beneath its roof.

Narrative prose and heroic verse have a deep fount from whence to draw.

It is true the legendary lore of our country has not yet the hoariness
of age upon it, but what should recommend it more, it has the light of
truth. If we have not moss-grown towers, whose mouldy recesses tell of
ambition and cruelty, we have traces on the hills, and monuments in the
vales of our varied landscape, that awaken the memory of deeds whose
heroism might rival the days of chivalry; of battles where the disparity
of force called forth the virtuous sacrifice of another Leonidas, of
acts of patriotism and self-devotion worthy that purest of Romans,
Regulus.

Love, during the struggle of the Revolution, was a sentiment, so guided
by high impulses, as to offer to the pen of historical romance the most
touching and thrilling incidents; vows rendered more sacred by the
parting of the plighted, not to be renewed at the altar until the light
of liberty shone on their country. The simple ribbon-knot and the glossy
braid of hair, were to the patriot-lover talismans in the hour of
danger; and courage to meet every trial came with the sweet thoughts of
home and happiness with his American maid.

Mothers, with Spartan virtue, sacrificed their maternal tenderness on
the altar of liberty, and urged the steps of their sons to the combat.
Aged fathers, with eager though feeble hands, fastened the sword of
their early days on the youthful limbs of those sons; and when their
loved forms were brought back from the field of their country’s glory,
cold in death, have pillowed their white locks on the young breasts, and
died under the excitement of sorrow struggling with patriotic pride and
glory.

Biography might appear like an overloaded vessel, her deck crowded with
the bright and honored names of heroes, statesmen, patriots, scholars,
and others, the famed and gifted of our land—but she gallantly bears
the freight, for a greater than Cæsar is among them. Washington! how the
full tide of feeling gushes at the name—a nation’s pride and glory, and
the admiration of the world. Many brilliant pens have told his character
and fame, and yet the theme seems new. How bright a pattern to American
youth, is the docility of his childhood, and submission to parental
rule, the beautiful truth of his boyhood, and pure morality of his
youth. His tenderness, even in the noon of his fame, to the venerable
mother, on whose breast at parting fell the strange but unchecked tears
of manhood. His pure patriotism, his undaunted courage, his unchanging
firmness and impartial justice, his meek devotion and faith in the God
of nations, all present a beautiful example for imitation. Happy
America! rearing in your own bosom the son whose talents and virtues
were your protection in the hour of danger. And gloriously was he
associated with the bright host of heroes and patriots, whose deathless
names will live with his in the grateful memory of the country to which
they gave freedom and independence. With such themes biography holds,
and must continue to hold, an elevated rank in American literature; and
when to these is added the bright list of those who, in later times have
periled their all for their country’s glory, or whose talents and
virtues have brightened her fame, the task of perpetuating their names
and deeds to posterity will employ many gifted minds, and must look far
into the future for its completion.

The ancient history of our country lies hid in the western mounds, or
amidst the buried relics of past ages. Forests, in Central America, have
grown over the ruins of temples and dwellings that, awakened from their
sleep of ages by a Stephens and others, will in time become the Palmyra
of the Western World. In the grandeur of their mysteries conjecture
seems lost, yet there would appear a connection between them and the
aboriginal race of our own land, whose lingering steps are receding
toward the Pacific. In this remaining posterity of a lost genealogy, all
that is left to tell the tale of the race from whence they sprung, is
their firm independence, undying love of country, deep sense of injury
and spirit of revenge, and strong faith of happier homes beyond the
grave. Is not this a theme worthy the pen of the American poet,
philosopher, antiquarian, or novelist?

With the many heroic virtues of Indian character, can we wonder that
their principal fault should be that which filial piety made glorious in
a Hannibal. In future they will be better understood, and while justice
and humanity, nay, national pride, call on our government to civilize
and enlighten them, the pens of their white brethren will show their
true lineaments, and perhaps the hand of some American antiquary lift
the veil that hides their lost ancestry.

While the music of their language yet lingers in the names of our
rivers, we cannot forget their claims. In a lyric of much sweetness, a
gifted poetess of our country pleads that they may not be changed. How
quickly their sound arrests the attention of the traveler and stranger?
How softly their syllables fall from the lips of beauty. There seems a
magic spell about them. May it be their protection from any change. It
is but just that the streams that first knew the Indians in their pride
and glory should retain the melody of their language.

In many instances, the Indian character has been found capable of great
refinement from education, and of the few who have been placed in our
colleges, some have evinced superior talents. How pleasing is the
thought that these children of the forest may hereafter contribute to
the national literature of America. Will their strains be mournful, like
the plaintive songs of the Israelites by the waters of the Euphrates?
Perhaps not, for though many are far removed from the more eastern homes
of their fathers, still it is their native land, now bounded only by the
waves of the Pacific.

In anticipating the future literature of our country, its glorious
effects on other nations should not be forgotten. The freedom and
happiness that could fan into flame all that is great in mind, and all
that is beautiful in virtue, must be appreciated; and from the combined
effect of her own great example, and the persuasive influence of a
literature then truly American, our country will become the standard of
future republics.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        THE CRY OF THE FORSAKEN.


                               BY GIFTIE.


    SING me to sleep, dear mother,
      Upon thy faithful breast—
    Ah! many a day hath passed, mother,
      Since I laid me there to rest.
    Now I am weary, weary,
      And I fain would sleep once more,
    And dream such dreams of heaven,
      As I used to dream of yore.

    Since then I’ve known Love’s power, mother—
      Its heritage is tears—
    And I have felt, sweet mother,
      Its wild tumultuous fears.
    Now hath the idol fallen,
      On my soul’s ruined shrine—
    All other hearts deceive me,
      In grief I turn to thine.

    Lull me to rest, kind mother,
      And sing to me the while—
    These tearful eyes shall cease to weep
      These lips put on a smile.
    And tell me of that blessed land
      Where love is not in vain,
    And they who wept despairingly
      Shall never weep again.

    Lull me to rest, dear mother,
      Sing to me soft and low,
    The same sweet mournful strain, mother,
      You sang me long ago,
    I am weary and heart-broken,
      And I fain would be at rest,
    Oh take me in thine arms, mother—
      Let me slumber on thy breast.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       A MIDNIGHT STORM IN MARCH.


                            BY CAROLINE MAY.


    THE storm beats loud against my window-pane,
      And though upon the pillow of my bed
      In pleasant warmth is laid my grateful head,
    I cannot sleep for the excited train
    Of thoughts the storm arouses in my brain.
      O, wretched poor, who have no home—or if
      A home—are weak and weary, sore and stiff,
      For want of food and clothes and fire! O rain,
        Fierce rain, and howling wind, and hissing hail,
      Venting your rage beneath the flag of night—
        A black flag, without stars—how do they quail,
      Those aching, shivering poor, beneath your might!
    O God, be pitiful! and to the poor’s sad tale
      Make rich hearts open with the opening light.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             BUONDLEMONTE.


                            A TALE OF ITALY.


                          BY JOSEPH A. NUNES.


                               CHAPTER I.

“SO thou art here, in Florence, to be wived, Buondlemonte?” a gay
gallant laughingly observed to the tallest and most elegant of a group
of cavaliers, as they sauntered leisurely together along the principal
street of Florence: “Thou art at last to be shut out from the pale of
happy celibacy, and be offered up, a living sacrifice, on the altar of
that most insatiate of all insatiate deities, Hymen? By Mars, but I pity
thee, poor youth!”

“Reserve thy pity, thou thoughtless railer, for those who stand in need
on’t,” the eldest of the party, a dark-complexioned, stern-featured man,
replied in the same vein in which the first individual had spoken,
though the frown on his brow, and the compression of his lips evinced
that he was not pleased at the tone of the conversation. “Buondlemonte
mates with the noblest house of Florence; and though he ranks with the
first in Italy, he is not to be pitied when he enters the family of
Amedi.”

“Nay, Amedi, thou shalt not make me grave,” the first speaker said,
smiling at the serious looks of his saturnine companion; “I will
commiserate the fate of any luckless bachelor, whose days of freedom
draw so near their close; though, thou haughty senor, I will make this
reservation in thy favor, that if there exists aught to mitigate the
thraldom of matrimony, it may be found in the smiles of the beautiful
Francesca, and in the alliance with thy thrice noble house.”

“Even that admission is a step toward Guiseppo’s reformation,”
Buondlemonte observed, with a light laugh, as he placed his hand upon
the shoulder of the last speaker; “it proves that he is not quite
incorrigible.”

“But tell me, Buondlemonte—I must have it from thine own lips,”
Guiseppo said; “dost thou wed so soon? Shall we see thee a married man
on the third day from this?”

“’Tis most true, Guiseppo,” Buondlemonte replied, with a smile upon his
lips, though, as he spoke, an almost imperceptible sigh escaped him; “in
three days thou wilt see me wived. ’Tis an old contract, existing since
my youth. Amedi’s father and my own were friends—companions in
arms—and agreed to this union of our families. The time has arrived for
the consummation of the contract, and I am here to fulfill it.”

“Alas, poor youth! in what a tone of resignation was that last sentence
uttered. A pious maiden bending to the will of mother church could not
have answered more meekly. I fear me thou art a reluctant neophyte in
Hymen’s temple.”

“A truce with thy jesting, Guiseppo Leoni,” Jacopa Amedi angrily
observed; “thou dost proceed beyond the limits of courtesy. If the noble
Buondlemonte chooses to submit to thy rough raillery, I do not. The
honor of my house is concerned, and that shall not be tampered with by
light lips.”

“Enough, Amedi,” Buondlemonte said, as he interrupted a sharp retort
from Leoni, “Guiseppo meant no harm, and I have grown too wise, in my
travels, to be angered by a friendly jest.”

“Methinks, though,” another of the group, who had hitherto remained
silent, observed, “that Buondlemonte might vindicate my fair cousin from
the insinuation of accepting an unwilling husband. The court of the
emperor is a poor school for chivalry, if it does not teach the lesson
that a fair lady’s name should be preserved, like the polished surface
of a mirror, unsullied even by a breath.”

What reply Buondlemonte might have made to the captious cousin of his
betrothed bride is impossible to say, for at that moment a young page,
in gay attire, came up to the party, and, cap in hand, inquired if one
of them was not Buondlemonte.

“There stands the object of thy search, thou elfin emissary from the
bower of beauty!” Guiseppo smilingly remarked, as he pointed to
Buondlemonte; “deliver the challenge thou art charged with, and he will
meet thy mistress, though she be Medusa or Circe.”

The child carefully undid the folds of his scarf, and taking from thence
a small note, presented it with a graceful obeisance to Buondlemonte.

“Your answer, noble sir,” he said. “I am directed to bear it.”

Buondlemonte took the billet, and, after excusing himself to his
companions, stepped aside and cut the silken thread that bound it.

The note must have contained something more than ordinary, for as the
young man glanced his eyes over it, the red blood mounted to his cheeks
and his forehead.

“Whom dost thou serve, my pretty youth?” Jacopa Amedi asked, as
Buondlemonte perused and reperused the paper.

“To answer your question, signor,” the boy replied with a sly smile, as
he bowed with deference to the noble, “would be to prove that I am
unworthy to serve any one.”

“And to quicken thy speech,” Amedi’s cousin remarked, in a tone half
jesting half earnest, “it would be well to apply a leathern strap to thy
shoulders.”

“Fie, Baptista Amedi, fie!” Guiseppo said, as he observed the child’s
eyes flash with indignation; “conceive no foul thoughts toward the boy;
he merits thy praise for being faithful to his mistress, whoever she may
be.”

By this time Buondlemonte had concluded his perusal of the note, and
turning to the boy, he said, as he handed him a piece of money, “I will,
in person, bear an answer to your missive.”

The page bowed, and donning his plumed cap, was soon lost to observation
among the passengers in the street.

It was in vain that Guiseppo jested and Jacopa Amedi looked grave and
inquisitive; Buondlemonte was uncommunicative, and would make no
revelations in relation to the page’s mission.

“By my faith, thou art a lucky knight, Buondlemonte!” Guiseppo said.
“Not yet a day in Florence, and thou hast an assignation, I warrant me,
with some mysterious being.”

They had now arrived at the corner of a street that crossed the one in
which they were. Jacopa Amedi paused and pointed to a splendid mansion.

“You know our palace,” he said; “shall we thither?”

“Not now, Amedi,” Buondlemonte replied; “I have a commission for a
friend to execute before I can gratify my own wishes. In an hour I’ll
wait upon you at the palace; in the meantime present my duty to your
fair sister, and say that ere long I will offer it with my own lips.”

The young men separated; Amedi and his relatives turning their steps
toward the palace of the former, while Buondlemonte and Guiseppo
continued their walk alone.


                              CHAPTER II.

“Buondlemonte, thou art no happy bridegroom,” Guiseppo said, after they
had proceeded for some time in silence.

Buondlemonte sighed, but made no reply.

“Thou dost not love Amedi’s sister,” Guiseppo observed, in a half
interrogative tone.

“’Twas a compact between parents, and not a union of lovers that was
intended,” Buondlemonte replied bitterly.

“Still thou dost not love her—this marriage promises thee no
happiness.”

Buondlemonte paused a moment, and then said,

“I think, Guiseppo, thou art my friend, and I may trust thee.”

“Hast thou not proved me thy friend?” Guiseppo asked. “When first we
left Italy together for the court of the French king, we pledged our
faith each to the other. During our sojourn there thou still hast found
me—thoughtless and gay, perhaps—but ever constant. ’Tis true, we
parted, you to continue your travels to the capital of the empire, while
I returned to Italy; and we have never met again until to-day, yet,
believe me, I am still the same Guiseppo thou hast known among the brave
knights and gay dames of France.”

Buondlemonte grasped the hand that was offered to him, and after a
momentary pause, said,

“Thou art right, my friend; I am no happy bridegroom. This marriage is
hateful to me—’tis none of my seeking.”

“Then why let it proceed?”

“Because the Amedi wish it, and the world thinks my honor demands it;
heaven knows for no other cause. ’Tis true, Francesca is fair—so says
report, for I have not seen her since her youth—but to me she can never
seem so. She may be enchanting, yet me she cannot enchant. There is a
dream of my youth about my heart, a spell that will not be dissipated.
There is but one form that dwells in my memory, one voice that can
breathe music in my ear.”

“And where dwells this siren?” Guiseppo asked with a slight smile at the
enthusiasm of his friend.

“Here, even here, in Florence,” Buondlemonte replied.

“And her family is called?”

“Donati.”

“Pandora and all her mischiefs!” exclaimed Guiseppo; “thou couldst not
have mentioned a name more hateful to the family of thy affianced bride.
The extremes of the earth are not wider apart than the houses of Donati
and Amedi—a deadly feud exists between them.”

“From my childhood, I have known but one absorbing influence,”
Buondlemonte said, “and that is my love for Camilla Donati. ’Tis a
secret I have kept within my own breast till now; for I was educated to
consider myself the husband of another, and, looking upon the marriage
with Amedi’s sister as a thing that must be, I felt reconciled—while
the period of our union was indefinite—to what I could not avoid.”

“Why not feel so still?” Guiseppo asked.

“I cannot,” was the reply; “the nearer the hour for our nuptials
approaches, the more repugnant do I feel. There’s no sympathy between
the house of Amedi and Buondelmonte—they are Ghibellines and I am a
Guelph. I love not Francesca; I like not her unsmiling brothers; yet I
must wed, and in fulfilling a compact made without my consent, doom
myself to certain misery.”

Buondlemonte might have added that the missive which the page had
delivered to him was from the mother of Camilla Donati, and that it had
given strength to feelings which were before but too powerful; but he
did not; the information might have compromised others, and he kept it
to himself. What was further said would scarcely interest the reader,
and we pass to details more immediately connected with the development
of our story.


                              CHAPTER III.

At the time of which we write—the latter end of the thirteenth
century—there existed between the two principal families in Florence,
(those of Amedi and Donati,) a spirit of bitter malignity and determined
rivalry, which was carried quite to the extent of the quarrels described
by Shakspeare, in “Romeo and Juliet,” between the houses of Capulet and
Montague.

Ambition for supremacy was the origin of the dispute between these noble
families, but political differences had widened the breach. The quarrels
between the Emperor of Germany and the Pope, which followed the
elevation of Gregory VII. to the papal throne—and which divided
Germany, and even Italy into factions, calling themselves Guelphs and
Ghibellines—had extended to Florence, mid the rival families of Donati
and Amedi were not slow to take sides in the dispute; each hoping
thereby to obtain an ascendency over the other. The Donati took part
with the Pope, and called themselves Guelphs; the Amedi sided with the
emperor, and were called Ghibellines; and for generations, the animosity
between these two houses disturbed the peace of the beautiful city of
Florence.

At the period of our narrative a female ranked as the head of the house
of Donati. Left a widow, during the childhood of her only daughter, she
had sustained with masculine energy the pretensions of her family, and
at the same time she had reared with maternal fondness the offspring
left to her sole charge.

The father of young Buondlemonte was a nobleman of the first influence
in Italy. He resided in the upper vale of Arno, and though he supported
the pretensions of the pontiff against those of the emperor, his
feelings were so far from being rancorous, that he maintained an equal
intimacy with the rival houses of Amedi and Donati; the circumstance of
their having served together in the wars of the day alone induced him to
prefer the alliance with the family of Amedi.

It is hardly necessary to observe, after the dialogue in the last
chapter, that the predilections of the youthful noble took a different
direction from the one indicated by the parental judgment. With free
ingress to the bosoms of both families, Buondlemonte experienced no
hesitation in preferring the sweet and gentle Camilla Donati to the
equally beautiful, but haughty and imperious, Francesca Amedi. The
considerate affection, too, of Camilla’s mother was much more attractive
to him than the austere and severe manners which characterized the Amedi
family.

Camilla Donati, young as she then was, was not insensible to the marked
preference shown her by Buondlemonte. ’Tis true he uttered no words of
love, yet she felt that she was beloved by him, and with all the ardor
of her nature she returned his affection.

When he had arrived at the age of seventeen years, Buondlemonte’s father
died. On his death-bed he expressed a wish that his son should travel
for five years, and that the marriage with Francesca Amedi should be
solemnized on his return to Italy. In accordance with this wish
Buondlemonte left his home to acquire his education as a gallant knight
at the polished court of the French king. His parting with his bride
elect was a task of easy performance, but not so his farewell to Camilla
Donati. It was with sad hearts and tearful eyes, and murmured hopes of a
happier meeting that they separated. For five years he had been absent
from his native country. All the scenes through which he had passed, all
the fair ladies he had seen had not weakened the ardor of his first
love. He returned to Florence, urged by the wishes of the Amedi family;
but he came back with the feelings of a criminal stalking to the place
of execution rather than as a bridegroom about to lead a beloved and
blushing bride to the altar.


                              CHAPTER IV.

’Twas nearly twilight, and Francesca Amedi sat in a richly furnished
apartment with her brother and her cousin. One of them had been making a
communication to her to which she had listened in silence, but with
wrapt attention. Her stately form, as he continued his story, became
more majestic, her bosom heaved with concealed emotion, and, as she
swept back with her beautiful hand the rich raven tresses, her dark eyes
flashed like diamonds glittering in the light.

“So you think he loves me not,” she said, after a pause, as her cousin
walked toward the window to examine the tapestry which hung from the
walls.

“By St. Jago!” returned her brother, “an ice-hill on the summit of the
Alps, could not have been colder than he was when speaking of thee.
‘’Twas an old compact,’ he said, ‘and he was here to fulfill it.’ By the
souls of those who have gone before me! he could not have spoken more
churlishly if he had been talking about a new doublet he had agreed to
take upon a certain day.”

“I love him,” Francesca said, as she bit her lip till it became
bloodless, “but he acts not wisely for his happiness or mine. He knows
not what it is to put a slight upon Francesca Amedi.”

“Were it not,” Jacopa observed, “that his power, united with our own,
will crush the whole race of the detested Donati, I would spurn his
unwilling alliance, and he should die e’er he be thy husband. As it is,”
he added, “we must dress our face in smiles, and thou must wed him.”

“I would do so,” Francesca said, as she fixed her eyes with a rigid look
upon her brother, “were it only to make him feel what I have endured.”

“Before our very eyes,” Jacopa remarked, “he received without apology or
explanation, a dainty billet from some shameless mistress.”

“Ay,” added Baptista, who had by this time concluded his careless
scrutiny, and was listening to the conversation, “and if my memory
serves me not a treacherous trick, that same page, who bore the
silken-bound counsel, I have seen in attendance on our _dearly loved
friend_, Donati’s widow.”

“If I had thought so,” exclaimed Jacopa, “I would have twisted the neck
of the young go-between, even in the presence of Buondlemonte.”

“No, no,” Francesca said, as she waved her hand, “it cannot be. He would
not—he dare not—offer me so great an insult as to receive a love-token
from one of that house. He dare not, reckless as he is, place me in
competition with the puling baby Donati calls her daughter.”

Baptista was about to repeat his opinion concerning the identity of the
page, but he had scarcely commenced before Buondlemonte entered the
apartment. Both Jacopa and Baptista exchanged an apparently cordial
greeting with the new comer, and then retired, leaving him alone with
Francesca.

“At last, Buondlemonte,” Francesca said, when they were left alone, “at
last thou hast found time to see me.”

“The performance of a service for a friend,” Buondlemonte observed, as
he touched with his lips the white hand which was extended toward him,
“prevented the earlier presentation of my duty to thee.”

“It was not well,” she remarked, “after so long an absence, to give
others a preference, and leave your promised wife neglected, if not
forgotten. This was not an act of the cherished companion of former
days; it was not the act of the noble youth who left Florence five years
ago, betrothed to Francesca Amedi; thou no longer lovest me,
Buondlemonte, or thou wouldst not have been thus slow to visit me.”

Buondlemonte thought that the charge might have been made with equal
justice at any period of his existence, but he did not give utterance to
the thought.

“If my tardiness gives offence,” he said, coldly, “I pray that thou wilt
pardon it; I will be scrupulous not to repeat it.”

“Thou art as chilling in thy kindness as thou art in thy coldness,” she
observed, with a short hysterical laugh, and then turned the
conversation into another channel.

After an hour’s constrained intercourse, Buondlemonte rose to depart.

“I fear me,” she said, as she thought of the letter her brother had
spoken of, “that some fairer lady than Francesca pines for thy society,
and lures thee from my side.”

“Thou hast no cause to think so,” he replied, evasively, as he raised
her hand respectfully to his lips.

She placed her hand firmly upon his arm and looked with her large,
eloquent eyes steadily in his face.

“See that I have not,” she said, in a voice which had lost all its
natural melody. “See that I have not. Thou mayst ensure my love, if ’tis
worthy of an effort, but remember! I will brook no rival in thy
affections—Francesca Amedi knows how to protect herself!”

“By all the torturing fates that ever turned awry love’s currents!”
exclaimed Buondlemonte, as he reached the street, “but my destined
spouse seems to be formed more in the mould of the tigress than the
dove. A further promise,” he muttered ironically, “of our mutual
happiness!”


                               CHAPTER V.

“Ye are beautiful, ye heavens!” murmured Camilla Donati, as she gazed
from a casement of an apartment in her mother’s palace upon the gorgeous
starlight of an April evening; “but what hope do you bring to me? _He_
who was wont to make even darkness seem light, even he, is another’s,
and ye shine in mockery of my anguish—your brightness makes my gloom
the darker!”

It was, indeed, a beautiful evening; but he must have been an anchorite
who would not have turned from the balmy air and richly studded sky, to
gaze upon the graceful form and heavenly countenance of the fair being
who apostrophized the stars.

Her age would have been that of a mere girl’s in any clime save those in
which nature seems precocious; but her figure was that of a woman’s, in
the zenith of her loveliness. Eighteen summers had scarcely passed over
Camilla Donati, and, to contemplate her appearance, the thought would
suggest itself that each succeeding year had outvied the efforts of the
one that had preceded it, in a struggle to make her beauty faultless.

