Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 3, September 1842

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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 3, September 1842
Author: Various
Language: English
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NO. 3, SEPTEMBER 1842 ***

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXI. September, 1842 No. 3.

Contents

Fiction and Literature

The Spanish Student
The Proposal
Harry Cavendish
An Appeal to American Authors and the American
Press
The Sisters
Ben Blower’s Story
De Pontis
Shakspeare
Waste Paper
Review of New Books
Editor’s Table

Poetry, Music and Fashion

The Song of Madoc
The Approach of Autumn
The Walk and the Pic-Nic
To Fanny H***
“You Call Us Inconstant.”
The Haunted Heart
The Lady Alice
The Sunset Storm
September Waltz
Latest Fashions

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

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXI. PHILADELPHIA: SEPTEMBER, 1842. No. 3.

* * * * *

THE SPANISH STUDENT.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.
Burns.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Victorian, Student of Alcalá.
Hypolito, Student of Alcalá.
Count of Lara, Gentleman of Madrid.
Don Carlos, Gentleman of Madrid.
The Arch-Bishop of Toledo.
A Cardinal.
Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Gipsies.
Padre, Cura of El Pardillo.
Pedro Crespo, Alcalde.
Pancho, Alguacil.
Francisco, Valet.
Chispa, Valet.

Preciosa, a Gipsy girl.
Angelica, a poor girl.
Martina, Padre Cura’s niece.
Dolores, Preciosa’s maid.

Gipsies and Musicians.

ACT THE FIRST.

Scene I.—_The Count of Lara’s chambers. Night. The Count in his
dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with Don Carlos._

_Lara._ You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos;
How happens it?
_Don Carlos._ I had engagements elsewhere:
Pray who was there?
_Lara._ Why, all the town and court.
The house was crowded; and the busy fans
Among the gaily dressed and perfumed ladies
Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers.
There was the Countess of Medina Celi;
The Goblin Lady with her Fantom Lover,
Her Lindo Don Diego; Doña Sal,
And Doña Serafina, and her cousins.
But o’er them all the lovely Violante
Shone like a star, nay, a whole heaven of stars.
_Don Carlos._ What was the play?

_Lara._ It was a dull affair.
One of those comedies in which you see,
As Lopè says, the history of the world
Brought down from Genesis to the day of judgment.
There were three duels in the first tornada,
Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds,
Laying their hands upon their hearts and saying
_O I am dead!_ A lover in a closet,
An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan,
A Doña Inez with a black mantilla
Followed at twilight by an unknown lover,
Who looks intently where he knows she is not!
_Don Carlos._ Of course the Preciosa danced to-night?
_Lara._ And ne’er danced better. Every footstep fell
As lightly as a sunbeam on the water.
I think the girl extremely beautiful.
_Don Carlos._ Almost beyond the privilege of woman!
I saw her in the Prado yesterday.
Her step was royal—queen-like—and her face
As beauteous as a saint’s in Paradise.
_Lara._ May not a saint fall from her Paradise,
And be no more a saint?
_Don Carlos._ Why do you ask?
_Lara._ Because ’tis whispered that this angel fell;
And though she is a virgin outwardly,
Within she is a sinner; like those panels
Or doors and altar-pieces, the old monks
Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary
On the outside, and on the inside Venus!
_Don Carlos._ Nay, nay! you do her wrong.
_Lara._ Ah! say you so?
_Don Carlos._ She is as virtuous as she is fair;
A very modest girl, and still a maid.
_Lara._ You are too credulous. Would you persuade me
That a mere dancing girl, who shows herself
Nightly, half-naked, on the stage for money,
And with voluptuous motions fires the blood
Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held
A model for her virtue?
_Don Carlos._ You forget
That she’s a gipsy girl.
_Lara._ And therefore won
The easier.
_Don Carlos._ Nay, not to be won at all!
The only virtue that a gipsy prizes
Is chastity. That is her only virtue.
Dearer than life she holds it. I remember
A gipsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd,
Whose craft was to betray the young and fair;
And yet this woman was above all bribes.
And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty,
The wild and wizard beauty of her race,
Offered her gold to be what she made others,
She turned upon him, with a look of scorn,
And smote him in the face!
_Lara._ Most virtuous gipsy!
_Don Carlos._ Nay, do not mock me. I would fain believe
That woman, in her deepest degradation,
Holds something sacred, something undefiled,
Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature,
And, like the diamond in the dark, retains
Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light!
_Lara._ Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold.
_Don Carlos._ (_rising._) You will not be persuaded!
_Lara._ Yes; persuade me.
_Don Carlos._ No one so deaf as he who will not hear!
_Lara._ No one so blind as he who will not see!
_Don Carlos._ And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams,
And greater faith in woman.— [_Exit._
_Lara._ Greater faith!
Thou shallow-pated fool! Do I not know
Victorian is her lover?
_Enter Francisco with a casket._
Well, Francisco,
What speed with Preciosa?
_Fran._ None my lord.
She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you
She is not to be purchased by your gold.
_Lara._ Then I will try some other way to win her.
Pray dost thou know Victorian?
_Fran._ Yes, my lord;
I saw him at the jeweller’s to-day.
_Lara._ What was he doing there?
_Fran._ I saw him buy
A golden ring, that had a ruby in it.
_Lara._ Was there another like it?
_Fran._ One so like it
I could not choose between them.
_Lara._ It is well.
To-morrow morning bring that ring to me.
Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. [_Exeunt._

Scene II.—_A street in Madrid. Night. Enter Chispa, followed by
musicians, with a bag-pipe, guitars, and other instruments._

_Chispa._ Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who ramble
about at night, drinking the elements instead of sleeping quietly in
their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to
his monastery. Now, here’s my master, Victorian, yesterday a
cow-keeper and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student and to-day a
lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot
sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married,
for then shall all this serenading cease. Man is fire, and woman is
tow, and the devil comes and blows; and, therefore, I have heard my
grandmother say, that if your neighbor has a son, wipe his nose and
marry him to your daughter. Aye! marry! marry! marry! Mother, what
does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my
daughter! And of a truth there is something more in matrimony than
cake and kid gloves. (_To the musicians._) And now, gentlemen, Pax
vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray walk this way; and
don’t hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father
and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life
of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I
beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a
serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the man in the moon. Your
object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling
dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it
were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain
modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name,
friend?

_First Musician._ Geronimo Gil, at your service.

_Chispa._ Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Geronimo,
is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee?

_First M._ Why so?

_Chispa._ Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant
day for those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at
the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I
should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that?

_First M._ An Aragonese bag-pipe.

_Chispa._ Pray, art thou related to the bag-piper of Bujalance, who
asked a maravedi for playing and ten for leaving off?

_First M._ No, your honor.

_Chispa._ I am glad of it. What other instruments have we?

_Second and Third M._ We play the bandurria.

_Chispa._ A pleasing instrument. And thou?

_Fourth M._ The fife.

_Chispa._ I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that
soars up to my lady’s window like the song of a swallow. And you
others?

_Other Musicians._ We are the singers, please your honor.

_Chispa._ You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in
the Cathedral of Cordova? Four men can make but little use of one
shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me
along the garden wall. That is the way my master climbs to the lady’s
window. It is by the vicar’s skirts that the devil climbs into the
belfry. Come, follow me and make no noise. [_Exeunt._

Scene III.—_Preciosa’s Chamber. She stands by the open window._

_Preciosa._ How slowly through the lilac-scented air
Descends the tranquil moon! Like thistle-down
The vapory clouds float in the peaceful sky:
And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade
The nightingales breathe out their souls in song,
Flattering the ear of night. And hark! what sounds
Answer them from below!

Serenade.

Stars of the summer night!
Far in yon azure deeps,
Hide, hide your golden light,
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night!
Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night!
Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Fold, fold your pinions light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night!
Tell her, her lover keeps
Watch! while in slumber light
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

_Enter Victorian by the balcony._
_Victorian._ Poor little dove! Thou tremblest like a leaf!
_Pre._ I am so frightened!—’Tis for thee I tremble!
I hate to have thee climb that wall by night!
Did no one see thee?
_Vic._ None, my love, but thou.
_Pre._ ’Tis very dangerous; and when thou’rt gone
I chide myself for letting thee come here
Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been?
Since yesterday I have no news from thee.
_Vic._ Since yesterday I’ve been in Alcalá.
Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa,
When that dull distance shall no more divide us;
And I no more shall scale thy wall by night
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.
_Pre._ An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest.
_Vic._ And we shall sit together unmolested,
And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue,
As singing birds from one bough to another.
_Pre._ That were a life indeed to make time envious!
I knew that thou wouldst visit me to-night.
I saw thee at the play.
_Vic._ Sweet child of air!
Never did I behold thee so attired
And garmented in beauty, as to-night!
What hast thou done to make thee look so fair?
_Pre._ Am I not always fair?
_Vic._ Aye, and so fair,
That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee,
And wish that they were blind.
_Pre._ I heed them not;
When thou art present, I see none but thee!
_Vic._ There’s nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes
Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.
_Pre._ And yet thou leav’st me for those dusty books.
_Vic._ Thou com’st between me and those books too often!
I see thy face in every thing I see!
The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks,
The canticles are changed to sarabands,
And with the learned doctors of the schools
I see thee dance cachuchas.
_Pre._ In good sooth,
I dance with the learned doctors of the schools
To-morrow morning.
_Vic._ And with whom, I pray?
_Pre._ A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace
The Archbishop of Toledo.
_Vic._ What mad jest
Is this?
_Pre._ It is no jest. Indeed it is not.
_Vic._ Pr’ythee, explain thyself.
_Pre._ Why simply thus.
Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain
To put a stop to dances on the stage.
_Vic._ I’ve heard it whispered.
_Pre._ Now the Cardinal,
Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold
With his own eyes these dances: and the Archbishop
Has sent for me.
_Vic._ That thou may’st dance before them.
Now viva la cachucha! It will breathe
The fire of youth into these gray old men,
And make them half forget that they are old!
’Twill be thy proudest conquest!
_Pre._ Saving one.
And yet I fear the dances will be stopped,
And Preciosa be once more a beggar.
_Vic._ The sweetest beggar that e’er asked for alms;
With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee
I gave my heart away!
_Pre._ Dost thou remember
When first we met?
_Vic._ It was at Cordova,
In the Cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting
Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain.
_Pre._ ’Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees
Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.
The priests were singing, and the organ sounded,
And then anon the great Cathedral bell.
It was the elevation of the Host.
We both of us fell down upon our knees,
Under the orange boughs, and prayed together.
I never had been happy, till that moment.
_Vic._ Thou blessed angel!
_Pre._ And when thou wast gone
I felt an aching here. I did not speak
To any one that day.
_Vic._ Sweet Preciosa!
I lov’d thee even then, though I was silent!
_Pre._ I thought I ne’er should see thy face again.
Thy farewell had to me a sound of sorrow.
_Vic._ That was the first sound in the song of love!
Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound.
Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul,
And play the prelude of our fate. We hear
The voice prophetic, and are not alone.
_Pre._ That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings?
_Vic._ So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts
Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present.
As drops of rain fall into some dark well,
And from below comes a scarce audible sound—
So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter,
And their mysterious echo reaches us.
_Pre._ I’ve felt it so, but found no words to say it!
I cannot reason—I can only feel!
But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings.
Thou art a scholar: and sometimes I think
We cannot walk together in this world!
The distance that divides us is too great!
Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars;
I must not hold thee back.
_Vic._ Thou little skeptic!
Dost thou still doubt?—What I most prize in woman
Is her affection, not her intellect!
Compare me with the great men of the earth—
What am I? Why, a pigmy among giants!
But if thou lovest—mark me! I say lovest—
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not!
The world of the affections is thy world—
Not that of man’s ambition. In that stillness
Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy,
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart,
Feeding its flame. The element of fire
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature,
But burns as brightly in a gipsy camp
As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced?
_Pre._ Aye, that I love thee, as the good love heaven,
But that I am not worthy of that heaven.
How shall I more deserve it?
_Vic._ Loving more.
_Pre._ I cannot love thee more; my heart is full.
_Vic._ Then let it overflow, and I will drink it,
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands
Drink the swift waters of a mountain torrent,
And still do thirst for more. (_Kisses her._)
_A Watchman in the street._ Ave Maria
Purissima! ’Tis midnight and serene!
_Vic._ Hear’st thou that cry?
_Pre._ It is a hateful sound,
To scare thee from me!
_Vic._ As the hunter’s horn
Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds
The moor-fowl from his mate.
_Pre._ Pray do not go!
_Vic._ I must away to Alcalá to-night.
Think of me when I am away.
_Pre._ Fear not!
I have no thoughts that do not think of thee.
_Vic._ (_giving her a ring._) And to remind thee of my love, take
this.
A serpent emblem of Eternity,
A ruby,—say, a drop of my heart’s blood.
_Pre._ It is an ancient saying, that the ruby
Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves
The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow,
Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas!
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin.
_Vic._ What convent of barefooted Carmelites
Taught thee so much theology?
_Pre._ (_laying her hand upon his mouth._) Hush! hush!
Good night! and may all holy angels guard thee!
_Vic._ Good night! good night! Thou art my guardian angel!
I have no other saint than thee to pray to!
(_He descends by the balcony._)
_Pre._ Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe?
_Vic._ (_from the garden._) Safe as my love for thee! But art thou
safe?
Others can climb a balcony by moonlight
As well as I. Pray, shut thy window close;
I’m jealous of the perfumed air of night
That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips.
_Pre._ (_throwing down her handkerchief._) Thou silly child!
Take this to blind thine eyes.
It is my benison!
_Vic._ And brings to me
Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind
Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath
Of the beloved land he leaves behind.
_Pre._ Make not thy voyage long.
_Vic._ To-morrow night
Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star
To guide me to an anchorage. Good night!
My beauteous star! My star of love, good night!
_Pre._ Good night!
_Watchman._ (_at a distance._) Ave Maria Purissima!

Scene IV.—_Victorian’s rooms at Alcalá. Hypolito asleep in an
arm-chair. A clock strikes three. He awakes slowly._

_Hyp._ I must have been asleep! aye, sound asleep!
And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep!
Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair,
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled
Out of Oblivion’s well, a healing draught!
The candles have burned low; it must be late.
Where can Victorian be? Like Fray Carillo,
The only place in which one cannot find him
Is his own cell. Here’s his guitar, that seldom
Feels the caresses of its master’s hand.
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument!
And make dull midnight merry with a song.
(_He plays and sings._)

Padre Francisco!
Padre Francisco!
What do you want of Padre Francisco?
Here is a pretty young maiden
Who wants to confess her sins!
Open the door and let her come in,
I will shrive her from every sin.
_Enter Victorian._
_Vic._ Padre Hypolito! Padre Hypolito!
_Hyp._ What do you want of Padre Hypolito?
_Vic._ Come, shrive me straight; for if love be a sin
I am the greatest sinner that doth live.
I will confess the sweetest of all crimes,
A maiden wooed and won.
_Hyp._ The same old tale
Of the old woman in the chimney corner,
Who, while her pot boils, says—_Come here my child_;
_I’ll tell thee a story of my wedding-day!_
_Vic._ Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full
That I must speak.
_Hyp._ Alas! that heart of thine
Is like a scene in the old play—the curtain
Rises to solemn music, and, lo! enter
The eleven thousand Virgins of Cologne!
_Vic._ Nay, like the Sibyl’s volumes, thou shouldst say;
Those that remained, after the six were burned,
Being held as precious as the nine together.
But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember
The gipsy girl we saw at Cordova
Dance the Romalis in the market-place?
_Hyp._ Thou meanest Preciosa.
_Vic._ Aye, the same.
Thou knowest how her image haunted me
Long after we returned to Alcalá.
_Hyp._ Thou even thought’st thyself in love with her.
_Vic._ I was; and, to be frank with thee, I am!
She’s in Madrid. O pardon me, my friend,
If I so long have kept this secret from thee;
But silence is the charm that guards such treasures,
And if a word be spoken ere the time,
They sink again, they were not meant for us.
_Hyp._ Alas! alas! I see thou art in love.
How speeds thy wooing? Is the maiden coy?
Write her a song, beginning with an Ave;
Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary,
_Ave! cujus calcem clarè_
_Nec centenni commendare_
_Sciret Seraph studio!_
_Vic._ Pray do not jest! This is no time to jest!
I am in earnest!
_Hyp._ Seriously enamor’d?
What, ho! The Primus of great Alcalá
Enamor’d of a gipsy? Tell me frankly,
How meanest thou?
_Vic._ I mean it honestly.
The angels sang in heaven when she was born!
She is a precious jewel I have found
Among the filth and rubbish of the world.
I’ll stoop for it; but when I wear it here,
Set on my forehead like the morning star,
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh.
_Hyp._ If thou wear’st nothing else upon thy forehead
’Twill be indeed a wonder.
_Vic._ Out upon thee,
With thy unseasonable jests! Pray, tell me,
Is there no virtue in the world?
_Hyp._ Not much.
What, think’st thou, is she doing at this moment—
Now, while we speak of her?
_Vic._ She lies asleep,
And, from her parted lips, her gentle breath
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers.
Her delicate limbs are still, and on her breast
The cross she pray’d to, e’er she fell asleep,
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams,
Like a light barge safe moor’d.
_Hyp._ Which means, in prose,
She’s sleeping with her mouth a little open!
_Vic._ O would I had the old magician’s glass
To see her as she lies in child-like sleep!
_Hyp._ And would’st thou venture?
_Vic._ Aye, indeed I would!
_Hyp._ Thou art courageous. Hast thou e’er reflected
How much lies hidden in that one word _now_?
_Vic._ Yes; all the awful mystery of Life!
I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito,
That could we, by some spell of magic, change
The world and its inhabitants to stone,
In the same attitudes they now are in,
What fearful glances downward might we cast
Into the hollow chasms of human life!
What groups should we behold about the death-bed,
Putting to shame the group of Niobe!
What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells!
What stony tears in those congealed eyes!
What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks!
What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows!
What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling!
What lovers with their marble lips together!
_Hyp._ Aye, there it is! and if I were in love
That is the very point I most should dread.
This magic glass, these magic spells of thine
Might tell a tale ’twere better leave untold.
For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin,
The Lady Violante, bathed in tears
Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis,
Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut,
Having won that golden fleece, a woman’s love,
Desertest for this Glaucè.
_Vic._ Hold thy peace!
She cares not for me. She may wed another,
Or go into a convent, and thus dying,
Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields.
_Hyp._ (_rising._) And so, good night! Good morning, I should say.
It is no longer night, nor is it day.
But in the east the paramour of Morn,
Infirm and old, lifts up his hoary head,
And hears the crickets chirp to mimic him.
And so, once more, good night! We’ll speak more largely
Of Preciosa when we meet again.
Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep,
Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass,
In all her loveliness. Good night! [_Exit._
_Vic._ Good night!
But not to bed; for I must read awhile.

(_Throws himself into the arm-chair which Hypolito has left, and lays a
large book open upon his knees._)

Must read, or sit in reverie and watch
The changing color of the waves that break
Upon the idle seashore of the mind!
Visions of Fame! that once did visit me,
Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye?
O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone,
Juices of those immortal plants that blow
Upon Olympus, making us immortal!
Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows
Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans,
At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away,
And make the mind prolific in its fancies?

I have the wish, but want the will to act!
Souls of great men departed! Ye whose words
Have come to light from the swift river of Time,
Like Roman swords found in the Tagus’ bed,
Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore?
From the barred visor of antiquity
Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth
As from a mirror! All the means of action—
The shapeless masses—the materials—
Lie every where about us. What we need
Is the celestial fire to change the flint
Into transparent crystal, bright and clear.
That fire is Genius! The rude peasant sits
At evening in his smoky cot, and draws
With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall.
The man of genius comes, foot-sore with travel,
And begs a shelter from the inclement night.
He takes the charcoal from the peasant’s hand,
And by the magic of his touch at once
Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine,
And in the eyes of the astonish’d clown
It gleams a diamond! Even thus transform’d,
Rude popular traditions and old tales
Shine as immortal poems, at the touch
Of some poor houseless, homeless, wandering bard,
Who had but a night’s lodging for his pains.
O there are brighter dreams than those of Fame,
Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart
Rises the bright ideal of these dreams,
As from some woodland fount a spirit rises
And sinks again into its silent deeps,
Ere the enamor’d knight can touch her robe!
’Tis this ideal that the soul of man,
Like the enamor’d knight beside the fountain,
Waits for upon the margin of Life’s stream;
Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters,
Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many
Must wait in vain. The stream flows evermore,
But from its silent deeps no spirit rises!
Yet I, born under a propitious star,
Have found the bright ideal of my dreams.
Yes! she is ever with me. I can feel,
Here, as I sit at midnight and alone,
Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel
The pressure of her head! God’s benison
Rest ever on it! Close those beauteous eyes,
Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at night
With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name.
(_Gradually sinks asleep._)

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Drawn by E. Corbould., Engraved by Alfred Jones.
_The Proposal_,
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

THE PROPOSAL.

BY J. H. DANA.

CHAPTER I.

In one of those stately old gardens which were attached to every lordly
mansion of the reign of Charles the First, sat a cavalier and lady. The
seat they occupied was a rude garden sofa, overshadowed by trees, and in
close proximity to a colossal urn on which was represented in bold
relief, according to the classic predilection of the age, Diana and her
nymphs engaged in the chase. The lady was one of rare beauty. Indeed few
creatures more lovely than Isabel Mordaunt ever graced a festive hall,
or brushed the dew from the morning grass. She was gay, witty, eighteen,
and an heiress. Her mother died when Isabel was an infant, and thus left
chiefly to her own control she had grown up as wilful as a mountain
chamois. Exulting in the consciousness of talent, there were few who had
not experienced her wit. Yet she had a kind heart, and, if she was at
times too apt to give offence, no one was more ready to atone for a
fault. Her beauty and expectations had already drawn around her crowds
of suitors; but though she laughed and chatted with all, she suffered
none to aspire to an interest in her heart. Indeed she professed to be a
skeptic to the reality of love. But, as is ever the case, her gay
raillery and careless indifference seemed only to increase the number of
her suitors.

The cavalier by her side was in the first flush of manhood, and one
whose personal appearance rendered him a prize which any fair girl might
be proud to win. Grahame Vaux had been the ward of Isabel’s father, and
was but four years her senior. In childhood they had played together,
and though subsequently separated by the departure of Vaux to the
university, they had been again thrown into each other’s society at that
critical period of life when the heart is most keenly alive to the
influences of love. To Grahame this daily companionship was peculiarly
dangerous. Isabel was just the being to dazzle a romantic character like
his; for he regarded the sex with all the high, chivalrous feelings
which actuated the Paladins of old, whom indeed he resembled in other
respects. A second Sir Philip Sidney, he excelled in every graceful
accomplishment. At Oxford he had won the first prize. In every manly
sport he was pre-eminent. We will not trace the progress of his
passion—how it sprung from a single word, fed on smiles, and finally
devoured, as it were, his very being. Suffice it to say, he soon came to
love Isabel with all the ardor of a first affection, worshiping her as
an idolator adores his divinity, and evincing his passion in every look,
word and gesture.

Perhaps this was not the surest road to the affections of a wilful
creature like Isabel—perhaps the alternation of doubt and fear, of
admiration and indifference, would more effectually have enlisted her
feelings; but be this as it may, her new lover met at her hands the same
capricious treatment which her other suitors received. In Grahame’s case
this wilfulness was more than usually apparent, though there were not
wanting those who said that this demeanor was only a veil worn to hide a
growing preference for her noble-hearted lover. At any rate her conduct
toward him was caprice itself. Now she would smile on him so sweetly
that he could not help but hope, and now a word or gesture would plunge
him into the deepest despair.

“I can endure it no longer,” at length he said, “I love Isabel!—Oh! how
deeply and fervently God only knows. I will terminate my suspense. I
will learn my fate. Better know the worst than live on in this agony.”

He rose and sought out the lady. She was at her favorite seat in the
garden; and as she perceived him approaching, her color deepened, as if
she divined, in Grahame’s excited air, the purpose of his visit. With
that instinctive desire, so natural to the sex, to avoid the subject,
she herself opened the conversation in a gay and trifling tone. Grahame,
who could have stood the shock of battle undaunted, felt his heart fail
him when he saw her sportive mood, but, firm in his resolve, he said, at
length, at a suitable pause,

“Do you believe in love, Isabel?”

“Love! _I_ believe in love!” laughingly replied the capricious girl.
“What! give up my maiden liberty for a pretty gallant,—oh! no, Sir
Romance, madcap as I am, it has not come to that. Believe in love,
forsooth! why I should sooner believe that men were wise or women
fickle. Love may sound very well in a play, but I’ll have none of it.
Pale cheeks, sighs, and the gilded fetters of a wife are not for a free
maiden who, like the untamed hawk, would soar whither she lists. Love,
indeed!” and she laughed merrily.

Poor Grahame! how his sensitive heart throbbed at these words. He would
have given worlds to be miles away. But the light, half-mocking laugh,
all silvery though it was, with which she concluded, wrung even from him
a reproach.

“Oh! Isabel,” he said, and his low voice trembled with emotion, “_can_
you believe all this? Ah! little indeed then do you know of love.”

“And who would presume to think that I _did_ know ought of it?” said
Isabel, with a heightened color, and a flashing eye,—“I have no taste
for jealous lovers or domineering lords; and I never saw one of your
sex—I pray your pardon, fair sir—” and there was a slight scorn in her
words, “who could tempt maiden to think twice of matrimony. Love indeed,
forsooth! I pray Heaven to open men’s eyes to their vanity.”

The moment she had ceased speaking, Isabel would have given any thing to
recall her words. Hurried away by her love of raillery, and a little
piqued at the tone of reproach in which Grahame ventured, she had given
free license to her speech, and said things which she well knew she did
not believe. Her lover turned deadly pale at her words. Believing now
that she had all along been trifling with his feelings, he started to
his feet, and looking at her a moment sadly, exclaimed bitterly,
“Isabel! Isabel! May God forgive you for this; I leave you and forever;”
and ere she could reply, or Grahame see the tears that gushed into her
eye, he darted through the neighboring shrubbery and was lost to sight.
Isabel looked after, and called faintly to him to return, but if he
heard her, which was scarcely possible, he heeded it not. Pride
prevented her from repeating the summons; she saw him no more.

CHAPTER II.

More than an hour elapsed before Isabel returned to the mansion, and
when she did the traces of tears were on her cheeks. She instantly
sought her chamber.

“He said we parted forever—oh! surely he cannot have meant it,” she
exclaimed, “he will be here to-morrow. And then—” and she paused, while
a blush mantled over her cheeks, and invaded even her pearly bosom.

But to-morrow came without Grahame. All through the long day Isabel
watched for his arrival, and even ventured half way to the park-gates,
but when she heard footsteps in the avenue ahead, she hurried trembling
behind the shrubbery until she saw that the stranger was not her lover.
And when night came, and still he did not appear, her heart was agitated
by contending emotions; and while one moment pride would obtain the
mastery, love would in turn subdue her bosom. Until this hour Isabel had
never known how deeply she loved Grahame; for her passion, growing with
her growth and increasing with her years, had obtained the mastery of
her heart with such subtle and gradual power, that the rude shock of
Grahame’s departure first woke her to a consciousness of her affection.
And now she felt that she had wronged a true and noble heart. Had her
lover then returned he would have won a ready confession of her passion;
but day after day passed without his arrival, and finally intelligence
was received that he had joined the army of King Charles, then first
rallying around that ill-fated monarch, preparatory to the fatal civil
war in which so many gallant cavaliers lost life and fortune. The news
filled Isabel’s heart with the keenest anguish. “Alas! Grahame,” she
said, as if in adjuration, “I love only you, and your noble heart deems
I despise the offering. Could you but know the truth! But surely,” she
continued, “he might have sought some explanation. Oh! if he had
returned only for a moment, and given me the opportunity to ask
forgiveness, he would not have had to complain of a cold and ungrateful
heart in Isabel Mordaunt. He is unjust,” and thus resolving, she
determined to demean herself with becoming pride.

