Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 5, May 1842
Author: Various
Language: English
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NO. 5, MAY 1842 ***

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
                   Vol. XX.     May, 1842     No. 5.


                                Contents

                   Fiction, Literature and Articles

          The Bride
          Centre Harbor, N. H.
          The Mask of the Red Death
          Procrastination
          The Chevalier Gluck
          The Late Sir David Wilkie
          Edith Pemberton
          Thoughts on Music
          Harry Cavendish
          Recollections of West Point
          Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music and Fashion

          Spring’s Advent
          Perditi
          Venus and the Modern Belle
          My Bark Is Out upon the Sea
          To Amie—Unknown
          To an Antique Vase
          The Old World
          Euroclydon
          Mystery
          L’Envoy to E——
          The Orphan Ballad Singers
          Latest Fashions for May

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

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
Drawn by John Hayter, Rawdon, Wright, Hatch & Smillie
_The Bride_
_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]



                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

             Vol. XX.    PHILADELPHIA: MAY, 1842.    No. 5.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                               THE BRIDE.


     _Ros._ Ah, sir, a body would think she was well counterfeited.


“The earl is out, sir—and so is Lord William;” said the obsequious
lacquey, as I was ushered into Fairlie Hall, “will you amuse yourself in
the library until dinner, or take a stroll in the park? You will
probably meet with some of the family about the grounds.”

Such was the salutation that greeted me on alighting at the princely
mansion of the earl of Fairlie, whither I had come at the invitation of
his only son—one of my inseparable friends at Oxford. The visit had
been promised for more than two years; and I was actuated to it, not
only by the desire of spending the vacation with my friend, but by a
lurking wish to behold the Lady Katharine, his only sister, whose beauty
I had heard extolled by a hundred lips. So I had given up a contemplated
run to the continent and come down to Fairlie Hall.

After changing my dress and gazing from the windows of my chamber, I
began to feel ennuied and descending the ample staircase I determined on
a stroll into the magnificent park, which surrounded the hall for some
miles on every hand. My walk led me by a wild woodland path into one of
the most romantic recesses of the forest. Naturally of a dreamy cast of
mind, I walked on in a sort of reverie, until I was suddenly recalled to
my more sober senses by coming in front of a little summer house,
perched airily on a rock, and overlooking a mimic waterfall. Feeling
somewhat fatigued with my day’s travel, I walked in and sat down. There
was little furniture in the room, but on a table in the centre, lay a
copy of Spencer, as if some one had lately been there. Picking up my
favorite poet I began reading, but whether the interminable allegory
exercised a drowsy influence over me, or whether it was the sharp
morning air in which I had been riding that affected me, I cannot say,
but in a few minutes I fell into a light doze, such a one as while it
gives a dreamy character to our thoughts, or lulls them altogether into
repose, never assumes wholly the character of sleep, and is dissipated
by the slightest noise. Mine was soon broken, by a quick light step on
the greensward without, and a musical female voice singing a gay ditty.
Starting up I beheld an apparition standing in the door of the summer
house, whose exceeding loveliness I was doubtful, for a moment, whether
to refer to earth or heaven.

This apparition bore the form of a young lady apparently about eighteen,
of a tall shapely figure, attired in a light summer dress—the sleeves
of which, being looped up at the shoulders, revealed a pair of
exquisitely rounded arms which might have vied with those of the fabled
Euphrosyne. Her dress came low down towards the bust, displaying the
full charms of her unrivalled shoulders and all the graceful swelling of
her snowy and swan-like neck. Her face was of the true oval shape, and
on either side of it flowed down her luxuriant auburn ringlets. The
features, without being regular, formed a combination of surpassing
beauty. The delicately arched eye-brows; the finely chiselled nose; the
small round chin; the rich lips whose luxuriance rivalled that of the
full blown rose; and the smooth pearly cheek, through which the vermeil
blood might be seen wandering in ten thousand tiny veins—so transparent
was the hue of the skin—united to form a countenance which would have
been beautiful, even without the constantly changing expression which
gave animation to each feature. The appearance of this wondrously lovely
being, just as I awoke from the half dreamy sleep I have described, in
which the visions of the poet and the sound of the waterfall had
contributed to fill my mind with fantastic images, made me doubt, for a
moment, whether the heavenly Una herself or one of her attendant nymphs
had not emerged on my dreaming vision. But the changing expressing of
her features soon convinced me that she was no airy visitant. At first a
look of surprise darted over her fine countenance, and she retreated a
step backwards, while the blood mantled her cheek, brow, and bosom, and
even tinged the ends of her delicate fingers. In an instant, however,
she regained her composure. No so myself. I had been equally startled,
but was longer in recovering my ease. A silence of a minute thus
occurred, during which we stood awkwardly regarding each other, but at
length the ludicrousness of the scene striking the fancy of the fair
apparition, she burst into a merry laugh, in which, despite my wounded
vanity, I was forced to follow her. She had now fully recovered from her
momentary embarrassment and advancing said,

“Mr. Stanhope I presume, for we have been expecting you for some days.”
I bowed. “I see I must introduce myself. The Lady Katharine, daughter of
the Earl of Fairlie.”

This then was the Lady Katharine of whom I had heard so much! There was
something in the gaiety and originality of the address that pleased me,
while at the same time it increased my embarrassment. I bowed again and
was about to reply, but in bowing I inadvertently made a step backwards,
and trod on a pet greyhound, which accompanied this wilful creature. The
animal with a cry sought shelter by its mistress’ side, who, by this
time, had sunk into one of the seats.

“Poor Lama,” she said petting him, “you must be careful how you get in
the way of a bashful gallant again,” and then, turning to me, she said
in a tone of gay raillery. “Ah, Mr. Stanhope, you Oxford gentlemen,
knowing as you are in history, Greek, and Latin, are all alike awkward
at a bow—at least William is so, and his particular friend of whom I
have heard so much, and of whom I really hoped otherwise, is no better.”

There was much in this galling to my vanity, but it carried with it some
alleviation. I had then been the subject of conversation with this fair
being, and she had thought favorably of me. This idea did much to
restore me to the use of my tongue, which otherwise would have been gone
forever, under the merciless raillery of the Lady Katharine. Besides I
saw that I was losing ground with my fair companion, and that it was
necessary to call some assurance to my aid. I rallied therefore and
replied:

“Let me not be condemned without trial. Lady Katharine may yet soften
her sentence—or at least in the court of fashion over which she is
queen, I may have a chance of improvement.”

There was a tone of easy badinage in this, so different from what she
had been led to expect from my former embarrassment, that the lady
looked up in unaffected surprise.

“Very well, I declare—you improve on acquaintance. Why you have almost
earned for yourself the favor of being my knight homewards—quite
indeed, only that you have lamed my poor Lama. So I must even leave you
to Spencer, which I see you have been reading, and depart. We will meet
at dinner and I will see by that time if you have improved in your
bows.”

“Not so, fair lady,” said I, “Spencer would never forgive me, and I
would indeed be unworthy to be called true knight, if I permitted damsel
to brave the perils of this enchanted forest alone.” And I started
forward to accompany her.

She looked at me a minute dubiously, as if puzzled what to make of my
character, as she said:

“I pardon you, for this once, and allow you to accompany me. We shall,”
she continued, looking at her watch, “have scarcely time to reach the
hall before the dinner bell will sound.” And with the words, off she
tripped, with a bound as free as that of her agile greyhound. I
followed, determined not to be outdone, but to maintain the gay rattling
tone I had assumed, as the only one fitted to cope with this wilful
creature. I had so far succeeded that when we parted at the hall to
dress for dinner, I really believe she would have been puzzled to say
what part of my conversation had been serious or what not. She must have
been completely in the dark as to my real sentiments on any one of the
many subjects we had discussed. Indeed she admitted as much to me at
dinner, where I managed to secure a place beside her.

“You are a perfect puzzle—do you know it, Mr. Stanhope? At least I have
not yet decided what to think of you. At first I set you down for the
most bashful young man I had ever seen, and now you seem as if nothing
could intimidate you. Why, when pa was introduced to you, you talked
politics with him as if you had known him for years, and three minutes
after you were discussing the fashions with little Miss Mowbray, as if
you had been a man-milliner all your life. I scarcely know whether to
think you a cameleon, or attribute your wit to the champaigne.”

“Neither, Lady Katharine, while a better reason may be found nearer
home.”

“Ah! that wasn’t so badly said, although a little too plain. We ladies
like flattery well enough, but then it must be disguised.”

“And it would be almost impossible to flatter you!—is that it?”

“You puzzle me to tell, I declare, whether that is a compliment or
otherwise—but see, pa is waiting to drink champaigne with you.”

In such gay conversation passed the dinner and evening; and when I
retired for the night it was with the consciousness that I was in a fair
way to fall in love with the Lady Katharine. I lay awake for some two
hours, thinking of all I had said and of her replies; and I came to the
conclusion that she was, beyond measure not only the loveliest but the
most fascinating of her sex.

I had been among the first of the numerous guests to arrive; but the
remainder followed so close after me that in a few days the whole
company had assembled. It was an unusually gay party. The morning was
generally spent by the gentlemen in shooting among the preserves,
leaving the ladies to their indoor recreations or a ride around the
park. On these rides the gentlemen sometimes accompanied them. Lady
Katharine was always the star of the party; it was around her our sex
gathered. But, fascinating as I felt her to be I was, of all the beaux,
the most seldom found at her bridle-rein; and perhaps this comparatively
distant air was the most effectual means I could have taken to forward
my suit. At least I fancied more than once that I piqued the Lady
Katharine.

We still kept up the tone of badinage with which our acquaintance had
commenced. There was a playful wit about the Lady Katharine which was
irresistible; and I flattered myself that she was pleased with my
conversation, perhaps because it was different from that of her suitors
in general. But whether her liking for me extended further than to my
qualities as a drawing-room companion I was unable to tell. If I strove
to hide my love from her, she was equally successful in concealing her
feelings whatever they might be. Yet she gave me the credit of being a
keen observer.

“You take more notice of little things than any one of your sex I ever
saw,” she said to me one evening. “The ladies have a way of reading
one’s sentiments by trifles, which your sex generally deem beneath its
notice. But you! one would almost fear your finding out all one thinks.”

“Oh! not at all,” said I. “At any rate, if your sex are such keen
observers they are also apt at concealment. What lady that has not
striven to hide from her lover that she returned his passion, at least
until he has proposed, and that even though aware how wholly he adores
her? We all alike play a part.”

“Shame, shame, Mr. Stanhope! Would you have us surrender our only
protection, by betraying our sentiments too soon? And then to say that
we all play a part, as if hypocrisy—in little things, it is true, but
still _hypocrisy_—was an every-day affair. You make me ashamed of human
nature. You really cannot believe what you say!”

This was spoken with a warmth that convinced me the words were from the
heart. I felt that however flippant the Lady Katharine might be to the
vain and empty suitors that usually thronged around her, she had a
heart—a warm, true, woman’s heart—a heart that beat with noble
emotions and was susceptible to all the finer feelings of love. I would
have replied, but at this instant the Duke of Chovers approached and
requested the honor of waltzing with her.

The Duke of Chovers was a young man of about five and twenty. The
calibre of his mind was that of fashionable men in general; but then he
enjoyed a splendid fortune and wore the ducal coronet. He was
confessedly the best match of the season. The charms of the Lady
Katharine had been the first to divert his mind from his dress and
horses. It was whispered that a union was already arranged betwixt him
and my fair companion. As if to confirm this rumor, he always took his
place by her bridle-rein. The worldly advantages of such a connexion
were unanswerable; and I had been tortured by uneasy fears ever since I
heard the rumor. Now was a fair opportunity to learn the truth. I had
heard the Lady Katharine jestingly say a few days before, in describing
a late ball, that she refused to waltz with Lord —— because she
thought him unmarried, and that when she discovered her mistake she was
piqued at herself for losing the handsomest partner in the room. The
remark was made jestingly and casually, and was by this time forgotten
by her. But I still remembered it. Yet I know that if she was betrothed
to him she would accept his offer. How my heart thrilled, therefore,
when I heard her decline it! His grace walked away unable to conceal his
mortification.

“You should not be so hard-hearted,” said I, “although the duke ought
have known that you waltz with none of the proscribed race of
bachelors.”

She looked at me in unaffected surprise.

“How did you discover that?” she said. “We have had no waltzing since
you came,” and then, reflecting that these hasty words had confirmed my
bold assertion, she blushed to the very brow and looked for a moment
confused.

Our conversation was interrupted by her brother and one or two new
acquaintances who had driven home with him. I soon sauntered away. My
deductions respecting her and the duke were shaken, I confess, before
the evening was over, by seeing them sitting _tête-à-tête_, by one of
the casements, while the guests avoided them, as if by that tacit
agreement under which lovers are left to themselves.

The attentions of his grace became daily more marked, and there was an
evident embarrassment of manner in the Lady Katharine under them. A
month slipped away meanwhile, and the time when the company was to break
up drew near.

We were out on a ride one morning, and the duke, as usual, had
established himself at her bridle-rein, when, in cantering along the
brow of a somewhat precipitous hill, overlooking the country for miles
around, the horse of the Lady Katharine took fright, from some cause,
and dashed towards the edge of a precipice that sank sheer down for
nearly a hundred feet. The precipice was several hundred yards to the
right, but the pace at which the frighted steed went, threatened soon to
bring him up with it, while the efforts of the rider to alter his course
appeared to be unavailing. Our party was paralyzed, and his grace
particularly so. I alone retained my presence of mind. Driving my spurs
deep into the flanks of my steed, I plunged forward at full gallop, amid
the shrieks of the females and the warnings of the gentlemen of the
party. But I knew I could trust my gallant hunter. The Lady Katharine
heard my horse’s hoofs, and turned around. Never shall I forget her
pleading look. I dashed my rowels again into Arab, for only a few paces
yet remained betwixt the Lady Katharine’s frightened animal and the edge
of the precipice. One more leap and all would have been over; but
luckily at that instant I came head and head with her furious steed, and
catching him by the bridle, I swung him around with a superhuman
strength. But I was only partially successful. The animal plunged and
snorted, and nearly jerked me from the saddle.

“For God’s sake dismount, my dear Lady Katharine, as well as you can, or
all is over.”

The daring girl hesitated no more, but seizing a favorable instant when
the animal, though trembling all over, stood nearly still, she leaped to
the earth. The next instant her steed plunged more wildly than ever, and
seeing that she was safe I let go the bridle. He snorted, dashed forward
and went headlong over the precipice. In an instant I had dismounted and
was by the Lady Katharine’s side. I was just in time to catch her in my
arms as she fainted away. Before she recovered, the landau, with the
rest of the party, came up. I saw her in the hands of her mother, and
then giving reins to Arab, under pretence of sending medical aid, but in
reality to escape the gratulations of the company, I dashed off.

When I entered the drawing-room before dinner, there was no one in the
apartment but the Lady Katharine. She looked pale, but on recognizing
me, a deep blush suffused her cheek and brow, while her eye lit up for
the instant, with an expression of dewy tenderness that made every vein
in my body thrill. But these traces of emotion passed as rapidly as they
came, leaving her manner as it usually was, only that there was an
unnatural restraint about it, as if her feelings of gratitude were
struggling with others of a different character. She rose, however, and
extended her hand. There was nothing of its usual light tone in her
voice, but an expression of deep seriousness, perhaps emotion, as she
said,

“How shall I ever thank you sufficiently, Mr. Stanhope, for saving my
life?” and that same dewy tenderness again shone from her eyes.

“By never alluding, my dear Lady Katharine, to this day’s occurrence. I
have only done what every other gentleman would have done.”

She sighed. Was she thinking of the tardiness of the duke? I thought so,
and sighed too. She looked up suddenly, with her large full eyes fixed
on me, as if she would read my very soul; while a deep roseate blush
suffused her face and crimsoned even her shoulders and bosom. There was
something in that look that changed the whole current of my convictions,
and bid me hope. In the impulse of the moment, I took her hand. Again
that conscious blush rushed over her cheek and bosom; but this time her
eyes sought the ground. My brain reeled. At length I found words, and,
in burning language poured forth my hopes and fears, and told the tale
of my love. I ceased; her bosom heaved wildly, but she did not answer. I
still knelt at her feet. At length she said,

“Rise.”

There was something in the tone, rather than in the word, which assured
me I was beloved. If I needed further confirmation of this it was given
in the look of confiding tenderness with which she gazed an instant on
me, and then averted her eyes tremblingly. I stole my arm around her,
and drew her gently toward me. In a moment she looked up again half
reproachfully, and gently disengaged herself from my embrace.

“We have been playing a part, dear Lady Katharine!” said I, still
retaining her hand.

A gay smile, for the instant, shot over her face, but was lost as
quickly in the tenderness which was now its prevailing expression, as
she said,

“I’m afraid we have! But now, Henry, _dear_ Henry, let me steal away,
for one moment, before they descend to dinner.”

I restrained her only to press my first kiss on her odorous lips, and
then she darted from the room, leaving me in a tumult of feelings I
cannot attempt to describe.

The duke had never been the Lady Katharine’s choice, and she had only
waited for him to propose in form to herself personally, to give him a
decided refusal. Although I was but the heir of a commoner—of a wealthy
and ancient family it is true; and he was the possessor of a dukedom,
she had loved me, as I had loved her, from the first moment we had met.
The duke had been backed by her parents, but when we both waited on
them, and told them that our happiness depended on their consent, they
sacrificed rank to the peace of their daughter, and gave it without
reluctance. Before winter came the Lady Katharine was my Bride.

                                                              J. H. D.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:
W. H. Bartlett., A. J. Dick.
CENTRE HARBOUR.
(Lake Winnipisseogee)
_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_]

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          CENTRE HARBOR, N. H.


This town is situated on one of the three bays jutting out at the
north-western extremity of Lake Winnipiseogee—a sheet of water situated
near the centre of New Hampshire, and celebrated for its picturesque
beauty. The lake is diversified with innumerable islands and
promontories. It is seen, perhaps, to the best advantage from Red Hill,
whence a magic landscape of hill, island and water stretches far away
beneath the beholder’s feet. The name of Winnipiseogee signifies in the
Indian language “the beautiful lake.”

The view from Centre Harbor has always won the admiration of tourists,
there being a quiet beauty about it which few can resist. The best view
is from the highlands back of the town. The place itself is small, and
lies immediately beneath the gazer’s feet; but the lake, diversified
with its green islands, and shut in by its rolling hills, instantly
arrests the eye. In the quiet of a summer noon, or under a clear moonlit
sky, there is a depth of repose brooding over the scene which seems akin
to magic.

The lake is, in some places, unfathomable, but abounds with fish. At
present it boasts little navigation, for the comparatively thinly
scattered population on its borders has not yet ruffled its quiet waters
with the keels of commerce. It is yet protected from the ravages of
utilitarianism; and the lover of the picturesque will pray that it may
long continue so.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       THE MASK OF THE RED DEATH.


                               A FANTASY.


                            BY EDGAR A. POE.


The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had been
ever so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avator and its seal—the
redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden
dizziness, and then profuse bleedings at the pores, with dissolution.
The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the
victim, were the pest-ban which shut him out from the aid and from the
sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and
termination of the disease were the incidents of half an hour.

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless, and sagacious. When his
dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand
hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his
court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his
castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the
creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and
lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers,
having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.
They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden
impulses of despair from without or of frenzy from within. The abbey was
amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid
defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In
the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had
provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were
improvisatori, there were ballêt-dancers, there were musicians, there
were cards, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security
were within. Without was the “Red Death.”

It was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion,
and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince
Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most
unusual magnificence. It was a voluptuous scene that masquerade.

But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were
seven—an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a
long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to
the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is
scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been
expected from the duke’s love of the _bizarre_. The apartments were so
irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one
at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and
at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of
each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed
corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of
stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue
of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the
eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue—and vividly blue were
its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and
tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green
throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and
litten with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The
seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that
hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds
upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But, in this chamber only,
the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The
panes here were scarlet—a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven
apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of
golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the
roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle
within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the
suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a
brasier of fire that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so
glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of
gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the
effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through
the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild
a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few
of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western
wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a
dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when its minute-hand made the circuit
of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came forth from the
brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and
exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at
each lapse of an hour, the musicians in the orchestra were constrained
to pause, momently, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and
thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a
brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the
clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and that
the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in
confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a
light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at
each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made
whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock
should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of
sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of
the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and
then there were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as
before.

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The
tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and
effects. He disregarded the _decora_ of mere fashion. His plans were
bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There
are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was
not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be _sure_ that he
was not.

He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven
chambers, upon occasion of this great _fête_, and it was his own guiding
taste which had given character to the costumes of the masqueraders. Be
sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy
and phantasm—much of what has been since seen in “Hernani.” There were
arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were
delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the
beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the _bizarre_, something of the
terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To
and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of
dreams. And these, the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the
rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo
of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in
the hall of the velvet. And then, momently, all is still, and all is
silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they
stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured but an
instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they
depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe
to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted
windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the
chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven there are now none of
the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a
ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the
sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet,
there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly
emphatic than any which reaches _their_ ears who indulge in the more
remote gaieties of the other apartments.

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat
feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at
length was sounded the twelfth hour upon the clock. And then the music
ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted;
and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there
were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it
happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into
the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus,
again, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last
chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the
crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked
figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before.
And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly
around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur,
expressive at first of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of
terror, of horror, and of disgust.

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be
supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation.
In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but
the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds
of even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts
of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with
the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there _are_
matters of which no jest can be properly made. The whole company,
indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the
stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and
gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave.
The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the
countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have
had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been
endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer
had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was
dabbled in _blood_—and his broad brow, with all the features of the
face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

When the eyes of the Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image
(which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its
_rôle_, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be
convulsed, in the first moment, with a strong shudder either of terror
or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.

“Who dares?” he demanded hoarsely of the group that stood around him,
“who dares thus to make mockery of our woes? Uncase the varlet that we
may know whom we have to hang to-morrow at sunrise from the battlements.
Will no one stir at my bidding?—stop him and strip him, I say, of those
reddened vestures of sacrilege!”

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero
as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly
and clearly—for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had
become hushed at the waving of his hand.

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale
courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing
movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the
moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step,
made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe
with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole
party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that,
unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while
the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of
the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the
same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the
first, through the blue chamber to the purple—through the purple to the
green—through the green to the orange,—through this again to the
white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been
made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero,
maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed
hurriedly through the six chambers—while none followed him on account
of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn
dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or
four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the
extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly round and confronted
his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon
the sable carpet, upon which instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in
death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair,
a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black
apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and
motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable
horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they
handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like
a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the
blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing
posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that
of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And
Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            SPRING’S ADVENT.


                           BY PARK BENJAMIN.


    From Winter into Spring the Year has passed
    As calm and noiseless as the snow and dew—
    The pearls and diamonds which adorn his robes—
    Melt in the morning, when the solar beam
    Touches the foliage like a glittering wand.
    Blue is the sky above, the wave below;
    Slow through the ether glide transparent clouds
    Just wafted by the breeze, as on the sea
    White sails are borne in graceful ease along.
    Lifting its green spears through the hardened ground
    The grass is seen; though yet no verdant shields,
    United over head in one bright roof,—
    Like that which rose above the serried ranks
    Of Roman legions in the battle plain—
    Defend it from assailing sun and shower.
    In guarded spots alone young buds expand,
    Nor yet on slopes along the Southward sides
    Of gentle mountains have the flowers unveiled
    Their maiden blushes to the eyes of Day.
    It is the season when Fruition fails
    To smile on Hope, who, lover-like, attends
    Long-promised joys and distant, dear delights.
    It is the season when the heart awakes
    As from deep slumber, and, alive to all
    The soft, sweet feelings that from lovely forms
    Like odors float, receives them to itself
    And fondly garners with a miser’s care,
    Lest in the busy intercourse of life,
    They, like untended roses, should retain
    No fragrant freshness and no dewy bloom.

    To me the coming of the Spring is dear
    As to the sailor the first wind from land
    When, after some long voyage, he descries
    The far, faint outline of his native coast.
    Rocked by the wave, when grandly rose the gale,
    He thought how peaceful was the calm on shore.
    Rocked by the wave, when died the gale away,
    He dreamed of quiet he should find at home.
    So, when I heard the Wintry storm abroad,
    So, when upon my window beat the rain,
    Or when I felt the piercing, arrowy frost,
    Or, looking forth, beheld the frequent snow,
    Falling as mutely as the steps of Time,
    I longed for thy glad advent, and resigned
    My spirit to the gloom that Nature wore,
    In contemplation of the laughing hours
    That follow in thy train, delicious Spring!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            PROCRASTINATION.


                         BY MRS. M. H. PARSONS.


“To-morrow, I will do it to-morrow,” was the curse of Lucy Clifton’s
life. When a child, she always had it in view to make such charming
little dresses—to-morrow. When girlhood came her lessons were never
perfect,—“only excuse me this once mamma, and I will never put off my
lessons again!” The pleader was lovely, and engaging, mamma was weakly
indulgent; Lucy was forgiven and the fault grew apace, until she rarely
did any thing to-day, that could be put off till to-morrow. She was a
wife, and the mother of two children, at the period our story commences.

