*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54032 ***

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
             VOL. XXXVII.      November, 1850.      NO. 5.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          Enchanted Beauty. A Myth.
          The Vision of Mariotdale
          Tamaque
          The Sunflower
          Minnie de la Croix
          Pedro de Padilh
          Nettles on the Grave
          Familiar Quotations From Unfamiliar Sources
          Two Crayon Sketches
          Quail and Quail Shooting
          Review of New Books
          Editorial. To Rev. Rufus Wilmot Griswold

                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          Hylas
          Sorrow
          Sonnet.—Moral Strength.
          The Reconciliation
          Unhappy Love
          The Wife’s Last Gift
          I Dreamed
          Theodora
          Charlotte Corday
          Sonnet—To Arabella, Sleeping
          The Spectre Knight and His Ladye-Bride
          To L——. with Some Poems
          Wordsworth
          Le Follet

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

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[Illustration: THE ANGEL’S WHISPER.]

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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

       VOL. XXXVII.     PHILADELPHIA, November, 1850.     NO. 5.

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                       ENCHANTED BEAUTY. A MYTH.


The mythologies, in which the faiths, philosophies and fancies of the
world have taken form, have such truth and use in them that they endure,
under corresponding changes, through the reformations of creeds and
modifications of ceremony which mark the history of natural religion
throughout all ages and countries. The essential unity of the race, its
kindred constitution of mind and affections, its likeness of instincts,
passions and aspirations, naturally account for the under-lying
agreement in principles, and central similarity of beliefs, which are
traceable clean through, from the earliest to the most modern, and from
the most polished and elaborate eastern to the rudest northern opinions;
and the nice transitions of doctrine from the infancy to the maturity of
faith and philosophy, are marked by an answering variance in their
significant ceremonials. But, however mingled and marred, the inevitable
truth is imbedded in all the forms of fable, and, under an invariable
law of mind, the inspirations of fancy correspond in essentials to the
oracles of revelation, just because human nature is one, and its
relations to all truth are fixed and universal.

Creeds and formulæ, like the geological crusts of the earth, at once
retain and record the revolutions, disintegrations, intrusions and
submersions from which they result. In the long succession of epochs
whole continents have risen from the deep, and the vestiges of the most
ancient ocean are found upon the modern mountain tops; promontories have
been slowly washed away by the ceaseless waves, and new islands have
shot up from the ever-heaving sea. Through the more recent crusts the
primitive formations frequently crop out upon the surface of the
present, and the comparatively modern, in turn, is often found
fossilized beneath the most ancient; dislocated fragments are
encountered at every step, and icebergs, from the severer latitudes, are
found floating far into the tropical seas. Nevertheless, through all
changes of system, revolution has been ever in the same round of
celestial influences and relations, and the alterations of form and
structure have been only so many different mixtures of unchanging
elements, from the simple primitives to the rich composite moulds, into
which the waters, winds and sun-light have, in the lapse of ages,
modified them. The constancy of essential principles, through all
mutations of systematic dogmas, is strikingly analagous. The law of
adaptation links the material globe and the rational race which occupies
it in intimate relations, and the universal unity in the great scheme of
being establishes such correspondences of organisms and processes with
ideas and ends, that the symbolisms of poetry and mythology are really
well based in the truth of nature, and the essential harmonies of all
things are with equal truth, under various forms, embraced by fiction
and fact, fable and faith, superstition and enlightened reason.

“The true light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world;”
“the grace that hath appeared unto all men;” and “the invisible things
of the Creator, clearly seen and understood by the things which are
made,” are propositions which have the formal warrant of our sacred
books to back the authority of logical demonstration. Moreover, it is
pleasant and profitable to believe that “He hath not left himself
without a witness” among any of the tribes of men. The human
_brotherhood_ is so involved in the divine fatherhood, that the
individual’s hold on the infinite and eternal must stand or fall with
the universality of His regards and providence. If Canaan had been
without a “Prophet of the Most High,” if Chaldea had been left without
soothsayer and seer, and classic Greece and Rome destitute of oracles
and Sibylline revelations, the Jewish theology and the Christian
apocalypse would stand unsupported by “the analogy of faith,” and our
highest hopes would be shifted from the broad basis of an impartial
benevolence, to a narrow caprice of the “Father of all Men.” But,
happily, the sympathies of nature, the deductions of reason, and the
teachings of the Book, are harmonious on this point, for we find
Melchisedec, who could claim no legal or lineal relation to the
Levitical priesthood, the chosen type of the perpetual “High Priest of
our profession;” and Balaam, notwithstanding his heathen birth, and
ministry among the Canaanites when their cup of iniquity was full; and
the eastern Magi, who brought their gifts from afar among the Gentiles,
to the new-born “King of the Jews,” all alike guided by the same light,
and partakers and fellow-laborers in the same faith, with the regular
hierarchy of Mount Zion. So, the Star of Jacob is the “desire of
nations,” and the heart and hope of the wide world turneth ever toward
the same essential truth, and strive after it by the same instinct
through a thousand forms, “if haply they may find it.”

The religious system of the Jews and Chaldeans agreed, with wonderful
exactness, in the doctrine of angelic beings and their interposition in
the affairs of men. The superintendence of the destinies of nations and
individuals, and the allotment of provinces, kingdoms and families among
these ministering spirits, are as distinctly taught in the book of
Daniel of the old testament, and in the gospel of St. Matthew of the
new, as in the popular beliefs of the Arabians and Persians; indeed, the
Bible sanction is general, particular, and ample, for the doctrine of
angelic ministry as it has been held in all ages and throughout the
world.

The order and organization of these celestial beings, among whom the
infinite multiplicity of providential offices is thus distributed,
falling within the domain of marvelousness and ideality, of course, took
the thousand hues and shapes which these prismatic faculties would
bestow; and in the various accommodations and special applications of
the doctrine, it naturally grew complicated, obscure, and sometimes even
incoherent; but in all the confusion of a hundred tongues, kindreds and
climates, a substantial conformity to a common standard is apparent
enough to prove the identity of origin and the fundamental truth common
to them all.

It is to introduce one of these remarkable correspondences that these
reflections are employed.

Fairy tales, it is said by encyclopedists, were brought from Arabia into
France in the twelfth century, but this can only mean that that was the
epoch of the exotic legends. In England, if they were not indigenous,
they certainly were naturalized centuries before Chaucer flourished; and
they were as familiar as the catechism, and almost as orthodox, when
Spencer, wrote his Fairy Queen, and Shakspeare employed their agency in
his most exquisite dramas. But their date is, in fact, coeval with
tradition, and earlier than all written records, and their origin is
without any necessary locality, for they spring spontaneously from faith
in the supernatural. They are inseparable from poetry. The priesthood of
nature, which enters for us the presence of the invisible and converses
familiarly with the omnipresent life of the creation, recognizes the
administration of an ethereal hierarchy in all the phenomena of
existence; they serve to impersonate the spiritual forces, which are
felt in all heroic action, and they graduate the responsive sympathies
of Heaven to all the supernatural necessities of humanity. The live soul
can make nothing dead; it can take no relation to insensate matter; it
invests the universe with a conscious life, answering to its own; and an
infinite multitude of intermediate spirits stand to its conceptions for
the springs of the universal movement. Rank upon rank, in spiral ascent,
the varied ministry towers from earth to heaven, answering to every
need, supporting every hope, and environing the whole life of the
individual and the race with an adjusted providence, complete and
adequate. In the great scale, place and office are assigned for spirits
celestial, ethereal and terrestrial, in almost infinite gradation. The
highest religious sentiments, the noblest styles of intellect and
imagination, and the lower and coarser apprehensions of the invisible
orders of being, are all met and indulged by the accommodating facility
of the system.

The race of Peris of Persia, and Fairies of western Europe, hold a very
near and familiar relation to the every day life of humanity, by their
large intermixture of human characteristics and the close resemblance
and alliance of their probationary existence and ultimate destiny to the
life and fortunes of men. A commonplace connection with ordinary affairs
and household interests constitutes the largest part of the popular
notion of them; and their interferences among the vulgar are almost
absurd and ludicrous enough to impeach the earnestness of the
superstition; but our best poets have shown them capable of very noble
and beneficent functions in heroic story. Like our own various nature,
they are a marvellous mixture of the mighty and the mean, the
magnanimous, the malignant and the mirthful; they stand, in a word, as
our own correspondents in a subtler sphere, and serve to illustrate, by
exaggerating, all that is true and possible in us, but more probable of
them—our own shadows lengthened, and our own light brightened into a
higher life. In some countries the legends are obscure, in others clear;
but they all agree well enough in ascribing their origin to the
intermarriage of angels with “the daughters of men,” and that they are
put under penance and probation for the recovery of their paradise. So,
like our own race, they have fallen from a higher estate; their natures
are half human, and their general fortunes are freighted on the same
tide.

The nursery tale of the Sleeping Beauty will serve capitally to
illustrate our theme. Handed down from age to age, and passed from
nation to nation, through the agency of oral tradition chiefly, it has
of course taken as many shapes as the popular fancy could impart to it;
but the essential points, seen through all the existing forms, are
substantially these:

A grand coronation festival of a young queen abruptly opens the story.
The state room of the palace is furnished with Oriental magnificence.
The representatives of every order, interest and class in the
kingdom—constructively the whole community—are present to witness and
grace the scene. The fairies who preside over the various departments of
nature, and the functions and interests of society, are assembled by
special invitation to invoke the blessings and pledge the favors of
their several jurisdictions to the opening reign. The ceremony proceeds;
the young queen is crowned; the priest pronounces the benediction, and
the generous sprites bestow beauty and goodness, and every means of life
and luxury, until nothing is left for imagination to conceive or heart
to wish. But an unexpected and unwelcome guest arrives—an old Elf, of
jealous and malignant character, whose intrusion cannot be prevented,
and whose power, unhappily, is so great, that the whole tribe of
amicable spirits cannot unbind her spells. Neither can she directly
revoke their beneficences; for such is the constitution of fairy-land
that the good and evil can neither annihilate each other’s powers nor
check each other’s actions, and their active antagonism can have place
and play only in issues and effects. The good commanded and dispensed
cannot be utterly annulled, the profusion of blessings prepared and
pledged cannot be hindered in their source or interrupted in their flow,
but the recipients are the debatable ground; they are, within certain
limits, subject to the control of the demon, and the _end_ is as well
attained by striking them incapable of the intended good. The queen and
her household are cast into a magic slumber until (for the Evil will be
ultimately destroyed by the Good) an age shall elapse and bring a
Deliverer, who, through virtue and courage, shall dissolve the infernal
charm. The blight fell upon the paradise in its full bloom, and it
remained only for the youngest fairy present, who had withheld her
benefactions to the last, to mitigate the doom she could not avert, by
bestowing pleasant dreams upon the long and heavy sleepers. A century
rolls round. The Knight of the Lion undertakes the enterprise;
encounters the horrible troops of monsters and foul fiends which guard
the palace; overcomes them; enters the enchanted hall, and wakens the
whole company to life, liberty and joy again. The knight is, of course,
rewarded with the love he so well deserves and the hand he has so richly
earned.

This is obviously the story of the apostacy and redemption of the human
family, in the form of a fairy legend. It conforms closely to the
necessary incidents of such a catastrophe, and answers well and truly to
the intuitive prophecy of man’s final recovery. In substance and method
the correspondence is obvious. Every notion of “the fall,” whether
revealed or fictitious, assumes the agency of “the wicked one;” and the
final recovery, universally expected, involves the sympathies and
employs the services of the “ministering spirits,” as important
instruments in the happy consummation.

This tale was presented as a dramatic spectacle last winter at the
Boston Museum. The play is a minutely faithful expositor of the legend;
and it is by the aid of this fine scenic exhibition that I am able to
adjust the details, of which the primitive story is so legitimately
capable, to the answering points in the great epic of human history “as
it is most surely believed among us.” The parallel presented does not
seem to me fanciful, but the circumstantial exactness of resemblance
may, I think, be accounted for without supposing a designed imitation.

Before tracing the specialties and their allusions, let us notice the
general parallelism found between the pivotal points of the fabulous and
authentic representations.

The Bible Eden is introduced at the same stage of the story’s action and
in the same attitude to the principal characters of the narrative; it
stands on the coronation day of its monarch, perfect in all its
appointments; the realms of air, earth and ocean in auspicious relation,
every element harmoniously obedient, and the garden still glows with the
smile which accompanied the approving declaration, “it is very good.”
Dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and
over every living thing that moveth upon the face of the earth, is
conferred, and the heavens add their felicities to the inaugural
rejoicings—“the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God
shouted for joy.” The gifts are without measure or stint, and the Divine
beneficence cannot be tainted in its source nor impeded in its efflux,
but the intended recipients, by “the wiles of the enemy,” are rendered
incapable of the enjoyment. The sin-blunted sense and passion blinded
soul of the fallen race, are plunged into a spiritual stupor, which
sleep—the sister and semblance of death—strikingly illustrates; and
through the long age of moral incapacity which follows, the highest mode
of life is but dimly recognized and feebly felt in the dreams of a
paradise lost and the visions of a millenium to come; till, “in the
fullness of time,” when a complete psychical age shall be past. The
Deliverer, having first overcome the wicked one, shall lead captivity
captive, and by the “marriage of the Lamb” with “the bride which is the
Church,” perfect the redemption and bring in the new heavens and new
earth.

But to the fable, the dramatic representation and the interpretation
thereof.

The scene opens upon a rustic society, a hamlet, in the infancy of
civilization, such as, upon ballad authority, was “merrie England”
before the age of her conquests in arts, sciences and arms, and before
the crimes and cares of her age of glory replaced the days of her
innocence and contentment. Simplicity of manners, modest abundance,
moderate labor, aspirations limited to the range of things easy of
attainment, and opinions comfortably at rest on questions of policy and
religion, describe the rural life upon Monsieur Bonvive’s domain. The
master, in bachelor ease, superintends the simple affairs of his
village; Madam Babillard, the house-keeper, has the necessary excitement
without the anxiety of her post—just the amount of trouble that is
interesting with the pigs, poultry and pets of the homestead. The girls,
indeed, are too hasty in ripening into womanhood, and the beaux are
over-bold in their gallantries; but then, these are things of great
consequence to her, and she is, through them, a matter of great
consequence to the community, and the exercise of authority amply repays
all its troubles and responsibilities. The affairs of the commonwealth
take good enough care of themselves generally; the people are happy in
the enjoyment of what they have, and equally happy in the
unconsciousness of what they have not; the holydays come at least once
a-week, and there is space and place for work and play every hour of
every day. Good consciences, light hearts, and natural living, carry
them along very happily, and they have enough of the little risks and
changes of fortune to keep the life within them well alive. The
wilderness upon which their village borders is known to be infested with
hobgoblins and demons, and there is a current belief that in the centre
of the forest there is a princely family bound in a spell for a hundred
years, but they have never penetrated the mystery nor clearly
ascertained the facts.

Among these simple people there is an ancient dame, who was old when the
oldest villager first knew her, and she has lived through all the known
generations of men. Her whole life has been a continual exercise of the
best offices among the people; she has been nurse and doctress, friend
and counselor, by turns, to the whole community, and they repay her with
the love and veneration which her goodness and wisdom command. She is
now apparently in the decrepitude of extreme age, but the frame only
assumes the marks of age—the mind is as young and the affections as
fresh as they were “a hundred years ago.” She is the “Fairy of the
Oak,”—the youngest at the coronation scene, and the tutelary spirit of
the enchanted family. Ever since the hour of their evil fortunes she has
inhabited a human form, performing the charitable offices of ordinary
life and mitigating its incident evils; but, especially she has been
cultivating whatever of virtuous enterprise and aspiration appeared
among the youth from generation to generation, directing it into the
best service and endeavoring by it the deliverance of the imprisoned
spirits under her charge. Patiently and lovingly she has striven,
earnestly and anxiously she has watched, every promise of a deliverance
that the race from age to age produced. Patriarch, prophet, apostle and
philanthropist, has each in his degree done his own good work, and the
world has been the better that they lived; each has added another
assurance of the ultimate success, but themselves “have died without the
sight.” Her own powers, and those of her auxiliaries, are vast and
supernatural, indeed, but the champion age of human redemption must be
human, and she can but inspire, direct, sustain and guard the mighty
effort.

Now, a young Christian Knight “the Knight of the Lion,” famous for deeds
of valor in Holy Land, gives promise of the great achievement to the
quick perception of the Guardian Spirit. She has aroused his enthusiasm
and sustained his zeal, disciplining him by trial after trial, and
training him from triumph to triumph, for still greater deeds, which
take continually more definite shape and more attractive forms in the
dreams and reveries which she inspires, until he has grown familiar with
the vision and conscious of its supernatural suggestion, and she is able
at last to intimate the duty and the trial which invite him by songs in
the air addressed to his waking ear.

        “The enchanted maiden sleeps——in vain
           To hope redress from other arm,
         Foul magic forged the mighty chain,
           Honor and love will brake the charm.

           *       *       *       *        *

         Dread perils shall thy path surround,
           Wild horrors ranged in full array,
         Courage shall take the vantage ground,
           Bright virtue turn dark night to day.”

Drawn westward by her art toward the scene of the great enterprise, he
reaches the village on the border of the wilderness, and from the legend
current among the rustics inferring more definitely the character of his
mission, he accepts it in the true chivalric spirit of faith, love and
hope. His squire, or man-at-arms, who has followed him heretofore with
an unquestioning fidelity, consents to incur the risks, though he has a
very imperfect apprehension of the heroic undertaking; but the devotion
of a faithful follower answers instead of knowledge in his rank of
service. He would rather encounter a dozen flesh and blood swordsmen
than one ghostly foe; nevertheless, where his master leads he will
follow, whatever the character of the fight. The knight comprehends the
nature of the conflict fully; it is not with flesh and blood, but with
“spiritual wickedness in high places” that he “has his warfare.” To him
the great battle is not in the outward and actual, but is transferred to
the inward and spiritual sphere—into the real life—whence the ultimate
facts of existence derive all their currents and ends. So felt the hero
who said, in the great faith, “we have our conversation in heaven”—“we
sit in heavenly places;” and so felt and thought the reformer who
deliberately threw his ink-stand at the devils’ head. The region of the
ideal is the fields of the highest heroism, and every life given to the
world in noble service and generous sacrifice is living in the spirit
sphere in familiar sympathy with the good, and constant strife with evil
angels. This faith is the main impulse in all chivalric action; even a
heroic poem cannot be created without it. It cannot be false, for it
differs nothing in the constancy and efficiency of its presence from the
most palpable facts, and is proved true by the test of harmonizing with
all other truth.

The knight personates the highest ideal of philanthropy; the squire
stands for the lower, more palpable modes of practical benevolence and
reform. They are distinguished as widely as general and special
providence, as the thorough emancipation of the soul and the charity
which relieves the body, or the whole difference between the apostleship
of spiritual and that of civil liberty. They correspond respectively to
the Prophet Elisha, who saw the mountain tops filled with horses and
chariots of fire, outnumbering and overwhelming the hosts of the Syrian
king; and his servant, who saw but two men, his master and himself,
opposed to a numerous and well appointed army. Such is the difference
between the seer and the servant in any labor or conflict of faith—in
any enterprise which involves the spiritual forces that rule the
movements of the world. Throughout the whole action of the drama the
agency and deportment of the knight and his follower are marked by this
distinction. But the scene shifts, and the sympathetic and corroborative
movements in Fairy-land, are revealed. The Fairy of the Oak appears and
summons the spirits of the Air, Earth, Water and Fire. The elements,
disordered by the fall, and thenceforth at war with the poor fugitive
from Paradise, must render their aid in his restoration, that when the
last enemy is put under his feet the material creation, cursed for his
sin, may be renewed with his recovery, and the harmonies of matter
answer to the sanctities of spirit. The spirits of the material forces
obey the invocation, and cordially promise sympathy and service:

        “Throughout all space—above, below,
         In earth or air, through fire or snow,
         Where’er our mission calls we fly,
         Our tasks performing merrily,
         Our guerdon winning happily.”

The actors, human and ethereal, thus adjusted to their several offices,
the knight and his squire enter the haunted wood—the squire to struggle
with the grosser forms of evil, some as ludicrous as sad, others as
horrible as atrocious, and all odious, coarse and palpable; the knight
to be tempted of the devil, and do battle with him for the redemption of
the enchanted family from his dominion.

On the open front of the stage, darkened with smoke and foul with
offensive odors of noxious gases, the squire is hotly engaged with the
great dragon, in close rencontre, and at the same time assailed above,
around, in flank and rear, by harpies, fiery serpents, and other forms
of terror—the battle of life translated into coarse _diablerie_. The
sentiment and significance of the play in this take great liberties with
the regular charities and practical reforms of our social system. The
sorts of evil which these monsters so uncouthly represent are such as
physical suffering, drunkenness, violence, fraud, and the thousand
shapes of slavery, personal and political, and of all castes and colors.
They are represented as greedy and ugly, and full of mocking and
malignity, but with little intrinsic capability of mischief, for they
are really unattractive in temptation and extremely awkward in battle,
and much more remarkable for thick-skinned insensibility to assault than
for any adroitness in the combat. The squire bravely deals his blows
upon the great dragon. Horror, fear and hatred of the monster, earnest
devotion to the “great cause,” with the courage of full commitment, and,
perhaps, some regard for his reputation as a hard-hitter, put life and
metal in his veins, and right lustily he mauls away. The earliest
effects of his prowess are remarkable. The dragon, defending his own
ground as confidently and angrily as if the empire of evil were really a
rightful one wherever sanctioned by antiquity of possession, dashes his
ponderous jaws at the reckless agitator, opened wide enough to swallow
him, with all his weapons and armor at a gulp; but he manages to elude
the clumsy wrath, and, nothing daunted and nothing doubting, deals his
blows with energy in the ratio of the rage they rouse. Curiously, but
conformably enough, at every stroke another ring of the monster’s tail
unrolls. At first he was an unwieldy, but not an utterly misshapen
brute; now he has become a serpent and a scarecrow; the head and tail
are as incongruous as the pretended righteousness of his cause and his
villainous method of defending it. The strife goes on, and grows only
the worse and wickeder for its continuance, till it is plain that the
beast is not to be mastered with hard blows, and if he yields it is
because his huge, unwieldy bulk is exhausted with the protracted effort
of defense, and he subsides at last rather than submits. So ends the
battle, and then comes the triumph. The valorous victor, claiming all
the honors he has won, mounts his sometime foe in the new character of
hobby, and rides him grandly off the stage in a blaze of gaseous glory,
cheered most vociferously by the boys and affording not a little
merriment, mixed with admiration, to the old folks. What a figure that
procession made! and how exact a figure, too, of many another that the
world witnesses admiringly. The squire is, however, none the less a hero
that his principles are rugged, his method rude, his ideas a little
vulgar, and his aims tinged but not tainted with his egotism. The
dragons, serpents and hobgoblins must be routed, and he is the man for
the emergency.

All the while this palpable warfare is proceeding in open view, the
knight is engaged with the subtler fiends in the dim and doubtful
darkness of the background. Quite behind the scenes the severest strife
is maintained, but enough is seen and intimated upon the stage to reveal
the real character of the conflict. The fidelity of illustration in the
conduct of the allegory here was really admirable. At one time we
descried him through the gloom by the flashing of his sword, engaged in
hand-to-hand combat with a host of fiends, rushing upon the foe with
true chivalric enthusiasm; at another, hard pressed and well-nigh
exhausted, sternly enduring the blows he could not parry or
repay—exhibiting, in turn, every mood of courage to do and fortitude to
endure the varied fortunes of the field. But anon, with equal
truthfulness of portraiture, he is discovered trembling in sudden and
strange panics, which show the temporary failure of his faith, and seem
to threaten his utter desertion of the field. In the open presence of
the foe his courage never fails, but the stratagem of darkness and
desertion successfully evades the sword-thrust and the shield’s defense,
and gives him up to doubt and desperation. The powers of darkness take
hold upon him, and in his agonies of fear and suffering he would, if it
were possible, that the cup might pass from him. In these moments of
anguish and depression the Fairy of the Oak instantly appeared to
strengthen him. With a touch and a word she reassures him, and the
divine virtue again shines out, exposing visibly the demon of the doubt,
and the good sword again flashes in the gloom, and the fiends, forced
into open fight, are finally overthrown.

Bulwer strikes the same profound fact of experience in heroic
enterprise, in his “Terror of the Threshold.” The reformer, however,
confident in virtue and assured of the goodness of his undertaking,
naturally trembles at critical stages of revolution in opinions and
institutions long established and interwoven with the existing order of
society, for the risk of introducing new truths may well check the
current of a wise man’s zeal. If I pull down, he will say, this temple
whose ceremonial, though barbarous and blinding, yet supports the morals
of the worshiper and the present order of the social system, will the
liberty and light bestowed avail for the designed improvement, or will
they only unsettle the securities of law and prove occasions of disorder
and licentiousness? The brave bigot and fiery enthusiast know nothing of
this indecision. The cautious hesitation which springs from solicitude
for the best ends and most expedient means, never troubles their
stubborn bluntness of purpose nor abates their boasted consistency of
action. But the regular procedure of Providence is marked by regard for
the influence of conditions and the established law of progress. In
these things the highest benevolence meets impediments and suffers
modifications and even submits to postponement to avoid defeat; and the
agents and instruments of the world’s regeneration have their
Gethsemanes as well as their triumphs and transfigurations.

Nothing in language, scenery or costume irreverently asserted the
allusions which I am exposing. I do not know that either playwright,
performer or spectator was concerned about or even conscious of the
significant symbolism of the fable and its circumstantial exposition in
the play. It was produced as a beautiful dramatic spectacle. Apart from
any mystical meanings, it was a perfect luxury of scenic entertainment.
It was so regarded by the visiters, and probably was designed for
nothing more; but to me the analogy was a surprise and a delight,
growing at every step of the development. It struck me first when I saw
the knight and his brave squire standing on the threshold of the
enchanted hall, after their victory in the wilderness. With equal zeal,
truthfulness and devotion they had battled with the formidable foe, but
with very different aims and apprehensions. The difference was most
manifest when they stood in the presence of the enchanted family. The
knight, breathless with awe and melting with compassion, showed how
tenderly and reverently he felt the moral and mental bondage which
struck his opened vision; but the squire, though so faithful and loyal
as a follower, and efficient as a servant, had yet not the penetration
of a seer; and the preposterous spectacle of princes, counselors,
knights, esquires, priests, soldiers, pages, artisans, musicians,
dancers, slaves, retainers—every class and calling among men—all
arrested in mid-action, and slumbering for a century amid the luxury and
pageantry of a gorgeous festival, with the viands untasted and the cup
undrained before them, struck him with a comic wonder and pleasant
sportiveness which he cared not to suppress. Approaching the venerable
prime minister of the realm, who sat with the goblet near his lip,
immovable as death, the thirsty soldier familiarly proposed to drink his
health, and only made mouths at the cup when he found it “as dry as
dust.” The cheek of the dancing girl, who stood pivoted for her century
upon one toe, he found “as cold as a stone;” and the apples offered by
an African slave to a guest, whose hand hung arrested midway in the
reach, proved to his disappointed taste a petrified humbug. The whole
scene of deprivation and incapacity before him he pronounced an epidemic
sleeping fever, and he wondered if it was catching, and where and how he
should get his dinner!

All this has its parallel and exposition in the boys that mock a
drunkard reeling through the street, and the contrasted sadness which a
soul alive to the moral ruin feels at the same sight; or it may be
witnessed again in the conduct of an insensible boor and that of a
person of refinement in the presence of the insane; and in general, in
the sentiments of those who have, and those who have not, learned that
“the life is more than meat, and the body than raiment.”

These reflections present themselves in the pause while the champion
stands, riveted with emotions of wonder and pity at the mingled gloom
and glory of the scene.

But the action proceeds again. A strain of melody spontaneously waking
from the silence of an age, fitly preludes and prophesies the harmonies
of the new era, and there wants only the taliha-cumi of the Deliverer to
awaken the princess and her household into the activities of full life.
At the bidding of the minstrel he advances to her pavilion. Answering to
his word and touch, she rises. One by one the women first resume their
proper consciousness, and the revival of the men follows in proper
order, till the spell is broken and the last shadow of the long night
gives place to the perfect day. The renovated realm every where receives
its primal beauty, the flowers of Eden bloom again, and the fruits
regain their flavor, the wine is new in the new kingdom, and all the
material ministries of life without, respond to the renewed faculties
within.

The fable has not yet exhausted the facts. Obeying the poetical
necessities of the epic story, and conforming also to the apocalyptic
vision of the world’s fortunes, which are to follow the first victory
over the dragon and the binding of the adversary for a thousand years,
we have the peace and happiness of the disenchanted household once more
disturbed. The prince of the powers of darkness, that great magician who
is the author of all the mischief from the beginning, is “loosed out of
his prison,” and gathering all his forces for a final battle, he
surrounds the castle. The queen’s army, led by the knight, go out to
meet the grand enemy in battle, and he is utterly overthrown and his
power broken for ever. The conquerors return in triumph to the castle,
and in the midst of their rejoicings a herald from the outer wall, who
has witnessed the scene, announces the total annihilation of the enemy.
The elements, marshaled by their ruling spirits, have overwhelmed him; a
tempest of hail and fire bursts upon his castle, and the earth opening
has swallowed up the last vestige of his kingdom and power.

The battle of Gog and Magog (20th Rev.) in which the deceived of the
four quarters of the earth are gathered together, and compass the camp
of the saints about, is the very prototype of this incident in our
story, and “the fire which came down from heaven,” and the “casting of
the devil which deceived them into the lake of fire and brimstone,” is
only a different expression of the same final deliverance of the human
family from the last enemy.

The marriage rites close and crown the grand achievement, and a
magnificent tableau illustrates the consummation. The spirits of the
elements arise, and array themselves in a vertical arch upon the stage.
The centre and summit is occupied by a new figure, now first introduced,
costumed appropriately in pure white, representing Truth in augurated or
universal harmony; the Spirit of Earth at the base on one side, and of
Water at the other, while impersonations of Air and Fire occupy the
intermediate positions. This bow of beauty and promise, emblematically
dressed and decorated, stood a happy symbol of the restored order of the
material creation. The household, artistically arranged and displayed,
represented the divine order of society, where government and liberty,
refinement and efficiency, luxury and industry, are reconciled, and man
with his fellow man is organized in the harmonies of the creative
scheme. And, that the joy may be full to the utmost limits of communion
and sympathy, the Fairy of the Oak is seen ascending, to take
possession, in behalf of her race, of their recovered heaven—the
guerdon of their services to the redeemed family of Adam. So, the last
scene in the drama mingles the new Heavens with the new Earth, and all
the worlds in our universe triumph together in the general resurrection,
as they rejoiced on the birth-day of the creation.

I do not know the history of the fairy tale, its age or origin. I know
nothing of the design with which it was prepared for theatrical
representation, nor do I see why it should be inferred, because the idea
and method are so strikingly significant, that the manager, after the
fashion of the ancient “Mysteries,” intended to restore sacred subjects
to the stage in allegorical disguise. I suppose that the fable is simply
fancy’s method of the great fact, and that its doctrinals are the
natural intuitives and inevitable theory of the human mind concerning
the mystery of life, the great epochal experiences of the human family,
their final fortunes, and the interests and sympathies of other worlds
included; for such conceptions as these are general and common among all
men. The question of special revelation is not affected by its
concurrence with universally received ideas. The correspondence
pervading all systems proves the truth and unity of origin of the
essential points in all, but in no wise touches the method of their
revealment, discovery or propagation.

The points and particulars of the play are none of them manufactured to
supply the running parallel we have given, nor are they nearly
exhausted. Moreover, it will readily occur that the plan of the play
illustrates the whole philosophy of world-mending by its merely human
hero. The actual and eventual progress of civilization, religion and
liberty can be laid down upon its scheme in the exactest detail of
principles, which facts _must_ follow and fulfill. The supernatural
agencies introduced also answer this aspect and rendering of the myth.
They well represent the material and immaterial forces concerned in all
societary movements, and if they may not serve for the religion of the
great process, they may do duty as philosophical abstractions, or as a
beautiful system of poetical symbolism—for in the mystical
correspondence of all these systems of ideas there is such fundamental
unity of use.

                                                                   W.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                 HYLAS.


                           BY BAYARD TAYLOR.


      Storm-wearied Argo slept upon the water.
      No cloud was seen; on blue and craggy Ida
      The hot noon lay, and on the plain’s enamel;
      Cool, in his bed, alone, the swift Scamander.
      “Why should I haste?” said young and rosy Hylas:
      “The seas were rough, and long the way from Colchis.
      Beneath the snow-white awning slumbers Jason,
      Pillowed upon his tame Thessalian panther;
      The shields are piled, the listless oars suspended
      On the black thwarts, and all the hairy bondsmen
      Doze on the benches. They may wait for water,
      Till I have bathed in mountain-born Scamander.”

      So said, unfilleting his purple chlamys
      And putting down his urn, he stood a moment,
      Breathing the faint, warm odor of the blossoms
      That spangled thick the green Dardanian meadows.
      Then, stooping lightly, loosened he his buskins
      And felt with shrinking feet the crispy verdure,
      Naked, save one light robe, that from his shoulder
      Hung to his knee, the youthful flush revealing
      Of warm, white limbs, half-nerved with coming manhood,
      Yet fair and smooth with tenderness of beauty.
      Now to the river’s sandy marge advancing,
      He dropped the robe and raised his head exulting
      In the clear sunshine, that with beam embracing
      Held him against Apollo’s glowing bosom.
      For sacred to Latona’s son is Beauty,
      Sacred is Youth, the joy of youthful feeling.
      A joy indeed, a living joy was Hylas,
      Whence Jove-begotten Hêraclês, the mighty,
      That slew the dreaded boar of Erymanthus,
      To men though terrible, to him was gentle,
      Smoothing his rugged nature into laughter
      When the boy stole his club, or from his shoulders
      Dragged the huge paws of the Nemæan lion.
      The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from his forehead,
      Fell soft about his temples; manhood’s blossom
      Not yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshly
      Curved the fair cheek, and full the red lip’s parting,
      Like a loose bow, that just has launched its arrow;
      His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and beamy,
      Were clear as the unshadowed Grecian heaven;
      Dewy and sleek his dimpled shoulder rounded
      To the white arms and whiter breast between them.
      Downward, the supple lines had less of softness:
      His back was like a god’s; his loins were moulded
      As if some pulse of power began to waken;
      The springy fullness of his thighs, outswerving,
      Sloped to his knee, and lightly dropping downward,
      Drew the curved lines that breathe, in rest, of motion.

      Musing a space he stood, a light smile playing
      Upon his face—a spirit new-created
      To the free air and all-embracing sunlight.
      He saw his glorious limbs reversely mirrored
      In the still wave, and stretched his foot to press it
      On the smooth sole that answered at the surface:
      Alas! the shape dissolved in glimmering fragments.
      Then, timidly at first, he dipped, and catching
      Quick breath, with tingling shudder, as the waters
      Swirled round his thighs, and deeper, slowly deeper,
      Till on his breast the River’s cheek was pillowed,
      And deeper still, till every shoreward ripple
      Talked in his ear, and like a cygnet’s bosom
      His white, round shoulder shed the dripping crystal.
      There, as he floated, with a rapturous motion,
      The lucid coolness folding close around him,
      The lily-cradling ripples murmured: “Hylas!”
      He shook from off his ears the hyacinthine
      Curls, that had lain unwet upon the water,
      And still the ripples murmured: “Hylas! Hylas!”
      He thought: “the voices are but ear-born music.
      Pan dwells not here, and Echo still is calling
      From some high cliff that tops a Thracian valley:
      So long mine ears, on tumbling Hellespontos,
      Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo’s forehead,
      That I misdeem the fluting of this current
      For some lost nymph”—again the murmur: “Hylas!”
      And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around him
      Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green darkness
      Glimmered on either side a shining bosom—
      Glimmered, uprising slow; and ever closer
      Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoulders,
      Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tangles
      Their loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound him.
      Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting,
      They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral,
      And once again there came a murmur: “Hylas!
      O come with us, O follow where we wander
      Deep down beneath the green, translucent ceiling—
      Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander
      With cool white buds we braid our purple tresses,
      Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing.
      Thou fair Greek boy, O come with us! O follow
      Where thou no more shalt hear Propontis riot,
      But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet,
      Within the glimmering caves of Ocean hollow!
      We have no love; alone, of all th’ Immortals,
      We have no love. O love us, we who press thee
      With faithful arms, though cold—whose lips caress thee—
      Who hold thy beauty prisoned. Love us, Hylas!”
      The sound dissolved in liquid murmurs, calling
      Still as it faded: “Come with us, O follow!”
      The boy grew chill to feel their twining pressure
      Lock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly striving,
      Down from the noonday brightness. “Leave me, Naiads!
      Leave me!” he cried; “the day to me is dearer
      Than all your caves deep-sphered in Ocean’s quiet.
      I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure:
      I would not change this flexile, warm existence,
      Though swept by storms and shocked by Jove’s dread thunder,
      To be a king beneath the dark-green waters.”
      Still moaned the humid lips, between their kisses;
      “We have no love. O love us, we who press thee!”
      And came in answer, thus, the words of Hylas:
      “My love is mortal. For the Argive maidens
      I keep the kisses which your lips would ravish,
      Unlock your cold, white arms—take from my shoulder
      The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses.
      Let me return: the wind comes down from Ida,
      And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber,
      Will fret to ride where Pelion’s twilight shadow
      Falls o’er the towers of Jason’s sea-girt city.
      I am not yours—I cannot braid the lilies
      In your wet hair, nor on your argent bosoms
      Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices.
      Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being,
      Your world of watery quiet:—Help, Apollo!
      For I am thine: thy fire, thy beam, thy music
      Dance in my heart and flood my sense with rapture:
      The joy, the warmth and passion now awaken,
      Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleeping.
      O leave me, Naiads! loose your chill embraces,
      Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining.”
      But still with unrelenting arms they bound him,
      And still, accordant, flowed their watery voices:
      “We have thee now, we hold thy beauty prisoned—
      O come with us beneath the emerald waters!
      We have no loves; we love thee, rosy Hylas.
      O love us, who shall nevermore release thee:
      Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cradle
      Far down on the untroubled sands of ocean,
      Where now we bear thee, clasped in our embraces.”
      And slowly, slowly, sunk the amorous Naiads;
      The boy’s blue eyes, upturned, looked through the water,
      Pleading for help; but Heaven’s immortal Archer
      Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his forehead,
      And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated,
      So warm and silky that the stream upbore them,
      Closing, reluctant, as he sunk forever.