Her complexion was exquisitely fair. The natural color in her cheeks, as
she sat in pensive thought, had disappeared, but still a roseate shade
remained, and that, perhaps, shone in more perfect contrast with the
transparent skin on which it rested. Pygmalion, when he worshiped the
effort of his own art, could not have beheld more chastely beautiful
features than she possessed. An ample forehead, shaded by clustering
curls, terminated where the penciled brows overlooked lids, fringed with
long silken lashes, which contained within their orbits a pair of
lustrous, soul-speaking eyes. A nose of Grecian outline, and a
mouth—formed from the model of Cupid’s bow—with lips of clear
vermilion, seemed to speak an “alarum to love.” When we add to this
description a chin of unsurpassed contour, and a neck of swan-like
symmetry, we may form some idea of Camilla Donati’s features.

The dress she wore, though it shrouded, it did not conceal the
proportions of her figure. The full, swelling bust and the slender waist
could be discerned; nor were her robes so sweeping but that a fairy foot
might have been discovered peeping from beneath them. A glittering veil
had been thrown carelessly over her luxuriant auburn curls, but this she
had put back with her delicate hand, and, as her cheek rested on that
dimpled hand, she seemed too bright a thing to be profaned by the touch
of sorrow; grief should have found a less transcendent temple in which
to spread its sombre mantle.

“What is left me now,” she whispered to herself, as if pursuing a train
of thought, “but to die, or, within the gloomy walls of a cloister, to
endeavor to forget this world by offering myself up a sacrifice to
heaven.”

“Not so, my child,” an unexpected voice observed, as a stately female
stepped from the shade, and seated herself beside Camilla; “Heaven needs
not such a sacrifice at thy hands, or at mine.”

“My mother!” exclaimed the lair girl, “I knew not thou wert present,”
and bending her head to the parental bosom, she gave vent to her
feelings in stifled sobs.

“Fie, Camilla!” the mother said, as she passed her hand affectionately
over the glossy ringlets, “this is unworthy of thy race. Thou art a
Donati, my child, and should have more iron in thy nature than to bend,
like a willow-wand, before every storm; besides, all is not lost yet;
Buondlemonte may still be thy husband.”

“Never!” replied Camilla; “I would not have it so now. Within three days
he weds Francesca Amedi.”

“Not if I can prevent it!” exclaimed the elder lady. “He shall not sully
his nobleness, or add to the o’ergrown pride of that arrogant house by
mating with the haughty Francesca. This night—this hour—he hies hither
to harken to my counsels; and if I have power to move him, he leaves not
this palace till he is thy plighted husband.”

Camilla knelt at her mother’s feet, and clasping her hands, she turned
her tearful eyes to that mother’s face.

“In mercy, spare me!” she said; “I would not wed an unwilling lord—I
would not do a wrong even to a member of the house of Amedi.”

“Thou art a foolish child,” her mother replied; “thou shalt neither wed
a reluctant lord, nor do a wrong to living soul. If wrong there be in
aught I counsel, it rests with me, and I fear not to brave the
consequences.”

Camilla was about to speak, but her mother interrupted her.

“I tell thee, timid flutterer,” she said, “Buondlemonte loves thee. I
know him, even as if he were my own child—he loves thee, and thee
alone. An ancient compact, wrung from the weakness of his father, is all
that binds him to Francesca Amedi. Between them there is no shadow of
affection. Her swollen pride is not akin to tenderness, and he could not
love a being whose nature, like hers, is fierce, revengeful and
fiend-like.”

Again Camilla was about to interpose, but her mother stopped her.

“Hear me out,” she said. “Buondlemonte’s interest and inclination, as
well as ours, require that he should abandon all thoughts of that unholy
union, and take thee to wife. In all, save hypocritical appearances, the
Amedi are his enemies—enemies in religion, enemies in disposition. He
is frank, open, generous and noble; and they are cold, selfish, subtle
and malignant. His faith is pure, and, like us, he sustains the cause of
our holy church; while they are Ghibellines—little better than
schismatics—and in their hearts detest all who think not with them. If
’twere not a virtue to humble the pride of this presumptuous family, it
would at least be a charity to preserve the peace of the noble youth, by
disconcerting so ill-assorted a match.”

Once more Camilla attempted to be heard, but again she was interrupted.

“I will hear no reply,” her mother said: “I cannot be moved by arguments
from the course I intend to pursue. Thou knowest me tender and
indulgent, but at the same time resolute and determined. Thy happiness
and his demand the policy I adopt; let me not hear thee therefore murmur
against it. I go now,” she observed, rising from her seat, “to meet him
I would make thy husband: bide thou here till my return.”

As she concluded she left the apartment.

Camilla, at the thought of meeting Buondlemonte, and the circumstances,
instinctively drew her veil over her burning cheeks.

“It is not I, Francesca,” she murmured, “who plots against thy peace; it
is not I, Buondlemonte, who seeks to make thee swerve from thy knightly
faith!”

For the space of half an hour Camilla Donati remained in a state of
timorous apprehension and painful thought; at the expiration of that
period, however, the door of the apartment she occupied again opened,
and her mother re-entered. This time she was not alone—Buondlemonte was
with her. His handsome countenance was flushed with excitement; the
color mantled in his cheeks, and an unusual lustre danced in his bright
eyes.

No sooner did his gaze rest on the maiden’s form than he rushed forward,
and, bending his knee before her, took her unresisting hand and pressed
it again and again to his lips.

“Dearest Camilla!” he exclaimed, in a whispered voice, “even thus have I
dreamed of thee in my wanderings! even thus have I knelt before thee,
and, unrebuked by a reproachful look, pressed thy gentle hand.”

The elder lady approached her daughter, and raising the veil which
concealed her beautiful features she addressed Buondlemonte.

“This,” she said, as Buondlemonte’s ravished sight wandered from the
flushing cheeks to the closed lids and trembling lips, “this is the
bride I had reserved for thee. From childhood she has loved thee, and
loves thee still.”

Buondlemonte’s enraptured exclamations prevented Camilla’s piteous
appeal to her mother from being heard.

“From childhood she has been the star I have worshiped,” he replied, and
rising to a seat beside her, his arm encircled her delicate waist. “None
other,” he exclaimed with enthusiasm, as his eyes devoured the unfolding
beauties which momentarily developed themselves, “none other shall claim
the bride who has been reserved for me. If she will accept the homage of
a heart that is all her own, my wedded wife she shall be before two suns
have gilded the eastern sky.”

The burning blushes were on Camilla’s cheeks, and the tears gushed from
her eyes, but her breath came quick and her heart throbbed strangely.

“Speak, dearest Camilla!” Buondlemonte whispered; “let me know from thy
own lips that my passion is not unrequited—say that thou lovest me!”

“Oh, Buondlemonte!” Camilla articulated, in a low voice, “think of
Francesca—think of her family.”

“To wed her would be a union on which nor heaven nor earth could smile,”
he replied. “Dearest Camilla, Francesca loves me not, and I do not love
her; her family are my aversion—there is no kindred, no sympathy
between us. This night, if thou dost love me still, this night I will
revoke the ill-advised bond that linked my destiny with Francesca
Amedi’s, and to-morrow’s night shall see us happily wedded.”

Small blame was it to Camilla that she yielded to the entreaties, nay,
the commands of her mother, and the moving solicitations of her lover.
Her heart, too, was an advocate against herself. For some time she
resisted the persuasive music which was poured into her ear, but at
length she breathed in whispered accents the words that united her fate
to Buondlemonte’s.

The rest of the evening, to the lovers, passed like the brief existence
of a moment; yet its lapse had afforded an eternity of happiness. It had
given birth to a world of pleasant recollections.

Ere he slept that night, Buondlemonte dispatched his friend Guiseppo
Leoni to Jacopa Amedi, to inform him of the step he had taken.
Disclaiming all intention to offend, he pleaded his early passion in
palliation of his apparent fickleness, and alleged that the
uncongeniality between Francesca and himself could be prolific of naught
but discord and unhappiness.


                              CHAPTER VI.

The dawn of the morrow found the Amedi family awake and stirring; and
every member of it breathing deep and terrible vengeance against the
faithless Buondlemonte. Late as it was when Guiseppo Leoni delivered the
unpleasant communication of which he was the bearer, messengers had been
dispatched to all the relatives of the house, to summon them to a
council, which was fixed to meet at an early hour in the morning.

When Francesca Amedi learned what had happened her towering form grew
more erect, her dark eyes flashed forth unutterable thoughts, and, as
she grasped tightly the jeweled dagger that hung from her girdle, she
muttered between her set teeth—

“He would not learn how deeply I could have loved, but he shall feel—he
and his puny minion—how bitterly I can hate, and how fearfully I can
avenge!”

“He is not married yet,” her brother menacingly observed.

“The saints be praised for that,” she replied; “There shall be more
guests at the wedding than are bidden.”

She retired to her own apartment, and after a long interview with her
principal attendant she gave directions that no one should be admitted
to see her, and that no summons, from any source, should be communicated
to her.


                              CHAPTER VII.

The council had assembled at the Amedi palace. In a spacious apartment a
crowd of men sat together. There were dark frowns upon their
countenances, and, at intervals, angry exclamations escaped from their
lips, as the cause of their convocation was dwelt upon with malignant
emphasis and vehement declamation by Jacopa Amedi.

“What,” he asked, after having recapitulated the facts, “should be the
fate of him, who, casting aside the honor of knighthood and manhood,
violates his plighted word, showers disgraceful contumely upon our
house, and offers deadliest insult to Amedi’s daughter?”

“Death!” replied a solitary voice, as the door of the apartment opened,
and a stranger stood at the threshold.

The eyes of all were turned with wonder in the direction from which the
voice proceeded. No one present appeared to know the stranger.

The intruder gazed around unrebuked by the inquiring looks that were
bent upon him, and as his eye met the speaker’s, he repeated the ominous
word which had startled the assembled group.

He was a youth of fine appearance; slight in form, but of a lofty
bearing, with a handsome countenance, and full, large, searching, dark
eyes. His dress was of sable velvet. Upon his head he wore a cap,
surmounted with two black plumes, and at his side there hung a
sombre-cased rapier, the hilt of which glittered with diamonds.

“Death!” he repeated, as he glanced deliberately from one individual to
another, “death should be the doom of him who, traitorous to love and
false to honor, pays back the affection of a betrothed wife with
withering scorn, and upon the dignity of a noble house tramples with
profane and sacrilegious tread!”

Jacopa Amedi advanced from the position he had occupied, and confronted
the new comer.

“Whoe’er thou art, sir stranger,” he said, “thou hast mistaken the place
for thy reception. This is a meeting only of the relatives of our
house—thou canst not claim kindred with the Amedi.”

“I am,” the youth replied, “of noble birth—a Ghibelline—a friend to
thy family and cause, and an enemy—a deadly enemy—to Buondlemonte and
the Donati. Thy wrongs are the wrongs of all who hate the Guelphs, and
affect every noble in the land. Me they have united to thee by an
indissoluble bond, and I proclaim again that death—death
unannounced—should be the fate launched at the treacherous
Buondlemonte!”

There was a wild energy in the stranger’s voice, and as he spoke, his
dark eyes gleamed with demoniacal fire.

“For thy noble sympathy thou art entitled to our thanks, and hast them,”
Jacopa Amedi observed, in reply; “but still we must entreat thy absence;
a stranger may not be admitted to our counsels.”

“Not though he tenders thy honor as dearly as though he were himself an
Amedi?” the young man asked hurriedly.

Jacopa bowed a negative.

“My name may change thy thought,” the youth remarked, as he approached
Jacopa, and, as the latter inclined his ear, whispered a single sentence
to him.

Jacopa Amedi started back in amazement, and gazed for a moment as if he
had been paralyzed.

“Thou! thou!” he exclaimed, as a grim smile settled upon his features.

The stranger placed his gloved finger upon his lip to advise caution;
and Jacopa, warned by the signal, restrained the expressions to which he
had been about to give utterance.

“This,” he said, as he took the other’s hand and led him forward, while
a gloomy frown supplanted the smile upon his own countenance, “this is
as it should be; there is nobility enough in the act to make thee a
worthy partaker in our deliberations.”

Saying this, he made a place for him among the rest, and vouched to the
company for his right to be present.

The consultation was continued, but Jacopa Amedi ceased to take the lead
in it. The stranger, as if by magic, exerted a controlless influence
over every one. He spoke, and all listened with breathless attention to
his lava-like words. He proposed and his suggestions were adopted
without a dissenting voice. He named himself the leader of an enterprise
in contemplation, and he was selected by acclamation.

“Who,” he asked, after an hour had been spent in consultation, “is
informed of the period when this faithless lord leads his dainty bride
to the altar?”

“I have taken care to learn that,” Baptista Amedi replied. “An hour
after vespers the priest pronounces the marriage sacrament in the chapel
of the palace.”

“Then at vespers,” the stranger said, as he rose from his place, “meet
me here again, prepared as we have agreed; till then let us teach
ourselves discretion.”


                             CHAPTER VIII.

The hour of vespers had passed, and Camilla Donati sat alone with
Buondlemonte. She was attired for the altar, and in her bridal robes
outrivaled e’en her own loveliness. Yet she was sad with all her beauty,
and amidst all the aids to happiness that surrounded her. A cloud shaded
her fair brow, and the rosy lips sought in vain to wreath themselves in
smiles.

“Thou art grave, dear Camilla!” Buondlemonte said, speaking in a subdued
tone; “dost thou repent thy promise to be mine?”

She turned her beautiful eyes, liquid with tenderness and trusting
affection, to his, and placed her snowy hand lightly upon his shoulder,

“Dost thou think it?” she asked.

“Forgive me!” he replied; “I only meant to banish thy sad thoughts, and
make thee gay.”

“I should be happy,” she said, as his arm stole round her waist, “but
yet I cannot feel so. Thy form is ever in my thought, and bliss smiles
at thy side, yet when I seek to clasp it in my embrace, a dark phantom
interposes, and with a hollow laugh, mocks my baffled purpose. In the
air there is a murmuring dirge, and thy voice swells with sepulchral
sound. I cannot feel happy,” she said; “an icy coldness settles round my
heart.”

“Let love,” he replied, “banish it from thence. Thou shall not yield thy
soul up to sickly fancies. ’Tis part of mine, dear Camilla, and must
take its hue from the cheerful coloring of its other half. Thy fears for
my safety have faded the rose-tint from thy cheeks, but within an
hour—when the holy father has performed the sacred rite, and thou art
mine own—thou wilt smile at the fantastic thoughts that now make thee
look so grave.”

“Would that the rite were over, and safely so!” Camilla fervently
whispered, as she turned aside her blushing face.

The wish seemed uttered only to be answered, for at that moment her
mother entered the apartment to summon the couple to the chapel.

“The priest is at the altar,” she said, “and the guests await the
presence of the bridegroom and his bride.”

Buondlemonte rose, and supporting Camilla on his arm, passed into an
adjoining room, where Guiseppo Leoni and the maidens who were to
officiate as bridemaids, were assembled.

The wedding-party passed from the palace to the chapel. The lamps were
all lighted, and beneath the arched roof a gay crowd was collected.
Jewels glittered, rich silks rustled, lofty plumes waved, and happy
smiles circulated on every side.

When Camilla and Buondlemonte appeared, the crowd fell back, and opened
a passage for them to the altar, where for a moment they stood—the
admiration of every beholder—till the ceremony should commence.

The holy man commenced the marriage-service, and propounded to the
parties concerned, the questions which the church directs shall be put
on such occasions. Those addressed to Camilla were answered in a low,
musical voice, while Buondlemonte made his responses boldly and with
pride.

The ceremony was over—they were man and wife. A happy smile already
diffused itself over the countenance of the bride, and the priest raised
his hand to pronounce the benediction; but he spoke not. His attention
was arrested by voices elevated in anger, and sounds of rude strife at
the entrance of the chapel.

All turned to inquire the cause of this interruption, and as they did
so, the huge doors were forced back upon their hinges, and a band of
armed men, with weapons bared, rushed up the tesselated aisle toward the
altar. At their head was the youthful stranger who had appeared that
morning at the Amedi palace. In his hand gleamed a naked poignard; his
plumed cap had fallen from his head, and upon his shoulders there fell a
luxuriant mass of long, dark hair. His eyes were bloodshot, and his
voice sounded hoarse and unnatural as he called upon those who came
after, to follow him. Casting with desperate strength all impediments
aside, he paused not in his course until he stood fronting Buondlemonte.

The latter had drawn his sword, but Camilla Donati threw herself
impulsively before him to shelter his person with her own; the stranger
took advantage of the act of devotion, and burying his poignard up to
the hilt in Buondlemonte’s body, he exclaimed,

“Die, traitor! even in thy act of treachery!”

The unfortunate young nobleman fell to the ground weltering in his own
blood; and Camilla, with a shriek of heart-piercing agony, sank fainting
and prostrate upon his body.

The stranger gazed for an instant at the harrowing sight before him,
then bent his knee beside Buondlemonte, and said, in a voice which
already was touched with remorse,

“Buondlemonte, thou hast grievously wronged Francesca Amedi, and she has
been her own avenger!”

The dying noble turned an inquiring glance upon the speaker, and with
difficulty recognized the person of Francesca in the habiliments of the
stranger.

“Thou art indeed avenged,” he murmured, in a weak voice, as he
endeavored to embrace his fainting bride.

“Thou hadst canceled my hopes of happiness,” she said, as she rose to
her feet, “and I have put the seal to the act by destroying thine!”

With a solemn step she stalked from the chapel, protected by those who
had supported her; while Buondlemonte, after breathing a prayer to
Heaven for Camilla’s peace, resigned his soul into the hands of its
author.

It would be too melancholy a task to detail the particulars that
followed this unhappy bridal. A few words will be sufficient to explain
all that is necessary.

Camilla Donati, after many months, recovered from the fearful shock she
had received in seeing her lover slain; but this world had ceased to
delight her. She entered a convent, and in the course of time became its
abbess. Francesca Amedi had accomplished her vengeance, but with its
accomplishment she had ensured her own misery. With the vulture,
remorse, ever preying upon her heart, she knew but one wish, and that
was for death, while she lacked the power to terminate her own existence
and solve the problem of eternity. After a vain effort to secure
forgetfulness by mingling in society, she, too, retired from the world,
and within the walls of the same convent over which Camilla Donati
presided, she became a nun.

The death of Buondlemonte added virulence to the wars of the Guelphs and
Ghibellines; and many generations passed away before the families of
Amedi and Donati became reconciled.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               A SUNBEAM.


                          BY ALBERT M. NOYES.


    A SUNBEAM flashed from its azure throne,
    O’er the bright and the beautiful earth to roam;
    And it left a plume from its glist’ning wings
    Where’er it traced its wanderings.

    It tipped the bough of an old oak tree
    With its joyous ray, and in their glee
    A myriad host that were slumb’ring there
    Came glancing forth in the morning air.

    Then off like a flash it sped away,
    And next it touched with a diamond ray
    A lofty spire, as it rose upon high,
    Till it looked like a star in an azure sky.

    Again it flew, and this joyous beam
    Flashed o’er the breast of a rippling stream;
    And a bridge of trembling light it gave
    To the sparkling crests of the dimpled wave.

    I mused awhile—and lo! I heard
    The joyous song of a bright-winged bird;
    It had caught the flash of that morning ray
    As it sped to its bower of love away.

    And bathed in a flood of golden light
    It looked like a rainbow spirit bright,
    By an angel hand sent down to unfurl
    The banner of peace to a sinful world.

    And a thousand voices rose on high,
    As its gliding form flew swiftly by;
    Each bright and beautiful thing of earth
    Awoke to hail its heavenly birth.

    Sweet beam, said I, oh! how I’d love,
    Like thee, the bright green earth to rove;
    To shine o’er the hearts of pale despair
    And kindle a glow of rapture there.

    Just then, a darkling cloud flew by,
    And shadowed the face of the azure sky;
    I looked for this beautiful child of the dawn
    But its glory had faded, its brightness had gone!

    And I thought how much like Life did seem
    The fate of this bright yet transient beam;
    In glory it rose with the morn’s first breath,
    At eve it was shadowed in darkness and death.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               LONG AGO.


    LONG ago a blue-eyed cherub
          In my arms
    Softly lay and sweetly smiled—
    Spotless, holy, undefiled—
    And my troubled heart beguiled
          With its charms.

    Long ago, on angel’s pinion,
          To my breast
    Came a gentle, timid dove—
    Stole the treasure of my love—
    Upward soared, no more to rove
          From its nest.

    Long ago my seraph maiden
          Took her flight
    From a dreary, darkling world—
    She her radiant wings unfurled,
    And the heavenly gates of pearl
          Shut my sight.

    Long ago the angel reaper
          Cruel sore
    Gave my heart its keenest blow,
    Made my tears of anguish flow,
    Bid me onward weeping go—
          Evermore.

    Long ago the fair world faded
          In mine eyes,
    And I burn to clasp that child.
    With a love more fondly wild
    Than when first she sweetly smiled
          From the skies.

    Long ago one lock I severed
          From her brow,
    And that sunny little tress
    In its shining loveliness—
    To my heart I fondly press
          Ever now.

    In my dreams I meet the maiden—
          Passing fair
    Far beyond the frost and snow
    Doth my lovely flow’ret blow—
    And my tears no longer flow
          For her there.
                          E. H.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            THE TWO WORLDS.


                           BY HENRY B. HIRST.


             Like the contented peasant of the vale,
               Dreams it the world and never looks beyond.
                                                   LOWELL.

    THERE was an humble village lad
      Who thought the round, revolving world,
    Mountains and plains and streams and skies,
    Lay in the compass of his eyes.

    The symphonies of the leafy woods,
      The melodies of the murmuring brooks,
    Mingling—like light, or songs of spheres—
    Contented his untutored ears.

    Confined between gigantic hills,
      The little hamlet, where he dwell,
    Never imagined land more blest
    Than that where it had made its nest.

    And so our simple village boy,
      With thoughtless urchins like himself,
    Chatting with brooks and birds and flowers,
    Ran swiftly through his childish hours.

    But manhood, like a shadow, rose
      And stood before his growing eyes—
    With aspirations, such as start
    To being in the ambitious heart.

    Somehow—he knew not whence it came—
      The fancy of a nobler world
    Than that in which his soul now pined,
    Trembled, like moonlight, on his mind.

    Habit, however, made his home
      So very dear; he sadly threw
    The thought aside, and, turning back,
    Pursued his old accustomed track.

    Nevertheless, the glowing dream
      Followed his steps with pleading eyes,
    Filling his heart, wherever he went,
    With unaccustomed discontent.

    But one day hunting in the hills
      He saw a chamois mount a peak,
    Which seemed—its summit was so high—
    To melt and mingle with the sky.

    Urged by the instinct of the chase,
      He slowly crept from crag to crag
    Until he reached the dizzy height
    Where last the chamois met his sight.

    Before him, in the morning sun,
      Stretching away from sky to sky,
    Brighter than even his soul had dreamed.
    His other world before him gleamed.

    Behind him lay the little vale
      Where he had spent his youthful hours;
    There was the cottage where he dwelt—
    The shrine at which he always knelt.

    And over-shadowing the brook,
      He saw the weeping-willow stand,
    Where, but the night before, he met
    His loving, lovely young FLORETTE.

    But fairer than his maiden love,
      And lovelier than his native glen,
    Inviting him with novel charms,
    His fairy world held out its arms.

    The Old yields always to the New,
      And so the youth with just such steps
    As one would run to meet a bride,
    Ran lightly down the mountain side.

    Day after day, year after year,
      He wandered in his golden world:
    A shadow-hunter he became:—
    The Shadow which he sought was Fame.

    But Age, who walks on velvet feet,
      Followed his footsteps like a wolf,
    And when the fame he sought was won,
    He only saw the setting sun.

    Cold as his native granite rocks,
      And hard, had grown the wanderer’s heart:
    For many weary, desolate years
    His eyes had lost the power of tears.

    The name his genius had acquired,
      The wealth which Fortune had bestowed,
    Instead of pleasure gave him pain:
    Sadness was in his heart and brain.