However much, therefore, Isabel might suffer in secret, no curious eye
was allowed to penetrate the recesses of her heart. To the world she
appeared gay and witty as ever, and if sometimes the name of Grahame was
mentioned, or his gallant deeds commended, she heard the announcement
without betraying aught more than would have been natural in a common
friend. She was often put to this trial, for, from the moment when
Grahame joined the royal standard, his career had witnessed a succession
of the most brilliant exploits. Seeming to be utterly regardless of
life, he ventured deeds from which even the bravest had shrunk back.
Wherever the storm of battle was thickest, wherever a post of extreme
peril was to be maintained, there was Grahame, pressing forward in the
front rank, like another Rinaldo. He did not shun the companionship of
the gayer gallants of the camp, but he ever wore, amid their mirth, an
expression of settled sadness. But this peculiarity was forgotten in the
brilliancy of his exploits, and his name came at length to be so famous
that when any new and daring deed was done, men asked at once whether
Sir Grahame Vaux had not been there.

Isabel heard all this with a beating heart, but an unmoved cheek. She
had schooled herself to disguise her heart, and she succeeded so that no
one suspected the truth. Only her father, when he saw her refuse one
after another of her many suitors, divined that some unrevealed secret
lay hidden in her bosom, and remembering the sudden departure of
Grahame, was at no loss to refer her conduct to the right cause.
Meantime a change had gradually come over Isabel. She was less
light-hearted than of old—her laugh, though musical, was scarcely as
gay as it once had been—and her sportive wit no longer flashed
incessantly like the lightning in the summer cloud.

The tide of war had long rolled steadfastly against the cavaliers, and
finally the battle of Marston Moor closed the tragedy. The day after the
news of the defeat arrived, a travel-soiled retainer of Grahame reached
Mordaunt Hall and recounted in detail the events of that bloody field,
from which he was a fugitive. He said that his master, when the day was
lost, flung a discharged pistol into the thickest ranks of the enemy and
died, like a knight of old, fighting to regain it. At these words her
father turned to Isabel, in whose presence the retainer had related his
story, and saw a deathly paleness overspread her cheek. The next instant
she sank to the floor in a swoon.

“My child, my darling Isabel, speak,” said the aged father, raising her
in his trembling arms. “Oh! I have long suspected this, and the blow has
killed her! Why did I suffer her to hear this tale!”

With difficulty they revived her; but she only woke to a spell of
sickness; and for weeks her fate hung in a balance between life and
death.

CHAPTER III.

But Grahame had not fallen. True, as his retainer asserted, he had
maintained the unequal combat long after every one else had left the
field, and true also he had finally been overwhelmed by numbers and left
for dead, covered with wounds, upon the battle plain; but when the
pursuing squadrons had swept by, leaving the field comparatively
deserted, and the chill night wind breathed with reviving coolness over
his brow, he awoke to consciousness, and was enabled, by the assistance
of one of his followers who yet prowled about the scene of carnage in
the hope of finding his master, to gain a secure retreat where he might
be cured of his wounds. Here, on the rude couch of a humble cottage, he
lay for weeks, and the third month had set in after the battle, before
he was enabled to leave his lowly shelter. During all this time his
faithful retainer watched over him, tending him one while with the
assiduity of a nurse, and another while, on any alarm, preparing to
defend him to the last extremity.

“I am now a houseless, persecuted outlaw,” said Grahame when he mounted
his steed to leave the humble cottage where he had found shelter. “The
crop-eared puritanic knaves have shed the best blood in the country and
they will not spare mine. The land is overrun with their troops, and
there is no safety, in this portion of it at least. I will go once more
to the halls of my fathers, take a last farewell of them, and then carry
my life and sword to some foreign market, for, God help me, there is
nothing else left to do.”

It was a bright sunny afternoon when Grahame reached his ancestral
halls, now deserted and melancholy. Already had the minions of the
parliament sequestrated and shut up the mansion, and it was only through
the fidelity of an old servant, who yet lingered around the place, that
its former master was enabled to enter its portals. The aged retainer
wept with joy on his lord’s hand, and said,

“Oh! dark was the day when news came of your honor’s death.”

“And was it then reported that I was no more? Yet how can I wonder at
it, considering my long seclusion.”

“Oh! yes—and sad times too they had of it over at Mordaunt Hall. The
young mistress fainted away, and was near dying, though since she has
heard that you yet lived—as we all did, you know, by your
messenger,—she has wonderfully revived. But what ails you, my dear
master?—are you sick?”

“No—no—but I must to horse at once,” said Grahame, whose face had
turned deadly pale at his servant’s joyful intelligence. “I may be back
to sleep here—think you I can have safe hiding for one night in my
father’s house?”

“That may you, God bless your honor,” said the old man as Grahame rode
away.

“She loves me, then! Life is no more all a blank,” said the young knight
almost gaily, as he dashed through the arcades of his park, his steed
seeming to partake in his master’s exhilaration.

Isabel sat in the great parlor of Mordaunt Hall, looking down the broad
avenue that led to the park gates. A partial bloom had been restored to
her cheek, for hope whispered to her that Grahame might yet be hers.
Suddenly a figure emerged to sight far down the avenue, and though years
had elapsed since she had seen that form, and though she imagined her
lover to be far away, and perhaps in exile, her heart told her at once
that the approaching figure was Grahame’s. For a moment her agitation
was so excessive that she thought she would have fainted, but though
there were many painful recollections, her sensations on the whole were
of a happy kind. Quick as lightning, the thought flashed across her mind
that Grahame had heard of her agitation when the false report of his
death had reached Mordaunt Hall, and, for the moment, maidenly shame
overcame every other feeling in her bosom. Conscious that she dare not
meet her lover without preparation, she took to instant flight, and
sought, as if instinctively, her favorite seat in the garden. Here,
resting her head on her hands, she strove to collect her thoughts. It
was not long before she heard a tread on the graveled walk, and her
whole frame trembled with the consciousness that the intruder was
Grahame. Nervous, abashed, unable to look up, her heart fluttered wildly
against her boddice. How different was she from the gay, capricious
creature who had occupied that same seat, two short years before. She
heard the footstep at hand, and her agitation increased. She knew that
her lover had taken his seat beside her, and yet she dared not let her
eye meet his, but blushing and confused she offered no resistance when
he took her trembling hand in his.

“Isabel—dear Isabel!” said a manly voice, and though the tones were
full of emotion, the accents were clear and firm, for it was not Grahame
now who trembled, “let us forget the past,” and he stole his arm around
her waist. “We love each other—do we not, dear Isabel?”

Isabel raised her eyes, now beaming with subdued tenderness, to her
lover’s face, and then bursting into tears was drawn to his bosom, as
tenderly as a mother may press her new-born infant to her heart.

The interest of Isabel’s father, who had taken no part in the civil war,
procured for Grahame an immunity from proscription; and when his estates
were brought to the hammer, under the order of the parliament, they were
purchased by Mr. Mordaunt, and restored to their rightful owner. Long
and happily together lived Sir Grahame Vaux and his beautiful wife, and
when Charles the Second was restored to his kingdom, none welcomed him
back with more joy than the now blooming matron, and her still noble
looking lord.

* * * * *

HARRY CAVENDISH.

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

THE LAST SHOT.

The ten minutes that elapsed before I reached the door of the Hall
seemed to be protracted to an age, and were spent in an agony of mind no
pen can describe. Oh! to be thus deceived—to part from Annette as we
had parted—to think of her by day and dream of her by night—to look
forward to our meeting with a thrill of hope, and strive to win renown
that I might shed a lustre around my bride—and then, after all my
toils, and hopes, and struggles, to come back and find her wedded—God
of heaven! it was too much. But, notwithstanding my agony, my pride
revolted at the display of any outward emotion. I would not for worlds
that Annette should know the torture her faithlessness had inflicted on
my bosom. No! I would smooth my brow, subdue my tongue, and control my
every look. I would jest, smile, and be the gayest of the gay. I would
wish Annette and her husband a long and happy life, and no one should
suspect that, under my assumed composure, I wore a heart rankling with a
wound that no time nor circumstance could cure. I resolved to see
Annette, to play my part to the end, and then, returning to my post, to
find an honorable death on the first deck we should surmount. My
reflections, however, were cut short by the stoppage of the vehicle
before the door of the mansion. A servant hastened to undo the coach
steps, and, nerving myself for the interview that was at hand, I stepped
out. The man’s face was strange to me, and I saw that it displayed some
embarrassment.

“Will you announce me to Mr. St. Clair,” I said, “as Lieutenant
Cavendish?”

“Mr. St. Clair, I regret to say,” replied the man politely, “is not at
the Hall. The carriages have just driven off, and if they had not taken
the back road through the park, would have met you in the avenue. Mr.
St. Clair accompanies the bride and groom on a two weeks’ tour.”

My course was at once taken; and, as the criminal feels a lightening of
the heart when reprieved, so I experienced a relief in escaping the
trying experiment of mingling with the bridal party. Hastily
re-ascending the carriage steps, I left my name with the servant, and
ordering the coachman to drive off, left Pomfret Hall, with the
resolution never again to return. At the village I paused a few minutes
to indite a letter to Mr. St. Clair, in which I regretted my inopportune
arrival, and wished a long life of happiness to him and to Annette.
Then, re-entering the coach, I threw myself back on the seat, and, while
I was being whirled away from Pomfret Hall, gave myself up to the most
bitter reflections. As I now and then looked out of the window and
recognized familiar objects along the road, I contrasted my present
despondency with the hope that had thrilled my heart when I passed them
a few hours before. Then, every pulse beat faster with delicious
anticipations: now, I scarcely wished for more than an honorable death.
At length my thoughts took a turn, and I reviewed the past, calling to
mind every little word and act of Annette, from which I could draw
either hope or despair.

“Fool that I was,” I exclaimed, “to think that the wealthy heiress could
stoop to love a penniless officer. And yet,” I continued, “my fathers
were as noble as hers, aye! and enjoyed wealth and honors to which the
St. Clairs never aspired.” But again a revulsion came across my
feelings, and I said, “Oh! Annette, Annette, could you but know my
misery, you might have paused. But God grant you may find a heart as
true to you as mine.” Thus harassed by contending emotions, now giving
way to my love, and now yielding to indignation and pride, I spent the
day, and when at night, preparatory to retiring, I happened to cast a
look into the mirror, I started back at my haggard appearance. But there
are moments of agony which do the work of years.

My messmates, one and all, were astonished at my speedy return, but
luckily it had been determined to put to sea at once, so that if I had
remained at Pomfret Hall until the expiration of my leave of absence I
should have lost the cruise. One or two of my companions, who prided
themselves on their superior intelligence, gave me the credit of having,
by some unknown means, heard of the change in our day of sailing, and so
hastened my return to my post. They little dreamed of the true cause,
for to them, as to all others, I wore the same mask of assumed gaiety.

We sailed in company with The Arrow, but, ere we had been out a week,
were separated from our consort. Our orders were, in such an emergency,
to make the best of our way southward, and rendezvous at St. Domingo.

I had turned in one night, after having kept watch on deck until
midnight, when, in the midst of a refreshing sleep, I was suddenly awoke
by a hand laid on my shoulder, at the same time that a voice said—

“Hist! Cavendish; don’t talk in your sleep.”

I started to my feet, but, for a moment, my faculties were in such a
whirl that the dream in which I had been reveling, mingling with the
scene before my waking senses, confused and bewildered me so that I knew
not what I uttered.

“St. Clair! Pomfret Hall! why your wits are wool gathering, my dear
fellow,” said the doctor—for I now recognised my old friend—“of what
have you been dreaming? You look as if you thought me a spectre sent to
call you from Paradise.”

I had indeed been dreaming. I fancied I was far away, wandering amid the
leafy shades of Pomfret Hall with Annette leaning on my arm, and ever
and anon gazing up into my face with looks of unutterable love. I heard
the rustle of the leaves, the jocund song of the birds, and the soothing
sound of the woodland waterfall, but sweeter, aye! a thousand times
sweeter than all these, came to my ears the low whisper of my affianced
bride. Was I not happy? And we sat down on a verdant bank, and, with her
hand clasped in mine, and her fair head resting on my bosom, we talked
of the happiness which was in store for us, and projected a thousand
plans for the future. From visions like this I awoke to the
consciousness that Annette was lost to me forever, and that even now the
smiles and caresses of which I had dreamed were being bestowed upon
another. A pang of keenest agony, a sharp, sudden pang, as if an icebolt
had shot through my heart, almost deprived me for a moment of utterance,
and I was fain to lean against a timber for support. But this weakness
was only momentary, for, rallying every energy, I conquered my feelings,
though not so soon but that the doctor saw my emotion.

“Are you sick, my dear fellow?” he said anxiously. “No! well, you do
look better now. But I came to inform you that as rake-helly a looking
craft as ever you saw is dogging us to windward, and the Lord only knows
whether we wont all be prisoners, and mayhap dead men, before night.”

I hurried on my clothes, and, following him to the deck, saw, at the
first glance, that the good doctor’s fears respecting the strange sail
were not without foundation. She was a sharp, low brig, with masts
raking far aft, and a spread of canvass towering from her decks
sufficient to have driven a sloop of war. The haze of the morning had
concealed her from sight until within the last five minutes; but now the
broad disc of the sun, rising majestically behind her, brought out her
masts, tracery and hull in bold and distinct relief. When first
discovered, she was within long cannon shot, but standing off to
windward. She altered her course immediately, however, on perceiving us,
and was already closing. She carried no ensign, but there was that in
her crowded decks and jaunty air which did not permit me to doubt a
moment as to her character.

“A rover, by ——,” said the skipper, who had been scrutinizing the
strange sail through a glass; “and she is treble our force,” he
continued, in a whisper to me. “We have no choice, either, but to
fight.”

I shook my head, for it was evident that escape was impossible.

“She sails like a witch, too,” I replied, in the same low tone, “and
would overhaul us, no matter what her position might be.”

“I wish we were a dozen leagues away,” said the captain, shrugging his
shoulders, “there is little honor and no profit in fighting these
cut-throats, and if we are whipt, as we shall be, they will slit our
windpipes as if we were so many sheep in a slaughter-house. Bah!”

“Not so,” I exclaimed enthusiastically, “we will die sword in hand.
Since these murderers have crossed our path we must, if every thing else
fail, suffer them to board us, and then blow the schooner out of water.
I myself will fire the train.”

“Now, by the God above us, you speak as a brave man should, and shame my
momentary disgust, for fear I will not call it. No, Jack Merrivale never
wanted courage, however prudence might have been lacking. But little did
I think that you, Cavendish, would ever show less prudence than myself,
as you have to-day. You seem a changed man.”

“I am one,” I exclaimed; “but that is neither here nor there. When once
yon freebooter gets alongside, Harry Cavendish will not be behindhand in
doing his duty.”

My superior, at any other time, could not have failed to notice the
excitement under which I spoke, but now his mind was too fully occupied
to give my demeanor a second thought, and our conversation was cut short
by a ball from the pirate, which, whistling over our heads, plumped into
the sea some fathoms distant. At the same instant a mass of dark bunting
shot up to the gaff of the brig, and, slowly unrolling, blew out
steadily in the breeze, disclosing a black flag, unrelieved by a single
emblem. But we well knew the meaning of that ominous ensign.

“He taunts us with his accursed flag,” said the skipper energetically;
“by the Lord that liveth, he shall feel that freemen know how to defend
their lives and honor. Call aft the men, and then to quarters. We will
blow yon scoundrels out of water, or die on the last plank.”

Never did I listen to more vehement, more soul-stirring eloquence than
that which rolled, like a tide of fire, from the captain’s lips when the
men had gathered aft. Every eye flashed with indignation, every bosom
heaved with high and noble daring, as he pointed impetuously to the foe
and asked if there was one who heard him that wished to shrink from the
contest. To his impassioned appeal they answered with a loud huzza,
brandishing their cutlasses above their heads and swearing to stand by
him to the last.

“I know it, my brave boys—I remember how you fought the privateer’s
men,” for most of his old crew had re-entered, “but yonder cut-throats
are still more deceitful and blood-thirsty. We have nothing to hope for
from them but a short shrift and the yard-arm. We fight, not for our
country and property alone, but for our lives also. The little Falcon
has struck down too many prizes already, to show the coward’s feather
now. Let us make these decks slippery with our best blood rather than
surrender. Stand by me, if they board us, and—my word on it—the
survivors will long talk of this glorious day. And now, my brave lads,
splice the main-brace, and then to quarters.”

Another cheer followed the close of this harangue, when the men gathered
at their quarters, each one as he passed to his station receiving a
glass of grog. As I ran my eye along the decks, and saw the stalwart
frames and flashing eyes of the crew, I felt assured that the day was
destined to be desperately contested; and when I thought of the vast
odds against which we had to contend, and the glorious deeds which this
superiority would make room for, I experienced an exultation which I
cannot describe. The time for which, in the bitterness of my heart, I
had prayed, was come; and I resolved to dare things this day which, if
they ever reached the ears of Annette, should prove to her that I died
the death of a gallant soldier. The thought that, perhaps, she might
regret me when I was gone, was sweeter to me than the song of many
waters.

Little time, however, was left for such emotions, for scarcely had the
men taken their stations when the pirate, who had hitherto been
manœuvering for a favorable position and only occasionally firing a
shot, opened his batteries on us, discharging his guns in such quick
succession that his sides seemed one continuous blaze, and his tall
masts were to be seen reeling backwards from the shock of his broadside.
Instantaneously the iron tempest came hurtling across us, and for a
space I was bewildered by the rending of timbers, the falling of spars,
and the agonizing shrieks of the wounded. The main-top-mast came
rattling to the deck with all its hamper at the very moment that a
messmate fell dead beside me. For a few minutes all was consternation
and confusion. So rapid had been the discharges, and so well aimed had
been each shot, that, in the twinkling of an eye, we saw ourselves
almost a wreck on the water, and comparatively at the mercy of our foe.

“Clear away this hamper,” shouted the skipper, “stand to your guns
forward there, and give it to the pirate.”

With the word the two light pieces and the gun amidships opened on the
now rapidly closing foe; but the metal of all except the swivel was so
light that it did no perceptible damage on the thick-ribbed hull of our
antagonist. The ball from the long eighteen, however, swept the decks of
the foe, and appeared to have carried no little havoc in its course. But
the broadside did not check the approach of the rover. His object was
manifestly to run us afoul and board us. Steadily, therefore, he
maintained his course, swerving scarcely a hair’s breadth at our
discharge, but keeping right on as if scorning our futile efforts to
check his progress. We did not, however, intermit our exertions.
Although crippled we were not disheartened—despairing, we entertained
no thought of submission, but rallying around our guns, we fought them
like lions at bay, firing with such rapidity that our decks, and the
ocean around, soon came to be almost obscured in the thick fleecy veil
of smoke that settled slowly on the water. Every few minutes a ball from
the pirate whizzed by in our immediate vicinity, or crashed among our
spars; but the increasing clouds of vapor, clinging about the pathway of
our foe as well as of ourselves, made his fire naturally less deadly
than at first. For a short space we even lost sight of our antagonist,
and the gunners paused, uncertain where to fire; but suddenly the lofty
spars of the pirate were seen riding above the white fog, scarcely a
pistol shot from us, and in another minute, with a deafening crash, the
rover ran us aboard, his bowsprit jamming in our fore-rigging as he
approached us head on. Almost before we could recover from our surprise
we heard a stern voice crying out in the Spanish tongue for boarders,
and immediately a dark mass of ruffians gathered, like a cluster of
bees, on the bowsprit of the foe, with cutlasses brandished aloft,
preparatory to a descent on our decks.

“Rally to repel boarders!” thundered the skipper, springing forward,
“ho! beat back the bloodhounds from your decks,” and with the word, he
made a blow at a desperado who, at that moment, sprang into the
fore-rigging; when my superior drew back his sword it was red with the
heart’s blood of the assailant, who, falling heavily backwards with a
dull plash, squatted a second on the water, like a wounded water-fowl,
and then sank forever. For a single breath his companions stood
appalled, and then, with a savage yell, leaping on our decks, fiercely
attacked our little band. In vain our gallant tars disputed every inch
of ground—in vain one after another of the assailants dyed the deck
with his blood—in vain by word and deed the skipper incited the crew to
almost gigantic exertions; nothing could resist the overpowering tide of
assailants which poured on in an unremitting stream from the brig,
bearing down every thing before it as an avalanche from the hills. Step
by step our brave lads were steadily forced backwards, until at length
the whole forecastle was in possession of the foe, and a solid mass of
freebooters was advancing on the starboard side of the open main-hatch,
in eager pursuit of the retreating crew. I had foreseen this result to
the conflict, and instead, therefore, of aiding to repel the boarders,
had been engaged in loading one of the lighter guns with grape, and
dragging it around, so as to command this very path;—a duty which I had
been enabled to perform unnoticed by either party in the fierce
excitement of the _mêlée_. I had hardly masked my little battery, and
not three minutes had elapsed from the first onset of the boarders, when
my messmates came driving towards me, as I have described, beaten in by
the solid masses of the enemy. Already the fugitives had passed the
hatchway, and the foremost desperados of the assailing column were even
now within three feet of the muzzle of my gun, when I signed to my
confederate to jerk off the tarpaulin which had masked our piece. The
pirates started back in horror when they saw their peril, but I gave
them no time to escape. Quick as lightning I applied the match, and the
whole fiery cataract was belched upon them. Language cannot depict the
fearful havoc of that discharge. The hurricane of fire and shot mowed
its way lengthwise, through the narrow and crowded column, scattering
the dying and the dead beneath its track, as a whirlwind uproots the
forest trees; while groans, and imprecations, and shrieks of anguish
rent the air, drowning the sounds of the explosion, and the crashing of
the grape, amongst its victims.

“Now charge!” I shouted, as if seized with a sudden frenzy, springing
into the very midst of the foe, “charge them, my gallant braves, and
sweep the murderers from the deck. No quarter to the knaves! Hew them to
the brisket,” and following every word with a blow, and seconded by our
men who seemed to catch my fury, we made such havoc among those of the
pirates whom the grape had spared, that, astonished, paralized,
disconcerted, and finally struck with mortal fear, they fled wildly from
the schooner, some regaining their craft by the bowsprit, some plunging
overboard and swimming to her, and some leaping headlong into the deep
never to rise again. Seizing an axe, and springing forward, I hastily
cut our hamper loose from the foe, and with the next swell the two
vessels slowly parted.

“Now to your guns, my men,” shouted the skipper, unconscious of a
dangerous wound, in the excitement of the moment, “give it to them
before they can rally to their quarters. Fire!”

We poured in our broadsides like hail, riddling even the solid sides of
our foe, and making his decks slippery with blood, and all this before
the discomfited freebooters could rally to their guns and return our
shots. Our men, fired with an enthusiasm which approached to madness,
loaded with a speed that seems to me now incredible, and the third
broadside was shaking every timber of our little craft, before a
solitary gun was discharged in reply from the pirate.

“Ah! he has woke up at last,” said my old friend, the captain of our
long Tom, “and she may yet regain the day if we don’t fight like devils.
Bring me that shot from the galley.”

“In God’s name, what do you mean?” said I, as he coolly sat down by his
piece. “In with the ball and let the rover have it—not a moment is to
be lost.”

“Aye! I knows that, leftenant; and here comes the settler for which I
waited,” he exclaimed, as the cook brought a red-hot shot from the
galley, “I thought I’d venture on a little experiment of my own, and
I’ve seen ’em do wonders with these fiery comets afore now. There—there
she has it,” he exclaimed, as the shot was sent home, “now God have
mercy on them varmint’s souls.”

From some strange, unaccountable presentiment, I stepped mechanically
backward and cast an eye at the brig, which had now floated to some
distance. As I did so, a trail of fire glanced before my sight, and I
saw the simmering shot enter her side. Thought was not quicker than the
explosion which followed, shaking the sea beneath and the sky above, and
almost deafening the ear with its unearthly concussion, while
instantaneously a gush of flame shot far up into the sky; the masts of
the vessel were lifted perpendicularly upwards, and the whole air was
filled with shattered timbers and mangled human bodies that fell the
next minute pattering around us into the deep. Oh God! the fearful
sight! The shrieks of the wounded and drowning—the awful struggles of
the poor wretches in the water—the sullen cloud that settled over the
scene of death, will they ever pass away from my memory? But I drop a
veil over a sight too horrible to recount. Suffice it to say, of all the
rover’s crew, not one survived to see that sun go down. A few we picked
up with our boats, but they died ere night. The cause of the explosion
is soon told. The brig’s magazine had been struck and fired by our LAST
SHOT.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF MADOC.

BY G. FORRESTER BARSTOW.

Away! away! the bright blue waves are dashing
With sparkling crests like spotless mountain snow,
As in the fight our mighty falchion’s flashing
Above the foe.
Away! away! old ocean spreads before us
Its broad domain, where sunk the sun’s last ray,
While in the deep blue sky that arches o’er us
Stars shine to light our way.

Away! away! from home’s entrancing pleasures
The festal board, the bower of lady fair,
The roof that holds our hearts’ most valued treasures,
The loved ones there,
We go: and while the burning tear is starting
From eyes that gaze upon a shoreless main,
Fill! fill to those from whom we now are parting,
And ne’er may see again.

Fill to the loved ones whose bright eyes are beaming
As yonder stars in their pure heaven of blue,
Bright as the stars those brilliant eyes are gleaming
With heaven’s own hue.
Fill to the loved ones whose bright cheeks are glowing
As eastern heaven in morning’s virgin ray,
Whose necks, down which their auburn locks are flowing,
Would shame the dashing spray.

Away! away! above the waves careering,
Our ship speeds lightly on an unknown way,
Far to the west our course we now are steering
With spirits gay.
Far to the west, where brilliant gems are shining,
And mighty rivers roll o’er golden sands,
Where sweetest flowers and richest grapes are twining,
Wooing the stranger’s hands.

* * * * *

AN APPEAL

TO AMERICAN AUTHORS AND THE AMERICAN PRESS

IN BEHALF OF AN INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT.

Gentlemen:—You have the credit, at this moment, of ruling the world—at
least your part of it; and cannot yet enact a single statute by which
your share of worldly right and profit shall be secured to you. Walking,
in the world’s eye, as strong and beautiful as angels, you cannot
perform the day’s work, counted either in money or in bill-making
influence, of a rude Missourian or a lean Atlantic citizen.

Aiding, as you do, by your inventive genius in all the great enterprises
of the day—pushing forward every great and good undertaking to an issue
of success—you lack the will or the skill to create a simple
mill-contrivance by which your grain may be ground and bread furnished
to your board.

You project, but do not realize. You sow, but do not reap. You sail to
and fro—merchantmen and carriers to all the world of thought—the whole
ocean over, but find no harbor and acquire no return. How much longer
you will consent to keep the wheels of opinion in motion: to do the
better part of the thinking and writing of these twenty-six States,
without hire or fee, it rests with you to say. I merely put the case to
you to see how it strikes you.

I address you in the mass, writers of books and framers of paragraphs
together, because, at bottom, all who wield the pen have interests in
common; and because I am anxious (I confess it) to have the whole force
of the Press, whatever shape it takes, combined and consolidated against
an injustice which could not live an hour if the Press knew its rights
and its strength. The rights and the respectability of the one are, in
the end, the rights and the respectability of the other; based in both
cases on the worth and dignity of literary property.

No community is secure, it seems to me, where any law or fundamental
right is systematically violated.