      The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros.
      Argo was tugging at her chain; for freshly
      Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows.
      The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors,
      And up the ropes was heaved the snowy canvas.
      But mighty Hêraclês, the Jove-begotten,
      Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander,
      Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys
      Tossed o’er an urn, was all that lay before him:
      And when he called, expectant: “Hylas! Hylas!”
      The empty echoes made him answer: “Hylas!”

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: THE HIGHLAND CHASE.]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      THE VISION OF MARIOTDALE.[1]


                          BY H. HASTINGS WELD.


                            I.—THE SURPRISE.

My charge was in a beautifully romantic and fertile spot, the natural
features of which would seem sufficient teachers of the power and the
goodness of God, if, indeed, nature were, as some insist, a sufficient
teacher without revelation. I soon found myself, upon here taking up my
residence, almost the only man who thought it worth his while to study
and admire the beauties which nature, with a lavish hand, had scattered
over the scene. It was a valley, enclosed on all sides with hills, whose
ascents, crowned with verdure, exhibited every variety of tint and shade
of green; for the trees of our country display, more than any other,
those varying colors and gentle yet distinctly marked contrasts which
the painter envies, but strives in vain to transfer to his canvas. There
were only two breaks in the surrounding amphitheatre. One was where a
mountain stream came tumbling and babbling into the valley; the other
where, in a more subdued and quiet current, it found egress. The sinuous
path of this little river, or “run,” across the dale, was marked by a
growth of beautiful trees, among which the straight-leaved willow, with
its silver foliage shivering in the light, was most frequent and
conspicuous; other trees which delight in water diversified the long,
green defile; and a little boat, which belonged to one of my
parishioners, offered me frequent twilight pastime. Some labor, to
which, though unused at first, I soon became accustomed, was required to
force the boat upstream; but the highest “boatable” point once reached,
I had only to turn the shallop’s head and guide it down, letting my
little barque slowly float, and conducting it clear of the shallows and
obstructions. Delightful were the views which the turns in the stream
were continually opening; the overhanging trees, forming a green roof
above, were reflected below; and while I seemed thus suspended between
answering skies and trees, over my head and beneath my feet, to look in
either direction of the stream seemed like peering into a mysterious
fairy grot.

One evening as I paused, looking delighted upon the scene of
enchantment, a new feature was, as if by magic, added to the picture. A
little girl—a child of surpassing loveliness—slipped out from among
the bushes, and, skipping from stone to stone, stood on a high rock,
near the middle of the current—the beau ideal of such a sprite as one
might fancy inhabiting the spot. Her loose tresses floated on the
evening breeze, and her scanty drapery—it was mid-summer—as the wind
pressed it against her form, exhibited a delicacy and grace of contour
which that artist would become immortal who could copy. She did not at
first perceive me; and when the flash of my oar startled her, I almost
expected she would prove herself a vision, by vanishing into the sky
above in a cloud, or dissolving in a foam-wreath in the water which
rippled among the rocks behind her.

But youth and innocence are courageous; and she took no other notice of
my approach than to seat herself, to await my coming, upon the same
stone on which she had been standing. Her artless ease and beauty won my
heart—as men’s hearts are often too easily won, through the eyes. Hers
was grace unaffected and natural. No drawing-room belle, after years of
practice before her mirror, could have vied with this rustic nymph. She
possessed what art can with difficulty imitate, and that never
entirely—perfect and unconscious self-possession; and she was the more
admirable, that in her child-like simplicity she dreamed not of
admiration.

I pushed my shallop up beside the rock, and commenced a conversation
with her. I was grieved and amazed to find her helplessly ignorant upon
the commonest subjects which those who fear God teach their children.
She could not even read, she told me. She was born far away, she
said—in another land, mother used to say—and did not remember that she
ever went to church; but mother had told her that she was carried there
once to be baptized, and her name was Bessie.

“Is your mother dead?” I asked.

“No—not dead—I think not; but father—”

A hoarse voice from the shore now shouted her name; and, unalarmed as
she had been when I approached, her little frame now shook with terror,
and her interesting face was pale and sullen with mingled fear and
anger.

“Is that your father?” I said.

She did not stop to answer, but instantly commenced picking her way back
to the bank. While she did so, her trepidation several times almost
tripped her into the river. I should have watched her every step at any
other time, but my attention was irresistibly drawn to the repulsive
form which had come, like a dark and unwelcome shadow, over this fair
scene. The face was positively one of the most demoniacal in expression
I have ever met. Thick, black hair, unkempt, hung over the low forehead,
and the shaggy dark eye-brows seemed to glower in habitual gloom over a
rough and unshaven face. The expression of the whole was that of a man
whose countenance is saddened into surliness, like a clay image of
Satan, by habitual strong potations. A slovenly disregard to dress
completed the picture of a man who has sold himself to the vilest and
most disgusting habits of intoxication.

While I trembled for the fate of such a child, in such hands, she had
come within his reach, and, stretching forth his arm, he dragged her to
him by the hair, tripping her from her footing into the water, and
pulling her to the shore with more inhuman rudeness than I can
describe—her dress draggled and muddied, and her limbs bleeding from
contact with the sharp stones and pebbles. Blow upon blow the ruffian
inflicted upon her, which I could hear as well as see from where I
stood. Not a sound, not a cry escaped her; and while I was hesitating
whether I ought not to try to reach and rescue her, he ceased beating
her, and turned up a path in the bank-side. She silently and doggedly
followed him; and I sadly took my way home, lamenting that the beauty
and peace of such a place should be so brutally interrupted; and
sorrowing more than all, that frequent ill-usage had so deadened the
child’s sensibilities as to make her, otherwise so natural and
unaffected, thus endure pain with the sullen fortitude of an old
offender. I trembled for the life of a child growing up under such
influences; for I could see in her future nothing but crime, suffering
and degradation.

It was later than my usual time of return when I reached the landing,
and there were already lights in the few houses which stood there. I
might have mentioned before—but that I hate to acknowledge the
fact—that the utilitarian habits of our era had converted my romantic
streamlet into a “power” to turn a mill-wheel. It is not a grist-mill,
which is a proper appendage to rural scenery, but a woolen manufactory,
which, with its unromantic surroundings, caused me many a joke from my
friend, the owner of the boat and of the mill. When I excepted to such
things as stretching frames, as a blot on the beauty of the landscape,
and to the dirty wool and dye-stuff as ruining its romance, he would
tell me that if these valleys and rocks had never heard the clatter of
his machinery, neither would the “sound of the church-going bell” have
disturbed their echoes. There was no answering this, because it was
perfectly true, and I could therefore only “humph” and be silent. Though
wrong in some points of his course, Mr. Mariot, our “owner,” was a
liberal man and well disposed—would there were more such! He built the
little church in which I officiated, and he, in effect, supported the
rector. If he had not done so, there could have been neither church nor
service. And he found his account in the superior order of his
establishment; and would have done still more if, beside building the
church, he had abated or forbidden a nuisance which sadly impeded my
usefulness.

Mr. Mariot stood at the landing, and as I stepped ashore said, “I came
down to meet you, Doctor, for Yorkshire Jack is in one of his furious
fits, and vows he will beat you—priest or no priest.”

“And who is Yorkshire Jack?” I asked, though a suspicion who he might be
instantly shot through my mind. My suspicion was correct—for, upon Mr.
Mariot’s explanation, I found that he was the very ruffian whose conduct
I have been describing. As we passed the house dignified with the title
of the “Mariotdale Hotel,” loud voices came through the open windows.
Mr. Mariot would have hurried me past, but I laid my hand upon his arm,
and in a low but determined tone said, “Wait, sir!”

Sunday after Sunday I had preached—to little purpose—and here was the
reason. Several of my usual congregation, upon whose hearts the word of
God fell like seed upon a beaten path-way, sat listening, half laughing,
half terrified, at the blasphemy of this fiendish fellow—Yorkshire
Jack—and half a score more, who never, by any chance, were seen within
the church walls, were applauding him at the top of their voices. O,
they will have a fearful reckoning who have supplied fools who deny God
with words of blasphemy, and with the scoffings of infidelity, through a
prostituted press—who have caught the thoughtless with profane wit, and
betrayed the daringly wicked with the hardihood of declared infidelity!
The worst words of the worst men were rolled from this wretch’s lips, as
if they were his own utterance; the shallowest cant of infidel
literature came from his mouth as if his own heart had originated what,
indeed, it had only harbored. Out of the borrowed abundance of a vile
heart, his lips spake; and the applause of his auditory was scarcely
less disgusting than his words were.

Women began to gather round the windows of the house—they dared not
enter—and to call in hoarse whispers to their husbands, fathers and
sons to come out. Children climbed up and looked in, now gazing,
open-mouthed, with terrified interest to the drunken maniac’s fury—now
laughing, in thoughtless merriment, as his antics became ridiculous. At
length, spent with the vanity of a successful orator to a fit audience,
filled with drink, and worn out with rage, Yorkshire John sank on a
chair. The efforts of his satellites failed to awaken him to new
ravings. The joke was worn out—the women coaxed their husbands away,
the children walked off, rehearsing, describing, and laughing over what
they had heard. The place was soon hushed and still, the monotonous
voice of the water only breaking the silence of the night, and Mariot
and I took our way homeward—for I lodged with him.

On our way nothing was said. The family, except Mrs. M., had retired;
and Mariot seemed as if he would have made that circumstance a pretext
for following them in silence. He put a night lamp in my hand, but I
placed it on the table, and, sitting down, took up THE BOOK. He sat
also—but it was evidently with unwilling politeness. Conscience was at
work—and he was desirous to evade, rather than listen to, her warnings.
I opened to the twenty-eighth of Isaiah, and he started as I read, “Wo
to the crown of pride, to the drunkards of Ephraim!”

“Edward Mariot,” I said, “God will hold _you_ accountable for the sin
which we have this night witnessed!”

He arose—I thought angrily. He commenced to speak, but a look from his
wife dissuaded him. How would he defend himself with such facts so
fresh? But I knew that there was a coldness in his manner as he returned
my “good night,” with a half nod, such as I never before had witnessed
from him. I feared that our friendship, and of course my further
residence in Mariotdale, was at an end; but I feared more, that it would
be written of my generous but business devoted friend, “Ephraim is
joined to his idols—let him alone!”

-----

[1] The incidents which follow are not offered as from the writer’s own
observation. As the simple narrative can be best told in the first
person, the reader must consider us both as having listened to the aged
clergyman who related it. He was a veteran in the Christian army, and
truly adorned his vocation by unaffected dignity and sincere piety. Long
experience and close observation had given him power to penetrate
character, and to read the very thoughts of those whom he addressed. The
listener might often be startled at what seemed abrupt harshness, but
the result always showed that he knew in what manner to approach all
persons. Sympathy and gentleness he well understood are lost on some
natures; and positive words are as widely improper for others. Clergymen
are too apt to regard all men but as so many copies of each other. They
are taught better as they grow older; but our friend seemed to have an
intuitive knowledge of human nature.


                          II.—THE PEST HOUSE.

There was an air of uncomfortable constraint over our little family at
the breakfast table on the morrow. All thoughts were full of the same
thing, but none liked to broach it. Edward Mariot’s manner seemed to
say, “I am disposed to forget, if you will be silent.” But I was
determined, at any cost to myself, to insist upon Mariot’s doing his
duty in relation to the disorderly house upon his premises—or, failing
in that, to leave the parish. I felt that my usefulness was at an end if
I hesitated to do what Mariot, as well as I, knew was incumbent upon me;
for a clergyman who compromises his conscience to keep his parish, is
not only an unfaithful servant but an ally to the enemy. Events,
however, were so ordered that I retained my friend, and was spared the
pain of giving him further reproof. I was informed that Yorkshire John
was at the door, and desired to see me.

I rose instantly and went out. Mariot followed, fearing violence—a
danger which did not once occur to me; for there are few—very few—so
base and cowardly as to make an attack upon a clergyman. The man could
not look me in the face. He was abashed and evidently afflicted, and,
merely muttering that Bessie was “very bad,” and _wanted me_, turned and
strode hastily away.

Mariot accompanied me down to the little village, and, as we walked,
gave me some particulars of the life and character of this singular
being, Yorkshire Jack. He had only the one child, and its mother was
still living, but had been forced to leave her husband, on account of
his cruel treatment. Nobody knew precisely where she lived, or in what
manner she supported herself; but she was occasionally seen hovering
about the dale, with the intention of seeing or carrying away her
daughter. The father detained the child in the hope that the love of a
mother would bring her back to him; for, in the years that she had been
absent, with a drunkard’s inconsistency, he had earnestly desired her
return, and vehemently promised amendment. In these professions, which
had reached her through a mutual acquaintance, she put no faith. She had
been compelled to fly more than once before; and having, on those
occasions returned only to discover the hollowness of his promises, and
to receive new abuse, she had resolved to trust him no further. She
heard, moreover, through common fame, of all his wild and wicked
proceedings; and learning what her child suffered, was the more firmly
resolved not only never herself to return, but to take away Bessie if
possible. This made John but the more cruel, especially when in drink;
and he was at all times mad with suspicion that some one would aid her
in the abduction. Hence his rage against his daughter and against me;
for as he never conversed even with his own child, he could conceive of
no purpose but a sinister one, in my accidental interview with little
Bessie. I was tempted to chide Mariot for suffering this state of things
without interfering; but judged it discreet to be silent.

John’s house—or rather his room—was the picture of neglect and
desolation. He had converted it into a sort of fortification, so that
none but a most expert burglar could get in without his permission.
Neither could the child get away when once the premises were locked.
During the day he had been in the habit, often, of fastening her in, and
when she went abroad it was with him. It was shocking to hear that the
poor infant had been the forced auditor of her father’s violence on the
night before, till, spent with fatigue, she fell on the floor and slept.
No wonder, you are ready to exclaim, that she was ill.

But her disease was evidently something more than mere exhaustion. Now
feverish and languid, she would anon become chilled. Pains in the head
and back, redness of eyes, a husky voice, and sore throat, and a
loathing rejection of food, with other symptoms, which I will not expose
my medical ignorance by attempting to describe, marked her affection as
one of no light character. A hint sent the father for a physician—for
remorse often hastens those whom affection cannot influence. Upon his
arrival he confirmed my surmises, and pronounced the case one of decided
small-pox, and of a very dangerous and malignant type.

The father was frantic, and raved like a madman. He denied stoutly that
such could be the case—called us fools and idiots, and ordered all—the
physician, Mariot and myself—to leave his house. I looked at my friend,
and saw tokens of the indecision and lack of resolution, which was his
infirmity. Then turning to the father, I said, “We will not leave this
sweet child to perish in your hands; and unless you desist from
violence, if Mr. Mariot will not act, I will cause you to be committed
as a disturber of the peace!” The man was in a frenzy, and absolutely
foamed at the mouth; but the physician and Mariot supported me, and
taking advantage of his temporary absence, we turned his own
fortifications against him and barred him out, while we should consult
what to do in the emergency.

“Mariot,” I said, after he and the physician had proposed and rejected
as impracticable several expedients, “there is a _pest house_ ready to
your hand. Take that.”

“The tenant will not suffer it,” said he.

“Leave that to us.” And, with the doctor, I went directly to the tavern,
and without circumlocution informed the landlord that we were about to
bring a small pox patient to his house, and desired a room!

He, too, stormed and threatened, but we insisted. The terror among the
residents had now grown intense, for the rumor had spread; and they
having collected, with one voice demanded that the house should be
taken. It stood apart from the rest, and was in all respects eligible
for the purpose.

“If you do bring the child here,” said he, “I will leave.”

“Do so before, if you choose,” I answered, “for in one hour she will be
here.” And I further informed him that upon his future quietness and
good behavior it would depend whether he should be proceeded against for
the sale of spirits to minors and his other misdeeds.

A new cause of alarm was now discovered. The mother of the child lay
sick in another house; and investigation into the nature of her illness
developed the fact that, in a stolen interview with poor little Bessie,
it was she who had communicated to the child the infection. Both mother
and daughter were removed to the tavern, a nurse was provided, and all
proper steps were taken for their comfort. Yorkshire John, having become
subdued by these events, was suffered to be their attendant. The
landlord, having received Mariot’s assurance that his reasonable charges
should be met, sullenly acquiesced, and did not carry out the threat of
removal. The customers, however, fortunately for themselves, avoided the
“Pest House,” and his business was reduced completely to that of an
infirmary. Thus, what fear of moral contagion could not accomplish, was
effected by the dread of physical infection.


                            III.—THE VISION.

Pass over a couple of years, and behold me, the energetic actor—perhaps
almost unclerical—in the events of the preceding narrative, now
domiciled permanently in the “Mariotdale Hotel.” The old landlord—a
good weaver—has resumed his place in the works, and frequently avows
his satisfaction at the change which circumstances compelled him to make
in his pursuits. Yorkshire John, his very self, is my landlord—and a
quieter dwelling there is not in the country. Perhaps much of this is
due to the good management of his wife—for she, after all, is the man
of the house.

And Bessie?

Poor Bessie! We laid her down to rest in the churchyard two years since,
for the illness she had was unto death. It was this shock which recalled
the father to his senses; and rest assured I did not spare him. He was
not a man who could _bear consolation_, for it seemed as if he could
almost strike the person who offered it. He rebelled against the blow,
but found that he was in the hands of a God who will reach those by
affliction who refuse to be persuaded by mercy.

Poor Bessie—did I say? Blessed child! If the dead can look on earth,
she knows that her father and mother have been reformed and reconciled
through her death; that father and mother have learned to believe that
the early lost are early saved.

And Mariot, my warmer friend than before, admits that my counsel was
sound—that the souls as well as the bodies of his people are in some
sense in his charge, and that he who neglects his duty in regard to the
first cannot atone for that neglect by care of the last.

I often float in the evening down to Bessie’s rock, and seldom fail to
see in the twilight, THE VISION. Nor does it now prove to be of the
earth, earthly, as once it did—for I know that she is in Heaven.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                SORROW.


                          BY ALFRED B. STREET.


          I saw at sunrise, in the East, a cloud—
            A form upon the sky; at first it seemed
            Gloomy and threatening, but at length it beamed
          Into a glow of tender light endowed
          By the soft rising light. How mild and sweet
            It shone! how full of holy tenderness!
          How like some hovering Angel did it greet
            My heart until I almost kneeled to bless!
            It brightened more and more, but less and less
          It melted, leading further still my gaze
            Into the heavens; with lovelier, lovelier dress
          It shrunk, until it vanished in a blaze.
          Thus sorrow, kindled by Religion’s light;
        Turns to a tender joy, pointing toward heaven our sight.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        SONNET.—MORAL STRENGTH.


                         BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.


            The spirit that in conscious right is strong,
              By Treachery or Rage may be assailed;
            But over single-handed RIGHT, hath WRONG
              Never by art or multitude prevailed;
              As Samson, shaking off the withes that failed
            To hold the Titan, rose all free among
              The weak Philistines that before him quailed,
            And bade defiance to the coward-throng!
              So the Titanic soul through moral power
              Rending the toils of Calumny, doth tower—
            A host within itself—sublimely free,
              Above the foes that in their weakness cower.
            Shorn of its strength the human soul must be,
            Ere overcome by truth’s worst enemy.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                TAMAQUE.


                     A TALE OF INDIAN CIVILIZATION.


                         BY HENRY C. MOORHEAD.


One day, during a ramble in the interior of Pennsylvania with my gun and
dog, I found myself on the top of a high mountain, which commanded an
extensive view of the surrounding country. The charms of the landscape
soon drew off my attention from the pursuit on which I had set out so
zealously in the morning; and leaving my dog to chase the game at his
pleasure, I indulged myself in pursuing the phantoms of my imagination.
In this mood of mind I approached the end of the mountain, whose rugged
cliffs overhung the river which washed their base. My dog running to the
brink, looked over, but instantly bounded back again, ran to and fro,
looking up in my face then crept back cautiously to the spot, and gazed
intently at some object below him. Curious to learn what it was that so
deeply interested my faithful companion, and anxious to secure it, if
worth shooting, I looked to the priming of my gun, and stretching myself
on the rock, projected my head over the precipice. A single glance made
me follow my dog’s example, and draw back; for, on a kind of shelf,
formed by a projecting rock, a few feet below me, sat an old man, his
white hairs flowing over his shoulders, calmly surveying the scene
around him. From his dress and whole appearance, I judged that he was,
like myself, a stranger in that neighbourhood, which made me still more
desirous to seek his acquaintance. I soon found a winding path which led
to the front of the bluff, and in a few moments brought me to the side
of the stranger. To my increased surprise I found that he was sitting at
the mouth of a cavern, which had been scooped out of the solid rock by
the hand of Nature. Here was as convenient a cell, and as profound a
solitude as any hermit could desire. But it was clear that he was no
hermit. His was neither the garb, nor the look, nor the address of a man
living in seclusion from his fellows. When a sudden turn in the path
brought me close to his side, he rose calmly, and saluted me as blandly
and as kindly as if we had been old acquaintances. Stammering out a few
words of apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when he
interposed with a courteous gesture.

“Would you not like to have a look at my hermitage?” said he; then,
perhaps, noticing my look of incredulity, he added, “It is mine now, at
least, by the right of possession.”

“Pardon me,” said I, “but I should not take you for an inhabitant of
these mountains.”

“And why not, pray?”

“It is not customary, I think, for wild men of the woods and rocks to
wear white neckcloths and polished boots,” said I.

The old gentleman laughed at this remark, and then said, “you may call
me a _temporary_ hermit, then; for you certainly found me alone, and
sitting at the mouth of my cave. Indeed, if I were to assert my claim to
it, I doubt whether there is any man living who could show a prior
right; for I knew this place when few white men had ever penetrated what
was then considered a remote wilderness.”

“The prospect must have changed very much since then,” said I.

“In some respects it certainly has,” he replied; “but the main features
of a scene like this continue ever the same. The plough cannot level
mountains, nor cultivation change the course of rivers. I have been
tracing the windings of this stream with my eye, and find them just as
they were; and I recognize every soaring peak, and every projecting rock
as an old acquaintance; I saw broken clouds just like these floating
above the mountain tops fifty years ago; and I would almost swear that
yonder eagle is the same which then sailed so majestically through the
air.”

“Those villages and forms, however, must be new to you.”

“Ah, yes!” said he, “there we see the hand of civilization. Where now
our eyes take in no less than four neat and thriving villages, there
were not then as many clusters of rude wigwams; and these green fields
and blooming orchards were an unbroken wilderness.”

“A most happy change,” said I.

“So reason doubtless tells us,” he replied. “Better the peace and
industry which now reign here, than the war-whoop, or the listless
indolence of savage life. And yet it is melancholy to think how quickly
these old lords of the forest have disappeared. Many a league was made
in their rude fashion to endure between the parties and their
descendants, as long as these mountains should continue to stand, or
this river to run. The eternal hills still cast their shadows on the
ever-rolling waters; but the powerful tribes who appealed to them as
perpetual witnesses of their faith are extinct, or live only in a few
wretched stragglers, thousands of miles away in the far west. We have
possessed ourselves of their heritage; and to show our gratitude, we
abuse them for not having made a better use of their own possessions,
and congratulate ourselves on the happy change we have effected.”

“There will never be wanting romantic persons,” I remarked, “to
celebrate the glories of savage life, and the felicity of spending a
northern winter half naked and half starved, under the precarious
shelter of a wigwam.”

“Well,” said he, with enthusiasm, “let them embalm the memory of the Red
Man! It will appease the manes of those ambitious warriors to be
renowned in song and story. The noblest spirits of the world have gained
but a few lines in a Universal History, or a single page in a
Biographical Dictionary, and have deemed themselves well paid for a life
of toil. Ambition is everywhere the same; and its essence is a desire to
be remembered. It may happen that the sad fate of the Indian will
perpetuate his memory when the achievements of all his conquerors have
been forgotten.”

“I cannot help suspecting,” said I, smiling, “that you have yourself
been a warrior, perhaps the adopted son of the chief who presided over
these hunting-grounds.”

“No,” said he, “I was not so great a favorite with the chief of these
hunting-grounds.”

“Ah, then,” continued I, “your sympathy is that of a generous conqueror
for an unfortunate adversary.”

“Not exactly that either,” said he; “I was neither for nor against them.
If you are inclined to hear my story, I will relate it here, in sight of
every spot to which it refers.”

We then sat down on the rock together, and he proceeded as follows.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I came out as bearer of despatches to what was then the frontier
settlement; but an errand of my own induced me to come on here. It was
at the time that the Moravians were making zealous and apparently very
successful efforts to civilize and Christianize the Indians; and they
had a station, under the care of the venerable Luten, which I know must
be somewhere in this neighborhood. Although I had known and honored
Luten from my boyhood, I should scarcely have ventured on such an
expedition for the mere pleasure of seeing _him_; but he had brought his
wife with him, and what is more to our present purpose, his daughter,
Mary. Well, it was a rash undertaking to penetrate this wilderness
without a guide, just then, for the Indians were in a state of angry
hostility toward the whites, in consequence of some real or supposed
injuries lately received; but what will not an enterprising young fellow
risk in such a cause? Even the bold hunter often carries his life in his
hand; and the game I was pursuing was better worth the risk than a wolf
or a panther.

Having struck on this chain of mountains, and finding that they
commanded a view of the surrounding country, I followed them up until I
reached the brow above us, when I caught a glimpse of a figure suddenly
gliding down the face of the hill toward where we are now sitting. I
cautiously followed, and saw a man whom I knew, from his appearance, to
be an _Indian conjurer_, enter this cave. Without disturbing him, I
returned to the hill above, and carefully explored the country round for
the station I was in search of. I had given up the search, with the full
conviction that there was no settlement in sight, when the light breeze
wafted to my ear the sound of human voices. I soon made out that it was
a familiar strain of sacred music, and sweeping over the valley again
with my telescope, discovered an encampment just where yonder creek
empties into the river. It was the hour of evening worship; and the
savages were tuning their voices to the unwonted notes of a Christian
hymn. Of the venerable missionary, it might emphatically be said, that
he pointed to heaven, and led the way. He had left country, home, and
friends; the habits of a lifetime, and the tastes of a highly cultivated
mind, for the sake of the poor Indian; and it mattered little to him
whether his head reposed in a palace or a wigwam, or whether his bones
were laid in the Fatherland or in some wild glen of the New World, so
that his Master’s work was sped. If such thoughts passed through my mind
whilst my eye rested for a moment on him, they were instantly put to
flight when I saw another figure in the group. But he would have
forgiven my irreverence, if he had known of it, for the love he also
bore his gentle Mary.

I quickly descended the mountain, and reached the encampment just as the
sun was setting. Luten received me as a son; Mary as a brother, except
that the blush which suffused her face and the agitation of her nerves
were something more than fraternal—so, at least, I flattered myself.
When I inquired for the missionary’s wife a tear started into the eye of
both father and daughter. I understood it all—she had found a grave in
the wilderness.

I had many questions to ask as well as to answer, and much news to tell,
and the evening wore away before curiosity had been satisfied on either
side. But I felt anxious to know their plans and prospects for the
future; I therefore inquired of Luten how he was succeeding with the
Indians.

“Far beyond my most sanguine expectations,” he replied.

“You really think, then, that it is possible to change their savage
natures,” said I.

“Why should it be thought doubtful?” said he. “Are we not all descended
from the same parents—all partakers of the same fallen nature—all
hastening to the same bourne? But you would scarcely recognize the
gnarled and stunted oak, springing from the scanty earth afforded by a
crevice in the rock, as belonging to the same species with the monarch
of the forest, striking his roots deep in a generous soil, and spreading
his branches proudly toward heaven. Pour into the minds of these poor
heathen savages the light of civilization and Christianity, and in a few
generations they will have become the noblest race of men in the world.”

“It is a very common belief, however,” said I, “that they are incapable
of civilization; and does not experience seem to justify this opinion?”

“_My_ experience proves the contrary,” said he, with emphasis. “The
people now in this encampment were lately fierce and blood-thirsty
warriors; I wish the docility and meekness they now exhibit were more
common among white men.”

“But has there been time,” I asked, “to warrant the conclusion that the
change will be permanent?”

“I have no fear as to that,” he said; “the change is radical—the savage
nature is extinct in them; and, like children, their plastic minds can
now be moulded into any form by education.”

“I hope it will prove so,” said I; “but do their chiefs go with them?”

“Their favorite young chief, Tamaque, now leads them as zealously in the
path of peace, as he formerly did in the war-path,” he replied. “A noble
young fellow he is, too.”

“Indeed he is,” said Mary, who had hitherto been listening to our
conversation in silence; “he is always so kind and gentle. I love him as
my own brother.”

The very bluntness of her words might have satisfied me that she meant
_only_ what she said; but somehow or other I did not like her form of
expression, and I began to feel anything but partial toward the person
they referred to. “Pray what does he look like?” I inquired.

“Oh, he is very handsome,” said she, with the same provoking simplicity.

“And no doubt very accomplished,” said I, drily.

“Why, yes,” she replied, “he is by no means wanting in accomplishments.
He was educated at one of our own schools, and, it is said, proved a
very apt scholar. Indeed, his civilized accomplishments are very
respectable; and as to his savage ones,” she added, laughing, “he is
foremost in all the exercises of his tribe.”

I joined in the laugh, rather faintly, and then added, maliciously:

“No doubt even his copper color is unusually bright.”

“By no means,” she replied; “his color is that of a white man a little
tanned by exposure to the sun.”

“The truth is,” said Luten, “he is only half Indian, and he seems to be
endowed with most of the virtues of both the white and red man, without
the vices of either.”

The affair had now become serious, and I could no longer help regarding
this accomplished half-breed chief as a formidable rival.

“On him, more than any man,” continued Luten, “rest my hopes for the
regeneration of his race. I imagine to myself that I see in him the
future founder of Indian civilization. Yes, my young friend, ere you
have attained the age which now bears me to the ground, you will see
these savage tribes every where pursuing the arts of peace; you will see
them kneeling at the altar of the living God, and putting to shame the
boasted civilization of the white man. My old body will be dust long
before that; but this hope, and belief, have sustained me amidst all the
toils and privations of a life in the wilderness.”

I looked anxiously in the speaker’s face; for the thought struck me that
his mind had become unsettled. But his placid countenance and clear,
steady eye, at once convinced me that what I had deemed madness, was
nothing more than the enthusiasm of a bold and sanguine reformer. I
could not find it in my heart to disturb the vision which afforded him
so much delight by any expression of my doubts, and still less did I
feel inclined to enter upon any further discussion of the merits of
Tamaque. I had heard too much about them already for my repose that
night; and every remark I had made on the subject had only served to
call forth a fresh eulogy. I therefore gladly accepted Luten’s
invitation to retire to my bear-skin couch. Many were the visions that
chased each other through my brain during my broken slumbers, and
Tamaque was connected with them all. Sometimes I saw him the king of a
mighty people, with Mary at his side, crowned as a queen. Again I found
myself engaged in deadly conflict with him, and waked just in time to
escape receiving the death-blow at his hands. At another time I seemed
to have got the better of him, and was about to plunge my sword into his
bosom with fierce exultation, when my hand was arrested by a reproachful
look from her, and started up and thanked heaven that it was only a
dream. At length, however, I fell into a sound and tranquil sleep. But I
was not permitted long to enjoy it; for, just at the dawn of day, a
strange Indian rushed into the camp, yelling the war-whoop until the
mountains echoed it back again. The whole camp was instantly in motion;
in a few minutes the council-fire was blazing, and the Indians had
ranged themselves around it.

The messenger soon told his story. A number of fanatic white men had
banded together and sworn eternal hostility to the Indians. They
professed to consider them as standing in the same relation to
themselves as the Canaanites of old did to the children of Israel; and,
therefore, in the name of God, they waged an exterminating war against
them. They had just fallen upon an Indian village of Tamaque’s tribe,
and slaughtered the inhabitants, without regard to age or sex. This
messenger had alone escaped to tell the dreadful tidings. His words
produced a deep sensation on these fierce warriors, just emerging into
civilization. The old instincts of their natures were evidently
reawakened; and it seemed as if a signal only were wanting to make them
rush forth, as in former days, with tomahawk and scalping-knife.

Luten hastened to check the torrent of passion which threatened, in one
moment, to sweep away the fruits of all his labors. Standing, like a
venerable patriarch, among his rebellious household, he endeavored, by a
skillful blending of persuasion with parental authority, to restore them
to a sense of duty. Reminding them of their solemn vows, he conjured
them by that regard for plighted faith which is the red man’s boast, not
to forget or break them in this moment of passion. He pointed out the
high destiny they had to accomplish, in spreading light and knowledge
all through the wilderness, and leading the way to a great reformation
of the Indian race. Then, in a more solemn tone, he spoke of the world
to come; painting the happiness in store for those who persevere to the
end, and the uncontrollable miseries reserved for the unfaithful. His
earnest eloquence was perfectly adapted to their simple apprehensions,
yet eminently calculated to strike their imaginations by the wild
imagery with which he embellished it. Their stern natures relented as he
spoke, and he seemed to be on the point of regaining all his influence
over them, when another messenger arrived, and signified that he had
important news to communicate.

He told of new outrages, more cruel, if possible, than the first; and
whilst every heart beat high with rage and horror, turned to Tamaque and
addressed him thus:

“These griefs are common to us all; but the words I am now to speak will
fall more dismally on Tamaque’s soul than the howling of a famished
wolf. Yesterday you had a father and a sister. I saw that father’s gray
hairs red with blood; I saw that sister, when flying from the blazing
wigwam, driven back by the white men’s spears—and she returned no more.
Then I came, swift as a hunted deer, to sound the war-whoop in the ears
of Tamaque and his warriors.”

Throughout the whole scene Tamaque had been sitting as impassive as a
statue. It was impossible to gather from his looks any hint of what was
passing in his mind; and when, at length, he rose, the fire that beamed
from his eye alone enabled me to anticipate his purpose.

“Warriors!” he said, “we must listen to the song of peace no longer. The
white man’s words are love, but his embrace is death. Let us return,
without delay, to the customs of our fathers. Even now I hear their
voices, from the land of spirits, calling us to war and vengeance.” Then
turning toward me, he continued: “The stranger has come just in
time—seize him and drag him to the torture.”

With savage yells some gathered round me, whilst others hastened to
prepare the stake, and others to collect the implements of torture. I
had seen the operation once in my life, and remembered it well. In that
case, the victim was stripped naked and tied with a grape vine to the
top of a pole, having a free range on the ground of ten or fifteen feet.
At the foot of the pole was a flaming fire of pitch-pine, and each
Indian held in his hand a small bundle of blazing reeds. The
death-signal being given he was attacked on all sides, and driven to the
pole for shelter; but, unable to endure the flames that scorched him
there, he again rushed forth and was again driven back by his
tormentors. When he became exhausted water was poured on him and a brief
respite given, that he might recover strength for new endurements. The
same scene was acted over again and again, until they had extracted the
last thrill of anguish from his scorched and lacerated body.

Similar preparations were now making for me, and I watched them with
shuddering interest as the fire was kindled and the faggots distributed.
Just as they were about to drag me to the stake, however, Luten
interposed. But all his appeals and entreaties were unheeded; and when
at last he begged them, if they must have a victim, to take him and
spare his young friend, Tamaque rudely repulsed him, and ordered him to
be carried away to his tent. My last hope of escape was now
extinguished, when lo! a figure glided suddenly into the arena,
arresting the attention of all, as if she had been a messenger from
Heaven. Can the daughter control these wild spirits who have rebelled
against the authority of the father? She binds her white handkerchief
round my arm, and then whispers in the ear of Tamaque. The words,
whatever they are, act like a charm on him. His stern countenance
relaxes almost into a smile, and he stands for some moments absorbed in
meditation. Again she whispers a few earnest words; upon which he comes
forward, takes me by the arm, and leads me, in silence, to the outskirts
of the encampment.

“Now go!” he cried, pointing toward the east; “you are indebted for your
freedom to one I love better than you. See that you make a good use of
it; for, if you should be retaken, and brought here again, not even
_her_ entreaties shall save you from the torture. Away! and here,” he
continued, handing me a red belt, “bear to the false-hearted cowards you
came from this token of the hatred and defiance of Tamaque and his
warriors.” He waved his hand to prevent my replying, and stalked away.

I was now free, but by no means satisfied with the manner in which my
liberty had been procured. What meant this mysterious influence of a
fair young Christian girl over a haughty savage chieftain? What were
those whispered words which had wrought the sudden charm? Had she
yielded to some request, or given some pledge in order to make her
prayer effectual? My mind was racked with torments scarce less poignant
than those which just before had threatened to assail my body. I
resolved at all hazards to see the end of it; and, therefore, in
defiance of fire and faggot, concealed myself at a point close by, which
commanded a full view of the neighborhood.

I had not been long in my hiding place when I saw a procession, with
Tamaque at its head, move from the camp in the direction of this
mountain. I conjectured at once that they were coming here to consult
the conjurer, and resolved to follow them. When they had descended the
face of the precipice to the spot where we are now sitting, I crept
cautiously forward on the rock above, and found myself in full hearing
of their consultation.

“How often have I warned you,” said the conjurer, “against the teachings
of the white men. I told you they only wished to rob you of your courage
that they might destroy you the more easily; but you refused to listen
to me.”

“Well, well,” said Tamaque, “that is past; there is no help for it now.
Let us talk of the future.”