    The great are friendless: he was great:
      His very fortune hedged him round
    And shut him from the love of all;
    He could not leap the lofty wall.

    But somehow, like an angel’s tear,
      The memory of his early home
    Fell on his heart: he saw the glen
    He loved so in his youth again.

    A wan and worn and wrinkled man
      He stood upon his native hills:
    There was each old familiar spot;
    There stood his silent shepherd cot.

    Downward with trembling, painful steps
      The wanderer took his lonely way:
    Like one who wakens from a dream
    He stood beside the mournful stream.

    Above him, in a green old age,
      He saw a weeping-willow trail
    Its murmuring leaves; and at its foot
    A single rose had taken root.

    It grew upon a grassy mound,
      At head of which a rustic cross
    Pointed to heaven;—there last he met—
    There last he clasped the fair Florette.

    The old man’s eyes were full of tears,
      As, like a penitent child, he knelt
    And sobbed and prayed in pale despair:
    Next day a maiden found him there.

    The hillock where reposed his form
      Was circled by his feeble arms:
    Pale, pitying Death his seal had set
    On love, and laid him with Florette.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          A RECEPTION MORNING:


                    OR PEOPLE IN GLASS HOUSES, ETC.


        BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE,” ETC.


                     _Je m’oublie,_
                     _Tu t’oublies,_
                     _Il ou elle s’oublis,_ _etc._
                                 _Verb S’oublier._

“WHY were you not at Elliot’s last night, Mrs. Fortesque?” asked Mrs.
Lyman.

“We do not visit,” replied Mrs. Fortesque, with a slight shade of
mortification.

“Not visit!” repeated her friend in an accent of surprise, and fixing
her eyes as she spoke with a prolonged look of astonishment that caused
Mrs. Fortesque to color. “Is it possible! It was an elegant party—very
select—the handsomest I have been at this winter. Indeed, _the_ party
of the season.”

“It could scarcely surpass Rawley’s,” said Mrs. Fortesque with smothered
indignation. “I am sure there was nothing spared there, and their house
is larger than Elliot’s.”

“Yes. But it was such a jam at Rawley’s,” replied Mrs. Lyman, in the
tone of one oppressed even by the recollection of the crowd—“and such a
_mêlée_—all sorts of people! This paying off debts in this way is, in
my opinion, very vulgar. Now at Elliot’s it was so different. Just every
body you would wish to meet and no more. Room to see and be seen—and
the ladies so beautifully dressed—no crowd—every thing elegant and
_recherché_.”

“The dressing at Rawley’s was as elegant as possible,” remarked Mrs.
Fortesque, evidently piqued that the party she had just been describing
to Miss Appleton with no small degree of complacency as so fashionable,
should now be spoken of as a _mêlée_.

“Did you think so?” said Mrs. Lyman, with affected surprise. “It was
very inferior to that of last night. Indeed in such a crowd there’s no
inducement to wear any thing handsome; but last night the ladies really
came out. I never saw such dressing—and the supper was exquisite.”

“It seems to me that all suppers are alike,” said one of the Miss
Appletons, with true girlish ignorance.

“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed both ladies in a breath.

“The difference between such a supper as we had at Elliot’s and such a
one as at Rawley’s,” continued Mrs. Lyman, “is immense. The exquisite
china, the plate, and then the natural flowers! Such a supper as you can
only have at a select party.”

Mrs. Fortesque looked very angry. The Rawleys were rather her grand
people, and as she had not been at Elliot’s she did not like this being
set down in the crowd of “any bodies” invited.

“I am fairly tired out,” pursued Mrs. Lyman languidly, “with this
succession of parties. I do wish people would be quiet for a little
while and let one rest. The girls too are quite jaded and fagged with
this dancing night after night.”

“Oh, it’s too much,” said Emma Appleton. “I never go more than two or
three times a week. I wonder you do,” turning to Miss Lyman.

“How can you help it, my dear?” said Mrs. Lyman, in the tone of one
bewailing a great hardship. “You give such offence if you decline.”

“I decline whenever it suits me,” replied Miss Appleton, “and people
bear the disappointment very philosophically,” she added, smiling.

“You may well say that, Emma,” said Mrs. Fortesque, with an emphasis
meant at Mrs. Lyman. “Society is so large now that _I_ at least never
find offence is taken when I decline.”

“But you cannot refuse a first invitation,” pursued Mrs. Lyman. “Now the
Elliots for instance. They have just called upon us, we could not
decline. Are you going to Hammersley’s to-morrow, Emma?”

“No,” said Emma, “we are not invited. Are you?”

“Yes; it’s a small party. We shall go there first and afterwards to
Lascelles’.”

“I saw you all at the opera on Monday,” remarked Emma.

“Yes, we were there the first two acts—we went from there to Shaw’s. By
the way, did you call upon the bride yesterday?”

“No,” replied Emma. “I have never visited the Halseys.”

“But as Hamilton’s friends,” pursued Mrs. Lyman, “I called on his
account.”

“No,” said Emma carelessly, “I hate bridal receptions and avoid them
whenever I possibly can.” Mrs. Lyman had risen while she was speaking,
and she said, “Oh don’t go! Why are you in such a hurry?”

“I must, my dear,” replied Mrs. Lyman. “The Armstrongs and Ringolds
receive to-day, and then I must call at Meredith’s. We have not been
there since the party. And Cadwaladers too, Mary,” she said, turning to
her daughter, “don’t forget them. We have been owing that visit so
long—and the Harrisons, and I don’t know how many,” she continued, as
if quite oppressed with the weight of fashionable cares. “I don’t
suppose we shall get through with the half of them. Come Mary,” and so
bidding Emma and her friends good morning, she withdrew.

The door had hardly closed upon her, when Mrs. Fortesque, still wrathy
at the manner in which Mrs. Lyman had spoken of Rawleys, and angrier
still at finding she was going to Hammersley’s, vented some of her
indignation exclaiming—

“How that woman does work for society!”

“One would think she had been at court to hear her talk of Elliots,”
said Emma laughing.

“Just so, Emma,” said Mrs. Fortesque, in a tone of bitter satisfaction
at the young lady’s laughing satire. “It’s too absurd! And as to saying
the Elliots called first, I don’t believe it. They, strangers here, and
people of their fortune, are not likely to go about making first calls.”

“What’s that?” said Charlotte Appleton, who had been engrossed in
conversation with a gentleman on the opposite side of the room. “What’s
that about the Elliots making first calls.”

“I was saying it was rather remarkable that they should have called
first on Mrs. Lyman,” replied Mrs. Fortesque.

“They did not,” exclaimed Charlotte. “Of course, as strangers, you know,
Mrs. Fortesque, they would not, and I know the Lymans called upon them
some time ago.”

“Are you sure of that, Charlotte?” asked Mrs. Fortesque, with the
triumphant manner of one securing an important fact.

“Certainly,” replied Charlotte, “for she asked mamma and myself to call
and introduce her, but we were engaged that morning, and she said it was
no matter, she would leave her card and be introduced the first time
they met.”

“I thought so!” said Mrs. Fortesque exultingly, “It’s just like her!”

“There’s no reason why she should not have called, Mrs. Fortesque,” said
Emma.

But Mrs. Fortesque did not look assenting at this; she only said,
however—

“Perhaps so. But I don’t like calling on these people for their
parties—for it amounts to that, when you can’t return them.”

“But, my dear Mrs. Fortesque,” said Emma, “then only the rich would know
the rich. And there are a great many charming people in society who
cannot afford to entertain, and who the Elliots and others are delighted
to have.”

“Oh, my dear,” returned the lady with much excitement of manner, “that’s
all very well when you have happened to know them; but I would not go
out of my way to make their acquaintance. There’s nobody of any
consequence in society, or who entertains, that Mrs. Lyman does not make
it a point of knowing. Now, her calling on the bride yesterday as one of
Hamilton’s friends. Why, she knows Hamilton just as you and I and half
the town do—a slight bowing acquaintance—but now he is marrying a rich
fashionable girl, she finds out that it is incumbent on her as ‘one of
his friends’ to call on his bride! So absurd! And she wont effect her
object by this sort of thing either,” she added spitefully. “The young
men are tired of seeing those two ugly girls of hers at every place they
go.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fortesque!” said Emma expostulatingly, yet half laughing.

“Of course, my dear,” returned Mrs. Fortesque warmly. “Every body sees
that, and she’ll fail.”

“Well, _if_ that is the object—” said Emma.

“And it is,” persisted Mrs. Fortesque decidedly.

“I don’t agree with you in thinking she’ll fail,” continued Emma,
without noticing the interruption. “I think the Lymans are nice girls
and generally liked.”

“No beauties, you’ll admit,” said Mrs. Fortesque, scornfully.

“No, not beauties,” replied Emma, “but they get on quite as well as if
they were. Besides, really Mrs. Fortesque, to do Mrs. Lyman justice, I
never saw any thing about her like a match-making mother.”

“Oh, my dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Fortesque. “She is very anxious to marry
them off. And well she may be. The other two are growing up as fast as
they can. I only think she is taking the wrong course. And then such a
labor as she makes of it! She’s somewhere every night.”

“Oh yes. Sometimes at two parties beside the opera,” said Charlotte.
“There’s no pleasure in society at such a rate. They have an idea that
it is _ton_ish I believe.”

“Too absurd!” repeated Mrs. Fortesque, who had evidently not yet
discharged all her wrath. But being obliged to make other calls she
rose, and as Lady Teazle says, “left her character behind her,” for she
was not fairly out of the room before Emma laughed and said—

“Poor Mrs. Fortesque! She cannot get over the Lymans getting on so well
in society. To be sure they do push for it, but they get it. And their
being at Elliot’s where she was not invited and does not visit, seems to
have capped the climax of her vexation.”

“And to speak slightingly of Rawleys’ party,” said Charlotte. “That
really was unkind in Mrs. Lyman, for she knows how much Mrs. Fortesque
thinks of the Rawleys.”

“That was the reason of course,” replied Emma laughing. “She knows the
Rawleys are Mrs. Fortesque’s grandees. For there’s no one that thinks so
much of fine people as Mrs. Fortesque.”

“No. How droll it is,” said Charlotte. “Every invitation is taken as
such a compliment, and every omission as a particular slight.”

“That struck me very much,” remarked Mrs. Henry Willing who happened to
be present, but who had not joined much in the conversation hitherto,
“for I have always looked upon Mrs. Fortesque as a person who rather
pinned her faith upon fashionable people, and who rated her acquaintance
very much according to their consequence in society.”

“Oh she does, decidedly,” said both the girls in a breath.

“It’s that,” continued Emma, “that makes her so angry with Mrs. Lyman.
They are intimate, and Mrs. Lyman is always ahead of her in making fine
acquaintances, and in getting invited to parties that are rather
exclusive. Now you will see that Mrs. Fortesque does not rest until she
visits and is invited at Elliot’s too.”

“But I think she is really unjust, Emma,” said Charlotte, “in saying her
object is to get the girls married.”

“To be sure she is,” replied Emma. “But the fact is, her own head is so
full of anxiety on the subject of marrying Cornelia, that she thinks
every other mother’s head must be the same.”

“The Lymans are no beauties,” said Charlotte, “but they are quite as
handsome as Cornelia Fortesque.”

“And a great deal pleasanter,” replied Emma. “They have something at
least, but poor Cornelia has nothing.”

As the Appletons were “at home” that morning, the conversation was here
interrupted by other visiters.

Elliot’s party was again the theme under discussion, the display of
wealth and beauty on the occasion giving rise to much animated remark.

“One of the most striking persons there was your friend Mrs. Norton,
Miss Appleton,” said Mrs. Henry Willing.

“I never saw her look more beautiful,” remarked another.

“Nor more beautifully dressed,” said Mrs. Willing quietly, but with
meaning.

Emma colored at this, for she felt the innuendo. Mr. Norton had failed
not very long since, and the extravagance of his pretty wife had not
escaped its due portion at least of animadversion.

“What was it?” asked Emma.

“A very rich blue silk, with flounces of superb lace almost to the
hips,” replied Mrs. Willing in a tone that conveyed as much reprehension
as tones could convey.

“Oh, that’s the same lace she has worn these three years,” said Emma,
vexed that her pretty friend could not even wear her old things without
exciting unkind remarks.

“It does not look well, Emma,” remarked Mrs. Grayson. “Though it is not
new, it is expensive, and not in keeping with their present
circumstances, it’s in bad taste.”

Emma looked disconcerted, and said she thought that a matter of very
little importance when every body knew the lace almost as well as they
did Mrs. Norton herself.

Mrs. Willing however did not think so. “Every body knew the expense
attendant on society, and she thought it altogether indiscreet in Mrs.
Norton to be out as constantly as she was. It excited much remark.”

Whereupon an animated discussion ensued in which poor Mrs. Norton was
well pulled to pieces. Emma however defended her bravely, though driven
from point to point. That she was very expensive, if not extravagant,
seemed however to be settled beyond dispute, and Mrs. Willing was not
inclined to make any allowance for her youth and inexperience, nor
permit her grace and beauty any weight at all in extenuating her
imprudence. Emma was for overlooking every thing, Mrs. Willing nothing,
and the discussion was certainly as warm as is ever deemed allowable
among ladies, when Mrs. Willing rose to leave. No one remaining,
fortunately for Emma, but Mrs. Grayson, with whom the Appletons were
very intimate, and so she gave unrestrained vent to her indignation
almost before Mrs. Willing was out of hearing.

“She is a pretty one!” she exclaimed, “to find fault with Mrs. Norton!
She is just as expensive as her means will allow, without Mrs. Norton’s
excuse of youth and beauty.”

“But, my dear,” interposed Mrs. Grayson, “her husband has not failed.”

“No,” said Emma, “for he is not a merchant. But every body knows their
circumstances. He’s over head and ears in debt, and yet they entertain
and give dinners, and she’s forever at the opera. But because she’s not
a beauty and does not care particularly for dress, she is very virtuous
about poor Mrs. Norton.”

“Very true,” said Mrs. Grayson laughing. “I could not but be amused
while she was talking to think how much that she was saying would apply
equally well to herself. But people never think of that when they are
laying down the law for others. But have you heard this story, girls,
about Mrs. Crawford?”

“No. What?” they both asked.

And then followed a piece of scandal that had just burst upon the town,
too naughty to repeat.

“Shocking!” and “Can it be true?” they exclaimed.

“No doubt of it,” returned Mrs. Grayson. “No one will visit her,” and
with much interest she continued to add circumstance and suspicion one
on top of the other without mercy or stint.

All minor gossip was forgotten in the engrossing interest of the new
subject. Mrs. Grayson talked on till the French clock on the
mantel-piece struck the dinner hour, when starting up, she exclaimed—

“So late! Is it possible? You’ve been so agreeable girls I had quite
forgotten the hour, and my husband is waiting for me, I suppose,” and
off she hurried.

“She has had all the talk,” said Emma, “and that’s what she calls
finding _us_ agreeable. But this story is very bad, if it is true.”

“Yes, but I don’t believe half of it,” said Charlotte. “Mrs. Grayson you
know always puts the worst construction upon every thing. She is so very
harsh in her judgments.”

“And she of all others should have mercy upon those in trouble,”
observed Mrs. Appleton, who had just then came into the room. “But what
were you talking of girls?”

And with great animation they related Mrs. Grayson’s bit of gossip to
their mother.

“Strange!” said Mrs. Appleton, “that Mrs. Grayson should be the first to
tell it.”

“Why, mamma?” asked both daughters at once.

“Because just such an affair occurred in her own family.”

“In hers! When?” exclaimed they in astonishment. “I never heard that
before!”

“Oh, years ago—you can hardly remember it. Indeed it was just after I
was married.”

“Then,” said Charlotte laughing, “it’s not surprising we do not remember
the circumstance.”

“I had forgotten it was so long ago,” said their mother. “It made a
great talk at the time.” And then scandal that had been buried for years
and years was revived and listened to with no small interest.

“Strange!” said Emma, “that Mrs. Grayson should talk of Mrs. Crawford.”

“I should think she would avoid all such stories as carefully as
possible,” said Charlotte.

“I suppose she thought we knew nothing about it,” pursued Emma.

“But if we did not, _she_ must,” replied Charlotte. “People cannot
forget such things themselves.”

“Mrs. Grayson has gone through severe trials and mortifications in
life,” observed their mother.

“Then it ought to give her some charity for others,” said Charlotte.
“But she is the _hardest_ woman I know.”

“It appears to me that’s always the case,” said Emma. “One would think
that suffering would soften and purify—but it does not.”

“Not that kind of suffering,” remarked their mother. “That which comes
of mortification, and which we experience at the hands of our fellow
men, there are few natures fine enough not to grow hard under it.”

Emma heard her mother afterward in a low voice telling their father the
story she had just heard from her daughters, and giving Mrs. Grayson as
authority.

“The less _she_ says about it the better,” drily remarked Mr. Appleton.

“You remember, my dear,” continued his wife, “that affair of her
sister.”

“To be sure,” he replied. “A bad business. I always wondered how they
got over it.”

And then Mr. and Mrs. Appleton had a long, comfortable, cosy talk, in
which things long past and forgotten were brought to life, as the old
couple warmed up in their reminiscences of “old times.” Emma soon tired,
and gave up trying to keep the thread of grandmothers and great-aunts,
particularly as her father and mother frequently confounded the present
with the past generation, and she found that the “young Tom Somebody,”
that they were talking of, was now the “old Tom,” of present times; the
“young Tom” being a middle-aged man, with a Tom junior treading fast on
his heels.

Charlotte and Emma were now talking over their morning visiters, and
Emma again spoke with some warmth of Mrs. Willing’s remarks on Mrs.
Norton, who happened to be Emma’s particular admiration, her
extravagance being, in her opinion, “very natural.”

“I can conceive,” she added, “of people’s

        ‘Compounding sins they are inclined for,
         By damning those they have no mind for,’

but to abuse people for doing what you are doing yourself, is rather too
much.”

“It’s the old principle, I suppose,” said Charlotte, “of ‘Lord, I thank
thee that I am not as other men.’”

“Yes, but,” persisted Charlotte, “when you _are_ like as other men.”

“Well, then—not so bad, then,” said Charlotte, laughing—“Mrs. Willing
takes comfort in thinking she is only expensive, while Mrs. Norton is
extravagant. Every body has their besetting sin it seems.”

“I wonder what ours is,” said Emma.

“If we have one,” said Charlotte, laughing. “For my part, I think we
approach perfection as near as possible—‘_Sans peur et sans
reproche._’”

“_Sans peur_, certainly,” said Emma, in the same tone of playful
mockery, “if not _sans reproche_. Well, but what do we abuse others most
for?” she added. “For, depend upon it, that’s the particular weakness we
are given to ourselves.”

“What do we most criticise others for?” said Charlotte. “Why, for
abusing others, I think. And we are called satirical, you know. ‘People
in glass houses should not throw stones.’”

“No,” said Emma carelessly. “That is, if they care about having their
windows broken.”

“Nobody likes to have their windows broken,” said Mrs. Appleton gravely,
who, just entering, caught the last part of the sentence, which she took
literally, with a true housekeeper’s feeling.

“That’s true, mother,” said the girls, laughing at the odd application
of her remark. “It’s very true, though you did not mean it.”

But whether they remembered these sage reflections and kept them the
next “reception morning,” we think very doubtful.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                THE SKY.


                         BY MRS. J. W. MERCUR.


    THE sky, the ever-changing sky,
    How broadly spans that arch on high!
    How calmly in the morning’s light
    Blends its rich hues so purely bright,
    And lit by golden sunbeams now
    In glory bends its azure brow.

    The sky, the sky, serenely bright,
    No cloud sits on thy bosom’s light,
    No fleecy folds beneath the eye
    Of the sun’s light are glancing by,
    Nor gath’ring clouds of misty spray
    Play round the sun’s imperial way.

    And with a look of light and love
    That azure sea bends far above,
    Its glories to the day unfurled
    Are resting o’er our circling world,
    And lit by many a brilliant star
    At night that archway beams afar.

    And on its breast so pure and high
    The burning paths of planets lie,
    Planets which ’neath its folds had birth
    When worlds on worlds first smiled o’er earth,
    And northern-lights and comets play,
    And meteors gleam, then die away.

    And oft that bending sky doth wear
    A look of deep and troubled care.
    When sunbeams by deep clouds are hid,
    The gath’ring tempests frowning lid,
    And thunders burst, and lightnings play,
    And storms sweep o’er the trav’lers way.

    And on the broad and rolling deep
    Each mariner doth turn and keep
    An anxious vigil of the sky,
    When threat’ning clouds and storms are nigh,
    And tempests round them fierce are driven,
    Or rainbows span the arch of heaven.

    The sky, the sky, now clear, now bright,
    Now wreathed with folds of snowy white,
    Now tinged with amber hues, whose glow
    Is borrowed from the sunbeams flow,
    Then on its ever-changing breast
    Beam roseate streakings in the west.

    And oft upon the sky I gaze
    As in my childhood’s early days,
    And watch at every morn and night
    Its fading or increasing light,
    And trace with love each cloud and star,
    Which floats above, or beams afar.

    The sky, the sky, it bendeth o’er
    The weary exile, who no more
    Can greet his home, or feel the breeze
    Play through his native forest trees,
    Or watch upon his home’s clear stream
    The moon’s pale rays reflected beam.

    And the bright sky o’er all that’s here
    Unto the exile’s heart is dear;
    In it he sees each beaming star
    Which shone above his home afar,
    And knows a power of deathless love
    Spread out that azure sea above.

    And over all things here below
    It bendeth with a radiant glow;
    On peasant’s cot—on lordly hall—
    Alike its sun and shadows fall,
    And gems which gild its brow at even
    Shine forth for all beneath the heaven.

    And from its firm unwav’ring height,
    Its never-failing day and night,
    The fadeless glory of its sun—
    Its tireless stars, when day is done,
    May all, as tow’rd that sky they turn,
    A lesson of deep import learn.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                TAURUS.


                          BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.


    The Scorpion’s stars crawl down behind the sun,
      And when he drops below the verge of day,
    The glittering fangs, their fervid courses run,
      Cling to his skirts and follow him away.
    Then, ere the heels of flying Capricorn
      Have touched the western mountain’s fading rim,
    I mark, stern Taurus, through the twilight gray
            The glinting of thy horn,
      And sullen front uprising large and dim,
    Bent to the starry hunter’s sword, at bay.

    Thy hoofs, unwilling, climb the sphery vault;
      Thy red eye trembles with an angry glare,
    When the hounds follow, and in fierce assault
      Bay through the fringes of the lion’s hair.
    The stars that once were mortal in their love,
      And by their love are made immortal now,
    Cluster like golden bees upon thy mane,
            When thou, possessed with Jove,
      Bore sweet Europe’s garlands on thy brow
    And stole her from the green Sicilian plain.

    Type of the stubborn force that will not bend
      To loftier art;—soul of defiant breath
    That blindly stands and battles to the end,
      Nerving resistance with the throes of death—
    Majestic Taurus! when thy wrathful eye
      Flamed brightest, and thy hoofs a moment stayed
    Their march at Night’s meridian, I was born:
            But in the western sky,
      Like sweet Europa, Love’s fair star delayed,
    To hang her garland on thy silver horn.

    Thou giv’st that temper of enduring mould,
      That slights the wayward bent of Destiny—
    Such as sent forth the shaggy Jarls of old
      To launch their dragons on the unknown sea:
    Such as kept strong the sinews of the sword,
      The proud, hot blood of battle—welcome made
    The headsman’s axe, the rack, the martyr-fire,
            The ignominious cord,
      When but to yield, had pomps and honors laid
    On heads that moulder in ignoble mire.

    Night is the summer when the soul grows ripe
      With Life’s full harvest: of her myriad suns,
    Thou dost not gild the quiet herdsman’s pipe,
      Nor royal state, that royal action shuns,
    But in the noontide of thy ruddy stars
      Thrive strength, and daring, and the blood whence springs
    The Heraclidean seed of heroes: then
            Were sundered Gaza’s bars;
      Then, ’mid the smitten Hydra’s loosened rings,
    His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen.