With a cultivated mind, most engaging manners, and great beauty of form,
and features, Lucy had already lost all influence over the mind of her
husband, and was fast losing her hold on his affections. She had been
married when quite young, as so many American girls unfortunately are,
and with a character scarcely formed, had been thrown into situations of
emergency and trial she was very unprepared to encounter. Her husband
was a physician, had been but a year or two in practice, at the time of
their marriage. William Clifton was a young man of fine abilities, and
most excellent character; of quick temper, and impatient, he was ever
generous, and ready to acknowledge his fault. When he married Lucy, he
thought her as near perfection as it was possible for a woman to be;
proportionate was his disappointment, at finding the evil habit of
procrastination, almost inherent in her nature from long indulgence,
threatening to overturn the whole fabric of domestic happiness his fancy
had delighted to rear. There was no order in his household, no comfort
by his fireside; and oftimes when irritated to bitter anger, words
escaped the husband, that fell crushingly on the warm, affectionate
heart of the wife. The evil habit of procrastination had “grown with her
growth” no parental hand, kind in its severity, had lopped off the
excrescence, that now threatened to destroy her peace, that shadowed by
its evil consequences her otherwise fair and beautiful character. In
Lucy’s sphere of life there was necessity for much self-exertion, and
active superintendance over the affairs of her household. They lived
retired; economy and good management were essential to render the
limited income Doctor Clifton derived from his practice fully adequate
to their support—that income was steadily on the increase, and his
friends deemed the day not far distant, when he would rise to eminence
in his profession. Lucy’s father, a man of considerable wealth, but
large family, had purchased a house, furnished it, and presented it to
Lucy; she was quite willing to limit her visiting circle to a few
friends, as best suited with their present means. Surely William Clifton
was not unreasonable, when he looked forward to a life of domestic
happiness, with his young and tenderly nurtured bride. He could not know
that her many bright excelling virtues of character would be dimmed, by
the growth of the _one fault_, until a shadow lay on the pathway of his
daily life. If _mothers_ could lift the dim curtain of the future, and
read the destiny of their children, they would see neglected faults,
piercing like sharp adders the bosoms that bore them, and reproach
mingling with the agony, that she, who had moulded their young minds,
had not done her work aright!

It was four years after their marriage, Doctor Clifton entered the
nursery hurriedly.

“Lucy my dear, will you have my things in order by twelve o’clock? I
must leave home for two days, perhaps longer, if I find the patient I am
called to see very ill.”

“Yes, yes! I will see to them. What shall I do with the child, William,
he is so very fretful? How I wish I had given him the medicine
yesterday; he is very troublesome!”

“If you think he needs it, give it to him at once;” said her husband
abruptly, “and don’t I beg Lucy forget my clothes.” He left the room,
and Lucy tried to hush baby to sleep, but baby would not go, then the
nurse girl who assisted her could not keep him quiet, and the mother, as
she had often been before, became bewildered, and at a loss what to do
first.

“If you please ma’am what am I to get for dinner?” said the cook, the
only servant they kept in the kitchen, putting her head in at the door,
and looking round with a half smile, on the littered room, and squalling
baby.

“Directly, I shall be down directly Betty, I must first get baby to
sleep.”

“Very well ma’am,” was the reply, and going down an hour afterwards,
Mrs. Clifton found Betty with her feet stretched out and her arms folded
one over the other, comfortably seated before an open window, intent in
watching, and enjoying the movements of every passer-by.

“Betty, Betty!” said her mistress angrily, “have you nothing to do, that
you sit so idly here?”

“I waited for orders, ma’am.” Dinner was an hour back, Lucy assisted for
a short time herself, and then went up stairs to arrange Clifton’s
clothes. Baby was screaming terribly, and Lucy half terrified did
_yesterday’s_ work, by giving him a dose of medicine. So the morning
sped on. Clifton came in at the appointed time.

“Are my clothes in readiness, Lucy?”

She colored with vexation, and shame. “The baby has been very cross; I
have not indeed had time. But I will go now.” Clifton went down to his
solitary dinner, and when he returned found Lucy busy with her needle;
it was evident even to his unskilled eye there was much to be done.

“It is impossible to wait. Give me the things as they are; I am so
accustomed to wearing my shirts without buttons, and my stockings with
holes in, that I shall find it nothing new—nor more annoying than I
daily endure.” He threw the things carelessly into his carpet-bag, and
left the room, nor did he say one kindly word in farewell, or affection.
It was this giving away to violent anger, and using harsh language to
his wife that had broken her spirit, almost her heart. She never even
thought of reforming herself; she grieved bitterly, but hopelessly.
Surely it is better when man and wife are joined together by the tie
that “no man may put asunder,” to strive seriously, and in affection to
correct one another’s faults? There is scarcely any defect of character,
that a husband, by taking the right method may not cure; always
providing his wife is not unprincipled. But he must be very patient;
bear for a season; add to judicious counsel much tenderness and
affection; making it clear to her mind that love for herself and
solicitude for their mutual happiness are the objects in view. Hard in
heart, and with little of woman’s devotion unto him to whom her faith is
plighted, must the wife be who could long resist. Not such an one was
Lucy Clifton; but her husband in the stormy revulsion of feeling that
had attended the first breaking up of his domestic happiness, had done
injustice to her mind, to the sweetness of disposition that had borne
all his anger without retorting in like manner. If Clifton was conscious
of his own quickness of temper, approaching to violence, he did not for
one moment suppose, that _he_ was the cause of any portion of the misery
brooding over his daily path. He attributed it all to the
procrastinating spirit of Lucy, and upon her head he laid the blame with
no unsparing hand. He forgot that she had numbered twenty years, and was
the mother of two children; that her situation was one of exertion, and
toil under the most favorable circumstances; that he was much her
senior, had promised to cherish her tenderly. Yet the first harsh word
that dwelt on Lucy’s heart was from the lips of her husband! How
tenderly in years long gone had she been nurtured! The kind arm of a
father had guided and guarded her; the tender voice of a mother had
lighted on her path like sunshine—and now? Oh ye, who would crush the
spirit of the young and gentle, instead of leading it tenderly by a
straight path in the way of wisdom—go down into the breaking heart and
learn its agony; its desolation, when the fine feelings of a wasted
nature go in upon the brain and consume it!

One morning Clifton entered the nursery, “Lucy,” he said; “my old
classmate, and very dear friend Walter Eustace is in town. He came
unexpectedly; his stay is short; I should like to ask him to spend the
day with me. Could you manage, love, to have the time pass _comfortably_
to my friend?” Lucy felt all the meaning conveyed in the emphasis on a
word that from his lips sounded almost formidable in her ears.

“I will do what I can,” she answered sadly.

“Do not scruple Lucy to get assistance. Have every thing ready _in
time_, and do not fail in having order, and good arrangement. There was
a time Lucy, when Eustace heard much of you; I should be gratified to
think he found the wife worthy of the praise the lover lavished so
freely upon her. Sing for us to-night—it is long since the piano was
opened!—and look, and smile as you once did, in the days that are gone,
but not forgotten Lucy.” His voice softened unconsciously, he had gone
back to that early time, when love of Lucy absorbed every feeling of his
heart. He sighed; the stern, and bitter realities of his life came with
their heavy weight upon him, and there was no balm in the future, for
the endurance of present evils.

He turned and left the room; Lucy’s eye followed him, and as the door
closed she murmured—“_not_ forgotten! Oh, Clifton how little reason I
have to believe you!” Lucy was absorbed in her own thoughts so long as
to be unconscious of the flight of time. When she roused, she thought
she would go down stairs and see what was to be done, but her little boy
asked her some question, which she stopped to answer; half an hour more
elapsed before she got to the kitchen. She told Betty she meant to hire
a cook for the morrow—thought she had better go at once and engage
one—yet, no, on second thoughts, she might come with her to the parlors
and assist in arranging them; it would be quite time enough to engage
the cook when they were completed. To the parlors they went, and Lucy
was well satisfied with the result of their labor—but mark her comment:
“What a great while we have been detained here; well, I am sure I have
meant this three weeks to clean the parlors, but never could find time.
If I could but manage to attend them every day, they would never get so
out of order.”

The next morning came, the cook not engaged yet. Betty was despatched in
haste, but was unsuccessful—all engaged for the day. So Betty must be
trusted, who sometimes did well, and at others signally failed. Lucy
spent the morning in the kitchen assisting Betty and arranging every
thing she could do, but matters above were in the mean time sadly
neglected, her children dirty, and ill dressed, the nursery in
confusion, and Lucy almost bewildered in deciding what had better be
done, and what left undone. She concluded to keep the children in the
nursery without changing their dress, and then hastened to arrange her
own, and go down stairs, as her husband and his friend had by this time
arrived. Her face was flushed, and her countenance anxious; she was
conscious that Mr. Eustace noticed it, and her uncomfortable feelings
increased. The dinner, the dinner—if it were only over! she thought a
hundred times. It came at last, and all other mortifications were as
nothing in comparison. There was not a dish really well cooked, and
every thing was served up in a slovenly manner. Lucy’s cheeks tingled
with shame. Oh, if she had only sent _in time_ for a cook. It was her
bitterest thought even then. When the dinner was over Mr. Eustace asked
for the children, expressing a strong desire to see them. Lucy colored,
and in evident confusion, evaded the request. Her husband was silent,
having a suspicion how matters stood.

Just then a great roar came from the hall, and the oldest boy burst into
the room. “Mother! mother! Hannah shut me up she did!” A word from his
father silenced him, and Lucy took her dirty, ill dressed boy by the
hand and left the room. She could not restrain her tears, but her keen
sense of right prevented her punishing the child, as she was fully
aware, had he been properly dressed, she would not have objected to his
presence, and that he was only claiming an accorded privilege. Mr.
Eustace very soon left, and as soon as the door closed on him Clifton
thought: “I never can hope to see a friend in comfort until I can afford
to keep a house-keeper. Was there ever such a curse in a man’s house as
a procrastinating spirit?” With such feelings it may be supposed he
could not meet his wife with any degree of cordiality. Lucy said, “There
was no help for it, she had done her very best.” Clifton answered her
contemptuously; wearied and exhausted with the fatigues of the day, she
made no reply, but rose up and retired to rest, glad to seek in sleep
forgetfulness of the weary life she led. Clifton had been unusually
irritated; when the morrow came, it still manifested itself in many ways
that bore hard on Lucy; she did not reply to an angry word that fell
from his lips, but she felt none the less deeply. Some misconduct in the
child induced him to reflect with bitterness on her maternal management.
She drew her hand over her eyes to keep back the tears, her lip
quivered, and her voice trembled as she uttered:

“Do not speak so harshly Clifton, if the fault is all mine, most
certainly the misery is also!”

“Of what avail is it to speak otherwise?” he said sternly, “you deserve
wretchedness, and it is only the sure result of your precious system.”

“Did you ever encourage me to reform, or point out the way?” urged Lucy,
gently.

“I married a woman for a companion, not a child to instruct her,” he
answered bitterly.

“Ay—but I was a child! happy—so happy in that olden time, with all to
love, and none to chide me. A child, even in years, when you took me for
a wife—too soon a mother, shrinking from my responsibilities, and
without courage to meet my trials. I found no sympathy to encourage
me—no forbearance that my years were few—no advice when most I needed
it—no tenderness when my heart was nearly breaking. It is the first
time, Clifton, I have reproached you; but the worm will turn if it is
trodden upon,” and Lucy left the room. It was strange, even to herself,
that she had spoken so freely, yet it seemed a sort of relief to the
anguish of her heart. That he had allowed her to depart without reply
did not surprise her; it may be doubted, although her heart pined for
it, if ever she expected tenderness from Clifton more. It was perhaps an
hour after her conversation with Clifton, Lucy sat alone in the nursery;
her baby was asleep in the cradle beside her; they were alone together,
and as she gazed on its happy face, she hoped with an humble hope, to
rear it up, that it might be enabled to _give_ and receive happiness.
There was a slight rap at the door; she opened it, and a glad cry
escaped her,—“Uncle Joshua!” she exclaimed. He took her in his arms for
a moment,—that kindly and excellent old man, while a tear dimmed his
eye as he witnessed her joy at seeing him. She drew a stool towards him,
and sat down at his feet as she had often done before in her happy,
girlish days; she was glad when his hand rested on her head, even as it
had done in another time; she felt a friend had come back to her, who
had her interest nearly at heart, who had loved her long and most
tenderly. Mr. Tremaine was the brother of Lucy’s mother—he had arrived
in town unexpectedly; indeed had come chiefly with a view of discovering
the cause of Lucy’s low-spirited letters—he feared all was not right,
and as she was the object of almost his sole earthly attachment, he
could not rest in peace while he believed her unhappy. He was fast
approaching three score years and ten; never was there a warmer heart, a
more incorruptible, or sterling nature. Eccentric in many things,
possessing some prejudices, which inclined to ridicule in himself, no
man had sounder common sense, or a more careful judgment. His hair was
white, and fell in long smooth locks over his shoulders; his eye-brows
were heavy, and shaded an eye as keen and penetrating as though years
had no power to dim its light. The high, open brow, and the quiet
tenderness that dwelt in his smile, were the crowning charms of a
countenance on which nature had stamped her seal as her “noblest work.”
He spoke to Lucy of other days, of the happy home from whence he came,
till her tears came down like “summer rain,” with the mingling of sweet
and bitter recollections. Of her children next, and her eye lighted, and
her color came bright and joyous—the warm feelings of a mother’s heart
responded to every word of praise he uttered. Of her husband—and sadly
“Uncle Joshua” noticed the change;—her voice was low and desponding,
and a look of sorrow and care came back to the youthful face: “Clifton
was succeeding in business; she was gratified and proud of his success,”
and that was all she said.

“Uncle Joshua’s” visit was of some duration. He saw things as they
really were, and the truth pained him deeply. “Lucy,” he said quietly,
as one day they were alone together—“I have much to say, and you to
hear. Can you bear the truth, my dear girl?” She was by his side in a
moment.

“Anything from you, uncle. Tell me freely all you think, and if it is
censure of poor Lucy, little doubt but that she will profit by it.”

“You are a good girl!” said “Uncle Joshua,” resting his hand on her
head, “and you will be rewarded yet.” He paused for a moment ere he
said—“Lucy, you are not a happy wife. You married with bright
prospects—who is to blame?”

“I am—but not alone,” said Lucy, in a choking voice, “not alone, there
are some faults on both sides.”

“Let us first consider yours; Clifton’s faults will not exonerate you
from the performance of your duty. For the love I bear you, Lucy, I will
speak the truth: all the misery of your wedded life proceeds from the
fatal indulgence of a procrastinating spirit. _One uncorrected fault_
has been the means of alienating your husband’s affections, and bringing
discord and misrule into the very heart of your domestic Eden. This must
not be. You have strong sense and feeling, and must conquer the defect
of character that weighs so heavily on your peace.”

Lucy burst into tears—“I fear I never can—and if I do, Clifton will
not thank me, or care.”

“Try, Lucy. You can have little knowledge of the happiness it would
bring or you would make the effort. And Clifton will care. Bring order
into his household and comfort to his fireside, and he will take you to
his heart with a tenderer love than he ever gave to the bride of his
youth.”

Lucy drew her breath gaspingly, and for a moment gazed into her uncle’s
face with something of his own enthusiasm; but it passed and despondency
came with its withering train of tortures to frighten her from exertion.

“You cannot think, dear uncle, how much I have to do; and my children
are so troublesome, that I can never systematize time.”

“Let us see first what you can do. What is your first duty in the
morning after you have dressed yourself?”

“To wash and dress my children.”

“Do you always do it? Because if you rise early you have time before
breakfast. Your children are happy and comfortable, only in your regular
management of every thing connected with them.”

“I cannot always do it,” said Lucy, blushing—“sometimes I get up as
low-spirited and weary as after the fatigues of the day. I have no heart
to go to work; Clifton is cold, and hurries off to business. After
breakfast I go through the house and to the kitchen, so that it is often
noon before I _can_ manage to dress them.”

“Now instead of all this, if you were to rise early, dress your little
ones before breakfast, arrange your work, and go regularly from one work
to the other; _never_ putting off one to finish another, you would get
through everything, and have time to walk—that each day may have its
necessary portion of exercise in the open air. That would dissipate
weariness, raise your spirits, and invigorate your frame. Lucy, will you
not make the trial for Clifton’s sake? Make his home a well-ordered one,
and he will be glad to come into it.”

And Lucy promised to think of it. But her uncle was surprised at her
apparent apathy, and not long in divining the true reason. Her heart is
not in it, he thought, and if her husband don’t rouse it, never will be.
Lucy felt she was an object of indifference, if not dislike to Clifton;
there was no end to be accomplished by self-exertion; and as there was
nothing to repay her for the wasted love of many years, she would
encourage no new hopes to find them as false as the past.

“Uncle Joshua” sat together with Dr. Clifton, in the office of the
latter.

“Has it ever struck you, Doctor, how much Lucy is altered of late?”

“I cannot say that I see any particular alteration. It is some time
since you saw her;—matrimony is not very favorable to good looks, and
may have diminished her beauty.”

“It is not of her beauty I speak. Her character is wholly changed; her
spirits depressed, and her energies gone,” and “Uncle Joshua” spoke
warmly.

“I never thought her particularly energetic,” said the Doctor, dryly.

“No one would suppose, my good sir, you had ever thought, or cared much
about her.” “Uncle Joshua” was angry; but the red spot left his cheek as
soon as it came there as he went on:—“Let us speak in kindness of this
sad business. I see Lucy was in the right in thinking you had lost all
affection for her.”

“Did Lucy say that? I should be sorry she thought so.”

“A man has cause for sorrow, when a wife fully believes his love for her
is gone. Nothing can be more disheartening—nothing hardens the heart
more fearfully, and sad indeed is the lot of that woman who bears the
evils of matrimony without the happiness that often counterbalances
them. We, who are of harder natures, have too little sympathy, perhaps
too little thought for her peculiar trials.” Gently then, as a father to
an only son, the old man related to Clifton all that had passed between
Lucy and himself. More than once he saw his eyes moisten and strong
emotion manifest itself in his manly countenance. A something of
remorseful sorrow filled his heart, and its shadow lay on his face.
“Uncle Joshua” read aright the expression, and his honest heart beat
with joy at the prospects he thought it opened before them. Always
wise-judging he said nothing further, but left him to his own
reflections. And Clifton did indeed reflect long and anxiously: he saw
indeed how much his own conduct had discouraged his wife, while it had
been a source of positive unhappiness to her. He went at length to seek
her;—she was alone in the parlor reading, or rather a book was before
her, from which her eyes often wandered, until her head sank on the arm
of the sofa, and a heavy sigh came sadly on the ear of Clifton. “Lucy,
dear Lucy, grieve no more! We have both been wrong, but I have erred the
most—having years on my side and experience. Shall we not forgive each
other, my sweet wife?” and he lifted her tenderly in his arms, and
kissed the tears as they fell on her cheek.

“I have caused you much suffering, Lucy, I greatly fear;—your faults
occasioned me only inconvenience. Dry up your tears, and let me hear
that you forgive me, Lucy.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” exclaimed Lucy. “Oh, I have been wrong,
very wrong!—but if you had only encouraged me to reform, and sustained
and aided me in my efforts to do so by your affection, so many of our
married days would not have passed in sorrow and suffering.”

“I feel they would not,” said Clifton, moved almost to tears. “Now,
Lucy, the self-exertion shall be mutual. I will never rest until I
correct the violence of temper, that has caused you so much pain. You
have but one fault, procrastination—will you strive also to overcome
it?”

“I will,” said Lucy; “but you must be very patient with me, and rather
encourage me to new exertions. I have depended too long on your looks
not to be influenced by them still—my love, Clifton, stronger than your
own, fed on the memory of our early happiness, until my heart grew sick
that it would never return. Oh! if you could love me as you did then,
could respect me as once you did, I feel I could make any exertion to
deserve it.”

“And will you not be more worthy of esteem and love than ever you were,
dear Lucy, if you succeed in reforming yourself! I believe you capable
of the effort; and if success attends it, the blessing will fall on us
both, Lucy, and on our own dear children. Of one thing be assured, that
my love will know no further change or diminution. You shall not have
cause to complain of me again, Lucy. Now smile on me, dearest, as you
once did in a time we will never forget—and tell me you will be happy
for my sake.”

Lucy smiled, and gave the assurance—her heart beat lightly in her
bosom—the color spread over her face—her eyes sparkled with the new,
glad feelings of hope and happiness, and as Clifton clasped her in his
arms, he thought her more beautiful than in that early time when he had
first won her love.

In that very hour Lucy began her work of reform; it seemed as though new
life had been infused into her hitherto drooping frame. She warbled many
a sweet note of her youth, long since forgotten, for her spirits seemed
running over from very excess of happiness. “Uncle Joshua” was consulted
in all her arrangements, and of great use he was:—he planned for her,
encouraged her, made all easy by his method and management. She had gone
to work with a strong wish to do her duty, and with a husband’s love
shining steadily on her path, a husband’s affection for all success, and
sympathy with every failure, there was little fear of her not
succeeding. ’Tis true, the habit had been long in forming, but every
link she broke in the chain that bound her, brought a new comfort to
that happy household hearth. Clifton had insisted on hiring a woman to
take charge of the children—this was a great relief. And somehow or
other, “Uncle Joshua” looked up a good cook.

“Now,” said Lucy, “to fail would be a positive disgrace.”

“No danger of your failing, my sweet wife,” said Clifton, with a glance
of affection that might have satisfied even her heart. “You are already
beyond the fear of it.”

Lucy shook her head—“I must watch or my old enemy will be back again
before I am fully rid of him.”

“It is right to watch ourselves, I know, Lucy; are you satisfied that I
have done so, and have, in some measure, corrected myself?” said
Clifton.

“I have never seen a frown on your face since you promised me to be
patient. You have been, and will continue to be, I am sure,” said Lucy,
fondly, as she raised his hand to her lips which had rested on her arm.
They were happy both, and whatever trouble was in store for them in
their future life, they had strong mutual affection to sustain them
under it.

“God bless them both,” murmured “Uncle Joshua,” as he drew his hand hard
across his eyes after witnessing this little scene. “I have done good
here, but in many a case I might be termed a meddling old fool, and not
without reason, perhaps. ’Tis a pity though, that folks, who will get
their necks into this matrimonial yoke, would not try to make smooth the
uneven places, instead of stumbling all the way, breaking their hearts
by way of amusement, as they go.”

“What is that you say, ‘Uncle Joshua?’” said Lucy, turning quickly
round, and walking towards him, accompanied by her husband.

“I have a bad habit of talking aloud,” said he, smiling.

“But I thought you were abusing matrimony, uncle—you surely were not?”

“Cannot say exactly what I was thinking aloud. I am an old bachelor,
Lucy, and have few objects of affection in the world: you have been to
me as a child, always a good child, Lucy, too—and now I think you will
make a good wife, and find the happiness you so well deserve. Am I
right, love?”

“I hope you are, uncle. If it had not been for your kindness though, I
might never have been happy again,” and tears dimmed Lucy’s eyes at the
recollection.

“We shall not forget your kindness,” said Clifton as he extended his
hand, which “Uncle Joshua” grasped warmly. “I wish every married pair in
trouble could find a good genius like yourself to interfere in their
favor.”

“Ten to one he would be kicked out of doors!” said the old man,
laughing. “This matrimony is a queer thing—those who have their necks
in the noose had better make the most of it—and those out of the scrape
keep so. Ah! you little reprobate!” he cried as he caught Lucy’s bright
eye, and disbelieving shake of the head—“you don’t pretend to
contradict me?”

“Yes I do, with my whole heart too. I would not give up my husband for
the wide world, nor he his Lucy for the fairest girl in America!”

“Never!” exclaimed Clifton—“you are dearer to me than any other human
being!”

“W-h-e-w!!” was “Uncle Joshua’s” reply, in a prolonged sort of whistle,
while his eyes opened in the profoundest wonder, and his whole
countenance was expressive of the most ludicrous
astonishment—“w-h-e-w!!”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              PERDITI.[1]


BY WM. WALLACE, ESQ. AUTHOR OF “BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE,” “MARCHES FOR THE
                           DEAD,” ETC., ETC.


    The following poem is respectfully dedicated to the Hon. Elisha
    M. Huntington, as a tribute of respect to his head and heart, by
    the

                                                           Author.

                 PART FIRST—ITALY.

    Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright!
      Where the echoless feet of the Hours
    Are gliding forever in soft, dreamy light
      Through their mazes of sunshine and flow’rs;
    Fair clime of the Laurel—the Sword and the Lyre!
    There the souls are all genius—the hearts are all fire;
    There the Rivers—the Mountains—the lowliest sods
    Were hallowed, long since, by the bright feet of Gods;
    There Beauty and Grandeur their wonders of old
    Like a bridal of star-light and thunder unroll’d;
    There the air seems to breathe of a music sent out
      From the rose-muffled lips of invisible streams,
    Oh! sweet as the harmony whispered about
      The Night’s moon-beaming portal of exquisite Dreams.
    ’Though Beauty and Grandeur, magnificent clime!
    Have walked o’er thy Vallies and Mountains sublime,
    With a port as majestic—unfading as Time—
    A death-pall is on Thee! The funeral glare
    Of a grave-torch, Oh! Italy, gleams on the air!
    Lo! the crimes of whole ages roll down on thy breast!
      Hark! Hark to the fierce thunder-troops of the Storm!
    Ah! soon shall they stamp on thy beautiful crest,
      And riot unchecked o’er thy loveliest form!

    Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright!
      ’Though the day of thy glory is o’er,
    And the time-hallowed mountains are mantled in night
      Where thy Liberty flourished before;
    ’Though the black brow of Bigotry scowls on thy race
    Which are kissing the chains of their brutal disgrace;
    ’Though the torches of Freedom so long hurled about
    By thy heroes of old are forever gone out;
    Yet! yet shall thy Beauty shine out from the gloom,
    Oh! Land of the Harp and the Wreath and the Tomb!
    The seal has been set! Immortality beams
    Like a time-daring star o’er thy temples and streams;
    And still as whole tribes from the weird future dart,
    They shall kneel at thine altar, Oh! clime of the Heart!
    More splendid art thou, with thy banners all furl’d
    And thy brow in the dust, than the rest of the world,
    For the MIGHTY—the Dead who have hallowed our earth,
    In thee have their rest and from thee took their birth.
    Oh! alas that we live—_we_ the boastful who leap
      Like mere rills where the sun-pillar’d Truth is enshrined
    Where those broad-rolling rivers no longer may sweep
      With their billows of light to the Ocean of Mind.

    It was a clime where mortal form
      Hath never pressed the blasted soil—
    Where tempest-fires and surging storm
      Are struggling ever in their coil:
    A sunless clime, whose dreary night
    Gleams dimly with that doubtful light
    Which men have seen—when Darkness threw
    Around their homes its sombre hue—
    The fearful herald of the wrath
    That blazes on the Whirlwind’s path
    Ere he has tossed his banners out
      Like sable draperies o’er the Dead,
    And with a wild, delirious shout
      Struck his deep thunder-drum of dread;
    A clime where e’en the fountains fall
    With tone and step funereal:
    And ever through the dark, old trees
      A melancholy music rolls
    Along the faintly-chiming breeze—
      Sad as the wail of tortured souls.

    There ghastly forms were hurrying past
      Like weird clouds through the ether driven,
    In fear, before the HUNTER-BLAST,
      Whose vengeance purifies the heaven.
    And some were pale, as if with woe,
    And ever cast their eyes below;
    And some were quivering with a fear
    In this their dreary sepulchre;
    And some, whose awful aspects wore
      A look where sat the seal of age,
    On their convulsèd foreheads bore
      The phrenzied agony of rage;
    _On some_ a dreadful beauty shone
      Like rays received from fallen stars—
    So dim, so mournful and so lone,
      Yet brave, despite of all their scars.

    Far from the throng two sat apart
      Beneath a forest’s darkling plume—
    In that communion of the heart
      Which but the wretched can assume.
    They seemed in earnest converse there,
    As if with words to quench despair;
    And one, along whose features grew,
    A withering, deathly, demon-hue,
    Wore that high, dread, defying look
    Which but the Lost can dare to brook;
    The other milder seemed—but he
    Was shrouded, too, in mystery,
    And ever threw along the sky
    A fearful spiritual eye
    Which in its gloomy light sublime—
    Seemed half of virtue, half of crime,
    Like lightning when you see its glow
    Soft as a moonbeam flashed below—
    And then in blasting brightness sent
    Wild-quivering through the firmament.
    So sat they in that dreary light,
      Upon the blasted darkling mould—
    Fit watchers of such awful night—
      As thus the last his story told.

                 LORRO.
      The _many_ only look to _years_;
      The _many_ think _they_ only roll
    The tides of happiness or tears
      Around the human soul:
    I know a single hour for me—
    _A minute_—was Eternity,
    That seemed with its fierce, lidless eye
    Fixed—fixed forever in the sky
    Which, circling round the Italian shore,
    Was only made for bliss before:
    But now it darkled like a shroud
      By demon-hands in warning shaken,
    From their lone, scowling thunder-cloud
      Ere yet its elements awaken.

    Oh! was it Fancy? or a spell
      Hurled o’er me by some dreadful power,—
    That I should carry thus a hell,
      Within my bosom from that hour?
    I know not—nor shall care to know;
      For e’en Repentance will not dart
    From her pure realm, a light below,
      Upon my agony of heart;
    Nor hath Remorse—that mad’ning fire—
      That final minister of pain
    And deadliest offspring of deep ire—
      E’er flashed across my tortured brain:
    Yet! yet there is a something here
      Of hideous vacancy and fear,
    (Not fear which cowards merely feel,
    Who hear the damnèd’s thunder peal,)
    A trembling—which the brave confess
    In this their last and worst distress—
    Part of the soul it burns a spell,
    And like her indestructible—
    Which only those who feel _that_ woe,
      Brought by an unrepented deed,
    Can in its fiercest aching know—
      _For only they are doomed to bleed_.

    Go thou, whose cunning spirit hears
    The mystic music of the spheres—
    Who gazest with unquailing eye
    Through this star-isled immensity—
    Whose soul would feed on brighter flowers
      Than earth’s—and sit with pinion furl’d
    Where in its lonely grandeur towers
      The outside pillar of your world—
    Go! go with all thy boasted art—
    And read _one_ mystery of the _Heart_.
    What! think creation in a _sphere_!
    The real universe is here—
    _Here! here_ eternally enshrined
    Within the secret caves of Mind.

    Blood! blood is reddening on these hands!
      The blood of more than _one_ is here;
    Unfaded too its crimson brands
      Despite of many a weary year,
    Whose tides of flame and darkness gloom
      Amid the spirit’s stagnant air—
    More fearful than the damn’d one’s tomb
      And withering as despair.

    Oh! God why was I chos’n for such?
      I who until that fearful hour—
    Ah! would not e’en too wildly touch
      The summer’s very humblest flower.
    The little bird whose rain-bow wing
      I saw, in spring time’s roseate eves,
    With its own beauty quivering
      Amid the golden orange leaves,
    I made a friend—as if for me
    It held its sinless revelry:
    And e’en I’ve watched within the hall
    The deadly spider weave his pall,
    And smiled in very joy to see
    The cunning workman’s tracery.

    The minstrel-breeze which struck by hours
    Its tender instrument of flowers—
    The moon that held her march alone
    At midnight ’round th’ Eternal Throne—
    The sullen thunder whose red eyes
    Flashed angrily within our skies—
    All! all to me were but the chain
      Along whose wond’rous links there came
    Unceasingly to head and brain
      Love’s own electric flame.
    Yes! when the Harp of Nature roll’d
    Its midnight hymn from chords of gold,
    And awful silence seemed to own,
    Throughout the world, its wizard tone,
    I’ve stood and wildly wished to float
      Into that music’s liquid strain—
    Oh! heavenly as its sweetest note—
      Nor ever walk the earth again.

    What change is this? Hate, fiercest Hate,
      Where once these angel-yearnings burned
    Like torches set by Heaven’s bright gate,
      Hath all to deadly poison turned.

    The Best can only feel the fire,
      But once, which flashes from the clime
    Where love sits beaming o’er the lyre
      That strikes the mystic march of Time.
    The tree of most luxuriant stem
    Whose every leaflet glows a gem
      Beneath its oriental sky,
    When once its emerald diadem
      Hath felt the simoon sweeping by.
    Can never more in southern bowers
    Renew its fragrant idol-flowers.
    So with the great in soul—whose bloom
    Of Heart hath felt the thunder-doom
    Which mankind, trusted, may bestow
    On him who little dreamed the blow—
    Theirs be the joy!—But ours the woe!

    I was my father’s only child—
      (The cherished scion of a race
    Whose monuments of fame are piled
      On glory’s mighty dwelling-place)
    I need not tell how oft he smiled
      When counting o’er to me each deed,
      In gallant barque, on champing steed,
    Of ancestors in battle wild;
    Nor how he gazed upon my face
    And there by hours would fondly trace
    The lines which as they manlier grew,
    He deemed the signs of Glory, too.

    I saw at last the sable pall
    Gloom in our lordly castle’s hall,
    And heard the Friar’s burial rite
    Keeping the watches of the night.
    Another noble form was laid
      Where Lorro’s dead together meet—
    And I, in ducal robes arrayed,
      Took Lorro’s castled seat.

    I need not tell how passed the days,
    I need not tell of pleasure’s ways—
    Where bright-eyed mirth flung dewy flowers
    Beneath the silver-feet of hours,
    While Time himself o’er music’s strings
    Lean’d panting on his weary wings.

    At last there came unto our gate
    One looking worn and desolate,
    Who asked compassion for his fate.
    He said he was an orphan lad;
    In sooth my lonely heart was glad—
    For I was weary of my state
      Where only courtiers crowded round;
    I wished some fair and gentle mate,
      And such I fondly hoped I found.

    Months rolled away and still he grew,
      Beneath my care a lovely boy
    And day by day I found anew
      In him a very father’s joy.—

    And eighteen summers now have died
    Since thou cam’st here my own heart’s pride:
    And still thy voice of silver seems
    Sweet as sweet music heard in dreams;
    And still thy softly radiant eye
    Looks innocent as yonder sky,
    And all as fair—when rainbows rest
    Like angel-plumes upon its breast;
    And still thy soul seems richly set
      Within its form, like some bright gem
    Which might by worshippers be met
      In Purity’s own diadem.

    In Lorro’s hall the tone of lutes
      And harp is wafted through the air,
    Such as the glad most fitly suits
      When mirth and rosy wine are there.
    In Lorro’s castle, wreathed in light
    And flowers, I ween a holy rite,
    Most cherished with the young and bright,
    By cowlèd Priest, is done to-night.

    And who art thou around whose brow
    The bridal chaplet sparkled now?
    That form!—Oh, Heaven! and is it she
    Thus standing there so radiantly?—
    With bright curls floating on the air
    And glorious as the cherubs wear;
    An eye where love and virtue beam
    Like spirits of an Angel’s dream!

    Away! away! thou maddening sight!
      Away! what dost thou, Laura, here?
    Thus standing by my side to-night,
      And long since in thy sepulchre?

    What! will the grave its events tell?
    The iron tomb dissolve its spell?
    It has! it has! And there she stands
    Mocking me with her outstretched hands;
    And oft her icy fingers press
      My hot brow through the long, long night;
    And voices as of deep distress,
      Like prisoned wind, whose wailing sound
      Seems madly struggling under ground,
    Peal dirge-like on my ear: away!
    Nor wait, oh! horrid shape, for day
    Such as these gloomy realms display—
      E’er thou shalt quit my tortured sight.—

    And we were wed! I need not say
    How heavenly came and went each day,
    Enough! our souls together beat
    Like two sweet tunes that wandering meet,
    Then so harmoniously they run
    The hearer deems they are but one.

    There are mailed forms in Lorro’s halls,
    And rustling banners on its walls,
    And nodding plumes o’er many a brow,
    That moulders on the red field now.

    The wave of battle swells around!
    Shall Lorro’s chieftain thus be found
    In revelry or idlesse bound,
    When Glory hangs her blood-red sign
    Above the castellated Rhine?

    Away! away, I flew in pride
    With those who mustered by my side:
    But not, I ween, did Lorro miss
      The ruler from its ducal throne,
    ’Till many a wild and burning kiss
      Of woman’s sweet lips warmed his own.

    And Julio, too, (for such the name
      I gave the orphan boy,) with tears
    And choking sob, and trembling came
      To whisper me his rising fears.

    That I his father—I whose love
      Had sheltered long his feeble form
    E’en as some stronger bird the dove
      All mateless wandering in the storm,—
    That I borne down amid the stern
      And bloody shapes of battle wild,
    Would never from its wreck return
      To sooth his lonely orphan child;
    And then on bended knees he prayed—
      (God! why availed not his prayer?)
    That I would give him steed and blade,
      So he might in my dangers share.
    I left him for I could not bare
    That tender brow to war’s wild air.

    Away! away on foaming steed,
      For two long years my sword was out;
    And I had learned (a soldier’s need,)
    —Almost without a groan to bleed—
      Aye! gloried in the battle’s shout;
    For it gave presage of a fame
    Such as the brave alone may claim.

    For two long years, as I have told,
    The storm of war around me roll’d;
    But never more, by day or night
      In sunshine or in shower,
    Did I forget my castle’s light—
      Love’s only idol-flower!

    There is a deeper passion known
    For those in love, when left alone;
    Then busy fancy ponders o’er
    Some kindness never prized before:
    And we can almost turn with tears
      And deep upbraiding (as distress
    Comes with the holy light of years)
    And kneeling ask forgiveness.

    And so I felt—and Laura beamed
    Still lovelier than she ever seemed,
    E’en when the dew of childhood’s hours
      Along her heart’s first blossoms clung,
    And I amid my native bowers
      In sinless worship o’er them hung.

    Oh! are not feelings such as these
      Like splendid rainbow-glories caught
    (To cheer our voyage o’er life’s seas)
      From Heaven’s own holy Land of Thought?

    And yet, oh, God! how soon may they
    Like those bright glories flee away,
    And leave the heart an unlit sea,
      Where piloted by dark despair
    The spirit-wreck rolls fearfully
      Within the night of sullen air?

    At last the eye of battle closed—
      Its lurid fires no longer burned—
    The warrior on his wreath reposed,
      And I unto my halls returned.

    Oh! who can tell the joys that start
    Like angel-wings within the heart,
    When wearied with war’s toil, the chief
    In home’s dear light would seek relief!

    Not he who has no loved one there
      Left in his absence lonely—
    Whose heart he fondly hopes shall beat
      For him and for him only.

    And such my Laura’s heart I deemed;
    For me alone I thought she beamed
    Like some pure lamp on hermit’s shrine,
    Which only glows for him, divine
    And beauteous as the spirit-eyes
    That light the bow’rs of Paradise.

    It was a lovely eve, but known
    Unto the South’s voluptuous zone;
    An eve whose shining vesture hung
      Like Heaven’s own rosy flags unfurl’d,
    And by some star-eyed cherub flung
      In sport around our gloomy world;
    An eve in which the coldest frame
    And heart must feel a warming flame,
    When light and soul no longer single,
    But in a bridal glory mingle:
    Then think how I whose spirit bowed
      Whene’er the dimmest light was sent
    From twinkling star or rosy cloud
      In God’s blue, glorious firmament—
    How I in that ethereal time,
      Standing beside my native rill
    And shadowed by such hues sublime,
      Felt unseen lightning through me thrill.

    I stood within my own domain—
      Once more upon my birth-right soil,
    Free’d from the gory battle-plain
      And weary with its toil.

    “Laura!” my step is in the hall!
    My sword suspended on the wall!
    My standard-sheet once more uprolled
    Where it has lain for years untold!
    “Laura!”—In vain I stood for her
    To meet the long-lost worshipper.
    “Ho, Julio!” What? No answer yet?
    It rung from base to parapet!
    I mounted up the marble stair!—
      I rushed into the olden room!
    It shone beneath the evening’s glare
      As silent as the tomb,—
    Save that a slave with wond’ring eye
    Looked from the dreary vacancy.
    “Your Lady, Serf?”
              “She’s in the bower.”
      “In sooth I should have sought her there!”
    For oft we passed the twilight hour
      In its delicious air.

    I rushed with lightning steps—Oh, God!
      Why flashed not then thy blasting flame—
    That it might wither from the sod
      The one who madly called Thy name?

    My poniard grasped, left not its sheath—
    I had nor hope—nor life—nor breath;
    I only felt the ice of death
      Slowly congealing o’er my heart—
    And on my eye a dizzy cloud
      Swam round and round, a sickening part
    Of that which seemed a closing shroud
    The one might feel whom burial gave
    All prematurely to the grave.

    But soon that deadly trance was o’er;
      The foliage hid as yet; and I
    Retraced the path I trod before
      With such a heart-wild ecstasy.

    For as I gazed upon their guilt,
      A thought flashed out of demon-hue;
    And I resigned my dagger’s hilt
      As deadlier then my vengeance grew.

    Small torture satisfies the _weak_—
      For they but slightly feel a wrong;
    I would by hours my vengeance wreak!
      The deep revenge is for the _strong_.

    In Lorro’s castle is a cell
      (Where Cruelty has sat in state,
    I ween that some have known it well,)
      Which is divided by a grate.

    No sunbeam ever pierced its night;
    Nor aught save lamp there shed its light;
    No sound save sound of wild despair
    Hath ever vexed its heavy air.
    Upon its walls so grim and old
    Have gathered centuries of mould.
    It seems that with the birth of time
    That cell was hollowed out by crime,
    And there, her hateful labor o’er,
    She took her first sweet draught of gore.

    Ha! Ha! I see them! See them now—
    The cold damp dripping from each brow,
    With hands oustretched they mercy sue—
    (Ye know not how my vengeance grew,)
    While I stood by with sullen smile—
      The only answer to their grief—
    For wearied in that dungeon aisle,
      In smiles _I_ even found relief.

    I watched them in that dreary gloom,
    (To me a heaven—to them a tomb,)
    For hours—for days—and joyed to hear
    Their pleadings fill that sepulchre.
    At first they tried to lull their state
    By cheering each thro’ that dull grate,
    (For this they lingered separate;
    I could not bear e’en then to see
    Them closer in their agony.)
    And this they did for days! at last
      A change upon them came—
    For each to each reproaches cast,
      In which I heard my name.

    I spake no word—their dread replies
    Were only read within my eyes,
    Which as they glared upon the pair,
      Like scorpions writhing in their pain
    When wounded in the loathsome lair,
      Seemed burning to my very brain.
    I shall not tell how hunger grew
    In that dread time upon the two—
    When each would vainly try to break
    The bars an earthquake scarce could shake.
    Nor how they gnawed, in their great pain,
    Their dungeon’s rusted iron chain;
    Nor how their curses, deep and oft,
    From parching lips were rung aloft;
    Nor how like babbling fiends they would
    Together vex the solitude;
    Nor how the wasting crimson tide
    Of withered life their wants supplied;
    Nor how—enough! enough they died
    Aye! and I saw the red worm creep
    Upon their slumbers, dark and deep,
    And felt with more of joy than dread
    The grim eyes of the fleshless dead.

    Long years have passed away, since then
    And I have mixed with fellow men;
    On land and wave my flag unfurl’d
    Streamed like a storm above the world;
    For Lorro was a soldier born;
    His music was the battle-horn.
    E’en when a boy—his playthings were
    Such deadly toys as sword and spear.
      I did not pant for fame or blood,
    But thus in agony I sought
      To strangle in their birth the brood
    Of serpents cradled in my thought.
    I’ve tried to pray: In vain! In vain!
      The very words seem brands of fire
    By demons hurled into my brain—
      The burning ministers of ire.

    How Spirit, mid such fearful strife
    I left the hated mortal life,
    I need not say; it matters not
    How we may break that earthly spell;
    Enough! enough! I knew my lot
      And feel its agony too well.

    My frame beside its father rests—
    The same old banner o’er their breasts
    Which they with all their serfs, of yore,
    To battle and to triumph bore.
    No chieftain sways the castle’s wall,
    No chieftain revels in its hall.
    And on each bastion’s leaning stone
    Grim desolation sits alone,
    While organ winds their masses roll
      Around each lonely turret’s head,
    And seem to chant, “Rest troubled soul!
      Mercy! Oh! mercy for the dead!”

    The spirit bent his brow—and tears
    The first which he had shed for years,
    Fell burning from his eyes, for THOUGHT
      Had oped their overflowing cells,
    Like wakened lightning which has sought
      The cloud with all its liquid spells.

    He wept—as he had wept of old—
      When sudden through the gloomy air
    A glorious gush of music roll’d
      Around those wretched spirits there;—
    They started up with frantic eyes
    Wild-glancing to their sullen skies:
    And still the angel-anthem went
    Rejoicing ’round that firmament;
    And shining harps were sparkling through
      The cloud-rifts—held by seraph-forms
    Oh! lovely as the loveliest hue
      Of rainbows curled on buried storms.

    Faint and more faint the music grows—
    Yet how entrancing in its close—
    Sweeter! oh sweeter than the hymn
      Of an enthusiast who has given
    His anthem forth, at twilight dim,
      And hopes with it to float to heaven.

    And see, where yonder tempests meet,
    The rapid glance of silver feet—
      The last of that refulgent train
    Who leave this desolated sphere;
      Oh! not for them such realms of Pain
    Where Crime stands tremblingly by Fear:—
      They’re gone, AND ALL IS DARK AGAIN.

           [End of Part First.]

-----

[1] The tale of Lorro is founded on an actual occurrence: one of the
incidents has already been turned to advantage by a prose writer. This
poem will be followed by another, in which I have attempted to show the
rewards of virtue.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          THE CHEVALIER GLUCK.


                            BY W. W. STORY.


During the latter part of the autumn in Berlin there are usually some
fine days. The cloudless sun shines pleasantly out and evaporates the
moisture from the warm air which blows through the streets. Mingling
together in motley groups, you may see a long row of fashionables,
citizens with their wives, little children in Sunday clothes, priests,
Jewesses, young counsellors, professors, milliners, dancers, officers,
&c. walking among the lindens in the Park. All the seats in Klaus &
Weber’s coffee-house are soon occupied; the coffee throws off its steam.
The fashionables light their cigars; everywhere persons are talking;
here an argument is going on about war and peace, there about Madame
Bethman’s shoes, whether the last ones she wore were green or gray, or
about the state of the market and the bad money, &c., until all is
hushed by an Aria from “Tanchon,” with which an untuned harp, a pair of
ill-tuned violins, a wheezing flute, and a spasmodic bassoon torment
themselves and their audience. Upon the balustrade which separates
Weber’s place from the high-way, several little round tables and garden
chairs are placed; here one can breathe in the free air and observe the
comers and goers, at a distance from the monotonous noises of the
accursed orchestra. There I sat down, and, abandoning myself to the
light play of my fancy, conversed with the imaginary forms of friends
who came around me, upon science and art, and all that is dearest to
man. The mass of promenaders passing by me grows more and more motley,
but nothing disturbs me, nothing can drive away my imaginary company.
Now the execrable Trio of an intolerable waltz draws me out of my world
of dreams. The high, squeaking tones of the violins and flutes, and the
growling ground bass of the bassoon are all that I can hear; they follow
each other up and down in octaves, which tear the ear, until, at last,
like one who is seized with a burning pain, I cry out involuntarily,

“What mad music! Those detestable octaves!”—Near me some one mutters.

“Cursed Fate! Here is another octave-hunter!” I look up and perceive now
for the first time that imperceptibly to me a man has taken a place at
the same table, who is looking intently at me, and from whom I cannot
take my eyes away again. Never did I see any head or figure which made
so sudden and powerful an impression upon me. A slightly crooked nose
was joined to a broad open brow, with remarkable prominences over the
bushy, half-gray eyebrows, under which the eyes glanced forth with an
almost wild, youthful fire, (the age of the man might be about fifty;)
the white and well-formed chin presented a singular contrast to the
compressed mouth, and a satirical smile breaking out in the curious play
of muscles in the hollow cheeks, seemed to contradict the deep
melancholy earnestness which rested upon the brow; a few gray locks of
hair lay behind the ears, which were large and prominent; over the tall,
slender figure was wrapped a large modern overcoat. As soon as I looked
at the man he cast down his eyes and gave his whole attention to the
occupation from which my outcry had probably aroused him. He was
shaking, with apparent delight, some snuff from several little paper
horns into a large box which stood before him, and moistening it with
red wine from a quarter-flask. The music had ceased and I felt an
irresistible desire to address him.

“I am glad that the music is over,” said I, “it was really intolerable.”

The old man threw a hasty glance at me and shook out the contents from
the last paper horn.

“It would be better not to play at all,” I began again, “Don’t you think
so?”

“I don’t think at all about it,” said he, “you are a musician and
connoisseur by profession”—

“You are wrong, I am neither. I once took lessons upon the harpsichord
and in thorough-bass, because I considered it something which was
necessary to a good education, and among other things I was told that
nothing produced a more disagreeable effect than when the bass follows
the upper notes in octaves. At first I took this upon authority, and
have ever since found it to be a fact.”

“Really?” interrupted he, and stood up and strode thoughtfully towards
the musicians, often casting his eyes upwards and striking upon his brow
with the palm of his hand, as if he wished to awaken some particular
remembrance. I saw him speak to the musicians whom he treated with a
dignified air of command—He returned and scarcely had he regained his
seat, before they began to play the overture to “Iphigenia in Aulis.”

With his eyes half-closed and his folded arms resting on the table he
listened to the Andante; all the while slightly moving his foot to
indicate the falling in of the different parts; now he reversed his
head—threw a swift glance about him—the left hand, with fingers apart,
resting upon the table, as though he were striking a chord upon the
Piano Forte, and the right raised in the air; he was certainly the
conductor who was indicating to the orchestra the entrance of the
various Tempos—The right hand falls and the Allegro begins—a burning
blush flew over his pale cheeks; his eyebrows were raised and drawn
together; upon his wrinkled brow an inward rage flashed through his bold
eyes, with a fire, which by degrees changed into a smile that gathered
about his half-open mouth. Now he leaned back again, his eyebrows were
drawn up, the play of muscles again swept over his face, his eyes
glanced, the deep internal pain was dissolved in a delight which seized
and vehemently agitated every fibre of his frame—he heaved a deep sigh,
and drops stood upon his brow. He now indicated the entrance of the
Tutti and the other principal parts; his right hand never ceased beating
the time, and with his left he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and
wiped his face—Thus he animated with flesh and color the skeleton of
the Overture, formed by the two violins. I heard the soft plaintive
lament breathed out by the flutes, after the storm of the violins and
basses died away, and the thunder of the kettle drums had ceased; I
heard the lightly touched tones of the violoncello and the bassoon,
which fill the heart with irrepressible yearning—again the Tutti enters
treading along the unison like a towering huge giant and the hollow
lamenting expires beneath his crushing footsteps.

The overture was finished; the man suffered both his arms to drop, and
sat with closed eyes, like one who was exhausted by excessive exertion.
This bottle was empty; I filled his glass with the Burgundy, which in
the meantime I had procured. He heaved a deep sigh, and seemed to awaken
out of his dream. I motioned him to drink; he did so without hesitation,
and swallowing the contents of the glass at one draught, exclaimed,

“I am well pleased with the performance! The orchestra did bravely!”