“Last year,” continued the conjurer, “when no game was to be found, and
when the corn all withered away, I told you the Great Spirit was angry
because you were forsaking the customs of your fathers; but you turned a
deaf ear to my words.”

“I remember it all,” said Tamaque, “but go on, and tell us of the
future.”

“They promised you,” persisted the conjurer, “that if you would worship
their God you should go to their heaven when you died. I told you that
your spirits and theirs could never live in peace in the same
spirit-land; but you would not believe me.”

“Come, come, I am tired of this,” said Tamaque.

“No forests, no rivers, no deer, no hunting and no war,” continued the
conjurer, “what would the Indian warrior do in the white man’s heaven?”

“Cease your babbling!” cried Tamaque, in a tone no longer to be
disregarded. “If you can foretell our fortunes in this war speak; if
not, out on your boasted wisdom!”

The conjurer seemed to feel that it was necessary to come to the point.
After a long pause, he asked:

“What have you done with the white stranger that came to your camp last
evening?”

The old impostor had no doubt seen me at the same time I had seen him as
I crossed the mountain, but he was determined to make a mystery of it.
Tamaque seemed puzzled.

“How did you know of his coming?” he inquired.

“Tamaque doubts the conjurer’s wisdom,” he replied.

“No!” said Tamaque, “you would not tell me what I come to hear. Go on,
now, and I’ll believe you.”

“Has the stranger been put to death?”

“He is gone,” said Tamaque.

“It was wrong,” said the conjurer; “he should have died at the stake.
The Great Spirit calls for a sacrifice. The missionary and his daughter
must die.”

“No!” said Tamaque, “it is impossible.”

“It must be so,” replied the conjurer; “they must die before sunset.”

“It cannot be,” said Tamaque firmly; “command me to do any thing but
that.”

“I command you to do that,” replied the conjurer, “or I will call down
confusion on your war-party.”

“I tell you,” said Tamaque fiercely, “they shall not die. Say no more
about it.”

“Obstinate man!” said the conjurer, “you dare not disobey me. They shall
die, and you shall kindle the fire beneath them.”

Tamaque now sprang forward and seized the conjurer by the throat.
“Villain!” he exclaimed, “I warned you to speak of that no more. Name it
again, and I will toss you headlong down the mountain.”

Finding that Tamaque could not be overawed, the wily conjurer now
changed his tactics.

“You might safely spare them,” he said, “on one condition; but I dare
not name it.”

“Go on,” said Tamaque, “you have nothing to fear, if you do not speak of
their death.”

“The anger of Tamaque is dangerous,” continued the conjurer; “and who
can tell what words will rouse it?”

“No, no!” said Tamaque mildly, “I will hear you patiently; and if you
require me even to leap down this dizzy precipice, I’ll obey you.”

“Listen, then,” said the conjurer; “and if my words sound harsh in your
ears,” said the old hypocrite, “let not your anger be kindled. They
shall live if you choose, but then the white maiden must become
Tamaque’s wife.”

I was looking over, at the moment, from the rock above, full at Tamaque.
He started convulsively; his whole frame shook with emotion; whilst a
gleam of joy absolutely lighted up his dark features. My own sensations
were not less violent, perhaps, though somewhat different in their
character.

After a pause Tamaque asked, in a tone of affected indifference:

“If I consent to this, do you promise success to our expedition?”

“Yes,” said the conjurer, “you will conquer all your foes, and
reestablish the power and glory of the red man. Behold! a vision of the
future rises up before me. I see Tamaque great and powerful, the ruler
over many nations; and far off, for many generations, I see his
children’s children walking in his footsteps.”

“Your words are good,” said Tamaque.

“So will be your deeds,” said the conjurer. “Strike boldly, and fear
nothing.”

“Tamaque knows no fear,” replied the haughty chief. “To-morrow he will
go forth with his warriors, and thus will he rush upon the foe.” As he
spoke he heaved from its resting place a huge fragment of rock, which
bounded down the mountain roaring and smoking, and crushing all before
it, until, with a loud plunge, it disappeared beneath the bubbling
waters.

I had now heard and seen enough; and there was no time to be lost if I
wished to save _her_ from—from what? Confusion on the thought! My head
reeled, and I came near falling down amongst them. But I soon rallied,
and made all possible haste to reach the camp before Tamaque.

Suddenly, as I emerged from a clump of trees yonder on the bank of the
creek, I saw her whom I sought close before me, kneeling on a mound of
earth,—doubtless her mother’s grave. I stood entranced, and listened,
in spite of myself, to the broken sentences which she uttered aloud.

“And save, oh, merciful Father,” she murmured, “save his white hairs
from the dangers which surround us.” Her filial words here became
inaudible. The next sentence that reached my ears related to a different
person. “May thy powerful arm protect us from the cruel rage, and the
still more cruel love of that dreadful man!” My jealous ears drank in
these words with ecstasy. They were a balm to my wounded spirit; a
compensation for all my sufferings. Again she spoke aloud: “And him, the
stranger, who wanders, unprotected, through the wilderness; oh! guard
his steps from harm, and grant, in thine own good time, that—” her
voice now died away into a gentle whisper. When it rose again she was
saying, “And for me, in mercy, give thy unhappy child, here, in this
hallowed spot, a peaceful grave.” I began to feel that my listening,
however inadvertent, was little less than sacrilege; and, therefore,
quietly stole away out of hearing.

As soon as I discovered that she had risen to her feet, I again drew
near. Great was her surprise and consternation at seeing me.

“Oh! why do you linger here,” she cried. “You should, ere this, be far
on your way toward home. Fly instantly, and look not behind you; for, if
you should be taken by these cruel savages no human power can save you
from a dreadful doom.”

“I know that well,” I replied; “but can you think me so careful of my
own life as to run away and leave you to their tender mercies?”

“Fear nothing for me,” she said; “they do not rank me among their
enemies, and will not harm me.”

“But although you may be safe from their hatred, have you nothing to
fear from their friendship?” said I.

The tide of confusion mounted to her brow at these words, and she
trembled in every limb. But, quickly recovering herself, she said: “Come
what may, I share the fate of my father.”

“But go,” said I, “bring your father quickly, and we will all escape
together.”

“No,” said she, sadly, “he is old and feeble; his absence would soon be
noticed; they would certainly pursue us, and easily overtake us.”

I could make no reply to this, for I knew that we could not take her
father with us, and I felt sure that she would not go without him. With
the dogged resolution of despair, therefore, I said:

“Your own fidelity teaches me my duty. I shall remain in these woods to
watch over your safety. Seek not to change my purpose. Better endure all
the torments these fiends can inflict than the shame and remorse I
should suffer if I left you.”

I spoke in a tone that could leave no doubt of my sincerity or firmness.
She evidently felt it so, and stood for some minutes with her eyes fixed
on the ground in silent meditation. Then, at length, raising her head,
she abruptly asked:

“Can you paddle a canoe?”

I replied that I could with considerable skill.

“Then go down immediately to the mouth of the creek,” she continued; “I
will bring my father there, and it is possible that we may yet escape
across the river. It is worth the trial, at least, and is our only
hope.”

I hastened to the place designated, where I found two canoes moored to
the shore. In a few minutes Mary appeared, almost dragging her father
along. When the old man understood our purpose he refused to get into
the boat.

“No,” said he, “I cannot leave these poor children, whom I have so long
taught and prayed for. Deserted by their pastor, they would soon return
to their old habits, and the labor of long years would lose all its
fruits.”

“But, sir,” I replied, “they have already withdrawn themselves from your
authority. You cannot safely remain amongst them, for they now regard
all white men as their enemies.”

“I will stay,” he answered, “and bring them back to the fold from which
they are wandering, or else lay down my life among them.”

“But your daughter,” I continued; “surely this is now no place for her.
Come! let us place her in safety, and then, if you choose, you can
return.” I saw that he hesitated; and so, taking him by the arm, I led
him, with gentle violence, into the canoe.

“Are these the only canoes at the station?” I asked.

Being answered in the affirmative, I directed Luten to hold fast to the
empty one, and then pushed off from the shore. My intention was to cut
off pursuit by carrying the empty canoe some distance into the stream
and then setting her adrift. The river was then about at its present
height, and dashed over these rapids with the same violence as now. It
was certain that no boat could drift through them without being swamped
or broken to pieces.

Accordingly, when we had attained what I thought a sufficient distance
from the shore, I directed Luten to let go his hold. Scarcely had he
done so when a shriek from Mary, whose face was turned toward the shore,
was immediately followed by a plunge, and then another, into the water.

“It is Tamaque and another Indian,” she exclaimed, “and they are
swimming for the empty canoe.” I cast a hasty glance behind me, and saw
all the peril of our position; but I had no time for making
observations. My business was to ply the paddle.

“Now,” continued Mary, “they have almost reached it; and now they have
caught—but see! they have upset it in trying to climb in. No! it has
come right again; and now Tamaque has got in safely, and is dragging his
companion after him. But it is too late; they are almost at the falls,
and they cannot stem the current. Look! Merciful Heaven, they will go
over, and be drowned!”

Obeying the gentler impulses of her nature, she thought only of their
danger, forgetting that _that_ was our only chance of escape.

“Oh! how they do struggle for their lives,” she continued; “and now they
are standing still—no, they are moving—they are coming—faster and
faster—they are coming toward us!”

I again looked back for a moment, and, truly, they were coming, and
evidently gaining on us. Luten meanwhile sat in the bottom of the canoe
in a fit of total abstraction.

“I will not leave them, nor return from following after them,” he
muttered; “they have gone astray, but I will bring them back, and they
shall yet be the instruments, under God, of regenerating the whole
Indian race.”

But the state of things was now becoming critical, and Mary cried out in
terror:

“Oh, father, help!—take that other paddle and help, or we are lost.”

The old man roused himself up, took the paddle, and went to work in the
bow of the canoe. But he was unskilled in the business, and did more
harm than good. I begged him to desist, but he only replied by
increasing his well meant exertions. At length, however, he rocked the
boat, and threw her out of her course so badly, that I was obliged to
command him, peremptorily, to sit down; and he was soon again lost in
meditation.

Meanwhile our pursuers were rapidly gaining on us. Under the guidance of
her two powerful and well-trained workmen, their canoe bounded forward
at every sweep of the paddles like a race-horse. I now saw that it was
all over with us. We were still a long way from shore, and they were
almost upon us. Nor could it avail us any thing even if we should
succeed in landing first. They would capture us on the land if they did
not on the water. My heart sickened at the thought. To me captivity
would bring unutterable torments; and to my innocent and lovely
companion a fate still more deplorable. Was there any alternative? I
looked the whole subject steadily in the face for one minute, and then
my resolution was taken. With a single dexterous sweep of the paddle I
brought the head of the canoe directly down stream, and then urged her
forward toward the roaring cataract. Tamaque uttered a loud yell of rage
and disappointment; and, the same moment, his tomahawk whizzed by within
an inch of my head. But the current now drew us on with fearful
rapidity. Mary sat pale and silent, gazing anxiously in my face; whilst
her father continued unconscious of all that was passing. Now and then I
could hear his voice amid the tumult of the dashing breakers mournfully
bewailing the apostacy of his neophytes.

We had now reached the very brink of the foaming precipice, when my eye
caught a narrow streak of blue water, which evidently descended in a
gradual slope. I directed the canoe toward it, and she went down,
plunging, I thought, entirely under; but she rose again filled with
water, but still afloat. I threw my hat to Mary; and, whilst I kept the
canoe steady in her course with one hand, I seized my hat in the other
and commenced bailing. In a few minutes all danger of sinking was
removed. We had now a free course before us, and an impassible barrier
(so it was deemed) between us and our pursuers. We felt that we were
safe;—all but Luten; to whom our danger and our safety seemed equally
indifferent. His thoughts were far away in the land of dreams, where he
had so long dwelt, and from which he would not yet depart. We spoke to
him, but he made no answer. At length his head began to sink slowly
down, and Mary hastened to support it. An ashy paleness now came over
his features; his breathing grew short and difficult, and his mutterings
became inaudible; except once, when the name of Tamaque trembled on his
lips. Then his eyes became fixed; his lips ceased to move; his hand
dropped heavily down at his side; and now,—the hot tears that rain from
the eyes of his dutiful child fall on the brow of death.

It was now near sundown; and when we reached the nearest white
settlement it was near morning. There we buried Luten; and his daughter
being now an orphan, and without a protector in the world, why, of
course,—but I need not relate what followed. Suffice it to say that I
was no longer jealous of Tamaque, but even felt a pang of regret when I
heard, soon after, that he had fallen in battle.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE RECONCILIATION.


                       BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.


 The midnight shadows deepen on, the earth is still and lone,
 And starry lamps in heaven’s blue hall are fading one by one,
 For cold gray clouds wreathe o’er them like a dim and misty veil,
 And through their foldings peers the moon—a spirit wan and pale.

 As far away the gentle breeze is sighing mournfully
 It seems a murmur from the shore of olden memory,
 And while its cadence floats afar _thy voice_ I seem to hear—
 Like music in some troubled dream it steals upon my ear.

 My heart beats faster as the sound fades out upon the night,
 And pants to drink again that tone of rapture and delight;
 At such an hour it cannot deem that voice is cold and strange,
 In such an hour it will forget that hearts like thine can change.

 No—never, it shall _not_ be so—the thought is burning pain,
 Which like the levin’s blighting fire comes crushing through my brain;
 It cannot be our friendship’s bright and glowing dream is o’er,
 It must not be that we _shall meet_ as we _have met_ no more.

 Have I offended?—then _forgive_—’twill be the nobler part—
 And oh, _forget_ that I have wronged thy warm and generous heart,
 For careless words though lightly said come keenly to the mind,
 To chill its glowing depths with tones like winter’s frozen wind.

 Ah! “cast the shadow” from thy heart, and mine shall glow with thine
 In purer flames, whose fairy gleams in rainbow beauty shine,
 Its thoughts of thee shall brighten then though all around be sad,
 Its every dream of thee be sweet—its every vision glad—

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             UNHAPPY LOVE.


                          BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.


               ’Tis vain, ’tis vain, these idle tears!
                 Thou art far distant now;
               No more, oh never more my lips
                 May press thy pale, sweet brow;
               And yet I cannot, cannot burst
               The deep and holy spell that first
                 Bade my strong spirit bow
               With all of passion’s hopes and fears
               Before thee in our happier years.

               Those eves of love, those blessed eves—
                 Their memory still comes back
               A glory and a benison
                 O’er life’s bewildering track,
               Their light has vanished from our lot
               Like meteor-gleams and left us—what?
                 The sigh, the tear, the rack!
               And yet upon their visions blest
               Still love can turn and sink to rest.

               I know thou lovest me, I know
                 Thine eyes with tears are dim,
               I know that stricken love still chants
                 To thee its mournful hymn;
               I know the shadows of love’s dream
               In the deep waves of memory’s stream
                 Like soft star-shadows swim;
               But oh! the fiend of wild unrest
               Is raging in my tortured breast.

               Forgive me, gentle one, forgive
                 My burning dreams of thee;
               Forgive me that I dare to let
                 Forbidden thoughts go free;
               My torrent-passions madly sweep
               On, darkly on, and will not sleep
                 But in death’s silent sea;
               And I—a mouldering wreck—am still
               The victim of their stormy will.

               Ah, dear one, suns will rise and set,
                 And moons will wax and wane,
               The seasons come and go, but we
                 Must never meet again;
               That thought, whene’er I hear thy name,
               Is like a wild and raging flame
                 Within my heart and brain;
               But none, save thee, shall ever know
               The secret of my living wo.

               Oft at the sunset’s holy time,
                 Our spirits’ trysting hour,
               I wander to commune with thee
                 Beneath the wildwood bower;
               And o’er me there thy tone of love,
               Like the low moaning of a dove,
                 Steals with a soothing power;
               ’Tis gone—my voice in anguish calls,
               But silence on the desert falls.

               I gaze on yon sweet moon as erst
                 We gazed on that dear night
               When our deep, parting vows were said
                 Beneath its mournful light;
               And then with tones, low, sweet and clear,
               Thou breathest in my ravished ear
                 And risest on my sight—
               I call thee, but the woods around
               With mocking voice repeat the sound.

               I look on each memento dear,
                 The tress, the flower, the ring,
               And these thy sweet and gentle form
                 Back to my spirit bring;
               I seem to live past raptures o’er,
               Our hands, our hearts, our lips once more
                 In one wild pressure cling—
               It fades—I mourn the vision flown
               And start to find myself alone.

               I look upon thy pictured face
                 ’Till from my straining eyes
               My soul steals out to animate
                 The sweet but lifeless dyes;
               The dark eyes wake, the dear lips speak,
               Their breath is warm upon my cheek—
                 I clasp the living prize;
               Alas! I wake to cold despair,
               There’s but a painted mockery there.

               My youth is vanished from my life,
                 And ah! I feel that now
               The lines of manhood’s fading prime
                 Are deepening on my brow;
               My life is in its evening shade,
               And soon its last pale flowers will fade
                 Upon the withering bough,
               Alas! alas! that life should be
               So fleeting and not passed with thee!

               Farewell, our dreams are idle now,
                 And tears are idler yet,
               But oft beneath the midnight moon
                 My eyelids still are wet;
               Oh! I could bear life’s every grief,
               Its shade, its cloud, its withered leaf,
                 Its sun’s last darkened set,
               Could I but know that we might love
               As now in that bright world above.

               Farewell—farewell—yon gentle star
                 Is pure and bright like thee—
               But lo! a dark cloud near it moves,
                 The type, alas, of me!
               From the blue heavens the cloud will go,
               But that unfading star will glow
                 Still beautiful and free;
               And thus thy life, with fadeless ray,
               May shine when I am passed away.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE SUNFLOWER.


                     A TRUE TALE OF THE NORTH-WEST.


                          BY MAJOR RICHARDSON.


Of all the tribes of Indians with whom it has been our lot to mix, and
these have not been a few, we know of none who can surpass in the native
dignity and nobleness of manhood the Saukie tribe. We, however, speak
not of them as they exist at the present day. Many years have elapsed
since fighting against Hull, Winchester, and Harrison, we numbered, as
co-operating with the division of the army to which we were attached,
three thousand fighting men of the élite of the warriors of the
principal tribes, headed by the indomitable and ever lamented Tecumseh,
whom, as a boy, then first attempting his _coup d’essai_ at arms, we
ever loved and revered, and with whom half an hour before his fall, we
shook the hand of cordiality, and separation—forever. We repeat, at
that period there were, varying slightly in number at intervals, not
less than three thousand with the eighth division of the British
army—and these were the choice warriors of the following tribes:
Shawanees, Delawares, Munsees, Hurons, Wyandots, Miamis, Chippewas,
Ottowas, Kickapoos, Foxes, Minouminies, Pottowattamies, Winnebagoes,
Loups, Sioux, and lastly, for we cannot recollect some two or three
others—the Saukies. Each tribe had its peculiar and distinctive
characteristics—but no one so markedly so as the last named people, and
next to them the Winnebagoes. We have remarked that we do not know what
the Indian tribes, even in their original hunting grounds have become
since so long abstinence from the pursuits of war and adventure, but
_then_, the Saukies were the noblest looking men of all we have ever
since beheld in any quarter of the globe we have visited. They were a
collective impersonation of the dignity of man, as sent first upon earth
by the will of God; nor were these characteristics of manly beauty
peculiar only to a few, but general to all. A Saukie warrior, arrived at
the full stage of manhood, was tall—generally from five feet eleven to
six feet in height, and of proportionate symmetry of person. Their
carriage was erect, dignified, graceful. Their look serene, imposing
without sternness. Their features bore the Roman impress, and seldom did
we look upon a Saukie, arrived at mature age, without the memory
adverting at once to the dignified senators of the forum of which we had
so recently been reading. There was a nobleness—a consciousness—a
native dignity about these people that always inspired us with a certain
degree of awe and respect; and so deeply was this sentiment implanted in
us at that very early period of a somewhat adventurous life, that our
_beau ideal_ of manly beauty has ever since continued to be a Saukie
warrior of the commencement of the present century.

The period of occurrence of the incidents of our little tale was some
four or five years prior to the American declaration of war against
Great Britain, and when the North West Company of Canada, whose wealth,
acquired in the pursuit of that trade, was at one time great, held
various stockade forts in the heart of the Indian country. The
ambulating village of the Saukies was then situated on a branch of one
of those small streams on which the forts were usually built, and at a
distance of about forty miles from that which will come more immediately
under our notice.

White Bear was one of the most honored of the Saukie chiefs, and even
among men whom we have just described as so eminently prepossessing, he
was remarkable. He was forty years of age, and possessed a majesty of
mien and carriage that won to him the respect of his tribe not more than
did his wisdom in the council, and his daring in war. He had but one
wife, and she was much younger than himself, but years had so little to
do with the estimate in which he was generally held by the squaws of his
tribe, and particularly by his wife, whose passion for him was ardent as
his own for her, that this disparity had never even been noticed.
Indeed, their friendship for each other was the remark of the whole
tribe. For an Indian, he took great pride in her beauty, and spent with
her many hours that ought to have been devoted to the chase. War for
some years past there had been none.

Sunflower was tall and graceful. She had very black, soft, languishing
eyes—marked, yet delicate eyebrows. Her nose, like that of her tribe,
was Roman, but more delicately marked than that of the men, her teeth
were white and even, her mouth small, and her hair glossy as the raven’s
wing, and darker than the squirrel’s fur. The full and massive club into
which it was tastefully rolled and placed behind the back of her neck,
proved its fullness and redundance. She was elegantly formed. She had
never been a mother, and her nut-brown bosom had all the roundness of
contour of a Venus, and the smoothness of the Parian marble. Her hands
and feet, like those of all her race, were small, and yet there was a
development of her whole person that set all art to improve it at
defiance. Late at night she always bathed in the sweet waters of the
stream, and on its low banks combed the long and luxuriant hair that
overshadowed her person, and with the chewed root of the grape-vine,
added fragrance to her breath, even while she increased the dazzling
whiteness of the teeth she rubbed with it. To crown all the fascinations
of this Indian wife—this favored daughter of a race in which the
interesting and the beautiful are so rarely found, she had a voice whose
every note was laughing music.

There was one in that camp, and of that tribe, who saw the happiness of
White Bear, not with envy, for his nature was too generous for so low a
passion, but with regret that destiny had not given to him the
beautiful, the enchanting Sunflower. He was consumed with the most
ardent love. He lived only in and for her—hung upon her look, fed upon
her glance, and yet he had never spoken to her. His soul melted away
with love for her. To look at her alone was enjoyment the greatest he
could taste. The chase was deserted, his very flute, in which he
excelled, and on which he often played to the great delight of the
admiring Indian girls, was neglected. Not so his dress. No young Saukie
bestowed more pains in decorating his person than did the tall and
gracefully formed Wawandah, and this not from any foolish love of
display, as because he wished to appear favorably in her eyes, should
she ever be induced to regard him. The savage equally with the
civilized, tries to win a woman as much by dress as by address. But in
vain Wawandah courted his toilet. The vermilion was applied to his cheek
and lips without the desired result—the Sunflower never once caught his
eye, or if she did, she was too much engaged in thinking of the White
Bear, to be conscious that any other of her tribe sought to win her
attention.

Days, weeks passed on, with the same unvarying result. Wawandah was
sorely grieved at heart. He began to pine away. His soft and melancholy
eye became dull. He had no pleasure in the chase which took him far from
the encampment. Every step that he trod in pursuit led him farther from
the spot trodden by her, the very soles of whose feet he worshiped, and
he could not continue. Thus, when a stray buffalo would cross him, easy
to be killed, and offering himself as an unerring mark to his rifle, his
passion would so trouble his mind as to unnerve his arm. Then the ball
would pass unwounding by, and the half sneers of his companions arise
and bring the blush to his cheek; as they bade him tauntingly leave the
rifle to be handled by men, and go and amuse himself with the women. In
like manner he sought to avoid the war-dance, and the ball playing, and
the foot-race, for his mind was too painfully interested to engage
unrestrainedly in these amusements, and unless excellence was to be
obtained in whatever he undertook, Wawandah cared not to be a
competitor. Wawandah was beginning to lose caste not only with the
elders of the tribe but with the young men who were jealous of his
superiority, and so much was he talked of that the very women knew all
that was said by the warriors, and the Sunflower like the rest. It was
the first time Wawandah had ever come under the notice of her he so
fondly loved, and as he knew the cause, he secretly blessed the fate
which had, even under circumstances so humiliating to the pride of a
warrior, been the cause of her bestowing even the slightest attention
upon him.

The White Bear had been the friend of the father of Wawandah, who for
ten long years, according to Indian computation, had slumbered in his
grave with the red stained pole at its head. Since he had taken the
Sunflower to his bosom, he had neglected the boy, for his own breast was
full of the natural selfishness of love, and he had not found time to
regard him as he would have done had he been free from the influence
that now exclusively governed him in all things. But when the Sunflower
told him that there was a youth in the village who, oppressed by some
secret care, had so degenerated in the tastes and pursuits of the young
warriors, as absolutely to have incurred their scorn, her husband
recollected the name, and determined as far as he could to comfort him,
and to restore to him the respect of his tribe; and straightway he sent
a young boy to the wigwam of Wawandah, who was then lying on the skin of
a grizzly bear, which he had killed before the spirit of guilty love had
entered into his heart, and the recollection of his skill and prowess in
obtaining which was the only circumstance that still preserved to him a
certain consideration among the elders of the tribe. Astonished, almost
dismayed at the message, Wawandah rose from his couch, and disguising
his feelings, said to the young messenger, “That it was good. He would
go to White Bear’s wigwam presently.” The boy departed, and Wawandah was
torn with emotion. What was the meaning of this message? Since the death
of his father, the Black Vulture, the White Bear had taken no other
notice of him than he had of the young warriors generally; then how was
it that he sent for him now, when almost shunned by the young men of his
tribe; he bowed submissively and uncomplainingly to the effects of the
passion that was preying upon his heart, rendering him regardless of all
things else. Why, he again asked himself, was this? Or had the White
Bear discovered his secret in the only way in which it could have
transpired—through his eyes—and sent for him to reprove and to
threaten. Still he was glad that he was sent for, no matter for what
reason, for there was a faint hope at his heart that the Sunflower might
be present at the interview in the wigwam, and he felt that it would be
pleasant to be condemned in her hearing for that which she alone had,
however innocently, occasioned.

Still, with slow, and timid, and undecided step, he approached the tent
of the great chief. The latter motioned him to be seated. Wawandah, who,
on entering, had seen in a corner of the tent a muffled figure, which
his beating heart told him was the wife of the White Bear, silently
obeyed, and waited until the chief had finished his pipe. Wawandah now
and then turned his eyes furtively in the direction of the squaw who was
embroidering moccasins with the dyed quills of the porcupine, and could
perceive that she, too, occasionally glanced at him in the same furtive
manner. The heart of Wawandah was troubled yet full of gladness. To be
looked at with interest by the Sunflower had been the summit of his
highest ambition.

“Wawandah,” said the White Bear, who had finished his pipe, and was now
emptying the bowl of its ashes, “the chief, your father, was a great
warrior in the tribe; and when, a year after his death, you slew the
white bear that was about to kill a young girl, all the tribe thought
that you too would become a great warrior. What says my son—why is
this?”

“Ugh!” was the sole and assentient reply of the youth.

“The braves say you cannot shoot, and that your arm is wide as that of a
squaw from the buffalo or the deer—that every papoose can beat you in
the race—that you cannot wrestle, and that the ball never rebounds from
your foot. Is this true? Are you no longer a warrior? Why is this, my
son?”

Wawandah was silent for a moment, and then placing his palm over his
heart, he said in so mournful a tone, that the Sunflower suddenly
started and looked up. “Very sick here. Wawandah wishes only to
encounter another bear. The victory would not be the same.”

As he uttered these words, his eyes beaming with melancholy tenderness
were turned upon the wife of the White Bear. It was just at that moment
she looked up. Their glances met. His dark and handsome features became
flushed with crimson, as he traced in hers he thought, pity, sorrow, and
a full understanding of his position. A thousand delicious thoughts
possessed his being. That look of commiseration had repaid him for every
insult he had endured. To be rewarded by another, he would have
subjected himself to the same a thousand fold. As for the Sunflower, she
could not tell wherefore, but it seemed to her as if a new light had
dawned upon her being.

“My son,” said the chief, presenting his hand, “I pity you, for I see it
all. You love a squaw, who does not love you—and that I know is enough
to turn the rifle aside, and check the speed of the race. When the heart
is sick the body is sick also. I am old, Wawandah, but I know it—

“See!” he continued, after a short pause, “there is one who ought to be
your sister. The White Bear owes her life to you. Without your arm his
wigwam would be as a desert. Taken from the fangs of one white bear, you
have preserved her for the arms of another.”

The Sunflower and Wawandah looked this time fully, tenderly into each
other’s eyes—a new affinity had been created—a new tie mutually
acknowledged. It was the first time they had been made aware that she
was the young girl thus saved. They both colored deeply, and with a
consciousness that that information was fraught with good or evil, for
the future, to themselves. Both awaited with interest and impatience
what was to follow.

“Wawandah,” pursued the chief, “I feel that I have wronged you by
neglect. But I will make amends for it. Once more you shall be a man—a
hunter—a warrior. You shall abandon your tent and live in mine. It is
large enough for us all. The Sunflower will be glad to receive him who
saved her life in the most daring manner. Her smiles will make you
forget your hopeless love, and when her hands have prepared the morning
meal, we shall go forth to the chase, for I, too, feel that my pretty
Sunflower too often dazzles my path with its brightness, and keeps me
from the tracks of the deer and buffalo.”

“Oh, the friend of my father is too good,” replied Wawandah, with a
manner changed, from despair to life and hope, which, although unheeded
by the husband, was not lost upon his beautiful wife. “Wawandah is
thankful. He will sleep in the wigwam of the White Bear, and gain from
his goodness new courage to his heart, and strength to his arm, and
skill to his eye. He will go forth to the chase as before. He will
forget the love of the woman he cannot have, in the friendship of his
sister—in the child the Good Spirit allowed him to save for the friend
of his father. Wawandah will be happy, and the White Bear will make him
so.”

The Sunflower rose from the spot where she was seated at her work, and
moving in all her gracefulness and dignity of carriage to her husband’s
side, leaned over him, and thanked him for his goodness in permitting
her to aid in soothing him to whom she owed her life and happiness with
him.

“Wawandah,” said the husband of the Sunflower, “you may go; I wished to
give ease to your heart—not to pine away like a love-sick woman. You
live here. I am not quite old enough to be your father, for
five-and-twenty years have passed over your head, but I shall be every
thing else to you; nor is Sunflower old enough to be your mother, but
she shall be your sister, and her laughing eye shall make you glad. Go,
then, part with your wigwam, and let it be known throughout the tribe
the White Bear adopts you as his son.”

From that hour Wawandah became a changed man. He lived in the wigwam of
the White Bear. The beautiful Sunflower was ever before his eyes. Her
presence inspired, her soft eye turned in gratitude upon him who had
preserved her life, infused animation, if not hope, into his being. He
had no other thought, no other desire than to be loved by the Sunflower
as by a sister, to be near her, to listen to her sweet voice, to mark
the expression of her beautiful eyes, to follow the graceful movements
of her tall form—all this he enjoyed, and he was happy. Sustained by
her approval, once more the buffalo and the elk fell beneath his
unerring rifle, and his honors graced the interior of the tent which the
Sunflower decorated with her own hands. Again he was foremost in the
race, and left his competitors behind when darting into the swollen
stream they buffeted against the strong current that essayed to check
their upward progress. In the wrestling-ring no one could equal his
dexterity and strength; and where once his foot touched the ball, no
opponent could bear from him his prize until it had reached the desired
goal. The women were often spectators of these sports, and approved the
manliness and activity of the handsome and modest-looking Wawandah, but
none more than his newly found sister, the peerless Sunflower of the
White Bear.

“Strange!” she would muse to herself, as she saw him amidst the loud
plaudits of the aged and the young of the warriors, of the matron and of
the maid bear off every prize for which he contended—“strange, that
before he came to dwell within our wigwam, he was as a child, and even
now is a strong man, proud in his own power. It was disappointed love
made him weak and uncertain of aim in the chase, he said to the White
Bear. What, then, has made him strong, for no love warms him yet but the
love of his sister.” The Sunflower sighed; she thought of the eloquent
looks he had often cast upon herself, and she endeavored to give a new
direction to her thoughts.

Often would the White Bear and Wawandah set out on a hunting excursion
of a couple of days, and return so laden with the meat of the buffalo
and the deer, that the horses they took with them for the purpose, could
with difficulty walk under the heavy burdens. Then would the children,
seeing them coming from a distance, clap their hands, and utter shouts
of rejoicing, until the whole encampment attracted by their cries, would
turn out and gathered together in small groups, await the arrival of the
hunters, to whom the word and hand of greeting were cordially given. The
Sunflower would watch all this from a distance, and in silence; and her
heart would become glad, for well she knew where the choicest of the
game killed by Wawandah’s hand would be laid—at his sister’s feet with
a look of such touching eloquence of prayer for its acceptance that the
very anticipation took from her loneliness in absence; and she was
always right, for never on one occasion did Wawandah fail, and when he
had given of the best to the wife of the White Bear, his soft and
beautiful eyes rendered more lustrous by the deep hectic overspreading
his brown cheek, would thank him with such expression of silent
eloquence, that her own heart would invariably flutter, and her own
cheek flush with as deep a crimson. And then, happy and contented and
rewarded for all his toil, Wawandah would bear the remainder of his game
to the tents of the chiefs, and distribute among the grateful wives of
these the remainder of the proceeds of his unequalled skill. No one was
now a greater favorite throughout the Saukie camp than the late despised
Wawandah, the son of the Black Vulture.

Once in the middle of August the White Bear and Wawandah set out with
two others on an excursion, which was to last five days. Time had so
accustomed the Sunflower to the presence of her brother, and his absence
on similar occasions had so seldom exceeded a couple of days, that when
the fifth had arrived she was uneasy and unhappy; and her longing for
Wawandah’s return became such that she now, for the first time, became
aware of the full extent of her own feelings for him. She trembled to
admit the truth to herself, but it was in vain to conceal it. Guilt was
in her soul. She loved Wawandah. True, but she was resolved that while
she sought not to change the character of their existing relations, she
would allow them to go no further.

It has already been shown that the Sunflower was in the habit of bathing
in the stream on which the encampment of the Saukies had been pitched.
This was about a mile up, and in a secluded nook or narrow bay, the
overhanging banks of which, closely studded with trees, formed a
complete shelter from the observation of the passing stranger. The
evening of the day previous to that on which the hunters were expected
back was exceedingly sultry, and the Sunflower had gone with another
Saukie—a daughter of one of the chiefs—to indulge in her favorite and
refreshing bath. After disporting themselves for some time in the
running and refreshing stream, they were preparing to resume their
dress, when both were startled by a low and sudden growl from the top of
the bank immediately above them. The Saukie maiden looked for a moment,
and then trembling in every limb, and yet without daring to utter a
word, pointed out to the Sunflower, on whose shoulder she leaned, two
glaring eyes which, without seeing more of the animal, they at once felt
to be those of a panther evidently fixed on themselves. The animal gave
another low growl, and by the crashing of the underwood amid which it
lay, they knew it was about to give its final spring. Filled with terror
the Sunflower uttered a loud scream and even as the animal sprang
downward from his lair the report of a rifle resounded, and the whizzing
ball was distinctly heard as it passed their ears. The water around the
gurgling spot where the panther leaped into the stream, was deeply
tinged with his blood. He had been wounded, but not so severely as to
prevent him from being an object of unabated terror. Not five seconds,
however, had elapsed, before another form came from the very spot whence
the panther had sprung. The beast, infuriated by its wound, was running
or rather bounding rapidly toward the Sunflower, who, paralyzed at the
danger, stood incapable of motion, and standing immersed up to her waist
in the stream, and with her long dark hair floating over its surface.
With a wild and savage cry, meant to divert his attention to himself,
Wawandah, for it was he, pursued the animal as rapidly as he could
through the interposing water. Startled by his unexpected appearance,
the Sunflower became, for the first time, conscious of her position,
when turning, she fled as fast as she could with a view to gain the
beach and turn the ascent to the hill. This act saved her from severe
laceration, if not death, for it afforded time for Wawandah to overtake
the monster. Seeing itself closely pursued, the latter turned to defend
itself, and before Wawandah could seize it by the back of the neck, with
a force against which it vainly struggled, it had severely wounded him
in the left shoulder. Infuriated with pain, and still more so at what he
knew to be the exposed position of the Sunflower, the latter, even while
the teeth of the panther were fastened in his shoulder, drew from his
side his deadly knife, and burying it to the handle in its heart, while
he worked furiously to enlarge the wound, at length contrived to leave
it lifeless floating on the surface of the stream. This done, his first
care was the safety of the Sunflower. He knew that while he continued
there she would not return for her clothes, which were lying on the
beach immediately under the point from which he had, on hearing the
scream, leaped into the river, and therefore he had no alternative than
to call out in clear and distinct tones that she might return without
fear, as the panther was dead and he himself about to ascend the bank on
the opposite side, to secure his rifle and await her coming, as, after
the danger she had so barely escaped, he was determined not to allow her
to be exposed, unprotected, to another.

That evening it was made known in every part of the Saukie encampment by
the daughter of the chief, that but for the sudden appearance and prompt
action of the brave Wawandah, both herself and the Sunflower would have
been torn to pieces by an enormous and savage panther, whose eyes were
balls of fire, and whose teeth were like the wild boar’s tusk. Again
were the plaudits of the camp bestowed upon him, and the head chief
ordered a war dance to be performed in honor of the exploit.

The dance was continued until late at night, but Wawandah did not mix in
it. Thoughts were passing in his mind that little disposed him to join
in festivities given in honor of himself. For the first time, that day
he had seen enough of the symmetry of form of the Sunflower to know that
she could no longer be as a mere sister to him. He felt that she must be
to him as a wife or he must die. Giving as a reason, and it was a true
one, that his arm pained him very much, he retired to his bear-skin
couch long before the war dance had terminated.

