Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 6, June 1850
Author: Various
Language: English
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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                VOL. XXXVI.      June, 1850.      No. 6.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          Dante’s Divina Commedia
          Clifdon
          The Dawn of the Hundred Days
          The First Love of Ada Somers
          Traveling a Touchstone
          The Poet Cowper
          The Lady of the Rock
          Shakspeare. Anaylysis of Romeo and Juliet
          Bass and Bass Fishing
          The Fine Arts
          Early English Poets. Poems of Thomas Carew
          Review of New Books
          Editor’s Table

                            Poetry and Music

          The Gold-Seeker
          Bird-Notes
          Symbols
          Sonnet. To Shirley
          Narcissos
          To Arcturus
          Mary
          Evening
          The Queen of the Woods
          Scene on the Ohio
          The Jolly Ride
          Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. V.
          Jacob’s Ladder
          The Smoker
          The Maiden’s Complaint Against Love
          The Melodies of Many Lands

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

          VOL. XXXVI.     PHILADELPHIA, June, 1850.     NO. 6.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        DANTE’S DIVINA COMMEDIA.


                     FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHELLING.


                        BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.


    [In the following elaborate specimen of literary criticism there
    are many passages which will be very obscure, not to say
    unintelligible, to those who are not familiar with the
    philosophic phraseology of the Germans. The student of Dante,
    however, will find in it many hints and suggestions worthy his
    consideration. It cannot be otherwise than interesting to see
    two such minds as those of Schelling and Dante brought into
    contact; and to hear what the German philosopher has to say of
    the Italian poet.]

IN the sanctuary where Religion

        “is married to immortal Verse,”

stands Dante as high-priest, and consecrates all modern Art for its
vocation. Not as a solitary poem, but representing the whole class of
the New Poetry, and itself a separate class, stands the “Divine Comedy,”
so entirely unique, that any theory drawn from peculiar forms is quite
inadequate to it;—a world by itself, it demands its own peculiar
theory. The predicate of Divine was given it by its author, because it
treats of theology and things divine; Comedy he called it, after the
simplest notion of this and its opposite kind,—on account of its
fearful beginning and its happy ending, and because the mixed nature of
the poem, whose material is now lofty and now lowly, rendered a mixed
kind of style necessary.

One readily perceives, however, that according to the common notion it
cannot be called Dramatic, because it represents no circumscribed
action. So far as Dante himself may be looked upon as the hero, who
serves only as a thread for the measureless series of visions and
pictures, and remains rather passive than active,—the poem seems to
approach nearer to a Romance; yet this definition does not completely
exhaust it; nor can we call it Epic, in the usual acceptation of the
word, since there is no regular sequence in the events represented. To
look upon it as a Didactic poem is likewise impossible, because it is
written in a far less restricted form and aim, than those of teaching.
It belongs therefore to none of these classes in particular, nor is it
merely a compound of them; but an entirely unique, and as it were
organic mixture of all their elements, not to be reproduced by any
arbitrary rules of art,—an absolute individuality, comparable with
itself alone and with naught else.

The material of the poem, is, in general terms, the express identity of
the Poet’s age;—the interpenetration of the events thereof with the
ideas of Religion, Science and Poetry in the loftiest genius of that
century. Our intention is not to consider it in its immediate reference
to its age; but rather in its universal application and as the archetype
of all modern Poetry.

The necessary law of this poetry, down to the still indefinitely distant
point where the great Epic of modern times, which hitherto has announced
itself only rhapsodically and in broken glimpses, shall present itself
as a perfect whole, is this:—that the individual gives shape and unity
to that portion of the world which is revealed to him, and out of the
materials of his time, its History and its Science, creates his own
Mythology. For as the ancient world is, in general, the world of
classes, so the modern is that of Individuals. In the former the
Universal is in truth the particular, the race acts as an individual; in
the latter, the Individual is the point of departure, and becomes the
Universal. For this reason, in the former all things are permanent and
imperishable: Number likewise is of no account, since the Universal idea
coincides with that of the Individual;—in the latter, constant mutation
is the fixed law; no narrow circle limits its ends, but one which
through Individuality widens itself to infinitude. And since
Universality belongs to the essence of Poetry, it is a necessary
condition that the Individual through the highest peculiarity should
again become universal, and by his complete speciality become again
absolute. Thus through the perfect individuality and uniqueness of his
Poem, Dante is the Creator of modern art, which without this arbitrary
necessity, and necessary arbitrariness, cannot be imagined.

From the very beginning of Greek Poetry, we see it clearly separated
from Science and Philosophy, as in Homer, and this process of separation
continued until the Poets and the Philosophers became the antipodes of
each other. They in vain by allegorical interpretations of the Homeric
Poems sought artificially to create a harmony between the two. In modern
times Science has preceded Poetry and Mythology, which cannot be
Mythology, without being universal and drawing into its circle all the
elements of the then existing culture, Science, Religion and even Art,
and joining in a perfect unity the material not only of the present but
of the past. Into this struggle, (since Art demands something definite
and limited, while the spirit of the world rushes towards the unlimited,
and with ceaseless power sweeps down all barriers,) must the Individual
enter, but with absolute freedom, seek to rescue permanent shapes from
the fluctuations of time, and within arbitrarily assumed forms to give
to the structure of his poem, by its absolute peculiarity, internal
necessity and external universality.

This Dante has done. He had before him, as material, the history of the
present as well as of the Past. He could not elaborate this into a pure
Epos, partly on account of its nature, partly because, in doing this, he
would have excluded other elements of the culture of his time. To its
completeness belonged also the Astronomy, the Theology and Philosophy of
the time. To these he could not give expression in a Didactic poem, for
by so doing he would again have limited himself. Consequently, in order
to make his Poem universal, he was obliged to make it historical. An
invention, entirely uncontrolled, and proceeding from his own
individuality, was necessary, to unite these materials and form them
into an organic whole. To represent the ideas of Philosophy and Theology
in symbols was impossible, for there then existed no symbolic Mythology.
He could quite as little make his Poem purely allegorical, for then
again it could not be historical. It was necessary therefore to make it
an entirely unique mixture of Allegory and History. In the emblematic
poetry of the ancients no clue of this kind was possible. The Individual
only could lay hold of it, and only an uncontrolled invention follow it.

The poem of Dante is not allegorical in the sense that its figures only
signified something else, without having any separate existence
independent of the thing signified. On the other hand, none of them is
independent of the thing signified in such a way as to be at once the
Idea itself and more than an allegory of it. There is therefore in his
Poem an entirely unique mean between Allegory and symbolic-objective
Form. There is no doubt, and the Poet has himself elsewhere declared it,
that Beatrice, for example, is an Allegory, namely, of Theology. So her
companions; so many other characters. But at the same time they count
for themselves, and appear on the scene as historic personages, without
on that account being symbols.

In this respect Dante is archetypal, since he has proclaimed what the
modern poet has to do, in order to embody into a poetic whole, the
entire history and culture of his age—the only mythological material
which lies before him. He must from absolute arbitrariness join together
the allegorical and historical: he must be allegorical, (and he is so,
too, against his will,) because he cannot be symbolical; and he must be
historical because he wishes to be poetical. In this respect his
invention is always peculiar, a world by itself, and altogether
characteristic.

The only German poem of universal plan, unites together in a similar
manner the outermost extremes in the aspirations of the times, by a very
peculiar invention of a subordinate mythology, in the character of
Faust: although in the Aristophanic meaning of the word it may far
better be called a Comedy, and is another and more poetic sense Divine,
than the Poem of Dante.

The energy with which the individual embodies the singular mixture of
the materials which lie before him in his age and his life determines
the measure in which he possesses mythological power. Dante’s personages
possess a kind of eternity from the position in which he places them,
and which is eternal: but not only the actual which he draws from his
own time, as the story of Ugolino and the like, but also what is pure
invention, as the death of Ulysses and his companions, has in the
connection of his poem a real mythological truth.

It would be of but subordinate interest to represent by itself, the
Philosophy, Physics and Astronomy of Dante, since his true peculiarity
lies only in his manner of fusing them with his poetry. The Ptolemaic
system, which to a certain degree is the foundation of his poetic
structure, has already in itself a mythological coloring. If however his
philosophy is to be characterized in general as Aristotelian, we must
not understand by this the pure Peripatetic philosophy, but a peculiar
union of the same with the ideas of the Platonic, then entertained, as
may be proved by many passages of his poem.

We will not dwell upon the power and solidity of separate passages, the
simplicity and endless _naiveté_ of separate pictures, in which he
expresses his philosophical views, as the well known description of the
soul which comes from the hand of God as a little girl “weeping and
laughing in its childish sport,” a guileless soul, which knows nothing,
save that, moved by its joyful Creator, “willingly it turns to that
which gives it pleasure:”—we speak only of the general symbolic form of
the whole, in whose absoluteness, more than in any thing else, the
universal value and immortality of this Poem is recognized.

If the union of Philosophy and Poetry even in their most subordinate
synthesis is understood as making a didactic poem, it becomes necessary,
since the poem must be without any external end and aim, that the
intention (of instructing) should lose itself in it and be changed into
an absoluteness (_in eine Absolutheit verwandelt_), so that the poem may
seem to exist for its own sake. And this is only conceivable, when
Science (considered as a picture of the Universe, and in perfect harmony
therewith, as the most original and beautiful Poetry) is in itself
already poetical. Dante’s Poem is a much higher interpenetration of
Science and Poetry, and so much the more must its form, even in its
freer self-existence, be adapted to the universal type of the world’s
aspect (_Weltanschauung_).

The division of the Universe and the arrangement of the materials
according to the three kingdoms of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise,
independently of the peculiar meaning of these ideas in Christian
theology, are also a general symbolic form, so that one does not see why
under the same form every remarkable age should not have its own Divine
Comedy. As in the Modern Drama the form of five acts is assumed as the
usual one, because every event may be regarded in its Beginning, its
Progress, its Culmination, its _Dénouement_, and its final Consummation,
so this Trichotomy, or threefold division of Dante in the higher
prophetic poetry, which is to be the expression of a whole age, is
conceivable as a general form, which in its filling-up may be infinitely
varied, as by the power of original invention it can always be quickened
into new life. Not alone however as an external form, but as an
emblematical expression of the internal type of all Science and Poetry
is that form eternal and capable of embracing in itself the three great
objects of Science and culture,—Nature, History and Art. Nature, as the
birth of all things, is the eternal Night; and as that unity through
which these are in themselves, it is the aphelion of the universe, the
point of farthest removal from God, the true centre. Life and History,
whose nature is gradual progress, are only a process of clarification, a
transition to an absolute condition. This can nowhere be found save in
Art, which anticipates eternity, is the Paradise of life, and is truly
in the centre.

Dante’s Poem, therefore, viewed from all sides, is not an isolated work
of a particular age, a particular stage of culture; but it is
archetypal, by the universal interest which it unites with the most
absolute Individuality,—by its universality, in virtue of which it
excludes no side of life and culture,—and finally by its form, which is
not a peculiar type, but the type of the theory of the Universe, in
general.

The peculiar internal arrangement of the Poem certainly cannot possess
this universal interest, since it is formed upon the ideas of the time,
and the peculiar views of the poet. On the other hand, as is to be
expected from a work so artistic and full of purpose, the general inner
type is again externally imaged forth, through the form, color, sound of
the three great Divisions of the Poem.

From the extraordinary nature of his material, Dante needed for the form
of his creations in detail, some kind of credentials which only the
Science of his time could give, and which for him are, so to speak, the
Mythology and the general basis, which supports the daring edifice of
his inventions. But even in the details he remains trite to his design
of being allegorical, without ceasing to be historical and poetical.
Hell, Purgatory and Paradise are, as it were, only his system of
Theology in its concrete and architectural development. The proportion,
number and relations which he observes in their internal structure were
prescribed by this science, and herein he renounced intentionally the
freedom of invention, in order to give, by means of form, necessity and
limitation to his poem, which in its materials was unlimited. The
universal sanctity and significancy of numbers is another external form
upon which his poetry rests. So in general the entire logical and
syllogistic lore of that age, is for him only form, which must be
granted to him, in order to attain to that region in which his poetry
moves.

And yet in this adherence to religious and philosophical notions, as the
most universally interesting thing which his age offered, Dante never
seeks an ordinary kind of poetic probability; but rather renounces all
intention of flattering the baser senses. His first entrance into Hell
takes place, as it should take place, without any unpoetical attempt to
assign a motive for it or to make it intelligible, in a condition like
that of a Vision, without however any intention of making it appear
such. His being drawn up by Beatrice’s eyes, through which the divine
power is communicated to him, he expresses in a single line: what is
wonderful in his own adventures he immediately changes to a likeness of
the mysteries of religion, and gives it credibility by a yet higher
mystery, as when he makes his entrance into the moon, which he compares
to that of light into the unbroken surface of water, an image of God’s
incarnation.

To show the perfection of art, and the depth of purpose which was
carried even into the minor details of the inner structure of the three
worlds, would be a science in itself. This was recognized shortly after
the poet’s death by his nation, in their appointing a distinct
Lectureship upon Dante, which was first filled by Boccaccio.

But not only do the several incidents in each of the three parts of the
Poem allow the universal character of the first form to shine through
them, but the law thereof expresses itself yet more definitely in the
inner and spiritual rhythm, by which they are contradistinguished from
each other. The Inferno, as it is the most fearful in its objects, is
likewise the strongest in expression, the severest in diction, and in
its very words dark and awful. In one portion of the Purgatorio deep
silence reigns, for the lamentations of the lower world grow mute: upon
its summits, the forecourts of Heaven, all becomes Color: the Paradiso
is the true music of the spheres.

The variety and difference of the punishments in the Inferno are
conceived with almost unexampled invention. Between the crime and the
punishment there is never any other than a poetic relation. Dante’s
spirit is not daunted by what is terrible; nay, he goes to its extreme
limits. But it could be shown in every case, that he never ceases to be
sublime and in consequence truly beautiful. For that which men, who are
not capable of comprehending the whole, have sometimes pointed out as
low, is not so in their sense of the term, but is a necessary element of
the mixed nature of the Poem, on account of which Dante himself called
it a Comedy. The hatred of evil, the scorn of a godlike spirit, which
are expressed in Dante’s fearful composition, are not the inheritance of
common souls. It is indeed very doubtful still, though quite generally
believed, whether his banishment from Florence, after he had previously
dedicated his Poetry to Love, first spurred on his spirit, naturally
inclined to whatever was earnest and extraordinary, to the highest
Invention, in which he breathed forth the whole of his life, of the
destiny of his heart and of his country, together with his indignation
thereat. But the vengeance which he takes in the Inferno, he takes in
the name of the Day of Judgment, as the elected Judge with prophetic
power, not from personal hate, but with a pious soul roused by the
abominations of the times, and a love of his native land long dead in
others, as he has himself represented in a passage in the Paradiso where
he says

          “If e’er it happen that the Poem sacred
        To which both Earth and Heaven have lent their hand,
        Till it hath made me meagre many a year,
          Conquer the cruelty that shuts me out
        Of the fair sheep-fold, where a lamb I slumbered,
        An enemy to the wolves that war upon it,
          With other voice forthwith, with other fleece
        The Poet shall return, and at the font
        Baptismal, shall he take the crown of laurel.”

He tempers the horror of the torments of the damned, by his own feeling
for them, which at the end of so much suffering so overwhelms him that
he is ready to weep, and Virgil says to him “Wherefore then art thou
troubled?”

It has already been remarked that the greater part of the punishments of
the Inferno are symbolical of the crimes for which they are inflicted,
but many of them are so in a far more general relation. Of this kind is,
in particular, the representation of a metamorphosis, in which two
natures are mutually interchanged and their substance transmuted. No
metamorphosis of Antiquity can compare with this for invention, and if a
naturalist or a didactic poet were able to sketch with such power,
emblems of the eternal metamorphoses of nature, he might congratulate
himself upon it.

As we have already remarked, the Inferno is not only distinguished from
the other parts by the external form of its representation, but also by
the circumstance that it is peculiarly the realm of forms and
consequently the plastic part of the Poem. The Purgatorio must be
recognized as the picturesque part. Not only are the penances here
imposed upon sinners at times pictorially treated even to brightness of
coloring; but the journey up the holy mountain of Purgatory presents in
detail a rapid succession of shifting landscapes, scenes and manifold
play of light; until upon its outermost boundary, when the Poet has
reached the waters of Lethe, the highest pomp of Painting and Color
displays itself;—in the picturing of the divine primeval forest of this
region, of the celestial clearness of the water, overcast with its
eternal shadow, of the maiden whom he meets upon its banks and the
descent of Beatrice in a cloud of flowers, beneath a white veil, crowned
with olive, wrapped in a green mantle, and “vested in colors of the
living flame.”

The Poet has urged his way to light through the very heart of the earth:
in the darkness of the lower world forms alone could be distinguished:
in Purgatory light is kindled, but still in connection with earthly
matter and becomes color. In Paradise there remains nothing but the pure
music of the light; reflection ceases, and the Poet rises gradually to
behold the colorless pure essence of Deity itself.

The astronomical system which the age of the poet invested with a
mythological value; the nature of the stars and of the measure of their
motion, are the ground upon which his inventions, in this part of the
poem, rest. And if he in this sphere of the unconditioned, still suffers
degrees and differences to exist, he again removes them by the glorious
word which he puts into the mouth of one of the sister-souls whom he
meets in the moon, that “every _Where_ in heaven is Paradise.”

The plan of the Poem renders it natural that on the very ascent through
Paradise the loftiest speculations of Theology should be discussed. His
deep reverence for this science is symbolized by his love of Beatrice.
In proportion as the field of vision enlarges itself into the purely
Universal, it is necessary that Poetry should become Music, form vanish,
and that, in this point of view, the Inferno should appear the most
poetic part of the work. But in this work it is absolutely impossible to
take things separately; and the peculiar excellence of each separate
part is authenticated and recognized only through its harmony with the
whole. If the relation of the three parts to the whole is perceived, we
shall necessarily recognize the Paradiso as the purely musical and
lyrical portion, even in the design of the poet, who expresses this in
the external form, by the frequent use of the Latin words of Church
Hymns.

The marvelous grandeur of the Poem, which gleams forth in the mingling
of all the elements of poetry and art, reaches in this way a perfect
manifestation. This divine work is not plastic, not picturesque, not
musical, but all of these at once and in accordant harmony. It is not
dramatic, not epic, not lyric, but a peculiar, unique, and unexampled
mingling of all these.

I think I have shown, at the same time, that it is prophetic, and
typical of all the Modern Poetry. It embraces all its characteristics,
and springs out of the intricately mingled materials of the same, as the
first growth, stretching itself above the earth and toward the
heavens—the first fruit of transfiguration. Those who would become
acquainted with the poetry of modern times, not superficially, but at
its fountain head, may train themselves by this great and mighty spirit,
in order to know by what means the whole of the modern time may be
embraced in its entireness, and that it is not held together by a
loosely woven band. They who have no vocation for this, can apply to
themselves the words at the beginning of the first part:

    “Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’ entrate.”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            THE GOLD-SEEKER.


                          BY GRACE GREENWOOD.


    ’TWAS upon a southern desert, and beneath a burning sky,
    That a pilgrim to the gold-clime sunk, o’erwearied, down to die!
    He was young, and fair, and slender, but he bore a gallant heart—
    Through the march so long and toilsome he had bravely held his part.
    His companions round him gathered, with kind word and pitying look,
    As in fever-thirst he panted, like “the hart for the water brook;”
    While their last cool drops outpouring on his brow and parched lips,
    Sorrowed they to mark his glances growing dim with death’s eclipse.
    Turning then, and onward passing, left they there the dying man,
    For a weary way to westward still the promised river ran.
    One there was, a comrade faithful, who the longest lingered there,
    While he wrung his hand in parting, bidding him not yet despair;
    For they would return at morning, from the river banks, he said—
    And a silken scarf unfolding, laid it o’er the sufferer’s head—
    Then full often backward glancing, took the weary march again,
    Onward pressing toward the waters, gleaming far across the plain.

    Silent lies the one forsaken, in this hour of pain and fear,
    While their farewells and their footsteps die upon his failing ear;
    With the withered turf his death-couch, ’neath the burning heat of
      day,
    All unhearing and unheeding, for his soul is far away!
    In the dear home of his childhood, in a pleasant northern land,
    He beholds about him smiling the familiar household band;
    Sees, perchance, his father coming homeward, through the twilight
      gray—
    Listens to his merry brothers, laughing in their childish play—
    Feels the fond arms of his mother, as of old, about him thrown,
    And the fair cheek of his sister pressing soft against his own!
    Or he strays amid the moonlight, in a cool and shadowy grove,
    Looking down with earnest glances into eyes that look back love!
    All beloved tones are calling sweetly through his heart again,
    And its dying pulse is quickened by the phantoms of his brain!
    And belovéd names he murmurs, while his bosom heaves and swells,
    For in dreams again he liveth through his partings and farewells!

    Slowly sinks the sun—night’s shadows round the lonely pilgrim spread—
    While the rising night-winds gently lift the light scarf from his
      head,
    And the soft and pitying moonbeams glance upon his forehead fair,
    And the dews of night descending damp the dark locks of his hair;
    Cool upon his brow they’re falling—but its fever-throbs are o’er—
    And his parched lips they moisten, but those lips shall thirst no
      more!

    His companions come at morning—come to look on his dead face,
    Come to lay him to his grave-rest, in that dreary desert place;
    Where the tropic sun glares fiercely on the wide, unsheltered plain,
    And where pour, from darkest heavens, rushing floods of winter rain!
    Where shall come the wild-bird’s screaming, and the whirlwind’s
      sounding sweep,
    And the tramp of herded bisons shall go thundering o’er his sleep.

    There are piteous sounds of mourning in a far off northern home,
    Where o’er childhood’s kindling dawn-light sudden clouds of darkness
      come—
    There are heard a father’s groanings, and a mother’s broken sighs—
    There a voiceless sorrow troubleth the clear deeps of maiden eyes.

    In their fearful dreams, at midnight, they behold him left to die,
    With the hard, hot ground beneath him, and above a brazen sky—
    In his fainting, in his thirsting, in his pain and wild despair,
    Vainly calling on his dear ones, through the heavy desert-air!
    Oh, the bitter self-reproaches mingled in the cup they drain!
    Oh, their poor hearts, pierced and tortured by a sharp, remorseful
      pain—
    That they sent their best and dearest from his home-love’s sheltering
      fold,
    In the madness of adventure, on that pilgrimage of gold.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                CLIFDON.


                            BY ANNE DRINKER.


                               CHAPTER I.

“FATHER! my father! in mercy!”

“Curse you!”

“My God!”

“Ay, curse you. For have you not turned to poison the life whose
blessing you were? Have you not dragged down my pride to the depths of
shame? Have you not made your father’s name a by-word for the lips of
the idle? Then curse you, Mabel Clifdon.”

And Philip Mordaunt paused, exhausted by his own violence; paused, with
lips trembling, with the hot blood mounting even to the white hairs
brushed from his massive forehead, with his strong form shattered as a
reed by the tempest of passion.

“Has not my agony washed out the blot of my transgression? Do I not
grovel at your feet, not for the aid I dare not hope, but for the pardon
God gives the vilest? Have I not suffered till my life has been to me a
torture and a curse, and a long remorse? Is it not enough, my father?”

“May your lips wither when you speak the word, ‘Father.’ Out upon you!”

“Merciful God!”

“Away! away! Out of the home you have forsaken! Away from the threshold
you pollute! May the memory of the mother murdered by your ingratitude,
of the childless and wifeless old man whose love you have turned to
hate, ever cling around your heart; ever poison, like a million of
curses, the well-spring of your life! away!”

But she lay there, buried in the long folds of her hair, the raven
masses that he had so often smoothed and played with, lay there like a
thing without sense or motion, save for the prolonged and bitter sobs
that burst forth at intervals, as though the very heart was cleft
asunder and breathing out its life.

And before her stood the stern old man, with his arms crossed upon his
broad chest, his pale lip compressed, and rigid as though cast in iron,
and his eye turned immovably on that prostrate form.

Around him were the evidences of his wealth. The marble fountain that
tossed its white spray, and rang forth its silver peel amid the rare and
tropical plants, whose perfume stole through the open blinds of the
conservatory; the rich drapery of the massive windows; the crimson of
the gilded and carved coaches; the deep and glowing dyes of the thick
carpets; the soft light of the crystal lamp that swung to and fro from
the frescoed ceiling, and the only child of the rich man crouched amid
the luxuries that had once been hers, in her mean and faded garb, dusty
and toil-worn, unmantled, save for the dark glory of those redundant
tresses.

Philip Mordaunt gazed, and for a moment his brow relaxed, and his voice
softened as he spoke again,

“Mabel.”

Eagerly she looked up; eagerly upon his stern care-worn face those wild
eyes turned, with a half hopeful, half doubting expression, that might
have softened a harder heart; but his was steeled against her.

“When you left my home and heart for a villain, I cursed you, Mabel
Clifdon. But I will unsay my curse; I will drag you from the shame into
which you have fallen. See, my arms are opened to receive you.”

“But Clifdon,” she murmured gaspingly, still crouching to the earth.

“Perdition seize him!”

She shuddered but spoke not.

“See,” murmured the old man, raising her slight form from the ground and
speaking kindly, but with a strange gleam in his eye, that mocked the
softness of his tones, “See how I woo you back again. I press you to my
heart; I smooth back these bright waves that I may kiss your cheek and
forehead as I did of old. Come back to the lone old man, who is dying in
the midst of his luxury, and all for lack of one dear heart to lean
upon. Sweet Mabel! darling! my own, my only child! hark how your mother
from her grave implores you. Return, forsake the villain who has wrought
us all this anguish.”

“Ah! no! no!”

“Then perish!” he said fiercely, dashing her violently to the earth, “Go
perish, fool, with all that you would cling to!”

Again she lay prostrate and half insensible, but with her breath coming
in short quick gasps, and the large tears working their way slowly and
painfully from beneath the broad white lids that closed above them.

For some minutes Mordaunt paced the room with rapid and impatient steps;
now, with a glance turned upon that shaken form, now, lost in thought.
Suddenly he paused, and that same cruel smile played within his cold
blue eye, though the lines about his mouth softened and his voice was
calm.

“You refuse to give me the surest evidence of your repentance,” he said.
“Prayers, tears, promises—empty air! I sicken of them. Yet, another
proof of your truth remains. You have a child, a son—,” he paused.

With a low cry she sprung to her feet, and stood gazing at him, with
lips slightly parted, and head bent forward in silent eagerness.

“I will rescue him from yon den of vice and pollution. I will take him
to my bosom as I would have taken the mother who bore him. But that
mother he must never know. Swear that his name shall never pass your
lips; swear that he shall be to you as the child of a stranger; that
your eyes shall never rest again upon his face. Swear this, and even he,
even the fruit of your transgression shall be forgiven.” He paused, and
bent his gaze upon her, as the torturer may look upon the victim whose
agonies his malice would prolong.

But she sprung to his feet, and, kneeling there, pressed her eager and
passionate kisses rapidly upon his garment, his hands, nay, even upon
the hem of his furred and silken robe.

“Said I in my heart that you were cruel? Take him, my beautiful, my
bright boy! Take him now in his purity! Wo! that guilt should reach him
even on his mother’s bosom! Take him, and I will bless you though you
trample me to the earth! I will pray for you as never lip prayed, though
your every word be a scorning and a curse. Speak those dear words again!
Say, ere my brain fails, that they deceived me not.”

He stood looking down upon her with a surprised and troubled expression.

“Do you yield him so readily?”

“Ay, and thank Heaven that I may.”

“Remember! never to reclaim him. Never to hear him call you mother;
never to look upon his baby face or to feel the clinging of his arms,
and the pressure of his lips upon yours.”

“In mercy—in mercy—ah! spare me!”

He was touched, even he, the cruel and unforgiving, by the helpless
agony of that clinging form, those faint and gasping words, but he was
silent, and an expression of doubt and irresolution crossed his face.

His offer, cold and cruel as it was, had been made in scorn, and he was
unprepared for acceptance. At last he spoke.

“Send the boy to me,” he said, pointing at the same time to the door.
“Send him, but look that you cross no more his path or mine. Go!” and as
he motioned her imperiously away, the suppliant arose and gathering up
again her long tresses, and shrouding her face beneath her hood,
departed, with the red spot burning on her cheek, and the smile of the
martyred within her eye and upon her lip.

“It is Mrs. Clifdon, pretty Mrs. Clifdon,” said one of a group of
gentlemen gathered near, as she passed down the marble steps and left
forever the door now closed upon her.

“What takes her to Mordaunt’s?” inquired another, staring after her with
a rude curiosity, that quickened her steps and made her heart beat with
apprehension.

“Don’t you remember? It is an old story. The disinherited child of
Philip Mordaunt, who ran off with a circus-rider some four or five years
ago. Clifdon, you know, handsome Ned Clifdon.”

“And has never been forgiven?”

“By yon piece of breathing marble? Never. And she was but a giddy
spoiled child, too, at the time; only sixteen, more to be pitied than
blamed, poor thing.”

On she hurried, with faltering steps; avoiding the bright and crowded
thoroughfares, to seek the more gloomy and deserted streets; thus, until
she paused before a large and gayly ornamented building and opening a
side-door, entered, and closed it behind her. Passing up the dark and
winding stair-case with a hasty tread, she paused, breathless, before a
small room, and through its half open door stood for a few minutes
gazing silently.

It was a strange scene that she looked upon. The apartment, with its
dusky walls and discolored floor, the rude form made to serve the
purpose of a chair, the rough table, upon which flared the dim and
misshapen lamp—all seemed to speak the abode of neglect and poverty.
But tossed upon the floor, the table, and upon the form beside the
cracked mirror, lay white and crimson plumes, mock jewels, that flashed
with a false glitter beneath the lamp-light, gaudy and bespangled
dresses, and lastly, the figure of the actor arrayed in his fanciful yet
not unbecoming attire.

He was tall, yet somewhat lightly built, and the close jacket of blue
and silver, with its fringed and spangled tunic, the buck-skin fitted
tightly around his lower limbs, the sandals donned in lieu of the heavy
boot, and laced around the slender and well-turned ankle, exhibited to
the utmost advantage a wonderful union of strength and beauty. A
light-blue cap, with its waving plumes and sparkling ornaments, lay upon
the table beside him, but his head was uncovered, and over the hands,
upon which his face was bowed, fell the raven and glossy curls, in
almost feminine profusion.

“Ned!”

He started to his feet, and clasped in his own the little hand that had
fallen so tremulously upon his shoulder.

“Dear Mabel!”

She smiled in his face and strove to speak, but in vain, and bowing her
face upon the hand she held, she wept, long and bitterly.

He looked upon her with a changing countenance, now with an expression
of strange, half-womanish tenderness within his deep-blue eye, now, with
the deadly white of agony settling around his lips, and the sharp glance
of fear wandering to the door and out, as though it would penetrate the
dark, still, passage, and when he spoke it was in a voice tremulous with
emotion.

“Speak Mabel. Did you succeed? Is there hope left? For God’s sake
speak!” and clinging to his arm for support, she did speak, briefly,
rapidly, as though every word were a pang she sought to spare him.

He listened to the whole in silence, with his eyes fixed upon her
colorless face.

“I looked for nothing more,” he said at last. “Hope did not delay me.”

“Delay you, Edward.”

“I mean that I never built upon it,” he said hurriedly, and averting his
eyes, “I meant but that.”

She looked upon him with a troubled face, as he paced the floor of the
little apartment, and spoke again, but hesitatingly.

“You will give up the boy, Edward?”

“I have no right to give him a prison roof when a better offers,” said
Clifdon bitterly. “He has the Mordaunt face, and more of the Mordaunt
blood than mine. Ay, send him, he might curse me for the love that would
keep him.”

“Hush! hush! dearest: never talk so wildly. I will go to Brendon, I will
kneel again and pray for mercy, for delay. I will walk the very streets
a beggar till the debt is paid. Only speak not so. Is there not hope?”

He tossed back the bright dark hair as though an insufferable weight
were pressing upon his temples, and flinging open a window, leaned out
and gasped for breath. When he again drew back his face was calm, but
his voice sounded with unnatural hollowness.

“If Mark Brendon sees to-morrow’s light, Mabel, your husband lies in a
debtor’s prison, without the means to work for his freedom. And he will
be there forever.”

“Not so, Clifdon, I shall be alone—” her voice faltered despite her
efforts, “unburthened, and I can work.”

“_You_,” he said, abruptly pausing before her; and taking in his own her
white, small hands, he gazed upon them with a smile of bitter mockery.
“You would have starved—you would starve, Mabel, without a friend or a
hope in this wide world. You would die unheeded at the threshold of him
you have forsaken for—your husband.”

She shuddered; not at his words, but at the strange expression within
his eye and upon his lip.

“When I took you from your palace-home, Mabel, it was with the love of a
man young in the world, and young in sorrow. Now would I give my right
hand to place you there again. To part from you Mabel, never more to
look upon your face, or to rest upon your bosom and listen to your sweet
voice, when my head is throbbing with the weariness and tumult of yon
accursed buffoonery. Will you leave me? I bid you go.”

“Leave you?”

“Hark, Mabel, hark! Suppose the hand you clasp and wet with your tears,
were double dyed in guilt; that it were red even with the blood of
murder, (ay, shudder and grow pale and blench away!) If I told you this,
that I was a demon walking hand in hand through earth with an angel,
that I had sinned too deeply even to meet your eye or to hear your
voice, would I drive you from me?”

“If I could believe.”

“You would cling to me in sorrow, but not in guilt, Mabel,” he said,
regarding her with a look of jealous suspicion.

“Through the darkest deeps of shame and misery. I will forsake thee only
with death! Yet, oh! my husband, wherefore torture me thus?”

“Because I would drive you from me,” he said, with violence the more
exaggerated because unreal; “Go, woman, I love you not! Go! back to your
home! Away from one you burthen and weary!”

She looked at him for an instant doubtingly, but his brows were gathered
into a heavy frown, and his eyes from beneath their long lashes flashed
fire upon her. With a low moan she sunk fainting at his feet.

“I have done my duty,” he murmured, as he raised her tenderly in his
arms and kissed, again and again, her damp cheek and forehead, “she
would not leave me—God is my witness there. Dear Mabel! my own sweet
wife! hark how I unsay those cruel words.”

She replied not, but raised her eyes to his, and in that one look of
unutterable affection he read how futile had been his effort, how mighty
a thing is love.

A bell rang below, and at the same moment a footstep was heard in the
passage, and a child sprung into the room, and to Mabel’s side.

“I must go,” said Clifdon, starting. “Lock the door, and remain here
until I return to take you home. Phil, stay with your mother.”

“Let _me_ go,” said the boy, pressing to his side, and playing with the
silver fringe of his tunic. “Let me see you ride White Fleeta once more
around the ring—only once. Ah, mamma, it is so beautiful!”

“No, no!” said Clifdon, impatiently. “It is no place for you. Come,
come, I must go.”

“Bring me down, then, where Mark is on the swing,” persisted the little
one, coaxingly. “Let me see Mark swing.”

A dark cloud swept over his father’s face, and extricating his dress
with a smothered imprecation, he turned toward the door.

“Lend me your knife, then,” said Philip, springing forward and again
grasping his dress; and throwing it hastily to the petitioner, Clifdon
hurried down stairs.

He flung open the door of an apartment in the lower passage, and
striding through without a glance at the gayly-bedizened throng there
assembled, led forward a powerful white mare that stood saddled and
bridled, and appeared to busy himself with its glittering trappings.

“How now, Captain Ned, gallant Captain Ned,” said one, advancing from
the group with a jeering smile and a grotesque bow. “I looked to White
Fleeta myself, and you are pulling to pieces my work without mercy.”

“Her throat-latch is too tight,” said Clifdon, bending over the animal
till the long plumes of his cap swept its glossy mane.

But the clown, for such was the post the first speaker held in the
company, pressed yet closer, and attempted to touch the small ears that
were now laid angrily back.

“You fret her,” said Clifdon, impatiently; “stand aside.”

The man winced in affected terror, and springing back, crouched, panting
and fanning himself with his large hat, twisting his features meanwhile
into a grimace that elicited shouts of laughter from his companions.

Placed above the mass of his profession by education, and somewhat by
birth, Clifdon was, of course, to many, an object of jealousy; and
although none dared to come forward singly, all willingly encouraged and
sided with their comrade.

“We look sad to-night, gallant Captain Ned,” he said, advancing again
with an affected shuffle and a sidelong movement. “Are we in love, or in
debt; or has the pretty bird that we lock up so carefully flown off to a
golden cage?”

“Peace,” said Clifdon, turning toward his tormentor with so black a
frown that he started and changed countenance. “Peace, fool!”

“You have given me my title,” said the other, with a mock bow and a
smile where rage and malice badly counterfeited mirth. “_I_ am not
ashamed of my profession, handsome Captain Ned.”

“Come, come,” said a third, advancing slowly, “stand back Tom,” to the
clown, “the captain and I have some business matters to arrange.”

“Ay, ay,” said the person addressed, with a significant wink; and
crossing the room by a succession of somersets, he disappeared through
the opposite door.

The last comer was a short and slightly-built man, clad from head to
foot in buck-skin, save for the scarlet and gold garment that girded
around his waist, was fastened at each knee by a garter and clasp of
some brilliant material. His hair, instead of flowing in the long, loose
curls affected by most of his companions, had been shorn close to the
head, leaving exposed the low and sensual formation of the forehead, and
the large ears, that, flapping and shapeless, hung forward like those of
an animal. The flat nose, the high cheek-bones; the thick and habitually
up-curved lips, the small, gray eye lurking beneath its over-hanging
brow, and, above all, the extraordinary length of the arms, gave to this
remarkable person more the appearance of a species of the monkey tribe
than of a human being.

“The money, Ned; I swear I will wait no longer.”

“To-morrow,” said Clifdon, hoarsely, and bending as if to tighten the
saddle-girth.

“On your word?” repeated Brendon, for it was he, with a glance of
incredulity.

“Ay—begone!”

The other turned upon his heel with a prolonged whistle, and Clifdon,
vaulting into the saddle, awaited the signal for his appearance.


                              CHAPTER II.

Once, twice, thrice around the ring on the flying steed, with foot
scarce resting on the gilded saddle, and hand from which the silken rein
hung slack and unguiding. And with clapping and shouts of admiration the
people hailed their favorite, who bowed, and raised his plumed cap, and
smiled as though no breath of care or passion had ever dimmed the lustre
of his sparkling beauty.

Again, again around the ring, and with a bound over the light barrier,
White Fleeta and her rider disappeared amid the vociferous plaudits of
the crowd; and springing from the saddle, Clifdon flung himself upon a
chair, panting and exhausted, with his lips working, and his hands
clasped upon his closed eyes.

A laugh at some gay witticism, and a roar of applause from the multitude
as Mark Brendon entered. Clifdon started from his seat, and partially
drawing the red curtain, stood and looked out quivering, and yet gazing
as if fixed by some horrid fascination.

At some distance from the ground, and secured by strong iron hooks to
the ceiling hung a thick rope-swing, into which, mounting on his
companion’s shoulders, Brendon was about to vault. When, supported by
the herculean strength of the clown, he shook it, as if to prove the
fidelity of that to which his life was to be intrusted, the form of that
unseen watcher swayed like a reed, and the moisture gathered and rolled
in thick drops from his brow and lip.

A vault, a shout from the crowd, and Brendon was fixed securely in the
swing, that already moved slowly to and fro. And with eyes of horrible
eagerness, with grinding teeth, and hands so madly clinched that the
nails, unheeded, were driven into the flesh, Clifdon bent forward his
head and gazed.

It was as though a species of insanity possessed him.

Lazily the rope swung to and fro.

Suddenly its motion quickened. Then faster and faster, until with
frightful velocity the swinger dashed from the opposite extremities of
the room with a force that brought him almost in contact with the lofty
ceiling. Stimulated alternately by the deafening plaudits, the silent
terror of the gazers, his efforts became each moment more tremendous.

Now he swung, supported only by one clinging hand; now suddenly
suspended by his feet, while a shriek of horror mimicked by the grinning
clown, rang from some quarter of the wide apartment.

“Frightful!” exclaimed a bystander.

And as she spoke, with the hideous speed of a ball dashed from the
cannon’s mouth, the body of the actor was hurled, once against the
gilded chandelier, once against the painted walls of the saloon, and
then, with a dull rebound to the earth, where it lay still and
breathless, while the rope to which it yet hung fell, severed, beside
it.

No one spoke, no one moved. Each seemed transfixed with unutterable
horror. Then from the awful silence, as if to break its spell, arose a
shriek, shrill and piercing.

And leaping hurriedly from the boxes, and over the surrounding barriers,
with exclamations and bursts of smothered horror, the multitude pressed
around the prostrate form.

They raised it and looked upon it. A ghastly sight! From the glaring and
upturned eye; from the distorted form, life seemed to have departed; but
through the blue lips oozed slowly a purple foam, and across the brow a
single vein grew black and knotted, and worked like a reptile in its
death-agony.

“It is all over,” whispered a bystander, as even this lothesome motion
ceased; and his words were passed from mouth to mouth in murmurs that
scarcely broke the silence into which the crowd again had hushed.