“And yet,” added I, “yet it was only a feeble outline of a master-piece
finished in living colors.”

“Am I right? You are not a Berliner.”

“Perfectly right; I only reside here occasionally.”

“The Burgundy is good; but it is growing cold here.”

“Let us go into the house and finish the flask.”

“A good proposal—I do not know you; neither do you know me. We will not
ask each other’s names. Names are sometimes in the way. Here am I
drinking Burgundy without it costing me anything. Our companionship is
agreeable to both, and so far so good.”

All this he said with good-humored frankness. We entered the house
together. As soon as he sat down and threw open his overcoat, I
perceived with astonishment, that under it he wore an embroidered vest
with long lappels, black velvet breeches, and a very small silver-hilted
dagger. He again buttoned up his coat carefully.

“Why did you ask me if I was a Berliner?” I resumed.

“Because in such a case it would be necessary for me to leave you.”

“That sounds like a riddle.”

“Not in the least, when I tell you that I—that I am a composer.”

“I have no idea of your meaning.”

“Well then excuse me for my exclamation just now. I see that you
understand yourself thoroughly and nothing of Berlin and Berliners.”

He rose and walked once hastily up and down; then went to the window,
and in a scarcely audible voice hummed the chorus of Priestesses from
the Iphigenia in Tauris, while at intervals he struck upon the window at
the entrance of the Tutti. To my great astonishment I observed that he
made several modifications of the melody, which struck me with their
power and originality. I let him go on without interruption. He finished
and returned to his seat. Surprised by the extraordinary bearing of the
man, and by this fantastic expression of his singular musical talent—I
remained silent. After some time he began—

“Have you never composed?”

“Yes, I have made some attempts in the art; only I found that all which
seemed to me to have been written at inspired moments, became afterwards
flat and tedious; so that I let it alone.”

“You have done wrong: for the mere fact of your having made the attempt
is no small proof of your talent. We learn music when we are children,
because papa and mamma will have it so; now you go to work jingling and
fiddling, but imperceptibly the mind becomes susceptible to music.
Perhaps the half-forgotten theme of the little song, which you formerly
sang, was the first original thought, and from this embryo, nourished
laboriously by foreign powers, grows a giant, who consumes all within
his reach, and changes all into his own flesh and blood! Ah, how is it
possible to point out the innumerable influences which lead a man to
compose. There is a broad high-way, where all are hurrying round and
shouting and screaming; we are the initiated! we are at the goal! Only
through the ivory door is there entrance to the land of dreams; few ever
see the door and still fewer pass through it. All seems strange here.
Wild forms move hither and thither and each has a certain character—one
more than the others. They are never seen in the high-way; they only can
be found behind the ivory door. It is difficult to come out of this
kingdom. Monsters besiege the way as before the Castle of Alsinens—they
twirl—they twist. Many dream their dream in the Kingdom of
Dreams,—they dissolve in dreams,—they cast no more shadows—otherwise
by means of their shadows they would perceive the rays which pass
through this realm; only a few awakened out of this dream, walk about
and stride through the Kingdom of Dreams—they come to Truth. This is
the highest moment;—the union with the eternal and unspeakable! It is
the triple tone, from which the accords, like stars, shoot down and spin
around you with threads of fire. You lie there like a chrysalis in the
fire, until the Psyche soars up to the sun.”

As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and raised his eyes, and
threw up his hand. Then he seated himself and quickly emptied the full
glass. A silence ensued, which I would not break, through a fear of
leading this extraordinary man out of his track. At last he continued in
a calmer manner—

“When I was in the kingdom of dreams a thousand pangs and sorrows
tormented me. It was night, and the grinning forms of monsters rushed in
upon me, now dragging me down into the abyss of the sea, and now lifting
me high into the air. Rays of light streamed through the night, and
these rays were tones which encircled me with delicious clearness. I
awoke out of my pain and saw a large clear eye, gazing into an organ,
and while it gazed, tones issued forth and sparkled and intervened in
chords more glorious than I had ever imagined. Up and down streamed
melodies, and as I swam in this stream, and was on the point of sinking,
the eye looked down upon me and raised me out of the roaring waves. It
was night again. Two colossi in glittering harnesses stepped up to
me—Tonic and fifth! they lifted me up but the eye smiled; I know what
fills thy breast with yearnings, the gentle tender third will step
between the colossi; you will hear his sweet voice, will see me again,
and my melodies shall become yours.”

He paused.

“And you saw the eye again?”

“Yes, I saw it again. Long years I sighed in the realms of
dreams—there—yes, there!—I sat in a beautiful valley, and listened to
the flowers as they sang together; only one sun-flower was silent and
sadly bent its closed chalice towards the earth. Invisible bonds bound
me to it—it raised its head. The chalice opened, and streaming out of
it again the eye met mine—The tones, like rays of light, drew my head
toward the flower which eagerly enclosed it. Larger and larger grew the
leaves—flames streamed forth from it—they flowed around me—the eye
had vanished and I was in the chalice.”

As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and rushed out of the room
with rapid youthful strides. I awaited his return in vain; I concluded
at last to go down into the city.

As I approached the Brandenburg gates, I saw in the gloaming a tall
figure stride by me, which I immediately recognized as my strange
companion—I said to him—

“Why did you leave me so abruptly?”

“It was too late and the Euphon began to sound.”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“So much the better!”

“So much the worse: for I should like to understand you.”

“Do you hear nothing?”

“No.”

“It is past! Let us go—I do not generally like company; but—you are
not a composer—you are not a Berliner?”

“I cannot conceive what so prejudices you against the Berliners. Here,
where art is so highly esteemed and practised by the people in the
highest degree—I should think that a man of your genius in art would
like to be.”

“You are mistaken. I am condemned for my torment to wander about here in
this deserted place like a departed spirit.”

“Here in Berlin—a deserted place?”

“Yes, it is deserted to me, for I can find no kindred spirit here. I am
alone.”

“But the artists!—the composers!”

“Away with them. They criticise and criticise, refining away everything
to find one poor little thought—but beyond their babble about art and
artistical taste, and I know not what—they can shape out nothing, and
as soon as they endeavor to bring out a few thoughts into
daylight—their fearful coldness shows their extreme distance from the
sun—it is Lapland work.”

“Your judgment seems to me too stern. At least you must allow that their
theatrical representations are magnificent.”

“I once resolved to go to the theatre to hear the opera of one of my
young friends—what is the name of it? The whole world is in this
opera—through the confused bustle of dressed up men, wander the spirits
of Orcus. All here has a voice and an almighty sound. The devil—I mean
Don Juan. But I could not endure it beyond the overture, through which
they blustered as fast as possible without perception or understanding.
And I had prepared myself for that by a course of fasting and prayer,
because I know that the Euphon is much too severely tried by this
measure and gives an indistinct utterance.”

“Though I must admit that Mozart’s masterpieces are generally slighted
here in a most inexplicable manner—yet Gluck’s works are very much
better represented.”

“Do you think so? I once was desirous of hearing the Iphigenia in
Tauris. As soon as I entered the theatre, I perceived they were playing
the Iphigenia in Aulis. Then—thought I, this is a mistake. Do they call
_this_ Iphigenia? I was amazed—for now the Andante came in, with which
the Iphigenia in Tauris opens, and the storm followed. There is an
interval of twenty years. All the effect, all the admirably arranged
exposition of the tragedy is lost. A still sea—a storm—the Greeks
wrecked on the land—this is the opera. How?—has the composer written
the overture at random, so that one may play it as he pleases and when
he will, like a trumpet-piece?”

“I confess that is a mistake. Yet in the meantime, they are doing all
they can to raise Gluck’s works in the general estimation.”

“Oh yes!” said he shortly—and then smiled more and more bitterly.
Suddenly he walked off, and nothing could detain him. In a moment he
disappeared, and for many successive days I sought him in vain in the
park.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Several months had elapsed, when one cold, rainy evening, having been
belated in a distant part of the city, I was going towards my house in
Friedrich street. It was necessary to pass by the theatre. The noisy
music of trumpets and kettle drums reminded me that Gluck’s Armida was
to be now performed, and I was on the point of going in, when a curious
soliloquy spoken from the window, where every note of the orchestra was
distinctly audible, arrested my attention.

“Now comes the king—they play the march—beat, beat away on your kettle
drums. That’s right, that’s lively. Yes, yes, you must do that eleven
times now—or else the procession won’t be long enough. Ha,
ha—Maestro—drag along, children. See there is a figurant with his
shoe-string caught. That’s right for the twelfth time!—Keep beating on
that dominant—Oh! ye eternal powers this will never cease. Now he
presents his compliments—Armida returns thanks. Still once more? Yes, I
see all’s right—there are two soldiers yet to come. What evil spirit
has banished me here?”

“The ban is loosed,” cried I—“come!”

I seized my curious friend by the arm (for the soliloquist was no other
than he,) and hurrying him out of the park, carried him away with me. He
seemed surprised, and followed me in silence. We had already arrived in
Friedrich street when he suddenly stopped.

“I know you,” said he.—“You were in the park. We talked together. I
drank your wine—grew heated by it. The Euphon sounded two days
afterwards—I suffered much—it is over.”

“I am rejoiced that accident has thrown you again in my way. Let us be
better acquainted. I live not far from here—suppose you—”

“I cannot, and dare not go with any one.”

“No, you shall not escape me thus—I will go with you.”

“Then you must go about two hundred steps. But you were just going into
the theatre?”

“I was going to hear Armida, but now—”

“You shall hear Armida _now_—come!”

In silence we went down Friedrich street. He turned quickly down a cross
street, running so fast that I could with difficulty follow him—until
he stopped at last before a common-looking house. After knocking for
some time the door was opened.—Groping in the dark, we ascended the
steps and entered a chamber in the upper story, the door of which my
guide carefully locked. I heard a door open; through this he led me with
a light, and the appearance of the curiously decorated apartment
surprised me not a little—old-fashioned, richly adorned chairs, a clock
fixed against the wall with a gilt case, and a heavy broad mirror gave
to the whole the gloomy appearance of antiquated splendor. In the middle
stood a little Piano Forte, upon which was placed a large inkstand; and
near it lay several sheets of music. A more attentive examination of
these arrangements for composition made it evident to me that for some
time nothing could have been written; for the paper was perfectly
yellow, and thick spider webs were woven over the inkstand—the man
stepped towards a press in the corner of a chamber which I had not
perceived before, and as soon as he drew aside the curtain I saw a row
of beautifully bound books with golden titles.
Orfeo—Armida—Alcesti—Iphigenia—&c.—in short a collection of Gluck’s
master pieces standing together.

“Do you own all Gluck’s works?” I cried.

He made no answer, but a spasmodic smile played across his mouth, and
the play of muscles in the hollow cheeks distorted his countenance to
the appearance of a hideous mask—He fixed his dark eyes sternly upon
me, seized one of the books—it was Armida—and stepped solemnly towards
the piano forte.—I opened it quickly and drew up the music rack; that
appeared to give him pleasure—He opened the book—I beheld ruled
leaves, but not a single note written upon them.

He began; “now I will play the overture—Do you turn over the leaves at
the proper time”—I promised—and now grasping the full chords,
gloriously and like a master, he played the majestic Tempo di Marcia
with which the overture begins, without deviating from the original; but
the Allegro was only interpenetrated by Gluck’s principal thought. He
brought out so many rich changes that my astonishment increased—His
modulations were particularly bold, without being startling, and so
great was his facility of hanging upon the principal idea of a thousand
melodious lyrics, that each one seemed a reproduction of it in a new and
renovated form—His countenance glowed—now he contracted his eyebrows
and a long suppressed wrath broke powerfully forth, and now his eyes
swam in tears of deep yearning melancholy. Sometimes with a pleasant
tenor voice he sang the Thema, while both hands were employed in
artist-like lyrics, and sometimes he imitated with his voice in an
entirely different manner the hollow tone of the beaten kettle drums. I
industriously turned over the leaves, as I followed his look. The
overture was finished and he fell back exhausted with closed eyes, upon
the arm chair. But soon he raised himself again and turning hastily over
a few blank leaves, said to me in a hollow tone—

“All this, sir, have I written when I came out of the kingdom of dreams,
but I betrayed the holy to unholy, and an ice-cold hand fastened upon
this glowing heart. It broke not. Yet was I condemned to wander among
the unholy like a departed spirit—formless, so that no one knew me
until the sun-flower again lifted me up to the eternal—Ha, now let us
sing Armida’s Scena.”

Then he sang the closing scene of the Armida with an expression which
penetrated my inmost heart—Here also he deviated perceptibly from the
original—but the substituted music was Gluck-like music in still higher
potency.—All that Hate, Love, Despair, Madness, can express in its
strongest traits—he united in his tones—His voice seemed that of a
young man, for from its deep hollowness swelled forth an irrepressible
strength—Every fibre trembled—I was beside myself—When he had
finished I threw myself into his arms, and cried with suppressed
voice—“What does this mean? Who are you?”

He stood up and gazed at me with earnest, penetrating look—but as I was
about to speak again he vanished with the light through a door and left
me in the darkness—He was absent a quarter of an hour—I despaired of
seeing him again and ascertaining my position from the situation of the
piano forte sought to open the door, when suddenly in an embroidered
dress coat, rich vest and with a sword at his side and a light in his
hand he entered—

I started—he came solemnly up to me, took me softly by the hand, and
said, softly smiling—

“I am the Chevalier Gluck!”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                      VENUS AND THE MODERN BELLE.


                         BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.


    Young Beauty looked over her gems one night,
      And stole to her glass, with a petulant air:
    She braided her hair, with their burning light,
      Till they played like the gleam of a glowworm there.

    Then she folded, over her form of grace,
      A costly robe from an Indian loom
    But a cloud overshadowed her exquisite face,
      And Love’s sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.

    “It is useless!” she murmured,—“my jewels have lost
      All their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!”
    And she snatched off the treasures, and haughtily tost,
      Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies and pearls.

    Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion;
      “And what?” she exclaimed, “shall the star of the ball
    Be seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion?”—
      Away went the robe,—ribbons, laces and all!

    “Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sighed in despair,
      “Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone,
    Which Juno of old condescended to wear,
      And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”—

    She said and she started; for lo! in the glass,
      Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came!
    She turned,—it was Venus herself! and the lass
      Stood blushing before her, in silence and shame.

    “Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek,
      Is one you can summon at once, if you will;
    It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek,
      And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes, fill.

    “No gem in your casket such lustre can lend,
      No silk wrought in silver, such beauty, bestow,
    With that talisman heed not, tho’ simply, my friend,
      Your robe and your ringlets unjewelled may flow!”

    “Oh! tell it me! give it me!”—Beauty exclaimed,—
      As Hope’s happy smile, to her rosy mouth, stole,—
    “Nay! you wear it e’en now, since your temper is tamed,
      ’Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul.”

                 *        *        *        *        *



                      MY BARK IS OUT UPON THE SEA.


                          BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.


    My bark is out upon the sea
      The moon’s above;
    Her light a presence seems to me
      Like woman’s love.
    My native land I’ve left behind;
      Afar I roam;
    In other climes no hearts I’ll find,
      Like those at home.

    Of all yon sisterhood of stars,
      But one is true;
    She paves my path with crystal spars,
      And beams like you,
    Whose purity the waves recall
      In music’s flow,
    As round my bark they rise and fall
      In liquid snow.

    The freshening breeze now swells the sails,
      A storm is on;
    The weary moon’s dim lustre fails,
      The stars are gone.
    Not so fades love’s eternal light
      When storm-clouds weep;
    I know one heart’s with me to-night
      Upon the deep.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       THE LATE SIR DAVID WILKIE.


                     BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.


Under the head of Painting, England undoubtedly at present stands
considerably above any of the continental nations; but they surpass her
perhaps in an equal degree, in the sister Art of Sculpture, and in
Music,—Italy in both of these, and Germany in the latter. France may
perhaps be said to have reached the same general point that England has
in all these Arts; but she cannot claim the same exceptions in favor of
individual instances, in either of them. In musical composers, on the
other hand, she surpasses England, and yet reaches to only a very
moderate degree of excellence.

Sir David Wilkie was one of the most distinguished Artists, in his
particular line, that England, or any other country ever possessed. He
has, to be sure, produced, comparatively speaking, but few pictures; but
in force and richness of expression, in truth and depth of character, in
subtlety of thought, and felicity of invention, I have seen none in the
same class that at all equal these few. In the above particulars, and in
a marvellous truth and simplicity of pencil in delineating what he sees
or remembers, Wilkie as far surpasses Teniers himself, as Teniers
surpasses him in freedom and felicity of touch, and freshness,
transparency, and beauty of coloring. And important as these latter
qualities are in a picture, those which spring from, and appeal to, the
intellect chiefly, must be allowed to be still more so.

The subject of Wilkie’s pictures are confined to what may be called the
higher classes of low life, where the habits and institutions of modern
society have hitherto, in a great measure, failed to diffuse that
artificial and conventional form of character, which, if it does not
altogether preclude the _action_ of the feelings, at least forbids all
outward manifestation of them. If Sir David had unfortunately devoted
his peculiar and unrivalled power of depicting what _is_, to scenes in
high, or even in middle life, he would have produced works altogether
feeble and worthless; because he could only represent what actually did
exist; and, in these classes of life, _this_, as far as regards its
outward attributes, is smoothed and polished down to a plane and
colorless surface, which will not admit the passage of any thing from
within, and from which every thing without slides off like water-drops
from the feathers of a bird.

Only think of making a picture of a party of _ladies and gentlemen_,
assembled to hear a piece of political news read; or of the same persons
listening to a solo on the violin by an eminent professor! And yet these
are the subjects of Wilkie’s Village Politicians, and his Blind Fiddler;
two of the most interesting and perfect works that ever proceeded from
the pencil; and which at once evince in the artist, and excite in the
spectator, more activity of thought, and play of sentiment, than are
called forth at all the fashionable parties of London and Paris for a
whole season.

Wilkie’s power was confined, as I have said, to the representation of
what he saw; but he selected and combined this with such admirable
judgment, and represented it with such unrivalled truth and precision,
that his pictures impress themselves on the memory with all the force
and reality of facts. We remember, and recur to, the scenes he places
before us, just as we should to the real scenes if we had been present
at them; and can hardly think of, and refer to them as any thing _but_
real scenes. They seem to become part of our experience—to increase the
stores of our actual knowledge of life and human nature; and the actors
in them take their places among the persons we have seen and known in
our intercourse with the living world.

Wilkie’s pictures are, in one sense of the term, the most _national_
that were ever painted; and will carry down to posterity the face,
character, habits, costume, etc. of the period and class which they
represent, in a way that nothing else ever did or could; for they are
literally the things themselves—the truth, and nothing but the truth.
The painter allows himself no liberty or licence in the minutest
particulars. He seems to have a superstitious reverence for the truth;
and he would no more _paint_ a lie than he would tell one. I suppose he
has never introduced an article of dress or furniture into any one of
his pictures, that he had not actually seen worn or used under the
circumstances he was representing. If he had occasion to paint a peasant
who had just entered a cottage on a rainy day, he would, as a matter of
conscience, leave the marks of his dirty footsteps on the threshold of
the door! This scrupulous minuteness of detail, which would be the bane
of some class of art, is the beauty of his, coupled, and made
subservient, as it was, to the most curious, natural, and interesting
development of character, sentiment and thought.

But the most extraordinary examples of this artist’s professional skill,
are those in which he has depicted some peculiar _expression_ in the
face and action of some one of his characters. The quantity and degree
of expression that he has, in several of these instances, thrown into
the compass of a face and figure of less than the common miniature size,
is not to be conceived without being seen, and has certainly never
before been equalled in the Art. His most extraordinary efforts of this
kind are two, in which the expressions are not very agreeable, but which
become highly interesting, on account of the extreme difficulty that is
felt to have been overcome in the production of them. One of these is an
old man, in the act of coughing violently; and the other is a child, who
has cut his fingers.

But if this is the most extraordinary part of Wilkie’s pictures, and the
part most likely to attract vulgar attention and curiosity, it is far
from being the most valuable and characteristic. If it were, I should
not regard him as the really great artist which I now do. The mere
overcoming of difficulty, for the sake of overcoming it, and without
producing any other ulterior effect, would be a mere idle waste of time
and skill, and quite unworthy either of praise or attention. It is in
these particular instances which I have noticed above, as in numerous
others in different lines of art, a mere sleight of hand, exceedingly
curious, as exhibiting the possible extent of human skill, but no more.

In Wilkie’s pictures, this exhibition of mere manual skill is used very
sparingly, and is almost always kept in subjection to, or brought in aid
of, other infinitely more valuable ends. With the single exception of
the “Cut Finger,” which is a mere gratuitous effort of this manual
dexterity, all his pictures are moral tales, more or less interesting,
from their perfectly true delineation of habits and manners, or
impressive, from their development of character, passion, and sentiment.
The “Opening of the Will” is as fine in this way, as any of Sir Walter
Scott’s novels; and the “Rent Day” includes a whole series of national
tales of English pastoral life in the nineteenth century.

It is a great mistake to consider Wilkie as a comic painter, in which
light he is generally regarded by the public on both sides of the
Atlantic. When they are standing before his pictures, they seem to feel
themselves bound to be moved to laughter by them, as they would by a
comedy or a farce; and without this, they do not show their taste;
whereas laughter seems to me to be the very last sensation these works
are adapted to call forth.

Speaking of the best and most characteristic of them, I would say, that
scarcely any compositions of the art, in whatever class, are calculated
to excite a greater variety of deep and serious feelings; feelings, it
is true, so uniformly tempered and modified by a calm and delightful
satisfaction, that they can scarcely be considered without calling up a
_smile_ to the countenance. But the smile arising from inward delight is
as different from the laughter excited by strangeness and drollery as
any one thing can be from another. It is, in fact, the very essence of
Wilkie’s pictures, that there is literally nothing strange, and
consequently nothing droll and laughter-moving about them.

From the works of no one English artist have I received so much pure and
unmixed pleasure and instruction as I have from those of Sir David
Wilkie. He differs from all the great old masters, inasmuch as I think
he possesses more vigor of pencil, and more natural and characteristic
truth of expression than any of them. His style cannot, indeed, be said
to possess the airy and enchanting graces of Claude, or the classic
power and beauty of the Poussins, or the delicious sweetness of Paul
Potter, or the sunny brightness of Wynants, or the elegant warmth of
Both, or the delightfully rural and country-fied air of Hobbima. In
fact, he has no peculiar or distinguishing style of _his own_; and this
is his great and characteristic beauty. There is nothing in his pictures
but what belongs positively and exclusively to the scene they profess to
represent. When any of the above qualities are required in his pictures,
they are sure to be found there; not because they are part of _his_
style, but because they are part of _Nature’s_, in the circumstances
under which he is representing her. The _artist_ never obtrudes himself
to share with nature the admiration of the spectator. And this is a very
rare and admirable quality to possess in these days of pretence and
affectation; when _subject_ is usually but a _secondary_ consideration,
and is kept in submission to the display of style, manner, and what is
called _effect_.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            TO AMIE—UNKNOWN.


                             BY L. J. CIST.


    They tell me, lady! thou art fair
      As pale December’s driven snow;
    That thy rich curls of golden hair
      Are bright as summer-sunset’s glow;
    That on the coral of thy lips
    Dwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips;
    And in thy deep cerulean eye
    A thousand gentle graces lie;
    While lofty thought, all pure as thou,
    Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow!

    Lady! I love thee! though I ne’er
      Have seen that form of faultless grace;
    Though never met mine eyes the fair
      And perfect beauty of thy face:
    Yet not for that thy face is fair—
    Nor for thy sunny golden hair—
    Nor for thy lips of roseate hue—
    Nor for those eyes of Heaven’s own blue—
    Nor swan-like neck—nor stately brow—
    I love thee:—not to _these_ I bow!

    I love thee for the gifts of mind
      With which they tell me thou’rt endow’d;
    And for thy graceful manners—kind,
      And gently frank, and meekly proud!
    And for thy warm and gushing heart,
    And soul, all void of guileful art,
    And lofty intellect, well stored
    With learning’s rich and varied hoard;
    For gifts like _these_ (gifts all thine own)
    I love thee!—BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            EDITH PEMBERTON.


                        BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.


              Oh! days of youth and joy long clouded,
                Why thus forever haunt my view?
              While in the grave your light lay shrouded,
                Why did not memory die there too?
                                                   Moore.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton, drawing her needle through a very
dilapidated stocking which she was darning, “my dear, do you know how
much your old friend Ellis is worth?”

Mr. Pemberton looked up from his newspaper with some surprise, as he
replied, “I can’t tell exactly, but I should think his property cannot
fall short of one hundred thousand dollars.”

“That will be twenty thousand a piece for each of his five children,”
said Mrs. Pemberton, apparently pursuing some hidden train of thought.

“I am not so sure of that,” returned her husband, with a smile, “it is
difficult to calculate the fortune of a child during the life of a
parent. Mr. Ellis is a hale hearty man, and may live long enough to
double his fortune or perhaps to _lose_ it all. But why are you so
interested in his affairs just now, Sarah?”

“To tell you the truth, husband, I have been thinking that Edward Ellis
would be a good match for Caroline.”

“Pooh! pooh! Carry is but sixteen, it will be time enough three years
hence, to think of a husband for her.”

“But if a good opportunity should offer, it would be the height of folly
to let it slip only on account of her youth. Edward is certainly very
constant in his visits.”

“His intimacy with Charles, sufficiently accounts for his frequent
visits, and his attentions, if they mean anything, are rather directed
to Edith, as far as I can judge,” said Mr. Pemberton.