The Sunflower sat at his side, and with a decoction of herbs which she
had boiled down to a thick gelatinous matter, ever and anon bathed the
wound, and with a look so eloquent with thankfulness for this second
serious service which he had rendered her, that Wawandah felt an
irrepressible fire kindling in his veins, while his eyes were absolutely
riveted on her own.

“How came my brother so near me and so far away from the camp,” she
asked, desirous of turning his thoughts from an admiration that pained,
yet not displeased her, “and where has he left the White Bear and his
companions. Was it well to come back without them?” she concluded, half
reproachfully, for she began to feel the danger of her position.

“It was well that Wawandah came,” he said, with more animation than he
had hitherto evinced. “But listen, my sister. An elk, with horns like
the branches of a great tree, had fallen beneath my rifle, when suddenly
a panther sprang from its lair. Determined to lay its skin at your feet,
I followed it. The chase was long; it lasted from daybreak to the
setting sun. I knew not where I was, or in what direction I was going.
Suddenly the panther crouched in a small thicket. I heard a cry. Oh, who
could mistake the birdlike voice of my sweet sister. The hair on the
crown of my head seemed to move. I felt my cheek white as that of a pale
face—my heart was sick. As the panther took his spring I fired. Oh, had
I been myself, I should have killed him dead, but fear took away my
skill and I was a woman, even as I had been for many moons before, until
the sister that I loved without hope brought comfort to my soul by
smiling upon me under the roof of her own wigwam.”

The eyes of the Sunflower bent beneath the ardor of his gaze,—her
heaving bosom marked her emotion, and her hands dropped mechanically at
her side. Now, for the first time, she knew that it was through his
silent love for her that the generous and noble-hearted Wawandah had
incurred the odium of his tribe.

“Yes,” pursued the youth, “now that the panther is dead, and the
Sunflower is safe, Wawandah is glad of the wound received in saving her.
His step had never dared to move toward the spot where she bathed, but
the Good Spirit led him, even in the guise of a panther, to behold that
which he had never seen but in his dreams.”

He paused; leaning on his elbow, he had taken the small hand of the
Sunflower. He felt it tremble beneath the slight pressure of his. Then
he continued:—

“The love that filled my heart like the devouring fire of the prairie,
before the good White Bear adopted me as his son, was nothing to what it
is now. The Sunflower must be Wawandah’s wife or she must see him die.
He will not live without her.”

Never had the warrior awakened such interest in the bosom of the wife of
the White Bear. His beautiful eyes spoke a language she could not
resist. The deepening crimson of her cheek, the languor of her eye, and
the heaving of her bosom, were her only answer.

“Then the Sunflower is Wawandah’s forever,” he exclaimed, as he caught
and pressed her to his heart, and imprinted the first kiss of love upon
her brow.

Still she replied not. She felt as if an inevitable fate was impelling
both to their destruction; but there was sweetness in the thought. The
enormity of the ingratitude to the White Bear did not at first occur to
her.

“We must fly,” she at length murmured. “The Sunflower is now the wife of
Wawandah, and she must seek another home. The White Bear will be here
to-morrow, and never can the guilty one he loves bear to look upon his
generous face again.”

“The Sunflower shall look upon him no more—no more dazzle the White
Bear with the glare of her beauty,” answered the youth. “Far from this
Wawandah shall erect his tent, and alone. No one but his wife shall know
where he dwells, or share his solitude. He has no thought but of her.
While she gladdens his sight with her presence, he will ask no more of
the Spirit of Good. The camp is scarcely yet at rest. An hour before the
dawn we will depart; and when the sun rises its fairest flower will have
traveled far from the tent of the White Bear forever.”

“The heart of the Sunflower is full of gladness,” said the latter.
“Never does she wish to behold the face of another warrior but Wawandah.
She loves him because he has so long loved herself. Ah, how much must
she love him, when she leaves the tent of the White Bear forever to fly
with him. It is very wicked this. The Good Spirit will punish her, but
her love for Wawandah is too great. She has not power over herself. She
would not stay if she could. And now it is too late.”

At an hour before dawn Wawandah went stealthily forth. All was stillness
in the camp, and only here and there was to be seen the flickering of
some expiring fire, while the low growl of the dog, too vigilant to be
quite silent, and yet too lazy to bark outright, greeted him as he
passed outside the skirt of his encampment. Presently he arrived at an
open space or sort of oasis in the forest, where were tethered many
horses with great blocks of wood fastened to one of the fore fetlocks.
Selecting two of the best looking and best conditioned of these, he put
bridles upon them, and removing the unwieldy clogs, led them back to the
door of the wigwam of the White Bear. This time the dogs did not suffer
themselves to be disturbed. They seemed to recognize the horses, and to
know that he who led them was of the tribe to the masters of which they
belonged, and that the doubt they had in the first instance entertained
no longer had existence. Leaving the horses standing quietly at the
entrance, Wawandah went in. The Sunflower had put together every thing
that could be conveniently placed in two bundles, and then, having
thrown the rude saddles on the horses, Wawandah now fastened one to each
crupper. The Sunflower was dressed in leggings of blue and the moccasins
she was making when first Wawandah entered the tent. A man’s black hat,
with a white plume thrust through the band, was upon her head, and a
mantle of blue cloth, fastened by a large silver brooch, upon her
shoulders. Her linen was white as the snow, and altogether her great
beauty was adorned with the richest articles of her limited wardrobe,
and in a manner befitting the occasion. While Wawandah, too, decked
himself in his best and secured his faithful weapons and companions of
the chase, she cut from the long hair she loosened for the purpose, a
large tress, which she tied near the root with a blue ribbon, and
fastened it to a nail within the wigwam door. This was a token to the
White Bear that she still regarded even while she had deserted him for
ever.

Wawandah pressed her again fondly to his heart. He was not jealous, but
glad that the heart of the Sunflower bled for what she knew the White
Bear would suffer at her loss. He raised her in his arms to the saddle
she had been accustomed to use. Then carefully closing the door, and
putting a stick over the wooden latch to secure it, he vaulted into the
other. He then turned his horse, followed by the Sunflower, in the
direction of the bathing ground, beyond which the course he intended to
take lay, and as they passed, a beam from the moon which had then risen,
glanced upon the form of the dead panther floating nearly on the spot
where he had killed it.

The Sunflower gazed upon it with deep interest, for she felt that to
that hideous beast was to be ascribed the eventful step which she had
taken, and which was to decide the future misery or happiness of her
life. Presently the encircling arm of Wawandah, who had reined in her
horse, influenced by a nearly similar feeling, clasping her to his
heart, seemed to admonish her of the intensity of joy he, too, had
derived from the same cause.

That embrace refreshed and invigorated them. Once more, at the gentle
bidding of Wawandah, the Sunflower put her horse into a gallop, and ere
the dawn of day the camp of the Saukies had been left far behind.


                              PART SECOND.

At the distance of fifteen miles from the encampment of the Saukies, and
on the same stream, was a small post, belonging to the Canadian
North-West Company of that day. As was usual in that region, it was
surrounded with a stockade, as a protection against any sudden attack of
the Indians. The force within consisted principally of voyageurs,
trappers, hunters, and, in fine, of men of such avocations as were
connected with the fur trade, then in its highest stage of prosperity.
The gentleman in charge was a Mr. Hughes, for many years subsequently,
and even at this day, one of the British superintendents of Indian
affairs. Besides the buildings which composed the post, there was a good
deal of spare ground, which had been alloted for the security of horses
and cattle, embraced within the picketings. Around this place the ground
was denuded of trees, and nothing but a mass of shapeless stumps was to
be seen extending for nearly half a mile in every way, except toward the
front, which was bounded by the stream which divides it from the woods
on the opposite bank.

One evening, late at night, an Indian was seen approaching and driving
before him a number of horses, tied by strings of bark, and so disposed
as to keep up the order of what is called the Indian file. Three stout
Canadians were sitting on a sort of elevated platform, which served as a
look-out over the stockade, one cutting with a great clasp knife a piece
of fat pork upon his bread, that served him as a substitute for a plate;
a second puffing a cloud of smoke from a long handled black stone pipe;
and the third lying on his back with his knees drawn up, and singing one
of those plaintive boat songs which were peculiar to the Canadian
voyageur of the commencement of the present century.

“I say, Baptiste, cease that refrain of yours and listen,” said the man
who was eating his supper of pork, and who evidently was at that moment
on duty as look-out. “I am sure I hear the tramp of horses—and sure
enough it is them. See how they come, in file, like a string of dried
peaches. I’ll bet the best beaver I shoot or trap to-morrow, that
scoundrel Filou, the Chippewa, has been at his old work again and stolen
a lot.”

Baptiste finished his singing, as directed, jumped to his feet, and
looked in the direction in which his companions had turned their gaze.
There was a mass of something moving, but whether men or horses the
night was too dark to enable him to distinguish with accuracy.

“Parbleu!” said the man who was smoking, “we had better tell the master.
The Saukies are not over friendly to us, and it may be a party of them
stealing upon us, in the hope of catching us napping.”

“Bah! Latour,” returned the man of the watch, “the Saukies don’t make so
much noise when they move. It’s horses’ hoofs we hear, and not the feet
of men. A bottle of whisky to a blanket it’s Filou with a fresh prize.”

“The odds are certainly long you give,” said Le Marie, after he had
delivered himself of a prolonged puff; “but, sure enough, it is a gang
of horses, and that’s devilish like the Chippewa, who rides the first
and leads the remainder.”

All doubt was soon at rest, by the well-known voice of the Chippewa
asking for admission for himself and horses into the stockade.

“Comment!” said Le Marie, “do you take me for a blancbec, to suppose I
shall do any thing of the sort? You have stolen those horses, Filou, and
no good will ever come to us if we let them in here.”

“Ask captin,” said the Chippewa, in a tone that denoted he expected his
application to be made known to that responsible officer.

The moment was a critical one. The Saukie Indians, as has been before
stated, had manifested a hostile feeling toward the inmates of the post,
and the avoidance of offense had been strictly enjoined, as a matter of
policy, upon the people of the establishment. Filou, more than all the
others, knew of the position and means of defense of the stockade, and
therefore it became particularly a matter of precaution not to offend
him.

“Take the rascal’s message to the chief, Baptiste, and know if he is to
be admitted or not.”

In a few minutes Captain Hughes, in no very good humor, made his
appearance at the look-out, and seeing the large train of horses which
the rascal had stolen, told him, decidedly, that he himself might come
into the fort if he chose to leave his plunder behind him; but that the
latter must remain without.

The Chippewa grumbled a good deal at this decision, told him that he had
lost a good horse, and finally decided on remaining without himself and
keeping watch over the animals.

The night passed away, and it was about an hour before dawn when the
report of a rifle was heard, and soon afterward a second, from a greater
distance. Aroused from their slumbers, Captain Hughes and his people
instantly rose and repaired to the look-out, where the drowsy sentinel
was just awakening from his sleep, and were accosted from without by the
Chippewa, who told them, with an alarmed air, that the enemy were
stealing upon them, and earnestly craved admittance for himself and
horses. This request, after some little hesitation on the part of
Captain Hughes, was granted. His people were kept on the alert during
the remainder of the night, but nothing was to be seen that could
justify an alarm. Toward morning, however, Captain Hughes resolved to go
forth with a party and reconnoitre. He insisted that the Chippewa, who
was extremely unwilling to move, should accompany them, and point out
the direction whence the firing proceeded. In vain he pleaded that he
was tired and wanted rest. They compelled him to lead the way.

Until the day began to dawn, every thing was dark in the extreme—so
much so, indeed, that the undenuded stumps which, scorched and blackened
by fire, had been left to complete their natural decay, were scarcely
visible; but as the mists of night cleared away, the opening of the
forest, about a mile distant from the stockade, was distinctly seen, and
all eyes were turned toward it, as though to a place of danger.

“Hush!” said Le Marie, who the next after the Chippewa headed the party,
making a sign for them at the time to stop. “There is no enemy there,”
he said, “but one, and him I should very much like to put a bullet into.
Look! don’t you see that white bear?”

The whole party looked attentively, and distinctly saw the skin of a
white bear, but its actions were so erratic that none could account for
the singular attitudes into which it appeared to throw itself.

“I’ll soon stop his dancing,” said Le Marie, as he raised his ride, “and
if I don’t finish him, Baptiste, you can follow my shot on the instant.”

“Stop!” said Captain Hughes, striking down the leveled rifle; “pretty
eyes for voyageurs and hunters, you have. Don’t you see that it is only
the loose skin of a white bear, and that there is some one waving it
toward us as a signal?”

“Parbleu, so it is!” said Le Marie, doggedly, for he was annoyed,
priding himself, as he did, on his keenness of sight as a hunter, that
the captain should have noticed his mistake.

As they drew nearer, they could make out, just within the skirt of the
wood, an Indian, reclining against a tree, and waving toward them, as a
signal, the skin of a grizzly bear. Close at his side, and leaning her
head upon her hands, was a woman.

The party approached, still headed by the Chippewa. When they had
arrived within a few yards, the stranger Indian drew up his body, seated
as he was, to his full height, and looking indignantly at the Chippewa,
said:

“That is the man who shot me. The eye of Wawandah is good, and he can
tell his enemy even in the dark.”

“How is this?” asked Captain Hughes, turning to the horse stealer. “You,
then, fired the shot which you pretended to me was that of an enemy
approaching the fort.”

The Chippewa for a moment was confused, but soon he replied, sullenly:

“He came to steal my horses; he had taken two of them, and was going off
when I fired. He fired again, but his ball went into a stump at my side.
Was I right?”

“Never come near the fort again,” said Captain Hughes, angrily, for he
was interested in the condition of the noble featured youth. “You are a
black-hearted villain. You steal horses in droves; and because another
deprives you of one or two, you take his life.”

The eye of Wawandah brightened as he listened to the words of Captain
Hughes, which were, of course, spoken in Indian. “Wah!” he exclaimed, “I
did not steal—I only exchanged horses. Those I left were better than
those I was going to take. They were fresher than my own—I wanted them.
But,” he added, fiercely, “I am not going to die by his hand—he shall
not dance over my scalp. Sunflower,” he asked, after a moment’s pause,
“do you love me still, now that I am going to die and leave you without
a home?”

Deep sobs came from the bosom of the unhappy and guilty woman. She bent
her head over him, and said, gently:

“Oh, should I be here did I not love you, Wawandah?”

“Good!” he answered, pressing her vehemently to his heart. “It is sweet
to me to hear the Sunflower say that she loves the dying Wawandah. The
white chief will take care of you when I am dead.”

“If Wawandah dies, the Sunflower will die too. She cannot live without
him. Her heart is too full to live alone.”

“No, no!” he replied. “The white chief will go with you to the White
Bear. He will say that I am very sorry for the wrong I have done him,
and that the last prayer of Wawandah, who has been so ungrateful to him,
is, that he will take back his wife—the sweetest flower of the Saukie
tribe.”

The Sunflower raised her drooping head, and looked Wawandah steadily in
the face for some moments. She made no remark, but resumed the same
desponding attitude.

Summoning all his remaining strength—for life was fast ebbing away—the
Indian now stretched himself to the utmost tension of his body, and,
shouting out the war-cry of his tribe, drew his knife and plunged it
into his heart—then fell back and expired.

For some moments the Sunflower lay as one unconscious on the bleeding
body of the ill fated Wawandah; then raising herself up, she revealed
her face, the extreme paleness of which was visible even beneath the
dark hue of her skin. She asked the Chippewa to come near her, that she
might communicate to him a message for the White Bear, offering her
silver arm bands as the price of his service.

The cupidity of the Chippewa, more than any remorse he felt, or desire
to assist the Sunflower, induced him to approach and receive the
trinkets and the message; but while he was busily engaged in securing
that which was on her left arm, the Sunflower suddenly drew the knife
from the body of her husband and plunged it into the heart of the
Chippewa, to whom she owed all the bitterness of her fate. He fell dead
at the feet of Wawandah, and before Captain Hughes, or any of his party,
had time to prevent her, or even to understand her intention, she raised
herself to her feet with the reeking knife in her hand, and killed
herself with a single and unfaltering blow.

Deeply shocked and pained by this lamentable catastrophe, Captain Hughes
caused his men to cut litters with their axes and carry the bodies to
the fort. No one felt regret for the just punishment of the Chippewa;
but the fate of the unhappy lovers created a deep sympathy in the hearts
of all—the more so from the surpassing personal beauty of both. Two
graves were dug—one inside and the other on the outside of the
stockade. In the first was placed a rude coffin, lined with a buffalo
skin, which Captain Hughes had substituted for that of the grizzly bear,
were placed the bodies of Wawandah and the Sunflower. A sort of mound
was then raised over it, and at the head was stuck a short pole, the top
of which, for about twelve inches, was painted red. The Chippewa was
thrown unceremoniously, and without coffin, into the grave that had been
dug for him outside.

Some time afterward Captain Hughes, having occasion to visit the
encampment of the Shawnees, on a subject connected with the differences
then existing between them and the North-West Company, took the
opportunity of communicating to the White Bear all that he knew relating
to the flight and death of the unfortunate Sunflower and Wawandah;
adding to the detail the account of the sepulchral rites he had caused
to be accorded to them.

The chief, a good deal emaciated and of much sterner look than when last
introduced to the reader, at first heard him with grave and
imperturbable silence. But when he came to that part of his narrative
which described the remorse of Wawandah for the injury he had done him,
a tear, vainly sought to be hidden by a sudden motion of the head, stole
down his cheek.

“Will my brother smoke?” he said abruptly, handing him his pipe, while
he, with the disengaged hand, pressed that of Captain Hughes with the
utmost cordiality.

“Listen, my brother,” he said, after a pause. “You have done well to the
White Bear. His wigwam is empty without the Sunflower, who used to shed
light upon his hearth. Joy no more can enter it. The White Bear is alone
among the rest of his tribe, like a blasted pine in the midst of a green
forest; but it does good to his heart to hear the son of his friend—the
broken-hearted one that he took into his lodge to soothe and to
heal—was sorry that he stole the flower of his heart, and left but a
thorn in its place. The White Bear is sorry for them both; but they were
young and foolish, and dearly have they been punished. I forgive them,
brother,” again extending his hand, “and I love the white chief, who did
not leave their bodies to be devoured by the wolves, but buried them as
the White Bear would have them buried. I am glad too that you treated
the Chippewa as a dog, without any sign to mark where he lays. I feel
that many moons will not pass over me; but while they do, I will live
less unhappy at my loss, and ever love the white chief.”

Thus terminated their interview; and Captain Hughes heard, not one month
later, of the death of the White Bear.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         THE WIFE’S LAST GIFT.


                       BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.


    In the late Hungarian struggle, Count Batthyany was taken
    prisoner by the Austrians. He was sentenced to be hung, and his
    wife sent him a dagger, that, by taking his own life, he might
    escape the ignominy of such a death.

               I send a precious gift to thee,
                 My own, my honored love—
               A gift that well I know thou’lt prize,
                 All gifts of earth above.
               ’Tis meet and right that it should be
                 The rarest—’tis the last!
               Alas! how o’er me rushes now
                 The memory of the past!

               Do you remember, love, the time
                 When first within mine ear
               Thy deep voice breathed the earnest words
                 My soul rejoiced to hear?
               I gave thee then my heart’s first love,
                 Its wealth of tenderness;
               But ah! the gift I send thee now
                 Hath greater power to bless.

               And when, with claspéd hands, we stood
                 Before the altar-stone,
               And tremblingly I vowed to be
                 Forever thine alone;
               Then by the flushing of thy cheek,
                 And by thy kindling eye—
               By the low tones that thrilled my heart,
                 And by thy bearing high—

               I knew, I knew the little hand
                 So fondly pressed in thine,
               Not all the treasures of a world
                 Would tempt thee to resign.
               But, love, upon Affection’s shrine
                 I lay an offering now,
               Can weave a spell more potent far
                 Than even wifely vow!

               Now lift it from the sheltering folds
                 That hide it from thy sight—
               Nay, dearest, start not to behold
                 This dagger sharp and bright!
               Look thou upon it tranquilly—
                 Without one hurried breath—
               ’Tis the last token of a love
                 That cannot yield to death.

               Is’t not a precious gift, beloved?—
                 ’Twill break thy heavy chain;
               And prison-bolts, and dungeon-walls,
                 Shall bar thy way in vain!
               The felon’s doom thou need’st not fear,
                 This talisman is thine:
               “Freedom” and “Honor” on the blade—
                 In glowing letters shine!

               Oh! would that I might kneel, mine own,
                 By thy dear side once more,
               And hold thy head upon my breast
                 Till life’s last pang were o’er!
               I would not shrink nor falter,
                 When I saw thy life-blood flow;
               But deathless love should give me strength
                 Calmly to let thee go!

               It may not be! A shadow lies
                 Darkly upon our way;
               I may not hear thy last, low sigh,
                 Nor o’er thy still form pray.
               Oh, God of love, and might, and power!
                 Shall blood be shed in vain?—
               Upon our mountains and our vales
                 It hath been poured like rain;

               Our streams are darkened by its flow—
                 It taints the very air;
               What marvel if our spirits sink
                 In anguish and despair?
               Look Thou upon us! Thou, whose word
                 Can set the prisoner free!—
               So shall the tyrant’s sword no more
                 Hang over Hungary!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               I DREAMED.


                           BY WM. M. BRIGGS.


             I had a dream of sunny hours,
               That glided fast away;
             I had a dream of starry flowers,
             Unwet with tears of falling showers,
               Untouched by dark decay;
             I foolish dreamt of sunset skies
         That slept unchanged amid their gorgeous dies.

             I dreamt me of a little boat
               Went sailing down a stream,
             With stray bright leaves and flowers afloat,
             And many a sunbeam’s dusty mote
               And painted pebble’s gleam—
             I dreamt the barque’s bright goal was won
         And still the drifting flowers, the stream flowed on.

             I dreamed still that I sad awoke
               Upon a desert shore;
             The cold, gray morning slowly broke,
             An unseen sighing came—it spoke—
               “Thus is it evermore,
             Thus is it with thy hopes and fears—
         Flowers fade, skies darken, and the goal is tears!”

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          MINNIE DE LA CROIX:


                        OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS.


                         BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.


In a large, old-fashioned house, at the pleasant country place of ——,
dwelt a happy and united family, consisting of a father and five
daughters. Through the wide, long hall merry voices were ever heard, and
round and round twinkling feet went dancing on the pleasant gallery that
ran on all sides, that there might be nothing to stop these
light-hearted creatures in their course. Each had her neat,
sweet-looking chamber, wherein, at times, she might retire to while away
leisure hours with some cherished book, or with rapid pen convey to
paper her pure and fresh thoughts—thoughts that were too sacred to be
spoken—that wove themselves into dreams of delight, that were never,
never to be realized. Happy, happy days! when they could weave these
bright fancies, and dared to turn away from reality. The past had but
its pleasures—the present its more rational yet constant enjoyment, and
the future was hid by the rose-colored cloud that floated over its
blessed anticipations.

Mr. de la Croix looked upon his daughters as his crown of jewels, and
the homestead as the humble and unworthy casket that contained it. They
were a host within themselves to drive away dull care, and left him by
the most exemplary of wives to perpetuate her fondly cherished memory.
Dearly loved they to dwell upon her virtues, her unfailing benevolence,
her undying love for them all, and that holy piety that burned like a
precious light throughout her life. Sacred to them were the paths her
footsteps trod, the flowers she loved, and the trees her hand had
planted; and they strove with all their might of youth and inexperience
to supply her place to the husband she had loved and taught them to
love.

“Where are you all—Blanche, Lisa, Kate, Rose and Minnie,” cried Mr. de
la Croix, one morning, coming out of his room. “Who is ready to sew on a
button for me?”

“I, papa,” “and I,” answered the five, hurrying on their dressing-gowns
and opening their doors.

“I am first,” said Rose, coming forward with her thimble and needle. “Go
back, every one of you!” and she pushed them playfully away.

“And what a shame that papa has to call us up for such a thing. Minnie,
this is your week—naughty girl! and you must be scolded for
negligence,” said Lisa, shaking her dignified head at the culprit.

Minnie ran behind her father, peeped into his face as she poked hers
under his arm, and raised her saucy eyes to his. She was the youngest,
and consequently a privileged imp, depending upon every one else to mend
and darn when her turn came.

“Go away, you wild girl,” said her father, smiling. “Rose is the most
industrious of you all, for she is dressed before any of you.”

“Rose is housekeeper, and had to be up, papa; don’t inflate her with
praise she does not deserve. I have been up an hour.”

“An hour! and what were you doing, Miss?”

“_Je flanais_—there’s French for you, in good earnest; and I heard the
first bird that sang this morning,” answered Minnie, with a gay laugh.
“I was making reflections of the most profound nature when you disturbed
me—and thus the world has lost a lesson.”

“And I have been reading La Bruyère before my dressing glass,” said
Blanche, complacently, as soon as the mirth that followed Minnie’s
speech had subsided.

“Well, I have been at work already,” added Lisa, as she drew herself up.
Lisa was the tall one, and had the air of a princess.

“Oh, Lisa! _you_ remind one of the old lady who sat in her rocking chair
and did nothing,

        ‘From morning till night,
         But darn, darn, darn;’”

and Kate’s merry black eyes danced about from one to the other. “Now,
_I_ have been writing verses.”

“Yes, be an authoress—scribbler, and have a mania for dirt, disorder
and ink-stands. Pshaw! look at your fingers,” said Lisa, pointing to
them.

“I’ll wash them—I’ll wash them!” cried Kate, “without mumbling over
ugly spots, like Lady Macbeth. My little nail brush will do more than
all her perfumes.”

And running to her room she went to work to verify her word.

Soon they all met at breakfast, and Lisa presided at the cheerful board,
like the mother bird, while the rest chatted around her. She was not the
eldest but the most thoughtful, and to her all came for assistance and
advice. Her long fingers could fashion dresses, collars, ruffs, bonnets,
if necessary, and her ingenuity trampled upon impossibilities with every
new pattern that appeared. So, while Blanche busied her fine head with
metaphysics, piano, harp and guitar, the three others learned from both
to be agreeable and useful members of society.

Society they cared little for. Blanche had been a belle par excellence
until she became tired and disgusted with admiration and lovers, whose
name was legion. Lisa never liked one or the other. She contemplated
balls and beaux at a distance, and called them absurdities, though
nothing pleased her like dressing her sister, and seeing her courted and
flattered, night after night and day after day.

As for Kate, she had a touch of the romantic; she liked to sing and
dance at home, loved to laugh and be merry with those of her own age,
but thought that home the fairest and best place in the world. So, after
a winter of dissipation, she foreswore the beaumonde, and vowed its
votaries a heartless set.

Rose’s large, soft, dark eyes never wandered farther than the fences
that bounded her father’s enclosures. With something of eccentricity she
loved to steal off and enjoy a lonely hour at the close of each day, and
her piety became a proverb. Nothing could move her out of the reach of
the household gods, and at eighteen she was a child at heart and in
manner.

Minnie was the imp! Minnie loved the world, and longed for a debut, as
the minor “pants for twenty-one.” For her all hands must work—for her
all hands must stop; and thus they were all at home, a bird’s nest of
different nestlings, ready to take wing and fly when the parent bird has
ceased to control their movements.

“Come, daughters, sing and play,” said Mr. de la Croix, as he sat in his
arm chair, at the wide hall door. “What are you all about, eternally
sewing and reading? Give the old house some life, will you?”

Blanche rose and seated herself at the piano, running her little white
hands skillfully over the keys. Kate pulled the harp out of the corner,
and soon a loud, clear voice swelled melodiously through the air. Then
came a chorus of fresh young notes, and the soft strains of the piano,
with the harp’s wild, sweeping music, mingled together, while the father
sat listening to his crown of jewels, full of rapture and pride.

“Give us that trio in Guillaume Tell, sister,” said Rose, when they had
finished, and little Minnie glided into Blanche’s seat, while the three
grouped around her to comply. Then the chairs were drawn together, and
the five tongues rattled like magpies to the half bewildered Mr. de la
Croix, until he called for his candle and went to his apartment,
followed by Kate, singing,

        He called for his fife, he called for his wife,
        And he called for his fiddlers three—e-e.

“Minnie!” said Lisa, holding up a dress with a wide rent in it, “is it
‘the weakness of my eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition,’ or is
it a reality?”

“There, now!” cried the girl, snatching the dress from her, “you are on
one of your poking expeditions. I didn’t intend you should see this,
sister Lisa, for Rose promised to mend it for me.”

“And has Rose nothing to do for herself, that she is to waste time on
your carelessness?” returned Lisa, gravely. “It is not two weeks since
we made this for you, and now it is ruined.”

“Give it to me,” said Rose, quietly; “I did promise to mend it, and
would have done so before, but had the house to attend to; and the
keeping it and providing for it is any thing but a sinecure. Get me a
piece out of the scrap basket, Minnie.”

“That is the way you all combine to spoil Minnie,” said Blanche, raising
her head from her book. “She will never be fit for any thing.”

“Ay!” said the other, with an arch look and pointing to the volume, now
closed, “and who makes pretty things for Miss Blanche, while she sits in
her room poring over dull maxims and writing them off?”

“And how am I to teach you if I do not learn something myself?” asked
Blanche, with a serious expression on her fair souvenir-like face.

“Don’t teach me any of your old cynic Rochefoucauld’s scandal. I hate
him, for he never says a good thing of the human heart, and places my
own motives so often before my eyes that I take him for a reflector of
my inward-self, and blush.” And Minnie covered her face in mock
confusion.

“So much the better, then,” said Rose; “for St. Paul tells us to know
ourselves, and I vote that we treat you to a double dose of ‘les
maximes’ every day.”

“Is Daniel come?” said Minnie, bending low and performing a salaam
before her sister, who was seized with a fit of laughter that prevented
her replying.

“I hope that you will keep your absurd ideas to yourself, Minnie,”
observed Lisa, who now began to rip away at the torn skirt. “You are
talking treason when you begin to abuse La Rochefoucauld.”

“Treason or no treason, then,” cried she springing out of her seat, “the
whole world may come and listen to me, if my head were the penalty. So,
I am off to the library. No, I wont go there, either, lest the old
gentleman’s ghost jump at me; but I’ll go and practice the ‘Bamboula,’
and sister Blanche may dance a Congo polka to it.”

“Sister Blanche leaves polkas to giddy girls, but is, nevertheless,
delighted to hear them speak of practicing. You were as lazy as a sloth
over that ‘Sueia’ of Strakosch’s, and do not know it yet.”

“Pshaw! _ça viendra_, as papa says when you all talk gravely over Rose
and me. I am a perfect pattern of industry with regard to my music, am I
not, Lisa?”

“You certainly do pummel away unmercifully at the poor piano,” said
Lisa; “but half the practicing consists of imitations of Mrs. this, or
Miss that, in style, position or banging.”

“And don’t people go about and give imitations of different lions? I’m
sure I only endeavor to carve out a distinguished name for myself.”

“Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?” quoted Lisa, turning with a smile
from the willful thing that would never hear reason.

“Pray, what fame is to arise from your imitation of Mr. Gamut’s elbows?
Or from Lucy Grey’s symphonies?” asked Kate.

“Kate! Kate! did you not laugh yesterday when I played for you until the
tears rolled down your face? And didn’t you vow that Mr. Gamut himself
sat at the piano?” said Minnie.

“Indeed I did. More shame for me!” exclaimed Kate, laughing anew. “But
your imitations, as you call them, are more than human risibilities
could resist. I call Rose to witness in this case!”

“Don’t call me to witness any more of Minnie’s pranks,” said Rose. “I
cannot encourage them.”

“I’ll force you, then,” cried Minnie, seizing Kate around the waist.
“Now look at Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs waltz together.” And round she spun,
pulling Kate after her, until Lisa and Blanche were adding their peals
of laughter to Rose’s hearty amusement. Away they went until Minnie
whirled her sister out of the room, and soon after sat down to the
Bamboula in sober earnest.

Thus ended all attempts at controlling Minnie, and her task seemed that
of creating merriment wherever she went and turning all reproof into a
mockery. Indeed, she laughed too constantly, and there were times when
Lisa shook her head gravely at this perpetual merriment. A woman’s
duties begin so sternly and so positively from the hour she marries—the
bridal wreath so quickly withers into one of cares and fears, that the
sight of a creature like Minnie, full of thoughtlessness and glee,
saddened the heart that knew something of them all; and poor Lisa, with
her responsibilities, vainly warned her young sister to laugh less and
reflect more.

“I wish that you were married, Blanche,” said she one day, as they sat
together. “We see so few strangers at home, and seem so much like
equals, that Minnie will fly into the face of every thing and every body
without ever being curbed into tranquillity.”

“And what good would my marrying do, in the name of wonder?” said
Blanche with a stare.

“A vast deal, particularly if you were to bestow yourself upon a man
like Mr. Stuart, for instance.”

Lisa went on with her work, and the deep blush that suffused her
sister’s fair face was unperceived.

“Lisa!” said Blanche, after a pause, and her voice faltered; “Lisa!
would you wish me marry?”

“Not unless you are confident of being happy, dear Blanche,” was her
reply, and she looked up.

Once more the bright color mounted over the cheeks of her companion, and
the tears stood in her eyes. She held out her hand, and Lisa pressed it
affectionately as she remarked her unusual emotion.

“My dear sister! what is it that affects you thus?”

“Because, Lisa—I _have_ had thoughts of marrying, not for Minnie’s
sake—but—for my own.” She covered her face and burst into tears. Lisa
rose and clasped her in her arms, soothing her with pet names and kind
words.

“Dear Blanche—sweet dove! tell me all about it? Is it really so? and
have you promised—”

“I have promised nothing, Lisa,” replied Blanche, raising her head and
leading her to a _causeuse_. “Sit down; and now that I can speak, listen
and advise me.” Lisa obeyed, and turned her earnest sympathizing eyes
upon her sister with a look that invited confidence, such as Blanche was
about to give,—a pure and unrestrained avowal of her feelings.

“You know, Lisa, that I met Mr. Stuart frequently at my aunt’s last
winter. He is a great favorite with her, and the only one among her
young men acquaintances whose actual intimacy she solicits. Whenever he
came we were left together, naturally enough, while my aunt and uncle
busied themselves, one with her housekeeping and the other with his
papers. There was always a congeniality of tastes between us that led to
an absence of any thing like ceremony, and something like confidence
arose in our intercourse. There were books discussed that both had read,
and many that I had never seen, which I was to like because he did.
Wherever we went in the evenings he went. He was always there to draw my
arm through his, and offer me the conventional attentions that became so
delightful at length. We never spoke of love, Lisa; we never talked
sentiment _at_ one another, but it was impossible to deny that—that—”

“You loved one another,” said Lisa, seriously. She put on no arch looks,
affected no jests—this was a grave subject to her.

“But we never said so, Lisa,” said Blanche, quickly. “We never said so;
it was enough for us to be together. One morning I received a note from
Helen Clarke, begging me go to her as she was very ill. My aunt’s
carriage took me to Evergreen, and I remained a week absent. On my
return I found that _he_ had been summoned to his mother’s dying bed,
and had hurried off an hour after the letter came, taking time only to
see my aunt and bid her adieu. ‘He asked earnestly after you, Blanche,’
said she, smiling; ‘and your absence grieved him deeply, my love. But he
left a message expressive of it all, and ended it with, Tell her, my
dear Mrs. Bliss, that I will return as soon as I can, and she must not
forget me.’ I could not forget him, Lisa; but I despise a love-sick girl
as I do the plague; so I came home, determined to be happy again among
you all. I would have been ungrateful, indeed, to mope at home where we
all love one another—to pine for a stranger, while I had still all that
made life so dear. Of course, he never wrote to me—my aunt heard
occasionally from him, and the letter announcing his return, affected me
deeply. Would he still be the same, or was there a change?”

“And there was none,” said Lisa, in a low voice. “I know that now,
Blanche, though I did not dream of this before. Blind creature that I
was, not to have felt that we must part after all!”

“I have read in his looks that there is no change, Lisa,” said her
sister, growing pale. “I know that he will tell me so this very day, for
he begged me to remain at home this evening to see him. But, Lisa, if
you do not like him—if it grieves you too much to have me give up my
home for his, say so at once, and I will never leave you.” Her lips
quivered and her hand shook, but the voice was steady, and she looked at
Lisa with her calm, clear eyes until she felt those fond arms once more
thrown around her.

“Dear, generous Blanche!” murmured the sister; “did you think I could be
so selfish? Love on, dear girl, and be happy; God knows you deserve it!”

And soon after there was a wedding and a departure. Forth from the
bird’s-nest went the first fledgling, and the rest sorrowed at home
until Time with its kind hand closed the wound at their hearts. There
were gleams of sunshine in the sweet, fond letters that came with their
tales of happiness and renewed assurances that Blanche loved her old
homestead better than ever; with playful threats of jealousy from
Kenneth himself, as he added his postscript now to one, and now to the
other.

They were a long time gone, but all was repaid when Blanche returned and
placed her first born in his grandsire’s arms. Poor baby! he was
well-nigh crushed to death as the four aunts flew at him, but he grew
used to the danger in time, and thus spared his mother a world of
nursing and petting.

It was impossible not to love Kenneth Stuart—impossible not to admire
him. He had all that high integrity, that unflinching honesty that a
woman loves to lean on. Nothing could be more gentle in manner or more
firm in purpose. He could be grave or gay whenever he was called upon;
and his affection for his wife made him court that of her family that he
might further minister to her happiness, so they all learned to love as
well as reverence him, calling on him for advice or sympathy as on one
another. He had none of that childish jealousy of their mutual
fondness—none of that selfish longing to have her forget old ties for
him. It pleased him to see that same unrestrained intercourse pervade
their family meetings, to know that he had not stepped in to shadow the
light of “days gone by;” and thus they dared once more to boast of their
sunny hours and eternal spring. Mr. de la Croix sat in the old
arm-chair, and listened to the pleasant voices of his children as of
yore. Lisa went about her household duties with a firmer tread, Rose
went from one to the other with her gentle cares, Kate flitted here and
there, her merry eyes wandering around to read the wants of each and
all, while Minnie skipped about and played tricks as usual, as
incorrigible as ever, in spite of Blanche’s matronly admonitions.