There, from his lurking place, still gazed the husband of Mabel Clifdon;
but his form no longer swayed and quivered, and his face was like
marble. Only from beneath his bent brows shot a strange and terrible
fire.

It was as though a demon had entered the sculptured form of an angel,
and concealed beneath its beauty, betrayed only through the insensible
eyes, the baleful hideousness of his presence.

The crowd began to disperse, at first singly, and then in whispering
groups, but he stirred not; some one even shouted his name, but he stood
without the power to move.

Something brushed against his shoulder, and a low neigh sounded
thrillingly in his ear. He turned, and with her large, dark, half human
eyes fixed upon him, White Fleeta stood beside her master.

It seemed as if that gentle and tender gaze had suddenly broken the
fearful spell that bound him, for flinging himself to the earth with a
burst of passion, Clifdon lay there, convulsed and agonized, while the
animal that his hands had ever fed, and that loved him as it is in the
nature of its generous kind to love, knelt by his side, and with a soft
moan, rubbed her glossy head against his shoulder.

Again his name was shouted, and springing to his feet, he stood for a
few minutes struggling with mighty efforts to regain his composure; and
then, deadly pale, but calm, drew back the curtain, and once more
entered the saloon.

The crowd had utterly dispersed, but the body of the dead man had been
stretched upon a form which several of the company were bearing to the
door.

“Lend us a hand, Clifdon,” said the voice that had before summoned him,
“you are the strongest of us.”

“Not I,” said Clifdon, turning away to conceal the spasm that distorted
his features. “I saw the whole—I am shaken with horror.”

There was something in his voice that silenced them, for, without
further remonstrance, they passed on, leaving him standing alone with
the clown.

“It is horrible!” said Clifdon, in a low tone, and with a shudder.

“Horrible!” echoed the jester. Then, after a pause, raising his eyes
with a steady gaze, he continued. “The rope broke, it seems. This strong
rope—incredible!”

The other replied not.

“You are freed from your debt, Captain Ned,” resumed the clown, playing
carelessly, as he spoke, with the broken rope. “You are safe now.”

“Name it not,” said Clifdon hoarsely, and turning away.

An exclamation from his companion called him back.

“It is strange,” said the clown intently examining the ragged piece of
rope. “Here is a drop of blood—a single drop of blood; just where it
was broken off near the ceiling. How came it here?”

“It fell from the body,” whispered Clifdon.

“The body did not bleed, except at the mouth, where the blood was mixed
with froth, and could not leave so dark a stain.”

“You are swelling a trifle into importance,” said Clifdon, impatiently.
“The spot may be accounted for in a thousand ways; it may not even be
blood.”

His companion did not reply, but threw aside the rope as if convinced.
Suddenly he stooped and raised from the ground some glittering substance
that had apparently fallen from it.

“What is it?” asked Clifdon.

“Nothing; a silver fringe, or a spangle, I believe,” said the other,
calmly. Then, with a rapid glance, “You have cut your finger, gallant
Captain Ned.”

“A trifle,” said Clifdon, hastily, but coloring as he spoke. “I cut it
with some of White Fleeta’s showy trappings, and it bleeds afresh.” And
turning upon his heel, he strode from the saloon.


                              CHAPTER III.

Fifteen years had elapsed since the occurrence of the incidents recorded
in my last chapter, when a company of circus-riders took up their abode
for the night in a village of one of our northern states. It was late in
the autumn, and after having satisfactorily disposed of their baggage
and horses, most of the travelers were glad to find refuge in the
spacious bar-room of the village tavern, where the blaze that roared and
crackled up the wide chimney, seemed in its cheerfulness almost a
sufficient recompense for the day’s journey. Chilled by the evening air,
wearied by their dreary march, and little inclined at any time to be
regardful of ceremony, each of the party had chosen the position most
conducive to his own comfort; and while some occupied the settees and
arm-chairs dispersed around the apartment, their companions stretched
themselves upon the floor and round the glowing hearth.

Apart from them, and reading, or affecting to read, for, although he had
held the volume for many minutes, the page remained unturned, sat one
who by word nor look took part in their merriment. With his arm resting
on the little table beside him, and his eyes shaded by the hand, over
which had fallen a profusion of dark silvered curls, he kept his eye
immovably upon his book, and neither looked up nor stirred.

“Look at Clifdon,” said one of the company, to his companions, “he is in
his dark mood to-night.”

“He is ever gloomy,” said the person addressed.

“True,” returned the first speaker, “he has never been the same since
the death of his pretty wife. Let me see, that was fifteen years ago,
soon after Mark Brendon was killed.”

“Ned was one of the same company?”

“Ay, ay. You should have seen us then. I was clown, with limbs a trifle
lighter than now; and Clifdon—as I said, he has never been the same
since her death.”

“She left but one child?”

“You mistake, she died in giving birth to pretty Lilia; but there was a
son, who was sent to old Mordaunt. Little Phil; he must almost be of age
now.”

The noise made by a vehicle dashing rapidly up to the tavern-door
arrested their attention, and the conversation was suspended.

There was a sound of heavy boots ringing upon the stone pavements as the
travelers sprung to the ground, a loud barking, and then a voice, whose
deep bass was like the reverberation of distant thunder, was heard
exclaiming, “Down, Pedro! Ho, there! Down close! Back to! Unbuckle the
leash, Philip.”

Then the voice of the host, like the yelp of a puppy after the growl of
a mastiff. “Fire, gentlemen? Yes, fire in the bar-room. This way, this
way.”

The door was flung open, and a man advanced in life, but of almost
gigantic height and proportions, entered the room. A heavy furred
over-coat was tightly buttoned across his broad chest, and the black
hunting-cap, which he had disdained to remove, shaded a brow, white and
massive as a slab of marble. Upon his shoulder rested a superbly
finished rifle, and from the flaps of his surcoat-pocket protruded the
silver handle of his hunting-knife. He was followed by a handsome youth
of about twenty, who, as he entered, shook the moisture from his
over-coat, and lifting his cap, brushed off the snow that had powdered
the shining sable of his hair. Two powerful hounds, of a rare and
foreign breed, sprung before him and secured their places by the hearth,
shaking vigorously as they passed, the water from their chilled limbs
upon those around them.

“Room here!” said the elder stranger, imperiously; and they whom he
addressed, intimidated, though resentful, moved back, while the new
comers drew their chairs before the fire.

A dead silence had succeeded their boisterous mirth, and while the elder
of the sportsmen sat wrapped in thought, his young companion, with a
countenance expressive of the most extreme ennui, occupied himself
alternately by pushing with his boot the logs that, when disturbed, sent
a torrent of bright sparks crackling up the chimney, and by teasing the
drowsy hounds stretched beside him.

Still apparently intent upon his book, but gazing earnestly upon the
twain through his parted fingers, sat Edward Clifdon.

At last the elder stranger spoke, but in German, to his companion. “I
have decided, Philip,” he said, abruptly. “You are young—too young; yet
I leave you your own master. I give my consent to your marriage some few
years hence, with the woman you have chosen, and chosen, I trust,
wisely.”

“A thousand, thousand thanks, my dear father,” began the youth, with
animation; but Mordaunt, for it was he, checked him.

“Thanks! yes, that I have decided in accordance with your wishes,” he
said, bitterly; “but had it been otherwise—how then, Philip?”

His companion spoke not, but looked deeply hurt.

“I have seen enough of filial disobedience,” said Mordaunt, rising as he
spoke, “to be doubtful with regard to the result; but we will let that
pass. Nay, no thanks, if you please; I am weary, and you know how I
detest a scene. Good night!” And striding hastily across the room, he
retired.

His grandson, or, as Philip Clifdon had been taught to believe himself,
his son, did not follow, but falling back in his chair, and planting his
feet upon the broad hearth, abandoned himself to vague and delicious
revery.

The constraint which the presence of Mordaunt had imposed, wore off with
his disappearance, until Philip, disturbed by the loud voices and
ringing laughter of those around, roused himself, and addressed a few
words to him who has been announced as the former clown of the little
company.

Clifdon had disappeared.

In the course of conversation with this man, young Clifdon, or rather
Mordaunt, for he bore the name of his supposed parent, had occasion to
draw forth and open his pen-knife. A singular dilation of the eye, a
sudden flush upon the countenance of his companion, arrested his
attention, but was forgotten, as the ex-clown, recovering his composure,
quietly observed,

“That is a curious blade—will you let me examine it?”

Young Mordaunt resigned it carelessly into his hands, remarking, “It is
a knife I seldom use, but having lost that I ordinarily carry, I have
been obliged to bring it forward.”

“It is an old-fashioned piece of work,” said Garvin, for such was his
name, earnestly examining it. “I think I have seen it before.”

“I value it as one that has been in my possession from my childhood,”
returned Philip. “It has served me trustily.”

“Here is a broken point,” said Garvin, opening a second blade. “What a
pity!”

“It has been broken ever since my remembrance,” returned the other.

As he spoke, his companion rising, either accidentally, or, as Philip
afterward suspected, from design, managed to catch with his foot the leg
of a table upon which a group of his companions had arranged their
smoking glasses. It was overthrown; and after the confusion this created
had in a measure subsided, Mordaunt looked in vain for the author of the
mischief. He had vanished, and with him the borrowed knife.

“So much for my confounded carelessness,” said the youth, internally, as
half vexed, half amused, he left the bar-room. “I will see to this
to-morrow; but not to-night, not to-night.” And why “not to-night” might
have been explained by the dreams that floated through his brain, as
beneath the moon that shone brightly in the now cloudless sky, he paced
to and fro upon the broad piazza of the inn.


                              CHAPTER IV.

Upon a couch, in one corner of a mean apartment, with folded arms and a
countenance livid with despair, sat Edward Clifdon; and before him, with
an exulting smile, stood the man who had so dexterously escaped during
the confusion in the bar-room.

“It is as I tell you, Clifdon,” he said, “the proofs are in my
possession. See you now. The drop of blood and your wounded finger; the
broken point which fell from the twist of the rope, and which tallies
exactly with the knife found in the possession of your own son—the
knife I have seen you use a hundred times; the money due from you to the
murdered man; your previous quarrel. Truly as that I now stand before
you, Edward Clifdon, it was your hand that tampered with the swing from
which Mark Brendon fell to meet his death.”

Huge drops gathered upon the brow of the wretched man, but no words fell
from his blanched and quivering lips.

“It was the horror of that thought that killed your wife,” pursued his
tormentor. “_I_ knew it; _I_ needed no further proof. But you are in my
power now, mine enemy.”

“Do as you will,” said Clifdon, gradually recovering from the shock
inflicted by this sudden and terrific accusation, and speaking with a
remnant of his ancient pride. “If years of anguish and remorse, and the
loss of her who was dearer than life’s self, be not sufficient
punishment, death has none darker.”

“Brave words!” said Garvin, sneering. “Will you stand up in the open
court, to be branded as a murderer? Will you receive the penalty the law
awards your crime?”

“Man!” said Edward Clifdon, sternly, and raising his shaken form from
the couch upon which he had fallen, “I tell you that in one moment of
remorse, one glance to the dark past, there may be more horror than in
all the shame and agony of the hangman’s rope; and if by my death I may
expiate before human eyes the sin that I have repented before my God, I
tell thee, I will meet it, and never tremble.”

“And your children?” returned the other, with a sardonic smile. “Your
little Lilia, and your boy, with his haughty brow and curling lip? Think
you they will not die for shame? A goodly heritage would you leave
them!”

Clifdon bowed his face upon his hands and groaned aloud.

“Revenge for me!” pursued his companion, tauntingly. “Revenge, to heap
ashes upon the head of the old man who looked scorn upon me to-night!
Revenge, to humble the gay youth who has already learned his pride!
Revenge, to see the beauty I covet cast friendless upon the world, and
perchance within my reach!”

With a wild cry Clifdon threw himself at his feet.

“Spare me!” he said; “spare them! By the heaven above us, I swear, that
from this moment I will be your slave! See, I kneel to you, mine enemy!
I will crouch beneath your feet; I will beg for you, toil for you; I
will bind myself to you, body and soul—only spare them!”

“No!—never! never!”

“Hark, man! If you have a human soul, listen to me! When I did the deed,
it was to save my wife, my child from starvation, from madness. I
thought not of myself, Garvin; by the great God, I did not! And by the
loss of the child I loved, of the wife for whom I had periled my soul;
by years of lone remorse and agony I was punished. Pity me! Pity
them—the boy with her sweet eyes and her smiling lips; the child she
left me on her death-bed—my little Lilia! Oh, mercy! mercy!”

Like the shriek of a damned spirit thrilled those last words.

“Give me Lilia,” said Garvin, eagerly, and bending forward.

“Monster!” shouted Clifdon, springing to his feet. “Name her not, lest,
tempted to a second crime, I strangle thee on the spot! To thee—_thee_?
My pure, my pretty Lilia? Sooner let her lie before me, with her winding
sheet about her! To _thee_? Off, monster! Off, hell-hound—off!”

Intimidated, Garvin retreated, but with outstretched arms his victim
followed. One moment more, and with the blood gushing from his mouth and
distended nostril, he had fallen to the floor. The tempest of passion
had proved too much for a frame already long shaken by fear and anguish;
and as Garvin, horror-stricken, raised him to the couch, life seemed
almost extinct.

A physician was called in, whose remedies stopped the immediate flow of
blood, but who attempted to give no hope of recovery. Ere he left the
room, however, the senses of his patient returned.

“Clear the room,” he said, in a low voice to Garvin, “and call _them_
both. If you are not fiend, do this.”

His orders were obeyed, and marveling at the summons, young Mordaunt
shortly after followed his grandfather to the room of the dying man.

A single lamp cast its dull rays through the deserted apartment upon the
deathly face of him who, with livid and muttering lips, and glassy,
upturned eyes, seemed uttering his last prayer to the unknown God, unto
whose throne his spirit was fleeting. But rarely beautiful amid the
gloom and horror of that desolate chamber, radiantly fair as a single
star shining through the hideous rack of the tempest, knelt by the
bedside, a girl—a child of fifteen summers; and with her hands clasped,
and the braids and curls of pale-brown hair showering from her upraised
face, upon the folds of her white night-robe, she looked up fearlessly,
as though through the dark-stained roof, she gazed, amid the blue above,
up into the mercy-seat of heaven.

And ever and anon the dying man tossed upon his bed, muttering with
ghastly lips, “Pray for me, Lilia; _thy_ lips are pure—pray!” and the
child prayed earnestly.

A slight movement of those without attracted his attention, and raising
himself in his bed with reviving strength, he beckoned the elder
Mordaunt to his side.

“This is death,” he murmured, “terrible, terrible death! Look upon it,
old man, and refuse, if you can, the mercy my God will not deny me!”

“What would you with me?” said Mordaunt, moving restlessly. “What would
you, Edward Clifdon, for I know you now?”

“Mercy, mercy!” said the dying man. “You cursed _her_ that she clung to
me, and _I_ pray for your forgiveness. Let me bear your pardon to her
whither I go.”

“Is she then dead?” said Mordaunt, quickly.

“Thank God that I may say it! Thank God, save for Lilia’s sake!”

“And Lilia,” said Mordaunt, after a deep pause.

“Her child, her last-born, who is even now at my side. And for her, and
for her only, would I supplicate!” As he spoke, he would have thrown
himself from his bed, but his companion forcibly withheld him.

“Kneel not to _me_!” he said, sternly. “My forgiveness is yours; but I
have sworn, and my oath may not be broken. Kneel not to _me_.” But as he
spoke, his eye wandered toward his grandson.

“It shall never pass my lips,” said Clifdon, eagerly, and catching that
roving glance. “He shall never hear from me, and Lilia knows it not.”

Mordaunt understood him. “Call him,” he said, turning away. “I forbid
you not.” And Philip, summoned, advanced, wondering, to the bedside.

But as Clifdon gazed upon the face of him he yearned to clasp to his
bosom and call his son, speech utterly deserted him, and with a face of
anguish and wringing hands, he could only point to the crouching form
beside him, and the bright head that was now buried amid the drapery of
the couch.

And over the soul of the young man there seemed to come a vague and
singular remembrance; and pressing his hand upon his brow, he stood like
one who strives to recall a bygone thought that ever, despite his
efforts, eludes his grasp.

Clifdon was the first to break this dangerous silence.

“Lilia!” he said, and she raised her face, no longer rapt and beaming,
but pallid as his own, and deluged with her flowing tears.

“We are strangers,” said Clifdon, turning to Philip, and speaking with
difficulty, “nevertheless, as the ear of God is open alike to all, so
may one of his creatures in the extremity of need, call upon his fellow.
I call upon _you_ now, as you value the mercy of that God, to be
merciful.”

“Speak on,” said Philip, with emotion, and bending over the lowly couch.

“Look at my child!” said Clifdon, with a cry of anguish; “on the child I
have kept pure as the spirit of her mother! Look upon her. Shall she be
cast upon the wide world to eat the bread of shame or starve?”

With a quivering lip the youth averted his eyes.

“Take her, oh, take her!” murmured the dying man. “She is yours! be unto
her as a brother! Save her, I pray you! Snatch my lamb from the jaws of
the wolf!”

Still hesitating, Philip raised his eyes to his grandfather’s face.

“I leave you free,” said Mordaunt, in a voice hoarse with emotion; “be
it as you will.”

With a sudden impulse, the young man bent down and raised in his arms
the light and childish form. But she struggled for freedom.

“Ah! no, no!” she shrieked, “I will go with thee, my father!”

“Lilia—child—in mercy!—you harrow my soul!”

Instantly she was motionless, but her face became like death, as it
rested on the bosom of her supporter, and from beneath her delicate lids
the large tears stole silently.

Deeper and more labored became the respiration of the dying man; and as
the agony of death wrung the drops from his working brow, he murmured
unconsciously her name.

In a moment she was at his side, with her small arms clasped across his
heaving chest, and her eyes turned eagerly upon his face.

“Lilia! my precious one—my child! _her_ blessing, not mine, rest upon
thee!”

“Thine! thine, my father!—Leave me thine!”

He raised himself in his bed, and with her little hands clasped in his
own, spoke solemnly, and in a firm voice.

“Not with the lips of purity, not with the heart of the upright man may
I invoke a blessing on thee, my Lilia. But if love, perfect love, that
has never known chill or change; that has kept thee inviolate in the
midst of guilt, and lovely, though surrounded by corruption—if such can
win a smile from Heaven, it is thine.”

His head sunk lower and lower, until it rested upon her innocent brow,
and upon her shining curls. Suddenly she started with a piteous cry.

“He is cold! he is dead! Leave me not yet, oh, my father!” and lifeless
as the corse beside her, the orphan fell to the ground.

Yet a few days, and Philip Mordaunt, strong in the hopes of youth and
love, passed forever from the house of death. Unconscious that the
little being, whose fair head rested upon his bosom, and whose welfare
he had sworn to guard with a brother’s love, possessed indeed a sister’s
claim; unconscious that his presence had soothed the dying hour of a
parent; unconscious how nearly he had been sent forth branded as the son
of a felon. Thus tread we ever blindly amid the precipices of our fate.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              BIRD-NOTES.


                          BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.


    Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and
    the turtle, and the crane and the swallow, observe the time of
    their coming. JER. C. VII. V. 7.

    THE stork in heaven knoweth
      Her own appointed time,
    And like an arrow goeth
      Back to our colder clime:
    The turtle, crane and swallow
      Come, on unerring wing,
    When northern hill and hollow
      Bask in the light of Spring.

    But we, endowed with reason,
      Cannot foreknow the hour—
    The sweet, appointed season
      For bursting of Hope’s flower;
    When near the glad fruition
      Of toil that worked annoy—
    When sorrow’s drear condition
      Gives place to heart-felt joy.

    Lo! blighting frost encroaches
      On Autumn’s sad domain,
    And Winter wild approaches
      To end his feeble reign:
    The birds of passage gather
      And fly across the wave,
    Their guide a Heavenly Father,
      Omnipotent to save;

    But man, with reason gifted,
      Cannot the hour foreknow
    When Hope’s bright curtain lifted
      Reveals a waste of wo;
    When clouds send lightning flashes
      Our idols to consume,
    And dreams, resolved to ashes,
      Are scattered on his tomb.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                     THE DAWN OF THE HUNDRED DAYS.


                          BY R. J. DE CORDOVA.


THE evening of a cold and stormy day in February had just set in, when a
traveling carriage of rather a better order than usual arrived at the
gates of the large and populous town of L——, in the south of France.
The horses were covered with foam, and hung their heads with that jaded
appearance of fatigue which tells of the labors of a long and hasty
journey. The postillion presented the anomalous appearance of a
dispirited Frenchman. Drenched to the skin, and bespattered with mud, he
descended from his seat on the near horse, and ejaculating with
considerable fervor that pithy monosyllable “_peste!_” which Sterne has
rendered famous, he opened the door of the vehicle for the travelers to
alight.

The interior of the carriage was occupied by two men, of whom this elder
might be five-and-thirty years of age, and the younger nineteen. The one
was a handsome, bold-looking, tall man, with rather large black
moustaches, and eyes of the same color; the younger had soft and
delicate features, much more effeminate than manly, but prepossessing
and attractive, with blue eyes, delicate brown moustaches and whiskers,
and dark brown hair. The younger of the travelers awoke as the carriage
stopped, and called to the other in a delicate and musical voice, which
quite accorded with his juvenile appearance, “Rouse up, Pierre; we are
already at L.” The sleeper awoke at the summons, and motioning his
companion to be silent, bade the postillion call the sergeant of the
guard, and request him to attend at the door of the carriage, in order
to _viser_ the passports, as the travelers were invalids whom it would
be dangerous to remove. The boy did as he was desired, and in a few
moments returned with the officer of the guard, who bore a huge sword in
one hand and a lantern in the other.

“Bon soir, Monsieur l’officier,” said the elder traveler.

“Bon soir, Monsieur le voyageur,” returned the other drily.

“Do you know the reason, M. l’officier, why I have come to L.?” asked M.
Pierre.

“_Dame!_” replied the officer, “how should I know why you have come to
L.? My business is to see that your passports are correct, if you
please, and I will trouble you to show them to me as early as you can
make it convenient to do so, for standing in the rain does not benefit
the constitution.”

“I am sorry,” returned the traveler, “that you have so little curiosity,
my friend; but as you will not ask me the question, I will give you the
reason of my own accord. I came here because I knew that Jacques Lapin
would be the officer on guard to-night, and would allow me to pass even
if he suspected my disguise.”

“Diable!” shouted the other—“Eh! pardieu! no man knows me by that name
except my former colonel, Monsieur Desart,” and he looked up in the face
of his visiter by the light of the lantern which he held in his hand.
“Ventrebleu! it is indeed he, and the other must be—”

“Silence!” interrupted the colonel. “Here are the passports, let them be
_visées_ directly.”

The alacrity with which the order was obeyed manifested some authority
on the one hand, and no small amount of obedience on the other. In
considerably less time than usual the passports were returned to the
travelers, the gloomy postillion mounted to his former perch, and the
carriage slowly rumbled through the ill-paved, ill-lighted, and
otherwise ill-appointed town of L.

Until they reached the hotel neither of the travelers could trust
himself to speak. The victory over impending danger and the present
sense of security were too much for words. But as soon as the door of
the double-bedded room which they had ordered had closed upon them, they
threw themselves into each other’s arms, and sunk on their knees
together in gratitude for their deliverance.

Colonel Desart had risen from a very humble rank in a foot regiment to
be its colonel. He in a great measure owed his promotion to courage,
excellent military judgment, and that admirable _savoir-faire_ which is
peculiarly characteristic of an educated Frenchman. He was,
nevertheless, indebted for much of the signal good fortune which
attended his rise to the partiality of the emperor. Napoleon, who was a
profound believer in physiognomy, and who moreover prided himself on
being an almost infallible physiognomist, imagined that he could
discover marks of great fidelity in the lineaments of Desart’s visage,
and trusted him accordingly. Nor was he mistaken; for Desart was ever
grateful for the patronage bestowed, and the kindness which was
manifested toward him.

It was owing to this partiality that Desart had been able to intercede
successfully with the emperor for the life of Jacques Lapin, who had
once been condemned to be shot, for a frolick which might have been
attended with serious consequences. Nothing would please M. Jacques
Lapin, private of the —th foot, on the evening before Jena, when it was
absolutely necessary that the position of the army should be kept as
much as possible from the knowledge of the enemy, but to adorn two
stuffed images of the Emperor of Austria and his imperial spouse with
heavy cartridges, and display the same by the aid of fire before the
eyes of his delighted countrymen. The reflection of Lapin’s pyrotechnic
pleasantry shone even in the tent of Napoleon. The offender was dragged
forth and ordered for instant execution. But Desart seized the moment
when the emperor’s anger had somewhat abated, ridiculed the exhibition
of the unfortunate artiste, proved to demonstration that he had been
incited thereto only by his hatred of the enemies of France, got the
emperor into good temper and secured a pardon for Lapin, who, as we have
seen, did not omit to be grateful in the hour of need.

After basking for so long a period in the sunshine of the emperor’s
favor it was with sincere grief that Desart learned, on his return from
Moscow, after a long and tedious illness which afflicted him on his way,
that his patron and benefactor had quitted France and was then in the
island of Elba. His first impulse was to disregard his own feelings as a
husband, to leave, for his young and amiable wife, the still ample
remnant of his once considerable fortune, and to follow his illustrious
patron to his place of exile. But the formation of those wild but heroic
clubs of “Buonapartists” led him to change his determination. He felt
that he could do more good to the cause of the emperor by assisting it
with his counsel, and, if necessary, with his sword, than if he were to
retire to the presence of Napoleon for the purpose of sharing an exile
which, to say the least, was inactive and useless. He therefore resolved
to remain in France. He joined one of the most powerful of these clubs,
and became so enthusiastic in his desire for an immediate counter
revolution that he was unable, in public, sufficiently to conceal his
political bias. He soon fell under the suspicion of the suspicious
court, and was fortunate enough to receive, from a devoted brother
officer, information of an arrest having been signed, within a minute or
two after that document had passed under the hands of the minister. He
had scarcely time to effect the necessary disguise of his person, and to
pass through one of the gates of Paris, before the alarm was given
generally, and ordered to be disseminated throughout the provinces. With
the aid of an old passport, however, the date of which had been
ingeniously altered, he contrived to evade all the posts on the route,
until he arrived at L., where his confidence in his disguise failed him,
and he resolved rather to trust to the fidelity and gratitude of his
former subordinate soldier.

Le Chevalier Pierre Babat de la Bonbonnerie, and his brother Monsieur
Louis Babat soon became extremely fashionable in L. Everybody thought it
a duty to call on so accomplished a nobleman who, there was no doubt,
had much influence at court; and the chevalier’s table soon “groaned,”
as the fashionable novelists of the day term it, “under the weight of
visiters’ cards.” The papas of all the respectable families in the town
called on the new comers, and not a few mammas of unmarried daughters
waited with impatience the visit of the fashionable brothers, to whose
credit a vast deal of interest with the king was immediately set down.

It was far from being the interest of the colonel to keep himself
secluded from society. Retirement would have created mystery, and
mystery would have set all the officious mischief-mongers of L. writing
voluminous dispatches to the minister of police in Paris; by which means
his retreat would have been discovered, and his plans frustrated. He
accordingly returned all the visits which were paid at his hotel,
sometimes accompanied by his brother, but most frequently alone. In the
meanwhile, the younger ladies of L. had, individually and collectively,
lost their hearts to the young Monsieur Louis Babat. He was considered
“charming, _piquant_, so delicate a figure, so sweet a voice, so elegant
an every thing in fact.” The strangers were duly fêted, and amused in
every variety of way which the ingenuity of the inhabitants could
invent. The gentlemen became jealous as fast as the young ladies grew
enamored of Monsieur L., and the peace and quiet of the town of L. was
more disturbed by the arrival of monsieur le chevalier and his brother,
than Paris had been by his departure.

Madame la Comtesse de Demibête, in particular, was very desirous to
bring about a match between her daughter and Monsieur Louis. This young
lady was, to say the truth, much superior to the generality of the lady
butterflies who were so much attracted by the new light; but as she was
enamored of a young merchant, on whose birth the proud mamma looked down
with considerable disdain, and who was then on a voyage to the Indies,
she was not likely to fall very readily into the plan of captivation
which her mamma designed for the young _nouveau venu_. Between
Mademoiselle Mathilde and Monsieur Louis, however, there appeared to
grow up a sort of feeling which no one could understand. It was not
love, for it seemed to be entirely divested of every thing like passion;
it was not indifference, for there really seemed to exist a sort of
affection between the two young people. All therefore that the
scandal-mongers of L. could discover, was that they knew nothing about
it, and that it was impossible to fathom the nature of the partiality
which was so palpably evinced on both sides. Immediately, however, it
was ascertained that there was a _penchant_ on the part of Monsieur
Louis for one of the young ladies, all the rest broke out into bitter
enmity against the offending “boy,” (a great deal was meant to be
conveyed by the use of this word) who could dare to choose one
particular young lady from among so many who voluntarily offered. “And
she, too,” as they one and all remarked, “by no means either pretty or
witty, or even tolerably sensible.” It was at a large evening party
given by M. Bassecour, a converted Buonapartist, (people were converted
most miraculously after the abdication,) who preserved a sort of middle
place between the aristocracy and the people, and whose company,
consequently, consisted of a strange mêlée of both classes, that the
first positive outbreak took place.

The chevalier and his brother had arrived late; and, in spite of all
their attempts to appear at ease and cheerful, there was an evident
disquiet and an unusual degree of thoughtfulness unwillingly expressed
on their countenances. The rooms were filled when they arrived, and
several dancers were enjoying their favorite exercise in excellent
spirits. Such of the young ladies as were not dancing, immediately
separated and repaired to unoccupied sofas, where they might leave spare
seats beside them—a manœuvre which is often performed by young ladies
when a favorite enters the room—for what reason, of course, they best
know.

Monsieur Louis Babat looked rather wearily round the room for his friend
Mathilde. She was dancing with the brother of the young merchant, much
to the rage and chagrin of her aristocratic mamma. Shunning the too
lively clatter of the ladies, Louis seated himself near two dowagers,
who were warmly discussing the correct pattern of the new court-sleeve
for evening dresses, hoping that they would be too much engrossed by
their wordy combat to attend to him. He was doomed to disappointment.
Madame Nezrouge no sooner discovered who her neighbor was than she
immediately turned to the attack.

“Ah! Monsieur Louis, I am charmed to see you. You are late this
evening—but you seem ill. Is any thing the matter?”

“Yes, madame,” answered Louis, “I have not been well to-day.”

“Ah!” returned the old lady, “I see how it is. You young men dissipate
too much. You should marry, Monsieur Louis. You should look out to
settle yourself in life: all young men should. But I do not wonder,
indeed I cannot, at young men remaining single. The young ladies of the
present day are not what they were when my lamented husband had the
honor of carrying Louis the Sixteenth’s snuff-box. They are too bold,
Monsieur Louis—much too bold. I am sure I preach enough to my girls.
Many and many’s the time I say to them, ‘continue, my dear children, in
your present course. Do not imitate the follies and vanities of your
companions. The great aim of a woman’s life should be to make her
husband happy.’ Thank Heaven my girls listen to my advice. _They_ are
not like the rest. I’m sure, my poor lamented husband, who had the honor
of carrying the king’s snuffbox used often to say—”

“Who knows what to-morrow may bring forth!” murmured Louis, between his
teeth, carried away from the babble of his neighbor by the intensity of
his own feelings.

“Why, yes, Monsieur Louis,” continued the old lady, “he did say that,
too, sometimes, though how you ever came to know it, I am sure _I_ can’t
tell—but what I was going to say—”

“Pardon me, madam, but Mademoiselle Mathilde is about to sing. Would you
permit me to join her at the piano?”

“Oh! certainly, if you wish it,” returned Madame Nezrouge, bridling up.
“_Of_ course: oh! certainly.”

In fact, Mathilde had already taken her place at the piano. She had one
of those sweet, dear, yet mellow voices which belong only to southern
countries, and she sang with deep feeling, as well as artistic
correctness. As Louis walked to the piano, his brother whispered in his
ear, “Be firm, for God’s sake; he is here.”

The lip of Louis quivered as he prepared to turn the leaves of the page
before Mathilde, and he was so excited that he did not hear one syllable
of the following song.

               THE MEMORY OF LOVE.

        Though boundless seas between us roll
          And keep our lips and eyes apart,
        Thou art not absent! for my soul
          Treasures thine image; and my heart
        In every throb thy name repeats.
              Ah! Mem’ry’s spell
              Awakes too well
          Its echoes as it beats.

        Thou art not absent! every thought
          Is thine alone! Thou art still with me;
        For my mind’s eye, by mem’ry taught,
          Looks back into my mind—ON THEE.
        In sleep, a voice, ah! not unknown
              My pillow seeks:
              ’Tis mem’ry speaks;
        That voice! ’tis all thine own.

Before the song was concluded, a group of ladies had been formed in the
centre of the room wondering what could possibly cause the singular
agitation of Monsieur Louis. Some whispered that it was love—others
that it was wine—and one or two audibly expressed a pious wish that it
might not “prove something worse,” which many persons are ever ready to
do whenever they happen to be profoundly ignorant.

As Louis gave his arm to Mathilde to lead her from the piano, his
brother whispered in his ear, “Courage for one hour more—It is all
right; Lapin has returned.”

A ray of joy shone over the pallid features of the youth, as he heard
these words; yet he seemed to tremble. He had advanced as far as the
group of ladies, with his brother on one arm and Mathilde on the other,
when a sinister looking individual was seen to approach from the other
end of the room. There appeared, for the moment, to be considerable
excitement among the company, but every thing was as silent as the grave
while the strange man marched slowly up to the chevalier.

“Du par le Roi,” said he, as he approached, “I arrest you, Colonel
Desart, on a charge of treason against the king.”

“Colonel Desart, the Buonapartist!” shrieked the horrified ladies, in
discordant chorus.

“The same, ladies, at your service,” replied the colonel, with that look
of quiet and sarcastic disdain which annihilates impertinence.

“Du par le Roi,” continued the savage-looking individual, addressing
Louis, “I arrest you Madame Louise Desart, née Plestours—”

The storm of voices here interrupted the officer.

“What! _Madame_ Desart! a woman!”

“Yes, ladies,” returned the soft, sweet voice of the abashed lady, “I
could not leave my husband in his danger.” She turned as she spoke, and
fell fainting in the arms of the affectionate Mathilde, whose
penetration had long since discovered the secret of her sex but whose
prudence and good breeding had put a seal upon her lips on that subject.

“You are my prisoners,” said the dark man, turning towards the colonel,
who was quietly putting his whiskers and black wig into the fire; “you
will, if you please, prepare for instant departure to Paris.”

“Indeed,” coolly replied the colonel, “I shall not go to Paris to-night,
nor yet to-morrow.”

“Monsieur, the colonel,” said his captor, “will forgive me if I remind
him that I have with me an armed force, to sustain the authority of the
king’s command.”

“Oh! do not disturb yourself at all on my account,” replied the colonel,
“I dare say you have an armed force—so have I—what then?”

“Monsieur is jesting,” answered the officer. “You must really depart at
once for Paris.”

“For what purpose, my good friend?” asked the colonel, with enviable
_naiveté_.

“Parbleu! it is the king’s pleasure,” returned the other—who began to
feel that he was being quizzed.

“But the king will not be in Paris when I arrive, Monsieur l’Officier.
How then?”

“Oh! diable! you must wait till his majesty comes back—that’s all.”

“But he will never come back, Monsieur l’Officier.”

“Mille tonnéres! and why not?” thundered the officer, who was waxing
wroth, in proportion as his prisoner become cooler. “And why will not
the king come back?”

“Oh, I will tell you why, with all my heart,” replied the colonel, “and
when you go back to Paris, which you will do by yourself all alone,
presently, and even without your soldiers, you can retail the
information in every quartier and faubourg. Here! stoop down and I’ll
tell you quietly.”

The officer stooped as he was bidden, with a heart full of misgiving,
while the colonel shouted with the voice of an officer commanding a
regiment,

“Because THE EMPEROR is in France, and will be in L. in a few moments;
and further, because his avant-garde is now passing through these
streets on the way to the Tuilleries.”

He had scarcely concluded the last sentence, before a tremendous shout
of “_Vive l’Empereur_,” was heard from the street. The officer turned
and fled, as Lapin sprang into the room, threw up the window which
overhung the street, and joined, with all his might, in the loud viva of
joy which marked the unhappy return of Napoleon Buonaparte to the land
which his valor had twice won for him.

Colonel and Madame Desart started for Paris early next morning, in the
train of the emperor.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                SYMBOLS.


                        BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.


    I LOOKED all abroad for a symbol of thee,
      And a thousand bright symbols replied,
    They bloomed on the land, they shone on the sea—
    There were flowers and stars that likened might be
      To thy beautiful spirit, so nearly allied
    To all that is brightest on land or on sea.

    The brooks on the hills in their crystaline flow,
      Singing out of their mystical springs,
    The heralds of joy to the valleys below,
    Making all things more lovely wherever they go,
      Are the types of thy spirit, whose beautiful wings
    Make gladness and music wherever they go.

    The birds, the sybiline birds of the grove,
      Entempled in shadowy bloom,
    Or clothed in a luminous vesture above
    Of sunshine and azure and music and love,
      Are the types of thy soul, that in brightness or gloom
    Is clothed in a luminous vesture of love.

    All things are thy symbols—thou sheddest on all
      The lustre and sweetness of Song,
    Like the angels whose star-loving pinions let fall
    A glory that holdeth true poets in thrall:—
      To thee all things lovely as symbols belong.
    And thou art the beautiful symbol of all.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          SONNET. TO SHIRLEY.


                           BY WM. P. BRANNAN.


    LIKE a delicious dream that fades away
      When morning zephyr breathes into the room,
      Bearing from unknown blossoms their perfume—
    Though thou art gone, still round my spirit play
      The radiant memories of thy maiden bloom;
    Delightful fancies riot in my brain,
      A painful gladness thrills my throbbing heart,
      And I would live forever thus apart,
    Deeming such bliss may never come again.
      Enchanting vision! hast thou fled for aye?
    Thy seeming presence haunts me with a spell,
      That musing on thy image thus alway,
    The world would smile again an Eden-dell
    Where all things lovely should delight to dwell.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                     THE FIRST LOVE OF ADA SOMERS.


                         BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.


               Poca favilla gran Fiamma seconda.   DANTE.

WHEN Ada Somers was a romp of twelve years, she chanced one day, in too
bold a search for some water-lilies, to fall headlong into the stream
from whose blue depths they lifted their pretty heads.

Truth alone compels us to relate this mishap of Ada’s: for although the
_quasi_ drowning of heroines has been a popular tableau of romance ever
since streams and heroines were; still, this is the era of
investigation; and we who on our railroads outstrip the speed of the
bronze horse—we for whom the delicate and trembling wires of the
telegraph do the office of a thousand Ariels—we who have called upon
the sun to be our portrait-painter, and upon the moon to yield up her
secrets that our lecture-rooms may be crowed; surely we have some right
to think for ourselves! and we boldly proclaim that nothing can be less
sublime and more ridiculous than the loss of one’s equilibrium—a plunge
head-foremost—and the spectacle of two inverted feet without any
apparent body.

Perhaps that sometime race of heroines, who wandered up hill and down
dale in satin slippers—unsoiled—undraggled—and unscratched—and wept
without the concomitants of red eyes and swelled noses; perhaps a race
of such curious physiological construction possessed also the secret of
losing their balance without losing their grace. But our poor Ada was
not of this race: she was only a little American girl, subject to the
laws of gravitation, so she fell into the river in the manner above
described. Poor little thing! she might have floated off to keep company
with Glendower’s spirits in the vasty deep, but for the timely
interposition of a certain youth, by name James Darrington. James was
taking his afternoon ride along the river-bank, when he heard a sudden
splash, and turned his eyes just in time to catch a view of the two
little feet above-mentioned. He was not, like the Countess Hahn-Hahn,
versed in the physiognomy of feet, so without venturing a guess as to
the ownership of the pair in question, he sprung from his horse and
plunged into the river.

The spot where Ada had fallen was deep, and its bed was a mass of
treacherous slime; but James was a bold swimmer, and after some moments
of struggle, ay, and of danger too, he succeeded in bearing his prize to
the shore.

Now, as Ada was no heroine, she did not emerge from the river like a
water-nymph: her faithful chronicler is fain to say that her dress was a
net-work of slimy weeds; that her hair was tangled, and her face dirty.
Nevertheless, she was a pretty little thing in spite of her draggled
condition, and when James went home and thought over the matter, he felt
bound by the chivalry of fifteen to fall in love with her, and he did
so. To be sure, he had passed Ada Somers a hundred times, in his
father’s house and at hers, without bestowing a thought upon her—but
now that Destiny had thrown her into his arms, he saw that her hazel
eyes were starry with brightness—that her rosy mouth was the nest of
all the loves—and he resolved to keep her where she was.

Up to the day of her mishap, Ada had never thought of any thing more
sentimental than skipping-ropes, pet fawns and ponies—but she suddenly
became addicted to solitary walking, wild-flowers and moonlight. (N. B.
_These_ tastes lasted for about a week.) And instead of scampering over
the country with a servant behind her, her pony Lightfoot roamed his
paddock in lazy leisure, unless James Darrington was at liberty to
accompany Lightfoot’s mistress in her ride.

