Project Gutenberg's Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848, by Various

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Title: Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848

Author: Various

Editor: George R. Graham
        Robert T. Conrad

Release Date: July 7, 2009 [EBook #29344]

Language: English

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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, JUNE 1848 ***




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[Illustration: inscription--Yr affectionate Brother, S H Walker]


GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXII.     PHILADELPHIA, JUNE, 1848.       NO. 6.

CAPTAIN SAMUEL WALKER.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]


Time and opportunity make men--and high talent in any profession or
sphere of life is valueless unless called into action. This is
strikingly exemplified in the career of the person with whom we now
have to do.

Samuel Walker was born in the county of Prince George, Maryland, in
the year 1815. His family, though respectable, had neither fortune nor
influence sufficient to advance his interests; and at an early age he
was thrown on the world, dependent for success only on his own
exertions. Educated to no profession or business, the chances of his
drawing a prize in the lottery of life seemed small indeed, yet it is
probable no man of his grade in the service has, since the
commencement of the Mexican war, attracted more attention. Of the
early career of Walker we know little except that in 1840 he was one
of the party of less than twenty men selected by Col. Harney, from the
strength of the 2d Dragoons, to penetrate the great Payhaokee or
everglades of Florida. The history of this expedition is peculiar.

After the battle of Okeechobee the might of the Seminoles was broken,
and they took refuge in the chain of lakes and immense hamacs which
extend almost from Cape Florida to the Suwannee River. Divided into
small parties, they defied the pursuit of heavy columns, yet
frequently left their fastnesses to commit the most fearful
atrocities. During the winter of 1839 and 40 they had been peculiarly
bold, and had ventured even to attack, under the guns of Fort
Micanopy, a party of mounted infantry which was escorting the young
and beautiful wife of an officer of the 7th Infantry to a neighboring
post. This party, with the exception of two or three persons, was
destroyed. It became evident that no operations could lead to a good
result unless the Indians were pursued to their own retreats, and
treated as they had themselves conducted the war. Col. Harney, who was
in command of one of the departments of Florida, immediately organized
an expedition for the purpose of entering the great everglade south
of the Lake Okeechobee, in which the Seminoles were supposed to be in
much strength. The country in which he was about to act seemed to be
the realization of the poetic chaos. It was overgrown with trees of
immense size, of kinds almost unknown in other portions of the
peninsula, and grass of great highth and strength rose two or three
feet above the surface of the water, which not unfrequently had a
depth of several feet. Notwithstanding, however, that this was the
general character of the country there were often _portages_, or shoal
and dry places, over which it was necessary to carry their boats by
main force. In this kind of country the Indians had the manifest
advantage, being acquainted with sinuous pathways, which, it is said,
enabled them to thread all the intricacies of the hamac almost without
wetting the moccason. The party of Col. Harney, however, were picked
men, inured to all the hardships of Indian warfare, and after several
days of hide and seek, surprised a party of Indians, among whom was a
chief of distinction. As this identical party had more than once
surrendered and broken truce, Colonel Harney ordered all the men to be
hung summarily, and took the women with him to the nearest post as
prisoners. So important was this service that the names of all the
party were mentioned in general orders, and the enlisted men advanced
in grade. The effect on the Indians was great; large parties came in
and surrendered, and they remained almost quiet until their last
attempt was crushed by Gen. Worth in the brilliant affair of
Pilaklakaha, April 17, 1842.

Previous to this time, young Walker had been discharged from the
service, by reason of the expiration of his enlistment, and with some
funds he had amassed while in the army, proceeded at once to Texas,
then embroiled with the abrasions of the great Camanche race and the
minor tribes strewn along her northern frontier. He was one of the
party of the famous Jack Hays, when in 1844 that leader defeated,
with fifteen men armed with Colt's pistols, then novelties in the
West, a large force of Indians. In this encounter Walker was wounded
by a lance, and left by his adversary pinned to the ground. After
remaining in this position for a long time, he was rescued by his
companions when the fight was over.

The disastrous expedition commenced under the command of Gen.
Somerville, and terminated at Mier by the surrender of the whole party
to Don Pedro de Ampudia, since become a person of most unenviable
notoriety, is well known. One of the most conspicuous members of this
foray, for it scarcely deserves another name, was Walker. He
distinguished himself during the long siege the Texans maintained in
the house they had seized, until forced for want of provisions and
ammunition to surrender. With the rest he was marched to the castle of
Perote, suffering every indignity which Mexican cruelty and ingenuity
could invent. On this sad march, at Salado, Walker performed perhaps
the most brilliant exploit of his life. Wearied out by cruelty, the
Texans resolved to escape, and on this occasion Walker was the leader.
The prisoners were placed in a strong stone building, at the door of
which two sentinels were placed, while their escort bivoucked in front
of the building. Walker, at a concerted signal, threw open the door,
seized and disarmed one of the sentinels, while a gallant fellow named
Cameron, a Highlander, was equally successful with the other. The
unarmed prisoners immediately rushed through the gateway and seized
the arms of the Mexican guard. No scheme was ever more daringly
planned or more boldly executed. Within the course of a moment the two
hundred and fourteen Texans had changed places with the numerous
Mexican guard. Outside of a court-yard, in which the guard had
bivoucked, was a strong cavalry force, which the Texans charged with
the bayonet and routed, and immediately resumed their march back to
the Rio Grande.

They deserved success and liberty, but ignorant of the country, soon
became lost in the mountains, were overpowered and taken back to
Salado. They found Santa Anna there, and the Mexican President
decimated the party.

The Texans in their escape and conflicts had lost five men, and Santa
Anna demanded the decimation of the rest. A bowl was brought, and a
bean for every man was placed in it, every tenth bean being black. The
bowl was covered, and the whole party were then ordered in succession
to take out one bean. The twenty-one individuals who had chanced on
the black beans were immediately shot. This was the famous _Caravanza_
lottery, the mere mention of which is sufficient to make the bosom of
every Texan boil with indignation, and which is the origin of the
intense hatred borne by all the people of that state to Santa Anna.
This worthy has during the whole war carefully avoided the Texan
Rangers, and had he come in contact with them, they would doubtless
have exacted a fearful retribution.

Walker with the survivors of the party were taken to Perote, whence
he was lucky enough to escape, and returned to Texas, into the service
of which he was at once received.

When the Mexican war began Walker was the captain of a company of
Texan Rangers stationed on the Rio Grande, and immediately offered his
services to General Taylor, who accepted them, and stationed him
between Point Isabel and the cantonment for the purpose of keeping
open the communication. On the 28th of April he discovered that the
Mexican troops were in motion, and at once, with his small command of
twenty-five men, set out to report the fact to the general. On his way
he encountered the Mexican column, and it is not improbable that with
his small party he was in contact with one wing of the force which
subsequently fought at Palo Alto. The Texans were pursued to Point
Isabel, on which place they fell back, having lost several men, but
killed more of the enemy than their own force numbered.

In spite of the intervening force of the enemy, Walker determined to
reach General Taylor on that night, and accompanied but by six of his
men set out. After charging through a large body of Mexican lancers,
he reached Gen. Taylor on the morning of the 30th.

On the 1st of May Gen. Taylor broke up his camp, and what followed is
well known. On the 3d Walker was again employed in the perilous
service of ascertaining the condition of Fort Brown, which was then
being bombarded by all the batteries of the city of Matamoras. His
reconnoisance was one of the boldest feats performed during the war,
and though May, who had command of a hundred horse for the purpose of
covering him, presuming he must have been captured returned to Gen.
Taylor, Walker again returned on the 4th, having accomplished his duty
alone.

At Palo Alto and La Resaca Walker again distinguished himself, and was
mentioned by Gen. Taylor in the dispatch with the highest terms of
commendation. For his distinguished services, on the organization of
the Mounted Rifles, he was appointed a captain of cavalry in the
regular service.

After sharing in all the perils of the war, Walker devoted himself to
the pursuit of the Guerilleros, who infested the road from Vera Cruz
to the capital, and uniformly maintained his high reputation. In the
affair of La Hoya, Sept. 20, 1847, he acted independently, and was
perfectly successful.

In the expedition of Gen. Lane, which terminated so gallantly at
Huamantla, Walker served for the last time. The prize he had proposed
to himself was great, being nothing less than the capture of Santa
Anna. Walker on this occasion commanded the whole cavalry force, and
led the advance. His charge into the town, from the covering of
Magues, is described by old soldiers who saw it as having been
terrific. Passing completely through the town, he pursued the enemy's
retreating artillery. After the success was sure, Walker returned, and
was treacherously shot from a house on which a white flag was hanging.
Within thirty minutes he died, after a brilliant victory, in gaining
which he had been an important actor. With a force of one hundred and
ninety-five men he had beaten and routed five hundred picked lancers,
and given the tone to the events of the day.

No man was more regretted than Capt. Walker, who had enjoyed the
confidence of every officer with whom he had served. Gen. Scott and
Gen. Taylor both highly estimated his good qualities, and reposed the
greatest trust in him.

When the news of his death reached the United States, the people were
every where loud in their regrets, and he will be remembered as one of
the heroes of the Mexican war.

Captain Walker had risen by his own exertions. Brought up in a good
school, "the Light Dragoons of the U. S.," his knowledge of tactics,
acquired in Florida, was most useful to his first service as an
officer in the army of the Texan Republic. He is spoken of as having
possessed every requisite for a cavalry officer--a quick perception, a
keen eye, a strong arm, perfect control of his horse, thorough
knowledge of military combination, and the rarer and more valuable
faculty of winning the confidence of his men. Had he not been cut off
so untimely in his chosen career, he could not but have become a
distinguished general.

Captain Walker died at the age of 33, in sight almost of the famous
dungeon of Perote, where he had long been a prisoner. There was
something like retribution in the fact that more than one other Texan,
who, like himself, had been confined there, contributed to raise above
its battlements the colors of the United States.




LAMARTINE TO MADAME JORELLE.

FROM THE FRENCH.

BY VIRGINIA.


    What! offer thee the tribute of my numbers?
      Thou daughter of the East! whose infancy
    The warring desert winds rocked to its slumbers--
      Dost thou demand incense of Poesy?

    Flower of Aleppo! whom the Bulbul choosing
      Would wander from his worshiped rose of May,
    O'er thy fair chalice her remembrance losing,
      To languish 'mid thy leaves his moonlight lay!

    Bear odors to the balm pure sweets exhaling?
      Hang on the orange bough a riper load?
    Lend fires to Syria's East at dawn unveiling?
      Pave with new stars[1] the Night's all-glittering road?

    No verses here!--Verse would despair of raising
      Aught save an image dark and faint of thee;
    But gently in yon basin's mirror gazing
      Behold thyself! Embodied Poesy!

    When through the kiosque's grated ogive straying,
      The sea-breeze mingles with the Moka's fume,
    Where softly o'er thy form the moonbeams playing
      Glance on thy couch, rich from Palmyra's loom--

    When on the jasmine tube thy lip half closes,
      Veiled with its golden threads in bright array,
    While ruffling at thy breath, fragrant with roses,
      Murmur the drops within the Narquité--

    When as winged perfumes rise into thy brain,
      In light caressing clouds around thee wreathing
    All love's and youth's lost visions throng again,
      An atmosphere of dreams thy listeners breathing--

    When in thy tale the Arab steed forth starting
      Yields foaming to thy curb of infancy,
    And that triumphant glance obliquely darting
      Equals the summer-lightning of his eye--

    When thy fair arm, of loveliest symmetry,
      Supports the fairer brow in thought reclining,
    While gleams with diamond fires thy poniard nigh
      In quick reflection of the torch's shining--

    Naught is there in the murmured words of feeling,
      Naught in the Poet's ever dreaming brow,
    Naught in pure sighs from purest bosoms stealing,
      Naught redolent of Poesy as thou!

    With me the age has flown when Love, life's flower,
      Perfumes the heart--my warmest accents falter,
    And beauty o'er my soul has lost her power--
      Cold is the light I kindle on her altar!

    The harp is this chilled bosom's only queen,
      But how would homage from its depths have burst
    In gushing minstrelsy at bright sixteen,
      If _then_ these eyes had rested on thee first!

    How many stanzas had thy lover given
      To one sweet vaporous wreath that lately graced
    Thy meditative lip, or how had striven
      To stay that form by unseen artist traced!

    That shadow's vague enchanting outline cast
      On yonder wall, to arrest with poet's finger
    Thy beauty's mystic image fading fast,
      As round thy form fond moonbeams cease to linger!

[Footnote 1: The road of heaven, star-paved. PARADISE LOST]




PHANTOMS ALL.

A PHANTASY.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.


It was with a feeling of regret, such as stirs one's heart at parting
with a dear friend, that I turned the last page of Irving's most
delightful visit to Abbotsford, which he has given us in language so
beautiful from its simplicity, so graphic in its details, and so
heart-deep in its sincerity, that with him we ourselves seem to be
partakers also of the hospitality and kindness of the immortal Scott.

"Every night," says Irving, "I retired with my mind filled with
delightful recollections of the day, and every morning I arose with
the certainty of new enjoyment."

And so vividly has he painted for the imagination of his happy readers
those scenes of delight, those hours of social interchange of two
great minds, that we are admitted as it were into free communion with
them. On the banks of the silvery Tweed we stroll delighted, or pause
to view the "gray waving hills," made so dear to all the lovers of
Scott and Burns, through the enchantment which romance and poetry have
thrown around them. We listen for the tinkling chime of the fairy
bells as we pass through the glen of Thomas the Rhymer, almost
expecting to see by our side, as we muse on the banks of the goblin
stream, the queen of the fairies on her "dapple gray pony." Again,
through the cloisters of Melrose Abbey we wander silently and in awe,
almost wishing that honest John Boyer would leave us awhile unmolested
even by the praises of his master the "_shirra_," whom he considers
"not a bit proud," notwithstanding he has such "_an awfu' knowledge o'
history!_" Or it may be we recline amid the purple heather and listen
to the deep tones of the great magician himself, as he delights our
ear with some quaint tradition of the olden time, while Maida, grave
and dignified as becomes the rank he holds, crouches beside his
master, disdaining to share the sports of Hamlet, Hector, "both
mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound" frolicking so wantonly on the bonny
green knowe before us!

But at length the hour of parting comes. We feel the hearty grasp, and
hear the farewell words with which Scott takes leave of his American
friend, and as with them our delusion wrought by the magic pen of
Irving vanishes, we would fain slay the enchantment--too bright to
pass away unlamented!

    "The pen of a ready writer, whereunto shall it be likened?

        *    *    *    *    *

    Let the calm child of genius, whose name shall never die,
    For that the transcript of his mind hath made his thoughts immortal--
    Let these, let all, with no faint praise, with no light gratitude, confess
    _The blessings poured upon the earth from the pen of a readywriter_."

Closing the volume which had so enchained my senses, my mind, from
dwelling upon the presence of Scott himself, as introduced through
the unformal courtesy of our beloved Irving, naturally turned to the
varied and wonderful productions of that master mind, and to the many
characters thereby created, seeming to hold a sacred place in our
thoughts and affections, as friends whom we had once known and loved!

I was suddenly aroused from my ruminations by a light tap on the
shoulder. Judge of my astonishment when Meg Merrillies stood before
me, clad in the same wild gipsy garb in which she had warned the Laird
of Ellangowan on Ellangowan's height! In her shriveled hand it would
seem she held the very sapling which for the last time she had plucked
from the bonny woods which had so long waved above her bit shealing,
until driven thence by the timorous and weak-minded laird. With this
she again touched me, and in a half inviting, half commanding tone
said:

"Gang wi' me, leddy, gang wi' me, and I will show ye a bonny company,
amang whilk ye'll soon speer those ye're thinking o'."

I confess it was not without some trepidation I arose to follow my
strange conductor, who, seizing my hand, rather dragged than led me
through several long dark passages, until suddenly emerging from one
still more gloomy than the others, my eyes were almost blinded with
the glare of light and splendor that flashed upon them.

"Gang in amang them a', my leddy," cried Meg, letting go my hand and
waving me toward the entrance, "and gin ye suld see bonny Harry
Bertram, tell him there is ane he kens o' will meet him the night down
by the cairn when the clock strikes the hour o' twal."

Obeying her mandate, I now found myself in a lofty and spacious
saloon. From the ceiling, which was of azure sprinkled with golden
stars, were suspended the most magnificent chandeliers, brilliant with
a thousand waxen tapers. Gorgeous and life-like tapestry adorned the
walls--massive mirrors reflected on every side the blaze of elegance,
while the furniture, patterning the fashions of the different ages
from the times of the Crusades to that of Elizabeth, was of the most
choice and beautiful materials.

But of this I took little note--other and "more attractive metal" met
my eye, for around me were kings and princes--peer and peasant--lords
and ladies--turbaned infidel and helmeted knight--the wild roving
gipsy and the wandering troubadour. In short, I found myself in the
_world_ of the immortal master of Abbotsford, and surrounded by those
to whose enchanting company I had oft been indebted for dispelling
many a weary hour of sickness and gloom--friends whom at my bidding I
could at any moment summon to my presence--friends never weary of
well-doing--friends never weighing down the heart by their unkindness,
or chilling by their neglect. My heart throbbed with a delight before
unknown; and I eagerly looked about me, recognizing on every side
those dear familiar ones with whom, for so many years, I had been
linked in love and friendship.

The first group on whom my eyes rested were our dear friends from
Tully-Veolan accompanied by the McIvors.

The beautiful, high-souled Flora was leaning on the arm of the good
old Baron Bradwardine, while the gentle Rose shrunk almost timidly
from the support of the noble but ill-fated Fergus. They were both
lovely--Flora and Rose; but while the former dazzled by her beauty and
her wit, the latter, in unpretending sweetness, stole at once into our
hearts. But not so thought Waverly. With "ear polite" he listened to
the somewhat tedious colloquy of the old baron, yet his eloquent eyes,
his heart speaking through them, were fixed upon the noble countenance
of Flora McIvor.

"Come, good folks," cried a merry voice--and the bright, happy face of
Julia Mannering was before me--"I am sent by my honored father, the
colonel, to break up this charmed circle; and he humbly requests to be
put under the spell himself, through the enchanting voice of Miss
McIvor--one little Highland air, my dear Flora, is all he asks--but
see, with sombre Melancholy leaning on his arm, he comes to enforce
his own request."

And the gallant Colonel Mannering, supporting the fragile form of Lucy
Bertram, clad in deep mourning robes, now approached, and after
gracefully saluting the circle, solicited from Miss McIvor a song.
Waverly eagerly brought the harp of Flora from a small recess, and as
he placed it before her, whispered something in a low tone, which for
a moment crimsoned the brow of the maiden, then coldly bowing to him,
she drew the instrument toward her, and warbled a wild and spirited
Highland air, her eyes flashing, and her bosom heaving with the
exciting theme she had chosen.

"Pro-di-gious!" exclaimed a voice I thought I knew; and, sure enough,
I found the dear old Dominie Sampson close at my elbow--his large,
gray eyes rolling in ecstasy--his mouth open, and grasping in his
hands a huge folio, while Davie Gellatly, with cap and bells, stood
mincing and grimacing behind him--now rolling up the whites of his
eyes--now pulling the skirts of the unconscious pedagogue--and
finally, surmounting the wig of the Dominie with his own fool's cap,
he clapped his hands, gayly crying, "O, braw, braw Davie!"

Julia Mannering now touched the harp to a lively air, when suddenly
her voice faltered, the eloquent blood mantled her cheek, and her
little fingers trembled as they swept the harp-strings.

"Ah, ha!" thought I, "there must be a cause for all this--Brown must
be near!" and in a moment that handsome young soldier had joined the
group. Remembering the commands of Meg Merrillies, I was striving to
catch his eye, that I might do her bidding, when the gipsy herself
suddenly strode into the circle and fixing her eyes upon Brown, or
rather Bertram, she waved her long skinny arm, exclaiming,

"Tarry not here, Harry Bertram, of Ellangowan; there's a dark deed
this night to be done amid the caverns of Derncleugh, and then

    The dark shall be light,
    And the wrong made right,
    When Bertram's right, and Bertram's might,
    Shall meet on Ellangowan Height."

I now passed on and found myself in the vicinity of Old Mortality and
Monkbarns, who were deeply engaged in some antiquarian debate--too
much so to notice the shrewd smile and cunning leer which the old
Bluegown, Edie Ochiltree, now and then cast upon them.

"Hear til him," he whispered to Sir Arthur Wardour--"hear til him; the
poor mon's gone clean gyte with his saxpennies and his old penny
bodies! odd, but it gars me laugh whiles!"

Both Sir Arthur and his lovely daughter, Isabel, smiled at the
earnestness of the old man, and slipping some money into his hand, the
latter bade him come up to the castle in the morning.

At this moment radiant in _spirituelle_ beauty, glorious Die Vernon,
like another Grace Greenwood, swept past me, followed by Rashleigh,
and half a score of the Osbaldistons. She was, indeed, a lovely
creature. The dark-green riding-dress she wore fitting so perfectly
her light, elegant figure, served but to enhance the brilliancy of her
complexion, blooming with health and exercise. Her long black hair,
free from the little hat which hung carelessly upon her arm, fell
around her in beautiful profusion, and even the golden-tipped
riding-whip she held so gracefully in her little hand, seemed as a
wand to draw her worshipers around her.

Turning suddenly and finding herself so closely followed by Rashleigh,
her beautiful eyes flashed disdainfully, and linking her arm within
that of Clara Mowbray, who, with the gay party from St. Ronan's Well,
were just entering the saloon, she waved her hand to her cousin,
forbidding his nearer approach, and, with the step of a deer, she was
gone.

An oath whistled through the teeth of Rashleigh, and his dark features
contracted into a terrible frown.

"Hout, mon--dinna be fashed! Bide a bit--bide a bit! as my father, the
deacon--"

"Ah, Bailie, are you there?" cried Rashleigh, impatiently; "why I
thought you were hanging from the trees around the cave of your robber
kinsman, Rob."

Ere the worthy Nicol Jarvie could reply to this uncourteous address,
the smiling Mr. Winterblossom approached, and in the name of the
goddess, Lady Penelope Penfeather, commanded the presence of the
angered Rashleigh at the shrine of her beauty. This changed the
current of his thoughts, and with all that grace of manner and
eloquence of lip and eye, which no one knew better how to assume, he
followed to the little group of which the Lady Penelope and her rival,
Lady Binks, formed the attraction. But whatever may have been the
gallant things he was saying, they were soon ended in the bustle
consequent upon the sudden rushing in of the brave Captain McTurk,
followed by the enraged Meg Dods, with no less a weapon in her hand
than a broom-stick, with which she was striving to belabor the
shoulders of the unhappy McTurk.

"_Hegh_, sirs!" she cried, brandishing it above her head, "I'll gar ye
to know ye're not coming flisking to an honest woman's house setting
folks by the lugs. Keep to your ain whillying hottle here, ye
ne'er-do-weel, or I'll mak' windle-strae o' your banes--and what for
no?"

Happily for the gallant captain, Old Touchwood here interposed, and by
dint of coaxing and threats of joining himself to the gay company at
the Spring, the irascible Meg was finally marched off.

A deep sigh near me caused me to look around, and there, as pure and
as lovely as the water-lily drooping from its fragile stem, sat poor
Lucy Ashton. And like that beautiful flower, the lily of the wave,
seemed the love of that unhappy maid:

              "Quivering to the blast
    Through every nerve--yet rooted deep and fast
    Midst life's dark sea."

Her eyes were cast down, and her rich veil of golden tresses sweeping
around her. At a little distance, with folded arms and bent brows,
stood the Laird of Ravenswood, yet unable to approach the
broken-hearted girl, as her proud, unfeeling mother, the stately Lady
Ashton, kept close guard over her; and it made me shudder to behold,
also, the old hag, Ailsie Gourley, crouching down by her bonny
mistress, and stroking the lily-white hand which hung so listless at
her side, mumbling the while what seemed to me must be some
incantation to the Evil One.

"Wae's me--wae's me!" exclaimed that prince of serving-men, Caleb
Balderstone, at this moment presenting himself before his master; "and
is your honor, then, not ganging hame when Mysie the puir old body's
in the dead thraw! _Hech, sirs_, but its awfu'! Ane of the big sacks
o' siller--a' gowd, ye maun ken, which them gawky chields and my ain
sell were lifting to your honor's chaumer, cam down on her head! _Eh_!
but it gars me greet--ah! wull-a-wins, we maun a' dee!"

"Ah, she is a bonny thing, but ye ken she is a wee bit daft, puir
lassie!" cried Madge Wildfire, smirking and bowing, to catch the eye
of Jeanie Deans, who, leaning on the arm of her betrothed, Reuben
Butler, stood gazing with tearful eyes upon that wreck of hope and
love exhibited in the person of the ill-fated Lucy of Lammermoor.

Bless that sweet, meek face of Jeanie Deans! Many a lovelier--many a
fairer were in that assemblage, yet not one more winning or truthful.
The honest, pure heart shone from those mild blue eyes; one might know
_she_ could make any sacrifice for those she loved, and that guided
and guarded by her own innocence and steadfast truth, neither crowns
nor sceptres could daunt her from her noble purpose.

And there, too, was Effie. Not Effie, the Lily of St. Leonards, such
as she was when gayly tending her little flock on St. Leonard's
Craigs--not Effie, the poor, wretched criminal of the Tolbooth--but
Effie, the rich and beautiful Lady Staunton, receiving with all the
ease and elegance of a high-born dame the homage of the nobles
surrounding her, of whom none shone more conspicuous than his grace
the Duke of Argyle, on whose arm she was leaning.

With the step and bearing of a queen a noble lady now approached, and
as, unattended by knight or dame, she moved gracefully through the
brilliant crowd, every eye was turned on her with admiration.

Need I say it was Rebecca, the Jewess.

A rich turban of yellow silk, looped at the side by an aigrette of
diamonds, and confining a beautiful ostrich plume, was folded over her
polished brow, from which her long, raven tresses floated in beautiful
curls around her superb neck and shoulders. A simarre of crimson silk,
studded with jewels, and gathered to her slender waist by a
magnificent girdle of fine gold, reached below the hips, where it was
met by a flowing robe of silver tissue bordered with pearls. In
queenly dignity she was about to pass from the saloon, when the noble
Richard of the Lion Heart stepped hastily forward, and respectfully
saluted her. He still wore his sable armor, and with his visor thrown
back, had for some time been negligently reclining against one of the
lofty pillars, a careless spectator of the scene around him. The
lovely Jewess paused, and with graceful ease replied to the address of
the monarch; but at that moment the voice of Ivanhoe, speaking to
Rowena, fell on her ear--and with a hurried reverence to Coeur de Lion,
she glided from the apartment.

"No, Ivanhoe," thought I, "thou hast not done wisely--beautiful as is
the fair Rowena, to whom thy troth stands plighted--thou shouldst have
won the peerless Rebecca for thy bride."

I was aroused from the revery into which I had unconsciously fallen by
a hoarse voice at my elbow repeating a _Pater Noster_, and turning
around, I beheld the jovial Friar of Copmanhurst, one hand grasping a
huge oaken cudgel, the other swiftly running over his rosary.

Mary of Avenel next appeared, and (or it may have been fancy) near her
floated the airy vision of the White Lady.

There was Sir Piercie Shafton, too, and the miller's black-eyed
daughter. The voice of the knight was low and apparently his words
were tender; for poor Mysie Happer, with cheeks like a fresh-blown
rose, and sparkling eyes, drank in with her whole soul the honeyed
accents of the Euphoist.

"Certes, O my discretion," said he, "thou shalt arise from thy
never-to-be-lamented-sufficiently-lowliness; thou shalt leave the
homely occupations of that rude boor unto whom it beseemeth thee to
give the appellation of father, and shalt attain to the-all-to-be-desired
greatness of my love, even as the resplendent sun condescends to shine
down upon the earth-crawling beetle."

I now approached a deep embrasure elevated one step above the level
of the apartment, over which magnificent hangings of crimson and gold
swept to the floor. Not for a moment could I doubt who the splendid
being might be occupying the centre of the little group on which my
eyes now rested enraptured.

The most lovely, the most unfortunate Mary of Scotland was before me,
and, as if spell-bound, I could not withdraw my gaze. How did all the
portraits my fancy had drawn fade in comparison with the actual
beauty, the indescribable loveliness of this peerless woman. How was
it possible to give to fancy any thing so exquisitely graceful and
beautiful as the breathing form before me. Ask me not to depict the
color of her eyes; ask me not to paint that wealth of splendid
hair--that complexion no artist's skill could match--that mouth so
eloquent in its repose--those lips--those teeth. As well attempt to
_paint the strain_ of delicious music which reaches our ears at
midnight, stealing over the moonlit wave; or to _color the fragrance_
of the new-blown rose, or of the lily of the vale, when first plucked
from its humble bed. For even thus did the unrivaled charms of Mary of
Scotland blend themselves indescribably with our enraptured senses.

On a low stool at the feet of Mary sat Catharine Seyton, whose fair,
round arm seemed as a snow-wreath resting amid the rich folds of her
royal mistress' black velvet robe. Yet not so deeply absorbed was she
in devotion to her lady as to prevent her now and then casting a
mischievous glance on Roland Græme, who, with the Douglas, were also
in attendance upon their unhappy queen. Drawn up on one side was the
stately figure of the Lady of Lochleven, with a scowl on her face, and
a bitter look of hate fastened on the unfortunate Mary.

With regret I at length moved away from this enchanting presence, my
sympathies to be soon again awakened for the gentle Amy Robsart,
Countess of Leicester.

She was reclining on a sofa of sea-green velvet, seeded with pearls,
bearing in its centre the cypher of herself and lord, surmounted by a
coronet. At her feet knelt the Earl of Leicester with all the outward
semblance of a god. One little hand rested confidingly in his, the
other nestled amid the dark locks clustering over his high and
polished brow. Ah! little did she dream of guile in her noble lord!
How could she, when with such looks of love he gazed upon her--with
such words of love delighted her trembling heart.

The fawning villain, Varney, stood at a little distance behind the
unconscious Amy, even then, as it seemed to me, plotting her
destruction with the old arch hypocrite, Foster, with whom he was
holding low and earnest conversation. Tressilian--the brave, good
Tressilian--as if sworn to protect the lovely lady, leaned on his
sword at her right hand, his fine eyes bent with a look of mingled
admiration and pity on her ingenuous countenance.

"The queen! the queen!--room for the queen!" echoed around. Hastily
rising to his feet, and imprinting a slight kiss on her fair brow, the
earl left his lovely bride, and was the next moment by the side of
the haughty Elizabeth--England's maiden Queen.

    "Then, earl, why didst thou leave the beds
     Where roses and where lilies vie,
    To seek a prim-rose, whose pale shades
     Must sicken when those gauds are by?

    "But Leicester (or I much am wrong)
     It is not beauty lures thy vows,
    Rather ambition's gilded crown
     Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

    "Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
     The village death-bell smote my ear;
    They winked aside, and seemed to say,
     'Countess, prepare--thy end is near!'"

    "Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
     In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,
    And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
     And let fall many a bitter tear.

    "And ere the dawn of day appeared
     In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
    Full many a piercing scream was heard,
     And many a cry of mortal fear.

    "The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
     An aerial voice was heard to call,
    And thrice the raven flapped his wing
     Around the towers of Cumnor Hall."

It was pleasant to turn from a scene of such confiding love on one
part, and base hypocrisy on the other, to look upon the honest
countenance of Magnus Troil, who, with his daughters on each arm--the
stately, dark-eyed Minna, and the no less lovely Brenda--were now
approaching me. Behind followed Norna of the Fitful-head, in earnest
conversation with the Pirate Cleveland. As I looked upon her tall,
majestic person, her countenance, so stern and wild, rendered more so,
perhaps, by the singular head-dress she had assumed, and her long hair
streaming over her face and shoulders, I could no longer wonder at the
power she had obtained over the minds of the ignorant peasantry and
fishermen of Jarlshof.

"Whist! whist! Triptolemus!" quoth Mistress Barbara Yelloway, pulling
the sleeve of the Factor, "dinna be getting ower near the hellicat
witch--wha kens but she may be asking for the horn o' siller, man."

This speech had the desired effect; and the trembling Triptolemus
hastily placed the bold front of Baby between him and the object of
dread.

Here, too, was Mareshal Dalgetty--and nothing but the respect due to
so much beauty as was here assembled, I felt sure, could have
prevented the appearance of his brave charger, Gustavus, also upon the
scene. He was accompanied by Ranald of the Mist.

With her little harp poised lightly on her arm, sweet Annot Lyle
tripped by the side of the moody Allan, striving by her lively sallies
to break the thrall of the dark fit which was about to seize upon him.

Fair Alice Lee, and the brave old knight, Sir Harry, did not escape my
notice--nor Master Wildrake, or the gay monarch, Charles, still under
the disguise of Louis Kerneguy; and whose shuffling, awkward gait, and
bushy red head, caused no small mirth in the assembly, as wondering to
see one of so ungainly an appearance in such close attendance upon the
lovely Alice.

"Old Noll" had grouped around him in one corner the
"Devil-scaring-lank-legs," the "Praise-God-barebones," and the
"smell-sin-long-noses" of the day; but not finding any thing very
attractive in that godly company, I passed on to where Isabella of
Croye and the gallant Quentin Durward were holding earnest
converse--not aware, unfortunately, that the snaky eye of the Bohemian
was watching all their movements.

I quickly stepped aside as I saw the miser, Trapbois, eagerly
advancing toward the Lady of Croye, his eyes gloating over the rich
jewels which adorned her person, and his long, skinny fingers seeming
ready to tear the coveted gems from her fair neck and arms. Indeed,
but for the presence of his stern daughter, Martha, I doubted whether
he would not at least make the attempt.

"Father, come home! this is no place for you--come home!" she said, in
deep, slow tones.