“Oh that is only because Edith is the eldest. I could easily manage to
keep her out of the way, if she were to interfere with Caroline’s
prospects.”

“But why not secure him for Edith, if you are so desirous of allying him
to the family?”

“Mercy on me, husband, what should I do without Edith? I would not, upon
any account, put such a notion into her head; nobody could supply her
place if she were to marry just now.”

“Rotation in office, my dear, is the true and just system in family
government, whatever it may be in politics; it is time that Caroline
shared some of Edith’s manifold duties,” said Mr. Pemberton.

“How little men know of domestic affairs,” exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton; “do
you suppose that such a giddy creature as Carry could ever be taught the
patience, industry and thoughtfulness which seem so natural to Edith?
No, no, I must keep Edith at home as long as possible.”

“So you have come to the conclusion that she is too useful to be allowed
to seek her own happiness.”

“Oh, Mr. Pemberton how can you talk so? I am sure if Edith really loved
any body I would never throw any obstacle in her way. She is quite
contented now and I don’t believe marriage is necessary to the happiness
of every body.”

“Why then are you so anxious to make matches for your girls? Why not
wait and see whether Carry is not also content to be single?”

“Because Caroline is such a hare-brained, thoughtless girl, that nothing
but domestic duties will ever give her steadiness of character, and
therefore I am anxious to see her settled in life.”

“Well I don’t think you need waste any feminine manœuvres upon Edward
Ellis, for whatever fortune his father may possess, he will never
support his sons in idleness. He means that they shall work for
themselves as he has done, and though he has given Edward a liberal
education, he intends to make him a thorough merchant.”

“Edward wishes to study a profession.”

“I know old Ellis well enough to believe that he sets too high a value
on time and money to consent to such a plan. He would never be willing
to maintain Edward during the next ten years, as must necessarily be the
case, if he adopted a profession.”

“Edward is a remarkably fine young man.”

“Yes, he possesses excellent talents and an amiable disposition, but his
character is yet to be formed by time and circumstance.”

“He is two and twenty, husband; and you were married when you were not
that age.”

“I know it, Sarah,” said Mr. Pemberton, drily, “and we both married five
years too soon. I became burdened with the support of a family at the
outset of life, and you were weighed down with domestic cares, while yet
in your girlhood; the consequence to me has been, that I am now obliged
to labour as hard for a living at forty-five as I did at twenty, and
with as little prospect of making a fortune; while the result to you has
been broken health and wearied spirits.”

“I am sure I never repented our marriage, my dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton
half reproachfully.

“Nor I, my dear Sarah,” replied her husband kindly, “it would be but an
ill requital for all your affection and goodness; but should we not be
equally happy and less care-worn now, if we had deferred our union until
we had been a little older and wiser?”

“Ah well,” sighed Mrs. Pemberton, feeling the truth of her husband’s
remark, but unwilling to confess it, “there is no use in such
retrospection; we have a large family around us, and there are no finer
children than ours in the whole circle of our acquaintance. If I am
broken down with the care of bringing them up, I can forget all my
trouble, when I have so much cause to be proud of them. A better
daughter than Edith, a more steady boy than Charley, and prettier girls
than Caroline and Maria, are not to be found anywhere in society; and I
dare say I shall be just as proud of the little ones in the nursery as
they grow up.”

“I dare say you will, my dear,” said her husband, smiling
good-humoredly, “it would be very strange if you were not, and quite as
strange if I had not similar opinions; Edith is as good as she is
handsome and I only wish young Ellis was in circumstances to marry her.”

“Don’t speak of such a thing, husband, I cannot consent to part with her
for the next four or five years.”

“Yet you want to get rid of Caroline.”

“I have already told you my motives; there never were two sisters more
unlike.”

“Edith has all the prudence and kindliness which befits a good wife, and
therefore deserves to be well mated.”

“She does not seem to think of such a thing as marriage, and I am truly
glad she is so indifferent about it, indeed I almost believe that Edith
is destined to be an old maid.”

“It needs no great prophetic skill to predict that, if you keep her
forever in the back-ground.”

“I am sure I do no such thing,” said Mrs. Pemberton, warmly.

“I don’t pretend to know much about these matters but I have noticed
that when the girls are invited to a party it is generally Edith who is
left at home.”

“It is not my fault, Mr. Pemberton, if she takes no pleasure in gay
society.”

“Are you certain she always stays at home from choice?”

“I dare say she does, at least she is never controlled by me.”

“But you know as well as I do, that the slightest expression of a wish
is sufficient to influence her. The truth is, Edith has made herself so
useful in the family that we all depend upon her for a large portion of
our comforts, and are too apt to forget that she often sacrifices her
own. Do you suppose that she actually preferred staying at home to nurse
little Margaret, the other night, to going to Mrs. Moore’s grand ball?”

“No, I can’t say she did, for she seemed rather anxious to attend that
ball, and had trimmed a dress beautifully for the occasion.”

“The child was certainly not so ill as to require her attendance in
addition to yours, and why, therefore, was she obliged to remain?”

“No, the baby was not very sick, but she cried so bitterly when she saw
Edith dressed for the party, that I was afraid she would bring on a
fever.”

“Therefore you disappointed Edith merely to gratify the whim of a petted
infant.”

“I left her to do as she pleased; she immediately changed her dress, to
pacify Margaret, and took her usual place by the cradle.”

“Yes, you left her to do as she pleased, after she had been allowed to
discover exactly what you wished she should do. This is always the way,
Sarah; the incident just mentioned, is only one out of hundreds, where
Edith’s kind feelings have been made to interfere with her pleasures. I
have long seen in the family a disposition to take advantage of her
unselfish character, and it seems to me exceedingly unjust. I do not
want to part with Edith, and should give her to a husband with great
reluctance, but I insist that she should have a fair chance, and not be
compelled to join the single sisterhood whether she will or not. You had
better let match-making alone, Sarah; leave the girls to choose for
themselves; only be careful that they have the right sort of admirers,
from which to select their future master.”

Edith Pemberton was the eldest of a large family. Her father, immersed
in business like most of our American merchants, spent the working days
of every week at his counting room, only returning at evening, jaded and
fatigued, to read the newspaper, and to doze upon the sofa till bed
time. Governed by the erroneous ideas, which led men, in our country, to
attempt the accumulation of a rapid fortune, in the vain hope of
enjoying perfect leisure in their later years, Mr. Pemberton had become
little more than a money-making machine. He loved his family but he had
little time to devote to them. He spared no expense in the education of
his children, liberally provided them with comforts, and punctually paid
all the family bills, but he left all the management of household
matters to his wife, who soon found it utterly useless to consult him on
any domestic arrangement. His purse was always open to her demands, but
his time he could not give. The consequence was that Mrs. Pemberton
while endeavoring conscientiously to perform her duties, made the usual
mistake, and fell into those habits which often convert our good wives
into mere housekeepers and nurse maids; “household drudges” as our
grumbling cousin Bull calls them. A rapidly increasing family, and her
utter ignorance of her husband’s business prospects, induced her to
practise the strictest economy which was consistent with comfort.
Abandoning the elegant accomplishments which she had acquired with so
much expense of time and labor at school, she secluded herself in her
nursery, and in the care of her children and the duties of housekeeping
found full employment.

In childhood, Edith was what old ladies call ‘a nice quiet little girl.’
Her delicate features, fair complexion, and blonde hair, established her
claim to infantile beauty, while her bright smile, sweet voice and
graceful gentleness seemed to win the love of all who knew her. Endowed
with no remarkable intellect, no decided genius, she yet managed, by
dint of good sense, industry and perseverance, to maintain her place at
the head of her classes, and to leave school, which she did at fifteen,
with the reputation of a very good scholar. A plain, but thorough
English education, a little French, a few not very ill done drawings in
water colors; some velvet paintings and a profound knowledge of the art
of stitching in all its varieties, were the fruits of Edith’s studies.
Gentle reader, do not despise the scanty list of accomplishments which
she could number. It comprised the usual course of education at that
time, and perhaps, in point of real usefulness, would bear a fair
comparison with the more imposing “_sciences_” and “_ologies_” which are
now _presumed_ to be taught in schools of higher pretensions. Her skill
in _needlecraft_ was a most valuable acquisition to the eldest daughter
of so numerous a family, and Mrs. Pemberton availed herself fully of its
aid. Edith returned from school only to take her place as an assistant
to her mother in the nursery. The maid whose business it was to take
care of the children, was not trustworthy, and it became the duty of
Edith to watch over the welfare of the little ones, while she employed
her busy fingers in shaping and sewing their multifarious garments.
Kindly in her feelings, affectionate in her disposition, gentle and
patient in temper, she was dearly loved by the children. It was soon
discovered that her influence could do more than the clamor of an
impatient nursemaid, or the frown of a mother whose natural good temper
had been fretted into irritability. If a child was refractory, sister
Edith alone could administer medicine, or smooth the uneasy pillow,—and
in short Edith became a kind of second mother to her five sisters and
three brothers.

Had her nature been in the slightest degree tainted with selfishness,
she might have reasonably murmured against the heavy burdens which were
laid upon her at so early an age. But Edith never thought of herself. To
contribute to the happiness of others was her chief pleasure, and she
seemed totally unconscious of the value of her daily sacrifices. If any
particularly disagreeable piece of work was to be done, it was always
concluded that Edith would not refuse to undertake it; if any one was
compelled to forego some anticipated pleasure, the lot was sure to fall
on Edith; and in short the total absence of selfishness in her seemed to
be the warrant for a double allowance of that ingredient in the
characters of all around her. Have you never met, friend reader, with
one of those kind, affectionate, ingenuous persons who have the knack of
doing every thing well, and the tact of doing every thing kindly? and
did you never observe that with this useful and willing person, every
body seemed to claim the right of sharing their troubles? Such an one
was Edith Pemberton.

But Edith was not proof against that passion which is usually libelled
as selfish and engrossing. Edward Ellis had cultivated an intimacy with
her young and studious brother, solely on her account, and the patience
with which the gifted “senior,” assisted the efforts of the zealous
“sophomore,” might be attributed less to friendship than to a warmer
emotion. Ellis was talented, ambitious and vain, but he was also
warm-hearted, and susceptible to virtuous impressions. The perfect
gentleness, the feminine delicacy, the modest beauty of Edith had
charmed the romantic student, and her unaffected admiration of his
superior mental endowments, completed the spell of her fascination. His
parents, well knowing how strong a safeguard against evil influences, is
a virtuous attachment, rather encouraged his intimacy with the Pemberton
family, without enquiring closely into his motives; and Edward was
content to enjoy the present, leaving the future to take care of itself.
In compliance with his wishes, his father had given him a liberal
education, but when, upon leaving college he requested permission to
study some profession, he met with a decided negative. “I wish you to be
a merchant, Edward,” said his father, “I have given you an education
which will enable you to be an enlightened and intelligent one, but upon
yourself it depends to become a rich one. Talents and learning without
money are of as little use as rough gems; they are curiosities for the
cabinet of the virtuoso, not valuables to the man of sense; they must be
polished and set in a golden frame before they can adorn the possessor,
or seem precious in the eyes of the multitude. If you are wealthy, a
little wisdom will procure you a great reputation; if you are poor your
brightest talents only serve as a farthing rush-light to show you your
own misery!” Such were the views of Mr. Ellis, and though his son
differed widely from him in feeling, yet he dared not gainsay the
assertions which he deemed the result of experience and worldly wisdom.

It was but a few days after the conversation just narrated that another
of a different character took place between two of the parties
interested. Edith was returning from a visit to a sick friend, just as
evening was closing in, when she was met at her door, by Edward Ellis.

“Come with me, Edith,” said Edward hurriedly, “wrap your shawl about
you, and walk with me on the Battery.”

“Not now, Mr. Ellis,” replied Edith, “it is quite late, and little Madge
is waiting for me to sing her to sleep.”

“Psha! Edith, you are always thinking of some family matter; do you ever
think of your own wishes?”

“Yes,” replied Edith, laughing, “and I confess I should prefer a
pleasant walk with you to a warm and noisy nursery.”

“Then come,” said Edward, drawing her arm through his, “I have something
of great consequence to say to you.”

Edith looked surprised, but the expression of Edward’s countenance was
anxious and troubled, so she offered no further opposition. They entered
the Battery, and walked along the river side, for some minutes in
perfect silence, before Edward could summon courage to enter upon the
subject nearest his thoughts. At length as they turned into a less
frequented path, he abruptly exclaimed, “Do you know, Edith, that I am
going away?”

Edith’s heart gave a sudden bound, and then every pulsation seemed as
suddenly to cease, as with trembling voice she uttered a faint
exclamation of astonishment.

“You are surprised, Edith, I knew you would be so, but have you no other
feeling at this announcement of my departure? Nay, turn not your sweet
face from me; I must know whether your heart responds to mine.”

Edith blushed and trembled as she thus listened, for the first time, to
the voice of passionate tenderness. Feelings which had long been growing
up unnoticed in her heart, and to which she had never thought of giving
a name—fancies, beautiful in their vagueness,—emotions undefined and
undetermined, but still pleasant in the indulgence,—all the

                        “countless things
        That keep young hearts forever glowing,”

found in that instant their object and their aim. Edith had never
thought of Edward as a lover, she had never looked into her heart to
discover whether she really wished him to be such, but at the magic
voice of affection, the mystery of her own heart was revealed to her,
its secret recesses were unveiled to her gaze, and she knew that his
image had long been there unconsciously enshrined. Her lover saw not all
her emotions in her expressive countenance, but he read there no
repulsive coldness, and as he clasped the little hand, which lay on his
arm, he said:

“Listen to me, dear Edith; my father informed me, to-day, that he has
made an arrangement with my uncle, (whom, as you know, has long resided
at Smyrna,) by which I am to become the junior partner in the house, and
he has directed me to be ready in three weeks, to sail in one of his
ships, now lading for that port. How long I shall be absent, is
uncertain, but as my uncle is desirous of returning to America, I
presume that it is intended I shall take his place abroad. Years,
therefore, may elapse ere I again behold my native land, and I cannot
depart without telling you how dear you have long been to my heart. Yet
let me not deceive you Edith: I have confessed to my father my affection
for you,—he acknowledges your worth, and does not disapprove my choice,
but he has positively forbidden me to form any engagement for the
future. I am violating his commands in thus expressing my feelings to
you.”

“What are his objections, Edward?” faltered the trembling girl.

“Oh it is the old story of over-prudent age; he says we may both change
long before I return, and that it is best to be unfettered by any
promise; then no harm can happen to either, and if you love me you will
wait my return, without requiring any engagement to confirm your faith.
Thus he argues and I can make no reply. I have no means of supporting a
wife, therefore I dare not ask you of your parents, and my father’s
caution deprives me of the only comfort which hope might have afforded
me in my exile.”

Edith was deeply agitated, and her cheek grew pale, as she murmured:
“You are right in obeying your father, Edward; happiness never yet
waited on one who was deficient in filial duty.”

“And is this all you can say, Edith,” exclaimed Edward passionately. “Is
this cold approval all I can hope to receive from the object of my first
and only love? Have not my every look and tone told you how deeply I
loved you, and can you let me depart without one word of tenderness or
regret? Must I remember your gentle face but as a dream of boyhood?
Shall your low, sweet voice be but as the melody of by-gone years? May I
not bear with me, in my banishment, a hope, faint and cold it may be as
the winter sunbeam, yet lighting up my dreary path with something like a
promise of future happiness? Edith I ask no plighted faith; I wish you
not to pledge me your hand till I can come forward and claim it openly;
but I would fain know whether my love is but as incense flung upon the
winds. If you can offer no return to my affection, dearest, let me at
once know my fate, and with all the force of an over-mastering will,
shall my heart be silenced, if not subdued. Say that you love me not,
Edith, and though the stream of my life must forever bear your image on
its surface, yet you shall never know how dark has been the shadow it
has cast. Say that you love me not, and you shall never hear a murmur
from my lips, nor shall your peaceful existence be saddened by the gloom
which must ever pervade mine. You are silent Edith—you cannot bear to
utter the words which must condemn me to despair.”

Ellis paused, and strove to read in Edith’s face, the feelings to which
she could not give utterance. But her eyes were bent upon the ground,
while the big tears fell like rain from beneath the drooping lids and in
her flushed cheek he saw only displeasure.

“I was right, Edith,” said he, sadly, “you do not love me; forgive and
forget my folly, but let us not part in coldness.” He took her hand
again, as he spoke: “I perhaps deserve punishment for my selfishness in
thus asking the heart when I could not claim the hand; when I am gone,
some happier lover will perhaps ask both and then—”

“He will be denied,” interrupted Edith, hastily, turning her agitated
face towards her suitor. “This is no time for maiden coyness, Edward;
your happiness and mine are both at stake, and therefore I tell you,
what till this moment was unknown even to myself, that my affections are
in your keeping.”

“Dearest, dearest Edith, then am I supremely happy; I ask no more; let
the only bond between us be the secret one of cherished love.”

“Not so, Edward; you have promised your father not to enter into any
engagement, but I am bound by no such restraints. You are, and must
remain free from all other bonds than those of feeling, but if it will
add to your happiness to be assured of my faith during your absence, I
pledge you my word that my hand shall be yours whenever you come to
claim it.”

“But your parents, Edith,—what will they say, if they find you clinging
to a remembered lover, and perhaps rejecting some advantageous
settlement?”

“They will suffer me to pursue my own course, Edward, and will be
satisfied with any thing that binds me to my childhood’s home. I am too
much the companion of my parents to be looked upon in the light of an
intruder, when I prolong the period of filial dependence.”

“Then be it so, dearest; bound by no outward pledge, we will cherish our
affection within our hearts, and since we must part, you will still
gladden your quiet home with your sweet presence, while I will wander
forth to win the fortune which can alone secure me my future happiness.”

Three weeks after this interview, Edward Ellis sailed for Smyrna, and
Mrs. Pemberton, as she witnessed the ill-disguised agitation of the
lovers, was compelled to acknowledge that “after all, she really
believed, if Edward had staid, there would have been a match between him
and Edith.”

But Edith buried within her own bosom, her newly awakened emotions. Her
manner was always so quiet, that if her step did become less light, and
her voice grow softer in its melancholy cadence, it was scarcely noticed
by her thoughtless companions. She had learned that she was beloved,
only in the moment of separation, and therefore there were few tender
and blissful recollections to beguile the weary days of absence; but

        “Woman’s love can live on long remembrance
        And oh! how precious is the slightest thing
        Affection gives, and hallows!”

She was one of those gentle beings who draw from the font of tenderness
within their own bosoms, a full draught of sympathy for the sufferings
and wants of others. She returned to her self-denying duties with a more
thoughtful spirit and a more loving heart. Her character, always full of
goodness and truth, seemed to assume an elevation of feeling, such as
nothing but a pure and unselfish attachment can ever create. A desire to
become in all respects, worthy of him whom she loved, gave a new tone to
all her impulses, and her vivid sense of duty became blended with her
earnest desire to merit her future happiness. Edward wrote very
punctually to his young friend Charles Pemberton, and every letter
contained some message to Edith, but she alone could detect the secret
meaning of the apparently careless lines. They afforded sufficient
nutriment to the love which was rapidly becoming a part of her very
being; and Edith was content to abide her time!

In the mean time Mrs. Pemberton, who became an adept in match-making,
busied herself in providing for her younger girls, and was fortunate
enough to secure two most eligible offers. Caroline, at eighteen became
the wife of a promising young lawyer, while Maria, who was nearly two
years younger, married at the same time a prosperous merchant, who had
lately set up his carriage and, as he had no time to use it himself,
wanted a wife to ride in it. Mrs. Pemberton was in ecstasies, for she
had succeeded in all her plans. Edith was still at home, as a sort of
house keeper, head cook, chief nurse, etc. etc., sharing every body’s
labors and lightening every body’s troubles, while the two giddy girls
who had resolved not to become useful as long as they could avoid the
necessity of it, were respectably settled in their own homes. She was
never tired of extolling the talents of one son-in-law, and the fine
fortune of the other, while she spoke of Edith as “that dear good girl,
who, I am happy to say, is a confirmed old maid, and will never leave
her mother while she lives.” But this manœuvre did not discourage
several from seeking the hand of the gentle girl. Her father wondered
when she refused two of the most unexceptionable offers, and even her
mother felt almost sorry, when she declined the addresses of an elderly
widower, endowed with a fortune of half a million, and a family of fine
children. But a total want of congeniality of feeling in all her
immediate friends, had taught Edith a degree of reserve which seemed
effectually to conceal her deepest feelings. She was patient and
trustful, she considered herself affianced in heart, and though
conscious that not even the tie of honor, as the world would consider
it, bound her lover to his troth, she felt no misgivings as to his
fidelity. She trod the even tenor of her way, diffusing cheerfulness and
comfort around her, thinking for every body, remembering every thing and
forgetting only herself. None sought her sympathy or assistance in vain;
in her own family—in the chamber of sickness or death, among her
friends,—in the hovel of poverty and distress, she was alike useful and
kindly. Every one loved her, and even those who tested her powers of
endurance most fully, almost idolized the unselfish and affectionate
daughter and sister.

Years passed on, and brought their usual chances and charges. Caroline
became a mother, and fancied that her cares were quite too heavy for her
to bear alone. Edith was therefore summoned to assist and soon found
herself occupying a similar station in her sister’s nursery to that
which she had long filled at home. The baby was often sick and always
cross; nobody but Edith could manage him, and therefore Edith took the
entire charge of him, while the mother paid visits and the nurse
gossiped in the kitchen. Maria too began to assert claims upon her. She,
poor thing, was entirely too young for the duties she had undertaken.
Thoughtless, fond of dress, and profuse in household expenditure, she
had no idea of systematic housekeeping, and Edith was called in to place
matters on a better footing. But before Maria had attained her
eighteenth year, her family was rather liberally increased by the
addition of twin daughters, and again the agency of the useful sister
was required. Her girlhood had been consumed amid womanly cares, and now
her years of blooming womanhood were to be wasted in supplying the
deficiencies of those who had incurred responsibilities which exceeded
their powers. Yet Edith never thought of murmuring. She had been so long
accustomed to live for others that self-sacrifice had now become
habitual, and she never dreamed too much might be asked of or granted by
sisterly affection.

It is a common remark that the years seem to grow shorter as we advance
in life, and they who could once exclaim “_a whole year!_” in accents of
unqualified alarm at its length, at last find themselves referring to
the same space in the careless tone of indifference as “_only a year_.”
Twelve months had seemed almost an eternity to Edith when her lover
first bade her farewell, and the time that intervened between his
letters to her brother seemed almost endless. But as she became
engrossed in new cares, and her youth began to slip by, the years seemed
to revolve with greater speed, even although Charles was now in a
distant part of the country and the correspondence between him and her
lover if it was still continued, never met her eye. She had formed an
intimacy with Edward’s mother, and, as the old lady was very fond of
needle-worked pin-cushions, net purses, worsted fire screens, and all
such little nick nacks if obtained without expense, Edith was soon
established in her good graces. She was thus enabled to see Edward’s
letters to his parents, and though they were very business-like
commonplace affairs, not at all resembling a lady’s beau-ideal of a
lover’s epistle, still Edith was satisfied. It was strange that so
strong, so abiding, so pervading a passion should have taken possession
of a creature so gentle, so almost cold in her demeanor. But the calmest
exterior often conceals the strongest emotions, and, if the flow of
Edith’s feelings was quiet it was only because they worked for
themselves a deeper and less fathomable channel.

Seventeen years,—a long period in the annals of time, and a longer in
the records of the heart;—seventeen years passed ere Edward Ellis
returned to his native land. He had left it a romantic warm-hearted
youth and he returned a respectable, intelligent, wealthy man. The
ambition which would have led him to seek literary fame, had been
expended in search of other distinctions in the world of commerce. He
had become a keen observer of men and an acute student of the more
sordid qualities of human nature—in a word, he had devoted his fine
energies to the acquisition of wealth, and as his father predicted, he
had so well availed himself of his opportunities that he was both an
enlightened and rich merchant. But the romance of his early days had
long since passed away. The imaginative student was concealed or rather
lost in the man of the world. Thrown upon his own resources, in a
foreign land, and surrounded by strangers he had learned to think and
act for himself. He had acquired the worldly wisdom which enabled him to
study his own interests, and it is not strange that selfishness should
have mingled its alloy with his naturally amiable character. During his
long sojourn abroad no claims had been made upon his affections, he had
lived unloving and unloved, and the warm current of his feelings seemed
gradually to have become chilled. When seen through the mist of absence,
or viewed through the long vista of time, the familiar faces of his
distant home, faded into vague and indistinct images. He returned to the
scenes of his youth with a feeling of strangeness and the remembrances
at every step of his approach were rather mournful than pleasant to his
soul.

Edward Ellis had been several days at home, he had fully answered all
the claims filial and fraternal duty, and received the congratulations
of the friends who are always found ready to note one’s good fortune,
ere he bent his steps towards the dwelling of Edith Pemberton. His
feelings in this as in most other things were materially altered. His
early passion, like his aspirations after fame, had become but as a
dream of the past, a shadow of some unattainable felicity. The hope
which once made his love a source of anticipated happiness, had long
since faded from his sight, and as time passed on, a tender and
melancholy interest, such as one feels when regarding the youthful dead,
was the only emotion which the recollection of Edith could inspire. He
had outlived the affection which he had designed to be the measure of
their existence. The flower had been blighted by the cold breath of
worldliness, and so many sordid interests had occupied his heart since,
that every trace of its beauty was lost forever. Not with a wish to
revive old feelings, but from a morbid restless unsatisfied yearning
towards the past, Ellis betook himself to the abode of his once loved
Edith.