Either by instant vindication, through blood, and pillage, and massacre;
or by the more silent and deadlier agency of the opposite wrong and a
whole brood of fierce allies sprung from its loins, is this truth, at
all times, asserted and made good. From the original wrong, lying in
many cases close to the heart of society, there spreads a secret and
invisible atmosphere of pestilence, in which all kindred rights moulder
and decay, until their life at last goes out at a moment when no man had
guessed at such a result. Neither statesmen nor people are, therefore,
wise in tampering with a single principle: or in yielding a jot of the
immutable truth to plausible emergency or the fair-seeming visage of an
immediate good.

The law of property, in all its relations and aspects, is one of these
primary anchors and fastenings of the social frame. And what evils, I am
asked, have grown from the alleged neglect of literary property? I will
mention one by way of illustration.

You are all of you aware, by this time, that the extensive printing and
publishing establishment of Harper & Brothers, Cliff street, New York,
was burned in the early part of June; and that a heavy loss accrued to
them from the burning.

The fire was attributed, immediately after it occured, by the public
prints to the hand of design. “_It is supposed that one object of the
incendiaries was to obtain copies of a new novel, by James, of which the
Messrs. Harper had the exclusive possession._” Another paper enlarges
this statement—“we see suspicions expressed that the object was to get
possession of a new novel, ‘Morley Ernstein,’ which was in sheets, _for
cheap publication_.” Here is a natural, logical sequence, and just such
a one as might have been expected. If the conjecture should not prove a
fact, it ought to be one, because this is just the period and the very
order in which we might expect an incident of this kind to occur;
perhaps not on quite so large a scale, nor with the necessary
melo-dramatic admixture of fire. It might have been a plain burglary,
prying a ware-house door open with a bar, for a copy; or, knocking a man
over, at the edge of evening, and plucking the sheets from under his
arm.

Piracy and burning are, perhaps, so nearly akin that, after all, they
have wrought out the sequence more naturally than if it had been left to
the friends of copyright to suggest to them in what order they should
occur. In Elia’s legend, a building is burned that a famishing Chinaman
may have roast pig; in the reality of the present fire a publisher’s
warehouse was put in flames, not only to prevent a famishing author from
having roast pig in _presenti_, but also, by a decisive blow, to further
the good principle, that there should be no roast pig (nor even salt and
a radish) for famishing authors in all future time. Let it not be said I
press this point, a mere surmise, too far. Surmise as it is, it receives
countenance and consistency from a previous fact, namely, that one of
the large republishing newspapers was charged, not long since, by the
other—and this was made a matter for the Sessions—with the felony of
abstracting the sheets of an English work from the office of its rival.
This—an invasion of property—is only one of the external evils growing
out of a false and lawless state of things. Of others which strike
deeper; which create confusion and error of opinion; which tend to
unsettle the lines that divide nation from nation; to obliterate the
traits and features which give us a characteristic individuality as a
nation—there will be another and more becoming opportunity to speak.

As it is, by fair means or foul, the weekly newspaper press, with its
broad sheet spread to the breeze, is making great head against the
slow-sailing progress of such as trust to the more regular trade-winds
for their speed. And this, fortunately (as error cannot long abide in
itself,) is creating changes of opinion of infinite advantage to the
great cause of international copyright.

A little while ago, we had the publishers petitioning and declaiming
against an international copyright, (I forget what arguments they
employed;) and, lo! their breath is scarcely spent when the ground
slides from under them, and the whole publishing business—at least a
considerable section of it—which they meant to uphold by false and
hollow props, has tumbled into chaos, and an organic change has passed
through the world of publication. Now they begin—and we are glad to
have so powerful and so respectable a body convert to our side, on
whatever terms—to see the matter in a new light; the affection for the
people, and the cheap enlightenment of the people, and the people’s
wives and children, which they made bold (out of an exceeding
philanthropy) to proclaim in market-places and the lobbies of Congress,
is wonderfully dwindled.

It isn’t a pleasant thing, after all, to have one’s printing-house and
bindery burned to the ground, even for so laudable an object. Suppose we
have the law: a little civilized recognition of the rights of authors
(merely by way of clincher, however, to the absolute, primary and
indefeasible rights of publishers) might be an agreeable change from
this barbarous system of non-protection. The old plan, it must be
admitted, has its disadvantages. Let’s have the law! And here you may
suppose the hats of certain old, respected and enterprising publishers
to rise into the air, in a sort of fervor or ecstasy, which it is
entirely out of their power to control.

Is there or is there not a property in a book: a primitive, real,
fundamental right in its ownership as in any estate or property? Often
and clearly as this question has been determined, the opponents of a
law, by stress of argument, are driven upon denying it over and over
again, and making use of every sort of ridiculous and irrelevant
illustration to crowd the right out of the way. They fly into all
corners of creation in pursuit of an analogy, and come back without as
much as a sparrow in their bag.

One of them, for example, says, “We buy a new foreign book; it is ours;
we multiply copies and diffuse its advantages. We also buy a bushel of
foreign wheat, before unknown to us; we cultivate, increase it, and
spread its use over the country. Where is the difference? If one is
stealing, the other is so. Nonsense! neither is stealing. They are both
praiseworthy acts, beneficial to mankind, injurious to nobody, right and
just in themselves, and commendable in the sight of God.” This reasoner,
of a pious inclination and most excellent moral tendencies, has made but
a single error—he thinks the type, stitching and paper are THE BOOK! He
forgets that when you buy a book you do not buy the whole body of its
thoughts in their entire breadth and construction, to be yours in fee
simple for all uses, (if you did, the vender would be guilty of a fraud
in selling more than a single copy of any one work;) but simply the
usufruct of the book as a reader. Any processes of your own mind exerted
upon that work, or parts of it, make the result, so far, your legitimate
property, and is one of the incidents of your purchase. To reprint the
work in any shape, as a complete, symmetrical composition, is a
violation of the original contract between the vender and yourself;
whether it be in folio or duodecimo, in the form of newspaper or
pamphlet—there lies THE BOOK, unchanged by any action of your own mind.
The wheat, of which you have purchased the bushel, in the mean time has
been sown in your field, (there’s a difference to begin;) which has been
prepared by your plough and plough-horse for its reception; the kindly
dews and rains of heaven—which would answer to the genial inspirations
and movements of the mind, in the other case—descend upon it; it is
guarded by walls and hedges from inroad; the weeds and tares which would
fain choke it are plucked out by a careful hand; at last it is reaped
and gathered in by the harvestman to his garners. The one bushel has
become a thousand; but it has passed through a thousand appropriating
and fructifying processes to swell it to that extent. It has not been
merely poured out of one bushel measure into another bushel measure.
Though the one plough the earth, and the other plough the sea, the world
will recognize a distinction, a delicate line of demarcation between
farmer (man’s first occupation) and pirate (his last.) The
republishers—the proprietors of the mammoth press—groan under the
aspersion of piracy and pillage laid at their door: they complain of the
harshness of epithet which denounces them as Kyds and MacGregors. They
must bear in mind that authors and republishers are likely to regard
this question from very different points of view: that the poor writer,
regarding himself as plundered, defrauded of a positive right, and of a
property as real and substantial as guineas, or dollars, or doubloons,
may feel a soreness of which the other party, living as he does on the
denial of that right, and the seizure of that property, without charge
or cost, may not be quite as susceptible. Let us make an effort to bring
this point home to these gentlemen in an obvious and intelligible
illustration.

How would the worthy proprietors of “The Brother Jonathan” like it, if,
when their editions of Barnaby Rudge or Zanoni had been carefully worked
off, at some expense of composition, paper and press-work, and lay ready
folded in their office for delivery: How would they be pleased if, just
at that moment, when the newsboys were gathered at the office door,
pitching their throats for the new cry, a gang of stout-handed fellows
should descend upon their premises, and without as much as “by your
leave,” or, “gentlemen an you will!” sweep the entire edition off, bear
it into the next street, and there proceed to issue and vend it with the
utmost imaginable steadiness of aspect, with an equanimity of demeanor
quite edifying and perfect? Why, gentlemen, to speak the truth plainly,
you would have a hue-and-cry around the corner in an instant! _Your_
ejaculations of thief, robber and burglar would know no pause till you
were compelled to give over for very lack of breath; and the whole
community would be startled, at its breakfast the next morning, by an
appeal to its moral sensibilities so loud and lightning-like, that the
coffee would be unpalatable, and the very toast turn to a cinder in the
mouth.

Now, it should be borne in mind that the large weekly press, whose
influence we are anxious to counteract, and whose interest is rapidly
becoming the leading one in opposition to the proposed law, has arisen
since the agitation of this question; has embarked its capital, and has
grown to its present power and influence in the very teeth of a solemn
protest of the authors whose labors they appropriate. It should also, in
fairness, be added that some members of this huge fraternity only avail
themselves of this law as it now stands, as they think they have a
right, and hold themselves ready to abandon the field or adapt
themselves to the change whenever a new law requires it; in the mean
time, meeting the question fairly, and reasoning it through in good
temper. The very paper which I have employed in illustration is
chargeable with no offence against literature, society, or good morals,
save the single taint of appropriating the labors of authors without
pay, and defending the appropriation as matter of strict right and
propriety. Only in a community where a contempt for literary rights has
been engendered by long mal-practice, could such sentiments have
obtained lodgment in minds of general fairness and honesty.

If the hostility to a law of reciprocal copyright be as deep rooted as
is alleged, why has there not been some able argument (raised above
sordid considerations, and looking wide and far upon the question in all
its vast bearings) expounding to us the grounds on which this professed
antagonism is based? When we ask them for a syllogism they give us an
assertion. “My dear sir, how can you waste time, perplexing yourself and
the public with this barren question! We supply readers with a novel, a
good three-volume novel, for a shilling; and as long as we do that they
will remain deaf to all your appeals. The _argumentum ad crumenam_, the
syllogism of the pocket has, in all ages, carried the sway!” This is the
head and front of their declamation, of their invective and their facts.
This is _the_ Fact! This boulder (offered in lieu of bread) they beg us
of the author-tribe to digest: this is their bulwark, their
fortress—no, their burrow rather—into which they skulk at the approach
of a poor author, quill in hand, prepared to drive off the game—_feræ
naturæ_—that lay waste his preserves and make free in his clover-field.

Now of all arguments this of cheapness is most questionable and unsafe.
It has a comely and alluring visage, is smooth-spoken and full of
promise, but we must have a caution where it may lead us, for it is as
full of trick and foul play as a canting quaker; as precarious a
foothold as the trap of the scaffold the minute before the check is
slipped. Cheap and good are a pleasant partnership: but it does not
happen that they always do business together. Taking cheapness as our
guide and conductor, we can readily make our way, in imagination, to a
publishing shop where the principle is expanded into a pleasing
practical illustration. The shop is of course in a cellar, (rent twelve
shillings a quarter;) the attendant is a second-hand man cast off from
the current population of the upper world into this depository (wages
seven shillings a week;) his hat, being still on the cheap tendency, has
followed him out of Chatham street in company with a coat rejected of
seven owners, the last of whom was a dustman, trowsers to match and
boots borrowed of a pauper (cost of the entire outfit five shillings and
a penny;) behind a counter that totters to the earth at an expense of
five pence or more for repairs, he dispenses the frugal Literature of
which he is the genius—the paper being of such an exquisite delicacy
and cheapness that a good eye, by glancing through, can read both sides
at once; the purchaser plunges down with a sixpence (most economical of
small coin) in his pocket, and bears off, in a triumphant apotheosis,
four and twenty columns to be read by the light of a tallow twopenny
that sputters cheapness as it burns. This is the glory of the age; the
crowning honor and triumph of America. Who would have the heart or the
hardihood to blur that fair picture of popular knowledge and cheap
enjoyment? Why, sirs—to speak a serious word or two in your ear—this
plea of cheapness—a miserable escape at best, where a question of right
and wrong is concerned—pushed to its extreme (and as cheapness is urged
as the sole criterion and measure of advantage, we are warranted in so
doing,) would drive literature to the almanac, which can be afforded at
a penny; and the age of the brown ballad would return upon us with all
its primitive graces of an unclean sheet, a cloudy typography, and a
style of thought and expression quite as pure and lucid.

Pass a copyright bill and we are told, “we should soon learn the
difference between £1 10, the London price of Bulwer’s Zanoni, and the
American price of twenty-five cents.” How long—it is triumphantly
asked—would our “reading public, almost commensurate with the entire
population, continue at such a rate?”—what if it did not last a minute?
Truth and honesty are of a little more worth than a reading public even
as wide as the borders of the land. Of the elevation of the people—the
instruction of the people, I hold myself a friend—no man more: but I do
not propose to begin their enlightenment with a new version of the
decalogue; so amended as to admit all the opposites against which it is
directed, as virtues which we are enjoined to cultivate.

Suppose these gentlemen do furnish your literature at a low price by
dint of paying the author nothing, they should bear in mind that there
is a place where it is paid for, or it would most assuredly prove as
miserable as it is cheap. The literature is valuable, not because they
spread it before the world in large sheets, every Saturday morning, at
sixpence a copy; but because there happened to be in another country
certain enterprising publishers, of a somewhat different stamp, who
thought it worth their while to cheer the writer in his labors by paying
him a good round sum for his copyright. I repeat it, an unpaid
literature cannot contend with a paid one; nor can it—while money is a
representative of value and a motive of exertion—be as good. Do I
imagine then that an international law will create great writers? Not at
all. Under any law—oppressed by whatever bondage or tyranny custom
chooses to lay upon them—men of great genius will struggle into light
and cast before the world the thoughts with which their own souls have
been moved. They will speak though mountains pressed upon them. But
there is a wide class—comprising the body of a national literature—who
can claim no such power; essayists, philosophers, whose impulses are not
great, periodical writers—all are silent when the law and the trade
fail to befriend them. It is these that need the constant stimulus—the
genial inspiration (denied to them in any great measure by Nature) of
pay. It is the shining gold—decry it as we may—that breeds the shining
thought.

It may be asked, how does this question affect the Press? The Press,
forming a part of the great body of writers, is affected by whatever
affects the writers of books; for the bond by which the entire
brotherhood is held together, is so close that it cannot be struck in
any part without feeling the shock in its whole length. The same
injustice by which the author falls in station and place, drags down the
journalist. The rights of all who use the pen are rights in common;
varying only in degree, and, as they may be affected from time to time,
by circumstances of the hour or day. Beyond this the actual and
immediate pressure of a vast amount of reading from abroad, poured upon
us without limit or regulation, begins to be felt by the daily and
weekly Press. They find attention drawn off from the article or
political speculation in their own columns, prepared with care and
judgment, to the cheap reprint; and are driven upon abandoning the field
or joining in a pernicious system of unpaid appropriation against which
their better judgment revolts.

I now close this Appeal, and in doing so I would venture to urge upon
you the importance of concert and a steady action in behalf of this law,
at all times and in all places where you are called on to employ that
sacred instrument of thought, whose immunities are so grossly outraged.

The popular mind has, in this country, made wonderful advances in the
appreciation of political truths and principles. There is no reason why
it should not make an equal—though perhaps a later—progress in truths
that relate to literature and art. The popular mind, as all our
institutions require, is essentially just and true; and, once
enlightened by a sufficient array of facts, and with time to arrange and
digest them, will act with energy and wisdom—on this as on all other
questions of which it is the arbiter. Depend upon it this bill, although
adversely regarded by your Senate and Representatives at this time, will
ultimately triumph. It will go up to the Senate-chamber, year after
year, with new facts, pleading for it with an urgency which considerate
legislators cannot resist. In the mean time it is your duty, as I trust
it is your desire, to enlighten the general mind as to the truths on
which I have ventured to insist. Seize the instant. In town, in
homestead and city, let these principles be spread as wide as the
writings they would protect; and search, with a fearless eye, the
national heart to find whether there be not some kindly corner where it
is willing the seeds of a national literature should be lodged. Speaking
in the accents of persuasion with which God and Nature have endowed you;
and through the organs of opinion which every one of you may, more or
less, command—you cannot be long resisted. Together, in a phalanx,
before which kings and princes grow pale, enter upon the mighty task.
Hand in hand, voice answering to voice, in tones of mutual trust and
cheerful hope press forward in the noble labor to which you are
summoned. That Union which, in politics and war, is Strength, will prove
in Literature, as well, your champion and deliverer.

CORNELIUS MATHEWS.

_New York, June, 1842._

* * * * *

THE APPROACH OF AUTUMN.

But late the song of reaper
Was heard amid the corn,
But now an anthem deeper
Unto my ear is borne,
Of winds among the mountains,
In their unruly play,
With voice of swollen fountains,
That bear the leaves away.

The golden garb of summer,
Like earth, my soul has lost,
The breath of the dark comer
Its rosy mirth has crost;
For my spirit changeth
With the varying sky,
As a cloud estrangeth
The wood-bird’s melody.

W. F.

* * * * *

THE SISTERS.

A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

BY H. W. HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” “THE BROTHERS,”
“CROMWELL,” ETC. ETC.

(Concluded from page 78.)

When next she opened her eyes, she lay on her own bed, in her own well
known chamber, and her old nurse, with the good vicar’s wife, was
watching over her—as her lids rose and she looked about her, all her
intelligence returned upon the moment, and she was perfectly aware of
all that had already passed, of all that she had still to undergo.
“Well—” she replied to the eager and repeated inquiries after her state
of body and sensations which were poured out from the lips of her
assiduous watchers—“Oh! I feel quite well, I do assure you—I was not
hurt at all—not in the least—only I was so foolish as to faint from
terror—but Marian, how is Marian?”

“Not injured in the least, but very anxious about you, sweet Annabel,”
replied good mistress Summers—“so much so that I was obliged to force
her from the chamber, so terrible was her grief, so violent her terror
and excitement—Lord De Vaux snatched her from the horse and saved her,
before he even saw your danger—he too is in a fearful state of mind, he
has been at the door twenty times, I believe, within the hour—hark,
that is his foot now—will you see him, dearest?”

A quick and chilly shudder ran through the whole frame of the lovely
girl, and a faint hue glowed once again in her pale cheek, but mastering
her feelings, she made answer in her own notes of sweet calm music—“Not
yet, dear mistress Summers—not yet—but tell him, I beseech you, that I
am better—well indeed! and will receive his visit by and by—and in the
mean time, my good friend, I must see Marian—must see her directly and
alone—No! no!” she added, seeing that the old lady was about to
remonstrate—“No! no! you must not hinder me of my desire—you know—”
she went on, with a faint, very melancholy smile—“you know, of old, I
am a wilful stubborn girl when I make up my mind—and it is quite made
up now, my good friend—so, pray you, let me see her—I am quite strong
enough I do assure you—so do you, I beseech you, go and console my
lord; and let nurse bring me Marian!—” So firmly did she speak, and so
resolved was the expression of her soft gentle features, that they no
longer hesitated to comply with her request, and both retired with soft
steps from the chamber. Then Annabel half uprose from the pillows which
had propped her, and clasped her hands in attitude of prayer, and turned
her beautiful eyes upward—her lips moved visibly, not in irregular
impulsive starts, but with a smooth and ordered motion, as she prayed
fervently indeed but tranquilly, for strength to do, and patience to
endure, and grace to do and to endure alike with Christian love and
Christian fortitude. While she was thus engaged, a quick uncertain
footstep, now light and almost tripping, now heavy and half faltering,
approached the threshold—a gentle hand raised the latch once, and again
let it fall, as if the comer was fluctuating between the wish to enter
and some vague apprehension which for the moment conquered the desire.
“Is it you, Marian?—” asked the lovely sufferer—“oh! come in, come in,
sister!—” and she did come in, that bright lovely creature, her
naturally high complexion almost unnaturally brilliant now from the
intensity of her hot blushes, her eyes were downcast, and she could not
so much as look up into the sad sweet face of Annabel; her whole frame
trembled visibly as she approached the bed, and her foot faltered very
much, yet she drew near, and sitting down beside the pillow, took
Annabel’s hand tenderly between her own, and raised it to her warm lips
and kissed it eagerly and often. Never for a moment’s space did the eyes
of Annabel swerve from her sister’s features, from the moment she
entered the door until she sat down by her side, but rested on them
steadily as if through them they would peruse the secret soul with a
soft gentle scrutiny, that savored not at all of sternness or
reproach—at last, as if she was now fully satisfied, she dropped her
eyelids and for a little space kept them close shut, while again her
lips moved silently—and then pressing her sister’s hand fondly, she
said in a quiet soothing voice, as if she were alluding to an admitted
fact rather than asking a question, “So you have met him before,
Marian?—” a violent convulsion shook every limb of her whom she
addressed, and the blood rushed in torrents to her brow—she bowed her
head upon her sister’s hand, and burst into a paroxysm of hysterical
tears and sobbing, but answered not a word. “Nay! nay! dear sister,”
exclaimed Annabel, bending down over her and kissing her neck which like
her brow and cheeks was absolutely crimson—“Nay! nay! sweet Marian,
weep not thus, I beseech you, there is no wrong done—none at all—there
was no wrong in your seeing him, when you did so—it was at York, I must
believe—nor in your _loving_ him either, when you did so—for I had not
then seen him, and of course could not love him. But it was _not_ right,
sweetest Marian, to let me be in ignorance—only think, dearest; only
think, what would have been my agony, when I had come to know after I
was a wife, that in myself becoming happy I had brought misery on my
second _self_—my own sweet sister!—nay!—do not answer me yet, Marian,
for I can understand it all—almost all, that is—and I quite appreciate
your motives—I am sure that you did not know that _he loved you_—for
he does love you, Marian—but fancied that he loved me only, and so
resolved to control yourself, and crush your young affections, and
sacrifice yourself for me—thank God! oh! thank God, dearest, that your
strength was not equal to the task—for had it been so we had been most
wretched—oh! most wretched. But you must tell me all about it, for
there is much I cannot comprehend—when did you see him first, and
where?—why did he never so much as hint to me that he had known
you?—why, when I wrote you word that he was here, and after that I
liked—loved—was about to marry him—why did you never write back that
you knew him?—and why, above all, when you came and found him
here—here in your mother’s house—why did you meet him as a
stranger?—I know it will be painful to you, dear one; but you must bear
the pain, for it is necessary now that there shall be no more
mistakes—be sure of one thing, dearest Marian, that I will never wed
him—oh! not for worlds!—I could not sleep one night!—no not one hour
in the thought that my bliss was your bane—but if he love you, as he
ought, and as you love him, sister, for I can read your soul, he shall
be yours at once, and I shall be more happy so—more happy tenfold—than
pillowing my head upon a heart which beats for any other—but he must
explain—he must explain all this—for I much fear me he has dealt very
basely by us both—I fear me much, he is a bold false man—”

“No! no!” cried Marian eagerly, raising her clear eyes to her sister’s,
full of ingenuous truth and zealous fire—“No! no! he is all good, and
true, and noble!—I—it is I only who have, for once, been false and
wicked—not altogether wicked, Annabel—perhaps more foolish than to
blame, at least in my intentions—but you shall hear all—you shall hear
all, Annabel, and then judge for yourself—” and then still looking her
sister quite steadily and truthfully in the face, she told her how, at a
ball in York, she had met the young nobleman, who had seemed pleased
with her, danced with her many times, and visited her, but never once
named love, nor led her in the least to fancy he esteemed her beyond a
chance acquaintance—“But I loved him—oh! _how_ I loved him,
Annabel—almost from the first time I saw him—and I feared ever—ever
and only—that by my bold frank rashness, he might discover his power,
and believe me forward and unmaidenly—weeks passed, and our intimacy
ripened, and I became each hour more fondly, more devotedly, more
madly,—for it was madness all!—enamored of him. He met me ever as a
friend; no more! The time came when he was to leave York, and as he took
leave of me he told me that he had just received despatches from _his_
father directing him to visit _mine_; and I, shocked by the coolness of
his parting tone, and seeing that indeed he had no love for me, scarcely
noting what he said, told him not that I had _no father_—but I did tell
him that I had one sweet sister, and suddenly extorted from him,
unawares, a promise that he would never tell you he had known me—my
manner, I am sure, was strange and wild, and I have no doubt that my
words were so likewise—for his demeanor altered on the instant—his
air, which had been that of quiet friendship, became cool, chilling, and
almost disdainful, and within a few minutes he took his leave, and we
never met again till yester even. You will, I doubt not, ask me
wherefore I did all this—I cannot tell you—I was mad, mad with love
and disappointment, and the very instant he said that he was coming
hither, I knew as certainly that he would love you, and you him,
Annabel, as though it had been palpably revealed to me. I could not
write of him to you—I _could_ not!—and when your letters came and we
learned that he was here, I confessed all this to our aunt, and though
she blamed me much for wild and thoughtless folly, she thought it best
to keep the matter secret. This is the whole truth, Annabel—the whole
truth! I fancied that the absence, the knowledge that I should see him
next my sister’s husband, the stern resolve with which I bound my soul,
had made me strong to bear his presence—I tried it, and I found myself,
how weak—this is all, Annabel; can you forgive me, sister?”

“Sweet, innocent Marian,” exclaimed the elder sister through her tears,
for she had wept constantly through the whole sad narration, “there is
not any thing for me to forgive—you have wronged yourself only, my poor
sister!—But yet—but yet!—I cannot understand it—he must have
seen—no _man_ could fail to see that one so frank and artless, as you
are, Marian, was in love with him—he must, if not before, have known it
certainly when you extorted from him, as you call it, that strange
promise—besides he loves _you_, Marian; he loves you—then
wherefore—wherefore, in God’s name, did he woo me—for woo he did, and
fervently and long before he won me to confession?—oh! he is
base!—base, base, and bad at heart, my sister!—answer me nothing, dear
one, for I will prove him very shortly—send Margaret hither to array
me, I will go speak with him forthwith—if he be honest, Marian, he is
yours—and think not that I sacrifice myself, when I say this; for all
the love I ever felt for him has vanished utterly away—if he is honest,
he is yours—but be not over confident, dear child, for I believe he is
not—and if not—why then, sweet Marian, can we not comfort one another,
and live together as we used, dear, innocent, united happy sisters? Do
not reply now, Marian—your heart is too full—haste and do as I tell
you; before supper time to-night all shall be ended, whether for good or
evil, HE only knows to whom the secrets of the heart are visible, e’en
as the features of the face. Farewell—be of good cheer, and yet not
over cheerful!”

Within an hour after that most momentous conversation Annabel sat beside
the window in that fair summer parlor, looking out on the fair prospect
of mead and dale and river, with its back ground of purple
mountains—the very window from which she had first looked upon De Vaux.
Perhaps a secret instinct had taught her to select that spot now that
she was about to renounce him forever—but if it were so, it was one of
those indefinable impulsive instincts of which we are unconscious, even
while they prompt our actions. De Vaux was summoned to her presence, and
Annabel awaited him—arbiter of her own, her sister’s destinies!
“Ernest—” she said, as he entered, cutting across his eager and
impetuous inquiries, “Ernest De Vaux, I have learned to-day a secret—”
she spoke with perfect ease, and without a symptom of irritation, or
anxiety, or sorrow, either in her voice, or in her manner—nor was she
cold or dignified, or haughty. Her demeanor was not indeed that of a
fond maid to her accepted suitor; nor had it the flutter which marks the
consciousness of unacknowledged love—a sister’s to a dear brother’s
would have resembled it more nearly than perhaps anything to which it
could be compared, yet was not this altogether similar. He looked up in
her face with a smile, and asked at once,

“What secret, dearest Annabel?”

“A secret, Ernest,” she replied, “which I cannot but fancy you must have
learned _before_, but which _you_ certainly _have_ learned, as well as
I, to-day. My sister loves you, Ernest!” The young man’s face was
crimson on the instant, and he would have made some reply, but his voice
failed him, and after a moment of confused stuttering, he stood before
her in embarrassed silence, but she went on at once, not noticing
apparently his consternation. “If you did know this, as I fear must be
the case, long long ago! most basely have you acted, and most cruelly,
to both of us—for never! never! even if it had been a rash and
unsought, and unjustifiable passion on her part, would I have wedded,
knowingly, the man who held my sister’s heart strings!”