"Nay, daughter, I would but offer to serve these rich nobles for a
small con-sider-ation; let me go, Martha--let me go, I say!" as
placing her powerful arm within his, she drew him reluctantly toward
the door.

Suddenly a flourish of warlike music swelled through the lofty
apartment--peal on peal reverberated around--and while I listened with
awe to notes so grand and solemn, the music as suddenly changed its
character. Now only the dulcet tones of the harp were heard, sweet as
the soft summer shower when the tinkling rain-drops merrily pelt the
flowers--strains so sweetly harmonious as seemed too heavenly for
mortal touch. And as fainter and fainter, yet still more sweet, the
ravishing melody breathed around, one by one the company glided out
silently and mournfully--the tapestried walls gradually assumed the
appearance of my own little parlor--the rich and tasteful decorations
vanished--_and where was I?_ Seated in my own comfortable
rocking-chair, reclining in the same attitude as when so suddenly
summoned forth by the gipsy carline. Truly,

     "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.
      Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."




HOMEWARD BOUND.

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

    For weary years my feet had wandered
     On many a fair but distant shore;
    By Lima's crumbling walls I'd pondered
     And gazed upon the Andes hoar.
    The ocean's wild and restless billow,
     That rears its crested head on high,
    For years had been my couch and pillow,
     Until its sameness pained my eye.

    The playmates of my joyous childhood,
     With whom I laughed the hours away,
    And wandered through the tangled wildwood
     Till close of sultry summer day;
    My aged, gray, and feeble mother,
     Whom most I longed to see again,
    My sisters, and my only brother,
     Were o'er the wild and faithless main.

    At length the lagging days were numbered,
     That bound me to a foreign shore,
    And glorious hopes that long had slumbered
     Again their gilded plumage wore;
    Fond voices in my ear were singing
     The songs I loved in boyhood's day,
    As in my hammoc slowly swinging
     I mused the still night-hours away.

    And sylvan scenes then came before me,
     The bright green fields I loved so well,
    Ere SORROW threw his shadow o'er me,
     The streamlet, mountain, wood and dell;
    The lonely grave-yard, sad and dreary,
     Which in the night I passed with dread,
    Where, with their sleepless vigils weary,
     The white stones watch above the dead;

    Were spread like pictured chart around me,
     Where Fancy turned my gazing eye,
    Till slumber with his fetters bound me,
     And dimmed each star in memory's sky.
    Then came bright dreams--but all were routed
     When morning lit the ocean blue,
    And I, awaking, gayly shouted,
     "My last, last night in famed PERU!"

    "Farewell PERU! thy shores are fading,
     As swift we plough the furrowed main,
    And clouds with drooping wings are shading
     The towering Andes, wood and plain.
    The passing breeze, thus idly singing,
     A sweeter, dearer voice hath found,
    And hope within my heart is springing,
     Our white-winged bark is HOMEWARD BOUND!"

        *    *    *    *    *

    'Twas night--at length my feet were nearing
     The home from which they long had strayed;
    No star was in the sky appearing,
     My boyhood's scenes were wrapped in shade.
    I paused beside the grave-yard dreary,
     And entered through its creaking gate,
    To find if yet my mother, weary
     Of this cold world, had shared the fate

    Of those who in their graves were sleeping,
     But could not find her grass-grown bed,
    Though many a stranger stone was keeping
     Its patient watch above the dead.
    But HERS was not among them gleaming,
     And so I turned with joy away,
    For many a night had I been dreaming
     That there she pale and faded lay!




POOR PENN--.

A REAL REMINISCENCE.

BY OLIVER BUCKLEY.

     "I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest;--most
     excellent humor."

Some years ago, ere yet I had reaped the harvest of "oats" somewhat
wildly sown, I resided in one of our principal western cities, and,
like most juveniles within sight of the threshold of their majority,
harbored a decided predilection for the stage. Not a coach and four,
as is sometimes understood by that expression, but that still more
lumbering vehicle, the theatre, which hurries down the rough road of
life a load of passengers quite as promiscuous and impatient. The odor
of the summer-fields gave me less delight than that which exhaled from
the foot-lights; and the wild forest-scenes were less enchanting than
those transitory views which honest John Leslie nightly presented to
the audience, too often "few" if not "fit." There is something, too,
in the off-hand, taking-luck-as-it-comes sort of life among actors,
which to me was especially attractive; and I was not long in making
the acquaintance of many. But the memory of one among the number
lingers with me still, with more mingled feelings of pain and pleasure
than that of any other. Poor Penn--, I will not write his name in
full, lest, should he be living, it might meet his eye and give his
good-natured heart a moment's discomfort. To him more than any other
my nature warmed, as did his to me, until we were cemented in
friendship. What pleasant rambles of summer-afternoons, after
rehearsal; what delightful nights when the play was done, what songs,
recitations and professional anecdotes were ours, no one but ourselves
can know. The character he most loved to play was Crack, in the
"Turnpike Gate." Poor Penn--! I can see him yet--"Some gentleman has
left his beer--another one will drink it!" How admirably he made that
point! But that is gone by, and he may ere this have made his last
point and final exit. After six months of the closest intimacy, I
suddenly missed my hitherto daily companion, and all inquiries at his
boarding-house and the theatre proved fruitless. For days I frequented
our old haunts, but in vain; he had vanished, leaving no trace to tell
of the course he had taken. I seemed altogether forsaken--utterly
lost--and felt as if I looked like a pump without a handle--a cart
with but one wheel--a shovel without the tongs--or the second volume
of a novel, which, because somebody has carried off the first, is of
no interest to any one. At last a week went by, and I sauntered down
to the ferry, and stepping aboard the boat suffered myself to be
conveyed to the opposite shore. On the bank stood the United States
barracks, and gathered about were groups of soldiers, looking as
listless and unwarlike as if they had just joined the "peace-league."
But their present quiet was only like that of a summer sea, which
would bear unharmed the slightest shallop that ever maiden put from
shore, but when battling tempests rise can hurl whole navies into
wreck. Suddenly catching a glimpse of a figure at a distance which
reminded me of my friend, I eagerly addressed one of the soldiers, and
pointing out the object of my curiosity, inquired who he was.

"That's our sergeant," replied the man.

"Oh!" I ejaculated in my disappointment, feeling assured that a week
would not have raised Penn--to that honor, and I sat down on the green
bank and watched the steamboats as they passed up and down between me
and the city. And as I gazed, many a sad reflection and strange
conjecture passed and re-passed along the silent current of my mind.
How alone I felt! Even the groups of soldiers standing about were but
as so many stacks of muskets. My eyes wandered listlessly from object
to object, and rested at last on a pair of boots at my side, such as
had been moving about me for the last half hour, and they, that is my
eyes, not the boots, naturally, but slowly, followed up the military
stripe on the side of the pantaloons, then took a squirrel leap to the
Uncle Sam buttons on the breast of the coat, and passed leisurely from
one to another upward, until they lit at last full in the owner's
face! That quizzical look--that Roman nose! There was no mistaking
Penn--, Sergeant Penn--, of the United States Army! My surprise may
easily be imagined. However, a few minutes explained all.

    Alas! for poor humanity,
    Its weakness and its vanity,
    Its sorrow and insanity,
            Alas!

My friend in an evil hour had been led astray--had imbibed one
"cobbler" too many for his leather; and like most men in similar
circumstances, grew profoundly patriotic, and in a glorious burst of
enthusiasm, enlisted! His fine figure, with a dash of the theatrical
air, promoted him at once to the dignity of sergeant; and never did
soldier wear his honors "thrust upon him" with a better grace than did
Poor Penn--. Whether in his sober moments he regretted the rash act, I
do not know; he was too proud to acknowledge it if he did. Taking me
by the arm, he conducted the way to the barracks, and with an air of
indescribable importance, exhibited and explained the whole internal
arrangements. On the first floor, which was paved with brick, there
was an immense fire-place, built in the very centre of the great room,
and steaming and bubbling over the fire hung a big kettle, capable of
holding at least thirty gallons. Over it, or rather beside it, stood
the soldier-cook, stirring the contents, which was bean-soup, with an
iron ladle. In the room above were long rows of bunks, stacks of
muskets, with other warlike implements and equipage. A number of men
were lounging on the berths, some reading, some boasting, and others
telling long yarns. There was one stout, moon-faced gentleman laying
on his broad back "spouting" Shakspeare. This individual, to whom I
was introduced, turned out to be Sergeant Smith, another son of
Thespis, who had left the boards for a more permanent engagement, not
with the enemy, for those were days of peace, but with that stern old
manager, Uncle Sam. Sergeant Smith was, perhaps, the most important
person in his own estimation, on the banks, not even excepting the
captain. There can be no doubt but that the stage suffered a great
loss when he left it, for, indeed, he told us so himself. In a little
while the call sounded, the roll was called, and all hands turned in
to dinner. Penn-- had provided me a seat by his side; and, for the
first time in my life, I sat down to soldier fare. There was a square
block of bread at the side of each pewter plate, a tin cup of cold
water, and very soon a ladle-full of the steaming bean-soup was dealt
round to each. It was a plain but a substantial dinner. Poor Penn--,
as he helped me to an extra ladle of soup, observed, with the most
solemn face imaginable, that the man who hadn't dined with soldiers
"didn't know beans;" an expression more apt than elegant. During the
space of three months I made weekly visits to the barracks, and was
gratified to find that my friend Penn--, in spite of his formidable
rival, Sergeant Smith, was fast rising in the confidence of the
commanding officer and the estimation of the men. Smith, too, was
judicious enough to hide any jealousy he might have felt, and like a
true soldier, imitated his superior, and treated Penn-- with marked
distinction.

Such having been the state of affairs for so long a time, my surprise
and indignation may easily be imagined, when upon calling, as usual,
to see my friend, Sergeant Smith, with a most pompous air, informed me
that he was not acquainted with the person for whom I inquired.

"Not acquainted with Penn--?" cried I, with the most unbounded
astonishment.

"No, sir," proudly replied the imperturbable sergeant, assuming the
strictest military attitude, looking like a very stiff figure-head,
seeming as if it would crack his eyelids to wink.

"Not acq--"

"No, sir," cried he, with great determination, before I could finish
the word. "Do you suppose an officer of the United States army, an
unimpeached soldier, capable of being acquainted with a _deserter?_"

"A _deserter_!" echoed I; "Penn-- a deserter!" and the truth flashed
across my brain, writing that terrible word in letters of fire, as did
the hand on the walls of Belshazzar. The next moment, by permission of
the guard, who knew me, I passed down into the long damp basement of
the barracks, where the offenders were imprisoned. At the farther end,
among a number of fellow-culprits, my eager eye soon discovered the
object of its search. He was sitting with folded arms, perched on a
carpenter's bench, and with the most wo-begone countenance imaginable,
whistling a favorite air, and beating time against the side of the
bench with his long, pendulous legs. I can hear the tune yet, "Nix my
Dolly;" and who that has ever seen "Jack Shepherd" has forgotten it?

"Hallo!" cried I, "Penn--, how is this?"

He looked at me a moment with surprise, and after exclaiming, "How are
you, my boy?" gave the bench a salutary kick, and whistled more
vigorously than ever "Nix my Dolly;" and having gone through the
stave, he turned to me and exclaimed,

"Look you, my boy, be chaste as snow, you shall not escape
calumny--and to this complexion you may come at last." Again he took
sight at the blank stone wall, whistled, and beat time.

"But, come," said I, "how did you get here?"

"Get here?" echoed he, "the easiest way in the world! Sergeant Penn--
crossed the river on a three hours' leave of absence--took a glass too
many--stayed over the time, and his friend, Sergeant Smith, feeling
anxious for Penn--'s welfare, went after him and had him arrested as a
deserter--and here he is! 'Nix my Dolly,'" etc. etc.; and he settled
again into his musical reverie.

"Well, what will be the upshot of it?" said I.

"The _down-shot_ of me, maybe!"--Nix my Doll--"at least, I shall be
shipped off with these fine fellows to the west; and if the
court-martial happen to sit on my case after dinner, I may get off
with _merely_ having my head shaved, and being drummed out!" Poor
Penn--, at the thought of this, kicked the bench furiously, and
whistled with all the vigor he could muster.

"When do you go?" asked I, eagerly.

"Next Sunday," he replied, and added, "Look here, my boy, let me bid
you good-by now, for the last time"--and he pressed my hand
warmly--"for the last time, I say, for it would unman me to see you on
that day, and Penn-- would fain be himself, proud and unshaken even in
his disgrace. There--there--go, my dear boy, let this be the last
visit of your life to the barracks. God bless you!" and after giving
his hand a hearty grasp, I turned hurriedly away, to hide my feeling.
In passing the door I gave a hasty glance back, and saw Penn-- sitting
as before, his arms folded, his heels beating the bench, but so
slowly, that their strokes seemed like the dying vibrations of a
pendulum; and the whistle was so low that it was scarcely audible.
With a heavy heart I passed away, much preferring to acknowledge the
acquaintance of a "deserter" like Poor Penn-- than to continue that of
the unimpeachable Sergeant Smith. Another week brought around the day
of my friend's departure, and I found it impossible to resist the
temptation to take a farewell look at my old companion. Accordingly I
crossed the river, and taking my station behind a large tree on the
bank of the river, so that I could see Penn--without letting him see
me, I awaited with melancholy patience the moment when the deserters
should be led out. The steamboat was puffing and groaning at the
wharf, and in a few moments the heavy door of the guard-room swung
open; there was a sudden clanking of irons, and soon I saw prisoner
after prisoner emerge, dragging long heavy chains, which were attached
to their ankles. I counted them as they came out--counted a dozen--but
yet no Penn--; counted eighteen--nineteen--but the twentieth, and
last, proved to be him. No language can describe the solemn majesty
with which he brought up the rear of that dishonored line. No chain
clanked as he stepped to tell of his disgrace; and the spectators,
instead of suspecting him as being a culprit, may easily have imagined
him to be one of the sergeants who had the rest in charge. This, to
me, was a matter of much surprise, and turning to an old soldier at my
side, I inquired,

"What does this mean, isn't Penn-- one of them?"

"Of course he is," was the reply.

"But why doesn't he wear a chain like the rest?"

"Wear a chain," said the soldier, "you don't know Penn--, Sergeant
Penn-- that was. He wear a chain! Why, bless your heart, he carries as
heavy a chain as any of them, but he's got it twisted around his leg,
under his pantaloons, clear above his knee! He's too proud to drag
it--he'd die first!"

Poor Penn--! I could have embraced him for that touch of pride; and
felt assured that whatever the penalty might be which he was doomed to
suffer, that he had "a heart for any fate!" What that fate was I have
had no means of knowing, for I have never since heard of poor Penn--.




A SONG.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.


    Bring me the juice of the honey fruit,
     The large translucent, amber-hued,
    Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit
     The luxury that fills my mood.

    And bring me only such as grew
     Where rarest maidens tent the bowers,
    And only fed by rain and dew
     Which first had bathed a bank of flowers.

    They must have hung on spicy trees
     In airs of far enchanted vales,
    And all night heard the ecstasies
     Of noble-throated nightingales:

    So that the virtues which belong
     To flowers may therein tasted be--
    And that which hath been thrilled with song
     May give a thrill of song to me.

    For I would wake that string for thee
     Which hath too long in silence hung,
    And sweeter than all else should be
     The song which in thy praise is sung.




THE ENCHANTED ISLE.

BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.


    Far in the ocean of the Night
     There lyeth an Enchanted Isle,
    Within a veil of mellow light,
     That blesseth like affection's smile.

    It tingeth with a rosy hue
     All objects in that country fair,
    Like summer twilight, when the dew
     Is trembling in the fragrant air.

    And there is music evermore,
     That seemeth sleeping on the breeze.
    Like sound of sweet bells from the shore
     Lingering along the summer seas.

    And there are rivers, bowers, and groves,
     And fountains fringed with blossomed weeds,
    And all sweet birds that sing their loves
     'Mid stately flowers or tasseled reeds.

    All that is beautiful of earth,
     All that is valued, all that's dear,
    All that is pure of mortal birth,
     Lives in immortal beauty here.

    All tender buds that ever grew
     For us on Hope's ephemeral tree,
    All loves, all joys, that e'er we knew,
     Bloom in that country gloriously.

    There is no parting there, no change,
     No death, no fading, no decay;
    No hand is cold, no voice is strange,
     No eye is dark--or turned away.

    To us, who daily toil and weep,
     How welcome is Night's starry smile,
    When in the fairy barge of Sleep
     We visit the Enchanted Isle.

    All holy hearts that worship Truth,
     Though bleak their daily pathway seems,
    Find treasure and immortal youth
     In that fair isle of happy dreams.

    But, if the soul have dwelt with sin,
     It landeth on that isle no more,
    Though it would give its life to win
     One glimpse but of the pleasant shore.

    Their joys, which have been thrown away,
     Or stained with guilt, can bloom no more,
    And o'er the night their vessels stray
     Where pale shades weep, and surges roar.




THE CONTINENTS.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.


    I had a vision in that solemn hour,
       Last of the year sublime,
    Whose wave sweeps downward, with its dying power
       Rippling the shores of Time!
    On the lone margin of that hoary sea
       My spirit stood alone,
    Watching the gleams of phantom History
       Which through the darkness shone:

    Then, when the bell of midnight, ghostly hands
       Tolled for the dead year's doom,
    I saw the spirits of Earth's ancient lands
       Stand up amid the gloom!
    The crownéd deities, whose reign began
       In the forgotten Past,
    When first the glad world gave to sovereign Man
       Her empires green and vast!

    First queenly ASIA, from the fallen thrones
       Of twice three thousand years,
    Came with the wo a grieving goddess owns
       Who longs for mortal tears:
    The dust of ruin to her mantle clung,
       And dimmed her crown of gold,
    While the majestic sorrows of her tongue
       From Tyre to Indus rolled:

    "Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm of wo,
       Whose only glory streams
    From its lost childhood, like the artic glow
       Which sunless Winter dreams!
    In the red desert moulders Babylon,
       And the wild serpent's hiss
    Echoes in Petra's palaces of stone
       And waste Persepolis!

    Gone are the deities who ruled enshrined
       In Elephanta's caves,
    And Brahma's wailings fill the odorous wind
       That stirs Amboyna's waves!
    The ancient gods amid their temples fall,
       And shapes of some near doom,
    Trembling and waving on the Future's wall,
       More fearful make my gloom!"

    Then from her seat, amid the palms embowered
       That shade the Lion-land,
    Swart AFRICA in dusky aspect towered--
       The fetters on her hand!
    Backward she saw, from out her drear eclipse,
       The mighty Theban years,
    And the deep anguish of her mournful lips
       Interpreted her tears.

    "Wo for my children, whom your gyves have bound
       Through centuries of toil;
    The bitter wailings of whose bondage sound
       From many a stranger-soil!
    Leave me but free, though the eternal sand
       Be all my kingdom now--
    Though the rude splendors of barbaric land
       But mock my crownless brow!"

    There was a sound, like sudden trumpets blown,
       A ringing, as of arms,
    When EUROPE rose, a stately Amazon,
       Stern in her mailéd charms.
    She brooded long beneath the weary bars
       That chafed her soul of flame,
    And like a seer, who reads the awful stars,
       Her words prophetic came:

    "I hear new sounds along the ancient shore,
       Whose dull old monotone
    Of tides, that broke on many a system hoar,
       Wailed through the ages lone!
    I see a gleaming, like the crimson morn
       Beneath a stormy sky,
    And warning throes, my bosom long has borne,
       Proclaim the struggle nigh!

    "The spirit of a hundred races mounts
       To glorious life in one;
    New prophet-wands unseal the hidden founts
       That leap to meet the sun!
    And thunder-voices, answering Freedom's prayer,
       In far-off echoes fail,
    As some loud trumpet, startling all the air,
       Peals down an Alpine vale!"

    O radiant-browed, the latest born of Time!
       How waned thy sisters old
    Before the splendors of thine eye sublime,
       And mien, erect and bold!
    Pure, as the winds of thine own forests are,
       Thy brow beamed lofty cheer,
    And Day's bright oriflamme, the Morning Star,
       Flashed on thy lifted spear.

    "I bear no weight," so rang thy jubilant tones,
       "Of memories weird and vast--
    No crushing heritage of iron thrones,
       Bequeathed by some dead Past;
    But mighty hopes, that learned to tower and soar,
       From my own hills of snow--
    Whose prophecies in wave and woodland roar,
       When the free tempests blow!

    "Like spectral lamps, that burn before a tomb,
       The ancient lights expire;
    I wave a torch, that floods the lessening gloom
       With everlasting fire!
    Crowned with my constellated stars, I stand
       Beside the foaming sea,
    And from the Future, with a victor's hand
       Claim empire for the Free!"




JEHOIAKIM JOHNSON.

A SKETCH.

BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.


What unlucky star it was that presided over the destiny of my cousin
Jehoiakim Johnson I am not astrologer enough to divine. Certain only
am I that it could have been neither Saturn, Mercury, Mars, nor Venus;
for he was far from being either wise, witty, warlike, or beautiful.

Cowper says every one falls "just in the niche he was ordained to
fill." Cowper was mistaken in one instance, for Cousin Jehoiakim had
no niche to fall into, but went wandering about the world, (our
world,) without any thing apparently to do, or any where apparently to
stay: And just the moment you wished him safe in Botany Bay, just that
very moment was he standing before you with his--but never mind a
description of his face and person. _All_ cannot be handsome; folks
unfortunately do not make themselves--and precisely the moment you
became indifferent as to his presence, or if--a _very_ rare thing--you
wished it, that very instant he was no where to be found.

"Our world" was situated in good old New England, around and about
Boston; and we, "our folks," were of the better class of farmers, and
lived within a day's ride of the city.

Never in my life have I been happier than in that free, green country,
with the broad, bright sky above me, and the clear, heaven-wide air
around me; and bird and beast frolicking in freedom and gladness near
and about me. I loved them all, and all their various noises, even to
the unearthly scream of our bright, proud peacock. I shut my eyes and
see them still; the world of gay-plumaged birds, with their sweet,
wild songs, the little white-faced lambs, the wee, _roly-poly_ pigs,
the verdant ducks, the soft, yellow goslins, and the dignified old
cows stalking about. Well do I remember each of their kind old faces.
There was the spotted heifer, with an up-turned nose, and eyes with
corners pointing toward the stars. If ever a cow is admitted into
heaven for goodness, it will surely be Daisy. Then there was the black
Alderny, and the--but leaving beef _revenons à nos moutons_--Cousin
Jehoiakim. Still the place of all others to enjoy life, life
unconstrained by city forms, life free, free as heaven's wind, is on a
New England farm. My heart bounds within me as I look back at the dear
old homestead. Just there it lies in the bend of the time-worn road
that winds its interminable length through dark elms--the gothic
ivy-clad elms--and through black giant pines, and the bright-leaved,
sugar-giving maple, and golden fields, hedged in by ragged fences,
formed of the roots and stumps of leviathan trees.

You see that picket-gate? open it, and a path bordered on each side by
currant bushes, and gooseberry bushes, and the tall cyranga, and the
purple lilac, will lead you through an arbor of fine Isabella's and
Catawba's to the dear old homestead, now in possession of Brother Dick
and little Fanny, his better half.

I could describe every nook of that darling old house, and every thing
surrounding it, from its old-fashioned chimneys--wherein the domestic
swallows have sung their little ones to sleep each successive summer,
time out of mind--to the unseemly nail that projected its Judas-point
from one of the crosspieces of that same little gate, and which always
contrived to give a triangular tear to my flying robes every time they
fluttered through that dear little gate. Just imagine the happy
moments I spent under the great old willow by the well, darning those
same triangular rents. Still has all this nothing to do with Cousin
Jehoiakim Johnson. You have probably seen folks that were often in
your way; now, he was never any where else. Always in the way, and
always ungraceful. He was not ungraceful for lack of desire to please:
bless his kind, officious heart! Oh, no! Was there a cup of coffee to
be handed, and were there a half dozen waiters ready to hand it, he
was sure to thrust forth at least ten huge digits, and if he chanced
to get it in his grasp, wo to the coffee! and wo to the snow-white
damask table-cloth! or worse, wo to one's "best Sunday-go-to-meetin'"
silk dress. Nature uses strange materials in concocting some of her
children--most uncouth was the fabric of which she constructed
Jehoiakim Johnson.

Poor fellow! he is dead now--peace to his soul. Do you know I fancy it
lies hid in the breast of my dog Jehu--the most ungainly, the
best-natured creature alive. My baby rides his back, and pulls his
ears. I never heard him growl. Oh! he is a jewel of a dog.

Poor Cousin Jehoiakim! Among his other _plaisanteries_ he came near
losing for me a noble husband. Patience, and I will relate how it came
to pass.

Sister Anna and myself--that sister of mine, by the way, was a
complete witch; all dimples and fun, with blue eyes that darted here
and there, dancing in her head for very gladness; with a mouth on
which the bright red rose sat like a queen on her throne. Her words I
can liken to nothing but to so many little silver bells, ringing out
into the clear air in joy and sweetness. And never have I heard those
musical bells jingle one harsh or unharmonious sound. She is married
now--poor thing--and the mother of three "little curly-headed,
good-for-nothing, mischief-making monkeys."

Notwithstanding her exceeding loveliness, Cousin Jehoiakim preferred
me, and actually offered me his great broad hand, as you shall see.
She was a perfect Hebe, while my style of beauty was more of
the--though to confess the "righty-dighty" truth, as little folks say,
my beauty was of that order which took the keenest of eyes to
discover. There were a pair, however, dark, and full of soul, that
dwelt with as much delight on me as though I were Venus herself.

Oh! those were dear, darling eyes, and were in the possession of the
best, yes, the very best specimen of Nature's modeling that New
England contained; Nature wrought him from the finest of her clay,
after her divinest image, and his parents named him Edgar Elliott.

Sister Anna and myself had been making our usual Christmas visit to
Aunt Charity, or Aunt "Charty," as we used to call her, in good old
Yankee language. Aunt Charity dwelt in Boston; and was the wife of a
very excellent man, in very excellent circumstances; and the mother of
seven dear, excellent boys, of whom Cousin Jehoiakim Johnson was _not_
one.

How delightfully flew our days on this particular Christmas visit. I
felt myself in a new world. A world of brighter flowers, and brighter
sunshine; for, although I was eighteen, never until then had I been
any thing but a wild, thoughtless, giddy child. And then?--the truth
is a new star had burst upon my horoscope, bright and beautiful, that
so bewildered my eyes to look upon, I was forced to awake my heart
from its long sleep, to supply the place of eyes. Steadfast it gazed
into that bright star's heaven-lighted depths, until I recognized it
as my guiding star--my Destiny!

Oh, Love! thou angel! thou devil! thou blissful madness, thou wise
folly! Thou that comest clad in rainbow garments, with words more full
of hope than was the first arch that spanned high heaven, stouter
hearts than mine have been compelled to own thee master. Prouder
hearts than mine have listened to the witcheries of thy satin-smooth
tongue until they forgot their pride. More ice-cold ones than mine
have been consumed in the immortal fire thou buildest--the heart thine
altar, Love, thou monarch of the universe!

Every thing has an end--a consolation oftentimes--rhapsody, as well as
love, and so had that happy Christmas-time, when we were so merry,
when I first saw that master-piece of nature--my Destiny--Edgar
Elliott.

Anna and myself had been home but three weeks--three dreary years of
weeks, Anna said--when we received a letter containing the joyful
intelligence that Edgar Elliott, his aristocratic sister Jane, his
unaristocratic sister little Fanny, and Herbert Allen--a young
lieutenant, by the way, and, by the way, the red-hot flame of my
harem-scarem sister--would all four honor Dough-nut Hall, the name we
had playfully given our old homestead, with a speedy and long visit.

Joy and hope danced in our hearts when, clear and sunny, the promised
day at length had come, the snow five and a half feet deep--the
greatest depth of snow within the memory of the "oldest
inhabitant"--the mercury full ten degrees below zero. I had just
changed my dress for the fifth time, and sister Anna was offering me
this consolation, "I must say, Clara, that that is the most unbecoming
dress you have, you look like a perfect scare-crow," when the sound of
sleigh-bells coming up the avenue, sent my heart up in my throat, and
myself quicker than lightning down to the "hall-door," there to
welcome--not my darling Edgar and his proud, beautiful sister, and
Anna's Adonis lieutenant, and Brother Dick's pretty little Fanny--no,
none of these, oh, no! who but my long-visaged, good-for-nothing
cousin Jehoiakim Johnson.

"Fiddle-de-dee!" exclaimed a voice at my elbow; and my disappointed
sister skipped, with chattering teeth, back into the house.

The stage drove off, after depositing cousin Jehoiakim and a
Noah's-ark of a trunk.

"Wall, Cousin Clarry!" exclaimed he, springing toward me with one of
his own peculiar bear-like bounds. "How du you du? I guess you didn't
expect me this time, no how."

"I can't say that I did," said I; "but do come in, this air is enough
to freeze one."

"Wall, here I am again," said he, rubbing his great hands together
before the blazing hickory. "But if that _wasn't_ a tarnel cold drive;
and if this isn't a nation good fire, then I don't know. But how are
uncle and aunt, and Cousin Anna, and Dick, and little Harry?"

"All quite well. Where have you been since you left here, cousin?"

"Why I went right to Cousin Hezekiah's; but I did not stay there quite
two months, because little Prudence caught the brain fever, and I was
obliged to keep so still that it was very unpleasant. I went from
there to Cousin Ebenezer's. Wall, I stayed to Cousin Eb's four months
or so; then I went to stay a couple of months with Cousin Pildash and
Axy, (Achsa.) So this morning I came from Uncle Abimelech's. I only
stayed there a few weeks, because--But, Cousin Clarry, du look! if
there isn't a sleigh-load of folks coming."

I _did_ look, and saw coming through the great open gate, and up the
avenue, a sleigh, all covered with gold and brown, glittering in the
sun's setting rays. I saw the long, white manes of the ponies, and the
heavy plumes of my beautiful friend, Jane, streaming far in the wind;
and then I saw little Fanny's bright, happy face, and the fierce
moustache of Anna's lieutenant; and then I saw a pair of dark, earnest
eyes, full of devotion, gazing into mine as though at the shrine of
their soul's ideal. Never shall I forget the look they wore, so
inexpressibly full of affection was it.

What a pity stars should set. What a pity that eyes, once overflowing
with the light of wildest, truest love, should grow cold and dim. A
pity, too, that love cannot always be love--that it should find its
grave so often in hate, or indifference, or in sober friendship. Still
that it does not always, let us bless Love, and think that the fault
lies in us, and not in Love, that we are grown so like the clay of
which our bodies are made, that Love, the spirit, cannot find an
abiding-place within us; and, as years come over us, we are content
more and more to harden our hearts, and bask, like butterflies, in the
external sunshine of this beautiful world, until the world within--the
world of thought and feeling--is a weary one, gladdened only with a
few flowers of transcendent sweetness and brightness--rewards of merit
from this work-day, lesson-learning earth.

Meantime were those warm eyes looking love upon me; and meantime, from
out a world of buffalo-robes and furs, were our merry friends
emerging; and then a fervent pressure of a soft, warm hand sent the
bright blood burning to my very temples. Then came numerous other
shakes of the hand, and question sounded upon question, and laugh
pealed upon laugh; a gayer, merrier, madder party never met together.
Sister Anna, and Brother Dick's little love of a Fanny, were a host of
mirth in themselves. The accession of so many merry faces seemed to
act on the uncouth spirits of my Cousin Jehoiakim like so much
exhilarating gas; for scarcely were we housed, when he suddenly caught
me up in his windmill arms, and twirling me around as though I had
been a feather, exclaimed, "Bless us! Cousin Clarry, I have scarcely
had a chance to say how du you du, and to tell you how glad I am to be
here once more. Arn't you tickled to death to see me?"

Indignant and breathless, I sprang from him, saying, "Really, Cousin
Jehoiakim, I should be much more delighted to see you if you would be
kind enough to manifest a less rude way of expressing your joy."

"Oh! beg pardon, Cousin Clarry. I forgot you had grown up into a young
woman; another word for touch-me-not--ha! ha! ha! I guess you are all
dressed up, tu; you look like a daisy, anyhow."

With that he threw himself back in a perfect roar of ha! ha's! and he!
he's! My eyes glanced around to see the effect produced on my friends
by my _gauche_ cousin. The great blue eyes of the aristocratic Jane
opened themselves wider and more wide, while the merry black ones of
little Fanny seemed to enjoy the sport. The lieutenant's moustache
curled itself a little more decidedly, as he surveyed Jehoiakim
Johnson; looking upon him, probably, as on some savage monster. I
thought I perceived a darker shade in Edgar's eyes. It soon passed
over, and we all became quiet and chatty. The twilight deepened around
us, meantime, and the shadows formed by the blazing hearth grew more
and more opaque, and more and more fitful, lengthening themselves over
carpet, chairs, and sofas, to the very farthest corner of the room,
darting all manner of fantastic forms upon Sister Anna and her
handsome lieutenant, as they sat over by the window, in earnest
conversation. Yes, Sister Anna, for once wert thou earnest. Upon our
group on the sofa, before the hearth, fell also those strange
fire-light shadows. Sweet little Fanny! how like a little fairy didst
thou look in that flickering fire-light; thy graceful form, half
reclining, thrown carelessly on the sofa; thy long, curling hair
flowing in dark clouds over thy snow-white dress, and nearly hiding
thy happy, child-like face, and bright eyes, that glanced out on
Brother Dick, who, entranced, was devoutly bending over thee, gazing
on thy sunny face--what he could see of it. Sweet little Fanny! And
thy proud, beautiful sister, Jane--sitting beside me, and near thee;
well did that gleaming light reveal her noble outline of face and form
contrasting so finely with thine. Nor did those wayward shadows spare
our dear mother, but daguerreotyped all manner of merry-andrews on her
sober satin dress, as she sat over on a lounge, quietly talking with
my dear, sweet Edgar, who employed his leisure moments in throwing
sundry loving glances over at me. Nor did these weird shadows spare
our Cousin Jehoiakim Johnson in the great old-fashioned arm-chair,
where he had flung himself, seemingly wrapped in meditation most
profound. They frolicked over his broad, square shoulders like the
Liliputs upon Gulliver, dancing all sorts of fantastic dances, pulling
at his ears, and tweaking his substantial nose, when a snore of most
immense magnitude broke on our quiet ears. Then another and another,
each louder than the last. Ah! Cousin Jehoiakim, most profound was thy
meditation.