James, though only fifteen, was so accomplished a horseman that Ada’s
parents had no hesitation in committing her to his care. They were often
joined in their rides by Ada’s favorite playmate, Catharine Ashton; but
sometimes they rode alone, and although these rides were generally
silent ones, still James thought them pleasanter when Catharine’s merry
voice was not constantly challenging them to some childish feat, or
making the woods ring with its bursts of glee.

“I hope I shall have her to myself to-day,” thought he, as he rode up
the oak avenue to Mr. Somers’ house. Yes, there was Lightfoot pawing the
ground _alone_—and no Catharine trying Fenella feats—cracking her
riding-whip, and breaking the luxurious silence of his reveries with her
ceaseless mirth.

James threw himself from his horse, rushed up the steps of the portico,
and just as he was stammering an apology to Mrs. Somers for nearly
upsetting her as she advanced to greet him, Ada came out equipped for
her ride.

How sweetly the little gipsy looked, with her habit of dark green, her
tiny while collar, and her black velvet hat and plume. Before James
could present his hand, she sprung into her saddle, and cantered off
with such speed that he put spurs to his horse to overtake her. The
woods were gorgeous with beauty. Summer still lingered in the tender
green of some trees, while others, tinted by the bold hand of autumn,
towered in all the pomp of scarlet and yellow foliage. The crisp leaves
rustled to the tread of their horses’ hoofs, and the soft breeze that
swept over golden meadow and sunny hill, came laden to their young
hearts with those sweet, vague reveries that visit the soul but
_once—but once!_—in that untried season of youth when the earth seems
starred with flowers, the sea mirrors naught but heaven, and the very
consciousness of animal life is happiness. For some time the youthful
pair rode on in silence, till at length emerging from the shady woods
they came suddenly to an opening, where a grassy slope led down to the
river, and to the spot which some months before had been the scene of
Ada’s misfortune.

“Oh, how beautiful!” exclaimed she, as she drew in her rein to look
around. The turf was still bright with sunshine—the waters sparkled as
if they had stolen the golden bed of the Pactolus—and above them,
forever changing shape and hue, floated the silver clouds that hide from
mortal gaze the home of Immortality!

“Beautiful!” was the response of her companion.

“Did you ever see such a bright sky!” continued the delighted child of
nature. “And such a soft green turf, which, by the bye, Lightfoot is
enjoying in _his_ way—see, James, how nicely he crops the grass in a
circle. Do you remember the story of the Dervise and the stray Camel?
How he not only knew him to be astray, but found out that he was blind
of one eye, lame in one leg, had lost a tooth, and was loaded with corn
and honey, and all without having seen him? What a curious observer he
must have been, that dervise!”

No answer was vouchsafed to this piece of Oriental lore, whose
connection with Lightfoot’s skill in cropping grass was somewhat
unintelligible to one who had not read the story; so Ada broke into new
raptures over the beauty of the river.

This time James looked up, and gazed earnestly at her varying and
animated countenance. “That stream had nearly wedded us, Ada.”

Ada tossed her pretty little head as she replied, “I am glad that I
escaped such an ugly bridal.”

“Pshaw!” thought James, “she is but a child, and does not understand
me.”

And he was quite right; for while he was perfectly aware of his being
“in love,” Ada was utterly ignorant of the meaning of the phrase. All
she knew was that James Darrington’s presence materially increased her
happiness; but she would not have confessed to the very reeds and rushes
that she liked him even more than she did her dear Catharine. Her wise
and gentle mother, aware that her little daughter was in an Eden of
ignorant bliss, prudently forbore to tender her the fruit of precocious
wisdom. She knew that Ada was as childish as became her years, and she
judged it best to leave that little heart undisturbed by knowledge of
the good and evil of artificial life.

James, on the contrary, though he ventured no more declarations to the
lady of his thoughts, indemnified himself for the same, by pouring out
his ecstasies into his mother’s ear. Mrs. Darrington was something more
than amused with this juvenile courtship; she was delighted to be the
recipient of her son’s confessions: too well skilled in the human heart
to repulse his confidence by ridicule, she contented herself with
reminding him that to win Ada he must deserve her. So, the course of Mr.
James Darrington’s true love ran on, for a while, without a ripple.


                              CHAPTER II.

                 Oh! how this Spring of Love resembleth
                 The uncertain glory of an April day.
                               TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

Some months again passed away, when, one morning, as James was about to
leave the breakfast-room, he saw his mother suddenly put down an open
letter, which she had been reading, and turn to his father with an
exclamation—“Minister to France, William! Is this a stroke of Fortune
or of _Mis_fortune?”

“Such a question,” replied Mr. Darrington, “requires no answer. Whatever
my appointment be to me, to you, I see that it is misfortune. But you
are a woman, and therefore a stranger to the pleasures of ambition.”

“And to its pains,” said the wife quietly.

“Then from you,” resumed Mr. D., with a shade of vexation in his
tone—“from you I may expect no congratulation. Have you no pride in
such a mark of confidence to me from my country?”

“If by ‘your country’ you mean, as I suppose you do, your government, I
fear that I am not to be any more elated by its confidence than
depressed by its distrust. And besides,” continued she fondly, “my pride
in you, William, is of too old a date to be increased by political
success.”

The husband smiled, as what husband would not, to so flattering a
declaration.

“Whether I be worthy of such praise or not, Julia, _you_ must be right,
as you always are, for your flattery has driven politics out of my head.
See how the magic of a few kind words has transformed his Excellency the
Minister into William Darrington, the most devoted of his wife’s
vassals.”

“‘Ambition should be made of sterner stuff,’ William.”

“So it should, dearest, and therefore you need never fear her as a
rival. The fact is, that I have been at my distaff so long as to love my
very servitude. But here is a fellow smiling saucily to hear us talking
of love. He thinks we should leave such things to Quixotic young
gentlemen of sixteen, who go about the world rescuing hapless damsels
from watery graves. Well, my boy,” continued he, rising, “since you are
so precocious a gallant, what think you of exchanging pretty little Ada
Somers for some black-eyed nymph, who traces her pedigree to the
crusades, and calls herself Montmorency or De Longueville?”

James said nothing to this treasonable discourse; but like the silent
parrot, “_il n’enpensait pas moins_;” and his thoughts were by no means
flattering to the Ladies de Montmorency and de Longueville.

“What!” exclaimed his father, at the sight of his lugubrious
countenance—“at your age not enchanted to see the world! Your little
Omphale must have strong spells indeed if she can chain the roving
spirit of sixteen to her feet! But come! I hear my phaeton at the
door—I am going to town, and I want you to drive those little gray
ponies for me to-day.”

At any other time the gray ponies would have divided James’ heart with
Omphale herself, but just then love was in the ascendant, and he could
only stammer out—

“I would—if you would—please to excuse me this morning, sir.”

But his father knew better than to excuse him, and after some persuasion
they drove off together. At first, the discomfited lover held his reins
in dejected silence, but by and bye the infection of his father’s
cheerfulness spread over his young heart, his reins grew tighter, and
his horses went faster, and by the time they reached the city, as he
dashed along the streets at full speed, his brain was a kaleidoscope in
which love, horses, Ada Somers and boyish curiosity tumbled about in
glorious confusion.

Meanwhile Mrs. Darrington ordered her carriage and drove over to
acquaint Mrs. Somers with her intended departure. For a series of years
the families had been united in such close friendship that it was
natural the movements of one should sufficiently interest the other to
be made the object of a special visit.

Mrs. Somers, though her acquaintance in town was numerous, could hope,
in none of her idle visiters, to find a substitute for her old friend;
and she was sincerely distressed at this separation. They sat together
for some hours, talking of the prospects of their children—their fears
and hopes—the one trembling as she spoke of the dangerous career of her
boy—the other, as she remembered that _her_ child, as a woman, was to
receive her fate from the hands of others. They then naturally fell upon
the subject of their children’s mutual inclination, and wondered whether
their destinies would ever be united.

“Ada is very near to my heart,” said Mrs. Darrington; “but it would be
too much to expect any serious results from this childish freak.”

“We must leave them to themselves,” replied Ada’s mother. “In such
cases, it is sacrilegious to lay a hand upon the web of the Fates; but I
confess, I should be glad to know that Ada would ever marry your son.”

“Here she comes,” interrupted Mrs. Darrington; “I am curious to know
what _she_ will think of Mr. Darrington’s appointment.”

Ada ran up the steps, followed by her shadow, Catharine Ashton, who,
guiltless of admirers, was addicted to romping of every kind. Not but
what Miss Ada heartily enjoyed a romp herself, but of late she had
become ashamed of being caught climbing fences and running races. At
that moment, however, she had entirely forgotten that she ever braided
her hair, or tied her sash “_avec intention_;” for the said sash
streamed like a pennant to the wind, while the hair followed the same
direction. Catharine, behind her, in much the same guise, was trying not
to make _too_ great a clatter upon the marble pavement of the hall; but
Ada dashed on like a young Bacchante, and never stopped till she reached
the lawn behind the house, where she threw herself full length on the
grass, and screamed to Catharine to do the same.

“She is something of a romp, my Ada,” said Mrs. Somers, smiling. “Not
yet a lady, certainly.”

“So much the better,” replied her friend. “Who would wish to stretch
those free young limbs upon a Procrustean bed of propriety?”

“Not I, certainly,” said the mother. “But I am sometimes afraid that in
my dread of making Ada artificial, I give too much sway to—Nature.”

“Not to such a nature as hers. Were there any tendency to coarseness in
Ada’s mirth, you might be right to moderate it; but where nature is
graceful in her wildness, no art can compete with her in loveliness.”

Another shout of mirth was heard, and Ada and Catharine burst into the
parlor.

“What descent of wild Indians is this, Ada?” asked her mother, doubting
the grace or refinement of this last movement. Ada started back,
coloring with shame, and Catharine sneaked behind the nearest _causeuse_
that offered concealment.

Mrs. Darrington easily divined that Ada’s embarrassment had special
reference to _her_ presence; so she smilingly extended her hand, and as
Ada advanced with sheepish mien and awkward gait, she kissed her and
said,

“I am glad to find you so merry, Ada. What a nice romp you must have had
under those shady trees.”

At so gracious an opening, Catharine’s head appeared above the frame of
the _causeuse_, but seeing Mrs. Darrington look toward her, down it
popped again.

Mrs. Darrington saw her plainly enough; but she resisted her inclination
to laugh, and went on.

“I want you to come and spend to-morrow with me, and I shall stop on my
way home at Mrs. Ashton’s to ask if Catharine may come with you.” In her
joy, Catharine nearly upset the _causeuse_, which rocked as if a little
earthquake were taking place under it. “But I came this morning
especially to tell you a piece of news.” At this, Catharine could hold
out no longer; not only her curly head, but her entire self, emerged
from concealment, and she slided, as she imagined, unobserved, into a
seat.

“We are going away for awhile, Ada,” resumed Mrs. Darrington, “and I
have various commissions to intrust to you. Will you do them?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want you to take care of Hector and Fleeta,” continued Mrs.
Darrington.

Hector and Fleeta! Then James was going too! Ada longed to ask where,
and for how long, but she dared not; and Mrs. Darrington, seeing her
large eyes ready to overflow, merely added that they would speak more on
that subject on the morrow. She then spoke a few words to Catharine,
repeated her invitation, and drove off.

“Where are they going, mamma?” asked poor Ada, the moment Mrs.
Darrington left the room.

“To France, my love.”

“To France?” gasped Ada, to whom a voyage to Europe, or a voyage to the
North Pole, was equally terrific.

“Yes, dear,” said her mother, “and I am not surprised that you are sorry
to part with Mrs. Darrington and James, who are so kind to you.”

This at once relieved Ada from any obligation to contend with her grief;
and using her mother’s sympathy as a _carte blanche_ for any amount of
tears, she burst into a violent fit of crying, in which she was joined
by the sympathising Catharine. Mrs. Somers, not feeling disposed to make
a third in this _jérémiade_, left them to weep in concert, which they
did for some time _à qui mieux mieux_.

At length Ada dried her eyes, whereupon Catharine, who for some minutes
had been squeezing hers to little purpose, quickly did the same; and
after both had drawn a long breath, and had held up their handkerchiefs
to see how much they had cried, Catharine thought it time to administer
consolation.

“Never mind, Ada, when James is gone, brother George will ride with us.
He is coming home next month.”

Conceive this, ye who have loved! The audacity of one’s bosom friend
proposing some uninteresting brother as a substitute for one’s lover!

Ada was indignant, and forgetting the proof of friendship exhibited in
Catharine’s exceedingly wet handkerchief, she gave such strong vent to
her abhorrence of George, that a quarrel seemed unavoidable. At that
moment, however, a servant came to call them to dinner, where decency
forbade that Ada should be rude to her guest. At first the friends were
quite formal, but with each course disappeared one layer of reserve,
till the dessert was put on the table, when the desire to eat Philapænas
together was irresistible, and the first twin-almond found in Ada’s
plate restored peace.

The next day was spent with Mrs. Darrington. It passed in mingled joy
and grief; but it must be confessed that the former predominated. Late
in the afternoon, a procession, composed of James, Ada and Catharine,
escorted Hector and Fleeta to their new home.

At length came the parting-hour. The Darrington family spent their last
evening at Somerton; and Ada, though her father deposed that she had
spent the entire day in the cave of Trophonius, was somewhat revived by
the sight of Mrs. Darrington’s parting present. This was a beautiful
writing-desk of ebony, dainty enough to have served Seneca or Sir Philip
Sydney; for the inkstand, pen, pencil, and sand-box were, as Ada
triumphantly pointed out to Catharine, of “real gold.”

As for James’ gift, what could it be but a ring set in the form of a
Forget-me-not? And as he was a student of the classics, and had heard of
the ring of Polycrates, he chose an emerald. He attempted an explanation
of the resemblance between these two rings, which poor Ada vainly
endeavored to comprehend; and no wonder, as King Polycrates threw _his_
emerald to the sea, and James gave his to his sweetheart—but never
mind! an emerald was in question, and Ada had been picked up out of a
river; and as for the rest, why—the genius of sixteen is highly
imaginative.

That night Ada went to bed with her ring on her finger, and cried
herself to sleep. The next day the Darringtons sailed for Europe, and
she heard nothing of her friends until three years afterward, when
tidings arrived of the death of the American Minister at Paris, and the
removal of his widow and son to England. After that, the mention of
their names became less and less frequent; and when Hector and Fleeta
were gathered to their fathers, so little remained to remind Ada of her
lost playfellow, that she threw his ring into a box with old jewels, and
by and bye threw his memory to the winds.

And so ended the first love of Ada Somers.

                 *        *        *        *        *


                     THE SECOND LOVE OF ADA SOMERS.


                               CHAPTER I.

                  ——Hasset noch weil sie nicht liebt.
                                            SCHILLER.

Ten years have glided away since we left Ada in tears and pantalets, and
she has reached the mature age of twenty-three, “in maiden meditation
fancy free.” Not that she ever bestowed a thought upon her childhood’s
love—not that she lacked suitors either; for beautiful as one of
Domenichino’s dark-eyed sybils, and with too many of the incidental
endowments of fortune not to be worshiped for her wealth, if not for her
worth, Ada might have had admirers as many as she had thousands. But she
chose _not_ to have them; and they might as well have “loved a bright
particular star and hoped to wed it;” for Galatea would step from her
pedestal for none of them. Always graceful and high-bred, the only
charge brought against Ada by the sex who begin life by expecting to bag
women’s hearts as they bag pheasants, was, that she returned their
assiduities and their flattery with the utmost consummate indifference.
“Favors to none, to all she smiles” extended; but beyond that, no word,
look, or action ever gave evidence that the beautiful heiress regarded
men in any other than in the light of so many monads, representing
certain qualities of mind and soul, good or evil.

The men of —— were in amazement at such powers of resistance, when
they reflected upon the amount of fascination and worth resisted; and
Ada became as remarkable as the Rock of Gibraltar, not only in the eyes
of the baffled enemy, but in those of certain of her female
acquaintances, who, rather than die under the ban of old maidenhood,
would have married Bluebeard himself, and therefore looked upon
_man_kind as a race of husbands, “to be or not to be”—theirs.

But Ada was no Lydia Languish, and had no horror of being called a
spinster; neither saw she any thing so attractive in marriage that all
the world must go mad for it. Early in life, she had learned, as do all
little girls, her lesson of inferiority to a greater sex, and she grew
up with a vague idea of the sublimity and wisdom of man, and the folly
and ignorance of woman; but by and bye, as faith gave way to reason, she
discovered that the lords of the creation were, generally speaking, none
the wiser for their usurpation of the glorious privilege of praising God
with their intellects, but that three-fourths of this boasting race were
as frivolous as if, like woman, they had been all their lives shut out
from the Paradise of knowledge, and had not had possession of all the
learning of the earth for thousands of years. Moreover, Ada took an
exalted view of the condition of old maids; she considered it a position
which gave scope for the exercise of a wider philanthropy than is safe
or consistent with the duties of a wife and mother; and she wrought up
her enthusiasm for the vocation of the sisterhood to such a pitch, that
she made up her mind to become one of them. But,

        “Varium et mutabile semper
        Fæmina——”

So thought Catharine Ashton, when she heard of these resolves; for she
had grown up with very different opinions; and faithful to her
convictions, she was on the eve of being married, and wished for nothing
in the world so much as that her friend should be as happy as herself.
Catharine had spent two years in Europe, and although her lover, Charles
Ingleby, had always resided in ——, they met for the first time in
Germany, where Ingleby was spending the summer with a friend, whom
Catharine never wearied of lauding; for, like a true woman, she was
ready to take to her breast any thing and every thing that loved her
Charles; and between him and Mr. Stanley, there existed so warm a
friendship, that the latter had greatly hurried some business
transaction which detained him in Europe, to return in company with his
friend and his pretty _fiancée_.

Mr. Stanley was daily expected to perform the part of groomsman to the
lovers, and Ada Somers had been chosen to bear him company as bridemaid.

Ada and Mr. Ingleby were the best friends imaginable; and they had, from
their first interview, seemed so pleased with each other, as to cause
Catharine to hope that all was not yet lost for her poor friend. If she
had made so signal an exception in favor of her (Catharine’s) lover, as
to grant him the boon of her friendship, what might not be accomplished
by a high-minded and estimable man who offered _more_ than friendship?
Mr. Stanley, for instance.


                              CHAPTER II.

                  ’Twas throwing words away, for still
                  The little maid would have her will.
                                           WORDSWORTH.

A week before the wedding Mr. Stanley arrived, and as Ada had been
invited to join a family party at the house of Charles Ingleby’s sister,
Catharine took the liberty of inviting Mr. Stanley on her own account,
for she was determined to begin operations at once. She had deliberated
for some time whether or not to apprize Ada of the important arrival; at
last, it was decided in the negative, and as the decision had cost the
impetuous Catharine a fearful exercise of self-denial, she repaid
herself by hurrying off her mother, lover, and _protégé_, half an hour
before the time appointed. She might as well have spared herself the
trouble, as no Ada made her appearance, and it was not until the evening
had almost passed away that Catharine learned from their hostess, Mrs.
Howard, that Ada had excused herself early that morning, upon plea of a
pre-engagement.

This was too impertinent of Ada, and Catharine resolved, early the next
morning to go over and tell her so. The Somerses always spent their
winters in town, and as a few squares only separated the friends,
Catharine was soon at the door of Mr. Somers’ house, ringing the bell
with the vehemence of a postman. The well-bred servant who opened the
door, looked surprised when he found that it was Miss Ashton who had
nearly broken his bell-wire; but as Miss Ashton was a privileged belle
herself, and had been running tame about Mr. Somers’ house ever since he
could remember, he stepped back respectfully, while she passed
unannounced into the sitting-room.

“Good morning, Mrs. Somers, where is Ada?” asked she, taking off her
bonnet.

“You will find her in the library, my dear,” replied Mrs. Somers, and
away flew Catharine, with the easy familiarity of one whose welcome is
unquestionable. She was prepared to heap abuse upon the head of the
offending Ada, but when she flung open the door, she had not the heart
to find fault with any thing so pretty.

Her _blouse_ of rich Cashmere was fastened around the waist by a cord
and tassel, its loose sleeves lined with crimson silk, were looped back
so as to contrast with the snow-white cambric of the under sleeve; and
the dainty little collar that encircled her white throat was fastened by
a very small cameo brooch. Her dark hair was drawn over her ears _à la
comtesse_, and the edge of its large twisted coronal, was just visible
above one of the prettiest heads in the world. Ada had been poring, with
rapture, over Jean Paul’s apostrophe to an old maid. She had found an
advocate, and her large orbs were luminous with the enthusiasm of a mind
that has just found, mirrored in another, the image of its own thoughts;
and she looked so fair, so fresh, so any thing but like a student, that
Catharine forgot her offences, and could only exclaim:

“Ada, you are radiant with beauty this morning. So should a woman look
who has just parted from her lover. But you! you might as well be a
mummy three thousand years old, as the beautiful girl you are.”

“Thank you,” said Ada quietly, while Catharine rattled on.

“Pray, whose is the spell that has brought such brilliancy to your eye?”

“Jean Paul’s.”

“Jean Paul’s!” echoed Catharine, disdainfully, “Only think of giving
one’s best feelings to an author! Literally falling in love with a set
of abstractions!”

“Falling in love!” returned Ada, laughing. “Who but you would have
applied such a term to such a passionless recreation as reading? Ah, my
poor Kate, you are far gone, indeed, and there is no method in your
madness!”

“Well, don’t preach, but shut your book, and listen to me. I am very
angry with you. Why were you not at Julia’s last night?”

“Why, because I was engaged to go and hear Mr. —— lecture on
Shakspeare.”

“How absurd! These lecturers are a nuisance to society, and ought to be
suppressed. I wonder the ghost of Shakspeare has not risen long ago, to
beg that they will leave his ashes in peace.”

“He ought to be much obliged to them, for unfolding his beauties to the
million who have a comprehension, but no perception of the beautiful,
and are quite capable both of seeing and admiring, when they have been
told _what_ to see and admire.”

“You are very wise and eloquent, no doubt, Ada, but I am not able this
morning to take part in a discussion on literary acumen,” said her
lively friend, “I am here for something less profound, and more
important, Julia’s soirée.”

“Well, what had you to offer, that could weigh in the balance with Mr.
——’s eloquence?”

“Mr. Stanley.”

“Who is Mr. Stanley? A rival lecturer?”

A rival lecturer! This was too provoking of Ada to forget the name of
Charles’ friend, and Catharine looked up to see if the forgetfulness
might not possibly be assumed. Alas! it was but too real, and she gave
full vent to her indignation, as she recalled to Ada, who and what Mr.
Stanley was.

“True, I had forgotten,” quietly rejoined the offender. “But surely,
Kate, there is no occasion for so much warmth. How should I remember
him, when I have never even seen him?”

“That is just the reason why I am provoked—I wanted to present him to
you last evening.”

“Another time will do just as well.”

“But there is no time to be lost,” replied Catharine, vehemently.

“Why _we_ have no preliminaries to settle about the wedding ceremony,
have we?” asked Ada, ingenuously.

The question recalled Catharine to a sense of the blunder she had been
about to commit, and she answered carelessly:

“Oh, no! but it would be pleasanter for both, had you met before the
wedding. By the bye, Ada,” added she, to change the subject, “you should
have seen how handsome Charles was last night.”

“I dare say! Had he chosen to deck himself with an ass’s head, Titania
would have found him so.”

“Poor Charles! That I should live to hear him likened to Bottom, the
weaver. But I ought to know better than to expect you to appreciate him;
you, who waste your love upon books and music, and—”

“Saucy girls like yourself, Kate. But when you begin to wander over your
‘Carte du pays tendre,’ pray don’t expect me to keep you company, for I
have never explored it. I will acknowledge, at the same time, that
Charles is handsome—nay, the handsomest man of my acquaintance.”

“Ah, you will!” said Catharine, with a bright smile. “Then I forgive
you, but I predict that the day will come, when you will be punished for
despising this ‘Carte du pays tendre,’ for mark me, Ada! yours is the
very nature for _une grande passion_, and when you love—angels and
ministers of grace defend me!—it will be Ætna poured into Vesuvius.”

Ada laughed heartily, and a very sweet laugh was hers—low and musical,
as the chime of fairy bells.

“Pray, Kate,” asked she, “when did the mantle of divination fall upon
those pretty shoulders?”

“Oh, I became wise like Cassandra. Love has made me a prophetess.”

“And like Cassandra, a prophetess whom nobody heeds.”

“Right, Ada,” exclaimed Catharine, exultingly, “and to complete the
resemblance, a true prophetess, notwithstanding.”

“You are clever at repartee, my Kate, but you have mistaken your
vocation. If at the mature age of twenty-three I have never loved—”

“You forget James Darrington.”

“Pshaw,” said Ada, slightly coloring, “as if that deserved a name.”

“It does—for it proves that the object, not the feeling, is wanting.”

“It proves no such thing, so stop weaving romances for me, and make up
your mind, like a good girl, to see me live the life, and die the death
of an old maid.”

“The death of an old maid!” Catharine lifted up her hands in horror.

“I could not die in better company, Catharine, and I am surprised to
hear any thing so _missish_ from one who was once a rational being.”

“Thank you, Ada. But if I err, I have the comfort of erring with the
whole world; and as I am no Briareus, I cannot lift my single arm to do
battle with its errors. Besides, the prejudice against old maids is not
one of yesterday; remember the lament of Jeptha’s daughter.”

“Do not quote the Jews to me for any thing!” cried Ada. “A wicked and
idolatrous race, who, in the very desert where heaven rained manna for
their food, and the rocks gushed forth water for their drink, could turn
from the visible presence of the living God, and bow down before a
golden calf! The heathens, for their opportunities, were both wiser and
better than the children of Israel; and among them, the priestesses of
the temples, the most honored of their women, were virgins. But stay! we
do not need their sanction. The most perfect of created beings, she who
was chosen to be the mother of the Saviour, is she not called ‘the
blessed Virgin?’”

“Ay, dear Ada,” said Catharine, dropping her levity, “but she was a
mother, and so fulfilled woman’s highest and dearest mission.”

“In her case it was both; and in all cases, the vocation of the wife and
mother is a beautiful and joyous one; but precisely because in the eyes
of the world it _is_ so graceful and honorable, does it seem to me less
noble than that of the lonely woman, who, first in the heart of none,
devotes herself to all, for the love of heaven. The sister of charity,
whose gentle hand smoothes the pillow of the dying outcast, the pensive
nun, who sits at the Redeemer’s feet, are they not the Marys, ‘who have
chosen the better part;’ and the busy wife, with her thousand cares, is
she not that Martha troubled about many things?”

Catharine was touched by the eloquent earnestness of her friend’s
manner, but it was not in her nature to be serious; she could only
pause, to get over the embarrassment of feeling solemn, and then answer:

“Ada, your ideal of an old maid is charming, but unluckily, it _is_ but
an ideal. Who that saw the faultless picture you have just drawn, would
recognize as its original Miss Trott, who, instead of sitting at
anybody’s feet, spends her days pattering about town as a fetcher and
carrier of scandal, or Miss Dolly Wiggin, whose religion is made up of
pious detestation of her neighbors’ faults, and whose life is an epitome
of the Pharisee’s prayer?”

Dearly as she loved Catharine, Ada felt sometimes that she deserved
chiding for her levity; but as in all her attempts at reproof, Catharine
invariably got the better of her, through her drollery and good-humor,
Ada merely shook her head as she answered:

“Trifler! trifler! will nothing be sacred from your indomitable spirit
of fun?”

“Certainly not old maids—and if you persist in being one, expect no
bounds to my contempt.”

“My nature will steel me against it,” replied Ada, “for you well know
that I am not one to be turned from any purpose by ridicule; and as
argument on this subject, is about as unavailing as a homily on the
virtues to a staring idiot, you had better leave me to my unhappy fate,
and confine your exertions to the shaping of your own destiny. Marry if
you will, dear Kate,” continued she, rising, “and swear by the
simplicity of Venus’ doves; but don’t expect all your friends to go
philandering over the world after your example. And now, come with me to
my room, and tell me whether my dress for your wedding shall be of
Organdie or Tarlatane.”

“I will, with pleasure,” exclaimed Catharine, gayly, “for I was just
beginning to fear that you were:

        ‘A creature _far_ too bright and good,
        For human nature’s daily food,’

but, thank Folly! you remind me that you are nothing but a woman after
all!”

The next morning Ada ordered the carriage early; for besides having
various purchases to make, she wished to deliver to Catharine Ashton, in
person, a dressing-case, which she had ordered as a wedding-present for
her friend.

Ada was ushered into Catharine’s own room, where on a centre-table lay
scattered the countless pretty offerings, which, at such a period, never
fail a bride, (I mean a bride rich enough to buy them for herself,) for
it is a remarkable fact in the physiology of present making, that gifts
are carefully _dis_proportioned to the need of the donees; to the rich,
much, to the poor, little is invariably given. Miss Ashton was wealthy,
and, therefore, her friends had spent a great deal of money in her
honor; and many a rich bauble calling itself “Friendship’s offering,”
had it been labeled “Gift of ostentation,” would have worn the livery of
the motive that sent it.

Over the glittering heap that dazzled Ada’s eyes, as she entered the
room, was flung the scarf of delicate Brussels, no longer the veil but
the ornament of brides; and Kate herself was standing before a
Cheval-glass, adjusting the folds of a bright Cashmere, which fell, soft
as silk, around her slight figure.

“Beautiful!” exclaimed Ada, herself an exquisite judge of dress: “and
how becoming.”

“Which is more to the purpose,” replied Catharine, laughing; and she
threw her shawl upon the bed, thereby disturbing the flounces of six
silk dresses, which flew up like so many peacocks’ tails. The next
moment she was snapping asunder the cords that bound up Ada’s package,
and her busy fingers had soon torn off the papers that enveloped it.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” cried she, delighted, “the very, the _only_
thing I wanted. Oh,” cried she, opening it, “this is really prettier
than Mrs. Darrington’s gift to you in days of yore, Ada. Do you remember
your exultation, and my envy on that memorable evening? And the
ring—poor James’ emerald! Suppose he were to return with _another_
ring, do you think your heart could be made to beat to the tune of ‘Auld
lang syne’?”

“I should not know him if I met him,” replied Ada; but she was so busy
fastening her glove that Catharine could not see whether her saucy
question had made an impression. She knew that Ada disliked the least
allusion to her early love, a symptom which, as Catharine was “herself
and not Œdipus,” puzzled her exceedingly.

“What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?” said she, carelessly, and after
replacing all the boxes and flacons she had taken out of her
dressing-case, she continued: “Well! I suppose I must give you up.
George wouldn’t do, would he?” asked she, with a saucy smile, and then
shaking her head: “No—No—I see you resent my old offer of him as
successor to the unfortunate James, whose memory now lies ‘five fathom
deep under the blade waters of Lethe.’”

Ada leaned her head upon her hand, and her fancy wandered back to the
days of her childish love, and the spell of memory was so potent that
her heart beat as if the black waters of Lethe had not engulfed _all_
remembrance. Catharine looked at her in some surprise, and then
snatching from the table a little Cupid of _bronze artistique_, whose
quiver was filled with harmless lamplighters, she placed it before Ada,
saying:

        “‘Qui que tu sois, voici ton maître
        Il est, le fut, ou le doit être.’

After all, Ada, there is nothing but the difference of a tense between
you and me. I _am_, and you _have been_ in love, and if ‘_Il a bu
boira_,’ I think I may venture to hope that ‘_Elle a aimée, aimera_.’”

Ada shook her head. “Bad taste and false reasoning, Kate. The false
reasoning I pass over, for there is often poetry, if seldom justice in
comparisons between things tangible and immaterial, but for the crime of
sinking love to a level with intemperance, you deserve ‘La peine forte
et dure.’” And having enlisted Catharine in a defense of her taste and
judgment, Ada took advantage of the first pause that ensued, to take her
leave.

She threw herself back into her carriage, and her reveries were of auld
lang syne. Her rescue—(it had been no jest!) her subsequent love for
the noble boy who had risked something to save her—his departure—her
childish grief—one by one, in the twilight of memory, rose the phantoms
of the past; and then, as Ada’s fancy sketched its ideal of James
Darrington’s present self, she wondered whether—

But just at that moment she felt the carriage violently thrown back, and
heard a tumult of voices, giving token that something unusual had
happened.

A child had just been rescued from under her horses’ feet.

“Is he killed?” exclaimed the shuddering girl; but no answer was
vouchsafed to her terrified inquiries; for the crowd was like all other
crowds, and a fine lady was of less consequence than a mangled
child—for a mangled child was a spectacle!

There was much pushing—many oaths—much angry contention; for every man
in the crowd was determined to see the child himself, and was fiercely
engaged in forcing his way, and in abusing the curiosity of his fellows.

Ada shuddered again—but it was with disgust.

At length the dense mass before her began to thin—and the oaths to
cease. The child was not mangled, and there had been nothing to see.

There was now room for her to act. She dared not alight, but she called
her footman. “Quick! Quick, Grey, go bring me news of that poor child,
and say that I will take it in my carriage to the nearest physician.”

The footman disappeared, and Ada counted five minutes of intense
anxiety. At length he returned. The gentleman who had rescued the child,
accepted her offer, for no physician resided any where near, and this
was the best plan that as yet had been proposed.

“Then fetch him, Grey, and let us begone,” said his trembling mistress.

Grey pointed to an opening, where a gentleman was seen advancing with
the child in his arms. He then opened the door, and Ada leaned forward
to receive the little plebian, but his preserver drew back.

“Nay,” said he, respectfully, “that would be repaying benevolence with
imposition. The child is heavy and unfit for such hands as yours. If you
will not deem me impertinent then,” added he, slightly coloring, “I will
carry him myself.”

Ada comprehended the implied request, and permission was as frankly
given as it had been asked.

The stranger had foreseen every exigency. The first object was to
consult a physician, and then the child would be conveyed home. Ada
thought only of the speediest means of relieving its suffering; she
therefore approved of every thing, and the carriage rolled away from the
gaping crowd.

This was rather a perplexing position for two young people who had never
met before, but strange to say, neither of them felt it. They were too
much engrossed with benevolence, to remember convention.

Meanwhile, the carriage drew up before the door of the physician, and
as, contrary to the custom of the faculty, he was sometimes to be found
at his own house, no delay ensued. To Ada’s infinite joy, he pronounced
the child sound in limb. There was nothing, he said, to prevent its
immediate removal; and if the lady and gentleman would allow him, he
would accompany, instead of following them; it would be safer than to
wait for his own phæton.

“Lady and gentleman!” These were the first words that awakened Ada to
the fact of her having allowed a handsome young man, a perfect stranger,
to enter her carriage. She blushed, and inwardly blessing the doctor for
his proposal, she soon found herself going, she knew not whither, in the
company of, she knew not whom.

Dr. B. was an eminent surgeon, and a very humane man, and to prevent any
offer of remuneration for his services, he expressed his pleasure to his
new acquaintances, at the opportunity they had afforded him, of being
included in a deed of charity. Something more he added, which would have
been all very admissible, had he rightly conjectured the relation, or
rather the non-relation of the parties addressed; but as he mistook them
for husband and wife, his words not only brought a glow of burning shame
upon the cheek of our poor Ada, thoughtless, through excess of
thoughtfulness for another, but they somewhat heightened the complexion
of her guest also.

With a delicacy and tact, for which the young girl thanked him from her
heart, he explained the accident which had brought them together; and
while the disturbed Ada was beginning to accuse herself of culpable
imprudence, the doctor scarcely knew whether most to admire her for her
disinterestedness or to pity her for confusion.

Ada was sensibly relieved, when, having restored the child to its
mother, and promised to call again on the morrow, she was once more
alone on her way home.

The stranger watched her till she was out of sight, and then went home
with the doctor.

As they walked together, the doctor thought that if so remarkable a
meeting between two such interesting persons came to nothing, it would
be a great waste of romance in real life.

The next day Ada begged her mother to accompany her on her visit to
little Johnny Wilson; she had some scruples about going alone. But when
the hour came, Mrs. Somers was indisposed, and Ada was forced to go
unaccompanied. The first person she saw on entering Mrs. Wilson’s little
parlor, was the stranger; and not even the sight of his arm in a sling
had power to soften Ada’s displeasure at his appearance. Good Mrs.
Wilson, however, was in high spirits; Johnny was better; the gentleman
had brought him some toys, and she attributed entirely to the said
Johnny’s attractions, the two hours which her guest had been spending at
her front window. When in the height of her volubility, Mrs. Wilson
deposed that he had spent the whole morning with Johnny, the culprit had
once more recourse to the window, to hide his embarrassment; and while
he was wondering what he should do next, Ada, after a few brief
inquiries as to Johnny’s wants, bowed coldly, and took her leave in
serious displeasure; for she felt that this interview had all the
appearance of a rendezvous.

Just as she opened the street door, she was met by Doctor B., the sight
of whom by no means contributed to diminish her vexation or confusion.
The doctor saw that she seemed uneasy, and a glance at the person
looking out of the parlor window accounted to him for it; he therefore
checked the greetings he was about to offer, and gracefully bidding Ada
good morning, he entered the house.

Doctor B. comprehended the whole matter, without help or hint—for he
was in the habit of studying the mental as well as the bodily ailments
of mankind.

“Foolish fellow!” said the kind-hearted physician, to himself. “No
wonder that pretty creature is offended. I must really tell him that
there is no tact in his proceedings. What a magnificent creature she
is!” continued he, musing, “with her wide brow and intellectual eye. I
must find out her name, and give my friend here a hint not to dog her
steps, as if she were a vain and silly miss of every-day mould.”

Meanwhile the subject of his musings walked home in no serene state of
mind. If she had been disturbed yesterday, to-day she was cruelly
mortified. But it was all owing to her own misconduct. How could she so
far forget herself as to share her carriage with an entire stranger! Why
had she not resigned it to him, and walked home? But what
indiscretion—what utter absence of delicacy to go with him! She could
never forgive herself. And poor Ada’s cheek burned with the stinging
shame of delicacy compromised. And then she colored, and asked herself
“what right she had to suppose herself an object in a visit so natural?
Perhaps he had not thought of her at all;” and she began to breathe more
freely, when she suddenly remembered his conscious look, when Mrs.
Wilson had expatiated upon his kindness in sitting with them so long.
Back, then, came thronging confusion and shame; so that by the time Ada
reached home, she had tortured herself into a headache, and was obliged
to send an apology to Catharine, with whom she had promised to spend
that evening.

Early the next morning came Catharine on a visit of inquiry. Mr. Stanley
(whom she had invited expressly to meet Ada) had been so stupid and so
unlike himself that she had been several times on the point of going to
sleep; and she had half forgiven him, in the belief that he was stupid
with disappointment, when he suddenly interrupted a long pause by
relating an adventure which had befallen him the day before. There was a
beautiful girl in question, and she it was, and not Ada, who had made
Mr. Stanley “duller than the fat weed of Lethe.”

Ada then heard _his_ version of their meeting, and Catharine, in the
fullness of her indignation, grew so red and angry as she dwelt on the
marks of his visible infatuation, that Ada laughed outright. Still she
was sufficiently ashamed of the whole affair to have kept it quietly to
herself, had the hero thereof been any one but Mr. Stanley. This she now
saw was not possible, for in four days the wedding was to take place,
and for her own sake the confession must not be withheld.

It was made as briefly as possible, and Catharine was so overjoyed that
she scarcely marked the cold and discouraging tone of Ada’s recital.
“Just like him,” exclaimed she, “to sprain his wrist in saving the life
of a little ragged democrat—it is not the first time he has risked
himself for others.” And she was now as loud in praise as she had just
been in condemnation.

Ada never doubted for a moment, that Catharine, whose impetuous nature
converted life into a series of telegraphic dispatches, would fly off
and relate what she had just heard to Charles, Mr. Stanley, and the
whole world. She implored her therefore to confine her disclosures to
the two former, and to be as sparing as possible of raptures. Catharine
promised every thing, for she had just been seized with the humorous
idea of saying nothing at all about it, and so of witnessing the effect
of Ada’s unexpected appearance upon Mr. Stanley.

Four days are not long in passing, even to lovers—and the
wedding-evening came at last. Catharine was as free in step, as joyous
in heart as ever. She laughed and talked of her happiness, as she twined
her fingers around her glossy curls; and she spoke gayly of her love for
Charles, as she gathered up the folds of her veil, and requested Ada to
fasten in her hair, so as to make it becoming, as well as emblematic.

Catharine was more than ever an enigma to her friend, for Ada could not
comprehend that happiness which wears the form of so much gayety. To the
one, happiness was a deep and subdued feeling; to the other she came

        “With nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.”

But the two girls were as dissimilar—as friends usually are.

At length, with heightened color, and eyes dewy with emotion, (for she
dearly loved Catharine,) Ada followed the bride; and perhaps she had
never looked so lovely as she did to the astonished eyes of Mr. Stanley,
when, scarcely believing the evidence of his senses, he recognized the
face which for one whole week had visited him in dreams.