“Brother Ken, may I have the dark-haired, dark-eyed cousin that Blanche
talks so much about?” said she, seating herself at his feet. “I am
thinking very seriously of the married state. I look at you and sister
and conjugate the verb, _j’aime_, _tu aimes_, _nous aimons_, _etc._ I
walk about with little Ernest, and practice baby songs, besides helping
Lisa to fuss about house, and darned a most unnatural and unfatherly
hole in papa’s socks this morning. I am perfectly recommendable, I
assure you,” and she turned up her saucy face and looked at him with an
attempt at gravity that was, as Kate said, “too absurd.”

“Young ladies of fourteen must not think of marriage,” replied Kenneth,
with one of his peculiar smiles. “I have destined Paul to Kate, as Lisa
and Rose eschew yokes, etc.”

“To Kate!” exclaimed Minnie, with a pout. “And am I to be sacrificed
because I am fourteen? Unhappy me!”

“Don’t rave, Minnie,” cried Kate, with a gay laugh. “I’ll resign in your
favor if you say so. My time has not come yet, nor my hero.”

“But he _may_ come with this Louis le Desire, Kate, and in spite of your
Arcadian dreams of shepherds and piping swains, you may succumb,” said
Minnie, shaking her little hand at her sister.

“Have I lived to be told this?” cried Kate. “Of all people in the world,
do _I_ love piping swains?”

“To be sure you do, or you wouldn’t admire all those little china
monsters under green trees and reclining on rocks that Miss Bobson
crowds upon her tables. I’ve seen you gaze at them with an eye of love
and inspiration, ten minutes at a time.”

“Yes, to keep serious while you sympathized with her about the tarnished
officer that hangs over the mantle-piece.”

“Unnatural girl!” cried Minnie. “Is it possible that you laugh at the
sorrows of others? While I listen with ready tears to the account of his
loss at sea, you are making light of this sacred wo. You shall never
deceive Miss Bobson again, Kate, for I shall warn her against the deceit
of young ladies who have a passion for her porcelain, and draw her in a
retired place the very next time she unbosoms the locket containing
curls of ancient hair.”

“Minnie! Minnie!” cried Blanche, reproachfully, “is nothing sacred to
you?”

“Nothing about Miss Bobson, of course,” was the reply of the heedless
girl. “Do you wish to impose on me to pity her mawkishness?”

“To pity her age, Minnie, and her loneliness, if nothing else,” said
Kenneth, gravely. “And also to _respect_ her years.”

“Mercy on me! what have I done? Laughed at a ridiculous old maid, and
drawn Kate into the snare. This is a mountain and a mole-hill, indeed.”

“Well, leave her out then, Minnie,” said Blanche, “and let us reprove
you a little for laughing at everybody and every thing. I heard you this
morning crying like Mrs. Simms, and you are too old now—”

“Too old!” cried Minnie, passionately. “Would to God that I might remain
a child then, if I am to cease laughing as I grow older.”

“Laugh as long as you can, dear girl, but not so much at others. I want
you to think more, Minnie; the world is not a paradise, and you must
grow more reasonable to bear a further knowledge of it.”

“Pshaw! you have all thought for me until now, continue to do so until I
get Paul, the expected, to do it forever. Come, Rose, for a race down
the avenue in this lovely moonlight. I want some animation after these
severe lectures.” And off they ran together, while the rest shook their
heads in concert.

“She is too volatile,” said Kenneth, gently, “but she will be tamed down
in time. You must not scold her for venialities like Miss Bobson again.
Now please, dear Lisa, spoil me a little and get my candle, for I must
write a letter to this very Cousin Paul of mine, before I sleep.”

And Paul Linden came. He was, as Blanche said, a handsome fellow, with
dark eyes, and hair like the raven’s wing, a beautiful mouth and teeth,
and the finest whiskers in the world. He was a frank, open,
generous-hearted creature, full of kindly impulses, but impetuous and
excitable, and much beloved by Mr. and Mrs. Stuart. This visit was one
they had long wished for, as more than probably it was preparatory to
his permanent settlement near them.

It was impossible not to feel flattered at the welcome extended him on
his arrival at Mr. de la Croix’s, and before night, he was as much at
home as though he had known them for years.

“I am bewildered with this paradise of houris, Kenneth,” said he, as
they paced the long piazza. “Since my poor mother’s death, which took
place, as you know, before I left college, I have never felt so
completely domesticated among women, and the charm their society affords
me is perfectly indescribable. How happy you are to have so pleasant a
home.”

“Happy, indeed, Paul! They are a lovely group, and I consider myself
peculiarly fortunate in being able to keep my Blanche here and preserve
it entire. It would be a shame to break it up.”

“Blanche is a jewel in herself,” said Paul, affectionately. “I had no
idea that there could be four more like her. What a lovely girl her
sister Kate is! I think she is _my_ favorite, Kenneth, if I may have
one.”

And Kenneth thought the preference reciprocal, but kept his counsel
until a better time, for Minnie’s voice was heard in the hall singing to
the baby, and he smiled as he remembered how she pretended to practice
nursery songs.

“Very well done, Minnie,” said he, as they paused at the door, and
watched her graceful frolicks with Ernest. “You are really growing quite
recommendable.”

“Now, brother Kenneth, if you do tell that!” cried she, blushing, “I
never will speak to you again!”

“I shall not tell, then,” was the reply; “but in return for my
discretion, you must go and ask Kate if she sewed the tassel on my
smoking-cap as she promised.”

“To be sure I did,” said a pleasant voice, and Kate, tripping out of the
parlor with the cap in hand, looked prettier than ever.

“Ah, thank you, dear Kate! now do keep Paul in a good humor while I go
off to smoke my cigar. It would be ill-mannered to leave him alone.”

Kate smiled, and the walk on the piazza was changed for one down the
avenue. It must have been a pleasant one, for the bell rang for tea, and
they were still there watching the pale moon rise, and wondering within
themselves how often they would enjoy the same exercise with the same
pleasure.

They did not wonder long. Every evening there was a challenge from Paul
Linden to some one, for a walk, and somehow or other they were all tired
but Kate, and all too busy but Kate. It was not very long, then, before
the silent leaves were witnesses to a plighting of faith between those
two, and heard (if leaves _can_ hear,) what Paul Linden thought, the
softest music on earth—the low tones that told him the loss of sweet
Kate de la Croix’s heart of hearts.

The leaves saw a strange ring glitter on her fair hand, and they were
discreet—but not so the sisters. Minnie spied the little symbol of
their united faith, and poor Kate told her secret amid tears and sobs.
Even _she_ was unhappy that night, as she remembered the burst of grief
that followed its disclosure, and another bird went from the nest almost
as soon as the wedding was over.

Mr. de la Croix smoked an unusual number of cigars the evening his
daughter left, and the sisters tried to be cheerful; but there was not
one that went to bed that night without going into Kate’s empty room to
weep afresh. Lisa had to threaten to turn it into a rag-chamber before
they could accustom themselves to pass it without entering and mourning
its occupant as one never to return.

“Don’t be forever crying over Kate,” she would say; “she is coming back,
and you had better wait till then and be happy.”

“But we miss her so, Lisa,” said Rose, as her large eyes filled.

“So do I, but you do not see me going about crying over an old glove or
a scrap of writing as you do. And you cannot say that I love her less
than the rest of her sisters.”

“Moreover, my dear girls,” said Kenneth, taking his seat among them, and
lifting little Ernest on his knee, “your spirits affect your father’s.
He feels the loss of his child, and you must all try to speak of her
return and not of her departure. I know how much you feel Kate’s
absence, but you must begin to look upon your separation as a thing that
is to come one day. It is in the course of nature. There are three more
to leave their home; how can you expect that all can be as fortunate as
Blanche and Kate, who remain with you, as of yore. Paul’s business will
probably detain him a year, but he will return to settle here with us,
and we must look at the bright side of things as long as we can. I have
been saying all this to Blanche who ought to be as reasonable as Lisa;
and now I am come to beg you for your own sakes to bear inevitable
trials with the fortitude that is so precious when you once attain it.
Minnie wants scolding, I am afraid,” continued he, as he stroked her
head fondly. “Why do you not play on the piano and sing as usual? The
sound of music will enliven us all, and the mechanical exercise of those
little fingers will occupy your mind after a while, particularly if you
set to work with those _études_ of Moschelles, of whose difficulty I
have heard so much.” And he smiled so encouragingly that Minnie flew off
to mind him, and soon after Mr. de la Croix come out of his room, saying
he was glad to hear the piano going again. Minnie was rewarded fully
when she saw him take his old seat and doze while she played; and she
told Kenneth in confidence, that she was much obliged to him for the
scolding, but he must not tell Lisa, because she might take advantage of
it. And there came that night a long letter from Kate, that helped to
comfort them all. Poor Kate! her return was destined to be a sad one,
for on the route, her beautiful little girl, her darling Blanche, was
taken sick, and drooped so rapidly, that when she reached home, there
was no longer any hope.

Silently they folded her in their arms, and noiselessly they bent their
steps to her own old room, and placed the little sufferer upon its bed.
Its soft eyes turned lovingly to its stricken mother, who sat beside it
in mute agony, as once more they all stood together and mourned over
her. Poor, wretched mother! so young to be so sorrowed! How full of
anguish was the appealing look she cast upon her father, as he gazed
with all a parent’s suffering upon his bright, merry-hearted Kate.

All that human skill could do was done—all that tender watchfulness
could effect; but the angels had gathered round, and were beckoning that
little spirit away. Paler grew the pale cheek—dim the sweet, loving
eyes; and the young mother bent over her beautiful child, in misery such
as they know only who have laid these treasures in the grave.

“Oh God of heaven!” was her mournful cry, “thou hast taken the sunshine
of my life! Darker and darker grows the world to me, as those loved eyes
grow dim. Thou hast crushed me to the earth, oh God! raise me with faith
in thy unerring wisdom, that I may not doubt thy justice! Oh, my
treasured one! Oh, my more than life—what is life to me?”

Her husband turned and placed his hand in hers. She bowed her head upon
it, as though to seek forgiveness, and once more raised it to look upon
her darling. To the last those eyes had turned to her with a long,
lingering look, but now Lisa was closing them in their eternal sleep,
and the angels were bearing that pure, sinless one in triumph to their
home.

With a loud, piercing cry, the childless mother fell back, and the
sisters no longer restraining their grief, filled the house with their
cries. Kenneth bore her out of the room, and returned for Paul, who
stood gazing at his dead infant as one stupefied.

“Go to your wife, Paul,” said he; “go to poor Kate; your love alone can
soften this heavy blow;” and he remained to bend and kiss the now
stiffening form of the lovely little creature. “I will send Blanche to
you, Lisa; you must not perform the last sad task alone. Alas! poor
Kate! how my heart bleeds for you!”

He then sought Mr. de la Croix, who was wildly walking about the garden,
muttering to himself in his grief for the grandchild he had never known,
and the mother—his darling Kate. Kenneth remained to soothe him, and
after persuading him to take some rest, returned to the house.

The little corpse was already in its grave-clothes, looking like
sculptured marble as it lay extended on the couch. The long, shining
hair was parted on the pure brow, and fell around its head like a shower
of gold. Pale tea-roses were on its breast, and in those white, clasped
hands, emblems of its purity and fragility. Lisa and Blanche were
weeping silently over their lost pet, and Minnie’s screams, mingled with
the more subdued cries of Rose, came mournfully through the air. This
was the first sorrow of their womanhood, and the old homestead seemed
desolate indeed, now that the iron had entered one young, fresh heart
with its bleeding wound, its horrid void.

Kate came again to look upon her child. With Paul’s arm around her, she
stood once more beside its still cold form. Raising her hands, she
uttered a low moan that pierced the hearts of those around her.

“Oh, blessed babe!—my darling, my loved one! I see you for the last
time! You that I have borne, that I have watched and cherished with more
than a mother’s care; you that have given me so much happiness, so much
pride; here is all that is left to me, and _that_ must go into the cold
earth to be seen no more! Those little arms that were folded around my
neck; those little hands that clasped mine so lovingly, are mine no
more! Those lips that never refused to kiss me, will meet mine no more!
Oh God, no more! Why, ah why was I thus smitten to the dust? Why was she
so surely mine—so tended and so watched? Why is she torn from the
mother that idolized her?”

“That she might be spared your trials, my dear child,” said a voice; and
they all made room, as a venerable-looking old man came and stood beside
her. “That she might wear that crown of glory which even your care could
not give her, and which she now treasures as you treasured _her_.”

Kate bowed her head and wept. In her grief she could not remember this,
and she listened in silence as holy words were spoken to her, and
promises held out that she might grow strong in faith. Her piety came to
her as a blessing, and she leaned, poor, broken reed, upon the cross her
Saviour bore, until her spirit, fainting from its weight of wo, could
bear to look upward and say, “His will be done.”

The loved and the cherished was laid in her last resting-place, and her
mother left to mourn and miss the care of her life. Affection and
sympathy were given her, and no one seemed ever impatient with her
constant grief. But she made an effort to be cheerful once more, and
mingling in the usual pursuits of the family, found it easier than she
had expected. Her husband’s unvarying gentleness, his watchful kindness
were sources of much comfort to her bruised spirit, and she strove,
poor, grieved one! to struggle _with_ her grief. Time passed, though the
wound was fresh and often bled, Kate had learned, for the sake of
others, to appear happy and composed because she prayed for strength.
But who could tell the fierce strife that was working in her heart? Who
could dream of the hours passed in silent suffering, when sleep refused
to visit her alone of that quiet crowd? When through the darkness she
gazed, her spirit beckoning back the child, whose every look was
treasured, whose very cry came upon her troubled soul; when she tortured
herself into the conviction that it might have been saved; that she
herself, poor, devoted creature, had not been the watchful nurse beside
its sick bed. Oh! if these bitter thoughts _are_ sent us as
temptations—as trials of our faith in the mercy and justice of the
Almighty, how often we are tried, how often in danger of falling!

And Kate struggled with a mighty strength against these terrible
remembrances, going on as usual with her daily occupations, missing at
each moment the beloved object of her care, but walking boldly on, not
daring to look behind, lest her courage should fail her.

And thus she toiled and received her reward, as days went by, and she
was able to look to Heaven alone as the haven for all who were wrecked
upon the world’s wild coast. All seemed grateful to her for her
resignation—all were kind and considerate; and she remembered that
there was between herself and that “better land” a powerful link that
nothing could destroy.

“I do not think that Rose is looking well, father,” said she one day, as
she went into his room with her work, and seated herself at his side. “I
wish you would observe her.”

Mr. de la Croix laid down his book with a look of alarm. Was another one
of his crown of jewels to lose its brightness?

“I do not say that she is positively ill,” said Kate, “but there is a
languor about her—an indifference to her usual enjoyments that I do not
like. She requires change.”

“But what can be the matter with her, my dear child?” said her father,
looking bewildered. “There must be a cause.”

“A cause that she is not probably aware of herself, but we cannot hope
that Rose’s health will continue forever in the same perfect state, and
as her disposition is different from the rest of us, her life has been a
more sedentary one through that very difference. You know she rarely if
ever goes out.”

“True, very true, my dear, I am glad you reminded me of this. Rose must
have a change, and, strange to tell, this very day I received a letter
from your Aunt Bliss, begging that I would let her have one of the girls
this summer to accompany her.”

“But she goes to Europe, father!” exclaimed Kate.

“And that is the very thing for Rose, hard as it is to send her so far;
but it will improve her in every thing. Send her here, my love, and tell
Lisa to come with her.”

What surprised them all was Rose’s willingness to go; and they all
agreed that she felt the necessity of being roused from her unusual
state, to be thrown more on her own resources. Kate’s clear judgment had
found out the evil, and proposed the remedy; and Rose’s eyes filled as
she thought of her sister’s watchfulness in the midst of her grief.

The preparations for her departure were of great assistance to Kate, who
busied herself diligently, and gave herself no time for thought. She
accompanied her father and Rose to meet her Aunt Bliss, and as the
steamer was detained a few days, remained to see her off.

It was a sad parting, for Rose had never been from home before; but she,
timid bird, must try her wings like the rest, and though her flight was
long, it would be a happy one; and when Kate and her father reached
home, part of the sisters’ grief for Rose was lost in the delight of
seeing her look so well—so much more like her former self.

The old homestead resumed its quiet tone, and its occupants their usual
habits, more reconciled to their changes, more fit to play their part in
the battle of life. No longer looking upon their hoard of bliss as
secure, no longer expecting

                  Amidst the scene to find,
        Some spot to real happiness consigned,

they endeavor to prepare themselves to breast the storm, should sorrow
come again upon the little band.

All but Minnie, her grief was violent and willful, refusing all comfort,
rejecting the means of softening it while it lasted; but there was no
change in her light volatile disposition; and Kate, poor Kate! wise from
sad experience, lectured in vain.

“Where is Blanche?” said Lisa, coming in from the garden with her bonnet
on. “Do you know Minnie?”

“Do I know? Yes; she’s hid in the moon, if you can’t find her; for that
is where Ariosto says every thing is hid that is lost.”

“Pshaw, Minnie! do not be foolish. Where is Blanche?”

“Tell me what you want with her, and I will take a broomstick and ride
after her then?” said the wild girl. “I must be paid for so much trouble
before I undertake it.”

“I would you could promise to stay in the clouds a while and freeze your
spirits into reason. But my wants are no secret or I’d never tell you,
madcap Minnie. Go and find Blanche, and ask her for the key of the
silver closet.”

“And that is all! I’m sorry I promised now, as the contempt I feel for
the errand makes it disgraceful. But here I go, being honor itself about
keeping promises.”

“Excepting those you make to become better and wiser,” rejoined Lisa, as
she ran off. In an instant she was back.

“Lord bless us! She is in the library listening to Kenneth read Cosmos.
I wish he’d put _me_ to sleep sometimes, as I am sure he often does his
wife.”

“I wish he would!” said Lisa, “and he would oblige others besides
myself. Go and ask Kate to come down in the store-room and help me.”

“And what do you want with Kate in the store-room, Miss Lisa?” said
Minnie, as she tied the key she held to the string of her bonnet. “There
must be something going on that I cannot guess.”

“I want her to make an Italian cream for dinner, while I busy myself
with something else that does not concern you.”

“On the principle of ‘_Faut être deux pour avoir du plaisir_,’ I
presume,” said Minnie. “How affecting! But something is in the wind,
Lisa, or you would not fuss over creams, etc. Is any one expected to
dinner?”

“I give you permission to expect as many persons as you like,” replied
she, with provoking gravity. “Tell me their names, and I will prepare
the banquet.”

“I never saw such a mysterious old oracle as you are! Getting out more
plate, more napkins, and steeping gelatin with so much solemnity, as
though we never did have company in our lives before, then preserving
such a dark cloud of silence on the subject! Kate! who is coming here
to-day—tell me, and don’t be foolish about it?” cried Minnie. “Sister
is enveloped in mystery and wont let me know.”

“Kate does not know herself,” said Lisa, smiling; “but may be she can
guess.”

“This is Rose’s birth-day,” said Kate, after a pause, “and—”

“And I forgot it!” exclaimed Minnie, as she burst into a flood of tears.
“The first one she ever passed away from home!”

“And the last, I trust,” said Kate, tenderly. “Poor, dear Rose! I wonder
where she is now!”

“Enjoying herself very much, I suppose,” said Lisa, crushing a lump of
sugar into her bowl of eggs, “and wishing we were all with her. She
would be surprised at the idea of your crying about her, I dare say.”

Minnie made a step forward, and threw down a cup that was too delicate
for such rough usage.

“There!” said her sister, “you have your day’s work before you. I never
saw such a careless girl.”

“Never mind,” said Minnie, collecting the fragments, and smiling through
her tears, “this will do to place among

              The broken teacups,
        Wisely kept for show,

that _you_ keep on the shelf there. I’ll cement it for you.”

“Thank you! I wish you could mend some of your bad habits as easily as
you promise to patch broken china. It would keep you busy for life.”

“Alas, poor Minnie!” said the girl, “how unjust the world is! What can I
do?”

“Go and see that Sampson puts the dining-room in extra trim, and fill
the finger-bowls,” said Lisa.

“Dear sister! I am not Dalilah, and cannot manage the strong hero of
antiquity,” said Minnie, with affected humility. “But I will crown the
bowls with orange leaves, and perform any other lowly task with much
pleasure.” And she left the room singing a light song, that ever and
anon fell sweetly on the ears of that united household as they paused to
catch the tones of the young, rich voice.

“Mr. Selby and his nephew dine with us,” said Lisa, as she and Kate
compounded their dessert together, “and as the latter is about to sail
for Europe, papa has promised him letters for Uncle Bliss and Rose.”

“Indeed!” said Kate. “That will be very pleasant for them to see any one
that can give such direct news of us. Do you remember to have seen young
Mr. Selby, Lisa?”

“When he was a little boy, I saw him once at his uncle’s, but he has
been at college for years past. He is now on a farewell visit, and will
not return for some time, of course. I hope he will be like old Mr.
Selby, for he is one of the kindest and most agreeable men I ever knew.”

“Yes, he is universally beloved. Paul esteems him highly, and often goes
to him for advice.”

And Kate thought Paul’s opinion sufficient to determine the importance
of the universe.

Minnie had her own ideas, and very soon found herself in merry
conversation with Harry Selby, who devoted himself to his pretty
neighbor at dinner with a zeal that made his uncle laugh.

“What is that, Miss Minnie? What did you say then?” asked he across the
table.

“I was wondering, sir, if Mr. Selby will return a true hearted American,
after seeing all the splendor and beauty of the old world,” replied
Minnie, glancing at him with her bright eyes.

“Of course he will,” said the uncle. “Do you think now that any of the
English blondes, the French brunettes, or the Italian signoras, will
ever drive your saucy face out of his mind?”

Minnie blushed—so did Harry; but she parried the attack.

“Oh, he can easily forget _me_, for this is our first meeting, and will
be the last; but there must be many persons whom he could not under any
circumstances so wrong—yourself, for instance.”

Mr. Selby laughed. “And so you think that my ugly phiz will be the one
to haunt a young fellow on his travels. Do him justice, Minnie, and give
him credit for a dash of sentiment at least. Do you think him insensible
to the charm of dark eyes and all that?”

“By no means, sir; but it would be impertinent on so short an
acquaintance to attempt to fathom so mysterious a thing as a human
heart, such as I suppose belongs to Mr. Selby.” And Minnie blushed again
as a pair of large, brown eyes met hers with an unequivocal glance of
admiration.

The owner of said orbs began something like a compliment; but there was
an unnecessary tinkling of the ice in Minnie’s glass, and she did not
appear to hear it. Besides, at that particular moment, Paul leant
forward, and asked for some information about a planing machine; and the
conversation turning on inch-boards, weather-boards, and thousands of
feet of lumber, the ladies rose and left the table to adjourn to the
parlor.

Harry soon followed them—what cared he for planing-mills? And Blanche
made room for him by Minnie, the place he evidently wanted, for he never
left it until his uncle called to her for some music, and a “good old
song.”

Unfortunately for him, young ladies play too well now-a-days to require
a book before them, and as there were no leaves to be turned, Harry
stood at a distance, admiring the rapid little fingers as they flew over
the ivory.

“Who taught you?” exclaimed he, as she ended Rosellen’s pretty
variations from Don Pasquale, “who taught you?”

She pointed to Kate, who nodded her head with a proud smile.

“Is it possible! When I get to Paris, I shall boast of my countrywoman,
Mrs. Linden, for I am confident—”

“But the song of Minnie, the song!” interrupted Mr. Selby senior. “I
asked for a song, young lady.”

“I know it, sir, but I will leave that to the rest, as I can only boast
of a few notes as yet.” And Minnie rose and gave her place to Blanche.

“Minnie does not like to show off unless she is sure of creating a
sensation,” said Mr. Linden, laughing as she took her seat beside him.
“If you did but know, Mr. Selby, what a wonderful debut she is prepared
to make; all the young ladies will hide their diminished heads next year
at her first Mazourka, and never dance again. Wont they, Minnie?”

“You flatter me,” said she, smiling good humoredly. “I only intend to be
_one_ of the stars—not the bright particular one, for I have only my
wits to help me out.”

“And they will be all sufficient,” said old Mr. Selby, patting her
cheek. “I’m sure of my little pet’s entire success in the great world of
fashion. How many ball-dresses is Rose to bring across the wide ocean?”

“Oh, she has carte blanche,” returned she, “and I will send for you as
soon as they are unpacked, that you may determine my first costume.”

But the evening wore away, and the family separated at an early hour, as
the letters must be written to Rose for the next morning. Each had a
volume to say, and Minnie’s exceeded the third page, as she had promised
such faithful accounts of home to the wanderer, even the dogs were
immortalized that night, for an affecting account of Ponto’s regret for
his mistress drew tears from the writer’s own eyes.

“Lord bless us! what a correspondence,” exclaimed Mr. de la Croix, as
the letters were thrown on the table. “Poor Rose will never get through
it.”

“There’s a postscript from Kenneth, and myself, of course,” said Paul,
as he threw down a pretty envelope. “An endless communication from
Minnie, six pages between Blanche and Kate, two from Lisa, she being too
sensible to waste time, and a well filled sheet from you, sir. Rose will
have work and instruction for a week when all this reaches her. Did you
have a good pen, Minnie?”

“To be sure I did,” replied she, looking up.

“Then I rejoice, for Rose’s sake, your calligraphy being at times very
Egyptian. However, Harry Selby will take great pleasure in assisting her
to decipher it, I dare say; and I feel much relieved on her account.”

Minnie pulled his hair for him at this declaration, and vowed revenge.
Rose could read her writing very well, though others might be dull
enough to suspect the contrary.

There was a charm about Minnie that was irresistible—it was her
unvarying good humor, her sweet, even temper. Even while asserting her
willful but childish dislike of reproof it was impossible to be angry
with her. Nothing like an angry retort ever passed her lips; as
ineffectual as a reprimand was to her wild spirit, she took it
smilingly, and disarmed displeasure with her winning ways. No wonder
that her sisters loved her; no wonder they feared for her as years
passed, and she was yet untamed. Impulsive, obedient to these impulses,
and inconstant in her tastes, Minnie de la Croix, at the age of
seventeen, was no wiser than a child of ten. If she offended she was
wretched until she had been forgiven, and as ready to pardon as she was
averse to wound. Her life had been one of sunshine and love; but she was
growing up to womanhood, and dreamed not of its perils and its
pains—saw nothing but smiles and fair promises in the world before her.

Rose’s account of young Selby’s arrival in Paris was satisfactory to all
parties. “He came to see us,” wrote she, “as soon as he arrived, taking
time only, as I suppose, to make himself look remarkably handsome under
a French valet’s hands. He greeted me most affectionately, and I verily
believe would have kissed me upon slight encouragement. He gave me news
of my dear home, of my dearest father and sisters; and if he had been as
ugly as a Chinese, I should have thought him an Adonis. He tells me that
you are all in perfect health, and describes my Minnie as something very
lovely. Very bewitching, he said, and so very pretty. My resemblance to
her seemed to delight him; but as I am neither of the two epithets
bestowed upon her, I am afraid it will wear off. We were at the Opera
last evening, and, of course, he joined us; but there was no time to
talk when Jenny Lind was singing, and I could not have heard him if he
had attempted it, I was so absorbed; but he had too much taste for such
a mistake. We spend this evening at the American Minister’s, where I am
to see a whole cage of French lions; and what is better, some of my own
dear countrymen. I am delighted with the grace and ease of the Parisian
ladies—it is impossible to resist their fascination of manner, the very
lifting of their veils is a tableau in itself. Minnie’s numberless
dresses for next winter I shall choose under the surveillance of one of
our new acquaintances, one of the presiding goddesses of fashion, whose
taste is so infallible, that, if she were to have her bonnet bent by
accident, bent bonnets would suddenly become the rage.”

We cannot give all Rose’s letter, as it was a long one, but must hurry
over her return, and bring her home in time for Minnie’s ball, as the
whole house called it. The dear absentee arrived in the midst of the
preparations, at the time appointed. Mr. de la Croix wished to celebrate
her happy return among them with Minnie’s debut, and there was no end to
the joy of the sisters as they all met together once more in the room
wherein Rose’s boxes and trunks had been carried. Mr. Linden was there
with a hammer, which he swung over their heads, as he called out where
he was to begin, and the door opened to admit Mr. de la Croix, Kenneth,
and Harry Selby’s uncle. Minnie had promised, he said, that he should
choose her costume upon this great occasion, and here he was, to do his
duty conscientiously.

He was gladly welcomed, and Paul fell to work on a large _caisse_,
according to Rose’s directions. The lid flew off and revealed a very
mysterious covering of white paper, which they proceeded to remove, and
Lisa’s nice hands were called upon to take out the beautiful dresses
that lay so lightly one upon the other.

“Beautiful!” they cried, as a blue tarlatan of the most delicate shade
was held up. “Exquisite! Who is this for?”

“For Lisa,” said Rose, displaying its beauties; “and I have the most
unexceptionable bouquets of pink moss roses for the looping of the
skirt, sleeves, and one for the bosom. Now that white dress is for
Blanche—my Lady Blanche—and the two rose-colored for Minnie and
myself. All have flowers to trim alike. You will find Kate’s in the
other box—there was no room for it in this one.”

“Here is another white one,” said Minnie, who had danced around the room
in a perfect glee. “Whose is it?”

“That is yours also, Minnie,” answered Rose, with an affectionate smile.
“You will want more than one ball-dress, my little debutante. Then—here
Paul! Paul! to your duty—open this box. Mr. Selby! you have something
to do with this, sir.”

All eyes turned to him as he came forward with a queer smile from the
window at which he and Mr. de la Croix sat looking on, and enjoying the
scene of gayety and confusion that passed before them.

“What have I to do with boxes, my pretty Rose,” inquired he. “I sent for
no coats or pantaloons?”

“But you sent for the contents of this box, Mr. Selby,” said she,
nodding her head significantly. “What they are, I know not; but Harry
asked me to let it come on with my baggage, as it was yours, and to be
opened at Oakwood. So here it is, and as _I_ have some curiosity about
it, I call upon this self-constituted carpenter to gratify it.”

Down went Paul’s hammer and chisel, and the nails gave way. More white
paper—and many little tape-strings running across, busied Lisa’s
fingers for some minutes. At length she drew out a dress so beautiful
that even Mr. de la Croix came forward. It was of a most delicate
texture, white, and embroidered around the skirt in palms of silver.
Nothing could be more exquisite, and Lisa drew forth gloves and slippers
to correspond. There was still a small box lying within, but as every
one was exclaiming over the shining robe, she deferred taking it out
until it was time.

“Now, Mr. Selby! Mr. Selby! what did you want with this dress? Tell us
quickly—are you going to be married?”

“Not unless Minnie will have me, for it is hers,” said he, covering her
with the lovely thing, and looking half ashamed as she uttered a scream
of delight.

“I see a letter there for me—hush child! hush! don’t mention it, that’s
a good girl—I’m quite rewarded by your pleasure; let us read Mr.
Harry’s communication.” He broke the seal and began reading it aloud.

“My dear uncle, Madame de Rosiere went to the modiste’s with me, and
chose these articles as you requested; being as perfect in taste and
dress as she is in wit, it must be a gem, almost worthy of the fair
creature for whom it is destined. (Hem! Harry is eloquent.) As I knew
where Miss de la Croix had _her_ dresses made, Madame de R. went with me
there, and arranged it all with the ingenuity of a Frenchwoman—that
this was to be made and packed with the rest, though in a separate box,
and sent to Mr. Bliss’s hotel, when I asked him to take charge of it
according to your orders. It gave me the greatest pleasure to attend to
your commission, I do assure you, and I must thank you for it. How I
long to see your favorite in a costume that seems to my poor eyes, one
that will robe her like an angel of light. (Hurrah for the boy! he is
really a gone case.) In the small box you will find a—” here Mr. Selby
muttered the rest to himself, and ended with “your affectionate nephew,
etc.”

The old gentleman then took out of a satin case a fan so superior to any
Minnie’s unpracticed eyes had ever seen, that her admiration knew no
bounds. On the slender gold ring that passed through the handle was her
name in full, and to a chain of fine workmanship was attached a ruby for
her taper finger.

“Minnie is a spoiled child,” said her father, taking the costly bauble
and examining the pretty painting upon it, an acquisition in itself. It
represented a young girl in the first bloom of youth with her arm around
the neck of a beautiful greyhound, that looked up wistfully in her face.
The attitude was full of grace, not unlike Minnie’s own, and Rose smiled
as she remarked that Mr. Selby had chosen an emblem of fidelity for her
little sister’s study during ball-room scenes.

“More probably as an example,” said his uncle, with a meaning smile.
“Harry can never be classed among that portion of his sex, ‘to one thing
constant never,’ and he, in my humble opinion, would love to communicate
some of the same spirit to others.” A sly glance at Minnie accompanied
these last words; but she was examining her fan very closely, and did
not perceive it. At length she went and laid her hand upon his arm,
looking up at him with a grateful expression.

“You have been so very kind to me—so thoughtful of my enjoyment in the
world, that I cannot thank you in words. Some of these days, like the
mouse proved to the lion, I may find a way to serve you, but until then
you must believe how deeply I feel all this attention. Now come and
choose my costume for to-morrow night—shall I come out in all the
splendor of my white and silver?”

“No, my dear,” said Mr. Selby, kindly. “You must be like Rose to-morrow,
and wear the other when my sister gets my old-fashioned house in
readiness for another party, where you will receive the guests as your
own. Now let me kiss that soft cheek, and run away to my business in
town.”

“And not see all _my_ presents, Mr. Selby!” exclaimed Rose. “They cannot
equal yours, but I have some very choice specimens of porcelain, besides
collars, capes, etc. Now look at this transparent lamp-shade, with the
angels’ heads; and see these vases. Here is a coffee-cup for papa, one
for Paul and Kenneth, with their initials, and here is an inkstand for
my darling Kate.”

“And what is for Lisa and Blanche?” asked he, admiring each as she
presented them.

“The lamp is for my industrious queen bee, Lisa, the vases for Blanche,
and things innumerable for the rest. You do not care about seeing the
‘dry goods,’ I know, but wait until I show you some of my own work. I
have embroidered three vests for my three pets—papa and ‘the brothers,’
besides a scarf for my friend, Mr. Selby.”

He was delighted at the idea of being remembered by her while in a
distant land, and Rose was forced to send him away to get rid of his
thanks.

They hurried over the rest of the unpacking, as many preparations were
needed for the next day’s fête, and were soon running about from one
room to the other, laughing and singing as in days gone by.

                                           [_Conclusion in our next._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               THEODORA.


                         A BALLAD OF THE WOODS.


                         BY GEO. CANNING HILL.


With her raven tresses falling loosely down her neck of snow,
And her cheek all flushed with crimson, like the morning’s richest glow,
From a covert, Theodora, like a loosened sheaf of light,
Burst, with wild and ringing laughter, in upon my wildered sight.

Like a golden dream she came to me, and like a dream she fled,
Crushing crystal dews beneath her, as the diamonds in their bed;
And a spirit seemed to linger round the covert whence she came,
As a glow is oft reflected from the brightness of a flame.

Far within the solemn forest disappeared her sylphide form,
As the gentle star of even pales before presaging storm;
Every songster’s notes were silent, all the wild-flowers wore a blush,
And throughout the wood’s dark mazes was a calm and holy hush.

Such a gush of richest melody as then bestirred the air,
In my soul awakened echoes that had long been slumb’ring there;
’Twas a harmony angelic, that her spirit caught at birth,
And she poured it out in mellow floods, as one of common worth.

Straight she hied her to a fountain, that lay sleeping in the glen—
’Twas a fountain hidden deeply from the common gaze of men;
Greenest mosses grew about it, walling up its crystal wealth,
Save a silver ribbon that escaped its velvet lip by stealth.

On its smooth and argent surface fell the tears that Dryads wept;
In its deep, unruffled bosom sweetest dreams serenely slept;
Not a human face could ever have intruded on the calm
That was reigning all around it, like the fragrance from a balm.

As she drew, unguarded, nigh it, gently seemed the waters stirred;
For the music of her voice was as the warbling of a bird:
And the sheet of liquid crystal, that was slipping o’er the rim,
For a moment fairly quavered, ere it parted from the brim.

Coming nearer, then she spied it—this sweet mirror hidden there—
All set round with greenest mosses, and arbuscles fresh and rare;
And she clapped her hands delighted, as she hastened to its side,
And she shouted with a melody that thrilled its mimic tide.

Then she sat her down beside it, and with hand pressed to her zone,
Thus a moment sat she silent, in her wonderment alone;
Raven ringlets trembled slightly, lustrous eyes beamed wondrous bright,
As she gazed upon the crystal that lay sleeping in her sight.

Bending downward yet more lowly, till the wave her tresses swept,
She essayed to look beyond the brink, where Heaven’s cerulean slept;
But she started as she caught the face so beautiful and fair
That was looking up into her own from out the lakelet there.

Throughout all her wildered senses sped a feeling of affright;
Yet the tremor was well tempered with a sweet, unknown delight:
And she gazed into the large blue eyes that met her from below,
And she thought they peered from out a world beneath the waters’ flow.

Then a blush of richest crimson mounted up unto her cheek,
And a smile enwreathed her parted lips, as if she fain would speak;
But yet while she looked still steadfastly, the face below it smiled,
And Theodora clasped her hands, with seeming transport wild.

Every day thereafter went she, as a nun within her cell,
To the little crystal cloister there imbedded in the dell:
And as every time she looked within, she saw an angel-face—
Upon each reflected feature read the words of truth and grace.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            PEDRO DE PADILH.


                            BY J. M. LEGARE.