“It was,” he answered instantly, “it was a rash and unsought, and
unjustifiable passion on her part—believe me, oh! believe me, Annabel!
that is—that is—” he continued, reddening again, at feeling himself
self-convicted—“that is—if she felt any passion!”

“Then you _did_ know it—then you _did_ know it—” she interrupted him,
without paying any regard to his attempt at self-correction, “then you
did know it from the very first—oh! man! man! oh! false heart of
man—oh! falser tongue that can speak thus of a woman whom he _loves!_
yes! _loves!_” she added in a clear high voice, thrilling as the alarm
blast of a silver trumpet—“yes! loves—Ernest De Vaux—with his whole
heart and spirit—never think to deny it—did I not see you, when you
rushed to save her from a lesser peril, when you left me, as you must
have thought, to perish—did I not see love, written as clearly as words
in a book, on every feature of _your_ face—even as I heard love crying
out aloud in every accent of _her_ voice?”

“What! jealous, Annabel? the calm and self-controlling Annabel! can she
be jealous—of her own sister, too?”

“Not jealous! sir—” she answered, now most contemptuously, “not jealous
in the least, I do assure you—for though most surely love _can_ exist
without one touch of jealousy, as surely cannot jealousy exist where
there is neither love, nor admiration, nor esteem, nor so much as
respect existing.”

“How—do I hear you—” he asked somewhat sharply—“do I understand you
aright? what have become, then, of your vows and protestations—your
promises of yester even?”

“You do hear me—you do understand me—” she replied, “entirely
aright—entirely! In my heart, for I have searched it very deeply—in my
heart there is not now one feeling of love, or admiration, or
esteem—much less respect for you, alas! that I should say so—alas! for
me and you—alas! for one, more to be pitied twenty-fold than either!”

“Annabel Hawkwood, you have never loved me!”

“Ernest De Vaux, you never have known—never will know—because you are
incapable of knowing the depth, the singleness, the honesty of a true
woman’s love. So deeply did I love you, that I have come down hither,
seeing that long before you knew _me_, you had won Marian’s
heart—seeing that you loved her, as she loves you, most ardently—and
hoping that you had not discovered her affections, nor suspected your
own feelings until to-day—I came down hither with that knowledge, in
that hope—and had I found that you had erred no further than in trivial
fickleness, loving you all the while beyond all things on earth, I
purposed to resign your hand to her, thus making both of you happy, and
trusting for my own contentment to consciousness of rights and to the
love of THEM, who, all praise be to Him therefore, has constituted so
the spirit of Annabel Hawkwood, that when she cannot honor, she cannot,
afterward forever, feel either love or friendship—you are weighed,
Ernest De Vaux, weighed in the balance and found wanting—I leave you
now, sir, to prepare my sister to bear the blow your baseness has
inflicted—our marriage is broken off at once, now and forever—lay all
the blame on me!—on me!—if it so please you—but not one word against
my own or Marian’s honor—my aunt I shall inform instantly, that for
sufficient reasons our promised union will not take place at all—the
reasons I shall lock in my own bosom. You will remain here—you _must_
do so—this one night, to-morrow morning we will bid you adieu forever!”

“Be it so”—he replied—“Be it so, lady—the fickleness I can
forgive—but not the scorn! I will go now and order that the regiment
march hence forthwith, what more recruits there be can follow at their
leisure—and I will overtake the troops before noon, on the march,
to-morrow,” and with the words he left the room apparently as
unconcerned as if he had gone thence but for a walk of pleasure, as if
he had not left a breaking heart behind him.

And was it true, that Annabel no longer loved him? True!—oh believe it
not—where woman once has fixed her soul’s affections there they will
dwell forever—principle may compel her to suppress it—prudence may
force her to conceal it—the fiery sense of instantaneous wrongs may
seem to quench it for a moment—the bitterness of jealousy may turn it
into gall, but like that Turkish perfume, where love has once existed it
must exist forever, so long as one fragment of the earthly vessel which
contained it survives the wreck of time and ruin. She believed that she
loved him not—but she knew not herself—what woman ever did?—what
man?—when the spring-tide of passion was upon them. And she too left
the parlor, and within a few minutes Marian had heard her fate, and
after many a tear, and many a passionate exclamation, she too apparently
was satisfied of Ernest’s worthlessness—oh! misapplied and heartless
term! She satisfied?—satisfied by the knowledge that her heart’s idol
was an unclean thing—an evil spirit—a false God!—she satisfied?—oh
Heaven!

Around the hospitable board once more—once more they were
assembled—but oh! how sadly altered—the fiat had been distinctly,
audibly pronounced—and all assembled there had heard—though none
except the sisters and De Vaux knew it—none probably, but they
suspected—well was it that there were no young men—no brothers with
high hearts and strong hands to maintain, or question—well was it that
the only relatives of those much injured maidens, the only friends, were
superannuated men of peace; the ministers of pardon, not of
vengeance—and weak old helpless women—there had been bloodshed
else—and as it was, among the serving men there were dark brows and
writhing lips, and hands alert to grasp the hilt at a word spoken—had
they been of rank one grade higher—had they _dared_ even as they
were——there had been bloodshed! Cold, cold and cheerless was the
conversation, forward and dignified civilities in place of gay familiar
mirth, forced smiles for hearty laughter, pale looks and dim eyes for
the glad blushes of the promised bride—for the bright sparkles of her
eye! The evening passed—the hour of parting came, and it was colder yet
and sadder—Ernest De Vaux, calm and inscrutable, and seemingly unmoved,
kissed the hands of his lovely hostesses, and uttered his adieu, and
thanks for all their kindness, and hopes for their prosperity and
welfare, while the old clergyman looked on with dark and angry brows,
and the help-mate with difficulty could refrain from loud and passionate
invective. His lip had a curl upon it, a painful curl, half smile, half
sneer, as he bowed to the rest and left the parlor, but none observed
that as he did so he spoke three or four words in a low whisper, so low
that it reached Marian’s ear alone of all that stood around him, yet of
such import that her color came and went ten times within the minute,
and that she shook from head to foot, and quivered like an aspen. For
two hours longer the sisters sat together in Annabel’s bedchamber, and
wept in one another’s arms, and comforted each other’s sorrows, and
little dreamed that they should meet no more for years—perchance
forever! The morning broke like that which had preceded it, serene and
bright, and lovely—the great sun rushed up the blue vault in triumphant
splendor, all nature laughed out his glory—but at a later hour, far
later than usual, no smoke was seen curling from the chimneys of the
hall, no sign of man or beast was visible about its precincts. The
passionate scenes—the wild excitement of the preceding day, had brought
about, as usual, a dull reaction; and sleep sat heavy on the eyelids, on
the souls of the inmates. The first who woke up was Annabel—Annabel,
the bereaved, the almost widowed bride. Dressing herself in haste, she
sought, as usual, her mother’s chamber, found her—oh happy! how happy
in her benighted state, since she knew not, nor understood at all, the
sorrows of those whom she once had loved so tenderly—found her in deep
calm slumber—kissed her brow silently, and breathed a fond prayer over
her, then hurried thence to Marian’s chamber—the door stood open; it
was vacant! Down the stairs to the garden—the door that led to that
sweet spot was barred and bolted—the front door stood upon the latch,
and by that Annabel passed out into the fresh young morning—how fair,
how peaceable, how calm was all around her—how utterly unlike the
strife, the toils, the cares, the sorrows, the hot hatreds of the
animated world—how utterly unlike the anxious pains which were then
gnawing at that fair creature’s heartstrings! She stood awhile, and
gazed around and listened; but no sound met her ears, except the
oft-heard music of the wind and water—except the well-known points of
that familiar scene—she walked—she ran—a fresh fear struck her, a
fear of she knew not what—she flew to the garden—“Marian!
Marian!”—but no Marian came! no voice made answer to her shrill
outcries—back! back! she hurried to the house, but in her way she
crossed the road conducting to the stables—there were fresh horse
tracks—several fresh horse tracks—one which looked like the print of
Marian’s palfrey—without a moment’s hesitation she rushed into the
stable court, no groom was there, nor stable boy, nor helper—and yet
the door stood open, and a loud tremulous neighing, Annabel knew it
instantly to be the call of her own jennet, was wakening unanswered
echoes. She stood a moment like a statue before she could command
herself to cross the threshold—she crossed, and the stall where
Marian’s palfrey should have stood next her own, was vacant. The
chargers of De Vaux were gone; the horses of his followers—she shrieked
aloud—she shrieked till every pinnacle and turret of the old hall, till
every dell and headland of the hills, sent back a yelling echo. It
scarcely seemed a moment before the court yard, which, a moment since so
silent and deserted, was full of hurrying men and frightened women—the
news was instantly abroad that mistress Marian had been spirited away by
the false lord. Horses were saddled instantly, and broadswords girded
on, and men were mounting in hot haste ere Annabel had in so much
recovered from the shock, as to know what to order, or advise—evil and
hasty counsels had been taken, but the good vicar and the prebendary
came down in time to hinder them. A hurried consultation was held in the
house, and it was speedily determined that the two clergymen should set
forth on the instant, with a sufficient escort, to pursue, and, if it
should be possible, bring back the fugitive—and although Annabel at the
first was in despair, fancying that there could be no hope of her being
overtaken, yet was she somewhat reassured on learning that De Vaux could
not quit his regiment, and that the slow route of a regiment on a long
march could easily be caught up with, even by aged travellers. The sun
was scarce three hours high, when the pursuers started—all that day
long it lagged across the sky—it set, and was succeeded by night,
longer still, and still more dreary—another day! and yet another! Oh
the slow agony of waiting! the torture of enumerating minutes—each
minute seemingly an age—the dull, heart-sickening suspense of awaiting
tidings—tidings which the heart tells us—the heart, too faithful
prophet of the future—cannot by possibility be good; while reason
interposes her vain veto to the heart’s decision, and hope uplifts her
false and siren song. The third night came, and Annabel was sitting at
the same window—how often it occurs that one spot witnesses _the_ dozen
scenes most interesting, most eventful to the same individual. Is it
that consciousness of what has passed leads man to the spot marked by
one event when he expects another? or can it be indeed a destiny? The
third night came, and Annabel was sitting at that same window, when, on
the distant highway, she beheld her friends returning, but they rode
heavily and sadly onwards, nor was there any flutter of female garbs
among them—Marian was not among them! They came—the story was soon
told—they had succeeded in overtaking the regiment, they had seen
Ernest, and Marian was _his wife_! The register of her marriage, duly
attested, had been shown to her uncle in the church at Rippon, and
though she had refused to see them, she had sent word that she was well
and happy, with many messages of love and cordiality to Annabel, and
promises that she would write at short and frequent intervals. No more
was to be done—nothing was said at all. Men marvelled at De Vaux, and
envied him! Women blamed Marian Hawkwood, and they too envied! But
Annabel said nothing, but went about her daily duties, tending her
helpless mother and answering her endless queries concerning Marian’s
absence, and visiting her pensioners among the village poor, seemingly
cheerful and contented. But her cheek constantly grew paler, and her
form thinner and less round. The sword was hourly wearing out the
scabbard! The spirit was too mighty for the vessel that contained it.

Five years had passed—five wearisome, long years—years of domestic
strife and civil war, of bloodshed, conflagration and despair throughout
all England. The party of the king, superior at the first, was waxing
daily weaker, and all was almost lost. For the first years Marian _did_
write, and that, too, frequently and fondly to her sister; never
alluding to the past, and seldom to De Vaux, except to say that he was
all she wished him, and she herself more happy than she hoped or
deserved to be. But gradually did the letters become less frequent and
more formal; communications were obstructed, and posts were intercepted,
and scarce, at last, did Annabel hear twice in twelve months of her
sister’s welfare. And when she did hear, the correspondence had become
cold and lifeless; the tone of Marian, too, was altered, the buoyancy
was gone—the mirth—the soul—and though she complained not, nor hinted
that she was unhappy, yet Annabel saw plainly that it was so. Saw it,
and sorrowed, and said nothing! Thus time passed on, with all its tides
and chances, and the old paralytic invalid was gathered to her fathers,
and slept beside her husband in the yard of the same humble church which
had beheld their union, and Annabel was more alone than ever. Thus
things went on until some months after the deadly fight and desperate
defeat at Marston. Autumn had come again—brown autumn—and Annabel was
in her garden tending her flowers, and listening to her birds, and
thinking of the past, not with the anguish of a present sorrow, but with
the mellowed recollection of regret. She stood beside the stream—the
stream that, all unchanged itself, had witnessed such sad changes in all
that was around it—close to the spot where she had talked so long to
Marian on that eventful morning, when a quick, soft step came behind
her—she turned and Marian clasped her! Forced, after years of
sufferance, to fly from the outrageous cruelty of him for whom she had
thrown up all but honor, she had come home—home, like the hunted hare
to her form, like the wounded bird to her own nest—she had come home to
die. What boots it to repeat the old and oft-told tale, how eager
passion made way for uncertain and oft interrupted gleams of
fondness—how a love, based on no esteem or real principle, melted like
wax before the fire—how inattention paved the way for neglect—and
infidelity came close behind—and open profligacy and insult, and cool,
maddening outrage followed. How the ardent lover became the careless
husband, the cold master, the unfeeling tyrant, and, at last, the brutal
despot. Marian came home to die—the seeds of that invincible disease
were sown deep in her bosom—her exquisitely rounded shape was angular
and thin, emaciated by disease, and suffering, and sorrow. A burning
hectic spot on either cheek were now the only remnants of that once
all-radiant complexion; her step so slow and faltering, her breath drawn
sob by sob with actual agony, her quick, short cough, all told too
certainly the truth! Her faults were punished bitterly on earth, and
happily that punishment had worked its fitting end—these faults were
all repented, were all amended now. Perhaps at no time of her youthful
bloom had Marian been so sweet, so truly lovely, as now when her young
days were numbered. All the asperity and harshnesses, the angles as it
were of her character, mellowed down into a calm and unrepining
cheerfulness. And oh! with what delicious tenderness did Annabel
console, and pray with, and caress—oh! they were indeed happy! indeed
happy for those last months, those lovely sisters. For Annabel’s delight
at seeing the dear Marian of happier and better days once more beside
her in their old chamber, beside her in the quiet garden, beside her in
the pew of the old village church, had, for the time, completely
overpowered her fears for her sister’s health, and, as is almost
invariably the case in that most fatal, most insidious of disorders, she
constantly was flattered with vain hopes that her Marian was amending,
that the next spring would see her again well and happy. Vain hopes!
indeed vain hopes—but which of mortal hopes is other?

The cold mists of November were on the hills and in the glens of
Wharfdale, the trees were stripped of their last leaves, the grass was
sere and withered, the earth cheerless, the skies comfortless, when, at
the same predestined window, the sisters sat watching the last gleam of
the wintry sun fade on the distant hill tops. What was that flash far up
the road? That sound and ringing report? Another! and another! the
evident reports of musketry. And lo! a horseman flying—a wild, fierce
troop pursuing—the foremost rides bareheaded, but the blue scarf that
flutters in the air shows him a loyal cavalier; the steel caps and jack
boots of the pursuers point them out evidently puritans; there are but
twenty of them; and lo! the fugitive gains on them—heaven! he turns
from the highroad, crosses the steep bridge at a gallop, he takes the
park-gate at a leap, he cuts across the turf, and lo! the dalesmen and
the tenants have mustered to resist; a short, fierce struggle—the
roundheads are beat back—the fugitive, now at the very hall doors, is
preserved. The door flew open, he staggered into the well-known
vestibule, opened the parlor door with an accustomed hand, and reeled
into the presence of the sisters, exhausted with fatigue, pale from the
loss of blood, faint with his mortal wounds; yet he spoke out in a clear
voice—“In time, in time, thank God, in time to make some reparation, to
ask for pardon ere I die!” and with these words De Vaux, for he it was,
staggered up to his injured wife, and, dropping on his knees, cast his
arms round her waist, and burying his head in her lap, exclaimed in
faltering tones—“Pardon me, Marian, pardon before I die—pardon me as
you loved me once!”

“Oh! as I love you now, dear Ernest, fully, completely, gladly, do I
pardon you, and take you to my heart, never again to part, my own dear
husband.”

Groaning she clasped him close, and in that act,
And agony, her happy spirit fled.

Annabel saw her head fall on his neck, and, fancying that she had
fainted, ran to relieve her, but ere she did so both were far away
beyond the reach of any mortal sorrow—nor did the survivor long survive
them—she faded like a fair flower, and lies beside them in the still
bosom of one common tomb. The Hall was tenanted no more, and soon fell
into ruin, but the wild hills of Wharfdale must themselves pass away
before the children of the dalesmen shall forget the sad tale of The
Sisters.

* * * * *

THE WALK AND THE PIC-NIC.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

The sky is a sapphire, the clouds pearly white,
The wind from the west winnows blandly and light,
Deep and rich is the gloss of the sunshine below—
The grass, leaves, and flowers all rejoice in the glow;
The shadows, cast down by the air-skimming sails,
Are rippling o’er hill-tops and glancing o’er vales;
’Tis the day for our pic-nic; let’s haste, or the sun
Will be dipping below e’er our long path is won.

At length, from all ports of the village, we throng—
O’er the maple-lin’d sidewalk we scatter along,
With baskets well stor’d; and so loud our delight,
That we start Taggett’s team from Nate’s store in affright:
We pass by the office—“Alf, why do you wait?”
To a laggard shouts Cady—“you’re always too late!”
We turn the stone store—up the Pleasant Pond road:
Green richer the fields on each side never show’d;
We pass the flat rock, where we often found rest,
When, on our return-walk, gleam’d golden the west;
On the hill-brow we turn, the white village to view,
Its three modest steeples trac’d clear on the blue;
To the right Brownson’s pond—now we enter the wood:
Its echoes leap out to our frolicsome mood;
The sweet ringing laugh of gay Martha is heard,
And Kate trips along with the grace of a bird;
To the wind’s downy kisses bares Sarah her brow,
And Mary’s black eyes were ne’er brighter than now,
While one, grave and thoughtful, to each proffers aid,—
My friend! sleeping now in the valley of shade,
As the cloud over sunshine, remembrance of thee,
My boyhood’s companion! draws sadness o’er me.
“Alf, faster!” cries Cady, “and think where you are;
Bring your thoughts from the clouds, or we’ll never be there!”
We all move on speedily; down the descent,
With song, talk and laughter, our journey is bent:
“Alf, carry this basket!” says Wright, in a huff
At the speed of our way, “I’ve had trouble enough!”
“See that rose!” cries Louisa, and instant the stem
Is mourning the loss of its beautiful gem.
Our party has reach’d now the foot of the hill,
And we rest for a space on the trunk by the rill;
One twists from the hopple a chalice of green,
And stoops, for the lymph, the dense thicket between;
One whirls a thick branch, as a fine twanging sound
On the ear tells the hungry musketoe is round,
Whilst Wright, never loath, takes immediate seat,
Complaining in bass of the dust and the heat.
We leave the green spot, our swift journey resume—
The forest twines closer its cool verdant gloom;
Above, like an arbor, the green branches meet,
And the moss springs elastic, yet soft, to our feet.
The shade is so dense, the gray rabbit scarce fears
To show, o’er the fern clump, his long peering ears,
And the saucy red-squirrel, erect on his spray,
Were unseen, if his chatter-tongue did not betray;
A scatter of viands, with plunge in the brake,
As one stumbles o’er a coil’d root like a snake,
There’s a laugh from the group, and a lofty perch’d crow
Lifts his foot, with a croak, and looks wisely below;
But onward we journey—we catch, as we pass
Through the vistas, quick glimpses of rock, stream and grass,
Then fitful we loiter by mounds plump with moss,
With sunbeams, like fluid gold, streaking across,
We peel the sweet birch bark, we pluck from the ground
The rich, pungent wintergreen growing around,
We taste the sour sorrel, in handfulls we pick
The bright partridge-berry sown crimson and thick,
We hear the near quail, from the rye stubble, call,
And we watch the black beetle on rolling his ball;
Then forward again, with new strength, on our way,
Our footsteps as light as our bosoms are gay,
A whirr—and, so sudden, the heart gives a bound,
The partridge bursts up from his basin of ground;
Three clear, fife-like notes—first, a low, liquid strain,
Then high, and then shrill—all repeated again,
’Tis the brown-thresher, perch’d on yon pine grim and dark,
Our sweetest of minstrels—our own native lark.
We pass the low sawmill—the bridge o’er the brook,
Where it glides, slow and deep, by each alder-cloth’d nook,
We toil up the hill—o’er the fields are the frames
Of hemlocks, scath’d black by the fierce fallow-flames,
Or girdled, with half naked trunks smooth and gray,
To catch the red lightning, or sink in decay.
Again the wood closes—still wend we along,
The robin is cheering our hearts with his song,
The black snake, warm basking, his sunlight forsakes,
As, at the loud beat of our steps, he awakes,
The trees shrink away—one more hill to our feet,
And our eyes, Pleasant Pond, in its beauty will greet;
There glitters the outlet—still, upward, we pass,
And there, spreads its smooth polish’d bosom of glass.
On the East, lifts a hill, low and rounded, its crown
With a slope, like a robe, on each side falling down,
All verdant with meadow, and bristling with grain,
From its top, to the edge of the bright liquid plain,
Thence the banks, sweeping round to the North and the West,
With clearing and field interspersed on their breast,
Are lost in the black frowning gloom of the wood
That hides, with its shadows, the Southernmost flood.
How quiet, how peaceful, how lovely, the scene!
The glossy black shades, from yon headlands of green,
That sheet of bright crystal, which spreads from the shore,
Now dark’ning, as lightly the breeze tramples o’er,
Those shafts of quick splendor—these dazzles of light—
So painful, so blinding, eyes shrink from the sight;
And still, to our fix’d gaze, new colors reveal,
Here, gleaming like silver—there, flashing like steel.
We hear, in the stillness, the low of the herd,
The sound of the sheep-bell, the chirp of the bird,
All borne from the opposite border—and hark!
How the echoes long mimic the dog’s rapid bark!
See that white gleaming streak—’tis the wake of the loon
As she oars her swift passage—her dive will be soon;
She’s vanish’d—but upward again to the sight,
Her dappled back lit by a pencil of light,
But the bark has arous’d her—she’s seeking to fly;
She stretches her neck, with shrill, tremulous cry,
She flounders in low heavy circles just o’er,
Till nerv’d by the loud hostile sounds from the shore
Uprising, she shoots, like a dart, to her brood
Close hid in the water-plants edging the wood.
On this lap of green grass, the white cloth is display’d,
A maple sheds over its golden streak’d shade,
We place cup and trencher—the viands are spread,
Whilst a pile of pine-knots flame a pillar of red,
We slice the rich lemon—the gifts of the spring
Bubbling up in its gray sandy basin, we bring
The white glistening sugar—the butter, like gold,
And the fruits of the garden, our baskets unfold,
The raspberry bowl-shap’d—the jet tiny cone
Or the blackberry, pluck’d from the thickets are strown,
All grace the grass-table—our cups mantle free
With the dark purple coffee, and light amber tea,
Wood, water, and bank tongue the laugh, and the jest,
And the goddess or mirth reigns supreme in each breast.

The sunset is slanting—a pyramid bright
Is traced on the waters, in spangles of light;
A grey blending glimmer then steals like a pall;
Gold, leaves hill and tree-top—brown, deepens o’er all;
The bat wheels around—sends the nighthawk his cry,
And the cross-bill commences her sweet lullaby;
In the grass chirps the cricket—the tree-toad crows shrill,
And the bark of the watch-dog sounds faint from the hill.
We smile at the hoarse heav’d-up roar of the frog,
And his half smother’d gulp as he dives from his log,
And then hasten homeward, fatigu’d, but still gay,
With the moon’s lustrous silver to brighten our way.

* * * * *

TO FANNY H***.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

Careless maiden, careless smiling,
Tossing back thy raven hair,
Guileless thou, though all beguiling,
Scarcely conscious thou art fair.

Playful words with music ringing
Lightly falling from thy tongue—
Snatches of old minstrels singing,
Telling that thy heart is young—

Flashing now thy radiant eyes
Liquid with the light of youth,
Stealing gladness from the skies
Only known to souls of truth—

Maiden, on thy heart hereafter
Will a holier spell be wrought,
That shall mellow down thy laughter,
Deepen every inmost thought.

Then thine eye shall droop in sadness,
Shielding thus the fount within—
Hope, now speaking in its gladness,
Then shall be to rear akin.

And a spell shall be around thee—
Love thy spirit shall control—
Yet rejoice when it hath bound thee—
Love creates for thee a Soul.

* * * * *

BEN BLOWER’S STORY;

OR HOW TO RELISH A JULEP.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

“Are you sure that’s The Flame over by the shore?”

“Cer_ting_, manny! I could tell her pipes acrost the Mazoura.”[1]

“And you will overhaul her?”

“Won’t we though! I tell ye, Stranger, so sure as my name’s Ben Blower,
that that last tar bar’l I hove in the furnace has put jist the smart
chance of go-ahead into us to cut off The Flame from yonder pint, or
send our boat to kingdom come.”

“The devil!” exclaimed a bystander who, intensely interested in the
race, was leaning the while against the partitions of the boiler-room,
“I’ve chosen a nice place to see the fun near this infernal powder
barrel!”

“Not so bad as if you were in it!” coolly observed Ben, as the other
walked rapidly away.

“As if he were in it! in what? in the boiler?”

“Cer_ting_! Don’t folks sometimes go into bilers, manny?”

“I should think there’d be other parts of the boat more comfortable.”

“That’s right; poking fun at me at once’t; but wait till we get through
this brush with the old Flame and I’ll tell ye of a regular fixin scrape
that a man may get into. It’s true, too, every word of it—as sure as my
name’s Ben Blower.”

• • • • • •

“You have seen the Flame then afore, Stranger? Six year ago, when new
upon the river, she was a real out and outer, I tell ye. I was at that
time a hand aboard of her. Yes, I belonged to her at the time of her
great race with the ‘G_o_-liar.’ You’ve heern, mayhap, of the blow-up by
which we lost it? They made a great fuss about it; but it was nothing
but a mere fiz of hot water after all. Only the springing of a few
rivets, which loosened a biler plate or two, and let out a thin spirting
upon some niggers that hadn’t sense enough to get out of the way. Well,
the ‘G_o_-liar’ took off our passengers, and we ran into Smasher’s
Landing to repair damages, and bury the poor fools that were killed.
Here we laid for a matter of thirty hours or so, and got things to
rights on board for a bran new start. There was some carpenter’s work
yet to be done, but the captain said that that might be fixed off jist
as well when we were under way—we had worked hard—the weather was
sour, and we needn’t do any thing more jist now—we might take that
afternoon to ourselves, but the next morning he’d get up steam bright
and airly, and we’d all come out _new_. There was no temperance society
at Smasher’s Landing, and I went ashore upon a lark with some of the
hands.”

I omit the worthy Benjamin’s adventures upon land, and, despairing of
fully conveying his language in its original Doric force, will not
hesitate to give the rest of his singular narrative in my own words,
save where, in a few instances, I can recall his precise phraseology,
which the reader will easily recognize.