Now I am not going to weary your patience by telling you how just then
our "help" entered, one bearing a tray-full of tall sperm candles,
another an immense waiter, crowned with the thick-gilt, untarnished
china, that had been handed down in our family by four successive
generations--we had begged our dear mother to let the tea, the tea
only, be handed around as it was done in Boston; she in an evil hour
consenting. Nor how Cousin Jehoiakim, aroused from his meditation by
the glare of light, starting up, cast his eyes upon Mercy, the stout
serving maiden, and bearer of that same precious porcelain--for which
my dear mother's reverence was as great, every whit, as that of
Charles Lamb's for old China; and how the next moment the waiter was
in the hands of my six feet seven and a-half cousin, with "Du let me
help you, young woman!" and how the next instant the six feet seven
and a-half formed a horizontal line with the floor, instead of a
perpendicular one; and how the glittering fragments of gold and white
glistened from under every chair, and from the hearth, and out from
among the ashes, like unto so many evil eyes glaring upon him for his
stupidity and carelessness; and how little Fanny unwound from one foot
of the prostrate six feet seven and a-half several yards of snow-white
muslin--the innocent cause of the disaster; and how, light as a bird,
she sprung, merrily laughing, from the room, with the fluttering
fragments of her cobweb dress gathered in an impromptu drapery around
her graceful little form.

No; I will not fatigue you with the history of that unlucky adventure;
nor how, but a short time after, when we had taken tea from less
costly China, and had fallen into a witty, merry uttering of each
other's thoughts, we were interrupted by screams the most--but never
mind what kind, seeing I have said you shall not be fatigued with a
description of what was nothing but an immense kettle of boiling lard
flowing quietly and river-like over the long length of the before so
spotless kitchen floor, with many a cluster of dough-nut islands
interspersed, by way of relieving the said river of monotony. Our dear
mother was famed for miles around for the profusion and superiority of
her dough-nuts, hence our soubriquet--"Dough-nut Hall." And, seeing
that Mercy was only scalded half to death, the guilty culprit, who
insisted that the kettle was "too heavy for a woman to lift," escaping
unhurt, that is bodily--his remorse of conscience being truly
pitiable. No; none of all this, with long, ugly sentences, shall you
have; no, nor a detail of his many daily, hourly, and almost momently,
misadventures; how once, when we were sitting in Miss Elliott's room,
in he bolted with, "Bless my soul! what a lot of industrious
women-folk! 'How doth the busy bee;'" that new and elegant little poem
was, word for word, recited. Little Fanny he found making a bead purse
for Brother Dick, and examining her box with every conceivable shade
of bead duly assorted, and separated from each other by innumerable
partitions. No matter what he said about them, only the beads were
spilled, and the purse could not be finished; and then were Miss
Jane's delicate brushes passed through his wondering red hair before a
saving hand could arrest them; then was Miss Jane's beautiful inlaid
dressing-box broken irreparably; and then--but I will tell you what I
will relate you--all about our sleigh-ride and country ball. Yes! that
you must know; not because it is worth telling, but because I should
like you to hear it--all about how I nearly lost my darling. But to
commence.

Rumors were afloat of this said ball, the countriest kind of a country
ball, to take place in Squire Brown's barn, the largest, best built
barn for miles around. Our city friends entered into the spirit
exactly, and determined on going. "Cousin Jehoiakim? Oh, he need know
nothing about it," said Sister Anna; "or we can easily deceive him as
to the day, without telling him very much of a lie." Ah! Sister Anna.
The important day arrived. In one great bandbox reposed various
satins, laces, and ribbons too numerous to mention; the owners thereof
were standing cloaked, hooded, and muffed, ready to start. The
distance was ten miles. We had cast lots for the sleighs, and had
agreed on exclusiveness, though not exactly the exclusiveness that
Sister Anna wickedly proposed, viz., that each brother should take his
respective sisters in due decorum. The new "cutter" of my brother's
was drawn by himself; and he had already started with his little Fanny
by his side. The proud, beautiful Jane--I really believe I had
forgotten to mention that, while Cousin Jehoiakim was upsetting
chairs, and spilling pitchers of water, and breaking glasses, and
treading on people's toes, and the cat's tail, a distant cousin of
ours arrived--rather a guess cousin than Cousin Jehoiakim; tall as
the last named, to be sure, but bearing about the same resemblance to
him as a vigorous, graceful young willow does to an overgrown mullen
stalk. This new cousin--by cognomen Clarence Spencer--the family name
our own, by the way--proud and beautiful as the haughty Jane
herself--had seen fit to fall most gracefully in love with her. These
two, therefore, were just started on their way to the ball, in
Clarence's own incomparable turn-out. Lieutenant Allen had drawn the
Elliott's beautiful gold and brown sleigh. He was holding the
impatient ponies, and Sister Anna was arranging the cushions when
Cousin Jehoiakim hove in sight. Sister Anna sprung like a doe to the
front seat, threw the heavy buffalo-robes about, making them and the
great bandbox fill up the back seat, and seating herself by the
lieutenant--all this quicker than lightning--and giving the ponies a
touch of the whip, on they dashed to the imminent peril of their necks
as well as her own. A saucy toss of the head was all she vouchsafed
me. All, then, were on their way save Edgar and myself, who were
expecting a quiet, loving talk in the comfortable old-fashioned
"pung," with a gig top, that papa used in his frequent drives to
Boston.

"Wall, now, Cousin Clarry, I reckon you thought I didn't snuff what
was going on."

Poor fellow! he looked _so_ good-natured, truly my heart smote me.

"There is another cutter in the barn, cousin," replied I, "and you can
take your pick of the horses."

"You are very kind, Cousin Clarry, but there ain't no occasion of
calling any more of the poor dumb critters out into the cold. I guess
you can make room for me; I will ride on top until we catch up to some
of the two-seated sleighs."

Time was too precious to waste in words, and as Cousin Jehoiakim good
naturedly persisted that he should be very comfortable on the top, on
the top he seated himself. I saw that Edgar did not like the
arrangement, but he was too polite, or too proud to interfere. "Let us
overtake the others," said he. A bright smile passed over his face. I
saw he meditated some mischief. I knew it could not be very
mischievous mischief, for a kinder, nobler heart never beat more
warmly in any human breast. Forward dashed the horses, throwing the
white, sparkling snow before and around them into the bright sunshine.
Faster and faster sped the spirited horses, until we passed,
first--yes, it was no illusion, his lips were actually pressing her
little rosy mouth. Then, Lieutenant Allen, you are not the first man
that has done the like; it is a way they all have, ever since Adam
gave Mother Eve her first love-kiss. What man would not part with some
years of his life for the privilege of pressing to his own a pretty
little soft mouth?

Ah, Sister Anna! the question was actually popped; and on that
memorable day of the ball, thy giddy heart was actually caged. We came
so noiselessly and swift through the soft snow that we actually took
thee by surprise. Thy blushes were beautiful; but on we sped, and our
next tableaux presented Cousin Clarence gazing most intensely and
earnestly into the great deep-blue eyes of the beautiful Jane
Elliott, as though he were pouring forth a question from his soul to
hers. Her delicate hand lay in his, and her stately, graceful head
inclined gently toward him. They were so earnestly occupied, he in
talking, and she in listening, that they did not see us until we had
passed them; and after we passed them we were not long in overtaking
Dick and his little Fanny. Bless the lovers! Her curly-headed little
head started, quick as lightning, from its warm resting place, though
not so quick but that my practiced eye saw it take leave of Brother
Dick's manly shoulder. Her fun-loving spirit could not resist the
ludicrous appearance of Cousin Jehoiakim, perched upon the top of our
pung like some immense bird of prey. Brother Dick joined in her
pealing, merry laughter, and the old woods rang again. The stump of a
tree grew at the road-side, near an immense snow-bank. Edgar, as
though he had been on the look-out for such a fine opportunity,
speedily and dexterously ran one runner of our pung over the stump,
and over went the pung. By a skillful movement he righted it
instantly. The friendly side preserved me from the snow; but Cousin
Jehoiakim--alas! for gravity on a gig-top. In this deep bank of snow,
his heels high in air, stood my inverted cousin. As soon as I could
speak from convulsive laughter, I implored Edgar to go back to my
cousin's assistance.

"As you please," said he. Now you must know that I was the only one
that treated Cousin Jehoiakim kindly. Sister Anna and Brother Dick
made a complete butt of him; the rest did not treat him at all, except
to an occasional shrug of the shoulder from Anna's lieutenant, or a
gay laugh from little Fanny. And, forsooth, because I was civil to
him, and talked to him, and excused his awkwardness, why Edgar saw
fit, in his wisdom, to be jealous of him. Was there ever any thing
more absurd? Yes, since time out of mind have men, the wisest and the
best of them, been just so absurd; and unto all eternity will they,
the wisest and best of them, be just so absurd again.

By the time we had reached again the spot, the others had come up, and
were engaged in disentombing the imbedded unfortunate.

"That was a cold bed, any how," said he, shaking himself from head to
foot like a huge Newfoundland dog, and smiling upon us with his
imperturbable good-nature; "but why, in the name of all that is good,
did you not help a feller out sooner? If it had been feathers instead
of snow, I should surely have been suffocated."

"Thank your stars for your safe deliverance," said the laughing Fanny.

"What were you thinking of, cousin?" said Anna, in a choking voice.

"I could think of nothing but the ten commandments; and I wondered
what sinful iniquity my grandfather had been guilty of, that I should
be visited in such an awful manner for his transgressions. But where
on earth is my hat? I have looked in the hole, and all about for it."

"Look on your neck, Hoiky; you are wearing it for a stock," said my
brother.

"By gracious! so I am."

I brushed the snow from his shoulders and hair, and assisted his long
neck from its cumbrous stock, and pinning on the crown-piece, the hat
was quite wearable again.

"Mr. Johnson will ride much more comfortably in one of the
double-seated sleighs," said Edgar.

"Most certainly, Mr. Elliott," replied Cousin Jehoiakim, "you know I
begged you to let me out the first sleigh we met. I reckon you _did_
let me out to some purpose at last. By jimminy! but that was a cool
dip. Wall, Cousin Anny, what do you say to my riding along with you,
though I had a leetle rather sit alongside of Clarry, yet if you've no
objections I havn't none."

So now was my turn to pay back my sister by as provoking a toss of the
head as she gave me. Our ride the rest of the way was pleasant.
Edgar's eyes grew warm and loving. Among the other interesting things
we talked of, Edgar poured into my greedy ears the wonders and beauty
of the almost new doctrine of the transcendentalists. He described the
home he was going to give me, and called me his little wife, and
said--but dear me, I am not going to tell you all he said. His
passionate words and the love in his soul-full eyes lay deep in my
heart as we stopped before Squire Brown's.

Then came the dressing, and then it was we found that Cousin Jehoiakim
had contrived to crush the great bandbox on the seat beside him. The
beautiful lace dress Miss Elliott was to have worn over a satin was
torn and spoiled, also Anna's and my wreaths, also things too numerous
to mention. When we told of the disaster, Brother Dick said that Anna
and I looked much prettier in our own uncovered hair than with an
artificial flower-garden upon our heads--that the elegant white satin
of Miss Jane needed no lace to make it more beautiful--adding, in an
undertone, that he would give more to see a woman dressed in the
simple white muslin his little Fanny wore than for all the laces and
satins that could be bought.

When we entered the ball-room we found Cousin Jehoiakim already
dancing with a red-haired young lady, in a blue gauze dress. Seeing
us, and wishing to astonish us, he attempted a quadruple pigeon-wing,
which unfortunately entangled his great feet in the blue gauze dress,
and ended in his own subversion and the dismemberment of the thin
gauze. The young lady was obliged to retire for the night, while
Cousin Jehoiakim slowly picked himself up. He was so much abashed I
had to console him by asking him to dance with me. I really pitied the
poor fellow, he could get no one but me to dance with him, still he
tried so hard to make himself agreeable, and was so determinedly
good-natured that it was not his fault that he could not be a second
Apollo.

I was Edgar's partner for a reel.

"You seem to take very great interest in the well-doing of that odious
cousin of yours," said he.

"Poor fellow! why should I not?" replied I.

"Because he is awkward and disagreeable," said he, half laughing at
his own reason.

"He is as the Lord made him," replied I, in a tone of affected
humility.

"But the Lord did not make you to dance with him and lavish so much
attention upon him; you will oblige me very much, Clara, by not
dancing any more with him and making yourself so ridiculous."

Now there was not very much in those words to take offence at, and I
should, like a submissive woman that was about to be a wife, have
promised obedience, but, unfortunately, being a daughter of Eve I
inherited somewhat of her pride and vanity. In a different tone of
voice Edgar might have said even those words without offending either
pride or vanity, but his voice was cold, and his eyes were colder, and
I, driving my heart away from my lips and eyes, replied--"I trust Mr.
Elliott does not flatter himself he has _yet_ the entire control of my
actions."

"Just as you please."

The reel was finished, and he was off. I repented as soon as the words
passed my lips--the first angry words I had spoken to him. But then,
thought I, sitting down on a bench by myself, why is he so foolishly
provoking and unreasonably jealous of my poor cousin. He to be so
unkind, he who had ever been the noblest and most loving of sons, the
kindest and truest of brothers. For a moment my heart misgave me at
the thought of becoming his for life, it was only a moment. I saw
through the dim vista of years a vision of peace and love.

Cousin Jehoiakim came and sat down beside me. "Ah! Cousin Clarry,"
said he, abruptly taking my hand and holding it, "you are good and
kind to me, how happy I shall be when you are my own little wife, when
the time comes to give you my hand as I already have my heart."

Cousin Jehoiakim sentimental! I looked up--Edgar's cold blue eyes were
fastened upon me. I hastily drew my hand from my cousin, and sprung
toward the glooming Edgar.

"Is it not near time to go, dear Edgar?" exclaimed I, grasping his
hand in my own.

"Mr. Johnson can see you home. I have engaged to go with a friend of
mine back to Boston."

"Edgar!"--but he was gone.

You may depend I did _not_ ride home with _Mr. Johnson_, but begged a
seat with my sister, leaving my cousin the "pung" with the gig-top all
to himself. Whether he encountered any more stumps or pit-falls I
cannot say. He and the pung came safely home, as did the rest of us.

"Mother," exclaimed I, "I do wish you would contrive some means to get
rid of my odious Cousin Jehoiakim, he is the torment of my life."

"Mamma," chimed in Anna, while a smile twinkled in the corner of her
eye, "Cousin Jehoiakim has ruined my beautiful French wreath, and has
broken my Chinese pagoda, and my exquisite Chinese mandarins, and
soiled my Book of Beauty, and has broken my new set of chess-men that
Uncle Eb. brought from the East Indies, and has--dear mother, can you
not think of some means of sending him to Uncle Abiram's, or to
Halifax?"

"Yes, mother," said Brother Dick, with a laugh, "Hoiky has been here
mischiefizing long enough; do invent some means of packing him off. We
have been victimized long enough. He has broken every fishing-rod I
have, and has lost my hooks, and he has lamed my beautiful pony Cæsar,
and ruined my gun, and yesterday, in shooting game, he shot my dog
Neptune, that I have been offered fifty dollars for, and would not
have taken one hundred."

"Wife," said our dear papa, coming into the room, "it is of no use, I
can be patient no longer, you _must_ devise some method of letting
Nephew Jehoiakim understand we do not wish his presence any longer.
Poor fellow! I would not for the world be unkind to him. I will give
him an annual stipend that will support him liberally during his life,
willingly, gladly, but I cannot have him here any longer. He is
utterly incorrigible."

"What has he done now?" asked our dear mamma.

"He left the bars down that led into my largest, best field of wheat,
and half the cattle in the country have been devouring it. They have
ruined at least a couple of hundred dollars worth. The money is not
what I care so much for, but it was the best wheat-field for miles
around, and I had a pride in having it yield more than any field of my
neighbors. I have borne with him day after day, hoping he might do
better. Poor fellow! he is sorry enough always for his mistakes. The
other day he left the garden-gate open, and the cows got in and eat
all my cabbages and other vegetables; then he leaves the barn-door
open, and the hogs go in and the calves come out."

"We will see," said our dear mamma.

The next morning at the breakfast-table said our dear mother--

"You will have a delightful day to ride in, dear nephew."

Cousin Jehoiakim opened wide his eyes, inquiringly.

"Richard, my son, I hope you did not forget to tell Mr. Grimes to let
the stage stop here this morning. It will be very inconvenient for
your cousin to be obliged to stay another day. I packed your trunk
this morning early, dear nephew, just after you left your room,
knowing how you disliked the trouble."

Still wider opened my cousin's eyes.

"Harry, my son," said mamma to my little brother, "those cakes and
dough-nuts are for your cousin to take with him for his lunch."

"Mayn't I have a piece of pie then?"

"Go and get what you want of Mercy, my dear. I put some runs of yarn
in your trunk, dear nephew, you may give them with my love to sister
Abigal, and tell her the wool is from white Kitty. She will remember
the sheep. Give my love to brother Abiram with this letter."

Still wider opened Cousin Jehoiakim's eyes.

"You will find also in your trunk a dozen and a half of new linen
shirts that I have taken the liberty of putting there instead of your
old ones."

"Thank you, dear aunt, you are very kind. I really am very sorry to
leave you all. I have enjoyed myself very much here; but Aunt Abigail
will feel hurt if I do not pay her a visit. I shall come again as soon
as I can, so do not cry your eyes out, Cousin Clarry."

The stage came and Cousin Jehoiakim went.

And the way I lured back my flown bird would make quite an interesting
sentimental little story of itself. Bless his bright eyes! they are
shining on me now, full of mischief at this sketch I am giving you,
beloved reader. But _didn't_ we have a nice wedding time? There was
Anna and her brave lieutenant, Brother Dick and his bright little
Fanny, the beautiful, majestic Jane, and my beautiful, majestic Cousin
Clarence, and my darling, good Edgar, and, dear reader, your very
humble servant.




CORIOLANUS.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.


    How many legends have been told or sung
      Since Rome--the nursling of the wolf--arose,
    Lean, gaunt and grim, and lapped the bubbling blood
            Of fallen and dying foes.

    How many lyrics, which, like trumpets heard
      At dawn, when, clad in steel, the long array
    Of marshaled armies glittering in the sun
            Stretch, like the skies, away.

    But none so golden, chivalric and holy
      As that of thine, Coriolanus--none
    In the imperial purple of old days
            But pale before its sun.

    True, thou wast proud, and deemed the people base,
      Prone to idolatry of those who sought
    Their April smiles--who fawned to win their votes,
            Nor dreamed them dearly bought.

    Thou, who hadst stood where death reigned like a king,
      First in Corioli--thy wounds in front--
    Preferring neigh of steed and clash of arms,
            The battle's deadly brunt,

    To silken ease, and mirth, and song, and dance,
      And festal follies in Etruscan halls--
    Bacchantic revels, when the sun went down,
            Beyond the city walls,

    Couldst well gaze on the mass with eagle eye,
      Demanding as a right their voice, and blush
    To bare thy scars, while thy patrician scorn
            Made cheek and forehead flush.

    The base cabals--the hate which drove thee forth
      A wanderer, ennobled thee: thy fame
    Looked lightning on the curs that dared abuse,
            But lacked the power to shame.

    Prouder thy spirit in that trying hour
      Than theirs who stung thee: well might'st thou go forth
    Undaunted, for thy fame was not of Rome,
            But, rather, of the earth.

    Yet it was hard to leave thy wife and babe--
      Virgilia and thy little one--hard to break
    The bonds that held thee to them: Rome grew dear--
            Most dear for their sweet sake.

    But as their forms waxed dim, thy festering heart
      Looked from thine eyes; thy swelling nostrils told
    The inward struggle, and thy heaving chest
            A human ocean rolled.

    Kneeling upon the ground, thy sinister arm
      Adjuring heaven, thy soul broke forth in tones
    Of thunder; but thy agony in that hour
            Pale Rome repaid with groans.

    Coldly, with stately step and placid brow--
      A lull--the herald of the approaching storm--
    Thou went'st thy way toward Antium--trod its streets
            Without the thought of harm.

    Humble was thy approach, but thou went'st forth
      A Mars of the time--thy snorting steed arrayed
    And glistering with gold, while at thy heels
            A thousand clarions brayed.

    Rome from her seven hills looked down with fear,
      Appalled and breathless, while her people stood
    Like men awoke from sleep, amazed, aghast--
            With agues in their blood.

    Like an avenging angel with the sword
      Of wrath unsheathed, careering toward thy home
    Through flame and blood, thou rod'st: thy coming shook
            The hundred gates of Rome.

    She, who abused, beseeched thee, but in vain--
      Humbled herself before thee; yet thy hate
    Was unappeased; and, like one stricken dumb,
            Rome gazed upon her fate.

    But when Volumnia came--thy mother--she
      Who bore thee 'neath her heart, and, at her side
    The one who, in thy softer hours, with love
            Thy trembling lip called bride,

    Leading thy child--thy boy--the old hours came
      Like south wind over thee; thy icy soul
    Dissolved in tears; thy hard--thy iron heart
            Acknowledged love's control,

    And Rome was saved--Rome, who had wronged, was free!
      --Thou lost!--O, never from the depths of Time
    Came sweeter record of the power of love
            Than this, in my poor rhyme.

    Never was story fuller of the strength
      Of love o'er hate: undimmed by age, it breathes
    A perfume, and a crown around thy brow,
            Coriolanus, wreathes!




LENNARD.

A TALE OF MARION'S MEN.

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.


                  --"Mightier far
    Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway
    Of magic potent over sun or star
    Is Love, though oft to agony distrest,
    And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast."


I.

    Night o'er the Santee! up the sky
    The pale moon went with misty eye;
    And in the west a brooding cloud--
    Departed day's wind-lifted shroud--
    Waved slowly in the depths of blue,
    While now and then a world looked through
    The broken edge, as from above
    Steals down a seraph's glance of love,
    Through sorrow's cloud and mortal air,
    On breaking hearts or tearful prayer.


II.

    Within the recess of the wood
    That on the river's margin stood,
      Encamped beneath the shade
    Of solemn pine and cypress tree,
    And tulip soaring high and free,
      A patriot band had made
    Their pillows of the moss and leaves,
    Through which the moaning south-wind grieves
      When day forsakes the glade.
    And all save one slept hushed as night
    Beneath the starry Infinite--
      That one a boy in years,
    Whose daring arm and flashing eye,
    When death and danger hovered nigh,
      Belied the trembling fears
    And shrinking dread that seemed to speak,
    From quivering lip and pallid cheek
      At sight of war's array;
    The first the fearful strife to bide,
    Forever at his captain's side,
      Was Lennard in the fray;
    Yet strange to tell, though oft beside
    That captain's form he dared to bide
      The cannon's fiery blast,
    His hand no human blood had shed,
    Beneath his steel no foe had bled,
      When in the battle cast.
    So said his comrades tried and cold,
    Who marveled that a heart so bold,
      Should beat in pitying breast.
    And now beside the smouldering fire,
    He marked its flickering flames expire,
      And watched his leader's rest.


III.

    That leader--in the civil strife
    Then waged for Liberty and Life,
      No braver spirit stood,
    Between his country and the chain,
    Mistaken tyranny would fain
      Have cast o'er lake and wood;
    And though in manhood's early morn,
    Young Huon led through strife and scorn
      A trusty troop and free,
    Who left their homes his lot to share,
    For Freedom sworn to live and dare,
      Or die--at Fate's decree;
    And from the covert solitude
    Of dark morass and thicket rude
      Guerilla warfare waged,
    On Tory band, unwary foe,
    And struck full many a dauntless blow,
      While hate and conflict raged.


IV.

    One hour from midnight and the sleep
    That wrapped the stalwart frame so deep,
      Was woke by guard and sign;
    The forest sounded with the tramp
    Of rushing steeds, until the camp
      Was reached by foremost line
    Of the brigade of fearless men,
    Who rode through wood, and brake, and fen,
    As speeds the red deer to his glen.
    No gorgeous suit of war array,
    No uniform of red or gray
      In that rude band were seen;
    The ploughman's dress, but coarse and plain,
    And marred by toil with many a stain,
      Betrayed no gilded sheen;
    Their only badge the white cockade,
    No dagger's point or glittering blade
      Was worn with martial pride,
    But sabre hilt and rifle true,
    Oftimes of dark, ensanguined hue,
      Were ever at the side.
    They hailed their comrades in the fight,
    With blazing fires illumed the night,
      And waged with jest and smile,
    As toward the lurid torches' light
      Rode up their chief the while.
    No pert gallant or Conrad he,
    With gay plume waving haughtily;
    Nor donned he aught his troopers o'er,
    Save that the leathern cap he wore
    In front a silver crescent bore,
    Inscribed with "Death or Liberty."
    Of stature low, the piercing eye,
    And forehead broad, and full, and high,
      And lined with lofty thought;
    Were all that marked from his compeers,
    The man who through long, gloomy years
      With tireless vigor wrought,
    Nerved by defeat for loftier aim,
    To build his country's Hope and Fame,
    And win for her a seat divine
    Beneath bright Freedom's hallowed shrine;
    And few, though rashly brave, would dare,
    To start the Swamp Fox[2] from his lair.
    Or in his fastness wild and dun,
    Cope with the rebel Marion.

[Footnote 2: _Swamp Fox_ was the cognomen bestowed on Marion
by the British.]

V.

    Soon Huon by the river's tide
    Sought out his brave commander's side,
    And listened with respectful air,
    To learn what new emprise to share,
    What lurking foe to shun or brave.
    Short was their conference and grave,
      Ere Huon bade a trooper call
    His page, young Lennard, to his aid;
      And passing 'neath the cedar tall,
    And giant oaks' far spreading shade,
    The boy with graceful step and light,
    Stood quickly in his captain's sight,
    And Marion thus, in kindly tone,
    Spoke with a frankness all his own.
    "'T is said, my boy, thy heart is brave,
    Thy courage sure, and caution grave;
    This night, then, we will task thy power.
    Seek, ere the closing of the hour,
      The village inn that stands below,
    Embowered within the coppice glade,
      And learn the bearings of the foe--
    Their force in camp, and field, and shade;
    But ere the silver moon again
    O'er Carolina's hills shall wane,
    Meet us beside the deep lagoon
    Beyond, that knows no scorching noon."


VI.

    Anon, far down the silent wood,
    Undaunted by its solitude,
      Sped Lennard on his way;
    Until beneath a blasted pine,
      Beyond the forest gray,
    That tall, and bald, and hoary white,
    Gleamed through the dusky veil of night,
    As through Life's mist on human sight
      Gleams vital truth divine,
    He paused, and from a whistle clear,
    Drew notes that thrilled the valley near.


VII.

    Within the rebel camp, meanwhile,
    No slumbers winning smiles beguile,
      From care to dreams away;
    The troop who view with fearless heart
    The coming strife and battle's mart;
    And thus with blithesome song, though rude,
    Awake the echoes of the wood:

          Though dark the night,
          And fierce the fight,
            We fear no living foe;
          The swamp our home,
          The sky our dome,
            Our bed the turf below;
          We hail the strife,
          And prize not life,
            Unblessed by Freedom's smile;

          And Age and Youth,
          To patriot Truth,
            Pledge hopefully the while.

          Our Country's name
          Must sink in shame,
            Or sound in triumph free;
          Then, brothers, on!
          For Marion,
            Our homes and liberty.


VIII.

    'T was morning--from the golden sky
    Night fled before day's burning eye,
    As flies the minister of sin
    From souls that kneel to God, to win
    Courage to meet the tempter's wile,
    And strength upon the strife to smile.
    Scarce had the cloudless sun betrayed,
      The flowers that bloomed in meadows low,
    Ere toward a thickly shaded glade,
      An armed horseman traveled slow;
    And paused beside a gushing spring,
      Whose gentle murmurs thrilled the air,
    As thrills an angel's unseen wing
      The distant blue when mounting there.
    The dark trees hung above its wave,
      A tapestry of green,
    And arching o'er the waters, gave
      A softness to the sheen
    Of mellow light that darted through
    The dewy leaves of richest hue;
    While round the huge trunks many a vine,
    Had bade its graceful tendrils twine;
    The blossoming grape and jessamine pale,
    Loading with sweets the summer gale.
    Not long with hasty step he trod
    The narrow path and flowery sod,
    Ere gently o'er the sere leaves' bed
    A maiden passed with faltering tread.


IX.

    Oh! light was the step of the blooming girl,
    And glossy the hue of the raven curl,
    And joyous the glance of the dark eye's play,
    When the pride of the village was Morna Grey.
    But ruthless war to her dwelling came,
    Her brothers slept on the field of fame,
    Her father's blood on his hearth was shed;
    And the desolate orphan in anguish fled
    To the cottage of one who her childhood nursed,
    And who soothed the spirit that grief had cursed;
    And now in the depths of that speaking eye
    There slumbered a sadness still and high,
    But veiled with a clear and mellow light,
    Like the softened glow of a moonlit night;
    And the rose on her cheek that came and went,
    Like the hues of the West when day is spent,
    Told how the chords of the heart below,
    Quivered and shrunk at the breath of wo.
    But why did a presage of coming ill,
    With a fiercer pang her bosom thrill,
    And pale her cheek to a deadlier hue,
    As she sought the spring where the jessamine grew?
    She had come to meet for a moment there,
    Ere he sought the field in the strife to share,
    One who her father had blessed in death,
    As she pledged her faith with faltering breath;
    And Huon with joyous smile and gay,
    Welcomed the presence of Morna Grey.


X.

    But the words they spoke were short and few--
    A soldier must be to his duty true;
    And ere a half hour had hastened by,
    She watched his steed as it hurried nigh,
    O'er the verdant plain to the cedars tall,
    Where his men were waiting their leader's call.
    As she dashed the drops that dimmed her sight,
    From the dark-fringed lids where they trembled bright,
    A rustling was heard in the brushwood near,
    And a crone, whose wild and fantastic gear
    Betrayed the erring of mind within,
    Stood in her presence with mocking grin.
    "Said I not sorrows in dark array,
    Crowded the future of Morna Grey?
    Why from the cheek do the roses fly?
    Where is the light of the flashing eye?
    Where has the rounded lips, ruby red,
    Gone, since we parted beside the dead?
    The white owl entered the casement high,
    O'er the brow of the dying I saw it fly;
    Presager of death! I hailed its wing,
    She scorned the omen but felt the sting
    Of bitter grief, when another day
    Bore her angel Mother from earth away.
    I warned her, when on the coming blast
    I saw the phantom-like shades flit past;
    She smiled on my words as idle play,
    But wept when her sire, in the midnight fray,
    Felled to the dust by the Tory's blade,
    Died in the home where his bones are laid;
    When the cold drops stood on the forehead fair,
    And the curdling blood on the thin, gray hair.
    But the dead in silence forgotten sleep;
    She is weaving on earth a vision deep,
    Of joyous hopes that must fade and die,
    Like the bow that smiles when the tempests fly,
    In vain the strength of her youth is shed,
    In a path where she trembles and fears to tread;
    In vain--in vain would the fragile form,
    Brave the hot breath of the cannon's storm;
    The bullet speeds on its mission free--
    A broken heart and a grave I see."

    "Though dark my way, I fear it not;
    Speed, woman, to thy sheltered cot,
    Lest thou, with no protector nigh,
    Should catch some hostile wanderer's eye.
    My trust is in that mighty Power,
    Who rules the battle's wildest hour;
    And woman's love is like the flower
    That bloometh not in sunny bower;
    But when the dark and solemn night,
    Has gathered round with storm and blight,
    Unfolds its petals bright and rare,
    And sheds its fragrance on the air;
    And if it dare and peril all,
    Asks only to preserve or fall,
    His bleeding land requires his arm--
    God will protect the brave from harm."

    "Behold!" and Morna turned to gaze
      Upon the huge tree, dark and lone,
      The withered finger of the crone
    Marked out, and glancing in the rays
    Of morn, beheld a serpent coil
    Its glossy length, with easy toil,
    Up the brown trunk, till close it hung
    Above the wild bird's nest and young;
    While round and round, with scream of dread,
    The frighted bird in anguish fled;
    And vainly sought to drive the foe
    From his dark aim again below.


XI.

    Moments there are when Reason's control,
    Yieldeth to Fancy in heart and soul;
    When the spirit views with prescient eye,
    The common light and shaded sky,
    An omen finds in the falling leaf,
    And symbols in all things of joy or grief.
    And this was one, for on that failing strife
    Had Morna cast her dearest hope in life.
    Must she behold with power as vain to shield,
    Earth's only blessing from her presence torn?
    Was there a fiercer pang for her revealed
    In that short conflict than she yet had known?
    Her dark eyes grew more wildly bright,
    And gleamed with an intenser light,
    As closer drew the venomed fang,
    And shrill the lone bird's accents rang.
    But, hark! a shot--a rustling fall--
    Approaching steps--a sportman's call--
      The parent bird is in the dust;
    And o'er the path that homeward led,
    With fleeting step fair Morna fled,
      And breathed a prayer of thanks and trust.
    Though sweet to live, more blest to die,
    For those that strong affections tie
    Has fettered to the clinging heart,
    With links not Death can wholly part.


XII.