                      (_Continued from page 236._)

                         SPAIN, AND TERCERA.  }
                                AD. 1583.     }

After the battle in which De Haye, the maître-de-camp was killed, and
the Portuguese ran away to a man, leaving the French to maintain the
honor of the day and their ultimate position on a hill near at hand, the
Spanish army unbuckled their armor and sat down to stretch their limbs
beside the fires at which their suppers were cooking; and if any one in
camp lost appetite that evening, it was not because of the numberless
gaping wounds witnessing to Heaven against him from the field behind. A
mile or so above, a few scattered lights showed where the remnant of De
Chaste’s army held ground, and awaited the morrow with little fear but
much hunger, sending to perdition the viceroy and entire Portuguese
nation the last thing before dropping to sleep: midway between these two
rows of fires, was neither life nor light save such as a crescent moon
gave, and as much as lingered in some poor wretch with more vitality
than was best for him. In which middle space the Damon and Pythias of
this story, Hilo and Carlo, prowled about, turning over the stiff
carcasses in search of valuables, for nothing of convertible worth came
amiss to the pair, whose personal property was staked nightly at dice.
Occasionally an apparent corpse tossed about his arms and legs
convulsively, or prayed in a husky whisper for a little water, for life
and mercy’s sake a single draught; but in either case the Walloon, like
a rough angel of mercy as he was, put an end to their anguish promptly,
saying with a grin to Hilo—“You know it’s for his good I do it: if he
drank any thing it might keep him alive till somebody who aint his
friend comes round. It would be a heap harder to die after making up his
mind he was to live again, wouldn’t it?”

To which Hilo replied with some contempt: the boy was ferocious, as has
been elsewhere said, only on provocation—

“You’re fitter for a hangman than a soldier, serjeant.”

A truth Wolfang took for a compliment.

“Hey?” cried that cidevant free-captain suddenly, “here’s one of our
officers, let’s turn him over. A hole in the back of his casque by
Lucifer; it served him right for turning his back on the enemy.”

Hilo may have recognized the whereabouts sufficiently to make a
tolerably fair guess before the other added:

“Oh—oh—the maître-de-camp, De Haye!” But if he did he held his peace,
and assisted in ridding the dead cavalier of a few personals.

The Walloon was thick-skulled, but his long service in villany had
increased his cunning as a matter of course, and a duller man than he,
acquainted with Señor de Ladron’s peculiarities, might have jumped to a
like conclusion.

“Bah! he wasn’t a coward after all. The arquebuse that sent this ball
was behind him while he faced the Dons. The man you owe a grudge to had
better keep awake, Hilo, my lad.”

“You’re a fool,” Hilo returned. “Hold your tongue. Do you wish to bring
the Spaniards upon us with your noise?”

To which the other answered sullenly—“You talk as if I wasn’t more than
your slave. You’d better mind what you’re about. I aint going to stand
it always, even if—here now, what’s to be done with these papers?”

“What is that shining in your hand?”

“A locket, or something of the sort, he had in his breast. Hang it, you
want every thing!”

“A locket!” cried his comrade quickly. “Give it here.” Which the other
did unwillingly, and the other pocketed after holding it up to the
light. Hilo’s mood up to this moment had been none of the sweetest, as
the captain could testify, but some virtue existed in the appropriation
which was quite irresistible.

“Come, old fellow,” he cried to the serjeant, in high good-humor, “I was
rather sharp with you just now, wasn’t I? You know I’m quick and all
that, and musn’t mind me. Here’s a handful of ducats for your locket, as
you found it; I fancy the thing, and don’t grudge paying for it.”

A gift the captain took with a growl half of resentment, for _he_ had
not found a charm for himself, and could not so easily forget an offense
as his master.

It was wonderful what a dog to fetch and carry that uncouth animal was
to Hilo; how he followed him about, drew dagger in his service, and
exposed his life any time rather than suffer the latter to embark alone
in a perilous venture, a thing his youthful friend was much given to. It
would have been an unanswerable proof of the existence in all men of
some good trait, some capacity to love a brother, for a worse rogue than
the captain would be difficult to select. But, unhappily, this
Netherlandish Damon had sounder, if less sentimental, reasons for
sticking by his Pythias. Hilo, a wonderfully precocious youth, had
fallen in with the honest captain some three or four years back, and
dexterously turned to his personal advantage a comfortable sum brought
over from Peru by the other. “I like the boy, he’s full of pluck. I’ll
school him into the ways of the world, look ye,” the captain used to
say, at the very time his protégé was scheming to possess his ingots.

“I knew his father in Peru very well, a man of money. He lent me a
helping hand once, and I don’t mind turning about and lending the boy
any thing I have,” he spoke later. And so, not because of the helping
hand, as the captain wished understood—which, to be sure, was Carlo’s
beginning in life, the elder De Ladron having taken him into temporary
partnership in the matter of a forced _repartimiénto_ which turned out
golden—but because he had entire reliance in the magnitude of the
senior’s estate, he made over to Hilo the bulk of his possessions, on
conditions legally witnessed, of a fourfold return immediately on the
other’s receiving his own. No doubt Hilo acted in good faith, less from
inclination possibly than necessity, his money affairs having become
rather intricate about that time, and there could be no question of the
repayment of the full amount—the original was no trifle—at the season
specified.

But when was that to arrive? A question Carlo asked himself with growing
dissatisfaction not long after the last ducat had slipped through his
debtor’s fingers. Hilo was in no hurry to marry the girl, and since
signing the captain’s bond, had bestowed his affections elsewhere, as
people say. A French countess, black-eyed and brisk, took his fancy much
more than the blonde his betrothed, and during the stay of the French
embassage at Madrid, the young gentleman was on good
behavior—ostensibly at least. Of all her gallants none excited his
jealousy so much as a cavalier who had accompanied the count
unofficially, and stood high in his daughter’s favor.

Don Hilo’s way of removing an obstacle of this sort, was admirably
illustrative of his sense of wrong, although sometimes, as in this
instance, liable to miscarry. He first picked a quarrel with De Haye,
and that gentleman refusing point-blank to fight so disreputable a
party, was waylaid and killed by proxy in the person of Villenos, who
was of much the same figure, and, as it chanced that night, similarly
attired. The eclat of this mistake, added to the departure of the lady,
took him to France, where information of De Haye’s joining the
commandant induced him to enlist under the same knight’s pennon, in
pursuance of his vengeful purpose, and the young blood-hound was of
course nothing molified by the remonstrance of his enemy to De Chaste on
shipboard, which Carlo repeated with some little exaggeration, to be
expected from the mouth of so affectionate a friend.

The heavy, cunning, ex-free-captain was brow-beaten and domineered over
by his former protégé in a truly surprising manner to one not in the
secret. It was wonderful how much he bore, how assiduously followed at
the heels of his junior when off duty, uneasy at losing sight of the
latter. The truth was, the captain having gambled and squandered himself
into poverty again, looked to the money to be derived from Hilo’s
fortune for a means of reputable living, as he said.

“I was an honest soldier till I met that Hilo!” was his lament years
after, while awaiting the hour of his execution. And it was the obduracy
of the same young gentleman, aided by his own failure to win the
heiress, which had reduced him to the necessity of relying upon Hilo’s
attaining his twenty-fifth year and sole right of property; a fib, by
the way, of the party interested, which the captain was by this time too
near gone not to catch at with proverbial eagerness.

“If I can only keep him in sight,” he used to think fifty times a day
with an oath, “until I get back my ducats, I’ll take pay for my dog’s
life;” and at nights he would wake muttering the words and feeling the
edge of his weapon, when Hilo would exclaim—“Can’t you leave off
grinding your tusks in that savage fashion, you Dutch boar!”

The captain saw how a little misadventure in the shape of his dear young
friend’s decease, might deprive him of all chance of restoration, and no
mother could be more precious of her charge: Hilo might involve himself
in difficulties and be slain in a brawl; it was this worthy soul’s chief
business to guard against such a mishap, or extricate him when fairly
in: or he might fly into an ungovernable rage and harm himself, or tempt
the captain into doing so; so the latter eschewed all cause of
contention, and humbled himself where humility became a necessity. For
Carlo’s phlegmatic temperament was incapable of fear, and nothing would
have gratified him more than a bout with the young gentleman—who,
seeing his advantage, or from mere recklessness, tried his ability to
bear and forbear to the utmost limit.

“Wait till I get my ducats back!” Wolfang consoled himself with
muttering under his breath on such occasions, champing his jaws and
keeping his fingers stalwortly from his dagger-hilt.

The pair were standing over the body of the maître-de-camp, Carlo with
the papers in his hand taken from the breast of the dead lieutenant’s
doublet, when Hilo cried:

“Hark! the camp is in motion yonder above. Come, Wolf, stir your clumsy
legs before we are missed.”

And Wolfang trotting after his master thrust the crumpled missives into
his own doublet—“It’s no use to throw away any thing in the dark,” he
said; “I did a note of hand once so, and somebody else got the good of
it; one of these days I’ll find time to spell it out”—where they
remained many days, now and then taken out and returned, without much
progress made in their elucidation, for the warlike captain was not much
of a scholar, and found opportunity for only cursory examinations.

A destination very different was the captain’s pocket, it may be
remarked, from that designed by the writer, Don Pedro, who, about the
time Carlo pocketed the letters, was conversing with Señor Inique as to
their efficiency in De Haye’s hands.

No man is absolutely penitent at the start; some fear for character,
personal safety, or the like, is the prime mover, after which—it may be
moments or years after—enters in a godly sorrow for sin committed. Sift
your motives, exemplary reader, and satisfy yourself for once, your
conscience is not the tender prompter to your most virtuous deeds you
imagine: something to the effect, what it, or the world, or the church,
or your wife at home will think, has its due influence. Human nature is
not to be taken to task on this account; we are all more selfish than we
choose to admit even to ourselves, or there would be an end straightway
of all murders, thefts and villanies great and small and of every kind;
and there is so little native good in us it is best not to cavil at the
source of any redeeming trait, whatever it may be.

So Don Augustino after ten years’ penitence of fear, made confession for
the first time of the same; not with the best conclusion or purpose in
view, it may be objected, but the honest knight’s expressions of opinion
were scarcely adapted to producing a better feeling at the beginning.
Sir Pedro thought as much himself when he reviewed the conversation, and
his after arguments were such as the mild expression of his fine gray
eyes lent effect to, a thing they very seldom did when his speech was
pointed with sarcasm. The soldier was first molified, then thoroughly
subdued, and in the end inclined to adopt the counsel of his ancient
companion-in-arms, who now, as always, took the shortest available
course to the doing away of a bad deed by substitution of a good. Not
that all this ripening of virtue in the veteran sinner’s breast was much
hastened by the knight’s eloquence; it was mainly by the inexplicably
swift thaw after the ice has been broken through with throes of
dissolution, and something the knight’s words may have done at the
beginning to aid the breaking up, something at the end to temper the
freshet. What he saw when he entered the inner cabin of Inique’s ship,
of that blank face and imbecility, I have nothing to relate; let the
door remain shut upon him as it was in Inique’s time, and all likeness
and constraint of the unhappy inmate be left to the imagination.

Entire restitution of name and property on one side, and public avowal
of his paternity on the other, was what the straight-forward adviser
urged, and Inique consented ultimately to perform. Avowed penitence
strangely humbled the misshapen pride of the man. Once he said:

“You were right, Padilh; I was a coward from first to last. I begin to
perceive there are two sorts of courage, one infinitely superior to the
other, and God alone knows how much braver than I this poor boy might
have proved.”

The main obstacle now to be overcome was the will of the supposititious
Hilo, whose rage at finding himself heir to nothing would be likely to
exceed all bounds.

“It must be opened gently,” said the knight. “The boy has an ill name
for violence, and some gain must be shown as an equivalent for so much
pecuniary loss; which last, I fear, will be the chief occasion of regret
with him.”

“I have some little property of my own remaining,” answered the other,
“and would gladly relinquish it in his favor, but for the claims of my
other child. As for me, I am sick of this world’s honors—”

“Pooh!” cried Padilh cheeringly, “is this your new-found bravery? Look
how you retreat before the enemy, and hope to shelter yourself behind a
wall with monks. And as for your blue-eyed daughter, have no concern at
all, for by this time I am sure that motherless countess of mine would
stand a siege rather than surrender her unconditionally: we have more
than we want in property and less in children, so you and I can each
satisfy the other’s need and our own pleasure, which will be stealing a
march at the start.”

The man of care and crime was sensibly touched by this offer.

“Many thanks!” was all he said, but he took his associate by the hand
with a grasp that would make you or I wince.

“I think with you; he must be appealed to indirectly at first, that his
suspicions may not be awakened too soon,” Don Pedro said shortly after,
in answer to Inique. “In the French camp is a gentleman whose honor is
unquestionable, and who entertains such friendship for me, he would not
hesitate to undertake the service. If you do not oppose the design, I
will write him a short narrative of the events, leaving the manner and
time of communication to his judgment to determine. Until his jealousy
of your present purpose is overruled, we may scarcely hope to meet the
wretched boy in person, and I can see no better way of gaining our end.”

“Let it be so, I oppose nothing honorable,” replied the maître-de-camp.

“I am not referring to my old scale of honor,” he added presently, with
something like a blush. There is hope for the man, thought Padilh
thereupon; which was true enough.

The knight wrote the letter in accordance with this agreement, a brief
recapitulation of the events of Inique’s life and his own, many of which
De Haye already knew, urging that cavalier to use his discretion in
acquainting the false Hilo de Ladron with so much of the truth as would
suffice to induce an interview, by assuring him of no harm being plotted
against his person, but rather some gain intended. Which letter Don
Pedro contrived to have placed in De Haye’s hands the night before the
battle in which the latter fell by the arquebuse of the boy whose cause
he had at heart; for very nearly the last thought of this generous
fellow, forgetting the enmity of Hilo, and perhaps rather careless of
his rivalry even when disencumbered of the Señorita Inique, was that,
after the day’s work was over, he would play the ambassador to what
purpose he might: but it was Capt. Carlo that returned to camp with the
letter instead.

The gallant captain hurrying back with his gay companion, found
preparations making for a night attack, which were, however,
countermanded before the column began the descent. The men had had their
fill of fighting for the day, and turned in again wondering and
grumbling at the useless disturbance. Meanwhile the commandant and the
viceroy were discoursing of what had best be done, in the former’s tent.
Senhor de Torrevedros, after the battle, had arrived with about a
thousand of his countrymen, and one fourth or so the number of cows.

“The viceroy has brought milk for his babies at last,” the French
soldiers said sarcastically; and the officer on duty who announced the
arrival to De Chaste, prefixed an epithet to the count’s title by no
means delicate or complimentary.

“In the devil’s name, sir count,” the commander exclaimed, with a red
spot in either sallow cheek, “do you fetch these cattle to mount your
cuirassiers or feed our troops?”

“Neither, at present, Senhor Commander,” the unabashed viceroy replied;
“for in neither way could they so much benefit you as in their present
condition.”

“Speak your mind freely, we are friends here, sir count,” the commandant
answered coldly.

“Our valor is too well known to be questioned—second only to that of
the French nation,” the count said braggartly, lifting his plumed cap by
way of salute; “and I bring you, Senhor Commander, what no man may cavil
at, a thousand men brave as lions and pledged to fall in defense of
their king’s honor.”

At which speech a sarcastic smile passed round the group of attentive
officers.

“Bah!” cried one to his comrade, “the fellow’s talk sickens me. Let’s go
to sleep again, there will be nothing but gabble to-night.” And the two
strode away. “Stay,” whispered the more curious, “we must hear the end
of this bull story.”

Regardless of all which the viceroy continued.

“Yet, sir, on the word of a knight, these long-horned cows you affect to
despise are more to be relied on as allies than twice the number of men
I bring.”

“Doubtless,” the veteran rejoined, stroking his grizzled beard.

“I understand your double meaning, Senhor de Chaste,” Torrevedros said,
slightly disconcerted. “But had you been present at a former descent of
the Spaniards, when we routed five hundred infantry by driving half the
number of wild cows upon them, you would not scoff at my design.”

“What! prove ourselves boors, and go to battle behind a herd of cattle
with goads for lances!” here broke in the commandant with great
indignation. “By St. Dennis and the devil, sir count, sir viceroy, you
make my old blood boil to hear you talk. And I tell you once for all
before these gentlemen here present, whose scornful laughter, as you may
see, is only restrained by their good-breeding, that your offer in no
respect suits the style of warfare practiced by knights and Frenchmen,
although it may serve the purpose of cowards and Portuguese.”

“Take care! sir commandant,” cried the governor threateningly, stung to
anger; “take care what you say in the hearing of a knight of that
nation.”

“I have said my say,” the sturdy soldier answered shortly, turning his
back on the speaker and stalking into his tent, where the other followed
him after some consideration.

There the two commanders conversed at length, and with rather more
harmony than the beginning promised; for De Chaste was not apt to bear a
grudge long, and the smooth Portuguese would have kissed the other’s
shoes if no other way offered for saving his precious life and limbs.
The former, apart from his chivalric prejudices, and weighing the
proposal simply as an expediency, refused to permit the employment of
the horned reinforcement.

“They might as readily be turned against our battalions,” he justly
remarked, “as Philip of Macedon’s elephants were, in some battle I’ve
forgotten the name of.”

The commandant probably meant Pyrrhus, but his vocation being arms, not
letters, he need not be undervalued by recent graduates who know better.
One thing was now clear, the French had only themselves to look to,
since the long expected recruits of the viceroy turned out to be a herd
of cows, and a night attack was secretly ordered, which recalled the
captain and Hilo to camp, but which the return of the count and his
expostulations caused to be abandoned.

“You can learn nothing of the force and real position of the enemy, what
obstacles lie between, nor who can guide you,” urged the alarmed
governor plausibly; “and as for my men, I know not one who will be
bribed or forced into a position so perilous.” Which appeared so
truthful that the fiery Frenchman, with as bad a grace as any of his
subordinates, betook himself to bed again after personally making the
round of the Portuguese camp. All these swore by all the saints to stand
to their posts. They were terrible fellows, fire-eaters and the like, at
their own showing; but the commander was scarce asleep when Torrevedros
reappeared with a confused air and the information that the entire
division had stolen off and dispersed. Where the French general
consigned his allies need not be repeated to polite ears, and I think
his confessor, if he had one, should by no means have ordered a severe
penance for what he said under provocation so grievous. A council of the
chief cavaliers was immediately called. Alas! the most chivalric of them
all lay at the foot of the hill without a word to offer.

The count spoke first, and strongly advised retreat to a higher
mountain, by which the approaches to the interior might be readily
defended, and an abundance of ammunition and provisions could be carried
there, with cannon enough to maintain the position.

“Rather let us throw ourselves into the fortress of Angra,” cried
Duvick, “Where, with our handful of Frenchmen, we can defy the whole
Spanish army, backed by every Portuguese in the Azores.”

This speech drew a murmur of assent from the council, but the viceroy
answered with his usual treacherous suavity.

“There is nothing to fear from my countrymen on that score, Messires.”

“No, by the Mass!” cried half a dozen voices, with some sardonic
laughter; and the count turned to the commandant again, biting his lip
with suppressed rage.

“Do as you please, Senhor de Chaste,” he said, with as much calmness as
he could assume. “You are all masters here, I perceive, but I warn you
fairly beforehand, that the walls of Angra are no better than a
nut-shell, and the cannon of the marquis will bring them down upon your
hot heads in less than twelve hours. Moreover, the place can contain not
more than two hundred soldiers, as Heaven is my witness.”

Which was as great a fib as ever knight told, but quite as excusable as
many, you ladies, are in the habit of telling by proxy at all hours of
the day and at your front doors. I cannot see, for my part, how the
Count de Torrevedros could possibly have acted otherwise under the
circumstances, which approached as nearly as any military predicament
may a civil, the not at home of mesdames out of toilette. In short, the
count had that same night sent the keys of Angra by a trusty messenger
to the Marquis of Santa Cruz, with his complimentary offer of services;
an errand which the astute ambassador acquitted himself of to
admiration, by leaving out the count and assuming the credit: and at the
same moment the viceroy was giving his disinterested advice, no less a
personage than Don Augustino Inique was marching in with five hundred
men through the wide-open gates of the fortress.

This the commandant learned by daybreak the next morning, at which early
hour he was pushing for the mountains in accordance with the advice of
Torrevedros, who had gone ahead, as people say taking French leave. At
the village of Nostre Dame Dager de Loup, they heard further that the
governor had put off in a boat from the coast; and the French army,
debarred from the sea on one side and Angra on the other, and now openly
deserted by the Portuguese, occupied the little town and began
immediately to throw up intrenchments before the arrival of the
Spaniards.

“We must not think longer how best to live, but most honorably to die,”
De Chaste answered a few of his young officers who grumbled at the want
of necessary stores. A fine, heroic answer, which stopped the mouths of
those high-spirited gentlemen, but was less efficient in the case of the
soldiery. It must be confessed the estimable pair Hilo and the serjeant
were not a little responsible for this discontent; hard work agreed with
neither of their constitutions, and before nightfall they had found
opportunity to exchange their views on the subject.

“I’d as lief be a galley-slave and be done with it,” the serjeant
muttered to Hilo, who was helping him lift a load of sand out of the
ditch.

“Captain,” returned the other, “you speak my mind; and things are
getting in such a state here the sooner we draw our necks out of the
noose the better.”

“Good,” replied Carlo, “but how is that to be done, look you? The
marquis will hang us up for spies if we go over to them, and the count
they say has gone off in the last boat on this coast.”

“But what if most of these Frenchmen went out with us?”

“That alters the case,” cried the captain with his old grin.

And somewhere about midnight the commandant was roused by an uproar
round the officers’ quarters, which shewed what willing soil the
ringleaders had found to sow sedition in.

“Kill your captains! I’ll begin with mine,” the serjeant was roaring
with a volley of oaths, and menacing Captain Curzon with his halbert.
The fellow had found drink somewhere, and was raging like a worried
bull, his prominent bloodshot eyes sustaining the resemblance.

Curzon parried the thrust and would have cut him down, when the voice of
the commandant overtopped the clamor.

“What!” he exclaimed, “do you plot to follow our Portuguese allies! Go,
every man of you who chooses; we want none but brave men here, and will
bear with no others.”

“That may do for you to prate about, general mine,” answered Señor de
Ladron scoffingly, the seditious talents of that young gentleman causing
him to be chosen captain of the insurgents, “but it wont deceive men
with their eyes open, hark ye! We all know you’re only waiting a chance
to escape with your brave officers, and leave us to pull an oar apiece
in the Spanish galleys. Ha, ha! M. de Chaste! Begone while you’re
allowed, for you see you’re outwitted.”

“Insolent dog, to your quarters!” the knight cried, advancing upon the
speaker and striking him with his sheathed sword.

But Hilo, instead of falling back, foaming with rage, seized a halbert
with both hands, and was as promptly fastened on by a dozen embracing
arms.

“No, by St. Dennis! the general shan’t be harmed!” as many more voices
exclaimed. “Only we’ll be ahead of him and go first.”

“Friends,” answered De Chaste, with some indignation in his voice, “you
hurt me more by your suspicions than if you ran a sword through my body;
and I take Heaven to witness, I will be the last man to quit this
island, and will die rather than abandon any of you to the mercy of the
marquis, whose countrymen gave such instance of their treatment of the
French last year in the Floridas. Let fifty or a hundred of you surround
my house yonder, and insure my stay: it will be time enough to dishonor
yourselves and nation when I set the example.”

Which the mutineers did for the present, despite the taunts of their
leader-elect, who, struggling furiously with his captors, had all the
while been calling to the others to fall upon the officers, or loose him
and he would give them example. The commandant was a favorite with the
troops.

“We will wait until to-morrow,” they agreed among themselves, “and
general or no general, he is a dead man if he lifts a finger to betray
us.”

Señor Hilo de Ladron, for his part, came to the conclusion, after this
failure, that the French camp was no place for him, and communicated his
views to his faithful Damon.

“I’d like to have split his head open, he hadn’t so much as a cap on to
save it,” he said to Wolfang, “and then we might have done as we pleased
with the rest. But, hang it, you’re such a liar, the men only half
believed the story from the first, and letting him talk upset their
resolution altogether. It’s his turn now, and we must get out of this
hornet’s nest before daylight.”

“Where to go?” the captain asked.

“If you are born to be drowned, you can stay behind, you wont be safe
otherwise,” Hilo answered indifferently. “I’m for the mountains at
first, and who knows but I may find it to my interest in the end to
visit the marquis with the count for sponsor.”

“Oh, if you keep such good company,” the captain returned, with a
grotesque bow and grin showing his comprehension of Hilo’s plans, “I’m
your excellency’s humble servant!” And in an hour’s time these fast
friends had slipped through the line of sentries, scaled the
breast-work, and sat down to wait for light a mile or two from camp.

The impossibility of hearing ordinary discourse at that distance will
cause the finale of this story to be very different from what it might
have been under more favorable circumstances. For a herald, or courier,
or valet, had just then arrived from the camp of the marquis, at the
intrenchments, bringing a letter to the Commandant de Chaste, who
presently sent through the village to find Don Hilo, as we all know now,
without success.

                                                  [_To be continued._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           CHARLOTTE CORDAY.


                      BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES.


    “Among the victims put to death by Marat was a young man of
    noble and imposing mien, renowned for virtue and bravery, and
    said to be the betrothed of the martyred Charlotte Corday.”

             This clearly chiseled face—
         So full of tender beauty and meek thought—
             This head of classic grace,
         These delicate limbs, in sculptured pureness wrought,
     These fingers, fairy small, could _these_ belong to thee—
     Once merriest girl in France, the proud, the fond, the free?

             Methinks thy slender form
         Seems with a proud, commanding air to rise;
             And wondrous power to charm
         Dwells in the midnight of those thoughtful eyes:
     While on thy curved lip, and lofty marble brow
     Sitteth the high resolve, that suits thy purpose now!

             Did not thy woman’s heart
         Thrill with emotions never felt before?
             Didst thou not shrink, and start
         To stain thy fair hand with the purple gore?
     Hadst thou no chilling fear, O, self-devoted maid!
     Of the dark doom that soon must fall upon thy head?

             Yes! for _one_ moment thou
         Didst struggle with youth’s natural dread of death!
             One moment didst thou bow
         Thy woman’s heart—then, with firm step, free breath,
     Didst thou approach the bath of the terrific man
     With whom the fearful “Reign of Terror” first began!

             How deep the avenging steel,
         With fatal aim, pierced through his guilty breast!
             While ’mid the mortal chill
         His starting eye the demon-soul expressed!—
     Until it closed forever, and the blood
     Made dark the waters where the ruthless monster stood!

             So, ’neath this fragile form
         Dwelt the _resolve_ that made thy country free—
             And this fair, feeble arm
         Performed a deed of immortality!
     But, oh! _thy_ strength, _true love_! for _him_ ’twas done—
     Well didst thou avenge the death of thy heart’s cherished one!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                SONNET.


                         TO ARABELLA, SLEEPING.


                            BY R. T. CONRAD.


        When the world wearieth, then the sun doth set,
          And the dew kisseth sweet _good-night_ to earth;
        When the soul fainteth, and would fain forget,
          Then sleep, the shadow of God’s smile, comes forth,
        Gently, with downy darkness, and the dew
          Of thoughts from Heaven, and with the quickening rest
        That lightly slumbers—star thoughts beaming through
          The dreamy dimness on the rippling breast.
        Soft be that dew upon thy breast to-night!
          Gentle thy dreams as zephyr to the flower!
        Pure as the prayer that riseth as I write,
          To hover round thee through the midnight hour!
        Till Morning wake—as if for thee alone—
        And meet a brow as bright—’tis lovelier than his own!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         NETTLES ON THE GRAVE.


                           BY R. PENN SMITH.


Strolling through a cemetery, I beheld within one of the enclosures a
widow who had buried her only child there, some two years before. I
accosted her, and tendered my assistance. “Thank you,” she replied, “my
task is done. I have been pulling up the nettles and thistles that have
overgrown little Willie’s grave, and have planted mnemonies, heart’s
ease, and early spring flowers in their place, as more fitting emblems
of my child; and though they may fail to delight him, they will remind
me that there is a spring time even in the grave, and that Willie will
not be neglected by _Him_ who bids these simple flowers revive. But is
it not strange how rank nettles and all offensive weeds grow over the
human grave—even a child’s grave?”

“I remember you mourned grievously at losing him, but trust time has
assuaged affliction.”

“Its poignancy is blunted, but memory is constantly hovering around my
child. Duty and reason have taught me resignation; still I seldom behold
a boy of his age, but fancy pictures to me how he would have appeared in
the various stages of his progress toward manhood. And then again I see
him like his father—and myself a proud and happy mother in old age.
True, you may call it an idle, baseless dream; and so it is, but I
cannot help indulging in it.”

“Dream on! the best of life is a dream.”

We walked a few steps, and paused before an inclosure where reposed the
remains of a worthy man, with nothing more than his unobtrusive name
inscribed upon a marble slab to designate his resting-place. He was
respected for his integrity and energy; beloved for his utility and
benevolence. Here was no lying inscription, making the grave gorgeous,
as if monumental mendacity might deceive Divinity. His record was
elsewhere, traced by unseen fingers.

“There are no nettles on that good man’s grave,” said the widow. “I knew
him well; weeds would wither there; nothing but flowers should cover his
ashes.”

A few young men at the time were idly passing. They paused, when one
tearing a weed from the pathway, hurled it among the flowers,
exclaiming, “Let him rot there with weeds for his covering.” The
slumbering dust thus spurned had long sustained the ingrate who now
voided his venom upon the benefactor who had fed him until there was no
longer faith in hope. The widow sighed; “And this is on the grave of the
good and just!”

“Had Willie lived, he might have been such a man, and such would have
been his harvest.”

In the next tomb a brave soldier mingled his ashes with the red earth of
Adam. In his early career he was placed in a position where daring
energies alone could command success. He succeeded, and was rewarded by
a nation’s approbation. No subsequent opportunity occurred to acquire
peculiar distinction; and when he died, a shaft was erected
commemorating the most remarkable action of his life. His tomb attracted
the attention of some visiters who read his epitaph. “Characteristic of
the age!” exclaimed one, throwing a pebble at the inscription, “to swell
a corporal to the dimensions of a Cæsar. It was the only action of a
protracted life, worthy of record, and here it is emblazoned for the
pride of posterity.” Had the thoughtless scoffer of the unconscious dead
occupied his position, which gained renown, history possibly might have
perpetuated disgrace, instead of a tombstone record of gallant
services—the patriot’s sole reward.

“You knew the soldier?”

“For years, and well. A brave and worthy man. The current of his useful
life flowed smoothly on, without being ruffled by the breath of
calumny.”

“And yet nettles cover his grave already!”

“Such might have been your child’s destiny—but that matters little;
praise or scorn are now alike to the old soldier.”

We passed to a spot where a gay party was leaning on a railing. A young
woman had plucked some of the gayest flowers from the enclosure, and was
laughing with her merry companions. As we approached, she threw the
bouquet already soiled and torn, on the grave; and they went their way
with some idle jest upon their lips. The widow paused, and struggled to
suppress her emotion.

“Did you know the tenant of this grave?”

“From his childhood. He loved that woman, and struggled to acquire
wealth to make her happy. He succeeded, and when she discovered that he
was completely within her toils, she deceived and left him hopeless.
There are men whose hearts retain the simplicity of childhood through
life; and such was his. Without reproaching her, or breathing her name
to any one, he suddenly shrunk as a blighted plant, and withered day by
day, until he died. Like the fabled statuary, he was enamored of the
creature his own mind had fashioned, and in the credulity of his nature,
he made her wealthy, trusting that time would infuse truth and vitality
into the unreal vision of his youthful imagination. The world of love is
a paradise of shadows! The man beside her is now her husband; the wealth
they revel in, this grave bequeathed them.”

“The fool! to die heart-broken—for a dream. But great men have at times
died broken-hearted. I should not call him fool. It is a common death
among good men.”

“Great men! But women, sir, have pined away to death.”

“In poetry, the bill of mortality is a long one; in real life the
patients seldom die, unless they chance to be both vain and poor. Did a
rich widow ever grieve to death for the loss of the noblest husband?
Wealth is a potent antidote to the malady, and teaches resignation;
while poverty, with the first blow of his iron sledge, will make his
cold anvil smoke with the heart’s blood, for he is buried who for years
had withstood the blow.”

“That woman did not cast nettles on his grave.”

“No nettles, but faded roses which she tore from it—blooming when she
came there. Better cast stones and nettles than those withered flowers.
Your boy has escaped this poor man’s destiny—the worst of deaths! His
was the happiest! he died—smiling—on his fond mother’s bosom! But
there is a grave around which weeds grow more luxuriantly, than about
the sepulchre where mortal dust reposes. Daily watchfulness is required
to prevent the bright creations therein buried, from being so over-run
until nothing is seen to designate the beautiful tomb, where we had
carefully embalmed them, as if in amber.”

“What grave, sir, do you refer to?”

“The human mind. A mighty grave wherein we daily bury crushed hopes and
brilliant ephemerons, too fragile to survive the chill atmosphere of a
solitary day. Keep the weeds from growing there and smothering their
memories. They are the progeny of the soul, and should not be allowed to
perish. Shall the joyous and beautiful creations of childhood be
forgotten in age; must the noble aspirations of the vigor of manhood
pass away without even an epitaph, because crushed in their vigor!
Rather contemplate them hourly; plant flowers beside them, though they
bloom but briefly and fade, they will send forth perfume even in decay,
and inevitably revive in due season, bearing refreshing fruit; and old
age, with palsied hand, will readily gather up the long account of his
stewardship, and as he glances over the lengthened scroll that must
become a record in the archives of eternity, may rejoice that he hath
not been an ingrate and idler in the heat of the harvest-field, but hath
diligently labored to make the entrusted talent yield the expected
usage. Tear up the weeds that are incessantly growing there, ere he who
was placed little lower than the angels, becomes an empty cenotaph—a
stranger’s grave—mouldering and mingling with his mother earth unheeded
and unknown.”

                 *        *        *        *        *




              FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS FROM UNFAMILIAR SOURCES.


                             BY A STUDENT.


Many of our readers have undoubtedly been asked during the past month
for information touching the whereabouts of some trite quotation, the
locality of which the whole neighborhood has not been able accurately to
decide. We have often thought it would be a commendable service if some
industrious student would make a complete collection of the every day
sayings, and print them side by side with the author’s names. As no one,
however, has seen fit to pioneer in the attempt, we here make a
beginning, confident that the plan is worthy to be carried out more
fully. At some future period, if no one else seems willing to continue
the undertaking, we hope to find leisure and opportunity for other
specimens in “Graham.” Meantime, here are a few of the more common
_lines_ in “everybody’s _mouth_.”

        No line which dying he could wish to blot.

It stands thus in the original:

        Not one immoral, one corrupted thought,
        One line which dying he could wish to blot.
             LORD LYTTLETON.      _Prologue to Thomson’s Coriolanus._

        To err is human, to forgive divine.
             POPE.      _Essay on Criticism._

        The perilous edge of battle.
             MILTON.      _Paradise Lost, Book First._

        God made the country and man made the town.
             COWPER.      _The Task._

        No pent up Utica contracts your powers,
        But the whole boundless continent is yours.
             J. M. SEWALL.      _Epilogue to Cato, 1778._

        And thereby hangs a tale.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _As You Like It._

        And man the hermit sighed till woman smiled.
             CAMPBELL.      _Pleasures of Hope._

        And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
             POPE.      _Essay on Criticism._

        He whistled as he went for want of thought.
             DRYDEN.      _Cymon and Iphigenia._

        The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
             POPE.      _Satires. To Mr. Fortescue._

        Woman, last at the cross and earliest at the grave.
             E. S. BARRETT.      _Woman: A Poem._

        When Greek meets Greek then comes the tug of war.
             NAT LEE.      _Play of Alexander the Great._

        Music has charms to soothe a savage breast.
             CONGREVE.      _The Mourning Bride._

        The old man eloquent.
             MILTON.      _Tenth Sonnet._

        One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _Troilus and Cressida._

        Great wits to madness surely are allied,
             DRYDEN.      _Absalom and Achitophel._

        Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
             GRAY.      _The Elegy._

        God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.
             STERNE.      _Sentimental Journey._

        The devil may cite scripture for his purpose.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _The Merchant of Venice._

        She walks the waters like a thing of life.
             BYRON.      _The Island._

        Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
             GRAY.      _The Progress of Poesy._

        On the light fantastic toe.
             MILTON.      _l’Allegro._

        Give ample room and verge enough.
             GRAY.      _The Bard._

        A little learning is a dangerous thing.
             POPE.      _Essay on Criticism._

        And even his failings leaned to virtue’s side.
             GOLDSMITH.      _The Deserted Village._

        O wad some power the giftie gie us
          To see oursel’ as others see us.
             BURNS.      _Address to a Louse._

        Brevity is the soul of wit.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._

        Westward the course of empire takes its way.
             BISHOP BERKLEY.