    Thou sway’st the heart’s red tides, until they bear
      The kindled spirit on their mounting wave,
    Up to the notch of Glory; in thy glare
      Age thaws his ice, and thrills beside the grave.
    Not Bacchus, by his span of panthers borne,
      And flushed with triumph of the purple vine,
    Can give his sons so fierce a joy as thou,
            When, filled with pride and scorn,
      Thou mak’st relentless anger seem divine,
    And all Jove’s terror clothes a mortal brow.

    Thine is the subtle element that turns
      To fearless act the impulse of the hour—
    The secret fire, whose flash electric burns
      To every source of passion and of power.
    Therefore I hail thee, on thy glittering track:
      Therefore I watch thee, when the night grows dark,
    Slow rising, front Orion’s sword along
            The starry zodiac,
      And from thy mystic beam demand a spark
    To warm my soul with more heroic song.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THE YOUNG ARTIST:


                   OR THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE.


                            BY T. S. ARTHUR.


                      (_Concluded from page 112._)


                              CHAPTER VII.

ELLISON was no longer, either in sentiment or purpose, an artist. His
whole character had undergone a sudden, though temporary change. He
reveled no more in Italian dreams. Beautiful creations arose not, in
imagination, under his pencil. The ideal of his life had taken a new
form. His end was no longer perfection in the Art at whose shrine genius
had made him a worshiper. He had turned to another god; and bowed his
knee on the threshold of the house of Mammon. What splendid castles
arose in the air all around him! He saw his land cleared of its trees a
century old; and fields of grain brightening in the sunshine and waving
in the breeze, where now the light could scarcely penetrate the gloomy
forest. In the centre of his estate a site was selected for a splendid
dwelling, and he saw it rising up before him as if by the touch of
enchantment.

But for no very long time was this vain dream to be indulged. An
overseer, to give practical attention to the cutting of logs in the
woods, two miles away from his mill; to look after their transportation
to the place where they were to be manufactured into boards, and to have
a general supervision of every thing connected with the business, could
not be had for less than five hundred dollars a year. Besides this
individual, an engineer to run the mill, hands to attend it, and
wood-cutters and teamsters, were all to be employed. Six yoke of oxen
had also to be purchased; and the expense of feeding them was something
of an item in itself. The whole weekly cost of this force, independent
entirely of his personal expenses, was about fifty dollars. A month
passed, and, though a dozen trials had been made to start the mill, the
gearing and machinery were found so defective that they would not work.
All hands but the overseer and engineer were then discharged, and
millwrights employed to half build the mill over again. They kept at
work nearly three months, by which time Ellison’s cash being nearly all
expended, he was beginning to be in no very enviable state of mind. A
good many things had occurred, in the meantime, to cause more than a
doubt as to the success of his scheme to cross his mind. His overseer
was a practical man, and able to apply tests to the whole business
unknown to Ellison.

One day, it was nearly five months from the time the mill came into the
young man’s possession, and after some part of the new gearing had given
way in an attempt to get it started, the overseer said to him—

“I’m afraid you will find this a losing business, manage it as you
please. It’s my opinion that it will cost you more to cut the timber,
haul it to the mill and saw it up, than the lumber will bring after it
is produced.”

And then he exhibited to Ellison a series of estimates and calculations
based upon things actually done, which fully proved all he said.

“Had the mill been erected on your land, you might have saved yourself.
But, to cut the timber, and then haul it two miles, makes the cost of
each log so great as to throw profit entirely out of the question. I
think, sir, that you had better sell your mill, if you can find a
purchaser.”

Ellison was confounded. The demonstration made by his overseer was so
accurate that there was no possibility of gainsaying it. To go on, even
if he had the money with which to proceed, would, he saw, be only an act
of folly. He, therefore, after debating the matter for some days, saw
that there was no way left for him but to discharge all in his
employment, and sell the mill if a purchaser could be found. The sale he
did not find a matter of easy accomplishment. He advertised it far and
near, but only a few came to look at it, and they were not long in
making up their minds that the road to fortune did not lie in that
direction. In the meantime, the first note of one thousand dollars given
to Claxton fell due, and was permitted to lie over. Ellison had not
fifty dollars in cash left of the five thousand obtained from the sale
of stocks, and how could he lift a note of a thousand. He wrote to
Claxton, upbraiding him as the willful instrument of his loss—as having
made him the scape-goat to bear the burden of his own folly and
miscalculation. To this he received a brief answer from Claxton’s
brother, who said that the notes were now his property, and that he
would wait until the three were matured, when, in case they were not all
paid, he would foreclose the mortgage in his possession and sell his
land.

Unhappy young man! He was almost beside himself with anguish of mind.
His castles in the air had all dissolved in storm-clouds. His confident
pride in his own energy and ability to wrest a fortune from the elements
around him was all gone. In the effort to make peace with his own
mind—to secure his independence—by suddenly duplicating the value of
the property obtained by his wife, he had lost nearly the whole of it in
less than a year. His folly was the town talk. Not a man in D——, with
whom he had conversed during the progress of his money-losing scheme,
gave him a word of encouragement. Every one said that his expectations
would prove fallacious; and now that all had occurred as predicted, the
only sympathy he received was the pride-crushing remark that it had
turned out as every one knew it would.

The letter from Claxton’s brother awoke Ellison to a keener sense of the
difficulty by which he was surrounded than he had yet experienced. There
was no hope of selling his mill. It had already cost him about four
thousand dollars, and three thousand were yet due. There was no escape
from the payment of this last sum, as it was fully secured by a mortgage
upon his land.

While in this sad dilemma, so distressed in mind that he often walked
the floor for half the night, the owner of the other mill, which had
been kept steadily at work, offered him two thousand dollars for the
whole concern, which had cost him seven thousand. This offer he accepted
without a moment’s hesitation. It was the severing of one fold of the
horrible serpent that had entwined itself around him, and whose
contractions were almost crushing out his life. The next step was to
offer the four hundred acres of land for sale. It so happened that there
were three large property-holders in D——, each of whom had particular
reasons for wanting the tract of land. From this cause a better sale
than even Ellison anticipated, was made. Twenty dollars per acre was
realized, or eight thousand dollars for the whole tract.

Three thousand dollars canceled the debt to Claxton. About five hundred
more went to pay various bills and accounts that were brought in as soon
as it was known that Ellison was closing up his business. Of some of
these the young man had no kind of recollection; but he paid them. After
all was settled, only about six thousand five hundred dollars of the
entire property which Ellison had received by his wife remained. In
other words, in a little over a year, he had lost one half of it. During
the progress of these disasters, Clara, who had never approved of what
her husband was doing, avoided saying a word that he could construe into
disapproval or disappointment. Still she felt troubled, and could not
always keep her brow free from shadows. Whenever they were seen by
Ellison, he felt them as smarting rebukes; and his quick fancy gave them
a language which they did not really convey.

About two months prior to the closing up of Ellison’s disastrous
business in D——, Clara presented her husband with a daughter. The
birth of this child was not so glad an event to the father as it would
have been a flew months earlier, when, waking or sleeping, his mind was
full of golden dreams. From the effects of her illness Clara recovered
but slowly. A change in her bodily feelings produced a change in her
thoughts, which turned toward her old home and her old friends. From a
small beginning the wish to go back grew into an intense desire. She had
never been really happy since coming to the West; and now every thing
she saw around her but increased her dissatisfied feelings. But as far
as it was in her power to do so, all this was concealed from her
husband.

One day, it was when Ellison was about making his closing transactions
in D——, he spoke of their removal from that city, and mentioned
Cincinnati.

“Why not go back to Philadelphia?” said Clara, with an eagerness that
showed how much her heart was in her words. She spoke from an impulse,
and therefore with a fuller exhibition of her real feelings than would
otherwise have been the case.

“I’d rather hang myself!” was the equally impulsive and much less
guarded answer of Ellison.

The effect of this rude, in fact, unfeeling reply, was a gush of tears,
that flowed long and silently. The heart of Ellison smote him for the
unkindly spoken words. But they had found an utterance, and he felt that
an attempt to recall them would be of no use.

For the space of full half an hour the unhappy young man, and his
equally unhappy wife, sat silent and almost motionless, yet their
thoughts were busy all the while. What passed in the mind of Ellison
will hereafter appear.

“We will go back, Clara,” he at length said, breaking the oppressive
stillness of the apartment in which they sat, and speaking in a voice of
affectionate sympathy. “Forgive me that I thought too much of myself. I
know it must be a hard trial for you—this separation from all your
early associations and most cherished friends. I hoped to make this
visit to the West one of prosperity to us both. But I have erred, and a
heart-crushing disaster has been the result. I will atone for this error
in the future as best I can.”

“Alfred! Alfred! do not speak so,” said Clara, lifting her eyes from the
floor. Tears were again upon her cheeks. “All has been done for the
best. Do not think of the past. Do not reproach yourself. We have still
something left, and it is enough, and more than enough, to sustain us
until your own professional efforts meet with their deserved reward. Let
us go to Cincinnati, or any where else that you may think best.”

“No, Clara, we will return to Philadelphia, and that immediately. You
cannot be happy among strangers who feel for you no sympathy.”

“I can be happy any where with you, Alfred,” replied the young wife,
leaning toward her husband and looking tenderly in his face.

“But happier in the old place. We will go back, Clara.”

“Forgive my weakness, wont you, dear?” said Clara, half imploringly. “It
was only a weakness, and it is past now. No, no! we will not return.
That would be painful to you; and I would not be the cause of your
feeling a moment’s pain for the world. I can be happy any where with you
and our precious babe.”

But Ellison’s resolution had been taken. Back to Philadelphia he would
go, and no where else. Perceiving how firm he was in this, Clara soon
ceased to oppose her husband. In about two weeks they left D——, and in
a few days afterward were in Philadelphia.


                             CHAPTER VIII.

There was a change in Ellison. Clara perceived it from the moment he
avowed his intention to return to the East. Its meaning she could not
tell. For some time before, a certain coldness, or more properly
speaking, a reserve, had appeared in his manner toward her. Slight
causes, too, had been productive of disturbance. But now he was more
tender in his intercourse with her than he had ever been, and seemed to
have scarcely a thought that did not involve her comfort and happiness.
His affection for their babe appeared every moment to increase. Clara
would often find him looking at it with a tenderness of expression that
was almost tearful.

On arriving in Philadelphia, Ellison avoided all the relatives of his
wife. He neither received nor returned the visit of any one of them.
Contrary to the expectation of Clara, he did not take a room for
professional use, nor did he say any thing about resuming his work as an
artist. Immediately on his return, he purchased stocks to the value of
five thousand five hundred dollars, the certificates for which, with
four hundred dollars in money, he placed in her hands, saying, as he did
so,

“I have kept five hundred dollars for a particular purpose.”

For about a week he remained nearly the whole time in the house, yet
exhibiting many evidences of a disturbed and active mind.

One morning, after kissing his wife and the babe that lay in her arms,
with visible emotion, he went away. Contrary to what had been his custom
since their return, he did not come back during the forenoon, and was
absent at dinner-time. A feeling of uneasiness—a vague dread of some
impending evil—had weighed upon the mind of Clara ever since he had
gone out, and this now changed into anxiety not unmingled with alarm.
Slowly the afternoon wore away and night came sadly down. As long as she
could see the forms of passengers in the street, Clara stood at the
window, waiting and watching for her husband. Then she sat listening for
the sound of his entrance below, starting and hearkening more intently,
as one after another opened and shut the door. But supper-time came, and
he was still away. All night he remained absent. Oh, what a night that
was for Clara! Sleep visited her not until day-dawn, and then it came
with frightful visions that broke the rest so much needed almost as soon
as sweet oblivion had come upon her senses. Early in the day a letter
was placed in her hands. She knew the writing to be that of her husband.
Breaking the seal, she read,

“My Dear Clara,—I leave you for a time. How long the time will be,
Heaven only knows! What it has cost me to break away from you and our
sweet babe, no one but myself will ever know. I meant all for the best;
it was to increase your property—not with a reckless indifference as to
consequences—that I made that ruinous adventure in the West. The
failure almost broke my heart. But I will retrieve the loss. I vowed to
do so when the disaster came; and I mean to fulfill that vow, if it cost
me the labor of a whole life. Happily, enough is left to keep you and
our babe from want. Bear my absence, if you can, without repining. Do
not think my affection for you has grown cold; it has but increased in
fervor since our marriage, and absence will make it the more intense.
Ah, me! How do our errors, like seed cast into the ground, reproduce
themselves a hundred fold! I erred at first, and error has since
followed me like a shadow. May Heaven keep you, my dear wife, until my
return. It is best for me to go away. To be happy under present
circumstances, is impossible. I am crushed to the earth, and if I remain
here, will lie powerless. It may be a weakness in me to feel as I do;
but I did not make myself, and cannot help it. Oh! how often have I
wished that you had been without a dollar and without a friend. How
tenderly would I have cherished you! How light would the hardest labor
have been, if it but produced flowers in your pathway! Let me make a
confession. It is wrung from me almost in tears. But we may never meet
again, and I would not have you misunderstand me, nor feel a doubt, when
you think of me, overshadowing your mind. I loved my art with a passion
that few can understand. But I was poor, and had to work in my
profession for bread, when I longed to go only in pursuit of the
beautiful, and to labor for the attainment of what was excellent in the
profession I had chosen. How blessed would I have been with a
competence! A few hundred a year would have filled the measure of my
desires. Bread and water would have sufficed for my natural wants, could
I have breathed under an Italian sky, and lived among the wonderful
creations of those master-spirits who have made our art immortal. It was
thus with me, when, in an evil hour, a friend suggested a marriage in
which money should be the first consideration. I threw the suggestion
aside with a feeling of indignation. He re-presented it, drawing at the
same time a picture upon which I could not look without a quickening
pulse. I in Italy, and a loving wife by my side, sketching and painting
amid the perfect works of art that fill the galleries of every city in
that beautiful land. I looked at the picture, and my heart stirred
within me. Then you were mentioned; but I rejected the thought of any
end in marriage lower than affection for the person, abstract from all
other considerations. But every time I looked upon you after this came
the dream of Italy; I saw myself there, and you by my side. It was in
this soil that the seeds of affection were sown; here they took root,
and here they grew. I could not help loving you; but I loved you not, at
first, all for yourself. There was something beyond. You had the means
by which I could attain to a desired end—but I never thought of
attaining it as a consummation to be enjoyed alone; it was to be shared
with you. In this blindness I sought your hand; in this blindness we
were married, at a time when my income was scarcely sufficient to meet
my own light expenses. I had, with a feeling that was little less than
an insanity, depended for the future on the property you were said to
possess. But, after marriage, how like the leaf of a sensitive plant
from the approach of an intruder, did my whole nature shrink at the
thought of touching your money, particularly as I had no means of my
own. I saw my error when it was too late to retrace my steps. I felt
that I had been mercenary, and that you would perceive it and despise
me. Anxiously did I struggle in my profession for the means of
independence; but I struggled in vain. Ah, Clara! words can give you no
idea of the humiliation I experienced when necessity drove me to a
confession of my poverty. If I could only erase that impression from my
memory! When your brother so cruelly taunted me, I felt mad with a wild
desire to show him, and every one else, that I had power to make your
property the stepping-stone to great wealth. How sadly I failed in my
purposes I will not repeat. You know all too well.

“Clara! Since our marriage, love for you has been a daily increasing
passion. The more deeply I looked into your heart, the more I saw to
inspire that respect upon which affection lays its broadest foundations.
And now the parting with you seems as if it would rend me asunder. But
it is necessary for our future happiness. You have enough left for the
support of yourself and our sweet child. I will return when I am, as I
should have been before our marriage, fully entitled to the blessing of
a loving wife, because able to support her. Farewell, my dear, dear
Clara! Do not grieve over my absence. Think of me hopefully—pray for
me. I will return. Hide from other eyes the pain this step must occasion
you. Conceal the apparent desertion for your own sake. Say that I have
gone abroad to perfect myself in my art. I will come back, for without
the light of your presence, I feel that all around me will lie in
shadow. How soon, Heaven only knows! Farewell! farewell! I write the
words tearfully. Farewell!

                                                       YOUR HUSBAND.”

Mrs. Ellison was a woman of great self-control and decision of
character. She loved her husband truly, notwithstanding his conduct
since marriage had often been incomprehensible, and never so open and
freely affectionate as she could have wished. All was now fully
explained. She understood much that had been covered by doubt. Though
the sudden disappearance of Alfred was a painful shock, yet, in the
explanations he had given, her heart found relief, and she caught, as
she looked along the future, glimpses of a happier prospect. Though the
letter was wet with tears, as she finished reading it for the third
time, and then hid it in her bosom, yet she was far from being hopeless
and entirely wretched. She could comprehend, to some extent, the
feelings of her husband, and was thus able to find an excuse for conduct
at first sight so extraordinary. Thus, though smitten almost to the
earth by the desertion and mystery of his absence, she could yet find
many avenues to consolation. If he had only said where he was going, it
would have been a great relief. But this he had chosen to conceal.

“Let me be patient and hopeful,” said she, pressing her hand upon her
bosom, as if she would thus still the flutterings of her stricken heart.
And then she lifted her eyes tearfully upward and prayed for guidance
and strength—prayed also for the absent one who had made himself a
wanderer on the earth.

The next great trial of Clara was to meet her friends and answer for the
absence of her husband in such a way as to conceal the fact of his
having gone away without confiding to her his destination. The utmost
self-control on her part was necessary; and her answers had all to be in
a certain sense evasive. All this was painful; for it was too evident
that none felt satisfied, and that suspicions against her husband were
created. Thus was the weight she had to bear increased. But she strung
her heart to endurance; and said, in the silence of her grieving spirit,
“I will be patient and hopeful.”

Months went by after the departure of Ellison, but no word from him came
to his anxious, long-suffering, hopeful wife. The sweet bud he had left
upon her bosom gradually opened in the warm sunshine; but its beauty and
fragrance were but half enjoyed because he was not there to divide the
pleasure. In spite of her efforts to hold fast by her confidence in his
return, the heart of Clara grew weaker every day. Nightly were her
dreams full of her husband; but in visions she only saw him sick or in
danger, and she often awoke in terror. The color left her cheeks; her
face grew thin and overcast with anxiety. Still the months went by, but
no intelligence from the absent one came; no ray of light pierced the
thick clouds of uncertainty that veiled her sky.


                              CHAPTER IX.

It was a year since the young artist had deserted his home and the dear
ones who nestled there. Twelve weary months had passed. He had been in
Paris, Dresden, Rome, Florence, and now he was in Venice; wasted almost
to a shadow; but still he sat with pencil or pallet in hand, striving to
catch the wonderful grace, or to attain the masterly effect of color
that he almost worshiped in those whose names were synonymous with all
that was grand and beautiful in art. But all that he had yet achieved
was so far below what was around him, that he was in despair.

He had thrown his brushes and pallet upon the floor, and was sitting in
an attitude of despondency before his easel, upon which was a
half-finished head after Raphael, when a young English artist, with whom
he had made an acquaintance, entered his studio.

“You are ill, Marston,” (it was by this name that Ellison passed in
Italy,) said the visiter, in a voice of concern.

“I am in despair,” replied Ellison.

“At what?”

“I cannot paint.”

“If I could produce flesh like that on the canvas before you, I would go
home to-morrow.”

“It looks like any thing but flesh to me.”

“Come, Marston,” said the other, taking the hand of the young man, “an
hour upon the water will give your eyes a better vision. But how your
hand burns! And there is a flush in your cheeks. You have fever!”

As the young man spoke, Ellison gathered up his brushes, and taking his
pallet, said, while his eyes brightened,

“There, Liston! stand just in that light.”

“No, I’ll do no such thing,” replied Liston, moving from his position.
“You must paint no more to-day. If you will not go out and breathe the
pure air, you must go to bed and let me send you a physician.”

“I’m not sick—I’m only in despair.”

The friend took him by the arm and tried to force him away from his
easel; as he did so, a deathly paleness overspread the face of the young
artist, and he fell back insensible. As soon as the first few moments of
surprise and confusion had passed, Liston laid the inanimate body which
he had caught in his arms on the floor, and went for assistance. After
various efforts at restoration had been used by the physician who was
summoned, but without effect, the body of Ellison was removed to his
lodgings, and placed in bed, where it remained for some hours before a
reaction of the exhausted vital system took place. Liston, who had
become much attached to the young artist for his many excellent
qualities, never left his side until his pulses again commenced their
feeble play, and then only for a few moments at a time. He was deeply
pained to perceive that the fine intellect of Ellison did not reanimate
as life again flowed along his veins. That had been overtasked, and was,
for the time being, paralyzed.

Day after day went by, and the bodily health of Ellison slowly improved;
but his mind continued to wander. Much to the surprise of Liston, in
these wanderings he often spoke of one to whom he applied the tenderest
name by which man can call a woman, and said that he would soon return
to her.

“Is our dear little Ella living yet?” he asked one day, looking
earnestly at Liston, his large, bright eyes beaming with affection.

“Who is Ella?” asked Liston.

The question appeared to react upon his state of mind. He became grave
and silent for some moments.

“I thought Clara was here,” said he, after awhile, in a more serious
voice.

“Who is Clara?”

This question threw him back again into silence, and he lay for more
than a minute with his eyes closed. Then he opened them quickly, and
glanced around with eager expectation, half rising as he did so from his
pillow. A sigh quivered through his white lips as he sunk back, and
said, in a sad voice,

“I thought she was here.”

For some time he lay with closed eyes, and his hands clasped across his
bosom. Then looking up again, he asked,

“Hasn’t she come yet? It is time she was here.”

Bending toward the door, he listened attentively.

“She must be here soon.”

“Something has delayed her,” said Liston, falling in with the humor of
the sick man. “Lie down again and try to sleep. Perhaps she will be here
when you awake.”

“Hark!” said Ellison.

Liston bent his ear for a moment or two. Then the sound of feet moving
along one of the distant passages was faintly heard.

“She is coming!” exclaimed Ellison, in a voice of exultation.

The footsteps approached rapidly. They were at hand; and then the door
flew open and a woman entered.

“My husband!” fell from her lips as she sprang forward and caught
Ellison in her arms, who, sobbing like a child, nestled helplessly, but
with the gladness of a half unconscious babe, upon her bosom.

Liston gazed on this scene in profound amazement. He expected every
moment to see the life-blood again thrown back upon the heart of his
sick friend, and his eyes closed once more in dark insensibility. But it
was not so. The meeting produced no disastrous shock.

“I have been looking for you to come,” said Ellison, lifting his head
from the bosom of his wife, after he was a little composed, and gazing
into her face.

A shadow fell upon the countenance of Clara, and she turned her eyes
upon Liston with a look of troubled inquiry.

“It is true, as he says,” remarked Liston, perceiving what was in her
mind. “He spoke of you, and said you were coming ere I could hear the
sound of your approaching footsteps.”

“But I heard them,” said Ellison, with a smile that lit up his whole
countenance. “And I knew that you were here.”

It was now plain to Clara that her husband’s mind had lost its balance.

“Has he been sick long?” she asked of Liston.

“His health has not been good for some time,” was the young man’s reply.
“He has tied himself down in his studio too long, and worked with too
intent a purpose, until he has wasted his body as you see. A few days
ago, nature sank exhausted under burdens too heavy for her to bear. But
your presence and your care will restore him.”

And Liston was right in his prediction. Ellison soon after sank away
into a deep slumber, which lasted for hours. When he awoke, though weak
almost as an infant, he was in his right mind.


                               CHAPTER X.

A week subsequent to Clara’s arrival in Venice, whither she had come
after a month’s search in Paris, Naples, Florence and Rome, for her
husband, she sat by the bed-side of Alfred, now rapidly recovering,
while Ella, their beautiful child, over a year old, was sleeping in her
arms.

“I know it would have been better, Clara, far better,” said the invalid,
replying to a remark which his wife had made. “But the disasters of that
western business put me half beside myself. Ah me! how much happier we
would have been if your fortune had been like my own—nothing.”