    The day wore on, and down the West,
    The sun had rolled in his unrest;
    While gorgeous clouds of gold and red,
    Reflected back the splendor fled;
    And twilight--pensive nun, to pray,
    In silence drew her veil of gray.
    The last bright gleam was waxing pale,
    And low night winds began their wail,
    When near a ruined house, that stood
    Within a grove of tulip wood,
    Young Lennard paused and gazed awhile,
    With clouded brow and saddened smile,
    On trampled flowers, and shrubs, and vine,
    Torn from the pillar it would twine
    With verdant bloom, and casting round
    Its scarlet blossoms on the ground.
    A waste of weeds the garden lay,
    And grass grew in the carriage way;
    Cold desolation, like a pall,
    Had spread its mantle over all;
    Yet not the creeping touch of Time,
    Had wrecked that dwelling in its prime.
    The fierce and unrelenting wrath
    Of human war had crossed that path,
    And left its trace on all things near,
    Save the blue sky above our sphere.
    Anon, with hurried step and free,
    He crossed the ruined balcony,
    And passing by the fallen door,
    Stood on the dark hall's oaken floor.
    Lighting the pine-torch that he bore,
    He watched its lurid beams explore
    The gloomy precincts, and passed on,
      As one who knew each winding well,
    To a low room that lay beyond,
    And echoed to the south wind's knell.
    Upon the threshold crushed and lone,
    By rude marauder's hand o'erthrown,
      The holy volume lay;
    He raised it from its station there,
    And smoothed the crumpled leaves with care,
      Then sadly turned away
    To gaze upon a portrait near,
    Whose thoughtful eyes, so calm and clear,
    And chastened look and lofty mien,
    And forehead noble and serene,
    Told of a spirit touched by time
    Only to soften and sublime;
    Of woman's earnest faith and love
    Surmounting earth to soar above.


XIII.

    With quivering lip the boy gazed long;
    Unheeded and unmarked a throng
    Might there have met, so fixed his soul
    On Memory's unfolding scroll.
    He knew not that the hours crept by,
    And sullen grew the deepening night;
    Again he met his mother's eye,
    As erst in joyous days and bright,
    And heard the accents clear and mild,
    Now hushed in death, breathe o'er her child
    A fervent blessing and a prayer;
    Again his father's silver hair
    Gleamed on his sight, although the tomb
    Had closed him in its rayless gloom.


XIV.

    His leathern cap aside was flung,
    And o'er his brow the dark locks hung
    In wild confusion, as he stood
    Amid that haunted solitude,
    Raising the blazing torch to throw
    Upon the pictured face its glow.
    In him a careless eye might see
    A semblance of that face in life;
    With more of fire and energy
    To brave the storm and strife;
    With more of earthly hope to claim,
    And less of Heaven--yet still the same.


XV.

    But suddenly the mystic spell
    That bound him to the Past was rent;
    The vivid lightning, forked and red,
    Flashed through the broken casement, blent
    With the loud thunder's awful roar,
    Prolonged and echoing o'er and o'er.
    The warring of the world without
    Offended not the struggling heart;
    Roused from the apathy of thought
    He sought the casement with a start,
    And watched the raging storm sweep by
    With kindling cheek and flashing eye.


XVI.

    On! on! it came with fiery breath,
    Instinct with rage and winged with death,
    As downward swept, ere Time begun
    His swift and varied race to run,
    Through realms chaotic and sublime,
      With wing of light and forehead pale,
    Immortal in remorse and crime,
      Thrilling the Infinite with wail,
    The apostate troops from lands of light
    To darkness, shame and withering blight.
    On! on! it came, and in its path
    The tall trees bent beneath its wrath,
    And fell with hollow, crashing sound,
    Torn and uprooted, to the ground.
    Still nearer grew the lightning flash,
    And heavier broke the thunder crash;
    And as, with almost blinded gaze,
    Watched Lennard the electric blaze,
    He saw through rain and densest night
    A thin, pale line of waving light
    Speed to a lofty oak, whose head
    Sunk powerless to its parent bed.


XVII.

    The hours passed on--the storm had spent
    The fury to its madness lent,
    And wild and sullen clouds on high
    In broken masses swept the sky,
    As Lennard left the ruined hall,
    And, bounding o'er the garden wall,
    Walked swiftly o'er the lonely plain,
    Till 'neath the blasted pine again
    He paused, and blew the whistle low;
    Soon from a clump of firs below
    An aged servant slowly led
    A saddled steed: the pale moon shed
    Its fitful gleam as Lennard sprung
    Light to his seat, then fearless flung
    The bridle loose, and spurring, soon
    Drew up beside a deep lagoon,
    Whose stagnant waters 'neath the moon
    Glimmered through bush and hanging vine,
    And cypress bald and ragged pine.
    Concealed within the spectral gloom,
    Of wide morass and forest tomb,
      His comrades there he found;
    By many a devious winding led,
    Where the pale fire-flies' torches shed
      A fitful gleam around,
    He paused at length where Huon stood,
    Amid his faithful band, though rude,
      And thus his errand told:
    "Where bends the Santee in the plain
    Has Tarleton's troop encamped again,
      With careless movement bold;
    One half his men will march to-night
    To join the troop on Charleston height,
    The guard will be both dull and light;
    A few short hours, with speed and care,
    Must lead us to the station there."


XVIII.

    His mission o'er, with thoughtful look,
    The boy sought out a shaded nook,
      Apart from all--yet near
    The opening where the men had laid
    Their rations on the mossy glade,
      Beside the swamp-marsh drear.
    Silent was he, reserved and shy,
    Seldom raising cap or eye;
    Not many days since first his hand
    Had joined him to that patriot band;
    Yet none more truly did fulfill,
      The duties of his arm required,
    Though slight withal, and often still
      When the loud signal-gun was fired,
    The herald of the coming fight,
    His cheek would pale like flowers at night
    Beneath the autumn's chilling blight;
    None knew his residence or name,
      Save that of Lennard, which he told
    The morn when to the camp he came,
      And begged that he might be enrolled
    In Huon's corps, to serve with those
    Who bled to heal their country's woes;
    Of late his arm had bolder grown
    When in the rout and skirmish thrown,
      And stronger, too, and Huon loved
    The slender boy who at his side
    Stood nobly when o'er War's red tide
      The fiery death-shot moved.


XIX.

    'Twas midnight, as with silent tread,
    Like one who bears the coffined dead,
    His valiant troopers Marion led
      Through long and dark defile;
    And on they marched till morning light
    With streaks of crimson touched the night;
    Then, unannounced by trumpet-clang,
      Fell on the slumb'ring foe;
    Swift to his post each warrior sprang,
      Above, around, below;
    And soon in close and eager strife,
    As o'er the tomb meet Death and Life,
      The hostile forces stood;
    The sabre flashed in day's bright eye,
    The whizzing shot, death-winged, swept by,
      The turf grew red with blood;
    And where the charge was hottest made,
    Where boldest fell the flashing blade,
      Was Huon foremost there;
    And ever near his daring hand
    The youngest, gentlest of his band,
      Stood Lennard on that day;
    Fierce raged the conflict o'er the dead,
    Until, o'erpowered, the vanquished fled;
      Yet ere they left the fray
    One aimed the bloody lance he bore
    At Huon's heart--a moment more,
    And Lennard fell, his life-blood o'er
      The green turf welling fast;
    The blade that sought his leader's breast
      His hand aside had cast;
    Swift to his aid his comrades prest;
    The death-hue on his forehead lay
    As Huon flung both sword and lance
    With quivering lip away,
    And met in Lennard's dying glance
      The smile of Morna Grey.


XX.

    Beside the Santee's murmuring wave,
    They made the early dead a grave;
    And sometimes on its borders green
    The passing traveler has seen
    A spot where pale wild roses blow
    The lofty oaks and firs below--
    The turf is verdant with the spray--
    There sleeps the dust of Morna Grey.
    And Huon?--Still his daring arm
      Was lifted in his country's aid,
    Though life had lost its sunniest charm,
      And o'er the future hung a shade;
    And time would fail me now to tell
      Of all the deeds his valor wrought,
    How, when Fort Moultrie's color fell,
      He mounted 'mid the flames and shot
    The merlon height, and fixed on high
    The starry banner 'mid the sky.
    Nor how he died--the nobly slain,
    In bearing from the battle-plain
      The flag intrusted to his care.
    But deeds like these were common then
      As life, and light, and air;
    Brave deeds that shall forever round
      Our nation's annals cling;
    Perchance some louder harp shall sound,
      Some bolder spirit sing.
    For me--the first pale star on high
    Herald's the night with beaming eye,
    And down the west has rolled the sun--
    My song is o'er--my task is done.


NOTE.

     During the Revolution, a young girl plighted to an
     officer of Marion's corps, followed him without being
     discovered to the camp, where, dressed in male attire,
     and unknown to him, she enrolled in the service. A few
     days after, during a fierce conflict that occurred, she
     stood by his side in the thickest of the fight, and in
     turning away a lance aimed at his heart received it in
     her own, and fell bleeding at his feet. She was buried
     on the banks of the Santee. He was afterward
     distinguished in the service at Fort Moultrie, and at
     Savannah, where he received his death-wound in carrying
     off the flag which was intrusted to him.




THE POLE'S FAREWELL.

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.


    Warsaw, farewell! Alone that word
      Fame's dark eclipse recalls;
    The voice of wail alone is heard
      Within her ruined walls--
    Her pavement rings beneath the tread
    Of bondsmen by their master led.

    Hope kindles on my native shore
      No more her beacon fires--
    The Northern Bear is trampling o'er
      The dust of fallen sires,
    And signal ever to destroy
    Hath been his growl of savage joy.

    Oh! for one hour of glory gone--
      An arm of might to hurl
    The Czar, in thunder, from his throne,
      And Freedom's flag unfurl;
    Then welcome, like a bride, the grave,
    Unbranded by the name of slave!

    Our snowy Eagle[3] screams no more
      Defiance high and loud;
    The wing is broken that could soar
      Through battle's smoky cloud,
    And wounded by a coward's spear,
    His perch is now lost Poland's bier.

    Once happy was the hall of Home,
      Now Desolation's lair--
    Blood stains its hearth, and I must roam
      A pilgrim of despair,
    Leaving, when heart and brain grow cold,
    My weary bones in foreign mould.

[Footnote 3: The Ensign of Poland is a White Eagle.]




THE FORTUNES OF A SOUTHERN FAMILY.

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.


PART I.

    "Oh! it is pleasant for the good to die--to feel
    Their last wild pulses throbbing, while the seal
    Of death is placed upon the tragic brow;
    The soul in quiet looks within itself,
    And sees the heavens faintly pictured there."


Now, would that I could wield as magic a pencil as did Benjamin West,
that mighty paint-king, how quickly would glow upon canvas one of the
most beautiful and magnificent landscapes that ever entranced the eye
of a scenery-loving traveler--a landscape upon which you might gaze
enraptured every day for years, as I have done, and yet never tire nor
grow less fond of beholding it. I would paint for your especial
gratification, a living, a breathing picture of my old homestead,
endeared by so many joy-fraught hours, and the surrounding scenery,
through which I roved until I knew its every nook and corner as well
as my dog-leaved spelling-book, by the venerable Dilworth. But, as it
is, dear reader, I must be content to offer you a rude "_pen and ink
sketch_," excavated from the ruins of my childhood recollections of as
exquisitely beautiful and picturesque a spot as ever riveted the human
gaze.

Imagine, for a moment, that we are standing upon a ledge of moss-grown
rocks, projecting from a red hill-side, and whose verge beetles over a
foaming river, which swirls and rages amongst the uplifting crags,
flashing with diamonds in its rush and impetuosity, and then, placid
and almost waveless, creeping on through the gnarled old forest with a
faint murmur, seeming like a huge serpent of silver asleep in the
gushing sunshine.

We are leaning against a rugged mass of the gray ledge--your head is
resting upon your right hand, and you are gazing intently down at the
circle and whirl of the romping waters. Only a few yards above, a cool
spring gushes up, quick and bright, dimpling and laughing in the
arrowy sunshine, then flashing and foaming over the dark rocks, and
twisting in and out among the bare roots of the majestic oak that
cools us with its shadows, falls in a golden shower to the mossy basin
at your feet, and leaping over the steep precipice, mingles in foam
with the seething river below. We are turned toward the west, and as
you raise your eyes to a level with the horizon, one of the most
stupendous views of the Blue Mountains that ever caused man to stop in
breathless awe, now presents itself to your astonished gaze. Mountain
towers behind mountain, and peak behind peak in wild sublimity, like
giant waves heaved along the blue sky, almost seeming as if they were
the ramparts of the world. Their sloping sides are dark with forests,
save here and there, where the axe has penetrated their recesses, and
blocked out spaces which, having been touched with the magic of the
plough, now smile with fertility. And yonder, a little to your right,
lifting his narrow pinnance above all the rest, stands time-honored
Currahee, with his red cap on--for thus we are accustomed to designate
the barren soil which crowns his lofty summit.

Now, for a moment, permit me to call your attention farther up the
river. Did you ever see a more entrancing and exquisitely beautiful
cascade, steeped as it is in the softness, and glowing with the
brightness of a cloudless spring morning? See how the wreathes of foam
come bounding along, like a pack of ravenous wolves chasing each
other, and stop suddenly in their mad career, for an instant
equipoising upon the very brink, as if they had shrunk back and feared
to take the awful leap, then, pushed on by the rush of the waters
behind, descend like a shower of diamonds, and come whirling and
dashing through the narrow gorge at our feet. And is not that deep
basin at the base of the falls glorious? What an angry aspect its
surface puts on, plunging and surging like a mass of living snow,
while the flashing sunlight is perpetually endeavoring to paint a
rainbow in the ever-mounting spray, and yet never quite succeeds. And
those massive rocks, too, piling themselves up so quaintly on either
side of the falls, just where they take the final plunge--are they not
magnificent? How verdant and mossy, and superb in their ruggedness!
Oh! if we were only upon one of those ledges--that one that seems
ready to bow itself into the foaming torrent; if we only stood there,
by that wide-spreading, gnarled old oak, twisting its dark roots in
and out amongst the deep crevices like a knot of huge serpents, what a
glorious prospect would burst upon your sight! There are _so_ many
entrancing scenes about my birth-place, but, among them all, none as
magnificent as the one you behold from that mossy ledge. But the
bridge--did you look at the old bridge? See where it stands festooned
with shadows. That is a dear spot to me, for with it are associated
some of the most treasured recollections of my boyhood. One end of
this time-worn fabric opens into a sandy lane, with broad, green
margins on both sides next the zig-zag fences, where I have so often
gathered a bunch of flowers for my instructress, as I passed through
it on my way to the school-house; the other is embowered by a clump of
oak and beech trees, which, together with a few hemlocks and
chestnuts, out-skirt a superb grove of evergreens, in the midst of
which towers the little white cottage of Farmer Daniels. There was
always a dream-like stillness about the old bridge that pleased me;
and I have spent whole hours in peeping through the crevices of those
time-worn and trampled planks, at the dark, deep waters creeping and
dimpling beneath the massive and sodden arches with a low gurgle,
receiving a sheet of silver sheen as they stole away into the rich
sunshine; and, in gazing over the rude balustrade where the gaudy
butterflies flitted around, or rested by the river's brink, opening
and shutting their unruffled fans; or in flinging pebbles into the
placid waters, and then watching the widening circles as they swept
down with the current. But there is yet another thing about the old
bridge for which I have cherished memories; that venerable buttonwood
tree, gnarled and twisted into the quaintest and most comical
deformity, that looms up from that high bank at the end of the lane.
That bough which projects so far over the rippling surface, making a
horizontal bend, like that of a man's arm, and then shooting up
several yards at an obtuse angle, terminating in a mass of luxuriant
foliage, was my favorite seat, when fishing, through many a long
summer.

Now, look still farther down the river. Follow the grass-fringed banks
in their graceful curve around yonder dark, gray promontory, until
your eye rests upon a long ridge of snowy foam, where a stream of
considerable magnitude mingles its waters with those of the river.
Glancing a little way up this stream, a huge old mill presents itself
to view, blackened with exposure, and grown picturesque by the lapse
of years. Here and there the green moss adorns its roof, and slumbers
along the walls with a quaint richness, especially where the heavy
water-wheel, revolving in a sea of foam, keeps it shadowy and moist. A
short distance above stands the pond--a broad, beautiful expanse of
water, glittering like a sheet of untarnished silver; and, in a shady
nook, close by the dam, where the large weeping-willow sways its long,
drooping branches to and fro wearily, floats a little boat, endeared
by many a fond remembrance.

Turn once more, and mark how the river, increased in size by the
addition of the mill-stream, having swept around Castle-Hill, (so
named from its rugged front and frowning aspect,) comes resplendently
into view again, glowing like a sheet of burnished white, in strange
and singular contrast with the many and dense shadows which always
fringe its banks like heaps of black drapery. See where it takes a
sudden bend, flowing back toward the falls, and then curving
gracefully to the west, dividing against a jutting rock, and sweeping
around it and the adjacent woodland, forming an island about a mile in
circumference. That large white building, which crowns the summit of
that gentle declivity on the nearest side of the island, with a neat
porch in front, half embowered by vines and fruit trees--that is my
birth-place. There never was a spot at once so tranquil and
picturesque as that where stands my dear old homestead. Is it not a
beautiful mansion-house? How sequestered and deliciously cool? The
slope down to the river's brink is covered with a wilderness of
shrubbery; while to the right of the garden-fence spreads a
magnificent grove of white pines, once making a famous play-ground for
us children. Down yonder, in that old field waving with long grass,
beyond the grove, is a patch of splendid blackberry bushes; and near
that old ivy-bound oak on the bank, leaning so gracefully over the
placid waters, as if to greet his image reflected in its vast mirror,
is a fine place to hunt summer grapes. At the building, that little
right-hand window with a shutter, around which are trailed pea-vines
and purple morning-glories, and just above the roof of the porch,
opens into a small chamber--my sleeping-room. At night you can behold
a most magnificent prospect from that little window. It looks directly
down upon the river, which, when there is a full moon and cloudless
sky, seems like one broad belt of molten silver, weaving its way in
and out among the gnarled old trees, at intervals, sparkling through
openings in the thrifty foliage with exceeding beauty; and again,
entangled in the black shadows flung upon it by the beetling crags
above. Then all is so silent, too, save the snowy water-fall sending
up its eternal anthem to the skies, yet coming to your ears with such
a pleasant sound that you never tire in listening. Sometimes the sky
is full of golden stars, and then the scene is so beautiful--oh! so
very beautiful! Many a time have I stolen from my bed, far away in the
night, while all the rest were in deep repose, to gaze upon the soft
moonlight flashing over the meadows until they looked like acres of
green velvet, and gathering upon the dark foliage until it almost
seemed as if it were sprinkled with umber dust, or to gaze at the deep
blue cerulean, studded with innumerable burning orbs.

There is another object to which I must direct your particular
attention, since it assumes an important place in the relation of my
story. Trace the road from where it leaves the east end of the bridge
with an abrupt curve, sweeping around that magnificent grove of
evergreens, passes the old mill, and turning to the east again for a
short distance, threads its way along a grassy lane, and you arrive
before a neat, commodious frame building, prettily white-washed in
front, and hedged in by a rustic fence, with a little gate opening
next the road. This was the dwelling of our schoolmistress, the
remembrance of whom will ever be an oasis upon the deserts of
memory--for to her I owe some of the most pleasurable moments of my
boyhood existence. A more Christian-like spirit, a soul fraught with
greater or intenser sympathies, and a mind less selfish in its
manifestations, or imbued with more genial influences than hers, never
existed within the compass of human being. As a teacher, she was firm,
yet mild; as a neighbor, kind and obliging--in a word, her whole
demeanor was such that the heart unconsciously awakened to
affectionate regard. The dwelling of our schoolmistress was originally
built, at her request, by a benevolent farmer, with the understanding
between them that some future day should witness a transfer of
ownership, and contains but three apartments--a large room, which, in
the words of the old song, serves for "parlor, for kitchen, and hall,"
and two small chambers, but all as neat as hands can make them. Its
white front, and massive stone chimnies, were completely embowered by
a clump of superb maples, whose heavy branches twining their dark
foliage, form a delightful arbor over the very entrance, from the
first bursting forth of the tiny buds into perfect life and beauty,
until autumn comes with its garment of mourning, and the sere and
yellow leaves slowly forsake the limbs which have been their
birth-place. A thicket of damask and white roses, lilac trees, and
clusters of pale-blue clematis, with a wealth of other flowers,
luxuriate beneath, where they receive just enough of the warm and rich
sunshine that flashed through the woven shades upon them in the
morning, and of the scented dew-drops which the wind shakes from the
leaves above at nightfall, to make them the most beautiful flower-plot
in all the neighborhood. At the back, a low shed, extending the whole
length of the house, one corner projecting further than the rest, and
covering a cool spring that gushes up, quick and bright, with a sweet
impetuosity, and goes dancing merrily across the green meadow, bright
and glorious in the sunlight, but sullen in the shade. The scenery
around, too, is magnificent. Here spreads a vast and unbroken forest,
whose mighty solitudes once echoed to the whar-whoop of the savage,
and looked upon his horrid rites beneath a midnight moon, or scowling
sky; and, in the dim distance loom the granite-based mountains, like
giant pillars to the vault of heaven, from whose tempest-beaten
summits fifty centuries have looked down, unnoted and unknown.

Our schoolmistress was a widow, the Widow White, as she was usually
designated. A woman of middle-age at the commencement of my story, she
had devoted many years to securing a decent competence for her
declining years, and for her only child such an education as would
prepare him for an honorable station in society. Early wedded to a
young clergyman of promising expectations, she was left a widow
shortly after the birth of a son, and only a few days after her
husband had assumed his duties as pastor of the little flock amidst
which she had scarcely taken her abode. Thus left alone at the very
period when most she needed a protector, she began her course with the
unfaltering energy which ever characterized her undertakings. Yielding
to conscientious scruples, she refused the assistance kindly offered
by the surrounding community, and having chosen a vocation,
assiduously applied herself to the accomplishment of her cherished
purpose. Ere long, she had heaped together an amount of money
sufficiently large to purchase the comfortable homestead I have
pointed out.

There it is that the opening scene of my story commences. The sun was
setting leisurely behind the western mountains in a mass of lurid
clouds, and drowsy twilight had already begun to blur the fine scenery
in the east, when Widow White sat down to her evening repast. A fire
of hickory reflected a ruddy glare upon the hearth, before which
reclined innocent pussy, with eyes half-closed, gazing intently at the
flames as they crept slowly around the logs, and uniting, darted
suddenly up the wide-mouthed chimney. The pine floor and splint chairs
were scoured with scrupulous exactness; a small, oblong looking-glass,
crowned with shrubs of evergreen, rested upon the high mantle-piece;
the two windows were adorned with curtains of coarse, but milk-white
linen, and, in one corner, stood a quaint bedstead of curled maple,
covered with a counterpane of old-fashioned dimity, which lay upon it
like a sheet of snow. In the centre of the room was placed a small
table, covered with a cloth of freshly ironed linen, which fairly
rivaled the ermine in whiteness, upon which sat a garniture of glossy
porcelain. A plate of venison and nut-brown sausages, surrounded by
pearly and yellow eggs, sent up its savory odors to tempt the palate,
while a pitcher of rye-coffee, on which the heavy cream was mounting
like a foam, stood at its side; and, near by, a loaf of warm
wheat-bread, a saucer of wild-honey, and another of golden
butter--these constituting the wholesome repast of which Widow White
was partaking.

"Heaven be praised for a comfortable house and bountiful meal!" she
piously ejaculated, rising from her seat with the expression of
gratitude warm from her heart. "If we always have as good, we shall
never have cause to complain."

Although no apparent attention was paid them, these words were
evidently intended for her son, a tall, premature-looking youth,
between the ages of fourteen and fifteen, who had entered the room
only a few moments before, and now stood leaning against the
mantle-piece, beating the devil's tatoo upon the wall, and, from time
to time, whistling snatches of a popular air. His strongly marked
features, though handsome, were bold and repulsive, the upper lip
curling with half a sneer--but it was merely the soul imaged in the
countenance, for, lad as he was, the spirit had quaffed many a deep
draught of sinfulness, while mildew and iciness had crept down and
sullied the purity of his heart, whose stern monitor-angel,
conscience, still vainly strove to awaken rich melody from the chords
which had once vibrated to its slightest touch.

"David," again spoke Widow White in a subdued tone of voice, raising
her eyes to the face of her son, "for the last few days I have been
thinking deeply of the past--thinking what a mighty change fourteen
short, rapid years have wrought in every thing around me. You were a
babe in the cradle then, and the grave of your father was fresh in the
lonely church-yard. The sky of my life was black with the storms of
adversity, and I was very unhappy, for it almost seemed as if the day
which had departed from it never would dawn again. But amidst all this
gloominess and desolation, one star beamed with a constant and steady
radiance, and that star was yourself. I loved you as my life, and
many, many a time, as I rocked you to repose, have I pictured out a
bright and glorious future for you, while my mind thrilled with the
pleasure of its own creations. But a blight has come upon it all. I
loved you _too_ well--too well for either mine or your own good.
Yielding to the fondness of a mother's love, I indulged almost your
every wish, until now, turbulent and self-willed, you spurn my best
and holiest affections as a mockery, and I find, almost too late, that
I have greatly erred. I speak this in no spirit of unkindness, David.
I feel it to be my duty as a Christian--my duty as a mother, to talk
with you as I am now doing. God knows bow fearful was the struggle
within my mind before I could bring myself to the determination I
have. But I am resolved now; the scales have fallen from my eyes, and
I can plainly see both your danger and my own. You are trembling upon
the very brink of destruction, and I would ever feel as if there were
a curse upon my soul, were I to see it all, and yet not endeavor to
save you. I have come to an unshaken determination. There must be a
reformation."

"Another sermon, I suppose. It is bad enough to hear one every Sunday,
but one every day is intolerable _and_ insufferable," insolently broke
in the lad, and he kicked the cat across the room, and began to
whistle snatches of a lively air.

The widow turned with a deep sigh to the window, while a gleam of
sharp agony shot across her face, and then seeming not to heed the
interruption, she continued:

"Yesterday I was in the village, and saw Mr. Warwick, the saddler. I
have made arrangements with him for your becoming an apprentice to the
trade, and to-morrow you are to go there. It is the best thing I can
do for you, David, and the fullness of a mother's heart alone prompted
it. If you conduct yourself properly, you may still become an
honorable man, and occupy an honorable station in society; but if you
persist in your vicious habits, God only knows where you will end."
Here she paused for a moment, and then added: "To-night I am going
away for some hours. Mrs. Williams is very sick, perhaps dying, and
has sent for me. I may not return until quite late, but, in the
morning before you go, we can talk this subject over fully."

There was such an earnestness and depth of feeling in his mother's
remarks, that David White felt but little inclined to reply the second
time, but the dark thoughts and evil feelings rankled deeply in his
heart, though no tongue gave them utterance.

Widow White gazed intently into the fire for several minutes after she
had ceased speaking, and then taking her bonnet from the bed, advanced
to the door, but stopped a moment on its threshold, and turning to her
son, said, "Should you become drowsy before I return, carefully cover
up the fire ere retiring to bed." She closed it after her, and David
was alone.

He stood still until the last echo of his mother's footsteps died away
in the distance, and then crept stealthily to the front window, where,
seeing her passing the gate into the lane, he broke out into a low
laugh, and returned again to the fire-place.

"So, I must be a saddler, must I? Ahem! Well! it takes two to play at
that, so we'll see who makes high, low, Jack, and the game this deal.
Hurst was about right when he said things would come to a compass
afore long. Guess they have, but who cares? I reckon I know which side
my bread is buttered!"

Here David White again crossed over to the window, and looked out. His
mother was far away in the lane, and just turning the last pannel of
the garden fence, where the road branched off, and led by the old
mill. Withdrawing from the window, he took a small hand-saw file, and
a rudely fashioned key from his pocket, passed over to the bed, and
lifting the foot-valance, drew out a large and strong oaken chest;
then glancing hurriedly around the room to be sure that no one was
present, he applied the key to the lock. It did not quite fit, but,
after carefully filing and applying it for some time, the bolt turned
in its socket, and the chest stood open before him. In rummaging the
till, he at length discovered the object of his search, a purse of
silver coin, the accumulated gains of months, and placed there by his
mother only a few days previous. This was not her usual depository for
money, but, in the present instance, it had been laid aside until the
absent minister of the village should return, into whose hands she was
accustomed to deliver her spare funds for safe keeping. Laying the
purse by his side, he locked the chest, and having arranged every
thing as nearly as possible as he found it, retired through an
opposite door into his chamber.

"Twenty dollars and a shilling, I think they said," muttered he to
himself. "A good round sum for one evening's work. I wonder if I
hadn't better take mother's fashion, and praise Heaven for it?"

Having entered his chamber, he sat down to count his newly-acquired
treasure, and finding the amount as large as he expected, carefully
deposited it, with the exception of a few dollars, in a leathern belt
around his person. Then assuming his shot-pouch, and flinging his
rifle to his shoulder, he stooped down, and taking a small bundle,
wrapped in a silk handkerchief, from his trunk, retired from the
house, slamming the door violently after him, and walked rapidly on,
until he reached the summit of an eminence near the old moss-grown
mill, which was the last place from which he could see the home he was
leaving, perhaps forever. Here he stopped for a few moments, leaned
his rifle and bundle against a large, long-limbed, butter-nut, and sat
down upon a decaying log at its foot, to gaze, for the last time, upon
the old mansion which had been his home from earliest remembrance.

It has been said that there are times when the stoniest hearts are
softened; when the sternest natures are made mild, and when the most
abandoned are like little children. That moment had now come for David
White. It was strange, passing strange. He had committed crime upon
crime, yet scarcely felt a moment's remorse; for years he had acted
toward his mother as if his whole soul were naught but selfishness;
but when he came to leave that mother, that old homestead, and all the
bright and beautiful objects around it, a softness breathed over his
iron-nature, and the fount of tears sent up its gushing libations. I
have often thought that such feelings must be akin to those
mysterious, indefinable, and gloomy forebodings--those dim and
indescribable fears and shrinkings within self, that sometimes come
over our spirits like a creeping, icy thrill--in the midst of a giddy
round of pleasure, or, as we stand by the grave's brink to see our
friends entombed, and yet which no earthly or human cause is able to
explain.

He was beholding everything for the last time, and he looked around
him as the dying man upon his nearest friends, when he feels the cold
hand of death pressed heavily upon his brow, and the silver chords of
his spirit's harp gathering to their utmost tension, and snapping, one
by one, like reeds before the blast. There was the home which had
sheltered him in his helplessness, glowing in a shower of soft
moonlight, and seeming more beautiful than he ever saw it before.
There the only true love this wide world of cold and bitter
heartlessness can know, beamed on his infant eyes; and there he had
spent the only happy moments in all his boyhood existence. In that
little room he had first learned to pray, and there, first forgotten
the duty. There his mother had watched over him night after night,
when he had a burning fever, and the grave had half-opened its
terrible portals for his entrance. And now he was going to abandon
that mother who had loved and cherished him so fondly--leave her all
alone, a joyless, childless widow, and for what cause? He choked down
the emotion that rose to his mind, and turned hurriedly in another
direction. Not more than twenty paces from him, a stream went dancing
and bubbling across the road like a track of liquid silver--the stream
that was fed by the cool spring at home; and he remembered how he had
gazed in transport, many years agone, at the bright-hued insects
floating in the meek, golden-colored sunshine, now sinking their
velvet feet into the moist sand upon the water's brink, and sipping
tiny draughts; or, resting upon the edges of the blue and crimson
flowers that looked up like gems from the verdant grass, opening and
shutting their unruffled fans, woven of gold and sunlight. He turned
away from the scene sick at heart, but still another object presented
itself to view, awakening old memories. A little farther on yonder in
the green meadow, through which murmured the mill-stream, and by the
drooping-willow whose long branches rippled in the current, was a deep
place, in the midst of which loomed up a dark-gray rock, like a lone
sentinel to the rapid waters, and the scene made his heart bound
again. There he had angled for trout for many a summer, and looked
down delighted into the music-breathing waters, watching the silver
and mottled fishes as they went trooping swiftly past, like guests to
a fairy wedding. The tears gushed into his eyes as old recollections
came thronging to his mind, and he faltered in his determination. He
turned, and took one step toward home, but vicious impulses triumphed,
and the rainbow that had begun to arch his heart faded in darkness. He
disappeared down the slope toward the old bridge, and David White was
ruined forever.

Meanwhile Widow White had almost reached her destination. A few steps
farther on rose a little white-washed cottage, with sloping roof, and
two large china-trees embowering it in front. As she arrived at the
small trellis-work gate, a light met her eye, faintly twinkling
through the dark foliage of an intervening bough, and reflecting a
ruddy glare upon the side-walk that lay entombed in shadow. She opened
the gate, followed the narrow foot-path leading to the front door, and
found herself in a dark entry, with a few rays of light shimmering
through the key-hole of a door immediately before her. As she put her
hand to the latch, a stifled sob broke upon her ear, and noiselessly
opening the door, she glided into the apartment. It was indeed the
chamber of death. On a little table by the fire-place, amidst a number
of glasses and vials, burned a solitary candle over a long and
lengthening wick, shedding a dim radiance throughout the room. By the
side of an old-fashioned bedstead, hung with snow-white valance, knelt
the old gray-headed minister, and his low voice, broken and
thrillingly solemn, went up in earnest prayer for a departing soul.
Upon the bed itself, propped up with pillows, lay the invalid. Three
days ago the flush of health had mantled her cheek, and brightened in
her eye, and now, how ghastly and changed she was! The sunken and
mist-covered eye; the pallid cheek; the hueless lips, and painful
breath, too truly testified that the dark angel Azrael was watching by
the couch-side. At the head of the bed sat the daughter, a little girl
apparently five years of age, with her head bent upon her knees, and
her hands clasped beneath her face, weeping bitterly. The supplicating
accents of the gray-haired minister ceased, and he arose from his
kneeling posture, his eyes streaming with tears, and clasping in both
of his the thin white hand that rested upon the snowy counterpane,
leaned gently over, and placed his lips close to the ear of the dying
woman.