His surprise was not to be mistaken, and Ada, overwhelmed with
confusion, turned upon Catharine a glance so reproachful, that the
glaring impropriety of what she had done instantly flashed upon her. She
remembered that Stanley knew her too well, not to be assured that she
had poured the history of his adventure into Ada’s ears; and now it
seemed as if both had been conspiring to enjoy his surprise—as if poor
Ada had been accessary to a joke—a thing for which she had the greatest
aversion. Catharine was so displeased with her heedless conduct, that
she was unable to detest herself sufficiently; and not possessing Ada’s
habitual self-control, her penitence and apologies only made the matter
ten times worse.

Ada’s humiliation is not to be described. The mistake of Dr. B.—the
visit to Johnny Wilson were bad enough—but this was a positive
indelicacy, a thing for which Mr. Stanley must justly despise her. But
she was mistaken. Mr. Stanley knew Catharine well enough to recognize
her as sole author of the plot, and his behaviour on the occasion
testified his conviction of the same. Ada felt his kindness, but her
wounds bled none the less; and with bitter reluctance she placed her arm
within his, and descended to the parlor.

What a dangerous thing it is to interfere with the inclinations of
others. If there is anything in the world calculated to disgust two
people with one another, it is the discovery that their friends are
laboring “to make a match between them.”

Ada had just made this discovery.

The ceremony over, etiquette required that for a time at least she
should endure the attentions of her luckless admirer. He really was in a
position of some difficulty, but he acquitted himself therein with such
perfect tact and good-breeding, that Ada felt bound to hate him less.
But as soon as an excuse presented itself, she crossed the room, to join
another group, and left Mr. Stanley to the civilities of a young lady,
who seemed disposed to pay him every attention in her power. He, poor
fellow, almost sighed, as he followed her graceful figure; but he
resolved not to distress her with pursuit; so he addressed himself to
the young lady beside him—talked a variety of elegant nonsense to half
the company, and finally took his seat by Catharine.

“What have you done?” said he, reproachfully.

“Enough to mar the pleasure of my bridal day,” replied the penitent
bride; “but how could I dream—it was all a jest springing from my
unbounded delight, when I found that, like Romeo, you had fallen in love
with her at first sight.”

Mr. Stanley shook his head and smiled.

“It might as well have been,” answered she, and then lowering her voice,
she added, “How strange! how very strange! and how delightful!”

“Delightful for you, perhaps,” said her companion, in a serious tone;
“but first from my own, and now from _your_ blunder, Catharine, I fear
that the day on which I first met her, will be an inauspicious one for
me.” He then related to Catharine all that Ada had omitted—blamed
himself for the indiscretion of his visit to Mrs. Wilson; “and now, my
dear Catharine,” said he, “have you and I together not done enough to
make her hate me?”

“Hate you! Heaven forbid! for then I shall have held my tongue to no
purpose, and shall have wasted a great deal of good feeling in your
service.”

“Your feelings are just what they ought to be, ardent and affectionate,
but your judgment, I fear,” added he, with a smile, “is no better—than
my own.”

“Then what _shall_ I do?” asked Catharine, despairingly.

“Do, my dear Catharine? Do—nothing.”

“Well, this is sentence of death, indeed, upon my talents for meddling;
but never mind, I am so much more anxious to serve you than to
distinguish myself, that I will—try.”

She kept her promise; and for a month at least, Ada was suffered to like
or dislike Mr. Stanley in peace. During this time, many parties were
given to the popular bride; and though Ada was not fond of balls, still,
as bridemaid, she was forced not only to attend them, but to accept as
much attention as the enemy chose to offer. He was careful that this
attention should be no more than etiquette required of him; and it was
so unobtrusive, that at length Ada felt less and less embarrassed in his
presence, and ceased to think of his acquaintance as the greatest
misfortune of her life.


                              CHAPTER IV.

               “Noch seh’ ich sie
               Die herrlichste von allen, stand sie da.”


At length, to Ada’s infinite relief, came the last of Catharine’s bridal
parties. This was one of the largest and gayest of the season; and the
throng was so great that the two friends were separated soon after
entering the room, and saw nothing of each other till the evening was
more than half over.

The music had been so inviting that Catharine danced on until,
thoroughly exhausted, she made her way to another room, and sunk into
the depths of a Louis Quatorze, which, despised by the dancers, had been
tending its cushioned-arms for hours in vain. When she was sufficiently
rested, she began to look around her, and perceived that at last
accident had brought her so near to Ada, that the light folds of her
crape dress almost touched Catharine as the air from the open windows
swayed it to and fro.

Ada was talking with Mr. Stanley, and listening to his animated and
brilliant conversation with an interest which spoke in her smiling lips
and sparkling eyes. As for the gentleman, he was perfectly happy; he
would have asked nothing better than to look into those eyes for ever;
and, elated with the conviction that he had conquered her growing
aversion for him, he was now cherishing the hope that time might win for
him her regard. He already judged too correctly of her character, to
fancy it subject to sudden changes or hasty attachments; but he thought
it something to have brought her to a state of amiable indifference—to
have “smoothed the raven down of darkness till it smiled.”

“If you like the sentiment, Miss Somers,” were the first words Catharine
overheard, “I am sure you will be pleased with the whole book. The
author of Lacon, though he has borrowed largely from La Rochefoucauld
and La Bruyère, has some claims to originality. His style, moreover, is
epigrammatic, and his subjects will interest one like you, whose cast of
mind is metaphysical.”

“Humph!” said Catharine to herself, “you have been studying its nature,
_con amore_, I perceive;” while Mr. Stanley, unconscious of listeners,
went on.

“Will you allow me to bring it to you to-morrow, together with
Picciola?”

Ada gave a gracious assent, while Catharine pursued the current of her
remarks.

“Picciola! Lacon! Upon my word, he is advising a course of reading.” And
the demon of mischief strongly tempted her to break her promise—but
this time she resisted, or rather mischief was stifled by curiosity;
for, just at that moment, Charles advanced toward Ada with a middle-aged
and gentlemanly-looking man, whom he begged to present to Miss Somers as
Doctor B., a gentleman who, for some time, had been anxious for the
honor of her acquaintance.

“Doctor B.!” exclaimed Catharine, almost audibly. Why that is the
celebrated surgeon. What interest can _he_ have in Ada, so particularly
to desire her acquaintance? And, gracious heavens! how Ada blushes! What
can there be in the appearance of a respectable-looking elderly
gentleman to cause such a fluttering? And he and Stanley appear to be
such excellent friends, too. Oh, I can stand this no longer. “Charles!
Charles!” cried she, as Ada was led off to the dance, and Doctor B. and
Stanley moved away together; “Come quickly and tell me why you took such
special pains to make Ada acquainted with Doctor B. I was not aware that
you knew him personally.”

“I did not until this evening,” replied Charles, “and I introduced him
to Ada by Stanley’s request.”

“Why that is singular. I never knew they were intimate before. But why,
then, did he not introduce him himself?”

“He would not take the liberty,” said Charles, with a smile.

Catharine understood and returned the smile; then observed, “Stanley
ought to go on the stage. He has great talents for playing ‘The
Stranger.’”

Charles nodded his head, and then explained the origin of the intimacy
between Dr. B. and Stanley, and left Catharine traveling in seven-league
boots, till she ended her journey with Ada’s marriage.

Catharine had seen and heard too much that evening not to be primed for
mischief; and an opportunity soon occurred which put to flight all her
promises of neutrality. The dance was ended, and she had just
comfortably married Ada, when she once more spied the object of her
thoughts. She was alone, for her partner had gone in search of an ice
for her; and her attitude was that of complete meditation. Slowly and
deliberately she was tearing to pieces the prettiest flowers in her
bouquet, without seeming to know what she did. Catharine had just seen
Mr. Stanley leaning against the mantel-piece, gazing at Ada as if his
whole soul had been in his eyes; she instantly converted what she saw
into cause and effect; and delighted with her own penetration, she could
not resist so favorable an occasion for displaying it.

Catharine was right as to the object, mistaken as to the cause of her
friend’s meditation. Ada was thinking with genuine satisfaction of the
very agreeable person whom she had just escaped hating; and though, like
all generous minds, she liked him the better for her former injustice,
her thoughts were neither of rapture nor of love; they wore the sober
hue of justice; and if she was thinking of Mr. Stanley without
prejudice, she was also thinking of him without enthusiasm, and she was
unconscious of his gaze until Catharine called her attention to it.

“Where’s your bouquet, Ada?” said Catharine, pointing to the carnations
and geraniums that strewed the floor; and looking so intensely
mischievous, that Ada, innocent though she was, felt guilty.

“Really—I—it was so heavy,” stammered she, scarcely knowing what to
say.

“Indeed!” said Catharine, significantly; “then do let me ask Mr. Stanley
to come and hold it for you; it is the least he can do after causing its
destruction—shall I call him?”

Ada followed the direction of Catharine’s eyes, and one glance at Mr.
Stanley, gazing at her with an expression of intense admiration,
explained what was passing in Catharine’s mind. Ada was not pleased with
such public homage; moreover she had an aversion to what is commonly
called “being teazed about a gentleman;” but this was no place to
remonstrate with Catharine, and she resigned herself.

“Oh, no!” said she, smiling, “he has probably some object in view.
Perhaps he is practicing for a tableau vivant, designed to represent
Lara, or the leaning tower of Pisa. I have no desire to interfere with
so rational an amusement.”

“In other words,” replied Catharine, intent upon tormenting, “I am
politely requested to mind my business, and let Mr. Stanley look at Miss
Somers as long as he pleases. Well, all I have to beg is, that you will
keep out of my green-house whenever you indulge him in this ‘rational
amusement,’ at least till you have read Picciola, and have learned the
value of a flower.”

“Picciola!” echoed Ada, looking surprised, but by no means confused, as
Catharine had anticipated. “So, Kate, you have been playing Hephæstion
to-night! What a waste of conscience for a parcel of ballroom nonsense!”

“Oh, no! not Hephæstion,” exclaimed Catharine, “I am not so ambitious. I
am a mere snapper up of inconsidered trifles.”

“Well! considering the way in which you collect them,” said Ada,
good-humoredly, “I think you might be more scrupulous as to the way you
use them; and though you disclaim the resemblance, let me tell you that
you are quite as much in need of a seal to your lips as Hephæstion
himself.”

At this moment appeared Ada’s partner with an iced peach, and many
apologies for not bringing it sooner. He then offered to procure another
for Mrs. Ingleby—and she, to rid herself of his presence, accepted the
offer.

“Upon my word, he is staring at you yet!” exclaimed she.

This time Ada thought Catharine was jesting; and she looked up to prove
her indifference. But no! Once more her eye met his, and blushing with
displeasure, she replied to Catharine’s exclamation of triumph,

“I should never have suspected _any_ gentleman of trying to stare a lady
out of countenance; but you know Mr. Stanley better than I do,
Catharine, and since you have constituted yourself his protectress, you
would do well to teach him the rudiments of politeness.”

“He will be delighted with such a proof of your interest,” replied she,
“and as I am just about to challenge him to a walk on yonder balcony,
I’ll not fail to tell him what you have said. And if Charles inquires
for me, tell him, that at your special request, I am undertaking the
education of his friend; and pray be particular on that point, for I
remember some ten years ago, when gray eyes were in the ascendency with
us, and Charles might think that such a pair as Mr. Stanley’s, and given
to staring, too, might be dangerous. And now thank me, Ada, for I am
going to take him away;” and off she flew, delighted with having
achieved the difficult task of vexing Ada, and convinced that because
she was vexed, she must be in love.

A few moments after, Catharine was pacing the balcony on Mr. Stanley’s
arm, and actually repeating to him Ada’s very words.

“No wonder,” sighed her mortified companion, “you have never any peace
till you vex her with me in some way or other. She, so gentle—why
should you provoke her to speak harshly?”

“Oh, I could not help it!” said Catharine. “I was sorry for the poor
flowers—anxious that your admiring glances should not be thrown away,
and—in short, the fit was upon me.”

“What a reason, Catharine, for wounding the feelings of your dearest
friend, and enlisting her womanly pride against one whom you
profess—nay, I will be just, whom you really like.”

Catharine looked penitent, while he continued, “If I had not made that
foolish promise, she would not think me so presumptuous as she does; and
but for your interference, Catharine, I might perhaps have no cause to
regret it. But—”

“But remember that I am going away to-morrow, and you will then have the
entire management of your love affairs in your own hands.”

“True,” said he, smiling; “and you are such a mischievous Puck, that I
shall certainly mark the day of your departure with a white stone.”

“Saucy, are you, sir? Well! I shall punish you on my return. But hist!
no more of Ada, for she comes this way. The traitress! she has been
flirting with my husband, while I have been tormenting her lover.”

“My dear Catharine,” said Ada, advancing, “I defended you to Mr. Ingleby
to the best of my abilities, but he insisted upon testing my sincerity
by confronting us.”

“Mr. Ingleby is pleased to play the Othello,” returned Catharine; “I
demand, therefore, that you give him up to my vengeance.” And Catharine
would have taken her husband’s arm, but seeing that Ada had no mind to
relinquish it, she whispered, “For shame! to bear malice so long; his
eyes are not basalisks.” But Ada went on quietly talking to Ingleby’s
sister, Mrs. Howard, who had joined them; and the conversation became
general, and turned upon the expected departure of the newly-married
pair. Not long after, they took their leave, and Ada, to atone for her
unkind remarks, accepted Mr. Stanley’s arm to the carriage, and bade him
a cordial good-night.

Early the next morning Catharine started on her bridal tour, to be
absent the entire summer. She wished Mr. Stanley much happiness, and he,
bowing with mock gravity, assured her that he looked upon her
disappearance as the first step thereunto. And he was really as glad to
have her gone, as he professed to be; for Catharine, with a warm heart,
a generous nature, and a thousand good qualities, lacked seriousness of
character—and she was too apt to lay the sacrilegious hand of mirth,
upon the heart’s sacred altar, and to jest of what to Stanley seemed
matters of deep and serious import.

He therefore went home light of heart; for he was not only relieved from
the presence of his tormentor, but he was glad that the gay season was
now over. He felt that the regard of Ada Somers was not to be won at
balls and parties, and he longed to know her where she would seem
loveliest—in the tranquil intercourse of a refined and happy home.


                               CHAPTER V.

              “Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,
              And men below, and gods above.”


The month of May saw the Somers family once more settled at Somerton;
and twice a week did Mr. Stanley’s curricle make its appearance there
also, until the month of September; when suddenly his visits doubled,
not only in number, but in length; and as Miss Somers never complained
of the same, it is to be presumed that he had made all the improvement
she could desire in politeness, and all the progress he could have
wished in her esteem.

Early in October, on a day as bright as herself, came Catharine—the
wild, merry, but affectionate Catharine. She kissed Ada o’er and o’er,
vowed she was prettier than ever, though she had never written her a
line for the last two months, and was just about to ask what had become
of Mr. Stanley, when her attention was called off by the sight of a
diamond ring which glittered like a star on Ada’s third finger. In her
admiration of its brilliancy, she quite forgot Mr. Stanley.

“What a beautiful solitaire!” exclaimed she; “what a pure water!—where
did you get this, Ada?”

Ada’s cheeks were crimsoned in a moment. She fastened her eyes upon the
ring, as if to gain courage from the sight, and in a low voice she
replied:

“It was a gift.”

“And the giver,” quickly replied Catharine.

The color deepened—the eyes were raised with an expression which
Catharine had never seen before, and she guessed rather than heard, the
scarcely audible name of “Mr. Stanley.”

She gave a cry of delight, threw her arms around Ada’s neck, and gave
vent to her joy in broken sentences:

“Oh, I am so happy!—I knew it would be so!—my dear Ada, did I not
predict it, and am I not indeed Cassandra? To think of every thing
ending so charmingly when the beginning was so inauspicious. And I—oh,
Ada, do forgive me my heedless impertinences; I have often thought of
them with contrition. Why is not Charles here to have a hornpipe with me
for joy?—But never mind—now I remember, he went to see Stanley, and
perhaps he is hearing it all from him! _You_ in love, Ada! Ah! confess
that the word is a sweet one! And now come and tell me all about it! But
stay,” said she, relapsing into her own saucy vein, “what have you to
say for your high-flown opinions of last winter, on celibacy?”

“They remain unchanged,” replied Ada.

“But your feelings. Defend them if you dare from inconsistency.”

“I will not attempt it,” said Ada, smiling. “Like Rousseau, ‘Je serais
bien fâché d’être du nombre de ceux qui savent répondre à tout.’”

“Ah! there is nothing like wit to silence just accusation,” began
Catharine, but just then she felt the little hand which she still held,
tremble, and her ear soon after, caught the sound of carriage-wheels.
“Ah, that must be he!” cried she. “Commend me to the acuteness of
lovers’ ears! Why, Ada, your heart has almost the gift of prescience!”
and away bounded Catharine to greet her favorite.

“And so, Stanley, the sun has at last risen on Memnon’s statue,” were
almost the first words she uttered.

“Yes,” answered Charles Ingleby, emerging from the carriage, “and very
much elated he seems to be with his new achievement.”

“Why, Charles, are you there too?” said his wife. “See,” exclaimed she
to Stanley, “how marriage blunts the sensibilities. There was Ada who
had an electric presentiment of _your_ coming; while I, though I have
been a wife but seven months, stood as dumb as an effigy, while Charles
was near.”

“Encouraging for you, Stanley,” observed Ingleby, and he passed into the
parlor where Ada was sitting. Stanley looked wistfully after him, and
having caught the first sound of Ada’s sweet voice, he took Catharine’s
arm within his, and they walked to the opposite end of the piazza, where
they talked together for some time, in a low voice.

Catharine was the first to break out into an audible tone. “Arrived
to-day,” exclaimed she, with evident delight, “when will she be here?”

“In an hour, I think,” replied he, “and I must now go and prepare Ada to
receive her. I really begin to tremble as the time draws nigh; and I owe
it all to you, for scaring me with the spectre of my own name.”

“Then pray, modest youth, let me do it for you. I long to take this
_dénouement_ in my own hands. I have always had a talent for comedy, and
this is probably the only opportunity I shall ever have of making my
appearance on any stage.”

“Now, Catharine! none of your plots. I have a shuddering recollection of
your talents for comedy, last winter, and I beg that you will not lay
your wicked little hand upon the web of my destiny.”

Catharine held up a hand as white as snow. “Does this look like a thing
having power to harm your great clumsy destiny? I scorn to meddle with
any thing so weighty. I am intent upon pleasure only—a scene—a
surprise—dramatic effect—tears—joy, &c., and when that is over, the
curtain may fall on you and your ladye love, while I shall go home, like
a good Griselda, and mend Charles’ clothes.”

Who could help laughing when Catharine chose it? Not Mr. Stanley, so he
yielded the point; and she had soon arranged her scene, and taken to
herself the lion’s share of prominence therein.

“And now,” said she, “go and tell Ada, for the thousandth time, that she
is ‘dearer to you than the ruddy drops that visit your sad,’—Oh, no!
not sad, I must alter Shakspeare a little—‘your _joyful_ heart;’ send
Charles to me, and—Oh! there comes Mrs. Somers, and I must speak with
her directly,” and away darted Catharine through the shrubbery to meet
Mrs. Somers, who had just returned from a walk. As she bounded lightly
down the walk, Stanley could not help confessing that she was graceful
as a nymph, but there was one still more graceful in his eyes, whom he
had not yet seen; and with a quick step he entered the house. His first
act was, faithfully to deliver Catharine’s message, and send Ingleby
away. He then took a seat by Ada, and paraphrased the words “I love,”
with commendable ingenuity, for nearly half an hour. He then suddenly
remembered that he had another mission to perform, and after a pause,
during which he wondered how he should begin:

“Ada,” said he, “you have not yet asked me any questions relative to my
family. Have you no curiosity to know who I am?”

“On all subjects connected with you,” replied Ada, “I feel an interest
too strong to be called curiosity; but in matters relating to your
family, your communications, to give me pleasure, must be voluntary. I
expect to be told _without_ the asking,” added she, smiling, “who you
are.”

“So you shall, my Ada, and you are about to receive the astounding
information.”

“Must it be astounding?” laughed Ada, “for if so, I am bound to conclude
that I have been over hasty in my acceptance of your attentions. I hope
you are not Jupiter Tonnans, for I have no ambition to be dazzled to
death. But perhaps you are only an earthly prince in disguise, or,
perchance, The Wandering Jew. If the last of these, I must be permitted
to decline the honor of becoming ‘The Wandering Jewess.’”

Stanley laughed, and shook his head. “I am the son of one of those
princes, who govern in America under the name of ‘The sovereign people,’
but for further particulars I refer you to your friend, Mrs. Ingleby,
for—”

“_Parlez du diable_,” said a voice at the door, and in walked Catharine
herself, followed by Ingleby, who having been forbidden to say a word,
crossed the room, and meekly seated himself in a corner. “May I be
allowed,” continued Catharine, “to ask what use was being made of my
name, as I entered this room?”

“Certainly,” replied Stanley. “Miss Somers has been affecting to doubt
the respectability of my parentage—”

“I!” exclaimed Ada, who scarcely knew whether he was in jest or earnest.

“Can you deny it! when you began by accusing me of being a heathen, and
ended by kindly suggesting that I might possibly be The Wandering Jew?”

“To the point, Mr. Stanley, if you please,” said Catharine, with mock
dignity.

Stanley bowed submissively. “I was about to say then, that however well
I may be known to your husband, _your_ knowledge of my name and station
is, I believe, anterior even to his; I beg that you will now declare the
same to this young lady, together with any incidents of my life which it
may please you to reveal; and in the presence of her who is to be my
judge, I fearlessly request that of my past deeds you will ‘nothing
extenuate.’”

Here was a beginning after Catharine’s own heart, but its effect was
somewhat spoiled by Charles Ingleby, who called out familiarly from his
corner: “Faith, Stanley, you run far more risk in Kate’s hands of having
‘much set down in malice.’”

“Silence in the court, Mr. Ingleby!” cried his wife, trying very hard
not to smile.

“Oh! I am the court, am I?” persisted Charles, “then I can almost say
with Louis the Fourteenth, ‘_L’état c’est moi._’”

“Oh, Charles! I wish you would not interrupt me to show off your
learning,” cried Catharine, who began to feel her comedy fast
degenerating into farce; but determined to make a certain speech which
she had prepared for the occasion, she quickly composed her
features—compressed her lips, and thus began:

“James Stanley! I do accuse you, in presence of these witnesses here
assembled,” (here Charles muttered something about its being quite true
that he was a host within himself, but Catharine went steadily on,) “I
do accuse you of having basely insinuated yourself into the affections
of this damsel, (Ada, be quiet) insomuch that she hath eyes for no one
else—and this you have done under false colors and a false name.
Therefore, I here pronounce you traitor and impostor, and denounce you
to the said damsel by the name you blush to bear—the infamous name of
James Darrington!”

“James Darrington!” exclaimed Ada, in a tone of the deepest emotion.
“Yes, yes,” murmured she, “my heart spoke truly—from its depths I heard
his name, even before—before—” she paused and timidly raised her eyes
to her lover’s countenance. That smile! she had seen it in her
dreams—those eyes, so tenderly riveted upon her! how often had their
glance awakened in her soul vague recollections of something loved and
forgotten. Her heart beat violently, and pressing her hands to her eyes,
her over-wrought feelings found relief in tears.

But they were tears of joy, and while they flow undisturbed, we must
defend James Darrington from the serious charges preferred against him
by Mrs. Ingleby.

It will be remembered that at the time of Mr. Darrington’s death, he
resided in Paris. Partly by the expenses entailed upon him by his
position as American minister, partly by the failure of banks at home,
he became so involved, that at his death, a mere pittance remained for
the support of his widow and son. Mrs. Darrington decided upon an
immediate return to America, but her plans were changed by the reception
of a letter from a near relative, then residing in England. The letter
was not simply one of condolence—Mr. Stanley offered a home to his
impoverished niece, and before she had time to accept or refuse his
proposal, it was followed by himself in person.

The parties were mutually pleased. Mrs. Darrington was prepossessed in
favor of her uncle, by his resemblance to her father, and he, without
ties, seemed anxious to find an object for his tenderness in the person
of his brother’s only child.

Thenceforward Julia, and Julia’s son, became the first objects in his
heart. To minister to the happiness of the mother, and to shower every
advantage of education that wealth can confer upon the child, seemed the
aims of his existence.

James so richly repaid these benefits, that in time he became the idol
of his uncle, and the old gentlemen often sighed when he remembered that
his nephew was not a Stanley. After reaping, in the devotion of his
niece and the respectful affection of his nephew, the rich reward of his
generous conduct toward them, Mr. Stanley died, and, without condition
of any kind, bequeathed his large fortune to Mrs. Darrington and her
son. Attached to the will was a letter, in which he made it his last
request that James should add to his own the name of Stanley. The old
gentleman knew James too well to make it a stipulation; he was aware
that his fortune would be rejected on such terms, and he gave it to his
adopted son, bore he the name of Stanley or Darrington. But this
request—couched in terms of so much tenderness—made in such an
unassuming way, seemed binding to the grateful James; and what he might
have refused to his uncle’s pride he granted to his affection. Moreover,
Stanley was his mother’s name, and James had always loved it for her
sake.

Their hearts now yearned for home; but a year’s delay ensued, from some
tedious formalities of the law, and that year they passed in roaming
over the Continent. In Italy they were joined by Charles Ingleby, and
after spending some months in that beautiful land—beautiful, though but
the whitened sepulchre of departed greatness—they decided upon passing
the summer at Baden-Baden. There they met with the Ashtons.

James soon found that the pretty American girl, whose lively manners
made her the toast of the “_hoch-begoine_” visiters of Baden, was his
old friend Kate. Except that she was older and prettier, she had not
much changed since the days when they had gone berrying together; and
James, whose republican heart had withstood not only the heraldic charms
of the De Longuevilles and De Montmorencies, but had refused to
surrender itself to “all the blood of all the Howards,” hung with
breathless interest upon Catharine’s words, as by turns she dwelt upon
the beauty, the talent or the thousand virtues of his once cherished
Ada. His old passion awoke from its long slumber, and he was now as much
in love with the ideal as he had once been with the reality. Catharine
was ready to worship him for his romantic fidelity, but his conviction
that he would know Ada again, after ten years’ separation, she laughed
to scorn.

Meanwhile, Charles Ingleby’s heart had strayed, or been stolen, and
after some months’ endurance of the loss, he announced the same to Miss
Ashton, accused her of the theft, and modestly professed himself willing
to compromise the matter, by accepting hers in exchange. Catharine had
no alternative but to submit, and the matter went no further.

James became now so restless to return home that his mother offered to
wind up his affairs for him, and proposed that he should sail with the
Ashton family. James knew that his mother was quite as capable of
managing business as she was of managing servants, and he accepted her
offer with many thanks. It was then arranged that he should act as
groomsman to Ingleby, while Ada should be bridemaid to Catharine, and it
was on that occasion that Catharine imagined a plan for testing their
remembrance of one another.

If neither recognized the other, James was to be punished for his
audacity, by keeping his secret till his mother’s arrival; all of which,
in the height of his presumption, he promised, with no more expectation
of being called upon to fulfill his bond than had the Merchant of
Venice.

He met Ada, and the impression she made was such as to occasion certain
doubts in his mind of his boasted constancy. This unknown _looked_ as he
would have had Ada look; and he felt that if her mind at all resembled
her person, he was in danger. When he discovered who she was, he was so
transported with joy that he forgot to be humiliated for not knowing her
at once. But we have seen how severely he was punished in the sequel by
Ada’s cold reception of his advances, and his own inability to claim her
regard by the slightest appeal to the past.

“And now,” said he, “I ask you, Charles, whether I have not been
unjustly bound to secrecy? I contend that I _did_ recognize her, for my
heart knew her and loved her at once.”

“So you did,” replied Charles. “‘What’s in a name?’ Ada Somers or la
belle Inconnue, James Stanley or James Darrington, were one and the same
person, and both were constant to the object; how that object was called
is of no importance.”

“Mere sophistry,” said Catharine disdainfully, but James appealed to
Ada, and she reversed the decision.

Whilst they were still debating the matter, a carriage drew up before
the door, and Catharine darted out of the room with the speed of an
arrow. In a moment she returned, followed by Mrs. Somers, and a lady
whom Ada recognized in an instant, and starting from her seat, she found
herself in the arms of Mrs. Darrington.


                              CHAPTER VI.

          “_Et l’on revient toujours à ses premiers amours._”

(This is the veriest nonsense ever penned. It chimes in with our story
and we use it, but without endorsing it the least in the world.)

That night Ada relieved her full heart, by talking over the events of
the last six months to her mother, who listened, as only a mother can
listen, till midnight. Mrs. Somers had scarcely kissed her daughter’s
cheek and left the room, when Ada rose, unlocked one of her bureau
drawers, and took thence an antiquated-looking rose-wood box. Under
heaps of broken chains and old fashioned jewels lay a dingy little
emerald ring; she seized upon it, and uttered an exclamation of
pleasure, as she found that it fitted her third finger. She then
replaced her box, kissed the ring, and murmured a “good-night” to the
giver.

Some weeks after, Ada, her diamond and her emerald, became, one and all,
the property of James. Dr. B. was at the wedding, and Catharine related
to him every circumstance connected with what she styled “Ada’s pompous
apostasy from the faith of her girlhood;” beginning with the drowning,
and ending with the resumption of the emerald ring. Dr. B. evinced such
lively interest in her story, that she proclaimed him to be the best
listener she had ever met with in her life.

The day after the wedding, Johnny Wilson was favored with a large
consignment of wedding-cake; and in after life, when, through Ada’s
means, he had risen in station and fortune, he was heard to declare that
he had marked with a white stone the day on which he had been nearly
crushed to death by the horses of Mrs. James Darrington Stanley.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               NARCISSOS.


                           BY HENRY B. HIRST.


    THERE is a flower which haunts the banks of streams,
      That blossoms only in the path of Spring,
    Lovingly bending where the water gleams.

    Its fragrant perfumes fill the azure air,
      As, gazing always in the limpid brook,
    It seems to watch the Naiades braid their hair,

    Or sport, in naked beauty, caroling hymns
      Of siren sweetness to poetic Spring,
    While gliding, here and there, on milky limbs.

    All day it gazes: day by day its eye
      Searches the stainless crystal of the stream,
    Watching those faultless, fairy forms float by.

    Day after day it watches, hour on hour,
      Like love above the grave of that it loved—
    More like a mortal than a simple flower.

    When night descends—when darkness, like the grave’s,
      Falls on the stream—when moss and fern and grass
    Are lost in gloom—when naught is heard but waves

    That roll and ripple through the restless reeds,
      It droops its head and sinks in dreamless sleep,
    Couched, like a jewel, among worthless weeds.

    But sometimes, when the argent moon awakes
      The Naiades to midnight mirth and song,
    The blossom from its mournful slumber breaks,

    And breathes again its sweet, unanswered sighs;
      And all the stars that gild the glassy stream
    Shine on its heavy gloom like pitying eyes.

    Day after day it watches—hour on hour—
      Love weeping by the grave of what it loved,
    More like a mortal than a simple flower.

    And day by day it pales and wanes away
      Until it lays its form along the stream,
    And slowly sinks to silence and decay.

          .     .     .     .     .     .     .

    There is a legend told in classic Greece—
      A myth, so musical of the olden time,
    That none who hears can bid the singer “Peace!”

    PAUSANIUS tells it! In its rhythmic flow
      We find how fair Narcissos, young in years,
    Passionate beyond his age, so long ago

    As when the gods came down and walked with men,
      Had a sweet sister—would that sister’s name
    Had ever have fallen within the poet’s ken—

    A young, twin sister, lovely as the light
      Of twilight in her own delicious land—
    Lovely as Venus was at birth of Night.

    Narcissos was as fair, albeit his mould
      Had all the attributes that mark his sex;
    And men were deities in the Age of Gold.

    The sympathies of twin existence ran
      So warm in both, their being grew like one,
    Though she was feeble woman; he, strong man.

    Hand locked in hand, they haunted hill and plain,
      Passing in peace their simple innocent lives,
    Both singing, so it seemed, the same refrain.

    Or angling in the stream, or through the groves
      Hunting the deer, they owned one only rule—
    One gentle rule, and that was rosy Love’s.

    One day—the air was swooning with the heat—
      The maiden sought the border of a stream
    And stood and laved and cooled her burning feet.

    The loving water breathed an amorous tale;
      The maiden gave herself to its embrace,
    And in its passionate clasp grew deathly pale.

    Narcissos was afar: he could not hear
      His sister’s piteous murmur of his name:
    Alas! that poor Narcissos was not near!

    He came at night, and on the river’s shore
      Beheld her garments; but her faultless form,
    Save in his maniac dreams, he saw no more!

    And from that night, and from that hour, he lay,
      Swelling the stream with little brooks of tears,
    Sighing his soul away day after day.

    And gazing in its depths in search of her,
      He saw _his_ image, which was so like _hers_,
    He grew to be his own sad worshiper.

    The gods, who saw him act this piteous part,
      Wept at the sight, and made his pallid form
    A snowy blossom with a crimson heart.

    There, by the stream, it watches, hour on hour,
      Love mourning by the tomb of what it loved,
    More like a mortal than a simple flower.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              TO ARCTURUS.


                        BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.


            ——_Nec morti esse locum, sed viva volare_
            _Sideris in numerum atque alto succedere cælo._
                                          VIRGIL, GEOR. IV.

    “STAR of resplendent front!” thy glorious eye
    Again shines out from yonder sapphire sky,
    Piercing the blue depths of the vernal night
    With opal shafts and flames of rubient light;
    Till the pale Serpent gliding round thy path
    Hides in dim shades his ineffectual wrath,
    Pining with envy at thy dazzling ray,
    Deep-hued and damasked like the orb of day
    When in the purple west he slowly sinks away.

    Hast thou not stooped from heaven, fair star, to be
    Through Night’s wide, pathless realm of phantasie
    So near—so bright—so glorious—that I seem
    To lie entranced as in some wondrous dream,
    All earthly joys forgot—all earthly fear
    Purged in the light of thy resplendent sphere:—
    Gazing upon thee till thy flaming eye
    Dilates and kindles through the stormy sky,
    While, in its depths withdrawn, far, far away,
    I see the dawn of a diviner day,
    And hear celestial harmonies that come
    Burdened with love from thine elysian home.

    For in that gorgeous world, I fondly deem,
    Dwells the freed soul of one whose earthly dream
    Was full of beauty, majesty and wo—
    One who, in that pure realm of thine, doth grow
    Into a power serene—a solemn joy,
    Undimmed by earthly sorrow or alloy;
    Sphered far above the dread phantasmal gloom
    That made his poet-heart a living tomb,
    Tortured by fires that death alone could quell
    Fierce as the flames of Farinati’s hell.
    “Was it not Fate, whose earthly name is Sorrow,”
    That bade him with prophetic soul to borrow
    From all the stars that fleck night’s purple dome,
    _Thee_, bright Arcturus! for our spirit home—
    Our trysting star, where, while on earth’s cold clime,
    Our mingling souls might meet in dreams sublime?

    Was it not Fate, whose name in Heaven above
    Is Truth and Goodness and unchanging Love—
    Was it not _Fate_ that bade him turn to thee
    As the bright regent of his destiny?—
    For when thine orb passed from the lengthening gloom
    Of autumn nights a morning star to bloom
    Beside Aurora’s eastern gates of pearl,
    _He_ passed from earth his weary wings to furl
    In “the cool vales of Heaven”—thence through yon sea
    Of starry isles to hold his course to thee.[1]

    Now when again my wistful eyes I turn
    To greet thy beacon fires, feeding the urn
    Of memory with sweet thoughts—I almost see
    The presence of the loved and lost in thee,
    Kindling within my soul a pure desire
    To blend with thine its pale, candescent fire.
    I have “no refuge from thy light,” no home
    Save in the depths of yon empyrian dome,
    Where thy bright Pharos ’mid the stars doth burn,
    “Whence I departed, whither I return,”
    To lose my very life in thine, and be
    Soul of thy soul through all eternity.

-----

[1] For there is no place of annihilation—but alive they mount up each
into his own order of star, and take their appointed seat in the
heavens. GEORGICS, BOOK IV.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        TRAVELING A TOUCHSTONE.


                          A PARTY OF PLEASURE.


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


A GAYER party, bent on pleasure, never left the wharf than that now on
board the steamer bound for Albany. It consisted of Mr. and Mrs.
Castleton, Ruth Meredith and her friend Grace Fanshaw, with young
Meredith, who had been coaxed by his sister to join the party, so that
“they need be no trouble to Mr. Castleton.” He had consented, though
voting it rather a “bore.” The presence of the pretty, winning, graceful
Mrs. Castleton reconciled him, however, somewhat to the scheme, which
was declared perfect in all its prospects and details, except the one
drawback to the young ladies, of having been obliged to ask Mary Randall
to accompany them.

There was no particular reason why Mary Randall’s being invited should
have been a point so much objected to, as she appeared a quiet,
inoffensive girl, by Ruth and Grace, only that she was not intimate with
either, and seemed in their apprehension to spoil the ease and interfere
with the excessive intimacy and familiarity of the other two. Harry
Meredith, too, was put out with the prospect of “another woman to be
civil to;” but, as Ruth said, “there was no help for it. Papa makes a
point of it, as he wants to pay the Randalls some attention, and so does
it by making me civil to Mary. It’s not pleasant, Grace, but it is
better than not going at all.”

“Oh, to be sure,” replied Grace, thinking in her heart that old Mr.
Meredith was a very disagreeable old gentleman; but there being no help
for that either, the matter was settled.

“I dare say Mrs. Castleton will take her a good deal off our hands,”
said Ruth.

“What a charming woman she is,” replied Grace.

“Mrs. Castleton? Oh, she has always been my _beau ideal_,” answered
Ruth. “She’s lovely both in mind and person. Her manners are so
graceful, and her tones so sweet—there’s altogether a charm and
witchery about her that’s indescribable.”

“I hope your _beau ideal_ will be a little more punctual another time,
Ruth,” said young Meredith smiling. “Faith! I thought we had lost our
passage.”

“Well, but we did not,” replied his sister.

“No,” said Meredith. “More by luck though than good management.”

“What a fuss you men always make about punctuality,” returned Ruth.

“And well we may,” replied her brother. “It’s the soul of business—and
traveling, too, you’ll find. So pray have your carpet-bag ready in the
morning—or—”

“Now don’t begin with scolding, Harry, because Mrs. Castleton happened
to be five minutes out of the way.”

“Well, well,” replied Meredith, “that’s enough. Now go and choose your
state-rooms. One of you will have to share one with a stranger.”

The girls looked at each other; Ruth and Grace wanting to be together,
and yet not liking to propose it to Mary Randall, who said at once, with
the almost of good nature,

“Oh, I’ll take that one. It’s the same thing to me, you know,” in a
manner that quite warmed their hearts to her.

Mrs. Castleton had the first choice, of course, and so all the
arrangements were made accordingly. But just when they were retiring for
the night, Mrs. Castleton came to Ruth and Grace’s state-room, with a
servant following her, bag in hand, saying in her usual sweet manner and
soft tones,

“Girls, you’ll have to change with me. There’s such a walking overhead
that I can’t sleep below.”

And so bonnets and shawls and bags were hastily gathered up, and all
tumbled in confusion in the condemned state-room below.

“She might have thought of that before,” said Ruth with some little
vexation. “It was her own choice.”

“Yes, I think so,” replied Grace. “She could sleep here I suppose as
well as we.”

“I should think so,” said Ruth. “However, it’s no matter.” And so, full
of talk of pleasure, they chatted half the night, to the great annoyance
of their next neighbor, (who chanced to be a crusty bachelor, who all
but cursed “those girls,”) until they fell asleep, to continue their
schemes in their dreams.

“Oh, Ruth, dear, just stop and fasten my dress,” said Mrs. Castleton,
looking out from her state-room in the morning, as her young friend was
passing in a great hurry. “I am so late,” she continued. “Do help me
pack up these things.”

Ruth looked round in despair at the floor and chair, heaped with an
indescribable mass of gowns, caps, shoes, and every thing that had been
quickly out of the trunk, in Mrs. Castleton’s hasty search after a
particular pair of _manchettes_, which were deemed indispensable to her
toilette, because they just matched the pattern of her collar, and
answered,

“I’ll come back, Mrs. Castleton, as soon as I have fastened my own
trunk. I left my room in a hurry, to speak to Harry, who wanted me, and
half my things are out yet.”

“Oh, you’ll have plenty of time,” urged Mrs. Castleton persuasively, but
still pertinaciously, “and my husband will be so angry if I am late. He
can’t scold _you_, you know,” she added, with one of those playful
smiles Ruth usually thought so bewitching, but which she was in no mood
to admire now, as she thought—“And so you mean to throw your
unpunctuality on me”—but hardly knowing how to refuse, she was
beginning to toss things in helter-skelter, venting her pet upon
helpless frocks and caps, when Mary Randall coming by, saw her through
the half opened door on her knees before the trunk, (for Mrs. Castleton
was twining her long curls round her fingers at the glass,) said,

“Can I help you, Ruth? I am all ready.” So, to her inexpressible relief,
she took Ruth’s place, saying in a low voice, “Go and finish your own
packing—I’ll get Mrs. Castleton ready.”