“The night was raw and sleety when I regained the deck of our boat. The
officers, instead of leaving a watch above, had closed up every thing,
and shut themselves in the cabin. The fire-room only was open. The
boards dashed from the outside by the explosion had not yet been
replaced. The floor of the room was wet and there was scarcely a corner
which afforded a shelter from the driving storm. I was about leaving the
room, resigned to sleep in the open air, and now bent only upon getting
under the lee of some bulkhead that would protect me against the wind.
In passing out I kept my arms stretched forward to feel my way in the
dark, but my feet came in contact with a heavy iron lid; I stumbled,
and, as I fell, struck one of my hands into the ‘manhole,’ (I think this
was the name he gave to the oval-shaped opening in the head of the
boiler,) through which the smith had entered to make his repairs. I fell
with my arm thrust so far into the aperture that I received a pretty
smart blow in the face as it came in contact with the head of the
boiler, and I did not hesitate to drag my body after it, the moment I
recovered from this stunning effect and ascertained my whereabouts. In a
word, I crept into the boiler resolved to pass the rest of the night
there. The place was dry and sheltered. Had my bed been softer, I would
have had all that man could desire; as it was, I slept and slept
soundly.

“I should mention though, that, before closing my eyes, I several times
shifted my position. I had gone first to the farther end of the boiler,
then again I had crawled back to the manhole, to put my hand out and
feel that it was really still open. The warmest place was at the farther
end, where I finally established myself, and that I knew from the first.
It was foolish in me to think that the opening through which I had just
entered could be closed without my hearing it, and that, too, when no
one was astir but myself; but the blow on the side of my face made me a
little nervous perhaps; besides, I never could bear to be shut up in any
place—it always gives a wild-like feeling about the head. You may
laugh, Stranger, but I believe I should suffocate in an empty church, if
I once felt that I was so shut up in it that I could not get out. I have
met men afore now just like me, or worse rather—much worse. Men that it
made sort of furious to be tied down to anything, yet so soft-like and
contradictory in their natures that you might lead them anywhere so long
as they didn’t feel the string. Stranger, it takes all sorts of people
to make a world! and we may have a good many of the worst kind of
white-men here out west. But I have seen folks upon this river—quiet
looking chaps, too, as ever you see—who were so teetotally
_carankterakterous_ that they’d shoot the doctor who’d tell them they
couldn’t live when ailing, and make a die of it, just out of spite, when
told they _must_ get well. Yes, fellows as fond of the good things of
earth as you or I, yet who’d rush like mad right over the gang-plank of
life, if once brought to believe that they had to stay in this world
whether they wanted to leave it or not. Thunder and bees! if such a
fellow as that had heard the cocks crow as I did—awakened to find
darkness about him—darkness so thick you might cut it with a
knife—heard other sounds, too, to tell that it was morning, and
scrambling to fumble for that manhole, found it, too,
black—closed—black and even as the rest of the iron coffin around him,
closed, with not a rivet-hole to let God’s light and air
in—why—why—he’d ’a _swounded_ right down on the spot, as I did, and I
ain’t ashamed to own it to no white-man.”

The big drops actually stood upon the poor fellow’s brow, as he now
paused for a moment in the recital of his terrible story. He passed his
hand over his rough features, and resumed it with less agitation of
manner.

“How long I may have remained there senseless I don’t know. The doctors
have since told me it must have been a sort of fit—more like an
apoplexy than a swoon, for the attack finally passed off in sleep—Yes I
slept, I know _that_, for I dreamed—dreamed a heap o’ things afore I
awoke—there is but one dream, however, that I have ever been able to
recall distinctly, and that must have come on shortly before I recovered
my consciousness. My resting place through the night had been, as I have
told you, at the far end of the boiler. Well, I now dreamed that the
manhole was still open—and, what seems curious, rather than laughable,
if you take it in connection with other things, I fancied that my legs
had been so stretched in the long walk I had taken the evening before,
that they now reached the whole length of the boiler and extended
through the opening.

“At first, (in my dreaming reflections) it was a comfortable thought
that no one could now shut up the manhole without awakening me. But soon
it seemed as if my feet, which were on the outside, were becoming
drenched in the storm which had originally driven me to seek this
shelter. I felt the chilling rain upon my extremities. They grew colder
and colder, and their numbness gradually extended upward to other parts
of my body. It seemed, however, that it was only the under side of my
person that was thus strangely visited. I laid upon my back, and it must
have been a species of nightmare that afflicted me, for I knew at last
that I was dreaming, yet felt it impossible to rouse myself. A violent
fit of coughing restored, at last, my powers of volition. The water,
which had been slowly rising around me, had rushed into my mouth; I
awoke to hear the rapid strokes of the pump which was driving it into
the boiler!

“My whole condition—no—not all of it—not yet—my _present_ condition
flashed with new horror upon me. But I did not again swoon. The choking
sensation which had made me faint, when I first discovered how I was
entombed, gave way to a livelier, though less overpowering, emotion. I
shrieked even as I started from my slumber. The previous discovery of
the closed aperture, with the instant oblivion that followed, seemed
only a part of my dream, and I threw my arms about and looked eagerly
for the opening by which I had entered the horrid place—yes, looked for
it, and felt for it, though it was the terrible conviction that it was
closed—a second time brought home to me—which prompted my frenzied
cry. Every sense seemed to have tenfold acuteness, yet not one to act in
unison with another. I shrieked again and
again—imploringly—desperately—savagely. I filled the hollow chamber
with my cries till its iron walls seemed to tingle around me. The dull
strokes of the accursed pump seemed only to mock at while they deadened
my screams.

“At last I gave myself up. It is the struggle against our fate which
frenzies the mind. We cease to fear when we cease to hope. I gave myself
up and then I grew calm!

“I was resigned to die—resigned even to my mode of death. It was not, I
thought, so very new after all as to awaken unwonted horror in a man.
Thousands have been sunk to the bottom of the ocean shut up in the holds
of vessels—beating themselves against the battened hatches—dragged
down from the upper world shrieking, not for life but for death only
beneath the eye and amid the breath of heaven. Thousands have endured
that appalling kind of suffocation. I would die only as many a better
man had died before me. I _could_ meet such a death. I said so—I
thought so—I felt so—felt so, I mean, for a minute—or more; ten
minutes it may have been—or but an instant of time. I know not—nor
does it matter if I could compute it. There _was_ a time then when I was
resigned to my fate. But, good God! was I resigned to it in the shape in
which next it came to appal? Stranger, I felt that water growing hot
about my limbs, though it was yet mid-leg deep. I felt it, and, in the
same moment, heard the roar of the furnace that was to turn it into
steam before it could get deep enough to drown one!

“You shudder—It _was_ hideous. But did I shrink and shrivel, and
crumble down upon that iron floor, and lose my senses in that horrid
agony of fear?—No!—though my brain swam and the life-blood that
curdled at my heart seemed about to stagnate there forever, still _I
knew!_ I was too hoarse—too hopeless, from my previous efforts, to cry
out more. But I struck—feebly at first, and then strongly—frantically
with my clenched fist against the sides of the boiler. There were people
moving near who _must_ hear my blows! Could not I hear the grating of
chains, the shuffling of feet, the very rustle of a rope, hear them all,
within a few inches of me? I did—but the gurgling water that was
growing hotter and hotter around my extremities, made more noise within
the steaming caldron than did my frenzied blows against its sides.

“Latterly I had hardly changed my position, but now the growing heat of
the water made me plash to and fro; lifting myself wholly out of it was
impossible, but I could not remain quiet. I stumbled upon something—it
was a mallet!—a chance tool the smith had led there by accident. With
what wild joy did I seize it—with what eager confidence did I now deal
my first blows with it against the walls of my prison! But scarce had I
intermitted them for a moment when I heard the clang of the iron door as
the fireman flung it wide to feed the flames that were to torture me. My
knocking was unheard, though I could hear him toss the sticks into the
furnace beneath me, and drive to the door when his infernal oven was
fully crammed.

“Had I yet a hope? I had, but it rose in my mind side by side with the
fear that I might now become the agent of preparing myself a more
frightful death—Yes! when I thought of that furnace with its fresh-fed
flames curling beneath the iron upon which I stood—a more frightful
death even than that of being boiled alive! Had I discovered that mallet
but a short time sooner—but no matter, I would by its aid resort to the
only expedient now left.

“It was this—I remembered having a marline-spike in my pocket, and in
less time than I have taken in hinting at the consequences of thus using
it, I had made an impression upon the sides of the boiler, and soon
succeeded in driving it through. The water gushed through the
aperture—would they see it?—No, the jet could only play against a
wooden partition which must hide the stream from view—it must trickle
down upon the decks before the leakage would be discovered. Should I
drive another hole to make that leakage greater? Why, the water within
seemed already to be sensibly diminished—so hot had become that which
remained—should more escape, would I not hear it bubble and hiss upon
the fiery plates of iron that were already scorching the soles of my
feet?

• • • • • •

“Ah! there is a movement—voices—I hear them calling for a crowbar—The
bulkhead cracks as they pry off the planking. They have seen the
leak—they are trying to get at it!—Good God! why do they not first
dampen the fire?—Why do they call for the—the—

“Stranger, look at that finger! it can never regain its natural
size—but it has already done all the service that man could expect from
so humble a member—_Sir, that hole would have been plugged up on the
instant_, unless _I had jammed my finger through_!

“I heard the cry of horror as they saw it without—the shout to drown
the fire—the first stroke of the cold water pump. They say, too, that I
was conscious when they took me out—but I—I remember nothing more till
they brought a julep to my bed-side arterwards, And _that julep!_—”

“Cooling! was it?”

“Strannger!!!”

Ben turned away his head and wept—He could no more.

-----

[1] The name “Missouri” is thus generally pronounced upon the western
waters.

* * * * *

“YOU CALL US INCONSTANT.”

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

You call us inconstant—you say that we cease
Our homage to pay, at the voice of caprice;
That we dally with hearts till their treasures are ours,
As bees drink the sweets from a cluster of flowers;
For a moment’s refreshment at love’s fountain stay,
Then turn, with a thankless impatience, away.

And think you, indeed, we so cheerfully part
With hopes that give wings to the o’erwearied heart,
And throw round the future a promise so bright
That life seems a glory, and time a delight?
From our pathway forlorn can we banish the dove,
And yield, without pain, the enchantments of love?

You know not how chill and relentless a wave
Reflection will cast o’er the soul of the brave—
How keenly the clear rays of duty will beam,
And startle the heart from its passionate dream,
To tear the fresh rose from the garland of youth,
And lay it, with tears, on the altar of truth!

We pass from the presence of beauty, to think—
As the hunter will pause on the precipice brink—
“For _me_ shall the bloom of the gladsome and fair
Be wasted away by the fetters of care?
Shall the old, peaceful nest, for my sake, be forgot,
And the gentle and free know a wearisome lot?

“By the tender appeal of that beauty, beware
How you woo her thy desolate fortunes to share.
O pluck not a lily so sheltered and sweet,
And bear it not off from its genial retreat.
Enriched with the boon thy existence would be,
But hapless the fate that unites her to thee!”

Thus, dearest, the spell that thy graces entwined,
No fickle heart breaks, but a resolute mind;
The pilgrim may turn from the shrine with a smile,
Yet, believe me, his bosom is wrung all the while,
And one thought alone lends a charm to the past—
That his love conquered selfishness nobly at last.

* * * * *

DE PONTIS.

A TALE OF RICHELIEU.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “HENRI QUATRE; OR THE DAYS OF THE LEAGUE.”

(Continued from page 68.)

CHAPTER II.

De Pontis was now despairing—it was evident Richelieu was in the
highest displeasure at the disposal of the _droit d’aubaine_ without his
knowledge—the cardinal’s seal was affixed to the ware-rooms, from which
there had been removed only the royal present, and a few articles of
minor value; and the king had at best but a negative power in protecting
his old servant.

The minister returned to Paris, and the veteran made two ineffectual
attempts to gain another audience. “Ah! my old friend the Sieur De
Pontis!” or the ominous “_serviteur très-humble!_” was all he gained by
placing himself in the path of a man before whom the bravest quailed.

An old campaigner, he would not abandon the contest; the royal word had
been pledged that it would stand by the royal act; so Monsieur merely
changed his tactics, acting on the defensive, and awaiting the issue
with calmness; whilst Marguerite trembled and wept the day long,
expecting each hour to see her father dragged to the Bastille.

By chance rather than prudential dictates, he had removed several of the
account-books of the deceased Spaniard, ere the cardinal’s seal was
affixed. This trifling act—at least so deemed by the soldier—was, in
the sequel, of much import.

After a delay of several days, in which De Pontis could learn no tidings
of the minister’s intentions—and a visit to the Tuileries, he was well
aware, would compromise his majesty without forwarding the object in
view—he received a citation from the _Cour Royale_ to accompany its
officers in an inspection of the ware-rooms. Obeying the summons, an
inventory of the goods was taken, and which was found to tally with the
stock-book, with the exception of the rich bed and hangings sent to the
Tuileries, and the articles taken to his own use.

Next day came a legal document from another of the parliamentary courts
of justice, by which it appeared that a suit had been commenced against
De Pontis, by one Pedro Olivera, claiming to be the creditor of the
deceased to a very large amount—indeed, to such an extent that, by
appraisement of the inventory, including the debts owing the deceased at
the time of his death, and deducting what amounts were due to creditors
of the estate, so far from being a wealthy man he died insolvent.

In consternation, De Pontis carried his papers as well as the Spaniard’s
books to an advocate, a distant kinsman. The advocate shook his head
ominously at the recital.

“Having possessed himself of the effects,” said the lawyer, “Monsieur
has made himself responsible for the debts of the deceased. And that
portion of the estate which has travelled to the _Palais_ cannot of
course be recovered—so that he cannot even put affairs in the posture
in which they stood at the time of the Spaniard’s death.”

Looking cautiously round the office, opening the door, to make certain
there were no eaves-droppers, he shut it again, and approaching the ear
of his kinsman, said in a low tone—

“I know not how to trust even the very walls with my voice! Without
doubt, Monsieur De Pontis, the claim is a fabrication—at least I cannot
believe the deceased could owe such an amount, nor that this Olivera was
in a condition to trust him. I will examine these books carefully, and,
meantime, respond to the suit in the usual course. I will not desert a
kinsman, even though he be in the toils of the tyrant. Farewell!”

The same day, De Pontis was arrested on the plea of having fraudulently
appropriated the property before ascertaining the amount of the
deceased’s debts, and providing for the same. There had, of course, been
no time for the court to grant any decree in Olivera’s suit. The arrest
was dated from the _Cour Royale_, a distinct court from that in which
Pedro’s suit originated—he being charged by the
_procureur-général_—the attorney-general of France—with having made
away with effects which of right belonged to the estate. He was thus, at
the same time, charged by an officer of the crown in the _Cour Royale_
with a penal offence, and sued in a civil court for restitution by a
private creditor.

Lodged in the _Conciergerie du Palais_, it was intimated that the only
chance of release was by finding surety to the amount of property
abstracted. And how could he do that? The bed and hangings alone were
estimated at the value of two hundred thousand livres, and had been made
for the kinswoman of Louis, now the wife of Charles the First of
England, who was obliged to countermand the luxurious article, on
account of the troubles which had broken out in that kingdom.

And thus our poor veteran was indeed, as the advocate Giraud truly
affirmed, in the toils of Richelieu, who held all the strings of
government and justice in his own hands, and could guide them as he
wished. Deprived of the opportunity of self-exertion, restricted in
intercourse with the advocate, his affairs might have fallen into
irretrievable ruin but for the courage and energy of the fair
Marguerite. In the first paroxysm of despair, she had solicited the boon
of sharing the confinement of De Pontis—this was refused. Her next
application was made to the king, throwing herself at his feet as he was
about proceeding to mass, and asking permission to attend her father
daily, as she was not permitted to make the _Conciergerie_ her home.
Louis said aloud, that the request ought to be made through the proper
channel, at the bureau of the Cardinal Richelieu, and recommended her to
make the appeal—and that it would be time enough for the royal clemency
to interfere when ordinary means had failed. Such was the sole answer it
was supposed she departed with—but under pretence of raising the
maiden, for she had thrown herself on her knees, he whispered a few
words of comfort—that he would not abandon her father.

The terror in which the cardinal was held was so great, his power
exercised so arbitrarily, that in this extremity Marguerite was almost
friendless. They looked on the father as a doomed man, and condemned his
rashness—the daughter they pitied, but shrank from offering her aid.
There was one exception.

Returning to the lodging in the _Rue St. Denis_, she found Monsieur
Giraud waiting her arrival. He had heard from the lips of their old
domestic, of the maiden’s intention to throw herself at the king’s feet,
and anxiously awaited the issue. Gently chiding Mademoiselle for not
putting confidence in her father’s friend, he offered to accompany her
on the morrow to the abode of his eminence.

The application was successful, and as they returned from the _Palais
Cardinal_, the magnificent abode of the prelate, with an order
permitting Mademoiselle ingress and egress, from morn till eve, to and
from the _Conciergerie_, the advocate expressed a conviction that the
king had kept his word, for it was an unusual privilege.

Little of importance transpired in the affairs of De Pontis till the day
previous to that in which we introduced to the reader our heroine,
waiting admission at the portal of the _Conciergerie_.

In the morn there was a consultation in the prisoner’s chamber, between
the advocate, who had obtained an order from the bureau for that
purpose, and father and daughter. The worthy Giraud was desponding—the
civil suit, he said, thanks to the dilatoriness of the courts! was
creeping slowly enough, though much faster than the ordinary routine of
practice; but the _procureur-général_ had hastened the penal suit,
driving it through the court at such a race-horse speed, that there was
great danger of his obtaining a decree of sequestration—utterly ruinous
to De Pontis—unless an appeal to cardinal or king, praying for
sufficient delay to prepare a defence, were resorted to. It was useless
applying to the presidents of the court—they were too much under the
lash of Richelieu to do justice to the respondent in the suit.

So far as the Spaniard’s books and accounts, which De Pontis had
preserved, testified, there was no appearance of such a debt, nothing
tending to confirm directly or indirectly Pedro Olivera’s assumption,
but much negative evidence to prove the falsity of his claim.

It was certain, continued the advocate, that a favorite of the cardinal
was laying strong claim to the _droit d’aubaine_, and urging his patron
to recover it. He had himself been informed that the party now applying
such a pressure on his eminence to effect this unjustifiable, unworthy
purpose, had long had an eye on the alien, and marked the property as
his own. But the name of the individual intimated in this whisper of
scandal, which floated about the precincts of the courts, was unknown to
Giraud, nor had he the necessary influence to procure it.

“What matters the name of the minion if they are bent on ruining me?”
exclaimed De Pontis.

“Much!” replied his friend, “but listen.”

The advocate then proceeded to relate that among the papers of the
deceased he found much correspondence of a peculiar character, some
portion of which might even implicate individuals in a charge of
treason—other portions related to financial matters, and showing that
the Spaniard had been a lender rather than a borrower, and had supplied
parties connected with the court with money. Much curious matter there
was, even relating to this Pedro Olivera, who, however, figured in a
subordinate capacity, certainly very different from what might be
expected of one who could lend such a vast sum of money.

“I have my suspicions,” answered Monsieur Giraud, “and if we could but
discover the party whom the _droit_ is intended for, I think I could
find a shaft in the Spaniard’s budget which would pierce him.”

“And if I could find the party whom the _droit_ is intended for,”
exclaimed the veteran, “and had him before me at rapier’s length in the
_pré aux clercs_, he would soon have to enter his cause in another
court.”

“I have no doubt if steel would do the business my agency would be
useless,” rejoined the lawyer, “but the Sieur De Pontis must remember he
is now on the brink of total ruin, perhaps even of personal
disgrace—that the net is spread on every side—if he retain the _droit
d’aubaine_, this Pedro may recover a decree against him for more than
the _droit_ is worth—if Pedro by any chance is defeated, the
_procureur_ catches my friend on the penal suit, and sequesters _droit_,
land and everything he has—and adds to it, most likely, imprisonment.
All this may be effected without causing our generous king to violate
his word.”

“_Mort de ma vie!_” exclaimed De Pontis, starting up in a rage, “and is
not all this done, Monsieur Giraud, to make an old soldier surrender the
king’s bounty? If I thrust this morsel of paper,” displaying the
sovereign’s sign-manual, “in the fire to boil our coffee, would not the
gates open at once—aye! and Pedro’s debt vanish like smoke?”

“They would be glad to make such terms, undoubtedly,” replied the
advocate.

“Then, by St. Louis and all the saints!” exclaimed the _militaire_,
raising his arm and letting the clenched fist drop on the board with a
bound which did much damage to the breakfast service, “so long as his
gracious majesty promises not to abandon his old servant, so long will I
resist all the priests and cardinals in France.”

“And will end your days in the Bastille,” uttered Giraud.

“No! no!” cried Marguerite, bursting into tears, “Father! Monsieur
Giraud! I will go to the cardinal this morning, and implore him to stay
the _procureur’s_ proceedings till we can prepare our defence.”

The idea pleased the advocate much. There was but little refinement or
delicacy of feeling in his nature—but he possessed warmth and
generosity, and overlooking the trials, and perhaps insults, which a
female may undergo in seeking such an audience, he thought good might
accrue to the family from the attempt. It was of pressing moment that
the _procureur_ should not yet obtain the decree, and no scheme be
abandoned which promised to obtain such a result.

“And if Mademoiselle could but obtain an audience of the king, his
majesty might know the party whom the cardinal is fighting so hard for,”
added the lawyer, “and then I may perhaps spring a mine which will make
some people tremble.”

“Why, what do you take my daughter for?” cried the old soldier; “Can she
change her sex? You will next wish her to plead in court!”

“She may drag you from ruin, which you would never have saved yourself
from,” replied the advocate.

“Well, Monsieur Giraud,” said Marguerite, in a livelier tone than she
had for a length of time assumed, “as you have spoken so flatteringly of
me, allow me to compliment you on your sagacity. I think there is much
truth in what you hint about the unfortunate Spaniard’s papers. Since my
father has been in prison, our lodging has been searched and every thing
in the shape of written paper examined. It strikes me that the documents
which you possess have been missed.”

“And this is the first word I have heard of it!” cried De Pontis,
darting an angry glance at Marguerite. “What, another search? They
ransacked our lodging when they took me—and I could not have believed
they would trouble my house again.”

“I did not wish to distress you, father,” said the maiden, deprecating
the resentment expressed in his looks.

“Mademoiselle was quite right,” said the advocate, “but she ought to
have acquainted me with the fact.”

“I thought it an ordinary proceeding, and was prepared for such visits,”
remarked the damsel.

“You alarm me,” said Giraud, “they will visit me next. I must go home
and make all secure. I will then escort Mademoiselle to the _Palais
Cardinal_.”

After some further remarks, the advocate, accompanied by Marguerite,
left the apartment of the prisoner, who muttered to himself as they
closed the door—

“Well, Giraud is a stanch, bold man and a true friend, but he has not as
much delicacy and regard for a lady’s feelings as my hack _Millefleurs_
could boast of. I taught the brute to kneel when my poor wife touched
his bridle, and he was quiet as a lamb when he carried her. Hang all
scoundrels, and may purgatory have the scarlet ones! They fastened on me
when I was young, and they are now sucking the blood of my old age. Not
so old, though—not so old, but I could pin that scarlet-robed priest to
a tree!”

We have now brought the history of De Pontis to that period when
Marguerite, having left the prison with the intention of seeking an
interview with Richelieu, to stay the proceedings of the _procureur_, so
indecently hurried through the courts, did not repair till the following
morn to the _Conciergerie_ to report her want of success.

There was, indeed, no hope yet, as she had remarked so despondingly to
her father. Nearly the whole day had she spent in a waiting-room of the
_Palais Cardinal_, flattered with the expectation held out by the
secretaries, that the cardinal would be visible when the important
affairs of state were despatched; but, to her infinite grief, there came
at length an official to say there would be no audience that day, for
his eminence was sent for in a hurry to repair to the Tuileries. Giraud
was distracted with the intelligence—he plainly foresaw the
predetermined ruin of the veteran, and advised the damsel to throw
herself once more at the feet of Louis—it was her only resource.

Marguerite, in her lone chamber that night, prayed to the Holy Virgin
for help—for strength to undergo the trials which awaited her—for
fortitude to bear up against the contumely and rebuffs to which she was
exposed. She prayed not to be relieved of the task, but for energy to
meet it. From whatever source came the confidence, there was a secret
prompting of the heart, urging her to persevere. Her father had been
ever unlucky so long as his affairs were under his own management. Why
should there not be a change when he was bereft of the power either to
mend or mar his fortunes? His destiny in other hands, perhaps that would
be vouchsafed to the daughter which was denied the parent. These might
be fancies, but they lulled her to a quiet repose.

“And what must be done,” said De Pontis, “with the _procureur_? It is
hard that a king’s servant, in the name of his master, should be
employed to oppress a king’s servant, against the royal inclination.
What does Giraud mean to do now?”

“Leave all to me,” replied Marguerite, with a smile. “I am making great
proficiency in my new profession—and though I am very wretched and
heart-broken at times—yet I feel a strange courage. But you must not
expect to see me before to-morrow morning, for there is much to be done
to-day.”

Affairs were in that state, that the veteran himself was a cipher—he
felt it, and made no reply. His daughter soon after left the prison, and
De Pontis had to struggle with the terrible _ennui_ of the solitary
chamber, and the deprivation of the usual means of passing the hours.

CHAPTER III.

The advocate’s opinion was in favor of Marguerite once more approaching
the monarch; further application to Richelieu he deemed useless—not so
the maiden. She resolved to make another appeal to the cardinal—it
might be as was affirmed, that he had intended to hear her suit, and
been summoned unexpectedly to the Tuileries; and if so, would it not be
an exhibition of contempt to the minister, to fly to the king, before
she could possibly know whether her prayer would be refused or granted
at the _Palais Cardinal_? Thus reasoned Marguerite De Pontis, and we
think not unwisely. The zealous advocate looked only at conclusions; he
judged unfavorably of the minister’s clemency, and his hopes instantly
pointed to another quarter.

Behold her once more on the way to the cardinal’s palace, in the _Rue
St. Honoré_! It was the earliest hour at which his eminence gave
audience, yet were the ante-chambers of the minister filling rapidly.
Ascending the grand staircase, herself, “the observed of many
observers,” yet shrinking from the gaze her beauty attracted, the door
above was opened by an usher, and she entered a chamber, the first of a
long suite which terminated with the cardinal’s reception-room and
closet of audience.

The modes of approaching the minister were various, according to the
rank and mission of the visiter. Strangers of humble quality, and others
who, either through timidity or other cause, judged that they would not
be permitted the _entrée_ of the reception-room, or who dare not venture
so far, loitered in the more distant saloons till the illustrious man,
issuing forth to pay respects to majesty, gave opportunity for a
moment’s audience or parley, or presentation of petition. The
individuals of the privileged class who rejoiced in free access to the
reception-chamber, watched narrowly each opening of the closet-door,
that they might catch the eye of the prelate on his entry; whilst deeper
anxiety was visible in the countenances of those who had requested
audience through the agency of the gentleman-usher stationed at the
door. The private interviews terminated, Monseigneur stepped forth, and
tarried awhile in the reception-room, bestowing a bow on one, a nod to
another, and making a third happy—and the envied of the chamber—by six
or more significant words.

As all the executive power centred in Richelieu, it could not happen
otherwise, but that suppliants and petitioners were numerous, and from
all parts of the kingdom, and that among the number should be many of
the fair sex. The _politesse_ of the court permitted not such guests to
be kept waiting exposed to the observation of the frequenters of the
levee. The ladies were ushered into the secretary’s apartment, and that
functionary having taken note of their object or petition, carried the
same to Monseigneur to receive his commands thereon. If, as too often
happened with one whose shoulders bore the burthen of the state, and who
was appealed to at the same time by an envoy from Turkey claiming
alliance, and by some poor widow or orphan from the Pyrenees with a tale
of wrong—there was any delay in granting an interview, or giving a
decision on the merits of the case, the fair suppliant was delegated to
a waiting-room to attend the minister’s leisure.