"My dear Mrs. Williams," said he kindly, "we all feel that you are
rapidly sinking; do you die happy? Do you feel that there is a Jesus
in heaven, through whose mediation you will be saved?"

There was a rustling of the bed-clothes, a faint murmur, and the
sufferer languidly turned her eyes upon the speaker. A dimness was in
those sunken orbs; a clamminess upon her wan brow, and her breast
heaved wildly beneath the linen that lay in snowy waves across it. But
she did not appear to have heard the inquiry of the minister.

"The Widow White--has she not come yet? It is getting late--quite
late," feebly spoke the sufferer.

Until then Widow White had stood unnoticed in the dark shadow,
unwilling to interrupt; but, hearing this inquiry, she glided to the
bedside.

"Yes, Mrs. Williams, I have come," and she laid her hand upon the dewy
brow of her she had named, and tenderly smoothed back the long hair
that lay loosely upon it.

A gleam of satisfaction shot across the wan countenance of the
sufferer as these words fell upon her ear. A light, almost
preternatural, stole to her eyes, until they sparkled as the diamond,
and she lifted her head upon her hand, and strove to speak. But the
effort was too great for her debilitated condition--a weakness came
over her, and she sunk back exhausted to her pillow. Ere long,
however, she recovered sufficient strength to speak, and turning
toward Widow White, clasped her hand affectionately.

"I feel that my life is fast ebbing away," she began in a subdued and
thrilling voice. "A few short hours will pass by, and this body will
be a soulless mass. But I do not fear to die; for me, death has no
terror, nor the grave a victory. I am standing upon its very brink,
and look down into its blackness without an emotion save that of
pleasure. This is a vain and heartless world! I have found it so,
again and again, and the grave is the only place where I can find rest
from its temptations and persecutions, and I feel glad that the time
is almost here, when rest, both for body and soul, will be attained.
But there is one thing that troubles me. My husband slumbers beneath
the heavy sod in the village grave-yard; I am standing upon the very
brink of eternity; I have no relatives living on this side of the
Atlantic, and when I am gone, what is to become of my poor friendless,
motherless child? I know there is One above who has promised to take
care of the orphan, but still, it would give me a pleasure to know,
that when my mouldering body reposes in 'that bourne whence no
traveler returns,' that the light of a pleasant home would shed its
radiance on her girlish years. I fear to trust her to the world. I
fear its buffetings--I fear its bitterness--I fear its selfishness!--I
have keenly felt them all, and they bowed my strength of spirit almost
to the dust!--they sullied my purity of purpose, and my love of God!
Three years ago I took up my abode in this community. Life was in its
spring-time of joyousness. Pleasure opened her thousand portals, and
nature breathed in beauty. Then a stern blight came upon it all! The
gloom of death shadowed my dwelling, and soon the cold and rigid form
of my beloved partner was carried out, and laid in the narrow bier
where the 'dust returns to dust as it was.' The feeling of desolation
entered my heart; I sorrowed in tears, and life almost became a
weariness. Then you, Widow White, came to me in my distress, like a
ministering angel; advised me, prayed with me, and led me on, until a
light broke in upon my soul, and a new life spread out its million
paths to happiness. From that moment I loved you as my own mother in
heaven. And now I have a request to make--the request of a dying
woman--will you grant it?" and she grasped the arm of the listener
with a wild eagerness, and looked into her eyes, as if she saw down
into the very soul, and read her every thought.

"Mrs. Williams," began Widow White in reply, in a tone of voice
thrillingly solemn, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her whole frame
trembling with emotion, "Mrs. Williams, you know how endeared you are
to me--that I love you as if you were my own daughter, and that if I
could comply with any thing that would give you pleasure in a dying
moment, I would most willingly do so."

"Thank God!--thank God!" exclaimed she fervently, clasping her hands
as if in prayer. "I have prayed for this, again and again, and now it
has come to pass--when the grave closes over my mouldering remains, my
child will have a home and a mother still! Widow White, cherish her as
your own. Educate her for heaven, and if we mortals, after death, are
sent as ministering angels to the living, then will I be your guardian
spirit. Our kind minister, into whose hands I have committed them,
will inform you of my little worldly concerns after I am gone, for my
strength is fast failing me, and I feel that I have little time left
for words. Mary, dear, come to my bedside. A little nearer for I am
quite weak and exhausted. I am dying, Mary. I am going far away--away
to heaven. In a short time, my body will be cold and motionless, and
then I cannot hear you, or speak to you any more. Then you will have
no mother; she will be dead. In a few days I will be laid in the cold
and dark ground, and you will never see me again in this world. When I
am dead, this lady will be your mother. She will take care of you, and
be kind to you, just as I am; and you must obey her, and try not to be
naughty. If bad feelings come into your mind, think of your dead
mother, and how she talked to you and advised you when she was dying.
If you do what is right, God will love you, and bless you, and take
care of you, and when death comes, you will go to live with Jesus,
where there is nothing but happiness; but if you are wicked, God will
hate you, and when you die, you will go down to hell, where all the
bad people dwell, and where there is nothing but misery and anguish.
Now kiss me, for I am too weak to talk to you any longer," and the
dying woman drew the child to herself, and imprinted a lingering,
burning kiss upon her forehead.

She sunk back exhausted to the pillow, and her breath came in painful
gasps from her parted lips, while her hands moved about spasmodically
on the white counterpane--the excitement of the last hour had been too
much for her weakened condition. She lay thus for several moments, and
then suddenly started from her recumbent position, and sat upright in
the bed. A glorious lustre broke through the mist that whelmed her
eyes, and a faint color sprung to her pallid cheek. She clasped her
daughter in her arms with an hysterical sob; looked wildly into her
face; pressed a burning, quivering kiss upon her forehead, and then
her lips gave forth fragments of speech, broken, but beautiful. But
this did not last long; a weakness came over her almost preternatural
strength; she loosened the embrace that circled her child; the color
fled her cheek, the brightness her eye; the death-rattle rung out
shrilly upon the air, and she fell back motionless to the bed. They
looked upon her countenance--a single glance was sufficient--it was
cold, calm, passionless--the seal of the grave was upon it.

    *    *    *    *    *

The gloom of death had shadowed that cottage for two days, and now it
was desolate indeed. The stealthy tread of those who came to gaze upon
the dead and prepare its burial, no longer broke the solemn hush that
brooded over the dwelling. The departed was in truth the
departed--they had borne her over the threshold of her home, and laid
her remains in the narrow house where all must one day repose--a plain
head-board alone marking the grave in which slumbered what was once
Eliza Williams. Like others, she had died sincerely mourned by
many--like others, futurity would leave no memorial to tell that she
had ever existed. Decay, and rude hands, and careless feet, after the
lapse of years, would mar her last resting-place, as many in the
grave-yard had already been marred, but the form below could never
know nor feel the injury--she slept, and would sleep, as sleep the
dead, until the trump of Gabriel awakens and clothes the dry bones in
the habiliments of another world.

And now they were alone--the mother and her adopted daughter, making
preparations for a final departure from that desolate old homestead.
The ashes lay cold upon the hearth-stone, and a gloomy loneliness
reigned throughout the whole building, flinging a pall over the
feelings of Widow White. A chill crept over her as the large gray cat
came purring to her side, and rubbed his soft coat against her ankle;
and tears sprung to her eyes when she saw the countenance of the
little child wearing such a sad and mournful expression, and she vowed
in her heart that no blight should come over her youthful prospects,
if it were in her power to prevent it.

Ere long, the necessary preparations were completed, and the two bade
a final adieu to the lonely dwelling, and passed slowly along the road
toward the mansion of Widow White.


PART II.

    "Parent! who with speechless feeling,
      O'er thy cradled treasure bent,
    Found each year new charms revealing,
      Yet thy wealth of love unspent;
    Hast thou seen that blossom blighted
      By a drear, untimely frost?
    All thy labor unrequited?
      Every glorious promise lost!"


Time, at whose touch the monument of a thousand ages crumbles to dust;
at whose embrace empires totter to ruin, and at whose breath cities
rise and sink like bursting bubbles in a pool, rolled on his car of
wonderful mutations.

Ten years--ten short, rapid years had lapsed away into the infinitude
of the past, and mighty changes had marked their progress. The wave of
population, like the ocean at its flood, had gradually advanced over
the land, and many new habitations sent up their curling smoke within
sight of the old homestead of Widow White. The mansion-house itself
had changed but little, though one of the tall maples had been cut
away from the massive stone chimney at the south end of the building,
and the moss had crept over the sloping roof in spots, giving a quaint
richness of appearance to the time-honored shingles. The huge old mill
below the dam had grown a little more picturesque with the lapse of
years; but it was fast going to decay, for its owner was long since
dead, and there being some still pending lawsuit between the heirs
concerning this piece of property, no repairs had been made, or even
any attention paid to its mouldering condition; and for several
twelvemonths it had ceased to send up its daily medley of pleasant
sounds. The old wooden bridge that spanned the river where it swept
across the mouth of the valley, seemed as it ever did, save that rude
hands had leveled the magnificent clump of trees that had embowered
one end, and enveloped it, during half the day, in a mass of dense
shadows, which always slept about this old fabric, and darkened the
waters like heaps of black drapery. The scenery around was still as
magnificent and entrancing as ever, though, immediately surrounding
the dwelling of Widow White, it had undergone a very material change.
The adjacent hills that gradually sloped down to the river's brink,
were still dark with forests, though here and there the settler's axe
had penetrated their sun-hidden recesses, and blocked out spaces, in
the midst of which arose many a comfortable farm-house. But, at the
time of which I speak, stern-browed winter had breathed over the
scene, and the gnarled oak forest stood out like an army of skeletons
against the stormy sky.

But ten years had not thus glided away without leaving their stern
impress upon Widow White. She had become thinner and paler; many white
hairs had crept in amongst the auburn that once adorned her head; and
her hazel eye had assumed a milder, more subdued expression. The
sudden departure of her self-willed son, and the manner of it, had
caused her many a heart-pang; yet for months after it occurred she
entertained serious hopes of his becoming repentant and returning; and
this, for a time, had served to buoy up her depressed spirits; but
when years had gone by, and no intelligence reached her concerning
him, hope fell to the ground, and her ardent expectancy settled down
into a stern grief. Mary, the adopted daughter, stood upon the
threshold of woman-hood, in all the flush and spring-time of life and
enjoyment. Widow White seemed to love her as if she were her own
child, and watched over her with the tenderest care and solicitude. At
this period Mary was near sixteen years of age, and rather striking in
her appearance, though by no means what would be strictly termed
beautiful. Indeed, the contour of her features, as a whole, was rather
commonplace than otherwise; but a soul beamed out through her flashing
black eye, and lit up her countenance with a sweetness, a loveliness,
which was strange, and sometimes startling, from the brilliancy of its
expression. A ruddy glow, like the blush of a summer sunset, dwelt in
either cheek, and a slight contraction at both corners of the mouth
gave her face a half-mirthful look; but her forehead, full in the
upper and lateral portions, seemed almost too severely intellectual
for the other features. She possessed a wealth of luxuriant black
hair, which she had a quaint method of coiling around her head in a
single massive braid, singularly contrasting with the alabaster
whiteness of the delicate temples upon which it rested. She was very
happy at the home she occupied, which was often enlivened by the
joyous snatches of music that broke from her ruby lips as from a bird;
but she had but a faint, a dream-like remembrance of the scenes
connected with her early childhood.

It was a cold afternoon in December--cold even for that ice-clad
month. Dark, gloomy, stern-browed winter had spread his varied
desolations around. The first snow of the season had fallen during the
night previous, and lay upon the ground to the depth of several
inches, in some places, drifted into the ravines, leaving the
declivities almost entirely uncovered, and at others, overspreading
the soil with an unruffled sheet of stainless white. The winds had
awakened from their August slumbers, and blustered and shrieked
dismally through the leafless forests, then sweeping out among the
houses, sought entrance, but finding none, flung themselves
despairingly against the doors, and mocked at the clattering windows,
which every now and then threatened to burst from their casements;
anon, swept moaning around the corners, now muttering, and now
whispering at the crevices, then passing up toward the eaves, died
away in sobbings and wailings. Even the dark blue cerulean wore a
chilly aspect; and the huge masses of heavy, leaden-colored clouds
that piled themselves up so quaintly over by the lofty-peaked,
snow-capt mountains, drifted wildly before every impulse of the
ice-winged lord of the storm.

Late on this afternoon a solitary traveler on horseback might have
been seen winding slowly along the serpentine road that led over the
hill above the falls. This traveler was David White. At his heart,
were the same fierce and turbulent passions--the same dark thoughts
and bad feelings--the same willful and perverse nature that dwelt
there, when I left him, ten years ago, forsaking home and happiness;
time had only served to deepen the impressions, and crime almost
entirely to blot out the few remaining influences of a religious
education, while the vicious impulses strengthened. But, in person, he
was greatly changed. From the stripling he had become the man. A half
sneer was on his countenance as in boyhood; and the same restless,
wicked eye lighted up his features with an evil fire. It was a face
that told the wily hypocrite--the man who could assume any character
he chose--now, high-minded and honorable, and again, crime-seeking and
fiendish, just as circumstances required. The cheeks were thin and
sunken, and the deep pallor which had stolen away the rosy tints of
health, plainly showed a course of continual dissipation. In person,
he was somewhat above the standard height, and slender in his make,
though his frame exhibited great powers of endurance, and no common
share of muscular strength.

He wound slowly down the hill, stopped for a moment to gaze at the
falls, adorned with huge, long icicles, and a shore of frozen foam;
then moved on again, passed leisurely along the curving lane, and
paused once more at the old bridge, to look up and down the river;
after which he advanced a short distance into the magnificent grove of
evergreens which skirted the road, and fastening his horse securely to
one of the strongest pine saplings, bent his steps toward the home of
his childhood. By this time the last flashing gleams of sunset were
dying away in the west, and dark-hued twilight began to shroud the
east in a mist-like dimness.

David White had been a wanderer in foreign lands. More than once had
he stood amidst a field of the ghastly dead and shrieking wounded,
when the tide of a great battle raged fiercest and strongest, his
foothold bathed in the life-blood of his comrades. Such scenes ever
tend to pervert the kinder tendencies of our nature, and to render the
mind adamantine in its manifestations; nor were his less susceptible
to these influences than others. When first he entered the ranks of
the army, and joined in the death-dealing battle, he saw the daily
commission of crimes which made his soul shrink even to contemplate;
but, by degrees, he learned to look upon them merely as the amusements
of a passing hour, and finally, to lend a ready hand to their
accomplishment. Then his heart grew still colder and more feelingless.
He thirsted for excitement, lawful or unlawful. He longed for the
bloody onset to come; the deafening roar of the cannon was a music in
his ears, and the murderous combat brought a restlessness that pleased
him. But human nature is strange--passing strange. At intervals he was
mild and gentle. Standing upon the battlefield, when night had drawn
her silvery curtain over the ghastly and hideous spectacle, when the
booming shot and frightful discord--the shriek, the groan, the shout,
and ceaseless rush of angered men were passed away, he had looked
round upon the cold and bloody scene, and wept--his sternness
softened, and he became as other men. He brought water to the wounded
and dying soldier; staunched the flowing blood; pillowed his head upon
his knee, and as the body shuddered in the last fierce agony, and the
enfranchised spirit went trembling up to God, tears fell like jewels
on the pallid face of the dying, and thoughts, of which the good might
have been proud, flashed through his mind. Who, at such moments, would
recognize David White, the bold, dark, dangerous man? But thus it is;
mirthful feelings will sometimes obtrude when the heavy clod is
falling upon the coffin of a friend, and the grave closing over him
forever; thoughts of the last agony, the bourne of death, and the
curtained futurity, will sometimes come like a pall over our minds,
when the dance is at its flush, and pleasure in its spring-time; and
moments will sometimes roll round when a softness breathes upon the
hearts of hardened men.

David White was again amongst the scenes of his boyhood; but he looked
upon them merely as the passing traveler--with an idle curiosity.
Change had been more busy than he expected, yet nothing around him
served to awaken emotion. Not even when he stood upon the little
eminence, and on almost the very spot where he had stood ten years
agone, to bid a final adieu to home, and then to pass on to ruin, did
he seem to remember, save by a faint and sickly smile, half-sneering
in its expression. Yet, had he seen it when environed by other
circumstances, perhaps his heart might have been touched--but now it
was feelingless.

Arrived at the old homestead, he knocked loudly at the door--but no
one answering the call, he lifted the latch and entered the apartment.
A large hickory fire was blazing on the hearth, casting a ruddy glare
upon the floor, and radiating a pleasant heat throughout the room.
Upon a worsted hearth-rug reclined a large gray cat, which he thought
the very same he had kicked across the room on the evening of his
departure, and which started up at his approach, and took refuge
beneath the bed. Finding that no one was conscious of his presence, he
flung off his dark overcoat, and laying it on a little pine table by
the window, drew a large rocking-chair from its nook in the corner,
and seating himself by the hearth, began very complacently to
contemplate the ornaments upon the mantle-piece. But soon growing
tired of this employment, he left his seat and crossed over to some
pictures that hung against the opposite wall. At this moment a door
opened to his left, and turning, he beheld Mary entering the
apartment, her cheeks rosier than ever with recent exercise.

"Good evening to you, my pretty lass," he observed in his blandest
tones, and slightly bowing as she drew back in surprise at his sudden
appearance. "A widow was once the occupant of this dwelling--the Widow
White she was usually called; is she still living, and a resident
here? and if so, will you be so kind as to inform her of my presence."

Mary replied briefly in the affirmative, and hastened out to call her
mother from an out-house, a new building which had lately been erected
to subserve the two-fold purpose of kitchen and dairy, where they both
had been busily engaged at the time of his arrival, while he sauntered
familiarly to his seat by the fire, and commenced drumming a tune upon
the head-board of the mantle-piece. In a few moments the widow made
her appearance, and politely requested her guest to be seated.

He flung himself carelessly into the chair he had occupied, and
slightly turning in his seat, fixed his dark eyes on her face, and
remarked, "You seem to be quite comfortably situated, Mistress White;
this pleasant fire and comfortable apartment contrast finely with the
cold and dreariness without doors."

"Yes, thanks to Providence! things have gone especially well with me
for many years, indeed, much more so perhaps than I really deserve.
Though this world often requires much care and toil from us frail
mortals, it also yields many blessings for which to be thankful."

"That is true," replied he; and then breaking off suddenly from the
topic of conversation, remarked, "But I perceive, Mistress White, that
you do not recognize your quondam friend. I hope you do not suffer
prosperity to dampen your recollection of old times."

The widow stopped her knitting for a few moments, leaned slightly
forward, and scrutinized the features of the stranger; then recovering
her former position, answered, "I have a faint, a dream-like
recollection of your countenance. It seems that I have seen it before,
yet I cannot distinctly remember where."

"Look again!" exclaimed he, divesting himself of a pair of false
whiskers, and again bending his dark eyes searchingly upon her face.
"Now do you know me?"

She gazed but an instant, a deathly pallor sprung to her cheeks, and
extending her arms as if to embrace, she tottered toward him,
exclaiming, "It is!--I cannot be mistaken!--it is my long lost son,
David White! Oh, David! David!" and she fell upon his neck, and twined
her arms around him, sobbing aloud in her ecstasy of enjoyment.

"Tut-tut, mother--what's the use of carrying on so? To be sure I am
your son, in flesh and blood, and just the same as ever, only changed
a little for the better. But where's the use in crying? I reckon I am
not going to die, that you should take on after this fashion."

Here he rudely shook off her embrace, and reseated himself, while a
sharp pang, such as she had not known since the years of his boyhood
and unfeeling transgressions, struck deeply into her heart as his
light mocking tones smote upon her ear, and sinking into a chair, she
gave vent to her feelings in a gush of tears.

Who, at that moment, to have looked upon the dark countenance of David
White, and to have witnessed his heartless and unmanly actions, would
have recognized the cradle-joy of his mother's early widow-hood--the
babe that smiled so sweetly upon the beholder--the little prattler for
whom she had pictured out such a bright and glorious future. She had
loved him--still loved him with all the devotedness and dewy freshness
of life's morning hours; she had cherished and watched over him with
the tenderest care and most affectionate solicitude, and now, when the
fountains of deep-toned feeling and sympathetic emotion should have
sent up their gushing libations, and she should have been reaping the
rich benefits of her manifold attentions, the son, so fondly
cherished, and so dearly loved, turns, like the frozen serpent that
the shepherd warmed in his own bosom, to sting his benefactor.

But if we look back to this man's infancy, it will be found that much
of this harvest was unconsciously sown by the mother. Domestic
education exerts a great power in forming the manners and regulating
the conduct which is to guide the future man; and as the system of
Widow White had been injudicious, though she discovered her error at
the last, it was too late for reform--her son was ruined, and an
ingratitude engendered which would tinge the whole stream of her
future life with bitterness. The mother is almost always the arbiter
of her child's destiny; and if she misguide the bark of his life so
that it finally anchors in a gulf of base and stormy passions, can it
be wondered that his sympathies should be blunted, and the
manifestations of his mind vile and ignoble?

"There, now! I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," again spoke the
son, first breaking the silence which had existed for several minutes,
and the mother looked up half smilingly through her tears as these
gentle words came to her ear, they were so unlike the mocking tones
with which he had sought to evade her welcome. The kind manner of
their utterance went to her heart, and the best affections of her
nature gushed to meet them.

"You look worn and tired with your journey, David--would you not be
the better of some supper? something warm might refresh you," and she
took a step toward the door in execution of her kind purpose.

"No, no--my time is precious, and I have none to waste in eating. I
must be back to the Bend before nine, and there is famous little moon
left to light the way."

"So soon! Why not remain with us to-night, and then return in a more
comfortable manner in the morning? You surely have no imperative
necessity to visit the Bend on such a blustering night as this. The
north, too, is black with a gathering storm. You had better stay."

"I can't. It is impossible. I have a very urgent necessity to return,
and quickly told, too--money; I must have money, and in no small
amount either. It is absolutely necessary that I have twenty-five
dollars, and that I have it now. I am in debt, and the debt must be
paid--paid to-night. It has been a long time since I asked you for
money, but I reckon you have enough of the mother about you to let me
have that sum."

"In debt, David! to whom?"

"To the boat for my passage. But it is getting late, and I have no
time to ask or answer questions; so, once for all, will you let me
have it or not?"

The mother was deeply imposed upon, but never, even for an instant,
did the thought flash across her mind that his statements were false,
and only used for the purpose of extortion. Obtaining the specified
amount, she placed it in his hands with a gush of tears, for her
feelings were greatly hurt at his harsh words.

He received the money, bade her farewell in blander tones than his
previous conversation, and hastened from the dwelling. When he arrived
at the spot where was fastened his horse, his mind was fired to a high
degree of excitement by the dark thoughts rankling within. His face
was pale with anger; his heavy brows worked and knit themselves over
eyes that flashed like fire, and he was muttering slowly to himself in
broken expressions, while his fingers played unconsciously about the
handle of the bowie-knife which slightly protruded from beneath his
vest. Having taken a sudden turn in the undergrowth, he unexpectedly
stood immediately before the horse, which, seeing him indistinctly,
became affirighted, and ran back with an impetuosity that almost tore
up the sapling by its roots.

"So, so," he muttered between his clenched teeth, as composedly as his
anger would permit. "Easy, Oliver, easy!" and advancing, he tenderly
patted him on the neck, while the restive animal, recognizing his
voice, greeted him with a low neigh.

Detaching the bridle from the mass of twigs that entangled it, he
carefully led the way out into the road, and brushing off the snow
which had collected upon the saddle, leaped to his seat, still
agitated with the deep passion he was in vain endeavoring to control.

"On!" burst from his lips in a hoarse whisper, which seemed like a low
shout suppressed by a strong will. "On!" and he struck the spurs
fiercely into the sides of his steed, and dashed swiftly across the
old bridge, the clattering hoofs ringing out upon the still night with
a strange distinctness.

At first, the moon looked down brightly from the starry sky, shedding
around a shower of flashing beams, which rested upon the sheeted snow
until it became dazzling in its whiteness. Soon, however, the heavy
masses of clouds in the northeast, that drove wildly before every
ice-winged impulse of the storm-king, overwhelmed and shrouded the
silver disc from sight, and gave forth the tempest they had so long
threatened. Still, now and then, as the wrathful clouds would separate
for a moment, a faint lustre would dart forth, sprinkling, as with
the purple glories of the orient morn, the torn and ragged opening,
and illuminating the landscape with a quaint beauty--half light and
half shadow--then all would become dark again. But soon, even this
ceased, and the heavens were hung with black. Still his horse plunged
on amid sheets of driving and whirling snow, never stopping his speed
for an instant.

Ere long the impetuous rider drew up before a dark, weather-beaten,
dilapidated building, at the north end of the village, and dismounted.
The old chestnut by the fence creaked dismally as the winds swept
fiercely up from the valley below, and through one of the swaying
boughs came a faintly twinkling light, which seemed forcing itself
through the folds of a window-curtain. Knocking loudly at the front
door, it was presently opened, and giving some hasty directions
concerning his horse, he hurried through a dark, narrow entry, and
guiding his way up a creaking staircase by the aid of a balustrade
which ran along either side, at length stood before a small door,
through whose key-hole issued a narrow stream of light, slightly
illuminating the thick gloom around him. Here he paused for a short
time to recuperate his exhausted energies, and to subdue the passion
that still somewhat agitated him. Then pushing open the door, he
entered the apartment.

It was a gaming-room. Six or eight small tables stood about on the
floor, at each of which, where the forgotten candles burned dimly over
the long and lengthening wicks, sat several men--some, with faces
brightly haggard, gloating over their unhallowed gains--others, dark,
sullen, silent, fierce, gazing furtively at their piles of lost money.
Here rattled the dice-box, and yonder fell the dirty cards--all were
busily engaged--all were motionless, save their hands and eyes--all
were hushed, save when they uttered solitary words to tell their bets.

David White had almost reached the centre of this room before any one
was cognizant of his presence; then, several looked up with a nod of
recognition, and once more bent themselves, pale, watchful, though
weary, to the duties of the game. The emotion which had so recently
agitated him was passed away, and his countenance wore the same
expression which most frequently lurked over it. Crossing over to a
table at the farthest end of the apartment from the door, he addressed
a few words to its occupants; assumed a vacant chair by its side, and
joined in the play. For hours he sat grasping the cards with trembling
avidity, winning and losing, apparently unmindful of either. But this
was merely the gilded outwardness--within, rankled fierce passions,
like the lightning in the summer-evening cloud. The night glided on;
its dank air grew fresher; the fire burned low on the hearth-stone;
the raging storm was hushed to stillness, and three was sounding from
the antique clock that adorned the mantle-piece. Save two men the room
was deserted. One by one the rest had stolen away, until these two
were its only occupants. The last stake of David White was in the
pool; the cards had been dealed, and the game was about to be played
which was to determine the ownership of the large pile of silver that
lay in the middle of the table. He had lost, won, and lost
again--doubled his bets--trebled them, until all had been swept
away--money, horse, and even his Bowie-knife. Then he had contrived to
borrow--won again, and now the last stake trembled in the scales. The
game was played--once more he was penniless. He sat still for several
minutes, his eyes gazing on vacancy, and when he arose he seemed like
a strange man, his face was so changed with the workings of evil
passions.

"There! now you have it all, and I am ruined! Do you hear?" exclaimed
the frenzied man, his lips quivering with emotion as his voice became
elevated with excitement. "And who is the dastardly craven that made
me so? Who was it found me pure, and innocent, and stainless as the
babe unborn, and lured me from happiness to scenes of madness and
debauchery--of crime and wretchedness? Say! who was it did all this?
Who was it first placed the cards in my hands, and trained my youthful
mind to the cheateries of the gaming-table? And who, when I became
older, taught me to revel in human gore, and to delight in carnage and
distress, making me the heartless villain that I am? Who was it did
all this, I say? Was it not you, Wilson Hurst--was it not you that did
it?" and the frantic man struck the table a tremendous blow with his
clenched fist as this last question trembled on his white lips, while
he glared fiercely upon the listener.

His mind had now worked itself up to the highest pitch of excitement;
his countenance wore a deathly pallor; his heavy brows lowered
fearfully above eyes that flashed like fire; his nostrils were widely
distended, and, as the air breathed through it seemed to choke him;
his teeth chattered with rage, while the white foam oozed between,
gathering in a thick froth about the parted lips, and with an
exclamation that almost froze the blood to hear, he flung himself upon
his companion. But his adversary had foreseen the whole, and was fully
prepared to meet this sudden attack. Taking advantage of his cat-like
eagerness, he threw him to the floor, overpowered, and finally,
exhausted with struggling, thrust him out the street door, and shut it
in his face.

Left to himself, he gradually became calm and collected, and then
other and gentler thoughts grew busy. He stood there in the still
moonlight, the cool breezes of morning fanning his feverish brow, from
which distilled great drops of moisture in the anguish of his spirit.

"What a change! what a change!" exclaimed he wildly, smiting his
breast with his hands. He was thinking of childhood, of those hours of
innocence forever gone, and he buried his face in his hands, and
sobbed aloud. The strong man was bowed--yes! he who, undaunted, had
stood amidst the angered rush of battle; he who, fearless, had seen
his comrades falling around him like trees before the hurricane; he
who, unappalled, had heard the shrieks of the wounded and dying, wept
at the recollection of childhood. What a scene for God and the angels
to look down upon!

David White sedulously strove to renew the acquaintanceships of his
boyhood, but amongst none, either of those who remembered him, or
others to whom he was a perfect stranger, did he contrive to make a
friend. His company, however, was not avoided, for his conversation
abounded with strange and interesting adventures in various foreign
lands, often instructive; but there were too many demands for the
possessor of an able body, and too extensive a prevalence of sound
morality, for him to find a spirit any way congenial to his own in the
vicinity of his home. He therefore took up his residence at the Bend,
which was a kind of stopping-place for boats passing up and down the
river, and where congregated all grades of society. His pursuits were
now undisguisedly those of a gambler--and still further, though
unknown--those of a smuggler. His mother received frequent, though
indirect communications concerning her son's course of conduct at the
neighboring village--indeed, few days passed in which she did not
incidentally obtain such intelligence. He appeared occasionally at the
old homestead, but his stay was seldom prolonged beyond a few hours.
His conduct cost his mother many a heart-pang, but the day when she
could influence his mind had long since gone by, and she entertained
no hope of a reformation--indeed, such an occurrence would have
appeared almost a miracle in the eyes of those acquainted with his
character and mode of action. Thus months lapsed away into the
infinitude of the past; summer came round, and soon an eventful and
crime-stained night rolled into its place.

The moon waxed high in her career. Midnight was gathering slowly over
the earth; that hallowed and mysterious hour, the isthmus between two
days. But the deep-toned thunder was muttering at intervals in the
sky, and the torn clouds swept on in massy columns, dark and aspiring,
growing blacker and blacker as they rolled up the great heavens, and
portending a terrible convulsion of the elements. The night was far
advanced, and in all respects suited to the purpose of David White.
Twelve o'clock was already striking, when he issued from a private
door of the time-worn building, where had occurred the gambling scene
on the stormy night of the winter before. Since then, the two men had
made friends; fortune had changed, rechanged, and changed again; and
now, almost penniless, he had resolved on a bold stroke, by which to
replenish his purse, and furnish means whereby to indulge his
consuming and all absorbing love of gaming. After entering the street,
he glanced cautiously around, and then advancing to the iron-gray
charger that was tied with a stout bridle to the horse-shoe at the
doorpost, adjusted the accoutrements, leaped to the saddle, and rode
hurriedly along the road leading to the old homestead.

Meantime the aspect of the heavens had materially changed. The black,
opaque mass of vapors had extended its dark and jagged front a third
of the way around the horizon, piling its frowning steeps high up
toward the zenith. Here and there overhead, the sky was blotted with
isolated black clouds, which were fast increasing in size and joining
into one. The thunder, which had been occasionally muttering on high,
now rattled incessantly, and the forked lightning rushed down in
sheets of lurid flame. Ere long, the huge mass of sweeping clouds had
reached the zenith, and were rolling darkly onward toward the opposite
horizon. Directly the wild uproar died nearly altogether away, and
intense darkness shrouded the skies and earth in its folds. The air
grew heavy, and seemed to be forcibly pressed toward the ground. This
was that strange pause in the strife of the elements, apparently as if
the combatants were gathering all their strength for the fearful
contest that was to follow. But this pause was only momentary, and
soon was at an end. Then a distant, sullen, bellowing murmur came
surging up from the depths of the forest, followed by the sorrowful
moaning of the trees along the road-side. David White grew pale, and
could almost hear the beating of his own heart as he bent forward in
the saddle, and listened to the approaching rush and roar of the
lashed winds. He had not expected such a wild fierceness in the storm,
but now he had gone too far to recede; he was in the very midst of the
forest, and the danger was the same either way, so he spurred on the
plunging animal beneath him with a desperate energy. At that instant a
blinding flash shot down from a cloud almost directly overhead, drank
up the thick darkness, and wrapped the air in sheets of lurid flame,
while the tall trees stood out like a spectral throng in its
supernatural glare. Before a clock could tick, the report followed
with a roar, deafening and tremendous, rattling and echoing along the
sky like the simultaneous discharge of a thousand deeply freighted
cannon. Terrified at the unearthly glare and stunning thunder-bolt,
the horse plunged aside with a fierce impetuosity, that would have
flung the rider to the earth had he not clung to the mane with his
utmost strength; and even for minutes after "the jaws of darkness" had
devoured up the scene, and the fearful report had died away in the
distance, his eyes still ached with the intense light, and his ears
rung with the deafening bolt that had followed.