“What a dear, good girl you are,” said Ruth, in a perfect effervescence
of gratitude—for it is not always the magnitude of the favor, that
produces the greatest amount of gratitude. “I declare, Grace,” she said
afterward to Miss Fanshaw, “that Mary Randall is the nicest girl I know.
I would rather have her with us than not.”

The hurry and skurry of getting ashore was hardly over, when it was
discovered that Mrs. Castleton’s bag had been left in her state room,
and to avoid an explosion of vexation on the part of the provoked
husband, Harry Meredith had to start off poste haste to get it, having
scarcely time to spring back to shore ere the boat pushed off for Troy,
and thinking, as he did so, that if the lady had not been so pretty he
would not have interfered to prevent her getting the scolding she so
richly deserved. Heated and panting he returned in time for a cold cup
of coffee, as the rest of the party had already breakfasted during his
absence. But Mrs. Castleton said so gracefully, “I am afraid my
carelessness has made you lose your breakfast, Mr. Meredith,” that he
could not but answer,

“Oh, not at all. I have had a capital breakfast.”

The pleasant ride however to Utica restored the travelers to their usual
high spirits. Mary Randall was discovered to have as keen a sense of
enjoyment as any of them, with a fund of good temper that seemed
inexhaustible.

“And _so_ punctual,” as young Meredith said most approvingly. Her shawl
was never missing, and her carpet-bag was always ready, (two great
points, young ladies, if you would win a gentleman’s heart in
traveling,) but graceful, charming Mrs. Castleton was forever forgetting
something, and they never stopped any where that they did not hear Mr.
Castleton’s voice saying, in a tone of mixed vexation and despair,

“Now, Julia, have you got your bag? and where _is_ your shawl?” To which
she generally answered

“Yes—no—is not this mine? No, dear, I believe I left it in the car—or
perhaps its only in the carriage. Just call the driver back, wont you?”

“The stage starts at six in the morning for Trenton, ladies,” said
Meredith at night as they parted. “So you must be bright and early.
There’s no danger of _your_ not being ready,” he said, turning to Mary
Randall with a smile. “You are a capital traveler, I see.”

Mrs. Castleton did not look pleased. She thought the compliment to Mary
was an implied reproof to herself—and she was not used to any thing but
admiration, except, indeed, from her husband; but she seemed used to his
scolding, for somehow she did not appear to mind, if indeed she heard
it, which seemed doubtful. Meredith often thought him downright cross.

“How he does scold that pretty wife of his,” he said to Ruth. “And how
sweetly she bears it. I declare I can hardly keep from answering for her
sometimes.”

“She does not seem to care for it though,” replied Ruth, who was
beginning to be a little disenchanted of her _beau ideal_; “and she is
provoking.”

“If she were not such a beauty, I suppose she would be,” he replied.

“Are you ready, Mrs. Castleton?” said Ruth, in her animated voice, at
her door the next morning.

“Ready!” exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, who was standing before the glass, as
she stroked her glossy hair. “Ready!”

“Yes,” said Ruth, looking aghast at the trunk which was open as usual
with half its contents on the floor. “Yes, Mr. Castleton sent me up to
say that the stage starts in ten minutes.”

“Oh dear! then we can’t go in this one,” she replied, quietly. “I can’t
get ready in that time. We must take the next one going.”

“But no other goes to-day,” said Ruth, in despair.

“Then we must wait until to-morrow,” replied Mrs. Castleton, calmly. “I
would just as leave stay here a day as not.”

But Ruth would not, nor Grace, nor any of them; and as Mrs. Castleton
continued, “I’ve been to Trenton before—so I don’t care about staying
there more than a day.”

Ruth thought she should have exploded. To be cut short of a day at
Trenton, she and Grace, who had talked and dreamed of nothing else all
summer. And Mary, too, who wanted to take sketches there—it was more
than her patience, or rather impatience could bear; but she saw that the
only thing to be done, was to get her ready herself—so she said with
the energy of desperation.

“Dress yourself, and I’ll pack your trunk. You have plenty of time.” And
so she turned to and rapidly folded dresses, and packed and locked the
trunk, and then seized the carpet-bag, and stuffed every thing in it she
came across in an incredibly short time; and ere Mrs. Castleton had
calmly put her bonnet on, she came panting down stairs, dragging the bag
after her, and loaded with shawls and cloaks, heated and out of breath.
She was just in time to hear Mr. Castleton call out,

“All ready, ladies?” to which his wife answered in the sweetest tones of
bright alacrity,

“Yes, all ready!” to his infinite satisfaction and approving surprise,
for he answered,

“Ah, that’s right!” as he handed her in the carriage, and as poor Ruth
jumped in after her, she exclaimed,

“Why Ruth, dear, how heated you look!”

Now if any thing is provoking, it is to be told when you are heated,
that you look so. But Mrs. Castleton, feeling fresh and cool, seemed
quite amused as well as surprised at her friend’s looking so flushed and
flurried.

Two stylish young men, strangers, who were to be their fellow-travelers
to Trenton, turned their eyes on Ruth at this exclamation of Mrs.
Castleton; and poor Ruth, who really was a pretty girl, when not
flushed, feeling that she was appearing to no advantage, only colored
the more, and grew the hotter for the attention she attracted, while she
longed to say, “If I am hot, it’s packing your trunk that has made me
so;” but as that would not do very well, she had no alternative but
silence, while she saw the strangers glance from her to the delicate,
fair, tranquil-looking Mrs. Castleton with looks of admiration that did
not tend to pacify her. She had, however, to grow cool in temper and
temperament the best way she could. And off the stage started for
Trenton.

Two delightful days were passed at the Falls. The stylish young
strangers had made Harry Meredith’s acquaintance, and been by him
introduced to the party, which they joined. So the girls were in
ecstasies. They could have staid there willingly for a month; but their
time was limited, as they wanted to be back in time for the ball at West
Point; and the young men being, like themselves, bound for Niagara, they
were somewhat reconciled at leaving Trenton, which was declared to be
the most perfect spot under heaven. “They could live there forever,”
etc.; and so the whole party, with its new made addition, returned to
Utica again.

“Oh, my bouquet! I left it on the table in the drawing-room!” exclaimed
Mrs. Castleton, the next morning, just as they were all seated in the
cars. “Do, dear,” turning to her husband, “go and get it for me.”

“It’s of no consequence, Julia,” he replied; “and I have not time.”

“Oh yes, indeed it is,” she urged. “You have plenty of time. Tell the
conductor to wait a minute for you.”

“Nonsense, Julia,” he replied, impatiently. “Do you suppose he’d stop if
I were to ask him—and I certainly would not ask him if he would.”

But she looked so imploringly, and at the same time so very pretty, that
Mr. Sutherland (one of the strangers before mentioned) thought her
husband a brute to refuse her, and darted out of the cars, which the
next minute were starting off.

“There! Sutherland has lost his place!” some one exclaimed, as the
bouquet was thrown in at the window, and fell into Mrs. Castleton’s lap;
but a gentleman, putting his head out of the window, said, “No! there he
is, jumping on the outside!” “Oh, how dangerous!” cried out two or three
voices at once. And one old gentleman drew in his gray head with the
quiet remark, “Young men will do these mad things. I only wonder more
accidents don’t happen;” and in another minute, Mr. Sutherland, animated
and laughing, was making his way through the centre of the car, and as
he took his seat, said,

“I was afraid you would lose your flowers, Mrs. Castleton. I quite gave
you all up as I saw the cars starting.”

“I am very much indebted to you,” she said, gracefully. “I am so fond of
flowers. Their fragrance is really refreshing,” she said, as she raised
the large bouquet to her delicate face, not less fair and soft than the
beautiful flowers that almost hid it.

The young man looked at her most admiringly, as if it was a beautiful
and refined taste, just suited to so lovely and graceful a creature.

The little party passed so pleasant a day together, and the young men
were so captivated with Mrs. Castleton’s grace and beauty, and the high
spirits and general good looks of the three girls, that it was proposed
that they should join parties, and take an “extra” together for the next
stage of their journey.

This suited the ladies extremely well, who were not less (only not so
openly) charmed with the gentlemen. And the next day a later hour was
named for their starting than usual, as the conveyance was their own.

“_Is_ Mrs. Castleton ready?” said Harry Meredith, in a tone of
suppressed impatience, the next morning. “It’s most nine o’clock, and we
were to have been off at eight.”

“Oh, no!” replied Ruth, in a low voice. “I doubt whether we get off
to-day, Harry. She says there’s no hurry as we have an “extra.” I do
think with all her pretty ways, she is the most provoking woman!”

“Where is Mary Randall?” he asked.

“Helping her,” continued his sister. “I came away in perfect vexation
and despair. As to her husband’s being cross to her, I think he’s a
perfect marvel of patience.”

“I declare I am beginning to think so too,” said Harry. “Well, to-morrow
we take the boat on the lake, thank fortune! so there’ll be no more
running back for flowers and bags.”

In spite of little drawbacks, however, the pretence of the two young
strangers, who kept Mrs. Castleton in high good-humor, made the two days
stage-traveling very delightful; and now they had reached the boat, and
were on the broad and beautiful Ontario.

“Do, Ruth, put on your cloak,” said Meredith, to his sister. “The
morning air is very keen.”

“I can’t find it, Harry,” she replied.

“How could you mislay it!” he said, quite provoked. “You will catch your
death of cold.” And a great stir was made for the missing cloak,
everybody getting up and looking under chairs and behind benches; and
poor Ruth, quite disconcerted at discomposing so many persons, was
saying all the time, “Oh, it’s no matter, Harry.” But he only replied,
“It _is_ matter, Ruth. You’ll be ill.” When the general move having
reached Mrs. Castleton, she said,

“What are you looking for, Mr. Meredith?”

“Ruth’s cloak,” he answered.

“Oh, I have it on,” she calmly replied. “I could not find mine. It’s
somewhere in the lady’s cabin,” she continued, looking up at Ruth,
without, however, making any offer of returning Ruth her own.

“Go and get it, Ruth,” said her brother.

She went, and in a few minutes returned without the cloak; and in answer
to Mr. Meredith’s remonstrance, said, in a low voice,

“I cannot help it, Harry; the air is so bad down there that I could not
stand it; and there’s such a confusion, it’s impossible to find any
thing.”

Meredith insisted, however, again. “You are coughing already;” and this
time he accompanied his sister, and presently they returned with the
cloak, which it took all his good breeding to hand to Mrs. Castleton
politely, who took it as quietly as if it had been quite a matter of
course, and as she returned Ruth her own, said,

“I hope you have not taken cold. You look quite blue,” and she continued
to gaze at her, with an air of surprise, at anybody’s being so cold and
looking so ugly.

“Sutherland,” said his friend a few days after, “your pretty Mrs.
Castleton’s a bore, with her sweet manner and dilatory selfishness. I
mean to cut the party and travel off for Niagara by myself. I don’t ask
you, however, to do so too, if you prefer remaining with them.”

“No,” replied Sutherland, “I believe you are right. Pretty women are
very charming at home, and in ball-rooms, but it is, as you say, a bore
to be tied to them in traveling.”

“The girls are nice girls,” pursued the other. “If it were not for this
spoilt beauty, I would rather remain with them than not.” So it was
determined between them that they should go on in the night train, and
so free themselves from the rest of the party, who they would meet again
at Niagara.

“How strange,” said Mrs. Castleton, as her husband conveyed to her the
adieux of the young men, who affected a sudden haste that must carry
them immediately on. “I declare it’s quite rude,” she continued,
somewhat offended.

“I am not at all surprised,” said Harry Meredith, quietly.

“It’s very provoking,” said Ruth, who knew what her brother meant, and
all the ladies were for the first time quite sulky. Mrs. Castleton, for
she missed the admiration of the two handsome, fashionable, agreeable
young men; Ruth, because she was angry with Mrs. Castleton as being the
cause of their being driven away, and Grace, not less put out than the
other two at losing the society of their agreeable traveling
companions—all but Mary, were in thorough bad humor.

“You seem to bear the loss of our new friends very philosophically,”
said Harry Meredith.

“They were very pleasant additions to our party,” she replied,
good-humoredly, “but as we started without them, and without any idea or
knowledge of them, I do not think they are at all essential to our
having quite as agreeable a journey as we anticipated.”

“What a sweet tempered creature she is,” said Harry, pleased with the
calmness with which she regarded the loss of the two heroes.

“Oh,” replied Ruth, “it is easy enough for her to keep her temper. _You_
have not left the party.”

“_I_,” he ejaculated, looking amazed.

“Yes,” pursued his sister. “You are almost as much of a stranger to her,
and quite as agreeable as either of the other two.”

“Thank you,” said he, laughing. “Then how comes it that you and Grace do
not value me as highly?”

“You are my brother,” she replied, “and Grace has known you since she
was a baby. There is no throwing the light of imagination round a man so
circumstanced.”

Harry laughed, and he did not like Mary the less for his sister’s
explanation of her good temper.

“Mrs. Castleton,” he said, “I’ve been to look at the rooms. There’s only
one on the second story, and another in the third. I presume you’ll take
the one on the second.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, “I never mount more stairs than necessary.”

“So I presumed,” he replied; and presently he came back with a smiling
expression in his eyes, that made his sister ask him once or twice what
was the matter, to which he replied each time, “nothing.”

But she knew better. Something evidently pleased him very much.

“It’s excessively cold,” said Mrs. Castleton, as she drew herself up in
her shawl. “I wish we had a little fire.”

“You had better go up stairs as soon as your room is ready,” said her
husband. And presently, when the housekeeper came to show them to their
rooms, shivering and blue, she bid the girls good night.

“Let me carry your shawls for you,” said Harry, as he gathered up his
sister’s and friends’ “things,” and following them up, he heard one of
the girls exclaim, as she opened the door, “Oh, charming! How
comfortable!” It was a large room, and a nice wood-fire was blazing most
cheerfully.

“Now, Ruth,” he said, “you see what amused me.”

“How?” she asked.

“Why, Mrs. Castleton chose, as usual, what she supposed was the best;
but her room has no fire-place in it; and I really enjoyed her
selfishness being for once at fault.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Mary, “for she seemed really suffering. I did not
know it. If I had—”

“Yes,” said Harry, with an admiring look, “I thought you would offer to
change with her if you knew it, so I said nothing about it.”

“You were right, Harry; I am glad of it,” said Ruth. “There’s no reason
why we should not be comfortable too. So good-night to you.” And as she
shut the door, she continued with, “A very bright idea of Harry’s; and
now girls don’t let us go to bed this hour yet. Let us enjoy this fire.”
And they did enjoy it, abusing Mrs. Castleton.

It was quite amusing to hear them. One would scarcely think she could be
the same person they started with. But young girls are always equally
enthusiastic in either liking or disliking.

Mrs. Castleton had been an angel because she was pretty and graceful.
She was now, if not quite a devil, at least, detestable, because she was
discovered to be spoilt. And “that cross Mr. Castleton,” was now “poor
Mr. Castleton.” So much for moods and tenses. Traveling is a magic
glass.

A few days at Niagara, in equal ecstasies, when Mr. Sutherland and his
agreeable friend were met again. Then they turned their faces once more
toward home. The gentlemen pursuing their original plan, separated to
travel by themselves, but were to meet the ladies again at West Point.

At Albany, however, Mrs. Castleton said to her husband:

“We’ll take the night boat, my dear, I am tired.”

“But you want to stop at West Point, don’t you?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” she replied, “I am tired, and want to get home.”

“Not stop at West Point!” exclaimed the three girls in a breath.

“No,” she replied. “Those balls are stupid things.”

“But, dear Mrs. Castleton,” said Grace, and “Oh, Mrs. Castleton do,”
said Ruth, in every accent of imploring urgency.

But Mrs. Castleton, though very gentle, could be very firm, when her own
wishes were concerned, and as she did not care to meet Mr. Sutherland
again, who had quite devoted himself to Grace the last few days at
Niagara, and as his friend had been indifferent from the first, she saw
no reason why she should stop there. As for the ball, she quite laughed
at the girls for even wanting to go at all.

“It’s useless to say any thing more, Ruth,” said Harry, in a loud tone.
“She’s a selfish creature—that’s the end of it.”

But that was not the “end of it,” for the three girls did not meet for a
month that at least half an hour was not devoted to a lively abuse of
their once _beau ideal_, “that lovely Mrs. Castleton.” And we are
mistaken if Mary Randall, to whose joining the party Harry Meredith had
so warmly objected, because he’d have to be civil to her, has not made a
conquest of the same Mr. Harry Meredith. And there is every appearance
of Trenton reminiscences leading to something with Grace and Mr.
Sutherland; and so I rather think there’ll be two weddings next winter,
at which Ruth will be bridemaid.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                 MARY.


                         BY WILLIAM M. BRIGGS.


    THERE was a maiden once—so fair—
      So shy in look—yet so beguiling—
    With wealth of changeful golden hair,
      And eyes so bright, yet ever smiling;
    That fain thought I—so fair was she—
    It should be writ in Poesie!

    Her name was like a poet’s dream—
      And that sweet name, they call it Mary—
    A word of gentle, sunny sheen—
      Though names may, like young maidens, vary—
    And MAY, with woman’s wayward will,
    Had sometimes gleams of APRIL still!

    But often on some dreamy day,
      Out where the old green woods were swaying,
    When the blue skies stretched far away,
    And the glad sunshine’s every ray
      Seemed with each bud and floweret playing,
    And misty air and sunny beams
    Grew tempting-full of foolish dreams;

    Then would she sit in quiet mood,
      With thoughtful face and gentle tone;
    I dreamed the spirit of the wood
      Had come to tryst with me alone,
    And speak such earnest words as tell
    That human hearts may love too well:

    Such exquisite, sweet thoughts as rise
      From souls that artless passion moves,
    And mounting upward through the eyes
      Betray the heart that loves,
    And whisper, ere the lips can part,
    That love lies brooding at the heart.

    That love—young love—oh! who can tell
      How much there is of mad’ning pain
    For one who loves too deep—too well
      To be beloved so back again—
    To be so loved, yet doomed to see
    All that he loves droop hopelessly!

    Ah me! I look upon the past,
      As o’er some book of faded flowers,
    Where Joys, now crushed, too sweet to last,
      Remind me of those vanished hours;
    And every trace those leaves impart
    Is pressed more deeply on my heart.

    The touch, the tone, the melting look,
      The half-reclining, gentle pressure,
    The keeping time with hand and foot
      To some love ditty’s murmured measure
    While with her fingers, soft and fair,
    She smoothed the tangles of my hair;

    And how through long and silent ways
      We wandered in the sunny weather,
    As light of heart and full of lays
      As any wanton bird in feather—
    And every word that she would say
    Seems ringing through my soul to-day.

    There was a maiden once—so fair—
      That I shall ne’er forget it—never—
    Though time may silver o’er my hair,
      And I may seem as calm as ever—
    For dreams, whose guidance ne’er can vary,
    Are trystings still for me and Mary.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            THE POET COWPER.


                        By REV. J. N. DANFORTH.


IN contemplating the varieties of human kind, nothing is more obvious
than that some men are endowed with genius for the production of one set
of results, while others are invested with the same power with a
manifest adaptation to different results. So the interior texture of
that impalpable thing we call genius, is diverse in various subjects. In
some we find the development of extraordinary energies, in others the
elaboration of the gentler traits of character. Some are eminently
capable of devising, others of executing. One man is distinguished for
the ardor of his imagination, another for the soundness of his judgment.
A bold, daring temper of mind is indigenous to one class; a gentle,
timid disposition characterizes another. The spirit of sarcasm, of
irony, of invective, riots in the mental activities of some men, while
that of tenderness, benevolence, and habitual charitableness constitutes
the repose of others. Of the former, Byron might be mentioned as an
example; of the latter, Cowper. They were both men of acknowledged
genius. The world has adjudicated on their respective titles to the
inheritance of fame. But how different the men!

It may be true that the qualities of Byron were more fitted to excite
the stronger and sterner, as they certainly were to awaken the severer
and more rampant feelings of our nature, while those of Cowper tend to
elicit whatever in man is tender, reverent, social and sympathetic. He
is eminently the poet of the home and the heart, and even when
contending with the foul and formidable spirit of melancholy, he strives
to make others cheerful and happy.

In one of his letters he says that his own experience contradicts the
philosophical axiom that nothing can communicate what it has not in
itself, for that he wrote certain poems “to amuse a mind oppressed with
melancholy,” and that by so doing he has “comforted others, at the same
time that they administer to me no consolation.” One can hardly believe
that from a mind over which hung such clouds and darkness there could
issue such a piece as “John Gilpin,” or the “Report of an adjudged case,
not to be found in any of the books.” Yet the mind of man is wondrous!
What powerful efforts will it not make to rise into a region, where it
can behold the cheerful light of day, and breathe the healthful air of
freedom. Cowper long looked upon himself as a doomed reprobate, a
hopeless exile from the favor of God—but faith triumphed at last. That
exploded absurdity—that a powerful genius must necessarily reside in a
slender and morbid frame—seems long to have possessed even intelligent
minds. Education is coming to be considered as properly embracing our
whole physical, intellectual, and moral being, and the time, we hope, is
at hand, when it will be no reproach to carry about a robust mind in a
robust body. Indeed we have among the intellectual magnates of the land,
men of massive fames and ample physical development. Look at the
stalwort line of Secretaries of State for some years past!

But a poet must be a man of more ethereal mould. Why so? Behold Sir
Walter Scott, that man of regal imagination, who breathed the spirit of
poetry into the body of his romance, and transfused romance into his
poetry, while with dramatic energy and verisimilitude he summons before
us, on the stage he has erected, the stirring scenes and characters of
other days, as with the wand of an enchanter. What an athletic form
ministered to the commands of his kingly mind, for it was he who loved
to say, “My mind to me a kingdom is.” And Johnson, the critic, moralist,
essayist, lexicographer, poet—yes, POET, for in his great mind the
elements of the sublime and beautiful lay in all their wondrous
nativity; Johnson was a man of giant physical strength, of an apparent
animalism too awkward to admit of refinement in this world. Burns, too,
was a man of massive mould, yet how exquisitely poetical. The philosophy
of the union of soul and body is as yet little understood. We want
_healthy_ men to conduct the affairs of the world, as well as to serve
in the Court of the Muses and the Graces. What injuries have States
sustained; what interruptions of the peace of the world have been caused
by a fit of the gout, of dyspepsy, of morbid melancholy, of base
intemperance, or by some paroxysm of passion engendered by the humors of
an unhealthy body. The very Union of the States may be endangered by
these causes.

Had Cowper been free from those distressing maladies, from the
depredations of that “fierce banditti,” as he calls them,

        “That with a black, infernal train,
         Make cruel inroads in the brain,”

how much happier had he been, how much more might he have accomplished.
Pity, not censure; charity, not severity, are due to the interesting
sufferer, who had too much timidity to read aloud before his superiors,
thereby losing a good office. That, however, was a trifle, compared with
the deep fountain of melancholy that existed within him, whose waters no
kind angel descending from heaven healed by casting in some celestial
gift. Religion itself became tinged with the dark coloring of the
disease it would relieve. To most pilgrims of Time the “New Year” is a
cheerful season. “Happy” wishes then fly in clusters all around the
domestic and the social circles. How does Cowper speak of the old year?
“I looked back upon all the passages and occurrences of it as a traveler
looks back upon a wilderness, through which he has passed with weariness
and sorrow of heart, reaping no other fruit of his labor than the poor
consolation, that, dreary as the desert was, he left it all behind him.”
While indulging a similar strain of lugubriousness, his thoughts fall
into the natural language of the poet: “Nature revives again, but a soul
once slain, lives no more. The hedge that has been apparently dead is
not so: it will burst into leaf, and blossom at the appointed time; but
no such time is appointed for the _stake_ that stands in it. It is as
dead as it seems, and will prove itself no dissembler.” Mournfully
beautiful! And thus had he been talking for eleven lingering years, long
enough to make “despair an inveterate habit.”

We do not recollect that any of the biographers of Cowper have given
sufficient weight, if they have even adverted to one very natural cause
of depression, the destitution of any regular profession or employment
for nearly seventy years, with no wife to love, no children to provide
for. It were enough to wither even a joyous temperament. “The color of
our whole life,” said Cowper, “is generally such as the first three or
four years in which we are our own masters make it. Then it is that we
may be said to shape our own destiny, and to treasure up for ourselves a
series of future successes or disappointments.” Those years were spent
in idleness, to the influence of which was added the effect of his
mortifying failure as clerk to the House of Lords, thus throwing him
upon any chance resources for the supply of the various wants of life.
The final result was the providential overruling of the whole to the
production of a consummate poet. “Had I employed my time as wisely as
you,” he writes to his friend, Mr. Rose, “in a situation very similar to
yours, I had never been a poet perhaps, but I might by this time have
acquired a character of more importance in society.”

He had reached fifty years before Fame had dropped a single wreath upon
his brow, or he had even seriously courted the poetic Muse. “Dejection
of spirits, which I suppose may have prevented many a man from becoming
an author, made me one. I find constant employment necessary, and
therefore take care to be constantly employed.” He seems to have thought
that the season of winter was the most congenial to the operations of
his mind and the productions of his fancy. “The season of the year which
generally pinches off the flowers of poetry, unfolds mine, such as they
are, and crowns me with a winter garland. In this respect, therefore, I
and my contemporary bards are by no means upon a par. They write when
the delightful influence of fine weather, fine prospects, and a brisk
motion of the animal spirits make poetry almost the language of nature;
and I, when icicles depend from all the leaves of the Parnassian laurel,
and when a reasonable man would as little expect to succeed in verse, as
to hear a blackbird whistle.” The very spirit of modesty breathing
through language deeply poetical! It is the province of genius, in its
imaginative forms, to render tributary to its object the whole circle of
the seasons, and to expound the thousand occult meanings of nature in
her depths and her varieties, as well as to exhibit the more obvious
images of beauty, of which she furnishes in such profusion the striking
originals. Hear the voice of his Muse apostrophizing even stern Winter:

        “I crown thee king of intimate delights,
        Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness!”

Bachelor as he was, he sought his chief happiness in the interior
sanctities of domestic life. There his gentle spirit was nourished with
the aliment drawn from the purest sources of friendship and virtue, and
thence his imagination took its flights, not bold, but beautiful, not
ascending to the lofty height of Milton’s “great argument,” but holding
its graceful way through that middle region of thought, and fancy, and
feeling, familiar to the mass of minds in any measure susceptible to the
beauties of poetry. The critics of half a century ago, while they
hesitated to admit Cowper to that high rank among the great poets, which
has been adjudged him by the verdict of posterity, confessed that his
works contained many traits of strong and original genius, and a
richness of idiomatic phraseology seldom equalled in the English
language. Readers of poetry had become so accustomed to the refined
diction and polished versification of his predecessors—Addison, Pope,
Gray, and Prior—that they were slow to welcome a new aspirant for the
bays, who came with a free, unfettered, and even somewhat careless air
to claim their homage. He might gather a few humble flowers along the
sides of Parnassus, but to think of reaping near its summit was the
height of presumption. Yet which of those poets has now so many readers
as Cowper? Goldsmith may better compare with him for permanence and
extent of interest, so eminently natural is he; but what shall be said
of Dryden, earlier, it is true, than the others, but one who had long
been considered as having passed into the apotheosis of the _Dii
majores_? He may have one reader to five hundred who luxuriate in
Cowper’s parlor, alcove, and garden, with the TASK in hand.

Then for purity, what a contrast between these last two. The Bard of
Christianity, as he has been called, wrote no line, which, “dying he
would wish to blot.” To Cowper the sentiment is more impressively
applicable by the suffrage of the public mind, than Thomson, to whom it
is applied by Lord Lyttleton—and deservedly so. They both communed with
Nature, the one with her minute lights and shades, the other with her
grander forms and more striking developments. The imagination of Cowper,
like the microscopic glass, detected the shape and tint of the very
petal of a flower. That of Thomson ranged with the sweep of the
telescope through fields of light, and distant spheres, radiant with
beauty and vocal with harmony. Each fulfilled his mission with dignity,
propriety, and devotion, causing us to pray _O! si sic omnes!_ But the
nineteenth century has produced so much mysticism, such an amount of
nebulous metaphysics in poetry and prose, as to make some honest people
doubt the lawfulness of their veneration for the standard poets,
especially the more intelligible ones, or whether there is any such
thing as standard poetry. Coleridge, indeed, is clear, solemn, and
sublime, when he approaches nearest to Milton, as in his Sunrise Hymn;
and Wordsworth is most natural, perspicuous, and impressive, when he
most resembles Cowper; but Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, Browning—what do
they mean in half their poetry?

Cowper stands almost alone in having nothing to do with the passion of
love, which has always figured at such a rate in all sorts of novels,
dramas, and poems. It was not because he was destitute of sensibility.
His life was a tender sentiment, his heart was formed for friendship; he
was even an admirer of the female sex, and he entrusted the happiness of
his life to the care and sympathy of female friends; but the romance of
the tender passion was beneath the dignity of his Muse, while for real
purity of affection, as well as of imagination, no poet has been more
distinguished. He possesses the sweetness, if not the grandeur of
Milton; and if he does not emulate the song of the Seraphim, who, in
their exalted spheres, minister so near the throne of the Eternal, his
strain is ever coincident with the thousand choral harmonies of nature
and mind around him. In speaking of the influence of the “country” upon
his mind, even that country which “God made,” he says, with enthusiasm,

        “I never framed a wish, or formed a plan,
        That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss,
        But there I laid the scene; there early strayed
        My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice
        Had found me, or the hope of being free.
        My very dreams were rural; rural, too,
        The first born efforts of my youthful muse.”

The regions of fiction he left others to explore; the artificial manners
of a polished age; the martial deeds of heroic periods he relinquished
to their admirers, and devoted himself to the socialities of domestic
life, to the promotion of pure morals, and the elevation of public
sentiment on a proper basis, and to a worthy standard. “He impresses
us,” says Campbell, “with the idea of a being, whose fine spirit had
been long enough in the mixed society of the world to be polished by its
intercourse, and yet withdrawn so soon as to retain an unworldly degree
of purity and simplicity.” He listened with alacrity to the secret
suggestions of the spirit of philanthropy, and at times rose to the
solemn dignity and fervor of a prophet’s strain, thus realizing the
classic, nay, the Hebraic idea of the union of poet and prophet in the
same venerated person.

Among those sentiments which have been incorporated into the thinking
and speaking of men, may be found many of the conceptions of Cowper’s
genius, especially as embodied in the Task, near the conclusion of which
he ascends to so lofty a height, as to remind us of the sublimity of
Milton. It is perfectly obvious, that before his muse took that flight,
she had bathed her wing in the fountain of inspiration. The voice of the
bard seems to echo that of the Hebrew prophet, as he stood upon the
Mount of Vision, and beheld the unfolding glories of the latter day.

The satire of Cowper was at times as keen as his own sensibilities, yet
blending itself with a gentle manner and a genial humor, it disarmed all
suspicion of malignity in its composition, thus augmenting its moral
power. Vice, folly, and even finery, felt the sharpness of his satire.
In his themes, as in so many clear mirrors, we see reflected the
multiplied images of the spirit of the man. Truth, Hope, Charity,
Retirement, Ode to Peace, Human Frailty, the Rose, the Doves, the
Glowworm, Lily, Nosegay, Epitaph on a Hare, such are the subjects that
wakened in him congenial thought and feeling. The lines on his Mother’s
Portrait are exquisitely tender and affecting, instinct with love,
overflowing with affection, with that love which is never so intense as
when softened by affliction, and intertwined with pensive recollections
of the past. His pieces are not wrought with the perfection and coldness
of artistic skill, like those of the sculptor, but flow from the
imagination right through the channel of the heart, taking the most
natural shape and costume of the moment and the occasion.

The great critic of the North, who sat so many years on the Bench of
Literature before he occupied the Bench of Civil Justice, from which
death has recently called him, thus pronounced his opinion of Cowper:
“The great variety and truth of his descriptions; the sterling weight
and sense of most of his observations, and, above all, the great
appearance of facility with which every thing is executed, and the happy
use he has so often made of the most ordinary language, all concur to
stamp upon his poems the character of original genius, and remind us of
the merits that have secured immortality to Shakspeare.”

Little need be added concerning his prose. It is known to have been
eminently easy and natural. His letters especially are models. It is
sufficient praise to say, that Robert Hall, that master of the art of
composition, thus speaks of Cowper: “I have always considered his
letters as the finest specimens of the epistolary style in our language.
To an air of inimitable ease and negligence, they unite a high degree of
correctness, such as could result only from the clearest intellect,
combined with the most finished taste. I have scarcely found a single
word which is capable of being exchanged for a better. Literary errors I
can discern none. The selection of the words, and the structure of the
periods are inimitable; they present as striking a contrast as can well
be conceived to the turgid verbosity which passes at present for fine
writing, and which bears a great resemblance to the degeneracy which
marks the style of Ammianus Marcellinus, as compared to that of Cicero
and Livy. A perpetual effort and struggle is made to supply the place of
vigor; garish and dazzling colors are substituted for chaste ornament,
and the hideous distortions of weakness for native strength. In my
humble opinion, the study of Cowper’s prose may on this account be as
useful in forming the taste of young people as his poetry.”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                EVENING.


                             J. R. BARRICK.


    HOW sweet to me the evening hour,
      When Nature sinks to rest,
    And like a warrior in his pride
      The sun goes down the west.

    As evening stars, like diamonds bright,
      Come peeping through the sky,
    Ah! what a thing of joy ’twould be
      From earth to fade and die.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                        THE QUEEN OF THE WOODS.


                               MY “LIDA.”


                            BY “L’INCONNUE.”


    THE spring-time is waking to beauty and bloom,
    The storm-clouds are breaking, and bright through the gloom
    The blue heaven flashes like gleams of thine eye,
    Through the dark silken lashes, which deepen its dye,
    ’Tis a glance full of tenderness, blended with pride,
    Like thine own azure eye-beam, my sweet sister Lide!

    The rose-buds are sleeping—but odors around
    Tell of hyacinths peeping from yon grassy mound;
    And the peach-bloom is blushing like cloudlets at even,
    When the sunset is flushing the calm summer heaven,
    And I dream as its leaflets float down at my side
    Of the rose-tinted cheek of my sweet sister Lide.

    The south wind is blowing, and up from the wood,
    Where the streamlet is flowing, in charmed solitude,
    Swells in low, liquid numbers the waterfall’s song,
    As its chanting wave slumbers, or dashes along;
    And the clear silvery tone of that murmuring tide
    Seems the love-laden voice of my sweet sister Lide.

    The soft stars are twinkling in beauty above,
    And the dew-drops besprinkling their blossoms of love,
    While a fresh, balmy breathing of spring-tide’s perfume
    O’er my free soul is wreathing that delicate bloom,
    Which glows o’er the beautiful feelings that glide
    Through the pure angel-heart of my sweet sister Lide.

    There’s a charm in the far gleam of waves on the sea,
    And a spell in the star-beam that whispers of thee;
    But as gay hours in fleeting new blushes of Spring
    To this wild bosom’s beating in loveliness bring,
    So its soft feelings deepen to glorious pride
    When it dreams of its angel, my sweet sister Lide.

    The world thinks us lonely—’tis true we’re alone,
    Not as twin-spirits only—our _hearts are but one_—
    With no parent, no brother, no glad, happy home,
    We’re the world to each other, wherever we roam,
    And my young life glides onward like spring’s sunny tide
    When I dwell with “mine own one”—my “love of a Lide!”
         _Memphis_, 1850.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           SCENE ON THE OHIO.


                          BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.


    IT is a glorious eve—the stream
      Without a murmur wanders by,
    And on its breast, with softened beam,
      The sleeping stars so sweetly lie,
    ’Twould seem as if the tempest’s plume
    Had swept through woods of tropic bloom,
    And scattered down their blossoms bright
    To sleep upon the waves to-night.

    And see—as hangs the moon aloft,
      Her beams come gushing through the air
    So mild, so beautifully soft,
      That wood and stream seem stirred with prayer,
    And the pure spirit, as it kneels
    At Nature’s holy altar, feels
    Religion’s self come floating by
    In every beam that cleaves the sky.

    There’s glory in each cloud and star,
      There’s beauty in each wave and tree,
    And gentle voices from afar
      Are borne like angel-minstrelsy;
    In such a spot, at such an hour,
    My spirit feels a spell of power,
    And all beneath, around above,
    Seems earthly bliss and heavenly love.

    Oh, Mary, idol of my life,
     My heart’s young mate, my soul’s sweet bride,
    Dear soother of my spirit’s strife,
      I would that thou wert by my side,
    And I would kneel on this green sod
    In love to thee and praise to God,
    And, gazing in thy gentle eyes,
    Dream but of thee and Paradise.

    I see thy name in yon blue sky,
      In every sound thy name I hear,
    All nature paints it to my eye
      And breathes it in my listening ear;
    I read it in the moon’s sweet beam,
    The starlight prints it on the stream,
    And wave and breeze and singing bird
    Speak to my soul the blesséd word.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
THE QUEEN OF THE WOODS.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         THE LADY OF THE ROCK.


                        A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.


                         BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.


                      (_Concluded from page 334._)


                              CHAPTER XV.

                                       wrought gems,
                 Medallions, rare mosaics and antiques
                 From Italy, the niches filled:

                   Thine is the power to give
                     Thine to deny,
                   Joy for the hour I live.
                     Calmness to die.—WILLIS.


AS the object of young Stanley’s visit to England has no bearing upon
the _dénouement_ of this tale, we will not follow his footsteps thither.
It is probable, however, that we may meet with him on his return, for
we, too, although not in company with him, are about to cross the
Atlantic, and bear our reader along with us.

It is known that when Alice Heath sailed for England, she had strong
hopes from obtaining an interview with Charles II., that she might
succeed by her persuasions, in procuring the pardon of her husband and
father. These hopes, however, were by no means so strong as she had
given the outcasts reason to believe, for it had been clearly
represented to her, how difficult she might find it, owing to his
bitterness against the murderers of his father. Yet there were those who
advised her to the step, on the ground that her chance of success,
although, indeed, thus slender, was by no means entirely void. And, on
this bare possibility, the heroic wife and daughter had torn herself
from the exiles, braved the perils of the ocean alone, and again set
foot in her native land.

So far, at first, from her obtaining the desired interview with Charles,
his minions had seized upon Alice as a hostage for the escaped
prisoners, and thrown her into strict confinement. Here she lingered
during the sixteen years of which our narrative takes no account. We
have said that that length of time may pass, figuratively speaking, to
many, as rapidly as the short turning of a leaf in our volume. But to
her, who was thus imprisoned, how wearily must it have waned! Separated
from those to whom she deemed her presence so necessary—with no means
of communicating to them the fatal termination of her projected journey
of hope, how interminable must it have appeared. Then it was, for the
first time in her distresses, that the noble spirit of Alice Heath sank.
Prevented from acting for those whom she loved, successive days
presented to her, no object in life, and scarce the faint hope of escape
from her imprisonment at any future period.

At length, however, at the time we again recur to her, she had succeeded
in gaining the ear of one who stood high in the favor of the king.
Through his influence she had been released, and was this day to have an
audience with Charles in behalf of her proscribed relatives.

As Alice rode through London, the lofty houses, the stately streets, the
walks crowded with busy citizens of every description, passing and
repassing with faces of careful importance or eager bustle, combined to
form a picture of wealth, bustle and splendor to which she had long been
a stranger. Whitehall at last received her, and she passed under one of
the beautiful gates of tesselated brick-work.

Noon-day was long past when Alice entered the palace, and the usual hour
of the king’s levee—if any thing could be termed usual where there was
much irregularity—was over. The hall and stair-cases were filled with
lackeys and footmen in the most expensive liveries, and the interior
apartments with gentlemen and pages of the household of Charles,
elegantly arrayed. Alice was conducted to an ante-chamber. Here, in
waiting, were many of those individuals who live upon the wants of the
noble, administering to the pleasures of luxurious indolence, and
stimulating the desires of kingly extravagance by devising new modes and
fresh motives of expenditure. There was the visionary philosopher, come
to solicit base metals in order that he might transmute them into gold.
There was the sea-captain, come to implore an expedition to be fitted
out, if not exactly to discover new worlds, at least to colonize and
settle uncivilized ones. Mechanics and artisans of every trade—the
poet—the musician—the dancer—all had collected here under promise of
an audience with their monarch, many of them day by day disappointed,
but still returned anew.

Alice halted at the door of the apartment, seeing it filled with so many
persons, and beckoning a page to her, handed him a passport from the
Duke of Buckingham. On glancing his eye over it, he requested her to
follow him. He led her some distance, through various passages,
elegantly carpeted, and paused before a small withdrawing-room. Throwing
open the door, he desired her to enter. The apartment was hung with the
finest tapestry, representing classic scenes, and carpeted so thick that
the heaviest tread could scarcely be heard. Stools and cushions were
disposed here and there about the floor, and elegant sofas and couches
were placed against the walls. Statues of bronze, intended to light the
apartment by evening, were placed in various niches. A large glass door
opened into a paved court heated by artificial means. In this court a
number of spaniels were playing, and numerous birds, of different
species, seemed to be domesticated there.

Upon this day, the king held his court in Queen Catharine’s apartments.
These were thrown open at a given hour to invited persons of something
less than the highest rank, though the nobility had likewise the
privilege of being present.