A cloud flitted over the brow of Clara as he made this last remark. She
sighed faintly, and was silent.

“I am weak and foolish on this subject,” said he, after a few moments.
“But you understand why it is so. The weight of a feather will hurt an
inflamed wound.”

Clara looked at her husband half reproachfully, and then changed the
subject.

A year longer Ellison remained in Italy, devoting his time to study and
practice in the higher schools of art, and then turned his face
homeward, taking with him about twenty pictures, half of which were his
own compositions, and all of a high order of merit.

There is now, in the city of New York, an artist whose pictures are
scarcely dry from the easel ere they meet with purchasers at a liberal
price. His portraits are among the finest that are produced, and he is,
consequently, never without a sitter. Money flows in to him by
thousands, and from the proceeds of his own work, he has surrounded
himself with all the elegances of life that a man of taste could desire.
That artist is Ellison. Fifteen years have elapsed since the painful
events we have described transpired. But success has not entirely
obliterated the marks they left behind. To let his mind go back and
linger thoughtfully on the past, is but to throw a shadow over his
spirit. Often, as he looks into the face of his wife, comes upon him the
remembrance that he sought her, at first, less for herself than for the
external advantages she would bring him, and that she knows of the
mercenary feelings which drew him to her side.

[Illustration]

“If she had been poor, like myself,” he often sighs, as he turns away
from some memory of the past, “there would have been nothing to dim the
sunshine of our happiness; nor, if I had won my way to success by the
force of my own talents, ere I asked to lead her to the altar. Alas!
that the fine gold of affection should have been dimmed by the base
alloy of selfishness!”

That the inflamed spot, fretted into painfulness by the touch of even a
feather, still remains, is evident from the fact, that he has settled
ten thousand dollars upon his wife, and will not touch a farthing of the
income it yields. By this act he keeps alive in his own mind, as well as
in that of Clara, the memory of things that should be buried with the
mistakes and errors of the past, and thus robs both her and himself of a
portion of the happiness that is rightfully their due. On this subject,
suffering has made him little less than a monomaniac; and such he will
probably remain while he lives. How true is it that our motives give
quality to our acts, and mar all the effects that flow from them if they
be stained with selfishness. Most true is this of marriage. If a base or
mercenary end influence us in entering into this relation, unhappiness
must inevitably follow. A reaction, such as that which occurred in the
case of Ellison, may not take place; but there will come a reaction of
some kind, and that a painful one, as surely as an effect follows its
producing cause. Thousands around us fail to secure a true union in
marriage, that consummation above all things desired by the heart, and
for no other reason than the one here assigned. Of all motives from
which we act, let those leading to marriage be freest from alloy. We may
err in other things, and escape without a severe penalty; but never in
marriage. We cannot do violence to the heart’s best affections without
after years of pain and unavailing repentance.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              THE SECRET.


    I TOLD my wife a secret—
      “And did she keep it?” say you.
    Ah! therein lies the moral, man,
      To which give heed, I pray you!
    She kept it but an hour or two—
      She then put on her bonnet,
    And called upon her Cousin Sue,
      That both might comment on it!
    Alas! ere half the day was o’er,
      Most dearly did I rue it!
    Sue told it to a dozen more,
    And they to others talked it o’er;
    I found on coming from my store
      That all the village knew it.


                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF GENERAL GREENE.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                   LIFE OF GENERAL NATHANIEL GREENE.


BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR Of “HISTORY Of THE KINGS Of FRANCE,” ETC.
                               ETC. ETC.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

IN the early part of the seventeenth century a number of families
emigrated to New England and took up their residence in the colony of
Plymouth.

Among them was a family of the name of Greene, from which the subject of
this memoir was a lineal descendant. Not many years after their
settlement there, religious controversies began to wear a serious
aspect, and John Greene becoming involved in them, determined to remove
with his family to the settlement formed a year before, by Roger
Williams, on the banks of the Providence river. We find the name of John
Greene recorded among the twenty-four original colonists, who obtained a
permanent organization by the charter of Charles the Second. From that
period, members of this family are frequently mentioned as holding
offices of dignity and trust; one of them was Governor of Rhode Island
during several years of the revolutionary war.

Nathaniel Greene, a brother of Governor Greene, and direct in descent
from the original emigrant, had established himself as an anchor-smith
near the head waters of a small stream, which still retains its Indian
name of Potowhommett.

On the settlement of this town it was named Warwick, where the subject
of this sketch, and son of the above Nathaniel Greene, was born, on the
27th of May, 1742.

The first years of his life were almost exclusively passed in the labors
of the farm, for which he was well adapted by a strong and vigorous
constitution. Losing his mother when he was only ten years of age, his
domestic education more immediately devolved upon his father, who was a
rigid disciplinarian, confining his son very closely to agricultural
pursuits, and a stand at the anvil. This was continued through the
spring and summer, but at the approach of winter a teacher was sought to
reside in the family to teach the elements of an English education.

The Bible was the only book allowed to be used in the family of the
Quaker preacher, for such was the rank his father held. But to Nathaniel
such an education was too limited, and therefore unsatisfactory; he
accordingly, as fast as his small savings would permit, purchased
himself a small, but well selected library, and often spent the whole
night, after the family supposed he had retired to bed, in regular
study. An acquaintance casually formed, at the age of fourteen, with a
young man who happened to be spending his college vacation at Warwick,
first directed his attention to higher and more absorbing pursuits. It
is not for us to conjecture what passed between Greene and his newly
found friend. But whatever it was, the spark in his coarse clad bosom
soon became ignited, and kindled into a flame that was never to be
quenched.

The next winter another teacher was engaged, better qualified to direct
the first efforts of a mind awakening to a consciousness of its powers,
and with him he studied mathematics and the classics.

He had now reached his twentieth year, and by patient industry and
unwavering perseverance he had acquired a certain amount of knowledge,
which was a matter of surprise to his neighbors, having so little
leisure between the mill and the forge. Every penny of his hard-earned
savings was devoted to his library, and he now possessed many valuable
and standard works which he considered gems of invaluable worth. His
life was regular but methodical, one cup of coffee in the morning, and
one substantial meal in the afternoon sufficed for each day. His father,
as has been before observed, was a strict disciplinarian, and every
morning strictly laid out the duty which Nathaniel had to perform before
night; this task he was never known to neglect, but always carried in
his pocket some favorite volume, as a relaxation during the few
intervals of leisure through the day.

It might easily be supposed, that with such strict habits he would have
lost all his original buoyancy of spirits and love of frolic, but it was
the reverse; it appeared to give a stronger zest to his sports, and no
sooner was his mind relaxed from study or toil, than he entered at once
into some feat of agility or mimic, in which art he so frequently
displayed his skill. In notes written by his grandson, while consul at
Rome, we find the following amusing anecdote: he says—“His chief
passion was dancing, and that pleasure was often purchased at the risk
of a fall from the window through which, when the watchful eyes of his
father were closed in sleep, he would steal away to the scenes that he
loved. It happened once, however, that something had excited his
father’s suspicion, and set him upon the watch. There was a ball in the
neighborhood to which young Greene was invited. The dance continued
until late in the night, and he was cautiously making his way homeward,
when whom should he see but his father, with horse-whip in hand,
patiently pacing to and fro beneath the window. Retreat would have been
useless, for the door was locked, and there was no other way of getting
into the house. He knew the inflexible severity of his father too well
to dream of escape, for dancing, of all misdemeanors, was most heinous
in the eyes of a Quaker, and there was nothing to be done but to submit
to his punishment with the best grace he could.

“But, while he made up his mind to take his flogging patiently, he was
resolved to suffer as little from it as possible; and accordingly,
before he presented himself to the lash, he cautiously thrust under his
clothes three or four shingles, from a pile that chanced to be lying
near him, and then coolly advanced to meet his father. The reception was
just such as he was prepared for, and the blows fell quick and heavy
upon his corselet of shingles.”

Some of his biographers have said that this love of frolic yielded at
last to the rigorous discipline of his parent, but this is a mistake.
Many years after this, when on a visit to Block Island, to the family of
the lady who subsequently became his wife, dancing and riding were his
chief amusements, and many persons remember to have seen him in his
house at Newport, after the close of the war, amusing himself by playing
with his wife the old game of poor puss wants a corner. About this time
there was a considerable change in domestic affairs, his father
purchased a new mill at Coventry, a few miles distant from his home, and
made him the director. For the first time in his life he felt that he
was his own master, and possessing a small share in the concern, his
resources were enlarged, together with the means of employing them. His
library, which had been but scantily supplied, now felt the benefit of
this change, for it soon reached to between two and three hundred
volumes, which at that period was considered an extensive affair. He now
began to feel of some importance in the neighborhood in which he had
made his new home. He began also to take an active part in public
affairs, and was soon the means of establishing the first public school
at Coventry, the result of the interest he took in all that related to
the cultivation of mind. In 1770 he was elected to the General Assembly
of the Colony, and from his zeal in the general cause, he continued to
be returned for the town of Coventry until sometime after his
appointment to the command of the Southern army. As a member of the
Assembly he was distinguished for his dispassionate and patient
investigation.

A portion of a correspondence of this period is still preserved, which
shows how steadily he kept in view the cultivation and expansion of his
mind. In 1769 a circumstance took place which caused much excitement, in
which Greene took a conspicuous position.

It was the burning of the _Gaspee_ in Providence river. On this occasion
Greene’s bold and unequivocal expression of his sentiments drew upon him
the suspicions of the royal agents, and it was expected he would have
been summoned before the special tribunal convened at Newport to trace
out and condemn the destroyers of the Gaspee.

From the exciting events continually occurring around him, Greene became
convinced that the hour was not far distant when both parties must bring
their differences to the test of the sword, and that nothing less than
the sword could settle them. Being satisfied on this point, and
determined to share in the contest, he at once commenced qualifying
himself for the part he considered it his duty to take. With his usual
energy he studied the art of war, and as military history had long been
one of his favorite branches, his progress in this new science was both
rapid and sure. He soon found himself absorbed in the study of Sharp’s
Military Guide, Memoirs of Turenne, Cæsar’s Commentaries and Plutarch,
for these were his text books. Every day brought fresh news, and the
sound of preparation summoned the farmer from his plough and the
mechanic from his workshop. Companies were organising in all parts of
the country, and a review of a great number of men already under arms
took place at Plainfield, which was witnessed by Greene with much
enthusiasm and pleasure. This conduct, so entirely opposed to the rigid
doctrines of the broad-brims, gave great displeasure, and he was
summoned before some of their leading men appointed for the purpose of
remonstrating with him for this open violation of their rules, and to
endeavor to bring him back to that peaceful doctrine of his ancestors.
He received their remonstrances with respectful silence, but informed
them that it was his intention to persevere in the part he had embraced.

This of course caused an immediate expulsion from their society, to
which he was never again united.

About this time, another change took place in his domestic situation.
During his frequent visits at the house of Governor Greene, a lineal
descendant of the founder of the family, he became acquainted with a
young lady of the name of Littlefield, a niece of the wife of the
Governor; and a few visits consummated the impressions so mutually made
at their first interview. It was during his visits to the young lady at
her house on Block Island where he indulged so freely his taste for
dancing, the more so, perhaps, for having recently thrown off his
Quaker’s garb. On the 20th of July, 1774, he was married at the
residence of the lady’s father on Block Island, and returned to his home
in Coventry to commence the enjoyment of a married life. But he was not
suffered long to enjoy the repose of domestic life, the political
horizon seemed to grow darker every day, and men were looking around
them for the first burst of the tempest which they were assured must
soon come. In almost every county or town independent companies were
being raised.

One of these was formed at East Greenwich, under the name of the Kentish
Guards, and Greene was solicited to become their lieutenant; this
however failed, he not being able to obtain a sufficient number of
votes, and he enrolled himself as a private in the same company. One of
the most serious difficulties which they had to surmount was a proper
supply of arms; but Greene (whose decision was prompt and decisive) made
a visit to Boston under the pretext of collecting an old debt for his
father, in order to look up and procure the necessary accoutrements for
the company.

There he beheld for the first time an array of armed men sent from
beyond the sea for the subjugation of his native land.

During his visit he was very punctual in his attendance on their morning
and evening parades, and carefully noted down every remarkable
evolution; at the same time referring to the lessons given in his text
book. Little did the British officers, while glittering under their
scarlet and gold, dream who was looking on them, or how fatally their
lessons would be applied. It so happened that he fell in company with a
deserter, whom he at once engaged to return with him to Rhode Island and
become drill-master to the guards. This he considered a signal triumph,
and having procured all he wished in the way of equipments, and bribed a
wagoner to hide both the accoutrements and the new drill-master under
the straw of his wagon, made the best of their way to Coventry unharmed.

It was not many weeks after their return, when the news of the first
outbreak was announced to them in the battle of Lexington. Not a moment
was lost, the drum of the Kentish Guards beat to arms, and they were
soon on their march toward Boston. News having reached the Governor that
they had left for the seat of war, he sent a peremptory message for
their immediate return, and, strange to say, the whole company, with the
exception of Greene, his brother, and another, responded to the request
and returned to their homes; these three gallant fellows mounted their
horses and repaired with all haste toward the scene of action, but
before they had completed half their journey they were met with the
welcome tidings of the retreat of the British, and the triumph of their
countrymen. The first blow being given, retaliation commenced with
vigor; delegates were dispatched in all directions, calling for
assistance in this trying emergency. The Assembly of Rhode Island voted
an army of one thousand six hundred men. The army was to receive its
officers from the Assembly; and then it was that Greene’s real position
among his colleagues was felt, by the unanimous voice of that body he
was raised to the rank of major-general. In a few days his preparations
were completed, and in less than one year from the day of his marriage,
he entered upon that career in which he was to encounter so many
hardships and reap so high a fame. Greene having attained the age of
thirty-three, in the month of May, 1775, assumed the command as
major-general of the Rhode Island troops to the army of the united
colonies. It was well for him that his mind and body had long been
trained to habits of laborious exertion, for he soon found himself
surrounded with cares and anxieties which no one but a commander of an
undisciplined army can understand. His military knowledge, obtained by
his studies, was now brought into actual service, and the information
gained from the instruction of the deserted drill-master was of immense
importance to him. Greene was a man who had made human nature his
favorite study, and deep indeed must have been that disguise which could
escape his penetrating glance. With these important qualities, he
commanded with more than ordinary success, his opinion was always
listened to with deference and a preference given to his acknowledged
military talents. A gentleman of distinction, who happened to be present
at a court-martial upon which he was sitting a few weeks after the
battle of Bunker’s Hill, was so struck with the sagacity and pertinence
of his remarks, and the commanding dignity of his aspect, that without
even knowing his name, pronounced him to be a man of real military
genius, and decidedly the ablest member of the court. In entering
seriously upon his military duties, Greene had firmly resolved to submit
to every sacrifice, and endure every hardship in the fulfillment of
them. The zeal and energy with which he applied himself in the
discipline of his men, caused his troops to be pronounced, by a member
of Washington’s own staff, as the best disciplined men in the service.
On the 3d of July, General Washington joined the camp at Boston.

His arrival was hailed with great delight by Greene, who was anxious
that the forces of the country should be brought together under one
common head. In order to make his sentiments more publicly known, he
welcomed him to the army in the name of his troops; and the feelings
emanating from such relative positions, led to the formation of that
affectionate and confidential intercourse, which ceased only with life.
The first duty assigned the commander-in-chief, was to place the army
upon the continental establishment, the officers till now, holding their
commissions from their respective states, were received into the
immediate service of the united colonies.

Some dissatisfaction was felt among the officers, on account of the
changes in rank, but Greene found that he had no cause for complaint at
being required to exchange the rank of major-general to brigadier, which
was offered him in the name of Congress.

Shortly after the arrival of General Washington, the command of the left
wing had been given to Major-General Lee, and Greene with his brigade
placed under him. Nearly a year passed away without any decisive
movements on either side, although both Washington and Greene were
anxious to make the trial. “Out of an army of twenty thousand men,” says
Greene, “it will be hard if we cannot find eight thousand who will do
their duty.” But many of the officers were of a different opinion, and
to their decision he was obliged to acquiesce. At this time serious
apprehensions were entertained of the small-pox, which was known to be
raging in Boston, and against which few were guarded by inoculation.

By Greene’s advice, a hospital was established at Coventry, for the
inoculation of the officers; and sending his family into hired lodgings,
he gave up his own house for the purpose.

During the excitement which this disease caused among both officers and
men, Greene was seized with a severe attack of jaundice, the first
illness he ever had, probably the consequence of this new mode of life;
and this, too, at a time when many officers and men were down with the
small-pox, and strong reasons for supposing that an attack would at
length be made upon Boston. “Sick or well,” says he, “I intend to be
there, if I am able to sit on my horse.” But the attempt was not made;
and when, a month after, positive preparations were making for an
assault by water, to support the movements at Dorchester, a brigade of
four thousand picked men was entrusted to his command.

A sudden tempest frustrated the plans of the British commander,
compelling him to put off the assault which he had meditated upon the
right wing of the American army; and when the storm ceased, it was too
late to attempt it with any chance of success. He, hastily embarking his
troops, evacuated Boston.

Washington now ordered the forces to withdraw with all speed to New
York, where he next expected to meet the enemy. Greene was ordered to
march with all haste, and take up his quarters at Brooklyn. He had not
reached his destination when he was seized with a bilious fever, which
brought him to the brink of the grave. This was in the month of August,
and during this severe attack, the battle of Long Island was fought;
when the news reached him and he was hardly able to raise his head from
his pillow, he exclaimed, “Gracious God! to be confined at such a time!”
From his bed he heard the sound of the cannon, and received with the
keenest anxiety the reports which were brought to him every half hour of
the progress of the battle. When he was told of the havoc that had been
made in Smallwood’s gallant band, his favorite regiment, he could no
longer restrain his feelings, but burst into an agony of tears,
accompanied by such severe spasms as to alarm the attendants who were
near him. Well might he mourn over such a misfortune, for it was very
generally believed, that had he been permitted to have been present, the
reverses of that memorable day would have been changed. As soon as he
was able to mount his horse, he was again at his post, the duties of
which had been much enlarged by his promotion to the rank of
major-general. The fate of New York was the question which was now in
suspense; and Greene being stationed at Hærlem, took part in his first
battle; for he had hitherto seen nothing but distant cannonades and
slight skirmishes; in his journal he speaks of it as one in which he had
“fought hard.”

No sooner had this battle taken place than new difficulties appeared
before him; the terms of service of a large portion of the troops was
about to expire, and no measures taken to supply their places. The only
resource that remained was the militia, and very many of them had
refused to serve, alledging as an excuse the assurances of peace,
liberty and safety which had been given them by the British. This was a
moment of conflict, and he found that the strong hand of the soldier
must be used to enforce the injunctions of the law. He instantly ordered
down a detachment of his regulars, to check it in its bud, threatening
them, at the same time, with the rigors of garrison duty in Fort Lee, as
a punishment for their cowardice.

Early on the morning of the 18th of November, Lord Cornwallis crossed
the Hudson with a strong body of the British and Hessians, intending an
attack upon Fort Lee. Greene had four miles to march before he could
reach the river, and Cornwallis but one and a half. Without losing an
instant, he pushed forward with all his forces to the head of the
stream, and drawing them up in front of Cornwallis, contrived to hold
them at bay until Washington, to whom a courier had been dispatched,
could come up. Then, leaving them under the guidance of the
commander-in-chief, he hastened back to the fort, and collecting the
stragglers and others, nearly three hundred in all, conveyed them in
safety across the Hackensack River. This manœuvre was his first
encounter with Cornwallis. Now began the memorable retreat through the
Jerseys.

During the whole of this trying period Greene was by the side of his
commander, partaking his cares and anxieties, and sharing with him that
firm and unbending trust in the ultimate triumph of their cause, which
forms one of the sublimest traits in the character of Washington.

By rapid and exhausting marches, in a few days, the hostile armies were
ranged, front to front along the banks of the Delaware.

During this halt was planned the brilliant attack upon Trenton; in this
Greene bore a distinguished part, and strongly urged the following up of
this blow by an attack upon the other posts of the enemy in New Jersey.
During the winter of 1777, Washington established his quarters at
Morristown. Greene was stationed with a separate division at
Baskingridge; and through the whole of a long and severe winter,
continual skirmishes took place, which very frequently were attended
with decided advantages to the Americans. At the approach of spring,
General Greene was dispatched to Philadelphia, to hasten the action of
Congress upon the important subjects submitted for their decision. After
his return, he with General Knox was sent to examine the passes of the
Highlands on the Hudson, and take measures for their defense. The winter
had thus far passed without much molestation, and early in May
Washington removed from his quarters at Morristown to a strong station
at Middlebrook. While encamped at this station, an incident occurred,
which was well nigh depriving the army of some of its bravest officers.
The delicate etiquette of military rank had never been fully understood
by the new and inexperienced Congress; and when a report reached camp
that a gentleman but recently arrived in the country had been appointed
a major-general, with a commission of an earlier date than their own, it
is not surprising that it should cause Generals Greene, Sullivan and
Knox to declare their intention of resigning in case the report should
be found true; and each of them addressed the President of Congress to
this effect. Happily the rumor was unfounded; and by it Congress saw the
necessity of a rigorous adherence to the established laws of promotion.

Nearly the whole of the following summer was employed in short marches
and slight skirmishes, till the 10th of September, when they took up
their position on the banks of the Brandywine.

Early on the morning following, the British appeared on the advance,
preparing for an attack.

The passage of the ford, near which the chief of the American forces had
been stationed, was manfully defended; but in the mean time a strong
detachment, led by Howe and Cornwallis, had crossed the river by a
circuitous march, and were rapidly gaining the American rear. A few
minutes sufficed to show how judiciously this measure had been devised.

After a gallant resistance the Americans were forced from the field, in
spite of all the efforts of their officers to rally them. Now was the
time for Greene to display his coolness and his energy.

Marching along a road which intersected the flight of the Americans, and
the advance of the enemy, he hurried his men forward with such rapidity
that they marched four miles in forty-nine minutes. Here every thing was
in confusion; ranks broken, troops scattered, the roads filled with
fugitives, rushing forward they knew not whither, in the wildness of
fear, and the enemy pressing close upon their footsteps with shouts of
exultation. Throwing himself between them and his flying countrymen, he
opened a sharp and well directed fire from his field-pieces, opening his
ranks from time to time for the fugitives, and closing them the moment
they had passed.

Having retreated in this manner for half a mile, until he came to a
narrow defile protected on both sides by woods, he halted and drew up
his men for battle; first depositing his cannon in a safe place, in case
he should be forced to a hasty retreat. The British soon made their
appearance, flushed with success, and thinking only of putting the last
hand to their victorious conflict; but a close and destructive fire
checked their pursuit, and compelled them to halt. So well chosen was
Greene’s position, that it could neither be forced nor turned, and the
sight of his fierce eye and firm countenance seemed to have inspired his
men with an energy like his own. For two hours did he maintain the
unequal conflict, and having wearied the enemy out, he gave up the
contest, and drew off his troops to rejoin the army at their rallying
point.

Howe was now resolved to follow up his success by another battle, or a
stroke at Philadelphia, and advancing with two columns, was soon once
more within striking distance of the Americans.

This being perceived by Greene, he managed to frustrate all his designs,
till Howe, finding it useless to continue his skirmishes, made the best
of his way to Philadelphia, where he made his triumphal entry on the
26th of September. At this time the main body of the British army were
quartered at Germantown; a portion was in the city, and another part
scattered between the two places. Washington now resolved on attacking
the main army at Germantown, and began making preparations for that
purpose.