Now came the arrowy flight and form of the hurricane itself. It
crushed the tall and sturdy trees to the ground as if they had been a
forest of reeds. On it came, darker, fiercer, and more impetuous, as
if under the influence of some angry fiend enjoying a triumph. The
shrieking of the lashed winds; the crashing thunder; the noise of the
giant monarchs of the forest upheaving from their deep-set
foundations, and toppling to the ground; the rush and howling of the
tempest--all mingled in one swelling uproar, and deafened the very
heavens. Now the whole malignity and embodied power of the hurricane
was upon them. The shivering horse sprang forward into the shelter of
a huge rock that frowned upon the road like some stern sentinel
guarding the passage, and David White leaped from the saddle, and
crouched in terror against the dark mass that towered above and
afforded protection.

On it came, winding its tortuous pathway from right to left and from
left to right, crushing and twisting the Titans of the woods from
their trunks in its awful rush of destruction. The wheeling clouds and
tumultuous atmosphere were lashed through and through with the fiery
lightning, and masses of loose leaves, and branches, with all their
wealth of mangled foliage--saplings twisted up by the roots, and
bunches of shrubs tossed themselves impetuously into the air, flung
into the wildest and most rapid agitation--now rushing together as if
consolidating into masses--now scattered abroad in the deepest
confusion, while a stubborn oak, disdaining to bend, was dashed
headlong across the road, where the horse and his rider had stood only
a few moments previous, and hurling the soil to their very feet.

Rush after rush of the trooping winds went by--each succeeding onset
wilder and more impetuous than the last, until at length the sullen
distant roar--and then the low, surging murmurs announced that the
greatest danger had overblown, and that the hurricane was winding its
tortuous pathway through the forests many miles away to the right.

Gradually the devastations of the awful skies became mellowed down;
the wheeling clouds began to dispart, and a gush of heavy drops came
pattering from above. Moaning pitifully, the prostrate and bowed trees
and undergrowth lifted their mangled boughs from the compressed state
into which they had been forced--those which had survived the tempest,
seemingly with a painful effort, regaining their upright and natural
position.

Soon the heavy and dank air grew fresher; the wrathful clouds
separated, and the moon once more gleamed forth in resplendent beauty
and brightness. By degrees the gloom retired from the face of the
heavens, the stars looked down gloriously from their sapphire thrones,
and a silvery gush played amidst the swaying foliage, where the
rain-drops glistened on their leaflet platforms like so many diamonds.
Then the lucid milky-way, whose loveliness flushes the firmament, bent
itself across the concave above, one broad flame of pure transparent
white, as if some burning orb had fled along the sky with so swift a
flight, that, for a moment, it had left its lustre in the vault of
heaven. Gradually all was lulled into stillness, and nature became as
one great solitude.

Awe-stricken and bewildered, David White remounted his quivering
steed, and slowly wound his way along the ruin-covered road. One by
one the appearances which told a near approach to his destination came
into view; and finally he stood before the home of his childhood,
which was now to be the scene of a great and heinous crime. Carefully
hitching his horse in the dark shadows of some ancient oaks at the
head of the lane, he softly opened the gate, and glided round the
house until he stood at a little window which looked out from his
mother's chamber, and next the old stone chimney. For the night, she
was absent at a distant neighbor's, which circumstance, together with
that of her having withdrawn a large amount of funds from the
possession of the village minister, had induced the present visit.
But when he saw the shutter open, a thing wholly unexpected, it
flashed through his mind that he was watched--that this was an
allurement to ensnare him; so he shrunk back into the dense shadows of
the maples, and glanced hurriedly around him. Satisfied with his
investigation, he ventured to the window, and peered cautiously into
the chamber, but seeing nothing to excite his fears, gently raised the
sash, and leaped into the apartment. The moon shone so brightly that
he had no occasion to strike a light, but its silver disc was fast
verging toward the horizon, and warned him to haste, else be left to
return in darkness. Fumbling in his coat-pocket, he at length produced
a large bunch of keys, and stooping down, applied one to the heavy
oaken chest beneath the window-sill. Fortunately it suited the lock;
the bolt turned without difficulty, and he lifted the massive lid,
which he upheld with one hand, while he rummaged the till with the
other. At this moment a slight rustling reached his ears from the
furthest corner of the apartment from the window.

"What the deuce is that?" exclaimed he, starling up from his kneeling
posture, and turning anxiously in the direction whence the disturbance
had proceeded, at the same time thoughtlessly relinquishing his grasp
of the lid, which fell with a heavy crash upon the arm still resting
beneath.

"Furies!" shouted he, writhing in agony, and releasing the bruised
member from its painful position.

At these words a faint scream of terror issued from the bed which
stood only a few feet distant. Mary White had been awakened by his
outcry, and starting up in alarm, beheld a man standing by the window,
which occasioned the involuntary exclamation that had just burst from
her lips. She had sat up until quite late, every moment expecting the
young lady who was to have been her companion for the night; and then
the convulsions of the tempest had kept her wakeful, and prevented her
retiring. The tedium of the hours becoming irksome, she had sauntered
into her mother's chamber, and opened the window to gaze out upon the
lulling war of the elements; but growing wearied of this employment,
and a drowsiness stealing over her, she had flung herself upon the
bed, and almost immediately sunk into a refreshing slumber, from which
the late disturbances in the apartment had just awakened her. The
first impulse that entered her mind was to gain the door and escape,
but her nature was one on which fear acts as a sudden paralysis. All
power of volition deserted her; and she stood motionless as carved
marble, with her eyes glaring, and her finger pointed toward the spot
where was the object of her terrors.

"Who's there? stand back!" burst from his lips in nervous agitation as
the shriek rung out upon the air, and turning round, he rushed to the
bedside, but started back; and there was the confusion of cowardice in
his manner as he exclaimed, "You here, Mary! what in the world brought
you into this room at such a time of night as this?"

"David White!" exclaimed she, shrinking back, when the moonlight fell
upon his features, and she recognized the intruder.

"No one else, my pretty lass," replied the vile man, becoming
emboldened by the time and situation; and with a graceful bend of his
fine form, he threw his arm around her waist, and attempted to press
his lips to her cheek; but fear gave her an almost preternatural
strength, and she thrust him forcibly from her.

"What! are you determined to fight shy?" said he, with a dark sneer,
again advancing toward her.

"Off! off!--do you dare to lay that vile hand on me again?" and as he
caught her arm, she struck him forcibly in the face with her clenched
fist, and releasing his grasp, darted toward the door with the
swiftness of the deer.

He sprung after her with arms outstretched, and his eyes on fire with
fierce rage. His hand clutched the folds of her dress as she reached
the door, and he jerked her toward himself with a violence that was
almost stunning.

"Ha!" shouted he, inebriate with passion, as her pallid face turned to
his, "is this your game? Take that, then!" and he plunged a glittering
knife deeply into her bosom.

She clasped her hands convulsively, turned her eyes heavenward, and
with a single groan, the utterance of the last mortal agony swelling
in her soul, sunk, pale and quivering, slowly to the floor. Then a
deep stillness reigned around, broken only by the gurgling sound of
the blood as it gushed from the deep wound near her heart, and
gathered in a dark, clotted pool by her side.

"'Twas quickly done!" muttered he, in stifled tones of still unsubdued
ferocity. "Let this finish it well!" and he made a random stab, which
was followed by a spasmodic movement of the body; and drawing the
blade from its fleshy sheath, he composedly wiped off the warm blood
against the bed-clothes, and thrust it back into his bosom with a low,
savage laugh.

He then crossed over to the chest, and cursing his carelessness,
abstracted the money from its careful hiding-place, and quitted the
scene of his exploit with hurried steps, passing out the front way,
and flinging the door wide open as he departed. Within an hour and a
half more he was at home. There all was silent and dreary, but he had
no observation to fear. Striking a light, he carefully washed the
blood from his hands, and disarraying himself of the cast-off clothing
which he had assumed for the occasion, thrust them into the fire, and
watched until the whole was entirely consumed. Having thus guarded
against direct evidence, he made some artful dispositions of negative
disproof, that he might be provided with full armor against all
suspicions; and then retiring to his homely bed with a feelingless
heart, and unmurmuring conscience, he slept soon and deeply.


PART III.

    "Alas! for earthly joy, and hope, and love,
      Thus stricken down, e'en in their holiest hour!
    What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove,
      Who live to weep the blasted tree or flower.
    Oh, wo! deep wo to earthly love's fond trust,
      When all it once has worshiped lies in dust!"


Time glided on--days dawned and waned--weeks came and went--soon
months were numbered with the ruins of the past, and when the old
year, with sober meekness, took up his bright inheritance of luscious
fruits, a pomp and pageant filled the splendid scene. The yellow maize
and golden sheaves stood up in the fields, and the fading meadow, like
a crushed flower, gave out a dying fragrance to the fresh, cool winds,
that, sporting playfully amongst the tree-tops, swept downward from
their high communion, and stooped to dally with its sweet decay. Then
the apple-boughs were heavily laden with crimson fruit, peeping like
roses from their garniture of woven foliage; the purple grape-clusters
dotted the creeping vine, half transparent in their tempting
lusciousness; the red cherries seemed, in the distance, like the
burning brilliancy of a summer sunset struggling through the branches
and tangled leaves that intervened; and the downy peach peered
provokingly from amongst the sheltering green, where, all the summer
long, it had stolen the first blush of saffron-vested Aurora, when
seraph hands unbar the gates of morning, and the last ray of golden
light that paused at the flame-wrought portals of expiring day to look
reluctant back. Another change came over the face of nature, and
delicate-footed spring seemed to have come again with her lap full of
leaves and blossoms. The trees cast aside their long-worn garniture of
green, and flaunted proudly in gorgeous robes of gold and crimson. The
blushing rose once more sought the thorny stem that had slept so long
desolate; and the changeful-hued touch-me-not looked up smilingly from
the pallid grass, where nestled thousands of purple violets peeping
out timidly from their shady nooks; and the waning year smiled--smiled
as smiles the dying man, when the life-blood quickens in his veins,
for almost the last time to linger on the cheek and lip, brighten in
the eye, and give a joyous swell to the heart that lies in ruins. The
gorgeous pageant went by, and the trees put on their robes of
mourning--anon, tossed their huge branches to the sky, leafless and
desolate, save where the ivy, creeping gracefully up the twisted
trunk, or the sacred mistletoe, luxuriant on the dying bough, wore a
fadeless green amidst the desolations that surrounded them. The clear,
unsullied sky assumed a deeper, peculiar blue; the night reigned with
a clearer, intenser brilliancy, and the thronging stars beamed with an
almost unnatural brightness; the cold, hurrying winds awoke from their
sluggishness, and took their way over hill and meadow with a dismal
tone, like the midnight howl that comes to the ear of the dying with
hideous tales of the noisome grave; and the fleecy mass of trooping
clouds, driving wildly before every ice-winged impulse of the wintry
storm, seemed like sheets of floating snow dotting the vast cerulean.
Still another change--the earth was clad in a robe of spotless ermine,
and the gray dawn opened her pale eye on iciness and desolation; men
hurried to and fro as nature were a plague, and they its victims; the
sparkling, tripping, garrulous brooks, whose sweet voices had so long
gone up like a spirit's on the air, now sped their way with a faint
and death-like gurgle; the laurel, pine, and cedar, disdaining to be
poor pensioners on the bounties of a gushing sunshine, or, with a
cringing obsequiousness, to yield conformity to the golden mutations
of a passing hour, expanded their foliage of living green, unchanged
amidst the bleakest ruins of winter, while the stern-browed year, old,
wrinkled, and hoary, drew nearer and nearer his death-time. Ere long
spring came. As the grim darkness flees before the many-tinted dawn,
until at last she stands blushing upon the eastern horizon in perfect
beauty, so fled the stern winter before the radiant footsteps of this
flower-goddess. At her approach the wooing south-winds swept downward
from their sky-built thrones, and stooping to the hill-tops, laid
their soft fingers on the expanding buds, stealing a fragrance, and
whispering their heaven-taught melody amongst the gnarled old
branches; then crept stealthily into the valleys below, and drinking
in their rich gush of pleasant sounds, glided back exulting to their
high communion. The merry-voiced waters, freed from their icy fetters,
and sparkling like a sheet of silver sheen, went dancing and leaping
on--on with a winged impetuosity to their ocean home. Anon, the yellow
violets shook off their winter slumbers, and opened their smiling cups
to the arrowy sunshine; then came a wealth of painted flowers, and
soon the life-breathing spring had attained its zenith. A thousand
glad voices rose and swelled amid the forest's leaf-wrought canopy;
its breezes were awake with spicy odors, and the bird warbled as life
were new, and this creation's morn. In the orchards, the peach-trees
were glorious with pink blossoms, sprinkling the tall, waving grass
with rosy flakes at every gush of the wooing zephyr, which, laden with
sweetness, swept sighing across the meadows.

Anon, a spring sunset came on. The lurid disc of the sun wheeled
slowly down to the western horizon. Pile on pile of clouds, heaped up
in gorgeous magnificence, varying from red to purple, and from purple
to gold, gathered fantastically in the sky--now like a molten ocean
with uplifting rocks, and then like toppling steeps whose summits
reached the stars. Gradually the day went down behind the everlasting
hills, and the brilliant hues insensibly died away through all the
variations of the many-tinted rainbow, until only a faint golden
mellowness suffused the western sky, slowly fading into a deep azure
as it approached the zenith. At length twilight, twin sister to the
cold, gray dawn, shrouded the heavens in misty dimness. Universal
silence seemed to pervade the whole face of nature. The voice of the
feathered songsters was hushed in the grove, and the breeze, which all
day long had refreshed the deep woods with its joyous ministrations,
lulled into stillness, as if its kind office were now completed. Then
the brighter stars came out, one by one, and assumed their sapphire
thrones in the vaulted cerulean, and the round, bright front of the
full moon floated over the eastern mountains, whose dark umbrage
glowed with the silver glories of the thronging night--the night whose
morrow had but its dawn for David White, the condemned felon. Ten
long, weary months had come and passed away with their pomp and
mutation, finding and leaving him within a prison's walls; and now,
the lapse of a few short, rapid hours would behold a tenement in
ruins, and a soul set free. Another day-break, and he would know the
untried and unimaginable realities of a shoreless eternity, from whose
everlasting portals men have so often shrunk back appalled. Oh, what a
bewildering rush of thoughts crowded upon his mind. He stood by the
prison-window, through whose iron bars came trooping the silent
moonbeams, lighting up his countenance, ghastly and contracted with
anguish, then flashing along the darkness, rested upon the floor in
mellow radiance. At the farthermost verge of the western horizon, just
where the gray outlines of the mountains stood forth like shadows
against the deep blue of the sky, huge masses of clouds piled
themselves up into strange and fantastic forms, indistinct and dark,
from whose bright centre, ever and anon, leaped the fierce lightning,
like the tongues of a thousand adders forked in flame, and boomed the
loud thunder as the din of a far-off battle. While he gazed, old
memories thronged from the past; the fount of tears sent up its
gushing libations, and he buried his face in his hands, and strove to
pray. Oh, how sorrow, and suffering, and solitude, and the certainty
of a near death bow the strong spirit! It may have become darkened by
fierce and unruly passions; grown callous and crime-stained amidst the
roll of years, and almost destitute of a single virtuous impulse, yet,
for a time, under such circumstances, a softness will gather about the
heart; a thousand little harps, untuned before, quiver with a rich
gush of melody, and the angel in our nature spring up and assert its
influence. But no one, in whom the mind has not been crushed or
debilitated by the decay of the body, has stood upon time's furthest
brink in perfect consciousness, as David White did at that moment,
without thinking with an aching intenseness on the dread hour when
life must end; and as he leaned his head against the iron bars of the
narrow lattice, the balmy breeze laying its cool hands upon his
feverish brow, and the soft moonlight playing upon his wan features
like the kiss of a tender bride, his soul was wrought with a stern
agony, and his frame with a shudder--for dark thoughts and sad images
of death and eternity came thronging--for no JESUS was there to light
the breathless darkness of the grave--no HOPE stood by to point
exultant to a sinless heaven!--for him, futurity was a dark and
impenetrable gulf, without a wanderer or a voice.

Suddenly he started. An overpowering, yet unutterable awe crept over
him--a fearful but undefined sensation--a presentiment that something
terrible was about to happen. He strove to shake it off, but could
not--like an icy thrill it ran, slow and curdling, through his veins.
A low rustling, as of silken drapery, struck upon his ear. He turned
to know the cause, and leaned eagerly forward. A shriek, wild and
agonizing, burst from his pallid lips; his hair stood upright, and his
arms fell nerveless to his side--his blood ebbed back upon the heart,
returned with tenfold violence throughout his system, seemed to
thicken, and then stagnate; his pulses bounded, staggered and ceased;
cold moisture bathed his wan forehead, and his whole frame appeared
stiffening with the death-chill. A few feet distant, by a window the
very counterpart of the one near which he stood, loomed forth a
shape--a substance, yet it cast no shadow--the moonlight shone through
it, resting on the floor like slightly tarnished silver. He looked on
speechless and motionless; his whole soul concentrated into an intense
and aching gaze. At first, it floated before his fixed and dilating
vision, indistinct and mist-like; but, as he gazed, it assumed the
outline of a human form--then the features of Mary White, the
foster-sister whom he had murdered. The apparition grew still plainer.
The ghastly countenance; the fallen lip; the sightless eye, dull and
open with a vacant stare; the deep, solemn, mysterious repose which
ever accompanies the aspect of death; the deep wound near the heart,
from which gushed life's crimson torrent, falling at her feet without
a sound--each--all, for one short, passing, fearful, agonizing moment,
trembled into terrible distinctness. Then she lifted an arm reeking
with blood, and pointing through the window at a new-made gibbet and
its dangling rope, smiled a faint and sickly smile, and vanished as a
dying spark. The trance passed from his spirit, and nature recommenced
her operations like the clanking of a vast machinery. Yet his eye, as
if it could not recover from its vision of terror, remained glaring
upon the spot where the spectre had been; and it was not until several
minutes had elapsed that the sharp agony which had contracted his
features died away. He sprung forward with a wild cry, but the echo
alone replied. No voice but his own awoke the awful stillness,
pulseless it reigned around him. The stars glittered as brightly, the
moon shone as gloriously, and, as he held his breath, the faint and
confused murmur of the distant water-fall, and the caroling of the
night-wind in the gnarled old forest, almost seeming to be a part of
the silence, came up through the window to his ear as distinctly and
steadily as ever--every thing belied the scene he had just witnessed.
Was it a dream? He grasped his arm until it pained him--he was
awake--there was no change--all appeared as it had been. He attempted
to shake the iron bars of the lattice--they were firm in their
sockets. He groped his way to the other side of the room, passed his
hands along the walls--nothing but darkness was there. He stood where
first he had stood when he beheld the apparition--the unearthly
visitant was there no longer. He bent forward, and strained an aching
gaze--in vain; nothing underwent a change. Then he felt that he had
seen the dead--the murdered. His mind recoiled upon itself, and the
very marrow in his bones crept at the thought. He flung himself upon
his pallet, and for the hundredth time strove to sleep. Black despair
had eaten down into his very heart's core, and remorse, like an old
vulture, gnawed at his vitals; yet for a few brief, agonizing moments
he slept, but only as the fiends of hell might be supposed to sleep. A
dream, a series of change and torture, bewildering and terrible, came,
like a blight, over his spirit.

Now he felt the cold hand of death upon his brow, and his whole body
seemed to be encompassed in a mass of ice. His blood waxed thick in
its courses; his heart staggered, fluttered, gave one agonizing throb,
and for a moment ceased to pulsate; cold dews gathered on his brow,
and a stinging sensation pervaded his whole system; his eyelids
trembled, and the balls rolled, gave out a dying lustre, glazed, grew
fixed and sightless in their sockets--then came the last convulsive
and impotent contest with the King of Terrors--the groan, the gasping
breath, the half-uttered words upon the quivering lip--the
death-rattle, the soulless face, and the pulseless silence. He
recovered. Above him was a sky of livid flame, upon whose high zenith
dread darkness sat enthroned. Around him spread a shoreless ocean of
molten fire. No wave agitated its placid bosom--no sound--no wind
breathed over its fearful stillness. A lone rock, cold, barren, and
dismal, yet like an oasis in a desert, lifted its gray summit from the
sluggish surface. Upon this he stood, rigid and motionless, like a
marble statue on its pedestal; and, ever and ever, around and above
him, rushed to and fro shadowy forms, upon whose countenances was
engraven unutterable anguish. Suddenly, over the vast and dreary
profound, went the low, deep, muffled tolling of a bell, bursting on
the red air like the knell of hope, peace, and mercy, lost forever to
another soul. As it ceased, the boundless sea of ebbless and
unextinguishable flame, that glowed with a lurid but intolerable light
at his feet, began to uplift in one mighty and unbroken mass.
Slowly--slowly it rose up--up--up, until the liquid fire was frothing,
and the sky and ocean seemed to blend--then flowed back, returned, and
closed hissing around him. A groan, deep, intense, and fearful,
bubbled up in a gush of blood, and echoed in the distance like
fiendish laughter. Higher and higher rose the living flames. They were
about to close over him--his head sunk upon his bosom, and a
voice--the voice of her whom he had murdered, shrieked in his
ear--"THE OCEAN OF REMORSE!"

     "A change came o'er the spirit of his dream."

He stood upon the narrow verge of an awful precipice. Night, black,
rayless night, enshrouded the yawning gulf below, save that, ever and
anon, hideous and fleshless forms--skeletons wrought in lurid and
undying flame--strode to and fro within the thick panoply of gloom;
while, at intervals, howls of despair came up from its midst, like
howls from the lips of the damned in hell. With a thrill of horror, he
turned hurriedly from the scene, and cast his despairing eyes
heavenward. In the centre of a massive cloud, burning with the
brilliancy of a summer sunset, appeared a vast city, with domes and
palaces of pearl and ruby, and whose gates were gates of burnished
gold. As he gazed, they were flung open on silent hinges, and a host,
clothed in spotless white, entered their portals, welcomed with
swelling anthems and seraphic songs. Then the toppling precipice began
to reel and stagger beneath his feet--a fierce bright flame burst from
amidst the night below, more brilliant than the sun's intensest ray.
It drank up the darkness, and filled the gulf with liquid fire. It
flashed through his eye-balls like a glance of lightning. He felt his
foothold totter on the eve of its awful rush of destruction, and
turned to flee, but started aside with a wild cry. The same voice was
in his ear, and it shrieked in exulting tones--"THE MURDERER'S DOOM!"

But where was the mother during these fearful and agonizing moments!
Had _she_ forgotten the son that once nestled on her bosom? Had _she_
forsaken the child she bore, now that the dark hour of adversity had
come? Ah! no. It is not a mother's nature to forget or to forsake!
Though crime and infamy enshroud his name; though base heartlessness
and vile ingratitude shut-to the portals of his soul; though he fling
off the hoarded wealth of her affections as the oak the clinging ivy
when the storm comes, yet the mother will love--must love--it is the
thirst of her immortal nature. No, no! Widow White had not forgotten,
neither had she forsaken her son. Villain as he was, and stained with
the blood of her foster-child, her heart warmed toward him--the mother
was the mother still! Though absent, her mind was racked with
agony--stern agony. For hours had she paced up and down her dim-lit
chamber, her hands folded across her breast, and her eyes fixed upon
the floor--thought and feeling were busy. To the casual observer her
features exhibited scarcely an evidence of internal emotion; but the
arched lip, bloodless with pressure, and the swollen veins upon her
high forehead betokened how severe was the struggle going on within.
There are some persons who can stand by the bedside of a dying
relative, and, with an almost unruffled countenance, behold him
stiffened in the cold arms of death--who can look upon the corpse for
the last time, follow it to the grave, and see it laid beneath the
heavy sod with so little apparent concern, that the beholder considers
him heartless; but draw aside the curtain which separates the inner
from the outer being, and the features of the spirit are seen to be
distorted with anguish. To this class of individuals belonged Widow
White. Oh, how she felt as she trod to and fro within that dim-lit
room! Her son--her only son, in the endearing playfulness of whose
infantile smiles she had so often exulted; upon whose boyish accents
she had so frequently hung with transport, and for whom she had
pictured out such a bright and glorious future, was a condemned felon,
and the morrow would open its great eye upon him for the last time.
The lapse of another day!--and that son, so cherished, and so fondly
loved, would fill a murderer's grave, and she would look upon his face
no more. She knew that it was appointed for all to "pass through the
dark valley of the shadow of death," but what a horrible, detestable,
and ignominious death was his! Could it be true? Was he--her son, in
the prime of manhood and enjoyment--the life-blood coursing freely and
strongly throughout his system--unshattered by disease--to die--to be
a sport for the winds--to hang--ay--ay--to hang!--to be cut down--to
be thrust into the coffin, blackened, distorted, and hideous, the rope
still around his neck--to be laid in the ground with infamy around his
name--to rot--to be a banquet for the worms? Horror of horrors! She
would not believe it! Surely it was a dream!

Thus that agony-fraught night lapsed away, and the morning, which,
from the birth of creation, has never failed, dawned once more--dawned
as it ever dawns, bright, glorious, and magnificent, bearing the
impress of a mighty God. That morning witnessed a terrible--a horrible
scene. Another human being took his exit from the transitory splendors
of this decaying world, and entered upon the untried and unimaginable
realities of a futurity, whose secrets none can ever know until the
silver chord is loosened, and the golden bowl is broken. Upon what
state of existence David White entered when eternity closed its
everlasting portals, and the enfranchised spirit went up to the
Eternal Judge, it is not for me to say. God is just, and whatever was
apportioned, it was good and right. Let it suffice to know, that, be
his doom what it may, it is irrevocable--sealed forever.

From that eventful day, Widow White became thinner and paler, and the
expression of her countenance was that of a strong heart in ruins, and
with its energies prostrated. Three weeks went by, and she, too, was
gone. They carried her out from the desolate homestead, and laid her
cold remains beneath the grassy sod, where neither the war of the
elements, nor of human passions could ever disturb her more. Since
then many years have lapsed away into the dim and shadowy past, and
now, a sunken grave alone marks the last resting-place of Widow
White--the victim of a broken heart, and of her own injudicious
education of a son in his infancy and boyhood.




THE REAL AND THE IDEAL.

BY MARION H. RAND.


    Alas, the romances! the beautiful fancies!
      We fling round our thoughts of a poet;
    How can we believe that the web which we weave
      Has no solid basis below it?

    Youth, beauty and grace--a soul-speaking face,
      And eyes full of genius and fire;
    The softest dark hair, with a curl here and there;
      All this, without fail, we require.

    A warm feeling heart, affectation or art
      Unknown to its deepest recesses;
    A brow fair and high, where her thoughts open lie
      To him who admiringly gazes.

    But let this bright thought, this idol, be brought
      To nearer and closer inspection--
    Alas! 'tis a dream! 'tis a straying sunbeam,
      Of far more than human perfection.

    Then turn for awhile from the heavenly smile
      That haunts thy fond fancy, young dreamer;
    Turn from the ideal to gaze on the real,
      And see if she be what you deem her.

    She is young, it is true, her eyes dark and blue,
      But sadly deficient in lustre,
    While often is seen in one hand a pen,
      In the other a mop or a duster.

    Her hair, of a shade inclining to red,
      Is tied up and carefully braided;
    And the forehead below (not as white the snow)
      By no drooping ringlet is shaded.

    Her little hands write, but they're not always white,
      With marks of good usage they're speckled,
    While the face, once so fair, has been kissed by the air,
      Until 'tis considerably freckled.

    She has her full part of a true woman's art,
      Her share of a woman's warm feeling!
    She knows what to hide, with a true woman's pride,
      When the world would but scorn the revealing.

    This earth is no place fancy beauties to trace,
      Or seek for perfection uncertain;
    Then why mourn our fate, when sooner or late,
      Reality peeps through the curtain.

    But if we _must_ cling to the form lingering
      And cherished within us so dearly,
    We must gaze from afar, as upon some bright star,
      And never approach it more nearly.




THE HUMAN VOICE.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.


    We all love the music of sky, earth and sea--
    The chirp of the cricket--the hum of the bee--
    The wind-harp that swings from the bough of the tree--
      The reed of the rude shepherd boy:
    All love the bird-carols when day has begun,
    When rock-fountains gush into song as they run,
    When the stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,
      And hills clap their hands in their joy.

    All love the invisible lutes of the air--
    The chords that vibrate to the hands of the fair--
    Whose minstrelsy brightens the midnight of care,
      And steals to the heart like a dove:
    But even in melody there is a choice,
    And, though we in all her sweet numbers rejoice,
    There's none thrills the soul like the tones of the voice,
      When breathed by the beings we love.




VENICE AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS.

[WRITTEN IN 1826.]

BY PROFESSOR GOODRICH, YALE COLLEGE.


    Bright glancing in the sun's last rays,
      The Fairy City rose to view:
    It seemed to "swim in air"--a blaze
      Of parting glory round she threw.

    Midst silent halls and mouldering towers,
      And trophies fallen from side to side,
    Awe-struck, I saw a few brief hours,
      The grave of Venice' ruined pride.

    Light from her native surge she sprung,
      The Venus of the Adrian wave;
    And o'er the admiring nations flung
      The _spell_ of "BEAUTIFUL and BRAVE"

    Her Winged Lion's terror shook
      The Sultan's throne:--o'er prostrate piles,
    "Breaker of Chains," she proudly spoke
      Her mandate to a hundred isles.

    Astonished Europe saw that hour
      Her blind old chieftain guide her wars,
    And _twice_, in one brief season, pour
      Her fury on Byzantium's towers!

    Saw when in Mark's proud porch,
      Abased in dust the eastern crown was laid.
    And when, with frantic pride, she placed
      Her foot on Barbarosa's head!

    Gone, like a dream! wealth, pomp and power!
      And Learning's toils, so nobly urged!
    Doomed 'neath a tyrant's lash to cower,
      She gnaws the chain _she_ once had forged.

    And still that tyrant bids to stand,
      In mockery of her former state,
    Those emblems of her wide command,
      The three tall Masts where glory sate:

    And high upreared on column proud,
      And glancing to the wide-spread sea,
    Her Winged Lion stands, aloud
      To tell a nation's infamy!

    Oh, how unlike the day, when round
      Those Masts and 'neath that Lion's wings,
    Exulting thousands thronged the ground,
      And spoke the fate of distant kings.

    When brightly in the morning beam
      Her galleys, ranged in stern array,
    Impatient stood, till PONTIFFS came
      To bless the parting warrior's way.

    They go beneath the drum's long roll,
      The cymbal's clang, the trumpet's breath;
    While Beauty's glances fire the soul,
      And Honor smooths the road to death.

    Tread _now_ that court! The unbended sail
      Flaps idly in the passing wind;
    And dark below, each dull canal
      Is stagnant as its _owner's_ mind!

    Yet here, how many a burning soul
      Has poured at moonlit eve the song,
    While conscious Beauty, panting, stole
      To hear the strain _her_ praise prolong!

    Hark to that shout! Her nobles come,
      In many a galley ranged, and gay
    With waving flag and nodding plume,
      To grace fair Venice' bridal day.

    See! on the foremost prow, a _king_
      In form--eye--soul!--again
    The exulting Doge has _cast the ring_
      That weds him to the Adrian Main!

    Mark _now_ that wretch with downcast eye,
      And abject mien, once free, once brave!
    It is the _People's Doge_! and he
      Is now an Austrian tyrant's slave.[4]

    And she, the Beautiful One, lies
      Fallen to earth; while by her side
    Moulder her towers and palaces,
      _The grave of_ VENICE' _ruined pride_!

[Footnote 4: I have here used the license, in order to carry out the
contrast, of supposing that the Office of Doge, like most of the
institutions of Venice, is preserved by the Austrian government;
though I believe it has been abolished.]




SONG.--THOU REIGN'ST SUPREME.


    Thou reign'st supreme, love, in my heart,
      O'er every secret thought;
    Thou canst not find the smallest part
      Where thou abidest not.
    All blest emotions, every sense
      Are consecrate to thee;
    Would that affection so intense,
      But filled thy heart for me!

    Thou reign'st supreme, love, eyes that burn
      With the soul's restless fire,
    Their liquid glances on me turn,
      Yet no fond thoughts inspire.
    E'en in that hour for thee I long,
      Like a wild bird set free;
    Ah! would that love so true and strong
      But filled thy heart for me!

    Thou reign'st supreme, love, while I live
      Thine shall be every breath;
    And be thou near me to receive
      My last fond sighs in death;
    Thus to expire were joy, were bliss,
      May such my portion be!
    Oh! would that love as deep as this,
      But filled thy heart for me!           C. E. T.




THE NEW ENGLAND FACTORY GIRL.

A SKETCH OF EVERYDAY LIFE.

BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.

    For naught its power to STRENGTH can teach
    Like =Emulation=--and ENDEAVOR.    SCHILLER.

(_Concluded from page_ 292.)


CHAPTER III.

THE RETURN--THE LOSS.


How vexatious is delay of any kind when one's mind is prepared for a
journey, "made up to go," as a good aunt used to say. Mary grew
anxious and almost impatient as April passed and found her still an
inhabitant of the city of looms and spindles. The more so, that spring
was the favorite season, and she longed to watch its coming in the
haunts of her childhood; and in the busy, bustling atmosphere by which
she was surrounded, none gave heed to the steps of "the light-footed
maiden," save that our heroine's companions availed themselves of the
balmier air to dress more gayly. In our larger cities the ladies are
the only spring blossoms. It is they who tell us by bright tints and
fabrics, that the time has come when nature puts on her gay
appareling; yet it is in vain that they imitate the lilies of the
field, there is a grace, a delicacy in those frail blossoms, that art
never can rival.