As he entered the hall, and ere the servant could announce his name, a
young lady emerged from the drawing-room, and met him face to face. He
started in unfeigned surprise, as he exclaimed:—

“Miss Pemberton!—Edith—can it be possible?”

The lady looked a little alarmed, and opening the door through which she
had just passed said:—

“My name is Margaret, sir; did you wish to see sister Edith?”

He answered in the affirmative, and as he took his seat while the
sylph-like figure of the beautiful girl disappeared, he could not help
glancing at the mirror, where a moment’s reflection soon convinced him
that the years which had so changed him could scarcely have left Edith
untouched. The thought that Margaret whom he had left almost an infant
should have thus expanded into the lovely image of her sister, prepared
him in some measure for other changes.

Edith had expected his visit with a flutter of spirits most unusual and
distressing. She was conscious that he would find her sadly altered in
person, and she had been trying to school herself for the interview,
which she well knew must be fraught with pain even if it brought
happiness. But when her young sister came to her with a ludicrous
account of the strange gentleman’s droll mistake, her prophetic soul,
which had acquired the gift of prescience from sorrow, saw but too
plainly the cloud upon her future. She descended to the drawing-room
with a determination to control her emotions, and, to one so accustomed
to self command, the task though difficult was not impossible. The
meeting between the long parted lovers was painful and full of
constraint. In the emaciated figure, and hollow cheek of her who had
long passed the spring of life, Ellis saw little to awaken the
associations of early affection, for the being who now appeared before
him scarcely retained a trace of her former self. Time, and care, and
the wearing anxiety of hope deferred had blighted the beauty which under
happier circumstances might have outlived her youthfulness. Edith was
now only a placid pleasant looking woman with that indescribable air of
mannerism which always characterises the single lady of a certain age,
and as Ellis compared her present appearance with that of her blooming
sister, who bore a most singular resemblance to her, he was tempted to
feel a secret satisfaction in the belief that her heart was as much
changed as her person.

And what felt Edith at this meeting? She had lived on one sweet hope,
and had borne absence, and sorrow, and the wasting of weary expectancy
with the patience of a loving and trusting heart. It is true that, as
years sped on, she lost much of the sanguine temper which once seemed to
abbreviate time and diminish space. It is true that as time stole the
bloom from her cheek and the brightness from her eye, many a misgiving
troubled her gentle bosom, and the shadow of a settled grief seemed
gradually extending its gloom over her feelings. But still hope
existed,—no longer as the brilliant sunshine of existence,—no longer
as the only hope which the future could afford,—but faded and dim—its
radiance lost in the mist of years, yet still retaining a spark of its
early warmth. She had many doubts and fears but she still had pleasant
fancies of the future, which, cherished in her secret heart, were the
only fountains of delight in the dreary desert of her wasted feelings.
But now all was at an end. They had met, not as strangers, but, far
worse, as estranged friends. The dream of her life was rudely
broken—the veil was lifted from her eyes,—the illusion which had given
all she knew of happiness, was destroyed forever. In the words of him
who has sounded every string of love’s sweet lyre, she might have
exclaimed in the bitterness of her heart:—

        “Had we but known, since first we met,
          Some few short hours of bliss,
        We might in numbering them, forget
          The deep deep pain of this;
        But no! our hope was born in fears
          And nursed ’mid vain regrets!
        Like winter suns, it rose in tears,
          Like them, in tears it sets.”

Mrs. Pemberton at first formed some schemes, founded on the remembrance
of Edward’s former liking for Edith, but when she learned his error
respecting Margaret she began to fancy that if her eldest daughter was a
little too old, the younger was none too young to make a good wife for
the rich merchant. She expressed her admiration of his expanded figure,
extolled his fine hair, which happened to be a well made wig, was in
raptures with his beautiful teeth which owed their brilliancy to the
skill of a French dentist, and, in short, left no means untried to
accomplish her end. But she was doomed to disappointment. It is not easy
to kindle a new flame from the ashes of an extinguished passion. There
was a secret consciousness, a sense of dissatisfaction with himself,
that made Ellis rather shrink from Edith’s society, and threw an air of
constraint over his manner towards the whole family. He was not happy in
the presence of her who appeared before him as a spectre of the past,
bearing reproaches in its melancholy countenance, and after a few
embarrassed attempts at carelessness in his intercourse with her, he
ceased entirely to visit the family.

No one ever knew what Edith suffered, for no one suspected her
long-cherished attachment. Her step became languid, her cheek sunken,
her eye unnaturally bright, and when at length, a hacking cough fastened
itself upon her lungs, every body said that Edith Pemberton was falling
into a consumption. Some attributed it to a cold taken when nursing her
sister through a dangerous illness,—others thought she had worn out her
health among her numerous nephews and nieces. But the worm lay at the
root of the tree and though the storm and the wind might work its final
overthrow, the true cause of its fall was the gnawing of the secret
destroyer. Gradually and quietly and silently she faded from among the
living. Friends gathered round her couch of suffering and the
consolations of the Book of all truth smoothed her passage to the tomb.
With a world of sorrow and care sinking from her view, and an eternal
life of happiness opening upon her dying eyes, she closed her useful and
blameless life.

On the very day fixed upon for his marriage with a young and fashionable
heiress, Edward Ellis received a summons to attend, as pall bearer, the
funeral of Edith Pemberton. Of course he could not decline, and as he
beheld the earth flung upon the coffin which concealed the faded form of
her whom he had once loved, the heart of the selfish and worldly man was
touched with pity and remorse. But he turned from Edith’s grave to his
own bridal and in the festivities of that gay scene soon forgot her who,
after a life spent in the service of others, had fallen a victim to that
chronic heart-break which destroys many a victim never numbered in the
records of mortality.

Gentle reader, I have told you a simple story, but one so like the
truth, that you will be tempted to conjecture that the real heroine has
been actually known to you. Will not the circle of your own acquaintance
furnish an Edith Pemberton?—a gentle, lovely and loveable woman, who
leads a life of quiet benevolence, and whose obscure and peaceful
existence is marked by deeds of kindness, even as the windings of a
summer brook are traced by the freshness of the verdure and flowers that
adorn its banks? Have you never met with one of those persons on whose
gravestone might be inscribed the beautiful and touching lines of the
poet Delille?

        “Joyless I lived yet joy to others gave!”

And when you have listened to the bitter jest, the keen sarcasm and the
thoughtless ridicule which the young and gay are apt to utter against
“_the old maid_,” has it never occurred to you that each of these
solitary and useful beings may have her own true tale of young and
disappointed affection?

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          TO AN ANTIQUE VASE.


                            BY N. C. BROOKS.


    In the cabinet of M. Villaneu is an antique vase of elegant
    proportions and beautiful workmanship that was fished up from
    the sea. It is wreathed with coral and madripore, in the most
    grotesque manner. The play of Imagination I hope will not be
    considered too free in supposing it had been used in ancient
    sacrifices, at the founding of cities, and the revels of
    royalty.

    Ages have passed since, amid the gale,
      A votive gift to the god of the sea
    Thou wert cast where the Tyrian’s broidered sail
      O’er the Adrian wave swept wildly free:
    And we muse, as we gaze on thy tarnished gleam,
    On the vanished past in a quiet dream.

    Where ancient temples once flashed with gold
      Thou hast stood with the priest at the holy shrine—
    Where in amber wreaths the incense rolled,
      Thou hast shed thy treasure of votive wine:
    Now the temples are fallen—the altars lone,
    And the white-robed priest and his gods are gone.

    Where the augur waved and the monarch prayed
      Thy font has the full libation poured;
    And when the city walls were laid
      The palace rose and the castle towered:
    But they sunk by the engine and Time’s dark flood,
    And the wild grass waves where the columns stood.

    In the festal halls where eyes grew bright,
      And pulses leaped at the viol’s sound,
    Thou hast winged the hours with mystic flight,
      As the feast and the mazy dance went round:
    Now mosses the mouldering walls encrust,
    And the pulseless hearts of the guests are dust.

    Yes creeds have changed, and forms have grown old—
      Empires and nations have faded away
    Since the grape last purpled thy shining gold;
      And grandeur and greatness have met decay
    Since the beaded bubbles of old did swim,
    Like rubies, around thy jewelled brim.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                             THE OLD WORLD.


                            BY GEORGE LUNT.


    There was once a world and a brave old world,
      Away in the ancient time,
    When the men were brave and the women fair,
      And the world was in its prime;
    And the priest he had his book,
      And the scholar had his gown,
    And the old knight stout, he walked about
      With his broadsword hanging down.

    Ye may see this world was a brave old world,
      In the days long past and gone,
    And the sun it shone, and the rain it rained,
      And the world went merrily on.
    The shepherd kept his sheep,
      And the milkmaid milked the kine,
    And the serving-man was a sturdy loon
      In a cap and doublet fine.

    And I’ve been told in this brave old world,
      There were jolly times and free,
    And they danced and sung, till the welkin rung,
      All under the greenwood tree.
    The sexton chimed his sweet sweet bells,
      And the huntsman blew his horn,
    And the hunt went out, with a merry shout,
      Beneath the jovial morn.

    Oh, the golden days of the brave old world
      Made hall and cottage shine;
    The squire he sat in his oaken chair,
      And quaff’d the good red wine;
    The lovely village maiden,
      She was the village queen,
    And, by the mass, tript through the grass
      To the May-pole on the green.

    When trumpets roused this brave old world,
      And banners flaunted wide,
    The knight bestrode the stalwart steed,
      And the page rode by his side.
    And plumes and pennons tossing bright
      Dash’d through the wild mêlée,
    And he who prest amid them best
      Was lord of all, that day.

    And ladies fair, in the brave old world,
      They ruled with wondrous sway;
    But the stoutest knight he was lord of right,
      As the strongest is to-day.
    The baron bold he kept his hold,
      Her bower his bright ladye,
    But the forester kept the good greenwood,
      All under the forest tree.

    Oh, how they laugh’d in the brave old world,
      And flung grim care away!
    And when they were tired of working
      They held it time to play.
    The bookman was a reverend wight,
      With a studious face so pale,
    And the curfew bell, with its sullen swell,
      Broke duly on the gale.

    And so passed on, in the brave old world,
      Those merry days and free;
    The king drank wine and the clown drank ale,
      Each man in his degree.
    And some ruled well and some ruled ill,
      And thus passed on the time,
    With jolly ways in those brave old days
      When the world was in its prime.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                           THOUGHTS ON MUSIC.


                         BY HENRY COOD WATSON.


From whence does the Musician draw his inspiration? This question is
often asked, but seldom correctly answered. Music, as a science, is but
little understood. The importance of its detail is not considered,
because its effects are not examined, by the appreciating eye of
knowledge. To common observers, music possesses no feature worthy of
consideration, beyond an accidental succession of notes, which gives a
pleasing sensation to the ear, without intention or design. Most persons
believe that they could write music, if they only knew their notes. To
“turn” a melody is the easiest thing in life, and all the adjuncts,
harmony and instrumentation, are merely mechanical parts of the art,
which every one might learn. This is a popular and very gross error.
Music is either a simple succession of relative intervals, which form a
melody, or an aggregate of consonant or dissonant sounds, which produces
a harmony. These two combined, form a vehicle for the expression of the
passions of the human heart, more forcible and more truthful, than the
noblest works of either the painter or the poet.

It would require too much space, and would lead me too far from my
original subject, to enquire into, and to trace out, the means by which
simple sounds, produced by vibration, percussion or detonation, affect
the mind and imagination of the hearer. It will be sufficient to say,
that the individual experience of every one, will bear witness to the
existence of this most powerful agency.

The music of a low sweet voice, how it penetrates and vibrates through
the whole being! The music of the small birds, though limited in its
scale, how it fills up the measure of the imagination, by giving a voice
of harmony to the silent beauties of nature. The pealing organ with its
various tones, breathes out religious strains, and moves the heart to
penitence and prayer. This instrument is suited above all others, to
display the imagination of a master hand, from the vast extent of its
compass, and the almost endless variety of its powers by combinations.
It affects the imagination more than any individual instrument, or any
combination of instruments. How deep and varied the emotions of the
heart of him, whose “spirit is attentive,” while listening to one of the
sublime masses of Mozart, Haydn or Beethoven. With what a thrilling and
awful feeling, the dark, mysterious and wailing miserere falls upon the
soul; and with what a happy contrast, does the beautiful and comforting
benedictus, pour “oil upon the bruised spirit.”

The shrill fife, the hollow drum and the clangourous trumpet, speak to
other and wilder passions of our hearts. They breathe an inspiration
into the mind; they nerve the arm, make firm the tread, and give an
animated existence to slumbering ambition, or wavering courage. The soft
toned flute, the plaintive oboe, the mellow clarionette, with the other
various harmonious instruments, under the influence of the creative
mind, affect to smiles or tears, discourse of love, or breathe of hate,
according to the shades of feeling pourtrayed by the composition.

But by what means is the imitation of these non-tangible things,
transferred to a medium, which is not visible to the eye, nor
distinguishable to the touch? From whence does the musician draw, to
enable him to affect his hearers, by the means of sound, with the very
feelings which he attempts to imitate? We will proceed to answer these
inquiries.

The task of the poet is one of less difficulty, than the task of the
musician, for he treats of real or imaginary subjects, with the aid of a
medium that is universally understood and appreciated, according to the
various degrees, and powers of the peruser’s intellect. This medium is
language. Words embody and define ideas; a word can express a passion,
and other words can describe its rise and progress, and follow it in all
its secret channels, and through all its numerous ramifications. The
power of language is unbounded. Every thing that is, has a name, which
name becomes associated with it in the mind, and inseparable from it,
always presenting to the mental vision the object that it represents.
The most subtle emotions of the human mind, feelings which lie deep in
the recesses of the heart, can be torn from their lair, and displayed
before the world by means of this mighty agent. Even nature with her ten
thousand hoarded secrets, is over mastered, and bares her bosom to the
force of thought, and stands revealed to the world, yea, even to her
innermost core, by the power of language. To aid him in the task, the
poet hath a million adjuncts. He moves amidst the human world, and
gathers from its denizens, unending food for thought and
observation,—their joys and their sorrows; their pursuits and their
ends; their passions and their vices, their virtues and their charities.
The life of a single being in that living mass, would form a subject of
varied and startling interest, and leave but little for the imagination
to fill up, or to heighten. He looks up into the heavens, and finds a
space of boundless immensity, in which his restless speculation may run
riot. He looks abroad upon the face of nature, and there are endless
stores of bright and beautiful things, to feed his fancy, to stimulate
his imagination and refresh his thoughts.

How few of these fruitful themes, are available to the musician!

The painter in all his beautiful creations, pourtrays his subjects by
the means of the actual. From the living loveliness which he daily sees,
he hoards up rich stores of beauty, for some happy thought. But to aid
him in his labors, he has the actual form and color, light and shade.
The forms of beauty that glow and breathe upon the canvass; the quiet
landscape, so full of harmony and peacefulness; the rolling ocean, the
strife of the elements, the wild commingling of warring men, are but the
transcripts of the actual things.

The sculptor as he hews from the rough block, some form of exquisite
loveliness, whose charms shall throw a spell over men’s souls for ages,
does but compress into one fair creation, the beauties of a thousand
living models.

But the resources of the musician are in his own soul. From that alone
can he forge the chain of melody, that shall bind the senses in a
wordless ecstasy. Tangibilities to him are useless. Comparisons are of
no avail. He individualises, but does not reflect. He feels but does not
think. He deals with action and emotion, but form and substance are
beyond his imitation. He is a metaphysician, but not a philosopher. But
the depth of the music, will depend entirely upon the man. From a close
study of the works of Mozart and Beethoven, a correct and metaphysical
analysis of their characters can be obtained. In the early works of
Mozart will be found a continuous chain of tender and impassioned
sentiment; an overflowing of soul, an exuberance of love, and his early
life will be found to be a counterpart of these emotions. In him the
passions were developed at an age, when in ordinary children their germ
would be scarcely observed. Loved almost to idolatry by his family, and
loving them as fondly in return, his life was passed in one unceasing
round of the tenderest endearments. All that was beautiful in his nature
was brought into action, and gave that tone of exquisite tenderness,
that pervades all his imperishable works. But as the passing years
brought with them an increase of thought and reflection, a change is to
be found equally in the character of the music and the man. This change
can be traced in his later operas, Le Nozze de Figaro, Don Giovanni,
Cosi Fan Tutti, La Clemenza di Tito, Die Zauberflöte, and Die Entführung
aus dem Serail. In these works there is the evidence of deeper and more
comprehensive thought; the metaphysical identity of character is as
strictly maintained, and as closely developed, as it could be pourtrayed
by words. His Il Don Giovanni, stands now, and will forever stand, an
unapproachable model of musical perfection.

The character of Beethoven exhibits no decided change through life,
excepting, that in his later years the characteristics of his youth and
manhood, increased to a degree of morbid acuteness. From his earliest
childhood he was of a retiring, studious, and reflective nature. The
conscious possession of great genius, made him wilful and unyielding in
his opinions. Too high minded to court favours, he at various times
suffered the severest privations that poverty could inflict; and, taking
deeply to heart the total want of public appreciation, he became morose,
distrustful and dissatisfied. These feelings were rendered morbid in the
highest degree, by the melancholy affliction that assailed him in his
later years. He became nearly deaf, and was consequently deprived of the
dearest enjoyment of a musician’s life. These feelings were developed,
in a marked degree, in all his purely ideal compositions. Dark and
mysterious strains of harmony would be succeeded by a burst of wild and
melancholy fancy. Anon a tender, but broad and flowing melody, would
melt the soul by its passionate pathos, but only of sufficient duration
to render the cadence of heart-rending despair, which succeeds it, the
more striking. Rapid and abrupt modulations, strange and startling
combinations, bore evidence of his wild imagination, and the
uncontrollable impulse of his feelings. The opera of Fidelio, the only
dramatic work that he ever wrote, ranks only second to Don Giovanni. In
Fidelio each person has a distinct musical character, so clearly and
forcibly marked, that the aid of words is not necessary to distinguish
them. It would be impossible to transpose them without losing their
identity, and destroying the sense of the music. Mozart’s genius was
tender yet sublime: Beethoven’s was melancholy, mysterious, yet
gigantic. Each painted himself; each drew from his own bosom all the
inspiration his works exhibited. They required no outward influence;
they needed no adventitious circumstances to rouse their imagination, or
to cause their thoughts to flow, for in their own souls was an ever
gushing spring of divine melody, that could not be controlled. They
_thought music_, and, as light flows from the sun, gladdening the
creation, so their music came from them, irradiating the hearts of men,
and throwing over them a delicious spell, whose charm is everlasting.

Music is so ethereal, and deals so little in realities, that its
followers, partaking of its characteristics, are in most instances,
impulsive, impassioned and unworldly. Careless of the excitements and
mutations of the times; unambitious of place or power; indifferent to
the struggles and heart-burnings of party politicians, from the utter
uncongeniality of the feelings and emotions they engender, with their
own, they live secluded, shut up within their own hearts, and seldom
appear to the world in their true colors, from the utter impossibility
of making it comprehend or sympathise with their refined and mysterious
feelings. The world has no conception of the exquisite delight that
music confers upon musicians. It is not mere pleasure; it is not a mere
gratification that can be experienced and forgotten! Oh, no! It is a
blending of the physical with the intellectual; it softens the nature;
it heightens the imagination; it throws a delicious languor over the
whole organization; it isolates the thoughts, concentrating them only to
listen and receive; it elevates the soul to a region of its own, until
it is faint with breathing the melodious atmosphere.

Music is the offspring of these feelings. The inspiration is the gift of
God alone, and cannot be added to or diminished.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                              EUROCLYDON.


        BY CHARLES LANMAN, AUTHOR OF “ESSAYS FOR SUMMER HOURS.”


At one stride came the dark, and it is now night. Cold and loud is the
raging storm. Rain enow and sleet are dashing most furiously against the
windows,—actually dampening the curtains within. There—there goes a
shutter, torn from its hinges by the wind! Another gust,—and how
desolate its moan! It is the voice of the Winter Storm Spirit, who comes
from beyond the ice-plains of the North. I can interpret his cry, which
is dismal as the howl of wolves.

“Mortal crouch—crouch like a worm beside thy hearth-stone and
acknowledge thy insignificance. When the skies are bright, and thou art
surrounded by the comforts of life, thou goest forth among thy fellows
boasting of thine intellect and greatness. But when the elements arise,
shaking the very earth to its foundation, thou dost tremble with fear,
and thy boasting is forgotten. Approach the window, and as thou lookest
upon the gloom of this stormy night, learn a lesson of humility. Thou
art in thyself as frail and helpless as the icicle depending from yonder
bough.

“O, this is a glorious night for me! I have broken the chains which have
bound me in the Arctic Sea, and fearful elements follow in my path to
execute my bidding. Listen, while I picture to your mind a few of the
countless scenes I have witnessed, which are terrible to man, but to me
a delight.

“An hundred miles away, there is a lonely cottage on the border of an
inland lake. An hour ago I passed by there, and a mingled sound of woe
came from its inmates, for they were poor and sick, and had no wood. A
miserable starving dog was whining at their door. I laughed with joy and
left them to their suffering.

“I came to a broad river, where two ferrymen were toiling painfully at
their work. I loosened the ice that had been formed farther up, and it
crushed them to death in its mad career.

“Beside a mountain, a solitary foot-traveller, of three score years and
ten, was ascending a road heavily and slow. I chilled the crimson
current in his veins, and the pure white snow became his winding sheet.
What matter! It was his time to die.

“On yonder rock-bound coast, a fisherman was startled from his fireside
by a signal of distress. He looked through the darkness and discovered a
noble ship hastening toward a dangerous reef. I brought her there,
regardless of the costly merchandize and freight of human life. She
struck,—and three hundred hardy men went down into that black roaring
element which gives not back its dead. The morrow will dawn, and the
child at home will lisp its father’s name, unconscious of his fate, and
the wife will smile and press her infant to her bosom, not doubting but
that her husband will soon return to bless her with his love. I have no
sympathy with the widow and the fatherless.

“Hark! did you not hear it?—that dismal shout! Alas! the deed is
done,—the touch of the incendiary hath kindled a fire such as this city
has never beheld. What rich and glowing color in those clouds of smoke
rising so heavily from yonder turrets! Already they are changed into an
ocean of flame, hissing and roaring. Unheard, save at intervals, is the
cry of the watchman, and the ringing bells; and muffled are the hasty
footsteps of the thronging multitude, for the snow is deep. Slowly do
the engines rumble along, while strained to their utmost are the sinews
of those hardy firemen. But useless is all this noise and labor, for the
receptacles of water are blocked with ice. Fire! fire!! fire!!!”

And here endeth the song of Euroclydon, which was listened to on the
16th of December, 1835. It will be recollected, that when the sun rose
in unclouded beauty on the following morning, six hundred buildings had
been consumed, many lives lost and twenty millions of property
destroyed.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                                MYSTERY.


    All things are dark! A mystery shrouds the same
      Yon gorgeous sun or twilight’s feeble star.
    We feel, but who can analyze the flame
      That wanders calmly from those realms afar?
      Science may soar, but soon she finds a bar
    Against her wing: and so she spends a life
    Of sleepless doubt and agonizing strife,
      Like some mad mind with its own self at war:
    And many will repine, repine in vain,
      And in their impious frenzy almost curse
    This all-encircling, adamantine chain
      That binds the portal of the Universe.
    Not so the wize! for they delight to see
    His might and glory in this mystery.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            HARRY CAVENDISH.


 BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.
                                  ETC.


                            THE EXPEDITION.

It was a melancholy day when the body of the murdered Mr. Neville was
deposited in the burial ground of the port of ——; and if strangers
shed tears at his funeral what must have been the emotions of his
orphaned daughter! All that kindness could do, however, was done to
alleviate her grief; her friends crowded around her to offer
consolation; and even our hardy tars showed their sympathy for her by
more than one act. It was a fortunate occurrence that she had a near
relative in town, and in his family accordingly she took up her
residence, where she could indulge her sorrow on the bosoms of those who
were united to her by natural ties, and could sympathize with her the
more sincerely because they knew the worth of which she had been
deprived. It is one of the wisest dispensations of Providence that our
grief should be shared, and as it were soothed, by those we love.

The pirates had no sooner been committed to prison than endeavors were
made, on the part of the authorities, to ascertain the haunt of the
gang; for its depredations had been carried on during the past year to
an extent that left no doubt that the prisoners formed only a detachment
of a larger body, which, dividing into different parties, preyed on the
commerce of the surrounding islands, from as many different points.
Where the head-quarters of the pirates were held was however unknown; as
every attempt to discover them, or even to capture any of the gang had
hitherto proved abortive. The authorities were, therefore, anxious to
get one or more of the prisoners to reveal the retreat of their
messmates on a promise of pardon; but for some time their efforts were
unavailing, as each prisoner knew, that if any of the gang escaped, the
life of the traitor would not be worth a moment’s purchase. At length,
however, the temptations held out to two of the prisoners proved
irresistible, and they revealed the secret which the governor-general
was so anxious to know. The head-quarters of the pirates proved to be on
a small island, some leagues north of the spot where we captured the
prisoners. The place was said to be admirably fortified by nature, and
there was no doubt, from the prisoners’ confession, that art had been
called in to render the retreat impregnable.