        Hills peep o’er hills and Alps on Alps arise.
             POPE.      _Essay on Criticism._

        The observed of all observers.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._

        And made a sunshine in a shady place.
             SPENSER.      _Fairy Queen._

        A breath can make them as a breath has made.
             GOLDSMITH.      _The Deserted Village._

        Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
             WORDSWORTH.      _Ode on Immortality._

        Man wants but little here below,
        Nor wants that little long.
             GOLDSMITH.      _Edwin and Angelina._

        Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined.
             POPE.      _Moral Essays._

        Throw physic to the dogs.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _Macbeth._

        Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased.
             _Ditto._

        My way of life is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf.
             _Ditto._

        I’ll make assurance doubly sure.
             _Ditto._

        Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.
             GOLDSMITH.      _Deserted Village._

        Domestic happiness, the only bliss
        Of Paradise that has survived the fall.
             COWPER.      _The Task._

        Let who may make the laws of a people, allow me to
        write their ballads, and I’ll guide them at my will.
             SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

        For winter lingering chills the lap of May.
             GOLDSMITH.      _The Traveler._

        Rolled darkling down the torrent of his fate.
             DR. JOHNSON.      _Vanity of Human Wishes._

        The man forget not, though in rags he lies,
        And know the mortal through a crown’s disguise.
             AKENSIDE.      _Epistle to Curio._

        Whatever is, is right.
             POPE.      _Essay on Man._

        The proper study of mankind is man.
             _Ditto._

        Man never is but always to be blest.
             _Ditto._

        Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
             _Ditto._

        And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
             GOLDSMITH.      _Retaliation._

        Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage.
             JOHNSON.      _Vanity of Human Wishes._

        Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.
             ADDISON.      _Lines to the Duke of Marlboro._
             Also POPE.      _The Dunciad._

        To teach the young idea how to shoot.
             THOMSON.      _The Seasons. Spring._

        ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.
             CAMPBELL.      _Pleasures of Hope._

        Or like the snow-fall in the river,
        A moment white, then melts forever.
             BURNS.      _Tam O’Shanter._

        Nothing extenuate, nor set down ought in malice.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _Othello._

        Exhausted worlds and then imagined new.
             DR. JOHNSON.      _Prologue at the opening of the_
                 _Drury-Lane Theatre, 1747._

        Assume a virtue though you have it not.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._

        Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
             BURNS.      _Tam O’Shanter._

        Curses not loud but deep.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _Macbeth._

        Who shall decide when doctors disagree.
             POPE.      _Epistle to Bathurst._

        By strangers honored and by strangers mourned.
             POPE.      _Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady._

        Where ignorance is bliss
        ’Tis folly to be wise.
             GRAY.      _Ode on Eton College._

        And swift expires a driveller and show.
             DR. JOHNSON.      _Vanity of Human Wishes._

        Order is Heaven’s first law.
             POPE.      _Essay on Man._

        Honor and shame from no condition rise.
             _Ditto._

        An honest man’s the noblest work of God.
             _Ditto._

        Plays round the head but comes not to the heart.
             _Ditto._

        But looks through nature up to nature’s God.
             _Ditto._

        With all my imperfections on my head.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._

        The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
        No traveler returns.
             _Ditto._

        Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.
             _Ditto._

        The time is out of joint.
             _Ditto._

        A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
             POPE.      _Moral Essays._

        Who never mentions hell to ears polite.
             POPE.      _The Epistles._

        From seeming evil still educing good.
             THOMSON.      _Hymn._

        There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
        Rough hew them how we will.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _Hamlet._

        On her white breast a cross of gold she wore,
        Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.
             POPE.      _Rape of the Lock._

        At every word a reputation dies.
             _Ditto._

        And wretches hang that jurymen may dine.
             _Ditto._

        In wit a man; simplicity a child.
             POPE.      _Epitaph on Gay._

        The mob of gentlemen who write with ease.
             POPE.      _Imitations of Horace._

        Even Palinurus nodded at the helm.
             POPE.      _The Dunciad._

        I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
             POPE.      _Prologue to the Satires._

        Wit that can creep and pride that licks the dust.
             _Ditto._

        Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
             _Ditto._

        Damns with faint praise.
             _Ditto._

        To point a moral or adorn a tale.
             DR. JOHNSON.      _Vanity of Human Wishes._

        Good wine needs no bush.
             SHAKSPEARE.      _As You Like It._

        A little round fat oily man of God.
             THOMSON.      _The Castle of Indolence._

        None but the brave deserve the fair.
             DRYDEN.      _Alexander’s Feast._

        Doubtless the pleasure is as great
        Of being cheated, as to cheat.
             BUTLER.      _Hudibras, canto 3, part 2, lines 1 and 2._

        And bid the devil take the hindmost.
             DO. _Canto 2, part 1, line 633._

        And count the chickens ere they’re hatched.
             DO. _Canto 3, part 2, line 924._

        He that complies against his will
        Is of his own opinion still.
             DO. _Canto 3, part 3, lines 547-8._

        And look before you, ere you leap.
             DO. _Canto 2, part 2, line 503._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          TWO CRAYON SKETCHES.


                           FROM LIFE STUDIES.


                             BY ENNA DUVAL.


                           1.—“CHILD’S PLAY.”

            Napoleon!—years ago, and that great word,
              Compact of human breath in hate and dread
              And exultation, skied us overhead—
            An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword
            Scathing the cedars of the world.
                             —
            That name consumed the silence of the snows
              In Alpine keeping, holy and cloud-hid!
              The mimic eagles dared what Nature’s did
            And over-rushed her mountainous repose
            In search of eyries; and the Egyptian river
            Mingled the same word with its grand—“For Ever.”
                                          ELIZABETH BARRETT.

       ’Tis but a child’s play, friend, pass on, nor wait—
        Take heed, that childish play foretells the future fate.
                                                           ANON.


It was a beautiful summer afternoon. The high trees cast long shadows on
the grass, and the glorious golden sunlight beamed richly over the
landscape. In a thickly wooded park, whose long, winding walks were
bordered by the rhododendron, and overshadowed by forest-trees, were
several young girls. They were simply dressed, and quite young, at the
season of early girlhood—thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen might have
been their ages—certainly not older. They were all graceful, delicate
little creatures—American girls and women almost always are, as
foreigners have remarked. Two or three only, however, were decidedly
pretty.

“I am tired of walking,” said one; “let’s stop here a little while, and
play something.”

The girl had well chosen the spot, for it was beautiful enough to have
tempted the faërys—if any there be—to make of it, a play-ground. The
wood skirted a stream, rising from its shores in little undulating
hills, and the owner had availed himself of this, in arranging the walks
in his wood, so that by slightly assisting Nature, these walks seemed
terraced. The place selected, was where one of the walks widened a
little—the hilly terrace rose gently behind it, forming a turfy bank
that served for seats, and forest-trees crested the little summit of
this hill. Beneath the walk, the ground-swell shaded by trees, sloped
down to the stream-side, and between the foliage could be seen the
glittering wavelets, dancing along in the golden atmosphere shed around
them by the glorious setting sun.

Had these little rambling girls been a shadow older, or breathing a more
poetic imaginative atmosphere than their sunny American home, they might
have sat and dreamed romances, out of “old Poesy’s Myths,” and fancied
that,

        “That spring head of crystal waters,
         Babbled to them stories of her lovely daughters,
         The beauteous blue-bells and the lilies fair.”

But no! the influences of their associations in their home-lives,
rendered their imaginations—for imaginations they had—less dreamy,
less poetical.

This work-day atmosphere in which we striving, success-seeking Americans
live and breathe, deprives even our childhood’s day-dreams of romance
and poësy, and who can say whether it be well or not? The mysterious
voice of the Past says, “All that is permitted is needed,” therefore,
let this American Judaic spirit roll on, the Nineteenth Century needs
it, to perform her part of the world’s development.

If we return to our little wood-ramblers and listen to their gossip, we
shall see how tangible and real were the subjects of their day-dreams,
though quite as improbable, apparently, as the old imaginings of
Enchantment and Faëry Land.

“Oh,” lisped a little coquettish thing, the pet evidently of the group,
whose light, floating ringlets threw faint shadows over her round, white
shoulders, “let’s play that I’m a duchess, and you are all come to visit
me at my ducal palace. These are my grounds, and some of you shall be my
ladies.” Thereupon the little witch threw her faëry form on the turfy
bank, in a languishing position, and prepared to take upon her little
self, all the state and dignity of a duchess.

“Not I for one,” said the tallest of the group, although the rest seemed
half disposed to enter into the proposed play. “If there’s to be any
duchess playing, I’ll be the titled lady. Yes, I will be your princess,
and hold here my regal court.”

If princesses have a divine right to beauty, the girl might have been
one of the most royal. She had, for so young a girl, a presence and
bearing remarkable for dignity, and her form gave promise of fine
development. Her head was well placed on a beautiful neck and drooping
shoulders. Her rich, dark hair was cut short and brushed back from a low
Medicean brow, and it clustered in thick, close curls around the back of
her well-shaped head and white neck. Although her brow was low, and her
chin almost voluptuously full, her keen, black eyes, arched eye-brows,
that in some moods almost met over a nose that was delicate and handsome
in shape, and whose nostrils trembled and dilated with every shadow of
feeling, and a mouth well shaped, but firm in expression, all told that
the girl had a haughty, imperious spirit, one such as a princess might
have; and she carried herself as though she would have said, as Marie
Antoinette did, when some one remarked her erect bearing,

“Were I not a queen, I suppose, people would call me insolent.”

“Duchess and princess indeed!” exclaimed one of the girls,
contemptuously. “How absurd to talk such nonsense. Who ever heard of
such duchesses and princesses as you’d make?”

“And why not, mademoiselle?” asked the would-be princess.

“Now Caro is grand,” laughed one of the girls; “don’t you take notice,
girls, she always calls us mademoiselles, when she wants to take state?”

But the girl repeated her question, haughtily, without heeding the saucy
interruption. Her manner seemed to intimidate the other, and pleased
with her apparent victory, she continued, drawing herself up to her full
height, and looking even more stately.

“Yes, I will be a princess. Why should I not be? My grandmother was a
queen, and my great uncle an emperor. I will give you all grand titles,
too. You, Lina, I will make a countess, for you are too little and
delicate, pet-bird, to be a duchess—that sounds too matronly for you;
but as for you, Mademoiselle Helen, you shall only be a simple maid of
honor, and may be, lady of the bed-chamber after awhile, if you stop
sneering at my rank.”

“Oh Caro and Lina,” said Helen, impatiently, “don’t be so silly; it is
ridiculous. You are always spoiling our walks with these foolish
make-believes.”

“What do you mean, Mademoiselle Helen?” asked Caro, with flashing eyes,
and nostrils dilating with unrepressed indignation.

“I mean just what I say, Caro; that you always make yourself absurd and
disagreeable by wanting us to play such vain, silly plays; and you do
Lina no good either, for her little head is filled now with nothing else
but nonsensical notions that will give her a great deal of trouble. I am
a year or two older than you, Miss, and can see the folly of all this;
but even if I were not, I hope I should not be such a silly little fool
as to try to imagine I was something grander than I was not, and what is
more, never will be.”

Caro’s face grew crimson, and she bit her full, red lip until the rich
blood nearly started from it while she listened to this irritating
speech. When it was concluded, she threw up her head and exclaimed in a
voice choked with passion,

“This comes of associating with plebians.”

“Plebians, indeed!” said Helen, indignantly.

“Yes, plebians, mademoiselle,” answered Caro, looking steadily and
haughtily at her. “You are a plebian when compared with me, for my
grandmother was a crowned queen, and my uncle the great Emperor
Napoleon; am I not, then, a princess of most regal descent? And you,
Lina, darling,” she continued, putting her arm patronizingly around the
little creature, “I only hope I may be as my grandmother was, a throned
queen, then I would do more than put grand notions in your head. I would
put great titles to your name, and brave retinues to back them.”

“Madame, your mother, most royal princess,” said the annoying Helen,
with provoking coolness, “has the misfortune, however, at present, to be
the instructress of the daughter of a plebian country lawyer.”

“It is a misfortune, mademoiselle,” answered Caro.

The girls drew together a little frightened; they knew a crisis was
coming, for many times before had they witnessed similar “passages at
arms,” between the two girls, but never such a threatening one.

“Never mind Caro,” said little Lina, “let’s leave Helen; she’s always so
cross, and says such ill-bred things. We’ll go and play by ourselves.
You _shall_ be our queen, and I will be your little countess, or any
thing you want me to be. The girls will go with us, too; wont you,
girls?”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the now irritated Helen, for she saw that most of the
girls were disposed to take Caro’s part. “This is amusing, truly, to see
the daughter of a plain American country store-keeper playing countess,
and the granddaughter of a French inn-keeper taking state and royal airs
over simple republicans.”

Helen’s tantalizing expressions might have caused one thing royal—a
“battle royal”—for, although they were little young ladies, they were
sometimes apt to forget the rules of good breeding daily enjoined upon
them—but fortunately they were interrupted. Some ladies joined
them—mothers and elder sisters of the girls; for this park-like wood
was a favorite afternoon resort for the inhabitants of the little
village of B——. The angry retort trembled on Caro’s tongue, and
frowning glances were exchanged between them; for awhile their quarrel
was suspended—but only for awhile; the next day would be sure to renew
the scene. After a little talk with the ladies, Caro and Lina withdrew
to another part of the grounds, followed by their adherents, which we
must confess, comprised the greater number of the school; and the sturdy
little republican, Helen, was in the minority, for only two or three of
the older girls espoused her cause. As they left, one of the remaining
girls whispered to Helen, with a merry laugh,

“See, Caro and Lina are going off to hold their Court. Had we not better
set up a rival one? We will elect you lady president, or cabinet
officer’s lady, or senator’s wife. You would not, I suppose, take any
less republican title from us, and, of course, it would be hardly safe
or proper to send you ministress plenipotentiary to adjust difficulties
between the two governments.”

Helen laughed contemptuously, as if she thought the whole affair too
childish to be noticed. But her little heart was not much, if any,
better than Caro’s and Lina’s. Like theirs it swelled with anger and
pride, and although she was a good, sensible girl, she many times
permitted her temper and a spirit of envious rivalry that had
unconsciously sprung up between her and Caro, to master her, and make
her forget the gentle courtesy and good-breeding which should
characterize every woman, whether republican or aristocrat—because she
is a woman.


                         2.—“FORTUNE’S PRANKS.”

           Napoleon! he hath come again—borne home
             Upon the popular ebbing heart—a sea
             Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually,
           Majestically moaning. Give him room!
           Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn!
           And grave deep, ’neath the cannon moulded column!
           ——Napoleon! the recovered name
             Shakes the old casements of the world! and we
             Look out upon the passing pageantry,
           Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim
           To a Gaul grave—another kingdom won—
           The last—of few spans—by Napoleon!
           I think this nation’s tears poured thus together,
           Nobler than shouts!
           This funeral grander than crownings—
           This grave stronger than thrones.
                                          ELIZABETH BARRETT.

There’s a lady—a prince’s daughter; she is proud and she is noble;
And she treads the crimsoned carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air;
And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble,
And the shadow of a monarch’s crown is sweeping in her hair.
                                                     ELIZABETH BARRETT.

Carriages rolled through the crowded streets of Paris, and a gay crowd
thronged to the residence of the republican prince—the new French
president. A stately levee was to be held, and Josephine’s grandson
inherited Napoleon’s popularity! Time had avenged _her_ wrongs, and
Fortune, which had played such curious, elfish pranks with this great
family, had set them once more aloft, but at their head she placed with
strange justice the representative of the dethroned, divorced empress.

It was a brilliant sight. Ladies were there in gorgeous costume,
glittering with diamonds, and gentlemen in full court-dress decked with
orders. Near the President stood a group of beautiful women—the women
of his family—his cousins, once, twice, and thrice removed. Among them
was a lady who attracted the admiring gaze of more than one passer-by.
She had a majestic presence, though still quite young—in the first
flush of early womanhood. Her face was as beautiful as her form, which
was faultless in its proportions. She had a clear, rich skin—eyes by
turns flashing and serene, under “_level fronting eye-lids_”—a
beautiful mouth, with the full lips gently and sweetly parted, and a
Napoleonesque chin, that told her Buonaparte descent, with a lovely
dimple denting its centre. Her thick, glossy hair was dressed with
classical severity, for they told her, her head was like the Princess
Pauline’s, and made her bind it with a broad coronet, woven of her own
rich hair. She was beautiful enough to have inspired another Canova to
sculpture her also as a Venus.

A buzz was heard, while the Russian Ambassador presented a gentleman and
lady with much consideration to the president. The young cousin of the
president started, and a brilliant flush crimsoned her cheek—whose only
fault, if fault it could be, was its delicate pallor—as she looked at
the lady newly presented, and heard her title—the Countess O——.

The countess was a fair young creature with a delicate sylph-like
figure, and her hair fell in soft, brown ringlets, as if wishing to
burst from the confinement of the jeweled comb and costly bandeau, in
order to shade her timid beauty. Many remarked the purity and simplicity
of her style, and low murmurs told the inquiring stranger, that though
bearing a foreign name and title, she was said to be an American.

The crowd increased, and the circle around the president gradually
separated, making room for the throng of _nobodys_ who wished to be
presented. The hum of conversation grew louder, and though the new
president exacted much ceremony, it was plain to be seen that etiquette
did not forbid the merry laugh, nor the sparkling _repartée_.

A little group of ladies and gentlemen stood near a window, laughing and
chatting with all that sprightliness with which the French people of
society know so well how to enliven conversation. Some of the company
passed by, promenading. A lady of the group at the window, lifted her
arm—it must have been unconsciously, certainly it was done gracefully,
and in so doing, entangled her magnificent diamond bracelet in the
costly lace _berthé_ of a lady passing by.

The owner of the offending bracelet was the cousin of the President, the
lady of the _berthé_ the fair Russian countess. The first bent over as
if to disentangle the sparkling clasp from the delicate meshes of the
lace, and her manner, repulsed all offers of assistance from those
standing by. It seemed a difficult task, however, and she had quite time
enough to say more than the mere apologies required, and surely she did
say more than those standing near them heard, for the mere “Pardonnez
moi Madame je vous prie,” could not have caused the slight start which
the pretty little countess gave, nor the delicate flush that tinged her
fair temples, when the French lady’s glowing cheek rested near hers, in
bending down to disentangle her ornament.

“Lina,” said the president’s cousin, in a low, laughing tone, that
gurgled up like the melody of foam-bells in a stream, “who would have
thought when Helen Morris used to laugh at us in America, that our
childish imaginings would come true? Why, darling, you are not only a
countess, but you are wedded to the first and oldest blood of Europe;
and I, dear one—yes, I—if not an acknowledged princess, will yet be a
queen.”

The bracelet was disengaged—the _berthé_ released. The French lady made
a low courtesy to the countess, with her eyes bent upon the ground—and
they parted.

Fortune is a capricious goddess, and surely the wildest, most improbable
romances ever imagined, could not surpass, scarcely equal, the strange
reverses the blind goddess of the wheel has brought to the family of the
great “World-Actor of the Nineteenth Century,” NAPOLEON.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                       QUAIL AND QUAIL SHOOTING.


BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF FRANK FORESTER’S “FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH
                           AND FISHING,” ETC.


[Illustration: THE AMERICAN QUAIL, OR VIRGINIA PARTRIDGE.
(_Ortyx Virginianus._ _Perdix Virginianus._)]

November is upon us—hearty, brown, healthful November, harbinger of his
best joys to the ardent sportsman, and best beloved to him of all the
months of the great annual cycle; November, with its clear, bracing,
western breezes; its sun, less burning, but how far more beautiful than
that of fierce July, as tempered now and softened by the rich, golden
haze of Indian summer, quenching his torrent rays in its mellow, liquid
lustre, and robing the distant hills with wreaths of purple light, half
mist, half shrouded sunshine; November, with its wheat and buckwheat
stubbles, golden or bloody red; with its sere maize leaves rustling in
the breeze, whence the quail pipes incessant; with its gay woodlands
flaunting in their many-colored garb of glory; with its waters more
clearly calm, more brilliantly transparent than those of any other
season; November, when the farmer’s toils have rendered their reward,
and his reaped harvests glut his teeming garners, so that he too, like
the pent denizen of swarming cities, may take his leisure with his gun
“in the wide vale, or by the deep wood-side,” and enjoy the rapture of
those sylvan sports which he may not participate in sweltering July, in
which they are, alas! permitted by ill-considered legislation, in every
other state, save thine, honest and honorable Massachusetts.[2]

In truth there is no period of the whole year so well adapted, both by
the seasonable climate, and the state of the country, shorn of its
crops, and not now to be injured by the sportsman’s steady stride, or
the gallop of his high-bred setters, both by the abundance of game in
the cleared stubbles and the sere woodlands, and by the aptitude of the
brisk, bracing weather for the endurance of fatigue, and the enjoyment
of manful exercise, as this our favorite November.

In this month, the beautiful Ruffed Grouse, that mountain-loving, and
man-shunning hermit, steals down from his wild haunts among the giant
rhododendrons, and evergreen rock-calmias, to nearer woodskirts, and
cedar-brakes margining the red buckwheat stubbles, to be found there by
the staunch dogs, and brought to bag by the quick death-shot, “at morn
and dewy eve,” without the toil and torture, often most vain and vapid,
of scaling miles on miles of mountain-ledges, struggling through
thickets of impenetrable verdure among the close-set stems of hemlock,
pine, or juniper, only to hear the startled rush of an unseen pinion,
and to pause, breathless, panting, and outdone, to curse, while you
gather breath for a renewed effort, the bird which haunts such covert,
and the covert which gives shelter to such birds.

In this month, if no untimely frost, or envious snow flurry come,
premature, to chase him to the sunny swamps of Carolina and the
rice-fields of Georgia, the plump, white-fronted, pink-legged autumn
Woodcock, flaps up from the alder-brake with his shrill whistle, and
soars away, away, on a swift and powerful wing above the russet
tree-tops, to be arrested only by the instinctive eye and rapid finger
of the genuine sportsman; and no longer as in faint July to be bullied
and bungled to death by every German city pot-hunter, or every pottering
rustic school-boy, equipped and primed for murder, on his Saturday’s
half holyday.

In this month, the brown-jacketed American hare, which our folk _will_
persist in calling _Rabbit_—though it neither lives in warrens, nor
burrows habitually under ground, and though it breeds not every month in
the year, which are the true distinctive characteristics of the
Rabbit—is in his prime of conditions, the leverets of the season, plump
and well grown; and the old bucks and does, recruited after the breeding
season, in high health and strength, and now legitimate food for
gunpowder, legitimate quarry for the chase of the merry beagles.

In this month especially, the Quail, the best-loved and choicest object
of the true sportsman’s ambition; the bird which alone affords more
brilliant and exciting sport than all the rest beside; the bravest on
the wing, and the best on the board; the swiftest and strongest flyer of
any feathered game; the most baffling to find, the most troublesome to
follow up, and when followed up and found, the most difficult to kill in
style; the beautiful American Quail is in his highest force and feather;
and in this month, according to the laws of all the States, even the
most rigorous and stringent in preservation, killable legitimately under
statute.

In New York, generally, the close-time for the Quail ends with October,
and he may not be slain until the first day of November; in New Jersey,
_ortygicide_ commences on the 25th of October, in Massachusetts and
Connecticut on some day between the 15th of the past and the first of
the present month; in Pennsylvania, Delaware and Maryland, where they
are something more forward, as breeding earlier in the season than in
the Eastern States, on the first of October; and in Canada West, where
they are exceedingly abundant, on the first of September; which is, for
many reasons, entirely too early, as hereafter I shall endeavor to
demonstrate.

In my own opinion, the first of November, and even the middle of
October, are too late for the termination of the Quail’s close-time,
inasmuch as five-sevenths of the broods in ordinarily forward seasons
are full-grown and strong on the wing, as well as all the crops off the
ground, by the first of October; and although the late, second, or third
broods may be undersized, they are still well able to take care of
themselves in case the parent birds are killed; whereas, on account of
their immature size, they are safe from the legitimate shot; and, on
account of their unsaleability in market to the restaurant, from the
poaching pot-shot also.

I should, therefore, myself, be strongly inclined to advocate the
adoption of one common day, and that day the first of October, for the
close-time of all our upland game; the English Snipe alone excepted.
Touching the reasons for postponing the day of Woodcock-shooting, a
notice will be found in our July number, and an extended discussion in
my Field Sports, vol. I. pp. 169 to 200. Of the Quail, in regard to this
point, I have said enough here, unless this; that, in my opinion, there
is far more need to protect them from the trap during the wintry snows,
than from the gun in the early autumn; the latter cannot possibly at any
time exterminate the race; the former not only easily _may_, but
actually _does_ all but annihilate the breed, whenever the snow falls
and lies deep during any weeks of December, during the whole of which
month the pursuit and sale of this charming little bird is legal.

Could I have my way, the close-time for Quail should end on the last day
of September; and the shooting season end on the twenty-fourth day of
December; before which date snow now rarely lies continuously in New
Jersey, Southern New York, or Pennsylvania. Why I would anticipate the
termination of the close-time, in reference to the Ruffed Grouse, I
shall state at length, when I come to treat of that noble bird, in our
December issue; to which month I have attributed it, because it is then
that it _is_, though in my opinion, _it ought not to be_, most
frequently seen on our tables. While on the topic of preservation, I
will mention a fact, which certainly is not widely, much less generally
known, among farmers; namely, that this merry and domestic little bird
is one of his best friends and assistants in the cultivation of his
lands. During nine or ten months of the year he subsists entirely on the
seeds of many of the most troublesome and noxious weeds and grasses,
which infest the fields, more especially those of the ragwort, the dock,
and the briar. It is believed, I might almost say ascertained, that he
never plucks any kind of grain, even his own loved buckwheat when ripe,
from the stalk, but only gleans the fallen seeds from the stubbles after
harvest, so that while he in nothing deteriorates the harvest to be
ingathered, he tends in the highest degree to the preservation of clean
and unweeded fields and farms; indeed, when it is taken into
consideration that each individual Quail consumes daily nearly two gills
of weed-seed, it will be at once evident that a few bevies of these
little birds, carefully and assiduously preserved on a farm, will do
more toward keeping it free of weeds, than the daily annual labor of a
dozen farm-servants. This preservation will not be counteracted or
injured by a moderate and judicious use of the gun in the autumnal
months; for the bevies need thinning, especially of the cock-birds,
which invariably outnumber the hens, and which, if unable to pair, from
a want of mates, form into little squads or companies of males, which
remain barren, and become the deadly enemies of the young cocks of the
following year, beating them off and dispersing them; though, strange to
say, they will themselves never mate again, nor do aught, after
remaining unpaired during one season, to propagate their species. The
use of the trap, on the contrary, destroying whole bevies at a swoop,
where the gun, even in the most skillful hands, rarely much more than
decimates them, may, in a single winter’s day, if many traps be set,
destroy the whole stocking of a large farm for years, if not forever. I
have myself invariably remarked, since my attention was first called to
the fact, that those farms which are best stocked with Quail, are
invariably the cleanest of weeds; and a right good sportsman, and good
friend of mine, working on the same base _per contra_, says that, in
driving his shooting-cart and dogs through a country, he has never found
it worth his while to stop and beat a district full of weedy and dirty
farms, as such never contain Quail.

If this may lead our farmers to consider that every live Quail does far
more good on the farm, than the shilling earned by his capture in the
_omnivorous_ trap; and therefore to prohibit their sons and farm-boys
from exterminating them at their utmost need, when food is scarce, and
shelter hard to find, my words will not have been altogether wasted, nor
my object unattained.

Were I a farmer, I would hang it over my kitchen fireplace, inscribed in
goodly capitals—“Spare the Quail! If you would have clean fields and
goodly crops, spare the Quail! So shall you spare your labor.”

And now, in a few words, we will on to their nomenclature, their
distinctive marks, their regions of inhabitation, seasons, haunts, and
habits; and last, not least, how, when, and where lawfully, honorably,
sportsmanly, and gnostically, you may and shall, kill them.

I will not, however, here pause long to discuss the point, whether they
ought to be termed Quail or Partridge. Scientifically and practically
they are neither, but a connecting link between the two _subgenera_.
True Partridge, nor true Quail, very _perdix_, nor very _coturnix_,
exists at all anywhere in America. Our bird, an intermediate bird
between the two, named by the naturalists _Ortyx_, which is the Greek
term for true Quail, is peculiar to America, of which but one species,
that before us, is found in the United States, except on the Pacific
coast and in California, where there are many other beautiful varieties.
Our bird is known everywhere East, and everywhere North-west of
Pennsylvania, and in Canada, as the Quail—everywhere South as the
Partridge. In size, plumage, flight, habits, and cry, it more closely
resembles the European Quail; in some structural points, especially the
shape and solidity of the bill, the European Partridge. On the whole, I
deem it properly termed AMERICAN QUAIL; but whether of the two it shall
be called, matters little, as no other bird on this continent can clash
with it, so long as we avoid the ridicule of calling one bird by two
different terms, on the opposite sides of one river—the Delaware. The
stupid blunder of calling the Ruffed Grouse, Pheasant, and Partridge, in
the South and East, is a totally different kind of misnomer; as that
bird bears no resemblance, however distant, to either of the two
species, and has a very good English name of his own, _videlicet_,
“Ruffed or Tippeted Grouse,” by which alone he is known to men of brains
or of sportsmanship. With regard to our Quail, it is different, as he
has no distinctive English name of his own; but is, even by naturalists,
indiscriminately known as Quail and Partridge. The former is certainly
the truer appellation, as he approximates more closely to that
sub-genus. We wish much that this question could be settled; which we
fear, now, that it never can be, from the want of any sporting
_authority_, in the country, to pass judgment. The “Spirit of the
Times,” though still as well supported and as racy as ever, has, I
regret to say, ceased to be an authority, and has become a mere arena
wherein for every scribbler to discuss and support his own undigested
and crude notions without consideration or examination; and wherein
those who know the least, invariably fancying themselves to know the
most, vituperate with all the spite of partisan personality, every
person who having learned more by reading, examination of authorities,
and experience than they, ventures to express an opinion differing from
their old-time prejudices, and the established misnomers of provincial
or sectional vulgarism.

But to resume, the American Quail, or “Partridge of the South,” is too
well known throughout the whole of America, from the waters of the
Kennebec on the East, and the Great Lakes on the North—beyond which
latter, except on the South-western peninsula of Canada West, lying
between Lakes Erie, St. Clair, and Huron, they are scarcely to be
found—is too well known, almost to the extreme South, to need
description. Their beauty, their familiar cry, their domestic habits
during the winter, when they become half civilized, feeding in the
barn-yards, and often roosting under the cattle-sheds with the poultry,
render them familiar to all men, women, boys and fools throughout the
regions, which they inhabit. It is stated by ornithologists, that they
abound from Nova Scotia and the northern parts of Canada to Florida and
the Great Osage villages; but this is incorrect, as they rarely are seen
eastward of Massachusetts; _never_ in Nova Scotia, or Canada East; and
range so far as Texas, and the edges of the great American salt desert.
The adult male bird differs from the hen in having its chaps and a
remarkable gorget on the throat and lower neck, pure white, bordered
with jetty black; which parts, in the young male and the adult female,
are bright reddish-yellow; the upper parts of both are beautifully
dashed and freckled with chestnut and mahogany-brown, black, yellow,
gray, and pure white; the under parts pure white, longitudinally dashed
with brownish red, and transversely streaked with black arrow-headed
marks. The colors of the male are all brighter, and more definite, than
in the female.

Everywhere eastward of the Delaware the Quail is resident, never
rambling far from the haunts in which he is bred. Everywhere to the
westward he is in the later autumn migratory, moving constantly on foot,
and never flying except when flushed or compelled to cross streams and
water-courses, from the west eastward; the farther west, the more marked
is this peculiarity.

The Quail pairs early in March; begins to lay early in May, in a nest
made on the surface of the ground, usually at the bottom of a tussock or
tuft of grass, her eggs being pure white, and from ten to thirty-two in
number, though about fourteen is probably the average of the bevies. The
period of incubation is about four weeks, the young birds run the
instant they clip the shell, and fly readily before they have been
hatched a fortnight. So soon as the first brood is well on the wing, the
cock takes charge of it, and the hen proceeds to lay and hatch a second,
the male bird and first brood remaining in the close vicinity, and the
parents, I doubt not, attending the labor of incubation and attending
the young. This I have long suspected; but I saw so many proofs of it,
in company of my friend and fellow sportsman, “Dinks,” while shooting
together near Fort Malden, in Canada West—where we found, in many
instances, two distinct bevies of different sizes with a single pair of
old birds, when shooting early in September of last year—that we were
equally convinced of the truth of the fact, and of the unfitness of the
season.

In October, with the exception of a very few late broods, they are fit
for the gun; and then, while the stubbles are long, and the weeds and
grasses rank, they lie the best and are the least wild on the wing. The
early mornings and late afternoons are the fittest times for finding
them, when they are on the run, and feeding in the edges of wheat and
rye stubbles, or buckwheat patches bordering on woodlands. In the middle
of the day they either lie up in little brakes and bog-meadows, or bask
on sandy banks, and craggy hill-sides, when they are collected into
little huddles, and are then difficult to find. As soon as flushed, they
pitch into the thickest neighboring covert, whether bog-meadow,
briar-patch, cedar-brake, ravine, or rough corn-stubble, they can find,
their flight being wild, rapid, and impetuous, but rarely very long, or
well sustained. As they unquestionably possess the mysterious power,
whether voluntary or involuntary, of holding in their scent, for a short
time after alighting, and are difficultly found again till they have
run, I recommend it, as by far the better way, to mark them down well,
and beat for another bevy, until you hear them calling to each other;
then lose no time in flushing them again, when they are sure to
disperse, and you to have sport with them.

Myself, I prefer setters for their pursuit, as more dashing, more
enduring, and abler to face briars—others prefer pointers, as steadier
on less work, and better able to fag without water. Either, well broke,
are good—ill broke, or unbroke, worthless. Still give me
setters—Russian or Irish specially! Quail fly very fast, and strong,
especially in covert, and require the whole charge to kill them dead and
clean. At cross shots, shoot well ahead; at rising shots, well above;
and at straight-away shots, a trifle below your birds; and an oz. ¼ of
No. 8, early, and of No. 7, late, will fetch them in good style. And so
good sport to you, kind reader; for this, if I err not, is doomed to be
a crack Quail season.

-----

[2] A law was passed, during the spring of the present year, in that
respectable and truly conservative State, by which the murder of
unfledged July Woodcock, by cockney gunners was prohibited; and the
close time judiciously prolonged until September. The debate was
remarkable for two things, the original genius with which the Hon.
Member for Westboro’ persisted that Snipe are Woodcock, and Woodcock
Snipe, all naturalists to the contrary notwithstanding; and the
pertinent reply to the complaint of a city member, that to abolish July
shooting would rob the _city sportsman_ of his sport—viz., that in that
case it would give it to the farmer. Marry, say we, amen, so be it!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                THE SPECTRE KNIGHT AND HIS LADYE-BRIDE.


                        A LAY OF THE OLDEN TIME.


                           BY FANNY FIELDING.


           Lady Margaret sits in her father’s ha’
             Wi’ the tear-drop in her een,
           For her lover-knight is far awa’
             In the fields o’ Palestine.

           Now the rose is fled frae her downy cheek,
             An’ wan is her lily-white hand,
           An’ her bonnie blue e’e the tear doth dim,
             For her knight in the Holy Land.

           His banner it is the Holy Cross,
             But it gars her greet fu’ sair,
           As she meekly kneels and his lo’ed name breathes
             At _Our Mother’s_ shrine in prayer.

           “O, hae ye a care, sweet Mother fair,
             O’er the lion-hearted king,
           But send me back Sir Hildebrande safe,
             Abune a’ ither thing!”

           ’Tis Hallowe’en, and twelve lang months
             Hae i’ their turn passed round,
           An’ ’twas Hallowe’en when Sir Hildebrande marched
             For Palestine’s holy ground.

           The castle clock tolls midnight’s hour,
             An’ the ladye bethinks her now
           Of her lover’s words at the trysting-tree—
             His fervent and heartfelt vow.

           “O, ladye fair,” said the gallant Hildebrande,
             “When twelve lang months shall flee,
           Come ye then through the mossy glen
             Adown by the trysting-tree.

           “When the wearie year brings Hallowe’en
             Ance mair to this lo’ed land,
           An’ if thou wilt come at midnight’s hour
             Thou shalt hear of thine own Hildebrande.”

           O, the wintry wind blaws sair and chill,
             An’ it whistles fu’ mournfully,
           As the ladye strolls, at the witching hour,
             To the glen adown the lea.

           The maiden draws her mantle close,
             For the night is dark an’ drear,
           An’ now that she nears the trysting-tree
             Her heart it quails wi’ fear.

           O, louder and hoarser blaws the blast,
             An’ darker grows the sky,
           An’ the clattering tramp of a courser’s hoof
             Grows nigh, an’ yet more nigh!

           The coal-black steed doth slack his speed
             An’ halt at the ladye’s side,
           An’ a red light gleams in flickering beams
             Around her far and wide.

           A mail-clad knight doth now alight,
             So ghastly pale an’ wan
           That the ladye cries, wi’ tearfu’ eyes,
             “Where is my lover gane!”

           A voice like the hollow, murm’ring wind
             Replied to the high-born dame—
           “O, thy lover sleeps on the battle-field
             Among the noble slain—

           “But the soul that vowed to be true to thee
             Will be true whate’er betide,
           An’ returns from the land of chivalrie
             To claim thee for his bride!”

           This said, he stretched forth his bony hand
             To his well-beloved bride,
           An’ now he mounts the coal-black steed
             Wi’ the ladye by his side.

           But hist! the moor-cock crows fu’ shrill
             Alang the dreary way,
           An’ goblin, elf, nor wand’ring ghaist
             Can face the light o’ day.

           The phantom steed doth champ his bit
             An’ flash his fiery eye—
           An’ away they speed o’er hill an’ dale—
             O’er rock an’ mountain high!

           Lang years hae passed since Sir Hildebrande came
             Frae the fields o’ Palestine,
           To claim fair Margaret for his bride,
             But on every Hallowe’en,
           When the castle clock tolls midnight’s hour,
             As on that night of yore,
           The ladye and knight are seen to sweep
             Adown the drearie moor.
           The coal-black steed doth champ his bit
             An’ flash his fiery e’e,
           But he slacks his speed at the knight’s command
             As he gains the trysting-tree.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        TO L——. WITH SOME POEMS.


                          BY GRACE GREENWOOD.


            I know these lays will come to thee
              Like flowers along thy pathway strown—
            And wear to thy young, generous eyes
              A grace and beauty not their own.

            Thou know’st they spring where deepest shade
              And blinding sunlight are at strife—
            Faint blooms and frail, yet bringing thee
              Sweet breathings from my inmost life.

            Or come like waters, leaping out
              From shadowy places to the day,
            To catch heaven’s brightness on their waves,
              And freshen earth along their way.