Mary had so longed for the winter to pass, she had even counted the
days that must intervene before she could hope to see her mother, and
all the dear ones at home. The little gifts she had prepared for them
were looked over again and again; and each time some trifle had been
added until she almost began to fear she was growing extravagant. But
she worked cheerfully, and most industriously, through the pleasant
days, and when evening came, she would dream, in the solitude of her
little room, of the meeting so soon to arrive.

"A letter for you, Mary--from home, I imagine," said her gay friend,
Lizzie Ellis, bursting into her room one bright May morning. "I called
at the post-office for myself and found this, only. It's too bad the
people at home don't think enough of their sister to write once a
month; but I'm not sorry that your friends are more punctual. There's
good news for you, I hope, or you'll be more mopish than ever."

"Mary's lip quivered as she looked up. The instant the sheet was
unfolded in her hand, she saw that it bore no common message. There
was but a few lines written in a hurried, nervous manner; and as her
eye glanced hastily over the page, she found that she was not
mistaken.

"Poor little Sue is very ill," said she, in reply to her friend's
anxious queries; "mother has written for me to come directly, or I may
never see her again"--her tone grew indistinct as she ceased to
speak; and leaning her face upon Lizzie's shoulder, a burst of tears
and choking sobs relieved her. Poor Sue--and poor Mary! It would not
have been so hard could she have watched by her sister's bedside and
aided to soothe the pain and the fear of the dear little one who had
from the time of her birth been Mary's especial care.

Delay had before been vexatious, but it was now agony. The few hours
that elapsed before she was on the way, were as weeks to Mary's
impatient spirit; and then the miles seemed _so_ endless, the dreary
road most solitary. The night was passed in sleepless tossing, and the
afternoon of the second day found her scarcely able to control her
restless agitation. She was then rapidly nearing home. Every thing had
a familiar aspect; the farm-houses--the huge rocks that lifted their
hoary heads by the road-side--the dark, deep woods--the village
church--were in turn recognized. Then came the long ascent of the
hill, which alone hid her home from view. Even that was at last
accomplished, and she caught a glimpse of the dear old homestead, its
rambling dark-brown walls, half-hidden by the clump of broad-leaved
maples that clustered about it. Could it be reality, that she was once
more so near all whom she loved? There was no deception; it was not
the delusive phantom of a passing dream; her brother's glad greeting
was too earnest; her mother's sobbed blessing too tender. After the
hopes and plans of many weeks, even months, such was her "welcome
home."

"You are in time to see your sister once more," said Mrs. Gordon, as
she released Mary from a fond embrace; and a feeble voice from the
adjoining room, a whisper, rather than a call, came softly to her
ears.

"Dear Susie--my poor darling!" were all the spoken words, as she
clasped the little sufferer in her arms. The child made no sound, not
even a murmur of delight escaped her wan lips. She folded her thin,
pale hands about her sister's neck, and gently laying her head upon
the bosom which had so often pillowed it, lay with her large spiritual
eyes fixed upon those regarding her so tenderly, as if she feared a
motion might cause the loved vision to vanish. Fast flowing tears fell
silently upon her face, but she heeded them not; then came fierce
pain, that distorted every feature, but still no moan, no sound.

"Speak to me, Susie, will you not!" whispered Mary, awed by the
fixed, intense gaze of those mournful eyes.

"I knew you would come, sister, to see me once more before I go," was
the murmured reply. "I knew God would let me meet you here, before he
takes me to be an angel in heaven. I am ready now, for I said good-by
to mother and Jamie, and all, long ago. I only waited for you, dear
Mary. Kiss me, won't you--kiss me again, and call mother--I feel very
strangely."

Her mother bent over her, but she was not recognized; her father took
one of those emaciated hands within his own, but it was cold, and gave
back no pressure. Awe fell upon every heart in that hushed and
stricken group; there was no struggle with the dark angel, for the
silver chord was gently loosened. The calm gaze of those radiant eyes
grew fixed, unchangeable--a faint flutter, and the heart's quick
pulsations forever ceased--wings had been given that balmy eve to a
pure and guileless spirit.

Mary calmly laid the little form back upon the pillow. Her mother's
hand closed the already drooping lids; a sweet smile stole gently
round the mouth, and its radiance dwelt upon the marble forehead.

"It is well with the child," said the bereaved parent--and her husband
bending beside the bed of death, prayed fervently, while the sobs of
his remaining children fell upon his ears, that they might be also
ready.

"Oh, mother, how can I bear this! how can you be so calm and
resigned!" said Mary, as her mother sat down beside her in the
twilight, and spoke of the sorrowful illness of their faded flower. "I
had planned so much for Susie; I thought as much of her as of myself,
and here are the books, and all these things that I thought would make
her so happy; she did not even see them. Why was she taken away, so
good, so loving as she always was?"

"And would you wish her back again, my child; has she not more cause
to mourn for us, than we for her? Think--she has passed through the
greatest suffering that mortal may know; she has entered upon a world
the glory of which it 'hath not entered into the heart of man to
conceive of;' and would you recall her to this scene of trial and
temptation? Rather pray, dear Mary, that we may meet her again in her
bright and glorious home. I, her mother, though mourning for my own
loneliness and bereavement, thank God that my child is at rest."

"If I could only feel as you do, mother; but I cannot. Poor Susie!"
and Mary's tears burst forth afresh.

She begged to be allowed to watch through the night beside the form of
the lost one, even though she knew the spirit had departed. But her
mother would not allow this--some young friends whom Mary could not
greet that night, though she loved them very dearly, claimed the sad
duty. And again, after a year of new and strange life, she found
herself reposing in her own quiet room, with sighing trees, the voice
of the brook, and the low cry of the solitary whippo-wil, to lull her
to sweet sleep.

    *    *    *    *    *

It was Sabbath morning, calm and holy. The bell of the little village
church tolled sadly and reverentially, as the funeral train wound
through the shaded lane. All the young people for miles around had
gathered in the church-yard; and as the coffin was borne beneath the
trees that waved over its entrance, they joined in the procession. It
passed toward the place of worship, and for the last time the form of
their little friend entered the sacred walls.

The simple coffin was placed in the broad central aisle, the choir
sung a sweet yet mournful dirge; then the voice of music and of
weeping was hushed, for the man of God communed, with faltering voice,
with the Father in heaven, who had seen fit in his mercy to take this
lamb to his bosom; and when the prayer was ended, and an earnest and
impressive address was made to those who had been bereaved, and those
who sympathized with them, the friends and playmates of the little one
clustered about the coffin to take a farewell glance of those lifeless
yet beautiful features.

The pure folds of the snowy shroud were gathered about the throat, and
upon it were crossed the slender hands, in which rested a fading sprig
of white violets, placed there by some friend, as a fit emblem of the
sleeper. Her sunny curls were smoothly bound back beneath the cap, and
its border of transparent lace, threw a slight shadow upon the
deeply-fringed lids that were never more to be stirred. Oh! the
exceeding beauty and holiness of that childish face, in its perfect
repose! None shuddered as they gazed; the horror of death had
departed; but tears came to the eyes of many, as they bent down to
kiss that pure forehead for the last time.

Aye, "the last time!" for the lid was closed as the congregation
passed, one by one, once more into the church-yard, shutting out the
light of day from that still, pale face forever. The mother gazed no
more upon her child--brother and sister must henceforth dwell upon her
loveliness but in memory--the father wept--and man's tears are
scalding drops of agony.

Many lingered until the simple rites were ended, and then turned away
under the shade of sombre pines, to think of the loneliness that must
dwell in the hearts of those from whom such a treasure had been taken;
and they, as they turned to a home that seemed almost desolate, tried
in vain to subdue the bitterness of their anguish. _They had seen her
grave_--and who that has stood beside the little mound of earth that
covers the form of some one loved and lost--has forgotten the crushing
agony that comes with the first full realization that all is
over--that hope--prayer--lamentation--is of no avail, for the "grave
giveth not up its dead until such a time as the mortal shall put on
immortality."

The dark hearse, with its nodding plumes, bears the rich man from his
door, to a grave whose proud monument shall commemorate his life, be
its deeds good or evil. Perhaps an almost endless train of costly
equipages follow; and there are congregated many who seem to weep, but
I question if in all that splendor there lingers half the love, or
half the regret which was felt for the little one whose mournful
burial we have recorded; or if the grave, with its richly wrought pile
of sculptured marble, be as often visited, and wept over, as was the
low, grassy mound marked only by a clambering rose-tree, whose pure
petals, as they floated from their stems, were symbols of the life and
death of the village favorite.

It was many days before the household of Deacon Gordon regained any
thing like serenity; but the business of life must go on, come what
may, and in the petty detail of domestic cares, the keenness of grief
is worn away, and a mournful pleasure mingles with memories of the
past. It was in this case as in all others; gradually it became less
painful to see everywhere around traces of the child and the sister;
they could talk of her with calmness, and recall the many pleasant
little traits of character which she had even at so early an age
exhibited. The robin that she had fed daily, came still at her
brother's call to peck daintily at the grain which he threw toward it.
The pet kitten gamboled upon the sunny porch, or peered with curious
face over the deep well, as if studying her own reflection,
unconscious that the one who had so loved to watch her ceaseless play
was gone forever. Even Mary could smile at its saucy ways; and though
the memory of her sister was ever present, she could converse without
shedding tears, of her gentleness and truth, thanking God she had been
taken from evil to come.

Then she felt doubly attached to her mother. She was now the only
daughter; and though Mrs. Gordon seemed perfectly resigned, and even
cheerful, she knew that many lonely and solitary hours would come when
Mary was once more away. And James had so much to tell, for he, _too_,
was home for a few days of the spring vacation, the rest being passed
in the poor student's usual employment--school teaching. They would
wander away in the pleasant afternoon to the depths of the cool green
wood, and sit with the shadows playing about them, and the wind
whispering mystic prophecies as it wandered by, recalling for each
other the incidents of the past year, and speculating with the
hopefulness of eager youth, on the dim and unknown future.

A new friend sometimes joined them in their woodland walks. The young
pastor of the village church, who had sorrowed with them at their
sister's death, and who, having made Mary's acquaintance in a time of
deep affliction, felt more drawn toward her than if he had known her
happy and cheerful for many years. Somehow they became less and less
restrained in his presence, and at last James confided to him his
hopes and prospects. Mary was not by when the disclosure was made, or
she would have blushed at her brother's enthusiastic praise of the
unwavering self-denial which had led her away from home and friends,
and made her youth a season "of toil and endeavor;" and she might have
wondered why tears came to the eyes of their friend while he listened;
and why he so earnestly besought James to improve to the utmost the
advantages thus put before him. Allan Loring was alone in the world,
and almost a stranger to the people of his charge, for he had been
scarce a twelvemonth among them. Of a proud and somewhat haughty
family, and prejudiced by education, he had in early youth looked upon
labor of the hands as a kind of degradation; but the meek and humble
faith which he taught, and which had chastened his spirit, made him
now fully appreciate the loving and faithful heart, which Mary in
every act exhibited, and he looked upon her with renewed interest when
next they met.

Again the time drew near when Mary was to leave her home. A month had
passed of mingled shadow and sunshine within those dear walls. It was
hard to part with her mother, who seemed to cling more fondly than
ever to her noble-minded daughter; her father and Stephen, each in
their blunt, honest way, expressed their sorrow that the time of her
departure was so near at hand; but still Mary did not waver in her
determination, though a word from her mother would have changed the
whole color of her plans. That mother saw that for her children's sake
it was best that they should part again for a season--and she stifled
the wish to have them remain by her side. So Mary went forth into the
world once more with a stronger and bolder spirit, to brave alike the
sneers and the temptations which might there beset her pathway; with
the blessings of her parents, the thanks of an idolized brother, and
"a conscience void of offence," she could but be calmly happy, even
though surrounded by circumstances which often jarred upon her pure
and delicate nature, and which would have crushed one less conscious
of future peace and present rectitude.

Beside, Mr. Loring had seemed, she knew not why, to take a deep
interest in all her movements. He had begged permission, at parting,
to write to her occasionally; and his letters, full of friendly advice
and inquiry, became a great and increasing source of pleasure. There
was nothing in them that a kind brother might not have addressed to a
young and gentle sister; and Mary's replies were dictated in the same
spirit of candor and esteem. So gradually her simple and child-like
character was unfolded to her new friend, who encouraged all that was
noble, and strove to check each lighter and vainer feeling which
sprung up in her heart. At times she wondered why one so wise and so
good should seem interested in her welfare; but gradually she ceased
to wonder why he wrote, so that his letters did not fail to reach her.
Still noisy and fatiguing labor claimed her daily care; but in the
long quiet evenings she found time for study and reflection; thus
becoming, even in that rude school, "a perfect woman, nobly planned."


CHAPTER IV.

THE REWARD.

Are you fond of _tableaux_, dear readers? If so, let me finish my
simple recital by placing before you two scenes in the life of our
little heroine--something after the fashion of dissolving views.

Four years had passed since first we looked in upon that quiet country
home. Four years of cheerful toil--of mingled trial--despondency and
hope to those who then gathered around that blazing hearth. One, as
we have seen, had been taken to a higher mansion--others had gone
forth into the world, strong only in noble hearts, firm in the path of
rectitude. We have witnessed the commencement of the struggle,
followed in part its progress--and now let us look to its end. No, not
the end--for life is ever a struggle--there may be a cessation of care
for a season, but till the weary journey be accomplished, who shall
say that all danger is passed.

It was the annual examination at one of our largest New England female
schools. The pretty seminary-building gleamed through the clustering
trees that lovingly encircled it, and its snowy pillars and
porticoes--vine-wreathed by fairy-fingers--gave it an air of lightness
and grace which village architecture rarely shows. Now the shaded path
which led to its entrance was thronged, as group after group pressed
upward. Carriages, from the simple "Rockaway" to equipages glittering
with richly plated harness, and drawn by fiery, impatient steeds,
stood thickly around. It was the festival-day of the village, and each
cottage was filled to overflowing--for strangers from all parts of the
Union were come to witness the _debut_ of the sister, the daughter, or
the friend.

Many were the bright eyes that scarcely closed in sleep the night
preceding this eventful anniversary. There was so much to hope--so
much to fear. "If I _should_ fail," was repeated again and again; and
their hearts throbbed wildly as the signal-bell was heard, which
called them to pass the dread ordeal. Such a display of
beauty--genuine, unadorned beauty--rarely greets the eye of man. More
than a hundred young girls, from timid fifteen to more assured
one-and-twenty, robed in pure white, with tresses untortured by the
prevailing mode, decorated only by wreaths of delicate wild flowers,
or the rich coral berry of the ground-ivy, shaded by its own
dark-green leaves. A simple sash bound each rounded form, and a knot
of the same fastened the spotless dress about the throat. Then
excitement flushed the cheeks which the mountain air had already
tinged with the glow of health, and made bright eyes still brighter as
they rested on familiar faces.

The exercises of the day went on, and yet those who listened and those
who spoke did not weary. The young students had won all honor to
themselves and their teachers; and as the shadows lengthened in the
grove around them, but one class remained to be approved or censured.

"Now sister--there!" exclaimed a manly-looking Virginian, as the
graduates came forward to the platform. "Who is that young lady at
their head. I have tried all day to find some one that knew her, but
she seems a stranger to all."

"With her hair in one plain braid, and large, full eyes? Oh, that is
Miss Gordon; she has the valedictory, though why, I'm sure I don't
know, for she has been in school but about a year, and Jenny Dowling,
my room-mate, has gone through the whole course. Miss Gordon entered
two years in advance. She was a factory girl, brother--just think of
_that_; and worked in Lowell three or four years. Miss Harrison
wished me to room with her this term--but not I; there is too much
Howard spirit in me to associate with one no better than a
servant-girl. Some of them seem to like her though; and as for the
teachers, they are quite carried away with her. Miss Harrison had the
impertinence to say to me only last week, that I would do well to take
pattern by her. Not in dress, I hope--" and the young girl's lip
curled, as she contrasted her own richly embroidered robe with the
simple muslin which Mary Gordon wore.

Clayton Howard had not attended to half that his sister said, for with
low and earnest voice Mary had commenced reading the farewell address
which she, as head of her class, had been chosen to prepare in its
behalf; and his eyes were riveted on the timid but graceful girl. We
have never spoken of our heroine's personal attractions, choosing
first to display if possible, the beauty of heart and character which
her humble life exhibited. The young Southerner thought, as he eagerly
listened, that the flattered and richly attired belle of the
fashionable watering-place he had just left, was not half as worthy of
the homage which she received, as was this lowly maiden. If beauty
consists in regularity of features, Mary would have little in the eye
of those who dwell upon outline alone; but there was a high
intelligence beaming from her full, dark eyes, a sweet smile ever
playing about the small exquisitely formed mouth, and a mass of soft,
rich hair, smoothly braided back, added not a little to perfect the
contour of her queenly head.

Her voice grew tremulous with deep feeling as she proceeded, her eyes
were shaded by gathering tears, and when, in behalf of those who were
about to leave this sheltered nook, she bade farewell to the
companions whose love and sympathy had made their school days
pleasant; the teachers who had been their friends as well as guides;
scarce one in that crowded hall deemed it weakness to weep with those
now parting. Never more could those cherished friends meet again; they
were going forth, each on a separate mission, and though in after
years, greetings might pass between them, the heart would be utterly
changed. The unreserved confidence, the warm affection of girlhood
passes forever away, when rude contact with the world has chilled
trust and child-like faith. And they knew this, though it was _felt_
more fully in after years.

But tears were dried, as the enthusiasm which lighted the face of the
reader--as her topic turned to their future life--was communicated to
those who listened. She spoke to her classmates of the duties which
devolved on them as women; of the strength which they should gather in
life's sunshine, for the storm and the trial which _would_ come. That
their part in life was to shed a hallowed but _unseen_ influence over
its strife and discord--

        "Sitting by the fireside of the heart
        Feeding it flames."
    "In that stillness which best becomes a woman,
     Calm and holy."

And when she ceased, and the gathered crowd turned slowly from the
threshold, many hearts--beating in proud and manly bosoms--felt
stronger and purer for the words they had that hour listened to, from
one who, young as she was, had learned to think, and to act, with a
sound judgment, and bold independence in the cause of truth, which
shamed them in their vacillation.

Young Howard was leaning behind a vine-wreathed pillar, to watch the
one in whom he had that day become strangely interested. His heart
beat fast as she approached his hiding-place, and then sunk within
him, as he noted the warm blush which stole over her face, as two
gentlemen, whom he had not before noticed, came to greet her.

"Dear sister," said one, kissing her burning cheek, "have I not reason
to be proud of you."

The other, older by ten years than the first speaker, grasped the hand
which she timidly extended to him, and whispered, "I, too, am proud of
my future wife."

Howard did not hear the words, but the look which accompanied that
warm pressure of the hand did not escape him. It destroyed at once
hopes, which he had not dreamed before were fast rising in his breast,
and he turned almost sadly away from that happy group to join his
sister.

"See," said the young girl, as she took his arm, "there is Mr. Loring,
one of the finest-looking men I know of, and belongs to as proud
family as any in Boston, yet he is going to throw himself away on Mary
Gordon. To be sure he is only a poor country clergyman, but he might
do better if he chose, I'm sure."

Her brother thought _that_ was hardly possible, though he did not say
so; neither did he add--lest he should vex his foolishly aristocratic
sister--that but for Mr. Loring the chances were that she would be
called upon, so far as his inclinations were concerned, to receive
Miss Gordon not as a room-mate, but as a sister, before the year was
ended.


CHAPTER V.

THE BRIDE AND THE WIFE.

A stranger would have asked the reason of the commotion in the
village, though every one of its inhabitants, from highest to lowest,
knew that it was the morning of their pastor's bridal. None, not even
the oldest and gravest of the community, wondered--or shook their
heads in disapprobation of the choice. They had known Mary Gordon from
her earliest childhood--they saw her now an earnest and thoughtful
woman, with a heart to plan kind and charitable deeds, and a hand that
did not pause in their execution. They knew, moreover, that for two
years she had refused to take new vows upon herself because she felt
that her mother needed her care; but now that health once more reigned
in the good deacon's dwelling, she was this day to become a wife, and
leave her father's roof, for a new home and more extended duty.

Again we look upon the village church, but it is no mournful
procession that passes up its shaded aisles. There are white-robed
maidens thronging around, and men with sun-burned faces. Children,
too, scarce large enough to grasp the flowers which they tear from the
shrubs that climb to the very windows of the sanctuary; and through
the crowd comes the bridal train. Mary Gordon, leaning upon the arm of
her betrothed, is more beautiful than ever, for a quiet dignity is now
added to the grace that ever marked her footsteps; and he, in the
pride of his manhood, looks with pride and tenderness upon her.

The deacon is there, with his heavy, good-natured face, lighted by an
expression of profound content; and his wife is by his side, looking
less calm and placid than usual, though she is very happy. It may be
that she fears for her daughter's future welfare, though that can
scarcely be when the dearest wish of her heart is about to be
fulfilled; or, perhaps, as her eye wanders from the gay group around
her, it rests upon a little grassy mound not far away, and she is
thinking of one who would have been the fairest and the best beloved
of all.

Stephen seemed to feel a little out of place, as he stood there with a
gay, laughter-loving maiden clinging to his arm; but the happiest of
all, if we may judge from the exterior, was James; arrived but the
night before, after an absence of nearly two years. He had just been
admitted to the bar, and Mr. Hall, who was present at the examination,
said it was rare to meet with a young man of so much promise, and
knowing his untiring industry, he had little doubt of his success in
after life. So James--now a manly-looking fellow of three-and-twenty--was,
after the bride, the observed of all observers; and not a few of the
bride's white-robed attendants put on their most witching smile when
he addressed them.

Despite of all the sunshine and festivity at a bridal, there is to me
more of solemnity, almost sadness, in the scene than in any other we
are called upon to witness, save that more mournful rite, when dust is
returned to dust. There is a young and often thoughtless maiden,
taking upon herself vows which but few understand, in the depth of
their import, vows lasting as life, and on the full performance of
them depends, in a great measure, the joy or misery of her future
years. Then, too, in her trust and innocence, she does not dream that
change can come, that the loved one will ever be less considerate,
less tender, than at the present hour. True, she has been told that it
may be so--but the thought is not harbored for an instant. "He never
could speak coldly or unkindly to me," she murmurs, as eyes beaming
with deep affection meet her own. Then, too, the proud man that stands
beside her, may be but taking that gentle flower to his bosom, to cast
it aside when its perfume may have become less grateful--leaving it
crushed and faded; or, worse still--and still more improbable, though
it is sometimes so--there may be poison lurking in the seemingly pure
blossom, that will sting and embitter his future life. Oh, that woman
should ever prove false to the vow of her girlhood!

All these thoughts, I say, and many more scarcely less sorrowful, come
to my mind when I look upon a bridal; and tears will start, unbidden
it is true, when the faces of those around are radiant with smiles.
But perhaps few have learned with me the truthful lesson of the poet--

    "Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers--
      Things that are made to fade, and fade away,
    Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours."

How could I call up such a train of sombre thought when speaking of
Mary Gordon's marriage? None doubted her husband's truth, her own deep
devotion, as they crowded around when the simple rite was ended to
congratulate them, and breathe a fervent wish that their joy might
increase as the years of their life rolled onward. They went forth
from that quiet church with new and strange feelings springing up, and
as Mary looked upon the throng who still reiterated their friendly
wishes, she felt an inward consciousness that God had blessed and
sustained her through those years of trial and probation.

"Who _would have thought_ that the deacon's Mary would ever have grown
up such a fine woman?" said Aunty Gould, as she wiped her spectacles
upon the corner of her new gingham apron. "The deacon himself ain't
got much sperit in him, and as for _Miss Gordon_, I don't believe she
ever whipped one of them children in her life. She always let 'em have
their own way a great deal too much to suit me. Jest think of her
letting Mary go off to Lowell, in the midst of that city of iniquity,
and stay three or four years, jest because James must be college
larned. As if it warn't as respectable to stay to home and be a
farmer, as his father and his grandfather was before him. I haven't
much 'pinion of _him_, but Stephen Gordon is going to make the man.
Steddy and industrious a'most as the deacon himself."

So we see the differences of opinion which exist in the narrowest
community; for Mrs. Hall, as she turned toward her own bright home,
said to her husband that Mary Gordon was a pattern to the young girls
now growing up in the village. But for her honest independence and
hardihood in braving the opinion of the world, her family might have
been living without education, and without refinement. Now she had won
for herself the love of a noble heart--could see her brother
successful through her efforts, and knew that their parents were happy
in feeling that they were so. "She has been the sun of that
household," replied her husband, "and I doubt not will ever be the
happiness of her own."

They were sitting alone--the newly made husband and wife--on the eve
of their marriage-day. They were in their home, which was henceforth
to be the scene of all their love and labors. The last kind friend had
gone, and for the first time that day they could feel the calm,
unclouded serenity which the end of a long and often wearisome toil
had brought.

The moonlight trembled through the shaded casement, and surrounded as
with a halo the sweet, serious face that looked out upon the night;
and far around, even to the rugged mountains that rose as sentinels
over the green valley, earth and air were bathed in that pure and
tender radiance. The flowering shrubs that twined about the little
porch seemed to give forth a more delicious perfume than when scorched
by the sun's warm kiss. The neighboring orchards almost bending
beneath the clusters of buds and blossoms that covered the green
boughs, waved gently in the light breeze that showered the sunny
petals as it passed upon the freshly springing grass beneath. The low
cry of the whippo-wil came now and then from a far-off wood; save
that, and the rustle of the vines clinging about the casement, no
sound broke the sabbath-like repose. The church--scarce a stone's
throw from the little parsonage--stood boldly relieved by the dark
trees which rose beside it; and not far away--not too far for them to
see by day the loved forms of its inmates--they could distinguish the
sloping roofs and brown walls of Mary's early home.

The young bride turned from the scene without, and when she looked up
into her husband's face he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

"Are you not happy, my Mary?" said he, as he drew her more closely to
his bosom.

"Happy! oh, only too happy!" was the murmured response, as he kissed
the tears away. "I was but thinking of my past life; how strange it
seems that I should have been so prompted, so guided through all.
Then, stranger than the rest that you should love one so humble, so
ignorant as myself. I may tell you now--now that I am your own true
wife, how your love has been the happiness of many years. Ere I dared
to hope that your letters breathed more than a friendly interest--and
believe me I would not indulge the thought for an instant until you
had given me the right so to do--though the wish would for an instant
flit across my mind--I knew that one less wise, less noble than
yourself would never gain the deep affection of my heart. I almost
felt that I could live through life without dearer ties, if so you
would always watch my path with interest, awarding, as then, praise
and blame.

"But, strange as it may seem, you did love me through all, deeply,
devotedly. Oh, what is there in me to deserve such affection! and when
I read those blessed words--'I love you, _Mary_, have loved you from
an early period of our correspondence,' it seemed as if my heart were
breaking with the excess of wild happiness which rushed like a flood
upon it. How could you love me? what was there in me to create such an
emotion?"

Allan Loring thought that the wife was far more beautiful than the
maiden, as she stood encircled by his arms, gazing with deep
earnestness, as if she would read his very soul.

"I cannot tell you all there is in you to love and admire," said he,
tenderly, "and, indeed, my little wife would blush too deeply at a
recital of her own merits and graces. But this I now recall, that the
first emotion of deep interest which I felt for you, arose as I
listened to your brother's recital of your wonderful self-denial, and
persevering effort for his sake. I saw, young as you were, the germ of
a high and noble nature, best developed, believe me, in the rough and
untoward circumstances by which you were surrounded. I wrote to you at
first, thinking, perhaps, to aid you in the struggle for knowledge and
truth; and as your mind and heart were laid open before me, how could
I help loving the guileless sincerity which every act exhibited.

I knew that the good sister, the affectionate child, could but make a
true and gentle wife. So I thought myself fortunate, beyond my own
hopes even, when I found you could grant me the only boon I asked, a
deep and steadfast affection."

What heart is there that would not have been satisfied with such
praise; and who, witnessing the calm spirit of content which animated
both the husband and the wife, could have prophesied evil as the
result of such a union.

We might follow our heroine still farther--might show her to you as
the companion and assistant in her husband's labors of love, as he
fulfilled the high mission to which he had been appointed--as the
mother, training her little ones to usefulness and honor. But we will
leave her now, assured that whatever storms may cloud the unshadowed
morn of her wedded life--and all know that in this existence no home,
however lofty or lowly, is exempt from suffering and trial--she bore a
talisman to pass through all unscathed--strength, gained by patient
endurance, and the knowledge of duties rightly performed.

It may be, dear lady--you who are now glancing idly over these
pages--that you are surrounded by every luxury wealth can command. You
are lounging, perhaps, upon a softly cushioned divan, with tiny,
slippered feet half buried in the glowing carpet. There are brilliants
blazing upon the delicate hand which shields your face from the warm
sunlight, and as you glance around, a costly mirror reveals at full
length your graceful and yielding form.

"I have no interest in such as these," you say, as the simple
narrative is ended.

I pray, in truth, that you may never learn the harsh lessons of
adversity; but remember, as you enjoy the elegancies of a luxurious
home, that change comes to all when least expected. And if misfortune
should not spare even one so young and so beautiful; if poverty or
desolation overshadow the household, it may be your part to sustain
and to strengthen, not only by words, but by deeds. Well rewarded
should I feel, if words from this pen could aid in removing one pang,
could give a tithe of the strength of mind and heart such a lesson
would call forth. God shield you, dear lady; but if the storm come,
_remember that honest labor elevates rather than degrades_; and those
whose opinions are of value will not hesitate to confirm the truth of
the moral.




LINES TO ----.

BY W. HORRY STILWELL.


    A sister's love I did not ask from thee,
      Though that were much--oh, more than earth hath given;
    None live to bear that gentle name for me,
      Though one may lisp it now, perchance, in Heaven.
    I know not even, for I never felt,
      The quiet yearnings of such love as this;
    Thou should'st have known a deeper feeling dwelt
      In the rapt glow of that impassioned kiss!

    "I had no wish a _brother's_ love to share"--
      I did not read thy features dreamingly,
    And peer into thine eye's deep azure, there
      Searching _another's_ depths, in revery!
    I did not press, all passionless, thy hand
      Or idly dally with thy taper finger,
    Or coldly gaze, for I could not withstand
      The high and holy hope which bade me linger!

    I was not thinking of _another_ then,
      In thy sweet face her features imaging,
    Tracing each thought-print o'er them--watching when
      Hope's earnest breathings to my lips might spring;
    Nor this--nor fame--though her ascending star
      Might shed its glory in a halo o'er me;
    No thought like this, that moment, rose to mar
      The vision that in beauty stood before me!

    But it was marr'd, for even then the feeling
      Came o'er me, that thou never couldst be mine!
    And in the cloud of sadness, gently stealing
      Like a dim shadow o'er that brow of thine,
    I read my destiny. Oh! life can bring
      No darker doom--no wo that may inherit
    So much of bitterness--no rack to ring
      With deeper agony, my fainting spirit.

    To dwell, in thought, upon one image still,
      Till it becomes a portion of our being,
    Hath fix'd its features in the eye, until
      It hath become a part of sight--thus seeing,
    Even in tree, and rock, and rill, and flower,
      A form of borrow'd beauty, and a spell--
    A spirit of unspeakable heart--power--
      To move the waters in our soul's deep well!

    Till every thought, that like a wavelet, breaks
      Upon the surface of life's charmed pool,
    Circling instinctively, unbidden, takes
      Form, hue, direction, from that magic rule!
    What is it but the yearning of the soul
      Toward one allied to it by heavenly birth?
    And seeking to unite, blend, melt the whole
      Into one miracle of love on earth!

    Such have my feelings been--thy soul to mine
      Came robed in radiance of such heavenly hue,
    My spirit clasped it as a thing divine;
      And while I dreamed they into oneness grew,
    I suddenly awaked, to know that vision
      Had not appeared to any one but me!
    Why did I learn, waked from that dream elysian,
      A sister's love was all I shared with thee!




THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF THE "DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE," ETC.


There was no inhabitant of all the East more favored by nature and by
fortune than Adakar, son of Benhadad, of the famous city of Damascus,
which Musselmen call the Paradise of the earth. He was young, rich,
and beautiful; and being early left without parents, had run the race
of sensual pleasures by the time his beard was grown. He became sated
with enjoyment, and now passed much of his time in a spacious garden
which belonged to him, through which the little river Barady, which
flows from Mount Hermon, meandered among beds of flowers, and groves
of oranges, pomegranates, and citrons, whose mingled odors perfumed
the surrounding air.

Here he would recline on a sofa in listless apathy, or peevish
discontent, sometimes half dozing, and, at others, inwardly
complaining of the lot of man, which seemed to have ordained that the
possession of that wealth which it is said can purchase all which is
necessary to human enjoyment, should yet be incapable of conferring
happiness. He became the victim of spleen and disappointment; and as
he watched the butterflies flitting gayly about among the groves and
beds of many-colored flowers, sipping their sweets, without labor or
satiety, he often wished that he was like them gifted with wings to
cut the trackless regions of the air, and freed from all the miseries
of disappointed hope, inflamed imagination, and memory, which too
often brings with it nothing but the sting of remorse. By degrees he
rendered himself still more miserable by envying the happiness of
these gilded epicures, and it became the dearest wish of his heart to
become a butterfly, that he might pass his life among the flowers, and
banquet on their sweets like them.

One day as he sat buried in these contemplations, his attention was
attracted by a butterfly more beautiful than any he had ever seen
before. Its body was of imperial purple, glossy and soft as velvet;
its eyes shone like the diamonds of Golconda; its wings were of the
color of the deep blue skies of Damascus, sprinkled with glittering
stars; its motions were swift and graceful beyond all others, and it
seemed to revel in the bliss of the dewy roses and honeysuckles, with
a zest which made Adakar only repine the more, that he had lost the
capacity of enjoyment by abusing the bounties of fortune.