The number of the pirates usually left behind to protect their
head-quarters was said to amount to a considerable force.
Notwithstanding these things, the governor-general resolved on sending a
secret expedition to carry the place and, if possible, make prisoners of
the whole nest of freebooters. As, however, the spies of the gang were
known to infest the town, it was necessary to carry on the preparations
for the expedition with the utmost caution, so that no intelligence of
the contemplated attack should reach the pirates to warn them of their
danger. While, therefore, the authorities were apparently occupied with
the approaching trial to the exclusion of everything else, they were, in
fact, secretly making the most active exertions to fit out an expedition
for the purpose of breaking up the haunts of the gang. Several vessels
were purchased, ostensibly for private purposes; and soldiers drafted
into them, under the cloud of night. The vessels then left the harbor,
cleared for various ports, with the understanding, however, that they
should all rendezvous on an appointed day at a cape a few leagues
distant from the retreat of the pirates. So adroitly was the affair
managed, that the various vessels composing the expedition left the port
unsuspected—even high officers of government who were not admitted to
the secret, regarding them merely as common merchant-men departing on
their several voyages. Indeed, had an attack been contemplated on a
hostile power the preparations could not have been more secret or
comprehensive. The almost incredible strength of the piratical force
rendered such preparations, however, not only desirable but necessary.

I was one among the few admitted to the secret, for the governor-general
did me the honor to consult me on several important particulars
respecting the expedition. Tired of the life of inactivity I was
leading, and anxious to see the end of the adventure, I offered to
accompany the enterprise as a volunteer—an offer which his excellency
gladly accepted.

We set sail in a trim little brig, disguised as a merchantman; but as
soon as morning dawned and we had gained an offing, we threw off our
disguise, and presented an armament of six guns on a side, with a
proportionable number of men. Our craft, indeed, was the heaviest one
belonging to the expedition, and all on board acquainted with her
destination were sanguine of success.

The wind proved favorable, and in less than forty-eight hours we made
Capo del Istri, where the four vessels composing the expedition were to
rendezvous. As we approached the promontory, we discovered one after
another of the little fleet, for as we had been the last to leave port,
our consorts had naturally first reached the rendezvous, and in a few
minutes we hove to in the centre of the squadron hoisting a signal for
the respective captains to come aboard, in order to consult respecting
the attack.

The den of the pirates was situated at the head of a narrow strait,
communicating with a lagoon of some extent, formed by the waters of a
river collecting in the hollow of three hills, before they discharged
themselves into the sea. Across the mouth of this lagoon was moored the
hull of a dismasted ship, in such a position that her broadside
commanded the entrance to the lake. Behind, the huts of the piratical
settlement stretched along the shore, while the various vessels of the
freebooters lay anchored in different positions in the lagoon. Such, at
least, we were told, was the appearance of the place when the pirates
were not absent on their expeditions.

Our plan of attack was soon arranged. It was determined to divide our
forces into two divisions, so that while one party should attack the
pirates in front the other should take a more circuitous path, and
penetrating by land to the back of the settlement, take the enemy in the
rear. As night was already closing in, it was determined to disembark
the latter party at once, so that it might proceed, under the guidance
of one of the prisoners, to the position behind the enemy, and reach
there, as near as possible, at the first dawn of day. It was arranged
that the attack by water should commence an hour or two before day. By
this means each party could reach its point of attack almost
simultaneously. The onset however was to be first made from the water
side, and the ambuscade in the rear of the foe was not to show itself
until the fight had made some progress on our side.

The men destined for the land service were accordingly mustered and set
ashore, under the guidance of one of the prisoners. We watched their
receding forms through the twilight until they were lost to view, when
we sought our hammocks for a few hours repose preparatory to what might
be our last conflict.

The night was yet young, however, when we entered the mouth of the
strait, and with a favorable breeze sailed along up towards the lagoon.
The shallowness of the water in the channel had compelled us to leave
our two larger craft behind and our forces were consequently crowded
into the remaining vessels. Neither of these carried a broadside of
weight sufficient to cope with that of the hull moored across the mouth
of the lagoon.

As we advanced up the strait a death-like stillness reigned on its
shadowy shores; and we had nearly reached the mouth of the lagoon before
any sign betokened that the pirates were aware of our approach. We could
just catch sight of the tall rakish masts of a schooner over the low
tree tops on the right, when a gun was heard in the direction of the
lagoon, whether accidently fired or not we could not tell. We listened
attentively for a repetition of the sound; but it came not. Could it
have been a careless discharge from our own friends in the rear of the
foe, or was it a warning fired by one of the pirates’ sentinels? Five or
ten minutes elapsed, however, and all was silent. Meantime our vessels,
with a wind free over the taffrail, were stealing almost noiselessly
along the smooth surface of the strait; while the men lying close at
their quarters, fully armed for the combat, breathlessly awaited the
moment of attack, the intenseness of their excitement increasing as the
period approached.

My own emotions I will not attempt to pourtray. We were already within a
cable’s length of the end of the strait, and in rounding-to into the
lagoon we would if our approach had been detected, have to run the
gauntlet of the broadside of the craft guarding this approach to the
pirates’ den—a broadside which if well delivered would in all
probability send us to the bottom. Our peril was indeed imminent. And
the uncertainty whether our approach had been detected or not created a
feeling of nervous suspense which increased our sensation of our peril.

“A minute more and we shall shoot by the pirate,” said I to the captain
of our craft.

“Ay!” said he, “I have just passed the word for the men to lie down
under the shelter of the bulwarks, so that if they pour a fire of
musketry into us, we shall escape it as much as possible. Let us follow
their example.”

We sheltered ourselves just forward of the wheel-house, so that as the
vessel came around on the starboard tack, no living individual was left
standing on the deck, except the helmsman. The next moment, leaving the
shelter of the high bank, we swept into the lagoon, and saw the dark
hull of the opposing vessel moored directly across our way.

Our suspense however was soon brought to a close. We had scarcely come
abreast of the enemy’s broadside when, as if by magic, her port-holes
were thrown open, and as the blaze of the battle lanterns streamed
across the night, her guns were run out and instantaneously her fire was
poured out from stem to stern in one continuous sheet of flame. Our
mainmast went at once by the board; our hull was fearfully cut up; and
the shrieks of the wounded of our crew rose up in terrible discord as
the roar of the broadside died away. But we still had headway. Springing
to his feet the captain shouted to cut away the hamper that dragged the
mainmast by our side. His orders were instantly obeyed. The schooner was
once more headed for the hulk, and with a loud cheer our men sprang to
their guns, while our consort behind opened her fire at the same moment.
Our light armament however was almost wholly inefficient. But happily we
had not relied on it.

“Lay her aboard!” shouted the captain, “boarders away!”

At the word, amid the fire of a renewed broadside we dashed up to the
foe, and running her afoul just abaft of the mizzen-chains, poured our
exasperated men like a torrent upon her decks. I was one of the first to
mount her bulwarks. Attacked thus at their very guns the pirates rallied
desperately to the defence, and a furious combat ensued. I remember
striking eagerly for a moment or two in the very thickest of the fight,
and then feeling a sharp pain in my side, as a pistol went off beside
me. I have a faint recollection of sinking to the deck, but after that
all is a void.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                      RECOLLECTIONS OF WEST POINT.


                            BY MISS LESLIE.


                       (Continued from page 209.)


                                PART II.

The two winters that I spent at West Point, though long and cold, were
by no means tedious. Secluded as we were from the rest of the world,
while the river was locked up in ice, still we contrived amusements for
ourselves, and had much enjoyment in our own way. The society of the
place, though not large, was excellent. And in the evening (the best
time for social intercourse) almost every member of our little circle
was either out visiting, or at home entertaining visiters. There were
reading-parties that assembled every Thursday night at the respective
houses—the ladies bringing their work, and the gentlemen their books.
The gentlemen had also weekly chess-parties, of ten or twelve
chess-players and five or six chess-boards. They met at an early hour,
and no ladies being present, they seriously set to work at this
absorbing game—the solemnities being interrupted only by a _petit
souper_ at ten o’clock,—after which they resumed their chess, and
frequently took no note of time till near midnight.

On the second winter of my abode at West Point, we had a series of
regular subscription-balls, held in the large up-stairs room of the mess
hall—the expense being defrayed by the officers and professors. On the
first of these evenings the ground was hard frozen, but as yet no snow
had fallen. The managers had notified that the ladies were all to ride
to the ball. We were at a loss to conjecture where they would find
conveyances for us—and we were not Cinderellas with convenient
fairy-godmothers to transform pumpkins into coaches. An omnibus would
have been a glorious acquisition—but at that time there was nothing on
West Point in the shape of a wheeled carriage, with the exception of the
doctor’s gig. This vehicle was pressed into the service—and having
great duty to perform, it commenced its trips at a very early hour,
actually calling for the first lady at five o’clock in the
afternoon—and from that time it was continually coming and going like a
short stage. At last, by way of expediting the business, they thought
proper to adopt, as an auxiliary to the gig, another conveyance not of
the most dignified character. But then nobody saw us but ourselves—and
newspaper correspondents had not yet begun to come up to West Point to
forage among us in quest of food for their columns.

My sister-in-law and myself had not quite finished dressing, when we
heard my brother down stairs calling to our man to know why he had
thrown open the large gate?—“To let in the cart, sir, to take the
ladies to the ball”—was Richard’s reply. And, true enough, we found at
the door a real _bonâ fide_ open cart, having its flooring covered with
straw. In it were some rather inelegant chairs, upon which my sister and
I seated ourselves, like a couple of market-women. My brother having
assisted us in, seemed to think it unofficer-like conduct to ride in a
cart, and therefore, preferred walking—which, however, was no great
fatigue, the distance being only a few furlongs from the house in which
we then lived to the mess hall. The driver perched himself on the edge
of the front board—and after a few steps of the horse, each accompanied
by one jolt and two creaks, we were safely transported to the ball.

Fortunately, before the next _soirée de danse_ the ground was covered
with a deep snow; and the sleighing was excellent during the remainder
of the winter. As sleighs were singularly plenty on West Point, and as a
sleigh has the faculty of holding ladies _ad libitum_, the company was
conveyed very expeditiously to the subsequent balls. This mode of
transportation was found so convenient, that at the close of the season,
(which was not till late in March,) though the snow had all disappeared
and the ground was clear, the sleighs were still kept in requisition;
and we went to the last ball sleighing upon nothing.

I well remember being at a New Year’s ball given by the cadets. This
also took place in the large upper room of the mess hall. The
decorations (which were the best the place and the season could furnish)
were planned and executed entirely by those young gentlemen. For several
previous days they had devoted their leisure-time to cutting and
bringing in an immense quantity of evergreens, with which they festooned
the walls, and converted every one of the numerous windows into a sort
of bower, by arching it from the top to the floor with an impervious
mass of thickly-woven foliage. The pillars that supported the ceiling
were each encircled by muskets with very bright bayonets. The orchestra
for the music was constructed of the national flag that belonged to the
post. This flag, which, when flying out from the top of its lofty staff,
looks at that height scarcely more than a yard or two in length, is, in
reality, so large, that when taken down two men are required to carry it
away in its voluminous folds. On this occasion the drapery of the stars
and stripes was ingeniously disposed, so as to form something like a
stage-box with a canopy over it. The two elegant standards that had been
presented to the corps of cadets by the hands of ladies, were fancifully
and gracefully suspended between the central pillars, and waved over the
heads of the dancers. Affixed to the walls were numerous lights in
sconces, decorated with wreaths of the mountain-laurel whose leaves are
green all winter. These sconces were merely of tin, made very bright for
the occasion; but they were the same that had been used at the ball
given, while our army lay at West Point, by the American to the French
officers, in honor of the birth of the dauphin. For this camp-like
entertainment, the soldiers erected on the plain, a sort of pavilion or
arbor of immense length covered in with laurel branches, and illuminated
by these simple lamps, which afterwards became valuable as revolutionary
relics. They have ever since been taken care of, in the military
store-house belonging to West Point.

At this memorable ball whose courtesies were emblematic of the national
feeling, and which was intended to assist in strengthening the bonds of
alliance between the regal government of France and the first congress
of America, the ladies of many of our continental officers were present:
having travelled to West Point for the purpose—and in the dance that
commenced the festivities of the evening, the lady of General Knox led
off as the partner of Washington. In all probability the
commander-in-chief, with his fine figure and always graceful deportment,
was in early life an excellent dancer, according to the fashion of those
times.

Undoubtedly the intelligence of this complimentary entertainment was
received with pleasure by Louis the Sixteenth and his beautiful
Antoinette. Little did these unfortunate sovereigns surmise that those
of their own subjects who participated in the festivities of that night,
would return to France so imbued with republican principles as to lend
their aid in overturning the throne;—that throne whose foundation had
already been undermined by the crimes and vices of the two preceding
monarchs. Few were the years that intervened between the emancipation of
America, and that tremendous period when the brilliant court of
Versailles was swept away by the hands of an infuriated people; its
“princes and lords” either flying into exile or perishing on the
scaffold. And, idolized as they had been at the commencement of their
eventful reign, the son of St. Louis and the daughter of the Cæsars were
relentlessly consigned to a dreary captivity terminated by a bloody
death.

        “How short, how gay, how bright the smile
          That cheered their morning ray;
        How dark, how cold, how loud the storm
          That raging closed their day!”

The dauphin, whose birth was thus honored in the far-off land which his
royal father was assisting in her contest for liberty, died, happily for
himself, in early childhood; thus, escaping the miseries that were
heaped upon the unfortunate boy who succeeded him.

The West Point balls seem to have peculiar charms for strangers,
particularly if these strangers are young ladies, and it is a pleasure
to the residents of the place to see them enjoy the novelty of the
scene. The fair visiters are always delighted with the decorations of
the room, with the chivalric gallantry of the officers and cadets, and
still more with the circumstance of all their partners being in uniform.
To those who are not “to the manner born,” there is something very
dazzling in the shine of a military costume.

At the New Year’s ball to which I have alluded, among other invited
guests was a party that came over in an open boat from the opposite side
of the Hudson, notwithstanding that the weather was intensely cold, the
sky threatening a snow-storm, and the river almost impassable from the
accumulating ice. The young ladies belonging to this party were
certainly valuable acquisitions to the company, as they were handsome,
sprightly, beautifully drest, and excellent dancers. I particularly
recollect one of them—a tall, fair, fine-looking girl, attired in white
satin with an upper dress of transparent pink zephyr, the skirt and
sleeves looped up with small white roses. Her figure was set off to
great advantage by an extremely well-fitting boddice of pale pink satin,
laced in front with white silk cord and tassels—and a spray of white
roses looked out among the plats that were enwreathed at the back of her
finely-formed head. This young lady and her friends seemed to enter _con
amore_ into the enjoyment of the scene and the dance. But their pleasure
was dearly purchased. As they had made arrangements to return home that
night, after twelve o’clock, when the ball was over, they could not be
persuaded to remain at West Point till the following day. They embarked
with the gentlemen who belonged to their party. At daylight their boat
was descried in the middle of the river. It was completely blocked up by
the ice that had gathered round it, and in this manner they had passed
the cold and dreary remainder of the night whose first part had afforded
them so much enjoyment. A boat was immediately sent out from West Point
to their rescue, and the ladies were found benumbed with cold, and
indeed nearly dead. The ice was cut away with axes brought for the
purpose, they were released from their perilous condition, and with much
difficulty the passage to the other side of the river was finally
achieved. After the ladies had recovered from the effects of so many
hours severe suffering, they were said to have declared that they would
willingly go through a repetition of the same for the sake of another
such ball.

My compassion was much excited by a _contre-tems_ that happened to
certain fair young strangers from New York, whom I found in the
dressing-room at the close of one of the summer balls annually given by
the cadets about the last of August, on the eve of the day in which they
break up their encampment, and return to their usual residence in the
barracks. The above-mentioned young ladies had come up from the city
that evening, in consequence of invitations sent down to them a week
before. By some unaccountable oversight either of themselves or of the
gentlemen that escorted them, the trunks or boxes containing their
ball-room paraphernalia, instead of being landed on the wharf at West
Point had been left on board the steam-boat, and had gone up to Albany.
As it was a rainy evening, these young ladies (four or five in number)
had embarked in their very worst dresses, which they considered quite
good enough for the crowd and damp and heat of the ladies’ cabin, in
whose uncomfortable precincts the bad weather would compel them to
seclude themselves during their voyage of three or four hours. They did
not discover that their baggage was missing till after their arrival at
the dressing-room, supposing that the trunks were coming after them
up-stairs. Here they had remained the whole evening, and all they knew
of the ball and its anticipated pleasures was the sound of the music
from below as it imperfectly reached them; the shaking of the windows as
the floor vibrated under the feet of the dancers; and a glance at the
dresses of the ladies as they came up when the ball was over, to muffle
themselves in their shawls and calashes. None of the distressed damsels
had sufficient courage to go down to the ball-room in their dishabille,
and sit there as spectators: though much importuned to do so by their
unlucky beaux. I give this little anecdote as an admonition to my
youthful readers to take especial care that their baggage does not give
them the slip when they are travelling to a ball.

The cadets are remarkably clever at getting up fancy-balls, and in
dressing and sustaining whatever characters they then assume. The corps
being composed of miscellaneous young gentlemen from every section of
the Union, each is _au fait_ to the peculiar characteristics of the
common people that he has seen in his native place—and they represent
them with much truth and humor. There will be, for instance, a hunter
from the far west; a Yankee pedlar with his tins and other “notions;” an
assortment of Tuckahoes, Buckeyes, Hooshers, Wolverines, &c.; and also a
good proportion of Indians.

At one of these fancy-balls the squeak of a bad fife (or perhaps of a
good fife badly played on) and the tuck of an ill-braced drum, was heard
ascending the stair-case followed by an irregular tramp of feet and the
chatter of many voices. The door (which had been recently closed) was
now thrown open with a bang, and a militia company, personated by a
number of the choicest cadets, came marching in, with a step that set
all time and tune at defiance; some trudging, some ambling, and some
striding. They were headed by a captain who, compared to Uncle Sam’s
officers, certainly wore his regimentals “with a difference.” Having
“marshalled his clan,” whom he arranged with a picturesque intermixture
of tall and short, and in a line partaking of the serpentine, he put
them through their exercise in a manner so laughably bad as could only
have been enacted by persons who knew perfectly well what it ought to
be. Their firelocks were rough sticks, cornstalks, and shut
umbrellas—and when the captain was calling the muster-roll, the names
to which his men answered were ludicrous in the extreme.

I have before alluded to the West Point Band, which must always be
classed among the most agreeable recollections connected with that
place; particularly by those who were familiar with its excellence when
Willis was the instructor in military music. He was an Irishman, and had
belonged to the lord lieutenant’s band at Dublin Castle. His own
exquisite performance on the Kent bugle can never be forgotten by any
one who has been so fortunate as to hear it; and he taught all the
members of the West Point Band to play on their respective instruments
in the most admirable manner. One of them, named Ford, excelled on the
octave flute. Sometimes when, on a moonlight summer evening, they were
playing under the beautiful elms that are clustered in front of the mess
house, and delighting us with a charming composition called the
Nightingale, Ford would ascend one of the trees, and seated amidst its
branches, perform solo on his flute those passages that imitated the
warbling of the bird.

Occasionally a distinguished vocalist came to West Point for the purpose
of having a concert; and these concerts were always well attended. On
one of the concert nights, Willis accompanied Keene (a celebrated singer
of that time) in the fine martial air of the Last Bugle—a beautiful
song beginning,

    “When the muffled drum sounds the last march of the brave.”

As each verse finished with, “When he hears the last bugle,” Willis
sounded the bugle in a manner which seemed almost a foretaste of the
muse of another world. “When he hears the last bugle”—is again
repeated, and the bugle accompaniment is lower and still sweeter. But at
the concluding words, “When he hears the last bugle he’ll stand to his
arms”—the loud, exulting and melodious tones of the noble instrument
came out in all their fullness of sound, with an effect that elicited
the most rapturous applause, and which words cannot describe nor
imagination conceive.

How much is the beauty of music assisted by the beauty of poetry. Shame
on selfish composers and conceited performers who, “wishing all the
interest to centre in themselves,” assert that the words of a song are
of no consequence, and that if good, they only divert the attention of
the hearers from the music—Milton thought otherwise when (himself a
fine musician) he speaks of the double charms of “music married to
immortal verse.” As well might we say that it was a disadvantage for a
handsome woman to possess a fine figure, lest it should render the
beauty of her face less conspicuous.

Music affords additional delight when, it accompanies the recollection
of some interesting fact; or of some fanciful and vivid allusion
connected with romance, that idol of the young and enthusiastic. Among
the numerous accounts of the peninsular war which have been given to the
world by English officers, I was much struck by a little incident that I
once read in a description of the entrance of Wellington’s army into
France while expelling the French from Spain and following them into
their own land beyond the Pyrenees. The first division of the English
troops had at length reached the frontier. After a day of toilsome march
the regiment to which our author belonged encamped for the night in the
far-famed valley of Roncevalles, where a thousand years before the army
of Charlemagne in attempting the invasion of Spain, had been driven back
by the Spanish Moors and defeated with great slaughter, and the loss of
his best and noblest paladins, including “Roland brave, and Olivier.”
The mind of our narrator was carried back to the chivalrous days of the
dark ages, and he might almost have listened for

          ——“The blast of that dread horn
        On Fontarabian echoes borne
          The dying hero’s call.”——

It was a clear cool evening—the sun had sunk behind the hills—the roll
had been called, the sentinels posted, and the band of the regiment was
playing. The English officer, imbued with the subject of his reverie,
advanced to request of its leader that beautiful air

        “Sad and fearful is the story
          Of the Roncevalles fight,”——

when he was unexpectedly anticipated by one of his companions in arms,
another young officer whose thoughts had been running in the same
channel, and who had stepped forward before him with the same request.
The wild and melancholy notes of Lewis’s popular song now rose upon the
still evening air, on the very same spot where ten centuries ago the
battle that it lamented, had been fought.

On the West Point Band I have frequently heard music of a soft and
touching character played with a taste and pathos that almost drew tears
from the hearers—for instance, the sad but charming Scottish air,

        “Oh! Mary when the wild wind blows.”

I have heard Willis say, that after the publication of the Irish
melodies was planned, he was engaged by Moore and Sir John Stevenson, to
travel in bye roads and remote places among the peasantry, for the
purpose of collecting from them all the songs and tunes peculiar to
their country. He frequently passed the night in their cabins, where he
was always hospitably received, and where he was liked the better for
making himself at home among the people; singing new songs for _them_,
(he was a good singer) and inducing them to sing him old ones in return.
So that in this way he caught a great number of national airs, which
were then new to him, and which he afterwards put in score. It was for
these melodies that the minstrel of Ireland wrote those exquisite songs,
on which he may rest his fairest claim to immortality.

Willis was himself an excellent composer of military music. While at
West Point he produced a number of very fine marches and quicksteps,
usually calling them after the officers. Those denominated General
Swift’s March, and Lieutenant Blaney’s Quickstep, were perhaps the best.
To some he did not even take the trouble to affix a title, but
distinguished them by numbers. Sometimes when we sent out to ask the
name of “that fine new march or quickstep that the band had just
played,” he would reply that it was No. 12 or No. 16. The officers often
suggested to him the publication of these admirable pieces as a source
of profit to himself, and of pleasure to the community; but with his
habitual carelessness of his own interest, he always neglected taking
any steps for the purpose. There is reason to fear that few or no copies
of them are now in existence: and therefore they will be lost for ever
to the admirers of martial music. Willis lived about twelve years at
West Point, and died there of a lingering illness in 1830.

When the manager of the Park Theatre was getting up a new musical piece
or reviving an old one, he generally borrowed Willis, for a few of the
first evenings, to play in the orchestra. On one of these occasions he
took down with him to New York his two little boys, neither of whom had
ever been in a theatre. Mr. Simpson, the manager, allotted them seats in
his private box over one of the stage doors. Both the children had been
instructed by their father, and sung very well. The after piece was
O’Keefe’s little opera of Sprigs of Laurel. In the duett between the two
rival soldiers, in which each in his turn celebrates the charms of Mary,
the major’s daughter, one of the boys on hearing the symphony, exclaimed
to his brother—“Why Jem! that’s our duett—the very last we’ve been
practising.” “So it is,” replied Jem, “let’s join in and sing it with
them.” Unconscious of such a proceeding being the least out of rule,
they united their voices to those of the two actors, and went through
the song with them in perfect time and tune. The soldiers were amazed at
this unexpected addition to their duett, but looking up, soon found from
whence the sound proceeded. Willis (who was in the orchestra) became
greatly disconcerted, and in vain made signs to his children to cease.
Their attention was too much engaged to perceive his displeasure. The
audience were not long in discovering the young singers, and loudly
applauded them, equally pleased with the _naïveté_ of the boys and their
proficiency in vocalism.

It was formerly customary for the West Point band to play sacred music
every Sunday morning, in the camp, after the guard was marched off.

        “Sweet as the shepherd’s tuneful reed,”

was performed by them delightfully.

Before the erection of the present edifice as a church, public worship
was held in the large room designated as the chapel. The chaplains of
the United States Military Academy, like the chaplain of congress, may
be chosen from the clergy of any denomination. But as their congregation
consists of persons from every part of the union, and of every religious
denomination, according to the faith in which they have been educated by
their parents, it is understood that the pastor will have sufficient
good taste, or rather good sense, to refrain from all attempts to
advance the peculiar doctrines of his own immediate sect. After the
officers and professors have all come in and taken their appropriate
seats, the cadets make their entrance in a body, and occupy the benches
allotted to them. I was one Sunday at the chapel, when five graduates,
or ex-cadets, all of whom had recently been honored with commissions in
the engineers, came in together, habited in their new uniforms, (that of
the engineers is the handsomest in the army,) and for the first time
took their seats with the officers. I could have said with Sterne—“Oh!
how I envied them their feelings!” One of these young gentlemen was a
Jew; and as I looked at him that day, I hoped he was grateful to the God
of Abraham for having cast his lot in a country where the Hebrew faith
can be no impediment to advancement in any profession either civil or
military. Are “the wanderers of Israel,” who still have so much to
contend with in the old world, sufficiently aware of the advantages they
would derive from changing their residence to the new?