Greene was ordered to march at once within the limits prescribed by
Washington, which was done, and the effect was the sanguine and bloody
battle of Germantown, which historians have so repeatedly described.
Greene’s next orders were to examine the forts on the Delaware, and then
retire to Valley Forge for winter quarters. It was customary with the
generals when retired to quarters for the winter to receive their
families; shortly after their arrival at Valley Forge Mrs. Washington
joined her husband, and about the same time Mrs. Greene arrived, and the
wives of other officers hastened to follow the example, and the cares
and gloom of a winter encampment were illumined for a moment by this
transient return of the sweets of domestic life. It was during this
memorable winter that the intrigues against the commander-in-chief,
commonly known as Conway’s cabal, became public. These calumnies were
traced and ferreted out by the perseverance of Greene, and when exposed
by him, fell to the ground, like drops from the melting icicle in the
rays of the sun. In a letter to a friend, before they went to Valley
Forge, he writes thus, “I have no hopes of coming home this winter, the
general will not permit it; Mrs. Greene is coming to camp; we are all
going into log huts; a sweet life after a most fatiguing campaign.”

Time was now approaching for some action, and indications were observed
which led the army to suppose that the British troops were about to
evacuate Philadelphia. But they were unable to ascertain whether it was
the intention of the enemy to return overland to New York, or to engage
in some more distant enterprise.

News, however, having arrived, informing them that the enemy was on the
eastern bank of the Delaware, and that it was his intention to direct
his march through the Jersey’s, the American army was now hastily put in
motion to follow, and after a few minutes conversation, the orders were
issued which ended in the battle of Monmouth.

At this period the department of quartermaster in the American army was
in a very defective and alarming condition, and required speedy reform.

The commander-in-chief was requested by Congress to look out for an
officer suitably calculated to fill a post of so much importance.
Washington well knew that if Greene could be convinced that he could
render his country more essential service in the department of
quartermaster than in the field, he would accept of the appointment.
“There is not,” he observed, “an officer in the army, nor a man in
America, more sincerely attached to the interests of his country than
General Greene; and could he best promote their interests, in the
character of a _corporal_, he would readily exchange the epaulet for the
knot.” When the appointment was offered Greene, he at first declined it,
but on a second conference with the commander-in-chief, he accepted, on
condition that he should forfeit nothing of his right to command in time
of action.

He entered on the duties of his office on the 22d March, 1776. Very
shortly after receiving his new appointment, he took a high and
distinguished part in the battle of Monmouth, and followed in a very
brilliant expedition against the enemy in Rhode Island, under the
command of General Sullivan. At the battle of Monmouth, General
Washington, disgusted with the behaviour of General Lee, deposed him in
the field of battle, and appointed Greene to his command, which greatly
contributed to retrieve the errors of his predecessor, and to the events
of the day. General Greene had now been more than three years from home,
and during this period the direction of his affairs had been intrusted
to others, over which he had neither time nor means of control.

His short visit to his home at Coventry was hailed by his neighbors with
affectionate demonstrations of joy. Even the Society of Friends, who had
reluctantly excluded him from their communion, expressed their sincere
satisfaction at the high position he had attained in the confidence of
his country. One of the Society of Friends was asked by a young officer,
in jest, how he, who was an advocate for peace, could keep company with
General Greene, whose profession was war. “Friend,” said the Quaker,
“’Tis true, I do not approve of this many-colored apparel, but whatever
may be the color of his garments, Nathaniel Greene still retains the
sound head and virtuous heart, which have gained him the love and esteem
of our Society.”

About this time, General Greene was called to perform one of the most
trying and painful duties of his life. The melancholy affair of Major
Andre.

Washington having summoned a court of fourteen general officers,
appointed General Greene to preside.

When summoned before this military tribunal, the unfortunate officer
disclosed without interrogatory, what bore heaviest on his own life, but
studiously concealed whatever might affect the safety of others.

His own confessions were conclusive, and no witness was examined against
him. The court were unanimous that he must suffer death. When the
sentence was communicated to the unhappy man, he entreated that he might
not be compelled to expire on a gibbet, like a common felon, but that he
might be permitted to close his life by that law generally prescribed by
military usage; and to effect this, he dictated a letter to General
Washington, containing one of the most affecting and pathetic appeals
that ever fell from mortal pen. The commander-in-chief referred the
subject to his general officers, who, with the exception of Greene,
decided that Andre should be shot. The following remarks from the
president of the council show his firmness; that no circumstance
whatever could move him where the honor of his country was involved.
“Andre,” said he, “is either a spy or an innocent man. If the latter, to
execute him in any way will be murder; if the former, the mode of his
death is prescribed by law, and you have no right to alter it; and at
this alarming crisis of our affairs, the public safety demands a solemn
and impressive example. Nothing can satisfy it short of the execution of
the prisoner as a common spy; a character of which his own confession
has clearly convicted him.”

This reasoning was considered conclusive by the council, and the
prisoner suffered as a common spy. The post at West Point, now vacated
by the treachery of Arnold, was confided to Greene, and by the 8th of
October he was already at his new station on the banks of the Hudson. He
had hardly entered upon his duties, when General Washington appointed
him to the command of the army in the South.

We now behold an entire change in the situation of General Greene, and
follow him through a southern campaign, virtually invested with the
supreme command of a large section of the United States. On his arrival
at Charlotte, North Carolina, the head-quarters of General Gates, and on
entering on the duties of his command, he found himself in a situation
fearfully embarrassing.

He found but a handful of men, amounting to about two thousand, and
these principally militia, with but three days’ provision, and a very
short supply of ammunition. In front lay an enemy treble his number,
proud in victory, and too strong to be encountered. Before him was a
task which he considered hopeless—the recovery of two States already
conquered, and the protection of a third. He saw the astounding
difficulty he had to encounter—to raise and provide for a dispirited
army in a devastated country, having to create resources where they did
not exist; to operate with an incompetent force on an extended and
broken line of frontier, and to contend with an enemy superior in
numbers and discipline. To conduct a warfare like this required a genius
of the highest order, combined with indefatigable skill and industry. In
order to prepare for such a campaign, Greene’s first care was to provide
for his troops subsistence and ammunition. His next was to draw close
the reins of discipline, which had been shamefully relaxed, and make
both officers and men feel that they had a commander who knew both his
duty and theirs, and was resolved that both should be performed. He
called no councils of war, studying every question himself, and
communicating his intentions to only two or three of his officers whom
he trusted most. In a letter to General Hamilton, he says, “If I cannot
inspire the army with confidence and respect by an independent conduct,
I foresee it will be impossible to instill discipline and order among
the troops.”

His next care was to select a position where his troops could be
properly trained to the use of their arms, and better and more easily
supplied with food; while at the same time it was essential that every
step on his part should be a connecting link in his general plan of
operations. It must be conceded that much of the moral strength of an
army consists in a confidence in its leader, an attachment to his
person, and a spirit of subordination founded on principle. To such an
extent was this true, that even the common soldiery, sensible of the
superintendence of a superior officer, confidently predicted a change of
fortune. They felt a solicitude to regain the reputation they lost at
Camden under their late commander, and to signalize their prowess under
the command of their present one. The main part of the British army was
then lying at Winnsborough, between the Broad River and the Catawba,
with powerful garrisons in their flank and rear, and Charleston to fall
back upon in case of a defeat. Cornwallis, who was at Charleston,
receiving continual supplies of both men and provisions from New York,
was expected to connect with the part of the army at Winnsborough, and
attack the Americans before they could be ready to leave the village of
Charlotte. This called for a decided movement of the American army, and
Greene resolved to divide his forces, sending one portion to act upon
the west bank of the Catawba, to the north of the enemy’s position, and
advancing with the other to the Cheraw hills on the frontiers of South
Carolina. The first dispatch was about four hundred continentals, under
General Morgan, with Colonel Washington’s corps of dragoons, and a few
militia, amounting in all to six hundred men. This judicious
arrangement, which formed a rallying point for the friends of
independence, both in the East and West, also facilitated the procuring
of provisions for the troops. General Greene soon began to feel the good
effects of this movement; it enabled him to make the most of his little
army by compelling his adversary to divide his forces, and leaving him
at a loss which way to direct his efforts. By advancing against the
American commander, he would expose his posts at Ninety-Six and Augusta,
or Morgan, hovering upon his flanks or his rear, might seize the
critical moment for aiming a blow in concert with the main army.
Cornwallis, on discovering the movements of Greene, and finding that
there was no time to be lost, dispatched Colonel Tarlton with a strong
detachment, amounting in horse and foot to nearly a thousand men, for
the protection of Ninety-Six, with orders to bring General Morgan, if
possible, to battle. With numbers greatly superior to Morgan, he
advanced with a menacing aspect, and compelled him at first to fall back
rapidly. He accordingly continued for a few days to retire before his
adversary, receiving at every step new accessions of strength from the
inhabitants of the country through which he passed, alarmed by the
presence, and irritated by the cruelty of the enemy. Relying with
confidence on the firmness of his regulars, and glorying in action,
Morgan halted at the Cowpens, and prepared to give his adversary battle.
Tarlton seized the opportunity, and the conflict, which was severe and
stoutly contested, ended in a complete victory obtained by the
Americans. Tarlton fled, leaving one hundred and eighty-four men on the
field, and more than five hundred as prisoners in the hands of the
victor. Two field-pieces, eight hundred muskets, one hundred
dragoon-horses, with a very large supply of tents and ammunition, which
constituted, in the present state of the American army, one of the most
welcome fruits of the victory. This battle of the Cowpens, although
achieved under the immediate command of Morgan, was the first stroke of
General Greene’s fortunate career at the South.

The disappointment of Cornwallis was severe, for he had looked with
confidence for victory under the accomplished Tarlton. Still he received
the tidings with serenity, and immediately gave orders for pursuing the
victorious army, whose retreat he yet hoped to cut off; and in order to
prepare for the effort, and free himself from every thing that could
encumber or retard his march, he ordered that all the baggage at
head-quarters should be committed to the flames.

This was done, and the example was followed by his faithful soldiers
with cheerfulness, reserving but a small supply of clothing for each
man, and a few wagons for the conveyance of hospital stores, ammunition,
and of the sick and wounded. Every thing else was burned. While these
desperate measures were going on in the British camp, Greene reached
Morgan’s head-quarters on the banks of the Catawba.

To his great mortification, Lord Cornwallis now perceived that in two of
his objects, the destruction of Morgan’s detachment, and the prevention
of its union with the main division, he was completely frustrated by the
activity of Greene. But he still hoped to cut off the retreat of the
Americans into Virginia, after their union, and to compel them to
action, was still perhaps practicable; and to the achievement of this he
now directed his undivided energies.

Notwithstanding the vigilance and activity of the British commander,
Greene brought his men in safety into Virginia, without any loss of
either men or ammunition. Soon after his arrival in Virginia he received
reinforcements, and also effected a junction with a continental
regiment. Upon these accessions, he was determined on attacking the
British commander without loss of time, and accordingly commenced his
march toward Guildford Court-House, the British then lying at twelve
miles distance. His army had now increased to four thousand five hundred
men, that of the British about two thousand four hundred. General Greene
arrived at Guildford Court-House on the 14th of March, and on the
morning of the 15th Cornwallis marched to meet him. He disposed his army
in three lines—the militia of North Carolina were in front; the second
line was composed of those of Virginia; and the third, which was the
flower of the army, was formed of continental troops, near fifteen
hundred in number. They were posted on a rising ground, a mile and a
half from Guildford Court-House.

The engagement commenced by a brisk cannonade, after which the British
advanced in three columns and attacked the first line composed of North
Carolina militia. Many of the latter had never been in action before,
and panic-struck, ran away without firing a gun, or being fired upon,
and even before the British had come near them. The conflict lasted an
hour and a half, and was terminated by General Greene’s ordering a
retreat, when he found the enemy about encircling his troops.

This was a hard fought battle, and the exertions of the two rival
generals, both in preparing for this action and during the course of it,
were never surpassed. Forgetful of every thing but the fortune of the
day, they on several occasions, mingled in the danger like common
soldiers. The Americans lost in this battle about 400; several of the
number were officers of distinction. The result of this conflict, though
literally a defeat, was eventually a victory; for on the part of General
Greene it will be seen that it placed him on higher ground toward his
adversary than he had previously occupied. Believing that Lord
Cornwallis would follow him, he kept retreating slowly until he had
gained an advantageous position, where he could renew the contest
whenever his adversary came in view. But Cornwallis, not being in a
condition to pursue, commenced his retreat, leaving behind him about
seventy of his wounded, whom he recommended, in a handsome letter,
written by himself, to the humanity and attention of the American
commander. Had General Greene been in a situation to have pursued his
lordship, the destruction of that officer and his army would have been
inevitable; and Carolina would have witnessed that momentous event which
was reserved for Virginia. But the exhaustion of General Greene’s
military stores, suspended his movements till he had received a supply.

These having arrived, he immediately pursued the enemy; but the advanced
position of Lord Cornwallis, and the bad state of the roads, determined
him to halt, in order to indulge his troops with that repose which they
so much needed. Having abandoned the pursuit of the enemy, General
Greene found himself encircled with new difficulties. Of that part of
the Union over which General Greene’s command extended, the enemy was in
force in three large and important sections. South Carolina and Georgia
being entirely in possession of the enemy, and Cornwallis had taken post
in the maritime district of North Carolina, and part of Virginia was
occupied by a powerful detachment of British troops, under the command
of General Phillips. Greene, under all these difficulties, was at a loss
to determine in which of these points he should act in person, and on
consulting with officers, he found them greatly divided in opinion. He
accordingly decided to penetrate South Carolina, and after dividing his
army into two columns, attack and harass the enemy at their different
posts, without permitting them to concentrate their forces, and thus
recover that rich and important member of the Union.

General Greene commenced his march South, and arrived at Hobkirk’s Hill,
in front of Camden, the head-quarters of Lord Rawdon, then the
commander-in-chief of the British forces in that section. In order to
prevent supplies from being brought in, and to take advantage of such
favorable circumstances as might occur, he encamped at about a mile from
the town. Lord Rawdon’s situation was extremely delicate. His supplies
also were very precarious; and should General Greene’s reinforcements
arrive, which were hourly expected, he might be so closely invested as
to be at length obliged to surrender. In this dilemma, the only
expedient that presented itself, appeared to be a bold attack; for which
purpose he armed every person with him capable of carrying a musket, not
excepting even his musicians. On the 25th of April he made the attack
upon General Greene in his camp.

The defense was obstinate, and for some time appeared to be in favor of
America. At one time Lieut. Colonel Washington, who commanded the
cavalry, had not less than two hundred British prisoners.

However, by the inadvertence of one of the American regiments, victory
was snatched from General Greene, who was compelled to retreat, with a
loss of about two hundred killed, wounded, and prisoners. The British
general lost about two hundred and fifty-eight. The evacuation of
Camden, with the vigilance of General Greene, and the several officers
under him, gave entirely a new complexion to affairs in South Carolina,
where the British ascendency declined more rapidly than it had been
established.

Nearly every fort, with the exception of fort Ninety-Six, garrisoned by
the enemy, with military stores and artillery, fell into the hands of
the Americans.

The next attempt was the siege of Ninety-Six, but which proved
unsuccessful, and Greene was obliged to retreat over the Saluda. Lord
Rawdon now prepared to evacuate the garrison of Ninety-Six, and return
to Charleston; and General Greene became in reality the pursuing party,
exceedingly anxious to bring the enemy to battle. But this did not take
place till September; the British at that time were posted at Eutaw
Springs, where General Greene, who had assembled about two thousand men,
prepared to follow and attack them.

The American force was drawn up in two lines; the first, composed of
Carolina militia, was commanded by Generals Marion and Pickens, and
Colonel de Malmedy. The second, which consisted of continental troops
from North Carolina, Virginia and Maryland, was commanded by General
Sumpter, Lieutenant-Colonel Campbell, and Colonel Williams. As the
Americans approached toward an attack, they fell in with some advanced
parties of the enemy, at about three miles ahead of the main body.

These being driven back, the action soon became general. In the very
heat of the engagement General Greene ordered the Maryland and Virginia
continentals to charge with trailed arms. This decided the fate of the
day. “Nothing,” says Dr. Ramsay, “could surpass the intrepidity of both
officers and men on this occasion. They rushed on in good order through
a heavy cannonade, and a shower of musketry, with such unshaken
resolution that they bore down all before them.” The British were
broken, closely pursued, and upward of eleven hundred of them killed and
taken prisoners; the loss of the Americans was about five hundred.

Judge Johnson, in his life of General Greene, says—“At the battle of
the Eutaw Springs, Greene says, that hundreds of my men were naked as
they were born. Posterity will scarcely believe that the bare loins of
many brave men who carried death into the enemy’s ranks at the Eutaw,
were galled by their cartouche-boxes, while a folded rag or a tuft of
moss protected the shoulders from sustaining the same injury from the
musket. Men of other times will inquire by what magic was the army kept
together? By what supernatural power was it made to fight?”

General Greene in his letter to the Secretary of War says—“We have
three hundred men without arms, and more than one thousand so naked that
they can be put on duty only in cases of a desperate nature.”

Again he says—“Our difficulties are so numerous, and our wants so
pressing, that I have not a moment’s relief from the most painful
anxieties. I have more embarrassment than it is proper to disclose to
the world. Let it suffice to say that this part of the United States has
had a narrow escape. _I have been seven months in the field without
taking off my clothes._” Such then was the issue of the battle of Eutaw,
and the last essay in arms in which it was the fortune of General Greene
to command.

The surrender of Cornwallis at the battle of Yorktown soon followed, and
the happy moment arrived when by the virtue and bravery of her sons,
America, aided by the bounty of Heaven, compelled her invaders to
acknowledge her independence; her armies quitted the tented field, and
retired to cultivate the arts of peace and happiness.

General Greene now returned to his native state, where he remained two
years in the adjustment of his private affairs, and in October, 1785,
settled with his family on his estate near Savannah, Georgia. The three
Southern States, South Carolina, North Carolina and Georgia, who had
been most essentially benefited by his valor and services, manifested
their sense of justice and gratitude by liberal donations. South
Carolina presented to General Greene an estate valued at ten thousand
pounds sterling. Georgia, with an estate, a few miles from Savannah,
worth five thousand pounds; and North Carolina, with twenty-five
thousand acres of land in the State of Tennessee. In writing from his
new home, he speaks of his plantation with a kind of buoyant joy, which
is constantly breaking out in gay and cheerful expressions; of his
garden, and his flowers, the mocking-birds that sing around him morning
and evening, and the mild and balmy atmosphere, with the same interest
with which he would once have spoken of his troops, of their bravery and
their discipline. But this felicity was to be of short duration. On
Monday, the 12th of June, 1786, he went down to Savannah with his wife,
and on their return the following day they paid a visit to an old
friend, at whose house he was seized with an inflammation of the brain,
which caused him to sink into a torpor, from which he never again was
roused; he expired on Monday the 19th of June. The melancholy tidings
soon reached Savannah, calling forth the strongest expressions of public
grief. They had known him first as the champion of the South, in the
hour of her greatest need, then as a fellow citizen, kind-hearted and
benevolent, endearing himself to all by his social and civil virtues;
and now, in the prime of manhood, he was suddenly snatched away, and a
grave was all they could give him.

On the following day the body of the deceased was conveyed to Savannah,
and at the request of the inhabitants, was interred in a private
cemetery with military honors.

On the 12th of August of the year in which General Greene died, the
Congress of the United States unanimously resolved—“That a monument be
erected to the memory of the honorable Nathaniel Greene, at the seat of
the federal government, with the following inscription—

                                 SACRED
                                 TO THE
                                 MEMORY
                                 OF THE
                         HON. NATHANIEL GREENE,
                         who departed this life
                        the 19th of June, 1786.
                           Late MAJOR-GENERAL
                  in the service of the United States,
                    and commander of the army in the
                          Southern Department.
                The United States in Congress assembled
                              in honor of
                   his patriotism, valor and ability,
                           have erected this
                               monument.”

His relative and biographer very appropriately remarks—“More than sixty
years have elapsed since the body of Greene was consigned to the tomb;
and thus far, a medal for the Eutaws, two pieces of cannon for his
general services, and a vote for a monument, _which has never been
erected_, are the only tributes which the general government has ever
paid to his memory. The spot in which his ashes repose has long been
forgotten, and the chances of the preservation of the simple silver slab
on which his name was engraved, are the only hopes which remain of ever
distinguishing his bones from those, which during this long interval,
have silently mouldered by their side. Not a statue, not a bust, not a
portrait of him, adorns the halls of our national councils; and of the
many objects of interest which command the admiration of the stranger at
the seat of government, there is not one which recalls his memory.”
General Greene had just completed his forty-fourth year, when he was
thus suddenly taken from his friends and his country.

Of all those who had distinguished themselves during the war of the
Revolution, he was, next to Washington, the one who will ever hold the
highest place in public esteem; and few men, if any, have ever built
themselves a name upon purer or more durable foundations.

From the governor to the humble citizen, General Greene was regarded as
the object of every eye, the praise of every tongue, he closed a life of
deep, pure, devoted patriotism to his country, and love and good-will to
all mankind.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THE DYING STUDENT.


                          BY D. ELLEN GOODMAN.


    I FEEL the fever’s hot breath flashing
      In deep and deadly strife,
    From my pale, parched lips slowly dashing
      The golden cup of life!
    Disease, with cold and icy fingers,
      Now creeps about my heart,
    And Death but for a moment lingers,
      To snap its chords apart!

    My heavy pulse is weaker growing;
      Life’s lamp burns feebly now,
    And the long locks are darkly flowing
      Upon my damp, cold brow.
    I hear a voice, low, faint and broken,
      Falling upon my heart;
    Its tones in solemn awe have spoken
      That I must soon depart.

    And must my wild dreams coldly perish,
      And wither in the dust!
    The golden hopes I fondly cherish—
      My earthly joy and trust!
    The schemes my soul has long been forming,
      Just bursting into light,
    And tones of love my fond heart warming,
      All—_all_ be quenched in night!

    Full many a bud of hope was wreathing
      About my thornless path,
    In mellow tones of music breathing
      Of all but blight and death;
    I had not thought to see them fading
      And dying at their birth—
    To view this cloud of darkness shading
      The beautiful of earth.

    Oh, there were softest whispers telling
      Of greatness and of fame;
    Of rapture in the bosom swelling,
      And of an honored name;
    And how the knee of genius bending,
      Should own a deeper sway,
    And shouts of joy the blue skies rending,
      Bear higher deeds away.

    And there were gentle voices finding
      A way to my deep soul,
    _Love’s_ own sweet angel softly binding
      My heart to her control;
    And in my dreams of fame and glory,
      Beamed ever her meek eyes,
    Telling a fond and pleasant story
      Of mingled smiles and sighs.

    That tone—’twas music, ever hushing
      My panting heart to rest—
    And glorious dreams like sunlight gushing,
      Thrilled through my peaceful breast,
    Those dreams like summer buds have faded,
      That tone hath died away,
    Death’s cloud my beaming skies hath shaded,
      And quenched the light of day.

    I lay me down, faint, lone, and weary,
      No hand upon my brow;
    Through the dark valley, cold and dreary,
      No voice to cheer me now.
    My life has been a dream; in vain
      Have soft eyes shed their light;
    Frail phantoms of a fevered brain—
      Their ray has sunk in night.

    And thus, when earthly trust hath perished,
      And earthly joy hath fled—
    When hopes my fond heart loved and cherished
      Are lying with the dead—
    Oh! may there not in yonder heaven
      Be for my brow a wreath,
    Whose fadeless flowers shall ne’er be riven
      By the rude hand of Death!

    Father above, wilt thou now hearken
      Unto my feeble cry—
    Dispel the mists that coldly darken
      And dim my failing eye?
    I bless thee—for the cloud hath parted
      That hid thy glorious face;
    Joyful and glad, yet humble-hearted,
      I sink in thine embrace.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: _G. CATTERMOLE.              H. ROSS_

A DANGEROUS STUDENT.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        TO    ——    IN ABSENCE.


                          BY GRACE GREENWOOD.


    WHEN first we met, beloved, rememberest thou
      How all my nature was athirst and faint?
    My soul’s high powers lay wasting still and slow,
      While my sad heart sighed forth its ceaseless plaint.

    For frowning pride life’s summer waves did lock
      Away from light, their restless murmuring hushed—
    But thou didst smite the cold, defying rock,
      And full and fast the living waters gushed!