It is not unknown that Charles had allowed many of the restrictions by
which the court had been surrounded during the previous reign to be
remitted. This circumstance it was that had chiefly gained him the
popularity which he possessed, and that, in fact, enabled him to retain
the throne. All who could advance the slightest claims to approach his
circle, were readily admitted: and every formality was banished from a
society in which mingled some of the most humorous and witty courtiers
that ever dangled around a monarch. The dignity of the king’s bearing
withal secured him against impertinent intrusion, and his own admirable
wit formed a sure protection against the sallies of others.

On the present day, Charles seemed peculiarly alive to sensations of
enjoyment from the scene before him. Arrangements for prosecuting all
the frivolous amusements of the day, were prepared by the gay monarch. A
band of musicians was provided, selected by his own taste, which, in
every species of art, was of the nicest and most critical kind. Tables
were set for the accommodation of gamesters. From one to the other of
these, the king glided, exchanging a jest, or a bet, or a smile, as the
occasion suggested it.

While he was thus occupied, the page who had conducted Alice into the
withdrawing-room, suddenly entered. He spoke a few words to an attendant
upon the court, who immediately approached and informed his majesty that
a lady, refusing to announce her name, desired to be admitted into the
presence.

“By what right, then, does she claim to enter?” demanded the queen,
hastily.

“She used the name of the Duke of Buckingham,” replied the usher.

“Who can she be?” said a nobleman present.

“In the name of adventure, let us admit her,” said the king.

The games were neglected; the musicians played without being listened
to; conversation ceased; and a strange curiosity pervaded the circle.

“Does your majesty desire the lady to be admitted?” inquired the
attendant.

“Certainly; but, no, I will see her in the ante-room.” So saying, he
left the apartment.

Alice had sat some moments on one of the sofas we have mentioned, when a
person entered, whose appearance caused her heart to beat rapidly, as if
conscious that he was the individual with whom she sought an interview.
He whom she beheld was apparently past thirty years of age. His
complexion was dark, and he wore on his head a long, black periwig. His
dress was of plain black velvet; and a cloak of the same material, hung
carelessly over one shoulder. His features were strongly marked, but an
air of dignified good-humor presided over his countenance.

Alice, conscious of the deep die which hung upon the issue of this
meeting, grew paler than even imprisonment and sorrow had left her, and
her heart palpitated with such energy that it seemed as if it must burst
its prison-house. She rose as the king approached, and fell upon her
knees. As we have said, there was not the faintest shade of vital color
to enliven her countenance, and the deep black garb in which she was
clad, as accordant with her feelings and suitable to her distressed
condition, increased the effect of this unearthly pallor. She was still
beautiful, despite of care and time, and the angel-like expression of
purity had deepened upon her features.

Charles, ever alive to the charms of her sex, paused, much struck, at
the interesting picture she presented. Advancing, after he had gazed on
her for an instant, he bade her rise and be seated.

It was dangerous for the king to behold beauty in the pomp of all her
power, with every look bent upon conquest—more dangerous to see her in
the moment of unconscious ease and simplicity, yielding herself to the
graceful whim of the instant, and as willing to be pleased as desirous
of pleasing. But he was prone to be affected far differently by gazing
on beauty in sorrow: for his feelings were as keenly alive at times to
impressions of genuine kindness and generous sympathy, as they were to
the lighter emotions of the heart.

Her glance was one rather of uncertainty and hesitation, than of
bashfulness or timidity, as she still knelt and said, “I behold his
majesty, the king of England, I presume?”

“It is Charles Stuart, madam, who requests you again to seat yourself,”
said the king.

“The posture I employ is the most fitting for one who comes to ask a
boon such as I have to solicit. I am the daughter and wife of certain of
thy unhappy father’s enemies.”

The king’s countenance instantly changed. “Ah,” said he, “her whose
release I have recently granted.”

“The same,” replied Alice, “and I come now on behalf of my husband and
father, to beg you to extend your clemency to them.”

“Madam,” said Charles, “you have at length obtained your own pardon, and
methinks that is already a sufficient act of generosity, when I might
have held you still as a hostage for the escaped prisoners.”

“If you entertained any hopes from that circumstance,” rejoined Alice,
“that those whom you pursue would ever deliver themselves up for my
redemption, believe me, they were idle; for I had taken care to prevent
the knowledge of my situation ever coming to their ears. And except for
some such a hope, I can hardly think you would desire longer to confine
an innocent female.”

“Your own release is freely granted,” said Charles; “and I grieve, now
that I behold you, that it should have been thus long delayed.”

“My release is something, it is true,” said Alice, “since it will permit
my return to those unhappy beings for whom I plead. But will you not add
to this not of generosity one still more noble, and let me bear to them
the news of their pardon.”

“It grieves me to refuse you,” answered Charles. “But your father was
one of the most implacable judges in that parricidal court that
condemned Charles I. to death.”

At these words Alice leaned back against the walls of the apartment for
support, her countenance becoming, not paler than before, for that was
impossible, but convulsed with the effort to repress her emotion.

“Hear me,” said she at length, after a violent struggle, “I have one
plea to urge in behalf of my request, and if it fails of success, I will
depart in despair.”

“Say on, madam,” answered the king; “your plea must, indeed, be
powerful, since you are about to advance it with so much fervor and
confidence.”

“It is in the confidence of small desert, my lord. But I will proceed at
once to offer it. This is not,” she continued, “the first time that I
have come to beg the boon of a human life within these walls—a life not
endeared to me by personal ties as are those for whom I now implore your
forgiveness. Unprompted by any motives of self-interest, but urged
merely by feelings of compassion, such as I would fain excite this
moment in your bosom, I came hither to beg the life of your father, my
liege, the late unhappy king.”

Charles looked much astonished.

“I came hither, my lord,” pursued Alice, “on the night preceding that
unfortunate day which I will not pain you by naming, to solicit the
influence of the only man in England who could have interposed to save
the life of the late Charles Stuart. My efforts, alas! I need not say,
were but too unavailing. But, by those efforts, all fruitless though
they were, I urge your pardon of the offenders for whose dear sakes I am
here a suppliant. Let the loyalty of the wife and daughter atone in this
instance for the disloyalty of the husband and father; and let this act
of noble forgiveness distinguish your reign.”

The king’s eye had moistened while she spoke, and an exceeding softness
came over his mood. It is known that he was peculiarly alive to gentle
and generous impressions. “Your appeal,” said he, “is—”

“Not fruitless, I trust,” interrupted Alice, who had beheld with joy the
effect of her words upon his countenance.

“Far otherwise,” replied Charles; “but ask not your demand as a boon at
my hands, urge it as a debt of gratitude due from a son to one who would
have saved the life of his parent.”

“Call it what you will, my lord, but grant my request.”

“Rise, madam,” said Charles, “my debt to you shall be canceled—your
husband and father are pardoned.”

Alice pressed the hand with grateful warmth, and raised it to her lips.
“May the Lord reward you for the blest and healing words you have
uttered,” said she. “No thanks my tongue can speak may suitably express
my acknowledgments for what you have done. You have yourself, my liege,
known what it is to be hunted down by those who would have deprived you
of life. And when you first learned that you might again hold your
existence without fear, the thrill of happiness you must have
experienced may be named as a fair parallel with that you now confer on
those two outcasts whose lives and liberty hung upon your word. But
there is no criterion by which one of your sex may judge of the blessing
bestowed upon a wife in restoring the life and freedom of her husband.
May God repay you for the joy you have conferred upon my heart.”

“I am already repaid in your gratitude,” said the king. “Besides, let me
not forget that I am only returning an obligation.”

“I little dreamed,” rejoined Alice, “when I made an effort on account of
the late king, that the time would ever arrive when I should urge it to
your majesty as an obligation on your part. It was a simple act of
compassion, and some instinctive feelings of loyalty toward my unhappy
sovereign. But I find I did not misjudge his son when I thought to found
on it some claims to his mercy and generosity.”

“The circumstance affords an illustration of the truth, that deeds of
kindness sooner or later meet their reward even in this life.”

“May you live then to reap your recompense for that you have but now
performed,” said Alice, terminating the interview, and turning to
depart.

The king accompanied her in person to the outer door of the palace, and
a page conducted her to the gate, where a carriage was in waiting.


                              CHAPTER XVI.

               Adieu, oh fatherland! I see
                 Your white cliffs on the horizon’s rim,
               And though to freer skies I flee,
                 My heart swells, and my eyes are dim!
                                                 WILLIS.

           O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
           Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
           Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
           Survey our empire and behold our home.
           These are our realms, no limits to their sway,
           Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
                                                      BYRON.

A neat, tight-built brig was preparing to sail from London. On her deck
might have been seen all the confusion usually attendant upon the
departure of a vessel from port. Men hurrying to and fro with
baggage—sailors hauling the ropes, and climbing the ladders, and
fastening the boats to the side—passengers getting on board, and
friends accompanying them for the sake of remaining with them to the
last moment—and the voices of all resounding in dissonant tones in the
air.

Among the passengers, two persons might have been particularly noticed.
One was an exceedingly delicate and lovely-looking woman, apparently
about the meridian of life. She was clad in black, and as she threw
aside her veil to ascend the plank leading to the vessel, she discovered
a face of such exquisite beauty, and an expression of such elevated
purity, that all who caught a passing glimpse of her lineaments, turned
to observe them more closely. She was alone, and borrowed the arm of a
sailor to walk the plank, ascending it with a firm and dignified tread.
As soon as she touched the vessel’s deck, she put a small piece of money
into the hand of her companion, drew her veil again tightly over her
face, and immediately sought the cabin.

The other was a young man of handsome exterior, who boarded the brig
just after the lady we have described had disappeared below. Walking
toward the stern of the vessel he leaned over the side. He remained thus
for some time, apparently absorbed in a pleasing revery, and heedless of
the bustle and confusion by which he was surrounded. At length he drew
from his pocket a letter, evidently written in a delicate female hand,
and read it with much interest—seemingly pondering upon every line of
it with that lengthened perusal which a man bestows only upon the
epistolary communications of the woman of his love.

Finally the preparations were ended. A bell rang, and those persons who
intended to remain in England left the vessel. Slowly she got under way,
and the breeze soon bore her out of sight of the harbor.

A voyage at sea is monotonous in the extreme; the only incident that can
occur to give it positive variety being either a wreck or a
capture—that variety is a thing to be dreaded, not desired. The
smallest change in the weather—the sight of a bird or a fish—the
meeting of another vessel—form the highest objects of interest, and
epochs from which to date the flight of time.

In this manner six weeks passed away. The brig being bound for New
Haven, had arrived within a hundred knots of Block Island on a certain
afternoon, when the attention of the captain was attracted by the sight
of a sail.

Immediately men were sent aloft to spy the approaching stranger.

“It is plainly visible,” said the captain, after a long and anxious
search with a glass, to the young passenger we have described, who was
standing by his side.

The person addressed raised his own glass and swept the water in the
direction named. After one or two unsuccessful trials, his eye caught
the object.

“What do you make of it?” he asked.

“Unless I am greatly deceived, sir, there is a full-rigged vessel under
sail approaching us.”

The young man was silent for a few moments. He cast a cautious glance
over the crew, who were anxiously regarding the approaching vessel, that
was gradually becoming more and more distinct, and at length could be
seen with the naked eye. She was a sloop, her tall and symmetrical spars
rising against the sky in beautiful tapering lines, her sails set, and
making rapidly toward them from the southward, the wind being fair from
that quarter.

“A fine vessel,” said the passenger, addressing the captain. “I should
take her to be Spanish built.”

“It is quite an unusual thing to see a Spanish vessel in these parts,”
replied the captain, lifting his glass again. “She shows no colors,”
added he, as he looked through it. “I cannot make out of what country
she is.”

At that instant, without hoisting colors or hailing, two shots were
discharged from the sloop, one of which glanced across the bows of the
brig, and ran dipping into the water, while the other went through her
sail.

The captain replied by hailing the sloop through a speaking-trumpet, and
demanding what she was, and wherefore she was guilty of this unprovoked
hostility.

The only answer he received was the command, in a stern voice, “Down
with your sails, and we will presently show you who we are.”

It was evident now that the brig was assailed by pirates, and the
captain knowing that the command to lay-to would be immediately followed
by a broadside if he refused, and, being totally unarmed, perceived that
there remained no choice to him between flight and instant surrender.
The one, he knew, would be impossible, from the rapid advances which the
sloop had already made upon them, though the other was still less
consonant with his inclinations.

The order was therefore given to clear the deck for the reception of the
pirates. The mandate was received by the crew in sullen silence, and a
few of the younger and more fiery of the sailors were seen to shake
their heads, as if they disapproved of a step, however necessary, that
seemed thus cowardly. Whatever might have been the private feelings of
the captain, when the character and force of his enemy were clearly
established, he betrayed no signs of indecision from the time when his
resolution appeared to be taken. He issued the further requisite
commands from the spot where he first stood, in perfect calmness, and
with that distinctness and readiness so important to one in his
position.

A boat was at once lowered by the sloop and filled with armed hands,
which rowed to take possession of their easy prize.

The eye of the passenger never quitted the vessel as it approached. The
main-deck presented a picture of mingled unquietness and repose. Many of
the seamen were seen seated on their guns, with their cheeks pressing
the rude metal which served them for a pillow. Others lay along the deck
with their heads resting on the hatches. A first glance might have
induced the belief that all were buried in the most profound slumber.
But the quick jerking of a line, the sudden shifting of a position,
required only to be noticed to prove that the living silence that
reigned throughout was not born either of apathy or repose.

“Perhaps you might pacify them by fair words,” said the young man, as he
still stood by the captain’s side.

“There is no hope of that.”

“Is there not a lady below?”

“There is,” answered the captain. “I had forgotten her until this
moment.”

“I will see to her,” replied the other, and turning away, he quickly
disappeared below. He had known that there was a female on board, but as
she had throughout the passage kept the cabin, and taken all her meals
in private, he had not yet seen her.

When he entered, she was seated at a table in the centre of the cabin.
An elbow rested on it, and one fair hand supported a brow that was
thoughtful even beyond the usual character of its expression.

He felt the blood rush to his heart, for he fancied the beautiful and
pensive countenance before him was familiar. He stood uncertain, when
the hand was removed from her face, and raising her head, she perceived
that she was no longer alone. Their eyes met, and each started with a
mutual glance of recognition. In her he beheld the wife and daughter of
the regicides; and she, in turn, had little difficulty in tracing in his
features, now matured to manhood, those of the youth who had borne the
basket of provisions to and fro, and who had spent a night in the cave.
In a word, Alice Heath and Frank Stanley had met.

If Stanley had before felt for the lady’s situation on board of a
captured vessel, merely from the compassionate feelings due to her sex,
with how much more sympathy did he regard her now. After his interview
with Jessy Ellet, on the night before his departure for England, with
suspicions aroused in his mind that she whom he beheld might be the
mother of that object of his affections, how painful, too, to him must
have been the thought that the worst fears her mind might have suggested
would probably be realized.

“I fear I can do little to quiet your apprehensions, madam. I have
before had occasion to witness your strength of mind and courage, and,
all things considered, I deem it best to prepare you for the worst. The
ship is attacked by pirates, and being unprepared for defense, has been
obliged to surrender. I will remain with you, and protect you as far as
I am able.”

Alice received the awful information with calmness.

Meanwhile, Stanley had scarcely left the deck ere the boat drew
alongside, and a number of men jumped on board. One of them, of about
thirty years of age, who was evidently the commander, approached the
captain, and claimed the brig.

This person was a man of a tall and bulky form, and attired in a dress
which seemed to have been studied with much care, although the style of
it exhibited more extravagance than taste. Several pistols were fastened
by a leathern belt around his waist.

“By what warrant do you stop me thus on the high seas?” asked the
captain of the brig.

“You shall have the perusal of any of my warrants that you may desire,”
replied the other, pointing to the pistols at his belt.

“You mean that you intend to capture us,” said the captain. “Be it so,
then; but use civility toward the lady-passenger in the cabin.”

“Civility to the lady passenger!” echoed the pirate commander; “nay, we
will use more than mere civility to her: for when are we otherwise than
civil to the women, and, if they be fair, kind to boot? Where is this
dulcinea? We will see her, for she may be the flower of our prize.”

So saying, he turned on his heel and descended to the cabin. The captain
of the captured brig followed, hoping that his presence might in some
measure serve to protect the lady.

“A beautiful woman,” exclaimed the pirate, as he entered. “None of your
youthful lasses, but a ripened specimen of the sex: and with a look of
sorrow, too, enough to soften the heart of a stone. Come,” added he,
“most fair and lovely queen of affliction, let me sympathize with you.”

The lady drew her veil closely over her face, and with much offended
dignity endeavored to extricate herself from his grasp.

“Let go of her, sir,” exclaimed Stanley, in a tone of anger.

“Why should I let her go; and by what right do you interfere in her
behalf?” replied the pirate, turning roughly upon the speaker.

“Because I command you, sir, and because I will protect her with my
life.”

“_You_ command me, indeed!” sneered the pirate. “You shall see then what
weight your commands have with me. Come,” he continued, addressing the
lady, “cast aside this muffling: you have a face, from the glimpse I
caught just now, that can bear to be uncovered with the best.”

Suiting the action to the word, the ruffian had torn off Alice’s veil,
when Stanley interposed, and strode him a blow which sent him reeling to
the farthest end of the cabin. He fell heavily against the brass railing
of the stair-way, and lay completely stunned. It was evident that his
head had come in contact with the metal in his fall, for the blood
streamed from it copiously. The noise brought the other pirates into the
cabin. Seeing their commander in the plight we have described, they
raised him and placed him on a berth.

Demanding next an explanation from Stanley and the captain of the brig,
they seized upon them both and bore them on deck, where they were placed
under a guard, and threatened, if they were guilty of another
aggression, with instant death. With regard to the lady, considering her
as the lawful booty of their commander, they contented themselves with
uttering jests at her expense.

Whilst the incidents above related were occurring, the brig had been got
under way again, by her captors, and was moving on in the wake of the
sloop, which had changed its course, and was putting towards land in a
north-easterly direction.


                             CHAPTER XVII.

                 Fear was within the tossing bark
                   When stormy winds grew loud
                 And waves came rolling high and dark,
                   And the tall mast was bowed.

                 The breaking waves dashed high
                   On a stern and rock-bound coast,
                 And the woods, against a stormy sky.
                   Their giant branches tost.
                                          MRS. HEMANS.

About twenty-four hours after the capture of the brig, related in the
last chapter, every evidence of a violent storm was abroad. The wind
began to sigh, as if bewailing in anticipation the evils which its
increased fury might perpetrate. Gradually becoming more violent, it
raged with the violence of a young lion over its prey. A blackness,
almost as thick as night covered the face of the sky, as though the
Almighty were bending his most awful frown upon a devoted world. These
indications were speedily followed by heavy rain, intermixed with hail,
disturbing the ocean, swelling brooks and lakes into vast sheets of
foam, borne by the might of the wind far from their original source, and
inundating the land in a fearful manner.

Two weeks previous to this storm an aged colonist from New Haven, had
arrived with his son at the island on which Newport now stands. The
advantages of that situation for sea-bathing, at this day so thoroughly
known and tested, had even at that early period been discovered, and the
season being spring, their object was to make arrangements for putting
up a rude bathing-house for the accommodation of invalids.

During the storm described, the pair had remained for shelter on board
their schooner, which, anchored as she was, had hard work to live
through the anger of the elements. At length, however, after four or
five hours, their rage began to abate: the wind gradually blew less and
less wildly, the clouds commenced to disperse, and the shower to fall
more quietly. Finally, the sun broke through his shroud of darkness, a
pleasant calm succeeded, and the only rain-drops perceptible were those
which clung to the dripping masts and sides of the schooner, and the
rocks and shrubbery on the island.

As the old man and his son looked around them, the sea swelled and
heaved with the agitation of the recent storm, the effects of which upon
the waves had been too violent to subside for many hours. The tide
poured along a surf deafening to hear, and bewildering to behold. The
sea came on toward the beach in swells, rather than waves, as though the
whole flood were pouring on in one huge body, rising gradually as it
neared, towering above the high ridge, drawing back for an instant, and
standing as a wall of water, it poured down like some mighty cataract.

All at once, the young man started and exclaimed, “God in Heaven!
father, there is a vessel drifting upon the opposite strand.”

The old man perceived an object among the tide. He took his spy-glass
and looked through it. “She is dismasted,” he said, “nothing but her
hulk is left upon the water.”

“And drifting against the breakers,” cried his son, in horror, “without
the slightest means of weathering the point!”

“She makes no attempt,” replied the other, “she must be deserted by her
crew.”

“No open boat could have existed through such a storm as is just past,
all must have perished.”

“Most probably,” answered the old man, with the mild composure of his
years.

The hulk was now in the midst of the current, and drifting rapidly
toward the strand. Their sight of it, however, was still indistinct:
though from the black speck it had at first appeared, it grew a visible
object. At length, they could perceive that it was a freight or
passenger vessel, unfitted for defense, for there were no port-holes
discernible. She had evidently been dismasted in the storm, and lay
water-logged upon the waves, at the mercy of their violence. The crew,
finding themselves unable to guide her, or relieve the leak, had taken
to their boats and left the ship to her fate.

There was nothing then to fear for human life in the end to which she
was fast approaching; yet the old man and his son could scarcely behold
her, without a feeling of apprehension, about to fall a prey to the
waves. As she advanced, every fathom’s stride she grew larger and
larger. At length, as she surmounted the summit of one mountainous
billow, her whole bulk was discernible. And when that wave retired, she
had ceased her existence, and the receding ocean carried back merely her
shattered remains, in the form of planks and beams, to return again by
the next wave and again be precipitated to a distance.

At this instant he perceived a plank floating toward the land, to which
were fastened two human beings.

“It has grounded in a place so shallow as almost to be dry; those
persons live and may yet be saved!” was the exclamation of the youth, as
he jumped from the deck of the schooner, and began to make his way at an
incredibly rapid pace toward the wreck.

“My son, return, your attempt is rashness, nay, it is death.”

But the young man was out of hearing. In ten minutes he stood upon the
cliff which overlooked the spot he sought. He began to descend. His
progress was several times impeded by the falling of huge stones to
which he was about to entrust his weight. Large fragments, too, came
rolling after him, as if to send him headlong to the bottom. But a
courageous heart and a firm tread bore him safely to the foot of the
precipice.

He was now upon the shallow portion of a small shelf, which projected
out a little distance into the sea, composed of gravel and stones. Upon
this a few pieces of the wreck had grounded. He eagerly sought among
these the objects that had brought him on his perilous errand. He soon
discovered them. They were in a most precarious position. One of them a
delicate female, her wet clothing hanging in heavy folds upon her form,
and herself tied by a handkerchief round her waist to a plank, being
placed with her face uppermost. The other was that of a man, lying by
her side in a reversed position, with his left arm thrown over his
companion, as if to keep her more securely in her place, and his right
clinging around the plank, with the tight, convulsive grasp with which
he had taken hold upon it. In both these persons, sense and the power of
motion were gone. The plank on which they lay, not being thoroughly
grounded upon the beach, but floating still in part upon the sea, was
liable every moment to be washed away, to return no more.

Just as the youth, who had come in the hope of being their preserver,
had discovered them, he saw a billow approaching, and hastened to
interpose his efforts before it reached them, lest, in receding, it
might bear away the sufferers.

He rushed into the surf, and held the plank on which they were with the
tenacity of some animal seizing upon his prey, though under the
dictation of a motive entirely different. It was not without a severe
struggle on his part, that he as well as his lifeless companions were
not swept off by the wave, which proved even stronger in its might than
he had anticipated. He succeeded, however, in retaining his position;
and, before the return of another, by a violent exertion of strength, he
dragged upon the small strip of dry sand, the plank as well as those
attached to it.

He next asked himself, how he should remove the unhappy sufferers to his
father’s vessel, and obtain the means of recalling their ebbing life and
prostrated strength. He looked toward the cliff and shouted for
assistance, but he was answered only by the roaring waves. He turned his
eyes again on those who were before him. The lady, as she lay with her
face uppermost, was a sight more beautiful in the eyes of the rough
youth who gazed upon her than he had ever deemed were the angels in
Heaven. She was at the middle age of life, but still interesting and
lovely in appearance. Her garments were black, and contrasted strangely
with the pearl-like whiteness of her skin. The face of her companion
being downward, his features were not visible; but chestnut curls
clustered over the back of his head, and his whole appearance gave
promise of a pleasing physiognomy beneath.

Bending over them, their preserver discovered that they both still
breathed, but so feebly that the respiration of each was scarcely
perceptible. Of the lady especially, life seemed to have so slight a
hold, that there was much ground to fear that unless it were at once
re-inforced it would shortly become extinct.

At this moment his father crept cautiously along the beach. Anxious for
his son, as well as wishing to assist him in his hazardous enterprise of
mercy, if, in fact, he had not lost his life in the perilous path he had
taken, the old man had reached him at length by a circuitous and less
dangerous descent.

He uttered an exclamation of thanks at beholding him uninjured. Then,
after a moment’s consultation, the father untied the handkerchief which
bound the female to the plank, and lifting the insensible and fragile
form in his arms with much care, he set out with rapid steps by the same
path he had come.

His son had more difficulty in raising the body of her companion. But by
one of those superhuman efforts of strength which great emergencies are
known to inspire, he at length succeeded, and with labored breath,
followed after his father, as rapidly as the heavy weight of his burden
would allow.

It was about twelve minutes after the old man, that the youth reached
the schooner. The lady, by this time, under the vigorous exertions of
his father, had revived so far as to open her eyes and sigh heavily.

Both the men, therefore, deemed it best to devote themselves to the
other sufferer. He too, though not so readily as his companion, owing to
his face having lain downward, and his respiration having been thus
impeded, at length gave signs of returning life.

Reader, we will not stay to behold their complete restoration to
consciousness. We leave you to imagine the circumstance. Doubtless you
have anticipated us in the information, that in them you behold Alice
Heath and Frank Stanley, both of whom the storm had been the means of
delivering unharmed from the hands of the pirates.


                             CHAPTER XVIII.

              Oh, is it not a noble thing to die
              As dies the Christian, with his armor on!—
              What is the hero’s clarion, though its blast
              Ring with the mastery of a world, to this?
              What are the searching victories of mind—
              The lore of vanished ages?—What are all
              The trumpetings of proud humanity,
              To the short history of him who made
              His sepulchre beside the King of kings?
                                                   WILLIS.

Henry Elmore and his wife had suddenly been called to New Haven, in
consequence of the receipt of a brief letter. By the same messenger, a
letter had also come to Jessy Ellet, from her lover, informing her of
his arrival in Connecticut, and giving some account of the capture of
the vessel in which he had sailed, and of the shipwreck, with the
details of his escape from which the reader is already acquainted. He
also hinted at some tidings which would make her heart leap for joy, but
added, that as he expected to have the bliss of meeting her before
twenty-four hours from the time of his writing, he would defer his
intelligence until then.

As Jessy sat alone, after having seen her sister and brother depart for
New Haven, counting the hours until their return and her lover’s
arrival, (for she supposed they would come in company,) her thoughts and
feelings were of that agitated kind natural to her situation in
expecting to meet so soon the object to whom her affections were
plighted, after his absence for months in a distant land.

That part of the letter she had just received, which spoke of joyful
intelligence awaiting her, increased the pleasurable disturbance of her
mind. To what could it refer if not to the subject upon which she had
opened her heart on the night when he had declared his love for her?
Some clue, she deemed, he must have obtained to the truth of her
surmises, and to the continued existence of that sadly beautiful lady,
for whom she had so strangely felt the instinctive yearnings of a
daughter’s affection. Filled with all that expectancy to which this
conviction gave rise, in addition to that which the announced arrival of
her lover was calculated to produce, she had drawn her chair into the
corridor at the back of the house, to enjoy the spring-breeze, and muse
at her pleasure.

As she sat thus, she was startled by the sound of a deep groan issuing
from the door opening upon the wing of the house to which the corridor
led. Much surprised, and inclined to think that her imagination had
deceived her, and that in the occupation of her mind she had mistaken
some ordinary sound, and fancied it that manifestation of distress which
she deemed she had heard, she aroused herself completely from her
reflections, and listened breathlessly to hear whether or not it should
be repeated. In a few minutes it was audible again. This time it was
impossible that she could be mistaken. It was a groan of human agony
which she had heard. She rose instantly and approached the door from
whence it came. She had never before sought entrance here, having always
supposed the place sacred to her sister’s devotions, and containing no
possible attractions which should lead her to visit it.

Hastily she glanced her eye along the door in quest of a handle or latch
to assist her in opening it. But it contained none. She then pushed it,
in hopes that it might give way to her pressure. It was firmly secured,
however, and resisted all her attempts. At length she was about to
desist in despair, when another groan, deeper and more heart-rending
than those she had heard previously, caused her to make one more effort.
She exerted her utmost strength, and in doing so, her hand accidentally
touched upon a secret spring, and the door suddenly gave way. She found
herself at the foot of a low flight of steps, up which she quickly
ascended.

Jessy Ellet here encountered another door which stood ajar. She heard
within the sound of a heavy tread, and, filled with astonishment,
hesitated whether to advance or retreat. Again a moan of distress fell
upon her ear. Stimulated by feelings of kindness and compassion no less
than of intense curiosity, she proceeded, and stood within a neat though
humble apartment. It was carpeted, and otherwise comfortably furnished.
A table, strewn with prints and newspapers, was placed in the centre of
the room. A low fire burned in the hearth, notwithstanding the lateness
of the season, and a couch was drawn near it, beside which was placed a
stand covered with phials, and a bowl containing nourishment for an
invalid.

Upon this couch lay the form of a person covered with a cloak. Jessy’s
quick glance rested here, and, at that moment, another of the sounds of
pain, such as she had heard, issued from beneath the folds of the
mantle. Instantly approaching, she turned down the cloak, and beheld the
face of the dying person lying beneath it. It was that of an aged man,
whose features were wan and worn. His eyes were closed, and through the
midst of the traces of pain which rested upon his countenance, might
have been discerned the calm beauty of holiness, and the placid smile of
one whose hopes were placed in heaven.

As Jessy stood, she became conscious, by a slight movement behind her,
that there was still another inmate of the apartment. Turning, she
beheld standing near, a form of manly grace and dignity. As she did so
the countenance of the person whom she viewed underwent an entire
change, and he regarded her with a fixed and painful earnestness, while
a flush that over-spread his fine features evinced no little emotion.

“Excuse my intrusion,” said Jessy, addressing him modestly, and with
embarrassment. “I heard a sound of distress, and came hither to learn
whence it proceeded.”

At the tones of her voice, the invalid, with another groan, stirred, as
if about to awake. It seemed as though there had been some magic in her
notes to arouse him, for his sleep had been deep, and she had spoken but
in a low key.

“I heard the voice of my Alice, did I not?” said he, faintly.

Opening his eyes, he beheld Jessy standing by his side. “The Lord’s
blessing be upon thee, Alice,” he murmured, endeavoring to stretch out
his withered and feeble hand toward her. “I knew thou hadst not utterly
forsaken us. See, William, she has returned; the Lord is still merciful
to us. Mine eyes have beheld her once more, and I have now no other wish
than to close them again and die.”

Jessy, supposing his words caused by the delirium of illness, gently
took the faded hand he tried to offer, and he continued. “Years have
passed over thee, my daughter. Thou lookest scarce older or less fair
than when thou wert wont to trip about thy father’s halls, ere trouble
visited us. Time has not dealt so lightly with thy husband and myself.
See how thine absence has wasted me until I am dying to-day. Alice, thou
must have been happier than we have been during thy separation.”

Surprised at these words, Jessy turned toward the other stranger.

“He mistakes me for another,” said she.

“Well might I too believe that thou art she,” replied the person
addressed, regarding her fixedly in an absent manner, and speaking as if
to himself. “Maiden,” said he, suddenly, shaking off for a moment his
waking dream, and advancing a step nearer to her, “by what name do they
call thee?”

“I am known as Jessy Ellet, sir,” she replied, modestly. “Whom do I so
much resemble?”

The person spoken to did not apparently hear the query. His whole senses
seemed absorbed in the one sense of sight; and he continued to gaze upon
her until, in spite of all his efforts at self-control, he seemed almost
completely overcome by some feelings of extraordinary emotion.

Jessy looked in surprise at his working features for a moment, and she
felt her nature melt in a flow of generous sympathy toward him, as she
tremulously and apprehensively repeated her question.

“Whom dost thou resemble?” he said at length. “Thine own mother, my
daughter—my wife and the child of that dying man. Behold your father
and grandfather in the unhappy beings before you. Come, my child, to
this long-forsaken bosom.” And he stretched out his arms to receive her.

There was a moment’s doubt on the part of Jessy; but a mysterious
instinct convinced her of the truth of the words she had heard; and the
next moment her arms were about the neck of the stranger, and her voice
was uttering through sobs and tears the endearing name of father.

After a while, gently disengaging herself from his embrace, she knelt
down by the side of the aged sufferer, and bathed his feeble hands with
her tears. The old man seemed to have no part in the recognition which
had taken place. His imagination mistook the gentle creature before him
for the lost child of his memory.

He appeared now to be sinking rapidly, and as the father and daughter
sat with full hearts in the consciousness of being thus united, and
listened to his labored respirations, the sound of approaching
carriage-wheels slightly shook the house. It ceased, and a vehicle
stopped at the door. A few moments more, and a creaking was heard upon
the stairs. Presently after, a step fell upon the floor of the room, and
a female figure softly advanced. The father and daughter started
simultaneously, and rushed toward her. In a moment the arms of both were
around her, and the heroic Alice Heath was at length restored to her
husband and child.

We should attempt in vain to describe the scene that followed. From the
state of torpor produced by approaching death, the old man was suddenly
awakened to all the pleasure of an actual reunion with her most dear to
him on earth. Imagination itself will find difficulty in supplying the
effect upon all, when, with hands upraised, and on her bended knees
beside his couch of death, Alice thanked God in all the fervor of true
piety, that she had returned in time to shed a ray of comfort upon the
departing spirit of her aged father. Neither can any conception paint
her feelings of bliss as she arose to be clasped again in the arms of
him to whom she had pledged her virgin faith, and was bound by the
holiest of earthly ties, or to meet the embrace of the daughter toward
whom her soul had yearned so long in absence with all a mother’s
tenderness. Suffice it to say, that love and affection, the first
elements of her nature, and her great sustaining principles throughout
all her trials here, found ample exercise in the full fruition of joy.

We will not linger on the scene with minute detail, since no power of
language we possess can convey the transcript as it should be. Pass we
on then to the conclusion of our story.


                              CHAPTER XIX.

                   To sum the whole—the close of all.
                                          DEAN SWIFT.

The morning of the next day dawned on few who had pressed their
customary couches in the house of Henry Elmore, for the aged sufferer,
on the night that intervened, had breathed his last beneath its roof.
The body extended on the bed, exhibited, even in death, that mildness
and serenity of expression that had characterized his face during the
latter portion of his life.

Sorrow could scarcely grieve that one who had outlived the full term of
years allotted to man, and drank so deeply of earth’s cup of trial,
should, at last, in a moment of unhoped for joy to cheer his exit from
life, have finally departed; and Alice felt, as she kissed his cold
brow, ere the coffin-lid had closed upon it forever, that her deepest
feelings of filial affection could not inspire the wish within her to
recall his departed spirit. Tears, many and heavy, it is true, were shed
over him, but they fell rather for the sorrows he had passed, than
because he was thus summoned in the fullness of time to a world where
sorrow could never come.

He was followed to the grave, not only by his relations, but by Henry
Elmore and his wife, whose feelings on the occasion were scarcely less
deep than their own. In them, the deceased as well as his unhappy
companion, had found true and sympathizing friends; and to their
unremitting care and attention it was that they had not both sunk, long
ere the return of Alice, into the same grave to which the one had now
finally departed. Governor H. and his excellent lady likewise attended
the funeral with much sympathy, and returned afterward to the house of
their niece, to rejoice with Alice on her return, and congratulate her
husband on the pardon of which he had been the bearer.

An interesting scene ensued, in which Jessy wept upon the necks of those
generous friends, and returned her thanks to them for having so long
sought to shield her from the misfortunes of her family. Between Lucy
and herself a still more affecting embrace followed. The former, through
the strict secrecy of her uncle and aunt, had never suspected that the
tender name of sister by which she had known Jessy, was only assumed.
But though she received the intelligence in some sorrow, it was scarcely
of a heartfelt kind; for both had a consciousness that it was in the
name alone that a change could take place, and that in feeling and
affection they would ever remain sisters still.

Stanley, too, was present on this occasion. His meeting with Jessy at
such a season of deep feeling for her had been tender in the extreme;
and although he had not as yet had time for many words in private with
the object of his affection, she read in his manner and countenance his
deep and ardent sympathy.

The rumor of the strange reunion between the parents and child; of the
long seclusion of Lisle and Heath in the wing of Henry Elmore’s house,
thereby explaining all the mystery formerly attached to it, soon spread
throughout the colony. But it scarcely excited the astonishment which
such a romance in real life would create at the present day, for those
were periods of tragical confusion and strange catastrophe, for better
or for worse, when the rendings asunder of domestic charities were often
without an hour’s warning, and where reunions were as dramatic as any
exhibited on the stage.

It created little surprise, therefore, when Heath removed to Boston with
his gentle and lovely wife, there to reside permanently, or when Jessy
Ellet appeared as an inmate of their family.

It was just three months after this removal that Stanley and Jessy were
united in marriage. No wedding-party was invited to grace the occasion;
but Governor and Mrs. H. and Henry Elmore and his wife were the only
guests.

We will now bid the reader adieu, leaving him to imagine that henceforth
the fortunes of all of our characters ran in as smooth a tide as is
possible in this world. We all know that the stream of actual life flows
in an even course with but few. With most it is—romance aside—as our
tale has shown it, a confused succession of alternating sensations,
sometimes dark and dull of hue, like the clouds of winter, at others,
breaking out into the glowing splendor and bright illusions of a dream.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
THE JOLLY RIDE.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            THE JOLLY RIDE.


                       [WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

    OH! for those rides, those jolly, jolly rides,
      When my sister and I were young,
    When our hearts were bright and our spirits light,
      Of sorrow and sin unstung.

    When Neddy we bestrode, with our double load,
      As good at our need as an Arab steed;
    And merrily pricked, though he sulked and kicked,
      O’er rivulet, rock and mead.

    Alas! for those rides, they are gone, they are past;
      Ned and we are grown old and gray;
    But thoughts of those times, like Christmas chimes,
      In our hearts must ever be gay.       H.

                 *        *        *        *        *



               BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. V.


                    BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.


[Illustration:
Buena Vista.]

    WE lay at AQUA NUEVA, sullenly, in stern repose,
    Awaiting, with anxiety, the onset of our foes:—
    We were few; but what of that? We were men, not one of whom
    But was ready, when his country called, to meet a soldier’s doom,
    And, looking toward the approaching fight with something like despair,
    We were deadly as the lion when the hunter treads his lair.

    Our foes, so said our scouts, when they came, at set of sun,
    Were led by SANTA ANNA, and were more than five to one;—
    They were more than twenty thousand, we, little more than four;
    But deadlier fights, we knew, were fought by our ancestors of yore,
    When, hand to hand, with axe and bill our fathers clove their way
    At Agincourt, and Cressy, and purple Poitiérs.

    Our general’s brow was care-worn; his eye leapt like a hound,
    Seeking, wherever it rested, the advantage of the ground:
    Between us and SALTILLO lay a craggy mountain pass,
    With sierra on sierra in many a granite mass—
    The plain of BUENA VISTA, where, afterward, we stood
    And fought till its ravines and sands were purple with our blood.

    When the foe reached AQUA NUEVA—when they found our army gone,
    They pressed in marshaled masses, in solid thousands, on;
    And noon beheld that river of human souls, for miles,
    Like one of their own torrents, sweep through the wild defiles—
    So, conscious of their strength, they came, while we, in mute
      surprise,
    Looked wistfully and earnestly in one another’s eyes.

    The foe had wedged us in, when a flag approached our ranks,
    While the hovering enemy pressed on whence they might turn our flanks;
    ’Twas a summons to surrender—a summons unto men
    Who had beat their bravest generals, and could do so once again:
    We laughed in hearty scorn, for the rawest volunteer
    Had grown so anxious for the fight he never thought of fear.

    Then came a little pause, and we raised our eyes to heaven,
    And prayed in silence that our sins and crimes might be forgiven;
    For well we knew that many a heart which now beat high with pride,
    Would lie ere night in icy rest along the mountain side.
    And then we thought of WASHINGTON, whose spirit, from above,
    Was gazing on his children with looks and eyes of love.

    In our own green sunny land we were wont to mark the day
    Which gave him to his country with many a mimic fray,
    And now the thought ran through our souls that this, henceforth,
      should be
    One which our children after us should hail with songs of glee;
    And we gazed in one another’s eyes, and silently we swore
    To do such deeds as history had never heard before.

    We stood, each in our places, when, on our left, arose
    The rattling roll of musketry from our advancing foes;—
    They were mounting, troop by troop, the steep sierra’s side:
    A moment! and our comrades, with hearty cheers, replied;—
    Shot after shot, peal after peal, and we saw their scattered men
    Rolling, like leaves before the storm, in terror, down the glen.