Here sat, for many tedious hours on the former occasion, our heroine
Marguerite—and as she now stated her name and object to the usher whose
duty it was to conduct her to the secretary, she vainly endeavored to
decipher a chance of better fortune in the impassive countenance of the
official, as though it were possible his face would reflect a ray or
emanation of the master’s will.

The waiting-room was again her sad lot—the cardinal was busily engaged
with a German plenipotentiary—but the audience, as the secretary
assured her, with a smile, could not last forever. It was but to ask for
delay in the prosecution of the penal suit in the _Cour Royale_, that
her father might prepare his defence, and prove the innocence of his
intentions. It was not even necessary that she should see his
eminence—one word to the _procureur_ would oblige him to this act of
justice—he was the servant of the king, and must obey the commands of
the kingly authority in the person of Monseigneur.

So spoke the maiden hesitatingly, but with precision and clearness, yet
the secretary—it was De Lionne, not the most heartless man of that
age—could only do, as secretaries are wont on such occasions, smile,
bow, and, as marking his sense of the justness of her claims to
attention, conduct her himself to the door of the drear chamber.

Marguerite at length began to despair, and regret she had not taken the
advice of Giraud. The sensation of utter weariness, of which De Pontis
so often complained to his daughter in the narrow prison-abode, was now
experienced by herself. Solitude was only broken by the occasional sound
of footsteps—delusive hope!—they paused not at her door.

The shout of merry voices was heard from the court-yard in the interior
of the palace. The gay, richly dressed pages of his eminence, whose turn
of duty had terminated or not arrived, were amusing themselves in the
youthful sports practised in the household of princes. Personal
rencontres and duelling were such frequent occurrences, that proficiency
in the use of the rapier was an indispensable accomplishment.
Marguerite, venturing to the window, became sensibly amused and
interested by the adroitness of a youth, who, challenging all his
compeers successively with the foil, remained victor. Cap and mantle
thrown aside, his attitude of defence displayed to advantage a tall
symmetrical form—the long curling hair falling on the shoulders bespoke
a very youthful age, but the compressed lip, and stern, fiery eye bent
on the adversary, belonged to manhood.

Without an equal, he retired from the arena to become a spectator of the
skill of companions more equally matched. Marguerite continued at the
window, till of a sudden, being aware that she was herself the object of
the youth’s regard, she withdrew in confusion.

There was not much to interest within the chamber. A map of France, and
several battle-pieces, sadly out of perspective, helped to while away
the time. Looking closely over Limousin, endeavoring to find the barren
waste denominated De Pontis—without hearing footstep, or other notice
of a stranger’s approach, an arm encircled her waist, and the dark eye
of the page was close to her own.

“Is there nothing”—said the intruder—“more amusing to a lady in the
_Palais-Cardinal_ than poring over a mouldy map? Well! if such be the
taste of Mademoiselle, may I not be her preceptor? I am accounted an
excellent mathematician!”

Marguerite had been surprised so suddenly as to be for the moment bereft
of speech. Springing from his grasp, her eyes flashing indignation, she
flew to the door.

The page perceiving the intention, had barely time to place his hand on
the latch, and the foiled maiden dreading close contact with the
insolent intruder, retreated a few paces, threatening an appeal to the
Cardinal Richelieu.

“Mademoiselle has more power over me than his eminence,” said the page,
half smiling.

“Then prove it by allowing me to quit the apartment without suffering
further insolence,” exclaimed the damsel firmly.

“It is a hard command—and insolence is a harsh term,” said the youth,
thoughtfully, “but I deserve it! Believe me, Mademoiselle, when I say
how much I was deceived in the quality of her whom I approached so
foolishly—we are apt to abuse the license of—”

“License!” exclaimed Marguerite, still trembling with vexation and
anger, “meet behavior for a cardinal’s palace—but make way, sir, and
you shall hear no further of it.”

The page, who evidently by his manner as well as declaration, had
committed the very grave error of acting towards a lady of quality, with
a freedom which the gay youth of Paris affected in their chance meeting
with females of humbler rank, had, since his first address, appeared
deeply struck with the beauty and grace of Marguerite. Even sense of the
offence seemed lost and absorbed in his admiration.

Leaving her free to depart, he again expressed sorrow for the
rudeness—and in a tone, and with language, courteous yet grave and
sustained, more than could have been expected from one of his years, and
of the thoughtless class to which he belonged—reminded her that he was
one of the pages of the Cardinal De Richelieu; that if her visit to the
palace had reference to any of the household, he would go immediately in
quest of the party, or if she sought higher audience, his services were
at command, though they would not, perhaps, avail much.

The frankness of this declaration rather won upon the maiden, and tended
much to subdue her anger. Might she not be carrying indignation too far
against one who expressed such contrition for his offence? Thoughts of
her father, of the _Conciergerie_, of Giraud and the implacable
_procureur général_, rushed through the mind. Perhaps the youth was
thrown in her path even providentially? Ruin hung suspended by a slight
thread over the family, and could only be averted by extraordinary and
unusual aid.

It was with these feelings, that she declared herself Marguerite De
Pontis, waiting audience of the cardinal—if he could pleasure her so
far as to ascertain what chance there remained of seeing the prelate
that day, she would accept his services as atonement for his rudeness.

“De Pontis!” exclaimed the youth, with an abstracted air.

“The same,” exclaimed the maiden, rather impatiently, seeing that he
made no effort to depart, “have I imposed a task too heavy?”

“De Pontis!—he is in the _Conciergerie du Palais_,” said the page.

“Alas! I know it too well,” cried the maiden, “but why remind me of it?
I fear that I have been wrong myself, in putting trust in a stranger.”

“No! no! Mademoiselle,” said the page, “not in putting trust in me,
though perhaps I am too humble to be of service. You appear impatient
because I do not fly, like knight of old, on fair lady’s service—but
truly, I have been weighing between duty and inclination, and duty,
after a hard battle, has been vanquished. I know the cardinal will hold
himself invisible to Mademoiselle till the decree of sequestration is
obtained. There! it is out now!—and I have earned my passport to the
Bastille!”

“I trust not,” replied Marguerite, mournfully, “it is enough our family
is obnoxious to misery in their own persons, without bringing it on
others.”

These words seemed lost on the page—he paced the chamber like one
irresolute of action—his dark eye flashing brightly, and then sunk in
gloom. Suddenly approaching the lady with a vehemence and hastiness
which startled her, he exclaimed abruptly, though in a low tone—

“Chance, and the employment which falls to my lot, have made me
acquainted with the proceedings against Monsieur De Pontis, even more
than is suspected by the cardinal. I owe you atonement, and you must
confess that I risk life, or liberty, or both, in making the reparation
I offer—but I deem no task too heavy or too perilous, which will assist
the hopes of Mademoiselle De Pontis.”

There was a warmth in this declaration, an earnestness of gaze and
speech which caused Marguerite’s eyes to seek the ground.

“I cannot accept services bestowed at such risk,” said the maiden
faltering.

“Then my safety has interest in your eyes—or do I flatter myself too
much?” asked the page.

The roses blushed deeply in the cheek of Marguerite—there was a flutter
at the heart—a confusion which took away the power of reply. With much
to offend delicacy, could she take offence at an offer which bore the
impress of sincerity? Could she sacrifice the proffered aid to her
parent? Might he not be in possession of the information so coveted by
Monsieur Giraud, information so much more valuable since she had learned
the intention of the cardinal to avoid granting an audience? But was she
justified in receiving intelligence conveyed at such peril by the rash
youth?

These thoughts chasing each other, produced a state of mind favorable to
the ardent wishes of the page. He saw her irresolution, and in the
recklessness of the sudden passion he had conceived for the damsel, was
resolved to risk fortune, character and liberty in her service. Higher
aims and loftier destinies than a page’s state, have been flung away for
the favoring smile of woman’s eye! He had the art to avoid all allusion
to his passion, and dilating only on the pity felt for the unfortunate
veteran, and the distress his imprisonment must have caused the
daughter—his own indignation at the artifices used and still in store
to deprive the warrior of the well-earned bounty of royalty—he thus
removed the obstacles which the maidenly delicacy of Marguerite would
have interposed in the acceptation of a stranger’s services—and whose
first introduction afforded little promise of gentle feelings and regard
for her own sex.

François De Romainville, in devoting himself to the service of
Marguerite with such total disregard of the dreaded Richelieu, gave one
more proof of a headlong career. He had been twice imprisoned in the
_Palais_ for disobedience of the cardinal’s orders, and retained his
post only through superior activity and intelligence, qualities of which
the potential minister had much need. The indignity he suffered, or
believed that he suffered, by the confinement, had created a bitter
animosity against his master.

The scandalous injustice exercised towards De Pontis, to which he was
privy, tended to paint the tyrant—as he secretly called him—in blacker
colors. Could he serve the veteran, he revenged his own wrong on the
oppressor—and might win the love of a maiden for whom he had conceived
a passion whose intensity resembled what he had never experienced, but
oft read of in the pages of romance.

There was much danger in every step—even in the present interview, he
ran the risk of being either surprised by his companions from whom he
had unperceived stolen away, on beholding a pretty face at the window
above; or incurring the suspicion of De Lionne, should he send for or
seek Mademoiselle, and find who was in her company. As it was, he had
already rendered himself obnoxious to a severe reprimand, by intruding
into a chamber to which he had not the privilege of access, unless under
command of his eminence, and though this prohibition would probably
prevent search in such a quarter by his more prudent compeers, yet the
momentary peril of a visit from usher or functionary attached to the
secretary’s bureau, was great. The best chance of escape arose from the
fact—so distressing to Marguerite—that the cardinal had no intention
of seeing the maiden, till the intercession she craved would be of no
avail.

With this consolation, and the last resource in store of flight
unperceived by the back staircase which had led him so quietly to the
chamber, he gradually induced Marguerite to make him a confidant in the
affairs of her father.

“It is the Count De Fontrailles,” remarked the page, “for whom the
_droit d’aubaine_ is intended, and he lays close siege to it. The count
has made himself necessary to his eminence—he has, what is called in
the language of the bureau, a talent for affairs. He must have money, is
his constant cry—he spends so much—he had often borrowed of the
Spaniard, and had an eye to the estate on his death—perhaps he poisoned
him—”

“Merciful Heaven! I hope not!” exclaimed the maiden in great terror,
shocked at the idea of the crime, and more so at the careless manner in
which it was surmised.

“What more likely? He might have had to wait many years otherwise,”
replied the page smiling at her fears, “but I beg pardon of
Mademoiselle—she must teach me to speak in a way better suited to a
lady’s ears. I am the most rude and abrupt of men.”

It was now the maiden’s turn to smile.

“Mademoiselle will find that I have a man’s heart though not his beard,”
cried François, with a slight curl of the upper lip; “there are few,
calling themselves men, would dare oppose the cardinal as I have done.
M. De Pontis and myself are well matched, and I sympathize with his
spirit.”

He then proceeded to relate that the cardinal and Fontrailles were much
annoyed at the obstinacy of the old soldier; the necessities of the
latter were outraged by the _droit_ being jeoparded and withheld from
his clutch; the former, displeased at what he called the impertinence of
an old _moustache_, in taking such sudden advantage of the king’s
good-nature. It had been the occupation of François to carry messages
and commands to the creature named Pedro Olivera, a Spaniard by birth,
long resident in France, and a tool or subordinate emissary of the
courtly Fontrailles.

There was much inquiry about certain papers, as the page affirmed to
Marguerite. Pedro had been also a borrower from the deceased Spaniard,
and had placed with him, as security for repayment, a statement of
claims on his master, Fontrailles, for obscure and perhaps disreputable
services. This was missing, also a portion of the books and accounts,
and it occasioned, as François happened to know, a domiciliary search in
the lodging of Monsieur De Pontis.

“If these papers and documents were in existence—and I suspect by her
looks,” said the page, concluding his narrative, “that she knows
something about them—they could be brought to bear against Fontrailles
and Olivera by a skilful advocate. But let Mademoiselle De Pontis
remember, that I have placed my life in her hands—a life of value to
the owner if he be permitted to continue in her service.”

The color flew to the face of Marguerite—she looked confused, but not
displeased—he took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“But the decree, Monsieur François,” said the damsel timidly, “the
advocate fears the _procureur_ will obtain it to-morrow if he is not
restrained.”

“True! too true!” exclaimed the page.

He considered a few moments, and then told her that the only remedy was
to gain audience of Richelieu by stratagem. It was useless her waiting
in the chamber, he was aware, nor would the cardinal be met with on his
departure from the _Palais_, in the public suite of saloons. He knew the
hour of his going abroad, and it would be necessary that Mademoiselle
should repair to the palace garden, wait in a particular avenue which he
indicated, and lie in ambush for his eminence.

“He will not, he cannot resist your appeal for delay,” exclaimed
François, in a passionate tone, “Monseigneur proves his want of courage
by flying the field! I wish his eminence had my heart, for Mademoiselle
I find irresistible.”

Again pressing the fair hand to his lips, he escaped by the entrance
which conducted to the back-stairs, but presently returning, said—

“If François, the _houblieur_, travels the _Rue St. Denis_ this evening,
he will not fail to ring his bell for customers to attend!” and so
saying, again disappeared.

The _houblieurs_, or dealers in wafers, a sort of cake, were accustomed
to ring a hand-bell to give notice of approach in their passage through
the streets; and Marguerite could only construe the page’s enigma, that
he intended visiting her abode so disguised.

Obeying the directions, she resorted without delay to the palace
gardens, and with fear and trembling took up the station pointed out. A
few minutes after the hour mentioned, chimed by the clock, two ushers
passed the bench where the maiden was seated—she arose instantly, and
the cardinal duke was close at hand, almost surrounded by a group of
gaily dressed gentlemen.

Her courage forsook her—but it was too late to retreat—she stood
conspicuous in the avenue, and the great man’s train, accustomed perhaps
to similar rencontres, falling back a few paces, though within hearing,
she confronted the lion in his path. A slight, almost imperceptible
shade crossed his features, but he stopped, and with princely serenity
listened to the faltering pleading.

“And if the wheels of justice of a mighty kingdom are arrested for one
week, will it content such a faithful servant of the king?” asked the
cardinal.

“I hope it will afford time to prove my father’s innocence,
Monseigneur,” replied the maiden.

“Then Mademoiselle’s wishes shall be the law of France,” rejoined the
minister. Bowing with dignity to the maiden, he passed onward with his
suite, and she was again alone in the avenue.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

THE HAUNTED HEART.

BY MISS MARY L. LAWSON.

’Tis true he ever lingers at her side,
But mark the wandering glances of his eye:
A lover near a fond and plighted bride,
With less of love than sorrow in his sigh!
And well it is for her, that gentle maid,
Who loves too well, too fervently, for fears,
She deems not her devotion is repaid
With deep repinings o’er life’s early years.

For oft another’s image fills his breast,
E’en when he breathes to her love’s tender vow;
While her soft hand within his own is prest,
And timid blushes mantle her young brow,
Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past,
Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears;
In vain from out his soul he strives to cast
One shadowy form—the love of early years.

Ne’er from his heart the vision fades away;
Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone,
The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day,
Bring to his mind the happiness that’s flown;
A tone of song, the warbling of the birds,
The simplest thing that memory endears,
Can still recall the form, the voice, the words
Of her, the best beloved of early years.

He dares not seek the spot where first they met,
Too dangerous for his only hope of rest,
His strong, but fruitless effort to forget
Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast;
And yet the quiet beauty of the grove
All plainly to his restless mind appears,
Where, as the sun declined, he lov’d to rove
With her, the first fond dream of early years.

He sees the stream, beside whose brink they strayed,
Engross’d in converse sweet of coming hours,
And watch’d the rippling currents as they played,
In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers:
And the old willow, ’neath whose spreading shade
She own’d her love—again her voice he hears,
He starts—alas! the vision only fades
To leave regretful pangs for early years.

It was his idle vanity that changed
The pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart,
Whose faithful love, not even in thought had ranged,
But worship’d him, from all the world apart;
Now cold and altered is her beaming eye,
And no fond hope his aching bosom cheers
That she will shed one tear or breathe one sigh
For him she lov’d so well in early years.

He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn,
He questions not the justice of his fate,
For long had she his selfish caprice borne,
And wounded pride first taught her how to hate.
Oh! ye who cast away a heart’s deep love,
Remember, ere affection disappears,
That keen reproachful throbs your soul may move
Like his who lives to mourn life’s early years.

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

NO. VII.—MACBETH.

A few more words on Macbeth as a work of art. There is a scene so
trifling that, to such as are not prepared to look for meaning in our
poet’s lightest word, it might seem almost superfluous. The “noble
Macbeth” has returned from the battle where his victorious arm has saved
his king and country. His heart is opened by the dangerous influence of
prosperity, amid the high-beating joys of which the enemy of mankind has
insinuated hopes of a deeper, more audacious, and guilty nature; but as
yet they are but as hidden serpents beneath the flowers. The two scenes
of the witches have been thrown in—like sublime strains of music from
which an opera is to take its character, chilling the mind with vague
and startling apprehensions. All this is done with a few strokes from
the terrible master-hand.

A part of the effect produced by the commencement of this immense
tragedy is owing to the contrast of the two mighty antagonist principles
of human life—earthly good, on the one side, smiling in the sunshine,
and allowing all who trust it to a full and fatal confidence, and, on
the other, _evil_ which an omnipotent and inscrutable Deity has placed
in a mysterious juxtaposition, like a huge Maelstrom, and from which
arises the necessity of ceaseless watchfulness and the energetic
exercise of the moral faculties. We have all that, to an earthly mind,
is noble, great, exciting and beautiful. Military glory is the idol
which mankind has the most blindly worshiped. It has no good effect on
the moral nature, but, on the contrary, has a tendency to inflate the
soul with vain confidence and to give the man that most paltry and
foolish of all weaknesses—a pompous idea of his own greatness. Military
glory, then, at its height, appears to us at the outset of Macbeth. The
brave, patriotic warrior has crushed the rebel and hurled back the
invader from his country’s shore. The acclamations of the multitude hail
the victor as he returns. He is for the moment invested with the moral
glory of a Washington or a Cincinnatus. Not only does the nation he has
saved regard him with delight and affection, but the king himself has no
words to express his gratitude, and heaps him at once with thanks,
honors and promises.

What a noble picture! The storm of war broken and passed away, leaving
the political sky clearer than before—the good and venerable old king,
whose great age does not permit him to share the dangers and glory of
the actual combat, protected by the generous and brave hand of a
faithful subject! The people’s apprehensions subside—the soldier
returning to his field, the father embracing once more his wife and
children—the hills and plains about to wave again with a plentiful
harvest—the king left in safety and peace to form new benevolent plans
for the security and happiness of his affectionate people—and Macbeth
himself—at the pinnacle of a subject’s happiness—accompanied to his
beautiful castle by his royal and grateful master—promoted in
rank—improved in fortune—the favorite of his king—the savior of his
country—what could Providence bestow more to make the world an Eden?

At this moment (Oh Earth! how true a shadowing forth it is of thy
delusive and fatal snares!) the audience hear the tones of another
world—the finger of another destiny, as unlike that which has charmed
the minds of the multitudes whom we may suppose to have welcomed the
conquering Macbeth, as was the hand which traced the _writing on the
wall_ at the feast of Belshazzar. At this moment, hovering in the air,
the shadow gathers, and the destructive, the corrupting principle,
inherent in human things—and which man was sent on earth to watch for
and to cope with—falls across the path of the hero; dark and obvious
enough to have betrayed to him his danger, had he been a pure and a
pious man, but, through its withered and hideous disguise, appealing to
his weakness—to his worst passions—with a fascinating power and a
bewildering and intoxicating promise.

The colossal dimensions of this tragedy are one of its awful features.
In it, Inverness is the world, the witches are sin, and Macbeth is the
proud, aspiring representative of weak mortality, when unsupported by
religion. The scene to which I have alluded above, and to which I call
the reader’s attention, comes in amidst massive interests with such a
minuteness of finish, and playfulness and sweetness of fancy, that one
is struck with it as with some of those accidents accompanying great
events in real life, and from their very insignificance contrasting with
a tremendous power—a bird warbling—a violet blowing—or a limpid brook
singing on its happy journey where a great battle is about to be fought;
or an infant unconsciously smiling on the bosom of a dying father.

Macbeth has seen the weird sisters, has listened to their prophecy, has
found one of their predictions verified. He _is_ Thane of Cawdor! He has
caught the dazzling dream of royalty with an eager and a determined
hand. He has begun to weave in his ambitious brain the web of his vast
designs. He has not only conceived—he has _yielded_ to the dire
suggestion whose horrid image unfixed his hair and made his “seated
heart knock at his ribs,” against the use of nature. He has invoked the
stars to hide their fires, that “light” may not see his “black and deep
desires.” He has met his sinful and earthly wife, and in the interchange
of a few portentous words, understood even before spoken, (for there is
a freemasonry of guilt as well as of innocence and honor) he has
resolved upon deep hypocrisy, prompt action, and the most tremendous
guilt. That very night is to become memorable in the history of their
lives and of the world, by a deed of eternal wo. The sun, now rolling
calmly and brightly to his golden rest, is never to behold again the
forth-going of the silver-haired old monarch, who, with his happy and
triumphant suite, approaches the sweet castle of Inverness; and the
raven has been, (by the deep conjuration of the blackest of human
hearts,) supposed _hoarse_ with ominous croakings at the sight of the
happy and confiding king entering beneath those battlements.

With what consummate skill these innumerable ideas are presented to our
imagination, and then (and here is the passage) what a transition from
the gloomy and horrid depths of the corrupt human heart, to the perfume,
radiance, tranquility, picturesqueness, and ever-soothing routine of
external nature.

SCENE VI. _Before the castle._

_Hautboys, servants of Macbeth attending. Enter Duncan, Malcolm,
Donalbain, Banquo, Lenox, Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and
attendants._

_Duncan._ This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.
_Banquo._ This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his lov’d mansionry, that the heaven’s breath
Smells wooingly here: no jutty frieze,
Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle;
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d,
The air is delicate.

_Enter Lady Macbeth._
_Duncan._ See, see! our honor’d hostess!
The love that follows us, sometime is our trouble,
Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you,
How you shall bid God yield us for your pains,
And thank us for your trouble.
_Lady._ All our service,
In every point twice done, and then done double,
Were poor and single business, to contend,
Against those honors, deep and broad, wherewith
Your majesty loads our house: for those of old,
And the late dignities heap’d up to them,
We rest your hermits.
_Dun._ Where’s the Thane of Cawdor?
We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose
To be his purveyor: _but he rides well_;
And his _great love_, sharp as his spur, hath holp him
To his home before us: _fair and noble hostess_,
We are your guest to night.
_Lady._ Your servants ever
Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,
To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,
Still to return your own.
_Dun._ Give me your hand:
Conduct me to mine host; _we love him highly_,
And shall continue our graces towards him.
By your leave, hostess.

When I read the sleep-walking scene of Lady Macbeth, I think that the
most perfect piece of writing ever seen in profane literature. When I
fall upon the above, it appears to me that is the most delicate and
exquisite in the whole range of our author’s works. Is it possible that
the same tremendous hand which painted the royal tigress, at length
cowed by the aspect of another world, has drawn, with a pencil of air,
this lovely and inexpressibly soft scene, where the perfume of a balmy
atmosphere is fresh and soothing on your forehead, and in your nostril,
and where the eye as well as the smell and ear (for I can hear the
breeze murmur among the green branches, and the screams of joy uttered
by those temple-haunting birds as they chase each other down the air,)
is filled with delight. What a warm and living picture it is, with the
fewest possible words! An old castle pleasantly situated—its massive
turrets look down over a peaceful, rural scene, the pure-scented air
recommending itself sweetly and nimbly to our gentle senses! Who that
has spent six or eight hours of the early morning at a sedentary
occupation, in a room, till the senses were wearied and the limbs ached
with sitting—and the lungs played languishingly and the blood moved
sluggishly—and the pulse beat feebly with exhaustion—who has not, on
going forth, felt this soothing sensation, as some pleasant landscape
spread its tranquil and soft-colored beauties before his eye, some
picturesque building broke the sameness of the picture by its bold
outlines in the foreground, the ever happy birds darting about the house
eaves—and the life-breathing, cool, odorous air filling his veins with
sweet impulses, stirring all that is agreeable in his heart, cooling the
fever of the heated brain, and sending off, with its benign blessing, a
world of sad feelings or melancholy forebodings.

In three lines we have this effect; and further, who expresses this
pleasing, living thought—_Duncan!_ the doomed victim of the assassin’s
dagger. Yes, he feels the sweetness of nature, and he feels it for _the
last time_. Look around thee, old man; those swells of verdant ground,
those murmuring and soft waving trees, those shadows thickening and
blackening as the eye pierces into the wood, this blue and bending sky
with a few sleeping, fleecy clouds, thou shalt never see them more.
Nature, always so tender and exquisite, has new and unutterable charms
when we are never to behold it again.

Then _Banquo_ acknowledges the softening influence of the scene.

_Banquo._ This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath
Smells wooingly here: no jutty frieze,
Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle:
Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d,
The air is delicate.

Here is a picture which the reader sees as if by mere accident, and the
imagination follows out each hint and goes from one salient point to
another till the life-like scene rises before it. The luxuriancy and
blandness of summer, the beautiful martlets filling the air as we have
watched them with boyish delight a thousand times, with their noisy joy.
They never appear so pretty as when coming in and out of their nests
under the eaves of a house or barn, and still more in the buttresses and
angles of an old castle. “Their loved mansionry” gives an additional
impression of the beauty their “pendent beds and procreant cradles” add
to the rough old castle which itself is brought finely out from the
canvass by the light reflecting from each jutty frieze, buttress and
coigne of vantage.

Banquo continues the remark with a thought expressive of an observing,
nature-loving mind returning, with new pleasure, to the repose of peace
and the thoughts and the occupations which there have room to unfold
themselves, after the bloody tumult of brutal war.

I do not know, but I suppose it must be a truth in natural history, that
the birds spoken of generally build their nests where the air is purest.
See, also, the superior charm which the little observation possesses,
from the lips of this noble soldier, dropped in a peaceful, sunshiny
moment, skilfully thrown in after the furious storms of war, and before
the yet more frightful tempest of guilt which is speedily to fall like a
thunderbolt upon this group of human beings, apparently so far removed
from danger, and about to commence a new era of contentment.

Remark here the people collected in a circle beneath the dark frowning
battlements of the war-like castle now bathed in summer light, and in
the natural ease and gentle satisfaction of their hearts discussing such
beautiful trifles as, however graceful and soothing, the busy warriors
of those rude times had but small time to occupy themselves with. Who
are they? what are their fates? Alas they are but too striking types of
their fellow creatures who in the midst of life are in death. Duncan’s
hours are numbered. Beneath the walls of the castle which his aged eyes
survey with such admiration—whose strong turrets and picturesque
buttresses are now painted with the golden light of a calm summer
afternoon—which he expects to enter to a banquet, and from which he
intends to go forth in the morning with renewed hope and
happiness—beneath those dire walls in a few hours is to take place a
scene, the farthest possible removed from his suspicions, and he is to
be called, like Hamlet, without any reckoning, into the presence of his
God. Thus under the crushing and unpausing hand of Destiny the good and
the bad go down alike in a world through which _he_ will pass most
easily who builds his hopes elsewhere.

Banquo too is a good man. You even perceive, in those few words, that he
has a delicacy of nature which has perhaps preserved him pure from
contaminating influences and illusive temptations. He too is marked,
without demerit of his own, to go down beneath the wheels of the
dreadful impending event.

He too, in a few brief days, is doomed to be cut off—thrust headlong
into eternity, while guilt remains unhurt and triumphs in the successful
execution of all its plans.