"Allah!" exclaimed he, "if I were only that butterfly!" At that moment
the luxurious vagrant, in the midst of its careless sports, and
voluptuous banquet, became entangled in a web woven by a great black
spider, which sat with eager impatience waiting until it had wound
itself into the toils by its fruitless exertions, that he might seize
and devour his prey. The heart of Adakar melted with pity; starting up
from the spot where he was reclining, he gently seized the little
glittering captive and rescued it from the fangs of the spider, which
at the same instant disappeared among the foliage of the orange trees.

Adakar sat down with the butterfly in his hand, and was contemplating
its beautiful colors with increasing envy as well as admiration, when
he thought he heard a low silvery whisper come from he knew not
whither. He gazed around wistfully, but could see no tiny thing but
the little captive in his hand, and was about setting it free, when
another whisper, more distinct met his ear. "Adakar," it seemed to
say, "thou hast saved me from the jaws of a devouring monster. I am a
fairy transformed for a time by the malice of a wicked enchanter, and
fairies are never ungrateful. Ask what thou wilt and it shall be
granted. Wealth thou hast already more than enough. Thou art in the
enjoyment of youth, beauty and a distinguished name, for thou art
descended from the Prophet, and wearest the green turban. Dost thou
wish to be any thing more? If so thou hast only to ask and it shall be
given thee."

"Make me a butterfly like thee!" exclaimed Adakar with eager
impetuosity; and at one and the same moment the butterfly disappeared,
while he became transformed into its likeness.

At first his astonishment rendered him incapable of estimating the
immediate consequences of the change, and he remained on the spot
where it was accomplished, until seeing the great black spider
cautiously emerging from his retreat and coming toward him, he spread
his glittering wings, and mounting over the tops of the minarets of
Damascus, at length settled down among the flowery meadows that
environ the city. Here, for a time, he was delighted with his change
of being, and eagerly enjoyed the freedom of thus roaming at will, and
sipping the flowery banquet. But while he was thus solacing himself, a
little boy, who had approached unseen, suddenly covered him with his
cap, and he became a prisoner. The boy was however greatly puzzled to
secure his prey, and while slipping his hand under the cap, raised it
sufficiently to permit Adakar to escape.

From this time Adakar encountered unceasing perils from wanton boys,
who sought the meadows to sport or gather flowers, and soon learned
that his safety depended on perpetual watchfulness. If he lighted on a
flower he felt his heart beating least some secret enemy was near, and
the honeyed dew, sweet as it was, became embittered by the
apprehension of being caught at the banquet. In short, he lived in
continual terror, and soon learned from experience that a life of fear
is one of unceasing misery. Every living thing that approached was an
object of dismay, and at length Adakar, who, though transformed in
appearance, was not divested of the consciousness of his identity,
resolved to leave the haunts of men, for the purpose of seeking refuge
in some unfrequented solitude, where he might repose in peace, enjoy
his freedom and his flowers, and spread his gilded wings without the
great drawback of perpetual apprehension.

Accordingly, he once more mounted high into the air, and spreading his
silken wings directed his course toward Mount Horeb, at the foot of
which lies the city of Damascus, in whose deep recesses he sought to
escape from the dangers that beset him in the neighborhood of man.
Here he sported among the flowers that nodded over the precipices
which border the little river Barady, as it plunges its way through
the gorges of the mountain.

"Here," thought he, "I shall surely be safe, since the foot of man can
never reach these inaccessible cliffs." Scarcely, however, had the
thought passed over his mind, when hearing a whistling noise in the
air, he cast his eyes fearfully upward and perceived a bird darting
toward him with such inconceivable swiftness, that he had scarcely
time to shelter himself from its talons by crouching into a hole in
the rock, where he remained throbbing with fear, not daring to look
out to see whether his enemy was still on the watch.

"There is no safety for me here," exclaimed Adakar, who at length
gathered sufficient courage to look out from his retreat, and seeing
the bird had disappeared, once more flitted away. He visited the
recesses of the forest, the cultivated plains, and the solitudes of
the desert, but wherever he went he found enemies watching to make him
their prey, and his life was only one long series of that persecution
which strength ever wages against unresisting weakness. "What,"
thought he, "is the use of my wings, since they only enable me to
encounter new dangers, and to what purpose do I sip the dews of the
opening flowers, when death is every moment staring me in the face,
and enemies beset me on every side? O, that I were a man again; I
would willingly resign the unbounded freedom I enjoy, for that slavery
which is accompanied by security."

Thus he continued to become every day more discontented with his lot,
until by degrees the autumn came, and the flowers withered and died.
The frosts, too, began to shed their hoary lustre over the green
fields that gradually changed their hue to that of melancholy brown,
and Adakar became pinched with both hunger and cold. The brilliant
colors of his body and wings faded, as if in sympathy with the waning
beauties of nature; his strength and activity yielded to the approach
of expiring weakness; he had provided neither food nor shelter against
the coming winter; and once more death stared him in the face with an
aspect more dreary and terrible than it had ever presented before. The
bare earth afforded no shelter, and the withered fields no food. "O,"
thought he, as he felt himself dying, "O, that the fairy would once
more change me into a man!"

He had scarcely uttered these words when he found himself transformed
according to his wish, and the fairy butterfly once more in his place.

"Adakar," said she, in her whispering, silvery voice, "thou hast first
played the butterfly as a man, and now as an insect. In both
situations thou didst pursue the same course. As a man thou livedst
only for the present moment, regardless of the consequences of
reveling in perpetual sweets, without looking to the period when the
frosts of age would chill thy imagination, and the ice of winter
freeze up thy capacity for those enjoyments of sense which constituted
thy sole happiness, if happiness it may be called. As a butterfly thou
didst sport through the spring-time and summer without for a moment
thinking of providing food and refuge against the wintry barrenness
and wintry cold. Thou hast learned that the beings which live in air,
sport among gardens, groves, and flowers, and traverse the climes of
the earth at will, are not necessarily happier than man, since they
live in perpetual fear. Be wiser in future. Be content with thy lot,
assured that the only way to be happy in this and every other state of
existence, is to use the blessings bestowed on us by a beneficent
Providence with sober moderation, and share them among others with a
chastened liberality. Thou hast been a benefactor to me, and I have
repaid the obligation by enabling thee thus to learn wisdom from
bitter experience. The lesson has been dearly bought, but is fully
worth the price. Go, and be thankful that thou wast created a man
instead of a butterfly."

The fairy disappeared, and Adakar took his way toward Damascus, where
his appearance caused great surprise, most especially to a hump-backed
cousin, who had taken possession of his estate, after having convinced
the bashaw of Damascus, by twelve purses of gold, that he was
certainly dead. Adakar was obliged to appeal to the bashaw for the
restoration of his property, but failed to establish his identity. He
could only account for his absence by relating his transformation into
a butterfly, of which the bashaw, being blinded to the truth by the
glitter of gold, would not believe one word. He decreed the estate to
the cousin, and consoled the other for his loss by inflicting the
bastinado. Adakar passed several years as a water-carrier, until the
benevolent fairy, finding that he had completed the circle of his
experience by drinking at both extremes of the fountain, wrought a
second transformation, by which Adakar became changed into the
likeness of his cousin, and the latter into that of Adakar, who thus
regained his estate at the expense of his beauty. He became a wise as
well as a good man; and devoting himself to the study of philosophy,
wrote a famous treatise, in which he clearly demonstrated that men
were at least as well off in this world as butterflies.




CINCINNATI.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON, AUTHOR OF "THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES," ETC.


When Columbus discovered the new world, he was in search of a western
route to Cathay and India, whence he expected to bring back, if not
treasures of gold and gems, intelligence of the wonderful land Marco
Polo had described. It was not until long after the discovery of the
continents of North and South America, that it was ascertained that a
new region, broad as the Atlantic, lay between the ocean and the
Indian Sea, as the Pacific was then called. So deep-rooted was this
belief that the French colonists in Canada, long after they had begun
to be formidable to their English and Hollandish neighbors, in spite
of many disappointments, followed the tracery of the Ohio and
Mississippi in the full confidence that this mighty current could end
only in the Western Sea. They could not realize that nature in America
had always acted on a grander scale than they were used to, and would
have laughed, if told that not far above the mouth of the Ohio was
another great artery which, by its tributaries, watered one valley,
the superfices of which was larger than all Europe.

They, with their limited views, were the discoverers to Europe of the
_Ohio_, which, in the language of the tribe that dwelt on the bank
from which the white man first beheld it, signified _Beautiful Water_.
This the French translated into their own language, and by the term of
_La Belle River_ it was long known in the histories of the Jesuit and
Franciscan missions, which, until the land the Ohio watered became the
property of the second North American race, were its only chronicles.
Not until a later day did it become known to the English colonists,
and then so slightly, that even in the reign of Charles II. authority
was given to the English governor of Virginia, Sir William Berkeley,
to create an hereditary order of knighthood, with high privileges and
brilliant insignia, eligibility to which depended on the aspirant
having crossed the Alleghany Ridge, and added something to the stock
of intelligence of the region beyond, the title to all of which had
been conferred by royal patent on the colony at Jamestown.

Possessed of Canada, with strongly defended positions at Fort Duquesne
(Pittsburg) and Fort Chartres, near the confluence of the Ohio and
Mississippi, with the even then important city of New Orleans, the
wily statesmen of the reign of Louis XIV. conceived the plan of
enclosing the English colonies in a network of fortifications, and
ultimately of controlling the continent. So cherished was this policy
that treaties made in Europe between the crowns of France and England
never extended their influence to America, and for almost a century
continued a series of contests, during which Montcalm, de Levi, Wolf
and Braddock distinguished themselves and died. The result is well
known, Canada became English, the northern point _d'appui_ of the
system was lost, and the Ohio was no longer under their control. This
prologue to the beautiful engraving of Cincinnati is given because,
though Pittsburg and Louisville are important cities, Cincinnati is
the undoubted queen of the river.

It was not, however, until the war of the Revolution that serious
attention was generally directed to the Ohio, for the brilliant
expedition of Clarke against Kaskaskia (which is almost unknown,
though in difficulty and daring it far exceeded Arnold's against
Quebec,) was purely military. Immediately on the termination of the
war, emigrants began to hurry to the Ohio, and by one of the hardiest
of these, Cincinnati was commenced in 1789. By the gradual influx of
population into the west Cincinnati throve, and soon became the chief
city of the region.

For a long while Cincinnati was merely the depot of the Indians and
fur trade, the most valuable of the products of which required to be
transported across the mountains and through forests to the seaboard.
At that time Cincinnati presented a strange appearance; the houses
were of logs, and here and there through the broad streets its
founders so providentially prepared, were seen the hunter, in his
leathern jerkin, the Indian warrior in full paint, and the husbandman
returning home from his labors. Almost from the establishment of the
northwest territory Cincinnati had been the home of the governor; and
it was the residence of St. Clair, long the only delegate in congress
of the whole northwest--a wilderness then, but now teeming with three
million of men, and sending to Washington thirty-four representatives.

Cincinnati was the _point de depart_ of many of the expeditions
against the Indians between the revolution and the war of 1812. When
that war broke out it acquired new importance. Military men replaced
the hunter and Indian, and every arrival brought a reinforcement of
troops. From it Taylor and Croghan marched with Gen. Harrison
northward, and to it the victorious army returned from the Thames.
When peace returned, a new activity was infused into Cincinnati; the
vast disbursements made by the government had attracted thither many
adventurers. Then commenced the era of bateau navigation, and the
advent of a peculiar race of men, of whom now no trace remains. Rude
boats were built and freighted with produce, which descended the river
to New Orleans, where the cargo was disposed of, and the boat itself
broken up and sold. The crew, after a season of dissipation, returned
homeward by land, through the country inhabited by the Chactas and
Chickasas, and the yet wilder region infested by thieves and pirates.
It was no uncommon thing for the boatmen never to return. Exposure
to danger made them reckless; and they were often seen floating down
the bosom of the stream, with the violin sounding merrily, but with
their rifles loaded, and resting against the gunwales, ready to be
used whenever an emergency arose. All the west even now rings with
traditions of the daring of this race; and the traveler on the waters
of the west often has pointed out to him the scene of their bloody
contests and quarrels.

[Illustration: VIEW OF CINCINNATI OHIO.]

The era of steam began, and this state of things passed away. The
mighty discovery of Fulton created yet more activity in the west; and
a current of trade, second in importance to none on the continent,
except, perhaps, those of New York and Philadelphia, sprung from it.
As the States of Kentucky and Ohio began to fill up, the farmers and
planters crowded to Cincinnati with their produce, and the character
of the population changed. The day of the voyageur was gone, and lines
of steamboats crowded its wharf. The peculiar character of the country
around it, teeming with the sustenance for animals and grazing, made
it the centre of a peculiar business which, unpoetical as it may seem,
doubled every year, until in 1847 it amounted to more than the value
of the cotton crop of the whole Atlantic frontier.

Other branches of industry also grew up. Ship-yards lined the banks of
the river, and more than one stately vessel has first floated on the
bosom of the Ohio, in front of Cincinnati, been freighted at its
wharves, and sailed thence to the ocean, never again to return to the
port of its construction.

Long before the reign of merchant princes began, stately churches,
colleges, and commodious dwellings had arisen, and replaced the hut of
the early settlers, so that Cincinnati, with the exception of
Philadelphia, is become the most regular and beautiful city of the
Union. The scene of the accumulation of large fortunes, cultivation
has followed in their train, so that it is difficult for one who first
visits it from the east to realize that he is seven hundred miles from
the seaboard.

Fulton had by his discovery overcome the difficulties of
communication, and opened a market for its immense products; but yet
another discovery was to contribute to its prosperity. By means of the
magnetic telegraph communication between the seaboard of the Atlantic
and the lakes is more easy than between New York and Brooklyn, and
with the whole west Cincinnati has acquired new importance. It can not
but continue to advance and acquire yet more influence than now it
has.




CLEOPATRA.

BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES.


    Enchantress queen! whose empire of the heart
      With sovereign sway o'er sea and land extended,
    Whose peerless, haunting charms, and syren art,
      Won from the imperial Cæsar conquests splendid;
    Rome sent her thousands forth, and foreign powers,
      Poured in thy woman's hand an empire's treasures;
    Was _Fate_ beside thee in those gorgeous hours
      When monarchs knelt, slaves to thy merest pleasures?
    When but a gesture of thy royal hand
    Was to the proud Triumvirs a command.

    O, bright Egyptian Queen! thy day is past
      With the young Cæsar--lo! the spell is broken
    That thy all-radiant beauty o'er him cast;
      His eye is cold--wo! for thy grief unspoken!
    Yet thy proud features wear a mask, which tells
      How true thou art to thy commanding nature:--
    Once more, in all thy wild bewildering spells,
      Thou standest robed and crowned, imperial creature:
    Thy royal barge is on the sunny sea,
    Oh! sceptered queen--goest thou victoriously?

    But hark! a trumpet's thrilling call "to arms!"
      O'er the soft sounds of lute and lyre ringeth.
    Doubt not thy matchless sovereignty of charms,
      But haste--the victor of Philippi bringeth
    His shielded warriors and lords renowned--
      With spear and princely crest they come to meet thee,
    Arrayed for triumph, and with laurels crowned,
      How will their stern and haughty leader treat thee?
    He comes to conquer--lo! on bended knee
    The spell-bound Roman pleads, and yields to thee!

    Once more the world is thine. Exultingly
      Thy beautiful and stately head is lifted;
    He lives but in thy smile--proud Antony--
      The crowned of empire--he, the grandly gifted.
    The spoils of nations at thy feet are laid--
      The wealth of kingdoms for thy favor scattered:
    Oh! Syren of the Nile! thy love has made
      The royal Roman's ruin! crowns were shattered
    And kingdoms lost. Fame, honor, glory, power,
    Were playthings given to grace thy triumph-hour.

    Another change!--the last for thee, doomed queen,
      Now calmly on thine ivory couch reclining--
    The impassioned glow hath left thy marble mien--
      And from thine night-black eyes hath past the shining.
    But _still_ a queen! that brow, so icy cold,
      Its diadem of starry jewels beareth--
    Robed in the royal purple, and the gold,
      No conqueror's chain that form imperial beareth.
    To grace _Death's_ triumph was but left for thee,
    Daughter of Afric, by the asp set free!




REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


     _An Universal History of the Most Remarkable Events of
     All Nations, from the Earliest Period to the Present
     Time, forming a Complete History of the World. Vol._ 1.
     _Ancient History. William H. Graham: New York._

This is one of the most useful works now issuing from the American
press. Its publication has been commenced in this country somewhat in
advance of the London and Leipsic editions, which have been previously
advertised; thus securing an immediate circulation in the three great
reading nations of the world. The entire work will embrace about
twenty numbers, appearing at intervals of a month. The first four of
these, two numbers of which are before us, are devoted to Ancient
History, extending to the Fall of the Roman Empire.

No province of literature has been so modified by the vast increase of
books as the writing of History. While the republican idea, which has
struck such deep root into the world's politics, seems to tend toward
an equalization of human intellect, it has, perhaps, made the deeps of
thought shallower, and weakened the concentration and devotion of mind
which marked the scholars of former centuries. The fields of
knowledge, once but a small manor, have broadened into a kingdom; and,
grasping at total possession, men prefer the shortest and easiest ways
of obtaining it. Works of the imagination, and fictions, illustrative
of life and society, which are now multiplied to an indefinite extent,
unfit the common mind for those grave and serious studies which were
once almost the only road to literary distinction.

The consequence of this is, that books are written with a view to
their being _read_; and where the subject is addressed to the
understanding alone, polished and classic language, or more frequently
an assumed peculiarity of style, is used to hold the ear captive, and
through it the intellect. The modern writers of history especially,
seize upon scenes and situations which involve strong dramatic effect,
endeavoring, as it were, to reproduce the past, by painting its events
with the most vivid colors of description. They do not give the
polished, stately _bas-reliefs_ of the old historians, but glowing
_pictures_, perhaps less distinct in their outlines, but conveying a
stronger impression of real life. The works of Prescott, (who has
maintained, however, a happy medium between these styles,) Michelet,
Lamartine, and Carlyle, furnish striking examples of this.

The present work fills a blank which has long existed among historical
works--that of a Universal History, which, embracing the prominent
events of all ages, placed before the reader in a clear and
comprehensive arrangement, shall yet be so simple and brief as to
command the perusal of the great laboring classes, who would shrink
from the study of Rollin or Rotteck, as a task too serious to be
undertaken. The abridgment of Schlosser's "Weltgeschichte," which we
believe has never been translated, contains these qualifications in an
eminent degree; yet its high philosophical tone is rather adapted to
the scholar than the general reader. Gibbon's great work, from its
magnificence of language, long retained a place in popular favor, and
will always be read by the diligent historical student, but of late
years it has ceased to be in common use. Our knowledge of ancient
history has been wonderfully extended by the study of the modern
Asiatic languages, and the restoration of tongues, which had been
forgotten for centuries, and the Roman Empire, which once included in
its history that of the greater part of the ancient world, is almost
equaled in interest and importance by the records of Egypt, India,
and China. What is wanted, therefore, is a concise abstract, which
shall embody the labor of all former histories and the discoveries of
modern research.

The author of this work, judging from that portion of it already
published, is equal to this task. He comes to it prepared by twenty
years of study, and a familiar acquaintance with all the necessary
authorities, not only those to whom we look for the solid record of
fact, but those who have gone beneath the surface of events, and
tracked the source of political convulsions by a thousand pulses back
to the hidden heart of some great principle. This Philosophy of
History, which has become almost a distinct branch of literature,
gives vitality to the narrative, by leading us to causes which may
still exist; thus connecting our interest in the Present with the fate
of the Past. In this country, where every man is more or less a
political philosopher, a history possessing merit of this character,
is likely to become exceedingly popular.

The utility of the present work to the general reader is greatly
increased by the geographical and statistical accounts of the
countries, which are given in connection with their history. In fact,
some knowledge of their physical character, climate, and productions
is necessary to a comprehensive idea of the people who sprung up and
flourished upon them. These descriptions would become still more
valuable if they were accompanied with maps; and we would suggest that
this defect be remedied, if possible, in the succeeding numbers.

The author has chosen the epistolary form, as combining ease of style
with a certain familiar license of language, and therefore better
adapted for popular instruction. Commencing at the traditionary period
from which we date the origin of man, he describes the gradual
formation of society, and marks out the first broad divisions of the
race from which sprung the great empires of Egypt and the East. The
geographical account of these countries is extended and complete,
embracing also a graphic view of their modern condition. We notice
that in common with several distinguished German historians, the
author gives to the Hindoos the distinction of being the earliest race
of men. "Above all the historical records of other nations," says he,
"the Hindoos have brought forth the best evidence of the highest
antiquity, and the earliest civilization. Therefore the supposition of
those may be correct, who presume that man's first abode was somewhere
in the neighborhood of the Himalaya mountains, which are the most
stupendous on the globe."

The two remaining numbers devoted to Ancient History, will bring us
down to A. D. 476. The author dedicates his work to M. A. Thiers, as
the "orator, statesman, historian, and friend of liberty."

    *    *    *    *    *


     _Lectures on Shakspeare. By H. N. Hudson. New York:
     Baker & Scribner_. 2 _vols_. 12_mo_.

We suppose that few of our readers are unacquainted with Mr. Hudson,
the lecturer on Shakspeare, and the writer of various brilliant and
powerful articles in the American Review. The lectures which compose
the present volume have been delivered, at various times, in the
principal cities of the Union, and have everywhere been welcomed as
productions of the highest merit in one of the most difficult
departments of critical art. The author has delayed the publication
until the present time, in order that they might be subjected to
repeated revision, and every opinion they contain cautiously scanned.
Many of the lectures have been re-written a dozen times; and probably
few books of the size ever published in the country, have been the
slow product of so much toil of analysis and research. Almost every
sentence gives evidence of being shaped in the "forge and
working-house of thought." All questions which rise naturally in the
progress of the work are sturdily met and answered, however great may
be their demand on the intellect or the time of the author. Every
thing considered, subtilty, depth, force, brilliancy, comprehension,
we know of no work of criticism ever produced in the United States
which equals the present, either in refinement and profundity of
thought, or splendor and intensity of expression. Indeed, none of our
critics have devoted so much time as Mr. Hudson to one subject, or
been content to confine themselves so rigidly to the central sun of
our English literary system. We doubt, also, if there be any work on
Shakspeare, produced on the other side of the Atlantic, which is so
complete as the present in all which relates to Shakspeare's mind and
characters. It not only comprehends the highest results of Shaksperian
criticism, but it is a step forward.

This may to some appear extravagant praise, but for its justice we
confidentially appeal to the record. The plays which have most
severely tried the sagacity of Shakspeare's critics, are Hamlet,
Macbeth, Lear, and Othello. We do not hesitate to say that Mr.
Hudson's analysis and representation of these are the most thorough,
accurate, and comprehensive which exist at present either in English
or German. Compare him or these tragedies with Goethe, with Schlegel,
with Coleridge, with Hazlitt, with Ulrici, and it will be found that
he excels them all in completeness. It is needless to add that he is
able to excel them only by coming after them; and that it is by
diligently digesting all the positive results of Shaksperian criticism
that he has been enabled to advance the science. He has grasped the
principles which Schlegel and Coleridge established, and applied them
to the discovery of new truths. By the most patient and toilsome
analysis he has fully brought out many things which they simply
hinted, and distinctly set forth conclusions which lay dormant in
their premises. And in the analysis of individual character, meaning
by that the resolving each Shaksperian personage into its original
elements, and indicating the degree of general truth it covers, our
countryman has hardly a rival. Few even of Shakspeare's diligent
readers are aware of the vast stores of thought and knowledge implied
in Shakspeare's characters, because the fact is so commonly stated in
general terms. Mr. Hudson proves that the characters are classes
intensely individualized, by showing how large is the number of
persons each character represents, or of whom it is the ideal. He thus
indicates the extent of Shakspeare's range over the whole field of
humanity, and the degree of his success in _classifying_ mankind. No
one, therefore, can read Mr. Hudson's interpretative criticisms
without new wonder at the amazing reach and depth of Shakspeare's
genius.

It would be impossible in the space to which we are necessarily
confined, to do justice to Mr. Hudson's powers of analysis and
representation, as exercised through the wide variety of the
Shaksperian drama. The volumes swarm with strong and striking thoughts
on so many suggested topics, that it is difficult to fix upon any
particular excellence for especial praise. The first quality which
will strike the reader will be the author's opulence of expression and
profusion of wit. Analogies with him are as cheap as commonplaces are
to other men. He has no hesitation in announcing his analysis in a
witticism, and condensing a principle into an epigram. His page often
blazes and burns with wit. South, Congreve, and Sheridan are hardly
richer in the precious article. In Mr. Hudson, also, the quality has
an individual character, and is the racier from its genuineness and
from its root in his intellectual constitution. This wit is, perhaps,
the leading characteristic of his style, though his diction varies
sufficiently with the varying demands of his subjects, and often
glides from the tingling concussion of antithesis into the softest
music, or rises from sarcastic brevity and stinging emphasis into rich
and sonorous amplification. The analysis of Iago, and the analysis of
the Weird Sisters, indicate, perhaps, the extremes of his manner.
Throughout the volumes, whether the subject be comic or tragic,
humorous or sublime, there is never any lack of verbal felicities.
These seem to grow spontaneously in the soil of his mind; and there is
no American writer whose style is more wholly free from worn and
wasted images, phrases, and forms of expression. He is neither
mediocre in thought nor expression.

We cannot resist the temptation to give a few of Mr. Hudson's
sentences, illustrative of his manner of stinging the minds of his
readers and enforcing their attention. Speaking of Sir Thomas Lucy, on
whose manor Shakspeare is said to have poached, Hudson remarks: "This
Warwickshire esquire, once so rich and mighty, is now known only as
the block over which the Warwickshire peasant stumbled into
immortality." Referring to those purists who regard words more than
things in their strictures on licentiousness, he calls them persons
"whose morality seems to be all in their ears." Speaking of Hume, "an
exquisite voluptuary among political and metaphysical abstractions,"
he puts him in a class of men who "study art as they study nature,
only in the process of dissection--a process which, of course, scares
away the very life which makes her nature; so that they get, after
all, but a _sort of post-mortem knowledge of her_." Again, he
observes--"Pope, for example, was the prince of versifiers, and Hume
the prince of logicians: with the one versification strangled itself
in a tub of honey; with the other logic broke its neck in trying to
fly in a vacuum. It is by no means strange, therefore, that the
thousand-eyed philosophy of Shakspeare should have seemed a perfect
monster to the one-eyed logic of Hume." Perhaps the finest answer to
the charge that Shakspeare was an unregulated genius, full of great
absurdities and great beauties, is contained in Hudson's ironical
statement of it: "He has sometimes been represented as a sort of
inspired and infallible idiot, who practiced a species of poetical
magic without knowing what he did or why he did it; who achieved the
greatest wonders of art, not by rational insight and design, but by a
series of lucky accidents and _lapsus naturæ_; who, in short, went
through life stumbling upon divinities, and blundering into miracles."

By the publication of these lectures Mr. Hudson takes his place among
the first thinkers and writers of the country. He has that in his
writings which will make him popular, and that which will make him
permanent. It is unnecessary to say that a book so strongly marked by
individuality as his is calculated to provoke criticism. It contains
many things which will be severely assailed by those whose opinions on
certain theories of government and society are in exact opposition to
those of the author. Some positions, critical and political, which he
confidently states as settled, are still open to discussion. But take
the work as a whole, as an embodiment of mental power, and there are
few men in the country on whom it would not confer honor. It needs but
a very small prophetic faculty to predict for a work so fascinating
and instructive a circulation commensurate with its merits.

    *    *    *    *    *


     _The Military Heroes of the Revolution. With a
     Narrative of the War of Independence. By Charles J.
     Peterson. Philadelphia: Wm. H. Leary._ 487 _pp.
     octavo_.

This is one of the most elegant books which has ever been issued from
the American press. The type is large and clear, and the paper is of
the finest quality. It is embellished with nearly two hundred
engravings, consisting of portraits of all the chief actors of the
Revolution, spirited representations of almost every engagement, with
numerous views of noted places. This, together with the picturesque
style in which the book is written, gives a peculiar charm, and leaves
on the mind of the reader impressions more vivid and lasting than any
other work which we have seen on the same subject.

The design of the work is to furnish brief analytical portraits of
those military heroes who, either from their superior ability or
superior good fortune, played the most prominent part in the war of
independence. The volume contains thirty-three biographies. Of these
Washington's, Putnam's, Arnold's, Moultrie's, Warren's, Marion's,
Hamilton's, and Burr's, are, in our opinion, the most spirited. The
biography of Washington affords a keen analysis of that great hero's
character, and conclusively proves, we think, that he was not only a
great patriot, but a great general. This is a somewhat new view of his
character, the fashion having been to exalt his undoubted goodness at
the expense of his skill, the result of positive ignorance of his
character during the war of independence. Those were no weak
achievements which Napoleon acknowledged to have been the examples
which first fired him with the spirit and plan of his own victories!
And our author justly remarks, that "if four generals in succession,
beside several entire armies, failed to conquer America, it was not on
account of want of talent or means on the part of the enemy, but
because the genius of Washington proved too gigantic for any or all of
his competitors."

The most of these biographies are, as it were, the frames to battle
pictures: thus, in the history of Putnam, we have a graphic
description of the contest on Bunker Hill; in that of Moultrie, of the
defence of Fort Sullivan; and in that of Washington, of the battle of
Trenton. The actions from the skirmish at Lexington to the surrender
of Cornwallis, are all admirably and graphically told in a style
animated without being florid, and chaste without being stiff. The
straight forward honesty of the diction, leaves the mind of the reader
to be carried on with the simple but intense spirit of the action, as
if he were a spectator rather than reader. The description of the
battle of Trenton is the most complete ever published.

The author, in his preface, says he does not claim exemption from
errors, that no one can who writes on a subject so obscure in many
respects as that of the Revolution. We think his decisions, however,
are generally unimpeachable. Wherever we have been able of testing
them, we have found them accurate; and this induces us to believe that
in other cases he is correct. But we should like to have seen his
evidence of the second battle of Assunpink, for Hull, in his diary,
mentions nothing of it. We think, too, that Arnold was not personally
present at Stillwater, though Burgoyne was of opinion that he was, for
he complimented him for his behaviour on that occasion. We notice some
misprints in the volume, a thing almost unavoidable in a book of this
size; one or two are glaring ones--but these can be corrected in a
second edition.

The narrative of the war, in all its relations, is well told. It gives
a comprehensive picture of the rise and progress of the contest, and
abounds with much new matter, showing a thorough knowledge of the
great history of that period. We notice many anecdotes which we have
never before seen in print.

The public has long needed a good popular history of the Revolution;
for Batta's, and others of that stamp, are too long; and, beside, much
new light has been lately thrown on that portion of our annals. We
have such a book here, and it is for this reason that we hail it with
peculiar pleasure.

We cannot close this notice without quoting the following somewhat
remarkable passage from Mr. Peterson's preliminary chapter, which was
evidently written long before the late events in Europe--more than two
years ago, according to the preface.

"It is evident," he says, "that the old world is worn out. There are
cycles in empires as well as dynasties; and Europe, after nearly two
thousand years, seems to have finished another term of civilization.
The most polite nation in the eastern hemisphere is now where the
Roman empire was just before it verged to a decline--the same system
of government--the same extremes of wealth and poverty--the same
delusive prosperity characterizing both. _Europe stands on the crust
of a decayed volcano, which at any time may fall in._ The social
fabric in the old world is in its dotage." Part of this prediction has
already been verified, and we wait with impatient expectation for the
fulfillment of the rest.

    *    *    *    *    *


     _Old Hicks, the Guide; or Adventures in the Camanche
     Country in Search of a Gold Mine. By Charles W. Webber.
     New York: Harper & Brothers_. 2 _parts_.

Here is a book "to stir a fever in the blood of age"--full of wild
adventure, and running over with life. It seems to have been composed
on horseback. The sentences trot, gallop, leap, toss the mane, and
give all other evidences of strength and activity in the race of
expression. The author fairly gives the reins to his thoughts and
fancies, and they sweep along the dizziest edges of rhetoric with a
jubilant hip! hip! hurrah! We have rarely known so much daring
rewarded with so much success. The critic is expecting every moment to
see the author break his neck by a sudden descent from the sublime to
the ridiculous, but is continually disappointed. The vigor of old
Kentucky bounds in the veins and "lives along the heart" of this most
stalwart and defiant Kentuckian. He charges critical batteries with
the force of Harney's dragoons. We accordingly surrender at
discretion. Captain Scott need but to point his rifle, and the coon
comes down at once.

Seriously, Mr. Webber's book is one of the most captivating of its
kind ever produced in the United States. It shows the scholar and the
practiced writer amid all its rampant energy, and many passages are
full of eloquence. The scenery and events are of that kind most
calculated to fasten on the popular imagination. The author has a
singular faculty of condensing narration and description, and bringing
the scene and deed right before the eye, without any of the tedious
minutiæ in which most descriptive writers indulge. Consequently his
observations are flashed upon the mind of the reader rather than
conveyed to it, piece by piece. If Mr. Webber would soften a little
the ravenousness of his style, and treat his subjects with a little
more regard to artistic propriety, he might produce a work of fiction
of very great merit, both as regards plot and characterization. The
present volume indicates a vitality of mind, to which creation is but
an appropriate exercise. It evinces more genius than Typee or Omoo.

    *    *    *    *    *


     _Cookery in America. Illustrated by Martin the Younger.
     Wm. H. Graham, New York_.

Fair and funny. It is time that the _lex talionis_ should be applied
to those who have so often made themselves merry at our expense.


Transcriber's Note:

Several characteristic spellings and instances of punctuation were
left as in the original, as representing the usage of the times--while
a number of obvious printer's errors and omissions were corrected
silently.





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