    The night was cold and damp, but we scarcely felt a chill
    As we lay, beside our arms, on the bleak and naked hill;
    For our hearts were full of fire at the promise of the fray,
    Which, we felt, would try our courage on the fast-approaching day,
    While the murmur of the enemy, whose thousands hedged us round,
    Came fitfully down the freezing wind, in gusts, along the ground.

    At last the dawn arrived, and as the sun began
    To kiss the summits of the hills, a thousand sparkles ran
    Along the cliffs, like fire-flies on a sultry summer night,
    And on the instant, every where was heard the din of fight—
    On, like the sea, wave over wave, the army of our foe
    Rolled toward our left, and pierced our ranks, and swept the red
      plateau.

    We paused; we turned; some of us—fled, as the foe in thousands came,
    And our guns in vain made breaches; and the air was red with flame:
    We were staggering; we retreated; we were beaten; we would yield;
    But TAYLOR’S eye shone every where at once along the field,
    And the Mississippi volunteers, with BRAGG, dashed madly on;—
    We turned, and charged; and once again the purple field was won.

    On our left the day was ours, when SANTA ANNA pressed
    On our centre, now so weak, with his bravest and his best;
    Once more our men retreated, when BRAGG again came on,
    And swept their ranks, but vainly; and every hope seemed gone:
    Again—again—his cannon roared; again our rifles played,
    And we hurled the beaten enemy in horror down the glade!

    Night gathered round, and once again we made our bivouac
    On BUENA VISTA, whence our foe had failed to drive us back.
    On the morrow, wan and worn, but with spirits proud and high,
    We would once more win the day, or, like soldiers, fall and die;
    And we sunk in silent sleep, with an honest trust in God,
    Where we lay the night before, on the cold and cheerless sod

    But when the morning came, when the welcome sun arose,
    We saw—each seeming in a dream—the files of flying foes;
    And we lay on one another’s breasts—clasped one another’s hand,
    And wept with joy, for God had saved our gallant little band—
    God, and our courage, for we fought like heroes all will say
    Who read in coming centuries the records of the fray.

[Illustration]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              SHAKSPEARE.


                     ANALYSIS OF ROMEO AND JULIET.


                           BY H. C. MOORHEAD.


THE judicious critic, whilst insisting on the great and manifold
beauties of the plays of Shakspeare, has felt himself constrained to
admit that they are marred by grievous faults. Some of these have been
laid upon the times in which he wrote; some upon the circumstances of
his life; some upon the corruptions of his editors; whilst for others,
the most ingenious of his apologists have, with all their zeal, been
able to make no rational excuse. Conspicuous among these admitted faults
are his “quibbles” and “conceits.” He is charged with marring all his
fairest pages with them; and so introducing them as often perversely to
destroy the most beautiful creations of his fancy, and in a moment
convert the pathetic into the burlesque, and the sublime into the
ridiculous. “A quibble,” it has been said, “is the golden apple for
which he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his
elevation. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight
that he was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of reason,
propriety, and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which
he lost the world and was content to lose it.”

Those commentators who have deemed it a duty to vindicate their author
at all points and at all hazards, have not failed to repel this strong
charge with characteristic earnestness. The great German critic
Schlegel, for example, speaking on this subject, offers the following
defense, if defense it can be called: “Shakspeare, who was always sure
of his object, to move in a sufficiently powerful manner when he chose
to do so, has occasionally, by indulging in a freer play, purposely
moderated the impressions when too powerful, and immediately introduced
a musical alleviation of our sympathy.”

That is to say: Shakspeare, fearing that evil consequences might result
from the overwrought sympathies of his auditors, mercifully threw in a
quibble here and there to check the dangerous flow of sentiment! as if
Paganini or Ole Bull had deemed it necessary to introduce an occasional
jar in the midst of their most exquisite strains, lest the sensitive ear
should be too powerfully ravished. But this defense is still more
injurious than the charge itself; inasmuch as it substitutes for that
oblivion of self, that apparent unconsciousness of the great things he
was doing, which has been regarded as the highest proof of the serene
majesty of his mind, an intolerable arrogance and presumption.
Shakspeare, however, we may be sure, was governed by no such motive; he
had no apprehension that his nectar would prove too intoxicating, and
took no such pains to adulterate and weaken it.

The charge referred to is, in truth, applicable, in any great degree, to
but a small number of his plays, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” is one of
these, and “Romeo and Juliet” is another, and the chief one. I shall
confine my remarks at present to the latter play; and here, it must be
confessed, quibbles are introduced into almost every speech: not only
the wit, but the sentiment also is every where seasoned with them; and
the different personages, “however distressed, have a conceit left them
in their misery, a miserable conceit.”

Now this feature, though not peculiar to Romeo and Juliet, is not found
in any of the other great tragedies of Shakspeare, it cannot therefore
be ascribed to inveterate habit. Neither is any trace of it found in the
poem from which the main story, and many of the details and expressions
of the play were copied: it was not therefore imitated from his
original. The doctrine of Ulrici, however, affords a rational
explanation. Quibbles and conceits are a part of the argument of the
play, and therefore they are introduced. If they mar its beauties, they
help to illustrate its theme, and to this purpose every other
consideration is subordinate: for Shakspeare is not content, like other
poets with simply moving his readers; but is careful also to cause all
the currents of all the emotions he awakens to flow toward a common
centre.

What then _is_ the theme of this play? It is not easy to frame a
definition strict enough and comprehensive enough to embrace it in all
its aspects, and to embrace nothing more; but, in general terms, I
believe the subject of the play may be thus stated: _The unrestrained
pursuit of the ruling passion or caprice of the moment._

This is the general subject of the whole play, and it is the particular
subject of every scene and of every speech. All the winds of passion are
let loose, and they blow where they list. Love and hate, hope and fear,
courage and despair, and with them the wildest vagaries of fancy and
caprice—all are in the field together; yet all move in subordination to
the “central idea,” even as the ocean tides are governed by the moon.

All the personages of the play are made to illustrate this subject, each
according to his own nature and circumstances. _Romeo_ and _Juliet_
tossed on the stormy sea of ill-starred love, pass from the summit of
bliss to despair and death. The hatred of _Montague_ and _Capulet_ is
drowned in tears, and from their grief springs reconciliation and
friendship. _Mercutio_ is a courtier and a wit, his spirits are always
brim-full, and sparkling; and he pursues and runs down every phantom
that happens to flit across his mind. His wit, and all his speeches are
_entirely_ of this character. He never opens his lips except to utter
something fantastical. The _Nurse_, by following _her_ impulses wherever
they lead, presents a most ludicrous specimen of _garrulity_. Wherever
the “fiery” _Tybalt_ sees any one belonging to the house of Montague his
sword instantly leaps from its scabbard. Friar _Laurence_ and the
_Prince_ discourse on the subject, and all the inferior characters, as
we shall see, adapt themselves to it.

For the purposes of a more minute examination, it will be convenient to
group the chief passages under several heads.

1. _Suggestives of the fancy; viz., quibbles, conceits, etc._

The play opens with a dialogue between Samson and Gregory, two servants
of Capulet’s. I quote the first few lines:

    _Sam._ Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not _carry coals_. [that is,
    _bear injuries_

    _Greg._ No, for then we should be _colliers_. [An ancient term
    of abuse.

    _Sam._ I mean an we be in _choler_ we’ll _draw_.

    _Greg._ Ay, while you live _draw_ your neck out of the _collar_.

    _Sam._ I _strike_ quickly, being _moved_.

    _Greg._ But thou art not quickly _moved_ to _strike_.

    _Sam._ A dog of the house of Montague _moves_ me.

    _Greg._ To _move_ is—to _stir_; and to be valiant is to _stand
    to it_; therefore, if thou art _moved_ thou _runnest away_.

    _Sam._ A dog of that house shall _move_ me to _stand_, etc. etc.

And so they proceed until certain followers of the house of Montague
entering, an affray ensues. Now two things are to be observed here. The
servants reflect the temper of their masters, and quarrel the moment
they meet; and their conversation is a mere quibbling upon certain
words, pursuing the fanciful suggestions of sound or meaning. Thus the
whole subject is presented in the first page.

Very similar to this, though a little more refined, in accordance with
the characters of the speakers, is the contest of wit between Mercutio
and Romeo, (Act 2d, Scene 4th,) and the former’s description of
Benvolio’s aptness to quarrel, (Act 3d, Scene 1st,) “Thou wilt quarrel
with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou
hast _hazel_ eyes—what _eye_ but such an _eye_ would _spy out_ such a
quarrel,” etc. etc.

The servant who was sent to invite the guests to the supper at
Capulet’s, having a paper with a list of their names, talks in the same
style about the difficulty of finding out the persons writ there, when
he could not read the names that had been writ there; and his
misquotations of maxims is every way characteristic of the theme and of
the clown. (Act 1st, Scene 2d.)

The _Nurse_ makes her first appearance in the conversation with Lady
Capulet about the age of Juliet. (Act 1st, Scene 3d) Instead of
answering the question of her mistress directly, which she might have
done with a monosyllable, she runs into a long reminiscence respecting
her own daughter, her husband, and the “weaning” of Juliet, all matters
connected with the subject, and suggested by it, but absurdly minute and
complex. She resembles Mercutio in the recklessness with which she
pursues her whims, albeit they are of a somewhat different character.

At the first interview between Romeo and Juliet, (Act 1st, Scene 5th,)
Romeo happens in addressing her to use the word “pilgrim;” and the whole
subsequent conversation consists of quibbles upon this word. In like
manner the word _volume_, in Lady Capulet’s description of Paris,
suggests all the remainder of her speech:

        Read o’er the _volume_ of young Paris’ face
        And find delight _writ_ there with beauty’s _pen_.
             .     .     .     .     .     .     .
        And what obscured in this fair _volume_ lies,
        Find _written_ in the _margin_ of his eyes.
        This precious _book_ of love, this _unbound_ lover,
        To beautify him only lacks a _cover_.
             .     .     .     .     .     .     .
        That _book_ in many eyes doth show the glory,
        That in gold _clasps_ locks in the golden _story_; etc. etc.

The famous garden scene, (Act 2d, Scene 2d,) opens with Romeo’s speech:

        He jests at scars that never felt a wound,—
              [_Juliet appears above at a window._
        But soft! what light from yonder window breaks!
        _It is the East, and Juliet is the sun._

This conceit leads to others about the sun, and moon, and stars, and
Juliet’s eyes, which occupy the whole speech, and the remainder of the
scene is either of a similar character, or distinguished by sudden
revulsions of feeling, which I shall notice hereafter. The whole scene
is highly illustrative of the theme.

Beautiful as some of the “conceits” of the garden scene are, Mercutio’s
description of Queen Mab caps the climax of fantastical analogies:

        Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs,
        The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
        The traces of the smallest spider’s web;
        The collars of the moonshine’s watery beams, etc. etc.

He represents her as galloping in this state through lover’s brains,
o’er lawyer’s fingers, etc., when the former straight dreams of love,
the latter of fees; and each according to his character, that is, their
dreams are shaped by the influence of the moment, which is agreeable to
the “central idea.” Indeed, this speech is not more remarkable for the
exquisite ingenuity and propriety of its comparisons and allusions, than
for its perfect adaptation to the general subject of the play.

Similar conceits and quibbles abound throughout the play, in the most
beautiful passages, and in the most heart-rending scenes. When Juliet
hears that Romeo, her “three-hours husband,” has killed her cousin
Tybalt, her _conflicting emotions_ find vent in a string of
_antitheses_: “Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical, dove-feathered raven,”
etc. In like manner Romeo’s group of contrasts in Act 1st, Scene 1st, is
suggested by the juxtaposition of the words “love” and “hate.” Both
Romeo and Juliet quibble when relating their griefs to Friar Laurence.
The Friar himself quibbles whilst attempting to console them; there is
quibbling in the beautiful chamber scene, and in the scene so full of
horrors at the church-yard.

Leaving the reader to follow up these suggestions at his pleasure, I
proceed to notice some of the passages in which this spirit of
_abandonment_ is exemplified in reference to,

2. _Passion, Impulse, etc._

I have already alluded to the _affray_ in the first scene. Romeo’s love
for Rosaline is strongly painted in the subsequent part of that, and in
the following scene. Benvolio persuades him to go to the feast at
Capulet’s, where Rosaline is to sup, promising that by showing him other
beauties he will make him “think his swan _a crow_.” Romeo, in reply,
makes loud protestations of fidelity to Rosaline, and declares that “the
all-seeing sun ne’er saw her match;” and when he finally consents to go,
expressly declares his purpose:

        I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,
        But to rejoice in splendor of mine own.

That is, in contemplating the beauty of Rosaline. In this, Shakspeare
has departed from the original story, in which Romeo goes to the feast,
not to _see_, but to endeavor to _forget_ Rosaline. Inasmuch as it
presents his fickleness in a stronger light, this variation has been
thought to injure the effect of Romeo’s character—for he no sooner sees
Juliet than Rosaline is utterly forgotten; her image expelled from his
heart, and replaced by the more beauteous image of Juliet. Shakspeare’s
object in the variation, in this as in other instances, undoubtedly was,
in pursuance of his theme, to make the transition as sudden and as
conspicuous as possible. The effect being favorable to his main design,
he cared little how it operated in other respects.

Old Capulet, as the revels progress, is filled with the spirit of the
occasion. His heart overflows with genial hospitality; and inspired by
the array of beauty around him, he descants on the time when he himself
“could tell a whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear.” Tybalt, recognising
Romeo, a Montague, among the guests, instantly calls out, “Fetch me my
rapier!” On this, as on all occasions, the sight of a Montague is with
him a sufficient signal for battle. But Capulet, whose ruling passion
now is hospitality, rebukes and restrains him:

                             Let him alone!
        I would not for the wealth of all this town,
        Here, _in my house_, do him disparagement.

The unrestrained outpouring of the heart in the garden scene, needs only
to be referred to. Whatever thought or feeling occurs at the moment
drives out all other thoughts and feelings. Juliet dismisses Romeo with
a thousand good-nights; then recalls him with passionate exclamations,
and then says, “I have forgot why I did call thee back.” Her impatience
to hear the Nurse’s report of Romeo’s message, with the Nurse’s
tantalizing circumlocutions, (Act 2d, Scene 5th,) and her tumultuous
emotions on hearing that her husband, Romeo, had killed her cousin
Tybalt, (Act 3d, Scene 2d,) are equally in keeping with the general
subject.

The first scene of the third act opens with a quibbling conversation.
Presently Tybalt meets Romeo, and on the instant challenges him to
fight; but Romeo (who before this has been secretly married to Juliet)
declines the challenge, when Mercutio takes up the quarrel, and is
slain. Mercutio was a zealous partisan of the house of Montague; but
after he receives his mortal wound, yielding to a new influence, he
becomes sensible of the folly of the dispute which he has so long helped
to maintain; “A plague o’ both your houses!” is his dying exclamation.
Romeo, finding his friend killed and his own reputation stained through
his forbearance, can restrain himself no longer. The sudden transition
of feeling and conduct here, from tame submission to fierce defiance, is
one of the finest of the many instances of the kind in the play. When
Morok touched the crouching lion with his flaming rod, he instantly
bounded up in wrath, and stood erect, majestic, and fearful to look
upon. Not less sudden and complete is the change produced in Romeo by
the re-entrance of Tybalt.

          _Ben._ Here comes the bloody Tybalt back again.
          _Rom._ Alive! in triumph! and Mercutio slain:
        Away to heaven, respective lenity,
        And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now.

The chamber scene (Act 3d, Scene 5th) is filled with the expression of
spontaneous and characteristic emotions. The dialogue between Romeo and
Juliet at the beginning is the most exquisitely beautiful passage of the
play; and there is none more illustrative of the theme. The art with
which the contending passions are depicted is only surpassed by the
beauty of the imagery and the melody of the diction. In the same scene
Capulet urges the marriage between Juliet and Paris, and on her refusal,
forgetting his former declaration that his consent would lie “within her
scope of choice”—alive only to the rebellion against his
authority—displays a degree of rudeness and violence which the pride
and the habit of dominion alone can account for. The Nurse being
consulted by Juliet in this emergency, and not being moved by either
passion or principle, considers very literally what course would be most
_expedient_ under all the circumstances; and, since Romeo is “as good as
dead,” advises her to marry Paris. Juliet’s reply to this advice comes
like a flash of lightning—

        Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!
        .     .     .     . Go, counsellor,
        Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.

By the Friar’s advice, Juliet at length consents to marry Paris, and
then Capulet is filled with impotent glee—being as absurd now in his
joy as he lately was in his anger. When Juliet the next morning is found
apparently dead, the lamentations of the several persons present (each
of whom indulges his own proper emotions) are singularly in character.
Capulet—the “rich” Capulet, as he is often styled in the play—bewails
the loss of his “heir;” Lady Capulet mourns for her “only child;” Paris
for his “love in death;” whilst the Nurse indulges her grief in
boisterous and empty vociferation—

        O wo! O woful, woful, woful day!
        Most lamentable day! most woful day
        That ever, ever I did yet behold!
        O day! O day! O day! O hateful day.

The musicians who had come to play at the wedding are about to retire,
when Peter enters and engages them in a quibbling conversation; and in
the course of it recites the following verses, which are also made to
inculcate the great sentiment of the play, _the readiness with which the
mind submits to passing influences_:

        When griping grief the heart doth wound,
          And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
        Then music, with her silver sound,
          With speedy help doth lend redress.

The same idea pervades the scene in which the Apothecary is introduced.
Romeo’s description of him is prefaced by this pertinent reflection:

                      O _mischief_! thou art swift
        To enter in the thoughts of _desperate_ men!

The word “desperate” here refers to his own circumstances, but he
immediately applies it to the Apothecary, and describes his _desperate
poverty_: and hence infers his readiness to do a _desperate_ deed:

        Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,
        And fear’st to die?

The next scene (Act 5th, Scene 2d) is a very short one, and is wholly
occupied with a conversation between Friar Laurence and Friar John, in
which the latter relates that he had failed to carry the letter to
Romeo, as he had promised, because the “searchers of the town,”
suspecting that he had been in a house where “the infectious pestilence
did reign,” locked him up, etc. The “central idea” is found here
also—in the allusion to the pestilence, and the alarm which the mere
rumor of it inspires.

_Dreams_ are several times introduced in the course of the play, and in
every instance the dream is shaped either by some passing influence, or
by a coming event, which thus “casts its shadow before.” In Mercutio’s
description of Queen Mab, the “fairies’ midwife,” she is represented as
“delivering” the dreamers of their various fancies. In the closing scene
Balthazer tells the Friar that as he slept under a yew-tree he dreamt
that his master (Romeo) and another fought, and that his master killed
him; which was the fact. And this bearing in sleep, and dreaming of what
is actually passing, is a phenomenon which, I presume, has happened to
every one. Again, Romeo says, (Act 5th, Scene 1st,) “I dreamt my lady
came and found me dead,” etc.—which afterward happened. In our day,
this, I suppose, would be called clairvoyance.

But I must hasten to notice another point of view in which the subject
is presented.

3. _Didactic expositions of the theme._

With a mere reference to Montague’s description of his son’s _humors_,
in the first scene, I pass to the following speech of Benvolio in the
second scene:

        Tut man! one fire burns out another’s burning,
          One pain is lessened by another’s anguish;
        Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;
          One desperate grief cure with another’s languish;
        Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
        And the rank poison of the old will die.

And thus throughout the play one passion, sentiment, or whim, is
constantly _succeeding_ and _driving out_ another.

Friar Laurence, as becomes his sacred character, preaches moderation
wherever he appears, and constantly labors to restrain the headstrong
passions of others. He first appears (Act 2d, Scene 3d) soliloquizing in
his cell. After describing “flecked darkness” as reeling like a drunkard
“from forth day’s path-way,” he falls into reflections on the
constitution of nature. He finds a principle of good and a principle of
evil in every thing that lives on the earth. And according to its fair
use or abuse the one or the other of these principles prevails.
Deliberation and reserve are inculcated; his mission is, to endeavor to
stem the impetuous torrent that dashes around him. Thus when Romeo
threatens to kill himself (Act 3d, Scene 3d) the friar paints his
inconsiderate folly in most graphic and animated language.

        What, rouse thee man! Thy Juliet is alive
        For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
        There art thou happy; Tybalt would kill thee
        But thou slewest Tybalt; there art thou happy too;
        The law, that threatened death, becomes thy friend,
        And turns it to exile; there art thou happy;
        A pack of blessings lights upon thy back;
        Happiness courts thee in her best array;
        But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
        Thou poutest upon thy fortune and thy love;
        Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.

Very similar to this is his speech to the mourners over the body of
Juliet, supposed by all but him to be dead.

The prince acts a similar part, and in the last scene, declares his
determination to inquire into all the circumstances, “And know their
spring, their head, their true descent,” before passing judgment;
whereupon the friar recapitulates the whole story. As he tells nothing
but what was known to the reader before, his long speech would seem to
be superfluous; but does not the moral of the piece consist in this
deliberate investigation after so much impulsive and inconsiderate
conduct; and the final reconciliation of the rival houses, when grief
has brought them to _reflection_?

If this imperfect sketch should induce the reader to take up Romeo and
Juliet, and study it in the point of view I have indicated, he will find
a thousand illustrations of the “central idea,” which it has been
impossible, in this brief paper, to notice; and he will find a principle
of order in this seeming chaos—that all these quibbles and conceits,
these headlong passions, and conflicting emotions are made to harmonize
and serve a common purpose.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            JACOB’S LADDER.


                              E. J. EAMES.


    OH! beautiful ascending, and descending,
      Were your bright footsteps ’twixt the earth and sky;
    Celestial visitants, in love attending
      On the tired trav’ler, to whose dreaming eye
      Came radiant glimpses of that far Elysian,
      Whose glories now are hid to mortal vision.
    A gleam of pinions—solemn harmonies—
      The stony pillow—the dim haunted sod—
    And to the sleeper—what dread mysteries
      Awe his high heart? How sinks the _Voice of God_
    Deep in his soul! Yes, God in veiled glory
      Appears, His “ancient cov’nant” to renew;
    And angel-tongues record the sacred story
      Which o’er the Patriarch such rich splendor threw!

    But never more, as in the days departed,
      Will ye return to gladden this dull earth:
    What burning tears to human eyes have started
      Since last ye moved ’mid forms of mortal birth.
    And though no more, in glorious raiment clad,
      May God, or angel-guest, to man appear,
      Unseen they walk the world, and hov’ring near
    Their _spiritual presence_ makes earth’s children glad.
    And still the mystic ladder is erected,
      Whereon bright missioned spirits come and go—
    Bearing unto the worn and world-dejected,
      A precious balm for all life’s want and wo.
    Still unto us high promises are given,
    And holiest hopes, to lead our hearts to Heaven.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                         BASS AND BASS FISHING.


                           BY FRANK FORESTER.


[Illustration]


             THE STRIPED BASS. (LABRAX LINEATUS. _Cuvier._)

   ROCK FISH. _Southern States and Delaware River._—BARRE FISH. _St.
                               Lawrence._

THIS noble fish, a member of a tribe known in almost every region of the
globe, is, as an individual, peculiar to the waters of North America,
not being found in any other part of the world; while his geographical
range here, being very extensive, covers most if not all the rivers,
bays, lagoons and beaches from the Capes of Florida to the Estuary of
the St. Lawrence; in which great frith he is found, slightly modified
from the Atlantic type, and known as the Barre Fish.

He must not be confounded with the Sea Bass, as he has been by Dr.
Smith, the author of the Fishes of Massachusetts, who takes Dr. Mitchell
severely to task for naming him _Bodianus Mitchilli_; accusing the
Doctor of extreme arrogance and presumption in assuming the discovery
and right of naming a fish, which he—Smith—alledges to be known to
every fisherman and naturalist of every European coast; whereas, in
reality, the fact is precisely as stated by Dr. Mitchell.

The Striped Bass is a very beautiful fish, of the order
_Acanthopterygii_, or thorny finned fishes, and of the family _Pereidæ_;
which may be distinguished from the soft finned tribes, by having the
whole of the first dorsal fin supported by strong, sharp, spinous rays,
by a single strong spine in front of the second dorsal, one in front of
the ventrals, and three in front of the anal fin. The operculum, or
gill-cover, has a serrated edge and two flat spines. Its dental system
is very complete and formidable, on the maxillaries, palatine-bones, and
tongue, as it is essentially a carnivorous fish, preying
indiscriminately on most of the smaller finny inhabitants of the waters,
as also on their spawn, and on some of the smaller crustaceæ, as crabs
and shrimps.

In color he is bright and silvery, bluish brown, with copperish
reflections on the back, and eight, or sometimes though rarely nine,
parallel stripes of dark brownish purple—the fourth of these is
ordinarily consentaneous with the lateral line, though sometimes the
fifth. Those above it run from the head to the origin of the tail, and
are by far the darkest; those below are fainter, and die away at about
two-thirds the length of the belly.

The pectoral fins have sixteen rays, the ventrals one spinous and five
soft rays, the anal three spinous and eleven soft rays, the first dorsal
nine spinous, the second one spinous and twelve soft, the caudal
seventeen soft rays.

The Sea Bass, which is of the same order and family, _Pereidæ_, is
purely a sea fish, never entering estuaries or rivers, and never being
taken in other than salt waters, on the outer bars and sea-banks,
whereas the Striped Bass, like the Salmon, though salt water is
necessary to him, in order to give vigor to his constitution, and
perhaps to enable him to reproduce his species, is taken without
distinction in the clear cold spring-waters of the river-heads, in the
brackish slack-waters of the broad estuaries, in the strong, whirling
salt eddies of sea-channels, such as Hellgate, and the inlets from the
ocean to the inner bays, and lastly in the tumbling and flashing surfs
on all the outer beaches, from those, I believe, of Hatterns, alone all
the coasts north-eastward to those of Jersey and Long Island; on which
they are taken with the squid and the seine from July to November, of
rare excellence, and in great abundance.

The river runs of the Striped Bass are very singular, and though I will
not say unaccountable—by no means accounted for. So soon as the Smelt,
Shad, and Herring enter the river-mouths and estuaries, the Striped Bass
is found following them; and in every different water it appears that he
acts on a peculiar and instinctive principle. Where, when, or how he
spawns no man knows or has written.

Our rivers he enters from the Delaware eastward from the first of March
and later as the season offers, and makes up to the clear, cool
spring-waters of the rivers near their heads. At that time he may be
fished for, in the Delaware and in all the rivers in which the Shad run
up and spawn, with _shad-roe_ FATALLY.

In waters up which the Shad does not run this bait is useless.

Thus, for instance, at Macomb’s Dam, Kingsbridge, and all the Harlæm
River and Hellgate, in the neighborhood of New York, shad-roe is
_useless_; because the Shad do not spawn there, and the Bass _know_ it.
While in the Passaic, at Belleville Bridge and Acquanonck, up to both
which places these fish run, there is a certainty of taking them with
this bait, because Shad do spawn in the Passaic.

Therefore, in all rivers up which Shad run, the true and best bait for
the Striped Bass is the shad-roe.

This must be prepared thus. The roe of the female fish—that is the
_hard_ roe—must be taken, cleaned, washed, and washed again, and then
potted down with two ounces of salt to every half pound of roe, pressed
close into a stone pot and hermetically sealed. After three months it
will be fit for use; when it must be cut out of the pot like cheese,
fastened on the hook in a small lump, and tied to it by a lapping of
light-colored floss silk, or raveled hemp.

At this same time, in tideways such as Hellgate and the like, crab is
the best and most killing bait on a line by rod and reel fishing, with
weight enough to keep your crab within three inches of the bottom; thus
you shall take abundance of moderate sized fishes—the best by all odds
on the table—but if you aim at the thirty and forty pounders, you must
take that hideous and disgusting fishy reptile, _the real squid_, armed
with a strong cod-hook, on a heavy hempen line, trolled from the stern
of a boat slowly pulled against stream.

The Bass will strike at a gaudy fly, or a spun minnow, at the latter
every where, at the first seldom, and I believe casually; though if you
do hook him look out, for he shall try your line, and strain your tackle
to the utmost, and if you land even a three pounder on a single gut with
fly or minnow trolled, you have done great work.

The favorite haunts of the Striped Bass, whence his provincial name of
Rock Fish, are stony, gravelly, or rocky reefs, or sunken piers and dams
which cause eddies, in the vicinity of which his prey are to be found
darting about in the greatest abundance, and in such localities he is
often taken with the rod and reel in great numbers, running from two and
a half to seven pounds in weight, which is the best size for the table.

The Bass is a bold and fierce biter; and when he takes the bait he does
it with a will, and there is no occasion for giving him line or time
wherein to pouch the bait before striking, as you must do with the
European Pike, and the American Pickerel and Mascalonge.

In the Harlæm river he is fished for with a stout rod and reel, a strong
line of at least three hundred feet, and crab or shrimp bait, or
sometimes a shiner or spearling hooked through the back-fin with a
large-sized Limerick hook armed upon gimp. A sinker is used in this mode
of fishing, and the bait should be suspended at some distance from the
bottom, and allowed to swim about at his own sweet will.

When _struck_ the Bass does not leap out of water, like the trout or
salmon, but he is decidedly a run-away fish, taking twice as much
line—pound weight for yard length—as the Salmon, and, though not so
fierce or furious, requiring as much skill to handle. You must give him
your line inch by inch, as sparingly as possible, heading him _down_
stream if you can, and wearing him out always by concession and
persuasion.

So much for him in the spring. How far he goes up the rivers in his
spring run, we know not, nor presume to say. Killed he has been in
October at Milford, Delaware, prime, and in good condition, but I think
not running up to spawn himself, but rather to eat the roe of the shad
which do run thitherward up to spawn.

After July and from thence to September they disappear from among us of
the rivers, and during that period they are taken constantly by
_squidding_, as it is called, that is to say, by using a large sized
Limerick-hook, _shanked_ with a piece of bright tin, mother-of-pearl, or
ivory, attached to a long cod-line wound upon a card, in the rapid
swirling eddies among rocks in the great outer tideways, and yet more
readily in the wild, thundering surfs of the outside beaches. I have
seen them taken thus off Shrewsbury Inlet, near Sandy-Hook, to the
weight of sixty or seventy pounds; but it is a laborious, wet, and dirty
toil, and cannot in anywise be regarded as a sport.

The line, without a rod, is whirled round the head, and the squid
delivered, without a splash in the water, if it so may be, and then
dragged in hand over hand, the fish striking with his whole power, and
being mastered by main force.

Late in the autumn the Bass run in again, for what purpose we know not,
save this, that the growth and comparative size of the fry as taken not
justifying our believing that they breed in fresh rivers—we must
consider them to be in pursuit of prey.

In the Delaware they are trolled for gnostically and rightfully, with a
minnow, shiner, or young shad, baited on a double hook, armed on a
treble gut with two swivels, a trolling-rod, and good Conroy’s
reel—this is the true and scientific way of doing it.

The best rod for this sport is the regular trolling, or, as it is
otherwise called, _barbed_ rod. It should be twelve feet long, the butt
of stout ash, the second and third joints of hickory, and the fourth of
lance-wood. It should by no means have rings, but the new patent
rail-road guides, five in number, exclusive of the funnel guide at the
tip. It is a very good plan to have a double set of guides, on the
opposite sides of the rod, for the stress is so great in this kind of
fishing that in time the best rods will acquire a curvature, and lose
their elasticity. This is easily counteracted by changing the line from
side to side, and thus reversing the action.

The best trolling-rods are made by George Karr, of Grand Street, and Ben
Welch, of Cherry St., New York.

The reel should be a simple one, large enough to contain one hundred
yards of line.

This truly sporting mode of killing the Striped Bass is not used in New
York, where, in fact, there are few fishermen, except _fly_
fishermen—some very good, although, like angel visits—or pot
fishermen.

There the crab and the shrimp, with a _dobber_, as the pot fishermen
call it, is the weapon, and the best wielder of it is he who brings the
most and heaviest fish to _pot_, with the most violence and the least
skill.

The autumn being past, the Striped Bass retires for the winter to the
mud-holes, which he loves, the soft, warm coves at the mouths of rivers
and estuaries, wherein he lurks requiescent until spring again calls his
prey into the rivers, and himself out of his lurking-places.

These be his times, his seasons, his baits, and his places; as to his
local habitation, and the place where he deposits and brings up his
children, nobody distinctly knowing, we shall be exceeding glad to
receive facts whereon to constitute something approaching to that which
is unwritten—the complete natural history of the Bass.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              THE SMOKER.


                          BY THOMAS S. DONOHO.


                          [WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

    I SAW him after dinner,
      And his face was like the sun,
    When wearily he goes to rest,
      His long day’s journey done.
    The beef had made it hot,
      And the wine had made it red,
    And a cloud was all around it,
      Like a curtain round a bed.

    His chair was tilted back,
      And his feet were on the wall,
    And the sorrows of the world
      Did not trouble him at all!
    For though he toiled and puffed,
      Like an engine, or a stove,
    Yet smiled amid his labors
      This “cloud-compelling Jove!”

    Again I passed his dwelling,
      In the darkness of the night;
    And still I knew the Smoker,
      Like a glow-worm, by his light.
    His head was still thrown back,
      And his feet were still on high,
    And he had a most peculiar look
      From out his half-shut eye.

    ’Twas morning; and I saw him,
      This great _Vesuvius_ man,
    And o’er the news-full paper
      His misty vision ran;
    For still the fire was there,
      And still the smoke was thick:
    And I remembered me the tales,
      Whose hero was—Old Nick!

    I wondered if he slept?
      Or ever went about?
    Or was he only some machine—
      For what? Ah, there’s the doubt!
    Though puffing, always puffing,
      He never seemed _to go_:
    What good he did by staying there
      Is more than yet I know.

    A beggar-boy craved charity—
      The Smoker “blessed his stars!”
    And said, “_he had no change to spare_”—
      Then sent for more cigars!
    The patient wife at last complains;
      He gruffly bids her cease:
    “My home’s a bell; it’s very hard
      I cannot _smoke_ in peace!”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                  THE MAIDEN’S COMPLAINT AGAINST LOVE.


                             BY ENNA DUVAL.


    ONCE, on a sunny day,
      Love came to dwell with me,
    I stroked his downy wings,
      And gave him kisses free.

    How joyous sped the hours,
      While Love with me did stay;
    The fluttering tiny thing,
      Drove Care’s dark form away.

    I laughed, I danced, I sang—
      How mad and wild my glee,
    While blesséd little Love
      Dwelt willingly with me.

    Alas! one gloomy morn,
      The wicked, willful fay,
    That I so fondly cherished,
      Took wing and fled away.

    I shed sad, bitter tears,
      While Care looked on with scorn;
    At last I sped to Venus,
      To tell my grievous wrong.

    The goddess frowned upon me,
      And Psyche blushing wept,
    When saucy little Cupid
      My charges sad thus met.

    “She wearied me with kisses,
      And held me pris’ner fast,
    Blame not, O mother Venus,
      I broke her bonds at last.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: _Dallas._         BRIGHTLY, SC.

“THE SMOKER.”]

    See Page 410.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: GOLD FISH.]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             THE FINE ARTS.


EXHIBITION OF HUNTINGTON’S WORKS.—One of the halls of the Art Union
Building in New York, has been occupied for some time by an exhibition
of the collected works of Mr. HUNTINGTON. They are about one hundred and
twenty in number. Some of them are his very earliest efforts,
necessarily crude, having been executed in his college days, when his
incipient passion for art, interfered materially with his progress in
the classics. But as the artist himself observes, “the early blundering
attempts of beginners in art, are not as painful as those of musical
performers, or as insipid as the stammerings of incipient poets. The
lamest groupings of a young painter are often amusing, and sometimes
show what INMAN used to call ‘good intentions.’” It appears to us a very
interesting feature in this exhibition, that we are able to trace the
progress and development of Mr. HUNTINGTON’S talent. Thus we have
“_Ichabod Crane flogging a Scholar_,” his first attempt at composition
in 1834, which we may contrast with “_Mercy’s Dream_,” or the
“_Christiana and Children_” the two paintings upon which his fame most
securely rests. The gradual formation of his present pure style may be
distinctly traced through his successive works.

We find in the collection more landscapes than we thought Mr. H. had
painted, but he explains the matter by stating that during his early
professional career, while engaged as an assistant to a portrait
painter, “putting in back grounds,” he was seized upon by an
enthusiastic speculator who was about to erect a city on the Hudson
river, at Verplanck’s Point, then a wooded retreat of great beauty. This
enthusiast was a generous lover of art, and kept HUNTINGTON during an
entire summer, in that vicinity, taking views, and in his close study of
nature was then fostered a love for landscape, which he has never
forgotten. The artist himself says, of his subsequent works of this
kind, that they will not bear the test of a close comparison with
nature. They are rather hints and dreams of situations and effects,
which he beseeches the visitor to look at lazily and listlessly, through
the half-closed eye, and not to expect that truth and reality, which
should be found in the works of the professed landscape painter. We
cannot agree with the modest artist in his criticism upon himself—on
the contrary, we think _there is_ much of that marvelous force and
brightness which rivets the attention to COLE’S paintings; of the
freshness and atmosphere in which lie the fertile meadows—far
stretching distances—the sturdy oaks and beeches, with rich masses of
foliage, in DURAND’S calm, expansive compositions, and all of the
silvery lightness in moving clouds and transparent running brooks, which
the veteran DOUGHTY would magically call into being on the canvas.

We think the true passion of boyish love and first devotedness pervades
all the occasional outbreaks which have led him from the dull routine of
portraits to the green fields, the blue skies, and the silvery streams.
The Rondout Scenes, painted three or four years after the modern
Cecrops, would have carried art, learning, letters, and men to
Verplanck’s Point, and the two elegant Ramapo views (most unfortunately
not in the collection when we saw it, but in the possession of JAMES
ROSS, Esq. of New Orleans) are living evidences of this. And then the
“Moon Light and Fire Light,” drawn in an annual distribution of the Art
Union, by the late much lamented Dr. JAMES MILNOR, is one of the most
fanciful and artistic combinations of light and shade that could be
imagined. Under these circumstances we will not allow Mr. HUNTINGTON to
escape the charge of being a very admirable and forcible landscape
painter.

But it is in historical and allegorical painting that HUNTINGTON has
made the reputation which will live the longest; although he says, the
class of pictures which were painted with the greatest interest are
those which were meant to convey a moral lesson, and were ideally
treated, such as the “Sacred Lesson,” “Alms Giving,” “Piety and Folly,”
“Faith,” “Hope,” etc. This we can very easily imagine; for it must be to
the spirit of a painter, like the enlargement of a caged bird, to escape
the confines of buckram, broadcloth, and modern costume, and feel that
“no pent up Utica” confines the powers, and they can range from the
trammels of the real to the delicious _abandon_ of the ideal. To
transfer to canvas the feelings of our nature, and embody, as it were,
the moral sentiments must indeed be a triumph to the artist, and we
think it has been achieved by HUNTINGTON.

The picture which has acquired the most extended reputation for this
artist, is by no means his best or even one of his best. It has become
popularized by having been engraved for the American Art Union two years
since, and is the “Signing of the Death Warrant of Lady Jane Grey.” We
think it fortunate that the lovers of art in our country, who do not
enjoy the privilege of visiting the large collections in our cities, are
to have a better specimen of HUNTINGTON’S talent, and his peculiar
ideality of composition in the engraving of his “Mercy’s Dream,” by the
Philadelphia Art Union. This will, we think, be one of the most popular
plates ever distributed.

To enter upon a critical analysis of HUNTINGTON’S style would be but a
historical sketch of his artistic career; for his advancement in finish,
and his impressiveness in composition, are marked and graded on each
succeeding painting which he has started from the canvas. There is “no
retiring ebb” to his genius—he always improves upon himself, as the
result of close attention and indefatigable study. So happy is he in his
historical, dramatic, and allegorical subjects, that they associate
themselves with the very facts they intend to delineate, to the
exclusion almost of the records of the past—his ideality takes the
place of the written chronicle; and it seems as if the olden tradition
glowed beneath his pencil. HUNTINGTON is as graphic on historic canvas,
as MACAULAY is on the historic page. We must accord to him a high rank,
for he has merited it. In every department of his art, from the dull
routine of portrait painting to the study of the Florentine Sybil, or to
his latest inspirations, “St. John the Evangelist,” and the “Marys at
the Sepulchre,” there is the same loveliness of composition, boldness of
handling, and delicacy of conception.

We should feel great gratification in referring minutely to some of the
more elaborate and important works in this collection, but our purpose,
at the outset, was to make only a general notice, and call attention to
the interesting fact, that nearly all HUNTINGTON’S works can now be seen
in one gallery, collated as they have been from every quarter of the
Union. The success which has attended the exhibitions of the labors of
ALSTON, INMAN and HUNTINGTON, will, we trust, lead to subsequent efforts
among our other artists to get up corresponding displays of their works.
By producing emulation it will have a good effect, and these galleries
opened with such attractiveness, will lead to the formation of a taste
for art, which will soon direct itself to the encouragement of artists
through many private channels of munificence.