For Macduff—the pious—lion-hearted—affectionate Macduff, is prepared
a fate, if possible, yet more awful. His castle—the scene of many a
happy hour, many a fond and merry family sport, is about to be
surprised. His wife, his babes “savagely slaughtered,”

“wife, children, servants,”

all that could be found, fiercely drawn down into the general ruin which
the sinful heart of one man spreads around him. How truly is mortality
painted in these events! How plainly we see what stuff life is made of!
and how sternly are we taught the folly of supposing the end of man to
be “here, on this bank and shoal of time.”

Malcolm, Donalbain, Rosse, and Angus, driven from their country by
terror of the bloody tyrant—(now the beloved and trusted of all)—and
lastly Lenox, whom we find at a later period in attendance on Macbeth,
and the witness of his bursts of guilty and ferocious desperation, but
at length joined with the advancing enemy.

Into the midst of this circle, on the brink of ruin when they think
themselves most secure, _enters Lady Macbeth_. Her mere appearance
touches a chord of terror in the soul of the reader, although they whom
she addresses view her with very different feelings. The unsuspecting
king greets in her his “honored hostess,” and pours out upon her a heart
full of gratitude and love. The cruel hypocrite—so firm in the
anticipation of guilt, so haughtily superior to all the prejudices of
superstition—all _the idle dreams of religion and a Providence_—yet so
ignorant of their real nature and destined to be so thoroughly wrecked
in the tempest her rash hand is so eager to raise—replies with shameful
effrontery and mature wickedness:

“all our service,
In every point twice done, and then done double,
Were poor and single business, to contend
Against those honors deep and broad, wherewith
Your majesty loads our house.”

In the concluding part of the scene remark how admirably are drawn the
profound hypocrisy of Lady Macbeth and the entire confidence and deeply
deceived friendship of the unsuspecting king.

“Where’s the Thane of Cawdor!
We coursed him at the heels and had a purpose
To be his purveyor: but he rides well;
And his _great love_, sharp as his spur, hath holp him
To his home before us: _fair and noble hostess_,
We are your guest to night.
_Lady._ Your servants ever
Have theirs, _themselves_, and _what is theirs_, in compt
To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,
_Still to return your own_.
_King._ Give me your hand:
Conduct me to mine host; _we love him highly_,
And shall _continue our graces towards him_.”

Thus it is with man. All around us is deceit. We know not how to
distinguish the false from the true. Duncan must have had more than
human sagacity to suspect wile in the chivalric soldier who had just
risked his life in his defence, or in the “fair and noble hostess” who
received him beneath her roof with such apparent love, gratitude and
veneration.

* * * * *

[Illustration: J. J. Jenkins., A. L. Dick.
_The Lady Alice_,
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

THE LADY ALICE.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

In the early morning hour,
When the dew was on the flower,
From her fragrant couch arose
Lady Alice, bright and fair!
Free around her as the air,
Spotless as the mountain snows,
Garments in the night-time worn,
Floated in the light of morn.

Music, soft as angels hear,
O’er the quiet waters came,
And the voice, that met her ear,
Warbled one beloved name.
By her lattice, hushed she stood
In a leaning attitude.
Nothing lovelier to behold
Ever greeted mortal eyes—
Saintly pictures, famed of old,
Gems of genius, set in gold,
Matchless forms in shape and size!

Nearer now the strain is heard—
Starts she, like a frightened bird;
’Tis for her the song is sung,
And for her, across the sea,
Waves the signal merrily,
From her lover’s pinnace flung!
’Tis the hour, the promised hour,
She should leave her maiden bower.

. . . . . . . .

She has donned her rich attire,
She has left her father’s palace—
Has love so quenched her spirit’s fire?
Is this the haughty Lady Alice?
She, whose looks of high disdain
Banished nobles from her train?
See, adown the marble stairs,
To the wave, the lady steal;
Nothing now for pride she cares—
Love has taught her heart to feel.

Idly rocks the slender mast
O’er the silver billows now,
But anon the foam will cast
Jewels from the speeding prow;
Soon, from vain pursuit afar,
Softly will that pinnace glide,
And the evening’s golden star
Smile upon a happy bride.

* * * * *

THE SUNSET STORM.

BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.

The summer sun has sunk to rest
Below the green-clad hills,
And through the skies, careering fast,
The storm-cloud rides upon the blast,
And now the rain distills!
The flash we see, the peal we hear,
With winds blent in their wild career,
Till pains the ear.
It is the voice of the Storm King
Riding upon the Lightning’s wing,
Leading his bannered hosts across the darkened sky,
And drenching with his floods the sterile lands and dry.

The wild beasts to their covers fly,
The night birds flee from heaven,
The dense black clouds that veil the sky,
Darkening the vast expanse on high,
By streaming fires are riven.
Again the tempest’s thunder tone,
The sounds from forests overthrown,
Like trumpets blown
Deep in the bosom of the storm,
Proclaim His presence, in its form,
Who doth the sceptre of the concave hold,
Who freed the winds, and the vast clouds unrolled.

The storms no more the skies invest,
The winds are heard no more;
Low in the chambers of the west,
Whence they arose, they’ve sunk to rest;
The sunset storm is o’er.
The clouds that were so wildly driven
Across the darkened brow of heaven
Are gone, and Even
Comes in her mild and sober guise,
Her perfumed air, her trembling skies,
And Luna, with her star-gemmed, glorious crown,
From her high throne in heaven, upon the world looks down.

* * * * *

WASTE PAPER;

OR “TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR.”

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

“Good bye, Vivian, don’t fall in love till you see Miss Walton. God
bless you, my dear boy!” And Vivian Russell shook his kind uncle warmly
by the hand and sprung into the stage coach, which was waiting for him
at the gate. “All right!” said the guard—the bluff coachman smacked his
whip, and away they sped along the road to London.

They will not fly so fast, but that you and I, sweet reader, can
overtake them when we list, though the swift steeds of Fancy must be
harnessed for the purpose. To please you, then, we will follow them
anon. In the mean time, sit you down by my side on this sunny bank,
opposite the gate, where Vivian’s uncle still stands and gazes after the
fast receding vehicle, and I will tell you all I know about him. You had
time to see, ere he took his seat in the coach, that he was a tall,
nobly formed youth, possessing, in an eminent degree, what the French
call, “_Un air distingué_.” You could not but notice the thin silky
intellectual looking curls, which waved on his classical head, (don’t
laugh at the word “intellectual!”) Think a moment! Is there not
expression even in hair? Does not thick, bushy, _stubby_ hair,
especially if it curl, give you an idea of dullness, sensuality and want
of refinement? If it doesn’t, my precious reader, take my word for it,
you don’t see with your “mind’s eye,” or at any rate, with _my_ mind’s
eye. Did you observe _his_ eyes? They are black, brilliant and
expressive, full of that great rarity, in this whig and tory world,
soul. His complexion is glowing and slightly brown by exposure. There is
a dimple in his chin, his nose is just like that of the Apollo
Belvidere, and his forehead, how shall I describe its beauty? broad,
white, spiritual, beaming with thought, I cannot do it justice. There is
the least perceptible curl on his beautiful lip; but you cannot see it
when he smiles; for his smile is tenderness itself. In his manly bearing
too, there is, perhaps, a dash of aristocratic haughtiness, at first,
but it soon wears away upon acquaintance. The difficulty is to _become_
acquainted with him; I defy a dull or a vulgar person to do it.

The cheerful, healthy looking old gentleman, who is just turning from
the gate towards that white house among the trees, is, as I told you,
his uncle. Vivian’s parents died during his childhood, and left him to
this uncle’s care. He has just returned from abroad, come of age,—taken
possession of his paternal estates,—left the old gentleman to look
after it, in his absence, and gone for the first time to pass a month or
two amid the gaieties of the metropolis. And now let us after him with
what speed we may.

See! there is my friend, Fancy; just in time! descending in her opal
chariot, drawn by a score of peacocks, which fly or creep, as the
wayward goddess wills. Her rainbow scarf flutters in the air, her wild
blue eyes sparkle with excitement, as she beckons us towards her. Give
me your hand, sweet reader! so, one bound, and we are safe by her side;
and now we too are on our road to London, and our vehicle glances like a
meteor through the air. Since then we are so comfortably _en route_, let
me just explain my motive for having been, as some will think,
unnecessarily minute in my description of our hero. It was because I
wished my young lady readers,—for whom this story is especially
intended, to be interested in him, and I thought the surest way of
making them so, was to let them trace, in his person as well as mind, a
remarkable resemblance to some favored acquaintance of their own. Have I
succeeded? Mary, Caroline, Julia, Isabel! Is he not the “perfect
_image_” of—you know who? There—don’t blush, dear! I won’t tell.
“_Revenons à nos moutons._” Hey day! what have we here? A traveling
chariot broken down in the road! Our friend Vivian bearing a lady in his
arms towards the neighboring inn, which the stage coach has already
reached! An old gentleman, probably her father, staring and hurrying
after them as fast as the gout will let him, and the servants,
postilions &c., busy in untackling the horses and righting the injured
vehicle. We won’t stop to inquire the cause of the accident. Fancy will
tell us that at her leisure. Let us enter the inn.

CHAPTER II.

“My dear Margaret, are you well enough to proceed?” said the old
gentleman to his daughter.

“Oh! yes—papa!—quite well—” and she rose to tie on her bonnet. “But,
papa!”—Margaret hesitated and blushed—

“Well, child! what now?”

“Don’t you think before we go, we should thank the young man, who so
politely assisted me?”

“Fudge! we shall have time enough to thank him,—we must go in the same
coach. I can’t stay here all night to have the chariot repaired. Come,
child!”

They took their seats in the coach; Vivian entered after them and found
himself opposite the dark-eyed girl, who had been thrown from the
chariot, fortunately without injury, and whom he had carried half
fainting to the inn. By her side was her father, and by Vivian’s side, a
spruce and fidgetty youth, a would-be exquisite, daintily arrayed as
that peculiar race are wont to be.

The refreshed horses galloped steadily forward; the first mile-stone was
passed; and poor Margaret’s graceful neck really began to ache,—she had
looked so long out of the opposite window, to avoid Vivian’s earnest,
though half furtive gaze. So she calmly drew from her pocket a
suspicious looking twist of a billet, and, drooping her dark lashes,
began gravely and assiduously to tear it into small bits, placing them
carefully in a bag which hung upon her arm.

And now Vivian could indulge his passionate fondness for the beautiful
to his heart’s content; for the old gentleman was fast asleep, and
Margaret only once raised her eyes, and, meeting his, dropped them again
to her work, while a swift, bright blush stole up for a moment to her
cheek, and left it pale as before. Her countenance was singularly
beautiful. It was not dark, but there was a soft, mellow, sunny tone all
over it, which, with her glossy, raven braids, rosy mouth, and long
black lashes, produced a strangely rich effect. She wore a dark and very
elegant traveling habit fitting closely to her beautiful bust; while a
bonnet of ruby velvet formed a striking contrast with her deep, bright
eyes and almost colorless cheek.

As she continued her employment, drawing from her pocket and disposing
of note after note, Vivian could not but watch and admire the wonderful
play of expression on the lip, brow and cheek before him.

It seemed to him, that he could trace, on that ever changing and ever
eloquent countenance, the shadow of each succeeding thought, as it
passed from her mind. Its prevailing expression was that of endearing
tenderness and sweetness; but ever and anon,—a sudden arching of the
lovely lip, a starry gleam of dimples on the cheek, and a momentary
flash of irrepressible merriment through the fringing lashes of the half
raised hazel eyes, betrayed that mirth was making holiday in her heart.
But why? And to whom was that sportive glance directed? Not to Vivian,
alas! but to the stranger at his side; and though he had never seen the
lady before—had not been introduced, and was ignorant even of her name,
a pang of jealousy shot like an icicle through his heart, at the
thought. But when he turned to look upon the object of the fair girl’s
evident enjoyment—he too smiled involuntarily. Nearly all the scraps of
paper, that escaped from the slight fingers of Margaret, had alighted on
the precious habiliments of the beau, who, when Vivian turned, was
busily employed in brushing them off, with a look of solemn distress,
that was irresistibly ludicrous. Alas for the dandy! His was an endless
task. He had no sooner succeeded in disengaging the intruders from one
part of his dress, than they flew to another, and at last dared to
settle even in those shining and scented locks, which he had taken off
his hat to display. This was too much. He put up both his hands. He
shook himself. He tried to look up to his own hair! As a last resource,
he contrived to raise his enormous mouth and blow upwards into his
curls! Imagine, reader, that long and stupid face, in the awkward
position I have described! The head bent, the almost white eyebrows
elevated, the chin depressed, the under lip protruded and the lugubrious
looking youth pulling with all his might! It was all in vain, and
growing desperate, the hapless dandy meekly leaned towards Vivian, and
said—“May I trouble _you_, sir?”

Our hero returned his imploring look with one of petrifying
hauteur.——“Did you address yourself to me, sir?”

“Yes, sir!—I—I—would you be so good, sir, as to—to—”

“Well, sir?”

“In short, sir, will you have the goodness to release my hair from the
white favors, with which the young lady opposite has been so kind as to
honor me?” Vivian bowed low and replied with equal solemnity, “Sir, I
beg to inform you, that I have never been so thoroughly initiated into
the mysteries of a barber’s vocation, as to do justice to your
hyacinthine ringlets.” So saying, the haughty youth turned once more to
gaze at his lovely _vis-à-vis_.

She was looking very demure, pursing her pretty mouth, and quietly
bending her dark eyes upon the paper, which, she took care, should no
longer annoy her fellow traveler. Vivian gazed at her with mingled
surprise and admiration. What could be the meaning of her strange
occupation? He would not condescend to feel inquisitive; yet he could
not help fancying it was some clandestine correspondence, which she was
ashamed to have known, but with which she could not bear to part
altogether. When once this idea had taken possession of his mind, he
could not dismiss it, and he was just working himself up into a most
unreasonable fit of anger with his unconscious and unoffending
companion, when, to his dismay, the coach stopped at the Saracen’s Head
in London, and he was obliged to bid the lady a reluctant good-morning,
without a hope of ever seeing her again.

The truth is, he was desperately in love for the first time in his life,
and a thousand times did he lament his carelessness, in not having
endeavored to discover her name and residence in town. All the
information he could gather from her conversation with her father was,
that they were hurrying home from the country in expectation of a visit
from a friend.

The first fortnight after his arrival was spent in vain inquiries among
his friends about the fair engrosser of his thoughts. As he was ignorant
of her name, he could of course obtain no information with regard to
her.

One morning, at breakfast, he received a letter from his uncle; but
before I apprise my reader of its contents, I must state a fact which
has hitherto been forgotten, namely, that one object of our hero’s
journey had been to fulfill an engagement, which his uncle had made for
him, to pass a few weeks in the neighborhood of London, at Walton Hall,
the residence of an old friend of his father’s, whom he had never seen.
He had half promised his uncle that he would give but three days to the
novelties of the metropolis, previous to the promised visit. The
following is an extract from the old gentleman’s letter.

“My dear boy, I have just received a letter from my old friend Walton,
in which he expresses his surprise that you have not yet made your
appearance at Walton Hall. I am anxious and disappointed at this, for I
have been fancying you already deeply in love with my pet Maggie, and
indeed I dreamed last night that I saw you together,” etc., etc.

One of Vivian’s virtues was decision, and another was energy. Without
the latter, the first would be almost valueless. Ere two hours had
elapsed, he was seated in the drawing-room at Walton Hall, awaiting the
appearance of its owner. He recalled, with some misgivings, the contents
of his uncle’s letter. “He has set his heart upon my marriage with Miss
Walton, and I have set mine upon this bewitching unknown. My poor, kind
uncle! I regret his disappointment. I dare say Miss Margaret is a very
nice, well-behaved young person, but my affections are irrevocably
devoted to another, and it can never be!” Just as he came to this
sublime conclusion, he heard a far off voice, the very first tone of
which he could not help loving, it was so sweet, so rich, and seemed so
fresh from the heart. It was warbling snatches of a simple ballad, one
only sentence of which he could distinctly hear; but that sentence he
never forgot—

One only she loved, and forever!
She wore an invisible chain
That Pride wildly struggled to sever;
And daily more deep grew the pain!
“Ah, vain,” she would sigh, “each endeavor!”
And Echo still answered “in vain!”

And as the voice sang, it came nearer and nearer, and did not cease till
the singer, a beautiful girl, tripping gaily into the room, beheld and,
blushing deeply, curtsied to our hero. Could he believe his eyes? “It
is—it is—”

“Miss Walton,” said the lady, finishing the sentence for him, and
recovering instantly her self-possession. “You wish to see my father? I
will send him to you immediately;” and she glided from the room, leaving
poor Vivian in doubt whether he were dreaming or awake. If awake, then
were the half-dreaded Miss Walton and the lovely unknown of the
stage-coach one and the same person! And he had wasted a whole precious
fortnight, that he might have passed in her society! Well, he would make
the most of his _present_ visit at any rate; and so thinking, he made
his best bow to Mr. Walton, who now entered, and who, most cordially
shaking hands with him, welcomed him to Walton Hall, as the son of his
oldest and dearest friend.

“When you sent up your card,” continued he, “I little thought that I
should find in Vivian Russell the youth who so kindly assisted my
daughter when our chariot was overturned. I regret that we did not know
you then; but we must make up for lost time. Your uncle promised me a
long visit from you, and I trust you have come to fulfill the promise.”
After a short conversation, Vivian agreed to return in time for
breakfast the next day, and remain for several weeks.

CHAPTER III.

“Down, Vivian, down!” exclaimed Margaret Walton, as she entered the
breakfast room, from the lawn, and gracefully welcomed Mr. Vivian
Russell to the Hall. The dog had been named and presented to her father,
by our hero’s uncle, a short time before; and Vivian thought he had
never known the mimic of his own name, till now, when pronounced by that
sweet and playful voice. Margaret seemed to him lovelier than ever, in
her plain white robe, her color heightened by exercise, and a few wild
flowers, carelessly wound into the soft braids of her hair.

“Papa is a late riser, Mr. Russell, and we must wait breakfast for him;
but he will soon be down now—” as she spoke, she seated herself, and
began, with an arch, sidelong glance at Vivian, who could not repress a
smile—yes! actually began, to tear in pieces another of those
tormenting little notes!

“Hum!” said Vivian to himself, “the clandestine correspondence goes
swimmingly on, it seems. I will think of her no more.”

“Think of her no more!” He thought of nothing else all that day and the
next and the next; and each day with a more fervent and impassioned
devotion! She was so mild, yet so noble!—so tenderly beautiful! he half
worshiped her already. And yet those papers. He detested deceit from his
soul. Falsehood, equivocation, deception of any kind, from a child he
had been too proud to stoop to them; and here he was, irretrievably in
love with one who had evidently something wrong to conceal.

One day, the servant brought her a note—“From Sir George Elwyn, Miss.”
A smile dimpled her cheek as she read, and then it shared the fate of
many that had gone before it, and the bits were preserved as usual in
the little basket by her side.

“This then,” thought Vivian, “is the secret! This Sir George, confound
him! is the lover—the beloved!” And for three whole days after this
wise conclusion did our hero sulk in silent misery; and for three whole
days did the wondering Margaret weep, when alone, for his waywardness,
and, when in his presence, laugh more gaily than ever, or curl her sweet
lip, in maiden pride, at his moody replies to her attempts at
conversation.

The third day was the sabbath, and as they walked home from church, a
fine-looking young man passed on horseback, and bowed, with an air of
“empressement,” to Miss Walton and her father. “He’s a confounded
handsome fellow! don’t you think so, Vivian?” said Mr. Walton.

“Who, sir?” said Vivian with an abstracted air.

“The young man, who just passed, Sir George Elwyn. He is to dine with
us, to-day.” Vivian started at the name and gazed earnestly at Margaret,
who, of course, blushed as was her wont. That blush decided him. “I was
right!” he exclaimed internally, and making a hurried excuse to leave
them, he hastened by a shorter path to the house—wrote a note, in
which, disclaiming dissimulation, he only begged his kind host to
forgive his abrupt departure from the Hall, left it on his
dressing-table, mounted his horse, and galloped back to town, thinking
himself the most miserable fellow in existence.

CHAPTER IV.

“What the deuse!” exclaimed Mr. Walton, as he read the farewell billet
of our hero—“Margaret,”—and he suddenly looked enlightened on the
subject—“I hope _you_ are not the cause of this!”

“_I_, sir! _I_ the cause?” replied the conscious girl, with a very
demure look of surprise—“What have _I_ done?”

Her father could not well say _what_ she had done, so he said nothing;
but he looked annoyed and sorry, and he found fault with the dinner.

That night Vivian Russell had a strange, and, as he thought, a very
provoking dream. He thought he was toiling over brake and brier, in
pursuit of Margaret’s paper basket, which hovered like a “will o’ the
wisp” before him, and enticed him into all sorts of dangers, up hill and
down, through bog and stream, till at last, when, on the top of a high
mountain, he thought it just within his grasp, an angel-face gleamed for
a moment from a low cloud close by, and a white arm, reaching out,
snatched the treasure from his outstretched hand, and vanished with it
from his sight!

For a week afterwards, our hero, wretched and restless, tried hard to
forget the maiden and her folly, as he chose to term it; but her image
would not leave him. Sleeping or waking, he saw her destroying, to
conceal yet preserve, the billet-doux of the happy and handsome Sir
George Elwyn.

“What a shameful waste of time!” he exclaimed one day in a sudden fit of
virtuous indignation. “To be sure, she does a great deal else: She
writes, reads, draws, sews for the poor, &c., &c.; but then many a
moment, which might be more profitably employed, is squandered in this
preposterous occupation, which she really seems to make a business of.”

“What a shameful waste of time!” whispered conscience in return. “To be
sure you ride, lounge, sleep, eat, &c. &c., but then many a moment,
which might be more profitably employed, is squandered in these
preposterous reveries, which you really seem to make a business of.”

In one of his daily rides, Vivian felt himself irresistibly impelled
towards the Hall, and after wandering for some time within sight of the
house, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of its fair inhabitant, he
strolled without any definite object into the village.

As he approached a low cottage, he saw a form, which he could not
mistake, entering the door, followed by a footman. The door closed after
them; but the window was open, and Vivian glanced in. It _was_ Margaret!
She was in the act of taking a pillow from the hand of her attendant.
“See!” she said to the poor woman of the cottage, who was lying on a
bed, looking very ill, “I have brought you another pillow. I hope it
will ease your poor shoulders; it is softer than the last, for I tore
the papers, with which it is stuffed, much finer;” and tenderly raising
the invalid, she placed the pillow beneath her.

“The papers, with which it is stuffed! and this, then, is their
destination! and Sir George’s note is in the old woman’s pillow! And I
called it a waste of time!”

Vivian was half wild with joy and surprise. He staid to hear no more,
but flew rather than walked back to the Hall, and contrived to make his
peace with Mr. Walton, and accept an invitation for dinner, before the
unconscious Margaret had returned from her errand of benevolence. As he
saw her approach from the window, he hurried out to meet her, his face
glowing with the joyous excitement of his discovery, and, hastily
drawing her arm through his, exclaimed,—“I’m so happy! It is all right!
I was quite mistaken; I’m so happy!” When she first recognized him,
Margaret’s beautiful features lighted up, for a moment, with
irrepressible joy; but the glow faded as she recalled the discourteous
manner of his departure, and though she did not withdraw the arm he had
taken, she received his protestations of happiness at their meeting,
with a quiet dignity and reserve, which amply punished our impetuous
lover for his fault. But though she would not deign to inquire in _what_
he was mistaken, by degrees the reserve wore off beneath the genial and
irresistible influence of Vivian’s frank and joyous demeanor, and for
the rest of the day she allowed herself to be as happy as her heart bade
her.

As our hero sat by her work-table after tea, a sudden thought came into
his head. “I will see if my writing will share the fate of others,” said
he to himself. And scribbling, upon some paper, the verse he had heard
her sing on his first visit—beginning with, “One only I love and
forever,” he cut it into small pieces and placed it on the table before
her, at the same time laughingly pointing to the fatal basket. Margaret
began to join the pieces, succeeded in the first line, colored, smiled
as she read, and making a playful feint of putting them in the basket,
threw them at last, with would-be carelessness, into a book, which lay
open on the table.

Vivian’s heart beat high! and higher still, when, gently taking his
pencil from his hand, she wrote on a card, and cut to pieces, the
following lines, which after much puzzling he placed correctly together.
“I sincerely congratulate the ‘one only.’ He or she, whichever it may
be, will be happy certainly in the _invariable_ devotion you display.”

Vivian bit his lip at the word “invariable;” for he remembered his fit
of ill-humor. But he did not despair, he wrote again, as follows,—

Nay! If this heart’s devotion changes,
’Tis only as the needle turns,
With trembling truth, howe’er it ranges,
To where the pole-star beams and burns:
Star of my life! howe’er I flee,
So Fate has linked _my_ love to thee!

Margaret seemed to become suddenly sensible that this at least was a
clandestine correspondence; for blushing again more deeply than before,
she rose and left the room, with the paper still in her hand. She did
not return that evening, and our hero began to fear that his half
playful, half in earnest declaration had offended her. They met at
breakfast, however, and save a slight additional shade of reserve, her
manner was the same as usual.

Vivian knew not what to think. He pined to be relieved, but he would
not, without further encouragement, hazard another and more formal
declaration.

Awaking from his reverie, he found himself alone in the breakfast-room,
turning, unconsciously, the key of Margaret’s work-box. Suddenly a
little secret door sprung open at his accidental touch, and there, on a
tiny shelf, lay a paper with “Vivian,” written on the outside, in a
delicate female hand! Bewildered with love and hope, he opened it ere he
thought of the dishonor of so doing, and found—(yes! it was no dream
and he was the happiest of the happy!)—the very bits of paper, which he
had laid before her the night previous, and which she had thrown so
carelessly into a book! Forgetting, in his passionate delight, the
impropriety, the indelicacy of allowing her to know that her secret was
betrayed, he hurriedly penciled on a card—

“Dearest Margaret; by a blessed accident, I have discovered the
secret shelf—its contents are a token to me that you have
rightly construed my earnest devotion of word and manner. Dare I
imagine it also a token that you approve that devotion? Tell me,
sweet Margaret, say but one word, but let that word be ‘yes,’
and I am yours only and forever,

Vivian.”

He placed it on the shelf, hastily closed the little door, and left the
house; after meeting Mr. Walton on the stairs, and promising to call the
next day.

CHAPTER V.

Vivian was punctual to his appointment; but Miss Walton received him
with a cold and quiet dignity, for which he could not account. Her cheek
was flushed, and she looked as if she had been weeping bitterly. She was
slowly tearing a note. As soon as she had finished, she touched the
spring of the secret door, and, taking from the shelf the unfortunate
card, deliberately tore it into atoms, and placed the bits in the
basket. Vivian gazed upon her in mingled astonishment and despair.

“Wont they hurt the poor woman’s head?” asked he, attempting to smile.

“Not so much as they have hurt my _heart_,” replied Margaret in a low
tone, and rising as she spoke, she was gone before he had time to reply.
He resolved to ask an explanation, and simply writing, “How have I
offended you?”—he again used the secret shelf as a repository for his
thoughts.

The next day he called again. The box was still on the table, but the
little door, the shelf, the note, had vanished, and only a hollow space
disfigured our heroine’s beautiful India work-box. It seemed she was
determined to have no secret correspondence, either with him or any one
else. Vivian thought himself alone, and, leaning his head on the box,
sighed deeply. His sigh was echoed, and, looking up, he caught
Margaret’s eyes bent mournfully upon him—blushing she turned away. He
sprung up, caught her hand, drew her gently to the sofa, and pointing to
the box, looked imploringly, but silently, in her face.

“Oh!” she said, in a faltering voice, “how could you so humble me in my
own eyes, as to let me know that you had discovered the only secret I
ever had in my life?”