It is a custom among the cadets, after they have completed their course
of study, obtained their commissions as lieutenants, and received orders
for repairing to their respective posts, to have a farewell-meeting
previous to their departure from West Point. At this meeting it is
understood that all offences, bickerings and animosities, which may have
arisen among them during their four years intercourse as
fellow-students, are to be consigned to oblivion. The hand of friendship
is given all round, and before their separation they exchange rings
which have been made for this express purpose, all of the same pattern.
These rings they are to retain through life, as mementoes of “Auld lang
syne,” and as pledges of kind feelings under whatever circumstances, and
in whatever part of the world they may meet hereafter.

Among the numerous benefits which this noble institution has conferred
on the community, is that of creating attachment and diffusing
friendship among so many young men from different sections of our
widely-extended country, and belonging to different classes in society.
The military academy has made gentlemen of many intelligent youths,
sprung from the humbler grades of our people. It has made _men_ of many
scions of high estate, whose talents would otherwise have been smothered
under the follies of fashion and the enervations of luxury.

In that kindness and consideration for females, which is one of the
brightest gems in the American character, none can exceed the cadets and
officers of the American army. Were I to relate all that I know on this
subject I could fill a volume. For instance, I could tell of a young
gentleman from Albany who out of his pay as a cadet, (twenty-eight
dollars a month,) saved enough to defray the expenses of his sister’s
education, during four years of economy and self-denial to himself.

On the southern bank of the river, beyond the picturesque spot
designated as Kosciusko’s garden, the shore for some miles continues
woody and precipitous, down to the Kinsley farm-house, a mile or two
below. The path along these rocks was narrow, rugged, dark and
dangerous. In some places it was impeded by trees growing so close
together, and so near the verge of the precipice that it was expedient
in passing along to cling to their trunks, or to catch hold of their
lower branches, as a support against the danger of falling down the
rocks that impended over the river. Yet with all its perils and
difficulties this was an interesting walk to any lover of nature in her
rudest aspects. There were wild vines and wild roses, and the trees were
so old and lofty, and their shade so solemn and impervious. And at their
roots grew clusters of ephemeral plants, of the fungus tribe it is true,
but glowing with the most brilliant colors, yellow, orange, scarlet and
crimson, often diversified with a group that was white as snow.
Sometimes we saw a lizard of the finest verditer-green, gliding among
the blocks of granite; and sometimes on hearing a slight chattering
above our heads, we looked up and saw the squirrel as he

          ——“leap’d from tree to tree
        And shell’d his nuts at liberty.”

In the decline of a beautiful afternoon when “the sun was hasting to the
west,” and the sweet notes of the wood-thrush had already began “to hymn
the fading fires of day,” I set out on a walk accompanied by two young
ladies from Philadelphia, whom in our daily rambles I had already guided
to some of the most popular places on West Point. Having found that my
youthful friends were fearless scramblers “over bush and over brier,” I
proposed that our walk to-day should be in this narrow pathway through
these rocky woods, or rather along these woody rocks.

We proceeded accordingly—and our dangers and difficulties seemed to
increase the enjoyment of my young companions. At length we suddenly
emerged into a spot where the open sunshine denoted that, since my last
walk in this direction, many of the trees had been cut away. About this
little clearing we found eight or ten men busily at work with spades and
pick-axes. I was struck at once with the excellent aspect of their
habiliments, though their coats were off and hanging on the bushes and
low rocks around them. We stopped, and I turned to one of my companions,
and was about remarking to her, “what a happiness it was to live in a
country where the common laboring men were enabled to make so
respectable an appearance, and even while engaged at their work to wear
clothes that were perfectly whole, and as clean as if put on fresh that
day.” While I was making this observation in a low voice, the men
perceived us; and they all ceased work, and several stood leaning on
their spades, looking much disconcerted. They consulted a little
together and then one of the foresters advanced, as if to speak to us.
The two young ladies, seized with a sudden panic, hastily ran back into
the woods. He came up and addressed me by name, and I immediately
recognised an officer who visited intimately at my brother’s house. On
looking at his comrades, I found that I knew them every one; and that
they were all gentlemen belonging to West Point. They seemed much,
though needlessly, confused at being detected by ladies in their present
occupation.

The gentleman who had come forward made some remarks on the
inconveniences we must have encountered during our rugged walk, and he
directed us to a way of going home that, though longer and more
circuitous, would be less difficult. My young friends now ventured out
from their retreat; I introduced them to the officer who had been
talking to me, and leaving him with his comrades to pursue their work,
we found our way home by the road that he indicated.

In the evening the same gentleman made one of his accustomed visits at
my brother’s, and explained to us the scene of the afternoon.

Captain H——, was the only surviving child of an aged and widowed
mother, the sister of a distinguished general-officer in the
revolutionary army. Her son, a graduate of the Military Academy, was
afterwards stationed at West Point; and he then went to Vermont and
brought his mother that they might live near each other. His own
apartments being in one of the barracks, he took lodgings for Mrs.
H——, at a quiet farm-house in the vicinity: and devoted nearly all his
leisure-time to her society. The old lady sometimes came up to visit her
son in his rooms at the barracks, to see that he was comfortable there,
and keep his ward-robe in order. The nearest way from her residence to
the plain, was along the dark and rugged forest path on the edge of the
rocks; and this was the road she always came. The captain wishing to
make it more easy and less dangerous for his mother, set about doing so
with his own hands. He had already made some progress in this work of
filial affection, when he was discovered by several of his brother
officers; they mentioned it to others, and they all immediately
volunteered to assist him in his praise-worthy undertaking. They
assembled of afternoons for this purpose, (which they endeavored to keep
as secret as possible) and it was now about half accomplished; having
been commenced at the end nearest to Mrs. H——’s residence. In
consequence of this explanation, by the captain’s friend, we took care
not to interrupt them by walking in that direction, till after the work
was completed.

They cut down trees, cleared away bushes, removed masses of stone,
levelled banks, filled up hollows, and paved quagmires: leading the path
to a safe distance from the ledge of rocks. A fine convenient road was
soon completed, and the old lady was enabled to visit the captain
without difficulty or danger.

The grave has long since closed over that mother, and the military
station of her son has been changed to a place far distant from West
Point. But the pathway commenced by filial affection, and finished with
the assistance of friendship is still there, forming a convenient and
beautiful walk through the woods to the farm-house and its vicinity.

It is known by all the inhabitants of West Point as the Officer’s Road;
and long may it continue to bear that title.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                            L’ENVOY TO E——.


         BY G. HILL, AUTHOR OF “TITANIA’S BANQUET,” ETC., ETC.


    The nights are o’er when, by the shore,
    We strayed—thy arm in mine,
    And our hearts were like the full cup ere
    The sparkle leaves the wine.
    But the sparkle flies, the cup is drained,
    And the nights return no more
    When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm,
    We strayed by the moonlit shore.

    The nights are o’er when, by the shore,
    We strayed—thy arm in mine,
    And thy eye was like the star whose beam
    We saw on the still wave shine.
    But the bright star-beam has left the stream,
    And the nights return no more
    When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm,
    We strayed by the moonlit shore.

    The nights are o’er when, by the shore,
    We strayed—thy arm in mine,
    And thy tones were heard where the wind-harp’s chord
    Is the bough that the June-flowers twine.
    But my boat rocks lone where the palm-trees moan[2]
    And the nights return no more
    When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm,
    We strayed by the moonlit shore.

-----

[2] Of the Nile.

                 *        *        *        *        *



                       THE ORPHAN BALLAD SINGERS.


                                BALLAD.

                              COMPOSED BY

                             HENRY RUSSELL.

          _Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.


[Illustration: musical score]

[Illustration: musical score]

    Oh weary, weary are our feet,
      And weary weary is our way,
    Thro’ many a long and crowded street
      We’ve wandered mournfully to-day;
    My little sister she is pale,
      She is too tender and too young
    To bear the autumn’s sullen gale,
      And all day long the child has sung.

    She was our mother’s favorite child,
      Who loved her for her eyes of blue,
    And she is delicate and mild,
      She cannot do what I can do.
    She never met her father’s eyes,
      Although they were so like her own;
    In some far distant sea he lies,
      A father to his child unknown.

    The first time that she lisped his name,
      A little playful thing was she;
    How proud we were,—yet that night came
      The tale how he had sunk at sea.
    My mother never raised her head;
      How strange how white how cold she grew!
    It was a broken heart they said—
      I wish our hearts were broken too.

    We have no home—we have no friends
      They said our home no more was ours—
    Our cottage where the ash-tree bends,
      The garden we had filled with flowers.
    The sounding shells our father brought,
      That we might hear the sea at home;
    Our bees, that in the summer wrought
      The winter’s golden honeycomb.

    We wandered forth mid wind and rain,
      No shelter from the open sky;
    I only wish to see again
      My mother’s grave and rest and die,
    Alas, it is a weary thing
      To sing our ballads o’er and o’er:
    The songs we used at home to sing—
      Alas we have a home no more!

                 *        *        *        *        *



                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Twice-Told Tales. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Two Volumes. Boston:
    James Munroe and Co._

We said a few hurried words about Mr. Hawthorne in our last number, with
the design of speaking more fully in the present. We are still, however,
pressed for room, and must necessarily discuss his volumes more briefly
and more at random than their high merits deserve.

The book professes to be a collection of _tales_, yet is, in two
respects, misnamed. These pieces are now in their third republication,
and, of course, are thrice-told. Moreover, they are by no means _all_
tales, either in the ordinary or in the legitimate understanding of the
term. Many of them are pure essays, for example, “Sights from a
Steeple,” “Sunday at Home,” “Little Annie’s Ramble,” “A Rill from the
Town-Pump,” “The Toll-Gatherer’s Day,” “The Haunted Mind,” “The Sister
Years,” “Snow-Flakes,” “Night Sketches,” and “Foot-Prints on the
Sea-Shore.” We mention these matters chiefly on account of their
discrepancy with that marked precision and finish by which the body of
the work is distinguished.

Of the Essays just named, we must be content to speak in brief. They are
each and all beautiful, without being characterised by the polish and
adaptation so visible in the tales proper. A painter would at once note
their leading or predominant feature, and style it _repose_. There is no
attempt at effect. All is quiet, thoughtful, subdued. Yet this repose
may exist simultaneously with high originality of thought; and Mr.
Hawthorne has demonstrated the fact. At every turn we meet with novel
combinations, yet these combinations never surpass the limits of the
quiet. We are soothed as we read; and withal is a calm astonishment that
ideas so apparently obvious have never occurred or been presented to us
before. Herein our author differs materially from Lamb or Hunt or
Hazlitt—who, with vivid originality of manner and expression, have less
of the true novelty of thought than is generally supposed, and whose
originality, at best, has an uneasy and meretricious quaintness, replete
with startling effects unfounded in nature, and inducing trains of
reflection which lead to no satisfactory result. The Essays of Hawthorne
have much of the character of Irving, with more of originality, and less
of finish; while, compared with the Spectator, they have a vast
superiority at all points. The Spectator, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Hawthorne
have in common that tranquil and subdued manner which we have chosen to
denominate _repose_; but, in the case of the two former, this repose is
attained rather by the absence of novel combination, or of originality,
than otherwise, and consists chiefly in the calm, quiet, unostentatious
expression of commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious unadulterated
Saxon. In them, by strong effort, we are made to conceive the absence of
all. In the essays before us the absence of effort is too obvious to be
mistaken, and a strong under-current of _suggestion_ runs continuously
beneath the upper stream of the tranquil thesis. In short, these
effusions of Mr. Hawthorne are the product of a truly imaginative
intellect, restrained, and in some measure repressed, by fastidiousness
of taste, by constitutional melancholy and by indolence.

But it is of his tales that we desire principally to speak. The tale
proper, in our opinion, affords unquestionably the fairest field for the
exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be afforded by the wide
domains of mere prose. Were we bidden to say how the highest genius
could be most advantageously employed for the best display of its own
powers, we should answer, without hesitation—in the composition of a
rhymed poem, not to exceed in length what might be perused in an hour.
Within this limit alone can the highest order of true poetry exist. We
need only here say, upon this topic, that, in almost all classes of
composition, the unity of effect or impression is a point of the
greatest importance. It is clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be
thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal cannot be completed at
one sitting. We may continue the reading of a prose composition, from
the very nature of prose itself, much longer than we can persevere, to
any good purpose, in the perusal of a poem. This latter, if truly
fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment, induces an exaltation of
the soul which cannot be long sustained. All high excitements are
necessarily transient. Thus a long poem is a paradox. And, without unity
of impression, the deepest effects cannot be brought about. Epics were
the offspring of an imperfect sense of Art, and their reign is no more.
A poem _too_ brief may produce a vivid, but never an intense or enduring
impression. Without a certain continuity of effort—without a certain
duration or repetition of purpose—the soul is never deeply moved. There
must be the dropping of the water upon the rock. De Béranger has wrought
brilliant things—pungent and spirit-stirring—but, like all immassive
bodies, they lack _momentum_, and thus fail to satisfy the Poetic
Sentiment. They sparkle and excite, but, from want of continuity, fail
deeply to impress. Extreme brevity will degenerate into epigrammatism;
but the sin of extreme length is even more unpardonable. _In medio
tutissimus ibis._

Were we called upon however to designate that class of composition
which, next to such a poem as we have suggested, should best fulfil the
demands of high genius—should offer it the most advantageous field of
exertion—we should unhesitatingly speak of the prose tale, as Mr.
Hawthorne has here exemplified it. We allude to the short prose
narrative, requiring from a half-hour to one or two hours in its
perusal. The ordinary novel is objectionable, from its length, for
reasons already stated in substance. As it cannot be read at one
sitting, it deprives itself, of course, of the immense force derivable
from _totality_. Worldly interests intervening during the pauses of
perusal, modify, annul, or counteract, in a greater or less degree, the
impressions of the book. But simple cessation in reading would, of
itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the brief tale,
however, the author is enabled to carry out the fulness of his
intention, be it what it may. During the hour of perusal the soul of the
reader is at the writer’s control. There are no external or extrinsic
influences—resulting from weariness or interruption.

A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not
fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having
conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single _effect_ to
be wrought out, he then invents such incidents—he then combines such
events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If
his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect,
then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there
should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is
not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care
and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of
him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest
satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished,
because undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable by the novel. Undue
brevity is just as exceptionable here as in the poem, but undue length
is yet more to be avoided.

We have said that the tale has a point of superiority even over the
poem. In fact, while the _rhythm_ of this latter is an essential aid in
the development of the poem’s highest idea—the idea of the
Beautiful—the artificialities of this rhythm are an inseparable bar to
the development of all points of thought or expression which have their
basis in _Truth_. But Truth is often, and in very great degree, the aim
of the tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus
the field of this species of composition, if not in so elevated a region
on the mountain of Mind, is a table-land of far vaster extent than the
domain of the mere poem. Its products are never so rich, but infinitely
more numerous, and more appreciable by the mass of mankind. The writer
of the prose tale, in short, may bring to his theme a vast variety of
modes or inflections of thought and expression—(the ratiocinative, for
example, the sarcastic or the humorous) which are not only
antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but absolutely forbidden by
one of its most peculiar and indispensable adjuncts; we allude of
course, to rhythm. It may be added, here, _par parenthèse_, that the
author who aims at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is laboring at
great disadvantage. For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so
with terror, or passion, or horror, or a multitude of such other points.
And here it will be seen how full of prejudice are the usual
animadversions against those _tales of effect_ many fine examples of
which were found in the earlier numbers of Blackwood. The impressions
produced were wrought in a legitimate sphere of action, and constituted
a legitimate although sometimes an exaggerated interest. They were
relished by every man of genius: although there were found many men of
genius who condemned them without just ground. The true critic will but
demand that the design intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent,
by the means most advantageously applicable.

We have very few American tales of real merit—we may say, indeed, none,
with the exception of “The Tales of a Traveller” of Washington Irving,
and these “Twice-Told Tales” of Mr. Hawthorne. Some of the pieces of Mr.
John Neal abound in vigor and originality; but in general, his
compositions of this class are excessively diffuse, extravagant, and
indicative of an imperfect sentiment of Art. Articles at random are, now
and then, met with in our periodicals which might be advantageously
compared with the best effusions of the British Magazines; but, upon the
whole, we are far behind our progenitors in this department of
literature.

Of Mr. Hawthorne’s Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong to
the highest region of Art—an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty
order. We had supposed, with good reason for so supposing, that he had
been thrust into his present position by one of the impudent _cliques_
which beset our literature, and whose pretensions it is our full purpose
to expose at the earliest opportunity; but we have been most agreeably
mistaken. We know of few compositions which the critic can more honestly
commend than these “Twice-Told Tales.” As Americans, we feel proud of
the book.

Mr. Hawthorne’s distinctive trait is invention, creation, imagination,
originality—a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is positively
worth all the rest. But the nature of originality, so far as regards its
manifestation in letters, is but imperfectly understood. The inventive
or original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of _tone_ as
in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original at _all_ points.

It would be a matter of some difficulty to designate the best of these
tales, we repeat that, without exception, they are beautiful.
“Wakefield” is remarkable for the skill with which an old idea—a
well-known incident—is worked up or discussed. A man of whims conceives
the purpose of quitting his wife and residing _incognito_, for twenty
years, in her immediate neighborhood. Something of this kind actually
happened in London. The force of Mr. Hawthorne’s tale lies in the
analysis of the motives which must or might have impelled the husband to
such folly, in the first instance, with the possible causes of his
perseverance. Upon this thesis a sketch of singular power has been
constructed.

“The Wedding Knell” is full of the boldest imagination—an imagination
fully controlled by taste. The most captious critic could find no flaw
in this production.

“The Minister’s Black Veil” is a masterly composition of which the sole
defect is that to the rabble its exquisite skill will be _caviare_. The
_obvious_ meaning of this article will be found to smother its
insinuated one. The _moral_ put into the mouth of the dying minister
will be supposed to convey the _true_ import of the narrative; and that
a crime of dark dye, (having reference to the “young lady”) has been
committed, is a point which only minds congenial with that of the author
will perceive.

“Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe” is vividly original and managed most
dexterously.

“Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment” is exceedingly well imagined, and executed
with surpassing ability. The artist breathes in every line of it.

“The White Old Maid” is objectionable, even more than the “Minister’s
Black Veil,” on the score of its mysticism. Even with the thoughtful and
analytic, there will be much trouble in penetrating its entire import.

“The Hollow of the Three Hills” we would quote in full, had we
space;—not as evincing higher talent than any of the other pieces, but
as affording an excellent example of the author’s peculiar ability. The
subject is commonplace. A witch subjects the Distant and the Past to the
view of a mourner. It has been the fashion to describe, in such cases, a
mirror in which the images of the absent appear; or a cloud of smoke is
made to arise, and thence the figures are gradually unfolded. Mr.
Hawthorne has wonderfully heightened his effect by making the ear, in
place of the eye, the medium by which the fantasy is conveyed. The head
of the mourner is enveloped in the cloak of the witch, and within its
magic folds there arise sounds which have an all-sufficient
intelligence. Throughout this article also, the artist is
conspicuous—not more in positive than in negative merits. Not only is
all done that should be done, but (what perhaps is an end with more
difficulty attained) there is nothing done which should not be. Every
word _tells_, and there is not a word which does _not_ tell.

In “Howe’s Masquerade” we observe something which resembles a
plagiarism—but which _may be_ a very flattering coincidence of thought.
We quote the passage in question.

    “_With a dark flush of wrath_ upon his brow they saw the general
    _draw his sword_ and _advance to meet_ the figure _in the cloak_
    before the latter had stepped one pace upon the floor.

    “‘_Villain, unmuffle yourself_,’ cried he, ‘you pass no
    farther!’

    “The figure, without blenching a hair’s breadth from the sword
    which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause, and
    _lowered the cape of the cloak_ from his face, yet not
    sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. But
    Sir William Howe had evidently seen enough. The sternness of his
    countenance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not
    horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, _and
    let fall his sword_ upon the floor.”—See vol. 2, page 20.

The idea here is, that the figure in the cloak is the phantom or
reduplication of Sir William Howe; but in an article called “William
Wilson,” one of the “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,” we have not
only the same idea, but the same idea similarly presented in several
respects. We quote two paragraphs, which our readers may compare with
what has been already given. We have italicized, above, the immediate
particulars of resemblance.

    “The brief moment in which I averted my eyes had been sufficient
    to produce, apparently, a material change in the arrangement at
    the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror, it
    appeared to me, now stood where none had been perceptible
    before: and as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine
    own image, but with features all pale and dabbled in blood,
    _advanced_ with a feeble and tottering gait to meet me.

    “Thus it appeared I say, but was not. It was Wilson, who then
    stood before me in the agonies of dissolution. Not a line in all
    the marked and singular lineaments of that face which was not
    even identically mine own. _His mask and cloak lay where he had
    thrown them, upon the floor._”—Vol. 2. p. 57.

Here it will be observed that, not only are the two general conceptions
identical, but there are various _points_ of similarity. In each case
the figure seen is the wraith or duplication of the beholder. In each
case the scene is a masquerade. In each case the figure is cloaked. In
each, there is a quarrel—that is to say, angry words pass between the
parties. In each the beholder is enraged. In each the cloak and sword
fall upon the floor. The “villain, unmuffle yourself,” of Mr. H. is
precisely paralleled by a passage at page 56 of “William Wilson.”

In the way of objection we have scarcely a word to say of these tales.
There is, perhaps, a somewhat too general or prevalent _tone_—a tone of
melancholy and mysticism. The subjects are insufficiently varied. There
is not so much of _versatility_ evinced as we might well be warranted in
expecting from the high powers of Mr. Hawthorne. But beyond these
trivial exceptions we have really none to make. The style is purity
itself. Force abounds. High imagination gleams from every page. Mr.
Hawthorne is a man of the truest genius. We only regret that the limits
of our Magazine will not permit us to pay him that full tribute of
commendation, which, under other circumstances, we should be so eager to
pay.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Vigil of Faith, and Other Poems. By C. F. Hoffman, Author
    of “Greyslaer,” &c. S. Coleman: New York._

Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman is well known as the author of several popular
novels, and as the quondam editor of the “American Monthly Magazine;”
but his poetical abilities have not as yet attracted that attention
which is indubitably their due.

“The Vigil of Faith,” a poem of fifty-two irregular stanzas, embodies a
deeply interesting narrative supposed to be related by an Indian
encountered by the author in a hunting excursion amid the Highlands of
the Hudson. It bears the impress of the true spirit upon every line; but
appears to be carelessly written.

The occasional Poems are scarcely more beautiful, but, in general, are
more complete and polished. Now and then, however, we observe, even in
these, an inaccurate rhythm. Here, for example, in “Moonlight on the
Hudson,” page 63, we note a foot too much—

    “Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers.”

This line is not used as an Alexandrine, but occurs in the body of a
stanza. Mr. Hoffman is, also, somewhat too fond of a double rhyme,
which, unduly employed, never fails to give a flippant air to a serious
poem. It is not improbable that we shall speak more fully of this really
beautiful volume hereafter. Its external or mechanical appearance excels
that of any book we have seen for a long time.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Life of Lorenzo de’ Medici, called the Magnificent. By
    William Roscoe. From the London Edition, Corrected. In Two
    Volumes. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._

The genius of Lorenzo de’ Medici has never, perhaps, been so highly
estimated, as his exertions on behalf of Italian literature. Yet he was
not only an author unsurpassed by any of his illustrious contemporaries,
but, as a statesman, gave evidence of profound ability. A week
illustrating the value of his character and discussing his vast
influence upon his age, has been long wanting, and no man lives who
could better supply the _desideratum_ than Mr. Roscoe. In republishing
these volumes Messieurs Carey & Hart have rendered a service of the
highest importance to the reading public of America.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Poets and Poetry of America. With an Historical
    Introduction. By Rufus W. Griswold. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._

This is a volume of remarkable beauty externally, and of very high merit
internally. It embraces selections from the poetical works of every true
poet in America without exception; and these selections are prefaced, in
each instance, with a brief memoir, for whose accuracy we can vouch. We
know that no pains or expense have been spared in this compilation,
which is, by very much indeed, the best of its class—affording, at one
view, the justest idea of our poetical literature. Mr. Griswold is
remarkably well qualified for the task he has undertaken. We shall speak
at length of this book in our next.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Beauchampe, or The Kentucky Tragedy. A Tale of Passion. By the
    Author of “Richard Hurdis,” “Border Beagles,” etc. Two Volumes.
    Lea & Blanchard: Philadelphia._

The events upon which this novel is based are but too real. No more
thrilling, no more romantic tragedy did ever the brain of poet conceive
than was the tragedy of Sharpe and Beauchampe. We are not sure that the
author of “Border Beagles” has done right in the selection of his theme.
Too little has been left for invention. We are sure, however, that the
theme is skilfully handled. The author of “Richard Hurdis” is one among
the best of our native novelists—pure, bold, vigorous, original.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: four ladies and a gentleman dressed in latest fashions]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

A cover has been created for this eBook and is placed in the public
domain.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 5, May 1842_, George R. Graham,
Editor]



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