    Oh, what a summer glory life put on!
      What morning freshness those swift waters gave
    That leaped from darkness forth into the sun,
      And mirrored heaven in every smallest wave!

       .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

    The cloud that darkened long our sky of love,
      And flung a shadow o’er life’s Eden bloom,
    Hath deepened into night, around, above—
      But night beneficent and void of gloom.

    The dews of peace and faith’s sweet quiet bringing,
      And memory’s starlight, as joy’s sunlight fades,
    While, like the nightingale’s melodious singing,
      The voice of Hope steals out amid the shades.

    Now it hath come and gone, the shadowed day,
      The time of farewells that beheld us part,
    I miss thy presence from my side alway—
      Thy smile’s sweet comfort raining on my heart.

    Yes, we are parted. Now I call thy name,
      And listen long, but no dear voice replies;
    I miss thine earnest praise, thy gentle blame,
      And the mute blessing of thy loving eyes.

    Yet no, _not parted_. Still in life and power
      Thy spirit cometh over wild and wave,
    Is ever near me in the trial-hour,
      A ready help, a presence strong and brave.

    Thy love breathes o’er me in the winds of heaven—
      Floats to me on the tides of morning light—
    Descends upon me in the calms of even,
      And fills with music all the dreamy night.

    It falleth as a robe of pride around me,
      A royal vesture, rich with purple gleams—
    It is the glory wherewith life hath crowned me,
      The large fulfillment of my soul’s long dreams!

    It is a paean drowning notes of sadness—
      It is a great light shutting out all gloom—
    It is a fountain of perpetual gladness—
      It is a garden of perpetual bloom.

    But to _thy_ nature pride and power belong,
      And death-defying courage; what to thee,
    With thy great life, thy spirit high and strong,
      May my one love in all its fullness be?

    An inward joy, sharp e’en to pain, yet dear
      As thy soul’s life—a warmth, a light serene,
    A low, deep, voice which none save thou may hear—
      A living presence, constant, though unseen.

    Yet shalt thou fold it closer to thy breast,
      In the dark days, when other loves depart—
    And when thou liest down for the long rest,
      Then, oh, beloved, ’twill sleep upon thy heart!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.


                          BY PROFESSOR FROST.


[Illustration: THE QUA BIRD. (_Ardea Nycticorax._ WILSON.)]

THIS bird, otherwise known as the Night Heron, and the Rail, is found
both in Europe and America. Its habits are somewhat different on the two
continents, but the American bird may be safely considered as the type
of the species. It is called Qua Bird on account of the rough guttural
sound, _qua, qua_, which it utters while seeking its prey; and by some,
Night Heron, from the circumstance of seeking its prey at night. During
the day the Qua Birds perch in silence on high trees, and it seems
probable that their eye cannot sustain the rays of the sun. But at night
few birds are more active or enterprising. They are generally found in
flocks, in the vicinity of deep swamps, or marshy woods, partially
submerged by water. From these places troops of Qua Birds issue at
twilight, and scatter themselves along ditches and by the river shore,
to search for food. “On entering the swamp,” says Wilson, “in the
neighborhood of one of these breeding places, the noise of the old and
the young would almost induce one to suppose that two or three hundred
Indians were choking or throttling each other. The instant an intruder
is discovered, the whole rise in the air in silence, and remove to the
tops of the trees in another part of the woods, while parties of from
eight to ten make occasional circuits over the spot, to see what is
going on. When the young are able they climb to the highest part of the
trees, but, knowing their inability, do not attempt to fly. Though it is
probable that these nocturnal birds do not see well during the day, yet
their faculty of hearing must be exquisite, as it is almost impossible,
with all the precautions one can use, to penetrate near their residence
without being discovered. Several species of hawks hover around, making
an occasional sweep among the young; and the Bald-Eagle himself has been
seen reconnoitering near the spot, probably with the same design.”

Until recently the young of this bird was considered as the female. The
close observations of Wilson detected the error; and his dissections
proved that the male and the female were so similar in external
appearance as to be distinguished only by a practiced eye. The length of
the full grown bird is two feet four inches; extent of the wings four
feet; the bill four inches and a quarter long from the corners of the
mouth to the tip. The general color of the under plumage is white,
tinged with cream; the wings are ash; and the back a glossy blue,
inclining to green. From the hinder part of the head flows three long
tapering feathers, about nine inches long, and so united, when the bird
is quiet, as to appear but one. When alarmed or angry, the Qua Bird
erects these singular appendages, which then give it a strange and
threatening appearance. The eye of the species is noted for its beauty,
the pupil being black and the iris blood-red. The young of the first
year differs both in color and shape from the parent bird. Their food is
composed of small fish, which the birds labor for with great industry at
night.

The Qua Bird extends over a large portion of North America. It arrives
in Pennsylvania about the beginning of April; and invariably chooses
each season the building place occupied the season before. If that place
has been disturbed by the advances of cultivation, the bird chooses a
similar spot as near to it as possible; although instances have
occurred, that, when persecuted by man, or teased by other birds, the
Qua flock have departed in a body, for parts unknown. The eggs are four
in number, of a pale blue color. This bird is found in India; but it is
smaller than the American variety, and builds on the ground among reeds.
The European bird is smaller than the Indian, but closely resembles it
in other respects. It is, however, undoubtedly the same species as that
which we have described.

[Illustration: THE ROSEATE SPOON-BILL. (_Platalea Ajaja._ WILSON.)]

The group to which this bird belongs, form a connecting link between the
Herons and the Tantali, and receive their name from the singular shape
of the bill. Like the Herons, they live in flocks, preying in the
twilight upon fish and aquatic animals. They are said to search the mud
with their bills, in the manner of ducks, straining out the insects and
other small animals, upon which they feed when nothing better can be
obtained. The European Spoon-bills breed on trees by the sea-side, and
sometimes take their prey from other birds. At such seasons they are
very noisy, and will often attack birds larger than themselves. They are
sometimes tamed, and their flesh is esteemed equal to that of the goose.

Of the habits of the species under consideration not much is known. It
is found along the seashore from Brazil to Carolina, and has been seen
in the northern parts of Louisiana. It is not very common, however, in
any of the Southern States, but is frequently seen in Mexico and the
West Indies. It is generally in the water, sometimes swimming about
gracefully, at others diving and then searching for its prey. This
consists of insects, fish, shell-fish and small crabs. Wilson gives the
following account of a specimen, which he received from a friend, and
which had been shot in the neighborhood of Natchez.

“The Roseate Spoon-bill now before us measured two feet six inches in
length, and near four feet in extent; the bill was six inches and a half
long from the corner of the mouth, seven from its upper base, two inches
over at its greatest width, and three-quarters of an inch where
narrowest; of a black color for half its length, and covered with hard,
scaly protuberances, like the edges of oyster-shells; these are of a
whitish tint, stained with red; the nostrils are oblong, and placed in
the centre of the upper mandible; from the lower end of each there runs
a deep groove along each side of the mandible, and about a quarter of an
inch from its edge; whole crown and chin bare of plumage, and covered
with a greenish skin; that below the under mandible dilatable, like
those of the genus Pelicanus; space round the eye, orange; irides,
blood-red; cheeks and hind head, a bare black skin; neck, long, covered
with short white feathers, some of which, on the upper part of the neck,
are tipped with crimson; breast, white, the sides of which are tinged
with a brown, burnt color; from the upper part of the breast proceeds a
long tuft of fine, hair-like plumage, of a pale rose color; back, white,
slightly tinged with brownish; wings, a pale wild rose color, the shafts
lake; the shoulders of the wings are covered with a long, hairy plumage,
of a deep and splendid carmine; upper and lower tail coverts, the same
rich red; belly, rosy; rump, paler; tail, equal at the end, consisting
of twelve feathers of a bright brownish orange, the shafts reddish; legs
and naked part of the thighs, dark dusky red; feet, half webbed; toes,
very long, particularly the hind one. The upper part of the neck had the
plumage partly worn away, as if occasioned by resting it on the back, in
the manner of the Ibis. The skin on the crown is a little wrinkled; the
inside of the wing a much richer red than the outer.”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          MEMORY—THE GLEANER.


                       BY ANSON G. CHESTER, A. B.


    THE harvest-field of Boaz. Like a host
    Drawn up for battle stands its yellow grain,
    Rustling its own sweet music. Brawny men
    Are there to steal its beauty—and the noise
    Of the keen sickle blends with random songs.
    Close on their track the agile binders haste
    To form the lately fallen grain in sheaves,
    Which throng the field with golden monuments
    To Industry and Labor.
                         Glance again—
    Woman upon the field, the sweet and frail!
    Like a young lily in a waste of thorns,
    So she among the workmen. See! she bends—
    And with a graceful, stainless hand collects
    The single stalks that else would perish there.
    ’Tis gentle Ruth, the meek and beautiful,
    Around whose name are wreathed the rarest flowers
    Of generous remembrance—whom, though years
    Counted by centuries have come and gone,
    Woman delights to love and man to praise.
    Oh! who can gaze upon her slender form,
    Intent upon its labor, or can catch
    The mild expression of her lovely face,
    Nor feel his veins thrill deeper! Filial Ruth!
    While that blest page endures that chronicles
    Thy winning history for after times,
    Love shall embalm thy name in benisons,
    And hearts shall be thy home!
                               Another scene—
    Behold before thine eye a mightier field—
    Th’ unmeasured, the illimitable Past!
    Yonder, well-busied with her ceaseless toil,
    Lo! MEMORY—THE GLEANER. Not like her,
    The gentle Moabitess, laboring for love,
    But as another Nemesis in look and work.
    One gleaned to succor life—affection led
    Her footsteps to the field and cheered her toil—
    The other gleans for justice—hoarding up
    A store of testimony in her garner-place,
    For judgment and for Heaven. Pause awhile—
    View her vocation and its circumstance—
    Give wing to Thought—expand Reflection’s sails—
    And thy salvation may be thy reward.

    She stretcheth forth her hand and gleaneth. Day
    And cheerless night are each to her the same;
    A stranger to vicissitude and change,
    She gathers up material for Heaven.
    Mark what is in her grasp—lo! thrifty tares,
    Old, unrepented sins thou hast forgotten—
    And thistles, too, thine unforgiven wrongs—
    And worthless weeds, thy lost and squandered hours—
    And flowers, thy deeds of common charity,
    Which Pity’s ardent hot-bed forced to shoot,
    Not Duty’s tardy but unerring soil—
    Life’s sweet embellishments, which make it fair,
    Yet have no signal claim to merit—these
    Were but unwelcome witnesses when thou
    Art summoned for thy last account to meet
    With thine accuser, Memory—and these,
    If these were _all_ to testify of thee,
    Would seal thy doom with rayless misery:
    It is alone the rich, ripe, perfect grain
    Of Goodness and of Virtue that can win
    For thee the taintless wealth of Paradise.

 .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

    Our lives are what we make them—human will
    Moulds human destiny—spirits on earth
    But leave and bud, the blossom is the Future’s—
    Earth, like a cunning sculptor, fashioneth
    The form and features of Eternity.
    Like Jacob’s dream-known angels we can rise
    Upon “celestial stairs” to his and their fruition—
    Or, like to him who burned and glowed in Heaven,
    Be quenched amid the mists of endless night.

 .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

    As thou shalt sow, man-brother, she shall glean—
    Like maketh like—the seed thou scatterest
    Into Life’s furrows shall produce its kind
    In generous abundance. Oh! reflect
    That thou art sowing for Eternity—that this
    Thine earthly labor shall be known on high:
    _For as thou sowest, Memory will glean—_
    _And as she gleans so shall thy portion be_.

    Her store-house shall be opened—from its depths
    Her treasured evidence shall be produced,
    Hoary with years, yet firm and forcible.
    All else is worthless—but, if thou hast left
    Upon thy pathway pure and sterling grain,
    And Memory’s hand has gathered it for thee,
    Then shalt thou tread the golden streets of Heaven,
    And thy clear brow shall wear a seraph’s crown.

    Scatter, oh! scatter on thine earthly way
    The perfect seed of Goodness, Truth and Love:
    That, when thou meetest Memory on high,
    Bearing the tokens of thy life’s employ,
    Thou shalt embrace her as an olden friend:—
    And, counted with the angels, shalt remain
    In the eternal childhood of the skies.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                   GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.


                   NO. III.—COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.


                            [SEE ENGRAVING.]

WHILE engaged in writing songs to the native airs of his country, Moore,
in a letter to the Countess of Donegal, makes these remarks on Irish
music:

“It has been often said, and still oftener felt, that in our music is
found the truest of all comments upon our history. The tone of defiance
succeeded by the languor of despondency—a burst of turbulence, dying
away into softness the sorrows of one moment lost in the levity of the
next—and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness, which is
naturally produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off,
or forget the wrongs which lie upon it. Such are the features of our
history and character, which we find strongly and faithfully reflected
in our music; and there are even many airs, which it is difficult to
listen to, without recalling some period or event to which their
expression seems applicable. Sometimes, for instance, when the strain is
open and spirited, yet here and there shaded by a mournful recollection,
we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose, marching to
the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles
and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to
enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive
melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when
our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or to
quit, forever, the land of their birth—like the bird that abandons the
nest which human touch has violated.”

In writing to these melodies, the poet’s task, a most difficult one, was
to express sentiments in harmony with the air. To give an intelligible
utterance to the feelings pent up in music, whether gay, solemn or
mournful. At the time he wrote, Irish patriotism was in the ascendant,
and many of the songs had a political bearing. So apparent was this,
that the fact was noticed, we believe, by the government, or at least by
some high in office. In the following well-known song, so full of the
purest pathos, it is not clear to what the poet particularly alluded. If
there was an allusion, as is not improbable, to Emmett and Miss Curren,
Moore deemed it but an act of prudence to withhold the fact.

        “Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
         Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is still here;
         Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,
         And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

        “Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same,
         Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
         I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,
         I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

        “Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
         And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this—
         Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
         And shield thee, and save thee—or perish there too.”

At any rate, the sentiments of this song might well be applied to the
personages mentioned, even if the poet himself had another application
in his mind. Their tenderness is scarcely surpassed by any thing in the
language; and there are states of mind with every one in which their
repetition would bring tears.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Representative Men: Seven Lectures. By R. W. Emerson. Boston:
    Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The subjects of these lectures, originally delivered before New England
Lyceums, are Uses of Great Men; Plato, or the Philosopher; Swedenborg,
or the Mystic; Montaigne, or the Skeptic; Shakspeare, or the Poet;
Napoleon, or the Man of the World; and Goethe, or the Writer; subjects
calculated to test the most various powers of the greatest mind, and, as
treated by Mr. Emerson, appearing always in an original and fascinating,
if not always a true light. The volume we consider, on the whole, the
best of Mr. Emerson’s works. It is not, rhetorically speaking, so
carefully written as his “Essays,” but it has more human interest, deals
more generously with facts, and indicates a broader and more stalwort
individuality. It is certainly one of the most fascinating books ever
written, whether we consider its subtle verbal felicities, its deep and
shrewd observation, its keen criticism, its beautiful mischievousness,
its wit or learning, its wisdom or beauty. The best passages may be
found in the lectures on Plato, Shakspeare, and Swedenborg; but the best
lecture is probably that on Montaigne, which must have been written _con
amore_. Indeed, the author seems a kind of Montaigne-Plato, with his
eyes wide open both to material and spiritual facts, without a hearty
self-surrender to either. There are in the volumes some speculative
audacities which, in common with the rest of the human race, we consider
equally erroneous and hurtful. In matters of religious faith it may be
confidently asserted that mankind is right and Mr. Emerson wrong. Our
author puts objectionable doctrines in language which shocks the minds
of his readers without conveying to them his real ideas—a blunder,
equally as regards prudence and expression.

The excellence of the book is not so much in its representations of the
representative men who form its subjects, as in the representation of
Mr. Emerson himself; and we doubt if, in all literature, there are
revealed many individualities so peculiar, and so powerful in its
peculiarity, as the individuality stamped upon every page of the present
volume. We would not presume, in our limits, to attempt an analysis of
an intellect so curiously complex as Mr. Emerson’s—with traits which
strike us as a Parthian’s arrows, shot while he is flying, and which
both provoke and defy the pursuit of criticism; but we will extract
instead, a few of the beautiful and brilliant sentences which are
inserted, like gems, in almost every lecture, and in each of which some
sparkle of the writer’s quality appears. The lecture on Goethe is a
perfect diamond necklace, shooting out light in every direction, with
some flashes that illumine, for the instant, labyrinths of thought which
darkness is considered to hold as exclusively her own.

In speaking of the acting of Shakspeare’s plays, he translates into
words an emotion which everyone has felt, but which we never dreamed
could be perfectly expressed. “The recitation,” he says, “begins; one
golden word leaps out immortal from all this painted pedantry, _and
sweetly torments us with invitations to its own inaccessible homes_.”
Again, he remarks that Shakspeare is inconceivably wise; all other
writers conceivably. “A good reader,” he says, “can, in a sort, _nestle
into Plato’s brain_, and think from thence; but not into Shakspeare’s.
_We are still out of doors._” Speaking of Montaigne’s use of language,
he exclaims, “but these words, and they would bleed; they are vascular
and alive.” Of Mr. Emerson’s peculiar wit the present volume is full of
Examples. Thus he speaks of “the heaven of law, and the pismire of
performance under it;” of Plato as having “clapped copyright on the
world;” of the possibility, as regards marriage, of dividing the human
race into two classes; “those who are out and want to get in, and those
who are in and want to get out;” but quotation of small sentences is
impertinent, where so many paragraphs are thoroughly pervaded with the
quality.

In speaking of Plato’s mind, Mr. Emerson gives us some of his keenest
and most characteristic sentences—sentences in which the thought seems
to go in straight lines right at the mark, but to lack a comprehension
of relations. In Plato, he says, “the freest abandonment is united with
the precision of a geometer. His daring imagination gives him the more
solid grasp of facts; as the birds of the highest flight have the
strongest alar bones.” . . . “His strength,” he says, a few pages after,
“is like the momentum of a falling planet; and his discretion, the
return of its due and perfect curve.” Perhaps the best passage, however,
in the lecture on Plato, is that in which he describes the divine
delirium, in which the philosopher rises into the seer. “He believes
that poetry, prophecy, and the high insight, are from a wisdom of which
man is not master; that the gods never philosophize; but, by a celestial
mania, these miracles are accomplished. Horsed on these winged steeds,
he sweeps the dim regions, visits worlds which flesh cannot enter; he
saw the souls in pain; he hears the doom of the judge; he beholds the
penal metempsychosis; the Fates, with the rock and shears; _and hears
the intoxicating hum of their spindle_.”

Sentences, bright and beautiful as these, might be extracted from this
volume to such an extent as to bring upon us an action for violating the
copyright. For fineness of wit, imagination, observation, satire and
sentiment, the book hardly has its equal in American literature; with
its positive opinions we have little to do. With respect to these, it
may be generally said, that Mr. Emerson is always beneath the surface,
and never at the centre.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Seaside and the Fireside. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
    Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._

We have not space this month to do much more than refer to this
beautiful collection of poems, instinct with sentiment and imagination,
and with that drapery of beauty over the whole which constitutes the
charm equally of Longfellow’s narratives and meditations. The first poem
in the volume is “The Building of the Ship,” a worthy counterpart of
Schiller’s “Song of the Bell,” and a grand example of the union of the
common with the beautiful. We doubt if any of the poet’s longer
compositions will equal it in popularity. To this succeed a number of
pieces relating to the sea, of which “The Light House,” and “The Fire of
Drift Wood,” appear to us the best. The poems “by the fireside,”
commence with “Resignation,” an elegy warm from the author’s heart and
imagination, and whose exquisite pathos has been felt and acknowledged
all over the country. “The Open Window,” and “The Sand of the Desert,”
belonging to this portion of the volume, are fine specimens of two
processes of Longfellow’s mind—its subtle suggestiveness and its clear
pictorial power. A long poem of twenty-seven pages, translated from the
Gascon of Jasmin, entitled “The Blind Girl of Castèl-Cuillè,” is a
tragedy whose power, sweetness, and pathos the dullest reader cannot
resist. We wish that Mr. Longfellow would give us more specimens of this
charming poet, as worthily “Englished” as the present.

We think that none of Mr. Longfellow’s volumes will be received with
more favor than this, embodying as it does the best qualities of his
muse, and leaving little for even the critic to grumble at but the
smallness of its bulk.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Old Portraits and Modern Sketches. By John G. Whittier. Boston:
    Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo._

This elegantly printed volume, from the press of a firm celebrated all
over the country for tasteful books, is one of Mr. Whittier’s most
characteristic productions. It contains strongly marked representations
of John Bunyan, Thomas Ellwood, James Naylor, Andrew Marvell, John
Roberts, Samuel Hopkins, Richard Baxter, William Leggett, Nathaniel P.
Rogers, and Robert Dinsmoore. If sympathy be, as Carlyle says, the first
condition of insight, there can be no doubt that these striking
individualities have sat to the right artist for their portraits. The
best pieces in the volume are John Bunyan, Naylor, Marvell and Baxter,
which are really mental portraits, glowing with life and meaning. The
inspiration of Whittier is impassioned conscience—a conscience as bold
and resolute as it is quick and delicate; and wit, imagination,
understanding and learning, all work under the direction of this moral
force. His general taste is for the strong and daring in action and
meditation; his field, the region of great ideas and universal
sentiments; but at the same time he has a capacity for embodying the
delicacies and refinements of thought and emotion, and in pure pathos
and beauty he has few American superiors. All these qualities are
displayed in this volume in their most genial action, and the result is
a book of equal fineness and power.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _History of Spanish Literature. By George Ticknor. New York:
    Harper & Brothers. 3 vols. 8vo._

Ben Jonson was wont to congratulate himself that his solid dramas were
called “works,” while the dramatic productions of his contemporaries
were but “plays.” Professor Ticknor’s History is eminently a “work,” the
result of twenty years of thought and research. To its erudition no
other epithet can apply than Dominie Sampson’s epithet of “prodigious.”
Every department of the literature of a whole nation, through some ten
centuries of existence, the author has thoroughly mastered. No
intellectual history with which we are acquainted rests on such a solid
basis of authorities. As the author has had the subject in his thoughts
from his youth, his erudition, immense as it is, does not encumber his
mind. It does not use him, but he uses it; and the result is that the
work has the great merit of clear statement. It is not only full of
knowledge, but the knowledge is so presented as to be communicated to
every reader. Those who are little interested in the subject as a whole,
will still find the work attractive from its biographical matter, its
analysis of the plot and characters of different plays, and its fine
translations of particular poems and ballads. The accounts given of the
stories forming the plots of some of the dramas, are interesting as mere
tales.