A sudden light flashed upon Vivian’s mind!

“Was that it, dearest Margaret? It _was_ wrong, it was indelicate; but I
did not think of it then, I was so happy, and Heaven knows I have
suffered enough for my fault! Forgive me! you _will_ forgive me?”

“I have already forgiven you, Vivian.”

“But that is not enough; you must do more than forgive, you must love
me, dear one!” he murmured, drawing her tenderly towards him.

“Must I?” said Margaret playfully; “Well, then, if I must, I must! I
have always been a pattern of obedience—have I not, papa?” and Mr.
Walton entering, as she spoke, the happy but embarrassed girl escaped
from Vivian’s ardent thanks, and flew to her chamber, to recall his
every look and tone, and to live over again in fancy the joy of that
delightful interview.

An hour afterwards, he joined her in her walk, and gave her the whole
history of his love, his suspicions and his jealousy.

“And so, Mr. Vivian Russell,” said the lady, when he had concluded,
“those harmless atoms of paper have been the cause of all this
misunderstanding and estrangement. Truly, indeed, said the bard that,

“_Trifles light as air_
Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong
As proofs of holy writ.”

* * * * *

SEPTEMBER WALTZ.

COMPOSED FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

[Illustration: musical score]

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The Poems of Alfred Tennyson. Two vols. 12mo. Boston, William
D. Ticknor. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._

Of the works of cotemporary English poets of the second class, perhaps
none have been more commented upon or less read in America than those of
Alfred Tennyson. The chief reason may be that never until now having
been reprinted here, and a very small number only of the first English
impression having been imported, they have not been accessible to many
whom the praises or the reviewers would have led to examine into their
pretensions. The Cardinal de Richelieu, it is said, fancying himself as
skilled in poetry as in diplomacy, wrote a tragedy, which having been
damned on its anonymous presentation to the critics, he tore into atoms
and burned. For like cause Mr. Tennyson, soon after the publication of
his “Poems, chiefly Lyrical,” committed all the copies of them he could
regain to the fire. But the cardinal and our cotemporary erred. Time,
not fire, is the trier of verse. Upon the surface of the stream of ages
the good will at some period rise to float forever, the middling for a
while live in the under current of the waters, and in the end, with the
utterly worthless, sink into the oblivious mire at the bottom. To this
conclusion Mr. Tennyson seems now to have been brought, for he has this
summer republished his early poems, with many new ones which, though
free from some of the more conspicuous faults of his first productions,
generally lack their freshness, beauty and originality. We look in vain
in the second volume of the edition before us for pieces surpassing his
Mariana, Oriana, Madeline, Adeline, Margaret, The Death of the Old Year,
or parts of The Dream of Fair Women. He excels most in his female
portraitures; but while delicate and graceful they are indefinite; while
airy and spiritual, are intangible. As we read Byron or Burns, beautiful
forms stand before us, we see the action of their breathing, read the
passionate language of their eyes, involuntarily throw out our arms to
embrace them; but we have glimpses only of the impalpable creations of
Tennyson, as far away on gold-fringed clouds they bend to listen to
dreamlike melodies which go up from fairy lakes and enchanted palaces.

Tennyson has been praised as a strikingly original poet. He has indeed a
bold and affluent fancy, whereby he tricks out common thoughts in
dresses so unique that it is not always easy to identify them; but we
have not seen in his works proofs of an original mind. He certainly is
not an inventor of incidents, for most of those he uses were familiar in
the last century. Dora he acknowledges was suggested by one of Miss
Mitford’s portraits, and the Lady Clare by Mrs. Farrar’s Inheritance;
The Day Dream, The Lady of Shalott, and Godiva, are versions of old
tales, skilfully made, but showing no creative power. There is a
statue-like definiteness and warmth of coloring about the following
stanzas from the first of these poems which we have not elsewhere
observed in his writings:

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purpled coverlet,
The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown.
On either side her tranced form
Forth streaming from a braid of pearl:
The slumbrous light is rich and warm,
And moves not on the rounded curl.

The silk star-broider’d coverlid
Unto her limbs itself doth mould
Languidly ever; and, amid
The full black ringlets downward roll’d,
Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm
With bracelets of the diamond bright;
Her constant beauty doth inform
Stillness with love, and day with light.

She sleeps! her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart,
The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps: on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.

There is also a beautiful passage in Godiva, which we cannot forbear to
quote:

Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there
Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt,
The grim earl’s gift; but ever at a breath
She lingered, looking like a summer moon
Hair dipt in cloud; anon she shook her head
And showered the rippled ringlets to her knee;
Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair
Stole on, and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid
From pillar unto pillar until she reached
The gateway.

A specimen of description, graphic, but not very poetical, is the
following from the Miller’s Daughter:

I see the wealthy miller yet,
His double chin, his portly size,
And who that knew him could forget
The busy wrinkles round his eyes?
The slow, wise smile, that round about
His dusty forehead daily curled,
Seemed half within and half without,
And full of dealings with the world.

In The Day Dream, from which we have already quoted, the following lines
will suggest to the reader’s mind the story of Rip Van Winkle, or Sleepy
Hollow:

And last of all the king awoke,
And in his chair himself uprear’d,
And yawn’d, and rubb’d his face, and spoke,
“By holy rood, a royal beard!
How say you? we have slept, my lords.
My beard has grown into my lap.”
The barons swore, with many words,
’Twas but an after-dinner’s nap.

Tennyson frequently exhibits a rare sense of the beautiful, “a spirit
awake to fine issues,” and, in his own language,

does love Beauty only
In all varieties of mould and mind,
And Knowledge for its beauty, or if Good,
Good only for its beauty.

Yet this sense is sometimes dead in him, and he exhibits as little taste
as is possessed by ante-diluvian McHenry. A critic for whose judgment we
have great respect, and who seems determined to believe Mr. Tennyson
“the first original English poet since Keats, perhaps the only one of
the present race of verse writers who carries with him the certain marks
of being remembered hereafter with the classic authors of his language,”
points to St. Simeon Stilites as the finest of his productions. It is
not his worst, but if he had not written better we should desire none of
his companionship. In the opening lines a devotee prays, in the very
language of old cloister legends—

Altho’ I be the basest of mankind,
From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin,
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy,
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn and sob,
Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer,
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin.

Recounting his mortifications, he says—

O take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe,
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint.
Pain heap’d ten hundredfold to this, were still
Less burthen, by ten hundredfold, to bear,
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush’d
My spirit flat before thee. . . . . .
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul,
Who may be saved? who is it may be saved?
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?
Show me the man hath suffer’d more than I.
For either they were stoned or crucified,
Or burn’d in fire, or boil’d in oil, or sawn
In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death.
Bear witness, if I could have found a way
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought)
More slowly painful to subdue this home
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,
I had not stinted practice, O my God.
For not alone this pillar-punishment,
Not this alone I bore; but while I lived
In the white convent down the valley there,
For many weeks about my loins I wore
The rope that haled the buckets from the well,
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose,
And I spake not of it to a single soul,
Until the ulcer, eating through my skin,
Betray’d my secret penance, so that all
My brethren marvel’d greatly. More than this
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all.
Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee
I lived up there on yonder mountain side.
My right leg chain’d into the crag, I lay
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones,
Inswath’d sometimes in wandering mist, and twice
Black’d with thy branding thunder, and sometimes
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came
To touch my body and be heal’d, and live.
And they say then that I work’d miracles,
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God,
Knowest alone whether this was or no.
Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.
Then, that I might be more alone with thee,
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve;
And twice three years I crouch’d on one that rose
Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew,
Twice ten long weary, weary years to this,
That numbers forty cubits from the soil.
I think that I have borne as much as this—
Or else I dream—and for so long a time.

At length the miserable fool, with no rebuke for the heathen thought
that God is moved by penances like these instead of active efforts to
promote His cause and human happiness, working miracles such as the
earliest saints performed, climbs up into his airy home and there
“receives the blessed sacrament.” Where is Mr. Tennyson’s “high,
spiritual philosophy,” and “transcendental light?” The ideas, imagery
and style of expression in this poem are familiar to all readers of
monkish stories, and from the beginning of it to the end there are not
half a dozen lines to be remembered when the book is closed.

We cannot foretell to what degree of popularity these poems will attain
in America. The fewness of the copies here, before the appearance of the
present edition, enabled some persons to steal the author’s livery and
achieve great reputation among a class who will now transfer their
admiration to him who “stole at first hand from Keats.” That Tennyson
has genius cannot be denied, but his chief characteristics pertaining to
style, they will not long attract regard. We have better poets in our
own country—Bryant, Longfellow, and others—who put “diamond thoughts
in golden caskets;” and all true critics will prefer their simple
majesty or beauty to the fantastic though often tasteful and brilliant
displays of Tennyson. The difference between them is like that which
distinguishes the sparkling frost that vanishes in the sun from ingots
of silver that may be raked into heaps and will last forever.

Our attention has been directed to resemblances between the poems of
Tennyson and those of our own quaint and felicitous humorist, Doctor
Oliver Wendell Holmes. We have not space for a parallel. The first is a
man of fortune who has given twenty years to the poetic art; the last a
young physician who, devoting all his time to a laborious profession,
has little leisure for dalliance with the muse, and no ambition to win
“a poet’s fame.” Yet even as a versifier Holmes is equal to Tennyson,
and with the same patient effort and care, he would in every way surpass
him as an author.

* * * * *

_Forest Life: By the author of “A New Home—Who’ll Follow?” Two
Vols. 12mo. New York, Charles S. Francis. Philadelphia, Carey &
Hart._

These are charming volumes, written with a freshness and spirit that
delights and would surprise us were we not familiar with the first work
of their author. Mrs. Kirkland has opened a new vein in our national
literature. Her sketches of forest scenery and wood-craft, with all its
varied details, are not less true than graphic. We Americans are
probably inclined to think too lightly of the vigor and intelligence
displayed in them; that bad old adage about the estimate of a prophet in
his native land unfortunately applies with force to Mrs. Kirkland, Mrs.
Brooks and some other writers of this country whose works, while they
excite comparatively little attention here, are passing through numerous
editions abroad. All the world has read the pleasant stories in “Our
Village,” by Miss Mitford. We institute no comparison between her and
our own “Mary Clavers,” but we think our countrywoman has exhibited
powers infinitely superior to those of the popular delineator of English
rural life. She is sometimes _extravagant_, indeed; but a tendency to
extravagance has its foundation in nature, and is necessary in all works
of art, from pen or pencil, to produce a true impression. Having made a
pedestrian tour through the country about “Montecute,” a few years ago,
and gained by observation some knowledge of its inhabitants, we thought
after glancing at a few of Mrs. Kirkland’s chapters that she had
exaggerated too much their peculiarities; but on closing her volumes we
are as confident of their truth as of their extreme cleverness. One or
two of Miss Mitford’s stories may be read with pleasure, and a
philosopher can endure a third; but the fourth invariably induces sleep
or weariness. There is, however, no monotony to pall in “Mary Clavers;”
the tragic and the comic, the pathetic and the droll, succeed each other
so rapidly in her works that they are as various in their tone as the
inimitable “Don Juan.”

We might find some faults in “Forest Life,” but its good qualities so
predominate that the task becomes both difficult and ungracious. We will
allude to one only—the too frequent introduction of French words and
phrases—not, certainly, from vanity, for no woman has less affectation
than our author—but doubtless from habit and a desire of condensation.
A pithy French phrase of three words, _to those who understand the
language_, will frequently convey more meaning than half a dozen English
lines; but, Mrs. Clavers, there are in this world a vast number of very
decent people who know as little of French as a politician does of
honesty.

* * * * *

_The American in Egypt, with Rambles through Arabia Petræa and
the Holy Land, during the Years 1839 and 1840. By James Ewing
Cooley. Illustrated with numerous Steel Engravings, and Etchings
by D. C. Johnston. One vol. 8vo., pp. 610. New York, D. Appleton
& Co., 1842._

We have seen few American books comparable to this in elegance of paper,
typography and embellishments. The richest productions of the printers
of London and Paris do not surpass it. Of its literary character—having
read but a few chapters—we can speak with less confidence. The author,
with his family, we believe left New York in the autumn of 1828, and
making pleasure the principal object of his pursuit, passed through the
most interesting portions of Europe, Africa and Asia. He was in Egypt
during an important period, and enjoyed there all the facilities he
could well desire for the acquisition of information. But so numerous
are the works relative to that country, which have been published within
a few years, that little in regard to its antiquities or social
condition was left to be discovered, and instead, therefore, of
presenting familiar statistics and minute descriptions of fallen columns
and crumbling arches, Mr. Cooley has given us a gallery of
character-sketches in which the various classes of travelers, exiles,
and other “Franks,” encountered on the banks of the Nile, on the deserts
and among the ruins, are exhibited. We cannot tell to what degree of
confidence these portraitures are generally entitled, but we fancy the
English tourists are not truly represented in his “Wrinklebottoms” and
“Sneezebiters;” and we are sure our intelligent consul at Cairo, Mr.
Gliddon, is not the real original of the picture which bears his name.
Mr. Cooley sometimes writes carelessly and incorrectly; such phrases as
“fellow-townsmen” and some others in the volume before us, may pass
without reproof in hasty conversation, but it is not easy to excuse
their appearance in a printed book. Though far from faultless, “The
American in Egypt” is an instructive and amusing record of travels and
observations.

* * * * *

_A History of the Life of Edward the Black Prince, and of
various Events connected therewith, which occurred during the
Reign of Edward III., King of England. By G. P. R. James, Esq.,
Author of “Darnley,” “Richelieu,” “The Gipsy,” etc. Two vols.
12mo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._

Mr. James has probably written more than any other living English
author. We have not now a list of his works, but a London bookseller
advertises a set of them, as “nearly complete,” containing _one hundred
and twenty-three volumes_. Many of them are historical, and one is
poetical; but the greater number is composed of novels and romances.
These last have some excellent qualities which distinguish them from
nearly all other works of their kind, especially from the romances of
Walter Scott. They are truer as histories than the chronicles and
biographies of the author of Waverley. Whatever incidents he may invent,
Mr. James draws his real characters with scrupulous fidelity. Philip
Augustus, Richelieu, and Henri IV. are great historical pictures, of
which the details are imaginary, but the general impression given so
correct that a man may learn nearly as much by reading them as from
Sismondi’s History of France for the periods to which they relate. While
Scott’s histories are as unworthy of credit as his novels, James, in his
historical writings, is singularly careful as well about their minutest
incidents as their principal effect, so that he is in a way one of the
best of living historians. Of The Life of Edward the Black Prince we
have not space for a review; but we have found it exceedingly
interesting, and we gladly commend it to the favorable attention of our
readers.

* * * * *

_The United Irishmen, their Lives and Times. By R. R. Madden, M.
D., author of “Travels in the East,” “Infirmities of Genius,”
etc. Two vols. 12mo. Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard._

Any work descriptive of the characters and events of the great Irish
rebellion of 1798, must possess considerable interest. The volumes
before us, while they are written with a kindness and candor which
distinguish few of the chronicles of the stormy period to which they
relate, are constructed so carelessly, are so destitute of continuity
and method, as to deserve little praise for their literary execution.
The notices of Emmett, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, the brothers John and
Henry Sheares, to whose fate the indignant eloquence of Curran imparted
such interest, and many others will, however, enchain the reader’s
attention and well reward him for laboring through the more heavy
passages. It is estimated by the most moderate judges that the number of
persons slain during the rebellion was not less than seventy thousand;
twenty thousand on the side of the government, and fifty thousand on
that of the insurgents; and it is generally admitted that more were
murdered in cold blood than fell on the fields of battle. The judicial
investigations which followed were mere mockeries, and the whole conduct
of the triumphing government so atrocious as to shock the sensibilities
of the whole civilized world. The history of these scenes cannot yet be
written. Doctor Madden has but added material to the accumulating stores
which await some laborious and skilful writer of the next century. His
work will fulfill its office by attracting a momentary attention to the
subject, and afterward by appearing as an authority in quotations on the
margins of a successor’s pages.

* * * * *

_The Man of Fortune, and other Tales. By Mrs. Gore, Author of
“Greville,” “Preferment,” “The Lover and the Husband,” etc. Two
vols. 12mo. Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard._

Female writers have generally a superior tact in painting manners; a
discerning eye for the lights and shadows of social life; and their
pictures of the family or the ball are marked by a certain detail which
we seldom find in the writings of the other sex. Mrs. Charles Gore has
an excellent reputation for this kind of ability. Her characters are
well drawn, the interest of her stories is well sustained, and their
moral is always correct. Of the volumes before us we have read but a
moiety, though enough to see that they are worthy of their author. The
first contains The Man of Fortune, and Ango, or the Merchant Prince; and
the second, The Queen’s Comfit Maker; A Legend of Tottenham Cross; The
Young Soldier, or Military Discipline; A Lucky Dog; The Fatal Window;
The Railroad; The Mariners of the Pollet; The Wife of an Aristocrat;
Neighbor Grey and her Daughter; and The Jewess.

* * * * *

_Romantic Biography of the Age of Elizabeth, or Sketches of Life
from the Byways of History. Edited by William Cooke Taylor, LL.
D., Author of “Natural History of Society,” etc. Two vols. 12mo.
Philad. Lea & Blanchard._

We have room only to announce the appearance of an American edition of
this work, and to remark that it is a collection of the most
entertaining memoirs in our language.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

Alexander Hamilton Bogart.—Our attention was not long ago called to
this name by the number of elegiac verses and eloquent obituary
paragraphs upon “the admired and lamented young Bogart,” which we found
in an old file of Albany papers, while referring to them for other
matters connected with some researches in which we were at the time
engaged. On inquiring in his native city for the productions of one
whose early death had caused so general a sensation in the community of
which he was a member, we found that he was still remembered, and still
deplored. His literary abilities, not less than his personal character,
seemed to have left a profound impression on all who knew him; but of
his writings we could recover scarcely any, and those we obtained were
principally of a fragmentary character. Yet these fragments, though
their local and personal allusions were lost upon us, as they would be
upon most of our readers, had in them veins of sentiment and humor that
sufficiently proved the easy and versatile genius of their author, and
inspired the regret that a man evidently so gifted had not left his
countrymen some more finished mementos of his genius. Mr. Bogart was a
native of the city of Albany, where, at the early age of twenty-one
years, he died, in 1826. He was engaged in the study of the law at the
time of his decease, and, as we have learned from an eminent member of
the bar in that city, gave the highest promise of professional
reputation, when his studies were interrupted by the illness which
terminated in his death. In an interval of that illness, he is said to
have destroyed such of his writings as were within his reach. The
following spirited song, being happily in the hands of a friend, escaped
with the fragments we have already alluded to, and, judging by them, is
a characteristic specimen of his verse.

ANACREONTIC.

The flying joy through life we seek
For once is ours—the wine we sip
Blushes like beauty’s glowing cheek,
To meet our eager lip.

Round with the ringing glass once more!
Friends of my youth and of my heart;
No magic can this hour restore—
Then crown it ere we part.

Ye are my friends, my chosen ones—
Whose blood would flow with fervor true
For me—and free as this wine runs
Would mine, by heaven! for you.

Yet, mark me! When a few short years
Have hurried on their journey fleet,
Not one that now my accents hears
Will know me when we meet.

Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain,
The startling thought ye scarce will brook,
Yet, trust me, we’ll be strangers then
In heart as well as look.

Fame’s luring voice, and woman’s wile,
Will soon break youthful friendship’s chain—
But shall that cloud to-night’s bright smile?
No—pour the wine again!

Mr. Bogart composed with singular rapidity, and would frequently
astonish his companions by an improvisation equal to the elaborate
performances of some poets of distinguished reputation. It was
good-naturedly hinted on one occasion that his impromptus were prepared
beforehand, and he was asked if he would submit to the application of a
test of his poetical abilities. He promptly acceded, and a most
difficult one was immediately proposed. Among his intimate friends were
the late Colonel John B. Van Schaick and Charles Fenno Hoffman, both of
whom were present. Said Van Schaick, taking up a copy of Byron, “The
name of _Lydia Kane_”—a lady distinguished for her beauty and
cleverness, who died a year or two since, but who was then just blushing
into womanhood—“the name of Lydia Kane has in it the same number of
letters as a stanza of ‘Childe Harold;’ write them down in a column.”
They were so written by Bogart, Hoffman and himself. “Now,” he
continued, “I will open the poem at random; and for the ends of the
lines in Miss Lydia’s _acrostic_ shall be used the words ending those of
the verse on which my finger may rest.” The stanza thus selected was
this:

And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave,
To swell one bloated chief’s unwholesome reign?
No step between submission and a grave?
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?
And doth the Power that man adores ordain
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant’s appeal?
Is all that desperate valor acts in vain?
And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal,
The veteran’s skill, youth’s fire, and manhood’s heart of steel?

The following stanza was composed by Bogart within the succeeding ten
minutes—the period fixed in a wager—finished before his companions had
reached a fourth line, and read to them as we print it—

L ovely and loved, o’er the unconquered brave
Y our charms resistless, matchless girl, shall reign!
D ear as the mother holds her infant’s grave
I n Love’s own region, warm, romantic Spain!
A nd should your Fate to courts your steps ordain,
K ings would in vain to regal pomp appeal,
A nd lordly bishops kneel to you in vain,
N or Valor’s fire, Law’s power, nor Churchman’s zeal
E ndure ’gainst Love’s (time up!) untarnished steel!

We need not inform the reader that few of the most facile versifiers
could have accomplished the task in hours. Bogart nearly always composed
with the same rapidity, and his pieces were marked by the liveliest wit
and most apposite illustration. Of how many young Americans who, like
him, died as the bud of their promise was unfolding, have we heard!
“Whom the gods love, indeed die young.”

* * * * *

The Annuaries.—The Gift may be regarded as a dial by which to learn the
progress of the arts in America. The best of our painters and engravers
are engaged in its embellishment, and in pictorial beauty as well as
literary character every new volume surpasses its predecessor. The Gift
for 1843 will be issued in a few days, with pictures from Malbone,
Huntington, Inman, Chapman, Sully, and others, and prose and verse by
Herbert, Simms, Miss Gould, Mrs. Seba Smith, Mrs. Sigourney, and some
half dozen beside. The Token, published for fourteen years in Boston,
will not again be issued.

* * * * *

John Jacob Astor, the wealthiest citizen of the United States, has with
enlightened liberality devoted three hundred thousand dollars to the
establishment of a public library in New York, an elegant and durable
edifice is being built in the most pleasant part of the city for its
reception, and Doctor Cogswell, a gentleman of taste and sound learning,
is engaged in the purchase of books for it. There are a large number of
libraries in America, owned by societies and individuals, but none yet
for the _public_, and none that, if they were free like the great
libraries of the old world, would be of much use to men of science or
letters. To so many of the million as can buy shares in them those of
Boston, New York and Philadelphia will afford sufficient means of
amusement, but if a man wishes to explore any department of science,
moral, political, or historical, and resorts to them, he will soon be
compelled to abandon his researches or to go abroad for their
prosecution. Indeed, except the library of Congress, which is not half
so good as an intelligent _bibliopole_ with the requisite means might
make it in six months, there is in this country no collection of books
_relating to our own history_ comparable with several collections in
England, and for works by American authors, for our national literature,
such as it is, the very last place to look is in an American library.
Stepping a few days since into an extensive bibliographical
establishment in this city, we were shown an order for American books,
by catalogue, amounting to several thousand dollars; with great
difficulty they had been found among the book-stalls and other
out-of-the-way places, and shipped to London, to be added to a
collection probably already as large as any existing here, except two or
three owned by governments and societies, and a few in the hands of
private individuals. We have examined carefully most of the libraries of
any consequence in the United States, and know something of their
condition. Small as they are, compared with the libraries of Europe,
they are made up in a great degree of duplicate copies of worthless
books, and are most poorly supplied with works by our countrymen or
relating to our history and institutions. They are managed by persons
incompetent to discharge their duties; have librarians who cannot
comprehend the title pages of half the books mentioned in their
catalogues; and add very little indeed to the means of obtaining
knowledge which have an independent existence. The Astor library will be
different. The large amount of money appropriated by its founder, the
ability of his actuary, and the system which has been proposed for its
government, give promise that we are to have at length the _nucleus_,
gradually and surely to be enlarged into a really good American library,
to which scholars may resort with such hopes of advantage as now prompt
them to visit England, Germany, Spain, or France.

* * * * *

Mr. Francis J. Grund, our Consul at Bremen, and author of “Aristocracy
in America,” “The Americans in their Moral, Social and Political
Condition,” etc., has nearly ready for press a work on the state and
prospects of Germany, which will be published in a few weeks by Longman,
Reese, Orme, Browne & Longman, of London. It will of course be reprinted
in this country.

* * * * *

Doctor Marsh.—We learn with great pleasure that Professor Torrey, of
the University of Vermont, is preparing for publication the writings,
religious, philosophic and literary, of the late President Marsh, the
greatest American who has died in this decade.

* * * * *

Mr. Fay’s Notes on Shakspeare.—The series of articles by Mr. Theodore
S. Fay, on the writings of Shakspeare, which we are publishing in this
Magazine, prove that the subject, however ably or frequently it has been
treated, is not exhausted. Shakspeare’s works will probably continue
through all future time to be more read than any other productions save
the inspired books which compose the Holy Bible. They contain
peculiarities which distinguish the author from every other writer, and
have made him for two centuries the object of the world’s attention and
admiration. With all the praise awarded to him by the greatest critics
of all nations, we believe with our correspondent that he is not even
yet generally understood, and that many thousands read his plays, and
see them performed, without a true idea of their particular beauty and
profound meaning. The system of the German critic, Ulrici, alluded to by
Mr. Fay, is highly interesting, and this entire series of papers—which
will be completed in four or five more numbers—without being so studied
as the critiques of Schlegel and Hazlitt, is well calculated to call the
popular attention to beauties which have not generally been observed,
and many of which we do not remember having seen pointed out before at
all.

* * * * *

The Antiquities of Central America.—Few subjects have recently
attracted more attention than that of the discovery of the vast remains
of ancient cities in the southern port of this continent. The “hand
book” of Mr. John L. Stephens, descriptive of his hasty journey through
Central America, though it contains little new information, and none of
the curious learning which we look for in the chronicle of an
antiquary’s researches, has been read with avidity in this country and
in Europe, and is soon to be followed by an account of a second visit to
the same scenes. Since the return of Mr. Stephens, Mr. Norman, an
intelligent and careful explorer, has passed several months in Yucatan,
visiting Tchechuan and other places not discovered by former travellers,
and abounding in interesting relics of an aboriginal race, and
monuments, yet undecayed by time, which show that their builders were
far advanced in civilization. Mr. Norman is now preparing for this
magazine a series of articles on the ruins of Yucatan, the first of
which, with illustrative engravings by Butler, from original drawings,
will probably appear in our next number.

* * * * *

National Songs.—Among the new works to be published in Philadelphia,
during the autumn, is “A Collection of American Patriotic, Naval and
Military Songs, in three volumes,” by the veteran bookseller, Mr.
McCarty. It will be curious and unique.

* * * * *

Thulia, a Tale of the Antarctic, is the title of a beautiful poem by J.
C. Palmer, U. S. N., written while the author, attached to the Exploring
Expedition, was in the Southern seas, which will soon be published in
New York, with illustrations engraved by Adams, from designs by Agate.

* * * * *

The Smuggler’s Son, with other Tales and Sketches, in Prose and Verse,
is the title of a volume from the pen of a lady of Tennessee, soon to be
published by Herman Hooker, of this city.

* * * * *

Mr. Alfred B. Street, one of the most graphic and natural of the poets
who have attempted the description of external nature, we learn has a
collection of his writings in press.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Five ladies, a gentleman and a child 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.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 3, September 1842_, George R.
Graham, Editor]

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