            A streamlet laughing in the sun
              Is all a busy world may hear—
            The deepest fountains of my soul
              Send up their murmurs to thine ear.

            There are to whom these lays shall come
              Like strains that sky-larks downward send;
            But ah, no higher than thy heart
              They sing to thee, belovéd friend!

            For in thy manhood pure and strong,
              With thy great soul, thy fresh, young heart,
            Thou _livest_ my ideal life,
              And what I only dream thou _art_.

            The Grecian youth whose name thou bear’st,
              Who nightly with the billows strove,
            And through the wild seas cleaved his way
              To the dear bosom of his love,

            Ne’er bore a braver soul than thine,
              When yawned great deeps and tempests frowned,
            Nor lifted up amid the waves
              A brow with loftier beauty crowned.

            The poet’s rare and wondrous gifts
              In thee await their triumph-hour—
            There sleep within thy dreamy eyes
              The mighty secrets of his power.

            Thy heart, with one high throb, can rise
              His fair, heroic dreams above—
            There breathes more passion in thy voice
              Than in a thousand lays of love.

            Ah, know’st thou not, the while thou deem’st
              The poet’s mission most divine,
            Life’s grand, unwritten poetry
              Goes out from natures such as thine?

            What though it falleth brokenly,
              And faintly on the world’s dull ear—
            Though clamorous voices cry it down,
              To God it rises, pure and clear!

            It cometh as a service glad—
              A music all as full and sweet,
            As though the stars hymned forth their joy,
              And rolled their anthems to His feet.

            When, like the Grecian youth, thou see’st
              The midnight tempests gather round—
            When storm-clouds seem to flood the heavens,
              And all the starry lights are drowned;—

            Upborne by angel-hands, may’st thou
              Through life’s wild sea right onward sweep,
            To where Hope’s signal lights the night,
              And Love stands watching by the deep.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              WORDSWORTH.


                           BY WM. ALEXANDER.


          Another bard of Albion is no more,
            Who erst with folded arms, oft, calmly stood,
            Nature’s contemplative—the great and good—
          Let every hill and valley him deplore,
          Whose hand hath ceased to wake the tuneful lyre—
            ’Mid earthly landscapes, and o’er mountains old,
            He walked in sweet Excursion, to behold
            “The Rainbow in the Sky.” Nature’s great Sire
            Hath taken him—“his heart leaps up” to see
              The emerald-colored bow about the throne,
              Where sits the King of kings and Lord alone.
            Sweet Wordsworth! poet of true purity!
          Thy hand upon a nobler lyre doth rest—
          A lyre of glory in the land of those forever blest.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _The Prelude; or Growth of a Poet’s Mind. An Autobiographical
    Poem. By William Wordsworth. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.
    12mo._

    _The Excursion. By William Wordsworth. New York: C. S. Francis &
    Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

It was known as long ago as 1814, that Wordsworth had written the
present poem, and that it would not be published until after his death.
It now appears that it was commenced as far back as 1799, and was
finally completed in 1805. The purpose of the poem is to exhibit the
gradual growth of the poet’s mind, from its first development of
imagination and passion, to the period when he conceived he had grown up
to that height of contemplation which would justify his attempt to
realize the great object of his life—the production of a philosophic
poem on Man, Nature, and Society. “The Prelude,” is addressed to
Coleridge, the poet’s intimate friend; and the egotism of the narrative
is much modified, by its being thus seemingly intended, not for the
public, but for the poet-metaphysician into whose single heart and brain
its revelations are poured. The character of the poem is essentially
psychological, the object being to notice only those events and scenes
which fed and directed the poet’s mind, and to regard them, not so much
in their own nature, as in their influence on the nature of the poet.
The topics, therefore, though trite in themselves, are all made original
from the peculiarities of the person conceiving them. His childhood and
school-time, his residence at the university, his summer vacation, his
visit to the Alps, his tour through France, his residence in London and
France, are the principal topics; but the enumeration of the topics can
convey no impression of the thought, observation, and imagination, the
eloquent philosophy, vivid imagery, and unmistakable _Wordsworthianism_,
which characterize the volume.

It must be admitted, however, that “The Prelude,” with all its merits,
does not add to the author’s great fame, however much it may add to our
knowledge of his inner life. As a poem it cannot be placed by the side
of The White Doe, or The Excursion, or the Ode on Childhood, or the Ode
on the Power of Sound; and the reason is to be found in its strictly
didactic and personal character, necessitating a more constant use of
analysis and reflection, and a greater substitution of the metaphysical
for the poetic process, than poetry is willing to admit. Though intended
as an introduction to “The Excursion,” it has not its sustained richness
of diction and imagery; and there is little of that easy yielding of the
mind to the inspiration of objects, and that ecstatic utterance of the
emotions they excite, which characterize passages selected at random
from the latter poem—as in that grand rushing forth of poetic impulse,
in the Fourth Book:

Oh! what a joy it were in vigorous health,
To have a body (this our vital frame
With shrinking sensibility endued,
And all the nice regards of flesh and blood,)
And to the elements surrender it
As if it were a spirit! How divine,
The liberty, for frail, for mortal man
To roam at large among unpeopled glens
And mountainous retirements, only trod
By devious footsteps; regions consecrate
To oldest time! and, reckless of the storm
That keeps the raven quiet in her nest,
Be as a presence or a motion—one
Among the many there; and while the mists
Flying, and rainy vapors, call out shapes
And phantoms from the crags and solid earth
As fast as a musician scatters sounds
Out of an instrument; and while the streams
(As at a first creation, and in haste
To exercise their untried faculties)
Descending from the region of the clouds,
And starting from the hollows of the earth
More multitudinous every moment, rend
Their way before them—what a joy to roam
An equal among mightiest energies;
And haply sometimes with articulate voice,
Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard
By him that utters it, exclaim aloud,
“Be this continued so from day to day,
Nor let the fierce commotion have an end.
Ruinous though it be, from month to month.”

“The Prelude” has many fine descriptions of nature, but nothing which
rises to the beauty and sublimity of the following passage from “The
Excursion”:

                        —when a step,
A single step, that freed me from the skirts
Of the blind vapor, opened to my view
Glory beyond all glory ever seen
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed
Was of a mighty city—boldly say
A wilderness of building, sinking far
And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth,
Far sinking into splendor—without end!
Fabric it seemed of diamond and gold,
With alabaster domes, and silver spires,
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high
Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,
In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt
With battlements that on their restless fronts
Bore stars—illumination of all gems!
By earthly nature had the effect been wrought
Upon the dark materials of the storm
Now pacified; on them, and on the coves
And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto
The vapors had receded, taking there
Their station under a cerulean sky.
Oh! ’twas an unimaginable sight!
Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf,
Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,
Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,
Molten together, and composing thus,
Each lost in each, that marvelous array
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge
Fantastic pomp of structure without name,
In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped.
Right in the midst, where interspace appeared
Of open court, an object like a throne
Under a shining canopy of state
Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen
To implements of ordinary use,
But vast in size, in substance glorified;
Such as by Hebrew prophets were beheld
In vision—forms uncouth of mightiest power
For admiration and mysterious awe.
Below me was the earth; this little vale
Lay low beneath my feet; ’twas visible—
I saw not, but I felt that it was there.
That which I _saw_ was the revealed abode
Of spirits in beatitude.

Not only do we see the superiority of “The Excursion” in such passages
as these, but the didactic thought is more assured, is more colored by
imagination, and melts more readily into soft, sweet, melodious
expression. Take the following, for instance:

Within the soul a faculty abides,
That with interpositions, which would hide
And darken, so can deal, that they become
Contingencies of pomp; and serve to exalt
Her native brightness. As the ample moon,
In the deep stillness of a summer even
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove,
Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light,
In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil
Into a substance glorious as her own,
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power
Capacious and serene: like power abides
In man’s celestial spirit; virtue thus
Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds
A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire,
From the encumbrances of mortal life,
From error, disappointment—nay, from guilt;
And sometimes, so relenting justice wills;
From palpable oppressions of despair.

If “The Prelude” has thus fewer “trances of thought and mountings of the
mind” than “The Excursion,” it still bears the marks of the lofty and
thoughtful genius of the author, and increases our respect for his
personal character. The books devoted to his residence in Cambridge, his
tour to the Alps, and to the influence of the French Revolution upon his
genius and character, are additions to the philosophy of the human mind.
We believe that few metaphysicians ever scanned their consciousness with
more intensity of vision, than Wordsworth was wont to direct upon his;
and in the present poem he has subtily noted, and firmly expressed, many
new psychological laws and processes. The whole subject of the
development of the mind’s creative faculties, and the vital laws of
mental growth and production, has been but little touched by professed
metaphysicians; and we believe “The Prelude” conveys more real available
knowledge of the facts and laws of man’s internal constitution, than can
be found in Hume or Kant.

We have not space for many extracts from the poem. Its philosophical
value could not be indicated by quotations, and we shall content
ourselves with citing a few random passages, illustrative of its general
style and thought. The following lines exhibit the tendency of
Wordsworth’s mind, when a youth at college:

I looked for universal things; perused
The common countenance of earth and sky:
Earth, nowhere unembellished by some trace
Of that first Paradise whence man was driven;
And sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressed
By the proud name she bears—the name of Heaven.
I called on both to teach me what they might;
_Or turning the mind in upon herself,_
_Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my thoughts_
_And spread them with a wider creeping; felt_
_Incumbencies more awful_, visitings
Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul
That tolerates the _indignities_ of Time,
And from the centre of Eternity
All finite motions, overruling, lives
In glory immutable.
                   —
To every natural form, rock, fruit, or flower,
Even the loose stones that cover the high-way,
_I gave a moral life_: I saw them feel,
Or linked them to some feeling! _the great mass_
_Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all_
_That I beheld respired with inward meaning._

In the following stern description, he records his condemnation of life
as he found it at the great English university of Cambridge:

                      For, all degrees
And shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praise
Here sat in state, and fed with daily alms
Retainers won away from solid good;
And here was Labor, his own bond-slave; Hope,
That never set the pains against the prize;
Idleness halting with his weary clog,
And poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear,
And simple Pleasure foraging for Death;
Honor misplaced, and Dignity astray;
Feuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and guile
Murmuring submission, and bold government,
(The idol weak as the idolater)
And Decency and Custom starving Truth,
And blind Authority beating with his staff
The child that might have led him; Emptiness
Followed as of good omen, and meek Worth
Left to herself unheard of and unknown.

The most remarkable line in the poem, a line almost equal to Milton’s
“Thoughts that wander through eternity,” is that which concludes the
following passage on the statue of Newton at Cambridge:

And from my pillow, looking forth by light
Of moon or favoring stars, I could behold
The antechapel where the statue stood
Of Newton with his prism and silent face,
The marble index of a mind forever
_Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone_.

With the lingering, mysterious music of this line sounding in our ears,
it would be an impertinence to continue these loose remarks on “The
Prelude” any further; and we close by commending the poem to the
thoughtful attention of thinking readers.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Christian Thought on Life: In a Series of Discourses. By Henry
    Giles, Author of Lectures and Essays. Boston: Ticknor, Reed &
    Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._

The author of this beautiful volume is a born orator, whose written
style instinctively takes the form of eloquence, and whose strong and
deep emotions are at once the inspirers and guides of his pen. He has
given us here a dozen discourses, full of living thoughts and winged
words, and with not a page which is open to the charge of dullness or
triteness. When his theme compels him to introduce common thoughts he
avoids commonplaces, and we cannot recognize the old acquaintance of our
brain in the fresh and sparkling expression in which it here appears.
Mr. Giles, indeed, is so thoroughly a thinker, and his mind is so
pervaded by his sentiments, that where he lacks novelty he never lacks
originality, and always gives indications of having conceived every
thought he expresses. Nobody can read the present volume without being
kindled by the vivid vitality with which it presents old truths, and the
superb boldness with which it announces new ones. Among the many
eloquent and impassioned discourses in the volume, that entitled “The
Guilt of Contempt” is perhaps the sharpest in mental analysis, and
closest and most condensed in style. It will rank with the best sermons
ever delivered from an American pulpit. Another excellent and striking
discourse is on the subject of spiritual incongruities as illustrated in
the life of David. The five discourses on the Worth, the Personality,
the Continuity, the Struggle, the Discipline, of Life, are remarkable
for their clear statement of Christian principles, and the knowledge
they evince of the inward workings of thought and emotions. Prayer and
Passion is a sermon which securely threads all the labyrinths of
selfishness, and exposes its most cunning movements and disguises.

We will give a few sentences illustrative of Mr. Giles’ mode of treating
religious subjects, and the peculiar union of thought and emotion in his
common style of expression. Speaking of the Psalms of David, he
says—“They alone contain a poetry that meets the spiritual nature in
all its moods and in all its wants, which strengthens virtue with
glorious exhortations, gives angelic eloquence to prayer, and almost
rises to the seraph’s joy in praise. . . For assemblies or for solitude,
for all that gladdens and all that grieves, for our heaviness and
despair, for our remorse and our redemption, we find in these divine
harmonies the loud or the low expression. Great has been their power in
the world. They resounded amidst the courts of the tabernacle; they
floated through the lofty and solemn spaces of the temple. They were
sung with glory in the halls of Zion; they were sung with sorrow by the
streams of Babel. And when Israel had passed away, the harp of David was
still awakened in the church of Christ. In all the eras and ages of that
church, from the hymn which first it whispered in an upper chamber,
until its anthems filled the earth, the inspiration of the royal prophet
has enraptured its devotions and ennobled its ritual. And thus it has
been, not alone in the august cathedral or the rustic chapel. Chorused
by the winds of heaven, they have swelled through God’s own temple of
the sky and stars; they have rolled over the broad desert of Asia, in
the matins and vespers of ten thousand hermits. They have rung through
the deep valleys of the Alps, in the sobbing voices of the forlorn
Waldenses; through the steeps and caves of Scottish highlands, in the
rude chantings of the Scottish Covenanters; through the woods and wilds
of primitive America, in the heroic hallelujahs of the early pilgrims.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Specimens of Newspaper Literature. With Personal Memoirs,
    Anecdotes, and Reminiscences. By Joseph T. Buckingham. Boston:
    Little & Brown. 2 vols. 12mo._

The author of these volumes has been long extensively known as one of
the leading editors of the country; and his age and experience
peculiarly qualify him to do justice to the subject he here undertakes
to treat. His own recollections must extend back some sixty years; and
during that period he has been constantly connected with newspapers,
either as printer’s apprentice, journeyman, or editor. He knew
intimately most of the editors and writers for the press, who took
prominent parts in the political controversies at the formation of the
government, and during the first twenty years of its administration, and
he is thoroughly acquainted with all the New England newspapers which
appeared before the Revolution and during its progress. The work,
therefore, is a reflection of the spirit of old times, giving their very
“form and pressure,” and exhibiting, sometimes in a ludicrous light, old
political passions in all their original frenzy of thought and form of
expression. The specimens given of newspaper literature, in verse and
prose, are all interesting either for their folly or wisdom, and some of
them are valuable as curiosities of rhetoric and logic. Not only is the
work valuable to the antiquary, the historian, and the members of “the
craft,” but it contains matter sufficiently piquant to stimulate and
preserve the attention of the general reader.

The author of these volumes is a marked instance of that inherent
strength of character which pursues knowledge under difficulties, and is
victorious over all obstacles which obstruct the elevation of the
friendless. Without having received even a school education, and passing
the period that boys usually devote to Lindley Murray in a printing
office, he is one of the most vigorous and polished writers in New
England, and in thorough acquaintance with classical English literature
has no superiors. Every thing he writes bears the signs, not merely of
intellect and taste, but of forcible character; and we believe that a
selection from his newspaper articles would make a volume, which for
originality of thought, and raciness of expression, would be an addition
to our literature.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Songs of Labor, and Other Poems. By John G. Whittier. Boston:
    Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo._

Whittier’s popularity, great as it is, must be increased by these Songs
of Labor. In them, the Ship-Builders, Shoemakers, Drovers, Fishermen,
Huskers and Lumbermen, are gifted with vigorous and melodious utterance,
in songs whose chime is the very echo of their occupations. The other
poems of the collection are of a merit as various as their themes. The
best is the poem entitled “Memories,” one of the most exquisitely
tender, thoughtful and imaginative poems in our literature. “Pious IX.”
and “Elliott,” are essentially battle-pieces, and the rhymes clash
together like the crossing of swords. Fierce and hot as the invective of
these poems is, we still think the business of wrath is much better done
in “Ichabod,” in which rage and scorn take the form of a dirge, and
smiting sarcasms are insinuated through the phrases of grief. Throughout
the volume we are impressed with the great nature of the author, and the
superiority of the man to any thing he has yet produced. He unites, in a
singular degree, tenderness with strength, delicate fancy with blazing
imagination, sensitive sentiment with sturdy character; and his most
exhilarating and trumpet-voiced lyrics have the air of impromptus. In
the following lines, for instance, from a poem in the present volume on
“The Peace Convention at Brussels,” he extemporises as good heroic verse
as Campbell’s:

        Still in thy streets, oh Paris! doth the stain
        Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain;
        Still breaks the smoke Messina’s ruins through,
        And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew,
        When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread,
        At a crowned murderer’s beck of license, fed
        The yawning trenches with her noble dead;
        Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls
        The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls,
        And, leagued to crush thee on the Danube’s side,
        The beamed Croat and Bosniak spearman ride;
        Still in that vale where Himalaya’s snow
        Melts round the corn-fields and the vines below,
        The Sikh’s hot cannon, answering ball for ball,
        Flames in the breach of Moultan’s shattered wall;
        On Chenab’s side the vulture seeks the slain,
        And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Rural Hours. By a Lady. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol.
    12mo._

To judge from the dedication, the authoress of this goodly duodecimo
must be the daughter of Cooper, the novelist. She has much of her
father’s remarkable descriptive power, but is happily deficient in that
fretful discontent which disturbs the harmony of his later productions.
The volume will be found a delightful companion both to the denizen of
the city and country. The writer wins upon the reader’s sympathies with
every page. Her intelligence is clear and quiet, enlarged by intimacy
with nature and good books, and elevated by a beautiful and unobtrusive
piety. We hope this will not be her last production.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Sleep Psychologically Considered with reference to Sensation
    and Memory. By Blanchard Fosgate, M. D. New York: George P.
    Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This thin volume is devoted to a subject which, though its discussion
involves a consideration of topics properly metaphysical, has more
general interest than any other in the science of metaphysics, because
its phenomena stimulate the curiosity of all who, like Richard the
Third, are troubled with dreams. The author supports, with great power
of illustration and argument, three propositions, viz., that during
sleep the mental faculties are as active as during wakefulness; that
memory is no criterion by which to judge the mind in sleep; and that the
mind is dependent upon the integrity of the organs of external sensation
for a remembrance of what transpires during this state. The discussion
of these topics is enlivened by many curious examples.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Europe, Past and Present. By Francis H. Ungewitter, LL. D. New
    York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a thick volume of some seven hundred pages, completely crammed
with facts relating to the history, geography, and present condition of
every state in Europe. The index, containing ten thousand names, will
convey an idea of the amount of matter which the author has compressed
into his volume. Though a work of vast labor, we presume that its value,
as a work for constant reference, will amply repay the expense of
compiling it. Every man who reads European news should possess the book,
provided he desires to read news intelligently. It gives accurate ideas
of the relative importance of the various States, by exhibiting their
financial condition as well as their territory, population, and
productions.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Chronicle of the Conquest of Grenada. (Irving’s Works, vol.
    14.) New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Every lover of the romantic and picturesque in history will heartily
welcome this re-issue of Irving’s charming Chronicle. By assuming the
position of a contemporary, he is enabled to exhibit the prejudices of
the time with almost dramatic vividness, and to give events some of the
coloring they derived from Spanish bigotry without obscuring their real
nature and import. The beautiful mischievousness of the occasional irony
which peeps through the narrative, is in the author’s happiest style.
The book might easily be expanded into a dozen novels, so rich is it in
materials of description and adventure. In its present form it is
replete with accurate history, represented with pictorial vividness.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Domestic History of the American Revolution. By Mrs. Ellet,
    Author of the Women of the American Revolution. New York: Baker
    & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

The theme which Mrs. Ellet has chosen is an important one, and
absolutely necessary to be comprehended by all who wish to understand
the American Revolution as a living fact. The great defect of most of
our national histories and biographies is their abstract character,
neither characters nor events being represented in the concrete, and
brought directly home to the hearts and imaginations of readers. The
result is, that most of us, when we attempt to be patriotic, slide so
readily into bombast; for having no distinct conceptions of what was
really done and suffered by our forefathers and _foremothers_, we can
only glorify them by a resort to the dictionary. Mrs. Ellet’s book is
devoted to those scenes and persons in our revolutionary history, in
exhibiting which the novelist is commonly so far in advance of the
historian; and she has performed her task with much discrimination in
the selection of materials, and no little pictorial power in
representing what she has selected.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Vale of Cedars; or The Martyr. By Grace Aguilar. New York:
    D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is Grace Aguilar’s last work, in the most melancholy sense of the
word, she having died of consumption shortly after its completion. The
story is one of much interest; the sentiments beautiful and pure; the
style sweet and pleasing. We have read none of her novels with more
satisfaction than this. At a period when romance writing has been so
much perverted from its true purpose, it is delightful to find a
novelist who, to a talent for narrative, united a regard for the highest
and purest sentiments of human nature.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Norman Leslie: A Tale. By C. G. H., author of the “Curate of
    Linwood,” etc. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This novel, in title the same as one by Theodore S. Fay, is in matter
and style very different. It is a historical novel of the period of the
religious wars in Scotland, and though not peculiarly excellent in
characters, is filled with stirring events and attractive scenes. The
publishers, without much increasing the price, have printed it in a
style of much neatness. Large type and white paper are a blessing not
commonly vouchsafed to American novel readers.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Margaret Percival in America. A Tale. Edited by a New England
    Minister, A. M. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

“Margaret Percival,” by Miss Sewall, has had a large circulation in this
country, and it is but right that the present novel, which not only
represents Margaret as a more tolerant Christian, but describes the
process by which she became so, should be read by all who have been
influenced by the English Margaret.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Life, Here and There: Or Sketches of Society and Adventure at
    Far-Apart Times and Places. By N. P. Willis. New York: Baker &
    Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

This thick and handsome duodecimo contains many of the most charming and
sprightly of Mr. Willis’s popular compositions, evincing that singular
combination of sentiment and shrewdness, of poetic feeling and knowledge
of the world, in which he has no American rival. The style, airy,
graceful and fluent, is distinguished by a “polished want of polish,” a
fertility of apt and fanciful expression, and a gliding ease of
movement, which take the reader captive, and bear him on through “long
reaches of delight.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Berber: Or the Mountaineer of the Atlas. A Tale of Morocco,
    By William Starbuck Mayo, M. D., Author of “Kaloolah,” etc. New
    York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This novel has hardly the fresh, dashing, daring character of Dr. Mayo’s
first romance, but it still has sufficient raciness and audacity to
serve for a score of common novels. The author has great tact in so
choosing his scenes and characters that the peculiar powers of his mind
can have free play. In “The Berber” the incidents follow each other in
such quick succession that we make no demands for originality or power
of characterization. In respect to the latter, Dr. Mayo is so far
deficient, though he gives evidence of being capable of drawing
characters as well as telling a story.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Companion. After-Dinner Table-Talk. By Chetwood Evelyn,
    Esq. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

The idea of this volume is capital. It consists of short and spicy
selections from eminent authors, and anecdotes of distinguished men, of
a character very different from those which form the staple of
jest-books. The principal source whence the editor has derived his
brilliancies, is that most gentlemanly of wits and humorists, Sydney
Smith; and a fine portrait of him very properly adorns the title page.
The book would have been even better than it is, if the author had drawn
his matter from a wider circle of reading.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Reginald Hastings; a Tale of the Troubles of 164-. By Elliott
    Warburton, Author of “The Crescent and the Cross,” etc. New
    York: Harper & Brothers._

This novel has been absurdly puffed in England, but it is nevertheless
an interesting and well written one, worthy the pen which wrote “The
Crescent and the Cross.” The period in which its events and characters
are laid, the Great Rebellion, so called, has not recently been treated,
but it has great capabilities for romantic and humorous
characterization, which Warburton has employed, not indeed with the
sagacity and genius of Scott, but with much skill and with dramatic
effect.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Memoirs of the Life of Anne Boleyn, Queen of Henry VIII. By
    Miss Benger. From the Third London Edition. With a Memoir of the
    Author, by Miss Aiken. 1 vol. Philadelphia: A. Hart._

In some respects we prefer this memoir to that by Miss Strickland. The
only fault we have to find with Miss Benger, indeed, is that she is too
eulogistic. No one, in this age, doubts that Anne Boleyn was an innocent
woman, who fell a victim partly to political intrigue, partly to her
husband’s fickleness; but it is useless to deny that she had ambition,
and ridiculous to claim for her the character of a saint. She was, in a
word, a witty, graceful, well-read, fascinating female, vain of
applause, a little free in her manners, a fast friend, and a bitter
enemy. She never loved the king, as she might have loved Percy, had not
Wolsey crossed her path, and converted her into a haughty, scheming,
ambitious woman; but she never, on the other hand, violated her vows
toward Henry, or failed in the discharge of any wifely duty. Her conduct
during the two years that the divorce was in progress is the most
censurable part of her life. We cannot forgive her for wringing the
heart of the unoffending Catharine. Nor for her favor toward Henry at
this time can we esteem her as we would have wished. But from the period
that she became the lawful wife of the king her character visibly
improves. She was affable to the low, courteous to the high, charitable
to the needy, just to all. As her sorrows increase her character rises
in loveliness; her frivolity is cast aside, the haughtiness departs, and
the true nobleness of her heart shines forth. Nothing in history is more
pathetic than the story of her arrest, trial, and execution. In a court
where she had scarcely a friend, she bore herself with the fortitude of
a martyr, asserting her innocence with an earnestness that carried
conviction even to those who condemned her; and on the scaffold, though
her over-wrought nerves occasionally found vent in hysterical gayety,
her lofty and heroic soul triumphed over the terrible spectacle of the
axe, the block, the gaping crowd. Her closing career, indeed, has all
the grandeur of a tragedy. We read of it with eyes dim with tears, and
with a heart execrating her murderers.

The volume is beautifully printed, and embellished with a portrait,
copied from the celebrated picture of Holbein.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Lynch’s Dead Sea Expedition. A new and Condensed Edition. 1
    vol. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._

The original edition of this work was printed on such costly paper, and
illustrated with so many engravings that hundreds of persons, who
desired to purchase it, were withheld by the necessarily high price. To
meet the wishes of this class, the present cheap edition has been
issued. There has been no material change in the letter-press; the few
alterations that have been made are for the better; but the engravings
are omitted; the volume is printed on poorer paper, and the page is not
quite so large. On the whole we think this edition more desirable than
the first. So much valuable information is embraced in the narrative of
Lieutenant Lynch, that persons curious respecting the Holy Land, and
especially respecting the Dead Sea, will find themselves amply repaid by
a perusal, and even a re-perusal of this work. Numerous popular fables
respecting the Jordan, the Sea of Galilee, and the dread Lake of
Gomorrah are exploded in this volume; and a mass of instructive evidence
imparted respecting the geographical character of Palestine, its former
fertility, and the general habits of its inhabitants. It is impossible
to read this work without obtaining new light in the understanding of
Scripture.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Life and Correspondence of Andrew Combe. M. D. By George Combe.
    1 vol. Philadelphia: A. Hart._

Andrew Combe was almost as universally celebrated for his works on
physiology as his brother, George, is for his writings in connection
with phrenology. The present biography is a tribute, by the elder
brother, to the usefulness of the younger. As the story of a life, made
beneficial to the human race through a compassionate and wise heart, and
this amid constant ill-health, it is one of the most valuable offerings
of the century to biographical literature. Apart from this, however, it
has a merit in the narrative of Dr. Combe’s protracted illness, and the
means used successfully by him to prolong life. An early victim to
consumption, he arrested the progress of disease, and protracted his
existence for more than twenty years, during which period all of his
best works were written. The volume teaches two important lessons: the
first, that in the study of physiology, alleviation may be found for
much of human suffering; the second, that, even in sickness and sorrow,
it is possible, instead of remaining entirely a burden to others, to be
a benefactor of our race. We have read this work with deep interest, and
believe it will afford equal satisfaction to others.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Picturesque Sketches of Greece and Turkey. By Aubrey de Vere. 1
    vol. Philadelphia: A. Hart._

The author of this volume is known, in England, as a poet of some merit.
In the present work he has attempted a new _role_, and has succeeded in
it, we are free to confess, in the very best manner. Mr. De Vere is at
once a scholar and a gentleman. The former qualification renders him a
peculiarly fitting traveler on the classic soil of Greece; the latter
enables him to depict what he has seen in a manner not offensive to good
taste. We have had so many cockney books on Greece, we have seen
flunkeyism so rampant even in Constantinople, that it is refreshing to
find a work like the present, in which the knowledge of the man of the
world, the stores of the student, and the enthusiasm of the poet are all
combined. The volume first arrested our attention by its elegant
appearance, and, having once begun it, we could not lay it aside till we
had finished it. There is much in the book, it is true, which a
well-read man will recognize as old; but then the style makes even this
have an air of freshness. On the other hand the work really contains a
good deal that is new.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Phantom World; or the Philosophy of Apparitions, Ghosts,
    etc. By Augustus Calmet. With Introduction and Notes by the Rev.
    Henry Christmas, M. A. 1 vol. Philadelphia: A. Hart._

A pleasant, perhaps instructive book, though this last is as people view
it. For our part we hold that the way to make folk believe in ghosts is
to cram them, especially in childhood, with stories of apparitions.
Personally, we have little faith in phantoms. However “_chacun à son
gout_;” and therefore, to those who like speculating about ghosts, we
recommend this work.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Reminiscences of Congress. By Charles Marsh. 1 vol. New York:
    Baker & Scribner._

We have here a number of lively and trustworthy sketches of public men,
written in a style that reminds us of Grant’s sketches of The English
Parliament. We had intended devoting some space to the work, as one
peculiarly deserving consideration, but for want of room, are obliged to
defer, and perhaps abandon our purpose.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Extraordinary Popular Delusions. By Charles Mackey. 2 vols.
    Philadelphia: Lindsay & Blackiston._

This is a readable book, especially at this crisis, when Rochester
knockings, Clairvoyance, and other wonders fill the public mind. The
author has compiled a history of all the popular delusions, with which
different generations have been misled; nor has he confined himself
merely to mysteries like the knockings, but has discussed the South Sea
Bubble, the Mississippi Scheme, and other vagaries of a similar
character.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Echoes of the Universe; or the World of Matter, and the World
    of Spirit. By the Rev. H. A. Christmas, M. A. 1 vol.
    Philadelphia: A. Hart._

The publisher characterizes this work as a companion to the “Vestiges of
Creation;” but he might, more justly, have described it as an antidote
to that skeptical volume. We cordially recommend the book.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _A Modern History, from the Time of Luther to the Fall of
    Napoleon. By John Lord, A. M. Philadelphia: T. Cowperthwait &
    Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this work is well known as an accomplished lecturer on
history in the principal cities of the Northern and Middle States. The
present work shows great power of compression as well as wealth of
information. Though the work is designed for colleges and schools, it
will be found of much value to the general reader as a guide to
historical studies.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _History of the Polk Administration. By Lucian B. Chase, a
    Member of the 29th and 30th Congresses. New York: Geo. P.
    Putnam. 1 vol. 8vo._

The author of this volume, though a political supporter of the late
President, has written an interesting account of the important events
which occurred in his administration. The partisan character of the work
prevents it from coming properly under the name of “history,” but it
contains a well arranged statement of a vast mass of facts, valuable
both to the intelligent Whig and Democrat.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The American Quarterly Register and Magazine. Conducted by
    James Stryker. December, 1849. Vol. III., No. 2. Philadelphia:
    Published by the Proprietor._

The second number of the third volume of this work is now before us.
That which Judge Stryker undertook to perform he has faithfully complied
with, and the public are now secure in the permanent existence of a
periodical which will prove a treasury of information, and which was
long since needed. The deficiency is now supplied, and ably supplied;
and we can safely predict that it will command a liberal and generous
support.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               EDITORIAL.


                     TO REV. RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD.


MY DEAR PARSON,—I knew you would be gratified with my friendly notice
of you in the March number of “Graham”—and your pleasant start of
surprise, to express your ignorance of the writer, was well
conceived—you wicked wag. People who do not know your ways might almost
think you were honest for once in your life,—but I, who have seen you
in your happy moods, understand what an exquisite point to your wit a
falsehood imparts, and what a choice bit of clerical drollery you
consider it, to offer to _swear_ to an untruth.

You have adjusted, now, your long score with poor Poe, to _your own_
satisfaction, I hope; for ignorant people will say, that this settlement
of accounts after the death of your friend may be honest—and—_may not
be_. You see it lays you open to suspicion, and may soil the surplice
you wear. Your clerical mantle, like Charity, may cover a multitude of
sins, but you should not wear it _too_ unguardedly. Charity for the
errors of the dead, you know, is allowable in funeral sermons, even over
the cold remains of those the world scorned and spurned as its veriest
reprobates. Even _you_ will not class your friend—who you say was
reconciled to you before he died—with outcasts who forfeit even the
last offices of humanity. You would give even him a Christian burial.
“Dust to dust—ashes to ashes,” methinks, should bury all animosities.
You would not pursue your victim beyond the grave, and in the same hour
pray, “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass
against us.” This would be horrible.

Now it will not do, my dear parson, to attempt to carry off this
departure from Christian practice, with an affectation of great equity,
in the performance of duty. “Give the devil his due” may be a very
orthodox maxim, but you seem, in adopting it, to have started with the
hypothesis that you had a devil to deal with; yet in the exercise of
justice thus liberally, it would seem but fair to meet even this
Personage face to face, that he might dispute the account if he felt
aggrieved at your estimate. This last point, I think, you have a fair
chance of attaining. Nor will it do to affect courage and great devotion
to truth. It is very well to say, that vice should be held up that its
deformity may be seen, so as to startle and deter others. You should be
sure that the vice of your brother is not his misfortune, and that the
sin which taints your own fingers, may not turn crimson in contrast
before the eyes of the gazers. Courage, my dear parson, is a relative
term. You may think it great courage, and a duty you owe to truth, to
assail your friend for wishing to evade a matrimonial engagement, yet it
would be the veriest weakness and wickedness—if you had set the worse
example of evading your marital duties after the solemnization. He who
sacrifices at the altar should have clean hands.

The jewels which sometimes ornament the remains of beauty or worth have
tempted, before now, gentlemen of hardy nerve, but I do not remember
that these have ever taken rank in the annals of knight-errantry. And,
my dear parson—I am talking somewhat freely with you, but you must
pardon me—the feat that you have performed with so much unction, the
despoiling of the fame of a man who intrusted it to you as a jewel of
inestimable value to him, has not received the applause of a single man
of honor. Your _claqueurs_ themselves, feel that your performance is
damned. I have no doubt that some faint glimpses of the truth have
reached even your mind. I would have you pray over this subject, my dear
sir, for your feet stand upon slippery places. In all sincerity, I would
have you revise your creed and reform your practice; for you do not seem
to get even the poor applause of the world, for wrong-doing.

                                                      GEO. R. GRAHAM.
  _Philadelphia, Sept. 20, 1850._

                 *        *        *        *        *

ERRATA.—Our first form having been worked off previous to the reception
of the final proof of the leading article, the following errors will be
found:— On page 266, 1st column, 17th line from bottom, for “_with_”
read _wrote_. Page 266, 2d col., 2d line from bottom, for “_region_”
read _reign_. Page 267, 2d col., 30th line from top, for “_physical_”
read _psychical_. Page 269, 1st col., 9th line from bottom for
“_profession_” read _possession_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET     Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, 69.
_Coiffures de_ Hamelin, _pass. du Saumon, 21—Lingerie de la maison_
  Schreiber, _r. Montmartre, 32—Fleurs de_ Chagot, _ainé, r. Richelieu
  73_.
_Robes de M^{me}_ Verrier Richard, _r. Richelieu, 13—Dentelles de_
  Violard, _rue Choiseul, 4_.]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                       GREAT VOLUME OF “GRAHAM!”

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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE, unrivaled in splendor and excellence, will commence a
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                      SPLENDID DEPARTMENT OF ART.

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                           GEORGE R. GRAHAM,
              _No. 134 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa._




                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

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

page 266, with his Fairy Queen ==> wrote his Fairy Queen
page 266, to the opening region ==> to the opening reign
page 267, the debateable ground ==> the debatable ground
page 267, the pirotal points of ==> the pivotal points of
page 267, a complete physical age ==> a complete psychical age
page 269, antiquity of profession ==> antiquity of possession
page 269, to elude the clumsey ==> to elude the clumsy
page 270, the apocalytic vision ==> the apocalyptic vision
page 272, once again their came ==> once again there came
page 274, blasphemy of the this fiendish ==> blasphemy of this fiendish
page 275, could the the child get away ==> could the child get away
page 278, zealous and and apparently ==> zealous and apparently
page 281, listening, however inadvertant ==> listening, however
  inadvertent
page 287, buffetted against the ==> buffeted against the
page 293, the bark’s bright goal ==> the barque’s bright goal
page 297, _tu aimes_, _nous aimous_ ==> _tu aimes_, _nous aimons_
page 300, flight was a long, ==> flight was long,
page 304, beneath the waters’s flow ==> beneath the waters’ flow
page 305, just now, wan’t I ==> just now, wasn’t I
page 306, and at night’s he ==> and at nights he
page 311, They pause, when ==> They paused, when
page 313, take the hinmost ==> take the hindmost
page 314, arched eye-brow, that ==> arched eye-brows, that
page 316, Napolean! he hath come ==> Napoleon! he hath come
page 318, envious snow flury ==> envious snow flurry
page 321, in thy mandhood pure ==> in thy manhood pure
page 324, Melt’s round the corn-fields ==> Melts round the corn-fields





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 5,
November 1850, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54032 ***