There are few American books which are so much calculated to raise the
foreign estimate of American Scholarship and intelligence as this
History of Spanish Literature, and we doubt if there be many men, in
Spain or out of Spain, who could have written it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _People I have Met; or Pictures of Society and People of Mark.
    Drawn under a Thin Veil of Fiction. By N. Parker Willis. New
    York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

In this elegant volume we have a collection of Mr. Willis’s tales and
sketches, recording the results of his intercourse with society on both
sides of the Atlantic. It indicates that the author’s practical
observation of men and things is as acute and sure as if his head did
not contain the most trickery and exuberant of human fancies. No one can
read the volume without delight, and without having his knowledge of
society increased. It is a fit companion to the “Rural Letters,” being
as full of the world as those are of nature. The writer’s sunny and
sportive, keen and sparkling mind, glances and gleams through every
story and sketch; and over the whole there is that indefinable grace,
which the poet alone can communicate to the things of convention, and
which almost lifts them into an ideal region of existence.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Monuments of Egypt; or Egypt a Witness for the Bible. By
    Francis L. Hawks, D. D., LL. D. With Notes of a Voyage up the
    Nile. By an American. New York; Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 8vo._

Mr. Putnam has got up this volume with his usual indifference to
expense, and his usual regard for typographical beauty. The illustrative
engravings are exactly what the reader wants to assist him in the
comprehension of the text. Dr. Hawks refuses, in the preface, the name
of author, preferring the more modest appellation of compiler; but we
should like to see many more compilations from the same source. He has
carefully studied the works of the great English and French savons and
travelers relating to the subject, and has presented in clear language
the truths which they have established. We commend the book to all who
are desirous of accurate information about a most interesting country,
in its past and present condition.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A System of Ancient and Mediæval Geography, for the Use of
    Schools and Colleges. By Charles Anthon, LL. D. New York: Harper
    & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This solid and well printed volume is but one out of many proofs of the
author’s extensive erudition and classical enthusiasm. We are
incompetent to speak of its value as a class-book, but certainly can
bear testimony to its wealth of information relating to ancient
countries, and its interest to all who are students of ancient history.
The work rests on a solid foundation of over a hundred authorities,
German, English, and French, and indicates on every page a scholarship
as minute in details as it is large in its grasp. In the limits of some
seven hundred and fifty octavo pages, crammed rather than filled with
matter, Dr. Anthon has almost compressed a library of knowledge.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The King of the Hurons. By the Author of “The First of the
    Knickerbockers,” and “The Young Patroon.” New York: Geo. P.
    Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

In the press of this month’s publications we trust that this novel, the
work of a man of shrewd and accurate observation, graceful fancy, and
brilliant style, will not be lost in the crowd. The author’s wit and
humor sparkle over his narrative, and lend an increased fascination even
to the engrossing interest of the characters and incidents.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Essay on Christian Baptism. By Baptist W. Noel, M. A. New York:
    Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

The author of this little volume has already attained great notoriety by
his volume directed against the union of church and state. The object of
his present work is to declare himself by conviction a Baptist, and to
exhibit the train of scriptural argumentation by which he came to the
conclusion that believers have the exclusive right to Christian baptism.
The work is well written, and the reasoning indicates a conscientious
inquirer after truth.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Fairy Tales from all Nations. By Anthony R. Montalba. New York:
    Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The Harpers fairly bewilder critics by the number and variety of their
publications. In following their books we have to make the most violent
ascents and descents to and from one department of letters to another.
We had hardly finished a survey of a Latin Dictionary before we came
directly upon this delicious volume of fairy stories, containing a
representation of supernatural novelties from Denmark, Germany, France,
Sweden, Russia, Poland, Norway, Italy, Hungary, Iceland, Bohemia, and
some Eastern countries. The collection is one of the most fascinating we
have ever seen, and its interest is much increased to the younger class
of readers by some thirty grotesque illustrations.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The History of England. By David Hume. Vol. 5. Boston:
    Phillips, Sampson & Co._

This volume of the cheap Boston edition of Hume is devoted to Charles I.
and the Commonwealth; contains the principal alleged offences of the
author against the principles of civil and religious liberty, and is,
accordingly, that part of his great work which has been made the subject
of the most vehement controversies. It is, perhaps, the ablest in style
and matter of the whole, and may be profitably read in connection with
Macaulay’s views on the same subjects.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Saint Leger, or The Threads of Life. New York: Geo. P. Putnam.
    1 vol. 12mo._

This is the work of a man of intense conceptions, whose style is urged
on by the _furor_ of his thinking, and who, by sheer strength, drags the
readers along with him from the first to the last page. The detail of
the hero’s personal experience, if given with less vividness, would
certainly tire, but as expressed in the author’s vehement style, it
fastens attention as much as the incidents.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Whale and his Captors; or The Whaleman’s Adventures, and
    The Whale’s Biography. By Rev. Henry T. Cheever. New York:
    Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

This volume is the production of a scholar, a man of letters, and a
clergyman; and the characteristics of all three are modified by a sort
of assumed Jack-Tarism, always racy, if sometimes in questionable taste.
It is spirited in style, full of a landsman’s exultation in the
incidents and scenery of sea life, and laden with interesting
information pleasantly told.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


                       THE LATE EDGAR ALLAN POE.

      _Grif._                     Noble madam,
    Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues
    We write in water. May it please your highness
    To hear me speak his good now?

      _Kath._                     Yes, good Griffith;
    I were malicious else.

      _Grif._                     This cardinal,
    Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly,
    Was fashioned to much honor from his cradle.
    He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;
    Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading;
    Lofty, and sour, to them that loved him not;
    But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.
                                       KING HENRY VIII.

MY DEAR WILLIS,—In an article of yours, which accompanies the two
beautiful volumes of the writings of Edgar Allan Poe,[2] you have spoken
with so much truth and delicacy of the deceased, and with the magical
touch of genius have called so warmly up before me the memory of our
lost friend, as you and I both seem to have known him, that I feel
warranted in addressing to you the few plain words I have to say in
defense of his character, as set down by Dr. Rufus W. Griswold. Although
the article, it seems, appeared originally in the New York Tribune, it
met my eye for the first time in the volumes before me. I now purpose to
take exception to it in the most public manner. I knew Mr. Poe well—far
better than Mr. Griswold; and by the memory of old times, when he was an
editor of “Graham,” I pronounce this exceedingly ill-timed and
unappreciative estimate of the character of our lost friend _unfair and
untrue_. It must have been made in a moment of spleen, written out and
laid aside, and handed to the printer, when his death was announced,
with a sort of chuckle. It is Mr. Poe, as seen by the writer while
laboring under a fit of the nightmare; but so dark a picture has no
resemblance to the _living_ man. Accompanying these beautiful volumes,
it is an immortal infamy—the death’s head over the entrance to the
garden of beauty—a horror that clings to the brow of morning,
whispering of murder. It haunts the memory through every page of his
writings, leaving upon the heart a sensation of utter gloom, a feeling
almost of terror. The only relief we feel, is in knowing that it is not
true—that it is a fancy sketch of a perverted, jaundiced vision. The
man who could deliberately say of Edgar Allan Poe, in a notice of his
life and writings, prefacing the volumes which were to become a
priceless souvenir to all who loved him—that his death might startle
many, “_but that few would be grieved by it_”—and blast the whole fame
of the man by such a paragraph as follows, is a judge dishonored. He is
not Mr. Poe’s peer, and I challenge him before the country, even as a
juror in the case.

    “His harsh experience had deprived him of all faith in man or
    woman. He had made up his mind upon the numberless complexities
    of the social world, and the whole system with him was an
    imposture. This conviction gave a direction to his shrewd and
    naturally unamiable character. Still, though he regarded society
    as _composed altogether of villains_, the sharpness of his
    intellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with
    villany, while it continually caused him by overshots to fail of
    the success of honesty. He was in many respects like Francis
    Vivian in Bulwer’s novel of ”The Caxtons.“ Passion, in him,
    comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate against
    human happiness. You could not contradict him, but you raised
    quick choler; _you could not speak of wealth, but his cheek
    paled with gnawing envy_. The astonishing natural advantages of
    this poor boy—his beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that
    breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere—had raised his
    constitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his
    very claims to admiration into prejudices against him.
    _Irascible, envious—bad enough_, but not the worst, for these
    salient angles were all varnished over with a cold, repellent
    cynicism, his passions vented themselves in sneers. _There
    seemed to him no moral susceptibility_; and, _what was more
    remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the true
    point of honor_. He had, to a morbid excess, that desire to rise
    which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem or
    the love of his species; only the hard wish to succeed—not
    shine, not serve—succeed, that he might have the right to
    despise a world which galled his self-conceit.”

Now, this is dastardly, and, what is worse, it is false. It is very
adroitly done, with phrases very well turned, and with gleams of truth
shining out from a setting so dusky as to look devilish. Mr. Griswold
does not feel the worth of the man he has undervalued—he had no
sympathies in common with him, and has allowed old prejudices and old
enmities to steal, insensibly perhaps, into the coloring of his picture.
They were for years totally uncongenial, if not enemies, and during that
period Mr. Poe, in a scathing lecture upon The Poets of America, gave
Mr. Griswold some raps over the knuckles of force sufficient to be
remembered. He had, too, in the exercise of his functions as critic, put
to death, summarily, the literary reputation of some of Mr. Griswold’s
best friends; and their ghosts cried in vain for him to avenge them
during Poe’s life-time—and it almost seems, as if the present hacking
at the cold remains of him who struck them down, is a sort of
compensation for duty long delayed—for reprisal long desired but
deferred. But without this—the opportunities afforded Mr. Griswold to
estimate the character of Poe occurred, in the main, after his stability
had been wrecked, his whole nature in a degree changed and with all his
prejudices aroused and active. Nor do I consider Mr. Griswold
_competent_—with all the opportunities he may have cultivated or
acquired—to set as his judge—to dissect that subtle and singularly
fine intellect—to probe the motives and weigh the actions of that proud
heart. His whole nature—that distinctive presence of the departed which
now stands impalpable, yet in strong outline before me, as I knew him
and _felt_ him to be—eludes the rude grasp of a mind so warped and
uncongenial as Mr. Griswold’s.

But it may be said, my dear Willis, that Mr. Poe himself deputed him to
set as his literary executor, and that he must have felt some confidence
in his ability at least—if not in his integrity—to perform the
functions imposed with discretion and honor. I do not purpose, now, to
enter into any examination of the appointment of Mr. Griswold—nor of
the wisdom of his appointment to the solemn trust of handing the fair
fame of the deceased unimpaired to that posterity to which the dying
poet bequeathed his legacy—but simply to question its faithful
performance. Among the true friends of Poe in this city—and he had some
such here—there are those I am sure that he did not class among
_villains_; nor do _they_ feel easy when they see their old friend
dressed out, in his grave, in the habiliments of a scoundrel. There is
something to them in this mode of procedure on the part of the literary
Executor, that does not chime in with their notions of “the true point
of honor.” It looks so much like a breach of trust, that, to their plain
understandings, it is a proceeding that may very fairly be questioned.
They may, perhaps, being plain business men, be somewhat unschooled in
legacies, and obligations of this sort, but it shocks all their notions
of fair dealing. They had been led to suppose, that thus to fritter away
an estate was, to say the least of it, not of that high kind of
integrity which courts of justice alone recognize in a settlement in
ordinary affairs. As heirs, in part, to the inheritance left by their
lost friend, they find the fairest part of the domain ravaged, and the
strong castle battered down; and do not think because the hedges have
been a little trimmed up, and the gateway set in fashion, that the
property has been improved—on the contrary, they think the estate is
ruined. They had all of them looked upon our departed friend as
singularly indifferent to wealth for its own sake, but as very positive
in his opinions that the scale of social merit was not of the
highest—that MIND, somehow, was apt to be left out of the estimate
altogether—and, partaking somewhat of his free way of thinking, his
friends are startled to find they have entertained very unamiable
convictions. As to his “quick choler” when he was contradicted, it
depended a good deal upon the party denying, as well as upon the subject
discussed. He was quick, it is true, to perceive mere quacks in
literature, and somewhat apt to be hasty when pestered with them; but
upon most other questions his natural amiability was not easily
disturbed. Upon a subject that he understood thoroughly, he felt some
right to be positive, if not arrogant, when addressing pretenders. His
“astonishing natural advantages” had been very assiduously
cultivated—his “daring spirit” was the anointed of genius—his self
confidence the proud conviction of both—and it was with something of a
lofty scorn that he _attacked_, as well as repelled, a crammed scholar
of the hour, who attempted to palm upon him his ill-digested learning.
Literature with him was religion; and he, its high-priest, with a whip
of scorpions scourged the money-changers from the temple. In all else he
had the docility and kind-heartedness of a child. No man was more
quickly touched by a kindness—none more prompt to atone for an injury.
For three or four years I knew him intimately, and for eighteen months
saw him almost daily; much of the time writing or conversing at the same
desk; knowing all his hopes, his fears, and little annoyances of life,
as well as his high-hearted struggle with adverse fate—yet he was
always the same polished gentleman—the quiet, unobtrusive, thoughtful
scholar—the devoted husband—frugal in his personal expenses—punctual
and unwearied in his industry—_and the soul of honor_, in all his
transactions. This, of course, was in his better days, and by them _we_
judge the man. But even after his habits had changed, there was no
literary man to whom I would more readily advance money for labor to be
done. He kept his accounts, small as they were, with the accuracy of a
banker. I append an account sent to me in his own hand, long after he
had left Philadelphia, and after all knowledge of the transactions it
recited had escaped my memory. I had returned him the story of “The Gold
Bug,” at his own request, as he found that he could dispose of it very
advantageously elsewhere.

         “We were square when I sold you the
           ‘Versification’ article; for which you
           gave me first 25, and afterward 7—in
           all                                          $32 00
         Then you bought ‘The Gold Bug’ for              52 00
                                                           ———
         I got both these back, so that I owed          $84 00
         You lent Mrs. Clemm                             12 50
                                                           ———
         Making in all                                  $96 50

         The review of ‘Flaccus’ was 3¾ pp,
           which, at $4, is                       15 00
         Lowell’s poem is                         10 00
         The review of Channing, 4 pp. is 16, of
           which I got 6, leaving                 10 00
         The review of Halleck, 4 pp. is 16, of
           which I got 10, leaving                 6 00
         The review of Reynolds, 2 pp.             8 00
         The review of Longfellow, 5 pp. is 20,
           of which I got 10, leaving             10 00
                                                    ———
         So that I have paid in all                      59 00
                                                           ———
         Which leaves still due by me                   $37 50 ”

This I find was his uniform habit with others, as well as
myself—carefully recalling to mind his indebtedness, with the fresh
article sent. And this is the man who had “no moral susceptibility,” and
little or nothing of the “true point of honor.” It may be a very plain,
business view of the question, but it strikes his friends that it may
pass as something, as times go.

I shall never forget how solicitous of the happiness of his wife and
mother-in-law he was, whilst one of the editors of Graham’s
Magazine—his whole efforts seemed to be to procure the comfort and
welfare of his home. Except for their happiness—and the natural
ambition of having a magazine of his own—I never heard him deplore the
want of wealth. The truth is, he cared little for money, and knew less
of its value, for he seemed to have no personal expenses. What he
received from me in regular monthly instalments, went directly into the
hands of his mother-in-law for family comforts—and _twice_ only, I
remember his purchasing some rather expensive luxuries for his house,
and then he was nervous to the degree of misery until he had, by extra
articles, covered what he considered an imprudent indebtedness. His love
for his wife was a sort of rapturous worship of the spirit of beauty
which he felt was fading before his eyes. I have seen him hovering
around her when she was ill, with all the fond fear and tender anxiety
of a mother for her first-born—her slightest cough causing in him a
shudder, a heart-chill that was visible. I rode out one summer evening
with them, and the remembrance of his watchful eyes eagerly bent upon
the slightest change of hue in that loved face, haunts me yet as the
memory of a sad strain. It was this hourly _anticipation_ of her loss,
that made him a sad and thoughtful man, and lent a mournful melody to
his undying song.

It is true that later in life Poe had much of those morbid feelings
which a life of poverty and disappointment is so apt to engender in the
heart of man—the sense of having been ill-used, misunderstood, and put
aside by men of far less ability, and of none, which preys upon the
heart and clouds the brain of many a child of song: A consciousness of
the inequalities of life, and of the abundant power of mere wealth
allied even to vulgarity, to over-ride all distinctions, and to thrust
itself bedaubed with dirt and glittering with tinsel, into the high
places of society, and the chief seats of the synagogue; whilst he, a
worshiper of the beautiful and true, who listened to the voices of
angels, and held delighted companionship with them as the cold throng
swept disdainfully by him, was often in danger of being thrust out,
houseless, homeless, beggared upon the world, with all his fine feelings
strung to a tension of agony when he thought of his beautiful and
delicate wife dying hourly before his eyes. What wonder, that he then
poured out the vials of a long-treasured bitterness upon the injustice
and hollowness of all society around him.

The very natural question—“Why did he not work and thrive?” is easily
answered. It will not be _asked_ by the many who know the precarious
tenure by which literary men hold a mere living in this country. The
avenues through which they can profitably reach the country are few, and
crowded with aspirants for bread as well as fame. The unfortunate
tendency to cheapen every literary work to the lowest point of beggarly
flimsiness in price and profit, prevents even the well-disposed from
extending any thing like an adequate support to even a part of the great
throng which genius, talent, education, and even misfortune, force into
the struggle. The character of Poe’s mind was of such an order, as not
to be very widely in demand. The class of educated mind which he could
readily and profitably address, was small—the channels through which he
could do so at all, were few—and publishers all, or nearly all,
contented with such pens as were already engaged, hesitated to incur the
expense of his to an extent which would sufficiently remunerate him;
hence, when he was fairly at sea, connected permanently with no
publication, he suffered all the horrors of prospective destitution,
with scarcely the ability of providing for immediate necessities; and at
such moments, alas! the tempter often came, and, as you have truly said,
“_one glass_” of wine, made him a madman. Let the moralist who stands
upon tufted carpet, and surveys his smoking board, the fruits of his
individual toil or mercantile adventure, pause before he lets the
anathema, trembling upon his lips, fall upon a man like Poe! who,
wandering from publisher to publisher, with his fine, print-like
manuscript, scrupulously clean and neatly rolled, finds no market for
his brain—with despair at heart, misery ahead for himself and his loved
ones, and gaunt famine dogging at his heels, thus sinks by the wayside,
before the demon that watches his steps and whispers, OBLIVION. Of all
the miseries which God, or his own vices inflict upon man, none are so
terrible as that of having the strong and willing arm struck down to a
child-like inefficiency, while the Heart and Will, have the purpose and
force of a giant’s out-doing. We must remember, too, that the very
organization of such a mind as that of Poe—the very tension and tone of
his exquisitely strung nerves—the passionate yearnings of his soul for
the beautiful and true, utterly unfitted him for the rude jostlings and
fierce competitorship of trade. The only drafts of his that could be
honored, were those upon his brain. The unpeopled air—the caverns of
ocean—the decay and mystery that hang around old castles—the thunder
of wind through the forest aisles—the spirits that rode the blast, by
all but him unseen—and the deep metaphysical creations which floated
through the chambers of his soul, were his only wealth, the High Change
where only his signature was valid for rubies.

Could he have stepped down and chronicled small beer, made himself the
shifting toady of the hour, and with bow and cringe, hung upon the steps
of greatness, sounding the glory of third-rate ability with a penny
trumpet, he would have been feted alive, and, _perhaps_, been praised
when dead. But no! his views of the duties of the critic were stern, and
he felt that in praising an unworthy writer, he committed dishonor. His
pen was regulated by the highest sense of DUTY. By a keen analysis he
separated and studied each piece which the skillful mechanist had put
together. No part, however insignificant or apparently unimportant,
escaped the rigid and patient scrutiny of his sagacious mind. The
unfitted joint proved the bungler—the slightest blemish, was a palpable
fraud. He was the scrutinising lapidary, who detected and exposed the
most minute flaw in diamonds. The gem of first water shone the brighter,
for the truthful setting of his calm praise. He had the finest touch of
soul for beauty—a delicate and hearty appreciation of worth. If his
praise appeared tardy, it was of priceless value when given. It was true
as well as sincere. It was the stroke of honor, that at once knighted
the receiver. It was in the world of MIND that he was king; and with a
fierce audacity he felt and proclaimed himself autocrat. As critic he
was Despotic, Supreme. He waved his sceptre, and countless heads fell
from proud shoulders. With a world arrayed in hostile argument, he
combated each step. The shrieks of the slaughtered were incense to
unseen spirits, who to his eye nodded approval, and danced for joy. The
accused were tried by the most subtle of laws—their works passed
through the alembic of a most powerful and penetrating intellect; to
them the decrees of an unseen court—and friend or foe, saint or sinner,
were pardoned with grave rebuke, or gibbeted without mercy. Yet no man
with more readiness would soften a harsh expression at the request of a
friend, or if he himself felt that he had infused too great a degree of
bitterness into his article, none would more readily soften it down,
after it was in type—though still maintaining the justness of his
critical views. I do not believe that he wrote to give pain; but in
combating what he conceived to be error, he used the strongest word that
presented itself, even in conversation. He labored, not so much to
reform, as to _exterminate_ error, and thought the shortest process was
to pull it up by the roots.

He was a worshiper of INTELLECT—longing to grasp the power of mind that
moves the stars—to bathe his soul in the dreams of seraphs. He was
himself all ethereal, of a fine essence, that moved in an atmosphere of
spirits—of spiritual beauty overflowing and radiant—twin brother with
the angels, feeling their flashing wings upon his heart, and almost
clasping them in his embrace. Of them, and as an expectant archangel of
that high order of intellect, stepping out of himself, as it were, and
interpreting the time, he reveled in delicious luxury in a world beyond,
with an audacity which we fear in madmen, but in genius worship as the
inspiration of heaven.

But my object in throwing together a few thoughts upon the character of
Edgar Allan Poe, was not to attempt as elaborate criticism, but to say
what might palliate grave faults that have been attributed to him, and
to meet by facts, unjust accusation—in a word, to give a mere outline
of the man as he lived before me. I think I am warranted in saying to
Mr. Griswold, that he must review his decision. It will not stand the
calm scrutiny of his own judgment, or of time, while it must be regarded
by all the friends of Mr. Poe as an ill-judged and misplaced calumny
upon that gifted Son of Genius.

                                                      Yours truly,
                                                       GEO. R. GRAHAM.

To N. P. WILLIS, Esq.
  _Philadelphia, Feb. 2, 1850._

P. S. I should fail in my whole duty to the memory of Edgar Allan Poe,
if I did not mention that his works have been issued by Mr. Redfield,
for the benefit of Mrs. Maria Clemm, the mother-in-law of the deceased,
whose comfort in her coming days is in a great degree dependent upon an
extensive sale of the work. The readers of Graham, who have been so
often delighted by his pen, will, I am sure, eagerly embrace this
opportunity to preserve his complete collected writings; and it will
afford me pleasure to be the medium of the transmission of their
subscriptions to the publisher.

                                                             G. R. G.

-----

[2] _The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe: With Notices of His life and
Genius, by N. P. Willis, J. R. Lowell, and R. W. Griswold. In Two
Volumes. New York: J. S. Redfield, Clinton Hall._

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

PARIS Boulevart S^{t}. Martin 61
_Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Baudry, _r. Richelieu, 87—Robes et pardessus de_
  Camille.
_Fleurs de_ Chagot ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81_
Graham’s Magazine.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THOU ART LOVELIER.


                               WRITTEN BY

                            RICHARD HOWITT.

                                MUSIC BY

                            MARIA B. HAWES.

[Illustration: musical score]

    Thou art lovelier than the coming
    Of the fairest flow’rs of spring,
    When the wild bee wanders humming,
    Like a blessed fairy thing.
    Thou art lovelier than the breaking
    Of the Orient crimson’d morn,
    When the gentlest winds are shaking
    The

[Illustration: musical score]

    dew-drops from the thorn
    Thou art lovelier than the coming
    Of the fairest flower of spring,
    When the wild bee wanders humming,
    Like a blessed fairy thing.

            SECOND VERSE.

    I have seen the wild flow’rs springing
    In field, in wood, in glen,
    Where a thousand birds are singing,
    And my thoughts were of thee then;
    For there’s nothing gladsome round me,
    Nothing beautiful to see,
    Since thy beauty’s spell hath bound me,
    But is eloquent of thee.
    Thou art lovelier than the coming
    Of the fairest flow’rs of spring,
    When the wild bee wanders humming
    Like a blessed fairy thing.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

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

page 171, Or Cythereas breath; ==> Or Cytherea’s breath;
page 171, pearled Acturi of the ==> pearled Arcturi of the
page 172, the same harrassed air ==> the same harassed air
page 180, pointless harrangues “nay, ==> pointless harangues “nay,
page 181, for her to pursuade ==> for her to persuade
page 188, “I will commisserate the ==> “I will commiserate the
page 192, offend, he plead his early ==> offend, he pleaded his early
page 208, PORTRAIT OF GENERAL GREENE. ==> caption was missing in available
  scans so caption used is based on entry in the index for the volume.
page 208, LIFE OF GENERAL NATHANIEL GREENE ==> correct spelling is
  ‘Nathanael’, but the ‘Nathaniel’ spelling throughout the article has been
  left as printed.

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 3, March 1850]





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