                 *        *        *        *        *

DEATH OF JAMES THOM.—On the 17th of April, James Thom, the sculptor,
died in New York. He was emphatically a self-made man, and his “Tam
O’Shanter and Souter Johnny” first raised him from his obscurity as an
humble stone-cutter, to a rank among our sculptors. He had no previous
education, and enjoyed no opportunity of studying schools or models.
THOM first reached this country about 1836-7, in search of an agent, who
had been sent here by the proprietors to exhibit his “Old Mortality” and
“Tam O’Shanter;” Thom found the delinquent and obtained a portion of the
money for which these works had been fraudulently sold. After remitting
these proceeds to the just owners, he determined to remain in this
country. His first efforts were directed to finding a free stone suited
to his work, which he soon discovered at Little Falls. From this he made
copies of his two most celebrated works. The Old Mortality Group is now
placed opposite the entrance to Laurel Hill Cemetery, near Philadelphia,
including the pious antiquarian Presbyterian, his rugged poney and the
faithful likeness of Sir Walter Scott. The “Tam O’Shanter” is the
property of Roswell L. Colt, Esq., Patterson, N. J. The
statue of Burns, also from his chisel, was an excellent specimen of his
skill.

Thom obtained an advantageous contract to perform the stone-cutting for
Trinity Church, New York, and made a handsome profit from it, although
he left the work before its completion, and retired to a farm in
Rockland County. He has since occupied his time as an architect, more,
however, for the filling up of his leisure hours, than for probability
of profit, as none of his designs have even been executed. The genius of
Thom was peculiar—his fame may rest safely upon “Old Mortality,” and
“Tam O’Shanter,” though some of his busts and ornamental garden designs
possessed great merit.

                 *        *        *        *        *

PHILADELPHIA ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS.—The spring exhibition of this
society promises to be unusually attractive. The liberal prizes offered
by the managers to induce competition, have awakened the spirit of not
only our own, but foreign artists. We shall next month have an
opportunity to notice these works in detail, and hope to find some home
productions which will compare favorably with those received from
abroad. Among the latter is a magnificent piece of coloring by VAN
SCHENDEL of Brussels, representing Ahasuerus king of the Persians and
Medes, in the midst of his gorgeous court, as described in the Book of
Esther. SCHOTEL of Medembled, Holland, has sent out two marine views, a
department in which he is justly celebrated. One of these, entitled
“Wrecking and Succor,” possesses much energy, and the other, “The
Schelde by a fresh gale,” will be highly prized by all the lovers of
art. There are also two works by Carl Hubner of Dusseldorf,
called “The Recovery,” and “The Happy Moment,” which evince high
artistic excellence. G. F. DIDAY of Bremen, has sent over two beautiful
views of the High Alps in Switzerland, and J. SCHOPPE of Berlin, a scene
descriptive of a Spanish comedy by Moneto, which he entitles Amphitrite
and Donna Diana. All these, and others of minor excellence, will be
noticed more fully hereafter.

                 *        *        *        *        *

THE AMERICAN ART UNION.—The walls of the new gallery of this
institution already present many beautiful specimens of art. A picture
by LEUTZE, called the “Knight of Sayn and the Gnomes,” is particularly
admired. The story, as described by G. G. FOSTER, Esq. in his spicy
little paper, the Merchants’ Day Book, is of a knight who fell in love
with a beautiful damsel, whose father would consent to the match only on
condition that the lover would ride up the steep rocks on which his
castle was built. This was clearly an impossible feat; but the king of
the Gnomes came secretly and offered, if the knight of Sayn would fill
up a silver mine that had been opened on his domain, to assist him in
crossing safely the bridge of love. The action of the picture is at the
moment that the knight rides over the last frightful fissure, upon a
bridge composed of rocks, supported and held in their places beneath his
charger’s hoofs, by the sturdy gnomes, while the king of the earth
elfins stands proudly on the other side with his royal sceptre in his
hand, to welcome his _protégé_ safely over. Far above is the father’s
castle, with the lady and her attendants, watching the dauntless rider
and waving their scarfs over his head. The whole of this picturesque and
charming scene is handled in the most admirable manner. The gnomes
couching like little atlases, under the heavy rocks across which the
knight is passing—the irresistible comicry of the burly gnome king—the
fiery prancing war-horse—the knight himself, waving his cap gallantly
to his mistress, while he sits his steed with the air of a perfect
conqueror, each seems better than the other. The entire composition and
action of the piece are spirited and graceful, while the happy choice of
subject equally betrays the accomplished artist.

                 *        *        *        *        *

HENRI HERZ.—The celebrated pianist has finally settled for the rest of
his days in Mexico. The supreme government has established a musical
conservatory, at the head of which Mr. Herz has been placed, with a
handsome salary.

                 *        *        *        *        *

IVES THE SCULPTOR, since his return from Italy, has completed a plaster
cast of Major General SCOTT, the mould of which he proposes to take with
him when he again visits Italy, and reproduce the head in marble. The
bust is true in its character, both in lineament and spirit, and is
looked upon with universal approbation.

                 *        *        *        *        *

POWER’S STATUE OF EVE.—It is stated that this statue, executed by Mr.
POWER for the Hon. WILLIAM C. PRESTON, of South Carolina, has been lost
by shipwreck on the coast of Spain. It had been generally conceded to be
his chef d’oeuvre, and its loss is a real calamity, not only to the
artist but the entire world of art. We trust sincerely that the original
cast remains, from which a new statue may be produced.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“MERCY’S DREAM.”—A copy from this original picture by HUNTINGTON has
been executed by Mr. MCMURTRIE, of Philadelphia, with a general fidelity
in tone, style, color, expression, and atmospheric effect, which is
truly remarkable. This copy will constitute the first prize at the next
drawing of the Art Union of Philadelphia, which will take place on the
evening of the 31st of December, 1850.

                 *        *        *        *        *

MARTI’S OPERA TROUP, from the Tacon Theatre, Havana, has recently been
singing at Niblo’s Garden, in New York. Signor Salvi is acknowledged to
be the only perfect tenor heard in this country since the days of
Garcia. Signorina Steffanone, the new soprano, is also warmly praised.
The orchestra is admirable, and all the appointments excellent.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          EARLY ENGLISH POETS.


                         POEMS OF THOMAS CAREW.


IN the history of early English literature, we find little mention made
of the productions of Thomas Carew; “that sweet poet and most witty
gentleman,” as he was quaintly styled by Sir William Davenant. With the
exception of one or two of his songs, to be found in “The English
Anthology,” we do not remember to have seen any mention made of his
verses. This neglect cannot be accounted for by attributing it to his
want of merit as a poet. The melody of his verse, the genuine spirit of
poetry pervading his songs, and the happy conceits sparkling through
them, entitle him to a position not many removes from that occupied by
Sir John Suckling, whose sweet numbers and mellifluous verse are
familiar to every lover of early English literature.

If the testimony of contemporaries is any test of poetic ability, the
subject of our notice seems to have had his full share with the lighter
poets and wits of his age.

Thomas Carew was descended from one of the first families in
Gloucestershire, England; many of his ancestors having filled high and
responsible stations in the preceding reigns of Mary, Elizabeth, and
James I. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where he did
not remain to finish the usual collegiate course, having been expelled
for some youthful indiscretion. He afterward made the tour of Europe,
visiting some of the most polished courts, and perfecting himself in all
those accomplishments then so necessary for the complete education of a
courtier. On his return from his travels, his fine person and polished
manners attracted the attention of Charles I., who gave him the
appointment of gentleman of the privy chamber, and was in the habit of
constant social intercourse, esteeming him one of the most polished
gentlemen and refined wits of his court. By the poets of his day he was
much respected, claiming Ben Jonson and Sir William Davenant among the
most devoted of his friends, and the warmest admirers of his verse. It
redounds, however, much more to his praise that he was intimate with the
youthful Hyde, afterward so distinguished as Earl of Clarendon—who
speaks highly “of his amiable qualities, and his talent for light
poetry, of the amorous kind, in the elegance and fancy of which he had
few superiors.” Carew died in the prime of life, some time in the year
1639, thus fortunately escaping the troubles that even then “were
casting their dark shadows before,” and which eventually overwhelmed his
royal master. The only edition of his poems ever published appeared in
1630, edited by himself; and it is from this work we propose to
introduce to the reader’s attention a few of the most beautiful of his
songs and fugitive pieces.

An earnest desire to rescue from oblivion the many beautiful thoughts
and curious conceits pervading the verses of this poet, has induced the
preparation of our article. These songs served to lighten the cares of
the troublesome reign of Charles I., and, set to music, were the
favorite melodies of his time. In an age when gallantry was the chief of
virtues, and the smiles and encouragement of the gentler sex the sure
reward that awaited every laudable undertaking. Carew seems to have
devoted his talents to the ladies. In smooth and gentle verse he
celebrated their varied charms—or in ardent strains declared his own
impassioned admiration and love.

The cruel glances of the eyes of his mistress he deprecates in lines
like these—

        I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,
        Which, pleased or angered, still are murderers,
        For if she dart, like lightning, through the air,
        Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair,
        If she behold me with a pleasing eye,
        I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

And he mourns in touching melancholy verse the death of the loved one,
and in sweet strains laments

        The purest soul, that e’er was sent
        Into a clayey tenement,
        Informed this dust, but the weak mould
        Could the great guest no longer hold,
        The substance was too pure, the flame
        Too glorious, that hither came.

Does he celebrate the beauties of the natural world, he is sure to
institute a comparison of those beauties with the charms of his
mistress—and in his glowing language, “winter’s snow-white robes” “and
blue-eyed spring” welcomed to the earth “by a choir of chirping
minstrels” shrink into insignificance by the comparison. Does he pine
away, banished from the presence of his mistress, he compares himself
with happy conceit “to one far from the shore in a storm-beaten boat,
where love is the pilot,”

                          but o’ercome with fear
        Of her displeasure, dares not homeward steer.

Indeed, the warmth of his verse, and its flow of happy conceits, induced
Sir William Davenant to call him “our English Anacreon”—but this
perhaps is going too far; although adopting the words of Moore, applied
to Anacreon, we might say of Carew—“That his descriptions are sometimes
warm, but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words; he is often
sportive, without being wanton, ardent, without being licentious.”
Still, the distance between Carew and Anacreon is immeasurably
great—the singular beauty of “The Tean Bard”—his copiousness of
expression, his easy and joyous gayety—the enthusiasm of the grape
pervading his songs,—has never yet been equaled by his numerous
pretended imitators; who too often have sought in grossness of allusion,
and the vulgar rant of intoxication, for sources of resemblance.

It is indeed to be regretted that among the poems of Carew there are
many that might tinge the cheek of modesty, and repel every reader by
their gross physical impurities—and those, too, containing in their
grossness thoughts of most exquisite beauty. The existence of these
impurities, however, was the fault more of the age than the poet—custom
sanctioned, society relished the use of language and sentiment that now
would be exceedingly abhorrent to “ears polite.”

The polished courtiers, the fair dames of the court of Charles,
perceived nothing in these songs of Carew that could call the blush of
shame to the cheek, or excite even an impure thought. But custom,

        “That despot, whose behest each age obeys,”

has in this our day otherwise ordered; and the civilized world now
believes with the poet Roscommon—

        Immodest words admit of no defense,
        A want of decency is want of sense.

My object in the preparation of this article being to rescue from
oblivion some of the verses of this sweet poet, Carew, I propose to make
such selections from his poems as shall prove, incontestably, his claim
to a high rank among the earlier English poets.

We do not claim that the poems of Carew evince the highest order of
poetic talent, but generous sentiment, and a glow of happy conceits
running through, and sparkling in them, often exhibit unexpected
beauties. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, applied to a poet of the same
age and nation,

“If the conceits are sometimes far-fetched, they will be found
oftentimes worth the carriage.”

It has been before remarked, that if the greatness of the poetic writers
of this age seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises us—and
noble sentiment and genuine wit will often be found buried beneath
strange illustrations, and far-fetched conceits.

In Headley’s introduction to his “Select Beauties of Ancient English
Poetry,” he bestows unqualified praise upon the amatory poets, who
flourished in the reign of Charles the First, giving a decided
preference to the poetry of the age of Elizabeth and Charles over all
that has been written since their day. And he considers the poets, the
amatory poets of those reigns, as forming a constellation far superior
in poetic lustre to any that have succeeded them.

This indeed is no faint praise, coming from so refined a critic; but
with all due deference we cannot but agree with Drake, that it is for
the most part too highly colored. The exquisite simplicity of style and
thought, so attractive in the productions of our modern poets, will be
looked for in vain in the verses of the poets of that early day; such
simplicity being the result of systematic refinement, and the progress
of language toward perfection.

But to return from this apparent digression; as the most beautiful
pearls are often found in the roughest shells, so in the songs of Carew
the reader will oftentimes be delighted to discover rare conceits,
sparkling with wit, and genuine poetry, but incased in rough
inharmonious verse.

But often, as in the beautiful lines to a primrose, Carew seems to break
loose from the trammels that fettered the versification of his day, and
in tuneful, and well measured song expresses so aptly the ideas of his
muse, as to give peculiar softness to his rhyme.

That little song, To a Primrose, commencing,

        Ask me why I bring you here
        This firstling of the infant year.

And the one entitled The Compliment,

        My dearest I shall grieve thee
        When I swear, yet, sweet, believe me,

are almost equal in beauty to that exquisite song of Fletcher’s,
commencing

        Take, oh, take those lips away.

Or that complimentary song of Sir John Suckling’s, beginning

        Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
        No daisy bears comparison,
        Who sees it, is undone
        For streaks of red were mingled there
          Such as are on a Catharine pear,
          The side that’s next the sun.

In all the poetry of the age in which Carew flourished, there is to be
found a straining after resemblances, and too often the sense is
sacrificed in the effort; personification is too often used, without
judgment, or taste. It is this fault which, more than any other, has
called down upon the poets of the age in which Carew flourished, so much
severe, and oftentimes unjust criticism.

But without offering these songs of Carew as models, without denying
that according to the rigid canons of polished criticism, many glaring
faults may be found in them, we still insist that their beauties are
many, and to the eye, which brings not every thing to the narrow measure
of a stern critic’s scrutiny, will more than compensate for unquestioned
blemishes. The blemishes are the offspring of the distorted taste of the
age in which our poet flourished—their beauties, the triumph of the
poet’s genius over the difficulties in his pathway.

                  THE SPRING.

        Now that the winter’s gone, the earth has lost
        Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
        Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
        Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream;
        But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
        And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth
        To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree
        The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.
        _Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring_
        _In_ triumph to the world, the youthful spring.
        The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
        Welcome the coming of the longed for May.
        Now all things smile, only my love doth lower;
        Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power
        To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
        Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold.
        The ox which lately did for shelter fly
        Into the stall; doth now securely lie
        In open field, and love no more is made
        By the fire-side; but in the cooler shade
        Amyutas now doth with his Chloris sleep
        Under a sycamore, and all things keep
        Time with the season; only _she_ doth carry
        June in her eyes, her heart is January.

                  PERSUASION TO LOVE.

        Think not, ’cause men flattering say
        You’re fresh as April, sweet as May,
        Bright as is the morning star,
        That you are so; or though you are,
        Be not therefore proud, and deem
        All unworthy your esteem;
        For being so, you lose the pleasure
        Of being fair, since that rich treasure
        Of rare beauty, and sweet feature,
        Was bestowed on you by nature
        To be enjoyed, and sure ’tis sin
        There to be scarce, where she hath been
        So prodigal of her best graces;
        Thus common beauties, and mean faces
        Shall have more pastime, and enjoy
        The sport you loose by being coy.
        Starve not yourself, because you may
        Thereby make me pine away;
        Nor let brittle beauty make
        You, your wisest thoughts forsake.
        For that lovely face will fail;
        Beauty’s sweet, but beauty’s frail;
        ’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner done
        Than summer rain, or winter’s sun;
        Most fleeting when it is most dear!
        ’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here.
        These curious locks, so aptly twined,
        Whose every hair a soul doth bind,
        Wilt change their auburn hue, and grow
        White, and cold as winter’s snow.
        That eye which now is Cupid’s nest,
        Will prove his grave, and all the rest
        Will follow, in the cheek then froze,
        No lily shall be found, or rose.
        And what will then become of all
        Those who now you servants call?
        Like swallow’s when your summer’s done
        They’ll fly, and seek some warmer sun.
        Remain still firm, be provident,
        And think before the summer’s spent
        Of following winter; like the ant
        See plenty hoard for time of scant.
        Cull out amongst the multitude
        Of lovers, seeking to intrude
        Into your favor, one that may
        Last for an age, not for a day.
        For when the storms of time have moved
        Waves on that cheek, now so beloved,
        When a fair lady’s face has pined,
        And yellow spread, where red once shined,
        When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her.
        Love may return, but lovers never.
        And old folks say, there are no pains
        Like itch of love, in aged veins.
        Oh, love me then, and now begin it,
        Let us not loose a precious minute,
        For time and age will work that rack,
        Which time or age shall ne’er call back.
        The snake each year, fresh skin resumes,
        And eagles, change their aged plumes.
        The faded rose, each spring receives
        A fresh red tincture on her leaves:
        But if your beauties once decay,
        They never know a second May.

                  LIPS AND EYES.

        In Celia’s face, a question doth arise
        Which are more beautiful, her lips or eyes;
        We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed darts
        Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts
        From us, replied the lips, proceed those blisses
        Which lovers reap in kind words, and in kisses
        Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour
        Of liquid oriental pearls, a shower.
        Whereat the lips moved with delight and pleasure,
        In a sweet smile _unlocked their pearly treasure_;
        And bade Love judge, whether did add more grace
        Weeping, or smiling, to fair Celia’s face.

                  A BEAUTIFUL MISTRESS.

        If when the sun at noon displays
                His brighter rays,
                Thou but appear
        He then all pale with shame, and fear,
                Quencheth his light,
        Hides his dark brows, flies from thy sight
                And grows more dim
        Compared to thee, than stars to him,
        If thou but show thy face again,
        When darkness doth at midnight reign,
        The darkness flies, and light is hurled
        Round about the silent world.

                  THE PRIMROSE.

        Ask me, why I send you here
        This firstling of the infant year?
        Ask me, why I send to you,
        This primrose, all bepearled with dew?
        I straight will whisper in your ears
        The sweets of love are washed with tears.

        Ask me, why this flower doth show
        So yellow, green, and sickly too?
        Ask me, why the stalk is weak,
        And bending, yet it doth not break.
        I must tell you, these discover
        That doubts and fears beset your lover.

                  MURDERING BEAUTY.

        I’ll gaze no more, on her bewitching face,
        Since ruin harbors there, in every place;
        For my enchanted soul, alike she drowns
        With calms and tempests, of her smiles, and frowns.
        I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,
        Which pleased or angered, still are murderers;
        For if she dart (like lightning) through the air
        Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair;
        If she behold me with a pleasing eye
        I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Lectures on Art and Poems. By Washington Allston. Edited by
    Richard H. Dana, Jr. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

The admirers of the greatest of American painters will need none of our
advice to read this volume, placing as it does its accomplished author
among the greatest of American writers. The Lectures are four long and
elaborate essays on art; and they evince a depth and delicacy of
insight, a concentrativeness and continuity of thought, a finely
harmonized action of reason and imagination, and a command of subtle
expression, which entitle them to a high rank among the best critical
compositions of the century. The lectures treat of the highest and most
exacting principles of creative art, and the passage from them to the
poems is a hazardous descent. Though some of these poems have gleams of
the author’s genius, they are generally characterized by a penury of
imaginative expression which is painful to a reader fresh from the
Lectures.

The merely literary reader will find much to delight him in the
Lectures, even if he is indisposed to pay much attention to their
profound discussion of principles. They contain many specimens of that
word-painting which gave such popularity to Ruskin’s “Modern Painters.”
The following passage on Vernet is one out of many splendid
descriptions. “Now let us look at one of his Storms at Sea, when he
wrought from his own mind. A dark, leaden atmosphere prepares us for
something fearful; suddenly a scene of tumult, fierce, wild, disastrous,
bursts upon us; and we feel the shock drive, as it were, every other
thought from the mind; the terrible vision now seizes the imagination,
filling it with sound and motion: we see the clouds fly, the furious
waves one upon another dashing in conflict, and rolling, as if in wrath,
toward the devoted ship; the wind blows from the canvas; we hear it roar
through her shrouds; her masts bend like twigs, and her last forlorn
hope, the close-reefed foresail, streams like a tattered flag; a
terrible fascination still constrains us to look, and a dim, rocky shore
looms on her lee; then comes the dreadful cry of ‘Breakers ahead!’ the
crew stand appalled, and the master’s trumpet is soundless at his lips.
This is the uproar of nature, and we _feel_ it to be _true_; for here
every line, every touch, has a meaning. The ragged clouds, the huddled
waves, the prostrate ship, though forced by contrast into the sharpest
angles, all agree, opposed as they seem, evolving harmony out of
discord. And this is Genius, which no criticism can ever disprove.”

The criticisms in these lectures on Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Titian,
Poussin, Claude, are as unrivaled for discrimination as appreciation. No
one has a quicker and deeper eye to detect the excellencies of great
works, and no one seizes with more fatal sagacity upon their defects.
Everybody has seen copies of Raffaelle’s great picture of the Madonna di
Sisto, but few have dared to express their dissatisfaction with the
seemingly beautiful figure of St. Catharine. Allston says it is an
“evident rescript from the Antique, with all the received lines of
beauty, as laid down by the analyst—apparently faultless, yet without a
single inflection which the mind can recognize as allied to our
sympathies; and we turn from it coldly as from the work of an artificer,
not of an Artist. But not so can we turn from the intense life, which
seems almost to breathe upon us from the celestial group of the Virgin
and her child, and from the Angels below; in these we have the evidence
of the divine afflatus—of inspired Art.”

Among the aphorisms written by Allston on the walls of his studio, and
published in the present volume, we extract the following:

“Some men make their ignorance the measure of excellence; these are, of
course, very fastidious critics; _for knowing little, they can find
little to like_.”

“A witch’s skiff cannot more easily sail in the teeth of the wind, than
the human _eye_ lie against fact; but the truth will oftener quiver
through lips with a lie upon them.”

“The most common disguise of Envy is in the praise of what is
subordinate.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Southey’s Common-Place Book. Second Series. Special
    Collections. Edited by his Son-in-Law, John Wood Warter, B. D.
    New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This volume contains the extracts which Southey made from the world of
books, relating to special subjects of study. The general topics under
which the extracts are grouped, are Ecclesiasticals, the Age of
Cromwell, Spanish and Portuguese Literature, the History of the
Religious Orders, Orientaliana, American Tribes, Natural History, and
Curious Facts. The range of reading that the volume indicates,
considered in connection with the number of Southey’s original works, is
sufficient to astound a regular book-cormorant, and places Southey
fairly among the “laboring classes.” The present volume is more racy in
its matter than the preceding, while it does not yield to it in the
amount of curious information given. The following passage, taken from
Percival Stockdale’s Memoirs, conveys a capital idea of an English
military commander. “When Lord George Germains commanded the camp near
Brompton, and at Chatham in 1757, Whitfield went to Chatham, sent his
respects by Captain Smith to his lordship, and requested permission to
preach in the camp. Lord George replied, ‘Make my compliments, Smith, to
Mr. Whitfield, and tell him, from me, he may preach any thing to my
soldiers that is not contrary to the articles of war.’” From the same
book Southey extracts an equally edifying paragraph, relating to the
view entertained of the Christian religion, by the English naval captain
of that time. Percival was appointed chaplain to Capt. Ogle’s ship
Resolution, but, he says, “the duty of clergyman was very seldom
required of me. One day, however, when I met my naval commander in a
street of Portsmouth, and paid my respects to him, he proposed that I
should do my duty on the ensuing Sunday on board. I replied that it was
my wish to receive such a command more frequently. At all events,
replied he, I think it is right that these things should be done
sometimes, _as long as Christianity is on foot_.” The simplicity with
which religion is patronized in both of these instances, makes them
richly humorous.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A New Edition. Boston:
    Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 2 vols. 10mo._

This edition of Longfellow contains all his poems, and makes two finely
printed volumes of some five hundred pages each, at about half the
original price. In their present tasteful form they will doubtless have
a large circulation, for their author is the most popular poet of the
day on both sides of the Atlantic. His poems sell better in England than
those of Tennyson, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Bailey or Milnes. This wide
popularity he has fairly won by his merits, as he has not lacked carping
critics or envious defamers to obstruct his path to success. The source
of the fascination he holds equally over cultivated and uncultivated
minds is partly owing to the fine humanity and sweetness of his spirit.
Good nature is a portion of his genius; without this good nature, man,
says Bacon, is but “a better kind of vermin;” but we are sorry to say
that it is not a prominent characteristic of many minds largely gifted
with the poetic faculty. Longfellow, in addition to this heartiness,
full of seriousness which does not exclude cheer, has a broad and
imaginative mind, which has assimilated and inwrought into its own
substance the spirit of many literatures; and this gives a vital
richness to his thought which no other contemporary poet but Tennyson
can be said to possess. Probably few poets ever excelled him in the
difficult art of preserving an equilibrium of ambition and capacity, so
that nothing is attempted which is not satisfactorily performed. Many
poets who aim higher than Longfellow, please less, because we are
conscious of the stir and sting of great aspirations which are
unaccompanied by sufficient imagination to give them adequate form and
expression, and the result is that the mind is disturbed rather than
exalted. In Longfellow aspiration and inspiration are perfectly
harmonized.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Angel World, and Other Poems. By Philip James Bailey,
    author of “Festus.” Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol.
    16mo._

“Festus,” a monstrous agglomeration of irreconcilable opinions, lit up
with fancy, and seasoned with warm sensations, was Mr. Bailey’s first
bantling—

        “Got while his soul did huddled notions try,
        And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.”

“The Angel World” is his second product, the result of the slow
gestation of many years, with fewer faults and fewer merits than
“Festus”. Many persons who would hesitate in calling “Festus” a poem,
discerned in it a chaos of poetical matter; and they supposed that the
author’s unquestioned fertility would be forced into form when his
powers matured. In “The Angel World” we find an approach to form with a
decay of fertility. This seems to prove that anarchy is not so much the
precursor of art as the destroyer of vitality, and that Bailey’s mind
found in anarchy its fittest expression. There is not enough greatness
in the man to make a great poem. Coleridge, in his remarks on Love’s
Labor Lost, says that “true genius begins in generalizing and
condensing; it ends in realizing and expanding. It first collects the
seeds.” Bailey’s process is the reverse of this; he first expands, then
condenses—and his expansion accordingly lacks substance, and his
condensation richness. But though “The Angel World” is inferior to
“Festus,” it still exhibits sufficient wealth of imagery to give it
prominence among contemporary poems, and to exact the attention of all
poetical readers. A poem which contains numerous thoughts as fine as the
following cannot be justly condemned:

                                In one
        A soul of lofty clearness, like a night
        Of stars, _wherein the memory of the day_
        _Seems trembling through the meditative air_.

The “other poems” which follow “The Angel World” are of various degrees
of merit, indicating that the author is a man of moods, and is rapt or
muddled, according as his sensibility rises or falls. A few of the poems
are almost ecstatic, and equal the most striking passages in “Festus.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Ways of the Hour: A Tale. By the author of “The Spy,” “The
    Red Rover,” etc. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Cooper is a philanthropist of a peculiar kind. He makes an inventory
of popular errors and vices, some of them thoroughly inwoven in the
affections or manners of the people, and then daringly drives at them
with the whole might of his pen. We honor his courage, and sympathize
with his hatred of cant, even when we are disposed to doubt his
judgment, and to regret his fretful way of presenting his opinions.
Opposition seems to have deepened some of his dislikes into antipathies,
and a man with antipathies is always unreasonable even in his assaults
upon error and vice. There is one thing, however, for which Mr. Cooper
cannot be too highly praised, and that is, his keen perception of the
real faults which, in a democracy, should come under the lash of the
moralist and the satirist. Far from pandering to popular delusions, he
expends all his force in exposing and attacking them. The present novel
is full of thrusts at the political bubbles of New York, some of which
really subside into their “elemental suds” under his treatment. The
general object of the novel is to exhibit the injustice which results
from our system of trials by jury—an injustice which Mr. Cooper thinks
is the necessary consequence of that system in a democracy. This we deem
a monstrous paradox, though the story which illustrates it is ingenious
and interesting, and will well repay perusal.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Gallery of Illustrious Americans. Brady & D’Avignon, New York,
    1850._

Daguerreotypes by Brady—Engraved by D’Avignon, with Biographical
Notices by C. Edwards Lester, assisted by other literary men. This is
announced by the publishers of this work, and is sufficient alone to
recommend it. It will be a noble Gallery when completed, if carried out
as commenced. Two numbers are before us. The first number contains a
fine portrait of Gen. Taylor, with a short clear notice of his life. The
second number has a striking life-like head of Mr. Calhoun, which is
particularly valuable now, that we are all called upon as countrymen to
mourn the death of this great and good man. The biographical notice of
Mr. Calhoun is well written and interesting.

We have but one fault to find with this work. The interior of the cover
is used as a sort of journal—“Fly Leaf of Art and Criticism,” as it is
called, but its _piquant_ notices, and clever short articles of poetry
and prose are too valuable to be thus thrown away on a mere cover.
However, it proves that the liberal publishers wish to make their work
as attractive as possible.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Posthumous Works of the Rev. Thomas Chalmers, D. D., L.L.D. New
    York: Harper & Brothers. Vol. 9._

This volume of Chalmers is as valuable as any in the series, and, to us,
the most interesting of the whole. It contains Prelections on Butler’s
Analogy, Paley’s Evidences of Christianity, and Hill’s Lectures in
Divinity, and affords some test of the great clergyman’s real merit in
the science of theology. Although the volume does not place Chalmers in
the first class of theological thinkers, it indicates sufficient
originality, independence and force of thought to give him a high
position in the second class.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Downing Street. (Latter-Day Pamphlets, No. 3.) By Thomas
    Carlyle. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. New York: Harper &
    Brothers._

We do not see as these pamphlets decrease in impudence and raciness as
the author proceeds; they are among the most exhilarating of
contemporary publications, and however mad in parts, are calculated to
give a sharp shock to English dogmatism, if they do not succeed in
ameliorating English institutions. In “Downing Street” Carlyle makes an
assault on the executive department of the English government. The
attack has more reason in it than the substitute proposed for the
present system. In speaking of the inadequacy of Parliamentary
government to obtain the best men for rulers, he refers to Robert Burns,
the noblest soul of his time in England, and yet one for whom the
government could find no fitter employment than to gauge ale. “And so,”
remarks Carlyle, “like Apollo taken for a Neatherd, and perhaps for none
of the best on the Admetus establishment, this new Norse Thor had to put
up with what was going; to gauge ale, and be thankful, pouring his
celestial sun-light through Scottish song-writing—the narrowest chink
ever offered to a thunder-god before! And the measure Pitt, and his
Dundasses and red-tape phantasms (growing very ghastly now to think of)
did not in the least know or understand—the impious, god-forgetting
mortals—that Heroic Intellects, if Heaven were pleased to send such,
were the one salvation for the world, and for them, and all of us. No;
‘they had done very well without’ such; did not see the use of such;
‘went along very well’ without such; well presided over by singular
Heroic Intellect called George the Third; and the Thunder-god, as was
rather fit for him, departed early, still in the noon of life, somewhat
weary of gauging ale!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _King René’s Daughter: a Danish Lyrical Drama. By Henrik Hertz.
    Translated by Theodore Martin. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol.
    16mo._

This drama cannot boast any remarkable imaginative power, but it is
still a most exquisite creation, conceived in the spirit of the finest
human sympathy, and purifying the mind which it seemingly enters merely
to please. We trust that the American, as well as the English public
will, in the translator’s words, have the taste to “appreciate a drama
which owes its effect solely to the simplicity of its structure, the
ideal beauty of its central character, and the atmosphere of poetry and
old romance by which it is pervaded.” Iolanthe, the character thus
indicated, has a clear and vital sweetness at the heart of her being,
which wins every reader’s affection. The genius of the author may be
likened to the nightingale in his own lyric—

              The eagle we tell
              By his sweep full well,
        As proudly afar in the clouds he soars,
              And the nightingale,
              By the trilling wail
        Her throat in the dewy May-time pours.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Petrel, or Love on the Ocean, by Sir Ameral Fisher.
    Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson._

This is one of the most spirited sea novels that we have read since
Cooper witched the world with his Red Rover. It is full of intense
interest throughout, and must find a wide sale among all lovers of
nautical adventure. The heroine, _Norah_, is a beautifully drawn
character, as is also the bold, dashing Herbert, her lover. The attack
upon the pirates has all the freshness and daring of Tom Cringle’s Log.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Sketches of Minnesota, the New England of the West. With
    Incidents of Travel in that Territory during the Summer of 1849.
    By E. S. Seymour. With a Map. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1
    vol. 12mo._

This is an useful book, making no pretensions to elegance of style or
vividness of description, but giving the history and topography of
Minnesota, its past and present condition, in a plain, dogged way. To
those interested in the subject, the book will reward perusal, but we
can hardly commend it as having any charm for the common reader.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Life of John Calvin, Compiled from Authentic Sources, and
    Particularly from his Correspondence. By Thomas H. Dyer. With a
    Portrait. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Here we have, for the first time, a biography of Calvin, based on
original materials, and written by one who does not belong to the
Calvinistical sect. The volume is well written, is laden with important
information, and is exceedingly impartial. The digests given of Calvin’s
works in the order of their composition, and the copious extracts from
his private correspondence, conduct us close to the character of the
man. The real greatness of Calvin is more apparent in this work than in
any we have seen written by professed followers of his creed. The
chapters relating to Servetus have a dramatic interest as well as a
religious significance. It may be generally said in praise of the
volume, that no one who has not read it, is entitled to give a confident
opinion of the character of its subject.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            EDITOR’S TABLE.


                        FASHIONS FOR THE MONTH.

EVENING DRESSES.—Blue satin robe, trimmed with six flounces, disposed
in threes, and raised with bouquets of blue tinted feathers. Low body;
in three pieces, with a point; berthe of two rows of lace; a bouquet of
three marabouts on the body; marabouts in the hair. Robe of white moire,
plain skirt: tunic of crape lisse, descending a little lower than the
knee, open in front, rounded at bottom, and trimmed all round with a
small wreath of roses; low body, with a point; crape berthe, rounded in
front, trimmed all round with a wreath, to match that on the skirt; a
bouquet in front; a coronet of roses in the hair.

A dinner dress, much in favor, is a robe of pink and white glacé
taffetas. The front of the skirt is trimmed with small ruches of narrow
pink and white ribbon, interlaced one with the other, forming an
_échelle_ of narrow _pompons_ wreaths. This trimming is carried up each
side of the body, which opens square _à la Louis XV_, and tied in front
with _Montespan_ bows in pink and white ribbon; the same kind of bow
fastens up the pagodes sleeves, which are trimmed with a double wreath
of ribbons; from the edge of the sleeve a double row of lace falls over
the naked arm. A lace, half the width, trims the top of the body above
the ruche. A rose is placed on the side of the head, or a little puff of
pink gauze ribbon, or a bouquet of marabouts on one side, and long ends
of ribbon on the other.

Before we have done speaking of fashions, we must mention some
coiffures. Nothing can be prettier than the evening coiffures now worn;
they are made of blonde and flowers, feathers, and rich materials; the
small oriental turbans of gold or silver tissue, indeed every thing that
is rich and elegant, is employed for these _parures_. We have also seen
some charming little caps, the coquetry and caprice of which makes the
wearer indisputably pretty. The little _Marie Stuart_, descending
slightly over the forehead, rounding over the bandeaux, and edged with a
very light and narrow ruche of blonde; over the crown a long barbe of
blonde. The width of ribbon forms a bow, the ends falling on each side
of the neck. On each side of the bandeaux these barbes are slightly
raised, with a bouquet of roses or heath, or a _chou_ of ribbon, in the
middle of which a large diamond pin is placed. The same style of cap,
made entirely of pink or blue gauze ribbon, edged with a very narrow and
light blonde, slightly fulled, produces a coiffure which is extremely
becoming; a triple ribbon, which on either side, in guise of a barbe,
descends gradually upon the neck, is fastened behind the ear with a rose
without leaves. _La Mode._

                 *        *        *        *        *

J. M. LEGARE.—The sketches of Mr. Legare, “Life on the Prairies of the
Farthest West,” which appeared in the April and May numbers, of Graham,
were written for us some two years since, and are no evidence of the
maturity of style, since acquired by this elegant writer—ably as they
were written. We hope soon, to lay before our readers a series of
articles from his pen, which place Mr. Legare in the front rank of the
contributors to Graham. South Carolina, with three able writers, Legare,
Simms, and Godman, is ably represented in “Graham.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

T. A. GODMAN.—Our readers will gladly welcome back to our pages the
accomplished editor of the Laurensville (S. C.) Herald, whose admirable
sea story of “The Slaver,” was so warmly received by them two years
since. An article from his pen will appear in the next number, entitled
“For’ard and Aft.” It is written with great power, and must add to the
high reputation of its author. If the Herald is not one of the most
popular newspapers of South Carolina, it will not be the fault of Mr.
Godman. He brings to his task a mind thoroughly educated, a nervous
style, and a fine imagination, and writes with the power of genius
unmistakable. We shall be glad to hear from him frequently.

                 *        *        *        *        *

COOL IMPUDENCE.—The 309th number of “The Living Age,” contains an
article from “Howitt’s Journal,” entitled “Three Pictures,
Sunrise—Noonday—Night.” In the last December number of Graham’s
Magazine our readers will find the original. The writer of the article
says:

    “Mrs. Howitt, or whoever attends to that journal, has not done
    quite the proper thing—having left out many of the paragraphs
    in my piece, and married together sentences which were not
    intended for matrimony, and moreover, and what is quite too bad,
    she, or he, or _it_, has taken a liberty quite unpardonable, in
    leaving out of the piece the place where the scene, if it may be
    so called, is laid, Broadway, New York, etc., obviously
    intending that it shall not appear the work of an American. In a
    matter so light as this, of course one can but laugh—if it were
    a production of more moment, one might still laugh, but would
    still have to remember how outrageously Mrs. H. came down on the
    American who ventured to translate and publish one of Miss
    Bremer’s works.”

It is not necessary to comment on this piece of British impudence.

                 *        *        *        *        *

THE GOLD FISH.—A new artist, Henry A. Stevens, Esq., furnishes “Graham”
this month with a spice of his quality, in “The Gold Fish”—the first of
a series of drawings illustrative of Natural History, very pointedly
discussed. The sketches in pen and ink, from writers of fine satirical
powers, which will hereafter accompany these drawings, will undoubtedly
prove quite attractive thus illustrated.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Messrs. Lindsay & Blackiston, have in press, and will publish during the
summer, “The Broken Bracelet and Other Poems,” by Mrs. Esling, formerly
Miss Waterman, who is well known to many of our old subscribers, by the
beautiful poems she formerly contributed to the Casket, and afterward to
Graham’s Magazine.

                 *        *        *        *        *

We have received from Messrs. Long & Brother, just as we are going to
press, a romance by W. Harrison Ainsworth, entitled “Windsor Castle,”
which we shall refer to again.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                      THE MELODIES OF MANY LANDS.


                               WRITTEN BY

                           CHARLES JEFFERIES,

                              COMPOSED BY

                           CHARLES W. GLOVER.

             Presented by Lee & Walker, 120 Walnut Street.

[Illustration: musical score]

    The melodies of many lands
    Ere-while have charm’d my ear,
    Yet

[Illustration: musical score continued]

    there’s but one among them all
    Which still my heart holds dear;
      I heard it first from lips I loved,
    My tears it then beguiled,
      It was the song my mother sang,
    When I was but a child.
      It was the song my mother sang,
    When I was but a child.

    Its words, I will remember now,
      Were fraught with precepts old;
    And every line a maxim held
      Of far more worth than gold;
    A lesson ’twas, though simply taught,
      That cannot pass away;
    It is my guiding star by night,
      My comfort in the day.

    It told me in the hour of need,
      To seek a solace there,
    Where only stricken hearts could find,
      Meet answer to their prayer;
    Ah much I owe that gentle voice,
      Whose words my tears beguiled;
    That song of songs my mother sang,
      When I was but a child.

                 *        *        *        *        *

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 353, first filled by Boccacio. ==> first filled by Boccaccio.
page 354, “Lesciate ogni speranza ==> “Lasciate ogni speranza
page 354, speranza voi ch’ intrate.” ==> speranza voi ch’ entrate.”
page 371, as the Rock of Gibralter ==> as the Rock of Gibraltar
page 378, against the mantle-piece, ==> against the mantel-piece,
page 382, “Ada’s pompous apostacy ==> “Ada’s pompous apostasy
page 390, Cowper; but Shelly, Keats, ==> Cowper; but Shelley, Keats,
page 391, an unwordly degree of purity ==> an unworldly degree of purity
page 393, how warily must it ==> how wearily must it
page 397, the accomodation of invalids. ==> the accommodation of invalids.
page 399, hand accidently touched ==> hand accidentally touched
page 404, Paganinni or Ole Bull had ==> Paganini or Ole Bull had
page 412, chef d’ouvre, and its ==> chef d’oeuvre, and its
page 417, than to guage ale. ==> than to gauge ale.
page 417, going; to guage ale, and ==> going; to gauge ale, and
page 417, weary of guaging ale ==> weary of gauging ale
page 417, Drama. By Henrick Hertz. ==> Drama. By Henrik Hertz.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 6, June 1850" ***

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